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vilevenom · 1 day ago

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Shadow gets captured by someone, is tested on and tortured. Sonic and gang try and rescue him. After they find him, Sonic panics because his boyfriend is near death.

Idk how to end this lol

Hello, Anon!

I'm going to assume you were the same anon from my previous prompt/ask? I sure hope so, 'cause as much as I love writing hurt Shadow, I only have one idea for this particular prompt, lol I hope you like it!~ P.S - I may have gone a little ham on the torture scenes? Uhm...not too descriptive, but enough, I think, so please be mindful of that.

Shadow groaned as he slowly came back to consciousness, his eyelids feeling heavy as he blinked groggily against the dim lighting in the room he was in. The heavy, sluggish feeling permeating his limbs was not one he was familiar with, as usually, if he was knocked out, his healing factor would kick into overdrive and fix most of what was ailing him. This time, however, something seemed to be off.

"Ah, you're awake."

With a disgruntled grunt, Shadow turned his gaze in the direction the voice had come from. An involuntary noise of surprise left him when he found Doctor Starline, of all people, stood before him.

"You were crushed to death," the disoriented hedgehog grumbled, squinting at the doctor, as if his eyes were deceiving him.

"So everyone thinks," Starline said with a shrug, wandering from the doorway he'd been stood in to stand in front of Shadow. It was then that the dark hedgehog got a proper good look at the doctor. A rather nasty looking scar ran from near his temple, down towards his jaw, while he visibly walked with a limp, and one shoulder didn't seem to sit quite right in its socket. The doctor smirked lightly at noticing Shadows scrutinizing stare, gesturing towards his injuries. "It's rather nasty, what being trapped under rubble will do to a person, isn't it?"

"Death would've suited you better," Shadow agreed, a sharp, dark grin of his own splitting his lips. For his trouble the doctor snarled, reaching forward to grab at the collar Shadow hadn't realized was secured around his neck. He choked as the doctor yanked him forward in the chair he'd only just realized he was strapped to, still a bit drowsy and unsure as to how the doctor was able to manhandle him so easily.

"Enjoy your little barbs while you can," Starline snapped, tugging the collar hard enough so Shadow visibly gagged, "I don't think you'll be so chatty once I've gotten started with you."

"And what is it you plan to do with me?" Shadow gasped once Starlin let him go and took a swift step back.

"Well," Starline hummed, suddenly sounding giddy, which set Shadow's quills on edge, "Finish the good Doctor Robotnik's work, of course."

"Ivo?" Shadow murmured, confused.

"What? No, no," Starline snorted, flipping on a few additional lights so the room was properly illuminated, "That fool doesn't have proper vision for this sort of work. He's too fixated on that damnable blue hedgehog and his robots." Starline chuckled as Shadow took in the medical equipment and monitors littered around the room. "No. Gerald Robotnik, of course."

"The professor was trying to find a cure for his granddaughter," Shadow snarled, yanking roughly against the bonds holding him down, anger spiking at the fact that they did not give way. He barred his fangs at Starline as the doctor chuckled at his struggle.

"True. But, his research has so many other applications. First, Ivo's additional notes about your Black Arms DNA sheds some fascinating light on your abilities. Add to that what Gerald was already experimenting with on the ARK, and you have so much hidden potential within you." Starline strode back over to Shadow, flicking the dark hedgehog in the nose with a smirk and simply chuckling at the low growl he received for it. "I plan to dig deep into that research and see what makes you tick."

"Hey, have you seen Shadow?"

Tails glanced up from his work bench with a light frown. "No. Why?"

Sonic sighed, tapping his foot in irritation. "He was supposed to come by, like, half an hour ago. We were planning on going for a run, and then maybe grabbing lunch after."

"He's late for a date?" Tails teased, earning a light blush from his older brother.

"Shut up," Sonic grumbled, rubbing at his warm cheek.

Tails simply chuckled, going back to his work. "Relax. He probably got caught up doing something with Rouge, or called away by GUN for a mission."

"Yeah, you're probably right," Sonic sighed, pulling his phone from his quills, "He just usually texts me when he can't show up to something…"

The scream that rang through whatever base Starline had Shadow hidden away in was loud, and riddled with pain. It wasn't a sound that Shadow let lose willingly, either. The hybrid had discovered, once he'd managed to properly wake up and become a bit more lucid, Starline had added some sort of devices to his inhibitors that nearly cut him off entirely from his natural chaos energy. He could only assume that the collar around his neck added to their potency, or was some sort of separate contraption that weakened him on its own. Either way, with his new accessories, Shadow found he was at the doctors mercy, unable to even muster enough strength to break the leather straps binding him to his seat. As such, the doctor was taking full advantage, having attached little electrodes to various spots on Shadows body to "test his electrical resistance", according to the doctor.

Shadow was fully convinced that the doctor was just having fun torturing him while he was unable to defend himself.

"Interesting," the doctor hummed, scribbling down notes while leaving the little device that controlled the electrodes running at a low voltage, watching as Shadow's muscles twitched and convulsed involuntarily, while the dark hedgehog did his best not to bite his own tongue off.

"Hey, Rouge!"

"Hello, Blue," Rouge replied with a smile, looking up from the magazine she was reading, "What can I do for you?" She was sat at a fancy little cafe, conveniently across the road from a jewelry store that Sonic had no doubt the bat was scoping out to rob. However, that really wasn't his concern at the moment.

"Just wondering if Shadow was called off to work on some secret GUN mission? We were supposed to go out a day or two ago, and I haven't heard from him. Normally he'd at least text me to let me know he wasn't going to be around for a few days," Sonic asked, leaning casually against the table, trying not to betray just how worried he really was.

"Hmm," Rouge hummed as she set aside her magazine. "Can't say I've heard from him, either, honestly. But, you know Shadow. Half the time when he does get called away I don't even know about it until he gets back. I'd say, give it at least a week before you start calling in the guard to find your lost boyfriend," she teased, offering Sonic a saucy little wink and chuckling at the flush that spread over Sonic's muzzle.

After three days (at least, Shadow thought it had been three days. There wasn't exactly a good way for him to tell time in the room he was trapped in), Starline had apparently gotten tired of Shadow's screaming and had stuffed a gag into his mouth. His mouth had long since gone dry, and his jaw ached from how it was being held open by the bit between his teeth. Starline seemed to find even that interesting, as he turned Shadow's head this way and that, scribbling down little notes and muttering to himself as he did.

Shadow became grateful for the gag as Starline finally brought out a set of scalpels and began to cut into and peel back the flesh of his arm. It gave him something to dig his teeth into as he tried to keep his mind off the way Starline dug his fingers into exposed muscle and garbled the rough screams that ripped apart his already shredded throat.

"Aw. Why so blue, Sonic?"

"Very funny, Knux."

The echidna chuckled as he strode over to Sonic, flopping onto the grass next to his mopey looking friend. "Couldn't not take the opportunity," Knuckled offered with a shrug, "Seriously, though. What's up? You don't normally visit on your own."

"Can't a guy want to visit his reclusive friend on his floating island without an ulterior motive?" Sonic scoffed, feigning a look of offense.

Knuckles simply raised an eyebrow at him, and Sonic immediately deflated.

"…Shadow hasn't messaged me in a few days."

"Well, damn, guess we gotta call out the troops," Knuckles snorted, grinning at the sharp glare Sonic shot him. "C'mon, you know I'm teasing. Did you talk to Rouge?"

"Yes."

"And?"

"She said to wait at least a week before I get worried."

"Well, then?"

Sonic groaned, shoving himself to his feet. "I know! Why do you think I'm here? C'mon, spar with me. I gotta get my mind off of it. I don't like you being more level headed than me."

Knuckles chuckled, rising to his own feet with a smirk. "Okay. Just remember, you asked for this ass kicking."

Occasionally Starline would let Shadow rest. Sleep would claim him almost immediately, once whatever painful stimulus Starline was using on him was taken away. It was weird for Shadow who very rarely, if ever, truly felt the need to sleep. He certainly enjoyed curling up in his bed at the end of a long day, but it wasn't truly a necessity the way it was for others. But here, in the dank room he'd been trapped in for who knew how long, his body craved it to the point of nearly making him pass out even in the middle of whatever torture Starline had cooked up for him that day.

Generally, when Shadow passed out, his mind went blank, floating in a sea of dark oblivion. However, once in a while he would dream. He knew he had been dreaming, because when he woke he could vaguely recall the blurry images his mind conjured to try and comfort him. Most of which consisted of the color blue in various shades.

At one point, before he could fully pass out, Starline had ripped the gag from his mouth and dumped a glass of water down his throat, which had made him sputter and gag. The doctor had tsked at him and said some asinine comment about Shadow being a mess, which the hedgehog had let drift in one ear and out the other as he coughed red tinted water onto the doctors white jacket. He grinned at the repulsed look Starline had shot him, before the gag was unceremoniously shoved back into his mouth.

Blissfully, the doctor let him pass out for what had to have been at least a few hours after that.

"I brought you some cupcakes, Sonic!"

Sonic offered Amy a smile, taking the little box of baked goods from his friend. "Thanks, Ams. I assume you heard through the grapevine that I've been a bit on edge."

"Tails might've mentioned to me that you've been worried about Shadow," Amy conceded, sitting at the kitchen table. "Did you want to talk about it?"

Sonic sighed, flopping into a chair across from Amy and digging into the box to pull out a bright pink cupcake. "It's dumb."

"It's not, if you're worried."

"Do I even need to be worried?" Sonic peeled away the paper wrapper on the base of the cupcake, "Shadow's a big hedgehog. He can take care of himself. I know he can handle pretty much anything, and he's gone off the radar for weeks at a time before."

"…But?" Amy prompted, watching Sonic unceremoniously shove the entire cupcake into his mouth with a slight grimace.

"But," Sonic echoed around his mouthful of cupcake, pausing to take a moment to chew and swallow before he continued, "Something about this time just feels…different. Like something is off."

"Well, speaking from experience in listening to your gut feelings, maybe something is up. I know everyone else has told you not to worry, but would it really hurt to have Tails run a quick scan to see where Shadow is? His phone has a tracker in it, doesn't it? If he's in an area you know GUN is working, then there really is nothing to worry about," Amy offered, holding a napkin out to Sonic.

"Thanks, Ams," Sonic said with a smile, taking the napkin to wipe icing off his muzzle, "You always know just what I need to hear."

Shadow didn't know when Starline had moved him from the chair to an examination table, but the very idea that he had been so out of it to not notice such a drastic move was worrying to him. His mind was becoming more muddled the longer he was trapped here, and he could barely feel his extremities anymore from how numb they'd become over time. Slowly, the thought that he might die in this dingy room crept into his mind.

When Starline appeared next to the examination table in a full doctors smock and facemask with a scalpel in hand, the thought slammed into the forefront of his mind like a freight train. He struggled weakly against his bonds as the doctor lowered the scalpel towards his abdomen, his mind screaming at him that he couldn't succumb to such a fate. He couldn't let this crazed asshole pull him apart and kill him in such an undignified way. Maria would be so disappointed in him. Sonic would never know what happened. He'd think Shadow had abandoned him.

"Enough of that," Starline snarled, lifting the scalpel, only to stab it viciously into Shadows bicep for his effort, the dark hedgehog letting a garbled wail of pain out around his gag. Starline left the little makeshift dagger in his arm and grabbed another, before proceeding to cut into Shadow's belly.

The pain pulled Shadow into oblivion, his tired and damaged body unable to keep his mind awake as Starline began to poke around in his guts.

"I…I can't find him," Tails admitted after his tracking program ran for the fifth time. Sonic growled lowly behind him, while Amy let out a distressed little noise.

"Scour every known Eggman base for any trace of him. I'm going to call Commander Tower," Sonic snapped, suddenly wishing he'd listened to his gut sooner. Or, at the very least, spoken to Amy first.

"He could be on a blackout mission," Tails offered, turning to watch as Sonic walked out of his work room.

"That's why I'm going to call the Commander," Sonic ground out, pausing in the doorway, "Please, Tails. Look at the bases. Something isn't right. I can feel it."

"Wake up."

Shadow groaned as he owlishly blinked open his eyes, squinting against the light that was shoved in his face. He made an inquisitive noise as Starline moved the light away, his mask tugged down to show a rather unhinged grin. Shadow frowned as much as he could around the gag in his mouth as Starline brandished something at him, the doctors hand dripping red.

It took far too long for Shadow's sluggish brain to realize Starline was holding one of the hybrids organs in his hand, still connected to the hedgehog, but only just barely. He couldn't really tell which it was with the way his vision was turning dark around the edges and his eyes were having trouble focusing. Shadow made a wounded noise as Starline squeezed it gently.

"Isn't this fascinating?" Starline asked, sounding borderline manic, "You're still alive and conscious with your organs being removed. True enough that they're still functionally attached, but the implications!" He let out a crazed little laugh, setting the organ to the side. "I can see why Doctor Robotnik thought you were the key to immortality. Your body's ability to heal and maintain functionality is incredible."

Shadow let out a weak growl at the way Starline spoke and got into his face, not in the least bit regretful as the doctor moved back to twist the scalpel he'd stabbed into his arm previously. At least Starline wasn't in his face anymore.

"We found him!"

"How long will it take to get a task force put together?"

"How did Starline survive?!"

"Move it!"

Sonic's quills bristled at the commotion around him, his friends and GUN agents alike running around behind him. But his focus was solely on one thing - the tiny dot on the screen telling him exactly where Shadow was.

A harsh burst of wind and a blur of blue whipped through the room as Sonic took off, ignoring the shouts called after him to wait until the others had a plan of attack.

He had a plan. Attack.

The next time Shadow woke, he was pleasantly surprised to find that Starline had the decency to put his organs back inside him, even if he could still tell that his torso was split open and on display to the world. He figured that the damp feeling on the table that had soaked into his fur was likely blood. He wondered idly how much longer he could survive without food or water, with the wounds he'd been sustaining, when he had barely a trickle of chaos energy flowing into his body.

Perhaps he truly would die in this room. At least he'd get to see Maria and Gerald again. That would be nice. Though, he was sorry he'd never get to explain to Sonic that he hadn't meant to abandon him. He'd actually been looking forward to their stupid little date of a race and chili dogs. That conversation seemed like so long ago, now. Sonic had been bouncing on his toes as he'd proposed his idea to Shadow, a bashful little blush on his muzzle, despite the fact that it was no different than any other time they had spent time together. Shadow had found it stupidly endearing.

He choked quietly around his gag as he felt tears build up in his eyes. For everything that Starline had done to him, he'd not cried. But, the thought of disappointing Sonic, of not getting to speak to him again, had finally brought him to tears. He tried to hold them back, not wanting to give the doctor the satisfaction of seeing him cry, but the tears dripped down his temples unbidden as he stared forlornly up at the ceiling.

The tears, however, came to an abrupt stop as an explosion sounded somewhere in the distance, but close enough that the room shook. Shadow gasped as a heart monitor near the table he was strapped to crashed to the floor, wide eyes trained on the door. There were only two things that an explosion like that could be; Starline fucking up another experiment somewhere in the hell hole Shadow was trapped in, or a rescue team. Shadow desperately hoped it was a rescue team.

The door to the room burst open not a moment later, Starline looking haggard and frenzied as he stumbled into the room. Shadow watched him in trepidation as the doctor raced around the room as quickly as his limp would let him, gathering notebooks and loose papers. Shadow could hear him muttering to himself as he stuffed everything he gathered into a bag, his gaze finally landing on Shadow as he turned to leave the room. Shadow squirmed against the bonds holding him down as Starline stalked towards him, his body still too weak and damaged to break free. His heart began to beat wildly as Starline snatched up another scalpel, his sluggish mind idly wondering if Starline could see just how quickly his heart was pumping with his chest splayed open as it was.

Shadow could tell Starline was saying something, though whether it was supposed to be directly at him or to himself he had no idea, the words fading into a buzz in his ears. His focus had zeroed in on the scalpel as Starline raised it above his head, obviously planning to stab Shadow to death with the tiny implement. The urge to shut his eyes was strong, but Shadow wanted to stare death in the eye as it came for him. He let out a low snarl as the scalpel came down towards him, only to blink in surprise as Starline disappeared from his view and a blue blur raced passed him.

Sonic.

Shadow squirmed weakly against his bonds, his ears swiveling towards the sound of something smashing in the room and the soft sound of shattered glass raining down on the floor. He could hear Sonic growling, which, even in the most dire of situations Shadow had never heard before. Starline screamed something, with only the sound of more equipment in the room being destroyed answering him. He tried to turn his head, only to wince at the pain that caused, and looked back towards the ceiling. Apparently, at some point, Starline had sliced into Shadow's neck around his collar, most likely when he'd been passed out.

His ears perked as Starline screamed again, though it was abruptly cut off, followed by the doctor flying across the room, back into Shadows line of sight, and smashing into a shelf of random equipment. He slumped to the ground, obviously knocked out from the impact. Shadow let out a vindictive little growl at the sight, pleased as punch that Sonic blatantly didn't go easy on Starline, if the smattering of red, weeping wounds on the doctor was anything to go by. He jerked as Sonic strode into view, wriggling against his bonds as an uncharacteristic whine left him, finally catching the blue hedgehogs attention.

"Shadow!" Sonic gasped, racing to the table to immediately begin working on untying Shadows bonds. "What did he do to you?! Chaos," he muttered, staunchly ignoring the fact that he could see inside his partner.

Once one of Shadows hands was free he weakly lifted it to his mouth to rip the gag away from his mouth, working his sore jaw with a low groan. "He wanted to see what made me 'tick'," Shadow finally croaked, his throat revolting against the simple sentence. It felt like Starline had stuffed it full of razorblades. Maybe he had.

"That's not funny, Shadow," Sonic growled, finishing off with freeing Shadow's feet. He dared not move the hybrid until the GUN unit finally arrived. He was fairly certain that if Shadow even sat up right now his guts would go spilling across the floor. He moved back up the table, trying his best to focus on his partners face, and not the horrific evidence of what had happened to him over the last five days. He let a shaky hand slowly card through Shadow's quills - one of the only parts of his body not soaked in blood. He heaved a heavy breath, fighting back tears as they gathered in his eyes. "I'm so sorry."

"What for?" Shadow asked, tugging idly at the collar still wrapped around his neck. He wanted to rip it off, but without knowing exactly how it was effecting his body, he dared not, given how close he believed he probably was to death at the moment.

"For not coming sooner," Sonic gasped, ducking his head as the tears forced their way down his cheeks. "When you didn't show up for our date, or even text, I thought something might be wrong. But everyone told me to wait. That it wasn't unusual for you to drop off the radar without notice. I should've listened to my gut. I should've looked for you sooner."

"Hush," Shadow murmured, hating how his hand trembled as he lifted it to brush against Sonic's face, frowning as it smeared blood across a peach cheek. "S'not your fault," he sighed, swallowing against the dryness in his throat, only to cough quietly after doing so and wincing at the pain that shot through his abdomen from the action. He wheezed and Sonic panicked, clutching at Shadow's hand with wide, teary eyes.

"The rest of the team should be here soon, then we'll get you to a hospital," Sonic reassured, "You'll be okay."

"I know," Shadow hummed, he ear swiveling towards the doorway at the tell tale sound of boots running down a hallway. GUN had arrived.

The path to healing was a slow one that drove Shadow insane.

He'd been taken away to a GUN facility to be patched up, and for his recovery regime. Sonic had nearly been barred from visiting, only for Rouge to point out that she or Omega would just sneak him in if GUN didn't allow him clearance. Thus, Commander Tower gave Sonic a special clearance card that would allow him to the medical wing, much to the blue hedgehogs delight. Shadow had no doubt that Sonic was going to use the card to get into much more than the medical wing while he was in recovery.

Stitches were not an experience that Shadow was especially fond of, however the GUN doctor who had patched him up had been worried that putting him under anesthesia while working on him might just finish him off, so he'd been awake during the entire ordeal of having his abdomen stitched closed. Truly, he felt like a cadaver, with the borderline y-incision stitches the doctor had done on him. Sonic had made an mindless comment about how at least Starline had cut him open underneath his chest fluff, so that was mostly undamaged. The distasteful joke had made Shadow laugh, and his laugh had eased a little bit of the stress that had made itself home on Sonic's face, much to his relief.

The inhibitor ring adjustments were the worst parts of what Starline had done to him, in Shadow's opinion. He had used Gerald and Ivo's research notes to create the little add-ons, and they had screwed with his chaos energy enough that they had to be removed one at a time over a lengthy period of time, otherwise his body may go haywire and shut down at the sheer amount of energy that normally occupied it. Luckily, however, the collar was able to be removed right away. It's only purpose appeared to be to physically weaken Shadow, since a lack of chaos energy would only slow him down.

Meanwhile, Starline had been locked up in the deepest, darkest cell that GUN unofficially had. For once, when Shadow made an off-color joke about burying Starline alive, Sonic stayed silent, instead of his usual quip about how everyone should have the opportunity to be free. He'd simply squeezed Shadow's hand gently and stared off into space. Perhaps, just this once, Sonic had changed his mind about the possibility of redemption.

And that was what was slowly, truly driving Shadow insane. Sonic had become quiet since the whole ordeal. He stuck close by Shadow's side during his physiotherapy, offering quiet little comments of encouragement, and he would tell Shadow about his day and read to him while he was trapped in the hospital bed. However, gone were his boisterous declarations of adventure and sarcastic little remarks about the people he came across during his day to day activities. It was like the light in Sonic's soul had been snuffed out while Shadow had been detained.

One day, Shadow had simply had enough.

"I'm not dead, you know."

"…what?" Sonic stopped in his explanation of the latest project Tails was working on while the two of them sat in the GUN cafeteria after one of Shadow's physio appointments.

"I'm not dead. I didn't die. You're talking to me like you would speak to a grave."

Sonic blinked in surprise, sitting back and up at the table, quickly shaking his head. "No I'm not."

"You are. You're speaking to me the way I speak to Maria about my day. You're soft and somber, and it's driving me nuts." Shadow was never really one to mince words, especially not when speaking to Sonic.

"I…I'm sorry?" Sonic looked genuinely confused, his hands falling into his lap, "I didn't realize…"

"I know what you saw was a lot. And I am sorry that you had to see it at all. But it wasn't your fault, and I survived. I need you to be boisterous, and loud, and annoying. I need you to be you, Sonic. I need you to run amok through some top secret area of the base and bring me back a pen from Commander Tower's office, just because you know it will annoy him. I need you to bring a stack of comics into my room and leave them scattered everywhere because you're too excited to finish reading an issue before you move on to the next, while trying to explain the ridiculous plot to me. Please…I feel like Starline killed you when he was trying to kill me."

"Shadow," Sonic breathed, reaching across the table to gently take the hybrids hands into his. "I'm sorry. I just…When I saw you on that table, I really thought I was going to lose you. I guess I still feel like you could slip through my fingers if I hold on too tight."

"Once the last inhibitor is fixed, you can hold on as tight as you want," Shadow soothed, brushing his thumbs across the back of Sonic's hands, "Moderate pressure can currently be handled at this time."

Sonic snorted at Shadow's deadpan joke, a short peel of laughter escaping him as the hybrid offered him a short, lopsided smile.

"There you are."

Sonic sighed and brought one of Shadow's hands up to his lips to press a soft kiss to the back of it. "Well then…I hope you're prepared for me to go full koala once you're all better."

"I don't think I'd have it any other way."

#sonic the hedgehog #shadow the hedgehog #sonadow #sonic fanfiction #doctor starline #things that i wrote #tw: violence #tw: blood #fic prompt

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shai-manahan · 2 days ago

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hi, I sincerely hope I'm not being pushy or anything, and that you're doing ok! I saw your post about the devastating typhoon in your country and know that must be heartbreaking. if it's okay to ask, is Hollowed Minds still being written? I completely understand if it's not, since I (and other readers) know you have probably been going through a lot. I still love and think about your IF everyday to the point it's become a comfort game of mine and gotten me through some tough times with its engaging mysteries and angsty, touching moments, and though I would obviously be sad about it, the mental health and personal circumstances of authors are so much more important than a fan's feelings. I wish you good luck with life regardless of whether this IF is continued or not!

Hi! I appreciate the concern and your love for HM and don't worry because I'm still working on it <3 I know it's been a while, and admittedly it also distresses me that I haven't updated the game yet after all this time. But please be assured that this isn't a story I could ever let go of or even think about canceling no matter what.

Honestly, our country's been through a lot these past few years. My family, friends, and mentors have been through a lot as well. There is increased hostility targeted at marginalized communities everywhere and it's made a huge impact on my writing and my perception towards my own characters. I also find I relate to a lot of them now to an extent I never wished to reach.

It's partly why I decided to make MC someone with Filipino (specifically Tagalog) heritage, why I made their personality a little more preset (while still allowing space for headcanons and a few trait choices), and why I'm making some revisions to make certain details clear upfront.

Also, I suppose I'm just afraid a lot of readers would not get the point of the series itself. We're still at a very early stage of the plot, and while I've gotten anons whose theories have made it clear that they understand what this is eventually leading to, I do get the sense that some might still think of it as a mere cop thriller story when I actually aim for it to be a critic of policing institutions and the system itself. This is something that would be made clear anyway as we progress, but I at least want it to be apparent that MC will never ally nor respect some characters throughout the series, and that there are actions they would never find justifiable/fair.

I haven't posted significant progress updates lately (which is also why Patreon billings are still paused atm) because I don't think I've made enough progress to talk about. I will still answer asks, however, so please feel free to send them if you have questions/concerns/fun asks!

And I'm really glad HM has helped you get through tough times :') I know writing it helps me as well.

#hollowed minds #hollowed minds series #interactive fiction #wip #writing #ask #anon #hollowed minds book one #if wip #interactive novel #progress update

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sprinkleonthatcriticism · 2 days ago

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So I saw someone mention Namy Gaga on here and... well, if you want more context, I'm more than happy to provide links (to videos by Biotex Racoon on Youtube - overall they do a good job at detailing credible information regarding Namy's actions (English subtitles are needed btw)) for more context:

Part 1: https://youtu.be/tYptunXswYI?si=omEUyuajQwhUUZK7

Part 2.1: https://youtu.be/sjwFO6v8j84?si=dqvPyc5ourgKjGYo

Part 2.2: https://youtu.be/hOsdtXk4P_U?si=aSNa9cye6qUarQUi

Part 3: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CcrRkJPeQKg

I'm actually surprised not enough people are aware of her actions, which is actually worrying to me given that she still has her online platforms (Youtube, Deviantart, Tumblr, Insta, Cara, Twitter, etc.) despite the hurt she has caused.

The reason why I'm not showing images/evidence for some of her actions on here is because I want to maintain my anonymity for my own safety (since Namy has had a history of harassing her critics and manipulating her fanbase to harass those who publicly bring awareness to her behaviour) and Tumblr doesn't allow you to share images in an anonymous ask.

If you want a summary of some of the more egregious things she's done, I'll quickly provide one below (with the appropriate disclaimers and content warnings for any readers ofc).

SOME DISCLAIMERS/NOTES:

TO ANYONE READING THIS: Please DO NOT send harassment to either Namy or anyone else involved.

TO ANYONE READING THIS: Please DO NOT contact/harass Namy’s current partner or any of her family as, to my knowledge, they have no involvement in the incidents I’ll be discussing.

TO ANYONE READING THIS: Two things can be true at once. Namy should be held accountable for her actions regardless of her LGBTQ+ experiences AND invalidating/disrespecting the identities of Namy and those involved (her victims included) is bad and sets an awful precedent when it comes to cases like this.

Namy was born in October 1998 and currently lives in Mexico (as per her DeviantArt bio).

At the time the majority of the incidents that I’ll discuss were documented (2015-2024), Namy had been very open about her lesbian identity and a lot of her work features LGBTQ+ characters and relationships (mostly those under the sapphic umbrella). As of me writing this, she still identifies as lesbian/sapphic (“I still like women, I have a sexual and romantic preference for feminine traits, I don't care if the person is a trans girl, an androgynous person or a genderless person or many, as long as they look feminine, I like it”).

For the majority of her online presence, Namy identified as a cis woman, but explored androgynous gender expression (e.g. fashion) in ~2022-2023. As of August 2024, Namy opened up about being genderfluid. While Namy still prefers “she/her” (which I will be using here), she doesn’t mind being referred to as a guy.

Some of the controversies Namy has been involved in have been omitted from this ask, either because they were caused by a genuine misunderstanding, were resolved privately, were just blown out of proportion by some people to justify harassment, and/or will take focus away from the more concerning incidents should I discuss them here.

When discussing some individuals, certain details have be changed/omitted to respect their privacy and to prevent further harassment.

Despite the substantial evidence supporting the testimonies of those she hurt, I regrettably need to state that, until Namy has been trialled and convicted in a court of law, she is innocent until proven guilty (that, however, is a legal disclaimer and should not be misconstrued as me dismissing the aforementioned evidence).

As a FNAF fan since mid-2019, I used to be a casual fan of Namy’s FNAF AU from that time up until mid-2022 (when I first found out about some of the more egregious things she’s done, including what happened to one of her victims) - this is why I know a bit about her AU story and how closely tied the development of it was to the incidents I’ll discuss (essentially tarnishing the legacy of that AU).

While I will give Namy a SMALL benefit of the doubt that she has changed from certain behaviours and mindsets (e.g. transphobia), no amount of “wanting to change” will exempt her from being responsible for the hurt she caused to her victims and any legal consequences that she will have to face for that.

CONTENT WARNING FOR MENTIONS OF:

Predatory/abusive relationships

Inappropriate and illegal/immoral NSFW artwork

Queerphobia including but NOT limited to:

Transphobic remarks

Fetishisation/harmful depictions of bisexual women (in a fictional context in her FNAF AU, but still has worrying implications)

Distasteful remarks regarding ace and pan people

Potentially harmful depictions of sexual abuse and mental health struggles experienced by LGBTQ+ characters (again, in her FNAF AU)

Harassment including but NOT limited to doxxing, sexual harassment, and spreading misinformation

Manipulative behaviours

Using slurs as a means of deriding those with genuine criticisms/concerns

Basically, here is the summary:

Namy has had a long history of creating NSFW artwork condoning/romaticising incest (e.g. one of the romantic pairings in her FNAF AU being of Circus Baby/Brenda and her adoptive mother Ballora/Roselle) and the sexualisation of teenagers/children (e.g. her infamous TOH comic), some of which date back as far as 2014/2015. As of 2024, she claimed that she has removed those pieces from all of her NSFW platforms, but as of me writing this, they're all still up on her Baraag account.

She has swung between condemning and supporting Shadman and his drawings (if you know, you know) whenever it was most convenient for her, claiming that he was one of her inspirations when it came to drawing NSFW artwork herself from a very young age.

In 2018, Namy harassed another FNAF AU creators (Ed00chan), claiming that her FNAF AU was better and making a couple of what I can only describe as harassment drawings (both of which are still on her Deviantart (https://www.deviantart.com/namyg/art/Pero-ke-Mrd-es-esto-NO-706449559) and one of which included the AUs of other artists who I doubt supported her harassment in any way (https://www.deviantart.com/namyg/art/FNAFNG-What-did-you-say-753972002)).

Namy has had a history of being incredibly immature and spiteful towards her critics (not the trolls, I mean those who had genuine concerns about her behaviour). In response to getting kicked out of a Welcome Home Facebook fan group in May 2023, she accused the admins of homophobia (essentially using her identity as a shield) when they were actually concerned about the safety of the other members. In the years prior to this, she had used multiple slurs to refer to her critics, such as "gringo" (a derogatory Latin Spanish term for anyone who is a foreigner, regardless of someone's skin colour or ethnic/cultural background), the n-word, and the r-slur.

In July 2023 (around the time something VERY important happened that I'll discuss later on), Namy made a Tumblr account and made two posts mocking her critics. She has since repurposed it as an ask blog, but that blog was still intended to be used to harass her critics.

In 2015, she made a post on Twitter arguing that medical transition and gender-affirming surgery was a pointless endeavour for trans and gender-diverse people, telling those who have had surgery to get a refund and calling them the latin Spanish equivalent of the f-slur (that screenshot may still be circulating on Tumblr).

In 2018, Namy made an infamous "meme comic" gatekeeping LGBTQ+ experiences (i.e. according to her logic, exploring and coming to terms with your sexuality/gender is a 'decision' and that her advice is 'the most correct') - warning that some of the comments underneath this post are pretty confronting: https://www.deviantart.com/namyg/art/LGBT-Correct-answer-Meme-757868018

In the years to follow, she has been criticised by LGBTQ+ people for a number of things including but not limited to: making distasteful comments about two pansexual characters from her FNAF AU (see in the description of this post (https://www.deviantart.com/namyg/art/FNAFNG-Pride-Month-11-881475230) and Namy's response to one of the comments of this post (https://www.deviantart.com/namyg/art/FNAFNG-Pride-Month-14-966150705)), ignoring the fact that ace and a-spec people can have relationships (translated from one of her Twitter posts in 2021: "As long as a character may be able to feel love, they have the right to have a partner"), pairing bisexual women characters in her FNAF AU with incest jokes (the adoptive daughter of Chica and Stacy/Toy Chica: https://www.deviantart.com/namyg/art/FNAFNG-Photo-album-926228818) and incestuous relationships (Circus Baby/Brenda), pairing Brenda's bisexuality and her trauma from sexual abuse (which she also fetishised in this censored drawing: https://www.deviantart.com/namyg/art/FNAFNG-Freakenda-begins-ECCHI-880842769) with said incestuous relationship without any level of sensitivity or consideration, and tagging an NSFW artwork of Poppy Partridge (a trans woman) from Welcome Home as "futanari" (a hentai genre that has been heavily criticised for fetishising trans and intersex bodies).

On two separate occasions, Namy engaged in predatory, abusive (emotionally and sexually) relationships with 16-17 year-old individuals. One of these relationships took place in 2019-2020 (Evan, a trans man who Namy dated prior to his transition - after their relationship ended, Namy would misgender and deadname him behind his back) and the other in 2020-2021 (Mely) - both of which while Namy was in her early 20s and completely aware of their ages (blackmailing Mely into keeping her age a secret).

As per their testimonies, both Evan and Mely experienced emotional/sexual abuse, romantic grooming, and manipulation from Namy. Biotex's new video details Namy specifically did to them both (warning for some of it can be incredibly distressing to read/hear about).

Namy has defended both of these relationships, even falsifying Mexican laws to downplay how illegal these relationships are (despite the fact that the ages of consent in most provinces in Mexico, including her own, is 18 - and that Mexico does not have "Romeo and Juliet laws").

After Mely cut ties with Namy, Namy allegedly continued to harass her, especially in her comments on the former's Facebook posts. In July 2023, Mely - who had come out about her experiences publicly in September 2022 - filed a lawsuit against Namy (yet to be resolved as of me writing this).

In response, Namy doxxed Mely's full legal name in a video addressing the lawsuit (which has since been deleted) and lied about the relationship, inciting her fanbase to harass Mely. This harassment worsened in December 2023, when Namy released a Google Drive attempting to paint herself as innocent and to victim-blame Mely. The Drive in question has been privated as of me writing this, but it contained screenshots and other evidence confirming that love-bombing and sexual coercion/exploitation among others were involved in this relationship (meaning they could easily be used in to support the victim’s testimony in a court of law).

Namy continues to victim-blame both Evan and Mely, despite privating the Google Drive and claiming to have apologised to both victims.

Since Biotex's newest video came out, there was a third victim (Zoe, who was one of Namy's voice actors for her FNAF AU animations since 2017 (when she was 16)) of Namy's behaviour and who knows how many others she's hurt! Even with the potential argument that Namy had no intent to have a romantic relationship with Zoe, that doesn't ignore the fact that, during 2017, Namy initiated sexually-charged conversations with Zoe, talked about ideas for NSFW art, and requested audio from Zoe to which she responded by saying that Zoe had a "sexy voice".

Thank you for reading.

#Namy Gaga

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cheezeybread · 4 months ago

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Hear me out: You learn how to adapt with magic less use by using smoke bombs

HAHAHAHAHAH

I'm sorry, this is such a genuinely funny thought that I've been trying to write a one-shot for it but it does NOT do it justice!

Anytime YN gets asked a strange question? Smoke bomb.

Overblot?

Smoke bomb

Crowley assigning them too much work?

SMOKE BOMB BABY!!!!!

Some random student asking them out or trying to fight them?

S M O K E B O M B

YN starts getting called the "Ninja" around campus after using smoke bombs for a while. Where do they even get the smoke bombs?? Maybe Sam??? He's insistent that he hasn't sold any to YN....

The running theory is that YN is making them in the old shed on campus....

#someone please write this i'm not good enough #this deserves more justice than I can deliver #or if you can draw #I've been cackling everytime I've thought about this request #twst #twisted wonderland #twst fanfic #twst x reader

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fbfh · 4 months ago

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good news wildcats, I'm finally watching hsmtmts s4. I just finished episode 1 and I am SCREAMING.

toxic ricky is back!!!!!!!!!!! unhinged unstable season 1 ricky my darling!!!! my beloved!!!!!!!!! my pathetic soggy prayers have been answered!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

#anyway it started making my brain too happy so I'm gonna have to pick it up and put it down until I get good n fixated enough to mass consum #but the good news is I'm getting so many ideas for rocks 2 n 3 n 4!!!!!!!!!#it will be a slow and steady process but it's chuggin down the choo choo tracks!!!!!!!!!! I'm working on wrapping up curiosity while I outl #then when I write those probs is when I'll outline cur2-3.#also mike being like “yeah I met your mom in my senior year so uh... be safe”#and ricky's like “don't worry dad I won't get my heart broken”#“......OH. you mean THAT kind of safe.”#I am WAITING AND AGONIZING for them to drop an implied sex scene #i know they probs won't cause it's disney but PLEASE GOD PLEASE #I NEED TO SEE WHAT RICKY LOOKS LIKE ON CAMERA AFTER GETTING HIS FUCKING WORLD ROCKED #PLEASE GOD PLEASE IM BEGGING YOU #anyway yeah #tried to talk to someone about all this and got HORRIBLE rejection sensitive dysphoria so time to delve into fanfiction to cope!!!!!!!!#love writing as a creative outlet!!!!!! love that I have therapy tomorrow!!!!!!!!

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passivenovember · 2 months ago

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do you ever just. read other people's work and realize that your writing is shit? because that's where I'm at right now and it's debilitating.

not to be dramatic. i need desperately to get out of my own head.

#harringrove #this fandom is full of so much talent #it's hard not to compare yourself to others #and it sucks even more when you know that you've got your own flavor #your own feast to bring to the table #it just sometimes feels like other people are baking pies from scratch and I'm showing up to the gathering with something from the shop #idk #at this rate none of my WIPs will get finished because I just hate everything I'm writing right now #nothing is good enough #SOMEONE PLEASE HELP ME OMG

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atlantis-just-drowned · 11 months ago

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If no one reblog this fucking alphabet soon I'm going feral and close my ask box people need to learn how to use this website and stop liking posts

#AAAUUUURGGGGGHHHH #it makes me so sad and angry to see my posts die because no one reblog them #i worked on this for quite literally MORE THAN A WEEK??#someone please explain what's going on #is it not interesting enough?? was the writing not good?? did no one liked it??#i want to cry i don't understand what i did wrong #i know the problem is that people don't know how to use this website but #i still feel like it's my fault somehow??#i'm starting to wonder if doing those headcanons is really worth it #maybe i should just... stop???#going insane #losing my mind #i swear to god #whispers from atlantis #nevermore #nevermore webtoon #nevermore duke #duke nevermore

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waitmyturtles · 2 years ago

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I’m looking forward to crossing off the next episodes of Individual Circumstances tonight, but I also need to get off my chest that even though I’m not done with my essential watching of Bad Buddy, that I’m already preparing to destroy myself by housing Dirty Laundry as fast as I can, because I just CANNOT get enough of Nanon and Ohm. Whew.

If anyone is out there and reading this, and is watching Ohm in 10 Years Ticket, please tell me if 10 Years Ticket is worth watching! (There are so! many! episodes! in 10 Years Ticket.) (So many hour-long episodes, my god.)

(My drama list is just..... out of control at the moment.)

#i'm like a circus juggler with these shows #at least the new employee ended yesterday surprisingly #i've never watched so many shows simultaneously before #but i want to try to get as many done as possible before moonlight chicken starts next week so that my mind is clear for that goodness #someone please tell me if 10 years ticket is good enough to add to my juggling list!#i swear i will also finish bad buddy before moonlight chicken because i'm dying to write my thoughts #bad buddy #dirty laundry #nanon korapat #ohm pawat #10 years ticket

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harrowharkwife · 2 years ago

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swear to god if i open a fanfic ONE MORE TIME only to be greeted with an author's note saying "i asked chatgpt to tell me a story about-" i am going to go fucking NUCLEAR

#it's NEVER tagged!!!#i am so sick and FUCKING tired of hearing about chat bot shit. it's irresponsible tech that is only gonna help spread misinformation #/be used as a tool by corporate America to crank out shitty computer generated content #bc anything is better than having to hire people and pay them what they're worth am i right guys!#my job won't shut up about chatgpt i don't wanna have to see this shit on AO3 dot gov! please! is anything sacred!#I've already started running into endless variations of the same regurgitated paraphrased clearly AI-written garbage misinformation article #half of the time whenever i try to google something! i just keep getting AI generated garbage instead of any actual helpful information #side note: is Google like... super fucking broken for anyone else in terms of 'i can't find any useful information about anything anymore'?#or is it just me?#but AUGH. tech bros will be our downfall i swear to god #keep the AI shit out of art and creative endeavors it's a slippery slope and it's not leading anywhere good #this is fucking nfts all over again #or at LEAST if you're gonna be posting chat gpt prompts to ao3 fucking TAG THEM AS SUCH #I'm at the point where i hear someone say AI or chatgpt in an excited tone of voice #and i just consider it an immediate red flag #I'll delete this later it's unnecessarily cunty and i realize that but my GOD im sick of it #is it not enough that all of these writing bots are training on ao3 fics without the authors consent or permission?#now we have to encourage it by putting AI shit on there to begin with?

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novantinuum · 2 years ago

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damn i dunno what it is about this week but i keep getting kicked down over and over again

#first i had someone call me 'a fucking femboy' on reddit when i tried to share my cosplay #then i have people giving unsolicited 'i don't like X thing' in fic comments #like..?? i'm sorry but it's my genuine opinion that there's zero reason to talk about things you don't like in free fic #just don't comment if you don't like something...?#this isn't a product that is being rated it's free entertainment and it occupies the tinniest space online #no one is going to be hurt if it isn't a perfect paragon of perfection #please just give authors encouragement instead of going on about 'what didn't work for you' i'm not looking for crit #i just do this to relax at the end of the day #i don't aspire to write professionally #it's such a kick in the gut as a writer because all i can ever do is my best but apparently that's not good enough #jen rambles

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hauntedhopeghost · 1 month ago

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been debating on what to say for longer than i've expected, going anon for this ( although i mayyy suspect you may already know who i am just by my writing style but- welp! xd ) ; if i say anything even remotely wrong, you are free to ignore this ask /gen

you're enough. i think one big step is learning you don't have to be enough for everyone else because it's impossible to do that. you can't please everyone, you can't not please everyone aswell ; 8 billion people in the world, it's almost destiny that atleast 100 of them will be bothered by your existence, and other 100 will not.

although, it's okay to feel that way. it's okay to feel like you have to please everyone, to feel like you have to make everyone happy, to feel worthless if that's not the case. it's okay and you're allowed to feel that way. you are not to blame for feelings that you cannot control.

i won't say i understand, but as a fellow people-pleaser, i can say that i can atleast get the feeling. and i want you to know that it's okay. feel free to open up, to be vulnerable, to cry, to feel worthless, to feel like you're not good enough, to feel like your entire existence is entitled to only making people happy - you're allowed to feel all of those things and more. that's okay.

embrace those feelings instead of shoving them away, be kind to yourself by allowing yourself to just feel. it's okay.

it's so easy to just say you're worth, but you're not gonna believe me if i say you are. so i ask you to say those things to yourself instead, and the multiple times you feel like that's just luck, or you're being a fraud ; that's when you know you're doing great. that's when you know you are worth much more than what that voice in your head tells you.

your worth as someone is much more than what your acchievements tells you ; accept yourself as someone who is allowed to feel, to mess up, to regret, to cry, to be successful, to be kind to oneself, to feel and be all of those things and more.

that can be quite hard to do, but look how far you've gotten. you're still here, aren't you? easier said than done, i know. and it won't get easy, not even one bit - but, and i mean it genuinely : you got this. you genuinely got this.

not sure what to say anymore, so i'm just gonna say that i'm here if you wanna talk. my dms are open for you , and i will be there to give my support to you just as much as i can.

<- sincerely, a moot.

...

hey. thanks. /gen

I'm surprised that you even bothered to write out the message. it's odd because I had a weird thought of "they'll just ignore it"/"I want someone to notice this."

I'm still here. Yeah. That is something.

(Holy shit you made me cry with this /gen /pos)

I think I've grown relatively desensitized to people caring about me (not because of them, but because I've truly forgotten what it's like to have someone actually comfort you, especially when said person barely knows you.) but I seriously, seriously appreciate people (like you!) that bother to send me messages like this.

it does help make things better. like- seriously.

(still somewhat in shock because why would anyone care about how I'm doing and take time out of their day to write or do anything for my sake?) but I want to say this did make me feel a lot better. not okay, but a lot better. /gen /pos

be kind to yourself. now hang on a minute didn't I write something literally about this-

oh. i guess i'm just not taking my own advice.

#ghost's smol ask box #ghost vents to the void #for the record: yeah. i do know who you are. most likely.#and i want to thank you. i know i did but thank you. thank you.#my blog is currently titled as “imposter syndrome. stop coming in uninvited.” and it sums it up pretty well #it would be so easy to just tell someone to stop. like snap your fingers and suddenly you can internalize the fact that #you are enough and you deserve everything #but it isn't as easy as just saying it to someone #it's so easy to judge people who have a depleted sense of self-worth from an outsiders perspective #and go: “psh- why is this person bending over backwards to please everyone? they are clearly good enough.”#“all of the validation they could ever get is right there in front of them." (even if it's more complicated than that)#*cough cough*#i might not just be talking about me here. there's a certain someone who this also may or may not apply to (try and guess who)#problem is: even if the whole world tells you that you're good <- highly unlikely you'll still see yourself #as undeserving and worthless and everything inbetween #validation/approval addiction is very much a thing and even at the end of the day you KNOW you can't please everybody #you still try even though it's a lose-lose situation at the end.#oopsies i turned this into rambling lol currently trying to get back to writing on ao3 but i'm contemplating deleting all the things #people might not like or might be sick of.#...OH NO-#did the new episode teach me NOTHING 😭#but i'm being serious. this takes so long to try and untangle. especially when your entire life feels like to please people for your worth #maybe i'll write something about it. idk.#it's really hard to be kind to yourself. but I'm trying. /gen #i wish younger me can hear this. they seriously need this.

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unclefungusthegoat · 8 months ago

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#delete later just need to write it down to get it out #please just ignore this #i know there's nothing wrong with stacking shelves at a supermarket #but my pride isn't letting me apply for this job #i'm nearly 30 and always thought i'd be someone by now #it just feels like yet another step back #but I haven't got any of the jobs I've interviewed for #so I don't really have a choice #it just seems like I'm not good enough for anything else #yep this is day 2 of lying in bed crying to tracy chapman and joni mitchell songs

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acid-ixx · 15 days ago

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ch.4: again &. again (platonic! yandere batfam x neglected! gn reader)

directory: preq, chapter one, chapter two, chapter three, chapter four

read until the end for an author's note.

tw: self-esteem issues, alcohol abuse, allusions to self-harm.

"baby bird, i know i haven't been talking to you much as of lately. but i just want to let you know that we miss you alright?"

not delivered.

"i really regret ignoring you, we all do. i'm-"

he hesitates, then deletes the last word of his message.

"—we're the ones in the wrong for everything, alright? you blocked me, i'm sure you did for everyone else too, i get that, but we care for you now and that won't change anytime soon. please remember that."

not delivered.

"and it pains me seeing that you're not replying to my messages at all, baby bird. but i promise i'll-"

dick bites his lips at the mistake of addressing himself only rather than that of the family, but a greedy part of him wants you to read the messages and to see only him in spite of everything rather than them, feeling a sense of... need to be the first and only one you see when you think about accepting their apologies, even if he's writing to you whilst simultaneously trying to get his family in your good graces.

dick doesn't know it. why he's suddenly obsessed with you. you? yes you, his stupidly precious sibling, the one who looked up to him, frail and wronged by the world, with so much drive behind that stare. third child of bruce, yet second youngest in the family. the one that got away, the one he has never once saw outside that one memory of glinting, awe-inspired eyes that told more stories than poets, drew more emotions than artists.

nobody saw you outside of your status as the manor's ghost— but compared to your other siblings, he knew you the most. he wants to be the only man good enough to be considered your brother, your oldest brother; an obligation he's willing to uptake just for you. he wants to be the only one with the authority to call you his baby bird. he doesn't know why, despite the thirteen and a half years, it's him wanting, no, needing to see you again.

you, just you.

every bits and pieces of you.

in his mind, it's just him and you. in your tiny little bedroom, with your dozens of sketchbooks and diaries, with only your brother, dick, to accompany you. in your own little world, as you speak to him of your dreams and passions with nothing else in your mind. you'd look up at him with sparkling eyes, look at him like he means everything in the world to you, and he'd see you as his world.

when he thinks of that, the more he hopes of the possibility of you reading his messages; his declaration of never leaving you alone anymore. and with hope comes along this dread that you'd reply with a nasty reply, or that... you'll never bat an eye him anymore.

dick doesn't take a second glance to correct his mistake again this time.

"i promise i'll be better for you baby bird. my little hatchling, my little one. i discarded you, someone so precious. you must've felt hurt, no? i get that, i'm so sorry you have to go through that because of me. but look! you have me now, we have each other now! and that might not be enough yet to mend the bridge i left to fall, but if you just, please reply to me, or anyone else, then we can fix this. i promise, baby bird."

not delivered.

"you won't ever feel hurt anymore, or sad or lonely. hell, even bruce is getting you a new bedroom fixed up, isn't that great!? i'll even convince the old man to make sure your room is close to my old one so you can visit me anytime. i'll even stay over at gotham for even longer, just for you! and i'll spend my time with you, with just the two of us, okay? nobody else can disturb us. i'm sure you'd like that too."

not delivered.

"and we can hang out anytime you want, no? sleepovers, movie nights, journalling— all the cool stuff you wanted to do with me in the past, we can do now! and it'll be fun with you, i can see it happening alrrady, i just know it. you can't convince me otherwise, baby bird."

not delivered.

"that's why i'm begging you to unblock me, little one, or to at least read all my previous messages, please? :( i'm still so sorry over how i treated you in the past. i've nothing to defend myself over how i acted towards you. i was so delusional, ignoring you when all you clearly wanted was to spend time with me, with the family."

not delivered.

"we can even have that dinner together, remember?! at that fancy restaurant you talked about, yeah? my treat, of course. you can order the entire damn menu and i'll leave you room for seconds and desserts. i can even make arrangements to get bruce to rent out the entire restaurant so it would just be the two of us plus the family, but mostly just us— that would be good! then you can sleep at my room after we get home to the manor since we're turning your old one into an atelier just for you! i'll even carry your cute little figure up any flight of stairs whenever you get tired."

not delivered.

"i promise i'll really make it up to you baby bird!!! <3"

not delivered.

"for all the times we neglected you, left you thinking you didn't deserve a spot in the manor (which you truly do, it's us to blame for never seeing it that way), made you feel negative emotions towards us— i'll take your pain and turn that into joy, i promise."

not delivered.

"and if you do manage to read through all this, please remember..."

not delivered.

"i love you so much, alright? we'll find you soon, and you'll be happier with us, i'm sure of it. i love, love, love you so much my baby bird."

not delivered.

he sighs, resigning his thoughts all to himself as he checks his phone every minute for a simple ring of notifications just from you. he prefers to leave his phone in silent mode from the multitude of other contacts bothering him, but god forbade if that means he'd scroll past to a single reply of yours, then he'd rather burn in hell.

and anything is better than the pain inflicted on him when it comes to the thought of you ignoring him.

because after all, he does mean it when he says he loves you, his baby bird, his adorable little sibling.

he'd rather hell than you seeing him any less of an older brother.

what takes longer? is it a seed growing into a bud, a bud into a bloom, or a flower to fully shrivel and die?

how long does it take for it to be considered worthy? deserving of attention and the rightful spotlight to attain its needs for life?

what takes its time? what other variable does it need for it to survive in such harsh conditions? if it's forcefully pried open as a seedling, as a bud growing in a field full of weeds sapping, draining it of its nutrition, or in a scorching, desolate desert, or pestilent lands; would it still be considered a flower?

what does a seed need to grow into a flower? beautiful, treasured, with vibrant colors reflecting off the surface of each petal, growing pollen for every pollinator to spread its bountiful success you call development?

what does it require?

everyone knows the answer, some could only be ignorant enough to turn the other way and reject the idea altogether.

it needs care, nourishment — healthy soil building a strong foundation, its home with roots carefully embedded in the ground, then it also requires water, a source of life given to it in specific times with just the right dose, and sunlight kissing its stems and petals warmly — and finally, love.

lots of love, attention, and patience from mother nature herself and its caretakers we call humans.

but how could a flower receive any, if not, all it needs, if it's raised under a marshy, overgrowth rainforest that speaks of death and cruel poachers that could step on the bloom of any moment?

how could a flower live, let alone survive, if its careless caretakers who took it away from its fertile lands neglect it of its requirements to grow and bloom into its rightful imagery?

just how?

you are a flower.

and you will wilt soon the longer you live in what you once thought was your home.

growing in cracked, dry soil, with no water nor sunlight aiding your growth.

you are a flower.

who had been loved by your creator, mother nature herself; your mother. but you've never once felt the care nor love of your cruel humans you call family, your father had never once saw your budding petals, kissed it, patiently watered or spent time outside in the sunlight with you. your brothers don't notice your dehydrated pets, shriveled leaves and bent stems, nor do they tend to it. your sisters don't decorate the pot you reside it, they don't talk to you every time you sag down in loneliness and isolation as you are forced to stay in the same place and witness the same scenarios over and over again.

not much knows it, but flowers, much like any plant, can communicate, they can feel. and when they do, they do deeply.

and you are a flower. a flower worthy of being pressed into books, storing your beauty forever. a flower worthy of being situated into a stunning arrangements of bouquets, worshipped through birthdays, dates, weddings, and even funerals.

you're a flower, and you're beautiful and deserving of praise and honor from your stages in life as a seed, from a bud, to a blooming flower. yet you're neglected the same way ignorant trespassers would step on growing blooms, uncaring for sabotaging their life completely, and oh-so easily.

you're a flower, a symbol of nature's fertility, resilience, and tranquility.

you symbolize your mother's long standing determination to care for a child whose father looked other ways but her. who raised her seedling with care, watered them with stories of fairytales: fantasies about prince charmings who take their flowers away from barren lands to spoil them with rich soil and neverending sunlight, about princesses who stop by flower shops to awe at the arrangements of bouquets, eyes glazing with fervor as they recount each and every symbolism every unique flower shares.

your mother places you in your favorite, decorated pot: your shared bedroom with her, and she kisses your cheeks, your forehead, your chubby little fingers, the same way the illuminating sunlight kisses at your flushed body whenever you two would go out for your walks.

she was your mother nature, and you were her precious flower.

you were once a blooming bud then, and you wished you would still bloom now.

how could you grow into what you're worth, when even you couldn't grow without the love that was taken from you?

what about the care, the patience, the determination she once held in her warm gaze, now cold and fading with life the last time you saw her; would it all be a waste?

how could you grow now?

and yet you don't even need to ponder for solutions. the answers were clear, clear as the water your petals used to bathe in, clear as the rain that pitters against alfred's car windows the same day you were taken away from your mother's hold—

you simply wilt.

8:31PM.

your friend said she'd pick you up quarter to nine, so you'd at least have the time to prepare and make yourself look good. but right now...

god, right now, you don't feel anything good, not even a wee bit of it at all. ever since he texted you, you feel like shit, utterly repulsed. vile, like the image of you vomiting every contents of your stomach— and now you're going out drinking with an empty one. you can already feel the bitter taste of heavy alcohol mixing in with the acids of your stomach.

you can already feel the breakdown you're having right now as you remember how fucking broke and useless you are for having to ask your friends to treat you to drinking because you have nothing left to offer beyond the fucking taxes you have to pay and the nearly due rent and bills.

you have nothing to offer. you're so shitty. you deserve to die.

the more you stare at the mirror, the more your eyebags seem to deepen, your lips began to dry, and the pit in your chest sunken.

and that makes you exhale even deeper, ignoring the way your throat constricts on itself in instinct.

your eyes flitter to your fingers, nails bitten, skin ripped at the seems with dry blood staining chipped cuticles.

when you looked back at your reflection, you want to cry even more, seeing an image of a moving pile of flesh. all puffy skin and sagging eyes.

you don't remember the last time you felt pretty about yourself.

whether it was in the manor, or back when your mother was the only one raising you— it seems like your memories are in shambles right now.

you don't remember the last time you looked in a mirror, looking healthy, fresh, and proud of yourself for dressing up in your style. in the back of your mind, there will always be hatred, resentment for how you look. and right now, you hate how you every bit of your appearance because...

because you look exactly just like an image of your mother and bruce wayne. a reminder, your punishment for your parents' beautifully tragic affair with one another. a billionaire who courted the lowly dirt-class slut of gotham.

yet you're uglier because you're not them, you couldn't be them. you're not picture-perfect brucie with slick-black hair and a face like fine-aged wine, or the image of your sultry, "man-eater" mother in her lingerie. you're just, you— you've inherited all the stupid flaws you wished you could shave off your damn body.

you remember seeing your father's face in television with your mother beside you by the couch, combing your hair and giggling when your eyes had lit up at the sight of the rich man. you haven't once took your eyes off the news channel whenever he appeared, looking at bruce, always enamored with his aesthetics, only to never notice your mother's tired eyes, or how shaky her fingers would sometimes become.

"momma, that's daddy, right?!" you asked her whilst the side of your body was pressed against hers, with all the enthusiasm a child could muster. your grin was wide, eyes peeled to the screen, enough to ignore the flinch in your mother as you had once thought it was her igniting with the same excitement as yours.

she simply leans down and kisses your cheeks, her eyes, a beautiful shade of your eyes color, albeit lighter in hue, never once left the crown of your small head, ignoring the headline for the news about 'brucie's new fling caught on camera!'.

your mother was so glad you were still illiterate at your age. she wish she could never break off the illusion that it was her who simply birthed to you, with no face for a father. maybe you would've never ask her about why he had never once came to visit your small family, why you could never meet your other siblings, or why he's seen with multiple other women by his side every time you open the television.

you ask at frequent intervals; it makes her wish to strip away the past in which she chose to tell you who your father was. you would've experienced less heartbreak, she would've never seen the way your eyes would dim at her every excuse, or the way she felt your heart crack at the seams, only further breaking hers.

yet after a while, she replies and buries her thoughts, ignoring the tears that lid her eyes. with not so much enthusiasm in her light voice, with the undertones of guilt and sorrow digging deep throat her throat, but it was enough for young, little you to jump on your springy couch with her response.

"... oh, yes, that's your papa...! isn't he so nice looking—?"

"and handsome! i'm so lucky to have such beautiful parents! i wish i was as pretty as you, momma, and daddy too!"

when you had looked up with haste, glinting eyes staring up at her with a wide grin, some baby teeth still present, others absent from your gums, yet you displayed admiration no less; your mother just as quickly wipes her red eyes and sniffling nose with the worn sleeves of her sweater and reciprocates your beaming energy with a small smile.

she wishes you'd dismiss her previous melancholic expression, replacing it with the same fond, yet tired gaze she always offers you, wishing you'd be as oblivious to the pain it brings her to see your hopes and dreams of meeting a father you could only admire through a screen or article. yet you're always so perceptive, so interlinked with her reactions that she's sure that one of the few positive traits your father had given you. she should've expected your words, yet her broken heart finds a path to heal whenever you sense her pain and soft a bandage to the cracks of her bleeding scars with your kindness.

you would always be her little flower. the one she'd nurture in a garden filled with rosy bushes and scarring thorns.

"—you're so beautiful, momma, even if you cry because daddy isn't here with us, or you're too tired taking care of me. you're beautiful because you're my mother, and i'll take you over everything in the world..."

and you tell her, an inaudible whisper to your voice, with eyes that were once wide, beaming with joy, now gazing at her with softness like the wind kissing blades of grass in a gentle dance. you look at her, and she stares back, eyeing your chubby cheeks and lips the same shape of hers, the ends of your lashes curves the same way as hers, and your voice matches her like a lullaby when you speak every vowel in a soothing lilt.

you calm the hurt in her chest, replacing it with a mellow warmth. she even forgot the tears that slowly dripped her eyes, all replaced with the comfortable softness of her precious child's palms, smooth and cozy, resting on both of her cheeks as you pepper her crying face with kisses.

she holds both your palms caging her, and allows the your hold to linger for longer. the silence ensues, yet you both embrace the unsaid assurances.

it's times like these where she realizes you encapsulate the beauty of both worlds.

it's moments like this, she sees herself in you, and maybe she could lead herself to believe that she is beautiful, because she sees her beauty through her child, her grace.

the memory only further deepens the guilt in your heart.

if there's one word to describe you now. it would be disgrace. to your father's honor, and your mother's legacy. for easily letting yourself go, for being so weak, for being the line that jumps between two polar opposites of one another; trying to traverse their path of belonging.

you're a disgrace, a mistake, and you deserve to be treated as such.

it was why you never find yourself beautiful. a person such as yourself would always find allure, worth in all things chaotic - you live in gotham after all - but never find that same value in yourself as you look at your reflection that distorts your image even more, making you uglier and uglier the longer you look.

split ends everywhere, hand tangled, reddish eyes from nearly crying again.

even if you beat at yourself, erratic and impulsive, even if your skin is colored an ashen blue and purple, rotten shades of yellow and red, you think of yourself ugly and repulsive.

no matter how much color you try to bring into your bleak, repulsive life, at the cost of hurting yourself to become pretty— every part of you will always be that ugly, little duckling in comparison of your siblings who always outshone you.

dick with his playboy body, jason and his towering one, tim with soft boyish features, damian's silky tan and smooth skin, and duke's baby face.

you couldn't even have your hair frame you as perfectly as steph's light blonde hair does, or share barbara's proportionate face, or look as gracious yet deadly like cassandra.

you're nowhere near as special, you're not like them. you have features too unique, yet out of place, and you couldn't bring yourself to be conventionally good-looking.

you hate yourself so much. you hate every little mole, every little pimple, every damn imperfection that litter your body, making you even lesser than what you already are.

your family; mother, father, brothers and sisters, god, even your fucking friends! every time you sit by them side-by-side, you'd feel insecure, imperfect, an eyesore and you just want to strip away every part of your limbs one by one if that meant replacing it with even better ones; all for the sake of at least feeling pretty.

you remember the first time you tried to find a sense of style, and damian's comment and– god fucking damn it—!

your hands found its way to your brushed hair, tangling itself through already fragile strands to rip at the seams. you don't care, you don't fucking care, you pray to any god out there to get them out of your head, pleas unheard, you're always left to hurt.

"what are you trying to achieve with that, huh? what even are you trying to think with that horrendous color combination? what are you, a clown? even that damned joker has more coordination than you think you could achieve."

in front of his friend, jon kent, with a scowl on his ever-so angry face and his hand already making a way to grip his sword; an absolute threat to dice you up shall you ever bother being in the same room as him.

he said that to you... you're older, you could've been stronger, could've at least found a semblance of fight in your bones. but no! god, no. your life was ruled with fear with damian wayne being the demon haunting you in the manor, always making living harder, making breathing a heavy task.

how could you ever fight back? not when you've conditioned yourself to tear up at the slightest bit of noise, feel goosebumps prick your skin when you hear someone raise their voice at you, and your heart rate hasten at the slide of a knife against any surface?

you! you who's so fucking weak to even make a comeback. you, who ran away with wide, traumatized eyes. because you're scared, so fucking fearful of an even bigger cut to your skin marked by damian— even if you're accustomed to cutting yourself with even deeper gashes.

because it's him that you fear, not the pain, not anymore. just him and his contempt at you for ruining his pure bloodline just by you being his half-sibling.

you don't want a repeat of your first meeting, or any meeting with him at all. not when you'd drown even deeper in a pit of fear every time you stare at his glaring, emerald eyes. one that tells you he chose to merely not kill you out of the goodness of his heart. but he will, god he will if he feels you've been too comfortable in his presence.

every damn time, everytime you feel fear, you see green. you hate green, any literal meaning of it, every implication of itx even seeing it, and fuck! your outfit has green embellishments.

you feel even uglier, yet the twinge of fear immediately overpowers any concern your had with your appearance. it's as if eyes were suddenly on you, and it's not only yours staring at you in the mirror.

your lips wobble, snot began blocking through the passage of your nose.

fuck, fuck, fuck.

why?! why can't you just forget about them all. why, why, why?!

you bite your lips harshly to conceal the pained whimpers from the back of your throat, but it doesn't work. it only makes the fear worse.

tears rim at your eyes, you merely wipe them away. your heart attempts to beat out of its gilded cage, yet you swallow your quivering chokes and proceed to continue staring at yourself in the mirror, dressed in a rush, with nothing to conceal your ghastly eyebags and sunken skin.

and green. you'll see it everywhere now. fuck, would dick send out damian to kill you now? you don't know, you're scared but you can't chicken out, not when your friend is already near to your apartment. god you wish you had beer in your cabinets instead, but you're broke and unprepared for life and your hair's all in a tangle and you just fucking want to die.

your hands grip at the edge of your sink, you look at your mirror and see the blood on your already bitten lips.

not even concealer can cover the damn scars all over your face all through the neck.

calm down.

you stare even deeper at yourself and ignore the green, trying to think of something else—

something less emotionally scarring, like your appearance. even if it brings you great pain, too, you'd rather that than your family. no more of them, fuck, no more. even if you stare at your eyes and see that familiar mix of colors of your mother and bruce's eyes. the shape of your face, even the curve of your brows all resembled your late mother— and you miss her, her captivating beauty that you never saw aged like fine way before she was taken away from you. you see bruce in the strands of your hair and the way it sometimes fray when too stressed. you see them in every image you wish to erase of yourself.

yet your genetics are nothing to them, not when you can't even care for your tangled hair or ashen skin.

even the dead looked more lively than you ever could.

with a pale complexion, with scars that litter all over your shoulders, wrists, and hidden parts of your body, one you're too ashamed to show anybody— it was no doubt that you looked pathetic and erased the beauty that both your parent's cultivated. and it makes you wonder; would it really be worth it?

would it be worth it if the people around you see you?

you with your melancholic eyes, trying to find an escape in a maze you call your mind? you can picture yourself drinking alcohol until you reach the domain of death, sitting in a stool, alone, as you nearly empty the contents of your stomach remembering the sole reason why you're there in the first place.

would it be worth it if all eyes suddenly were on you? they turn to you to gaze at the ugly bruises on your body, they mock your appearance, call you names, look at your sniveling, red nose and warm cheeks intoxicated from all the heavy liquor you'd down, and whisper. they'll whisper insults, slurs, and every known jab until it's all their words that pierces through your eyes, until the loud bass becomes mere background chatter for all the gossips that ensue.

are you actually going to do this right now?

you don't know, you don't know and you wish never cared as much.

all you could really focus on was your eminent goal of getting out of your stuffy apartment, to rid of the paranoia that somehow, you're being watched over in the confines of your four walls and that the familiar image of green will come attack you. the more you think, the more the hairs on your skin start to raise with every known intention to signal you of your anxiety.

eyes, they may be everywhere.

eyes, eyes, eyes. as you stare at your eyes, you try to ignore emerald eyes, they dilute even further. you gulp, yet your focus remains distorted. images flash at the mirror, and suddenly they're here, with you, with their eyes. bright blue for some, dark green for another, and they all gaze at you with contempt. one's hand claws at your throat, the other pins your wrist down on the edge of the sink. the eyes glare, and they never soften. yours merely shook, unblinking as your breathing becomes heavier; trapped in the cages of their wanton staring.

you yelp, then blink. when you did, they're gone. and you're back to looking at the same image of yourself. you grimace slowly.

ugly, with dry skin and falling hairs. the worst version of you, the normal version of yourself— there was never a best version for you.

as long as it's you, you'll never be enough.

all you wanted was to drink with your friends at a club; some working nightshifts at the location you're going to— yet you want to back down. want to take your phone by the corner of your vision and cancel your sudden plans.

but you're scared, you're so fucking scared of any new messages.

hell, even finding the contacts for your friends was a task in itself you wish to never repeat. with jittery fingers trying to type of messages and blurry eyes navigating through the screen of your slippery, glass screen protector.

you're scared, rightfully so.

you're scared to find his message once more suddenly popping up, your fingers accidentally pressing on it like the clumsy swine you are, and rereading that damn heart over and over again.

you slam your dominant hand against the tiled sink, hard and uncaring for the pain it induced all throughout your body. the tremors of the impact shook you to your core, yet you seethe in your breath and don't allow yourself respite to let the tears flow freely from your already red eyes. you feel your heart beating erratically through your chest, the shivers controlling your body, the shrieks that you contained within you— and you enchain them all with no respect for yourself.

you deserve this. you deserve to be hurt, to be punished for your actions, for your mistakes, for your sins.

even if your hand became swollen, splotched with varying shades of disgusting purples and yellows, you won't treat it with medicine. even if the sharp edges of the sink broke the fragile layer of your already scarred palm, and bled profusely with that familiar shade of red; you won't rush to wrap it with gauze or even spare a droplet of betadine. even if by the next day you'd have to write out your overdue assignments with that specific hand, then you'll force yourself to learn through the other and punish yourself again if you fail once more.

you deserve this.

and as your phone pings, lighting up to show you a notification of one of your friend's messages about being ready to pick you up by the lobby of your apartment's ground floor, you ignore your injured hand and the bruises on your knees from falling so abruptly on tiled floors just moment's ago. you dismiss the ache of your head, the soreness of your eyes and the disgusting beat of your heart.

you ignore the pain that wrecks at your entire body, in favor of destroying it even more, just as you deserve.

you don't recall how many shots you had before you're nearly passed out by the bar, sitting on its stool with your head leaning on one both your arms crossed, drool close to slipping out of the corners of your mouth and heavy eyes lidded, about to fall into the depths of sleep.

you're sure you looked wasted, absolutely drop-dead drunk with no thoughts circulating in your head other than the pleasant buzz in your ears and the flash of colors in the disco balls blanketing the entire room with its neon lights. your face must've been an unearthly shade of red, and you can already feel just how blazen it is, and how your fingertips are ice-cold to the touch (probably colder than the marble you lay your arms upon). in other words, you're actually wasted.

and it's so worth it if it means it gets you to forget. and forget you did, because you can't even dig deep into your head to even remember a single memory of whatever grief you went through earlier in your apartment. not even the throb of your head from when you pulled your hair from its roots, all to the way you slammed your dominant hand on your bathroom sink, bruising it with unnatural shades of purples and yellow.

it makes you omit every type of pain, both physically, mentally, and emotionally. it doesn't cure you of your ails, but god forbid you if you just want to savor moments where nothing but a mind numbing headache is the only feeling present in your current state.

the remix of songs were long forgotten in your mind, they all become an amalgamation of miscellaneous sounds. your body is so inclined towards the flat, rectangular cool surface of the marble glass of the bar that you can guarantee you could sleep here, especially since black behan to cloud both your vision and your mind.

everything feels so hazy, and pleasant, and straight-out peaceful that the screaming tandems of equally drunk clubbers and the occasional sobers holding up their friends who sang along with whatever remix the dj comes up with, or the forming crowd as people began to rock and dance to the bass that shakes up the entire floor to the point you can feel vibrations run along your spine— didn't register within the crevices in your mind.

all you can focus on, is the gratifying pleasure ll alcohol induces in your body. gone is the feeling of fear that emanates off of every inch within your body. your bones don't feel as if it's locking up everytime you feel eyes on you, and your throat doesn't certainly feel constricted with the lack of flow of blood anymore.

god, this is why you've never once regret drinking right after the moment you turned eighteen— not when it's positive effects outweighs all the negative emotions that rule over your body.

you couldn't even notice a man with shades (seriously, who wears that to party? isn't the club dark enough?) sitting beside your drunken form in the corner of your eyes, raptured in the thin line between focusing on reality and drifting off to dream world. you don't even bat an eye to his muffled giggles and the way he twisted his stool just to admire the view: you.

you're oblivious to the entire commotion happening within the depths of his mind because you couldn't feel any aptitude to danger right now— thanks to the effects of the hard liquor overtaking whatever fear you've felt being watched long ago.

or maybe you just felt safe beside the stranger. or, you're merely drunk. you don't know.

fuck, you're so close to passing out.

you don't know where your friends are, where they came running off to but you know you won't be getting out her sooner or later and you definitely don't have a ride home. so your only way back without getting ambushed as a completely vulnerable citizen of gotham, is by a safer, more convenient means of a ride— but that certainly wouldn't be safe if your friends are as equally drunk, or even more so, as you. but does your hazy mind care? no. not when you flip your head to rest on the other side once the other side became hotter that you notice a conveniently attractive man staring right back at you with an entertained grin.

as if your existence alone makes him happy. as much as your mind keeps blanking out, that mere implication made your heart pang just a teensy bit. of pain, or pleasure, or mere joy, you don't know. but you do know that it triggered some unknown feelings and you don't want to feel.

you want to drink some more, feeling solemn all of a sudden just from staring at him. you're sure the obvious frown on your quivering lips and the heavy, hot sigh

and it doesn't help that his face seems similar. the longer you stare, the more his grin seems to sharpen. confidently? or shyly? you can't seem to gain a clear image of him; what when rainbow lights are blazing out through the holes of the disco ball and your eyes recently just opened to your near journey to traverse through sleep.

all you can make out to be is his jet-black hair, side bangs framing the left side of his face, a faint outline of an eyebrow piercing

you also took note of his spiky jacket— yet what draws you the most to him are his sunglasses that he chose to wear conspicuously in a damn club of all places.

he's attractive, to say the least, but he triggers a set of emotions deep into the cages of your imprisoned heart that sets itself free. he gives you a sense of nostalgia, of familiarity that you can't pinpoint but feel; like you've seen him before but don't know when. your eyebrows furrow in and your eyes squint at him, unknowing to the judgement you're subjecting him in. your lips wobble, though, because his presence just makes your heart feel something, akin to pain but not quite, and makes your head buzz that you just want to cry as a reaction.

he, the stranger, don't know it, but he makes you all sad, primal emotions overtaking any drunkenness you feel as deep tremors buzzed into the confines of your chest, until all you're doing is staring at him with pouting, downturned lips and sad, puppy eyes; rimming with salty tears.

you don't know why you feel sad all of the sudden, and you can faintly see through blurry, watery vision how his face shifted from entertained to worry, eyebrows raised and eyes wide open at your sudden mood shift.

maybe you or him could've spoken up, you more so, but you're just so emotionally drained and overwhelmed today that you began sobbing silently without breaking eye contact with the man.

despite you wanting to say anything: an introduction, a question opening up as to why he's staring at you, or even a mere phrase telling him to "back off"; the only words that came out from your parched throat, all from trying to reason in your head on what a proper sentence should be, were:

"you're hot," and if you were sober enough, you would've felt sheer embarrassment and shame from eyeing the boy, but you're not— and because you're not sober, or any bit sane, the next few sentences you spewed out were all coherent, yet wonkily pronounced utterances paired with teary eyes and sniffling nose, as you can't seem to control the feelings of melancholy in your heart and the sudden emotional burst from your ramblings.

"thank you, you too, actually— but are you alright-"

"you're so hot, god, please. i don't know..." you gave him no time to speak as you hiccupped, lips wobbling even more than you can imagine. and you're trying your damn best to rid of the urge to punch at your chest as a coping mechanism through the multitude of emotions eating you up and away. but you never realized you were trying for an absolute stranger, palms fisting into itself as he stares at you worriedly all of a sudden.

"like... you're familiarly attractive, i—" the next few sentences were incoherent as your words bubbled around you like detergent soap. your fingers found itself into your face as you try to wipe off both tears and nearly dripping snot as you continued rambling drunkly.

"you just! you're hot, for me, i don't know... i'm just, we all—eughh... i don't know, i'm so sad..." and you truly are, for no reason at all other than seeing the man. poor him, must've felt so ashamed that he's the reason you're crying but at the same time... nothing can really stop you from ceasing your tears.

at least, that's what you've convinced yourself to believe in. that you're truly incurable of the ailment of being constantly depressed with nobody to aid you with your troubles. not even your friends, nor past therapists that you've consulted.

you've nothing to comfort you, and that makes you even more solemn than ever.

the simplest of emotions felt, the deeper and complex you take it out to be. sadness, or moreover depression, the horseman of apocalypse that destroys any hope you've tried to kindle with your life.

it makes you all the more burst into a wave of even more tears.

"... okay, okay, wait here for me, alright?" he suddenly stood up, hurriedly, probably unsure, or disgusted by you. you're unsure about what he's saying, too caught up crying that you simply nod to whatever he said and continued on with your episode.

as you're left alone, you allow your tears to dry only cry once more. when he left you, you weren't aware but you just felt even more lonely. at pushing away the only company you had after your friends left you in the dust, you feel depressed and regretful and all emotions related to grief and you just want to drink some more but you don't know if you can take it anymore!

god, it all returns to pain. pain you thought you could bury deep once you took multiple swigs of alcohol.

pain that makes you want to bang your head against the marble of the bar—

and you're so close to doing so, but only stopped when your blurry vision sets itself on the man returning with a handkerchief and a cold glass of ice water. at his kind gesture, you simply teared up even more, pouting when he walked your way and looked at you with a sheeping grin.

when he sat right back up on the stool seated to your right, he hesitated with his hold on the handkerchief near your face. but the moment he gathered up his pride and pressed it against the unnatural blaze of your cheeks, you merely leaned closer to his palms, eyes closing as you can feel the tears cease itself finally at the blind comfort he's unknowingly providing you.

"there, there... be careful, 'kay stranger?"

he mutters, a light chuckle accompanying him. it's only now you can finally focus on the cool churn of his voice and the , with your eyes close and the haze of your thoughts washing away, leaving you breathless in your respite— not restrictive, nor lonely, but still short of breath.

this reminds you of the times alfred had to hold you in his arms everytime you threw a tantrum at the manor.

it made you realize that the months, a near year even, after leaving the manor, made you crave physical affection. making you feel like a husk of yourself when not given. you feed off of the scraps of physical lovez to the point that even this man who's wiping away the tears from your cheeks makes your heart beat faster, in a comfortable manner.

sensations. he once told you that if you feel too deeply within, then to ground yourself you must feel beyond interior ranges of emotions.

and that's the technique you've been willing away from your head for so long. because it always requires another person in the room to comfort you, to simply touch you softly, gently like you're porcelain the same way the stranger is pressing damp fabric against your tearstained cheeks and hollowed out eyes.

the pain you've felt was because you're merely touch starved. alone, in a space where everyone has someone, and a no one can't have anyone.

but now that you do have a someone, no matter how dangerous he could've been outside of your impression of him, you feel the pain lessen, the heavy burdens become featherlight at his kind gestures of wiping all the salty tears from your face, the runny snot from your nose with no rush whatsoever.

"feel better now, hon?"

"mhm..." a long, drawled out yawn emits from your mouth, yet you're too comfortable with him to even care, suddenly feeling a wave of drowsiness after your emotional episode.

after he finished wiping your face, and felt it considerably cool down from the damp fabric, he placed it on the bar, one hand on your face keeping you stable. yet his other hand promptly went back to your cheeks.

he chose to do this of his own volitions, even leaning closer as your head finds itself slowly dropping to his clavicle (careful to avoid the spikes from his peculiar designed jacket), looking up at him and staring at his gray eyes.

the man looks down at you as you now realize he's cupping your face. at the implication of your entire ordeal with him, you might've felt flustered sober, but you're just so drunk that any spacial awareness for the proximity between your bodies just disappeared and left you with the need to sleep within the confines of the safety this man left you with.

you don't know it, but yet again the man smiles down at your adorable antics, finding the way you're absolutely trusting of a stranger both stupid, yet endearing. because he's no more stranger, and heaven bless him because he's so glad he's the person who approached you rather than anyone else because you looked so cute, and his crush on you may have lead him to stalk you occasionally just to ensure you're safe— that doesn't erase the gesture that he did it purely because gotham is too dangerous for your own good. and he's glad he trusted his human side of intuition, rationalizing with himself that today just seems to be the day you'd bump into danger if he's not there.

you're so stunning up close... how come tim never once found interest in someone as admirable as you is a mystery. but you trusting a stranger in your vulnerable state is much more.

and he's grateful he's that stranger.

because he may be a stranger to you, but a familiar one. and you feel safe, a feeling you haven't felt in so long that you simply just melt against him like clear putty; because you're transparent with what you feel right now.

and right now you feel warmth. not the uncomfortable one that blazes through your (now) cool face when you were drunk, nor the burning one whenever you thought of your family— but a pleasant one. like sitting near a fireplace as you watch the embers crackle, drinking hot cocoa whilst a quilt covers your body from the cold of the winter. you feel this way at his kindness, at his efforts to help you contain your emotions to a reasonable degree.

"what's your name, kind stranger?" you mutter on his chest (how come your head is laying on it, actually?) hearing the soft thumps of his heart. it's warm, he's warm and every bit of comfortable, as he does his best to move slightly back to remove his jacket and drape it over your body before he could reply to you, chuckling whilst doing so because you looked up at him with your eyes conveying every damn emotion that made you feel soft.

"it's conner, conner kent. call me kon, though. or yours if it's you." he purrs. it took you a minute to register his obvious flirting but what comes after is an absolute flush on your body and you recoiling from his hold as you look back at him, mouth agape. the tips of your ears were warm, and every bit of

an overexaggeration to his flirting, sure. it makes you look less appealing in your eyes, extra sure! but it's been so long since someone last attempted to flirt with you; but most were under the guise of when you were still a wayne and... and not as yourself. you! you who sports so many imperfections that—

"haha! is it strange to say that you look so cute whenever you look at me with wide eyes in the short span of time we just met?"

he slides in through your train of thoughts before you could delve even deeper through self-deprecation. and you're glad that he did because... god, he makes you want to shamelessly gloat as a reply. you've never had someone complement your eyes before, actually...

"i'm..." you look back at him after you stared down at your palms, heat overtaking your entire body. yet again it wasn't uncomfortable, and just the right temperature. you stutter your name afterwards, making sure it's your mother's last name that you highlighted implicitly and not bruce's.

he seems to grin even wider when you introduce yourself. that's when his next reply generally warranted you to nearly burst off your seat out of sheer diffidence.

"well," he says your name, tasting every syllable in his pierced tongue. "your name tastes sweet, dove. but i think your face is even sweeter now that you're not crying — not saying that isn't cute too but you're so stunning now that i look closer at you without any barriers. your eyes, especially, they're like some mix doe and siren eyes, or whatever my other friends talk about in social media. point given, you're drop-dead gorgeous in my eyes."

it all comes naturally from him that your brain merely shortcircuited and fried itself comprehending his message, forgetting you were drunk in the first place replacing it with a flush in your heart, the pit of grief and despair replaced with the lighthearted need to banter or reply meekly at his shameless flirting right after he comforted you.

this is the first time you felt something for someone's romantic gestures, instead of that wave of nausea that accompanies you.

he makes you feel... pretty about yourself. in a good way, in a way you don't feel the need to hide your insecurities for once and instead allow his eyes to flitter around your entire face, analyzing your features because... because he simply makes you feel pretty the more he stares at you.

yet all you did was take his hand on your own, a sudden burst of confidence even you couldn't explain, and played with it, as you pouted in reply before thinking— using his hand-now-turned-fidget-toy — of a good enough response.

you simply said, coughing before continuing, "i don't take back what i said moment's ago. you're hot too, even if my vision was obstructed by my tears."

"oh, really?" he smiled gently and allowed your hands autonomy to play with his. it's like telepathy, he knows it's automatic that you crave physical affection and attention and he's willing to provide you that solace.

"now that you're not crying— you think i'm even more handsome?"

you snort at his question, then took a step back with your thoughts to properly study him. neat, yet messy hair, piercing on the eyebrows and on his tongue (hot), sunglasses and spiky jacket draped upon your shoulders— goddamnit, of course he's hot! and you made it efficiently clear that he is, with your hands fiddling pattern against his soft, yet calloused hands, by squeezing it.

"yes, you are even more handsome, kon..." brief and concise, just how you like it. even if he gave you an entire essay describing you in his eyes, for you, you prefer actions; and you did so by simply being affectionate with the stranger, now acquaintance you have a slight crush on.

you'd never expected this turn of events, but it was a pleasant one and one you'd never really want to trade with anything else now that you've met kon.

so when he opened his mouth to spew something else, your ears perked up to listen and your mind, albeit slowly sobering up, prepared itself to reply to whatever flirting, conversation topics, and anything random it is that he wishes to talk about to you.

you smiled at him whilst he talked, he reciprocates as always.

yet this time, you weren't afraid to hide just how joyous you feel, for once, having a person interested in you not only physically but with your interests, too, as your conversations kept shifting to things about you.

it made inclined to learn about yourself, too. and that makes you happy, and fuzzy in the insides the more he asks you questions beyond your favorites. like in movies, he didn't simply just ask your favorites and you replied with an answer and moved on, no! you both discussed the emotional depth it impacted you with, why symbolism matters so much, and why in the near future you'd both inevitably meet up, you'll both watch it together.

that makes you feel excited.

you even forgot the main reason why you're here in the first place; to drink. now, though, it seems like you just wanted to talk to kon all night long.

fortunately for you, that's how the rest of your night went. with a pleasant buzz in the background, the sounds of remixes all drowned out in your ears as you favor the chatters of the man beside you, with the tremor of his voice a comfortable volume and his tone laced with freshly made honey.

when your friends finally ran back to the bar where you all collectively agreed to meet up at once everyone's shenanigans were finished, they giggled drunkenly whilst some sober ones whistled at seeing your hand unknowingly massaging his palms like a stresstoy and the jacket draped upon your shoulders.

the moment you returned it to him, he joked about wearing it every second now since it reminds him of you, and how it's his favorite piece of attire now beyond all his other clothing. you merely blushed and ignored the cooing of your friends behind you.

you didn't feel concerned over not seeing him anymore, as he had given you a slip of paper with his number on it in through a tissue with paracetamol pills wrapped around it (like the thoughtful gentleman he made himself out to be when he excused himself a second time to get those items, since you'd left your phone with one of your friends; you swore you felt a blush creep into your cheeks and heating the tip of your ears), you instead felt a pang of longing and furrowed your brows, looking at him as if asking if you'll see him around anytime soon as he reciprocates with a sure grin that makes you feel a wave of feather like affection.

he left shortly after, striding to you as your group recollects all your stuff and whispering a, "text you later, dove. stay safe for me, alright? don't let any other strangers get to you."

you're glad this night would end on a good note, willing away any prior doubts towards spending the night in a completely foreign street and expecting fir criminals and thugs to break in but no! you can't help but admit that your new... interest, conner, made your night a thousand times better.

and his little nickname for you... haha, you're so flustered thinking about texting him tonight. you'd neglect your assignments for now if it meant messenging him right after you get home, safely, for his sake.

when your group all came outside though, that's when things shifted.

time is a construct. it's complicated and structured like that as well. it can either be too fast, or too slow. when your friends had taken their sweet time to spend the night dancing about the dancefloor, when you'd taken the precious time to flirt and talk to kon; that's when you all collectively realized that their damn cars were stolen.

the air suddenly shifted to this thick atmosphere when you all stepped out, one that can be sliced through with a sword, and you swore—

god, you swore this night couldn't have been any better with the turn of things, but now. right after you got out the club, it all took a turn for the worse.

this is it.

you're going to die today.

you're going to die, in some dirty ditch, your friends nowhere to be found, with nobody to save you.

nasty bruises already began to form on your skin, one with harsher colors of purple, blue, and yellow on your wrists and other patches of skin; way harsher

the man in front of you was gnarly, but you've no time to judge as he kicks you in the guts.

matted brown hair lay atop his head like a bird's attempt at a near, he has an odor that reeks of sewer rats, piss, and feces, and an unruly beard that houses bits of his leftover.

he holds a weapon whose shape you couldn't make out with your hazy vision, body nearly cramping in on itself once he kicked you again.

straight in the abdomen, with brute strenght accompanied by his worn leather boots decorated with glinting spikes that sparkle under the moonlight's glow.

in the abdomen, spikes.

blood first, then curdling pain next.

no noise rips through your ears, only wringing ever present, but your mouth opens, and you can feel its tender chords crack as a scream erupts from your throat, shrill and resounding from the deepest depths of the cockpit your mouth has to offer you; uncaring for the man in front of who who suddenly covers his ears and grits his teeth, who looks at you like you're mad, yet unlike same way his two other lackeys from behind look at your like you're the creation of carnage itself.

pain shot throughout your body, most especially at the core of the holes that pierced through your clothes and right inside your skin. and as your bulging, teary eyes try to look down with an agape, whimpering mouth, his shoes still connected to your body; you could only hold off so much of that familiar taste of acidic bile paired with that lingering scent of cheap booze.

tears were a byproduct of the misery, as it began to escape from your already puffy eyes. when the man released his legs fron pinning you down, your sobs only worsened as your unpinned, shivering arm try its damned best to cover the already leaking blood.

six holes, the diameter of the more than half of your finger, was what you could make out in your line of sight. the blood that leaked from them looked black, you couldn't find where the gradient of black and red connects, your only certainty in this situation was that you'd bleed to death before help could come to you.

the spikes were as long as a toothpick, a crimson puddle lay dripping on the floor.

your legs were shaking against your will, your eyes frantically search around you yet your pinned once more, his larger body framing against your own, providing no room nor qualms for an escape.

but the only escape you wanted was one from the pain of his pressing against your injury, even more blood spilling out of its confines. your tears only hastened its descent from your shaky eyes.

when your mouth opened for the nth time to wail out, he seethed in a breathe and threatened you, with his breath as vile as his entire being, that smells like every mix of synthetic chemicals from cigarette flavors, all expired, with teeth rotting and sporting yellow and black wallpaper.

gross, so gross. you want to die when the stench hits your nose. you shrivel in yourself, you couldn't breath.

"listen here, little bitch, you quiet down or i kill you. and 'ya either give me everythin' you own in your damn possession, or i'll kick you even more until a thousand little holes will fuckin' make you bleed to death, hear me?"

hearing his statement only made the adrenaline pump even more fight of flight into your heart. but you can't do either, you can't, not when you're still hazy from the fucking alcohol and the self defense tools in your tiny pouch were thrown a few feet away from you.

you've nothing to defend yourself.

oh god, oh shit, fuck.

you want to die, you want to so fucking die than go through the same pain of nearly being abducted or held hostage again.

yet your eyes could only close, your teeth kissing your bottom lips, biting hard to drown out another pained scream. whimpers, god, they're so loud yet you can't help the whimpers and the broken faucet from your eyes. even if you beg your own body to stop, it doesn't listen to the pleas of your mind.

the only thing it can focus on is the pain. recreant, volatile pain.

a moan escapes you, shaky and prolonged. the only other emotion that you could experience after is sorrow.

you didn't expect your pleasant night to end off in such a tragic note, but as your attacker held you by your throat with one hand, a knife pointed against your face, the next that happened was your head slammed roughly against the wall; a dull, beating ache lulling the back of your head after the momentary spark of pain— you're reminded that this is reality, and you're close to losing consciousness quick.

you're going to die.

bloody, a sobbing, dissociating mess, with your thoughts spinning around the same way the stranger and his lackeys laugh — bared yellow teeth, with the smell of ichor prevalent in their clothes, predatory eyes leering at you like you're prey — at your drunken moans of pain.

you're going to die.

"well, you gonna answer me or what, bitch? you wanna die!?"

he shouts you with spit that sprays all over your face, flashing you a grin and by extension flashing you his ugly, bared teeth. some missing were in his gums, others were artificial, most rotten like him.

you're going to die.

alone, in a ditch. bloody, laying in a pool of your own crimson the same way you saw your mother drowns in a puddle of hers.

you'll die like her—

what an honor.

the more you think about the situation, the more you're led to believe that the only way to solve this was through death alone, with no restrictions, no buts or ifs. you've no fight left in your body, or any weapon to fight. you're drunk, defenseless and if you actually managed to escape, you'd still bleed to death in some unknown alleyway. if you're lucky, a stray police may find you and give you a proper burial. but you remember you're in the living incarnate of hell in america, you'll never have a proper death.

this was night in gotham. your death alone only adds to the already astounding high percentages of all the other lives lost to the same twisted fate. you were no different. and to die early than to suffer from torture is better.

i mean, who would give a shit if you die tonight, right? your family— wrong! alfred would panic at your disappearance, but he'll forget about you like he did others, you're sure of it. that's why he still chose to fucking serve the wayne's instead of fully taking your side. if he had to choose between saving you or the people he swore his loyalty onto, he wouldn't hesitate. you're sure. even if the thoughts made the doom in your heart heavier. even if you know your story would never be covered nor acknowledged, you still year

but life is unfair, everything is. that's why you're here now, in a dark fucking alleyway with men who'll more than take advantage of your dying body and leave your corpse in the dump after. life is unfair, yet it's even more cruel in gotham. you should've expected this, should've known that a turn of events could be possible. you'll feel regret in the afterlife, only for a life that could've been well-lived, but never for the choice of living through the torture you call being a wayne.

so you came to the conclusion; confident for once after living for thirteen and a half years walking on eggshells around a manor.

this is not as bad as their neglect.

you smile in response to the guy, genuine and filled with grace as your heart that once pounds against your chest now slows down to a calm pace, finally at peace. with no other intention than to rattle him even more, to the point of choosing you to kill with his own hands as brutally as he likes— so you finally take a well deserved rest from life.

you gather saliva at the center of your tongue, ignore the taste of blood that swirls, nor the soreness of your throat and the crimson dripping down your nose.

when he looks down at you, disoriented at what you're doing, you spit at him, all the beating in your heart hastened, yet slowed down as quickly as you heave in a final breath.

... you're finally going to die.

"FUCKING HELL, YOU DAMN CUNT—!"

you close your eyes, bracing yourself for the knife that would hopefully stab you in the face, or the chest, and think of your last thoughts. you thank alfred for caring for you for those thirteen years, you hope you win your mother's graces in the afterlife even if she discovered your deliberate choices for killing yourself in the spur of a moment, and you wish your old family a happy life living without you, even if they already did so for so long.

all you needed was seconds to conclude your prayers.

but they weren't answered as you wanted them to be, not when you open your wide eyes to what was supposed to be a glint of silver piercing through the middle of your face was replaced by a bullet, quick and precise, shooting through his cranium without mercy, body immediately laying limp within those seconds.

the other two behind him were good as dead, too, your savior not wasting any moment to end their lives then and there.

and as you stumbled from the grip released from your body, your torso nearly crumpling in on itself, a flash of familiar, metallic red enters your vision when you'd look up from your savior who's huge form now meticulously acts as your shield from the brutal carnage that lays upon your line of sight and a pillar of protection trying to help you stand from the pain that shot through your lower abdomen.

but you don't want to stand, you want to drop dead right now. you don't want this, you didn't want this to happen.

instead of gratitude, dread fills your lungs with water and your fingers were left to tremor.

he looks down at you, you couldn't make out his expression, but you could feel the anger coursing through his body, the same as the day you first met him when he was still newly rebirthed, like it's telling you of his unadulterated rage at witnessing the scene before him. his body shakes, heavily, and his grip on your hands tighten, a mechanical groan drawling deep from his automated voice banks that changes his voice.

yet all you feel was fear overtaking your entire body prior to the comfort at the prospect of death.

you'd rather die than this.

even you couldn't believe the whimper of his name from your wobbling lips, as your body, out of instinct despite the pain, tried to push itself against the wall, away from him.

he only moves to hold your waste protectively, like a... brother suffocating his younger sibling with blankets when they complain it's cold. overbearing, disgustingly affectionate; you don't want it.

you feel cold.

this day could've been any worse— and it took a turn to the all worse scenarios you could imagine.

"jason...?"

"angel..."

a single familiar name was spoken, yet a new nickname was introduced. angel: the same way jason swore what you looked like when he sped through his motorcycle after hearing a shriek from all across the streets, finding you, bleeding and beaten to a pulp, with your attacker almost stabbing you.

of course, who wouldn't hesitate pulling a gun against someone trying to kill your precious? jason doesn't even need to choose.

and whether he did it in the name of justice and respect to his moral code, or because finding someone with a familiar face, sharing the same hopeless, yet death-accepting expression as he did back when he died— it all doesn't matter in the heat of the moment now.

what matters is that his angel is hurt and the madness in him festers the longer you bleed out in his arms, defiant and fearful all the same.

reblogs and interactions are encouraged and appreciated.

PLEASE READ: 11,000+ words. AND I LITERALLY HATE THIS CHAPTER (new least favorite fr) 😭 this decision is so impulsive i gonna regret it soon. chapter 5 will be released after a few days and i promise it has more action than this I SWEAR. first parts are always boring. anyways, there're so many song references in this chapter and for the next chapter. if any of you could guess what they are, i'll be rewarding all of you with something special. otherwise, please leave comments for this chapter! what motivated me to write was reading everybody's comments and inputs, about the love they have for this series as much as i do. interactions, asks, comments, they're all important and dear to me and i heavily appreciate it. so more interaction = more content. after all, i'd rather a post with little likes but with no interaction than a post with no interaction but all likes.

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shotmrmiller · 9 months ago

Text

pornstar au

f!reader x simon 'ghost' riley

3.7k words (sorry)

tw: teacher-student relationship but it's just a scene for porn. explicit. horrifyingly so.

You burst into the classroom and stride purposefully towards your professor, who is seated in his leather chair, engrossed in his work. Impatiently tapping your foot, you waited for him to finish marking essays. However, after 5 minutes, your patience with this unbearable man ran out.

"Professor."

He hums, a deep sound coming from the back of his throat yet doesn't look up from what he's doing. A real piece of work, he is. How fucking aggravating.

"Professor Riley," your voice takes an irreverent tone.

The hand that had been writing non-stop comes to a sudden pause, and he finally directs his attention to you. Meeting your gaze, his dark eyes are hooded, his lips set in a firm line. His job is to literally deal with students, yet he dares to look annoyed.

"Are you gonna tell me what's wrong 'r am I gonna have to learn how to read minds?" he states.

Taking in a calming breath, you clench the crumpled essay in your hand. "Can you explain to me why you failed me on this? I did exactly as you asked!"

He must know precisely what you're talking about because he simply turns back to the papers on his desk.

"Tha's your problem. You did exactly as I asked, with no thought behind it. Just wrote the bare minimum, if you can even call it writin'. It's copy-paste," Professor Riley sets the pen down and leans back in the chair.

"I need ya to use tha' head o' yours when in this class. Otherwise, you'll fail the rest o' your classes too."

Fucking hell.

Professor Riley shifts in his seat, seemingly done with the conversation, and finishes, "If tha's all."

Shit. Your pause is too long, and the director calls it. Fuck.

"I'm really sorry, Ghost, I didn't mean-" Your words of apology dissolve into thin air as his strong hand finds its place on your hip— giving it a gentle, but firm squeeze.

"S'all righ', love. Mistakes happen. Matter fact," his eyes drift from you to behind you to beckon someone with two fingers. "C'mere, you."

It's the set assistant, and he's brought the script with him. Ghost swiftly stops him from handing it to you, instead pushing it onto the assistant's chest. "Won't be needin' tha', thanks. Tell the director tha' we'll be ad-libin'. Now sod off."

The assistant follows his command in haste, scurrying off to follow Ghost's instructions.

"Hey," he murmurs. Your eyes meet his, feeling the intensity of it quickens your heartbeat. "Say whatever you like, just remember to follow the storyline, alright?"

Follow the storyline. In porn. The irony isn't lost on you, but you bite the side of your gummy cheek to keep from laughing. "Yes, sir."

He drops his hand from where he held you slowly, seemingly almost reluctant to let go. "Ready?" Ghost's thin lips curl into a smirk when you nod at his question. "Good girl."

Your fingers tightly grip the flimsy material of your uniform skirt at his praise, and warmth pools in your lower belly.

His good girl.

A high-pitched voice cuts through your thoughts, signaling the restart of the shooting. You exhale a long breath, unclenching your hands in the process.

Action.

"If tha' all." Ghost reaches for his pen when you frantically grab onto his Oxford sleeve.

"Wait, Professor, please! I can't," you stammer, "I cannot fail this class! My parents would kill me if I studied abroad only to flunk. The tuition—"

His tone is authoritative as he abruptly cuts off your lengthy excuse. "Enough. Nothing can change the mark I've given you."

Your ears pricked up at his wording, and the corners of your lips pulled up into a roguish smile. "No?" Ghost stills before turning to face you, countenance blank. "Nothing at all, Professor?" With a coy tilt of your head, your wide, doe-like eyes meet his as your fingertips trace an alluring path from his forearm down to his knuckles.

"I really can't convince you in any way to change that grade for me?" You lean on the edge of his wooden desk— skirt so short it doesn't even graze the surface of it— and lightly curl your hand around his pointer finger. "It can be our little secret, Professor Riley," you purr.

Ghost lifts a single brow, and settles back into his seat, arms crossed over his barrel chest as his eyes travel from your feet to your exposed cleavage, fixating on the soft skin peeking out from your uniform top.

"Please?" his hushed voice reverberates inside your skull. "I promise to be a good girl."

That catches his attention, eyes flashing to yours, the fire behind them hot— you hope it burns you.

"'Sat, right? Tha' changes things now, doesn't it?" Ghost rolls his chair back, away from his desk, and spreads his thick legs apart in invitation, arms resting on the rests— the dictionary definition of casual. "Convince me then, pet."

"Yes, sir." Sauntering to stand in between his legs, you swallow thickly— the bulge in his groin was quite frankly, intimidating. You've had large, but this was in a league of its own.

"You gonna do it from up there? I know I'm bigger than average but not tha' big." A huff escapes from your lips. A whole comedian.

Knees pressed into the cold, tile floor, you expertly undo the button of his trousers and with his help, pulled them down along with his pants— just enough for his cock to spring free.

Bloody fucking hell.

His cock is monstrous. It rested against his belly, heavy and thick. The pink tip slightly peeking from under his foreskin. There was a groomed thatch of coarse hair at the base, and his balls were also heavy— one hanging lower than the other.

Ghost leans forward and cradles the underside of your jaw with one large hand, fingers gently caressing the delicate skin of your cheek, while the other pumps his rigid cock in anticipation. "Not scared, are ya?" His grin was wicked. "I promise it don't bite."

Grabbing his wrist, you maneuver his hand so that his thumb now rests on your soft lips. "Might not, but I do, Professor." And catch the tip of his finger between your blunt teeth, the subtle sting of it making him hiss.

"Perfect, pretty girl," he says, almost inaudible. His words of praise are for you alone— not for the scene, nor the camera. You peer up at him through your lashes, mewling softly at the expression on his face.

His brow was set, hooded eyes sultry, a rosy hue across his cheeks and nose, and lips parted as he panted quietly.

Delicious.

Ghost then pushes his thumb further into your slick mouth and hooks it behind your bottom teeth, delicately pulling you closer to him as he tips his head down— taking his thumb out with a pop. His warm breath fans across your face as he moves closer until his lips connect with yours. He slid his tongue into your mouth, tasting of frosty mint and his own unique taste.

Your hands come up, fingers digging into the meat of his thighs when he grasps your wrist and moves it to the focal point of his desire— his breath hitching when you give his cock a firm squeeze. Ghost bites your bottom lip before breaking away, a guttural noise escaping him when you begin to stroke him. "Tighten your hand around—" he breaks off, moaning against your kiss-swollen lips when you comply.

He threads his fingers through your hair that sits at the base of your skull, curling them into a fist and tugging back— craning your neck, hair pulled taut.

"So obedient. Jus' f'me, love?" you hum cheekily, a mischievous grin spreading across your face.

"Would you hold it against me if I said no?" he chuckles under his breath, the grip on your hair tightening marginally.

"I'd say tha' you're lyin'." He sucks in a breath when you press down lightly onto his slit with your thumb. "Cheeky."

He loosens the hold he has on you, feeling your scalp prickle with tender relief, and relaxes back into the chair. "All yours, sweetheart."

That light wasn't getting any greener, so with a grunt, you shifted your weight, ignoring your aching knees, and wrapped your lips around his cock.

Barely.

The salty bite of his arousal and musk spread on your tongue as you took him in deep, stilling once he hit the back of your throat.

"Fuck, look at me."

Slightly tipping your head back, you do as he says, your throat closing around him as he slips in even further.

"Fuckfuckfuck," a hiss, "such a hot little mouth, just swallowin' me righ' up." Your lungs burn with the lack of oxygen, forcing you to pull back to gasp for air. Ghost squeezes himself at the base and taps your cheek with his saliva-coated length.

"A dirty slag like you, jus' takin' me like a professional. Tha' what you are? A professional cock sucker, love?" he taunts. Your pussy clenches when he calls you a slag, pressing your thighs together in the hope of some friction; Something to alleviate the throbbing ache in between your legs.

Ghost with eyes as keen as ever, notices. Damn.

"Oh? Little harlot likes to get degraded, does she? Reminded of her place? How I'd love to teach you exactly where you belong, but tha' wouldn't be you convincin' me to change your bad grade, now would it?"

His cock taps on your swollen lips. "Another time, hm? Now open. Make me see reason."

Ghost's wish is your command. With enthusiasm, you take him in your mouth, slowly bobbing your head, place a hand right under your lips, and twist with every push and pull.

It's sloppy, spit covering your hand, dripping down to his balls. Your jaw aches, a burning pressure a little under your ear, but what gives you the strength to continue is the loud moans coming from Ghost. He holds nothing back, his hand engulfing the crown of your head while he gently pushes you down. A performer down to his very bones.

You were about to pause the recording, the pain in your mandible and knees almost becoming too much when he suddenly pulled you off of him.

"Wha—?" Ghost seizes you by the upper arms, forcibly bringing you to your feet, disregarding your pained whimper, and places you on the sturdy desk.

He's curling his fingers into the waistband of your frilly knickers, slipping them down your legs and pocketing them. There's a quiet popping sound when he bends his knees, going eye level with your bare cunt.

In a hushed tone, you say, "This isn't part of the scene." Ghost drags his eyes from your glistening slit to your face, gaze suffocating, smothering the very air in your lungs.

"Just a taste, love." He curls one hand under your thigh, lifting it to perch it on the edge of the desk, the other he throws over his strong shoulder. The only sound in the room is your soft moans as he expertly slides his warm tongue through your slick folds, sending waves of pleasure through your body.

By god does he eat pussy like it's his job. Peering down at him, you can't stop the sounds that spill from your mouth when his tongue visibly splits your pussy lips open, flicking at your clit, lapping up your arousal like it is honey. You take hold of his short hair, tugging at the strands as each swirl of his talented tongue pushes you closer to your peak.

His eyes cut to yours when he presses a thick finger into you, drinking in your desperate expression as you keen, begging for more, blabbering about it being so good, yet not enough, please god more.

Ghost curls his finger, only taking a second to find your sweet spot, and pushes— bursts of light flashing in your peripheral vision. You begin to rock your hips unconsciously, chasing your ecstasy, and Ghost simply flattens his tongue, letting you grind against it.

You teeter on the edge of bliss, a tightening in your stomach, right under where his finger is. Shaky exhales leave you, the leg that's on the desk visibly trembling from the tension that threatens to snap you in half.

He presses a kiss to your sodden pussy, and croons, "Gonna come f'me?" You jerkily nod.

"Yes fuck yes, I'm gonna come for you, just for you, Professor Riley pleaseee—" your blathering turns into a high-pitched squeal as he lightly sucks on your pearl, hips lifting off the desk as a blinding orgasm crashes into you, pleasure bursting through your very core, cunt pulsating with every wave of ecstasy around Ghost's finger.

He wastes no time in rising to his feet and slotting his mouth over yours, the taste of your slick strong, potent on his tongue. Ghost breaks away, his breath smelling of your desire. "Exquisite, like ambrosia. Addicting."

Ghost's hand cups your sensitive quim and whispers, "Think you can take me? Tha' orgasm took a lot outta ya."

Silly question. "I'm a big girl, Ghost. I can take it."

He licks the front of his teeth and glances down to where his hand rests. "Course you can, love. Turn around f'me."

Your movements are sluggish as you turn over onto your stomach, rising to the tip of your toes as you present yourself to him.

Ghost grabs the sides of your waist, and flips your skirt up, tucking the edge into the waistband of it. His hands palm your cheeks, thumbs digging into the meat of your ass to spread you open, completely exposed to him.

"Fuck me if tha' isn't the prettiest sight I've ever had the pleasure of seein'." He doesn't acknowledge your scoff as he spreads your hands out, placing them flat on the table— enveloping your hand with his own, intertwining his fingers with yours.

His leans over your semi-prone body, cock gently prodding at your entrance, gliding easily through your folds. "Ready?"

Arching your back, his tip slips inside, just barely. That's your answer.

You can hear the smarmy grin that spreads on his face, and wanted to snark back but you're rendered mute when he pushes in. Your eyes cross at the stretch of his cock, a feeling so sublime you know that no one will ever be able to duplicate. Your fingers tighten around his as you mewl when he bottoms out, hips flush against your arse.

Ghost sucks in a breath through his teeth when you shift your weight, and whatever you did has him sliding in deeper— turning his hiss into a guttural groan. "Fuck, you have no fuckin' idea how good you feel."

Probably not, but you have every idea how good he feels.

"You okay, love? Took me so well like you were made jus' f'me. So warm and soft, tight like a vice around my cock. Pretty pussy split wide open, stuffed full of me." He speaks unfettered filth to you, dripping over your ears like molasses, thick and syrupy. Your head feels heavy on your shoulders— dizzy, drunk on his scent, his cock that's got you tearing at the seams.

Then he begins to move, pulling out until an inch remains inside, and pushing in until he's nudging the plug of your womb, feeling a deep pinch under your navel.

This is what it's like to get fucked by Ghost. The one everyone covets after, hoping he drags down the very heavens with his bare hands and lays it at their feet. And here he is, fucking you. A newbie, a fresh face no one knows yet, a name that'll probably never grace the front page.

You doubt his motives are altruistic, but goddamn does it not matter; Not with the way he's carving a space inside of you that only he will ever fit in, or the way he's curling his free hand around your neck, thumb pressed right over your racing pulse.

He lowers himself until his strong chest is to your back, his teeth nipping the tip of your ear. "The moment I saw you gettin' fucked by Johnny, I knew I had t'have ya." Your walls clamp down on him involuntarily, wrenching a pained noise from him. "Fuckin' hell, I knew this pussy would be magical."

Ghost's lips skim over the shell of your ear before pressing a chaste kiss on it. "Lemme hear how good I make ya feel, pet. Don't hold back on me now." He grinds into your arse, going in so deep that it feels like he's trying to push past the entrance of your womb. "S'alrigh'. I'll jus' have t'pull 'em outta ya."

He releases you, placing both hands flat on the desk, on either side of your shoulders. "Take em for myself, make 'em mine." Straightening all the way, he digs his fingers into the soft flesh of your waist.

"What a view. Perfection." He rolls his hips, rhythm languid, loud squelching noises coming from where he fills you. "Drippin' cream all over my cock, pet. Can't tell me this isn't 'cause of me."

How the fuck can he still talk? How is he coherent? Why isn't his brain turned into mush like yours is?

"Fuckin' ya speechless, am I? Oh, sweetheart, but I'm barely gettin' started." Ghost slowly pulls out, and curls his hand around your shoulder, nudging you to turn over. "On your back, now."

You lazily flip over, hair sticking to your sweat-slick skin, and he hooks his arms underneath your legs and drags you to the edge until your arse hangs from it. "I wanna see that pretty face when you come." He wastes no time in sheathing himself back inside your swollen channel, walls fluttering at the invasion.

Ghost hooks one leg over his shoulder to lean forward, pinning you to the desk with his upper body, and maneuvers your other to wrap around his wide waist. "That cock drunk look on your face makes my balls tighten, what a fuckin' expression you've got, christ," he growls. "Knowin' I put it there makes it all the better."

He gives you a chaste kiss on the lips and gives you a smile that is all teeth. "Now let's make you sing."

Grunting, he straightens. plants his feet firmly, stance wide, and begins to fuck you. The videos of the famed Ghost you saw are nothing, nothing, in comparison to real life. His full weight is behind every spine-jarring thrust, it makes your teeth clack, it rattles your brain inside your skull. He does it so perfectly because at no point do you feel any discomfort, not even a twinge. It's all a pleasure that blazes, an all-encompassing heat that threatens to swallow you whole, burn you from the inside out.

His cock punches the breath out of your lungs, wails clawing out of your throat, and it's so good, so fucking good— god, maybe he is god, you don't know, everything is so blurry, hazy—

All senses focus on the sudden touch between your legs, an expert thumb drawing tight circles on your slippery clit and there's no way you're going to survive this—

"There she is, the girl I saw in the video. Tha's an expression I see in myfuckin' sleep. Give me what's mine, pet. Let me feel you, cream all over my cock."

He's relentless in his pursuit of your climax, a wave of pleasure so intense, it just might drag you out to sea, drowning you.

Ghost, the fucking god of sex, stops his ministrations to spit on your pussy. Spit. From his full height, a glob of warm saliva drops to your mons, and he smears it with his fingers over your pussy lips before rubbing your clit. His thrusts slow in pace, turning into a firm snap of his hips, making sure you feel every ridge of his cock, and in less than a minute, your spine arches off the desk.

Your mouth opens into a silent scream, lids snapping shut as you break underneath him, warmth gushing from where he's continuously sinking into you, a steady, slow rhythm that never ends.

"Came all over me, didn't ya? Bet you didn't know you could even do tha'."

You didn't.

"Jus' for tha', I'm gonna give you somethin' in return, yeah? A little reward for bein' so good," he praises.

Your tongue is heavy in your mouth, swollen and thick, and unconsciousness creeps at the very edges of your mind.

All you can do is lie there and take it, his sloppy thrusts, his harsh panting until he moans, "'m close, so fuckin' close," and with whatever remnants of strength you have left, you use to squeeze him tightly— unwilling to let go because his come is yours now, you've earned it.

"Come in me, Ghost," you whimper.

That does it. He slams his hands on either side of your head and borderline roars out his release, cock twitching inside of your used cunt, filling you with his spend.

Cut.

Ghost's breathing is labored, a harsh pant that fans over your overheated skin, damp with sweat.

His brows are furrowed, his eyes squeezed shut, gulping in air and shivering in the aftershock of his climax.

To be fucked by Ghost is to see the Garden of Eden behind your eyelids.

Now you understand. You understand why he has no equal. He is unparalleled.

Jesus Christ, you're fucked. So, so fucked.

He slowly opens his eyes and peers down at you with a wolfish grin.

"Perfection."

A week later, your video with Ghost is the most viewed on the entire website. Not one other video even scratches the bottom of where your video sits.

Ghost truly is the king.

Curiously enough, your friend is the one who lets you know that Mr. life-altering cock himself never kisses during work. Not once in any video of his has he ever kissed, apart from a short pressing of lips to skin.

Your heart traitorously flutters at the thought of it meaning something more. Catching feelings when you get fucked for a living is not the move. But there's no stopping it from misbehaving, especially when you receive another script, to make another video with Ghost.

Another. one.

Fuck. Fuck!!

You cannot wait.

@mishaglass

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