#there is no underlying reason otherwise.

[reel-fear]

Talking abt how what BA did to Wasp is unforgivable but then saying u like Sentinel 🚩🚩🚩🚩🚩

[hella1975]

has that other anon ever met an upper class brit because i guarantee they wouldn't feel the same after encountering All That

literally 😭 like comparing classism is so dumb when it’s very much a subjective, varied conversation WITHIN a country let alone amongst different countries but that sentiment can and should coexist with the acknowledgement that british classism Does Not Fuck About

[kohakuhibiki]

I could retalk to someone else, but they have to drop that one pedo christian freak who is straight up predatory on minors he picks at the church (very important). I mean just because he talks nice doesn't mean he is. That bitch is a fucking pedo for reasons, uhm. But anyways. Oh and also, cunt of a mother, but that one is like I'd almost get a restraining order just to make sure, for my own protection, to not get violent over that one. But yea, some people don't deserve a clean death.

[tanadrin]

by far the most interesting part of the latest You’re Wrong About on homosexuality in the animal kingdom is the account of how science missed it for so long. the guest, lulu miller (of radiolab fame) basically divides the reasons into three categories: ignorance, self-suppression, and what you might call “official” suppression.

essentially, since the days of thomas aquinas when it had been simply declared that homosexuality was inherently against nature, you had a lot of observers of the natural world, even once the enlightenment got underway, who simply didn’t know what they were looking at. many animal species are very sexually dimorphic and thus easy to sex; but many more are not, and if your background assumption (because the background assumption of society in general) is that homosexuality does not occur in nature, if you see two animals of unidentified sex mating, you will assume one is male and one is female. or you might simply assume what you are seeing is an aberration, with no real systemic significance, and not pointing to any kind of underlying phenomenon, and simply fail to note it down--or talk to any other naturalists about it.

and this blends into self-suppression, which includes all researchers who might have noticed homosexuality among animals in the wild, but didn’t write about it. this includes researchers who might not have thought it was significant, or who might have thought nobody was interested in it--miller offers the example of a guy who died relatively recently who spent his life studying mountain rams, who omitted mentioning from his quite detailed survey of their behavior that about one in twelve males mate exclusively with other males, because it seemed to him (at the time of writing) an aberrant and unpleasant fact about an otherwise majestic creature.

“official” suppression we might apply to any time a researcher noticed and wanted to write about the phenomenon, but who simply couldn’t get their data published, including researchers who might have pressed the scientific community at large to recognize this phenomenon, only to be greeted with hostility and suspicion--i.e., what kind of pervert is so obsessed with this topic?

and out of a combination of all these factors you get centuries of a bias being confirmed, because anybody who might care to ask, “well, homosexuality clearly occurs in humans, have we observed it in other animals?” would have been confronted with a vast lacuna in the scientific literature, not because it did not occur, but because multiple intersecting cultural biases prevented anybody from actually talking about it. and it makes it hard to have a conversation about natural phenomena from an empirical and rational perspective when a bias that irrational runs that deep! and i cannot help but wonder what other biases we have in our culture, that might be producing similarly irrational lacunae in our apprehension of the world.

[trappolia]

── PUT ALL YOUR FAULTS TO BED, YOU CAN BE KING AGAIN

leona kingscholar. the musings of the second prince, regarding the crown and his consort.

Some days, Leona thinks about what the word king means to him and how it links back to you.

Contrary to popular belief, he does not so easily forget the whispers of rumours behind his back; though, loathe as he is to admit, Leona knows that some are less rumour and more truth, no matter how spiteful. He is a prince, after all, and not some spoiled rotten child who has had compliments fed to him on a golden spoon.

Leona knows, better than anyone, that you deserve more than him.

He’s well aware of the fact that many perceive him as lazy, irritable and intimidating, and that is only saying the least. The perfect example of a student who has had to repeat a year way too many times, who is probably still in the world’s greatest magical academy because of his royal blood and noble connections.

The second prince is one way to describe him as well. Second to everything his brother does is also a possible description. Second to the throne, to their parents’ love, to the praise and glory befitting of a king; because Leona will never be king. not as long as his brother and his blood live, because Leona has always been the second option.

And so he acts like it. What else can he do? Surely he cannot try to usurp his own brother; Leona may be a better king than Falena, but he is also intelligent enough to understand the consequences of a coup, long-term or otherwise. Not to mention his nephew, who undoubtedly has the capacity to be a real pain in his ass if Leona ever does away with his father.

Now Leona spends most of his time bored and unpleasant to be around, not so unlike the whispers that circulated the halls of Afterglow Savannah's royal palace when his signature spell was discovered. It is when you find him, lazing around in the light of the sun creeping into the greenhouse (one of the only times he has ever felt that he has ever felt that he could escape from the shadows), and, for one reason or another, you decide to stay.

Leona hates it.

He hates the way you shine a light in his life. It’s too bright, too hot, and he can’t get rid of you no matter how hard he tries. And, at some point, he has become too scared to get rid of you. The underlying fear of losing that light, reduced to the shadow of a king and a crown prince that he once was; it kills Leona. It kills him because he was supposed to be a king, grew up wanting to be the perfect one to rule over the kingdom, and kings do not have weaknesses.

But Leona is not a king.

He is the brother of one, the second son of a royal family. With enough skills and intellect to survive in the battlefield that is the royal court of the Afterglow Savannah. He is born to a long line of kings, emperors, leaders; has learned from the stories of the great kings of the past, of which their blood courses through his veins; but he is not a king. Never was, and never will be.

But then again, who is to say that he isn’t a king in another sense?

"The only kingly thing you haven’t done yet is actually opening your eyes, Leona," Ruggie’s damned hyena laugh echoes in his mind, the mischievous smirk on his face while his eyes stay rooted to the pathetic homemade crown on his head.

Leona does not think Ruggie has the right to laugh, when he doesn't even understand.

Because even with his eyes closed, the second prince sees. He sees the way your breaths come and go, the warmth of the sun and the chill of the breeze on your skin, your quickening pulse and heartbeat. He sees it all without ever needing his eyes, and that is the exact reason why he doesn’t want to open them.

Because if he does, he will see you, backlit against the sun and light of the greenhouse you both visit so much, and then he will want more; you by his side in the kingdom of Afterglow Savannah, bathing in the morning light while wrapped in royal robes, the consort's crown on your head, your rightful place on the throne beside his. You cradling his cub in your arms, sweetly whispering to the result of your love, the future ruler and heir to the throne that is rightfully his. Leona knows that there is none other more deserving of a consort's crown than you, and he would kill anyone who tried to take it from you.

(He would kill for you in a heartbeat. No matter what the cost.

One day, Leona thinks, he will not be the only one to fear the extent of what he feels for you.)

But what murder is justified when the crime hasn’t even been committed? When you do not have the consort's crown, because Leona doesn’t even have the king’s.

(Child’s play; reaching for something he will never get. Leona is a master at this game, even when he loses every single time.)

Silly lion, you would chide him with a smile. Not for these foolish fantasies (for Leona would never admit them), but for the most mundane things. Being late to class, forgetting to do homework, getting detention, forgetting to go to that detention. Such simple, pathetic things, and Leona listens because you are his consort, and kings listen to their consorts.

(Pathetic, hopeless little fantasies.)

"Leona?" you call out his name, your voice the melody of his sweetest, softest, weakest dreams.

Leona's eyes flutter open, lashes brushing against his cheeks as he blinks in the light.

He sees you there, bent over to peer at his sleeping expression. The way your head eclipses the sun makes it seem like you’re wearing a halo (angel’s crown), and if Leona looks closely, he can see his own kisses tangled between your locks and the light.

He closes his eyes before he can meet your gaze, see your lips and everything else he has ever wanted. He will settle for sense and touch, if not for the sake of his sanity, then for you.

"What is it now?" he snarls, feigning annoyance. He hears you laugh, and Leona knows you see right through him.

Just give him some more time, then he will give you a kingdom, the world, and everything else you’ve ever wanted and deserved──

──but for now, this will be all he can offer you.

© trappolia 2024

[freelancearsonist]

the mark they saw on my collarbone

➔ post-outbreak Joel Miller x afab!Reader // series masterlist

➔ 4.4k words

➔ Joel’s instincts kick in when he runs into an omega in trouble along a smuggling route.

➔ Rated MA // a/b/o dynamics and the associated gender politics (alpha!joel and omega!reader), heavy dom/sub dynamics, unprotected piv sex, creampie, fingering, oral (reader receiving), biting/marking, blood, size kink, joel calls reader little one/little thing, mention of reader being food-insecure, alpha!tommy and alpha!tess are here briefly. takes place one year post-outbreak. // reader is afab (female anatomy, no pronouns used), is generally able-bodied, is mentioned to be smaller/shorter than joel and can fit into his jacket, is otherwise a blank slate.

Tess’s face perks up halfway over a fallen tree–she stops in her tracks to tilt her nose into the wind. “You smell that?”

Of course Joel smells it. His senses were alerted to it about half a mile ago; he’s always had the better nose. He’s been trying to ignore it, however. There’s no point to giving into temptation in this shattered world, no matter how sweet the scent.

“Whew,” Tommy huffs, wrinkling his nose at the heavy pheromones that now drift around the trio. “Whoever it is, they’re closer than comfortable.”

“Smells like they’re in trouble,” Tess posits–always the thoughtful one. Always wanting to have faith in humanity, no matter how many reasons the last year has given her to lose hope. “That’s an omega. If not in full out heat, then damn near close to it.”

“Ain’t no way there’s an omega out on their own in these woods,” Joel growls. “It’s a trap.”

Tess shoots him a look–worried, stern. “What if it’s not?”

“It is.” He doesn’t even entertain the idea. There’s no way anything is left untainted in this world.

But with every step forward, the scent gets stronger and Joel’s resolve grows weaker. Your scent is so sweet. It reminds him of springtime in Austin, the little yellow sour grass buds and picnics in the park with…

The scar on his temple gives a single little throb, and he forces himself to focus up. They’ve got a clear destination, a contact to meet outside the Atlanta QZ. He needs to keep his head in the game and out of the past. Dwelling on that, on what the world was merely a year ago, is fucking pointless. No matter how much he hopes, how much he dreams, how much he begs and pleads to a god he never really believed in to begin with, nothing brings her back.

The scent makes his stomach churn the stronger it gets. It’s not like any omega he’s ever known before. They’ve all been… a little bitter. Or maybe his ex just left a tainted trace in his nose, spoiled it for everyone else. He’s never needed a partner to feel complete, anyway. Being a father is what gives him purpose. Gave him purpose.

He pushes that train of thought from mind, sets his jaw, and marches on.

The funny thing is, they’ve spent a lot of time in these woods–Tess, Tommy, and him. For as close to the QZ as it is, they’ve never met a single other soul in these parts.

That’s why, when Joel senses your pheromones only getting stronger as they forge on, he thinks about saying something. They’re headed straight towards you, into what must be a trap. The Atlanta QZ doesn’t take omegas; there’s no reason one should be so close. If he was smart, he’d make sure that the group avoids you at all costs. But there’s a deep, primal part of him that forces him to keep his mouth shut just as he’s about to open it and suggest rerouting their journey. He wants to investigate, to find out if you’re really as sweet as you smell.

He can tell Tommy and Tess are thinking along the same lines, and it makes his teeth grit together, eyes pinched in frustration. There’s an underlying possessiveness in every further stride he takes, eyes boring into the backs of his pack members’ heads while he takes position at the rear of the group.

This is why people used to say that alphas couldn’t work together, he realizes. Not that it’s ever been an issue for him before–but he’s never smelled an omega he’s wanted so much before, either. Tommy was always the tail-chaser, before everything went to shit; he was constantly getting himself into trouble, and Joel would constantly bail him out. And Tess… he’s never met an alpha quite like her. He’s never seen her with an omega, either; never bothered asking if she had one before the outbreak. But she’s compassionate, if a bit tough. She doesn’t seem like the main threat right now.

This is what he’s always hated about these god-forsaken roles. He watches Tommy’s pace pick up a little, sees the younger Miller’s nose tilt ever-so-slightly to the wind, and in this moment he sees his own brother as a threat. That’s something that should never have had to happen. But a pack of three, and all alphas… it was bound to happen sooner or later. Maybe they’ve all been fooling themselves.

It’s been great for them thus far, being able to use each other when necessary without fear of repercussions, but there also hasn’t been an omega in the picture yet. Now, with heavy pheromones swirling invisibly between the three of them, a subtle and silent struggle for dominance starts to rear its ugly head.

The scent only grows stronger, and it makes Joel worry. It’s heady, damn near overwhelming. Joel’s never witnessed an omega so close to heat without actually being in heat. The pull of your pheromones is dangerous–it’ll draw in every alpha within a range of miles, maybe even some from the QZ with how close you are. The range will only grow once your heat actually breaks out. The pack is heading directly towards the source of great danger, and all three of them know it. Even still, all three of them are powerless to stop it.

Joel spots you first. You’re nestled under a tree, sound asleep, half-camouflaged by a blanket of orange and brown leaves. You’re gorgeous, there’s no other way to describe you, and with your pheromones flooding his senses it’s nearly impossible for him to hold back from approaching you.

He reaches out a quick hand and grabs his brother’s arm just as he’s about to step towards you.

“Don’t,” Joel growls from deep in his chest. His eyes dart around quickly, searching every inch of autumn foliage for some sign of the trap this must be. They’ve heard about this exact kind of trap before, and Joel mentally curses himself for falling right into it despite knowing better.

Hardly any unmarked omegas survived outbreak day. Many of the few that did were captured by large groups of malicious betas and put into traps, their heats used to lure in alphas who were then exterminated en masse. Joel and his pack have been lucky not to encounter such a trap yet, but everyone’s luck runs out eventually.

They stand, they watch you, and they wait for the other boot to drop.

But it doesn’t. You sleep peacefully, albeit squirming a little bit, and no one else comes. There’s nothing but the sound of birds chirping in the distance and wind rustling the bare branches of the trees overhead.

All of a sudden, you wake. Your entire body jolts, nostrils flaring at the heavy and suddenly overwhelming scent of alpha. Your beautiful eyes widen with fear, and Joel sees you're about to make a break for it.

Without thinking, he steps forward and holds a hand out in front of him–a sign of goodwill. “Easy, omega. We ain’t gonna hurtcha.”

Your chest heaves with panting breaths, but you don’t move yet. You’re smart, he thinks. You know you can’t outrun all three of them.

“You’re in a spot a’trouble,” Joel continues, trying to make his voice as gentle as possible as he takes another tiny step closer to you. “Could smell your heat comin’ on from miles away. What’s a li’l thing like you doin’ out in the woods all alone?”

“Going to the QZ.” There’s a firmness behind your tone–how brave you are, he thinks. And how stupid. 

“Where you comin’ from?” He asks–prying, but gently.

You look apprehensive, but you answer anyway. “Tennessee.”

“Didn’t do your research, did you sweetheart?” He grumbles as gently as he can. “Atlanta don’t take omegas. You go there, ‘specially in the state you’re in, you’ll be shot on sight.”

He can almost see the gears turning in your head, albeit slowly given your state; you’re wondering if he’s really telling the truth, if you can really trust him. You’re wondering why he hasn’t leaped at you yet.

You gulp and plant your hands in the dirt at your sides as if you’re getting ready to stand, but you don’t move yet.

Tommy takes a quick step forward, and Joel sees the way you flinch at the sharp crack of a twig underneath the younger Miller’s boot.

“Joel–”

“Shut the fuck up,” he growls, a little harsher than he means to. “Don’t you fuckin’ move, Tommy. I mean it.”

“Please don’t hurt me,” you whisper, hardly louder than the breeze. And then he sees it–the first pang of heat, your face screwing up in pain and your body squirming uncomfortably on the forest floor. You try not to show it, but Joel catches it anyway. Your heat is here, and his instincts take over.

“Fuck off,” he snarls, stepping firmly between Tommy and you. Tess steps forward, mouth agape in some mixture of shock and confusion, and Joel swivels his burning gaze to her. “Both of you. Fuck off. Go on ahead to Atlanta, I’ll meet up with you there.”

Tess doesn’t look affected, just concerned. “Joel, what the–”

“Go!” He roars. There’s no room for argument, even though Tommy opens his mouth like he might try. In the end, they know there’s no winning. Not right now, not with Joel’s pheromones rising and his eyes so dark. They hesitate just a moment, slowly back away, and then finally admit defeat and vanish into the trees.

Once they’re gone, you don’t try to hide your pain as much. A whimper escapes your lips as you squeeze your thighs together and all pretense falls away.

“You okay, little one?” He drops to his knees beside you so he can give you a better look. It’s clear that the road you’ve traveled has not been easy on you–he’s amazed you’ve survived as long as you have all on your own. You’re disheveled and dirty, maybe even worse off than he is. You look like you haven’t eaten in days, and the simple t-shirt covering you isn’t nearly warm enough to protect you from the chill riding in on the late autumn breeze.

Joel’s quick to rip his jacket off and drape it around your trembling shoulders–he feels a strange surge of pride when you quickly pull the fabric tightly around you and nuzzle your face into the collar for a deep inhale of his scent.

“Talk to me, omega.” His voice is deep, demanding. “You doin’ okay? What can I do to help?”

“Alpha…” Your voice is so quiet, and all he wants is to take you into his arms. But now of all times is not the time to be hasty. As much as he wants you, he refuses to take advantage of you.

“It hurts, alpha,” you continue quietly.

“I know, baby.” The sweet ting of southern accent in his voice seeps into your very veins and warms you from head to toe with each rapid thump of your heart. “How can I help?”

You reach a shaky hand towards him and he meets you halfway, marveling at how small your hand is compared to his paw. He never really considered himself a big guy until this moment, seeing you so small and helpless beside him. Clearly it’s affecting you too–he sees the way your thighs clench tightly together the second he touches you.

“I trust you,” you murmur so sweetly.

For a moment, he considers running. He’s done horrible things with the hands that now hold you so gently. He’s not one to be trusted. He’ll only end up hurting you.

“Your scent’s gonna draw more alphas in, baby,” he coos deeply. “There’s a whole QZ fullav’em just a couple miles away. It ain’t safe to be out in the open like this.”

But there’s no logic or reason left in your gaze–you nuzzle your face into his neck so you can inhale his scent straight from the source, and Joel knows there’s only one way this ends without some worse alpha coming along and hurting or killing you.

“Need you, alpha,” you plead as shiny tears fill your pretty eyes. “Please, it hurts so bad.”

Joel wonders if this is your first heat–it sure seems like it. You’ve probably been on suppressants since the day you presented. Every bone in his body screams for you; screams to take your pain away, to soothe you with his own body, to make you his.

He’s never felt so much like an alpha as he does in this moment, when your heat gets the better of you and you fuze your mouth to his in a searing kiss.

Joel actually moans into your mouth. It’s deep and a little louder than he means to be, caught off guard by the suddenness of the kiss but even more by how sweet you taste. Your scent didn’t do you justice, really. He’s never gotten addicted to someone from their kiss alone before, and yet just as suddenly as it started he needs more. He needs to devour you whole, to claim every inch of you until there’s nothing left for anyone else. Even as he licks into your mouth and easily takes control of your mouth with his tongue, he knows this is going to end badly. He also knows that he doesn’t care.

“Sweet little thing,” he coos as he tugs you to straddle his lap. You can feel the insistent press of his hardening bulge against your core, and you grind down so hard he hisses. “Easy baby, I gotcha.”

“Alpha, please…”

“Gotta have some patience, omega,” he tells you firmly. “I’ll take care’a ya, but I gotta getcha ready first. Don’t wanna hurtcha.”

You kind of want it to hurt, you kind of want him to burn himself into your very soul, but you don’t say as much out loud. You probably couldn’t form the words anyway–all that comes from your mouth is a needy little whimper.

“Hush, omega, you’re okay,” he whispers into your ear as he lays you back against the fallen leaves, one hand carefully cushioning your head while the other pulls your thigh open so he can slot himself between your legs. “M’gonna make it all better, just gotta be good f’me.”

“Alpha…” You feel the first ounce of relief as he drags your jeans and underwear down your legs in one smooth motion. Your burning skin is met with cool air and it feels incredible. Nearly as incredible as the sensation of his kisses tracing down your body, even through the fabric of your t-shirt that he leaves in place because he doesn’t want you getting cold no matter how much it feels like you might spontaneously combust if you don’t feel him inside you soon.

“You’re gonna be good for me, arentcha?” He hums against the hem of your t-shirt, just above where you so desperately need him.

“Yes, alpha,” you breathe as politely as you can manage.

His lips latch onto your clit as soon as the words have left your mouth. He knows exactly what you need–none of that torturous rapid flicking that you’ve experienced in the past but firm, honest-to-god, get-the-job-done suction.

He slips a finger into your dripping entrance and it’s honestly amazing that you don’t come right on the spot. Just that one thick finger is a stretch–it makes you arch your hips up off the ground, desperate to get away from the onslaught of pleasure and yet simultaneously wanting more.

“I know, sweetie,” he coos against your clit, slowly curling his finger until he finds the spot that makes your thighs tremble. “Feels good, doesn’it?”

“Y-yes, oh my–”

He throws all pretense out the window and adds two more fingers, filling you to your breaking point. You shatter without warning as he increases the pressure on your clit, thighs quivering and hips bucking pathetically as your warmth coats his chin. Your entire body wracks as he works you through it, fingers curling against your g-spot as his lips mercifully release your clit with an obscene pop.

“That’s right, baby,” he coos proudly. “So good f’me.”

You’re panting as you come down, satisfied for one beautiful moment even as he pulls his fingers from you so he can kiss his way back up to your mouth.

He slots between your legs so he can lick into your mouth again, and the taste of your own pleasure on his tongue makes everything come crashing back down. Your cunt clenches hard around nothing, and you groan out in pain and need for him.

He grunts when your legs lock around his sturdy waist, feet pressing into his ass to grind his heavy, jean-clad cock into your soaked folds. He moans from the very pit of his stomach, surprised at the sudden movement–and then he presses even harder, grinding himself so firmly against your cunt that you swear you can feel the outline of his mushroom head even through the layers of clothing he still wears.

“Tell me you want this, omega,” he pants into your ear, still pressed so tightly to you as he reaches down to tug his belt open. “Tell me to fuck you.”

“Please, alpha.” You’re trying so hard not to sound whiny, but you’re failing miserably. “Please fuck me.”

Joel simply adores how sweetly you ask for what you need. God, he doesn’t even know your name, but it’s taking everything in him not to claim you for the rest of eternity.

Would that really be so bad? Clearly you’re a survivor if you’ve made it this far, and as an omega no less. You could be a valuable addition to the pack.

But really, it’s the thought of having you as a home to come back to that gets him tugging his cock out of his jeans to the symphony of your quiet moans and pleas. He thinks about having a lovingly-crafted nest and the sweetest, tightest cunt he’s ever known waiting for him at the end of a long day, and it takes everything in him not to blow his load right then and there.

He knows he doesn’t deserve this, but he’s willing to be selfish anyway. Just this once.

“Holy shit,” you gasp when you look down and see the firm length of him, barely contained in his big hand. He’s thick and weeping precum, tip stained a dark maroon from sitting in his jeans untouched this long. He’s nothing like the betas you entertained yourself with before the outbreak–you’ve never even really seen an alpha’s cock in person, and certainly none this large.

He must see the apprehension in your gaze, because he takes your chin between his thumb and forefinger so he can raise your face to meet his dark, brooding eyes. “You tell me if it hurts, okay? Don’t wanna hurt you, wanna help you feel better.”

You don’t know why, but you trust him. So you nod, and you tug him into a deep kiss.

The first press of him into your waiting core has your mouth dropping open, head pressing back into the hand that cups the back of your head. He keeps you pressed so firmly against his entire body as he inches in. He’s so attentive, pulling back to watch your face for any sign of discomfort as he rocks his hips, pushing an inch deeper with every shallow thrust until the base of him settles as tightly against you as he can.

He doesn’t find anything in your expression other than pure euphoria.

He kisses you, breathless and messy, as he wills himself to stay still while fully sheathed in your tight heat. Damn it all, he’s fighting so hard for control. He’s never had someone squeeze him so perfectly, so warmly. Your cunt is pure, unadulterated heaven.

“A-alpha,” you whine once you’re ready, but he can’t move. Not yet. You’re his omega, he needs to take care of you, and he’s far too close to spilling himself deep inside your cunt and pressing even deeper so his knot can take root. He could never live with himself if he disappointed you like that.

“Please, alpha,” you try again, and the unrelenting need is what does him in. You need him, not just anyone. No one else could satisfy you how he does–he’s sure of it.

With the first true thrust of his hips, a wave of pheromones rushes over his senses. He basks in the scent of you, nearly high on it, and then the danger of this comes crashing back to him.

He thrusts deep, makes your toes curl and your chest heave, and he asks a weighted question as the pace continues. “This your first heat?”

You nod your head, barely even able to process his words. “R-ran out of s-suppressants.”

Fuck. He knew it. You don’t even seem to realize the danger, the calling card that you’re putting on display for every alpha within a ten mile radius. It’s a miracle that no one has shown up–everyone in Atlanta is probably wise to the trap scheme, luckily. But luck runs out eventually, and someone’s going to end up taking a chance for your delectable scent.

“Others’re gonna smell you, omega,” he growls as he grinds deep. “Ain’t safe to be unmarked out here. They’ll come f’ya.”

The pleasure is unbearable–toe-curling, blood-boiling, thigh-quaking. All you can do is sob and whine as his big cock fucks into you and hits exactly the right spot with every thrust.

“Gotta mark ya,” he continues quietly. “Only way to keep you safe, baby.”

You come out of your reverie a little bit at that; but deep down, you know he’s right. The only way you’ve been able to survive so long was a stockpile of suppressants you were lucky enough to get your hands on. But they’re gone, and with them your chances of surviving much longer. Unless you let this stranger mark you–the most intimate gesture possible.

“Okay,” you breathe against his neck. “Mark me.”

Your cunt clenches unbearably tight around his shaft as his teeth dig sharply into the base of your neck. Your taste floods his mouth, heady and warm–in combination with your legs locked around his waist, he can’t stop it. He’s coming before he can warn you, hot ropes of seed coating every inch of you, seemingly endless. And then, without thinking, he presses that little bit deeper so his knot can fill you to your limit.

You sob at the sensation, nails digging into his shirt-clad back in a feeble attempt to tamp down the overload of pleasure at the sudden stretch of his thick knot in your tight cunt.

“Fuckfuckfuck–” he growls into your bitten neck, grinding himself as deep as he can as his cock pulses within your tight walls. “Oh fuck omega, I’m sorry–”

You hush him to the best of your breathless ability as your hands smooth through his sweaty brown hair and down over his shoulders. “It’s okay. It’s okay, alpha. You made it so much better.”

There’s a long moment of silence, Joel’s mind swirling with so many thoughts that he can’t focus on a single one. You coax him through it silently, hands smoothing over the fabric of his shirt as your breathing slowly comes.

You’ve never felt so full, so complete. His scent surrounds you and fills you; nothing has ever felt quite so right.

You realize vaguely that he’s licking the blood from the teeth marks on your neck, and you think now’s as good a time as any to give him your name.

He looks up at you, confused for a moment, and then a warm laugh bubbles from his throat. God, he can’t remember the last time he actually laughed. What are you doing to him?

“Joel Miller,” he introduces himself back. “M’sorry, I shoulda started with that.”

His arms are getting shaky from supporting his weight above you, so he grabs firmly onto your waist and rolls smoothly onto his back with you rested snugly against his chest.

“M’sorry,” he repeats again as he feels his swollen knot pulse within you at the slight movement of your hips. “I meant to pull out, I–”

“I wanted it,” you tell him. “I wouldn’t let you. I’m sorry too.”

He gulps, nods once as a hand idly comes up to cradle your head. “I’ve got a guy in the QZ. He can get us a pill. But we’ve gotta be more careful next time.”

“Next time?”

“That was just the first round, baby,” he explains quietly. “Heats can last days, even a week. You’ll need a lot more care ‘fore it’s over.”

“Oh.” You feel so dumb, getting your education from someone whose knot is currently swollen inside you.

“We’ll get a pill,” he promises. “And I’ll pull out next time.”

“You’re… not leaving?” You’ve tried so hard not to have any false pretenses about this. You figured from the get go that he’d leave as soon as his knot went down and you’d never see him again.

He sighs heavily and runs a hand over the patchy brown hair on his chin. “Look, I… you met the rest’a my pack earlier, sorta. There’s just the three of us. We’re not good people, but… we’ll keep you safe. And you seem like you’re able to earn your keep.”

“I am,” you’re quick to assert.

“And I’ve marked you,” he adds. “Can’t just leave ya out here to fend for yourself. You’re my omega now.”

You don’t know why, but the words make your heart flutter.

You and Joel catch up to Tommy and Tess at the edge of the QZ, just in time for the meeting with their contact. Joel had explained to you on the way that it was an old acquaintance, a guy they’d met in Texas shortly after the outbreak who they’d worked with for a few months before he joined up with FEDRA. Now he sneaks supplies out to them in exchange for rarities from the other QZs.

That’s what the pack does, Joel had explained. They’re smugglers–they distribute things illegally between all the different continental quarantine zones.

Tommy and Tess see the two of you coming, and they’re instantly on guard. It only gets worse when Tommy recognizes the brown leather jacket wrapped tightly around your torso to shield you from the breeze.

“Joel.”

Joel tries to ignore Tommy’s call, but there’s not much he can do.

“Joel, what the fuck’ve you done?”

Joel supposes Tommy’s outrage is justified, but he shields you from it anyway. Truth be told, he doesn’t rightly know just what he’s gotten himself into with you.

➔ beta: @futuraa-free (thank u honey i love u)

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[lis-likes-fics]

Convince Me

Pairing: Stu Macher x gf!Reader Word Count: 6.6k words Warnings: NSFW, smut, knife play, blood kink, mentions of killing, cutting, switch!Reader, switch!Stu, marking, scratching, oral (f!receiving), they're constantly trying to kill each other, established relationship, kinktober... A/N: Hello, everyone! Here I am posting for Stu Macher again for a holiday. I can't help it, he's an idiot. But I won't say he's the only Ghostface you should be looking forward to this month. Stay tuned. Enjoy and Happy Halloween!

You definitely should have reacted differently.

Stu always knew you were a little fucked up. He could just tell—in your jokes, your words, the way you smiled. Maybe it was a little harder for people to see sometimes, but it was easy for him. You're not right.

Of course, he doesn't mind. He's also a little fucked up (which is a vast understatement, but it's funnier that way).

But you definitely should have reacted differently.

He hadn't heard you coming up the steps. He hadn't heard you open the door. All he knew was that you climbed up the side of his house and into his bedroom through his window, like a fucking psychopath. (He taught you that.)

He hadn't even changed yet. His mask is sitting on the bed, covered in blood. He sits at the edge with a hand over his arm where he'd been nicked by the last screamer he slashed. The red is bright against the white of his skin. It's hard to miss.

Stu hesitates as he stares at you staring at him, your eyes wide but full of an emotion he can't place. He's quick to swipe his blade from the bed, gripping it tight as he stands.

“Wait!”

You hold your hands out, bracing for the pain but finding none. That was so quick. It's almost like he didn't even have to think about it.

Stu doesn't want to kill you. He thinks you're hot shit, and he thinks you're so beautiful, and he wants to eat you whole.

You don't want Stu to kill you. You think he's funny and weird and you want to eat him whole.

You look at him, your hands shaking as you keep them held out. You swallow thickly. Your mouth is suddenly dry. He stares at you, and it almost seems like he's begging you to give him a reason not to kill you.

“You're… You're the killer? You're Ghostface.”

Your voice is small, but the underlying fear is too underlied. Something is off.

He doesn't answer you. Instead, he watches the way your eyes look him up and down, dragging your gaze down from the knife to his face to the black robes adorning him.

He could kill you right now.

When you begin to move, he expects you to shrink out of the window and try to run away. But you don't. You climb the rest of the way through and close it quietly behind you, like you're afraid his parents (who aren't even home) will hear.

You clear your throat quietly, staring still. “You…killed all those people? Our friends?”

It's still for a moment. You almost don't react when he approaches you quickly. He shoves you into the wall, boxing you in with one hand pressed to the wall. You hit your head, closing your eyes and groaning lightly. When you open them again, he's inches away from your face with the sharp point of his knife barely touching the underside of your jaw.

He seems conflicted for a long moment before he speaks, his voice a little wobbly but otherwise the same chipper tone he's used to having.

“Killing you isn’t part of the plan,” he says, not quite confident enough to crack a grin. “Give me a reason why I shouldn’t.”

You hold your breath, staring at the craze in his eyes and finding it hard to look away. His pupils are blown so wide that the light blue of his eyes appears almost like sapphire. You’re shaking, even as you reach a hand out and place it at his cheek.

His gaze doesn’t falter as the warmth of your palm brushes the cold of his face, though a light sigh passes through his lips.

You keep looking into his eyes. They’re wide with adrenaline, dark with his intent. When he presses the knife a little closer, you tilt your chin up higher and let out a shuddering breath. You know he’s pierced the skin. You can feel the slightest slip of blood pooling from the spot. “Tell me why I shouldn’t,” he says again, his voice a little weaker this time.

“Stu.” Your voice is almost a whisper. He’s confused. You’re not having the right reaction. You’ve got your hand on his cheek, your eyes are dry, and although you tremble, it’s not the pleading tremble he’s used to seeing in his victims. You look…calm.

You raise a hand to the knife, which has become unsteady with his own slight shake. You wrap your fingers gently around his wrist and guide his hand away. He lets you. His hand swings at his side

You drop your hand down to his waist, and he just watches you, thoroughly confused and slowly losing his distress in the way you touch him. Your hand on his cheek shifts and wraps around the back of his neck. His eyes dart between your own, searching for your intent because he is genuinely so confused about the way you’re behaving.

You should be begging for your life, spewing incoherent ramblings about all the reasons he should spare you. Of course, none of them would work. You’ve seen him now. You know it’s him. If he lets you go, you could go run and tell the cops. You could ruin everything. Even if he does let you go, and you don’t say anything, Billy would be pissed. He would handle it himself.

Stu doesn’t want to let anybody else kill you. If you are going to die, he’s going to be the one to hold the knife.

He shakes his head, gripping his knife in hs fist as his nerves begin to fray. You keep staring at him, flicking your eyes from one side to the other. You look like you’re anticipating something. “What are you–?”

He can’t finish his sentence before you’re cutting him off with your lips on his. It’s an aggressive kiss. Your teeth clash, and you’re pretty sure you’ve cut his lip by the taste of blood on your tongue. You lick his lip, tasting the metal and sighing into his mouth. It’s hot and messy. Your mouths keep slipping off one another.

Stu has never been strong against stuff like this. When you’re kissing him like you’re trying to consume him, it gets cloudy in his head and he loses focus. The knife in his grip clatters to the floor, and he presses his body flush against yours, pushing you into the wall as he groans into your mouth.

You pull him down more, attacking his mouth with an intensity that should have been fear, not passion. One of his hands wraps around your throat, squeezing lightly and pulling a moan from your lips.

You don't know what's wrong with you, but you know there's something wrong. You know the curling in your stomach is a feeling that is likely better left ignored, but you're already here.

Stu tastes like hard candy, the kind that will crack your teeth if you bite too hard (and you've been known to bite). His edge is like lava, and his kisses always cut like a knife. You're certain it's the reason you've wanted him for so long, the reason you were drawn in the first place. It was set in stone when he first kissed you, when he first fucked you.

The boys you've been with were warm bodies sticky with sweetness or bitter with their crass. You sucked on them too hard, and they lost their flavor in moments, dissolved by the acidity of your spit-slicked tongue.

Stu leaves you cuts and bruises, scorch marks and scars on the private parts that no one sees. You've always known you liked them, you just never realized why.

Maybe you're sick. You need to be taken and locked away so you can't hurt anybody, or lose yourself in twisted arousal when someone else gets hurt. You don't know. Whatever the case…Stu likes it, and it's nice to be liked.

You bite down hard on his lip, breaking the skin as he pulls away with it still stuck between your teeth. He laughs, raising his free hand to wag his finger at you. “You're fuckin’ sick.”

You smile, licking his blood from your lips. “So are you.”

You close the distance again, letting rough hands slide from his head to his neck to his chest as you begin to push him back with heavy steps.

You shove him onto the bed. He falls back without a protest, smirking devilishly at you. You stand there, watching him with a rising and falling chest as you bend down to pick the knife up from the floor.

Stu’s grin falls slightly, and he watches you like a hawk as you slowly walk toward him. You stand in front of him, looking down at the knife as it glints in the soft light of his bedside lamp.

“There's something wrong with me,” you say, running the blunt side of the blade over the pad of your thumb before twirling the end carefully at the point. It breaks skin, and a bead of blood pools at your thumb.

When you finally look back up at him, he's grinning. “I coulda told you that.”

You point the knife at him. Some of his amusement dies down, but not because he's threatened. If you try to kill him, he will kill you. He doesn't want to kill you.

“You killed our friends,” you accuse.

“Technically, I killed some of our friends,” he shrugs. “Billy killed the rest.”

You tilt your head. “You slashed them.”

“Like pigs.”

He has no shame. No remorse. You clench your tension slicked thighs.

“No,” you shake your head. “Pigs are slaughtered. Slaughter is systematic, it's unfeeling.” You walk closer, pressing your knee into the foot of the bed and leaning forward until you're looming over him with the knife pointed at his throat, just as he'd had you moments before. “You're not unfeeling. Whatever you did was sadistic. You enjoyed every bit of it.”

His eyes keep going between your own and your lips, parted and swollen with his biting hunger. “Guilty as charged.”

You shake your head. It's a little scary, the desire in you telling you to fuck him. It's the same desire telling you to maim him, to slit his throat or drive the knife through his heart.

You don't want to kill Stu. But there would be satisfaction in doing so.

You brush the tip of the knife along the underside of his jaw. “Then tell me why I’m so wet.”

He knew he loved you. You capture his lips again, careful not to nick him as you do. His hands grip your waist, keeping you where you are.

Your lips stray from his mouth in favor of sliding down his neck, biting and sucking on his throat as he leans his head back and grunts. “So do you normally wear dresses while I'm not looking?”

His hands rub up and down your side, slipping underneath the waist of your jeans. “Not a dress,” he says. A smile curls his lips, “And you like it.”

His long middle finger strokes the seam of your cunt, smearing the arousal that's gathered there over his finger, over your folds. You hum lightly, “Maybe I do.”

You wrap a hand around his neck, forcing his chin up to bare his full throat to you. He grunts as you sink your teeth into it, letting your nails dig into his skin as you go. You chuckle in his ear. “But you're not much better.”

He laughs, cut off by your mouth attacking his again. “Why don't you take it off me, if you hate it so much?” he suggests, biting your bottom lip.

“Never said I hated it,” you shrug. “In fact…I don't think I will take it off.”

His hands squeeze your hips, tilting his head as he looks up at you. “Well, what if I make you?”

You slide the edge of the knife down his cheek. His eyes are hooded, darkened partially with lust and partially with sadism. He doesn't want to kill you, but he would love to hurt you. Just enough to see how you bleed.

“You won't be making me do anything tonight.”

He raises an amused brow. “And why is that, sweetheart?”

“You said to give you a reason not to kill me. I'm giving you one.” You smile, bringing your bottom lip between your teeth as you chuckle. “But that means I’m in charge tonight.”

He leans forward. You pull back. He's so close, you could kiss right now. But you don't want to give him the satisfaction.

“What if I don't like that?”

You lean in. Just as he goes to meet you, you pull back again. This makes him laugh, because you seem to already think you're in charge. He goes to kiss you again, but you don't let him.

You smile. “What if I don't care?”

“I could kill you right now.” His hands tighten on your waist as if to emphasize his point.

“And I have a knife to your throat,” you state plainly. “It's mutually assured destruction.”

Stu doesn't think so. He knows there's something wrong with you—it's evident in the way you kiss him with his blood on your lips, a knife at his throat, his mask covered in blood right next to your heads. But he's not fully convinced that you'd be strong enough to kill him.

You would hesitate. Stu wouldn't have that problem.

“If you say so.”

You shush him, letting your lips brush as you do. “Reason number one,” you whisper. “I taste good.” You close the distance, latching onto his mouth as you slide one hand beneath his head. He bites you and grunts into your kiss. Your nails dig into his scalp and his hands slide under your shirt to dig into your waist.

You love the way he kisses you. He doesn’t care about gentleness, he doesn’t care about being sweet. He kisses you like his full intention is to break you. He wants to cut your slips and crack your teeth down to the nerve. He wants to split your tongue in two and suck on it.

You pull away with your hand around his throat. He laughs drunkenly. “I’d like to taste something else.” He licks his lips as if to demonstrate.

A light chuckle bubbles in your chest. “Well, I’m not gonna leave you hanging.” You shrug a shoulder, pulling on an innocent expression as you shift off of him. “Especially not with my life on the line.”

Stu moves to sit up, but you pull the knife on him quicker than he anticipates. He stops, slowly leaning back down as you guide him away with the tip of his blade. “No,” you tut gently. “You stay right there.”

Stu watches you lean back, moving off his body to stand on your feet. As you bring your hands to the hem of your shirt, he smiles and watches you lift it over your head just to toss it to the ground. And he's definitely happy to watch you dig your thumbs into the waistband of your jeans and push them down your legs. Your bra doesn't match your underwear. It's pink and blue, and it looks good on you either way.

You place your hand on his chest to balance, pushing your panties down to the floor before straddling his hips again. The fabric of his robes are soft against your skin, and his hands on your thighs are burning hot. You bend down to kiss him once, moving up the length of his body until your spread legs are hovering over his head.

“Be a good boy?” you tilt your head, bracing your hands on the headboard of his bed. Stu scoffs like the notion is ridiculous, but when you lower yourself on him, his mouth attacks your cunt with a vicious hunger.

He’s in no way gentle or soft. He has no care for it. His hands clasp around your thighs so tightly that you think you may lose blood flow. His mouth sucks and his tongue laps at your folds, which are soaked with your immoral arousal. You’re glad no one is home. It just means you don’t have to be quiet as you let your head fall back and ride his face.

When one hand reaches up to squeeze your breasts, you sigh as you pull your shirt over your head. You thrust up and down the length of his mouth, enjoying every slide and suck and smack as his tongue circles your clit. You curse, the undeniable pleasure of his mouth an undeniable thing. As you let your head shift to the side and see the bloodied mask, the face of a ghost that almost seems as though it weeps with tears of joy at the indiscretions it commits.

When Stu sucks hard on your clit, you brace your teeth into the flesh of your arm, biting down hard as you allow a muffled moan to make its way up your throat.

This is wrong. You shouldn’t be letting him do this. He’s a murderer. He’s killed people—people you knew, people you were close with—and he’s done it with no remorse. You should be running and screaming, begging on your knees for him to spare your life. But instead, you ride his face under the pretense of self-preservation.

And, on some level, it is. He needs you to prove to him why he should spare you (though you’re sure he’s convinced by now that you won’t tell anybody).

You grip a fistful of his hair in your fist, rolling your hips over his face as your pleasure begins to rise in your belly. Your legs begin to tremble so slightly as his tongue flicks and sucks on your clit, coaxing it from you with a cruel sort of need.

Your hips jerk when his teeth lightly scrape your folds, startling more than hurting you. “Stu,” you sigh heavily. “Right there. Almost there.”

You feel him try to pull away, make you suffer for his amusement. But you don't let him. You lock your hands around his head and roll your hips over his mouth, a strenuous back and forth that brings you closer and closer until you're shaking.

You curse in the middle of your gasp. It's this backwards sound that outlines your lust, craven and enthused with no regard to any moral or some kind of calamity. Your orgasm rises in your belly and scours the rest of your body. You yank his hair and listen to him moan.

Once the high runs down, you lift up from his face to pull him off of you, shifting back to straddle his waist as you slouch over his body with unsteady breath. “You like me on top,” you comment, smirking slyly at him as he laves his tongue over his pink lips.

You press your hands to his chest, bending down to kiss him and sink your teeth into his bottom lip in the process. He winces, returning the favor with his own biting Jaws.

You gasp into his mouth when he wraps an arm around you and flips you onto your back. You're disoriented as you catch your bearings, looking back at him to see the knife held at your throat.

You stare at him, your eyes wide with shock. Bring your leg up his side, you lean in slowly. His lip quirks, following your movements with a tightened grip on his blade.

The pain shoots up his arm when you sink your teeth into the meat of his palm, just as your lips had begun to brush. The knife slips from his hand, and you wrap your legs around him to toss him off of you. He falls to the ground with a thump. You snatch the blade, moving to join him as you straddle his waist again.

But Stu is already anticipating this. You're smaller than him, so the only real advantage you have is to be on top. He rolls you both a second time until he's caging you in underneath him, snatching the knife and holding at your throat once more as his other hand pins your wrists above your head.

You're entirely vulnerable and completely naked. He's got the upper hand.

Stu watches you, the knife braced against your skin as he teases you with the freezing metal. You stare at him with wide eyes, and he has trouble deciding what he sees in them. You're like a deer in headlights, not afraid of the danger hurling towards you, but so mesmerized that you cannot find it in you to save yourself.

Stu bends down to capture your lips in his teeth, joining you in a biting kiss as he keeps the knife steady at your chest. You arch your back and hiss when the blade cuts into your skin, reveling the dizzying feeling in your brain.

Stu pulls back to see you, looking down at where a trickle of blood is staining your skin. You look up at him, your eyes unfocused as he examines your cut. It's shallow, but he's sure it'll scar.

He looks at your face, and your eyes are hooded with what he thinks is lust. And he thinks you're crazy for it.

His opinion worsens as you arch your back into his knife again and wince loudly when you're cut again. The blood falls a little easier down the side of your chest, two crossed lines forming an X between your breasts that he admires.

He's got a wicked smile on his face as he watches your chest heave with the feeling of the sting in your skin. When his mouth closes around your nipple, you writhe like crazy as he sucks.

“Stu,” you breathe, fighting against his hand, but not enough to actually escape. You probably could if you tried hard enough.

Stu rolls you onto your stomach, pulling you up onto your knees as he forces your head down against the floor. The sting of your cuts hurt, but it continues to haze your mind with a strange mixture of your lust.

“You're fuckin’ messed up, you know that?” he questions, laughing giddily as he does.

You laugh meekly, keeping your position even after he's let you go. “I need you, Stu,” you breathe, running a hand through your wet folds as you do.

“Good. Because I got another reason for you.” You hear a ton of rustling, and then a zipper. Stu lines himself up with the seam of your pussy, moaning when he's buried to the hilt inside of you. You purse your lips and let your voice muffle in your arm. “You feel amazing.”

Stu’s long, he sits deep inside of you. A startled moan comes out of you when he pulls all the way back and drives himself back in so hard that it hurts. You bury your face in your arm and whimper in your skin as he fucks into you with no regard to your pleasure.

And it hurts, but God does it feel so good. You want to tell him to slow down, to go easy on you, but you want him to hurt you. You want to quietly exclaim “Ow!” into your arm when he drives in just a little too deep. You want him to mangle you, and you want to be able to blame your pain on him.

And he's happy to let you.

Stu fucks you from behind. He does it roughly, and he does it regardlessly. You grasp uselessly for the floor to hold onto something.

Each thrust is met with a strangled moan, and when Stu’s hands press against your back, you seethe as he runs his dull nails into the skin. It’s all very disarming, the pleasure, the pain, the bite of his nails and the sting of the cuts in your chest. You let it swirl in your head and render you useless.

“I thought you were in charge, huh? You were gonna tell me why I shouldn’t kill you.” He punches hard inside of you, and for a second, you can’t breathe. “But you’re taking it like a little bitch.”

You get your bearings then, bouncing forward just when he’s pulling back. He slips out of you, and a little hiss falls off his tongue. Stu reaches for your hips to put himself back inside, but you’re already on your side. You throw a leg out and jab your foot into his side.

Stu groans loudly at the pain, clasping his hand at his side where you kicked him. A flare of anger rises within him, and he uses it to grab your leg. You use your free leg to push him back by his chest, and he falls back against the floor with a grunt.

You climb on top of him once more, grabbing the knife just as you had done before and bracing it at his stomach instead. “If you move, I’ll gut you,” you threaten just as he’s realizing where you’ve got him. He smiles like you’d just told him the sweetest thing.

Stu lays back. You watch his muscles relax as he sighs. “Whatcha gonna do, huh?” he hums. “Are you gonna hurt me now?” The way he beams at you is nothing but insanity. You slip your hands beneath his robe, which he had pulled up to his waist while he was fucking you. You pull it over his head and make his shirt go with it until he’s half naked beneath you.

You look down at him, your breath steady. He tries to see what you’re thinking, but your face is unreadable. With a gentle smile, you tighten your grip on the knife before pulling it away from his belly. You tease his chest just as he had done to you, and your grip is surprisingly steady.

“I’m not gonna hurt you,” you smile. “Not too much, at least.”

He tilts his head, only for it to shoot back with grinding teeth as you dig the long end of the blade into the skin below his pec. You watch a line of blood trickle down from the wound, keeping your hand as steady as you can as you begin to carve your initials into his flesh.

You go slow, drawing out every little knick just to see him struggle not to squirm underneath you and ruin your work. You’re already cutting him. Who’s to say you won’t kill him?

You like the way the blade glistens in the lamp light. It’s just a small little gleam, but it makes you feel something. As you look up at Stu, his jaw clenched and his eyes shut. He doesn’t look too much like he’s suffering, but he definitely isn’t comfortable. The blade clatters to the floor by his head.

You pull back to admire your handiwork, wiping uncaringly at the wound with his robe as the blood continues to pool. “Reason number three,” you smile, brushing your thumb over the cuts and admiring the way his stomach tenses. It looks so nice, a mark he’ll bear forever. A tingling feeling nests in your gut, eats away at your fingertips and the very tips of your ears. You lean down to brush your lips against his, your voice a smooth whisper against his mouth as he watches you with hooded eyes. “You’re mine now.”

“Am I?” he asks, his lip twitching with his smirk. You reach up onto the bed, never breaking eye contact as you blindly reach for the mask on his bed. You swipe it up, pulling it over his head as he huffs. The black pits of his Ghostface eyes bore into you. You bend down and kiss the open void of his mouth. If you’d been actually kissing him, he may not have realized you pulling his pants down the rest of the way.

“All mine.” You raise yourself up over his lap, reaching down to line his cock with your pussy as you stare at him. “And I’m gonna show you.”

You sink down on him. You moan at the feeling. It sits in your throat as you slowly guide your hips forward and back, feeling the length of his cock pressing all the way inside. You relish in the feeling for just a moment, but you don’t waste time on it. You brace your hands on his chest, pressing down hard so you can hear his breath strain in his lungs as you begin to ride him.

You ride him fast and hard, with deep strokes and clenching fists. His hands grasp at your waist with a tightness that hurts, and you throw your head back as you continue to ride him with all that you’ve got. Your tits bounce as you do, an up and down motion that his gaze is glued to. You can feel it even through the mask keeping you from watching the way his eyes shut and his mouth hangs open.

“You like when I ride you, Stu,” you breathe, bouncing your ass up and down as you slam yourself on his cock. “You like when I’m on top, fucking myself on you, holding you down and using you how I want.” Your smile is toxic as you chuckle. “You can’t admit how much you like me in charge.”

His voice is muffled through the mask, but you hear every word he says with a clarity that rattles your bones. “I’m gonna fuck you so hard, you cry.”

You roll your hips in just the right angle to hear him moan. When you laugh, your walls tighten around him, and he hisses. “Promise?” you whisper, straightening your back and burying your hands in your hair. When you bounce, your own eyes flutter shut and your mouth drops down to moan freely. “Fuck, Stu, you always reach so—mmh!—so deep.”

You hear him pick up the knife, but you do nothing to stop him. You wince and whine when he braces it at your stomach, letting little paper cuts clip your skin as the shallow cuts send pleasure rushing up your spine. “You gonna mark me now? Like I marked you?” You smile, your head reeling with everything rushing to it. “Then you really can’t kill me, ‘cause everyone will know who did it.”

The knife trails down to your thigh, and you open your eyes to watch him. The look on your face is sultry. You remind him of a demon, and he wants to taste you. You hold him by his shoulders as you continue to bounce on him. The new angle makes him whimper.

“Just like that?” you mutter. “You want more?” You grind your hips, and he’s a goner as his grip loosens once more. You set your hands on his chest and dig your nails into his skin, scraping your nails down the flesh as angry red lines follow in their wake. You wish you could see the way the muscles in his neck flex, but you settle for his arms straining in his skin, his hands grabbing you so hard, you think you’ll lose circulation.

It’s all a lot to take in. Your clit is aching with need, and it’s becoming harder to taunt him with the tightness of your own need. You slip your hand between your thighs and toy with your clit, a deep sigh escaping you just as you do.

Stu hasn’t done much but moan and wince. He usually talks so much that sometimes you have to tell him to shut up, but when he’s on the bottom and you’re staring down at him without those fucked up eyes, he can’t find words to drown you in.

Your shallow breaths are loud, pitchy when you roll your hips just right. You stare at the bleeding cuts under his pec, and that gratifying feeling you’d gotten when you made it fills you again.

“Did it feel good?” You’re not as taunting anymore. There’s a lilt to your voice that makes Stu want to pin you down and cut you open. He tilts his head, and you think for a moment that you’ll cum right then. It shouldn’t be as arousing as it is—his mask is, by no means, terrifying. It’s comical, to say the least.

But, oh, does he look good covered in blood…

“Killing them?” you clarify, losing your gravitas as you brace yourself on his chest and swivel your hips at a spot that makes your brain numb. Stifled moans come out as whimpers as you work that deep, spongey stop inside of you that makes you want to explode. “Did it feel good?”

Stu’s hand reaches up and grabs the back of your neck, pulling down as the other braces at the very top of your thigh to help you move. He doesn’t say anything, but you can hear his unsteady breaths hurling toward the barrier blocking you. You think you’ll cum soon.

But it doesn’t happen. Stu turns you again, pushing you underneath him once more. He hikes your legs up his waist and gathers your wrists in his hand as his other keeps your hips steady. You’re in the middle of licking your lip when he thrusts into you so deep that you cry out.

“How good do you feel right now?” he asks, his voice husky and low with lust. “You like when I thrust into you so deep, your eyes roll?” You nod, your sounds utterly useless otherwise. “You like when I fuck you so hard, it hurts a little and you need me to stop?”

You nod again, feeling just that right as he says it. You embrace the pain. It makes your head dizzy and your legs spasm. “Yes, Stu,” you whimper.

“You like when I pin you down and fuck you like I want?” His voice is frayed at the ends, spent with excitement. “You like dripping for me? And then watching me drip out of you when I cum inside of this pretty little pussy?”

You nod once more, your fingers toying away at your clit and stopping just before you tip off the edge. “Please, Stu.”

He bends down so his mouth is at your ear, the black fabric of his mask caressing your skin. He never stops moving as his body moves with yours. “Killing is like fucking,” he rasps. “It’s raw and it’s hot. Your heart races, your body gets all tingly. The fuckin’ power is enough to drive you crazy.”

You want to wrap your arms around him and pull him in close, but every time you move them, his grasp tightens around your wrists. “When I stab someone, it feels like I’m shoving my dick inside of you. When I choke someone out, I feel like my hands around your throat. When I gutted Casey from side to side and hung her from that tree while her guts spilled out, it felt like I was gutting you. And fuck, did that feel good, baby.”

You’re inconsolable, your breaths shaky and your muscles tensing with every quiver of a faltering release. “D’you wanna kill me, Stu?”

It takes him a moment to respond, caught up in the way your cunt hugs him so tight when the sound of your hips meeting fills the air with wet slaps. “Honest?” You nod. “I don’t know.” Your moan shudders out of you with an “oh” sound, ending with an F that drives out until it’s no longer forming a word. “Killing you would feel fuckin’ amazing…but I can fuck you again and again and again and get the same high. I can only kill you once.”

You smile, and it’s the sickest thing he’s ever seen. He gets drunk off the sight. “Then I guess you’ll have to keep me, huh?”

He doesn’t answer. He laughs, and then he keeps fucking you like he plans for it to be the last time he ever will. He keeps fucking you like he will kill you after. The thought of it should not make you shudder, but you do and you grip him tighter as you beg for a release.

He’s getting close, you can hear it in the way he moans. Beneath the mask, you know his brows are creasing together with that little curve. It makes him look like he’ll cry. You love when he makes that face.

Your release catches you by surprise. You meant to wane off again, but the pleasure was too great. Your back arches and you clench down on him tightly as you let the waves of relief crash down around you violently. It’s like you’re being dunked under water again and again, unable to catch your breath as the water floods your lungs and makes you cough so much, there’s no way you’ll be able to breathe again.

Your skin prickles with goosebumps, and you tremble as the pleasure makes its way through your body. You cry his name, even beg him to do things to you that you probably shouldn’t while he’s so susceptible to killing you.

His thrusts are unsteady now, especially when you suck him in like you’re trying to milk him. Your mind is frayed with the pleasure lingering in every crevice, and you sink into the rhythm of his thrusts with all the excitement of a first orgasm.

“Gonna fuckin’–!” He doesn’t get to finish his sentence. The way you clench around him is sinister, and his whole body is shaking with his release when he spills inside of you. You grunts and whimpers fall freely as he fucks you to his own need, just as he had been before.

His last thrusts are done in quick succession, deep and spurred by dull aftershocks. His breath is so heavy, you can only assume it’s hot and humid underneath that mask. Stu’s muscles twitch as he lets go of your wrists to attack your sides with gripping hands. He lets out a loud huff as he reaches for his mask, pulling it over his head.

He hadn’t seen you pick up the knife again. He’s met with it at his throat, the tip of it grazing his earlobe as you threaten his jugular. You’re smiling the prettiest smile, and Stu thinks he’s a goner. He’d let you spill his blood in a crimson shower all over your face if it meant seeing you smile like that would be the last thing he saw. He doesn’t realize just how much he loves you sometimes. Not until he’s willing to die for you just as much as he’s willing to kill you.

He smiles, and you know that he’s perfect. You’re so happy that you’re just as fucked up as him, your fingers itching to go the extra step and just…sink in.

“Reason number four,” you whisper in the space between you, “I won’t hesitate.” Keeping the blade steady, you wrap your legs around his waist and make him sit up. You lower your voice to the softest thing he’s ever heard. “Killing you would bring me just as much as joy as fucking you.”

You understand him. It feels so nice for someone to understand him. How sad it would be if you were normal…or if he was the one who was normal. What a shame it would be.

“God, I love you.” He smiles, and then he laughs in the way that compels him to stick his tongue out to his chin.

Your nose scrunches with your grin, it worsens when you feel the warmth of his blood sticking to your chest because of how close you are now. “Good,” you say. “Because you belong to me now, Mr. Ghostface.”

He laughs again. “My crazy woman.” He pulls you into a kiss, and finds himself happy that he’s deciding not to kill you. For now, at least.

Stu Macher taglist: @the-nerdy-goddess @queermaxwooo @mamaemoemu @snailss @bubbledtee @anotherblackreader @motopoppp @a-person-in-many-fandoms @laniirackssss @stealthyadversary @electraphyng Tag yourself here...

[physalian]

7 Misused Tropes (And How to Improve Them)

Tropes in isolation aren’t inherently bad, but a lot of them are prone to poor execution. Each one of these probably could have a whole post by themselves. A few of these used to be good but have since fallen by the wayside as their original meaning has been lost.

7. Dramatic Miscommunication

You know the ones. I think it’s worse when the story is otherwise good, the writers just could not come up with a better way to get X alone or send Y off on the necessary side quest than the lowest of low hanging fruit.

Two essential ingredients for fixing this trope: Precedent and consequences

Precedent–have the character doing the missassuming already be prone to jumping to conclusions, already suspicious or insecure, or misled by a third party so this looks inevitable, instead of pulled out of your ass.

Consequences–usually these are big blow up fights that fizzle out without any impact on the plot once they fulfill their purpose, but if it’s a nasty enough fight, characters shouldn’t just forgive and forget. While they might not completely ruin relationships, it should have characters taking a step back and either second guessing where they stand, or using this blowup to fix an underlying issue in said relationship.

6. Love Triangles

Good Love Triangle for the first 3 seasons: Elena/Stefan/Damon (TVD).

Bad Love Triangle for the entire series: Bella/Edward/Jacob (Twilight).

The difference between them (besides time to flesh out both candidates) is that both brothers brought valid pros and cons to Elena’s life, both got the chance to be with her, and Elena’s whole arc wasn’t solely focused on the agonizing choice of which brother she should pick. Regardless of which camp you’re in, Stefan brought stability, that classic cliché high school romance, mostly all good vibes. He never challenged her or talked down to her or got aggressive with her. Damon did the opposite, for better or for worse, and we know which direction the show went.

On the other hand, Jacob never for one second stood a chance with Bella and the narrative wasn’t kidding anyone. They never so much as went on one date (unless you count the motorcycle ride) and it seemed like Bella was only letting him hang on for pity’s sake. Theoretically he brought pros to the table that Edward couldn’t (like, idk, being alive), but the narrative never explored what could be done with him. He just ended up being the Nice Guy friend who then decided it’d be hot to lust after an infant.

5. Agency-less Chosen Ones

These tend to be wish fulfillment characters that bring nothing to the story and have no discernible skills, yet are constantly in the middle of the action, have all the love interests fawning over them, and are Important and Critical to saving the world… because the narrative said so. They don’t make a single choice the entire plot except to move forward or stagnate, chosen by the gods or a prophecy or fate and destiny.

The problem: These characters walk with the crutch of “I’m the chosen one thus I don’t need a reason to exist in the story” and that’s just not a satisfying narrative shortcut. So? Give them agency. Even if they’re chosen by some ancient prophecy, you still have to convince the reader why the Universe wasn’t just talking out of its ass.

Good example: Emmet from Lego Movie literally says he’s useless and has no skills and cannot think outside the Lego box. He’s supposed to be as generic as painfully possible and when he does have creative ideas, they’re supposed to be asinine and stupid. And yet. He might be physically dragged around by the other characters, but he has plenty of choices, plenty of opposition to what’s happening, plenty to say about the state of his world, and his ideas do matter and his intimate knowledge of the instructions and playing by the rules is how they win.

4. Bad Boy Love Interests

These guys were supposed to be counter-culture icons, standing up to The Man for the little guy because he knows the system is broken and rigged. He’s an affront to the stereotypical nuclear lifestyle, he resents a robotic and soulless office job and wants to create art or music or in some way benefit his world and isn’t going to play nice just to get his way. He exists in contrast to the nuclear female protagonist: Conservative, demure, rule-following caged bird who falls in love with him because he shows her that life isn’t meant to be lived in The Man’s cage. He respects the authority that deserves respect, the teachers who actually give a shit, the janitors, the librarians, but probably not the principal or the police or the local politicians, because he knows they don’t respect him and respect is a two-way street. He’s probably a mama’s boy or at the very least loves his parents (if they’re alive) and while he might engage in a little property damage like graffiti, it’s for a good cause.

This dude is NOT SUPPOSED TO BE: Abusive, controlling, aggressive, or condescending to his love interest. He’s not supposed to be an overprotective stalker or plagued by insecure jealousy over any other man in his love interest’s life. He’s not rude to his friends or arrogant about his own smarts and doesn’t think he knows best about every little thing in the world. He’s not sexist or racist just to make himself feel better and he doesn’t pressure his love interest into sex because she owes him or whatever.

Ahem.

Please bring back classic bad boys. That is all.

3. Major Character Death (for shock value)

I remember the implosion of the Walking Dead fandom after they killed Carl, one of the very few characters who was supposed to make it to the end, for… various sketchy reasons and I could never figure out what was true. Some theorized that his actor was aging out of the ‘child actor’ payscale and they didn’t want to pay him as an adult and while I have no proof, it wouldn’t surprise me at all.

Carl died after getting bit in just one of those hectic moments where he got unlucky, while doing something noble and stupid. In isolation, it fits the nature of the “anyone can die” show but man did it just come across in poor taste.

Obviously “for shock value” shouldn’t be the reason you do anything in your story but there is still a way to pull it off without it causing a riot: Make sure they get killed in a non-contrived way. If you plan on killing off one of your heroes suddenly, either make it bitterly ironic, or make it a situation that this character would absolutely get themselves into. The more it “fits” the less likely audiences will see the hand of the author coming in just to break the character’s fictional contract.

2. The Power Inside You All Along

This trope is usually disappointing because it tends to melt a character’s whole arc down into something pointless—this whole adventure was apparently useless if they didn’t actually need to grow or change or challenge their conceptions of the world. They could have got up off the couch as joe shmoe and beat the villain day one.

While that’s probably not what their creator intends, ‘it was inside you all along *wink*’ tends to feel that way, as it discourages internal conflict. Usually, their creator is likely trying to convey the message that one need not change, that it’s what’s inside them already that makes them special.

I present to you once again Kung Fu Panda’s “there is no secret ingredient” i.e. “the power inside you”. The difference is. Po still has plenty of internal conflict: his own self-confidence. He begins the movie eager but inexperienced and a bit oblivious, fanboying it up around his heroes. He and Shifu both insult his weight and his lacking kung fu skills, and his arc is learning self-confidence, learning how to use his weight and the body he has to fight in a way that the villain isn’t prepared for, to where Po can shit-talk him to his face during the final fight.

Most failures of this trope don’t bother exercising their protagonist. They’re pissy and resistant for the entire story and only win when the narrative agrees they were right all along. Therefore, no change, no conflict, no resolution.

1. Strong Female Characters

So many of these read like "slapped boops on a male character". They don’t work for many reasons (usually being very preachy with their agendas), but they especially don’t work when by trying to be pro-feminist, they’re still reinforcing masculine standards. A lot of people, when Captain Marvel came out, said “you didn’t have any issues with Tony Stark being an asshole but now you do when he’s a woman” which. No.

Tony was an asshole, but being an asshole was the whole point of his character, and he got humbled right quick by getting blown up and held hostage. “Proof that Tony Stark Has a Heart” and all that.

Carol was an asshole with nothing to substantiate it, and never got a reality check. She had amnesia so we didn’t get insight into who she was before to understand this transition into dickishness and was so OP, she wasn’t ever physically or emotionally challenged like Tony was.

But the other thing is this: Slapping boobs on a male character with a slew of toxic masculine traits also says that to be a successful woman, you must behave like a man. It swings so far from the femme fatale sexy leg lamp that it comes around and eats its own tail. These characters are just mean and insecure and build themselves up by tearing down the men around them.

So. Calhoun from Wreck it Ralph is this exact trope done extremely well. She’s aggressive, arrogant, loud, rude, and cynical. For about 10% of her arc. The movie immediately throws her into a situation where her strengths are basically useless—she’s stuck in Candy Land and has to rely on someone who is the antithesis of her game and character to make it out. The movie also shows you why she’s cynical via her tragic backstory.

Not only that, she’s more than just a heap of toxic masculinity in a pixie cut. She laughs, she cries, she admits when she’s wrong, she has a soft side, a gentle side, a caring side, and remains a badass through and through.

Or, once again rolling out Tigress from Kung Fu Panda: Proud, aggressive, the snubbed chosen one, cynical, mean, and overconfident in her abilities. Tigress nearly gets her entire team killed in her arrogance. She’s allowed to be wrong, very wrong. She also has her soft moments and, like Calhoun, has a very valid reason for being jaded, and is still shown to be capable of softness and nurturing during the evacuation.

Third example to hammer home that I don’t hate badass women: Andromache. Jaded, overconfident, short-tempered, aggressive, and a little mean-spirited. Tragic explanatory backstory? Check. She is also caring and loyal to her team, allowed to get emotional, allowed to be wrong and fail and lose, and kind of the surrogate mom of the team, who can also laugh and joke around and have light-hearted moments.

Whether the character is a man or a woman, being an arrogant asshole who takes zero accountability and refuses to admit when they’re wrong and never loses, audiences aren’t going to like them.

[qqueenofhades]

Do you think Biden's age is an overblown issue? It does to me because like, believe or not, we do intact have a system to take care of this, and all the times we've had to use if before have worked

If Biden dies, Harris takes over

If Biden deteriorates to the point of being unable to perform his duties (personally I consider this unlikely but I digress), Harris invokes the 25th

If Biden feels he can no longer perform his duties he steps down and let's Harris take over

Which is more than I can say for trump or the lunatic he'll choose for a vp

And that last point about Biden stepping down is important, Biden's sharper than people give him credit for, I do think he intends to serve a full term if reelected, but I do think he's also considered the possibility of being reelected, serving a year or two in that term, and then stepping down and letting Harris take over

Of course the thing with Harris is people right now are transparently trying to do to her what they did to Hillary leading up to 2016, and infuriatingly, people either don't see it or they're falling for it again!

It's the most fucking overblown thing ever, and represents the usual insane double standard. The media mentions Biden's age ALL THE TIME, and yet doesn't mention that Trump is just three years younger at 77, demonstrably in far worse physical shape, and clearly on the express train to senility. Whereas Biden is fit, active, bikes, works out, and otherwise is fine. Is he old? Yes. Who cares? He knows how to do the job and he is certainly a hell of a lot healthier than say, Mitch McConnell (81), who has openly frozen up on TV twice and plainly is not well. If it was Biden doing that ONCE, let alone twice, the media would be howling nonstop bloody murder. McConnell? Eh. Footnote.

Also, a lot of the scaremongering about Biden's age is directly related to scaremongering about Harris. If you vote for him and then he doesn't finish his term for whatever reason, A WOMAN OF COLOR WILL BECOME PRESIDENT AND BE IN CHARGE OF THIS COUNTRY!!!! That is the underlying message. Of course there is a system that handles it if the president, God forbid, should happen to die in office. But Oh Noes It's Scary Female Brown Kamala. Do you want to risk your vote for Biden knowing that ____SHEEEEE_____ might end up finishing his term in some capacity!?!?! She is scary! And brown! And female! And brown!!! We can't let her be in charge!!!

Anyway, yeah. It's total BS, and the fact that the media is fanning it as hard as they can means that they can't think of any way to attack Biden on substantive policy or any other legitimate grounds. So they'll just go after the age thing nonstop, and cross their fingers that it works. Which if it did, would mean ending democracy for realsies this time, but as long as they make money, who cares!

[shdysders]

letters with grief

pairing: jenna ortega & female!reader

summary: in which jenna visits you, with a letter.

word count: 2k

warnings: mentions of verbal fights & car accident

author’s note: i actually really like this one, lmk if something doesn’t make sense.

The air was all crisp and cool, the trees were wearing their fiery coats of orange, red, and yellow, and the breeze danced through the leaves.

The gentle wind tousling Jenna's hair, making it fall in front of her face, obstructing her view of the gravel path she walked on were a few orange leafs had made its appearance.

"Hello gorgeous.." Jenna said, receiving no answer except for the autumn breeze that blew heavier onto her figure.

She carefully lowered herself onto the velvety carpet of autumn's golden blades, crossing her legs. Hands digging in the pockets of her jacket. Your jacket.

"I..uhm.. I wrote a letter..for you" She sniffled, her nose growing red and runny from the cold weather and the inappropriate garments for the fall.

Jenna carefully unfolded the letter, and as the paper unfurled, a gentle symphony of whispers filled the air, captivating her senses.

The piece of paper revealed the long text, the letters were messy and all over the place, looking like a jumbled puzzle, with words scattered and tangled like a messy room.

A chuckle erupted from Jenna's mouth as she could hear you giggle and make fun of her gibberish handwriting, like you always did. Every single time she wrote the grocery list or anything at all, you would joke and make small comments about her sloppy writing.

"I know.." Jenna smiled softly, tucking her brown hair behind her ears. "Who even writes letters anymore?.." She scrunched her nose, your laughter basically echoing in her eardrums.

She fiddled with the letter, almost considering the option of just not reading it at all, however she knew she had to. Otherwise she would never get this out, which meant she would have to feel this closed feeling within her at all times, and Jenna knew she couldn't live with that.

"But.. I didn't know how else I'd get this out of my head.." She continued.

A year ago, Jenna would be laughing at what she was doing in this moment, she would've felt ridiculous. Talking about a handwritten letter when she knew she wouldn't get any answers.

However she pushed those thoughts away, exhaling deeply before her shaky voice began appearing.

"I'm so sorry that the fame affected you and your family as well.." Jenna could already feel tears burning in her eyes, just the thought of you made her nose start to run uncontrollably, how could she ever tell you all of the things the letter contained?

Jenna knew very well that the fame would have a big influence on you, she had told you that multiple times before you became an official couple. But when she had explained it; she meant that the paparazzi and the headlines could be the influence, not that she would be it herself.

Everybody knew relationships in the spotlight were complicated, it was common knowledge. Even Jenna knew that. But she had never thought about what the complications might've been based on. In fact, she couldn't even tell when the conflicts actually happened.

Jenna never knew where all of the rage came from. It might've been stress, anxiety or something completely unrelated to any of those, regardless of the underlying reasons, she was aware that her actions towards you were inexcusable.

She would never be able to forgive herself for having those outbursts at you. You were never doing anything wrong. Never.

You would wait up for her whenever she was having late night shootings. You would prepare nice meals for her whenever she arrived home, so she wouldn't go to sleep with an empty stomach. You would hold her tight and brush your fingers through her hair until she fell asleep, knowing she always had a hard time sleeping alone.

You did everything she could've possibly asked for, but Jenna never gave anything back.

She hadn't realized it at first. Not until she had scared you so badly that you had stormed out of your shared apartment.

Jenna would arrive home, scream at you for things you couldn't control, start unnecessary arguments that were either non-existent or non-current or sometimes ignore you fully.

She would call you repulsive things just because you didn't talk back, sometimes even blaming you for the stress situations she met at her job.

You didn't know what was happening to her, watching her turn from this sweet loving girlfriend, to a ticking bomb who would explode any moment without any reason.

She would burst at you for being quiet, but she would also rage if you were too talkative. You had no idea how to act around her, she was never going to be pleased.

Jenna did know that she was being unusually unpleasant to be around. Although she had thought that it was only temporarily, that it would disappear when she finished wrapping the stress filled projects she was working on.

She wanted to be better. She wanted to be better for you. She knew you deserved way more than what she was giving you. Despite she never made an effort to get better. Even though she wanted to.

Yet that night. Everything had flipped.

"You were right.." Jenna mustered a laugh, but vulnerability seeped through, turning it into an awkward melody, while her tears danced, trying to wipe them away.

"I needed real help." She continued, swallowing the lump in her throat. Fiddling with the edge of the paper. "Like you told me."

The pit in Jenna's stomach got deeper when she realized that you had been right the whole time.

When Jenna had arrived home that night, you had been situated in the couch, waiting for her, like you always did. However, something had been different. The way you tensed when Jenna came home, the way your hands were almost shaking.

Jenna was trying to keep her outburst within her this time. She noticed you were scared, so she knew that was for the best.

But something inside of her switched when you had opened your mouth.

You had told her that you thought it would be suitable for Jenna to seek help for her recent outbursts and raging personality. You thought that if she would be able to talk about her feelings, maybe she wouldn't take them out on you.

Obviously, you were wrong. It had been the complete opposite.

The rage and stress had taken over Jenna's body, making her scream and ramble stuff she didn't know existed in her.

She couldn't remember everything she had said. But the things she could reminisce were things that almost made her feel the need to throw up.

You had watched Jenna with eyes wide open from fear, backing away from her, afraid that she would eventually get the idea to hit you.

You had apologized repeatedly while she was screaming at you, telling you everything she thought you 'had done wrong' and why you should've been the one seeking help instead.

Eventually, she had screamed for you to get out of the apartment, that she couldn't stand the look of you and didn't want to see you again. You couldn't do anything else but follow her screaming instructions, too afraid to revolt and see what she would do next.

When you had left, Jenna had tried to calm herself down. She had planned on apologizing to you when she got back, because she knew you would. Sure, she had been a bitch, but she was sure you would still come back. Right?

"I just.." Jenna exhaled and closed her eyes, trying to imagine your face in front of her, like that would make the letter easier to read out.

"I wanted you to know that what happened afterwards had nothing to do with you.."

The tears began rolling faster down her cheeks as Jenna recalled the thousands of text messages she had sent you that night. When she didn't receive an answer to any of them, she just thought that you were probably still upset.

But when evening time arrived and you had yet to arrive home, she began to feel worried; you had never been gone for the night whenever she raged at you. Maybe she pushed you too far? She couldn't tell, since she couldn't remember half the things she had said.

She didn't remember anything that had exploded out of her mouth. She didn't remember telling you that she couldn't stand the sight of you, when she was the one in the wrong.

The things she did remember was how the local police departments number had popped up on her phone, and how she had answered the call with a shaky voice and hands.

She remembered dropping the phone on the floor, the screen almost breaking due the hard tiles.

She remembered rushing to the hospital the second she heard you were there. She remembered running into the building, hearing the nurses explain that your survivor chances were low due the extreme crash.

You had been hit. By a drunk truck driver. He had survived. Almost leaving the scene with no injuries.

You weren't that lucky.

You didn't make it.

It had been revealed later that you had zero chances of living. The staff had just told her that you did because they wanted her to think that. But in reality, you were already unconscious when they arrived at the scene.

Jenna never got the chance to see you again. Just like her raging wishes had said.

That's why everything that happened wasn't your fault. It was all hers.

Jenna couldn't live with herself knowing you passed thinking she hated you. Nothing felt right when you weren't around.

When she now arrives home at night, the apartment is empty. There's no warmth when she walks into the hall, no embrace or cooked dinner, no lit candles except for the ones that remained lit next to the photo of you.

She hated thinking of it. The fact that you were gone. You weren't with her anymore, and you never would be.

Yet, at the same time she felt like that was what she deserved. She treated you like a burden, she told you that you were a burden. So why would she have the rights to feel sorrowful?

Jenna didn't deserve you. She knew that. That's why she liked to think that your soul went somewhere better than here.

You were too nice for this world. You had to be somewhere else.

You used write letters to Jenna every month, telling her your favorite things about her and how much you loved her. The letters lessened when she got so mad every night.

And now she'd never get them anymore.

Jenna let out a sob as she thought of you. The tears staining the letter. "I'm so sorry you can't be here..here where you wanted to be." Her voice was quivering, shaky breaths coming out.

Your zest for life was something Jenna always admired in you. Always seeing the positive side and wanting the best for everyone. Even if they did something horrible to you.

And it was for that reason Jenna knew that you probably would've forgiven her for this too. Even though it got you killed.

"I can feel you everywhere I go." Jenna wiped her streaming tears with the sleeve of her shirt, trying to prevent the salty water on the paper to smudge out the letters.

Your laugh, your smile, your love and touch. It was everywhere with her. Every single thing about you that she loved so dearly, the things that she didn't appreciate in the last months she had with you.

She had taken everything with you for granted.

If she closed her eyes hard enough at night, she could see you, hear you, and feel you, the way you were, the way you were always meant to be.

Jenna knew she couldn't get by without you. But she knew she deserved to live in pain for the rest of her life, for what she did to you.

No matter how much work and interviews she buried herself in, no matter how much she cried and begged for you to come back, no matter how many times she'd visit your grave and beg for forgiveness, you'd always be gone.

"I love you. And I'm sorry.."

[fairuzfan]

For Liefer to pull up a Camus quote like this is quite laughable because of how the dynamics mirror each other. In the modern day, we have a status quo where Palestinians continue to be imprisoned and murdered and raped and segregated, denied basic medical care for years on end, all on their own land — while Jewish Israelis (to make distinction from Palestinians with Israeli citizenship, as many liberal zionists love to point out) suffer no consequences for anything, even if they play a direct role in the continued erasure and genocide of Palestinians. So if given a choice between suffering no consequences while benefiting from the status quo (that will not change unless the oppressed take it upon themselves to change their circumstance) and suffering consequences in the form of direct personal loss (with the strategy of forcing things to change by ennacting the same type of violence that the occupied experience on a daily basis onto the occupiers), of course someone who stands to lose nothing from the continuation of the status quo would rather the status quo continue if he has something to lose otherwise. Camus, when he said this quote, was not being righteous or overly sensitive. If anything, it shows how little he understood at the time of saying this quote. Because he didn't understand that an Algerian will suffer in both scenarios even if he (Camus) is safe, and for him to say something like this when people lived generations worth of violence for his and his family's (social) benefit is annoying and just plain offensive. Who is he, as a Frenchman born in occupied Algeria, to say what is worth justice when he only stands to lose anything in one scenario but not the other? He did not experience life as an Algerian native in French occupation. He might have observed it, growing up poor, yes, but he never LIVED it. Liefer might have observed the horror of settler colonialism, but that's nothing like experiencing it firsthand. To be the object of hatred to people who have higher status and more rights than you. It's just not his place as a person with nothing to lose if the status quo continues to comment on anything like this. What's the underlying meaning of this quote? "I'd rather others continue to suffer than myself experiencing suffering once."

I'm not saying Liefer doesn't have a right to mourn whoever. Im not even saying he has a duty to accept the consequences he experiences. But to say something so heartless as "I prefer the safety of my own rather than justice" within the larger, nearly century worth of context, is just insensitive and really belies his true opinions of the liberation of Palestine if he's so comfortable saying this outloud with moral authority in the middle of what is an outright bloodbath of Palestinians across Palestine. It's the timing of saying something like this because to say it now of all times when the entire world ignores or even encourages the violence in Gaza but mourns the death of Israelis? An Algerian born Frenchman and Israeli are going to be mourned on an international scale... but Palestinian and Algerian natives? Their deaths are regarded as facts of life by the rest of the world.

This makes it seem like I hate Camus, but I honestly don't, but I think the way Leifer is holding this quote up at face value and as the height of reason really is annoying. People like to mention Camus' "if" in this case as proof that he's actually saying "this is not real justice so therefore I do not have to accept it," but who is he to say what is or is not justice? The point I'm getting at is the people who benefit from occupation, in this case, Camus and Liefer have no right to determine what is or is not justice, despite their personal beliefs. The occupier has no right to tell the occupied what they should do to get freed. That alone is an arrogance in assertion that is so offending — the assertion that the occupier knows how to free the occupied in what *he* considers justice and the occupied just need to do whatever the occupier tells them to do. Because whether they both like it or not, they still benefit from and are part of the occupying force, and therefore have no real reason to fight the occupation at their own expense — the occupation is a violence that they are alright with inflicting if it means they cannot lose anything or anyone.

Also the idea that liefer indirectly compares himself to Camus is a little funny to me.

[eightmakesonebraincell]

i have a little request! what happens with mafia mingi & yn? do they ever meet again? if so, how?

same with wooyoung! do they still meet at the convenience store every night? did he bring the others over to introduce reader to them?

oh im curious yeahhhhh

ateez as mafia members pt 2

original post here

pairing: mafia!mingi x reader, mafia!wooyoung x reader, mentions of ot8!mafia

genre: fluff, crack, a continuation of the mafia tropes brainrot-fest

length: 2.1k

c/w: explicit language, violence, weapons, mentions of alcohol, unedited

a/n: thank you anon for requesting (and special thanks @sorryimananti-romantic for validating my writing 🫶) this was only meant to be like a five dot-point thing explaining what happens, but obviously mafia!ateez has me in their chokehold. mafia!ateez in my brain: it's free real estate

mingi

it takes a few days for you to reopen your bar after your fateful meeting with ccg

ccg as in cute coat guy

because quite frankly, that night shook you up a little

mingi most definitely notices your absence

but it's not like he can just check up on how you're doing

not when your bar is closed and he has no real excuse to show up apart from "i was worried about you"

after he reports back to base and rejoins ateez, hongjoong's girlfriend offers to hack into the database and find out what your phone number is

("it'll literally take me like, two seconds")

mingi refuses though because he wants to do things the right way

at least...when it comes to things concerning you

after you reassure yourself that the thugs chasing after cute coat guy aren't going to kill you by association, you feel safe enough to open up the mist again

his leather coat usually sits draped over your chair behind the countertop

originally, you think about washing it before returning it to him

...whenever he shows up you suppose

but then you kind of like the smokey smell of gunpowder with an underlying hint of his cologne that is on the coat

so you leave it as it is

in fact, you might have actually worn it a couple of times

you like how the end of the coat brushes against your calves, how the sleeves fall past your fingertips, how it engulfs your entire frame like an embrace

but mostly, you like how it reminds you of the handsome stranger; who claims he is a good bad guy; who you still do not know the name of

you wonder if he made it back safely that night

you're wearing the coat as you're closing up for the night - it's already well past midnight

you're just about to reach for the last glass on one of the tables when you hear the door to your bar opening

"sorry, i’m closed for the nigh- oh," you pause

it’s ccg

who currently has one leg and arm halfway through the threshold of your door, now frozen mid-step at your words

“if now’s not a good time, i can come back another day?” he starts out hesitantly

“now’s great! good. yes,” you chuckle nervously and try not to be too enthusiastic at his appearance. “now’s good, come in”

you catch his eyes briefly flicker down for a moment before they return to your eyes

then he gives you a soft look and greets you gently, “hi”

“hi,” you return, brain shutting down on you

“you look cute in that,” he jerks his chin down slightly to motion at what he was looking at just moments ago

his leather coat

that you are currently wearing

you squeak in embarrassment, hands fumbling to take it off while you vomit out explanations as to why you’re wearing it

your fingers get caught up in the sleeves

but then he is stepping closer slowly so as not to alarm you, before he grasps the ends of the sleeves and helps tug them off your arms

mingi can’t help but use the opportunity to tenderly hold one of your hands

he’s missed the way your smaller hands fit snugly in his

“did you come back for your coat?” you try to break the silence, because otherwise you are afraid he will hear the heartbeats coming from inside your chest

he nods, “wanted to make sure you were okay, too”

there is a third reason that he does not say

that he just wanted to see you

“i’m okay now,” you reassure him

because he’s back now and he’s safe

he folds the leather coat and places it on the countertop before he says, “i don’t think i ever got your name?”

you tell him then ask him for his

“mingi”

“mingi,” you repeat

he repeats your name in return

“mingi,” you say yet again

“y/n”

you both laugh at the ridiculousness of the whole conversation

“mingi, want to help me close the bar?”

and so you find yourself in his company as you give him easy tasks to do

closing up has always been a tedious job, especially when your body and mind are groggy with fatigue

but with mingi around, an accidental brush whenever you shuffle past each other, a conversation easily flowing between you both, you are awake as ever

even long after all the tables and shot glasses have been cleaned and polished, floors swept, bottles of alcohol reorganised, mingi still has not left

and at some point during the night once you two sit at the countertop to rest your legs, both of you have subconsciously inched closer together in your seats, bodies seeking the warmth and proximity of the other

you are unsure how long you two talk for

but just like that first, fateful meeting with mingi, he stands up to take his leave all too soon

“goodnight, mingi”

mingi buffers for a minute before he decides to do it

he reaches out for your hand, clasping it gently to bring it up to his lips as he presses a light kiss against the back of your hand

and with a goodbye of his own, he turns for the door

except he lingers in the doorway, asking, “will i see you again?”

a smile graces your lips at the irony of the situation and you tell him it's not like you'll be going anywhere; he's free to come visit any time

but you also feel your stomach flutter

because last time, you were the one tugging on mingi’s vest, timidly wondering if that was going to be the last you saw of him

tonight, he is the one unwilling to part ways

not to say that you aren’t either

“i’ll see you around, then,” he says with finality, voice still soft-spoken

and then he leaves

but just mere seconds later you spot it

his leather coat

still folded on your counter where he had placed it earlier

"wait, your coat!" you rush outside with it

mingi is only a few feet away

he could very easily turn around and take it from you

but then he just winks, gives you a tip of his hat and says, "next time," before he's walking away again

you chew on the inside of your cheek to stop the silly grin from blooming across your face

because something tells you that you're going to be hanging on to mingi's coat for him for a while

even after next time

wooyoung

it feels like deja vu

a whole gang of mafia members sauntering into your convenience store like a scene straight out of a movie

admittedly, they are much more pleasing to the eye than the group that was chasing after wooyoung weeks ago

but still

these are several muscular men in tank tops, leather jackets and heavy chained necklaces

your hand itches for the comforting weight of the pepper spray in your purse that wooyoung had gotten you just last week

you haven't had a reason to need it since wooyoung basically lives in your store now

and he always walks you home after your shift

but now seems like a more than good enough time to use it

"you usually work the night shift here?"

a voice causes your eyes to snap up

the man at the head of the group addresses you with a quirk of his brow - it's pierced, you notice

"...yeah," you answer

you wonder if this is your last shift at work and at life

and then just like a repeat of last time, you spot wooyoung's frantic bounce of curls appear from across the street of your store

you pray to the heavens above that he isn't being chased by anyone else this time

because the thought of two gangs crossing paths inside your modest store?

you don't think it's going to look like a store after their fight is through

you see the way wooyoung's eyes widen when he spots the thugs just mere feet away from you and you see a curse form on his lips

you just need to hold out until he gets here

wooyoung will keep you safe

wooyoung will-

"then you must know," the man leans in a little closer to grab your attention, "where i can find-"

wooyoung bursts through the door

"-the super sour gummy worms?" the man finishes

you physically cannot help the words that blurt out of you in disbelief, "the fuck you just say?" 

"hongjoong!" wooyoung's piercing shout interrupts you both

wooyoung worms his way through the gang and you stare incredulously at him before you say, "the fuck did you just say?"

he ignores you in favour of pressing his hands against the chest of the man - hongjoong? - and trying to push him towards the doors of your store

quite unsuccessfully, you must add

"the fuck are you guys doing here?" wooyoung yells

"what the fuck is going on?" you demand

"holy fuck, not even hongjoong swears this much"

"fuck yeah, potty mouth!"

"stop swearing you fucktards!"

one of the men who has been lingering on the edge of the group sidles up to the counter, looking at you with an apologetic grimace

"sorry you have to deal with...this," he shakes his head just as another man comes to join you both, "i'm jongho, by the way"

"seonghwa," the other man introduces himself with a gentle voice

these mafia men are surprisingly kind

and normal

except, you suppose, anyone in comparison to wooyoung would be normal

"are you all wooyoung's, uhh, friends?" you don't know whether they know you know

they chuckle, "yeah, we're his friends. his brothers, too, you could say"

you realise the rest of the men have started to settle down and are standing in a rough semi-circle around your counter

wooyoung is currently grumbling and muttering indignantly under his breath with someone's arm thrown over his shoulders, though it looks more like he's a child being scolded by his father than it looks a friendly gesture

"so to what do i owe the pleasure of a visit from all of you?" you ask them, now that there is no swearing being thrown across the room and you realise they aren’t going to shoot you through the head

"had to see for ourselves who was making our wooyoung all smitten. always sneaking out at night like a tween"

"yunho!" wooyoung hisses and elbows said man in the ribs

except with the height difference, it's more like his hips

it's amusing to see how everyone has the upper hand over wooyoung's brattiness

"am i meeting the in-laws already?" you smirk at wooyoung, "you like me or something, jung wooyoung?"

he flushes bright red and you're quite positive that if you made him take his socks off, you would find him blushing straight down to his toes

"that's it!" he hollers, arms flailing and shooing everyone, "out! out! out!"

you know they can easily resist his pushy hands, but they simply snicker and let themselves be herded towards the doors

"bye, darling!" someone jumps up and down to catch your gaze over the heads of everyone else

"shut up, san!"

yunho, you think you recall his name being, flutters his fingers at you cheekily, "we'll be back soon!"

and then he lets out an indignant yelp when wooyoung slaps his back with a screech, "no, you guys won't!"

you're laughing heartily by this point, unrestrained and very much enjoying their antics

"bye, everyone," you wave them off and then blow wooyoung an exaggerated kiss, "see you later, wooyoungie!"

everyone cackles with glee at the sight of him trying to dig himself into the ground

the sound of their ruckus finally dies down as they exit and walk further away from your store

and then you hear a distant wail

"i didn't get my gummy worms!"

you shake your head with a fond smile and take a seat at the register, but not before setting aside a pack of those ‘super sour gummy worms’ for hongjoong

and then, like always, you look at the clock and count the seconds as they tick past

counting down the seconds until wooyoung comes back to see you

again

[mozzaicynth]

one thought everyday and its just the amazing world of gumball especially these three freaks (doodles + some headcanons below :3)

mr small -

my interpretation of small becoming more mellowed out in the future seasons as opposed to season 1 is him managing his anger in a more healthier way (meditation, etc) (plus i think all those herbal infusions are incredibly effective on the nerves) . that being said i think he still has underlying anger issues and lashes out if prompted too much . another reason hes nicer and more of a pushover in the later seasons is because i like to think hes guilty of his plethora of outbursts earlier on, especially towards students (unwarranted shouting which as a school counsellor he should know is pretty harmful on younger kids) . the fact that he tries to offer his help when its absolutely not needed so many times later on in the show further makes me like to think he’s making up for it all

hes also so autistic to me hes on the spectrum you cant tell me otherwise and i think hes pretty awkward and considered strange by the whole town (which is saying a lot for elmore standards) . still super friendly and approachable but he also cant take hints and he definitely stims (and has special interests, alternative medicine are you kidding)

his music taste i love to think is all over the place … i get the general consensus is he listens to mystic chants and sitar music but he definitely listens to more, ranging from pop to indie to rock to metal (this may or may not have become an idea when i was listening to ‘darts by soad and associated it with him,) . also what with his stupid little self funded album that is such a jarring listen ‘cause of all the ridiculous genre changes

i think he crochets/macrames as a hobby along with other diy stuff (most of the decorative items in his home crafted by him) making him, surprisingly considering how incompetent he is sometimes, super crafty/handy .

larry -

larry is a great person: incredibly intelligent, he’s very knowledgable on a plethora of subjects and he has a big heart, holding little to no virtriol against the people of elmore (except the wattersons but that is SO warranted) . thus i like to imagine he did great in school, moved on to do so wonderfully in uni whilst juggling jobs and his studies but after graduation was left stuck (alike so many people nowadays) . neither small or larry came from well off families but i think for larry he didn’t have much of a support system anyway so currently he overworks and works and works just to catch up on the student debt whilst simultaneously paying his taxes (i still think about that episode all the time fuck the police . big pink son of a bitch), loans and not to mention the bare minimum to keep himself alive

he’s a very sweet and kind person but anyone under the immense stress that he’s under would be irritable and temperate (he deserves to be more angry imo) and i whilst he has so many jobs he always aims to excel at all of them, having an incredibly particular way that tasks must be done and having them organised . because of this, he can be a lot more temperate when interacting with coworkers, especially those who don’t do their job as well, having to take matters into his own hands . as he and karen (his girlfriend throughout the series) share some jobs it puts a strain on their relationship (which was built off of the mutual ‘having several jobs’) and they break up .

even so, though larry consistently tries to propose to her in the show, in “the laziest” he doesn’t seem to be happy nor comfortable at all with the prospects of marrying her . in fact, even when he’s achieved the ‘american dream’ (properties like a house and car and a family (his girlfriend soon to be wife)) he’s unhappy . personally i don’t think he knows what he wants to do with himself ; he works all day and night and has little to no time for himself to even think in peace that the only purpose he knows is work .

i like to think he used to be an artist; self taught, it was a hobby and an enjoyment but his studies and his work took over so his one form of self expression was squeezed out of his life .. (i like making their lives as bleak as possible soz ! 🙏) he still admires the arts and i think that’s another reason he likes steve so much; his handcrafts and mini projects .

steve and larry are two opposites that are similar in ways .. but i love their dynamic so much . my interpretation of them is that steve will help larry balance out his life slightly better to leave room for himself instead of working 24/7 . steve has his head in the clouds and larry grounds him, and larry is so stuck in his ways with work that steve pulls him out of it slightly, lifting him up a little higher (AUGHHHGHH I HATE THEM I HATE THEM

as for their relationship with rob, im very much a stevelmeyer adoption truther !! both larry and steve coming from dysfunctional families, they aim to help rob and take care of him to the best of their abilities . further, larry taking on taking care of rob gives him direction in his life again . 😁😁😁😁😁😁

this isnt gonna be the last post headcanon/idea wise i still think of them 24/7 but heres jus SOME things .. (im such a yapper sprry not sorry !) :3c

[homunculus-argument]

If you're on the autistic spectrum, you probably have at some point been a part of a group conversation discussing some subject, and you notice that some large key element of the subject has not even been mentioned. So you decide to be the one to bring it up, in case the other people present were not aware of this big important component at play. And when you do, the neurotypical people present start scoffing and roll their eyes, tell you that everyone already knew that, and act insulted and get sarcastic at you, and you have no idea what the hell that was about.

Anyway, if that's ever happened to you, I might be able to break this down. I have no idea if that's of any help, but here I go nonetheless:

Neurotypical people tend to assume that the things that they consider to be obvious are also obvious to everyone else. As their thought processes tend to consistently follow very similar patterns, this assumption is correct enough - in a room full of neurotypicals, everyone assumes that everyone else has noticed the same things, and assumes that they don't need to be clearly and specifically pointed out at all.

This kind of "obviously obvious" things form the invisible bottom layer of the way neurotypicals talk to each other. The top layer is what they explicitly say with words, and the second layer is an underlying message that they consider to be too obvious to say directly. For example, asking someone if they need help with something comes with the implied statement "I don't think you are capable of doing this on your own", and if the person being asked is clearly capable of doing the task on their own, it means "I think that you are so helpless in general that you might as well not even know how to do this, either", which is considered massively insulting.

A third layer comes from where and when something is said. Offering to help someone with something that you thought they should be able to do on their own is insulting enough in private, but doing it in public means that you aren't just telling one person "I don't respect you", you are making it clear to everyone who witnesses it that you want everyone to know that you don't respect this person, or that you don't think they're capable of any kind of a meaningful retribution for being insulted like that.

So, wrapping this all back together, sometimes when neurotypical people don't openly aknowledge something that's very important when discussing a subject, there's a chance that they're not oblivious to the importance of that specific component, but have simply all silently agreed that one would need to be an idiot to not be aware of it, and therefore it does not need to be brought up at all. So even when you are trying to genuinely make sure that you are all on the same page, you have offered to help them understand the subject - which they take as your way of letting them know that you don't think they're smart enough to do that on their own.

So they hear this as you saying "I think everyone in this room is a fucking idiot, and I don't respect any of you enough to pretend otherwise, nor do I care who knows it." And that's why they get mad for no reason.

[141trash]

Every Man has his Breaking Point

AN: *Exhales loudly and screams* I had a mini panic attack because the links weren't working and I realized I hadn't reblogged the post but its fine because I scrolled my thousands of likes for this :) This is inspired by @bleuu-moon's post! I loved it and as I was eating my ramen ended up imagining Ghost in a similar position. unedited full of grammatical errors bc reasons

At first he thought you were a hallucination given that he'd been knocked over the head pretty damn hard during his capture. He woke up on the cold floor of some cell with you leaning over him, pressing a bit of cloth to his forehead. Swatting your hand away from his face, he forced himself to sit up and take stock of the situation.

There was a brief underlying panic when he realized they'd stripped him of his mask and you now knew what he looked like. All his weapons were gone as were his shoes and anything that might have been useful for escaping. Whoever took him clearly knew what he was capable of.

Wincing as he braced himself against the wall he finally turned his attention back to you. Definitely a civilian. Small, innocent, young. There had to be something that he didn't know about you that made you a target because you and him being stuck together in this situation seemed like such an odd pairing.

"What they want with you?" he asked hoarsely, breaking the silence. Your head shot up to look at him, nervously playing with the fabric between your fingers.

"I don't know." you replied shaking your head.

Simon grunted, but otherwise didn't say anything else. His head was throbbing painfully, but he needed to understand what was going on if he was going to get out of there. It occurred to him after a while that you might be working with his captors, placed there to gain his trust and get information out of him that way. If that was the reasoning then it was a stupid idea. A young pretty face wasn't going to get your bosses any answers.

He decided then that until he could confirm that theory he wouldn't interact with you again.

It was two days later when someone finally came in. The pair of you were on opposite sides of the cell. You'd been dozing on and off to keep from letting the anxiety overwhelm you, but when you heard the key scraping the lock to the outer door your head shot up instantly alert.

Across the cell Simon didn't lift his head to glance at the door, briefly though his gaze flitted to you, to see your reaction.

"Lieutenant Riley." a man with a grandiose voice greeted as a guard opened the cell door to let him in.

"I know you?" Simon asked almost boredly, looking at the man and not recognizing anything.

The man's face twitched slightly, hands tightening to fists at his sides, "Perhaps not. But I know you."

He looked at you then, causing you to shrink back from the slimy feeling that went down your spine.

"You don't like your gift?"

You shuddered at the obvious implication in his voice, tears welling up in your eyes.

"You must not know me very well if you thought that would get me to talk." Simon disparaged making a face in disgust. For a brief second you didn't know whether to be relieved or offended.

The man clucked his tongue like a bad superhero movie villain, a greasy smile spreading across his face, "Every man has his breaking point Lieutenant Riley. I'm excited for us to find yours."

[anghraine]

I'm not sure why, but I've been thinking lately of how much I loved Poirot and Miss Marple novels and short stories in high school, and specifically loved the "psychology" concept that drives them.

I mean, it's definitely not actual psychology, but I really enjoyed the whole shtick of "this person may well have committed a crime, or even be capable of Crime, but they wouldn't have committed this crime in this way because of their quirks as a human being." Or the reverse, where the crime turns out to be difficult because someone who wouldn't ordinarily commit crime did it for reasons that make sense if you understand them as a person but otherwise it's confusing.

(Of course, you also get murderers who try to exploit this approach but are, in reality, pretty run-of-the-mill murderous assholes. But even in those cases, really understanding who people truly are and what they're capable of in different circumstances proves essential to the broader solution.)

I'm really used to the assumption, or insistence, that a person or character having done any crime means they are somehow likely to commit any other crime, something which is patently untrue. And although the precision and assurance of the Poirot/Marple approach has about as much to do with psychology as a discipline as psychohistory does, I do appreciate it when a story leans on the finer points of who people are—even in the short whodunnit version of "finer points"—more than Bad People Do Bad Things.

(Obviously these books had many flaws, and can be super uneven; Christie was a near contemporary of my actual 20th-century fave, JRR Tolkien, and it's clear that their politics were not always very different, but I have a lot more respect for the reflections and re-considerations in later Tolkien writings than later Christie. But I do like the basic concept underlying so many of her whodunnits.)