#now with the mindset that it was an open canvas

[briardoll]

The Obey Me! Characters react to an MC who talks to themselves!

Lucifer actually thinks it’s kind of cute, but worries you may be lonely, or quite possibly mentally ill. He may ask why you talk to yourself so much so please assure him that you’re fine!!

Mammon thinks you’re crazy, “who likes talkin’ to themselves??” Maybe it’s a weird human thing, or maybe you’re just a weird human. Either way he’s gonna bust in and ask why you’re so passionate in your hatred for modern art. (The kind of stuff where they paint a canvas entirely blue or tape a banana to a canvas and call it art. <- defo isn’t something I’M passionately hateful about (¬_¬))

Levi understands completely what it’s like to have to converse with yourself because you know nobody else understands/cares about what you’re saying. Comes in and tries his best to listen and understand your thoughts!

Satan stands outside and eavesdrops on what you’re saying, uses the information he earns to one-up his brothers by knowing what you like/dislike without ever having asked or being told directly. It creeps you out until you come out of your room unexpectedly and catch him spying.

Asmo will originally think that your live-streaming something and check all your socials, (why would you stream without telling him!? He wants to watch every second you know!) when there are no lives to be found, he comes in and asks to help film the deviltube video with you, realizing there’s no video to film either he decides to get in on the conversation and even agrees with what you’re saying! He never knew you had that much in common before!!

Beel thinks you must be hallucinating, it’s because you haven’t eaten enough of course!! He brings you your favorite meals, drinks, and snacks so that you can regain your mental stability. You tell him that you just talk to yourself to get your thoughts out somewhere and it confuses him, he’s a man of not too many words, and if it’s not about food he’s doesn’t usually pay enough attention to form an opinion. Eats snacks with you and listens to what you have to say.

Belphie thinks you talk way too much about things that aren’t important. Does laugh when he hears about the time a cicada flew in your mouth one summer as a child. “So you’ve never known how to keep your mouth shut, huh?” Whoops, gave himself away, now you know he’s there!!! (Definitely never happened to me and I’m definitely NOT speaking from experience! Actually… yes it did. I’m scared of cicadas TO. THIS. DAY.)

Diavolo thinks you talk to yourself because he doesn’t make enough time for you! He feels bad that you feel the need to talk to yourself because he’s made you so lonely! Please promise him that he did nothing wrong! He’ll still deploy a little D. To be your conversation partner when he’s busy with paperwork.

Barbatos only requests that you speak to yourself quietly, the young lord is working you know! At least now he knows your likes and dislikes better and can better cater to your needs. (him and Satan have similar mindsets in this regard)

Simeon wonders in you’re recording some kind of podcast. He’s never found it online, but it doesn’t bother him because he can listen from right outside your door. Is always excited to know what the next episode is about!

Luke comes in and asks you if you’re sick, when you tell him no, he asks if you’re lonely. You could’ve just asked him to talk! Baked some sweets and shares them with you while you talk about your common interests.

Solomon responds randomly to your rhetorical questions from outside the door. You tell him to go away and that you weren’t talking to him, just when you think he’s gone he answers you again and laughs, it’s now a fun game for him to play when he visits you.

Thirteen plays pranks on you while you do it, knocks on the door really hard and then hides so that when you open it nobody’s there! Will go to the electrical breaker in the house and switch the lights in your room on and off to hear you scream in terror.

Raphael thinks a curse might’ve been placed on you, asks if he needs to rain spears onto the person who did this to you, you tell him that no, you weren’t cursed, you’re just like this. He now thinks you are very odd and may possibly need some kind of mental help.

Mephisto will not tolerate your stupidity. If there is nobody in the room, you simply don’t speak, you aren’t filming a video, you aren’t talking on the phone, and you’re certainly not normal for acting like this! Cease it at once!

[ms-demeanor]

hi! i am not sure if you will have good advice for this but your photography guide made me think about this issue. i grew up quite poor (school supplies were a struggle every september) and now as an adult i am not as financially stable as id like. this has made me very scared to use any art supplies because im always thinking that im wasting them on not good enough projects or not good enough skills or similar thinking. however that leads to me having supplies bc of gifts and whatnot (ie watercolor paper) but not using it out of anxiety. do you have any advice? thanks!

There are two ways that I go about getting over this kind of issue:

Get out the supplies right now and start making any marks. Cut a piece of watercolor paper in half. Draw a line down the center of a page in grease pencil. Do anything to just start using it to get over the "can't open it, must save for special occasions/projects" mindset. Once you've broken the seal on a first use, it's a lot easier to use tools or notebooks or paints a second time.

Plan projects for yourself like they're assignments. Give yourself a deadline and materials list, write it up like a school assignment sheet, and then do the assignment.

And, if it helps to think of it this way: you're likely hesitant to use your materials because you don't want them "going to waste," but at the moment they are being wasted because they aren't being used.

It is solidly my opinion that art supplies used for art are never wasted; not all "art" is meant to be kept and a part of the process of creating art is practice, which should lead to massive piles of clumsily made, "bad" art that you wouldn't want to hang up on the wall but is nonetheless a part of the process of making art that you'd want to hang on the wall.

You may be looking at the watercolor paper and thinking "I shouldn't break into this because each piece of this paper needs to be something special to show that I value this gift" but you don't get better at painting with watercolors if you use them on printer paper. You need to use the paper (and the paints, and your brushes) to maintain and improve your fluency with the medium.

Many people are hesitant to "waste" sketchbooks or good paper or canvas or expensive paint because they think they are throwing away the good things they *could* make if only the had the perfect plan and create the perfect piece of art with each page and each new tube.

But these things are consumables. Your sketchbook is not a guitar, and it is not a finished song, it is a set of strings. The lovely watercolor paper is a gift for you to make art with, but it is also a gift for you to *practice* making art with and the practice is just as much a part of the gift as a finished artwork would be.

So you're not wasting it if you just get out your paper and start painting with no plan, or if you "mess up" a piece, or if you just use the paper for practice.

So, if you're trying to get yourself to use watercolor paper specifically, I have an assignment for you:

Watercolor Thumbnails Assignment

Materials: Watercolor paper, 2 colors of paint (your choice), Hard pencil Tools: Ruler, Small and medium brushes, Palette

Instructions:

Using your pencil and your ruler, divide the page into 10 equal rectangles.

Visit this website and click the "surprise me" button. Select 10 artworks to create monochrome thumbnails of. (you can click as many times as you need to, but the goal here is to do thumbnails of art that you aren't familiar with rather than seeking out art that you know well for this assignment)

Reproduce each of the images as a monochrome thumbnail in the ten rectangles you've marked on your paper. You don't have to mix a unique color for each rectangle, but you should mix a few different colors and use only one for each rectangle. For instance, if you are using green and yellow paint, some images should be yellow, some should be green, some should be green-yellow, some should be yellow-green.

Purpose:

To use your materials

Work on achieving different values with single colors by layering or diluting your paint.

Composition study

Time Limits:

Once you have collected your ten images and have your station set up, you should take no more than one hour to complete your thumbnails.

Due Date: July 20th 2024

___________________

If you are not familiar with watercolor, here's a good video on some of the basic techniques for painting with watercolor:

And this is a good example of a monochrome painting done in watercolor; if you want, you can watch the video and use it as a tutorial to practice getting a feel for monochrome painting.

Use this assignment to practice! Make use of the gift that you were given by familiarizing yourself with the medium and thinking about art and working in color.

I'm going to play along too and will reblog this post with my thumbnails on July 20th - anyone who wants to join in is welcome to do so as well.

And everyone please remember: time and materials spent doing something you love or practicing a skill you enjoy are never wasted. Even if you don't end up with a "good" finished product, you have learned something and that, in itself, is valuable.

[lenreli]

with a glimpse of your teeth [1/2, Dreamling, E]

[AO3] | [Chapter 2]

CW: Violence, blood, gore, knife play, kidnapping.

Also for dreamling bingo - B3, Endless Family get along!

E, 10.2k. After the unfortunate demise of their parents, life goes on. Continuation of endless pawns playing a fixed game!

-

The months after the yacht are ― chaotic, to put it mildly. Alliances between guards cut, him and his siblings working on taking over the family business in a way that doesn’t cause them to want to kill each other. More than usual, that is. 

And today, Dream’s been stuck with meeting some of the other head’s other families, the dark wood of the huge table, soon filling up with the likes of Morningstar. At least Dream has Hob, who’s currently leaning on the table near him at the moment. 

“Not looking forward to it?” Hob asks, glancing away from his phone and Dream huffs, sliding down in his seat as he leans closer to the other man. 

“Desire’s better at this, but they’re doing something else today,” he replies with a pout. Hob huffs, and a hand comes up to pet his hair, twirling it between Hob’s fingers and Dream leans into the touch. “Maybe I’d do better to not kill them with some incentive,” he purrs. 

At this, Hob pockets his phone and smirks, “one successful murder and you’re so cocky,” Hob says softly, leaning down to press their foreheads together momentarily, and Dream lets out a gasp as Hob tugs on his hair, forcing his head back. “Starting a war that big would be too much even for you and your siblings to handle, so try not to.” 

Groaning, his head thunks against the top of the chair, frowning as Hob continues to stroke his hair. “That’s not an incentive.” 

“The only incentive going through my mind right now is shutting you up as my cockwarmer,” Dream swallows, mouth drying as he leans into the other’s hand, fisted in his hair as he presses his face into Hob’s thigh, looking up at him. 

“Now?” He asks, arousal pooling as he nuzzles at the other’s clothed thigh, face going up ― until Hob grips his hair, dark eyes looking down at him. 

“No, you have a meeting soon. If you behave,” Hob says, sliding out from under him and Dream whines as his face hits the wood. There’s a tug to the back of the top of his suit, pulling him back into a seating position as a finger, two presses into the pulse of his throat. “And it wasn’t using your mouth, pretty as it is,” Hob whispers, eyes flicking down and Dream shivers, arousal flaring. “Now be a good little mafia boss for me and you might get what you want.” 

Rubbing his eyes, there’s the sound of people outside the room as Hob leans against the wall behind him, and Dream takes a few calming breaths as he tries to get into a mindset that can deal with people.

-

Dream looks around his art room, some of his paintings put into crates as he’s waiting for more blank canvases to be delivered, finally managing to find some time for his art after the craziness of the past few months. Checking his paints and brushes, he sits on his chair as he blinks at the paint canvas currently on his easel. 

And now with his art room like this, he realises that he’s not in the mood for art. Groaning, he looks at the ceiling and walks out of the room, making his way to his own room and picking up the latest book he’s reading, sitting on a chair to go through a few chapters to pass the time.

Focused on reading, he faintly hears his door open, and glancing up to see familiar pointed shoes, he goes back to his reading, curling more up onto the chair―

At least, until his book is taken out of his hands, “hey!” He scowls as Hob puts the book onto a table nearby, pages down flat. 

“Weren’t you meant to be doing art today?” Hob asks, eyes bright―and Dream blinks, looking at a spot of blood on Hob’s neck. 

“Apparently not,” he answers, looking to see if he could see blood anywhere else on Hob―which, there doesn’t seem to be. And not that he gets long to look before he’s tugged into a kiss, biting at his lips and Dream’s heart races, grabbing onto the other’s shoulders. 

Hob pulls him as they kiss, clothes being shed as he’s guided to the bed, a leg in between his as Dream focuses on biting the skin around the edges of the other’s shoulder harness, the faint smell of sweat and musk intoxicating. 

A knee presses against his hardening cock as he sits on the bed, hands going down to knead into Hob’s chest hair as he bites more marks around the black harness―until his breath is pushed out of him and his only contact with Hob is the hand gripping onto dark chest hairs. “What?” He asks, brows furrowing as he tries to keep himself still under Hob’s bright gaze.

Hob tilts his head as he settles on top of his hips, and there’s a familiar sound of a switchblade―before it’s put into the bed next to him.

“My bed!” He scowls, glaring at the blade as he hears a bottle cap opening―”Hob,” he chokes out as cold fingers enter him, stretching and pressing as Hob pulls off his pants. Gasping, he shudders and twitches―moving closer to the blade, near the join of his shoulder and neck. Grabbing onto Hob’s hair, he brings his other hand up to the blade, red hilt glinting in the light.

“Don’t touch it,” Hob says softly, crooking his fingers and Dream cries out, shoulder almost grazing the blade as he twitches, hand jerking away to clutch the sheets. “Such a squirmy little thing,” Dream can only cry out as Hob hits his prostate, thoughts vanishing under the onslaught of pleasure. 

“My,” he chokes out, words meaningless as Hob adds another finger, entrance stretching even more around the other’s fingers, “bed.” 

Hob scoffs, leaning down to bite at a nipple and Dream ― squirms, can feel the cold edge of the blade near his shoulder, overtly aware of it as Hob continues to stretch him open, occasionally brushing against his prostate. “Like you won’t just use this to get a new one anyway,” Hob says, pressing into that spot enough that Dream sees stars, trying to curl up under Hob―and failing, only feeling the light brush of the blade against his neck.  

Time falls away under Hob’s hands, under the stubble and lips on his chest as he tries to keep himself still. Hob, on top of him, makes various considering noises as an orgasm gets wrung out of him, heart beating wildly at how close the sharp edge of the blade ends nicks into his throat as he comes. 

A weight lifts off him and he blinks to find Hob at his neck, a dark shirt pressing against his neck as the blade gets taken out of the bed. “You like my squirming,” he mutters, voice slurring as he slowly comes back to his body, skin tingling as Hob chuckles. 

“Wanted to see what you’d do,” Hob says with a shrug and a grin.

-

Hob follows behind, a few paces behind as Dream opens the door to ― well, an apartment. For him, away from the main grounds, and he smiles at his art on the walls, the black fixtures of his new penthouse apartment. After being under his parent’s thumb, it’ll be nice to have more of a space for himself only. “Do you have an apartment?” He asks, walking up to the wide windows to look at the people milling about below. 

“I do. Sometimes I even get to sleep in it,” Hob answers, and there’s a crunch, chewing and Dream looks over to see Hob biting into an apple, taken from the fruit basket in the kitchen. 

“Can I see it one day?” He wonders, sitting down on the black velvet sofa as Hob leans against the other side of the sofa, taking another bite of his apple. 

Hob blinks, tilting his head as he thinks, “I don’t see why not.” Hob moves away, opening the fridge as he eats more of his fruit. “Very small place for you, I’d think.” 

“Well, it’s mine, and I get to come to it whenever I please, so the size of it doesn’t matter,” he points out proudly, getting up to look at one of the two rooms ― this one turned into a miniature of his art room, supplies and more blank canvases. 

“Really?” Hob says dryly and Dream goes to his other room ― black sheets on a four-poster bed. And his paintings of Hob on the walls. 

“My apartment,” he says, smothering a smile as Hob raises an eyebrow, brown eyes narrow as they look at him. “You don’t agree with my tastes?” 

Hob gives him a withered look, scratching his head, “I’m just not interested in staring at art of me while I fuck you.” 

Dream huffs, face feeling hot with how candidly Hob speaks of it, “well, maybe it wouldn’t be you doing the fucking,” he points out petulantly, the words meaningless as Hob crosses his arms, gaze turned scrutinizing. “Especially not after what you did to my bed.” 

“I can make it two-for-two if you want,” Hob whispers, and his pulse jumps as Hob’s hand digs into his jaw. 

“Those sheets are very expensive,” he says with a frown, walking backwards as Hob presses into him, pushing him towards the wooden column of the bed. “They’re silk. No knives,” he orders, head arching up by Hob’s hand.

“No knives, then,” Hob says into his ear, stubble scraping against his throat, the hot line of Hob’s body against his as he holds onto the other’s hips. “Dream,” Hob whispers ― and there’s a pressure on his throat, Hob’s hand cutting off his air and he wheezes, a hand coming up to grab Hob’s wrist as the pressure increases― 

Until it doesn’t, and he chokes for breath as a knee presses into his groin, into his slowly hardening cock. Dream shivers, whining as Hob nips at his neck, sensitive.

“Let’s hear how well you scream in this new place of yours.”

-

“Which colour?” He asks Delirium as she looks over the palette of neon shades, make-up brush in hand as he does her eyes. 

“This one!” She points to a neon green and Dream nods, his sister closing her eyes as he applies the eyeshadow to one eyelid, the other already having a matte orange on it. “I like your scarf. Could use more sequins and glitter though.” 

Dream sighs and adjusts his scarf, hiding the ― well, handprints. Hob does enjoy ravaging his neck, which of course he doesn’t mind, but it’s not something he’d like to show his sister. He’s already heard enough from Desire, and then they complained that they’re going to an orgy sometime because of jealousy or something. “It’s alright. All done,” he says and Delirium’s eyes open, mismatched blue and green staring at him. 

Delirium looks at herself in the mirror, “mother does it better,” and Dream grimaces. She was told what happened, but sometimes she just ― doesn’t remember. “Can we play with the fishies now?” 

“Anything you want,” he says, suppressing a wince as Delirium grabs his wrist, pulling them over to the huge aquarium in her quarters. Delirium pokes the glass, some of her brightly-coloured fish swarming close as she smiles. 

-

Their dinner, usually very punctual, is five minutes late. It’s nothing to worry about, but with the sudden influx of a few guard’s leaving, gets everyone’s attention. At least until Desire goes back to their phone, and Death to hers. 

The minutes pass in silence ― and then Hob walks into the room, which Dream, of course, immediately pays attention to as their dinner finally arrives. The chef looks shaken up as she announces it, but Dream doesn’t pay it any mind as Hob stands behind his chair, fingers digging into the back of it. 

With the chef’s announcement done, Hob speaks up before they dig into their food ― except for Desire, “there was another poisoning attempt,” Hob says and Dream freezes, along with the rest of his siblings as they look at each other. And then to Desire. 

Desire swallows their bite, scowling, “it wasn’t me! If I wanted to do that, then it’d be Dream’s food only,” they say, batting their lashes. 

Hob sighs, arms going to rest across the back of his chair, fingers caressing the back of his head and Dream scowls before taking a bite of his food. “They’re right, in this case. It was an attempt on all of you, and we do have someone to talk to.” 

Despair, sitting next to her twin, blinks and raises her hand, the other one twirling her food absent-mindedly with a fork. “Can I help?” 

Dream looks up, Hob’s surprise a momentary thing across his face, “sure. We can keep them stewing until you’re done.” 

Despair smiles.

-

A week later and Dream has finished a very tiring meeting, finally getting to relax as he sits on the big chair in his art room. Picking up his artbook and a pencil, he sketches mindlessly, ending up with Delirium’s curly hair and bright smile.

“Your sister is brilliant,” a voice says and Dream blinks, confused to see Hob smiling widely at the door. 

“She is?” He asks, confused as Hob stalks closer, bringing him into a deep kiss, sketchbook wedged between them. 

“Despair. She works so beautifully, even Cori probably wants lessons,” Hob purrs, fingers gripping his hair and Dream squirms as Hob sits on top of him, cock filling up from the weight, even as his mind skips over the other’s words. 

“Can we not talk about my sister like this?” Dream asks, affronted and Hob laughs, eyes dark as his sketchbook is thrown onto the floor. Nimble fingers start unbuttoning Dream’s shirt, nails scratching down his chest and he shivers.

“Fine, but you should be very proud of her,” Hob whispers, pointer finger pressing into the dark hair above his pants. Dream swallows a sound as the finger tugs the edge of his pants. 

“Of course,” he chokes out, mind swimming with the way Hob is only ― watching him breathe and twist, a solid weight on his thighs. “How long do you plan to stare?” He asks, voice low and rough as he pokes Hob’s side, who doesn’t react. 

“Until I’ve decided,” Hob answers, eyes zeroing in on his chest as Hob’s other hand comes up, fingers tugging a nipple and Dream chokes on his breath, blood rushing quickly down south. “Or maybe until you’ve had enough,” Hob says with a tilt of his head, a nail digging into his other nipple and Dream cries out.

“Hob,” he whines, panting as his head lolls onto the chair, and Hob hums ― and there’s a brush, pressure against his crotch, and he takes a deep breath, pleasure coiling at the feel of Hob’s arse pressed against him, and Dream grabs onto Hob’s hips in desperation, mind swimming. 

“You haven’t nearly enough yet,” Hob scolds lightly, the hand near his crotch swiftly undoing them―and then making their way up his stomach, nails scratching up as Hob leans down to bite his neck, another new sensation to add and Dream moans. 

“So you’re going to torture me?” He wheezes, unsure of how he got the words out between all the pulling and tugging.

“I’m sure you’ll like it,” Hob whispers, licking up his adam’s apple. Dream shivers, fear and pleasure twisting as a hand makes it’s way back down to his crotch―then goes back up, nails digging into hips as he tries to―keep a presence of mind under the onslaught of sensations. 

“Hob,” he pleads, brain sinking into the feelings, into the over-stimulation as Hob abuses his already red nipples, as the other hand doesn’t go near his cock, the familiar scratch of the other’s beard against his neck, the stinging of fresh marks put over old ones. 

“You haven’t even started screaming yet,” Hob whispers into his clavicle. Shuddering, Dream holds on tighter as Hob continues―

-

Out of all the things he wasn’t expecting, opening the door to Hob’s apartment was ― art, on the walls, as well as what looks like manuscripts and scrolls. They look like they should be in a museum, the mediaeval art in golden frames, the manuscripts and scrolls in sealed glass cases. “These are,” he frowns, staring at a scroll full of Old English in bafflement. 

“Just some things I’ve picked up,” Hob says as Dream looks around, a bookshelf filled with various texts about history or lock-picking, fiction and non-fiction as Hob sits on his red sofa. “I do actually have hobbies outside of my work.” 

“Do you have the Dead Sea Scrolls around here, too?” He asks dryly, walking down a hallway and seeing more scrolls and manuscripts on the walls on the way to Hob’s bedroom. 

“I think I have a replica in another storage vault, actually,” Hob says from the doorway as Dream takes in Hob’s room, quite plain compared to the rest of the apartment. Aside from the bed and another bookcase, there’s a stainless-steel box, brushed silver at the end of Hob’s bed, and Dream reaches forward―until a hand on his wrist stops him. “I wouldn’t do that,” Hob breathes into his ear and Dream swallows. 

“Would it kill me?” He asks as his hand gets pulled closer to him, and Hob sighs. 

“It’d kill both of us,” Hob points out, reaching forward to put a thumb on the box ― which opens up, revealing a variety of weapons, neatly ordered and sectioned. Knives, blades, wires and ropes, vials and syringes, handguns and what looks like larger guns, broken down into their component parts to fit inside the box. Hob closes the box, which clicks shut and Dream leans away from it as Hob sits on his bed. 

Opening the built-in wardrobe, he’s unsurprised to see the suits Hob wears for his job, a variety of harnesses. And, well, Dream blinks at the burst of colour next to the suits, looking at a yellow jumper as he tries to imagine Hob in it, or any of the other colourful clothes next to it. “I thought you just had,” he doesn’t complete the sentence, embarrassed to finish it. What, that he only wore suits exclusively, which he realises is absurd.

“My normal style isn’t black, unlike you,” Hob says, then sighs. “Not that I get much chance to actually wear normal clothes. Well, there’s always undercover work.” 

Dream nods, brain trying to wrap what he knows of Hob as he touches a bright blue shirt. And how much he doesn’t know. “Why all the history?” He asks as he sits next to Hob, the quilt a simple and colourful patchwork, another incongruous thing that makes up Hob. 

“It’s interesting, learning how people were before today. Maybe in another life I’d be a boring history teacher.” 

Scoffing, Dream lightly kisses Hob, then another as he sits on top of the other man, “even if you were, you’d never be boring,” Dream sighs, melting on top of the other’s body, Hob’s arms winding around his waist as they continue to kiss.

“If you say so,” Hob whispers into his mouth.

-

If there’s one thing Dream is grateful for, is that none of his subsequent kidnappings followed the formula Burgess’s did. Desire had rusty old chains and a damp, ancient room. And this time, his wrists are bound in chains, up above his head, tied around the steel beams of the small warehouse he’s in, surrounded by those who kidnapped him. 

He doesn’t appreciate the ache in his shoulder blades though, from being strung up like this. The many people around, seeing him like this, also doesn’t help. 

In between irritation that a certain “bodyguard” hasn’t razed through the place yet, is Dream wondering if the people coming after him are because he’s a middle child. Perhaps the logic isn’t sound, with the aching pain of his shoulders and biceps and lack of anything substantial since yesterday, but― 

There’s a commotion, the people around him getting out their guns as the two near the door collapse onto the floor. And then more, groups of two, out of nowhere and Dream’s heart jumps, looking around for something familiar. 

And eventually finding it on the steel beams on the middle level of the warehouse. Smiling, he watches as Hob takes out more of the people, and there’s a gunshot, the other people finding Hob on the beams. Hob scowls and puts away whatever knives he was using, then swings down from the beam, onto a man’s face, a deep cracking sound making Dream flinch as the man’s head hits the pavement, crushed under Hob’s feet. 

Hob leans down, taking the man’s handgun and shooting the two people closest, too fast for them to react and Dream watches, enraptured and blood rushing south as Hob uses up the gun ― then gets out one of his switchblades from his jacket. 

Even as Hob swiftly cuts down people, the only spot of blood Dream can see is on the sole of a pointed shoe as Hob makes his way closer, the veritable army of people in the small warehouse down to ― three. Two. And one, which is right next to him as Hob sticks the blade into the man’s eye, and there’s a piercing scream as it’s dragged down his face, his throat― and he stops, flopping to the floor as the blade leaves him. 

Hob is ― standing there, taking out a black piece of fabric to clean his blade, a down turn to his lips and a particular darkness still in his eyes, that makes Dream’s insides twist with heat. “Hob? Aren’t you going to free me?” He asks, chains rattling as he tries to drift closer. The other man raises an eyebrow and turns away, walking towards the other end of the warehouse to retrieve his other weapons. “Hob?” 

The only sounds are the fleshy sounds of knives being taken out, the tap of Hob’s shoes, the chains keeping him there as his heartrate spikes. 

“Hob. Free me,” he orders roughly, and tries not to let his growing terror show as Hob comes up to him, an eyebrow raised. 

“Why? You paid for this, after all,” Hob says flatly. 

Fuck. Fuck. “I don’t know what you mean,” he croaks, tensing as Hob leans into him, eyes dark as fingers ― spotless of blood, even with all the gore and carnage around them ― tug open the first of his dress shirt’s button. “Hob,” he pleads, voice cracking as Hob steps away, hearing as Hob ― steps behind him, and even if it wasn’t the shoes, it’s his shirt being pulled out of his pants ― and the cold, flat feeling on the end of his spine. 

“The way it was only me who found out, the money which I eventually traced to one of your shell companies,” Hob says, and Dream shivers at the breath on his ear, “if you didn’t want me to know, you’d have to try much harder than that. So. Why?” 

“I―I don’t,” the knife taps against the vertebrae and Dream gulps, mind trying to get a hold of the familiar terror and arousal mixture. “I,” he tries again, sighing as the blade stops, on the vertebrae above. “I wanted to see you work,” he offers quietly. 

There’s a huff, and Dream can almost see the way Hob smirks, and Dream lets out a whimper as an arm goes around his hips, the clink of chains ― and the cold blade, still against his spine as a nose presses into his ear and hair. “And did you have fun?” Hob asks gleefully, fingers digging into his hips, “was I a good spectacle for you?” Hob’s voice is sharper and Dream shudders as the flat edge of the knife continues up his spine. 

“Y―yes?” He answers, dick throbbing even with fear running through his veins, mind pulling up if that knife just slipped―”I, Hob, I’m―” Hob’s arm pulls him closer to the blade and he grips onto the chains, pulling himself away from it. “I won’t do it aga―”

There’s a bark of laughter right next to his ear and he represses a flinch, and he shivers as warm hands unbutton his pants, “I don’t care if you do it again. I just have a few notes,” Hob says, voice slipping into a faux cheerful tone as the hand near his pants circles back around ― and the flat of the knife presses into his spine until he twitches away. 

“Notes?” He wheezes, squeezing his eyes  at the sudden cold at his hole, two split-slicked fingers entering him roughly and he whines, head arching back onto Hob’s at the pain. 

“Now, I do like the way you’re tied up here,” Hob offers, tone now conversational and not like two callused fingers are painfully stretching him, “but for some variety, I think maybe you should let one of them plug you up. Or you do it yourself somehow,” Hob hums and Dream cries out as fingers brush his prostate, the pain burning. 

“I―ah―back pocket,” he chokes out ― and he sighs in relief, going lax in the chains as the fingers leave, no doubt finding the packet of lube in there. 

“But really,” Hob continues, and the knife moves, the blade and handle pressed flat against his back as lubed fingers enter him once more, “if you keep wanting to get yourself kidnapped, I’m thinking of a video for ransom next time, of one of them forcing you to lube yourself up for me.” 

Dream gulps, dick twitching and he tries to say something, but another press against those nerves makes the words fall out of his head.

“And it’d give me extra incentive to do this again,” there’s a sigh and Dream writhes, pleasure overtaking pain and terror as Hob puts another finger inside, “and of course, I’d kill the one who watched you first,” Hob nuzzles his ear, stubble scraping along it as the knife vanishes from his back. “And really? Only twenty people?” 

Gasping, Dream can only manage vague moans and whimpers, choking on air as his pants are pulled down to his thighs. 

“Only twenty,” Hob punctuates the number with a twist of fingers and Dream wails, cries echoing throughout the warehouse, “you insult me.” 

“Please,” he pleads, voice broken and breathy, twitching in the chains, and he whimpers as another hand grabs his throat, near his jaw and ears, “please.” 

“I don’t know if I want to free you yet,” Hob whispers, nails pressing into his throat and he whines, his shoulders twitching from the pain of being held up, and another finger enters him ― four, at his hazy count. “After all, you paid to be like this, and I should get my money’s worth.” 

Dream wails, cock twitching as his orgasm rushes up to him ― and is stopped by Hob’s hand, the stopping of it, and the feel of Hob’s hand making his body flare with toomuchtoomuchnotenoughmorenomoreplease. 

“Fifty thousand, you paid for this,” Hob says into his ear, and Dream can only twitch as another finger goes into his hole, and he whimpers as five fingers stretch him, relentlessly pushing the nerves into blaring pleasure-pain. “What do you think that was? Ten thousand? Maybe less?” 

“Hob,” he begs, the only word he can manage.

“I don’t know. Getting fucked may cost you extra,” Hob says, and he can feel teeth against the shell of his ear as Hob tugs him closer, and he sobs, eyes wet at the feeling of a hard cock brushing his arse. 

“Please, anything, yes,” Dream slurs, chains rattling as he tries to get closer to Hob’s cock, even with it being clothed, and even with the many fingers still inside him. There’s a squelch and Dream whines, fingers leaving him empty ― and Hob moans, a hot length entering him and lighting Dream up inside with pleasure. 

Dream can only sway in place, an arm going around his waist as the other pulls his head up, throat straight and aching as Hob nips at neck, and Dream twitches, sinking into the way Hob breathes against him, the other’s cock fucking in and out of him brutally, even with the way it slipped into his loose hole. 

He shivers, another orgasm making it’s way through his body ― until Hob stops it, and Dream keens. “HobpleaseIpleaseletme,” he babbles, the words just a stream of consciousness, brain only pleasure, the way he’s being used. 

Hob groans, biting his ear as Dream continues to plea, then there’s a bite to his ear as Hob comes, leaking out of him. Dream whines, cock still hard and twitching, neglected as― he crumples to the floor, chain cut off as it pools to the floor. “A week, I think,” Hob says, his pointed shoes showing up in Dream’s periphery. There’s a tug on the chains still around his wrists as Hob pulls him up, feet pushing his legs apart. 

Dream groans, mind blank as Hob tugs down his pants more, and there’s a wet feeling on the edge of them―blood, from the corpse near him. 

Hob hums, and there’s a hand on his jaw, pulling it up as he stares into Hob’s eyes, “you’re pretty deep in there. Just look at me,” Dream leans into the hand, brain fuzzy as there’s a sudden sting on his inner thigh, like a cut and he furrows his brows, looking down to see Hob’s hand, a blade―and the cut, the knife so close to his cock. “Time for us to go,” Hob says, pulling him up with the chains, other hand doing up his pants. 

―

“Deep in where?” He asks, voice slurred as he comes back to himself, finding himself in his room. And what feels like a bandage around his thighs, shoulders and wrists aching a lot less then he thought they would as he groans, face full of Hob’s chest hair. 

“Subspace,” Hob replies, stroking his hair and Dream sighs, feeling the quilt on top of them. “A firm hand and you go right under.”

Dream blinks, twitching his hands as he realises they’re still there, as he pats Hob’s chest and remembers his last partner, how they’d take him to that space every time, leaving him afterwards, and how horrible he’d usually feel the days after. “Huh.” Mind still coming back in pieces, helped along by the warmth of Hob, the hand patting his hair, “when did we get back?” 

“A while ago. Just relax, I’m only done with you for today.” Dream whines, nose pressing into dark hair as he moves up to bite at Hob’s collarbone, making Hob chuckle. “No more,” Hob says, voice soft as fingers continue to twirl through his hair, as he feels Hob’s other hand caresses his spine. 

“But I’m still,” he frowns, voice muffled as he tries to place it, the burning desire in his veins muted, but still there. 

“Tomorrow,” Hob says with a sigh. Dream groans and licks more of Hob’s collarbone, trying to elicit a response ― which he doesn’t get.

-

“You’re not even listening to me,” Desire says ― whines, and Dream blinks, trying to get some thoughts together, away from hot skin and―”Dream!” 

“Yes?” He asks, still not looking at his sibling as he adjusts the shirt collar around his neck, fingers brushing against the harsh red marks on his throat. He vaguely remembers a meeting, which seems to have ended and left only them.

“You’re more spacey than usual,” Desire says, and he becomes more present as there’s a poke against his side, then more until he scowls, chair scraping as he moves away from Desire’s pokes. “What’s that master of yours been doing to you?” 

“Nothing,” he mumbles, face feeling hotter as Desire raises a skeptical eyebrow. ���Aren’t you meant to be with Despair?” 

His sibling pouts, resting their face on their hands, “she’s having fun with all that down in the skeevy bits in the basement. Last time I went there was all blood and bone,” Desire says and Dream scrunches his nose at the picture Desire paints. “I’m happy for her, but I just can’t. I prefer keeping my hands clean, you know. At least, of blood and gore.” 

“Naturally,” he says dryly and Desire hmph’s, leaving him a shove and Dream can only watch blankly as Desire gets out their phone, touchscreen keys clacking. 

It’s been three days, and Hob has decided to drive Dream insane. A week, he blearily heard Hob say before he passed out. It’s the fourth day and Dream wonders how he’ll survive, getting out intact.

The first day, Hob smiling, stubble scraping his stomach as he goes down, hot mouth swallowing him fully, orgasm being sucked out of him―he wishes. 

Second day, Dream begging and pleading as Hob fingers him for hours, other hand around his cock, stopping him from coming as he gets increasingly more desperate and incoherent, with Hob only smiling and laughing, biting at his shoulder and neck― 

And yesterday, kevlar rope around his neck as Hob takes out the butt plug he put in the day before, the lack of air and Hob fucking him roughly, and the complete lack of― 

A hand, callused and familiar, touches his neck, thumb grazing across the sensitive marks and Dream heaves, brain sparking and collapsing with the touch as he curls into it, grabbing onto Hob’s wrist as his skin tingles. “Hob,” he breathes, cock hard and leaking ― constantly, but even more with Hob’s touch.

Hob’s hand trails down to his collar, taking him out of the chair and Dream follows almost blindly, seeing the black of Hob’s suit and the brightness of his eyes as Hob leads him ― wherever. 

“Please,” he croaks, uncaring of anything else as he’s taken into a small room, bright with windows, and he can only obey as Hob pushes him to the floor. 

“Soon,” Hob teases, smiling down at him and Dream whines at the rough tug to his hair, lighting his brain up with pleasure-pain as a leg, a pointed leather shoe gets put between his legs, and Dream cries out as the shoe presses into his arousal. 

“Not soon enough,” he breathes, body collapsing onto Hob’s leg, fingers clutching desperately at the other’s thigh, hiding his face near the other’s crotch as Hob huffs, leaning against the wall.

“Oh Dream,” Hob coos, the hand in his hair going down to his jaw, and he can only whine as a thumb touches his bottom lip, his body moving onto Hob’s shoe, his ankle without his input, brain flaring with constant pleasure ― and the way he knows it’ll end today. 

“Please,” his voice cracks and Hob shushes him, tugging him up by the jaw and he shivers at the change of angle, the point of a leather shoe pressing into his cock. He’s only nerves and bundled pleasure, bordering on pain as he grinds into the other’s shoe― 

And can only gasp as once again, his orgasm is ripped away as Hob tugs him up by his neck, nails digging into the rope marks. “Not yet,” Hob whispers, eyes dark yet sparkling and Dream shivers, unable to stop the strung-out whine as Hob kisses him lightly. 

-

The other days go by in a haze, and Dream’s just lucky there’s no intensive meetings as he tries to focus on ― anything but Hob, just the thought of him enough to heat his blood. He does manage to do some abstract paintings, full of red and black, hazy and tense like he feels. 

The day after, the weight of Hob on top of him, his fingers making Hob moan as they brush against the other’s prostate, strong hands eventually guiding his cock into Hob. Having a simple black cock ring put onto him after Hob’s come, who leaves him with a peck to the cheek. 

And the next day, waking up with Hob in his bed ― who wasn’t there that night, as he gasps awake at warmth and wet around his cock, and for all he knows, hours of lapping at his cock and balls, still unable to come due to the cock ring, but red and leaking in Hob’s mouth, bringing Dream to an edge of insanity he wasn’t aware of as he screamed and pleaded― 

Then, of course, Hob leaving. He didn’t get out of bed that day, only aware of the passage of time with Hob coming back with meals and drinks as he did rough scribbles in his sketchbook, or read a book. 

He only notices the paintbrush he’s holding is shaking with the way it splatters against the canvas, and he takes a deep breath, putting it down, stomach twisted in anticipation for whatever torture’s in store. His face and neck feel hot and Dream briefly considers putting his head through the canvas, the still wet paint would be cool, right? 

Grimacing, he rubs his throat, feeling the warm skin under his hand before he gets his phone out, finding it almost midnight, and Dream has a brief worry that Hob’s hurt somewhere―

―More likely wanting to drive you insane, he reminds himself, the thought calming the spike of worry as he groans. Staring at the canvas blankly, he gets up, chair scraping as he walks out of the room, wound-up tight as he makes his way back to his room, avoiding the other guards, and a brief glimpse of Death in a room, phone to her ear. 

Taking his shoes off, he settles on his bed, brain caught up in hot skin and dark eyes as he drags his hand down his chest, shutting his eyes as he gets out his dick, aching and red, leaking in his hand as he starts to slowly stroke it. Groaning at the cock ring still around the base, he takes it off with a sigh, whining as he continues to lazily rub his dick, pre-come making it smoother as it gets smeared with his fingers, arching into the sensation. 

Huffing, he pushes his pants off as he strokes, his own fingers nice ― but lacking, the pleasant feeling of an incoming orgasm seeming to move further away, even with his hard and aching his cock is. Biting his lip, he thinks of the metal tang and musk of Hob, of rough hands as he drags himself to an orgasm, the only sound in his room, his breathing and the slick slide of his hand as he gasps, thinking of scratchy stubble along his throat.

He whines, orgasm still out of reach, insides twisting at how much Hob has power over him, even when he’s not there, as he strokes himself roughly, the precipice of it still unattainable. 

“Please,” he whispers, moaning as he tries to get over that edge, but nothing seems to reach as he cries out, arching into his hand in frustration― 

And his knees hit something solid. Opening his eyes, he’s shocked at Hob sitting on the edge of the bed, his knees against Hob’s hip.

“Hob,” he croaks, straightening himself on the bed, hand leaving his cock under the other’s dark stare. “Please,” he asks, frozen as Hob continues to look, eyes dark as they trail up his bare legs, to the plain black shirt on his chest, the gaze almost tangible as it makes him shiver. 

A hand, Hob’s hand, moves onto his thigh and he lets out a whine, cock leaking at the simple touch. “I was enjoying the show,” Hob whispers, fingers dancing up his inner thigh and Dream traps the hand between his thighs. 

“I can’t,” he breathes, twitching as fingers brush against his cock, feeling out of his mind with desperation and renewed pleasure, even with Hob only having on his thighs. 

Hob smiles and takes his hand away, and Dream swallows down a groan and a pout as the hand is put next to his leg, making Hob loom over him. “Of course you can,” Hob says, other hand gripping one of Dream’s, intertwining their fingers as it’s guided to his cock, making him keen as the combined touch strokes him. 

Then Hob pulls his hand away and he cries out, the surging frustration making his eyes water, “can’t,” he breathes, unable to even feel embarrassed, only absurdly twisted up with frustration and pleasure. “Need you.” 

“I’m sure you’ll manage,” a hand grabs his wrist, the other’s eyes black and depthless as they stare, as his hand is guided past his balls, and he twitches and whines as a finger, sticky with pre-come, is put inside himself. Hob lets out a breath, gaze hungry as Dream twists the finger inside, eventually adding another one as his stomach flutters, orgasm feeling more in sight with Hob watching. 

His hole, still loose from the week, accepts his fingers easily enough that he adds a third in, and he gasps, throwing his head back as they brush across his prostate. Keening, he chases the impending orgasm, adding a fourth finger as he can feel Hob lean closer, breath on his thigh ― and a hand on his hip, digging into it, another spark of sensation. 

“Beautiful,” Hob breathes, voice even lower and Dream moans, crying out as he fingers himself, mind sliding away as a particular press on that spot inside makes him see stars, orgasm crashing into him ― and, after a moment of the weightlessness, he looks down to see Hob’s face covered in it, in his beard and hair and Dream’s spent cock twitches, come leaking out at the view. Hob only blinks and uses his free hand to wipe some of it from his forehead, sucking his fingers clean. 

-

“People always forget that I do remember what they say,” Delirium says, putting a mahjong tile in the center of their game, and Dream blinks. When he came into Delirium’s room with her table impeccably set up with rows of mahjong tiles, he knew she was in one of her better days.

“Like what?” He asks, taking his turn as he looks over his two rows of tiles, eventually putting it on the one inside. 

“Like that you all plotted our parent’s death,” Delirium chirps with a smile, and Dream freezes, eyes going wide. “None of you told me,” her voice isn’t angry, but Dream winces anyway, guilt twisting. 

“I… we didn’t worry you. And. Well,” he stops, picking up a tile for his turn and fiddling with it as he discards another, putting it in the center. Maybe you would’ve objected, he doesn’t say. 

“I wouldn’t have. They were going to take me away,” she says with a frown and Dream’s guilt eases, just a little. The door opens and Delirium smiles. Dream, facing away from it, turns around, blinking to see Hob coming over. 

And then he feels only a little bit of offence at the way Hob goes to Delirium, putting a hand in front of his mouth to whisper into her ear. “Still, I… apologise,” he offers, eyes narrowing as Delirium nods and smiles. Confused, he has no idea what to say as their game continues, Hob watching from his sister’s side, occasionally whispering something to her. 

“Mahjong!” Delirium says with a giggle, taking the rack of tiles closest to her to show them and Dream scowls at Hob’s pleased smile as the completed row lays flat. 

“You’re helping her,” he accuses, “and you,” he points to his sister, competitiveness burning within him, “still have one row to do before you win.” 

“I’m more giving her suggestions,” Hob says with a shrug and Dream continues to scowl, trying not to be swayed by Hob’s sparkling eyes. 

“This is the one you’re one with, yes?” Delirium says, eyes going over her remaining row of tiles and Dream nods, “I like him. Much nicer than the other guards.” 

Dream sniffs, “yes. He’s alright when he’s not helping you win,” he mutters and Hob’s eyebrows raise, leaning against the table. 

“So you don’t think she could win on her own, then?” Hob says with a grin and Dream goes back to scowling as Delirium blinks, leaning forward. 

“I didn’t say that, she’s great at playing it, but this seems a bit excessive,” Dream pouts, and he can only watch as Delirium and Hob laugh, trying not to join in with their infectious happiness as picks up a tile.

-

Dream stares at the blank canvas, still ― accusingly blank, even with the hour of working out what he wants to paint, an itch building under his skin to finally do it―

Except, the warm weight under him, an arm around his waist as Hob is on his phone, and his cock, spent and soft, keeping him full of the other’s come, and Dream finds it increasingly hard to concentrate, the white of the canvas mocking. 

Blinking, he stares at the brush in his hand, no paint on it at all, so he pokes Hob’s arm with it. “Hob,” he says, definitely not whining as he moves, jostling the cock inside. 

There’s a sigh against his bare shoulder, his shirt left on the floor somewhere as Hob marked up his neck, with Hob still in his suit and shoes, the feel of cotton against his back as Hob’s head rests on his shoulder. “Weren’t you going to paint?” He asks, eyebrows raising at the canvas. 

Huffing, Dream relaxes against the other’s chest, his own prick hard in his pants, which were hastily tugged down just for the important parts, “Hob,” he doesn’t whine, though it’s definitely in his tone, and he bites back a gasp at teeth biting into his shoulder, Hob’s other arm joining around his waist, tugging him closer. 

“Always so needy,” Hob whispers into his skin, and he cries out as Hob’s hand goes under his pants, roughly stroking his dick. Moaning, arching his back as fingers play with his slit and balls, pleasure building as he feels Hob’s cock start to harden, filling him up even more and he whines, reaching back to grab a hold of the other’s hair. “You didn’t even start.” 

A sound gets torn out of him as Hob pulls him flush, hard cock pressing against his prostate and whatever he planned to say disappears as he holds on, mind crashing at the teeth and tongue on his throat, the hand on his cock.

Having Hob’s cock in him, even soft, helps his orgasm come much quicker, and there’s a huff in his ear as he comes, fingers on his cock pressing the cockhead and he shivers, panting as his cock dribbles even more. 

“I do have an idea,” he gets out, head still scrambled by coming ― and still feeling the hard cock, not moving, but still in him, “but I kept being distracted.” 

There’s a nibble to his ear as he pants, loose-limbed as Hob licks up his neck, stubble scratching against it, “and you had all this talk about being able to handle this,” the teasing tone makes him shudder, Hob deciding to keep his cock pressing against his prostate ― and Hob, pulling out his semen-stained hand to take one of his, intertwining it and putting it against his stomach, where he can almost feel it. “Don’t worry, I’ll give you more time.”

-

Dream stares at the cafe around him and feels ― incongruous, even with a plain black turtleneck and black jeans with boots, as he watches ordinary people go about their day. And he’s nervous, waiting for Hob to appear. 

Mainly because from a certain point of view, with him asking for Hob to arrive in his normal clothes, like it could be a date. 

That he wants it to be a date, which seems absurd but also wonderful, nerves a ball in his stomach as he looks at what’s on offer. Hob chose the location.

The cafe is warm, wood and plants hanging from pots, and Dream gives a side-eye to the clear case showing a variety of desserts, and he thinks about which of them he should try once Hob actually― 

A familiar sound, Hob’s voice, makes his head whip up, and he takes a deep breath at seeing Hob near the door. Chatting with someone, smiling brightly as he describes something, hands gesturing. As Hob points his way, the apologetic smile is broadcasted easily as Hob makes his way through, ending up talking to someone else a table away.

Dream blinks, brain almost not registering the blue dress shirt and green cargo pants that Hob’s wearing over the way that he apparently knows the people here. His regular cafe? Dream thinks.

A knock against his boot shocks him out of his thoughts, Hob done with catching up with people and sitting across from him, their feet touching under the table. “Hello,” he breathes, brain lagging as Hob smiles, leaning in to kiss him, softly―but leaving with a bite against his bottom lip.

“Not what you expected?” Hob asks, eyebrows raising.

“I―I don’t know what I was expecting,” he chokes out, coughing afterwards as Hob laughs. Feeling his face heat, he ignores it, “what would you recommend here, then?”

Hob tilts his head, a head reaching out to hook a pointer finger underneath the edge of his sleeve, “I’ll get something for you,” Hob says, leaning in to give him another kiss. “Stay here.”

As Hob gets up to join the queue for ordering, Dream sees a pair of ratty sneakers, white and green and old, and Dream tries to wrap his head around it. At the way Hob is just so ordinary, would look past him if he hadn’t seen him take down buildings of people single-handed. 

Dream wonders how Hob has probably hidden knives under his normal clothes, how he smiles so easily as he strikes up a conversation with the person in front of him in the queue. Soon enough, Hob joins him back at the table, grinning brightly as he puts down two plates. “Coffee’s on the way,” Hob says as he digs into his own dessert, a slice of red velvet cake. 

“Thank you,” he replies automatically, staring at the slice of key lime pie in front of him, eventually taking a bite and humming at the sweet-tart of it. “Not what I expected either. Isn’t there anything English on the menu?” 

Hob chuckles, “there are. But all their things are also sourced locally, if your English sensibilities are feeling hurt,” the other man says, raising an eyebrow in challenge and Dream scowls. 

“Don’t you consider yourself English?” He frowns, and Hob laughs even harder. “What?” 

“I’ve done too many things for this country to ever consider myself patriotic about it. I live here, I’m British, but,” he shrugs, “now I look after a mafia family who are quite up themselves sometimes,” Hob mutters, twirling a forkful of red velvet before eating it. 

Dream scowls, unsure what to say in reply that wouldn’t cause a scene, or that wouldn’t cause Hob to leave or something worse, which means he just screams inwardly for a few moments. “Fine,” he says through gritted teeth. Hob smirks around his fork. 

Thankfully, their coffee arrives soon after and his knee jerk feelings vanish with a sip of his caramel latte. Hob, to his surprise, also has a latte, which is chocolate ― and Hob lets him try. 

Hob leans forward, legs hooking around one of his shins as he finishes off his cake. “Something’s off,” Hob says casually. 

“Off?” He frowns, looking down at the key lime ― or himself.

“No. Something else,” Hob tilts his head, brown eyes looking past him, “we’re being watched.” Dream turns his head―or tries to, considering the hand on his cheek, stopping from doing that. “Not there. And don’t look. You’d be a horrible spy.” 

Dream scowls, “well, by who then?” 

Hob scowls and there’s a scraping, metal on porcelain as the hand on his face goes to his jaw, gently tugging it open to feed him a bite of his pie. “Don’t know. It’s more a feeling than anything else, but it’s kept me alive all this time.” 

“Wonderful,” he replies sarcastically after eating his bite, resisting the urge to pout as Hob tugs him into a kiss. That, at least, makes him feel less miserable at the apparent eyes on them. 

“Don’t worry, we can go to my place after,” Hob breathes, eyes darkening and Dream swallows, blood rushing at the heat in the other’s gaze. 

-

After, Hob seems to forget the news he shared as he talks about coffee, while Dream only half-listens, feeling unseen eyes on his back as he occasionally offers his own opinion, relentlessly tearing into a napkin due to nerves. Dream, for the tiniest bit, hates how casual and relaxed Hob is as they get up, Hob intertwining their hands as they walk out of the cafe, Hob pointing out other favourite stores as they walk the few blocks to Hob’s apartment block. “You’re very tense,” Hob remarks and Dream gives him a glare.

Hob sighs as they go up the stairs to his flat, Dream holding onto Hob’s hand tightly as Hob checks something at his door, then nods and opens it, Hob pulling him in and cornering him against the door, lock clicking under his back as they kiss. 

Nails dig into the tense muscles on the back of his neck and Dream resists the part of him that wants to sink into that space as Hob devours his mouth. “Relax, they haven’t gotten inside, and the windows are closed,” Hob breathes and Dream opens his eyes, body relaxing a fraction at the blinds blocking the windows, as he reaches up to pet the other’s beard. 

The hands on his neck move down to his shoulders, and his mind slips a little into that place at the thought of Hob pushing him onto the floor, arousal rushing through his body as a leg slips in between his. Hob briefly presses against his cock, then he whines as the kiss ends, following blindly as Hob tugs him away from the door. 

Dark eyes light him up as he manages to swoop in for another kiss as his hands go to the other’s thighs, and he lets out a relieved huff of breath at the familiar thigh holster underneath the horrible green cargo pants. Finally reaching Hob’s room, he whines as arms go under his arse, pulling him onto Hob’s lap as they kiss and rut against each other, clothes being thrown off as an afterthought. 

Dream shivers at the feeling of Hob’s hard cock pressing against him, desire building up, a base need with how much he wants Hob inside, whining desperately into the other’s mouth. “Need you,” he breathes, a hand in Hob’s chest hair, the other holding onto the thigh holster, gripping at warm skin and hair. 

“I have a better idea,” Hob answers, tugging his hand off his chest, “with those fidgety fingers of yours.” Hob’s eyes are dark and his cock twitches as his hand is guided between them. 

-

Dream wakes with a sour taste in his mouth, sinuses burning―which, Hob definitely did nothing to make that happen, considering he’s pretty sure Hob and he didn’t even talk the day before, and the fact that he’s not comfy in Hob’s bed tells him nothing good, and he definitely didn’t pay for this one. Opening blurry eyes, he’s in a familiar room, ornate fireplace crackling with fire, chandelier as ornate as always. 

Surrounded by armed people, with Lucifer Morningstar looming above him, made even taller with the way he’s cuffed to the chair, can feel the steel chafing against his wrists. “Lucifer.” 

“How nice of you to join us,” they sneer. “Your dog was quite the trouble to come quietly,” they nod to the left and Dream scowls, aching head turning to find Hob glaring at Lucifer, a slash across his temple, blood dripping down his face and jaw, teeth bared in a bloody snarl. And many people holding him down, along with cuffs and ropes, keeping him to the chair. Dream doubts that even all that would be able to keep him there if he didn’t want to be. “It was very rude.” 

“Is this because of how we ended things?” He asks bluntly, not in the mood for the games, “or did you forget the attempted murder?” 

At this, there’s a scuffle and shouting and more people move over to where Hob is ― trying to get to Lucifer, presumably. “Of course not,” they say smoothly, cheek twitching as they cross their arms. “I simply think that the Endless territory is simply too big, and needs a trim.” 

Dream blinks, tilting his head as he considers. Especially with the latest poisoning attempt, the people following them… “as you say,” he replies, shaking his bound wrists. “Why even handcuff me? You know I’m nothing compared to him,” he says, motioning to Hob, and Dream has a moment to marvel at the weirdness, seeing Hob bloody at all, dripping down onto the collar of his suit. 

“It does seem to be a preference for you these days,” Lucifer purrs, eyes flickering down his body and Dream sneers. “Fine. Your dog,” they spit the word, “is tied up more securely than you anyway, and we can talk about this civilly.” They motion and the cuffs are undone, and Dream sighs as he rubs his bruised wrists. 

Frowning, Dream pats his torso, then hides his surprise at how he can still feel his harness ― and the gun in it. And it’s not like they’ve managed to take any of Hob’s weapons off him, or Hob would’ve been stripped by now, with what he knows of how Morningstar works. Arrogant, he thinks as he rests his arms on his legs. “And what? Will the negotiating happen before killing me, I hope?” 

Lucifer gives a small smile, pleased, “it’s the easy way,” they raise a hand and the sound of many guns being cocked makes Dream twitch, even though he still feels confident―mainly because of Hob, “or the hard way.” 

Swallowing a sigh, he stands up, crossing his arms, putting one under his suit jacket to grab a hold of his weapon. “And if I don’t, let me guess,” he frowns, “you did like choking me,” he states. “One last time before I die?” 

“If you go about things the right way,” they say, honey-laced poison of their tone as they put a hand under his jaw, nails pressing into it as Dream freezes, gripping his gun tightly, “then you won’t die at all.” Dream chafes under the hold, the smug way Lucifer smiles ― which turns into a frown as he pushes the other’s arm away with his, flicking the safety off the gun as he aims it up at Lucifer’s head. The sound of Lucifer’s people aiming their guns is clear, even with the way they hold a regal hand up, keeping them from shooting. “How disappointing.” 

“If only I cared about your opinion,” he says, the muzzle of the gun pointed to the middle of Lucifer’s eyes. Lucifer heaves a sigh, hands held together at their waist. 

“You won’t shoot me, Dream, don’t be ridiculous,” they scold, like Dream’s a misbehaving kid, so sure of themselves, of their people. Much like Dream’s parents were. 

Dream lowers the gun and Lucifer smiles brighter, mouth opening―and he shoots Lucifer in the leg, making them kneel to the floor with a pained gasp, eyes wide in shock as the muzzle presses into their forehead. “Maybe I wouldn’t have, before,” he concedes.

“If you shoot me again,” they hiss, glaring up at him, hand on their leg, red spilling out from underneath it, “you’ll be dead before the bullet’s done killing me!” 

Dream cocks back the hammer, the tension choking as Lucifer glares daggers at him, can almost feel the guns trained on him. He tilts his head, hairs on the back of his neck standing up under the scrutiny, “you really should’ve kept those focused on my,” he pauses, frowning, “dog, as you put it.” 

Suddenly, there’s shouting and gunshots, and Dream keeps his eyes on Lucifer’s shocked, turning horrified expression as there’s more shots, and the people closest to the door crumple to the floor, the sound of people gurgling to death behind him. A callused, bloody hand covers his own, and he relaxes as the gun fires, Lucifer collapsing to the floor, bullet between their eyes. 

“You kept it,” Hob says, sounding awed as Hob pulls him closer by his hand, dark eyes focused on the weapon between them. 

“Of course. You gave it to me,” he smiles, looking around at the bodies around them, then at the cut on other’s forehead as he puts away his gun, flicking the safety off. “You’re―” his words become a moan as Hob kisses him, hands framing his face, thoughts vanishing under the possessive way Hob’s kissing, like Lucifer’s ghost can still see it as he whines, leaning into the other’s body. He pants, mouth tangy with Hob’s blood, “you’re hurt,” he breathes. 

[flwerr-ss]

Fantasies That Will Consume You Whole (drabble)

- TW!!! non//con, unhealthy mindset, escapism, implied imprisonment, implied abuse, implied baby trapping, NSFW

f!reader/character

it’s hard to speak when you feel words bubbling from the very pits of your throat trying to claw their way out. prying open your mouth to allow the sound out desperate pleas.

yet when the words finally push past your lips, their nothing but sinful sounds. whimpers that slip past your lips as you bite down until blood is drawn. moans that shaped perfectly into his name.

and all you could do was consume yourself into a sick fantasies of softness. as if pillows could consume those fantasies. ignore, the tight grip that digs into your skin. the sharp pain that tears into your skin, a crimson color shading his nails.

you pretend that it wasn’t grunts of his pleasure that left his lips and flowed into your ears. you bury yourself into the pillow, digging what is left of your now dull nails into the sheets. you just had to pretend that it was him singing melodies of sweet nothingness. the sound of “I love you” as prayers. yet only those could be a part of a distant past, one that you truly don’t know if it was simply a fictional story of your pain.

the feeling of your chest crushing your lungs, as your knees were pushed deeply to your chest, the blemishes of bruises would soon decorate your skin as if a black canvas. it’s the way he wants it, for you to only be touched by his hands. like a brush as soft as fur. yet it burns at your skin.

his touch only felt like prickles of needles. burning your flesh of his desire. the way his lips, were so cold that planted your skin. the open-mouth kisses that were sloppy, but that’s how he wanted it. messy and sloppy.

the sobs that left your mouth, as his teeth dug into your flesh, leaving whatever mark of his. it was so suffocating to breathe when it seemed like he was trying to consume you whole.

you closed your eyes, you dreamed of those fantasies where you could look at him with the feeling of your guts twisting and breaking. where you wouldn’t have a consent purple ring mark around your wrist from how tight the chain was, like a marriage ring that would forever bond you to him. as if you could ever escape, not with the way he looks at you. hungry eyes of a predator who would never allow his prey to leave.

Your eyes shot open when you felt the now sporadic movement. you looked at him pleading, your eyes filled with those glossy tears as another sob left your teared lips from both yours and his teeth.

you tried to push against him, but he only gripped your wrists. his grip leaving a deep imprint on your skin. a pained whine left your lips, it hurts, it hurt bad but he didn’t notice, or at least he pretended not to notice, and lived in a fantasy like you were you were actually in love with him, like that distance past.

he brought one of your wrists to his mouth kissing too softly, almost lovingly making you sick. yet even through all of this, he continued to rock his hips into yours, only this time they became more sporadic, and rough, it was too much, he was too much.

you felt like you could feel in your mouth. yet you couldn’t help the moans that left your lips, shaped beautifully in his name.

you felt his grin on your wrist as you let out a loud sound of pleasure if you could even call it that. you hated that every time he would grin or smile. you would think back to the time you loved him. where there were sweet nothings in your ear, where you wouldn’t forced into this position whenever he had a bad day. when talking to him didn’t feel like a dance on a tightrope. when just living didn’t feel like walking on eggshells.

your eyes rolled to the back of your head as his movement became rougher and more forceful, but he was always forceful. from his words to his actions, it was forceful, never soft, at least like how he was in those fantasies.

he leaned forward his breath hitting the shell of your ear, his breath was hot as if trying to melt your skin. a groan was heard followed by the sound of your name.

his grip tightened around your thighs, a dip imprint on your leg as he pushed even more into your chest your legs feeling crushed as he placed his body weight onto you.

then you heard it

“i love you…”

those words that you fantasized about, yet it was never soft. this wasn’t the love you dreamed about this was your reality..your prison.

the warmth of liquid filled you, you felt sick. you let out a sob as he cooed into your ear.

you wished that your fantasy would consume you whole

[asimpfor-2-dmen]

Claim Me, Keep Me

The orange-colored text is the characters' inner feelings/monologues during or after certain events. I took inspiration from YOU, where Joe Goldberg constantly narrates his feelings and observations in a similar way. But obviously Sanzu won't be so subtle and poetic 😜😜

************************************************************************

Content warnings: unhealthy/toxic attachments, toxic mindsets, power imbalances, predator/prey dynamics, pet names, cursing, smoking, mention of drugs, some canon divergence, workplace harassment, inappropriate thoughts (suggestive but not explicit)

************************************************************************

PART 11

You were supposed to be working. Supposed to be reviewing quarterly reports from one of the front-facing companies. Numbers. Names. Memos. A sea of clean black ink on a white digital canvas. The cursor blinked at you, waiting patiently on the screen. Unlike your brain—which had very much wandered off.

Your thoughts were tangled somewhere between the past and the present—drifting like dust motes through time, landing where they didn’t belong. Somewhere behind your eyes, you were still sitting cross-legged in the shade of the willow tree, watching a lanky, sharp-eyed boy sulk over his bento.

Twelve years ago, you used to split your sandwiches with a boy who never smiled unless he thought no one was looking. Haruchiyo, back then. Quiet. Sharp. Always looking like he was ready to either cry or kill someone. The cuts on his hands back then had been clumsy, angry things. His clothes never fit right. His smile had been broken even before his mouth was.

He never talked much. But when he did, he spoke like someone who didn’t expect to be heard.

You thought of those days far too often.

And now, here you were. Sitting just a few feet from him, but in a different world entirely. One that felt sleek, sharp, and far more dangerous than anything you were prepared for.

Your eyes slid across the room again, despite yourself.

Sanzu Haruchiyo. Haru-kun, as you once called him.

He didn’t look like a boy anymore.

He was leaning lazily in his chair, one leg stretched out, fingers scrolling through his tablet while the other hand held a smoldering cigarette between ink-stained fingers. Now he sat across the room in a tailored navy suit vest, the vest buttoned to the middle, and suit pants hugging his hips like a sin. His sleeves were rolled up, veins flexing with every tap of his fingers on that obsidian-black tablet. Your eyes traced the curve of his throat where his collar sat open—messy, careless, expensive. He was all edges now—scarred lips, a jawline like glass, and long fingers stained faintly with cigarette smoke and ink.

The pink of his hair had grown out into uneven layers, framing his face like he’d cut it himself in a frenzy and just decided to roll with it. It fell in messy waves, brushing against the sharp edges of his jaw, softening nothing. One side was tucked carelessly behind a pierced ear, the glint of silver catching the office lights like a promise and a threat.

And that scar. That savage, stitched smile carved into his face like some deity's cruel joke —

It should’ve repelled you.

But instead, it… anchored you. Like you couldn’t look away.

The man was a weapon dressed like wealth.

And you were staring.

Not just looking—but locked. Chin tilted, mouth slightly parted, eyes fixed as if trying to understand how the scrawny boy with bruised knuckles and broken smiles had become this.

So when his head lifted—slow and sharp—and those silver-gray eyes landed on yours—you couldn’t look away fast enough. It was too late.

A beat passed.

And then that smirk unfurled. 

The slow, lopsided kind that made the scar twist with menace and mockery all at once. Something smug curled at the corner of his mouth, deep and dangerous.

He stared at your face, and his eyes—gray and glinting—were predator-still. He didn’t blink. Didn’t look away. Just tilted his head slightly, watching you like a wolf watching a trembling hare.

“Like what ya see?”

Your entire body stiffened.

Your hands flew back to the keyboard with the speed of guilt. “I—I wasn’t—I mean, I was just—”

“Mmm.” He hummed, unconvinced. “You always were a bad liar.”

A smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth, like he’d already won something you hadn’t realized was a game.

“Were you staring at my hands?” he asked, casually. “My face? Or was it the vest? People usually get stuck on the vest.”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. Your ears were already burning.

And before you could scramble together another excuse, you heard the chair shift. The soft creak of leather. The unmistakable sound of approaching steps—measured and slow.

Your stomach dropped.

Sanzu stopped behind your chair, then leaned in without a word.

You could feel him. Heat radiating through your back. One hand came down to rest on the edge of your desk, the other on the back of your seat, brushing your shoulder—not enough to touch, just near enough to burn.

His mouth was at your ear now, breath teasing your skin.

“If you’re gonna look at me like that,” he whispered, “you could at least have the guts to keep looking when I catch you.”

You swallowed. Hard.

Then—God help you—you decided to open your big mouth.

“…M-Maybe if you didn’t look like that while you worked, it’d be easier to focus,” you muttered without thinking, voice barely above a whisper.

For a second, the silence stretched. Then—

A low laugh rumbled from his chest, dark and amused. You could feel it—like a vibration in your spine.

“Ohh? So now it’s my fault?” His voice dipped lower, each word coiling like velvet smoke. “That’s rich.”

He leaned closer, lips grazing the shell of your ear. Your breath hitched.

“I could take it off, you know. The vest. The shirt. Hell, the whole suit. Would that help you focus, princess?” 

You choked on nothing. Your whole body locked up like a system error.

“Just kidding,” he said, but his tone said otherwise.

Not kidding. Not even a little.

You turned your head, only to find his face much closer than expected—his expression unreadable, but his eyes blazing with something far more dangerous than teasing.

“You got questions?” he asked with a smirk.

Your lips parted, but no sound came. All you could do was dumbly stare at him.

“S’okay,” he muttered, leaning in so close your skin lit up like a wire. “You can look. Just know—I always notice when you do.”

And then—like he hadn’t just undone your spine with a handful of words—he pulled away, straightening, sauntering back to his desk like a man who knew he’d already won.

“Eyes on the screen, sweetheart,” he called over his shoulder. “Unless you want me to give you something better to focus on.”

Your hands shook as you returned to the keyboard.

The screen flickered.

And your heart—twelve years older, but none the wiser—still hadn't learned how to handle him.

And behind you?

Sanzu was still watching. Still thinking. Still planning.

Because now he knew something for certain.

You could pretend that you didn’t want him.

But your body would never lie to him again.

************************************************************************

Sanzu's Inner Thoughts

After he caught you staring

Ohh, sweetheart. You have no idea.

You think you’re the one staring? Watching me like I’m some puzzle you’re trying not to solve? Cute.

Because if you had any idea how many times I’ve looked at your mouth today alone—how many times I’ve imagined exactly what it would sound like gasping under me while that proper little skirt is bunched around your hips…

You wouldn’t be able to look me in the eye at all.

Every time you bite your lip? I think about biting it for you.

Every time you cross those legs like you’re trying to stay modest in this goddamn office—I think about dragging that chair back and seeing how fast I can ruin that composure.

You're trying so hard to be good. So proper. But you’re watching me like you want to sin. And fuck, I’d let you.

When he is behind your chair

God, you’re right in front of me.

I could have you if I so much as breathed wrong. You’re wound up so tight I can smell the tension on your skin.

And you’re still pretending this is just a job. Still playing that little role behind your desk like it means something. Sweetheart, I could have you on top of it before your screen even goes to sleep.

I bet you’d say no at first. All shy. But your hips wouldn’t lie. Your thighs would open like they already know who they belong to.

I’d be gentle at first. But only until you begged. And you would.

You always were so soft. And now you’re mine to press into, piece by fucking piece.

Final thoughts while walking away

You’ll think about this tonight. Bet on that.

You’ll lie in your bed, pretending it’s not me you’re imagining pressing you down.

But I know you. I’ve always known you. You’ll use that sweet little memory of my voice in your ear—and then walk in tomorrow pretending nothing happened.

And I’ll let you pretend.

For now.

************************************************************************

The day was over, yet your mind clearly hadn’t gotten the memo. You were now going down the elevator, but the ride down felt longer than usual.

You clutched your bag tight, heart still fluttering from whatever that was upstairs—those words in your ear, that goddamn smirk. You thought the silence of the night might cool the fire still simmering in your chest.

It didn’t.

The driver nodded as the car door opened, the familiar black vehicle like a shadow waiting to swallow you whole. You ducked in and exhaled slowly.

And then—another door clicked open.

And he got in, too.

You turned, startled. “Oh—Uhhh—What are you doing here?”

Sanzu didn’t look at you. Just slid in smoothly, one hand tugging the door shut, the other already pulling out his phone. “Relax,” he muttered, voice low and lazy. “Got places to be. And it’s on the way.”

You froze.

Still, you nodded like an idiot, heart racing under your blouse as the car pulled into the night. The city lights streaked past the tinted windows like static. You tried not to stare. You tried not to think about how close he was sitting.

But God. He wasn't making it easy.

You were trying to take up as little space as humanly possible. Knees drawn inward, ankles crossed, bag hugged to your chest. Your whole body curled up small. Contained. Like if you could just occupy less space, you’d feel less… exposed.

You hadn’t expected him to get in.

The car had always been yours alone—his order, his rule, his driver—but when Sanzu slipped into the backseat beside you tonight, something shifted. You didn’t even know if he told the truth, but you didn’t dare question him.

His thigh was inches from yours—legs spread wide like he owned the space, arm stretched across the backseat. And then it happened. His leg grazed your knee, slow and unbothered, like it wasn’t even worth noticing.

But you noticed. Hell, you nearly gasped when it happened. It was just for a moment. Just a graze. But it was enough to set your nerves on fire. You held still, heart hammering.

He didn’t speak. Didn’t move again. Just sat there like nothing happened. One leg still splayed open, hand still resting behind you.

You shifted your legs again. Your fingers tangled in your lap. Your breaths came shorter.

Then suddenly, his fingers brushed the edge of your shoulder—maybe accidentally, maybe not. He smelled like smoke and something colder underneath. Like metal. Like midnight.

You bit your lip and pressed your thighs together even tighter.

From the corner of your eye, you can swear you saw him smirk.

Just a flicker—there and gone—but it curled low in your stomach all the same.

He continued scrolling idly through his phone with one hand, thumb tapping slowly, but his gaze flicked up. Once. Twice.

You felt it every time. The weight of it. Like he wasn’t just looking—like he was deciding.

And you wondered, again—

Why is he here?

You kept your eyes on the window. On the streetlamps, blurring past like ghost lights. You tried not to breathe too loudly. Tried not to notice the steady thrum in your chest or how his scent was crawling into your lungs like it belonged there.

The silence was unbearable. Not cold. Not awkward.

Tense. Electric. Charged.

You wondered if he could hear your heartbeat. You wondered why he was here tonight. You wondered—yet again—what you were even doing in his world.

You were nothing special. Nothing polished. Just a quiet girl trying to survive, tucked into a skirt from the clearance rack and a job that made your stomach twist with questions you were too afraid to ask.

And yet—here you were. And there he was.

You moved slightly, just enough to pull your legs in even tighter.

Smaller. Quieter.

Maybe if you made yourself invisible, you’d stop thinking about the heat of his thigh two inches from yours. Or the way his breath subtly changed when you moved.

You didn’t dare look at him.

But he looked at you.

You felt it again. That stare. But this time, it was lingering. Dragging across your profile like a touch he was holding back. The phone stilled in his hand. His body shifted.

And then—

“You good?” he asked, leaning in just slightly, voice pitched low—too low, like it wasn’t meant for anyone but you.

You startled. Turned your head instinctively. His eyes were already on you.

Big. Knowing. Predatory.

You blinked. “I—yeah. Just—a long day.”

“You’re awfully quiet,” he murmured, like he wasn’t trying to tease—just observing. Reading you. Watching you squirm without ever laying a hand.

You nodded again, eyes darting back to the window, cheeks burning. “Umm… Just… tired.”

It was the safest lie you could come up with. The easiest.

You didn’t dare admit the truth.

Not that your pulse was racing. Not that the skin on your shoulder still tingled where his fingers had grazed it. Not that you could still feel the phantom warmth of his leg against yours.

And definitely not that his voice—low and intimate and close—was still echoing somewhere beneath your ribs.

You sat with it, trying to breathe around the weight of it, pretending it hadn’t unraveled something inside you.

The rest of the ride was quiet, but not peaceful.

You kept your eyes fixed on the blur of streetlights and neon, pretending you couldn’t feel his gaze brush over you every few minutes, assessing and amused, like he was waiting to see how long you could keep pretending you weren’t affected.

You didn’t move again. You didn’t trust yourself to.

Every nerve in your body was drawn tight. Every inch of space between you felt like it might combust.

The city outside passed in silence.

And then the car slowed.

When it finally pulled up outside your building, you fumbled with the handle like your fingers weren’t working.

“Thank you,” you murmured, barely meeting his eyes.

Sanzu didn’t answer right away. Just looked at you. Long. Unblinking.

Then he spoke.

“Sleep tight, sweetheart.”

His voice wrapped around you like sin.

And you stepped out—legs barely holding—wondering how you were supposed to walk into your apartment like your skin wasn’t still buzzing.

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Sanzu Inner Monologue: His POV

After the car ride

I told her it was on the way. It wasn't. Not even fucking close.

But I didn't feel like sending her off tonight. I told myself I was just getting in the car to watch. No harm. No touch. No games. Just a twenty-minute ride so I could see her in a space she couldn't run from.

But now? She was fucking killing me.

Sitting there like that—so small. So tight. Like she was trying to disappear into the leather. All curled up like a secret. Knees tucked, arms folded. Eyes locked on the window like I was a wild animal and she was hoping I'd forget she existed. She was practically vibrating. So prim. So stiff. Hands folded tight in her lap like that would save her. Cute. Cruel. Completely addictive.

Every breath she took was shaky. Every shift of her body sent a shiver up my spine. And every time she moved—just slightly—I saw it. The outline of her thighs through that skirt. The hint of her neck when her hair shifted. The way her bottom lip tucked in, trying not to tremble.

Shit. She didn't even realize what she was doing to me. She thought this ride was harmless. But if she knew the kind of thoughts running through my head? If she had any idea how many times I'd already imagined pulling her into my lap, right there in this backseat—head tipped back, voice wrecked, thighs shaking?

Fuck.

Look at her. All curled up like I was gonna bite. She didn't even know the half of it. She probably thought that if she made herself small, quiet, untouched, I'd stop wanting her. It was the opposite. Every inch she hid made me want to peel her open and see what was underneath. Every curl of her spine said come closer even when her mouth said nothing.

And I will. I promise. Just not yet.

I let her squirm. Let her wonder. Let her crave it. I could have reached over. Right then. Slid my fingers beneath her chin and made her look at me. Make her see the way I was looking at her. But I didn't. I let the tension wrap tighter. Let her shrink further into that corner like prey trying to pretend it wasn't in danger. Except she was. Not from me hurting her. From me wanting her. Badly. Relentlessly. Desperately.

This was me holding back—barely.

My phone was in my hand, screen dimmed long ago. I wasn't even scrolling anymore. Not reading. Not even pretending. Just watching. Thinking.

I shifted slightly. Let my knee brush hers—barely. She jolted. She still didn't look. And it thrilled me.

You feel that, baby? That was the line. And next time, I won't stop at the knee.

I shifted again. Sprawled wider. Just to remind her of the space I took up. Let my hand drape along the back of the seat, and this time, I brushed my knuckles against her shoulder. She didn't flinch. But her breath skipped. I felt it. I wasn't even touching her, and she was already coming apart.

If she so much as turned her head… If her eyes met mine for more than five seconds… I'd ruin her. Slowly. Messily. Completely. With her skirt rucked up and her voice echoing off the leather. But not tonight. Not yet. I wasn't done watching her squirm.

I flicked my gaze sideways. She was biting her lip now, blinking hard like she could will the tension away. She didn't even realize she was giving herself away.

I leaned forward a little, my voice low. "You good?"

She startled. Looked at me. Big eyes. Uncertain. Innocent. I bit the inside of my cheek to keep myself from grinning.

"You're awfully quiet."

She nodded. Her eyes darted back to the window. "Umm… Just… tired."

Liar. I wanted to lean in and murmur what she really was. Not tired. Not calm. But wound up. Flushed. I wondered if she knew. If she felt it too. If she went home and closed her bedroom door, she'd remember my breath on her neck.

I didn't move when the car turned, and her shoulder brushed mine. Neither did she. Good girl. For a second, I almost forgot the plan. Almost reached out. Almost ruined the quiet by telling her exactly what I was thinking. It took everything in me to stop myself from doing that.

In the end, I had to watch her go. Didn't lean out. Didn't say more. Just let her feel it. The burn. She was going to think about this all night.

And me? I was going to dream about what it sounded like when she finally broke.

PART 1   PART 2   PART 3   PART 4   PART 5  PART 5.5   PART 6 PART 7   PART 8   PART 9   PART 10 PART 11   PART 12  PART 13 PART 14

[bleach-your-panties]

💔the pathological liar - pro hero! yo shindou x fem! pro hero! gf! reader

warnings: characters aged up to 20+, lying, cheating, arguing, manipulation, gaslighting, sexual activities, non-con (reader does say no), dub-con, verbal abuse, emotional abuse, name-calling, physical struggles, physical fighting (one-sided, so assault?), reader has a smart ass mouth and is kinda toxic as well, slight!yandere!yo, toxic relationships, toxic mindsets, false imprisonment, triggering subject at the end. read at your own risk!

☠️: some dialogue/actions inspired by true events.

💔: banner images from pinterest. 

💔: banner made by me with canva. 

post themes: say my name - destiny's child

                      confessions, parts I & II - usher

                      take a bow - rihanna

                      shake it off - mariah carey

💔 3.5k words

💔read in dark mode for best experience!

🖤series 🖤touya.

—--

—--

I know you say that I am assuming things

Something's going down that's the way it seems

Shouldn't be no reason why you're acting strange

If nobody's holding you back from me

'Cause I know how you usually do

When you're saying everything to me times two

Why can't you just tell the truth?

If somebody's there, then tell me who

—--

"Baby, ain't nothing good. It's all bad."

—--

'Your call has been forwarded to an automated voice message system: 

"Shindou, Yo". Cannot come to the phone right now, please leave your message at the tone-'

Before the recording could finish, you were throwing your iPhone across your bed as you shrugged your backpack off of your shoulders.

Your boyfriend, Yo Shindou, never answered his phone when you called. Never when you called, but he'd always immediately send a text or call you back hours later, claiming that his phone was dead or that he'd misplaced it somewhere at the agency. 

Like now, for example. 

'ding'

'Sorry babe, got caught up in something last minute at the agency. Call you back when I'm home. Love you.'

You scoffed as you read over the message.

You wouldn't be getting a call back, that much you knew for certain.

With a sudden urge to be petty, you texted back:

'Something like what, Yo? Another bitch's pussy? Yeah, people at my agency are starting to talk and guess who's the topic of conversation? Just know that the label of 'cheating boyfriend' won't do your "picture perfect" image any justice. Bitch.'

After hitting send, you tossed the phone back onto your bed and that was where it would lay until you got out of the shower. 

As soon as your bathroom door closed, the phone vibrated with another text. 

'Oh, so we're doing this shit again? Bet. I'll be over in 20.'

—

After moisturizing your body and putting on some pajamas, you climbed into bed and pulled out the book that you'd been reading. Leaving your phone discarded somewhere in the covers.

It was starting to get to one of the more interesting parts when a chorus of loud, booming knocks came on your front door.

"Who in the fuck?" You threw the covers back furiously and slipped your fluffy slippers on. 

You walked out of your room and down the hallway, the beating at the door only growing more intense as you sucked your teeth.

"I'm coming, dammit!"

Pulling the door open without checking the peephole first would be your first mistake of the night.

When the messy mop of dark locks, green/yellow hero uniform, and chiseled pecs came into your view, you immediately tried to slam the door shut. Yo wasn't having any of that.

He grabbed the edge of the door, wedging half of his body inside of your apartment before he pushed it forward with force, making it slam and bounce off of the wall. 

Once his boots made contact with the carpeted floor of your apartment, you took multiple steps back, putting about two feet of distance between the two of you.

"What's wrong, baby? You don't look too happy to see me."

Scoffing harshly, you bit your bottom lip between your teeth as you glared up at him.

"What the fuck is wrong with you, huh? Beating on my goddamn door like you've lost your mind. Thought you were caught up in something? That just goes to show that all you do is fucking lie. You bitch." 

Yo just looked at you with his face scrunched up. He was clearly irritated with your antics, especially the name-calling. Kicking off his boots, he began to walk towards you. 

"Stop fucking being difficult, Y/N. You know, baby, if you missed me and wanted some dick, all you had to do was ask nicely." 

He said in that irritating, condescending tone that he always uses when talking to those that he feels are beneath him. You being one of those. Even though you're a pro-hero just like he is. 

Not believing what you were hearing, your mouth dropped open. You could feel the blood begin to rise in your ears, loud and whooshing against your skull. 

A dry chuckle then left your lips. 

"You think…that all of this is because I want some dick? Trust me, sweetie, if I just wanted some dick I could go get it from any one of your co-workers. A lot of them have been giving me the eye, you know. Especially since you're never around and I just changed up my hero uniform, so the skirt is short-" 

Yo cut you off by grabbing you by the biceps and yanking you towards him, making you stumble and throw your arms out to try to balance yourself before he then slammed you up against the wall. 

"Don't fucking play with me, Y/N. If you know what's good for you, you'll think twice about trying to entertain one of those bastards. Especially-" 

"Especially who? Bakugou? Oh, he'd be my first choice if I were to step out on you." You smirked up at him. 

He snarled. Your smirk widened as you could physically hear him grinding his teeth. 

Yo was quiet for a moment, just glaring at you as you stared right back at him with a bored look on your face. You even went as far as to yawn.

"Yeah, it's not so fun when the rabbit has the gun, huh?" 

He didn't answer, but instead pulled you off of the wall and hoisted you up over his shoulder. A big hand came up and smacked forcefully against your ass. 

"That's alright. I know how to fix you." He chortled darkly, moving away to begin walking down the hallway to your bedroom. 

"I don't want your community ass dick! Put me down, Yo!" 

He just ignored you and kicked open the door to the room. 

"Sure you don't. You always do this shit to get my attention, Y/N. Catch an attitude, start a stupid ass argument, and then I fuck it out of you. Same shit, different goddamn day, baby." 

Yo said after tossing you onto the bed, making your forgotten phone flop onto the floor. He gave it a puzzled look. 

"Oh, so that's why you seemed so surprised to see me. You didn't read my text." 

He chuckled, reaching to grab your hip to flip you over onto your stomach as if you were a pancake. 

Rough hands began to caress your feet, ankles, and legs, all the way up to your inner thighs and bottom of your ass cheeks, just under the hem of your nightdress. 

"No panties? Yeah, you were definitely planning on getting dicked down tonight, you needy little slut." 

SMACK

SMACK 

Your back arched off of the bed at the painful stinging of Yo's slaps. His hands felt heavy as lead as they connected with your soft flesh. 

SMACK

SMACK

SMACK

"Where are you going? Thought you liked when I spank you, huh?"

Yo wrapped an arm around your waist to bring you back when you tried crawling up the bed to escape him.

"Stop it, Yo…hurts…" You whined. 

"It hurts, Yo, please stop." He mocked. "Stop being a fucking brat, then."

He grabbed one of your ass cheeks and squeezed hard, making you moan out involuntarily. 

"Moaning like this but you don't want my dick? I bet you're dripping fucking wet for me right now, Y/N. Dare me to check?"

You didn't respond, which prompted Yo to do as he suggested and slip two fingers underneath you between your ass cheeks to get to your slick folds.

"Damn baby, all this for me, yeah? Only me."

He growled. With his large hand, he covered your entire bare pussy and activated his Quirk.

A harsh shiver wracked through your entire body, another soft moan leaving your lips. Yo only pressed harder, moving his fingertips to graze over your clit repeatedly.

"Y-Yo…please, daddy…" You whined, making him smirk down at you. He increased the vibration of his fingers along with rubbing your clit from side to side.

"Say you're sorry for bringing up Bakugou and I might let you feel this fat dick next..." Yo rested his upper body against your back and snaked his free arm under you to hold you up off the bed just a bit.

"No..I'm…n-not sorry. I meant it. Oh fuck!" 

Yo grimaced before grabbing you and flipping you back over onto your back. 

"What did you say?" 

Your e/c eyes were wet with unshed tears as you frowned up at his handsome face. You didn't falter.

"You heard me." 

"I thought I told you that if you know what's good for you, you won't even think about that motherfucker!" He seethed.

"I obviously don't know what's good for me if I'm still fucking around with you!"

Before you knew what was happening, Yo had pinned you to the bed by your throat. Moving between your legs, he used his knees to spread them.

"Yo, stop!"

"Shut up, bitch. You'll learn to stop pissing me off one day."

His belt hit the bed as he undid it, his black pants and underwear soon following it. You tried to pull your legs up, but he surged forward, pushing his hard dick inside you with one thrust.

Head falling back against the soft mattress, you couldn't help but keen as Yo began a rough, fast pace. He gripped your calf to pull you closer and stretch you open wider for him.

"Yes, Yo…right there! I'm going to cum!" 

Yo grunted in response, trying to hold back from cumming himself.

"Yeah, baby? My fingers got you all ready to cum on my dick? Let it go then, oh shit." 

He sped up even more, making your free breasts bounce outside of your nightgown and the headboard hit the wall. It already had a small dent in it from your previous heated romps, but neither of you seemed to care very much.

It could be painted over once you moved out.

"Oh God, I…!" 

Your release splashed against Yo's pelvis and drenched the sheets beneath you.

"Ah, fuck. Yeah, made that little pussy squirt, huh? Stay still for me, baby. I'm about to nut." 

Your eyes widened. "Yo, no. You're not wearing a condom and I haven't replaced my NuvaRing yet!" 

It had been out for five days now while you waited on your doctor to send in a new prescription. 

That didn't stop him. Either he was too deep into his impending orgasm to hear you, or he was flat out ignoring you. 

"Yo!"

"SHIT! AGHH!" 

Blind fury clouded your vision while Yo's was clouded for a completely different reason altogether.

"Damn…" He breathed out, making sure to stay deep inside you until he was finished cumming.

Once you got your bearings, you sat up abruptly, making Yo stumble back onto his elbows. He sucked his teeth once he saw your angered face. 

"What's wrong, sweetheart? You don't want to have my baby?"

"Yo, we're both in our early 20's at the height of our hero careers. We're nowhere near ready for a damn baby!" 

The raven-haired man was about to respond until a soft, vibrating sound silenced the both of you.

You slowly swung your legs over the side of the bed, searching for the source of the noise.

Bending down, you surveyed the floor briefly. Your forgotten cell phone lay halfway underneath the bed.

It's not your phone going off. 

Yo could've been mistaken for a ghost; you watched his face blanch white while he patted the pockets of his discarded pants searching for the missing device.

A race against time, but you spotted it first.

With the rectangular device being tangled in your covers, Yo almost knocked you off the bed trying to get to it, but you were way faster than him. It was already in your hand.

tatas💕: my appointment is at 3pm tomorrow. are you going to be able to make it?

You scrunched your nose and swatted Yo's hand away while reading the text.

"Appointment? What is this about, and why does Tatami need you there?"

Cold e/c eyes turned to stone while you watched Yo fidget nervously. This is one of the only times you've seen him like this; the other when he asked you out for the first time.

"Y/N…do you love me?"

"What kind of question is that, Yo? If I didn't, would I still be with you?"

"Unconditionally?"

Your nose scrunched. Something isn't right…

You knew all about Tatami. Yo's ex-girlfriend from high school. He told you that he broke it off during their third year because she was becoming too clingy. You'd even met her once, when you had a joint mission with her agency.

"Yes…"

"Say you'll never leave me?"

Oh hell no. He was asking too many questions now.

"What did you do, Yo? Huh?!" 

He just hung his head. His phone vibrated again in your hand. 

----

Everything that I've been doing is all bad

I've got a chick on the side

With the crib and the ride 

I've been telling you so many lies 

Aint none good, it's all bad

And I just wanna confess, it's been going on so long 

Girl I been doing you so wrong and I want you to know that 

----

"Everytime you called my phone, I wasn't at the agency working overtime…I..I was with Tatami."

A long, loud sigh left your lips. Your free hand came up, knuckles resting against your forehead.

I don't want to look, but I know I have to…

"Y/N.." Yo warned.

new message

"Y/N, please, baby…"

tatas💕: i know the doctor said that we won't know the sex until about 20 weeks, but i can't help being so excited! we're possibly going to have a little yo running around soon! 👶🏻

Your grip on the phone tightened. 

----

If I could turn back the hands of time 

And start all over I would

Instead of everything being all bad, baby

Everything'll be all good

I know today is the day that I end all the lying and the playing and the bullshit, girl 

----

"Y/N, I'm sorr-" 

WHAM!

Your knuckles that you'd been resting against your forehead went across Yo's face at the speed of light. You punched him hard as hell in his face, making him tumble over and off the foot of the bed. The sight would've been hilarious if you weren't so fucking pissed.

"I knew I was right…." You chuckled. "I fucking knew it. You knew that she was pregnant, too. You've known for months."

Yo looked up at you with big, watery eyes full of regret. Almost like he was a different person entirely. 

One hand clutched his throbbing cheek. You'd hit him so hard that his lower lip busted. His perfect face would soon be discolored black and blue, across his forehead, nose (that was also bleeding now), and right eye.

"I'm sorry! Baby, I'm sorry!" 

"SHUT THE FUCK UP, YO! YOU'RE ONLY SORRY BECAUSE YOU GOT FUCKING CAUGHT!"  You raged. You lunged off the bed at him and started hitting him everywhere, as hard as you could. You even grabbed two handfuls of his black hair and yanked his head around.

Yo finally grabbed your arms and pinned them against your chest. You'd grown exhausted, so you just let yourself fall against his naked chest.

A bitter chuckle, then the tears, hot and angry. You couldn't hold them any longer as you looked up at Yo, staring at his swollen, beaten face.

"You're so fucking ugly when you cry. What the fuck are you crying for, huh? I'm the one that got cheated on. Lied to, played with, manipulated." 

"Not only did you fucking lie to me and cheat on me, but you fucked around and got the bitch pregnant, too. This has got to be a joke."

Yo slowly crawled up from the floor with you in his arms, blood dripping down his nose and lip, staining the carpet, then the bedsheets while you covered your face with your hands and sobbed. 

He cradled you gently and laid his head against yours, lips kissing at the temples.

"Baby, please…we can work this out. I don't love her. I love you, but I…I still want to be there for the baby…"

Your brokenhearted wails only increased in volume.

"Don't cry, baby. I promise I'll be here for you and our baby, too."

—-

Three Months Later 

Yo made good on his word to be there for you.

Shortly after his "confession", you found out that you were pregnant as well.

Tatami is currently six months along, while you're only three.

Turns out that all of this was a part of Yo's twisted plan. 

Instead of your late birth control being due to your doctor's or the pharmacy's incompetence, it was Yo who called the doctor's office pretending to be your husband and had them cancel your refill request. 

Yo then demanded suggested that you take time off from hero work while you were carrying his child, which you slightly agreed with, but still did so with reluctance.

You don't know how he did it, but you guessed being one of the top 20 heroes carried with it a lot of weight for him to be able to take off enough to make it to all of yours and Tatami's appointments.

He even moved you out of your apartment and into his. Into your own room. 

The reason that you had your own room was because Tatami ended up losing her apartment due to being out of work, so Yo moved her in as well. 

With the way that the living arrangements had been set up, you and Tatami might as well have been sister wives.

To attempt to keep things "fair" between the both of you, Yo would designate certain nights where either of you would get to sleep in the room with him. So neither of you would feel neglected by him.

His heart was in the right place, wasn't it? 

Even when you could clearly hear the whispered moans and soft creaking of the bed from Yo's room on Tatami's nights.

No matter how you tried to make yourself not hear it. 

Yo didn't want you stressing out, he claimed, so he bought you many expensive gifts and gadgets to help you get a good night's rest.

None of them worked. 

Not when the walls in that apartment were paper thin.

Many nights you cried and raged to yourself. 

Obviously all of that stress wasn't healthy for the baby.

Which leads you to today.

A pair of dark sunglasses hiding your eyes along with a long trench coat and hat to conceal the rest of your persona.

They were loud and jarring as you walked in, but your world had gone numb three months ago. Now you were trapped inside your own world as you stepped up three flat steps into a white, brick building. 

A ghost clutching a brown clipboard only made the atmosphere even gloomier before whisking you away from the judgemental eyes and into a plainly decorated room with blue walls.

She read over the papers first then handed the clipboard to you, one more questioning look being shot your way. 

You just gave a simple nod.

—-

"You have reached the voicemail box of L/n, Y/n. I can't come to the phone right now, but leave me a message and I'll get back to you as soon as I can!"

BEEP.

Yo sighed heavily and put his head in his hands before standing up to walk out of your completely barren bedroom.

Before he closed the door, he whispered softly,

"Why, Y/n?" 

Your location on his phone showed him exactly where you were.

—-

Gotta make that move 

Find somebody who

Appreciates all the love I give

Boy, I gotta 

Gotta do what's best for me

Baby and that means I gotta shake you off

—--

a/n: i think this piece was a pretty strong start to the series! i'm really proud of it! stay tuned, there's plenty more bullshit to come!

*remember, if you get angry enough at your partner that you feel like wanting to put your hands on them, just walk away! 

[leading-manhattan]

Dysfunctional || Modern AU

You can also read on Ao3!

David is dead on his feet. After a day of morning classes and the shift he picked up at the restaurant he feels like every spark of energy he had in him has been drained away. The only thing keeping him from sitting down in the stairwell of the apartment complex and passing out then and there is the promise of Jack waiting for him up on the second floor. There's nothing more satisfying than shoving his keys into the lock and pushing open the door. Unsurprisingly the lights around the flat are all on. It's not a big place by any means, they were two broke college kids lucky enough to find an affordable single bedroom near campus, but Jack often flipped on all the lights when he was working late into the night on a piece. In the center of their living room Jack's easel was set up with a medium-sized canvas nearly finished perched in its grip. Hence the lights.

David throws his keys on the counter, glancing around the space to see if Jack is in the room but quickly coming up short. He takes another look at the painting and furrows his brow. He recognizes the painting, splashes of navy and shades of purple that he couldn't name flowing together in a brilliant forest scene, it was the same commission Jack's been working on for the past week. The same commission that Jack's client was supposed to pick up tomorrow. It should've been finished by now so it'd be ready to collect by the evening after Jack wrapped up his classes. 

"Jack, I'm home!" David calls just in case Jack didn't hear him come in from, he assumes, the bathroom. A soft grunt comes from the couch, the cushions blocked by the back facing the door, and a sense of dread starts to stir up in David's gut. "Jackie?" He murmurs much softer into the quiet air of the apartment, slipping his bag off his shoulder and hanging it off the back of one of their dining chairs as he makes his way towards their makeshift living room.  

He's close enough now to see just who's on the couch and his chest constricts at the sight of his boyfriend. Jack is stretched out on his side, head propped up on one of the throw pillows, staring listlessly at his unfinished painting. He's still clad in the tank top and sweats he was in this morning when David left, streaks of paint scattered about his arms and clothes, and his eyes look so dead that for a moment David doesn't feel like he can breathe. He gently bats his anxiety aside and lowers himself slowly onto the armrest by Jack's feet. David swallows thickly, trying to think of the best way to approach this, but ultimately tries to take a casual approach.

"Is this the one you were working on when I left?" David asks softly, careful still not to break the fragile bubble that seemed to encase them. Jack offers another noncommittal grunt in response. David tries to push down the worry that flares cold and demanding in his chest. "I thought they were gonna pick this one up tomorrow, did they say they couldn't make it?" He presses tentatively.

Jack makes a choked sound deep in the back of his throat and David feels like his whole world collapses when Jack's lifeless expression cracks and tears quickly flood his eyes. Jack curls up, arms wrapping around his middle and legs pulling up to his chest, and David immediately jumps into action, leaping from his seat and immediately rushing to Jack's side. It's an awkward fumble lifting Jack up from the cushions high enough so that David can slip onto the couch but he manages and settles Jack lovingly against his chest. Soothing words spill from David's lips as he holds Jack tight, pressing soft kisses into his hair while Jack trembles violently with the force of his repressed emotions.

"I just couldn't do it," Jack gasps, arms uncoiling from his waist to latch desperately onto David's work shirt. He's sure there's a sauce stain on him somewhere but neither of them is in any mindset to care. "I was so prepared to finish it today, I was, but then I just sat down and suddenly it was like I couldn't get up and I-" Jack chokes on his words, a strained sob ripping from his throat.

David feels even more helpless than he did before, arms tightening around Jack while the other man tries pathetically to hold himself together. David's familiar with executive dysfunction, his anxiety has put him in very similar positions to Jack, but he also knows that there's nothing he can really do now to help. It was far too late for Jack to try and finish this painting for his client and Jack had classes tomorrow that he couldn't taint by pulling an all-nighter anyway.

"Hey, hey, hey," David says frantically into Jack's hair when he hears Jack's breath hitch. "It's okay, baby, it's alright. You can have an off day, that's okay." He promises warmly, nuzzling the top of Jack's head softly. He projects as much care and assurance into every movement, throwing himself into the act of holding Jack together.

Jack sniffs and shakes his head, burying his face into David's chest, "I gotta have this done by tomorrow. Ain't no way I'm gonna get this finished. They're gonna drop me and then I'm gonna 'ave a random paintin' I won't be able to sell." There's an undercurrent of anger and bitterness wrapped in Jack's sorrow and David hates how much self-loathing he can hear in Jack's voice. He slides a hand up Jack's back and runs his fingers soothingly through Jack's hair.

"How about this, huh? You're gonna tell the guy that you need a couple more days-" Jack looks up and opens his mouth to protest but David presses a swift kiss to his forehead to silence him. "And if the guy is a big enough asshole that he can't understand than I promise you so many people would love to get their hands on that painting. Jack it's gorgeous. No matter what you're gonna sell it." There's not a doubt in David's mind that if Jack were to list his painting somewhere it'd sell quickly. Jack was incredibly talented and even if he only did commissions sparingly there were plenty of people around the campus familiar and infatuated with his work. Jack's biggest critic was himself.

Jack lets out a watery laugh, offering David a shaky smile that nearly melts him with relief, "Just like that, huh?" Jack asks.

"Just like that." David promises easily. Jack swallows thickly, gaze drifting back to the unfinished painting that was taunting him a few feet away. "Hey, how about we turn off all these lights and order in? We can put on one of those musicals you like." David is determined to keep Jack's focus away from the easel that Jack's been lost staring at for who knows how long. If Jack sat down and just couldn't get himself back up David wouldn't be surprised if he hadn't eaten anything all day and that just wouldn't do.

Jack snorts, unclenching a hand from where it was fisted in David's shirt to wipe away the tears in his eyes, "Shuddup, Jacobs, don't act like you don't like 'em too."

David finally relaxes as the dread and worry start to uncoil. It makes room for the fondness and love that Jack imbues in him. "Yeah, they aren't so bad." He concedes agreeably. David didn't mind musicals but he'd be lying if he said that Jack singing along wasn't his favorite part.

"Can we get Chinese from that place over in Queens?" The tension is bleeding out of Jack's body and without it he melts against David's chest. He's quickly becoming a dead weight, perfectly pliable, and while this makes it a little harder to get up and turn off the lights David can't really say he minds.

"Of course we can." David nods easily, still carding his fingers through Jack's dark hair. Jack sniffles and turns his face into David's chest once again. The feeling of defeat and guilt isn't just going to leave but David's still glad to see that he's helping to make it more bearable.

"You're covered in sauce," Jack mumbles, a whiny note to his voice.

"You're covered in paint." David throws back.

A pause. "Touché."

[numinously-yours]

Pick a Painting: Your Higher Purpose

Choose a painting above and read about your higher purpose in this life down below <3 If you feel inclined, reblog and tag which group you chose. If it resonates and you're interested in tipping, I have $1 and $5 tip options on my Etsy :) My Etsy Shop Here

Group 1

What is your higher purpose? The Sun reversed

You are here to be a silver lining of the dark clouds. Your spirit and energy bring optimism into spaces where things feel hopeless. You are here to remind people that, no matter how bad it seems, there is always something to look forward to and find beauty in. This comes from the things you actively do for people as well as the way you live your life. People cannot help but feel a little lighter with you in the room.

What can you start doing to get there? Six of Swords rev., Four of Cups, Queen of Pentacles rev.

You may be having your own internal conflicts at the moment. Maybe you feel stuck in a rut and are having a difficult time finding the light at the end of the tunnel even for yourself. How on Earth are you expected to do that for others? First, your mere existence is the light. You are not required to DO things for others if you don’t have the capacity. What you do have/should find the capacity for is finding the good in the every day. You may be going through some transitions in your life that has made this harder than usual. The chaos may feel overwhelming, but if you approach it with a different mindset and meditate on your worries, you’ll start feeling less heavy. The more you actively do this for YOURSELF, the more that positive energy is going to radiate from you.

Anything you should stop doing? Ace of Wands, Seven of Pentacles

Stop giving up on yourself! I think there are times where you start a project, or think about starting one, and you make a little progress, but then you stop. Maybe the progress isn’t happening as quickly as you want, so you don’t think it’s going to be successful at all. But that’s right when you need to keep going. The finish line is right over the hill. As you start projects, remember that things take time and THAT’S OKAY! Powering through these times is what brings long term results.

Other advice? The Fool, The Empress rev.

Keep an open mind and make self-care a priority. I think this really reiterates the things you can start doing. Find the good in your OWN life. As the saying goes, You cannot pour from an empty cup. It’s okay to prioritize yourself! Do some fun & creative things – even if you think you suck at them. Doodle, paint, sing karaoke in your living room, anything to bring a little inner child joy to your life.  Don’t be afraid to be a little spontaneous, either. Some of the best experiences come from our spur of the moment experiences 😊

What is your higher purpose? Nine of Pentacles rev., The High Priestess

The higher purpose in your life is to become more in-tuned with yourself & the way of the world. Particularly, in the spiritual realm. How can you and the world create a give and take relationship? What will the world show you about yourself? How will you help the world? This lifetime is all about finding those answers.  

What can you start doing to get there? Six of Cups, Death

I definitely think some of the people who pick this pile have had previous lifetimes. I was already thinking this with the high priestess but now with these two cards we have:  reminiscing (6 of cups) and transformation (death). Even if you don’t remember your past lives, you will bring in some of your skills from those lives to start helping you find your answers. You’re going to feel some strong gut instincts when you are thinking about new paths to go down – trust those!

As a whole, though, whether you have past lives, are brand new, or have no idea: Start each new day with a blank canvas. Live in the NOW. Remember the things that once brought you joy and implement them into your life again.  If you have kids in your life (your own children, nieces/nephews, students, etc), try to see life through their eyes when you’re around them. They will teach you how to just BE, to let go of the bullshit, and embrace the innocence you have subconsciously forgotten.

Anything you should stop doing? Strength rev.

Stop doubting yourself! You may have been on a journey to find your purpose for your whole life and you are never quite sure if you found it. There always seems to be something “missing”, but I truly think that’s just what life is like. It’s the opportunity for constant learning. It is your push to stay present and understand the now. When you don’t feel “productive” it doesn’t mean you’re lazy or failing. In times of doubt, remember the amazing things about yourself. Be kind to your mind.

Other advice? Ace of Pentacles

This is my favorite card in tarot <3 This is my “everything is, or will be, exactly how it’s supposed to be” card. If there is something specific that you are trying to manifest, the universe is telling you that you can do it. If you’ve been waiting for a sign to get started, this card is that sign! And regardless, the Ace wants you remind you to be consciously aware of your blessings and KNOW that you deserve every single one of them.

What is your higher purpose? The Magician

You are the one who shows people that anything is possible. You always seem to find a way to make something out of nothing. Manifestation is your middle name and people wish it was theirs. You tend to know your “why” whenever you go into any situation. “Why am I here? To make people happy, to get things done, to have fun?” You act according to this “why” and it seems seamless to those around you. You inspire them to take action in their own life.

What can you start doing to get there? Strength, Three of Wands

I think you might be doing everything you need to do – so this message is to keep it up! Continue to have patience and be calm in the storm. Continue to be determined to make your dreams come true. Continue overcoming fears and challenges. Every single step you take brings you a level of progress you didn’t have before. The only advice would just be to explore options you haven’t tried before. Otherwise, it sounds like what you HAVE tried is working really well 😊

Anything you should stop doing? Ten of Wands

Stop carrying the weight of others on your shoulders! I think you care about people a lot and you want to help them reach their full potential. This can be exhausting. Being exhausted from that doesn’t make you a bad person, it just makes you human. You can still be there for people in other ways, but you won’t be able to help them if you deplete yourself of all your energy.

Other advice? Judgement, The Fool

I’m not sure if this is correlated to this reading specifically, but the universe has a message about starting over. There may be something coming to end or you are considering ending a cycle. The universe wants you to know that this is going to open up soo many new opportunities. Allow the changes to happen, even if they make you nervous. A spiritual awakening may be on its way, too, which sparks this new beginning. You may realize something new and it brings a newfound energy to your life. Don’t over think think, let it happen.

What is your higher purpose? The Hanged Man, The Sun

Your higher purpose in this life is to be peaceful and happy <3 A lot of the time when we think about our purpose, we want to know what we can do for others while we’re here on earth. How can we make the world a better place? Your embracing of the warmth and different perspectives will do this, even if it seems like it’s only for you. Similarly to the other piles, others will observe your happiness and your ability to let go of the small things and feel inspired to do the same. Just by existing, you will bring light to the lives of those around you. If you have had past lives, they may have been difficult. This is your chance to enjoy all that life really has to offer you.

What can you start doing to get there? Ten of Wands rev., Seven of Pentacles

Look at the things that don’t add value to your life. Are there things in your life that disturb the peace you’re trying to create? Are there investments you want to make but something else is in the way? Explore that and determine if you really need it or if you can replace it with the thing you want to be investing in instead. It’s always okay to take a step back and make adjustments where needed. It doesn’t mean you don’t appreciate what you have, it just may not work for you anymore.

Anything you should stop doing? Judgement

Stop ignoring your intuition and stop resisting “moving on”. You’re ready for the next step in your life, whatever that may be! You probably are feeling comfortable, and the unknown is always scary, even for the most positive people. Let yourself step into new opportunities. What is great is that every step you’ve taken up to this point has given you the tools you need to keep stepping.  You know the things you need to feel safe and secure, and those aren’t leaving. What they are doing is reminding you what is important and giving you something to keep your eyes open for.

Other advice? Page of Swords, Queen of Cups

The very first phrase I thought of when looking at these two cards were “Nurture your curiosity.” The Page is full of energy and is ready to explore. They want to see what is out there. They want to learn new perspectives, gain knowledge, and discover new ways of self-expression. Let this part of you feel the love! Encourage the Page’s creativity. Trust your institution and your heart as your curiosity decides where it wants to take you. When the Page’s plans don’t go as intended, be gentle with yourself, too. It is all about learning, and even the set backs teach us something.

[imizzled23]

My Tears Are Salty— Chap 5

fic here!

Fandom: The Black Phone

Pairings: Robin Arellano/Finney Blake, Vance Hopper/Bruce Yamada, Amy Yamada/Gwen Blake, Minor Griffin Stagg/Billy Showalter

Archive Warnings: Graphic Depictions of Violence

Total Chapter Count: 40

(read the tags!)

Chapter Word Count: 8k

Chapter Warnings: Child abuse, referenced death, sleeping on the streets, temporarily running away, supernatural (?), references to death, suicidal thoughts, fear of rejection, hero complex, mentions of war and soldiers.

Chapter below!

—Chapter Five: Stumbling and Fallen Heroes

He had to be crazy. He had to be a madman.

But he remembers it all, he remembers what he should. He could remember how he had been kidnapped, drugged and loaded into the back of the van like a pig for slaughter, and he knew he could remember being thrown through worlds: Robin’s memories, the black abyss and the Purgatory in which he had been tortured. He knew the truth, that meek, horrifying and abysmal truth.

He knew that had happened, but he also knew of events that… overlapped.

He was stiff whilst walking back from Robin’s house. He wanted for everything to go back to normal. But that wasn’t possible. There was a cold, numb feeling in the pit of his stomach as he looked ahead, his eyes as blank as a canvas.

He knew that on the twenty-fourth, he was kidnapped. In his world. But he also knew, that on the twenty-fourth, he had gone home and gotten beaten for being too pussy to fight against Matty’s gang. In this world.

He didn’t know which story to believe: the one where he had experienced boundless terrors, or the one where nothing happened at all?

But he knew he had been tortured, just half an hour ago. Which lined up with his original mindset.

He also still had the broken ankle.

So why, how, had those things both happened at once? Why could he remember both?

He arrived at the front of his house. The door loomed over him, threatening him, intimidating him as it had always done since his mother’s death. Since the death of himself and Gwen, in some ways. The dark wood cast a shadow against his face, and he returned its evil darkness with this blank stare. He was too tired to even care, too tired to bother with the rage of his father. He was so fucking tired. Not even two weeks ago, he had been kidnapped, and then he killed a man. A week after that, he had received a phone call from his supposedly dead best friend. Then, he beat a man, got tortured by an evil spirit in the house he was kidnapped in, broke into a morgue, revived Robin, witnessed Robin die, killed himself, got tortured again and was blasted here.

When will he get a fucking break?

He launched his hand towards the door handle and yanked it down, before throwing it open like it was a canon launcher. He was met with the face of his furious sister, and the even more furious Terrance Blake. His good-for-nothing father, who, as far as Finn could tell, cared jackshit for the well-being of his children.

Terrance’s jaw was locked and he held his belt- conveniently the one with extra metal- in a closed fist: he held it so tightly that his knuckles had turned white and his hand began to shake. He knew this had to be a different world from his own. If he had been kidnapped, then his father would be less violent. But this— he had been thrown into the time in which he was beaten at home and at school. The ‘benefits’ of his escape would’ve been that he wouldn’t get attacked anymore: he knew Matty’s gang wouldn’t do it now that he’d killed a man.

But, if he were never kidnapped, then Gwen would have never gone through what she did. She wouldn’t have had to storm out of the house at night to look for him; she wouldn’t have had to take part in countless police interviews with the likes of Felix Frothman. Would she still have the horrid dreams she told him about? Did this world’s Gwen know of it all— did she see it when she slept?

He glanced over to her. Her expression was that of worry. He recognised it immediately: it was how they looked at each other before their father beat them. She doesn’t know. He breathed a sigh of relief and looked back to his father, fixing him with a hard glare.

“Hi, dad,” he said stiffly. Terrance’s nostrils flared and his eyes went alight with fury.

“The kitchen. Now,” he snarled, his teeth gritted. Finn exhaled, trying so hard not to punch his father, and walked into the room, turning his back to Terrance. He didn’t want to deal with this, and if he had been less tired, he may have known not to turn away from the belt. But he did. The idiot that he was, he did.

Thwack.

The sound echoed through the room. Finney had no consciousness to react. He just stood there, frozen. He slowly turned back around, his hands shaking, and looked up to Terrance. He had hit him with the belt across his back, just below where his neck joined his shoulders. The sensation burnt, but it was nothing compared to what he had undergone in The Grabbers kitchen, or the Purgatory, or when he shot himself. It was hardly a scratch.

But that didn’t mean that he would put up with this bullshit. He was too fucking tired to deal with it, too familiar with the bite. He had had enough of being kicked around like a puppy. He wouldn’t have to fight people if they’d stop fucking pissing him off.

“No,” he whispered simply. Gwen’s eyes widened to plates and she brought a hand to her mouth.

“Excuse me?” Terrance demanded, his voice low and shaking. He sounded like he could begin to yell any second now, to hit him again. Did he not understand? Finn wouldn’t deal with it.

“Fuck off.” He walked past Terrance, who had tightened in on himself, and marched up the stairs. He heard the patter of Gwen’s steps as she ran after him, obviously not keen on being the target of their father’s rage.

Finn went to his room and slammed the door, locking himself in. He ignored the way his space decorations were hung differently, the way the jersey was hung proudly on his closet, the way there was a newspaper on his desk and walked over to his school bag. He always kept it packed in case he needed to run from Terrance and live on the street for a day.

He hauled it over his shoulder. He was in a state of numbness: he didn’t quite feel anger, or sadness. He just didn’t feel anything. He was too exhausted to.

He emptily walked into Gwen’s room and opened the door.

“Come on,” he said flatly, gesturing for her to get up.

She looked confused at first, but quickly nursed her expression into solemn agreement. She obviously didn’t know what happened to Finn to make him refuse a beating, but yet she understood. She understood that something happened, and now, he just couldn’t deal with Terrance. She understood his emotions better than he did: she showed him that she was there, even if she didn’t know the full truth.

Gwen scattered to her feet and followed him through the hallway and into the top floor bathroom. There, they opened the window and threw the bag into a bush below, before sliding down the drainage pipe. Finn went first, ignoring the whistling wind in his hair as he dropped down, and then he helped Gwen to the floor. He put his hands under her armpits and gently released her from the pole, then placed her onto the spot in the mud next to him.

They knew this procedure better than they knew themselves. They had to do it a million times, in a million different situations, in a million different physical and mental states. They’ve had to do it at least once a month since their mothers death- on the fifteenth, most times. That was the day she had killed herself- January fifteenth, to be exact- and on each monthly anniversary of her death their father was the worst.

It didn’t help that January Fifteenth was also Gwen’s birthday.

Finn hauled the bag from the bush and the pair silently walked away from the house, embracing the winds upon their skin. Mostly, they would go to Robin’s whenever this happened, but that was certainly out of the picture.

The night was pitch black, only illuminated by the streetlights and full moon. A shiver ran down Finney’s back, but he muffled any unwanted memories of night streets With his mind’s cold hand.

“Where are we going?” Gwen asked, turning to him. Her eyes were full of sadness, yet it comforted Finn in an odd way. He needed some continuance: her eyes, full of despair, were probably the only thing in this world that had remained the exact same.

He looked forward, refusing to meet her eye. He knew he was the one to fuck it all up for her: he had enraged their father, he had insisted that they leave. She didn’t deserve a night spent in the cold. He didn’t have the strength to deal with their father. She had to have the strength to deal with him.

“I don’t know,” he muttered. He was either about to burst into tears or disappear: he felt lightweight and empty. Like a ghost.

They settled on a park bench about twenty minutes from their house. Finney took off the jacket Gwen had given him earlier and placed it over them both as they laid side-by-side. Finn let Gwen cluster closer to the backrest, and even though she insisted that he have the jacket, he subtly moved it onto her. He strung one of his arms over her protectively. He had to lay on his side: if he were on his back there wouldn’t be enough room.

A muffled sob came from Gwen’s mouth, and Finn ached. He ached until he could feel something again.

He hated that he couldn’t give her a safe space. He hated that they had to sleep on a park bench. He hated that he couldn’t give her food to eat or a bed to sleep in.

He hated himself for letting it happen.

He didn’t sleep that much that night.

He wondered who would prey on them next if he did.

—

The next morning, Finn woke up- alone- on the bench. It took him a moment to realise that Gwen was gone, but when he did, he shot upright. Crack, and then, somewhere a few meters away, a grunt.

He whipped his head around, and, alas, there she was: sitting on the grass in her nightgown, fishing through the school bag full of supplies. He looked down to his watch. 8 AM.

“What day is it?” He asked roughly, his voice cracking. He hid an embarrassed blush.

She snapped her head up to him, eyebrows quaking in surprise.

“Wednesday.” She looked back down to the bag, before fishing out a protein bar and tearing off the wrapper and digging her teeth into it. A crumb fell from the bar, landing on the hem of her nightie. As Finn looked around, he saw nobody else in the park: it was still quite dark, and ruthlessly cold. He could see a port-a-potie about twelve paces down the path.

“You’ve missed school,” he stated.

“We have, dipshit,” She replied, her mouth full of granola. Shit. He forgot: if he hadn’t been kidnapped in this world, then he would still have to go to school. And see Robin.

For some reason, that- being in Robin’s vicinity- filled him with dread.

“—Right. I guess we’re not going in,” he added. Had anyone seen them on their way to school? Most kids would have began to walk in about an hour ago. He gulped. If they were seen, Matty’s gang would have a right grand time with that. Gwen dug her greasy fingers back into the bag, and retrieved a bar for Finney. She gestured to it, eyebrows up.

“No thanks. Not hungry.” He thought that if he ate he might just throw up. She grabbed her clothes from the bag next (a rainbow long-sleeved top, jeans and underthings) then put the green jacket they had used as a blanket back into the bag.

“Whatever. I’m getting changed, don’t die,” she ordered, then pranced up and ran towards the port-a-potty.

Slowly, he moved towards the bag and reached into it, grasping the hairbrush. It was old, and it opened up into a mirror and the brush part. He ran it roughly through his tangled hair. A sense of unease dawned upon him. He swallowed and pushed it down, but the nagging feeling remained like a pest. The park was eerily silent and still, like a photograph. The Grabber… what if he were here? His intake of breath after that thought was shaky and small.

He let himself think.

He knew he wasn’t where he was supposed to be. He knew that he was in a different world. He knew none of the boys had been kidnapped, and that Robin had forgotten everything.

And he didn’t know just about everything else: how had he gotten here? (he could recall touching his and Robin’s combined souls, then exploding). Did The Grabber remember? If he still had the broken ankle, was his body that of the original world? Had his mind mixed with that of this other-world him? Did he have the body of original-him, but the mind of both of the Finn’s?

Where was his father right now? Where was Robin? Where was The Grabber?

He seemed to know so little, yet he was grateful for what he did. He was also grateful that the other boys had been given the chance to live: Griffin never deserved to die, he was just lonely. Billy had a purpose in the world: his newspapers. Bruce was the kindest, most heart-warming person he had ever met. Vance: he had… spirit.

And Robin? Robin was the most loyal person in the world. He could kick ass. He was friendly. He cared for other people; he protected them. He was strong-willed and full of dignity. He would never give up on a friend.

Robin was his closest companion. Finney felt bad he never had the chance to tell him that.

But now Robin was alive, Finn was scared.

He wanted to tell him. He wanted to explode all he ever thought of him, everything he loved about him, and everything he hated (like how he insisted on the more gory horror films to watch). He wanted to talk and talk and talk about him to him.

But he knew that if he did, he would be rejected: just like he had last night.

That scared the shit out of him.

The door to the port-a-potty slammed open and Gwen strutted out, flinging her hair over her shoulder. Finn sighed and dove through the bag for his clothes and threw them out. If Gwen hadn’t caught them, they would have landed on the floor.

“Here, dummy,” she offered, extending her armful of clothes to him. He snatched them from her, earning an offended gasp.

“Yeah, yeah. Whatever,” He mumbled. He almost felt self-conscious as he walked through the park in his pyjamas, taking the brush with him, yet he had done this so many times before, as had Gwen. And, there should be no one watching.

This world him probably did it more: depending on the date- if it was the same as his world- another two weeks worth of their father would have passed with him beating them. The original Terrance obviously couldn’t whilst Finn was in the basement, and he doubted that he beat Gwen during that time, and then there was the week after his escape where his father hadn’t laid a hand on either of them. If he hadn’t been kidnapped in this world, how many times did they get beaten? It wasn’t often that they had to sleep at the Arellano’s or on the streets, usually just the Fifteenth. Which, in the original world, Finn did have to spend on the streets: he was kidnapped nine days later.

When he closed the door to the port-a-potty and stripped off his shirt, he realised that there was something horribly wrong.

Something very, very wrong.

There: on his chest, in the spot of his heart, was a light pink slither. It was right where his heart would be, and a thin layer of crust surrounded it on the rim of the spot. Parts of it were a bright red, whilst most was the rosy hue of pink.

Stabbed in the heart.

His eyes widened.

He scrambled to look lower, and, yes, there was also a larger spot across his stomach. It convulsed and palpitated oddly as he moved his stomach muscles and when he touched it, it felt moist and squishy. Just below this spot were several thin lines of red, reaching lower and lower then disappearing beneath his pant leg.

He gagged as he shoved the pants off, then realised that the thin lines ran down his thigh and stopped around his knee.

Gouged through the stomach, acid pouring over himself.

Holy shit. He had the scars from the Purgatory.

Where else had he been injured?

The axe had been stabbed in the abdomen right after he called out to Robin.

He shoved his hand down to the spot and was met with the pink, pudgy scar that stuck there. He surveyed his body for more of the injuries: he couldn’t remember the whole thing quite that well. He found several scars on his waist, as though The Grabber had been trying to cut him like a tree trunk. As he pressed on the wounds, he could feel his own insides pushing against the skin. He continued to run his hands lower until he landed on his hip: a large scar, this time like The Grabber had stripped the skin off of his bone instead of stabbing him. There was a similar gash across his left knee, and on the soul of his right foot.

Hands shaking, he felt for scars on his neck and face. There was one on his collarbone: a thin line. If they go any higher, I won’t be able to cover them.

There was a long line below his chin. The Grabber had slit his throat.

He felt higher. A scar of his lip, which trailed up, up, up.

His face morphed into horror as he realised that it didn’t stop.

It traced a line over his right eye and disappeared under his fringe, went up his forehead, and he felt it go through his scalp and ended around halfway across his skull.

Shit.

How had Gwen not noticed it?

He whipped out the brush-mirror, then breathed a sigh of relief. It was hardly visible: a light shade of pink that fit into his skin tone. When it went over his eye, there was a slight part of it that could be seen on his eyelid, yet he supposed you needed the right angle. No, he was worried about the stark line that split his hair down the middle, almost like a bald patch. He pushed a few of his strands to cover it, yet it still appeared awkward.

He huffed, suddenly becoming aware of how small the space was. He quickly changed and stormed out of the port-a-potty, briskly jogging over to Gwen, who greeted him with a small smile. He hated this, hated knowing that he carried scars, and hated feeling the weight in his chest of them.

“Where are we going?” She asked, bringing the bag over her shoulder. He looked down to his chest, refusing to meet her eye.

He was so tired. It was like he had gone back to his state before he had the phone call. In the basement, he had a goal: get out. After Robin sent him on the supernatural journey, he had a goal: revive Robin.

But now, he doesn't have anything. Not a chance to bring anyone dead back: they were alive. He should be happy, but he wasn’t. He felt empty.

Those seven days between escape and the phone call were like a cracked and blurry television. He knew that there was something happening. But all he wanted to do then, now, was to lay in bed, a shell of what he had once been. He didn’t even think during that time, just slept and slept until his eyes couldn’t take anymore. And then when he was awake, he stared and stared at his wall, trying to escape the endless whispers of The Grabber over his shoulder.

He hated phone calls now. He couldn’t eat eggs without retching. He couldn't even look at soda. He couldn’t be near an axe, couldn’t stand balloons, hated magicians and locks. He couldn’t, couldn’t, couldn’t.

What was the point of living if he neither had a reason to nor the ability to do it? Why should he stay here, if he had done everything he needed to do? Why live on if he had fulfilled his goals?

He felt selfish. Robin was alive- fucking living and breathing- and all he could ask for was more. He couldn’t even stand the idea of talking to him, seeing the corpse with a bullet wound or a neck gouge, walking. He knew he missed Robin like fuck when he thought there was no way of getting back to him, he knew that he felt the yearn to be with him again in ever inch of his body, but now that he could? He didn’t want to. He really, really didn’t want to.

He was just a pathetic, selfish boy, who had no real reason to live. He had lost his strive to bring his best friend back, he had lost a loving father, he had lost the protection his reputation would have earned him at school.

What was the fucking point of staying alive if he had lost all reason to?

Fingers clicked in front of him.

“Dummy. Where are we going?” Gwen asked, eyeing him suspiciously.

Gwen.

There it was. If he were dead, she would be alone with Terrance. He needed to stay alive for her.

“Uhm, we’ll—” his voice cracked, and he cleared his throat, “let’s go to the treehouse.”

It felt childish to say, but Gwen nodded firmly and set off, Finn following closely behind.

The treehouse was their sanctuary that they built a little into the winds when they were just younger than eight, with their mother, Elda. She had picked them both up, one Saturday afternoon, and simply brought them for a stroll. They stumbled through the woods until they eventually came upon an area of thick shrubbery, and, in the middle, a moderately sized tree with climbable branches. Elda first carved the path to get to the tree- avoiding the thorns and brambles- then began to build it. She worked as an office woman in some comic company (marketing-or-whatever) but in her free time she built.

Her toys and woodworks were always littered around the house, freshly glazed over. Terrance got rid of them after her death. But she was good, more than good, actually, and they toiled away that afternoon and a month's worth of afternoons after building and carrying logs and laughing. They never did tell Terrance about it, but it became their safe space, holding candy and comics and memories.

The siblings were quiet for a while as they ventured to the woods, avoiding their home street, but eventually Gwen spoke up.

“You gonna tell me what happened with Robin?”

Finn, caught off guard, almost tripped face flat onto the concrete, but regained himself.

“What?” He peeped, eyebrows up.

“I do have dreams, you know. I saw you running all the way to ‘is house…” she trailed off, growing uncomfortable as she shifted under the bag's weight. He thought of taking it from her, but then he remembered the gloves and jacket.

“So, how come these,” He gestured to the green gloves, “were necessary?”

She turned back to the road, swallowing in a way she did whenever her father brought up the investigation. She wouldn’t have done that in this world.

“Dreamt you were so cold, that you— just collapsed.” She gestured to the space in front of her and laughed. Liar. “That doesn’t matter though. Why did you and Robin fall out?”

“We didn’t—”

“Liar,” she said matter-of-factly, as though she wasn’t lying two seconds ago. He was quickly getting more frustrated.

“We just— why do you even care?” He snapped, but Gwen seemed unbothered.

“Because. You’ve been friends for how long now? I’m still fucking pissed at you for nottelling me you were friends with Robin fucking Arellano, but you were friends for ages,”

“Three years,” he countered.

“That’s a long time!”

“It’s hardly—”

“Listen,” she interrupted, looking at him with narrowed eyes. He gulped, the deep fear that arose in him every time his sister got serious taking a stand. “You value your guy’s friendship, right?” 

He blinked.

“Uh- I mean—” he almost began to ramble when Gwen gave him a pointed look, as to say, answer the fucking question.

“I— yeah.” He laughed nervously, scared to open up, even if it were to his sister.

“Then whatever happened couldn’t have been that bad. If you want it enough, then you’ll fucking fix it.” She dawdled further down the path, ahead of him.

“And I know he means enough to you for you to really want it,”

—

When they arrived at the treehouse, it was half-past nine. Gwen, desperately confident, had led them astray from the correct path and they consequently got lost.

He had led them to the correct spot and cursed under his breath. When was the last time they had visited the treehouse? The last few times their father had gotten extremely bad they had gone to the Arellanos, but before that they came here. ``that meant that they hadn’t darted to their sanctuary in the woods for over two years.

His eyes trailed up the wooden, rickety stairs that they had built from tree branches: they were attached to the structure (which Elda had built herself, as she knew how to do it) with rope and moss. The steps were cut off by a temporary landing, which was connected directly to a crevice in the tree, then resumed upwards until coming upon the ‘house’ part.

It sat on a plank-and-log base which was situated in the cross section of the tree. There was a fence built around the outside of the base but there were several sections where a gap was looming, threatening the tumble of anyone who came too near. The house was made of planks of spruce that Elda cut and refined with her saw (which she named Plankie) and they were piled atop each other, connected by rusty metal screws. It wasn’t too tall- hardly three metres or so- but a large window (a hole in the wall, covered by a layer of cloth they had stolen from home) was situated about half-way up. The roof was made of timber and was held together by rope. 

The brambles below had slightly grown onto the path and they avoided it with as much concentration as they could manage, but Finn still ended up with a tear in his pants.

They climbed the stairs, barely hobbling and almost tripping and one rolled, but managed to make it to the house without incident. For some reason, Finn held his breath as he opened the door.

A wave of coffee and timber hit his senses, enveloping his nostrils like weed. He turned away, nose scrunched, and Gwen pulled her shirt over her face. She wafted the smell outwards into the air, then dragged Finn inside, retching. He had scrunched his eyes shut and tried his best not to use his nose to breathe, but Gwen swatted him and he looked forward.

It was the same treehouse it always had been. In the middle of the room, an old, plastic, toy table that Terrance threw out when they were eight and nine, which they adopted to use in the treehouse. It wasn’t even that small, around half the height of Finn, but the chairs were tiny. It was rimmed with dirt and grime, and rusted with age. On the far end of the room sat a longer table, wooden, but it was covered by a thin, checkered sheet. Beside it stood a stool and atop of the table was a toy first aid kit: he and Gwen used to play ‘doctor’ and perform fake surgeries (Gwen being the surgeon, as she couldn’t sit still for too long). One of Finn’s old baseball bats was leant against the wall in the corner, and, on top of the window sill, was Gwen’s old tarot cards, and Elda’s Scrabble set, which they could never beat her in.

She sighed, plonking herself down onto the table, facing him with her legs swinging.

“So. What are we going to do?”

They spent the next few hours playing around with their old stuff, specifically Scrabble. Gwen seemed delighted that she could finally understand it, but most of her words became some sort of cuss. For example, upon the board was an ‘after’. To that she put ‘fucker’ off of the ‘f’, instead of the logical, and far more diligent, ‘truck’. However, it almost felt like closure seeing the adult words on the set, as though their childhood had finally come to an end. And with that, obviously, their mother could get cut from the memories too.

Gwen messed around with her tarot cards as well. She actually wanted to help Finn with a ‘reading’, because, apparently, he had been acting ‘off’. She had ended up with ‘the hanged man’ card. He didn’t like the sound of that.

But, inevitably, their enjoyment came to an end.

It was around quarter past three in the afternoon, by Finn’s watch, when they heard the voice.

“Hey! Finn! Are you out here?”

Robin's voice.

His eyes widened as he suddenly dove from his space at the ‘surgery’ table, dragging Gwen down with him. They tumbled and collided with the cold floor, Gwen cursing as he pulled her hair.

“What the fu—” she began, but Finn slapped a hand over her mouth and gave her an angry glare.

“Shut up!” he whispered. They were laid so that Gwen was partially underneath the table on her side facing Finn, who was also on his side but exposed. The sheets were closed: Robin wouldn’t be able to see through the window, but he probably wasn’t going to give up that easily. Why had he come looking anyway? It wasn’t like he came knocking on his door every time he missed school, but considering the previous night, there may have been aroused concerns.

He cringed internally, recalling his actions. God, he really had attacked his best friend- for all he knew, didn’t remember anything- and started spouting nonsense.

“Let me talk to him,” Gwen muttered, narrowing her eyes. Her hair fell in front of her face like crowbars, and her cheek- her right- was squished against the floor.

“What? No!” He whisper-shouted. Why should she talk to him? She’d probably go rat him out!

“Relax, I won’t tell him you’re here or anything. Just let me explain why we didn’t come in,”

He was still worried. He hesitated, before asking:

“What if he asked why I didn’t take the beating?”

Gwen seemed to genuinely ponder this, but then her face returned to its resting annoyed state and she met his eye with a curious glint.

“Why didn’t you?”

He had had enough of taking shit from his father. But he assumed, in this world, he was still as submissive as he had been before The Grabber, which meant that he’d bend over and let his father ring his belt; he’d let Matty’s gang knock him to the ground, he would have refused to fight. Gwen was most likely curious about the sudden switch— if he had truly traveled to a new world like in the comics, then he would have seemed to stand up for himself out of nowhere. Robin would be more surprised, but most likely proud of him. What would it feel like to make him proud? He’d fucked up so much as of late. What was the point if he could make Robin proud of him?

He pushed that away.

“That- that doesn’t matter! Don’t speak to him,” he pleaded.

She ignored him.

Gwen pushed out from under the table, clambering over Finn’s awkwardly humped body and rising to her feet, her bones clicking. She didn’t even have the awareness to spare him a glance before she was gone, descending the steps of their flimsy tree house.

He lurched into a crouching position and angled his head so that he could peer from the window (hole in the wall) from behind the red cloth. He saw robin then: hair falling around his shoulders, shiny and silky. His eyes were searching, not having landed on Gwen yet. His mouth had formed a pout and his eyebrows furrowed: like an annoyed puppy. He almost snorted at that. Yes— Robin Arellano was a lost, frustrated puppy.

Gwen’s feet made a series of loud crunches as she stepped through the brambles. Robin was on the path where the dirt met the one their mother had carved out. Perhaps he didn’t think they owned the treehouse?

Robin would know now— their sanctuary in the woods. He would know about it, and would be one of the new three: Finn, Gwen and him. For an odd, unknown and scary reason, he didn’t seem too upset about that.

But there was the feeling in his stomach again. Prevalent, cold, yet invincible, appearing whenever he was alone. He only truly felt safe when he was alone, but it still made him check over his shoulder, clutch his knuckles, and be on guard. Because there was some part of him, a part that was locked deep within the rotten crevices of his brain that was afraid of The Grabbers axe.

Robin's eyes lit up when he saw Gwen.

—

Robin Arellano was a fighter. He always had been: since the day his family had moved to North Denver, he had been kicking and biting and scratching at anybody who came looking for it. He’d take up his fists and beat someone up. He would please the crowd and their seemingly never-ending yearn to watch someone bleed, he would satisfy their insatiable hunger for pain. Unless it was their own, then they wanted out of that. He’d experienced firsthand kids he didn’t know- literal strangers- begged him to help them if they’d gotten in the wrong with the wrong people. Usually, he would. That was what the respectable army soldier would do; what his father would do. For the most part he could pity those who did virtually nothing to deserve their beat-downs: the small ones, the scary-cats and the ‘fairies;’.

He protected Finn for none of those reasons. He was hardly even protecting him. No, Finn wasn’t a weakling; he wasn’t so small that his bones would bend with the guy’s boot. But he wasn’t a scardey-cat either. That’s why they were friends: Robin fought, and so did Finn. Just in a different way: whilst Robin took up the confrontation, Finn faced it chin up, but fists down. Whilst Robin threw punches and kicks, Finn took them from other people, but never, not once, had he given up. He always got back up, always came in, always kept his dignity close to his heart. (As for the kids calling Finn a ‘fairy,’ Robin could knock their lights out.)

Which was why, when Finn didn’t come into school, after acting odd, Robin was stumped.

Okay, odd was an understatement. Finn had shown up to his house before even the sun came up. Then he—

Robin swallowed the guilt that raised in him at the memory. He shouldn’t have pushed Finn away like that. He shouldn’t of. Finn was obviously- drastically- upset and Robin turned him away like a stray dog. He acted all weird about it: he had acted like Finn touching him was the worst of all war crimes. Hell, men in the trenches had to touch all the time, hauling each other in training or clumping together in the trenches or laying together, and he was acting weird about a simple hug. It wasn’t like that even, not how girls embraced each other. Finn really just collapsed onto him— he was probably tired!

He shouldn’t have pushed Finn away like that.

But he did, and then Finn didn’t come into school, and obviously not because of bullies (because, as he stated, Finn would never pussy out from them. Yes, he may run, but he would purposefully stay away like that) and it was his fault.

So now he had been trudging through the woods for at least thirty minutes, and was now faced with Finn’s sister, mini Blake, who had appeared from nowhere. Her hair was disheveled and she wore crumpled and old-looking clothes. He looked over it beforehand, but she came out from a treehouse. Robin had seen it a couple months after they first moved here. Did it belong to the Blakes?

“Hey, mini,” Robin greeted. He knew her name was Gwen, yes, but often failed to use it. He pushed the memories of patching her off one night and locked his eyes on hers. They were glassy and cold as ice. He gulped.

“Hey, Arellano,” She replied, looking over his shoulder then back to his face. She also failed to use his first name.

“Do you know where Finn is? He didn’t come to school…” he really didn’t care for her right now if she didn’t know. Finn had told him to treat her like he would any other fifteen year old girl.

“Ah, right. He’s ill, cold I think. Got a really bad cough.” She chewed on her lip.

Finn was sick? He felt a wave of relief wash over him like the tide coming over the shore. Of course he was! Finn could never really be mad at him. But if he was ill enough to stay with Terrance all day cooped up in that beer-smelling house then Robin was concerned, too.

“He’s sick? Is he alright? Does he need anything?”

“Oh, uh, he could probably use some cough drops. He says it’s hurting ‘is throat,” she stammered. He watched as his nostrils flared.

“Right. Well, I’ll get them then!” He smiled joyously.

Her eyes widened as she stuttered for an excuse, but failed to reach one. When she looked to the ground, she appeared guilty. He felt a swell of sympathy wash over his chest but knocked back into a cage in his heart then turned away, placing a few metres between him and mini.

But then, he had a thought. He swivelled on his ankles.

“Why’re you out here?” He asked curiously.

“Oh, just enjoying the trees. Spirit,” she replied, nostrils flaring again. He made a non-committing hum in the back of his throat then waved her goodbye. His feet felt heavy as he headed back up the path, in the direction of the Grab n’ Go. How much money did he have in his pockets, anyway? It should be enough.

It should be enough.

—

As Robin rounded the bend to the Grab n’ Go, an odd feeling settled in the pit of his stomach, close to how he would feel before a fight. He tensed up, arms squeezing into his torso as he felt his jaw lock. The air had a compact notion- like, in any moment- it may close in on his neck and suffocate him.

He heard the yelling before he saw who had delivered such noise.

The slowed down his pace, careful not to be noticed before he could fully assess the situation.

There wasn’t a crowd: the voices belonged to two boys, roughly his age. One had a maleficent edge to it, like it could prance forwards and strike at any given moment. The other, however, was shaking as the boy sputtered out a few words. Robin couldn’t hear exactly what the two were saying, but he knew that it couldn’t be good. The one that was closer was the bitter one, and his voice was gruff and almost animalistic in its tone.

He rose from his slight crouch position as he turned the corner. He then saw them: two boys, whom both had a reputation for severely different reasons. He knew why he couldn’t hear the crowd now: they were behind the glass window of the shop, smooshing their noses against the glass in order to get a better look at the scene.

The first boy- the gruff one- was facing away from him, and over his shoulder Robin spied the second boy. His face was painted with worry and defensiveness was overgrown there. His eyebrows were knitted together and his hair was slightly disheveled, though his left fist was clenched around a baseball bat. He wore a baseball jersey as well, which was white, with the text North Denver on the top half, followed by two circles, ruminant of glasses. And underneath Optometrist.

This was Bruce Yamada.

Robin knew him as one of the ‘popular’ kids that went to a nearby school: he caught his name through giggling chicks and sports fliers. He was the captain of his baseball team- hence the bat- the lead in his school plays, the smartest in his class, played for a band, had a reputation for brilliant first dates, and was the brother of Amy Yamada, who also had a reputation, but for being a horribly merciless prankster. He had also heard a rumour that they were filthy rich, and owned at least five mansions. He doubted that was true, but it did so happen that his father, Steven Yamada, owned a major car dealership company.

Robin could hear what he was saying now, but Yamada’s eyes hadn’t landed on him yet. Robin didn’t think that either boy had noted his presence; he was a couple meters away from them now, but his steps were loud enough (which he pioneered them to be, because sneaking up on your opponent was cheating) that they should have heard him.

“Listen, man, I’m not going to say anything!” Bruce was reasoning, his right hand outstretched in front of him. His bat swung at his side like a pendulum.

“Nah, I’ll knock your fucking teeth out so you can’t!” The other boy yelled.

Vance Hopper.

His curls lay flat against his back, covered by a denim jacket, and his leg muscles strained against his also denim jeans. His arms were able to be seen, and they were dirty, covered in grime and blood. His knuckles bled onto the concrete floor.

Robin readied his stance and the sight of him. There was only one person known to be stronger, a better fighter, more violent, then him. And he was right here. Whilst Robin fought bullies, Hopper was the bully. Whilst Robin played fair, Hopper only went dirty. Whilst Robin fought with kicks and punches, Hopper threw knives.

He wasn’t scared of him. Soldiers couldn’t be scared.

Nor was this any of his business. But Robin had to make it his business, because he had to stand up for those being picked on. He wouldn’t make friends with them, no, but he would help them despite that. It was what his father would do.

He took several long strides in order to be in between them. He stood in front of Yamada, knuckles clenched, and stared at Hopper. He felt the burning gaze of the crowd on him, and relished in it.

Yamada took a slight intake of breath. He met Hopper in the eye, and immediately saw the rage that was roaring in them. His lips were red and bloody, and his hair was stuck to his forehead by sweat. His cheekbones jutted outwards and his neck muscles were straining, bulging in his direction.

“Who the fuck are you?” Hopper growled fervently.

“Arellano,” he replied simply, gritting his teeth and un-trapping his thumb.

He saw the glint of recognition in Hopper’s gaze and knew that the boy knew who he was.

“Get out of the way, Arellano, or I’ll carve that fucking name into your skin,” he threatened. Robin wasn’t scared. He really wasn’t.

He faked a laugh. “Fight me, all I care. Unless you’re scared?” He teased. He knew the punch was coming, this man wasn’t a pussy like some of the other kids he fought. No, he could, and would, snap his neck right here. Better than the innocent kid behind him, he supposed. He wasn’t scared, Yamada was supposed to be. Not him.

Hopper approached quickly, shoving him in the shoulders and then getting right up in his face.

“Fuck off, Arellano. Y’know the crowd,” he said, quiet enough that only Robin would hear it.

Robin took a step back, and lunged at Hopper.

 His right hook caught Hopper’s jaw and a thick crack echoed through the wind. Robin heard Yamada gasp but then he was being tackled, and his back hit the ground with a thud. Hopper sat up and punched him in the face, again, and again, but then Robin rolled out of the way and sprang to his feet.

I’m not scared. The thought ran through his head like a mantra as he leaped away from another blow. Hopper was big; Robin wouldn’t be able to out power him, but he could be able to outrun him. I’m not scared, he repeated, then duped out Hopper and sent a whistling punch into his side.

Hopper would punch, Robin would dodge.

They were drawing into a stalemate, and, soon enough, Robin would lose his ability to keep up. Hopper hardly had to move, he just stood and swung. Once in a while he’d attempt to tackle Robin, though the boy continuously dodged. Would he grow tired of punching?

“Hey! Stop!” There came a voice behind him, sharp and angry as a pair of hands yanked him backwards, away from Hopper. The person had olive skin and was tightening their hold like Robin could very well phase through them.

He looked up at the person, and saw Yamada struggling to keep Robin upright.

His head darted back to Hopper, who was standing in front of them, his nose bleeding. He felt Yamada tense up and then throw him backwards, stepping between Robin and Hopper.

“Stop fucking fighting. Vance, I won’t say shit,” Bruce turned from Hopper and looked at Robin, “Arellano, I appreciate it man, but mind your business.” He ordered, a stern glint in his eye that reminded Robin of an angry parent. What the hell. He didn’t even know the dude, and he was threatening him? He’d just fought Vance Hopper. What the hell.

Robin churned and spat blood onto the sidewalk. He spared a glare at Hopper, then looked Yamada up and down. What did he know about Hopper? Why did it cause such an uproar? And why, for heaven's sake, had he just walked in on it?

He huffed and then stomped past Yamada. When he walked into the shop, he was met with the stunned gaze of a dozen or so teenagers, all turned away from the window, but several still latched onto it. He grabbed the medicine from underneath the counter and slammed it down, before paying and walking back out.

Hopper was gone. Yamada attempted to thank him, he supposed, but he pushed straight past the boy and back down the road.

Finn would be so mad at him for this.

[10lakhjourney]

Day 1 of My $0 to $12,000 in 90 Days Challenge — No Tricks, No Jugaad, Just Real Hustle

Let me start this with a deep breath.

Because Day 1 is officially over. And it was a rollercoaster.

Today, I want to take you inside something real. Raw. And hopefully, inspiring. I’m sharing the start of my $0 to $12,000 in 90 days challenge — a personal mission to prove that with pure white-hat marketing, hard work, and consistency, you can go from absolutely nothing… to something life-changing.

Why This Challenge?

I’ve been in digital marketing for a while now. I know PPC. I understand SEO. I’ve played around with affiliate campaigns, generated leads for clients, and seen the ups and downs.

But this time? This challenge is different.

This isn’t just about the money. It’s about self-respect. About doing something meaningful with zero shortcuts. No blackhat, no hacks, no “fake screenshots.” Just legit results from real marketing.

I told myself: if I ever wanted to prove my skills, it had to be through this $0 to $12,000 journey — starting from scratch, building from the ground up, and sharing every step of the way.

Waking Up with Fire in the Belly

Subah aankh khuli toh ek hi thought tha: “Is baar kuch bada karna hai.”

There was pressure, sure. But there was excitement too. I wasn’t going to play it safe. Not this time.

I jumped straight into action — started my day with a clear to-do list. My mindset? Work like I already have 10 clients relying on me.

The First Win Came Early

By 9:17 AM, I had already received my first lead call for a client in the water damage niche.

It converted.

That moment? It was small, but powerful. It reminded me — this is real. This can work.

Here’s What I Did on Day 1:

Ran PPC campaigns for a water damage client

Optimized and tracked calls using my tools

Closed a small SEO gig for $10 with a new client

Checked on my pre-ranked SEO pages (more on that below)

Total Day 1 earnings?

✅ $87 (~₹7,300) And that’s just the start.

The SEO Side Is Already Warming Up 🔥

The best surprise of Day 1?

Some of my SEO pages are already ranking and getting traffic.

Topics like:

Water damage

ACA health insurance

Roofing leads

Pest control

These are high-ticket niches, and they’re built to convert. If the trend continues (and I’ll make sure it does), this will become a long-term passive source of calls and commissions.

My Daily Goal: 50+ Calls

I’ve set a bold daily target: generate 50+ qualified calls per day.

Not all from PPC. Not all from SEO.

But from a mix of:

Paid ads

SEO rankings

Direct client work

Local lead gen deals

This diversified approach will help me stabilize income while scaling.

Tools I’m Using (In Case You Want to Try Too)

Here’s my Day 1 toolkit — simple, affordable, and powerful:

Google Ads for PPC

CallRail (or any call tracking software)

Notion for daily planning and task tracking

Google Sites + Docs for safe white-hat parasite SEO

Canva + ChatGPT for creatives & content drafts

Everything here is beginner-friendly — nothing fancy. This challenge is designed to be replicable.

Real Talk: I Was Scared Too

I’m going to be honest. When I announced this challenge publicly, I felt fear.

Not because I don’t believe in the system. But because accountability is terrifying.

When people know what you’re trying to do, every win and loss becomes public. But that’s also the magic of it. It pushes you.

Because when it’s out in the open, you stop making excuses.

Lessons from Day 1

I’m walking away from Day 1 with a few learnings I didn’t expect:

Consistency beats perfection — Just starting feels like momentum.

Small wins build belief — $87 might not be crazy money, but it’s fuel.

Clients matter — Don’t rely only on affiliate. Direct clients = stable income.

Your mindset makes or breaks this game — No tool can fix a broken mindset.

Wanna Start Your Own Challenge?

If you’re reading this and wondering: Can I do this too? Yes, you absolutely can.

Here’s what you need:

A simple strategy (not 15 different ones)

1-2 solid skills (PPC, SEO, outreach — pick your strength)

Patience. The results will come if you show up daily.

This isn’t about “luck” or “algorithms.” It’s about showing up when no one’s watching.

Final Thought: “Start Small. But Start.”

I don’t care if you only make $10 on Day 1. If it’s real, you’re winning.

Because if you start now — without overthinking — the compounding effect is going to shock you 30 days from now.

I made $87 on Day 1. And that’s just the trailer. This journey is going to be intense, raw, and powerful. And I’m bringing you along for every win, every struggle, every honest number.

Want to Follow This Journey?

I’m sharing daily updates across platforms. If you want to track my progress, learn from it, or even start your own $0 to $12,000 challenge — follow along.

Let’s grow together. No fluff. No hacks. Just real hustle. 💪

💬 Drop a comment if you’re starting something big too — I’d love to cheer you on.

Would you like a custom thumbnail/featured image suggestion to make it stand out on Vocal too?

[ewaneneollav]

[C] hi

alcohol got me geeked out writing letters & stuff.... imsorry for getting into being a downer or anything, i love you, i hope youre ok

i want to be calm soft sedate half-lidded with you. theres a dormant nice feeling in my heart that i can feel quite recognizably, but not adequately describe, but i would like to learn to portray it on my self, my self as a canvas.. it's this soft thing like looking over at the trees & the way light absorption fades distant ones in the morning

i would like to be "normal" in the best & least drab sense

one dove

maybe we could early morning walk, to the park that [L]'s party was at , set out while it's still dark, right before the sun starts to rise

two doves

i need to be reformatted in many abstract ways

i need to be fished out from so deep within myself

at any moment, i am not really entirely sure what it is i actually want to do

i need a long pleasant acquaintance with a quiet room & the ambient sounds out the window, a quietude i'm estranged from because i won't just stop & allow it for myself.. i need to just sit in one spot & not feel like i have to be doing something to justify my existence..

i place all the meaning of my own experiences in the act of reporting them to others, like it were all useless inside me, & so i were trying to evacuate everything out of me & give it to people who might actually have use for it... i need to instead just be the locus of the meaning of my own experiences

holding your bracelet with the old family photographs trying to take my time with it, look at each one & take my time & not move on until i've felt out how each picture feels to me

the fear that i'll be stuck inside forever, take too long to adequately acquaint with my own desires, never know how to see & talk like everyone else, never be really real, is, a harrowing cliff's edge inside me that i never feel far from but i am going to try not to think about it, i will try try try not to & i have lived in the sun before, deep in the sunlight & i can be there again

i can't know exactly what it's like to be you but i think you're doing a fantastic job at existing, [C]

i must suppose you harbor a fair amount of your own pain but you turn it into something so good. or you don't let it interfere with the production that happens anyway of something that is so good

three doves

it's different this morning because, for once, the attic is chilly

apropos nothing: i hope you don't have to deal with too much within yourself that you feel the need to conceal from anyone & everyone - i don't say this for any particular reason, i am just thinking about... how... anyone we know could have that sort of enclave, & since such things tend to be concealed by definition, one can only speculate at the amount & nature of these things for each person they know

the things i am writing this morning may not appear strictly connected but they are all under the umbrella of an urge to write to you gently this morning

i can only send you an additional dove each hour & discover the size of the group of little doves which will greet you when you come online thus verifying for me that you are ok

i really hope none of my personal distresses have ever played too great a part in setting any bad tones for your own headspace

on the same slat of the wood paneling in here is two pareidolias that are exceedingly similar & both quite good

four doves

thinking about how... i... would... have no idea how to, in your stead, give the world even an adequate sliver of the thing that you give to the world. if... you were not here. i think you're ok, i'm not in a catastrophizing mindset, just... thinking... & if i have occasion to have that thought then i want to say it

five doves

now that i have sent my doves i will go buy tea. i'm sorry for being so much last night.. aha.. apologies also if the volume of writing this morning is intimidating. it's felt like a kind of slow & sedate accumulation on my end, but - i know you'll kind of open the app & it'll just be there all at once

six doves

[vitaminseetarot]

Aquarius Full Moon PAC - General Messages 🖤💗❤️

The full moon in Aquarius is finally here! I hope you're getting the chance to enjoy some sunshine in between these bright moonlit evenings. I sure have had my fill from this last weekend; I got the royal sunburn to prove it! Owo#

(Life lesson: apply sunscreen, then do it AGAIN.)

Aren't you glad we can't get moonburns? One could get burned sitting on the moon, sure, but it's kinder than to send that kind of energy back down to Earth. The moon allows us to see the sun's light without dying, which I can appreciate. But I'm going off on a tangent! Below are three images based on color palette cards I've picked for your reading. I've also added some emoji hearts for additional guidance. Please time all the time you need to select your pile when you're ready.

(1, 2, 3 - images from pixabay, divider from @saradika)

Pile 1. Tahoe Blue + Black Heart

X Wheel of Fortune, 7 of Pentacles, XXI World; Sun - Source, Space (Black), New Moon Gemini - Communication is Key

"I'm curious about my true nature; I seek to understand myself."

I feel such stillness and calm with this pile. You have so much blue present in your pile asides from the palette card! And watery energy too; your moon quote card has a lake on it too! Still yet deep. I'm hearing that this pile is getting a big upgrade to your throat energy. It's for both ways, listening and speaking, but I think speaking is being highlighted here more. This is in order to help you move through a bigger phase of your life that's yet to come. You may be feeling like you're ready to come out of your shell, even if just for a short while. There's a sense of grand change occurring in your external world, something that has been in the background or in the works for a long time has finally begun to culminate during this potent full moon time.

You have have recently closed a big chapter in your life and cleared out the muck. Now it's like you're standing before a canvas and you're ready to paint something new. The lunar force moving now allows a turn of luck to flow towards you like a water wheel. It's also purifying your intentions. When you have the place to be still and concentrate on where you want to go next, things can really quickly line up in your favor. With this extra space, whatever that has been building in the background may finally come out and be seen and heard. There's no resistance to this buildup, or there was resistance but it's been removed through this clearing out. You're being asked to savor this brief time. Not just make use of it, because in a way it's growing on its own, but to actually enjoy where you are right now. To get into the mindset of the person on the 7 pentacles card harvesting their abundance, that all is working out at a good pace.

You're being recommended to journal or write during this phase, perhaps like paragraphs of where you're going next (like a vaunt). I'm also getting vision boards for you would help if you need inspiration, or lyrical songs. I'm getting that communications will help you move into the next stage. This whole reading reminds me of someone who's finally finished the manuscript of their book and is sitting in that serenity of having completed something important. But, dear, that's not the end of it! You still need to bring it out into the world for it to be as evident as you see it in your mind. You still would need to get an agent and submit the manuscript to publishers for review.

Communication is being highlighted here as being that which you need in order to move along. Furthermore, you're being asked to tune into yourself for answers on where you'd like to go next, as no one else can tell you. People don't just go out on the lake for peace and quiet, they go to find a piece of themselves and to tune into that for spiritual guidance. May the boat be your lucky charm this full moon, pile 1. Not just to find yourself on the open water, but to connect you with other shores as well.

Pile 2. Sunflower Seed + Pink Heart

Queen of Cups, Queen of Swords, 4 of Cups; Vesta - Hearth, Love (Pink); Full Moon Virgo - You Are Good Enough

"Beauty raises my vibration; I seek it for joy."

For the rest of this month, you are focusing solely on your own needs. Like it or not! [blows coach whistle] But no, seriously, I'm not getting busybee vibes from this pile, I'm getting "poor dehydrated bee that's fainted on a flower" kind of feel. Maybe you're actually dehydrated and tired! This could also be true for your garden if you have one. You may need extra TLC around this full moon. You've been stretching yourself too thin but you'll be in much-deserved receiving mode in order to heal. I like that two Queens showed up and one of them is of Swords. She knows better than to spend her precious time worrying over the trifling things. She knows when to disconnect and tune into what's important. And Queen of Cups says that important thing is your own emotional wellbeing and comfort.

Your quote card features a person standing at the peak of a mountain with arms stretched out towards the moon in accomplishment. You either are or have been working intensely on something for the last few months. It either has or will soon come to a full head and with that comes a surge of expended energy. Similar to midterms or the week before a holiday when the workflow doubles. It's a crunch time! Since it's summer and you may not be in midterms or busy on vacation, this could be a reference for later this year or fiscal quarter. Take care that this busy time coming up isn't going to drain you.

You could have opportunities come up near the middle of autumn that's gonna want your attention. You'll want to be fully hydrated and refreshed for when it finally shows up. The 4 of cups can sometimes be about blind spots, or the blessings we don't see readily available because we're too tired and burnt out to really see what's there. It's highlighting this opportunity and wants you to make the most of it.

You could be feeling a strong pull to stay at home and focus on your craft, project, or hobby. Perhaps you're busy squeezing out the most free time you can while you have it. Again, avoid the sense of pushing like "oh man, I only have a week of summer vacation left oh geez what do I do?!" It's not a matter of sitting around and doing nothing all vacation only to hurt ourselves trying to be On 24/7 for a semester. That's not sustainable. Make the most out of your time, but make sure you have time carved out in between the high energy weeks of being productive. A sunflower without water can't stand and a bee without rest can't fly!

Pile 3. Clover Patch + Red Heart

XVII Star, XVI Tower, XV Devil; Progressions - Journey, Anger (Red), Waxing Crescent - Have Faith in Your Dream

"I gather more wisdom each day."

This pile … hoo boy. This would be my pile if I had to choose one, so I'm with y'all on this. Okay, I got the instant message that you are trying to manifest something very VERY big right now. I mean big like new car, apartment, longterm relationship, just something that's gonna upgrade and transform your life in a big way. It could even be education as one of the cards has a book in center. The thing is, Rome wasn't built in a day. Neither is your manifestation gonna instantly appear when you're desperately trying for it to cause desperation doesn't usually bring positive outcomes, it usually winds up with Fun With Dick and Jane type scenarios to play out. Also stress.

You have three major arcana cards in a row, with the tower card smacked right in the middle like a spicy sandwich cookie (would I even try one?) So I get it. This is likely a very significant full moon for you, supercharged as it's an Aquarian supermoon, and you got Aquarian Star as your first card, so emotions will be running a bit hot. Unpredictable swings. Sudden "bursts". But don't suppress your feelings of frustration, you'll just need to redirect these emotions differently.

You gotta be patient and watch it unfold organically. Even if you're manifesting the demolition of something, there is strategy to it. Demolition workers don't just go in and do what they please, they have to be mindful of their surroundings and what impact they'll make when they make it. When gardeners prune, they're mindful of the angle of the cut, knowing that the right cut can grow just as the wrong cut can infect. Let things go as they may. Things can start moving smoothly or quite abruptly, so focus from a place of expecting that it's already coming and strategize from there. You got the Star card, so something fortunate is indeed coming for you. There is a little Leprechaun luck on your side. It'll be easier to see that once you're able to move past old blockages that are delaying your manifestation. Listen to the leprechaun and not the little voice on the other shoulder telling you that you need to panic over the small things.

See the current time you have as a manifestation in itself, as a product of you believing that you need extra time to cook up the right end goal. See this time you have as a blessing, not just an in-between state. Make good use of this time. There is no reason why the process can't be as fun as the destination. Your inner child is being subtly asked to come out to play for a spell. This pile may be into doing witchcraft spells; if so, grab a little glitter and sprinkle some magic into your day, especially a time-based spell like a growing plant or burning a candle. If anything, it will boost morale which is often more important for manifestation than simply applying routine and logic to everything. I'm also getting that journaling may be of interest to you, whether it's writing down meditation notes or affirmations or just venting. Get creative even and write a poem about your wishes. Try to incorporate more writing in general into your moon magic. (Thoth would be pleased.)

This reading has not been evaluated by the FDA to diagnose, prevent, treat, or cure any disease or infection. Please ask your physician before going online.

2023, @VitaminseeTarot ™

[oceansabove]

2025 book bingo update #2 - book bingo I made!! Progress: 40%. If you are interested I have this on Storygraph - dm me for the link :) So far in 2025 I have read 12 books, but two of them didn't check off any of these boxes. See my last update here.

Book I've wanted to read for over 5 years: Night Sky With Exit Wounds, by Ocean Vuong. 4.25 stars. I’ve wanted to read this since I got entranced by the title on mid-2010’s-tumblr, and, though I appreciate all of Ocean Vuong’s work, I think I would have enjoyed this collection more in the mid 2010s, and I think his other books are better.

Book that changed my worldview:  Illness as Metaphor, by Susan Sontag. 5 stars. I’ve been thinking about the opening quote to this book for a long time, and I’m glad I finally got around to reading it. It pairs very well with The Emperor of All Maladies, which I read last summer. As someone who researches the psychology of disease, I found it fascinating, especially to look at a disease that once was shrouded in mystery but is now much better understood and connect that to my own current work on long COVID. Fr mysterious causality is a blank canvas upon which we project our own anxieties and “our shallow attitude toward death.” But ymmv if this isn’t a topic you find interesting. I will be continuing to think about the allure of mysterious causality in the construction of metaphor. And disease as consumption. Anyway.

Unbearably pretentious lit fic (affectionate): The Plague, by Albert Camus. 4.5 stars. Another heavy hitting disease psychology read. Unfortunately I don’t think I’m the target audience for this book because it’s apparently an allegory for the Nazi invasion of France, and I am more interested in applying it to other disease outbreaks. But Camus really hit the nail on the head with the ending, and I’ve been thinking so much lately about the appropriate response to disasters that are almost entirely out of our hands. I also found the mid-20th-century setting interesting - though Camus had some medical historical inaccuracies, that’s an era I don’t often see represented in disease fiction. I appreciate the juxtaposition of the emergence of some modern antibiotics with the realization that in the end modern technology may fail - very prescient with antibiotic resistance on the rise.

Hopeful post-apocalyptic book: The City in Glass, by Nghi Vo. 4.5 stars. You gotta go into this book and just have the mindset that you’re along for the ride. It was a great ride. Very fantastical. Nghi Vo is a storyteller I trust. I’ll forever be in awe at her ability to create an entire world that feels like it’s on the level of a 300k word series in about 100 pages. And yeah, this book is about rebuilding something you love from literally nothing even though it takes everything you have.

Short story collection: Exhalation, by Ted Chiang. 4.5 stars. I think sometimes short stories, especially spec fic, work best when they ask the question “wouldn’t it be fucked up if” and Ted Chiang does that well and also throws in some existential questions. Very creative, really making the most of the genre.

Previous prompt fills: Book that takes place over 100+ years: The Djinn Waits a Hundred Years, by Shubnum Khan; Translated work: Please Look After Mom, by Kyung-sook Shin; Debut book: The Skin and Its Girl, by Sarah Cypher; Book that takes place mostly underwater: Our Wives Under the Sea, by Julia Armfield; Book with a metamorphosis: Annihilation, by Jeff VanderMeer

[dolisi]

Daily Saris Verse: The Thought of Creation

As we continue our exploration of the “Pelomuni” or “The Awakening,” we reach a significant moment in the Saris creation story. Today’s verse reveals the first thought of creation—a thought not born from need, but from the desire to explore the infinite possibilities within Nu’s boundless consciousness.

Chapter 1: Pelomuni (The Awakening)

Verse 7

English: “And from this ripple, a thought arose—a thought of creation. Not a creation to fill a void, for Nu was complete in itself, but a creation to explore the depths of possibility, to bring forth that which had never been.”

Dolisi: “A ishereti zume va, isiyonelu eyun—nesun eyun mu. Igu hri vunin nesun nulis, bowas Isuni ajuhrosam Nu Li ga, vo chahridaru hri nesun omu tsusheri mu, simaru hri zu ko hronesunu vunumin.”

Dolisi Script:

Commentary on Verse 7:

Verse 7 marks the emergence of the first conscious thought within Nu, specifically a "thought of creation." This verse is significant because it introduces the concept that creation is not born out of necessity or lack, but out of a desire to explore the infinite potential within Nu’s consciousness.

The "ripple" mentioned in the previous verse now gives rise to a distinct thought—a conscious decision by Nu to begin the process of creation. This thought is pivotal because it represents the first instance of intention within Nu’s vast consciousness. It is the moment when the boundless possibilities within Nu start to take shape as distinct ideas, setting the stage for the unfolding of the universe.

The verse carefully distinguishes this creation from the idea of filling a void. The phrase "for Nu was complete in itself" emphasizes that Nu did not create out of need or deficiency. Unlike many creation myths where the act of creation is driven by a need to fill an emptiness or address a lack, here, Nu’s creation is an act of pure volition. It reflects the idea that Nu, in its infinite completeness, seeks to explore and express the possibilities within its own being.

This "thought of creation" is thus an expression of Nu's desire to "explore the depths of possibility." This phrase underscores the vastness of Nu’s potential, suggesting that even though Nu is all-encompassing, the act of creation allows it to manifest and experience aspects of its own consciousness in new and diverse forms. The goal of creation is not to fulfill a need, but to bring forth "that which had never been"—to manifest the unmanifested, to realize the potential within the infinite mind of Nu.

For the Saris, this verse is crucial in understanding the nature of the universe as an intentional and voluntary act of creation by Nu. It teaches that creation is a deliberate exploration of potential, an ongoing process driven by the desire to bring forth new realities. This perspective reinforces the Saris' view of the universe as fundamentally good, born from the intentional and thoughtful act of a complete and benevolent creator.

Moreover, this verse highlights the concept of creativity as a divine attribute. In Saris thought, the act of creation is not merely a mechanical process but a deeply meaningful expression of the divine will. It suggests that the purpose of existence is tied to the exploration and realization of potential, both on a cosmic scale and within individuals, who may see themselves as participants in this ongoing creative process.

This idea of creation as an exploration of possibility also serves as a philosophical foundation for the Saris' approach to life. It encourages a mindset of openness, curiosity, and creativity, aligning with the belief that existence itself is a canvas for the expression of potential—a belief that is reflected in the Saris’ cultural, spiritual, and intellectual pursuits.

Join us tomorrow as we continue to uncover the unfolding of creation in the Saris tradition, one verse at a time.

[thequeensgrimoire]

Deck Interview! The Alleyway Tarot

Greetings all! I've recently gotten three new decks from Seven Dane Osmund and am excited to do my first new deck interview in quite a while - a spread for the new mismatched Tarot deck I picked up, which is called The Alleyway Tarot.

I'll be using the deck interview spread from queerjusticetarot.com, shown in a screencap below, and you can find their spreads linked here if you'd like to check them out!

Now without further ado, let's continue with the interview down below...

I love this deck already, it's energy is nice to work with and seems very easy to shuffle and intuitive to use.

What major lesson are you here to help me learn? High Priestess - Pure intuition and magic, a divine muse of inspiration. This deck is here to help me be inspired and open to magic, to learn to take opportunities and not to hesitate or doubt myself in a reading, a magical working, or in life.

Through what energy can we best communicate? 9 of Pentacles - With adult maturity, a stable mindset and centered sense of self, and a commitment to putting in the work. The energy needs to be a balance of enjoyment and a willingness to work hard for the results - not a slackers deck.

In what area can you help me to help others? The Devil - In the area of allowing them to be their true, basic self. This card if about the body and ones wants and desires not as controlling, terrible things, but as natural and unavoidable. It's going to be most useful in the area of helping people accept who and what they are, and not trying to force people into something they aren't. Truth to the self.

In what area is your guidance most easily understood? 8 of Cups, Reversed - This deck's guidance will be most clear in the area of assessment, in waiting and watching or in giving signs on when to move on and when to stick things through. It's a deck of moderation, not just in refusing excess or restriction but in moderation between choices or opposing forces.

What can I do to keep our communication clear? Ace of Cups - Keep your heart open for the new, and treat each reading as a primal origin and a blank canvas from which new insights can emerge. Accept the reading as it is with an open heart - not good, not bad, just being.

How can I use your guidance for the highest good? Queen of the Cauldron - When you read with this deck, it's guidance is that of motherly advice, or of an assured mentor's guiding hand. When using the guidance of this deck, do so with the firm confidence and gentle touch of a wise, maternal figure - never condescending or haughty, but assured of ones own intuition.

How will I know when we're ready for a new lesson? Ace of Pentacles - You will know it's time for the next lesson when the opportunity presents itself, plain and simple. It will be offered, not made, but it will come either way.

[fioras-resolve]

"Games mean via their dynamics."

It's a sentence I've heard a few times from different people. These are professional game designers, who have thought a lot about this art form. I think a lot about this art form too, which is why I seek out every talk, interview, and book I can find on the topic. And these people are trying to find the answer to "How do games create meaning?"

"Games mean via their dynamics."

This is a reference to the MDA framework, which stands for Mechanics, Dynamics, and Aesthetics. It was some game scholars' attempts in the mid-2000s to put a science to the art of game design. In this framework Mechanics, which are the rules and logic behind the game, create Dynamics, all the interactions and behaviors that happen at runtime. These then create Aesthetics, the underlying feelings of the game, the reasons why we play it. As an example, a shooter having a low ammo count (Mechanic) forces you to conserve your ammo, (Dynamic) which leads to an atmosphere of tension and caution. (Aesthetic) Designers are trying to achieve specific aesthetics, but only have direct control over the mechanics. That middle layer makes all the difference, and that can be frustrating.

"Games mean via their dynamics."

This is an interesting thing for me, as a burgeoning game designer. I like to think that stories, characters, and themes can be conveyed through mechanics. A lot of my work on games like Fiora was done with this exact mindset. But what this sentence means is that I can create all the mechanics I want, deciding for myself what they mean, but all of that intent vanishes as soon as it gets in the hands of a player. And that terrifies me.

Games mean via their dynamics.

If a designer puts a mechanic into a game, and it creates no dynamics, does the mechanic mean anything? I think about this a lot when looking back on Fiora: Full Bloom, possibly my most well-known title. It's a turn-based RPG, made using the vestigial functions of an engine designed for walking simulators. It has a lot of clever ideas, and I'd recommend you play it to see them, but relevant to our conversation is this: The stats and formulas underlying Fiora's combat are deliberately obfuscated. It shows you attributes like Power and Resilience, but they don't mean what you think they mean, and it's on you to interpret their functions. I actually included a stat, called Logic, which does nothing. Literally nothing, it does not matter whether you raise or lower it. This was meant as a "checkmate, atheists" kind of burn, as logic alone cannot get one out of an emotional spiral. But crucially, in early versions at least, I didn't *tell* anybody that Logic was a useless stat. I wanted people to come to their own conclusions, hopefully realizing naturally that Logic doesn't do anything, and questioning what that means. I wanted players to create their own understanding of the mechanics, to have Fiora be a canvas of interpretation. But...

Games mean via their dynamics.

Ultimately, the open interpretation canvas didn't work. I'm sure for some people it did, but most players ended up confused, nonplussed, or just checking the guide I wrote. The game hid its true colors too well, and most people only connected with its message *after* checking the guide. The game was just better when it was explicit, and it was more meaningful once players understood the mechanics. A mechanic inert, standing in the code, means nothing unless the player experiences it.

A mechanic on its own cannot create an aesthetic, there *must* be a dynamic.

I'm working right now on a party game about pirates and capitalism, getting extremely antsy waiting for the first playtest. I have all these high-minded ideas of what the game is about, but ultimately the players are the ones who decide what the game is. In his talk, "Dynamics: The State of the Art," Clint Hocking argues that a multiplayer game like Go, Badminton, or Street Fighter might not mean much innately, but an individual session can be loaded with meaning. Go isn't "about" a conflict between traditionalism and progressivism, but Shūsai vs Kitani was. Two kids playing Badminton in the backyard might not be particularly rigorous, but a game between Djokovic and Federer can influence a nation's view of its own national identity. A fight in Street Fighter isn't really about Ryu vs Ken, but about two players with different ideas of what the game is about, fighting to see who's wins. By this framing, a game means something different each session. The mechanics just give players the tools to create meaning of their own.

Games mean via their dynamics.

This is death of the author, only so much worse. At least in a book, the words are the same. Each word might mean different things to different people, but we can still have a consistent idea of what a sentence, in the abstract, "means." A movie may be interpreted in countless ways, but it's still the same shots, the same cuts, the same directorial decisions. It's still the same story, you know? But when you make a game, each player will have a different story, even in a largely linear affair. Your playthrough of Pokemon Legends: Arceus will not be the same as mine, it will have different characters, different challenges, different arcs. Your player character may have been a trainer or a surveyor, but mine was a hunter. And that was achieved through my personal interaction with the game's mechanics.

It was achieved through the dynamics.

This is *why* Roger Ebert said that games could never be art! Creative control isn't strict enough, the creator doesn't get to decide what the game is about, they don't even decide what it *is!* But he said that over a decade ago, and he's dead now, so who really cares anymore? Well, I do. Not because I'm insecure about the legitimacy of games as an art form, but because I worry that my game's meaning is out of my control. I can say that my game is a critique of capitalism, but is it really? Will people really come out of this game liking capitalism less? Or will I fall into the Monopoly trap of making capitalism fun? It's not about what I personally want, because like,

Games mean via their dynamics!

In the 2010s the popular conception of games was that they are "empathy machines," letting you understand someone's situation in a way only games can allow. This was a big part of the conversation surrounding games like Depression Quest, Dys4ia, and Cart Life. But is that what they're trying to be, and are they successful? In his talk, "You Have No Idea How Hard It Is to Run a Sweatshop," Soren Johnson talks about the ways games have tried and failed to create empathy in audiences. A game that put you in the role of a poor person made players think the poor just need to ration their money better. A game that made you a sweatshop manager to show how increasing quotas make you sell more of your soul ended up creating more empathy for the managers than the workers. All of the mechanics were in place to make a pointed message about the state of our world, but when put in the hands of players they sent the exact opposite message.

Games mean via their dynamics.

This is all very high-minded and academic, from someone who cares about this stuff a lot. But maybe it's overthinking things a little? Like, both Hocking and Johnson say that games are about their dynamics, and not their cutscene narrative. But does it have to be an either-or? While people who don't give a shit about mechanics and play games for the traditional stories are enjoying games in a very different way than I tend to, I wouldn't say they're enjoying games Wrong. I think game literacy requires an understanding of how gameplay creates meaning, but that doesn't mean games have to be "pure" in their ludic narrative. I think back to Ian Danskin's video about Bastion, where he points out that there is no pure storytelling medium, and that all stories bastardize the medium they're told in. But every medium gives a unique method for telling stories, that we shouldn't dismiss just because they're not "pure" forms of the medium. Games mean via their dynamics, and they mean via many other things too, and that array of possibilities is what gives games their character. So just, make games, you know?

I wrote most of that last night, and now today's the day of my playtest. I think I'll be okay with whatever happens. Whatever dynamics the game creates will help guide my development in the coming weeks. I can't control the dynamics, and that's the beautiful thing about them. But I can create the right conditions for fun, entertaining, and thought-provoking dynamics. The designer of a playground can't control how the kids play, but they can influence it by giving them the means to make their own fun. Playgrounds are an art. And I encourage you, if you've gotten this far, to think harder about the meaning created by the games you play. Not just by the dialogue, or the cutscenes, or the "story" as it were, but by the moment-to-moment interactions in the game's dynamics. Think about what the game does to you, and what kind of person it makes you. Because I love this medium, and I hope I've made you love it just a little bit more.