#none of this is real. it's all made up. what you feel is totally valid but its also not a mark of your own character. its a rush of blood.

[bossuary]

i never, not once, felt like the writers wanted us to sympathize with solas. i felt like the point (for better or worse) was to realize that narrow ideas about who is worth our sympathy are a danger to everyone. Solas is performing a Sympathetic Character, and not very well, but only if you don't look past what you expect to see. is he poor? nope, he dresses like a hobo, harhar, but wow he sure seems to have absolutely everything he needs. his every physical comfort is met at all times. and he's got access to books and artifacts to feed his intellect as well. wow. doesn't have to live in a sewer. interesting. is he powerless? PLEASE. even before you know who he is, solas exhibits nothing less than total control. he jokes about cassandra putting him in chains, and somehow he just doesn't sound threatened. you come to learn that this man has world-ending power at his fingertips, and you also realize that what power he lacks he will manipulate out of others. he does this FROM THE VERY BEGINNING, literally grabbing your hand and using you to close a rift.

having the physical powers of a mage, or even mage + spirit doesn't confer social power or agency. the writing in the games hammers that home pretty hard in every disgusting way you can imagine.

Trespasser shows that some kind of oppression was part of Solas' past, but not necessarily that he was powerless. He used his position to help those who were. BUT, solas has more agency than any character in all three games, (arguably more than fucking FLEMETH). what barriers he faces are purely fiction, the result of his trickery and his own choices (unlike actual disenfranchised people).

to have so much choice that you invent ways of giving yourself less of it is power of the highest order. does he care about people? SOME people, maybe? He struggles to apply kinship to anyone he interacts with in the world. "They're just like me," is a thought he will never have, not even for a romanced Lavellan, who barely has time to get over being dumped, being elfsplained about their markings, and being told they're one of the 'good' tranquil...but a pitiful tranquil nonetheless.

People are a misfortunate curiosity to Solas. Ants in an ant farm. But enough of them coming at him at once might still sting, so...The moment even his favorite 'people' become an obstacle, he is ready to plug up the air holes and watch them eat each other. And he'll feel real bad about it.

is he alone? yes and he has the power to change that but continually chooses not to because his is always actively pursuing the harm of others. he's not alone because the world rejects him specifically, reviles him, or wants to torture him (ahem, Anders). he's alone because he rejects the world. this is particularly aggravating as HE IS RESPONSIBLE for it.

Anders was always written as a sympathetic character (how well he's written is, apparently, in perpetual debate), because for him the answer to all of the above questions is YES. that's how a character can cause the deaths of innocent people and still be worthy of sympathy. especially if that character believes the only remaining value in his traumatic life is to end it so violently as to make undeniable the suffering of people "just like him." When the answer to all of the above is NO, what you have is a decidedly UN-sympathetic character who has so much power and agency that he can spend every waking moment in open rebellion against reality, at the explicit cost of lives he does not value as equal to his own.

It's baffling to me how differently Solas and Anders are treated by the narrative and the writers

Both commit acts of incredible devastation that kill people in the hopes of bringing forth a better world.

But Solas is often depicted as sympathetic, as caring about people despite what he's trying to do and the writers seem to want us to empathize with him

And yet Anders is demonized at every turn and is talked about like he just Went Crazy. Even the way Varric talks about them is very different

[sailorrhansol]

TRICK OR TREAT!!!

fuck, i love this concept.

sour skittles + ghostface + the craft, pls 🤲🏻

(smut is always welcome, although i know that is highly dependent on whatever it is i just chose, lmao)

❀ Pairing: Vernon x afab reader

❀ Summary: Vernon has been one of your best friends for years. Shy, quiet and calm, he’s always been a steady rock for you. He has no idea you’re in love with him, but that’s neither here nor there. After a strange series of events on Halloween night, Vernon seems a little… different, and the new version of him both terrifies and thrills you. 

❀ Word Count: 21,558

❀ Genre: Supernatural, Friends to Lovers, Thriller

❀ Type: Smut, Angst

❀ Rating: 18+ Minors are strictly prohibited from engaging in and reading this content. It contains explicit content and any minors discovered reading or engaging with this work will be blocked immediately.

❀ Warnings: Explicit language, recreational drinking and smoking, crude humor, some of the members of SVT are a bit of an asshole in this - it is not a reflection of how I think of them, mentions of occult practices, a NOT ACCURATE spirit summoning/ritual, mentions of a murder suicide case/event, mentions of murders, light mentions of blood, mentions of infidelity, catching someone in a sexual act (not the main couple), Vernon is a bit of an asshole at times, mentions of insecurities/confused feelings, I owe Chan and Mingyu an apology for how I wrote them, sexual tension, some angst, sexually explicit content including thigh riding, oral (f. receiving), nipple play, a lot of biting and scratching, choking/breath play, vaginal fingering, a lot of spit and cum mentioned, unprotected sex, references to sub space, Vernon takes a dom role but it is not explicitly established, Vernon gets a little bit possessive, calls reader a slut a total of one time, some light finger sucking, reader is at several points annoyed with the women in this fic which can come off a lil bitchy, general creepy scenes in woods and in some dark spooky places. 

❀ Additional Content Warning: It is implied by the end of this fic that Vernon is possessed to some degree by a spirit in this. I make zero distinction as to whether it’s Vernon or the spirit calling the shots or if there is even a difference/distinction between the two, which poses the fair question of consent in parts of this that I do not address or provide nuance to. The lack of clarification is due to the POV of this fic being entirely from reader’s perspective and she doesn’t have a clue what’s going on until the very end, and thus we are unable to unpack to what degree this character is or is not himself. If that lack of nuance bothers you, that is valid but this is not the fic for you. 

❀ A/N: This was supposed to be a drabble. This was supposed to be a drabble. THIS WAS SUPPOSED TO BE A DRABBLE. Anyways, Jade my beloved you got Vernon + Friends to Lovers + Slasher and honestly it’s less slasher and more supernatural so I actually totally apologize but I leaned too far the other way I’m so sorry soifsdiofjdfiogj I love you love all the specific easer eggs for you and also show you to Jade because they specifically helped me write the Mingyu ‘graveyard smash’ line thanks bye

❀ A/N 2: Alternative summary for this fic is Hali repeatedly drags Chan because she loves him so much 

❀ Reader Notes: This reader is never explicitly gendered as girl/she/her etc. so I have listed them as an afab reader. 

❀ Disclaimer: Disclaimer: All members of Seventeen are faces and name claims for stories. Any scenarios or representations of the people and places mentioned in works are not representative of real-life scenarios. Moreover, none of my works accurately reflect, represent or take a stance on the nuances of Korean culture, cities, people etc. Seventeen members are not Seventeen culturally, intellectually, physically, or representationally in my stories, and should be considered name and face stand-ins for made up characters.

Main Masterlist ❀ Tag List Request Form ❀ Ask ❀ Haliween

Cool wind lifts the pages of your book, threatening to flip them over. You press your fingers flat to the page, fighting to keep them from flitting over and losing your place in the story. There’s not much daylight left in the sky as the afternoon dies to make way for the evening, but you’re eager to finish the chapter, craving to unravel the mystery you’ve been working your way through the past week. 

Atmospheric sounds play in your headphones as you read. Your legs are crossed, book in your lap as you sit on the concrete wall separating the quad from one of the sidewalks on campus. Now that there’s a chill in the air, you crave being outside, finding the opportunity to sit wherever you can on campus to crack open a book before the sunlight finally fades. 

Flipping the page, you only get a split second warning of the shout you hear through your headphones before something hits you in the back of the head. You yelp, dropping the book to the ground as your headphones clatter from your head to the grass from the impact. 

Scowling, you swivel around to see Mingyu jogging over, his hand over his mouth as apologies start pouring out of him. A flush creeps up your neck as he approaches, his friends and fellow fraternity brothers watching from afar. Some of them are bent over cackling, the others have their hands on their head, visibly stressed from hitting you with their football.

Again. 

“I am so sorry,” he pleads, running a hand through his sweaty hair. “Seungcheol threw wide.” 

“Maybe play on a rec field, then?” You snap, sliding from the wall, picking up your headphones and book. You kick the football toward him, irritated. “There’s literally so many other places you can play. Don’t you have a yard at your little frat house?” 

“It’s being used for float building for the Halloween parade.”

“Convenient.” 

For the most part, Mingyu isn’t so bad. He’s a little loud and obnoxious, but he’s always nice and he does seem to mean it when he picks up the football and apologizes again. It’s more than a lot of his fraternity brothers would do, though it’s not much now that they’ve managed to hit you twice with the same ball. 

Someone like Mingyu wouldn’t even pay attention to you if it weren’t for Vernon, though. As Mingyu retreats, the reason you’re even friends with Mingyu appears on the sidewalk, coming toward you with his hands in his pockets, hood pulled up on his head and headphones on. He lifts his chin in greeting to Mingyu, but Vernon’s brown eyes focus on you, his true destination. 

Vernon pulls his hood and headphones down when he’s within a few feet, jerking his thumb at Mingyu. “What did he want?” 

“He was apologizing for hitting me with the football. Again.”

“Again?” 

“Yeah. They hit me earlier.”

Vernon hums, displeased. He doesn’t say much, instead turning to lean against the wall, shoving his hands in his jacket pockets again.

The last embers of sunlight hit his side profile, stunning you to momentarily silence. In a halo of fiery light, Vernon looks like a god. His light brown eyes turn burnished gold, reflecting the dying sun. His hair is spun copper, strands dancing in the breeze as he watches the world around him. 

Not for the first time, you think that you understand why Helen of Troy inspired a thousand ships to come after her. Vernon’s face is the kind of thing you’ve read about in all of your mythologies and folktales for your Occult Studies major, so beautiful that it can’t be real.  

If Vernon notices you staring, he doesn’t say anything. Instead, his eyes watch the other members of his fraternity play football, one of them crashing into someone on a lawn chair. He shakes his head and mutters under his breath, wearing his second-hand embarrassment silently as he watches them apologize for the millionth time. 

Vernon is nothing like the rest of his fraternity. You’re still unsure why he even joined. It was something he had done his freshman year going into school, wanting to put himself out there and make friends. 

He certainly looks the part - he’s handsome and in shape from playing soccer in highschool, and he’s got good fashion sense for a college student. But he’s quiet and a little awkward, unsure how to navigate conversations with most people who aren’t in his immediate circle of friends and shy to an almost crippling point. 

It had taken Vernon seven weeks of being your lab partner before he finally spoke more than three sentences to you. For the longest time, you’d assumed it was because he thought you were beneath him. It wouldn’t have surprised you. Greek life on campus tended to stick with their own. 

Now, you know it was because he didn’t know what to say or how to start a conversation. You’d only managed to get him to talk to you when he noticed a song by Frank Ocean bleeding from your headphones, piquing his interest. 

Four years later, talking to Vernon is easy. Well, maybe not easy. You’ve got years of friendship between you now and you know what makes Vernon tick, but the butterflies you get when you’re around him and the way your heart swells when he does something so simple makes it a little harder. 

Like now, as day fades to evening and the world is awash in purple and gold, and he’s looking at the watercolor sky like it's the most fascinating thing in the world, completely unaware that while he’s in awe of the sky, you’re in awe of him. 

Vernon jerks forward, making you flinch. You have no idea what he’s doing until his hand is in front of you, smacking down the football that has been sent your direction again. You huff in frustration, watching as this time it’s Chan who jogs over to get it. 

“Are you all fucking serious?” You demand. He slows his approach, eyes darting to Vernon as though looking for help from his friend. Vernon says nothing, bending over to pick up the football and toss it to Chan. “I should shove that football up your ass.” 

“Maybe not the football,” Chan quips, catching it. He looks you up and down, head cocking to the side a little. His mouth lifts at the corner and there’s a glint in his dark eyes that makes you even angrier. “I’m open to other things, though?” 

“You’re so gross.”

“What? You’re hot when you’re mad.” 

“Go away, Chan!” You shriek, flustered and angry as you spin around to grab your things and storm off. You only get a few feet before realizing Vernon is still leaning on the wall. “Are you coming or not?”

He scrambles after you, nearly tripping over his own feet to catch up. Chan is snickering as he runs back toward where the others wait for him, yelling a trilling bye toward you and Vernon as you charge north toward the main campus parking lot. 

“He’s so annoying,” you gripe, shoving your book in your bag. Vernon hums, noncommittal. You glance at him. “Nothing more to add?” 

He lifts a shoulder. “It’s cause they think you’re hot, Lovecraft.”

You smile at the nickname, fondness sweeping through you. He’d started calling you Lovecraft your freshman year after learning about your major, deciding that it just fit. You like it - at least coming from Vernon, who understood Occult Studies was more than just spooky and magic and the metaphysical. 

“They think anything with a set of tits and a hole to stick their dick in is hot. I’m sure a blowup doll would blow their fucking mind.” 

Vernon’s mouth twitches at that. “You’d hate Chan’s room.”

“Don’t give me that visual!” 

His laugh is warm. He bumps shoulders with yours, grinning at you as the two of you walk. You feel the telltale sign of your traitorous heart beating extra hard at his closeness, your gaze shooting to the floor as you try to hide any evidence of your feelings that might lurk on the surface of your expression. 

Thankfully, Vernon never seems to notice. You’re glad that he doesn’t. You don’t think you’re very good at hiding how you feel, but he is equally bad at picking up on it, totally oblivious to the long stares and the way you fumble over your words when he gets too close. 

Vernon has that effect on a lot of people. His proximity to being attractive has always outweighed his inability to make small talk among the female population on campus. The amount of times you’ve watched girls openly flirt with him and whisper about what it would take to get him to crack was insurmountable. 

Autumn wind kicks up leaves at your feet. Neither one of you says anything as you walk, simply content to be together. It’s one of your favorite things about him, never feeling pressure to perform or to have conversation. Being with Vernon is just… easy. Natural, even. 

The parking lot is slowly emptying as the rest of the late afternoon classes end. A few unlucky evening class students pull in, slamming their car doors and rushing off to their auditoriums. Vernon’s car is easy to find and you let yourself in, sliding into the passenger seat like it’s yours - it kind of is. 

“Pizza?” he asks, engine humming to life. 

“Please.” His lips twitch in a soft smile as he nods, flipping on the radio. You hum, leaning forward and turning up the volume. “I love this song.” 

Vernon’s smile increases as you lean back, the sounds of Emotional Oranges filling the car. He rolls the windows down once he’s on the road proper, cool wind kissing your skin. You pull your feet up onto the seat, leaning toward the window as the fading twilight brushes past you. 

Outside the car, the world smells like pine. You take a deep breath in, loving the way the October air feels just right. Fall is always your favorite time of year, and with the music playing in the background, wind in your hair and Vernon drumming on the wheel, you don’t think there could be anything better in the world. 

Sal’s Pizzeria glows against the dark, a beacon of hunger and hope against the night. The giant pizza slice on the roof blinks rapidly, the neon a little bit broken. Gold light glows through the windows as you climb out the car, gravel crunching beneath your feet. 

A bell chimes as the door opens and a group of students pour out, laughing and carrying boxes. Vernon catches the lip of the door and holds it open for you, gesturing you to enter first. The smell of bread and warm air hits you in the face, your lips curving as you tell the girl at the host stand two.

College students and local residents fill the restaurant. The hostess leads you to a booth in the corner, the vinyl seats creaking under you as you hop-slide your way in. She hands you the menus, her eyes lingering on Vernon as she does, lips twitching when she asks if there’s anything else you need. When he doesn’t answer, you shake your head, shooting her a thin-lipped smile. 

She’s hesitant to leave but she does, casting one last look over her shoulder as she heads back to the stand. You look at Vernon too, studying him. He’s none the wiser, brown eyes scanning the menu even though you know he’s going to order the same thing. 

When the server comes, Vernon does as expected: orders a diablo pizza with a side of fries. You shake your head a little, asking for the white feta pizza, handing over the sticky menus. When the server is gone, Vernon leans back in the seat, sipping his coke as he drinks you in, wordless. 

You kick your feet up on his side of the booth next to him and he lets you, patting your ankle fondly when he sets his drink down. He has no idea how torturous that alone is, the simple comfort of his familiar touch enough to send your eyes averting across the room, trying to control your breathing. 

“What are the favorites and least favorites this week?” he asks, balling up the paper his straw came in. 

Favorites and least favorites is a game you like to play with him. It’s not so much of a game as it is a routine where you tell him your favorite piece of material from your classes and your least favorite. Most people dismiss your major as too peculiar for interest. No one knows what you’re supposed to do with Occult Studies but it fascinates you.

And Vernon, who has always had a keen interest in the goings on in your classes and homework. 

“We’re in the psychology of the occult module.” He nods, eyes fixed on you. “Mostly covering the psychology of community as it relates to the occult. We have sections on covens, clans, actual cults, sects and more modern mass followings.” 

“Hmm. So like… Twitter stans.”

You smile a bit. “Something like that. We covered the maenads in class today. Ever heard of them?” He shakes his head and you lean forward, elbows on the table. “They were women in Ancient Greece devoted to the god Dionysus and they were believed to be possessed by the god. They were said to have wild parties in the woods with one another where they’d do all manner of sordid things, all while under the influence.” 

“A Friday night for Chan.”

“Exactly. A lot of historians call them crazy and speculate they were raving mad, but if I was a woman under the thumb of men in Ancient Greece…”

“Shit, I’d get fucking crazy in the woods with my friends too.”

“Exactly. It was more about reveling in female companionship and being unfettered from the male-dominated societal norms.” 

The arrival of your dinner interrupts the conversation. Both of you lean backward, making room for the hot plates and Vernon’s basket of fries. You slide your feet down from his side of the booth, leaning to grab the red pepper flakes from the corner of the table. He grabs salt, immediately dusting his fries.

“Ugh, you could have at least let me have some first.” He looks up at you through his lashes, brows raised. “They’re already salted, Vernon.”

“Not enough.”

“You know, if you were haunted or possessed you’d never want the salt.” He gives a questioning hum. “Salt is used in purification rituals. It’s believed spirits hate it because it’s used in banishing spells and rituals. It’s why a line of salt keeps them out.”

“Good thing I’m hungry, not haunted.” 

You snort, taking a piece of your pizza from the tray. “Speaking of haunted, are we going to your Halloween party this weekend?”

“My halloween party?”

“You are in the fraternity, Vernon. Yes, yours.” 

He makes a face and tears into his pizza. You shake your head as he lets out a sound, huffing and tilting his head backward as he tries to deal with the too-hot food in his mouth burning him. “Ya,” he says around the slice. “I guess so.” 

“What are you going to wear?” He raises a brow at you, swallowing down the hot bite. You pout, sagging in your seat. “Dude, you have to dress up. You can’t just go in a black shirt and a baseball hat.” 

“Why not?” You kick him under the table and he winces, ducking down to rub at his shin. “Shit, fine. Okay, what do I go as?”

You grin, picking up your appropriately cooled pizza. “Leave it to me.” 

-

“This makeup itches,” Vernon mutters, looking up at you through long lashes. You hush him, putting the finishing touches on the black line down his mouth. “Couldn’t I have gone as something easier?”

“What is easier than black jeans and a jacket you already own, huh? Stop talking, I’m gonna fuck up this line and this makeup is perfect so far.” 

It’s true. You’ve outdone yourself on turning Vernon’s face into a skull, taking inspiration from American Horror Story for the costume. Vernon is a low effort kind of person, so getting him into costume is a lot easier when all it requires are clothes he already owns and makeup that you have to do anyway. 

Stepping away from him, you admire your handy work. His eyes are painted black, hollowed out for the skull. His dark hair is slicked back, the perfect skeleton. He looks… good. Painfully good, which makes you nervous and turn away quickly, heart flipping. You’re not sure what it says about you that Vernon staring at you while painted as a deadly skeleton makes your heart race but… it does. 

“How do I look?”

“Terrifying,” you admit, turning back to him. “But good.” 

He grins and if it were anyone else but Vernon, you’d be terrified. Maybe you did a little too good of a job. 

“What are you again?”

“One of the witches from American Horror Story Coven. Close your eyes, I’m going to use setting spray.” 

Darkness blankets the sky by the time you’re both scrambling down the steps and into an Uber. The driver does a double take when they see Vernon, eyes watching nervously in the rearview as you give him the address. 

“That’s at a closed down gas station.”

“Yep,” you agree, leaning back into the seat.

The driver mutters something about fucking college kids and fucking holiday but otherwise says nothing about the questionable location. He doesn’t need to know that a mile from the abandoned gas station is also an abandoned farmhouse notorious for unsanctioned parties and being distinctly haunted. 

Haunted isn’t your favorite thing in the world. You didn’t like to mess with ghosts, despite your area of study. You were infinitely more interested in the intersectionality of occult studies and modern culture and society and less enthused about the idea of drinking stale beer from a foamy tap in the middle of a murder house. 

If the driver thinks there’s anything weird about other people being dropped off at the gas station - you’re sure he does - he says nothing, ignoring the two of you as you get out of the car and dive into the night air. Vernon is close behind as you take a few steps away from the car, eyeing the old gas station.

The windows have long since been broken and cracked, foggy with time. The stations are stripped of their labels and stickers, just white residue left behind and no pumps. A few people lounge around the building smoking, dressed in a variety of halloween costumes. 

Nervous, you look up at Vernon. His smile is small and he juts his chin toward the dirt road that leads through the woods. Nodding, you both fall into step, sand and gravel crunching beneath your feet as you go. Vernon recognizes a few people associated with his fraternity and others, throwing a casual wave or a nod as you pass by people.

Music echoes down the road. It’s a little less foreboding in the dark trees when you can hear Michael Jackson’s thriller coming down the way and the dull roar of voices. The bend in the road straightens out, the line of trees giving way to flat land. 

The farmhouse is pretty, even in old age. It’s two stories, glowing from within from all of the battery lanterns and lights being used to light the party. A generator roars somewhere behind the house, light flooding the yard where people mingle and crowd the kegs. 

A chill slithers down your spine as you enter the yard, the broken gate doing a poor job at keeping trespassers out. Even with the lighting, shadows dance as you navigate through people, the strange anxiety crawling up your throat worsening as you near the house. 

Vernon pulls the sleeve of your dress so that you’re closer to him, his fingers steady and calm as he leads you up the steps where you can clearly hear Mingyu’s howling laughter inside. 

Bright light fills the house. As do a crush of people and beer pong tables, the abandoned home turned into a raucous display of drinking and debauchery. If you weren’t so distracted by the wave of people pushing you into Vernon’s arm, you might be impressed at how much you could forget the farm home was abandoned because someone had been murdered here. 

“I need a drink,” Vernon announces, continuing to pull your arm after him as he plunges toward what used to be the kitchen.

It’s where you find Mingyu dressed as a lifeguard - and loudly yelling directions. He blows his whistle shrilly when he sees you and Vernon, pointing at the two of you and spitting the whistle out of his mouth to scream, “NOT WET ENOUGH!”

“What a weird way to offer drinks,” you mutter. Chan, who seems to be on lifeguard assistant duty - while dressed in a horrid felt dinosaur costume - scrambles to get you drinks, spilling rum as he tips it over into a cup. “No ice?” 

“There’s not a fridge,” he pouts, shoving the cup in your hand. His eyes drink you in. “Are you a hot goth or?” 

Instead of answering him, you roll your eyes and turn to Mingyu, who blows the whistle again. Both you and Vernon wince, the latter throwing back his drink to chug it all before thrusting the cup back at Chan. “That’s gonna get real tiring.” 

Mingyu comes around the corner of the old island countertop, pumping his fists in the air to the music rattling through the house. “Vernon you look fucking sick!” He and Vernon do the little hand-clap-to-half-hug men do. Mingyu turns to look at you, eyes dark. “Are you like, a hot goth?” 

Your smile is plastic as the whistle around Mingyu’s neck. “Sure.” 

Mingyu, dancing and moving toward the living room, reaches out to you. “Come dance with me! This song fucks.”

“Decidedly not!” 

“Go ahead, Lovecraft!” Vernon urges, pushing you toward the obnoxious lifeguard with a shit-eating grin as he imitates Mingyu’s voice. “This song fucks.” 

Before you can chastise him for egging his fraternity brother on, Mingyu has you sucked into the dancing crowd, throwing his hands in the air as he swivels his way through the crowd. You try to knock back as much of the lukewarm drink as you can, cringing at the burn of cheap rum and not-iced coke. 

Bodies pressed in. Mingyu is close to you, a hand going to your waist. You frown and look over your shoulder, eyes scanning for Vernon. You know he’s probably lingering on the edge of the crowd, watching you with a smirk over the rim of his cup as he watches Mingyu roll his hips toward you.

“Mingyu,” you snap, turning back to him when you don’t find Vernon. “It’s the Monster Mash, it doesn’t require grinding.” 

“I mean, if you wanna graveyard smash…”

“You’re all insufferable! All of you!”

Still, you sway back and forth, trying to stomach finishing the rest of your horrid drink. It takes an effort, but shaking your head at Mingyu and judging him silently gets you most of the way through it until Soonyoung - dressed in the same tiger costume from last year - crashes through the crowd into the pair of you, thrilled when he realizes who it is he has slammed into. 

“Hot goth!” he screams, pointing at your outfit. “Where is your other half?” 

You don’t have to ask what Soonyoung means and both the drink and the accusation have you flushing. You shrug a shoulder, eyes surveying the party. Before either of you can find Vernon, Joshua appears at Soonyoung’s side, leaning to his ear to murmur something. Soongyoung’s face lights up and he grins at you, grabbing you by the wrist to yank you through the crowd. 

“Hello?” you demand, pulling your wrist from his grip. “Have you heard of asking?”

“Come on, I want to show you something.”

“The last time I heard that was promptly followed by you showing me that stupid peach tattoo on your ass.”

“First of all, that tattoo is amazing.” He heads to the stairs, which you eye warily. “Second, Vernon is already upstairs, come on. You like weird ghost shit, you’ll like this.”

Without waiting for a reply, Soonyoung thunders up the stairs. You cringe, waiting for a foot to go through a dry plank and send him falling. It doesn’t happen, though. Tentatively, you creep up the stairs after him, eyes glued to each of the steps as you go. 

It’s colder upstairs, the windows in the rooms open to the elements. You shiver, looking down the hall to Soonyoung heading into a bedroom. You tentatively follow him, stopping at the threshold of the doorway to survey the people inside.

Vernon is one of them, back pressed to the wall near the window, his eyes focused on his boots in front of him, hands tucked into his pockets. A girl next to him dressed as Red Riding Hood is leaning close, speaking to him rapidly. Nothing on his face indicates he’s listening. Then again, his expression is hard to read while painted as a skull, mystifying and dark as you follow Soonyoung down the hall. 

Soonyoung goes straight toward a pile of things on the floor next to Seungcheol’s feet in the corner of the room. The president of Vernon’s fraternity pays Soonyoung no mind, eyes totally focused on the pretty fox in front of him, bottom lip tucked between his teeth. 

Suddenly, the room feels too intimate for you, like everyone is a couple tucked away. You have half a mind to go back downstairs when Vernon looks up at you, dark eyes zeroing in. His face is ten times more intense with the skull paint, pinning you to the spot. 

Everything dulls to the background for a second. You don’t dare breathe, too afraid to shatter the moment as he stares at you, unblinking. His eyes glitter in the darkness of the room, two amber pools reflecting the moonlight. 

Joshua enters the room behind you, shattering the spell as you step out of his way. You turn back to Vernon, clearing your throat. He pulls a hand from his pocket, beckoning you over. Mouth dry, you obey, skittering over toward him quickly as you observe the materials that Soonyoung is sifting through in the corner. Candles. Matches. Salt. A bell. 

“Soonyoung,” you say sharply, slowing your step. “Why do you have ritual materials?”

He looks up at you, his grin wide. “Told you that you’d like this.” 

“What is this?” You turn back to Vernon, who shrugs one shoulder. 

Hesitantly, you take the unoccupied space next to him, casting the girl at his side a cursory glance. She observes your costume. “Are you a hot goth?” 

“Jesus Christ,” you mutter, head thunking against the wall as you watch Soonyoung stand, materials in hand. Vernon coughs next to you, trying to cover his laugh. You glare at him sidelong and he says nothing, but his skeleton mouth is screwed up in a smirk. “What is he doing?”

“No clue.”

Soonyoung walks over to the bedroom door, looking down the hallway before shutting it. You fight a shiver, disliking how quiet the room becomes, cut off from the rest of the world. The window near you is the only source of light, and the only one shut on the second level of the abandoned home. 

“What time is it?” Soonyoung asks Joshua.

“11:45.” 

“Perfect.” Soonyoung spins, eyes falling on you. “Want to talk to a ghost?” 

All eyes turn to you in the room. You open and close your mouth, confused. “What?” 

“Do you want to talk to a ghost? Like someone who died?” 

Your eyes drift to the candle, bell and matches in Soonyoung’s hand. A tingle spreads over your skin and your spine stiffens. “Soonyoung that better not be to invite a spirit in.” 

His grin grows. “Come on, you are the ghost major or whatever. You should be thrilled to do this.”

“Occult Studies. And that doesn’t mean I fuck with the unknown or make a mockery of the dead. We’ve been over this.” 

“It’s basically the same thing, come on. You learn it all in class.” 

“No.” 

He pouts. “You’d be best at it, though. Rumor has it that when the veil is thinnest, you can talk to the spirit that haunts this house.” 

“The murderer? Or the murdered?” Soonyoung shrugs. “I doubt either would be very happy a bunch of drunk college kids are trying to bother them. My answer is no.” 

“Ugh. I was kind of counting on you doing it.” 

“Do it yourself.”

“I don’t study ghost shit!”

“Occult! Studies!”

“Ghost shit,” Soonyoung assures the room confidently.

“I’ll do it,” Vernon sighs, pushing off the wall. “Leave her alone.” 

Soonyoung’s eyes are alight as Vernon steps toward him. You reach out to grab his wrist, pulling him back. “Don’t.” 

“It’s fine.”

“Vernon.”

His eyes are soft when he looks at you. As soft as the terrifying makeup allows, anyway. “It’s fine, Lovecraft. Let me. He’ll stop asking.”

“I’m right here.”

“We know,” you and Vernon say in unison. You feel warm, chewing the inside of your cheek before nodding. You drop his wrist and turn to Soonyoung, eyes hard. “Give me that, you’ll do it wrong. Tell me what the mythos is.”

“What math? You need math?”

“The story, Soonyoung. What is the fucking story of this house?”

“Right. Apparently some dude murdered his girlfriend in here and then hung himself in that closet.” He points to a door you didn’t see when you walked in, dark and far away from the window. “Legend says at midnight, ring the bell three times and step into the closet with a candle. If the candle blows out, the spirit is with you. If it doesn’t, it didn’t work.” 

Grabbing the items from Soonyoung’s hand, you look at Vernon. “When you’re done, ring the bell three times again and say: Thank you, I dismiss thee. Go in peace.” 

“Thank you,” Vernon repeats gently, taking the bell from your hand. “I dismiss thee. Go in peace.”

“Everyone else take candles,” you direct, voice rough with irritation. You glare at Soonyoung and Seungcheol in particular as you shove candles in their hands. “Stand in the four corners of the room. Did you bring sage, Soonyoung?”

“Bring what?”

“Of course not, why would you?” Everyone starts moving to the corner of the room, using matches to light their candles. The room feels unnaturally cold now, despite your long sleeves. Turning back to Vernon, you say, “It’s probably a stupid rumor.”

“Probably.”

“If your candle goes out, just ring the bell, say the words, and dismiss it.” 

“Right.” 

“You don’t have to do it, Vernon.”

His mouth kicks up at the corner. “I’m not worried, Lovecraft. You are.” 

Letting out a breath, you give a laugh that’s only half-there. You are nervous. You don’t like the idea of inviting a spirit into Vernon’s space, and though Soonyoung’s little ritual doesn’t really sound right, you’re not going to correct him. 

Still, you feel unsettled as you light your own candle and then Vernon’s. He cradles it in his hands as you escort him to the door. Tucked under your arm is the canister of salt. Crouching down, you pour the salt in a thick white light in front of the door, careful to ensure that there are no breaks and that it covers the entire entryway from corner to corner.

“Be careful when you step over it and when you open the door,” you instruct, standing up. The candle in your hand flickers unsteadily. “Don’t break the line. The idea is that if Soonyoung’s stupid summoning works, the spirit can’t get through the salt.”

“Banishing and all that,” Vernon recalls with a smile. Your heart flips. “I remember.” 

“Come on, you only have a minute!” Soonyoung calls eagerly. 

Shooting him a glare that silences him, you turn back to Vernon. “Ring the bell three times. Thank you, I dismiss thee. Go in peace.”

“Got it.” 

Unsettled you shuffle back from the door a little bit. You don’t go to a corner of the room like you’ve asked everyone else, unwilling to totally leave him by himself. Heart hammering, you hold your candle in front of you, cradling the warmth like a second heart. 

Vernon is unbothered. You can see it in the loose set of his shoulders and the way he sighs, already tired of Soonyoung’s antics. The party downstairs feels a million miles away as you watch Vernon stand in front of the closed closet door, looking up at it, unimpressed.

“It’s midnight,” Joshua whispers from the corner. 

Vernon doesn’t make any sound that he’s heard Joshua, but he lifts the little bell in his hand. It’s a hand bell, the wood grip worn and cracked. You wonder where Soonyoung got it from, having half a mind to ask him when the first clear ring of the bell disrupts your thoughts. 

The note sings through the air, your blood turning to ice in your veins. It feels like your pulse is throbbing in your neck as Vernon rings the bell hard a second time, the sound chasing the echo of the first. The third ring feels like a tremor in the air, warbling as Vernon quickly sets the bell on the floor, careful not to extinguish his candle flame. 

You hold your breath when he sets his hand on the doorknob. No one makes a sound as he twists it open. He pulls on the door and it comes away with a silent swing. The darkness on the other side is gaping, like there’s no back to the closet, just a wide hole of nothing. 

Vernon doesn’t seem to mind. He steps over the line of salt carefully until he’s in the middle of the closet, pivoting to face you. The orange flicker of his candle casts a haunting glow over his skull face. You swallow down a brief moment of fear before he winks and leans forward to pull the door shut.

For a long moment, there’s nothing. You feel your heart hammering in your chest, the thudthudthud so loud you swear everyone else in the room can hear it. No one moves, everyone fixated on the door. The silence is so piercing that your ears start to ring, the sound of the party completely unreachable over your mounting anxiety. 

“Well?” Soonyoung whispers somewhere behind you. “I guess it didn’t work.” 

Vernon begins pounding on the door. Someone screams behind you followed by a bunch of curses. You leap forward, heart in your throat as Vernon screams something unintelligible on the other side. You drop your candle, completely throwing caution to the wind as you grab the doorknob and twist. 

It doesn’t move.

“Vernon?” you ask, voice spiking with fear. “Let go of the doorknob, let me turn it. Vernon!”

The pounding doesn’t stop. He is screaming in a way you’ve never heard before, his fists rattling the door against the frame. You shriek his name back, yanking at the door frantically, your panic mounting as he screams and- 

When the door opens, you nearly fall backward with the force of it, stumbling over your feet. Soonyoung steadies you, to your surprise. You hadn’t realized he had left his corner of the room to help, his hand warm and firm. 

Vernon stands on the other side of the door, mouth pressed in a firm line. 

“You fucking asshole,” Soonyoung swears, throwing his unlit candle at Vernon. Vernon laughs, dodging it. “You fucking suck.”

“Yeah, well don’t ask me to do stupid shit.” Vernon steps out of the closet, eyes dropping to you. His mirth is edged with something sharp, a glint in his eyes that is wholly unfamiliar. “I was kidding.”

“You fucking asshole!” You screech at him, slamming your hands into his chest and knocking him back a little. He smirks and says nothing, letting you hit him a few times. “Why would you do that to me? What is wrong with you?” 

“Sorry.”

“Yeah, you sound really fucking sorry.” Anger sours your mouth. Turns your words to poison. Your throat tightens up and you feel the telltale sign of tears, equal parts livid, embarrassed and offended that Vernon would do such a thing. “Fuck you, Vernon.”

Someone laughs awkwardly as you storm off. Vernon calls your name but you ignore him, bolting down the hall and down the stairs. The wood creaks uncertainty under your feet but you don’t care. You want to be anywhere but here, the hot lick of embarrassment burning your heels as you go. 

You blow past Chan on your way out, his bleary eyes following you. “Nooo,” he whines. “Hot goth, come back to me!”

“Shut up, Chan!” You scream, slamming down the steps as you go.

People nearly dive out of your way, swiveling to watch the wake of your wrath as you leave the party. You ignore them, not wanting anyone to see the hot tears that spill over as you hit the dirt road, boots crunching. 

It’s hard to tell what’s worse. The fact that Vernon had played a joke on you he knew you wouldn’t like, or the way you had panicked and lost all resolve to be the one in charge. Both feel awful, but the sting of Vernon’s joke is the sharper of the two, cutting you to the quick.

Vernon has never dared to do something like that in your entire friendship. You have no idea why he did it now. Was it because he had an audience? Was he drunk? Was he actually like the members of his fraternity he associated with? 

You had no idea, which only made things worse. Above anyone else, you thought you knew Vernon best. But perhaps, you didn’t know Vernon at all, which was far worse than any sort of haunted spirit you could imagine. 

-

The next morning, you don’t hear from Vernon. It makes your blood boil, a nasty feeling forming in the pit of your stomach as you put your phone on Do Not Disturb. You put on a big set of headphones, blaring music to keep you sane as you set about cleaning your apartment furiously. 

It’s an okay distraction. The lull of clinical cleaning is nice and the music soothes the sting that nips at your heels like an incessant hound. When you run out of things to clean, though, you’re forced to face the fact that it’s nearly evening and Vernon still hasn’t said anything to you.

You don’t want to text him first. Your pride is wounded from the night before and you’re shocked he hasn’t apologized - he should apologize. The silence only makes you angrier, and with nothing left to clean in your apartment, you decide to think of all the things you’re going to say to him when he does finally reach out to you. Because you’re not saying anything first. 

Vernon’s radio silence makes it nearly impossible to sleep. You toss and turn in bed, unable to get comfortable, checking your phone and social media. It’s difficult to remember the last time you went over twenty four hours without hearing from Vernon, and the realization forms a pit in your stomach.

Maybe the silence was good. Maybe you were too reliant on his friendship, the one constant that you had grown far too fond of. Maybe he was into that girl last night, making a show of you because he wanted to make her laugh or maybe he was just putting you in your place.

The insecurity wars with your logic that Vernon wouldn’t do that. He’s never had a history of that kind of behavior before, and though he might tease you on occasion, you have never been the butt of his jokes or the target of his humor. 

Jokes like that aren’t even Vernon’s style. He doesn’t like cruelty, and that’s what pretending to be screaming for help was. It was cruel, and strange and it hurt. 

What hurts more is the silence continuing into a second day. By the late afternoon, though, the hurt has morphed into something else. You sit on your couch, staring at the phone on your coffee table. Your pride was begging you not to text him, but your worry was starting to chip away at you. 

Heaving a sigh, you pick up the phone. The tap of your nails against the glass screen is loud in your quiet apartment, the final rays of sun melting through the blinds while a candle burns on the counter. 

[You 5:14 PM]: So are we not talking? 

Setting the phone down, you immediately start making dinner. It doesn’t matter that you’re too early. You’re nervous waiting for his text back, which makes you feel ridiculous. Then you feel ridiculous for feeling ridiculous, validating yourself that it is totally okay to have feelings and be nervous.

“God,” you mutter under your breath. “I’m exhausting.” 

By the time you’ve had dinner and watched a full episode of Alice in Borderland, Vernon has said nothing. Worry eats away at the lining of your stomach. You pause the show and pick up the phone again, dialing his number.

On the other side of the line, the phone rings. And rings. And rings. 

You hang up when you get the automated voicemail, frowning. It’s all strange, and a nagging feeling tugs at your nervous system but you can’t put your finger on it.

Just as you set the dishes in the sink, your phone starts to ping. You’re grateful no one can see you in your apartment as you lurch to the phone, picking it up and unlocking it to see if it’s Vernon. It isn’t, but your heart starts to thud when your group chats with other friends and classmates in projects flood with the same rumor over and over.

A dead body had been found on campus. 

Vernon doesn’t live on campus, but it doesn’t stop you from calling him again. And again. And again. When the voicemail turns on a fourth time, you seethe into the phone, fingers gripping it so hard it feels like it’ll break. “Call me back you fucking asshole! Someone died on campus and you’re not answering and I just need to know it’s not you. Fuck!” 

Time passes and you get so desperate you do the one thing you didn’t want to do unless it was dire circumstances. You hit dial and bring your phone up to your ear, pinching the bridge of your nose to prepare yourself for when Mingyu answers the phone. 

“Am I dreaming?” he says by way of greeting. “It was the life guard costume, right?” 

“Mingyu, it wasn’t a costume. You were shirtless with board shorts.” 

“But it worked, right?”

“Have you heard from Vernon?” 

“Nah, why?” 

“Like you haven’t seen him at all since the party?” 

“Mmm. I don’t think so.” There’s a muffled sound on the phone like he’s trying to cover it when he yells, “Chan, have you seen that fuck head Vernon?” You wait impatiently, holding the phone further from your ear as Minguy yells. “Chan hasn’t seen him either.” 

“Isn’t that weird? I haven’t been able to get a hold of him.”

“Nah, I mean we never really see him. Usually he’s with you.”

“Right. And he isn’t with me, I haven’t seen him since the party.” 

“Well have you checked his apartment?” You hesitate. “Helloooo?”

“No.”

“Well. Do that. He’s probably sleeping or some shit, who knows.” 

“Great. You were so helpful,” you deadpan.

Mingyu sounds genuinely happy when he says, “I’m so glad!”

You hang up the phone before he can say anything else. 

Chewing your nail, you stare at the wall, mind racing.  Mingyu has a point that it’s normal for them to never see Vernon. He is usually with you, or he’s solitary. There is little in between. He also has a point that most of the time if you were looking for Vernon, you’d just swing by his apartment. 

The thought of seeing him again makes you want to curl in on yourself, but your concern weighs out. You get dressed and grab your keys, trying not to let your fear of what you might find there keep you from leaving. 

Opening the door to your apartment, you get one foot out the door and then slam directly into Vernon. You reel backward, eyebrows shooting up as he steadies you by the elbow, equally surprised to see you as though he wasn’t at your doorstep. 

“Easy there,” he greets, a half smile on his face.

Vernon looks totally normal. He definitely doesn’t look like he was murdered, and he’s dressed in his usual jeans, plain black shirt, and a backwards hat. For a second, you just stare at him, totally shocked and utterly relieved he isn’t dead.

Then, the anger comes. 

You slam a hand into his chest, cursing at him. “Where?” Slap. “Have?” Slap. “You?” Slap. “Been?” 

He takes the blows in stride. His chest is firm beneath your palm, heart beating steadily. Alive. And now that you’ve established he’s not dead, you feel so much anger ripple through you that you don’t let him answer before you’re pivoting on your foot and storming back into your apartment.

The sound of the door closing behind you followed by his shuffling as he takes his shoes off tells you he hasn’t left. A small part of you curls in satisfaction with the domesticity of his arrival, but it is blotted out by the hurt and rage at the surface of your emotions.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” You demand. It isn’t as eloquent as your practiced rant, but it’s something. “You better explain yourself. And quickly.”

Vernon’s dark eyes connect with yours, simmering. You feel your heart lurch as he slinks over to the kitchen, never taking his gaze off you. The back of your neck tingles. Vernon never keeps this much eye contact and it’s both thrilling and unnerving. 

“I want to apologize,” he murmurs, pitching his voice low. You watch with trepidation as he reaches out to gather your hand in his. He folds your fingers under his, pulling your hand to his chest. Your breath quickens, pulse throbbing as he cradles your fist to his chest, his heartbeat steady. “I fucked up. I wanted to fuck with Soonyoung but I did it at the expense of you, and for that I’m deeply sorry.”

Warmth spreads from his hand to yours. You don’t know what to make of the apology - it’s so unlike him. Vernon has no problem apologizing when he’s wrong, but he’s usually not so confident, so well spoken. You stare and stare, that pitless gaze of his pinned on you. 

“I just…” You chew the inside of your cheek. “You really hurt my feelings, Vernon.” His hands tighten around yours and he tugs a little, pulling you closer. It’s harder to think when you’re this close, fingers wrapped in his. “You really scared me and then you vanished for nearly three days. Why did you do that?” 

“I wasn’t feeling well and I slept most of the days away. Honestly.”

“You weren’t feeling well?”

He gives you a look. “I see the skepticism. I’m serious, I just… wasn’t myself. I tried to rest and I didn’t hear my phone and I’m sorry. Really.”

Vernon’s apology settles around you like a weight. You watch him, contemplating what to do next. He doesn’t look ill, his gold skin as flawless as ever, his rosy lips tucked under his teeth as he watches you, waiting. His heart thuds under your palm, his thumb absently brushing back and forth over the top of your hand.

Breathing becomes difficult. Vernon isn’t overly affectionate, but the way he presses your hand to his chest now sends you down a dangerous path. The desire for him bubbles just below your surface and you’re terrified it’ll boil over, exposing everything you’ve ever thought about him.

“Alright,” you say softly, pulling your hand from his. He lets you. “Don’t ever do something like that to me again. It was scary and I felt stupid. And I thought you were dead.”

“Why?” 

Gesturing to the couch, the two of you plop down, seemingly back to normal. You’re still a little off kilter, but you report back to Vernon what your classmates had been saying. He grabs your remote and turns on the news, settling close enough to you that your thighs brush against one another. You shoot him a questioning look but he’s fixated on the TV, leaning forward to press his elbows into his knees.

The reporter on the news confirms the body of one of your fellow students had indeed been found on campus. Names and details were not yet available, but they were interviewing students about whether or not they felt safe on campus. By the second interview, Vernon was turning off the TV and leaning back.

“Freaky,” you murmur, tapping the arm of the couch. “Weird timing, right?”

“How so?”

“We just had a Halloween party in a weird murder house.”

Vernon goes silent. You turn to look at him, eyes searching. He stares at you, again the eye contact unsettling. Even though it feels like your Vernon sitting next to you, there is an edge to him that’s new. You don’t know what to do with it, shifting in your seat a little.

“Forget the murder house,” he says eventually, flicking his fingers in dismissal. “That party sucked and I’d rather forget it.”

“Yeah,” you murmur, eyeing him as he looks out the window. You swear he’s agitated, but you can’t pinpoint why. “Me too.”

-

Someone sitting down roughly next to you draws your attention away from your essay, barely audibly over the sound of Current Blue playing through your headphones. You raise a brow as Vernon slings his belongings on the table unceremoniously, uncaring how loud he is in the library.

You glance around, seeing that he’s attracted the attention of a few people at nearby tables, some scowling, others blushing. When you turn your gaze back to him, you see his mouth moving as he divests his bag of its contents, but you can’t hear him. 

Pulling your headphones from your head, you ask, “What?” 

“Can you help me with my organic chem assignment?” 

“I hate chemistry.” 

His mouth twitches as he opens his laptop. “Right, but you’re good at it. You’re the smartest person in school.”

Again, something nags at your instincts. You can’t pinpoint it, examining Vernon more closely. He looks totally normal, dressed in black jeans, a black shirt, and a jean jacket pulled over it. He’s without a hat today, his hair falling in messy strands over his brow as he sets up his area to study.

Sensing your gaze, he turns to look at you, eyebrow raised. “What?” 

“You seem different.”

“Different how?” He types on his computer to start bringing up his chemistry homework. “Different as in going to fail organic chem without your help?” 

“Oh shut up. I’m obviously going to help you.” 

His mouth is wicked when he grins. “Good.” 

When Vernon looks up at you, the world stops a little. His gaze today is fathomless, dark eyes smooth like the surface of a lake with no end. You tip into that gaze, letting yourself drown in it for a moment. Normally, Vernon would break eye contact by now, easily distracted or unrealizing that he’s got you stuck on him. 

Now, he doesn’t do that. He looks right back at you. Heat crawls up your neck and your breaths quicken. For the first time since you’ve known him, Vernon looks at you like he knows everything inside your locked-tight heart. 

You lick your lips and his gaze dips to your mouth. Inside your chest, your hummingbird heart hammers, threatening to break free. The corner of Vernon’s mouth tilts upward as his eyes meet yours again, and you watch, completely frozen, as he leans toward you. 

Vernon is so close you can smell the spicy cologne on his skin. It’s heady and makes you dizzy, and you watch, totally lost as he wraps his hand around the leg of your chair and tugs hard. You yelp, startling a few people around you as he yanks your chair next to his, your thighs pressed together. 

“What are you doing?” you whisper harshly at him, throwing an apologetic look at the people you’ve disturbed for a second time. 

“How are you going to help me from over there?”

“You could have asked me to move my chair.” 

The problem isn’t that he moved your chair. Not really. The problem is how close he is, leg pressed against yours and elbows touching as he shrugs and turns his computer screen toward you. The problem is how at ease he is with you nearly on top of him, his lazy smile making your thoughts tangle and your breath quicken. 

This Vernon is still the one you’re used to but there’s something about him that keeps you on edge. Keeps you looking at him when his hand brushes against yours to grab a pen, or when he leans back and puts his arm across the back of your chair, idly playing with the hood of your jacket.

It’s almost like he’s flirting, and you spend half the time stumbling through his homework, barely able to assist him in a meaningful way because you’re busy decoding the subtle touches and the light teasing. You feel yourself blush more and look the other way to collect yourself more in the hour you help him than you have your entire friendship, unsure what’s happening or how to handle it. 

Homework completed, Vernon stares off into the distance, his finger twisting in the string of your hoodie absently as you try to write the rest of your paper. It’s nearly impossible to concentrate like this, the intimacy more than you’re used to. 

“You’re very distracting today,” you comment as you reference a text to the right of your screen. “Are you aware of that?” 

He hums. “This is hardly a distraction. I could try harder, though.”

You cut a glance at him. He seems utterly serious, any sort of mirth nonexistent in his expression. There’s just that shadowed gaze, that spark of something right where you can’t reach it. You abruptly stand, surprising him as you knock his arm away from you and clear your throat. 

“I need a different text. It’s downstairs, though.” 

“I’ll come with you.” You raise your brows and he shrugs. “I’ve got nothing else to do.” 

“Sure.” 

Without another word, you pivot on your heel and nearly run for the far set of stairs that lead to the subterranean level of the library where all the old texts and books exist. Vernon follows you at a casual pace, still totally at ease despite the fact that you’re obviously unraveling.

You have no idea what his sudden interest in you is and it’s making you unspool, thoughts wild and racing as you reach the stairwell that leads down. 

Damp air greets you as you start down the steps and it smells like wet carpet. You cringe, hating every time you have to come here. It’s always poorly lit and damp, not at all what one would expect from a library trying to keep books from molding. But no one really comes down here anyway, only the history majors and people like you, who require weird books long retired from the main shelves.

It’s eerie in the old stacks. There are lamps above head casting a burnt orange glow over the green, shag carpet but otherwise it’s nearly impossible to see in the shadowy parts of the room. You certainly could never read a book down here. 

Vernon is silent behind you but you can feel him, his gaze burning into your back as you navigate toward the last set of rows. As you approach, you hear a sound, stopping you dead in your tracks. Vernon crashes into you, nearly knocking you over but his hands grab you, steadying you and holding you close to his chest. 

For the first time today, you’re able to ignore his nearness in favor of straining your ears for the sound you heard, a small whimper, perhaps. You hear it again, distinctly human. Your heart starts to pound as you remember that just the day before there was a body found on campus, mind racing with thoughts as you stand rooted to the spot, Vernon pressed against you.

Craning your head, you look up at him. His expression is unreadable as he looks at you through long lashes, face shadowed. There’s a soft bang, like someone knocking something over. He looks over your head and back at you, shrugging his shoulder as if to say your choice. 

Slowly, you move forward. Vernon keeps close, his heat radiating behind you like a furnace as you creep through the last few rows of shelving. As you near the third one, you stop and peer around the corner, eyes trying to adjust in the shitty lighting. 

What you see has you snapping back around the stack, mouth dropping open. Vernon, curious, leans around you to peer around the stack. He raises his brows and steps backward, mouth pressed in a firm line to conceal his laugh. 

In the next row over is a girl you vaguely recognize, naked from the waist down while someone who is very much not her boyfriend, pumps their fingers between her legs. Slapping Vernon’s chest you point toward the door, silently screaming at him to turn around and hightail it out of there. 

Vernon, for a second, bites his lower lip and wags his eyebrows at you, suggestive. You glare and shove his chest. He goes easily, grinning at you playfully as he turns on his heel and heads back up to the main floor. 

When you reach your table, you drop down in the chair, totally shocked. Vernon drops down next to you, laughing. “Listen, when the urge hits, I guess.”

“I guess,” you agree sharply, shaking your head. “That was not her boyfriend, though.”

“No shit?” 

“Yeah. She’s dating some dude in Sigma whatever.” 

Vernon’s gaze turns sharp and his eyes trail back toward the far side of the library, resting on the stairs. “Interesting.” 

“Not really. That seems to happen a lot among you Greek lifers.” 

“I would never do that.” The severity of his declaration has you looking up from your notebook. Vernon’s expression is cutting, his jaw flexing. “I would never participate in infidelity. Ever.” 

“I didn’t mean you, Vernon.” 

“I’m not like that.” 

You soften a little, guilt tugging at you. So often you remember that Vernon isn’t like a lot of the people around him and grouping him in is unfair and insensitive. 

“I know. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it like that.” 

He nods once, turning from you to pack up his stuff. Somehow, you can’t help but feel like you’ve said the wrong thing. 

-

“Oh shit,” Vernon mutters. You look up from where you’re flipping a grilled cheese in the pan. He holds his phone out to you from where he leans against his kitchen counter. “They found another body. Same MO or whatever as the first.” 

“No way?” 

Putting down the spatula, you grab his phone from him where he has the article pulled up. Sure enough, there’s been another murder on campus. Your eyes drink in the details, similar as before: student victim, stab wounds, message written on the wall. 

“What is the Hello Darling Murder?” you ask, more to yourself than Vernon. “It’s linked here as a reference to these being copycat murders.” He says nothing. You read out loud, “The Hello Darling Murder is a case of a murder suicide that happened in the same town in 1979. It was the town’s first violent domestic crime in years, and drew national media attention for the gruesome crime scene in which a message had been written on the wall in blood.” 

Vernon makes an amused sound. You look up at him sharply, staring. He has his arms crossed over his chest, staring at the floor with a mildly bemused expression. You kick him and he looks up at you. “What?”

“Why are you laughing? That’s not funny.”

“The way people sensationalize murder is weird.” 

“I mean, I agree. But what is funny?”

“It’s not funny as in funny ha ha,” he clarifies. “It’s funny stupid. The media is going to sensationalize this and turn it into an entire thing.” 

“Yeah, well. That’s their job.” 

Off put by his dark mirth, you turn back to the article, reading further. You skip over the old murder, more interested in the details of the two new ones. Your heart seizes in your chest when you see the name and picture of the second victim, stomach roiling. 

He sees your expression, pushing off the counter toward you, hands shooting your arms. “What? What’s wrong?” 

In any other scenario, you’d be overwhelmed by the sudden care and affection. Now, you just turn the phone toward him, showing him the photo. “It’s that girl from the library. Her name was Sidney. She’s the one I told you was cheating on her boyfriend.” 

Nothing registers in his face when he looks at the phone, his hands still resting on your arms lightly. He looks away from the screen and at you instead, a sharpness to his gaze that’s there so often you’re starting to grow used to it.

“You’re burning the grilled cheese, Lovecraft.” 

-

Mosquitos nip at your skin as you walk down the narrow path between trees. You slap your hand against your neck again, muttering under your breath. Vernon chuckles next to you, keeping his pace even as you struggle to step over a fallen tree branch. 

You hate the woods at night. It’s not your first time going to a bonfire deep in the woods off campus, but you don’t know why you keep coming back. Tripping over another branch, Vernon catches you by the arm and steadies you, stopping to make sure you’re okay before he lets go.

Scratch that. You do know why you keep coming back. For as long as you’ve been friends, you’ve been Vernon’s permanent plus one to all of his parties, formals and events, even if both of you hate going. It’s become a weird obligation to show up at things like this as a pair. 

They aren’t always terrible, you have to admit. When Mingyu isn’t absolutely hammered, he’s mostly tolerable to be around. Soonyoung isn’t bad either, though you’re still pissed off at him for the Halloween party incident, unwilling to talk to him. 

But nights like this where you have to trek out into the middle of the woods using your phone’s flashlight to navigate, you sort of loathe your unspoken oath to attend with Vernon. 

Instead of focusing on the distaste and the inherent anxiety the shadows of the trees give you, you let Vernon help you slide down a ditch and climb up the other side. His fingers are firm on your wrist, not quite holding your hand but keeping you connected. 

Your skin is warm and tingles when he lets go, deeming it safe enough to let you walk yourself. It’s easier to see now, too, the orange light of the massive bonfire casting a circle of orange glow that only grows as you near the party. 

Party is perhaps too strong of a word for it. There can’t be more than twenty people in the small clearing surrounding the roaring fire the Soonyoung tends to, foldable chairs and coolers arranged in a circle. Chan is trying to roast a marshmallow and failing, the white snack immediately catching fire and singing in the heat of the fire. 

Mingyu whistles when he sees you, catching your attention to wave you over to a pair of seats by him and Chan. You make your way there, navigating through groups of people clutching plastic cups and stepping over various sizes of coolers. 

The heat from Soonyoung’s inferno is nearly unbearable, making you cringe back as he adds something that cracks and pops, sending bits of orange ash floating toward the sky. 

“Jesus Christ, Soonyoung!” Seungcheol complains from his seat where a girl sits on his knee. “Enough, it’s fucking hot!” 

“Sorry,” Soonyoung answers, sheepish. 

Backing your chair away from the fire a little, you sit down and curl into the folding chair, accepting the drink Vernon hands you before moving his chair closer to yours and sitting down. A shiver ripples through you at the cool can in your hands. You crack the top and take a sip, trying to cool down from the blast of heat you’d taken while passing the fire.

Mingyu turns to you and Vernon as Chan pops a burned marshmallow in his mouth, the two of them immediately launching into discussions of the murders. You shift uncomfortably in your chair, listening as they recount the details in the news mixed with the rumors on campus. 

So far, two bodies have been discovered and linked together. The authorities don’t want to call it a serial killer, attempting to avoid a media craze and inspiring the killer to go on a spree, but denying the murders are connected is impossible.

You’re unsure what the victims have in common. The first had been a male senior who was in the business track, discovered by the dorms near the lake on campus. The second had been the girl you’d seen in the library in her apartment off campus, and Sidney had been in the education track and a junior. 

Neither of them were friends. You don’t go to a large university, but there are enough students that it’s normal to have a ton of people that you don’t know. From what anyone can tell, there was nothing the two victims had in common.

Except that they’d been murdered by someone who had left a bloody Hello Darling written at the crime scene.

A chill sweeps over you as Mingyu mentions the Hello Darling Murderer. It was the same story as before - a man had murdered his girlfriend in the 70s, a shocking and violent domestic crime that had unsettled the citizens and local university. He’d promptly killed himself after that, leaving only a bloody Hello Darling on the walls.

Authorities didn’t even know who the blood had belonged to - it took them so long to realize the couple was missing before they did a wellness check that by the time they investigated, they’d been dead a week. 

Vernon snorts at that and mutters something about the ineptitude of law enforcement. You cut your eyes at him. Though you agree, Vernon is usually the last person to make degrading comments - or comment at all really. 

Not for the first time in the last two weeks, you can’t help but sense that honed edge to him he has now. You’ve attributed it to him moving with more confidence, talking to people directly and making actual eye contact. You don’t know where the sudden swell in self-conviction has come from, but you’d be lying if you said it didn’t look good on him.

Still, it’s got you a little uneasy, trying to adjust to this version of him. 

The topic shifts to football and you find yourself tuning everyone out, sipping your cider and staring at the fire as it warms your feet. More people arrive and drag chairs up. Someone hauls a few kegs into the firelight, cheers going around the fire.

Vernon stands and holds his hand up for your empty can. You give it to him wordlessly and he heads to get you a refresh, tossing the trash into one of the trash bins.

Turning to Mingyu as he goes, you ask quietly, “Has he seemed different to you lately?” 

“Who?”

“Steve Jobs,” you deadpan. “Vernon, obviously.”

“I don’t think so? He’s around a lot more lately and actually talks to us.” Mingyu pauses, thinking as he cocks his head to the side. “I mean, I guess that is kind of weird for him. He also actually goes to places with us now.” 

“Exactly what I mean.”

“Hey! We are friends, you know?” 

You hum uncertainty, your attention trailing back to Vernon. You observe him, noticing all the little details that are different. He stands a little bit straighter, inserts himself in conversations where he didn’t before.

Now, he stands near the keg, nodding along to something the girl next to him is saying. They’re standing close - you realize it’s the same girl from the Halloween party that had been talking to him, except this time, he’s talking back. 

Vernon leans in close to her and says something, making her laugh. He bites his lower lip a little, watching her with half-lidded eyes. Your stomach turns a little, eyes glued as he brushes her arm when he reaches for the cup that Joshua hands him. 

Turning away from them, you tune yourself into Chan’s conversation, needing a distraction. You try not to count the minutes until Vernon returns. When he does, the girl is with him. He drags a chair over so she can sit on the other side of him. 

It’s close, their knees touching when he sits and hands her the drink he was holding for her. He turns and holds out your drink to you, which sloshes a little when you snatch the cup from his hand. He arches his brows but you say nothing, taking a large gulp and turning your back on him to ask Chan about football instead. 

“You watch football?” Chan asks cryptically. 

“Sure. Go Green Bay Ravens.” 

He stares. “Packers. Green Bay Packers.”

“That’s what I said.”

“Hey, I’m not arguing with you. In fact, if you want to tell me what’s what more often-”

You scoff. “Shut up, Chan!”

Stuck between Vernon flirting with the girl next to him and Chan and Mingyu being - Chan and Mingyu - sours your mood. You try to lose yourself in your cup, going mute as you stare at the fire. Vernon hardly notices the shift in your mood, leaning in to the girl as they chat. 

You can’t help but notice everything about them. It’s impossible not to see the way she leans into him, bumping shoulders when she laughs. He lets her, watching her with a gaze you can only describe as hungry. The grip on your cup tightens as he knocks their knees together when he shifts in his chair, leaving it pressed against hers. 

It reminds you of the way he’d behaved in the library with you, brushing against you on purpose, making his words come out in a playful pur instead of what you’re used to, and seeing him do it with her now makes you snap. 

You stand abruptly, drawing the attention of Chan and Mingyu but not who you want. 

“I’m going for a walk.”

“Need company?” Chan offers. It seems genuine, but you give him a sharp no before you’re walking away, sticks snapping underneath your boots as you go. 

Chill air licks your face as you get further from the fire. There are plenty of people dispersed throughout the general area, some people pulled far away for intimate conversations, others pulled away to pass a joint in a circle, the pungent smell chasing you as you pass them. 

Away from the smoke and the noise, you feel like you can breathe a little more. You find a fallen tree, thick enough to sit on. You test your weight on it first before deciding it’s safe, swinging your leg to straddle it and look off into the dark trees.

There’s just enough light from the silver moon above your head and from the distant fire to feel safe. Wrapping your arms around your middle, you hug yourself and close your eyes, breathing in deep. The fire smoke isn’t strong here, the air clean and crisp.

Opening your eyes, you look at the sky. This far out in the country, you can see the stars. Out of habit, you start mapping out all the constellations you know, eyes tracing Orion the Hunter. You skip over to Andromeda, counting each star before moving to the east to spot Cassiopeia. 

It reminds you of the time you taught Vernon all the different constellations. He’d been a silent and attentive listener, watching as you’d pointed them all out while sitting on a bench at the park. You’ve caught him drawing them more than once in his chemistry notebooks, little dots of perfect constellations memorized. 

An ache you’re familiar with fills your chest. It’s the same ache you had when you realized you had feelings for him but didn’t want to tell him. The same ache you had when he’d hurt your feelings on Halloween. The same ache as when you’d seen him actually look back at someone who's interested in him, for once. 

Crying seems silly, but suddenly you have the urge to, throat twisting as you stare at the sky and try to puzzle out the direction your friendship has gone since that night. As you sit on the tree, a prickling sense of awareness creeps up your spine, tugging at you. 

Looking around, you see nothing. You can generally see in a good circumference, but the sudden instinct that something or someone is watching you drives you to get off the branch, hitting the ground with both feet to stride back toward the fire. 

As you go, your foot gets stuck in a tangle of tree roots again, making you stumble. You curse, bending down through squinted eyes to untangle your foot. Your fingers are a little cold and shaking, anxiety creeping up slowly as you pull the weeds and roots away from your shoe. 

Something snaps behind you. Your fingers freeze, head whipping around to look for the source of the noise. Again, you see nothing but your heart is hammering. You don’t dare to breathe, holding your breath as you strain your ears to hear anything else. There’s only crickets and an owl in the distance, no more snapping branches.

In that moment, it occurs to you that you’ve decided to wander out in the woods at night and alone after two recent murders. The stupidity of your actions land like a blow.

Turning back around, you wrench your shoe free and stand up, nearly colliding with Vernon who leans backward to avoid smacking into you as you shriek in surprise, stepping backward. Vernon’s hand darts out to grab you, catching you and tugging you forward into him before you can lose your balance fully.

Heart hammering, your fingers dig into his biceps, keeping yourself standing as you hiss, “What are you doing?”

“What do you mean what am I doing? You’re wandering out in the middle of the woods while there is an active serial killer in town.” 

“Oh please, like you noticed.”

He frowns. You drop your hands and try to step away from him, eager to put some distance between you. Vernon’s grip on you tightens though, keeping you where you’re standing. “I’m here, I obviously noticed.” You snort derisively and his grip tightens a little. “Is there something you want to say?”

You open and close your mouth, scowling at him. He’s never so direct you’re unsure how to approach the question. So you try for a little bit of honesty. “I wasn’t having fun.” 

“Okay, so let’s leave.”

“You look like you were having fun.” 

Silence hangs in the air. Vernon’s face is indecipherable. Then, “Are you jealous?”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

Your response is so fast that it even sounds practiced and hollow to you. It’s hard not to wince, hoping that as always, he doesn’t see through your cellophane defense. Vernon’s touch drops from your biceps to your wrist, delicate. You’re afraid to look him in the eye, instead staring at the buttons on his jean jacket. 

“I noticed you were gone.” His voice is gentle, a low purr. You dart a quick glance at him to see the intensity of his gaze. It makes you squirm, unsure how to respond. “I always notice when you’re gone.”

“Alright. Well.” 

“I notice everything about you.” 

The way he says it is a soft whisper. A promise, a suggestion. Again, it feels like Vernon has discovered your loose thread, tugging lightly on it. If he tugs again, you think you might unspool all the way, showing him everything you don’t want him to see. 

It feels like he wants to, and that’s what scares you more. That suddenly he’s looking at you like he wants to see past the veneer of your words, like he’s ready to look inside. You hear the double meaning. It’s so terrifying that you look away from him, ready to hide. 

“Don’t tease me,” you whisper. 

“I’m not. If you’re not having fun, let’s go home. I came here with you.” He tugs your wrist. “Come on. You can’t be walking around out here alone with a killer on the loose, Lovecraft. I’ll be forced to fight them off.” 

The tension fades. You let out a breath and laugh, looking at him skeptically. “Yeah? You’re going to fight for me?” 

His grip on your wrist tightens. You wonder if he can feel the speed of your pulse under his thumb, the way it hammers when he smirks. “Yeah, I am.” 

-

Sal’s Pizzeria isn’t your favorite place to do school work. It’s too loud and bright, the promise of food is way too distracting for you to focus for much longer than a few minutes at a time, and usually your fingers are too slippery with pizza grease to type properly. 

You only have a narrow window to finish writing your paper before going to the bar for Jihoon’s birthday. You barely know him, but he’s someone Vernon is decently close enough too that you feel obligated to attend. More importantly, you’re finally almost done with your paper you’ve been working on for two weeks, eager to celebrate hitting submit. 

“You know that dude who was killed first was a rotten cheater?” 

The girls sitting behind you catch your attention. Your brows knit together and you turn your head a fraction to eavesdrop, eyes unfocusing on the words on your screen. There are four of them behind you that you don’t recognize but assume go to the same school as you, based on the attire and the backpacks. 

“Yeah! Sam told me about that. Apparently he was sleeping around with a bunch of freshmen. Maybe his girlfriend found out and went all psycho killer on him?” 

“Ew, how scummy. But what’s with the hello darling message shit? Can you say weird?” 

“I know, right?” 

Their words give you pause. The first victim had been someone known for his infidelity too? Turning back to your screen, you pull up your web browser and type in Hello Darling Murderer to the search. The original murder from the 70s hadn’t given you much thought beyond assuming someone was being a copycat, but now you feel something nagging at you. Something you’re missing. 

All of the top stories are of the recent murders. You amend your search to the 70s and get older articles and links to podcasts covering the initial incident. Clicking on a story from a reputable journal, you start reading in detail about the first murder and his victim, skin prickling as you go.

As an Occult Studies major, a lot of people think you’re into murder mysteries. In truth, you’re not. They have little to do with what you study, and you’ve spent countless times telling people that occult and people obsessed with true crime are two totally different things. You have no idea why they’re lumped together so often, but on more than one occasion you’ve had to explain you’re not interested in serial killers or their stories.

Except now. Chewing the inside of your cheek, you unwind the story of Thomas Ellswater, who had apparently murdered his girlfriend at the time before promptly killing himself. The initial investigation hadn’t dug up much, assuming that it was a case of domestic violence gone as bad as it could. 

But the journalist who had written the story had other details. Accounts from family friends that detailed Elsswater’s girlfriend, Maya, unhappy with their relationship. One even insinuated that she had been cheating on him for a long time, though with who, they were unsure. 

Further down in the article, you stop. Read the paragraph again. Look at the picture of the house. A sickly chill coats your skin as you lean forward, taking in the details of the house. You’ve seen it before, though your memory of it at night surrounded by floodlights and full of drunk college students makes it almost unrecognizable when you see it on the screen. 

Thomas Ellswater lived in the same house that you’d partied in on Halloween night, where Vernon had played that horrible prank in the closet. Thomas or Maya had been the haunting spirit Soonyoung had been attempting to summon.

And now someone was killing in the same exact style.. 

The server bringing you two trays of pizzas and a basket of fries breaks you from your trance. You close the article, a sick feeling in your stomach as you try to piece together the puzzle. Was it just a spurned lover who was paying homage to someone who related? Or was it a serial killer poking fun at the MO?

Vernon crashing into the seat across from you startles you. He gives you a grin, eyeing the pizza in front of him and rubbing his hands together. Rolling your eyes, you grab the red pepper flakes and salt, passing the latter over to him. 

“So I learned something weird today,” you venture, pulling a slice of pizza from the tray. 

“Tell me,” he answers over a mouthful of pizza, once again burning himself. You roll your eyes, shaking your red pepper onto your slice. “What is going on in the world of occult today?”

“Actually, not occult.” He gives you an appraising look, popping some fries into his mouth. “What, no salt today?”

He pauses, looking at the basket of fries. “Nah, I need to cut back on the sodium.”

“Good idea. Anyway, it’s about the murders.” 

“Do tell.”

“The girls behind me said the first victim was known for cheating.” 

“It’s college. Apparently there is a lot of that.” 

“But remember that day we saw Sidney in the library? She was cheating too.” 

“Right.” He rips into his pizza, gaze sharp as he looks at you. “So this town is full of a bunch of lowlife fucking cheaters.”

You flinch at his vehemence, leaning back in your seat. Vernon drops his gaze, tearing into his slice in silence. “Sorry,” he says after swallowing. “I’m hungry.”

“Right. As I was saying, I looked up that Hello Darling Murder.” 

He pauses, gaze flicking to you. “And?”

“And it was ruled as a case of domestic violence gone wrong, but there were some people who think the Maya Caravalo was cheating on Thomas Ellswater, who killed her.” 

“I’m sure cheating is the leading cause of crimes of passion.”

“In the house that we were in on Halloween.” 

Vernon frowns. “Ah. Weird.” 

He doesn’t elaborate. You watch him as he chews on more pizza, shoving fries into his mouth on occasion too. He seems totally at ease - and more normal than he’s been in weeks. You watch, mildly disgusted at the way college men eat. 

“That’s all you have to say?” You ask. “Weird.”

“It is weird.” 

“Kind of an insane coincidence.” 

He becomes still, only his eyes moving as he settles his inky gaze on you. For a second, you can’t help but think he looks a bit like the cat who ate the canary, eyes glittering. “So tell me what theory is in that pretty head of yours, Lovecraft.” 

Ignoring the way your heart leaps at him calling you pretty, you sigh, picking at the wooden table with a thumb nail. “I don’t really have one. I just think someone came across the original murder and thought I could write that at my crime scenes. I don’t study criminology, I can’t figure out motivation.”

“You’re the smartest person in school, Lovecraft. Try.” 

“I guess… I don’t know. The new killer was probably cheated on recently, came across what happened in the 70s, and has been taking out their rage on other adulterers because they feel some sort of kinship with Thomas. Maybe like finishing his work or ridding the world of a common enemy.” 

Vernon hums. “Maybe so. Do you think they deserve it?” You look at him sharply, mouth downturning. “The victims. Do you think they deserve to be killed for their infidelity?” 

“I don’t know that anyone is deserving of murder.” You chew the inside of your cheek, watching Vernon’s face for any sign of what he’s thinking. He’s totally closed off, a blank canvas. “This is why I’m in Occult Studies and not law, Vernon.” 

He gives a wolfish grin. “Touche. Come on, eat your pizza. We have a bar to go get drunk at.” 

-

The bar in question is teeming with people. You’re immediately overwhelmed, squeezing your way between chairs, tables and people as you navigate to your group of friends. Vernon keeps you close, his arm encircling your waist as pulling you to him as you go. 

He either ignores or doesn’t notice the sharp look you give him. Instead, he’s focused on keeping the two of you attached, shouldering his way through the crowd, the press of his fingers on your hip dizzying and steadying at the same time. 

At the far back of the bar, an entire section of people associated with Vernon’s fraternity crowd from wall to wall. Vernon manages to get you onto a stool at the bar top, shouldering one of the pledges off the seat with a narrow-eyed look. You raise your brows at him and he winks, leaning his elbow on the bar top to order you both drinks.

Spinning to face him in the stool, you give him a quick once over. You’d been so engrossed in your murdery mystery findings at the pizzeria that you haven't really looked at him until now. He looks good, dressed simply in dark jeans and a dark, long sleeve shirt that shows how broad he is. Has he always been that broad? 

Vernon catches you staring. “What are you looking at?” 

“Nothing.” 

He grins, accepting drinks from the bartender and sliding one over to you. You burn under the full weight of his attention as he pops his straw into his mouth. “Tell me.” 

“You look nice tonight.”

“You look nice every night.”

“Oh shut up.” 

“What?” he laughs. “I mean it.” 

“Whatever.”

Spinning in the chair again, you place your back to the bar, facing the crowd to watch people. Vernon is content to stand next to you in silence, both of you sipping your drinks as you observe the people around you. Someone jostles him a little closer, his arm shifting to lay across the bartop along your back. 

Heat creeps into your cheeks and you try to remain breathing normally. Vernon leaves his arm there, pressed against you but not exactly wrapped around you. There is a distinct difference, but this is still new. Still confusing. 

People who recognize you both come up and say hi. You keep the conversation polite and short, especially when you see the girl who has lingered at the last two parties slink toward you, her eyes only for Vernon. 

“Hi,” she yells over the crowd, totally ignoring you. “I didn’t expect to see you tonight!”

“Why wouldn’t you? I’m friends with Jihoon.”

The girl opens and closes her mouth, lips pursed at that. You sense the serrated edged to Vernon’s words, casting a glance his direction. He’s not looking at her, eyes instead scanning the crowd. Uninterested. Even you know she didn’t literally mean she wasn’t expecting to see him - it was just a conversation starter. 

Using the opportunity to sip from your straw to hide your laughter, you have to admit you’re a little relieved to see Vernon missing social cues again. It’s more him, a Vernon that you're used to. Maybe a little meaner than usual, but this is closer. 

“Right,” the girl says. Her eyes flicker to you for the first time. “It’s his birthday, right?” 

“According to the giant sign in the corner and all the balloons, yes.” 

Okay, maybe it’s not entirely normal Vernon. Usually he isn’t so callous. In this case, you don’t mind, watching as she tries to puzzle out how to keep the conversation going. Vernon decides for you, turning from her to press his mouth close to your ear. 

“I’ll be right back,” he murmurs, breath hot against you. “I’m gonna greet Jihoon really quickly.” 

All you can manage is a breathy, “Alright.” 

Vernon finishes his drink and pushes off the bar, fingers dragging against you as he goes. He ignores the girl standing and watching, her eyes darting from you to him until he vanishes in the sea of bodies. Without Vernon there, she has nothing to do. She tilts her chin up, sucking up her pride and turns on her heel to walk a direction distinctly not the same way as Vernon.

Alone at the bar, you swivel in your seat to order you both another drink. You assume Vernon is drinking a whiskey coke, hoping that’s right as you flag down the bartender. While you wait, someone slips into the spot next to you. You turn, thinking Vernon’s already back only to find someone you definitely don’t know. 

“Sorry,” he shouts over the loud voices and music. “Did not mean to get in your personal space, this spot was way smaller than I thought it was.” 

“That’s okay! Getting a spot kind of sucks.”

“No kidding.” He grins at you, turning his attention back to trying to get anyone to take his drink order. “How long do you think it’ll take for them to notice me?” 

“About seven years.”

“Yikes. I’m Seokmin, by the way.” You give him your name and he grins. “What brings you to this shit hole ass bar?”

“A friend of a friend's birthday. You?”

“A friend of a friend's birthday indeed.”

A bartender finally comes over to take Seokmin’s order. He leans forward to shout over the crowd, his shoulder knocking into yours. You don’t mind - he’s nice. He looks over at you, a question on his face. “You like tequila?”

“No!”

“Let me rephrase - want a shot of tequila?” 

“She doesn’t.”

Vernon slides behind you, his palm pressed flat to your back. You startle, looking up at him in surprise. He isn’t looking at you, his eyes zeroed in on Seokmin. You slide Vernon’s drink toward him, eager to dispel the sudden tension thrumming through him.

“Whiskey and coke?”

He looks down, eyes rounding out a little as he softens. “Mhmm. Thank you.”

Drink in hand, Seokmin turns to you both and waves. “Y’all have a good night!”

When he’s gone, Vernon leans against the counter again, his tone flat as he says, “He was nice.”

“He was, but what do you sound bothered by it?”

“Maybe I am.” 

“Why?” 

He lifts a shoulder. Instead of answering you, he picks up the lime in his drink and squeezes it, stirring it with his straw before taking a long pull straight from the rim of the glass. 

You nudge him. “I’m going to say this again: you’ve been different, lately.” 

“Different how.” 

“I don’t know. You talk more. You’re a lot more engaging. You’re a little…” 

“A little what?”

“Cockier?” He hums, eyes dropping down to your mouth. “Like that,” you point out, voice a little weaker. “You do that now, and you didn’t used to.”

“I always did. I’m just a little more obvious about it now.”

Tension crackles between the two of you. Your mouth feels dry as you watch him, reading the minute expressions of his face. Finally, when you can’t unpuzzle him, you say, “I don’t know what you’re doing.”

“What do you mean?”

“I can’t tell if you’re coming onto me or if it’s some sort of game to you.” That makes him frown as he sips his drink again. Your fear and frustration clash, wrestling for dominance. “It makes things confusing.”

“Why didn’t you say so? I’m happy to clear things up.” 

You grip your glass, trying to keep your fingers from quaking. This moment feels like it’s all or nothing. Vernon puts it out on the table so easily, leaving the option to you. Either you can ask for clarity, or keep playing this new game of cat and mouse. But you have to decide. 

“I would appreciate it if you did,” you say eventually. 

Vernon nods and finishes the rest of the drink. He sets the glass down before he leans forward, hand going to the underside of your chin to lightly tip your face upward with his knuckle so he can press the world’s most gentle kiss to your mouth. 

You freeze. When he doesn’t pull away, lips soft and warm, you sigh into the kiss, eyes fluttering shut. He feels you relax, mouth curling in a smile against yours. He steps into your space without breaking the kiss, finding the space between your legs as his lips press firmer to yours. 

Vernon smells like his cologne and something distinctly him. It makes you dizzy, and the way he tastes like whiskey and lime makes the room spin. When he pulls away from him, you feel like you’re going to fall from the stool, leaning toward him. 

His hands grip your thighs, squeezing generously as he leans in and drags his mouth to your ear. “Does that clear things up?” 

“Actually, no?” 

His groan is throaty, turning into laughter as he buries his face in your neck. Your hands tentatively settle on his waist, a little hesitant. “I always said you were the smartest person at school, but maybe not.”

“Hey!” 

“Come home with me.” He feels your delay, laughing. “Come home with me because I like you. Is that clearer? Because I want you to come home with me, and I don’t want anyone else here.” 

Your heart goes bolting like a rabbit, running in circles. Vernon pulls away from you to study your face. You watch him for any sign that he’s kidding, that he doesn’t mean it. You find none. In its place, you only see honesty. Hunger. Fiery desire burning at the surface. 

“Really?” Your question is small. Vulnerable. “Do you mean that?”

“I do.” He tugs on your thighs. “I’m not playing games with you. Come home with me - I’ll prove I’m serious about you. You are what I want. I just had to be sure.” 

Lightheaded and heart slamming, you let Vernon pull you from the seat and lead you out of the bar. 

-

Vernon’s apartment on the north side of town is a place you’ve been a million times. You recognize all the cars in the parking lot, and you know exactly what building and floor belongs to him. You even recognize his neighbors come in mat that you’ve always hated. 

He catches you staring at it with distaste now, laughing as he shakes his head and inserts his keys. “You and that mat.”

One hand works the keys into the door while the other is stretched behind him, fingers linked with yours. Your hand is warm and your heart is still racing as he gets the door open, pulling you inside the dark of his home. 

“They could be inviting anything in,” you assert, a little breathless as he pulls you to his chest. He kicks the door shut, the frame rattling as it slams. “You should never have a doormat that just welcomes whatever shows up at your door inside. You could end up with a vampire in your home.”

“A vampire, huh?” Vernon ducks his head towards your neck, lips skimming your throat. Your fingers twist in the hem of his shirt, eyes fluttering closed as his teeth scrape against your pulse point. “Sounds scary.” 

“It is. There’s nothing to disprove that vampires exist.” 

Vernon bites down and you whine, melting into him. His laugh vibrates through his chest as his tongue presses to the bite mark, soothing the pain. His mouth closes over the spot and he sucks gently, sending a shiver through your body. 

“I promise the only thing biting you will be me.”

The full weight of his words hit you between the legs. You feel like putty in his hand as he navigates you to the island counter in his kitchen. He presses your back into it, careful not to jam you too harshly against the marble. 

Heat licks through your stomach as Vernon steals your lips in a kiss. It’s different from the gentle one he gave you at the bar. This one drinks you in, pries you open and lets you spill out into him, all the feelings and bottled thoughts you have free for the taking.

You get lost in him, hands wrapping around his neck to pull him close, fingers sliding through his hair. He moans and you respond, curling your fingers to scrape your nails against his scalp. His hips twitch forward, pinning you between him in the counter as he sucks your bottom lip harshly. 

“Be careful,” he warns, a hand drifting from your chin to your neck. He doesn’t wrap his fingers around your throat, but his hand rests there, heavy and wanting. “I’m trying to be gentle.” 

You steal a kiss, nipping his bottom lip sharply. “Don’t be.”

His resounding groan makes you dizzy. His kisses become rough and heated, using his tongue as much as his teeth. He presses you hard into the countertop now, the marble digging into your back as he nearly folds you in half with the weight of his body. 

It feels like the air has left the room. Vernon is the only thing you need to breathe in, fueled by the way his tongue licks into you, the gentle squeeze of his hand at the base of your throat. His fingers press against your pulse, not enough to cut off any airflow but enough to send a bolt of pleasure and thrill through you. 

“You have no idea,” Vernon pants, pressing sloppy, wet kisses to your jawline. “How long I’ve waited to do this. I could have had you this entire fucking time, but I held myself back.” 

His thumb presses under your jaw, angling your head to the side. With more access to your throat, he peppers you in bites and kisses, tongue soothing each sting. “I have wasted so much time,” he mutters, almost like he’s talking to himself. “Being a fucking coward.”

“Don’t say that,” you gasp as his other hand presses between your legs. The ache in your cunt is already throbbing, and he does nothing but make it worse by adding pressure but doing nothing more. “Please don’t tease me.”

“I’m not.” He pulls away from you. Before you can complain, he gives you a quick kiss, tugging you toward his room. “I shouldn’t have waited until I had a little… encouragement to do this. I’m going to give you everything you want, love.”

A quiver slithers down your spine at the shortened version of your nickname. The new endearment hits home when you see the way he looks at you, the want and desire more unrestrained than anything else you’ve ever seen on his expression. 

Hand in yours, he pulls you into the bedroom, spinning you to sit you down on the edge of his bed. You look up at him through your lashes, admiring the shape of his face and the way you can just barely see his freckles in the soft glow from the nightlight in his bathroom as he slots himself between your knees. 

“I’ll give you whatever you want,” Vernon whispers, voice like velvet. He slides a finger under your chin, tilting your gaze even higher as he watches you, eyes blown. “I’m entirely devoted to you and you only. You know that, right?” 

Vernon’s thumb pulls at your bottom lip. You open your mouth on instinct and he growls low in his throat. He pushes his thumb past your swollen lips, pressing down on your tongue. You taste the lime from earlier and the hint of salt on his skin, closing your mouth as you suck gently. 

“Fuck,” he swears, thumb pressing harder. “You really have been a little slut for me this entire time, huh?” 

Hearing Vernon say it in that deep, whispered voice of his does something to you. There’s a note in his voice you’re unfamiliar with, a dangerous edge that you want to lean into and cut yourself on. So you nod, lashes fluttering as you bat them up at him. 

“Yeah, thought so.” He pulls his thumb from your mouth, dragging it spit-slicked down your chin. “Lay back on the bed for me, love.” 

You do so immediately, shuffling backward so that you can lean back. The sheets smell like him and you tilt your head to the side, nuzzling his comforter a little. You try to ground yourself, feeling a little staticky as he kneels on the bed, mattress dipping. 

Vernon plants a knee between your legs, leaning forward to cage you in with a hand on either side of your head. His kiss is all consuming, any sense of delicacy gone. You let him devour you, your hands pulling at his belt loops to bring him closer.

He’s not close enough, never close enough. 

Having him like this is everything you’ve ever wanted and more. He’s familiar, the scent of him and the warmth of his skin and the little sounds he makes but he’s also entirely new. He is rougher than you imagined, sharper than you thought. He drags his blunt nails over your collarbone as he pulls your shirt away from your neck, giving his mouth access to litter your skin with kisses. 

Your hands slip under his shirt, curious as you press the pads of your fingers into his stomach. You feel the muscles flex and he hums low in his throat, enjoying your exploration as you slide your hands around the perfect taper of his waist to the small of his back. 

Vernon slides his knee higher, pressing it directly to your clothed cunt. You twitch against him, a questioning sound leaving your lips as you breathe in sharply. 

“Go ahead,” he mumbles against your chest, one pulling sharply at your shirt. You hear the seams rip and you don’t even care. “Take what you need, love.” 

The rawness of his words fucks you up. You do as he says, rolling your hips against his thigh for any sort of pressure and friction. It helps relieve the tension a little, but not nearly enough. Your breathing turns ragged as he harshly bites and kisses his way to your bra. 

Yanking hard, he rips the rest of your shirt. You let out a throaty laugh and he looks up at you, eyes like burning coals. “What’s so funny, hmm?”

“I did not expect you to be able to rip my shirt.” 

“Oh?”

The dangerous note in his voice makes your hips stutter and stop. He runs the tip of his tongue around the soft curve of your chest, watching you all the while and fuck. If you’d realized that this was the type of Vernon you’d get, maybe you’d have been braver sooner. Because this Vernon is something else, confident and cocky and ravenous. 

“Want me to rip this too?” He teases, teeth pulling at the cup of your bra. Your chest rises and falls as you try to catch your breath, a little overwhelmed. “Say the word.”

“Maybe salvage some of my clothing, Vernon.”

“Fine. I will not salvage you, though.”

You believe him. Nothing about the way Vernon peels your bra off of you is gentle. Nothing about the way his hand cups your breast, squeezing before he lowers his mouth to give a generous suck to your nipple feels like he has your survival in mind. 

Squeezing your eyes shut, you let Vernon have his way. It feels like he’s peeling you open layer by layer, plucking every string connected to your pleasure that he can find.

His mouth is a weapon, tongue lazily circling your pert nipple until you’re whining and squirming under him. He laughs and drags his tongue to the other side of your chest, licking his way to your peak to tease you further. 

“Shit,” you whisper, one hand leaving his back to tangle in his hair. You don’t know if you’re pulling him away or pushing him closer - maybe both. “Vernon.”

His teeth scrape your nipple and you whine. He shuts you up by closing his mouth around you, sucking sharply. When he pulls away with a loud pop, you let out a shaky breath. 

“You can barely keep it together,” he observes. He placed closed mouth kisses on your stomach as he descends, pulling his knee from between your thighs. “What are you gonna do when I eat you out, huh?”

Flushed and embarrassed, you cover your face as his tongue licks the skin above your jeans. “Cat got your tongue, love?” 

“You - you’re - ugh!”

He chuckles, popping the button of your jeans. “I’m ugh?” 

“You know what I mean.” 

Vernon tugs on your jeans. You try to lift your hips to help him, but your thighs are like jelly already, turning you useless. He coos at you, pressing a kiss to your hip gently. “I got you.” 

Unsure if he means about your inability to get out your fucking pants or he understand what you mean, you let him peel them down the rest of the way. His hands skate up your calves, squeezing and firm as he sinks to his knees on the floor. 

Bracing yourself, you brave a look between your legs where he presses your thighs open gently with his palms. Veronon’s eyes are on the apex of your thighs, entirely focused on where your underwear stick to your folds. He licks his lips, hand brushing up and down your thighs. 

His gaze flickers to you. For a moment, the two of you just stare at one another. You feel overly exposed, naked from the waist up, cool air pebbling your spit-slicked chest. The weight of his gaze presses you down like a physical thing, but it’s comforting. Warm. Reassuring. 

The air is charged between you as he keeps watching you while he drags a hand up and between your legs. He presses a thumb between your folds and you whimper, feeling the way he prods at your aching entrance, only the thin fabric keeping him out.

“Are you always this wet for me?” he asks, thumb slowly dragging up the damp patch to your clit. He digs in sharply, pressing firm enough that your pleasure spikes and your hips pop off the bed. He hisses at you and smacks your thigh, making you lower your ass to the bed again. “Everytime we were together, did you get like this?” 

It takes effort to rasp, “Sometimes.”

Vernon hooks his thumb in the side of your pants, pulling. The fabric peels back achingly slow, cool air hitting your cunt and making you whine. He hums thoughtfully, placing the fabric to the side.

“Like what times?” he questions, blowing cool air against you. You thrash and he laughs, pinning you down by the hips. “I’m curious. Elaborate for me.” 

“Umm.” 

It’s the only word you can get out before he renders you speechless, the flat of his tongue sliding slowly up your pussy. You go boneless, breath stuck in your chest as his tongue lazily circles around your clit and drags back down. He repeats the motion, the slow-soft brush of his tongue driving you insane instantly. 

“You’re not elaborating,” Vernon notes. He presses a kiss that is far too sweet for the moment to your bundle of nerves. “I wanna know all the times you were with me where you felt like this. Go on.” 

“I don’t,” you breath catches when his tongue curls through your folds. He’s soft and slow as he licks you, a lazy smoothless to it that makes you see stars. “Know how to speak when you’re doing that.” 

“Should I stop?” 

“No.”

“Try,” he murmurs, dipping his tongue in your dripping entrance. “I want to know.” 

Fuck. Trying to pull together any coherent thoughts is like wading through thick water. You’re distracted by the way Vernon’s mouth closes on you, sucking gently. He takes his time, fingers pressed into the meat of your thighs as he keeps you open, enjoying you fully. 

“I - shit - I guess sometimes when we go out,” you manage. “I like when you wear your hat backwards.” 

He flicks his tongue back and forth over your clit, making you clench, toes curling. His mouth is wet and warm, closing around your throbbing bundle and sucking gently. Your hips lift but his grip is firm, keeping his mouth to you. 

When he pulls away, the suction is audible, a string of spit and arousal connecting his lips to your pussy. “Taste so fucking good,” he whispers. You think it’s more to himself than you, his tongue carving through you again. “Tell me more.” 

“Halloween night. When you were in skull makeup.”

His tongue starts circling your clit again, the indirect stimulation driving you wild. Your hands tangle in the sheets, sweat slicking your skin as Vernon works to firmer motions. You realize he knows exactly how you like it, gentle to start, working you to firmer motions, a little hungrier. 

It makes him all the more lethal, the way he can just figure you out like that. “Yeah?” he asks, sucking harshly against you. “Wanted me to fuck you like that?” 

“God, yeah.”

“You should have asked. I’ll fuck you however you want.” 

“Didn’t think you liked me.” 

Vernon is too busy to answer, increasing the attention of his mouth. Your hands slide down to his, nails digging into the tops of his hands where he holds you. He lets go of your hips in favor of linking your fingers, pressing your clasped hands to the mattress. 

His name drips from your mouth, eyes falling shut as you sink into the pleasure deep in your stomach. He makes little sounds of pleasure, grunting and groaning as his mouth becomes more fervent. You feel yourself toeing the edge of an orgasm, so so so close.

He can tell too. He finds a harsh rhythm, pulling you closer and closer to your high with each sharp suck of his lips. You twist in his grip, fingers squeezing his so hard you think you might break his hands. You don’t, feeling your breath catch and hold as you come hard, thighs squeezing as you writhe on the bed.

You draw in a ragged breath, desperate for air as he kisses your cunt once. Twice. His slick mouth presses against your thighs, teeth dragging against soft flesh as he mouths his way to your knee. He gives you a moment, letting you pant against the sheets. 

Fabric sticks to your skin as you wiggle against the bed. He stands up, crawling up you again to find your mouth. You lean forward, catching him in an open-mouth kiss that is more tongue than anything, your taste heady in the heat of his mouth. 

“Turn over on your stomach for me,” he groans. His hands squeeze your side as he gives you room to follow his direction. You do, but not without his help, your orgasm making you a little clumsy. “Can you get on your knees for me?”

“Maybe?”

“I’ll help you in a second.”

Instead of moving, you lay slumped on the bed, fully intending to let him do the work. You turn your head to watch him pull his shirt off, revealing firm, tan skin. Vernon is beautiful, the sleek lines of his body reminding you of a painting. He kicks off his jeans before shuffling back on the bed behind you, looking down and snorting.

“Didn’t want to move like I asked?” You shake your head. He pats your ass lightly. “Come on, darling. Help me get these panties off or I will rip them off.” 

Huffing, you do as he says. He does lend you his strength hauling you up by the arm as you lean up on your knees. The room is cold, making you shiver but he presses your back to his chest, mouth dusting kisses over your shoulders. 

Vernon’s fingers dance along your sides until he’s pulling your underwear the rest of the way down your thighs, helping you kick out of them. When he’s got you full naked, he presses your back to him, crowding your space as he angles your head to kiss you slowly. Fully. 

Behind you, his cock presses firmly into your ass. You push back against him, putting pressure against his shaft. He hisses, biting your shoulder harshly. 

“Careful,” he growls, teeth at your neck. “Or I won’t be very nice.” 

“Want you, though.”

“You’ll have me when I say you can.” 

One of his hands slides up to your neck, gripping your throat lightly. He pauses, leaning to catch your gaze. His eyes are round and soft. Honest. Open. “This okay?” He questions gently. He gives a little squeeze to indicate what he means. You nod eagerly, reaching a hand to close around his, making him press harder. “Fuck you’re perfect.” 

You lean your head back against his chest as he holds you by the throat, one of your hands dropping to his elbow, the other reaching behind you to sink your fingers in his hair and tug. The sound he makes is feral, the hand he has placed on your waist dropping between your legs, fingers pressing between them. 

“Oh,” you squeak, feeling his deft tough on your clit. His movements are aided by your earlier release, fingers circling smoothly as he squeezes your throat, thumb pressed perfectly, to make it just a little harder to breathe. “Shit.” 

“Can you tell me a safe word? Not gonna go hard, just wanna know if it becomes too much.” 

“Maenad.” He snorts and you huff. “I just wrote an essay on them, don’t start.”

He laughs, pressing a kiss to your shoulder. “Alright. Just please use it if it’s too much - any of it. If you can’t talk, pat my arm, alright? Just wanna do this right.” 

You nod, so in love with him it takes all of you to stop yourself from blurting it. 

Vernon shuffles behind you, letting you tilt forward a little. The hand between your legs leaves and he instead brings it behind you, prodding at your pussy with his fingers from behind. You let out a loud sound and you can almost feel his grin as he presses a finger into your heat. 

He’s slow at first, the same way he was with his mouth. He explores what you like, testing the way his fingers drag against your walls combined with different grip strengths on your throat. You feel light headed. The room spins as he finds a rhythm that draws the most noises from you, that makes you clench down on his finger the most. 

All of your weight is against the hand around your neck, barely able to hold yourself up as he presses another finger in. This time, his fingers prod right against that soft spot inside of you, making you see stars. He must realize he’s found it, because he starts finger fucking you in earnest. 

The grip on your throat loosens a little, careful not to keep you short of breath for too long as he works your cunt with his hand. His lips find your shoulder, peppering you with light kisses that are delicate and butterfly soft in comparison to the way his fingers fuck into you. 

“Vernon,” you whisper, only able to think of his name. “Vernon vernon vernon.”

“Doing so good, darling,” he whispers against your skin. He kisses his way to your ear, sucking the sensitive spot on your neck. “So fucking good for me.” 

His words hit below the belt. You shudder in his hold, letting him drive you toward another release. You never imagined Vernon to be talkative in bed, but he is, his voice like velvet. Just like that. Perfect for me. There you go, come on. 

Everything about him is perfect, driving you to mania. His grip on your throat tightens suddenly, sensing how close you are to your second peak. Your breath quickens until you can’t breathe, going mute against him as his fingers press hardly into that spot over and over and over.

A high-pitched ring winds in your ears. You hold and hold and hold and when Vernon lets go of your throat, a gust of air flooding your lungs, you shatter around his hand. You collapse backward against him, head knocking into his. You don’t even care, twitching and gasping against him as his hand stills. 

For a few moments, you just lean against him like that, sweaty and lost and in a dream. Slowly, you become aware of his pounding heart against your back and the slick between your thighs. Vernon’s mouth is pressed to your shoulder, waiting patiently as you blink a few times, the room swimming into view.

“Hi,” he murmurs, watching you with shadowy eyes.

“Hi,” you croak, voice rough.

“Good?”

“Very.” 

“Want to stop?”

“No. Unless you want to.”

His gaze darkens. “I don’t.” 

“I want more. I can take more.” 

He lifts his head and presses a sweet kiss to your temple. “You’re perfect for me. Do you know that?” 

Reverent hands help you lay back against the pillows. Vernon touches you like you’re something delicate - not because he thinks you’re fragile, but because you’re something important to him. Valuable. You see it in the way he looks down at you, taking a moment to drink you in. 

There’s something else there too. Something edged with a knife, a little wild. Covetous. There is something in the way Vernon grips your leg briefly, a language he’s trying to communicate to you with touch. 

Mine, it says. Mine and no one else's.

With hooded eyes, you watch him peel his briefs off. Your eyes shoot to where his cock hangs heavy, beads of precum dripping at his tip. You reach a hand up toward him but he shakes his head, careful as he shuffles toward you.

“Later,” he promises. “I like touching you.” 

“I want you to feel good.”

“You make me feel good. Seeing you unravel makes me feel good. I like seeing how much you enjoy me touching you.”

You can tell he means it. His lips are swollen and soft when he kisses you. You open your legs open for him, letting him settle between the softness of your thighs. Vernon runs the head of his cock through your messy fluids, earning a whine for you.

“Sensitive?” he asks against your lips, nose nudging yours. You nod and you feel him smile. “Sorry.”

“Feels good,” you assure him, pressing a kiss to his jaw. “Want more.” 

“Greedy thing.” 

“I’m Your greedy thing.”

Your words have the desired effect. You feel a shiver ripple through him, Vernon’s grip on your leg turning to iron as he opens you up wider. He presses his cock into your entrance slowly, pausing just as the tip pops in. You throb around him, whispering his name - begging him to keep going. 

Vernon’s grin is sharp as he sinks in further, the slide tortuous and wonderful and so much as he finally finds home, hips pressed as far as he can go. He stays like that, tangling your tongue in a messy kiss as he sits there, fully seated in your heat. Your pussy spasms around him, pressed open to the max. 

“Feels so good,” he whispers, dropping his forehead to yours. “I’m going to come embarrassingly fast.”

“So do it.” You wrap a leg around his waist, your hips tilting upward. Both of you moan at the angle change, so close to breaking. “I wanna see it.” 

Instead of answering, he nods. He drags his hips backward slowly before slamming back in. He punches the breath out of your lungs with each slide home, the stroke slow but deep. Your head falls to the side, breaths rasping as he sets a steady, slow pace. 

It feels good, your legs curling around him to keep you close, hands tangle in his hair to keep him tethered to you. His hair is damp with sweat, your fingers curled in the strands, tugging a little. He seems to like it, making a needy sound in his throat that has you grinning. 

“Mine,” Vernon whispers to you, words muffled by your neck. “You are only mine, darling. You will only ever be mine. You were made for me. No one else.”

“No one else,” you agree. 

His hips move faster, a little messier. You egg him on, legs squeeze, cunt spasming around him. He lets out a feral sound, driving himself further to his orgasm. He drags you with him, another swell reaching you. Vernon can tell, chasing it like a predator, pinning you down and slamming his cock into you until you’re melting around him again, vision blotted out. 

Vernon comes to the sound of his name on your lips. His movements become sloppy until he can’t go anymore, holding himself above you, trembling. Carefully, he drops next to you, pulling his cock free. You feel your joint fluids run down your leg, but you’re too tired to care. 

Reaching for him, your hand finds his chest. He wraps his fingers around yours, holding your palm to him, his heart thudding wildly under your touch.

“For you,” he mutters. “Only for you, darling.” 

You fall asleep like that, hand pressed to his chest.

-

Waking up in Vernon’s bed is not new to you. You’ve fallen asleep numerous times at his apartment or stayed the night after going out, but you’ve always had the bed to yourself, Vernon opting to take the couch. 

The bed is empty now, but still warm. You stretch as you roll over in his sheets, groaning as you feel the soreness between your legs and mostly everywhere else. Pressing your hand to your chest and shoulders, you feel all the tender places Vernon mapped his affection with tongue and teeth. It makes you smile fondly as you lay in bed alone for a minute, breathing in the scent of his room.

Slowly, you peel yourself from his bed. With an awkward waddle, you make it to the bathroom, flicking on the light. You shield your eyes at first, going about your morning routine and washing your face to try and feel human again. 

On your way out, something catches your eye. You frown, walking back toward his laundry hamper where you see brass glinting in the light. You reach for it, pulling the bell from the tangle of his clothes. It has an old wooden handle with cracks, a little hand bell used for-

Well. Used the night of halloween. You have no idea why Vernon still has it, the memory of that night like poison in your mouth. You toss it back into the hamper on top of another shirt that catches your eye. It’s one of his dark green t-shirts, but the collar is stained dark brown.

Curious, you pull it out, shaking the shirt out in front of you. It’s mostly unmarked, save for the spatter of something dark brown and dried. You run your finger around the edge of it, puzzled. It looks like dried blood, but you can’t recall any injuries he’s suffered recently. 

You take the shirt with you into his room, tossing it on his bed as you get dressed, stealing sweatpants and a hoodie. Grabbing the shirt again, you trail out toward the kitchen where Vernon is making breakfast, the smell of bacon crackling in the pan.

You grin, leaning against the doorframe for a second to watch him. He looks so at ease, flipping pieces of bacon while he sings to some seventies song you don’t know the name of. 

Pushing off the wall, you head toward him. He catches you in his peripheral, turning his head and smiling at you. “Hello, Darling.” 

The nickname gives you pause. You slow as you come around the corner of the counter, stopping completely as the endearment pricks you sharply on the back of your neck. Vernon goes back to flipping bacon, singing along a song you vaguely know, but don’t know why Vernon does. He’s never liked music from the 1970s, and-

Your ears start to ring. Several things occur to you at once. 

The memory of Vernon screaming and banging his fists against the door, begging for help. You’d been so afraid that you ripped the door open, crashing through the line of salt. 

Vernon, sharp and confident, the new edge to him as he interacts with people, a little harsher. A little darker.

Nah need to cut back on the sodium had said when you asked about the lack of salt on his fries.

The way he’d called you darling the night before, whispering it against your skin. 

70s music that Vernon has never listened to since you’ve known him.  

The bell sitting in the hamper used to call a spirit on Halloween. 

In the house that belonged to the Hello Darling Murderer.

Brown stains - like blood - on his shirt. 

Carefully, you learn toward the middle of the counter, watching Vernon like a prey skirts a predator. With trembling hands, you gently grab the salt from where it sits next to the pepper. You hold your breath, trying not to draw his attention as you unscrew the top of it, placing the metal lid on the shirt to keep it quiet. 

With as silent steps as you can manage, you cross to the other side of the kitchen where you’re out of his line of sight. Tipping the salt over, you pour it across the tile from counter to fridge, eyes darting between the barrier of white and the man standing in the kitchen humming. 

Your heart hammers. 

Your hands shake. 

Salt shaker empty, you set it on the counter and take a few steps back. It’s an unbroken line of salt, and though it doesn’t trap him in the kitchen, at least it’s there. 

Vernon turns around with the pan of bacon. He sees you and his humming stops, cocking his head to the side. He notices the empty salt shaker. Frowns. Looks at you. Looks at the ground where you’ve drawn a line of salt. 

For a second, he just stares at it. His eyes flick back up to you, warm and brown but narrowed. 

“Why is there salt all over my floor?” 

“Cross it.” 

“Huh?”

“Step over the line of salt.” 

Silence stretches between you. He remains standing in the kitchen, pan in hand, music playing in the background.

When Vernon doesn’t move, you can see everything so clearly. 

Vernon hadn’t been joking when he slammed his hands on the door begging for help on Halloween. A sick feeling roils in your stomach as you remember the panicked screams, the way his fists hammered the door. 

Your next words come out as a hiss. “Cross the line of salt, Vernon.”

He looks at the salt and purses his lips before sighing and setting the pan down on the stove. He tosses the rag from his shoulder and shakes his head, striding over to the white line you made against his tile. He stops in front of it, looking at you with his eyebrows raised as if to say really?

“Well, do it.”

Vernon looks down at the salt. Looks back up to you. Down at the salt. 

And then he laughs. 

“Fuck, you really are the smartest person in school.” He sighs heavily, a gaze darker than anything you’ve ever seen on his face as he stares at you. “You know I can’t cross that line of salt, darling.” 

-

TAG LIST:

Tag list has not been used for this fic - there weren't enough character blocks left over for it because Tumblr sucks.

[nico-esoterica]

Your thinking is an investment.

(Long Post): Even if shit doesn't hit the fan right away, you're planning for that story to eventually happen. If you hate your job, your living situation, your life path, whatever it is, the story you're telling about it to others and yourself is always manifesting. You can't turn it off. It's okay to not enjoy it, hate it, etc. But it's important to pivot your mindset and investing in seeing it changing. Whatever you tell yourself consistently will play out.

I'm going to discuss intrusive thoughts and OCD below and how I managed mine while manifesting:

Intrusive thought/OCD wise, it's not any or every thought that pops up in your brain. It's just what you validate. Even if you're afraid or paranoid about xyz, your emotional mind thinks it's real but the rest of you doesn't. Your mental responses you can't control aren't going to manifest. In therapy, you learn that you don't have to give these fleeting thoughts power, even if they're incessant. You still have control. It's also totally okay if you vent about your circumstances btw. That's not going to affect anything if you say it won't.

Everyone is always going through something. And during all this, especially with transitioning from taking full control after a lifetime of thinking you couldn't, it may feel like absolutely nothing is going on and shit can feel frustrating. However, what you don't know is that you're rewriting all of the people and situations you've changed your mind about. You may not see the full changes right away, but please take every single 'coincidence' as a sign of it working, because it is. People are going to start being nicer and more considerate, situations will be less frustrating, money will be more fluid, and your mental health will improve. It's also okay to be emotional, frustrated, and to just not be okay. If your story overall doesn't change, you're fine. Let those emotions flow!

There's going to be a lot of epiphanies and break throughs, especially if you start nurturing your self concept and apply that peace of mind it gives to everything. You're going to start noticing harmful thought patterns you've had, decisions you've made because of conditioning, and you'll see what you need to internally let go of. This is where therapy, therapeutic tools, and different spiritual practices and rituals come in to help this adjustment. There's no one size fits all for everyone so you should ideally find what speaks to you and not what you 'think' you should adopt. Your intuition, imo, will help you out here. This may be a period where you purge out old relationships, habits, and lifestyles which don't align with you anymore. They may even simply fall off on their own. None of this has to happen but is what I see in a lot of people due to my own journey. But nothing bad has to happen nor do you need to sacrifice anything. That's Hollywood-dramatic, lmao. You just may not resonate with a lot of shit anymore. And that's OKAY! It's great tbh. You're going to notice people's limitations they impose on you or themselves immediately too.

The second you say shit's new, then it is. When you continue to choose it or persist, you'll notice the wheels moving. After a week, month, months, or a year or more, your circumstances are going to dramatically change. They can literally happen over night if you like your shit to move fast too. After a while, you're going to understand the mechanics of how YOU personally manifest and what you like to do vs what you don't. There's no one size fits all. It doesn't matter if you've tried a thousand techniques. As long as you say everything you do is working and you are a stubborn motherfucker, your mind's going to get used to it and will stop fighting you on everything, especially if you're neurodivergent. Speaking from experience. When you tell your brain who's boss consistently, it takes you at your word and the trust you have in yourself to choose the best outcomes you develop from your self concept starts running in the background. It'll become easier to self-soothe, reassure yourself, and regulate your nervous system. When you say you're in control, your universe says 'okay, bet' and you'll find those resources easily or you'll start naturally doing them.

You're constantly investing in what works for you or works against you. You're either trusting in things working or working against your favor. That's why it's always good to think great things about yourself regardless of circumstances how things look or seem or how the past played out. All outcomes shift immediately with your awareness of what you think is possible. Your senses are limited and this is why it's crucial to let your imagination do the rest. Because shit always catches up. Your brain can't tell the difference between what you think you're experiencing vs what you actually are irl.

So if you continually tell yourself good things are happening or will, there has to be a confirmation bias for that. Your brain runs off your logic at all times. Therefore, you can rationalize that anything can work and it will. From a nitty gritty pov, you should always make sure to still be reasonable about shit, like to not blow your rent on some bs in one night. But after a while, you'll be able to do that and it won't be a problem. Don't stress your mental bandwidth out like that at first unless you have the inner resources to lock in on a good outcome. Dream big and do all things big, but do so safely without risking your mental health.

Whatever you invest in, positive or negative, will always pay off. Choose them wisely :)

[ceilidhtransing]

I feel like so much shitty discourse could be avoided if people more consciously bore in mind the fact that Mainstream Society and The Queer Community are, you know, meaningfully different spaces that often have different social phenomena and different issues.

Random example, there'll be a discussion about femininity often being prized over masculinity, especially transmasculinity, in some queer spaces. And there'll be a bunch of transmasculine people talking about being made to feel unwelcome once they came out, feeling pressured to identify as nonbinary rather than as a binary man as that receive less hostility, being increasingly isolated and othered once they started T, feeling pressured to act more feminine and GNC, being told that their presence as a man makes others in the space uncomfortable, etc.

And then inevitably someone will respond with something like “OP what fucking planet are you on. You're fucking insane if you think femininity is prized over masculinity in society. And the idea that nonbinary people have privilege over binary trans people - what is this fucking enbyphobic bullshit? God, some people are so stuck in an echo chamber of terminally online tumblr queers with their invented problems that they've forgotten what it's like in the real world.”

But was the discussion about wider mainstream society? Or was it very particularly about the queer community and issues that these people have faced specifically within that community?

The queer community is a subculture (arguably many subcultures but let's try to keep it simple), and it's totally, utterly standard for subcultures to - even deliberately, as an act of pushback - value different things from the mainstream culture. Aesthetics thought of as “weird” or “[insert slur here]” by the mainstream can be highly prized in the queer community. Identities that are all thought of as equally “fucked-up” and “cringe” by the mainstream can find themselves organised into some weird hierarchy of validity and oppressed-ness within the community. Politics which are considered extremely fringe and radical by the mainstream can be considered the default norm, even a necessity, in the queer community. Gender expressions that are seen as the most basic “normal” thing ever in the mainstream can be devalued by the queer community for “not looking queer enough” or “being straight-passing”. And none of this is a contradiction because this is pretty much how subcultures operate! They assert different values and cultural norms from the culture they exist within and that's partly what makes them subcultures.

So if someone's pointing out “I face this issue specifically when I'm interacting with queer spaces”, it doesn't do the conversation any good to assume that they're talking about mainstream society and attack them for “being deluded about how the real world works” or “inventing fake problems to sound more oppressed” or something. (And the inverse - someone pointing out “I face this issue when I'm interacting with the mainstream” and someone else responding with “I don't know what you're talking about; I never face that issue at all [in my exclusively queer friend group and support network]” - is far rarer, but it does still happen, and it's just as unhealthy for the discussion. Probably the most common example of this I can think of is when cis gay and lesbian people discuss homophobia they've faced, for instance to do with their gender expression, and someone goes “but that doesn't happen, because actually cis gays are a privileged group and I've never seen anyone attack their presentations” - yes, because the frame of reference you're using is the queer community, where being gay is pretty much the expected default, and you're forgetting that in mainstream society, even cisgender gays and lesbians are by no means “a privileged group” that experiences no oppression ever.)

People need to be able to discuss issues in the specific social contexts they're talking about without it being basically guaranteed that someone will misinterpret them and start jumping down their throat in anger at something that wasn't even said or implied. It is so bad for the community when people seemingly can't fathom that the dynamics at play might be different within queer spaces versus out in mainstream society and it leads to so much pointless toxicity and aggressive misunderstanding.

[robertdowneyjjr]

so none of this is what any of you asked for, but part 3 of the stonyclunks soulmates au @stark-and-shield @polizwrites @soliloquent-stark

(parts one and two)

tony spends his flight home from london agonizing over what he should do next.

on the one hand, his feelings about captain america haven’t changed. if anything, he’s now even more adamant that he wants nothing to do with him, because not only does tony now have proof that cap is a total dick, he also now feels like all that childhood trauma?? was the result of a lie. now he knows that he grew up being compared to someone who isn’t even really as great as his dad made him seem. so maybe now he has some validation (and vindication) that howard was wrong. but still, he could have just done without the years of feeling like he wasn’t good enough.

on the other hand, he’s a hopeless romantic at heart and he’s always dreamed of meeting and growing old with his soulmate. he grew up surrounded by them — his parents are soulmates. ana and edwin jarvis are soulmates. aunt peggy and uncle daniel are soulmates. that nature-defying love has always been the shining example of what real happiness is to him and he’s been desperate for it since he was 25, the average age when people meet their soulmates. the fact that he lived until he was 38 and still never met his soulmate had hurt him everyday. and sure, he’s happy in other ways. he’s content with how his life has turned out. he has amazing friends. he has a family that supports him. but god, he wants to share it with someone who he knows is fated to be his.

now, he’s kind of annoyed that he and his dad have another thing in common, what with howard not meeting maria until he was in his 40’s. and at this point he’s starting to think that being soulmates with captain america is some sort of sick cosmic joke that the universe is playing on him.

also he’s really, really pissed that the words that are permanently marked on his skin are so ugly.

at dinner before their night at the opera, tony tells maria, “mama, i met my soulmate.”

“oh that’s wonderful, antonio! tell me all about them!”

maria can hardly contain her excitement, and tony feels awful that the news he’s about to share isn’t worth her feeling this happy about.

“it was two weeks ago, a total accident. he was really mean,” he explains softly. if they weren’t in public right now he might even have just shown her the words on his thigh, but he knows her protective instincts would rear their head immediately and she’d skip the opera just to get started on hunting down the man who spit such vitriol at her son.

“oh. well, has he apologized for it?” maria asks. “i hope he has some basic manners, at least. i won’t allow someone who treats my son such poorly into the family, whether you’re soulmates or not.”

“he… has. quite dramatically,” tony says, thinking about the instagram post that had been causing a media frenzy for a week now.

“well, good. he should know you’re to be treasured,” maria sniffs. “when will i get to meet him?”

“i haven’t seen him again since. i don’t know if i really want to.”

“why not, bambino? you’ve always wanted to meet your soulmate.”

“mama… it’s captain america.”

maria looks around the restaurant. “where? i thought howard was with him tonight. crazy old man, still thinks he’s in his prime and trying to keep up with people half his age.”

“no, mama. my soulmate. he’s captain america.”

“oh. oh dear.”

“yeah.” tony picks up his fork and starts eating again. “i think i might just be better off dying alone.”

maria doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry. suddenly all the excessive whining from steve that howard has been telling her about makes a lot more sense. she knows that steve is a good man. maybe not perfect like howard always made him out to be. but kind, nonetheless. he would be good to tony, good for him, she’s sure. tony just needs to give him a chance.

but also, like she said, tony should be treasured. if steve wants to make up for how they started off, he needs to pull out all the stops. tony deserves nothing less than the best, after all. and to be honest, maria thinks she might enjoy watching steve grovel a bit. she’s also looking forward to making fun of howard for having such an idiot as a best friend and future son-in-law.

so she starts planning.

“tonio, darling, why don’t you stay over at the mansion tonight? ana was just saying we haven’t had brunch with you in ages.”

“sure, mama.”

under the table, she texts howard.

M: is steve still pouting about his life?

H: unfortunately. i’m just glad beer does nothing for him. i can’t imagine how much worse this all could be if he were drunk.

M: poor boy. maybe he’s also feeling a bit lonely. there are plenty of rooms in the mansion if he doesn’t want to go home to an empty apartment tonight.

H: he might like that. i’ll let him know.

[tangledinink]

what's your centaurworld opinions?

spoilers below if you care.

I'm so torn on that show, because there are parts where I think it's beautiful and compelling and visually stunning, but there are also parts where I'm just... so disappointed in it? Like, I commend it for being out there and taking risks and trying to be different, but like...

You know the opening scene in the very first episode? Before Horse ends up in Centaurworld? And we get the whole Rider's Lullaby Thing before Horse and Rider get seperated? After that I was immediately, like... so disappointed. Because right off the bat I was like! Well... I don't care about this world or this story, quite frankly, I care about that world that we saw before! about Horse's world! About her and Rider! And, like, yes, I know the plot is about "oh this is how Horse gets back to her world and gets back to Rider," but, like, at least for me, none of the Centaurworld characters really won me over, esp not at first. I didn't give a shit about them or their world! So they were really just... in the way. They were obstacles standing in between me and getting to see more of Horse and Rider's story, and that's, like, idk, maybe not what you want? For your main cast?

That's not to say that I hated it, because I didn't hate the first season! There were episodes and moments that I enjoyed, and I liked most of the music, as well, but I really wasn't a fan of the second season at all.

I HATED the birdtaur episode. Like! I HATED the whole gimmick where they treated Horse and her Herd as a 'TV show' and the main cast were all annoyed at them for 'treating their lives live entertainment' and judging Horse's decision to split up with Rider as like? A kind of subtle jab at criticisms from fans because it... it doesn't work!? Like, in the show, Horse's main defense against the Birdtaurs saying that the ending of season 1 wasn't good and 'felt empty' since they did all this build-up to reunite with Rider only to immediately leave her again was "well this is my real life!!!"

Okay, but, like... it's still a TV show. If the Birdtaurs are a stand-in for real Centaurworld fans, then Horse's defense... doesn't work at all? Because it's not her real life. It's a make-believe TV show. That you seemingly have no actual defense for. (Because it's... it's valid criticism, actually...) Also just in general making fun of your own fans is, like... stupid, I think.

I also feel like season 2 totally assassinated Wammawink's character? I liked her in season 1! She was overbearing and protective and a bit much sometimes, but one of her main character traits is that she loves her herd and is their caretaker, and she wants to ensure they're safe and protected at all times... in season 2 she just? Doesn't seem to care about them at all? She spends the entire second season just being so self-absorbed and catty the entire time, and it makes no sense.

I didn't like Durpleton, Glendale, or Ched at all, they were all just... too annoying for me to enjoy.

I'm still fucking mad that literally ALL the main cast got at least some kind of backstory/side-story type thing... except Zulius, for some reason? Despite being a fan-favorite (and my personal fav because I mean. Come ON. He's just fun.)

I understand it's a kid's show and they're gonna have silly moments and jokes and comic relief, etc etc etc, okay, sure, there will be fart jokes, fine, not my taste but it's fine it wasn't made for me, whatever. But it often felt like... the show wasn't allowed to breathe? There was no point where it truly took itself seriously. There always had to be some dumb heeheehaha fart joke shoehorned in. Which is, like, fine, if you wanna be a fart joke show, that's fine! It's just that Centaurworld also tries to be an edgy drama at the same time, and it just... I don't think it pulls off being both. Comedy and drama can definitely exist at the same time but! There are times when you have to allow the show to be one or another! Is this a dramatic character moment? Just be a dramatic character moment! It often felt like Centaurworld truly was not capable of even having a single scene with some 'bad-dum-ts' fart joke moment in it, which made it very hard for me to? Take any of it seriously or enjoy it.

Also, I hated the Nowhere King's story. I thought he was so dumb and uncompelling. I know he's the bad guy and you're not supposed to LIKE him but like? When they told us the backstory I think they expected us to, you know, feel SORRY for him? And I didn't! At all! I found no part of his story to be sympathetic. That guy was just a fucking idiot the whole way through, just repeatedly shooting himself in the foot by being this self-important "I'm not like other centaurs" dude while at the same time being all "woe is me this girl will never like me since I'm a centaur so I won't even ATTEMPT to get to know her at all, I'm gonna jump straight to crimes against nature and deceiving her." I thought that guy was stupid and I did not care about him.

ALSO? HOW THE FUCK DOES THE PORTAL KEY WORK? Like??? It makes NO sense to me??? Like, sure, apparently, it keeps the Rift open to connect the two worlds or whatever, I guess, but then it also like, just... does other magick? It can just??? Separate centaurs, for some fucking reason? Which I don't understand? Is that just what the key does? Open the rift AND de-centaur people? Or is it just a generic magick item that can do anything? But then also the Nowhere King could make minotaurs... without the key??? It makes no fucking sense to me and I think it's dumb.

... I like the songs, though, and the animation is really pretty. Also I thought the ending was dumb lol.

[zo1nkss]

ok so you made a post abt the canyon and ive been trying to figure it out so i figured id ask you- what does that actually mean. like ik its a term for izzy fans but do you know where it came from?

I don't mean to sound put off by you specifically at all, but this is actually the 3rd ask I've got abt what "the canyon" is and it's getting hard to keep answering. I totally get the confusion and I'll still answer, but I'm just putting this out there for other ppl mostly. Might make a faq or something with some of the questions I get asked a lot lol

Okay so "The canyon" is shorthand for "The Izzy Canyon". They call themselves that, afaik it started on Twitter bc when I joined tumblr no one had heard of them before - and most people here generally don't know the term.

It was largely born out of a group of (mostly) yt OFMD fans who were accusing myself and some friends and others I wasn't in circles with of harassment etc bc we talked privately about our feelings regarding how they talked about Izzy in relation to characters of color.

When I talk about "The Canyon" I am mostly refering to that group. Since that time, they have grown and expanded to include people who do not act that way and more ppl who aren't yt and more nuance has been aded to the topic, but ultimately that is where it started and what I mean when I criticize them.

A big part of why its hard for me to talk about is bc I was in multiple call-out posts made public and targeted multiple times by the ppl who started this whole concept. It hurt a lot, I lost a lot of followers and sometimes friends who I thought valued and respected me. And when they shared proof, none of it actually held up.

I'm not trying to say I was always and only ever a victim, there was a lot of toxicity back and forth at times. Twitter is a hard place to discuss complex topics because things get twisted, on both ends, and then its easy to feel defensive. All of us at times made mistakes. But this largely started with yt people targeting BIPOC for our opinions that we were not even asking them to agree with or validate. Only sharing privately, or on our own pages.

It sucked. My friends and I dealt with a lot of actual real time bullying because of it. So I generally don't like talking about or explaining where the term came from, which is why I won't be answering asks about it anymore. I apprecoate that everyone wants to understand what I mean and will see abt a general faq including it, but this will hopefully serve as an easy response I can link to later.

[skele-bunny]

I honestly received so much hate for the one post I made and that genuinely upset me so much?? "We write to escape the real world!" But what about us?? All I asked for was to see more representation in writing and I got back lash for it?? But if I say something like "Writing Swiss skinny is bad!!" People eat it up, but the moment I bring disabilities into the play people get upset and it doesn't make sense??

"there are already fanfics out there!!" There are literally none, I have searched all over and the disabled ghouls tag is filled with mainly eds, pots and autism and I love that, I do!! But I wanna see more!! I wanna feel safe in my community without fear of back lash just because I asked to see myself getting represented, it hurts and it hurts to say the ghost fandom is getting so toxic

-🐾

I totally get it! Having more diversity is really important, and especially can help with inclusion and simply being seen. I'm so sorry for the hate you got, I personally agreed with your post! Unfortunately there is a lot of negativity going around lately, isn't there? The only thing we can do is just hold people we know close, remind ourselves of our friends, and keep our heads held high! People who spread negativity don't have much to do with their lives and just enjoy putting others down. We have to simply keep our arms linked and not let that negativity in.

I know a good chunk of writers who'd possibly love to have more disabled ghoul questions!! I'm personally one of them, and I'll always do my best to research before commenting on them! 🫶

I think people are just nervous to get out of their safe zones? Which can easily be fixed by researching and listening to those around them!! Things truly aren't all happy times, and that's okay! We can use fanfic/fan art/etc for however we'd like! Wether it's coping, escaping, or simply projecting.

Your feelings are valid and understandable, and I hope this hate wave you're experiencing goes away. You deserve SOOOO much happiness, good things, and you're cared for! I'm here to talk if you ever need 🫂

[clever-and-unique-name]

Hey, this isn’t an ask, I just wanted to thank you.

I first came across the word “dissociation” years ago, connected with it a lot and promptly ignored it- only recently (the past few months or maybe it’s been an year- my sense of time isn’t great) did I start delving into it.

Initially I was reading ab depersonalisation and derealisation and really connecting to it and getting super scared but I eventually slowly got myself to accept it and read about it.

But then I watched moon knight/ and in trying to learn more about DID just as a generally mental health-aware person- I started relating to alOt of things in a very painful way.

It was a weird up and down months long journey of being scared/ not wanting to consider it at all/ not even wanting to bring it up to my therapist/ thinking I’m making it up/wondering what the like between “normal” and “dissociative” was etc.

But I’m finally in a place where I think either it’s C-Ptsd/ OSDD (even now I don’t want to fully accept it’s the second one). But a big Big Point of acceptance for me has been blogs and memes and infographics from systems.

Of all the books and myths and confusion around dissociative disorders/ it’s always the sincere experiences that I keep relating to the most/ and the explanations from real systems which resonate with me the most.

And your comics were easily the Biggest turning point for me. Because it was explained in a way that entirely totally intuitively made sense to me.Down to them being different colours and circles and mixing. Your descriptions of introjects and passive influence and blending are what really made it make sense to me and genuinely validated me and made me able to see my personal experiences as a dissociative disorder Without feeling wrong and scared and hate myself.

Instead of new terms and talk of trauma that overwhelmed and alienated me, when I was first dipping my toe in, your comics showed and explained my own daily experience and how I’d been seeing the inside of my head for so long. When I was little I had 6 “imaginary characters” I would play as/ my handwriting has always changed/ I’ve had 6 google accounts for years now for “efficiency”/ diff YT accounts that subscribe to diff channels coz “don’t wanna contaminate the different vibes” and these are just some of the little things that were always a little off or weird but in learning that all those little weird things tied up with my big weird things? And that none of them were weird at all but rather something that could be explained and Shared with a community of people who Also Experienced it and could connect and guide each other?

That feeling of connection, understanding, and clarity- the embracing and empathy and forgiveness I’ve been able to have for myself -is something I am so so ever grateful to you for.

So thank you so much. You made me feel how magical and human it is to share, connect and belong with others. And be seen.

(Side Note- I still use singular pronouns as 1- I still have some internalised stigma to work through and 2- with my OSDD it’s more like I in different fonts rather than “we”)

(but I will say I absolutely identify with your descriptions of more distinct parts and they were what allowed me to go “haha just as like.. a fun experiment what if I tried to imagine what it would look like if I had diff-“ when I tell you my head imMediately sorted itself into different trains of thought/roles/personas/ even sense of physical appearance…they settled into and took that “experiment” so so easily and it was so comfortable that I had to look further into it)

(And as I’ve kept going and been genuinely curious and compassionate I’ve started noticing “memory fuzziness” / introjects of my parents/ realised I have a “little” who I have been severely neglecting/ been able to make my therapy about 70% more effective and finally finally feel seen and understood in these communities)

(I’ve acc been able to be aware of diff parts and encourage them to use words- where before they’d be impulses or emotions or visualisations so I could assume it was just “thinking” - now I just encourage a little bit by thinking “hmm is this a part? What are you trying to tell me? Please use words” and it has absolutely changed my life and made so many things clearer and so so much guilt and self hate has been cleared up)

As of now my therapist and I are unsure if it’s more an IFS kind of thing or C-PTSD or OSDD but whatever it is I want to thank you so So So much for putting this out into the world - reminding me of a story about one boy who saw hundreds of fish beached and started throwing them back in one by one and someone asked “why would you do that? You can’t save all of them it won’t make a difference” and he responds “he made a difference to that one”

I don’t know how much interaction you get on your platform but I just want you to know you really made a difference to this one.

And I am very grateful.

(Sorry this was long)

Sorry this has sat unanswered for a bit, I ah...struggle to put words to how much it means to me, not only that my little infographics helped you in such a way, but that you took the time to write so thoughtfully to me. (I did read every word of it, even though I don't have the spoons to reply to individual points.)

For a while I've actually been debating taking down my DID/OSDD Casually Explained posts, because they're by far my most popular posts and tend to draw in people who expect me to be the same sort of "educator" I was 4 years ago when I made them. And I'm simply not. I work full-time now, and the relatively little time I have at home is spent trying to wrangle my own mental health.

I suppose I got wrapped up in thoughts of disappointing people, no longer providing the informative content that most people followed me for, nor the personal content they could find relatable...

All that to say, I forgot how impactful content like that can be for people. I've certainly come across mental health comics or art that clicked things into place for my own experiences, I just didn't think my own creations could have that kind of effect on others (thanks imposter syndrome.)

Truly, thank you for telling me your story. I am so honored and humbled to have a place in your journey. Your words have convinced me to keep my infographics up indefinitely--I suppose we're taking turns tossing each other back into the sea.

I'm wishing you all the best (and try not to worry too much about diagnostic labels if you can help it, it sounds like you're doing The Parts Work just fine regardless!)

[martsonmars]

Happy Wednesday, friends! Words are still not happening, and normally I wouldn't post, but I have a busy day ahead (well, after sleeping) and need to know I'll find validation on Tumblr.

I am, however, attempting to plot what might become my COBB fic. I promised to myself that I will sign up as a writer only if I manage to fully outline it and start writing before sign-ups close, so it might not happen (I signed up as an artist anyway!), but last night I figured out some plot points that were troubling me, so I have hope.

I am writing random lines that I'm not even sure I'll use in the fic, so have some of them (heavily redacted, or where's the fun?):

“So you all came here with every intention of [REDACTING REDACTED], and then [REDACTED] was [REDACTED], and none of you did it?”

———

“This doesn't make any sense.”

“Unless they're all lying.”

“They must be,” [REDACTED] said. “Because I don't feel particularly [REDACTED].”

———

“Sweet Jesus,” the man said. “Are you the real Basilton Bitch?”

Basil thought of removing his sunglasses to emphasise his glare, but the [REDACTED] sun was unforgiving, and it made him miss England more than a decade of [REDACTED] had. He hoped the man suffered from a severe case of mispronunciation of plosive sounds, but the whole high-on-life vibe he had going on seemed to point in a totally different direction.

Basil straightened his back. “It's Mr Grimm-Pitch to you, thank you.”

The man's grin didn't falter. He extended his hand with the enthusiasm of a puppy eager to be pet. Basil didn't recoil (10 points to him for another successful social interaction), but he stared at the unwanted gesture until it was no longer in his field of view.

———

“I thought you said you'd stop with your panic-induced online shopping. Not that you'd start ordering literal trash.”

@wellbelesbian @urban-sith @tea-brigade @sillyunicorn @mostlymaudlin @facewithoutheart @palimpsessed @otherpeoplesheartachept-2 @you-remind-me-of-the-babe @forabeatofadrum @johnwgrey @fatalfangirl @prettylightsbigcity @whatevertheweather @confused-bi-queer @moodandmist @bookish-bogwitch @letraspal @dragoneggos @captain-aralias @takitalks @excalisbury @cutestkilla @ileadacharmedlife @gekkoinapeartree @bazzybelle @aroace-genderfluid-sheep @basiltonbutliketheherb @ivelovedhimthroughworse @nightimedreamersworld @artsyunderstudy @ionlydrinkhotwater @yellobb @orange-peony @ic3-que3n @whogaveyoupermission @yeonjunenby @erzbethluna @larkral @chen-chen-chen-again-chen @shrekgogurt @raenestee @onepintobean @stitchyqueer @hushed-chorus @theearlgreymage @technetiumai @jbrrring @stardustasincocaine @angelsfalling16

[cxttlefishcxller]

𝟸𝟶 𝚀𝚞𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚜 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚆𝚛𝚒𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚜

I was tagged literal days ago by @residentdormouse and honestly I'm the worst at remembering anything ever sO here we are again, lads jfkdl;safd but yE BIG THANK for the tag, let's see what kind of shenanigans I can get into

How many works do you have on AO3?

Five so far, none of them finished jfkdl;safd soon to be six, if I can get the rest of this damn chapter finished for Serenade's second iteration >.>;;;

What is your total AO3 word count?

57,252! Which is honestly more than I thought it was

What fandoms do you write for?

Man, what don't I write about? -ba dum tss- But for published works, it's primarily The Stand, with some IT thrown in, then there's Undertale, Gravity Falls, and Fallout. But I promise you if I like it, I've either written something or thought VERY HARD about writing something about it.

What are your top five fics by kudos?

This is easy, there's only 5 total fjdkla;sf but it'd have to go 1: Between Iron and Silver (an Undertale AU) at 22 2: La Petite Mort (a Fallout 3 blurb from ye olde k-meme days) at 17 3: Don't Fear The Reaper (A Gravity Falls zombie AU) at 14 4: Second Lead Serenade (My primary Stand fic that's getting a sERIOUS overhaul) at a whopping 3 5: Shine On You Crazy Diamond (an AU of my Stand AU only now there's Pennywise) at 2

Do you respond to comments? Why or why not?

yES I try to every time! Sometimes I miss them though jfkdls;fd but I'm but a small hobbit that thrives off of validation, I adore every comment I get

What's the fic you wrote with the angstiest ending?

UHM. Well, technically I haven't finished a gotdam thing yet, but it'd either have to be the Fallout one (which involves the MC slowly turning into a ghoul due to radioactive necrosis) or a pseudo-canon-maybe ficlet blurb thing I'm currently working on for Serenade involving a day in Teddy's perfect world, seemingly no-pocalypse centric, until you realize that he's not in some apartment he shares with his beloved girlfriend Piper, but trapped inside of his own mind by Flagg after being shot by Nadine.

What's the fic you wrote with the happiest ending?

Again, bold of you to assume I've got an ending on anything I write. But I'd have to say that the happiest ending I have PLANNED would actually be for Shine On. It's running along the plot of the IT remake, so the ending will have (potentially) all of our beloved Boulderites having their happily ever afters with the people they care about most.

Do you get hate on your fic?

My dear sweet anonymous reader, that would require for someone to actually read said fics. XD No for real though, everyone that's commented, friend and stranger alike, has been SO SO SWEET. I'm so grateful. No hate yet, but I'm sure I'd feel like I really made it as a writer if I ever did.

Do you write smut?

I used to! I used to write the SHIT out of some smut! But it seems like the older I get the more I worry about it being good, by whatever arbitrary unit of measurement someone may have, and then I just clam up and fade to black instead jfkd;lsafd I hope to regain my teenaged confidence someday.

Do you write crossovers?

The further I can get from canon, the better, as far as my brainworms are concerned! I only have one OFFICIAL crossover, but if y'all could see some of the bullshit I have in my giant stack of spiral notebooks, you'd probably be very concerned.

Have you ever had a fic stolen?

Nope! At least I'm not sure why anyone WOULD. I only ever get a set amount of chapters into something before I'm spontaneously updating every few years like some literary cryptid.

Have you ever had a fic translated?

Nope!

Have you ever co-written a fic?

Ohhhhmygoodness the memories. Passing notebooks back and forth in between classes to work on chunks of fics. Co-authoring Google Docs in back-and-forth narrative-laden pseudo-RPs. So, SO many Picrews. If my old laptops' data banks could talk. The stories they'd tell. In short, it's been a REALLY FUCKING LONG TIME but I had such fun with it. I'd love to do it again sometime. XD

What's your all-time favorite ship?

AUGH. UHM. If we're going for something in media I enjoy, I have so so many, but if I HAD to pick one at gunpoint it'd have to be Clarice/Hannibal. From like the OG book series. My poor friend group has already had to listen to me scream about subtext and discrepancies between media, so I'll spare the spiel but they're wonderful together and I'll die on that hill.

For stuff I'VE written? Teddy and Piper. TedPipes. ScreenPlay. My babies, my lovelies, my adorable idiots that can't quit pining long enough or can't quit fighting impending disaster long enough to realize they're already practically dating. I've written so much about them. I'll probably continue writing so much about them. I can't be stopped. jfkdl;asfd

Also for stuff I HAVEN'T written but exists in fic anyway, I'd have to go with both BirdBrains (Harold Lauder and Caktus' OC Crow) and HayGlen (Glen Bateman and Mouse's OC Hayden) because like. Have y'all seen them. HAVE YOU. Go see them. They're so so good.

What's the WIP you want to finish but doubt you ever will?

All of them wELL that's a tough one because like. I bounce between ideas so much that it's hard to tell when I'll pick up a plot or drop a plot out of rotation only to pick it back up a year or three later. But if I had to pick one, Iron and Silver hasn't been updated since shortly after the pandemic started, and I really wish I could pick up steam on it again. I had a huge plan for it, and a serious amount of worldbuilding and backstory, but I just can't pick up the knack for it again. At least, not yet. I'm sure I'll come back to it eventually.

What are your writing strengths?

I've always been fond of my character development! I can't ever tell if I execute it well in practice, but in THEORY I have a good grasp of where a character starts and where I want them to end, and a significant chunk of what they go through to get there. I love Big Emotion. I love Introspective Pain. I love the silent struggle of Being Known. It's deLICIOUS, I keep working it into everything I write fjkdsa;fd

What are your writing weaknesses?

A: Follow-through. I have the Can't Finish Stuff disease. B: MOTHERFUCKING. ACTION SCENES. I can't get the pacing right! It feels too stilted or too flat, either too much detail or not enough with no happy medium. People who can write action scenes are glorious unicorns and I'm love them

Thoughts on writing dialogue in another language for a fic?

Wayyyyyyyy not confident enough to try it. I only know some basic phrases in Spanish, and some even more rudimentary phrases in Korean, and several swear words in a small handful of other languages. Definitely not enough to work with. I'm sure I'd manage to either do it wrong or end up unintentionally being insensitive. I'm a much bigger fan of just using italics to denote if someone's using another language instead, but that's a personal choice jfkdl;sa

First fandom you wrote for?

Labyrinth! To no one's surprise ever It was a horrible monstrosity of a trope-filled nightmare written in a Family Guy notebook in pure frigging pencil. I was also in the 6th grade. I wish I had Teenage Fef's shameless ability to write whatever the fuck she wanted. She was cringe but She was Free

Favorite fic you've ever written?

So far, Serenade is the one I've put the most thought into, and the one I'm having the most fun planning! Iron and Silver cuts a CLOSE second though; for the very same reasons, but I'm loving having the added fun of such indulgent friends helping me keep the Stand Wormies alive by hyping me up. XD

I also cast OPEN TAG! It does 6d4 Writing Damage. But if y'all want to, I'm also tagging @beyondthetemples-ooc, @jaiesondurantkross and @caktusjuice-draws in a totally no-pressure-ever tag <3

[cadybear420]

My thoughts on the 2022 Choices releases so far

Even though it's long past 2022, I still wanna do one for its books I was active that year. Not for 2021 though, since I was still very new to the app starting in that year. I am currently working on a masterlist for all Choices books though.

Some of these books, I have not fully read or caught up with yet, but I'm still providing my opinion on what I anticipate for them.

Surrender

I'll put this as briefly as I can. They try to push the story as being about a MC who escapes a toxic partner and rediscovers herself through BDSM. Except the love interest in question Reagan is toxic towards her from Day Fucking One. And the writers say it wouldn't make sense for MC to dom right away, except they had no problem making her want to be Reagan's sub right away.

Ms. Match

The MC and LI's banter was fun, but other than that, this one was really forgettable and flavorless.

Untameable

Nope nope nope. This book was just so empty and filled with forcing high stakes where there are none. Kit has zero personality to me, and the only thing that makes the romance "forbidden" is that Austin will throw a baby temper tantrum once he finds out.

It wasn't even the "dumb fun smut" kind of bad that TNA 1 was. It was just... nothing. Heck, it didn't even feel all that smutty outside of like those CGs. No idea why it got a sequel but hey, Unbridled so far seems like it will be much better.

Crimes of Passion

This one was alright. The MC's character and their dynamic with Trystan was certainly very refreshing to the usual Choices formulas. And the story was interesting enough. But besides that, I found it overall mostly lukewarm and there wasn't much that stood out to me.

The Princess Swap

It's exactly what it was on the title, and I think it did that job alright. A little more effort could have gone into it but it was still a sweet and fun little "Prince and the Pauper" story.

The Cursed Heart

This one was alright. I certainly could have done without Kieran's more abusive behaviors, but it was otherwise a pretty solid story. Definitely one of those books that's much more interesting when played as anything other than wlm.

And I think we can all agree that this one is visually just gorgeous. The backgrounds, the outfits, etc.

The Nanny Affair 3

This one has to be the worst of the 3 Nanny Affair books. The whole drama with Addison reads like an r/AmITheAsshole post made for validation purposes. And the Jenny/Aditya plotline was so blatantly a proxy affair so that PB could have that accidental pregnancy plot that they couldn't have with Sam and MC. Cause let's be real, they totally would have had Sam knock up MC at the gala in Book 1 if not for the fact that they're GOC.

But I'll give them one thing though. This is probably the first and only book I have ever seen that allowed a female character (MC in particular) to penetrate her male LI's bootyhole. Yes kiddies, in the first smut scene in Ch 1, you get an option to play with Sam's ass, and they describe you slipping a finger between his cheeks. Sucks that we're still waiting for some proper cheek-clapping one and a half years later though.

Immortal Desires

This one was pretty fun. Definitely another one where playing anything but wlm (well, 100% wlm) will be a more interesting experience.

I don't think it's quite as brilliant as Bloodbound, story-wise. Though one thing it does do better than BB is not being pointlessly genderlocked. That being said, it does have a sequel coming soon. So it's not exactly complete enough to be fully compared.

Murder at Homecoming

Definitely one of the better, if not the best, release of 2022. The story is a bit linear, but it works. And I do love how they incorporated queer themes into the story, like with how your MC can talk about (if any) their own queer experience and how romantic dialogue with Tyler changes if your MC is male or enby to talk about how he used to think he was straight.

My only real problem is that it didn't feel like Perdita had as much importance in the story as the writers clearly wanted her to have, and that made it harder to get invested in it. That being said, I think not learning what really happened to her was a fairly nuanced ending and while I'd love a sequel to the story, having us find out what really happened would be a major disservice to that nuance.

The Phantom Agent

Ohhhh this one is such a guilty pleasure for me. I'm a total sucker for secret agent/spy stories and James Bond-esque stuff and this one was great for that. Is it one of their best-made stories? No. But it's certainly a very refreshing and enjoyable one.

Also props to this for being probably the only GOC-LI romance story I've ever seen where the wlm version is actually refreshing for once. It especially shows with the interactions with characters like Nurse Lou and Alexis Reid, but Agent Grey and even Rowan have a few good moments too.

Slow Burn

This one was such a dissappointment holy god. It's just 95% helping out a bunch of randos with their restaurants and MC barely gets to do any actual cooking.

[caparrucia]

i don't think people truly care about morality in fiction. people use "morality" as an start drama and discourse and harassment campaigns because they're so bored with their lives they have nothing to do. by using the morality excuse, they shift all blame to the people they're trying to other and not them. because these same people who scream about morality in fiction are also the people who also drawn-up long-ass excuses about why they support a something (totally not financially of course!) made by actual known bigots who spew hateful shit about real groups of people and actively try to harm real life society. they'll whine about how a piece of media is toxic and disgusting, but when presented with a piece of media that isn't so, they find reasons to make it problematic (even something as stupid as an author liking a tweet made by some guy who got cancelled 7 years ago for making shitty mario porn) so that way they feel good about hating it.

nobody cares about having a discussion about morality in fiction and how it reflects or affects or real world. people just want an excuse to be horrible people for the sake of it.

So, I don't think you're wrong, necessarily, in so far as yeah, none of these conversations about morality in media are being had in good faith, because a lot of people don't even know what a good faith conversation about morality in media even looks like.

Spoilers: it's not about "this thing shouldn't exist and we should make it so people do not create things like this, by force if necessary." It's more along the lines of "what kind of commentary and reception will encourage better ethics in media production" and "is there anything worthwhile to discuss about any given work, is the transgresiveness of the morality within meant to say something, or is it really just not that deep, bro."

Notice the distinct lack of "THIS SHOULDN'T EXIST" and "YOUR MEDIA CREATION/CONSUMPTION DEFINES YOUR MORAL CHARACTER" and trying to litigate the concept of "GOOD PERSON." Because all of those are dog whistles for anti-intellectualism and pro-censorship tendencies that are prime to be radicalized into something... well. Radical.

My thing is, genuinely, dipping into the ad hominem is cathartic but not particularly useful. And yeah, accusing them of doing what they're doing out of boredom is, in fact, ad hominem. Because that automatically changes the discussion back to the whole "NO, I AM NOT A BAD PERSON, I AM IN FACT A GOOD PERSON, THEREFORE EVERYTHING I DO IS GOOD BY DEFAULT" track of circular argument that ultimately devolves into thought crime.

It doesn't matter why they're doing it. What they're doing is wrong and harmful, and the way to put a hard stop on it, is to not engage with it. Because engaging on their level, engaging on theorizing about "why" is inadvertently affirming the validity of their viewpoint. It's tacitly acknowledging that if there's a good reason for it, the tactics themselves can be used. I think that's incorrect. The tactics are deplorable, regardless of what objective one argues they're working towards.

I've had conversations about this with a friend, where they educated me on a lot of the nuance about depictions of torture in fiction. And how the concept of "torture bad" is inherently diminished when your fiction also portrays "torture works" unironically right next to it, because it legitimizes torture as a thing that gets results, even though it is scientifically proven that it doesn't. But in the attempt to characterize the bad guys as bad and immoral, many writers use torture as synecdoche, where torture ends up being bad because it's used by the bad guys, not because torture itself is pointless cruelty weaponized stupidly.

And I feel the same way about the playbook of derailment and plain old bad faith engagement with media and morality. It doesn't matter why people are engaging in it, I don't think. Maybe individual cases, when you know someone who's falling into the funnel and you're trying to reach out and try to get them away from that edge. But in general? It doesn't matter. You're causing harm, and from a harm reduction perspective, what matters is figuring out an effective way to stop them.

This is also how I engage with other radicalized, discourse poisoned bigotry champions, like T*RFs. There's nothing inherently valuable in their ideology or their methodology, so the best thing you can do is de-platform it, as aggressively as possible. Because even just spreading it in order to dunk on it is just causing splash damage on people around you. And it might sound dramatic, but given how much of the rhetoric on faux media criticism revolves around horrific abuse being commodified for internet discourse points, and given the fact abuse is generally under reported and abuse victims are often around us, keeping their status to themselves for their own safety... yeah, it is harmful to spread even for the fun snarking.

I'm big on harm reduction. I look at problems and conflicts and I try to go for whichever option, at the time, I believe is going to cause the least harm possible. I also really don't believe in giving power to structures that are known to abuse it, because I belong to quite a few groups that have been historically the first ones to get shat on as soon as those shiny new powers are abused. And they will always be abused. I understand that is a frustrating POV for a lot of people, because I'm always of the naysayers that keeps trying to figure out how rules made in good faith will be abused in bad faith, but I've been on the internet for 25 years and I've done moderation work often enough, both IRL and online, that I consider that to be just basic politics.

Don't give the dude who wants to shiv you a knife, no matter how much he promises he's not going to use it on you.

[goodolreliablejake]

So, this post has gotten a lot of interesting responses, and I'd like to address some of them. I also want to say that these are not direct quotation, rather they are just summaries of the general comments I saw repeated in multiple responses.

1) "This is race-baiting," "you are just looking for problems where none exist," "you are the boy who cried Nazi," etc.

So, my purpose in writing this post was not to upset anyone. Rather, it was a way of unpacking some complex feelings I've had for a long time about problematic elements of things that I love. In retrospect, I wish I had said some of the things that the most volatile objectors thought I said. The original post is painfully milquetoast. It explicitly says I'm not trying to cancel anything or tell people to stop engaging with media that they enjoy.

The problem with this approach is that the people who are already thinking along these lines don't think I'm saying anything all that interesting or groundbreaking, and the people who disagree, disagree vehemently and want to bury deep beneath the earth any hint of the notion that the evil dark skinned races in media that they like might have a racial component to them.

2) "You said that drow are Always Chaotic Evil, but the 3e Monster Manual listed them as 'Usually Neutral Evil."

I got this comment a lot, and I found it hard to parse. Like, to me it feels so off-topic that I originally thought it was a joke. I'd understand if it were only a factual correction, but the people who commented acted like it was a substantive rebuttal: a real gotcha.

So, to clarify, I said "Always Chaotic Evil" in explicit reference to the TVtropes page of the same name. It is this trope--of certain fantasy races being evil by nature--that I'm objecting to and struggling with. Whether a particular entry in a particular edition said these exact words is immaterial to the case. It is the trope that I object to, and the trope remains the same regardless. "Usually Neutral Evil" is not the win for racial harmony that you think it is.

The best I can surmise is that this is an attempt to disqualify my argument by painting me as an uninformed interloper. If I got the blurb in the monster manual wrong, then I'm not a real fan, I don't know what I'm talking about, and I can be safely ignored. Seems to be the logic, I guess?

3) "You said that there have been efforts to address these problems such as making dark elves Gray or Pale or Purple, but did you consider that it's just easier to draw them that way?"

Another comment that I don't totally understand the rhetorical purpose of. Are you trying to argue that attempts have not been made to make the depiction of fantasy races less problematic over time? How does that forward your underlying point?

I think it's self-evident that the modern creators of D&D are interested in making the game less racist. They've faced backlash and don't want to repeat it. They want their game to be welcoming and acceptable. I think the knee-jerk reaction against this idea must be because attempts to solve the problem acknowledge that there was ever a problem at all.

Also, though, more than one thing can be true at once. Varying the skin of dark elves can provide useful artistic license, contrast, and legibility AND be an attempt to make them less of a racial stereotype. The reason I brought up the point at all was to say that it's a good thing that efforts are being made, but that it doesn't really change the underlying issue. I was thinking specifically of Baldur's Gate 3, where you seldom see drow with the dark black skin of earlier editions.

4) "As slave owning effete elitists, Drow more closely resemble Europeans than Africans"

I think this is one of the most interesting and valid points I received here. I think that looking at artwork and descriptions, Drow were more explicitly African stereotypes in their earliest appearances. They were depicted with curly hair. They were depicted with brown skin and loin cloths in some art. But over time, efforts have been made to not tie them to a specific real world culture.

I don't think that necessarily means they are not a problematic concept. If Drow are meant to represent the excesses of whiteness, why is their distinguishing feature their dark skin? Is not the idea of dark skin=evil problematic regardless?

But also, it is definitely still racist. Pointy Hat has a great video about The Problem With Elves, where he expresses the racist tropes of Drow in the form of a bingo chart, which demonstrates this point pretty effectively.

5) "I don't think it's about race, it's about the more spiritual or symbolic idea of darkness representing danger."

Right, exactly. These things are not mutually exclusive but in fact deeply interconnected.

6) "Two words disprove everything you're saying: Drizzt Do'Urden"

Funny you mention this, because the whole reason I made this post was because I was enjoying reading Homeland so much and thinking about it a lot. I think the Dark Elf Trilogy is a really great fantasy adventure story, and it made me reflect on the problematic elements of what it depicts.

But Drizzt doesn't contradict the underlying racism of Drow as a concept, he depends upon it. His high concept as a character is The Good One. He exists in opposition to the rest of his race and rejects their culture. His journey in Homeland is about his acceptance of the fact that the good aspects of his people he wanted to believe in were lies and propaganda and that the only way for him to live according to his (inborn, inherited from Zak) principles is to reject and leave his people.

It became a stereotype for players to create good aligned Drow as ripoffs of Drizzt, which was mocked by purists who thought this was ruining the concept of the race, because they're supposed to all be evil. Sorry, sorry, Usually Neutral Evil.

7) "You're being christophobic"

Okay, first time hearing that word.

So I said that I think the origin story of the Drow (that there was a war between good and bad elves, and the good ones were light skinned and the bad ones were dark skinned, and the bad ones lost and got sentences to live underground) reflects a Christian story of people being punished for sin by being "marked" with dark skin.

I still think that's true, but I don't mean to imply that all or most Christians believe this idea, or that it's fundamental to the faith, or that all Christians are racist. I'm also not an expert in theology at all.

8) "People can do interesting things with the idea of fantasy races. Getting rid of all fantasy races is boring and not useful."

I received many comments like this, and I found the examples very interesting and informative. It actually changed my mind and gave me some hope, since I saw the ways that some writers have played with, subverted, or commented on these trends. But that kind of brings me to my final thought on this:

Conclusion

I never advocated that we should abolish the use of fantasy races in gaming or storytelling. I explicitly said the opposite. Yet again and again, I received comments reacting as if I had. This was basically a vent post for me. I felt uncomfortable, and I wanted to express that.

And I think that gets to the heart of what's happening here. Whatever the particular point, the overwhelming and repeated message I got from comments was "Shut up. Don't talk about this." That, to me, sounds like self-defense.

I said "you can enjoy these things while acknowledging the problematic elements," but people don't like feeling uncomfortable, and they don't want to think the thing they like could be racist or have unfortunate implications or origins. I think if you follow that logic too far, it leads to some unfortunate places.

Fantasy races are an uncomfortable concept, because they present a world that literally works the way racists think that it works. The attempts to mitigate this problem often fail to address the core concern, merely making the idea more palatable.

A big example is trying to correct by changing the language from "races" to "species." This attempt fails for two reasons:

1) Exactly! Racists think that people of other races are a different species. That's the foundation of "race science," phrenology, all of it.

2) Are demihumans different species, though? Like, the interactions between elves and dwarves don't resemble the interactions between different species in our world. They don't act like snakes and lemurs, or whales and krill, or even cats and dogs. More often we've got different groups of people, who may speak different languages and have different cultural practices, engaging in diplomacy or war and struggling to coexist. In practice, they are treated as nations: ethnicities. Except they're ethnicities who are biologically distinct enough to have objective differences in ability.

This is something that puts me on edge in Mass Effect, otherwise one of my favorite games. True, the game ultimately lands on condemning the genophage, and it's not subtle about that. I mean just look at the name... But it's still considered debatable, morally grey, and Mordin Solus remains one of the most charming and enduring heroes of the series. The setting has bent over backwards to make every racist stereotype and talking point as legitimate as possible. In this setting, it is objectively true, scientifically proven that it is in the DNA of Krogans to naturally be violent, warmongering killing machines whose explosively rapid breeding poses an existential threat to the galaxy. That in turn is meant to make us think that maybe forced sterilization is something worth considering. It's hard to ignore the parallels to real life racist propaganda. I don't think it's malicious, just ungrounded and thoughtless; the result of creators to whom these ideals are abstract thought experiments, rather than reflections of real history.

Another big example is Dark Elves. They try to make it okay, to mitigate the message by fleshing them out as characters, by scapegoating an abusive deity rather than an ingrained nature, by erasing the monster manual description that reads "Always Chaotic Evil," by trending skin tone away from black and towards purple, or gray, even pale white. But none of it really changes the core issue, does it? The idea of drow is to equate dark skin with evil, to fetishize that idea, and to tell a story about a subsect of people cast into darkness as a result of sin in a direct parallel to racist Christian beliefs about dark skin being a curse or punishment from God.

So, do I think we need to cancel Mass Effect and stop playing D&D or telling stories about drow? No, not really. I mean... I do all these things. Truth is, I don't have an actionable solution, for myself or anyone. But the dynamic is clearly present and worth describing. And the attempts to challenge it are often insufficient, more about making ourselves feel better about what we're already doing than enacting real change.

[forever-rogue]

okay i don't know about you but i feel mando in this chili's toNITE (lots of valid criticisms about his place in tbobf but all i can see is my shiny metal man); there's something about din and admitting he wants to see his foundling that's giving "[ OPEN ] : sender is openly emotionally vulnerable in front of the receiver, trusting them with this moment of vulnerability" if you're feeling it

AN | Guess who’s back 🤡 Okay, but no, totally feeling the same way!! Him being so soft!! Over Grogu!! I can’t handle it!

Warnings | None

Pairing | Din x Fem!Reader

Word Count | 1.5k

Masterlist | Din, Main

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

“Hey,” your voice was soft so you wouldn’t startle him too much. He’d been out here, in the dead of night, for some time, only pale moonlight and softly chirping bugs for company. You’d waited up for him, invested in the little sweater you were knitting for a certain someone, looking outside to check on him from time to time. But after a while you’d dozed off, and even later than that you’d roused again. His side of the bed was still made up and cold.

“Hey,” he turned his head towards you but didn’t meet your eyes as you sat down next to him on the small porch. Reaching over, you gently ran a hand through his dark curls before pressing a featherlight kiss to his cheek. You didn’t have to look down to know the little bundle of fabric with his gift to Grogu was in his hands. You knew you were excited - although excited was hardly the proper term for it - to see him again, but whatever you were experiencing, Din must have been feeling tenfold.

“Were you ever going to come to bed, or were you planning on freezing out here?” there was a teasing lilt to your voice, and you spied the corners of his mouth turning up in a small smile. You scooted closer to him, trying to absorb the heat his large body gave off before resting your head on his shoulder; he shifted the small bundle into one hand and reached for yours with the other, “I know you’re excited to see him again, but there’s something else. What’s bothering you, my love?”

“You sure you’re not some sort of jedi too?” he laughed lightly before inhaling deeply and exhaling slowly. You shifted and folded your legs under you before gesturing for him to do the same so you were facing each other.

“It doesn’t take any special talents to know when you’re brooding and lost in thought, Mandalorian,” you put your hand on his cheek and sighed contentedly when he leaned into your touch, “you must think yourself clever and that you can hide easily, but you can’t hide from me. I see you.”

“You have always seen me.”

“I know,” you smiled softly, “now tell what’s going on.”

“I’ve been thinking…about what the Armorer said,” he admitted as you tried not to visibly cringe. You were thoroughly in the belief that she was wrong; if anyone was a Mandalorian it was Din. You knew he knew that as well, but being cast out by those he had once seen as family still hurt him deeply, “and I can’t help wondering if she’s right.”

“I’m going to go out on a limb and say no,” you couldn’t help reply with a slight bite to your words. You weren’t sure how he would respond but when he nodded in agreement with a stiff laugh, “but…what are you questioning?”

“She made a comment about Grogu and how the Jedi were forbidden to have attachments,” he sighed, gripping the small bundle tightly, “what if we see him again and he doesn’t…remember me or care?”

“I have several qualms with what you’ve just said,” you scooted closer and draped your legs, “and I’ll even give you supporting reasons since I know you’ll want them.”

“Naturally," he finally flashed you one of those dazzling smiles you knew was real.

"Naturally," you grinned back, "the Jedi were forbidden to form attachments because it was believed that this was the only way to focus only on their powers - control - and getting their jobs accomplished. I'm sure it worked for a lot of them, maybe most, but definitely not all. Why do you think Ahsoka left the Order - among other things. She was not the only one with a heart that developed attachments - they were family. Just like Grogu is our - your - family."

"What if he's changed-"

"Grogu is not going to change," you insisted gently, putting your fingers under his chin and tilting his face up to meet yours, "do you really think he's just not going to care about you, silly man? You saved him...you kept him safe and loved him after he'd known neither for so long. You're not just anyone to him, you're everything to him. That's never going to change."

"You're so sure about all of this," he'd perked up, his heart soaring with every word from your lips.

"Because I know I'm right," you shot him a wink, "he's going to be so happy to see you. Just because he's training to be a little Jedi doesn't mean he's not going to be him anymore."

“I hope so,” he sighed lightly with a little half smile; he was so excited to see his little friend again. His heart had ached for him as soon as Luke Skywalker had taken him away. At the time it had seemed like the right decision but he was quickly longing for him again. If he hadn’t had you, he wasn’t sure what he would have done…probably become a complete hermit.

“Well I know so,” you insisted, leaning forward and pressing a soft kiss to his lips, “Mandalorian culture is all about family, found and blood, no? That’s what you always taught me.”

“Yes, it is.”

“Then makes Grogu a Mandalorian too - and family doesn’t just turn on family,” you slowly stood up and held your hand towards him, gesturing for him to follow, “I know what you’re thinking and this is where the Armorer is wrong. You have not lost the way, not simply because you’ve removed your helmet. You are…honestly, my love, I don’t even know how to begin to describe you. You are so much more than words could ever describe, Din Djarin. You are a Mandalorian and a good man to your core. You would be put out, without a credit to your name or the clothes and armor on your back, if it meant helping someone else and making sure they’re taken of. If that’s not adhering to the creed then what is?”

Din was silent for a few moments as he stared at his feet, unsure of even how to begin to respond. It wasn’t often that DIn Djarin was rendered speechless, and yet it always seemed to be you that managed to do it. You took his hand in yours and pressed a gentle kiss to his knuckles, “I…”

“You needn’t say anything,” you wrapped your arms around your Mandalorian as well as you could, holding him tightly and rubbing soothing circles into his back. You heard him sniffle slightly before he hugged you back, almost crushing the life out of you with his strong grip, “it’s all going to be okay, my love. I swear it.”

“Promise?” he rested his head on your shoulder as you chuckled lightly. You were sure; and if for some reason you turned out to be wrong, you would have gone to hell and back to make things right.

“I do,” you pressed a kiss to his mop of dark curls, “let’s leave tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?” he pulled back, dark eyes searching yours as a shaky smile was on his face.

“Tomorrow,” you agreed, “but not before you get some rest.”

“Okay,” he nodded, a large hand finding your neck as you watched in reverent silence for a few moments, his thumb swiping over your cheek, “I love you, you know.”

“I know,” you promised, “I love you too. You know what else I was thinking - about how the covert is not welcoming you back…”

“Hmm?”

“We don’t need them,” you insisted, “we’ll start our little tribe, Clan Djarin! There’s plenty of others out there like us. Vagabonds and renegades…we all find each other when we need each other.”

“I found you, didn’t I?” he teased as you gently him in the side.

“I found you - bleeding half to death,” you reminded him, “don’t get it twisted.”

“Sometimes fate steps in to rescue the wretched.”

“No,” you shook your head, “we found each other right when we needed to. Soon we’ll find Grogu again, just like we’re meant to.”

“Yeah,” Din closed his eyes as he pressed a kiss to the top of your head, “just like we’re meant to.”

[mollysunder]

Despite the dire situation TF and Graves sound like they'd make fun sideplot as hired guns, maybe.

When it comes to Jinx, I think the narrative is going to push her into it. First, I'd argue that all the major characters in the show that know her, or at least know of her, treat her like they treat Zaun. Vi sees Zaun as place that needed to be defended from Enforcers' and subsequently Silco's control. Vi thought if she could just remove this one element (Silco) from Zaun there was a chance she could save it, but she didn't realize it wouldn't be that simple. Silco saw Zaun in a dire situation, where it was weak and helpless to stronger enemies, so he made Zaun stronger by taking over and making it more cruel and violent that it already was. A lot of the things he did hurt Zaun as much as it helped it, including pumping Shimmer into its Veins. Jayce sees Zaun as a source of violence and instability that threatens the safety of Piltover that could lead to a total disaster. Ekko has lost the Zaun he grew up with and had to find refuge away from its violence influenced by Silco's control. Ekko is constantly at odds with the Zaun that he now sees as completely fallen under Silco's command.

Everytime I said Zaun, you can replace it with Jinx's name and it wouldn't be that different in any real way. The whole time everyone's struggling to do what's best with Zaun (not always for Zaun), just like they do with Jinx. The metaphor could frankly extend into the way chembarons like Finn treat Zaun and see Jinx, they only see her utility as a something for which they can profit from and then tsk at her while they try to copy their Piltovan counterparts. The end of the season was Jinx drawing a line at the people in her life trying to define her and accepting who she is and how she wants to handle things. The lingering problem is that in order to be herself, for Zaun to truly define itself, both need to be in control of what happens next, both have too many enemies to leave that chance.

Second, Silco wanted get rid of Vander and his kids at the same time not just for revenge, but so none of his loyalists could use the kids as a symbol to rally around. At least in Zaun, succession and social mobility isn't inherently based on bloodlines, so to the larger public that isn't a bunch a chembarons and their support squabbling, Jinx is Silco’s heir apparent.

By the next season we're just going to see more of how people project their feelings about Zaun onto Jinx. Except now it'll also be about how Jinx sucessfully struck against Piltover’s Councilmen, probably killing 5 of them. Some of whom were likely directly responsible for the violence on the Day of Ash. Even if she didn't personally care what it meant for Zaun when she did it, just like when she stole the Hexgem, she has repeatedly chose actions with inherently political far reaching consequences. What Jinx did was possibly the single most targeted and effective act of direct action in Zaun's struggle for independence against Piltover. People make symbols out of far less throughout history. She'll probably use the fear and awe she's inspired to her advantage because her search for external validation is over. This is someone who kept up with Silco for years, she knows how to exploit the biases of others to control them, that's how Silco got Marcus.

Finally, in general, Jinx is going to have problems with the chembarons next season because at least two had conspired to kill Silco with only one walking away alive. Jinx will kill Renni for that, and two dead chembarons with probably surviving family members would probably occupy her for a while and raise further controversy.

Jinx's Potential Pirate Problem

From what we know from this first season, the Lanes and Bilgewater seem to uneasily coexist as partners in the black market. Bilgewater Pirates try to catch any opportunity to hustle and shortend Zaunites out of their wares if they think they can get away with it. Instead of the threat to Silco coming from Noxus, the outside party agitating for Silco's overthrow, the simpler answer might be from Bilgewater.

In one of the first scenes at the last drop a pair of traders from Bilgewater are trying to cheat Huck, the glasses dude, out of their arranged deal. Vander manages to deescalate the situation with the threat of violence and offers them his pipe too (let's put a pin in that).

Then, during the arcade scene, the audience gets to see what an excellent sharpshooter Jinx is at a young age. Jinx makes all the shots not just once but several in a row alternating back and forth between targets in rapid succession. When I watched that scene, I thought how weird it is that those targets weren't painted to look like caricatures of obnoxiously wealthy Piltovans (the one civilian has isn't meant to be a target) or, at the very least, enforcers. Instead, they made a game out of shooting a class of people Vander and Zaun citizens seem to work with often. Vander had to approve of the game for it to be played by the kids, I'm sure. Vander doesn't want them to challenge Piltover's forces, but he does want to foster a healthy antagonism against Pirates.

This next one is a small thing but I found it odd that when Caitlyn made up a back story she gave her family a pirate origin. Do I think that means somehow it'll be revealed Caitlyn's family has a secret family origin where they used to Pirates. No, I think it's a cute set up for how Pirates are associated with people and objects Jinx has been taught to dislike.

Finally I want to include this concept art of Jinx that was included in the Bridging the Rift series. This outfit wasn't included in the first season. She's in a cloak decorated in waves and tentacles, imagery associated Bilgewater and its related religion. Except for the hood, it's not really Jinx's style, but she's got it on, and she got it from somewhere, so maybe this hints at Bilgewater's growing influence in the wake of Zaun's power vacuum.

Now that Silco is dead I can see Pirates from Bilgewater trying to take advantage of Zaun's supposed weakness by backing out of their previously established deals, and generally just muscling in on the Shimmer trade. I can see at least 1 or 2 chembarons accepting a Bilgewater faction taking Silco's place as long they're offered stability and a lucrative arrangement. I imagine the smarter chembarons are wary of crossing Sevika though, Bilgewater wouldn't offer independence just new masters to control Zaun.

What's something to keep in mind though is that if Finn was Bilgewater's point of contact that means the information they gathered on Silco's operation and especially on Jinx was filtered through his perspective. Sevika made it clear, Finn's an idiot who didn’t know what the hell he was talking about when he tried to disparage Silco and Jinx to her, and it got him killed.

What does it all mean? Well, it means that Bilgewater isn't operating on the right set of knowledge on how to handle Zaun, and worse, how to handle Jinx. They're going to make a big push in Zaun next season, Finn made Jinx sound more flighty and unstable than she actually is. The former is a worse mistake than the latter, so despite the 'mad dog' status Bilgewater will probably think she can either be subdued or put down easily. But just like when Vander handed those traders his pipe (a symbol of power in Zaun), they won't be able handle Zaun or Jinx, frankly the situation will be too overwhelming (there's the pin). Not only are we shown a young Jinx running bullets through pretend pirates but she readily outmaneuvers groups of enemy combatants. Zaun is an acquired taste honestly, there's a lot of moving parts constantly in flux that most people wouldn't be able to handle.

Why would Bilgewater even be on Jinx's case? Silco's dead, some assume that ends Jinx's involvement in Zaun's affairs and on to Piltover. But Jinx is technically a part of the 'old regime' and no symbols should remain of it for people to rally around, and Jinx definitely is the kind to have a cult of personality. They might want to take the heat off of Zaun as they try to gain control by getting rid of Jinx to placate Piltover. I'm not sure how successful that'd be since Piltover will be hellbent to remove all Shimmer infrastructure, the industry they want in on. Or maybe Jinx doesn't like the way Bilgewater's infiltrators are treating the last of what remains of Silco's memory, of what her and Silco cultivated together as a family. Jinx has no reason to play nice with these people and they're unprepared for what that means.

Tldr: I've been so wrapped up in the threat of Noxus, I ignored how entrenched Bilgewater Pirates are in Zaun that lays the ground for an infiltration arc in season 2. So often, whenever there's a scene that implies the presence of Bilgewater (the Pirate hub), it's overshadowed by the bigger personalities of the main cast and how they react to it.