#Necessity and Contingency

[omegaphilosophia]

The Philosophy of Modality

The philosophy of modality is a branch of metaphysics that deals with the concepts of possibility and necessity. It explores the nature of different modes of truth, such as what is possible, what is necessary, and what might have been. These discussions are crucial for understanding a wide range of philosophical issues, from the nature of reality to the structure of language and logic.

Key Concepts in the Philosophy of Modality

Possible Worlds:

Concept: Possible worlds are a way to conceptualize different ways the world might have been. They provide a framework for discussing possibility and necessity.

Argument: Philosopher David Lewis famously argued for the existence of a plurality of possible worlds, where each possible world is as real as the actual world we live in. Other philosophers, like Saul Kripke, use possible worlds as a heuristic device rather than claiming their literal existence.

Modal Logic:

Concept: Modal logic is a formal system that extends classical logic to include operators that express modality (necessity and possibility).

Argument: In modal logic, □ represents necessity ("necessarily") and ◇ represents possibility ("possibly"). For example, □P means "P is necessarily true," and ◇P means "P is possibly true."

Necessity and Contingency:

Concept: Necessity refers to what must be the case, while contingency refers to what could be the case but is not necessarily so.

Argument: Philosophers distinguish between different types of necessity, such as logical necessity (true in all possible worlds) and metaphysical necessity (true in all worlds that share certain fundamental structures).

Essence and Accidents:

Concept: Essential properties are those that an entity must have to be what it is, while accidental properties are those that an entity can have but does not need to have.

Argument: Aristotle first distinguished between essence and accidents, and contemporary modal metaphysics continues to explore this distinction in the context of possible worlds and modal properties.

De Re and De Dicto Modality:

Concept: De re (about the thing) modality pertains to the properties of things themselves, while de dicto (about the saying) modality pertains to statements or propositions.

Argument: For example, "It is possible that the tallest building is in New York" (de dicto) vs. "The tallest building might have been in New York" (de re). The former is a statement about the possibility of a proposition, while the latter is about the possibility of a property of an object.

Theoretical Perspectives on Modality

Realism vs. Anti-Realism about Possible Worlds:

Realism: David Lewis’s modal realism posits that all possible worlds are as real as the actual world.

Anti-Realism: Saul Kripke and others argue that possible worlds are useful fictions or conceptual tools rather than concrete realities.

Actualism vs. Possibilism:

Actualism: The view that only the actual world and its contents exist, and possible worlds are just abstractions.

Possibilism: The view that possible entities (those that could have existed but do not actually exist) are as real as actual entities.

Essentialism vs. Anti-Essentialism:

Essentialism: The belief that entities have essential properties that define their identities.

Anti-Essentialism: The rejection of essential properties, arguing that what we consider essential is often context-dependent or constructed.

Epistemic Modality:

Concept: Epistemic modality concerns what is possible or necessary given what is known.

Argument: It deals with statements about knowledge and belief, such as "It might rain tomorrow" (epistemically possible) vs. "It must be raining now because I hear thunder" (epistemically necessary).

The philosophy of modality addresses some of the most fundamental questions about the nature of reality, possibility, and necessity. By exploring different possible worlds, the nature of essential properties, and the formal structures of modal logic, philosophers seek to understand the complex ways in which different modes of truth interact and shape our understanding of the world.

[thirdity]

The Earth, as long as it only gave rise to cataclysms, trees, and birds, was a free universe; the fascination of freedom was tarnished when the Earth produced a being who demanded necessity as law above the universe. Man however has remained free not to respond to any necessity; he is free to resemble everything that is not himself in the universe. He can set aside the thought that it is he or God who keeps the rest of things from being absurd.

Georges Bataille, Visions of Excess

[suliqyre]

Practical reasoning requires necessity in order to function. And insofar as reason itself is rooted in practical reason, to decide that everything is contingent might even be irrational. Yet it is also a powerful choice, for it is no less real than the alternative.

Read more...

[abysswalkerastraea1]

Sporadic Contingency

The predicament you found yourself in was utterly unfathomable. Death was yet to come for you, perhaps it was because you had a lot to offer the clown; he in turn reciprocated. Perhaps he thought you were amusing, for now.

Your morals must be twisted because one thing was for certain: There was no denying the unshakeable, terrifying tension building between the two of you.

12,400 words

Slow burn

Rough sex (obviously!!)

Art being a fucking dom

The predicament you found yourself in was utterly unfathomable. In fact, thinking back through foggy thoughts, you couldn't really trace back to where this started.

You supposed fate aligned correctly for you. Logically speaking, you had a lot to offer the clown, and he in turn reciprocated favours.

Living within the vast forest adjacent to miles county, not many people ventured into the thick greenery. You had resided here for some time, at first with your father and then on your own once he passed.

You're grateful for the fact that your father had such a lively business. If not for that, you doubt you'd ever be able to live so well and comfortably all alone on the outskirts of the county.

You lived in an old cottage with ample firewood to stay warm and luscious land that stretched afar. A lot of it you used to keep animals.

You were accustomed to fattening the pigs up through spring while they birthed their young and slaughtering them in the winter for food supply. It was just another day at work for you; not that you had to work. You could live amiably without any need of strenuous hard work like farming, but you enjoyed it.

It was more of a passionate hobby than a job.

You travelled into town for any necessities you may need in your fathers old truck, but largely remained to yourself and a chunk of the townspeople knew that.

Some called you crazy for living in nature while that killer was on the loose, but you moving into town didn't necessarily change your chances of survival.

Thus you stayed put.

It wasn't until one clear night just after Halloween did you hear a disgusting squeal coming from one of your pigs. It was the sound of a slow death, and it startled you enough to grab your late fathers shotgun and storm outside courageously to see just what the hell was stealing your livestock.

You expected an animal. What you found instead shocked you.

A man, tall and lumbering and clad in a monochromatic clown costume kneeled hunched over one of your pigs, it's body twitching and steaming as it's hot innards met the chill of the outside air.

You heard the wet sound of his hands delving into the pigs guts and gripping a handful before bringing the meat to his lips.

This stranger was eating your livestock. Devouring them like an animal, raw and uncooked and grotesquely bloody.

You remained frozen, shotgun pointed, glancing at the black bag that lay beside him full of various menacing tools stained crimson.

If your father taught you one thing, it's that you should treat people with kindness, especially the strange ones.

The weirdos are the most dangerous, and living out here all alone meant that if one ever wandered into your land, it was probably best to treat them as a guest and act amicably, if only for your own safety.

Steeling your nerves, you cocked your head at the man, seeing the gap appear in the pigs abdomen as it's organs were devoured.

"Might want to cook that, stranger." You spoke gently, shotgun lowered to the floor.

The freakish clown paused, fingers laced in guts, head turning slowly and deliberately to the side.

"Tastes better that way, personally. Cooked, I mean." You shifted nervously from foot to foot, the chill of the autumn air getting through your pyjamas.

Maybe coming out here in nothing but some bottoms and a vest wasn't such a good idea.

The mans side profile was lanky even while crouched. His face held extremely prominent features, and you began to wonder if they were prosthetic or not.

You dared to step directly behind the stranger, his blood shot eye staring at you from the corner, pig entrails held frozen. They were cold now.

"Come with me. I can cook that right up for you, throw a few herbs and spices in and make that a great dish."

The clown let the guts slip through his fingers, gloves tainted red, and stood to his feet slowly. Your breath froze in your throat at the way his height seemed to grow and grow as he extended fully, back straight and rigid, and turned around almost menacingly to stare down at you with a dirty grimace.

Apart from the bizarre clown face paint, he appeared incredibly beat up. His one eye was completely red, and you wondered if it was simply shut from injury or if it had been gouged out. It was hard to tell with the amount of blood covering it.

He had a few large gashes littering his body in various places too. His clown costume was ripped terribly.

You both stood silently, your body shivering lightly at the blustery wind and your hair tousling gently. The clown remained unperturbed to the elements.

His good eye was narrowed into a glare, face contorting in an ugly fashion, eyeing your bare feet, your lowered shotgun, up to your bare shoulders and then finally back to your face.

An ominous smirk began to stretch across the strangers visage. It was actually rather unsettling, even without the pigs blood covering him. Merely the smirk alone set your nerves on edge.

You cocked your hip, hand resting on it comfortably as you stared up at him. "So, what do you say? It's a cold night, and you're looking a little worse for wear. Come on in, I'll help you out." Your words were true, and you think the stranger sensed that, but he seemed keenly aware of the way your voice shook.

You don't know how you knew that. Maybe it was the way his lifeless eyes shined dimly at the way it shook. Eventually, the clown nodded slowly, wordless.

You offered him a smile and a nod of finality. "Great. Follow me, if you would." You dared to turn away from this maniac, though you supposed if he wanted to kill you he could easily do that while you were looking at him; He was huge.

Not in the muscular sense, but in height he was at least a head and a half taller than you. Incredibly lanky and thin but from the way he was devouring that pig, he definitely had strength.

Walking a few steps, you paused suddenly and spun around, your silent guest directly behind you. It startled you but you tried not to let it show. "Mind grabbing the rest of the pig? Wouldn't want it going to waste. I'd do it myself, but you know how a lady gets.", you chuckled breathily; it was hard to speak when his void eyes were staring at you, smirk still somehow present and frozen on his face.

"--Don't want to dirty these pyjamas, they're my favourite. And, pardon me for saying but you're already dirty, and you'd no doubt be able to pick it up with ease, so..", you finished lamely, smiling as genuinely as you could.

It felt forced that time. He was starting to unnerve you.

Finally, the clowns expression fell into one of light thought, doing a visual sweep of your stature. It embarrassed you slightly, maybe he was judging your pyjamas. They were simple, but your favourite. Or maybe he silently agreed that yes, he could easily pick the animal up compared to you.

Dead weight was heavy, after all. And he was a big guy, in a sense.

The clown grinned this time, large and sharp, showcasing bloodied teeth, before nodding vigorously. Clapping excitedly, he hunched down to gather up the pig remains and nodded at you, as though to say 'lead the way'.

Smiling in return, you turned and led him to your home.

As soon as your back faced him, your expression morphed into one of doubt and anxiety.

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

That was some time ago. It was mid winter now, and Art - the odd clown that had spelled his name to you in blood on your window - was no where to be seen.

You hadn't seen him for two weeks, he often appeared when he wanted and left for days on end too.

You had both settled into an accord of sorts.

The clown was a maniac, yes, and had often tricked and teased and terrified you with knives and hammers, pretending to finally put an end to you only to stop millimeters from your face, laughing silently and slapping his knee dramatically.

You screamed each time, gripping your chest in terror but forcing a breathy laugh to escape you, shaking your head. "Got me again, Art. When will I ever learn?" You tutted, voice shaking and body trembling.

You knew it was only a matter of time before he killed you, surely. So, you did things to keep him happy.

Like offering your old, worn out barn as his work place to fix up his weapons or create new traps. It was dingy and damp, but Art didn't even mind. His mouth opened into a perfect 'o' shape, eyebrows high in surprise, pointing to himself and then to the barn.

"Yes," you had confirmed to him, "the barn is yours. Do what you like with it, I.." you had paused. Art sensed something was left out and cocked his head at you with a menacing smile, hand under his chin as though he was ready to listen to you spill a secret.

"I'm going to be honest with you, Art. Im happy to give you the barn, you do what you want in there and I won't ask questions, but in return I was wondering if now and again, when you're free to of course, if you could help me around the place?", you asked softly, sweetly, your round eyes staring up at him so innocently he often wondered if he should pinch your cheeks until the flesh tears off or flail you.

Maybe not yet. He liked having you around for now. You were sweet and entertaining, and cooked good meals.

Art tilted his head left and right in deep thought, eyes rolling up to the sky as though truly debating with himself, before his large hands suddenly slammed down onto your shoulders heavily, causing you to gasp aloud, eyes wide.

Art began to silently laugh, lifting a finger and thumb to roughly tug at your cheek, before nodding excitedly.

You sighed in relief. Well, you couldn't very well ask him to spare your life as a favour, so you supposed asking him to help you with chores was your only option.

In a way, you think he was amused by how ballsy you were. He was terrifying, after all.

Thinking back to the present day, you hadnt seen him for two weeks, which meant he was either out on a killing spree or recuperating after a nasty fight.

You've since gathered that this man, this thing, isn't really human. He eats because he enjoys it, but you've seen him go weeks without food. This thing you've allowed into your home was demonic, and its sick how fond of him youre growing.

Sighing, you felt fatigue catching up with you as you had spent the last few hours tending to the fields, animals, and other chores such as gathering wood and cutting them into pieces.

Mindlessly lost in thought, you bent down to pick up a log, putting it into place and heaving the axe up ready to cut it. Your arms were shaking; how long ago did you eat? Well, it was around 4pm now, and you've been busy since around 7am, so it's been far too long, and you were ridiculously sweaty even in the mild winters day.

You lifted the axe, elbows suffering and shaking, before huffing loudly and dropping it back down. You really needed a break but you also really needed to start getting this wood ready for the cold winter nights.

Determination taking over your features, you lifted it again, fatigue overwhelming you but to hell with it because you had things to do before nightfall. Inhaling deeply, you lifted it high, stumbling forward as you let the axe split the wood sloppily; it was very off mark, and if your father was here right now he'd make you do it again.

The axe embedded itself into the surface below, and with both hands you gripped the handle to try and wrench it out but to no avail.

Huffing agitatedly, you gritted your teeth and tried again.

The sound of a honk startled you, your entire body jumping and a yelp escaping your throat as you spund around with a hand held to your chest.

"Art!", your tone held accusation but you still laughed. "How long have you been standing there? Please dont tell me you witnessed my horrible attempt at cutting wood.."

Art shrugged, picking up the pathetic attempt at cutting the log in half and scrutinizing it. He shook his head and closed his eyes as though disappointed.

You flushed in embarrassment. "Yeah, that really was a sorry attempt..", you turned back to the axe, gripping it and tugging. It didn't budge.

Suddenly, a pale, gloved hand gripped the handle and ripped it out with ease. You blinked at him in shock, watching at how he slyly looked down at the axe in his hands and then at you, rolling his eyes as though to say 'have I got to do everything around here?'

For a speechless clown, he was sassy. And terrifying.

You smiled tiredly. "Thanks. I'm so hungry and sweaty and gross and ugh--", you shook your head, "ignore me. Are you hungry? I'll go and--"

Fingertips touched your lips to silence you, and then a finger shot into the air, telling you to wait. The clown eagerly knelt down to rummage through his bag of..mysteries.

He excitedly rubbed his hands together as he found what he was looking for, and delved in to grab it tightly.

The clown spun around to face you, item hidden in box, and closed his eyes dramatically, then stared at you pointedly.

"Oh, um..Close my eyes?", the clown nodded happily at you being able to understand.

Your pulse increased, fear gripping you. You wouldn't refuse him. Closing your eyes slowly, you held your hands out. "I-I trust you, Art. No funny games, okay? Please.", you pouted.

Art cocked his head at your pouting lips and shaking hands. He had that unexplainable urge to squeeze you tightly and also cut your lips off with a scissors. You were adorable, he'd admit that. He wondered if a day would ever come where you'd flutter your cute eyelashes at him and he'd grab a knife and burst your dazzling blue orbs.

Maybe one day, but not today.

It was only on rare occasion that you'd catch the sadistic killer of miles county choosing to not act with violence.

You were the only rare occasion.

Pushing those tempting thoughts away, Art held the box excitedly and tip toed over to you dramatically. He was eager for you to see his gift.

Firm hands gripped your own as a box was dropped into it, only a small box.

You smiled uncertainly, eyes closed, and felt the box with your hands. Art poked at your eyelids gently for you to open them.

The box was black. Tattered. You lifted the lid slowly.

A multitude of emotions filled you. You didn't know which ones to show. Art watched eagerly, excitedly, though you could still see the sharpness of his eyes.

The box was filled to the brim with Beatles. They were squirming and hurrying over one another in an ugly display, some spilling out onto your arms before falling on the floor. Luckily, you weren't terrified of insects.

Looking at Art, he began mimicking holding an imaginary box and shaking it hard, then pointed at you.

You shook the box hard, the Beatles scattering everywhere, and gazed into the box.

Your blood ran cold.

A decapitated fox head stared at you, eyeless and bloodied with its tongue cut out and shoved into one of its eye sockets. Beatles crawled throughout its skull.

"A..Fox."

Art nodded aggressively, pointing animatedly at your chickens cooing in their pen, then at the fox, then at himself.

"Oh! You killed the fox that has been hunting my hens?"

Art clapped silently and his eyes dazzled as though screaming 'bingo! Finally!', then pointing and laughing at your pale expression and wide eyes. His gruesome smile was held wide, cutting sharp, as he buckled over in silent laughter.

Your mouth quirked upwards in amusement. Well, he was certainly keeping his end of the bargain. The fox was a pest, after all, even if his method of killing was a little..unorthodox. Not that you'd ever complain.

You couldn't help but giggle at this absurd man. "Thank you, Art. I appreciate that. Now with my hens remaining alive and well, I can make you some more of those pancakes you like once they lay their eggs."

Arts mouth opened in surprise, eyebrows raised high. He tipped his hat in a gentlemanly fashion, nodding at you as though to say it's a job well done. You agreed that it was.

Putting the box down, you gripped the axe once more, ready to return it to the shed. "Well, I'm going to have a quick shower, then how about I make us some supper?"

Art wiggled his eyebrows at you suggestively, and heat lightly warmed your cheeks. Before you could reply, the axe was ripped from your hands and Art had already gotten to work with cutting some more wood. He did it flawlessly.

He shooed you away dramatically, wiggling his eyebrows one more time before chopping through the wood efficiently.

Conflicted in how easily he embarrassed you, you made your way tiredly to the bathroom. You really needed that shower.

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

You let the hot water wash away the stress of the day, eyes closed as you nourished an apple smelling conditioner through your hair.

You sighed, feeling ten times better already, muscles sore from the strenuous chores you barely managed to finish today.

Standing in the warm confinement of water and steam, you began to wonder if Art was still cutting wood. This led to thoughts about how bizarre it was having a murderer in your residence while you showered vulnerably. He didn't appear to want to kill you yet, and you wanted to keep it that way.

Wrapping a towel around your hair and body, you stared at your tired complexion in the mirror and frowned.

You really shouldn't be so comfortable with his ominous presence, but..

There was something quirky and charming about him, you guessed.

You soon froze at the sound of an alarm blaring.

You ran to the bathroom door, tearing it open. What was--

Was that your fire alarm blaring? But why? You had meat in your slow cooker, yes, but--

Panic surged through you as you darted out of your bathroom and bolted down the stairs. You didn't know how or why but you prayed that your kitchen was in tact.

Barreling through your living room and into the kitchen, you scrutinized the area, seeing no smoke, no fire, nothing.

Eyes wide, you ran to the slow cooker and switched it off. There wasn't even any smoke coming from it, how had your alarm gone off? Bending to check in your oven, you confirmed what you already knew - there was nothing in there.

Standing straight, hands on your hips in annoyance at that blaring alarm, you sighed aloud. Your towel remained upon your head, however loose hair had managed to escape and fall upon your shoulders from your erratic movements.

Glancing around desperately, Art was no where to be found. With his height, he could probably reach the alarm on your ceiling and deactivate it. You spent no time waiting for his possible arrival and grabbed a chair.

Lugging it over to the centre of the room, you gripped the top of it and shakily stood tall upon the chair. Reaching up high, you fiddled with the alarm, attempting to get a good grip to be able to remove it.

You huffed, making a sound of aggravation as your towel somehow remained firm around your figure, even if it was short. The water from the shower was cold on your body now and it only seemed to worsen your mood.

Finally managing to rip the damn thing from the ceiling, you removed the batteries and tossed it to the floor with a scowl. Stupid faulty alarm.

In a less than desirable mood, your hand gripped the chair to steady yourself. Before you could even put a foot on the floor, a honk sounded so close to you it had you yelping; you hadn't even sensed him let alone heard him.

Wide eyed, you stared down at the clown. His shoulder was practically brushing your outer thigh as you stood high. "Oh, Art, I didn't see you--"

A hand being thrust out to you interrupted you. He was offering his large hand to you, and although uncertain, you couldn't deny that he had a peculiar charm. Smiling, you gripped his hand with your own to steady yourself, lifting one leg to put on the floor.

Except you never did. You barely caught the malicious grin the clown gave you, eyes narrowed into slits and teeth bared as he lifted one foot backwards and kicked the chair out from under you.

The leg of the chair shattered from the force, splintering and bending as you began to topple to the floor. You screamed, eyes squeezed shut.

You thought you had whiplash at the way your hand was wrenched painfully towards his body, your figure pressed up against his as your head butted into his chest.

He had an arm around your waist, suspending your weight in the air against his body with no difficulty.

The clown remained frozen, grin still as wide and terrifying. Your feet barely brushed the floor. "Art!", you screeched, body shaking from adrenaline, hair towel fallen to the floor.

The clowns eyes snapped to yours disturbingly. Before you could berate him further, you were tossed upwards until dexterous hands rested at your shoulders and below your knees. He was holding you bridal style and it terrified you.

You cried out in shock, gripping his clown suit between white knuckles, bath towel beginning to slip ever so slightly. You felt a mixture of terror and embarrassment at being in the brutal arms of the county killer.

And the terror only increased tenfold as the clown removed his grip from supporting your shoulders for mere seconds, your body heading straight for the floor, before securing his arms around you again before you could make impact, shoulders moving in silent laughter.

You truly screamed that time, legs kicking out and arms wrapping around his neck instinctively. Your eyes squeezed shut, towel slipping even more; it mortified you.

"Oh my goodness, Art, you terrified me! And I bet it was you that set off my alarm?", you accused in a high pitched, shaky tone, grasping him incredibly tight as you felt his fingers teasingly loosen just to scare you.

Art nodded vigorously, proud and excited that he had been caught, and snapped his head down at you. His grin of sinister glee slowly morphed into a knowing, filthy smirk.

You blinked up at him vulnerably, wide and glassy eyed, rigid in his arms, before realising that oh my God, you were in a towel this entire time, a short towel that surely moved during the commotion--

He must have noticed the sudden panic in your eyes, for his lecherous smirk stretched terrifyingly, eyes narrowed.

Surprisingly pervertedly, Art glanced down at your body swiftly. Once, twice. An indication that you should probably take a look. His eyebrows wiggled, and without needing to look, your cheeks reddened, lips parted in shock.

Head snapping down at yourself, a flush spread from your neck to your cheeks. The towel had dropped so low your breasts were threatening to spill out obscenely. It didn't help that you were of ample size.

And although everything else vital was covered, the way your upper thigh was exposed had you squirming desperately to try and make some distance.

"Ah!", you cried, "my towel! Put me down!" You demanded helplessly, overcome by embarrassment as Art snickered silently at your need to protect your intimates.

Art dropped the arm holding your legs, letting them crash upon the floor painfully. The sudden downward motion had you squealing, gripping him hard. You were grateful that he supported your upper body, you supposed.

The way your body dropped had your towel falling fully for a split second before you ripped it back up to cover your modesty.

You tore yourself away from him - he let you - and stared at him with wide eyes, chest panting in fear and fluttering peculiarly.

Your hands shook as you gripped your towel, knees knocking together, withering under the intense stare of the clown as he foregone his usual dramatic, knee slapping laugh and instead almost seemed to chuckle in amusement, brows as low as they could go, head tilting in fascination at your half naked state.

He expected anger, frustration, undeniable fear at his actions towards you. What intrigued him was the way your round cheeks flared crimson and how your eyes, usually relatively confident when regarding him, fluttered everywhere but him.

Yes, he decided, head tilting left and right slowly, deciphering. You seemed incredibly flustered.

He felt lust, often. For blood, violence, but rarely sexually. Pain was sweeter than pleasure, he thought, but regarding you now, languidly staring at you from head to toe, an idea struck his mind...

An idea you couldn't decipher, but the way his eyes lit up and his eyebrows rose pleasantly sent heat flaring through you.

You didn't allow it to consume you any further as you darted up the stairs and into your room.

On the way past him, you saw his shoulders moving in a silent, mean laughter.

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

That had been two days ago. Since then, you continued on as normal..

Or as normal as can be.

Art remained busy in the old barn, the sounds of hammering and God knows what else permeating the quiet air at all hours of the day, and oftentimes there would be silence; He had left.

It had been a full day and a half since you last took sight of him. It was unusual how domesticated you felt, preparing enough food for two with a little extra leftover, keeping only the dark towels in the bathroom from when he no doubt came strolling in covered in blood and took a shower.

You came to notice he was meticulously clean about things he deemed worthy, such as his clown suit and himself. He loved to bathe in his victims blood, yes, but after a fun days work, you often found him spotless. Well, apart from his teeth. Bizarrely, he didn't utterly stink, and you come to the conclusion that he chose his terrifying mouth to look that way on purpose.

That was good. You appreciated that even if he didn't necessarily do it for you.

The only thing you had gently persuaded him on was allowing you to at least dry his clown suit before putting it on. With a roll of his eyes, he allowed it.

There were very few things he allowed genuinely, and you seemed to believe he had grown accustomed to your gentle naggings of 'Art, please don't touch that with blood on your hands', or 'There was no need to trail bloody footprints all over my kitchen'

You never demanded. That probably helped. Of course he had days where he'd grin mischievously and smear blood across your mirrors and door handles, knowing you'd have to touch it and clean it.

You could live with that. Thankfully, after a night of killing, he was reasonably tame, eating whatever food you kept in your cupboards with a calm expression.

That wasn't to say that he wasn't unpredictable. He could snap on times and come at you with a knife, chasing you around the kitchen as you screeched and whined for him to stop, all the while watching him laugh with glee.

And on real scary nights when he seemed bored, well..

Anything could happen then. Even still, Art remained tame as of yet in comparison to the things he is capable of. He clearly saw a need in you, and repaid your generous cooking, cleaning and fixing up his costume for him with keeping you alive and leaving you mostly unharmed.

A cut here or there, yeah, and definitely a bruise but you were alive and well.

The only real affect he had on you was terror, he did enjoy popping up randomly in the dark when you had got up for a glass of water, hand roughly pushed over your mouth as your screams muffled into his hand before realising who had caught you.

Or the times you'd check on him in the old barn, just to see if he was around for dinner, calling his name out. Venturing in, you'd freeze as the door shut behind you, darkness enveloping the entire area, only for the sound of a flame thrower igniting near you making you scream and cover your mouth in terror.

Each time you'd ramble something like 'Art, stop it! I-Im making beef for dinner and I just wanted to check that you wanted some!'

The clown would tug on your cheeks with both hands, patting your head as though to say 'how adorable are you?' before pushing you surprisingly gently towards the door and shooing you away.

You'd run back to the house with your chest beating so loudly you could hear it in your ears.

Presently, you were wearing a cute brown dress, tights covering your legs as you cleaned around the place. Loving the winter, you brought out your cosy candles and fairy lights, loving the gentle glow as the nights grew longer and the sun faded earlier. It wasn't quite time to decorate for Christmas yet, so this will do.

In fact, having a little break from the clown had allowed you to really tidy everything up, get your chores done, see to the animals and bake some brownies in the oven.

All in all you felt refreshed and well, truly in your element. It allowed you to push.. peculiar thoughts of Art from your mind.

Time carried on, and the brownies were cooling on the baking tray as you sat comfortably on your settee, a white blanket decorated in pumpkins covering you. You loved Halloween, too.

Dropping off to sleep, your mind felt at peace until a muffled sound was heard from outside. Lifting your head, you didn't react as you awaited Art to barge in at any moment, only..nothing.

Sitting up, you waited silently, hearing that muffling once again.

You frowned. Art was a master of silence, if he didn't want you to even hear the rustling of his bag, you wouldn't.

So why did you hear leaves crunching loudly, and..

Oh.

That wasn't Art.

You could hear voices mumbling now, close to your window, though unintelligible. You wondered who it could be. You had no known close relatives, and no friends, really.

Not close enough to appear unannounced on a late Friday evening, anyway.

Living in the middle of no where, you learned to be cautious of such sounds. You had no neighbours, and hardly anyone ever passed your cottage. Those that did tended to knock politely, not skirt around your perimeter sneakily.

Aside from Art; he's different.

Standing swiftly, you opened a drawer, gripping a handgun. You could never be too careful out here all alone, and you doubted it would go down easy if you stood with your shotgun aimed at them.

Handgun it is. Hiding it furtively, you stepped outside with confidence.

The sight of two men dressed head to toe in black greeted you, peeking through your curtains.

"Can I help you?", you began politely, causing them to bolt upright and spin around to face you. You couldn't see their faces.

They weren't amicable strangers, that was for certain.

"That truck yours?", the tallest indicated with a nod of his head.

"It is."

"You, uh..you live alone?"

You smiled.

"I do."

The two men sprung into action. "You do, do you? Be a good girl and chuck me the keys."

"Why would I ever do that?" You remained calm, pulse elevating, adrenaline begining to grow.

"Why?", the other repeated with a scoff, and swiftly pulled a knife out from his pocket, "because I want to see your round ass walk away like a good bitch, so go grab those fucking keys before I cut your face off."

Talk about overboard.

Nodding politely, you backstepped. "I understand. I don't want any trouble, give me one moment, please."

You backstepped further into your house, keeping the door open.

As you did, you heard one of the men hiss 'im not a fucking murderer, let's just get the truck and fucking go!'

You had a few options here.

You could run, hide, call the police.

You shook your head and steeled your nerves. Hell no. This was your damn property.

The two men looked around cautiously, impatient. "Where the fuck is she? We should've gone in with her."

"She's terrified, bitch probably can't find the keys."

They heard the sound of a gun cocking. Loudly.

Turning back to the door, you supposed they never thought to see a shotgun aiming directly at them. You could see their eyes widen behind a black robber mask.

"Woah, hey, keep the fucking keys--", one began, hands in the air, knife dropped to the floor.

You remember holding this very shotgun the night you met Art. You smartly lowered it, knowing true evil and terror when you saw it.

But these two? They had nothing on Art. Just average men, trying hard to terrify a woman. A nasty smirk broke out on your face, one of anger and satisfaction.

"I'll tell you what's going to happen. You're going to get the fuck off my property before I blow a hole in your chest. How's that sound?"

The scared one nodded vigorously, hands jittering as he backstepped, ready to bolt. The other, however..

"You wouldn't do that. You don't have it in you.", the other tried calling your bluff, taking a leap forward. It started you, but you remained strong.

"Wouldn't I? Out here in the middle of no where, who'd ever come looking for you?"

The man shrugged. "You might be right, but whose going to look for you?"

Before you could respond a hand grabbed from behind, reaching out and gripping the barrel of your shotgun and forcing it to the sky.

You instinctively pulled the trigger, sound blasting through the forest loudly causing birds to flutter away.

How the hell did he get in the house?

The assailant was stronger than you, tearing the weapon to the floor before gripping you by the hair roughly.

You grunted in pain, hands frantically searching for the handgun on your person as the man at the bottom of your steps began coming at you too.

You managed to shoot him in the thigh, hearing him cry out and collapse.

The scared one took off in a sprint, never turning back.

The aggressive one currently ripping strands of hair from the root wrestled you to the floor after shooting his friend, boot pressing firmly on the hand that held the gun and kicking it away.

He got on top of you and held you down as you struggled and fought against his hold, head reeling to the side as he back handed you, hard.

Furniture and anything close by moved and was tossed over as you fought back, unwilling to let him pin your hands to the floor, punching a fist into his groin to get him to crumple slightly so you could lug him off with all your might.

You scrambled to your feet and made a dash to the door, barely getting halfway before a strong body wrestled you back to the floor, your hands aching from the wall as he ripped your dress from the back to keep a hold on you.

You continued scrambling ahead, reaching out for anything, hands gripping the large sewing needle you had lost some time ago and turning to stab it into his cheek.

The man hissed, face turned into an ugly snarl as he staggered back in pain, holding the wound.

You up and ran, panting and panicking as you frantically made it outside.

The man didn't let up, he ruthlessly grabbed your hair causing you to cry out and slapped you so hard across the face you saw stars.

Blood dripped from your mouth as you stumbled back, held upright by the man's grip on you.

He grabbed your cheeks hard, squeezing the blood from your mouth, snarling. "Pretty thing, I'm going to put you in your fucking place--"

You cried out a sharp 'no!', kicking him between the legs and pushing him away.

You both fought tooth and nail for a while, you managing to run a short distance before being dragged back and hit even harder in the face.

This time you gasped helplessly for breath, blood spurting out of your nose and down your mouth.

What scared you the most was a hand gripping your thighs and trying to spread them.

"I'm going to fuck you before I kill you, bitch. And it's going to hurt." The man seethed the ugly promise, tearing your dress up high and grabbing your tights to rip a hole in then.

You cried out, kicking him in the jaw but to no avail. Without any weapons you had no chance in winning against his strength.

You saw an opening as he stumbled back at your kick and bolted it as fast as you could towards the trees. You knew this land well, so you knew where to hide.

Frightful and shaking, tears littered your cheeks as you heard the sound of the man getting to his feet to chase after you.

You gasped painfully, unable to breathe, and all but screamed bloody murder as you ran directly into a chest.

An arm wrapped around your struggling body, a hand smothering your scream as you fought and cried out desperately against another assailant. This one was like a brick wall, unmovable to your attempted attacks, even if he himself wasn't attacking you.

Two hands gripped your shoulders and shook you hard, causing you to look up at his face in terror only to pause, wide eyed.

That familiar, monochromatic clown tilted his head down at you in a thoughtful frown, mild confusion pooling in his irises as he studied you from head to toe, moving a gloved finger to wipe at the blood trickling down your chin.

"Art!", you cried, chest heaving up and down, "Theres--These men--attacked me and--and tried to-to--"

You could barely get your words out, watching as Art cocked a surprised eyebrow up and attempted to decipher your rambled sentences.

He didn't really need to. Upon further inspection, he could see the bruising of your face, the very blatant tear of your tights which showed a lot of skin, and how your dress had been ripped.

He knew something was off when he heard the sound of gunshots. He knew you had guns, but for you to use one meant something was amiss. Something compelled him to come and look, dropping the dead body he had been mutilating in the woods, eager and..somewhat impatient, to get to you.

That was a foreign feeling, and now having actually studied your shaking hands that gripped his costume and the amount of blood that covered your face as tears dribbled down fatly, staring up at him in utter relief, he was unused to such an expression, and truly didnt mind it coming from you.

Gazing outwards at the forest, an intense ire began to build in him. You weren't going to die today, he doubted you ever would because you were his, and only his.

Having finally made a decision, Art grinned cruelly, fingers eager and twitching excitedly to meet this so called attacker.

Letting his arms drop from you, he took a step forward to make his way to the house, stopping as you gripped his arm in fear.

"W-wait, please don't leave me--"

Art held up a hand calmly, shushing you, and went through his black bag, retrieving a hammer. He patted your head, as though telling you not to worry, and made his way towards your home. He walked excitedly with a bounce in his step.

You knew what that meant.

You were so happy to see him, as fucked up as that is, but he clearly made the decision to protect you. You felt relief and fondness, sitting against a tree with your knees up to your chest, waiting.

You wanted them dead, truth be told, but may God have mercy on them for what Art is about to do..

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

You remembered hearing gut wrenching screams and splatters of vomit as various tools were used to maim the trespassers.

You remember your body moving on auto pilot as you entered your home, Art briefly stopping his flaying of the man who threatened assault on you, to lift a hand and wave at you, fingers dancing playfully.

You waved back slowly, trudging up the steps and into your home where your living room was a mess from the commotion. There were patches of your blood on the floor, a lamp upturned and glass shattered messily.

Body and mind exhausted, you laid down on the settee and fell asleep dreamlessly. You didn't even awaken to the sounds of a chainsaw and guttural screaming.

You don't know how long you slept for. You were in and out of consciousness for a while, waking up to your ribs aching from the attack, or your lips burning from being split, the blood drying on them and irritating them.

You were still a mess, hair dishevelled and face bruised, dried blood flaking off your face and your clothes in almost tatters.

Your face was still puffy from crying, eyes opening slowly and slightly bloodshot. Moaning weakly, you stretched your legs out and hissed as your ripped tights dug into a deep cut in your thigh.

The TV was on. You barely registered the comforting hum of some early Christmas film that was on, volume low and tranquil.

Slowly standing, you made your way to the kitchen. Your chest fluttered at the sight of Art, sitting calmly at the table with a plate of sweet treats you had in the cupboards, including biscuits and cake, and what looked to be a cup of hot chocolate.

He was eating them very civilised, too. You were proud of that. It wasn't like he needed to eat, at least you thought, but he really did enjoy sweet food. Same as you.

Clad in a surprisingly clean clown suit, he waved at you, his hands stained red. He must have cleaned himself up for the most part, and..looking around, you sighted a mop bucket, so he must've really made a mess and cleaned up after him.

That was oddly..sweet. It made you smile.

"I must have been asleep a while." You gathered aloud, taking a seat at the table across from him.

The clown shrugged, held up a hand with 4 fingers. So you slept for about 4 hours then.

You rubbed your eyes, exhausted. The clown tilted his head at you slowly, frowning softly in thought with a finger to his chin.

"Yeah, I'm a mess. I can't believe those guys." You huffed, glaring down at yourself. Your anger spiked at the sight of your attire.

"He ruined my favourite fucking dress!" You exclaimed, arms folding frustratedly. You were a mixture of huffs and mutters as the clown cocked a calm eyebrow - how had you both switched places? - and listened to you curse and swear which he had never heard before.

It made him chuckle silently, head in hand as he watched you. Feeling eyes on you, your frown softened. "Im sorry, I'm not myself. I thought I had it all under control when I saw the two of them."

Your gaze dropped lower to the floor, reminiscing. "I didn't really notice the third. I have no idea how he got in." You almost whispered defeatedly, eyes misted and glassy as you remembered the way that man treated you and touched you.

You suddenly felt incredibly dirty. What if you hadn't managed to outrun him? He was about to violate you. And what if Art had never showed up? He'd--

Your thoughts draw to a pause as Art taps your hand gently, points to himself and does a stabbing motion, then points outside.

It made your lips quirk. "Their dead?"

Art nodded excitedly, grinning wide as his fingers tickle your hand. You begin to giggle, and grip onto his hand. "I'm glad you turned up. I mean, I managed to fight him off barely, but imagine if..."

You froze, eyes staring at your intertwined hands, and shook your head. "Assholes."

Art suddenly lit up like a lightbulb, face making one of surprise as he held a hand up to wait. Comically running out of the room, you awaited his return as he came near you with one of the robbers mask. Something was wrapped inside it.

Art got down on one knee and presented it to you with arms outstretched, wiggling his eyebrows, and you giggled again. Gripping the fabric, you found it soaked with blood. Opening it, a human heart stared back at you. It was relatively fresh.

You blinked slowly, not at all feeling usual feelings of repulsion and fear. Instead you felt..warm. The symbolic meaning of presenting you with the heart of your attacker wasn't lost on you, and as fucked up as it was, you blushed faintly.

"I.."

You smiled incredibly gently, Art thought. It made him happy to see your face finally light up after those filthy, rotten humans dared to touch what was his.

"I'm incredibly grateful for that. Thank you, Art. Who'd have thought you'd make such a great protector?" You winked playfully, laughing when he returned it dramatically with a nod.

"Oh! I almost forgot!", you rose and grabbed a nearby dish. "I made brownies!", you pouted at the fact that they weren't warm and delicious anymore, and Art thought that if you kept acting so cute he'd have to hurt you. In a good way, of course. He was still confused about that.

Art revealed one of his rare smiles, lacking it's usual slyness or sinisterness, and grabbed a brownie delightedly. It made you beam.

There you both sat, his hands bloodied and your face bruised with a heart sitting between you both as you shared the brownies.

There was an undeniable connection, and as you cuddled up in your blankets after a fresh shower, staring up at the ceiling, you thought about that.

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

The dynamic had shifted. Art could still be sly and mean in his ways of scaring you, but he certainly toned it down. He seemed to want to hear your laughter more, launching tickle attacks on you until you were a squealing mess on the settee, wriggling and fighting against his grip as tears of laughter wet your cheeks.

"Please!", you squealed, "no more! You win!", you'd shriek, body contorting until his fingers finally stopped and he stared down at you smugly.

For a moment, you both stared in silence, you catching your breath and him observant as ever.

With a burst of excited energy, you fled his slack grip and bolted to the other side of the living room, jumping in your spot. "Just kidding! I got away so I won!" You giggled ecstatically, watching as the clown slowly stood to his tall height.

Your laughter died down, nervous excitement replacing it. He held a glint in his eye that could only mean trouble. Art tilted his head dramatically, finger to his lips as though saying 'Oh, you've won, have you?'

You shook your head in panic, hands held up in surrender. "i-i didn't mean that! Honestly!"

Art mimiced your panicked face, holding his hands up in surrender as he jumped towards you. You jolted, stumbling back as an uncertain laughter bubbled up.

"Believe me, I know I could never outrun you..", you glanced towards the kitchen door, plotting.

Art lifted a hand to his chin, silently humming in thought, before holding up a hand with fingers spread wide.

He dropped a finger, holding up 4.

Then 3.

2.

"Wait--wait why are you counting?!"

1.

Art froze, grin held wide as he remained unmoving. You shifted nervously, about to say something before Art suddenly came to life again and darted towards you.

You screamed and bolted away, running instead to the stairs that were closer and hoping to make it to your room.

You did, and as you ran through it and turned to slam the door shut, Art was already in the doorway and wrapping his arms around you as you shrieked and cried out apologies for challenging him.

Art showed you no mercy, throwing you to the bed and holding you down with ease as he assaulted your ribs again with his fingers.

He laughed silently at your torture, gleeful and delighted at your non stop screaming and laughing.

"Art! Wait! I can't take it anymore!--" you wheezed, grabbing his wrists and pushing as hard as you could.

He didn't even budge. He was like a stone wall. Art paused, cocking his head down at your futile efforts and back up to your terrified face.

You froze, realising that you just challenged him again.

With a flash of black and white, Art jumped atop you, straddling your hips as he held your wrists down with one of his hands, watching you squirm and whine.

He chuckled evilly, silently, eyebrows low and grin spreading wide.

But there was that same look from the other day again. Peering down at you, he watched you analyse the position you were in, eyes fluttering up to his face in shock as a flush tainted your pretty skin.

Art knew that look. He was very meticulous when it came to the human body and the emotions it can feel.

You were panting, chest fluttering and warmth radiating off of you as Art smirked down at you knowingly. He raised his eyebrows, hand to mouth in shock as though to say 'Are those dirty thoughts in your head?'

Although silent, it was as though you knew that he knew what you were thinking. You felt dazed, so red and undeniably enjoying the vision of him above you, holding you down.

There was no denying the guilty thoughts you had had of him in the privacy of your bedroom at night, faceless men turning into monochromatic, super natural clowns each time you reached your peak.

You felt vile at first. But after his protection against those men the other day, your feelings definitely shifted, and since then you couldn't stop your thoughts from trailing to him..

The sexual ones, too. The private ones where you thought about pale, strong hands holding your head down against the bed as you were taken from behind.

The ones where your head was wrenched back by an iron fist in your hair, too euphoric to the point that you could only babble words.

You knew he could take you there. And his incessant flirting in real life, where he'd wiggle his eyebrows at you if you passed in a towel or if you bent over, or where he'd stand teasingly in your way of a doorway, forcing you to squeeze past him as he smirks and winks. Those things made the thoughts all the stronger, and at times you wondered if he knew what you were going to do once you got back to your room.

Sometimes, the way he smirked and waved at you with a wiggle of his fingertips just after you finished getting yourself off made you wonder. He must've known, this freakish demonic man.

The memories brought heat spreading down to your neck, your tongue tied as you struggled to break the tension. You struggled to get a word out, eyes fluttering in nervous anticipation. It was hard not to romanticise this charming clown.

"I--"

The clown leaned down close, void eyes staring into yours that were so full of emotion, raw and naked. His strong hand that was capable of such violence began tracing your jawline delicately, as though you were porcelain.

You inhaled shakily, feeling the digits drop to your neck, pressing against your fluttering, rapid pulse.

From anyone else, that would feel uncomfortable. But Art doing that felt so suffocatingly intimate you didn't know how to react, eyebrows drawn together in mild confusion at your feelings.

The way Art smirked made you realise he knew exactly what he was doing. Lifting his hand to his mouth, he gripped the glove with his teeth and tugged it off, freeing his pale, veiny hand and bringing it to your cheek, thumb tenderly rubbing the area.

You felt like your head was going to burst from how red you were. You think its because the utter shock at having Art act in a way that wholly juxtaposes him and touch you delicately made you feel so exquisitely special that you didn't know how to register it.

How can a mere innocent touch melt you so much?

His fingers traced the lines and curves of your face in fascination. There was no doubt a morbidity to his thoughts, but there was also mild, genuine adoration in his lifeless eyes.

Your pulse quickened, butterflies dancing in your belly at the thumb that now traced your plush lips. Body reacting faster than your thoughts, your tongue wet the tip of his thumb.

A glint began to shine in his eyes, ferocious and wanting. He tilted his head down at you, unsmiling but not in a scary way; he appeared quite tranquil, and something else.

His thumb dipped into your mouth slightly, experimentally, and he was pleased at the way you wholly accepted him in, swirling your tongue intimately around his digit.

Your eyelids drooped, overcome by this display of raw connection, your lips glistening as he slowly retrieved his thumb, giving your lips one final stroke before gliding his hand down your neck again, tickling the skin with gentle fingertips before moving down to your collarbone.

You held your breath, biting your lip as the usually menacing clown above you glided further down, and down, until his hand brushed the outline of your breast, barely skimming across your nipple.

You inhaled sharply, how were you this sensitive? You could feel heat pooling between your thighs already.

Art tilted his head, examining the large, soft globes that hid beneath your clothes. Eyes flickering up at you, Art smirked before gripping the front of your shirt and tearing it open with ease.

You gasped aloud, eyes wide and mouth agape as your breasts bounced free, nipples hard and begging for attention.

You flushed so deeply red that your face began resonating heat. You were so embarrassed at being half naked in front of him, and you didn't know why. Maybe it was because of the teasing way he winked appreciatively, removing the other glove from his hand swiftly before grazing your breasts barely, hands gripping handfuls of them boldly soon after.

His thumbs skimmed over your pebbled nipples, watching your head loll back against the pillow as you inhaled and exhaled shakily. Bolts of arousal were shooting to the junction of your thighs every time his calloused thumbs teased your perk nipples.

Art was entranced by your visible display of arousal, so sensitive and so wanting; he had never felt this way about a person. Even he knew he was being unnaturally kind, inducing you with pleasure that was sure to have you tingling.

Art never did things unless he wanted to. He didn't want to hurt you. No, his dominance and roughness that he could just tell you craved would come later. For now, he wanted you wet and yearning.

He was proficient in knowing how to hurt the human body, which means he's acutely aware of how to pleasure it; that simply came hand in hand.

And, glancing down at you, having been brought from his thoughts by your breathy exhale, he could tell that what he was doing was incredibly pleasurable. You squirmed, legs widening and relaxing unconsciously below him, your pretty green skirt riding up your thighs.

"Art-", you whined in a whisper, nerve endings alight and tingling, begging to be touched.

Art flashed a smile, head tilting once more as though wondering what to do with you. He could leave you here, undeniably wet and sticky and yearning, begging sweetly, or he could indulge, nudge your pretty thighs apart and fuck you like you've wanted him to for a while now.

You didn't hide it well, especially after touching yourself mere minutes before seeing him, pupils blown wide, hair tousled and sweaty, legs lightly shaking. You should probably stop leaving your wet, soft underwear on your bedroom floor too. That's a big give away, if you didn't already know.

The sarcastic thought had him grinning, and after moving his head back and forth in thought, weighing out his options, he flicked his thumbs over your nipples a few more times, watching you react immediately and arch your back towards his hands.

"Ah-", you gasped, shuddering, gnawing at your lip with hooded eyes.

Art rolled his eyes up at the ceiling, then shrugged lightly to himself. He wasn't necessarily a sexual creature, but he was still in the body of a man. Tweaking your nipples teasingly, Art nodded.

He wanted to fuck you, hard.

But he wanted to tease you first.

Arts eyes dropped to the way your legs had spread for him, dark underwear on display from the way your skirt had ridden up your thighs.

Trailing a hand down your waist and to your hips, Art studied you as his hand moved lower, teasing your inner thighs, pinching the fatty flesh there before pressing two fingers against your apex.

You reacted immediately, shuddering a breath in and out as your legs spread fully, bent at the knee.

Pale fingers traced your soft, wet lips through your underwear, tickling from where your hole would be and up towards your pulsating clit, circling the bud with light pressure.

You moaned quietly, legs squirming slightly as you yearned for a direct touch, his teasing becoming relentless. Your hands balled into fists as white hot tingling sensations barreled through your stomach and your clit, demanding to be touched but to no avail.

Art knew this, and pressed two fingers firmly against your clit, circling.

"Oh--yes--", you whined, looking fucked out with your head lolled back when Art had barely done anything. He wondered how you'd react to the plans he had for you later if this is how you were after a few strokes.

His teasing continued, trailing down to your hole and dipping in slightly, soaking your underwear, before running his finger to the edge of the useless garment and hooking two fingers in, tearing it apart.

This time, Art used both hands to grip your thighs, spreading them far. He studied your pink, exposed slit with incredible interest. The mess of wetness was excessive, coating the length of your sex, your inner thighs and gliding down to your tight rim.

You squirmed in his hands at his staring, to which he tightened his grip, making you shudder.

"Art..", you whined

His eyes snapped up to yours expectantly.

"Please, I--", you gasped at his fingers tracing maddeningly around your labia, refusing to touch you directly. "Please touch me. Please, I--..I need it so bad.", tears filled your eyes with frustration, "so fucking bad, you have no idea.."

But Art did know. He's always known, and just to prove his point he searched for something in his pockets, retreaving it and dangling it in front of your face.

You froze. It was your used underwear from yesterday, when you masturbated before a shower, throwing the garment to the floor. You thought you had imagined throwing it to the floor, because upon coming back to the bedroom, it was gone.

You looked mortified, hands covering your face. "You've known all along?" You whined, unable to face his grin. You felt humiliation creep up your chest at being caught red handed, biting your lip hard to ground yourself. Pathetic tears threatened to fall in frustration.

You gasped as two hands gripped your own and pinned them above your head, using one to keep them there while the other hand wagged it's finger back and fore, Art shaking his head and tutting silently.

You were forced to face his smug, teasing stare, your own face pouting. Art lifted two fingers, wiggled them, before bringing them to your lips.

You accepted, swirling your tongue around them, before they were retrieved swiftly. Wiggling them again, Art made a show of demonstrating just what he was about to do to you to bring that smile back.

Winking in a way that had you melting in a puddle of embarrassment, Art pressed two fingers to your wet entrance, grinning before gliding them into your wanton hole.

Your reaction was instantaneous, a keening 'oh!' torn from your throat, back arching as you squirmed beneath the hand that pinned you down.

Art began to thrust his fingers deeply, pulling out to the tip before delving back in, watching you writhe and gasp. You were desperate for more, hips lifting higher.

Art pulled his fingers out of you, showing the wet lubrication that coated them, scissoring them apart to watch the way it attached his fingers with stringy gooeyness.

You released a frustrated whine this time, fighting beneath his one hand. "No, no don't pull them out, please--" you pouted pathetically, desperately.

Art wanted to torment you more, but his desire to see you screaming in pleasure outweighed that at the moment. He wanted to break you.

Shrugging innocently as though to say 'well, you asked for it', Arts two fingers sunk into you to the knuckle, pumping in and out firmly and roughly, curling rhythmically against that spongy area he knew would have you seeing stars.

"Oh--Oh!", you cried, hips tilted up into his assault, the lewd sound of your wet hole permeating the air as his fingers went in and out, in and out, restlessly and roughly, giving you exactly what you wanted.

Art smirked darkly, increasing the pace rapidly, so fast he had to hold your kicking legs down as he brought you too much pleasure, too much torment in the sweetest way he could give.

You cried out loudly now, unable to hold your voice back, body convulsing lightly as your peak approached.

"A-Art, Oh, Ohh--" you moaned, panting and thrashing back and fore as his fingers forced an orgasm out of you, intense and sudden, squirting down his wrist and soaking your bed.

You gasped for air, legs falling slack as your mind felt like it was floating.

You didn't have any time to think as Art gripped your hips tightly, flipping you over effortlessly and pulling your ass into the air. He smoothed the skin gently, before giving it a slap, watching you jolt.

You were soaked, legs quivering as you braced yourself. Your knees knocked together, staring back at him desperately.

You had dreamed of this for some time, you thought, gnawing at your lip anxiously. Judging by the sudden, bare feel of his hard cock against your folds, you knew you were in for a ride; he felt huge.

He was definitely thick, but even more than that is that he was incredible in length. He wasn't an ordinary man, so you shouldn't be surprised, but a tingle of fear and excitement gnaws through you all the same.

"W-will that fit?", you whispered in awe, salivating, and Art merely shrugged, wiggling his eyebrows as though to say 'ill make it fit', before putting a hand on your head and pushing your face into the bed.

You felt arousal course through you at his actions, being pinned down and bared for him to use. You pushed your round ass into him as much as you could, desperate and whorish, feeling his body judder with silent laughter.

He teased you at first, pushing the tip in, then retrieving, only to push just a little bit more in, and then retrieving again.

You huffed, unable to hide your frustration, but choked on it as Art slowly pulled out, then slid all the way in to the hilt.

You cried out loudly, hands balled into fists in your blanket, head pushed into the bed hard as Art gave you no time to adjust and began fucking you.

Your insides were on fire, pain and pleasure at his large intrusion mixing together, pulling moan after moan out of you. You could barely breathe, struggling to say his name as Art now gripped both of your hips and bred you.

A hand was lifted from you before coming down hard on your jiggling flesh, one stroke after another, getting harder and harder until you were writhing and whining.

He didn't stop, testing just how far he could go, switching to the other cheek when he felt your screams were getting particularly painful.

The stinging was unbearable, but it made you so wet, so pliant for him to absolutely manhandle you into the bed, gripping a fistful of your hair before he ravaged you just the way you wanted.

You were already a babbling mess, cock drunk when Art had hardly done anything. He rolled his eyes at you, though he was definitely amused at the unintelligible song you sang for him, something about his large cock and something else about breeding you.

You filthy girl.

Arts hand tangled rougher into your locks, before he gripped it hard and wrenched your head back, spine arching.

Your whines increased, becoming incredibly high pitch and feminine for him as he forced your head back.

Your neck was burning, but you loved this feeling, having a firm hand tug your hair back and an incredible, curved dick hit your insides just right.

The way he fucked you hard made you want to pretend to be bratty in the future, just so he could put you in your place. In fact, maybe one day when you're feeling particularly moody or low, you could get him to fuck it out of you, sweeten you up. The thought of being forced to take him deep as he fucked the brattiness out of you had you sopping, thighs drenched and shaking and barely standing.

"Ahh--Art, it feels so-", you moaned brokenly, thighs collapsing as the demon above you took to forcing your face back into the bed, other hand forcing your wrists above your head.

Having your thighs together now made his cock feel utterly massive, forcing the air out of you as he glided in between your plush cheeks, invading your sodden hole.

It made you feral.

"Oh my God oh my God--", you cried weakly, sobbing. Tears rolled down your cheeks in over stimulation, and Art leaned his body over yours, pushing you into the bed as he used one hand to smother your mouth, hooking his fingers into it.

You babbled, sucking his fingers desperately as you drooled down his wrist and your chin.

His fingers stuffed your mouth, thick length now ramming into you harder. You could barely hold your head up anymore, resting weakly against his wrist as you cried and whimpered, mascara blackening your eyes and cheeks messily.

Suddenly your hips were gripped and your body was forced onto it's back. You whined at the loss of him inside you, legs wrapping obscenely around his trim waist, needing more.

"Fuck me, please fuck me-", you breathed, head lolling back as fat tears burned your eyes, soaking your cheeks. Your lips were formed into a frustrated pout, fists clenched as though you were about to have a tantrum unless his dick resumed fucking you.

Art grinned truly maniacally down at you, gleeful and amused at your cries. It was a stunning sight, seeing your usual reserved self acting like such a slut.

He pouted right back at you, holding two fists up to his eyes and rotating them back and forth to impersonate dramatic crying. He was mocking you cruelly, laughing at your fucked out expression.

Forcing his fingers into your mouth again, Art pushed them down your throat, watching your eyes widen as you gagged and choked. Saliva pooled in your mouth excessively, and he scooped it out with both fingers to smear it messily over your cheeks and down your chin, laughing silently and pointing.

"No, please stop mocking me..", you whimpered quietly, lips wobbling as you pleaded at him with your big eyes. Your hips bucked desperately, thighs sticky and warm.

Art dropped his grin and rolled his eyes at your antics. You really wanted him to fuck you? Sure.

A malicious glint lit up his eyes, tenderly wiping the black tears staining your cheeks from your makeup.

Before you could blink, a strong hand was wrapped around your throat roughly, and a moment later his hot cock was pummeling into you mercilessly.

You couldn't even scream, sounds trapped in your throat and escaping in high pitched exhales, your head falling back against the bed as he strangled you.

It terrified you, but as your breathing became less and your head became clouded, a sudden, indescribable pleasure ripped through you so powerfully your eyes rolled back into your head, drool openly gliding down your cheek.

Your body felt weak and unresponsive, unable to even grip at his wrists for some reprieve, but the pleasure..

The fucking pleasure was mind numbing.

Your eyes drooped, face turning almost purple as he fucked you so deep you felt sick.

You couldn't gasp anymore, weak breaths barely getting past the brutal grip on your throat.

You were delirious now, feeling in a dream like state, ecstasy exploding behind your eyes and lighting your nerves on such a burning fire. You felt like your soul was ripped out of your mortal shell, experiencing the biggest high of your entire life.

Art cackled madly, silently, a sick adoration twisting in his eyes at the way your consciousness began to slip. He held your neck dangerously tight, tighter than he planned but judging by the way your hot, wet pussy gripped at him, he knew you loved it.

The sounds of your joining bodies was obscene and lewd, squelching and loud as his cock forced your lubrication out of your body.

Art gritted his teeth at the morbidly stunning view of you drooling excessive saliva, tears soaking his hands and mascara clumping your eyelashes, your eyes now bloodshot and heavy.

They rolled back, and soon you become quiet.

Bringing you to the very edge, Art removed your hand and allowed air to enter your lungs.

You gasped painfully, choking and sobbing as you were given no time to inhale greedily, instead getting ravaged inhumanly fast.

You couldn't lift your head, eyes blinking dazedly up at Art, who lifted a hand to wave at you mockingly.

You tried to speak but couldn't, mouth held open in permanent ecstasy. Your hips snapped upright as fingers roughly rubbed at your engorged clitoris, abusing the greedy nub.

A cry tore from your raw throat, head thrashing side to side and legs shaking violently as your orgasm rendered you incoherent.

You screamed out, squirting almost violently down your quivering thighs and over Arts rigid, brutal cock.

You sobbed, face screwing up pathetically as genuine, uncontrollable cries wracked your form. You could barely intake breath, body and nerves unable to handle the level of soul wrenching pleasure and borderline pain that was inflicted upon you.

Art gripped your shaking thighs and lifted them above his shoulders, face devoid of his usual smirk and instead scowling down at you with smouldering eyes. He fucked you harder, faster, animalistic before his hips stuttered once, twice, and a hot, thick load of cum filled your gaping pussy.

The amount was unnatural, not human, but your body lapped it up all the same as your insides convulsed and quivered. You moaned weakly, keening in a higher pitch as your lips wobbled and your eyes remained misted and delirious.

You didn't even feel Art pull out, stuck in a dream like state as aftershocks lit your body up. Your legs were dropped from his shoulders, falling unceremoniously to the bed, wide open.

You babbled incoherently, arm covering your face. Art stared down at you serenely, gazing from your dick dumb espression to the mess of cum coating your thighs, globs of it dripping down to your asshole. Your hole gaped and twitched, greedily gulping up all that it could take, thoroughly fucked and bred.

You felt two fingers scooping up the mess and pushing it filthily back into your pussy.

You whined, dropping the arm from your eyes to finally look at the demonic clown that had surely taken grip of your soul and tore it out.

Art smirked down at you, winking playfully. He revelled in the mess he made of you.

"Art that was--I--Mmm--", you moaned, responding to the gentle caress of your clit with his fingers. You were so wet and full of cum, biting your lip.

You didn't move as you felt his form pull away from you. You were so out of it you felt drunk.

You didn't feel him tucking you into bed, only remembered being beneath the blankets as he tilted his head down at you contemplatively.

He felt something foreign, that was for certain. He felt a possessive adoration over you, wanting to break you into a crying, sobbing mess, strangle you until you stood on the precipice of death like earlier, but also..

Watching you now, eyes drooping as you gripped his hand softly, tiredly, he made the final decision that he wanted more tender moments like this.

You were the rare occasion, the only occasion.

He was going to consume you whole.

[valeriehalla]

Whenever a cartoon character has ginormous breasts and a shirt that fully contours to said breasts, there’s a contingent of people who talk about it as if it’s, like, a plot hole? “Shirts don’t work like that,” they’ll say.

Well, buddy, maybe you should have considered: boobs also don’t work like that. Why are we taking the boobs at face value, but the shirt is a line too far? You can’t just pick one or the other. They’re a package deal. If we accept the premise that the breasts are This Big, we must also admit the corollary that the breast-haver would, as a matter of practical necessity, be in possession of shirts with a topology sufficient for their containment. The “impossible shirt” is completely possible. In fact, it’s more than possible: it’s worldbuilding.

[spidey-webs]

The real tragedy of the whole “Batman contingency plans” thing escaping containment into the wider cultural zeitgeist is that it’s become completely divorced from the original context of, you know, the Tower of Babel story-line happening after a beloved member of the Justice League did in fact go mad, become all-powerful, and destroy all of reality.

Which is devastating because it loses so much when you take Hal Jordan out of it! In both adaptations and fan discussions!

Despite only being mentioned by name once in the story, Hal haunts the whole narrative in how unspoken he is. The whole theme of the story is the failure to communicate and how it destroys trust, and an essential part of that is how the whole League won't (and can't) talk about Hal.

When Kyle finally tries to bring him up, Wally shoots him down. He is the forbidden topic at the heart of the League's breakdown of trust!

When the contingency plans plot is removed from the context of Hal's fall from grace, isn't proceeded by a JLA founding member doing what was supposed to be unthinkable, Bruce's actions lose their emotional core. It becomes just "Batman is the coolest and smartest and also a huge untrusting asshole" instead of "Bruce was already on the knife-edge of crippling paranoia regarding his powerful allies, and then one of those same allies started slaughtering people and he couldn't do a thing to stop it, confirming all his worst fears and sending him right over the edge"

You take Bruce's feelings of very personal betrayal out of the equation. He's not operating on just hypotheticals, but fears that were heartrendingly justified!

Bruce claims the reason for his plans on some past mind-control incident, but Clark calls Bruce out on it being an excuse.

Maybe that's how it started, but there's a reason the fail-safes aren't against mind-control and possession. The fail-safes are ways to permanently stop your friends should they willingly or unwillingly become a threat.

And they both know it. They've argued about Hal several times before.

Bruce has a lot of unresolved feelings about Hal. He's still hurting.

The contingency plans are not some cold, clinical necessity. They are the product of pain.

I think all readings and tellings of the Tower of Babel should be followed by the JLA/Spectre story.

It provides the necessary emotional conclusion to the unspoken conflict! Because they finally have to talk about it! They heal the broken trust! Bruce admits how much Hal's betrayal hurt him and his faith in heroes, and gets past it! Instead of letting a former and potential future threat be eliminated as his fail-safes say he should, he invites the threat back, even if he can't guarantee it won't happen again, because he chooses to believe in his friend!

The contingency plans are a cool and interesting concept, but again, you can't just...take Hal out of it. You can't make it about some evil alternate versions, or about Clark. By doing that, you lose the most heartbreaking part of the story. Batman isn't in the right or the wrong, but he's not heartless. He's brokenhearted.

[roturo]

SUCCESSOR -`♡´-

summary: He believes he’s going to die soon, and the idea of leaving the Kira case unfinished gnaws at him. The thought of his legacy fading away too soon is unbearable. He needs a successor. And soon.

warnings: A LOT of breeding, smut, unprocteted sex, overstimulation, multiple rounds, pwp, tummy buldge, mentions of cum, mating press, virgin!L, obssesed!L, mentions of forming a family, not proof read and sleepy while writing this. and more.

a/n: ik this is going to have as much support as my other works, but it's def one of my best and favs writings, so please show me your support with a comment and reblog! it means a lot for me!

You've been part of the task force for a while now, ever since L handpicked you for his elite team. As a regular member, you've earned your place and trust within the group. The necessity of keeping your identity hidden has diminished, thanks to the expanding team, but you still opt for an alias during meetings, maintaining a veil of secrecy around your true connection to L.

L’s mind is a labyrinth, each thought of a winding path leading to an unknown destination. His strategies are always a step ahead, his deductions razor-sharp. Yet, despite his brilliance, one specific thought has been haunting him lately:

He believes he’s going to die soon.

This isn't a paranoid delusion but a calculated assessment. L understands the immense dangers tied to the Kira case. The complexity of the situation has grown, and he suspects an external force at play, one that eludes even his grasp. This unknown entity has shifted the balance, making the case more perilous than ever.

L is determined not to let his legacy end prematurely. He has dedicated his life to solving the world’s most challenging mysteries, and the idea of leaving the Kira case unfinished gnaws at him. The thought of his legacy fading away too soon is unbearable.

He needs a successor.

And soon.

Finding someone who can match his intellect and tenacity is no simple task. The successor must be able to understand his intricate methods, to carry on his relentless pursuit of justice. The urgency of this mission weighs heavily on him, as he prepares to identify and groom the next guardian of his legacy.

You were the perfect match for him, and his calculations confirmed it. There was an 86% probability that having a child with you would result in someone with a higher IQ than his own, combined with the social skills he lacked. In the realm of interpersonal relationships, L was inexperienced, never having had a relationship or intimacy before. Recently, he had been contemplating how to propose this idea to you.

Should he ask you outright? Should he try to make you fall in love with him first? No, this wasn't about love. It was a precaution, a step in his investigation, a way to ensure his legacy continued if the worst were to happen.

The atmosphere in the headquarters was tense as always, the dim lighting casting long shadows across the room. You sat at your desk, engrossed in your work, when L’s quiet footsteps approached. His presence was magnetic, his aura of mystery and intellect always palpable. He paused beside you, his gaze fixed on the monitors displaying the latest updates on the Kira case.

“Can we talk?” His voice was soft, almost hesitant, a rare departure from his usual confident demeanor.

You looked up, surprised by the uncharacteristic uncertainty in his tone. “Of course, L. What’s on your mind?”

He shifted, glancing around the room as if searching for the right words. “There’s something I need to discuss with you. It’s… personal.”

Your curiosity piqued, you nodded, giving him your full attention. “I’m listening.”

He took a deep breath, his eyes meeting yours. “You’re aware of the importance of my work, of the dangers we face daily. The Kira case has made me realize that I must consider contingencies I hadn’t thought of before.”

You nodded, waiting for him to continue.

“There’s a… statistical analysis I’ve conducted,” he said, his voice becoming more clinical as he explained. “It suggests that if I were to have a child with someone of your intelligence and social capabilities, the child would have a higher IQ than mine and possess the social skills I lack. This could be crucial in continuing my work if anything were to happen to me.”

The gravity of his words hit you like a ton of bricks. L, always methodical and rational, had approached this highly personal matter with the same analytical mindset he used to solve cases. You could see the logic in his plan, yet the implications were overwhelming.

“So, you want me to… have a child with you?” you asked, trying to keep your voice steady.

“Yes,” he replied, his eyes unwavering. “But understand, this is not about emotions or personal desire...I think” He whispers to himself before he continues– “It’s a precaution, a part of my contingency planning. I’ve never experienced a relationship or intimacy, so I’m uncertain how to approach this.”

The room seemed to close in around you as you processed his request. It was a cold, calculated proposition, yet it carried a weight of vulnerability and trust. L was placing his future, his legacy, in your hands.

“How do you expect this to work, L?” you asked, your voice tinged with both curiosity and trepidation.

“I’m not sure,” he admitted, his facade of invincibility cracking slightly. “I’ve considered different approaches. Should I simply ask you directly? Should I try to make you fall in love with me first? But this isn’t about love. It’s about ensuring that if I am no longer here, someone capable can continue my work.”

A silence fell between you, heavy with unspoken thoughts and emotions. L’s eyes searched yours, looking for understanding, perhaps even acceptance. You could see the conflict within him, the struggle between his logical mind and the unfamiliar territory of human connection.

“I need time to think about this,” you finally said, your voice gentle but firm.

L nodded, a flicker of relief crossing his features. “Of course. Take all the time you need. This is not a decision to be made lightly.”

Finally, you made your decision.

One evening, you found L in his usual spot, hunched over his laptop, eyes glued to the screen. The dim light cast shadows across his face, highlighting the intensity of his focus. Taking a deep breath, you approached him, your heart pounding in your chest.

“L,” you said softly, breaking the silence. He looked up, his piercing gaze meeting yours.

“I’ve thought about what you asked,” you continued, your voice steady despite the turmoil inside. “And I agree.”

For a moment, L simply stared at you, processing your words. Then, slowly, he nodded, his fingers tapping lightly on the edge of his desk. “Understood. Thank you for your cooperation.”

You took a seat across from him, the air between you charged with a new sense of purpose. “How do we proceed?”

L leaned back, his thumb brushing his bottom lip in thought. “We need to ensure this doesn’t disrupt our work or compromise the investigation. The task force must not be aware of our personal connection, as it could create complications.”

You nodded, understanding the delicate balance that needed to be maintained. L’s expression remained impassive, but there was a flicker of something in his eyes. “I must admit that emotional connections are not my area of expertise. This will be… a learning experience.  Should… we do it tonight?”

“Ah- Ah- Slow down, L-Lawliet!” you gasped, your voice breaking with a mix of pleasure and urgency.

L’s thrusts were sloppy but fast, driven more by instinct than experience. His movements lacked rhythm, a clear sign of his inexperience. He had come twice already without withdrawing from you, his body responding purely on primal urges.

He had done his research, concluding that a mating press might be the most effective position for this purpose. But he never anticipated how overwhelmingly good it would feel. Was it like this with everyone? Or was it something unique because it was you?

His thrusts grew more erratic, almost desperate. Small whines escaped his mouth, each one tinged with your name like a prayer. You could feel every twitch, every movement inside you, the raw intensity of his desire almost too much to bear.

“L,” you whispered, trying to regain some control. “You need to… slow down.”

He nodded, a bead of sweat trickling down his forehead. “I’m trying,” he panted, his voice unsteady. “It’s just… so overwhelming.”

His usually sharp, calculating mind seemed lost in the haze of sensation. Every thrust, every brush of skin against skin, was a new experience for him. You could see the conflict in his eyes, the struggle between maintaining control and giving in to the raw pleasure.

He moaned at the familiar, overwhelming sensation of climaxing again, and you could feel your own release approaching. The intensity was almost unbearable when he grabbed a pillow and slipped it under your back, angling you into an even deeper mating press. His thrusts became more deliberate, his cock somehow reaching deeper, hitting your g-spot with precision over and over again.

The pleasure was so intense, so all-consuming, that all you could do was chant his name like a mantra, each syllable a prayer of ecstasy. “L-Lawliet,” you breathed, your voice trembling with the force of your impending climax.

He watched you with dark, hungry eyes, his own pleasure driving him to thrust harder, faster. “S-shit,” he gasped, his breath hitching, “I think—” His words dissolved into a whine as he came again inside you, his release flooding your womb with a desperate, addictive need.

This wasn’t just about producing a successor anymore. It was about the raw, primal satisfaction of filling you over and over again. He was captivated by the sight of your bodies joined, the way your mixed arousal leaked from where you were connected, glistening in the dim light.

“Lawliet,” you cried out, your own climax hitting you with the force of a tidal wave. Your body tightened around him, milking every last drop of his release as he continued to thrust, his movements erratic and needy.

He whimpered, the sound vibrating through his chest as he pressed his forehead against yours, his dark hair falling in a messy curtain around your face. “You feel… incredible,” he whispered, his voice rough with emotion and exertion.

He groaned before pressing his lips to yours, the kiss deep and fervent. His cock remained erect inside you, pulsing with an insatiable desire. The feeling of having you this close, of being connected so intimately, was overwhelming. In that moment, he lost all sense of reason and the initial purpose behind his actions.

His mind, usually so sharp and focused on the Kira case, was now clouded with visions of a future he never thought he'd consider. He imagined how adorable you would look, carrying his child, a baby with his eyes and your smile. The idea of having a family with you consumed him, pushing all thoughts of logic and strategy aside.

Without realizing it, he began thrusting again, the movement instinctual and desperate. Each thrust was deliberate, fulfilling the small bump of cum inside you that was already visible through your tummy. He watched in awe, fascinated by the sight of your bodies joined so intimately, the tangible evidence of his desire and your shared pleasure.

“L-Lawliet,” you gasped against his lips, your hands clutching his shoulders as he moved within you. “What... what are you thinking?”

He pulled back slightly, his eyes locking onto yours. “I’m thinking… I’m thinking about us. About a future I never allowed myself to dream of.” His voice was rough with emotion, a raw edge that you rarely heard.

Your heart swelled at his words, the vulnerability in his usually composed demeanor striking a chord deep within you. “Lawliet,” you whispered, your fingers tracing the contours of his face. “I never imagined… I never thought you’d want this.Want me”

“I didn’t either,” he admitted, his thrusts growing more purposeful. “But now, with you, that's all I can think about. The idea of you carrying my child, of us having a family…you in general… it’s overwhelming.”

He kissed you again, more gently this time, savoring the softness of your lips against his. Each thrust sent waves of pleasure through you, the sensation heightened by the emotional intensity of the moment. His hands roamed your body, memorizing every curve, every detail.

“Do you… do you want this too?” he asked, his voice trembling slightly.

“Yes,” you breathed, the admission freeing a weight you hadn’t realized you were carrying. “I want this. I want us.”

His eyes darkened with a mix of relief and desire, and he kissed you harder, his movements inside you becoming more urgent. The room filled with the sounds of your shared pleasure, each moan and gasp a testament to the bond growing between you.

As he continued to thrust, you could feel the tension coiling tighter within you, each movement pushing you closer to the edge. He seemed to sense it too, his rhythm intensifying as he chased his own release.

“Lawliet,” you cried out, your climax hitting you with the force of a tidal wave. Your body tightened around him, every nerve ending alight with sensation.

He groaned, his own release following closely behind, filling you once more. The feeling was addictive, the raw intimacy of it all-consuming. He held you close, his forehead resting against yours as you both caught your breath.

“I can’t believe this is happening,” he whispered mostly to himself, his voice filled with wonder.

“Neither can I,” you replied, your heart pounding in sync with his. “But it feels right. It feels perfect.”

He nodded, a small smile playing at the corners of his lips. “It does.”

You stayed entwined like that, savoring the afterglow and the newfound depth of your connection. The Kira case and the outside world faded into the background, replaced by the warmth of each other’s presence and the promise of a future together.

Eventually, as the reality of your situation began to seep back in, you knew you had to return to your duties. But the bond you had forged would remain, a source of strength and comfort in the days to come.

As L gently pulled out and helped you adjust, he pressed a tender kiss to your forehead. “We’ll figure this out,” he said softly in a small whisper. “Together.”

“Together,” you echoed, your heart filled with a certainty that no matter what challenges lay ahead, you would face them side by side.

[maacbrem]

Absolutely insane about the Thelyss brothers in Vasselheim cause like

Essek the Bright Queen is RIGHT THERE SIR PLEASE - but then, so is his brother, his little brother he probably still thinks of as a child because they were allowed to be children so briefly before anamnesis failed to come and they had to make something of themselves as new souls in an ancient Den, and Verin is the youngest Taskhand of Bazzoxan and a highly accomplished Echo Knight but he’s going to war??? Against aliens and would-be god killers and Ludinus Da’leth???? And Essek is a heretic fugitive and selfish to his bones, but he loved his brother even when he didn’t think he was capable of love at all, even if he wasn’t very good at it. So he stays in Vasselheim and he makes sure that these strange, awe-inspiring legendary heroes know his brother’s face, his voice, his armour, so that maybe if he falls one of them will deign to pick him up. He thinks about his friends, far from him now (Caleb, out of his reach and likely preparing to do something reckless but too brilliant to be called foolish), and looks at his brother, who will also go, who might never come back.

And Verin??? The youngest son of his Den, the second new soul prodigy by necessity who never really understood his brother but loved him anyway, who mourned their father so hard that he tried to become him by throwing himself against the endless hordes of the Hells, who now answers the call of all the gods and Exandria itself to fight a war with impossible odds, offering himself and his soldiers as potential cannon fodder so that the legendary heroes of the age might emerge victorious? I need to know how long he’s known what Essek did (because I know that Essek confessed and part of him hoped that Verin would condemn him, his righteous, devoted brother), and I need to know if Essek faked his death or just vanished, and I need to know if Verin wept for him. Verin who loves his people and his country and his god, who believes in things like faith and loyalty because he’s never really had cause not to, who has to find a way to believe in his brother, too. He learns to recognize this Archivist disguise and a few others that Essek favours, and he stops referring to his brother by name ever just so he doesn’t forget at the wrong moment, and he carries the beat-up booklet of Ashari poetry that he first learned to read Common from that still has child-Essek’s penmanship in the margins and he thinks about how seasons change and how winter doesn’t really kill, it just rests, and the process of a butterfly’s metamorphosis isn’t really that far off from the Luxon’s decree to become your ever-bettering self.

Essek doesn’t say “come back” but he does say “fight smart” and Verin knows what he means. Verin wraps him in a spine-cracking bear hug, uncomfortable in his armour but Essek has gotten better about physical affection in the past few years and one day Verin intends to thank the Mighty Nein personally for that. Verin says “stay sharp” and then quieter he says “i’ll see you again” and Essek hears ‘in this life or the next’ and he very calmly and sanely doesn’t start screaming, but he does press a pearl to Verin’s forehead (Caleb’s variation of the somatics, a useless bit of sentimentality made powerful that Essek adores). And then they have to part ways before Verin rejoins the Kryn contingent and Essek disappears back into the crowd, two brothers finally on the same side but unable to stand together.

Anyway, I think they’re neat.

[quotespile]

But there are no grown-ups, that’s what you must grow up to know fully; your parents were just two more bodies experiencing landscape and weather, trying to make sense by vibrating columns of air, redescribing contingency as necessity...

Ben Lerner, The Topeka School

[transrevolutions]

Les Amis as French verb tenses:

Enjolras: futur antérieur. Used to denote future actions that will specifically happen before other actions or time frames. Example: Nous aurons renversé le gouvernement avant le fin du siècle (We will have overthrown the government before the end of the century.)

Combeferre: futur simple. Used to generally denote future actions, albeit sometimes with less connotation of immediacy. Example: Je lirai un nouveau livre (I will read a new book.)

Courfeyrac: présent. The standard present tense, used to express what is currently happening. Example: Il est heureux (He is happy.)

Jehan: passé simple. A form of the past tense seen most often in literature rather than in modern spoken French. Used for narrating actions with a definite beginning and end. Example: Vous écrivîtes ce poème (You wrote this poem.)

Feuilly: futur proche. Used to denote actions definitely happening in the near future, similar to futur antérieur but without the expectation of specifically occurring before anything. Formed by conjugating the verb aller (to go) with the infinitive of the main verb. Example: Le monde va être égal (The world is going to be equal.)

Bahorel: imparfait. A past tense that denotes previous states of being or actions without a defined start or end. Example: L'émeute était puissante (The riot was powerful.)

Joly: conditionnel. A tense in which the action described is contingent upon another factor. Also used for polite requests. Example: Je voudrais une baguette, s'il vous plaît (I would like a baguette, please.)

Bossuet: infinitif. The unconjugated form of a verb, which encompasses the action or state of being in its essence, with no modifiers. Examples: être (to be), parler (to speak), choisir (to choose), etc.

Grantaire: subjonctif. A tense with no strict English equivalent, generally used to express doubt, negation, uncertainty, fear, desire, superlativity, and (perhaps surprisingly) necessity, among other things. It's often considered a difficult tense to master, particularly when one's first language doesn't have an equivalent, due to many irregularities and exceptions in its formation. Example: Je ne crois pas que tu comprennes (I don't believe that you understand.)

[saxophonesir]

Part four of my white passing Tim Drake agenda

It started with a joke.

Dick had been helping Tim clean up his apartment—by which he meant Dick was lounging on Tim’s couch, making comments, while Tim actually cleaned.

Tim was reorganizing his bookshelf when Dick, scrolling through his phone, snorted. “Man, I swear, Bruce has us all collecting languages like trading cards. What are you at now? Five? Six?”

Tim rolled his eyes, shifting a stack of books. “Seven.”

Dick let out a low whistle. “Show-off. What are they?”

Tim didn’t even look up. “French, German, Spanish, Russian, Latin, Greek, and Mandarin.”

Dick froze. “Mandarin?”

Tim, still distracted, hummed in confirmation. “Yeah.”

A beat of silence. Then—

“Huh.”

Tim turned, eyebrow raised. “What?”

Dick sat up, studying him like he’d just grown a second head. “You speak Mandarin.”

Tim frowned. “Yeah? So?”

Dick gestured vaguely at him. “Since when do you speak Mandarin?”

Tim rolled his eyes. “Since I learned it, obviously.”

Dick scoffed. “No, I mean—why?”

Tim blinked, thrown off by the question. “…Why does anyone learn a language?”

Dick narrowed his eyes. “Okay, but, like… was it just for missions? Or did you—” He cut himself off, his brain finally catching up.

Tim saw the exact moment it clicked.

Dick’s eyes widened slightly, his expression shifting from confusion to realization to something softer. “Wait. Is this a family thing?”

Tim sighed. He should’ve known this was going to happen eventually. “…Yeah. My mom was Chinese.”

Dick stared at him. “Holy shit.”

Tim rolled his eyes again. “Really? That’s your reaction?”

“I mean—! I just—!” Dick gestured wildly, clearly thrown. “Dude, how did I not know that?”

Tim shrugged, turning back to his bookshelf. “I don’t really talk about it.”

Dick was still staring, his brain visibly short-circuiting. “I just assumed—you know, rich Gotham kid, white parents—” He groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “God, I’m an idiot.”

Tim smirked. “Finally, something we can agree on.”

Dick huffed, then, after a pause, asked, “So… do you actually use it? Like, can you hold a conversation?”

Tim hesitated, then admitted, “…My Mandarin is kind of crap.”

Dick’s brows shot up. “But you speak seven languages?”

Tim groaned, flopping onto the couch beside him. “I know! It makes no sense! I can read it fine, my grammar’s solid, but my accent—” He shook his head. “Apparently, I sound awful.”

Dick snickered. “Like, ‘off’ how?”

Tim glared at him. “Like, I sound like a white guy reading from a phrasebook.”

Dick lost it, doubling over with laughter. “Oh my god—”

Tim shoved him. “Shut up.”

Dick was still grinning. “No, no, it’s just—it’s so you! Of course you’d be perfect at every other language but sound like a tourist in the one tied to your own family.”

Tim scowled. “Glad you find it funny.”

Dick nudged him playfully. “Hey, it’s kinda endearing. And, you know, we do have a bunch of native speakers in the family. If you ever wanna work on it, I’m sure Damian would love to mock—I mean, help you.”

Tim groaned. “Great. Exactly what I need.”

Dick grinned. “Hey, I think it’s cool. And, you know, if you ever do wanna talk about it, I’m all ears.”

Tim glanced at en gave a small nod. “Yeah. Thanks, Dick.”

Dick beamed. “Anytime. Now, say something in Mandarin. I gotta hear this accent.”

Tim threw a pillow at his face.

Now, Bruce. Bruce prided himself on knowing everything about the people in his life. It wasn’t just a habit—it was a necessity. Information was protection. If he knew, he could prepare. If he could prepare, he could keep them safe.

It wasn’t arrogance—it was necessity. Their lives depended on preparation, on understanding the people they fought alongside. He had contingency plans for all of them, profiles meticulously detailed, habits cataloged. He knew how Jason held his jaw when he was about to throw a punch, the exact lilt in Dick’s voice when he was covering up exhaustion, the barely perceptible shift in Damian’s stance when he was about to lie.

And yet, somehow, he had missed something so fundamental about Tim that it made him question everything.

He had overheard it by accident.

A rare quiet evening in the manor, Damian and Tim sitting at the long dining table, a chess game between them. Bruce had only been half-listening as he went over case notes, his mind caught between the present and the ever-growing weight of unfinished business. Then, in a tone that was more observational than judgmental, Damian had said, “Your pronunciation is dreadful. It is almost shameful, considering your background.”

Tim had groaned. “Yes, thank you, Damian. I’m aware.”

Bruce hadn’t thought much of it at first—until Damian continued.

“It is strange. You should be more naturally inclined toward it.”

Tim had sighed. “Yeah, well, language skills aren’t genetic, Damian. And just because my mom was Chinese doesn’t mean I grew up speaking it fluently.”

Bruce had stilled.

It was such a small thing. Just a few words exchanged between brothers.

But they hit Bruce like a blow to the chest.

Tim’s mother was Chinese.

Janet Drake—distant, sharp, refined—had been Chinese. And Bruce had never once thought about it. Never questioned it.

And suddenly, all the little things he had overlooked over the years began to piece themselves together.

The way Tim brewed tea with an almost unconscious precision. The books on his shelves, some with spines marked in Chinese characters. The way he sometimes hesitated before saying certain words, as if recalling something half-forgotten. The fact that he had never quite seemed at home in spaces meant for him, never quite fit into the image of “Timothy Jackson Drake” that the world had constructed around him.

Bruce had missed it.

And that realization settled deep inside him, alongside all the other failures he carried when it came to Tim.

Because, of course, he had missed it. Of course, Tim was the one son he had never quite been able to read.

With Dick, there was warmth, openness. With Jason, there had been fire, defiance. Even Damian, for all his sharp edges, had a clear, undeniable presence.

But Tim?

Tim had always been quiet. Always watching. Always adapting. A chameleon in any situation, taking up only as much space as the moment required. He was easy to perceive, but never to see.

And now Bruce was wondering—how much else had he missed?

The thought lingered with him long after Damian had won the chess game and Tim had grumbled about it. Long after they had cleared the board and gone their separate ways.

That night, Bruce found himself in the cave, staring at Tim’s file on the Batcomputer.

It contained everything—height, weight, medical records, case history. But nowhere in those cold, analytical lines of text was the truth of who Tim was.

Who he had always been.

Bruce sat in the dim glow of the monitor, fingers steepled, jaw tight.

For the first time in a long while, he felt like the world’s greatest detective had failed to solve the most important case of all.

His own son.

It makes sense now, in everything Bruce had dismissed before. When he overheard Tim practicing Mandarin with Damian, his accent just slightly off. When he’d caught sight of an old photo of Janet Drake, tucked away in a folder on Tim’s desk. Or when it was the tea—chrysanthemum, Tim had said absentmindedly one night, a quiet tradition carried from his mother, a detail Bruce had never thought to ask about.

It was staggering.

Not because it changed anything—Tim was still Tim. But because he had missed it. Because it made him realize just how much he had always been missing when it came to Tim.

It was a quiet night in the Cave when he finally said it.

“I didn’t know.”

Tim, hunched over the Batcomputer, barely looked up. “Know what?”

Bruce hesitated. “That your mother was Chinese.”

Tim’s fingers froze over the keyboard.

For a second, there was nothing. Then, slowly, Tim turned, raising an eyebrow. “You didn’t?”

Bruce exhaled, feeling something heavy settle in his chest. “No.”

Tim studied him, and Bruce could see it happening—Tim processing, assessing, deciding how to react.

Then, with a faint, almost amused scoff, Tim said, “Huh. And here I thought you knew everything.”

Bruce closed his eyes briefly. “I should have.”

Tim was quiet for a long moment, and when he spoke again, his voice was unreadable. “Does it bother you?”

Bruce’s eyes snapped open. “Of course not.”

Tim tilted his head slightly, like he was testing Bruce’s reaction, looking for cracks in his composure. “Then why bring it up?”

Because I failed you.

Because you’re my son, and I should have known.

Bruce exhaled. “Because I realize now how much I’ve overlooked.”

Tim blinked at that, clearly not expecting the admission.

Bruce pressed on. “I… I’ve always felt like there was something missing. Like I was never able to connect with you the way I do with the others.” His jaw tightened. “I thought it was just me. That I was failing in some way.”

Tim’s expression flickered—something unreadable, something quiet.

“…Bruce.” His voice was softer now, less guarded. “It’s not like I was hiding it.”

“I know.”

Tim glanced away, drumming his fingers against the desk. “…Guess I just never thought it mattered.”

“It does,” Bruce said simply.

Tim let out a slow breath, then, after a pause, smirked. “Well. If it makes you feel better, I barely speak Mandarin anyway. My accent’s terrible.”

Bruce gave him a look. “Yes, I’ve heard.”

Tim groaned. “Oh my god, not you too—”

Bruce let the corner of his mouth quirk up, just slightly.

Tim rolled his eyes, but there was something lighter in his expression now, something easier.

And Bruce… Bruce felt it, too.

Maybe they weren’t as disconnected as he had always feared.

Part three

[centrally-unplanned]

In my list of orphaned projects is a big damn essay on the fertility transition , which I never wrote. I had this in the docket for almost a decade, back when worrying about fertility rates was still a hot take. But alas the ship has sailed, everyone is talking about it now and has written it all out already, and I have mountains of projects, so I will just outline it quickly, sans graphs and footnotes. Maybe doing that will incentivize me to write up a full one someday, and it also gets my cohesive viewpoint out there.

The Future Is Exowombs & the Global Fertility Transition

The Trendline

The fertility transition has long roots - going back to 19th century France, originating in metropoles like Paris and culturally exporting itself to the countryside.

It seems broadly linked to material prosperity in ways that are load-bearing, one implies the other.

It is a 'sticky' cultural transition - once a country begins to move towards lowered TFR it never recovers outside of temporary blips.

It is not related to "western" cultural norms or specific contingencies of religion or ethnicity - those can matter at the margins, but rarely make a huge difference.

Starting in the 1990's, following sharp increases in A: global economic growth and B: global cultural diffusion/global monoculture, a trendline that used to be reserved for wealthy countries has rapidly accelerated, affecting countries at almost every income level. The fertility transition is now fully global.

The Cause

The primary driver of this phenomenon is the positive realization of desires - and by that I mean it is not something forced on people due to a lack in their lives.

It is not primarily caused by growing singleness; the number of people having any kids at all today is lower but overall pretty similar to the number of people who did a hundred years ago. It makes a marginal difference but not a huge one.

It is not linked to money, or housing prices, or other economic issues - fertility rates do not notably change with income levels or other price factors. At the margins, sure, but not at relevant ones.

It is not linked to specific technologies like contraception. People have understood how to prevent pregnancy for centuries - though like many things they do contribute at the margins. Additionally, you can’t uninvent them.

It is by a large majority linked to the death of large families. It was previously common for there to be families with 5 or more children, sometimes way more. 10+ children was not that rare in the past.

These families were disproportionately engaged in agricultural production; cities have always been fertility sinks.

In a world of manual household labor, rural living, low rights for women, low economic opportunities for women, and high death rates for children, these large families made sense. The 'opportunity cost' of the endless pregnancies & sicknesses was low (economically, not gonna handwave the immense personal toll)

All of these reasons have vanished. People want to have families, and love their children. But enduring multiple painful pregnancies, putting your career on hold, and spending huge chunks of your lifespan on child raising no longer tracks. The experience of having ~2 children is superior, along almost every metric, than the experience of having ~5 children for most people. This is what I mean by positive desires - the family structures of the past were built on misery and necessity, and will not return willingly.

The Problem

Many will point to the economic & social consequences of the Fertility Transition. They are very real, particularly at sub-1.0 fertility rates. If you are South Korea today, you have no plan for how your economy will truly support itself 50 years from now - you will vanish as a country in a few generations.

The focus on nearish-term crises also misses the opportunities lost - economic growth is premised on specialization, and specialization is premised on scale. A smaller world is a poorer world per capita, and a less innovative world, problems which have compounding effects. The difference in the long term is orders of magnitude.

But, far more importantly than any of that, is that we are nowhere close to the capacity of the earth to support humans. Supporting double or even triple the current population of the earth is trivial; a 10-fold increase would be quite easy, particularly once innovation is factored in. Being alive is a good of worth incomparable to anything else - the 'future' is literally defined by it. Time only meaningfully passes through the eye of one who can behold it.

The Failed Solutions

Money cannot buy lifespan or reclaim lost time - all attempts to throw money at the problem of fertility can help at the margins, but won't change the fundamentals. Some people want to have 2 kids, but can only afford 1. Or are prioritizing a career, but will work part time to have 3 kids. But the current policy crop of tax benefits or subsidized child care has not found a way to make someone truly want a larger family size, just mitigate gaps between desire and ability - and only barely.

Could radically larger amounts of money solve this problem? A professional career track in giving birth, 100k+ salaries for full-time mothers? I am open to the idea - but society isn't. The fiscal transfers needed are too radical for the current political environment, no one is proposing this.

Immigration was frequently proposed as a stop-gap, but its a 90's idea, premised on the idea that the Fertility Transition was a western problem that other countries did not face. It is not and never was; as every country's fertility declines, immigration becomes a zero-sum solution.

Turning back the clock on cultural change is A: impossible, the material logic of modern industrial production broke the need for it, and culture is downstream of material constraints. And B: its barbaric - if your answer to humanity's obstacles to greater flourishing is to condemn half of it to misery, we are better off dead.

So population levels will either stagnate or decline - unless something intervenes.

The "Future" Aka Getting Rationalist On Main

Exowombs, aka artificial wombs, allow you to grow a human child outside of the need for a person to incubate it. The baby (hah) step they let you do is strongly lower the cost of having a child; this is time & health given back to a mother, it will make having larger families easier.

But that won't fundamentally, shift the reality - that most people only want 1-2 kids, they don't want to raise more than that. However, with exowombs, you don't need to; you can make children outside of a family's desire for one. You can do that pretty trivially, actually. A society, if committed to solving its fertility issues, could mass-produce people with exowombs. Which would be very good to do ethically, because living is good and I personally don't think kids at orphanages should be euthanized to end their suffering, they are fine.

If some society, somewhere, did this, they would rule the world in a few generations. No one else is solving this problem, and meanwhile the human capacity to live on Earth is being woefully underutilized. Before natural human growth would solve this eventually - now it seems that will never happen, so anyone who actively tackles the problem wins. They literally win the future, by being the future.

Now, no one is going to do this soon - proposing this idea is not my point. Exowomb research is harshly regulated or illegal everywhere, modern society hates the idea of this kind of experimentation. We are, in so many ways, allergic to the idea of solving this problem. It doesn't even have to be exowombs, maybe we do the salaried mothers idea. My point is just the illustration - the future where there is 100 billion people dwarfs any current trendline future. That hypothetical dominates the worldline space, because arriving there organically seems to have faded away. The fact that we are not going to take that future, that it is probably gone now, is really, really sad.

But of course there is the other solution, the reactionary specter - instead of the technological solution, we choose the social one, of cultural regression and expanded reproductive control. I am not so worried about this, personally? Because I think it would unsustainable and result in a lot of bleed to liberal societies. It should not be taken lightly though - in a world where everyone has 1.0 fertility, and the social and economic consequences are becoming dire, I wouldn’t discount the willingness for radical solutions. I myself prefer the technologist side. But I think odds are we don't get either, just the long decline.

TL;DR - don’t let the Mormons win. Build exowomb factories.

[prettywordsyouleft]

Zombie

Pairing: Jung Jaehyun x female reader

Genre: angst, with a lighter ending. Some humour.

Tropes: demon au

Warnings: Y/N is suffering from depression, loss of interest in life – but is not suicidal. Accidentally makes a demon contract. Mention of drugs for strange behaviour, but none are taken. Mild cussing.

Word count: 2605

Author’s Note: This is part of the song fic series I’m taking part in with @this-song-thats-only-for-you. We got Zombie by Day6 for March, and this is my version based off the lyrics. To see Sem’s version, click HERE. And yes, we’re posting these stories much later than the month intended. Better late than never!

Nothing’s Over | Fancy | Zombie |

You groaned as you opened your eyes, the afternoon light filtering through the threadbare curtains, casting your dreary-coloured walls with a false light. You could tell it was bright outside, which soured your already morose mood further.

Just how far had you slipped? How long had you endured? Just three months ago, you had everything you thought you needed – a job, a partner, a home, a life. Now you were crashing on an acquaintance’s couch, with barely enough money in your account to pay for necessities.

“Never date someone you work with,” you mumbled for the umpteenth time. It was part of your routine now, to wake up and miserably remind yourself how you ended up on this scratchy couch. You had moved away from your family to be with this partner, to help set up a business together in the city. And sure, deep down, you knew your family would bring you home, and you’d find a way to pay them back eventually. Then there would be no more frozen pizza being split as small as you could make it last. No more ignoring the outside world as life continued for those who hadn’t been utterly screwed over by the supposed love of your life. No more rejection letters for jobs or late-night hours working at a convenience mart to continue surviving.

But it would come at a cost. Having to explain where all your money had gone. What had gone wrong between you and your ex. Why had you not put in place a contingency plan like they suggested. You had been head over heels in love, and when the rose-tinted glasses were snatched from you, much like everything you had owned in the fallout, you got a taste of what reality could really be like for someone down on luck. You became a zombie – a somewhat living thing, without any purpose or reason to get up anymore. Day in and out, you felt listless, incapable of doing anything but going through the motions of keeping your vessel alive.

Really, you were ashamed. You had failed after talking a big game, and now the highlight of your day was going to sleep. In your dreams, you weren’t the loser you were now. You had ambition. You recovered from your betrayal. You somehow found a way to shine brighter than before, and your ex would face his awaiting karma. You thrived, the world was yours to grab and take charge of. A dream full of hope, of bursting colours, of change.

And then you’d wake up to a dreary world, feeling hungry, lost, and alone, and reminded how dreams were free, but they robbed your hopeful little soul a bit more each day. And when you finished work early in the morning after your graveyard shift, you would collapse on the couch in this shitty little flat, and beg for a lullaby of quick absolution, to fall deep into slumber, and out of despair.

Day in, day out.

But tonight, something had changed.

You were used to the sort of people who would come into the convenience mart overnight. Most of them weren’t there to cause drama. They would grab what they needed and leave again, barely any words exchanged in the transaction. You would have patches of time go by where it was just you that existed in this square little shop, the cluttered aisles barely needing your attention either. You would try to drag out your tasks, making them last as long as they could so you didn’t have to sit behind the counter and stare numbly at the security camera footage.

Yet, it was when staring at the camera feed that you noticed someone was inside the store. The doors made an obnoxious bell chime whenever someone walked through them, and you were certain it hadn’t gone off in the last hour. Thinking back on the last customer you’d served, you knew it had been two people in the store. They left together. So, who was the man at the back of the store holding two cartons of flavoured milk and why did he look so confused?

Sighing, you got up to see if he needed assistance. Your exhaustion was evident in the way you shuffled down to upright chillers, slouching a little as you cleared your throat. “Can I help you?”

“Oh!” He briefly looked away from the cartons and gave you a cursory once-over before returning his gaze to his dilemma. He furrowed his eyebrows, his dark gaze going from chocolate to strawberry and back again.

You rolled your eyes. “You can’t keep them at room temperature for this long unless you plan to buy them both.”

“Well, which one is better?”

“I don’t know. It depends.”

“On?”

You frowned. Was this guy serious? It was four in the morning, and he was having an existential crisis over which flavour of milk to buy. You almost laughed at the absurdity. Here you were, just trying to survive and some people could be struggling over something so trivial. You gave him a proper look, growing curious as you scanned him from head to toe. He had to be around your age, but instead of the baggy lounge clothes you wore, he was in a crisp black suit. Even the shirt and tie he wore under the suit was black. His onyx hair was neatly styled, and when he glanced up at you questioningly, you noticed his eyes were almost devoid of any other colour. They were so dark that it was hard to distinguish where his pupil and iris met. When he tilted his head slightly, the fluorescent overhead lights caught them, and you were sure you saw a fire blaze within that stare. You blinked and realised it had to be a trick of the light.

You were exhausted. And this man was either from the mafia, high on drugs, or perhaps both.

“Um,” you started, realising he was quietly waiting for your guidance. “Well, do you like chocolate or strawberry?”

“I can’t say I have ever given it much thought. Which do you prefer?”

“Neither,” you admitted wryly, pointing back to the cabinet. “I like banana best.”

“Banana,” he breathed, nodded slowly. He reached for the refrigerator door to put the cartons back and then pulled out two of your favourite flavour. He then held out one for you.

“Oh, I can’t take one.”

“Sure, you can. You’re dehydrated. I can see it in your skin.”

You bristled. “How is milk going to help with that?”

“I don’t know. How come you’re asking me when you can’t even take care of yourself, Y/N?”

You stared at the audacious man as he pulled the straw off the side of the carton, released it from its packaging, and eyed the carton once more.

Who did he think he was, coming in here and judging you for how you looked when he couldn’t even decide on a flavour of milk?! You huffed out an indignant puff of air, feeling your heart pumping and rushing blood through your veins. It had been a long time since you marvelled at your body doing anything other than barely existing.

Meanwhile, the stranger continued to peer down at the carton, finally realising where the straw was meant to go and stabbed it in. He took a noisy suck of the straw, and your mouth gaped open almost as wide as his eyes grew.

“Hey! You can’t drink it before you buy it!”

“Buy it?” he echoed in question, then eyed the carton fondly. “Lucifer, this is good. Banana milk. Who would have thought human drinks could be so… so…” Instead of finishing his statement, he slurped greedily at the straw, the carton losing its shape as he pulled all its liquid out of it. Throwing it down, he hastily opened the next one up and started drinking noisily once more.

You held out your hand, palm up. “That will be six dollars.” The man tapped your palm away and you scoffed loudly. “Excuse me! But you have to pay!”

“You humans and all your systems of payment,” he muttered, and you narrowed your eyes on him. That was the second time he referred to you as a human and excluded himself from it. And wait a moment, did he say your name before?

“We will trade,” he continued, as your breathing grew shallow. Was he really on drugs? Did he think of himself as some kind of supernatural entity? Drugs could do that, right?

Grabbing more cartons of the banana milk from the shelf, he bundled them up in his arms. “I’ll take these, for rescuing you from this morbid existence, just as you asked.”

“Excuse me?” you repeated, though this time you sounded faintish. Your boss was going to kill you if this guy didn’t pay. It would come out of your wages, and you needed this job. You needed it to provide you with a meagre amount to keep eating and securing the less-than-stellar roof above your head when you slept.

“Your name is Y/N, isn’t it?”

“How do you know me?”

“You called for me,” he said simply, trying to restrain himself from opening another carton. With a flourish of his arm, they all disappeared, and he sighed at his loss. You weren’t sure where the cartons had all gone, but you strangely knew he had them on his person somewhere.

You blinked rapidly. Maybe you were on drugs.

“Come, you’re wasting my precious time. You called for me to save you from this existence.”

“When?”

“Many times. You asked for a demon to sing you a lullaby. To take you out of this world and into sleep. And I have been doing so for nearly a month. I really ought to take more banana milk for my efforts, don’t you think?”

“Forget about the banana milk!” you exclaimed, and he looked at you, affronted. “Is this some kind of sick joke?”

“I’m not of the joking type, dear.” He stepped towards you, predatorily, and you shuffled back, almost stepping into a corner stack of canned beans. Cocking his head to the side again, he frowned. “Were my dreams not satisfactory?”

“Dreams?”

“Of a new life. Of revenge. That bastard really ought to pay for taking everything from you.”

You were vibrating now, wondering just how this strange man knew things about you, when even your best friend thought you were still doing great. You had lied to everyone, trying to frame that life was good in the city, whilst suffocating on the stale air you breathed in each day.

He sighed. “I believe we’ve gotten off to a bad start. Let me reframe myself. I am here because you called for my help. And I promised you, I would do your bidding for one month. Thirty days. And then you were mine. Did you not acknowledge the terms of our agreement?”

“What agree—”

You cut off short as a flurry of images flew through your mind, of your desperate cries for help from anyone who would listen. Of a blackened room with a throne on a dais, and the most wickedly handsome man lounging upon it, legs thrown over the arm, the picture of male arrogance. Of his stony stare, scrutinising you as you stood before him, an offering of salvation from this non-existence of a life. And exchanging of names. His was Jaehyun. A contract appearing in thin air before you, stating the terms of his help. Jaehyun would help you get back on your feet. Reclaim your confidence and seek revenge. And in return, you would be his for one hundred days.

“It was just a dream,” you whispered, and Jaehyun chuckled, curling his index finger around your chin and lifting your gaze to meet the fire blaze in his eyes. You stubbornly continued. “You haven’t helped me reclaim anything. Look at me!”

His smile turned sinful. “You didn’t indicate where that should happen.”

“You… you tricked me!”

“You failed to set proper boundaries within a demon contract. How very human of you.”

You grappled with the absurdity of this situation, and thankfully, you had always worked your best under stress. Squaring your shoulders, you began to ask questions. “Will I die?”

“Are you living now? You’re worse off than a zombie.”

“What will you do with me after one hundred days?”

His smile curled up further. “What I must.”

“Will I return here?”

“Perhaps.”

“How will you survive without banana milk?” you tacked on with dramatic flourish, and Jaehyun paused, glancing back at the refrigerator with a look you could only declare as longing. You had him. Pressing into his space, you pointed to the shelf. “There’s so many different brands of banana milk to try, did you know?”

“Brands?”

You nodded. “The one you picked isn’t the best brand out of them all.”

Jaehyun eyed you suspiciously. “What do you mean?”

“I’m sure you have a way to understand this, even from your realm. Not everything is created equally. You should try all the different brands of banana milk to find the best one.”

“And you know all the brands?”

“There’s so many, but yes, I could show you.”

“What’s the catch?”

“For the next one hundred days, I help you discover the best banana milk there is.”

He leaned forward. “And?”

“And you ensure my heart does not stop beating, and when we’re done with our contract, you return me, alive and well, to my parents back in my hometown.”

“Interesting bargain. You didn’t ask for them when you first came to me with your bleeding heart.”

You swallowed roughly. “I need time before I face them.”

To reconnect with yourself and fight through the shame. It was ridiculous to say, but helping a demon find his favourite banana milk was a sense of purpose you didn’t expect to see coming your way today. But here you were, with the first streams of light brightening the sky outside the convenience mart, making another deal with a demon. An annoying, distractingly handsome one, at that.

Over banana milk. You’d truly lost the plot.

“What if in one hundred days we don’t find the best flavour?”

“We will.”

“So certain,” he mused, folding his arms over his impressive chest. You watched as Jaehyun deliberated your offer, worrying he was just humouring you now.

But you had seen the flash of his eyes. The strange child-like hyper fixation Jaehyun had over the milk. Demons were ancient beings, were they not? He’d no doubt seen, or had his hand in helping civilisations crumble, only to be rebuilt once more. Surely human foods and beverages weren’t such a novelty to an entity like himself.

And yet…

“Deal,” he declared, holding out his hand for you to shake. You chided yourself for entering another demon bargain, but then again, what more did you have to lose at this point? Jaehyun strode back to the refrigerator, opening the door and examining the brands of banana milk. He then began to reach for more bottles, and you opened your arms for him to load you up with them, a small smile gracing his lips as you willingly assisted him.

You then clucked your tongue as he reached for another brand. “What?” he asked.

“Not that one,” you stated with a sour look. “That isn’t worth ruining your taste buds over.”

He looked at you for a moment before smiling wickedly. “Ah. I think you and I will do just fine together. I look forward to the next one hundred days, my little Zombie.”

_________________

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[sunshine-jesse]

Ashley Literally Did Nothing Wrong, Fuck You, Fight Me

Alt title: Ashley Graves: The most convenient scapegoat in the world

I'm going to espouse a take here that will no doubt be controversial, as you can tell by the title. This is a take I've created from my hollistic understanding of the events of the game, and isn't dependent on any one single point I make in this essay. Because of that, I want you to read it with an open mind; if you hyperfocus on one or two smaller details I might've gotten wrong or are fallaciously interpretated, and either use that to discount the whole essay or go into the comment section and immediately try to debunk my interpretation of that event, that'll make it obvious to me that you're not trying to seriously engage with the core of what I'm trying to say. Because unless quite literally everything I've said here is wrong, I feel confident in saying this:

Ashley Graves did nothing wrong.

Moreover, I think Ashley is on the level of people like Rossiu, Shinji Ikari, and Skylar White as far as people who are mistreated by their fandoms goes.

At first this was going to be an essay about how I don't think the demons are evil, using textual and thematic evidence to show that they're just part of a system that deals mostly fairly with humans and doesn't have any nefarious plans, or at least nefarious plans that stand to fuck anyone over. But then I realized that, goodness gracious, that is boring as shit to write! But I looked at what I had written already and realized that I could write something else with it: something better. I could sum up a lot of the points made in my prior essays and elaborate upon them in much more detail, showing why I think certain themes are obviously present within this game. And here, I intend on doing that.

I've spoken a lot before about how Ashley is a scapegoat for all of Andrew's worst habits; and to a lesser extent, her mother's. The game makes it seemingly obvious that she's the bad one, and generally just a Very Not Good person. It shows her and her brother committing many different acts that are, under most moral systems, wrong, and implicitly implies that she's the reason that Andrew ever did those things. It implies that she's corrupting him, that he could be better and refuses- or is unable to- due to her poking and prodding. But… is that the truth? Is that how their relationship actually works, in practice? I don't believe so. I think I've made it obvious by now that I believe the exact opposite!

I'm going to start off by tackling the morality behind their actions, especially relative to the world they're in. Specifically, I'm going to tackle how the game presents the morality of their actions from a thematic point of view, and any statements it may or may not make.

First of all, TCOAL plays with a lot of different taboos- demon summoning, cannibalism, incest, murder- but the game goes through great lengths to muddy the moral weight of the siblings' actions. Every single action they commit is portrayed in the most neutral possible light- killings were done in self defense (with one notable exception), or done to people who greatly wronged them, cannibalism was a necessity to survive (also with one notable exception), incest is shown to come from a marked improvement in their relationship- leading me to believe that this game is taking a hard morally nihilistic stance. Else, they'd be shown to suffer for their actions, when in reality, the literal exact opposite is happening; they are being rewarded for it. This isn't necessarily glorifying the actions, but instead showing that even the worst of actions can potentially be excused, but whether or not you do is up to the reader. Hence, nihilism, or at the very least, skepticism (as noted by Lisafication). There's an existentialist reading of this too, but I think much of that is contingent on the events of chapter 3 so I won't get into that here.

It contrasts this mostly nihilistic perspective on interpersonal taboos with the deep societal ills that drive people to commit such actions. Evil exists at every level of analysis here, but curiously, the only thing that are shown to do direct harm to others without having a justification of some kind- be it self-defense or retaliation- are those societal ills. There is no (morally) good reason to quarantine people, starve them, and harvest their organs. There's no good reason to burn all evidence and then put a hit on the ones who did escape. There's no good reason to extort sexual favors from someone in exchange for food. These are deep structural problems that force people to either retaliate/lash out or enable people's most exploitative or abusive habits lest they just let themselves die.

And thus, the obvious evils become much less obvious. The game makes a point of subverting the obvious or the well-known when it comes to morals, and I think it does so when it comes to everything else, too. Outside of those societal ills (so far, ch3 might have something else to say), every situation where someone could obviously be shown as the bad person in a situation is immensely more complex than it first appears. So much so that I'd argue that displaying said complexity and subverting simplicity to force/encourage people to analyze things deeper is one of the central themes of the game.

So why, exactly, does he blame so much on her? It's because Ashley is the world's most convenient scapegoat, and the game is well-aware of this and displays it in ways both obvious and not.

First off: the title screen has Ashley wielding the cleaver, establishing that she’s the violent one. It's covered in blood, too, implying that she's the one more driven to kill. The reality of this is the opposite; Andrew is the one with less hesitation to inflict violence on others, the cleaver is his weapon, and most of the kills in the story are done by him (and fully justified). Ashley might push him to do these violent acts, but… does she?

Her reaction to the death of the first warden is one of utter shock.

And her expression afterwards?

This is not the look of someone who enjoyed the fact that someone killed for her sake. This is not the look of someone who finds joy to be had in violence. It's not even the look of someone who is apathetic towards violence. It almost seems to express shame or guilt, but at the very least, she's timid over it. At the very least, it's an "oh shit, he actually had to do that for my sake" face. Not a "haha, I am making him worse!" face.

Not to mention, not only does Andrew kill the first Warden without a care in the world, he proactively kills the 302 lady to eliminate all witnesses, and because he believes Ashley would want him to. But Ashley actually grills him for it; she didn't want the 302 lady to die, although she hardly had good-person-reasons for it. But that's not my point. The point is that she is not the violent one between the two of them.

The door doesn't open in response to violence, remember?

The game intentionally misleads us.

And what happens when Ashley tries to make him take responsibility for all this violence? To point out that she didn't force him to do anything and that he chose to do all of it, including lock Nina in the box? She lashes out, hits him a few times… and then he goes to strangle her, and doesn't let go until she acknowledges that he has no reason for her to be around. He literally doesn't cease his threat to her life until she acknowledges she's useless to him.

I acknowledge that this isn't the most charitable framing for Andrew, and maybe too charitable for Ashley. After all, she wasn't indignant. She was mocking him. She found it hilarious. But I have reasons for that charitability that I'll go over towards the end. But even with that charitability in mind, I don't think my reading is too off base. Defaulting to laughter or mocking in stressful situations is just what Ashley does. She's not indignant about it; she just finds it hilarious that people keep pretending to be better than her, when they're not.

Andrew killed the 302 lady and used Ashley as a scapegoat to justify it; this is indisputable, stated in the text during the dream. This alone validates Ashley's point of view. There is no interpretation of this event that doesn't paint Andrew as every bit as unscrupulous as Ashley, and thinking she corrupted him into this- when it was both one of the first actions he did on his own in the story and something he explicitly uses Ashley as a scapegoat for- is just ridiculous. It's frankly unreasonable. She has every right to be sick of being used as a scapegoat. And at the very least, whether or not you accept the idea that Andrew only let Ashley go once she acknowledged that she's useless to him, he's still so taken aback by his misinterpretation of Ashley's desires that HE goes to strangle HER.

This is NOT Andrew triumphantly standing up to his abuser. This is both of their masks slipping; Andrew revealing how violent and insistent on keeping up his internal narrative that he is, and Ashley revealing that she's getting tired of being blamed for everything.

And then, when he finally lets her go… she hugs him, and acknowledges that she's happy that Nina is gone, which makes little sense at the face of it. Why would that be her first response to being let go, when it was ostensibly what made Andrew so upset to begin with?

I think, to her, it's a conciliatory gesture. As chapter 2 showed us, she's more than willing to take responsibility for violence to relieve Andrew of stress over it, as evidenced by her finishing off their parents. This is an earlier instance of that; by acknowledging she was happy that Nina was dead, she took responsibility for it. She willingly framed herself as a bad person here, so Andrew wouldn't have to be.

She let herself be the scapegoat, because it's all she ever knew. She put the mask back on.

This alone is enough to challenge the idea that Ashley 'corrupts' Andrew in any meaningful way. How, exactly, can you define it as corrupt when society itself is twisted enough to force these actions to survive? In a more sane world, a lot of their actions would've been bad, sure, but they're also actions that the siblings probably wouldn't have done in a more sane world. Ashley's actions aren't making Andrew worse, they're helping to ensure their survival. You could say that this is still corruptive in its own way, but at that point it seems like your reasoning is motivated by having already had that narrative rather than making a good-faith reading of their dynamic.

At no point did she actually make him worse; he was already like that and just used her as an excuse.

Next up is the Nina situation. This one is obviously cut and dry- Ashley manipulates Andrew into killing Nina because she wants no competition between the two of them. It's not Andrew's fault and Ashley was an evil abuser from the jump. Obvious, right?

No. It's really not.

It's pretty strongly implied that Ashley was mistreated by people her whole life. The Lemon Cupcake scene shows this in more detail, about how people always neglect or ignore her birthdays, but she also says that nobody likes her because she's weird and loud in the Nina flashback too. But unless something big happened in between the two flashbacks, none of this behavior indicates particularly maladaptive or even strange tendencies on Ashley's part. She's a needy, bratty child, and the closest thing to a friend she has- Nina- wants to take away the one thing from her that's a source of comfort and emotional validation.

It's not entirely rational, sure! But it also -makes perfect sense-. NOBODY treated her well throughout her entire life; it's strongly implied that Nina never did either, given Nina's reaction to Ashley being there and the lower left-hand painting past the Questionable door showing her being distant from the two of them. We can also see a star bouncing off of her head, and stars represent closeness in this game, so it shows there was an attempt made somewhere along the line, it's just not clear as to who made the attempt.

At the very least, Nina's reaction of disappointment fed into Ashley's preconceived notions of how people treat her, and how she deserves to be treated. Although, from what has been directly stated, rather than implied, Nina was nothing more than an innocent victim in this scenario; I don't mean to take that away from her.

"But she didn't care when Nina died?"

So? If Nina treated her like trash for most of her life, why should she care? She didn't expect Nina to die. It was just an acceptable consequence. You can say "That's not how normal kids act!" all you want, but there's a level of spite and apathy that comes with intense bullying and emotional neglect that I don't think you really understand unless you've been there to the extent someone like Ashley has implied to be.

Andrew, meanwhile, was the one who told Ashley that they had to lock Nina in the box to keep them in there. He's the one who looked for and found the stick to keep them locked in. You could say he was coerced by an abusive person into hurting someone, sure, but you'd be wrong. Cataclysmically wrong, even. Like, if you actually think that a seven year old girl (nobody wears overalls past the age of seven) can have anything approximating an abusive dynamic with her as the perpetrator with someone both older and stronger than her, you frankly have some issues with women you need to work out. That's simply not how abuse dynamics work at that age.

Andrew wasn't entirely responsible for it either, mind- he was just a kid who should never have been saddled with this kind of responsibility. But that's not my point; the point is that it enables other people, Andrew included, to use her as a scapegoat to avoid his own responsibility. All this scene does is retroactively justify any preconceptions you might've had about them from seeing their adult selves first. But the moment you start digging, it becomes much less obvious who's really culpable here. Andrew was, as evidenced by the blood oath scene, fully aware that he held the advantage over her in strength, and managed to give up nothing when making the oath while he made Ashley swear to silence. He was fully aware that he could've chosen to do better, but he refused, and instead opted to reinforce Ashley's insecurities for the sake of exerting control over her.

I've said before that the 302 lady was murdered without any input from Ashley, but this is also relevant on a meta-level because it's done without any input from the player, either. Both of the murders in chapter 1 were like that, whereas all that we, the player can choose to do in that chapter is either solve puzzles, or hilariously, die. The only person with control here is Andrew, the character, and this is reinforced by the fact that we have no control over him for much of the Nina flashback, too. He locks her in the box regardless of our input, even though Ashley spends a lot of time trying to convince him. The main difference between the Nina flashback and the scenes in the apartment is that Ashley had absolutely no idea that any of that was going to happen in the present, whereas it's something she wanted with Nina- which isn't that big of a difference when discussing how much agency she really has.

As much as the game frames Ashley as a manipulator- and much of the fanbase uncritically accepts- she is given shockingly little in-game control over many of the actions committed. Even in the case of the Hitman- as a good friend of mine pointed out- the only choice the player is given is whether or not to check the closet and be killed; an impulsive decision leading to a swift and unceremonious end. In the end, Andrew is the one given the choice to kill the hitman, and we can consciously choose whether or not his reaction is panicked or measured. No such choice is given to Ashley, as most of her reactions are impulsive and spontaneous rather than planned. This is not the makings of a standard "manipulative evil bitch" trope. She's pretty consistently portrayed as someone with poor impulse and emotional control who loudly and aggressively states her intent in every single scenario she's in.

And you can still call what she says and does manipulative despite that, sure, but at what point are you just pathologizing relatively normal (if extreme and highly emotional) social interactions for the sake of fitting into a narrative you already held?

We see Ashley's status as a scapegoat for people to use to pretend to be normal reach its most blatant with the parents. This time it's pretty cut and dry to anyone that doesn't already have it in their mind that Ashley is evil and unforgivable. Mrs. Graves explicitly brings up the possibility of a normal life without Ashley to Andrew in the basement, and claims that Ashley was at fault for shutting her out. She would've been a normal parent otherwise, right? Well, no; the game wastes no time in showing that this wasn't the case in the Burial ending.

From when Ashley was a baby, Mrs. Graves was already tired of her shit, and too emotionally exhausted to be a parent. Despite her attempts at blaming Ashley, she would've never been a normal parent unless Ashley was a golden child in the same way that Andrew was. And yet Ashley didn't even deny shutting her mom out. She didn't deny the chance to be used as a scapegoat; it was all she ever knew. The fact that Mrs. Graves had the audacity to claim that she was a saint when she was never prepared to be a parent for a child who didn't make it easy, and when she was willing to sell out her children and let them die for a life insurance payment is absolutely astounding.

This alone should've been enough to recontextualize everything we supposedly know about how responsible Ashley really is in all of this, but bad parents have a knack for being great at manipulating both family members and everyone viewing from the outside, including the people playing the game.

And almost including Andrew.

Andrew almost accepting the mom's offer is the single most tragic moment in the game, by far.

Dandy said it best in his video essay: By Ashley leaving Andrew alone with their parents, she showed that she is capable of changing. That she is capable of getting better. She showed that she loves and respects Andrew enough to be able to put aside her usual role as the scapegoat and allow him to make the decision that was for the best for both of them. And make no mistake, it was for the best; if the mom really DID sell out the siblings, and given the two of them were already on the run for supposedly being dead, there was no hope of any of this ever working out. They saw through the conspiracy and knew the truth of how the quarantine operations really worked. They were an active threat to one of the most powerful entities seen in the setting so far, to the point where they had a hitman sent after them.

Mrs. Graves had every reason to sell them out again, for their presence in a public setting was more than enough to put everyone in their family in danger. Mrs. Graves had every reason to believe that the normalcy she wanted was nothing that could ever be grasped again so long as her children were alive, and as such, it was clear that she had nothing to offer either Andrew or Ashley. Ashley trusted Andrew to see through their obvious manipulations and lies, and understand that the parents had nothing left to give them. She trusted him to love her more than the false promises their parents could give.

…And yet. In spite of it all.

In spite of her love, in spite of clearly displaying that she can grow up and become a person that causes him less stress, and in spite of Ashley showing that all she wants now is their safety and security…

Andrew can still choose to consider Ashley the problem. He can still choose to use her as the scapegoat he always has.

He can still choose to see her as the one thing that caused him to be this way, that stands in between him and normalcy, when she, not once, forced him to do anything.

Were he to accept Mrs. Graves' offer, this would've been the single most tragic moment in the game. It almost was, and still stands to be, because he ignores every indication that things could be better for the sake of his own narrative, and a narrative echoed by much of the fandom.

But no matter what ending was picked, things could be better. They could've been better all along. Compared to chapter 1, their dynamic in chapter 2 is already much healthier. Their banter is less venomous, and while they still poke and prod each other in ways that aren't exactly great, they don't get into the same violent fights we saw in the 302 room. By all accounts, what happened in that room was an outlier. Even when they find themselves in their parents' house, where they stand to do the One Thing That Means They Would Never Be Normal Again, Ever (ignoring the fact that this is already a lost cause by then), Ashley doesn't get into any fights with Andrew in the same way she did back in the apartment. All she wants is affirmation and security. She doesn't even lay into her mom like she lays into Julia over the phone, even in their private conversations.

We’re led to believe that she’s still getting worse because the actions she’s taking are more extreme, but her attitudes and behaviors are much, much different. The actual actions they're taking are so obviously the right thing to do (both morally and practically) that I don't think it's until they eat their parents that you should make a double take and go "Wow, maybe these goblins actually are kinda fucked up," because until then, well… everything is justified! Perfectly so! Even then, eating their parents serves a purpose, even if not a mentally healthy one.

Maybe she’s calmer because she’s in control over the situation, but if the calls she made to Julia are any indication (independent of the theory that she didn’t actually say those things), were she unchanged as a person, she still would’ve lashed out at their mother over how much more useful she is to Andrew than their parents were, or something of that nature. Something about how nothing their mom offers could compete with what Ashley gives. But she makes no such claims. She feels no need to prove anything to her parents, or to reaffirm her place in Andrew’s life even in the face of her mother challenging it (or at least implying such a challenge). Regardless of her insecurities, she’s changed. It’s hard to see, but she has.

And then Andrew can ignore that and consider betraying her because he refuses to believe that she's willing to make their dynamic work, when she shows many different indications of being willing to concede as long as Andrew stops giving her mixed signals.

A friend of mine put it best, and I'm pretty much quoting her word for word here, because of how strongly I agree with it. When I look at Ashley, I find very few actual "flaws." I see familiar wounds.

The Burial ending, despite being triumphant and not nearly as "dark" as some people think, is still very, very sad. A lot of abusive dynamics are characterized by someone having to fight every step of the way to get what they need from the other person, usually some kind of emotional validation or relief. This is what happens between Andrew and Ashley for most of the game: Ashley wants Andrew to treat their relationship as special, to acknowledge there's something to it beyond just him going through the motions. And yet for most of the game, he refuses to, especially in chapter 1. And then, in Burial, when he does…

She's confused.

A lot of people view this as her being afraid of losing control over Andrew, since her "Andy," who she can push around, is gone. Andrew has changed, and the same tricks wouldn't work. But that's not what that is; it's not about control, it's about her finally getting what she wants from him without having to fight. She still thinks about using sex as leverage to keep him around, but that's because she's never understood what it's like to have someone actually want to be around her. And I speak from experience; when you no longer have to fight for every little bit of emotional validation or relief, when you no longer have to keep checking your messages to keep an argument going so you can finally be proven right, when you no longer have to force yourself to let go, to stop engaging, the reaction isn't happiness. It's not relief.

It's confusion. It's discontent.

Because something you've tied so much of yourself up in to is no longer there, despite it being more peaceful, it still feels wrong. The dynamic still has to be this way in your mind, because you've never known anything else. You latch on to whatever you can in order to justify that, and your actions are still heavily biased in favor of maintaining your place in that nonexistent dynamic. This isn't manipulation; it's trauma. And the fact that Ashley almost immediately understands that Andrew is changing is nothing short of a miracle. By consolidating past and present Andrew into a single person rather than splitting them into two, she showing that she can actually heal from that trauma. And all Andrew had to do to enable this is to acknowledge that she CAN change, that things CAN be better, and that everyone who claims to be better than her is full of shit.

I've analyzed the events of the story in a way that may seem needlessly antagonistic to some characters, and overly charitable to others. But I have to ask you, that if you disagree with anything I've said:

Where does that disagreement come from? What about my narrative clashes with your own? -Why- does it clash? Is it because the game presents your interpretation as obvious, whereas mine is not? Is it because you've experienced someone like Ashley before in your life, and you know it when you see it? Maybe you strongly identify with Andrew, and view his status as a doormat with no agency to be obvious? Or did you just accept the narrative that much of the fanbase has taken at face value, without further analysis other than building on top of it?

I don't believe these things to be contrarian; I've held most of these opinions since my first or second playthrough. I don't believe what I do because you don't, I believe what I do because I understand what Ashley has been through. I've experienced a lot of the specific traumas she had, such as deep feelings of isolation and being deprived of the emotional validation I need from the people who need to give it. I know what it's like to be misunderstood, to have who and what I am taken for granted, and to be terrified of being abandoned by the people I need the most. I see what I do because I understand.

And I want to give her that understanding that nobody gave me.

Maybe you should think about it. Why do you take it for granted that Andrew is a doormat who is strung along by Ashley? Why do you find it so odd when the trope of a woman corrupting a good man through leveraging sex is drawn into question? Why is Ashley seen as crazy, when all of her actions are so straightforward and rational? How is she corrupting him, when the single most needlessly violent act in the whole story- outside of the Nina flashback- is done without her influence? Why is Ashley seen as the abusive one when Andrew both threatens and resorts to physical violence and witholds emotional validation?

Weirdly personal tangent aside, Ashley and Andrew are two of the most well-written characters I have ever seen. They're not written like archetypes who interact with each other through a series of tropes; they're written like real people who's words and actions have astoundingly human motivations. They come from places that we can understand and relate to.

And just like people, they deserve respect. In spite of all they've done, they deserve love.

But make no mistake, Ashley is not the one stopping that love from happening. She just has the audacity to still want it in spite of everything telling her that she doesn't deserve it. We're led to believe she wants too much, but all she ever wanted was the bare minimum that she was never given.

And she has every right to be mad about it.

[eldraftsman]

Day 14: Favorite Couple

Uh...

It's right on the tin? Sure, the moniker "family" applies to the dynamics between not mom, not dad, and not daughter as a whole, but such a model of family is still contingent on selling to the world the marriage aspect of the equation. So it's no exaggeration to say if this relationship didn't work on some level to push the narrative forward the entire manga wouldn't work either. And since we're all here, you can take a guess of how good the execution has been so far. I've mentioned before how the dynamics of the Forgers are the most interesting in light of what they bring out of each other, and it's specially true when talking about these two. Moreso because it's evident how much these facets are new even to themselves.

Twilight, out of necessity, has always been a suave jack of all trades that can seduce any woman required for the sake of completing the mission, always in duplicitous relationships where the entire goal was navigating the ulterior motives of those involved in a network of emotional manipulations for shady gains. The sex, the romantic conversations, they were always a code for him to decipher, a means to an end. So seeing a woman who can actually understand him on some level while also wearing her heart on her sleeve is completely disarming for him, her emotional straightforwardness demanding to understand her on sincere terms, thus slowly but effectively cracking the armor he built over a decade of shady works and getting him to unadvertedly show her his true self bit by bit even before he can realize it's happening.

Yor isn't caring because she wants to exploit anything about his Loid persona, she's just naturally a loving person and makes him feel safe in ways he hasn't allowed himself to be since he was a child. The end result is as simple as a man who's been using people's emotions as tools while trying his best to detach himself from his own is now presented with the chance to allow himself to feel again. Plus, it's a delight to see the world's best spy suddenly blush like a teenager experiencing his first crush when he lightly brushes his fake wife's hand. He's REALLY not used to actual love.

On Yor's side of the equation, she finds a pillar of support and safeness with Loid that isn't related to the idea of "being protected". She can take care of that plenty, but the safeness she feels comes from a different place: being accepted and understood for who she is. As Ostania's mightiest assassin, Yor's life up to that fateful meeting had her isolated from her peers, being an outcast who didn't have the means to shape her life the way she wanted by virtue of choosing to supply for Yuri at the cost of her childhood. She's unmatched in her abilities with a blade, but the extent of her skills outside of that are limited at best, and when it comes to socializing even the comraderie you form over a cup of cofee was alien to her. Thus her emotions were often bottled up, her aloof exterior scaring people away from the lonely person benath.

So seeing this stranger that she barely talked to for the sake of a convenience agreement being willing to take her side from a place of understanding, to think the best of her in the pressence of completely debasing rumors was the light amidst the darkness she didn't know she needed.

Moreover, Yor is incredibly self conscious of her perceived lacks. In spite of her stunning beauty she never thought much of her physical appearance, thinking of her hands as soiled by the blood covering them, and all the skills she never got to hone in often make her feel inadequate in light of social expectations.

Loid's reassurance of those skills not determining her worth, and how her loving self connecting with children being of irreplaceable value have allowed her to be that more confident in herself, to feel proud of those qualities she has, even wishing to be relied upon. In turn, this allows her to shine the warm self she always had beneath the cold exterior and allows her to connect with others, including those she didn't get along with at first.

They might still hide a hell of a lot from each other, but at a fundamental level they created such a genuine emotional connection and bring the best out of the other so much it's basically impossible to not root for them becoming a real couple. When not even the inclusion of a so called love rival character does so much as slightly pivot the bulk of fanart and fanfics outside of the dominant ship (save for the odd piece here and there), it's clear the dynamics were completely NAILED day one.

[mareastrorum]

This is speculation.

I think Ludinus is going to come back during the Predathos fight to try to use the funnel on the Vessel (Imogen).

The Hells are dumb, but Matt is not. There’s too many convenient puzzle pieces that fit here for that to really be the end of Ludinus.

Staff of Soulbind Relay: protected by an enchantment to prevent easy identification, this homebrew item sends souls somewhere. We don’t know where, but presumably, somewhere nearby. This sounds similar to the effect of a Clone spell… but a Clone spell would render this redundant. The clone of Ludinus’s body would already attract the soul upon death. So Ludinus sent his soul somewhere other than a clone.

Ludinus organized the research of multiple Luxon beacons and still had a third after two were returned to the Dynasty. Among many things, beacons pull in consecuted mortal souls and allow them to be reborn without going to the Matron of Death. That sure sounds like a soul relay, doesn’t it? Well now we know he focused his Beacon research on the relay part and not the soul storage part. Definitely a wizard thing to steal a precious religious artifact and use it just to not have to do a known necromantic spell in the event of potential death and then leave the staff behind.

Oddly, the Hells didn’t find the funnel on Ludinus’s body. He had just been using it on Liliana, so he should have had it. It must have melted too. I mean, even if he boobytrapped his body to melt upon death and used a disguised staff to relay his soul off somewhere, there’s no way he would have set up a contingency spell or other backup to teleport the funnel elsewhere. It’s definitely gone.

Predathos didn’t need a specific Ruidusborn to be the vessel. Any would do. It just wanted someone to come wake it up. The supposed necessity of an Exaltant was Ludinus’s invention. Ludinus wanted an Exaltant to be the Vessel, and he did not care if it was an Exaltant who hated his guts. He didn’t care if it was an Exaltant who helped kill him. He just needed an Exaltant Vessel: someone with the chance to actually contain Predathos and not be ripped open. At least, just a chance, since that’s theoretical. Considering how bodies were scarred just by containing Exaltant powers, I can’t imagine a mortal form would hold for all that long. It’s a bit weird to spend that much effort to find a vessel that would survive just a little bit longer though, especially if the point was just to get Predathos out. He could have just started throwing bodies in until one survived to get Predathos out of the glass. Yeah, brutal, but it would have been more efficient.

Speaking of inefficiencies, Ludinus could have easily allied with the rebels on Ruidus and had greater numbers and convinced them that releasing Predathos was key to the blue promise. They were so readily willing to ally with the Hells, even with Ruidusborn, as long as they could stop the Imperium and the Weave Mind. It absolutely would have worked, and Ludinus chose the Weave Mind instead. The Weave Mind conveniently specialized in the research of body modification to create entities optimized for psychic abilities. That’s oddly specific. Why was it biological research by the Weave Mind instead of a passive mutative effect by Predathos? Well, that’s worldbuilding. Maybe it was about modifying the bodies of Exaltants, but then Ludinus would have probably done that with Liliana, and that means he wouldn’t have been so willing to accept Imogen or Fearne as the vessel. So whatever interest there was in body modification was something else.

Weirdly enough, that’s not the only time Ludinus worked with people who did biological research. Doolan Tversky was a member of the Cerberus Assembly only shown briefly, but she focused on biological/arcane research, specifically, into legendary beasts and aberrations. In addition, Ludinus tolerated Trent Ikithon’s research to improve spell casting by implanting residuum glass into Volstrucker trainees. Residuum glass is made from whitestone ore, which was created by the clash between Prime Deities and Tharizdun—between the divine and something else. Man, figuring out how mythological beasts functioned on a biological level and strengthening people with glass empowered by the divine and other powers sure would be useful in a lot of circumstances. Maybe the Weave Mind wanted that for their own purposes and that’s how Ludinus got in good with them after making contact. There, all nicely tied together.

Still some loose ends: we never learned how Aeormatons were created to have their own souls. We don’t know if they’re “fresh” souls new to the world or if they were taken from somewhere. But they are artificial bodies that can contain souls and be programmed to act according to another’s will. Their power core is also where the soul is stored, eerily similar to the soul anchors containing the demons that powered Aeor. Hell, it was even in their jewelry, like Emhira had with her one imp. That type of abjuration really was everywhere in Aeor; very useful technology. Ludinus must have discovered it before the Downfall footage, since he captured Vax in an orb and used him to power the Bloody Bridge. That’s a feat! Capturing a champion of the divine and successfully using the soul anchor to power an interplanetary teleport is pretty impressive.

Aeor did better though: they created a soul anchor powerful enough to contain a god. Well, a god’s avatar. Ioun’s mortal form was captured in an anchor during Downfall. If the Arch Heart had not redirected the attack, Ioun would have been destroyed, and we all focused on the fact that there was a weapon to destroy gods. But they made a soul anchor that could hold the mortal form of a god. What is a vessel again? Sure seems like a mortal incarnation of a god to me. Oh, that’d be useful for containing an Exaltant containing Predathos. Too bad we don’t know of any physical substance that could contain a god, and Ludinus didn’t get Dominox’s soul anchor from the Hells anyway.

Oh wait, yeah, the Imperium on Ruidus forced laborers to mine the glass prison holding Predathos so they could make weapons. The Imperium allied with the Weave Mind, which does biological modification research, which is strangely consistent with the Cerberus Assembly’s biological modification research, and their research into the Luxon beacons also overlapped with Aeor’s research on how to contain mortal, demon, and divine souls to use them to power giant floating cities and weapons to kill gods.

Man, that sure would be a lot of loose threads left in the breeze if the final boss fight is just about slapping Imogen around until she dies or gets Predathos under control enough to not end the world.