#...and if it isn't good enough or they aren't being a Good Victim about it then they are shit out of luck in term of your help...

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

None of our hands are clean

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[uncanny-tranny]

You lose the plot when discussing and fighting for minorities when you buy into the specific brand of (specifically christianity) "suffering is Divine, and the more you Suffer, the More Divine you are."

Suffering is suffering is suffering - when you choose to ignore a marginalized group's suffering because they are not suffering enough or are not "good victims," you have lost the plot.

[mad-hunts]

i like how barton went from being like... a hippie in terms of how he viewed sex in his early twenties, then kind of abstained from it for a few years / became sexually repressed, which... definitely isn't such a good thing. BUT then he became even more of a freak (and i do mean that in the good way this time LOL) around the time he started residency because WOW is that shit stressful. though that was also unfortunately around the time when he really started to spiral as well 😬 but we don't need to talk about that ahahhh

like the way this man learned how to express his sexuality REALLY came full circle in the end considering he was like 'yeah, back in the early days that i was in college, i was a freak. but now i'm not anymore... though do you want to see me do it again anyway?' like 💀 JSJSJ if he weren't so demented, i'd almost be inclined to say good for him, y'all LMAO feeling comfortable with your sexuality and perhaps even having a bit of fun with it (though maybe too much in barton's case, because he literally weaponizes it in order to lure in his victims. BUT once again, we don't need to talk about that right now psshhh. i actually fully intend on talking about that in the tags NGL) is more often than not a good thing after all

[lambcultist]

bare.

synopsis — ‧₊˚ ⋅ you have been alone for so long that she sees you fit to be her perfect next victim. your neck untainted, unmarked, and ripe. best of all, you will not complain when she invades. you will let her in unabashedly, as the helplessness of your biggest fear has led to chilling desire.

content warnings — ‧₊˚ ⋅ MINORS DNI ( 18+ ) agoraphobic!reader x vampire!ellie. dark content. dead dove do not eat. you have been warned. ellie is stalking you. home invasion. panic attack + paranoia. dom!ellie, sub!reader. blood. humiliation, degradation, and praise. dacryphilia. dumbification. feminine!reader. dub-con. reader is legitimately afraid of people and will not leave home for anything. technically reader is also a virgin but it isn't mentioned. pet names used: rabbit, darling, good girl.

　　　　m.list　wc — 2.1k　mdni, please ♡

a steaming cup warms your hands, the tea burns your throat on the way down. you have made relentless routine of this; each night, watching the liquid swirl in your mug and trying to find some semblance of amity in it. hoping it will calm the constant whirring of your mind, bring the storm to a halt.

because being alone for so long has caused irreparable damage to your psyche. it doesn't take a shrink to figure that out. your fear has ravaged you, and you can no longer even remember a time where you didn't feel this paranoia in your bones.

it is paranoia. seeing the shadow of your lamp-shade in a different angle has you fearing the worst, eyes deceiving you. hearing the wind outside—perhaps it knocks over something in the garden—you'll then spend your night with a butcher knife by your bedside. just in case.

currently you cannot be certain that you aren't being watched. there's no proof of such, nothing to go by aside from the nauseating feeling in your gut.

you exhale slowly, but your breath shakes. your own voice can startle you, hence you only ever mumbling nonsense to yourself. "nobody's here. m'okay. it's just me..."

just you.

it's so stupid. stupid, how it hurts to be so lonely. you desired it at first, pulled away from the world and protected yourself from its dangers. your neighbours don't have the pleasure to even know your name. you work remotely, and order everything to your house. don't own a car, don't need to leave your bubble.

it was everything to you at first. now there is more and more pressure and you cannot pop the bubble for the life of you—thinking about it feels like a death sentence, and you'd rather serve your life in here.

there's always been a small itch. even if it was just wishing your bed had double the body heat at night, you were still wanting at least somebody. affection is a bare necessity for humans. it's the one essential that you have deprived yourself of for so many years now that your chest has a consistent ache. you cannot indulge in what you used to love—even a movie kiss is enough to make you cry. of envy.

once upon a time you shed tears over the thought of catching up with friends. it's dangerous. you could be hurt. what if those people aren't your true friends? they could betray you. you were distrustful of the world enough to hyperventilate over opening a window.

now, there's an odd balance between fear and yearning. you weep at the idea of another person's understanding. to be known. feeling like you matter. everybody wants to know that they matter, but you've felt worthless.

thinking of the simplest acts of love, be it a hug or somebody squeezing your hand, gives a troubling reaction; it turns you on. you are alone enough to crave anything, you would be grateful for anything. you are sure that somebody could say your name and you'd feel yourself become wet.

"just me." you have to keep reminding yourself. between sips of tea to soothe your rather unused voice and frantic looks around your living room, you continue to reassure yourself. "i haven't touched the doors since monday's food delivery. everything is still locked. should be. m—maybe i should check..?"

your heart beats in your chest, thumping like a rabbit's foot as you slide your empty cup onto the coffee table. and then— an egregiously loud clunk comes from outside.

you sit up straight immediately, panic shooting through you. it sounded like someone walking up your porch. can't be. but that is exactly where the noise came from.

your feet drag along the floor and your knuckles squeeze the handle of your knife as you head towards the front window. you push the curtains back and take a look. and that feeling as though you're being watched, it feels more powerful than ever right here, but you see nothing. nobody.

this has happened a few nights now.

you flip the lock and pull up your window to peek around the wall—in case someone is hiding. the knife shakes in your hand but you hold it almost like you are cradling it. it's your lifeline.

"nothing. god, why does this keep happening?" you ask yourself. with the back of your hand, you rub your eyes until your vision is no longer blurry, and then you close the window. "i just need to go to bed."

the knife lays on your nightstand as you slip under the sheets of your bed, a lavender candle flickering in the dark to get you feeling a little number. at least that is your intent with lighting it.

"aren't you gonna blow that out, darlin'? that's a safety hazard."

a stranger. in your house.

your heart sinks, you choke on your breath, and you weakly reach out for your knife. but in seconds, she's knocked it out of your grip and climbing onto your bed.

"you think that little blade can hurt me? you're cute, rabbit."

she speaks like you have known her forever. as though you should know who she is. and her own nickname for you—rabbit—pushes you deeper into fear. you are prey. scared, paralysed prey. the one place you thought you'd always be safe in is now a far cry from what it once was, so even if you felt like fleeing... where can you run to?

"get off," you say, the words leaving your lips in a gasp. "leave me alone, h— how'd you get in?"

the wide look in your glassy eyes makes your predator chuckle lowly. her pupils are blown out like yours, not of fear, instead of lust. short locks of auburn hang down as she crawls over you, and when she finally speaks, you notice how terribly sharp and precise her canines are. they shine under the candlelight.

"awh, i only came to tell you you forgot to lock your window, rabbit. i wouldn't want anyone to come hurt you. other than me."

"fuck." you squirm only to have her place a hand at the base of your neck, pushing you against the mattress. "don't hurt me, don't, please. i'll scream—"

"don't you fucking make a sound," she growls. "i was kidding, darlin', i won't hurt you unless i have to. you just have something i need... and if you're good for me, i'll be outta your hair before you know it."

somehow, you only feel like walking yourself even further into the bear trap. it's the pet names, you think. but when her cold hands are sitting you up, positioning you like a particularly breakable piece of porcelain, it becomes harder not to let this hit your cravings.

fear and lust. so similar, yet so different.

there is a genuine gush of warmth between your thighs and you whimper broken words. "what do you want from me? you're scaring me."

"i'm sorry for scaring you rabbit, i know this is difficult for you to handle, but you're being so brave," she whispers. a slender hand squeezes your jaw and she grins in the dark, tilting your head up. your neck is bared for her, and she sighs dreamily. "i'm so hungry, you know?"

"hungry?" you repeat, eyes cast down at her. she holds your face so tightly your cheeks smush, it pushes a couple of tears out of your eyes.

but she is hyper-focused. zeroed in on your neck, and finally it clicks for you. her ivory skin, cool touch, and those teeth. fangs.

"so hungry, and i've had a craving ever since i found you, rabbit."

so many questions are at the tip of your tongue now and yet you can't utter a single word. because she's looking at you like you are her entire world. you are useful to her for something, it's a first in your life.

her hair tickles your neck, and as you sit tense and trembling, the predator's lips travel along the expanse of skin. she searches for a vein. and she groans gutturally as she tears into your neck and spills your blood, the cloying taste hot on her tongue.

your sniffles, mewls, and pleas fall on deaf ears, but she attempts to soothe you somewhat by rubbing up and down your side. you swallow thickly, neck stinging angrily the longer she takes from you. mortification floods your eyes even more, spilling over in thick and salty tears, when you notice your stomach swirling and flipping whenever her hand moves lower.

stupid, lonely, desperate, stupid girl. you can't help squirming even if it means her teeth tug harder at your tortured skin. you can't help feeling a little satisfied by how gentle she is even despite the danger she carries.

when she finally pulls away, a trail of your body's wine trickling down her chin and some oozing from the wound in your neck, it's because she had used her knee to nudge apart your thighs. you cover your face immediately, roughly wiping a mix of tears and snot from your face as the vampire inspects between your legs.

"i knew you would be easy," she says with a hum. it's a pleased sound. "you're supposed to be scared of me, darlin'. you might just have the worst survival instinct i've ever seen."

shame pools in your stomach and unfortunately for you, her mean words only seem to make your cunt wetter. your panties, a white pair, are translucent. completely soiled through, even without touch, because her hand stroking your waist meant absolutely everything to you in the moment.

"poor rabbit," she coos. her finger runs along the inside of your thigh and she likes the way it triggers a tremor in you. but she doesn't stop there. she slides her finger over your core, quickly and gently, but you splutter out the cutest moan over it. "my name is ellie."

she intended to take her feed and then leave. she intended to remain nameless. she wanted to have her fill and then take amusement in watching you scamper 'round your home in terror for days to come. but you have given her another need to fill, and she couldn't resist telling you what name to cry.

"it's okay, i've got you now," ellie murmurs, hoisting you into her lap and pressing your back against her chest. "keep those legs open, and i'm gonna make this feel all better, yeah? so tell me, do you always spread your legs for a stalker, or am i just the lucky one?"

"n- no," you reply, voice meeker than it's ever been.

"no? no what?" ellie asks. she's speaking gently against your neck, fingers now rubbing slow circles around your clit. she doesn't bother to remove your panties, instead deciding she likes them on more. she was flattered to see how ruined they are.

"i d- don't do this," you stammer. "for anyone."

"well, that's incorrect." ellie reprimands you with a small tap against your cunt. "what do you call this? you're laid out for me like a hooker."

"sorry."

"mm, sorry, huh?" she chuckles meanly, now going back to rubbling you. she can feel the way your pussy throbs against your thinned-out panties, and her fingers pull back wet as if she had touched your skin.

you, on the other hand, can barely keep your eyes open. your face is hot and shiny, ruined with tears. ellie can't hold back a smile at the sounds you're making—hiccuping sobs and blubbering out her name, your hips beginning to buck under her petting.

you can barely speak anymore, only crying out sounds that are vaguely close enough to her name. ellie is just pleased to have brought you to such a state with barely any touch.

she nods slowly along to all of your distressed mumbling, and as you approach your climax she can't help but to take a second taste of your blood. your neck is so close, she couldn't help the flare of her nose every time she caught a whiff. ellie licks a stripe up your neck, 'cleaning' the wound—but your sensitivity grows to be too much, and very soon your vision whites at the corners and your body jolts and tenses under her hold.

once you are finally limp, ellie coos and presses a last icy kiss to your neck. "good girl. you're the best, you know, darlin'?"

nothing but a small and disgruntled whine leaves your lips.

you were useful for something. since she feasted upon your lifeblood, ellie's face has more colour to it, there's a slightly warm buzz to her fingertips.

even after she leaves, you still feel grateful. she tucked you back into your bed and wiped your tears, blew out your candle, and even picked up your knife again—placed it back into its rightful position on your nightstand.

she touched you. she told you that no other victim could live up to the hospitality and selflessness you showed her.

ellie told you she'll be back next week, and you don't even feel afraid of it.

🏷️ @kaykeryyy @abbyslvrrr @cowgirlvi @absfemme @madewithsilk

thank you for supporting my fics. planning on making a permanent taglist soon, if anyone is interested. ♡

[love-byers]

the first time i saw this, when i was NOT a byler shipper, i thought el was running TO mike. i thought we were getting a sweet moment where el runs to mike and he puts an arm around her or hugs her.

then i realized she was running away from him. 

and i was like, why?? they're supposed to be the couple why does she not want his comfort??

and even after will calls her out on doing mike wrong by lying to him, even after she sees that mike is attempting to talk to her and comfort her, that he's not angry at her, she still tells angela to lie to mike. more lies. that's how much she cares about keeping up the persona. had angela lied to mike, el would've continued lying to him the entire week. something she knows in her heart is wrong and not fair to mike.

this is a theme in s4. putting who you want to be seen as before being honest with your bf/gf. going above and beyond to preserve your lie, to be seen as who you want to be.

chrissy does that with jason. who she portrays herself as is completely different than who she really is and what she's really going through. jason has absolutely no idea chrissy is struggling and refused to believe chrissy would buy drugs, because chrissy didn't want to tell him. who knows how jason would've reacted if chrissy was honest, we don't know because chrissy didn't trust him enough to tell him. that's not love at all, that's sad.

this is a point in s2 as well. murray calls nancy out for being afraid to be her true self, and she stays with steve because she doesn't have to be her true self around him. she is her true self when she's with jonathan, and that's why they worked together. that's love.

the exact same thing happens with chrissy. the first time we see her genuinely smile is when she's with eddie. she's sweet and charismatic, and had she lived she totally would've gone to eddie's show, something you never would've expected from her, something her boyfriend, the person she pretends to love, would NEVER do.

robin and steve reinforce this too

you fall in love with the person who makes you feel accepted, the person who makes you feel like you can be who you are. the person you trust with your true self.

mike and el don't trust each other enough, they don't understand each other well enough.

they would have to change their behavior towards each other by leaps and bounds, and we're already at the last season. there is no time for that. stranger things isn't a multi season show about the complexity of romantic relationships and the healthy way to resolve problems. there is no time for that in just about any movie or show, especially a sci-fi show. you know what's way easier and way more likable? pairing your character with someone they naturally click with, who bring out the best in each other and for some reason can't help but be their authentic selves when they're with each other.

did it with jancy, like i said earlier

did it with lumax. when lucas and max talked on the bus max found herself spewing about things she'd never even said out loud before, and she had to stop herself. something about lucas just made her feel comfortable, like she could be herself and tell the truth. she trusted him.

"You're nothing like your brother, okay? You're cool and different, you're super smart, and you're like, totally tubular."

jopper too! joyce constantly had to hide things from bob, she was insecure about their family not being normal.

"This is not a normal family."

"It could be."

though bob had good intentions, the message of the show is not trying to be normal when you aren't. whatever it is about you that makes you weird or different, whatever you've been through that changed you, stay true to it. dont bottle it up and try to be someone else. all of vecnas victims in s4 were doing this, and it didn't end well for them.

they even did it with dustin and suzie. dustin constantly tries to impress max with his teeth, then in season 3 he says suzie thinks kissing is better without teeth. he doesn't have to be insecure about that or try to impress her. she likes him for him.

mike isn't comfortable being his true self around el either. he's insecure about his interests, he feels like he has to act older and cooler to impress her.

you shouldn't be with the person you feel you have to impress. you should be with the person who relieves that pressure, who makes you feel like being the authentic you is enough.

jonathan and nancy, lucas and max, joyce and hopper, dustin and suzie,

cough WILL AND MIKE cough...

[bonnie-the-butcher]

Rip Tide | Chapter IX

[ MDNI ] [ word count: 8.129 ] [ Masterlist ] 𝐂𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐬: Canonverse/Canon-Divergent; Dark! Content; NSFW; Strong Language; Cheating; Drug Use; Mentions of overdose; Some shades of Munchausen syndrome from dear old Rafe; Manipulation; Toxic, obsessive behaviour; Stalking; Violence; DUBCON/NONCON; My writing is really pretentious and English is not my first language, so please feel free to call me out in whichever grammar mistakes you might find find.

𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 | You and JJ have always been in each other's orbit. He's your brother’s best friend, the guy you've known your entire life. He was kind, protective, familiar. You never meant for the two of you to start hooking up. And you never meant for it to last so long. But when this boy you thought you'd come to know like the back of your hand turns out to be no better than the men he'd warned you about, you find yourself in the sights of the guy he hates most, regardless of wether you want that or not.

Y'all I am so sorry for taking this long to update, my whole entire family is in my house at the moment and they are all insufferable, pls send help. Likes, asks, reblogs, and comments are always greatly appreciated! Thank you in advance for reading <3

You try to swallow your embarrassment along with your pride, hands still resting firmly against your brother's shoulder, but it's to no avail.

He doesn't budge, and neither does the shame.

Kareem is between you still, but you can't even look at him. – Leave. – He repeats. – You are a guest, not the owner. If you want to take up something with an employee you can do it in your own time.

He stutters, scoffing out a laugh as if he was being victimized. – She is my fucking sister, dude you don—

Kareem cuts in: – It still wouldn't matter to me if she was your wife. – His voice is ice, and he stands just as still as a glacier. – This isn't the time or place for you to come here shouting. So please. Leave before I make you.

– Excuse me?!

– You heard him, John. – He does another double take at your tone. – Please. This is my job now. You know just as well as I do how much we need this. Don’t make a scene right now.

– You have a lot of nerve.

– And you have a girlfriend and her whole family out there not to blow it all for. So leave! Make a good impression. I’ll make sure to give you the time to humiliate me when the paycheck comes.

You don’t give him the time to respond.

Like the whiny teenager he probably thinks you are, you shove him out the door and barely refrain from slamming it. Standing, face buried in your hands, back pressed against the door, in front of your new boss.

So much for good impressions.

– You’re the people-reader. – Kareem hums. – But I was right. He is a piece of—

– Please. – He makes no effort to hide his distaste as you raise a hand. – Look, I’m really really sorry about this, you can’t even imagine. – You take a deep breath, knowing you’ll be hearing about this forever. – You know how family is. John’s just— The words hang in your throat. – been very in his head since dad.

You don’t have to finish the sentence. Kareem gets the memo as he watches you flitter towards the oven to check on the pie, and he watches you move before walking behind you silently, leaning against the counter with his brows raised. – I get it. – He hums, crossing his arms over his chest. – But Routledge, you said it yourself, you need this job. Don’t let your family, your boyfriend, your best friend, your fucking parakeet, whatever, blow this for you. Believe me, the Camerons won’t appreciate your family drama. They’re complicated enough as they are. Don’t give them a reason to fire you.

You swallow, nodding. – I won’t. I promise.

– This isn’t on you, Routledge. This— He gestures exaggeratedly towards the kitchen. – Keeping this? it’s on the people around you, it's on them not to be around. Best thing for you, it’s to keep them away.

Funny. Even when things aren't your responsibility, somehow, you still have to be the one doing the work.

– Yes, chef. – Your shoulders feel heavier now, but you look straight at Kareem, the way a mature adult is supposed to do. – I won’t fuck this up. For either of us. Scout's honor.

– I know you won’t.

– Cause you’ll beat my ass otherwise?

– Damn right.

– Let me get this pie out of here before we come to blows, then.

He only laughs, clapping a hand over your back softly as you take the gloves from its handles and open the oven door.

The pie is apparently perfect, the sickly sweet scent of peach and syrup wafting through the perfectly savory golden crust. Your mouth waters as you set it down on the counter.

The smell takes you back. You didn’t make the connection when Rafe mentioned the pie, but John was right. This was your father’s favorite thing. The only thing you and him could do together. A pie for thanksgiving, one for his birthday, one for John’s birthday.

It had been your only marker of a decent day a long time ago.

And today it almost cost you your job. – I’ll take that there for you, if you want.

You’re almost startled, so deep in thought you barely realized Kareem was there, his gloved hands extended and ready even as a cautious look gleams in his eye.

– It’s fine, Kareem. – You laugh. – I know you don’t want to.

– Damn right I don’t want to. But that’s what partners are for. – He helps you remove the desert from the pan and set it on the dish. – We average each other’s misery.

A laugh escapes you before you can stop it. – You think I’m miserable?

– With a brother like that, it would be a wonder if you weren’t. – You raise your brows at him, and he raises his glove-clad hands in response. – Hey, I’m just saying. Keep him away.

– You’re forgetting the part where he’s Sarah’s boyfriend.

– Holy shit, that's right. That piece of sh— He stops himself short at the face you make. – I'm sorry. I just can’t believe your bad luck.

– Wow, Kareem. That’s really sweet of you.

He frowns:

– Yeah, I'm sorry. That wasn't nice. – You set the pie down with a flourish, watching as the golden crust gleams under the kitchen lights. Kareem eyes it like it’s a ticking time bomb. – C’mon, let me take that there for you, – He offers, already reaching for it.

You snatch it back, scandalized. – Absolutely not. I don't want you to think I have no dignity.

He laughs.

– Dignity? That’s cute. You do realize he’s still there, right?

– I’m well aware.

– And you're also aware that he clearly is an idiot?

His shit-talking is starting to irritate you. – You talk an awful lot of crap for someone who has known him for twenty seconds.

– Look, Routledge, I've been nineteen before. 20 year old guys are types. And your brother is the entitled-freeloader-type, the man-child type. That little temper tantrum? They don’t grow out of that. Most of the time, they actually grow into it.

Well, there goes half your social circle.

– And you say you don't read people.

– People. – He stresses. – Assholes are another thing entirely.

– Okay. You’re gonna have to watch it. – You don’t know where the defensiveness came from. John and you weren't the “don't talk about my family” types. In fact, you were sure that, lately, John's favorite hobby was talking shit about you. So you breathe in deep and take the pie, ready to end this thought before it takes root. – I'm taking the pie and when I'm back we can both talk shit about someone else, together.

Kareem pinches the bridge of his nose. – Fine. But when he inevitably makes some smart-ass comment to embarass you, I want you to remember that you did this to yourself.

– Noted.

He gestures to the door with a grand sweep of his hand, and pulls it open. – Go on then, noble knight. Face thy dragons.

You scoff, chuckling as you balance the plate like a prized trophy. – You're a peach.

– So I keep hearing.

You step out and the door quietly clicks into place behind you. The hall is quiet, you barely hear murmurs from the dining room. But you catch your brother’s eye from the crack in the door, and he averts his gaze immediately, almost groaning as you step into the room.

– There you are. – Ward’s voice is a hum: monotone and content. – If you’d taken any longer, Rafe would have started a riot.

– Well, the peace corps have arrived.

Ward laughs, but Rose is not impressed. – Too bad she doesn’t get paid extra to be a comedian.

You can hear her husband begin to speak as you put the pie down, but it’s Rafe who cuts in, his hand on your arm, yet his eyes set on his stepmother: – Don't listen to her, newbie. Rose's just bitter cause she can't cook for shit.

Her scoff is like the swish of a blade, you almost feel the need to recoil.

– I don't need to cook, Rafe. I work. – You don't miss the venom that splatters on you, but where your mouth remains shut, Rafe's is twisted into a smile:

– Oh, you work, huh?

– Yes. I don't understand your tone.

– John B knows something about that kind of work too, don’t you John B? Freeloading off someone who actually makes their money by working.

It's Ward who cuts in then: – Rafe! Don’t get into this now. Is it so much to ask that we have one dinner in peace?

– He started it.

– Don't be childish, Rose. It doesn't become you. – He looks at you, nodding, almost relieved, as you take his plate. – Thank you, miss Routledge. That looks great.

– Yeah. Do me next, newbie.

– Can you fucking stop it?! – Your brother's voice cuts through the room. Even Sarah looks taken aback. – These innuendoes, this stupid shit you’re doing, it’s not funny Rafe!

– We don’t curse at this table, John.

– It was Rafe! He's the one—

– My son just asked for a piece of dessert. I understand you are protective of your sister, but he didn't mean anything by it.

Rafe laughs, the only person at the table that does so. And he squeezes your arm in his hand as he hands over the plate. – Does your brother always get so worked up when he sees someone working, or does he just extend that courtesy to you?

– Rafe! – Ward shouts, but his son ignores it.

You turn to take the plate from Rafe’s hand, ignoring the way his fingers linger against yours. His grin is lazy, almost triumphant, like he’s already won some invisible battle.

John is seething. You can feel it radiating off of him, the white-knuckle grip around his fork. Sarah tries to talk to him, the soft murmurs of her voice reaching your ears even as the words evade you, but your brother doesn’t seem to listen.

You clear your throat, ignoring the tension as you look back at Rafe. – How do you want the slice?

His eyes flick to yours, slow and deliberate. – I don't know. – He chuckles. – But I bet you like it with a lot of filling, don't you?

He licks a crumb off his hand, eyes locked onto yours.

John slams his hands on the table. – Are you fucking kidding me?!

– Language, – Ward warns.

Rafe tilts his head, expression all mock confusion. – What’s the issue, Johnny Boy? Can’t a guy appreciate a good pie?

– You’re disgusting, Rafe! – John spits, pushing back his chair. – You don’t even pretend to hide it anymore, do you?

Rafe just laughs, dragging his fork through the pie like he’s got all the time in the world. – I have no idea what you’re talking about. – He pops a bite into his mouth, chewing exaggeratedly. – Damn, newbie. You did put a lot of filling in this. Real sweet, too.

That's it.

John lunges.

The chair screeches, his fist flying toward Rafe’s face—but Rafe’s faster. He ducks back, chair tipping precariously before he catches himself on you.

You pull him towards the wall before John can near you, his back against your chest, your back against the concrete, heart hammering in your chest.

– Jesus, John B! – Sarah hisses, her hands gripping his shirt, his arms, his hands. But it's fruitless, like trying to put a leash of a bull.

Ward stands in a startle, pinching the bridge of his nose. – Sit down, John.

Your brother doesn’t move, chest heaving. He’s vibrating with rage, fists still clenched at his sides.

Rafe just grins. Smug. Pleased. You can feel the chuckle he lets out vibrating through his skin as your hand remains on his shoulders.

– You’ve got a nasty temper, huh? – He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, as if the whole scene was just a mild inconvenience, and then looks at you. – Jesus. Look at what you did, John B.

His eyes are wide, his voice is soft. You’re still holding him when he reaches for you, and yet you still flinch when his hand nears your face.

– I'm— Your breath is caught. – I should go back. Clean up.

Rafe catches your arm. – Hey. Hey, it's okay. He's leaving. Right, John B? Why don't you get your unemployed ass down to the Cut, huh? I bet someone could use you to mow their lawn. Or maybe that’s too complicated for you.

John lunges again, and this time it takes both you and Sarah to shove him back.

– Get off me!

– That’s enough, – Ward finally snaps, voice just sharp enough to cut through the chaos. His gaze levels on John. – You don’t raise a hand in my house. Do you understand me?

Your brother glares at Rafe, still breathing hard. – He started it.

Ward sighs, exasperated. – He was eating dessert.

– Oh, come on, – Sarah mutters. – Dad, you don’t even believe that.

Ward’s eyes remain on his daughter for a moment, but just as he opens his mouth, Rafe keeps firing:

– Yeah, John B. Chill out. We’re just having some family bonding time. I know you don't get a lot of that. What with the way you treat your sister, I doubt she wants to spend any time with you at all.

John’s fist connects with a sickening crack.

Rafe’s head snaps to the side, his weight falling back on you before you latch onto the edge of the table. For a second, there’s only silence. The scrape of the chair legs. The sharp inhale from someone—maybe Sarah.

And then you move.

Your body reacts before your mind catches up. You reach for Rafe, clinging to his arm, hands skimming his face, his shoulder, searching for the damage.

You don’t know when your heart started racing, but you feel your ribcage ache with the speed.

– Rafe! – You breathe. Your pulse is buzzing in your ears, shaking within you. You feel like you might break apart.

He doesn’t answer right away as you hold him, steadying him. He just blinks, dazed, the emotions flitting through his face like a carousel: Confusion at first, then anger, and then something softer, something pleased. A slow smirk curls on his lips. But there’s blood—on his mouth, at the corner of his lip, smeared across his chin.

– Shit, – you whisper. – Jesus Christ. – He exhales through his nose, wincing as you press your fingers to the swelling. – I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.

– What are you sorry about? – You don't register the laugh. The way his body relaxes as you touch him, how he leans into the pain instead of away from it.

You just see the blood on his lip.

The noise rushes around you like a vortex, you can’t even pay attention. All you see is Rafe, his eyes blown out just as they were that day at Barry's, and your hands shake as if the life was leaving him all over again.

– Just—just let me see, – You murmur, tilting his face toward you. – I'm sorry, Rafe. God, I'm so sorry.

– It's not your fault, baby. – He whispers, barely a hum.

John’s still there. Still heaving, fists clenched at his sides. But you barely notice him now. Your world has narrowed to the warmth of Rafe’s skin beneath your hands, the way he lets you touch him without protest. It isn’t the moment for you to ponder on how easy it is to die, but you feel your back pressing against the back of the chair Rafe would’ve fallen onto if you hadn’t caught him, and suddenly he feels like a newborn puppy. All soft, thin skin and whiny whimpers, something so delicate the world around him feels like a deathtrap.

You tighten your hold on him.

– Are you kidding me? – John’s voice is raw. Furious. It feels like he’s screaming at you from above. Like you and Rafe are sitting at the bottom of a river, the sound so muffled you barely realize its there. Your hands feel heavy as they move over his skin. – Him? You’re worried about him?

You don’t look up.

Your eyes are set on the blood at the corner of Rafe’s lips. It’s on your hands now, but it isn’t warm anymore. You don’t know why that thought scares you.

You can’t look away.

But Rafe does.

Even with blood on his lip, he’s still grinning, slow and smug.

– Aww, come on, Johnny Boy, – He drawls. His voice is rough, but not from pain. From something else. Something satisfied. – There’s no need to be jealous. She might like me better than you, but then again, that’s not very hard, is it?

John moves again, but Ward steps in this time. His voice is low, final. – Get out.

– Mr. Cameron I—

– You nothing, boy. You’re not gonna come into my house and be violent and disrespectful. I don’t tolerate that kind of behaviour here. Get out.

John doesn’t move. Not right away. His eyes flicker to you again, searching. Maybe he’s waiting for you to tell him something—anything—that will make this okay.

But you’re still touching Rafe.

His pulse thunders under your hands. You try to focus on that, pull yourself away from your thoughts. But you can’t. You’re still hovering over him, checking the cut on his lip, fingers light against his jaw.

His bones feel like glass beneath your touch.

John lets out a sharp breath, shaking his head before turning away. Sarah is the one to pull him back, her voice soft as she mutters something under her breath. The front door slams behind them a moment later.

But the sound takes none of the tension from the room.

You sit in the silence, Rafe’s pulse under your hands.

One, two. One, two. One, two.

Ward sighs.

– Rafe? Son, are you okay?

Rafe doesn’t acknowledge him.

Because he’s looking at you.

His eyes are hooded, his smirk lazy. You try to pull back, but his hand wraps around your wrist, keeping you close.

He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t whine, doesn’t groan.

Just sits there.

And smiles.

– I'll— I’m gonna go get some ice for you. – You’re shaking. You barely catch a stumble on your step as you sit Rafe down and rush to the kitchen. – Kareem. – You call him once, twice, a third time, but he doesn’t answer. The back door is ajar. His things are still on the table.

You shouldn’t be worrying about him.

So you turn. Your feet move before you mind does, and you’re rushing to the walk-in refrigerator.

Your fingers fumble as you wrap the ice cubes in a washcloth, pressing them together too tightly, the cold seeping through the thin fabric and stinging your skin. Your pulse is still thrumming too fast, rattling in your ribs, your breath unsteady as you step out of the kitchen.

And then you see him.

You almost jump back.

Rafe is waiting just outside the doorway, leaning lazily against the wall, his head tilted slightly, that ever-present smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. There’s a dazed look in his eyes, something distant, like he’s not all the way there. His lip is split, swollen, a smear of red still clinging to the corner, but he doesn’t seem to care. If anything, he looks amused.

He exhales a short laugh, running his tongue along his teeth like he’s testing for more damage.

– Gotta give it to him. Your brother might be a bitch, but he's got a hell of a right hook.

You don’t laugh. Your stomach twists as he steps closer and leans against the shelf before you, that same strange look in his eye. Your grip tightens around the washcloth. – Rafe—

– Relax, baby, – he drawls, his voice softer now, slower. His hands bracket your arms, your skin is buzzing, like someone turned a light switch in you. – You look like you’re the one who just got hit.

You frown, shake your head. You can’t stop shaking it. – I’m fine. – Rafe laughs. He’s not acting right. He’s too relaxed, too loose, and there’s something almost sweet about the way he’s looking at you, like the punch knocked a different side of him loose.

– You might have a concussion, – you mutter, reaching out before you can stop yourself. He leans into your touch, holding onto your wrist as your fingers brush his forehead. – C'mon, let’s— let's sit you down.

He doesn’t fight you as you guide him toward the counter, settling him onto the cool surface. He’s still watching you, his head tilting slightly, studying you like he can’t quite figure you out. His hands twitch at his sides, restless, like he’s not sure what to do with them.

– You’re frowning. – He chuckles, like it's funny, and presses a finger between your brows. – You look really cute when you’re worried.

You push his hand away, the words flying over your head.

– This is gonna sting a little. – You step between his knees, pressing the ice against his lip, and he hisses softly at the cold. – I'm sorry.

– You said that already. – Rafe exhales, the sound more like a laugh than a groan. – I'll forgive you if you kiss it better.

You glare at him, but it’s weak. He grins anyway, his hands coming up, slow and unhurried, fingers trailing absently down your arms. It’s light, barely there, but enough to send a shiver down your spine.

– You’re shaking, – he murmurs.

– The freezer. – you hum. – It's cold.

– Mm. – His fingers drift to your shoulders, then to the ends of your hair, twisting a lock between his fingers. He eyes it intently, pressing the strands between the pads of his fingers as if trying to assess whether or not they are real. – Dunno. Feels like something else is making you nervous.

You swallow hard, refusing to look at him, focusing on the ice pressed against his skin. You can feel the warmth of him, the way his legs bracket yours loosely, the way he just lets you tend to him.

It feels too much. Too something.

You have to stop yourself from backing away.

He exhales again, this time slower, his breath warm against your wrist. – You always this nice when a guy you like gets hurt?

You don’t answer. You just press the ice against his lip a little harder.

He hisses again, but when you pull the washcloth away, his lips part slightly, tongue flicking out to chase the cold. His eyes search yours, heavy-lidded.

Then, softly, almost teasing:

– You sure you don’t wanna kiss it better?

Rafe hums, low in his throat, his fingers still lazily playing with the ends of your hair. His eyes flick down to your lips, then back up, his grin widening just slightly. – Still hurts, y'know? – He murmurs, tilting his head, exaggerating the movement like he’s testing the ache. – You really gonna leave me like this?

– You're gonna be okay.

– Dunno. – His hands drift, tracing up your arms again, then down, smoothing over your shoulders like he’s trying to work something out of his system. – I feel like I’m aching everywhere, baby.

He shifts slightly on the counter, his knees brushing against your hips, the warmth of his skin burning through your clothes. His voice is quieter now, softer, coaxing. – C’mon. Help me out here.

You shake your head. – You’re beat up, Rafe. You aren't making any sense.

– I’m not making sense? – His laugh is breathy, and his hands tighten briefly on your shoulders, fingers pressing lightly into your skin. – You’re the one standing between my legs with your hands all over me. Feels like you wanna help.

You don’t dignify that with a response.

But his gaze doesn’t waver. He tilts his head again, mouth curving into something dangerously close to a pout. – It really hurts, you know. Really hurts.

You sigh, hands itching to press onto his mouth and shut him up.

He's like a child. He pulls you around and he backs you into a corner, then his eyes widen, his lips pout, and you just have to do what he wants. – Please? – He whispers. Batting his eyes and tilting his head to the side just like your mother often did when she wanted something, from your dad, from her boss, from that guy at the drugstore she was always talking to.

It didn’t matter.

She always got what she wanted.

And so did Rafe.

You find yourself looking at the door as he pleads again, sliding a little closer until he can press your hips between his legs.

So you do.

Before he can say anything else, you lean in and press a peck to his lips—so small, so fleeting, you barely feel it. But you do feel the way his breath hitches, the way his fingers tighten against your shoulders, the way his whole body seems to go still, just for a second.

His mouth parts slightly as you pull away, and then he lets out a slow, pleased exhale, his voice low, almost smug.

– Forgot how good you kiss. – His grip shifts, hands sliding up the curve of your shoulders again, thumbs pressing into the dip of your collarbones. He’s already leaning back in, already chasing another taste, and his voice dips into something softer, something almost desperate. – Just one more.

But before he can close the distance, you press your hand to his chest, stopping him. It’s not forceful—not a shove, not a hard rejection. Just a quiet barrier, a gentle push.

He doesn’t move back right away. His lips part, his brows furrowing, like he wants to argue. Like he wants to beg.

But then—

– Rafe.

The voice cuts through the thick air between you like a knife, sharp and immediate.

Rafe’s shoulders go tense beneath your palms.

Your hand drops as he exhales slowly, his entire body stiffening, his easy smile fading into something angry. – What do you want?

Ward Cameron steps further into the kitchen, his presence like a cold gust of air. You straighten a little, keeping your eyes to the ice. His expression is unreadable, but his eyes flick between you and Rafe before settling on his son.

He doesn’t waste time. Doesn’t soften his tone.

– You were reckless.

Rafe scoffs, shaking his head. – Oh, here we go.

– You knew exactly what you were doing, – Ward continues, ignoring him. – That mockery at the table was cruel, Rafe. The things you said, I'm surprised she didn't punch you.

Rafe rolls his eyes. – Oh, please—

– Don’t interrupt me, boy.

You felt like you were twelve again.

You might not know the man, but you knew that tone. — It was your father’s go-to, when he wanted you to feel guilty, or inadequate, or whenever he got bored of pretending you weren’t there.

For a second, Rafe almost looks like he might listen. His jaw tightens, and his hand clenches into a fist against the counter, but he doesn’t speak.

Suddenly you wish you could hold him.

Ward crosses his arms, his jaw clenched. – You know damn right you wouldn’t like it if someone spoke about your sisters that way.

Rafe lets out a sharp, bitter laugh. – Yeah, well, I’d never be as much of a cunt as John B is, so we don’t have to worry about that.

Ward’s expression hardens. – Watch your mouth around me, Rafe! I'm not one of your little friends!

– He’s right. – Both men turn toward you, surprised. – Rafe’s right.

You wouldn’t be able to sleep at night if you didn’t say anything, but you’re regretting that instinct even as your eyes meet the floor.

You shift slightly, exhaling through your nose.

You don’t resent your brother. You know what he was trying to do—protect you, in his own stupid, thoughtless way. But the problem with John has never been his heart. It’s always been his temper.

– John doesn’t know when to stop, – you say. – I know he was trying to look out for me, but that’s just it—he doesn’t know when to stop. If I don't walk away when we fight, eventually he just— Your voice dies in your throat. The bruise around your arm throbbing. – It's just like dad all over again.

Rafe doesn’t say anything. He just looks at you, watching, waiting. Then he turns to his father. – I told you so.

Every last bit of calm on Ward's face vanishes:

– Every time I think you’re getting better… – He scoffs. – She’s not shifting the blame, Rafe. You were wrong, and you know that.

Rafe makes a quiet, irritated sound. – Can you spend a second talking without making me the bad guy?! The guy is an asshole, dad. He treats his sister like crap, how do you think he's gonna treat his girlfriend?!

You swallow hard, whispering. – Rafe.

He doesn’t listen. – I mean, look at what this piece of shit did now! You wouldn’t imagine he— He grabs your arm, pulling up the sleeve on your left arm. – grabs like a fucking—

– Please!

You don’t know what to do. You grab his hand, you're still holding onto it as you focus on your breathing, trying not to cry.

Rafe stops.

His shoulders shift, almost sinking into himself.

He’s standing frozen before you as if you’d just slapped him, his eyes wide again.

You don’t have to say it twice.

He lowers his head, and quietens his tone, squeezing your hand in his as he whispers – I’m sorry. I’m really sorry. That was shitty. I shouldn’t have done that.

The words lingers between you, his father suddenly silent, almost stunned.

– It’s okay. – His hand clutches yours tighter. He almost seems guilty. You pull the sleeve back down. – John does have a temper, but this was a mistake. He’d never hit me, even though he hates me right now. And he’d never hit Sarah either. Never.

You turn, unsure of what else to say, and your eyes fall back on Ward. The shock on his face is not hard to miss, barely a raise of a brow as his lips part open for a moment, he steps closer, placing a hand on his son's shoulder before he can give away anything else. But you catch it. That sudden shock on his face. – Go to bed, Rafe.

The boy’s tone is softer, but no less annoyed: – Dad,

Ward looks at you for a moment, then looks back at Rafe, almost cautious, as if he’s trying something out. – Please, – You feel Rafe’s grip on your hand tighten, and loosen again.

– You should rest. – Your voice is sweet, you know that. It's a low blow. But the shock on Mr. Cameron’s face stirs a question up in you. You’re not exactly sure of what that is, but there’s something there you need to probe.

And though Rafe hardens for a split second, you feel some tension leave him along with a breath as his eyes meet yours. His expression softens, his jaw unclenches, but he looks like a kid who's just been told off, all unkempt anger and barely restrained complaints.

So you keep going. – I'm gonna get you some painkillers. – You brush your fingers over his hand, soft, quick, thoughtless, but he chases that touch as you move away to get him some water and the naproxen in your purse. You can feel him watching you as you fill a glass with water, and when you put your purse next to him, he starts looking at it, playing with the clasps and toying with your keychains. – Here. You should close your blinds, and have some tea. I can bring it up to you.

He breathes, laughs. The stress in his face turning into something like amusement.

He lays your purse on his lap, patiently taking the pill and the water. His eyes still cling to you as his throat bobs, draining the cup as quickly as possible.

He seems so much calmer as he hands the cup back to you.

It worked. – Thanks, newbie. – He hums, with half a smile on his face, almost resigned. – I hate tea, though. File that for later.

– Filed. – You nod. – Do you need anything else?

– Yeah. – You're glad to hear him laugh, lighter now, with ease. – For you to quit doing those puppy dog eyes at me. It's breaking my heart.

You take back your hands, putting them over your eyes. Rafe chuckles, and you can see the smile even with your eyes closed— Sweet, soft— It's even sweeter when your hands fall back beside you again. – Better now?

– Yeah. I’ll see you tomorrow?

– Eight AM on the dot, just like my boss told me to.

– That’s a good girl. – He hums, and stands, his eyes darker, his smile wider as he stands barely an inch away from you, and then moves again. – Night, newbie.

– Sleep well, Rafe.

The last you hear of him is a hum, something between a chuckle and a sigh, as he walks out of the kitchen, ignoring his father entirely.

Ward exhales slowly, his fingers smoothing over the cuffs of his sleeves. His gaze lingers on the door Rafe just walked through, his expression unreadable.

Then, suddenly, his eyes flick over to you.

You stiffen, instinctively straightening your posture. Your hands twitch at your sides, unsure whether you should be standing at attention or making yourself small.

– I’m really sorry about all of this, – You blurt out, voice steady despite the tension. – I didn’t mean for any of it to—

Ward lifts a hand, cutting you off mid-sentence.

– I don’t need your apology, – He says simply. – I need professionalism.

You nod quickly. – Yes, sir.

His lips press together, but not in disapproval. If anything, he seems almost pleased. Not overtly—nothing as obvious as a smile—but in the way his eyes narrow just slightly, as if filing your response away somewhere important.

He studies you for a long moment before speaking again.

– You handled that well, you know, given the situation.

You don’t know if that’s meant to be a compliment. You don’t know if you want it to be.

You're not sure you agree either, as the remnants of a racing pulse are still running slower under your skin.

– Thank you, sir.

– I have an older brother. – He says, almost like an afterthought. – He treats me just like that, like I'm the problem, as if I'm not the one who works. I know I wouldn’t be able to keep a straight face if I showed up to my place of work and he was there. Most people would have let their emotions get the better of them. Especially with Rafe.

You tilt your head without realizing, but you nod, and even if half-unconsciously, he keeps going.

– He gets that from his mother. Nothing in this world pleases him more than getting under people's skin. – Ward’s gaze flicks to the washcloth still clutched in your hands, the ice inside melting slowly, dripping down your wrist. His head tilts slightly, considering. – He didn't get under your skin, though. I thought you would punch him, with everything he kept throwing at you. But you de-escalated him at every turn.

– That's my job.

He hums, and you can see him file that response somewhere in his mind.

– How old are you?

The question throws you for a second, but you don’t let it show.

– I'll be eighteen in a couple of weeks, sir.

His brows raise slightly. Not in surprise—more like interest. Like he wasn’t expecting that answer, but it fits into whatever equation he’s solving in his head.

– You worked at The Wreck before this?

– Yes, sir.

– For how long?

– Three and a half years.

He makes a quiet noise in his throat, almost amused. – Started young, then. – You nod. – And what did you do there?

– I was a roast chef.

His lips twitch, like he’s waiting for something more. – A good one?

You hesitate, but not for long. – Yes.

That earns a small nod from him, his gaze flickering over you like he’s weighing something, testing something.

He watches you a second longer, then exhales, adjusting the cuff of his sleeve. There’s a sense of finality in the movement, but it's not dismissal. It's not exactly approval either, but he seems pleased, the way a child is pleased when they figure out their homework.

– You can leave after you clean up. – He says. – I’ll see you tomorrow.

It’s not a compliment, but it feels like it. The fact that there is work tomorrow after such a giant crisis is the greatest reassurance you can receive.

And as he walks away, you realize that Ward Cameron isn’t just assessing you.

He’s pleased with what he sees.

The relief sinks into you like a carbon tablet, and it fizzles out slowly as you go through the motions, cleaning, putting away and writing down the rough draft for tomorrow’s breakfast. Halfway through 8 PM you realize that Kareem won’t return, so you follow Ward’s orders, and gather your things to leave.

The night air is thick and warm as you step outside, the damp heat of the island settling against your skin as you clutch your purse to your side. The driveway stretches long and empty before you, the distant glow of the streetlights barely cutting through the dark.

You exhale, adjusting the strap of your bag over your shoulder. Walk or call someone? Neither option seems particularly appealing at the moment. Walking means at least forty minutes alone in the sticky night air, but calling someone—JJ, since he’s your only option now—means answering questions you don’t have the energy for.

You’re still mulling over your options when you hear it.

Footsteps behind you.

You turn, and there he is.

Ward Cameron stands in the doorway, his silhouette sharp against the dim light spilling from the house. His posture is relaxed, but his gaze is focused—zeroed in on you with that same unreadable expression.

There’s something familiar about it. Something you’ve seen before.

On Rafe.

That realization sits uneasily in your stomach, but you push it down, straightening as he steps closer.

– You’re not driving? – he asks, voice smooth. Casual.

You shake your head. – I don’t have a car.

He hums, as if he already knew that.

– How were you planning to get home?

You hesitate. – God gave me legs, figured I should use them.

His gaze flicks toward the road, the dark stretch of asphalt cutting through the island. His lips press together, but this time, in something closer to disapproval.

– I’ll drive you, – he says simply.

It’s not a question.

– Oh— You shake your head quickly, forcing a polite smile. – That’s really not necessary, sir. I can—

– I insist.

You swallow. – I don’t want to be any trouble.

His head tilts slightly, studying you. Then he exhales, slow and measured, as if he’s amused by your reluctance.

– You think it’s trouble to drive one of my employees home?

You don’t know how to answer that without making it worse.

His eyes flicker, something sharp and knowing flashing behind them. – It’s late, – he says, like that alone settles the matter. – And I’d rather not hear about something happening to you on your way home.

The words are simple, but the weight behind them isn’t. It’s not concern. Not exactly. It’s something else—something quieter, something calculated.

Something distinctly Cameron.

He doesn’t give you another chance to argue. He just gestures toward the car, expectant, almost commanding.

You hesitate for half a second longer, then nod.

Because really, what else can you do?

You slip into the passenger seat as he slides behind the wheel, the doors shutting with a quiet finality.

The engine purrs to life, and as Ward pulls out of the driveway, the silence between you settles thick.

You glance at him from the corner of your eye. His grip is firm on the steering wheel, his posture at ease. But his gaze—steady, focused—flicks toward you briefly, that same unreadable look lingering.

The same look Rafe always has.

You exhale slowly, shifting your gaze out the window.

The drive stretches ahead, the road dark and winding.

And you’re not quite sure where you stand anymore.

The low hum of the car engine fills the silence between you, steady and rhythmic. The road stretches dark and empty ahead, the occasional flicker of streetlights casting brief shadows across Ward’s face.

You keep your gaze out the window, watching the shapes blur past, but you can feel his attention shift. The weight of his gaze settling on you, sharp and deliberate.

– You seem to know Rafe well.

It’s not quite a question.

Your fingers twitch in your lap.

– I— You hesitate, just for a second. – I wouldn’t say well.

Ward hums like he’s considering that. Like he doesn’t quite believe you.

– So how did you two meet?

You knew this was coming.

Your pulse ticks up, but you keep your face even, your voice smooth. Lies are easier to tell when they aren’t really lies. When they’re just stretched-out versions of the truth.

You inhale, carefully measured. – We were supposed to go to a party together. – Ward doesn’t react. Just keeps driving, keeps listening. – But he got sick, – you continue. – I stayed with him and drove him home.

A pause.

You glance at him from the corner of your eye. His expression hasn’t changed much, but there’s something—something—about the way he exhales through his nose.

Like he’s remembering something.

– And when was that? – he asks, almost casually.

You swallow. – A couple days ago.

Ward laughs. But it’s not really a laugh. More of a sharp exhale, dry and humorless.

– That makes sense.

You stiffen slightly. – What do you mean?

Ward doesn’t answer right away. He turns onto a quieter stretch of road, the car gliding smoothly through the empty streets. His grip on the steering wheel is loose, relaxed, but his voice is steady when he speaks again.

– I’ve been wondering what’s gotten into him these past few days, – he says, almost like he’s thinking aloud. – He’s been… different.

Different.

You don’t know what to make of that.

– He’s always been agitated, – Ward continues, his tone even. – But lately, it’s like he’s been looking for something. Distracted. He's at home a lot more than he used to be.

His eyes flick to you, sharp and searching.

You keep your face carefully neutral. – I wouldn’t know anything about that, sir.

Ward hums again, low and thoughtful.

– No, – He says. – I suppose you wouldn’t.

But the way he says it makes you think he’s not entirely convinced.

The silence stretches again, thicker this time.

And you get the unsettling sense that Ward Cameron is still putting something together.

Ward doesn’t say anything for a long moment. The silence isn’t exactly uncomfortable, but it isn’t easy either. It stretches between you, thick and heavy, like he’s waiting to see if you’ll break it first.

You don’t.

His fingers drum against the steering wheel once. Twice. Then—

– He didn’t give you any trouble, did he?

The question is casual, but the way he asks it isn’t. His voice is light, but his gaze flickers to you, sharp and waiting.

You shake your head. – No, sir.

Ward exhales through his nose. He doesn’t look convinced.

– Rafe can be a handful, – he muses, like he’s not really talking to you, more to himself. – Always has been. He was a good kid, though. Smart.

The words are nostalgic, almost distant, but there’s an undercurrent of something else there. Something measured.

– Still is, – you offer carefully.

Ward huffs out a small, dry laugh. – You think so?

You hesitate. – I think so, sir. – You swallow, all the recent interactions reeling through your mind like a movie. – I'd say he's a people person, though. Read me like a book. My brother too. – He looks at you as you look away. – They did know each other for longer, but, it's like he knows him in his marrow.

– Mm. – He watches the road for a moment, his expression unreadable. Then— You said this was a couple days ago?

Your stomach twists, but you keep your voice steady. – Yes, sir.

Ward nods, slow and thoughtful. His knuckles tighten just slightly around the wheel. – That would explain the missing motorcycle.

You still.

He doesn’t look at you, but you can feel the weight of his words. The way they settle in the space between you, thick with meaning.

You don’t know what to say. What answer he’s looking for.

Ward exhales, shaking his head slightly. – Doesn’t matter, – He says. – I’m sure it’ll turn up.

Your fingers curl in your lap.

The street lights flicker past, the golden glow casting fleeting shadows across his face. He’s still thinking—you can see it, the way his jaw shifts slightly, the way his fingers tap absently against the leather of the steering wheel.

Then, finally, he speaks again.

– Rafe doesn’t take to people quickly, – He says, almost musing. – Never has.

There’s something off about the way he says it. Like it’s not a compliment.

You keep your voice neutral. – I wouldn’t know, sir.

Another hum. Another glance in your direction.

– But you’re here.

You swallow. – I needed the job.

Ward nods slowly, like he’s filing that response away. – Smart girl.

The words settle in your chest, heavier than they should, and you don’t quite know what to make of them. The car stops. You're in front of your house, you realize, and he’s still looking at you. – Aren’t you gonna thank me for the ride?

He chuckles, lightly, and you have to force yourself to smile back. – Thank you for the ride, Mr. Cameron.

– I'll see you soon.

– You bet. – The door doesn't open when you reach for it, you move two other times before you look back at him.

Ward is sitting still.

Watching.

Waiting.

Then as if it was nothing, he smiles again, laughs, and unlocks the door. – Sleep well, Routledge.

You do your best to maintain your smile.

– Thank you, sir.

You step out of the car, your pulse a dull, an erratic thrum in your throat. The weight of Ward’s gaze lingers long after his car disappears down the street, swallowed by the dark.

You exhale, rolling your shoulders, trying to shake off the unease.

And then you see it, right there, bathed in shadow, almost invisible as it leans againt the tree: yellow and red metal.

Rafe’s bike.

The porch light flickers against the metal frame, casting long shadows across the muddy driveway. The sight of it turns your stomach to ice.

What the hell is he doing here?

You don’t think—you just move.

The door creaks as you push inside, the house bathed in stretching darkness. The kitchen window lets in a sliver of moonlight, cutting across the counter in a thin silver line. The furniture sits in silhouette, familiar shapes swallowed by shadows. It feels empty—like the air itself is holding its breath.

You look over your shoulder at John's door.

The only glow in the house seeps from the cracks beneath it, a warm, flickering light bleeding into the hall. His voice is a low murmur, sharp and frustrated, barely intelligible from behind the thick wooden door, tangled with Sarah’s. The words are indistinct, but you can hear the tension, the way it scrapes against the walls.

Your stomach tightens.

If Rafe is here, he’s not with them.

Which means—

Your grip tightens around the strap of your bag as you take careful steps toward your room. The ground creaking beneath you, that sound sets your nerves alight.

You push open your bedroom door. The air inside is still. Undisturbed.

The thought barely forms before you turn toward your dresser and freeze.

There’s someone sitting on your bed, but it isn’t Rafe.

Your eyes drag over the cut on the jeans, caked with dry blood. The heavy boots, still powdered by dirt, the black wife beater.

Your stomach drops.

Barry.

He’s barely visible in the dim light, his posture relaxed but… off. One arm draped over his knee, the other flicking something between his fingers. Your lighter.

His gaze flicks to yours, cautious, almost nervous.

– Hey, sweetheart. – He says quietly, his voice is thick, slow, like he’s thinking too much about every word.

Your breath catches in your throat.

He flips the lighter open with a click, the flame briefly illuminating his face before he snaps it shut again. He doesn’t smirk, doesn’t grin. He just watches you.

– I— He exhales, rubbing a hand over his jaw. – I know I shouldn’t be here.

You don’t move as he stands, nearing you. His face shifts, almost hurt.

He clears his throat, tapping the lighter against his palm. – Door was unlocked.

You swallow hard.

His eyes flick over you, searching, like he’s trying to gauge whether or not you’re going to kick him out. He shifts slightly, closer than he was before, expectant, uncomfortable.

Then, voice quieter—almost hesitant—

– Can we talk?

@chatgtfo @bitterdotcom @xmayankax @bluethperson @coralblue35 @myluvingera @munsoncultedits @the-bitch-who-binges @im-julessssss @redkarmakai @hwaaholic @sydkneez @sassyvillaintrophy

[edlucavalden]

Mithrun and non-visible disability

Yk, I've never seen people talk about this, but Mithrun is a very accurate depiction of having a non visible illness

I'd like to interpret mithrun's bastard origin to be an allegory for an invisible disability (I'd argue its neurodivergance, but it could be anything); An aspect of yourself that you are born with (in this case; born from) that is seen as inferior but it is not obvious.

He's even lucky—since that part of him is that of benefit. His infidelity gave him silver eyes and sharp ears after all (if you can catch the metaphor). from the outside, He's just a normal person, a person worth respecting because he's fits the standard.

However, he knows he does not fit the standard. it's just a lie. He hates himself—so, so much bc of that. It causes him to over-compensate through complete perfectionism and a high sense of self pride. He has to keep a big image in order to protect himself. it's the only thing that can get him loved.

However, that superficial ego gives him terrible imposter syndrome. He knows he doesn't deserve it, but he wants to. like everyone, he craves love and safety. So, he looks down at everyone, hyperfocused at their flaws (he can't be inferior if everyone is worse, right?) whatever it takes to prove himself that he deserves love.

He knows he's weak, but he has to show to everyone that he's strong because any slight sight of weakness would be detrimental since he knows that his humanity is conditional.

He knows that if he shows the truth and how he doesn't actually fit the status quo, he will be ostracized and rejected.

He knows—because his brother is proof of that.

Obrin's disability is obviously visible; Shown through his physical characteristics (his frailness and the lack of family traits). However, his discrimination may be due to this visible disability. he isn't nessesarily ostracized for those traits. His features aren't the (main) reason why he's perceived as inferior in the social hierarchy. it's instead because he's rumored to be a bastard child. This is why he hates his brother so much.

Obrins physical characteristics are just "symptoms" that perpetuate their prejudice towards infidelity (if were going by the disability allegory, think; this person is too sensitive, it must be bc of the autism...). By doing so, his brother indirectly taught him to hide that part of himself.

He hates Obrin because he is the physical manifestation of what will happen to him if his infidelity (disability) is revealed. He is the same plane as his brother after all, The only difference is that he's fortunate enough to be able to hide it.

It's very interesting how his hatred to Obrin isn't because he's genuinely bigoted and ignorant towards him, but because of his own personal internalized ablelism just projected. (It's ironic how contrary it is; he hates his brother because he sees him as equal) very much paralleling visible and nonvisible disability in intimate familial relationships.

The fact mithrun is the bastard child, not him. Imagine the burdening guilt and shame that comes with the knowledge that he could (or should) be one in his place.

He's constantly paranoid of thoughts that he's not good enough. That's why he was so upset when he was sent to the canaries or when he saw Obrin and Sultha together.

Because those are signs that Obrin is better than him and he could not forgive that (how can someone like him, completely ostracized from society, and be so content...?). And that sign proves his paranoia of not being good enough are correct.

mithrun's insecurities, fears, and behavior very much parallel that of being a high masking disabled person.

Hes is a flawed disabled character, but one you can also sympathize with.

He isn't a perfect victim. He delves on how a disabiled person who's so intrenched in a heavily ableist and bigoted society can be a victim to its bigotry and be taken advantage of (The demon. I didn't touch on that topic, as much as i would love an essay about how the demon preyed on mithruns vulnerability regarding his own disability but unfortunately, that might be too triggering for me lawl!) while also actively participating in it and perpetuate said beliefs

And that means so much to me

[bigfan-fanfic]

Bats in the Web (Spider-Man!Batdad x Batfam)

What if batfam meets a version of Batdad who is Spider-Man in his universe??

"We can't interfere!" Bruce growls. "I know you want to help, but after the last world we jumped into, we can't take chances."

Dick sighs. The last world they went into, they nearly ruined everything because Gotham had no Batman yet.

But luckily, something descends upon the mugging in progress.

But it isn't Batman.

A strange silver cable zips into view and slams into the assailant's back, spreading in a strange geometric pattern. He stumbles forward at the force of the blow, before the cable springs taut, and the mugger is flung into the air.

Someone lithe and graceful sails through the air, trailing more silver cables and quickly wraps the stranger up in them, robotic arms emerging from their back to assist - almost like a four-armed... spider.

The mugger dangles upside down from a traffic light, completely mummified in silver, and the figure, in a black bodysuit with light-catching silver filaments in a web pattern shining along the whole thing, and what appears to be a yellow hood and short jacket, crouches atop it.

"You get home safe, you hear?" they call. "We'll just be... hangin' around."

The would-be victim grins up at them. "Thanks, Spidey!"

But the Bats are looking shocked.

Because that was clearly your voice, only slightly altered by a voice changer - the voice you use when you broadcast to negotiate with people while they're on patrol.

Before they can speak, though, you've flung yourself through the air, opening your arms to reveal the gliding wings attached from your sides to the arms of your jacket so you can sail through the air.

"Pops is... Spider-Man?" Dick yelps.

From what they can surmise, in this universe, Bruce still lost his parents at a young age, but he didn't develop the desire to become Batman.

Instead, while on a field trip, you were exposed to some kind of radioactive spider, and Bruce did what he could to keep your secret and develop his technological aptitude to help you.

It was Alfred's death that convinced you to become a hero - his last words to you being that with great power came great responsibility.

You and Bruce are still very young in this world, barely old enough to have adopted a young Dick Grayson. It's probable that Damian won't be born, and Tim won't be adopted by you.

You're so much more cheerful than Batman - Gotham's Spider-Man quips, sometimes with dark humor, and inspires her citizens to fight back against the oppressive darkness of their city with good humor and clever tactics.

The Bats make their way to Wayne Manor, only to find the harsh brickwork and traditional architecture has made way for modern-quality of life improvements, fiber optic light fixtures, glass bay windows, and high tech at every turn. It barely resembles their Wayne Manor.

In fact, the caverns beneath the estate aren't even utilized, with there instead being a high-tech laboratory on the grounds with a launchpad to fling you over the bay and into the city.

It's a shock to see them - Bruce Wayne, his body in shape but much softer: he obviously works out hard but he's clearly not a fighter. His movements are relaxed, even sluggish compared to the constant vigilance of the Bat. And he wears an unfamiliar expression on his face - a genuine lazy grin.

Meanwhile there's this world's you - lithe and strong, battle-worn and with the at-rest tension of a vigilante.

Alt-Bruce and you have an easy banter, a love very much like two young people - you're only a little older than Dick, after all, which he finds weird - especially when he and Tim babysit his younger version.

Jason is utterly touched when Alt-Bruce asks about all the kids, so he can make sure to adopt them - he wouldn't want them going homeless in this world. All Jason knows is that young Jason Todd in this world might just be saved from years of trauma.

You're still the strategist, but Bruce is your mission control and the gear/science guy - he helps with upgrades and is the one to suggest a way to get the Bats back to their world.

But you'll need their help.

You fly through the city that night accompanied by five gliding shadows. Shadows that brutally subdue the henchmen of Black Mask as you soar above their heads, connecting some power towers with a filament web, forming a major circuit Alt-Bruce can use to power a tachyonic collider, which should launch them back into their world.

They return to their world, but Jason pulls Bruce aside.

"B... you owe him."

"Owe him what? Who, Jaybird?"

Jason sighs. "Pops. You owe him a chance to see that smile. On you."

Bruce looks at him. "You think my face can still do that?"

"Hey, I was surprised that you were actually funny! But... yeah, I do."

"Maybe you're right. Maybe you're right..."

[flashbastardsramblings]

I've realised that the thing I love most about the new popular queer media (and for this I'll use as an example wwdits, good omens and ofmd), is the fact that the difficulties these characters are dealing with aren't connected to their sexuality. The problems don't stem from their queer sexuality. They are not being punished for being queer.

Crowley and Aziraphale's relationship isn't forbidden because they aren't a cishet couple. It's forbidden because they are both victims of an opressive and unjust system (heaven) who's afraid of their combined power which is a direct result of their love for one another.

Guillermo and Nandor's relationship is so nuanced and complicated. There's lots of things to unpack that have been piled up for more than a decade, but again their queer sexualities aren't the problem. Same goes for the rest of the vampires, who are also queer.

Sure, in Stede's case he has to deal with queer trauma, toxic masculinity and the realisation that he's gay, and therefore doesn't conform to the ideal archetype of the straight, masculine man with the heterosexual family. But after realising that and coming out to Mary, the show isn't really about ‘oh, look how difficult it is to be queer, poor guys'. Like Con O'Neil said in a panel, the obstacle here isn't that we have two men who are in love. The difficult thing is to let yourself be in love and become vulnerable.

Both Stede and Ed are dealing with their own trauma, which has affected how they see themselves and by extension their relationships with other people. They are dealing with self doubt, even self loathing, and the belief that they aren't good enough or that they don't deserve love. However, none of that is because they are queer. Being queer sure isn't easy (especially then) but it's not the source of their pain and I fucking love that.

I'm all about the exploration of sexuality, dealing with internalised homophobia and transphobia, coming out etc, and that's why we have series like Heartstopper. But it's still so fucking refreshing to see queerness not being depicted as a ‘big deal’, but rather one of the many aspects of one's self.

That being said, I love being queer and fucking love my insane little queer characters.

[sparklingblu]

Atonement

Giselle x Male Reader

TW: blood, choking(not the hot kind), death, self harm, a lot of dark stuff

"Truth or Dare?"

"Truth"

"If you have the choice to fuck anyone in this room, who would it be?"

The moment these sinful word leaves Giselle's lips, you realize you have fallen right into her trap. And without a doubt, Giselle is aware of it. You can see it from the way the corner of her lips twitch like she's trying desperately not to mock at your loss for words, the way her eyes bore into yours as if challenging you to give the answer that have been on your mind for far too long. She tilts her head, urging you to response.

But even if you don't, she would have already known the answer. Anyone would. Giselle, the perfect example of teenage royalty. Giselle, who can make any men bow down before her with a flick of her finger. Giselle, who always act like she owns the world. And that's not so far from the truth. The world doesn't revolve around Giselle. The entire solar system does.

And she has every right to act that way. Money? Popularity? Charisma? There isn't anything Giselle can't check off on that list. Her parents being the main contributor to the university's funds, she's practically untouchable here. A goddess, you may even say. That's not a metaphor, because metaphors are a figure of speech. And Giselle is a long way off from it.

She has the type of aura that can turn heads wherever she lays her feet on. A vixen. A siren who pulls men in to their deepest, darkest fantasies they have never even realize existed till they have seen her. The worst thing? She takes pleasure in it. The thought that these men will fantasize about her, giving in to their carnal desires that she has awakened just by being in their presence. The amount of sperm that will be wasted on thoughts of her and her only before they are even given life. All those reminds her that she's Giselle. The untouchable. The unbothered.

If you start thinking you can beat Giselle in at least some aspect, think again. Because that will be your last thought before she shows you she's on the top of the food chain. What you are good at, she does it better. If not, she will make sure you are no longer good at it. Because she's Giselle.

People might ask, if she is that ruthless, wouldn't she be hated? Wouldn't she be an outcast? It's the total opposite. Her twisted and cryptic demeanor is what lures people into her dungeon, hoping to find a way through, hoping to get to her core, to get even the slightest idea of who she really is beneath these layers of her indifference, only to end up as another victim that has fallen to her arctic charm.

No one would be stupid enough not to recognize her deadly allure. The poisoned apple. The evidences lie all around them. Men, who would trade their soul just to have a chance with her. Women, who would die to be her. And in some cases, to be both. Yet, they follow the footsteps of those before them. Because she's that irresistible. A living embodiment of lust and pride. Tempting and tempting until you give in and take a bite of that forbidden fruit.

And you are not so far off from becoming one of them. With every passing second, it gets harder not to lay your eyes on Giselle. She has your undivided attention like an insect caught in a spiderweb.

You try averting your eyes to the far far wall, anywhere you will be freed of Giselle's pull, only to be greeted by the maniacal smile of the human skull, grinning like crazy, as if saying "You can't escape from her. Not now, not then"

You shouldn't have even come to this Halloween party in the first place. This whole night have been nothing but a mistake. You should have stayed in your room and finished up your assignment like you first intended to. Halloween is nothing but an excuse for people to get wasted and imitated things they aren't without the judgement from society for one single night. It should have dawned on you back then. You don't even have a costume. What do you want to dress as? You have no idea. A mummy? A wizard? A vampire? A fucking vampire. Out of all the cheesy options of pop culture icons, you have to choose the cheesiest one. With a trench coat a friend of yours borrowed, your swept back hair and your fake fangs, you looked like a handed down Edward Cullen.

Nevertheless, your desperation to fit in: to talk to real people rather than strangers online, ultimately lead you to your despair. Saying the party is lively would be an understatement. It has surpassed liveliness, it has a life of its own. People poured into Giselle's dorm, The Coven, from every direction. The eerie tunes of Halloween carols and artificial screams filled the air, which are farther complemented by the paper bats that hang from the ceiling an the fog machines hissing in the corner. On the dance floor, students move in hypnotic synchrony, their costume ranging from classic monsters to familiar icons you see everywhere. Bodies entwining and intertwining beneath the luminous glow of the string lights that scatter the ceiling.

Being the loner you are, the first thing you do when you arrive is look for someone you know. Anyone who can help you in the quest not to be the odd one out. You sigh in relief when you see one of the familiar face near a drink table, which is exceptional just like everything in this party. A champagne tower stands on the far end, which you are surprised someone wasted has not knocked it down yet. All across the length of the table lies buckets holding different type of bottles, a different kind of magic in each one. And if you are not a drinker, worry not because an ice bucket full of every known fizzy drink known to man is just up for grabs in one corner. Everything is designed to fit anyone's need. Only a fool would not give a second glance to this playground for taste buds.

And you are no fool, so you grab a glass of champagne and head to where your friend is, if you can call someone a friend after talking to them once during a lecture. He's cosplaying Pennywise but with his crumpled jumpsuit and the white makeup which is horribly done, he looks more like a circuit clown who just got fired. You don't expect him to recognize you but much to your surprise, he does. Offering a hand to shake, he says his formal greetings.

"This party is probably the best one I have ever been to" he says in awe. "I heard Giselle organize all of this, must be nice to have your parents paying your bill"

Hinting the envy and jealousy in his voice, you don't blame him. Because it's Giselle you are talking about. There's no one else here who can turn a party into a masterpiece. You should be thankful you got to be a part of it regardless if her parents pay for this or not.

So, you just nod in agreement and change the topic. After a while, you realize listening to a heartbroken guy/clown talking about his exes is not exactly the best thing to do at a party like this. This is not a chance you get everyday and you are not going to let it go to waste by tragedies.

"Excuse me for a moment" you cut him off, chug down rest of your champagne and wander farther. If the party was lively before, now it's on full swing. The dancing has escalated to make out sessions among some of the couples, fueled by the heat of the moment. Much to your disgust, a pool of vomit litters a spot on the floor, the work of someone who have had too much to drink. As you tear through the sea of people, either horny or drunk, you start to wonder if the whole university have been confined into one large mass of bodies here tonight. You bump into Frankenstein, nearly get knocked out by a drunk Darth Vader and hear a curse (not that kind of curse) from a Harry Potter , who's probably high.

You have already failed your initial plan to socialize, there's no way you can make conversation with these people who have transcended to the peak of bliss. Dancing is an option, if it isn't for the fact that you are a horrible dancer and your moves will be worse than those drunkards wilding without a care in the world.

Part of you want to leave, this place is starting to suffocate you with the stench of bodies that cover every inch of this hall, the euphoric faces that appear and disappear with each flash of the lights overhead and the worst of all, the make out sessions happening at any spot you lay your eyes on.

It's such an absurd idea to feel disturbed by the sight of lips against lips, tongues entwined with tongues. Afterall, it's just one of the many ways humans express their desires, the need to touch, to be touched. Yet, combined with this vague atmosphere of the party, the act becomes unbearably explicit.

You feel like a fool for seeing it this way but whatever this party is composed of, it's starting to affect you. What seems like a glamorous spree looks like a maze of skin and more skins to you now. The music, once perfectly fitted with the event, sounds like a broken symphony.

What you should do is indulge yourself in this moment. Just become one of the bodies that make up this sea of bodies. But regardless, you have to turn the whole thing into an illusion of madness and badness. Just to make an excuse to leave this damn place. Just because you don't want to admit you are never mean to be at social events.

And you would have lied to yourself and leave, if it isn't for the music that suddenly dies and the lights that dissolve into shadows. Apart from a few gasps that slip out, the entire room goes dead silent, save for the white noise of a humming fan in the background.

Your impulsive thoughts take this as a sign to re enter your mind. Is that it? Has the party ended? Maybe something went wrong with the electronics? Just more excuse to make yourself believe you don't leave this party because you wanted to. It has to be something else.

Thankfully, you are too caught in the abrupt halt that you are more curious to see what will happen next rather than act on your impulses. For a few seconds, the room remain still, swallowed by darkness. It seems to go on forever until light showered on a spot at the top of the spiral staircase, descending from one corner of the hall. Another glow pierce the gloom then another, until the whole staircase has been light up.

With the radiance that contrast the staircase and the rest of the room, it looks like a stairway straight from heaven, materializing only for the divine. But the one who descends from those steps is anything but divine. Depraved is too weak of a word to describe her.

Down from the stairs comes the queen herself, Giselle, with the faintest clue of a smile on her lips and her eyes, scanning the crowd the way a queen would do to her subjects. No one complains because everyone here is in debt to her. If it's not for Giselle, they will never achieve the felicity of this night, that they have happily surrendered to, unknowingly becoming just one of Giselle's pawns. And you are not excluded.

Giselle isn't wearing a costume, she's just in a different layer of skin. Why would she try to be someone else when she's already Giselle? If the darkness has been eliminated by the light, it is soon going to be reabsorbed by Giselle, whose entire frame is coated in a layer of black sheath dress. The long sleeves of her attire leave no room for skin except the opening at her collar bones, displaying her radiant milky skin. A stygian veil loom over her long hair that falls on either side, as if she's an Oracle going to mutter a prophecy at any moment. Nothing about the outfit makes Giselle stand out more. At a glance, another pretty girl of your fantasies. However, her eyes tell a different story. These pools of cerulean blue that pull anyone who dare to stare right into them like a tide, gripping their core, leaving them breathless.

She's too pretty to be human, you think. Maybe she isn't. Maybe she's send from the higher powers to test the homo sapiens of their real nature, to expose their deepest desires. If that's the case, everyone had already failed ,evident by the way their eyes follow her with each step she takes.

Giselle stops right in the middle step, regarding the horde of flesh stunned by her appearance.

"I'm sure you are having a blast" Giselle speaks, though her voice isn't thundering, it cuts through the crowd like ripples.

Everyone cheers, a cluster of voices competing to be heard. When the silence returns, Giselle speaks again.

"Let go of your worries tonight! Drink! Dance! Get wasted! Party like there's no tomorrow!"

Anther roar erupt from the crowd. A handful of people start dancing without music, overwhelmed with bliss. This time the noise don't cease, chatters of conversation amplify until the whole room is bustling with activity again, even with the lights gone.

A shrill like nail scratching on metal shrieked from the sound boxes, causing everyone to cover their ears, shutting their mouth. When the crowd is silent again, Giselle's voice appears once more.

"I'm glad to see you all are enjoying yourself but there's one last event of the night to top this entire party. I promised you have never ever experienced anything like this"

The crowd remains hushed, eager to hear the next words Giselle will say. Excited to be even more euphoric than they already are. Giselle, who seems to notice it, smiles with satisfaction. And that's the first time you have seen her truly smile.

The corner of her lips will twitch from time to time but they never bloom into a pure smile, quickly ceased before it's given life. But when she does, you become even more sure that she's not human. When people smile, they mean it as a way to show or act like they are glad, content or happy. But Giselle's smile contains neither of these emotions. It's like a work of art, superficially it's nothing but a bent in the line of her lips. But when it is studied closely, you realize she's not smiling out of pure bliss, but rather the joy she gets from seeing how the others cower before her. How easy it is for her to bend their wills without even trying.

However, your astonishment is short lived as Giselle's face returns back to her neutral expression again to continue her speech.

"Unfortunately, only a chosen few will be given the chance to experience this event. And to give everyone a fair chance, I decide to leave things to luck. Are you ready?"

The crowd agree in unison, anxious with anticipation. A shriek comes out from a girl concerning with someone spilling drink on her dress. But everyone is too focused on what comes next to care.

Giselle reached into her cleavage and pulls out five black roses, how she manages to fit all of them in there, you have no idea. Nevertheless, she raises her hand so that everyone can see the flowers.

"I will throw these roses into the crowd and the five person who manage to acquire them will join me in the event. However, there are rules. No one is allowed to move, shove or try to steal it from the ones who caught it. If anyone breaks these rules, they will be banned from this party. Get it?"

Everyone nods in agreement, though you notice some people secretly trying to shove the person in front of them to be closer to the front. One even acts like they trip just to claim that few extra inches.

"Ready? Here they go"

Giselle launches the roses into the air, which spirals into the crowd, admiring the sight with unblinking eyes. Your position isn't the best. You are not at the far back but you are not in the front either. You are in the center , where the bodies are the most compressing. You barely have any room to move.

But much to your surprise, a rose lands right on your hair and the horde around you turn to you, the envy and spite unfiltered on their faces. That should have been me, they would be thinking. You snatch the rose from your hair, twirling it from the stem.

You are still dazed by what had happened. Getting chosen for an exclusive event of Giselle? You must have used up your whole year of luck. Cheers erupt from the other four who share your fate. The rest of the crowd groan and murmur in disappointment.

"Seems like we have our winners!" Giselle announces, a mischievous glint in her eyes. "For the rest of you, the party will carry on. Enjoy yourself. The chosen ones, follow me up the stairs"

The light flood the hall again. Music starts blasting from the speakers. The party has returned back to its full swing. People departs heading back to carry on what they were doing. Drink, dance or get wasted, like Giselle had quoted.

You look up to the staircase and see Giselle already climbing back up, the other four following her steps. You are amazed to see that the Pennywise guy you talked to earlier is one of them. The other three are females. One dressed like Harley Quinn, the other a hybrid between Ariel and Aquaman, holding a trident and the last one looks like she just cuts up holes in an old blouse and put it on, hoping to look like someone.

Not wanting to be left out, you follow them. The stairway curves into a single door, which surprises you because you expect it to open up onto the upper floor. On the door, a strange symbol is curved. A thin upside down heart, almost identical to a tear drop, but this one have two bumps. Maybe another creepy Halloween decoration.

Without giving it much thought, you follow Giselle inside, who pushes the door open. You are left breathless by the sight before you. There isn't a room beyond the door. It's a whole chamber. A circular space encircled by shelves of books, vials and items you have never seen before. A small creature that looks like a fusion between a snake and a butterfly floats in a flask of green liquid. The other holds the skull of a cat, or so you think. Nearby, a strange liquid bubbles in a cauldron. The mixed smell of wood and rotten meat doesn't help. The one single window have been closed shut so that the only light source is the lamp on a nearby desk. If Giselle set all this up for tonight, she has gone way over the top.

"Welcome to my chamber!" Giselle says, her voice dripping with glee. Her blue eyes seem to hint the oncoming of something big. "Tonight, we are gonna play a special game. And trust me, you have never ever played it before"

From a drawer, Giselle pulls out a thin bottle, identical to the ones that hold wine. But it isn't an ordinary bottle. On the surface, strange symbols are curved, shapes and words of languages you don't understand. Another Halloween prop?

"We are going to play 'Spin the Bottle'!"

Giselle announces but no one replies. This is the special game? A party game every high schooler knows. Maybe the only difference being it's a Halloween themed bottle.

"Oh, I know what you are thinking" Giselle raises an eyebrow. "It's a game everyone knows, right? What's so special about it? Well, you will see"

She reaches into the drawer again and this time, she pulls out two decks of card. One looks freshly bought and the other worn out, the card corners bent. Giselle extend her arms, displaying the decks to the others.

"This is what makes it so special. I'll show you. Sit"

Giselle points to the floor. Seriously? But no one argue and take their places. You sit down, the Pennywise guy on your right and Harley Quinn on your left. Giselle sits right in front of you, Aquaman(or woman) taking her right and Ms. Tattered Clothes on her left. A circle is formed.

"Ehmm.... can you put that away?" Giselle asks Aquawoman, who's still holding her plastic trident. The girl's face lights up with a blush.

"Oh, sorry" she apologizes, quickly shoving her weapon onto a desk.

"Now, I will show you how to play" Giselle sets the bottle earlier in the middle space, putting each of the decks on either side. Everyone's eyes follow her moves intently, dying to know what makes everything so special. "It's very similar to a normal Spin the Bottle. Someone spins the bottle, and when it points to a certain person, they have to kiss, or choose one, Truth or Dare. But there's no kissing here. It's either Truth or Dare. Unlike the original game, you can't just ask or dare someone whatever you want. You have to pick a card" Giselle points to the new batch of cards. "This is the deck of Truth, if someone chooses to be honest, the spinner have to choose a card from here and ask them the question on the card" She points to the other worn out deck. "This is the deck of Fate, the deck for Dare, you can say. Choose a card from here if someone is feeling adventurous" Giselle looks each of you carefully. "Got it?"

You still doubt this game is anything but special. It's still Spin the Bottle with a couple extra items thrown in. There isn't anything that makes it stand out. Still, Giselle seems to think otherwise.

"Why no kissing?" Mr. Pennywise asks, the grin on his face makes him look even more abominable. You are thankful you are beside him so that you won't see his face constantly.

"Because I say so" Giselle says firmly. Again, showing everyone who's in charge.

"Oh...alright" Pennywise replies, disappointed. And you somehow feel glad to see him that way.

"Ok, let's begin. I will start first" Without a warning, Giselle spins the bottle. It rotates and rotates until it finally points at Mr. Pennywise. He grins again and you feel like throwing up.

"Man....if there was only kissing" he groans in disappointment. Giselle's expression remains unwavered.

"Truth or Dare?" she asks, tilting her head.

"I'm shy so...Truth!" he strains his voice on purpose and it's not funny, not at all.

"Very well" Giselle takes the top card on the deck. She raises it to read and you notice a symbol of a scale on the back, representing justice, or in this case, the truth.

"What's your greatest insecurity?" Giselle asks, looking at the guy straight into his eyes.

"Ehm....that's.." Pennywise scratches his head, seemingly baffled by the question. The whole points of insecurities is that you keep them to yourself. No one would spill it in a party game. Or would they?

"I...don't know" he tries for an awkward smile. "I'm always happy with myself so...."

"Is that so?" Giselle's voice is smug, as if she knows he's lying. "What do you think guys?" she asks the others. No one answers except the girl in the torn blouse. "Maybe....?"

"We will see soon" Giselle puts the card back into the deck, shuffling it. "Is your answer final?"

"Yeah, why not?" Pennywise answers, though he looks uneasy. "You are really hyping up this Halloween vibe, huh?"

"Oh, you flatter me. But you should have put your words to good use elsewhere" Giselle sounds almost delighted and the rest of the people in the room shifts uneasily, including you.

For a moment everything was silent. You could have heard your heartbeat if it's not for the popping sounds the boiling cauldron is making. Then it happens. Pennywise starts making sounds like someone have stuffed his throat with a rock. He clutches his neck, trying to scream. But the only sounds that come out are muffled whines like a deer getting run on by a truck, again and again. His eyes start to bulge as if they are going to jump out at any moment. His face white as a sheet of paper.

Everyone stares in shock, yet no one tries to help, too shocked by the scene before them. No one makes a sound except Giselle, who makes a note. "See? That happens when you are not honest"

"Make it stop! He's going to die" Harley Quinn cries, her eyes wide with terror.

"Oh, I'm not doing anything to him. He's being punished for his own mistake, being dishonest" Giselle muses lightly as if someone isn't dying before her.

Pennywise falls to the ground with a loud thud and his body goes limp. Aquawoman and Ms. Tattered Clothes screams. Your breath hitches. You hate this guy but you don't want him to die. Not like this.

"What have you done?" Harley Quinn screams in horror, covering her mouth with her hands.

"Nothing. He dug his own grave" Giselle says with indifference. Her face shows no sign of remorse.

"This game has gone too far! I'm leaving" Harley Quinn screams and stands up, trying to walk away. However, she falls back as if an invisible barrier has been put up. "Let me go!" she cries, tears already flowing down her face.

"Now now" Giselle looks at the girl. "No need to be afraid. You just have to be truthful if you don't want to end up like him. It's that easy. Once the game is over, you can leave"

"Let me go, please...." Harley Quinn pleads but Giselle's eyes are no longer on her. When her begging goes unanswered, the girl sits up, sniffling. The others silent as they were.

All this time, you are staring at the lifeless face of Pennywise. His mouth hangs open in an unfinished scream. The terrors in his eyes accentuating his pale lifeless face that you have no idea how it gets even whiter over his clown makeup. His fingers crooked, trying to cling on something. Anything that will keep him alive.

He's dead, you think. He's really dead. This is no longer another Halloween prop. It's a real corpse. Is Giselle the one who did it? She didn't even lift a finger but isn't she the one who starts this game? Maybe it's the cards. Maybe they are magic.

The sense of pride and joy you had had earlier is gone. This is one deadly game. All you want to do is get out of here as soon as possible. But Harley Quinn had already proved it's not a choice. You must stay here.

"Shall we continue?" Giselle asked, handing the bottle to Harley Quinn, maybe out of pity, if she even feels pitiful.

The girl takes the bottle with shaking hands and before she spins it, Giselle raises a hand. "Oh, wait. We have an inactive member"

You instantly realizes she's talking about the lifeless body beside you. She points to it and asks. "You, Mr. Vampire. Can you shove that body somewhere?" she asks it the way someone would ask for a pencil, without a trace of loath in her voice. Like she's asking you to get rid of a dead fly.

"Yeah..sure" you complies. After seeing what happens to Pennywise and Harley Quinn, you are not feeling rebellious. Giselle isn't the one to mess with. You hold the body up by the arms and drag it to a nearby shelf, propping it.

Suddenly, a thought enters your mind. You are away from Giselle. There's no invisible barrier when you stood up. This is the chance to get away. To get out of this mess that has just begun once and for all. You cast a glance to the door and instantly, Giselle's voice flows through your ears. "Don't even think about it"

Without further words, you return to your initial space, now between Harley Quinn and Aquawoman, who had took the vacant spot.

"Let's begin" Giselle orders and Harley Quinn spins the bottle without hesitation. It whirls and whirls, finally slowing down before you.......no, it's Aquawoman.

"Truth or...Dare?" Harley Quinn asks, her voice still shaky from crying earlier. For a moment, Aquawoman is silent. Then she makes her choice. "Dare"

"Oh...this one is feeling adventurous" Giselle compliments. Her eyes fixed on the girl so intently it looks like she's going to burn a hole through her.

Harley Queen picks up the card from the old deck. The symbol on the back of this card is a scythe, a symbol for punishment? Not really a good idea. She gulps after seeing what's written on the card. "You....you have to..." she stutters.

"Say it dear" Giselle urges. "Say the words"

"You have to paint your name....with your....your...blood..." Her words thin to a whisper at the end.

Aquawoman looks like all the blood in her body have been sucked out. "What..?" she asks, although there isn't a need. The instructions are clear.

"You heard her, dear. You have to write your name in your own blood. Doesn't it sound fun?" Giselle asks. If she's trying to be funny, now is not the time.

"I can't......please ask me to do anything. Not this...please, I beg you" Aquawoman begs but Giselle simply shrugs her shoulders.

"You have to do what yo are asked. Or else, you see what happened to Mr. no insecurities. You want to follow him?" Giselle's words seem to snap the girl back to her senses, though nothing about this makes sense.

"How do I do it?" she asks. Her voice so small you have to focus on every words.

"Simple" Giselle stands, takes a dagger from a drawer and hands it to her. "Paint it on the floor right in front of you. By the way what's your name?"

The girl swallows. "Penelope" Not a good time to have an eight letter names, you think. You wonder if her blood is enough. There are nearly six liters of blood in a human body but even if less than half of it is lost....You shut your train of thoughts. Not another corpse. It can't happen.

Aquawoman takes the dagger with trembling hands and sits down, staring at it as if it's a foreign object. Slowly, she pulls up the sleeve, raising it to her forearm, setting the edge on her flesh. It sinks in and a trail of blood starts to pour from the opening. Grimacing, she collects it with her forefinger and writes the first letter on the floor, P. But it isn't enough as half of the letter only formed.

The girl sinks the blade deeper, her lips pursed, trying to seal away a scream. More blood pours. The first letter is completed. You watch the gruesome scene as the girl paints her name. E, then N, after that L. Halfway but she's already trembling. Her whole arm is soaked with blood.

Giselle watches it with a hint of amusement in her eyes. Now you know what's beneath that cold face everyone tries to decipher. It's a sick, twisted mind. Ruined beyond repair. And she likes it that way.

"I can't do this anymore..." Aquawoman mutters in a hoarse voice, setting the dagger down. "It hurt so much"

"Just use your other arm" Giselle advices. "You are nearly there"

"But...." the girl reconsiders and takes the dagger with her bloody hand, raising it to cut another opening in her other arms. She slices and more blood flows. More paint.

The girl continues painting, her temples beaded with sweat. If her eyes can speak, they are screaming for help. The name gets completed one word after another. O, P, then she stops.

"Please......it...it hurts....I'm nearly done, please...can I.." she pleads and begs. Her hands trembling, both covered in red.

"One last letter" Giselle muses. "Complete it"

"I can't....please...?" she asks for mercy. But Giselle isn't known for being merciful.

"Are you saying you can't do it?" Giselle insists.

"No...no....but I can't-" She drops her dagger and stumbles forward, propping herself on her palms. She has lost too much blood.

"Very well then" Giselle says, her expression solemn.

"I...I don't want to.." The girl can no longer speaks. Not because she is choking. But because blood starts to pour from her eyes. A waterfall of blood, enough to write her names a hundred times. You back away in disgust, a few drops staining your coat. The other two cover their eyes, unable to comprehend the horror of the scene. Gisell watches the never ending flow of blood with interest. Not even caring the droplets hitting her dress.

"What a pity, she was so promising" Giselle sighs as the body lands on the floor with a loud thud. "Another one eliminated. Mr. Vampire, would you be so kind to..?" She points it a the corpse. Damn this, why does everyone around you have to die? Without complaint, you grab her from the waist, the only part unstained with her blood and put her next to Pennywise.

Two down. Two corpses. Who's next? You should have left when you had the chance. You should have continue being the loner you are. Stay in your room and spend Halloween watching Dracula. At least it won't be real. At least you won't die. Your desperation have lead you to your demise. There's no way out of here.

Regardless, this game that's nothing but sick must go on. Because Giselle says so. All of you are nothing but pawns on her chessboard. Disposable. Weak.

You expect Giselle to take the spot next to you but instead, Harley Quinn takes it. Giselle is still right in front of you. Those pools of blue still piercing into your soul, inch by inch. Now the circle, or rather a rhombus, consists only of four.

No one complains. They have already seen two examples. No one's eager to become another. The bottle is now in the hands of Ms. Tattered clothes, who stares at it like it's an explosive. You have no idea about the order the bottle is being passed. But it just one of the many thing that doesn't make any sense.

The bottle spins, pointing directly across from the spinner, at Harley Quinn.

"Truth or Dare?" This question, these words that have reaped two souls.

"Truth" Harley Queen makes her choice, at least she won't be cutting her vessels open. That's not exactly a reassuring thought. You have no idea about the other questions in that deck.

A card is pulled. The question is read.

"If someone here is to die, who do you wish it is?"

A simple question, yet the answer a double pointed sword. You know her answer because you would have answered the same. It's 'Giselle'. If she's dead, you all can leave. You all can stop playing this deadly game. But if the truth is spoken, who knows what Giselle will do?

"It's..eh..." Harley Queen stutters, debating with herself. Tell the truth, she risks facing Giselle's wrath. Lie, she dies. Neither's a good choice.

"It's ok dear, speak your mind" Giselle encourages. She pulls her veil farther below and the shadows it cast pale the blue of her eyes. Yet, they are as intent as ever.

"You" Harley Quinn makes her decision. She lowers her head like she's scared of what comes next.

"Eh....honest..." Giselle muses, a faint smile forming on her lips, the exotic kind. "Your courage is admirable, dear. The truth is good. But sometimes, it must be twisted to fit the situation. Afterall, the Truth is bitter"

Giselle smiles and again you are baffled by its arcane amidst the chaos. You would have forgotten you are on the verge of dying had she not sheathed it.

"I'm sorry dear. Such honesty should be rewarded but this time the stakes are high" Giselle sighs, blowing air.

"This is unfair! I spoke the truth! I'm going to die either way, why are you doing this?" Harley Quinn bellows in rage. Her face so red you think it's going to explode.

"You are correct. Lie or Truth, both leads to the same end. But I'm doing this because I find it fun. Because I can" Giselle admits and you have no doubt that she is ,in fact, enjoying this. Her smile had said it all.

"You can't do this! If others know..." her words are cut short by the flames that engulf her. You back away in shock. Thankfully, you don't get to move another corpse as the flames consumes everything in one swift blast. Ash, the remnants of what was once human rain to the floor.

"She talked too much. It's a good thing she went quick" Giselle says lazily. This dead seems to be the least interesting to her.

The nature of the game has become obvious. Truth or Dare, you die either way. It's inevitable. Everyone here must meet their end to satisfy Giselle's hunger. But of course, the game must go on.

"Your turn, pretty boy" Giselle says, handing you the bottle. You take it. Even before spinning, you already know who it's gonna land on. And of course, it does. The deadly little container point rights towards Ms. Tattered Clothes. Another vicitm. The second last.

"Truth or Dare?" You say the three deadly words.

The girl is silent, seemingly struggling to say the right words. Except that there isn't one. Her whole face is frozen in fear, staring into space.

"Hurry up, dear" Giselle says. "We don't have all night"

The girl raises her head to look at Giselle, pleading with her eyes.

"I don't want to die. Please....I will do anything..." she cowers before Giselle, begging for her life. Giselle seeems amused at the fragile creature bowing before her. The idea of having someone's life to do as she wishes filling her with delight.

"Now, don't be scared. Nothing lasts forever afterall. The least you can do is make a choice. Truth or Dare?" Giselle repeats your question.

"I...I'm..." The girl sits back up, realizing there's no way to escape. "Truth"

Giselle looks at you and you pull a card from the deck of Truth. You flip the card to the other side, only to be greeted by a strange sight. The other side of the card is blank. No letters or questions, just a white space.

"What's the meaning of this?" you asks, showing the card to Giselle.

"Oh dear, I'm really sorry" Giselle says with false compassion. "Seems like you have landed on the empty card, which means there's no questions for you to answer"

"What do you...mean?" the girl insists. "This must be a mistake, maybe he can pull another card"

"That would be against the rules" Giselle set the card down in front of the girl. "And I like to follow them"

"So what? If I didn't answer, I wouldn't be lying right? That means I won't be punished" The girl insists once more. And in a sense, what she says make sense. How could she lie if there isn't even a question?

"You are not wrong" Giselle replies. "But it also means you wouldn't be telling the truth either. And that would be lying"

"That makes no fucking sense!" The girl screams, letting her anger gets the best of her. "You are just finding an excuse to kill people!"

"I thought you already know" Giselle sighs. "You are a slow one"

The girl turns to you. "Please, help me. You are going to die too, you know that right? Maybe if both of us can-"

And then she is no more. Her whole body dissolves into a whirlwind of colors which gets sucked in to the blank page of the card like a vortex.

"A shame" Giselle puts the card back into the deck. "Seems like it's just us now"

You have never thought much thought to what happens after death. But now, you start wondering if you have done enough good to get into Heaven. You surely haven't done anything catastrophic but you haven't accomplished anything remarkable either. You just have to hope the good outweights the bad. Because soon, you will be nothing more than another soul reaped for Giselle's amusement.

What was left of Giselle's facade as the perfect human being has gone. She's anything but that. A demon that indulges herself in the suffering of others. Plucking a life after another like fruits.

Giselle takes the bottle. "My turn" she muses, her voice eager to conclude the act. You being the one to close it out.

The bottle doesn't need to be spinned. The result is clear as day. Giselle does it anyway. The compass of death spins and spins, inevitably pointing towards you.

"Truth or Dare?" The last question for this night, the last question you will hear.

"Truth" you reply, surprised at yourself for how quick your respone is. Have you accepted your end?

"If you have the choice to fuck anyone in this room, who would it be?"

Giselle asks, not pulling a card from the deck. Doesn't it break the rules? No, Giselle makes the rules.

The question seems so odd compared to the others you have heard tonight. The other ones are designed either to force you to lie or mix you up so thoroughly you can't answer. But this question? The answer is simple but not without risk. Giselle, the only other human being here, the sole female, that's the answer, the truth. But you don't want to go up in flames like Harley Quinn did nor you want to choke to death like Pennywise. There isn't a way out. You accept your fate.

"You" you answer. "I would do it with you"

Giselle's face shows no emotion. Her eyes staring into yours, unblinking. You start repenting the sins you might have done. Sooner or later, you would end in a horrible way.

"I think so" Giselle finally speaks. She pulls down her veil to let her hair fall freely around her shoulder. Without it, she looks even more sinister. A wolf in sheep skin.

"End me already" you requests. "Let's finish this"

Giselle chuckles. The voice that comes out is frozen, like she hasn't laughed in a millennia and she's just trying again right now.

"What a brave man" Giselle praises. "But you won't escape me that easily. What you will face is worse than death"

You curse under your breath. Death is not the ideal option but at least it will release you. Now, that chance has went up in smoke.

"Lie down" Giselle orders.

"Why?" You questions. If you are not going to die, at least you want to know what you will be facing.

"Lie down" she repeats. Knowing there's no point in defying her, you obliges. Giselle walks up to you, setting a foot on your chest, looming over you. She smirks and that's when you get a crazy thought. The others were lucky. At least they escape this in a way. You wouldn't.

"Good boy" she compliments. You feel a sense of joy despite the state you are in. It feels so wrong. "Lose your fangs, I don't want you to bite"

You pull of the fake fangs from your mouth. Though you still looks like a sleep deprived vampire with the rest of your attire.

Giselle pulls back her leg, regarding you with her blue eyes like a predator ready to pounce. If she starts skinning you alive, you wouldn't be surprised. However, what she proceeds to do is the exact opposite.

She kneels beside you, her fingers trailing along your chest. The touch left you craving for more. With each movement, she sends a shiver down your spine. At this moment, the only god you will worship is Giselle. You will devote your soul to her if it means she will keep doing this.

Her fingers trail across your chest, down to your waist and then land right on your crotch. She squeezes your clothed mamba, which is already rock hard from her gratifying touch. A smile forms on her lips once more. This time from the joy of seeing how badly you need her.

"Oh, you are already so hard" Giselle mocks and squeezes your dick over the fabric once more. The agony from her harsh grip merges with pleasure and you can no longer distinguish which is which. All you know is you want her to keep doing this. Keep hurting you because with pain, there's pleasure.

"Are you enjoying this?" Giselle gives one final squeeze and let go, leaving you throbbing. You could have cummed from her hands alone if she repeats the motion one more time. Nonetheless, you want her to keep going. To find comfort in the hands of your reaper. The very thought shames you but it gets clouded by a stronger emotion, lust.

Giselle presses her upper body against your chest and you would have put your hands on her waist if it isn't for the fact that she could kill you in a heartbeat. Her black hair streaked with blonde sprawled out on your torso, a curtain of silk. If it isn't enough to drive you wild, the rosy smell of her perfume mixed with the faintest scent of her sweat does the job. Diamond is no longer the hardest material on earth because your cock is already pushing through your pants, trying to escape its boundaries.

Giselle moves further up, lining her face with yours. Under the glow of the lamp, you get the full view of her boobs, which are pushed upward with how hard she's pressing into you. The trench of her cleavage is a dark pit without a bottom, which you will eagerly jump into. Just to get more of her. To indulge in her.

Her fingers move along your ribs, your neck, ending on your face, cupping it, holding it like something tender. "Vampire doesn't suit you, you know?" she asks. Just a simple remark but it deprives you of your common sense. All you feel now is regret. Regret for cosplaying as this stupid creature. Regret for not being good enough for Giselle. "But outfits can be removed, hmm?" Giselle starts unbuttoning your shirt and in this case, literally unbutton. She pulls off the first button. Then the other. Then the other.

A fire has been lit inside you and with each button you lose, the flames rose higher. Giselle's touch is electric and even if it's deadly, you will happily surrender. Because you crave for it too much to care.

Giselle spread open your shirt, the sides parting to reveal your bare chest. She lays a finger and trace it down to your stomach. Her eyes lit up with thrill when they land on your bulge. "Oh, nearly forgot him" Giselle grabs you waistband and pulls it down. Your cock springs up, finally escaping its confinement, throbbing with anticipation.

Giselle holds it from the base and gives it one single pump. And you realize that is all you have needed in life. Your mind is screaming 'Keep going. Don't stop' but you don't utter a single word. Either you are paralyzed from her touch or you don't need to. Because Giselle already knows.

"Look at you, all pumped up. Do I turn you on that much?" She doesn't need to ask. The evident is before her eyes. Another pump. A groan escapes your lips. She smiles. "But it would be unfair if you get your release so quick after everything you went through, hmm?" You want to scream. Tell her to let you cum. In any way. Even her hands are enough. Just let you out of this beautiful prison.

She stands and your dick aches, yearning for her touch again. Giselle stands right above your face, her feet set on either sides of you. You get a glimpse of her pussy. And you swear it's the most perfect thing you have seen.

"How's the view down there?" Giselle asks. "Do you like my pussy?" Yes, you would have answered. Absolutely. But as usual, your vocal cords lose their ability.

"You wanna taste it?" Giselle lifts up the hem of her dress, just enough to expose her full round ass. Skin snowy white just like the rest of her body. "I don't hear an answer"

"Yes..." You manage to utter one single word through the invisible chokehold.

"Very well.." Giselle lowers her ass, taking her rightful throne right on your face. No sooner you feel the pressure than you start licking her pink cavern like there's no tomorrow. Your nose is squashed between her buttocks, cutting off your supply of oxygen. But you don't care. Because this is all you have ever wanted.

"Mhmm yes....just like that" Giselle words encourage you to continue your service to her, treating her like the goddess she is. There is only one goal in you mind at the moment. Make her cum. So that she will praises you. Just one single word would be enough.

So you channel everything you have into your tongue. Slurping her pussy, eating her out. Each time your tongue runs across her velvety flesh, you extract a moan from her. You twirl your tongue on her clit and Giselle tense up, another impure sound betraying her lips.

"God, yes....don't stop..." You don't plan to. Your face is drenched in the juice already spilling out of her and your own spit. This is just a small price to pay to taste the delicacy between her legs. The taste can only be described as otherworldly. Because you are sure there isn't anything that taste like this on earth.

Giselle starts rocking her hips, making your tongue catches up with her pace. She's fucking herself on your tongue, just another object to appease her. Your flesh and blood, all hers. And she will use it as she sees fit.

You hold onto her thighs for support. You are drowning in her elixir, the juice that's suffocating you yet empowers you to keep going. Giselle had said this is worse than death. But maybe it isn't so bad afterall.

However, being deprived of oxygen for so long have its consequences as you start feeling your consciousness slowly drift away, although your tongues move as vigorously as ever. Giselle is still rocking on your face, feeding you the nectar you crave so bad. You are starting to think this is how you will die when a waterfall of the clear liquid pour out of Giselle's cavern, soaking your face whole.

You gasp, your lungs filled with air again after Giselle stop using you as a meat chair. One last drop of her juice falls onto your lips. Instinctively, you lick it up.

" You did well, pretty boy" Giselle praises, her voice hoarse. "You deserve a reward" Those were the sweetest word you have ever heard. She walks slowly back to where your legs lay sprawled on the floor. Sitting down, a hand of hers wrap around the base of your stiff cock. "Miss me?" she asked, giving it a pump. Your body tense from her lethal touch. Giselle takes this as a sign to keep going.

She starts moving her hand up and down, stroking every inch of you. The fire in you burn brighter than ever. Waves after waves of pleasure course through your veins and you drown in them happily. With the other hand, Giselle fondle your balls, giving each one a gentle squeeze. "Look how full they are. Is it because of me, hmm?" Not wanting her to stop, you answer briskly. "Yes, yes...." "I think so" Giselle move her remaining hand from your balls to your shaft, now pumping it with both her hands. There isn't a single inch she misses and from time to time, she would rub your tip with her thumb, delivering extra fatal blows.

All you can do is take in the feeling. But you don't close your eyes because it would be stupid to miss the sight of a goddess giving you a handjob. All it exists in the world for now are Giselle's hands, your cock and the flames inside you that dance wild.

"Are you feeling good? You like my hands, huh?" Giselle asks, picking up the pace even more. This time you are too lost in bliss to answer. Not daring to miss the feeling of one single pump because it could be the last. Giselle is giving you a handjob not because she wants you to feel good. Just like everything else in her world, your dick exists to entertain you. She's rejoicing in the sense of superiority, the ability to deliver or deny you pleasure.

She's being generous at least. Her hands don't seem to be stopping time soon. However, your end is near. The flame inside you have turned into a volcano, ready to erupt at any moment. The tingling sensation starts to grow into an amalgam of throbs and pulses. Giselle, who undoubtedly feel it, smiles. "Are you going to cum?" Another unnecessary question. "Cum, cum all over my hands"

And that's all you need to hear before you erupts, spewing globs after globs of cum. Some land on Giselle's dress, the others spill down her fingers. She keeps pumping you until your climax finally subside.

"That's a lot. It would be a shame to let it go to waste" Giselle licks your cum off her fingers and the sight alone is enough to get you hard again. She sucks the last drop off her middle finger and her eyes rest on yours. "We are just getting started. I hope you have a lot more"

You nod and that's not a lie because your dick is already up again like a spear. But this spear will impale something else.

"I want that cock stuffing me full, now" Giselle orders. "Come on, you have been on the ground for so long" You stands up and follow Giselle's lead, who bends over on a desk and spreads open her lips to reveal her pink insides. An invitation. "Just fuck me already"

Instantly, you shove your pole into her wet folds. Giselle lets out a gutteral moan, her back arching. "Oh, yes.....stuff me with that huge cock" If her hands had felt phenomenal to you, her wet cunt feels a thousand times more. You thrusts into her wet hole again and again, already lubed up by her juices earlier.

"Oh god, yes....just like that" Giselle moans and you gives her ass a slap, unable to resist the sight of it rippling each time your cervix meets her buttocks. More juice flows and Giselle moans louder. You knead the soft flesh of her ass, the touch of her skin like cotton in your grasp.

"Harder! Fuck me harder!" You are already putting every ounce of your strength but if Giselle orders, who are you not to oblige? You slam your hips harder. Your cock is already soaking from her juice and the friction no longer matters. It moves with the speed you desire.

Right at that moment, your eyes fall on the two corpses you have lined up against the shlef. Pennywise, with his bulging eyes and midway scream seems to be telling you "Is this what we die for? So that she can fuck you?" The other one, Aquawoman, with her blood soaked body seems to ask the same thing.

But the sickest thing is you wanna answer 'Yes, this is what you die for, so that I can fuck her' How corrupted have you become to put your animalistic desire above the life of others? But it no longer matters because the feeling of Giselle's cunt on your cock is the only thing you need.

Your attention reverts back from the lifeless bodies as Giselle's walls clench you hard. She was tight before. Now she's even tighter. You give your all to penetrate her tight folds but after going for so long, your strength is starting to waver. Giselle, however, is as energetic as ever. She pushes her ass back to meet your thrusts halfway, impatient to wait even for a split second.

You can only take so much as the second spiral of tingles start working their way down to your pelvis. "Fuck, Giselle, I'm gonna cum.." you warn. "Give it all to me, babe. Fill up my cunt. Yesssss..." Giselle hisses as her tight hole get pumped with the next torrent of baby batter exiting your shaft. Despite cumming earlier, the second orgasm hits you with the same euphoric wave, you start seeing the stars.

A steady drip of cum pours out of Giselle's pussy as you pull out. You are panting and all your limbs feel like jelly. Giselle has sucked out every bit of strength left in you. Pushing a finger into her pulsing hole, Giselle scoops out some of your cum, tasting it. "Mhmm...creamy.." She mutters as though she's testing out a new dessert. Maybe to her, it is.

"Are you already tired? Awwww....poor boy. But you know you can't stop until I'm satisfied right?" Giselle's words wash over you like a tide. Suddenly, you start believing you can go again. Afterall, your sole purpose is to entertain her.

You nod and you no longer knows if it's you or whatever is possessing you in this moment. All you can think is how you want to serve Giselle. Even if someone try to give you the escape you have been seeking desperately earlier, you would have refused it. Because now, you are Giselle's.

"Good boy" These words. How you crave them. You would do anything just to hear these words. "Sit" Giselle points to a wingback chair nearby, red just like the blood flowing from the corpse. You obeys. Giselle stands right in front of you, her arms folded. "Here's a little treat for you" Giselle pulls off her dress from the hem, making herself bare. Her body is a work of art, sculpted by the creator himself. Your masculine urges lead your eye right to her tits, which is as perfect as the rest of her body. The round globes that you can suck on for the rest of your life. "You like my tits?" Just one of the many redundant questions of the night. "Yes..." You mutter dreamily. "Taste them" Giselle grips the arms of the chair and leans in, her milkbags only an inch from your face. Instantly, you rises to put your lips on her tits, the other hand kneading the supple flesh of the other. You suck on her nipples ad even an infant can't rival your hunger. You need this.

"Do you like them that much?" With your mouth stuffed with her nipple, you can't answer. You don't need to. You move the attention of your lips to her other tit, switching positions with the first one. As you slurp and lick her tits, blood start to flow to your dick again. Not as hard as earlier but enough to do the job.

Suddenly, Giselle moves back and you are greeted by the emptiness. Sensing your disappointment, she chuckles. "Oh, babe. Don't be so upset, we have better things to do" She kneels, the shadow of your fully erected cock darkening her features. "I wonder how you taste" Giselle licks the underside of your shaft. One single movement but nonetheless, you bask in the sensation. "Not bad.." Another lick. This time on your tip. She twirls her tongue, collecting the remnants of cum from the earlier session. "Delicious...." And just like that, she swallows your shaft all the way down to the base. Her nose presses against your plevis but her eyes remain focused on yours.

You throw your head back. The walls of her throat are no less talented than her pussy walls. Gag reflex seems to be a joke to her as she impale herself on your cock over and over, barely making a sound except the occasional gurgle of spits flowing from the corner of her lips. Her plump lips seal around you perfectly, tracing every vein with each bob. Giselle ways to use you doesn't seem to be running out anytime soon and you like it that way. You want her to keep using you until you are no longer human but a vessel for her pleasure.

And her eyes. If her mouth is sucking the physical strength out of you, they are draining your willpower. There is no present or future. There's only Giselle.

Giselle releases your cock from her mouth with a pop, her hands now stroking your cock, drenched in her spit. "I must say...I'm impressed. No one have last that long" Is she talking about 'lasting' as in not dying yet? You couldn't care less. Her fingers glide over your pole smoothly with the lube her spit provides. She twists her fingers, cockscrewing you. The hunger in her eyes never dim and it never will. She will never be satisfied. Not by you, not by anyone else. You are just another toy, thrown away when it gets boring.

Another spiral of twists and turns, her hands work like magic. Not a single second goes to waste because there's nothing else that can cut off your attention. You moan and you hate yourself for it. But if Giselle likes it, your emotions can be thrown away.

"How cute. You are whining" Her movements turn swift, determined to milk you of every last drop. "Are you gonna cum again? Hmm? It's ok, cum on my tits. You have been a good boy. You deserve this" Words have powers and you believe it. As soon as her lips stop moving, your body jerks, spraying spurt after spurt of cum on her tits. Most of it find their way to the canvas of her boobs but a few land on her face. "Yes, babe...let it all out" Giselle hands leave your shaft.

Once again gripping the chair arms, she leans in, this time to your face. "Goodbye" She presses her lips to yours. A sense of calm flows through your core. Her lips that just sucks you off press harder and harder. Her tongue enters your mouth and you return the action, a ballad of muscles with the symphony of breaths. You can't stop. She won't stop.

Suddenly, you realize. You can't breathe. Air wouldn't enter your lungs. Does it matter? Breathing, is it as important as Giselle? No, it isn't. You are well aware you have gone insane. Ever seen a mad man and wonder what's going on in his mind? Don't. He knows himself more than you ever will. So you don't need to be questioned. You have accepted your fate. If it's a curse, you will gladly embrace it because all you can think of is Giselle, Giselle and Giselle until your last breath.

●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●

(I have never written something this crazy before. But who isn't for Giselle?)

[writinginatree]

Candlelight, Roses and a Locked Door

Relationship(s): Bodhi Durran/female!Tavis!reader, Bodhi Durran & Xaden Riorson & Garrick Tavis, background Xaden Riorson/Violet Sorrengail

Summary: Garrick and Xaden are sick and tired of having to witness your and Bodhi's endless pining, so they hatch a plan to finally get the two of you together.

Warnings: Swearing, set during Iron Flame, Xaden's POV

Xaden has had enough. If he has to keep watching Bodhi and you dance around each other like lovesick puppies without actually acting on your feelings any longer, he'll lose what little patience he has left and smush both of your faces together like a kid playing with dolls. Maybe he should. Clearly this isn't getting anywhere without outside help, despite how glaringly obvious your and Bodhi's mutual attraction is to everyone else.

"That seems a little extreme," Violet notes, catching the thought through their mental connection. "Though I have to agree that they could use a little push in the right direction."

"Well, they're about to get a little push, all right," Xaden decides, giving her a conspirative little smile across the breakfast table as the beginnings of a plan take form in his head.

He'll have to get Garrick to help, too, and find an empty room to use. They'll do it today, he decides — it's the weekend, so you and Bodhi should have time, and it's not often that that's the case while him and Garrick are home and can say the same. No time to waste.

"What are you up to, exactly?" Violet wants to know.

"We're going to set them up on a date. Candlelight, rose petals, and a locked door."

"It's winter, Xaden. Where are we supposed to get roses from?"

Shit. He didn't consider that. Okay, strike the rose petals then. He'll think of something else.

"Maybe there's some flowers up in the valley we could use instead? There's no snow up there."

"Maybe," Violet agrees, "but, uh, what's with the 'locked door' part? You just want to lock them in a room together and hope that'll make them finally confess their feelings?"

"Well... basically, yes."

Xaden can sense that Violet is sceptical, and he has to admit that phrased like that, his plan doesn't sound all that good. It's the surrounding circumstances that will make it work — hopefully.

"Could you try and find some candles? I'll get Garrick, then we can go over the details of the plan together."

"Alright. I'll meet you in our room?"

"Yeah."

After breakfast, he pulls Garrick aside, giving no explanation as to what exactly it is he needs his best friend's help with. He doesn't want to explain his plan twice, or even mention what the goal is with others in earshot. Having you or Bodhi overhear it would ruin the whole thing, and it's not like anyone else needs to know that he's sticking his nose into things that technically aren't any of his business.

It's true that there's a whole pile of other things he could — and should — be doing. Tomorrow he and Garrick will leave for the front again — maybe not the worst thing, considering there's no telling how Bodhi and you will react if you do become aware of their meddling.

"We've got to do something about Bodhi and Y/N," he tells Garrick once they're safe behind the soundshield protecting his room. "It's getting ridiculous with them."

There's no need to elaborate — your brother is well aware of the situation, and certainly just as tired of watching it as Xaden is. When the four of you were kids, they used to joke about you and Bodhi being in love — the idea had seemed funny and vaguely embarrassing then, but it long since became obvious there was truth in those jokes. Now the constant pining is just annoying for everyone forced to witness it. As your closest friends, Xaden and Garrick are the main victims of this, but they're far from the only ones. Xaden is fairly sure that by now, every rider in Aretia has at least once wondered what the fuck the both of you are waiting for. Well, everyone, with the exception of those who believe you already are dating, of course. An outsider might easily make that assumption, but unfortunately, Xaden and Garrick know better.

The part that annoys Xaden the most is that he can't for the life of him figure out why neither of you is acknowledging your feelings for each other. He can't think of a single reason for it that would make sense, which, he supposes, means you and Bodhi simply are idiots forever waiting for the other to make the first move. But not much longer. Not on his watch.

"And what are we supposed to do about that?" Garricks asks.

"We're setting them up on a date," Xaden declares, just as Violet enters the room. She actually managed to find a couple of candles, triumphantly holding them up.

Garrick isn't convinced yet, though Xaden is sure he'll approve of his scheme once he's heard the details. "You think that'll help?"

"If that doesn't do the trick, they're a hopeless case for sure. I have a plan, okay? Just hear me out."

He starts laying out his plan, and by the end of his explanation, Garrick and Violet are both nodding.

"That might just work," his best friend agrees. "As long as they don't immediately see through it."

Xaden nods. "That's the tricky part. But unless you have any better ideas, we'll just have to go with this and hope for the best."

Neither of them does, so they decide to go through with Xaden's plan.

For maximum effect, the actual date will have to take place in the evening, but there's plenty of preparations to be made to kill the time. As the location, they decide to use an empty storage room in the basement — not the most romantic setting, admittedly, but private and inconspicuous, and, most importantly, with a good old sturdy lock on the door. After removing layers of dust and cobwebs, and setting up a small table with two chairs (they even found a tablecloth with cute lace edges that only faintly smells of smoke!) and decorating everything with the candles and what few flower petals they managed to find, Xaden would almost dare call the result cozy.

When everything is ready and the time for dinner is drawing near, they set out to put the plan into motion. Violet returns to the library and her work on Warrick's journal, but not before making Xaden promise to keep her updated on how it goes. He heads to Bodhi's room, while Garrick goes to get you.

"Xaden?"

"Come with me."

Used to Xaden's being in charge, Bodhi easily obliges. "What's going on?"

It's a good thing Bodhi is walking behind him, because Xaden can't help the grin spreading over his face. "You're going on a date with Y/N."

"Wait, what?" Bodhi sputters, steps faltering.

Xaden reaches back without looking and pulls him onward. "You heard me. Come on, you don't want to keep her waiting, do you?"

"I guess not? But— what do you mean, a date? Like— like a date date?"

"Obviously."

"Really? She wants a date with me? Are you sure?"

"Absolutely. Trust me."

It's not even a lie. Even if this date will be just as much a surprise for you as it is for Bodhi, Xaden is one hundred percent certain that you secretly dream of something like it — just as surely as Bodhi does, too.

Garrick is lingering in the basement hall when they get there, giving them a thumbs-up and a wink. Bodhi is still trying to get more information about his date, but Xaden ignores his questions, opens the door of the room you're already waiting in, and unceremoniously shoves his cousin inside.

Shutting the door, Xaden locks it twice. It's showtime.

"Did he just lock the door?" your voice reaches the hallway.

Wonderful — Xaden won't even need his signet to eavesdrop. Garrick is already standing by his side, ear pressed to the wood of the door so he won't miss a thing. They grin at each other. This should be fun.

"Sounded like it," Bodhi replies to you.

"What do we do if they try to get out now?" Garrick whispers.

"Why would they?"

"Maybe they don't want to be locked up in your basement?"

"They're on a date, Garrick, that's the only thing they care about right now. Besides, they have to know we'll let them back out eventually."

"Eventually, huh?"

"Yeah. Eventually."

"And if this doesn't go as planned? Are we just going to let them rot in there?"

Xaden shrugs, refusing to consider defeat. "In that case we'll just have to think of something else."

Even though they can hear everything being said inside just fine, Xaden uses his shadow signet to keep tabs on what's happening, too. Would be a shame if they missed any important developments like handholding or even a kiss just because they can't see what's happening.

"What are they doing?" Garrick whispers.

"Nothing interesting," Xaden whispers back. "They sat down and are starting to eat now."

It's silent for a moment, then you ask, "So, uh, you planned all this?"

Uh-oh. Not good.

"What? I thought you did?"

"Uh, no? Garrick said—"

You trail off, locking eyes with Bodhi as understanding dawns on both of your faces.

"They tricked us," you groan.

Well, shit. Xaden had known you'd figure it out eventually, but he'd hoped it wouldn't happen until after the date. Good thing they're prepared for all eventualities. This is where the locked door part of his plan comes in. Neither of you is getting out of that room until you've admitted your feelings for each other.

"But why?" Bodhi wonders aloud. "Just to mess with us? That doesn't really seem like them."

"Maybe they thought we need to relax? Which would be ironic, considering they're the ones constantly overworking themselves... But I can't think of any other reason."

"Yeah, me neither."

"You've got to be shitting me," Xaden mutters under his breath. How two normally smart and competent people can be so ridiculously oblivious when it comes to each other is beyond him. Will he have to walk in there and smush your faces together after all?

"No one can be that fucking stupid," Garrick whispers next to him, ear still pressed to the door. "No one. Maybe they've long gotten together and are just pretending they didn't to drive us insane."

"I wish, man. I wish."

Inside the room, Bodhi shrugs. "Well, since we're here already, we might as well just enjoy it, right?"

"Right."

"We don't have to call it a date, of course."

"Of course. I don't mind though."

Garrick elbows him in the side, grinning. Xaden grins back. It's not much, but it is a tiny step in the right direction at least.

The brief wave of optimism quickly fades again. Eavesdropping on his little cousin's first ever date is more boring than Xaden could have ever imagined. The both of you talk about mundane bullshit, throw longing looks across the table, and continue to not. make. a. fucking. move. Xaden could strangle the both of you for being so godsdamned reluctant. Maybe his plan wasn't straightforward enough. Maybe he should raise the shadows from under the table and use them to smush your faces together. But with how dense you guys are being, he's starting to think not even that would get the point across.

Well, the date isn't over yet, and until it is, Xaden refuses to think of his plan as a failure. He still has one more trick prepared, though he'd hoped they wouldn't have to rely on it.

A few more minutes pass as you finish eating; when you're done, Xaden's shadows bring out two fortune cookies he'd hidden on a shelf, and place them in the middle of the table. You both jump, clearly not having expected his interference and probably now wondering if he's been spying on the whole date. Oh well.

"Uhm. Okay," Bodhi laughs. "Thanks, Xay."

"Are they reading them?" Garrick whispers.

Xaden nods, impatiently waiting for any reaction. For a few very long seconds, there is none.

Then Bodhi finally breaks the silence. "What does yours say?"

"It— uhm—"

Apparently too flustered to read it out loud, you put the little strip of paper into the middle of the table for Bodhi to read. He places his own beside it, hand brushing yours in the process.

The text on both is identical. Xaden knows, because he came up with it himself. With a little help from Violet's friends, they'd manipulated the cookies to say: Open your eyes and you will find that the love you feel is returned (Please just kiss already!!).

Bodhi and you are staring at each other across the table, but are you seeing the love?

"Come on," Garrick mutters. "This has to work."

As if on cue, you finally find your voice, softly saying, "It says we should kiss."

Bodhi nods. "Then I guess we'd better do that, huh? We wouldn't want to provoke fortune."

"Yeah. Yeah, we'd better listen."

Thank fucking gods. It really took long enough, but finally Bodhi leans over the table, lips meeting yours. Xaden bumps Garrick's shoulder and nods toward the stairs. Their job here is done, and he doesn't want to be witness to whatever happens next.

"Mission complete," he thinks in Violet's direction. "Now how about we have some alone time of our own before I have to leave?"

[risetherivermoon]

am i the only one who thinks that Anya wouldn't actually be mad with Curly about what he did. Like I think some part of her deep down is angry about it, that he didn't help her like he said he would, but i also don't think she's actively blaming him for it.

I personally believe Curly was at fault for not taking responsibility and doing something about what Jimmy did to her. But i feel like characterization wise she wouldn't uphold him to such a standard, that she'd lose trust in him to an extent, but not enough that she'd hate him. I don't know if I'm explaining this right,

basically I just always feel strange whenever i see people depicting Anya as being resentful towards Curly after the crash, i believe she holds the blame on Jimmy alone, and once Curly has become bedridden and disabled, she focuses on helping him and doing her job. She and him were close friends, enough that she did trust him with the information that Jimmy assaulted her, she still cares.

something about the line: (which she says specifically about Curly) "I have to believe our worst moments don't make us monsters" flying over peoples heads when it comes to her characterization

i do think it's hard to figure out a way to characterize Anya in a light that is justifying, especially since in canon we aren't exactly given a good perspective on her. Curly is the closest we get to that, but he isn't that reliable of a source either when it comes to her (thats a whole other post tho)

but I don't think she'd be hateful, even to someone who has wronged her. I don't think she's weak or small, don't get me wrong, but with the way we are shown how much empathy she has for Curly (with her being unable to give him meds because it makes her nauseous with how it hurts him, and with the quote about Curly's worst moments)...i just dont see it

i can see the appeal of having victims resent and be able to stand up for themselves when it comes to their abusers (in Jimmy's case) and people who supported them, (as in Curly) but I just personally don't see that with Anya. And just because you aren't angry or outwardly standing up to the abuse you go through, doesn't mean that you are weak.

Anya isn't weak, but she's empathetic and in a situation that could only end badly for her. She's also a kind person, and a nurse. I don't think violence or anger are her go-tos

[mypoorocs]

Thinking about a first time Whumper x veteran Whumpee...

When they first meet:

"You don't seem nearly scared enough. This isn't your first time is it?" "You seem weirdly nervous. Is it yours?"

"Ugh! Out of everyone in the city I could kidnap I had to get stuck with someone else's leftovers!"

"You used to belong to so-and-so, didn't you? Ah! They're my idol! Oh! This is exciting. I get to study their masterpiece up close!"

"WHY AREN'T YOU SCARED OF ME?!!!"

"Oh. You've never done this before." "Stop judging me. I have a knife."

"How is it you know exactly what I like?" "You torturers are all the same." "You've done this before??"

"I won't kill you, but I need you to cooperate. I am new to this, just so you know." "Yup. I'm going to die."

"Mmmm, I love how you move when you're in pain." "Thanks! I've been practicing for years."

"Who taught you to scream like this?"

Whumpee helping Whumper figure out the basics:

"Why are you on your knees?" "Oh sorry. Do you not like that? The last guy liked me that way. I just assumed…" "No, no. It's a good idea. Keep doing that. I just… never thought of it."

"So, what are the rules?" "Rules?" "Yeah, dumbass. Your rules for me. Do you want me to call you sir? Master? Or can I keep calling you jackass?"

"Do you want me to put up a fight or should we skip straight to the submissive stage?" "Oh... uhhh... don't fight too much. I don't trust myself not to accidentally kill you." "Oh, yeah. Good point."

"What kind of scream do you like?" "There are kinds of screams?" "Yeah. The last guy liked it when I ugly-cried. But I'm pretty good a bloodcurdling and whimpering like a kicked puppy. I can try to stay quiet but I can't make promises there..." "Hmmm... try all of them. I'll tell you which I like best."

"You cleaned??" "Yeah? Was I not supposed to?" "I didn't know you could make captives do that?!" "For the record, I didn't do it because I'm scared of you - your arm gets tired after giving me like three lashes. I did it because I'm going to be spending a lot of time bleeding on this table and I doubt it occurred to you to disinfect it."

Whumpee teaching Whumper how to whump:

"Show me what they used to do to you."

Whumper studying the scars on Whumpees body to learn the best places to cut/stab.

"Oh no! A knife? How original!" /s

"If you stab me right there you'll kill me. You have to go one inch to the right. Yeah, right there-AHHHHHH! …yup. Right there."

"I'll make you a deal. Let me have a solid eight hours of sleep and I'll show you where to pinch the nerve that will paralyze my left arm."

"You can't leave me tied up like this!" "I can do what I want!" "Yes. Okay. True. But like, you've either got to tie my knees to my chest or let my feet touch the ground. Otherwise I'm going to asphyxiate."

Whumper having an inferiority complex:

"I CAN DO ANYTHING THEY COULD DAMMIT!" (They = Whumpee's former Whumper)

"WHUMPEE! YOU'RE NOT BETTER THAN ME!" *Whumpee trying not to laugh when Whumper fucks up something really basic.*

"You must think I'm so pathetic." "NOo! Of course not! You're doing amazing! Really you are! I'm so fucking scared of you right now. I promise."

"I'll never be as good as the person who hurt you before." "You'll get there! I promise. I was like his fifth victim - I'm your first. Be kind to yourself!"

"How the fuck did your former Whumper do it?" "Yeah... you're not getting that out of me..."

Whumper being paranoid that Whumpee is manipulating them. Even though they hold the power they feel like Whumpee has more control over the situation because they know more.

Also...

Whumpee knowing just how to manage Whumper. They instinctively know when to be a little defiant and when to do exactly as they are told. They know just the right tone of voice to speak in, and just how to move, scream, to keep Whumper as pleased as possible. The sooner Whumper is satisfied the sooner it will stop.

Whumpee pretending it hurts worse than it does, lying about which places/tortures hurt most, acting more sick or tired than they really are to get rest/food, acting more scared than they really are… It's not like Whumper could know better.

[maidenvault]

Okay so, Crosshair’s hand.

Has anyone pointed this out? When Crosshair kills Nolan, he doesn't use his shooting hand.

He uses his left. Just as he very significantly has to in the series finale.

I don't know if the writers knew as far back as "The Outpost" that Crosshair was going to lose the use of his shooting hand and by extension everything he believed made him strong, a "superior" clone, and safe from being discarded when he was kind of fascism-pilled. But it feels extra significant in retrospect that his first action taken against the Empire is not done with the hand associated with the terrible things he did as an Imperial sniper. And it's after he just got a difficult lesson about how his own personal strength and skills aren't enough to protect him - he was saved twice by Mayday, then possibly only survived through the night because he wouldn't leave him behind and could share his body heat. He may be using his left hand when he shoots Nolan because his other arm is tired from supporting Mayday all the way back, which only adds to the symbolic touch I love that Mayday is using his rifle as a crutch to help him walk as well (and of course, he's at close range so quite meaningfully Crosshair doesn't use the rifle to shoot here either). It all supports the idea of this as the first huge moment of transformation for Crosshair when he's finally turning his fire on the real enemy out of a desire to protect others, however futile and too late it is in this particular situation.

Going back and noticing this really reinforced for me that Crosshair's hand injury probably isn't just meant as a manifestation of his trauma related to Tantiss. It would make sense considering it's his shooting hand that it also has something to do with his inner conflict regarding his changed relationship with violence and killing.

The Batch were introduced as these stereotypically macho soldier characters, an impression that's softened a little as early as the pilot of TBB but still distinguishes them a little from other clones. In a kind of funny way you can look at the whole series as being about these guys who were only brought up to fight gradually discovering and finding peace with their more traditionally feminine sides - literally because of Omega, a female version of themselves who shows them the possibilities of being a family and living for others instead of for violence.

For Crosshair this journey is much more difficult and like a painful rebirth than it is for anyone else because being a soldier was so much of his identity. He's always been the one to most pointedly distinguish his squad from regs because of their "superior" traits that he thinks will make the Empire value them, and he clearly internalized the way the Kaminoans only care about clones as weapons to be used in war. And it all betrays how little value Crosshair actually believes he has deep down. It was easy to go into S3 being especially worried about his fate because he's believed so long that he's not good for anything but fighting and he's the character it was the hardest to imagine adjusting to a different life.

But in retrospect, it was stupid to think they'd let him off that easy and of course the whole point is that it takes a lot to get him there. What exactly he went through on Tantiss beyond the electroshock torture we've seen is never delved into but personally, I think being a soldier is something that's poisoned for Crosshair after he becomes a victim of the Empire himself and subject to their attempts at reconditioning. He's not psychologically able to be that person anymore, but for a long time is still trying to largely rely on himself and his own strength. He tries to sacrifice himself for others because he's still holding onto that part of himself in a way.

But for once in Star Wars we've gotten a fully realized redemption arc showing that sometimes what's harder than giving your life in a redemptive way is to actually have to figure out how to live with the bad things you've done and be better. Some of the people Crosshair hurt were his family, and he has to learn he can only make things better by being there for them. He has to learn that he actually can survive and figure out a way forward from his life as a soldier if he lets himself rely on them, just like he only survived Barton IV with help from Mayday. As @moonstrider9904 explains so well in this post, that is what's so important about Crosshair losing the hand and making that final shot to save Omega with Hunter's support. Symbolically he's had that toxic part of himself actually cut off and it's the final, most painful part of his rebirth. But because of that he's forced to find that he can live on without it, that he's surrounded by people who love and believe in him anyway, and that having superhuman skills as a killer was never what gave him worth.

No, having his shooting hand cut off doesn't "fix" anything or mean that Crosshair is healed. He's probably only begun to recover from everything he's been through. But all we really need to see is that he's firmly found his place as part of a family instead of a squad, and he's not going to be alone as he deals with all of that.

[dontbesoweirdkira]

Yandere MK11 + MK1 Raidens with the same darling

I got this idea from this post...although this isn't nsfw sorry lol

A/N: Does it count as a harem if it's only two? Who cares, this is for my baby girls. I love the Raidens so much (mk11 just a bit more tho lol)

Warnings: mentions of kidnapping, abusive themes, obession...ect..

Masterlist

Requests: open 24/7

Dynamics

Raiden (mk11) is the one calling the shots in the relationship. He's brooding and demanding, he's so selfish over you. He doesn't particularly like to share his things. He's much rougher with you and likes for you to comply with whatever he has in store that particular day. You're his. And only his, he's only allowed for his younger counterpart to have access to you because,,, well...it's technically still him. Truthfully though I think he's a jealous diva. He doesn't like how youthful and relatable Raiden(mk1) is to you. He feels like he's in a competition and needs to assert his superiority over him. toxic power play over both of you.

Raiden(mk1) doesn't mind taking the backseat to the relationship. He's not really looking for a fight with the older man, he's just here for you. Honestly, he's just happy that he's not alone in his sinful desires for you, that even his other self is just as sick in the head as he. In comparison this Raiden is a lot kinder. he doesn’t speak down to you or is nearly as demanding. He almost appears to be genuine about his “love” for you..just a little screwed.

One thing that both Raiden's bond over is their jealousy. One or the other is always closely lurking around you. Even in their sky temple where you'd think you'd be free to roam, they are always supervising. Younger Raiden is a dirty little snitch and will promptly tell (Mk11) Raiden about you talking to a male servant a little too long. It's a sick pleasure for them really, they enjoy keeping you in line and showing others who you belong to. They sometimes will find themselves boasting about the things they did to their poor unsuspecting victims and collaborating on methods of torture. It's a bonding moment. truly.

As much as the older Raiden is a grump towards the younger, he's rather inventive when it comes to guiding him through the relationship. Unexpectedly reassuring at times and helps younger Raiden gain confidence with you. Younger Raiden will help out too where the older one lacks which is usually emotional intelligence. He helps (mk11) with gifts and compliments to give you. ahhh they so cute together.

Do they feel guilty?

(Mk11) Raiden feels absolutely no shame, guilt or remorse for his actions. He's a corrupt tyrant who loves his place in your life. Taking you captive and devoting his life to you is nothing he should regret, it's an honor to be your protector. Dark Raiden is far gone and is unwavering in his beliefs, no matter how deluded they may be. You will soon come to understand that this new life is the best one for you...he'll make sure of it.

"This is for your greater good, my dear. It's far too unsafe out there without you being under our protection and care."

(MK1) He feels a bit shameful, this isn't the morals he's grown up on. It's quite embarrassing at times how enthralled he is with you, how easily he melts at your will. You probably think he's pathetic in comparison to his older self. He's not nearly as confident or self-righteous. But even so these feelings aren't enough to ever stop him in his tracks. You do rightfully belong to them, and though he's not one to be quick to anger, he'd easily find himself bashing someone in for trying to take you away.

How do they show their affection?

(mk11) Raiden maybe isn't as outwardly sweet as his younger counter part. He shows his love by providing for and protecting you. He allows you to be near while he works on things and makes attempts to conversate. When he controls and corrects you, that's his way of showing he cares. All the deep lovely dovey stuff, he couldn't really care for. He doesn't fully understand all the emotional needs and wants that humans have. His actions can come off rather surface level or even like he's not as in love with you as he truly is. Everything he does is romantic and thoughtful in his own twisted mind. Its a struggle but he gives you everything and makes sure you're safe...what more can a devotee offer?

(mk1) Raiden is the one you go to get all your emotional needs. He's a sucker for you and very charming too. When you're crying, scared or upset, he will comfort you. Raiden understands your emotions on a deeper level since he's an earthrelmer. Raiden loves to compliment you often and worship every part of you. You don't have to ask to hold his hand or to cuddle, just do it. He is always more than happy to satisfy any needs. He's such a blusher and I like to think his heart still beats fast whenever you touch or look at him.

Both are feral for your affection. Older Raiden might not react much to your compliments but he holds on to every single one and it makes him spiral deeper into his insanity. Younger Raiden is always very verbally thankful for your love. Even gifts you with your favorite desserts or flowers as a gesture in return. Oh They love you. *will both kiss your feet if you asked*

Trying to escape?

Yeah no. It's stupid for you to even think for a second that you can get away. Two champions holding you hostage? One is like a million years old and extremely experienced and the other was literally created to be a diet version of him.(lmao don't come for me)

If you should escape (mk11) Raiden will be furious about this. He's the one that found your ass and is dragging you back to his temple. This isn't just some light situation, your actions are telling him that you're unhappy. How can you be unhappy when you're revered to wits end? Everything you could want or ask for is at your foot..you ungrateful girl-

(mk1) Raiden had to step in between you two because the ways things were looking, your punishment wasn't going to be pretty. Don't be fooled though, he's rather upset you wanted to leave him but he still loves you. He somehow convinces Raiden to let up on you and to give you a lighter sentence like isolation. He's super pouty and manipulative towards you for the next couple of days. I just know he's the best guilt-tripper and breaks you down into sobbing at their feet..you beg and whine for forgiveness and find yourself spewing declarations of love to them.

"Now I got you out of your stupid mess, y/n. Why don't you be good and tell Raiden how much you love him? I can't hold him off forever and I'm not sure how much electroshock therapy you can handle."

Do you think (mk1) Raden would be right over (mk11) Raiden's shoulder while he punishes you? Like he's feeling super bad about it and trying to give you "reassurance" he's actually just taunting you and egging on Raiden. Deep down he's kind of enjoying it. Like he knows this is deserved and is happy that after this you surely won't leave them again hehe..

Okay i have to stop because i don't wanna slip up and start writing nsfw LMAOOO

[cautious-soup]

Ex-Bully!Satoru Gojo x Fem!Reader

Summary: Sequel to my Bully!Satoru Gojo story.

You and Satoru spend time together, all the while pretending the two of you together aren't a disaster.

CW// discussion of non-con

A/N: READ ME!! This is an experimental chapter, I'm dubious on whether or not this is a good direction to take the story. Please vote in the polls at the end of you like this direction!!!

ALSO please vote after reading on which JJK character I should write about next!! Tysm, and please enjoy this new chapter :)

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2 months. That was how long Satoru had gone without touching you. That time was part of an eternity to him, an eternity where he never got to see you again. It was endless at best, and maddening at worst.

The world really was on the side of awful people. That he was able to see you again at all, hold you, kiss you—what right did he have?

"I don't completely forgive you, it just isn't possible," you'd said, and he understood.

He told you he was sorry, but not for hurting you. No, if he could go back to when you both first met, he'd do it all over again—nothing felt as good as taking from you.

He was sorry for wanting to hurt you, for reveling in it, craving it.

It wasn't his secret to keep, so he told you as much.

"…that's fucked up," you sigh, pinching the bridge of your nose. "You say all of that while I'm alone with you?"

Satoru looks down and wrings his hands. It was the day after the cafe, and Satoru invited you to the hotel he was staying at. You obliged his invitation, against your better judgement. Every interaction you had with this man was against your better judgement really. Now, you were both sitting on the couch in his hotel room, trying and failing to have a productive, adult conversation.

"Have you…been to therapy at all?" He asks carefully.

"What good would that do when I still…" you sigh, "Every part of my being is screaming at me to get away from you…and every part of my being is pleading for me to stay with you."

Madness. 

"I can't," Satoru looks at you, "I can't promise I won't end up doing something selfish—something that'll hurt you."

"Well yeah, you clearly can't control your impulses," you snort. 

"I can control them I—Y/N, I've never been this way about anyone but you. I beat up a guy at a party for cornering a chick once,"

"So you're a hypocrite?"

"…at best."

More silence.

Nothing about this was safe or sane. You were a rabbit twining itself with a wolf who was never satisfied. How long before he devoured you whole?

Maybe you were a masochist.

"I don't know what it is about you," Satoru said lowly, gazing at you, unblinking, "I get things from you that I can't from anyone—anything else." 

Satoru is closing the space between you, clutching your shoulders, "Y/N, you have to get away from me. I know you said you'd give me a second chance but I don't deserve it. Whatever you choose to give me won't ever be enough…"

You know that. You know that, and yet.

"You are so mentally unwell," you sigh.

"I learn from the best," Satoru joked, letting go of you.

"Hey, you went crazy way before I did," you say, and Satoru shrugs, "I dunno, you definitely could've called the campus police on me or something."

"Oh so we're victim blaming now?"

"No of course not I'm just saying th—ow!"

Satoru rubs his shoulder, "Ok ok, sorry. My fault."

"Yep."

"…"

"…"

"…can we please make out now?"

"You finally learned how to ask for things?" You ask, shuffling over the couch cushions toward him.

"Yeah, I studied for years," Satoru hummed, laying his hands on your waist and pulling you forward.

Your lips come together, and the most agonizing bliss washes over you.

Nothing else feels like this. Nothing.

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Recent Search History:

Whats codependantcy

(Did you mean codependency?)

Is codependantcy bad?

(Did you mean codependency?)

Codependent relationships example

Am I a bad person?

I'm in love and it hurts

I feel insane

Does she think about me as much as I think about her?

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"Oh my god, stop asking,"

"I thought consent was a good thing—"

"Yes but not every two minutes," you whimper, wrapping your legs tighter around Satoru's waist, "Please just," you can't finish. You've never wanted him this bad. It's embarassing.

But Satoru is flushed too, mouth wet and half open, eyes lidded and entranced with you. 

"Before…" you start, and Satoru dazedly meets your eyes. You feel yourself getting flustered—his looks really were unfair.

"A-ah um, before you always said I wasn't your type, um…" you don't let on how much it got to you, all of the comments about you being "plain" and "a 6 at best".

But you were only human.

Satoru's brows bunch together, and he sighs, letting his forhead fall against your shoulder.

"I was just being a dick…" he murmured, "Um…fuck I really am the worst,"

"No," you sit up slightly, "No, you don't get to sulk. You made your bed, now lie in it."

"…well I'm lying in a bed now," he says, pulling away from your shoulder just enough to look at you.

"You're annoying," you sigh, pulling Satoru's face towards yours and kissing him again.

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How do you want it?

I don't know.

Please—tell me.

I don't know just…stop asking. Do what you've always done.

…ok

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"Whatever I want?" You ask, glancing up at him.

"Anything," he says, "Please, get anything you want. Even if it feels impulsive."

Earlier in the hotel room, Satoru laid panting beside you and asked, "What do you, haah, what do you like to do around here anyway?"

You'd shrugged, "Eh, there's nothing to do around here besides eat and shop. I like the movies best. The malls are nice too, especially the more expensive one, though I mostly just do window shopping there…"

"…window shopping?" He'd asked. You realize it must be an unfamiliar concept for someone like him, seeing something you want and not having it immediately.

He looked at you strangely after you explained. The next thing you knew, you were at said expensive shopping center, with Satoru encouraging you to pick out everything you wanted.

"Well," you say, sipping a 10 dollar pistichio latte, "This is definitely a start."

Satoru smiles indulgently at you. He's been looking at you the whole time, actually, watching you flit about every store, urging you towards the most expensive items and laughing at your reactions to the prices. 

He kept steering you towards clothing stores too, and picking out clothes for you like a fussy parent. He did have good taste to be fair. 

You were still flustered though— Satoru didn't do anything to hide the dark satisfaction that crossed his features whenever you emerged from a dressing, room covered head to toe in obscenely expensive clothes he'd chosen for you.

"Anywhere else you wanna go?" He asks, watching as you finish your coffee.

"Hm," you look down at the floor surrounding your table. An army of bags were at both of your feet. Satoru insisted on carrying everything, but after a while he just looked like a walking pile of bags himself. So you took as many as you could carry. Even between the two of you, it was still overwhelming.

"…maybe we should head to the car and uh, put these away,"

Satoru looked down at the bags, laughing, "Sheesh, did we really get this much?"

"I guess so," you say.

"Then, let's go see a movie,"

"Which one?"

"Whichever one is most popular at the time of reading," Satoru says.

You both go see a movie that's very relevant. You let yourself order items off the theater menu you didn't know existed.

"Why's this place have waffles?" Satoru snickered.

"Why're you soaking yours in so much syrup?" You ask, watching as the waffle practically drowns.

"The more sugar the better," he says simply. 

The person in front of you turns and scowls, and you smile apologetically.

But Satoru wouldn't stop talking during the movie and making you laugh, and his hand somehow made its way up your thigh. 

Some part of you wanted to recoil, but another part of you wanted to lean into the tough tenfold.

This isn't normal you think, lacing yours and Satoru's fingers together.

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"How's your head, by the way?" 

Satoru glances away from the road at you, confused. You hesitate, then clarify, "When I slugged you with my graduation mug."

"Oh!" He says, "Yeah I'm fine. You should've hit me harder to be honest."

"Yeah I get it, you're the worst. God, how do you still manage to keep the conversation about you?" You ask, exasperated.

"Hey you asked me this time," he says. 

"Ah, this is it," you say after a few minutes. Satoru nods, pulling in front of your house.

"I'll help you bring the bags in," he says, and you nod.

Your parents were the type to have the garage door closed even when they were home. You never had any way of knowing if they were gone until you went inside.

And alas, they were home.

Your mom stares at you and Satoru from the kitchen. You watch her work through everything in her head, watch her eyes dart from him, to you, to the host of shopping bags you're both carrying, to the red spot on your neck that you didn't bother covering up.

"Oh my," she whispers.

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A/N: HERE ARE THE POLLS PLEASE VOTE THANKS

Just realized you can't have two polls in one post so here's the other one

Thanks for reading sorry for all the chaos lol