#i refuse to use a normal metaphor

[emptyjunior]

does the omegaverse community even know about espers and guides. Has that hit yet or do we have to wait another few years

[dogin8]

it's not even that "sometimes the curtains aren't just blue, sometimes they represent something" it's that "the curtains are never just blue"

[yougavememyopia]

Here's the result from the poll! Sorry, it took long. I lost my progress and had to write it over T-T. Longer than usual to make it up to my lovely peeps. Anyway, here is the confident, popular yandere who becomes a desperate pathetic mess for you.

Popular yandere, who was never alone. Circled with adored gazes and loud chatters, people gathered around him like he was some kind of celebrity. His overstretched smile full of fake glee. Crinkled eyes masking a hollow emptiness. No one would care enough to truly look at him, all too busy talking nineteen to the dozen.

It was so easy to predict them. The mundane topics boring him to death. Nothing exciting ever happened. Gritting his teeth, he endured their ramblings. Endured their dullness. Their stupid problems.

Taps of his pencil slapped the wooden desk rapidly. A practiced, charming grin when he greeted you— his new project partner. The invisible loser at the background whose face he rather recognized.

"Hey there, guess we're partners, huh? What a total unplanned coincidence! Uhh, anyway, you can pick the topic. Nono, please, go ahead. I'll just follow your lead."

His crew strolled passed you in the fields. Always sinked down on the grass with your back against the concrete wall. Blue light reflected on your face, nose buried deep in your phone.

Your lack of a life amused him. Fascinated at how isolated you were, and yet you were beaming. Giggling at your screen while your posture got worse. Not seeming a bit sad about being alone or wasting your time playing on a machine.

Simple enquiring quickly led to obsessive stalking. Justified by stating how he was merely observing you. Interested in your name and your hobbies, what you ate for the day, where you walked when you had no school, how the interior of your home looked like. A bit of curiosity, that was all!

The school project was the key to getting closer to you. Instant refusal to every person coming his way, sweet talking them into grouping together by pointing out their strengths. No objections were made. His judgment very well-trusted. Now you had the idolized annoyance as your group member, exactly like he planned.

FINALLY, he could talk to the nobody persistently invading his mind. The endless thoughts of you giving him heartache. He couldn't get his beauty sleep at night, and when he did, the dreams were all about you. He wasn't normally the type to approach people, not like he had the time to. Every waking moment of his day was stuffed with zealous yet shallow admirers. Everyone loved him. Gawking at his good looks, adoring his style, praising his intelligence.

You didn't even bat an eye.

He was nonexistent to you. Eyes boring into indifference. Frustrated, at how you treated him like he was someone insignificant. People already began to question his strange, out of the blue behaviour. How he stared at the wall without blinking. You were getting the best of him— he couldn't keep his mask on, uncontrollably snapping at people, apologizing as if he was having a bad day. Every day was a bad day. A torturous wait for you to just look his way.

If you didn't notice him anytime soon, he was going to do something crazy.

Thanks to the project, you finally spoke to him. Irritated, sure. But you saw him, a dopey grin on his face when you repeated back his name. Even getting away with patting your shoulder. He greeted you in the hallways the day after, approached you during lunch the next week, and then started to text you like crazy the following month. No idea how clingy he was acting until you pointed it out. Falling more in love with your weirdness and hidden personality.

You acted uncertain towards him. Hesitant that this was a prank. Afraid that you'd become a laughing stock if this progressed any further. So you built a metaphorical wall between you.

Questions after questions overwhelmingly flooded his brain. Your behaviour much different than the way he was used to being treated. Sarcastic remarks and harsh dismissals hurt his poor, sad heart.

He started to crave even the slightest approval from those around him— what did they think of his carefully picked outfit? Or his light makeup and shiny hair? He needed you to drool over him like the rest of the school did, yet you still didn't trust him. Accusing him of being fake, when all he wanted was to befriend you.

"B-but I swear, I genuinely want to be your friend. Please, listen. I can be myself around you. I don't have to be perfect, y'know? I thought you'd understand..."

As you grew more doubtful of his intentions, he became more hopeless. Desperate to change your mind while fighting the insecurity that loomed over him.

You pushed him to completely give in to the urge to follow you home and watch over you from a distance. He'd ask his many connections to keep an idea on you when he couldn't, but since their questions and teasing and judgement would get on his nerves, he settled for a tracking device instead. The digital dot always beeping in the same, familiar spots on the map.

His mind jumbled into a chaotic mess. Your dislike for him beyond his comprehension. All he ever did was be nice, so why did you not give him the time of day? Gifts nor compliments, nothing was good enough for you. He had never did anything like this before. Chase after someone. Love, actually love someone.

For your attention, he was willing to do whatever.He longed to be useful to you. Be at your beck and call at any time like a loyal dog. Everything from your terrible posture to your poor diet to your sleep schedule, he could take care of it. He could take care of you.

In the end, he had no patience, he couldn't stand the wait— he had to ask you out. A spontaneous minute that he wished he could take back. Stutters left his lips while he tried to make the date sound super romantic. Roses, candle lit dinner, moonlight. A perfected plan delivered with anxious jitter. Red face burning hotter than glowing coals and big, round eyes awaited the response.

"Eh... no thanks."

His eyes twitched. You were a loser! A common known label that he hated to use. But how could you turn down the first guy who pursued you? Choosing fictional anime crushes over a live flawless boy pleading for a date. How long were you going to stay in your lonely shell as a kissless virgin?

His determination didn't waver. He was willing to do anything to win you over. Countless attempts turned down due to excuses. Weeks after weeks of him chasing after you. You were driving him insane. Like you were doing this on purpose. "No?!? W-Wha... Why not? You don't want to go outside, you don't want to come to my place, why... Why can't I come to yours? I-I don't care if it's messy or if it s-smells. I actually love it. Um, I just need a chance, please. I need to prove to you that my love is real."

How did he end up being the one begging at your feet? Fingers clenching around your calves, while he looked up with a shameful blush on his face. Embarrassing himself in front of everyone he knew. Their gasps and murmurs ringing through his ears. Humiliation turning his body weak. Hot unwanted tears flooding his vision. He didn't care— he couldn't take the rejection anymore.

"Please believe me, please. It hurts so bad. Ah, I can't breathe. I love you so much. Pleasepleaseplease don't push me away. Don't cast me aside. I want to be with you. I want to be with you..."

He could barely make out your face with the fat tears rolling down his cheeks. His forehead rested on your knee, his head down as if waiting a death sentence. It was getting more awkward the longer he stayed on his knees. Yet he stayed glued to the harsh, cold floor. He'd never felt emotions to this level of intensity before you came. The hurt tightening his chest. A vice grip clamping down to crush his lungs.

Rubbing the back of your neck, you sighed. Feeling bad about the dishevelled flawed mess he turned into. Sweat worked up on your skin from the many eyes staring at the scene.

"You won't stop until I say yes, huh? I guess you proved you were telling the truth. So, fine. Let's get going now... You brought quite the audience here."

"..." His head remained stuck against your knees. Hands shaking against your legs while he exhaled. Not budging at all. The hushed whispers exchanged in the background making your blood boil. "What are you guys staring at? Scram! Go away! Leave him alone."

And they slowly faded one by one. You ran a hand through the soft, silky hair of the needy boy. More attentive to the mess on the floor to care about your surroundings anymore. Sitting on the floor beside him, you lazily wrapped his arms around your neck. A finger pressing his chin up so you could take a good look at him. He sniffed. Eyes all puffy and red. A deprived beg escaping his glossy lips.

"Please... I—"

You cut him off with a small smile. "You can hug me until you're satisfied. I'll be here."

Arms tangled tighter around you. Head tilted in, and you realized what this meant. A hint of anxiety bursted butterflies your stomach. But you went for it. Suppressing the flinch and moving in. Eyes half-lidded when velvety flesh met. Low hum buzzing from him. He pulled you closer and closer. Lips parted while you snaked your tongue into his mouth. A loud moan met your eardrums. Your little theory of him wanting you to take charge confirmed correct.

He melted like butter despite how you barely knew what you were doing. Uneven movements and unsure licks were just met with pathetic whimpers. Each stroke of saliva making him hot and dizzy. You had a way of making him unbelievably sensitive. No clue to why he felt like this was his first real kiss too. Never understanding the fuss about this pleasant feeling until now.

He pulled back for breathe much too soon, and panted against your face. "I'm so glad we found each other, darling. C-can I call you that? Since I'm your b-boyfriend now... Right?"

You didn't answer. He didn't give you a chance to. Another peck was placed on your lips. Desperate tongue reaching to wet your lips while you cupped his face. Hands grabbing your wrists to ensure you keep them there. Determination ran through him; He was going to plead and plead until you finally gave in.

[ihopeinevergetsoberr]

academic rivals request! viktor x fem!reader, nsfw

request: @4-leafed pls... if u have time pls write a viktor x reader that r both geniuses at the academy but very much toe the line of rivalry and sexual tension...i love competitive smart people that fall in love when the rivalry becomes respect ... and they FREAK IT!!! possibly in a lab ! up to you : 3c

i liked this request so much that i ended up writing a decent-ish one-shot….

update: i wrote a part 2 because it was highly requested! you can read it here :)

rating: explicit

word count: 3,5k

warnings: academic rivals. LOTS of dialogue and bickering. dubious science because i skipped it in school, had to do some basic chemistry revision to write this pornographic catastrophe, so please pat me on the back. rough sex? rough… foreplay, that’s for sure. dirty talk, if you can call bickering that. penetration. reader tries to slap viktor, spits in his mouth and he cums in his pants. normally, i only write vanilla stuff, so i have no idea how it turned out THIS kinky (at least for me okay). not proofread (yet). nsfw under the cut:

—

“How do you take your coffee?”

His voice betrays the feeble intention of civility, fusing that polite inquiry into a hiss—a phonetic torture you didn’t even know could occur before. So much for killing you with kindness. Outstaging quips by desecrating courtesies. 

“I don’t care,” you mutter on autopilot. Can’t let him in on any personal preferences, no matter how insignificant. “Just don’t put arsenic in it.” 

Viktor scoffs. Puts the kettle away and peers at you over his shoulder, all wretchedly complacent. 

“So the rest of the periodic table is welcome, I presume?” 

Viktor. The local Nikola Tesla knock-off. Never a moment of peace with him; and the fierce taste of competition grows coppery in your mouth whenever he’s in your sight—the most handsome trigger of your cheek-biting reflex.

His name is an insult on your lips and you want to taste it. Chew it, crush it with your teeth and spit right out, preferably aiming for those poignant eyes seeking you in every classroom—so eager to light up with objection the second your opinion differs from his. 

Always the first prick to disparage your input. A never-resting generator of all the meticulous ways to denounce your projects. 

“If I may.” 

Sickeningly polite, too. With that lithe finger pointing in the air— so irritatingly comical. He may not, but there isn’t a chance he’ll shut up, now, is there?

And so he’d clear his throat, straightening his tie in that ridiculously solemn fashion. As if stepping on a pedestal to deliver a life-changing speech—not some shallow nitpicking regarding your circuit breakers. All eyes on him while his kept staring only into your soul. Special treatment, if you will. 

You will not.

“Using magnetic frames is careless,” he’d state. With his hand imposingly pointing to the blueprint on your slide. “Copper coils may oxidize. Not to mention the overheating. I would use thermoplastics. They’re significantly more efficient. And heat-resistant.”

Oh please. Like someone here gives a shit about what you’d use. 

But you can’t say that. Not in a room full of professors. And, judging from the countless nods of approval, the shits were, in fact, being given. 

“Too risky,” you oppose. “Thermoplastics often degrade at high temperatures. Electric insulation is not worth the damage of releasing hydrocarbons. I assumed that you’d be aware of that, Viktor. But I suppose that was an omission on my part.” 

More nods of approval, now in your favour. Here it goes again—the ever-lasting spectacle of hatred. Elegant, when entertaining the audience. Anything but discreet, in private. A perpetually drawn game of chess. By repetition, not agreement. Both of you refuse to retreat until checkmate. 

Oh yes, the sentiment was mutual. You and Viktor were notorious for tearing at each other's throats. The things you’d sacrifice to make that more than a mere metaphor, though. To pull him by that neat tie to sweet asphyxiation and hear him rasp for mercy with eyes full of pathetic condemnation. And he dreamed of that, too. His cane was itching to give you a smack—to paint your behind a plum so deep you’ll have troubles sitting without wincing. When it came to making metaphors literal, he’d pick being the pain in your ass.

However, your mentors couldn’t care less about the rivalry. The Collegiate Inventors Competition was coming up. And who could possibly make better candidates than two greatest minds of the engineering department, with academic excellence so accurately neck and neck that both of your names now occupy the honorary first place in every ranking table? 

That’s how you ended up with your sentence—three weeks of after-hours cooperation in the lab with the incorrigible bastard himself, a quarter of which you’ve already wasted on pointless bickering. Well, not without achieving some common grounds. The choice of prototype landed on one of your personal ambitions—a wearable exoskeleton for post-surgery rehabilitation, with plenty of robotics involved. Endorsed by Viktor, for once. The greater good must have swallowed even his dispute. Off to a nice start, if someone were to ask you.

However, the first issues struck early: on the very stage of development. Viktor volunteered for modelling: meaning, the framework would be custom, to accommodate his spine specifically. An object lesson for everyone involved, it would seem—but only in an ideal world. Which, considering what you had at hand (acrimony, bitterness, an entire picky bit of gall), was filtered out by default.

Now, five gruesome days and who’s-even-counting-anymore restarts later, you’re nowhere near close to at least a draft, yet borderline keen on murdering each other. And you’re certain the latter is approaching. He did just contemplate putting arsenic in your cup, after all. 

Viktor stirs the coffee. Watches his reflection smudge in the dark, whirly water, shooting you an askance glance from beneath thick brows when you start stirring yours—the spoon clanking a tad too loud, as if you were doing it on purpose. Which, you undoubtedly were. 

“Stop that,” he groans, almost leaping out of his chair. His heavy, disturbed gaze meets your cheeky simper. “You don’t have to stir it so thoroughly. It’s not like you take it with sugar anyway.”

“Of course.” You shrug. “I don’t drink slop.”

“Oh, I figured. There’s nothing sweet about you, so why would your coffee be any different?”

“There’s plenty of sweetness about me. I simply don’t squander it on entitled pricks.” 

That finally grounds him. And you’re giddy for the way his sturdy hand grips the cup so hard that it almost shatters into his palm, knuckles growing pale enough to match the porcelain. More so when you take a loud, languid sip, feigning innocence. Fully wallowing in his darling, defeated speechlessness. 

“Excuse you,” he mutters. “Entitled?!” 

“So you agree with the ‘prick’ part?” 

“Yes, and I take great pride in it. You may mark me flustered.” 

“Don’t forget to bust in your pants.”

Viktor sneers: chapped lip twitching, scowl growing defensive. Lanky legs untangle as he rises to his feet, towering above you in an angry lean on his cane—long frame transforming into your personal, scrawny menace, pissed exhale sharp and nasal above your head. And you admit to looking small beneath him—all hunched shoulders, weak smile finally tumbling lopsided. 

“Don’t you dare call me entitled,” he demands—and means it. It’s palpable in the way he twists the handle of his cane, the squeaky sound violently scratching your brain. “I sweated blood to achieve my privileges in this establishment.”

You huff, rolling your eyes. “So did I, and yet you keep ordering me around as if I’m some braindead apprentice. We’re counterparts, Viktor. You’re supposed to be mindful of my perspective.”

“I never see you being mindful of mine,” he counters.

And, well. You can’t argue with that. 

Your coffee break continued in avoidant silence, but the ambience simply reeked of hostility—stifling enough to make you leave the lab feet first. The deadline’s chokehold besieging your neck wasn’t of any help, either—you had to submit the draft for approval by Sunday. And, so far, you haven’t even agreed on the design plan. 

You shoot Viktor a reluctant glance. Pensive, he sat slouched over his parchment, emitting pure peril. Like his shoulder blades might stab you if you attempt a single tap, belligerently peeking through the thin shirt. You tucked your lip under your teeth, chewing hard, tongue running over every small, neurotic wound inside your mouth. Fruitless negotiations held a special spot amongst your least favourite endeavours, but this conundrum called for a desperate measure.

“Viktor.” You winced at how chocked up it came out. He noticed that, too—because of course he did—turning in his chair to nod at you, ever so shit-eatingly. Lancing eyes scrutinised their way up to your face. What an affront. 

“Yes?” Always chiding in that condescending tone of his. Hissy ‘s’ echoed in the lab, gnawing at your nerves. 

“We have to submit something by the end of this week. Let’s at least decide on the blueprint.” 

“Fine.” He shrugged, returning to his sketch. “We’re going with mine.” 

“No!” You snapped. “We’re coming up with a new one. Together.” 

Viktor hummed in mock consideration. The strand of hair he’s been twirling unraveled, claiming more attention than you deemed him worthy of. Sighing, he lazily reached for your graph, frowning as his eyes started skimming over the scribbles. You made your way to the desk, claiming a spot behind his shoulder. That required a tacit truce. 

“You really want to wield… hydraulic actuators?” He winced, looking up at you. Had your breath hitching at that respectful attempt, the effort prominent in the very way he uttered those words—as if struggling to filter out swear ones. 

“Yes,” you mustered. “For high power.” 

“But they’re so heavy.”  

“Well, what would you use?” 

He chuckled—rich and malicious. Flipped the page and finally averted those curious eyes, arching a bushy brow. 

“I thought no one gave a… crap about what I’d use.” 

Oh, well. It felt nice while it lasted. 

“How did you even—“

“You ought to be more discreet with your vitriol,” he retorted. “I’ll let you know that I’m a decent lip-reader.” 

“Then don’t stare at my mouth next time. What would you use, Viktor?” 

Now that left you both startled. His fingers stilled above the diagram, flexing in disbelief, hollow cheeks hued a puzzled rouge as you almost chomped your tongue off, showing an embarrassed curse back into the depth of your throat. 

“Ahem. Electric motors,” he chanted, pretending to overlook the slip-up. And for once, you were grateful for his tact. 

“I see. Well, er… put that down, please.” 

He instantly complied, fetching a pen. Left you to reflect on your misery to the rhythmic sound of his scrawling, pressing a sweaty palm to his forehead. 

“Right.” He sighed. “What about the power supply?”

“Rechargeable batteries?” You suggested weakly. “Lithium-ion.”

“Very well. Frame?”

“Something durable. Titanium?” 

“Absolutely not,” he scoffed, pushing the notes away. “Why must you always insist on using the heaviest equipment?”

“I don’t know, corrosion resistance?” You muttered back, hovering over him. “Biocompatibility?”

“That’s perfectly manageable with carbon fiber!”

“So it shatters after the tiniest bump? Bravo, Viktor, how ingenious.” 

He lurches forward—rigid breath quivering over yours. Close enough to crush that thick skull with your forehead—if only you ventured, that is. But, alas, you’re not as brave just yet. Some brief eye-stabbing is about all you’re good for. 

“Fine,” he agrees, pulling away. “We’ll use aluminium alloys. Corrosion resistant and easy to machine. No one wins. Does that suffice?” 

“Yes. Now will you finally let me take your measurements for the sketch?”

He doesn’t answer—at least not verbally. Merely stands up and nods to the measuring tape, face still heavily contorted with displeasure. But you don’t oblige just yet. How can you, when Viktor’s fingers suddenly reach for his collar, fumbling with the button? And—oh no—now they’re sliding lower, reiterating once, twice, thrice, until his chest (flushed, but that might just be wishful thinking) is fully peeking out, teasing the smooth scrap of ivory skin. 

“What… are you doing?” You mumble, utterly startled. 

“…Undressing?” He says matter-of-factly, looking up at you so askance as if you’d just asked him if the sky is blue. One more ministration and the shirt is neatly folded next to the parchment—waiting for you to be through with the measurements to be slid back on his bony shoulders. 

“That, I can tell,” you mumble. “Why did you undress?”

Viktor’s gaze daggers into you again. “Don’t tell me you were actually intending to measure me clothed? Can you not comprehend precision?”

“Precision?”

“The prototype is expected to cling to me. I don’t see how that’s achievable with my shirt on— I assumed that was rather obvious.”

“Shut the fuck up.” 

“Ah, sweet civility. I even started worrying that other entitled pricks must’ve depleted your decorum, but it seems like you saved some up for me after all. I’m flattered, really—“ 

You don’t even register when it happens.

Next thing you see is Viktor seizing your wrist—sternly yanking your slap off his face before it gets the chance to land there in a flared handprint. Nothing but pure rage and prickliness—right where his short nails are lancing your skin, engraving an ugly bracelet you’ll wear for hours.

Well, maybe there is something else. Something inexplicable, and tremendous—deep in the way your eyes keep drifting south—where his pants sling low on defined hips, and the pretty trail of dark hair runs from navel to waistband—no doubt circling exactly what you manage to make out in the convex slope of his crotch. And you want to slap him for that, too—sonorous, and frenetic. Going in again with full force, but his force always turns out to be fuller—and in an instance he firmly twists your arm, pinning it behind your back—pale face barely five inches away from your flushed one. 

What happens next is beyond any explanations. Later, he’ll blame it on inertia—that stupid urge to maintain the speed, to stay in motion with your messy antics until some external force stops him—a simple need to claim you before the inevitable collision.

But there’s no inertia in escalation. In the way his free hand grabs you by the nape and clashes agape mouths together, teeth bumping hard enough to make you consider booking a dentist appointment later. Not a sign of inertia when you grab him, either—a little clumsy through the sharp pain in your twisted arm—bold fingers raking his scalp in a vengeful tug on his hair. 

And it’s more than a kiss. If anything, it looks like you’re trying to eat him—tongue out and thrusting into his throat so fiercely that he gags on it, almost tearing up. Now you know what sheer desperation sounds like, and it’s grunting against your mouth, suddenly pitching to a pathetic moan when you grab a handful of chestnut hair and pull so hard that his eyes roll back, lean frame shaking under your violent approach. You use that startled momentum to try and pry your arm free, but he still keeps it in place. 

“You’re hurting me!” You hiss, attacking his neck—the very one you always shamefully admitted to finding the sexiest any man can possess, and your teeth roughly pinch at his voice box, coaxing another whine. 

“Good.” He groans with spite. “I hope I am.” 

And yet, he releases your aching arm, trading it for a calculated squeeze of your waist. But the audacity overshadows his little mercy. You instantly use the unrestrained privileges to force a finger into his mouth—astounded at the way he instantly opens up, almost mockingly pliant. More so when you spit on his tongue, sparing no shame—as if trying to rile him up beyond recognition. Grinning, when your saliva dribbles down his chin. 

“Ah.” He huffs, instantly licking up the remnants. “Thank you. Ever so disrespectful.”

“You haven’t earned my respect,” you lie, nudging him towards the chair. Not even bothering to wait until he lands, impatient hands already messing with his belt—so treacherously earnest as you shake, unfastening the buckle, and the bastard chuckles at that, looking down at your eager work. 

“That’s a new low, then,” murmurs coyly, helping you into his lap, heavy head leisurely thrown back. “Sleeping with someone you don’t respect.” 

“Fuck you.” 

“Oh yes. You’re about to.” 

You glare at him from under heavy lids, but the anger refuses to linger—not when he stares back full of indignant awe, so clearly basking in your attention. With his cock half-springing out of undone pants, shamelessly twitching against your palm. And not a single breath was hitched to conceal his excitement. 

“Must you always be so insufferable?” You reproach, pushing his hair back—too domestic for your own liking, and yet it doesn’t feel unfitting. Especially when he leans into your hand, welcoming your touch on his sweaty forehead—like he wanted you to feel it fever up with want.

“No.” He shakes his head. “But if it can grant me this, I’ll triple the effort.” 

“What happened to new lows? You don’t have a fraction of respect for me, either.”

“You’re right.” He shrugs. “Fractions could never encapsulate my tribute to you.”

And his hand slipped under your skirt, shakily crawling home—precisely where you’d never confess to needing him a mere minute ago. But the sentiment did a decent job at diluting your rancour. There came no protest when he introduced two long fingers into your underwear, openly gasping at the evident dampness. And you allowed him that with no regrets. Moreover, you helpfully sank yourself knuckle deep, wincing at the brief burn, arms wrapping around his neck as he sweetly looked up, seeking your  permission. Which was instantly found in the pretty moan you spilled into his mouth, slick tongues back at their futile attempts to strangle each other. 

However, your patience was running thin. As much as you wanted to indulge in proper foreplay, whatever masochistic dance he exposed you to had you in agony ever since it started—and it was getting unbearable to ignore the ache, no matter how bad Viktor  craved to postpone the main course. 

Your thighs clenched hard as you crouched above him, fingers wrapping around the hilt to awkwardly line the tip up with your cunt—the slick sound of it slowly sliding down suddenly igniting some tender bashfulness. Like you didn’t just spit in his mouth with a vile smirk. Like he never had to confine you from slapping him in the face. 

That stretch felt different from the one after his fingers. Significantly richer, it made you whine—a pitiful sound reverberating against his skin as you held on tighter and allowed him to bottom out, savouring every little crevice inside you. Raw, yet neither of you seemed to care—that concern was pushed alongside your underwear, then forgotten altogether when your walls clenched him, offering tight bliss. 

“Move,” you demanded, grabbing him by the chin. Viktor rasped something back, but you didn’t catch it—already too busy tongue-fucking his pretty neck, turning your teeth into sharp tools ready to stain it mauve with bites. 

And he complied again. One hand trembled on your hip while the other crawled between your legs—first missing your clit in the chaotic pace of thrusts, then finding it again as it grazed his fingertips. So cheeky when he dared to pinch it, avenging every pull on his hair. Though, he couldn’t gloat in your wince. Not when it clearly was one of the pleasured kind. 

But you didn’t feel like letting him regain composure. You already missed his husky groans—ached to test what else fucking you could make him mutter. Fogy gaze found his face again, softening at the sight—all wet forehead full of concentrated creases and thin lips bitten to bloodless paleness. 

You took over. Let him lean back and rest as you roughly rode him into the chair—and for that he gave you a grateful moan, the insistent thumb toying with your clit never stopping even for an instant. Good with his hands, and he knew it—proudly grinned when you struggled to keep going, taut legs treacherously giving up astride him. 

That didn’t please you in the slightest. You wanted him to be close, too: slid a hand up his chest and angrily tugged at one nipple—chortling when his mouth dropped in a stunned gasp. Bewildered, but he didn’t mind it—amber eyes squeezed shut when his head lolled, and you finally got his lovely moans back—raspier than before, ravenous enough to make your head spin. 

You could already feel it, pulsing somewhere deep within. Blurry vision couldn’t make him out anymore, the lab smudging into a mess of weird shapes—you were about to cum, hard, and Viktor threatened to follow suit any second—his thumb failing to hold steady, and yet the pressure was still there, courtlesly helping you chase that sweet relief. Such a gentleman. 

“Close,” you chanted. “So, so close.” 

“I know,” he answered, choking on a groan. “Me too.” 

And you melted, almost crushing him with your weight. Quivering in a spasm so intense that it had him struggling to keep moving, and yet he was mindful of the risk—used the last fractions of his brain capacity to gently nudge you off his cock and pump it fast and hectic. Cumming in one endlessly thick rope, with a moan so vocal that it reached you even through the layers of foggy, ear-buzzing aftermath. Had you shuddering when you clung off his shoulder, glassy eyes wide with trembling astonishment. You stared at him through the approaching wave of disbelief. 

No signs of regret so far, or maybe it was simply still forming—for now, you silently admired not a snarky bastard, but a pretty, fucked out boy beneath you. 

“Oh, would you look at that.” Viktor chuckled, sheepishly looking down. “I didn’t forget.”

“What?” You mumbled in confusion, following his gaze.

And when it finally caught your attention—sticky and relentlessly staining his pants—you slammed a hand over your mouth, muffling the hysterical laughter. 

“And here I thought I finally fucked your remarkable memory out.”

“Oh, by no means. As, eh… intense as that was, that misery of mine is not going anywhere. However,” he trailed off, his hand skittishly moving towards yours, “sex clearly proved beneficial for our… dynamic.”

You smile, sliding your palm into his warm grasp. 

“Can it ensure us enough civility to win the competition?”

And Viktor scoffs, coyly looking you in the eye. 

“Why should we limit it to just that?” 

[ceramini]

Could you do hot!sunghoonxhot!loser!reader or Jake, kinda like switching the roles btw I loved ur last drabble:3

⁺𝅄 𓊆 ❀ 𓊇 im not going to lie to you, this might be a bit more cringer than I wanted it to be (like cringe but not to much to the point it’s unreadable), but I hope you and whoever else is reading like it!! and tysm for liking the other ones ur so cute!! mwah <333

LET ME LOVE YOU ⋆˚࿔ YOU’RE NOT A FREAK

pair hot!sunghoon x nerd/loser!reader ͡ ͘◡ ꫶᳝᳜᳝᳜᳝᳜৯ tags praise kink, overstim, established relationship ✿ scene you say weird stuff when you’re nervous. and unfortunately, you’re always nervous during sex. sunghoon’s used to it by now, he’s had two years to adjust, but that doesn’t mean he’s immune to the wild shit that comes out of your mouth. ────── library ⊹ ࣪

like + reblog appreciated <3 click to join taglist

You’re already on your back when you realize it’s happening again. Your brain is short-circuiting and overcompensating with words, bad words, strange ones, the kind you’d never say if you had even an ounce of normal filter.

Sunghoon is kissing down your chest and you’re fully spiraling.

“I know this isn’t a good time,” you gasp, “but this is sort of giving, like, spiritual transcendence? Like religious ecstasy? Like Renaissance awe?”

He pauses.

Lifts his head.

And blinks up at you.

Your face is on fire.

“I didn’t mean that like a kink thing,” you say quickly. “Not like a nun thing. I just meant you’re really good at foreplay.”

He huffs out a laugh.

You throw your hands over your eyes. “I should be studied.”

Sunghoon’s smile tugs wide, amused in that quiet, understated way he always is. “You say that every time we fuck.”

“Because every time I get weirder!”

“You’re consistent. I like that about you.”

You peek between your fingers, pout forming. “You’re just saying that.”

“I’m really not.”

And then he’s shifting down again, nosing along your inner thigh, his breath soft and warm where your underwear is already soaked through.

“You always talk like that when you’re nervous,” he says gently. “Like you can’t stop your brain from making everything into a weird metaphor.”

“I’m not even hot,” you mumble.

He blinks. “That’s not true.”

You shake your head. “It is.”

Sunghoon leans in and kisses the inside of your knee. “You’re not hot the way other people are. You’re hot the way you are. And I like that better.”

You melt. Completely.

“I’m—im kind of puffy too,” you say, voice shaking. “I think that’s why I always feel like I don’t know what to do. I’m not, like, porn-looking.”

Sunghoon hums. “You’re cute.”

“I’m not fine or sexy or anything—”

“I don’t want sexy.” His hands tug your panties off. “I want you.”

Your breath catches.

He kisses the top of your thigh again. “And yeah. You’re puffy. Soft. Warm. So sensitive I can barely touch her without you twitching.”

You go utterly still.

Then: “It’s honestly not fair how sweet you are to me.”

“You make it easy.”

You’re about to say something else, something dumb, probably, like “that’s a crit hit to my heart stat,” but then his tongue touches you and your whole body jerks.

“Sorry,” you whisper immediately. “Sorry, I just—nobody’s ever done it like that before—”

“Good.” He kisses you. “I want you to remember it’s me. Always me.”

You nod, breathless. “You should get an award or something. Like a Nobel Peace Prize but for making girls cry in a good way.”

He groans softly. “You’re lucky I like you.”

“You adore me.”

“I do.” His voice is almost reverent. “And this cute, shy little cunt? She loves me too.”

You squeal. “Don’t say that!”

“Why not?”

“It’s— it’s embarrassing!”

Sunghoon’s laugh is muffled as he sucks your clit into his mouth.

Your fingers curl in the sheets, your thighs tremble, and your brain refuses to stop trying to narrate the experience like it’s a podcast.

“I feel like I’m being emotionally unraveled,” you whimper. “Like a poorly woven scarf—”

Sunghoon pauses. Just long enough to lift his head and look at you.

“…A scarf?”

“A loose one!”

“You’re incredible.”

He says it with a look like he’s watching the sunrise. Like every unfiltered, loser-coded, clunky thing you say is the most endearing miracle on earth.

You cover your face again.

And he goes right back to it, tongue slow and thorough, fingers steady, kissing and sucking and working you open with such frustratingly gentle affection that by the time you’re shaking and moaning and gasping out a high, warbly, “Sunghoon, I think I see God—” you really mean it.

He lets you come once, then twice.

And when he finally pushes inside, you’re already trying not to cry.

“You okay?” he whispers, kissing your cheek.

You nod furiously. “I’m—I’m just not used to being wanted like this. I’m not used to being seen.”

Sunghoon stills for a moment.

Then he wraps his arms around you and holds you tight.

“You’re not invisible,” he murmurs. “Not with me. Never with me.”

You sob. He rocks into you gently, slow and warm and steady, like he’s trying to make a home out of the feeling.

And even when you say stuff like “You’re fucking my soul out through a celestial portal,” he just keeps kissing your temple, smiling against your skin, and whispering:

“Good. Let it all out.”

🪷 ─── @gyarumindd (join the taglist guys..)

[therainscene]

I didn't start shipping Byler because I picked up on a few moments of chemistry and decided they'd make a cute couple -- I started off by absolutely refusing to entertain said moments as reciprocally queer until I ran into the ridiculous homophobia on the ST subreddit and decided to review Mike's character arc out of sheer gay spite.

Let me clarify: Spite isn't what made me change my mind about Mike. Spite just made me read a few Byler analyses and rewatch the show with an open mind because I didn't want to be like those pricks who would insult and censor queer fans for... [checks notes]... thinking something gay might happen in a TV show with gay people in it. I truly wasn't expecting a queer interpretation to fit Mike's arc anywhere near as well as the default interpretation -- but by the time I'd finished my rewatch, I was reeling from how much better it fit.

Cause that's the thing: Mike's queerness is pretty obvious once you look for it. The difficulty is in giving yourself permission to look.

-------------------

A question Bylers are often asked is "why would the show spend four seasons building up Milevn just to tear it down at the last minute for some unrealistic woke ship? Mike literally said he loves El!" And yeah, Mike's grand love confession at the end of S4 certainly seems like a triumphant pay-off to all that build-up... but I have a few questions of my own.

Firstly: why establish in no uncertain terms that feeling loved is the key to unlocking El's fullest potential against Vecna--

--only to undermine the power of Mike's longed-for confession by having it only be good enough to delay Vecna instead of defeat him? Yes, it's the penultimate season -- so why did Milevn's pay-off happen here instead of S5 where it could properly shine?

Secondly: why couldn't Milevn fix their relationship by themselves? Even if you believe that El commissioned the painting (she didn't) and that the feelings Will describes are truly hers (they aren't), it was still Will who had to perform this romantic gesture on her behalf, and it broke his heart to do so. Why hand this important work off to a third party? Why weave queer tragedy into the build-up towards a heterosexual pay-off that's supposed to feel triumphantly romantic?

Speaking of which: why undermine the intimacy of this scene by having Will hover behind Mike's shoulder the whole time? Couldn't they have asked Noah to take a few steps to the left for the sake of a better shot? Couldn't they have waited until after Milevn's big romantic moment to remind us for the millionth fucking time how sad Will is about it?

In my opinion, this scene and its four seasons of build-up make much more sense if you read them as three entwined character arcs about the trials of growing up in a suffocatingly heteronormative era: the gay kid who doesn't think he's entitled to a happy ending; the abused girl who thinks shallow romance with the first boy who's nice to her will make her feel normal; and the confused hero who hasn't figured out the solution yet.

For all the insistence that this show has to stick to "realistic" depictions of 80s queerness... it's hardly a realistic depiction of 80s straightness for Mike to score an awesome magical girlfriend, either. That's just nerdy wish-fulfillment, and common only as a trope in fiction.

So it's not unreasonable to suppose that Mike's true role in the Subverting 80s Tropes Show might be to represent the actually very realistic 80s experience of getting swept up in compulsory heterosexuality.

Think about it: Will's vulnerability to the horrors functions as a metaphor for being visibly gay in a world that despises gay people--

--whereas Mike's girlfriend quite literally has the power to protect him from monsters and homophobic bullies alike.

This doesn't mean Mike is callously using El, though. He learned the hard way in S1 that treating an innocent girl like a means to an end would only end up destroying her, and the guilt and fear of hurting her again has been weighing heavy on him ever since.

Comphet isn't about taking advantage of other people's feelings so you can pretend to be straight -- it's about deluding yourself into believing you're straight because queerness isn't an option you're allowed to consider.

Mike genuinely does love El and he genuinely does want to be an important part of her life -- so surely that means he wants to be her boyfriend, right? Twelve is perhaps a little young to know that yet... but surely there's gotta be something here that sets his feelings apart from how a friend or brother would feel?

Surely the reason he later finds himself struggling to say to her face that he loves her is because he's just an immature loser who needs to try harder to grow up and be the man this girl he adores deserves to have...?

...and certainly not because the guilt and fear of losing her just keeps piling up as the romantic instincts he thinks he's been waiting to grow into turn out to be developing at exactly the pace they're supposed to -- in the wrong direction.

That would be ridiculous. Will's his best friend. Yes, he loves him and can't bear to be without him, but that doesn't mean anything. Why can't a guy display a little unhinged devotion to his special friend without it having to mean something romantic?

Why can't he, indeed.

At his core, Mike is someone who desperately wants to be as special as the straight heroes in the nerdy media he loves. But there isn't anything inherently heroic about being some lame middle-class white nerd who's bad with girls, so he believes that the best he can do is to be a dutiful sidekick who would sacrifice himself in a heartbeat for people he perceives as more special than himself.

For all the "build-up" Mike's romance with El has enjoyed across four seasons, it's done absolutely nothing to help him grow as a character and overcome this self-worth problem.

So is it really any surprise that even after realizing El would be fine and still want to be friends with him if he told her the truth, and even after realizing just how good Will is at understanding his insecurities and reassuring him of his inherent worth--

--Mike would still sacrifice his chance at happiness for the sake of the greater good?

El was literally dying in his arms. How could queer desire possibly be as important as this girl who needed him to be a man and do his damn job so she could do hers?

I'm interpreting Mike as gay here, but I think it's important to note that this principle applies even if he's bi or straight -- Mike can be attracted to girls and still be forcing himself to stay in a relationship with a girl he's not a good romantic match for because that's just what he thinks he's supposed to do.

His sister had a similar problem: Nancy was legitimately attracted to Steve, but her infatuation with him was more about doing what cool teen girls are supposed do than about authentic connection. And because this is a horror story as much a coming-of-age story, Wheeler's conformity had horrendous consequences -- her critical-of-comphet bestie was killed by the horrors.

Which sounds familiar, doesn't it?

(Sure, Max technically didn't die -- but she still died enough for Vecna's plan to come to fruition. Which just brings us back to my first question: why couldn't the Power of Heterosexual Love prevent this? In the same season that said "forced conforming is what's killing the kids", no less?)

Will describes Vecna as an inevitability that won't stop until he's taken everyone -- which in my opinion is the same defeatist attitude demanded by comphet.

It's not that Mr. Refuses-To-Participate-In-Society's-Silly-Play symbolizes comphet itself, per se; rather, he represents the despair of feeling like you can't truly escape it. But either way, this means that the solution to defeating Vecna is the same solution to defeating comphet:

Giving yourself permission to look and see that your true self is far more valuable than whatever you think you're supposed to be.

[briskchips]

Do you ship Purelily?

Sort of? Not really? I view their relationship through a very specific lens:

I think they mutually liked each other when they were young, maybe even had an actual relationship. But when Lily started to pursue her ideals of the origins of cookies, the witches' motivations, increasing the survivability of their species, etc, more and more, PV got worried. He dreaded who she was becoming, and his feelings for her began to wane. He didn't feel like this was "the lily he knew".

But PV is nothing if not forgiving. He convinced himself this was a phase she was going through, that she'd eventually figure out that this pursuit of strength and knowledge was fruitless and dangerous, and messing with dark moon magic was doubly so. But when Lily received her soul jam of freedom, her determination to learn more and be more only got stronger. She was (metaphorically) a new cookie now, but PV was still attached to the Lily he first fell in love with. He told himself that Lily was fine, just exploring things she shouldn't be for a little while, and then she'd get back to being the sweet, curious girl he thought he knew.

And then she died. Her pursuits led her to fall into the ultimate dough, and even then, PV refused to admit to himself that maybe Lily had changed before that.

When Lily was half brought back to life in the faerie kingdom, PV assumed she'd be herself again. She'd learn her lesson after dying at the hands of the witches, and everything could just be normal. But she still held her beliefs, and was still too different for PV. In an ideal world, they would've gotten the chance to talk through this, but some blue guy just crawled out of a tree to terrorize everyone's minds and that kind of takes precedent unfortunately!

Even now, with her being back, he yearns for who she used to be. He ignores the traits of hers that he finds undesirable, because he doesn't like that someone he loved so much has become someone who so adamantly craves something he disagrees with. I also think PV has a bit of a saviour complex as a subconscious defence mechanism against his own insecurities. He probably isn't aware of this specific feeling he has, but he doesn't like that Lily is so much more independent now. He liked being someone who could provide for her, who could protect her and guide her, and make her feel welcome when other cookies didn't, but she just doesn't need that anymore. She doesn't need him. And that makes him panic. Who is he if he is not needed? What's the point of him if he can't be useful? How can he possibly be of any worth to Lily if she doesn't feel the need to rely on him in some way?

He wants to be a benevolent, strong, kind leader; the kind of leader who loves all of his friends, no matter how they grow and change, but he just feels too differently about Lily to love her in the same way he once did. He's in denial. And he knows he is. Lily does too. That's the basis of their separation at the spire of deceit's entrance.

Their paths don't align in a literal sense, wherein they both have important physical goals that need to be achieved before the war kicks off, but their paths also don't align in a mental sense. They aren't partners anymore. They want different things. They care about different things. Neither wants to admit that they've both become cookies who aren't compatible anymore, but neither wants to change for the sake of the other, either. They still cherish each other, but not in the same way they used to.

So TLDR, no, I don't ship purelily. BUT I do think it was canon behind-the-scenes at some point in their past, and their feelings for each other is a critical part of both of their characters (and I think a lot of fan works are really sweet, I understand the appeal of the ship).

[moonagedaydreamsofrhiannon]

IN DEFENSE OF TRAVIS MARTINEZ:

Because I’m sick and tired of seeing travis hate everywhere I go.

“Travis was sexist.”

Did he spout some sexist rhetoric in the beginning of the show? Sure. But it’s important to recognize that: A) he changed, and by season 2 he completely stopped, B) he was a teenage boy in the 1990s, and that kind of rhetoric was normal at the time, C) most of his sexist macho tough guy attitude was a complete act that he likely put on to compensate for his insecurity about his own masculinity, and internalized homophobia. (More on that later.)

(Also let’s be real, Travis is basically one of the girls anyway and I’m tired of pretending he’s not.)

2. “Travis didn’t care about Javi.”

Did we watch the same show??? Granted Travis may have had trouble expressing his feelings (also related to his insecurities about masculinity, likely learned from his father, as well as growing up in a patriarchal and homophobic society), but he cared deeply about Javi. In S1E4, Travis literally DUG UP HIS DAD’S GRAVE, through horror, tears, and vomit, in order to retrieve his ring to give to Javi. When Javi disappeared, Travis kept looking for him every day for months, and never gave up, even when logically it would have seemed impossible for him to still be alive. He comforted and reassured Javi when neither of them drew the card. He cradled Javi’s dead body and ate a bite of his raw heart (which was a metaphor for how much he loved him, and a parallel to Shauna eating Jackie’s raw ear.) Maybe Travis wasn’t always there for Javi in the way he needed, but he absolutely loved him, and it’s important to remember that Travis was also a traumatized, grieving, kid who just lost his dad.

3. “Travis slut-shamed Nat.”

As we are literally shown in the show, Travis was not trying to slut shame her, he asked how many times she had done it because he was embarrassed about the fact that he was a virgin, and worried that she would judge him, or that he wouldn’t measure up because he was more inexperienced than her. When she told him she hooked up with Bobby Farleigh, he did not get mad at her because she slept with another guy (he already knew about that, and was fine with it), he got mad because she hooked up with his bully, and then lied to him about it. I don’t blame Nat for this, she didn’t know about it at the time, and didn’t want him to get mad once she found out, but I also don’t blame Travis for being hurt and embarrassed and upset with her for lying about it.

4. “Travis was just kind of a dick.”

Sure, but so were all of them. He acted like kind of a jerk in the first season. So what? Shauna had an affair with her best friend’s boyfriend, lied to her about it for months, and refused to apologize. Misty tried to drug Coach Ben. Nat faked his brother’s death to him (yeah, she was trying to help him move on, but still not cool). All of them called him “Flex” (y’know, the nickname that was used to bully him for years). None of them are perfect or nice or likable all the time, and that’s ok; that’s the whole point. They’re realistic, complex, flawed, morally gray and sometimes unlikable people. They’ve all done bad things, but nothing Travis did is worse than what anyone else on that show has done. He was a traumatized teen whose dad literally just died. Also, me personally, if everyone around me was constantly calling me the mean nickname that was used to bully me since middle school, I would also probably act like a little bit of a dick.

5. “Travis is a straight man.”

Wrong. (Also not really a valid reason to hate someone… But most importantly, just wrong.)

Travis Martinez is clearly a bisexual.

So many of his issues: the insecurity, the bullying, the macho tough guy act, the whole weird complex about his masculinity, all of it stems (at least partly) from the fact that he’s bisexual and has internalized homophobia. The whole “Flex” thing is just thinly veiled homophobia. The main reason why he got bullied is because Bobby Farleigh spread a rumor about him getting back surgery to better suck his own dick. The unsaid implication there is that he’s a man who sucks dick, which is inherently queer, even if it is his own. If you look even slightly past the most surface level interpretation, it’s pretty obvious that Travis was bullied because of homophobia. His performance of stereotypical toxic masculinity was clearly over compensation for the fact that he doesn’t fit into the box of traditional straight masculinity, and was a reaction to the bullying from his peers, abuse from his dad, and internalized homophobia from growing up in a homophobic and patriarchal society. As the show progresses he starts to unlearn that toxic masculinity and internalized homophobia, and he allows himself to be more vulnerable, emotional, and feminine, and as a result, he becomes stronger, more confident, and more respectful of the people around him.

As for Travis being a man… Is he though???

In season 1, Travis is a man (narratively speaking); there is a clear distinction between Travis/Coach Ben and the girls. However, in season 2, we see a stark shift in how Travis is depicted. The separation between Travis and the girls pretty much ceases to exist. Narratively speaking, there is no distinction made between Travis and the other girls; they are one entity—one hive mind. Instead, the emphasis is now placed on the distinction between Coach Ben and the girls/Travis. When Coach Ben watches the Yellowjackets eat Jackie in horror and disbelief, Travis is right there with them, dressed in ancient greek robes along with the rest of them. In season 2, Coach Ben is the only real Man of the group (Travis has narratively become one of the girls, and Javi is just a boy, not a man) and he is shown staying separate from the rest of the group, and growing more and more uncomfortable with the cultish dynamics, while Travis, on the other hand, becomes more and more integrated with the group, as he falls deeper and deeper into cult beliefs, until he is a full-blown devout Lottie worshipper. Of the three males on the show, he is the only one who actually participates in cannibalism with the other Yellowjackets. Also he lost his virginity to a lesbian.

Whether or not you choose to believe that Travis is transfem (I do) you cannot deny that, at least narratively speaking, Travis is literally just a girl.

6. Travis is a victim.

I don’t know why nobody in this fandom seems to acknowledge this, but Travis is a sexual assault victim and I’m tired of people constantly overlooking and ignoring that fact. In Doomcoming, the girls (excluding Jackie, Nat, Tai, and Van) chased him down, sexually assaulted him, and then tried to kill him. That’s not something that’s up for debate or denial, that is literally canon. Stop pretending it didn’t happen. Stop pretending it wasn’t assault. Stop shaming him and making fun of him for struggling with sex, or not always being able to get it up. That’s a normal trauma response after being assaulted/raped. You guys are literally proving the point. This kind of treatment from society towards masculinity and male victims is just playing into the patriarchy and toxic masculinity, and is exactly what made him act the way he did in season 1 in the first place!

[sizeofyoursoul]

"On vampires, they are the most powerful metaphor for the outsider I ever encountered. I, a woman with no clear gender identity, strong erotic drives, great ambition, and a fractured cultural background, felt "normal" when I wrote about vampires --- intelligent outcasts who refused to accept the world's contempt as their story. I didn't inject philosophy into my vampire novels; it was just there; Lestat, Louis, Claudia, Armand...they were living breathing allegories, all crying for the right to live, to have a place in the universe. If you give all you have to your writing, if you tell all you know in every novel, you can't escape the deeper philosophical questions, meanings, possibilities. When I came of age, nobody thought "a vampire novel" was worth that kind of commitment and depth. Genre fiction was presumed to be shallow. Same with the historical novel. I saw "Feast of All Saints" panned because it wasn't a simplistic melodrama. Nobody even knew how to classify "Cry to Heaven." But I kept giving all I had to my strange books, ignoring the denigrating labels and frankly getting downright angry about them. Today, you don't hear those complaints so much. Seems the whole world knows you can learn a great deal about "everything" from a good episode of "Game of Thrones" and that there are profound truths in "Gone Girl." Daniel Silva packs his beautiful spy novels with deep moral concerns. Any type of novel can be a great novel. — What a wonderful thing to have lived long enough to see the power of labels broken, the "rules" of genre thrown to the winds, the bias of high culture ignored or stood on its head. Of course the science fiction readers always knew these truths. In the 50's they were looking to their great writers for poetry, heart wrenching reflection on alienation — the use of plot and setting for lofty and undeniable truths. I love being a novelist. — I love being the producer, director, set designer and star of my weird, unclassifiable stories. I've grown to love being laughed at, sneered at, ridiculed, questioned as to how I, of all people, dare to write about Jesus! And you know why I love it? Because I've been lucky enough to have many, many readers over the years, readers who give each new book a chance, readers who say simply that they enjoy my books, readers who quietly "get it," wonderful readers from all walks of life --- They are priceless to me, and they are my real critics, reviewers, judges, etc. I long ago left it up to them to decide whether I was any good, or just a crackpot or a trash writer. And I just go on writing about vampires, witches, telepaths, ghosts, angels, werewolves, and yes, even Jesus — for them and for me."

Anne Rice from her Facebook Page

[p0orbaby]

Stress Reliever

summary: important matches call for unorthodox methods

warnings: SMUT 18+, fingering, sex in a random room in a stadium? i have no clue, don’t judge

a/n: i really enjoyed writing this one, so kudos to whoever requested it !

word count: 2.7k

-

You’re in the stands, sipping a warm Coke that tastes like pennies, watching as eager fans filter into the stadium. It’s an hour until kickoff, and you’re trying not to panic because you have the seat of death. The one directly behind the pole. And not just any pole—oh no, you get the thick, structural support beam that’s been placed there by some sadist with a vendetta against sports fans. You can already feel the crick forming in your neck as you angle to see the pitch, bobbing and weaving like you’re on the world’s worst first date.

“Are you—?” A voice interrupts your internal monologue, startling you so much you nearly throw your Coke onto the unlucky person next to you. You look up, expecting to see a security guard, someone here to accuse you of something you definitely did do (sneak in a flask) but absolutely won’t admit to.

Instead, it’s a woman with a headset, wearing an expression of mild impatience—like she’s had to ask someone the same question three times. Which, judging by the size of this place, she probably has.

“Yeah?” you ask, because that’s the only word your brain can offer in the moment. Well, that and hotdog but you keep that one to yourself.

“Are you—” she checks her clipboard, which you find oddly official, like you’re about to be quizzed on the periodic table or something, “—the girlfriend?”

There’s a beat where you consider denying it because the word girlfriend still sounds weird in your ears. Like you’re not old enough for it or something. Like someone’s going to come along and snatch the title away from you because you got it out of a vending machine or a cereal box.

But then the woman’s staring at you, one eyebrow slightly arched, and you realise you haven’t answered, which is definitely making this more awkward.

“Uh…yes?”

“Great.” She doesn’t even wait for you to elaborate (which is good, because you definitely wouldn’t have). “Alexia needs you”

She says it like Alexia needs you is a normal sentence. Like you’re supposed to understand what that entails, as if you’ve been through this before.

“Oh.” You blink. “Now?”

“Yeah.” Another short answer. She’s probably fun at parties.

Your brain’s processing speed is at dial-up levels right now, but you eventually nod, clambering over knees and feet, mumbling apologies as you spill half your Coke in your lap. It’s warm, wet, and uncomfortable. The perfect metaphor for your life at this moment.

The woman with the headset leads you through a labyrinth of corridors, down staircases that don’t look like they’ve been used since the stadium was built, past signs that say things like “AUTHORISED PERSONNEL ONLY” and “NO ENTRY,” which really do wonders for your anxiety. It’s as if you’re being led to the dungeons, or possibly to a secret basement where you’ll be quietly murdered before kickoff.

“Is everything…okay?” you ask, partly because you’re nervous, partly because you’re still in shock that Alexia asked for you. The Alexia Putellas, captain of Barcelona, Spanish football’s golden child. The one who should be doing pre-game rituals or eating her eighth banana by now, not…whatever this is.

“Yup,” says Headset Lady, who clearly graduated from the one-syllable academy of small talk.

You’re about to ask a follow-up question (something like are you a hostage negotiator on the side?) when she stops abruptly in front of a nondescript door that looks like it’s seen better days. There’s a small sign taped to it that reads “MEETING ROOM.” Creative.

“She’s in there,” Headset Lady says, handing you the clipboard like it’s a ticket to a secret club. You take it because refusing might lead to her finally using the taser you’re convinced she’s got hidden somewhere.

“Uh, thanks,” you say, because manners.

She gives you a curt nod, spins on her heels, and walks away without a backward glance, leaving you alone with the door, the clipboard, and a creeping sense of dread.

You’re about to knock when the door swings open and you’re pulled inside by a very strong hand. You barely manage to keep your balance, though your dignity is less fortunate.

“Jesus Christ, Alexia, a little warning?” you gasp, clutching your chest like someone’s ancient grandmother.

But Alexia isn’t listening. She’s pacing, her boots tapping out a nervous rhythm on the floor, her expression a fusion of frustration and something you can’t quite place—like she’s trying to solve a really tough maths problem but someone keeps changing all the numbers.

“Babe?” you try again, this time a little softer, hoping to break through whatever spell she’s under.

She finally stops, turning to face you, and that’s when you notice it. The way her eyes are slightly glazed, her hands twitching at her sides. She looks like she’s about to combust from the inside out, like she’s been plugged into the world’s worst electrical socket.

You know that look. You’ve seen it before, but not like this. Not with this intensity, this…desperation.

“What’s going on?” you ask, though you think you already know. You’re just not sure you’re ready for the answer.

“I’m fucking freaking out,” she says, her voice low and tight, like it’s taking everything in her to hold it together. “I can’t—I can’t focus, I can’t think—I just—fuck!” She runs a hand through her hair, tugging at the ends like it’s their fault.

You step closer, cautious, like you’re approaching a wild animal. “Is there anything I can do?”

And that’s when she looks at you. Really looks at you. Her eyes narrow slightly, and you can practically see the lightbulb go off above her head. It’s not the comforting moment you were hoping for. It’s more like the moment in a horror movie when the killer realises the protagonist is hiding in the wardrobe.

“Actually…yeah.” Her voice drops an octave, and you swear the room temperature does too. “There is”

Oh no. You know where this is going. You’ve been here before. This isn’t the first time Alexia has decided that the best way to deal with her pre-game jitters is to channel them into something else. Something physical. Something that, once upon a time, you thought was a great idea.

You were wrong.

But it’s too late to back out now. You’re trapped, like a mouse caught in a particularly horny mousetrap.

“Here?” you squeak, glancing around the dimly lit meeting room, which is as unsexy as a room can get. The walls are beige, the carpet is a hideous shade of grey, and there’s a whiteboard in the corner with some sad-looking, lidless pens. It’s as if the universe decided to create the least erotic environment possible.

“Here,” she confirms, and you can’t help but notice the way her voice drips with something dark and dangerous. Something that makes your pulse quicken and your palms sweat.

“But what if��”

“No one’s coming in,” she interrupts, and there’s a note of finality in her voice that tells you this is happening whether you like it or not. “It’s locked”

“How did you even get a key?”

“Does it matter?”

It doesn’t, but you feel like you’re owed an explanation anyway. Because what if someone does come in? What if they see you—two responsible, adult women—going at it in a meeting room like hormonal teenagers? You can already see the headlines: “Football Star and Girlfriend Caught in Bizarre Pre-Game Ritual”

“Alexia, I—”

She’s on you before you can finish the sentence, her hands gripping your waist, pulling you against her. Her lips crash into yours, and suddenly the room isn’t so cold anymore. It’s like being hit by a freight train made of pure sexual frustration, and for a moment, all you can do is hang on for dear life.

But then the reality of the situation hits you. You’re about to have sex in a room that smells faintly of wet dog and failed business deals. This is not how you pictured today to go. You imagined something more…romantic. A win celebrated in a plush hotel room, or at the very least a place with a bed.

But Alexia doesn’t seem to care. She’s already pawing at your clothes with a speed that’s both impressive and alarming, like she’s done this a thousand times before. Which, now that you think about it, she probably has. Just…not here. Or so you hope.

“Wait, wait,” you pant, pulling back slightly. “Are you sure this is a good idea?”

“Nope,” she says, but she doesn’t stop, and neither do you, because you’re weak and she’s hot, and who are you kidding? You’re definitely going to do this.

It’s not graceful. It’s not even sexy, really. It’s more like a frantic scramble to get clothes off while trying not to knock over a stack of chairs. You’re pretty sure you elbow her in the ribs at one point, and she steps on your foot twice, but neither of you cares because there’s a bigger issue at hand.

You think about saying something witty, something to break the tension, but then she’s on you again, and words are suddenly the last thing on your mind. All you can do is hold on and hope the table doesn’t collapse under the weight of your combined bad decisions.

She pushes you back onto the table, her hands firm on your shoulders, and suddenly the wood beneath you feels a lot harder than it looked a second ago. It’s all happening too fast, but not fast enough, and when her mouth finds yours again, it’s all teeth and urgency. The kind of kiss that doesn’t ask permission because it knows it’ll get what it wants anyway.

Her hands are everywhere, pulling at your shirt, fumbling with the buttons like they’re some kind of cruel joke. You help her out, batting her hands away, only to struggle just as much. It’s like your fingers have forgotten how to work, each movement clumsy and desperate. When you finally manage to yank your shirt over your head, you feel a brief, victorious rush, like you’ve conquered a small but significant mountain.

She barely gives you time to breathe before she’s back on you, her mouth hot and demanding against your neck, her hands sliding up your sides. You gasp as her fingers slip under your bra, her thumbs brushing over your nipples with just enough pressure to make you arch against her.

“Fuck,” you whisper, because it’s the only word that makes sense right now.

She grins against your skin, clearly pleased with herself, and you know you’re in trouble. Alexia knows exactly what she’s doing, and she’s doing it well. Too well, actually. The kind of well that makes you forget where you are, why you’re here, and who you are as a person.

Her hand trails down your stomach, dipping beneath the waistband of your jeans, and you suck in a breath, half expecting her to stop, to clock on how ridiculous this all is. But she doesn’t. She just keeps going, popping the button on your jeans with a quick flick of her fingers, pulling the zipper down in one smooth motion. You lift your hips to help her slide them down, and suddenly the cold air hits your bare legs, making you shiver. But it’s not the temperature that’s getting to you—it’s the anticipation.

She’s back on you in an instant, her fingers finding their way inside your underwear, brushing against you in a way that makes your breath catch. Her touch is light at first, almost teasing, but it doesn’t stay that way for long. She’s not in the mood for games, and neither are you.

“Please,” you murmur, not entirely sure what you’re asking for, but knowing you need it.

She doesn’t make you wait. Her fingers slide inside you with a confidence that comes from knowing exactly what you like, how you like it, and how quickly she can drive you insane. And she’s doing it now, the slow, steady rhythm making you forget all about the uncomfortable table beneath you, the smell of stale coffee in the room, the fact that someone could walk in at any moment. None of it matters. All that matters is her, and the way she’s making you feel like you might come undone right there in that drab, fluorescent-lit room.

You cling to her like she’s the only thing keeping you tethered to reality, your hands digging into her back, your nails leaving marks that you know take back to the changing room with pride. The table creaks beneath you, protesting with every thrust of her hand, but you don’t care. You can barely think, let alone worry about the state of some cheap office furniture.

When she curls her fingers inside you, hitting that spot that makes you see stars, you have to bite your lip to keep from crying out. The last thing you need is for someone to hear you, but fuck, it’s hard. Especially when she starts moving faster, her thumb brushing over your clit with just the right amount of pressure to push you closer and closer to the edge.

You’re so close now, teetering on the brink, and she knows it. You can see it in the way she’s watching you, her eyes dark and intense, like she’s savoring every moment, every gasp and moan she pulls from your lips. It’s almost too much, the way she’s looking at you, like she’s claiming you, owning you in a way that goes beyond this moment, this room.

And then you’re falling, your body tensing as the wave crashes over you, pulling you under. You bite down on her shoulder, muffling the sound of your release, and she groans at the feeling of your teeth sinking into her skin. It’s raw and primal, and at this point in time, you don’t care about anything else but the way she’s making you feel.

She doesn’t stop, doesn’t even slow down, working you through your orgasm until you’re trembling beneath her, your breath coming in ragged gasps. When she does finally pull her hand away, you feel the loss of her touch like a physical ache, but you’re too spent to do anything about it.

For a moment, neither of you moves, the only sound in the room your heavy breathing and the distant roar of the crowd outside. The game is about to start, but for once, it’s the last thing on your mind.

When she finally pulls back, you expect her to say something, but she just looks at you, her expression softening in a way that makes your chest warm. There’s something unspoken in her eyes, something you’re not sure you’re ready to acknowledge, but it’s there all the same.

“Better?” you ask, your voice shaky, but there’s a smile tugging at your lips.

She smirks, that familiar, cocky grin returning as she reaches down to adjust her shorts. “Much”

You laugh, weak and breathless, but it’s genuine. Because despite the absurdity of it all—the meeting room, the table, the fact that you’re still half-naked in the most unromantic setting imaginable—it was exactly what you both needed.

You sit up, wincing as your muscles protest, and begin the awkward process of getting dressed again. Alexia helps, her hands lingering a little longer than necessary, and you swat at her playfully, even though you’re secretly glad she’s not ready to let go just yet.

“We can’t make this a thing,” you say, though you know it’s a lie the second it leaves your mouth.

“Sure we can,” Alexia replies, already pulling on her shorts like nothing happened. Like you didn’t just defile a piece of office furniture.

“You owe me,” you grumble, trying to smooth down your hair, which now looks like you stuck your finger in an electrical socket.

“Add it to the list,” she says with a wink.

You roll your eyes but can’t help the small smile that tugs at your lips. Because yeah, it was reckless and stupid and definitely not sanitary, but damn if it wasn’t one hell of a way to start a match.

“Good luck,” you say, and you mean it.

She gives you a look that says I don’t need luck, and you believe her. Because if she can handle you, she can handle anything.

As you walk out of the meeting room, legs still a little shaky, you can’t help but wonder if this will become a regular thing. You hope not.

Then again…maybe you don’t.

[umikawa]

infatuated

a/n: listened to like four songs on repeat to write this haha (￣▽￣) I hope this is good!?? used penny and pete from tgm’s relationship as inspo lol <3

Stanley Snyder x gn!reader | 1.8k wc | warnings: on&off relationship (get it together!) alcohol consumption (ur in a bar, don’t waste it) smoking (it’s Stanley) maybe a bit ooc? I love yapping.

♫ infatuated / the royston club | flash in the pan / wallice | war / keshi | lullaby for you / greer

“Nice to see a familiar face here.” 

You chuckle at the voice, smooth and deep, with the slightest southern drawl, familiar and warm. The person slides into the barstool beside you, nodding to the other person beside you with a glare. 

Get away. Get lost. Don’t come back. The intention was obvious: to rid you of a flea you’d spend too much unnecessary time and attention on. He saved you the time, being in uniform, his purple lipstick painting a nasty (shit-eating) smirk on his lips. His appearance added to his intimidating personality. 

“Scaring away my dates as per usual.” You laugh, downing the rest of your drink and flagging the bartender for another. “A beer too, please– Pabst.”

Stanley grins at the remembrance of his drink of choice, crossing his arms across his chest. “Taking your dates to our bar, sitting in our seats— as per usual.” He mocks your words with a scoff, tipping his head towards the bartender when they slide the beer to him. “Don’t have any other place to show your collection of love interests?” 

“Don’t you have any other bar to go to?” 

“Actually,” he starts, quickly swigging his beer. “This is the closest one to where I’m stationed, but you knew that, didn't you?”

You shrug, tracing the rim of your glass as you refuse to look at him. “Maybe I’m just eternally trapped here,” you said quietly, laughing softly at your own words. “It’s my own personal hell. Limbo, maybe.”

Stanley looks down the spout of his bottle, eerily shifting into the barrel of a gun the longer he stares at it. Was that supposed to be an unrelated metaphor? “Why do you keep holding on?”

You turned to him for the first time since he walked in. Your expression was almost deadpan, but Stanley knew how to read you: longing, resignation, guilt. 

He didn’t understand the last one; you had no reason to be guilty. Your parting was solely because of him and his devotion to serve. He would lay down his life in war if he needed to, and you didn’t like that. 

“Why do you want to let go?” 

Stanley looks at you, really looks at you. Three key differences have changed since he last saw you. 

For one, the bags under your eyes. You’d kill him for pointing it out. You always gave him shit for saying it— he was just concerned and didn’t know how to show it. Though you did have some the last time he saw you, they seemed to have worsened, emphasizing the darkened skin underneath your eyes. Have you not been sleeping well?

Two, your hair was longer. It would look the same to a normal person; nothing more than a few inches had been added to the ends of your hair, but Stanley could tell. Were you letting it grow? Or were you refusing to cut it because it was the last thing he touched before he left you again? He shouldn’t give himself so much credit, but hair holds memories. 

Third, the lack of bite. Before, you’d shoot remark after remark with him, going on and on for hours on end until you were leaning against the counter with a defeated (sleepy) expression. But now, it was only blatant relinquishment: no fight, no argument, nothing. 

“You truly think I want to let go, or that I have?” He keeps his eyes forward, zoning in on the bottles lined up in rows behind the bar. “Do you think you’re the only one that comes to this bar and sits in these seats, hoping the other will show up or already be here?” 

Your hand comes up to your face with a quiet sigh, almost a whine, like you didn’t want this conversation to happen. “So you admit it, you feel the same… reluctancy as I do.”

Reluctance? To what? Let go? 

“That’s one of the reasons we didn’t work out back then.” You glance at him lazily, eyes darting to the somehow visible stain of purple lipstick on the rim of his bottle. “We always bottled our emotions to save face for the other.” 

“Couples therapists would’ve loved us.” He chuckles at your quick joke, taking a sip of his beer. “I guess somewhere along the lines, we got so used to bottling everything up that we started to hide our infatuation as well.” You pause momentarily, furrowing your brows while staring absentmindedly into your glass. “Even when we went to bed, we weren’t together. We were just…laying next to each other.”

Stanley hums, feeling his pocket for a cigarette—he really needs one right now. You spare him a glance but don’t say anything as he retracts his hand, silently waving to the bartender and sliding your card across the counter. 

He opens his mouth to protest, but he was already too late when you put your card on the bar. So he keeps quiet, muttering to himself about his marine salary that would have paid your tab. 

“It’s fine. Besides, I had a lot more than you did.” You reassured, slipping your card back into your wallet. “Let's go outside. You wanna smoke, don’t you?” He follows wordlessly as you walk out of the bar, taking the box of cigarettes from his coat the second he feels the cool air hit his skin. 

Nothing was said between you two for a while—just a silent exchange of glances. The only sound was the exhale of breath that flew past Stanley’s lips occasionally. He’d passed the cigarette to you when he caught you eyeing it, laughing softly at the disgusted face you made after inhaling it. 

“I’m glad I never picked up this habit from you.” Your voice strained as you held your coughs in. “How the hell did you pass the Marine inspection?” 

“Tobacco isn’t a stimulant.”

“Are you dumb? It is. It’s literally nicotine.” He looks off the side, blinking down at the dimly lit stick in his grasp. “Stanley, come on.” You burst into laughter at his reaction, nearly keeling over when he drops the cigarette to the ground and squashes it with his shoe. 

He freezes when he feels your hand holds the side of his face, fingers brushing against his buzzed sides. “What happened to that smart-ass brain of yours, huh?”

Why were you being so casual when moments ago you looked like you wanted a hole to open up beneath you and swallow you? So that you could avoid the prying question of what could’ve been?

“It got fried,” he says, a blank expression on his face. He couldn’t focus with your warm touch against his skin. “Being a marine isn’t easy, you know?” Your thumb starts to brush against his cheek, and Stanley has to fight every power within him not to shut his eyes in content. 

“I bet.” 

Silence looms over the two of you again. Your palm is still planted on his cheek, and his eyes fluttered shut a second ago—much to his dismay and to your amusement. But before he could continue to savor the feeling of your warmth properly, your hand starts to slip away slowly, and Stanley starts to feel… 

Reminiscent. 

He’s quick to latch his fingers around your wrist before you can pull away entirely, holding it near his head while you stare at him with wide eyes. He didn’t know what he was doing, nor did you, but Stanley didn’t stop himself when he began pulling you closer, and you didn’t make any effort to pull away when his face was inches from yours.

Just before his lips press against yours, he whispers out. “Do you want this?” A faint nod, almost like hesitation. Then another, firm and confident. Stanley would’ve preferred you use your words, but he dismisses it this time, not wasting another second before he presses his lips to yours. 

You sigh through your nose when he kisses you, hands traveling to his neck, holding his jaw delicately, bringing him closer to you with each passing second. 

Then, Stanley gets desperate. 

His movements become sloppy, uncharacteristic for a man as poised as him, who was ever the perfectionist. His mind was fuzzy, eyes screwed shut as he tried to compose himself before you could pull away. 

Stanley was terrified, and he didn’t know how to handle it.

His hand moved to your waist, gripping tightly like he was afraid to lose you again, and maybe he was right to feel that way— because it always ended like that. 

He’d have you in his grasp, and then he’d get dragged back to reality before you could indulge in the feeling. But Stanley never held tight enough to keep you bound to him. That was his fault. That’s why you never stayed. Because Stanley could never commit the way you wanted–  or hoped.

“I’m leaving tomorrow.” He whispers when he pulls away, resting his head against yours while clutching the fabric of your jacket tightly. “I won’t be here for a few months, but when I come back– will you let me come home to you?” 

When you look at him, there’s a clear emotion written on his face. One that he’d never shown much before, one that he kept bottled up in fear of judgment.

Vulnerability. 

“It always ends the same with us, Stanley.” His eyes shut as you spoke, saying the words he wished you hadn’t. “I don’t know if I can handle watching you leave again.”

“I won't.” He shakes his head, “I couldn’t let you go when I didn’t even have you. Your name is engraved in my heart and soul.”

A soft chuckle comes from you suddenly. Stanley doesn’t understand why. “I never knew you could be so romantic.”

“Let’s focus on the topic at hand, shall we?” He prompts with a light snort. “Will you wait for me?” 

A quiet hum follows his question. It's almost like you’re trying to torment him with your silence. “I’ll wait forever and a day, Stanley.” You answer, fixing his collar to occupy your hands. “Even if we break up two weeks in, you’re worth it.” 

He shakes his head. As if he was going to let you go again.“When I come back, I’m yours forever.” 

You sigh, filled with faux despair. “What a nightmare.” Stanley grins at your remark, holding your chin as he presses a long kiss to your lips. “Oh, I’m already dreading it.” He hums softly, lips curling into a smile when you bump your nose against his. 

“We’ll make it work.” He says suddenly, though it sounds more of a promise to himself than a declaration to you. 

You glance at him, an almost pained smile on your face. “I know.” 

“I love you.”

He’s met with wide eyes holding a glimmer of hope and a touch of love. But, Stanley nearly takes his words back and scoffs to himself at your response. 

“I know.”

a/n: I was watching sw… that explains the ending.. sorry… also no idea if Pabst is a good beer, just heard it in a song

[m4nj1r0s]

Ran Haitani relationship headcannons

- Was probably only using you for entertainment, and was 100% planning on leaving you after about a month.

- Since you two weren’t serious in his mind, mf was a MENACE.

- Got you a COLD pack when you were on your period and had cramps.

- Like my Hanma post, gives bad girl advice to Rindou.

- “Girls prefer cold packs when they’re on their period, it helps the cramps.”

- Like a week before he was going to break up with you, he noticed a rival of his making lovey-dovey eyes at you. He postponed breaking up with you just to spite his rival.

- Was extra affectionate with you if he ever saw the guy JUST to be petty to the max but he found himself doing it privately too. And.. he liked it. Rindou helped him come to the conclusion he genuinely liked you!!

- But now you can’t leave him, ever :(

- You guys have dates where you just nap together. I’m not talking like you just came over and you two were bored so you took a nap. No, no, no like this is an actual PLANNED date. It’s marked on his calendar and everything as ‘date night’ with a bunch of hearts made with red sharpie. Ran probably gets Rindou to go out so you guys can have some peace and quiet.

- “Isn’t this nice, baby?”

- “I can feel you trying to interlock our toes.”

- Probably took Rindou a while to warm up to you, but the real ice breaker is when Rindou came home drunk whilst Ran was asleep so you guys played video games and did karaoke.

- Ran wanted to tear his hair out at Rindou’s singing but he said yours was like a lullaby. 🤗

- Probably has a picture of Nahoya and Souya that he throws darts at in his room. 😭😭

- If you’re shorter than him, he loves putting things you need on a high shelf so you have to ask him to get it.

- And he does this whilst you’re using it. ☹️

- Backfires when you just ask Rindou..

- Expects you to have his picture as your lock screen and refuses to put yours as his. His lock screen is a picture of his bed.

- When you got upset he refused to have your picture as his lock screen, he tried to make it up to you by taping a picture of you to his fighting baton.

- “This is practically the same thing, actually, it’s better! Would you rather I tape it to my uniform instead??”

- He’s genuinely asking.

- You’re saved in his phone as smth like “Honeycomb suckle sugar plum pumpkin pie ❤️💜🤍🤎💚🧡💝😫”

- Wants to learn a new language with you just so you guys can talk about stuff without Rindou eavesdropping (I hc Rindou has a bad habit of this).

- He is IMPOSSIBLE to wake up, like you could try everything and he would still be fast asleep.

- Literally the only thing that makes him wake up is the smell of breakfast or any food in general

- Has a black hole as a stomach (metaphorically)

- It’s cute since you guys can have that thing together where if you can’t finish your food he will just finish it for you :)

- Type of guy to lay on his side with a rose in his mouth and his head propped up with his hand when you come home from work or whatever with careless whisper playing on in the background

- Backfires when he cuts his lip with a thorn 😭

- “I’m never doing this romantic shit again.”

————————————————————————————

I was debating making this a yandere hc post but it feels more of a normal one

It’s a pretty short hc post but I’m back now 🤭

And I will get to requests that are already in my ask box in the next few weeks, since it’s close to exam season for me 😓

[cirusthecitrus]

Dissecting Horde Prime's titles

So do you remember the time when this polite lil gentleman dropped HP's long ass title at us? Which is-

The Emperor of the Galactic Horde, Ruler of the Known Universe, Regent of the Seven Skies, He Who brings the Day and the Night, Revered One of the Shinging Galaxies, Promised One of a Thousands Suns!!! AND I'm pretty sure there were a couple more left unsaid before Scorpia shut bro up All those pompous titles could simply be a bunch of clashing words thrown at the heroes to show how absurd and fullish and superficial the Galactic Horde empire truly is. But I'm willing to analyze each and every one of them and, as always, find more meaning that was probably originally intended And my first question is: is this really who Prime is known as in the Known Universe? Do people on other planets accept him as any of those things?? Or is it something only the clones actually know about and they are the only ones to whom Prime's titles hold any meaning at all? Did he made this all up? Is it yet another lie to make them believe their god is more important and powerful than he is? To make it seem like their servitude is even more noble and honourable, to make it seem more like a privilege? Or are those actually normal legitable titles for intergalactic rulers and emperors? Is Prime a simple menace to the universe and a self-declared ruler or a recognized big political and spiritual figure?

The second big question is - if those titles are real, where do they even come from and what do they mean? It is possible that HP's given himself this long list of titles as yet another way to elevate himself above everyone else, demonstrate his importance and simply stroke his own ego. But he might've also be given those titles by someone else. For something he did for or to the world So let's go through all of them one by one and try to guess the meaning behind them The Emperor of the Galactic Horde, Ruler of the Known Universe - yeah these ones are pretty self explanatory. Though it is still unsertain if he was officially declared a ruler of the whole universe or Prime just thinks everything he sees belongs to him even thought he hasn't actually conquered it all yet

Regent of the Seven Skies - now this is interesting. The Seven Skies might be the cosmic version of the Seven Seas, aka seven main parts/routes of the Known Universe. OR, if we bring up mythology and religion the Seven Skies might mean seven levels of heaven/gods' domains. Makes sense so far But why regent? "Prime is eternal" so why calling himself someone who only governs the Seven Skies for someone else? A temporary substitute for the real ruler? Now this might be the title given to Prime by someone else. Was he chosen a regent for the previous Prime or another ruler? Was he chosen to be someone overseeing the world/heavens before the real gods return? No matter what actually happened, in the end HP refused to give back his position of power. And thus he might've kept this title as this weird reminder of how it all started (wink-wink totally not smth i explore in my kur twins au wink-wink)

Thought in our case the word regent might have a different meaning. In very rear instances a "regent" can be called a person who conducts a church choir... And now it all falls back into place

He Who brings the Day and the Night - yeah a doubt Prime has the ability to control the luminaries so lets focus on a more metaphorical meaning. Day and Night - Peace and War - Life and Death - Rebirth and Destruction - you get it. But day and night may also mean Light and Darkness, which kinda implies that Prime is the source of everything the Horde is supposedly fighting against. It is Prime who brings the shadows and darkness to the world, something he himself deems sinful, horrible, unforgivable and undeserving of existence. And he doesnt even hide it! The truth was right before his brothers eyes, and they never realized...

But it's also interesting to speculate if once upon a time the darkness and the shadows weren't actually something inherently bad in the eyes of the Horde. What if the dark was once celebrated along with the light? What if the members of the Galactic Horde were once allowed to love the dark? Allowed to love the night?

Revered One of the Shinging Galaxies - now this one implies that he is (or rather was) someone highly respected among many galaxies (cant tell how big the numbers are), might as well be idolized and worshipped. I mean duh, he'd supposed to be a cult leader, they are meant to be adored by their followers. But this might actually be the only evidence of Prime not only being feared and hated, but also loved by the world. This might proof that his clones werent his only real followers. Again, if this is a legit title Prime didn't pull out of his ass

Promised One of a Thousands Suns - I can't tell what are the Thousands Suns exactly - kingdoms/empires/councils/rulers? Are the Suns if what the Know Universe calls their gods? Can Prime be also called a Sun then? Is he a chosen one, something close to what She-Ra was to the First Ones? Was there some type of prophecy predicting Horde Prime's rise to power? Was he promised as a bad omen, as a future plague to the universe? Or was he awaited, wanted, beloved, treated like the world's savior even before he even existed?.. (wink-wink)

Another interesting thing - the words Sun and Son sound almost the same. Which unintenionally adds another hidden layer to this title's meaning. Promised One of a Thousands Sons. Thousands sons - thousands brothers... It almost feels like a sound illusion, a trick to make the clones feel closer to Prime, feel like he belongs with them and they belong with him for they're the same, to make them believe that they're almost equals. They are all brothers, they are all important and special and they all play a role in the higher plan. But Horde Prime is a little bit more important, a little bit more special, and there's no other brother like him

So yeah, that was my free and totally biased interpetation, i'd love to know what your thoughts are cause I do not remember anyone else discuss Horde Prime's full title before. They may be meaningless afterall, but not to me, never to me u-u

[paintthetownblack]

Another Night

Eric x reader

Part I ; Part II ; Part III

A goofier take on sharing a coffin with Eric, and some revelations that pull the plot along.

-

Pam refused any and all words from Eric beyond that point, and took her diamond quilted pink coffin, first I had seen it, into the former dungeon, carrying it like a sulking toddler all the way across the main room, to get as far away from me as possible. She saw me as a kind of liability, I couldn't argue with her.

Eric pretended not to care about her silent protest, "if you were really serious about it, you'd go to ground out in the woods." He told her.

"I would, if it weren't already light out." She responded, before slamming the basement door. I can't understand how she manged it. And just before she did, Eric got in one last line "It shouldn't stop you." He certainly didn't mean that. I had only been there three months, as a mere employee, and two days as Eric's human, but I already knew he would rather meet the sun himself than let Pam do it.

Annoyed with his progeny, he took me into the "coffin room". There, like a pile of unused chairs, stood stacked in a corner, a couple of standard coffins. "Who do those belong to?"

"They belonged to vampires who were with us, through the decades. Obviously, they are no longer. Come." I had been so distracted by the idea of ghost vampires eyeing me from behind those coffins, that I missed the double coffin with its red lining peaking out from the edges of the lid. "You're not claustrophobic, are you?" He said, as a way of lightening the mood.

"A bit late to ask me that." Luckily, I wasn't really.

He opened the lid, the lining glowed from inside like a pool of blood. I didn't know why, but I felt suddenly hesitant to sleep next to him. It sounded in my mind more intimate than sex. I knew he was weakened by the sunlight outside, and I was somehow afraid to be next to him, when I felt he was vulnerable. I must have internalized Pam's attitude. But he took my hand and helped me inside, and in feeling his touch, I got a reprieve from my thoughts. For a second there, it was all warm and fuzzy inside my brain.

He let the lid close, and we were in darkness. Eric was completely motionless, as I struggled to find a position. I laid on my back, but my neck bothered me, so I turned to my side, to face away from him, and coming up so close to the fabric lined wooden plank made me claustrophobic, I flipped to my back again, still not comfortable, so I turned to face Eric. "Wanna swap?" I whispered, fully aware of the absurdity of the situation.

"No." I just knew he was smiling, even though I couldn't see him.

"Fine." I fluffed my pillow a bit, barely keeping myself from laughing, as the absurdity increased, and then I settled down somewhat. I bent one knee and nudged him. "Sorry."

"Don't apologize, just go to sleep."

"Can I try something?"

"Can you try it quietly?"

I put my arm across him, and leaned by head on his shoulder, that was the neck support I was looking for. He didn't make a sound, or a gesture, which I took to mean he didn't mind me, so I could drift off.

I woke up at some point, during the late afternoon, Eric was still asleep, and I tried not to stir too much, as I pushed the lid ajar and snuck a peak outside. I threw one leg out over the edge, braced my weight against the ground with one hand, and slid out, rolling onto the floor. I would have made a lesser commotion, getting out the normal way. The normal way of getting out of a coffin, the kind of thing I never thought I'd contemplate. Most people only went into coffins, with assistance, of course, and never came back out. There was a rebirth metaphor somewhere in that, and I felt inclined to contemplate it, as I went outside.

The sunset was just a sliver of orange glow on the far horizon now, the warmth of the day still fresh and radiating from the asphalt around me. I could almost hear the distance between myself and the rest of the world, knowing it was just me and the two vampires inside, for miles in each direction.

The door opened behind me, it didn't startle me, it was Eric, his shirt open, his hair messy. "How are you-" I had started.

"The sun is low enough, I'll be fine." He said inspecting the sky, appearing not entirely convinced it was safe for him, but not finding any resistance.

There was Eric Northman, standing against this flame blue and orange sunset, with his guard down, not even stopping to fix his hair, it was like a moment suspended outside of time and space. It should have been impossible.

It comes at a cost. Was the line that echoed through my mind, out of nowhere. Catastrophic thinking. Always ran in the family. I tried to soothe it away, but it had taken over, and spoiled the warm halo descending around the building. Before long, it was pitch black. We hadn't said a word for a long time.

I went towards Eric, he was watching me intently. I stopped about a foot in front of him, and saw his eyes change, like he had just made peace with something, settled into an abstract idea. I outstretched my hands, and he grasped them. "Let's go for a drive." I said. He didn't hesitate, he popped inside, into his office, to get the car keys. When he re-emerged, his shirt was done up neatly, and his hair was smoothed down, he had stopped by a mirror, evidently. But he tossed the keys my way.

"You're driving. Can you drive a stick?" He said, raising his eyebrow to make clear that there was double entendre.

"Why?"

"Why are you driving, or why a stick? Because I only have a stick." He started to laugh. There was something unexpectedly childish about his sense of humor, at times. It was sweet. "I only have the one car." His tone was innocent and defensive, playful.

I couldn't help but laugh.

We got into his Corvette and did as teenagers do, when they want for privacy, we drove out to a makeout point near Bon Temps, a plateau on the edge of the woods, overlooking the town. There were no other cars, and I was starting to feel the embarrassment, for having driven there. Eric, on the other hand, was having quite the time, fluttering his eyelashes in the passenger seat "Did you bring me here to seduce me?"

"I brought you here, because the view is pretty. But not as pretty as you." Playing into the joke, I felt more at ease.

"Stop. You're making me blush." He had resumed his smoldering gaze and serious tone. "You are beautiful. I don't think I told you that before. For that, I am sorry." I was taken aback by that. We had lost all levity in a few words, but they were lovely words I didn't think I'd hear. And I liked hearing them. I didn't miss the levity.

"Eric." I held his eyes, his big blue eyes, there was so much emotion in them, when he let them show it, but he often blocked it out, with his unapproachable smug act.

"Anything?" He raised his eyebrows.

"No, nothing." He seemed almost disappointed. And then he leaned over to kiss the top of my head.

The stars shone through the windshield and bathed us in a hazy glow. The windshield was dusty as well, and it added to the mood. There hadn't been a cloud in the sky all summer. That was a consolatory thought, for some reason.

I unhooked my seatbelt and moved over, up on Eric's lap. I pushed aside the hair on my neck, and leaned towards him. His fangs popped out. I held his shoulders, I could feel the muscle striations under my fingertips, it was anchoring. He bit me, holding the back of my head with a kind of care that said volumes. My whole body was aching for him, I felt my pulse reach down between my legs. What was it about my bloodline that made being bitten by a vampire seem so erotic? If that was even to blame.

Eric let go, and pulled my head down to his shoulder. I let the intensity wash over me. And I listened. There obviously was no heartbeat to listen to, there was mine, and it was rapid. However, next to it, I was hearing another rhythm, slower, less even, not a heart, a sea, with waves lapping at the shore. I could smell it, and I could see it. It was clear and cold, and the eyes through which I was seeing were low to the ground and moving sporadically across the beach, they seemed to be the eyes of a child.

I lifted my head, some of my hair got caught in his stubble. I brushed it down, I took the opportunity to graze his cheek "what were you thinking just now? What was in your mind?"

"What?" He was surprised, to the point where some of his swedish accent came through "it was an ancient memory. I was a child when it happened. Playing on the beach, watching the sea." He understood why I had asked and he shifted between amazement and concern. I got the sense that he was someone who, though afraid of vulnerability, very much wanted to be understood.

"It's a beautiful memory." I tucked some of his hair behind his ears. It was too short to stay. There was blood pooling in his eyes. I didn't know what I'd say to comfort a one thousand year old viking warrior vampire, so I kept smoothing his hair down, and it seemed to help.

"It's your blood."

"I know." I had just come to the same realization. Everytime he drank my blood, I got inside his mind.

"I hate to break up this lovely moment, but we should speak to Pamela about this."

"She is going to love this development." I rearranged myself in the driver's seat.

Eric wiped away a tear, and used it to heal the bite marks with, not looking towards me. "Are you good to drive?"

I nodded and started the engine. We made good time towards Fangtasia. Eric kept his window lowered the whole way, looking out contemplatively, gravely. We arrived to find the "closed" sign on the door. Eric's exasperated face told me this would be interesting.

He got out of the car and went inside with vampire speed. When I caught up, I saw him, arms crossed, looking unimpressed, as Pam was sinking her fangs in the femoral artery of a young girl in a silvery sequin dress. Pam raised her head, and the girl gasped. "A little privacy?" She turned slowly and defiantly towards her maker.

"Fine. Wrap up here and meet me in my office. We have important business to discuss." I went after him, feeling all the uncomfortable feelings of being walked in on by your parents, while understanding what it was like to be the parent, at the same time.

We were joined by Pam not much later, she had wiped the blood from her face and reapplied her powder and lipstick, she looked like a porcelain doll. "This better be good."

"It is." Eric responded from his desk chair. "I need you to think of something-"

"Of course, I'm the only one doing any rational thinking around here anyway."

"Cute. I need you to go to a memory, whatever specific memory. Actually, pick something from before she was born."

"That's not difficult, she's practically five minutes old." Pam closed her eyes, raised her eyebrows, tilted her head "done."

"Anything?" Eric looked at me.

I shook my head. As I stood in front of Pam, I came up blank. I took her hands, she opened her eyes, and looked at me disapprovingly. But I was looking on a newspaper page. San Francisco Examiner, 1888, "The Whitechapel Fiend?" I asked her. She stepped away from me and took her hands from mine.

"That would be Jack the Ripper to you. I was around when he was just getting started." She stood at a right angle from me, arms crossed, processing. "So you are a telepath afterall."

"There is a catch. Only when I've recently drunk her blood, can she tap into memories." Eric explained, resting his feet up on his desk.

I was like a pillar in the middle of the office, or Pam was using me as such. She stood with her arms crossed in front of me, and each time she spoke towards Eric, she leaned past my frame, then she retreated. And I was shorter than her, so it must have been comical, from where Eric was sitting.

"So her blood is in you, which means that she can see into your thoughts. And, because you're my maker, and we share the same bloodline, she can also see into my thoughts."

"On a smaller scale, but yes." Eric added.

"Just like a vampire."

"Lasts less than a day, though."

"What is she again?"

"She doesn't know." I answered her.

"Adorable." Sarcastic to the bone. "Anything else you'd like to add?"

"You were scared." I said, not sure whether I should have. "You were only seventeen, and you were scared." I felt for her, but I also wanted to humble her, if that was at all possible. And I wanted to hug her, but I was afraid of what she would do, if I tried. Eric gave her a sympathetic look, though.

"It was mass hysteria. We were across the ocean from the action, and we thought we were in danger. It was nonsense." She went to lean against the desk, back to Eric.

"I don't think it was nonsense."

"Here's what definitely is. Keeping you around. We know the extent of her powers now, and, thank fuck, the effect of her blood is temporary. She is dangerous to have around, and she has nothing on us, Eric. Let. Her. Go."

Eric was about to interject, when we started to hear a police siren approaching.

Part V

[maculategiraffe]

for the longest time I didn't know what was up with anybody in my family, and then I figured out my sister and I and my dad all have adhd but I still didn't know what was up with my mom, and then my sister said she thought our mom and I were both autistic and I spent awhile considering that, and now I must say I think all four of us are autistic AND have adhd, and furthermore I also think all my aunts and uncles and cousins are autistic and have adhd, and the three of my late grandparents I ever met were all definitely autistic also. probably my dad's mom was too but I never met her because she self medicated so heavily her whole life with booze and cigarettes and benzodiazepenes and probably like seconal and nembutal that she died pretty young. also steve is definitely autistic and I strongly suspect both his parents are

unfortunately my mom starts shrieking and throwing chairs (metaphorically. mostly. although she did once drop kick a toaster) if anyone ever floats the idea that anyone she has ever met might be autistic, so her internalized self loathing is still firmly in place and the idea that the baby might have similar neurological tendencies to literally every single one of his known genetic forebears is freaking her the fuck out because it's "mean" to "accuse" someone of being autistic. because apparently it's NOT mean to make a person feel like they're failing the Last Judgement anytime they say or do anything, and refuse to consider that there might be any reasons for a person acting in any way she deems eccentric besides the person just being too lazy or wilfully perverse to put in the effort to Be Normal.

but my mom is also aware on some level that she is not normal, and also thinks that it's because she is lazy and perverse and not making enough of an effort, which means she resents herself as much as she resents the rest of us, and refuses to contemplate figuring out what would actually make her happy because the fact that she's not happy the way she's living means there's something wrong with her. because she is living the right and normal way to live. so stop saying anything is wrong because only an abnormal person would say that and (gripping a wineglass so hard it shatters) nobody in this family is abnormal.

I obviously can't fix her but it makes me feel so much better just to understand where all her constant nonsense is coming from. she'll start bitching about somebody on TV doing something stupid that's going to get him in trouble and she goes-- at this absolute edge of nervous breakdown pitch, I cannot describe the hysterical rage that is barely contained in her chest when she says something like this, nobody would act like this. nobody would do this. and I'm like sure they would and she's like NO THEY WOULDN'T and I'm like ...oh, oh yeah, the hyperempathy thing. she identifies so strongly with every person before her, even the fictional ones, that it's like physically painful to see them make decisions she wouldn't make. just like it is to see me and my sister making decisions she wouldn't make and leading lives she wouldn't lead. so instead of going "oh! I would never!" she's got to go NOBODY IN THIS WORLD WOULD EVER. THAT WOULD NEVER HAPPEN. EVERYONE IS NORMAL OR ELSE THEY ARE NOT REAL.

it's just a really good perspective to have. like... I get it now. that's really all that's changed but it feels like a lot. that I get it now.

[dj-triumph]

fuck it i'm posting a poto essay.

Okay so listen I know I do a lot of shitposting about The Phantom of the Opera, and this more like...Advanced Shitposting Literary Critique from a former English major who prefers to do analyses in serious shits and giggles format. So, here goes:

In true Austenian fashion, for a moment I would like us to consider Christine’s marriage prospects from the SEXIEST possible angle. That is, from the perspective of marriage as a financial proposition.

Because what is a single man in possession of a good fortune in want of? Why, a wife, of course!

As we know, marriage as a financial proposition certainly comes up in the story, namely when Philippe is trying to convince Raoul not to marry Christine. Philippe knows it would be exceedingly beneficial to Christine if she does exactly what he is afraid she’s doing: marry up. Find a rich husband and then have a kid to seal the deal.

This is because our girl Christine is as poor as a church mouse. She’s a ballet dancer who just got promoted to opera singer. Both of these are synonyms for “fancy prostitute” as far as society is concerned. And of course, she's an orphan.

Christine MAYBE stands to inherit whatever Madame Valerius leaves behind because I don’t think she has any heirs. The Valeriuses "treated Christine like a daughter," but who knows what’s in Prof. Valerius's will. If there is no will or she's not in it, and it goes to probate, Christine is fucked. Her dad refused to take any money for their busking together and they were nomads, so he left her with exactly nothing. 

On the other hand, Raoul has money, but like both of his sisters, he's entrusted Philippe with the entire estate and from this Raoul receives an allowance. It’s probably a comfortable sum, and he’s in the navy and lives in the family home when he’s not away doing navy stuff, so probably his portion is continuing to grow (idk, hopefully Philippe is a good investor, his siblings certainly think he’s doing it fine). 

Meanwhile, Erik, a hermit who hasn’t had a real job since the Populaire opened like 15 years ago, is coasting on his extortion checks that must FAR exceed the monthly pin money of the fourth child of even one of the oldest French estates. Like, I would be willing to bet that what Erik pulls in a month is equal to or more than what Raoul makes in a year.

Erik is…well. Many of us in the phandom think he’s a catch, in a sense, because we are Built DifferentTM, but career-wise he’s an architect conman etc.

As far as husbands go, Christine could do better, and she could do worse. Financially speaking! There are very few ways she could do worse in the broader sense of a marriage. I AM SO SORRY, I LOVE ERIK TOO, BUT IT HAS TO BE SAID. And I’m not including his looks in the equation! As we know, Erik does enough to self-sabotage without his face even being part of the conversation.

Those who know me know that I ship Erik/Christine, and every time I talk about Raoul I end up making fun of him. HOWEVER I also know, objectively, Raoul is the better choice. (Erik also knows this; he had to hold a barely metaphorical gun to Christine’s head about it.) I ship Erik/Christine in my heart, spiritually, but lord if I wasn’t praying for his downfall throughout that entire book.

“I’ll be as gentle as a lamb” he says. INCORRECT BUZZER. YOU TIED HER UP, ERIK. Y’ALL HAVE BEEN IN FISTICUFFS BEFORE.

“I’ll make you laugh every day” he says. Y’all the way I almost threw the book across the room when he started doing his ventriloquist act for her. I couldn’t take it.

“I’ve invented a mask that makes me look like everybody else and we will live in a normal apartment and go for walks in the park” Now I’m just making myself sad.

So, you know, Erik is a “catch” in his own right but Christine is not the world’s best fisherman.

But financially….Erik is making the modern equivalent of $3.1M USD each year in today’s money. Dude is LOADED. (Side note but I do not know how the Populaire afforded this? One might theorize that a big reason why Poligny retired is because he was tired of fundraising.)

Okay now WHAT do I mean by all of this. Stay with me.

If we are balancing the scales, looking at this love triangle situation in its entirety, Leroux gives him the biggest conceivable advantage in marriage for the time and place in history, but does Erik anytime reference this in conversations with Christine about their impending marriage? OF COURSE NOT. At least not directly and not as far as we ever see. There are a few reasons for this. First of all, Erik and Christine are romantics. They care about music, about love, about eternally divinely entwined souls, etc. 

Also Erik and Christine are Catholic so probably they wouldn’t get divorced over finances like everyone in the modern era in a place where no-fault divorce is a thing. He’s certainly not worried! He’s going to build them matching coffins!

For all the grand promises Erik makes throughout this book (Empress Giry, anyone?), he only promises Christine an apartment and music. That's literally it. Meanwhile he is making, once again, THREE MILLION UNITED STATES DOLLARS A YEAR and has been doing so for years! He wants to have a normal life, he's tired of living in a house with a torture chamber and a false bottom, but is he equally as tired of having more money than god??

Many a fandom scholar has asked this, but literally WHAT are the 20k francs per month for? Like I know he just wants to inflict pain, cause chaos, wreck havoc, etc, but dude can't even figure out how to enjoy his spoils properly! Erik doesn’t eat or drink, and he has all his mom’s horrible furniture. I personally think he stole all the bouquets of flowers from upstairs, so those were free, too. Nice paper, red ink, enough candles to light all of Paris, and a few romantic moonlit carriage rides can be expensive…for people making normal amounts of money. His bribe to Madame Giry is a box of chocolates and a little cash here and there. This man isn’t even paying property taxes. Erik more than likely has more money than he knows what to do with by a lot.

Other than pregnancy, “I’m ugly and horrible but I’m rich” is like THE most classic marriage trap there is, and that has literally zero effect on the story. Leroux gives Erik this huge W that he doesn’t cash in on. He makes his blorbo richer than the vicomte, writes about it as the entire B plot with the managers, but in terms of the A plot, it means NOTHING TO NOBODY.

Leroux even cuts off Raoul at the kneecaps for a while when Philippe threatens to cut him off from his inheritance. A navy man’s salary is nowhere near the cash Erik is bringing in! But what does that matter to any of them. (Of course, Raoul will get his money when Philippe dies, so Leroux brings it all back around to a…happy…ending of sorts.)

Really, the truth of the matter is that not a single character in this book is a practical person. Maybe the managers but they’re also idiots. Maybe Philippe. But they're not even impractical in the Pride & Prejudice sense. It's an entirely gothic romantic point of view to have this ghost-turned-romantic lead with a grossly extorted fortune just for shits and giggles. Just because fuck you and what about it. God, I love this frustrating novel so much.

From a character pov, I find it so interesting that Erik cannot for the life of him figure out how to try to make this shit work in his own favor. He has actually seen too many operas at this point and of course we know he’s not exactly living in a shared reality with anyone else, but he wanted to have more money than god because he could and so he did, and he ends up giving it away in the end as this sort of symbolic do-good thing. Or at least, he gives away 40k francs of it. Who knows what happened to the rest.

Why all this fuss, with the murders and the pranks? Was it fun, do you think, just to hoard the way rich people do? More fun than telling your gf she's about to become the wealthiest woman in Paris??? Would Christine have even cared a little bit if that was true???? Probably not! Her dad taught her that shit didn't matter, although surely by now she knows that's not true.

Obviously in either marriage she would’ve been just fine (again, financially, as long as Raoul retains his inheritance) but it is so funny to me that Erik is soooo much richer than everybody else for no reason. An outlandishly competitive suitor and for what.

This is just like him, though, isn’t it? To be so desirable, so full of potential and everything this woman could want, yet to be so unattractive, so unwanted? And further, to be re-imposing society’s burdens upon himself.

Anyway, poor Erik, poor everybody, even the rich ones, and most of all, poor Christine. Hope you and your hubby figured out the inheritance stuff for the de Chagny estate before you fucked off to Scandinavia!