#stalking trigger warning

[traumawhomst]

So Vampires, I won’t lie I love a platonic yandere vampire sire so much.

(1,250 words)

He sees you at your minimum wage job and at first just brushes you off as just another boring human. Then he notices the colors on your bracelet, school colors for a very expensive and exclusive school, a few (human) businesses partners he knew sent their children to that school and none of them worked for minimum wage on their free time. Between the bracelet, the callouses on your hands, and the way your eyes seemed dark and sunken, he knew everything. He left without much thought, telling himself that he didn’t care about some random human and their poor tragic life.

He told himself it was just curiosity when he looked up the current class list, (you can find anything with enough time and money) and found your name. Even in just the school photos you stuck out like a sore thumb, a wildflower in an otherwise perfectly manicured garden. A little further digging revealed you were an amazing student, even if your grades weren’t always perfect. You clearly had talent and a strong work ethic.

It’s just curiosity that makes him dig further, finding your admissions essay, in his office, finding himself smiling at some points, quietly charmed by your choice of words and styling of your essay. It had been a risk that had clearly paid off. He liked those willing to take risks, reminded him of himself when he was younger.

He might as well look further, finding your freelance writing which he poured over in chronological order a growing sense of pride in your progress over the years. Finding your work made him stumble upon your personal life.

Family, but not close, which seemed to be the theme for everyone in it. Did they know about your accomplishments? Did they even care?

He’s not very surprised when he follows you home and sees you living in a studio in an apartment with paper walls, living on a diet of instant noodles and whatever soda was cheapest for that week. How could you study living like this? You seemed to only ever work or study, taking every shift you could just to make enough to afford something a little filling than instant noodles. Surely you’re not at your best, he can’t help but wonder what you could produce given proper resources.

His colleagues laugh when he defends it all as just curiosity, and he decides to approach you in person to finally get over this little, inquiry to rest.

But you look so tired when you smile at him, you’re trying so hard to maintain the smile and he’s wondering when the last time you smiled and he realizes then, as he nods along to your explanation about whatever item he picked up, that he hadn’t seen you smile once in a week of watching you.

He could smell your blood and did his best to hide the scrunching of his nose. Wildly anemic and deficient in every vitamin and mineral that a human needed to stay upright. It set him on edge, wondering about the strain on your body it must have. Humans were so fragile already, how long could you live like this?

The thought of you dying sent a bolt of panic through him. You were young, talented, and hardworking you deserved time to flourish and grow.

It would take a few months for all the necessary paperwork to be complete and in that time he slowly builds a sort of friendship with you.

On your end an older man, (whose eye color you could never remember) started to come in at least once a week. He was sweet in a way you hadn’t expected, happy to talk about any book he or you had brought. That’s when you really noticed him, when he came in holding your favorite book. He hadn’t read it yet, and was happy to hear your small preview and talk about the major themes in it. He always managed to come in when it was slow and for some reason no one ever approached you when you two talked.

He’d said he owned a bookstore, (more than one you imagined from the amount of first editions he causally walked around with) but was visiting here for business. He told you that when you refused to take one of his very expensive first edition he tried to give you. He only relented when you explained that your apartment was rather damp and you knew that it would only degrade the book over time. Next week he showed up with the newest edition, and refused to leave with it. Really you’re doing him a favor, he’d love to hear your thoughts on it.

He wasn’t scary either, he always had this air about him that was calming. Something that made you relax and trust him, and in the few months you met him he’d never done anything make you doubt your trust in him.

He’d brought you a book to read with an immortal character in it, and asked what you’d ever take the chance if offered. The thought of being stuck in your life forever or any life really made you sick to your stomach. No you’d rather accept that your life would be finite and told him you thought life would be meaningless if you were immortal.

And for the first time, something new quickly twitch across his face. Anger? Disappointment? After months of friendly banter and discussion it was almost a slap in the face of the reality of it all. You didn’t know him, or his motives. The look only lasts a moment, before shifting to his pleasant neutral again, but you still saw it. You pretended for the rest of the conversation until he leaves. You request to a new work schedule when you finished for the day.

He on the other hand was practically spinning about it. He should have been ready for this sort of answer, but he wasn’t. He’d had the conversation played a million times in his head, and you always agreed on it being a gift. He rationalized that you simply couldn’t understand it, given time you could be persuaded to see differently.

He showed up, ready to talk with you only to find out (through a heavy layer of compulsion) that you’d changed your hours to avoid Him. Time to move forward with the plan it seemed.

He found you one late night as you walked to your apartment and something about him made the hairs on the back of your neck stand-up.

He offered to walk you home, and you finally put your foot down and told him to leave you alone, as politely as you could muster. But you couldn’t seem to actually speak any of the words. What were you trying to say again?

He happily chatters on about how excited he is to show you your home, one arm around you steering you to some place you didn’t recognize. But every time you tried to say something you’d forget a little more of what was going on.

He didn’t really want it to do it this way, he told himself as he guides you in the deep state of compulsion you’re in. He wanted to win you over with the idea, to gladly accept his offer, to see it as the gift it was. But he could also admit to himself watching you try and fight the compulsion and fail, it was adorable to see the stubbornness that you had, it’d serve you well in your new life.

[estel-and-agape]

Clearly her stalker is a Tumblr user.

Inflation is so fucking bad we're fantasizing about stalkers leaving groceries

[sir-heichou-smith]

I've been OBSESSED with reading psycho!soap/reader, but like what if you

You temporarily move to the Scottish countryside to help your best friend take care of their sick grandparent while they're studying abroad or smth and when you start unpacking you hear a knock at the door and it's a man with piercing blues and a clean-cut warhawk staring at you, probably expecting the old person you're now looking after but it's YOU and he decides right there and then he has to have you.

Those eyes widen and pearly whites form a sharp smile (almost predatory) and he introduces himself by saying he's their neighbor and he's lived here for years and knows that they needs help sometimes so he comes over to help with the groceries and do the heavy lifting etc etc.

The thing is he only ever comes around when they're asleep or at an appointment or smth so it's usually just you awake/alone in the house.

It's a bit strange when things start breaking around the house. The kitchen sink leaks when it hadnt before, the cabinet hinges are loose, a light doesn't work... you could have sworn the ceiling fan wasn't that wobbly, but the house is old and you know the handsome Scot will be back to fix it anyway (not that you're complaining).

He starts to stay for hours at a time almost instantly, coming over with open arms and a bottle of wine or something sweet, awaiting a hug and asking you what's for dinner--practically pushing his way inside while palming your waist and pulling you in.

One night you seem to have had too much to drink (you didn't think you were such a lightweight after only 2 glasses of wine), your head fuzzy and limbs a bit too heavy to be comfortable.

"Y'alrigh bonnie? Seems like it's time for bed." He laughs and picks you up from your spot on the couch despite your protests of being able to walk and he really didn't have to and oh that's his hand that's definitely a rough warm calloused hand on your-

He takes you to your room and pulls back the covers for you, gently lays you down and you can't get your mouth to work to thank him.

Your eyes are already falling shut and you think you feel soft lips across your forehead before succumbing to a rather deep alcohol-induced slumber.

Your dreams that night are rather vivid. Flashes of warm skin with thick hair and rippling muscles above you, deep moans and hot breaths against your neck and chest.

You feel hands all over, gripping your waist and spreading your legs wider, toying with your chest and gripping hard around the fat.

You dream of a thick Scottish accent and filthy words. "Oh, bonnie just like that. Gonna fucking cum, gonna make me-"

When you wake up, the wet soreness you feel between your thighs and the way your nipples rub sensitive against the covers don't completely escape you, and when you make your way downstairs you find him shirtless in the kitchen with breakfast on the stove, coffee brewing, and a smile that's just a bit too wide for how early it is.

[aeyumicore]

Last remarks regarding @/izuwus.

edit 9/22: her new blog is @/clitfilms with an alias of 'naya'. be wary interacting with her.

edit 3 (9/26): She has switched accounts and aliases/personas MANY times in the past. She was previously miguelism/startitties as ‘Stella’ (lots of issues associated with this one). 

edit: people have also come forward to let me know that she was 'albaedo' and 'reinaphoria' (two deleted blogs that were used to also harass other writers)

She had an account that she deleted recently, in light of the discourse that came about from me exposing her as my harasser, that was called “@/movedtoizuwus.” I don’t know what it was called before she named it that. 

She then moved to maimochies/izuwus as Mai/Lise/Lili.

She used minimimies, exposingaeyumicore, aeyumiicore, and aeyumicores to harass me.

And now she is on clitfilms as Naya.

Her past accounts have had a LOT of drama and harassment associated with them. Go search it up for yourself on Tumblr. A lot of it is EERILY similar to what happened to me, in terms of how she spoke, the anons she sent, etc.

Other creators have reached out to me with similar experiences being harassed by blogs LINKED TO izuwus & startitties, and believe she has MANY other active blogs as well as deactivated blogs (reinaphoria) that are linked to harassment. I will not name drop those as I cannot say with the same degree of certainty that these are 100% her (like I know startitties and clitfilms to be) but I implore everyone to be careful who they interact with.

--

Hi friends. I have not spoken publicly about the situation with my harasser/impersonator/Izuwus since Aug 28. I only responded to one account under that same post, as they were non stop deleting their blog when I would block them so they could remake to comment more. The blog name was 21303, clearly a burner, and the comments are still under my post though they are unviewable as their blog was deleted. (original post here)

I received an update from the Tumblr Abuse staff today at 4:40 PM PST in response to a report I made regarding the above user 21303. I will attach a video of the email (to prove that it is not edited). You'll even see the emails from the sites someone (probably Izuwus tbh) signed me up for in this post: link.

VIDEO of the email Tumblr sent me: link.

Izuwus did NOT delete her own blog, despite what she made it seem like. Tumblr removed it for violating their Terms of Service and User Guidelines.

In the email I reported the blog '21303' but I did mention I believe this person to be Izuwus. I did not report Izuwus. Yet Tumblr took it upon themselves to remove Izuwus' blog.

Tumblr is known to reach out to blogs that are under investigation to let them know their account is being reviewed.

You can believe what you will, but this email from Tumblr confirms that Izuwus was in fact the person harassing me.

Side note, when someone deletes their own blog their asks will show "BlogName-deactivatedDateDeactivated" such as on the left. Yet izuwus' still shows as normal, like on the right, which is what it looks like when Tumblr removes your blog.

I am closing this awful chapter of my time on Tumblr for good, barring any other suspicious behavior that may happen.

I am so sorry you guys had to witness this. I appreciate you all. Please stay safe!

[trashblarg]

The same people who ship Curly and Jimmy together are the same people who jack off to Killing Stalking, you people need help.

Feel free to harass said shippers by linking this to them, idc y'all are hideous

[freaky-darkling]

Intertwined, (1/4)

Hi hi! This is the first longer story I've written in years! Please tell me your thoughts, I would love to hear them!!!

This is part 1/4, I would include all parts together but these are kinda long and I'm not done writing them all. This will take all 4 parts to fully understand. Dw, it only gets more intensely yan from here, babes.

(*￣∇￣)ノ

TWs: Yandere, familial abuse, attempted attack, violence, gaslighting, self-gaslighting, extreme paranoia, dark imagery, stalking, invasion of privacy, invasion of life, psychological horror

Disclaimer: I do not condone violence, stalking, or abuse irl. This story is entirely fictional.

With that said, have fun reading, babes~

✯¸.•´*¨`*•✿ 💘 ✿•*`¨*`•.¸✯

It started happening when Lea was little. Random moments of blackout that she couldn't remember. But everyone around her did.

During the blips in her memory, everyone around her said that she claimed to be a little boy, with a different name, from a different place. He was a completely different person to her. He was erratic and violent. Disobedient and spiteful. He had no sense of boundaries or discipline.

Her parents claimed she was playing pretend, that she was just pushing their limits then playing dumb when she got caught. To combat her disrespect, they would yell, slam her against walls with threats of beatings, drag her by the hair until she was crying and begging her throat raw for an answer as to what she did wrong. While they made her skin sting and bruise, reattuned her ears to be enmeshed with producing adrenaline, they convinced her that their reactions were her responsibility, and hers alone. The boy would be long gone each time they started laying out their punishments.

Multiple nights Lea would lay awake silently weeping, hearing how her parents would complain and fight with eachother, because of her. Even when she wasn't in the room, she had it drilled into her head how her mother wished she never had her. How her father said she was just as much of a "manipulative bitch" as her mother.

After a while, Lea naturally started wanting some answers as to why this was happening. So she grabbed a notebook and wrote in it asking who it was making her do these things to make her parents so upset. Then, she stared at the page for hours at a time, waiting for another blackout in hopes that whatever or whoever this was would see it.

He did.

He wrote back in the notebook, telling her in sloppy, firm-held writing that his name was Alec, and that he was just simply bored. That he couldn't leave his room where he was, and he needed something to do. Lea showed the evidence to her parents, but instead of receiving inquiry to understand, all she got was more punishment. She learned to stop asking for their help. It was her responsibility to take care of.

Lea pressed Alec further on her own, writing to the boy asking him to stop causing her trouble before staring at the notebook again.

It was in these long spells of waiting that Lea seemed to disappear to the world around her. Silent, still, and not asking a thing of anyone, she found peace. It was like her parents had forgotten their anger towards her whenever she became invisible.

But since Lea didn't know when Alec would take over again, and she couldn't risk looking away from the notebook, her own boredum started to get to her. So she began to write more and more to him, asking more questions and detailing things about herself without prompting.

More times than not, when she came back to, Lea was being 'disciplined'. But after her mother or father had exhausted their rage, there would usually be a small sign that Alec had left for her in the notebook, showing he had read what she wrote. Small comments, here and there, saying that he related or thought what she said was silly. Sometimes they were little scribbled doodles.

One day though, Lea regained awareness in her body, and her whole body had slowed. She was drowsy, her breathing was shallow, and she could hardly will herself to do anything more than sit up to eat. She felt half asleep. That was the start of the sedation her parents had resorted to. Now every time that Alec came back, he'd be dispelled of quick with just a few pills, and Lea would be left lying in bed staring at the ceiling, or just barely sat-upright in class, hardly able to speak, but finally looked at without hatred by her teachers and peers. Somehow, in her drugged up state, despite needing help and having to be monitored to make sure she didn't suddenly stop breathing, she was likable again, not something to run from.

And at one point in her early teens, without noticing, Alec stopped showing up.

No more did friends, teachers and family tell her to stop pretending to be such an awful imaginary kid. No more was there a note left for her. He just faded out of her life.

Alec seemed to be gone for good.

Since then, Lea had eventually been weened off the sedatives. Her parents still resented her for dealing with years of hardship, but they gradually began to become more passive aggressive with age. Though their yelling and need to lock her in her room never went away.

Lea would still have blackouts, of course, but they would now only noticably happen under extreme stress, and there wouldn't be such awful consequences afterwards.

Lea kept her habit of writing in a notebook and converted it into a journaling hobby, writing as if she were telling her every thought, feeling, passion and experience to an old friend. A practice that was surprisingly well approved of by the many councillors she sought out who seemed to suggest that Alec was just a very loud sliver of her childish mind.

The only other matter of note, was that she kept receiving calls that were near silent on the other end, save for faint breathing listening to her confused greetings. Lea would block each new creepy number, but periodically they kept returning.

For a while, it seemed as though her life was finally becoming fairly normal. Until, unfortunately, when she moved out to live on her own.

It started small. So small that she was already used to brushing it off. Things were constantly out of place. She'd pick out clothes for the day just to see in her reflection that she changed without thinking. But with the prolonged sedation she dealt with growing up, there were bound to be memory issues. It was when she stopped keeping a journal that she finally realized that something was wrong. On the morning of the fourth of February, Lea opened her eyes, finding herself sat at her small kitchen table, her gaze pointed directly towards her journal open to a new page. Written atop it, in sloppy, heavy handwriting were the words, "Why aren't you talking to me anymore?"

The pen was in her hand.

Lea didn't respond to it. She tucked the journal away and went back to her daily life, choosing to forget it had happened at all. She had her coffee, ran in to work at the grocery store, started doing her daily tasks while occasionally whispering in the isles with her coworkers about this and that, overall having a good day. Such a good day in fact, that she didn't anticipate for the afternoon to turn into night in an instant with another message in the journal glowering up at her, "Talk to me Lea."

She threw the book into the trash. She tried to blame it on stress. She tried to convince herself she was experiencing narcolepsy and sleepwalking. None of the answers she came up with brought comfort, despite how loosely rational they were.

By then, she already believed the same story that her parents did. That something within her was broken and in her childhood just acted out like a toddler without morals. That Alec was a figment of an excessively active imagination. Lea had written over her remaining memories with guided hindsight.

But she couldn't get to sleep.

Something was nagging at her, telling her that the memories of recieving messages in her notebook as a child were real. That she had been told things she didn't already know about, that should have been impossible for her to write on her own. Her heartrate refused to slow.

Lea closed her eyes for just a moment and tried to force herself to sleep. Without knowing when it happened, she was standing by her bed, eyes open, with her phone held up to her ear. The world was pitch black around her.

"Stop ignoring me." A male's voice demanded on the other end.

She woke up her neighbour throwing her device against the wall.

The next day, as she was restocking the soup isle in the early morning, her friend and coworker, Amber, came up to the frazzled woman with a hiss, "Lea."

"Uh-- hi!" Lea croaked out in response. She hadn't been able to sleep since that call. Thankfully, she stopped shaking enough to come in for her shift. But she had spent the time between now and then debating with herself on whether or not to call the police or a psych ward. The former definitely wouldn't have believed her. Her imaginary childhood scape-goat was communicating with her? Even though her phone record showed that she called that number?

And the latter, well they might have taken her seriously --in a way-- but she wasn't too fond of being detained, not to mention she had rent to pay and couldn't call out sick if she was.

"What the hell, man? You blew me off yesterday without saying a word, and now you come in here and you don't even apologize?" Amber whisper-yelled.

"Wha-- I didn't blow you off."

"Yes, you did! I tried calling you but you wouldn't pick up!"

"Wait, wait, are you talking about our movie night? We're doing that tonight, it's the fifth."

"Today's the sixth."

A wave of dread crashed over her like a tsunami. She was sure that yesterday was the fourth, she had been looking forward to spending some time with Amber.

Amber didn't fail to notice the change of expression as she scoffed, "Don't act like you forgot what day it was, your phone was on and you let it ring. You ignored me. That's not okay, Lea!"

"I-I'm so sorry, I don't know what happened." Lea automatically apologized, trying to come up with something believable now but instead just spurting out the truth, "I don't even remember what I did yesterday... did I come in to work?"

"Yes." It was Amber's turn to look confused, "How do you lose track of an entire day?"

"I dunno... day's must be blurring together or something..." Lea rubbed at her eyes. Even her coffee wasn't enough to fight off her exhaustion. "I'm sorry, Amber. I really don't know how it happened, but I promise, I'll make it up to you."

The shorter woman just sighed and rolled her eyes, "Just buy me a bag of mini chocolates and you're forgiven." She then raised a warning finger, "But don't do it again. That hurt, and you had me worried."

"I'm really sorry."

When Lea went on break some hours later, she checked her call logs. Today was in fact the sixth. Other than the unknown number that she somehow dialed and promptly blocked at 3AM, there was no record of any calls or texts coming in or going out on the fifth. The day had just slipped her by.

The following days had slipped by as well, though this time out of monotony and not some freak amnesia incidents.

The journal messages had stopped, and though she found it hard to fall asleep at night now, Lea wasn't calling any mystery numbers.

The only way Lea had coped with the loss of memory as a child other than writing, was convincing herself of the fact that she had just been daydreaming while acting out, and that like her normal dreams, she just forgot them when she "woke up".

But now she was becoming increasingly aware of her lost time. One second she'd be cooking, the next it would be hours later and she'd be in bed, her nightly routine done to a T without any recollection of it. The jumps forward in time especially happened any time she got emotional. Any time she felt a heaviness in her throat, the uncomfortable wriggling forth of water in her eyes signalling she was going to cry --typically at a movie or show-- whether out of happiness or empathy, she'd come to with the TV off and her attention pointed at literally anything else.

The once assumed "minutes" lost in her day wouldn't stop piling up. The mental tally of hours lost in just a week was akin to the torture of being strapped down and having water dropped onto her face for days at a time. Unable to do anything about it, with each small moment building and building to a break in her psyche.

But she didn't dare to write it down. She didn't dare keep any record of her emotions or what she was thinking; not physically. Lea considered that maybe all of this was just some paranoia disorder brought on from her childhood. She didn't want to try to prove that theory wrong. She paced back and forth, her eyes acutely aware of and drawn to anything that could be written on. Her veins itched to dispell the thoughts in her head, to get some form of release. But she didn't dare. She didn't dare leave evidence, or any piece of her fragile desperate mind to be looked at, to be studied by this force that occupied a section of her brain. She wanted-- needed to keep at least one fragment of herself protected from it's eyes. It's eyes that were already all over her home. It's eyes that knew her habits, her hobbies, every little thing that made her vulnerable. It's eyes that had undressed her, seen her bare and helpless, then redressed her as if only it was allowed that kind of access. She wanted to claw into any surface available for it to go away, but she didn't dare. The risk of knowing for a fact that her world was being tracked outweighed the miniscule hope of relief that she was merely insane.

Three weeks after the phone call incident, and Lea's anxieties surrounding her own mind had distracted her enough to not notice the unfamiliar man in the alleyway she passed on her way home from work. She was yanked into the shadows, a hand covering her mouth as her back was slammed against a rough, gritty brick wall, making her choke on her breath. Lea's heart started to race in her chest, her eyes wide and focused as if recording what may be the last moments of her life. The taller, gruff looking man looming over her held a knife that glinted in the low light as he growled, his breath heavy and filthy as it hit her face in hot puffs, "Don't you fucking dare scre--"

How do you forget the moments after something like that? How can you be taken out of a terrifying situation to find yourself mentally panicked yet physically calm on your couch, and not question how the hell you got out? He hadn't finished his sentence, her body barely had the time to react enough to send her into a panic and Lea was already home safe. She clutched at her chest, wondering why she wasn't hyperventilating, why her heartrate had gone to normal, as if her body had long gotten over what happened. Her mind still wanted to weep in terror, but no pang came to her chest. Every movement replayed in her mind. His dark heartless eyes that reminded her of her angry father, the snarl on his upper lip as feral as a rabid dog. His thick, dirty, clammy palm pressed against her lips, nails digging into her cheek. Replaying the short moment and remembering each detail slowly brought back that feeling of panic in her bones, but it was too late. The absence of it at all was the most sickening.

Her walk to work a few sleepless hours later just made it all the worse. In the early hours of the morning, the neon police tape shown like a beacon against the grey air behind it. A small crowd had gathered around trying to sneak a peak at the disaster, gawking at the very ally she'd been pulled into the night before. Light grey smoke wafted from a dumpster, coupled with hundreds of particles of ash.

There was a single body bag on the ground.

Horrified yet again, Lea attempted to look like she wasn't running as she kept going along her way to work.

Could that body have been the man that attacked her? But how? How could he be dead and assumably burned, when all she had for proof that the event happened was a scratch on her cheek?

The questions and rumors spoken by coworkers and shoppers alike all buzzed through the air and landed heavily on Lea's mind. Her internal dialogue panicked every time someone glanced at her or asked for help with finding a specific item. Wondering, worrying if they somehow knew that she was involved. She kept coming up with lies to explain her scratch, but no one asked, as if taunting her with the fact it was so obvious she was there that nothing could prove her innocence. The passing murmured theories intertwined with hers, trying to piece together every second that happened. Lea threw up on her break. Her coworkers thought it was due to excess empathy, or more likely the stomach flu going around. They were completely unaware that the guilt over the fact she didn't know how she escaped with her life, and what happened to that man after, was devouring her inside out.

(End of part 1)

[kmtrkai]

headcanon, romance and mirko.

dabi does not believe in love; not in the way it is defined by permanence, safety, or emotional reciprocity. he was raised inside a home where affection was earned through utility, where attention was conditional, and where failure was punished with silence or force. his father treated love as currency—something given in exchange for perfection. when that perfection did not materialize, he withdrew all recognition. dabi was not nurtured; he was engineered. and when the experiment failed, he was discarded.

he internalized that failure early. his mother, traumatized and institutionalized, became a ghost long before she was taken away. his siblings bore witness to abuse but could not prevent it. he watched his younger brother get beaten for existing out of line. he learned, slowly and painfully, that in his family, violence was the only consistent language. what others call intimacy, dabi associates with danger. what others call connection, he experiences as threat. he does not form bonds with those he is attracted to; he forms fixations.

psychologically, dabi exhibits signs of chronic dissociation, emotional detachment, and trauma-induced antisocial behavior. his sadism is not aimless; it is targeted, often theatrical, and layered with retribution. his antisocial behavior traits; lack of empathy, criminal behavior, disregard for moral codes, calculated aggression—are not organic. they are constructed responses to a childhood shaped by coercion and performance. he does not feel guilt in a conventional sense. he does not seek validation through compassion. he seeks control; he seeks presence; he seeks to be unforgettable.

his fixation on mirko emerges from this framework. she does not coddle or pacify. she does not look at him with pity. she meets him in violence and returns it without hesitation. this makes her visible to him in a way others are not. she registers as real; independent, untouchable, uninterested in reforming him. that resistance is what draws him in. not admiration, but challenge. not romance, but the desire to break her.

his obsession is not rooted in love or longing. it is rooted in corruption. he does not want to stand beside her. he wants to change her shape. he wants to watch the clarity in her eyes dissolve into something darker. he wants her to suffer because of him; to lose herself the way he did. her strength fascinates him, but it also enrages him. because he sees in her what he was never allowed to become—powerful, intact, autonomous. his compulsion is not to protect it; it is to destroy it.

he shows up where she works, not to advance any mission, but to test her. to provoke her. to study the fault lines. he memorizes how her body shifts before she strikes, how her breath catches when she starts to enjoy the fight. he reads these moments like scripture. not because he wants to connect, but because he wants to invade. she becomes a ritual, a necessity, and a target. if she walks away, he will follow. if she comes closer, he will consume. he wants her exhausted, disoriented, altered.

his goal is not to be with her. his goal is to undo her. to dismantle her certainty. to be the reason she questions herself. if she ever hesitates in a fight because she is thinking about him, even for a second, he will consider it a victory. he does not crave peace. he craves evidence that he leaves behind a scar.

if she kills him, he will die satisfied. if she stays, he will keep pushing until something breaks. and when it does, he will not apologize. he will call it proof.

[dichromaticdyke]

never follow the horror tag on tumblr it's a nightmare, there's so many rando ass "x reader" fics. anyway i just saw one where one of the trigger warnings is "wlw dynamic"

[fizziepopangel]

Tell Me Your Thoughts, Reindeer: A Baby Reindeer Review

It’s Fizziepop! And we’re back at it with the reviews!!!! Today we’re talking about Baby Reindeer, a seven episode series on Netflix written and directed by Richard Gadd. Now, this show is based on a true story and contains some heavy topics so please read this review with caution and while I do highly recommend this show, please, please watch it with the content in mind as it does contain violence, SA, and depictions of severe mental illness…. But as for my review, for those who feel up to the read, let’s get into it!

Ok, let me start with the basis of the show. Richard Gadd wrote and directed this mini series to depict his experience as the victim of stalking and sexual assault in a real way. The scenes and narration and characters are all gripping as they depict a raw tale of trauma using the character Donny Dunn to tell the story of Gadd’s own experience with the issues. While there are many shows that depict topics like mental illness and SA in real ways (Law & Order: SVU, Big Mouth, Shameless, The Upshaws, Grey’s Anatomy), Richard Gadd’s Baby Reindeer shows a more unseen side of it and even shows the idea of stalking in a unique way.

In the show Baby Reindeer, bar server and struggling comedian Donny Dunn meets a woman named Martha Scott. Martha is an awkward, rather average looking woman who wanders into this bar looking depressed. She immediately takes a liking to Donny after he takes pity on her and offers her a free drink after hearing that she couldn’t afford one. This small act of kindness causes Martha to come back. Again. And again. And again. She becomes a bar regular, and though he knows that most of the things she’s telling him about her life are most likely untrue, Donny does some harmless flirting and makes a few jokes to brighten her day… But Martha takes this meaningless joking and banter seriously and suddenly Donny’s harness flirting becomes a lot less harmless.

Martha becomes more than a regular. After a flirtatious joke in front of the other bar workers, Martha takes it to mean that Donny wants more from her and her seemingly small crush at that time begins to spiral into pure obsession. It begins as her flirting a little more aggressively, but soon becomes cyber-stalking his facebook page, then showing up outside the bar and forcing herself into different aspects of his life despite Donny slowly becoming more and more uncomfortable. In all honesty, there are times that Donny seems to almost invite her into his life, sometimes out of pity, and others because he enjoys the attention she gives him, but as things begin to turn into something more than he’s capable of dealing with, he does attempt to stop it. He tells here they’re just friends, even breaks up with her in hopes that ending the relationship she’s made up in her mind with him will keep her away from him…  But in line with her obsessive behavior, Martha continues to show up, continues harassing him online, and even resorts to public humiliation at points.

Now, in the midst of dealing with Martha continuously leveling up her obsessive behaviors, the situation Donnie is also being reminded of trauma that he experienced prior to meeting Martha and he is being forced to relive it with each new twist and turn in the downward spiral into madness Martha is dragging him into. But as things come to a head, we find ourselves on the edge of our seat as we wait to see how far Martha will go to keep her precious ‘Baby Reindeer’ (her affectionate nickname for Donnie), and how far Donnie will go to get himself out of the situation he’s found himself in.

Baby Reindeer is an amazing reenactment of Gadd’s own story, and if you enjoy British dramas and/or shows that are based on true events, or even just psychological thrillers in general, I think you’ll really enjoy this short series. I personally would watch this mini series again and I will absolutely add this to my list of recommendations!

[woahjo]

cal idk if you’ve read killing stalking but i feel so bad for saying this but i MEED to tell someone bc i know killing stalking is the worse thing ever but i fell in a rabbit hole today and i unfortunately came to a conclusion that gojo would be sangwoo and geto yoonbum just bc something about gojo’s eyes/stare remind me of sangwoos

I HAVE read killing stalking!! I’ve said this before but I think it’s a very good psychological horror. people’s problem with it I think is that they read it as a romance when it’s deffff not LOL. like the internet sort of took killing stalking and ran with it as a romance and that’s why people go into it and cause uproar 😭😭😭 BUT I’m off topic

I have the opposite thought actually 😭😭 I think that getou is more of a sangwoo type, purely because he’s got that sort of aloof vibe and has killed people (real). and I think gojo is prone to the sort of obsessiveness and desperate infatuation that yoonbum suffers through.

[lgcichika]

in the dark

sometime prior to crystallis' most recent move - @lgcbk ( tw / cw : stalking )

She’s always been the independent sort, always the one to prefer to do things herself than wait around, always the type of person to think of the risks before moving forward. It’s why she didn’t think twice before moving so far from home, and why she put off close friendships during her trainee years; she was fine on her own and could take care of herself. Or so that’s what she likes to think. While things have changed a good deal since then, at her core, Ichika remains the same. The same girl who waves off her members when they inquire about joining her on outings (because after days and hours surrounded by them, she craves some alone time), and the same girl who doesn’t think to invite personal friends along (even though she’s sure Jieun would join her if she could). 

For a girl who thinks so much usually, the past weeks have felt like a blur — a complete haze where she’s sure she’s just moving through the motions — but perhaps that’s another reason she needs space. Bundled up to protect herself from the cold or excessive attention, she lets herself enjoy a self-date at a cafe, a drop by an international bookstore, and a quick peek into a stationary shop. Even as the little bit of winter sunshine filters away, a bit of comfort and happiness seems to pierce the fog. 

It’s why she doesn’t notice it at first, or rather him. She’s so stuck in her own thoughts, she doesn’t even consider the idea that someone might follow her. Her face is mostly obscured by the large, soft scarf tucked into her coat, as well as the cute hat her mother had sent over just for her. But it’s a few blocks away from her dorm that she feels it. Something is not right, and her footsteps slow down for a moment before she starts up again, more quickly than before. She doesn’t want to look behind but she can hear it now, the heavy fall of feet. A man’s stride. She’s starting to feel the fear in her chest, the panic— is it even safe to lead him back towards her dorms? 

M-maybe if there’s a shop nearby by she can safely call a manager. Oh god.

[asraspeaks2]

TW: Creepy, stalking-like, break- up

I've never used a trigger warning before on any of my posts, but here we are.

My good friend, Y, was dating a "nice" guy for about 4 years. He seemed nice, but a bit aloof. I only had a few interactions with him, but he seemed ok and my friend was happy.

I assumed all was well until they broke up. It wasn't a big break-up...more like a cool off and disappear into the ether kind of break-up. Y seemed to be handling it ok. But then she started revealing things to me that shocked me.

He would always bring her expired or near expired food. She felt like he was using her as a dumping place for crap he didn't want.

He never planned dates. But if he did, it would always be something that he knew she wouldn't like.

He never paid for anything. It was always Dutch. Not even a meal on a date. There were several occasions where Y just paid for everything.

She gave him a spare key (a few years into the relationship) to her place and he made another copy. He kept that secret for 2 years.

Y has a cat and the guy loved the cat. The cat also loved the guy. But when they broke up, he asked Y if he could have a "piece of [cat's] skin" when the said cat dies. He was also interested in the entire dead cat to be stuffed and displayed.

She's telling all all this stuff and my jaw is on the ground. Y comes to my home regularly and last time she came for Thanksgiving she brought this guy.

I'm really worried about her so now I text or call her daily. She just thinks it's cause we're good friends. Yes and I also need proof of life.

[saintrosalyn]

JAILBIRD

Ghost becomes pen pals with an inmate before deciding that he wants to adopt his little jailbird.

Word count: 4.1k

Tw: inmate reader, reader is kept as vauge as possible but is implied to be younger than Ghost, violence, stalking, ghost is a perv, p in v, oral (f! Receiving), creampie, spanking (once), orgasm denial if you squint, unprotected sex, NOT edited we die like men.

Edited to Add: Part Two is posted :)

Notes: Baby’s first fanfic, please be gentle. Let me know if I missed any trigger warnings or if you want to see more! I have an idea for a second part but I don’t know if anyone wants it, right now it’s tucked away safely in my drafts. Enjoy! :)

P.S. I’m thinking about making an ao3 account and publishing an edited version of this on there. I’ll link it if I do! I’ve already spent too much time procrastinating finals but christmas break is around the corner so who knows.

The letter came with the top serrated, already opened, as all your letters came. You mostly ignored them. There were a couple of programs that allowed people to become pen pals with prisoners but you’d been there long enough to know what they often contained. 

Many of the women milked poor losers on the outside. Money given and sent. Promises of butterfly kisses and blowjobs whispered over the phone. Exchanges. Some were even able to sweet talk their honeys into giving bribes. Money passed into hands of guards, currency that was then exchanged for cigarettes, which were much more valuable on the inside than the bills used on the outside.

You don’t know why you read this letter. It certainly wasn’t the penmanship, a scrawled handwriting that lay between cursive and print. Maybe it was the blue pen, you’d recognize a Bic anywhere, or maybe it was the fact that it smelled a bit like top-shelf liquor. 

It was rather blunt. But not in an obscene way. Simple and straight to the point as if constrained by an unknown word count. It wasn’t memorable, but what else was there to do? Pace your cell back and forth and wait for zoochosis to settle further in your bones. Close your eyes and remember what freedom tasted like before it dissolved in your mouth.

The pen they gave you was cheap, the paper even cheaper, but you were used to making things work. Your reply was shorter than his, than Simon’s, but it got the job done. If he wanted to write back he would. If he didn’t, well, the new prison guard was starting to get rather handsy with you. The time will pass no matter what.

___

His replies came in strange patterns. Some weeks you’d get eight in a week, other times you wouldn’t hear from him for a few months. It took a year for the first phone call of which lasted less than a minute and consisted mostly of him grunting on the other end and a schlick sound you pretended not to notice. It was his fourth phone call that he finally said a few words in a voice so low it made the phone buzz against your ear, tickling like a lover's breath. Eventually, you had some semblance of conversations, even if they were interrupted by a recorded voice warning you of the time you had left. 

He told you he was a soldier and at first, you planned on cutting the whole penpal idea off. Even before you got arrested you hated bootlickers more than anything. But Simon grew on you, and your friends all suggested you get in his good graces to see if he could pull some strings. You would’ve felt guilty if he was anything other than glorified government property. Both of you were.

The first thing he gave you was a book, The Yellow Wallpaper, which was thicker than you remembered from the time you read it in school. It was only when you cracked open the spine did you find a pack of cigarettes inside, the pages carved out so your real present could be placed inside. You couldn’t help the smile that split your lips as you pressed one between your lips, not noticing the tiny S carved into it.

You thank him for the gift by whispering his name into the phone. A mantra, a prayer, it didn’t matter as long as you kept your voice breathy. He promises to get you more and you learn not to refuse him. At one point, you notice that little robotic voice doesn’t time you anymore. The guard who couldn’t keep his hands to himself was replaced with a woman, hair pulled back into a military-style bun. And you got an extra cookie with your meals.

It took a year for him to visit. You knew it was coming eventually, men are only fine with their imagination for so long before they crave something tangible. Hell, even you were curious about the man who wanted to sink his teeth into you. It almost felt like getting ready for a date. Butterflies dropped like lead in your stomach as you tried to tidy your appearance as much as you could. You smelled, but there wasn’t much you could do about that. The whole damn prison smelled like a county fair bathroom. The lack of air conditioning in the heat of summer just added a sweet BO tinge. 

The first thing you noticed about Simon was his size. You had never met a man as big as he was. The next was the thick scar tissue that marred his face. Though, even without the scars you would be hesitant to ever call him handsome.

Intimidating.

That was what came to mind staring at the thick cords of muscle that covered his arms and the broadness of his shoulders wasn’t just genetics. And he just stared at you. You glanced at the phone that connected to his on the other side of the glass and back at him but decided against it.

You offered him a small smile and an awkward wave. It unnerved you. The focus and attention pinned you in place. Normally you kinned yourself to a tiger you saw at a zoo when you were a child. One that paced back and forth. Back and forth. Back and forth. A habit you understood all too well. But sitting in front of your pen pal you realized you were rather off. 

Simon was the tiger and you were the bird that caught his attention.

It took far too long for the guard to come and collect you. For once you were grateful to retreat back to your cell, so much so that in your retreat you failed to notice the nod your warden gave Simon.

___

After that Simon met with you in person as often as was allowed. He never said anything and neither did you. Eventually, the novelty of him wore off. Humans were rather adaptable creatures, and you could only be scared of the man for so long before your body adjusted to him. Despite your silence, Simon didn’t appear displeased with you. In fact, it was almost the opposite of it. More gifts arrived.

A pillow, high-end shampoo, a toothbrush (that you had a strange suspicion was used before being given to you), nail polish, and more cigarettes. Some of the women were jealous of the attention given to you, others tried to get with you to share your bounty. Somehow you dodged most of the conflict. But you can only run so long while trapped with so many women.

When you showed up to your meeting sporting a bruised cheek and split lip the air quickly changed. Before you thought Simon looked like a predator. 

You were wrong.

Fear coursed through your veins and you recognized the look in his eyes. Every woman in the damn place knows what a hunger for violence looked like. Slowly he reached out an arm, the sleeve of his hoodie riding up slightly showing off tattoos, before grabbing the phone and pressing it to his ear. With a shaking hand, you did the same.

“Bird.” His voice was somehow deeper in real life than over the phone.

“You should see the other guy.”

His lips twitched.

There was something uncanny about his eyes. They weren’t brown, they were black. Obsidian. You realized that before, the first time you met him, he wasn’t trying to scare you. Though, you were pretty sure it wasn’t directed at you.

“Just a little spat is all Simon. Everything sorted itself out.”

All over a bottle of nail polish. Tempers run short in prison. You spend most of your days in a cell, and what little free time you get surrounded by the same insufferable bitches, it’s a mystery there isn’t more violence. For the most part, things were settled with words. The more physical an inmate gets the more time spent in your cell. There were some weeks where you spent twenty-three hours a day in that little room. 

Simon let out a sigh as if dealing with you was the most insufferable part of his day.

“Did ye’ get medical attention a’ least?”

You nodded your head.

He gave a grunt.

That seemed to be his preferred method of communication with you. Caveman grunts and growls, the occasional moan over the phone he couldn’t hold back. You figured it had something to do with his job. He was quite tight-lipped about it, but you gathered he has co-workers (his squad? Platoon? What was the proper lingo?). Despite this, you were under the impression he spent the majority of his time alone. He always seemed more primal after those month-long stints of silence.

You always wondered how you would feel if he never contacted you again. Went out and didn’t come back. Would you assume he was dead? That he moved on to prettier things that aren’t locked away? Would it make a difference to you? 

No. It wouldn’t.

Even now you got letters upon letters from other men. Though none were as giving as Simon was.

It was back to silence and staring contests that you were used to. The both of you slipping into a familiarity. He never put the phone back. Even when your warden came and escorted you back. You didn’t glance back at him. 

Tucked away in your cell you didn’t get to watch Simon slowly rise out of his seat, chair creaking from the shifting of his weight. You didn’t see Simon lurk in the back as the inmates met with their loved ones on the out. Didn’t see him take notice of a particular girls with nails painted the same shade as his gift to you. The same shade as the tip of his cock.

___

The girl was transferred. For a singular moment, you thought Simon had something to do with it. Then laughed at the idea. Simon may be in the military, but you highly doubted he had anything to do with the bitch who got transferred. At least you got your nail polish back. It was a strange shade, and the idea of a man as big as Simon standing in an isle trying to pick out a shade made you chuckle, it was the thought that counted.

Time marched on. Penpals came and went but Simon stayed the consistent part in your life. 

Eventually, the possibility of parole was on the horizon. 

Freedom. 

So close you could practically taste it.

Unfortunately, that meant a laundry list of to-do items. Court hearings, lawyers bankrolled by Simon, arranging for transportation and housing. Simon handled most of it. By now, the lingering guilt of using your soldier fiance had long left you. He seemed like the kind of man who needed to learn lessons the hard way, and entering a relationship with a felon was a lesson most didn’t need to learn. Still, he had been putting in quite a hard amount of work. He deserved a treat.

And after years of forced celibacy, you needed it bad.

The two of you would enjoy each other for a week or two. Simon would realize he made a mistake moving you in. He would kick you out. You’d pawn the ring he’d give you and use the money as a cushion as you landed, getting back on your feet. The two of you would go your separate ways and never see each other again.

Being in prison taught you a lot of things. Despite everything, patience wasn’t one of those lessons. The day you were gaining your freedom passed was the slowest part of your life. The checking, double checking, retrieving your stuff, checking again, until finally,

Finally,

You were outside. You were outside in something other than a uniform that stunk of sweat, there were no handcuffs. Anxiety crept everywhere. You wanted to get as far away from the prison as you could, if you breathed wrong a warden would drag you back. A pair of arms snatched you.

You looked up and couldn’t help but laugh, pressing your lips against his scarred ones.

“Fucking Christ your tall.”

He chuckled against your lips before taking them again, hands digging near painfully into your ass. The two of you somehow managed to walk back to his car peeling off one another before Simon peeled away, hand clutching the fat of your thighs as he drove.

“Never pictured you as a reckless driver.” You giggled.

The adrenaline and giddiness of being free hadn’t worn off yet. If anything it seemed to slowly be morphing into a different beast entirely. You pressed your lips against his bicep causing him to groan. You glanced up at him, watching as his jaw clenched weaving in and out of traffic in a way that was certainly not legal. You would’ve been worried about being pulled over if he wasn’t driving a military vehicle. They answered to a different police, or so he told you.

Eventually, he pulled into the yard of a house with an honest-to-God white picket fence. You smiled as you got out, curiosity creeping in about what his house was like. Simon opened the door for you, which would probably should’ve made you swoon at his gentleman-like behavior, but truthfully it was how he hauled you out of the card and dragged you inside that got your heart racing. 

Impatient.

The door barely closed before his body was pressed against yours and his lips were pressed against your jugular. One of his rough hands slipped up your shirt, grunting when he found a clear path to your tits instead of meeting the edge of a bra. The other dipped into the waistband of your pants, running over your clothed cunt, no doubt feeling the wet spot against your underwear. Your hands slid over his arms, squeezing at the muscle, before slowly sliding them up and up, going to the back of his neck, a hand threading through his short hair the other cupping his face to kiss yours. 

A large thumb found your clit, only the thin cotton stopped him from rubbing directly against it. He pressed down hard on it, causing your breath to catch in your throat, his thumb moving down your slit. The seam of your mouth parted in a moan and he used that to stick his tongue down your throat. 

The kiss was obscenely wet, beastly as his spit passed from his mouth into yours. Before prison, you would’ve pulled away with a grimace. Too much tongue, too much teeth, too much. But your whole body was on fire, years of pent-up orgasms made you desperate for it all. For someone to press against you, to be inside you.

Simon was oh-so-convenient. 

You tried to pull away, lungs burning enough to convince you that air was in fact a need, but the door stopped you. Pressed between it and Simon you had no escape. You whimpered against his mouth, again and again until he finally got the hint and pulled away, a string of spit connecting your mouths as if it too was reluctant to pull away from you.

“Bedroom?” You panted, though if he took you here against the door you would die happy.

Simon threw you over his shoulder and took his stairs two at a time before tossing you on his bed making you laugh. The caveman and his prize. Simon took the moment of being away from you to pull at the collar of his shirt. You watched in appreciation as it lifted higher and higher until it was discarded on his carpet. 

His body was marred in scar tissue, muscle, and a layer of fat that made for a solid fine specimen of the male species. His pants were discarded next, and either he pulled his underwear down with them or he just wasn’t wearing any to begin with. You didn’t have much time to ponder that thought distracted by his hard cock.

Jesus Christ.

Big was an understatement, monster was the word that popped into your mind. It crossed the territory between delicious into scary. Large and thicker than you thought possible. You swallowed and for a second hoped he would forget about the blowjob you promised him after he gave you a pillow. 

“Yer’ wearin’ too many clothes Birdie.” 

Quickly, though not as quickly as Simon was, you wiggled out of your pants, shrugged off your shirt throwing it in the same pile as his clothes. He stepped closer to you, one large hand grabbing your ankle before retching you towards him.

He leaned down, mouthing at your bare tits, slobbering over them. The soft press of his tongue flicked over your nipple before he moved to the other and grazed his teeth over it. His hands were everywhere. He was everywhere. Impossibly big and pressed against you everywhere. Until all your senses were filled with him. As if Simon was the only thing that mattered in the world.

The artificial sun in your glass cage.

His mouth moved lower, nipping at your skin before he moved between your legs. He settled his body in between them, the calloused palm of his hands pressing your legs further and further apart until the stretch burned in the muscles where your legs met your pelvis. Quickly the pain faded into the background as he pressed a kiss against your bare clit, before taking it in his mouth and sucking. You felt the rough pad of his fingertips press against your hole rubbing against it but never quite dipping inside. Again and again, he moved it against you but never in you. 

It was maddening.

You tilted your pelvis against his mouth, trying to coax his fingers into your welcoming body. He growled against your clit, removing his mouth causing you to whine. A sharp sting met your ass cheek and you yelped.

He spanked you.

“Behave.”

You never took the man to be hungry for anything other than missionary, but it seemed he had learned a few tricks over the years. He did have a few on you, you were sure of it. Your thoughts leaked out of your ears as he moved back up, slotting his hips in between your legs. Liquid lust ran through your veins at the sight of him rubbing his dick against your mound, a mess of your slick and his pre dragging along your pussy and up to your belly button. Your poor hole clenching around nothing at the image of how deep he was about to be in you.

You took a deep breath, mesmerized as he pressed the tip against your entrance, catching it before pressing himself inside. He went slowly, and you couldn’t help the moan that left you as he finally began to sink home. Throwing your head back you closed your eyes as he stretched your body out.

You weren’t a virgin before you were locked away, but years of celibacy made you feel born again. Hell, with the size Simon was even if you had fucked him before he would’ve made you feel virginal with the way he was splitting you open.

When you opened them again you caught his gaze, he stared at you watching your expression pinch as he gave small thrusts, working the last of him inside you. When his balls pressed against your ass you let out a shaky breath. You had passed your limit two inches ago but somehow Simon had managed to coax your sweet pussy to take the last of him inside. The pain of him had taken you away from the edge of an orgasm he was working you towards, but when his hand found your clit again you knew you weren’t going to last long.

If his shaky breaths were anything to go by Simon wasn’t going to last long either. 

He kissed you again, this time it was softer. Sweeter. Made your stomach turn in a moment of guilt. It was replaced when he drew out of you, slowly letting you feel inch after inch leave your body, before slamming back in.

He moved again against you. And again. Building up a punishing rhythm. You couldn’t help the small ah ah ah’s that left your lips as he rutted in you. Your hips pushed against his, working with him as you both chased your highs. 

His hand never left your clit, as if glued to it working in tight fast circles. His other hand traveled along your body as if he couldn’t get enough of you. Squeezing at your tits so hard you thought it might bruise, running up your bare skin, constantly moving and feeling. As if he couldn’t believe that you were real. That you were out of your cage and underneath him panting his name in his ear instead of against the end of a phone. 

Your own hands wandered. Moving over his arms, God’s gift to you, his chest. But mostly they moved down his back, feeling his muscles move and contract under your hands. Before you left you would convince him to put a mirror over his bed, so you could watch his shoulders shift and move as he thrust inside you.

It was too much. The feel of Simon, the stimulation on your clit, the thick cock pistoning like a machine inside you, pressure built and built inside you. Your nails dug into his back, dragging down as he pushed you off that ledge.

Simon’s thrusts stuttered as he felt your walls fluttering around him, suckling at his cock, coaxing him. He came with a groan soon after you, painting your walls with thick globs of his cum.

You panted as he rested against you, letting his cock soften inside you as you ran your nails over the nape of his neck and caressed his short hair. It was oddly soft, comforting to run your hands over.

Simon began to untangle himself from you, slowly as if reluctant to part from your embrace. He moved to what you now realize was the on-suite connected to his bedroom. You could feel his cum start to drip out of your cunt and down your asshole, shifting at the uncomfortable feeling. You couldn’t find the energy yet to move, not even sure if your legs could support you right now. Simon came back to you, wash-cloth in hand, and began wiping up the mess he made.

“We’ll have to get a Plan B tomorrow.” You murmured as he crawled back into bed next to you.

Simon didn’t say anything, but he had always been a quiet man. He maneuvered the both of you until you rested under the covers, your hand running along his bare chest. Tracing his happy trail before moving back up, not ready to go again.

The adrenaline from before had worn off, leaving you suddenly exhausted. Sated and free you dozed off against him.

When you woke up again it was darker outside. Not yet the full black of night but rather the soft blue that came after the sun had only just dipped out of sight. Simon wasn’t in bed next to you. You rolled over with a sigh, sitting up and smoothing your hair. Thirsty you threw the covers off your body and padded across out of his room entering into a small hallway. There was a door directly across his room and with a shrug, you went into it. 

It wasn’t snooping if you lived here now too. Even if you were only going to stay for a little bit.

The handle turned easily but the room was darker than you expected, no windows to let in any natural light. Your hands patted at the wall until you found the edge of a light switch, with a click the room was bathed in a soft glow.

Your breath hitched.

The room was bare except for a small desk and chair, the walls were covered in photos. Photos of you. Old photos, from before your prison stint. Mugshots. But what made your skin crawl were photos of you in your cell. You sprawled out on your uncomfortable cot. You sitting cross-legged across from your cellmate. Images of you in the cafeteria. Images of you in the yard. 

You took a step back, then another, and another.

You flicked the light back off and slowly closed the door. You took a shuddering breath and yelped when you felt a chest pressed against yours. 

Simon’s hands dug into your hips, pulling you tight against him.

“You look like you’ve seen a Ghost, Birdie.”

Poor little bird, trading one cage for another.

___

Part Two