#Turn on the News;; Local reports

[reasonsforhope]

No paywall version here.

"Two and a half years ago, when I was asked to help write the most authoritative report on climate change in the United States, I hesitated...

In the end, I said yes, but reluctantly. Frankly, I was sick of admonishing people about how bad things could get. Scientists have raised the alarm over and over again, and still the temperature rises. Extreme events like heat waves, floods and droughts are becoming more severe and frequent, exactly as we predicted they would. We were proved right. It didn’t seem to matter.

Our report, which was released on Tuesday, contains more dire warnings. There are plenty of new reasons for despair. Thanks to recent scientific advances, we can now link climate change to specific extreme weather disasters, and we have a better understanding of how the feedback loops in the climate system can make warming even worse. We can also now more confidently forecast catastrophic outcomes if global emissions continue on their current trajectory.

But to me, the most surprising new finding in the Fifth National Climate Assessment is this: There has been genuine progress, too.

I’m used to mind-boggling numbers, and there are many of them in this report. Human beings have put about 1.6 trillion tons of carbon in the atmosphere since the Industrial Revolution — more than the weight of every living thing on Earth combined. But as we wrote the report, I learned other, even more mind-boggling numbers. In the last decade, the cost of wind energy has declined by 70 percent and solar has declined 90 percent. Renewables now make up 80 percent of new electricity generation capacity. Our country’s greenhouse gas emissions are falling, even as our G.D.P. and population grow.

In the report, we were tasked with projecting future climate change. We showed what the United States would look like if the world warms by 2 degrees Celsius. It wasn’t a pretty picture: more heat waves, more uncomfortably hot nights, more downpours, more droughts. If greenhouse emissions continue to rise, we could reach that point in the next couple of decades. If they fall a little, maybe we can stave it off until the middle of the century. But our findings also offered a glimmer of hope: If emissions fall dramatically, as the report suggested they could, we may never reach 2 degrees Celsius at all.

For the first time in my career, I felt something strange: optimism.

And that simple realization was enough to convince me that releasing yet another climate report was worthwhile.

Something has changed in the United States, and not just the climate. State, local and tribal governments all around the country have begun to take action. Some politicians now actually campaign on climate change, instead of ignoring or lying about it. Congress passed federal climate legislation — something I’d long regarded as impossible — in 2022 as we turned in the first draft.

[Note: She's talking about the Inflation Reduction Act and the Infrastructure Act, which despite the names were the two biggest climate packages passed in US history. And their passage in mid 2022 was a big turning point: that's when, for the first time in decades, a lot of scientists started looking at the numbers - esp the ones that would come from the IRA's funding - and said "Wait, holy shit, we have an actual chance."]

And while the report stresses the urgency of limiting warming to prevent terrible risks, it has a new message, too: We can do this. We now know how to make the dramatic emissions cuts we’d need to limit warming, and it’s very possible to do this in a way that’s sustainable, healthy and fair.

The conversation has moved on, and the role of scientists has changed. We’re not just warning of danger anymore. We’re showing the way to safety.

I was wrong about those previous reports: They did matter, after all. While climate scientists were warning the world of disaster, a small army of scientists, engineers, policymakers and others were getting to work. These first responders have helped move us toward our climate goals. Our warnings did their job.

To limit global warming, we need many more people to get on board... We need to reach those who haven’t yet been moved by our warnings. I’m not talking about the fossil fuel industry here; nor do I particularly care about winning over the small but noisy group of committed climate deniers. But I believe we can reach the many people whose eyes glaze over when they hear yet another dire warning or see another report like the one we just published.

The reason is that now, we have a better story to tell. The evidence is clear: Responding to climate change will not only create a better world for our children and grandchildren, but it will also make the world better for us right now.

Eliminating the sources of greenhouse gas emissions will make our air and water cleaner, our economy stronger and our quality of life better. It could save hundreds of thousands or even millions of lives across the country through air quality benefits alone. Using land more wisely can both limit climate change and protect biodiversity. Climate change most strongly affects communities that get a raw deal in our society: people with low incomes, people of color, children and the elderly. And climate action can be an opportunity to redress legacies of racism, neglect and injustice.

I could still tell you scary stories about a future ravaged by climate change, and they’d be true, at least on the trajectory we’re currently on. But it’s also true that we have a once-in-human-history chance not only to prevent the worst effects but also to make the world better right now. It would be a shame to squander this opportunity. So I don’t just want to talk about the problems anymore. I want to talk about the solutions. Consider this your last warning from me."

-via New York Times. Opinion essay by leading climate scientist Kate Marvel. November 18, 2023.

[theinfinitedivides]

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ey. it my mother's country and i love it to death but Dominica does vex me sometimes fr fr

[yokelfelonking]

Post 9/11 Trivia

Most folks on this site were either children on September 11, 2001, or weren’t even born yet.  But America went crazy for about a year afterwards.  Here’s some highlights that I remember that might not be in your history books:

There was national discussion on whether or not Halloween should be canceled because…fuck if I know why.  After planes crashed into buildings in NYC it follows that 6-year-olds in Iowa shouldn’t be allowed to dress up like Batman and ask their neighbors for candy, I guess.  (Halloween wasn’t canceled, by the way.)

On a similar note, people asked if comedy - any sort of comedy - was appropriate anymore, ever.

People sold shitty parachutes to suckers “in case your building gets attacked and you have to jump out the window.” There were honest-to-God news reports warning people not to jump out of the window with shitty mail-order parachutes because they wouldn't work.

As a follow-up to the attacks, someone mailed anthrax to some prominent politicians and news anchors - you know, famous people - along with some badly-written notes about “you cannot stop us, death to America, Allah is good” and after that every time some random dumbass found a package in the mail they didn’t recognize they thought that the terrorists were targeting them, too.

Everyone was similarly convinced that their town was going to be the next target, even if they were a little town in the middle of nowhere. "Our town of Bumblefuck, South Dakota (population 690) has the largest styrofoam pig statue west of the Mississippi! Terrorists might fly planes into that too! It's a prime target!"

People started taping up their windows and trying to make their houses or apartments airtight out of fear of chemical and biological attacks. There were news reports warning people that turning your house into an airtight box was a bad idea because, y'know, you need air to breathe.

"[X] supports terrorism!" and “if we do [X], the terrorists win!” were used as arguments for everything.  "Some rich Arab you never heard of donated to his organization that backs Hamas which backs al-Queda, and also owns stock in a holding company that has partial ownership of the Pringles company, so if you eat Pringles you're supporting terrorism!" "The terrorists want to tear down our freedoms and our way of life and rule us through fear! Eating what you want is one of our freedoms as Americans! If you're afraid to eat Pringles, the terrorists win!" (I promise you that this sort of argument is in no way hyperbole.) (This argument is how Halloween was saved, by the way.  “If we cancel Halloween, the terrorists win!”)

People worked 9/11 into everything, and I mean everything, whether it was appropriate or not.  If you went to the grocery store the tortilla chips would remind you to support the troops on the packaging. Used car sales would be dedicated to our brave first responders. You couldn't wipe your ass without the toilet paper rolls reminding you to never forget the fallen of 9/11, and again, this is not hyperbole. My uncle, who lived in Ohio and had never been to New York except to visit once in the 70′s, died of a stroke about 8 months after 9/11, and the priest brought up the attacks at the eulogy.

On a similar local note, on the day of 9/11, after the towers went down, gas stations in my home town immediately jacked up gas prices.  The mayor had the cops go around and force them to take them back down.  I doubt any of that was legal.

Before 9/11, Christianity in America - and religion in general - was on a downward swing, with reddit-tier atheism on the upswing. Religion was outdated superstition from a bygone age. The day after 9/11? Every single church was PACKED. (This wasn't a bad thing, but the power-hungry on the Evangelical Right saw this as a golden opportunity to grab power and influence.)

EDIT: By Popular Demand - Freedom Fries. I initially left these off because they came a couple years after the initial panic and most people thought they were kind of absurd (and I don't recall anyone really going along with it other than maybe some local diners here and there). France didn't want to get involved in our world policing so some folks were like "TRAITORS!" and wanted to call french fries "Freedom Fries" instead, so as to stick it to the French.

Besides dumb shit like that…it’s really hard to overstate how completely the national mood and character changed in the span of a day, or how much of the current culture war is a result of the aftermath. (9/11 was the impetus for the sharp rise in power of the Evangelical Right, who made themselves utterly odious and the following backlash helped the rise of the current Progressive Left, for instance.)

[alysvolatile]

Want to fanbind? Need davy boards/book boards and low on funds? I have an excellent hack for you:

Repurpose shitty books

"But!!!" You may say, "no book is shitty! All human experiences are worth putting to paper!"

You're right! But, also, Counterpoint:

I went to my local thrift shop and got these for the low price of $5 for all 10. ("Getting into politics?" The lovely ladies behind the counter asked me. "In a manner of speaking," I replied.)

Once I got home, it was easy to turn them into this, their component parts:

("Please stop saying you're skinning them," my partner begged. Too late!)

[EDIT TO ADD: Here's a guide! Also on my tumblr. Also - when thrifting, bring a piece of paper folded or cut into the minimum size you need for boards: this way you can make sure you're getting big enough material!]

While these are just book boards, diligent deconstruction can even yield headbands, I'm pretty sure - I'll report back on my next trial run. [EDIT TO ADD: yup, you can!]

I cannot overstate the delight I have in giving these covers new life for binding fanfiction, particularly the queer kind.

Happy binding!

[steddieas-shegoes]

Steve grows up playing piano, absolutely hates it, but is so good at it. His parents aren’t around enough by the time he’s a teen to force him to his practices, so he slowly stops going.

His music teacher happens to be Robin’s mom, who studied at Juilliard, and traveled for nearly a decade with various orchestras and bands before settling down with her husband in Hawkins.

She can see what’s going on with Steve from day one, but knows better than to interfere.

Until he quits.

She can’t stand by and let someone so musically gifted give it up.

She shows up at his house with a violin, her own violin that she hadn’t used in years.

He’s hesitant at first, but decides to give it a try as long as she doesn’t tell his parents. The last thing he wants is for them to find out he picked up a new instrument.

She can’t give him official lessons, so she shows up to his house twice a week and hopes that he practices in his own time.

He’s a natural.

He takes to it like a duck to water.

She encourages him to perform in a local talent show, all kids under 18, most of them not half as talented as he is.

He only agrees when she says she’ll be front row.

And sure enough, for once in his life, someone shows up when they say they will. She’s sitting front row with her husband on one side and her daughter on the other. She smiles as he takes the stage, nervous about people who know him seeing him and reporting back to his parents.

He performs with heart, something he lacked with the piano. He performs with talent, something he may have with any instrument he picks up.

But most importantly, he plays with a smile. He’s having fun.

He sticks around to watch some of the other people performing: Tammy Thompson singing a very out of tune rendition of America The Beautiful, some kid from one of his classes playing piano miserably, and some band performing very loud, very angry music.

Steve wins, and for once, it feels better than when he wins at a swim meet or basketball game.

He spends the next three years secretly practicing, only performing in shows out of town, never saying anything to his parents.

He doesn’t want them to ruin this for him.

He applies to Juilliard, not thinking he has a chance in hell, not with his academic grades.

Luckily, they see that he’s “exceptional with the strings” and “plays with emotion that can’t be trained.”

He gets in.

He goes.

He thinks he may actually be able to do this, use a gift he has to make his life better.

His parents even find it acceptable, mostly because he got into the best school he could have. They still don’t bother showing up for his shows, but Mrs. Buckley always finds a way.

In his sophomore year, Robin gets in, and they both move into a small apartment off campus together. He promised to look out for her.

She tells him that music wasn’t really her passion, she was just good with a trumpet. She really wanted to be an engineer.

In his junior year, Robin transfers to Columbia, starts doing what she really wanted to do from the start. He’s proud of her, but misses having someone on campus during the day to have lunch with.

Until he stumbles, literally, into someone vaguely familiar.

“Sorry, man. Running late.”

Steve pats the man on the shoulder and turns to get to his class when the man stops him.

“Harrington? You’re a student here?”

He turns back and finally recognizes the man in front of him.

“Munson? When did you get here?”

“I got in this year. Kinda fucked up my first audition last year and they were kind enough to give me another shot.” Eddie smiled. “What on earth are you here for?”

“Violin. You?”

“Guitar and songwriting.”

“That’s great, man. I’m just really running late. Catch up soon?”

Soon was two weeks later, when Steve ran into Eddie again while leaving class.

“We should probably stop running into each other like this,” Eddie smirked. “The universe is trying to tell us something.”

“What’s it trying to tell us?”

“Not sure. Maybe we should go grab dinner and find out.”

“Now?”

“Why not? Got better plans?”

Steve thought about how Robin was barely at the apartment due to studying for midterms. He thought about how his only other friend from here was busy rehearsing for their senior showcase.

“Nah. Let me bring this home first,” he held up his violin case. “Actually.”

Steve was on a budget. His parents gave him money, sure, but they thought he was living on campus so the money they sent covered rent and groceries and nothing else.

“I could make dinner. If you want?”

“Steve Harrington cooks? And plays violin?” Eddie fake swooned. “Be still my beating heart. How will I not be seduced?”

Steve rolled his eyes. He remembered Eddie’s dramatics from school and knew better than to feed into them.

“I can make some spaghetti. Nothing fancy.”

“Spaghetti sounds great,” Eddie’s fake swoon turned to a soft smile. “You want some help?”

Steve didn’t need help, usually didn’t even want any.

But something about the way his stomach dipped when Eddie stepped closer, and the way he thought about having Eddie in his apartment, made him agree.

“Sure.”

They walked to Steve’s apartment in a comfortable silence, though Eddie kept tapping the back of his fingers against Steve’s hand.

Eddie fit next to Steve. They cooked together, they ate together, they even managed to clean up together. It was easy to find something to talk about. He’d never clicked with anyone like this, not even Robin.

By the time Robin came home, Steve and Eddie were both passed out on the couch, fingers laced together as if they hadn’t been brave enough to do anything more before they fell asleep.

By morning, Steve’s head was on Eddie’s shoulder, Eddie’s arm wrapped around him loosely.

Waking up to a soft kiss on his lips was something Steve couldn’t have imagined when he first ran into Eddie, but he was pretty glad it was how he started his day.

And almost every day after that, whether he woke up to a kiss, or met up with Eddie on campus for a kiss, he started his day with love on his lips.

[vaspider]

Measure 110, or the Self-Fulfilling Prophecy

So if y'all aren't local to Oregon, you may not have heard that the Oregon state legislature just voted to -- essentially -- gut Measure 110, the ballot measure which decriminalized all drug possession and use in the state. It turned all drug use into a citation instead, and the citation and fine could be waived by completing a health screening. The entire point of Measure 110 was replacing jail with health care and services to help people instead, and while I could probably write a very long side post on the imperfections of that approach, it was at the very least a move in the right direction after decades of the pathetic failure and absolutely racist mess that is the "War on Drugs."

You may hear this pointed to in coming years as a reason why we have to just throw people into jail for using drugs, because Measure 110 failed. And like... it did fail, kinda. Sorta. It failed in that it did not manage to fix everything immediately, and it created some new issues while also exposing older issues more sharply.

It also saved the state $40 million in court costs prosecuting low-level drug offenses, kept thousands of people whose literal only crime was putting a substance into the body of a consenting adult (themselves) out of jail, put at least one addiction services center in every county in the state, invested $300 million in addiction services, and an awful lot more. See the end of this post for more reading.

But where it failed, it failed because it wasn't supported. Police and advocacy groups both asked for specific tickets for this new class of offenses which had the phone number to call to go through the health screening and the information about how going through that health screening would make the ticket go away printed on it prominently - lawmakers declined to fund this. Governor Kotek budgeted $50K to train officers on how to handle these new citations and how to direct people to the treatment and housing supports, but lawmakers thought that training officers on this new law at all was a waste of money. Money moved extremely slowly out to the supports that were supposed to come into play to help people obtain treatment or get access to harm-reduction strategies. People freaked the fuck out about clean-needle outreach, fentanyl testing strip distribution, Narcan training, and other harm-reduction strategies.

And at the end of the day, Measure 110 gets called a failure because it wasn't a silver bullet. Never mind that thousands of people are not sitting in jail right now for basically no fucking reason. Never mind that people have gotten treatment, harm has been reduced, overdoses have been prevented...

So, yeah. You'll probably start hearing this trotted out as proof that, well, we triiiied decriminalizing drugs, but look what happened in Portland! Well, what happened in Oregon is that we got set up to fail, and still didn't fail, just didn't totally succeed.

Measure 110 highlights, quoted directly from Prison Policy Initiative:

The Oregon Health Authority reported a 298% increase in people seeking screening for substance use disorders.

More than 370,000 naloxone doses have been distributed since 2022, and community organizations report more than 7,500 opioid overdose reversals since 2020.

Although overdose rates have increased around the country as more fentanyl has entered the drug supply, Oregon’s increase in overdoses has been similar to other states’ and actually less than neighboring Washington’s. A peer-reviewed study comparing overdose rates in Oregon with the rest of the country after the law went into effect found no link between Measure 110 and increased overdose rates.

There is no evidence that drug use rates in Oregon have increased. A cross-sectional survey of people who use drugs across eight counties in Oregon found that most had been using drugs for years; only 1.5% reported having started after Measure 110 went into effect.

There has been no increase in 911 calls in Oregon cities after Measure 110.

Measure 110 saves Oregonians millions. Oregon is expected to save $37 million between 2023-2025 if Measure 110 continues. This is because it costs up to $35,217 to arrest, adjudicate, incarcerate, and supervise a person taken into custody for a drug misdemeanor — and upwards of $60,000 for a felony. In contrast, treatment costs an average of $9,000 per person. The money saved by Measure 110 goes directly to state funding for addiction and recovery services.

There is no evidence that Measure 110 was associated with a rise in crime. In fact, crime in Oregon was 14% lower in 2023 than it was in 2020.

Further reading/sources:

[headspace-hotel]

re: ohio chemical disaster

OP of the post I reblogged earlier regarding this turned off reblogs (understandable have a nice day) but I got a request to put the information in its own post, so here.

First thing: PLEASE be careful about claims that "The Media" is suppressing something as part of a malicious agenda, or that an event has been purposefully manufactured by "The Media" to distract from something else.

Not only is this a really common disinformation tactic (not only urging you to share/reblog quickly, but discouraging you from fact checking), treating "The Media" as a monolithic entity with purposeful agency and a specific, malicious agenda—particularly one that manufactures events to "distract" from other events—is a red flag for conspiracy theories.

There's already a post in the tag attributing the supposed lack of media coverage to "reptilians." Please connect the dots here.

Second—"the news isn't focusing on this as much as I think they should" is not a media blackout. Every major USA news source is reporting on the Ohio train derailment. Googling returns at least 4 pages of results from major news media sources. Even just googling "Ohio" gets you plenty of results about it.

This is an unusual amount of media attention for a U.S. environmental disaster.

Because this kind of thing happens all the damn time.

The "media blackout" narrative gives the impression that this is an unusual event that isn't receiving wall to wall coverage only because it's being suppressed—when the reality is that similar disasters happen a lot, and hardly ever get the attention the Ohio disaster is getting.

Consider this example, not too far from my local area: A few years ago, almost 2,000 tons of radioactive fracking waste were illegally dumped in an Eastern Kentucky municipal landfill, directly across from a middle school. Leachate from that landfill goes into the Kentucky River, which is where most of the central part of the state gets its drinking water. As far as we know, the radioactive waste isn't leaking yet, but it could start leaking at any time.

Zero national news sources covered this. Why? If I was to hazard a guess, I would say "because it's business as usual for the fossil fuel industry."

Consider also the case of Martin County, KY, which has had foul-smelling, contaminated drinking water for decades. Former coal country in Appalachia is poisoned and toxic, and laws have little power to punish the companies that created the destruction.

What happened in Ohio is just a little window into a whole world of horrors.

The Martin County coal slurry spill that is still poisoning the water 20 years later killed literally everything in the water for miles downstream (a book Mom read said 70 miles of the Ohio river were made completely lifeless). It was 30 times larger than the Exxon-Valdez oil spill, and it was in some sense "covered up"—in the sense that the Bush administration shut down the investigation because the Republicans are buddies with the fossil fuel industry, and proceeded to relax regulations even further.

Seriously, read that wiki article to get pissed enough to eat glass.

Hopefully the Ohio chemical spill will inspire real action to institute regulations to prevent shit like this from ever happening again. It's not the end of the world. It's not radically different from what industries have been causing the whole damn time. It is pretty bad.

I would urge everyone to actually search up information about it instead of getting news from Tiktok or Twitter, because the more false information gets distributed, the less momentum any effort to respond with improved regulations and changes to prevent future disasters will have. Plenty of facts here *are* public and being publicly discussed and pretending that they're not is actively detrimental.

[babygorewhore]

Bite me!

Rafe Cameron x fem reader

When Rafe sees you after picking up Wheezie, he decides that he wants to win you over. Your intoxicating presence hypnotizing him despite your mysterious existence. And Rafe can never back down from a challenge.

W. C almost 3k! Part two

Warnings! News reports of violence! Daddy kink! Male masturbation! Spitting! Biting! Fingering! Non graphic mentions of blood! Unprotected sex! Breeding kink! Light choking! Hints of a sequel…👀 dividers by @xxbimbobunnyxx and thank you for always being my sexy beta reader!

Rafe seeing you, a mysterious girl walking around with his sister wheezie after he was picking her up from school immediately caught his interest on a Wednesday afternoon. You wore dark clothes, knee socks and heels despite everyone else wearing sandals and sneakers. You were stunning-no beautiful. He couldn’t keep his eyes off your magnetic smile and whip of your hair as you confidently smiled at him as Wheezie approached him. Her backpack slung over her shoulder and she gave him a knowing look.

“Seriously? She’d never go for you.” She crossed her arms as she climbed into the passenger seat and buckled herself. Rafe cast her a glare and started the car.

“What’s her name?” She tells him and he nods, savoring the way it sounds. “Pretty. How old is she? Does she work here?”

“I’m not a matchmaker, asshole.” She snaps and he rolls his eyes as he drives home.

“Just tell me.”

“Fine. She’s your age. In her twenties. Yes she works here. She’s a teacher's assistant. And she’s really cool. Kinda quiet but she’s not shy. I like her. She keeps the students in line but she’s fun! She has some crazy stories.”

“Crazy stories?” Rafe muses as they near the house.

“Yeah. She likes to go to graveyards and collect things. She said her favorite time is nighttime and she travels to places around the island for vintage jewelry and furniture.”

Rafe’s mind immediately searched for ideas on ways to get your attention with this information as he parked in the driveway, Wheezie was already half out of the car when he exclaimed, “Wait!” But she was jogging to the front door, ready to pull out the keys for the lock when he caught up.

“I still want to know more,” She lightly slapped his chest as they entered the house.

“Rafe, find her yourself and talk to her. Stop being weird or I’ll tell her you’ve been asking.” Rafe growled softly as she walked away but he knew she’d make good on her threat.

Rafe decided to take his little sister's advice and find you. He went on his phone and typed your name, searching until he found your instagram and he leaned back in his chair in his bedroom as he scrolled through your pictures. Wheezie was right. You did have a collection of unique photos. Including a collection of…vials? He narrowed his eyes but he couldn’t tell what the contents were inside the bottles. You had an array of rings. Expensive ones. But what caught his attention the most was your smile. When you grinned, your teeth looked sharp. Rafe must have been imagining things, too distracted by how fucking pretty you were.

As luck would have it, you posted on your story and he shamelessly clicked on it within seconds. You were at a local coffee shop, which happened to be only a few minutes away and he quickly got up.

When he arrived, he searched for you, finding you reading alone in the corner of the building. Away from the sunlight as you twirled your ring on your finger. You didn’t look up immediately as Rafe neared you, smoothing down his shirt.

“Hey. You’re…?” He spoke your name, causing you to look up with a quirk of your brow.

“Yes?” He swallowed at the sound of your voice. It was low with a hint of a rasp. He set his shoulders and turned on his charm, something that always worked.

“Can I sit down?” He asked and you made a noise of contemplation before nodding.

“Sure, Rafe.”

“Of course, you know who I am,” Rafe chuckled as he sat across from you. You lean back in your seat and cross your legs.

“Well, duh. I mean you’re The infamous Rafe Cameron. Your sister talks about you a lot. About how much of an asshole you are,” You smirk at him and he rolls his eyes but you continue. “But…she does love you. You must be doing something right.”

Rafe paused at the compliment. “Yeah? You think so? You have a lot of opinions.”

“So?” You challenge and Rafe holds up his hands.

“I didn’t say it was a bad thing, princess. Don’t bite my head off,” He chuckles and notices the way your eyes briefly darken at the statement before it disappears. “Are you…new around here? I’ve never seen you before.”

“Sort of. I moved here a few months ago. Needed a fresh start.”

Rafe tilts his head at your answer. “Where are you from?”

“Salem.” You give him a smile and he hums.

“A little bit of a culture shock, huh? Going from doom and gloom to the beach. You don’t exactly fit in.” He shrugs and half expects you to glare at him but you instead laugh.

“Ha, that is true, Rafe. You’re asking a lot of questions. You like me or something?” Your bold question takes him off guard for a second before he decides to answer honestly.

“Yeah, I do. You interest me. You wanna go somewhere? I can get to know you a little better-“

“Who said I was interested back?” You toss at him but Rafe smirks.

“You wouldn’t talk to me if you weren’t, baby. Come on. Give me a chance. Let me win you over. Name it and I’ll do it.”

“Oh, someone’s playing a dangerous game.” You remark but you lean your elbows on the table. “But I’ll play along. How about a party?” You offer.

“A party? That’s it?”

“Not so fast. Not like one of those bullshit things you probably used to throw. A real party. One where we dress up. Where it’s dark. Good music. Good drinks. Sophisticated. I’m a woman of class, you know.”

“For you?” Rafe leans forward and inhales the scent of your perfume. The intoxicating smell lingers in his nose and he sighs. “Anything. Be at my house tomorrow at eight. It’ll be the night of your life.”

Rafe invited a list of people over at his house for that evening the next day, including Barry who was interested in seeing a girl actually out smart him with remarks as he hung up the phone and focused on the tv in his bedroom.

Reports of five people being in the hospital after being attacked by some mysterious animal who drained them of blood. Not that far away from his penthouse. He had half a mind to pull Wheezie from school but decided ultimately she would be safer in a group of people.

As the day progressed and he got the house ready, Rafe waited for you to arrive as his friends did. He didn’t invite many. Prioritizing people who would give him plenty of privacy and entertain themselves.

Where were you? He looked at his watch. It was twenty minutes later and he was getting anxious. Fuck, did you bail?

“Boo.” He heard a whisper in his ear and he spun around in shock.

You stood behind him with a wide smile but he immediately noticed your clothing. You were wearing a dress that fit your curves perfectly. Heels that highlighted your legs, jewelry that dangled from your ankles, wrists and hung above your heart. You still wore expensive rings and your nails were painted black. Your lipstick was red. Rafe breathed in deeply before trying to grasp whatever semblance of calm as he stepped close to you. And you didn’t back away.

“Mmm, you look fucking amazing, baby. Thought you weren’t going to show.”

“I’m a woman of my word, Rafe Cameron. I was exploring.” You flashed your eyes wide for a second before setting a hand on his chest. And he shivered from your cold temperature. “And damn. What a house. But what I noticed was in your entertainment room. It’s like you know me or something.” You chuckle and Rafe raises his eyebrow in confusion.

“It looks like you have a dance floor.” You crossed your arms, your hips shifting inside the material of your dress. “And I love to dance.”

“Is that right?” Rafe mused and you nodded. You reached forward and took his hand. He looked down at your laced fingers as he felt the chill raise on his own skin from the contact. “Well, why don’t you go ahead and show me, baby girl. Show me how good you are.”

You both walked to the entertainment room and he noticed the way the dim lighting illuminated how beautiful you were. You were so elegant. You walked as if you owned everything in this world and he loved that. He loved the way you marched forward but he also took in the way you watched the guests. Your eyes narrowed on their throats before they shifted back to the direction you were both heading towards.

You gently pushed Rafe down on the couch, the pillows shifting from his weight. The room was empty and you smirked at him. He went to sit up but you pin him in place by placing your heeled shoe against his chest. You shake your head and click your tongue. “No, no. You sit there. And enjoy the show. But while you’re being a good boy and listening…you can hold onto these.” Rafe breathed heavily as you gently touched your own leg that was propped up. Your palm slowly grazed your skin, moving up until you hooked your fingers along the elastic of your underwear.

You removed your shoe off him and wiggled your panties off. Stepping out of them, you dangle the soaked pair in front of him. “These are my favorite pair, daddy. But you’ll take care of them, right?”

He was rendered speechless for a second before he snapped out of it and snatched them out of your hand, causing you to laugh. He held them against his lap as you took steps back. You walked to the speaker, picked up the remote and went through a series of options before selecting a song. It was a rock song. One he recognized from social media. Living Dead Girl was the name.

You lower yourself to the ground, getting on your knees in the middle of the floor, you separate your thighs and roll your body. You take your time, running your hands all over your torso before they settle on your tits, you squeeze them lightly as you start bouncing.

Your ass moves as you crawl forward, shifting your body around so you're slowly dancing to the rhythm of the beat and Rafe felt like he was losing his mind. His cock was so hard it hurt and he was desperate for any sort of relief. He eyed your pair of panties and finally decided to use them.

He unbuckled his belt and moved down his pants, his dick stiff against his boxers as he pulled it out, it slapped against his thigh and he wrapped the lace material around it.

He gasped as he ran his hand along his shaft, your underwear clutched in his fist as he watched you start to suck your fingers, laying on the ground as you spread your legs, your fingers brushing against your bare pussy that was exposed as it glistened in the light and he moaned deeply as he tugged at himself.

“Fuck,” He huffed out. He wanted to touch you. So badly but he also didn’t want to interrupt your performance as you slapped your cunt before putting your fingers back in your mouth.

He was getting close already as he harshly jerked himself off, your underwear dampening as precum leaked out as his stomach flexed, his head falling back against the cushion. You looked like a fucking dream as you slowly stood up, continuing to dance to the music as your shoes clacked against the wood floor.

He hadn’t realized his eyes drifted shut when he felt a light tap against his cheek, snapping him out of his trance. You were leaning over him, both hands on either side of his head. Your chest right above his face. “Cum for me, daddy. Make a mess like the dirty whore you are.”

That sent him over the edge and he spilled into your panties. His release coating them as he trembled and he felt your smaller hand wrap around his cock before sliding to his balls and you massaged them. His vision went white as you pumped him through it before you gripped his chin and swiped your thumb along his lower lip. “Open.” You order and he does.

You move above his mouth and spit inside causing him to growl and pull you forward. He maneuvered you on your hands and knees on the large sofa, giving your ass a slap and causing you to whine as he yanks your dress up. He groaned at your sticky inner thighs and he ran his finger along them before focusing on your clit, causing you to buckle but he wrapped his other hand in your hair. “Uh uh, you can fucking take it, princess.”

He rubs circles on your center and you mewl as he pulls your hair harder, feeling you drip onto his fingers and he slides two of them inside your cunt, curling them deeply. “That’s a good girl. Squeezing me so fucking tight. But I think you need something to suck on while I fuck you.” He shoves your panties past your lips as he works you over, making you grind onto his hand.

Rafe runs the tip of his dick along your slit, tapping it a few times before effortlessly pushing it inside. He moans and rests his head briefly on your back, holding you up by moving his head to grip around your neck. “Such a greedy little slut,” He breathes and thrusts hard. “You fucking feel that? I’m gonna breed this tight pussy and you’re fucking mine.” He grits his teeth as he snaps his hips into you.

Your hands grip the arm of the couch as he pulls out before slamming back in, causing you to sob against your underwear in your mouth, his cum and your spit mixing in the corners of your lips as you nod your head, encouraging him to keep going.

The music began repeating, stirring him onward as you clenched around him and he smacked your ass again, feeling you grow closer. “Gonna cum, baby girl? Cum all over daddy’s cock like the good fucking whore you are.”

That’s all it took for him to feel your warm wet cunt pulse before you came all over his dick, you shuddered and cried out as he thrusted a few more times before reaching his own climax.

Ropes of cum coating your insides and he shook before catching you. His balls slapped against your ass as he pulled out of your cunt that leaked on the couch. “Fuck, baby. I think you should lick that clean, don’t you? You’re a dirty girl.” He shoves your face down and removes your panties. Your tongue laps up your own cum as he bobs your head up and down. “You listen to daddy so well,” he praises.

But at a sudden turn of events, you turn and pin him down by his shoulders and straddle his lap. You sink down on his cock again, causing his eyes to widen and pleasure to rise in his veins as you bury your head in his neck. You pepper kisses along his skin as he grips your hips and guides you through riding him.

Your wet pussy takes him to the brim and he groans against your shoulder. He feels your teeth graze his flesh before he feels a prick of pain but it quickly disappears as you wrap a hand around his throat. Keeping him in place as you rock your pelvis.

“Fucking Christ,” he manages and reaches his orgasm again, his cock twitching before his cum gushes inside you. But you still don’t remove your face from the crook of his neck and he’s all too content to allow you to fuck him however long you want as his eyes drift close.

He jerked awake and sat up straight. Minutes had gone by and he looked around. He saw you adjusting your dress, wiping your lips as a trail of red droplets dribbled down your mouth and he tilted his head, subconsciously reaching up to cup his neck.

He felt two punctures that were wet and he pulled his hand back. Rafe dug his phone out, pulling out the camera and he saw it.

A bite mark.

Everything snapped into place as he stared at you, slowly putting his phone down as you turned towards him. “Are you-did you fucking bite me and drink my…blood?”

Instead of denying it, you gave him a wicked smirk. “But you’ll keep that to yourself, daddy. Won’t you?”

Rafe remembered the news report earlier that day. People were drained of blood and how mysterious you were.

You were a fucking vampire.

“But how is that possible?” He whispered.

“Darling, you have no idea what kind of creatures are out there. You’re lucky I like you, Rafe. But I have to go. You certainly held up your end of the game didn’t you?” You giggle and begin walking away.

“Will I see you again?” He questioned and made you turn your head.

“And why would I forget someone who tastes so fucking good, baby?” You wink at him before finally exiting the room and Rafe sank into the seat.

“What the fuck?” He whispered to himself but didn’t couldn’t deny himself the truth.

This was the night of his life.

Tagging @marchsfreakshow @drewstarkeyslut @redhead1180 @rafescurtainbangz @emsgoodthinkin @take-everything-you-can @valeskafics @slvt4jamesmarch @gri959 @oceandriveab @rafesthroatbaby

[incognit0slut]

DARK DESIRES

Last part of kinktober | main masterlist

ghostface!spencer x fem!reader; dubcon, knife play, sensory deprivation, dacryphilia, forced orgasm, rough sex

A twisted encounter with the masked killer roaming in your neighborhood had you questioning your morals because as it turned out, you were more attracted to him than you let on.

words: 6335

a/n: this fic might not be everyone's cup of tea. IF THIS TRIGGERS YOU, DO NOT ENGAGE. Anyway, thank you for the amount of love everyone has sent me through this short series. I appreciate it❤️

(find my ghostface reid edit here and here)

THE FIRST ENCOUNTER you had with the masked killer was at home. You were in your living room, absentmindedly flipping through the channels on the television until the news captured your attention. You watched with a mix of fascination and horror as the unfolding report detailed a series of gruesome murders, each committed by a mysterious figure concealed behind a chilling mask.

"The armed suspect remains at large as law enforcement intensifies efforts for apprehension," the newscaster's voice declared. "Victims have sustained multiple stab wounds, with survivors recounting a chilling detail of a mysterious call from an unknown number before each attack. Citizens are urgently requested to report any suspicious phone activity."

As you sat there engrossed, a sense of dread began to coil around you. The details of the gruesome murders had been haunting enough, but a chilling realization gripped you as the camera panned across the crime scenes. Your eyes widened as the news footage revealed a recognizable building. That was the local library a few blocks away from your house.

A shiver went down your spine, and a cold unease settled in the pit of your stomach, as you realized that one of the victims was the young teenage boy who volunteered at the town's library every weekend. It then dawned on you with chilling clarity—a serial killer was lurking in your neighborhood.

The second time you saw the masked killer, his face was plastered around town. Ghostface. That was what they called him. The once-anonymous menace had transformed into a chilling icon that echoed through hushed conversations and whispered warnings. His mask, a pale and expressionless countenance with hollow eyes, exuded an unsettling aura of anonymity. It was what you saw in every corner; materializing on posters, shop windows, and even billboards.

Beware of Ghostface!

It was ironic. For someone who was murdering people with his bare hands, your community was giving him too much attention. It wasn't until you saw a group of well-dressed people, who clearly weren't from around here, that you realized how serious this situation was.

When the FBI arrived, you knew it was no longer a local matter, but a national concern. There was reassurance in their presence, in the sense that the full force of specialized agents was now focused on apprehending the killer that haunted the streets. But despite their formidable presence, against all expectations, the masked killer continued to pursue more victims.

You couldn't help but wonder every time someone you knew was reported dead—were these people even doing their job right? What were they doing here when they couldn't arrest one person when they came in a full pack?

You never really noticed these agents, although you did sometimes see them lurking around shops and houses to ask questions. You didn't really give them much attention, until that one night when you walked back from work and saw a figure leaning casually against a sleek, black SUV adorned with government markings.

He was standing alone, arms crossed and eyes focused on you as you slowly stepped closer because the only way to your house was to pass this street. He was clad in the quintessential FBI vest over his dress shirt and tie, his sleeves rolled up along his forearms. His height commanded attention, casting a subtle shadow that seemed to stretch into the surrounding darkness.

A cascade of curly, unruly locks framed his face, falling in a chaotic dance that obscured much of his features. But even in the dark, you could tell he was handsome, and the messiness of his hair added a touch of his disheveled charm. Yet, it was his eyes that held you captive. Stark and penetrating. Instead of finding comfort in the presence of an authority, you felt an unsettling chill crawl down your spine as his stare lingered on you.

"You shouldn't walk alone at night with a killer on the loose," he stated abruptly, his voice cutting through the silence.

Caught off guard, you stammered in response, "I, uh, my house is right around the corner."

His eyes, still fixed on you, held an inscrutable intensity. You shuddered. Without thinking much, and fueled by a sudden surge of unease, you briskly left his side.

People say the third time's a charm, that the idea after two unsuccessful attempts or failures, the third attempt is more likely to be successful or fortunate. However, in your case, you didn't know what to make of it when you encountered the masked killer for the third time.

It started with a call.

At first, you didn't bother the unknown number flashing on your phone, especially when a killer was roaming around town with its known trademark of calling his victims before his attack. So you ignored it and continued to prepare your dinner. But then it rang again. Once. Twice. Three times. The fourth time it constantly rang, you realized, that whoever was on the other line wasn't going to stop until you answered.

"Hello?" you nervously greeted.

"Hello there. Took you long enough," the voice on the other line replied. It was soft, distinctly masculine, quite disoriented, yet it carried a mysterious familiarity that you couldn't put your finger on.

"Who is this?" you pressed.

"A person."

You scoffed, a mixture of frustration and disbelief coloring your response. "Charming." With an eye roll, you dismissed the call, attributing it to nothing more than a prank. "Goodbye."

"Wait—no! Don't hang up!" The urgency in the voice pleaded, catching your attention before you could close the connection.

Frowning, you hesitated, the nagging sense that you had heard this voice somewhere before lingering in your mind. "No, really, who is this?"

The voice, now veiled in a playful tone, responded with, "A secret admirer." 

You raised an eyebrow, skepticism etched across your face. "I doubt it," you said, leaning over the kitchen counter. "No one has ever had a crush on me."

"Well, I do."

"Tell me who you are then," you challenged.

"But it won't be a secret anymore."

You paused for a moment, the wheels of curiosity turning in your mind. "You really know me?" 

"Of course, I do."

"Do I know you then?" you asked.

"Maybe," he answered, a playful ambiguity threading his response. "So, you got a boyfriend?"

"Why?" You laughed, the unexpected question breaking the tension. "You wanna ask me out on a date?" 

"Maybe," he responded again, maintaining a hint of mystery. "So do you have a boyfriend?"

"No."

"That's a pity," he sighed, his tone taking on a flirtatious note. "You look too good in that shirt without a man appreciating it."

Your heart quickened at his words. Was he... you looked around your house, your eyes traveling across the many windows adorned in your personal space. A mixture of shock and discomfort settled in as you considered the possibility of being observed.

"W- What did you say?" 

"You look too good in that white shirt," he repeated. "Doesn't leave much to the imagination." 

You looked down at yourself. The shirt he mentioned was actually a tanktop you decided to wear for bed, but you weren't wearing anything else under it, so true to his words, this piece of clothing didn't leave much to the imagination. The hemline hung low on your chest, leaving a perfect view of your cleavage. The cold temperature of the room managed to make your body react, which was why your nipples were pressing hard against the material.

"Hello? Are you still here?" Sensing your silence, the voice on the other line held a sudden edge of urgency. "Wait—don't you hang up on me—"

You quickly ended the call. Feeling a sudden need for privacy, you hastily closed the curtains, shutting out the view from the windows as you clutched your phone in your hand. Your heart raced, and a wave of dread engulfed you. The unsettling possibility that someone might be targeting you, and not just anyone, but the masked killer, cast a chilling shadow over your thoughts.

The phone rang again. You hesitated, a part of you urging against answering, but somehow, almost involuntarily, you found yourself pressing the phone against your ear. The adrenaline of fear seemed to override your rational instincts, forcing you to engage with the source of the unease, even against your better judgment. 

"I told you not to hang up on me," the man greeted you, but his voice lacked the soft, friendly tone it had before. Instead, it had morphed into something more sinister, a deep resonance that reverberated through the air.

"Wh-who is this?" you asked, your voice quivering with a blend of fear and frustration. "What do you want?"

"To volunteer. Let me appreciate how good you look tonight."

You were desperate now. The urgency in his voice propelled you into action. Your feet guided you to the front door, and you locked it securely before quickly running up the stairs. Panic seized you as you checked and secured all the windows, the sense of vulnerability amplifying with each lock turned.

A sudden sound of laughter filled your ear. 

"What you're doing is useless," he taunted, the malicious glee in his voice sending shivers down your spine. Then, with a sinister tone that cut through the air, his next words had you stopping in your tracks.

"I'm already inside."

The air in the house thickened with dread as his words hung ominously. Panic set in, and the once-familiar surroundings now felt like a trap closing in around you. Every creak of the house, every flicker of shadow, became a sign of impending danger.

He was the one to end the call, and you looked down at your front door from the top of your stairs. You calculated how long it would take you to escape your own house as you slowly descended down. But then, the closet door by the front, the small room where you kept your coats and unused items, suddenly opened.

The creak of the door echoed through the silence, and your eyes fixated on the widening gap. Your escape route seemed to diminish and fear paralyzed you. The once-familiar confines of your home now held an intruder, and as you stared at the ominous opening, a figure emerged from the shadows.

Your eyes widened, because right in the flesh was none other than Ghostface, stepping out of your closet with a knife in his hand. The chilling reality gripped you, and time seemed to slow as the masked intruder stood before your eyes. The pale, ghostly visage stared back at you, obscured by the haunting mask that concealed any trace of humanity.

You moved on instinct. You turned on your heels and ran back up the stairs, even when you were aware there was no escape unless you jumped out of your window. But it was a better plan than running right into the arms of a killer, so you picked up your pace, sprinting as fast as you could down the hallway.

But he was fast, unnaturally so, and suddenly you felt a vice-like grip around your waist. His hand urged you with brutal force before slamming your back against the wall. The impact reverberated through your body, and a gasp caught in your throat as the cold surface of the wall pressed against you.

His presence loomed, the masked figure inches from your face. The hollow eyes of Ghostface bore into yours through the chilling mask, and the glint of the knife in his hand reflected the cruel intent that hung in the air.

Panic engulfed you as his other gloved hand circled around your throat. "Pl-Please.." you chocked, struggling against the force he pressed on your neck. "...don't—don’t kill me."

The air felt constricted, and the desperate plea escaped your lips in a struggled gasp. The gloved hand tightened its grip, the leather cool against your skin, as Ghostface's masked visage remained impassive. 

"Kill you?" he asked, an eerie edge in his voice. "That's the last thing I want to do right now."

You desperately placed a hand on his wrist as you let your phone hit the ground.

"Don't move," he warned. But you kept on thrashing around, the primal instinct for survival overriding reason, and he tightened his grip on you. "If you keep struggling, I might have to gut you out like a damn fish."

That made you stop. Satisfied you were listening, he finally let go of your throat. The release brought a gasp of air, and you stumbled back, leaning against the wall. 

"I'm not here to kill you," Ghostface declared, the chilling mask betraying no emotion. "But I do have something else in mind." 

He responded by caressing your face and pinning you against the wall. The cold, gloved hand traced a chilling path across your skin, and you felt the sharp contrast between the mask and the vulnerability of your flesh. He tilted his head as he saw the fear in your eyes, tears welling at the corners.

"Aw, come on, don't look so scared," he murmured, a perverse tenderness in his voice that clashed with the situation. His sharp blade went to your throat, the cold steel sending a shiver down your spine. He forced you to stare into the hollowness of the mask.

"Let me have my fun."

You felt the blade on your skin as he dragged the weapon along your body. He smiled when he noticed you tensing, trying to avoid the sharpness of the blade from grazing your skin. Through tear-filled eyes, you looked up, struggling to catch your breath. Fear still consumed you, a chilling grip on your senses, but alongside it, an unexpected emotion stirred. Curiosity.

As you gazed at the masked killer looming over you, a strange sense of intrigue took place. It was a baffling response, the surreal proximity to the infamous Ghostface left you grappling with a mix of terror and fascination. The sheer scale of his presence seemed to stretch into the shadows, and you couldn't help but wonder—was he actually this tall?

A sudden movement caught your attention as he took a step. He moved underneath the black cloak he wore, and you felt a shiver run down your spine as he slipped a leg between yours. The confined space of the hallway seemed to shrink further as his presence pressed in on you.

And then there was silence. The air hung heavy with anticipation, and you sensed a deliberate slowness in his actions. It was as if he offered you a chance to resist, to push him away. But you didn't move. Instead, you held your breath, the rhythmic pulse of your heart echoing in the quiet.

"You've stopped struggling," he hummed to himself, trailing the knife over your shoulder. "You're enjoying this, aren't you?"

There wasn't time for you to reply as he hooked the blade under your top and ran it along the fabric, watching it snap under the sharp surface. The cool air hit your skin as you were suddenly exposed to him. Without warning, his other hand moved over your breasts, squeezing them roughly, earning a gasp from you. Your heart pounded with something akin to fear, or perhaps, it oddly felt like… excitement?

"Of course, you are," he muttered, rolling your nipple between his fingers. You could feel the cool touch of his gloved hand over your skin as he brushed his thumb over your sensitive bud. "Knew you were a fucking slut."

What was happening? It was wrong, morally twisted, yet you found a strange sense of anticipation as he continued to touch you. Your body was shaking, not just from fear, but from something else. While your rational side recoiled at what was happening, your body seemed to betray a darker truth.

You hated yourself. You loathed how easily you were giving in. You kept on reciting how wrong this was in your head, but when you felt the blade cut through the fabric of your shorts with ease, you didn't mind as much. Then your breath hitched when he quickly ripped your panties with his knife, and somehow you were now naked with his leg placed between your thighs.

"Would you look at that?" He taunted, his leathered hand moving over your curves. "You're dripping."

You let out a small, shaky sigh as he dragged his fingers up your thigh, stopping just before his fingers brushed over your heat. The touch was so faint it shouldn't have even had that much of an effect on you, but it did. It fucking did.

This was so unlike you, you weren't the kind of person to let someone you barely knew touch you. You even disliked the idea of a one-night stand. Yet here you were, legs wide open as you let a murderer touch you, and the messed up thing was, you wanted more.

He began carefully moving his middle and forefinger in a gentle circular motion, rubbing your clit teasingly as if to test your reaction. You bit your bottom lip, stopping yourself from moaning aloud, your eyes fluttering closed as he played with your clit skillfully.

He was far too good at this, you found yourself thinking. Your body jerked as he increased his pace and you knew he had a goal in mind—to make you fall apart. The fast pace of his fingers had your brows furrowing as you chewed your bottom lip, desperate to keep quiet despite the way your hips bucked and rolled against his hand. He let out a chilling laughter.

"Stop acting like you don't want this," he said, increasing his pressure on your clit. Your eyes screwed shut, and you focused on that touch alone, the leather sliding over your wet skin. "Let me hear your pathetic voice."

You shook your head furiously.

"No?" He mocked. "You wanna bet how fast I can make you scream?"

His fingers moved from your clit, dragging down your slit and collecting your juices, briefly stroking you, earning a muffled cry out of you. Your chest began to heave, your hips unconsciously bucking against his hand as he worked over you casually. He laughed again.

"I'm going to make you scream so loud your neighbors will know how much of a slut you are."

And then he pressed the edge of the blade on your throat at the same time he plunged two fingers inside you. Your eyes rolled back as your mouth fell open and a loud squeal left your lips, the sound distorted by the vibrations surging through your body. He hummed in satisfaction at how fast it was to earn that moan from your lips, and surprisingly, he loved the sound you made.

It didn't take long for him to force more sounds out of your pretty mouth. You felt the coolness of the wall behind your back, the pads of your fingers brushing over the concrete in a pathetic attempt to get a hold of something, anything that could keep you steady while his fingers kept pumping in and out of your throbbing cunt with a wet, squelching sound.

Adrenaline surged through your veins, saturating every cell of your trembling body. The electrifying rush heightened your senses, amplifying the surreal nature of the pleasure. You wriggled your hips under the pressure of his body that was keeping you pinned against the wall, feeling so fucking embarrassed by the wetness dripping out of you.

"Fucking filthy, letting a murderer touch you." He then dragged his fingers out of you and started to rub your clit in tight, rapid circles. You practically cried out and quickly bit your lower lip to subside another embarrassing moan. "You know how many people I've killed with this hand? The same hand touching your sweet little pussy?"

Your thighs tightened around his hand, trying desperately to push him away. He responded by sinking three of his fingers inside you and groaned at the way you were clenching around him. "Look at you taking my fingers so well."

The leather slightly burned your skin, and somehow, it only heightened your pleasure. The heel of his palm pressed against your clit hard as he continued to curl his fingers. You gasped as your eyes fluttered open, looking up at him while his fingers pushed deeper into you, touching a spot you had never been aware of. The sensation brought an unusual feeling to your senses. You looked at him in confusion, your eyes widening.

"Pl- Please, stop," you begged out of fear of the unknown. The tickling in your abdomen was becoming almost unbearable, and you clasped your thighs together and involuntarily bent your knees a little in an attempt to make his fingers slip out of your wet cunt.

With a feral growl, he suddenly threw the knife on the floor before wrapping his hand around your throat, pinning your head against the wall.

"Take it," he hissed and tightened his grip, making you jolt forward. You helplessly part your legs and whimpered as his palm brushed over your clit with every thrust, his hard cock rubbing against your thigh as he held you in place. "Fucking take it."

The sensation was overwhelming to the point tears began to trickle down your face, and you tried to desperately blink them away as they hindered your vision.

"Oh, you're crying now?" He cooed, still rocking his fingers violently inside you. "Pathetic."

Before you knew it, your hips were bucking, distraught cries escaping you. Your body shuddered as if it were under his control, forcing out your orgasm like it was effortless as his fingers curled inside you, continuing to stimulate you even after you begged him to stop.

It wasn't long before he was bringing you back up again. His pace turned into a more intense speed that, to your surprise, the familiar contracting of your pulsing walls was followed by the splurge of weird liquid coming out of you. Your mouth fell open as you writhed against him, your sensitive cunt almost numb to the sensation as he pressed you for more.

You were so numb you could no longer feel his fingers buried deep inside your convulsing walls, squeezing around his digits as you shook in the tremors of your release. When you looked at him in shock, cheeks burning crimson and chest rising and falling heavily, a pretentious laugh left him. With a vulgar squelching sound, he slipped his fingers out of your pussy.

"Squirting like a pathetic slut,” he spat, his other hand still wrapped around your neck. "Told you I'd make you scream."

Your body turned pliant as you gave in and sank against the wall. You watched him lean down through your half-lidded eyes as you tried to ground yourself, his movements deliberate and swift, grabbing your wrecked shirt from the floor. You watched in confusion as he pressed the flimsy material together before firmly shoving it over your eyes.

Panic surged through you as the sudden darkness enveloped our vision. Although you couldn't see him, you heard him very well. His muffled breathing behind the mask, the soft rustle of fabric as he adjusted the material at the back of your head. Your other senses were heightened when you were robbed of your vision that you could even smell him.

The sharp scent of sweat and a faint hint of earthiness clung to him, as though remnants of the ground followed his presence. Yet, amidst the rawness, there was a surprising note of sweetness, as if a subtle cologne lingered beneath the surface.

God, he was so close. His chest was now pressed against yours, and then suddenly, almost forcefully, you felt warm hands grip your jaw. Your mouth fell open.

He took off his gloves.

Goosebumps rose on your skin when a sudden breeze of air brushed across your face and you gasped. You could barely think clearly, and you could barely even brace yourself when harsh lips captured your mouth desperately. You couldn't believe what was happening, because holy fuck—you were kissing Ghostface.

There was nothing remotely gentle about the way he kissed you. A deep shuddering groan rippled through him as he continued to assault your lips. You were too stunned at the way he pushed his tongue inside your mouth, tasting you in a way that had your body trembling at the sheer force of intensity traveling through your veins.

And when you finally felt his bare fingers grazing along your drenched core, going up and down your swollen folds, he captured the moan falling through your lips with a groan.

"So fucking filthy," he whispered against your lips as he continued to tease you. His voice, once muffled, was now very clear. The tones were distinct, carrying an inexplicable familiarity that tugged at the edges of your memory. But before you could even try to recall where you had heard it before, he surprised you by increasing the speed of his fingers.

"You want more of this, don't you?"

You shook your head, but your body was saying otherwise. Your hand gripped his arm as he started to play with your clit again, and your knees buckled pathetically. His other hand fell on your waist to steady you while he pressed a kiss on the hollow point of your throat, traveling further up the skin till his teeth nibbled on your ear lobe.

He then grabbed onto one of your legs and hiked it around his waist as he pushed his hips into you. You could feel the outline of his hard cock behind the cloak he was wearing and you let out a whimper when he started rolling his hips.

"Is this what you want?" He rasped out at the shell of your ear. You felt strong hands grip your wrists before he pushed them above your head, pining you against the wall. "You want me to fill you up with my cock?"

You shook your head again, attempting to anchor yourself. The struggle was evident in the tension of your muscles, each fiber resisting the pull toward surrender. You should push him. You should cry for help. Yet here you were questioning your sanity as you slowly, almost desperately, grind your hips along with his, yearning for more friction.

"Dirty, dirty slut," he muttered against your lips before kissing you once again, swallowing your whimpers as his hips snapped into you. "I bet you feel so tight around me."

Desire roared fire in your veins, and you whined. He leaned over and captured one of your nipples in his wet, warm mouth, and you moaned again before he let out a satisfied hum. You could practically feel the smirk curling on his lips as he taunted, "You react so well. I might have to keep you."

Goosebumps rose along your skin. Then in a swift and forceful motion, he yanked you, abruptly pushing you to the ground. The impact was sudden and jarring, leaving you landing on your knees.

As you tried to make sense of what was happening, a hand pushed against your back, and you toppled forward, landing on the ground face-first, finding yourself on your hands and knees. A sharp smack hit your bare ass from behind and you jolted in surprise.

"Spread them wide for me," He murmured, gaze skipping over your nakedness. He marveled at the sight before him, the way you shamelessly arched your back at his command. Yet when he noticed you hesitating, he dropped his voice in a lower, sinister tone.

"Don't make me use my knife."

You quickly did as you were told, your hands traveling behind you, spreading your sticky thighs in a languorous stretch, and you shuddered under the weight of his eyes. You whined at the feeling of the cold air hitting your exposed skin and a trickle of your arousal ran down your thigh, much to your utter embarrassment. "Look how pretty you are."

Heat blossomed in your chest. Then the sound of a belt being undone had you whimpering, and you moved instinctively, arching your back even further. One of his hands landed on your ass again with a sharp smack before he gripped a firm handful of it. You could hear more rustling and a slight soft thud behind you. The lack of vision made you overly sensitive and you found yourself waiting with bated breath for his every move.

With a sharp tug, he pulled you back by your hips before one of his hands landed on the back of your neck. You felt him push down hard and you obliged, lowering your face and upper body to the floor as his other hand remained holding your hips up in the air. And then you felt him—pulsing warm right at your entrance.

A pitiful groan escaped your lips as the tip of his cock swiped back and forth along your folds. He moaned out a deep, pleasure-filled noise that reverberated around the small space at the feel of your arousal coating him. And then suddenly, without warning, he abruptly plunged inside of you. He thrust straight into that spot deep inside that stung so good a sharp cry slipped out of you. It was painful, his sheer force of girth stretching you apart, though that cry quickly became a low moan of pleasure.

The man behind you showed no mercy, thrusting his hips into you with force and purpose, so hard you felt your body inching across the hardwood floor with each stroke. Your mouth fell open when one of his hands released your neck before you felt him grabbing a fistful of your hair, just at the base of your skull, and sharply pulling. A high-pitched, breathy noise of pleasure tore out of you and he repeated the gesture, the tug on your hair even rougher.

He held himself there as he used the grip on your hair to haul you backward to him. Your back was arched, his cock still buried deep inside of you as you fell back into his chest. For a few moments, it was almost uncomfortable, but then, surprisingly, you felt even more aroused than you already were.

You pushed your ass even higher, arching your body in search of more of that delicious sensation. It felt like electricity shocked your entire body, triggering intense waves of pleasure that repeatedly spread wildly from your core as you focused on the pleasure building between your legs, the burning sensation filling you to the brim.

It was maddening. Frustrating, even. Because you didn't even care anymore, you didn't even care if you exposed for him, you didn't even care if your knees ached from the hard friction of the floor because any shreds of sanity and pride had long since been destroyed. You wanted more. You needed more. 

It was so twisted. You longed to be broken by him. You longed to be ruined by him.

You had never imagined being in this position, kneeling on the floor with a murderer thrusting himself into you, yet here you were, whimpering at the sensation of doing the forbidden. Your mind turned delirious he released the hold on your hair, his hand snaking around your front to grip your throat.

You continued to meet his savage thrusts with your hips, slamming into you as your wail turned into a ragged scream. The sensation, though pleasurable, became too intense to handle. You attempted to move away from him, stealing his breath as your inner walls clenched around his cock. His firm hand gripped your hips tighter, preventing you from pulling away as he held you in position, thrusting his cock into your throbbing pussy.

A helpless sound trickled from your throat as your body jerked, and he mercilessly fucked you through it. Everything was so intense your mind was struggling to comprehend what was happening as he pounded into you roughly. You tried to breathe through the incredible pleasure surging through your body but you were too overwhelmed. "T-Too much."

"T-Too much," he mocked. A sinister laugh sliced through the darkness, sending shivers down your spine. "Fucking. Take. It."

His words were punctuated with every snap of his hips. The insistent thrust made you thrash your head as your body convulsed, dragging it out and heightening it to a point where you could only wail. Your breath came in harsh pants; his breathing was as rough as he urged you on, and you gave yourself over to the wildfire consuming your body. You whimpered, head rolling back onto his shoulder.

"That's it, taking me so perfectly," his voice, now a sinister whisper, slithered into your ears. "Knew you were special the moment I saw you."

A gasp escaped you, the weight of his words settling with an unsettling realization. Amidst the darkness, you felt the contours of his laughter.

"Don't act so surprised. I'm your secret admirer, remember?" You felt his hand leave your hips before it trailed toward your front. You knew what he was about to do and you clenched him involuntarily, already anticipating what was to come. 

"Fuck," He hissed. "You feel so tight around me. I really do have to keep you now."

The coil inside you was dangerously close to snapping and he growled as your cunt clenched around his cock.

"Oh, you liked that. You like the idea of me using you? Fuck you whenever I want?" He questioned, his fingers moving to your clit as he pressed messy circles against the sensitive nub, twisting it beneath his calloused pad. You bit down on your lower lip, feeling the coil in your abdomen tightening at his sharp movements, your hands moving to his wrist as you tried to ground yourself.

You gasped when you felt him tightening the grip on your throat, the skin tingling as he repeated the motion. "Filthy little thing, aren't you?"

"I-I—" You spluttered, feeling your legs going numb. You squealed when you felt him pick up his pace on your clit, rubbing messy circles against it as your back slumped against him, mouth parting, your tongue slipping out between your lips.

It was too much. You felt like you were about to explode. Your mind went blank. Your body felt numb. There was nothing else you could do but to give into the force of pleasure consuming you as he fucked you roughly, his hips hitting you in harsh motions.

"You gonna cum now?" He grunted, pressing his mouth at the shell of your ear. You helplessly nodded, not able to make out any coherent words anymore. He groaned between thrusts, keeping a firm grip on your ass to keep you from squirming. "Go on then, cum on my cock like the filthy whore that you are."

As if on command, your body spasmed involuntarily. It started with a prickling of your skin creeping up your body, over your breasts and face, inner walls tightening around his cock, and you came hard. You squirmed uncontrollably as all that pent-up pleasure welled up in your core. Your heart was pounding erratically against your heaving chest you could even hear the pounding in your ears.

Your mind was in a drunken haze as the pleasure continued to flow through your veins, his fingertips languidly brushed against your clit. But despite the desperate spasms of your pussy, he continued to penetrate your body. Every thrust hit more intensely than the last, wetness flooded from you as reality slipped away, and all you could do was burn, vocally urging him on as he moaned darkly behind you.

You were very far from sanity from everything consuming your body. You felt him everywhere. His grinding cock, the press of his fingers as they moved to toy with your clit, and his blunt nails cut around your throat. Your cunt continued to possessively grip his cock as you wailed breathlessly.

Heat traveled through you, body quivering and going boneless, the warm ripples of release dulling the sharp edges of your mind as he drove into you and finally chased his own high. The filthy feel of him emptying inside you, your shimmering release, and his hands decorating your skin with fingerprint bruises, was all you could focus on.

Until the distinct sound of sirens echoed in the background.

Your mind went hazy as you tried to anchor yourself and you heard him chuckle in amusement. "I guess you really woke your neighbors up," he said, letting go of his grip around your throat. You let out a breathless sigh when you felt him slipping out of you, surprisingly feeling empty.

He groaned as his eyes traveled down, watching the way his release dripped out from your convulsing pussy, traveling down the length of your thighs. “It’s a pity I have to cut this short.” Then you felt his lips near your ear. “Until next time."

"W- What?" Your head snapped up, disoriented in the darkness, as you tried to discern his voice. "You'll come back?"

"I'll be here when you least expect it." Then the unexpected happened. He surprised you with a gentle kiss on your shoulder, a stark contrast from everything that had taken place. The contradiction sent shudders through you as you felt his grip on your hips tightening. "Keep your doors unlocked for me."

A sudden emptiness enveloped you as he withdrew from your personal space. Your mind, still reeling from the inexplicable events, struggled to make sense of what happened. And now the realization that he wasn't behind you anymore prompted your hands to instinctively reach for the makeshift blindfold, swiftly slipping it off your face.

Blinking in the sudden light, your eyes adjusted to the surroundings. Your eyes caught his figure standing tall at the top of your staircase, back turned, a fleeting glimpse of brown curls disappearing beneath the mask he hastily put back on. 

Abruptly, he turned to you, the hollow visage of Ghostface now fixed in your direction. The tilt of his head sent a shiver down your spine as he looked at you for another fleeting second, as if he was giving you a silent promise as the faint sound of sirens continued from the distance. You stared back at him, heart thrumming in your chest.

And then he was gone.

[isuckatwritingsobenice]

Infernal Shadows 04.

Synopsis: Being one of the most powerful overlords in Hell, you like to keep up with colonies and overlord plans. Recently with the new extermination date out, you hold your annual gala sooner than usual. You hadn’t expected to get in the middle of the already heated feud between the Radio Demon and the head of Vox Tech.

Warnings: She/Her pronouns used for the reader, mentions of blood, voodoo?, Angel Dust being a horn-bag, Reader is referred too as Madame to the public. Vox and Alastor feud because I live for it, last part was a cliffhanger but here we are surviving :) Some background on Madame and I pray you guys get the reference with the name of the exorcist

A/N: I AM BACK FROM THE DEAD!!!! I finally got this out and I added to it so this is a longer chapter than anticipated. I’m so horribly sorry for taking forever to get this out, I had like so many reports to do for my job and this was just calling to me. I hope you guys didn’t forget this and if you did I totally don’t blame you. Not to fret though, I have big plans coming soon, and I’m pushing for longer chapters to keep you people fed. I love you all so so so much! Happy reading and thank you for being so patient and for all the kind messages I got! As for the taglist, I’m afraid it’s closed as of right now, just because I physically cannot tag anymore people on these posts, so I’ll try to figure something out with that!

Tags: @dollops-of-delusion @nebusokuxp @scrunchss @rosedasy @valluvz @chesstras @pishybowl @iaaeav @forgotten-blues @22carolina08 @roboticsuccubus83 @doflamingadonquixote @froggyferrets @frompeach @absurd-ash @sillysillyxinnabun @urdariingdoll @delectableworm @immahuman @justaproudslytherpuff @local-mr-frog @angeli-fucking-cat @coldsweetsenthusiast @jadekomaeda @coffeethoughtsandanxiety @lunalixya @lemonrolls @asimplikeallyall @only-cherry-blossom @sockgoblin @nxrdamp @1-800-no-users-left @l0ca1ax010t1 @inutheangel @reader-of-worlds @writing-fanics @random-person07 @ghostdoodlen @elaemae @fantasy-angelo @tanjirosworld @patchesofdreams @sunnyslug @reineurynome @scoliobean @arrozyfrijoles23 @kimmikreates @lqmons @amarokofficial @mangobango69

Word count: 5694

Navigation!! // Masterlist!! // Serendipity writes (event)!! // Part three //

Charlie had almost jumped out of her seat upon seeing the excorsist by your side. The water spout collapsing quickly, water violently splashing all around. A crowd of ‘ooh’s and ah’s could be heard from the crowd as you finally revealed the exorcist to everyone, allowing the sinners around to get a better look at the pet with you. The exorcist next to you was a woman, who looked fairly young. Her wings were large, white feathers with a sheer hint of gold. Her skin was ghostly white, and her eyes were equally as pale, almost a ghost. she looked around quickly, turning in her spot on the ground next to you, where she was kneeling. Her wrists were bound by chains and she stood quickly, wings flaring out. Yet, amid the spectacle, Charlotte couldn't help but notice a flicker of sorrow in the exorcist's pale eyes.

You stood next to her calmly, playing the violin as she stood, flying off the ground and up the middle of the coliseum, flying as quickly as she good. Her long hair, white with golden streaks, flowing as she flew up. Before she could get out however, a long black chain appeared around her neck, pulling her backward quickly, choking her. Her eyes went wide, hand reaching out to the sky above, a silent reach for heaven, before her angelic body was pulled back into the floor of the coliseum, body hitting the hard ground with a loud thud, the floor cracking beneath her upon the impact. Black chains began to hold onto her legs, her chest and neck as she fought against it, the chains lifting her high enough in the air for the crowd to see, making a mockery out of her, out of the exorcists above.

Charlotte's eyes widened, mirroring the shock and disbelief etched across her face as she witnessed the angelic exorcist's dramatic entrance. Alastor, usually composed, betrayed a subtle flicker of concern, his stoic demeanor momentarily shaken.

As the exorcist's wings unfurled, the sheer beauty of her appearance contrasted sharply with the ominous chains that bound her. The crowd's collective gasp echoed, drowning out the earlier applause.

Alastor's grip on his opera glasses tightened, a silent acknowledgment of the unforeseen depth this performance had taken. The music continued, but now there was an undertone of tension, each note echoing the internal struggle of the exorcist. Just the way you had intended.

The audience's gasps turned into uneasy whispers. Charlotte glanced at Alastor, finding a mix of fascination and unease in his expression. His smile looked almost painful, like a touch to him would have him shatter on the spot. She was not used to seeing him this way. Something was oddly unsettling about having him next to her in this way.

“Should we be watching this?” Velvet leans over to ask Vox, sketch book long discarded. He says nothing, eyes blown wide as he takes in the sight before him. It wasn’t like he hadn’t ever seen an exorcist, but this sight was different in itself. You were basically manhandling an exorcist right in front of everyone. This was holy power you were messing with. Tauntingly, making a fool out of this poor innocent girl. Vox wasn’t sure if he was supposed to run away, tail between his legs, or sit and watch the way you had wanted. To obey or disobey, like a dog.

The song was finally at its peak, the angels wings spread to its full length as she fought to get away, thrashing about as she fought again the chains. Charlotte feels her own throat tighten, her heart feeling heavy.

“I can’t watch.” Charlotte said, standing and moving to take her leave, but a large shadow blocked her path.

“Madame requests that you stay here.” The shadow spoke. Charlotte was silent and though she wanted to argue, decided against it.

Amidst the tension, the atmosphere in the coliseum grew heavier, the ethereal music now echoing a dissonant melody. As the angelic exorcist continued her struggle, a figure emerged from the shadows – a mysterious character, their presence felt more than seen.

This enigmatic figure, shrouded in darkness, approached Charlotte with a whispered urgency. "You hold the key to her liberation," the voice murmured, barely audible over the haunting notes of the violin. "Will you break the chains or become a spectator to her demise?"

Charlotte, conflicted and sensing a greater responsibility, looked at the shadowy figure, determination flickering in her eyes. With a newfound resolve, she turned towards the restrained exorcist, seeking a way to intervene and unravel the unsettling performance that had taken a dark turn. The coliseum, once a mere stage for entertainment, now stood witness to a moral crossroads where choices weighed heavily on the hearts of those present, and it was definitely making Charlotte contemplate her whole reason for being here.

Alastor's sharp warning reverberates through the air, his stern tone emphasizing the gravity of the situation. "Interruption during Madame's performance is ill-advised, my dear. It is best not to meddle in affairs beyond your understanding." he cautions, a hint of a threat underlying his words.

Rosie, with a more nurturing but firm approach, guides Charlotte back to her seat. "It's not the time, hon. Madame's got her ways, and we don't want trouble. Just watch and let it play out," Rosie advises, her gaze mirroring a subtle concern for Charlotte's safety.

As Charlotte reluctantly takes her seat, the tension in the coliseum persists, the haunting music and the struggling exorcist creating an eerie symphony that held everyone in a state of suspense. The shadowy figure lingers, observing the unfolding drama with a watchful gaze, leaving an air of mystery and uncertainty in its wake.

The resounding crash echoes through the coliseum as the angelic exorcist succumbs to the relentless chains, her divine form colliding with the unforgiving ground. The spectators, now silent witnesses to the spectacle's unsettling conclusion, feel the vibrations of the impact reverberate through the arena.

The once-beautiful performance has transformed into a scene of somber defeat, the ethereal music now hauntingly melancholic. The shadows that enshrouded the coliseum seem to deepen, casting an eerie gloom over the aftermath.

The mysterious figure in the shadows maintains a watchful presence, its intentions still unclear as the audience processes the unsettling turn of events. The coliseum, leaving an indelible mark on the collective psyche of those who bore witness. As the ethereal music slowly fades to silence, the chains metamorphose into spectral figures, gracefully carrying the defeated angel away. The abrupt stillness in the coliseum feels eerie, the aftermath of the performance leaving the guests, including Charlotte, in a state of uneasy reflection.

The band, once vivid and lively, dissipates like wisps of smoke, leaving an empty stage behind. Madame, now standing alone in the center of the coliseum, is joined by the largest shadow, a looming presence beside her. The shadowy figure addresses the hushed audience, explaining that they will be escorted back to Madame's home for dinner. "Ladies and gentlemen, the next act awaits within the walls of Madame's mansion. Your journey through her realm has only just begun.”

The guests, still processing the unsettling performance, are ushered towards their tables with a sense of quiet trepidation. The coliseum, now devoid of the vibrant spectacle, transforms into a place of anticipation as the guests prepare for the next act in Madame's enigmatic domain. Charlotte, visibly shaken, moves among the disquieted crowd. Zestial stands out, his calm demeanor contrasting with the collective unease. His eyes reveal a depth of understanding, leaving Charlotte to wonder what he really thought of the performance. As they return to Madame's home, the charged atmosphere persists, leaving everyone to ponder what awaits them in the next act of this mysterious and haunting night.

The shadows lead those seated privately with Madame through a mysterious portal, transporting them to a large, black room. The windows, tinted black from floor to ceiling, create an otherworldly aura. Bowls of floating fire cast dancing shadows around the room, adding an element of mystique. In the center stands an impressive dining table, crafted from black wood with matching black chairs adorned with white cushions.

White plates with a gold lining are meticulously arranged, each bearing a name card. The order mirrors the sequence in which the guests were initially invited: Alastor, Vox, Charlie, Velvet, Zestial, Carmilla, and Rosie. Three empty seats capture attention, the most prominent being the grand and ornate chair at the head of the table – undoubtedly Madame's seat.

However, two other unoccupied chairs add a layer of intrigue. One is positioned across from Madame, and the other is to her right. Vox, leaning casually against the black dining table, raises an eyebrow as he scans the unoccupied chairs. "So, did Madame forget to send out a couple more invites, or did she just not bother finding anyone else worth inviting?" His tone, dripping with casual disdain, prompts an involuntary eye twitch from Alastor and a scoff from Carmilla. The room is momentarily tense as the guests settle into their seats, the air thick with unspoken tension and the promise of an unconventional dining.

The large shadow materializes behind Madame's chair the moment everyone takes their seats. It speaks with a commanding presence,

"Madame will be joining you shortly, ensuring the guests are properly situated in the main dining hall. For now, you may all start with the drink of your choice."

As the shadow's words linger, the room is filled with the appearance of various drinks, each guest's preference seemingly anticipated. The other shadows swiftly deliver the beverages before seamlessly vanishing from view. In their place, a small orchestra emerges from the darkest corners of the room, ready to weave a musical tapestry that will accompany the unfolding feast.

The atmosphere in the black room remains charged with a sense of anticipation, the guests left to wonder about the mysteries that await in Madame's unconventional and enigmatic domain.

The anticipation peaks as the celestial display unfolds outside the tinted windows. Stars twinkle in the vast darkness, and constellations take shape, transforming the black room into a cosmic spectacle. The guests, mesmerized by the celestial scene, exchange awed glances.

”Oh this is so beautiful.” Charlotte says, glancing around at the stars.

In the midst of this ethereal backdrop, Madame makes her grand entrance. A sweeping gust of shadow accompanies her, like a cloak billowing in an unseen breeze. She moves gracefully, her silhouette weaving through the darkness, and steps into the room with an air of an almost royal confidence.

Madame wears an elaborate gown that seems to absorb and reflect the celestial light. Its deep, dark hues shimmer with a glow, adorned with intricate patterns that evoke the mysteries of the night sky, certainly fitting her specticle. Her presence commands attention, and a hushed silence falls over the room as the guests turn their gaze towards her.

A soft, melodic hum emanates from Madame, resonating with the orchestral tunes. The shadows, now at her command, align to form a fleeting silhouette of wings that unfurl and then disappear into the darkness. She takes her seat at the grand table, her eyes gleaming with a haunting form of excitement.

As Madame takes her seat, the celestial display beyond the windows intensifies, casting a glow over the dining room. The shadows, now intricately woven into ethereal patterns, dance along the walls, adding to the surreal atmosphere. With a graceful gesture, Madame signals the waitstaff shadows to present the first course. Exquisite dishes are unveiled, each a culinary masterpiece designed to tantalize the senses. Alastor’s eyes light up as his favorite dish is revealed — Jambalaya. Rich and spicy, it perfectly captures his love for bold and vibrant flavors.

Vox, always one for extravagance, is presented with Sushi. Delicate sushi rolls arranged like musical notes create a visual and auditory delight, harmonizing with each flavorful bite. Meanwhile, Velvet savors the spicy noodles on her plate, a cosmic array of ingredients adorning handmade noodles, reflecting her love for adventurous flavors.

Charlotte’s palate is delighted with the Harmony of Garden Greens, a vibrant salad showcasing fresh and wholesome ingredients. Zestial’s preference for refined flavors is indulged with a nice tender steak. Carmilla indulges in an enchanting dark Chocolate Fondue, a decadent dessert that mirrors her taste for the luxurious. Rosie, captivated by sweetness and charm, enjoys a stellar Strawberry Shortcake, a heavenly creation adorned with edible flowers. Rosie was grateful Madame hadn’t served her limbs this evening, though the craving was very much there.

As the guests savor their feast, Vox, unable to resist his penchant for stirring conversation, attempts to broach the topic of the enigmatic exorcist from Madame's previous performance. "Madame, that exorcist bit was quite the show, don't you think? Who was she, and why the dramatics?" Vox inquires with his signature flair, a mischievous glint in his eyes. Though Alastor would never admit it, he was silently appreciative Vox was the one to voice the question. He knew Madame would have his head if he dared to ask. A large grin is displayed as he awaits Madame’s response. Knowing she is intolerant of being questioned on her decisions.

Madame, however, responds with a stern and unwavering gaze. "Vox, some matters are not for idle chatter. Rest assured, when the time is right, I will provide the explanation that is due." Her tone, though firm, carries a sense of ancient wisdom that tempers Vox's usual audacity. Alastor just grins to himself, happy she did not disappoint.

Carmilla, sensitive to the undercurrents of unease, feels a shiver down her spine. The cryptic response leaves her uneasy, but she keeps her feelings to herself. Madame's words hang in the air, a subtle reminder that there are depths to this realm that remain veiled. She is in control.

The aura intensifies as the orchestra weaves a haunting melody, adding an ethereal backdrop to the exchange. The guests, now caught in the delicate dance of shadows, flavors, and unspoken mysteries, await the unfolding of Madame's narrative. However, to their dismay, she leaves them empty handed.

The small orchestra adapts it’s tunes, complementing the dining room with melodies that resonate with the mysteries of Madame. The music sways between haunting and enchanting, guiding the guests through an experience that transcends the ordinary.

"I hope the food is to everyone's enjoyment," Madame remarks, her plate being set in front of her last. The guests, captivated by the transcendent feast, eagerly dig into their respective dishes. As the flavors unfold on their palates, a chorus of satisfaction fills the room.

“These are quite excellent.” Carmilla comments as she enjoys her meal. Madame only nods in response. Compliments flow freely from the guests to Madame and the shadows, expressions of delight escaping between bites. Alastor, savoring his Jambalaya, commends the bold and vibrant flavors.

The room resonates with the sounds of enjoyment, and Rosie, with the Strawberry Shortcake, receives nods of approval for the delightful sweetness. Madame, her strong composure unwavering, listens to the compliments with a hint of satisfaction. Everyone enjoys being praised.

As the melodies of the cosmos continue to weave through the air, the dining room becomes a mix of flavor and enchantment. The guests, immersed in the extraordinary experience, savor each moment, aware that this transcendent feast is not just a meal but the start to something haunting.

Things could not be peaceful forever though. Madame pushed back a bit and stood, immediately drawing everyone’s attention.

“I would like to thank you all for being such pleasant guests tonight. I do believe a lot has happened since the last extermination. I am aware you overlords, or the ones that had the decency to show up, are aware that we must do something to protect our souls. Which begs the question.” Madame stops, taking her time to look at everyone. “What do you plan to do when the exorcists come down here to kill you all?” She asks bluntly. Carmilla inhales sharply not saying much, which Zestial just sips a cup of tea, his usual. Alastor and Rosie exchange a glance, but before anyone can say anything, Vox interjects.

“Well Madame I think you’ll be pleased to know Vox-tech has been working on protection for the people and-“

“Do you really think a piece of technology will stop this?” Madame asks. Her eyes narrow at him, and Vox silently sinks into his seat. Madame sighs, her shadow pulling her chair farther back so she can walk around the table, to the empty seat across from her. “Since you all clearly have no clue what to do, I presume I’ll share my idea.” Madame says, before she snaps her fingers. In an instant, a large shadow, almost in the shape of a sphere, forms next to her. It’s whispy and hyperactive, almost alive, before it sinks to the ground. Slowly it’s fades away. The guests stand, wanting to get a closer look, before the shadow turns to fog, and falls away. There in it’s place is the exorcist from the coliseum.

“Madame-!” Carmilla says, but is met with a stern look from Madame.

“Something wrong?” She asked. A chain formed around the exorcists neck, one that wrapped around Madame’s hand. She holds it tight, like she’s holding a wild animal back. Velvet wonders if this is because she’s afraid, or excited.

“Go on. Speak.” Madame says to the girl next to her. She looks down at the ground, a bit bruised but shining brightly nevertheless.

“I do not wish-to fight.” The girl says, and Madame just smiles.

“Let her go.” Charlotte says. The overlords look at Charlotte with a surprised expression. Madame says nothing, and instead tilts her head to look at Charlotte.

“Let her go?” Madame repeats, and Charlotte nods.

“Yes. Let her go.” Charlotte says, suddenly feeling nervous. Madame doesn’t appear to be upset, which only confuses and makes Charlotte even more anxious.

“Very well then. Have it your way.” Madame says, dropping the chained leash. Suddenly, the exorcist flies up and lunges at Zestial, attacking him. The overlords all disperse, watching as he throws her off of him.

“No! Wait stop!” Charlotte says, trying to get the situation under control. Alastor’s eyes widen, and he grins, tentacles appearing from the ground quickly, attempting to scare her by attacking her wings. The moment his tentacle touches the feathers on her back, it burns, and Alastor pulls back immediately, seemingly confused. The room erupts in screams and chaos, Rosie attempting to get the exorcist away from her as she tries to kill her.

“My dear, you do realize the mess you’ve made, yes?” Alastor asks as he summons himself next to Madame. She stands by the windows, the starts casting an almost colorful display over her, making her seem ethereal. Madame nods.

“Well then maybe you should get Lilith’s pet under control.” Madame inquires. Alastor just grins, nodding before lifting her hand to kiss the back of it.

“Of course Madame.” He says, before fading into his shadow. Carmilla stands next to a tired Zestial, while Velvet and Vox stand on the dining table, holding onto each other for dear life, while Rosie takes to poking fun at the exorcist, who seems to only want to harm Charlotte at this point.

“You filthy girl-!” The exorcist cries, before she chokes, a black chain wrapping around her neck quickly, and pulling her back.

“Enough Evangeline.” Madame says sharply. At this, the exorcist grows quiet almost immediately. Charlotte is in tears and on the floor, Alastor picking her up by her underarms, setting her straight.

“This is why you be quiet.” Alastor whispered to Charlotte.

“Oh~ that was fun! Let’s do this again.” Rosie says delightfully. Madame just nods to her, an unreadable expression adorning her features.

“Yes, let’s.” Madame says, tugging Evangeline’s chain sharply. Evangeline stands, now looking a bit shorter than Madame, while Madame’s shadows remove Vox and Velvet from the dining table. Quickly, everything is back in order, as Madame ushers the guests to take their seats. Now, Evangeline sits at the head of the table, across from Madame.

“Everyone, this is Evangeline, my sister.”

“Sister?” Vox asks, shying away from the exorcist.

“Didn’t you hear her?” Velvet asks, nudging him with her elbow. He just nods, but says nothing.

“Yes. Sister. I’ve obtained her for one reason and that reason only.” Madame said, before Zestial interjected.

“What reason doth that be?” Zestial asks. Madame just smiles, with a snap of her fingers, Evangeline is turned around, wings sprawled out.

“To send a message of course.” Madame says. Before a paper is presented to all the guests.

“During the extermination I had the pleasure of speaking to Adam.”

”Wait Adam like, first man Adam?” Velvet asked, and Madame nods.

“Yes, him. He believes he can wipe us out fairly quickly. He said he’d be back for me specifically.” Madame said, looking out to the windows, before continuing. “So, I decided it would be best if we sent him a lovely letter. Charlotte,” Madame said, “I know you spoke to him recently. If he wants to come to your hotel, I believe it’s only right we make other areas just as much of a target.” Madame said, before Carmilla frowned.

”Why should we? Won’t that make us all targets?” Carmilla asked. Madame nodded.

“Yes, but with too many locations they’ll spread themselves thin.” Madame said.

“Why are we talking about this in front of her?” Rosie asked, pointing to Evangeline. “Won’t she just tell them what we’re planning?” Rosie asked. Madame shrugged.

”Possibly. I never said she was going back alive.” Madame said. “But this topic can wait. I’m ready for dessert.” She said, and suddenly shadows were back with all kinds of desserts in the middle of the table. Evangeline was now facing the rest of the guests, all who stared at her with a predatory gaze.

Y/n L/n was born in the year 1885, with her sister, Evangeline, arriving in 1887, just two years apart. Y/n was the eldest among her siblings, having two younger sisters and a younger brother. Sadly, the youngest sister passed away at the tender age of twelve, a victim to scarlet fever. Despite this tragedy, Evangeline remained the darling of the town, known for her innocence and beloved by all. Meanwhile, their brother Arthur matured at a quicker pace than Evangeline.

The family's prosperity stemmed from being victims of the Salem witch trials back in the 1600s. This dark history actually served as a catalyst, enabling their ancestors to establish a business that had been passed down through generations, making Y/n the rightful heir. Initially, the business catered to workers and provided scrubs, but Y/n had grander visions.

Under Y/n's leadership, the business transformed from producing simple workwear to crafting exquisite dresses, corsets, feathered hats, and other fashionable garments. These creations were designed to empower young women and elevate their sense of self-esteem, departing from the mundane work attire of the past.

As word spread of the boutique's exceptional offerings, affluent families began flocking to Y/n's establishment, seeking custom dresses and elegant accessories. Evangeline, always cheerful and accommodating, played a pivotal role in welcoming and attending to the guests while Y/n conducted business.

Despite the initial success and harmony, ominous clouds loomed on the horizon, signaling that peace and tranquility might not last forever.

Evangeline's heart fluttered whenever she was around Alexander, a charming and charismatic gentleman who frequented the boutique who was also from a wealthy family. Their budding romance seemed like a fairy tale at first, but little did Evangeline know, Alexander harbored hidden agendas. But Y/n could see it from a mile away. But alas, she let her younger sister be. She did not feel threatened by Alexander. To her, he was simply another walking wallet right into her arms.

As their relationship deepened, Alexander subtly planted seeds of doubt about Y/n in Evangeline's mind. He would gently question Y/n's decisions, pointing out areas where he believed Evangeline could excel if given more freedom.

"My darling Evangeline," Alexander would whisper, his voice dripping with honeyed words, "you're a diamond in the rough, waiting to shine. But Y/n's cautious approach is holding you back. Imagine what you could achieve with your own vision."

Evangeline, enamored and impressionable, began to see Y/n's protective actions as barriers to her dreams rather than safeguards for their family's legacy. Alexander's persuasive arguments fueled Evangeline's desire for independence and recognition.

"You deserve more than being just Y/n's shadow," Alexander would say, his eyes filled with feigned concern. "Don't let fear of failure hold you back. Take risks, Evangeline. Follow your heart."

Unaware of Alexander's ulterior motives, Evangeline started to view Y/n's guidance and decisions with skepticism. She began to prioritize her relationship with Alexander over the family's business, inadvertently straining her bond with Y/n.

As Alexander's influence grew, Evangeline's perception of Y/n shifted, painting Y/n as overly controlling and unsupportive of her aspirations. The once-close sisters found themselves on opposite ends, with Alexander's manipulative tactics driving a wedge between them.

Behind the facade of love and affection, Alexander manipulated Evangeline's emotions and perceptions, using her vulnerability to further his own agenda. The tangled web of romance and manipulation threatened to unravel the familial harmony Y/n had worked so hard to maintain.

One evening, as Evangeline sat in her room at the family estate, Alexander approached her with a concerned expression. "Evangeline, my love," he began, "I've noticed something troubling about Y/n's management of the business. It seems she's keeping you in the dark about important decisions."

Evangeline furrowed her brow, surprised by Alexander's revelation. "What do you mean?" she asked, her voice tinged with uncertainty.

Alexander leaned in, his voice lowering conspiratorially. "I've heard whispers among the staff," he confided, "about Y/n making decisions behind your back, as if she doesn't trust you with the business's future. You deserve to have a voice, Evangeline. You shouldn't be kept in the dark."

Doubt crept into Evangeline's mind as she pondered Alexander's words. She had always trusted Y/n implicitly, but Alexander's claims sowed seeds of suspicion and resentment. "But Y/n has always had our family's best interests at heart," Evangeline countered weakly.

"Of course, my dear," Alexander reassured her, his tone soothing. "But perhaps Y/n fears that your ideas and vision might outshine hers. You're more than capable, Evangeline. Don't let anyone keep you from realizing your full potential."

In the following days, Alexander's subtle manipulation and peer pressure intensified. He highlighted instances where Y/n had made decisions without consulting Evangeline, portraying Y/n as controlling and domineering. "You're the future of this business, Evangeline," he would say, planting seeds of ambition and discord.

Fueled by Alexander's influence, Evangeline confronted Y/n during a heated family meeting about the business's direction. "Why are you keeping me in the dark, Y/n?" Evangeline demanded, her voice trembling with emotion. "I deserve to be involved in every decision!"

Y/n, taken aback by Evangeline's sudden hostility, tried to explain. "Evangeline, I've always valued your input, but some decisions require swift action. I never intended to keep you in the dark." Y/n would say sternly, trying to keep her composure.

But Alexander's words echoed in Evangeline's mind, clouding her judgment and fueling her resolve to assert herself in the business. The once-unbreakable bond between the sisters fractured under the weight of manipulation and misunderstandings, orchestrated by Alexander's cunning tactics.

Evangline’s eyes sparkled with excitement as she and Alexander stood before Y/n, their announcement hanging in the air like a storm about to break.

“We’re engaged, Y/n,” Evangeline exclaimed, her voice filled with joy. “And we believe it’s time for me to take over the business. After all, I’ll be married soon and would want to pass it down to our children someday.”

Y/n’s eyes widened in disbelief as Evangeline and Alexander stood before her, their engagement bombshell hanging heavily in the air. The room fell silent as Y/n processed the news, her shock palpable.

“You’re getting engaged without even discussing it with me first?” Y/n’s voice cracked with incredulity, her tone carrying a mix of surprise and hurt.

Evangeline, caught off guard by Y/n’s reaction, tried to explain. “Y/n, we thought you would be happy for us,” she said, her voice tinged with disappointment.

But Y/n’s shock quickly turned into frustration and anger. “Happy for you?” Y/n’s tone sharpened, her words laced with bitterness. “How can I be happy when you’re making decisions that affect our entire family without even consulting me?”

Evangeline’s expression faltered, her eyes filling with tears. “But Y/n, I love Alexander, and we want to build a future together,” she pleaded.

Y/n’s emotions boiled over, her hurt turning into harsh words aimed at Evangeline. “Love blinds you, Evangeline,” Y/n snapped, her voice rising. “You’re being manipulated, and you don’t even see it!”

Evangeline’s tears spilled over as Y/n’s words hit home. “I’m not being manipulated, Y/n,” she protested, her voice trembling.

But Y/n’s frustration didn’t stop there. Her gaze turned to Alexander, her tone dripping with disdain. “And you,” Y/n directed her anger at him, “using Evangeline to get to our family fortune, shamelessly preying on her innocence and trust.”

Alexander’s facade of charm faltered for a moment, his expression betraying a hint of unease. “I assure you, Y/n, my intentions are genuine,” he tried to placate her.

But Y/n wasn’t buying it. “Genuine? You’re nothing but a leech, Alexander,” Y/n’s words cut through the tension, her anger simmering beneath the surface. “I won’t let you manipulate our family for your selfish gain.”

As the tension escalates during the argument, Evangeline turns to Y/n, her eyes filled with confusion and hurt. “What do you mean, Y/n?” she asks, her voice trembling with emotion.

Y/n’s expression hardens, her resolve firm as she faces Evangeline. “The whole family can see it, Evangeline,” Y/n’s tone is resolute, her words cutting through the air. “Alexander is just after our money, and he’s using you to get to it.”

Evangeline’s eyes widen in shock, disbelief evident on her face. “No, that’s not true,” she protests, her voice tinged with desperation.

But Y/n doesn’t back down. “Open your eyes, Evangeline,” Y/n urges, her voice filled with urgency. “He drove Arthur away from you, manipulated him to keep you to himself. He’s tearing our family apart for his own selfish motives.”

The weight of Y/n’s words hangs heavily in the air, the truth of the situation sinking in for Evangeline amidst the chaos of emotions and accusations.

In response to Y/n’s accusations, Alexander turns to Evangeline with a dismissive smirk, his tone dripping with condescension. “Evangeline, Y/n is lying,” he asserts confidently. “She’s never been in love, so she wouldn’t even know what she’s talking about.”

Evangeline, torn between her trust in Alexander and the unsettling doubts planted by Y/n’s words, looks to him for reassurance. “But Alexander, I love you,” she insists, her voice wavering with uncertainty.

Alexander’s charm kicks into full gear as he takes Evangeline’s hand, his gaze filled with faux affection. “And I love you, my dear,” he replies smoothly. “Don’t let Y/n’s jealousy and lies cloud your judgment. We have a future together, away from all this drama.”

As the tension reaches its peak, Y/n’s resolve remains unyielding as she delivers a stark ultimatum to Evangeline. “If you choose to marry him, Evangeline, I will never speak to you again,” Y/n’s voice is firm, her words carrying the weight of finality. “You will be disowned from the family and removed from the business entirely.”

Evangeline’s eyes widen in shock and hurt, her voice barely above a whisper as she asks, “Why are you doing this to me, Y/n?”

Y/n’s expression softens for a moment, but her determination doesn’t waver. “I’m thinking of the family business, Evangeline,” Y/n’s tone is unwavering, her words laced with a mix of sadness and pragmatism. “I’m thinking of what will benefit us, not silly emotions like love that can be manipulated and used against us.”

The gravity of Y/n’s decision hangs heavily in the air, the rift between the sisters widening as Evangeline grapples with the harsh reality of Y/n’s ultimatum.

Evangeline's voice trembles with a mix of defiance and sorrow as she tells Y/n, "I'm going to marry Alexander anyway, Y/n." Her eyes reflect a sense of resignation, knowing the rift her decision will create between her and her sister.

Y/n receives the wedding invitation in the mail, her heart heavy as she reads Evangeline's words inviting them to the wedding. Despite the hurt in Evangeline's voice, Y/n remains steadfast in her decision not to attend, unwilling to condone a union she strongly opposes. This choice further deepens the rift between the sisters, leaving Evangeline feeling the pain of their absence on her special day.

“You don’t need her anyway.” Alexander says to Evangeline when she tells him how hurt she was her sibling did not show up.

In 1901, tragedy strikes as Evangeline dies during childbirth. The funeral is held, and Y/n, Arthur, and Evangeline’s only child, a son, attend. However, Alexander chooses not to attend and sends his son with the nanny instead. Y/n isn’t surprised, but she did debate going to their estate to tell Alexander how much of a horrible husband he was.

In 1915, Y/n tragically dies from poisoning due to alcohol. The family faces yet another loss, marking the end of an era filled with turmoil and strained relationships. Arthur is the last sibling left, the head of the business, and serves out his life fulfilling Y/n’s visions, making her the face of the family name forever.

“You always did only worry about yourself.” Evangeline thought to herself as she began her dessert.

[reasonsforhope]

"In response to last year’s record-breaking heat due to El Niño and impacts from climate change, Indigenous Zenù farmers in Colombia are trying to revive the cultivation of traditional climate-resilient seeds and agroecology systems.

One traditional farming system combines farming with fishing: locals fish during the rainy season when water levels are high, and farm during the dry season on the fertile soils left by the receding water.

Locals and ecologists say conflicts over land with surrounding plantation owners, cattle ranchers and mines are also worsening the impacts of the climate crisis.

To protect their land, the Zenù reserve, which is today surrounded by monoculture plantations, was in 2005 declared the first Colombian territory free from GMOs.

...

In the Zenù reserve, issues with the weather, climate or soil are spread by word of mouth between farmers, or on La Positiva 103.0, a community agroecology radio station. And what’s been on every farmer’s mind is last year’s record-breaking heat and droughts. Both of these were charged by the twin impacts of climate change and a newly developing El Niño, a naturally occurring warmer period that last occurred here in 2016, say climate scientists.

Experts from Colombia’s Institute of Hydrology, Meteorology and Environmental Studies say the impacts of El Niño will be felt in Colombia until April 2024, adding to farmers’ concerns. Other scientists forecast June to August may be even hotter than 2023, and the next five years could be the hottest on record. On Jan. 24, President Gustavo Petro said he will declare wildfires a natural disaster, following an increase in forest fires that scientists attribute to the effects of El Niño.

In the face of these changes, Zenù farmers are trying to revive traditional agricultural practices like ancestral seed conservation and a unique agroecology system.

Pictured: Remberto Gil’s house is surrounded by an agroforestry system where turkeys and other animals graze under fruit trees such as maracuyá (Passiflora edulis), papaya (Carica papaya) and banana (Musa acuminata colla). Medicinal herbs like toronjil (Melissa officinalis) and tres bolas (Leonotis nepetifolia), and bushes like ají (Capsicum baccatum), yam and frijol diablito (beans) are part of the undergrowth. Image by Monica Pelliccia for Mongabay.

“Climate change is scary due to the possibility of food scarcity,” says Rodrigo Hernandez, a local authority with the Santa Isabel community. “Our ancestral seeds offer a solution as more resistant to climate change.”

Based on their experience, farmers say their ancestral seed varieties are more resistant to high temperatures compared to the imported varieties and cultivars they currently use. These ancestral varieties have adapted to the region’s ecosystem and require less water, they tell Mongabay. According to a report by local organization Grupo Semillas and development foundation SWISSAID, indigenous corn varieties like blaquito are more resistant to the heat, cariaco tolerates drought easily, and negrito is very resistant to high temperatures.

The Zenù diet still incorporates the traditional diversity of seeds, plant varieties and animals they consume, though they too are threatened by climate change: from fish recipes made from bocachico (Prochilodus magdalenae), and reptiles like the babilla or spectacled caiman (Caiman crocodilus), to different corn varieties to prepare arepas (cornmeal cakes), liquor, cheeses and soups.

“The most important challenge we have now is to save ancient species and involve new generations in ancestral practice,” says Sonia Rocha Marquez, a professor of social sciences at Sinù University in the city of Montería.

...[Despite] land scarcity, Negrete says communities are developing important projects to protect their traditional food systems. Farmers and seed custodians, like Gil, are working with the Association of Organic Agriculture and Livestock Producers (ASPROAL) and their Communitarian Seed House (Casa Comunitaria de Semillas Criollas y Nativas)...

Pictured: Remberto Gil is a seed guardian and farmer who works at the Communitarian Seed House, where the ASPROL association stores 32 seeds of rare or almost extinct species. Image by Monica Pelliccia for Mongabay.

Located near Gil’s house, the seed bank hosts a rainbow of 12 corn varieties, from glistening black to blue to light pink to purple and even white. There are also jars of seeds for local varieties of beans, eggplants, pumpkins and aromatic herbs, some stored in refrigerators. All are ancient varieties shared between local families.

Outside the seed bank is a terrace where chickens and turkeys graze under an agroforestry system for farmers to emulate: local varieties of passion fruit, papaya and banana trees grow above bushes of ají peppers and beans. Traditional medicinal herbs like toronjil or lemon balm (Melissa officinalis) form part of the undergrowth.

Today, 25 families are involved in sharing, storing and commercializing the seeds of 32 rare or almost-extinct varieties.

“When I was a kid, my father brought me to the farm to participate in recovering the land,” says Nilvadys Arrieta, 56, a farmer member of ASPROAL. “Now, I still act with the same collective thinking that moves what we are doing.”

“Working together helps us to save, share more seeds, and sell at fair price [while] avoiding intermediaries and increasing families’ incomes,” Gil says. “Last year, we sold 8 million seeds to organic restaurants in Bogotà and Medellín.”

So far, the 80% of the farmers families living in the Zenù reserve participate in both the agroecology and seed revival projects, he adds."

-via Mongabay, February 6, 2024

[alwaysshallow]

— gorgeous, part 1

Simon "Ghost" Riley x f!reader

You're a vet - and you wouldn't ever think that a big guy with a skull face, kitten on his hands, would be in your clinic. (2,1k)

AO3 version

A/N: I have no self-respect; Poland won in volleyball, SO. your insane man and vet lady is here <3

next part

The first time you see him? It is a wild one.

You didn't really know how to react when your assistant, Bernie, stormed into your office, telling you that some "big guy with a skull mask" had a kitten that needed an examination. I mean, you were a vet, of course, and you ran your clinic to the 11 P.M. sometimes, but... the skull mask part?

First, you thought she was joking or trying to prank you, like in the past, when she told you that a guy came here with a head of a fish tank came to your clinic. When you thought about this later, it was really dumb that you believed that, but the emotions were too high before; you almost slipped on the floor when you were storming out of your office, to see if:

a) he actually had a fish tank,

b) if he had some fish in it.

The skull mask wasn't a joke, though; Bernie also looked like she saw a ghost or something, and was basically hidden after your figure when you went to the corridor, where patients should wait until it's their turn. Usually there weren't many people, only emergency ones, which happened rarely enough. You usually closed after 7, but today you decided to say a bit... longer. 4 hours longer, but who count that, right? There was no one except indeed a big, huge guy in a skull mask and military uniform; at least you thought it looked like a military uniform, your friend's best friend, Johnny, had one like that. You probably wouldn't even speak to him if he hadn't had in his arms a cat that was meowing sadly, like something hurt him – or, her. You didn't know what it was yet. Guy was scary as hell, and if he wanted to, he probably would've knock you out in just one move, but you walked closer to him – what he was gonna do, hit you with his cat in his hands?

"What happened?" that's the first thing you asked, as you approached the man; and for the first time, your gazes crossed.

His, unreadable, brown, piercing even. You couldn't even get a single thought from them, like it was behind some kind of shield, and it confused you, but interested you in the same time enough to know that this interaction will be seated in your mind for some time right now.

You always liked the mysteries, and he seemed like one.

"I don't know." he simply said, standing; and you could see how much bigger he was; not only in height, but in body, muscles. It was like a doll standing to a WWE fighter, as you watched those silly shows after your work at night. "Found that kitten near a dumpster. Seems like it's hurting, so..." he shrugged.

"Aren't you a talker" you murmured, your head up high, to look at him. "Come on in."

He said nothing; simply followed you, with that kitty on his big hands.

You didn't know his name even, and you were more than willing to help him, or more – to help this cat live without any pain because your heart was aching how pained and scared it was.

As well as your assistant, if you were talking about "being scared" part; she kept glancing at that big man, who put the animal on the special table (as you asked him to). It probably would be you in the past, the scared and with some kind of reserve but now, you were more than amazed with his gentleness to care about things like skull mask or the fact that he would crush you with his finger.

Trying to be as gentle as possible, you started examination; it was a certain routine if it was about strays, and this particular one seemed to be abandoned not so long ago.

Probably nothing was breaking your heart more than this; throwing animals to street instead of trying to get them a new home. You saw too much.

"I'll have to fill a report for animal shelter" you started after a few minutes, as you were trying to localize the cause of pain; it was probably a broken bone, but cat was pretty beaten up too. "And I have to know where it was exactly, if you know the streets around here. Maybe there's more kittens like this."

"Animal shelter?" he asked, and you could just feel how his brown eyes are piercing through your green scrubs.

Intimidating, to say the least, because in addition with his low, gravelly voice, it was something alluring, like you couldn't be indifferent about it. Hell, you didn't even knew the guy, he could be potential axe murderer that stopped in your clinic because he was sad about the cat.

"Yes, I can't take him. Someone has to." you explained.

"Who said I won't?"

As you raised your eyebrow, you looked back at him, in a little shock – positive one, though. Most of the people that were bringing strays weren't eager about giving them home, for multiple reasons, and you didn't judge. It was a good thing that they were bringing them here, but this man...

"So, you will?"

"Mhm."

You smiled under your nose, stroking the little kitten, as you waited for her to calm down, before taking her to an x-ray. Her new owner wasn't really talkative, but the most important thing was that he cared enough to not only bring her here, but to take her home.

It was easy to gain your trust, considering that the skull mask that he had right now wasn't so scary anymore.

"I'm gonna take her to an x-ray. Wait up here, okay?"

Again, no response, just a simple nod.

Was it thing about you two being strangers? He could act reversed only because of this, or he was maybe tired and didn't wanted to talk. Yet, you rolled your eyes to yourself while you were taking an x-ray in a special room.

Weird. Weird, because as the bubbly and talkative person you were here, always talking with owners of animals that were coming to you (or in some cases you were out in a farm or something), you couldn't do that here. I mean, right, he answered your questions, but it was... automatic.

Not leaving a small pole to discussion, and it was irritating at some point, because you wanted to tell him at least half of stories about strays and how it was heartbreaking to find them a proper, loving home. And how you were actually curious if he liked animals before, if he had any.

And yet you were, not able to talk to him in any way that would untie his tongue. If you weren't such a curious woman, you wouldn't give a single fuck, and you would only do your job, but... now, you were more than eager to have a proper conversation with that man.

At least a few words more.

"She broke her leg." you explained after an x-ray, to show him under the special light what were you talking about, when the results came in.

Usually, it wasn't so quick, but it was an emergency.

"It's not as bad as it seems to be, your cat will need a splint and a bandage."

He didn't say anything; just nodded, fucking again, still staring at orange cat that was lying on the table, with your assistant cooing to the animal.

You expected some questions, though. Anything. "Questions?" "Not really" he said, glancing at you.

"It will take a while. You can sit if you want" you pointed at the chair in the corner. "I can stand."

So if he wanted to stand, he will stand, end of story for you – so, naturally, you just started to do your job with the kitty. It was a stray, obviously, so it wasn't an easy job with her writhing under your hands, but you managed, somehow.

"Do you want to register me as her vet?" you looked at him again.

Maybe it could finally be a proper subject of your conversation – not many people thought about that when they were taking under their wings a stray, so you had to offer. Especially when that kitty was just too cute not to ask.

"Will it be different than visiting you from time to time?" he asked, his arms crossing on his chest.

"I mean, yeah. I'm under the phone, basically 24/7, if you have questions, you call me. Vaccines, medicines, everything is under your hand. And since the little one knows me..." you trailed off, focusing more on that construction you worked on.

It seemed almost done.

"Right, we can do that, then" he muttered, coming a little closer to the table, to look at his cat. "I assume you need something? Contacts, I mean."

You chuckled, amused. "Yeah, pretty much. Your phone number, your name, adress."

He frowned at that last mention and sighed, glancing over you again, like he was judging something before he actually will answer you.

Hell, what was that in him?

"Is adress necessary?"

"Not really, no."

You both went silent after this; as you finished, you sat to your computer to add another patient to your folder, where you kept everything in check. Meanwhile, Bernie was still occupied with the cat that was too sleepy to even respond, but the meds were kicking in, so it wasn't a surprise.

Rather, it was good. She needed some kind of rest.

"Name?" you looked at him.

"Simon Harris."

It felt like a lie, what he was telling you – especially his last name, but you didn't say anything about it.

"You have an idea for your cat's name? Or not yet?" you smiled softly.

"Not yet, no. And as for phone number..." he started searching for his phone in his cargo pants.

Took him a while, to go through the pockets, but when he finally managed to give it to you, you could finally save everything – the cat's name was just missing, but he needed to think about it.

You could think of multiple stories of people that came back to your clinic or called you to change the name in your documents, because they wanted something different. Mostly it was because the previous one wasn't a "good fit", but some were... funny ones, or weird enough that you didn't even bother to ask why.

Sometimes your curiosity got the best of you, especially when you asked why does he want his cat to be named "Pussy"; you regretted asking almost immediately, when he sat in the chair right in front of you. He talked for almost twenty minutes of his girlfriend and how he wanted to "give" her the cat with a name like that because it was funny enough.

And because of other things that you'd like to forget.

"Addison Frost. I run this clinic" you said, when he was saving your number in his phone. You could swear that he rolled his eyes, but it wasn't so clear as he wore that damn mask. What it was for anyway?

You wanted to see his face, badly.

"That much I figured" he muttered, his phone going to pocket of his cargo pants right now; he looked back at his cat, and at you again. "Can I buy something for her here? Or... I should go to the store?"

Hell, it was his probably longest sentence to you that day; and that made you smile a bit, when you reached out to the place you kept starter kits for kittens that needed to be taken care of more than the regular ones; you made a couple of them, and that was one of the last ones.

"No need to pay me for this" you said quickly, as he reached for his wallet. "It's... something that I give, just that" you muttered. "You can borrow that transporter too, until you won't buy your own. She needs to rest for the most of the time, and as she's a stray, she'll probably want to wander around your place."

He nodded, deep in thought, as you helped him with putting his cat into this; he was ready to leave, but before that, he dropped 90$ at your desk, leaving without any further explanation. "Hey! That's way too much, I can't take something like that" you left after him, approaching him as he was already putting the transporter into his Jeep. "It's just a simple help, not an operation, or..."

"You helped her" he cut you off, looking straight into your eyes "and that's enough. If that's too much, don't charge me for another visit or so. I won't take it back." he said, getting into his car; still looking at you, he nodded slightly. "Thank you. And, goodnight."

And with that, Simon Harris left you with many thoughts about that evening.

[avis-writeshq]

carriage six – spencer reid

summary: Spencer Reid prides himself in his routine. Wake up at half-past six. Leave his apartment at a quarter past seven. Get onto the seven thirty train. Arrive at Quantico at eight forty five. He has a plentiful of reasons as to why he does it; it’s efficient, it gets him to the office early, it works. But the biggest reason is the girl that always sits in the seat a few rows across from him, headphones on and always reading a book. 

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader

genre: strangers to lovers, rated G for mutual pining and second hand embarrassment. no use of (Y/N).

warnings: fluff, boy band spencer reid (caution, hot!). i tried to write in Spencer’s pov, and with that comes a lot of rambling. i like to think that his mind is running 100 miles an hour, so i tried to write in a style that could implicate that &lt;3

wc: 1.8k

part two: platform ten

Spencer tries not to look so excited when he enters the subway, clad in light grey slacks, a lavender dress shirt, a brown and purple argyle sweater vest and a mauve coloured tie. His signature leather bag is strapped across his chest and he has a light cardigan in his hand; the weather reports said it would be cold today. His head spins with the statistics on the accuracy of meteorology, considering the bright and sunny skies that blessed the citizens of D.C that morning. He’s donning a new haircut today as well. It was a lot shorter than he originally planned to get it, but he likes it. In fact, he likes it a lot, particularly the way it drapes across his forehead and the way it looks messy but still cool. That’s how he would describe it. Cool. He feels cool.

He hasn’t been able to get onto the subway for three days because of a case in Connecticut and his mind wanders. Will there be another case soon? How long would it take? He hopes it would be a local case. He feels guilty thinking that; he shouldn’t be hoping for a case at all. After all, that would only mean someone else has met their untimely death. He shakes his head to dismiss the thoughts. 

He steps onto the train, onto the sixth carriage, and sits on his usual seat. In his mind, it’s the perfect seat. It avoids the sun so he doesn’t need to squint and he doesn’t have to turn the brightness level of his phone all the way up. It’s right next to the door in case he needs to make a quick exit. It’s right next to a handicapped seat, meaning that people tended to avoid it. But the best thing about this seat was the view.

He cringes when he thinks of it. ‘View’ sounds gross. Perverted. ‘View’ is the wrong word to describe it. His favourite thing about this particular seat is the company. Yes, he likes the company, although it technically doesn’t exactly count as company. 

His gaze shifts to his company. Exactly four rows away, her eyes trained on the book in her hands. He recognises it to be ‘Pride and Prejudice’, the limited edition rose gold copy that was released eight months, three weeks and two days ago. He has the same copy sitting on his dresser. 

She looks different today. Granted, it had been three days since he last saw her. He scans her figure to try to place his finger on the difference and he realises. She’s wearing a new lipgloss. Spencer’s cheeks burn when he realises. Why on earth— no, how on earth is he able to tell? He feels himself cringe and he shifts his gaze and scans the rest of carriage in an attempt to busy himself and his mind, but his eyes ultimately fall back on his company.

Spencer can’t seem to take his eyes off of her. What’s she listening to? Where is she up to in her book? Does she like Austen? Has she read any other books by her? What does she think of Elizabeth and Darcy’s relationship? So many questions enter his mind and he wishes he had the guts to go over and strike up a conversation. But he’s not like Morgan. He doesn’t have that type of charisma or that type of confidence. If anything, he supposes, he’s self aware. He knows that the moment he starts a conversation, he would start rambling for twenty minutes about the relationship dynamics between the characters and why Austen was so incandescent and exceeded all beliefs as a writer in her world. He’d start to bring in authors like Virginia Woolf and why her admiration towards Jane Austen was warranted. Ultimately, Spencer thinks to himself as his eyes wander back to the girl, he’d scare her off.

He watches as she falters in her movements, her fingers pausing from flipping the page and Spencer frowns. From what he could tell, she was a little bit more than halfway through the book. Maybe up to page 260? But there’s nothing remotely difficult in that part of the book. If anything, that was the most simple and straightforward section of the entire text. And then he realises. His cheeks burn once more and he quickly busies himself with his phone, biting his lip and avoiding her amused gaze. Your amused gaze.

You can’t help the smile that tugs at your lips as you meet his gaze. You’ve seen him all the time, for the past three years in fact, when you first moved to D.C. He’s cute, really cute, and he’s even cuter when he looks like a deer caught in headlights. You raise a teasing eyebrow his way and you watch as he quickly avoids your gaze, looking into his phone. You can’t the soft laugh that leaves your lips, your fingers tracing against the pages of your book. Maybe you have a little more confidence in yourself than you thought.

***

The next day, Spencer feels a small sense of dread creeping into his heart. He feels embarrassed, so goddamn embarrassed, and he wonders how he could face you. His cheeks are burning and he tugs at his collar. He’s wearing a light blue shirt with a patterned purple tie, along with dark navy coloured pants. He teeters on his feet, waiting with anticipation for the train. The moment he enters the carriage, his eyes fall to the seat you would be seated at, only to see no one at all. He can’t help but frown, a little disappointed but a little relieved. He moves to his usual seat, and lo and behold, he sees you there, one leg crossed over the other and reading a different book. 

He mutters a soft apology as he slides into the seat next to you, glancing at you from the corner of his eye.

“Wuthering Heights,” he says, surprising himself.

He watches as you look up from your pages, a small smile on your face. You’re wearing the same lip gloss as yesterday.

“Yeah.” You smile, taking your headphones off and letting them rest around your neck. “You’ve… have you read it before?”

He nods, and he curses himself for looking so eager. “Yes! Um, yes, I’ve read it. It’s really good.”

“Brönte is brilliant,” You respond, sliding a bookmark in between the pages. “I finished Pride and Prejudice last night. Jane Austen is still my favourite.”

You’re baiting him. He knows that. He takes it.

“I saw,” He says quietly, biting his lip. “Not– not in like a stalker way! I just… I just noticed you reading it on the train. Yesterday. I, um, I saw you reading it yesterday.”

He wants to kick himself. His face is flushed and he’s sure that his neck is just as red as his face. His ears are hot and his head spins when he hears you laugh.

“It’s okay. I saw you too.” You offer a smile, your own cheeks warm. “You were reading Edgar Allen Poe a few weeks ago. Is he any good?”

His eyes light up and he tucks an invisible strand of hair behind his ear. It’s a habit of his, since he’s had longer hair almost all of his life. 

“He’s very good,” Spencer insists, pulling the little book out of his satchel. “His works range from short stories to poetry, his most famous works being The Tell-Tale Heart, and Annabel Lee. The former is a short story. It’s a little grim, but he writes in an incredibly eloquent way that presents the narrator’s descent into madness, despite the point of the text being to convince the reader that he isn’t mad. Annabel Lee is a poem about a man obsessed with a woman named Annabel Lee and-“

He purses his lips, realising how much he’s spoken. He coughs into his fist, setting his book down in his lap as he quickly glances at you. 

“…and what?” You prompt, your head tilting the side in curiosity. “Go on, don’t let me stop you. You’re convincing me to actually get the book on his collection of works.”

His head practically snaps to look at you, a look of surprise on his face. He scans your face for any insincerity, from your eyes all the way down to your lips, before clearing his throat. 

“Um… well, uh, in Annabel Lee, the narrator speaks about keeping her in a castle by the sea. It’s a classic case of isolation and some literature analysts even go as far as to say that the narrator was hoping that Annabel would fall in love with him through Stockholm Syndrome but died before the narrator was able to carry out his plan.”

You take in his words, nodding along to his explanation. “You seem to be an expert yourself.”

He laughs, running his fingers through his hair. “No, I uh, I’m not an expert on literature or anything. But I am a doctor.”

“A doctor?” Your eyebrows shoot up in surprise. “Like… a medical doctor or…? No offence, but you really don’t look like a medical doctor.”

He laughs again, nodding. “Well, it’s a good thing I’m not. I have PhD’s in chemistry, mathematics and physics, as well as BAs in psychology, sociology and philosophy.”

You let out a low whistle. “You a collector or something?”

He blushes, swallowing thickly. “No, I uh… no…?”

“You don’t sound too sure of yourself doctor…” You pause, realising that you really don’t know much about this man. You look up at him expectantly. 

“Reid,” He says quickly, clearing his throat. “Spencer Reid. You, um, you don’t have to call me doctor.”

“Alright then, Spencer.” You smile, and he thinks it’s the prettiest thing he’s ever seen. You introduce yourself and he tells you that you have a pretty name. 

Time passes, and the conversation continues. You could talk for hours with Spencer; about books, movies, anything. He can make anything sound interesting, it’s one of his charms. He smiles a boyish grin as he talks, gesticulating wildly as he rants about his favourite texts and why Austen is a genius. He asks you what you’re listening to and you almost scream at the thought of introducing him to Taylor Swift. 

Before long, the train lurches to a stop at his station and he can’t help but feel a little disappointed. 

“It was nice meeting you. Officially,” He adds, gripping the strap of his leather bag. 

“It was nice to officially meet you too,” You respond, smiling up at him as he gets up from his seat. “Tomorrow?”

His eyes practically light up. “Tomorrow.”

reblogs are always appreciated!

part two: platform ten

[15minlatewithbatbucks]

It's forty minutes into the latest state of the company press conference and Bruce has had to mute his mic entirely to avoid being turned into a meme AGAIN for sighing too much at his own event. For all that he's spent almost 20 years coaching his own children on not making scenes, he's really not much better. It's hot and he doesn't want to be here. His ribs hurt. He's tired. He's hungry. He's every excuse Dick or Jason have trotted out over the years.

(Tim understands company manners and can almost always be trusted to stick it out as long as he's allowed to vent his frustrations afterwards. He's recently taken to smashing ugly thrifted dishes. Stephanie and Damian have been collecting any ceramic not entirely pulverized and turning them into pavers for Alfred's garden.)

(Bruce gave up after Tim. He really only needs one kid to tag along to social events. If the kid start to outnumber him they start getting IDEAS.)

His distraction is why it takes two very rude repetitions of his name for him to take notice at the young reporter pushing his way to the front. Lucius stands, cutting off the project manager currently presenting and speaks into the mic.

"Please keep hold all questions until the end of the presentation, thank you."

"Mr. Wayne," the reporter tries again and Bruce waves away Lucius's further protests.

"Can I help you?" He asks, smiling with the full force of Brucie Wayne's charm behind it. It's been awhile since his last scandal, but if the press is inventing drama then it's less work for him.

The man holds up a photograph almost accusingly. He reeks of gotcha journalism.

Bruce squints towards him, unable to fully make out the contents of the photo. Dick may have been right when he gently suggested Bruce add glasses to his Brucie Wayne persona but that was a hill Bruce was still willing to die on. It was bad enough he had to have a prescription COWL.

"What do you have to say about the presence of your adopted son, Timothy Drake at the illegal mob in Robinson Park last Saturday?"

"Drake-Wayne," Bruce corrected because Tim hyphenated, damn it. He was the first of his children to let Bruce tag the Wayne name on and it mattered, damn it. "Wait do you mean-"

"How about reports of him kissing a man while there?"

"A blond man?" Bruce asked, finally giving up and crossing to take the photo for himself. "Oh. No, that's his boyfriend."

There was a beat of silence before Bruce realized his mistake. Just as the reporters began to squall, he dropped the blurry photo and began to speed walk off, phone suddenly in hand.

Through the podium's microphone, the gathered reporters heard one thing as Bruce evacuated the immediate vicinity.

"Tim? Don't be mad."

---

Despite Bruce's best efforts, he becomes a meme.

---

Immediately following the bombshell that Timothy Drake-Wayne had a boyfriend, social media blows up, clamoring for more information. They're ravenous for it, desperate. Tim doesn't have a personal social media presence but they stalk his professional accounts religiously. Bruce does have personal social media, but he maintains radio silence.

In the end, a Gotham based "influencer" stumbles across Dick Grayson and Damian Wayne getting donuts at Kosher Donuts and Co. Dick is personable, as always, and stops to speak with the young woman briefly.

"Yeah, Tim wasn't mad," he laughs when asked. "Just disappointed. But man, he knows how to milk it."

"Bruce is in the doghouse, huh?" she asks, full of false sympathy.

"A little bit," Dick says as Damian mumbles, "Titus would never share."

"But," Dick continued. "Tim's spun it so Bruce is on the hook for like, half a million in donations for local LGBT charities. Tim says it would hurt less if he sponsored a new shelter too, so that's something to look forward to."

"That's a lot of money! Where's it all going?"

"Oh you know," Dick says and gestures vaguely. "A lot of different programs."

"Yeah? Anything you personally want to see done with the funding?"

"Drag story time," Damian answers before Dick can. He looks intense. "But not for children. For dogs. In the shelter."

---

A day later, Tim breaks the silence. He goes live on Bruce's Instagram.

"So the problem was that Bruce thought the reporter was saying I was being unfaithful," Tim explains. "He totally forgot I wasn't out to everyone yet. Bruce was just worried because he's already told me if I break up with my boyfriend, he's not uninviting him from any future family events."

"Luckily, I was in fact just kissing my boyfriend at PRIDE. Just because people got shifty with the permits at the last second because of protestors doesn't make it an illegal mob. If you wanna hear about Wayne's and illegal mobs, talk to Dickie about his younger years. Nothing I do can compare."

[abyssruler]

plausible deniability

scaramouche x gn!reader

your boyfriend is nice, your boyfriend is sweet, but your boyfriend is also a serial killer. “relax, it’s just a dead body,” he tells you like he hadn’t just hit a man on the head with a brick hard enough to crack his skull. well, at least he did it to defend you? or — scaramouche kills people and you have the world’s biggest ‘i can fix him’ complex. (modern au)

crack, comedy, a few people die but who cares, scara is soft for one person and one person only and that’s you, “i would kill for you, in fact, i have killed for you.” “honey, did you take your meds today?” - scara and reader

You were never a fan of true crime documentaries, or horror movies, or gory shows, or anything that involved excessive blood spraying and lightless eyes staring into the camera.

So, it would stand to reason that at the first sign of your boyfriend being more than into those kinds of things, you would’ve turned tail and ran as far away as you can, right?

Unfortunately, you’ve always been blind to the color red.

…Figurative red, that is, because the red seeping through your couch and the ones coated on your boyfriend’s hands are definitely visible to you, bright and dripping and most definitely staining your pristine white rugs that you just bought last week. Ah, how are you going to explain that to the laundry lady?

“Scara, honey, what did I say about killing other people?” you ask, voice visibly strained.

He sneers at the face of the dead guy sitting haphazardly on your couch. “I didn’t like the way he was looking at you.”

You sigh.

✧

It wasn’t always like this, with the whole blood viscera happy-murder thing.

Your boyfriend, Scaramouche, had this odd habit of being so immersed in the news, a little smile lighting up his face (which you’d thought was cute at the time and, well, you still do) whenever the reporter gets to the local murders that used to have you shaking in fear on your bed.

He was charming though. A little possessive, but that was a trait you also thought was quite endearing—and, if you’re being honest, you still do. Scaramouche had a vast collection of sharp knives, some small and practically harmless (or as harmless as a knife can be) and others… not so harmless. You didn’t question it because he often cooked for you, your brain chalking it up to him using those knives for it.

It wasn’t until you were walking home alone from university that you discovered his little hobby of, well, killing people who inconvenienced you and him. Mostly people who inconvenienced you though, which was disturbing but also flattering in a crazy sort of way.

“Relax, it’s just a dead body,” he told you like he hadn’t just hit a man on the head with a brick hard enough to crack his skull.

You were cowering on the alley’s wall, eyes wide and knees shaking as you watched your supposedly nice and caring boyfriend wipe away the blood on his hand like it’s a normal occurrence. And when he grinned down at the body, something almost satisfied in his eyes, you realized that he was the cause for all the recent murders popping up in the city.

Now, the thing about this is that you should have run away screaming bloody murder, maybe call the cops or even do the sensible thing like break up with your boyfriend who’s apparently a psycho.

And you would have done it, if he just hadn’t been so… so…

He turned to you with concern shining in his eyes, stepping over the corpse of the man who’d pointed a pocket knife at you and tried to rob you. With hands still slicked with blood, he cradled your face and pressed a kiss to your forehead. “It’s a good thing you weren’t hurt.”

…sweet.

And as he pulled you away from the crime scene, dragging you home and running a hot bath for you both, asking you what you wanted for dinner like he hadn’t just murdered someone in front of you, you finally calmed down and saw the truth of the matter.

Yes, your boyfriend is quite possibly a serial killer, yes, you might just be making the worst decision of your life, and yes, you’re well aware this is because of all the wattpad bad boy stories you consumed when you were young, but you’ll be damned if you let Scaramouche go. He was kind (at least, to you he is), he was charming (when he wanted to be), he was a great cook, he was good with kids and the elderly, he was smart, and finally, he would never cheat on you.

So, while there might be the unfortunate addition of him being a little too happy with the idea of killing someone (have, in fact, killed someone, multiple someones at that), he was also the perfect boyfriend you could ask for. He just needs a little guidance, is all.

The next day, he proudly showed you the severed hand of a man who once made you cry because he groped you.

…Okay, a lot of guidance, but you can manage, you’ve read tons of bad boy turns good after falling in love type of stories. How difficult can it be to have your murderous boyfriend change his ways?

✧

Quite difficult, as it turns out.

A quick google on why people become murderers brought up a lot of questions and concerns for you, and while you’re well aware that google isn’t exactly the most reliable place when it comes to looking for advice, it’s also the only place you can go to without getting arrested for assisted murder—even though you’ve never actually helped Scaramouche when he goes all ham crazy on the general populace.

You sit him down on your couch, which was now free of blood thanks to google’s advice and good ol’ handy-dandy hydrogen peroxide.

Like this, facing each other and holding his hands, it almost seems like an actual, legitimate therapy session, minus the whole licensed psychiatrist thing. But hey, you’ve read tons of articles on the internet, so while you may be lacking in some aspects (namely, the fact that you don’t have any idea what you’re doing and aren’t qualified at all to be your crazy boyfriend’s therapist), you’re confident you can just wing it.

“Baby,” you start. Calling him endearments was an advice you picked up from reddit. A kind user named ballz3000 said that referring to them sweetly using innocent pet names can make them softer and calm their homicidal tendencies. “You know I don’t like it when you bring home dead bodies.”

According to another user named yn-yournuts, being open and communicating your feelings is the first step to establishing a healthy relationship and, consequently, a better mental state.

“It would’ve been difficult hiding the body at daytime,” he grouches, but he still keeps a gentle hold on your hands, which is a good thing. Baby steps, you tell yourself, baby steps—even though those baby steps might as well be called snail steps, wait, snail slithers.

“Then you should’ve waited until it was dark or midnight to kill him,” comes your immediate response—wait, damn it! You’re supposed to encourage him to steer away from murder, not give him advice on how to do it better. Smiling, you attempt to salvage the situation, “But, of course, it would be better to not kill anyone at all.”

It’s too late. He’s already donning a contemplative look on his face that soon turns into a grin, leaning in and briefly slotting his lips against yours.

“Thanks for the suggestion. I’ll be more careful next time, love,” is all he says before getting up and abruptly ending your impromptu therapy session.

And admittedly, there must be something wrong with you too, because instead of being horrified at his words, you giggle to yourself.

This is the first time he called you love!

✧

Alright, so operation therapy failed, it’s now time to charge in like a boar. Straightforwardness is always good according to that one article you found in google made by Hugh G. Bawles.

The two of you were in bed, the lights already turned off, when you took a deep breath and began preparing what you were going to say to him to prevent any more innocent people being killed.

Scara, I don’t like it when you kill people.

Baby, don’t show me anymore dead body parts.

Why did you become a murderer?

Sometimes, I feel like we’re a normal couple, but then you’ll suddenly go and casually bring me a bloody finger as a gift.

But instead of saying any of those, what comes out of your mouth is,

“Darling, I think you’re just confusing your constipation for homicidal urges.”

In hindsight, maybe attempting to start a heart to heart talk in the middle of the night just before a morning class was a bad idea.

You wait a few seconds, then minutes, and when he showed no signs of responding, you turn your head only to find him with his eyes closed and sound asleep.

Fine, you’ll just have to try again tomorrow.

✧

You share exactly one class with Scaramouche and it’s philosophy. Unfortunately, it’s also the class with the worst professor known to mankind.

“Ah, I got a low grade…” you mutter to yourself, looking down at your essay forlornly.

Your boyfriend takes one peak at your paper and immediately scowls. “You spent an entire night writing that.” He turns a glare to the professor currently ignorant of the murderer sitting in his class. “That asshole should’ve given you a perfect score. Maybe I should give him a little visit.”

You calmly take his hand under the table and squeeze it, all too used to him casually alluding to killing other people. “Dear, we talked about this. What do we do when we’re having homicidal thoughts?”

He looks down the table, brows furrowed in a sulking manner. “Don’t do it.”

You beam, proud at him for remembering the one thing you keep reminding him whenever he brings a dead body back to your house.

The blonde twins seated in front of you turn their head in horror after overhearing your conversation.

“What are you looking at?” Scaramouche sneers at the same time you say, “We’re roleplaying.”

“Right…” the long haired twin you distinctly remember was named Aether mumbles before he ushers his sister to ignore the two of you.

Oh well, at least you managed to stop one person from dying today. User tojiscrustysock on twitter always says you should take whatever victories you can, so you’ll consider this a resounding success.

✧

When you open the news next morning, the face of your professor is the first thing you see along with the words, found dead near his home.

You turn to your boyfriend sitting beside you, an innocent look on his face as you look at him with disappointment.

“My hand slipped,” is the flimsy excuse he settles for.

Sighing and utterly out of options, you’re forced to resort to the one thing you didn’t want to do. The worst possible option there is. If there’s going to a therapist and potentially getting arrested kind of worst, there’s this kind of worst—the absolute worst of the worst.

“Scara, I think we need to start doing yoga.”

word count: 1.8k

[ew-selfish-art]

DPx DC Au: Might as well be brothers. Young Justice hears about a regional hero disappearing, and while they've never met the guy, Red Robin's contacts say that Ra's is hunting him for afterlife/immortality related reasons.

Tim drake hates the annoying white uniform he's wearing but breaking into this place is crucial to his 24 hour plan to rescue Phantom. He'd never even heard of the guy until a week ago when Pru came to him with info that Ra's was looking into Midwest Real Estate, and then Tim stumbled down the rabbit hole of Ghost conspiracy theories until he saw an article demanding that local officials speak on the hero's absence of 10 days. 10 days was short enough that Tim might find a sign of life and well, another federal agency being hacked by Red Robin is nothing new.

So now, he's walking down the halls with these stupid fucking glasses and this stupid fucking suit while Kon listens from the comfort of the surveillance van. He takes a turn and sees the track suits that the illegally detained inmates are wearing, and pivoting the plan, makes his way to a locker room to get one and get changed. It does take him an extra second and he considers that this might bite him- but Tim knows the place inside and out. He's scoured all their data, and sue him for being cocky, but he has a literal alien ready to tear the place apart waiting for his heart rate to jump above 80 bpm. which is a pretty low heart rate all things considered.

Tim gets exactly where he's meant to go, and waits only a few minutes before he see's the science team extract Phantom from the high security room.

Phantom doesn't make it clear if he notices Tim, but he's basically being dragged by the couple, so Tim decides to beat them to their destination. The experimental wing had shown up in their reported data not long after they made it extremely obvious that they had Phantom in their data output.

Tim's already in the room when he starts to notice that it's not exactly a room... more like a mechanical space. The way the corners curl in the room make it almost tube like... Portal like.

Phantom is thrown in and Tim grabs him the second the scientists leave, but the kill switch key Tim made to get them out isn't working for this door like it did all the others.

"Not... Not a door."

"We're in some sort of device aren't we? Something of their own design that the government isn't aware they're funding?"

"Portal. You've gotta get out, even if you get caught, you gotta get out now."

Tim's comm comes alive in his ear, its Kon responding to Tim's heart rate rising- and Tim is hesitant to call him in but ultimately tells him to start flying over for extraction.

Then the portal goes off, and while he feels pain, he doesn't feel different. Bright light subsiding, Kon's arms around him with a confused voice, and lots of lasers being fired his way... Tim wakes up to see a much younger Phantom looking at him from the other side of the young justice couch.

Kon, Bart and Cassie are all fighting at a white board that's been wheeled in but Tim can only yawn and blink his way into consciousness enough to give a shit.

Black haired and blue eyed, button nosed with large ears, a wry thin lipped smile... Tim realizes that Phantom looks incredibly similar to his younger self. And then Tim looks at his much smaller hands and realizes that he probably looks a lot more similar to his younger self than normal.

Taking in the scenery once more, the white board is divided on the traits Tim has to the children sitting left and right on the couch. Kon didn't know who was who. That meant that maybe... the government didn't either.

Phantom turns out to be a pretty chill dude despite all the trauma, and he's incredibly prepared to both fuck with Ra's and the government in their newly found childhood twin-ship.

One of the twins is scarier than the other, and despite Danny literally haunting them, its always Tim.

(Okay now its some one else's turn :D )