#we are so happy you are here and we need to do this more often

[mintyys-blog]

ANYWHERE TO SEE YOU — sinister! mark grayson x reader

WARNINGS: character death, child death, sickness, blood, murder, depression, mention of past pregnancy, dark themes, obsession, denial, smut, implied non con/dubcon, swearing

MINORS DNI

The sun was setting over the Grayson household, casting a warm, golden glow that filtered through the windows of your home. Laughter echoed through the hallways, the sound of life that filled every corner of the house. You and Mark, together with your young daughter, were the very picture of happiness. You had a perfect life. You couldn’t have asked for anything more.

Mark, always the strong, dependable hero, was home more often than not, and his presence filled the house with a sense of peace and safety. Your daughter, with her bright eyes and infectious giggles, had brought a new kind of light into your world. She was everything to both of you. Her laugh, her little footsteps as she ran through the house, her excitement when Mark would come home from a long day—it was all so precious.

“Mom! Dad!” your daughter squealed, running into the living room, holding up a drawing she’d been working on. She was so proud of it, her face beaming with joy.

Mark, sitting on the couch with you, leaned forward, his eyes softening as he took in her creation. “Wow, sweetie, that’s amazing,” he said, his voice full of warmth and admiration.

You couldn’t help but smile, watching the bond between them. There was no denying that Mark was a great father. He balanced being a superhero with being the best dad you could ever ask for. He’d always make time for her, no matter how chaotic the world around him was. And when she wrapped her little arms around his neck in a hug, you saw the unspoken love between them.

“You’re going to be an artist one day,” you teased, and your daughter giggled in response, running off to show her artwork to the rest of the family.

Later that evening, you sat around the dining table, a feast laid out in front of everyone. The kitchen smelled of roasted chicken and fresh vegetables, the aromas mingling with the sounds of Debbie and Oliver talking excitedly about their own adventures. Debbie, Mark’s mother, had come over to visit, and Oliver, her partner, was right by her side. He beamed with pride at his niece as she showed them her drawing, her enthusiasm lighting up the room.

“Look at you, kiddo,” Oliver said, laughing heartily as he leaned down to give her a big bear hug. “You’re going to be the next Picasso at this rate!”

Mark leaned back in his chair, grinning, his eyes twinkling with amusement. “I think we’ve got an artist in the family,” he said, pride swelling in his chest.

The evening continued with more laughter, stories, and love shared between family members. You had everything you could possibly need. The sense of security, the warmth of family, the love that you and Mark had for each other—it all felt perfect. You would never have imagined that such a serene and joyful time could be so fleeting.

Days turned into weeks, and the illness started small. Your daughter had been tired lately, nothing more than a cough here and there, but you couldn’t help but worry. It wasn’t like her to be so lethargic, so unmotivated to run around and play. Mark noticed it too, but you both brushed it off at first—children were resilient, right?

But then the cough grew worse. She grew weaker, and her once vibrant energy seemed to fade, replaced by a listless quietness that broke your heart every time you saw it.

You and Mark took her to the doctor, frantic with worry, but nothing could have prepared you for the diagnosis. It was something rare, something they hadn’t seen before, something they couldn’t quite explain. The doctors said they would do everything they could, but there were no guarantees.

Mark was beside himself, his usually calm demeanor cracking under the pressure. You both tried to stay strong for her, but deep down, you could feel the fear gnawing at you. This wasn’t how things were supposed to be. You had made plans. You were supposed to be a family, growing old together, watching your daughter blossom into the person she was meant to be. But now, everything was uncertain.

Nights became a blur of hospital visits and tear-filled conversations. Mark didn’t leave her side. You watched him struggle with the helplessness he felt, as powerful as he was, there was nothing he could do to save her. You both held onto each other in the dark, your hearts breaking as you tried to cling to the hope that somehow, this wasn’t real.

Then one day, your daughter’s condition worsened. You both held her hand, whispering words of love, trying to comfort her, even as the life seemed to slip away from her tiny body. Her final words were a whisper, a soft “I love you, Mommy, Daddy,” and she was gone.

The grief was unbearable. The world felt like it had been ripped from beneath you. Mark, strong and invincible to the world, fell to his knees, his face twisted with sorrow and regret. You held each other, trying to find solace in the other’s arms, but nothing could heal the wound that had been carved into both of you.

Mark became a shell of himself after that. He still wore his mask, still fought for the world, but the light in his eyes dimmed. Every day was a struggle, and he couldn’t escape the guilt that gnawed at him. He never forgave himself for not being able to save her, and it broke him.

As time passed, life became a series of empty days. You and Mark found some semblance of routine again, but it was never the same. You both carried the weight of your daughter’s death like a shadow over your lives, and no matter how hard you tried, you couldn’t escape the darkness.

And then, Mark… died. He had gone out, as he always did, to save people. He had fought hard, but in the end, even his strength couldn’t save him. It was like a cruel mirror of the past, watching him fall, knowing you were about to lose him too. The emptiness inside you grew even larger. Now, there was nothing but silence.

And that silence was all you had left.

The house felt empty now. Mark’s absence was an ever-present shadow, a quiet that rang louder than any sound could. The walls, once alive with laughter, now stood silent, suffocating under the weight of grief. It was as if the very foundation of your home had cracked, and nothing—nothing—could fix it.

You had lost your daughter, and then you had lost Mark. It was like the universe had torn the heart out of your life and left you to bleed. Every morning you woke up, the first thing you noticed was the silence. There were no little footsteps running down the hallway, no excited chatter about the day ahead. There was only the deep, aching emptiness that gnawed at you.

Days blurred into nights, and the pain was constant, unyielding. It settled in your chest, a tight knot that wouldn’t loosen, no matter how hard you tried to breathe. You tried to move through the motions, to eat, to sleep, to somehow exist. But it was all mechanical. A body moving through space, but not truly living.

Debbie was there for you, of course. She had been Mark’s mother, and she had loved your daughter like a grandmother should. She, too, was lost in grief, but she came over every day, sat with you, and tried to fill the silence. She tried to console you, but she was struggling, too. She would talk about Mark’s childhood, the good memories, the moments of joy, but even those seemed distant, like a faint echo from a time that didn’t matter anymore.

“Y/N,” she said one evening, her voice thick with unshed tears. “I know this pain feels endless right now. But you… you have to let yourself grieve. You have to let yourself feel it. It’s okay to hurt. It’s okay to not be okay.”

You nodded, but the words felt hollow. What good was it to grieve when the people you loved the most were gone? There was nothing left to hold onto.

Oliver, too, tried. He was Mark’s stepfather, a man who had always been kind to you, and though you saw the worry in his eyes, you knew he didn’t truly understand the depth of your loss. How could he? He hadn’t lost a daughter, and he hadn’t lost the love of his life.

He would bring you meals, often sitting down with you, trying to pull you from your isolation. He’d tell you stories of Mark’s heroic moments—of his strength and determination, of the way he had always tried to make the world a better place. “Mark wouldn’t want you to suffer like this, Y/N,” he’d say. “He would want you to live, to keep going.”

But that only made the pain worse. The thought of continuing on without Mark, without your daughter, felt impossible. How could you live when the love of your life was gone? How could you live when your world had shattered into a thousand pieces?

There were days you couldn’t bring yourself to leave the bed, to even eat. You lay in the same clothes you wore the day Mark died, not caring. You didn’t want to move. You didn’t want to face another day without them. The pain was sharp and raw, like the world had gouged out your heart and left you to bleed.

On some days, you could barely look at the photos around the house—the pictures of Mark and your daughter, their smiles so full of life. They seemed like strangers now, frozen in time, reminders of a reality you would never get back. Sometimes, you would pick up a photo, your fingers brushing the frame as if you could somehow reach out to the past, but it only made the wound deeper.

Debbie and Oliver did their best to comfort you, but they couldn’t take away the crushing weight of your grief. They couldn’t fill the empty space that Mark and your daughter had once occupied. They couldn’t erase the echoes of their laughter that now haunted every corner of the house. And the guilt… oh, the guilt.

You couldn’t help but blame yourself for not being able to save your daughter, for not being able to protect her from the sickness that had taken her so suddenly. And Mark… Mark had tried so hard to save others. He had risked his life to protect the world. And in the end, it had cost him everything. He had died trying to make a difference, and you were left behind to carry the weight of his sacrifice.

Every time you closed your eyes, you saw his face. You saw the way he had smiled at you before he went out on that final mission. You saw the blood, the desperation in his eyes when he couldn’t return. And then, you saw the emptiness in his eyes when he was gone. The love he had for you, for your daughter—it was all gone, and there was no way to get it back.

The days began to blur into one another. You would wake, you would eat, you would sit in silence. Some days, you would manage to go outside and walk, but the air felt too heavy, the sky too gray. You couldn’t find any joy in the world anymore. Everything was dull, like the colors had bled from life, leaving only shades of black and white.

It was during these moments of deep despair that you started to think about what it would be like to not feel this anymore. The thought terrified you. You never once seriously considered ending it all, but the idea of escaping, of leaving behind the suffocating weight of grief, whispered in the back of your mind.

And then, there was the machine. You had been working on it for months, but now it had become an obsession. The thought of seeing Mark again, of seeing your daughter’s smile, was the only thing that kept you moving forward, even though the guilt and the weight of their deaths made every step feel like it was dragging you through quicksand.

You couldn’t stand the silence any longer. You couldn’t stand living in a world without them. The machine was your chance, your only chance to undo the pain.

But even as you worked, there was a small, quiet voice that wondered if you could ever really go back. If you could ever truly fix the shattered pieces of your life. Because in the end, could you ever bring back what was lost? Or would you only make things worse? But you couldn’t stop now. You had to try. For Mark. For your daughter. For you.

The machine was almost complete.

You stood there in the dimly lit room, staring at the complex system of wires and metal that stretched across the floor. It was a Frankenstein’s monster of technology—patches of old equipment, new circuits, all painstakingly assembled with your own hands. Every piece had been carefully placed, but it was Rudy who had helped you fine-tune it. His expertise with machines and tech had been invaluable, though you knew he worried about the dangers you were tampering with.

The thought of those dangers gnawed at you, but there was no turning back. Not now. You couldn’t live in this nightmare any longer. You had to see Mark again. You had to see your daughter. Even if it meant risking everything.

Rudy stood beside you, his normally calm face etched with worry. His eyes flicked between the machine and you, as if he was weighing the odds of what would happen once you activated it. His warning, the one he had repeated more than once, echoed in your mind: “Be careful, Y/N. If this goes wrong, you could get trapped in a universe where Mark isn’t Mark. He might not be the man you remember. He could be someone else, someone… cruel. Someone dangerous. And once you’re there, there’s no guarantee you’ll be able to come back.”

You looked at Rudy, your throat tight. His concern was genuine, but you couldn’t stop. What choice did you have?

“I have to try,” you whispered, your voice breaking slightly. “I can’t live like this. I need them back.”

Rudy didn’t respond immediately. He just looked at you, his expression softening as he placed a hand on your shoulder. “I get it, Y/N. But I need you to understand something. If you do this, you’re gambling with more than just your own life. You’re gambling with the very fabric of reality. And even if you end up in a universe where they’re alive again, they might not be the people you remember. You might not be able to change it. And you might never be able to leave.”

You nodded, feeling the weight of his words settle in your chest like a stone. You knew what you were doing. You understood the risks. But you had nothing left. There was no way you could go on without trying.

“I know,” you said quietly, your eyes meeting Rudy’s. “But I need to see them again. Even if it’s a different version of them… I need to see their faces. I need to hear their voices. I just need one more chance.”

Rudy sighed deeply, stepping back to examine the machine one last time. He ran a hand through his hair, his expression conflicted. “I can’t stop you, Y/N. I just… I just want you to know that you’re not guaranteed a happy ending. What if it’s worse? What if you end up in a universe where you’re completely alone, and you can’t get back to the one you know?”

“I’m willing to take that chance,” you said, your voice steady despite the storm raging inside you. “I’ve lost everything already. What else is there to lose?”

Rudy gave a reluctant nod, the hesitation still visible in his eyes. “Then I’ll help you. But you have to promise me something.”

You looked at him, confusion flickering in your eyes. “What?”

“If it goes wrong… if it’s not what you expected, you have to promise me you’ll come back. Promise me you won’t let your grief drive you to make choices you’ll regret. There has to be a line, Y/N.”

You swallowed hard, your heart heavy with the weight of his words. “I promise.”

He gave you a solemn nod before stepping aside. You took a deep breath and turned your attention back to the machine, your hands trembling as you reached for the control panel. It was time.

Rudy stepped away as the machine powered up, lights flickering to life, the hum of energy filling the air. It was louder now, the tension in the room growing with each passing second. You set the coordinates, your heart pounding in your chest, and then you pressed the button.

The world around you fractured, bending and warping as a blinding light engulfed you. The room disappeared, and the ground seemed to vanish from beneath your feet. You were weightless, suspended in some endless void, the feeling both terrifying and exhilarating. And then, without warning, the light faded, and everything went black.

When your vision cleared, you were standing in a different place. The air smelled different, the atmosphere heavy in ways you couldn’t describe. It was colder, but not in temperature. It was like the very essence of this place was… off.

You looked around, trying to make sense of the surroundings. The sky was dark, more so than it should be for this hour, and the streets were eerily quiet. No people. No sounds of life. Just emptiness.

You ran toward him, heart pounding in your chest. Mark. Mark was standing there, just as you had hoped, just as you had dreamed. He was alive. The suit, yellow and black, looked strange at first, but it was him—it was him. Your heart swelled, and for a moment, you couldn’t believe it. The pain, the loss, the years of empty silence—they all seemed to disappear in that instant.

“Mark!” you cried, your voice trembling with the relief you could hardly contain. “Mark, it’s really you!”

He turned to face you slowly, his lips curling into a smile. A smile that, for a split second, was just like the one you remembered—warm, comforting, familiar.

“Y/N,” he said softly, his voice low and steady. “You’re here. I’ve been waiting for you.”

Without thinking, you threw your arms around him, pressing yourself against him, feeling the warmth of his body, the familiarity of his scent, the security of him being real. It was overwhelming. The flood of emotions hit you all at once. You kissed him, desperate to feel him again, to prove this wasn’t a dream, that he was really there.

For a moment, there was nothing but the kiss—nothing but the joy of having him back, of having him alive again. You couldn’t stop the tears that came, the sobs that wracked your body as you pulled away from him just enough to look into his eyes. Your fingers were still trembling as you cupped his face, as you smiled, barely able to contain the surge of relief that filled your chest. And then, slowly, you noticed something. There was something off. Something… wrong. Blood.

It was smeared across his suit, splattered across his chest. It was darker than it should have been, and the more you looked, the more you saw. His hands—his hands were covered in it. It wasn’t just on his suit, it was on his skin, too.

Your stomach dropped. The joy you had felt, the relief, turned into a cold knot in your gut as the reality of what you were seeing began to sink in. You backed away from him, your heart racing. “Mark… what… what is this?” you whispered, barely able to form the words.

Mark tilted his head, a strange, unsettling smile playing at the corners of his lips. “What’s the matter, Y/N? You’re acting like you’ve never seen blood before.”

Your mind raced. It didn’t make sense. He couldn’t be—this wasn’t right. The man standing before you wasn’t the man you had loved, the man who would never hurt anyone, not intentionally. The warmth you had felt was evaporating, replaced by a creeping, gnawing fear that you couldn’t push away.

“You’re not… You’re not him,” you whispered, the realization hitting you like a slap across the face. Your hands trembled as you took another step back. This was wrong. This was so wrong.

Mark’s smile faded, his expression turning unreadable, almost calculating. He studied you for a moment, his gaze sharp, as if sizing you up. “No,” he said, voice colder now. “I’m not him.”

He stepped closer, the air growing heavier with each movement. “I killed the version of you before. So, I know you’re not from here.”

Your breath caught in your throat. You couldn’t speak. All the joy you had felt just moments ago shattered in an instant. This wasn’t the Mark you knew. He wasn’t the hero. He wasn’t your Mark.

His eyes flicked to the blood on his suit, then back to you. There was no remorse in his gaze—only curiosity, a twisted sense of understanding, as though he already knew what had happened and what you were doing here. The smile returned to his lips, but it was nothing like the one you remembered.

“You made a mistake coming here, Y/N,” he said, voice smooth, but there was something dangerous beneath it. “You should have known better than to play with forces you don’t understand.”

Your chest tightened as panic swirled inside you. The world around you seemed to close in, the weight of his words suffocating you. This wasn’t your universe. This wasn’t your Mark. He was someone else—someone darker, someone cruel. And now you were trapped here, with no idea how to escape.

You wanted to scream, to run, but your legs felt like lead, your mind reeling from the shock of it all. You had come here to fix everything, to make it right again. But now you realized—there was no going back. And this Mark? This Mark wasn’t the man you loved. This Mark was a stranger, a killer. And you had made the biggest mistake of your life.

You took another step back, your eyes searching his face, pleading for some sign that this Mark—this twisted version—was still connected to the person you had known. “What… what about our daughter?” The words escaped you before you could stop them, the desperation clear in your voice.

Mark’s laughter echoed in the stillness, dark and mocking, sending a chill through you. “What are you talking about, lady?” His voice was flat, but there was a cruel amusement in it, like your pain was just another thing to be toyed with.

Your chest tightened as the blood drained from your face. It couldn’t be. “She… she doesn’t exist here?” You barely managed to form the words, your voice trembling with disbelief. You had to be wrong. This couldn’t be the answer.

Mark only raised an eyebrow, a twisted smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. “Why would she?” He stepped closer, his gaze never leaving yours. “There’s no room for children in my world. They’re just… distractions. Weaknesses. Something to get rid of.”

Your heart shattered in that moment, a cold emptiness sweeping through you. The image of your daughter—her bright smile, her laughter, her innocence—felt like a distant memory, something so out of reach that it might as well have been a dream.

You shook your head, trying to hold yourself together, trying to fight back the tears. “No,” you whispered, more to yourself than to him. “She… she was everything. She was real.”

Mark’s smile faded, his eyes narrowing with something darker now. “Not in this world, sweetheart. In this one, you’re the one who doesn’t belong. And as for your daughter…” He stepped even closer, towering over you now, his voice cold and cruel. “You can’t change things. You should have known that.”

Your knees felt weak, your body trembling as the weight of his words crashed down on you. The daughter you had tried to save, the child whose laughter once filled your home—she was gone, erased from this reality.

You didn’t know what hurt more—the realization that this Mark was not the man you had loved, or the soul-crushing truth that in this universe, your daughter had never even existed.

You backed up once more, but your body was frozen in place. “No… please…” you whispered, voice breaking. “I came here to fix it. I came here to bring them back. I thought… I thought you were the same. I thought… we were all going to be okay.”

Mark’s gaze softened for just a moment, but it wasn’t compassion. It was something darker, a hint of something cold, something calculating. He reached out, touching your face gently, almost tenderly, but you could feel the malice behind the gesture.

“I’m sorry you’ve lost so much,” he said, his voice dripping with false sympathy. “But that’s not my problem. I don’t play by the same rules you did, Y/N. Not anymore. You think you can just rewrite the past? Fix everything with some machine?” He shook his head slowly, as if you were a child who didn’t understand the consequences of her actions.

The tears you had been holding back finally broke free, streaming down your face, but you didn’t wipe them away. You couldn’t. The reality of this world, of the twisted version of Mark standing before you, was suffocating. This wasn’t a reality you could fix. This wasn’t the world you had fought for.

And your daughter—she was gone. She never existed here. And you had no idea how to go back.

Mark didn’t seem to notice your grief. His expression was unreadable, though there was a flicker of something—something dark and dangerous—in his eyes. “It’s over, Y/N,” he said, his voice low and threatening. “You’re here now. And this is where you’ll stay.”

The finality of his words hit you like a ton of bricks. You weren’t just trapped in another universe; you were trapped with him. The man you loved had died, and in his place stood a monster.

Mark’s cold laugh echoed through the air as he flew around you, his movements smooth and predatory, like a lion circling its prey. You instinctively flinched, your body still trembling from the shock of everything you’d just learned. He was toying with you—mocking you, as if your heartbreak and despair were just games to him.

“Now, what to do with you?” he mused, hovering above you. His eyes gleamed with a twisted, sadistic curiosity. “You’re a mess, aren’t you? All emotional and weak, thinking you could just… fix things with a machine.”

You swallowed hard, your throat tight, but you didn’t look away. You had to stay strong, even if it felt impossible. You had to hold onto something. “I came here to bring them back. To fix everything. You can’t—”

Mark interrupted you with a scoff, gliding down to land in front of you with a loud thud. His grin was wide, cruel, the same smile he had given you when he first spoke. “Fix things? Please. You’re delusional if you think you can fix what’s broken.” His voice was sharp, and he took a step closer to you, his towering presence making your chest tighten with fear.

He leaned in slightly, the mockery dripping from every word. “I wouldn’t ever have kids, especially not with you. Kids are a liability, Y/N. They just hold you back. They make you weak.” His gaze sharpened, his eyes flashing dangerously. “I know you wanted that perfect little family, but guess what? I’m not that idiot you once loved. I don’t care about any of that.”

The air around you felt suffocating, the weight of his words pressing down on your chest. The image of your daughter—her smiling face, her laughter—felt like it was slipping further away from you, becoming a distant, unreachable memory.

Mark’s eyes darkened as he circled you, his every movement predatory. “You’re so stupid,” he continued, the words cutting into you like daggers. “You really thought you could come here and make it all better? That’s what makes it so amusing. You came to me—this version of me—and you expected what? A happy ending? A fairy tale?”

His mocking laugh echoed again, and it made your stomach turn. “You were always so weak. So naive. You thought your little family was everything. But here? In my world? That means nothing. You mean nothing.” He landed again, right in front of you, his grin now dark and venomous. “This isn’t your universe. You’re just a freak in the wrong place. And now… you’re stuck here.”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. Every word he said cut deeper, but you couldn’t let him see how much he was hurting you. He wasn’t the man you had once loved. This version of him was twisted beyond recognition, cruel and remorseless.

Mark’s eyes flicked over you one more time, lingering on your face before he let out a final, low chuckle. “You really thought you could just come in and change the rules. How dumb.”

He tilted his head, eyes narrowing as he studied you, as if deciding what to do next. “But I’ll tell you this, Y/N… you’ll learn that this world isn’t like the one you came from. You’ll learn to stop being so weak.” His tone shifted, taking on a darker, more dangerous edge. “And maybe… maybe I’ll make you see things my way. Or maybe… you’ll just stay here forever, alone, with nothing to hold onto.”

He stepped back, his posture casual, like he was bored with the whole thing. But there was a glint in his eyes, a hint of something far more sinister. “Either way, you’re mine now. Welcome to the new world, sweetheart.”

The coldness of his words made you shiver. You had made the worst mistake of your life coming here—and now, you were stuck with a Mark who was nothing like the man you had loved.

The weight of his words crushed you. The overwhelming realization that you had not only failed to bring back your family but had ended up in a universe where the man you once loved was now a twisted version of himself—it was all too much. The world around you began to blur, your vision swimming in and out of focus as the room seemed to spin.

Your knees buckled beneath you, and you couldn’t hold yourself upright anymore. The stress, the heartbreak, the crushing weight of Mark’s cruelty—it was all too much. You gasped for air, but your chest felt tight, like you couldn’t breathe. And then, the world went black.

Before you could even hit the ground, Mark was there. His hand shot out, grabbing you by the waist with unexpected speed and strength, pulling you into his chest as your body went limp in his arms.

“Pathetic,” he muttered under his breath, his voice tinged with amusement as he looked down at your unconscious form. “Can’t even handle the truth.”

But his tone wasn’t just mocking. There was something else—something unsettlingly possessive in the way he held you. As if, in his mind, you were already his to control, to break. His cold eyes scanned your face, and for a fleeting moment, he seemed almost… curious.

His grip on you tightened as he floated up into the air, holding you securely against his chest. The motion was smooth, effortless. He didn’t seem to care that you were unconscious, or that your life was in his hands. He was in control. Always.

“You really thought you’d be able to handle the truth, Y/N?” he said softly, almost as if speaking to himself. “You were never cut out for this. You’re weak. And now, you’re mine.”

With a quiet laugh, Mark floated through the air, carrying you as if you were nothing more than a burden to be dealt with. It wasn’t love that held you in his arms—it was something darker, more sinister. You weren’t a person to him anymore. You were just an object, a tool, something to manipulate, to break.

As he carried you further away, the distant, hollow ache of your daughter’s absence gnawed at you, even as unconsciousness dulled your senses. You had tried to fix everything, to bring them back, but now—now you were trapped in a nightmare, with no hope of escaping. The last thing you could feel before the darkness fully overtook you was the faintest brush of his fingers against your skin, a reminder that you were no longer in control. And you didn’t know how much longer you’d be able to hold on.

When you slowly came to, it wasn’t the sharp, sudden shock you had expected. Instead, your mind floated in a haze, your thoughts slow and sluggish, like you were trying to swim through thick fog. The air around you felt strange—heavy, cold, and sterile.

Your eyes fluttered open, and you immediately regretted it. The light was blinding, and your head throbbed as if someone had been pounding on it. You groaned softly, your fingers pressing against your temples as you tried to push through the fog in your brain.

As your surroundings came into focus, you realized with a jolt that you were no longer in the place you had been before. You weren’t in the open, or in the streets, or wherever it had been that Mark had caught you.

You were lying in a bed, the sheets cool and unfamiliar beneath you. The room around you was dark—far darker than it should have been. The walls were cold and bare, a dull gray that made the place feel sterile, almost prison-like. There was no warmth, no personal touch—just an overwhelming sense of emptiness.

You tried to sit up, but a wave of dizziness hit you, making you fall back against the pillows. Your heart began to race as panic started to claw at you. Where were you? What had happened? The last thing you remembered was Mark—that Mark—catching you as you fainted.

Suddenly, you heard footsteps approaching the door. You froze, your breath catching in your throat. You didn’t want to see him again, but you knew you couldn’t avoid it.

The door creaked open, and Mark stepped inside, his silhouette barely visible in the dim light. His yellow and black suit still clung to him like a second skin, stained with blood, but his expression—his cold, unreadable expression—was the same. He didn’t look surprised to see you awake, nor did he seem concerned.

“Well, look who’s awake,” he said in a voice that dripped with mockery, his tone casual. “Didn’t think you’d last long, honestly. You’re weaker than I remember.”

Your throat tightened, and you struggled to sit up again, but your limbs felt heavy, uncooperative. “Where am I?” you managed to croak out, though your voice was barely more than a whisper.

Mark didn’t answer immediately. He only stepped closer, his eyes scanning your face with a detached, calculating look. “You’re in my place now, sweetheart,” he finally said, his voice eerily calm. “In my world. And trust me, you’re not going anywhere anytime soon.”

Your chest tightened at his words, and you instinctively recoiled, though your body still felt weak and unresponsive. “I didn’t—this wasn’t supposed to happen. I just wanted to fix things…” you whispered, unable to stop the tears that welled up in your eyes.

Mark’s lips curled into a cruel smile as he watched your reaction. “You really thought you could just play God, didn’t you? Thought you could change the rules, fix the past.” He shook his head, chuckling darkly. “You’re more naive than I gave you credit for.”

You pressed your hands to your face, the overwhelming grief of your situation finally catching up with you. Your mind couldn’t process it all at once—the loss of your daughter, the realization that this version of Mark was nothing like the man you had known, the twisted, perverse reality that you were now stuck in.

Mark leaned against the doorframe, his arms crossed, still watching you with that cold, calculating gaze. “You should have known better than to come here. And you’ll learn to accept that.”

Your heart sank at his words. The finality in his voice made it feel like there was no way out, no hope left. You had made a terrible mistake, and now you were trapped. With him. You closed your eyes, trying to steady your breath, but the weight of everything was suffocating. You were alone here, with no way to undo what had been done.

You couldn’t breathe. The walls of the room seemed to close in around you, and your pulse hammered in your ears. You had to get out. You had to fix this. Mark—that Mark—was a monster, and you couldn’t stay here, not like this, not with him. But what could you do? You were trapped.

Instinctively, your hands fumbled for the device you had used to travel here—the small, intricate machine Rudy had helped you build, the one that was supposed to bring you back. You had hoped, prayed, that it would work, that you could fix everything. But now, you felt the cold, familiar weight of it in your hand, and it didn’t give you any sense of relief. Something was wrong.

You pressed a button, hoping for some sign that it was still functional, that it could still take you home. But instead of the usual hum or the comforting lights that meant it was working, the device just made a faint, broken sound. It flickered once, twice, and then died in your hand, the screen completely black.

“No…” you whispered, your throat constricting with fear. “No, no, no.”

You pressed the button again and again, but nothing happened. It was broken—ruined. Your only way out of this nightmare was now useless. Your mind raced, trying to come up with another solution, another way to fix things, but there was nothing. The device had been your only hope.

A wave of helplessness washed over you, and for a moment, you felt like your legs would give way beneath you again. You couldn’t go back. You couldn’t leave this world and return to the family you had lost.

You turned the broken device over in your hands, fingers trembling. This was it. You were stuck here.

Behind you, the sound of footsteps grew louder, and you knew Mark was drawing closer. You couldn’t face him—not like this, not when you were so utterly powerless. You had no way to contact Rudy, no way to even know if he could help you. The device was a wreck, and you were at the mercy of this thing that looked like the man you loved.

“Still trying to fix things, huh?” Mark’s voice cut through the silence, dripping with mockery as he stepped into the room. His eyes flicked over the device in your hands with barely concealed amusement. “Didn’t I tell you? You don’t get to change anything here. Not anymore.”

You didn’t look up. You couldn’t. There was nothing left but despair.

Mark stepped forward, his boots echoing on the cold floor as he reached out to take the broken device from your hands. He didn’t seem in any rush, almost as if he were savoring the moment. You couldn’t stop him. You were too weak.

He examined it briefly, a twisted grin spreading across his face as he turned it over, flicking a few buttons, but nothing happened. “It’s broken, sweetheart,” he said, his voice low and condescending. “Doesn’t matter how many times you press it. I don’t think you’ll be getting any help from your little friend Rudy anytime soon.”

You didn’t respond. What could you say? Rudy had warned you, but you hadn’t listened. You had thought that the risk was worth it. That you could bring them back. But now, you were stuck here, a prisoner in a world that wasn’t your own, with no way to reach the one person who could help you.

Mark tossed the broken device aside with a flick of his wrist, and it landed with a soft clink on the floor. “You know, Y/N,” he said, stepping closer, “I could have let you go. I could have just erased you from existence, sent you back wherever you came from. But this… This is so much more fun. Watching you struggle. Watching you realize there’s no escape. You’re mine now.”

Your heart pounded in your chest, and you felt a sick, gnawing sense of dread settle over you. You were trapped here, with no way out, and Mark… he wasn’t the man you remembered. The man you had once loved was gone, replaced by a cold, sadistic version who saw you only as a game.

Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes, but you refused to let them fall. You wouldn’t let him see you break, not again.

Mark, seeing your silence, laughed lowly, a sound that sent a chill down your spine. “Oh, don’t worry, Y/N. You’ll come around. I’m sure you’ll learn to love it here. Or you’ll break… Either way, you’ll be mine. And there’s nothing you can do to change it.”

You felt the weight of his words sink into you like a sharp blade, twisting deeper with every passing moment. Your hands were still trembling, still holding onto the broken device like it could somehow save you, even though you knew deep down that it was useless. He was right—you were stuck here, in a world where everything you once cherished had turned to ash.

Mark’s presence loomed over you, oppressive and suffocating, like a dark cloud that you couldn’t escape. His grin never wavered as he studied you, watching the silent struggle in your eyes. But the longer he stood there, the more it became clear that this wasn’t the same Mark who had once made you laugh, who had held you close. This man—this version of him—was cold, cruel, and devoid of the warmth you once knew. He was a stranger in your husband’s skin.

“Still so quiet?” he mocked, watching you carefully. “I thought you were stronger than this, Y/N. But I guess I was wrong. The real you would’ve known better than to try and change the past.”

You didn’t answer. What was there to say? He wasn’t going to listen. The version of Mark you had loved was gone, replaced by someone who found joy in your pain. And you had no way of leaving. No way to fix this.

Mark stepped even closer, the sound of his boots on the cold floor echoing in your ears. He knelt down in front of you, his face hovering just inches from yours. His gaze locked onto yours, and for a moment, there was something almost unsettlingly intimate in the way he watched you. But it was all twisted, corrupted. This man wasn’t someone you could trust, no matter how familiar his face was.

“You’re a fool,” he said softly, almost with a sadistic tenderness, as he reached out to tuck a stray lock of hair behind your ear. His touch made your skin crawl. “You thought you could come here and fix everything. You thought you could just play the hero. But that’s not how things work here. That’s not how I work.”

You recoiled slightly, the motion so subtle it barely registered, but Mark caught it, his grin widening. He let his fingers linger at your cheek, his touch icy and detached. “No, you don’t get to go back to your happy little life. You’re here now. With me. And I’m the only thing you’ll have from now on.”

Every inch of your body screamed to escape, but there was no way out. Mark had always been stronger than you, but this version of him—this dark, monstrous version—was on another level. There was nothing you could do to fight back.

Suddenly, without warning, he stood up and backed away, his eyes never leaving you. He seemed to relish the way you watched him, your breath shallow, your mind racing for any kind of plan, any kind of hope. But you were empty. There was nothing left.

Mark folded his arms across his chest, eyes glinting with something like amusement. “You’re not going anywhere. Ever. You’ll learn to accept this. You’ll learn your place.”

You felt a swell of anger and desperation rise within you, but it was quickly drowned by the crushing weight of your reality. What could you possibly do? You had failed. There was no going back to the life you had lost. Your daughter, Mark—they were gone.

The room fell silent for a moment, save for the sound of your shaky breaths. Mark seemed to enjoy it, the stillness, the power he held over you. Then he broke the silence again, his voice almost a whisper.

“You still think I’m the same man, don’t you? The man who loved you? But I’m not. I’m so far beyond that version of myself that you think you knew. You have no idea who I am anymore. And you never will.”

He turned away, a flick of his wrist sending the broken device skittering across the floor with a sharp clink. You stared at it, feeling like the last bit of hope you had was slipping through your fingers like sand. The reality of your situation was becoming too much to bear. This wasn’t just a bad dream. This was your life now. And there was no escape.

Mark stopped at the door, looking back over his shoulder. His gaze softened, but it wasn’t a softness you recognized. It was cold, like the shadow of something that might have been affection once. “I’ll let you rest for now. You’ll need your strength if you’re going to learn how to live here. In my world. The rules are different here, sweetheart. And you’ll learn them… the hard way.”

Then, without another word, he turned and walked out, leaving you alone in the sterile, empty room. The door clicked shut behind him, the silence that followed suffocating. Your head sank into the pillow, and the weight of everything crushed you once more.

There was no way back. No way to fix this. You were alone. And Mark was no longer the man you had once loved.

The days blurred together, each one stretching endlessly in this twisted version of your life. At first, you resisted. You mourned. You fought against the reality that this wasn’t your Mark, that the man standing before you in that yellow and black suit was a monster wearing his face.

But Mark had patience. He had time. And worst of all, he had you.

He didn’t rush the breaking process—he savored it. Every tear you shed, every look of betrayal, every time you shrank away from him only seemed to amuse him. You quickly realized that outright defiance only made things worse. So you withdrew into yourself, quiet and careful, trying to find cracks in his control.

Then, the mind games began.

At first, it was simple things—small things. He started calling you by the same pet names your Mark used to. Sweetheart. Babe. Love. It made your stomach turn, but he only smirked when you flinched.

Then came the moments that cut deeper.

One day, he brought you coffee, exactly how you liked it. You stared at the cup in his hand, unwilling to take it.

“Go on,” he said, leaning against the table, his tone light, almost casual. “I made it just for you.”

You wanted to throw it in his face. Scream at him. But the smell alone was enough to take you back—to lazy mornings in bed with your Mark, to the warmth of his arms wrapped around you as you sipped from a mug, to the laughter that used to fill your home.

Your fingers trembled as you took the cup. The first sip was automatic, and for a moment—just a moment—it felt like nothing had changed. That this was just another morning in the life you lost.

Then his fingers curled under your chin, tilting your face up to meet his gaze.

“Good girl,” he murmured.

Your stomach twisted violently, and you shoved the cup away, spilling coffee across the table. He only laughed.

That was how it started.

Some days, he would be almost kind, as if playing house with you was just another form of entertainment. He would sit beside you, acting like he wasn’t the same man who had torn this world apart. He would ask about your past, about his past—your Mark’s past—as if he could slip into his life if he just learned enough.

He touched you like he used to, brushing your hair behind your ear, resting a hand on the small of your back when he walked past you. He even made jokes, sometimes—ones your Mark might have made. And for just a fraction of a second, it felt real.

Until it wasn’t.

One night, you had been staring out the window, lost in thought, when he sat beside you and sighed.

“Do you ever wonder how different things could’ve been?” he mused. His voice was softer than usual, less mocking, almost wistful. “If I had been like him? Your Mark.”

Your throat tightened. You weren’t sure if it was a trick, another cruel game, or something else entirely.

“…Yes,” you admitted, because what else could you say?

Mark hummed, staring at the dark skyline. Then, his arm came around your shoulders, pulling you close against his side. The warmth of him, the scent of his skin—it was exactly the same. Your heart ached, because for the first time, it felt like maybe, just maybe, there was something left of your Mark in him.

Then his grip tightened.

Pain shot through your ribs as his fingers dug into your side, his other hand tangling in your hair and yanking your head back. His mouth was at your ear, his breath warm as he laughed.

“You really are desperate, aren’t you?” His voice dripped with amusement, cruel and sharp. “For a second, I almost thought you forgot who I am.”

Your stomach dropped.

He shoved you away so casually, like you were nothing, and stood up, stretching as if nothing had happened.

“You should’ve seen your face,” he chuckled, shaking his head. “Pathetic.”

You curled in on yourself, clutching your arms, hating how easily he had tricked you—how easily you had let yourself be tricked.

And that was the true horror of it. Because no matter how much you reminded yourself that this wasn’t your husband, that this was a monster—he still felt like him. He still sounded like him. And every time he slipped into that sick imitation of the life you lost, your heart betrayed you.

You were starting to lose track of what was real. Of what was him and what was just another manipulation. And the worst part? You weren’t sure if you would ever be able to tell the difference again.

The hot water cascaded over your skin, but no amount of heat could chase away the cold dread settling deep in your bones. You stood beneath the stream, trying to wash away the overwhelming filth that came with existing in this world.

Then, you felt it.

A presence.

Your breath hitched, and before you could react, you heard the soft shift of movement behind you, the unmistakable sound of someone stepping into the shower. The steam curled around you both, thick and suffocating, but it did nothing to mask the weight of his presence.

“Mark—”

You turned sharply, your hands instinctively clutching your body, as if that could protect you from him.

And there he stood, mask off, droplets of water clinging to his skin, his dark eyes locked onto yours with that same unsettling intensity. The steam blurred the edges of his features, but it didn’t change the truth—he looked exactly like your husband. Every inch of him was the same, from the sharp cut of his jaw to the curve of his lips, to the familiar breadth of his shoulders, the strong, defined muscles beneath his skin.

You wanted to cry.

You wanted to throw yourself into his arms, bury your face in his chest, press desperate kisses to his skin and pretend—pretend—that this was all a mistake, that this was your Mark, that you weren’t trapped in a nightmare you couldn’t wake up from.

But you knew better.

You swallowed hard, forcing yourself to breathe, to remember that no matter how much his body resembled the man you loved, the person inside it was someone else entirely.

He wasn’t touching you. He hadn’t moved. But his presence alone was enough to make your skin prickle, every nerve screaming in alarm.

Slowly, he tilted his head, his eyes dragging over you in a way that made your stomach twist. Not with desire, not with warmth—but with something else. Something cold. Calculating.

“You act like you haven’t seen me before,” he mused, voice quiet, amused.

Your grip tightened over yourself, fingers digging into your skin as you held his gaze.

“I know your body,” you said, voice barely above a whisper. “But I don’t know you.”

His lips curved, just slightly. “No. You don’t.”

The weight of his words settled over you like lead. You had no idea what he was thinking, what he wanted, why he was here. But you knew one thing for certain—he enjoyed this. The power. The fear. The way you were trapped, vulnerable, exposed.

You forced yourself to straighten, to meet his gaze without cowering.

“Why are you here?” you asked, trying to keep your voice steady.

Mark let the silence stretch between you, dragging the moment out, making sure you felt it, felt him. Then, finally, he leaned in, just enough for you to feel the heat radiating off of him, for his breath to ghost against your cheek.

“Because I can be,” he murmured.

Your stomach dropped. He was testing you. Pushing to see how far you’d go before breaking. But you wouldn’t break. Not yet. “Get out!” You screamed, he didn’t move. At least not away.

The moment you turned away, he moved. Faster than you could react, his hands seized your wrists, pinning them above your head as your back slammed against the cold tile. A sharp gasp left your lips, your heart hammering in your chest as his body pressed against yours, the heat of his skin unbearable despite the steaming water.

Then he kissed you. It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t loving. It was a claim. A violation of every memory you held dear. His lips crashed against yours with cruel amusement, forcing you to feel him, to acknowledge that he was real. You struggled, pushing against his chest, but he didn’t budge. His grip tightened, his knee slotting between your legs, forcing you to be closer.

And then he whispered against your lips, his breath hot and mocking— “Imagine what your husband would think—beyond the grave—to see his beautiful wife be taken by a man who looks exactly like him.”

A broken sound tore from your throat as he kissed down your neck, teeth scraping, teasing, taunting. Your hands balled into fists, and you struck his chest—hard—but he barely reacted, only laughing as if your resistance was nothing more than entertainment.

“I think he would be pissed,” Mark continued, his voice laced with wicked amusement. “I know I would be if another man touched you.” You shivered, despite the heat, despite everything.

“Stop it!” you choked out, shoving against him, using every ounce of strength you had left. He let you push him away, though it wasn’t because you had overpowered him. It was because he allowed it. Because he enjoyed the way you were breaking, piece by piece.

You gasped for air, arms wrapping around yourself, trying to ignore the way your body still burned from his touch. “You said it yourself,” you whispered, voice shaking. “You don’t love me. You can’t love me. So why… why do you keep doing this?” Your throat tightened, hot tears pooling in your eyes. “Why do you keep making me crave your touch, knowing that I want it to be genuine? That I want my husband back?”

Your voice cracked, and the room felt suffocating, the weight of your grief pressing down on your chest. Mark was silent for a moment, watching you with something unreadable in his dark eyes. Then, to your horror, his fingers brushed against your cheek, wiping away a stray tear. His lips curled into a knowing smirk. “And yet…” he murmured. “You still want me.”

You froze, breath catching. His gaze dragged over you, drinking in every inch of your trembling form before locking onto your eyes once more. “Your body can’t tell the difference between me and him.” His smirk widened as he scoffed, stepping back. “Isn’t that something?”

Then, just as quickly as he came, he was gone—vanishing in the blink of an eye, leaving you standing there, raw and broken. Your knees buckled, and you collapsed, sinking to the wet tile as the water pounded down on you. The weight of it all crashed over you like a tidal wave, and for the first time since arriving in this nightmare, you sobbed. You sobbed like you never had before. Because now… it was all sinking in. You were trapped here. With him. A man who wore your husband’s face. A man who would never let you go.

The water turned cold, shocking your skin and pulling you from the depths of your grief. Your sobs quieted into shuddering breaths, the reality of your situation sinking in like ice in your veins. You forced yourself to move, your limbs heavy and unsteady as you reached for the faucet, shutting off the water. The sudden silence was deafening, broken only by the dripping of water from your hair and the unsteady rise and fall of your breath.

You stepped out of the shower, grabbing a towel and wrapping it tightly around yourself, as if it could shield you from more than just the cold. Your hands trembled as you squeezed the excess water from your hair, trying to ignore the way your skin still remembered his touch, the way your lips still burned from his kiss.

You caught your reflection in the fogged-up mirror. Your face was tired, your eyes red-rimmed, lips swollen from the force of his kiss. You barely recognized yourself.

The weight of everything pressed down on you once more, but you refused to let yourself break again—not yet. You had to think. You had to get out of here. But first, you needed to leave this bathroom. You needed to see if he was still lingering, waiting for you. With a deep breath, you cracked open the door and peeked out into the dimly lit room beyond.

Empty.

You exhaled shakily, stepping out, the cold air hitting your damp skin like a cruel reminder that you were still here, still trapped in this nightmare. And the worst part? You had no idea what he would do next.

You moved cautiously through the dimly lit room, your bare feet barely making a sound against the cold floor. The towel clung tightly to your body, a thin shield against the suffocating weight of your reality.

Mark was gone, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t come back. He always came back. Your eyes darted toward the bedside table, where you had left the broken device—the only thing that could have taken you home. But the moment you picked it up, your stomach twisted.

It was worse than you thought. The screen was cracked, unresponsive to your touch. Wires jutted out where they shouldn’t, and no matter how hard you tried to adjust it, nothing happened. No light. No sound. No hope.

Tears burned in your eyes again, but you swallowed them down. Crying won’t fix this. You needed to find Rudy. If he was even here—if this version of him existed—maybe he could help.

The problem? You had no idea if Mark would let you leave. Your hands clenched around the broken device as you turned toward the closet. You needed clothes, something that didn’t make you feel so exposed. You moved quickly, pulling open the door, but the moment you did, your body froze.

The inside wasn’t filled with your usual clothing. No. It was filled with your things, but they weren’t yours. A dress you remembered wearing on your anniversary. A jacket you had lost years ago. A pair of shoes you were certain you had thrown away.

These weren’t things you had brought with you. These belonged to her. To his version of you. The one who had been here before you. The one he had killed.

A shudder ran through you as you slowly backed away, bile rising in your throat. How long had he kept these things? Why had he kept them? Was it a trophy? A reminder? Or was it something worse?

Before you could process it, you heard a shift of movement behind you. You barely had time to turn before a voice—low, amused—cut through the silence. “Looking for something?”

Your breath caught. You spun around, finding him leaning casually against the doorframe, arms crossed over his chest. His suit was gone, replaced with black sweatpants slung low on his hips. He looked relaxed. Comfortable. Like he belonged here. Like you belonged here.

Your grip on the towel tightened. Mark’s eyes dragged over you slowly, deliberately, a smirk tugging at his lips. “You’re not very good at sneaking around.”

Your heart pounded, but you forced yourself to stand your ground. “I was looking for something to wear.”

He hummed, glancing toward the open closet. His smirk widened. “Find anything familiar?” Your stomach turned, but you refused to give him the reaction he wanted. “Why do you have these?”

Mark shrugged. “I keep things I like.” His eyes flicked back to yours, dark and unreadable. “Guess that means I liked her—for a little while.” Your fingers dug into your palms. “Until you killed her.”

Something flickered in his expression, but it was gone before you could decipher it. He pushed off the doorframe, taking slow, deliberate steps toward you.

“You’re still hung up on that, huh?” His voice was almost mocking. “I killed a version of you. Not you.”

You took a step back. “I am her.” Mark chuckled, tilting his head. “No, sweetheart. You’re mine.” The finality in his tone sent a chill down your spine. He wasn’t going to let you leave. He wasn’t going to let you go. And the worst part? You didn’t know if you had the strength to fight him.

You stood there, trembling, your heart pounding in your chest as you tried to process his words. The truth he was offering you felt like shards of glass slicing through your soul. You couldn’t even look at him. Not after everything he had just admitted.

“Why did you do it? Why did you kill her?” You choked on the words, struggling to breathe, struggling to hold yourself together. The pain that had been bubbling inside you now felt like it was swallowing you whole.

Mark let out a slow, measured sigh, his eyes narrowing slightly, a flicker of irritation crossing his features. He was far too calm, too detached, for this conversation to be anything but a twisted confession. “Her body was weak,” he muttered, his voice almost flat, like he was discussing something insignificant. “She was already dying, because of the parasite—I didn’t want to keep it, but she insisted.” His eyes narrowed with disdain. “Then I lost both of them.”

You flinched, your breath hitching. “Parasite?” You whispered the word like it was a foreign language, unable to believe the cruel way he was referring to the child you had once longed for, the child who had died in his cold hands.

Mark rolled his eyes, as if you were the one making this complicated. “That’s what I liked to call it,” he sneered, the contempt dripping from his voice. “But she named it… Maddy.”

Your whole body went cold.

Maddy. Your daughter’s name. The name that you had so desperately clung to in the quiet, agonizing days after she had died.

“Did she die during childbirth?” You whispered, barely able to speak the words, afraid to hear what he would say. Mark’s gaze flickered to you, then back down, and he shook his head with a casual, almost bored expression. “No,” he said, his voice now colder than ice. “She died before. I couldn’t watch her suffer any longer, so I killed her.” His words came out dry, as if it were nothing more than an inconvenient truth.

A wave of nausea hit you like a ton of bricks. Your breath caught in your throat, your whole body shaking violently. “You… you killed our daughter?” you whispered, barely able to believe the words that left your lips.

Mark stared at you, his eyes unwavering. “They were both dying anyway. What’s the difference if it ended sooner rather than later?” His voice was cold, devoid of any emotion. Like it meant nothing to him, like you were the one being unreasonable.

Your hands clenched into fists, your chest tight with fury and heartbreak. How could he be so cruel? How could he have done that to her? To your baby?

“How—how could you be so cruel?” You slammed your fists against his chest, desperation fueling each strike, but he barely moved. His body was like stone, his chest impenetrable to your fury. “You killed… our daughter… my baby. You didn’t even give them a chance!”

His expression remained passive, cold even. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t react to your blows. Just stood there, as if it were nothing.

“You don’t get it, do you?” he muttered, his voice almost bored. He grabbed your wrists, stilling them, forcing you to look up at him. “She was dying, Y/N. They were both dying. The parasite, your precious little Maddy, would have been the one to finish her off. I just… spared them the suffering.”

You could feel your heart breaking in your chest, the pieces falling away with every word that left his lips. It was too much. Too cruel. Too cold. How could he not see it? How could he not understand what he had done?

“Spared them?” You shook your head, the words barely able to form through the lump in your throat. “You didn’t spare them, Mark. You killed them. You didn’t even try.”

He sighed, his hand moving from your wrist to cup your face, his thumb lightly brushing against your cheek. “I did try,” he said, his voice low, almost as though he were speaking to a child who couldn’t understand. “I told her to get rid of it… the pregnancy. The baby was killing her.” His eyes darkened as he leaned in closer. “But she wouldn’t listen. She tried to carry it to full term, despite everything. Despite me warning her. She couldn’t breathe, she was in constant pain… I couldn’t watch her like that. So…” Mark’s gaze became distant, as though the memory was distant to him too. He didn’t seem at all affected by what he was describing, as though it was just another task he had to do, another sacrifice to make.

“So I kissed her one last time…” He whispered, his voice dropping lower, a flicker of something—guilt?—briefly crossing his face, but it vanished just as quickly. “Then I snapped her neck.”

The words hung in the air between you like a thick, suffocating fog. You felt your legs give out from under you, your knees buckling as the truth sank into your bones like poison. “You.. you monster!” you whispered, your voice breaking. “You killed her… just like that? Because she wouldn’t listen?”

“No.” Mark’s eyes locked onto yours, but there was no hint of remorse, no guilt, no softness. He looked at you like he was explaining the weather, like there was nothing to feel about it, nothing to regret.

“You don’t understand,” he said, his tone turning almost pitying. “She was already dying, Y/N. She was in agony, and the baby… it was a parasite, pulling the life out of her. What kind of person would I be to let that continue?”

You slammed your fists into his chest again, this time with all the strength you had left. “You were supposed to protect her! Us!” you screamed. “And you just took everything from me! Everything I loved!”

Mark’s expression darkened, and for a moment, a flicker of something dangerous passed through his eyes. He stepped closer, the heat of his body overwhelming you as he grabbed your wrists once more, pinning them to your sides.

“Stop making it so hard, Y/N,” he growled. “I did what was best for her. You don’t even know what it’s like to watch someone you love suffer. You don’t get it.”

Tears spilled from your eyes as your body crumpled under the weight of the truth. You couldn’t look at him anymore. You couldn’t breathe. You stumbled back, desperate to put distance between you and the man who had once been your everything. Every inch of your body felt like it was betraying you, longing for him, that Mark—the one who had loved you, held you, fought beside you. But the reality was too clear now, too brutal. The man in front of you wasn’t him. He was a hollow imitation, a cruel shadow of the man you had lost.

The cold weight of everything he had just said pressed down on you, suffocating you. He killed Maddy, your daughter—your precious baby, without remorse, without hesitation. He had taken everything from you, and it was all because of his twisted logic, his inability to see beyond his own selfishness.

“You don’t even care, do you?” you whispered, your voice barely audible as your body trembled with disbelief. “You don’t feel any guilt. You just—snapped her neck.” Your hands clenched into fists, and you could feel the blood rushing to your fingertips, the rawness of your emotions threatening to spill over. “You killed our daughter, your wife, and you don’t even care!”

His eyes locked onto yours, and for the first time, there was something like amusement in his gaze. He didn’t say a word, just watched you, his expression twisted in mockery.

“You’re still clinging to the idea of him, aren’t you?” Mark’s voice was cold, detached, like he was stating a simple fact. “But that Mark is dead, Y/N. I am what’s left. What’s real.”

You shook your head, desperate to hold on to something—anything—that would remind you of the life you once had, of the love that once was. But nothing made sense anymore.

“You’re not real,” you muttered, the tears falling freely down your face, staining your cheeks. “You’ll never be him.”

His lips curled into a cold smirk. “Is that so? Then why is it that every time I touch you, I see the same reaction? Your body wants me, Y/N. It remembers me. It remembers him.” His voice was like poison, each word slipping deeper into your skin, making it harder to breathe. “You think you can escape this, but you can’t. You need me. And you always will.”

You couldn’t argue with him. Not because you wanted to admit it, but because every part of you that had once been attached to him was now clinging to a distorted version of the truth. Your body did want him. Every time he was close to you, the warmth of his presence, his hands on your skin—it was like a twisted version of the past.

You recoiled from him, your chest heaving as you tried to control the emotions that threatened to overwhelm you. “No,” you whispered fiercely. “I don’t need you. You’re not him. I don’t want you.”

Mark laughed bitterly, his gaze never leaving yours. “The difference between you and me, Y/N, is that I’ve accepted who I am. You’re still living in some fantasy where your husband comes back, where things go back to how they were.” His eyes darkened. “That’ll never happen. He’s gone. And all that’s left is me.”

Your heart shattered once more, hearing the words spill from his lips like venom, but you couldn’t stop the truth from sinking in. He wasn’t wrong. In his world, in this universe, the man you loved was dead. This Mark had replaced him. And there was no going back.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, your voice breaking as you took a shaky step back. “I’m sorry, Mark, but I can’t do this.. You took everything from me.”

Mark’s eyes flickered with something cold—almost like disappointment—but he didn’t move. He didn’t reach for you. He just stood there, watching you, calculating your every move.

“You think you have a choice?” he said, his voice low and dangerous. “You’re trapped, Y/N. You’ll never get away from me. Not now. Not ever.”

You shook your head, but the words felt hollow. You didn’t know if you were speaking to convince him, or to convince yourself. You didn’t know if you would ever escape this. Him.

The room felt suffocating, the walls closing in on you. You could feel your body trembling with a mix of grief, fear, and helplessness. You were trapped here, in this cruel version of reality, with this twisted version of the man you once loved.

It started slowly—so slowly that you didn’t even realize it was happening until it was too late.

At first, it was the small things. The way he’d force you to sit at the dining table across from him every night, setting out a full meal like you were just another married couple sharing dinner. He would talk to you like things were normal, like you hadn’t been ripped from your life and thrown into this nightmare.

He started bringing you things—things that made your stomach churn with unease. A book you used to love, the exact perfume you used to wear, even a worn-down hoodie that belonged to your Mark, the fabric still carrying the faintest ghost of a familiar scent. “You left this behind,” he’d say, watching you expectantly.

You knew what he was doing. He wanted to keep you tethered to him, to break you in ways that weren’t just physical. And the worst part? It was working.

The isolation, the manipulation, the suffocating presence of him everywhere—it was wearing you down. You were losing yourself. And then, there was the way he touched you.

At first, he was careful, almost teasing in his control. A hand brushing against yours when he handed you something. A firm grip on your shoulder when he guided you through the house. A lingering touch at your waist when he passed by, the heat of his palm searing through the thin fabric of your clothes. But soon, it became something else. Something worse.

He didn’t ask for permission—he never needed permission. He took what he wanted, when he wanted, and no amount of fighting, no amount of pleading, changed that.

The first time he forced you beneath him, it shattered the last piece of hope you had. He didn’t let you escape it, didn’t let you pretend it wasn’t happening. He whispered to you, told you that you liked it, that he could feel the way your body reacted, even if your mind refused to accept it. And the most disgusting, shameful part of it all? He was right.

Not because you wanted him. Not because you loved him. But because your body was breaking under the pressure. Because your mind was slipping further and further away from the person you used to be, and there was nothing left to hold on to. So you started playing the role he wanted you to.

You let him hold you, let him kiss you, let him claim you as his, because what else could you do? There was no escape. There was no happy ending waiting for you. There was only him. And inside, you were screaming.

It was the worst kind of betrayal. Your body betrayed you first. You felt it in the way your breath hitched when he touched you, the way your skin burned under his hands, the way your lips parted instinctively when he leaned in. It made you sick—you made you sick. How could you respond to him like this? How could you let your body crave something your mind rejected so violently? But that was his power over you. That was the cruelty of it all.

He was patient in his corruption, careful in the way he broke you down. He never let you go too long without his touch, never allowed you to build walls between you. He kept you dependent. Kept you in his arms at night, fingers tangled in your hair, lips brushing against your temple like he actually loved you. Like you were his wife, his to cherish, his to own.

And the worst part? A part of you believed it. You hated him. You despised everything he had done, everything he had taken from you. He had destroyed your life, stolen your husband’s face, used it to torment you in ways that made your soul ache.

But when he touched you? You melted.

Not because you wanted to, but because your body had been starved of affection for so long that even his touch felt like salvation. It made your skin crawl, made your stomach twist in knots, but you couldn’t stop it.

And Mark knew. He lived for the way you reacted to him, for the way your body betrayed you despite the hatred in your eyes. He thrived off the war raging inside you, the way you shivered when he pressed his lips to your neck, the way you gasped when his hands explored your body with the possessiveness of a man who knew he had already won.

“See?” he would murmur against your ear, voice dripping with satisfaction. “Your body knows who it belongs to.” And you wanted to scream. You wanted to claw at his face, shove him away, remind him that he was nothing to you. But your body refused to listen.

It responded to him as if he were your husband, as if he were the man you loved, and that was the cruelest trick of all. Because every time he kissed you, every time he touched you, every time he took you, you hated him—but you craved him all the same.

He wasn’t like your husband. Your Mark had been gentle, patient, loving. He had worshiped you, touched you like you were something delicate, something to be cherished. Every kiss had been filled with warmth, every caress a silent promise of devotion.

But this Mark? He took what he wanted. He demanded instead of asked. There was no tenderness, no soft whispers of love—only rough hands, sharp bites, bruising kisses that left you breathless and aching.

He didn’t make love to you. He conquered you. And yet, you still craved his touch. It disgusted you. Every time he pressed his body against yours, every time he forced a gasp from your lips, you felt your soul fracture a little more. He wasn’t your husband, but your body responded to him all the same. And that made him smirk. That made him gloat.

“You hate me, don’t you?” he murmured against your skin, dragging his teeth along your throat, feeling the way you trembled beneath him. “And yet, you need me.”

You squeezed your eyes shut, trying to drown out his words, trying to ignore the fire pooling in your gut, the way your fingers clung to him despite everything.

“Say it,” he growled, his grip tightening, his body pressing you further into the mattress. “Say you need me.” Tears burned in your eyes. Your voice shook. “I don’t.” He laughed. A cruel, mocking sound that sent a shiver down your spine. “Liar.”

He made sure you felt how powerless you were against him. How no matter how much you hated him, no matter how much you screamed inside, your body still obeyed. And he would remind you of that, over and over again.

You barely registered the sound of the door opening. The wine had settled into your veins, numbing the sharp edges of your thoughts, dulling the ache that never seemed to leave your body.

Mark had been gone for hours, and you hadn’t asked where he went. You never did. It wasn’t worth the consequences.

But now, as you sat on the couch, legs curled beneath you, the empty wine bottle resting beside you, you looked up at him through heavy-lidded eyes.

He stood in the doorway, his suit still stained with blood. Not his. It never was. His gaze flickered to the bottle. Then back to you.

“Didn’t take you for a drinker,” he mused, stepping forward, peeling off his gloves and tossing them onto the table. “Or are you just that miserable without me around?”

You didn’t answer. You didn’t have an answer. He smirked, crouching in front of you, tilting his head as he studied you. “Look at you,” he murmured, brushing a strand of hair from your face. “Flushed cheeks, glazed-over eyes… How much did you drink, sweetheart?”

You flinched at the pet name. He only used it when he was feeling playful—when he wanted to toy with you, to break you down piece by piece.

Your tongue felt heavy in your mouth. “Not enough.” Mark chuckled, low and dark. “Is that right?” He reached for the bottle, turning it in his hand, raising a brow at the fact that it was completely empty. “Damn. Guess you really missed me, huh?”

You hated him. Hated the way he made you feel. Hated how he looked like your husband. You hated the way he looked at you, the way he made you feel small under his gaze. But more than anything, you hated the way your body still reacted to him.

Mark leaned in closer, his breath ghosting over your lips, his hand sliding beneath your chin. “You want another?” he asked, voice smooth, teasing. “Or do you just want me to make you forget why you started drinking in the first place?”

Your breath hitched. He noticed. His smirk widened. “That’s what I thought.”

You swallowed hard, your head swimming from the alcohol and the suffocating presence of him so close.

Mark had always been overbearing, always took up too much space, too much air. But when he looked at you like this—like he already owned you—it made your stomach twist in ways you couldn’t stand.

His fingers tilted your chin up, forcing you to meet his gaze. “You’re quiet,” he murmured, his thumb brushing against your lower lip. “That’s new.”

You wanted to slap his hand away, to tell him to leave you alone. But you didn’t. Maybe because you knew it was pointless. Maybe because the wine had made you sluggish, or maybe—deep down—you knew you didn’t want to push him away.

And that was the worst part of all.

Mark’s smirk didn’t waver as he leaned in, his lips just barely grazing yours. It wasn’t a kiss. Not yet. Just a reminder of how easily he could take whatever he wanted.

“How did it feel?” he murmured. “Drowning in that bottle. Did it make you forget?”

You clenched your jaw, refusing to answer.

He chuckled, the sound low and pleased. “No, I don’t think it did,” he mused, his fingers trailing down your neck, slow and deliberate. “Because if it had, you wouldn’t be shaking like this.”

You were shaking. And you hated that he noticed.

Mark hummed, tilting his head as if he were considering something. Then, without warning, he grabbed your wrist, pulling you to your feet.

You stumbled, your balance unsteady, but he caught you easily, pressing you against the wall.

“Let me help,” he murmured against your ear, his hands sliding down your sides, his body pressing against yours in a way that made your breath hitch. “Let me make you forget.”

You gasped as his lips finally crashed against yours, rough and demanding. And the worst part? You didn’t fight it. Your fingers were tangled in his hair, grinding against his body like a dog in heat.

Your hands trembled as they clutched at his suit, your breath coming in shallow gasps as his mouth moved against yours, rough and possessive. Every time he touched you, it was a reminder of everything he had taken from you. And yet—when he pulled away, when there was even an inch of space between you—you felt the crushing weight of reality settle in again.

The helplessness, the grief, the emptiness. It was too much.

You didn’t want to want him. You didn’t want to crave the distraction of his touch. But it was the only thing that made the pain dull, even for a moment.

Your fingers tightened in his suit, your body pressing into his without thinking. “Please.”

Mark froze for a fraction of a second, as if your plea had caught him off guard. But then, his lips curled into something cruel, something triumphant.

“Please what?” he murmured, his fingers trailing down your arm, deliberate and slow. “Say it.”

You swallowed hard, the humiliation burning in your throat. But you didn’t care anymore. You just wanted to stop feeling like this.

“Fuck me,” you whispered. “Make me forget.” Mark exhaled sharply through his nose, his grip tightening on you. “That’s what I wanted to hear.”

He grabbed you, spinning you around so your back was against his chest, one hand wrapping around your throat—not squeezing, just holding, just reminding you that you were at his mercy. His other hand roamed lower, teasing, taking his time. “You’re so predictable,” he murmured against your ear. “You fight, you resist—but in the end? You always come crawling back to me.”

You squeezed your eyes shut, hating how true his words were. How ironic, really. He was the one who made you feel helpless, made you feel trapped, and yet—he was the only one who could take that feeling away. Even if it was just for a little while.

His grip on your throat remained firm—not enough to hurt, just enough to remind you who was in control. His breath was hot against your ear, his body pressing against yours, trapping you against him.

“Say it again,” he murmured. His hand drifted lower, teasing, torturous. He wanted you to beg. He wanted to hear the desperation in your voice, to know that no matter how much you hated him, you needed him more.

You clenched your jaw, pride warring with the unbearable ache inside you. But the weight of everything—the grief, the loneliness, the crushing realization that you were never going to escape this—was too much.

“Please,” you whispered, barely audible.

His fingers dug into your skin. “Louder.”

You swallowed your pride, the last shred of dignity you had left, and gave him what he wanted. “Please, Mark. Make me forget. Just for a little while.��

A low, satisfied hum rumbled in his chest. “Good girl.”

His grip on your throat tightened for just a second before he released you, only to shove you against the nearest wall. The impact knocked the breath from your lungs, but you barely had time to process it before his lips were on yours again—rough, bruising, demanding.

Mark didn’t love you. He never would. He only possessed you. And yet, you let him take what he wanted. Because as much as you hated him, as much as you despised what he had done, what he had stolen from you— At least when he touched you, you didn’t have to think. You didn’t have to feel. And right now, that was the only thing keeping you from falling apart completely.

He picked you up by your thighs, and you gasped when you felt his hard length againist your inner thigh. In a flash you were both naked— your bare back pressed against the wall. He spread your legs, sliding himself in your wet walls, sucking him in. You moaned in his neck, and he gripped your thighs harder— bound to leave bruises in their wake.

He thrusted at an unforgiving pace, his cock stretching your gummy walls. Your mind was mush, your voice whining and moaning pathetically. His touch was so rough, demanding— and it was just what you needed. You threw your head back, screaming his name again. He grunts, and his fist slams into the wall, leaving a dent beside your head. Tears rimmed your eyes— and his tip pounds into your cervix. His hand coming down to circle your cilt.

“Mark— s’too much!” You yelped, milking his cock. Your pussy squeezed on his cock, and he grunted. “You begged for this. You can take it, sweetheart,” he continued to circle your clit, lifting you off the wall and laying in his back, feet above the ground while he thrusts in to you. Your breast bounced and you met his thrusts with your own, slamming back down on him. You panted, sweat dripping down your body. Your fists resting on his chest— his grip on your hips leaving bruises.

He was merciless, even as you begged him to slow down, to let you recover from your back-to-back orgasms. He ignored your protests, pulling more orgasms out of you. You blacked out, only for a few minutes, but you woke in bed, he was lightly slapping your face to wake you. “Too much baby?” He kissed your neck, and you realized he was still fucking himself deep into you. You whimpered; a silent protest, “mark— please..”

He hummed, “just a little longer, yeah? You can handle it.” You dug your nails into the sheets, the headboard of the bed slamming roughly into the wall behind it. He put your legs on his shoulders, folding your body in half, grunting.

Finally after what felt like forever, he came, pushing as deep as he could go, and slowly pulling out. Watching as his semen dripped from your pussy. He cupped your face, “feel better?” You nodded, tired and exhausted. He laid down beside you, and you rested your head on his rest.

The room was silent except for the sound of your uneven breathing. The warmth of his body still lingered against your skin, but it felt suffocating now, like a weight pressing down on your chest.

Mark lay beside you, completely at ease, one arm draped possessively over your waist. His breathing was slow, steady, while yours was still shaky, like your body hadn’t caught up to what had just happened.

You stared at the ceiling, your mind blank and yet full at the same time. The numbness you had begged for was already fading, replaced by something worse—shame, disgust, grief.

How many times had this happened now? How many times had you let him break you down, take what he wanted, and leave you even more hollow than before?

Mark shifted beside you, his fingers tracing lazy circles on your hip. “You’re quiet,” he mused, voice low and satisfied. “Regretting it already?”

You swallowed hard, throat tight. You didn’t answer. He chuckled. “You always do,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to your bare shoulder. It was almost mocking—this cruel imitation of affection. “But you always come back to me.”

Your fingers curled into the sheets, gripping them like they were the only thing keeping you tethered to reality.

Mark moved to prop himself up on one elbow, looking down at you with that smug, knowing smirk. “You’re not gonna cry, are you?” he teased, tilting your chin toward him. “Come on, sweetheart. You knew exactly what you were doing.”

You had. And that’s what made it worse. You turned your face away, refusing to meet his gaze. “Just go to sleep, Mark.”

He laughed, but to your relief, he didn’t push further. Instead, he pulled you against him, holding you like this was normal, like you were his and had always been.

You lay stiff in his arms, staring at the darkness, knowing that eventually, sleep would come. And when it did, you’d wake up to this nightmare all over again.

PART TWO

[acosmicbee]

School Troubles

(This takes place in the same world as Rehabiliation and gives a deeper look into the world building. It is edited and reposted from my Wattpad because I got into a car accident yesterday and didn't have time to write anything new. Me, my family and the other person involved are all okay but my family's car is totaled and undriveable)

You were supposed to be a hero. At least, that supposed to be the end goal of your schooling at this academy. The problem being, while you had powers, you weren't interested in the slightest.

Your parents ran a small flower shop, doing a few catering things here and there. They were completely normal and powerless, your typical civilians. Then, one day, you'd barely touched a few seeds and suddenly had full-grown plants.

It didn't take long for the government to find out. They'd gotten very dedicated to snatching up any kid with powers and then sorting them into either a government sponsored hero school or 'alternate' school. From what you've heard, these alternate schools were government sponsored villain factories so they could make sure their hero schools were always needed. However, you'd ended up in one of these hero schools.

During your six months here, you'd broken several school records, including but not limited to 'quickest escape attempt', 'most uncooperative to government propaganda about becoming a hero' and 'farthest runner before being shot with a tranquilizer bullet'.

In other words you were driving the principal, though you called him the warden because this was 100% a jail in your opinion, absolutely insane. He was a younger hero, maybe late 20s. He had fire powers and had retired from hero work allegedly due to some issue with his villain nemesis.

You had, once again, found yourself in his office. He was staring at you with a carefully controlled expression but you could feel the anger and annoyance radiating off of him in waves.

"This is the third time this month." He said sternly, sitting across from you. "You can't keep trying to stage a coop. You're just going to get more hours of detention." 'Detention' wasn't even normal and instead consisted of listening to government propaganda podcasts and stuff for a couple of hours.

"Then can I go home? I'm not becoming any sort of hero, period. I'm supposed to be helping my parents with their flower shop, as I've always done." You were just as stubborn, meeting his cool look with a glare.

"Look Y/N," he'd long since dropped using your last name with how often you ended up in his office. "I wasn't happy either when I was first enrolled here-."

"I wasn't enrolled. I was kidnapped off the street." You corrected. "And I haven't seen my parents since."

"Anyways, I'm trying to tell you that I get it. You're having a hard time adjusting to life here. Despite your powers, you feel you don't belong."

"Because I don't. I'm not becoming some stupid hero." You said. You crossed your arms, fully ready to get another detention if he said something to set you off.

"Look, do you want me to try and see if Ridgeside will take you? Because that's your only other option here. Either you stay here and become a hero or we label you as 'rebellious' and ship you off to become a villain." The warden snapped.

"I don't want to become anything! I want to go home!" You yelled. "Why can't you understand that?!"

"I do understand, but 'home' isn't an option. Y/N I've laid your choices out. Hero or villain. Pick your poison or whatever, but make a choice. I don't want to keep seeing you in my office every day, but I will continue meeting with you like this if I have to." He threatened. "Two hours of detention after dinner tonight. I'll be supervising it, seeing as most teachers here are done with your attitude."

You just groaned, grabbing your things as you were dismissed. As you made your way down from his office, you could see some of the other students outside, training or playing around with their powers. You were the only person here who didn't want to become a hero. The few people you'd talked to about wanting to leave just missed home or wanted to see their families. All of them had said, though, that they'd come back here once they were done.

You were supposed to have some roommates like everyone else did. Other perspective heroes to help raise a sense of camaraderie, but you had a room all to yourself. You'd gotten moved to an empty room after you used one of your roommates powers to help you escape during your first week. Now you didn't talk to people outside of school hours and meal times. Any free period was spent alone, brainstorming ways to escape.

And you swore it, you would escape this place and find your way home, no matter what it took. Besides becoming a hero or villain, that is.

⋅˚₊‧ 🔥🌊 ‧₊˚ ⋅

You were in the hallways again. Your teachers were mostly used to you misbehaving and refusing to participate, so you spent a lot of time sitting in the hallways. It wasn't so bad, it definitely gave you time to focus on escape plans and what you would do when you finally made it home to your parents.

Today, however, you sat there, watching as some random guy hoisted himself through one of the hallways windows. You watched as he landed on the ground, dusting himself off before freezing when he noticed you. The two of you just blinked at each other.

You just shrugged, going back to your escape planning. So what if some dude just scaled the side of a building and came through a 4th floor window? That's not your problem. After thinking for a second, you added scaling the building to a possible way of escape.

"Why are you in the hallway?" You glanced up at the random man, who was now standing over you. He was clearly older than the principal by a bit. Maybe he was some government official or a visiting hero. But that still didn't explain climbing in through the window... Eh, you honestly didn't care enough to ask.

"Because I hate it here and refuse to participate." You answered, returning to your notebook. The strange man didn't take the hint and leave, instead continuing to stare at you. Finally you grew tired of his staring and asked him, "why are you in the hallway?"

"Oh! I'm here to surprise Dean! It's been so long since I saw him." The man said. "Do you know where his office is?"

"Dean?" You asked. This place didn't have a dean, just assistant principals.

"Ah! I suppose because you're a student you would know him as the principal or headmaster." Your face immediately scrunched up in disgust.

"Oh... him... His office is one floor up. Take that staircase, and it'll be the third door on your left." You said, indicating the nearby staircase. You'd been there enough times to know how to get there in your sleep.

"Thank you. What's your name hallway child?" He asked.

"Y/N."

"I'll make sure Dean rewards you for being so helpful! Later!" With that, the strange man bounded up the staircase, full of energy. You just shrugged. People were weird.

⋅⋅˚₊‧ 🔥🌊 ‧₊˚ ⋅

"Y/N!" You were just laying in your dorm room during your free period. You hadn't even done anything this time, so it made no sense as to why the warden was pounding at your door like you'd tried to escape again.

With a groan, you opened the door, already done with the conversation before it began. "Yes?"

"You let him in! Not only that, you told him where to find me!" He fumed. Literally, he was beginning to smoke. You just waved your hand in an attempt to keep the smoke out of your room.

"Who? I don't even know what you're talking about. I didn't even do anything today." You complained. He groaned, taking a few deep breaths as he slowly stopped producing smoke.

"Did anyone strange come up to you today asking about me?" He asked. His tone was the one grown ups used when they were pretending that you weren't in trouble when you definitely were.

"I mean, yeah. But he knew you by name, so I assumed you were friends or something. Wait, do you even have friends?" You asked. You certainly don't get why anyone would want to be his friend, but whatever.

"Of course I have friends!" He sounded offended. "But that man isn't one of them!"

"Okay. So you're getting mad at a student for not knowing who your friends are?" You asked, not following.

"No! The reason I'm mad is because you allowed a villain to roam the halls of a school without reporting it!"

"He was a villain? Am I supposed to just know who's a villain by looking at them?" You asked. The warden just groaned.

"Look. Do you know how he got into the building?"

"Yeah. He climbed in through the window. On the 4th floor." You said. "Can I go back to resting now? This is supposed to be a free period."

"No. You're coming to my office so we can have a little chat about proper protocol when you see someone climbing through a window!"

"But my free period!" You whined as you were all but dragged to his office.

⋅˚₊‧ 🔥🌊 ‧₊˚ ⋅

It was a Saturday, which meant a free day for you. It was pouring outside and the sound of rain on your window was marginally soothing. Normally you would spend your weekends planning out every way of escaping you could imagine, but not today. Today you just lay in your room, trying your hardest to focus on the book in front of you. It had been in your bag when you'd been snatched off the street and was the only thing you'd been allowed to keep.

Your parents had gotten it for you, and it was the only thing you had of them here. You weren't even allowed to send them letters. The book had been one of your favorites back home, but now you struggled to get through a few pages. It felt wrong to be reading when you didn't even know how your parents were doing, or if they knew you were okay.

You were attempting to gather enough willpower to just read the first chapter to give yourself something to do when you jumped at the sound of a knock on the window. Turning, you saw the strange man you now knew as a villain, was back. Only this time he'd found your room and also had managed to scale the building when it was slick with rain. Despite knowing you'd get chewed out for it later, you opened your window.

"I'm supposed to report it if I see you again. Apparently you're a villain." You informed him. Your face scrunched up as he expertly came through the window before you realized he was completely dry and wasn't dripping water.

"I wondered if you recognized me but I assumed you didn't. Guess I was right." He said, looking around your room. "Dean must've lectured you for hours. Geez kid, your room is so empty. No roomie?"

"I'm too much of a flight risk apparently. They think I'm gonna corrupt some wanna-be hero because I don't want to be here." You said. The strange man perked up.

"You don't wanna be here? Do you wanna be a villain?! I promise, being a villain is a lot more fun." He said, looking ready to give you the whole spiel on it.

"I'm not becoming a villain, but i'm not becoming a hero either. I just want to go home to my parents." You groaned. Only to flop down on your bed in defeat when the door to your room suddenly slammed open. "Great. Now he's here too."

"Xavier." The warden growled. He was smoking again but the villain, Xavier you guessed, didn't seem phased.

"Dean. Lovely weather we're having. Maybe you should take a walk outside before you burst into flames." " Xavier was completely relaxed as he took a seat in your desk chair. "I wonder if Y/N is going to end up like you in the future. You certainly acted the same way you punish them for when you were their age."

Instantly the mood shifted, the headmaster grew tense as he grit his teeth, glancing at you for a second. You sat up on your bed, suddenly way more interested in the conversation. The warden had what.

"I learned my lesson. Hopefully they'll learn theirs soon." He said, a few small flames bursting to life at his fingertips before he forcefully began to calm himself down. "You have no right to bring that up. Especially not after all you did."

"I was just trying to do what was best for you. I still think it would've been a better path than the one you've ended up on, but you'll understand in time." Xavier glanced at you before smirking. "Sooner rather than later, if I'm right."

"You don't know me, Xavier. Not anymore." He said, finally calming down enough that the smoke stopped.

"Um... can you have your little," you gestured between them, "whatever this is, not in my room?"

"Y/N. Please be quiet or I will make you sit in my office and retest your comprehension on the proper protocols when villains enter the school. Again." Dean said.

Xavier just smiled as he stood, brushing invisible dust off his pants. "Fine. I can see where I'm not wanted. I'll just see myself out okay?"

He smiled at you as he made his way over to the still open door of your room. "And Dean? I know you're trying to deny it, but you can't forever. Sooner or later, you'll need my help and my door is always open for you."

"Why didn't you report it when you saw him?" Dean asked, back to his default headmaster mode.

"How did you even know he was in my room?" You countered.

"There are walls with guards surrounding this school if you'll remember. Since his last breach I've had them on high alert." He groaned. "I'm not in the mood to supervise another one of your detentions so we're going to pretend this never happened. Behave Y/N."

With that he stalked out of your room, shutting the door and leaving you alone once again. You glanced at your book for a second before immediately ignoring it for a more enticing train of thought. Just what was the relationship between those two? And why were you getting drawn into whatever was going on?

⋅˚₊‧ 🔥🌊 ‧₊˚ ⋅

You were getting impatient. It had been months, but Dean and Xavier were still keeping an eye on you. Xavier would climb through windows or just stroll into your dorm like he owned the place. Dean would constantly call you to his office to 'check in' and seemed to have a Xavier detector, often finding the two of you a couple of minutes after Xavier would sneak onto school grounds.

Either way, you were no closer to an escape than you had been when you'd first arrived. At least, that was until a school trip was announced. Apparently it was around the time when the rest of the heroes-in-training in your age group would find out who their nemesis was supposed to be. For some reason, you were included in this trip.

Of course, Dean had threatened you with everything from detention to private lessons during your free time to shipping you off to become a villain yourself. It wasn't going to stop you. Not when you were so close to your goal. This time, you would see your parents again. 

Eventually the bus had to stop so you all could use the restroom and get some snacks. You were supposed to stick with your assigned buddy but when he drifted off towards his friends you took the opportunity. You stood by the door, waiting for the right moment. The second you heard someone start bickering and the teacher's attention was turned to them you ran. You could see the train station from the rest stop and jumped the turnstile, darting onto the train you needed at the last second. You just managed to make out a pissed off Dean, staring right into your eyes, by the ticket counter as the train pulled out of the station.

You had done it. You were going to see your parents again. You knew, deep inside, that you'd just be taken back to the school at some point, but it didn't matter. For now, you were going home.

⋅˚₊‧ 🔥🌊 ‧₊˚ ⋅

Something was wrong. You could tell the second you got off the train and saw smoke rising from somewhere in the neighborhood. You could feel it in your stomach, that something was fundamentally wrong. You ran.

It wasn't until you found yourself outside your family's flower shop did you confirm it. The building was on fire, you could see the pretty displays you'd once helped to set up turning to ash. When you couldn't find your parents out on the street you ran into the building.

It was hot, hotter than you'd ever imagined. You crawled into the back where your apartment was, avoiding the areas with fire. Smoke billowed over your head and you could barely see. Your eyes were burning and you felt like you had no air, but you still pushed on. 

"Mom! Dad!" You tried screaming, only to inhale smoke. You began coughing but didn't let that stop you.

"Y/N?!" You could faintly hear your father's voice. He was close. You were so close.

"Dad! Mom!" You called again. "Where are you?!"

"Y/N!" There! Your parents were across the living room, on the floor. They both looked unharmed. Upon seeing you they both began making their way over. You held out a hand to pull them towards you... and that was when the ceiling gave out. You couldn't even scream as you watched the roof crush them underneath. Couldn't hear anything over the sound of crackling fire, blood rushing through your ears and your own screaming.

You struggled, ignoring how your hands instantly blistered as you tried lifting the burning hot pieces of roof. They couldn't be... no! After all you'd gone through to get back here, they had to be okay!

"Mom! Dad!" You were sobbing now, your hands were burnt and you could barely breathe. As you became more and more lightheaded, you resigned yourself to dying there, along with your parents. You wouldn't stop fighting to save them.

You were hysterical, and fought viciously when someone pulled you away, forcing an oxygen mask over your face. All your mind could focus on was the collapsed roof and your parents. You scratched and squirmed, trying desperately to break their grip on you. By the time you registered the pinch at the base of your neck you'd already been injected with a high grade tranquilizer and the whole world faded to black.

⋅˚₊‧ 🔥🌊 ‧₊˚ ⋅

"That was mean of you." Xavier's voice echoed through the bedroom. You were laying in the bed, hooked up to an oxygen machine, IV drip and more machines used to monitor your health. Your bandaged hands rested on top of the comforter. You had yet to wake up in the hours since Dean had pulled you out of the burning flower shop.

"I didn't start the fire." He said back. He sat in the chair next to your bed, watching over you. "I didn't want this to happen."

"But you knew what would happen. You knew what happens to those that escape, don't you Dean? What happens to their families?" Xavier probed.

"That's enough! If you think I wanted what happened to Calista and Rome to anyone else you're more insane than I took you for." He hissed. "This isn't the time for this. Y/N is... they're..."

"So you finally understand." Xavier smirked. "You understand what I did to you all those years ago. Why I tried so hard to lock you up. They remind me of you. Both of you are too stubborn for your own good."

Xavier stepped closer, his smile growing when Dean didn't push him away. Instead one of his hands made their way to Dean's head, playing with his hair. "They don't have anyone anymore, Dean. No parents, no home to go back to. They're all alone. Don't you remember how it felt to be all alone?"

"I... I need to help them. I need to save them." Dean murmured, slowly accepting his own dark feelings as Xavier egged him on. "They need me..."

"They didn't want to become a hero, right? You need to keep them safe where they can't be hurt in hero work. You need to make sure they never leave you. I'm sure you remember what happened when you left me. Do you really want to have to do that to them? To make sure they can never be a hero in the public eye again?" Xavier asked. He knew Dean was already going to do it. He just needed to add a little more fuel to the fire to make sure you would be extra safe.

"They always wanted to go home... so I will make them a home here. That way they will never leave me again. They can never be hurt again." Dean decided.

That was the moment your fate was sealed. No matter how much you cried when you finally woke up. No matter how much you screamed when the bandages on your hands needed to be changed. No matter how much you disassociated when the news was finally broken to you that from the amount of third degree burns you received you'd never regain the full range of motion in your hands. No matter what happened, Dean and Xavier were right there beside you, making sure you wouldn't injure yourself more than you already had. You would never be free again.

[jude-duarte-wannabe]

my love, all mine

a little fluffy blurb as a late birthday present for my darling love @hugleclerc <3 love you gigi <3

warning you now that there are a few changes in the lore and history surrounding charles and max's relationship in this.

pairing; charles leclerc x fem!verstappen reader

blurb; falling in love with your older brothers childhood friend and rival was a battle for survival when he found out but now that you've made it through unharmed, your next goal is make sure your new husband survives your wedding reception speech.

currently playing; first man by camila cabello "you're looking at me, while walking down the aisle with tears in your eyes, maybe he deserves me"

From the moment you stood at the altar, with the words "I do" ready to escape your lips the moment you were asked, you had already begun mentally preparing the speech you would deliver at the reception. Your older brother Max had needed a fair bit of convincing before accepting your relationship with Charles. It wasn’t that he had discovered it in a bad way—it just so happened that he had been in the wrong place at the wrong time and caught a glimpse over Charles's shoulder, reading texts from you that would surely require bleach to forget.

With your hair cascading down your back, the intricately styled updo long gone after you’d grown tired of its pinching and pulling at your scalp, the delicate silk of your wedding dress swishing softly as you padded barefoot across the dancefloor, you were fully aware of the curious glances from the older members of both your families. But you were the bride, so they couldn't say a word.

A soft smile graced your face as you carefully took the microphone from Lorenzo, your new brother-in-law, who had just finished his groomsman speech. Your gaze locked with Charles’s across the room, where he sat at the head table, his eyes focused entirely on you.

Charles couldn't help but smile as he watched you take the microphone from his brother, his heart brimming with love. His angel of a wife stood at the center of the room, ready to deliver a speech that would no doubt bring him to tears once again. But that was fine by Max; it gave him more material for blackmail.

Lorenzo stepped away as you took center stage, offering you a smile before returning to his seat beside Charles’s family.

"So, for those of you here tonight who don't know me... I'm the bride!" A soft giggle, which Charles often described as the sound of the softest bell, escaped your lips, filled with the pure happiness of finally saying those words. The room filled with laughter at your playful joke. Charles himself chuckled, his gaze fixed on you with adoration, excited and nervous to hear what would come next.

"Yes... much to my older brother Max’s dismay, I am indeed the bride. And for those of you who know me and my brother, you know we didn’t exactly have the best childhood," you continued, the briefest pause in your voice as memories flooded back. They hit you with the force of a speeding truck, but you quickly recovered, picking up the next words.

"Fortunately, things changed the day my brother met Charles. Yep, that’s right, Max met him first, and I still got the ring. Lestappen, my ass," you added, the room bursting into laughter. Even Charles joined in, knowing full well the playful tension between him and Max, which had become a frequent topic in your household.

"Charles and his family were the nicest people little me had ever met, and his maman, Pascale..." A bright smile spread across your face at the mention of your new mother-in-law’s name. "She basically adopted Max and me into her family and treated us the way we always should have been. She was the only real parent I’ve ever known. I’m just sorry I didn’t get to grow up under the care of not only Pascale but also her truly inspiring husband, Hervé, may he rest in peace, the way Charles did."

A wave of affection and understanding spread through the room, with many guests nodding in agreement. Pascale, too, wiped away a tear as she heard you speak so lovingly about her late husband.

In the corner of your eye, you caught the shared glance between Arthur and Lorenzo, their affection for you and Max evident in their eyes, and their appreciation for your kind words equally clear.

"Growing up with Charles and his family was... an experience. We barely understood each other at the best of times, with Max and me growing up speaking Dutch and Charles's family speaking French. Honestly, I still don’t understand half of what Charles is saying."

The room erupted with laughter again as the guests shared in your lighthearted story. Charles couldn't help but laugh too, his love for you only growing stronger with each passing moment. He still remembered the first time he’d met you, the way you stumbled over English words in a hurried attempt to communicate. He found it adorable then, and he still did.

"Charles... mijn liefje, I’m kidding. It’s only about a quarter of the time that I don’t understand you," you teased, earning a playful roll of his eyes and a smirk.

"I’m sure every girl here can relate to having had awkward childhood crushes," you continued, and a chorus of amused giggles followed, with many of the women nodding in agreement. "And I know what you’re all thinking... 'Oh, how cute, she’s been in love with Charles since she was a kid.'"

The room filled with 'aww’s, especially from the older ladies who loved a good love story. But Charles smirked, waiting to hear what would come next.

"Well, you'd be wrong," you said, your tone teasing. "And I can't believe I'm admitting this, but I think my very first crush was actually on Lorenzo..." An awkward chuckle escaped your lips as you looked at Lorenzo, where he sat with his fiancée, Charlotte. "Don’t worry, Charlotte, he’s all yours," you added, holding your hands up in innocence, causing a soft laugh to slip from your lips.

Lorenzo shook his head playfully, smirking as he squeezed Charlotte’s hand in reassurance.

"I’m truly glad everything worked out this way in the end... marrying an athlete is highly recommended, ladies," you continued, casting a sheepish smile at Max. "Max, cover your ears for me."

Max dramatically rolled his eyes but made no attempt to stop you. He already knew where this was going.

"I mean, the stamina these men have is mind-blowing..." you teased, pausing for dramatic effect before continuing. "Also, Charles, mijn liefje... how do you look so good no matter what you wear, even dressed as a banana? It’s annoying!"

The women in the room burst into laughter, their eyes flickering to Charles in agreement. He, however, simply smirked, his ego inflating slightly as his cheeks flushed pink from the attention.

"Hey, he’s taken, girls. Down, down," you joked, causing another wave of giggles and playful protests from the women.

"Why do you sound disappointed... you’re literally at his wedding... to me?" you teased. The women erupted in even more giggles, some shaking their fists playfully while others called you a "lucky girl."

Shaking your head, you smiled warmly before moving on. "Anyway, moving on, I think the moment I first felt something for Charles was actually..." You glanced over at Max. "Max... sorry... but it was when he kicked your ass out of first place and won his first race. Like, seriously, if you watch that clip back... damn. I’m just saying. That move was so hot."

Max pulled a mock offended face, but the amusement in his expression was obvious. Meanwhile, the guests couldn’t contain their giggles.

"It’s safe to say my feelings for Charles only grew from there. I started reflecting on all the moments we had together, and that’s when I realized—I'd been in love with Charles for far longer than I thought," you said with confidence, turning to Charles. "With that in mind, you can kindly zip it about loving me first, mister. I’m the original simp in this relationship."

The guests “aww’d” in response, their faces softening with fondness as they watched your love story unfold. Charles simply huffed in amusement, gazing at you with affection, as though he were falling in love with you all over again.

"Last night was the first time in five years I didn’t spend the night with Charles, and I missed him endlessly and so I found myself writing down all the little things about him that I love," you continued, your voice quivering slightly.

The room let out a chorus of “aww’s,” with the women especially swooning. Charles’s gaze softened as he listened to you, clearly moved.

Blocking everyone's view with your hand, you reached into your dress and pulled out a piece of paper, your cheeks tinged with a slight blush. "Your girl doesn’t have pockets," you joked, earning laughter from the guests.

The women nodded in understanding, while Charles’s gaze lingered for a moment longer than he likely intended, much to Max’s disdain.

"Charles, I wasn't ever going to show you this, but you had to go and get sappy in your vows, making me cry. So now, I’m going to read this list to make you feel the same and let you know just how much I love you and all the little things you do for me," you said.

The room grew quiet in anticipation. Some of the older ladies pulled out tissues, while Charles sat with a soft, curious smile, waiting to hear your list.

"The first thing on my list is your eyes," you began. "Your eyes show me how much you love me, and they look at me the way I’ve always wanted to be looked at. They see me for me. Over the years, you’ve looked at me with nothing but sincerity, love, kindness, and loyalty. I love your eyes because they show your passion, your frustration, your happiness... and even when you’re tired. You have the sweetest eyes, and I hope to continue seeing that love in them for the rest of our lives."

A wave of “aww’s” filled the room as guests wiped away tears, and Pascale sniffled quietly at your words. Charles, his eyes glistening with emotion, couldn’t take his gaze off you.

"Number two is your determination," you continued. "I've never known a person more determined than you. I’ve seen it in the way you push to make me smile after a long day and in how you chased your dream of winning your home race in Monaco. And, of course, in how you pursued me. It took two years of chasing, but I’m glad you kept at it."

Charles chuckled softly, recalling how persistent he had been in winning your heart.

"Number three is your kindness," you said. "You’ve never failed to show how kindness is free. The way you treat your family, the way you treat the tifosi, and especially the way you treat me. You’ve never once strayed from me, and you’ve always been gentle and loving. You're the kindest person I’ve ever met."

Tears filled Charles’s eyes, but he was far from done hearing what you had to say.

"Number four... you're fun, quirky, and you always know how to make me laugh. You've never once made a dull moment in my life."

Charles chuckled, wiping away his tears, clearly grateful for how you loved him, quirks and all.

"Number five... you accept me for who I am, even if I'm a 'nibbler'... or as you like to call me, ‘Chomper.’"

Laughter echoed through the room at the inside joke, with Charles grinning fondly at the memory of your playful little quirk.

"And finally, I know that when the time is right, you’ll be an amazing father," you finished, your eyes glistening with love.

Charles smiled warmly, the thought of becoming a father bringing joy to his heart. Max’s voice broke through the quiet moment. "He better not become one too soon. I’m too young to be an uncle!" he teased, making the room burst into laughter.

"No promises! I mean have you seen him" you retorted with a wink.

"Overall," you said, your voice trembling with emotion, "what I’m trying to say, mijn zonneschijn, is that I love you. I have for the longest time, and I always will. I loved you yesterday, I love you today, and I’ll love you tomorrow. In every lifetime we share." You paused, wiping away a few tears. "And when we become parents, and you’re stuck by my side in the hospital, holding my hand while I curse your name and swear I’ll never let you touch me again... just know I’ll still love you."

You stopped for a moment, tears welling up. You took a deep breath, still trembling from the emotions rushing through you. "My heart has called your name for the longest time, and now it’s found its home next to yours. I love you so much that it hurts to breathe when you’re not near me. Thank you for allowing me to be your wife. I love you, mijn voor altijd."

The silence that followed your words was thick with emotion, the room filled with the raw, unspoken love between you and Charles. His eyes glistened as he stood and walked toward you, pulling you into his arms.

"I love you too," he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. "Always, ma chérie. And I promise to love you through every moment, no matter what comes next."

You melted into his embrace, the weight of the moment overwhelming, tears flowing freely as you knew this was only the beginning of forever. Max’s quiet acceptance of your relationship with Charles was always in the back of your mind, but you knew that this was the right path for you, and nothing could change that.

"Thank you for being my forever, Charles," you whispered, your voice breaking. "I can’t imagine a life without you."

Charles pulled you closer, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead. "You’ll never have to," he murmured. "Not in this lifetime or any other."

And in that moment, with the world standing still around you, you both knew—this was the beginning of a love that would last through time, through every joy and hardship, and it was yours. Forever.

[infinity-survivor-choco]

Pssst. Newbies. And for the not so newbies too.

okay, people who got here recently don't know this and people who've been here for awhile forget sometimes. I want you guys to remember these VERY important basic steps to enjoy the hellsite - no, listen, especially if you're a minor, these are really important.

Don't Feed The Trolls. This is basic internet safety 101 from even before I was a Timmy. Block anybody who makes you uncomfortable. No. You don't owe anyone an explanation. Not me not your your friends not Smooth Cat Bowser. Block.

Avoid Discourse. Seriously. It's 2025. Being alive is discourse.

Ignore politics. I'll sum it up quickly. Everyone Sucks. No matter the dog whistles or anything you may think is in your interest. It's not. BUT some things objectively suck more than others. Make yourself familiar with groups like MAGA so you can avoid them

Curate Your Experience. Tag appropriately. Avoid Cross-tagging. Learn about trigger warnings. But most of all. Follow blogs that make you happy. Don't stalk people you don't like to see if they vague-post about you. 90% of the time they won't and the other time you're hurting yourself.

Avoid AI. It's a cardinal sin of Tumblr. I used it in the past for a week for a social experiment and luckily everyone reacted the same way. Upset. Tumblr is meant for Organic use. Not training AI on your data.

Go to settings, privacy, see that innocuous option that says do not sell my data not so cleverly turned off by default? Turn it on.

We Are All Mentally Ill As Fuck.

Outsiders will call Tumblr echo chambers. This is good. This is a safe haven.

Educate yourself on the LGBTQA community if you're curious. Observe. Make yourself aware of the different labels, but don't feel obligated to do anything. You don't need to learn every neo-pronoun. You don't need to learn any actually. It's about being comfortable with yourself and how you're perceived. Do respect users if you go to their blog though.

Focus on what makes YOU happy. Tumblr isn't about making the highest quality content with niche fonts and indie roleplays, that was a long time back. it's about being you.

Topics of mental health disorders and disabilities are slippery. You may think you know a lot. Beware of the Dunning Kruger Effect. You absolutely should post about your hot takes. Just make sure you can ask questions if you're unsure or make those hot takes be informed ones.

Trauma is valid. Being an abuse survivor is valid. Having PTSD and being disabled is valid. What's not valid is using that when you make someone upset to justify it. It's common especially among fellow neurodivergent people for misunderstandings to happen and trauma to clash. Don't get lost in the "whose fault it was." or trying to get payback. More often than not nobody means what was said. Instead of thinking with your heart think what you WANT to tell the other person. Then take a deep breath. You're okay. We're all learning.

Learn the difference between something being a Squick and something being Gross. If something is objectively gross like ilegal content. (No. Not fictional ships) But ilegal content you can report it. Cybertip doesn't deal with fictional situations.

Reblogs Better Than Likes

Embrace The Whimsy. Seriously you can post at 7 in the morning about a three eyed cactus sitting on a Caesar salad watching Kermit the Frog. Your posts don't need to make sense. Lateral thinking is your strenght and nobody's going to judge. More often than not your whimsy will get double the whimsy.

Exist. Focus on existing. Today. Not tomorrow. Not the plans for 2050 or the future. Let yourself be. The world right now has enough problems you can't compute them - nor should you. Bombarding yourself with information will make you miserable. This is true for minors and even adults.

Enjoy the chaos!

[beef-brisket]

Adam smiled and held his husbands hand: Still, I don't want you going bankrupt.

Lucifer chuckled: Darling, I would rather have your love and happiness than all of the money in the world~.

The blonde laughed at Adam's red face. He watched as his husband had a quick, painful sip of a they're expensive wine.

Adam: Don't say that! We need a couple of thousand in the account.

That made Lucifer laugh harder: O-Okay, Addie. I hear you loud and clear.

-

To finish the night, they took a walk along the water, hand in hand.

Adam: I've been thinking.

Lucifer looks up at Adam, who was looking out over the water, watching the sun set: What have you been thinking about, love?

Adam: If you have friends here or family that couldn't make it to Aussie, maybe we could have a small celebration here. Maybe book a place, some food... anotherweddingcake- something like that.

The shorter man laughed: Don't you try and slip the wedding cake past me, young man! But we could do something like that. I have a few cousins, a couple more brothers-.

Adam: Wait- more brothers?

Lucifer: Apart from Michael, there's Gabriel, Raphael, Uriel, Remiel and Joel.

Adam nodded until he heard the final name. As soon as Lucifer had finished saying his brothers name, Adam spun his head around with a wide smile: J-Joel?! What?! Wait- so you're all names after fucking... medieval princes or some shkt- and then there's just "Joel"?! No fucking way!

Lucifer laughed: I know, I know. He's not happy about the name either. He always complained that our names were better, that our parents didn't try with him. He was named after our grandfather, who died while mom was pregnant with him. But, to make him happy, we often pronounced it Jo-el. But that didn't stop other people just calling him Joel.

Adam couldn't stop chuckling: Fuck, that's gold. Pure, fucking gold. Okay... I'll fucking call him Jo-el. Get me in the good books right off the bat.

Lucifer smiled: He'd like that, I'm sure.

They continued to walk in silence, both looking out over the ocean.

Adam laughed: ...Fucking Joel.

OH OH OH OH!!!

90 Day Fiance Au

Lucifer is from California and he meets Adam online who is from Australia.

Ohmygod- yesssss!!

Lucifer is a suave businessman who meets Adam, who's a drover in the harshest areas of Australia.

He can only respond to Lucifer when he's in a city or town, which isn't often. But they both like each other, so Adam takes the risk of giving Lucifer his phone number. Whenever Adam has reception he calls Lucifer.

ALSO Lucifer flying out to Australia to meet Adam- who looks so out of place.

Like-

He'd rocking this vibe (without the gun, of course lol). And everyone at the airport is a tad suspicious about the dirty Australian guy who gets told off for lighting a cigarette inside.

Lucifer is instantly in love.

[brf-rumortrackinganon]

Happy Friday RTA!

I have some thoughts on the whole “Why is William not travelling more” thing. Mind you, I do sometimes feels it is very tinhatty, but it is what I think.

See, I believe the root of all our issues is Charles. Now, don’t get me wrong, I am neither here nor there with him. Meaning I have no issue with him to the point of blaming him for everything under the sun or defending him even when he is in the wrong. Charles has spent so much time, like a looooot of time, being the PoW, living under his mother’s shadow, his mother The Queen, one of the most recognizable and relevant figures in the political and social world of the last 50 years (giving myself some creative liberties here). Charles was still a Prince when all the other heirs his age were becoming Kings and Queens. Then, the children of those peers of him were taking over, and he was now bowing to people he never had to bow to. Charles is a man of arrogance, and anyone can tell that. Probably a unique combination of aristocratic and Royal arrogance, could be that. He had his place on the spotlight for a very long time… until Diana. Then, everything was about her. His achievements were put second to her just showing up. He was just PoW, Elizabeth’s son, Diana’s husband. And then, William’s father. William the loved and adored one. Sure, C has his fans and follower and what not, but he isn´t William, just as he isn’t Elizabeth II.

Now, he is King. The King. He is the most important one everywhere. Unless William or Catherine are there. Because he goes to Commonwealth day, and Catherine gets the covers. Because he gets a royal wedding for his wife, and everyone is looking at the now Wales. He gets cancer, and people are worried about Catherine.

All the things he wanted to do, the tours, the state visits, being received as The King by those he had to bow to before, are on pause. Because his time is even shorter than he thought, because he is mortal and old and still living under someone else’s shadow: the new Prince and Princess of wales (another Princess of Wales stealing his spotlight).

Williams does and the press covers it. The same with Catherine. The kids show up and people go feral. His Queen does not get the same recognition as Catherine, not even close.

Do I believe W&C put the kids first and that is why we don’t see them as often? Sure. Do I think KP says something and BP/CH twist it and make it not happen/wrong/you chose? Yes. Williamscould do better? Yes. Will he? Sure, when he is King. Not now, not when Charles’ ego is hanging by a thread, his place in history being a fickle of what he wanted. He was a great PoW, hardworking, trendsetter, people oriented. That is his legacy, one his son is respecting but will never do just like C did, because W is not C. Charles the King? Charles III is temporary, short term. Elizabeth was diamond. William will be gold, maybe. George is a whole new future we can’t even begin to imagine. Charles is a passing monarch, warming up the seat for the next one. It took too long for him to get his crown, and he will not enjoy it too long.

He knows this, so he will act accordingly. King Charles III comes first no matter what.

This does not mean William is off the hook: he needs to sit down, strategize a lot more and do even more than what he does now. Talk less, do more.

Rant done, back to work.

P/S: when the BRF realizes they need to hire you to run them (yes, tell them what to do) please let me know. I’ll carry your purse around and get you coffee.

Have a great weekend!

Thanks for sharing!

You may be on to something. At the end of the day, everything must go through BP so if BP doesn't want KP to do something, well, then KP's hands are often tied. I do think the way William...not retaliates but maybe...defends himself? (I'm really at a loss for words here) is by refusing to do certain things that BP wants.

Like we know the Foreign Office wants William and Kate to travel more because they're the ones who bring the most favorable press coverage and they do their jobs uncontroversially, but William and Kate don't travel (or they aren't traveling), and I don't think it's because BP is blocking all the shots. I think it's because BP is blocking enough shots that when the opportunity does arise, KP isn't interested; too little too late.

But you are right, William (and Kate) do need to be thinking about strategy, if they aren't already, for the monarchy's future. They, more than Charles, are in a position where they'll be able to set the terms for what a 21st century monarchy looks like, very much the same way that George V and Queen Mary set the standard for a 20th century monarchy. (Right? They were the ones who turned the BRF to philanthropy and charity work?)

[drop-dead-dropout]

OKAY KDJEHDHDNDZHXHX I'M DONE WITH THAT FIC NOW HERE IT IS LOL

it's like 1.5k words (look I'm trying to write longer fics but there's only so much you can write when it's just One Guy Talking okay 💔)

I just made up a fake birthday for kim, I don't think he has a canon one? lmk if I'm wrong. also I am so so sorry for the random references to a le retour fic in my drafts which is probably never going to get finished... maybe one day lmao

April 19, '78

"I made it, Harry," you whisper reverently. Talking any louder is hard these days, decades of smoking finally catching up to you, and besides, you know he can hear you anyways.

(He can always hear you.)

"You never said, but I don't think you believed I would. Honestly, I don't blame you. I didn't either. It was a fantasy, a story I could tell myself when I was afraid. When I wanted to imagine that everything could turn out alright. But I made it. Seventy years old in a free Revachol— well, a mostly-free Revachol, in any case. And still on two feet, no less!" You set your cane on the ground and sit down on the grass, feeling a sigh rattle in your chest. "Jean says hello. Don't worry, he'll come back to see you next week, but... It just hit him. That this summer, he'll be the same age as you were. I think he needs a moment." Stretching your arms over your head, a slight groan escapes you, your aged limbs protesting the strain. "They had him and I give a talk at some local high school. Did I tell you that? Oh, you'd laugh and laugh if you met those kids. They had so many questions, and almost all of them were very silly."

Time passes. It tends to do that. A gentle spring breeze rustles the branches of the trees above you, and you inhale, a wave of calm overtaking you. You come here as often as you can, rambling for far too long about any old thing that pops into your head. You like to think he'd appreciate it, and... It's the only place you feel at home these days.

(You wonder if this is what palesickness feels like. A bone-deep ache that you can't quite bring yourself to hate. A fond smile on your lips even as grief and yearning gnaw through your ankles like twin dogs, starving and desperate. A tender feeling in your chest as you return to your memories again and again, the green of his eyes catching the light, his arms around you, the way he said your name.)

(You don't dwell on it.)

"And yes, they did ask about you." Your voice is lilting, smug, because you know he would've asked. "The three of us are something of a legend around here, you know, especially you. Apparently evacuating a whole city, through a section of underground tunneling that no one was even sure still existed is, ah, mildly impressive. Though most of the kids were more interested in seeing if the rumors were true— about the amnesia, and the voices especially. I wanted to be honest, and Jean seemed more than happy to reminisce. But the teachers were shooting us dirty looks for telling their young and impressionable pupils about such fantastical things, so we had to keep it vague."

As you take off your glasses for a moment to wipe away a few stubborn smudges on the lenses, you blink a few times, disoriented at your sudden loss of vision. "Speaking of our reputations, did you know they have a saying these days? Le rêveur, l'aviateur, le commandant. You, me, and Jean's old titles. It basically means 'to find out what must be done, to carry yourself to your goal, and to have the strength to see it through'. I heard someone say it the other day and I turned towards them, as if they were calling my name..." You chuckle, shaking your head. "... I suppose it still shocks me sometimes, how much we accomplished. How much we mattered."

Tilting your head up, you try to make out shapes in the clouds, the way he always used to. It's a fruitless endeavor— your distance vision may be relatively intact, but you never had his imagination. But that's alright. Even if the sky is just a meaningless swirl of colors, it's still beautiful to you. "Anyways, I'm getting off-topic. I meant to tell you, at one point they asked about us. What I was to you. How I knew so much. Why we were always so close." A light puff of amusement escapes you, despite yourself. "I swear Jean was almost purple, the way he held in his laughter. Mister Kitsuragi, my sister says you were secretly brothers, but Jessica's mum told me his eyes were green, and your eyes aren't green. Were you adopted? Kids say the funniest things. If this were a decade ago, if I was still RCM, I would've just lied. Though perhaps not with such an improbable explanation. But..."

Your left hand drifts up, out of habit, to the twine around your neck— except you don't wear the ring on your neck anymore, do you? You wear it on your finger, where it should be. Because you can.

"When Toussaint, the lazy old fool, finally got around to marriage equality back in '71, I personally requested that same week for the judiciary to make it official for us. I doubt they would've bothered for anyone else. It's posthumous, after all... Not useful for much other than sentiment, and a bit of an odd request either way. But, like I said before, our names carry a lot of weight." A wistful smile tugs at your lips. "So, when that child asked me that ridiculous question, up on that stage in front of a crowd of nearly two thousand, I showed them my ring and I called myself your husband for the first time. And no, it doesn't count that we were already saying it to each other," you quip. "It went over well. I wasn't worried, of course. It's '78; two men being in love is hardly a matter of life or death these days. But... It made me miss you. Not in the quiet way I always do, but in a way that hurts like it hasn't hurt in years." You swallow, more embarrassed by the naked yearning in your voice than the admission itself. "So I've brought you something. Isn't that funny? Giving you a gift on my birthday. You'll have a lot to make up for when I see you again." The chiding words are undercut by the grin you can't quite hide as you dig through your messenger bag.

When you find what you're looking for— a weathered Mnemotechnique A6, torn in a few places, practically ancient— you place it on the ground in front of him, opening the cover to admire the flower pressed into its first page. "I can't believe I managed to hold on to this old thing. It's from when we first met, in Martinaise. Jean had the idea to press a flower in, so I picked a may bell. I thought you'd like it— you always used to like them, and I suppose they've grown on me, too."

Closing the notebook, you slide it closer to him, warmth blooming in your lungs like the first drag of a cigarette on a cold night. "So, let me promise you something, as if we were young fools in love, rather than the relics of the past we are." You reach out and rest your hand on the headstone, tender, like you're cupping his cheek. "I'll find you again, Harrier. I promise I will return to your side."

Bracing yourself, you attempt to stand up, but a jolt of pain sparking up your unsteady legs forces you grit your teeth and rest your achy bones for a moment.

(You try not to be secretly grateful for the excuse to stay just a bit longer. You fail.)

With a breath of laughter, you add under your breath, "Sooner rather than later, I think. But, it's as they say: après la vie, la mort..."

You lean forward and press your lips against cold, porous rock.

Somehow, for a brief moment, you could almost convince yourself that you were kissing him on the forehead— bidding him farewell, or perhaps goodnight. You like the second option better.

(You hope the morning comes soon.)

"... Après la mort, toi," you say, altering the line. It feels right. There is nothing after the pale, and you can't possibly know what's after death, but you know one thing: you will see him again. Pulling back, you stare for a moment at the words on his grave— you can't read it this close, but you already know exactly what it says, tracing your fingers over the indented lettering.

HARRIER DU BOIS

AGED 61 ('07-'68)

SOMETHING BEAUTIFUL IS GOING TO HAPPEN

Finally, you manage to retrieve your cane and bag and get to your feet. After a few steps, you stop, turning back around to add, "I love you, Harry," because you've just realized that you haven't said it yet. You almost want to apologize for forgetting.

It's just that it feels unnecessary. Redundant. Everything you do is loving him. You've sat here with him and rambled for nearly an hour, and you've said so many different words, and yet somehow, at the same time, all of them were the same.

A million different ways to say I love you.

Not for the first time, you find yourself huffing with amusement— Jean is right, you really have become more like him, if your this is where your train of thought is leading you. Disorganized, but poetic.

You nearly open your mouth to voice this observation to him, but... You stop yourself. You don't need to. He heard you.

(He can always hear you.)

[dianadov]

Translation part1 (gotta split this into two parts)

I: Welcome back to Planica, I'm very happy to greet both slovenian World Champions from Trondheim, Nika Prevc and Domen Prevc with me here. Nika, at the end of the season in Lahti, you said that first thing you wish to do is go skiing. Did you manage to go yet?

N: No, I'm still waiting to finish all the commitments in Planica and other sponsorship commitments.

I: Domen, I did hear that you noticed, when you came back from Lahti, that Nika is already diligently studying?

D: Yeah, I just needed her for some technical stuff for Planica, went to her room and she had her tablet and her computer open with course materials for university. Thought to myself, she's really the one

I: In a way, really an good example, by her hard-working(ness?)

D: Ya, I was never that diligent (laughs) Not sure who she got it from, but I think we have a mom that's strict enough that »demands« it from us, to do something in life beside ski jumping.

I: Nika, is that true? Is you mom also a reason why you chose Library Sciences to study?

N: She's more the reason that I even noticed that it's a thing that even exists to study. She brought me up to like reading and it's very positive for me even now.

I: What are some books that you like to read the most?

N: From genre, historical novels, currently I started liking Vesna Milek (slovenian author), that she (mom) reccomended to me.

I: Domen, what about you and reading? How’s it going?

D: Yeah, I read some, especially articles on the internet, otherwise mostly I find biographies interesting. How people think, really liked the one of Larry Ellison – owner of Oracle – and Elon Musk, people like that, how they think, what all they do in life. Maybe not really in the sports area, but still you can see what all humans are capable of, to see that it’s nice to think and go out of the box sometimes and transfer it to other areas as well.

I: But, to a commoner, it seems that on sky flying hill, you guys as well go quite out of the box/comfort zone.

D: (laughs) yeah, I think, you have to, you have to be – not all the wheels in the head can be quite straight to throw yourself off of here on your head - you really gotta think a bit differently, perceive the world differently to do this thing where many people would say ‘why should I do this?’

I: Today in the studio we talked with Cene, that, Nika, if someone offered you the chance, you’d immediately go to the top, the starting ramp and fly, especially considering how much you seemed to be enjoying it this year in Vikersund

N: Yeah, not just today, I could really jump here every day at every opportunity

I: Why did sky flying become something so dear to you now?

N: I’m not sure, but since forever already, when I was watching, it excited me so much that I wanted to try it myself as well. And now especially, after I did good jumps/flights in Vikersund, I really feel like this is it

I: Domen, how often did we (the journalists) ask you about Nika this season? About her accomplishments when she was shining – of course, you started to shine as well towards the end of the season, let's say after the 4 hills?

D: Yeah, there was of course a lot of questions and everything about Nika, what I think and everything. But I think that Nika also brought a lot of positives for me, that I maybe grew up, matured when it was like »now it's serious, now you've got someone else to think about here« and I didn't have a brother Peter to take over that role anymore, so I had to step up and maybe she contributed that I was able to calm down, stop searching around and start achieving such results.

I: Nika, what kind of an example is Domen?

N: A great one. Really great one.

I: Does it help you, when he's, in a way, working for/with you, even though you didn't have most competitions in the same location?

N: For me, I'm not sure why, but it means a lot just to know that he's there, on my side, I feel it somehow, someone else that supports me, a lot more than most others.

[shallowseeker]

i wonder if the empty deal would've made a bit more sense as like. framing castiel being stagnant as being miserable for him, while allowing himself to change and move onto the next stage of his life would be happiness. like him confessing is not necessarily the Peak of happiness but rather him allowing himself to move past where he's been stuck for the past year, and giving himself permission to be truthful and open, and the empty is punishing him for being willing to change.

You know, I actually quite like that—angels being framed as a kind of prolonged stasis.

ANNA: SICK FOR HOME

Anna hints that this is especially relevant for the soldier class of angels. In 4x10, she talks about being kept in the dark while she was stationed on earth, far away from home/Heaven:

ANNA: I was stationed on earth 2,000 years. Just... watching... silent... invisible... out on the road... sick for home... waiting on orders from an unknowable father I can't begin to understand. So don't tell me that -- 4x10

Anna struggled with being a non-participant in the beauty of her own life. That seems to be a primary reason she fell—this intense loneliness.

//

CAS: LIMITATIONS & REPETITION

And if we go back to Cas’s Ecclesiastes-like breakdown in Season 7, you can see glimmers of that theme there, too—this idea of repetition, futility, the weight of an existence that just is, without real progress or change.

(Aside// Ecclesiastes is a book in the Bible that explores the meaning/meaninglessness of life, and in one of the scripts, Cas mentions favoring it in a conversation with Jack. I've found it fitting ever since.)

In 7x21, Cas talks about the (symbolic) futility of striving for resources, for happiness:

MEG: Oh. Okay. He's at a dog track in Perth. CASTIEL: I’m surrounded by large unhappy dogs. MEG: Yeah, they're unhappy 'cause the rabbit's fake.  [...] CASTIEL: [to MEG] You know, those racing dogs were absolutely miserable. They can only think in ovals. 7x21

Cas talks about this again with respect to the horror of the repetition. It's boring being a non-participant. The wars and sex mean nothing when you love nothing.

CASTIEL: They're from the Garrison – my old Garrison. Looks like Hester's taken over. We were assigned to watch the earth. Often, it was boring. The wars were very boring and the sex – you know, the repetition. Anyway, I was, uh... I was their captain. Isn't that strange? 7x21

CAS: DISTANCING HIMSELF FROM HUMANITY

Here, Cas is retreating into a shell. He's purposely distancing himself from his own life (and mistakes). His breakdown is regression to the nihilism of non-participation.

He distances himself from humanity, from his own feelings, from Dean. He talks about humans in the abstract ("monkeys"), and he seems to retreat into accepting his place as being "a station above them," prospering from humanity's misfortune.

CASTIEL: You know, we weren't sure at first which monkeys were gonna make it. No offense, but I [DEAN moves a marker on the board] was backing the Neanderthals because their poetry was... just amazing. It's in perfect tune [CASTIEL picks up a card] with the spheres. But in the end, it was you – the [CASTIEL moves a marker] homo sapiens sapiens. You guys ate the apple, invented pants. [...] CASTIEL: We live in a "sorry" universe. It's engineered to create conflict. I mean, why should I prosper from... your misfortune? [CASTIEL puts down a marker and moves DEAN’s marker back to the start.] But these are the rules. I didn't make them. 7x21

The human-angel divide is a deep throughline from s6 through s10—and probably beyond. Cas’s struggle with free will, the angel wars, Metatron’s schemes, Gadreel’s arc, even Dean’s Mark. It’s a constant power imbalance, always circling back to what truly makes someone human—or angelic. "I need your blood... I'm not human." / "I'm not human. It won't work for me." / "I just want to be an angel (again)." / "I'm a lot like people." / "Don't make things complicated as you humans tend to do."

//

And yeah, that's a lot of words to say I agree that Cas retains this sense of angelic stoicism/asceticism, even after coming to Earth and loving and protecting his human family.

He's been trained his entire life to hold back emotions (SEE: The implications of the existence of Rit Zien, period). As late as season 10, he's (hypocritically) working to scoop up other angels and send them back to Heaven, even when they want to stay on earth! Then there's his whole... thing with guilt and penance.

Cas is so complicated!

him confessing is not necessarily the Peak of happiness but rather him allowing himself to move past where he's been stuck for the past year, and giving himself permission to be truthful and open ... and the empty is punishing him for being willing to change.

But you're right that this deal has a horrific implication because, as empowering as it is that Cas is breaking out of stasis, in pushing past his angelic asceticism, it reads as punishment.

Even the visual language reinforces punishment. The abyss opens between two handcuffs—literal restraints:

And even at the end, it reads like an empty chair, but not just any empty chair. It's a chair caught in a snare, a devil's trap! Even after the sacrifice is over, Dean’s feet are still inside the circle.

Still trapped there, too (symbolically).

I’ve said it before, but there really is something fascinating about the respective traps in 15x09 "The Trap" and 15x18 "Despair." In both, Cas disappears from the circle. In both, Dean is left desolate and alone.

First, in a Purgatory of the non-participatory non-living. Then, in a torture dungeon.

I mean… deep sigh. I think you're right that there's no way getting around the structural, visceral, visible specter of it being a cruel punishment.

It’s devastating on so many levels.

[kitmarlowe]

hey hope it's okay to ask but i'd like to know ur takes about the simon says episode of inside no 9 being about male fandom in particular? cause ive always enjoyed that ep and how it read some fandoms for filth lol but in my experience fandom is pretty female dominated so i'd be really interested in hearing about the specifically male side of it

sure. this probably would be more coherent if i'd rewatched the ep to remember things properly, so we're relying on my brain.

this is just my experience of viewing the difference between male and female fans (if we can understand these are generalisations and there's often crossover), so it’s likely this does not apply to all fandoms, but HERE WE GO.

to start, despite what I’m saying, simon is absolutely an amalgamation of a lot of things in fandom, both male and female. I expect much of it has come from mark’s experience on sherlock (shipping in particular). his worst traits come from all sides, but I don’t think it would work as well as an episode if it was about a female fan. his actions absolutely stem from the male side of fandom.

female fans, on the whole, seem perfectly happy just discussing the material with other fans. they form little groups and friendships, sharing jokes, discussion, art, fanfic. the men absolutely do this too but there’s an interesting difference in the way it happens. I don’t see men refer to their writing as fanfic, because fanfic is a female-dominated area and it has a reputation outside of fan spaces for being frivolous, out of character, and full of sexual fantasies about the male characters. male fans seem to view themselves as above it and need to legitimise their work. they’ll make short films, publish the their fanfic as short stories, interpretations, bonus episodes - anything to separate it from ‘lesser’ works. in the episode, when spencer dismisses gavin’s work as fan fiction, simon is clearly hurt by it and says, “well, no, it’s more sophisticated than that.” even though it absolutely is fanfic. men don’t want to be lumped in with the women because they view themselves as serious creatives, not obsessive fans. (all fanfic is creative, never change.) the men are also obsessive, they just don’t want to be viewed that way.

simon clearly sees himself as above other fans. he thinks running a podcast legitimises him and puts him on a level with spencer rather than the fandom he’s doing this for. he’s a content creator. the podcast is for the fans, I don’t think he views it as just a fan podcast. this is a kind of superiority I’ve seen in the male side of fandom. running a podcast validates them and brings them closer to the original material and makes their views, in their eyes, more intellectual. they, to paraphrase simon himself, actually know their stuff in a way that other fans do not. and if they can get a creator on, well… they’re a bridge between the two. they become part of it. simon believes he’s deserving of a co-writing credit, he thinks he deserves to be in the episode because he has risen above the other fans. he is a creator, just like spencer.

while most male fans I’ve seen manage to remember that they are just fans, they’re also more likely to seek the approval of the creatives. not just a “glad you like it” but a mark of recognition, for them to almost say, “yes, you are like me.” while they’re not awful like simon, they still have that same need to be seen as more legitimate, sophisticated and intellectual than what the common fan is viewed to be. I don’t think the women care as much about that. male fans need people to know that they understand the material on a deeper level — they need the creatives to know that.

simon feels entitled to the ninth circle because of the time he’s invested in it, he believes his view counts as if he’s in the writers' room with spencer, even before he blackmails him into the real thing. so do other male fans I’ve seen. I don’t think they’d ever quite go to the extent that simon does, but they’re certainly further down that path than female fans are.

and that’s why it had to be a male fan in this episode. look at doctor who — all three modern showrunners are men from fan spaces (as is mark himself). you know there were women from the same era who were writing their own stories, within their own communities, but isn’t it interesting how they didn’t become ‘legitimised’ through work on the show? what is big finish if not fan fiction legitimised?

and to end: all sides of fandom can be toxic (and they've touched on several areas in this episode) but it is also more often just an absolute blast. gavin's speech is in there for a reason, to recognise the good side. so whilst it sounds like I’m being negative towards the male fans, they're also a big part of that.

[akookminsupporter]

Hi Rosie how are you? I just wanted to say that I'm so glad you shared that article about BTS autonomy and the direction they wanna go when discharged and that their choices are their own I been keeping quiet on my thoughts about BTS Return because I might get called an ANTI by the fandom for simply wanting the guys to just be them and relax and not feel like they are pressured to make music for armys benefit, but I think I'll share my thought with you if that's ok? So idk how often you are on Twitter but every army account I've come across is anticipating BTS June reunion and I am too, but, unpopular opinion here: I would be just fine if BTS didn't make music this year or schedule a comeback until next year and they just took a break and took time to adapt to civilian life again, I mean it would be a nice treat if they did put out new music but I'm not gonna expect or demand it from them I mean, we waited almost 3 years a few more months won't hurt, I'm just concerned that they might feel rushed/pressured to put content out because army waited for them, I know jin and hobi got to work as soon as they got discharged, but I don't want to feel like we should expect the same for the rest of the members you know what I mean? Their well being comes first before anything else and if they need time to rest they deserve to. But this also brings up another topic about how chap.2 is going with *some* army expecting this huge thing to happen upon BTS return because all I've heard since BTS hiatus is i cant wait for their comeback, their comeback gonna be epic, their comeback gonna make your faves Flop so hard (that's the one I heard the most which makes wonder if they're here for bragging rights or bangtan🤔) I guess the point or concern I'm trying to make is the expectation that some of the fandom has of BTS that they must continue to do great and wonderful things to be good always and never make a mistake type of things and the bar is set extremely high as if BTS aren't human beings capable of making mistakes or rather the expectation is that they can't make any mistakes...🙄so in ch.3 I'm hoping to see a more relaxed bangtan like we've seen with Jin and Hobi so far, but I just don't want to have ridiculous expectations placed on the guys I just want them happy, healthy, and loved if that makes sense? *Thoughts rant over*

Opinions.

[125storejuice]

[yanderespamton78]

when a regretevator headcanon pisses you off so much that you become a feminist

[connormoving]

its so embarassing likee. going to talk abt a feeling you have but you already know ppl will be like Oh that sounds like depression lol and its like. well yes . i know . trust me i am so aware i am depressed . but its still like a thing ive been thinking abt and wanting to talk abt but ik itll just be like Ok hun 👍. idk idk what response i would want tho ig FNFNFNF

[mizumuu]

>Laughs Out Loud

I thought that piece was just about people focusing too hard on labelling Mizuki instead of letting them be themselves like they ask, not that it was transphobia ._ .

its ok to have ur own interpretation of that piece but its very clear to me that that wasnt ame's intention

[miraclemaya]

MADOKA - “I’m thinking I’ll order a beef udon bowl, since Sayaka-chan told me that they make those really good here. What about you, Homura-chan?”

CONSERVATION OF ENERGY - Food needs can be met with an expenditure of 1.23% of total magic. Proceed?

GRIEF SYNDROME [Trivial: Success] - MAGICAL GIRLS THAT IGNORE FOOD ARE OFTEN MORE PRONE TO GRIEF ACCUMULATION. MY ARMS WILL ALWAYS BE WAITING FOR YOU, HOMURA, BUT IT’S IMPORTANT TO BE HAPPY UNTIL THAT DAY. BESIDES, MADOKA WANTS TO EAT WITH YOU. DISAPPOINTING HER WILL FILL YOUR SOUL GEM WITH A HALF A GRIEF SEED WORTH OF DESPAIR.

TEA WITH MAMI-SAN [Legendary: Success] - Sayaka says the beef bowl is good? Maybe go for that. She knows Madoka’s tastes better than anyone — and if Madoka likes something, you will certainly like it too.

“I will have the same as you, Madoka.”

“I’m not feeling very hungry.”

[CALL AND RESPONSE - Medium 10] Come up with an order on your own

CALL AND RESPONSE - [Medium: Failure] - You’ve eaten here before, you’re pretty sure. Was it Loop 32… no, Loop 12..? No, wait, it was on the first Friday of Loop 68. No… that’s not right. You’ve never eaten here before. In a stunning display of incompetence, you have taken Madoka on a date to a restaurant that you have never experienced before.

THE ANGEL - It’s okay, Homura-chan! I don’t mind if you haven’t eaten here before. Remember what real me said, Sayaka thinks this place is good! And even if it’s not perfect, that’s okay, just spending time with you makes me happy.

THE CRAVEN MASSES - Sayaka has raised her blade against Madoka 16 times before. You should leave this restaurant and kill her. It would only take-

FALLING SAND [Trivial: Success] - 1528 seconds on average.

CONSERVATION OF ENERGY - It can be cut down to 1243 seconds with an expenditure of 2.7% of total magic pool.

THE CRAVEN MASSES - Exactly. Do it in front of her family and make it bloody. Kyoko would likely try and stop you, but even she isn’t immune to bullets. And if Mami comes for revenge, well, you know the exact words you could say that would destroy her, don’t you?

THE ANGEL - A-Ah, I think that’s a bit of an extreme reaction, Homura-chan!

HUMAN SHELL - Your heart rate is increasing. Stop that. You have absolute control over your flesh. Act like it.

MOE INSTINCT - AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH AHHHHHHHHHHHHHH WHAT ARE WE GOING TO ORDER MADOKA IS GOING TO LAUGH AT US

WITCH’S NIGHT - Is… is this a trap? Walpurgis may be defeated, but you know that the stage witch never truly ceases its show. Perhaps this restaurant is a part of the stage?

MADOKA - “Um, are you okay, Homura-chan?”

MOE INSTINCT - OH GOD SHE HATES US

“I’m going to kill myself.”

“I’m so sorry. Would killing myself make you feel more comfortable?”

Isn’t there anything else you can say?

YOU - Isn’t there anything else you can say?

THE DEVIL - Come on, Homura. It’s high time you do it. Really, this is just another in the long, long chain of failures that make up your life. The only way to fix it is to kill yourself.

CLOCKWORK PRECISION - Target: Located on right ring finger. Target is not moving. Chance to hit: High. Plan: Retrieve pistol. Aim pistol at ring. Pull trigger.

THE ANGEL - Oh my god, please do not do that!

"I am going to kill myself."

"I'm so sorry, I'll kill myself if it makes you feel better."

"I'm so sorry. Should I kill myself?"

There. There has to be better options than this.

YOU - There. There has to be better options than this.

MOE INSTINCT - I CAN’T TAKE IT ANY MORE. THE ONLY RECOURSE IS IMMEDIATE SUICIDE. THAT’S THE ONLY WAY MADOKA WILL LOVE YOU AGAIN.

"I am going to kill myself."

"I'm so sorry, I'll kill myself if it makes you feel better."

"I'm so sorry. Should I kill myself?"

YOU - “I’m going to kill myself.”

MADOKA - Madoka’s face twists, her eyebrows raising slightly in shock. Whatever response she was expecting, it was clearly not this.

GRIEF SYNDROME [Challenging: Success] - IF MADOKA WAS A MAGICAL GIRL, HER SOUL GEM WOULD FILL BY A QUARTER HEARING YOU SPEAK THOSE WORDS. THAT WAS CRUEL, HOMURA.

MOE INSTINCT - WHY DID YOU SAY THAT?

MADOKA - “I’m so sorry, Homura-chan. Please don’t do that. I… I really care about you and so does everyone else.” Madoka’s eyes fill with tears as she speaks. She hugs you.

DAMAGED MORALE -4

CALL AND RESPONSE [Trivial: Success] - Quick, tell her you were making an edgy joke that didn’t land. You’ve gotten away with that before, you’re pretty sure.

SPACE-TIME MASSACRE - Twelve quarter shifts left and two up from your current space-time position, and there’s a Japan that it’s actually illegal to not commit suicide in.

FALLING SAND - You’ve been seated for 5 minutes and 32.5 seconds already and still have not ordered. Mami has requested your presence at her apartment in 3.4 hours from now.

TEA WITH MAMI-SAN - She wants to help you find a hobby. She’s really worried about you, you know.

STRINGS OF FATE - You can feel Madoka’s heart beat in sync with yours as she holds you. Everything will be alright, as long as you follow the beat.

THE ANGEL - Yeah! It’s okay Homura-chan. Just explain what’s been going on and Madoka will understand. And then order something, it’s important to eat a full meal!

YOU - “Ah, sorry Madoka. I was… overwhelmed with choice, and my… brain spit out the first thing it thought. I am not planning on killing myself.”

MADOKA - “Um, I think we should probably talk about this more, Homura-chan….”

CALL AND RESPONSE - Ask her a question to change the topic. It’s worked in three different loops, it should work here.

RATIONALITY COMPLEX [Trival: Success] - Ask her if she wants to try anything else and then order that for yourself. This will accomplish your goal of deciding on what to order, as well as showing Madoka that her desires are important to you.

YOU - “Is there anything else you’d like to try, Madoka? We can share our dishes.”

MADOKA - “Uh, okay Homura-chan. Maybe get some tempura?”

Order 10000 yen worth of tempura

Order 1000 yen worth of tempura

Order 100 yen worth of tempura

YOU - “Excuse me waiter, give me 10000 yen worth of tempura.”

HUMAN SHELL - Calories and magic are just two different types of fuel. Feed me and control me.

THE ANGEL - T-that’s probably too much, Homura-chan. Maybe you can sneak some into your cool shield, though!

MADOKA - Madoka doesn’t say anything, but her eyes do bulge out slightly. She gives you a gentle pat on the shoulder and smiles at you.

HEALED MORALE +1

RATIONALITY COMPLEX - Displays of wealth like this can broadcast value to potential mates. This will increase your value in Madoka’s eyes, furthering along one of your goals.

THE ANGEL - I think you should just focus on enjoying the food, Homura-chan. Take a break, everything is okay.

Thank you.

Why don’t you hate me?

YOU - Why don’t you hate me?

THE ANGEL - Because I care about you, Homura-chan! And besides, you hate yourself far too much already.

Thank you.

THE ANGEL - You’re welcome! Now, please, enjoy your meal with real Madoka. She loves you a lot too, you know.