#you would probably kill me but its the sentiment that counts

[archervale]

You can fight anyone no consequences, who any why?

Not me immediately thinking j*red lmao

[agent-cupcake]

Amen

Pairing: Suguru Geto x f! Reader

Synopsis: No matter the severity of your actions, Suguru would never actually hurt a member of his sorcerer family. Luckily, there are other ways he can think of to punish you. It's for your own good.

Warnings: Explicit smut, dubcon, possessive behavior, manipulation

Tags: Punishment, edging, orgasm denial, overstimulation, dirty talk, vibrators, bondage, orgasm torture, cunnilingus, humiliation

Word Count: 10.4k

Notes: This story is for @laurenzel. I think this can be almost seen as a companion to my previous Gojo story since there's similar toxic motives and means used by the men, but a difference in method.

“Would you care to join me tonight?” was what Geto said to you, smiling so sweetly, so gently. He said it like an offer, or a question, but you both knew the answer. It was the same as it had been since the very first time he asked, since the first time he kissed you, since the first night you spent together.

And you, finally given direction in the big, confusing world, couldn’t even conceive of saying no to Geto. You didn’t have to do, say, or think anything on your own—just follow him. And you did. Happily, you did, thinking nothing of the offer other than how pleased you were that he asked. 

Chills prickled over your bare arms and legs when you walked into his room. The air felt a few degrees too cool, especially when you were accustomed to the August heat. Everything about his room seemed cold. It was furnished in stark contrast to the simple, traditional temple façade the rest of the complex maintained outwardly. Black painted walls, a hard floor, and ebony furniture upholstered with dark leathers and suedes. There was a flat, modern utilitarianism to the room despite its luxury, all at once inviting and off putting. The silky black sheets and dusky saturation of velvety vanilla and citrus lent a sex appeal to the room that you inextricably associated with Geto.

“Will you help me with this?” he asked, gesturing to his clothes. 

“Yes, of course,” you said, rushing to his side to help him undress. Even though the vestments Geto wore were for show, the articles were genuine and required careful handling. A perfect costume needed to be authentic. You unfastened the kasaya first, hanging it up. 

“I think,” he said while your hands were busy, “we need to talk about what you did.” 

You paused, turning to him with your brow furrowed, your stomach dropping in response to the accusatory tone of his voice. “What did I do?” 

“You killed Kurokawa.” 

Your frown deepened, your chest tightening with a harsh burst of guilt. “How do you know that?” 

Geto raised an eyebrow. That was the wrong thing to ask, it made you look more guilty than you were. Besides, the answer was obvious. He knew everything. You shook your head fast, trying to come up with an explanation that didn’t sound like an excuse. 

 “I… I thought you would be happy I took care of him,” you said. “He was causing trouble. He was a bad man.” 

“If you thought I would be pleased, why didn’t you tell me right away?” 

There were reasons, weren’t there? Good ones, explanations that could help you smooth this over. Beneath the weight of his gaze, you couldn’t think of any of them. “I… I don’t, um…  I was going to, but I didn’t want to distract you or anything. I’m not… I didn’t mean-”

“No. You didn’t tell me because you knew you were wrong,” Geto stated, telling you so directly that you couldn’t help but believe it.  

“I’m sorry,” you said softly. 

“To be clear, I’m not concerned with his death,” Geto told you. “I’m worried about you. About what you might do without my intervention. I have been for a while.”  

“I don’t… I don’t understand,” you said. That was probably the most true thing you could say, the sentiment that defined your existence. You did not understand. 

“I like to think that you’ve grown since you joined the family, but sometimes I don’t know if I can trust you to act with a clear head. Kurokawa was a doctor, wasn’t he?” 

You bristled at the reminder, mentally pushing back on the idea that you did it for such a personal reason. “He was… he was dangerous,” you argued. “He wanted to get the police involved.” 

“That isn’t my point,” Geto explained. “You acted out on your own. I knew Kurokawa was causing problems, but I didn't ask you to kill him. He still had value to me, in his own way." He paused, considering you with pursed lips. "If you told me what you did immediately, maybe I wouldn’t jump to conclusions, but as it is, all this proves is that you haven’t moved beyond your past experiences. I can’t trust you."

You bit your lip, swaying back as if those words had been a physical blow, only becoming more confused. Completely and utterly confused about how killing somebody who was a bad man, killing a hateful monkey upset Geto. You did it for him. You did it because the man was evil, and because he said terrible things, and because he was a hideous embodiment of the type of person who would see you locked up tight in another drug dispensing, mind-numbing, monkey hospital. 

All you could understand was that you had disappointed Geto, and the cutting violence of his doubt cut deep into your chest as physically as a knife. 

“I’m sorry,” you said again.

“Are you going to finish this?” Geto asked rather than acknowledge your apology, pulling at his collar. You nodded, rushing back to his side to untie the obi sash and fold it, helping him shrug off his black yukata to hang that up as well.

Left in a tight undershirt, a pair of loose pants, and socks he was quick to peel off and toss aside, Geto-sama emerged from his costume looking a decade younger and twice as dangerous. Like this, he was Suguru. You weren’t equals, but you were more than a little familiar. Although, you weren’t sure if you would dare to be so friendly with him now that you understood you were in trouble.

Before, you assumed you were here because he desired you. Now that felt presumptuous and silly.   

You averted your eyes and stepped back, waiting for the other shoe to drop. The silence physically hurt. Apologies built up like a dam in your head, stopping any other sort of thought from getting through as guilt brewed and boiled in your stomach. Worse, you couldn’t say he was wrong. Maybe you had knowingly acted against Geto, against the family, because of what Kurokawa represented to you. Maybe you couldn’t be trusted. And, if that was true, maybe you deserved his anger and all of the terrible things that followed anger.     

“Are you nervous?” Suguru asked. 

“No,” you said quickly. 

“Liar. I can hear it. Your heart is racing. You’re scared. Is it me?” He nudged your chin up with the side of his hand, forcing you to meet his eyes and the little smile he wore. “Are you frightened of me?” 

“You’re angry,” you said, shrinking back. “Angry with me.”

“Oh,” Suguru hummed thoughtfully, “so you’re scared that I’m going to punish you. Is that it?” 

Hesitantly, you nodded. 

“You’re right, I am.” 

Your breath caught before you shook your head fast, panicking. “No, you… I’m really sorry. I mean it, I was just trying to… He deserved to die.”

“I understand,” Suguru said, “and I appreciate what you say you were trying to do. The problem is that I don’t believe that was your motive. That is why I’m upset.” He ran his fingers through his hair, putting into a messy bun. “Do you understand the distinction?”

You blinked fast, feeling the horrible bite of tears stinging the corners of your eyes. “Yes, sir.”

“Good. Now… what do you think would be a fitting punishment?” 

You looked up at him in stark shock, hoping desperately that you misunderstood him. He didn’t clarify anything, simply waiting for you to answer. You shook your head again, your mouth opening and closing before you managed a meek, “I don’t know.” 

“But you agree, don’t you?” he asked, going over to his chest of drawers. Suguru looked at you over his shoulder, eying you up and down, drinking your awkward nerves. “You deserve to be punished for your disobedience.”

You exhaled sharply, conflicted about what kind of answer to give. More importantly, what kind of answer he wanted. If you were smarter, you would be able to talk your way out of this situation. If you were better attuned to Suguru’s needs, you would be able to give him what he wanted. If you were loyal, he wouldn’t have been mad in the first place. Those thoughts weren’t helpful, all you could do was stare and try to solve the puzzle of his mood. You had seen that little smirk on his face when he teased Nanako, but also when he killed non-jujutsu sorcerers that had outlived their usefulness. 

“You’re really asking me?” you finally got out, the only response you could muster.

His back was turned to you now as he looked through the drawer, but you saw his shoulder raise in a casual shrug. “I’m curious.” 

 Your gut instinct was to deny that you deserved punishment to try and spare yourself, but you held that impulse. You had already agreed that you did something wrong, so denying that you deserved punishment could make things worse. Then again, if you agreed, then maybe he would take that as permission to do even worse. Either one could potentially upset him too, because it would prove that you didn’t know what he wanted. Suguru did nothing to alleviate your nervous indecision as he turned around, holding an unmarked red box, watching you with that enigmatic smirk.

“If you think I do,” you said carefully, “then-”

“No,” he said, cutting you off. “I am asking if you acknowledge that you deserve punishment for what you have done.”

“I won’t do it again,” you told him, your voice soft. “I promise.” 

Suguru frowned. “That’s not what I asked.”

“I know, but it’s true,” you insisted. Rather than relent to your distress, his eyes narrowed dangerously, finally giving you some indication about the response he actually wanted. “I do!” You said quickly. “I…” The words were thick like syrup, awkward to get out. “I deserve to be punished.” 

Suguru smiled, setting the box on the bed and sitting on the black leather footboard bench, his legs spread wide and comfortable and head slightly tilted.  

“Are you going to hurt me?” you asked softly.

“Hurt you?” Suguru asked, raising a thin eyebrow. “I would never hurt you. I don’t think you’re likely to learn from pain anyway, hm? It wasn’t effective for your parents or doctors.”

“But… but you said you were going to punish me?” you asked, looking between him and the box with an increasing amount of anxiety. 

“Take off your clothes.”

Your jaw dropped. “I… My… You mean it?” 

He raised both eyebrows, daring you to deny him. You clutched at the front of your dress, your shoulders curling in. 

“But why?” you asked. He immediately gave you a pointed look, like you were stupid. “This… it’s… You want to…?” You couldn’t even finish the question, the whole thing was so divorced from any coherence you could wrap your head around. 

“You're allowed to say no and leave, I won’t stop you,” Suguru told you. He considered that for a moment, his head falling to the side. “If you stay, we’ll switch to your safe word rather than no. You remember it, don’t you?”

Safe word? You remembered him establishing that the first night he allowed you into his bed, but you hadn’t really thought much of it. Why would you ever want him to stop? Now the thought of it made you feel a little cold, and not because of the air conditioner valiantly chugging away in an attempt to keep the August heat at bay. It had taken a few days to come to terms with sleeping with Suguru after it first happened, but this was unreal in an entirely different way. You felt like you were looking down a very long, dark tunnel, like you were hopelessly and utterly lost.   

“I do,” you said faintly. “I remember.” 

“It’s your choice then.” 

You winced, unable to look at him. You weren’t going to leave. That was unthinkable. The idea of undressing in front of him like it was some sort of show wasn’t especially comfortable either, but you understood that you would do it. “That’s… it’s embarrassing.”

“I’ve noticed,” Suguru said. “You don’t want to think of yourself as the type of woman who would strip for a man. But you are, and you will. For me.”

You flushed darker, avoiding his eyes. Trying to keep your breathing from going completely out of control, you nodded. It was easier to obey. You wouldn’t know what you would do if you left his room right now, where you would go, how you would feel. It wasn’t about you, it was about what you had done to disappoint Suguru, and how you would make it right. He wanted to know that you were loyal, that you had left behind the pathetic wretch you used to be. 

Humiliating as it was, he was helping you. That was all he had ever done. 

“Yes, sir.” 

With shaking hands, you unzipped your dress. Considering the summer heat, you were wearing as little as possible. Three articles of clothing separating you from his eyes. You weren’t sure if that was better, making it so the process of undressing wasn’t so drawn out, or worse because it meant you couldn’t stall. 

“Keep going,” Suguru said when you hesitated with your thumbs hooked beneath the waistband of your panties. Closing your eyes, you pushed them down. The only positive you could think of was that you had the foresight to shave the night before. Ever since the first night you slept together you’d been taking personal grooming extremely seriously. Removing your bra was the worst of it all, but you dutifully undid the clasps and pushed the straps down your arms. He had seen you naked before, you reasoned. Even if you were disappointing, he still had asked to see you. It was fine. 

If Suguru wanted it, it was fine.

“You’re too pretty to be so self-conscious,” he told you in a very calm, matter-of-fact way. 

You tried not to shuffle awkwardly, clasping your hands in front of your stomach to hide their shaking. “Thank you,” you said softly, unable to meet his eyes even if you could feel them heavily on your flushing skin. 

“Come here,” Suguru ordered. In your peripheral, you saw his hand raise, a single finger curling to draw you towards him. 

You obeyed on awkward feet, glad to close the distance. He sat up to meet you face to face, having to look up at you for once and pulling you closer. You automatically parted your lips to kiss him. That was something you knew how to do. But his parted lips only brushed the corner of your mouth. When you tried to tilt your head to catch him, Suguru pulled back. Your eyes fluttered open—when had you closed them?—to see him smirking at the little trick. 

“Get on the bed,” he ordered, releasing you.

Nerves knotted and tangled in your stomach. There was something hot about his detached control, but you weren’t sure you liked it either. Vulnerability was discomfort. And still, you knew better than to argue or question. Trying to preserve as much of your modesty as was possible, you got onto his bed. It was easier to comply. Better to be obedient like he wanted. You didn’t want to disappoint him again. 

“These are for you,” Suguru said, finally revealing the contents of the red box by lifting the glossy lid. 

You stared into the box with curiosity, and then with a sharp pang of recognition. After that, nerves. Dread. Excitement. Blinking over and over didn’t change what you saw, there was no mistake about what lay inside. A lot of leather. Some chains. Scarf-like ties. You were pretty sure the wand-shaped item was a vibrator. 

Suguru choked you last time you had sex, and he pinned your wrists down and pulled your hair and left marks on your thighs and chest, but this was different. Dangerous. This was scary. 

“Geto-sama…” you said nervously, sticking to the formal address in the hopes that he would understand the sincerity of your doubt. “I’m not…”

“As I said, you’re allowed to stop this at any time,” he said, dropping the lid back onto the box with a crisp snap. “I would never force you into anything. If you truly feel bad for what you have done and want to prove yourself to me, I shouldn’t need to coerce you.”

Guilt and nerves writhed in your stomach. And excitement, always excitement for the simple reason that it was Suguru. You would do anything for him, wouldn’t you? He had saved you. You disappointed him, it was only right that you did as you were told. You pushed the lid off again, forcing a sort of resolve. Your heart beat like a frantic war drum in your chest, and you were flushing so hotly it felt like a fever. 

“What’s this all for?” you asked, your voice hoarse. 

“You won’t be able to hold still on your own,” he replied simply. “Besides, I think you’ll look sexy like this. I was waiting for an opportunity to try it.” 

The bottom of your stomach gave way to anxious lust. You licked your lips, trying to calm yourself down. 

“Okay,” you said softly. 

“Put them on for me,” Suguru said, pulling out four of the leather cuffs. Your eyes widened, your lips parting to argue that as a step too far. It would be so much easier for you if he did it himself, if you didn’t have to actively engage with putting yourself in a literal bind. 

Although maybe that was the point. This was punishment. 

Prove your loyalty. You could do that for him. 

Despite your forced mental affirmation, the whole task seemed too daunting for a moment, you had a nervously suffocating sense like drowning, but you forced that down. You would do anything for Suguru. That’s what this was about. Proving to him that you were loyal, that you would do as he said. That you were devoted.  

You did the wrist cuffs first, slipping the first over your left hand and tightening the strap with your right. There was only one size; they would fit snugly. Thick chains hung from both cuffs. Although they weren’t as bad as pure metal bracelets, the leather wouldn’t be kind to your skin if you resisted too much. Tightening the strap on the right cuff was even worse since you were working with your non-dominant hand. 

“Do you need help?” Suguru asked, laughing at your frustrated attempts to get the tongue through the buckle. 

“Don’t laugh, please,” you begged, talking very softly to hide your increasingly unstable emotions. “I’m trying.” 

“Here,” he said indulgently, “let me.” Suguru held out his hands for you to let him finish securing the cuff. “Do you need help with your ankles?”

“No, I… Thank you,” you said, unable to look at his expression. You could do this. You had to do this. 

Still, your hands trembled unsteadily. When you nervously fumbled with the leather strap around your ankle, he laughed again. 

“Don’t look,” you mumbled. The chains hanging from your wrists playfully clinked against the chains on your ankles.  

“I have to make sure you do it properly. You could hurt yourself.”

“It’s embarrassing,” you whispered, more petulant than anything.  

“I know,” Suguru told you sweetly, “but you’ve been such a good girl so far.” 

Your breath caught at the praise. At the very least, he looked away to pull off his shirt. You used the distraction to get your ankles secured, watching him remove his pants with your hands between your legs to retain some modesty. Suguru, stripped to his boxers, surveyed your handiwork, a little smile growing on his face.

“What?” you asked nervously. 

“Given how shy you are, I thought it would take more than this to convince you to do this for me. I don’t know if I’m disappointed or impressed.”

You frowned with a twisting sense of betrayal, but he cut off your displeasure by grabbing your legs to yank you towards him, leaning over the bed so he could kiss you.  

Before Suguru, you hadn’t really understood what the point of kissing was. It was an act of affection you mirrored with others because it was what people did. When Suguru licked your lips open for himself, you understood. Any touch of his body against yours had a potent effect, but the openly intimate domination of his tongue against yours, his fingers slipping up your hair to tilt your head, the hand on your bare waist, it was enough to clear your mind all over again. Igniting the purest type of motivation—lust. 

You wanted to show him your devotion. You wanted him to know you were sorry. You clung to his shoulders, hoping he could feel it.

All too soon, Suguru pulled back, his lips hovering inches from your own. You tried to follow, but he held you in place by your hair. 

“I’m impressed,” he said, answering his comment from before. “I admire your dedication. I only wish it extended to your actions. I can’t trust you until I know you obey me.”

“I do,” you said. “I…I will.” 

“Not yet.” Suguru didn’t wait for your response, pressing a chaste kiss on your lips, your cheek, and then tilting your head to whisper in your ear. “Move back. I’ll take care of the rest,” he told you, his husky voice making you shudder.

“Yes, sir,” you muttered so softly you wondered if he heard you. When Suguru pulled away, you scooted back to sit in the center of his bed, waiting and watching with equal parts nerves and anticipation. He picked through the red box again, pulling out another set of leather cuffs and a bundle of those silky scarves. 

“Open your legs,” he ordered in a business-like voice as he joined you on the bed, crawling up to you and readying one of the leather straps. The sudden shift of tone surprised you, throwing you off all over again. 

“What’s that?” you asked nervously. He gave you a sharp look and you relented, opening your legs. Being exposed so brazenly made your skin crawl, but he paid no attention to your naked body, wrapping the strap around your thigh and fastening it, repeating the process on your other leg. 

“What is it that the monkey said to upset you?” Suguru asked casually as he tested the straps for give, deeming them satisfactory. The conversational tone burst your bubble of rose tinged intimacy, sending your thoughts back to unpleasant places. “I assume something set you off.” 

“I… um…” As if revealing a magic trick, he unwound a length of the red scarf-like fabric, distracting you from a question you hadn’t really understood in the first place.

“Or did he try to attack you?” Suguru pushed, neatly doubling the scarf and pulling it around your back. He had to sit close as he blindly tied the knot and the cashmeran twilight scent of his skin filled your senses, you held your breath when he pulled away just to keep it close for a moment longer. 

“Have you done this before?” you asked as he wound the scarf around your chest and shoulders with a practiced hand, searching for a distraction from the embarrassment. 

“Does it bother you if I have?” Suguru asked. 

“No, sir.” 

He had to lean forward again to fasten the final knot on your back. “You didn’t answer my question,” he said softly. “What happened?” 

You winced. “He called me delusional. He said I’m just a… a bitch in your harem, and that I’d go down with you.” 

“I see,” Suguru said, pulling back, his expression impassive. 

“I’m really sorry, Geto-sama,” you said. 

“Are you worried he’s right?” Suguru asked, his voice so saccharinely sweet it had to be mocking. 

“I don’t… I don’t know.” 

“You are special to me,” Suguru told you sweetly, petting your hair. 

“You’re special to me too,” you said, eager to try and express your adoration. “Very, very special.” 

“I’m doing this because you’re so special to me. I can help you grow, and help you move on. I can show you the benefits of an honest life without the petty influence of the weak, but I cannot force your obedience. I need you to choose to listen to me, to obey me.”

“That is my choice,” you said. 

“Haven’t you heard the phrase ‘actions speak louder than words’?” Suguru countered, revealing the final trick of his little magic show. The chains on your wrists connected to those on your ankles with a few inches of slack, your ankle cuffs connected to the straps on your thighs, and the loose ends of scarves from the harness he had just finished tying were threaded into the D-rings on your thigh straps. Unable to balance upright, you rolled onto your back, fully exposed and unable to do much of anything about it. “This is your chance to make amends.” 

Suguru put his hand on your bare chest, right above your racing heart as it beat against your ribs. “You’re scared again,” he said. “I told you I wouldn’t hurt you. Do you not believe that?” 

“I’m just…” you squirmed uncomfortably, unable to articulate what you felt. You didn’t know what you felt, couldn’t figure out anything beyond the intensely physical embarrassment and the panicked disquiet of being bound and exposed.  

“You know what to do to make this stop,” he pointed out, his hand dragging down your chest to your flinching stomach. “Just say the word, and I’ll let you leave.”

Suguru told you that almost like it was a joke. He was daring you to use the safe word and stop him, to show him that you weren’t as devoted as you claimed. His hand reached your pelvis and you whimpered, your hips wiggling in an undecided way. Did you want him to touch you, or were you nervous for that part? You couldn’t tell. The feelings were the same. 

He finally dropped over you, both of his hands resting on your ass before brushing up your thighs, pressing them further apart as he kissed you with an open mouth. Suguru’s tongue urgently met yours, teasing enough to invite your active and enthusiastic participation. To show him how much you wanted him. Of course you did. 

With a surprising bite on your lower lip, Suguru left your mouth to move down, licking and kissing his way across your jaw, following the line of your neck. He stopped there, sucking hard right above your pulse until you shuddered hard, making a soft, helpless noise. Your hands anxiously jerked, but all that did was snap the chains taut. Taking his time, his hand trailed down your thigh, his fingernails scraping the skin, until he reached your pussy. 

When Suguru’s fingers made contact with the sensitive flesh, you yelped, and he bit your neck hard enough to draw that yelp out into a pathetic keen. Your attempt to free your hands so you could push him back served only to pull your legs open wider. 

“Was that too much?” Suguru asked, lightly tracing your slit. 

“Hurts,” you said, your breathing hard and fast. He chuckled warmly, finding your clit and tracing little circles over it, just teasing. You whimpered. 

“You don’t mind, do you?” He asked, his lips brushing your skin as he moved down your chest. 

You made a choked, conflicted sound in your throat, any coherent response leaving your head the second his mouth closed around your nipple. Electric pulses of pleasure zipped down to your core, made that much more intense by the fingers on your clit. Suguru added more pressure against it, the weight sweetened by the friction of his calloused fingertips. Your hips rolled into the touch, your back arching for every delicious movement of his tongue or teeth on your nipple. 

A hoarse wail left your mouth when he released you with a wet pop, moving to do the same to your other nipple. His fingers were truly grinding against your clit at this point. It wasn’t the sweet enticement of pleasure, but a brute force motion that guaranteed you would come fast. 

You whined and moaned and shuddered, fighting the restraints. Sweat slicked up your skin, chafing beneath the restraints as you jerked, your body going taut to prepare for the sudden orgasm. You managed a choked, “I can’t, I can’t, I-” And then that tension snapped. It was good, but the rush was too fast and fleeting, fizzling itself out before you could savor the feeling. All it really did was make you want more.

With another lewdly wet pop, Suguru pulled off your nipple and sat up, his hand retreating from between your legs. “How did that feel?” he asked.

You swallowed, nodding fast. “‘s good. Tha-aa-nk you, sir.” 

“It’s interesting to me how much more sensitive girls are after coming,” Suguru said, teasing you with his fingers lightly tracing over your slit. “It’s almost obscene. Men need time, but you already want more, don’t you?” 

You shuddered, panting and flushed. “Yes. Yes, please.”

He smirked, although you couldn’t say you really understood the joke. Your entire body twitched, the chains clinking, and he licked his lips, looking at your flushed body like he was eying up a meal. 

Your eyes squeezed shut when he ran two fingers from your entrance, dragging a smear of slick arousal up to your clit. 

“No, don’t close your eyes,” Suguru said, beginning to draw patterns over your swelling clit. “Look at me.” 

You nodded, opening your eyes and meeting his gaze despite how overwhelming it was to be watched while he touched you so intimately. You squirmed, inhaling sharply through your teeth, already feeling the tantalizing build. 

“What about you?” you asked. “You don’t have to, um… um…” Blinking fast, breathing hard, your words scattered like dust and you felt the same tightening in your core, the sparkling promise of release. At the exact moment you were about to come again, Suguru pressed his hand flat between your legs, denying you that final push over the edge. 

Whining and desperate and so, so close, your hips bucked upward, desperate to come again. It was already too late, out of your grasp. “Geto-sama, please, I was-”

“No,” he said simply. 

“What?” 

“No. I’m not going to let you come again. I’ve already given you one more than you deserve.”

“No,” you whispered, horrified. “You… You can’t.” 

“No?” he repeated, his fingers tracing your clit slowly, with the barest amount of pressure. “You remember why I’m doing this, don’t you? I’m punishing you.” He pressed more intently against your clit. Unable to comprehend denial, your body began the process of drawing up tight. “You need to learn to be obedient. You have to learn to take whatever I see fit to give you.” 

“I am,” you gasped out. “I do, I-I will, I’m…” Your back arched, your arms and legs falling aside as if to make an offering of your body in the hopes that he would let you come this time. “I’m sorry that I… that I did that,” you babbled, your pussy tightening around nothing as your body got ready to come. “I’m really… really… I’m-” 

Suguru stopped just when you were on the precipice again, tapping your folds as if to mock your need. You squinted at him, your chest hitching a heavy breath, tears pricking your eyes. “But I said… Oh…” You didn’t finish what you were saying, too distracted by the slick slide of his fingers inside of you. So good. You swallowed hard, your cunt squeezing his fingers desperately as his fingers curled, dragging against your g-spot as they pulled out before thrusting forward. 

“If your words meant anything, you wouldn’t need to be punished in the first place,” Suguru pointed out, although you weren’t paying very close attention, your body awkwardly trying to roll into his fingers as they slowly fucked you. He touched your clit with his other hand, once again ensuring that you would come quickly. 

Too quickly, really. The intensity of pleasure shocked you, especially since you were so sensitive, desperate for more. “Please, can I… will you please… Please?” you begged, your animal need curbed slightly by fear. 

“You should know that no other man will do this for you,” Suguru said. “No one else will ever care for you the way I do.”

You nodded fast, knowing that was the truth. No other person in the world had ever been as kind or compassionate to you as Suguru. Nobody had ever wanted you, or made you feel important, or given you purpose. You loved him. You felt that affection swell alongside your building orgasm. 

He would let you come this time, he wasn’t slowing down. His fingers made a sickening wet schlick as they pumped in and out of your pussy, working in time with the finger on your clit. You were there, your body taut and ready and desperate and-

A wail escaped you when he stopped at the last moment, your entire body jerking in desperation to reclaim your ruined orgasm. As soon as it was gone, he returned to touching you in the same way, vigorously chasing you back to the edge and abandoning you seconds before you could get off. 

“Please,” you begged.

“I told you no,” Suguru reminded you, adding a third finger to pump and curl into your pussy as if to punctuate the cruel statement. You were off the edge now, but your body still stupidly strove to take more pleasure. You blinked tears, confused and needy and trembling, your breathing shallow. 

“Why?” 

He didn’t answer, he didn’t need to. The touch on your clit had you throwing your head back, your nostrils flared and teeth clenched. Chains clicked together when you tried to free your arms, but it was a fruitless struggle. You didn’t want to respond to his touch in the same way, you needed a reprieve, but there was no escape. You were sensitive. Your body remembered coming once, and that was enough of an incentive to try to get more. 

“You can always stop me,” Suguru said. “If it becomes too much.”

“It’s…” you told him, although your attempt to seem brave was weakened by your breathy, pathetic voice. “I’m… I can take whatever you give me. I’m…” You sobbed, overwhelmed by the drag of his fingers against your g-spot. He barely had to put any pressure on your clit, it was so swollen beneath his teasing fingers. “Please, sir. I just… Just one, please?”

“I already let you come once,” he reminded you, amused. 

You moaned miserably, your head tossing back and forth as you readied yourself for another orgasm. You hoped that maybe if you could just come before he noticed, then that would be enough to soothe the horrible ache, the fearful deprivation he kept stoking to a blaze. 

It was there, right at your fingertips, on the tip of your tongue, and Suguru hummed happily when he suddenly pulled his fingers out of you. You shouted, thrashing against your bindings. They all held, keeping you helpless beneath him. 

“Please, I… please.” 

“No,” Suguru said, slowly pushing just one finger into you. You sobbed when he used it to massage your g-spot. Not giving you any real pressure or weight or friction, just that constant reminder of the pleasure you had been denied.

“I can’t,” you said tearfully, straining to get more out of that single finger like a starving woman being thrown crumbs. 

“You can,” Suguru told you. His word was gospel. It didn’t matter what you thought. 

He pulled his finger out before you could get too used to it, only to return with three. You choked, your body jerking hard enough against the restraints to hurt, suddenly thrown into high gear as he properly finger-fucked you, bouncing your entire body. 

It didn’t matter that he wasn’t touching your clit, you could get off just on this. Your body was thrumming with denied pleasure and you wanted it so bad you could scream. 

“Yes, yes, please, yes—No!” 

You were properly sobbing this time when he stopped, almost horrified by the intensity of your body’s disappointment when his fingers pulled out. You had no idea how he was getting the timing so perfect, but it was worse than if he was just hurting you. Suguru shoved his fingers into your open mouth while you were still reeling, smearing the taste of your pussy onto your tongue. You didn’t need his instruction to suck on them, hoping that the display of thoughtless obedience would earn you some leniency.   

“Good girl,” he cooed, pushing his fingers deeper into your mouth, almost enough to make you choke. When he pulled them out, he didn’t linger, kissing a line down your stomach. Your arms fought the restraints when you realized his intentions because you weren’t sure you could handle feeling his mouth on you like this, not if he was going to keep denying you. 

“No,” you whined. “Please, I… I can’t…” 

“Yes, you can,” Suguru said calmly, not even bothering to look up at you.

A heavy, almost guttural moan left your mouth when his tongue licked past your folds, tossing you right back into the abyss of lustful need. All he had to do was brace his forearm across the backs of your thighs and you were unable to do anything, your trapped arms and legs twitching, your feet kicking uselessly into the empty air, the chains connecting them to your wrists clicking. 

Suguru was good at this, switching between flat-tongued licks and pointed patterns, closing his lips around your clit until you were choking out these pathetic little chirps, your body reacting in a way entirely out of your control. 

And when you were there, right at the very edge, he pressed a kiss to your clit and looked up at you from beneath his dark eyelashes. 

You sobbed, throwing your head back in a childish display of disappointment. 

“You’re alright. Breathe,” Suguru said.

“Please,” you begged.

Suguru hummed as he lowered his head, shaking it side to side with his tongue flat against your clit. Your toes curled, your hands forming pathetic fists.  

It didn’t take much to build you up all over again, your entire body was wired and ready. You didn’t think you had ever felt so aware of yourself. Your skin, your pussy, your heart, your body, everything crackled and blazed. What was he doing, drawing kanji with his tongue? You didn’t know, but it felt amazing. You chased that feeling knowing you shouldn’t, thinking that maybe this time, maybe if you were fast enough. Maybe, maybe, maybe-

“No, please, I just wanna…” Suguru’s tongue stilled and he pulled away, watching you fall apart at yet another denied orgasm. “No!”

He casually pressed two fingers into you, massaging them against that spongy spot with a wet squish that was beyond obscene. “You know what to say to make me stop,” he told you.

“I know,” you said, wishing you could cover your face, wishing for some point of sanity here in this lust-mad haze. “I don’t want… Please, Geto-sama, I just wanna come, please.”

“Oh?” he said, his other hand returning to rest on your pelvic bone to playfully tease your clit. “Do you think you deserve that?” 

“I…” You tried desperately to figure out the correct answer by looking at his expression, but you couldn’t tell and his hands kept you distracted. Deserve didn’t matter, all you could think was that you wanted to come. “Yes?” you said, hoping very much that was the correct response, practically praying for the torment to end. His fingers slowed and you let out an embarrassing little keen. “Ah… No, no I…” His expression still didn’t change, leaving you scrambling. Your chest hiccupped with a sob, your confused spiral boiling down to the pit of desperate need. “I don’t know.”  

Rather than respond, Suguru’s head lowered between your legs once more to tongue your clit in time with his fingers. You felt a hot rush of hope that you got something right, that he was finally going to let you come. Your entire body surged towards the feeling, going so stiff that it made your trembling muscles ache. 

And there, right on the edge, he stopped. You didn’t have it within you to do anything other than cry, openly weeping at this point. If he were only teasing you it would be one thing, but he was purposefully working you right up to the edge and then abandoning you there. It was the feeling of being unable to sneeze amplified to a million, that torturous feeling of almost.  

“I’ll do anything, please,” you told him, your voice coming out broken.

“Are you saying you wouldn’t before?” Suguru asked. You opened your mouth to argue, only to realize that it didn’t matter. Nothing you said or did mattered, you were helpless to him. You had already surrendered everything else, the only thing you could do was obey and hope for his mercy.  

You understood. He didn’t want you to beg. He wanted you to obey. To be good for him without question. 

You could do that. 

Suguru pushed his fingers back into you, repeating the whole process of working you up and abandoning you again. And again. And then he added his mouth. There were several times in your life you’d been pushed to the absolute brink of sanity, and right then you were convinced that you were going to go mad. But you grit your teeth and endured it. You had to. This was your punishment, and Suguru would decide when to end your misery. 

You had to be good for him.  

Had you ever been this wet? Swollen too, all of your blood flowing dangerously hot between your legs. It was disgusting, your pussy was sloppy and red and he barely had to touch your clit at all to build you right up to that edge. And it was just as easy to let you fall, disappointed and unfulfilled and growing increasingly, painfully distraught from the denial. 

You beat your fists pathetically against the bed, hitting your head into the pillow like a madman. Air puffed out of your chest fast and hard enough to make your head spin, like there wasn’t enough oxygen in the room. 

Rather than continue the torture, Suguru grabbed your chin, dragging you out of your spiraling haze. His fingers were slick from being inside of you. You met his eyes through a veil of tears. “Have you had enough?” he asked, his voice wavering with a parody of pity. “I’m worried you’re going to hyperventilate.” 

You blinked fast, trying to gather the coherence to respond. “I can… I can take it,” you told him with a miserable sort of resolve, your voice thin and breathless. 

Suguru smiled. “Really? And if I said I intended to leave you like this, perhaps to go find a way to fix the mess you made?” 

The thought was enough to make you sob. His attention was torturously uncomfortable, but being completely denied any resolution, being left bound and soaking wet and electrified with unfulfilled need, you almost would have rathered he hit you. 

But you nodded, forcing yourself to accept it. Anything less would be to reject his authority over you, right? It would make you seem less loyal. “Anything,” you whispered.

“Ah, that look in your eyes is wonderful,” he cooed. “You mean it, don’t you?” 

You nodded insistently. “I love you,” you told him, speaking without thought, saying it because it was true. “I’ll do… I’ll do anything.”

“Okay, I’ll let you come,” Suguru said, releasing your face so his hand could wander back down between your legs. 

You made a weak noise, your body unconsciously jerking, straining towards him. 

It was pathetic, he barely had to do anything, simply brushing his flat fingers in light circles over your swollen clit. And that was enough. Fear flooded your insides alongside the same frantic, hot rush of pleasure. All of your muscles contracted in a mass of sore, shaking muscles and bestial desperation because you were afraid he would stop again, afraid that he would deny you and there would be no recourse other than pathetic acceptance.

“Please, please, I-I love you,” you plead, your voice whispery, rough and desperate, borderline incoherent.

And he didn’t stop. 

That wet, hot snap of release was one of the best things you had ever felt. You convulsed, chains clicking and leather chafing against your skin and his name spilling from your lips over and over. He worked you right through the orgasm. You were crying again, sobbing and shaking and sticky hot. It felt good. It felt like forgiveness. 

“Another?” Suguru asked. Your eyes had been shut, but now they opened to see his smile.

You just shook your head, lacking the capacity to respond. 

He didn’t wait, pushing three fingers into you while teasing your clit with his other hand. It forced your body through a surprisingly uncomfortable rubbery mixture of overstimulation and mindless need. It left you feeling like an elastic band being stretched and stretched. In spite of that feeling, a few solid, harsh pumps later and you were coming again, your pussy squeezing his fingers to keep them there while he worked you through it. There was very little drama to it, you were already wrung out. But it was good. Hot and wet and good. 

Suguru didn’t stop. You fought the restraints, wanting to move, to writhe, to get more comfortable, to take some control back because you needed a moment to collect yourself. 

“I really-” It was hard to speak. Hard to form the words. Hard to get them out. “Oh God, I—ah.”

Almost painfully sensitive, the rough pounding of his fingers against your g-spot started to register as too much. You fought the restraints, a different sort of panic setting in. To keep your body from rejecting the pleasure of his touch, Suguru doubled down against your clit, pressing a little harder. You had been starving, but now you were splitting full from the assault pleasure. 

“Too—oo much,” you got out through your teeth, although it probably didn’t seem like it was too much when your back was arching accordingly, your pussy clamping down around his relentless fingers, that coiling buildup of release reaching its apex. 

Your mouth opened in a silent scream, your fingers and toes clawing helplessly at the sheets as you came, practically choking on the hot feverish intensity of your orgasm. 

“No, it’s not,” Suguru told you. His fingers slowed at least, and then pulled out. It wasn’t much of a reprieve, he immediately shuffled down the bed so he could situate his head back between your thighs. 

You hissed, tensing up, your arms jerking against the restraints. Your clit was too sensitive for his tongue, he had to understand that. “You… You don’t… Have to,” you got out, your voice unsteady from how hard you were panting. “I don’t need-” 

“Don’t worry,” Suguru said sweetly. “I’m not doing this for you.”

The wet, warm patterns he drew on your clit with his tongue sent you into a sort of delirium. No matter how sensitive you thought you were, it was intoxicatingly good. He focused entirely on what made your hips try to jump, what made you moan and whine. When he slipped two fingers into your pussy at the same time, you felt ready to lose it entirely. You were falling apart. Splitting at the seams. You came with a harsh cry, Weeping at the fizzling heat of pleasure. 

Suguru didn’t stop. He just hummed and flattened his tongue and kept going, forcing you right past that sickening few seconds of sensory rejection and towards another orgasm. You could do it. You focused on that because even if you weren’t entirely sure you wanted more, you wanted to be good for him. How ungrateful would it be to not come when he was kind enough to eat you out? 

Covered in the sickly shine of sweat and shaking so uncontrollably that it felt like the world itself was trembling, you came again.  

When he was content you were done, Suguru stopped, pulling his fingers out with a final brush against your g-spot to make you whine, your body mindlessly writhing. He sat up, brushing back strands of sweaty black hair with the back of his hand. 

You wilted in place, closing your eyes to focus on your breathing while he messed with something else. It was hard to collect yourself, but you could already tell that you would be sore tomorrow. 

Hearing the shift of fabric, you opened your eyes to see Suguru remove his boxers. Despite your messily deteriorated state, the sight of his cock roused enough of your mind to focus. He was hard, the red-flushed head bobbed as he casually stroked himself which might have been for your benefit. Despite the sensory overload, your pussy tightened in anticipation of feeling him inside of you. If he fucked you and you did good enough to make him come, then you would be done. That was, at the very least, an end goal. One more thing you could endure for him, and then he would forgive you. 

Suguru looked down at you with a fond smile, an expression that seemed more than a little cruel when he was stroking his dick, when he knew fully well that you were painfully oversensitive and this would make it that much worse. 

“Should I make you beg?” he asked warmly, tapping the head against your painfully sensitive folds. You whimpered, squirming. You weren’t entirely sure you wanted this, and he probably knew that, but maybe that was the point. It didn’t matter, you wanted him, you wanted to be good for him, and that superseded every other thing you felt. 

“Please, Geto-sama,” you begged, defaulting to the formal address because you needed him to accept it, because he was your lord and master in every way except by name, because you adored him and worshiped him, and you needed him to understand that. “Fuck me, please. I’m yours.”

“So vulgar,” he said, sliding his cock up and down through the wet, sloppy mess he’d made of your pussy. “I wonder what happened to the sweet, innocent girl you used to be.”

You squeezed your eyes shut, shaking your head. “Please.”

“I’m kidding,” Suguru told you, bracing one hand on your thigh to force your hips to curl while lining up his cock. “Aren’t you going to beg?”

“Please-”

“No, no. Look at me.”

You forced your eyes open, forced yourself to look up at him through tear-covered lashes. “Please, Geto-sama. Please, I’m yours.” 

It was nothing for him to push in. You were wet and eager and it felt good. The feeling of his cock popping past the initial barrier of muscle and driving deeper into your pussy was one of the most uniquely pleasurable sensations you had ever felt, no matter what the context. It gave you the sort of fullness nothing could replicate, physically grounded you in a way nothing else ever had. 

Since you were watching, you got to see his expression slacken into one of pleasure. Your pussy fluttered and squeezed, just making room for him. 

You gave up keeping your eyes open as he drove himself even deeper, throwing your head back to just take it, to ignore the discomfort of his cock grinding against what felt like raw nerves. Suguru braced his hands on your thighs as he rocked his hips, taking his time. 

“What does it feel like?” he asked. 

“Good,” you said quickly, your tongue feeling loose like you were drunk. “So… So good.” 

“I want to feel you come again,” he said. “You don’t mind, right?” 

Your eyes fluttered open in confusion, shutting when he suddenly snapped his hips forward. “I can’t,” you whined. “Not again.”  

“You can,” Suguru told you, grinding his cock as far into as he could, pressing as deep as possible, deep enough to make you whimper and writhe. Could he feel that? Could he feel the way you were shaking all the way down to your bones, feel the way your heart raced and fluttered and skipped? 

And then you heard it turn on. When you heard the buzzing, your brain was wildly scattered enough that you thought it was an electric toothbrush which made no sense whatsoever. When he pressed the vibrator directly to your clit, you yelped, trying to buck it off but only serving to grind yourself into his cock. 

A few little circles with the thing against your clit was all it took for you to choke, your body seizing up with another orgasm. You were acutely aware of the way it caused your cunt to squeeze and suck his cock, coating it in a fresh wave of arousal as he pulled out, making a horrible wet slap when he thrust back in. 

Suguru groaned, keeping the vibrator directly on your clit as he chose a slow, steady pace. 

“I can’t,” you tried to tell him, squirming and writhing with renewed vigor as your body started to tense up to come again. You couldn’t stop it and of course it felt good but it was too much, almost burning. You could handle it. If you came again it would hurt, especially coming with his cock grinding so persistently into your overly sensitive cunt. 

“I thought you were being good,” Suguru said, rewarding you with a heavy, harsh thrust that made you wail. And another. That sent you over the edge, whimpering and shaking and incoherent with the overwhelming influx of heat and tingling overstimulation. Like the brittle snap when breaking a glow stick, or taking a crisp, juicy bite of an apple. It should have been good, but all you could feel was the wet, helpless violation of something ruined. 

Suguru moaned openly, driving himself deep enough for his hips to slap your ass with each heavy thrust. Your head whipped from side to side, the only form of protest left to you. He kept moving the vibrator to make sure you didn’t get too accustomed to any one type of stimulation. It was torture. Horrible torture. You wouldn’t have thought coming could be so agonizing, and yet when you drew up for another sharp, shuddery orgasm you couldn’t recognize it as anything else. 

“Is this better or worse than before?” Suguru asked, his words stuttered with each hard thrust. 

“I don’t… I can’t…” You couldn’t think. You couldn’t breathe. You couldn’t do anything except convulse and cry and come. Again. 

You didn’t understand. 

“You don’t know?” he asked, breathy yet amused. “You’ll have to—to tell me later.” 

The problem was that you had no place to think. You were too full. Suguru continued fucking you hard and steady. All you could hear was the slick slapping of wet skin and that infernal buzzing. There was so much weight behind every movement, like he was trying to batter his way into your womb. Each thrust was followed by a whimper or moan or cry. And the relentless vibrator against your clit. It hurt. It burned. 

“I don’t… don’t…” 

“You’re… not done,” Suguru told you, his voice heavy and breaking with exertion. “Come again.” 

You weren’t sure if you were actually crying anymore, or just sobbing and panting and so sweaty it felt like you were crying. You couldn't form any coherent words, or even incoherent rejections. So you obeyed, the taste of blood on your tongue and stars dotting your vision, your pussy burning and inner walls pulsing around his cock as you came again. Suguru groaned, his lovely lips parted and eyes closed. 

“One more,” he demanded. “Just… Just one… More.” That word was punctuated with a hard thrust and an especially cruel grind of the vibrator against your overstimulated clit. There was no point in saying no, or even believing it wasn’t possible. He knew more than you did. You didn’t know anything. 

With a miserable whine, you came again, although at this point it felt like there was just a long, helpless flow of overstimulation marked with waves of overbearing heat, and then your pussy tightened around his cock and it dragged cruelly against your g-spot, and that was all you could manage before you were tossed back into the mindless daze of agonizing excess.

“Even though it hurts, you’re…” He didn’t finish that breathless thought, although his amused smile went away when his hips suddenly stuttered and he fell forward, his forearm resting by your shoulder. 

Mercifully, Suguru shut the vibrator off, letting it fall somewhere to the side, bracing his other arm on the bed next to you as he sought his own end. Your arms and legs fell to the side, slack except for when your muscles spasmed or jerked. Every thrust added to the relentless cycle of too much, especially from this angle, you could feel the way your body worked itself up to come again, responding to his pleasure as if it were your own. 

“Geto-sama… Suguru please,” you begged and there was a chance he couldn’t make out that you were attempting to form actual words, but even with your sanity fraying at the edges from his torture, you wanted him to come. You wanted to know there was a reason for your complete unraveling, that you had a real, good purpose, some sort of justification to exist. 

Suguru forced your knees all the way up to your chest, pushing his cock as deep as possible as he came, working himself through it with shallow thrusts and these intoxicatingly sexy stuttered moans. Distantly, beyond the hellish, sweaty shell of your shaking body, you had the distinct thought that everything was worth it just to hear him moan like that. Just to be rewarded by his pleasure. Because you loved him. Because you belonged to him. Both of you were flushed hot and disturbingly slick with sweat and it hurt for him to be pushing so deep. Out of all the little cruelties he had subjected you to, the fact that you were unable to hold onto him like you wanted was one of the worst. 

When Suguru pulled out, that hurt too. Every part of your body hurt. He left you to fall bonelessly limp onto the bed, rolling around to lay next to you. 

In the relative quiet, your ears rang with a tinny discordance, paired with the engine roar of rushing blood. Your tongue was sandpaper in your mouth—little wonder, you had no idea how you had any liquid left in your body—and your limbs hurt from being stuck in the bound position for so long, but you couldn’t say you wanted to do anything to fix those things. As soon as the severity of those discomforts occurred to you, so were they carried away by the lapping tide of exhaustion. You felt like a sponge that had been squeezed dry. That’s probably what you looked like too.   

“I didn’t expect it to be so… Difficult to contain myself,” Suguru mused softly. You didn’t respond, marveling at his voice. It was very nice. So soothing and smooth. Perfect, just like every other part of him. “It’s wrong, but necessary. You never learned the right way to live, I have to guide you. Otherwise you could hurt yourself. You could hurt our family.” There was more conviction in those words, like he was trying to argue against a point you hadn’t made. 

Even if you were to be unbound, you wouldn’t dare close your legs. You couldn’t feel his cum slipping out, maybe you were too swollen. That would explain the painful heat. 

“I wish I didn’t have to make my point like this,” Suguru continued. “But I'll do whatever it takes for you to get it.” 

Mute confusion was the only thing you had left—you were barely aware enough to listen to what he was saying, let alone divine any meaning from the words. Your body hurt and you were thirsty and sweaty and tired. You didn’t think anything. You couldn’t do anything. You couldn’t say anything. It wasn’t even confusion, it was just pure exhaustion. 

“Ah, you’re a mess,” Suguru said, sitting up. You groaned in disapproval when he started messing with the straps around your thighs, taking them off. Without the harness's support, your legs dropped limp onto the bed. Still, you didn’t move. You couldn’t fathom moving. “Hey,” he chided, “don’t go to sleep.”

You grunted unhappily. 

“Will you open your eyes?” Suguru asked, touching your fever-hot cheek. After a second, you did, meeting his gaze with your own dazed, blank stare. His expression was tender, you thought. So kind, so sweet, so gentle. “I need you to listen to me now, hm?” 

You made a sound to show that you were listening, looking up at his beautiful face with a marveling sort of adoration. Suguru really was beautiful. It was little wonder so many people thought he was a holy man. He undid the chains keeping your hands and ankles connected, letting your arms flop lifelessly into the sweaty sheets.

“I forgive you,” Suguru told you, his eyes scanning your body slowly, taking in the sweat and the reddish flush and the twitching, trembling of your muscles with some kind of affection. “But, and I need you to remember this,” he continued, his eyes returned to yours, “next time you disobey me, it will be worse.”

Worse? You couldn’t imagine worse. The idea of worse made your eyes sting, panic threatening to crawl back out of the abyss of your exhaustion to send you into a fit of tears.

You blinked and swallowed against your dry throat. “I’ll be… be good, I promise,” you said in a voice that was little more than a hoarse croak. 

“Shhh,” Suguru shushed softly, brushing your damp hair off of your sweaty forehead. “Don’t be scared. Everything I do, I do because I love you. You are precious to me, you know that, don’t you?”

Those words worked like ether sweet anesthesia through your head and you believed him, loved him, trusted him. He did this because he loved you, and because you needed to learn. Of course. That made sense even if nothing else did. 

[velvet-vox]

V and Doll; trauma, mental disorder, and low empathy.

(Warning: this post is slightly outdated and contains some incorrect medical terms that don't correspond to the modern classification of ASPD. You can still read it if you are curious, but don't take anything stated here as hard facts. They are not.)

Very recently on my notifications I received a reblog by @aroaceweirdos101 to a response I've made to a post talking about how Doll went through so much more pain than V, and it made me realise that the response in question was actually, like, really good.

I had genuinely forgotten and underestimated how good of an analysis of both V, Doll, mental health and societal stigma it really was.

Now, of course, I disagree with the sentiment that Doll suffered more than V and fully believe that out of the two V endured way more pain and trauma than Doll; yet, although the responses in the comments checked out with what I previously said, they felt... meaner?

Like, the answers went to the opposite extreme of the original comment and tried to downplay Doll's trauma in comparison to V's, almost implying that Doll was a b##ch (which she was) for snapping as hard as she did when V still managed to retain a sense of restraint; and I disagreed with that, so in response I wrote this:

*Look, I believe both Doll and V are interesting characters, and although I feel more sympathetic towards Doll, I definitely believe V went through so much more pain than Doll and had way more reasons to snap and be the way she is now, but I just really hate people who use that as an excuse to label Doll has the more evil of the two or "she was always just a psycho, she just needed an excuse to snap"; it's especially disheartening when people straight up interpret her as unreademable or pure evil, when V and N's body count is 10 times higher than Doll's.

Also, I'm sorry but I really can't stomach the possibility of Liam redeeming the genocidal war machine and not the broken orphan created by said psycho, it literally would be the fictional pinnacle of "since these are the protagonists, they can get away with as much as they want and are always in the right"; I'm fine with the way Doll died because it was done by Cyn and there wasn't any moral lesson to be gained from our protagonists about it, but if it was done by N, Uzi, or worst of all V again, it should have played out like "we have reasons to do the things we do, and you have yours, unfortunately we're on opposite sides and you are hurting us so we must kill you now".

The human (worker drone) mind is extremely fragile, and some people, due to a probably inherited and undiagnosed mental illness or a particular personality type, are more at risk of snapping then other people, yet instead of being understanding towards those who are born with more issues than others (especially women, look up Azula or Ashley Graves) we tend to isolate, demonize and then kill them because they were incapable of fitting into the larger societal standard of acceptable social behaviour, even when said society never did anything to help them meet its unreachable standards because it required too much work from society's side to give you the special attention you needed in order to make you work and fit in.

V was a quiet kid because she was shy, Doll was a quiet kid because she was introverted. Those are two very different types of people and one of them (Doll) was inherently more at risk of developing mental health issues than the other due to their personality type and how it's stigmatized.*

Here's also the original post made by an anonymous user on @md-confessions

Also, here's the link to another post still talking about V and Doll. I made two comments in response, but neither of them is particularly well thought out and since you can't correct them I left them as they were.

Now, back to the highlighted part:

I want to use this response as a springboard to talk about the main differences between Doll and V when it comes to their different handling of their decaying mental health and why it's unfair to say that one of them was worse than the other based on their actions and attitude towards the problem.

(Also, all of the Murder Drones characters are extremely complex, and the fact that the show doesn't have filler makes it harder to get a good grip on one's particular mindset, so if it seems like I'm talking more about Doll than I am about V, it is because V is the most complicated character in the cast and I'm not as confident to talk about her as I am with Doll; it took one entire year to finally understand Doll as well as I do now, so V is a touchy subject for me that's why I might not do her justice).

First of all, it has to be said: Doll is a sociopath, V isn't, despite appearing like one. And that's ok.

When I say that I feel more sympathy towards Doll than I do for V, this is what I mean: I don't sympathise with Doll heartlessness more than I do with V jackassery; rather I understand and relate with Doll's low empathy since I also have low empathy as well, and it is quite common for people like us to be misunderstood for uncaring individuals.

It's the same reason why I and many others tend to like villains and sympathise with them more than we do with the heroes (Lord Shen from Kung Fu Panda 2 is the perfect example for this); it's quite common for villains to be written as individuals with low empathy, as an highly empathetic individual tends to be harder for the audience to buy as an antagonist, since you need to justify why someone this caring is committing all this heinous and terrible stuff, but if that person is already unemphatetic by nature, than it's just a matter of establishing their goals and motivations. These people also tend to be ostracized by their environment and go through a gruesome and violent death because it's socially acceptable to let these despicable individuals find comeuppance through death since they lack the traits that make a person traditionally good.

So, when people use the "So what? She's got dead parents. Many others do, including Uzi, who's also infected with the Absolute Solver, yet they have not become cannibalistic serial killers obsessed with revenge" as a slight against Doll it's not entirely fair because from what we've gathered in the show the other worker drones don't suffer from sadistic impulses and sociopathy like Doll does, even if they (Rebecca) are pretty uncaring. (Side note, Uzi also suffers from sadism/sadistic impulses, but not from sociopathy, hence the main difference between the two).

V, on the other hand, despite what her introduction and psycho girl persona might trick you into believing, was never a sociopath nor did she struggle with low empathy, she was, instead, a pretty timid maid who suffered through unspeakable physical and psychological trauma that led her to adopt this fake identity to cope for the atrocities that she was now committing for the company (Absolute Solver) and the safety of N; V cared about N in a pretty normal person kind of way: she kept N at arms length and hid the truth from him so that he wouldn't get hurt, all while detaching herself from the actions she was now committing, not saying Doll wouldn't or didn't commit any of these actions, but V did them in a way that better aligns with someone who doesn't suffer from sociopathic disorder.

Speaking of N, since he has been mentioned, I'll say that while Uzi suffers from sadism but not low empathy (she has shown to be pretty empathetic many times), N doesn't suffer from sadism but from low empathy; as better explained by a section of this post made by @melissa-titanium :

N x Doll

Don't believe me? Then maybe you should rewatch the series again because N's unemphateticness is his own can of worms to delve into.

But back to Doll, it's time to dissolve (😏) one of the oldest misconceptions surrounding her character:

Doll reached out for help. A lot. She just didn't have any luck with it.

Call me crazy, but the more I thought about it, the more I realised that the fandom wide spread belief that Doll rejected all the help that was handed to her to be a massive lie, and in fact, Doll actually tried to reach out way more than you thought, arguably, even more than Uzi:

The impact that Yeva's education has had on Doll's life can only be noticed in this way: Yeva extended her hand to Nori and she accepted it, thus, it is fair to assume that Yeva taught Doll to be pretty open to others and to give a hand to someone in need (the show was rewritten after the pilot, so ignore the incongruences with Doll's initial characterization), and in fact, after enduring the trauma of watching her parents die, she opened up to Lizzie for help and support, unfortunately, Lizzie wasn't exactly the right person to talk about these things (no offence to her, all of Uzi's classmates suck for one reason or another, including Uzi herself, I guess that's what happens when you are stuck inside a bunker your whole life), after all, Doll was still killing and cannibalising her classmates.

Then, before she went back to gain her revenge, she tried to get Uzi on her side, which wasn't an attempt to open up, but she was still willing to connect, even if for the wrong reasons. Finally, once she discovers that Uzi also has the Absolute Solver, she promises to help her out, and at this point, Doll wishes to talk it out with Uzi, but because she is surrounded by the Disassembly Drones (V), she can't.

And now, for the most interesting discussion, there's this brief and frankly weird moment in episode 5 where Doll compliments Khan for raising Uzi, and while Khan laughs it off immediately, since he is a dumbass, this could have been a perfect opportunity for him to reach out to Doll and reason with her, since she's clearly putting aside whatever her objective actually is to talk to him, but he doesn't catch on, and this leads Doll to immediately closing herself off again and returning to the mission, and like, maybe we all kind of underestimated how much significance this moment carried, but consider this:

Doll, at this point in time, has been living out in the cold for what... a month? Six months? A YEAR? If we exclude J and Cyn from the equation, this is probably the only social interaction she ever had since The Promening, yet, because of Khan's lack of touch, she immediately reminds herself of the massive disconnection between her and the other workers (eh ehm sociopath) and thus storms off rapidly; this moment is actually quite painful when you look at it from this perspective, yet it's also, the only interpretation that makes sense? Otherwise how do you explain the existence of this moment when Murder Drones is a show infamous for his high plotting and lack of filler? They had to go out of their way to animate this, so why did they play it off in this way?

Tessa is a meanie

Penultimately, and again, I want to bring up a post by @capnsaltsquid since that's where I got the inspiration to write this paragraph off, Doll opened up to J and Tessa to get the answers she was seeking, yet not only Tessa shot her in the face for s###s and giggles, but then proceeded to fraternise with her parents murderers, and at this point, she closes herself off enough to realise that she might have to unintentionally kill Uzi and leave everyone in the dust if she wants to get anything at all.

But unfortunately, that is not the case, she dies of a lonely, meaningless, gruesome death, and at this point, she still tries and finally succeeds in reaching out to Uzi, and yet, like all of her previous tries, this is unsuccessful, as Uzi has other things in mind right now.

To wrap things up nicely, both V and Doll went through severe amounts of trauma and handled said trauma in a similar yet also different way, since they are different individuals who process emotions and love differently, thus the actions they took made sense for the person they were and should only be judged in the context of their writing and characterization.

Want more?

[pinguwrites]

Forever Yours | Jackson Rippner (Kinktober 2023 | Day 31 — Jackson Rippner + ghostface!reader)

READ DISCLAIMER

pairing | jackson rippner x reader

summary | In this college au, Halloween is nearing its corner, only for the festive mood to be cut short when your classmate is brutally killed. As the series of murders continues, Jackson Rippner finds himself the next target, oblivious to the fact that his hunter is you, his girlfriend, the ghostface.

word count | 5k

Warnings: smut, rough sex - SM, jackson's insecure, kinda sub!jackson, reader and jackson are sick and crazy, mention of parental abuse, masturbation, brief mention of animal death/abuse (hinted)

Disclaimer: This is part of my unfinished works. I don't write anymore, but I still wanted to publish what I have. I'll use bullet points to explain what I planned to happen at the end. Also note that this is heavily unedited, there will be a lot of mistakes.

"You can have my isolation, you can have the hate that it brings. You can have my absence of faith, you can have my everything" — Closer, Nine Inch Nails

Jackson Rippner was trying to become more romantic for you, an endeavor that started about a week ago after he noticed you liked passionate men. It was a simple conversation about fictional crushes — you know, the ones you have as a kid when he realized all the men you had pointed out were terribly lovey-dovey and all sentimental-like. A few origami roses here and there, some thoughtful gifts, maybe some poetic letters, and he was sure that he could outcompete all of them. He was the only man you needed, the only man you could ever want.

He knew how it sounded — pathetic. Since when was he the type to change himself for a girl? He was no Romeo or Jack Dawson, and he certainly didn’t want to be. He wasn’t a simpering fool, chasing after a pretty girl like it was his life’s mission, but as it turned out, he was for you. And if you liked your men romantic, then Jackson would be romantic.

Starting off with whatever this was: a package of your favorite stuff. Two books you mentioned wanting to get but couldn’t spare the money for, which Jackson just knew he had to buy, even though it would piss off his father — he was always stingy with money — but he figured it was fine as long as it came out of his own pocket. Some bath bombs he made from scratch, swiping the ingredients from around the house. He used a cedar wood scent for the essential oil, as it was the closest smell he could get to his cologne, and made three bombs, wrapped them in plastic, and put them alongside the books in the bag.

It was nothing big, but it was perfect. You were going to love it. You had to love it. How could you not?

He closed the bag and placed it on his desk, ready to go to sleep, when the landline downstairs rang. It was probably telemarketers, but it could also be his parents, who were out on date night. He decided to go head down and check anyways. 

He headed downstairs and picked up the phone, but the voice on the other end caught him off guard. “Hey,” a woman said, but it didn’t sound natural. It sounded like there was a voice modulator, the ones that criminals used in those crime shows you forced him to watch.

“Hey?” Jackson responded, confused, and a little irritated.

“I know who you are.”

Jackson tried to focus on the sound of the voice. Maybe he could pick out who it was if he listened close enough, but it was a fruitless effort. It was female, but too common to tell.

“You’re the one calling me,” he said, tone laced with amusement, “I should assume so.”

“Do you know who I am?”

“A creep? A weirdo?” Jackson laughed. “A stalker? I dunno. Take your pick.”

It was quiet. For a moment, he thought the woman hung up, but then she spoke again, “A lover. I’m a lover, Jackson.”

“Good for you.” He was tired, and didn’t want to deal with this right now. “Now, how about you either stop acting mysterious and tell me what you want, or I cut the call.”

“Someone’s going to die tonight, Jackson,”  the woman said. Oddly enough, Jackson felt a twinge of excitement at her words. It was oddly thrilling, and adrenaline inducing to hear such a thing. It was at this point he realized with himself that this woman was just messing with him, because who would admit to premeditated murder? 

“I hope it’s that girl from my English class. What’s her name? Ah, fuck, I forgot. She’s the annoying one—all emotion. Screams every time the lights go out. You know her?”

“Yeah, I know her.”

So, she’s been on campus, Jackson thought. Following me, maybe. I can’t believe it! 

“It’s not her, though. But who knows, maybe she’ll be next. Would you like that?”

“Doll, I really don’t care. Do me a favor, and don’t call me again.”

He put the phone down and went back upstairs. What a fucking psycho. He was too tired to deal with this shit. After a night of wrapping gifts, all he wanted was to rest. But still, even as he drifted off to sleep, he couldn’t stop thinking about that call. A gut feeling told him not to dismiss it as a prank, but before he could contemplate it any further, he fell asleep.

+++

Jackson drove his car to Westwood’s campus, towards the west side of the college where he knew you were going to be. You had a 2 PM class on Thursday, and right about now was when it ended. He usually picked you up, driving afterwards to a diner, or sometimes to a random spot where you could both be alone and make out in.

As he watched the students pile out of the building, he spotted you, near the back of the crowd, having a conversation with your good friend Lisa. He narrowed his eyes once he saw what you were wearing — a dark, plaid miniskirt with a black crop top. Even from this distance he could see the curved outline of your breasts, and imagined the view from behind, but as you got closer, he noticed the look on your face — concerned, nervous. In fact, he noticed the look on everyones face. They were whispering amongst each other in hushed voices, unlike most days when they were loud and rowdy. 

You waved goodbye to Lisa, then headed over to the car, getting into the shotgun seat. In a quick movement, you gave Jackson a kiss on the cheek, then leaned back with a heavy sigh. “Did you hear?” you asked.

“About what?” He was a little worried, but knowing you it was probably because you got a B on a test or some other stupid bullshit. He started the engine and pulled out of the driveway, exiting onto the main road.

“You know,” you said, not leading much on. “The girl.”

Jackson rolled his eyes. “I can’t understand you when you speak all cryptic like this.”

“Sorry — I just thought you knew. She went missing, just last night or something.”

Jackson froze. “What?”

“Well, not missing.” Your voice was a little awkward, as if you were uncomfortable talking about it. “Lisa told me she’s dead. At least, that’s what she heard. But you know, the police haven’t come out with a report and I haven’t looked at the news yet.”

Jackson couldn’t believe it. His mind went to last night, and the mysterious call he got. Did the murder have anything to do with that? It couldn’t be a coincidence. Would it be interfering with an investigation if he didn't tell the police?

“What’s wrong?” you asked, your tone holding a hint of concern.

Jackson wasn’t sure if he wanted to tell you. It was probably just nothing, but still, he didn’t want to keep any secrets. It was Relationships 101, communication, even though he was shit poor at it. 

“I got a call last night,” he said, as nonchalant as he could. “It was this woman. Her voice was masked, so I couldn’t recognize it. She, uh, told me that someone was going to die.”

You huffed. “Are you being serious?”

“Yeah.”

You swatted his shoulder, making him chuckle. “You have to go to police, Jackson! They can track down the call and find out who it is — maybe she’s the murderer. Haven’t you thought of that?”

“I did,” Jackson said. Seeing the look on your face, he relented. “Alright. I’ll go to the station after I drop you off, happy?”

You shook your head. “I’m coming with you. I don’t want to leave you alone. What if you’re being targeted, hmm? What if you’re next?”

Jackson rolled his eyes. “Stop overreacting. You can come, but you’re just gonna get bored.”

You were fine with that, so it seemed.

He drove to the police station, noticing the presence of reporters. He managed to slip you both past them, though he suspected that the only reason he got through was because they weren’t interested in them.

He went up to the front desk and told the lady he needed to report something. She nodded and brought out a paper to record, when she realized exactly what Jackson was reporting and decided to call the lead detective on the case.

It took a while, but eventually called Jackson and you over to Detective’s Reisert’s office, settling you both down in a pair of chairs.

It was a series of routine questions. When did the phone call happen? What was said? Who was in the house at the time? Why didn’t you tell anyone? What did the voice sound like? 

At some point, you were ushered out of the room. It was silly, because it’s not like you had anything to do with this, but then Reisert asked: Who do you think it was? Is it possible you knew this person? Why were you called?

“She knows who I am,” Jackson answered. “I mentioned English,” Jackson didn’t specify exactly why he brought it up, “and this girl in my class, and she said she knew her. She could’ve been lying, though, I never told her a name.”

“And what do you think she meant by saying she was a lover? Do you think it’s possible this is someone who has a crush on you?”

Jackson laughed. “Probably.” He didn’t know many men or women who didn’t have a crush on him at some point.

“Someone who doesn’t like your girlfriend?”

Jackson’s mood got cold. The idea hadn’t even passed his mind. If this mysterious woman was the killer, and did have a crush on him, then of course, you were a threat. He suddenly felt very uncomfortable, and it was clear Detective Reisert could sense it, because he placed a hand on Jackson’s shoulder and said, “Son, don’t worry about it. Those are all the questions I have. You’re free to go.”

Jackson shrugged him off, not leaving. “Who was the victim?” he asked.

The detective hesitated. “Miya Reinhart. She’s currently missing, but we’re doing everything in our power to find her,” he said, getting up from his seat. “We’ll investigate the phone call and see if we can find out where it came from. If it’s anything worth checking out, we’ll call you back in.”

He ushered Jackson out the door. You were patiently waiting in the lobby, hands interocked, nervously glancing around. Why did some bitch have to die? he thought. Now I’m going to have to deal with all of this.

As he approached you, the name Miya Reinhart ringed in his head. He could’ve sworn he knew who it was. Maybe someone in one of his classes, a friend of a friend? It wasn’t until you both started walking out the door did it click in his head.

“It’s Miya, right?” he said, looking over at you. “The curvesetter?”

You groaned at the mention of her. “She thinks she’s so smart, it’s a wonder she has any friends at all. You know, just the other day —” you fell silent, taking in the look on his face. Slowly, your eyes filled with guilt “. . . Oh.”

“Yeah.”

You nodded your head, licking your lips. You opened your mouth to speak, but ended up not saying anything at all. Maybe it was for the better.

Jackson put his arm around you. He drove to your house, a two-story with a nice front lawn and backyard, pretty flowers and sprinkles that ran through the night. He parked in your driveway, hesitating for a moment, before deciding to hell with it and reach into the backseat, pulling out the little bag of presents he made for you.

“I don’t want you to be thinking about anything bad,” he started, handing you the gift. “I got you a little something, maybe it’ll take your mind off of things.”

You opened it up. Inside was a bath bomb, colored red, and two books. Horror books. Stephen King novels.

You paused for a moment. Jackson got a little nervous and glanced over at you, wondering if you liked it or not, but when he saw the little smile on your face, he relaxed.

"Thank you, Jackson," you said genuinely, closing the bag. "You didn't have to get something for me."

He shrugged. "You're my girl." He didn't say anything more after that. There wasn't anything else to add. That was all the reasoning he needed.

+++

Jackson liked to think he had a reasonably good friend group. There were four, not including him — Daniel, a football player who got here on a full scholarship ride; Aneria, a relatively calm girl who liked basic things like the mall and stripped blue jeans; Lisa, your ride-or-die, not much more needed to be said other than the fact that you two were so close he was almost concerned you were gay; and then, of course, you yourself. He wasn’t entirely sure how this group of people came to be, but the basics were — Daniel and Jackson were friends, you and Lisa were friends, Daniel had a crush on Aneria who was loosely friends with Lisa, and so Lisa agreed to try and bring them closer together, and lo and behold, everyone came together like ingredients in a cake.

Jackson’s eventual investigations revealed that Aneria did not like Daniel back, and so the entire thing was a waste except for the fact that he met you, but it wasn’t like he was booting himself out of this group anytime soon. 

“She’s been scared recently,” Daniel told Jackson one day as they were both smoking outside behind a dingy restaurant. “Because of the murder, you know?”

Ah, right. The police report came out the morning after Jackson went to the police station. Miya Reinhart’s body was found in the woods near her house. Police were apparently investigating some promising leads, but at the moment they had nothing more to say.

“And how does that benefit you?” Jackson wondered, taking in a slow puff.

“She’ll want protection,” Daniel said as if that was the most obvious thing in the world. “I’ve been driving her back to her dorm recently, she doesn’t want to go by herself, nor do her parents. They like me, dude. Parents plus my masculine energy should be more than enough.”

“Masculine energy?” Jackson said with a scoff and chuckle. “Sure, dude. Just ask her out.”

“It’s not that easy. I mean, how’d you ask your girl out?”

Jackson leaned his head against the brick wall. “She wooed me.”

Daniel thought about it for a moment. “Maybe I’ve been doing it all wrong. I should be asking her for advice, not you.”

“That’s probably right.”

“You know, I’m planning a party next weekend. Halloween-themed.” Daniel got up from his position and dusted off all the dirt from his pants. “You gonna come?” He lent out his hand.

“Yeah, ‘course.” 

Jackson let himself get pulled up to his feet. They started walking down the street and back to the general vicinity of where both their neighborhoods lay.

“It’s a costume party, obviously. And I’m thinking I should make Halloween-themed treats, the type that moms make when we’re kids, you know?”

Jackson never experienced that. As a child, his Halloweens were his mom trying to do something nice for the family, then getting drunk and upset after his father never showed up. After a certain point, Jackson stopped anticipating any type of celebration and his mom stopped making an attempt. 

“It’s a little childish — but who cares? You can get the drinks, right?” Daniel continued.

Jackson nodded, hands in his pocket. “Yeah, and food, too. How many people are gonna be there?”

Daniel shrugged. “I don’t want this one to be big. I was thinking just us five and, like, a plus-one.”

That was more than fine with Jackson. In all honesty, he didn’t like Daniel’s big parties, the ones where everyone he ever talked to was invited, where he had to clean the house out because Daniel was too crossfaded to move a muscle. 

At least he had something to look forward to this week.

+++

“I told you someone was going to get murdered.” 

Jackson sucked in a breath. He had an awful feeling when he picked up the phone — he should have known it would be her again. His eyes darted nervously around the room, paranoid — across the walls and the crevices of the room, the windows and the opened crack of the closet door.

It was almost enticing. It was like a game, in a sick, cruel way. Who was she? A tormenter, a killer. Criminal.

“What do you want?” Jackson asked, stern.

 “You.”

The audacity! he thought. “I have a girlfriend,” he responded simply, wondering whether this was the right time to call the police. He almost didn’t want to. He wanted to see how far this would go, but he knew that was stupid.

He was still wondering whether this whole thing was a prank or not. It was possible that this was a huge coincidence, and with the murder they were simply taking advantage of a bad situation. 

“Maybe she’ll be next.” 

Jackson’s heart thumped in his chest, so loud he could feel the beat throughout his entire body. He felt his body chill, goosebumps along his arms. No. This was not a prank anymore. 

“Listen here you bitch,” he spat into the receiver, “you hurt her in anyway I’ll find you and gut you like a common whore. You understand?” 

She laughed, no — giggled.

“You’re so protective. What a man.” 

Jackson was about to end the call and call the police but then she added, “But it doesn’t matter. You’re too late.” 

He could feel his breathing waver, shaking. In fear or anger, he didn’t know — probably both.

“What do you mean? What have you done to her?” 

The call ended.

“Fuck!”

Jackson threw the telephone into the wall, watching as it broke apart and left a dent. Upstairs, he could hear his mom call out his name in worry, but he wasn’t paying attention. He was already putting on his shoes, sprinting out of the house and towards his car. Without abandon, he started the engine and sped down the street towards your place. It would take a good ten minutes. Your parents house wasn’t as close to Westwood as his was. The whole time he couldn’t stop thinking, What if you were already dead?

His palms were sweaty, and he was driving recklessly. There were few cars on the road. He he was subject to honking more than once, and it was out of sheer luck that he avoided being pulled over by a cop car.

When he finally arrived, he rushed up to your front door and rapped, frustrated when there wasn’t an immediate response. Where the fuck were your parents?

He thought about going over to the side of your house and climbing to your window like he used to do when you first started dating, but the door opened and to his great relief it was you standing there, unharmed and looking rather confused.

But still. He couldn’t take any chances.

“Jackson?” you said, surprised. “What are you — ”

Jackson pushed his way inside and locked the door, wrapping his arms around your figure, letting your head rest against his chest as he used your comfort to calm his heart. It felt like the world was not functioning the way it was supposed to — everything was so fast and heavy but muted, like he was in a dream. A disturbing, horrible dream.

When you pulled away, you opened your mouth to speak, but he placed his finger against your lips, shushing you.

“Are all the windows locked?” he asked, his breathing steadying.

“Um.” You thought for a moment. “I dunno. Maybe.”

Jackson sighed, wanting to pinch your side for being so careless. How many times had he told you to keep all house openings locked?

He went to every window on the first floor, while you followed behind, barraging him with questions. What happened? Why are you here? Is something wrong?

He placed his hands on the side of your arms. “Call the police, okay, doll?”

Your eyes widened. “What?”

“Just do it, I’ll explain after I check upstairs.”

“Babe, just tell me now.”

Jackson moved past you, but you grabbed his hand and dug your nails into his palm. “Tell me,” you said softly, but your tone indicated that you weren’t playing.

He paused. After taking a deep breath so he could speak properly without running out of air, he spilled everything. When he finished, you reacted in a way he didn’t expect, but was grateful for— calm and collected, albeit worried.

He went upstairs to lock the rest of the windows. He heard your faint voice talk to the police downstairs, explaining the situation. When he made it to your bedroom, however, he noticed something odd. There was a pile of dirty laundry in the corner. Once he made sure that all the openings on this floor were locked, he removed one of the shirts, which had small red spots. Like a splatter.

He sniffed it, against his better judgement, and recoiled at the scent. It was most certainly blood. The iron was unmistakable. 

“What are you doing?”

He turned around like a deer caught in headlights.

Jackson held up the shirt. “What is this?”

“N-nothing,” you stammered. “Lady stuff.”

“Like what?” He narrowed his eyes. “Periods?”

With a faint blush, you nodded. He rolled his eyes, wishing that this type of conversation wasn’t so embarrasing.

“Give it to me,” you pleaded. “I was just in the process of cleaning that when you came. I don’t want the police to see this.”

Jackson gave the shirt back to you. What you wanted to say was — ‘I don’t want a bunch of old men to see this.’ 

+++

“One more time, let’s go through what happened when you came here,” Detective Reisert said. “When you told her — your girlfriend — what had happened, would you say she was frightened? Panicked?”

Jackson sighed. He was sitting on your couch with the police as they canvassed your home. You were being interviewed in the dining room, and your parents were on their way back from the work convention they were supposedly at. There was a swath of news reporters outside your house, as well as confused neighbors. All the curtians and blinds were shut closed, to give you guys at least a bit of privacy, but the nosie and flashing lights were just as distracting as the sight of them.

“I mean, yeah,” Jackson said. “But it’s not like she was having a panic attack. I don’t see why you’re interested in her reaction. I need to know whether she’s safe or not! What happened to the phone call? Did you trace it or — ”

“It’s from a burner account,” Reisert said. “The person who did this was smart. But we’ll find them.”

Jackson was not satisfied. “I want security. For her.”

“We’ll have someone protecting her twenty-four by seven. What I want to know is why she was so calm.”

Jackson couldn’t believe this. “Because she was. She’s just like that. I mean, her cat died a few months ago and she didn’t even shed a tear.”

“Didn’t even shed a tear,” he repeated slowly. “That’s odd. How’d the cat die?”

It was then that Jackson realized what the detective was implying. “She didn’t do this, if that’s what you think.”

“Everyone’s a suspect, son.”

“I’m not your son!”

Reisert paused. “You’re right. Where is your father, by the way?”

“Not important.”

“I think it is. I think it’s a parents responsibility to raise their child properly. To tell them not to say things like, ‘I’ll gut you like a common whore’. That is what you said, right?”

“She was threatening my girlfriend,” Jackson snapped.

“Of course, of course. What about the stain on her clothes? The blood?”

Jackson wished he had never mentioned that at all. “It’s from her period.”

“And what did it look like?”

“I dunno, red.”

“. . . Those are all the questions I have.”

Detective Reisert got up from his seat and gave a polite smile.

Jackson rubbed his temples, finding this whole situation to be absolutely insane.

When he passed by the dining room, he overheard you and some others officers talking. It’s not like it was a crime to eavesdrop. This wasn’t a police station, he could stand wherever he wanted.

“It was a period stain,” you said with an exasperated tone.

“On your shirt?”

“Yes, I was . . . I was doing something, and I didn’t have a towel, you know? I don’t want to explain this, I shouldn’t have to! It’s personal.”

“Can we see the shirt?”

“It’s upstairs, but I already cleaned it.”

“With what?”

“Hydrogen peroxide. I-It’s not weird, I’ve been doing it since I was eleven. Ask my mom when she comes back, she’s the one who taught me.”

“We will. Thank you for your time.”

You got up, the chair rubbing against the hardwood floor. You walked over to Jackson with tears in your eyes. He immediately pulled you into a hug, guiding you away from everyone else and towards a more secluded area.

“Shh, shhh, it’s okay.” He rubbed your back, soothing. If only Detective Reisert could see you now. Look what his team had done to her. “Let it all out.”

“I wanna go upstairs,” you cried, grasping onto his shirt. 

“Yeah, I’ll take you.”

They went to the guest room, as your bedroom was being occupied. He laid you down on the bed and wrapped a blanket around you two, letting you sob into his jacket. It was wet now, which he didn’t like, but he wasn’t about to stop you or move your head.

As he soothed you, he thought about everything that was going on. He couldn’t believe that this was happening, to him and his girlfriend of all people. And the thought of you being targeted . . . 

They were still like that for a while. Your parents came back home and made a big fuss, rightfully. They never liked Jackson that much, so after thanking him with a half-assed smile they asked him to leave the house. There was no way Jackson was going to leave you after this, but the police officer who was being stationed at your house insisted as well, so reluctantly, he agreed and headed back home. He kept you on call the entire night, even when you were sleeping. He needed to hear you, even if it was just your breathing. He needed to make sure you were alright. 

+++

“That’s absolutely crazy,” Aneria said, walking side by side with Jackson. They were both heading to their next class which they both shared. They always walked together. Usually Jackson would drop her off and go on his own way, but he’d been missing too many classes and he didn’t want to get in trouble with the school. If that happened they would contact his father, and his father would just give him the fist.

“Yeah,” Jackson agreed, kicking a small pebble across the sidewalk. You were staying at home for the time being. You had taken a few days off, and while he knew you were protected, he still couldn’t help but feel uneasy.

“What exactly happened?” Aneria asked, brushing back her blonde hair. “I mean, I heard rumors that they think it might be . . . you know . . .”

“Might be what?” Jackson snapped, turning to look at her. He didn’t mean to lose his patience, but he was in a bad mood. He sighed. “Sorry. I’m just pissed. Tell me.”

Aneria hesitated, then spoke, “That it might be her this whole time.”

Jackson paused in his tracks and turned to look at Aneria. “It’s not. It’s not, why would she do that?”

“I’m not saying I think it’s her, I’m just letting you know how people are feeling,” Aneria said with a shrug. “Also,” she added nervously, “I’m looking out for you.”

She placed a hand on Jackson’s arm. He felt mildly uncomfortable.

“I’m worried about you. Some psycho is stalking you. She’s murdered people, and I — I’m worried about you. So is James, even though he might not say it.”

Jackson shrugged her hand off. “I’m flattered.”

Aneria didn’t say anything more after that. When they got to class, a few people were looking at him with pitiful stares, and after the lecture was finished, the professor pulled him aside to ask if he was okay. Jackson said he was, which was a lie, but he was not about to pour out his heart and feelings to the old man who used to yell at him for not doing his work. 

+++

———

(This is where I stopped writing 😬)

The next part is a short scene where Jackson reminisces about old times and how he met you. Back in highschool you were a good student, but also a preppy bitch and he didn’t really like you. But somehow you won over his heart and instead of going to some fancy college like you thought he would, you ended up staying with him in community college, which he suspects is the reason your parents don’t like him so much.

He also talks about the fact that he’s never had sex with you, and is actually a virgin. He’s nervous about the intimacy.

+++

“You shouldn’t be here,” Jackson chastised, pulling you away from the rest of the crowd and into his arms.

They were at a football game.  

So basically this a small scene where Jackson and the rest of the crew except Lisa and Aneria are at this football game. The next day they realize someone else was murdered, and the police clear you up as a suspect because of your alibi.

In another scene, you try to have sex with Jackson, but he pushes you off. You get a little annoyed and decide to just call it a day, because you’re under the assumption that he has slept with people before, he just doesn’t want to sleep with you.

The police start looking into more clues related to Jackson. They think this is the work of some yandere/stalker, and they think it might be Aneria for a hot moment because she so obviously has a crush on Jackson. They end up dropping that train of thought.

At the Halloween party, Aneria makes a move on Jackson, inviting him into a bedroom upstairs. But you stop her by stabbing her through the heart. Jackson is shocked and also incredibly turned on. You rape him. He struggles at first but eventually gives in and fucks you back. It was supposed to be a blood kink, knife play sort of scene that was really rough and crazy on both sides.

Jackson doesn’t understand fully though, because you weren’t there during the time of one of the murders. You tell him not to worry about it. You suggest running away to some other state or maybe a foreign country. Jackson is ready to leave it all behind.

As you get in the car before anyone notices something is wrong, Jackson notices Lisa in the driver’s seat. She’s been your accomplice this whole time, and she was the one who murdered someone at a football game. You both drive into the night and are never heard from again. 

________________

Taglist in case anyone's still interested: @shroombloom-rry @madnessandobsession @henrywintersdearestgirl @hllywdwhre @your-nanas-house @ellebelleshelby @Meetmeatyourworst @hanawrites404 @Emimurphy2008 @wild-rose-35 @nela-cutie @slut4thebroken @flwrs4aust @httpxgray

[basil-does-arttt]

hold on wait a second i had a thought

in the DLC prolouge cutscene for DMC 5, when Vergil is in that stone passageway area, he says "its nearly time" (in reference to him splitting himself in half).

We know what day it happens, april 30th. The date is shown in Nero's flashback scene. This is of course assuming Vergil did all that on the same day, which i think is what happened. (He could open a portal to his house to travel, and why would he wait any longer and risk dying first?)

Anyway. Thats not my point, my point is: did he choose to do it on this day on purpose? Is this date special?

Im overanalyzing here so this may be a stretch, but: Could that be the day Eva died? Think about it. Him splitting himself was a "rebirth" of sorts: discarding his humanity to become a full demon in search of ultimate power.

Vergil being stabbed by those demons the day Eva died could also be counted as a kind of rebirthing for him: In the span of a few hours, he lost everything. His family, his life. And maybe even, his full humanity, as he gained his DT form in that moment too (shown by him having the same triggered-style eyes Dante uses when threatening V toward the start, also (half)triggered.) No longer was he a mere human boy, but now half a devil - the things that killed his family - too.

Knowing Vergil, it could make sense. In DMC 3 he's quite proper and a bit sentimental, much more so than Dante and i can see him caring more for these kinds of niche details in his life a lot more than Dante too. I also think he may have still been in that mindset when coming out of the Nelo Angelo body (however that happened), in a way that he hasnt really grown or matured while he was Nelo Angelo due to all the mind-fuckery performed thanks to Mundus.

(Could also be clarification for the reason Vergil still looks so young, quote "because of how much time he's spent in the underworld compared to Dante". He didnt live there, certainly not by choice. But he was captured and tortured by Mundus for 10 years. My thoughts is that he's technically still in his teenage body, as becoming Nelo Angelo and being in the underworld for so long thanks to Mundus halted (or at least very significantly slowed) the aging process. Time could move slower in hell but thats a rant for another time, ive gone off track.)

As such, him choosing such a special (traumatic) date to essential commit suicide on doesnt seem like much of a reach to me. Vergil has always been methodic. He doesn't do things hap-hazardly and never has, even as Nelo Angelo when he invites Dante outside to set up a proper fight rather than just taking the opportunity and attacking in the bedroom.

Of course you can argue it was coincidence, and he just stumbled across Nero by chance and decided to do it right then and there. He had to have found Nero first of all, figured out his plan of attack (probably so he wouldnt draw unwanted attention and possibly be stopped), then actually put it into motion. He couldnt exactly control the date Nero happened to be in the right place at the right time and gave him an opening. Im not trying to convince or anything, just sharing ideas, But wouldn't it just be so in character for april 30th to be a special date for him??

Overall i at least think the reason he chose to do it at the house was intentional for reasons stated above. If it wasnt, then why didn't he just... idk, find an alleyway or something and split himself there?

Those are my thoughts. Id love to hear other people's theories and such on this too.

(EDIT: I REALIZED THE MOMENT HE SPLITS HIMSELF ALSO PROBABLY HAPPENS AT A SPECIFIC TIME AS WELL, NAMELY 6:00 PM.

It mustve taken him some time to get back to the house. Not hours, but not seconds. 15 minutes seems like a good amount of travel time for someone who can teleport using portals alongside a bit of walking. If he got there early he could've just waited too.

A specific date, april 30th, and at (likely) exactly 6:00pm. In VOV while it is black and white, i assume the attack happened late into the evening, since the sky is dark when he gets back to the house a bit later. Idk how he would've known that it was exactly 6:00 but... anyway, Mundus also seems like the type of guy to plan shit, especially an attack like he did to Eva and the twins, if that whole "eva died on april 30th" thing was true.)

[indraste-darktalon]

Title: Heart don't fail me now. You're all I've got left. (Indy) Word Count: 3000 Summary: Indy says another goodbye in her typical fashion. Warnings: alcohol, angst, death (of a family member), violence Song Link

Indy had been a functional alcoholic for decades. Cheerfully so, even, at least on the surface. Was it a good example to set as a healer? Absolutely not. Was it good for her, personally? No, but when she could just wipe out the excess in her system to prevent long-term organ damage, as well as stay coherent enough to work and be social, what did it matter? A solid buzz made her less nervous in social situations. It made her less likely to have nervous breakdowns in tense situations, and sometimes it was even kind enough to keep nightmares away. It made it possible to not have to deal with the far-reaching effects that the trauma of healing friends, family, and comerades over the decades had carved into her. And sometimes, it even made it possible to forget how guilty she was that despite being a genuinely gifted healer, she'd still lost friend after friend—as well as her entire family—over the past several decades.

But it wasn't doing a fucking thing to help her cope with the fact that her wife was dead.

They'd known it was coming, at least. That had made their few remaining days incredibly painful, but also savorable. Blix had asked her to enchant something that would let Indy know if her heart stopped, in case they weren't together when she was killed. A small enchant like that had been simple enough to add to her wedding ring; adding the same tracker to Blix's had probably been unnecessary, but the rings were a matched set. Close together, they glowed. And far apart, they gave a slow, constant pulse at the same rate of a heart at rest. Indy wished she'd thought of it sooner, because it was a surprisingly soothing feeling.

She didn't tell her wife that her ring beat to Indy's resting heart rate, and hers beat to Blix's. It was painfully, stupidly sentimental, but after so many years holding her wife close and listening to her live and breathe in the dark while trying to stay awake to avoid the ghosts in her head, well…. She wanted a few more hours, a few more days, of its rhythm.

The pause between every single pulse of the ring's band cut deep, but even that was tolerable compared to the thought of waiting and not knowing. Her entire family had been in the limbo of the missing for years, and Indy didn't want to have to go through that ever again.

At least Blix had been given the chance to offer her some certainty that there was no longer a need to either wait or look for her. It was sad to call that an improvement over her norm, but Indy was too grateful to be bitter that certainty was so unusual.

SILVERLOCH

Indy knew, when Blix left on the latest hunt, that she wasn't coming back from it. Maybe that was fatalism, but when the gentle beat that tracked Blix's heart stopped coming from her wedding ring, Indy just stared down at the ruby that her wife had picked to complement her tattoos and let her jaw clench until her teeth hurt. Feeling a sense of surprise would have been a kindness, honestly; it was rarely a good thing when the predictions the healer part of her made turned out to be right.

"You fucking idiot," she whispered.

She wasn't sure which of them she was talking to, but it also no longer mattered.

Indy reached for her flask, took a solid drink, and then quietly picked up the bag she'd packed that morning. After that, all she needed to do was call for their Darters and lock up the house. Asha and Tilly both immediately knew that something was wrong, and flew to each of their preferred shoulders without protest. Asha had been with Indy the second time she'd run away to mourn someone, and she seemed to know what was coming, based on the fact that she began to hum—her version of purring—against Indy's neck the moment they turned from the house.

"It'll be okay, baby girl," she reassured Asha, though the way her voice cracked didn't sell the words to any of them.

But it would be okay—or at least different from the last time—because she wasn't going to let it be anything else. Indy still had connections to the world, and she had fought hard to both make and keep them over the years since her return from Nagrand. No matter how strong the urge was, she wasn't going to fuck off into the wilderness without giving the people in her life some sort of indication where to find her. Running away had kept her from being there for the death of her brother and her parents both, and she wasn't going to make that mistake a third time.

So she dropped letters in the mailbox as she passed it: one to Andennaris, one to Ranek (and through Ranek, one announcing a hiatus from work. It was poor form to leave him to tell their coworkers since they'd been working with Blix for years, but she didn't have it in her to do it herself). The two of them had been warned in advance that this would be happening, so the content of their letters wouldn't be blindsiding, at least.

There was also one addressed to Rethea tucked into the envelope with Andy's; he was letting her stay with him since her home had been turned to dust, so he was her most reliable address at present. (And inside Reth's letter, a request to tell Grenfield what had happened; they mostly fished and drank too much to work on projects they'd gotten together to tailor, but if he was warned in advance, she wouldn't feel the urge to explain anything when they saw each other next. That would be ideal for both of them.)

The two addressed to Xarian and Andrastyn had been more difficult to send, but… if they reached out in response, she knew that they would understand why she was planning to handle her grief in the way she was. (That was precisely why they had been harder to notify, in fact.) Ranek and her brother might, too, but something in her hadn't been able to admit just how self-destructive she was planning to be to either of them.

Not long-term self destruction; she reminded herself frequently that she wasn't going to give up on everyone she'd found, met, and become close to over one new grief, no matter how much she wanted to hide like an injured animal. But at the same time, funerals weren't Indy's thing. Public grief among friends and family was more than she could handle—especially since definitely be expected to speak. As sad as it was, Blix would understand Indy mourning her by falling right back into the state she'd been when the two of them had met.

The day Blix had found out and told Indy what was about to happen, Blix had asked her to make sure she was remembered in a way that would be memorable, and lively, and as free of pain as possible. Indy had agreed, of course, but they had both known from the seconds the words left her mouth that Indy wouldn't be able to honor that promise. (At least Indy hoped Blix had known.)

Maybe if Blix had been blessed enough to live to old age, like Indy had so desperately wanted. Maybe if Indy still had a goddess she felt she could turn to for comfort, and ask to look after her wife, since she was an honorary druid (the tree hand made the rules, in that case).

But there were no victories here, and nothing to celebrate: misery, squandered chances, and a lack of time were everywhere in Azeroth, at any given point in time. If every one were memorialized, nobody would ever get anything done. In her mind, any formal memorial would have been nothing more than a waste, and Indy didn't want Blix's fellow hunters to have to deal with her working through that belief in a ceremony meant to honor a fallen friend and beloved wife.

Indy made a point to check her mail every few days, though nobody would have a way to know that. The message from Blix's fellow hunters, asking for her input, assistance, and participation in a memorial in her wife's name, was a mixed blessing. She was able to pass on what Blix had wanted for a funeral. Something positive, and a little strange—something meant to help heal the cut a little—and then she left to go very intentionally hurt herself for a while instead of sticking around to attend the service herself.

Guilt was a fel of an emotion.

BORALUS

Physical pain was supposed to help. The kind that came from missing a dodge or failing to block properly, the kind that signaled a direct hit with her bare knuckles. The dull throb of her back after being slammed too hard into a wall, post, or unprepared piece of furniture. The cheers and jeers of the crowd were supposed to be loud enough to drown out the disaster in her mind, too—whatever hadn't already been drowned in the booze, at least.

But this was her fourth—fifth?—underground brawling ring tournament in Boralus, and nothing was as numb as it should be. She'd blown through all the illegal boxing and brawling in Stormwind and Dalaran (and suddenly "blown through" didn't feel like a good word choice, but at least she hadn't said it aloud) in the six months Blix and her brother had been missing at the same time. Every establishment there had remembered her, unfortunately, so she'd caught a portal and moved on to a city whose bars didn't yet consider her notorious.

Indy had been to the city a few times when her brother still called it home, and had been drinking buddies a few of the fighters. But the people running the fights hadn't known the look in her eyes well enough to turn her away. It hadn't been a bad time when she'd last been through, so how would they even know?

But the drink hadn't been enough. Splitting her knuckles against opponents, then refusing to heal between fights hadn't, either. Darktalon rage was bad enough without giving it a self-destructive bent, and nobody was enjoying the results. Well. The people placing bets were, because she was far too volatile to be reliable. And that added chance into the game.

Each night ended the same, though: exhausted, a bloody, taloned hand clutching a drink glass, and her forehead planted against the tabletop as she debated cleansing enough booze out of her to keep her going, or to finish the drink and go get something she could pretend was sleep.

Indy was having a particulary difficult time with that decision the night a chair scraped loudly on the floor beside her, and she realized someone had joined her at the table she'd been using as a pillow.

"The table and I are taken," Indy muttered to the wood grain. "Well. It's taken with me."

A hand rested on her shoulder, and she was halfway through sending her elbow directly into whatever asshole had just grabbed her before she registered that the voice of the man seated beside her was familiar.

"Ind."

Her ears shot up to alertness, and she raised her head to stare blankly at the face of her older brother. "And? …Did you track me down." She huffed indignantly at him. "I said I'd be in Nagrand." "Yes, you did. But when I didn't find you there, I knew Stormwind was out. So that saved time." His lips pressed into a thin line (oh no, disapproval) before he added, "I lived here for years, and I remember where you like to fight. It wasn't that difficult to find you. Follow the feathers and find the upset tenders."

She shrugged. "I'm working through my feelings." "You've worked through them. You've tenderized them." There might have been a hint of a smile at that, but it wasn't reaching his voice. His tone was soft, but firm. "It's time to come back."

"I can't—" her voice cracked, but because it was Andy, she didn't care. "I can't go home."

Andennaris offered out an arm, and she slumped against his side like she had been doing since she was little.

"I meant Nagrand," he explained, and squeezed her against him slightly.

He was a little colder to lean against, these days. But the voice she'd known for centuries was still there, underneath the echo, though the comfort would have been welcome even if it wasn't. Still, she hadn't been the little sister since they'd been reunited. It felt weak. They'd been working together on restoring his memories for years, and she had always tried to be the support when the hard moments came. And now here he was, returning the favor—

No, not returning the favor. Being family. Neither of them were keeping a tally.

"You shouldn't go with me. You've got Reth staying wi—"

"Ind. She can stay alone for a while. You know she'd prefer that. She just needs a roof, and she has a key." He squeezed her again. "You need a brother. And I am here."

I am here, and the unspoken and I know I haven't always been. For a moment she felt like she might break down completely, right there in the middle of the tavern. But instead, she took a deep breath, and relaxed enough to be able to mentally let him take the older sibling role back from her.

(It was the oddest combination of new and normal.)

She sniffled and blinked away the moisture trying to overtake her eyes. "You really want to come with me?" "Of course. I'm packed for it already. Once you get your things together, we can go."

It had been hard, letting Blix in enough for her to be able to help Indy in an emotional capacity. There was a time when she'd cried with her older brother without feeling shamed, or pathetic, but healers couldn't be weak. They—

Indy finally turned her head enough to look at her brother. She'd fought so hard to find her family again, and actual friends, so that she could be more than an awkward emotional rock that healed people before drinking all the liquor and roosting in a tree.

But what was the point of the hurt, and the fear, and the effort, if she didn't let herself benefit from having people in her life again?

"Okay," Indy said through a heavy sigh. "Let me get my things. And then, I guess, you get to spend however long you can stand with the saddest camping partner available." She said it with a grin, and oddly enough, it was a genuine one.

He gave her a small smile. "Your company, and free energy for me? We'll both be feeling great, then."

She laughed and started to rise, pushing her braid over her shoulder. "Rude. And fine, you win."

Her brother caught her lightly by the wrist before she was fully out of reach. When he replied, his voice was serious again. "I'm with you for as long as you need. Rethea has been told I'm not available for work, and she's more worried about you as a friend than she is about me being free for contracts."

Indy sank her fangs into her lower lip and sighed. Dealing with the consequences of having people in her life who cared was hurting her pride a little. And that was fucking stupid. She took a deep, tired breath, and then finished standing with a very genuine groan as bruises, pulled muscles, and joints protested.

She spun her wedding ring around its finger, and tried not to focus on how still and dull it was. Part of her had wanted to take it off, but that was the same part of her that wanted to run and hide. Apparently, it was going to be just as hard to remain with her loved ones as it had been to find them. Every feather on her body was singing for her to shapeshift and sneak off when she went to her room to get her things.

But Indy had already learned, for worse rather than better, that running away was easy. And sadly, easy was never better.

Blix was a hole through her core that might never close properly, but that didn't mean that she needed to turn her back on everyone she'd met and everything else she'd built since coming back from her first self-imposed exile.

""Let's get my things and head out, then," she said, finally meeting her brother's flickering, empty eyes. "Asha will be happy to see you."

"…You left her alone in your room?"

"Of course not! Tilly is in there, too, so it's even worse than you're imagining."

He started laughing, and the sound caught in Indy's ribs, forcing her to replicate it. It had been days since she'd last laughed, and it the fact that it already felt a little foreign seemed sad.

But her big brother had found her. It might take a long time for Indy to feel anything remotely close to normal again, but thanks to Andennaris, she also wouldn't feel alone.

[fullofbees]

1 John 2:16

Mammon insists on you entertaining him when he's bored, so you make sure it's a night his skin will never forget.

CW: Smut, Domme!Reader, Sub!Mammon, Masochist Mammon, Impact Play (Riding Crop), Mild Cock-and-Ball Torture, Handjobs, Anal Fingering, Anal Vibrators, Prostate Milking

Word Count: 3, 528

»»----------► Reader is Gender Neutral

Mammon bursts through the door to your bedroom, the force causing the door to smack loudly as it swings into the wall. His sudden presence startles you, muscles tensing as you clutch the newest TSL manga to your chest. 

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, can’t you knock?!”

He ignores your question, collapsing onto your bed. Lying on his back, he sprawls out, legs dangling off the side of the bed. 

“I’m so boooored. Everyone in this house is borin’!”

You sigh, placing a bookmark between the pages, knowing Levi would kill you for dog-earing his precious manga. “I suppose you want me to entertain you?”

“Of course! A human like you should feel honored at the chance to entertain the Great Mammon,” he boasts, turning on his side to face you. His familiar smile teases you, daring you to take the bait and play.

Setting the manga on your nightstand, your eyebrow raises as you try to figure out his intentions. Sure, Mammon could truly be bored and just wants your company. He could also be trying to lure you into another money-making scheme. You must tread carefully, as you don’t want to end your evening being scolded by Lucifer. 

“And just how am I supposed to entertain you?”

He shrugs, fingers drumming along your comforter, “I hadn’t thought that far ahead…”

You chuckle, leaning forward to ruffle his hair, “You never do.”

He hums contentedly as his head angles towards your hand. Gently, you continue to run your fingers through his hair, nails gliding across his scalp. 

In the privacy of your room, Mammon doesn’t reject your affection. When not having to worry about his brother’s teasing, his tsundere act quickly disappears. It used to irritate you to no end, constantly making you question how he actually felt toward you. It seems so obvious now. 

You don’t really mind sharing the majority of your sentiment privately, much to Asmodeus’s exhibitionist chagrin. There are just some parts of yourself you only feel comfortable sharing one-on-one. Each brother seems to draw out a different side when you’re alone with them. Mammon certainly draws out a more doting and nurturing side of you; a side the greedy demon probably wants to keep all for himself. Truthfully though, you want to keep it just for him too. Taking care of him just comes naturally.

“How about a card game?” You ask.

“But games are borin’ without stakes,” he grumbles.

“Then why don’t we bet?” 

Mammon’s eyes light up as he hurriedly sits upright, “Hell yeah! Now you’re speakin’ my kinda language!” His expression falters then. “I don’t have any Grimm though…”

Returning to your nightstand, you open its drawer and retrieve a pack of plain playing cards. “That’s okay, I don’t want to bet Grimm anyways.” You open the pack, dumping the cards into your hand. “What would you like if you win, Mammon?”

As you begin shuffling, Mammon grows silent as he internally debates. By the time he speaks up, you’ve already dealt seven cards to both of you, leaving the rest stacked in the middle.

“Next week I have a modelin’ shoot, and you’re comin’ with me! Then we’ll get dinner and go on a walk through town…” 

“Like on a date?” 

Mammon pauses, heat rushing to his cheeks, “Yeah… when I win, we’re going on a date.”

You smile, biting your lip as you resist the urge to fling yourself into his arms and gush about how cute he is. Mammon smiles to himself as he picks up the cards and begins to rearrange them. Winning your attention by any means was ultimately more satisfying than just asking. Earning dates made him feel like he truly deserved you.

“Well, when I win, I get to do anything I want to you,” you state matter-of-factly. 

The cards fumble in his hands, “What does that mean!?”

Giggling, you pick up your own cards, “Throw the game and find out.”

… 

This was the most intense game of Uno you have ever experienced. You were down to your last card, one move away from winning. Mammon holds a green five and a wild card. You had gone back and forth with green for the last few cards, so there is a possibility your last card could be green too. In that case, Mammon could play the wild card and change the color, but what if you have been bluffing, and he picks the color you need?

He is fidgeting, repeatedly wiping his hands on his jeans to remove the sweat, running his hands through his hair, and twisting the rings on his fingers. You, however, were amused as you watched his struggle. 

Underneath his strategizing thoughts, two feelings warred inside Mammon; his insatiable greed that demanded he claim victory versus the temptation of finding out what you wanted to do to him. What were you hiding? What could you not ask him outright? His body felt hot under your gaze, the battle between two demon instincts driving him toward absolute delirium. Each successful round only adds fuel to the fire. 

“Mammon, baby, it’s your turn still,” You remind, purposely lowering your voice into a gentle timbre. 

The soft cadence short-circuits his brain. Memories of that voice begin flooding his mind. You, calming him down after fights with Lucifer. Asking him if he’s eaten, if he's been sleeping alright, does he need help with homework. Your mouth pressed against his ear, whispering praises as your hand pumps his cock-

“I… uh,” he swallows thickly, haphazardly placing his wild card on the pile, “Red.”

Eyes shift between the card in your hand and Mammon’s flushed face. You watch as Mammon continues to shift restlessly. Countless sexual fantasies flash through his mind, each one more tempting than the last. They all end the same, though; he eagerly allows you to use him. He accepts each slap, hit, and bite with glee. You make him hurt in all the ways he likes. 

“You didn’t say Uno.” 

The sentence barely registers in his mind. He only has himself to blame, really, for getting so wound up over your voice. He wants to laugh at his pathetic state, because how else would you describe a demon who becomes aroused at a voice? No laughter escapes him though, he’s afraid of the sound he’ll make if he tries. 

“You have to pick up two cards if you don’t call Uno.”

“Right…” He mumbles.

His hand shakes as he reaches for the stack of cards, sliding two from the top into his hand. He feels depraved for the heat swimming under his skin, desperately trying to cool down by tugging the neckline of his shirt forward. 

You are not oblivious to his discomfort. Mammon’s poker face is incredible, an obvious trait one would expect the Avatar of Greed to have. However, he’s done little to conceal the hard-on tenting his jeans. 

There is plenty more coming his way, so you set your final card down - a red eight.

Mammon gently sets his cards down on the bed, accepting defeat. He didn’t like losing, downright despised it in fact, but his desires have never made him act right. 

You have never made him act right. 

Gathering up the cards, you file them back into a neat stack and tuck them back into the box. After dropping the cards back into the nightstand, you scoot down your mattress until you're sitting in front of Mammon. He refuses to meet your gaze, trying to keep what little self-control he has.

“You know, I was going to cash in my victory this weekend,” you whisper, placing your hands against his abdominals. You slowly trail your right hand down, pulling it away before it reaches his crotch. Mammon whines at your teasing, then he hisses as your hand finally meets his clothed cock, squeezing as hard as you can manage.

“But it looks like you can’t wait, can you baby?” You taunt with a small chuckle. When he doesn’t answer, your left-hand travels up to his nipple, giving it a harsh tug.

“Ungh! Treasure, please!” Mammon cries.

“I don’t know who that is,” You warn with another twist to his nipple, “What’s my name?”

Between labored puffs of breath, he manages to stammer out, “Y-Your Majesty…”

Mammon collapses into you when your hands abandon his body. Resting his head on your shoulder, his hands come to fiercely cling to your waist. You grant him a few moments to catch his breath, running your knuckles along his spine as you coo, “Good boy,” to him.

Once he seems to be a little more stable, you push him, by his shoulders, away from your body. “What’s your color, babe?”

“Green,” he rushes out, “Please, give me more?” 

You smile and kiss him on his precious forehead before standing up, “Go ahead and strip for me. Everything.”

As you start to remove your pants, Mammon rises from the bed and begins to remove his shirt. You pause, watching with rapture how his body moves.

Like his brothers, Mammon seldom talks about his former life as an angel. He’s been in the Devildom for centuries now, but traces of his ophanim status still linger. He is slow and graceful, lithe muscle flexing as he brings the shirt over his head. Between his tantalizing tapered waist and well-defined chest, he is no less than statuesque. Though his hair is white like fresh-fallen snow, Mammon’s skin is an empyrean sienna; it’s as if their Father carved him from the Earth himself, intending to make a breathtaking reflection of the human world. 

For you, he is your home made tangible. You make a mental note to tell him so later.

Forcing yourself back on track, you quickly remove your shirt, tossing it onto the growing pile of laundry. Your pants and underwear come off together in one swift movement, bra soon following. 

You find Mammon patiently waiting before you, hands behind his back as you’ve instructed many times before. He is looking at the floor, but you can tell he’s blushing by the red glow that spreads down his chest and up to his ears. Though he may be feeling demure, his cock stands proud against his stomach, the swollen tip already shiny with his pre-cum. He’s too damn adorable.

Grabbing the edge of the bed’s comforter, you fold it in half horizontally, clearing the half of the mattress you intend to use. Taking hold of the pillow next, you drag it halfway down from its original spot. It too is folded in half after a thorough fluffing.  

“Okay sweetheart, I want you to lie face down with your hips on the pillow.” 

You hold the pillow steady as Mammon takes his place. With one knee propped on the mattress, he carefully balances his body the rest of the way. Once his chest meets the fabric of the sheets, he stretches himself out, hips wiggling as he gets comfortable. He crosses his arms in front of him, resting his face in the crook of his elbow. 

The pillow creates the effect you want; Mammon’s back deliciously bowed with his ass on full display. You nearly jump and squeal, positively hysterical over how helpless he looks. Still, you reign in the butterflies in your stomach, knowing a break in your composure could frighten him out of the scene. 

Instead, you tousle his hair, combing through the locks with your nails. Mammon practically purrs.

“Such a good boy for me. Looking so pretty for me too, you are just darling like this,” you coo, dragging your nails gently down his back. 

Mammon visibly melts further into his position, relaxing under your touch. 

“I’m going to make you feel good, would you like that baby?”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” he whines.

Hiding under your bed is a plastic container, filled with not-so-random gifts from Asmodeus. Using your foot, you pull the container into the light. Various toys, ropes, lubes, creams, and furry accouterments greet you. Bending down, you grab the one toy that has captivated your dreams since you saw it; a black leather riding crop.

You test the crop’s movement in your right hand, getting used to its bouncing feel. Once satisfied, you rest your other hand on Mammon’s back, steadying both of you at the same time. 

His muscles tense when you first drag the crop’s leather tongue delicately across the back of his thigh. You chuckle quietly.

“You already know what this is, don’t you?” You ask, running the crop up his other thigh. Before he even has a chance to reply, you pull the crop back to deliver a mild slap to his skin.

Though you imagine the hit wasn’t painful, he is a demon after all, Mammon still twitches. Perhaps the mere anticipation is getting to him. 

“It’s a c-crop, Your Majesty.”

“Good boy, you are correct. Remember your safe word?” 

Mammon grumbles, “Philanthropy.”

You giggle, remember how you teased him about the safeword needing to be ‘something he never usually thought about.’

Raising the crop again, you meet his flesh with a harsher slap. The ‘ smack ’ seems to echo in your ears, followed by Mammon’s guttural groan. You deliver another hit, this time to the center of his right cheek. His head drops to the mattress, fingers digging into the sheets.

“Another, please…” He whimpers.

“Such a little pain slut,” you tsk , treating the second cheek to the same treatment. 

Mammon hisses, though you swear it sounds like him saying, “Yessssssssss…”

A smack to where his ass and thigh meet. “The Great and Powerful Mammon reduced to a mumbling mess, how piteous.”

His hips jerk against the pillow. Curious, you glance between his legs, finding his cock practically dripping his arousal. You’ll need to buy a new pillow case; that fact earns him another snap of the crop.

A wicked idea pops into your mind. 

Biting your lip, you begin running the crop’s tongue up and down the length of Mammon’s cock. On instinct, his thighs press together, hips canting up as if to move away from the sensation. You don’t remember giving him permission to move.

The hand on his back now weaves into his hair, yanking his head back so you can look at him, causing the demon to yelp. Tears run down his face and his lower lip is starting to bruise from him gnawing on it.

“Spread. Your. Legs.” You growl through gritted teeth. 

You watch as Mammon winces, forcing his trembling thighs back apart. You crack the crop on the small of his back, his hips jutting forward from the pain. 

“Now stay, like a good dog.” You let his head drop harshly back to the mattress.

He turns his face back into the sheets, hiding his embarrassment at having his title demoted. Your fingers flex around the crop’s handle, readjusting your grip. You pause for a few moments, not wanting your precious demon to be able to predict the hit. 

Tempering the strength you’ve been using, a quick flick of the wrist still produces a stinging swat to his testicles. Despite Mammon’s choked shriek, his cock twitches, another bead of pre-cum oozing from the tip. You press your thighs together, the sight making heat run to your throbbing clit. He’s so fucking hot .

Sliding the crop down the silken skin again, you give another sharp slap to his tip. His blubbering sobs are muffled against the mattress. Incomplete rectangular bruises have started to form, dotting his flesh like stars. Perhaps he’s had enough.

You bend back down to the container, swapping out the crop for lube and a smaller vibrator. Tired of standing, you sit next to Mammon’s knees, setting the items down in front of you. Leaning forward, you press gentle kisses to the forming marks while your thumb massages soothing circles in his thigh. 

“You did so good, baby. I want to give you a reward. Are you okay with that?” 

Lifting his head, Mammon sniffles before nodding, “I can handle it, Your Majesty.”

“I’m glad, ‘cause you deserve it.” You grab the lube, popping open the cap and pouring a generous amount on your fingers, “Just relax and let me take care of my good boy.”

A single finger circles his hole, warming up the fluid that coats it. Every so often you teasingly dip your finger in, pushing further with each pass. His moan is low and slow as you sink the digit in, his bodily greedily taking you in until the last knuckle. You want to laugh; is there any part of him that isn’t greedy?

You slowly pump your finger in and out, the faint sticky wetness of the lube ringing in your ears. Soft huffs tumble past Mammon’s lips as he pushes his hips back into your touch. Both of you fall into a rhythm, working him closer to the edge. 

Soon you add a second finger, switching to scissoring them back and forth to open him up for your other new toy. The anal vibrator is nothing fancy, merely a thinner model covered in sleek black silicone. The base is larger and curved, meant to settle comfortably against the user, and equipped with a power button. 

Mammon’s moans crescendo as you curl your fingers inside him, stroking his prostate. His hips raise, desperate to keep your finger in place as he rocks against them, chasing his completion. It’s nice to see him like this, hopelessly fucking himself against you, not a care in his mind besides the twitching of his balls as he nears release. 

You retract from him immediately, watching with amusement how his body tenses in frustration. His hips drop back to the pillow, with whines and whimpers soon following. His hands fist his hair, indignantly pulling at the strands as if he might rip them out. 

You let him stay like that for a minute, impatient in his ruined orgasm, yet knowing he better stay quiet lest he gets to orgasm at all. He takes deep breaths, calming himself down while the pleasure he was experiencing ebbs away. While waiting, you prepare the vibrator, coating the silicone in lube. 

When he seems to have settled, you press the tip of the toy into his hole, the flesh easily giving way. The vibrator slips in without resistance, Mammon contentedly sighing at the feeling of being filled again. Truly a needy and greedy thing.

His toes curl against the sheets when you turn the vibrator on, a soft humming filling the silence as the steady onslaught of oscillation courses through him.   

“Is that better, baby?” You tease.

“Aaugh... So good! Fuck!” He gasps out. 

Hand still coated in lube, you wrap your fingers around his shaft, stroking the silky skin. You gradually work Mammon back up to his peak; breath shuddering, thighs flexing, and hips jerking with each jolt of the vibrator against his prostate.  

Mammon murmurs something unintelligible, though he repeats himself before you have the chance to ask him to do so. 

“Pleaseletmecumthistime! ” He wails, loud enough that you’re sure the house shook. You hope Lucifer isn’t home, but the buzz from both of your D.D.D.s lets you know about the awkward group chat you’ll have after this.

Pushing that dread aside, you bring your free hand to the tip of Mammon’s cock, the pads of your fingers sweeping brutally fast circles around the head. 

“You want to cum?”

“Yesyesyesyes, pleASE… d-don’t stop!”

“Then cum.”

The demon convulses before you, his body a trembling, shuddering mess. You continue to stroke him through his orgasm, each downward movement causing a new spurt of cum to flow out. His spend pools onto your fingers and into your palm, the excess slipping through the gaps and falling to your sheets. 

The room is silent save for the faint buzzing of the vibrator and Mammon’s heaving gasps for air. You quickly tap the power button on the toy, finally letting his body have reprieve. You wait for his instruction before you dare make a move.

…

The sheets are replaced. Lucifer’s constant texts have been silenced. You and Mammon have washed up and the demon now lies amongst your blankets and stuffed animals, patiently waiting as you put on a pair of pajamas.

When you climb into bed next to him, Mammon quickly lies his head on your chest, nestling his face between your breasts. You pull the covers over him, happy to succumb to the cocoon of warmth.

“How are you feeling, baby?” You ask, carding your fingers through his hair.

“‘M good,” he sighs, “But ’m confused?”

You pause your movement as he looks up at you.

“Why did ya make me draw two if ya were just gonna win?”

“Are you serious, Mammon?”

…

A week later you again pull the crop from underneath your bed. After hearing about your rousing success, Asmodeus wanted to know the brand (claiming he forgot after he purchased it for you). A tag hangs from the handle. Steadying it between your fingers, you begin looking for a brand name. 

A special crop made just for demons! Magically enhanced; even the toughest lovers can feel your wrath ;)

Oops. 

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[2-d-rogue]

Completed my Silent Hill marathon! (Games 1-4)

With Silent Hill 2's remake coming out in just a little while (or is already out for those that pre-ordered the digital version), I decided to do a quick replay of the first four games. I would have done the others, but unfortunately, didn't have the time.

I plan to do a second marathon to replay the post-four games, but for now, settled on the originals as I feel they're the most relevant to this.

I've been a fan of this series since there were only three games. (Not counting the SH1 mobile game.) I used to replay games 1-4 back-to-back all the time years ago, but have not done that since the early 2000s. Getting a chance to return to this series after so long in preparation for SH2R was definitely something, though my opinions from then to now have definitely changed.

Back then, Silent Hill could do no wrong in my eyes, but now I can certainly see these games were not perfect like I once believed. Even so, they're still great and by no means bad, even if I may be looking at them with a more critical eye now.

Below is some screenshots of my results after completing the games, coupled with a review for each game, and some little notes at the end of each review.

Silent Hill (finished on 09/22/2024)

It's such a crying shame how overlooked this game is. I get that it's old, and suffers from some jank, but it's truly a masterpiece of a game. It feels like a huge love letter from the Japanese to American 70s/80s horror, and in my humble opinion still holds up as a fantastic game.

It does have issues. Being of the PSX era, it has that lovely old skool jank that I mentioned, though I'd say it controls reasonably well in spite of it. There's also its issue of being far too vague at times, especially in that the game will never give any indication to go to Annie's Bar in order to save Kaufmann. The only way you'd might find it blind is if you don't mind exploring around a town crawling with monsters and happen upon it by chance, something most players don't tend to do and end up with an unsatisfying ending.

Regardless, this is still one of my favorite games of all time, and in my Top 3 Silent Hill games (probably in first place at that). I love the story, atmosphere, music, puzzles. I love how much you can explore the town. I love Harry Mason, Lisa, and seeing what happens to poor Alessa at the end still tugs at my heartstrings.

There's just no other game like it. Not even the other games come close to its unique vibes. (The closest maybe being Downpour.)

For that, despite it's issues, I continue to rate it as the best SH game in the series.

Few notes: *Hard mode is brutal. I remember it being tough and how much it loved spamming grey children and other enemies, but I forgot just how merciless it could be. SH3's hard mode is still the hardest for me, though. (Homecoming as well, but that's mainly because of its poor combat.)

*Did you know that by examining the teachers' list before you leave the school, Harry will mark down the location of K. Gordon's house, and later, examining the payphones after the hospital level will have him mark down the Green Lion's address? Not totally necessary to do, but I thought it was a neat little feature I hadn't noticed before.

*Learned this from Silent Hill Fact Hub. Apparently Harry was going to have a hidden dark side in this game. The more he traversed on, the more he was going to start to enjoy killing the monsters. Seems this concept got used in SH3 instead (though it might've been referenced in SH3 with it mentioning how Harry initially felt about raising Heather).

Silent Hill 2 + Born From a Wish (both finished on 09/27/2024)

Ah, Silent Hill 2. The fandom darling. The "best game in the series", or "best horror game of all time". The "best of the best of the best of the best". I've heard it all before by now, and while I do love SH2, and can see why so many people love it, I do not share the sentiment so many seem to have towards it.

Is it a good game? Absolutely. Does it handle its topics well? For the most part, yes. But having cleared it as many times, along with the other games, in the past as much as I have, I can say with confidence it's not this perfect game so many believe it to be.

For one, it plays like ass. I have no idea how they somehow managed to make the controls of the sequel worse than the first game. James is painfully slow, and doesn't even have the benefit Harry had of being able to instantly reload his gun by re-aiming. (I'm sure SH2's fans would send me a 2,000 page essay of the meaning behind this, but I can assure you I've no interest.)

I also did the so-called impossible and played it on Hard Mode. I remember when I played it as a kid on Hard Mode that I found it to be just a slightly more challenging Normal Mode, so imagine how perplexed I was when everyone nowadays kept saying that Hard Mode is "literally unplayable". Having gotten to play it again after so many years, it did catch me off guard in some spots, but it's definitely not "impossible". Challenging? At times, yes. Tedious? Oh, definitely. Impossible? Not at all. In fact, once you get passed the more challenging parts, it's most of the time a cakewalk.

As for the story and themes, I do like and enjoy it very much. However now, and even back then, I simply just don't care about James. Never really did, honestly. I don't know why, but he just never clicked with me. I find all the other characters much more interesting, personally (especially Maria), but James? Nada. And it's not because I don't relate to him. In fact, I kinda went through something similar to what he did to some extent. Even so, he simply does nothing for me.

I may be making it sound like I dislike this game. I don't. As always with this series, the music is good, the visuals, level design, psychological horror, all of it's great. But I just don't share in giving it the endless praise it gets. For me, it's just a "good game" in the series. That's all.

Even if it's not my favorite, or in my Top 3, it's still a solid experience.

Looking forward to the Remake. Perhaps it may change my mind on a few things.

By the way, check out this video: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pbxW7QqwpHQ It compares the English localization to the original Japanese script. Got some interesting things in it.

Silent Hill 3 (finished on 09/30/2024)

(Went with Easy Mode this time in order to speed things up, and also to take in as much of the environments as I could without interruption.)

If it's not SH2 getting all the praise, then it's this game, and just as well it does. This game has so much good to offer and shows how much the series has come a long way. It's easily the best-looking game in the franchise, it controls very well, and has a lot of weapon variety. The creature design is fantastic, and the puzzles are real brain-twisters (though the Shakespeare one on Hard Riddle Difficulty is absurd because it assumes everyone has read all of Shakespeare, and gives no clues or hints about the books to help out those who haven't, but hey, it sounds awesome being read out loud by McGlynn in "Walk On Vanity Ruins").

I'm especially in love with the level design. It's dark and unnerving, with strange noises happening wherever you go, making you afraid there might be some horrifying monster waiting for you around the corner, or somewhere in the dark abyss below. It's truly brilliant in its sound design, and its atmosphere.

And Heather? Easily one of the best female protagonists in horror game history. She's spunky, sassy, takes no crap, yet she can get frightened and put off by the terrors around her, and vulnerable when confronted with tender memories from her past. She also has a kind and protective side towards people who manage to win her trust, as shown with Douglas towards the end.

Not only that, she rejects the role being forced on her. Any other piece of media I've seen, when a woman is being forcefully turned into a mother for some wicked agenda, they often accept this role, despite their bodies being violated and their agency removed, all because this is the traditional role that is expected of women.

Not Heather, though. She spits right on that concept and ejects that evil god baby from her body and happily kills the monstrosity it is. It's refreshing, and Heather was far ahead of her time. To think there was a time I didn't like her because I thought she was too bratty, but when I thought of her situation, she kind of has every reason to distrust and lash out at all out around her. (Except her daddy, of course. Bless you, Harry.)

She's extraordinarily well-written that it makes me sad to say that I no longer like the story of her game.

I really don't know what happened, but I find I don't love it nearly as much as I did years ago. The level design is wonderful, the atmosphere is fantastic, it's the best looking game of the series, and does everything else right. Heather is still one of the best protagonists in the series. And yet…I find I now greatly dislike the story, or at least the execution of it.

I'm fine with the idea of returning to SH1's story, but I no longer enjoy how they went about it. The dialogue has aged so badly, with the one-liners and all the talk of "being on X's side" becoming eye-rolling and ruining the mood. I get it, Heather's a teenager, but it just started to grate on me, plus she's not the only one saying such terrible lines. It was getting so cringe-inducing that I was close to considering skipping the cutscenes just to get back to the eerie atmospheric gameplay.

The second half of the game is where it really loses me. I'm sorry, but reusing SH2's map was a huge mistake. I know they likely had to do it to save on budget, but it doesn't stop it from being such a huge clash to this game's story. Though I did like the hospital level—and even though I "enjoyed" the Stanley subplot—it really shouldn't have been Brookhaven. It has nothing to do with Heather's story, and it ultimately ended up being a waste because the thing you get from it turns out to be useless.

And since they didn't update the outside of SH2's map, Heather looks so out of place on it, with hers and the monsters' polished models clashing badly with SH2's graphics that it's easy to see that the reason why the fog is so heavy in this game is to hide how awful it looks.

And then the levels that follow just feel like member berries from the first game. Why would Claudia set up the church so close to the Amusement Park? I could see that maybe it's because that's where her and Alessa used to escape to in order to have some fun, but that's never hinted at. It's also just kinda weird that Heather battles Alessa on the carousel when that was actually where you fought Cybil in SH1. It was likely to reference that, but thematically, it feels a little off.

The main villain, Claudia, also just irritates me. I understand the hardship of her backstory, but she will never get any pity from me, and the game trying to make me feel sorry for her in the end fell utterly flat. I just can't believe this woman ever really cared about Alessa with how much she looks delighted in seeing Heather in pain without even a hint that she doesn't enjoy watching this. If they wanted to make it seem like she feels mixed about doing these horrible things to her beloved friend, then they should have shown it more, but they spend so much time making her pseudo-Dahlia, her expressing remorse last minute came off as an afterthought.

I really think making it that Alessa had a childhood friend (that was never mentioned or hinted at in the first game) was also a mistake. It feels really tacked on to me, and when you think about it, makes almost no sense at all.

There's also just how much this game loves to over explain itself. If SH1 should be criticized for being too vague, this one should be criticized for explaining too much. It spells everything out, almost to a fault. The thing that makes Silent Hill so good is the mystery, the subtlety. Things get explained, but enough is left open to figure the rest out on your own. Not with this game, however.

And the monsters, while great in design, have little to no meaning behind them. Ito-san even admitted that creatures like the Numb Bodies were just monsters he thought up with no real meaning behind them, and apparently that's the case with most of the others as well. Very unfortunate to learn.

I used to really love this story and never thought to question it back in the day, but now, I can see so many flaws with it. It saddens me, but that's how it is now, unfortunately.

That being said, I do still enjoy playing this game. It's in no way bad or terrible. It's a great game to play, but I simply no longer like the story. If/when I do replay it, I might just skip most of the cutscenes and play the game only for its design.

Though, I find it funny that the post-four games get criticized for a lot of the things this game gets praised for.

Few notes: *Though I don't care for the main story, there's a lot of the background stuff that I would have been more interested in. Like the case involving Harry having to kill a cult member to save Heather, or the implication Douglas might've shot and killed his own son. It's a shame the game doesn't put more focus on things like that.

*There's whisperings that this game wasn't originally going to be tied to the first game and was going to be its own story. If that were true, it would explain a lot of the bizarre pacing issues, and lack of a focused direction, because I can't help getting the feeling as I played, this really wasn't the way they wanted to take the story.

Silent Hill 4: The Room (finished on 10/04/2024)

(Again, picked Easy Mode in order to speed things up, as well as get a chance to examine and take in as much as possible.)

Poor SH4. This game has had a negative reputation since release and continues to carry one to this day. Considered the "worst of the original four", and for good reasons, I'll admit. This game really changed or got rid of a lot of what its predecessors set up. Gone is the flashlight, fog, radio ('cept the one in Henry's room). The graphics are also a major step down from SH3, and the monster design perhaps isn't the greatest.

There's also only two bosses, one of which barely counts, and your inventory is now limited, taking a page from Bio/RE it seems.

And of course, there's Henry. The so-called "blandest protagonist ever with no personality."

There are many issues with this game. Some of which I agree with, some that I've noticed that others have not, and some that I highly disagree with. This game certainly does carry many, many flaws. There's the ghosts, which were a great concept, but badly executed, as they make exploration a pain in the ass. The combat is very strange, and it's amusing to see a health bar along with a charge meter on screen in a Silent Hill game, and not in a good way.

The hauntings later, while creepy, become redundant once they start repeating themselves. There's also Eileen. I went for the "Eileen's Death" ending because I typically go for either the perfect ending, or the bad ending, so I decided this time, I would pick one of the "slightly good endings". The other reason is I wanted her to read all of Walter's diaries in their entirety to get as much of a refresher as I could.

Eileen herself is not terrible. She can be really helpful in fighting off monsters, but when you need her to step aside, (such as in the "One Truth" battle), she can be an absolute pain. It's good that you can leave her in safe places for a while, so there's that. Overall, she's not the worst escort, but I can get it if sometimes you get dealt a bad hand with her.

Though, I have no idea why they bothered with having candles recover her sanity when the effects only last a few minutes before she becomes possessed again. It makes using any candle on her useless, and pretty much tells you you're screwed if you let her take too much damage. Bad call there, I'd say.

That's just scratching the surface of the problems with this game. There's more where that came from that to mention them all, including some other problems I noticed, would take far too much time. In a lot of ways, it feels extremely unfinished.

And yet, in spite of that, I friggen love this game.

Yes, it's true. Eversince I first played it upon release, I loved it even then. I was probably one of the few that defended it back in the day, and still defend it now. I can't fully explain it, but there's just something about this game that makes me love it and enjoy it every time I play it again.

If I were to consider why, I would say it's because of how subtle the horror is. On the surface, it doesn't seem to offer much, but when you think about it, it's really incredibly disturbing. All the horror is happening so close to home, to a man who was just minding his own business and had done nothing to deserve it except attract the eyes of an occultist serial murderer that decided to choose him for his ritual.

It's extremely creepy, and almost realistic how something like that can happen in real life. Someone just somehow caught a creepy stalker's eyes, and never even knew nor intended it. To think Walter was secretly watching and spying on Henry for two years before he would enact his plan with him… That, along with the terrible things he would do like sealing him up in his own home and make him witness terrible things again and again, is just pure fridge horror right there.

It's slow, subtle, and feels like it's nonexistent, but it is definitely there, and it can creep on you without realizing it. The environments don't have a lot to offer, either, but that's because they don't need to. Just the fact these places exist and what they were for are enough. For example, Wish House. Just an orphanage, right? Except they were indoctrinating orphans, there's a trap right outside, a woman was murdered here, and there's rules about never leaving or else "the master will be sad".

The cylindrical prison… What needs to be said? Especially with what it was based on. The crap that happened here is more than enough.

It's really interesting how they built up the horror in the background without being so in-your-face about it that it's really quite clever, and it's so good.

And Henry himself.

I really don't care whatever negative remarks people make about him being "bland" or "having no personality". He's my favorite protagonist of the whole series, hands down. Each time I play, I find myself not only loving his game more and more, but Henry as well. I loved him as a kid, and now that I'm much older, I relate to him more as an adult.

The thing about him is that he does have personality, and he does react to the things around him. You just simply have to pay attention. Through taking the time to examine the things in his room after each level, as well as examining objects around the levels themselves, you learn a fair amount about him, and get a general idea of what he's like. I know most players won't care to do that, and that's how so many come away not realizing there's more than meets the eye.

Henry is very kind, helping people to the best of his ability, and getting frustrated when he fails, crushing him down to being desperate to save someone. He doesn't make a show of it, but just by watching his face, taking notice of his expressions and body language, you can see he's not as "bland" as people say. His face will drop into horror seeing something frightening. He will slump in distress when he can't save someone. He'll even roll his eyes/shake his head at Jasper when he's going off on his rant in one cutscene. Or get nervous and put off by Cynthia's advances.

There's so much there, and while I admit, he may not be as developed as the other protags that came before or after him, he's definitely misunderstood and it's so unfortunate to see many dismiss him.

With that all said, I do think more should have been done with him. If SH4 ever receives a remake, I'd want them to give him a bit more to work with, but please don't change him too much.

So, despite the issues that this game has, I can't hate it. There's stuff to dislike, but there's also enough to enjoy. I really believe if this game had gotten the time and budget the others got, it would have easily been a masterpiece, but despite the "beta-feeling" it has, it's amazing what they were able to pull off.

There's more I could say, both in praise and in criticism of this game, but I feel I've said enough. Simply put, despite its flaws, it's my second favorite game in the series. The surreal, subtle horror it manages to accomplish despite all the issues is amazing. And what can I say? It has my fav protag.

Again though, if this game gets a remake, I'd hope they address the flaws, flesh things out with the worlds and monsters more, among other things. (And let me get to explore Wish House, darnit.)

Few notes:

*This playthrough went a little longer because my friend and I decided to document as much of Henry's comments as possible. After it's cleaned up, I intend to post it.

*At the beginning of the game, you're playing as Joseph. No matter what you examine, his first few comments will always be the lines he wrote in a memo prior to his death. After you've exhausted all five of those lines, he'll start commenting on the objects you examine themselves.

*Did you know that when Walter starts chasing you in the second half of the game, he won't shoot Henry as long as he stays still? He'll still run up and try to melee him, but anytime you see/hear him go for his gun, stopping and then staying still will make him not shoot for some reason. (Naturally, this trick no longer works upon the Apartment World revisit, or the boss fight with him.) Found this out a very long time ago, and I see no one else ever mention it, so thought I would. Plan to post a video showing it when I get the chance.

*In the second half of the game, if you wait long enough in your apartment, someone will start knocking on your door. (Though, no one will be outside…)

*In the very last stage of the game, (Apartment World Revisit), all the residents you see on the opposite side will be gone…

*I didn't get to mention it, but Walter is one of the most creepy, inventively interesting villains ever. I'd put him over Pyramid Head even.

*Check out this really neat SH4 fan film/series pitch: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0S81SL5Od8Q Apparently, this is the director's pitch to Konami for a 10-episode series for SH4. I know it's unlikely, but it'd be neat if it happened. (Brian Dole, the guy picked to play Henry, seems to be a great choice looks-wise.)

[magnetarbeam]

Recovering Herself (WIP 6)

[Yes, I'm finally working on this again. At the point I've reached, we're about to have Zekk realize his feelings for Jag. Also several minor changes to wording, including references to Jag and the Fels as part of the Empire of the Hand and not the Ascendancy.

I also do want to add another scene in between what are now the third and fourth, in which Jaina has to think all the way back to YJK to think of something that's actually fun.]

”Jaina, as your commanding officer, I’m ordering you to take today off. No training, no strategizing, nothing. Report to me first thing in the morning. At that time, if you think you need another day off, I require you to tell me so. You’ll get it.”

With his characteristic military precision, Jag left. Zekk followed a moment later, his impressed surprise registering only distantly in Jaina’s perceptions.

A day off. The concept was almost an alien one to her. Thinking back, Jaina found herself astounded, barely able to believe that it hadn’t even been a year since the first of the atrocities committed by the creature Jacen had become. The series of events had so consumed her emotionally that it might as well have been a decade.

Her service in Starfighter Command after the Yuuzhan Vong War had given her periods of leave, naturally, but it had always felt like a waste. All she had to give for the galaxy - almost all she was - was to find the next fight, and win it. She was the Sword of the Jedi, never supposed to know peace.

Under any other circumstance, an order like the one she’d just received would have stirred up a fierce resentment in Jaina for stripping her from her purpose, however temporarily. This time, though, as her mind began to process the events that had just happened, she was just numb.

She had almost killed Jag, merely for the act of embarrassing her. As Jaina thought it through more, the carefully constructed mental barriers started to break. It was a rush of emotion of such intensity that Jaina found herself driven to tears. Shock and guilt and confusion poured through the widening cracks. There was something else there, too, a sentiment that, despite everything, she was not prepared for.

Love.

Flooded as she was by long-repressed emotions, Jaina couldn’t find it in herself to resist the notion that maybe she really did need a break. Jag, blast him, had probably predicted and counted on exactly that.

Although she still had no idea what to do with a break, she realized there were people that might.

Jaina turned and climbed the boarding ramp of the Falcon.

"How do I take a break!?" Jaina asked in a near-panic.

Her mother raised an eyebrow. "First of all," she advised, "calm down."

Jaina took several deep breaths, attempting to enter a light meditative trance to center herself in her environment. For the first time since this mess started, she was reasonably successful. Though Leia was less experienced in harnessing it, her signature in the Force burned just as bright as that of her brother the Grand Master, and its reassuring light offered a beacon of calm that Jaina only now realized she'd missed across all the months that they'd been separated.

Even as she placed herself tenuously in the eye of her storm of emotions, and returned her focus to her physical surroundings, Jaina didn't let go of the lifeline that her mother's mental touch represented.

"I think I should handle this one,” Han advised Leia. "Even after all these years, I'm not sure you know the answer."

After a moment of feeling vaguely affronted, Leia sighed. "I wish I could argue with that."

Han stood up from the Falcon's pilot seat. He pointed to it, and told Jaina, "Sit down."

Jaina sat, feeling weirdly like a child being put in time-out.

"Now,“ her father said, "Tell me why you don't know how to take a break."

”I'm the Sword of the Jedi," Jaina told him instantly. The words came to her without effort, without even particular emotion. ”Just a weapon. Weapons aren't supposed to need rest, or companionship, or anything other than someone to wield it and something to be wielded against."

Leia's agonized despair at those words blasted through the Force. The surge came as such a shock that Jaina reflexively tried to reel back from the mental contact, but her mother didn't let her, holding on with a fiery protectiveness of a magnitude that Jaina wasn't sure she'd ever felt before.

Han, moving so fast that Jaina didn't even sense the intent beforehand, slammed his fist into the transparisteel viewport. He could not damage it, of course, but Jaina distantly registered a flare of physical pain under his cold fury, a fury aimed not at Jaina or Leia, but at the galaxy and universe and Force that had made his daughter believe such a thing.

A few moments passed in a tense silence, where it seemed like none of them really knew what to say. In the tide of emotions directed at her by her mother, Jaina sensed currents of lament and longing and the same kind of righteous indignation that Leia had always shown in the face of injustice. It took a second for Jaina to connect those to the flashes of memory and realize that it added up to one message:

You deserve better.

Before Jaina could react to that, her father found his voice.

"Now put your feet up on the instrument board."

Jaina blinked in surprise. "What?"

"Like this." Leia, still in the copilot's seat, leaned back as much as the chair would allow, and showed Jaina what Han was talking about. "It's easy."

"Oh, so now you-" Han started to complain to his wife.

"I've seen you do it enough times," Leia told him with a nonchalance that was clearly forced.

Reluctantly, Jaina did as requested, making sure not to actually kick any of the controls out of their alignments.

“How does that feel?” her father asked.

“…Weird,” Jaina settled on after a moment, really not wanting to try to describe in detail the emotions induced by an informality so emblematic of her father's classic independent spirit and disrespect for authority.

That thought provoked another association that hit her square in the heart. Jaina had once been like that, hadn't she?

For a second, she wasn't sure.

Then she started to remember.

"Now," her father said, "tell us again what you told us before. About being a weapon."

”I'm the Sword of the Jedi," she repeated. The habitual statement, that she had drilled into herself for what felt like it might as well have been her entire life, struck her as curiously at odds with her casual posture that felt like it should be accompanied by sarcasm and insults.

"Just a weapon." But that wasn't true, was it? A sword didn't have emotions, but after what had just happened, Jaina found that she had to acknowledge that despite her best efforts, she did have emotions.

"Keep going," Han encouraged with a stern tone that, only now, Jaina realized wasn't reflective of his actual feelings.

"Weapons aren't supposed to…"

They were the words of a Jedi Knight who had more skill and experience than almost any other.

They were the words of a soldier, whose entire life had been defined by combat and death and suffering.

They were the words of the Sword of the Jedi, to whom the title was to be interpreted as literally as possible.

But right now, she didn't feel like any of that.

These were the emotions of Jaina Solo, daughter of Han Solo's brash, reckless independent streak and Leia Organa's selfless empathy.

These were the emotions of Jaina Solo, who couldn't pay attention to a history lesson but lost almost two days hyperfocusing on disassembling and reassembling the enthrallingly complicated internal workings of the first Incom StealthX starfighter delivered to the Jedi.

These were the emotions of Jaina Solo, who lasted twenty-seven minutes and twenty-seven seconds in the Lando's Folly asteroid run, beating out the previous record holder, Kyp Durron, more than two to one.

Finally the contrast was too much, too strange, and Jaina could no longer contain herself.

She laughed.

She laughed like she never had before.

It was like the long-awaited release of a capacitor charged with all the joy she hadn't had the luxury of experiencing since the Yuuzhan Vong War began.

The time that passed could have been ten minutes or ten hours. Jaina didn't know. What she did know was that she was laughing, and so were her parents, and for at least this moment, the weight of the galaxy had been lifted from her shoulders.

———

She was laughing.

Zekk stopped in his tracks when he felt the surge of joy.

Jaina's catharsis rang in his mind almost as clearly as if it was his own (the fact that that it briefly had been was something they both put considerable effort into not thinking about), but Zekk still experienced a moment of stunned disbelief before he let himself believe that it was real.

The fact that it had been Jag who had finally gotten through to her sparked a flare of jealousy - she cares about him more than me - but Zekk decided it was not welcome. If anything, the fact that he hadn't been able to come up with something that would have accomplished that result was his personal failure.

Either way, it had finally happened.

That meant there were amends to make.

“You’re still working?”

Had Zekk spoken thirty seconds sooner, Jag’s jolt of surprise might very well have led to the new wiring from the blaster’s power pack connecting prematurely to the timer he hadn’t yet programmed, causing the entire device to blow up in his face. As he turned to face the tall Jedi, it occurred to Jag that Zekk had probably realized that.

“What?” Jag asked, a hint of bitter hostility creeping into his voice out of habit.

Zekk scrutinized him in silence for a second, and Jag realized his tone. He was surprised to find he didn’t feel that resentment anymore. For months, Zekk had been an annoyance. They worked together well enough on a professional level, but they didn’t get along personally. Jag wasn’t too proud to admit to himself that part of it was the competition over Jaina, who had entertained romantic affections for both men at different times in her life, but he was too proud to admit it to anyone else.

Now, Jag wasn’t sure where he and Zekk stood.

“But after today,” the other man had said not an hour ago, “I’m exceedingly proud to have you as a comrade-in-arms.”

Zekk still didn’t particularly like him. That much was clear from the array of insults that had preceded the statement. But maybe…

“Come on,” Zekk told him, his tone suggesting that he was disappointed somehow. “You finally get through to her like that, and then you just hole up in your workshop?”

“I still have important work to do,” Jag reminded him matter-of-factly.

“So do I,” Zekk said. “So does Jaina. And you just gave us days off.

“Why don’t you deserve a break too?”

Jag silently struggled to find an answer to that. Those who carried the weight of Thrawn's legacy, even as disciplined as they were, still understood the importance of mental health. An individual driven to their breaking point by stress and anxiety would not be able to perform their role. The Empire of the Hand had given its soldiers leave just as any effective fighting force had to.

But Jag was no longer welcome in the Hand or its military. He had devoted himself to hunting down and killing Alema Rar because it was all he had left. That was a fact he was absolutely not ready to admit.

“I’m the commanding officer,” he answered, trying to inject strength into the words, and to summon emotions that would read like he believed that that was the answer.

Zekk instantly rolled his eyes, clearly seeing through the lie, but he thankfully chose not to call it out. Instead, he changed tactics.

“I’ve known Jaina longer than you have,” he reminded Jag. “I knew her before the Vong hit, back before she had any reason to think she was a weapon.

“She doesn’t need a commander right now. She needs a friend.”

That implication stopped Jag short.

“Am I your friend?” Jag asked.

That prompted another second of silence as Zekk presumably considered it.

“Not to me. Not yet,” Zekk admitted with a sigh. “But it’s what she needs, and I want to stop fighting.

“When this thing with Alema started,” he said bluntly, “I didn’t trust you. Jaina was starting to shut out anyone and anything that wasn’t about her goal, and I didn’t think you’d help because you were doing the exact same thing.”

The statement was the emotional equivalent of a direct hit from one of the siege guns on Jacen's destroyer. Zekk was right. The anger over Jaina’s part in Jag’s exile had gone unchecked since it happened, and it had led him to say things to her that he’d already come to regret. He’d tried to reduce Jaina to a subordinate in a military command structure. But he hadn’t really succeeded, had he?

“I’m the last person to preach about mental health,” Zekk continued, “but what you did back there tells me you’ve come back from that.”

Jag took a second to find a response.

“I haven’t forgiven her yet,” he told Zekk matter-of-factly, their eyes meeting. "I still don't know if I'll ever be able to.

"But she's important to me." Jag's resolve hardened his words to the density of battleship-grade neutronium. "Her brother's actions are already causing her enough pain. Anything I can do to help her through this is more important right now than my grudge over something that happened years ago.

"And you're right." Conceding to Zekk on such a personal matter, Jag found, no longer carried the sting that it would have only a few months ago. "I didn't help at first."

The guilt brought on by that admission was painful by itself, but Jag had never refused to take responsibility for his mistakes. "If I had let myself be there for her when we met again, maybe it wouldn't have gone this far."

Zekk shrugged indifferently. "Maybe. Maybe not. It's not like this is new for her."

Jag nodded in agreement. "True."

"Either way," he continued decisively, "I bear some responsibility here. For that reason, at the very least, I owe her this."

Zekk gave an amicable smile, which Jag supposed came from relief or gratitude.

The modifications to his blaster were not finished, but still Jag sealed the weapon in its case, leaving it fully prepared for further progress.

As they made their way back to the hangar, Jag steadfastly tried not to think about the familiar way his heart had skipped a beat at that smile.

Jaina was so hyperfocused on the datapad in front of her that she didn't even notice Jag and Zekk return to the hangar until they spoke.

”You look like you're doing better,” Jag observed, actually smiling at her. Not the same kind of smile as when they'd dated so many years ago, but it was much more than the barely perceptible gestures he'd always afforded her in public.

“A little bit,” Jaina admitted, consciously deciding to allow herself to think about how much she'd missed that smile.

But the true focus of Jaina's attention was her datapad, which she set to holoprojection mode, and a three-dimensional schematic of the ship design she was concepting appeared above the table.

Her companions immediately recognized the image for that, and they began to discuss it.

Zekk had never seen Jag smile before.

Thinking back on it, he figured they'd never been close enough. Jaina would have seen him smile during their relationship, but the most Zekk had known him was on a professional level, from their time together in Twin Suns Squadron.

[thatuselesshuman]

oc interview tag game

thank you @agirlandherquill for the tag!

I'll use one of my newest OCs for this game, just for the funnsies

Being asked: Max Foster from None of Us Heroes

Were you named after anyone?

"Ha! That's real funny man. You think my winner of a mother would get sentimental about an accident such as I? I don't even have a middle name—thieves don't get those."

When was the last time you cried?

"Probably during the fire. It was hot as hell and I lost part of my leg so...."

Do you have any kids?

"Hell no! Even if I had the chance, why would I? I'm not interested in any of... that to even have children. If I ever came across one I would probably just give it to The Doctor."

Do you use sarcasm a lot?

"I have never used sarcasm in my life." <- sarcasm

What is the first thing you notice about people?

"I usually check to see if they're carrying weapons, especially guns. I don't have any of those handy powers so I gotta do what I gotta do. It's not hard to kill a man without powers, so I imagine it's easier when you have them."

What is your eye colour?

"Cyan. Haeyun always yells at me to just say blue, but she has like five different names for the same pink so I think she's just jealous."

Scary movies or happy endings?

"Scary movies 100%. The Doctor hates them for whatever reason, so that's an added bonus."

Any special talents?

"I know 12 different ways to kill a man with lock picks, which must count for something right?"

Where were you born?

"In my mother's shitty apartment on equally shitty sheets which resides in our dear city of Ratis, Sirim. Amen."*

Do you have any pets?

"I have this one cat that Haeyun dumped on my desk one day and hasn't left. It likes to drink whiskey and has helped me win multiple card games."

How tall are you?

"5'11 if anyone but The Doctor is asking. If he's asking, I'm 6'1 with shoes on." <- he wears heeled boots

What is your dream job?

"The very job I'm doing. Being a mob boss sure has its perks, as long as you stay out of jail. I'm good at not getting caught, though, and bribery goes a long way."

@the-golden-comet and open tag!

[a-small-batch-of-dragons]

Tourniquet

i promised a happy ending, i’ll give you a happy ending

Read on Ao3

Warnings: recovery from being stabbed

Pairings: mujin/taeju

Word Count: 2392

In one world, Taeju bleeds out in a cold and rain-soaked alleyway, alone save for the ghost of Mujin’s voice over the phone.

In another, he’s found.

Taeju blinks awake in stages. First, he assumes the blood loss is getting to him because the alley feels warm. It was raining, how on earth could it be warm? Perhaps it was the fact that he was cold now, so it would feel warm.

The next time he rouses himself, he thinks it's soft. And now he knows he's really out of it because how in the world can a cold dark alley be soft? He's done a lot of things to get his senses impaired, but none of them have quite gone this far.

Of course, the real kicker is when he opens his eyes for a second and he thinks he sees Mujin.

Now he knows he's really lost his mind.

Mujin wouldn't be here, he'd just said as much over the phone. Called him clingy, called him a useful tool, just about called him pathetic.

And darling, that weak and stupid part whispers, he also called me darling.

There's no way Mujin is actually here. He wouldn't be seen in a cold and messy alley just for Taeju. He'd be lucky if someone told Mujin about his body.

His dead, messy, pathetic, clingy body.

Darling, don't forget darling.

Maybe that's why he thinks Mujin's here. It's that soft part of him realizing he's dying and trying to come up with one more fantasy to make him happy as he dies.

Mujin could be there, and it could be soft and warm and Mujin could call him darling again and maybe everything would be okay. He wouldn't be bleeding out, or maybe he would, he doesn't care, and it could be fine.

More than he deserves, he knows, but he's dying. Allow a dying man his fantasies.

There shouldn't be a reason why this particular fantasy seems to be getting clearer each time he has it, though.

At least, not until he cracks his eyes open and sees the inside of a makeshift hospital he's never seen before.

Everything aches . Not like he got fatally beaten or shot, but the same kind of bone-weary exhaustion he gets from working out all day or putting in a good fight. A low groaning and rasping sound is coming from somewhere and only belatedly does he connect that with the pain in his throat.

Swallowing feels like its own type of hell and keeping his eyes open is more of a chore than scrubbing lye off a wood floor but he still needs to know what's going on.

Well, the first thing that's immediately obvious is that somehow, he's not dead. How, he doesn't quite know, but not dead it is.

Okay.

The second thing that's pretty hard to ignore is everything hurts. It's probably a good thing that he didn't pay attention to that at first because now that he's thought it, it's all he can think about. His eyes close against his will and he tries not to moan again.

A door opens.

He keeps his eyes closed, instincts overtaking what little of his normal brain is left as he starts to parse through the information he's getting. The footsteps are soft, the closing of the door done with care and precision. They come around the side of the bed and there's a creak—they're sitting down in a chair, most likely.

He's had a pretty good idea of who it is since he heard the door close. No one else has an aura like that; even when he's asleep, Taeju knows it's Mujin.

A sudden wave of absolute mortification washes over him. He called Mujin. That happened. And he didn't die. So now he had to face the consequences of that phone call. That stupid, sappy, sentimental phone call that was even more pathetic than a drunk dial because he did it stone-cold sober.

Hearing Mujin's dismissal might just kill him.

Something warm and soft wipes at his suddenly-damp cheek, brushing something away.

"I've never seen you cry before—" and that can't be Mujin, Mujin would never be this…this soft— "does it hurt that much?"

He doesn't say anything. He can't say anything.

"I believe I asked you a question."

Oh. Sorry. At least he tries to say sorry but all that happens is that awful groaning noise. The warm soft thing pulls away.

"Drink."

Something is nudged up against his mouth and he opens it, doing his best to drink enough water to…to…

"That's enough now."

The straw leaves. It was a straw, right?

"Now answer me." The warm soft thing is back. "This is the first time I've had to ask you twice and I am not appreciating the trend you've begun."

What trend? What was the question? Oh. If it hurts.

"…'urts."

Mujin hums, pressing a button. After a moment, some of the dull roar fades and he can breathe a little easier. That doesn't stop the tears.

Because he only has a few more moments at best of being able to live in this fantasy before everything goes back to normal, he wants to be messy and pathetic and clingy and stay here a little longer.

"Open your eyes."

No. No, no, don't make me. I don't want to.

A gentle hint of pressure near the outsides of his eyes. "Open. I'm still asking you twice. I expect better from you."

Too late. He's lost it. It's gone, now, the fantasy dashed against the rocks as Mujin's voice rips through it. It's gone. It's all gone.

A painful lump rises in his throat and his eyes hurt. The hand—it is a hand—on his face feels like a brand that just wants to burn him.

He hears a soft rush of breath. Then the hand moves away from his eyes.

"Open them, darling."

Darling.

Taeju manages to peel his eyes open. Mujin's face swims into view but it's all glassy and blurry. He blinks a few times and it clears a little, but then he hears a soft noise and the hand is wiping at something again.

"You're late," Mujin says, but Taeju can't move.

He tries anyway. "Sorry—sorry, sir."

Shove it down. Shove it down. It's just another thing he has on you now. A new button to make the tool work. It means nothing. You mean nothing.

He puts on his best work face and waits.

"They got you good," Mujin muses, "didn't they?"

"Yes, sir."

"And yet you're the only one still alive." Another pass of his hand. "Good."

He's still crying. Why is he still crying? He can't cry, he has work to do. He can't waste Mujin's time anymore.

"Darling," and no, no, that hurts, make it stop hurting, " darling, look at me."

Taeju wrenches his eyes open with a humiliating sniffle. He doesn't recognize the expression on Mujin's face.

"It's okay, Taeju-yah," Mujin says, too softly for them, "it's alright now. I know it hurts."

No. This hurts. Because it's not for him. It won't ever be. It hurts.

"Shh, shh," Mujin keeps saying, "don't cry, Taeju-yah, don't cry, darling. It'll be alright."

And it hurt so much that he doesn't care about the consequences anymore.

"Don't."

* * *

Mujin freezes.

"Don't what?"

"Don't call me that," Taeju grits out as more tears roll down his face, " don't."

Mujin's mouth drops open. He can count on one hand the number of times Taeju has flat-out refused to do something before, but never has he told Mujin not to do something.

"And why not?"

Taeju glares at him, furious tears still shining on his cheeks. "Because it hurts. "

"It…hurts?"

"Because it's not real and I know it's not real. So don't do that." Taeju swallows heavily as a fresh wave of tears spills over. "Don't give me hope. I didn't mean for you to know it."

Oh.

Oh.

Taeju isn't crying because his injuries hurt. He's in pain, yes, but a much crueler type of pain, one no amount of morphine could reach.

He's mortified, Mujin realizes, humiliated, vulnerable, ashamed. He's hurting and he can't—Mujin can't fix this.

The phone call begins to play back again. How drunk Taeju sounded but it was because of blood loss. How he promised it'd never happen again but because he expected to die.

How Mujin had brushed him aside and he'd been content to die just hearing his voice one more time.

He should brush Taeju off again, he knows. He should scold him for telling him what to do, maybe twist the knife and call him darling while he does it. He should leave Taeju in the hands of the doctors and go about his work, maybe hire another to replace him.

But his Taeju-yah is crying.

"What do you mean," he asks, surprised at how steady his voice is, "this isn't real?"

Taeju is still glaring, still crying, still beautiful despite the tears. "Because I'm not important. I'm just a tool. You said it yourself."

He shouldn't say that. Taeju should not say that.

"I—I'm messy and pathetic and clingy," he continues, the sobs starting to leak out, "and you're not needy enough to put up with—put up with me when I'm—I'm—"

He chokes off, bravely swallowing a sob with too much practice.

"I'm no one's darling. "

This is wrong. This is wrong. Taeju is hurt and crying and convinced he is not worth anything to Mujin.

And he was willing to stake his life in a cold dark alley over it.

"You are not just a messy, pathetic, clingy tool," Mujin says, anger slipping unbidden into the words, "you are mine. "

Taeju's eyes widen and he seizes on it, a hand fisted in the back of his hair to pull him closer.

"You are mine, " he repeats, "do you understand? My pathetic and clingy mess, mine. You don't bleed out in alleys where I almost don't find you in time. You don't call me when you're dying and not tell me. You don't cry in my arms because you think I don't care."

Taeju stares at him. Mujin is panting, slightly out of breath from the force of his little speech. Slowly, he relaxes his grip, cradling the back of Taeju's head.

"You're mine," he says, gentler now, smoothing a hand over Taeju's cheek, "mine, Taeju-yah, my darling."

Taeju's eyes well up with tears again.

"There, now," Mujin says, adjusting his hold to pull him closer, "you're mine, see? There's no need to cry."

He doesn't listen. He's still crying.

"It's alright, Taeju-yah, it's alright." He can only stroke Taeju's cheek and hold his head still. "Why are you crying? Doesn't that feel better? It shouldn't still hurt."

Taeju tries to reach for him. "S-sir—"

"Shh, shh, hush now, your throat—"

"Sir."

Mujin's words die on his lips as Taeju's hands close weakly around his own. Through the sobs, he manages to swallow.

"'S alright, sir, 's alright."

"Yes, that's what I've been trying to say to you, it's alright." He smooths his thumbs over wet and flushed skin. "So you can stop crying."

Taeju shakes his head slightly. "'S alright that 'm crying, 's alright, sir."

"It's alright that you're—that you're crying? " Mujin frowns. "How can that possibly be considered alright? It is not alright if you're hurt—"

He's interrupted by a gentle squeeze to his hands. "'S just a lot. That's all. Not—not hurt."

Mujin relaxes slightly, still hovering protectively over this battered, bloody, beautiful boy, clutching his weeping face. "So you…you're just overwhelmed, that's it?"

Taeju nods, still sniffling. A new type of exhausted relief begins to color his cheeks. Mujin takes a deep breath as his control over his lungs starts to slip.

"Okay. That's okay. You did almost die a little while ago." Taeju laughs through a sob. "Which we are going to talk about. Don't you think you're off the hook for this yet. In an alley, really, where's your self-respect?"

He's crying a little harder now but he won't let go of Mujin's hands.

"I thought I taught you better than that. And the call. " Mujin adjusts his grip, soft tone undermining the slightly stinging words. "I really did think you were drunk. Why else would you call me and not say anything? For a second I thought you'd called by mistake."

Taeju shakes his head, a smile still on his lips, still staring at Mujin like he's better than the morphine coursing through his veins.

"Well, yes, I figured that out." He runs a hand through Taeju's hair. "I must admit, I don't know why the possibility of you being hurt didn't cross my mind."

Taeju's eyes flutter shut as Mujin ruffles his hair.

"You're normally smarter than that."

Taeju hums, leaning into Mujin's touch, still sobbing. Mujin reaches over to pull the blankets down, just to make sure he can still breathe.

"Why didn't you tell me," he murmurs, not truly expecting an answer, "I know you thought I didn't care, but why not lead with that? I could've sent a team, I could've called an emergency vehicle, I could've come. Why didn't you just say?"

Taeju can't answer, of course, he's crying too hard, but his grip on Mujin's hands stutters.

"I would have, my darling," he whispers and Taeju's sobs only grow heavier, "I wouldn't care. I would not have been mad about it, Taeju-yah."

And now his boy well and truly sobs. He holds him as the terrible tremors wreak havoc on his already-hurting body, only making soft shushing noises as he does his best to offer an unfamiliar comfort.

When Taeju's tears finally stop, Mujin takes one of the cloth napkins from the hospital serving tray and tenderly cleans his face.

"There. All better."

Peering up at him, Taeju looks more like a frightened and scolded child than the battle-worn Dongcheon dagger he is. Mujin decides he never wants to see this version of Taeju again.

"Rest, now," he murmurs, tucking the blankets over him, "you and I are going to have a long conversation in the next few days."

A hand grasps out for him when he goes to stand. Something flutters in his chest.

"Oh, do you want me to stay?"

The hand grasps his sleeve and tugs slightly.

"I can stay, Taeju-yah," he murmurs, sitting back down, "I can stay here for you. Just—just promise that you'll stay too, yes?"

"Yes, sir."

[secretswiftymarvelfan]

The Demigod From Asgard - Steve Rogers x Reader (Part 58)

Summary: Meeting up with an ally, Steve works to break you out of prison, he just hopes its in time

Word Count: 4.6k

Warnings: Angst! bit of fluff! Descriptions of Injury! Mention of Suicidal like thoughts!

Dividers by @firefly-graphics​​

Series Masterlist / Masterlist

Chapter 58: Prison Break

Steve kept his head down glancing around as he picked up some groceries.  As he walked to the cashier he pulled down the cap he wore.

The lady smiled at him warmly and he gave a small smile back as she rung up the shopping.

“Danke schön” Steve thanked as she passed him his bag.

Stepping out of the small shop he started the long walk back to the cabin he was staying in.

When he left Wakanda just under 2 weeks ago T’Challa had given him some money and Steve had settled in the village of Stoos. The place you said you’d hide away from world in.

His cabin was on the edge of the village. Close enough that he couldn’t be considered an outsider and raise suspicion but far enough away for privacy.

As he approached he glanced up to spot someone standing outside his cabin. He slowed down slightly as he tried to work out who it was. He watched as the person turned around lowering their hood when they saw him. Short platinum blonde hair is revealed. Steve furrowed his brows as he began to recognise who it was.

“Hey” Nat greets as Steve walked over to her.

“Been waiting long?” He asked as he began unlocking the door.

“Not too long” Nat shrugs as he opened the door.

“Well let’s get in from the cold” Steve said gesturing for her to step inside.

He followed her in, shutting the door behind him before turning back to Nat and hugging her.

“You okay?” He asks.

“Been better, you?” Nat sighs nodding her head.

“Been better, Ross been after you?” Steve asks as they walk into the kitchen.

“Pretty nonstop, but he never got really close,” Nat says leaning against the counter.

“Well, thanks for keeping him off my back,” Steve says smirking slightly as he put the groceries away.

“How did you know I was here?” He asks turning to face her.

“I remembered Y/N telling me about this place, thought you’d come him, sentimental bastard,” Nat says muttering the last bit under her breath.

“Heard that,” Steve says chuckling slightly.

“So I’m guessing things didn’t go exactly to plan in Siberia?” Nat asks him making him sigh and drop his head.

“No, the only reason the doctor wanted us there was to show Tony the footage of Bucky killing Howard and Maria” Steve sighs.

“And Tony didn’t take that news well” Nat sighed.

“Very, very badly, I hated it, I just wish I’d told him already” Steve admits shaking his head.

“Hey don’t beat yourself up over it, both me, you and Y/N were there when Zola told us it wasn’t an accident, and none of us told him and even if we did he probably would have hunted him down still,” Nat tells him.

“He’d have time to cool off though” Steve points out.

“True but we’ll never know, it’s in the past, just gotta move on and try and fix this mess,” Nat says.

“Speaking of which how are we breaking everyone out of prison?” Nat asks crossing her arms.

“I don’t know, I’ve been trying to plan something but I can’t work it out, not something that won’t just land me in there too” Steve sighs in annoyance.

It had kept him up at night trying to work out a way, but he found nothing. There was a reason it was the most secure prison on the planet.

“Well, it’s a good thing I’m here because I have this” Nat says holding up a key card.

“How did you get that?” Steve asks shocked.

“Got a bit too close for comfort with Ross in Hungary, but I was able to swipe it” Nat shrugs as she passes it to Steve.

He flips it around in his hands looking down at it.

“So we can get them out, now we just need to get in, find them,” Steve says as he passes back the key card.

“I have an old quinnjet we can use to escape in, had any thoughts about getting in?” Nat asks pocketing the card.

“A couple, I thought about handing myself get in that way but-“ Steve explains.

“But they wouldn’t let you go in unrestrained” Nat finishes with a sigh.

“They’re not gonna come to the surface for an unexpected arrival either” Steve points out.

“So we need to sneak in when they’re expecting something,” nat says thinking out loud.

“Like when they get supplies, like food” Steve agrees.

“They’re not gonna be common,” Nat says.

“Let’s hope there’s one soon then” Steve sighs crossing his arms over his chest.

“Let’s get to work,” Nat says.

Over the next week, Steve and Nat worked around the clock formulating their plan. With the help of Nat’s contact, Rick Mason, they had the tech they needed to break in. They had schematics of the prison, as well as some gas to knock the guards out.

They also had identified the next food shipment into the raft. Which luckily was within the week. Before they went out though Steve had one last thing to do. Something he’d been putting off since leaving Siberia.

“What are you doing?” Nat asked as she walked into the kitchen.

“Writing a letter” Steve states.

“I can see that gramps but to who?” Nat asks sitting down at the table.

“Tony” Steve sighs as he signs the letter and slips it into the envelope.

“Is that a good idea?” Nat asks.

“I don’t know but what’s the worst that can happen? We have to go on the run?” Steve states raising a brow.

“Yeah that would be terrible” Nat deadpans with a small smirk.

“Exactly, now I’m gonna go post this, want anything from the shops?” Steve asks holding up the box that contained the letter and a burner phone.

“Surprise me” Nat smirks making him chuckle.

Steve was surprised at how easy it was to break into the raft. All it took was some spare uniforms from the supplier. Once inside Steve used the gas to knock out the guards before making his way down the halls to where his friends were being held.

The lights were off when he entered the room but he instantly spotted Sam in his cell pacing back and forth. As he turned back towards him Steve took a step out of the shadows. A smile grew on Sam’s face when he saw Steve.

“You took your time” Sam smirks as Steve unlocked the cells.

“I came as soon as I could I promise,” Steve says glancing around.

He saw Clint moving to Wanda helping her up, undoing her straight jacket. Steve then notices the collar around her neck and moves over to rip it off.

“You’re all safe now,” he says putting a hand on Wanda’s shoulder.

“Where’s Y/N?” He asks when he notices you weren’t with them.

“They took her fairly early on, they’ve been interrogating her constantly,” Clint tells him.

“She looked in a bad way when they last dragged her past” Sam sighs.

Steve’s jaw clenched in anger hearing all of this “where is she?” He asks.

“The floor below I think, we’re not sure,” Scott tells him.

“I’ll get her, your gear is on the floor above, Nat will be waiting with a quinnjet to escape in,” Steve tells them.

“Go get her,” Sam says patting Steve on the shoulder.

Steve nods before heading back out and in the direction you were in. Since he wasn’t expecting for you to be separated from the others he didn’t have any more gas to knock the guards out. Leaving him with brute force alone.

As he made his way down the corridors he threw guards into each other, knocking their heads together. Throwing them into the walls and knocking them out instantly. He worked methodically through the guards, knowing he must be getting close by the number of guards.

When he rounded the corner he spotted you in your cell. His heart stopped when he saw your lifeless form on the floor. He was only able to take a breath when he saw you take a shallow one.

As he got closer he saw how beaten you were. Your face is covered in bruises and cuts. One eye swollen shut, your lip split. He unlocked your cell bending down beside you.

“Y/N, doll it’s me, it’s okay I’m here to get you out,” he tells you gently cupping your cheek.

The only response he got was a weak groan. He removed the collar from around your neck knowing it would help you regain some energy, but when he did his blood ran cold when he spotted the burns on your neck. It was a shock collar.

“Nat I have Y/N, the rest are making their way to you now,” Steve says into the comms as he scooped you into his arms.

“On it” Nat responds as Steve carried you out of your cell.

Steve ran through the corridor kicking down anyone who got in his way. Finally, he got to the landing pad, the jet already waiting.

“Go!” Steve shouts once he was aboard, placing you down on the medical cot.

“Shit is she okay,” Clint asks moving to stand beside Steve.

“I dunno, I don’t even know what they’ve done to her,” Steve says as he quickly grabs the first aid kit.

He tried to set up and drip for you, but his hands were shaking too much. Leading Sam to step in and take over.

“Sit down Steve let us help,” Sam says taking the kit from Steve.

Steve just nods moving to sit beside you gently taking your hand and bringing it to his lips. Waiting as patiently as he could while Sam checked over your injuries.

“She’s gonna need to go to a hospital” Sam sighs glancing over at Steve.

“We can’t exactly rock up at a hospital considering we just broke out of prison” Clint points out.

“Yes we can,” Steve says glancing up at everyone.

“Steve I don’t-“ Sam starts.

“We have an ally, trust me,” Steve says glancing over at Nat who nods her head.

“Just give me the coordinates and we’ll head straight there” Nat agrees.

Steve nodded getting up and moving to the front of the jet. He inputted the coordinates that T’Challa had given him from before. Once the course was set, he wordlessly returned to your side.

He wanted nothing more than to hold you close but he didn’t know the extent of your injuries. The last thing he wanted was to harm you anymore. So he sat as close as he could hold onto your hand. His eyes fell to your face, and he almost couldn’t bring himself to look. This was the worst he’d ever seen you and it was all his fault.

“I’m sorry, I’m so, so sorry” he whispered, voice breaking slightly as kissed your knuckles.

“Steve-“ you croaked out weakly.

Your eyes open slightly as if you were fighting for to keep them open. You search around for him, eventually settling on his blurry figure.

“I’m here, it’s okay you’re safe now,” he tells you kissing your forehead.

Even in your weakened state, you could feel his tears falling onto your skin. Your own eyes fill with tears when you realise it was actually him, not another hallucination.

“Steve I-“ you cry out but Steve silences you.

“Shush, shush it’s okay, save your energy we’re gonna get you some proper help, everything is gonna be okay I swear” he promises you, squeezing your hand gently.

You could only nod your head holding onto his hand tightly, scared to let go. You could feel yourself falling back under but you desperately fought it trying to keep your eyes on his.

“Get some rest doll, I promise I’m not going anywhere, I’m not leaving your side ever again,” he tells you.

You nod your head allowing yourself to finally rest for the first time in weeks.

When they landed in Wakanda the Dora Milaje instantly met them as the jet landed. Steve carefully picked you up and carried you off the jet walking straight towards the guards.

“Okoye, Y/N needs a doctor and quickly,” Steve tells her.

“Of course captain, what about your friends?” She asks nodding to the rest.

“We’re fine just need to rest,” Sam tells her.

She nods her head and shouts orders to the rest of the Dora Milaje “come with me captain” she tells him.

Okoye leads Steve inside towards the medical labs. As they walked down the corridor they passed T’Challa and Shuri.

“Captain I wasn’t expecting you so soon,” T’Challa says following Steve into the medical lab.

“Yeah sorry for not calling ahead but it was urgent,” Steve says as he sets you down.

“Of course, you’ve brought her to the best place,” Shuri says as she scans your body.

“There’s internal damage that’s going to need surgery to correct it” Shuri reports as she looks over the scans.

Steve nods nervously leaning down to kiss your forehead nervously. More doctors enter the room and begin to prep you for surgery. Steve kept hold of your hand as long as he could until your bed was wheeled out of the room, your hand pulled from his.

“Don’t worry Captain your wife is in the best hands,” T’Challa says putting a hand on his shoulder.

“She’s a fighter, I just wish I had gotten there sooner” Steve sighs shaking his head.

“We can’t change the past, you got her and the rest of your friends out, that’s the important thing,” T’Challa tells him.

“Yeah, thank you for all your help, I really appreciate it” Steve thanked him.

“Happy to help, get some rest Captain” T’Challa smiles before heading out of the room.

Steve sighs moving to sit down in the chair in the corner of the room. Taking a deep breath he leant back, his head resting on the wall. Settling in for the long wait until he could see you again.

You slowly woke to the dull ache over your entire body. It wasn’t as bad as it had been the past weeks. So much so you could almost fall back asleep. Continue the most peaceful sleep you’ve had in weeks.

As you came around some more you could feel something warm against your hand. It held your hand tightly, before lifting it and kissing it.

The sensation made you wake with a start panicking that the guard was in your cell as you slept. Your panic only grew as your eyes darted around the unfamiliar room.

“Hey, hey it's okay” you heard someone say, their hands moving to your shoulders.

“No, get away” you mutter in a blind panic.

“Doll it’s okay it’s me, you’re safe now” you hear.

Your eyes follow the sound of the voice eventually falling and focusing on its owner. Seeing Steve looking down at you worry filling his eyes.

“Steve” you whisper not really believing he was here.

“Yeah it’s me, it’s okay, you’re safe now” Steve reassures you cupping your cheeks.

Your hands move to his wrist gripping them tightly scared he was gonna disappear.

“You’re here, you’re actually here” you stutter, “I-I thought it was a dream”

“I’m sorry, I should have gotten you out sooner,” Steve says pressing his forehead against yours tears collecting in his eyes.

You just shook your head as you cried in relief that he was here and the hell of the raft was gone.

“It’s okay,” you tell him looking up at him.

“No, they hurt you because of me if I ever see the person who did this I’ll kill them” Steve states his jaw clenching.

“No you won’t,” you say making him let out a small huff of laughter.

“No but I’ll want to” he reasoned with a small smile.

“And they didn’t hurt me because of you, they hurt me because I didn’t tell them anything, it's on me and if I had to…” you say before taking a deep and shaky breath “I’d do it all over again in a heartbeat”

“You won’t, I can promise you that, I’m not letting you leave my side again,” Steve says kissing your forehead.

“I love you” you smiled.

“I love you too” Steve smiles kissing you gently.

You take a deep breath looking around the room taking it in for the first time. When you looked out the window behind steve all you could see were lush forests.

“Where are we?” You ask looking back over at Steve.

“Wakanda, T’Challa has offered us shelter and help” Steve explains making you furrow your brows in confusion.

“But last I knew he wanted to kill Bucky,” you say shaking your head slightly.

“He followed us to Siberia and heard Zemo admit to the bombing, he wanted to help to make up it,” Steve tells you.

“What happened in Siberia, I know something must have gone wrong since we’re on the run but I don’t know what,” you ask him “is Bucky okay?”

“Bucky’s fine, T’Challa and his sister Shuri are helping get rid of what Hydra put in him, he’s gone back under in the meantime” Steve sighs looking down slightly.

“Oh, Stevie,” you say squeezing his hand “you’ve saved him, don’t forget that, he’s safe now because of you” you remind him.

“I know, it’s just-“ Steve sighed “Siberia was bad”

“I know Tony was there, he came to raft asking to know where you were so he could help,” you say, Steve, nodding his head.

“He did, but the doctor wasn’t there to wake the soldiers, he’d killed all of them before we even got there,” Steve told you making you look at him confused.

“He’d done all of the things he did, killed those people just to show Tony the footage of Bucky killing his parents” Steve sighed dropping his head.

“Shit” you mutter dropping your head back onto your pillow and looking up at the ceiling.

“It’s my fault, I shouldn’t have told him where you were, if I hadn’t he wouldn’t have been there,” you say shaking your head and tears pricking in the corner of your eyes.

“Hey, hey no, don’t do that, it’s my fault I should have told him about Bucky straight away, as soon as Zola told us,” Steve says squeezing your hand and getting you to look at him.

“But-“ you say going to argue but Steve interrupts.

“But nothing, remember after Largos you told me we can’t change the past, we can only go forward,” Steve tells you with a small reassuring smile.

You nod your head giving him a small smile “what happens now?” You ask him.

Steve sighs gently shrugging his shoulders “I don’t know, all I know is that I won’t be letting you out of my sight again, no more stunts like what you did at the airport” steve says with a playful glare.

“I had to get the two of you out of there” you smirk making him chuckle.

“I know but next time you’re coming with me” Steve smiles.

Your conversation was interrupted by the door to your room opening and the doctor stepping inside.

“Glad to see you awake,” the doctor says as he walked.

“How are you feeling?” He asks as he looks over your charts.

“Sore, but I’m good,” you say smiling over at Steve squeezing his hand.

“I’m glad to hear it, were you seen to by a doctor during your time there?” The doctor asks but you shook your head.

“Wow, okay,” he remarks in surprise.

“What is wrong with me?” You ask him.

“Well you had a few broken ribs, some were already heeling but some left fragments behind which we needed to extract. There was some minor damage to your lungs, what concerned us the most were the injuries that were already healing” the doctor explains.

“What why? Are they not healing right?” Steve asks confused.

“No they’re healing perfectly well, but the number of injuries you sustained, mixed with your malnutrition, lack of sleep and other non-physical forms of torture should have killed you. We believe that if it wasn’t for your Asgardian blood you wouldn’t be here right now” the doctor explained.

Steve practically growled in anger hearing this. They hadn’t interrogated you, they’d tortured you. The fact that you’d even been able to bring yourself to smile was a testament to how strong you were.

“Steve I’m fine,” you tell him reassuringly.

“Yes, and we believe you should make a speedy recovery, we want to keep you in overnight and then a week of bed rest and you should be good, just take it slow” the doctor smiles.

“Well, I don’t think we have any missions planned” you smirk making Steve chuckle.

“Good well rest up and call if you need anything” the doctor smiles.

“Thank you,” Steve says.

Once the doctor was gone Steve turned back to you holding your hand in both of his. He held you tightly pressing his lips to your skin repeatedly.

“I missed you so, so much” he mutters shaking your head.

You swallow the lump growing in your throat. Guilt was washing over you, you’d missed Steve terribly during your time in the raft. But there were points where you wished you’d died, unable to take much more. Seeing Steve now you felt terrible that you were willing to put him through that.

“You okay?” Steve asks noticing how quiet you were.

“Yeah I’m perfect I’m with you,” you say unable to bring yourself to tell him the truth.

Steve smiles brushing some hair out of your face “hungry?” He asks.

“Yeah, I could eat” you smile nodding your head.

“Okay, I’ll go see what I can get you,” Steve says standing up and kissing you gently “I’ll be right back”

While Steve was gone you looked out of the window taking in the beautiful view. You didn’t realise how much you missed the outdoors during your time locked in the raft. Smiling slightly when you saw a flock of brightly coloured birds fly past.

“I brought some food,” Steve says as he steps back inside.

“And a friend” Nat smirks following him in.

“Nat, what are you doing here? And why are you blond?” You ask her confused.

“Kinda betrayed Tony and helped Steve and Bucky get away, and everyone knows me as a redhead” Nat shrugs “which reminds me you should grow a beard” she adds pointing to Steve, who frowned.

“So you’re on the run like us?” You ask as she perches on the edge of your bed.

“Yep, I was in Norway for a bit before I had to sort a couple of things,” Nat says clearing her throat slightly “then I found this one in Stoos and a week later we broke you guys out”

“You were hiding in Stoos?” You ask Steve with a small smile.

“Couldn’t think of anywhere better” he smiles passing you a bowl full of fruit.

You smile to yourself as you start tucking into the bowl of fruit. Grateful for the first tasty thing you’ve had in weeks.

“The rest of the team are fine, all resting up and freshened up,” Nat says looking over at Steve.

“Good I know T’Challa is working to try and get us a deal, so we don’t have to be on the run forever,” Steve says nodding his head.

“Ross probably won’t let that fly, but public interest may sway him” Nat shrugs her shoulders.

“Well see, whatever happens, we’ll work it out” Steve sighs,

As you listened to their conversation your mind went to the rest of the team, and the fight at the airport. Suddenly remembering how it all ended.

“Nat, do you know how Rhodey is?” You ask her.

“Rhodey?” Steve questions, brows furrowed.

“While you were escaping in the jet Tony and Rhodey tried to follow you, me and Sam tried to stop them but Vision tried to shoot us from the sky, but it hit Rhodey instead,” you say swallowing the lump in your throat before continuing “he fell, we all tried to save him, but he hit the ground, he’s alive but-“

You shook your head slightly before looking over at Nat hoping she could finish the story.

“He’s okay, last I heard Tony built him special leg braces, it’ll be a long road but he’ll be okay,” Nat tells you.

“I’m sorry I had no idea that happened,” Steve says putting his hand on your shoulder and squeezing.

“It's okay, I’m just glad he’s okay, for a moment god… I thought he was gone” you sigh shaking your head.

“C’mere” Steve sighs standing up and wrapping his arms around you.

You sigh into his embrace burying your face in his chest, listening to his steady heartbeat. Focus on the feeling of his arms around you, hands rubbing your back soothingly.

“I hope I’m not interrupting,” T’Challa says walking in.

“No not at all, thank you for everything” you thank him.

“It’s nothing, I want to do everything I can to make up for my wrongdoings,” T’Challa says.

“I’m assuming you’re not mad at me for shocking you then?” Nat asks looking over her shoulder at the king.

“Well you’re on the run because of me so I think we can call it even” T’Challa smiles.

“How are you feeling?” He asks looking at you.

“Tired and sore, but I’m good” you smile.

“That’s good to hear, I promise I won’t keep you long, I just wanted to inform the captain that a room has been made up for him but I have been informed by reliable sources that you two have the habit of sharing hospital beds,” T’Challa says, Natasha giving you both a knowing look.

“Therefore I’ve arranged got a bed extension to be brought in so you’re more comfortable tonight” T’Challa smiles.

“Thank you, that means a lot” Steve smiles reaching out to shake T’Challa’s hand.

“It’s nothing, rest up the kingdom of Wakanda is open for you as long as you wish” T’Challa smiles.

“I’ll let you guys rest, I bet cap hasn’t been sleeping well the past couple of weeks,” Nat says standing up.

“I’ll have the extension brought in now” T’Challa agrees heading out with Nat.

A short moment later a couple of nurses wheeled in the bed extension which was basically half the width of the hospital bed. Once it was attached your hospital bed became a small double ready for Steve to join you.

“Have you really not been sleeping well?” You ask as he kicks off his shoes and climbs in.

“No, well, I have been sleeping but not as well as I normally do” he shrugs as he carefully wraps his arm around you and pulls you closer.

“Nightmares?” You ask.

“A couple, but not really bad ones” he admits looking down at you.

“But don’t worry about me and get some rest” he smiles kissing the top of your head.

You nod your head snuggling up closer to him, wrapping your arm around his waist. You took a deep breath as you listened to his steady heartbeat. The constant reminder that he was here with you.

“you know I love you don’t you?” You say quietly.

“Of course I do, always will,” he says looking down at you.

“Good” you sigh closing your eyes.

“I love you too” Steve whispers kissing the top of your head.

You nod your head gently hoping now that you were back with Steve. The horrors of the raft were behind you, no longer able to affect you. Or at least you hoped so.

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Series Masterlist / Masterlist

I don’t have a tag list so follow @secretswiftymarvelfanlibrary​ and turn on post notifications for updates!

[crazykuroneko]

Tbh I think a lot casual viewers / non book fans are probably going to not continue the show after s2 unless it diverges quite drastically on louis's storyline? iwtv is very bleak and I genuinely think they underestimated how much show viewers ended up hating lestat after s1 (and they may end up in a similar situation with armand in s2) and then you're asking the audience to watch an entire season of this guy's whole backstory. plus you're killing off one of the two likable characters by the end of s2 and shifting louis into more a side character.

a big red flag to me was the lady who hosts the podcast who doesn't have a book background saying a lot of the same stuff as show-only people. like she clearly does not like lestat or loustat at all lmao and its literally her job to promote the show.

First, I want to address the "shifting louis into more a side character" because no I don't agree with that. Contrary to fans believe, Hollywood-standard wise (from the number of episodes they are in, how integral their characters are to the story), both Jacob and Sam have been considered as lead actors/cast of IWTV. You can see industry news outlets calling them both as such. But because IWTV is about Louis' past specifically and AMC knew IWTV still has some hope in Emmys even though it's small, they put them in different categories to not split the votes between them (they even only submit one actor in each category for it). So, look at what we have now, Louis is the narrator yet we still get Lestat in all episodes, and he's leading the NOLA narrative forward together with Louis despite not existing in the Dubai narrative. I bet we'll still get Lestat in most, if not all episodes, in S2, because Rolin has said many many times, the show is about both of them. And I expect they'll do the same in TVL season(s); Lestat is telling the story while Louis is leading whatever will be going on in the modern time. (No, i don't believe they'll make Louis stuck on a couch the whole season to listen to Lestat's story even though it sounds tasty. He'd definitely have a way to know what Lestat's saying, but I don't see anything good writing-wise from sticking your well-developed character in one place for such a long time)

About whether the audience will be willing to listen to Lestat's past, I'll see how S2 goes first before judging that. A lot of people don't like him, but there are a lot of them who are like, "I will miss him if he dies, he's an interesting character".

And IWTV is a niche show, its genre is gothic horror/romance. Who the hell is doing gothic romance for a series in this decade? (Hannibal doesn't count, it's not gothic and still about will/won't they). Like, what AMC is doing with IWTV now is extremely daring. And with a niche show, it's always the same: you can't please everyone. There will always be part of the general audience who will leave because either it's simply not their cup of tea or they can't stomach it. Especially now when there's this purity sentiment going so strongly in general (apparently now we shouldn't ship fictional characters, every sex scene has to have a grand purpose, and you shouldn't watch any portrayal of abuse even though it's produced by the victim herself). God forbid IWTV would ever want to please those people yikes. So, IWTV won't ever get as "mainstream" as what, Succession, Ted Lasso, Better Call Saul. But IWTV would still appeal to people who appreciate good writing, people who are "idc how bad the characters are as long as they're exciting!", and people who really love horror (not that "comfort horror" BS) - there's this review of IWTV from an horror website who is like "I wish they gave us more gore and horror of vampires", oh these people would love S2.

So, tl;dr you could say it's a natural selection (hell yes Darwinism), it's inevitable. I'd rather have that audience leave than stay and ruin fans' experience by whining about the plot that won't ever satisfy them. And I'd always applaud writers who don't give a shit to what people say and stick to what they're meant to do. They slay!

EDIT: ah I forgot about this. but don't underestimate the number of old fans who will probably check the show again when the TVL season(s) come. Because no matter how big their hatred for AMC is, it will be the first time ever for TVL to be adapted on screen. First time in 38 years (yes no one considers QotD movie ever existed). That's too big a temptation!

[inkdemon-whore]

just got PUNCHED IN THE FACE..... with a thought-

if the ink demon eats his failed/dead audrey spawn

and retains their memories and info

ok

and fave audrey acts more like toon bendy

alright

and if the ink demon was being tormented by the keepers to become, toon bendy

mm-hmm

what

if

he started thinkin about his favorite?

if ink made favorite from thinkin about henry, and in that sentimentality, he managed to dig up this old, abandoned, toon bendy part of himself to make her. and she ends up sorta nurturing and growing that part of himself outside of him, plus getting through to him and his trauma shit, and then gets reincorporated into him. sharing with him those memories, feeling, etc that she made outside of himself.

and then with more trauma, him distancing himself from perfect audrey, thinking it's her who's doing all this stuff to him now, pushing that toon/fave part of himself down further and further over the years, only to suddenly be captured and tormented like he was, or even worse than he was outside of the machine years ago. going back mentally to a time where he was abused horrifically like this, and being forced to be something he's not. thinking "i'm stronger now, i'm not going to be as weak as i was before. You can't hurt me anymore." only for the torment to seemingly never stop.

his mind would wonder, and dig, and hope to recall some better time before this. and he thinks of his favorite. and honestly, she's probably the only thing that gets him to cry. he thinks this might be deserved, or thinks that audrey outside the machine might retain some memory of her past time and is resentful, but none of those answers make any sense. he keeps digging in his own head and all of her memories seem to be there. and he goes from hating himself and feeling this is a worthy punishment for all the torment he's caused, to wishing she was there, and cry not from the pain and torment he's being put through, but because he misses her.

he just wants to hold her again. he wouldn't mind her calling him out on his self hating bullshit again. he's embarrassed of recollections of the two playing. disgusted recalling through her eyes of him killing or eating someone. felling pity as he reaches deeper in his mind at moments he'd done her wrong, or hurt her in ways he still hardly understands, and seeing those same memories through her eyes, and breaking at the feeling. essentially seeing himself, looking at himself through her eyes, laying on the floor in pitch blackness, seeing her hold his hand and vividly hear a soft "you can cry, it's ok." spoken in a way so genuine and nearly choked up, it makes him hyperventilate and feel sick to his stomach.

the keepers are grossly gleeful about this, not knowing what's going on in the ink demons head, just seeing him sob and get giddy, thinking their torment is working. thinking this emotionless thing is finally showing emotion due to them. they think the ink demon's form is changing because of their influence. not because this part of him, that's always been there, that for once was finally given time to grow outside of himself on accident, that was buried twice over, is finally crawling its way up to the surface, through all the scar tissue and calluses, and making itself known out of love for one, two, maybe three-ish people if you wanna count him being friendly with bertrum. and pure, tormented, traumatized HATRED and SPITE for everything else.

he doesn't turn into bendy in the first place, because the keepers torment, he turns into bendy because he's always been bendy, and no one will let him be bendy, and he hardly ever lets himself be bendy, and it took pulling that bendy part out of himself, and pretending/making it someone else, and putting it back in, for him to even get a chance to be bendy, just for a little bit. he's still not perfect, he's still hurt and tortured, he's still scared because he's always been scared, hell he still probably hates himself, but now in this toon form it's that self hatred that's being pushed down in favor of... his favorite... i guess.

....

it took an out of body/sitting beside himself experience for this fucker to realize "ya know, maybe i'm not all that bad". and that same-ish out of body/sitting beside himself/toon part of him is comin back like tag team to switch spots and hopefully stop him from getting more hurt. because being strong and stoic like this isn't working, being a monster that destroys everything isn't working, and... he hates it, but... sometimes, it's ok to let his walls down and cry, and... being loved, even for a moment, from someone else, or from himself which is hard to do when he's not split in two, is the only thing that gets the tears flowing...

.......

.......................

I'M NOT CRYING YOU'RE CRY SHUT THE FUCK UP!!!

[catsconflictscopicsandchamomile]

Serious Post For Once. MAJOR trigger warning for some fully-mask-off discussions of (mostly my own internal) racism, generally Actually Talking Abt Real Shit For Once.

ok, so..hm

I don't have the energy to try to write this academically rn so I'm just going to word-vomit it out.

I am really having....Feelings... about the characters of Grendel and Grendel's Mother, specifically re: race and BIPOC identities.

I personally am white as the driven snow (though Jewish, whatever that counts for in 2023. still 'wtf' abt all that personally).

I have been putting my heart and soul into a story centering modern/reincarnated versions of Grendel and Grendel's Mother for about three years now. they are some form of shapeshifter, usually take animalistic/monstrous/hybrid forms, often eat humans, and are canonically descended from Cain (kinda. its complicated but basically they are). they are also both EXTREMELY white.

I'd actually made this choice with an intentional eye on race, way back when this story started outgrowing its roots as a supernatural fanfiction (please dont ask). no longer limited to spn's Genuinely Concerningly White Actor Pool, I had to really look at these characters re: race and decide what I was doing going forward. At the time, I was already looking into Maria Dahvana Headley's "The Mere Wife", and its centering of race both intrigued and really repelled me. At first, the (lbr) graphic depictions of how this story's Grendel's nonwhiteness informs the violence against him shocked me in the way I think they were "supposed" to, and made me really take a step back and reconsider the entire narrative of Beowulf (though to b clear I was already pro-Grendel's side of things at this point) in terms of how closely it matched more modern treatments of BIPOC and specifically young men.

...and then I went "wait. isn't Maria Dahvana Headley white???"

after a LOT of research failed to provide any contradicting evidence, my self-reflection and serious though turned to genuine strong disgust. It felt, and still feels, VERY weird that a white woman with (afaik) white kids wrote a lot of the sentiments in this novel. if you've read it, you know the ones that I mean.

I attempted to research racial themes re: Grendel further and ended up in a rabbit hole about Cain, Ham, Mormons & Bigfoot (seriously.) and all of this, along with some other research, eventually led to the following conclusions:

narratives placing Grendel and His Mother as victims of racialized violence/heroic or sympathetic figures in a racially- and/or socially-conscious work are both amazing and necessary

not if they're written by white people. there's probably some exceptions but honestly that's just weird and makes my hair stand up(derogatory).

I am White People. I should not try to do this.

given the association (certain modern media almost bafflingly aside) between Cain/Ham and justifications for SLAVERY, I, a white author, should not only NOT make these characters BIPOC, but should lean pretty damn hard into their whiteness- it's not "reclaiming" exactly, it's like... "reclaiming"(derogatory)(ironic)

given the current political movements around Viking Shit, and SPECIFICALLY pseudopagan, christian-based anglo-saxon warrior male social orders, the figures of Grendel & His Mother can and maybe even SHOULD serve as symbols of active and violent resistance from within the communities (White As Shit) that the current alt-right claims to represent.

given ALL of that, the best way for me to write these characters is how I'm currently writing them- very white, very monstrous, would probably state their race as "fae" if asked and "white" and/or "european" if specified for human racial terms, explicitly monstrous, symbolic of both (my own) queer/disabled/neurodivergent rage, feeling of incompatibility with most/all friend groups or communities, as well as a larger theme of a "KILL ALL VIKINGS" fantasy enabled by them being Big Scary Creature Beasts.

However... its been a few years. I've been drowing myself in Anglo-Saxon Everything but fully ignoring racial and diversity issues, a huge part of this admittedly being irl stressors in my life that, shall we say, EXTREMELY reduced my capacity for basic empathy & Current Events Awareness to a degree that I'm only starting to repair. as part of this repair, I'm really questioning this. I've read some super fascinating stuff about Grendel & race recently, and yet.

...and yet

I can't shake the feeling that

as a white author, making this a race-centric narrative isn't just not my job/not my turft, its actually kinda pretty racist

however, refusing to write these characters for that reason then involves (at least internally) saying that "this kind of archetype" is ONLY "meant" to be written by BIPOC ppl, because "they're the only ones who really Get The Experience", and HOO BOY. THAT IS RACIST. that is me doing a great big racism right there.

...so what do I do? I really love my take on these characters. I've grown really attached to them. It seems like everything is actually pretty well in order for me in terms of why I made the choices I did- I've looked at the other things I could have done with these themes and they're Extremely Problematic At Best...

but I can't shake the feeling that I'm still missing something, fucking up somehow.

I'd genuinely welcome discussion on this, I'm not going to be offended or defensive about ANYTHING, legit if you want to tear this whole post apart via critique re: art or just my own biases, please do. I'm just trying to figure this shit out.

and possibly overthinking it. that is also definitely a possiblity.

*to be clear I don't hate or dislike Headley. I just don't GET her. I'm not sure WHAT to think.

[scarlet-rosepetals]

Listen OP, I recognize that you probably didn’t ask the question in earnest because no one on this gods forsaken website asks questions earnestly, but it fucking kills me that even with genocide joe funding an extremely visible genocide right now as I type this we are still doing this shit, so I’m going to answer earnestly.

You are not American, as you said, so I get that from the outside that looks like an innocuous statement, but the reason people get angry about those who’s response to everything is “you should still vote blue” is because it never just means “you should still vote blue”. It is designed, at its core, to be a victim blaming statement, and it directly translates to “the United States would be a perfect country if only those yucky wucky marginalized people weren’t too laaaaaaazy to vote!!!” I recognize that this might sound like an exaggeration to you, but I need you to understand that there are uncomfortably large swaths of people in this country who earnestly believe that every bad thing that has happened in the United States since 2016 happened because Trump won the election, and that he won because young marginalized people didn’t cast their votes. The democratic party is in power right now, choosing to fund genocide right now, and people believe this is happening as a direct result of an insufficient number of young people voting blue no matter who.

I’ll put it in perspective. Imagine walking up to a Palestinian immigrant in the US right now who lost their family to Israel’s bombing and telling them they should still go vote blue next election or things will really get bad. Can you seriously look me in the eye and tell me that sounds like an innocuous practical statement right now?

You bring up what the alternatives are, and in fairness, I’m sure you’re getting a lot of responses that are completely irony poisoned jokes about firebombing a Walmart instead of genuine responses, but also in fairness the fact that those are your ideas for alternative actions is pretty disturbing and suggests that you just don’t think there’s a viable solution other than to keep voting blue and hoping that eventually fixes everything, which it won’t, actually it will make things worse. Frankly, it’s weird how few people seem to think that getting everyone to stand up and say “I will vote for this political party and support them no matter what they do” isn’t an obvious recipe for disaster. The democratic party is explicitly counting on left-leaning people to keep saying that so that they can keep courting centrists and pushing their party further politically right, because that’s the logical thing to do to get the most votes if voting for them is truly the only “moral” option for anyone on the left (and also because the two party system is a farce but that’s another post).

So what are the real, honest alternatives then? Well, honestly the most appropriate answer to that question is “what are you, a cop?”. Detailing your personal political actions on the internet is horribly unsafe regardless of the legal and moral status of your actions. If they genuinely challenge the status quo, it’s dangerous to talk about them. In the broad strokes though the best thing we can do is work together and help each other, because individualist notions about doing your small part in isolation or being an individual crusader for the revolution are bullshit. We’re all going to have to be a little nicer to each other and a little more willing to work as a group. On my end, that starts with providing you with a genuine explanation even though your question was dismissive and carried the victim-blaming sentiment of the “just vote blue” rhetoric. On yours, it starts with listening (and yes it starts with you too, don’t think for a second that whatever country you live in means this all doesn’t apply, the world will not be changed strictly along border lines)

listen i am not american. i understand that even democrats fucking suck and its a genuinely shitty situation to be in. im so sorry. but hey, hey look at me. why are you guys bullying people for saying "you should still vote blue?" Like im curious about the alternatives youve got. voting red? firebombing walmart? tumblr user catboyssepticbutthole, i know you will not be firebombing walmart.