#there's something fucky happening here

[bookwyrminspiration]

oh SHIT <- just finished drawtectives season 2 episode 1

[storytellering]

Torn apart. Inspired by Romeo and Juliet by Sergio Cupido

[llycaons]

THIS MODEM DIDN'T WORK EITHER 😭

[wheelercore]

Yeah actually that stuff in the attic is sus as all hell because I'm getting some real Rosemary's Baby vibes from this

Ah wait... Rosemary

[gravegroves]

Okay, little stream-of-consciousness-moment:

Billy, who's mind is like a steel trap, who isn't a scared little child, but a healthy, angry young adult. And the mindflayer doesn't even know what hit it. One second it's infiltrating grey matter, overtaking neural pathways and becoming one with this new vessel and the next second it's burning alive, it's crumbling and shrinking and screeching in agony as the human body does what is does best to foreign invaders: try to kill it.

I've always loved the posts on tumblr that explore how deeply weird humans would be to aliens. Our physiology, our mentality, when spoken of as animal traits they are all deeply disturbing. We're persistence predators. We're built to last. We can survive unimaginable horrors (and also die from the stupidest, most everyday things). Our main predator, is ourselves. A bite from a child can kill another human just from the bacteria alone if left untreated. Our bodies are designed to kill entities both within and without.

Humans are fucking terrifying.

So the mindflayer is so unprepared for an adult human who's been through too much shit already. Not just a tired little slip of a kid, but a healthy, entering-his-prime human and is eradicated with extreme prejudice by nothing more than a good immune system going into overdrive.

But it's too deeply imbeded, so the body again does what it can to protect itself, it encases it. Within the body, but separate. Calcified. Caged.

So here's Billy, who has a rather spotty memory of a car crash and feels like he has a head cold for a couple of days before he gets on with his life. Only weird shit keeps happening to him, now. Like that time he encounters a pack of dogs while out drinking by the quarry, except they look really fucked-up the closer they get, not like any dog Billy's ever seen before, and just as he's prepared for an attack from these things, they just walk up to him and sniff around a bit with their weird flower heads blooming and closing, but otherwise leaving him unharmed. And Billy's just this side of drunk where terrible ideas seem kinda brilliant and he tells the things to sit. And they do. Amazed, he tosses his beer bottle and tells them go fetch, and again, one does.

And then when it's time to go home Billy offhandedly tells them to get lost and they run off back into the woods, and when he wakes up in the morning it's easy to rationalise it away. Probably the beer had been rolling around in the car for too long and it went bad and fucked him up. Should just have thrown the whole sixpack out. Those were just regular dogs, for sure. Except the next day, when he's out behind the pool building trying to find a good spot to smoke, he steps onto soft soil or something and falls down into a weird ass tunnel and a bunch of those same monster dogs just appear out of nowhere and pile themselves on top of each other for him to be able to climb out. And a couple of days later when Neil smacks Billy around for being out late again, one of those dogs honest to God comes crashing through the living room window to shred Neil's leg up and leaves just as quickly at the first sign of panic from Billy.

And yeah okay, by this stage Billy's figuring out things are kinda fucky around Hawkins, and so it's just Billy having his own little side adventure in the background while the rest of the gang are running around Hawkins trying desperately to find the Mindflayer, not knowing that Billy unknowingly trapped it within himself and is just living his life, teaching these weirdly obedient alien dogs to do tricks because they keep helping him or seeking him out.

Anyway, upside down is doomed because their leader is literally trapped inside Billy and Billy is just teaching these dog-things to steal cigarettes from the gas station and volunteering for the closing shift at the pool because he can just get the dogs to bring the pool noodles back into the shed.

[jo-harrington]

Stranger Than (Fan)Fiction - Prologue: Crossover

Summary: Everyone wishes that they could have an Eddie Munson in their lives. In a strange turn of events, Eddie wishes that he could meet you, his favorite character from a cult classic 80's TV series. And he's about to get his wish.

Word Count: 3.9k

Pairing: Eddie Munson/Fem!Reader

Warnings/Themes: No-Upside-Down AU, Minor Angst, Fluff, Isekai, Mentions of FOI-compliant events

Note: Hello and welcome. I'm very excited about getting to expand on this idea; it's going to be a wild ride. Please note as you head in, and as we get into further chapters...this fic is going to be a little mind-fucky and a little bit self aware. This is my love letter to and my criticism of fanfiction, but at the end of the day, we're still gonna get to fall in love with Eddie and get some kind of Happily Ever After. This is my guarantee.

You can find my masterlist here.

Please do not interact if you are not 18+.

Enjoy!

May 2022. Such a weird time.

A time of uncertainty, a time of change. A time where the world seemed like it had been torn apart and was slowly being knit back together again.

But then a switch was flipped. Something happened. An old season ended and a new one started and with that start came something new. Someone new. And suddenly, countless people began to yearn for this new person in their lives.

A new, old person. Eddie Munson.

Joy ignited. Creativity sparked. Millions of words written and read. Edits made. Art drawn. Merch bought.

So many voices crying “why isn’t he real. WHY ISN'T HE REAL.”

If there was a god, he would let them have their own Eddie Munson. And if there was a Satan, he would let them sell their souls for Eddie Munson.

That’s just not how the universe works.

At least…not this one...

October 1985. A different kind of place and time. Still weird.

But Eddie Munson was real.

Sometimes to his detriment.

And for the most part, it was alright.

He played guitar, laughed with friends, mocked bullies to protect the people like him that were considered less than. He'd overcome hardships of one sort or another for most of his life, he could keep at it for a little while longer.

It would be his day week month year sometime soon.

Wouldn't it?

But until then, he would bide his time. Hopefully, this year, he'd pass all of his classes and finally graduate. Get to flip that douchebag Higgins off and snatch up a long-awaited, and well-deserved diploma.

What made it all easier, what softened the blow...was you.

It was silly. He knew that. Ronnie used to tease him on Wednesday nights when he needed to run home because he had a "standing date with his girl."

"Your girl doesn't even know you're alive," she'd scoff as he bustled her into the van. "She isn't real."

No...no you weren't.

Why couldn't you be real.

See, for the past...however long Eddie had spent his late nights half-assing homework, planning campaigns for Hellfire, working on music, and watching a television show. His guilty pleasure, a show about the ups and downs and upside downs of living in a sleepy suburban town: Port Geneva.

A show where you were his favorite character.

And crush.

You weren't the main character--in fact, you were just the main character's quirky best friend--but you were a fan favorite, as much as he could tell. You'd only been in the background during the first season, but before long you were front and just-left-of-center. And last year, you'd even gotten a two-episode arc in the season finale as you turned the small town on its head by announcing, a month or two before graduation, that you were quitting school to follow your dream and become an artist.

And man...Eddie had been there.

He'd actually missed those episodes airing when...well, when everything happened with his father and the heist...and the house...and Paige.

He'd missed a lot of episodes that season. Missed seeing you come into your own as he tried and failed to come into his.

Thankfully Wayne--and Eddie wasn't a believer but whatever deity in charge needed to bless his Uncle Wayne--had the foresight to tape those episodes for him.

Those tapes would be cherished 'til the day he died, because they had truly gotten him through those tough days after everything.

He wished he had seen them when they aired, maybe...maybe he would have made some different decisions if he had.

Of course, Eddie had already loved you before then.

Since he had first laid eyes on you, actually.

He was sure that if you were real, you would be the one to understand him more than any of his friends. See the real him. In return, he would understand you, be there for you too.

He already had been. He'd seen you cry countless times, he'd laughed with you, celebrated your successes and mourned your failures. He'd been there for you when you crushed on that dickhead Mark, and then had your heart broken by the careless jerk.

And somewhere deep down inside of him, when he was sitting in that jail cell after he wasted his phone call on Paige and he felt the weight of the world bear down on his shoulders…he wished that you were real so he could have called you instead.

If you were real, Eddie's life would just be a little nicer.

He knew…he just knew.

Of course, in the mean time while he wished with every fiber of his being that you would walk into his life, he brought you to life in other ways. During mid-season and summer hiatuses, he would write you into his DND campaigns. His friends knew, they always called him out for it.

"Are you seriously making her an NPC man?" Dougie would scoff and throw a D20 across the table at him.

"No, what are you talking about?" he defended and threw the die right back at his friend. "This is Spiria the Bold."

"Uh huh," Jeff rolled his eyes. "Sure."

By his imagination and his pen, you became a powerful warrior, a sharp-tongued trickster, a seductive mage. You became anything he wanted you to be--most often with a companion and lover that mirrored him--and everything he knew, deep down, that you were.

And then the unthinkable happened.

September ‘84. He and Wayne were in the checkout line at K-mart. Cart stacked with new clothes and school supplies and groceries. When suddenly...there you were. Right in front of him.

Alright, not you. Per se. But your face, smiling alongside Samantha and Patrick and Scotty and Bill on the cover of the TV Guide.

On Set with the Stars of Port Geneva.

Wayne was the one to snatch the magazine from the rack and add it to their bounty, a knowing smile on his lips as he shook his head.

He knew Eddie needed a little pick-me-up.

Or a big one.

How could he have known this would be anything but one...

Eddie scoured over the pages once they got back to the trailer. He was hoping there would be a big enough picture of you that he could cut out and tape to the otherwise barren walls of his new room. And there was; you were leaning against the back of your signature pastel blue Volkswagen Beetle, arms across your chest, head tilted to the side with the signature scrunched smile you gave when you were embarrassed.

He adored you.

Before he took scissors to the page, he read the interview with your actress.

He wasn't too keen on her, even though she had your face.

The illusion that Rosemary Glass was really you had been shattered the first time he'd heard her voice on a radio interview; instead of your perfect and familiar middle-American speech...Rosemary's voice was accented.

Not to mention, she sounded pretentious.

Gross.

Still, he could look past that annoyance if he got some kind of insight to what the next season would bring for you.

Hopefully not a new love interest. His heart could only take so much.

...gives us a tour of the Patterson and Son's set, one that is forever enshrined as the setting of Patrick and Samantha's first kiss. "Oh I'm actually not fond of that scene," Rosemary confesses. "Yeah it's sweet, and the way I bring Sam in so Pat could confess his feelings but the...when I fell down? It was not scripted. And I was honestly shocked they kept that in. But fans seem to think she's clumsy now because of it. That I'm clumsy. When I just tripped over a wire. It's quite awful, really." We ask Rosemary to tell us what she'll miss most, now that the show is coming to an end...

Eddie went rigid as he read those words.

The show...coming to an end?

"What?" he exclaimed into his empty room. "No, no, no."

He carefully examined the article again, then turned back to the beginning of the feature, only to feel his heart stop in his chest.

The title of the feature was like crit hit.

The final killing blow to his already weak constitution.

One Last Summer in Port Geneva - On the Set of the Final Season

The final season was a sham.

Eddie savored every episode, though. Of course he would!

He would enjoy every last moment with you that he could get before he lost you forever. But...he hated it.

It was lazy writing--seriously what were they thinking--and a quick, cheap means to tie up all the loose ends they'd set up over the years. He could tell they tried to deliver as fulfilling a finale for the extensive cast of characters as they could. Still, he was sure he could have done better.

Samantha and Patrick got engaged after graduation. That was lame.

Bonnie finally quit the bakery to open her own cafe the next town over. Didn't anyone remember that she wanted to quit because she wanted to be a vet instead? That was the whole point of her! She didn't want to follow in her family's footsteps and she was doing just that.

And you? You took a backseat.

Instead of leaving town right after graduation--something that you had followed through reluctantly to make your parents happy even though you had just resolved to put your own happiness first for once--you stayed to help Pat plan his proposal.

Your big adventure, your big push for your dreams, were on hold again. You played second fiddle over and over until the final episode.

Eddie was grateful to have you for a little longer, but...once again annoyed that you were looked over--over and over, just like he was--when you had already proved that you were worthy of top billing.

Worthy of being the main character for once.

Still, at the beginning of the series finale, you packed your bags, cashed in your savings account, and drove out of town. The future was yours, just like it was always meant to be.

And Eddie cried.

The whole time tears streamed down his face as you said your own watery goodbyes. He might have even waved as you stuck your hand out the windshield to say goodbye to your friends as your car idled at the last stop sign. You blew a kiss to everything you knew and loved then started on your way into the unknown, car getting smaller in the distance right before the commercial break.

He held his breath for the final scene: a walk through the house where it all started and then Sam smiled her signature hopeful smile as she shut the door on the audience.

The screen faded to black for one final time and he exhaled.

"It's over," he muttered in slight disbelief, suddenly unsure of what to do with himself.

Port Geneva was over, and you were gone for good.

It was a strange feeling.

Heartbreak, mourning, disappointment? He couldn't really know for sure. Empty was the best way to describe it; the lack of feeling. It was infuriating. Port Geneva was just a television show, he attempted to rationalize for the nth time since he started watching. You were just a character on a tv show; how could you mourn for someone and something that wasn't even real?

You hadn't actually died. He could still see glimpses of you if he wanted, whenever Rosemary Glass' next movie came out or something.

But that wasn't you.

You were gone, for all intents and purposes, and it was a blow that hit Eddie hard.

How could he go on without you?

Devastated, he got high that night after he stewed on his grief. He day-dreamed and monologued to an empty trailer about a universe where the two of you were together, where your travels took you to Hawkins, of all places, and you fell in love with him, just like you were supposed to.

If the walls could talk, they would have a fantastic tale to tell. One with heroes and misunderstandings and love at first sight. One with a horrible, unseen foe and many pitfalls and dangers that exceeded anyone's wildest imaginations. One with a magic door that led to the happily ever that was beyond well-deserved.

Grief did wonderful and terrible things, after all.

He woke up for school the next morning with cotton mouth and a vague outline of a story that did just that: brought you to Hawkins to fall in love with him and all of the other things that seemed like nonsense once he was in a more right-minded state.

The only problem was that it was all in his English notebook. And he didn't need anyone finding that.

"Fuck," he groaned and ripped the page out. He shoved it into his bedside drawer, where it would be doomed to a crumpled and forgotten future.

Or until he needed a condom.

Which, considering how everyone had doubled down on their disgust of him, wouldn't be any time soon.

But there you stayed.

Put away, like old obsessions and childish things, to be ignored and forgotten.

At least for a little while.

Eddie tried.

He did.

He kept you and Port Geneva out of sight and mind as much as humanly possible. It was the most effort he had really put to anything tangible in the past year.

The series ended at a weird time--during the middle of the season--and some investigative journalism show took over its time slot. Barbara Walters couldn't hold a candle to you, so it wasn't difficult for him to keep himself rooted in reality on the nights where he typically indulged in his silly fantasies.

The daydreams that he had were limited to lyrics for Corroded Coffin originals and ideas for Hellfire, and nights were spent alone in the darkness of the living room, with his reflection in the television set to keep him company as he tried his best to do homework that he'd already done before.

Before he realized, though, the school year was coming to a close and he was--big shocker--on the brink of failure. It wasn't until Higgins called him into his office, again, that you made your violent resurgence into his life.

There was a tentative truce between Higgins and Eddie for a while.

Civility was a strange thing for both of them. They actively avoided one another, save for a snide jab here and there, and Eddie tried to stay out of the Principal's Office as much as he could.

That is, until Higgins was forced to tell Eddie that he needed to repeat his repeat senior year.

"Don't act like I want this at all," he sneered at Eddie who tripped over a reaction. "I'd rather have you out of these halls for good. You drop out one year, then you re-enroll and you fail another. Try to make the most of it this time Munson; I don't want to have this talk again."

Eddie grumbled the whole drive back to the trailer, and he fell onto the sofa with his head in his hands once he got in.

"Which one of the fates wrote this stupid plot for me now, as if last year wasn't enough. You can't make this stuff up sometimes."

He laid there, wallowing in his misery for hours, days, years, until it got dark enough for headlights outside to be noticeable as they shined through the window. There was a glint of a reflection that caught his eye and had him turn his head.

"TV," he sighed and reached out as though he could touch the set and stacks of tapes neatly piled below. “The cause-of and solution-to all of life’s problems.”

He contemplated his life for a few more minutes.

He could make the most of the final few weeks of the school year. He could set himself up as a willing and reliable pupil for these last few assignments and tests, even though they wouldn't mean very much.

He could do all of these things so that when he walked into the halls of Hawkins High in the fall, on his absolute last first day of school--whatever deity or powers-that-be willing, because how "getting the hell outta dodge or he would die here" turned into "two extra years in that shit hole" he could only attribute to cosmic intervention--the faculty would already know he would try his best this time.

It would show them he was serious about graduating and that he would succeed despite all odds against him. Finally.

He could do this.

Or...

He could put in one of the tapes from the stack and scrounge for loose bills left over from his last few transactions and order a pizza. Pretend like he didn't exist for a little while.

And given the choice?

Eddie Munson chose the latter.

And he continued to choose the latter throughout the summer and even into the fall.

Nights that he didn't already have plans were spent in front of the television.

They were cherished nights with you.

Aside from his VHS recordings, he found a channel that showed reruns of Port Geneva after 10pm. Two hours of small town shenanigans that might very well be found just outside of his own door--if he only went and looked--with you just there, making your appearance every so often and catching his eye.

Homework was sometimes left halfway done on the coffee table until he needed to switch out a tape, or change the channel, and he spent more time filling his heart than enriching his mind, so to speak; he knew all of this school stuff already anyways.

Third times a charm and all right?

He talked to the screen more often than not, tried to warn you against one disappointment or another. Sometimes, if he was watching one of his tapes, he'd pause right on your face and just talk to you. Mundane things, usually, like Ronnie's last phone call home or some album that got released and a song he thought you might like.

Other nights, like tonight, he got vulnerable. Moments where life seemed a little extra trying, and he'd confess his feelings to your image.

Knelt on the floor in front of the coffee table, warm light bathed his face promising comfort as he spoke, and the din of static emitted from the television set, akin to an angel's voice...beyond understanding of humans.

He'd never been one for church, but this kind of confessional was sacred enough.

An eternal bond, just you and him.

He stopped his ramblings at that thought.

It was a strange moment of clarity.

Where had that come from?

"I..." Eddie looked down at himself, a foot away from the television set, remote clenched in his hand. Then he looked at you, soul-filled eyes just beyond the glass, not looking at him, only...through him, just past him. "What am I doing?"

What was he doing? He was...he wasn't a kid anymore who could hide in his dreams; well, honestly he was always going to do that, but this was different.

One minute he felt the weight of the world lift off his shoulders as he told you about his troubles, and the next it was all back, heavier than ever, as he realized how silly this all was.

And here he was, wasting his life knelt at your altar.

It wasn't holy. It was pathetic.

You'd never answer; you weren't real.

"Why?" he asked aloud, jaw clenched. He gripped the remote tightly. "What did I do to not have...someone? Huh? What have I ever done to be alone? That I have to rely on a fucking television character to feel understood. And now I'm losing my mind talking to myself, talking to you, at midnight every night. Why am I here wishing that you're real? Why couldn't you just...be...real?"

If there was a God, he would let Eddie Munson have you. If there was a Satan, he would let Eddie sell his soul for you.

And that's how he knew neither of them existed: you didn't exist either.

Eddie hit the eject button on the VCR and was about to shut everything so he could go to bed, when there was a crash outside.

Crashes in Forest Hills weren't abnormal--someone backing into trash cans, losing traction on the icy roads in the winter, and the one time Mrs. Dawson kicked her husband out and threw all of his things out the window--but it was something he'd gotten used to since he came to live with Wayne.

This crash, however, started a ruckus.

Someone was yelling and that stupid dog across the way started barking.

Eddie was a lot of things...but a dramatic gossip was definitely high on the list.

What else was there to do in the Midwest?

He grabbed his cigarettes from the bowl full of junk on the coffee table and stepped outside, fully intent on plopping down on the old couch on the porch to smoke and watch the scene unfold.

A car crashed into the telephone pole; didn't look like there was much damage but it had run through some trashcans and might have clipped the drivers side mirror off of Mrs. Mayfield's car. The same Mrs. Mayfield who was on her own porch being held back by Max as she yelled.

"Are you kidding me? It's fucking midnight!"

"Mom! Stop!"

"The car, Max!"

Maybe there'd be a fight.

He barely got his cigarette lit when he noticed--really noticed--the offending car: a powder blue Volkswagen Beetle.

He blinked several times and then rubbed his eyes, thinking it might have just been a trick of the light or something.

Or it was a coincidence.

Or a dream.

Maybe he'd had a heart attack and died in front of his television or something?

Plenty of people drove Volkswagen Beetles. He was pretty sure he'd even heard Nancy Wheeler asking her parents for one as a graduation present.

But with the same license plate number?

The same one from the show, the same one that was in the TV Guide all those months ago. The same one on the makeshift poster he had taped on the wall next to his bed, that he'd run his fingers over to "kiss" you goodbye countless times, just like he did to his guitar.

"It's just dark," he tried to convince himself, "and I'm tired, and...and..."

It was a coincidence. It was a dream.

He repeated the mantra over and over in his head like a lifeline.

It was another fan like him who just used fantasy to make their life a little better. That's all he was trying to do too, right? He could understand; hell, if this was a new neighbor, maybe he'd be able to chat with them about the show. Wouldn't that be something?

Eddie was so distracted making up endless excuses for himself that he didn't notice Mrs. Mayfield as she threw her hands up in the air with an exaggerated "I'm calling the police. He didn't hear Max holler at her mom to calm down, or see the tail lights of the Beetle turn off either.

It wasn't until the driver's side door swung open and a sneaker-covered foot crunched against the gravel that he forgot all the excuses he was conjuring.

And his heart stopped as the driver got out of the car and stood in the faint glow of the streetlight.

Because that driver was you.

Next Chapter: Alternate Universe

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[thatstheproblemwithnapkinman]

something that kind of annoys me is when peoiple genuinely criticise tom taylor's nightwing run by saying "dick is so out of character in those 2 issues where he gets the shit beaten out of him and then falls through his window"

bc

that is taken out of the context of dick recovering from a traumatic brain injury so yeah he's going to be off balance after being whacked in the head MULTIPLE TIMES what are you talking about?!?!

it's ok, just breathe

the panel for reference

Nightwing (2016) #83 pp. 12

don't believe me?

dick gets shot in the head just above his left ear, which you can see in both of these panels and in the cover for nightwing (2016) #50 (if you pretend if's a mirror image bc why is it on the right)

Batman (2016) #55 pp. 21 Nightwing (2016) #50 pp. 2

Nightwing (2016) #50 Cover

you can also see his brain scans in the same issue which nicely show the area of damage and literally list what happened

Nightwing (2016) #50 pp. 2

so he lost bone (skull), blood (obviously), brain tissue (we'll come back to this), cerebrospinal fluid (bc there was a whole in his head), and suffered from severe vascular swelling (we'll return here too)

so, what brain tissue did dick lose?

here's the very basic anatomy of the human brain

John Hopkins Medicine - https://www.hopkinsmedicine.org/health/conditions-and-diseases/anatomy-of-the-brain (i drew the red circle)

now the ears sit just in front of the cerebellum, roughly somewhere around the red circle which lines up with the brain scan showing the damage is roughly in that notch where the temporal lobe and parietal lobe meet

the temporal lobe is involved with speech, rhythm, and short term memory

the parietal lobe is involved with pain and touch recognition, recognising objects, and oh would you look at that, spatial recognition

dick go shot in the part of the brain that tells the body where it is in relation to objects

no wonder he had a hard time fighting and trying to climb through windows, his coordination was all fucky

now the cerebellum is the part of the brain that affects balance BUT but but but we haven't talked about vascular swelling yet

vascular swelling is where the walls of the blood vessels swell (whodathunk) and this causes a reduction in the blood supply as they swell inwards

outward swelling with increase pressure on the brain which is not good either BUT this reduced blood flow = less oxygen to the brain = damage

there's a reason the symptoms of hypoxia pre-passing out are pretty much limited to your brain bc that's the organ that goes first

so with a decrease in bloodflow to his brain, there is a decent change damage was also done to every single part of his brain

now the blood supply does come in past the cerebellum so tbh there probably wouldn't be that much damage if at all however even with that it would explain how dick was still effected from getting shot

so having learned all that, lets take a look at issues 81 & 83 shall we

in #81...

Nightwing (2016) #81 pp. 5

he gets whacked in the head by heartless, someone with enhanced strength

Nightwing (2016) #81 pp. 12

he passes out because he's been whacked on the head near to where he was shot

Nightwing (2016) #81 pp. 13

this is nicely confirmed by babs

Nightwing (2016) #81 pp. 19

he gets pushed back whilst fighting and due to his injury induced lack of spatial awareness, he falls down the stairs

then in #83, after fighting blockbuster, almost getting shot again, and flying through a helicopter...

Nightwing (2016) #83 pp. 12

he falls through his window

so yeah, i do think this is reasonable for dick to do given he's recovering from a brain injury and has just been hit in the head and probably hit it whilst falling down the stairs

and if you've made it this far, i want to emphasise the 20 million valid reasons to criticise tom taylor's nightwing run, but this just isn't one of them

[velvetchrry]

━━━━ THISTLE AND BARLEY

pairing: johnny “soap” mactavish x f!reader

2.7k. during a solo trip to the scottish highlands, you find yourself transported back in time.

The chill of the evening air prickles along your skin. The spring breeze envelopes you, circling her prey. You are a rabbit, and she is a fox. She waits, patiently, until you are unsuspecting, and then sinks her sharp teeth into your soft skin.

It seems like you are the only one to really feel the chill — but you are an outsider. An outlander. A stranger. There are a few other foreigners here like you, but mostly it’s the residents of Inverness.

You get some relief when passing by one of the many bonfires littered through this valley. The entire night sky was alight — but not with stars. No, those are almost impossible to see compared to last night. There are enough fires lit in the valley to cause light pollution to seep through to the night sky.

Everyone here is clothed in a flowy, bohemian white gown. A beautiful crown of flowers rests atop your heads. Beltane. The official start to summer.

You didn’t know you would be here tonight until the last minute. The hostess of your bed and breakfast was the one who mentioned it to you this morning. It’s your last night in the Highlands so you figured, why not? Your solo travel adventures are about to come to an end. What’s one more night with no sleep?

A lit cave sparks your interest. It’s small, basically just an opening that goes 8 feet or so, but it’s lit up with candles everywhere. They're arranged in some sort of pattern, but you can’t make out exactly what it’s supposed to be. The air in here is even colder somehow — settling in your bones. You cover your upper body with your arms as best you can, unable to stop yourself from entering this ethereal place.

When you get closer to the wall, you see it has something painted on it. The paint is hard to see, even with the candle light. The same pattern is marked on the cave wall that the candles make on the floor. It’s old, flaking. You let out a breath and you watch as it rises in front of you.

The wall is shifting. Shimmering. It looks celestial. Like the night sky. You rub your eyes. It must be the heat from all the candles.

You turn around to leave but are startled by the sight of a woman at the entrance. You recognize her — it’s the owner of your bed and breakfast. A greeting almost escapes your lips but when you catch the look on her face you can’t seem to speak. Mouth hanging open, you just stare at her. She glides to you effortlessly, lithe for her age. Her fingertips are black as they reach out to you. It happens in slow motion. At least, that’s how it feels. She slowly reaches out to touch you and you stumble back, almost into the wall, just out of range.

“Yer where yer meant to be lass. Remember that. You have to remember. This was destined for ya.”

You shake your head to try and get a grasp on what she’s saying to you. Your tongue is suddenly heavy in your mouth. “Wh.. what?”

“Goodbye, lass.”

Before you can open your mouth to speak, she pushes against your shoulder with a firm hand. You stumble, and brace for impact into the cave wall.

Falling. You’re falling. It’s black.

There is no cave wall.

“D’ya think she’s a witch?”

It's morning, that much you can tell. Birdsong flits down to your ears and the sun is bright against your closed eyes. The grass caresses your body.

“Dinnae think so. Not sure what to make of ‘er.”

You try to remember what happened last. How you got here. Where you are. You brain is fuzzy, feeling like you’re suffering from a hangover. Wait — that’s not right, you didn’t drink last night.

“Let’s just leave her.”

Beltane. The celebration. That’s where you were. In the valley near Inverness. You were wandering. There were fires. Dancing.

“No. We’ll bring her to the castle.”

The cave. Oh god, the lady from your bed and breakfast. She followed you, she pushed you. She said something to you. What did she say to you?

“Yer off yer fuckin’ head, boy. What’ll yer Da say?”

You have to get out of here. You are supposed to be out of here. Your flight out of Inverness leaves this morning. How did this happen?

“I cannae just leave her here.”

Sunlight floods your eyes when they shoot open. A groan escapes you, and you cover your head with your forearm. You struggle to fully sit up, headache assaulting all of your senses.

“Aye, lassie? Ye hearin’ me?”

You rub your eyes and look up to who’s speaking to you. It’s a man in his late 20s. He’s wearing a kilt and it isn’t until you look around that you notice almost all of them are. You saw a few men in Inverness wearing kilts but, not quite like this. They look like an authentic historical recreation.

He’s… handsome. The one talking to you. Pools of blue eyes stare into yours, a hand reaching out to you. You gingerly take it, and he helps you stand. “Ye got a name, hen?”

Still in a bit of a daze, you give him your name and take a second to get your bearings. The cave you remember from last night is just behind you — but there are no candles, or paint on the walls. There’s no evidence anyone was in this valley last night. Where are the pits and scorch marks from the bonfires? What about the string lights that were strung along the tree trunks? Even the grass doesn't look like it’s been trampled on by a hundred or so pairs of feet.

“I’m Johnny of Clan MacTavish. May I ask, what’re ye doin’ out here hen?”

You swallow thickly. “I.. erm.. it’s Beltane. The party?”

“A druid.” The tallest one says. He’s one of the ones not in a kilt and has a deep British accent.

“Ah,” Johnny’s face lights up in understanding. “And yer out here alone?”

“I… uh…” you stutter. You’re not sure what’s happening. They really don't know about the party? Most of them look like and sound locals. “I guess… I am?”

“Where ya from?” one of them asks. He’s got a stout build and a thick set of facial hair.

“Well, I’m an American… I’m just… just traveling…”

You pause when you notice their interests peak.

“Which colony ye fae?” someone asks.

Your eyebrows scrunch together. “Colony?”

“She’s a British spy!” another shouts. You flinch.

“Ah, she’s no bloody spy. Look at her,” the tall one from earlier says. “Aye, we never had any spies like her before,” the stout one agrees, coming up to Johnny’s side.

Johnny hums. “I cannae leave you out here to fend on your own, spy or no. Can we take ye somewhere?”

You pause for a moment before speaking. “Inverness?”

Johnny nods and his men grumble, but go back to their horses. He motions for you to follow. You watch as he struggles to get up, wincing in pain and almost falling. The tall one comes up behind you and grabs you by the hips — lifting you ontop of Johnny’s horse and causing you to yelp. “Up ya go.”

Your body goes rigid as Johnny reaches around you to grab the reins. “Ain’t gonna hurt ye, hen,” he murmurs. He kicks the horse into gear and you’re off, still wondering what’s happening to you.

Maybe someone is filming a movie nearby.

You don’t have much of anything to hold onto, so you keep your legs clenched, body stiffened. Johnny notices this, wrapping his big arm around your waist for support. The group keeps a brisk pace, chatting with one another about things you’re unfamiliar with.

Panic starts to seep in when you see the River Ness, which bysects the city. “Where are we? Where’s the city? It should be visible by now.”

“Yer looking straight at it.”

Your breathing picks up rapidly and you try to focus on not hyperventilating. This was not the Inverness you had been in just yesterday.

“No…,” your voice is a soft whisper. “No, no, no… this can’t be right.”

The horse comes to a stop as Johnny tugs on the reins. “What is it, lass?”

The men start to grumble around you as the rest of the group comes to a stop. “Where’s the city? The buildings? Where’s the airport? This is… this isn’t right.”

“I dinnae ken what yer talking about hen but… that’s Inverness up ahead,” Johnny says softly to you.

“I… I don’t…” you stutter.

“Aye, what's goin’ on? Why are we stoppin’?” someone shouts out.

Johnny shoots him a look and walks his horse a little ways up to give you two a bit more privacy. Tears start to well in your eyes, and your nose has that familiar prickle like it’s gonna start running. You’re afraid to ask, but you have to know. “What year is it?”

If Johnny is confused why you’re asking, he doesn't show it. He speaks in a matter of fact tone when he says, “1724.”

No… how could this happen? You can just jump back in time 300 years… this is impossible. This can’t be real… this can’t be. But you saw — you saw right where Inverness is supposed to be. You recognized the landmarks. And it’s just… not right.

“Do ye still want to go to Inverness, hen?”

What are you going to do? There’s no aiport, hell — the America you’d go back to wouldn’t be the same. And what, do you hop on a boat for months and go back to a different world?

“I… I…” You suck in a shaky breath. “I don’t have anywhere to go,” you finally admit.

“I’ll take ye to the Castle,” Johnny states confidently. “Give ya a chance to figure out where yer going.”

A single tear slips down your cheek. Johnny calls out to the group that you’re headed to the Castle and you tune out the cries of them asking why the hell you were going with instead dumping you in Inverness.

The Scottish countryside passes by in a teary-eyed blur. It’s like you blinked and suddenly night is falling, the sun almost completely dipped below the horizon. Your stomach aches with hunger. You’re in an unfamiliar area, surrounded on all sides by trees. Johnny slows his horse, and the rest of his party follows suit. The tall one from earlier glides off his horse with ease and walks over to pick you up off of Johnny’s horse. You watch in a daze as he also gives Johnny a hand, as he struggles to get off his horse.

You look up at him after he is back on the ground. His white shirt seeps red near his bicep. You're not sure how you didn't notice it before. It’s got a brownish tinge to it now.

“You’re hurt.”

He waves you off. “Ach, jus’ a scratch, bonnie.”

He doesn’t stop you, just observes as you walk over to his side. You gently pry back the sticky fabric of his shirt. There’s a decent sized gash through his arm, red and angry. It looks like the start of an infection; like it might need stitches.

“It's not just a scratch if you need help on and off your horse. Did you clean this after it happened?”

“Clean it?” he tilts his head slightly as he asks.

“Like, rinse it? With water, at least?”

He shakes his head no.

You bite your lip as you contemplate. “Does… er… does anyone have any alcohol?”

Some of the guys burst into laughter. One hands you a flask. “Dinnae think you’d be one to get pished, lassie!” he exclaims.

You ignore him and get to work, ripping the bottom of your flimsy white dress. It tears easily under your fingers. You push it into Johnny’s hands and he holds onto the fabric unquestioningly while you uncork the flask with your teeth and again peel back his shirt.

“This is gonna sting a little,” you admit quietly.

He winces and grunts as you pour the alcohol down his arm, the men breaking out into cries of protest at the loss of booze. You place the cork back in the bottle and drop it on the ground. The man who gave you the flask quickly swipes it away from you before you can waste anymore.

Johnny places the ripped fabric of your dress in your outstretched hands. You tie it tightly around his arm, and while he grimaces, he doesn’t complain. You give him a gentle pat on the shoulder when you’re done.

“You’re probably gonna need stitches, but that should hold you over for a bit. Hopefully it’s not infected, or you're gonna need something stronger than alcohol.”

A voice from directly behind you makes you jump out of your skin. “Told ya she was a druid,” the tall one says.

“Aye,” Johnny agrees. “We could use someone with yer skills at the Castle. Our druid can’t…. well she ain’t as nimble as she used ta be.”

You aren’t sure what to say to that so you watch silently as the boys set up camp for the evening. “We’ll reach home come morning,” Johnny tells you at one point. The sun is gone now, the temperature dropping rapidly. The Beltane gown provides no heat and you scoot as close to the fire as you can without singeing off your eyebrows. You ditched your flower crown long ago.

The tall one hands you some food and you eat quietly while the rest of them chat around you. The stout one from earlier and the tall one sit next to each other and observe you, talking lowly to themselves. You try your best to ignore them.

Johnny walks over and sits next to you. “You should get some sleep, hen.” He’s close enough to you that his kilt brushes against your leg.

You swallow thickly and gnaw on your lip. You nod your head in agreement but you’re not sure if you’ll be able to sleep tonight. The reality is, these men are strangers in a strange time — even if one of them has been showing you kindness.

Johnny moves even closer to you and you can’t help but tense up. He's maneuvering his kilt around, tugging on the end of it.

“What are you doing?”

“Getting my plaid loose. Cannae let ye sleep in just that shift. You’ll freeze.”

You cross your arms, trying to keep in more warmth. “I’ll be fine.”

He covers your shoulders and instantly you feel warmer. A scent of musk and pine surrounds you, earthy and male. He opens his arm to you, waiting for you to lean against him.

“I meant what I said bonnie, I won’t hurt ye. I’m just keeping warm. Yer teeth chattering is making my bones rattle in my head.”

You can’t help the small chuckle that you produce hearing him tease you a little bit. It serves to make you feel even more comfortable around him. You nod and move in further under the plaid, while he wraps his good arm around you and rubs up and down your arm.

“Yer frozen solid,” he murmurs. “Why ye out here in just a shift anyway?”

“It was… uh… apart of the festival.”

He hums in response, still rubbing you arm up and down, up and down. You find a comfortable silence, leaning against him and listening to the conversations around you. Johnny adds his two cents every so often but mostly just sits beside you quietly.

You can feel your eyelids start to get droopy, your head nodding off every so often, but you fight it. You fight the urge to fall asleep. It’s so much harder now that you're warm. So hard when you’re feeling a small bit of comfort from the touch you're receiving.

You don’t even realize your head is on Johnny’s shoulder right away. You start to sit up, but he grips you a little more firmly to his side.

“Sleep, lassie. Yer safe with me.”

[lexirosewrites]

Long time Listener, First time caller here when it comes to Slick Sunday, Here's an AU I've been playing with. Basically the thought process for this one was "Wow, S3 Steve is a bit of a bimbo --> I wonder why he's like that --> the Russians must have put something in the mall water" and then making that "something" ABO bitching juice (STAY WITH ME I PROMISE IT MAKES SENSE). So, here's how it goes:

Alpha!Steve gets the job at Scoops Ahoy, normal setup all that, and while he's there he's making ample use of the sink in the back of the shop to hydrate throughout his shifts, even though there's a sign that clearly says "hey man don't drink this". Robin thinks he's being an idiot but Steve says that it'll be fine, its not like its contaminated with anything. Over the course of the summer though, Steve gradually notices something is up. His scent is all fucky, he's tired, and omegas aren't responding to him the way they used to. But he brushes it off and thinks "ok its just because I'm tired" and carries on. This comes to a head when the Scoops Troop gets caught in the Russian base. During the interrogation one of them notices Steve's predicament and laughs about it before dumping him in the room with Robin. Steve doesn't catch much other than the word "omega" and "сука" (Which is Russian for Bitch). He sort of puts together what they mean, but it doesn't click until after the fight with the Mind Flayer (One notable mention about that, Billy survives with major injuries, this is a surprise tool that will help us later). Steve goes home, and basically the moment he feels even a tiny bit safe, his body launches itself into a presentation heat. Which obviously scares the fuck out of him because what the fuck, it's impossible for bitching to happen without another alpha, but here he is, with a brand spanking new cunt and a whole new set of problems to deal with. He and Robin work out that the forbidden sink water was probably laced with something meant to keep the people in the mall from noticing the weird shit that was happening, and by drinking it Steve may have ingested enough to make his dynamic shift. And not just shift, but shift HARD. See, Steve is now something of a super omega, he has stronger, more frequent heats, he's basically always in pre-heat, and according to the doctor who takes a look at him, they're not going to get any better. Oh and suppressants now do less than jack shit for him. So Steve is stuck like this, with no solution except the exceedingly notable exception of having a baby. The doctor says that if he's pupped, he may be able to control future heats better, and potentially return to normal baseline omega levels (returning to being an alpha isn't possible but Steve is not worried about that). After much deliberation, he decides that having a whole ass baby is better than the constant nightmare that is his heats, and so he hits up someone he thinks will be willing to hit it and quit it.

Eddie Munson does not want to hit it and quit it but the very pretty boy is basically begging him to help so he does, with the knowledge that Steve explicitly is not looking to be mated and will basically want nothing to do with him after, which is heartbreaking a little bit because Eddie wants to be a father SO BAD MAN. And if Steve had ASKED he would KNOW that but they're both idiots. So Steve is pupped, he's probably gonna get kicked out if he's unmated and he thinks Eddie wants nothing to do with him. He's not sure what to do about that until he's approached by Billy (Who in this au, despite being an asshole, is a morally okay guy who doesn't want to see Steve in trouble) Billy essentially offers to pose as the pups father, so Steve can have his damn baby in peace and get on with his life. Of course, he doesn't mean to catch feelings but we all know how this goes. Cut to a few months after Steve delivers twin pups, and who arrives at his door but Eddie, begging to see the pups and be present in their lives. What happens next is up to you, personally I am partial to Harringroveson (Metalsandwich) raising the pups together but there are opportunities for angst galore if you're down with that.

Happy Slick Sunday! Hope this is enjoyable lol :>

woohoo! accidentally bitching steve!🥳🥳🥳

[xalygatorx]

Le Petit Mori (Zestial x AFAB!Reader)

Written for Hooked on Hazbin 2024, an event by the wonderful @fraugwinska & @macabr3-barbi3 ❤️

Minors DNI, you are responsible for your own media consumption

Summary: You're offered a deal by one of the most ancient killers in the Entity's realm. You take it.

Warnings: Angsty smut, graphic (game-typical) violence, blood, descriptions of pain, the reader is a survivor but not a good person, they're also losing it a little, Zestial is in Hell (or the Entity's realm) for a reason, some body horror, one (1) movie reference, oral (reader receiving), penetrative sex, creampie, exhibitionism, size kink, reader wants to live deliciously, solo queue will wear you down, it gets a bit monster-fucky, AFAB!reader

A/N: For anyone here from my Hazbin crowd who isn't familiar with Dead by Daylight (DBD), here's a short(?) summary for some optional context.

DBD is an asymmetrical—one killer vs. a team of four survivors—horror game that is, in essence, freeze tag.

At its base level (lots of things can affect outcomes like match offerings and character perks and addons), the survivors' goal is to repair 5 generators to power the exit gates and escape alive. The killer's goal is to kill the survivors before that can happen.

The "freeze tag" element is executed via a hooking system—survivors can be hooked (literally) twice without dying as long as they're unhooked in a timely manner. Their third hook is their "death hook" and they're out of the game at that point.

When there's only one survivor left in a match, an escape hatch spawns in a random location on the map to give the lone survivor one last chance at escaping the trial.

There are lots of other ins and outs to the game as a whole (it can get convoluted), but this is the bare bones and I think all you'll really "need" for this oneshot. :) If you're just here for the smut and the sexual tension, you won't need any of it at all. LOL

If you have questions about specific details in the story related to game stuff, I'll happily answer them in the comments.

Good luck, have fun. x

Also on AO3

You don't know what you did—that not-knowing is the crux of everything you know now, as strange as that sounds.

You don't know why you stepped out into the road that day. Why instead of the impact of a fender, you felt gnarled, eldritch claws hook into you and pull. Why you were probably dead already and yet had to die again and again and again and again and again every goddamn day. Why the other "survivors," as you dead souls were all called, didn't trust you. Why you cared whether they did or not.

You suppose it's because this marrow-deep loneliness sometimes feels colder than death. It might've been easier to stomach oblivion—in fact, you're sure it would've been.

Instead, you're in the worst purgatory you can conceive of. A limbo of running for your life, tungsten hooks through your shoulders and already bloodied by the viscera of those sacrificed before you, and the same hateful eyes staring at you, through you, as the claws of the false god known only as the Entity spear you through and pull you up into where the fog is thickest. The same vacant, raging eyes of a killer simply masked within different faces.

All but one. One seemed to hate you less than the others—even less than your supposed "friends" by the campfire.

He still killed you. They all did. And despite his clear, present, and vibrant green gaze whenever he looked at you—whenever he smiled at you—he terrified you more than any of them.

Because the Overlord looked at you and saw you and saw something that made him keep looking. Maybe that was why the other survivors treated you like a killer the Entity could send home with them.

You feel not-so-hateful eyes on you that night after your last trial as you sit wrapping a sachet stuffed with herbs and laurel leaves from the nearby bog. Your hands still and you glance toward the source of the feeling, noting Claudette furtively watching your progress as she wrings her scarred, careful hands.

Caught, she fills the silence. "You're getting better at making those," she says, nodding toward the bundle balanced on your knee and the twine you're wrapping around it.

You nod a couple of times, acknowledging what she said although you aren't sure what she wants from the interaction. No one talks to you. At least not like this. She usually doesn't either, but she was more skittish than baleful in her avoidance. Claudette was the nicest and also the meekest of the bunch.

"It gets easier," she suddenly offers, pulling you out of your thoughts again. The fire crackles nearby and shadows are wrought up her drawn, concerned features. "They'll… They'll get nicer. You're still new. They're not used to new people. And there's a lot at stake out there."

"Thalita and Renato are newer than I am," you point out. There's no animosity in your tone, just facts. Your voice is hoarse from the screaming you did today.

Claudette sighs, glancing at the flames. "You're right," she admits. "I'm not sure why it's different for them. Maybe because they came together. Or maybe because they're similar in a lot of ways to a few of the others. You're…different. I can't put my finger on it, but there's a different energy to you, I guess."

"You're sounding like Mikaela," you point out, but it's with a faint smile cast her way as you go back to tying up your sachet.

She laughs and it relaxes her a little. "I know," she says, curling her knees up to her chest and resting her arms against the tops of them. "But I think I mean it. And, hey, it's helped you here and there in the trials so far, so it must be a good 'different'."

You know she's talking about the killers occasionally letting you go. That had been the first reason you'd considered for the others disliking you so much—that they were jealous of the number of times you'd already been delivered to the hatch or an open gate no matter how hateful the killer's stare—but it seemed to go deeper than that. Much deeper.

And they didn't even know about Zestial's apparent fixation with you.

"I think they've just done that because I'm new," you say, even if you didn't entirely believe it. "Can killers feel pity?"

"None that I've met," Claudette replies. "And I've been here a long time."

"How long?" you venture to ask.

Claudette's eyes grow distant, glazed by memory, and she purses her lips. "…I'm not sure. But long."

"Claude."

You both jolt a little at the hard tone that comes with Claudette's nickname. Jake casts a wary glance your way before returning his gaze to your sole companion at the fireside and jerking his head back toward the camp past the trees. "C'mon. It's late."

It was a sorry excuse to get her away from you. You didn't need to sleep here. Or eat, or drink, or rest. Purgatory.

Still, Claudette doesn't refuse him and doesn't point out his inconsistencies. She stands, brushes off her pants, and glances at you one more time.

"Hope you get some rest after today," she says, chafing one hand against her arm despite the heat from the fire. Again, she says, "It'll get easier."

Jake clears his throat and Claudette scampers away like an anxious rabbit, walking ahead of him into the trees to join the others. He looks back at you one more time, measuring you up, before nodding once and following your resident healer.

It was maybe the second time he'd acknowledged you since you were dragged here by the Entity months(?) ago. You had a feeling he only did because Claudette seemed to like you well enough and he didn't want to disappoint her.

Your fingers still against the twine and your eyes dip down to the fire.

You could still feel him.

From the first time, he never really left you. You still remember it. Meeting those brilliant green eyes across an expanse of Yamaoka, fiery slits cutting the dark, before you knew what being the first to look upon him in a trial would do.

Panic had laced through your ribs, clawed through your insides, and your thoughts had scrambled along with your teammates'. A perk of being the Overlord.

David's nails had raked deep, long scratches down his face as he screamed for the killer's aural effects to wear off. You heard them even now, the screams to "make it stop." He'd not been quite the same for days after and because he'd been the one to put those scratches in his face, they left the trial with him, too. Every time Claudette had sat down beside him to clean the cuts, he'd nearly leapt out of his skin.

Meg had been tunnel-visioned on a generator for once in her life and hadn't realized how close Zestial was until her body buckled with exposure and he swiped her right off the gen and straight to the ground. You learned in that precise instant what "exposure" meant in this realm as she lay on the dirt, bleeding and coughing, her fingertips burnt from where they'd tangled in the wires and caused the gen to backfire with her fall.

Yun-Jin had bolted immediately. You'd come to learn this was expected from her—she was efficient and bold, but she was nowhere near altruistic. You'd been left in a trial by her in exchange for a gate or on a hook for the hatch more times than you could count.

At least she didn't specifically hate you, it seemed—by what you could glean from catching the others' conversations and the trials you'd been in with her since, she treated everyone with equal detachment. It was how she protected herself, you imagined, in more ways than one.

After half the team had bolted and you stayed frozen in place, your eyes shifted back to the killer you'd never seen before that trial.

Zestial. "The Overlord." A towering, enigmatic figure of glowing eyes and void-black spines, wrapped up in a cloak that flowed like spider silk. Had you seen him in any other context, you may have scoffed at first—he looked like Halloween personified.

However, standing there, stock-still in horror as he stared back at you and smiled, you didn't have breath in your lungs to scoff. You'd told yourself every day since that it was only due to fear.

You'd never been the best at lying to yourself.

Meg had been the one to finally jar you enough to flee when she gritted from the ground, "Fucking run, you idiot!"

You'd stumbled back and done as she said, nearly tripping over your own feet in your haste to leave the hulking figure and everything, everything he stirred in you behind. You chanced a glance over your shoulder as you left and saw that he'd picked Meg up at last—just one of his enormous, spidery hands was enough to fully encircle her waist.

Your eyes met his once more and he smirked, his free hand thumbing the brim of his tall hat in an antiquated gesture of farewell. The instant you turned away, your chest constricted with the feeling of needly claws around your heart and you hissed through your teeth. You looked down and saw those finger-like claws of the Entity in miniature beneath the skin of your chest, nearly retching at the way they stretched your flesh.

When you'd collapsed at a gen next to David, he'd glanced over and seen the new deformation around your throbbing heart.

"Fuck me," he mumbled, his scratched cheeks still trickling blood as he fought dissociation to focus on the generator in front of him. "I didn't know he did obsessions."

He did apparently. But only when you were in the trial. And it was always you.

You'd all died that first trial with minimal effort on Zestial's part. You'd come to understand later that this was perhaps a display of the ease with which he could dispatch you at any point. Because subsequent trials with him were different. Much different.

The most memorable one had been the last one, perhaps a week ago now assuming your sense of time could be trusted, in the Red Forest. Mother's Dwelling specifically, if you had the map variants correct. Cold rain had drizzled down from a steely sky as you'd felt that painful cage wrap around your heart again, warning you that you were the obsession in this trial as you set off to find a chest.

It'd been quite some time since you'd last faced the Overlord prior to then and you'd been able to write off his smirks and gestures as part of his persona up until that point. It had nothing to do with you.

Or so you'd thought.

It hadn't even occurred to you to be wary of the chests. It wasn't one of the Lich's and unless whoever the killer was this trial had a specific perk to notify them that a chest was being disturbed, you saw no reason to fret. Your only concern was getting it open and looted before you ran into the whoever the killer was this round.

You'd prayed for a toolbox to replace the one you'd foolishly forgotten at the campfire as you reached for the lid, only to be stalled by something you couldn't immediately see.

You'd tried to give your arms a shake, eyes narrowing with confusion until realization dawned. Glistening, diamondlike droplets of rainwater clung to the near-invisible strands of spider web woven in thick, previously hidden layers over the chest you'd reached for and had secured you in place on contact.

"Flies in a Web," you'd whispered in horror as you recognized the perk effect and forced yourself to still.

Feng had told you about this one after she'd been ensnared by it once before and had stopped you from trying to help her out of it. She'd held completely still and told you to do the same if you were ever in her position, even if you could shake them off faster at a cost—struggling against these webs would bring the Overlord right to you.

It was him again.

And it didn't matter that you'd stilled, it seemed. The air had shifted and staled, feeling heavy in itself, as a humid breath fanned across the back of your neck.

You'd jolted. You couldn't help it. And the next warm exhale came in the form of a chuckle because of that.

Don't turn around, don't turn around, don't turn around…

You hung your head and held your breath. The second you looked at him, you'd reveal your teammates with that same panic that always started a trial against him—you wouldn't be the one to do it this time. Not again. Not when it would hinder your team and give you an exposure effect for an even easier down. Not that he needed help to accomplish that.

"Wouldst thou like to live deliciously?"

You froze. He could speak? You'd only ever heard a handful of killers do more than grunt. The Overlord had been silent up to this point save for the occasional chuckle or sneer, as far as you knew.

Your heart had flown, aching in its cage of claws, as you focused on not collapsing into a panic of your own, of keeping your eyes down and remaining still as you waited for the claustrophobic sensation to be dispelled with the webbing on your arms. It couldn't be much longer now…

Zestial had chuckled in your ear, his hot breath against the shell making you shiver in spite of yourself. "So responsive in all but voice… I asked thee a question," he murmured.

You'd been horrified at yourself as his deep timbre sent a shock of heat down to your core. Shaking off the unwelcome sensation as best as you could, you'd wondered if it was better for you to speak to him.

He'd likely kill you either way, wouldn't he? What was the harm?

"What do you mean?" you ventured to ask, still keeping your eyes trained on your hands as you waited for his webs to disintegrate and tried to hold off activating his first-sight perk you couldn't remember the name of.

In truth, the altruistic thing for you to have done would've been to look back at him and trigger it early—no one else was nearby, so only you would be exposed. But you weren't trying to save the others anymore by then. You weren't near so selfless anymore after the last handful of trials in which you'd been left to die over and over.

You wouldn't protect them anymore the way you had. Not for free.

"I meant what I hath said. Is this enough for thee f'r the rest of thy days?" he purred against your ear, the heat of him now settled just behind your back and the contrastingly cold skin of his cheek near to brushing yours. "Or doth thee desire more?"

Perhaps once, you would've used some semblance of faith to shrug off what could only be called a devil's temptation. But where was your God when you died? When the Entity—a real god, if a false one—dragged you into what could only be regarded as Hell itself? What did you have now to fight this feeling?

Nothing. So why should you?

The Overlord sensed your hesitation and whispered, "Forsake thy friends. Forsake thy freedom, if thee can liken this to such distant dreams. I can off'r thee a deal beyond aught else in this realm of the damned. If thou wouldst only allow it…"

"What deal?" you whispered back, your gaze starting to slowly travel back toward where his mouth hovered near your ear. The webs had gone from your arms, but you hadn't noticed, enraptured by this quiet voice full of promises.

"What doth thou wish?" he wondered.

You'd hesitated only to jolt in place when you felt his huge hands rest against your thighs—they would've been able to wrap fully around them if he'd angled them so. However, he trailed his spread, spindly fingers up along the inner seam of your jeans and sent shocks of desire to the vee he deftly avoided to instead trace his claws against the hem of your shirt and the soft skin beneath.

You'd not been able to help rubbing your thighs together to try and dispel the sensation—a meager, quick shift of your body but he'd noticed. A dark chuckle had left him after.

"Methinks I may know, little one."

A generator finally popped in the distance, freeing both of you from whatever spell he'd placed you under. A faint sound of irritation rumbled in his throat and you felt him rise behind you to leave. You felt your body stiffen, learnedly bracing for impact.

"Think on thine sins," he advised you in parting. "Those thou hast committed ere this night…and those thy dream of anon. I will await thine answer."

You'd (stupidly) turned to look at him then and had just been lucky he'd left already. You had the chest open—it'd been a first-aid kit in the end—and had seated yourself at a gen before you heard and felt his panic-inducing perk activate. You had immediately fumbled the wires you were working on, cursed at yourself, and tried to get the repairs back to where they'd been before your misfire.

He'd properly gotten in your head that night. And he's still there. Even now, sitting beside the campfire and bundling offerings, you can feel his hands on your legs. His fingertips tracing upward, just shy of where you—Heaven help you—wanted him most.

Your jaw clenches. It's no wonder everyone is creeped out by you. You're sick.

Shaking off those thoughts of self-loathing, you look back down at the offering you're making and immediately recoil hard enough for it to tumble off your knees.

The sachet had been speared through, all but replaced by the bones and guts of a tanager bird and wound up in the same knots of twine. Worst of all, it was fashioned into a formation that resembled the arms of the Entity. You'd stared up into those ascending arms so many times already, both as you lay dying among them and in the times you were seconds too late to save someone else.

Where the bundle clattered to the dirt near the fire, sparks leapt out and ignited it. The acrid smell of burning bloody offal hit your nose as the offering you had apparently made was turned to ash at your feet.

The shaky breath that fell from your lips obscured the softer, deviant chuckle that ghosted from beyond where the flickering light of the flames could reach.

"Whatever's fucking with you today, get over it now," Meg grits at you as you walk with her, Jonah, and Claudette to the starting area. "I'm not saving your ass every time you get yourself hooked in the endgame. There could've been 'Blood Warden' and then we would've all gotten killed! Don't get fucking hooked when the gates are open!"

"Don't be so harsh, Meg," Claudette pleads, surveying their surroundings with undisguised unease as the woodsy path shivers around them and shifts into the Eyrie. Crows swarm the top of the tower at the center of the map, their cries piercing the air.

You grind your teeth together as you feel your chest constrict. You're the obsession this round. Some quiet, surely deranged part of you wonders with something almost eager if it's the Overlord again.

"If I'm not harsh, none of them ever learn," Meg shoots back and the two of them share a thousand-yard look that only comes from being in the throes of the Entity's grasp for so long. Something vulnerable passes through Meg's expression, but it's quickly extinguished as she turns back toward the map. "Hurry up. We're wasting time."

She walks past you with a hard clip of her shoulder to yours and you stumble, body rigid as you swallow your anger and the urge to scream at her. To turn on her. To put her on a hook yourself.

Have you always been this filled with rage?

You almost swing at the person who touches you next, but you still when you meet Claudette's apologetic eyes.

"She means well," she says softly, imploringly.

"Yeah," you murmur, shying away from her hand and heading into the arena, yourself. "You keep saying that."

What are you supposed to think when the kindest touch, the kindest offer you'd yet received in this wretched place had come from someone who had killed you? Who would likely kill you again? And again?

And again.

As you pass one of the sandstone outcroppings, you pause and listen. A faint crackling sound meets your ears again, almost as easily mistaken for the dead tree branches also rustling nearby despite a lack of wind. When you step back and worm your way through the rocky formations, you spot a lit totem nestled against a stony curve. You hunker down into a crouch and set to work dismantling it, working your lip between your teeth as you do so.

What would they do?

In your place, if offered an out—or even a sliver of something, anything!—from one of the killers, the persuasive Overlord in particular, what would the others do? They acted high and mighty with you at times, certainly, but you couldn't imagine they wouldn't buckle at least a little at the notion of…whatever it was you were being offered.

He'd left that up to you, hadn't he?

The last ties around the bones beneath your hands slip free and a resounding crack echoes through the map as the hex breaks and the flames licking the skulls now decorating the ground die away with a flicker.

Normally the thing to do would've been to hurry off. Go find a gen or at least walk around the corner in case the killer comes to see who's meddling with their plans.

You stay though. The squeeze of the cage in your chest increases as blood begins to roar in your ears and the air swells with something that just bridges the gap between music and a coming storm. The faint keen of a violin confirms who you will turn to see before you shift your gaze upward.

Meeting Zestial's eyes has its usual first-time effect. Panic rises in the form of bile in your throat and you hear your teammates shriek, near and far, from their stations. Anxiety muddles your senses, panic that isn't yours but induced by the power itself.

You feel a little drop of blood run from your nose as you hold his stare and watch his Jack-O-Lantern smile creep higher up his cheeks.

"Bold of thee not to flee, little one," he intones, stepping closer until he stands with you in the stone crevasse, his towering figure easily surpassing the height of the formations. "Or foolish. Unless, of course, thou hast come to some conclusion…"

He leans down toward your face to study your eyes. You saw them—wide and unsure—reflected in his. "I am most eager to learn which is thine truth."

"I think I want…," you force yourself to stammer out, stopping and holding a hand against your mouth as you hesitate. You could smell the dusty earth still on your fingertips from the totem, lingering notes of sand and rot.

"Go on," Zestial urges you, his tone kind and encouraging while something impatient like hunger alights his eyes.

"A deal," you finally choke out.

All four of his luminescent lime-green eyes flare at your words.

"A deal forsooth?" he purrs, the top pair of his eyes flickering with red irises for an instant until they calm back to a placid lake of pure green once more. "How curious. I am listening with mine full attention. As is She."

"She?" you repeat in a lowered voice, instinctively glancing around for signs of Meg or Claudette.

The Overlord chuckles. "The Entity, little one," he explains, his smile curling into a sinister grin as if sharing a well-kept secret. "She hungers."

"For what?" you ask, realizing how dumb your question sounds only after you speak it into existence.

Zestial merely hums though, as if your silly question is worth consideration. "For thine bodies of course," he says and the way his voice drops into a deeper tone sends shivers skimming up your spine. His eyes narrow on you and, although there are no pupils present to follow, you can feel him taking you in. "An unending craving nigh only sacrifice may appease."

"And whatever you're offering…has something to do with that?" you inquire with caution.

He smiles at you, the expression almost warm. When was the last time someone looked at you with warmth?

Something inside you begins to break. Is it from the pressure of the cage around your heart? You ask yourself that, even knowing it isn't.

"Forsooth, little one," he practically coos down at you, painfully gentle as he brushes the trail of blood away from your nose.

Somewhere a gen pops and your gaze flickers sideways toward the sound while his own stays completely fixed upon you. He takes your chin and turns your attention back to him, the grip of his long, clawed fingers tight but not painful. Not yet.

"Thy fate is sealed upon manifesting within this realm to oppose me," he warns you as you fight the urge to sag into his touch. The danger and the savior—he represents both now and you aren't sure which one is the truth.

He has you right where he wants you—a fly in a web.

"What doth thou wish to exchange f'r the heads of thy comrades? For thy head, verily?"

Your eyes widen. You'd committed to not sticking your neck out for the others anymore, but to offer them on a platter to the Entity? To him?

They would do it to you, whispers a traitorous voice, a tickle in the back of your skull. It doesn't entirely sound like yours though. They would sell you in an instant. You know it to be true.

"That's the only option?" you ask carefully, shuddering as he curiously runs his fingertips along your jawline. Around a lock of your hair. "That's the only way?"

Zestial nods with feigned compassion. "It is the only currency of this realm. Naught else is valued," he tells you as his hand skims down to your throat. "Or little else, perhaps, with regards to thee."

"What do you mean?" you ask again, feeling like it's the tenth time you've asked the same question.

It's hard to focus when he's touching you with hands that can and have plucked you right off your feet and slammed you onto a meat hook. When he's instead brushing those same digits across your scarred flesh with a rare, unspoken tenderness.

It isn't lost on you that a being that could kill you, that is meant to kill you and is choosing not to, instead finds you interesting enough to touch. To bargain with. In fact, it's disturbingly enthralling to you, but you don't realize that until heat blossoms in your core again, just like before.

Zestial just smiles at you instead of answering your repetitious question. He knows you needn't ask any longer what he means by his implications. You know.

You swallow hard under his burning gaze. "Okay," you murmur at last. If you were going to die again anyway, you should at least get something out of it.

"Exquisite," he whispers, running the pad of this thumb across your lower lip and freeing it from your teeth. "And what of thine reward, hm?"

You shudder. Your thighs tense and squeeze together as you draw in a shaky breath. His charcoal skin smells like brimstone, ink, and old books—you catch traces of all three as he continues to stroke your face.

"I thought you knew," you murmur sheepishly, shame washing over you.

"Of course, I do," Zestial coos, encroaching further on your personal space as the hand holding your chin tips your head back. Another two gens pop in succession as he murmurs, "For the sake of our deal, I would have thee speak it."

Your face goes red with deepened shame as he stares down at you expectantly, holding your head in a grip that doesn't allow you to look away. "Please…," is all you can muster, the barest breath of a whisper.

"Please…?" he coaxes you to continue as his free hand slides around the small of your back. Presses your smaller, so much more breakable body against his.

Something unmistakably hard digs into your stomach as he holds you to him and you fear you might give away your very soul for free in this moment if he only asks.

This is also what finally pulls the words out of you that he is looking to hear.

"Please just… I just want to feel good," you plead, feeling weak beyond measure as the dam breaks. A stream of tears escapes your right eye and falls against his hand. "I can't remember the last time I felt anything but hurt or angry or alone… I just want to feel good. Just for a little while. So I…"

You avert your eyes—shame reignites in your belly. You still aren't fully sure what you're asking for—or rather what you'll get by asking for it—even as you, at last, confess your poorly concealed desire.

"…I want you to fuck me."

Zestial's brow rises despite knowing that's where this was heading all along—all these centuries in the Entity's realm and he's never quite gotten used to the way modern language has worked in such harsh words with such casual meanings. Yet these particular sharp words from you inspire a dark coil in his gut that makes your request feel just as much his reward as it will be yours.

"Thine wish is for the taking," he murmurs as he slides the hand cradling your face down your neck to your shoulder—past the puncture scars he himself has added to—and then ultimately down to your hand. He clasps it as a flash of green light erupts from between your palms, his engulfing yours in full. "And a deal is struck."

You very nearly whine when he lets you go, but you swallow the sound. Somehow, despite quieting before you can embarrass yourself, he seems well aware of your disappointment.

"Do not beest so somber, little one," he murmurs, playfully tapping your nose with the tip of a claw. "Thine aura is mine to behold—and mine is thine. Aid thy sacrifices, then thou mayst find me in the collapse. I shall linger with bated breath 'til next we meet."

You aren't sure how you're meant to manage the elixir of dread and arousal flooding your veins until that time, but you do as he asks. Slinking off, you find an unrepaired generator and come across Jonah already bumbling through repairs on one side, the sluggish rate of the pistons something you might've found discouraging had you not already known how the trial would end.

How, for once, you were looking forward to the endgame.

Jonah gets his wires crossed and the generator blows back at him with a series of cantankerous sparks. He waves the air in front of him and glances at you fleetingly but with an air of sheepishness in place of his usually dismissive gaze. You just shrug and nod at the gen for him to get back to it, your own deftly done repairs already getting most of the progress back that he'd lost with his error.

The silent understanding between you isn't unwelcome. It's just a touch too late.

Your gen pops to life and Zestial suddenly swoops in out of the shadows, raking his claws up your back and shoving you aside to lunge after Jonah. Your fellow survivor bolts, panicking into a vault he's not ready to take and paying for it with a loss of speed—Zestial easily plucks him from the sill and drags him, kicking and thrashing in protest, toward the nearest hook.

You pull yourself off the ground by gripping the finished gen, stumbling away and wondering for an instant if you hallucinated the entire exchange between you and the Overlord earlier on. You suppose you might be unhinged enough by now to be delusional. Perhaps this was the more likely outcome anyway.

However, a sideways glance of his glowing green eyes and a faint, almost rueful smile says that you didn't and he's instead helping both of you save face. You scurry off to find a med kit or one of your teammates to help you patch up.

Meg finds you before you find anything at all. She spots your blood trail after dismantling a dull totem near the mausoleum and follows you, nearly startling you into a cry when she suddenly steps up behind you and pushes you down to her level.

"Quiet," she mumbles, pulling the fabric of your T-shirt back from the bleeding clawmarks. She begins rummaging in her pockets for the remnant of a bandage roll she still has from the med kit she came in with. Zestial must've gotten her earlier, too, before finding you and Jonah.

She pulls the bandages too tight when she's distracted by Jonah screaming in the distance, suspended at last on a sacrificial hook. When she hears the hmph of discomfort that escapes you, she shakes off her nerves and mutters a halfhearted, "Sorry."

Bandaged up and mobile, you readjust your shirt and she hangs back to help you—perhaps a wordless apology for her earlier attitude—and then sprints in the direction of Jonah's cries without further ado.

There's one generator left to do before the gates are powered and, spurred on by a drive that rivals anything the Entity could've inspired in you before, you find it. Claudette's already on it, blood dripping from her back, which has been sliced not dissimilarly to yours.

Something in you begins to eat at itself when you consider offering to help her wrap her wounds, knowing despite that surge of compassion what your deal with the Overlord—at least to some degree—will ultimately do to her. You know this time that going through the motions of suturing or binding up her cuts won't stop her from being annihilated with the rest of the team, yourself included, when the realm begins its tradition of falling apart around you. It's a time-old ritual of splintering, festering earth and the deep, foreboding toll of a bell you can't see with each tone signifying another moment to escape transpired.

You still offer because you aren't a monster, even if you're starting to feel a bit like one.

"Do you want to patch those up before we pop this?" you ask, pausing to glance behind you to make sure you're alone.

Claudette gives you a watery smile and stops what she's doing, presenting her back to you as she passes you her unused first-aid supplies.

"See?" she says as you pop open the box and get out some disinfectant and a suture set. "You're getting better. I was about to set this off like the Entity just dragged me down here yesterday."

Guilt pools in the base of your stomach. It rivals oddly with the lingering lust. The shame is spread evenly between the two, bridging the gap.

"It's not always the smart thing to do, I guess, but since we have time," you muse, hoping you sound as casual as you're attempting to.

"Yeah, it's weird," Claudette says, wincing a little as your unpracticed hands stitch her wounds but saying nothing to discourage you. "Folie à Deux happened pretty early"—that's what his panic perk is called—"and then we didn't see hide nor hair of him until just a few minutes ago. Did you see him first or did Jonah?"

Your belly churns. "I did," you say honestly. "I cleansed that hex and happened to see him when I was leaving the area. I think he was coming back to see who'd broken it."

"That was a good early find," Claudette says, but she doesn't seem to be paying attention in full to what she's saying. "Who knows what that might've been."

You hum agreement as you finish bandaging over her stitches. "All done," you say, handing her back the remainder of her med kit and settling yourself adjacent to her spot at the gen.

"Thanks," she murmurs, the sparks from the wires she tinkers with reflecting in her large glasses as she picks up where she left off. "I think we may all get out this time."

You can taste your own stomach acid as you say, "I hope so."

The generator pops and the gate sirens wail, one coming from across the map while the other goes off directly behind you both.

"C'mon!" she says, eagerly pulling you toward the gate just past the stone wall you're situated behind.

You hesitate, turning to look back at the eyrie and the graveyards sprawled around it. You espy a tall, rosy silhouette—an aura—within the eyrie itself, ascending the stairs with such grace it almost appears to glide.

When you make yourself look away to figure out how to escape Claudette's attention, you notice the switch she's about to grab.

"Wait!" you suddenly shout, stalling her with your urgency. "Look!"

Claudette casts a confused look at the switch but gives you the benefit of the doubt and steps around to view it from the same angle as you. Thick, faintly dusted ropes of spiderweb layer over the switch, presenting a trap for anyone too eager to pull the handle.

"Ugh," she mumbles, shrinking back from the spiderwebs. "Good eye. Maybe Meg and Jonah have the other one done already. Let's go see."

"I'll catch up," you say and she pauses to cock her head at you. "I have a glyph I was supposed to find. I'm going to take the long way around to see if I can spot it."

Claudette hesitates. "…Okay," she slowly agrees. "But don't get yourself killed, alright? We've made it this far. And the Overlord's not someone to screw around with." She cracks a smile. "Plus, I think Meg will actually kill you this time if you get hooked after they get the gate open again."

You shrug and offer her the best smile you have available. "Probably," you agree. "I won't be long."

Claudette blessedly leaves you to it and you feel bad about how easily she believes your lies. Even though warning her would do nothing, you still feel a slight urge to do so as you wait for her to leave and then begin your walk to the center building.

Still though, even if she was never cruel to you, did she ever really help you? What did you owe her, in all actuality?

Perhaps what you'd already given her—a healing touch and a well-wish. A chance for a gate you knew that, one way or another, none of you would be crossing today.

The cawing of the circling murder gets louder as you enter the building, the acoustics of the structure the truest thing of horror on this godforsaken map. At pace, but on shaky legs, you round to the stairs and begin the climb, spotting the static silhouette of the Overlord through the far wall on the top floor. Outside on the balcony.

When you arrive, you see that this side of the wraparound ledge provides a perfect vantage point of the other gate.

"Behold," Zestial murmurs as you join him, standing a polite distance from his side.

You follow his gesturing hand to the gate and see Jonah down there, still injured—likely because Meg used the last of her bandages on you—and holding down the gate lever with the strength he could still muster. It'd always bemused you how hard he took his first hook. While the rest of you were running on fumes and a death wish, every cut and minor inconvenience seemed to take years off his undead life.

The gate buzzer sounded. Once. Then twice. And then three times as the doors rattled open.

The entire gateway past the doors was covered in layer upon layer of webbing. So thick that the entirety of the other side, the exit and the field that would take them all back to the campfire, was obscured. There may as well have been nothing there at all.

You swear you can somehow hear them from your perch despite knowing it's impossible. Still, you aren't sure you need to hear Meg say "what the fuck" to know that Meg has said "what the fuck."

Your concern is flaky at best as you feel Zestial's hulking form slide up behind you, the expanse of his hands folding over your hips and pulling you back against the straining erection beneath his silken robes. You shudder, that mixture of fear and longing back and burning in your core, slicking the heat beneath your skirt. He hums softly against your hair, inhaling deep, and you aren't sure how you know, but you know he can smell your arousal by the way he presses harder against you.

"Thine sacrifice is made, little one. Thy first," he whispers over the shell of your ear, sounding almost proud. He shifts you by your hips, turning you and walking you back against the stone wall behind you both.

For a second, you think he might be shielding you from whatever is about to happen down on the ground, but he's doing no such thing.

Like you weigh nothing, he lifts you up, presses your back against the stone, and positions your legs over his shoulders. Your thighs clench in needy humiliation as Zestial puts himself at eye level with your wet, aching hole beneath just a skirt and the thin fabric of your underwear. You bite back a groan as he noses into the wet spot you've made there. You're practically panting as his hands curl fully around your thighs and he nuzzles into your heat with abandon.

Hooking a claw beneath the waistband, he removes the slip of fabric from beneath your skirt with surgical precision, tearing it out of his way and smirking at the way your body jerks with surprise above him. He feels your fingers burying themselves against his back for balance, not fully trusting him with your weight or at least not completely understanding that you weigh next to nothing straddling his shoulders.

The deep inhale he takes of your near-to-dripping cunt feels like sin incarnate.

"We begin," he murmurs just as the first bell of the endgame collapse belatedly tolls and he slides his too-long, monstrous tongue languidly along your lower lips.

Meanwhile, you remain hoisted and pinned in place, left to helplessly watch that which you've wrought upon the match. All while desperately grasping for purchase on his cloaked shoulders as he plows your tight channel with his tongue, reaching far deeper than your human fingers could ever go. It takes no time at all for him to have you moaning, crying out for relief, and wriggling in his grasp while your teammates scream for a far different release below.

"There has to be a way out, there has to be another way out!" Meg is rambling, in a full-blown panic. Her voice hitches up into a shriek as she yells, "There's ALWAYS another way out!"

"The other gate had webs on the switch, but maybe it's clear inside!" Claudette stammers, her eyes wet with frightened tears. "But wait, we have to get—"

"Forget her!" Meg shouts, her fingers knotting into her hair as she claws at her scalp. "She went off on her own and, even if she were over here with us, she's just as fucked!"

Claudette nods, reaching for Meg's arm and then thinking better of touching her right now. "Then let's—"

Claudette's no sooner started to suggest the alternative route again when the hook behind her pitches forward, forced into a bend by the long black limbs of the Entity, and spears her through the shoulder with its tungsten fang.

She screams as it repositions and yanks her back, the claws immediately descending upon her and bypassing the usual state of a first hook. Claudette is barely able to catch the claw that rounds down to impale her before it can succeed.

"CLAUDE!" Meg shouts, sprinting to get her down while Jonah loses his nerve behind her, whirling this way and that as if he might somehow spot a third exit where there is none.

Not yet, anyway, he realizes.

You've lost yourself in full above them, tears streaming down your reddened cheeks as you feverishly ride Zestial's face and he ruts for any semblance of friction against the wall he's pinned you to. He traces near-bruising circles over your clit as he continues to devour you, body and soul, and it's enough to make you unravel.

"Oh, fuck, please, Zestial, I can't—"

"Thou canst. Thou will."

He intends to make you come and a strategic curl of the oral muscle he stuffs back inside you ensures it.

His ministrations pull a genuine scream from you just as another scream echoes from below—this time from Meg, who's suffered the same fate as Claudette after unwittingly wandering too close to another hook. She's shrieking for Jonah to unhook them, but he's already made up his mind. He's waiting for them to die for a chance at the hatch. The second Meg realizes this, she hurls every insult at him she can think of.

Trembling as you try to unclench your thighs from around his head, needlessly fearful yet again of what match you might be to his strength, you raggedly suck in a breath and practically turn to jelly as he removes you from his shoulders and holds you like something cherished.

You think he might be finished with his end of the bargain—and fair enough, you'd half-expected him to take what he wanted from you, to use the loose wording of your deal and move things along as quickly or perhaps even as violently as possible to punish you for the loopholes you've allowed—until he takes you to the edge of the balcony.

You hear the hatch pop open down below as Zestial lays you across the crumbling stone edge of the overlook, your spine bowing back as he lets your limp weight settle in its new spot. He tangles one of his enormous hands in your hair and cranes your head back until you're able to watch, the realm on its inverse, as Jonah betrays the girls and makes a mad dash for the open hatch.

"Feel naught for those thou hast forsaken," the Overlord murmurs into your ear as you witness the remainder of the trial in detached delirium. He bends over you as one hand stays fisted in your hair and the other pushes aside his cloak and frees his hard, leaking cock from his pants. He grasps the base and pumps once, twice, three times, as he murmurs in a voice deeper and more gravelly than before, "These fools art purest folly compared to thee."

The second Jonah is within arm's length of the hatch, it snaps shut, and that's also the instant Zestial pushes into your primed, pliable entrance. He coos praises into your ear and drops a chaste kiss against your temple when you whimper. Still, he continues to stretch you beyond what you've taken before. It hurts, but it feels better than anything you can fathom, and the coil in your lower belly begins to tighten again as he finds a leisurely, thorough pace that agrees with him.

Your eyes roll back in ecstasy and it grants you a look at Jonah as he stumbles back from the slammed-shut hatch. He is immediately snatched by the very hook the hatch spawn was meant to lure him to, his keening screech mingling amongst the screaming crows circling with ever more fervor above. The bell tolls again and the ground around the tower begins to break apart in fiery, shuddering fissures.

There's a hollow sound that echoes through the map as Claudette ceases to struggle and is speared through by the Entity, its gnarled limbs crooking around her like a spider's legs as it lifts her up into the vacant sky. A sky you see stars in for the first time in what feels like an eternity as Zestial cants his hips just right and hits that sensitive, spongey spot inside you.

"Right there, right there, right there," you babble like a prayer, pressing your forehead against Zestial's when he leans in to tighten his hold around you and secure you in the position he wants. That he knows you both need. "Please, Zestial, please, I—"

The Overlord shushes you softly and brushes his lips across your face, his hand relaxing its grip on your hair now that there's nothing else below to witness. Instead, he simply cradles the base of your skull as he thrusts up into you and turns your whines back into wanton screams.

"T'is mine intention to take care of thee, little one, rest assured," he mumbles against your cheek, his pace stuttering as he feels his own release approaching. "Wouldst thou allow me to—" A surprise cant of your hips that lets him fuck even deeper into you takes him by surprise and he groans low into your ear, the sound making you shudder and pushing you closer to euphoria. "—to care for thee?"

You're not completely sure what he means, but you won't be asking that question anymore today.

"Yes," you moan, crying out as he shows his approval for your response with an intentional, deep thrust of his cock.

He seals his lips over yours and you grant him full access to your mouth without his needing to ask, tasting yourself on his tongue as he pounds into you and swallows your screams. You flutter and clench around him, your body desperately milking his until he can no longer hold off his own pleasure.

The hot rush of his seed filling you up nearly makes you come again in your oversensitive state and you whine as he fucks his release deeper into you, tilting your body back just a little more as if to make sure not a drop of the load you both worked so hard to spill escapes you.

Your arms and legs remain entangled around his body as your own body continues to shake with aftershocks. Your shivers stem from pleasure and not from fearing how easily he could send you plummeting from the tower if he chose to let go. You realize with some surprise that you, perhaps foolishly, trust him not to drop you at least.

You can't help another shiver when he finally pulls his softening cock from your heat and you whimper from too much sensation at once. He collects you in his arms again and lets you bury your face against his neck as he adjusts himself back into his pants and fixes his cloak, watching with fascinated satisfaction as your mixed releases drip down your quaking thighs.

He smooths your hair back from your head and kisses your cheek again, surprised at the depth of feeling this venture has unexpectedly brought him.

The final toll of the bell sounds and you tense in a Pavlovian response. You wait to be speared by the Entity and forcibly dragged down to respawn at the fire. You know you need to start conjuring your tale of what happened this endgame if you're ever going to be taken off a hook or healed again.

And yet…nothing happens.

Claudette, Meg, and Jonah have all long been taken. The map settles after the final toll, the ground pulling itself back together with the god of this realm appeased, and then…nothing.

"What's happening?" you whisper warily, as if speaking too loudly will alert the Entity that She missed a morsel on her trial grounds.

Zestial pauses to admire you in the afterglow before glancing skyward and then down toward the mending earth. "It would seem thou hast found your true place within the realm," he murmurs, the whispers of the Entity an undercurrent of song amidst the avian cacophony above you both. "For thy lovely hands, verily, be the lovely hands of a killer."

Your eyes widen. "A killer?" you repeat, your voice shaking.

He hums and begins your joint descent to the ground floor, carrying you along as you slowly recover control of your body and your shaking starts to cease.

"She is pleased with thee," Zestial tells you as he strides toward the edge of the map—an edge of the map you've never been privy to before. One that branches off into a darker, denser part of the woods you know. "Thou hast far more potential than a lamb for slaughter, little one. I didst know it from the first time mine eyes beheld thee. She doth know it now that thou hast proven thyself. Now the sole epiphany we wait f'r is thine own."

Your fingers tighten against his cloak, the fabric soft and cool against your warm skin. A glance down the path he approaches fills you with uncertainty, but something stirs awake as well. Something you've felt within you from the beginning, perhaps the very thing your "comrades" sensed as well.

And as you meet Zestial's eyes and nod for him to take you through, to take you with him, your soul settles as if for the first time—as if this is where it should've been all along.

This time, at least, you know precisely what you've done.

Bonus A/N: In case anyone's interested in the loadout details I wrote for Zestial before starting the story, here ya go. :)

Perk Loadout

Folie à Deux - A panic born in a crowd can mean the end for everyone. After the killer is sighted for the first time by a survivor, all survivors become aimless and scream for 15 seconds if 2+ survivors are within 50 meters of each other. If any survivors are within 10 meters of the killer, they also become exposed for a quick 5-second period.

Overlord's Influence - Strike a deal with a survivor. The survivor gets one more hook state before death but all progressive actions (healing, gens, gates) are at half-speed for the rest of the match. By contract, the survivor's aura and the killer's will be revealed to each other in the endgame collapse.

Flies in a Web - The lure of something tasty can be a tragic downfall. Two chests in the game are covered with a spiderweb that becomes visible after a survivor interacts with the chest. They're held in place for 15 seconds and a notification is given to the killer (additional notifications occur if the survivor struggles, but the effect wears off more quickly if they struggle). The chest can be opened normally after the web is activated.

Addons

(iri) Liminal Teacup - When hooking a survivor, any survivors within a 30-meter radius doing a progressive action (gens, healing) stop what they're doing (are interrupted).

(purple) Sewing Kit (patchwork hat) - Adds an extra 10 seconds to webs. When "Flies in a Web" is equipped, if no chests are disturbed for the entire round, one of the gate switches is webbed instead.

Check out the rest of the crew and their amazing works via the #hookedonhazbin2024 tag!

FrauGwinska's event masterlist!

Hooked on Hazbin 2024 AO3 Collection!

Thanks for reading and happy Halloween! 🎃👻

[evilminji]

God you know what would be FUNNY af? More "I already YOLO'd, fuckers. I see no God here but me an my new buddy The Force" SI-OC?

There's... there is the Fuckin FORCE NEXUS. Just? RIGHT THERE? Reality HAS to get unimaginably FUCKY and melty at the seams, around it? Horrific for people would HAVENT been through the Souls Car Wash as it were... but, like?

Eh. Tingly.

Feels a bit like being dead. She can taste the abstract concept of philosophical debate and the first strands of dawn. Air smells a bit purple. This is fiiiine. She and the Force are HANGING! You LITERALLY could not be closer to it outside of shrugging off your meat suit!

Aaaaay, BESTIE! She brought better meditation cushions and a swiffer. It is DUSTY down here! So~ how things? Any dead people wanna chat? Wanna watch a sunrise on a planet that stopped existing eons ago, literal galaxies away? Oh hey! Thanks for the space rock. It blurbles ominously.

Just? Yes. TECHNICALLY. "All things are possible in the Force".

But just because a NUCLEAR REACTION IS POSSIBLE? Doesn't mean it's a great idea to SIT NEXT TO IT. Child! P-Please! Back away from the thing we LITERALLY BUILT A TEMPLE TO CONTAIN.

ALL absolutes are harmful.

Yes. Even "good", even "helpful", even the "light". They as JEDI know this. Unlike SITH, they? Are not so foolish as to believe ANYONE can channel or harness a NEXUS. Absolute GOOD will kill you just as surely as Absolute evil. Do not loose yourself. And for the love of all that's precious?

Don't! Poke! Force! Anomalies!!!

Again... meh. What's the worst that'll happen? She DIES? Is LOST? Oh noooo. Not RETURNING to the Force! AGAIN! Peacefully avoiding the horrors to come! That would be AWFUL! *continues to gossip with the nexus*

Of course, this? This is fucking horrifying.

That is a youngling! Next to the ACTIVE FORCE NUKE.

Dear FUCK every moment the child sits there? It could be SCRAMBLING HER DNA for FUNSIES! But it ALSO feels like hundreds of jet engines in their head! T-they can't?! Get close enough? To grab her? Hold ON small breakable child! Help is COMING!

SOME ONE GET THE COUNCIL. NOW.

No we DO NOT care what they were doing! Baby! IN DANGER! This is clearly a priority! (And I mean? Shit... you right. They'll be there in 5)

Force maybe be "clouded"? But a cloud, dense enough? Is just a body of water suspended. And the NEXUS? Is like SWIMMING. A flood. The Force COULD NOT be clearer there. It's deafening, consuming, one might even say... less then subtle.

Yoda probably does the OPPOSITE of something helpful and just... plops on down next to her. Accepts the offered snack she holds out. Asks casually why she down here. Just two bros, a Grandmaster and Crecheling, two completely equal Jedi in the eyes of the Force, sitting watching the Pretty Colors at the edge of a reverse Black Hole.

Master Yoda, NO!

What? Did they expect him to use force? By the ear, drag this youngling, perhaps? Hmmm? How would that fix anything. The child would simply return. Stopping her ONCE will not address your concerns. There must be a dialog. You must be heard. Your fears laid to rest. The youngling must UNDERSTAND. Teachable moment!

The various knights, masters, CRECHE MASTERS and Council members? Do? NOT AGREE. Ha ha. Oh Force. Baby in a radioactive, currently inactive, meat grinder! Heart palpitations! Can't EVEN RELEASE THEIR FEAR INTO THE FORCE! Because it'll JUST SPIT RIGHT BACK INTO THEIR FACE.

.....OC would like these people to stop crashing her hangout. But is refusing to STOP her hang out, now, mostly out of spite. Well... that, AND? It's actually pretty great that most of the Order? Is getting LITERALLY FORCE BASTED CLEAN?

Like getting your soul pressure washed.

BEGONE Darksider gunk!

Does it leave you feeling a lil woozy and hyper-aware? Overly sensitive? Headache-y like a motherfucker? Yeah. But that's the crude matter, my gender non specific dudes. The Nexus has always been more of a "oh shit! We're losing um! CLEAR!" Sort of measure, then a "you should take this rigorous round of medicine and then meditate" Sort of measure.

Not that it's WISE. It's just as likely to eat folks. Just... straight skip the suffering their redemption arch might cause others and? Yoink! Straight back to the Force with you. After all? Other people are not here for YOUR life lessons. Their pain is not a gift to YOU. A debt YOU are owed.

Speaking of? Someone should check on Skywalker. He's looking a little shaken back there. (The Void was BRIGHT and it looked BACK. He is... NOT OKAY) (but also? Feels cleaner? Lighter? He thinks he just met his Dad. Spoke to his Mom.)

Obviously? Hella grounded. UNBELIEVABLY grounded. The entire temple is down and out with the worse case of Force Strain anyone can REMEMBER. The senate will have to send someone else.

......what do you MEAN you have "no one else"? They distinctly remember there being other offices. They are a religious organization. Not nearly as large as they once were. You are THE GOVERMENT. When a planet, in need, requests assistance? Why are you handing it to an EXTERNAL RELIGIOUS ORGANIZATION?

Yes, OF COURSE we want to help! But unfortunately we literally CAN NOT right now! There was an INCIDENT! Are you telling us that this whole system was one cold away from COLLAPSE?! (Local eavesdropping reporters go :3c owo? Whats this? Paycheck~☆???)

And, yes. Yes it WAS. Centuries of Sith meddling and common greed. Cut the funds to line my pockets! The Jedi will handle it. They Jedi ALWAYS handle it. If they can't, we'll just blame them. They show up first. Sometimes are the only ones to show up. Are a face for people to latch on too. Someone recognizable to get angry at, in our hurt.

But.... suddenly? Not there! And they're telling us? The NEXT step? In their Very Worried For Us, Full Of Genuine Sympathy And Concern Way? Is the Goverment. Specific offices. Makes sense. They even try to help, while looking like death warmed over. No, no! We get you can't come. Go rest! People need you!

No, they keep insisting. I can HELP! Please let me help! You're suffering. This isn't RIGHT. You don't deserve this! Are you safe? Is your family okay? I can talk to some people I know... maybe?

Then you turn around? And get automated rejection after rejection from the GOVERMENT YOU SERVE. Pay your taxes too. Bleed for. As your people are DYING. Afraid. Begging for help, that? APPARENTLY the senate is too busy throwing GALAS to send!

The Jedi is actually crying on the other line. Arguing with a healer off screen that they don't faint THAT much! They can take a pilot droid! Your people NEED HELP! Please! They have to do SOMETHING! They can't just SIT THERE! Please don't make them sit there!

The healer is telling them if they don't bring their heart rate down, they may pass out again. Breathe. Give them the comm.

You watch the Jedi literally fight to keep it. Lose, too dizzy to win.

The healer looks sympathetic but resolute. Your people's doctors are much the same. Your SISTER-IN-LAW much the same. You ask that he not be allowed to contact you until he is well. You are not incompetent, after all. Your people will survive.

The Force is with you... but the Senate is not.

This? You will REMEMBER.

Discontent grows. But NOT, as Palpatine was trying to cultivate it, towards the Jedi. They? Are in crisis. Still holding strong, yes, but clearly DEALING with something. Some... weird... mystic cult illness. It's literally BAD enough that "Force Sensitive" (you know, the kinda creepy weirdos?) cultures and peoples are offering to send various doctor equivalents!

And the Jedi! The JEDI!!!? Infamously "oh, it's only a gushing flesh wound, I'm fiiiine!" Weirdo Space Monks? Yeah, they're saying YES. Please DO, actually. Admitting to NEEDING HELP.

...........guys?

A-Are the Jedi DYING? D:>

Suddenly everyone's remembering all those times? Jedi helped THEIR planet. Possibly DIED for them. Statistically? Over the centuries? There is not a SINGLE ONE of them that hasn't needed help at LEAST once. Gotten SOME Jedi's help. Maybe it was centuries back. Maybe decades. Possibly last year. But? The Holonet is FOREVER.

Videos still exsist. Voices long dead. Wry jokes and hoisting younglings up on their shoulders. Attentively listening to elders as they talk about their youth. Protection and respect. A face not so different from their own. Laughter and light, preserved forever.

The Jedi are in family holos.

Here, with grandma. See? He saved her from slavers! And there. Sitting with the family after The Great Collapse. Over here, rocking great-uncle Nox as a baby! On and on. Flooding the net. Private collections no one thought were relevant until now. It's not like anyone ASKED. It was JUST a FAMILY story.

Those little acts of kindness. Those humanizing bits of light. Jedi, throughout our history. Everywhere. Absolutely everwhere... until they weren't.

Until... slowly... they started to fade.

People, making timeliness, making collections? Notice. Huh. Look at that decline. Is that just them? Are they seeing things? Guys! Tell me what you see....

All while OC? Is sitting by the Nexus. Breathing in some NICE tea steam, in her comfy lil meditation nook, smacking the FUCK out of Palpatine's grasping lil claws as it reaches for the Nexus. BEGONE you malicious THOT! This is a benevolent thot only space! That's why Master's Vox and Kenobi can stay. (Ha!/CHILD!?!)

OC works as a legit filter.

The Nexus? Spews, by its nature, the Force in CONCENTRATED amounts, out into the universe. Like a high pressure water spout. Feeding into a lake. There are drains. People use it, move it, muddy the waters. But the NEXUS? Is where the unfiltered stuff comes back through, after it's been recycled.

Part of the endless loop. There are, of course, many Nexus. The Universe is large. One Nexus alone would never be able to cover it all. But Coruscant? The surrounding area? That's THIS Nexus. And Palpatine wants it BAD.

Because EVERYONE is part of the Force. Sensitive or not. ALL LIVING THINGS have midi-chlorians. They're just generally drawn to sentience. Are the universe in symbiosis with itself. Being near a Nexus tend to make them vibrate. Start to multiple. Not great for the body they're IN. Fascinating though.

......wait, where was she.... >.> oh! Right!

Whole ecumenopolis? Already has a LOT of suffering. Lot of stagnant pools of Darksider rot. The senate isn't helping. But? The Nexus IS helping. By blasting clean, fresh, hope and NEW! Through the heart of it all. Anyone who wanders close enough to the Temple? Gets cleaned off.

Feels hope. Sees a brighter future worth fighting for. Gets that much needed nudge from the Force, towards a better path.

Obviously, Palpatine hates that. Wants to flip it. To bad decisions and hopelessness. Bow your head and know your place. Well? FUCK 'IM. She's the guard of the Nexus. SHE'S sitting right in from of it! He may have fucked up rituals? But SHE can literally reach her arm out, INTO IT, and drag the darkness free.

Talk to Master's through time. The Force directly. Be a concept and a bird, right angles and starlight, here and then and The Force.

What are YOU, Sheev Palpatine? But a miserably hateful little creature.

A vile, angry little man.

The Jedi? Have probably already adjusted by now. Master Fae, Master Antilles, Youngling OC. Yeah... it be like that sometimes. You get Weird Jedi every so often. Just look at Yoda and Yaddle. The various wandering Jedi. That one guy they're preeeeeety sure? Might just be? Meditating out in a swamp somewhere? He might be dead. No one's sure. Still a jedi, though!

Look, you get like... 99 put of 100 vaguely normal Jedi to one Weird one, and 1 REALLY weird one out every... no one can actually agree? Inconclusive. Have a fruit bun. Nod and smile. The Force works in mysterious ways....

And SPEAKING of "we are a wrecking ball in a rice paper world" Master Fae/Antilles duo? Very sensitive to the Force. Go where it sends them. Did.... NOT expect to get a holocall? By means of FORCE NEXUS?? From an ACTUAL YOUNGLING?

.....ngl. this one's new.

Kamino it is.

(OC wants to make Palpatine CRY. Fight me, you FUCK, says the actual child. No one knows why this Jedi child hates the Naboolian senator specifically, but it... is REALLY effecting his Affable Grandfatherly Vibes.)

(Fucking GOOD.)

[ckret2]

If the Time Baby exists in the far way future of the Gravity Falls Main Timeline, why was he so concerned about Bill being free from the Nightmare Realm? The fact that he exists in the far future proves that Bill was defeated in the past to begin with.

Here's what we know about time & Weirdmageddon:

When it begins, one of the first things Bill says is "TIME IS DEAD and meaning has no meaning!"

Something like a week of time passes inside of Weirdmageddon, but when it's over, it's like no time has passed in the real world

Bill murders Time Baby and then declares he can control time.

Something temporally fucky is going on inside Weirdmageddon.

So here's my theory:

In the normal timeline where chronological cause and effect matter, Time Baby can rest assured that events proceed such that he will safely rule the future. But Bill "WHY MUST CAUSE PRECEDE EFFECT" Cipher's party isn't part of the normal timeline. It's capable of retroactively breaking the universe in the 21st century and erasing the future where Time Baby rules—along with every other future.

Time Baby's future isn't proof that Bill's defeated. It's an example of a timeline in which Weirdmageddon NEVER HAPPENED—and Bill's about to change that. There's a possibility Bill COULD win.

Bonus headcanon:

The fact that Weirdmageddon's outside the normal timeline is also why I headcanon Time Baby only got involved THEN—and didn't, say, appear over Gravity Falls in 1980 to say "HEAR THIS, STANFORD PINES! BILL'S A CREEP. DON'T BUILD HIS PORTAL" or whatever.

My headcanon is that any given Time Giant can only exist in ONE place at any point on their own timeline. So like, if a Time Giant does the laundry on Wednesday, and then on Thursday finds out that there was a cool concert yesterday, they can time travel back to Wednesday to catch the concert, but now the past has been changed so that they didn't do the laundry because they were at the concert instead. They can't loop back and cause two versions of themselves to exist at once; the act of looping back erases the original version of themself.

The same way the time tape works: when Dipper & Mabel rewind the day of the carnival, Dipper doesn't run into his past self attempting the ball toss and Mabel doesn't run into her past self winning Waddles; they replace their past selves so only one version of them exists.

Something about the fact that Time Baby has been comatose and in ice in Antarctica for the past 66 million years or whatever somehow interferes with his time powers to prevent him from time traveling back to (and replacing) himself during a moment he's frozen. A time giant can loop back to a moment they're doing the laundry, but apparently not to a moment they're comatose. That means that entire era of Earth's history, from the moment he's knocked out to the moment he wakes up, is guaranteed Time Baby-free, because he can't visit ANY of it...

... except for the one moment OUTSIDE of time... Weirdmageddon. Which is why Time Baby could ONLY make a move to try to stop Bill right then, even though he surely knew Bill's been working on breaking into earth for millions of years.

This is why he also has to send human agents with time tapes to do his bidding during that era: he can't do it himself.

AND it's why I headcanon it takes 1000 years for his molecules to reconstitute after Bill zaps him. Because two Time Babies can't exist at the same moment in history, and because Present Time Baby can't replace his past self while his past self is in a coma, he just has to wait in a state of non-existence until Past Time Baby thaws, wakes up, and pops off to some other point in the timeline... and at last, Present Time Baby has a free spot in the timeline where he isn't being nullified by his own past self and can reconstitute.

[gloryofdawn]

Oh this is a really good one!!! I guess the most important question is, when he's Quantum Leaping, what does the Death Note consider to be his name?

Personally, I think he'd be in the clear, and the Death Note is definitely not any weirder than the shit he's dealing with every day.

[avelera]

A Doylist Argument for Why Alice, Daniel's first wife, is NOT Armand in "Interview with the Vampire"

So I know the IWTV fandom has more or less made up its mind about "Armand = Alice" but I have to say, I am still not convinced. In my opinion, the discussion of how Armand knew what Alice was thinking that night was because Armand was spying on Daniel and Alice as a powerful telepath, all things we've known Armand to do, not because he was somehow Daniel's first wife and at no point did Daniel, an investigative reporter, in the present day recognize that Armand was Alice, his first wife who he would presumably have photos of.

Anyway, let's start from a Doylist angle. Doylist means, "from the creator perspective, analyzing from the point of view as the work of art as something created by people outside the universe of the story, ie, Arthur Conan Doyle wrote Sherlock Holmes, not John Watson who wrote the book in-universe."

First of all, it's pretty unusual for a show to outright lie to the audience. There used to be a whole script writing rule about it and if you look closely, it's very unusual in most TV shows for a character to outright lie unless the story is a mystery and unless the fact they're lying is well supported as being something the audience should be on the lookout for. But even when characters lie on tv, there's usually a bazillion neon signposts going, "The guy twirling his mustache and cackling is a liar!" and we're usually introduced to the actual truth at some point within the story.

Ok, all of that aside because I could talk about when and how and where and the nuances of writing liars into stories and why it's best generally avoided (unless it is the entire point, because audiences tend to take what they're told by a character at face value unless they're specifically told not to, etc etc.), IWTV by contrast with most tv shows is notorious for playing with lies and truth with this in very interesting ways.

Truly, I don't think I've ever seen a show lie to the audience as much as IWTV but even then, IWTV lies in very careful ways.

So, let's examine how IWTV depicts lies and subjective truth, and why I think this makes it unlikely that "Alice = Armand", which would be an absolutely gigantic lie to drop on the audience.

We always know that lies are going to be part of the story in IWTV. There's tons of support and scaffolding to the fact that the audience should know that this is a subjective story, that facts will be misrepresented and misremembered.

For example, it was an entire plot point with a long pay off that Lestat shouldn't have been able to communicate telepathically to Louis after he was turned and it was used to highlight that we should not take anything that happens in the flashbacks as objective truth. This has been told to us over and over and over again in this story.

This is so they can avoid the cheated feeling of a, "Gotcha!" Audiences do not like to be lied to but they do like to solve mysteries. If you're going to lie to the audience, you need to give them a chance to solve it. Generally speaking you accomplish this by telling them ahead of time what they should be looking out for and that there's a mystery incoming, you don't just "Rocks fall, everyone dies," dump it on them out of nowhere then laugh that they were too stupid to figure it out. That enrages audiences.

Now, it might seem like I'm contradicting myself here. "Avelera!" You might say, "We have it well established that something fucky is going on with Daniel's memories! A big red flag was raised that Armand has messed with Daniel too in the flashback to the 70s! We know from the books that Daniel and Armand had a relationship and the show is at least teasing that they had one in the show canon too! Isn't that enough to establish that Alice = Armand is a reasonable mystery that is being hinted at within the context of the story?"

And to this I answer, sure, it's reasonable. I think the number of people who are speculating that Alice = Armand is actually a point in favor of it being true, because a good established mystery should have enough hints that people can begin to put it together before it's confirmed.

But here are my personal hang ups about why it still doesn't feel quite right to me.

We have the fact that Daniel has ruined two marriages. This is set up early. Like, super early, in episode 1, before we even see the vampires. We also establish that Daniel's two marriages are with (presumably mortal) women and that he has 2 daughters. This is set up long before the themes and ideas around the subjectiveness and falsehood of memory are introduced. Generally speaking, you don't introduce a mystery before you introduce that there is a mystery. To my eyes, we were meant to see the details of Daniel's marriage and family life as objective truths about him that inform his character before the interview starts.

Even when we do get into Louis' interview, there is a strict dichotomy to the dreamy, subjective world of Louis' story and recollection, and the sharp reality and harsh brutalist lines of the apartment in the present day.

To my eyes, the meaning is clear: All flashbacks are suspect and subjective, but scenes that take place in the modern day are objective. They are really happening. We can speculate about what things like what the decor tells us about their mindsets and the way Armand and Louis present themselves to Daniel mean, but this isn't a dream or a lie or a framing device happening here. Modern day = objectively true.

Daniel talking about his two failed marriages and his daughters is not presented within the framework of the subjective interview flashback world. These are not facts we've been asked to question, these are the objective building blocks that tell us, objectively, where Daniel is coming from and why he's the bitter old man we see instead of the bright eyed interviewer seen in the IWTV film or books.

The very AU premise of IWTV from the books is that we are in a canon divergence world where Daniel was allowed to grow old, have a family, and have a successful professional life even if he never had a successful personal life. It is the way we are objectively meant to understand his point of view and other elements like his saltiness towards the vampires. It's how we're supposed to understand him as different from his book counterpart. I think it would be cheap to then pull a "gotcha!" about those, personally.

Now, there is a mystery introduced as far as Daniel's memory, recollection, and possible falsehoods in his own understanding of his life but those are questions like: "What happened after Daniel interviewed Louis the first time?" Which is part of the broader question of, "Why are we returning to the interview now?" Which also plays a bit into Daniel's broader questions of, "Am I going to survive this interview?" which is connected to the question of, "Why did I survive the first one?"

But those questions are generally raised and addressed within the flashback to the 70s, because flashbacks, as we've established, are (within the story of the IWTV show) where these doubts about objectivity are allowed to exist.

Note, that Daniel's 2 marriages and the existence of his daughters are not discussed in the flashbacks. What is discussed is, "Why did I survive that night in the 70s?" And we learn that Daniel's memories of that time have been tampered with, there's more to the story that it appears, and he had a moment of connection with Armand that he did not recall.

"But Avelera!" You say, "Is this not further proof of Alice being Armand if we establish that Daniel doesn't have the whole story and that he and Armand had a connection that he doesn't fully remember??"

I think it is a point in favor of the theory. I think it's a point in favor of the theory being a valid one to explore, but I'm still not sold because of a few reasons.

Armand has never:

Presented himself with feminine pronouns, never cast himself in a feminine light, never associated himself with the feminine.

Furthermore, Armand has never disguised himself as a woman. Disguise is a theme in the show, Daniel talks about how people put on disguises before he finds the truth of them. But if "Alice" is a way for Armand to disguise himself in Daniel's memory, it is not a disguise that bears any resemblance to the other disguises we've seen Armand wear throughout the show. It is not a theme for Armand, it is not related to his story. Armand is many things to many people, but he's never ever associated himself with the feminine.

Armand would not need to disguise himself as a woman in Daniel's memory for Daniel to plausibly remember having a relationship with Armand, because Daniel recalls having queer experiences in the 70s. If Daniel remembered a relationship with "Andrei", I'd be more inclined to believe he's substituted himself in Daniel's memories with a mortal. Going so far as to say, "Of these 2 women Daniel told us in the objective present that he's been married to, one of them was a man who was also Armand," just seems a bridge too far in tricking the audience for no apparent reason. To me, that feels like a cheap trick on the audience.

Now, what about those weird things Louis and Armand say about Alice when they're shaming Daniel with the memory of her?

Specifically: what about Armand knowing what Alice is thinking the night she turned Daniel down?

This is my biggest point of difference with those who theorize that Alice = Armand. After all, how could Armand know what Alice was thinking that night unless he was Alice?

To put it simply, I think he knows because he was stalking Daniel that night.

I think we are meant to go, "Wait, what??" when we hear that Armand knows what Alice was thinking that night. That conversation is mean to be a red flag when we're invited to notice that Armand and Daniel have more history together than we, or Daniel!, have been led to believe.

But we also know Armand is a powerful telepath. This is a hugetheme throughout the show.

And, personally, I'm big fan of Queen of the Damned the book. It is my personal theory that IWTV the show takes place in a world where Armand and Daniel had their "Devil's Minion" whirlwind romance in the 70s, but instead of Armand turning Daniel as he requested, he wiped Daniel's memories and then let him go.

IMO, Daniel continued life thinking that he'd lost his memories of the 70s due to drug binges, and then from the 80s onward lived a relatively normal life with his two failed marriages to mortal women, his two daughters, and his award winning career. That's the divergence point.

To me, it seems much more plausible based on everything we know about Armand, that after he "freed" Daniel from their relationship and "allowed" him to live a mortal life instead of "cursing" him with vampirism, that Armand continued to stalk Daniel. Because that's what Armand does. Even in the Devil's Minion chapter of QotD, he's constantly stalking Daniel to the point where all Daniel needs to do in a particular city to have Armand swoop in to save him is think about him really hard.

So to me, what I think that line of dialogue was setting up was not "Armand = Alice" it was, "Armand continued to stalk Daniel after their relationship ended and that is the red flag you're supposed to pick up on from this dialogue, not a convoluted masquerade where Armand replaced Daniel's memories of the relationship with a woman named Alice who at first rejected Daniel but then eventually agreed to marry him."

To me, Armand = Alice just seems too convoluted. It also seems too easy to disprove given that Daniel is an investigative reporter. You're telling me he doesn't have any photos with "Alice", his first wife? You're telling me that if Armand was Alice, Daniel's first wife, that he never looked at "Rashid" or Armand and said, "Wow, you remind me of you my first wife?" Because to me, that's the sort of line you drop (in a more subtle manner) if you want people thinking about Alice = Armand but there is nothing along those lines in the show.

Now, what about the line, "You felt safer holding her hand in Paris."?

That one is a bit of a head scratcher. That one I think does lend to the possibility that "Alice" was male, that "Alice" was Armand, because Paris is discussed as more queer friendly (even though we also have scenes of Louis and Armand receiving homophobic comments while in Paris so... idk, "more comfortable" doesn't mean it was truly accepting, much like Louis felt "more comfortable" being a man of color in Paris even if racism was still rampant, but I digress).

But I didn't take it as a comment on Paris being queer-friendly (and therefore Armand = Alice) at the time when I first watched that scene.

I took Louis statement there as much more of an attack on Daniel's hatred of Paris. Paris is the city of love. America is the country where Daniel lives and works and has his identity as a hard-ass American reporter. In Paris, though, he was able to relax and be in love, far away from his work. Daniel has now grown to hate Paris because Paris was the place where he was young and in love with his first wife, a relationship that ended badly.

I felt that Louis was more calling out Daniel's changing attitudes towards Paris, rather than implying that Paris was more queer-friendly so Daniel could be openly with his lover Armand.

TL;DR: Look, I think the theory of Alice = Armand has a lot to recommend it, but I still have my objections to it. I think it's too big of a trick to pull on the audience to say that investigative reporter Daniel Molloy wouldn't recognize Armand as his first wife upon seeing him. I think it's too big of a trick to pull on the audience because the identity of Daniel's wives has never been presented as a mystery to be solved. I think it's much more plausible that they were setting up that Armand has been stalking Daniel very closely over the years, not that he insinuated himself into Daniel's life under false premises as a woman, a disguise and identity he's never used before.

I think Alice is real. I think Armand is a stalker, and that was meant to be our take away from that conversation.

[batmanisagatewaydrug]

Hiya sex witch

Hope ur having a good one!

I have a sexual health question. Im 28yo M and am as far as i am aware overall healthy, but sometimes i have trouble orgasming during sex, but rarely during masturbation. Im aware that contrary to popular belief men dont always orgasm 100% of the time and that there is nothing wrong with having difficulty with "keeping it up" so long as its not health related (i dont usually have difficulty with this part specifically, i just feel from experience that some times this is forgotten among people so i wanted to mention that)

I enjoy sex with my partners and im mentally very in the mood for it! Im not really nervous and havent felt pressured with them but some times it takes a very long time for me to finish, like more that 1.5 hours and up to 2 or 3 one time, and understandably my partners dont usually want to go that long lol i also find it frustrating because i feel the need around the 30-40minute mark but like i dont get that final push if that makes sense?

I did online searching and most answers are kinda wishy washy about causes other than excess masturbation, ive cut down on masturbation because alot of places say that that can be a cause but i only masturbated like once or twice a week and now im down to twice a month but it still happens.

Ive also heard that a too tight circumcision can lead to desensitisation and is what im kinda thinking this might be, i was circumcised at birth and have what the forskin restoration website ( www.restoringforeskin.org ) says is a RCI-0 or maybe RCI-1 which are considered super tight or tight respectively, both of which can lead to lack of sensation. And am considering maybe working on restoring my foreskin due to this, but i wanted your opinion on how like legit this all is considering it kinda sounds idk farfetched to me? Like being able to just stretch the skin back out with tape, is that even a thing? And does this sound like a possible cause?

Thanks for all your hard (no joke intended)'work and ur also awsome!

P.S. tumblr is being fucky on my phone all the time so if this is not anonymous please ignore/dm me to say make it anonymous again or whatever tanks

hi anon,

thank you so much for your question! it sounds like you've put a lot of thought into it already, and it was very interesting to read.

I have some hesitation in declaring that something is physically the matter with your penis, mainly because you mention that orgasm tends to come at a much more typical speed when you're masturbating. in the case of a physical problem I'd usually expect to see similar results whether you were having sex solo or partnered, which to me suggested it might be more of a mental/emotional blockage here?

but, having said that: I'm not a healthcare provider! and it sounds like a visit with one to discuss your observations might be really beneficial at this point.

while foreskin restoration is a thing, it's also a thing that doesn't have much research backing it up, and long-term results aren't very well known. consulting with a urologist before attempting a restoration sounds like it would be a great idea for you, as they could help confirm whether your foreskin is the problem and advise you on safely practicing restoration if it's an appropriate treatment. or, if that isn't the case, they're likely to have a much better idea about what else might be causing your situation.

best of luck!

[nyanbinary-perineum]

oh my god- i think its soooo gross that you like girlmusk- i mean it can’t be that good that it’s breaking people’s minds!

fine i’ll smell it once! only to prove to you its disgusting!

i’ll just get on my knees right in front of you- push my nose right against your panties- and inhale your girlmusk

and um- y- yeah its so gross and disgusting- but… i should smell it again- make sure, yknow-

cause i mean… yeah there’s no way that it breaks people’s minds- turning them into good little cocksleeves…

and- i just… think it’s ridiculous- what? why am i still on my knees huffing your bulge then?- i- im just making sure- its the right thing to do- to um- test your theories- and take notes-

the scent- is probably even stronger and delicious- i mean disgusting! if you take off your panties and rest your balls right on my nose- or rub your cock against my face, smearing your scent and precum all over me-

…i- its only right if i check- prove that girl musk cant break smart people like me into eager little muskhuffing cock sleeves…

-🧪

(im so sorry if the first part of this ask read like anon hate- i love your blog and girlmusk and would love to get mind broken and proven wrong :3)

I'm sorry to start my response to such a precious little message this way but I am still on the fence on some phrases used to describe me~

"Girlmusk" "girlcock" and their boy equivalents along with "Boy" and "girl" all still feel a touch /rough/, like they assign something to me- and I realize the confusion that causes when pronouns in and of themselves are something I'm open with and it's become more common in these sects of the internet to treat boy and girl as the same as "he" and "her"- it's just that those phrases- using "boy" or "girl" in those ways, still feels more like assigning and deciding for me and I know that's not the intent (usually) just saying it again here :P

I know how ubiquitous it is to use girl and boy to combine with words to emphasize this or that tone or sometimes just to have fun with the gender-fucky-ness we're allowed to play with in this life- but I would prefer to find my own grasp on how I want to play with those terms for me in time ;3

No offense taken~

If anything I suppose I have cat-thingmusk or elusively delightful agendermusk or even nyanbinarymusk hehehe

All told, I do think you're on the right path~

I could be exaggerating just how potent and addictive my scent is!

I'd gladly work with a naive skeptic! ^.^ You can trust me to take it VERY seriously~

I'll be nothing but purrfessional as I rub my steaming hot cock against your cheek until both of us are thinking exactly the same thing- just how good it would feel if I started humping your face~ (=•ω＜=)

Showing you just how good it feels to slip away~ To fall into a daze as you're turned into a muskdrunk little fuck toy ^.^ Or how that doesn't happen! Of course, of course ^.^

Burying the scent so deep into your body and mind that you can't shake it from your consciousness~ Even as you feel the scent leaving you, your breath catching simply air, the sensation remaining buried into your psyche as a haze, a heat, and a need all in one~

I'm more than willing to coopurrate, little skeptic ^.^ I'm sure we can put that pathetic smart little mind to good use figuring all of this out~ (★ ω ★)