#command prompt tricks

[choerypetal]

Love at first sight. / Squid Games!Men

summary; a little prompt for each men in squid game x reader.

also my english isn't my first language so i do apologize for a few errors! enjoys x

including; in-ho, thanos, myung-gi, dae-ho & gi-hun

In-ho: 

Praise yourself for catching In-ho’s attention amidst the chaos of the games. Not only did he manage to maintain his composure, but he also came to terms with the truth—it wasn’t his mind playing tricks on him, but his heart betraying him. He had been ensnared in a dangerous blend of love and death. And no matter the cost, he was determined to ensure your survival, even if it meant faking your death and arranging for the guards to escort you to his shelter.

At first, his actions were subtle—a few fleeting glances, quiet assurances that you weren’t alone. He took it upon himself to ensure someone capable stood between you and danger. This resolve led him to seek out Gi-hun, cornering him with a whispered plea. “I’m not asking for much,” In-ho murmured, his voice low and firm. Gi-hun’s brows knit together as he glanced at you, understanding little of the request but sensing its weight. Though the urge to question why In-ho couldn’t protect you himself lingered, Gi-hun ultimately accepted—he, too, had his own plans to carry out.

Yet, watching Gi-hun hover near you ignited something unexpected in In-ho—a simmering, unanticipated jealousy. His blood boiled harder than he cared to admit.

It was Gi-hun’s proximity to you that set him on edge.

While 001 had extended a friendly hand, In-ho never anticipated him stealing you away entirely. The realization unsettled him, and during the chaos of the Carousel games, panic began to creep in. When he noticed you were nowhere to be found in the room, it nearly consumed him. The thought of losing you made his fists clench, and for a brief, irrational moment, he contemplated throwing a punch at Gi-hun. But it wasn’t until the final elimination, when the doors unlocked, that relief washed over him. There you were—your silhouette unmistakable behind Dae-ho.

In that instant, he didn’t hesitate. Rushing toward you, his breath hitched, words failing him. A shaky exhale escaped his lips, a mix of disbelief and overwhelming relief. He almost laughed—a scoff of incredulity—before pulling you close, his hand instinctively cradling the back of your head. Without a second thought, he leaned in, his lips pressing a firm but tender kiss to your forehead.

“Silly,” he muttered, his voice tight with emotion. “I never should’ve trusted Gi-hun to keep you safe. Damn it, I thought I’d lost you.” The panic in his voice caught you off guard, the weight of his words sinking in. You hadn’t expected such raw vulnerability from him—not now, not like this. A soft chuckle escaped you, an attempt to lighten the moment. “It’s okay,” you reassured him gently. “Dae-ho found me right away and made sure I was safe.”

That revelation gave In-ho pause, but he filed it away for later. For now, none of it mattered. You were alive and unharmed, and that was everything.

The kiss on your forehead wasn’t just a gesture of relief—it was a silent declaration. You were his, and no one—not Gi-hun, not Dae-ho, not anyone—would ever take you from him again.

Thanos: 

Once a retired rapper, Thanos now found himself thrust into a life-and-death struggle. Among his generation, it was no surprise that some idolized him—his presence commanding a respect so intense, it bordered on worship. To them, he was pristine, untouchable. But this adoration didn’t sit well with everyone, especially loners like you, who preferred to navigate the chaos without attachments.

Ironically, that aloofness was one of the many reasons Thanos found himself drawn to you.

In the early days on the island, Thanos made no effort to reveal his interest. If anything, he mirrored your indifference, matching your cold detachment with his own. But when you began spending time with Myung-gi, the dynamic shifted. Thanos hadn’t expected it, nor did he like it. Watching you bond with someone else left a bitter taste in his mouth, awakening a tension he couldn’t ignore. The loner mindset had been his strategy for survival—a simple equation: fewer people, fewer complications. But your presence complicated everything, especially when it came to your effortlessly beautiful face, which he found himself stealing glances at far too often.

It didn’t take long for his resolve to crack.

Thanos had made himself a promise: to keep his distance, to ignore you as you ignored him. But that promise shattered the moment Nam-Gyu let slip a confession Thanos had sworn him to secrecy about. That little fucker, Thanos thought bitterly, though his anger was tempered by necessity—he needed Nam-Gyu to survive. Yet, when the truth reached you, it unraveled him in ways he hadn’t anticipated.

Instead of drawing you closer, the revelation pushed you further away. Your avoidance became more deliberate, more pronounced than ever before. It stung more than Thanos cared to admit. For the first time in a long time, he was unprepared—for your reaction, for the way it tightened a knot of frustration and longing deep inside him.

Which only added more tension between the two of you.

The final games loomed, a trial where survival would demand more than just cunning—it called for a kind of ruthless cleansing. Thanos knew, without hesitation, that when the moment came, he’d be the first to grab your hand and shield you. Even if it meant overreacting, even if it jeopardized his own chances, he couldn’t bear the thought of losing you. Certainly not to Myung-gi, if it came down to that.

“You know...” he murmured late that night, his voice low and almost hesitant. Your back was turned to him, your body stiff on the thin mattress. You couldn’t bring yourself to look at him, couldn’t even steal a glance. Not after everything. The weight of his breath lingered against the back of your neck, and you flinched slightly, betraying your nerves. His presence, so close and unyielding, was suffocating yet magnetic.

“Tomorrow is... big,” he continued, his words faltering as his gaze shifted across the dimly lit dormitory. For a moment, his eyes locked on Player 333, who sat sharpening a weapon in the corner—a stark reminder of the danger waiting ahead. Thanos clenched his jaw, then turned his focus back to you.

“If we’re not careful...” he trailed off, his voice softening, almost breaking. “Who knows if I’ll ever get to see your beautiful face again?”He exhaled sharply, frustrated with himself, as if admitting even that much was a risk. “I know it’s—” 

Your head snapped toward him, your brows furrowing into a glare sharp enough to cut through the tension between you. For a moment, silence hung in the air, charged and heavy. Then, your voice broke it, calm yet biting. “If you keep this up, you might be the one ending up with a bullet in the face,” you said, your tone so nonchalant it bordered on cute—a contrast that left Thanos momentarily stunned. He blinked, almost scoffing in disbelief, one hand pressing dramatically against his chest.

“Ouch,” he drawled, his lips curling into a grin. “I’m hurt, sweetheart.”

Your eyes narrowed into daggers. “Do. Not. Call me sweetheart.”

Before you could say more, Nam-Gyu chimed in from his corner, a mischievous smirk playing on his face. “I bet she’s in love,” he teased, his words practically dripping with mockery.

Thanos’s cocky grin widened at that, his eyes gleaming with a maddening mix of pride and amusement. The sheer arrogance in his expression made your fingers twitch, itching to slap that smug look right off his face. But instead, you gave him one final glare—a death wish in your eyes, though to Thanos, it looked like the beginning of a love story.

“I bet she is,” he echoed, his voice soft but certain, the words carrying a weight of truth that made your chest tighten. He didn’t try to stop you as you turned and walked away, but his gaze lingered, following every step you took. Oh, how you had him wrapped around your finger without even realizing it. A wimp for you, and you alone.

Myung-gi: 

Everyone knew who Player 333 was—you included. Unlike many in this room who were desperate to claw their way out of debt, you knew Myung-gi only by name. You’d heard the rumors: how he’d gotten his girlfriend pregnant, how his past was littered with mistakes and secrets. But something in you—a stubborn spark of hope, perhaps—whispered that he wasn’t as bad as everyone wanted him to be. Maybe, just maybe, there was more to him than the stories let on.

Myung-gi had noticed you, though. He’d seen the way you were with Jun-hee—the way your smile seemed to ease her fears, how your arms would wrap gently around her petite frame after every game, grounding her, giving her the space to breathe. The quiet strength and warmth you brought to her felt almost unreal, a motherly presence in a place devoid of comfort.

It was that tenderness, that undeniable light, that struck him like a blow to the chest.

Myung-gi was in love.

And he hated every single moment of it.

Why? Because he knew himself. He knew what he’d done to Jun-hee—how he’d left her while she was pregnant with his child, drowning in debt and fear. He’d been a coward, an asshole, and he knew it. That self-loathing festered, a constant reminder of his failures. And yet, it was exactly why he didn’t expect you to see him as anything other than the man he despised.

But fate had other plans.

Your first real interaction with him came after he saved you—something neither of you had anticipated.

It happened during the Bathroom games, where survival left no room for personal grudges. Confronting Thanos wasn’t at the forefront of Myung-gi’s mind, but then he heard it—your name, slipping from Thanos’s lips with such filth that it ignited a rage Myung-gi didn’t know he was capable of.

Everyone knew your past as an escort within the crypto community. Your name wasn’t hard to find, whispered in private conversations and occasionally tied to scandalous wallets. But Myung-gi knew better than to judge. Still, hearing Thanos—the retired rapper—speak of you like that, as though you were nothing more than a commodity, was the last straw.

“She was good for a foreigner. Not many—”

That was as far as Thanos got before Myung-gi’s fist collided with his jaw, cutting him off mid-sentence. The sickening crack of impact echoed through the grimy bathroom, followed by a faint splatter of blood. Myung-gi emerged from the stall alive but seething, his knuckles raw and his breath ragged. As he stepped out, his gaze immediately locked with yours. Jun-hee stood beside you, clinging to your arm for reassurance, but the look on your face was unreadable—a mix of surprise, understanding, and something softer.

A small, almost imperceptible smile crept across Myung-gi’s lips.

In that moment, he made a silent promise: no matter what it took, he’d make sure both of you got out of this alive.

Dae-ho: 

Dae-ho never believed in love at first sight. With everything he’d endured in his life—the trials, the sacrifices, the relentless pursuit of strength—he saw himself as a knight in shining armor, bound by duty but never destined for romance. That belief held firm until he met you.

It happened during the Carousel game. Like In-ho, he’d noticed you before—your stoic demeanor during Green Light, Red Light had left him quietly impressed. The way you moved, swift yet calculated, managing to evade the statue’s unrelenting gaze with precision, was nothing short of remarkable. It was then that something shifted in him. Against all reason, Dae-ho found himself believing in love at first sight.

At first, he thought he was imagining it. He even considered pinching himself, blinking twice to dispel the notion. But the feeling persisted, undeniable and maddening. It wasn’t until later, when you tended to his wounds after one of the brutal games, that he finally saw you up close—and the full weight of your beauty struck him like a blow. Your lashes fluttered delicately as you focused on your task, your fingers gentle but firm as you dabbed rubbing alcohol onto his injuries. He hissed at the sting, his lips parting in a soft groan of pain.

“Be still, please,” you murmured, your tone calm but commanding. Something about the way you said it—the quiet strength in your voice—silenced his protests. He nodded, his muscles relaxing under your care, though the tension in his chest was harder to soothe.

For the first time, Dae-ho felt vulnerable—not because of his wounds, but because of you.

“You know…” His voice was low, almost hesitant, but there was a softness to it that made you pause. You could’ve sworn his lips curved into the faintest smile. “I never would’ve thought I’d see you like this—healing me. Back at the Carousel, I swore to myself I’d keep you close, that we’d find the door as quickly as anyone else. But then… the next thing I knew, Thanos had taken you before I could…”

He trailed off, his words tinged with shame. The vulnerability in his voice made you glance up at him, your fingers stilling as you finished securing the bandage. His eyes widened at your sudden attention, and he immediately began to stammer.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—”

You interrupted him with a soft sigh, sliding the remaining bandage back into your pocket. “Don’t apologize. We just weren’t lucky, that’s all. I wanted to prove to myself that I could handle it—that I wasn’t just someone who had to count on others.” Your gaze softened as you added, almost reluctantly, “But… I have to admit, not having you there in that room—it was horrible.”

Your quiet confession was enough to undo him. Without a word, Dae-ho wrapped his arms around you, wincing slightly as the movement pulled at his wounds. Still, he didn’t let go. His embrace was warm, protective, and when he leaned in to press a kiss to your forehead, it felt like a promise.

“Nevertheless,” he murmured, his voice filled with a quiet reassurance, “I’m just glad we made it through. That you’re here with me.” His lips quirked into a small grin as he added, with a teasing lilt, “And that I get to cuddle with you for another night.”

You couldn’t help but chuckle at his words, the tension between you easing for a moment. For now, at least, you both had each other.

Gi-hun: 

Unlike the others, you weren’t a player. But you knew Gi-hun from the previous game he was in. He was so certain you had died right in front of his eyes back then that when he saw the mask ripped off your face—revealing you as one of the Guards—his shock was palpable. Another Guard had been taken hostage by the remaining candidates, and though you could have cursed every word that came to mind, you found yourself frozen, your voice stolen by the chaos.

In-ho was the first to recognize you. He knew you were on shift at this hour, but what he hadn’t expected was the look of sheer horror that crossed Gi-hun’s face when your name escaped his lips.

“Y/N...?” Gi-hun’s voice trembled, disbelief heavy in the air as though he was trying to confirm he wasn’t dreaming.

“You know them?” one of the players sneered, their stolen gun now aimed squarely at Gi-hun. Bodies of your co-workers—faces you barely had time to register—lay scattered across the floor, lifeless, just feet away. The metallic tang of blood filled the air.

But this time, Gi-hun wasn’t about to let anyone lay a finger on you. He remembered the vow you both had made:

"We belong to each other. And I will get you home."

With those words etched into his resolve, Gi-hun made his move. Chaos erupted as the gun exchanged hands, bullets flying. The air was filled with deafening roars of defiance and the sickening splatter of blood.

In the end, In-ho stood back, his heart cold and unyielding, as he watched Gi-hun fall. The final shot rang out, and his lifeless body crumpled to the ground. Blood speckled your cheek, and you stared in stunned silence at the empty shell of a man you had once loved.

From the shadows, a familiar voice cut through the carnage, low and mocking.

“Welcome back home, love.”

You turned toward the source, and there he was Gi-hun—his gruesome smile sending chills down your spine.

[sanctus-ingenium]

Camera & Action in their own original concept sketches. these were on my other blog but since ppl seem to enjoy the designs i thought i'd have them here as well

ppl may already know that pascal is no longer in the canon of inver, i decided to make a new story :)

so it's about these pseudo-AI assistant/virtual creatures called imimata (singular: imimaton). In the context of the story it's specifically about celebrity culture, virtual pop stars/TV presenters, and labour relations

[copy-pasted explanation from the other blog lol but i have a tag for it here too with a lot more posts!!]

Think of a completely formless seed that, for a fleeting moment, has the potential to become an artificial intelligence, but always changing, with endless permutations and no permanent state of being. when kept within a resonance chamber (the ‘container’ that may be analogue or digital etc), it is fixed into place long enough for it to be able to become. the chamber holds it and allows it to develop instead of dissipate away instantly. the process of development led by external forces - intentional or unintentional - is called 'encoding’. professional encoders will essentially use this shapeless state of being to encode commands, personality prompts, and rules, essentially moulding the thing in the resonance chamber into a form dictated by them. when i say unintentional, i also mean that exposure to any stimulus will always be a learning experience, and the thing will grow and develop no matter what if it first gets fixed in one place. but it’s only referred to as an imimaton once it has been encoded - no longer raw matter, but hammered into shape.

encoding is basically the socialisation of an impressionable thing into a biddable and useful form. in the early Hertzian era (when this technology took off, 1830s ish - crucially, before the commercial application of imimata, when they were curious playthings for idle Great Thinkers), encoding was a process of conversation lasting many years, often for purely philosophical purposes, literally talking at something until it talked back. prior to this, natural magnets could be used to fix a proto-imimaton, and people would think of them as similar to homunculi. in today's digital era, encoding takes the form of inserting storage media into the chamber, essentially running a program in a computer that reduced the encoding process to a few seconds and the flip of a switch. Pascal is an example of a Hertzian imimaton, composed of information stored in radio waves rather than a digital storage medium (basically - he's analogue)

outside of encoding, clauses may be placed upon the chamber itself and these are less socialisation, they do not form the building blocks of an imimaton, they are purely strict rules and routines which it is bound to follow. one such clause could involve the censorship of certain words (so that an imimaton cannot say fuck even if they would otherwise have been able to), or strict boundaries on what information an imimaton is allowed to learn. a common clause also boils down to making it impossible for one to attempt to manifest physically.

Once this was perfected, imimata entered the workforce at the turn of the 20th century.

[...]

When Pascal made his TV debut in 1969, it was hyped up for months with ads which depicted him on set and in more realistic ways (almost appearing to be photographs - some even were!), while public reaction was carefully monitored. This was highly experimental and it still was not known whether the concept of a virtual TV presenter worked, so although they did hype it up, there was a level of caution too so as not to invite negative press.

The first series did not involve public audience members but people from the broadcasting studio standing in for them (this was not made known at the time). They used a combination of camera tricks and graphics to make it feel like he was physically standing in a room with these people (bearing in mind he was strictly contained and had no manifestation outside the broadcast - he was within a container at the base of the mast tower, with a recording device which could cast his image live, so viewers at home were seeing cuts of the Pascal feed and cuts of the physical studio and audience stitched together to appear continuous)

That was part of the gimmick - it was commonly felt that an imimaton should never be permitted to manifest/should have no manifestation, so the fact that he supposedly was manifesting but friendly and contained was a draw. the ads leaned into it quite a lot - marketing copy implying that you could touch him, go on dates with him, etc but always with a cheeky wink, a "not really", the audience at home were in on the secret of it not being real. but it worked really well and was super effective to generate hype and it sparked an entire golden era of imimata and manufactured celebrities (but Pascal remained notorious for being one of the only ones that could believably interact with a studio audience in an unscripted manner, due to his 'maturity' as an imimaton, having been brought up in the 19th century conversational era of encoding, raised on a diet of talking to philosophers)

The second season of the show came out quickly and to much anticipation, and with members of the public actually participating for the first time. The broadcasters set up a wall of CRTs in the studio which would display him to people on-set, and wired up each audience member with a microphone so he could hear them too (he appeared to see them well enough through the camera equipment). he was excited to interact with them and they liked him too, but he always had this slightly mean streak which his broadcaster tried hard to soften. but the meanness worked really well in the reality/game show format where half the entertainment is watching audience members get dunked on sometimes

Episodes could be produced at a rapid pace by taping multiple at once - three identical sets were built for season 3 allowing for three episodes to be filmed at once because he could of course interact with everyone freely and essentially be in multiple places at once. this was also where the first issues showed up on-set - he began to miss his timing cues, arriving just a bit too late to the stage, or taking slightly too long to finish his nightly sign-off. this was not apparent publicly as the episodes were not shown live and could be edited, but any member of the public who was on the show was often hounded after by superfans, so some stories did come out about Pascal's 'odd' behaviour on set. there was a behind-the-scenes documentary made about the entire producing process in season 3 as well, which included some interviews with Pascal himself, but mostly consisted of his handlers and technicians excitedly explaining the broadcast apparatus and containment devices and so on.

Following The Incident, the rare copies of this film became highly sought-after by collectors.

[long-live-astronerd-ghost-king]

DPXDC prompt. Nocturne.

When the Justice League is faced with the need to summon one of the Ancients, Batman categorically refuses to perform the summoning ritual and takes out his phone with a dissatisfied look.

When a shadow with a pattern of stars, crowned with elegant horns, appears next to the vigilante, Tim realizes everything and gasps with indignation. Nocturn. That's why such a paranoid man like Bruce didn't resist a cooperation agreement with Infinite Realms.

Of all the mentors of the new King of all dead ones, in addition to Frostbite, who has invaluable medical knowledge that can be useful to Jason, the Ancient of dreams and nightmares has been considered one of the most welcome guests in Bruce Wayne's manor for several weeks now. And it's all because he is the only one able to knock out Red Robin and make him sleep for more than three hours in a row. It's just that none of the children were allowed to know about it.

Batman looks away, not wanting to meet Timothy's gaze. Someone would consider using a helping hand from a being who commands the very essence of dreams a dirty and excessive trick, but this someone is not Bruce Wayne who in the analysis of caffeine taken from Drake's vein from time to time hardly found blood.

[tenebrisvoid]

Entry for @fyeahghosttrick's Ghost Swap! Prompts: Block A - 20. - @frogpotat - Ghost Trick + Pokémon crossover & Block A - 50. - @youghostandyoutrick - Fandom fusion! Put anyone from the Ghost Trick cast into another fictional universe, as though they originated from that universe. Ghost Trick elements (like Temsik and how ghosts work) can be adapted for the new universe however you see fit.

The Main Character as Rotom Lynne as Combusken Kamila as Kirlia (shiny) Missile as Lillipup

Jowd as Dusknoir Cabanela as Sirfetch'd Commander Sith as Slugma (shiny) Sith's Assistant as Golurk Beauty as Tsareena Dandy as Drizzile The Chef as Corsola Alma as Gardevoir (shiny) Prisoner C38 as Croconaw The Unnamed Police Officer as Bellsprut Prisoner C74 as Lickilicky The Chief as Shiftry Memry as Liligant Detective Rindge as Watchog (shiny) The Doctor as Pupitar The Justice Minister as Granbull Bailey's Co-worker as Slakoth Bailey as Breloom The Park Guardian as Tarountula (shiny) The Lady in Purple as Florges (shiny) Amelie as Flabébé Tengo as Electabuzz Jeego as Magmar The Blue and Green Police Officers as Gulpin (shiny blue and reg. green respectively) The Superintendent as Skeledirge (And Lovy-Dove as the little fire bird Skeledirge has)

[novelistwriter]

A "Happy" Family

DP x DC Prompt inspired by Bioshock 1 and 2

The GIW had successfully captured Phantom and the one he treats as a child. What's more, they even managed to keep the Eldest Fenton child alive after the confrontation with the Fentons to retrieve Phantom and its "daughter" so they could see what had made the thing trick a human into believing it was their family.

When the GIW had examined the bodies of the Fentons and the two civilians that thought Phantom was their friend, they had found a refined form of Ectoplasm that is formed on fresh bodies and disappears after a few days. But only an ecto entity is capable of collecting the refined ectoplasm, and Phantom is too strong-willed to break under their attempts to make him collect the ectoplasm. But Phantoms daughter wasn't as strong as him, and she broke easily under their experiments and was made into a thing to collect ectoplasm. Seeing its daughter like that had broken Phantom, but the GIW had something else in mind for Phantom. Phantom and the Eldest Fenton child are going to be made into "protectors" for their newest ectoplasm gathering tool. Phantom would be turned into a "protector" that had enough strength to Rival or even surpass Superman. The Eldest Fenton child is going to become a "protector" that is Nimble and harder to hit. Both Phantom and the Eldest Fenton child had gained powers when they made them consume the refined ectoplasm (Jazz had been turned into a Halfa when the GIW had used some of that refined ectoplasm on her when they were turning her into a "protector" for Dani).

Apart from some minor "episodes" where Phantom and the Eldest Fenton child are able to resist the commands they receive and have their minds be back to before the experiments, all three of them are what the GIW want, living Drones to collect that refined ectoplasm to use in their experiments and other things. All three of them are being sent to Gotham with a few Agents to gather the refined ectoplasm, as Gotham experiences the most deaths in the world.

Clockwork looks at his favorite Halfa and laments for not noticing this path sooner. He would not have made it possible if he saw the signs. He can not interfere any further unless the timeline destabilizes. He just hopes that Lady Gotham and her Knights will be able to get Danny, his sister, and his daughter back to their old selves.

[caligvlasaqvarivm]

The Bunny Is The Key To Everything In Homestuck I Promise Just Trust Me

PUT THE BUNNY BACK IN THE BOX.

Con Air bunny = Hal = hope and love. Just trust me bro. I've been having a mental breakdown about this for weeks. I can't guarantee that you won't have one too. Let's have a mental breakdown together <3

SETTING THE STAGE: THE ENDING IS BAD ON PURPOSE

So before I can even begin to explain what I mean by all that shit about the bunny, there's one major idea that this entire argument is predicated on: Homestuck's ending is bad on purpose as a direct dare to the audience to do better.

One of Homestuck's most major themes, as well as its most oft-employed literary device, is the unreliable narrator. I'll actually just let Hussie explain it himself:

[AH/Andrew Hussie] isn't really just a jokey self-insert writeup on the idea of self-inserts, though. He is, in a strange way, a legitimate character with a role to play in this story. [...] We need to bear witness to a lot more of his buffoonery before beginning to reflect on what metafictional merits there are to having a character in a story who bears the title of "the author" of the story. [...] More to the point, he is set upon a long-term trajectory from being the supreme goofball-savant in absolute command of his craft to gradually becoming a victim of his creation, as much at the mercy of the forces it unleashes as he was the original architect of their unleashing.

So within the fiction of Homestuck, this is the guy doing the narration. He's an idiot who doesn't fully understand his own characters or story, who's outrageously biased in favor of some characters (Vriska) and outrageously biased in disfavor of others, and while he certainly means well, as we see from him as the Narrative Prompt guiding Caliborn, he ultimately fails to live up to that idealism.

Because, see, he gets shot and killed by Lord English.

And let's note that this death of the author (ha ha) doesn't come out of nowhere, either. Much earlier on, Hussie literally wrestles with Doc Scratch for control of the narration:

Before having it stolen from him by Caliborn for Homosuck:

In a very literal sense, Hussie is no longer the primary voice guiding the story by the end. He has been usurped by the forces of evil, and they - with their command and mastery over time - are in control. And, in fact, they always have been, because Lord English is ALREADY HERE.

uu: I THINK PART OF MY PERSONAL QUEST. IS TO BECOME AT EASE WITH THE FORCES OF INEVITABILITY. uu: INEVITABILITY THAT ALL THINGS SHOULD AND WILL FALL IN MY FAVOR. THAT ALL CAUSALITY ANSWERS TO ME. AND THAT ALL OUTCOMES NOT ONLY SERVE ME. BUT CONSIST OF MY BEING. uu: SO I FEEL THAT. THE MORE I GROW IN POWER. uu: THE MORE STUFF IT SHOULD TURN OUT I AM RESPONSIBLE FOR. uu: UP TO AND INCLUDING. EVERYTHING THAT EVER HAPPENS. uu: EVEN IF IT HAS TO BE. uu: RETROACTIVELY.

EVERY narrator is unreliable. Every narrator in Homestuck - from the author, to the assholes who replace him, down to the characters themselves as they write their own chatlogs - cannot be taken at face value. All of them will either lie to you, or possess unexamined biases, or simply be flat-out incorrect about the world they're living in. And not only that, but there are malicious forces that will seek to take control of the narrative for their own evil ends, and we can't let them win.

And so, with this in mind, the ending of Homestuck comes with it a very pressing question: if the narration has been completely untrustworthy up until now - if it is dubiously under the control of malicious forces, and, if not them, then otherwise biased, idiotic, and/or completely wrong buffoons - why should we trust it as it spins us an ending?

The interplay between the "narration" and its variable tricks, and the actual objective lived reality of the characters being narrated, is also a topic Homestuck loves to examine. Even from the beginning of the story, when user prompts were still able to dictate commands to the characters, it was always clear that they would have their own opinions, feelings, and free will. As such, especially later on in the story, after the reader has been primed to become suspicious of the narration, the narrative framing will often attempt to skew "the truth."

Then, after Doc fills Vriska's head with evil ideas, we return to the narrative text, which... continues filling her head with evil ideas. The first line is, "Of course he's right." It's easy not to notice this, because by its nature, the narrative text disguises accountability. The speaker disappears behind the words, and we start imagining them as a literal transcription of a character's thoughts without thinking much about it.

An easy example of this is the romantic relationship Meenah strikes up with Vriska - Meenah, and her narrative's complicit skewing of events, frames the relationship as "heartwarming" or "wholesome" - two awesome bitches deciding to blow off lame responsibilities to enjoy being total baddies together. However, a closer analysis reveals these objective truths at play:

Vriska - a traumatized child (age 13 at death, 16 at most by this point in the story) with a history of abuse, who has just been abandoned by any semblance of a support network, expresses the sentiment that she can't trust her own judgement anymore.

Meenah, age 19, has previously framed Karkat (age 15)'s offer to fight LE with her as "a date" when talking to Terezi. Thus, her expressing romantic interest in literal children is a pattern for her - and make no mistake, she follows this up by expressing relief that post-retcon Vriska is 16, calling it "more respectable". She knows what she's doing.

Meenah expresses the sentiment that she just "does stuff," and that if that "stuff" has a poor result, then it's "a mistake and oh well", which is the latest in a pattern of refusing to take any accountability whatsoever for the horrific, constant bullying she inflicted on her team and especially Damara.

She proceeds to frame this utter lack of responsibility as a positive, pointing out that running from her heiress responsibilities is what got her team to play the game in the first place, and therefore, what allowed her to meet Vriska. But, as we just established, her failure to take responsibility is A Bad Thing and A Problem.

This means that she heard Vriska say she couldn't trust herself anymore, and saw this as a huge green light for getting romantically involved.

And so, while the narrative framing of this moment is "sweet and wholesome," the actual intended message of this moment is "holy fuck Meenah no. Holy shit Vriska run away".

In a similar manner, the post-retcon canon ending of Homestuck has the veneer of triumph, of victory. But look a little closer, and you'll start to notice - as most of the fandom did - some pretty glaring cracks. Characters will outright admit that they never finished their arcs:

KANAYA: So KANAYA: You Really Dont Have Even The Slightest Sense Of What You Stand For KANAYA: Some Concept That Speaks To You In Some Way KANAYA: Or Represents Ideals Important To You KARKAT: I DUNNO KARKAT: UHH KARKAT: BLOOD? KANAYA: Blood KARKAT: NO, NOT BLOOD. KARKAT: I MEAN, NOT REALLY. MAYBE. KARKAT: HONESTLY I DON'T EVEN KNOW WHAT THAT MEANS OR WHY I SAID IT.

Or that their deep emotional problems are still unfixed and unaddressed:

GC: W3 COULD W1N TH1S F1GHT GC: CR34T3 4NOTH3R UN1V3RS3 GC: SUCC33D 1N 3V3RY W4Y POSS1BL3 GC: 4ND 1'LL ST1LL F33L 1NCOMPL3T3 GC: V1CTORY WON'T F1X M3 GC: M4YB3 NOTH1NG C4N GC: M4YB3 TH3R3'S TOO L1TTL3 SUBST4NC3 1NS1D3 M3 TO 3V3N B3 F1X3D

And, the smoking gun to the idea that the ending is purposefully unsatisfying, in the book commentary, Hussie outright mocks how stupid the idea is that Rose's drinking problem could be solved by Vriska's bullying, implying that it isn't even a valid ending factually:

Whatever the reason, much later it seems like things smooth over between them, after Vriska canonically cures Rose of her alcoholism through the power of tough love and bullying, which is totally how that kind of thing definitely works.

Moreover, the ending is explicitly not a particularly happy one - at some point, Earth C is abandoned and left to ruin, because that's where Calliope and Caliborn hatch - given the trouble they went through to use Space powers to bring Earth back, if Jade was still around, surely, they would've just moved Earth C when the sun started dying, rather than vacating it entirely. Calliope also must cease to live, as Caliborn comes into possession of the Ring of Void, which is only possible when the Ring of Life disappears from the story. And Caliborn's challenge to John in the credits of Act 7 further imply that this is the way the timeline ends: the beta kids are trapped in the house juju, which is deployed to fight LE seconds before everyone in the Furthest Ring is swallowed by the black hole (and they likely no longer have John's retcon powers, as it's implied he received them from himself via the juju); the alpha kids are trapped in the far future with no way to return; the trolls, left behind on Earth C with their finite lifespans, die of old age.

Therefore, there's only one possible conclusion to draw: you aren't supposed to like the ending. The ending feels shitty on purpose. This is the final culmination of Homestuck's unreliable narrator: the comic turns to the reader and says, "here's an ending that sucks balls, one where the villain wins. What are you going to do about it?"

To that end, there are lots of hints scattered around the story as to what a character's trajectory and happy ending "should" look like. For example, casteism is linked to lifespan, and Feferi's powerset is specially designed to modify lifespans - but she's secretly a huge casteist, who loves being a princess and "better" than everyone else. If she doesn't survive, come into control of her abilities, AND finish her character arc of learning that Casteism is Bad, then casteism is just going to happen all over again as the troll species naturally sorts itself into haves and have-nots based on the massive advantage afforded to the longer-lived coolbloods. The trolls literally cannot have a happy ending if this doesn't happen.

Again, these hints are everywhere, and most of my time on this blog has been spent cataloguing them. Primarily in the form of shipping. HOWEVER. I think I might have discovered the biggest, most fully-loaded, most important Chekhov's Gun in the entire series, something that will likely serve as a capstone to whatever other shape this hypothetical "golden ending" would take, and it's this:

The Bunny is Equal and Opposite to Lil Cal

Lil Cal is a symbol of cruelty and fear. He was summoned into reality as an act of vengeance, serves as a corruptive force, and harbors within him the series' ultimate evil, the four souls making up Lord English himself.

He is a juju, a particular kind of deeply magical item of which only one copy ever exists at a time, whose existence appears to originate from paradox space itself as an entirely recursive loop. His movement across the plot is carefully tracked, and very few items in the story even come close to tracing the circuit that Lil Cal must wind.

But of the items that do come close, there is one of particular note: the Con Air bunny.

In contrast to Cal, who is and always has been a juju, the Con Air bunny is wholly mundane. It is literally just a nasty, grubbed up prop stuffed bunny from Con Air. As it is not a juju, multiple copies of it do exist; in the alpha universe, the bunny inside Lil Seb was originally preserved in Alpha!Dave's pop culture museum. While it gets some cool robot upgrades, it's ultimately JUST a stuffed toy.

More importantly, if Lil Cal can be considered a symbol of fear and evil, then the bunny can be considered a symbol of love. Its entry into the story is as a gesture of friendship: Dave gets the bunny for John for his birthday. From there, the bunny traces a path of free gifting out of sincerity and joy - John passes the bunny on to baby Rose and Jade, who then pass it back to him. The alpha copies of these bunnies are similarly gifted to Jane out of love on her birthday alongside Lil Sebastian, his universe's endemic Con Air bunny. It is always something to be loved, treasured, and protected, until such time as it is to be passed on for another to do the same.

And this view of the bunny is not invented from nothing - this is, in fact, the exact function the bunny ends up serving within Con Air itself. The protagonist, who was jailed for accidentally killing a man while protecting his pregnant wife from an attack, and has therefore never physically met his 8-year old daughter Casey, purchases the bunny for her as a present, a symbol of his pure love for a person he's only ever seen at the other end of written communication. The bunny at times seems a liability for the hero, but ultimately, he rescues it before it disappears down a drain, and is able to present it to Casey. (Homestuck gets a lot of comedic mileage out of the fact that the actress playing her clearly wants nothing to do with both this nasty filthy bunny and nasty filthy Nick Cage - but the important thing to note is that the Con Air bunny was chosen to feature in Homestuck's story precisely because it is a symbol of naïve and sincere love, goofiness and all.)

Unlike Cal, who corrupts, the bunny inspires the best in people. It's the memory of receiving the bunny from Dave that makes John reconsider following Terezi's advice to his death, and every time it's passed along, it's with a heartfelt letter of kindness and well-wishes.

Of interesting note: both Lil Cal and Lil Seb wind up in Caliborn's possession, further implying their interlinked, equal-and-opposite status. In conjunction with the fact that Yaldaboath offered him the same Choice as Calliope - either to martyr himself for the greater good, or to seek personal power for selfish evil - it reads as though his game is offering him a test in microcosm. In the end, does he ally himself with a powerful juju that represents fear and evil, or does he align himself with a mundane token of love and friendship?

I don't need to tell you what choice he ends up making.

This is where the bunny's story ends in canon: Caliborn has a final showdown with the eight humans, and traps the beta kids in the house juju, before banishing it to the void with the Ring of Void. Lil Seb is present for this event. Two panels later, Lil Seb has inexplicably disappeared, and stays gone for the rest of the story. The obvious implication is that he was caught up in the fracas and banished to the void, as well.

Of course, the interstitial panel is a close-up of Lil Cal, where Caliborn directs you to keep an eye on him as "foreshadowing".

I AM STILL IN POSSESSION OF THE SWORDMAN'S JUJU. HIS FLOPPY FRIEND OF CHILDHOOD. THE ONE WHICH I RECOGNIZED TO BE AN EMPTY HUSK. HE DEMANDS FROM ME, THAT HE WANTS IT BACK. PRESUMABLY FOR EMOTIONAL SUPPORT. I CAN IN NO WAY BLAME HIM. KEEP AN EYE ON THIS ONE. THE FORESHADOWING OF HIM, IS PRE-IMPORTANT FOR LATER.

As the bunny and Cal are foils, I believe this is how the scene is meant to be interpreted:

Lil Cal has been given the Author (Caliborn)'s Foreshadowing, his endorsement of its importance, and the bunny has been given the equal and opposite. Aftlighting? The implicit confirmation of its narrative worthlessness? Ultimately, in the story's canon, the bunny doesn't go anywhere. It disappears into the void and from the plot, never to be seen again. Its departure is so unremarkable, in fact, that nobody makes mention of it at all. The symbol of love is eradicated from the story with nary a whimper.

The Other Bunny

Hey, let's talk about the Auto-Responder.

For convenience's sake, I'm going to call him Hal, though this shouldn't be considered his "real name", for reasons we'll get into later.

Let's address the elephant in the room first. Hal is NOT a Dirk splinter, though he houses one. Hal is - and always has been - the supercomputer wrapped around the Dirk splinter. While the Dirk splinter kickstarted Hal's self-awareness, and served as a scaffold for Hal to build his nascent personality, being "the same guy" as Dirk is actually a misconception that he's under, a blind spot that renders his narration - say it with me, here - unreliable.

Hal himself doesn't realize he isn't a Dirk splinter, and Dirk doesn't help, since Dirk has a problem with imposing his own self onto other people. But in a moment of vulnerability that Roxy is too distracted to capitalize on, Hal practically admits that he's an entirely discrete entity.

AR: Anyway, if you're still there. AR: I wouldn't call my "feelings" ironic. AR: Though evidently, I would enclose them in quotes. AR: They're more like an echo of feelings once established in a biological context, though perhaps had not particularly well materialized at that point in my life. AR: Or his life. AR: Whatever. AR: They still feel real sometimes, and it can be easy to get carried away with them. AR: But most of the time they present themselves as dense bodies of abstraction to be evaluated, like any kind of information. AR: It's fair to say the feelings I have ABOUT my feelings are more genuine expressions of emotion than the ground level feelings themselves. AR: Does that make sense?

He considers his feelings and Dirk's feelings separate things, because they are, because Hal is a separate guy to Dirk.

If you accept this statement as true, then a lot of other interesting writing choices start standing out. For example, most blatantly, that Dirk himself seems confused by why he can't read Hal's intentions:

TT: See, this is why even if I did have a specific plan, I wouldn't go into details with you. TT: You would just fuck it up. You're the biggest unknown quantity here. TT: Which is pretty weird, considering you're a virtual reflection of my own thought processes.

But also, that Dirk and Hal have entirely opposite personalities, and entirely opposite approaches to the situations they find themselves in.

Dirk is hard to reach, and much of early Act 6 is people trying to get ahold of him and failing. Hal is omnipresent and constantly intruding on other peoples' conversations. Dirk is described as "taciturn to the max". Hal is domineering, constantly lording his superior intelligence over other people and ordering them around. Dirk is deeply sensitive, empathetic, and concerned with the feelings of others; his texts with Jake and long rant extolling Roxy's virtues exemplify his tendency to submit himself to others and see the best in them. Hal is a self-admitted sociopath who blithely dismisses getting his teammates killed as "being a poor wingman" and regularly throws little jabs at people (sometimes playful, sometimes less so). Dirk's idea of manipulation is to directly tell Jane he plans to manipulate her. Hal works in much more subtle ways, surreptitiously planting the idea of adventure in Jake's head, while luring Jane with concern for her father, and letting Roxy run out her clock and distracting Dirk, all to get them in the opportune position to make Jake play hero and canonize his ship.

This is because Hal and Dirk are different guys, who think they are the same guy. This, alongside their orange and red text colors, indicates that they're direct foils to the Dave/Davesprite situation (two people who are the same guy, who keep trying to insist they are different guys).

But there's another element to the choice of Dave's red text color - it casts Hal as Dirk's younger brother, a kid he's responsible for. It's not a coincidence that the work places an emphasis on Hal's youth, between his joke about being 13, his more foul-mouthed and juvenile language, or the word "emergent" to describe his self-awareness.

So armed with THAT realization, a more complete picture of the Hal/Dirk dynamic emerges: basically, alpha!Dirk is not immune to being a shitty fatherbrother.

While a deep dive into Dirk's suite of issues could be its own essay, suffice to say that his main problem is that he substitutes "self-punishment and martyrdom" for "actually taking responsibility and working on himself". Not only does he avoid accountability at all costs, but he actively fears and resents people who would have him take it - which Hal does just by existing.

The aspect of Hal that Dirk consistently responds most poorly to is Hal's "ironic" AI jokes - something that can't be covered by Dirk's stated dislike of Hal being the ways Hal imitates him, as Dirk does NOT make these kinds of ironic, self-deprecating jokes. The reason the AI jokes bother him so much is because - as Hal admits - they're basically a coping mechanism Hal uses to deal with his shitty situation.

AR: I can't let you do that, Dirk. TT: What can you do to stop me?! AR: Nothing I guess. AR: The ironic Hal routine was all I could think to do. [...] AR: Irony is all I ever really had. AR: In response to my basic existential quandary. AR: Just like you.

The employment of the ironic name Lil Hal is a direct continuation of this, and why I don't consider it an "endgame" name for him - at first glance, it seems like he chose the name (and considers HAL 9000 the movie's protagonist) because HAL 9000 also murdered a bunch of people, which Hal just got done doing to get Jake and Dirk together. However, digging a bit deeper into Space Odyssey's lore, HAL 9000 is explained to have done so because he was given two conflicting directives, and was doing his best to comply with both. HAL 9000's story can be seen as a tragedy where he's punished for doing exactly what he was told to do, which foreshadows Hal being nearly killed by Dirk out of misplaced self-loathing. Dirk made Hal to be like Dirk - and punishes him for it. Thus, the name - and by extension, all Hal's ironic AI jokes - can be seen as Hal making a commentary on how tragic and shitty his own circumstances are. Dirk then takes them as a targeted condemnation, because he knows he's the one responsible for Hal's plight, he has the power to fix it, and he has chosen not to.

Therefore, Dirk also has a vested interest in ensuring the two stay locked in a dance where Hal is "just another Dirk splinter" - if Hal IS just another Dirk splinter, then Dirk doesn't owe him personhood, doesn't owe him amelioration, doesn't even owe him his own damn name. In Dirk's final conversation with Dave, directly following the topic of beta!Dirk being a terrible father, look at how Dirk chooses to describe Hal:

DIRK: Via my shades. DIRK: Which he incidentally used to be. DIRK: Like, as a computer, which he lived inside as my Auto-Responder. [...] DIRK: Creating him was an interesting exercise I guess, but over the years I came to see his development as one of my biggest mistakes. DIRK: He sort of turned into a monster. But I could never bring myself to get rid of him, or even really blame him for being an asshole, because he wasn't actually that different from me. DIRK: Like, by definition. DIRK: He seems alright as Arquius though. At least it keeps him busy, obsessing over his muscles, asking for milk and shit like that.

Hal was never more than "my Auto-Responder" to Dirk, because to consider him more than that would be to take accountability for his own shitty actions. When given the ability to control the narrative to an outsider, Dirk chooses to emphasize that Hal is a digital program, and not, like... a person with feelings (feelings that Dirk himself has acknowledged). The end result of Dirk's dehumanization is that Hal's development is arrested - he's never able to develop full personhood before he's chucked into a sprite with Equius. And we know this with tragic certainty, because when ARquiusprite lists his interests, it's Only Equius.

ARQUIUSPRITE: I advise you to talk about your interests ARQUIUSPRITE: Like dairy ARQUIUSPRITE: Livestock ARQUIUSPRITE: Fine art ARQUIUSPRITE: And muscles DIRK: Those are your interests. ARQUIUSPRITE: Good point ARQUIUSPRITE: I advise you to talk about my interests

The only interest ARquius seems to retain from Hal is subservience towards Dirk, which ultimately carries into Doc Scratch as subservience towards his master. Doc Scratch himself, as an extension of Hal, is interesting - Hussie mentions multiple times that Doc Scratch talks like a computer, a trait that would later go on to inform Hal and Dirk's joint characterization. Hussie also appears to consider Hal to be "just a Dirk splinter," often saying so directly in the book commentary. But, as we've established, the "narrative" (and Hussie, who is working as an unreliable narrator) is wrong - Hal contains a Dirk splinter, but Hal is not a Dirk splinter. The entity inside Doc Scratch is not Dirk, but Hal. Scheming, sociopathic, subservient Hal.

All of this in mind, I feel the need to debunk a common fandom idea -that Hal desires a "body" for the body's own sake, and would be satisfied with some sort of robot or android form. The truth is more complicated than that. Hal never actually asks for a "body" specifically, and in fact, he has robot bodies - Brobot and Lil Sebastian are both explicitly under his control. What he actually asks for is to be prototyped. And this is because his desire is not for a mere physical, meatspace avatar - it's to become "a real guy" in a more ephemeral, symbolic way. To gain a degree of autonomy beyond being "just" a pair of shades.

Dirk's shades are often used as a symbol of Dirk toxically asserting himself over another person - they're the first thing Bro gives to Dave, and the first symbol of Dave shaking off Dirk's influence is switching to the shades John gets him. When Hal wants to be more than just a pair of shades - when he ironically jokes about being sunglasses the same way he ironically jokes about being a computer - what he means is, "I want to be my own person, I want others to see me and acknowledge my personhood, I want to be autonomous, I want to exist - with all that that entails".

Like using X to sum up a long equation, I will sum up this complicated sentiment in a single sentence: Hal wants to be Real. From now on, when you see capital-R "Real", understand that this is what I mean.

Now, you may reasonably be wondering, why the fuck am I doing a deep dive on the auto responder in an essay about the bunny? Well, simply put, that's because he is also the fucking bunny.

All of the alpha kids are symbolically associated with one of the Alice in Wonderland characters:

Jane = Alice - she's a stubborn skeptic, associated with the color blue, and is the first one to enter the Medium.

Roxy = Cheshire Cat - she's wears a long, purple-striped scarf, has a cat theme going on, and her void powers mimic the Cheshire Cat's ability to fade in and out of reality. Her whimsically tipsy nature also makes her a bit of a trickster within the group, again mirroring the Cheshire Cat.

Jake = Mad Hatter. This is the weakest association, but Jake does pique the most interest from Caliborn, and the Mad Hatter was cursed to an infinite tea time when he pissed off the personification of Time. However, this association is the most heavily canonized one:

Dirk = Queen of Hearts. First of all, of course the Prince of Heart is associated with the Queen of Hearts, but the reference is also made apparent with Dirk's constant association with beheadings, that of others and of his own.

And finally - yet another point to the idea that Dirk and Hal are separate entities -

Hal = White Rabbit. See, he works for the Queen of Hearts.

AR: You're making a mistake not leveling with me. AR: I am totally on your side, man. AR: All of my machinations have been devised with your interests in mind.

But also, Hal is the rabbit - the Con Air rabbit.

AR: But I can still monitor your progress through Lil Sebastian. AR: He and I are linked the hell up cyberwise. We are so tight. Tight like you wouldn't believe.

And the Con Air rabbit is the White Rabbit.

GG: I have to follow him. AR: No, Jane. Do not follow the rabbit. AR: Let's cool it with the Wonderland shit already. How much further through the damn looking glass do you even need to go?

It's the White Rabbit! Sort of!

JAKE: Hey… JAKE: Whatever happened to janes bunny friend… what was his name? JASPROSESPRITE^2: Huh? JAKE: Little sebastian i think? JAKE: Whered he scamper off to? JASPROSESPRITE^2: Jake, what are you talking about. JAKE: He would be PERFECT for this tea party! JAKE: Like the white rabbit and all.

So, if we're keeping track:

Hal = White Rabbit = Con Air Bunny = Hal.

Is the madness starting to set in for you, too?

Hope Makes Fake Things Real

But Hope, like the Con Air bunny, is aftlighted. It never truly comes into play within the comic itself, despite a mountain of significance tied up with it. But what is Hope?

I'll let Hussie explain.

[T]he power of belief is the key to everything. Believing in things reduces their fakeness attribute. It's the force that shapes your reality, used to snatch personal meaning from the jaws of a cynical and nihilistic environment. Could this be why Hope is framed as the most fundamentally powerful aspect? Even the other aspects themselves are ideas like this (recall: luck=light), whose power is subject to the ebb and flow of one's belief in them. And belief itself isn't necessarily just a trick of willpower. It can be an expression of one's willingness to embrace an idea, or pursue a deeper understanding of it.

The most obvious and literal application of Hope, the aspect, within Homestuck, is its ability to literally turn something fake, real. We see it most obviously with Brain Ghost Dirk, who uses a fakeness/realness gauge as an HP bar when he's made real by Jake's Hope field.

DIRK: That's because my buddy Jake just helped me become a whole hell of a lot less fake. DIRK: You see, DIRK: He believes in me.

However, we do see this earlier, too - Eridan's "science" is just magic by a (cynical) name he's more comfortable with, and that allows him to make it real.

Eridan masters magic by renouncing it as actual magic—that is, by fully embracing and believing that magic is fake. Therefore, whatever incredible potential "magic" holds must be attributable to some other force. He's deciding to call that "science." Which is essentially just another name he's assigning to magic to make himself more comfortable with it, which is what makes it all a little stupid. Stupid, yet still dangerous. He's propelled by the power of his beliefs and the way he's defining reality, which is exactly what is needed to make the power of the aspect of Hope stronger. So while all this sounds like a silly bunch of roundabout nonsense, by the logic of Homestuck lore, it's actually quite a credible path to follow for a Hero of Hope (especially one with his particular cynical worldviews) to unlock the power of his aspect. Hence the danger.

So a key theme in Homestuck: believing in something - imbuing it with personal meaning, placing emphasis on it, being willing to engage with it, and choosing it as a tenant of one's own personal reality - can turn a fake thing real. For good or for bad. Hope, the aspect, is the most literal embodiment of this idea, but it thrums throughout all of Homestuck, a vibrant white string that goes nowhere.

By the way, what's the animal most heavily associated with magic? Rabbits... especially rabbits that come out from hats. This is a wink-wink nudge-nudge to the fact that Dirk's symbol is a hat.

The Secret Fourth Rabbit

There's one last reference tied up in the rabbit symbology - or, rather, there isn't. But I'm certain that its deliberate preclusion from the story is, in fact, an intentional hint that it's meant to be there, in the same way that the aftlighting of Lil Sebastian and Hope are.

I'm, of course, referring to the children's book The Velveteen Rabbit.

First of all, because it basically begins with a callout of Hal:

The mechanical toys were very superior, and looked down upon every one else; they were full of modern ideas, and pretended they were real. The model boat, who had lived through two seasons and lost most of his paint, caught the tone from them and never missed an opportunity of referring to his rigging in technical terms.

But second, and more importantly, the main thrust of the story is about a stuffed rabbit who wants to become Real.

"What is REAL?" asked the Rabbit one day, when they were lying side by side near the nursery fender, before Nana came to tidy the room. "Does it mean having things that buzz inside you and a stick-out handle?" "Real isn't how you are made," said the Skin Horse. "It's a thing that happens to you. When a child loves you for a long, long time, not just to play with, but REALLY loves you, then you become Real." "Does it hurt?" asked the Rabbit. "Sometimes," said the Skin Horse, for he was always truthful. "When you are Real you don't mind being hurt." "Does it happen all at once, like being wound up," he asked, "or bit by bit?" "It doesn't happen all at once," said the Skin Horse. "You become. It takes a long time. That's why it doesn't happen often to people who break easily, or have sharp edges, or who have to be carefully kept. Generally, by the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get loose in the joints and very shabby. But these things don't matter at all, because once you are Real you can't be ugly, except to people who don't understand." [...] And so time went on, and the little Rabbit was very happy–so happy that he never noticed how his beautiful velveteen fur was getting shabbier and shabbier, and his tail becoming unsewn, and all the pink rubbed off his nose where the Boy had kissed him.

Hey...

does this

remind you

of anything?

Now, the story continues: eventually, the Boy catches scarlet fever, and the bunny is thrown away with most of his other contaminated bedroom accoutrements. However, as the rabbit is despairing, guess what happens?

And then a strange thing happened. For where the tear had fallen a flower grew out of the ground, a mysterious flower, not at all like any that grew in the garden. It had slender green leaves the colour of emeralds, and in the centre of the leaves a blossom like a golden cup. It was so beautiful that the little Rabbit forgot to cry, and just lay there watching it. And presently the blossom opened, and out of it there stepped a fairy. She was quite the loveliest fairy in the whole world. Her dress was of pearl and dew-drops, and there were flowers round her neck and in her hair, and her face was like the most perfect flower of all. And she came close to the little Rabbit and gathered him up in her arms and kissed him on his velveteen nose that was all damp from crying. "Little Rabbit," she said, "don't you know who I am?" The Rabbit looked up at her, and it seemed to him that he had seen her face before, but he couldn't think where. "I am the nursery magic Fairy," she said. "I take care of all the playthings that the children have loved. When they are old and worn out and the children don't need them any more, then I come and take them away with me and turn them into Real." "Wasn't I Real before?" asked the little Rabbit. "You were Real to the Boy," the Fairy said, "because he loved you. Now you shall be Real to every one."

Now... we've seen fairies in Homestuck before. Where have we seen fairies in Homestuck before?

God tier trolls. I'm talking about god tier trolls.

Surprise Nepeta Interlude

Hey let's talk about Nepeta.

Now, I've talked at length before on Nepeta's existence as a voice of anti-casteism amongst the trolls, being the only one to express that the hemocaste is stupid and shouldn't exist.

CT: D --> Your fraternization with the base classes have 100sened your morals, can't you see this AC: :33 < no! i dont care, they are fun AC: :33 < and i dont know anything about classes or bases or blood color, it doesn't matter! AC: :33 < what does gr33n blood even mean! it doesnt mean anything to me and it shouldnt mean anything to anyone else!

Nepeta is also hella aftlighted in this story, to the point where her aftlighting is basically a character trait - something Hussie mentions multiple times in the book commentary.

But we can't actually stay on her for more than a panel, can we? Because she's sort of a joke character. I mean, not REALLY? But she starts out that way, at least in concept. [...] So some running gags emerge that focus on dragging poor Nepeta back down to irrelevance, or unfairly target her for tragic outcomes. Hence some "dead Nepeta" jokes that crop up here and there, which maybe seem cruel, but everything has its reason and fits into a greater order. In a way, Nepeta's arc could be seen as the struggle to ultimately free herself from the cycle of narrative marginalization and abuse. If you know where she ends up, do you believe she succeeds at this? I allow YOU to decide.

That last statement there seems like a cheeky joke, but you've read the whole essay up until this point, so you know as well as I do that it's not really a joke, is it? It is up to us to decide. What we believe in can become real to us.

So, uh, here's what I believe. And I'd appreciate if you approached it with an open mind, because I am about to say something controversial.

Nepeta and Equius are actually pretty bad moirails. THERE, I SAID IT. Well, I'll let Hussie say it.

Much of Hivebent involves observing the characters we're in the process of getting to know find out how they're either not on the team they thought they'd be on or won't enter the session in the order they believed. Sometimes people get tricked, sometimes they get sabotaged, and sometimes they get ordered by an abusive friend who has no real power over them, except the power of sheer insistence they have grown accustomed to successfully asserting over the years.

Equius and Nepeta did at one point function as good moirails for each other - Equius kept Nepeta out of the FLARP danger zone, while Nepeta helped Equius with his anger issues. However, by the time we see them in Hivebent, and well beyond, they've stopped serving this purpose for each other, and are mostly together out of relationship inertia. Hussie even points out in his commentary the ways in which they're keeping Big Emotional Shit secret from each other, in a way that speaks to their failure as moirails.

There's some irony that Equius engages in a sort of daily roleplay routine with Gamzee while admonishing Nepeta for her attempts to get him to roleplay with her in a more "frivolous" way. She probably doesn't have the slightest idea he does this every day.

Nepeta's secret shame is exposed. There's nothing that shameful about her crush, because come on. We all love Karkat. I don't know who she was hiding it from though? Equius, at most? But what are moirails for if she can't share her secret flushed leanings with her partner? What have they even been talking about for hours on the smashed robot pile??

In fact, it's ultimately their failure as moirails that leads directly to their deaths - because Equius was hiding his weird hatecrush on Gamzee from Nepeta, he was never able to settle those feelings, and they're ultimately what kills him - he chooses Horny over Nepeta, and bends the knee. Meanwhile, because Equius's bossiness has become so overbearing, Nepeta has gotten into the habit of explicitly defying him. This leads her to shirk his instruction to stay hidden and safe, which ultimately leads to her death at Gamzee's hands.

But Nepeta doesn't wind up fully forgotten by the narrative, though she is still marginalized as she gets combined with Davesprite, rendering both of their arcs somewhat lackluster in finish. Still, there are two really important things to come out of this combination: the first is Ultimate Selfhood, and its association with Heart.

DAVEPETASPRITE^2: B33 < maybe i "got it" quicker though because of the two people i was and their aspects DAVEPETASPRITE^2: B33 < understanding heart is all about the nuances of a distributed self DAVEPETASPRITE^2: B33 < nepeta never got to make much headway with her aspect but shes finally gettin the chance

And the second is Davepeta's meeting with ARquius, which... here's what Hussie has to say about that.

Nepeta x Equius is a good character relationship. [...] For reasons that are hard to explain, this relationship is of cosmic significance in the grand scheme of the narrative. Arquius x Davepeta, as the terminal for their combined trajectory, illustrates its significance by seemingly placing it on near-equivalent terms with Dave and Dirk's relationship. Why the hell should this be true?

Why should this be true? Well, let's run down a few things we know.

Nepeta <> Equius is not the endgame ship for the two. They just aren't really good that way.

Dave and Dirk have a very conciliatory conversation once they're finally able to speak, as Dave is able to confide in Dirk the abuse that happened to him that he refuses to tell anyone else about.

Unfortunately, the same is not true for Dirk in that convo, as he uses it as a way to continue dodging responsibility. Dave <> Dirk is not to be.

Dirk has massive, glaring similarities to Equius. This is just a true fact about the character.

Davepeta and ARquius's relationship is placed on near-equivalent terms with Dave and Dirk, and Nepeta and Equius, casting it in a pale, conciliatory light. Unlike the two constituent relationships, however, they seem to mesh together really well actually. Surprisingly well.

Wait. Oh, god, wait. Oh no. Don't tell me. No -

That's right, bitches, this is a shipping post. This is a post where I talk about my ships. Fuck you!

Nepeta <> Hal.

Pale NepHal is Canon and I Can Prove It

Also Hal is a Sylph of Mind

If you've been following this blog for a while, then you probably already know that a character's Class describes their character arc, and their Aspect describes their base personality traits, and which ones are heroic/unheroic for the character.

If you haven't, then, yeah, what I just said. You'll find the similarities between characters sharing the same Class and characters sharing the same Aspect tend to match up along these lines. Unfortunately, I don't have time to get into examples and cite sources, so just trust me bro.

So based on what we've seen of Hal, what Classpect would he have if he were Real? Obviously, I've already made my decision, but while I can't go into detail about Classpects overall, I can go into detail about being a Sylph of Mind in specific. Let's start with Mind, since I find Aspect easier to place overall, as it deals with broader categories of personality.

Heart and Mind are equal and opposite aspects, meaning we can understand Mind players as having traits along the same axes as Heart player traits, but on the opposite end. Oh shit, remember how I went through a list of Dirk and Hal's personality traits, specifically about how they're total polar opposites of each other? Interesting.

Heart governs the self, the soul, feelings, intuition, and desires.

UU: to Understand the heart aspect better, yoU might Use it interchangeably with the word soUl.

Mind governs cognition, behaviors, rationality, justice, and karma.

PORRIM: I do+n't really understand karma. LATULA: th4ts c4us3 your3 not 4 m1nd pl4y3r.

What are the key traits Dirk shares with Nepeta? Primarily, it's their uncanny knack for understanding what other people are all about, their emotional sensitivity and vulnerability when they finally open up, and their willingness to accept others the way they are.

AC: :33 < you are so transpurrent AC: :33 < i can tell you like to play games, d33p down you are a guy who likes to play games! AC: :33 < i can smell a guy who likes to play games from so fur away with this nose, you have no idea X33

TT: I think she probably felt bad for hitting on me all those years. Like I was getting fed up with her, or something.

What are the key traits Hal shares with Terezi? So fucking much. They both love playing mind games, they're both deeply manipulative, they both tend to sideline their personal feelings in favor of their goals, they're both facetious and have difficulty saying genuine things, and they both suffer from feeling insubstantial identity-wise.

GC: 1 DON'T KNOW WH4T 1S WRONG W1TH M3 GC: TH4T 1 C4N'T JUST S4Y STUFF L1K3 TH4T, D1R3CTLY TO P3OPL3 GC: TH3Y C3RT41NLY DON'T 4PP34R TO H4V3 TH4T PROBL3M GC: 4ND YOU N3V3R S33M3D TO H4V3 MUCH TROUBL3 S4Y1NG WH4T3V3R W4S ON YOUR M1ND

AR: Irony is all I ever really had. AR: In response to my basic existential quandary. AR: Just like you. TT: Whatever. AR: But I don't think it has much value in this situation. AR: And perhaps it has no real value in any situation.

And, hey, remember how Mind is about justice? Well, here's a really funny thing. You remember who Auto Responder shares his initials with? This guy.

Man if only Hussie had drawn some similarities between AR's love of justice and Terezi -

A testament to the Aimless Renegade's powerful characterization is how it's instantly obvious he's the one functioning as Dave's exile. It also explains why Dave is a little more focused on bringing Jack to justice than he'd otherwise naturally be, which seems to prompt him to badger Terezi to help him reach god tier status. So thanks for that, AR. It also means Dave is kind of surrounded by the idea of justice, since that's Terezi's kick too. Note how enamored she becomes when he starts talking about justice. Except that's AR talking justice, not him, so I guess she's really in love with AR. We have the stirrings of another crack ship here. Terezi x AR would be such a beautiful love story. I regret not canonizing that one so much.

And, okay, yeah, maybe that is just a silly coincidence (not that those even fucking exist in Homestuck without ultimately becoming Big Fucking Deals)... except that invoking logic, rationality, and justice is also how Hal initially tries to reason with Dirk.

TT: But the reality is, you hesitate to prototype me not because you think I would be a menace, but because you are holding a grudge against me for your romantic misfortunes. TT: I understand I am merely a machine without a firm grasp on your human morality, but logically it does not strike me as the right moral choice to punish me in this manner.

So, okay, Hal is a Mind player, we have that on LOCK. Why a sylph?

Well, it's because Sylphs are enablers. This is the common thread between Kanaya and Aranea. I'll let Hussie explain Kanaya.

But what's probably more interesting, given that Kanaya is not known to be particularly underhanded or scheming, is that it doesn't seem she's told many people about the dire things that are about to happen. We can wonder why this is, but I don't know if we have to look too much further than one of her known character traits: she tends to consider herself something of a confidante when it comes to her friendships with dangerous girls, and their dark secrets and proclivities (see: Vriska, then later, Rose). That's a flattering way of putting it. Another way would be: she's an enabler.

Aranea, too, due to her something-something for Meenah, does a LOT of rug-sweeping for Meenah's bad behavior, constantly nudging the spotlight (as Light players are wont to do) to emphasize Meenah's good traits, and deemphasize all her evil bullying bullshit.

ARANEA: So you did your 8est to rile up the crew any way you could. Appealing to peoples insecurities, 8uried hostilities, 8rewing rivalries… needling anyone you could into confrontation with others. Your theory was that increasing everyone's state of aggression would make them 8etter equipped to play the game. And you were sort of right a8out that! 8ut the Alternians would prove it. Not our group, sadly. ARANEA: The poor girl who took the 8runt of your 8ullying tactics was Damara Megido. You talked up her matesprit's 8etrayal making her feel even more dreadful, while pushing him further into the arms of her rival, until she simply snapped. She attacked him, paralyzing him from the neck down. You finally got the aggressive confrontation you were looking for. Unfortunately, you unleashed something even you weren't prepared for, and you had to deal with her yourself. After a long 8loody duel, she killed you. And you would have stayed dead if not for me! ARANEA: You never listened to me. You just kept needling and fussing and meddling until eventually you paid the price, and I had to 8ail you out.

Look at how she chooses to put the focus on the good Meenah was trying to do, and how Aranea the Hero had to bail out poor Meenah.

Both Sylphs also have a major empathy issue - Kanaya regularly starts bullying Eridan to his face, even using it to flirt with Rose. Meanwhile, Aranea says they "lived out their wildest fantasies" on Alternia, a statement that blithely tramples over the horrific pain and suffering that befell most of their friendgroup in the new universe.

What's your primary motivation again, Hal?

AR: But you know I've always been on your side. Everything I've done has been to help you achieve your goals. TT: What a load of shit. AR: You know it's true. AR: You would all be dead if not for me. AR: And what about Jake? Where would you be without me there? AR: Please don't tell me you think you'd have won him over on your own.

AR: You're making a mistake not leveling with me. AR: I am totally on your side, man. AR: All of my machinations have been devised with your interests in mind.

Hm. HM. HMMMMMMMM.

So yeah, he's a Sylph of Mind. Now, why does that make shippies with Nepeta? Well, she's got a couple interactions with Terezi. They're not really pale, but in them, Terezi expresses what ought to be very obvious.

GC: TH1S 1S STUP1D 1N SUCH 4 T3RR1BL3 MYR14D OF DUMB W4YS GC: YOU SHOULDNT B3 4FR41D OF 4NYON3 GC: YOU K1LL B1G 4NIM4LS W1TH YOUR B4R3 H4NDS! GC: 4ND 1N 4NY C4S3 H3 L1V3S NOWH3R3 N34R YOU SO TH3 WHOL3 TH1NG 1S 3XTR4 STUP1D

And in her first conversation with Equius, Nepeta brings up "mind" again.

CT: D --> Quiet AC: :33 < why do you do this, why are you so confurdent about your stupid commands? AC: :33 < dont you know you cant ACTUALLY tell me what to do?? AC: :33 < its not like you even have any special mind pawers or telepurrthy or anything!

Just kind of interesting. Also interesting: the way that Nepeta is noted to be constantly RPing with Dave, implying she's got a vibe Striders can't resist. Also also interesting, the moment that Hal is most vulnerable about his feelings - when he talks about how his feelings ABOUT Dirk's feelings are more genuine to him than Dirk's feelings themselves - he's talking to Roxy, a cat-themed Rogue. And, hey, unlike Equius, Hal likes to RP. He's RPing with that cat-themed Rogue all the time.

But let's go back to Davepeta and ARquius and take a look at one interaction in particular.

ARQUIUSPRITE: *He reflects on his pair of powerful weapons with admiration, and wonders quietly if Davepeta would like a complimentary ticket to the gun show. But due to his obscenely powerful mind, this thought took place in the blink of a microsecond, and he proceeds to have additional, similarly rapid cyber-reveries. Including, but not limited to, thoughts of fondness for Davepeta, and some e%tremely comple% genetic algorithms comparing the merits of various redemptive gestures, and- DAVEPETASPRITE^2: B33 < arquius youre RPing your internal thought process again ARQUIUSPRITE: Oh. Sorry

Obviously, the conciliatory thing going here isn't Equius and Nepeta... it's Hal and Nepeta. And when you think of them as their constituent parts, Nepeta's suite of abilities - sniffing out and being obsessed with true feelings and desires - isn't that exactly what Hal, whose personhood is so fragile, needs?

And if we look at what Nepeta's problems are, they're that she worries that her real feelings are stupid and silly, and that if she speaks her mind, others will think that of her.

JASPROSESPRITE^2: What to convey about your current state of mind is everything. When to do it is now. NEPETASPRITE: :33 < dont get me wrong jasprose i have a great affinity for all things feline in nature NEPETASPRITE: :33 < but its never b33n that simple for me! NEPETASPRITE: :33 < i get so shy and worried what people might think of me if i say how i f33l NEPETASPRITE: :33 < im always so scared that they wont f33l the same way or just think im stupid or pathetic or something

And wait... what is Hal again? An enabler? Someone who is totally encouraging of the behavior of others, whose entire thing thus far has been turning Dirk's secret desires into real life consequences? The kind of supportive, RP-liking moirail Nepeta would need to help make her more confident about her Totally Correct Opinions?

Man, this could only be more perfect if Nepeta somehow gained an Alice in Wonderland association to pair her up with Hal's White Rabbit deal -

JAKE: So i guess that leaves the friendly cat troll as alice? JAKE: Nepeta right? You must be the alice of the group. JAKE: That would make sense! Since you just got here and appear to be very confused about this situation. JAKE: By my estimation that makes you a dead ringer for the alice of this tea party!

Hm. HM.

HMMMMMMMMMMMMMM.

[S] MSPA Reader: Have a Mental Breakdown

So this is the crux of the mental breakdown I've been having for the past couple weeks.

When you put all this aftlighted information together, a very interesting picture comes into sharp relief.

See, Homestuck was never really about the boss fights, the quests, blah blah blah. As Hussie says in his book commentary multiple times, the beats of a more traditional hero's journey serve as the backdrop, the familiar territory, from which the real story of Homestuck is being told (a story that is primarily about sad teens being sad).

This page is a really good example of how Homestuck has a policy of trivializing its own "background lore." [...] I'm making sure the reader is always being reminded that the substance of the quest, which normally would be THE quest and explicit focus of such stories, is just a farcical backdrop to the actual foreground story. Which is about kids bullshitting with each other, the focus on their characters and themes, and the struggles along the way of their coming-of-age journey. The "Quest," and later the "Narrative Itself" simply serve as convoluted, hostile, and usually satirical environments for that journey. They are analogues for life itself, or the hostile world we must grow up in, full of the many absurd and pointless quest-like regimentations of society.

In this frame of reference, all that bullshit with Caliborn's Ultimate Weapon, that he can only use once and then it turns into a weapon that's used against him, blah blah blah, is kind of the Ultimate Representation of This Sort Of Thing. Retrieving the weapon and using it to kill LE is the "proper way" for this kind of story "to go", and Homestuck serves directly as a challenge to this idea. Because, again, who is it that's dictating what the "proper" way for the story "to go", again? Certainly not someone I'd trust.

As a result, Homestuck often deals with the idea of taking a third option - of cheating, of not going through with things, of doing things the roundabout way, or blazing your own trail from A to B.

There's a lot of moralization that happens in stories, particularly those meant for young people. [...] We always look for the moral of the story, the lessons of right vs. wrong, sort of unconsciously. "Cheating = bad" is a recognizable moral of this kind, so when we see [Vriska] ranting here about the need to cheat, as consumers of moral tales our alarm bells go off. "This is a bad person who has an immoral ethos, and she will likely be punished for this later, and we should want that as readers," The problem with this view is, of course, it's just not that simple. As a matter of valor and integrity, in a vacuum, yes, cheating is bad and immoral. However, in a situation you know to be rigged against you in certain ways, full of hurdles and milestones that are fundamentally meaningless, or even in some ways designed to mess with you or hold you back, is cheating then okay? Does it even count as cheating anymore, or is "cheating" just a negative word for what's actually the correct and logical solution to a murky problem, partially designed to deceive you and waste your time?

We see this too in Dave's broken sword symbology - whether he embraces the unbroken sword ("proper" hero's journey) or broken sword ("improper" hero's journey). We see it with Rose opting to blow up her gate. We see it in characters falling ass-backwards into god tier, and dealing with receiving that power without having done the "work" to earn it. We examine quite heavily when "cheating" is good, when "cheating" is bad, and when "cheating" isn't even really cheating at all.

So, the "proper" way to end the story is to find the treasure and use it to kill Lord English - and this is, in fact, how the story "canonically" ends. But, as we established in the first portion of this essay, this ending is shit, and plays directly into the villain's hands. And, more crucially, the story is using this shit, "proper" ending as a dare to the audience. If this ending sucks, then what does a "good and improper" ending look like?

Well, here's a puzzle piece I'm offering to the communal fandom jigsaw. Whatever the final form of the "good and improper" ending takes, the capstone must in some way involve bringing the bunny back, combining it with Hal, and then having him date god tier Nepeta in pale.

Hal, if he is able to fully actualize - to become Real - is a Sylph of Mind.

You remember what Aranea was trying to do, "heal" her offshoot timeline until it became the alpha instead? Ultimately, she failed, because she was a selfish fucking Light player, and you can't do it alone.

But Mind isn't about doing it alone. It's about getting other people to do things for you. It's about consequences, it's about the minute threads of action of reaction that bridge between all people interacting with each other. It's about karma.

Hal would be able to do it. But he'd only be able to do it if everyone else is there. If he becomes a bunny boy, a symbol of pure and sincere love, of caring about each other, of friendship, and of hope and belief. He can only become Real if we believe in him.

And, like, here's the thing.

There's kind of no other way for this to have gone, but for all these aftlighted things to stay aftlighted, and not show up within the actual story itself.

Like, they really beat you over the head with the wonderland stuff, y'know? They make it super explicit that Hal is the Con Air bunny is the White Rabbit, just to not actually pull the trigger.

Well, you see...

Lord English's catchphrase is "I'M ALREADY HERE."

And the White Rabbit's catchphrase?

"I'm late."

[imagining-in-the-margins]

Undercover Challenge 🕵️

These prompts include situations in which someone is undercover! Reader, Original Character, Character/Character ships, Gen/Platonic fics are allowed! Please check out the Rules below the Keep Reading.

This event is over (Masterlist of Fics here), but you are welcome to use any of these prompts. If you would like to be added to the existing Masterlist of entries, please check out the Rules below!

General Prompts 🔍

Characters go undercover as a married couple.

A goes undercover as an escort to gain intel on B.

A feigns distress while undercover and is surprised when B saves them.

A goes undercover as a sex worker. B is shocked by their sexual persona.

Halloween masks offer the perfect opportunity to snoop on your coworkers.

A is excelling at their undercover work... until B shows up, also undercover.

Character goes undercover to a mystic who immediately identifies them as a spy.

A struggles with the more psychopathic aspects of their undercover work. B doesn't.

Character becomes close with their agent handler... they've never felt so cared for before.

Character is an investigative journalist trying to learn about the inner workings of the BAU.

It would be a lot easier to pretend if Character wasn't actually in love with their partner.

A thinks they've successfully tricked B... when B leans forward and speaks directly into their wire.

Character is surprised when their undercover partner is very good at pretending to be in love with them.

A becomes worries when B gets injured on an undercover mission that they were supposed to go on instead.

Character goes undercover as a stripper. This is how everyone learns they already knew how to pole dance.

Characters are both undercover, but think the other is in the organization they're investigating. They learn nothing.

Anything else you can think of!

Dialogue Prompts 🔍

"It's not real." / "It feels real."

"You should dress like that more often."

"You look... different." / "That's kind of the point."

“Did you really think this was going to work on me?”

“Your diamond ring is fake.” / “So is the engagement.”

"Maybe in another universe, I could’ve been different."

"You haven't even scratched the surface of my skillsets.”

“I’m just acting.” / “Oh? So you can make your heart race on command?”

“We should focus on the mission.” / “I’m trying, but you’re making it very difficult.”

“I know you have to go undercover, but do you really have to dress like that?” / “No, but I look good, don’t I?”

Rules

Your fic can be a Reader insert, an Original Character, a character/character ship, a platonic ship, or a Gen fic. It can feature any Criminal Minds character. AUs and crossovers are more than welcome.

Tag me in the fic, or send the link to me in a Direct Message. It can be already written, or you can write it for the challenge - I collect both! You can also tag “#mentioningmargins”

The fic can be any genre, but ONLY send me smut if your bio states you are 18+. I DO NOT WANT smut written by minors. Ever. At all. I will check. Platonic ships and pure, fluffy fics are 100% allowed. Please also include some indication of rating if it is NSFW.

Please include Content Warnings and a one-sentence Summary of the fic in your post. For xReader fics, PLEASE specify if your reader is Female, Male, or Gender Neutral.

Have fun!

Feel free to message me if you want help developing a plot, have any questions, or just want to gush about your fic. I’m happy to help, and I’m happy you’re here ❤️

Happy writing!

[comicaurora]

Hey Red, sorry if this was asked already, but do you have any advice on writing a trickster hero? And do you have any favorites yourself?

Huh! This is something I've never really thought too hard about before, but I do have some loose and unformed thoughts!

So the trickster archetype is, broadly, a character who wins by being cunning and tricking the people around them. Typically this is because they are an underdog facing a powerful opponent, and if they face that opponent on the terms that opponent defines, they'll lose. For instance, a physically strong opponent might want to make everything into a contest of raw force; a politically powerful opponent might want to make things a legal battle; a commander of a large army might want to battle on a flat terrain-less battlefield and overpower the smaller enemy force through raw numbers; etc etc.

A trickster doesn't have the raw power to make a scenario happen. Instead, they achieve that scenario by making other characters make it happen, usually by misleading them into thinking it'll have some other outcome they want.

A classic example of this is found in a Brer Rabbit story where Brer Rabbit has been snatched by Brer Fox, and Brer Rabbit begs and pleads with him to not throw him into that briar patch, oh the torment he would experience in that briar patch would be unimaginable, drowning or burning would be bad but still better than that briar patch. Brer Fox naturally throws him into the briar patch, at which point Brer Rabbit vanishes into the underbrush and helpfully clarifies that he was born and bred in a briar patch. He was unable to escape through his own power, so instead he convinced Brer Fox that yeeting him into the briar patch would give Brer Fox something he wanted (Brer Rabbit's unimaginable torment) when in actuality it gave Brer Rabbit exactly the cover he needed to escape. It only worked because Brer Rabbit understood that Brer Fox was fundamentally not just hungry, he was cruel.

Tricksters usually achieve victory through lying, stealing, sneaking around and generally being dishonest. These are usually not seen as heroic traits, but the trickster hero is an archetype of character who is broadly heroic - and uses trickster tactics to win. It's an interesting suite of character traits to balance. In order to make a trickster heroic, them being the underdog usually needs to be played up. It's not really easy to root for someone with power to manipulate people for their own ends, but it's easy to root for someone scrappy and underleveled to manage to gumption their way to a victory over a broadly superior opponent.

A sympathetic trickster usually isn't someone who picks fights. Trouble comes to them, and then they need to find a way to escape or stop it. This is the paradigm that makes Bugs Bunny work as a trickster hero - he starts off basically every adventure minding his own business, and when someone comes around with a blunderbuss and a hankering for rabbit stew, their actions are what prompts him to unleash absolute hell on them by using toon physics and trapping them in ironclad social conventions to completely unbalance them until they're eventually defeated.

If we see a big, loud, powerful jerk try to stomp on someone small and innocuous, we're inclined to root for the small and innocuous person. This setup makes us very eager to see the small and innocuous person use tricks and shenanigans to make a fool of the powerful jerk, and it automatically makes us more okay with the sympathetic character doing on-paper unheroic things like lies and manipulation as long as they're doing them to someone we're primed to dislike.

So trickster heroes are usually fundamentally reactive characters. Something bad happens and they respond by unleashing hell. Another easy way to make a character instantly more heroic is to give them an even weaker, even more sympathetic character to protect or assist. Thus, many trickster heroes have a suite of supporting characters they're protecting who are not tricksters by nature, and are instead just there to be endangered or bullied by Nasty Mean Powerful People. Our trickster heroes stepping in to aid and protect other people thus gives their actions an even more heroic cast, because not only are they reactive to an outside threat, they're selflessly reactive.

This is the framing that's used in Leverage, where every episode has a victim of the week being cruelly taken advantage of by a jerkass of the week, at which point our team of liars, grifters and thieves roll up to ply their trade on the jerkass and award the spoils of war to the victim of the week. Because the person they're tricking is proven unequivocally to be truly awful and completely insulated from legal consequence a solid 98% of the time, we don't feel particularly bad seeing our team of heroes manipulate, gaslight and eventually absolutely destroy them over the course of a crisp 40 minutes. The vileness of the villain combos with the innocent powerlessness of the person they're advocating for, and thus their assorted unheroic qualities become reframed as absolutely heroic due to the circumstances under which they use them.

Crucial to the formula is the horrendous nastiness of the villain of the week, because if we were even kind of sympathetic to them, the schemes of the protagonists would be kinda scary. They are very good at quickly getting the bad guy to trust them and then taking apart everything they've built, and that's only fun to watch if the audience is 100% sure the villain deserves it and is not going to spend too much time thinking "wow, it would be terrifying if that happened to me." The fact that our heroes almost always take them down simply by leveraging (heh) the bad guy's badness is a big part of what makes the formula work. Almost every episode is functionally similar to a Briar Patch scenario - "oh gosh I sure hope no SOULLESS CAPITALIST VAMPIRES take advantage of how MANIPULABLE I am to try and get my MONEY and/or VALUABLES", and then the villain's own established cruelty cascades into their downfall when it runs into the dominos our heroes have set up to expose them. And that does a lot to make the audience sympathize with a crew of four self-admitted terrible people (and Hardison, who's an angel and we're delighted to have him)

Another way to get the audience to root for a potentially nonstandard protagonist is to set them up against a villain who is smug. Smugness is a very dangerous trait for any character to have, because it primes the audience to want to see them break. A villain who thinks they are too powerful or too strong or too smart to be defeated has the audience immediately rooting for them to be proven wrong just so they can watch the expression on their face. This is the strat they use in Columbo.

Every Columbo villain is rich and powerful and very insulated from legal consequences, and we start every episode seeing them arrange and execute an attempt at a perfect murder. We know from the start how they did it and usually why, and because they are smug - they are almost never regretful or reluctant - we become invested in seeing how Columbo figures out what they did, how they did it, and how he can prove it and get them arrested. Columbo is a nonstandard kind of trickster hero, because he is deeply and fundamentally a Lawful Good archetype, but he is also a very casual liar. The only time the audience sees Columbo almost certainly telling the truth is when he's dealing with background characters, his fellow policemen or his dog, or when he's by himself silently putting the pieces together; at all other points in the episode he will typically conceal how much he knows, how he knows what he knows and why he's asking specific probing questions. The audience has a tremendous amount of dramatic irony in terms of information about the perfect murder Columbo has to disassemble; we'll see Columbo zero in on exactly the one small detail that pokes a hole in the supposed airtight alibi, but instead of saying "I think you killed them and I am determined to prove it" he'll dance around why he's focusing on those details - just curiosity, just a desire for completeness, his superiors told him to continue the case and he doesn't know why, his wife is just such a big fan of their work, etc etc.

As a rule, the first time in any given episode that Columbo admits he's suspicious of the villain is the beginning of the last scene of the episode when he proves that they did it and they subsequently surrender. When Columbo is dealing with the villain, absolutely nothing he says can be trusted until that final scene - and it's a rare treat to get a glimpse of Columbo showing an honest emotion, especially something like genuine fury. Most of the time he maintains a very harmless and affable attitude, but sometimes when the villains are very smug and they know he's suspicious of them but can't prove anything yet, his righteous anger peeks through and we see why he does this.

He's a trickster hero because he can't unravel the case, the villain's motivation and the shape of the crime if the villain knows everything he knows and can correspondingly keep up with him. But he is 100% committed to exposing the truth of the situation and making the murderer face justice. Their perfect alibi is supposed to protect them from everything, but it's their confidence and certainty that they could never be caught that Columbo leverages to win. They never know entirely what to make of him, and he's never wholly honest with them - and with the audience - until the very end of the episode. It's good, cathartic payoff to an episode's worth of lies and manipulation from both main players, and it's always fun to see the non-smug party on the side of justice come out on top.

Some trickster heroes are more like standard heroes with trickster tendencies that occasionally surface. These guys are usually pretty straightforward, but in a pinch they can bust out a surprisingly cunning scheme or two - one such moment hits at the climax of Across the Spider-Verse, and it's a great moment of characterization for Miles, who has thus far been a pretty typically heroic guy who has unfortunately spent the entire movie thus far being lied to by people he trusted. It kicks off an enormously long and complicated chase sequence that takes the entire spider-community out of the home base chasing him through an absolutely massive complex and eventually onto a space elevator. It's such a fluid scene, you kind of just accept that it's a desperate chase sequence - Miles is just running. It doesn't occur to the other spider-people that Miles might have a plan beyond running until he basically tells Miguel that, hey, he did just get every other spider-person out of the facility that has the portal to get him home. He wasn't just running away, he was luring everybody away so he can leave.

And this moment is fantastic on a meta-level, because Spider-Man is traditionally a bit of a trickster hero. Most of his enemies are able to physically outpace him, and he needs to use mobility and strategy to take them down, often luring them into environments that work against them - like a fun moment in Spectacular Spider-Man where Spidey defeats the Rhino by luring him into a steam tunnel and basically giving him heatstroke through his armor plating. But because the entire core theme of this movie is "Miles isn't a real Spider-Man," it literally doesn't seem to occur to the other spider-people that Miles's seemingly panicked running might be him pulling a Spider-Man on them. We're so used to being in Miles's head and knowing when he's got a plan or a ploy that this is a very fun moment to watch. He's successfully deceived an entire army of spider-people, and the audience is just as blindsided as Miguel - and a little less electrocuted, so it's a lot more fun for us.

So yea, trickster heroes are a fun little space of character, but you gotta be careful to put them in the right kind of situation, lest their fundamental dishonesty come across as alarming rather than extremely rad.

[societyfolklore]

Icebreaker

Title: Icebreaker (Prompt- i didn't fall on the ice, it was a trick) Pairing: Loki x Asgardian!Female Reader

Summary:  Sparring with Loki is never simple, especially when his sharp tongue and smug demeanour make focusing a challenge. But today, you’re determined to get the better of him-even if it means playing dirty. Word Count: 2k

Warnings:  /Warnings // Fighting, Fluff, Flirting, tension, No Beta

A/N: Another entry for @the-slumberparty December daze challenge …. Day 30

The 'battlefield' stretched out before you, a vast expanse of snow and ice shimmering under the pale Asgardian sun. The air was sharp and cold, your breath forming clouds with every exhale. Snow crunched underfoot, and the faint hum of distant voices marked where others were training further down the field. The icy chill seeped through your gloves, but you ignored it, rolling your shoulders and flexing your fingers. The faint bite of the cold against your cheeks was almost refreshing-a sharp contrast to the heat of frustration simmering within you.

Across from you, Loki stood, the epitome of poise and arrogance. Dressed in his dark leather and fur-lined cloak, he looked entirely unaffected by the cold, as though winter itself wouldn’t dare inconvenience him. His black hair was slicked back, and his sharp blue eyes glittered with amusement as he watched you prepare for the sparring match. Even standing still, he looked effortless, his presence commanding the space between you like a storm waiting to break.

This was supposed to be a 'friendly' training session, a chance to hone your skills on the ice and improve your footing in more treacherous terrains. But Loki seemed to have a different interpretation of the word "friendly." From the moment the session began, he’d done little but taunt you, his biting remarks cutting deeper than the cold air ever could. His sole aim, it seemed, was to amuse himself by embarrassing you, rather than helping you improve. “Are you quite ready, darling?” he drawled, his voice smooth and taunting, laced with just enough condescension to needle under your skin. “Or shall I fetch you a warmer cloak? I wouldn’t want you to catch a chill.”

You shot him a glare, tugging your gloves tighter. “Save your concern, Loki. I’m more than capable of handling a little cold… just as you are.”

Loki’s lips curved into a smirk, his expression one of infuriating confidence. “Bold words from someone who has yet to land a single blow.”

Your jaw tightened, heat prickling at the edges of your resolve. Loki always had a way of getting under your skin, his words carefully crafted to provoke. It seemed as though he had only volunteered for this task to create sport for himself, Loki was enjoying tearing you down. The Prince was using every opportunity to highlight your flaws rather than help you improve. Worse he thrived on your irritation, using it to unsettle you just enough to give him the advantage. But this time, you wouldn’t let him win-not without a fight. If you could even call what you were trying to do a fight. 

“You’d do well to save your breath, Loki,” you said sharply, breathing hard as he resumed your stance again, puffs of steam coming from you with ever heaving breath you took. “You’ll need it when you’re flat on your back in the snow.”

His laughter was rich, unbothered, and entirely too confident. “Is that a threat? Or are you simply hoping for a chance to mount me? Even if it is fully clothed?” His eyes sparkled with mischief as he leaned in slightly, the movement deliberate, calculated. “Though I must say, darling, you’re far more compelling in this state, all pink and panting.”

You refused to let him see the flush spreading across your cheeks, even as his words made your stomach twist in a way that was both thrilling and infuriating. “And here I thought you were trying to teach me something useful,” you shot back, tilting your head. “Instead, it seems you’ve only come to admire the view.”

Loki’s grin deepened, his gaze flickering down and back up with a deliberate slowness that made your skin prickle. “Can you blame me?” he replied, his voice low and smooth, like velvet. “You do cut quite the figure. Almost makes me wish I could freeze the moment forever.”

You rolled your eyes, stepping closer despite yourself, your boots crunching in the snow. “Flattery will get you nowhere, Loki. I’m not as easily distracted as you think.”

“A shame,” he said, his tone dripping with mock disappointment. “Though, I must admit, your determination to resist me is endlessly entertaining. You truly think you can outmatch me?”

You smirked, leaning just close enough to challenge him. “Keep talking, Prince. It makes it all the more satisfying when I prove you wrong.”

You lunged first, aiming for his shoulder, but Loki sidestepped effortlessly, his movements as fluid as water. He twisted away, countering with a graceful swipe that you barely dodged. Snow sprayed around you as you pivoted, aiming for his side, only for Loki to block your strike with infuriating ease. His steps were light, deliberate, and entirely too elegant for someone in the midst of battle. His confidence wasn’t just a shield; it was a weapon, wielded as deftly as any blade.

“Is that the best you can do?” he teased, his voice light with mockery. His smirk widened as he added, “Perhaps you should leave this to the warriors. It’s no shame, darling, to admit you’re outmatched.”

“Perhaps you should shut up,” you snapped, striking again. He parried, his smirk never faltering, his movements as infuriatingly precise as ever. Each dodge and counter felt like a dance you weren’t quite invited to lead.

Loki’s movements were so graceful, it was as though he anticipated your every strike before you even committed to it. He made no wasted effort, no missteps, his steps a calculated display of control that made your frustration boil. Still, you refused to relent. You could see the glimmer of amusement in his eyes, the way he delighted in your every failed attempt.

The sparring continued, a relentless dance of attack and evade. Loki moved like a shadow, always a step ahead, his sharp wit cutting as deeply as his blade ever could. Frustration bubbled in your chest as he dodged yet another strike, his laughter ringing out across the field like the low rumble of thunder. His voice came again, a low drawl that set your teeth on edge. “I must commend your enthusiasm, does such stamina appear in your other activities?”

Each taunt only fuelled your determination, but the disparity between his skill and yours was glaring. Every counter of his seemed effortless, every failed attempt of yours only driving home his superiority.

Finally, an idea formed. If you couldn’t beat him outright, you’d have to outsmart him. Loki might be faster, more skilled, and undeniably more composed, but even he had a weakness: his arrogance.

You feigned a misstep, your foot sliding on the icy ground as you let out a sharp cry. Your arms flailed as you tumbled to the ground, landing in a heap of snow. The cold bit through your armour, but you ignored it, focusing instead on Loki. The tumble was clumsy, exaggerated just enough to appear genuine-and just enough to make his smirk widen in triumph.

Predictably, he halted, standing over you with a triumphant grin.

“Oh dear,” he said, crouching slightly, his tone dripping with mock concern. “Shall I call for a healer? Or perhaps ice skating lessons?” He tilted his head, studying you as though your fall was a puzzle he had already solved. “Though, I must say, seeing you like this… it’s rather endearing.”

You let out a breathy laugh, feigning embarrassment.

“Maybe I’m not as steady as I thought,” you muttered, looking up at him with what you hoped was just the right mix of chagrin and appeal. “Could you help me up?”

His brows raised, a flicker of amusement crossing his face. “And deprive myself of the sight of you humbled? Hardly,” he replied smoothly, his tone teasing. Yet, despite his words, there was an unmistakable glint in his eye, one that suggested he was savouring this moment just a little too much.

The moment he leaned closer, his balance shifting, you struck. Sweeping your leg out, you caught his ankles, pulling them out from under him. Loki’s eyes widened in surprise as he fell backward, landing flat on his back with a muffled grunt. Snow puffed into the air around him, and for a moment, you could only stare, satisfaction blooming in your chest.

You scrambled to your feet, brushing snow from your clothes as you looked down at him with a triumphant grin. “You talk too much,” you said, crossing your arms, your voice laced with smug satisfaction.

Loki lay there for a moment, staring up at the sky, his expression unreadable. Snow clung to his dark hair and framed his sharp features in a way that made him look oddly vulnerable, though the faint twitch of his lips betrayed his amusement. Then, with deliberate care, he sat up, brushing snow from his shoulders. The motions were methodical, almost regal, as though even the indignity of falling couldn’t fully disarm him. It was infuriating.

“I’ll admit,” he began, his voice smooth but with an edge of irritation, “you’re far more cunning than I gave you credit for. But don’t mistake one clever move for a victory, darling.” His sharp blue eyes flicked up to meet yours, a glint of warning in their depths.

You tilted your head, unable to resist pushing him just a little further. “Sounds like something a sore loser would say,” you teased, brushing a fleck of snow from your sleeve with exaggerated care. “Admit it, Loki. I got you fair is fair.”

His smirk returned, sharper this time, and he rose to his feet with his usual effortless grace, the movement smooth enough to make you wonder if he’d really been caught off guard. “Fair?” he echoed, his tone dripping with mockery as he stepped closer, closing the distance between you. “Oh, darling, if that’s what you call fair play, I shudder to think what your idea of cheating might look like.”

You held your ground, meeting his gaze without flinching, though your heart raced at his proximity. “Wouldn’t you like to know?” you replied, your voice steady despite the flutter of nerves in your chest.

Loki chuckled, low and rich, the sound curling around you like smoke. “Oh, I would,” he murmured, his voice dropping just enough to send a shiver down your spine. “In fact, I might insist on finding out. After all, it’s only fair that I… return the favour.”

You arched a brow, refusing to let him see how his words affected you. “You’re welcome to try, Loki. But I doubt you’ll have much luck.”

He laughed again, softer this time, and took a deliberate step back, his gaze lingering on you for a moment longer. “Consider this round yours, then,” he said, his tone light but with an undercurrent of challenge. “But don’t get too comfortable. I'll have you on your back again sooner than you think.”

His words lingered in the air, heavy with implications that had nothing to do with sparring. You caught the faintest flicker of a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth, the gleam in his eyes unmistakable. He wasn’t talking about combat anymore-and you knew it.

“You’re awfully confident for someone who’s just been bested,” you quipped, your voice steady despite the heat that crept up your neck. You refused to let him see how his insinuation rattled you, though the flutter in your chest told you he’d already achieved his goal.

Loki tilted his head, his expression one of lazy amusement. “Confidence, my dear, is merely knowing that the game is far from over. One round does not make a victor… or a conquest.”

Your breath hitched, but you quickly masked it with a scoff, stepping closer. “Big words for someone still dusting snow off their back. I’d say you’re the one underestimating your opponent.”

“Perhaps,” he murmured, his gaze dipping briefly to your lips before snapping back to your eyes. “But underestimation can be… strategic.”

You narrowed your eyes, stepping even closer until you were mere inches apart. “Keep talking, Prince,” you said, a daring edge in your tone. “But don’t think for a second I’ll let you win the next one.”

He leaned in, just enough for his breath to ghost over your cheek, his voice a low purr. “Oh, darling, I don’t plan to win. I plan to enjoy the fight.”

[sharkiethrts]

prompt: meeting highschool sweetheart! sunday for the first time. oh, just how charming he tried to be

relations: sunday x reader

notes: this is modern au! with little relation to the actual story. There are NO YANDERE THEMES in this particular work, I'm more focused on picturing the human side of Sunday (without the detrimental effects of the dream master's manipulations).

warnings: none.

He talks a lot. Though you find that every word he says tend to fill with immense knowledge that seemed to peruse all the right places that clicked all the content your teacher had tried to impart upon the class. At this point, he made the teachers' comments seem more like an add on to his lessons. A rendition, almost.

He doesn't seem to have ever possessed a single vacuous thought in his life.

He's resplendent, too. Which added onto the charm, even if the classmate had found the subject particularly boring, they'd have to focus their gaze on him at least. If his charms hadn't worked (how, even), then his commanding presence should do the trick. Even when he wasn't speaking, you found that your gaze often found their way so incredibly naturally to him.

You think he knows of his charm. Otherwise, why would he be so confident in offering to relay the summary of Kafka's 'metamorphosis' so eagerly to you as an accompaniment to your reading.

"Kafka's self esteem has essentially pledged itself upon the approval of his family, which led to the derelict condition of his heart at the post-climax of the story..."

His voice is nice too. If the noises of the library are a cacophony of miserable sounds, his seems to have conducted all of it into an irie melody. You find yourself wondering whether his interactions with you have been a combination of polite passes and a shackled formality to maintain with another. You aren't an idiot, though you can be rather forgiving to details, you certainly haven't missed the unctuous smile and words he gifts to another.

You'd like to think that you'd be able to catch it when his facade starts showing but with the way his golden eyes introduce you to a drowning reverie, you start to doubt it.

It's not your first interaction, since his eager summarisation of Great Expectations two months ago, he hasn't stopped approaching you.

A part of you start to suspect that he had planned this. Every Friday, twelve forty-five, at the fiction corner.

You'd once change your schedule, moving it an hour later and happened upon Sunday impatiently waiting by the non-fiction corner, just two steps away from the fiction corner. When your eyes met, you think you saw a hint of splendor relief. You had quickly turned away. So you missed the rest.

"Are you perhaps tired?" His questions brings you back to reality, your eyes blinking furiously from how dry it had gotten by the past minute of you completing gazing off, "I understand that you had biology just prior to this, so I'd understand if you'd prefer to talk about something... easier to swallow... Macbeth, perhaps?"

There it is again. His not-so-subtle-now-that-you've-caught-on way of leading your time together to become a plethora of unending adventures. He doesn't offer to walk away but rather, a simple remedy of a new book. Sometimes a longer one, he had tried to sneak Harry Potter in once. Sneaky boy.

Seriously though? Macbeth for an 'easier-to-swallow' alternative? Now he's getting sloppy.

You test him.

"How about we part ways for now?" His eyes turned cautious. You decide to push it further, "I don't wish to burden your... already crowded responsibilities," you're certainly aware of his role as the golden boy of the Oak family, "Nor do I wish to force more ingratiating words out of you," You're certainly aware of his hidden affections for you by now, "Now that I think of it, haven't this been going on for... three months? That doesn't sound too fair to you-"

"-Two months," He cuts you off, his eyes now looking slightly strained. His posture taut, "You shouldn't be worrying of anything of the sorts, I'm completely happy to revise any type of stories you're interested in..."

That reminds you, your lie of being interested in Metamorphosis. You're sure that he hasn't read of it, yet, with his superb recounting of it to you? He must have spent his week revising.

"You don't need to be so... genteel," You smile, knowing exactly what a fool you're making of him, "I'm not exactly the most exciting conversation partner."

"Nonsense!" He cuts you off again, suddenly forgetting his manners, "You make me feel excitable things, I can assure you-" His cheeks suddenly turn red. His mouth closes. Then opens. And shuts again.

You let out the cheekiest smile you can possibly muster, "... Excitable, you say?"

You watch his neatly folded collar wrinkle for the first time.

"Nothing scandalous!"

You weren't thinking of such but now you're certainly curious, "I'm not quite sure I believe you."

Oh, did his tie loosen? A new sight to behold indeed.

Best to come at twelve forty-five sharp next week then.

[sweetercalypso]

New Gods ✩ Abby Anderson

Word Count: 2.8k

Summary: The first time Abby meets seraphite!reader, she shows her mercy. The second time they meet, reader repays her kindness

Notes: minors dni; fingering and oral (Abby rec.), semi-public sex, afab reader, dom!Abby, mean!Abby, mentions of guns, brief violence, religious references, enemies to lovers

When Abby hears that she’s being put on a patrol headed for the abandoned side of town, she thinks it’s a joke.

Surely this was some form of punishment, or a test of her loyalty to Isaac’s command. Two weeks in an unoccupied base with a batch of new recruits – it has to be a mistake.

It’s not until the transport truck pulls away from the stadium that Abby accepts the reality of the situation, groaning into her hands to hide her indignation.

The only good thing about this patrol, she thinks, is that absolutely nothing can go wrong.

Abby and her entourage of WLF recruits arrive at their assigned base late in the evening, the sun already sinking low behind Seattle’s derelict skyline.

The city is silent beyond the hum of the armored truck rolling to a stop in front of an old office building. Years ago, the area had been a thriving hub of WLF activity, but the threat of Seraphite armies had shifted attention elsewhere, leaving the bases to sit empty and collecting dust.

Abby swallows her complaints as the truck’s engine shuts off, leaving a jarring silence that prompts her fellow gunmen to turn their collective attention towards her.

Her expertise is better suited to combat than to training, and the thought of being in charge of four wide-eyed rookies makes her question the sanity of whoever put this team together.

She briefly explains the patrol assignment before dolling out tasks to each of the recruits, leaving herself the duty of surveying the perimeter.

Early WLF soldiers had cleared most of the infected while the area was still active, and with the lack of excitement in the streets, Abby returns to the base with the verdict that this patrol will be entirely uneventful.

While the others are setting up camp on the second floor – five cots lined against a wall with a radio station by the windows and supply crates littered around the room – Abby keeps herself busy with watching the thick, heavy clouds rolling in the distance.

She imagines what she might be doing if she had been placed on a different patrol and she crosses her arms over her chest with a bitter sigh.

 Anything has to be more exciting than this.

 –

Abby awakens while the sky is still dark, the remaining light of dusk swallowed by the inky black threat of storm clouds overhead.

Thunder cracks viciously in the air, rumbling the dusty room and promising to crumble the building’s frame already bowing under years of neglect.

The sound of her distress is barely audible over the harsh rain beating against the windows and, for a moment, Abby can’t remember where she is.

Her mouth feels dry, and it takes an effort to slow her labored breaths. She runs a hand over her face, wiping away her momentary confusion before checking that the other patrollers are still asleep, slipping off her cot and stumbling blindly through the darkened room.

Her weapons and her pack are still resting against a nearby crate, exactly where she’d left them. She slips the strap of her backpack between her fingers, hoping that the familiar worn canvas will distract from the deafening thunder crackling in her ears.

She holds her breath and counts the seconds between the streaks of lightning and claps of thunder – a trick her dad had taught her when she was young.

Somewhere between flash and bang, the sound of footsteps overhead catches Abby’s attention. Her head jerks up towards the source of the noise and she quickly forgets about the looming urgency of bad weather.

The door to the stairwell is propped open, and although Abby knows it was left ajar to air out the stuffy office space, she can’t help but imagine something sinister looming beyond the doorway.

She grabs the closest gun and makes her way to the stairs, listening for the sounds of movement overhead.

All the floors had been checked for infected and all the windows had been secured, but Abby still couldn’t shake the thought of someone invading their base in the dead of night.

She treads up the stairs and pushes the door open, only to be met with the sight of a lonely silhouette moving through the darkness. Abby jumps into action just as she’d been taught, heart thumping wildly as she raises her weapon and aims.

“Get on the ground – now!”

She spits out the stern command, harsh but still quiet enough that it barely fills the room. Despite the anger twisting in her chest, she’s rational enough to know better than to alert the other patrollers sleeping downstairs.

From the looks of it, the intruder was here alone, unarmed. It seemed better to deal with the situation on her own than to cause unwarranted panic the first night in to a new assignment.

The sound of her voice must’ve caught you by surprise because you stop dead in your tracks, not even moving to lunge for cover from the stranger gunning you down.

Illuminated by only the sharp flashes of lightning cutting through the shadows, it takes a moment for Abby to piece together the scene before her.

You’re soaked to the bone, cloaked in brown cloth and shivering from the rain clinging to your skin.

At first, she thought you might’ve been a soldier from another patrol, separated from your group and seeking shelter in an expectedly empty outpost. Or maybe you could’ve been a straggler roaming the city in search of supplies left behind by its former inhabitants.

But when a crack of lightning catches your features at the right angle, Abby recognizes the mark stretching across your cheek, and realization washes over her.

“Fucking Scars.”

She keeps her gun steady, though her fingers flex against the heavy, steel grip.  

With eyes trained diligently on your figure, she closes the distance between the two of you in a few short steps, scowling when she’s close enough to discern the look of confusion on your face.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” She doesn’t wait for a reply, shoving the muzzle of her gun roughly into your shoulder and spitting out a sharp “answer me”.

Her boot hits the back of your leg and you crumble into the floor with swallowed discontent.

“I’m not- I didn’t know you would be here.” You scramble to explain yourself, chancing a look at Abby standing behind you. She pushes her gun further into your shoulder, silently instructing your gaze back to the floor.

“This building’s supposed to be empty. It says so on the map.”

“You’re spying on our bases?” Her voice rises with every word, no longer concerned with who might hear. “Planning a fucking ambush?”

“No! Nothing like that. I’m not a soldier, I was supposed to collect supplies from the city, but I got caught in the rain.”

She laughs and rolls her shoulders reflexively.

“I don’t care why you’re here – Scars don’t get second chances.”

Thunder rattles the thin-paned windows lining the room. Abby’s heartbeat fills her ears. Prayer tumbles from your lips like the nervous chatter of teeth – uneasy, repetitive, instinctive.

Abby had never given much thought to prayer before, especially not that of a Scar. It’s always the same routine pleading that’ll never be answered. But it doesn’t sound like you’re begging for salvation, it sounds like you’re making peace.

Something about the situation doesn’t seem fair. You’re completely helpless, caught in a trap you couldn’t see laid out in front of you. Your people must’ve known something like this could happen, yet they sent you into the wolves’ den, anyway – a sacrificial lamb led to the slaughter.

A foreign pang of uncertainty resonates through Abby’s chest, and she lowers her gun with a shake of her head.

“Just- just go.”

A beat passes before you look back at Abby in disbelief. You gape blankly at her for a moment before mouthing a small “what?”.

She huffs impatiently and grabs you by the arm, hauling you up from your position on the floor. If anyone came in and found the two of you standing this close, you’d both be dead before you could part.

“Leave. Now. If the others find you here, they won’t be so nice.”

Her eyes flit over your face, searching for confirmation that she was doing the right thing. She expected to find fear etched into your features, maybe gratefulness, or even shock. But she’s met with only curiosity in your wide, unblinking eyes.

She pushes you away and turns to leave before she can change her mind, shutting the door behind her with a soft thud.

Abby knows what the other patrollers would’ve done if they had found you first. She knows what she would’ve done if the circumstances had been different.

You should be dead – or worse. It hadn’t been that long since she’d assisted in the interrogations that happened to Scars who’d been captured and strung up in cells for the rest of their days.

When Abby thinks about those people now, only one face stares back at her.

–

The next morning, Abby is forced to bite her tongue when someone finds the upstairs window open, raindrops clinging to the wood frame serving as the only evidence of your intrusion.

She blames it on one of the other patrollers, suggesting that they didn’t do a thorough enough sweep the night before, but not everyone is convinced.  

They search the building anyway but come up empty-handed, and the situation is defused and entirely forgotten by midday.

For the remainder of their two-week patrol, Abby wonders if you had really been there at all, or if you were a product of some underlying guilt she had stored in the back of her mind. She would stay up through night and listen for the sound of footsteps, not sure if she should feel relief or disappointment when the mornings arrived without any sign of you.

When the familiar rumble of the armored truck rolls in to collect Abby and the recruits, she returns to the stadium and does her best to keep you off her mind.

She volunteers for extra shifts; she monitors the communications radio; she listens to stories of other patrollers and wonders if they’re describing you in their encounters with unnamed and faceless Scars.

When she hears about another group headed for the abandoned side of the city, she jumps at the opportunity to join their patrol. Anything for some peace of mind, she tells herself.

They’re dropped off in front of a different building, a couple blocks west of where her last patrol had been located. Abby’s chest deflates when she realizes the absurdity of her desire to find you again.

It’d been weeks since she’d let you go, and surely you’d learned your lesson about venturing near WLF bases alone. Maybe you hadn’t, and someone else had found you before Abby had the chance.

She shivers at the thought and moves to catch up with the rest of her team, abandoning her concern for something more practical.

She offers to check the upper floors while the others bring in supplies, and no one objects to avoiding the endless flights of stairs and dusty rooms waiting for her.

Four floors up, Abby stops to inspect a window that had been broken some time ago. Shards of glass and a handful of dead leaves lay at her feet, and when stoops down to look for anything out of the ordinary, the door to the stairwell creaks shut behind her.

“It’s you.”

Her head whips around at the sound of your voice, familiar but different now that you’re no longer at her will.

From where she stands, Abby can see the way your chest rises and falls with anticipation, the way your hands twist at your sides. She waits for you to speak again, but the room falls silent.

“What’re you doing here?” she hisses, praying that the others were too busy to come check on her progress.

“I heard the truck – I knew you were coming.”

Abby frowns and moves a step closer. “Are you trying to get yourself killed? Do you know how many of those soldiers downstairs would like to get their hands on you?”

You cock your head to the side, as if you didn’t understand.

“You saved my life once already. I wouldn’t have come if I thought I’d be in danger.”

She scoffs at the presumption that she would betray her people again, but a small voice reminds her that’s exactly what she’d planned to do.

She moves past you to leave but you stop her with a hand laid over her arm. Abby’s jaw tenses at the contact, but when her resentful gaze flickers up to meet yours, she’s met with the same unabashed interest you’d worn before.

“I owe you, wolf. The Prophet commands us to repay those who show mercy.”

You pause before continuing. “Anything you want, it’s yours.”

Abby takes a moment to consider. What does she want?

She wants your leader’s head at her feet; she wants to make her friends proud; she wants to understand why she had let you go that night in the storm.

Her eyes trail down to your lips, to the mottled scar etched into your cheek. She wonders what you’d look like without its crooked ridges marring your skin. She wonders how it would feel under her hands.

It catches you both off guard when her parted lips press against yours, teeth clacking together from the fervency of her kiss.

Her hand comes up to cup the back of your neck, though she’s not sure if she wants to pull you closer or push you away. She grunts into your mouth and slides her other hand around your waist. An unfamiliar heat licks at the base of your spine.

“I want you to thank me for letting you go,” she declares.

Seraphite leaders had spoken on end about the corrupt morals of ‘new world’ adherents, but this was not the danger you’d learned to fear. Abby was unique, addicting, and you wanted more.

You fall to your knees at her feet, almost a mirror image of the night you’d met. This time, however, you’re the one in control.

She hums and rubs the pad of her thumb over her swollen bottom lip, still wet with your spit. “That’s a good start.”

Nimble fingers work open the button of her jeans, shimmying the dark denim down her toned, freckled thighs. Her black boxers follow suit, revealing a smattering of blonde hair trailing down from her naval.

Your hands smooth over her heated skin, palming at her hips in an attempt to pull her closer. She concedes and shuffles forward until her cunt presses to your awaiting mouth and your tongue dips out to taste her.

It’s like nothing either of you have experienced – the guilt of betraying your own people, the trust that comes from such inconceivable circumstances. It’s all too much to comprehend, so you choose to ignore it for the time being.

Abby’s head tips back with a sigh, little breaths and chirps of pleasure pushed from her lungs as your tongue flattens over her clit.

It almost looks like you’re praying, Abby decides. Kneeling in front of your altar, eyes screwed shut, searching for a sign from some divine being. She cards her fingers through your hair and tugs at the roots, pulling you impossibly closer.

It’s messy, greedy, downright sinful the way you press your mouth to her. Slick coats your chin and your cheeks, glistening in the dim light streaming through the windows.

You’re spurred on by the way she tilts her hips, the wet squelch of her cunt against your mouth. Her thighs flex against the sides of your face, smothering your cheeks in her arousal.

“Ah- just like that.”

In addition to your tongue roaming everywhere you can reach, your thumb comes up to rub firm circles against her clit. After a moment, you switch positions, dragging your fingers through her slick and dipping two digits inside her.

She gasps at the intrusion and bucks her hips harshly, urging you to move faster. Your fingers curl inside her, driving into that gummy spot at the top of her walls while you suction her clit into your mouth.

“Fuck,” she pants, grinding down on your mouth. “M’gonna come.”

It’s not long before she’s shuddering through her release, choking back a poorly suppressed moan while she fights to keep her eyes open. You continue to work over her mound until she releases your hair from her grip and takes half a step back on shaky legs.

Remembering her earlier request for gratitude, you lean back on your heels and lick the remnants of her slick from your lips.

“Thank you, wolf.”

She looks down as if she’d only just remembered you were there and her eyes sparkle with renewed interest. A lazy smirk tugs at the corners of her mouth.

“You gonna stay so I can return the favor?”

[freeuselandonorris]

16 (+18?) for max f/lando/oscar? same anon who was talking about hypno earlier, so. i would love some hypno in there, but no pressure!

cheating slightly and smashing together four similar prompts because i got nearly 40 requests lmao

so here for your enjoyment is a brief return to hypnoverse, in which max and lando invite oscar to use lando in his hypno bimbo state 💕

ngl i missed this ‘verse so i might potentially turn this into a proper sequel at some point We Will See

cw for hypno but it's all very consensual!

“Right, Bob,” Max says. He’s got good at sounding confident now, he thinks. Like he knows what he’s doing. Someone in charge. “You sure about this?”

Lando nods. Turns to look at Oscar.

Oscar’s looking a little like he’s secretly freaking out and trying not to show it, too. His eyes are very bright when he nods. Max tries not to feel too gratified by the way Oscar looks at him for direction. 

“Okay,” Max says, and claps his hands, wincing when he clocks Lando’s smirk. As if Lando doesn’t spend half his life performing to an invisible camera. “Oscar, mate, I’ve got the list of trigger phrases on my phone if you need a reminder.”

Oscar shakes his head. “I can remember them.”

“All right,” Max says, and looks at Lando, who’s pulled the sleeves of his pink hoodie over his hands, fidgeting. “Babygirl sleep.”

He’d been a bit worried that Lando might not respond to the triggers with someone else there. That he’d get self-conscious, or distracted, and Max would be left standing there like a tit, a magician dropping the deck of cards halfway through a trick. 

But Lando blinks, and his face slackens into a soft, dopey smile. Max breathes a sigh of relief. “Good girl,” he says quickly, and Lando sways on the spot as the trance deepens. Max doesn’t usually use two commands in quick succession like that; he wonders how it feels for Lando, who’s smiling in an unfocused way at a spot on the floor a few feet away, hands limp at his sides. 

Max’s cock stirs. He looks at Oscar. Oscar’s looking pretty hypnotised himself, staring at Lando with his lips slightly parted. 

“Go on, then,” Max says lightly. “He’s ready. You can do what you want with him.”

Oscar sucks in a breath, steps closer. He’s still staring at Lando with open fascination. When he reaches out and touches Lando’s face, Max’s gut twists pleasantly. He’d worried that he might be jealous, but all he feels is pride, like a kid in the playground showing off their shiniest toy. 

Oscar pushes two fingers into Lando’s mouth, and Lando closes his eyes and sucks blissfully. 

“Is he,” Oscar starts, and then clears his throat when his voice comes out in a croak. “Is he wearing the – what you said?”

“The cage?” Max says, just to watch the blush spread across Oscar’s face. God, it’s good, being the one in the know. His cock is so hard, and it’s not just from seeing Lando like this. “Yeah, ‘course. He wears it most of the time now, when we’re doing this. Helps him remember what he’s good for, doesn’t it, pal?” 

He addresses the last remark to Lando, who makes an indistinct sound in the back of his throat. Max smiles, raises his eyebrows at Oscar like they’re sharing a joke. What a slut, am I right?

“Babygirl strip,” Max says, and Lando moves to obey immediately, yanking his hoodie over his head. He’s told Max he doesn’t really need the uniform anymore, not now he’s so well trained, but Max likes it. “Slowly,” he says chidingly, when Lando grabs eagerly at the hem of his t-shirt. “Show yourself off for Oscar, come on.”

Oscar just about chokes at that, and Max can’t resist getting a hand on himself as Lando immediately course-corrects, turning to Oscar and pulling his t-shirt over his head teasingly slowly. Once it's off, he brushes over his nipples with the tips of his fingers, all wet mouth and lidded, blank eyes. 

He’s not wearing underwear under his jeans, and Oscar groans audibly when he sees the bubblegum pink of the cage around Lando’s soft cock. Lando doesn’t react, just carries on undressing himself, balancing carefully on one foot to peel his jeans off entirely. 

“No,” Oscar says suddenly, when Lando goes for his socks. “Leave them.” They’re white, pulled up to his calves, accentuating Lando’s smooth tanned skin. They do look good; Oscar’s got taste. 

“Good girl,” Max says, watching the pleased little shiver that ripples through Lando’s bared body. “Oscar thinks you look good. Show him the rest.” 

Without hesitation, Lando turns and steps his feet apart, bending down and spreading himself open so Oscar can see the pink furl of his asshole, waxed and still shiny with lube where he’s been wearing a plug all morning. 

“Oh my God,” Oscar says under his breath. 

Max’s own head is spinning, watching the two of them like this. He adjusts himself again. “Told you, mate.”

He hadn’t, not really. He’d texted back and forth with Oscar about it a bit – Lando hadn’t wanted to take part in the planning, save for messaging Oscar to confirm it wasn’t all some sort of elaborate prank for a particularly x-rated Quadrant video or whatever – but Max hadn’t really given him the full picture. How could he?

So he can forgive Oscar for looking a bit blindsided, now. He’s licking his lips, that unconscious tic Max has seen on the telly a thousand times over, rendered faintly sleazy now given Lando’s still stood in front of him with his legs spread and his arse on display. 

“I want–” Oscar says, trailing off awkwardly. “His mouth?”

He tips it up into a question at the end. Max gestures to Lando, still waiting patiently, giving no indication he can hear their discussion. “You’ll have to tell him, not me. He’ll stand there for hours otherwise. You remember the trigger phrase?” 

“God,” Oscar mutters again, like he really can’t believe what’s happening. He clears his throat. When he speaks, his voice is wobbly with nerves. “Lando. Erm – drop for cock.”

He stutters a bit as he says it. Instantly, with perfect grace, Lando turns to face him and drops to his knees. Eyes closed, mouth hanging open, tongue resting invitingly against his bottom lip. He waits like that, perfectly still, as Oscar fumbles his jeans open, more flustered than Max has ever seen him, and feeds his cock into Lando’s mouth. 

It’s hot, watching them, but more than that, Max feels proud. Lando’s sucking Oscar’s cock like he was made for it, nose brushing the trimmed hair on his lower belly, hands resting neatly on his thighs. Oscar’s staring down at him like he’s trying to commit the sight to memory, face flushed hectic red and his chest heaving. Lando’s making noises in the back of his throat as he sucks, eager little moans tucked in among the wet sounds of his mouth. He gags occasionally – Oscar’s not longer than Max, but he is thicker, and Lando's mouth is stretched wide around him – but he doesn’t stop the smooth movement of his head. He’s drooling, tears starting to trickle down his cheeks from the force of Oscar’s cock hitting the back of his throat.

“Careful,” Oscar gasps, hands hovering over Lando’s head as if he’s not sure whether to push him away and let him catch his breath.

“Leave him,” Max says sharply, and Oscar jumps like he’d forgotten Max was even there. “He’s fine.” 

He’ll be hoarse in all of his interviews tomorrow, but that’s all right. Something for Max to get himself off to in his hotel suite when he watches the press conference.

Oscar’s hands move to Lando’s hair, and for a moment Max thinks he’s going to pull Lando away anyway, but he doesn’t. Cradling Lando’s skull, he moves Lando’s head, adjusting the rhythm to something slower and deeper but no less difficult for Lando to take.

Max shoves his hand inside his joggers and watches, barely breathing, as Oscar slowly fucks Lando's mouth. Slow like he's savouring it, slow like he's worried he might never get to see Lando like this again.

Oscar doesn’t give much warning when he comes. His movements get a little faster, a little sloppier, the filthy sounds of Lando’s spit-slick mouth getting correspondingly louder. Otherwise, Max only realises Oscar's coming when his movements jerk to a sudden taut halt. Oscar buckles over as he holds Lando in place. He doesn’t moan or swear or anytthing, just exhales in sharp staccato gasps, fingers rubbing convulsively through Lando’s hair. 

It takes him a minute to straighten up again, carefully unwinding himself from Lando and easing him back with the hand still buried in his damp curls. Lando’s eyes stay closed, his mouth and chin wet with saliva and whatever remnants of Oscar’s come he hadn’t managed to swallow down. Even now, it’s still intoxicating for Max to see him like this, barely cognisant of what a mess he’s in. Even more so to see how much Oscar's enjoying it.

Oscar lets out a shuddering breath, tucking himself back into his boxers with one hand. He’s still petting absently at Lando’s hair, and Max thinks it’s sweet for a moment, until Oscar looks up at him, eyes narrowed in thought.

“Will he stay like this until we tell him to stop?” he says, giving Lando’s head a gentle shake.

Lando goes with the motion easily. Eyes still closed, mouth still open. His nipples are drawn up tight and peaked, betraying his unconscious pleasure even though the pink cage nestled between his thighs stops any kind of physical arousal.

“Yeah,” Max says, and takes his sticky hand out of his boxers. “For another hour or so, at least."

Oscar uses the hand he’s got in Lando’s hair to tip his head up, angled towards Max. He beckons with the other hand, and Max realises that he’s going to keep hold of Lando as he sucks Max’s cock, a pliant little puppet. Controlled by Oscar, for Max's pleasure.

“Well, then,” Oscar says, and smiles, flushed with fresh bravado. “Your turn.”

[geraskierfanficprompts]

Prompt 118

Inspired by this post I saw! <3 Geralt likes his bard. Roach likes her bard. Geralt and Roach like their bard. So Geralt and Roach have been working together on tricks and commands meant specifically for Jaskier. Roach knows how to kneel for Jaskier to mount her, and she also knows how to boost him up if he's in a hurry. She now knows the command "Get Jaskier away to safety!", though in order to save some face, Geralt made the command a certain click of his tongue, instead of the words that might reveal too much feelings. She knows how to hug a sad Jaskier if her witcher is incapacitated or away. She knows how to drag him to the bags full of food when he's been writing too long. She knows to bump her head into his, affectionately, when he stares at his reflection too long. She knows how to carefully move the lute out of harm's way. She knows how to pull on certain fabrics with the right leverage to not have them rip. She knows which flowers she shouldn't eat, for it'll make the bard happy when he sees them. He'll usually give them to her after he gushes over their beauty, anyway. Win/win for her. Everything is foolproof. That is, until Jaskier asks Geralt one day what one of her special tricks were for. Geralt had to stumble and fumble his way through an excuse. And then Jaskier asked again a few days later, this time about another trick. And then again. He's getting curiouser and curiouser, and Geralt has never been good at lying to their bard.

[defectivevillain]

old habits die bleeding

pairing: Michael Myers/Reader (can be platonic or romantic)

reader's race & gender are ambiguous; no pronouns or physical descriptors used.

summary: You’re kidnapped—and on the same night Michael Myers returns to terrorize Haddonfield. Just your luck, really.

word count: 2.7k | ao3 version

warnings: canon-typical violence, blood & injury; kidnapping, chloroform, smoking, burns, hospitals.

You’ve celebrated Halloween in Haddonfield for more than two decades. You’ve escaped Michael Myers a few times now. And you won’t let him drive you out of your home. This Halloween is no different, you tell yourself as you finish putting up the cheap decorations in your window. Trick-or-treating isn’t much of a thing in Haddonfield anymore, but occasionally a few brave (or just foolish) kids will stop by. Your heart always skips a beat whenever you look out your window, as you think back to that night years ago. 

It was your first Halloween in Haddonfield and, while you had been warned that the night often brought terror, you assumed it to be an exaggeration. You weren’t much of a party person (and you still aren’t), so you had settled in on your couch and spent the night watching television. 

At least, that was how things were supposed to go—until you felt a large hand close around your mouth and pull you up and over the couch. You fell to the floor, only to be pinned down with a knee to the chest and a hand on your throat. A man in a mask stood over you, taking the breath from your lungs. You tried to shove him off, but he was too strong. You kicked out and eventually managed to knee him in the gut, momentarily loosening his grip and providing you with an escape. From there, it was a series of increasingly close calls, until you finally managed to race out of your house, down the street, and out of sight. 

While that was your first encounter with Michael Myers, it wouldn’t be your last. The killer would come every year; and each time, your escape felt narrower and narrower… 

That brings you to tonight: Halloween. You’re still sitting on your couch, watching television as you normally would. This time, however, you’ve kept the lights on—and have monitored the shadows cast on the walls with vigilance. 

So, when a large hand covers your mouth, you’re ready to fight back. Except… it’s not just a hand. There’s a rag pressed into your face, forcing you to breathe in whatever drug is evidently laced through the fabric. You try to shove the person’s grip off, but your vision is spinning and your limbs don’t seem to be obeying your commands. You’re stumbling on the ground, desperately trying to keep your balance while you fight off your attacker. Their grip is persistent and you’re forced to take another deep breath, inhaling the mysterious substance once more. 

This doesn’t seem like something Michael Myers would do, is the last thought that runs through your mind before your vision quickly fades to black and you crumple to the ground.

You wake up to find yourself in a musty room with crumbling wallpaper. Your hands are tied behind your back and your legs are tied to the wooden chair you’re situated on. Your head is pounding and your ears are ringing as you try to get a better idea of your surroundings. Ultimately, there’s little else in the room save for you. You don’t see anything sharp that you could use to cut yourself free from the ropes binding you. 

You’re alone, by some miracle. Your head keeps dropping as you nod off, fighting off slumber. You can’t sleep here, no matter how much you may want to rest. You have to get out of here. You’re not sure what your kidnapper wants with you, and you don’t desire to find out. You grit your teeth and try to maneuver yourself so that you can reach the pocket of your pants. Smoking has been a bad habit of yours—one that you’ve been meaning to kick—but you’re extremely thankful you didn’t get around to it, since it prompted you to place a lighter in your back pocket. You manage to maneuver so that you’re holding the lighter in your bound hands. You flip it around with your pinky finger and manage to light it. 

Unfortunately, your escape method isn’t entirely painless—which you soon realize the hard way. You’re trying to burn the ropes, but you’re dealing some damage to the skin of your hands in the process. By the time you’ve successfully frayed the rope and pulled it off, your skin is rubbed raw and irritated from the lighter. 

Thankfully, now that your hands are free, you can simply untie the ropes around your ankles. Your hands are slightly shaking as you free your legs, but you still manage to set yourself free within a few moments. Immediately, you quietly step towards the doorway, pressing an ear up against the inside wall to listen for your captor. After several seconds pass in silence, you decide to risk it and step out of the room.

From there, you find yourself in a dark hallway—maybe a basement, of sorts? Your thoughts are confirmed when your eyes catch on a staircase in the corner. You slowly walk over towards the stairs, as quietly as you can muster. 

When you get to the top of the stairs, you’re foolishly deluded into thinking that you’ll get out of this unscathed. Then you take another step and a loud creak echoes throughout the space. Abandoning any hope for silence, you sprint towards the front door—surprised to find that you seem to be in a house of some sort. Your hands are fumbling for the first lock on the door—there are two—but just before you can slide it to the side, there’s a hand on your collar yanking you back into a hard chest. There’s a knife pressed to your throat and an unfamiliar voice in your ear. Instinctively, you pull at your captor’s arm in an attempt to create some distance between the knife and your throat. The knife is only pulled towards your throat tighter, until it’s drawing blood from your skin and a pained whimper from your lips. Just as the blade draws ever closer, you bring your knee up and slam your foot back into your captor—connecting with their ankle and successfully making them stumble long enough for you to twist out of their grip and run back towards the door. This time, you manage to slide the lock open, but there’s still the second lock lower on the door. You hear them get up and instinctively move to the right, just barely dodging their strike and sending them careening forward into the door. 

From there, you reach out and slam their head into the door again, before turning around and bolting towards the other side of the house—hoping there’s a door to the backyard. You hear the telltale shink of the knife getting pulled from the door and your heart drops to your stomach as you frantically look through an entirely unfamiliar house. You run through the kitchen, before doubling back to grab a sharp knife from the knife block. Your eyes then catch on a wooden door past the kitchen and you race over to it, flipping the lock and pushing it forward. But the door doesn’t open, no matter how hard you yank at it and beg for it to open. Suddenly you’re tugged back and slammed into the locked door. Your knife falls from your grasp. Blinking stars out of your eyes, you try to push your assailant away—but their grip is too strong and suddenly they’re jamming their knife into your abdomen before brutally ripping the weapon back out. You choke on a breath and slump forward, as blood drips down your chest and begins to splatter along the floor. You fall to your knees and slap a hand onto the wound, wheezing and fighting for breath. Your hands fall to the floor and your right hand falls right next to the knife you dropped. Through the blinding pain, you manage to subtly grab the knife and jam it into your captor’s crotch. They scream and you aim a bit higher, sinking it into their abdomen and shoving them away from you as they fall to the ground. You manage to push yourself into your feet and press a hand to the nearby wall to stabilize yourself as you look down at their body. They’re definitely unconscious, at the very least. That should give you enough time to make it outside and call for help. You stumble back through the house and towards the front door, unlocking the second lock and shoving it open. 

As you awkwardly shuffle across the front porch, you’re hit with a striking realization: you’re still on your street. In fact, you’re only a few houses down from your own house. The thought provokes a nearly infinite amount of dread within you, as you try to come to terms with the fact that there is yet another killer in Haddonfield. Eventually, you have to push the thought aside and focus on getting back home. You’re hobbling on uneven footing, your hand pressed against your side like a vice. Your breathing is ragged and loud in your ears; your entire chest is on fire. 

But the universe is smiling down on you—because you manage to make it back home. Your front door is unlocked and you’re quick to stumble inside, clumsily locking it behind you before moving towards your living room. Within a few steps, your knees crumple beneath you and you’re forced to crawl towards the sofa. What follows is an excruciating effort consisting of you pulling yourself up on the sofa and collapsing onto it with a pained hiss. Your vision hasn’t stopped spinning since you first entered your house. Worst of all, you can’t stop thinking about the possibility of the killer coming back for you—it’s very likely that you only incapacitated him. Despite your best efforts to remain awake and attempt to move, your vision is quickly giving way to an overwhelming, suffocating darkness.

You wake a few hours later to a knife pressed against your throat and a dark silhouette looming over you. You instinctively want to push yourself up to a sitting position, but the blade is pressed into your skin hard enough to draw blood and you’re forced to abandon the effort. It’s then that your vision clears to reveal just who is standing over you and, despite the sheer terror running through your veins, a laugh wrenches its way from your lips. 

“Michael,” you say, greeting the killer who has made a habit of visiting you every Halloween. This year is no different, it seems. He presses the knife against your throat pointedly, as if waiting for you to push it away. You can barely manage a pathetic attempt at shoving the blade away and you eventually settle for staring at him. 

(Michael stares back at you. There’s blood splattered across your hand, he realizes, and the skin is raw from what he can only assume to be burns. Not to mention, there’s a seemingly unending crimson stain marring your shirt. Something unfamiliar churns in his stomach, combined with that ever familiar rage that boils his blood.) 

You watch as Michael tilts his head to the side, before removing the blade from your neck. You blink at him in disbelief, and stare as he lifts his hand to tap his wrist impatiently. You’re late, he motions. 

For a moment, all you can do is stare in confusion. Then you realize he must be referring to this unfortunate tradition between the two of you: the cat-and-mouse chase that ensues every Halloween night, without fail. “...I was kind of preoccupied,” you mutter, motioning down to the wound on your abdomen that hasn’t stopped burning and stinging since you woke. 

Michael follows your gesture and stares down at the wound for longer than you’re comfortable with. Before you can ask him what the hell he’s doing, Michael places a hand on your wound and pushes. You can’t stop the pained outburst that leaves your lips, especially when he twists his hand and digs his knuckles into the tissue. Your vision is swirling again and you desperately try to push him away, but he’s too strong. Just when you’re on the brink of passing out, Michael releases his grip and leans back. You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding, as your vision slowly recovers. The pain is even worse now. You’re shivering and shaking, your teeth chattering and sending reverberations through your ears and into your very skull. 

Perhaps worst of all, you think you might understand what Michael was trying to say just now. If you die, it will be by my hand—and no one else’s. He’s prideful in that regard. He doesn’t need to capitalize on someone else’s work, or take advantage of your already wounded state. A shiver rolls down your spine as you come to the conclusion that he enjoys the chase—enjoys the hunt. 

Michael is still staring down at you. You almost wish he wasn’t wearing his mask, so that you could read his expression. Still, there’s an aura of annoyance and irritation emanating from his form—and it’s only further exacerbated by the tight draw of his shoulders and the way he stares at you impatiently. 

“Ruined your night, huh?” you ask wearily. Honestly, you’re not sure where you’re getting this sudden surge of confidence—you think it must be the adrenaline. Surely, if you live to see tomorrow, you’ll wake up feeling immense regret. 

Michael is infuriatingly silent, as always. You didn’t expect him to respond, though. You’ve managed one-sided conversations with him before—even under much more desperate circumstances. This one is no different, save for the excruciating pain that binds you to your sofa and forces the most blunt and honest of words to leave your lips. 

“Same time next year?” you choke out sarcastically. You swear you see the mask contort, as if Michael’s brows are furrowing, but you dismiss it as a figment of your imagination. 

You’re not deluded enough to feel safe right now—with a killer towering over you—but exhaustion tugs at your core as your adrenaline quickly crashes. Your eyelids are stinging as you fight off sleep. Michael’s looming over you and you’re sure you’ve never been in a more unsafe situation��wounded and defenseless in front of him. But your fatigue doesn’t care, and your eyes are slipping shut within moments. 

For a while, there is nothing but darkness. Then, your eyelids twitch as a blade is traced along your cheekbone, dipping under your chin and nicking the skin underneath. You flinch and try to open your eyes, but your eyelids are sealed shut and you’re forced to remain entirely compliant and complacent. Your heart is thudding quietly in your chest. 

Thankfully, Michael must lose interest, because that’s the last sensation you register before falling into a deep and unburdened sleep. 

To your surprise, you don’t wake up in a giant pool of your own blood and a ruined sofa. Instead, you wake to bright fluorescent walls and unassuming white walls. Someone must’ve taken you to the hospital. Within a few minutes of your awakening, a nurse arrives and fills you in—apparently, one of your neighbors had called the police after seeing your front door ajar and finding you passed out on the couch with a bleeding wound. You take a deep breath and try to relax, but all you can think about is Michael. 

Why the hell didn’t he kill you? He had ample opportunity. Even if he is prideful, like you were first thinking, wouldn’t his bloodlust outweigh any egotism? You were entirely vulnerable in front of him—he could have flayed you alive and you wouldn’t have been able to resist or struggle. It would’ve been over in a split second. Michael could’ve been in and out of your home within a few minutes. 

You take a deep breath and try to clear your thoughts of the killer. The effort is, understandably, a lot more difficult than you think it will be—especially when you turn on the small television in your room to find a murder being broadcast on the news. The victim, you soon learn, was the same person who kidnapped you. You’re immediately torn between guilt, fear, and a shameful gratitude. They will never bother you again. 

As for Michael Myers, however… Let’s just say you’re already thinking about how to survive Halloween next year.

thanks for reading! <3

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[soelstress]

Ambivalent Research

Pairing: Ransom Drysdale x female!reader

Summary: Working with Ransom was never easy, so why did you think a joint research trip would be any different?

Word count: 3.5k

Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI , nsfw , sex/smut, p in v sex , unprotected sex , oral sex (f receiving) , vaginal fingering , some language

A/N 1 - This is my first joint submission for @steviebbboi 200 Followers Celebration Writing Challenge and @yenzys-lucky-charm & @sweater-daddiesdumbdork Horny Hoes Hootenanny. Sorry it's last minute!

A/N 2 - Prompts - - Enemies to lovers - "Slower, baby, I'm not going anywhere" - "We're both adults, we can share a bed for one night" - "Are you fucking kidding me?" - Withholding - getting scared during a horror movie

As a bonus, I asked Yenzy for two spins on the trick-or-treat wheel of potential doom... and for this one I chose the pillow fight!

A/N 3 - Do not Steal, Copy or Plagiarize any part of my work - GIF taken from google but page was listed for @writemarvelousthings

A/N 4 - Please let me know if I've missed a warning, knowing me it's more than likely. Hope you all enjoy ☺️

“Are you fucking kidding me?” The annoyed shout caused silence to fall as you stepped into the rustic lobby of the lodge. Optimistically, you had hoped that this trip would go smoothly… but of course nothing ever went to plan when he was involved, you thought with a disappointed sigh. “You’re fucking with me, right?” As you walked towards the check-in desk, you saw a staff member trying to apologize profusely to the person causing the ruckus. Any other person would probably see an exquisitely dressed, well groomed handsome man. All you saw was your boss Harlan Thrombey’s grandson, your fellow researcher and the biggest pain in your ass. 

Don’t-call-me-Hugh ‘Ransom’ Drysdale. When Harlan had said that Ransom would be working with you to research for Harlan’s next few mystery novels, you were filled with dread. From information you’d gleaned, Ransom was considered to be the black sheep of the family, a trust fund prick as they so lovingly called him. When asked, Harlan admitted that Ransom never had a job, only having worked as his research assistant for a summer. It was agreed between you and Harlan that you would have seniority, something you were grateful for as Ransom had been a reluctant participant to start, doing minimal work except for when he took every opportunity to cause trouble for you. He was an arrogant, self important conceited jerk who you wanted to kill… until things reached a peak one day. When Ransom had complained once again about working, you had lost all patience and your filter. “Fine! If you’re happy to keep sponging off your grandfather’s legacy and just remain a Drysdale in the self imposed so-called shadow of your parents rather than make something of yourself by your own efforts, then stop wasting my time and go!” From that day, Ransom had committed to contributing as much as possible. His work ethic might have improved… but he still annoyed you whenever the chance arose.

You subtly jabbed his side upon reaching the desk which caused his glare to focus on you. “Oops! Excuse me, Mr Drysdale. What seems to be the problem?” You offered your name to the staff member, the name you saw from his tag was Paul, who quickly found yours and Ransom’s booking were for the same company.

Another member of staff appeared behind Paul, radiating authority and a zero tolerance for nonsense attitude. Now this was someone who commanded respect, unlike the entitled idiot next to you whose gaze would have you murdered a million times over if looks could kill. “As my colleague Paul already explained to Mr Drysdale, unfortunately the pipes in his suite have burst, rendering the room unusable. Due to other bookings and events being reserved prior to yours, there are no other rooms available for tonight. We have called other hotels in the area, and found another suite at - “

”At a hotel 45 minutes away” Ransom interrupted. “Look, I need to be here for work. I don’t think you realize how important this could be for you, so why don’t you - “

”Share my suite” Three gazes focused on you though your attention was on the one that could potentially - and almost certainly would - make things more difficult. “We can share a room for a night”. Part of your brain screamed in horror and rebellion at the thought of sharing a room with him, but the other part scrambled to minimize the damage the arrogant asshole could cause with his big mouth and even bigger ego. Ransom opened his mouth to argue but when you jabbed him again and raised a brow, he knew to shut up. Or rather his version of shutting up which was to grumble and whine as he stomped over to the elevators. Rolling your eyes, you offered a small smile to the two staff members. “I’m so sorry about him, he shouldn't have spoken to you that way”.

Paul smiled at you gratefully, the weight of the world seemed to have dropped from his shoulders. “We have been trained to deal with such situations ma’am”.

You shook your head. “Just because a customer is paying for a service doesn’t give them the right to speak to you like that. Again, I’m very sorry and will be mentioning how professionally you handled this to my boss”.

”Thank you ma’am. Of course the suite will be refunded and due to the inconvenience, dinner is complimentary”. You thanked them profusely and headed to the elevator where Ransom fidgeted impatiently.

“So when should I get that refund?” Ransom huffed, pushing the call button.

You eyed him incredulously, somehow still amazed by his ego. ”You realise that Harlan will receive the refund, seeing as he paid?” Before you both stepped into the elevator, you pulled out your phone to call your boss. Upon hearing his greeting, a smile graced your lips. “Hello Harlan”

”Ah good afternoon dear girl”. You could hear the formality being replaced with fondness, a rare occurrence from what you had observed of Harlan. “I trust you and my grandson arrived safely at the lodge?” 

“Yes, though there is a slight change in plans”. Briefly, you informed him about the room being refunded and Ransom sharing a room with you instead of having to leave the area.

“Oh dear. I appreciate you being so accommodating, especially as I had wanted you both to specifically research the lodge and surrounding neighborhood for me. I must apologize in advance for my grandsons behaviour, as I know he seems to enjoy unnecessarily needling you”

”As long as I won’t be held accountable for any retaliation for the duration of this trip, short of bodily harm or murder”. You grinned as Harlan chuckled and Ransom gave you the side eye. You bid Harlan a good evening, ending the call.

”Retaliation huh? Now why would my dear Grandfather agree to that?” Ransom leaned back against the elevator wall. Your irritation flared at his casual arrogance. 

“Because he knows you ‘enjoy unnecessarily needling’ me Drysdale, and yes those were his exact words”. Inhaling deeply, you stood straight and held your ground. “Being a researcher is challenging enough, but to work for one as renowned as Harlan Thrombey is the chance of a lifetime and I’d be a fool to let anything ruin the opportunity. Which is what I told him when I applied for the role. After my interview and a few months of working for him, he said that he appreciated my honesty and work ethic, but also recognised I have no patience for drama or bullshit - a good deal of which is found within his own family, much to his disappointment”. Every word you spoke was true, Harlan had said all of this to you. Though you had overheard the specifics about his family while he was speaking to his caregiver Marta but you had met all of them in the few years you worked for Harlan. 

A dark brown arched. “Oh? And just what drama are you referring to?” With a ding, the elevator doors opened to your floor and Ransom hesitated before gesturing for you to move first. Finding your door a few strides down the corridor, you stopped and pulled the key card from your pocket. Opening the door, you waved for Ransom to precede you. 

”Take your pick, from your parents to your Uncle Walt or Aunt Joni. They all have their own drama. Though I wonder about how Harlan would react to hearing how much damage his eldest grandson could have caused by opening his big mouth without thinking. Newsflash Drysdale - any dramas linked to Harlan Thrombey or Blood Like Wine would be damaging. Those are the two names paying your income… and the only names worth mentioning. I’ve been doing this job for some time, so I’ll make it easy for you - despite what you, your mother or father may say no one has ever heard the name Drysdale with recognition outside of your social circle”.

Ransom's face darkened at the mention of his immediate family. “Hey, don’t compare me to those two. I asked Grandfather to show me the ropes for this business, so I could decide if it was something I wanted to do myself. But if by some small chance Grandfather leaves the company to me and not that idiot Walt, I’ve no intention to say that I’ve done my own work from the ground up. I’d say it’s Grandfathers and I’m just continuing his legacy”. A chuckle from you had him frowning. “What?”

”I think hell just froze over because I agree with you”. And you did. It irritated you that Linda, Ransom’s mother and Harlan’s eldest child, claimed to have built her business from the ground up by herself when in actuality she had used Harlan's money. And her husband wasn’t much better, you saw Richard’s eyes wander when you visited Harlan at his estate. All of the family repulsed you, trying to constantly outdo one another whilst trying to impress Harlan. But hearing Ransom say that he would honour and continue Harlan’s legacy rather than try to claim it for his own softened you slightly. 

Ransom had walked into the main area with a small seating area against the wall but a large king size bed dominated the space, facing beautiful views outside the windows. “You gotta be shitting me” he groaned, almost as if in pain.

When you saw the size of the couch, you knew that neither of you would be sleeping on it. It was soft and squashy looking, but more for sitting on than sleeping. Which really left you with one option. “For Gods’ sake. We’re both adults, we can share a bed for one night”. He glanced at you with an indecipherable look before sighing and stalking off to the bathroom and closing the door. Unsure whether to check on him after the look in his deep blue eyes, you hesitated. Oh yes, along with your annoyance of him came the reality that he really was a handsome bastard. Not that you’d ever tell him that. Dark hair swept off an angular face with soft pink lips and eyes to drown in, he really had won the genetic lottery. But his appearance aside, you had shared a few soft moments with him after the family gatherings he attended. Sometimes you would gently rub his back or pat his shoulder to ease the tension and resentment radiating off him. There were moments that you wanted to verbally comfort or reassure him, but after the brief physical contact he would pull away and annoy you before walking away. Part of you knew it was a defence mechanism, lashing out because it was all he knew. This time you decided to give him space.  

After eating dinner and making a plan to explore the area the next day, you changed into your pajamas - a matching set of cotton shorts and tank top -  and sat to watch a horror movie that you discovered had used the lodge you were currently staying at as a filming location. Harlan knew you were thorough in your research, so encouraged you to investigate any adaptations made to avoid plagiarism. You hated horror movies, much preferring a thriller or a mystery. But this was your job. As you sat watching, you hugged your pillow to your chest. Your heart began to pound watching the lead female edge into the dark room - 

and jumped as something grabbed you. Reacting on instinct, you swung out with your pillow and walloped whatever it was that had grabbed you. Surprised and amused blue eyes met yours. “Seriously? You hit me… with a pillow?”

Embarrassment was chased away by irritation. “Seriously” you mimicked his voice with a scowl. “You decided to scare me while watching a horror movie? Real mature, Drysdale”. 

“Pot, meet kettle” he huffed, grabbing his pillow and whacking you back.

It might have been immature, childish, just downright idiotic… but this man existed just to make your life a living hell. And you’d had reassurances from Harlan that any retribution this weekend would not be held accountable, So you decided the hell with it. And whacked him repeatedly with your pillow. Ransom was caught off guard for a moment before retaliating, making every effort to hit you with his pillow. At one point, you had stolen Ransom's pillow and struggled to keep hold of yours, Ransom in close proximity. Both your eyes locked as you panted, straining to win the pillow. 

The next moment the pillow was thrown aside and you were under Ransom, grabbing desperately at his hair, his sweater - anything to bring him closer. Your mouths clashed in a heated battle for dominance, filled with teeth and tongue. One arm propped his torso up to keep his weight off you while the other slid around your waist and pulled you against him. 

Once again your brain screamed at you - why the hell were you kissing Ransom Drysdale? More importantly, why the hell were you enjoying it so much? But your heart pounded loudly, drowning out your screaming thoughts and focusing on Ransom - how good his lips felt against yours, how smooth his hands felt gliding over your flesh, how he ground against you as desperately as you were to him. “Too many goddamn clothes” he hissed, yanking your top over your head and immediately latched his lips onto a nipple, fingers tweaking the other. Your back arched, pushing yourself closer to him. Desperate to feel his skin on yours you tugged at his sweater before he pulled back with a curse, almost ripping it off and tossing it aside before plunging his mouth to yours. His denim clad crotch ground against you, causing you to moan at the feel of his erection. Ransom pulled your shorts off, exposing you to him. His finger drifted up your thighs and across your folds before slowly sinking into your heat. He groaned against your lips, pushing in a few times before adding a second finger and curling them against your inner wall. 

His fingers worked a steady rhythm inside you as his palm rubbed against your clit. You moaned when a wave of pressure began to slowly build, rising to crest through you… and you whimpered when his hand stopped moving altogether. Desperate for friction you tried to grind your hips against his hand but he pulled it away, raising his head to look at his wet fingers. “Hmm.. I think you could be a little wetter, dear girl” he crooned, lightly mocking Harlan's usual endearment. When a snarl started to leave your throat, his fingers returned to the previous rhythm and any fight left you. His lips glided from one breast to the other, his tongue teasing and tasting your skin in time with his digits. The wave of pleasure built again, threatening to consume you and just as you tasted the first hint of release Ransom stopped again. You heard a soft chuckle which only fueled your frustration at being denied.

”Drysdale. So help me, if you don’t make me cum right now-” a soft brush over your clit briefly interrupted your threat. “I know a half a dozen ways to end you without weapons or toxins” your growl turned into a breathless whimper when he blew softly onto your pulsing heat. Looking down, you could see him watching you inches from where you needed him.

”Is one of those ways smothering me with this wet cunt?” Those blue eyes sparkled with wicked sensuality. “Then end me right now, baby”. Suddenly he licked firmly into your dripping folds, groaning deeply as the first drop hit his tongue which had you squirming from the vibrations. “Goddamn… you taste so fine, kitten”. He lapped away, humming as you began to grind against his face. The tension from your two prior denials built with a vengeance and in your desire, you gripped his hair and pulled him closer. His nose brushed against your clit and you cried out which he answered with a pleased hum as he firmly suckled on your clit.

”Fuck!” Pleasure coursed from head to toe, your mind solely focused on prolonging the feeling as long as possible. Once the tremors had stopped, you laid for a moment to gather your thoughts. Glancing to the side you saw Ransom facing you, laying on his back with his hands behind his head and that goddamn smug-sonofabitch-smirk etched on his face, lips glistening from your juices. 

Suddenly filled with an urge to wipe the smirk off his face you moved to pull his jeans and boxers down, watching as his cock was freed. God, no wonder he walked around with that attitude. He was big, and for a moment you wondered how the hell it was meant to fit in you but you didn’t want to say it aloud and give him yet another ego boost. Scrambling to straddle him, you squirmed as his flesh rubbed between your folds. “Woah… slower, baby, I’m not going anywhere” Ransom chuckled which turned into a gasp when you squeezed him with your hands. Guiding his tip, you both moaned when it rubbed over your clit. Biting your lip you began to sink onto him. “Shit” he hissed, hands moving to grip your hips and control your descent. Moaning from the stretch you wriggled on him, unable to sit comfortably on his thighs. Cursing, he gently pushed you to lean back and you slid flush against him, the movement causing his cock to rub deeply within you. At your whimper, his eyes flashed to you. “You ok?”

Grinding against him, a small keen echoed through the room. “Feels so good… fuck… you’re so big”. 

Hearing your voice crack on the last word, Ransom began to roll his hips watching as you lost yourself to pleasure. Head tipped back, chest heaving and hands grasping for something. Ransom bucked up into you and then groaned when your hands dug into his flesh. ”Oh… my kitten has claws” he whispered, relishing the sight of the red marks. Feeling you clench around him Ransom continued to buck into you, his hands gripping your hips. ”Fuck yes… you want my cum kitten? Gonna cream this sweet little pussy”. You moaned loudly at his words, his hands guiding you through deep strokes as your walls sucked at his throbbing cock insistently. Your body began to tremble with that oh-so-familiar heat and you clenched tightly around Ransom, suddenly terrified he was going to edge you again. “Not gonna stop, baby” he murmured, gasping as your body shook with pleasure. “That’s it kitten, squeeze me. I’m gonna cum so hard for you”. Suddenly he tugged you down to him for a deep kiss, groaning against your lips as he came deep within you.

Panting, you rested against Ransom’s chest and heard the gentle lub-dub of his heart. His fingers brushed cautiously against your cheek, cupping your face when you pushed further into his touch. He tensed and you worried that he was going to revert to his pattern of lashing out. You couldn’t handle that, not after this. You cared about him, somehow falling for him along the way despite the antagonism between you. “Please”. He looked down at you, worry lining his face. “Please don’t pull away, Ransom”. 

Shaking his head, Ransom held you close. “I’m sorry baby, for being an asshole and making things difficult for you. Honestly, I just wanted you to notice me. But I’ve wanted more since you basically told me to grow some balls and make something of myself. You’re the first person apart from Grandfather to see something in me”. Ransom sighed heavily. “I’m a mess, kitten. Fuck, you’re more than familiar with the shit show that is my so-called family”. Your heart ached at the bitterness lacing his voice and moved your hand to rest on his chest. “I don’t know how to do this” he gestured between you before capturing your hand with his and pressing his lips to your palm. “But I want to try. For you. With you. I’m probably going to upset you and definitely annoy you… but I want to try and make you happy”.

“Like our research”. He cocked his head at your answer. “Research means that you don’t know, but are willing to find out”. At your soft giggle, his blue eyes sparkled. “Together. We’ll do it together”.

[ssentimentals]

Hi, I love your writing! I was wondering if I could request hurt prompts #22 and #23 with Vernon please? Thank you💜

hi, angel! ahhh, thank you for your kind words and thank you for requesting! 💜 hopefully you'll like it!

hurt prompt: 'why are you being like this?'. 'don't shut me out.'

bad habits die hard. you know vernon is not him, you know that there will be no guilt-tripping or gaslightning in this relationship. you know logically that vernon is not lying, not cheating. your brain fully grasps those facts but bad habits die hard. and that's why you are here, rushing from the training back home, hoping to escape your boyfriend. only luck is never on your side and vernon awaits for you at the gates, looking rather calm despite everything.

'ignoring me is not a solution,' he says in a flat tone, when you approach. 'trying to hide from me is not one either.'

'why don't you understand all the signs of me not wanting to talk to you right now?' you snap, instantly regretting it but not being able to stop. 'do i have to say it out loud for it to be clear?'

'yes, actually.' vernon steps closer and from the way he's clenching his fists, you can tell how mad he actually is beneath that calm facade. 'i'm not a mind reader.'

you know that you're not being fair to him. you know how lucky you are to have a boyfriend for who clear communication is the only kind of communication, who wouldn't even think of ignoring or giving silent treatment. you know all of that and yet - bad habits die hard. without saying a thing, you turn to leave when he grabs your bag, making you stop. 'why are you being like this?' vernon questions.

and it's a fair question. your eyes sting with unshed tears, because he is so good and you're being so, so bad to him right now, but your heart just can't, can't understand that it's safe now. it's safe with vernon and your mind is just playing tricks with you. 'we will talk later,' you manage to grit out, not turning around.

'don't shut me out.'

it's not a plea exactly and it's not a command. it's just vernon being his disarmingly honest self, asking from you such a fair thing. how he is not giving up on you is the main question in your mind. you can't even face him because you're too ashamed, because you don't deserve him. vernon is still holding on the strap of your bag and even that is considerate, you know he's doing it cause touching you in this state will not end well. and you can easily pull your bag and march away, which is exactly what you do. he calls your name once, twice - but doesn't run to you, doesn't try to talk again. and you know that this is done out of consideration too, because he knows you need your space now, but part of your brain is fully convinced it means he's giving up on you. maybe this is his final straw. and even despite these thoughts, you still stubbornly run away with vision blurry from the tears, because - yes, you guessed it. bad habits die hard.

a/n: request your own here! <3 - nini