#a black pajama set from target

[wonryllis]

ⓘ SIM JAEYUN: INTO THE SPIDER-VERSE.

❪ 🕸️ ❫────𝗒𝗈𝗎'𝗋𝖾 𝖺 𝗌𝗎𝗇𝖿𝗅𝗈𝗐𝖾𝗋, 𝗂 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗄 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗅𝗈𝗏𝖾 𝗐𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝖻𝖾 𝗍𝗈𝗈 𝗆𝗎𝖼𝗁!

( NOTES. ) where you are JAKE SIM'𝓼 MJ. fluff, suggestive in some places fem!centered. lowercase intded. 2040wc. 𓈃 ๋ 𝐍𝐄𝐖 峠 requests are open. happy new year guys!

REBLOGS AND FEEDBACKS WOULD BE REALLY APPRECIATED!

now playing. sunflower by post malone, stay by justin beiber.

SPIDERMAN!JAKE who first notices you when you knock out his target with your tote bag because you saw him running from the neighborhood hero. immediately catching his attention with your cute face and fiercely aggressive yet again cute anger. gods knows what was in that bag, or maybe it was the angle or the way you swung it, he thinks back on it calculating shit to make it make sense and it does but nevertheless you're still cute and awesome.

SPIDERMAN!JAKE who accidentally finds the little bookstore you work part-time at every monday, wednesday and fridays. always hovering around the area on the said days coincidentally exactly during the hours of your shift.

SPIDERMAN!JAKE who sometimes changes out of his suit in the alleyways nearby into his nerd get up to drop by at your bookstore and always look for books that you don't happen to have as he asks at the frontdesk and you reply with your sweet smile and your sweet voice that's he finds himself getting addicted to.

SPIDERMAN!JAKE who later finds out you go to his university and have been in his chem class for two years but he hasn't ever noticed you? well that's because he started being the friendly little hero just the week you transferred having no other focus than his newfound superpowers. it's a shame he thinks he could be celebrating his two year anniversary with you right now but in reality you don't even know his name.

SPIDERMAN!JAKE who as stalkerish as it sounds has pictures of you in his phone, candid clicks in the bookstore to you clad in your labcoat in chem. a whole folder in his laptop where he has planned it all out how he's going to win your heart.

SPIDERMAN!JAKE who loves coming in to save you at the right time and how the bad side happens to go for you even though you haven't become his woman yet. not that he'll let you know he's the one behind the mask it's too dangerous if others were to find out you were associated with the man himself and aim for you. he can't risk losing you.

SPIDERMAN!JAKE who kind of becomes friends with you in his superhero disguise but still a stranger as jake. and it's all because of the numerous saves where he flirts with you shamelessly after defeating the enemy. "don't you think it's too much of a coincidence how i always come for your rescue?" hanging upside down at your face right after knocking out the black hat, "i think it's destiny," lowering the pitch of his voice as he moves even closer.

SPIDERMAN!JAKE who now drops by in your bookstore in his suit for a quick flirt and who hopelessly stares at you across the room in uni wondering when it'll be jake's turn and not the friendly neighborhood spiderman.

SPIDERMAN!JAKE who gets caught while staring and confronted by an uncomfortable you whether there's something he needs. and who has his clumsy ass exposed the same night when he's fighting right outside your window, his mask getting pulled off by the monster. his wide eyes looking straight at you like a deer caught in headlights as you realize it all. fuck, it's all over.

SPIDERMAN!JAKE who gets hit and punched more than usual because he thinks he's lost his chance with you, but having his world blown over when you let him in, more like invite and clean off his wounds for him.

SPIDERMAN!JAKE who can't keep his eyes off the tiny pajama set you have on but he also can't do anything because now he has an identity you know of, a face you'll either love or hate. no longer be able to hide behind his mask to hit on you. truly his feelings show on his face, in his eyes, the way they stay stuck on the plush of your thighs, on the fallen strap of your top as you stand between his legs, hand on his jaw holding it up while you apply the ointment on the corner of his lips. "what were you thinking? you never got beaten this bad!" "you don't wanna know," oh how hot you are when you scold him.

SPIDERMAN!JAKE who thinks he's in utopia with how you had no trouble accepting him as spiderman. even seeming more interested than ever. but no he will not get his hopes up yet.

SPIDERMAN!JAKE who dies and ascends to heaven when he comes back to say goodnight and you pull down his mask to leave a kiss on his lips, "goodnight," "w-what?" "i'll see you in chem tomorrow, hm?" "yeah? yeah, right goodnight,"

SPIDERMAN!JAKE who calls you his sunflower eversince, assuming you've that kind of a situationship. his symbol of faith, positivity and hope. his corner of peace in his topsy-turvy life.

SPIDERMAN!JAKE who takes you on unofficial swing dates, his mind travelling places when your body presses into his as you hold on for dear life. it's hot though the way he shoots the spider-web and swings. but it's even hotter when you're sitting in his room watching him work on upgrading his high tech suit and web formulae.

SPIDERMAN!JAKE who goes "you have something here," pointing at a spot besides your lips before leaning in and leaving a soft kiss there then moving towards your lips in a pepper of more each getting convulsively harsher.

SPIDERMAN!JAKE who tucks your hair behind your ear when they fall into your eyes as you speak. listening to each and everything you say and the way your lips move and your hair frames your face.

SPIDERMAN!JAKE who buys you gifts and leaves them in the bookstore with short little sweet notes. who takes selfies of him in his suit half up in the air mid-swing and updates you about his day. "hey sunflower, im on my way to find this new flying green elf they say has been going around causing trouble, i'm so excited!" his voice notes sound with a quick hey watch out! or something in background as he almost falls off in the middle of the road texting you.

SPIDERMAN!JAKE who videocalls you at night and watches you fall asleep as he repairs his fight damaged suits, smiling at the sight of your pouty lips and the way your cheeks squish against the pillow when you snuggle into it, wishing it was him instead.

SPIDERMAN!JAKE who short-circuits and malfunctions when you find the secret folder in his laptop looking through his perfect plan to win you. but what can he do, he admits he had grown obsessed with you before he even knew it himself. "uh just, well it all worked out anyway, i didn't really have to do any of that," "just so you know, i liked you well enough as spiderman and jake. i somewhat did have some idea that you were spiderman,"

SPIDERMAN!JAKE who sometimes arrives at 'dates' hours later because "hey, sorry sunflower im running just a little late, there's a bit of traffic," speaking into the phone as he hangs on a bus mid-fight. which he actually got into while looking for wild flowers for you near the river and the villain spotted him clad in his red & blue attire after he escaped the last time owing to some defects in his suit,"jake are those sirens?" "no?" "where are you?" "five blocks away, four, three actually just gimme me two minutes i'll be there!"

SPIDERMAN!JAKE who does unexpected things to save you because you always jump in when you see him being pushed into a corner. his web sticking to the bottom of your top as he pulls you to him, hands going around your waist,"i'm gonna throw you out the window now," "wha-" before he's swinging you out. chill he'll shoot the web to help you down.

SPIDERMAN!JAKE as much as he loves you, is tired of you insisting to tag along because baby you're in too much danger in the main area "i'm coming with you!" "no you're not!" "jake!" though he loves how you want to be there for him.

SPIDERMAN!JAKE who once ends up fighting a monster in the corridors of the uni and later has to hide from the others but can't seem to find the place for it when you come to the rescue and drag him into a janitor's closet in the corner. "you just kissed me," "i know" "jake we're literally hiding to save your ass," "i just couldn't help it. sorry." having your own little seven minutes in heaven in there.

SPIDERMAN!JAKE who drops into your balcony at night with the excuse that's his web liquid finished or whatever that is and that he can't take the bus or the cab or walk home. ending up in your bed cuddled together after a messy makeout session. or sometimes knocking against your window all wound up, feeling slightly guilty when you wince and worry while cleaning the cuts and bruises,"are you okay? does it hurt a lot?" "m used to it," "please be careful, i hate it when you get like this," but boy his mind's somewhere else again, leaning in to kiss you, lips falling to your jaw and trailing down to the crook of your neck when you dodge it on the lips. "jake, you're injured!" "i'm sorry, sunflower. just gimme a kiss it gives me strength," "you better rip apart that lizard next time i can't see you like this," "yes love, i promise, now-" his lips capturing yours in a hard suck.

SPIDERMAN!JAKE who does the iconic peter gwen kiss on the rooftop the night he has dinner with your parents after they catch you two in your room. "do you think your dad likes me?" "not too sure about that, but he'll have to deal with it, i'm not leaving you,"

SPIDERMAN!JAKE who randomly picks you up from the streets after pinging you a quick text and swings you to these special spots no one can get, high up in the air to show you the little arrangements he makes with his webs. "jake! what was that!" "didn't you get my message?" "i did but i didn't know you'd just grab me like that!" "did you like it though?" ... "yes i did," big smooch

SPIDERMAN!JAKE who even after all this is shit ton scared that'll you'll drop him if he asks you to be official. also afraid of the fact that being with him would put you in constant danger. isolating himself away from you to think it through and somewhere in him mind weighing it out that he's better out of your life than in it. it's all fun and games when it's the romance but what when you're used as his weakness?

SPIDERMAN!JAKE who has a deadly fight with the green goblin, you getting dragged into it and being attacked against before he uses all of his last strengths to defeat the villain and save you a second over death.

SPIDERMAN!JAKE who realizes that at this point being without him would cost him the life of both you and him. he's too in love with you and you're too in love with him to stay apart. you're the safest by his side where he can see you and save you.

SPIDERMAN!JAKE who after the said deadly fight, the worst in his superhero career, at the verge of passing out holds onto you, hands cupping your cheeks and foreheads leaning against each other, eyes closed and deep breaths after a long kiss,"can i be your boyfriend?" SPIDERMAN!JAKE who asks to be the one for you.

TAGLIST ( open. ) @s00buwu

[shockercoco]

Unconventional Confessions

Austin Butler x reader

Warnings - 18+, smut, fingering/fingering in front of mirror, dirty talk, squirting, oh no he's hot!

Word count - 1759

a/n - It took me 30 minutes to choose a gif and I’m still not happy with it lol. Here's the winner of the poll so I hope you enjoy :)

“So, did you enjoy it?” Austin asks you over the commotion in the theater.

Austin had brought you as his date to the premiere of Dune, a new movie he had a part in. As soon as the credits began rolling, everyone in the audience stood up to applaud the performance of the cast members, including you. Although, your applause was targeted more towards Austin and his performance.

You walked into the movie not expecting to find your boyfriend’s character attractive, like you have in the past with his other roles. After all, he played a pale, bald psychotic sadist with black teeth – someone that most people would be disgusted by. 

Not you, though, because as soon as Feyd came on screen you were drawn in, not just because of how good he looked shirtless, but from his strange and deviant behavior. The way he dragged his tongue against his blade, how unsympathetic he was for human life, how he laughed and drooled in the face of danger all weirdly had an affect on you.

 You noticed this when you felt your insides turn, and when you glanced down at your lap you saw that you had unconsciously crossed your legs. You knew how much Austin takes his career seriously and how easily it was for him to immerse himself into his roles, but you never expected this from him.

“I loved it. The sound, the acting, the cinematography – it was all amazing,” you smile as you turn to look up at him. You’ve always had a love for film, and Austin knew this and loved that about you.

A smile forms on Austin’s face at your response as he leans down to hug you and to place a quick kiss on your lips.

The ride back to the hotel was long due to New York traffic, but Austin decided to take this time to pull up the partition and put you into his lap and kiss you. He always did this in the car after an event or party, and each time you would tell him no, given the fact it was dangerous to not have your seatbelt on, but you always end up caving in the end.

You decide to take a shower when you arrive back at the hotel, not only to get clean, but to calm your nerves. After you get out and begin your skin care, Austin enters the bathroom and wraps his arms around you from behind, placing his chin atop your head.

“I know I already asked you if you liked the movie, but what did you think of me?” he asks as he looks at you through the mirror. Austin would always overthink when it came to his acting and would come to you for reassurance.

“You were great, just like you always are,” you tell him as you continue on with your routine.

He groans and gives your hips a squeeze. “Come on, you gotta give me more than that.”

You smile at him through the mirror. “I really enjoyed your performance, given the fact you’ve never done anything like that. You were unrecognizable, and not just because of the makeup,” you laughed,” Your deduction really paid off.”

You watch as Austin beams at your response. “Really?”

“Yes, really.”

“Anything else?” he asks you.

Yes, yes there is.

“Well, I may or may not have found Feyd attractive, even though he’s mentally unstable. Too bad we won’t see him in the next movie.” you fake sadness towards the end. You talk casually as if what you said was minor.

You watch as Austin lights up and lifts his head. He raises his eyebrows with a smirk. “Is that right?”

“Mhm,” you nod your head, “it just sucks that you’re not him.”

And you guess that set him off because next thing you know he’s pulling you even closer into him as he places soft kisses on your neck. You laugh and playfully try to shove him off, but Austin just laughs into your ear and continues as one his hands begins to slowly travel south. When you feel his hand reach the waistband of your pajama shorts you freeze. You look at Austin through the mirror to see that his gaze is already on you, a sly smile showing on his face.

“If you couldn’t tell, I’m a little busy right now,” you joke.

“Oh, don’t stop on my account. Just pretend I’m not even here,” he says without taking his eyes away from yours. You stare back at him for a second before starting the last step of your routine – brushing your teeth. Austin keeps his focus on your face.

Just as you were reaching for your toothbrush, his hand dips inside your shorts and stops when his fingers reach your clit over your underwear. You tightly grip the toothbrush in your hand when you feel his fingers start to lightly rub circles into you through the fabric. You can already feel yourself getting wet from the teasing, warmth pooling in your lower half. As you reach for the toothpaste, he adds more pressure to your clit, and you clench your teeth to keep the sounds in your throat from escaping.

Austin smirks to himself once he notices the tension in your jaw, which you feel as it forms on his lips that are still attached to your neck. When you reach for the toothpaste, he begins to glide his fingers up and down your slit through your underwear, feeling the damp fabric.

As you begin to squeeze the toothpaste on your toothbrush, you feel Austin’s hand quickly dip inside the waistband of your underwear and collect your arousal on his fingers before spreading it through your folds. This time you can’t stop the moan from escaping your lips as your mouth falls open.

“I said don’t stop,” he whispers into your ear and ends the sentence with a kiss behind your ear, causing a shiver to make its way through your body. You look at him in the mirror to see his eyes still on you, feeling another wave of heat run through your body from the eye contact.

You go to squeeze the toothpaste on your toothbrush only to feel Austin shove a finger into your opening. You have to brace yourself against the counter as you feel your walls welcome him in, but Austin keeps his finger still inside of you, waiting for you to continue. 

When you lift the toothbrush to your lips with an unsteady hand, he pushes a second finger into you. Another moan leaves your mouth as you feel yourself stretch around him, and once you feel his fingers move inside you, you immediately drop the toothbrush and toothbrush for it to land in the sink. There’s no way you can carry on now.

Austin laughs at your reaction and continues to thrust his fingers inside of you as he finally lifts his head away from the crease of your neck to fully watch your facial expressions. He gradually increases the speed of his fingers and tightly wraps his unoccupied arm around your waist when you begin to squirm against his front. You feel his hard length against your backside, turning you on even more, but your main focus is the fingers pushing in and out of you with persistence.

You place one hand back on the counter and use the other to cling onto the arm around your waist. You feel your head drop and your eyes squeeze shut as whines fall out of your mouth, but Austin isn’t a fan of this. He removes the arm from your waist and grips your chin, forcing you to look up.

“Keep your eyes open,” he says, and you whine at his words. 

“Austin-” you start, but he cuts you off.

“Keep your eyes open.”

You pry your eyes open and look at the hand moving in your shorts. Austin gives your chin another squeeze and pushes it up for you to look at him through the mirror. He smirks at your present state, and if it wasn’t for him currently pleasing you, you would slap that smirk off his face. He knows you hate prolonged eye contact.

“You fall apart so easily, don’t you?” he asks, and you weren’t aware he wanted you to answer until he repeats, “don’t you?”

“Yes,” you breathe out.

His fingers arrive at that special spongy spot inside of you, making your body jerk and your jaw go slack. He continuously hits the area with precision as he curls his fingers into you. His arm finds its place around your waist again once you start to writhe against him. You squeal as he speeds his fingers up even more, causing wet squelches to fall out of your soaked cunt, the sound echoing in your ears.

You feel the pressure in your quickly building up, and you close your eyes again – it’s taking too much energy to continue holding them open. This time Austin lets you. One of your hands moves down towards his wrist, but he quickly grabs it and holds against you as his arm wraps around you once again. Your thighs squeeze together as the pressure becomes too much and you come closer and closer to your climax, but this doesn’t stop him.

Austin feels your walls tighten and flutter around his fingers, and he does everything to make you fall over the edge. You let out a silent cry as your orgasm makes its way through your limbs.

He continues to push his fingers in and out of you to prolong your pleasure, and you let out a cry as you feel a gush of liquid fall out of you. It soaks your underwear and shorts as it makes its way down your leg. Austin still doesn’t let up on his pace so you go to squeeze his wrist, and he begins to slow his movements.

When he finally stops, he pulls his fingers out of you and brings them up to his mouth to suck the taste of you off. Despite your energy being drained, you still manage to roll your eyes at him.

“Come on, sweetheart, round two in the bedroom. You need to lay down, your legs must be tired from standing,” he smirks and gives you a wink as he backs away from you and heads out the bathroom.

You grab the tube of toothpaste from the sink and chuck it at his head, but you miss, making Austin laugh.

[sarosfilms]

sleepovers part two

christopher sturniolo x fab! reader

˚ · . summary best friends! y/n and chris cute moments, but there’s a twist at the end.

˚ · . content fluff, slight angst, bad writing :/

˚ · . word count 2876

彡 masterlist | taglist | other accounts

you can read part one here

Chris waited for the right moment to tell you he liked you. But he was also terrified of doing so. His commitment issues of being in a relationship are in the way again. Fortunately, that didn’t stop the two of you from acting like a couple. Which was very obvious to everyone else.

one

You and Chris had decided to stay inside for most of the day. Mostly because it had started pouring rain, but also because Matt and Nick had decided to go to target without the two of you. They didn’t want to disturb their brother and their best friend’s slumber. 

“I really think those two will be together by the end of the week,” Nick spoke quietly as he and Matt climbed in the car.

“Wanna bet?” Matt challenged his brother. “$10”

Nick contemplated, sighing, “fine.” 

Meanwhile you and Chris were still fast asleep tangled up in each other.  You were the first one to wake up. You ended up scrolling on your phone for a while, admiring random instagram models, mindlessly scrolling on tiktok and liking a few edits of the triplets. Of course, you would never tell Chris you have a whole collection of edits just of him.

You heard shuffling behind you, a slight grumble of noises before you felt the bed shift. His arm wrapped around your torso. “What are you doing?” Chris mumbled, sleep still heavy in his voice.

You set your phone down, moving to flip yourself to face him. “Waiting for you to wake up, doofus,” you giggled. It only took Chris about thirty minutes to stir awake as your phone was buzzing with random tiktoks.

“I’m hungry,” he pouted.

“Well go to the kitchen, kiddo.”

“Only if you go with me,” he smiled at you.

You shook your head, laughing, “fine.”

The two of you entered the kitchen. Chris immediately went to the fridge, grabbing a pepsi. You had grabbed a box of pancake mix and a few ingredients to make them. “Chris, I’m making pancakes, I don't care what you say,” you spoke up, grabbing a pan and a mixing bowl. He hummed in response. He grabbed his phone and sat in his chair at the table. You glanced over at him every now and then while you silently finished up the pancakes. You laughed quietly to yourself as you realized it was noon and you were making breakfast.

Approaching Chris with the freshly made pancakes, you put yours and his plate down, sitting beside him. You both ended up making small talk about a few things going on in both of your lives, not that there was much considering you do this everyday. But today felt odd, you could tell these past few days Chris had something on his mind, you just couldn’t piece it together. “Y/n, I’ve been meaning to say something to you,” he spoke up after a few minutes of silence. You nodded at him, encouraging him to continue. “I don’t really know how to put this-”

There was a slam from the garage door downstairs. “Fuck,” you heard Chris mutter before standing up to put his dish in the sink. You observed him, curious what he wanted to say, but before you could say anything Matt and Nick walked up the steps and saw the two of you.

“Y/n!” Nick beamed, excited to see his best friend awake. You heard Chris sigh in the background as Nick walked over to show you what he had bought. You decided to let go of the topic beforehand and engage with Nick’s ranting, nodding every few times. 

two

You two had slept together once again. His arm loosely wrapped around your waist as he was cuddled up behind you. The only thing he wore were his black boxers. You had ended up wearing a cute pajama set that included shorts (maybe a little too small, but Chris didn’t mind… he actually loved it) and a tank top. The night before was pretty rough for you, considering you felt your mental health deteriorating. The only thing on your mind was sleep. You entered Chris’ room before he did, as he was still watching a movie with his brothers upstairs. You had said your goodnights and nodded at Chris as he looked at you, as if he was asking if you would be in his room or not. You quickly finished getting ready before slipping into the bed. Chris had entered the room, grinning softly at your figure as he shuffled beside you and closing his eyes, letting sleep engulf him.

The door slightly opened as Nick had come down to wake the two of you up. He was greeted with two figures sleeping peacefully as a spot of sunlight attempted to peek into the room. Chris had shuffled in his slumber a few too many times and somehow ended up fully entrapping you in his arms. Nick shook his head before speaking, “Kids, it’s time to get up.”

You heard Chris hum behind you, his hold on your waist tightening.

“Mmm,” you heard Chris mumble. You had slightly moved your head, barely opening your eyes. Meeting Nick’s as he shook his head at you two. Your lips parted, a toothy grin meeting the older triplet. Your eyes fell onto him, shrugging as the two of you heard Chris whine behind you. Nick ended up leaving the two of you in bed, assuming you’d get out of bed and come upstairs soon. You flopped onto your back, Chris mumbling something under his breath. “Did you sleep okay?” you heard him from beside you. You looked over at his figure, laying on his stomach with his arms under the pillow. His bare back in view. You smiled at him, nodding, reaching out and moving his fluffy hair out of his face.

“Did you?” you asked him. He nodded, his face smushed into the pillow. You giggled, before removing the sheets off of you. The cold air hitting your skin as you shuffled out of bed. Unbeknownst to you, Chris smiled at your figure while you shuffled through a few of the clothes you had in his closet. He decided to stand up and walk over to you, wrapping his arms around your waist. His chin resting on your shoulder, you could feel his breath hitting your neck softly. “Hi,” you breathed. He hummed in acknowledgement, deciding not to speak. You sighed, not ready to take on the day. 

“Hey, we can just take it slow today,” he hummed from behind you. He knew you have been struggling recently. Only a couple days ago, he arrived at your apartment only to notice how untidy it was. The kitchen sink was overflowing with dishes, your bedroom had a bunch of clothes on the floor and your laundry basket was overflowing even more. His heart ached, knowing this happened many times before, but he knew this time. This time he was there to help you pick up the pieces. You tried to shut him out, to not let anyone see you like this. But he forced his way into your life when this happened. And everytime you got out of the rut, you appreciated Chris even more. He helped you, asking if you wanted to sleep over at their house for a few days. A few days turned into a whole week. While you were asleep one morning, Chris woke up early just to arrive at your apartment and cleaned it without you knowing. He knew you wouldn’t have any motivation to do it, so he did it for you, without you having to ask. He came back that morning, grinning at your sleeping figure. He knew the past few nights were restless and his heart ached every time he saw your figure. You spent the past few days zoned out, no emotions spread on your face like it normally did. You’d cry yourself to sleep if you had it in you.

You felt Chris’ hands move up your arms, in a comforting motion, bringing you back to reality. You sighed heavily, “okay.” 

three

The two of you had agreed to go to a tarayummy party, along with Nick. You were in the midst of a conversation with Tara, Chris had decided to stay near you, considering he knew how nervous you got at parties like this. Matt had stayed at home, reasonably. 

Chris stood behind you, his arms engulfing your neck. Both arms wrapped around your shoulders and intertwined together in front of your neck, resting loosely. Your hands instinctively reached up to loosely hold his arms. You glanced behind you, smiling at the action. Tara approached the three of you, as Nick stood idly by you and Chris. “Hey guys!” she happily remarked. You smiled at her.

“Hey girl,” Chris shouted over the music. “Enjoying the party?” He asked, smirking at the girl’s figure holding a glass of some type of alcohol. You giggled at the sight, grabbing the glass from the girl, examining it. You motioned at the girl asking if you could have a sip. Tara nodded, giggling and smirking. “Holy fuck, what even is this?” You shouted, handing the girl back her glass, coughing slightly. “I don’t even know, Jake gave it to me,” she shrugged. You nodded, swallowing the thick liquor. You felt a hand at your side, looking back and remembering that Chris stood behind you. His hand now squeezes your waist, comforting you as you swallow the liquor.

You heard Nick yelling something to Tara, something about how many people were actually here or something. “You okay?” Chris spoke up, looking at you still grimacing at the liquid you just swallowed. All you did was nod, but your face said otherwise. A look of disgust still written all over. “God, never let me drink from Tara ever again,” you laughed. He smirked at your reaction. “Here, have some of this,” he handed you his cup of pepsi. You grabbed the cup, sipping the liquid. “Oh god, I think I might throw up,” you held up your hand to your mouth, covering it before anything could come out. Chris laughed at your outburst, but concern was still etched all over his face. You looked at him, a smile across your face as you swallowed.

four

Another party of Tara’s and you came to the party with all three of the boys this time. Matt felt up to the party, surprisingly. The four of you walked through the doorway, seeing Tara in her natural habitat. She had on a sparkly silver dress, one that you’ve definitely seen her wear before. You glanced down at your outfit, a nicely-fitted black dress that hugged all the right curves on your body. You tilted your head up, immediately making eye contact with Chris.

“You look amazing, Y/n,” he smiled at you. “Thank you,” your cheeks flushed, nervously shifting your weight. Tonight felt different. You felt something change between you and Chris, as if Chris had something to say. Something just felt different and you didn’t know how to react to it. Pushing the thought to the side, you walked over to Tara, leaving Chris with his brothers, who was downing two shots in one go. 

“Hey girl, what are we drinking tonight?” You asked her, looking at the shot glasses. “Vodka for tonight,” she beamed at you. You felt a figure come up behind you, assuming it was Chris, you turned around, smiling. But you come face to face with a blonde haired guy. His arms were buff and his chest was close to your face. 

“Oh, um, hi,” you spoke quietly, but loudly enough for him to hear over the music blasting in the background.

“Hey, pretty girl, did you come here alone?” He smirked, shifting his body closer to yours. “Uh no, I didn’t-”

“Wanna dance?” He asked, shouting over the music. Your mind thought of Chris but you pushed it aside once you glanced at him with his brothers. Tara had already left the two of you as she had rounds of people to greet. You nodded, shrugging as you thought nothing of it. You quickly downed the shot that Tara gave you before placing the shot glass down on the table and following the guy to the dance floor. Unbeknownst to you, Chris watched intently at the interaction between you and this random guy he’s never seen before. Chris’ jaw clenched as he watched the guy grab your waist as you danced in front of him. He didn’t know why he began feeling like this. You weren’t even his girlfriend, but he couldn’t imagine you being with anyone else. Almost as if his need for you accelerated beyond belief,  he stood up from the booth he sat in with his brothers and a few friends. Their gaze immediately fell on his figure, rage radiating off of him.

“Woah, Chris, are you okay?” Nick spoke up as he exchanged looks at Matt.

“Fine,” he clenched his teeth, seething with rage. Before either one of his brothers could say anything, Chris was already stomping past the bodies at the party, his gaze falling on the two of you. The guy barely realized what was happening before he was being shoved to the side. “What the fuck?” You yelled at Chris, seeing his chest heaving up and down. You could tell something was wrong.

“Fuck off,” he shoved the guy away from you. You watched, eyes widening at his outburst.

“Chris, what the fuck is wrong with you?” You shouted. All you heard was a huff escape his lips, before he grabbed your wrist and dragged you away from the man. You shot an apologetic look at the boy before you were no longer able to see him. Chris had taken you outside on the patio where a few people were. Most of them looked like they had a drink in hand or a blunt. You shook your head at the sight but were quickly brought back to reality when Chris smashed his lips on yours. Almost possessively, he grabbed your waist and pulled you closer to him. Your lips molded with his, the passion radiating off his lips heavily. You pulled away quickly, a look of confusion etched on your face.

“What was that?” you asked.

He looked at you, “I like you, y/n.”

You stared at him in disbelief.

“I’m serious. Like I really like you. So much. I can’t get you off my mind. I want to wake up next to you every morning and go to sleep lying next to you in my bed every night. I want to be able to call you mine, y/n. I love you, y/n. I love you so much, it consumes me everyday. I know I’ve said I don’t think I could ever find a girlfriend or a girl in general that could sweep me off my feet. But I did. I found you and you’re not just my best friend. I love you, y/n. ”

Your mouth opened and closed a few times, unable to form words. He watched you with unease, unable to read your expression. Your shoulders dropped, your eyes softening as you reached your hand up to his cheek, caressing it, before leaning up and colliding your lips once again.

“I love you, too, Chris.”

The two of you spent the rest of the party side by side. A newfound love radiating off of you both. Nick and Matt both questioned you when Chris dragged you back inside, hand in hand. But something was off.

“Um, did we like, miss something?” Nick piped up. Chris spent a few minutes explaining, but his hands never left your waist. 

“I fucking knew it, Matt give it to me,” Nick motioned his hand out to Matt’s. Matt huffed before grabbing his wallet out of his pocket and pulling out a ten dollar bill.

“Did you guys bet on this?” you spoke up. They both nodded, smiling cheekily.

“You bastards!” you gasped, but you couldn’t help but smile. 

bonus

It was the morning after Tarayummy’s party. Chris had spent all night showing his love to you. The two of you spoke about everything, from how scared Chris was about commitment to how lucky you were to have him. You both declared your love for each other that night.

The birds were chirping softly in the background. You felt a weight behind you shift, Chris mumbling something under his tongue as his eyes fluttered open. You shifted yourself to turn around facing him.

“Hi,” you spoke softly, a smile across your face. You watched as his lips turned upwards, his gaze falling on your face.

“Hi,” he grumbled, his morning voice evident. You felt his arm wrap around your waist, pulling you closer to his figure. You giggled, before speaking up.“How did you sleep?” All you heard was a hum before he smothered his face in your neck. Chris couldn’t help but inhale your familiar scent. His arm tightening around your waist. You felt his lips on your neck, placing soft kisses all over. You hummed, content with this gesture. You could wake up to this every morning.

tags ⋆ @recklessmatt @scvrllet @l34n @slutforsturniolos @flouvela @mattitvdes @certifiedstarrr @aesthetixhoe @chrissturnsss @bambi-slxt @slaytheday12

© sarosfilms | princekooks

[murdrdocs]

domestic barbie w a gf

she likes coffee. not black coffee, or anything that's even remotely close, but coffee that's sweet, with loads of add ons that cost way more than she's able to spend. so you've gotten in the habit of learning how to make them for her, and she watches over your shoulder, taking mental notes for herself.

she watches you cook with wonder in her blue eyes. dressed in a two piece pajama set, hair pinned back but her bangs frame her face. close to fine plays from your speaker and she hums to it, thinking back on her past life, but fondly watching her current life take place in front of her. "that smells good," she says, approaching you and wrapping her arms around your waist. her head rests on your shoulder and she smiles when she feels you start to mold your body against hers.

cooking isn't really barbie's forte, and you've told her multiple times that when she's over, she doesn't have to help you with anything. but on sunday's you wake up to her lugging the laundry basket down your hall, fluffy slippers slapping the hardwood floors as she goes. she's ... not the best at laundry, simply because before her clothes never had to be washed. and after a few white shirts ended up pink at the end of the cycle, she understands enough to forcibly push you out of the laundry room, giggling through a yell of, "i've got it!"

barbie knew the real world was beautiful, but everyday it seems to shine brighter. when she wakes up by your side, the smell of your shampoo wafting to her nose, and the linens smell freshly of lavender with a little vanilla mix. when the two of you spend the day running errands, songs belted in your car, coffee runs made, hands held in target. when you two sit on your couch at home, cuddled up with each other, a bowl of popcorn shared, and two sets of eyes focused on a show barbie has been dying to watch, but she refused to do so without you.

she knew the real world would be enjoyable, but this is much more than she could've hoped for.

[sweetlikehoneystingslikeabee]

This is a weird question but do you have any hcs about what the rogues wear to bed? I can picture what the Gotham City Sirens would wear but not the male rogues.

Does Two-Face have custom pajamas sewn together? Can Black Mask just throw on a t-shirt, or are his pjs as dressy as his regular clothes? Are all of Riddler's pjs green? What the hell would Scarecrow even wear?

The people need to know!

"Pajama Party" Rogue Party

Quick picks!

TW: None

Riddler

They are not all green, but green shows up often even in his out of work clothing. Either as trim or the spare speckles of paint or markers he's used. His pajamas are not free from this.

He likes soft, but also good-looking pajamas (in case of guests). However... does he wear them? On the occasions he actually goes to bed and doesn't just pass out over an invention or plans, yes! Otherwise...

Penguin

Silk. Monogrammed. Paid way too damn much for them but they're also perfectly tailored to his... proportions. He figures it's not that dissimilar to how he has to have his suits customized. The soft feeling of them against his skin is blissful. Makes him feel rich.

Mad Hatter

Has multiple nightshirts in a variety of colors and patterns. He doesn't actually like full two-piece pajamas because they remind him far too much of the scrub-like outfits he was made to wear in Arkham.

You could 100% get him on wearing kigurumi onsies if they were cute enough.

Scarecrow

He has a similar habit to Edward in that he falls asleep working pretty often. When he sets aside to actually go to bed, he wears a lot of old t-shirts with sweatpants. Many of them are from his days of being a professor (bought from the college store) or ones he came across over the years.

Music Meister

Buys cheesy print pajama sets on sale at like Kohl's or target. Multiple have music notes or even musical puns on the shirt. One shirt just says "I wish I lived in a musical" and he answers the door holding a yellow mug with the word "playbill" on it.

Victor Zsasz

Sleeps in whatever he's wearing that night or the nude. Have fun finding out which one when he gets in bed with you. Sometimes has the decency to pull off clothing that's caked with blood. At minimum he won't wear clothes with wet blood on them to bed! The bar is low but it's still a bar, right?

Killer Croc

There's a fair amount of times he sleeps in the nude simply because he already has a harder time finding clothing in his size. If he does wear something out of respect for whatever current company, it's a tank top with the largest sweats he could find. They're still stretched out from being over his thighs.

Harley Quinn

Oversized t-shirt or tank top with pajama shorts. She has a couple cute kigurumi onesies (including a hyena set to match her babies) for in the winter that she adores. Ultimate comfort creature when it comes to bed time.

Poison Ivy

It depends on if she's expecting to "impress" anybody. If she is, it's straight up lingerie that compliments against her green-hued skin. Teddies, corsets, whatever is going to make her target that much more susceptible. If not, it's a light silk robe where shes' still very attractive, it's just for her and not anyone else. Harley bought her a flannel set during a particularly harsh winter that she still pulls out when it gets too cold.

Two-Face

Jokes on you, it's not a pajama set split in the middle! ...It's actually a robe set along with rabbit slippers that are split in the middle. One white rabbit slipper, one pink and several multicolored robes sewn together from pairs. Harvey is kind of boring, he likes either monochrome with no pattern or stripes. Harv's side is leopard print or something else showy.

Black Mask

When he was growing up/a young man before the Incidents, he would wear five-hundred dollar minimum pajamas that had designer names on them. He still owns some of those sets so he does in fact wear them from time to time. However, his are more likely to have a fancier aesthetic than him spending that much money still.

Mr. Freeze

Due to the temperature requirements of his body, there are times he'll sleep in the suit. Is it good for him? Absolutely not, it does murder to his back. Plus the suit is a bit heavy for a mattress... he does have a sleeping chamber set to a low temperature where he'll effectively sleep in trunks on the bed with only a sheet covering him.

Ra's al-Ghul

Usually sleeps shirtless in a loose pair of cotton pants when he's closer to home where it's much warmer. In Gotham, though? In the winter? He'll wear thicker robes that will actually keep him warm.

Bane

He wears boxers to bed. He'll combine it with socks in the winter. It doesn't get more complex than that, honestly.

[l0rdgeosupport3rr]

Infatuation - Sukuna drabble

Request for : @piest4r

AU, gender neutral reader, first,second third person povs, fem bodied reader

Tw: stalking,suggestive behavior, possessive behavior,dubcon

As the moon hung high in the night sky, it cast a pale glow over the city streets below. The air was cool and crisp, carrying with it the scent of autumn. Amidst the quiet of the night, a figure moved silently, its steps calculated and deliberate.

There were no corners, no alleyways, no hidden places they didn't know about. They had spent weeks observing their target, learning their patterns and secrets. It was time to make their move.

Around a corner, they spotted them. The person who had occupied their thoughts day and night; the one who made their heart race and their blood boil. It was time to claim them as their own.

Sukuna stepped out of the shadows, his presence immediately commanding attention. His tall frame towered over his target, his powerful aura radiating with dominance.

"Finally found you," Sukuna said in a low voice that sent shivers down their spine.

Their eyes widened as they took in Sukuna's imposing figure. He looked like a god amongst men; strong, confident, and utterly captivating.

"You... you've been following me?" they stammered out, trying to process what was happening.

Sukuna nodded slowly, his gaze never leaving theirs. "I wanted to know everything about you," he admitted honestly.

A mix of fear and excitement coursed through their veins at Sukuna's confession. It should have terrified them that someone had been stalking them for weeks but there was something undeniably thrilling about it too.

"Why?" they asked softly.

"Because I couldn't get you out of my head," Sukuna replied honestly. "Every thought consumed me; every moment without you felt like torture."

He took a step closer to them, closing the distance between them slightly. "I needed to know everything about you so that I could make you mine."

Their breath caught in their throat at Sukuna's words. They never could have imagined that the one who had been stalking them would want them in such a possessive way.

Before they could respond, Sukuna reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a small package. He held it out to them, his gaze intense.

"I've been planning this for a while," Sukuna said as they took the package from him. "I wanted to be prepared for when the time was right."

They looked down at the package in their hand and slowly unwrapped it, revealing a pair of lacy black underwear. It was their favorite pair, the one they had mentioned in passing during one of their conversations.

A surge of desire rushed through them at the sight of the familiar underwear. They realized then that there was no denying how much they wanted Sukuna; how much they craved his dominance and possessiveness.

Looking up at him, their eyes filled with a mix of lust and need. "Fuck me, Sukuna," they whispered desperately.

Sukuna's lips curled into a predatory smile as he closed the remaining distance between them. He grabbed their waist roughly, pulling them against his body.

"With pleasure," he growled before crashing his lips onto theirs.

The world around them faded away as they gave themselves over to each other completely. There was no denying the connection that burned between them; it was primal, irresistible, and utterly intoxicating. When night finally fell you figured it was best to stay home and try to ignore this weird stalker who seemed infatuated with you.

You change into a satin pajama set and climb into bed flipping through channels when there’s a knock at your door startled, you walk over and open it cautiously only to come face-to-face with Sukuna himself.

“I told you that you’re mine” He whispered darkly And with that he stepped past me walking inside my apartment as if he owned the place.

I watched in shock as he made himself comfortable on my couch turning the TV off “Close the door sweetheart we have things to discuss.”

My feet moved on their own accord obeying his words as I closed the door behind him. Suddenly the world spun around me and when it righted itself we were no longer in my apartment.

Instead, we were standing inside a large bedroom that looked way too fancy and expensive for someone like me. It took a moment but I quickly realized where we were; this was Sukuna’s room.

“What are we doing here?” I asked confused as hell by everything that was happening

A predatory smirk graced his lips “I thought that would be obvious by now darling… I brought you here to show you, you’re mine. Now undress and get in bed”

My eyes went wide as my face turned a bright shade of red, I don’t know what I was expecting from him but this was definitely not it.

“W-what?” I stammered nervously

Sukuna sighed dramatically “Must I repeat myself? Get undressed and get in bed”

A shiver ran down my spine at the commanding tone in his voice, but I couldn’t help The defiance that welled up inside me.

I crossed my arms over my chest glaring at him

“No.”

The air in the room instantly grew thick with tension as Sukuna's eyes darkened and his face hardened. He rose from the couch, towering over me with an intimidating presence.

I could feel a mix of fear and arousal coursing through my veins, but I refused to let him see how much his commanding demeanor affected me. I held my ground, defiantly staring into his deep, penetrating gaze.

Sukuna took a step closer, closing the distance between us. His voice dropped to a low, dangerous growl. "You think you can defy me?" he said, his words dripping with dominance. "You think you can resist what we both know is inevitable?"

A shiver ran down my spine as his intoxicating aura engulfed me. My heart raced in my chest as I struggled to find my voice. "I... I don't belong to anyone," I managed to say, my voice laced with defiance.

A sinister smile played at the corners of Sukuna's lips. He moved even closer, until there was barely any space between us. I could feel the heat radiating from his body, igniting a fire within me that I couldn't ignore.

"Oh, sweetheart," he purred, his breath hot against my ear. "You will learn that you already belong to me." His hand gently cupped my chin, tilting my head back as he leaned down to claim my lips with a searing kiss.

A wave of desire washed over me as our mouths moved together in a fierce, passionate dance. Sukuna's kiss was demanding and possessive, leaving no doubt in my mind that he was in control.

I couldn't help but melt into him as his hands roamed my body purposefully. The soft fabric of my pajamas felt like a barrier between us that needed to be eliminated.

With one swift motion, Sukuna tore off the satin top, exposing my bare breasts to his hungry gaze. His eyes darkened with a primal hunger as he leaned down to capture one hardened nipple in his mouth, sucking and nipping at the sensitive flesh.

A moan escaped my lips as a surge of pleasure coursed through me. Sukuna's hands worked quickly to rid me of the remaining fabric, leaving me completely exposed and vulnerable before him.

I stood there, trembling with anticipation as he stepped back to admire the sight before him. "So fucking beautiful," he growled, his voice dripping with lust and admiration.

The intensity of his gaze sent a rush of wetness between my thighs. I could feel the ache for him growing stronger with each passing second. I wanted nothing more than to surrender myself completely to this dominant man who had claimed me as his own.

Sukuna's eyes locked with mine as he slowly began to remove his clothing, piece by piece. The sight of his sculpted body left me breathless, yearning for his touch in ways I never thought possible.

Once fully undressed, Sukuna climbed onto the bed, beckoning for me to join him with a crook of his finger. I hesitated for a moment, feeling a mix of nerves and excitement coursing through me.

But then Sukuna's voice filled the room once again, firm and commanding. "On your knees," he said, his tone brooking no argument.

My breath hitched at his words as I slowly made my way towards him on trembling legs. I knelt before him on the soft sheets, feeling a sense of submission that both scared and thrilled me.

Sukuna's hand gently cupped my cheek as he looked into my eyes with an intensity that sent shivers down my spine. "You're mine now," he said, his voice filled with possessiveness and desire. "And I'm going to make you remember that with every fucking touch."

He slowly traced his lips down my neck, and my body trembled in response. I closed my eyes and allowed him to take what he wanted.

[bathroomtrapped]

saw ask. so let's say hypothetically (not really) all the apprentices are autistic (they are) headcanon them

saw ask ‼️‼️ i completely agree unironically and i keep that in mind when i consume/write/draw saw content. jigsaw apprentices? more like PDA autistics anonymous jfc

i (shamefully) am not an amanda-guy and dont have pretty much any headcanons about her overall so sorry about that but ill do some bullet points for the apprentices bc ive thought TOO MUCH abt this

adam

1. the most obvious PDA manifestation, though i think its strong in mark and lawrence for sure, adam just doesnt mask his. he pretty much built his life around maximizing free will and full control over his schedule

2. constantly reducing sensory input with music and being baked. his apartment is dead silent and dark 24/7 tho

3. honestly i think adam has shocking high levels of empathy. most people in his life wouldnt peg him as someone who would struggle with that but i think its what sets him apart from nearly every saw character. hes so isolated but desperate to understand and connect with other people, even if hes in the shadows

4. studies high class targets and their mannerisms. it helped him function during a few job interviews

5. hates eating, hates effort so pretty much eats like shit. very few specific, cheap, prepackaged meals that he can handle. anything that isnt a time commitment to prepare and eat

6. talks too much to overcompensate (not sure if people are able to understand what hes getting at and ends up rambling)

lawrence

1. i hc him as a narc as well which (as you can imagine) combined with PDA makes instruction/criticism/responsibility stressful so hes constantly overloaded

2. same as above, combined with asd i think its the biggest reason he has that canonical low empathy (similar to mark)

3. can only eat incredibly plain and simple foods. rice, bread, vegetables without butters/oils etc. very picky

4. very little auditory sensory issues after so many years in a hospital and needs noise in order to function (including sleep)

5. started wearing pajamas under his suits after a few years in residency because hes already tired 24/7, the terrible fabric on top of that just makes him insane

6. struggled through med school because lectures are hard to interpret and hes more of a visual learner

7. so much eye contact

8. remember that dog picture in his wallet we see for like 5 seconds? i cant imagine someone like him enjoying the texture or sporadic energy of a dog and makes it sleep in dianas room at night. its not allowed in the office and he meticulously cleans all of the dog hair the second he sees any

9. absolutely allergic to change in every way

mark

1. low empathy as i mentioned before

2. he wears a lot loose fitting suits in canon which i think are for sensory reasons. he clearly prioritizes comfort with those (interesting) track pants?

3. i have joked with my mutuals about his off-putting, autistic ass stare countless times

4. terrible liar because he has less control over his facial expressions and mannerisms. he ends up making too much eye contact and thinks that brutal honesty is a good idea. he has an almost nonexistent filter

5. he reminds me of that brand of autism that a lot of patriarchs have, the kind that goes unnoticed bc theyre the head of the household. meat and potatoes his entire life, strange rituals and routines everyone has to get used to

6. extremely black and white sense of justice and a poor understanding of hierarchal authority. he doesnt get why people are above or below other people and struggles with those concepts

7. everyone in the precinct knows not to joke with mark because it will always fall flat and have to be explained. mark has rly funny but dry and blunt humor himself

[pinkiepiebones]

marionette.

one time Renfield couldn't finish a job. But then, he could. :)

This is fucked up/gory and I am high happy 420

The modern world is a dangerous place. Renfield understands.

He had a good idea of the extent of the house's security system. He had clipped some wires running along the outside. Nothing happened when he broke that window and unclicked the latch and slithered in, his gaunt form adventageous for slinking along the shadows and under modern, imported furniture.

These fucking nuclear families with their fucking palacial homes. Master could use a home like this.

Renfield watched from under a sofa as the security camera did its sweep. He crawled closer as soon as the red eye swiveled away and he yanked the cords out of the black plastic casing and out of the wall. He gave the cords more tugs, following them to a power hub in a linen closet. He crushed a bug in his teeth and crushed the blinking boxes with his hands.

The plastic cut him across the palms. Oh well. He had been dealt worse. He ran a bloodied hand through his shaggy hair and moved on.

Renfield stalked his way into the biggest bedroom first, ether-soaked rag in hand, to sure the parents were out.

They were, literally.

They were not home.

Renfield looked at the rag in his hand. His bottle was empty. He hadn't thought to buy a new one. Did ether have a fast evaporation rate?

Renfield spun on his heel and shambled across the fucking ostentatious home to the room of his target- the local cheerleader captain. He stopped at a door covered in Polaroids of teenage girls making stupid faces at the camera and magazine cutouts of vapid celebrites. He gripped his rag in one pale hand and slowly turned the knob with the other.

"Wh- who are you? What are you doing in my house?"

Renfield's eyes went wide. He turned his head just enough to look over his bony shoulder.

The cheerleader captain was standing just down the hall, a bowl of chips in one hand, a cell phone in the other, glittery pink nails shimmering in the soft light from an ambient wall lamp. Her blond hair was damp and tied back in a braid. She was wearing a tank top and short shorts as pajamas, her artificial tan somehow highlighting the contours of her acrobatics-defined leg muscles. She had bunny slippers.

Before she could scream, before the bowl shattered on the Brazillian rosewood floor, Renfield lept and forced the girl to the floor and twisted the long fingers of his free hand in her hair to hold her down, shoving his rag over her face, struggling to hold her as she kicked widly and scratched at his face and pulled at his arms.

"Shut up, shut up," Renfield hissed. He hated it when they struggled. Her hands moved more and more slowly. Her kicks were lessening. Good.

Then Renfield noticed the video chat on the phone was still on.

"Lil, what's going on? Who's there? I'm calling the cops!"

The phone had not been facing him and had been dropped, so the other girl hadn't seen him. Not that it mattered. Renfield crunched another bug and crunched the phone under his heel. He picked up his target and stalked out the front door and around the back to his car.

Renfield opened the trunk and set the cheerleader captain inside. He moved with the trance-like rehearsed motions of a late-night cashier. He picked up a roll of duct tape and slipped it over one bony wrist, using his other hand to pull and using his teeth to break it into strips. He duct taped the girl's arms behind her back and adjusted the thin strap of her pajama top and duct taped her legs together at the ankles, then the knees. Renfield let a cold hand linger on her warm, smooth thigh as he considered putting tape over her mouth.

Police sirens blared in the distance. Renfield swore and slammed the trunk shut and scrambled into the driver's seat. He sped away, towards home.

It wasn't long before he started hearing her crying. Renfield gripped the wheel tighter. He fiddled with the radio, but it was all static or preachers.

She wouldn't shut up. Begging him to let her go. Please, mister, just stop the car.

Renfield checked his watch. He stopped the car. Master was out hunting. This cheerleader was going to be, in a way, dessert for Master. A before-bed snack. Renfield had time to gag her, maybe choke her just until she lost consciousness.

Renfield got out on an unlit highway and opened the trunk with his key. The tiny light in the trunk cast itself on the sobbing girl.

"Mister, please don't kill me."

"I'm not. I just need to shut you up."

She squirmed further back into the trunk. "Please, my parents are loaded, please, they'll pay whatever you want to get me back."

"What I want can't be bought."

"Wh-wha, I-"

She coughed and started sobbing again. Renfield rolled his eyes and gripped her ankles and pulled her forward. She struggled.

"M-m-my name is Li-Lilian Harper! I'm eighteen! I just got an acceptance letter from my first choice school!"

Renfield stopped, duct tape in his teeth. He lowered the tape and glared at the girl with resentment and pity.

"You're name is Lilian." He shook his head, damning his feelings. "Why are you telling me this? You think this shit will save you?"

Lillian hiccuped and whimpered. "I heard that k-k-killers w-who form a connection w-w-with potential victims w-won't kill them."

Oh, Renfield. There you are.

A stinging sensation bloomed behind Renfield's eyes as Dracula took control of his sight. The world became sepia for Renfield, all dull except for shades of red. Renfield's eyes traveled up the girl's body.

Well now isn't this a lovely display? Hmm. But why oh why is she alive?

"Master, you- you love killing your meals..."

"W-Wh-Who are you talking to?"

Is it her name? Really? Or is it the feeling of something warm and alive, servant? The feeling of warm flesh against your cold, blood-stained hands? You want to free her, don't you?

"No, Master, of course n-"

"Who are you talking to?!"

//Renfield.//

Something in Renfield's head unplugged. He was still in his body, but not. He felt Dracula behind him, but not. Everything of the world was gone, save for Renfield, Dracula, and the girl.

Dracula raised his left arm.

Renfield did too.

Renfield felt his arm raise and saw it.

Renfield looked down at the girl. His eyes were still his eyes but also Dracula's and as Dracula chuckled Renfield tried to offer the girl offer Lillian some kind of apology.

Nothing escaped his lips.

Dracula reached for Renfield reached for the tire iron Dracula raised Renfield raised his arm Dracula laughed Renfield screamed the tire iron came slamming down on Lillian's face Dracula raised Renfield raised his arm again Her nose was flat her teeth were cracked Again Again Again

Dracula kept moving Renfield until the cheerleader captain's face was a red mush.

Dracula flicked his wrist and Renfield tossed the tire iron into the dry grass. Dracula lifted his claws and brought them down; Renfield reached up and closed the trunk.

Be quick about getting her home, servant. I can still get something to eat out of her.

"Yes, Master."

Oh, and, Renfield?

"Yes, Master?"

Never forget. You are mine to control. My puppet.

"Yes, Master."

Dracula exited Renfield's mind and Renfield collapsed to the asphalt and threw up. He shook and sobbed and trembled to his feet. He swiped his sleevr across his mouth and shuffled back into the driver's seat.

The silence was worse than the crying.

The modern world is a dangerous place. Renfield understands.

[boxwinebaddie]

Who initiated the kissing in the greenhouse?

ahhhh, the greenhouse kiss.

my magnum opus. ;)

shouldiactuallyfuckingwriteitgotohellunclenina!

smh, Any!Ways! i've been itching to talk about this, but it requires a lot of context, so i'll have to rewind time a lil and provide screenshots.

but before i begin:

again, it's probably my extreme levels of anxiety around being really annoying and irrelevant, however, this was sent to me a while ago and i am not sure how much we still care about lore around my dumb unfinished fanfiction, but i will say that, at the time i received this, i also had TWO Other Separate Anons who asked me questions about the greenhouse sequence and subsequent kiss and because i had only really mentioned it in a Couple...neither here nor there answers?

i was extremely surprised and flattered that it stood out enough to you to be asked about multiple times??? AAA?? again, i have the best readers in the world, thank you so much for caring. my face is red. ;-;

OKAY! FAIR WARNING!!!! THIS IS VERY, VERY, VEEERY LONG! and Lore Intensive. but you asked! so welcome to the shit show, baby!

so, to jog your re(memories), though, i highly doubt you'll need the refresher, you are all sharp as tacks and extremely brilliant, therefore, really just to set the scene for myself, we are in ravenstan's room,

which, because the crimson dawn sicktorian manwhorsion was ofc, once a very grand, luxurious upscale, upstate new york 1800s manor, a lot of the old furnishings stayed, so stan's room is basically this huge gothic vampire boy bedroom with a massive four column upholstery bed and beautiful black lace canopy that drapes down,

there's a huge dark-finish, wooden boudoir and matching vanity that is all hand-carved, very elegant, ancient and intricate...and also sticker-bombed with a million shitty, half-peeled skater-boy stickers...there's a chandelier and one of stan's combat boots is hanging from it and probably underwear, smh. metal posters all over the wall, dirty laundry all over the fancy ornate rug, half empty cheesy poof and taki bags, eye makeup smeared on Everything, especially the nice cool mirror, nasty crumbs in the bed ( stan did wipe those off before kyle sat...true luv ), lots of cringey stanime figurines on the old antique shelves. jers did comment on this like '...sailor moon?' and stan scoffed, a little defensive, and was like 'what's more badass and punk rock then a bunch of girls kicking ass and saving the galaxy?'

Hot Boy Shit.

so yes, we are in ravenstan's gothic victorian, chaotic boy fail disaster room, where stan is stripped ( literally ) of all his sexy lead-singer boy laviciousness, no dramatic eye makeup or perfectly blown out bleach blonde hair, no tiny vegan leather pants...rather, he is fresh from the shower in his big, ratty, holey terrance and phillip shirt, his uber lame skull and cross-bones pajama pants from the junior boys section of target, socks that don't match, his hair is back in the black standana, still damp, face bare, cheeks lightly flushed, where a blue star pimple patch sits on a very angry pimple, the lil stan beauty mark under his right eye is winking, lip ring shining in the romantic sicktorian lowlight of a crimson dawn, where he is nervously fiddling with his chipped black fingernails, sitting cross cross applesauce across from

...jerseykyle, secret love of his life, who looks perfect, even with his nightly skincare routine delayed from tonight's many dramas ( which, is really saying something, because kyle never delays his s.c., ever ) his hair is falling in effortless ginger waves about his sharp shoulders, the sun and moon glasses chain is gold and glorious, his green eyes, usually narrowed, are wide with wonder gazing over at raven of crimson dawn reduced to whoever he really is underneath it all, the fabric of his matching perfectly pressed silk flannel pajama set from marshalls extremely soft, however, his skin is slick with sweat and prickly after raven read his palms and said his love line was...long.

( help, lmao. )

what started out as a very awkward conversation and confrontation about raven of crimson dawn being trans has melted away into silly banter and shit-shooting between our two favorite boys who, though, by kyle's knowledge, have not known each other for more than a month, have extremely good conversational chemistry and are playful and vulnerable with each other in a way that suggests that they have been best friends and known each other all their lives...

...Interesting.

as their conversation moves from light-hearted subject matter and descends further into the darkness that surrounds very heavy shit, kyle, who has gotten pretty comfortable surprisingly, starts to speak in the heavy jersey accent before trying to smooth and iron it out.

this little exchange insues:

kyle says that, it's risky, but worth the reward, because ravenstan after a steep and shaky breath, dives into an abridged, sparknotes version of the pre-crimson dawn days, how it used to be a pipe dream, a little garage band thing the boys did for fun, hungry for fame but eating top ramen and drinking sunny d everyday, unaware that they would ever get recognized...

( my favorite pre-cd headstannon is actually is that on the fateful, fearful, tearful night of the concert they got scouted at, they're trying on their lil emo boy outfits in the bathroom to hype themselves up, stan is nervous to come out bc he thinks he looks stupid...he's wearing some dumb hot topic-y, party city vampire costume thing kenny got him as a joke w/ his eyeliner on...the boys get him to come out and they are all immediately GAGGED because why is our awkward, boy fail king...SEXY??? like stan why are you hOT??? and they start all barking and throwing money at him and trying to have him do a spin which was so nice bc he was so nervous. my boys. </3 )

then they do get recognized, shot into stardom and everything seems golden! but...it's pyrite. because cartman or the evil 'e' basically assigns them these little 'parts' to play in his perfectly placed show, stan says he just wanted to do what kenny did, sing his songs and not talk too much, just share his music...but e has kenny and stan swap personalities essentially and stan becomes raven. which, at first, was worth it because he got to preform, but it just became this thing he dreads, acting all high and mighty when he just feels fucking tiny and horrible, that he isn't allowed to write songs anymore and they all, essentially...Belong To E.

they have no freedom. no autonomy.

Whatsoever. </3

( sa tw :( it's a whole chapter and convo, obviously, stan also talks about working at ruffians, which is a massive gentleman's club but gentle those men were NOT, that his boss thought his name was too boring so they had him go by something ~exotic~ hence cuervo, which the man mistook for being reminiscent of the tequila brand jose cuervo, so those awful men just called him tequila day in and out while he was serving drinks...gazes and hands lingering, stan's boss telling him he could sing on stage on friday if let those rich men have their way...and that, unfortunately, thru those men, cd got signed. )

after that BOMBSHELL of a conversation, it's very sad and heartbreaking, but very eye-opening to kyle, who wrote raven off as this imbecilic, arrogant rockstar celebrity sheep who he's learned via the hate and this exchange, is extremely lovely, was treated horribly at every impasse of his life and remained kind and humble...he is like legitimately stunned by how perfectly imperfect raven of cd is.

speeeeaking of...okay, sorry, all of that was leading to

This.

so, ravenstan's eyes are rimmed red...the way one's would if they had been crying, he's also been periodically sniffling. feeling rarely kind and gentle, jerseykyle very tentatively asks if he's been crying and hope that it's not because kyle saw him in the mirror.

...i've talked about this before, but, bear with me:

stan shakes his head and tells him that it's because he's been reading a lot of insidious internet comments about him. marjorine told him not to, but it's hard not to listen when everyone is talking about you. he goes onto say that for every person that 'loves' him, five other people hate him. that there's always something wrong with him. his eyes are too far apart or close together, his lips are a weird shape, one hip is bigger than the other. there are accounts dedicated just to zooming in on his pants, weird horrible deep fake porn of him, the paps catching him buying tampons, trying to figure out who they're for and if he's secretly seeing someone ( he laughs and smiles, but it doesn't meet his eyes ) and that...he feels hideous. :(

this exchange happens, my favorite exchange in the fic:

( yes, we've all read it...here it is again. )

after that, overcome with emotion, ravenstan pulls jerseykyle in a very tender, loving embrace, holds him, thanks him, kyle is blushing, stan says he really needed to hear that...the deeper meaning of which crimson dawns on kyle when, suicide tw, during that hug, over his shoulder, he notices a VERY LARGE bottle of sleeping pills :( on his nightstand and a handle of vodka. ravenstan also mentioned being very tired of everything and just wanting to...sleep for a long time.

this does...deeply concern kyle. he tries not to dwell on it.

because, he's looking at raven of crimson dawn, in all his awkward, sweet boy, perfect-imperfect glory, who, in that vein, has a little bit of cinnamon flavored toothpaste left on his bottom lip.

yes...jersey was staring at it. intently. that gay ass bitch.

he goes to swipe it off raven's lip, which his thumb gently caresses, running over ravenstan's lovely lip ring, his heart is RACING.

stan puts his hand over kyle's before he can pull it away and feeling particularly brave, is about to ask jersey Something Important!

but gets interrupted.

this part which i didn't get to write is Integral and devastating to me because we watch all of stan's vulnerability IMMEDIATELY VANISH, hes undoing his hair, trying to shake it out, shakily pouring himself a very healthy-unhealthy shot, doing like two of them, is rushing around trying to find his hot boy clothes and starts...

doing the raven voice again.

fUUUUUUUUUUUCk.

raven, basically pretending like none of that happened is like, 'well, that's my cue, new jersey. i've got to get changed, but you're welcome to stick around...i'll give you a free show.' ;) <3 xxx

jerseykyle is...Haunted by this. bc he just watched the boy that he'd been getting to know very intimately and preciously in his bedroom immediately transform into this...Monster they made him into.

kyle declines, makes his leave, confused and dismayed, but while raven's back is turned, he steals the big pill bottle bc he's worried.

and that chapter, my favorite, ends with this.

AAAAAAAAAAAA I KNOW RIGHT!!!

Moving On! to the greenhouse chapter.

here's some more context you don't need:

flash forward. it's the big dramatic punk rock party ( rager, more like ) the label threw at the crimson dawn manwhorsion to celebrate marjorine's sindotrination into the band.

like i mentioned once or twice in another lore ask, j.k. has been drinking aaaaa lot, so he is very white boy SCHWASTED and seeking out a missing raven of crimson dawn who, in his stupefying stupor, is finding he is very attracted to and wants to kiss...very bad, lmao.

but yeah! finds him in his special stan greenhouse for gay boys who are nerdy about plants. jersey kyle is looking fierce as fuck, his hair is curly whirly, his sharp canines are pearly, i think he's wearing a black turtleneck and slacks, he looks chic and sleek, he is, however, slurring and shit-faced, swirling his wine around his crystal skull wine glass whilist RELENTLESSLY flirting with raven of crimson dawn.

who, again, is rarely sober, he's wearing a little gardening apron over his party outfit ( aw ), his hair is back in the standana, there's a lil dirt on his cheek, he is stuttering and stammering so much omg.

BUT, OKAY, AS FOR THE KISS! the lead in is this:

sober ravenstan is trying to hydrate very drunk jerseykyle all like "kyle broflovski, when was the last time you drank water?" and kyle being a nasty disgusting floozy is like "can't rememba...buuuut my name sounds good in ya mouth." ;) JAIL! GO TO HELL! but ravenstan, trying to be logical because he knows kyle can't is like "kyle, i need you to be serious. you have your civil procedures class at seven and that advanced legal research at nine and after that you've got--"

and kyle's entire world stops. because raven of crimson dawn, who has the world's worst case of adhd and cannot remember anything...

memorized his school schedule. :')

THIS HAPPENS...

AND BAM!!!! GREENHOUSE KISS. <333

which...Whew. very quickly escalates into a very messy makeout session, the greenhouse windows are fogging up from the HEAT. at one point which i tried to reference in the vampire mv para i'm writing, jersey kyle knocks a bunch of plants in pots sitting up on this shelf to put stan on it. there is a part in six where while jersey is stiring his lasagna sauce in the kitchen, stan sits up on the counter like a nasty slutty skanky indecent boy with no manners, kyle smakcs his tiny ass with the kochlefl and was like "it's rude to sit on counters."

soooo naturally, stan, breathlessly, being a little shit is like "i thought it was rude to sit on counters." and kyle is like "oh, so now you want to be polite?" AND NO HE DOES NOT! ;) because it's getting freak nasty in there, my woooord, ravenstan is trying to get kyle's shirt off my goodness and, jk, you know, not wanting to rush into anything is like "raven, i think--i think we should slow down" and stan, smirking, not listening ( stan special ) and is v liberally kissing down kyle's neck ( which, fun fact, jersey's neck is very sensitive and if you ever want kyle to shut up, that will immediately make him dead quiet ) says...

"you talk too much, mi sabelotodo." ;)

WHIIIIIIIIIICH...was the wrong thing to say, girls, gays and theys...

because jerseykyle immediately pulls back...

IN HORROR.

but that's an ask for another day. :* <3 xxx

-uncle nina, curator of CHAOS

[l1ft-l1ft1ng-l1ft3d]

What I l1ft3d from 4/1/2023 - 4/30/2023

American Eagle Outfitters:

- Rolling Stones oversized crewneck sweatshirt

Barnes & Noble:

- 7 books (4/2/2023)

- Paper Source Scantron tote bag

- San Francisco tote bag

- 6 books (4/6/2023)

- 8 books (4/8/2023)

- 5 books (4/11/2023)

- 7 books (4/16/2023)

- B&N canvas tote bag - black + gold (4/16/2023)

- 4 books (4/17/2023)

- Out of Print Library tote bag

- 7 books (4/22/2023)

- 4 books (4/25/2023)

- 1 book (4/27/2023)

CVS:

- CeraVe Psoriasis Moisturizing Cream

- Get Well greeting card

- Okabashi slides (coral)

- RawSugar Sugar Scrub (Pineapple + Maqui Berry + Coconut)

- Scünci 2-pcs Scrunchies (blue tie-dye + blue paisley)

- Scünci 1-pc Scrunchie (orange + peach tie dye)

- Kitsch satin pillowcase (Aura)

- Weleda Skin Food Light Nourishing Cream

- CeraVe Skin Renewing Night Cream

Dick's Sporting Goods:

- Nike crewneck logo sweatshirt (white)

- 47 Giants pullover hoodie (gray)

- Stanley H2O Quencher H2.0 Tumbler - 40 oz (rose gold)

- Nike crewneck pullover sweatshirt (lavender)

- North Face crewneck pullover sweatshirt (marine blue)

- 47 Sacramento Kings long-sleeve graphic t-shirt

- Nike Hydrastrong one-piece swim suit (black)

-  Hydroflask lunch box

- Nike crewneck pullover sweatshirt (guava pink)

- Stanley H2O Quencher H2.0 Tumbler - 40 oz (gray)

- The North Face Pride tote bag

- Nike crewneck pullover sweatshirt (beige)

- Stanley 30 oz. Ice Flow Tumbler with Flip Straw (Lavender)

- 2 Adidas hats (blue & pastel green)

- Calia foam slides (gray)

- Body Glide Foot Glide Stick

- SKLZ Targeted Massage Ball

Hobby Lobby:

- Metal Earth 1908 Ford Model T Steel Model Kit (for Dad)

- Metal Earth 1965 Ford Mustang Steel Model Kit (for Dad)

- GellyRoll Moonlight Gel Pen set (10 pcs)

- Perler Clear Pegboards (5 pcs.)

- Perler 6000 beads bag

- Dumbo applique patch

- Winnie the Pooh Iron-On Patch Set

- Peanuts Iron-On patch

- Fabric remnant (black + white dogs)

Hollister:

- Matisse graphic t-shirt

- Sunset tie-dye hoodie

Home Goods:

- Porter 2-pcs Silicone Bags

- Eco Seroa Set of 20 Reusable Kitchen Towels

- OXO Steel Pop Container - 2.1 qt

- OXO Steel Pop Container - 0.2 qt

- Progressive silicone microwave turntable protector

J.C. Penney:

- 2 pairs Adidas tennis shoes

- Levi's graphic t-shirt (gray)

- Wrangler High Rise Vintage 3" Shorts (black)

- Wrangler Roll Shorts

- Levi's 501 cut off shorts

- 4 Levi's graphic t-shirts (black, navy, orange, lime green)

- Wrangler crop graphic t-shirt (pale yellow)

- Wrangler graphic t-shirt (gray)

- ANA 1/2 button down tunic blouse (army green)

- Puma DryCell athletic shorts

- Levi's 711 Skinny jeans

- Wrangler High Rise Rodeo Straight Crop jeans

- 3 Levi's t-shirts (2 white / 1 blue)

- Wrangler t-shirt (rust)

- Levi's 501 Original jeans (gray)

- Rebok leggings

- Rebok sports bra

- ANA short sleeve t-shirt

Lowe's:

- Style Selections Plastic Soap Dish

- Yardsmith Hand Tool Weeder (** for Mom **)

- 2 packs of weed whacker "string"

Macy's:

- Ralph Lauren pajama set (blue + white stripes)

- Calvin Klein Performance quarter zip hoodie (gray)

- Levi's cropped peasant blouse (cream)

- Levi's graphic crewneck sweatshirt (navy)

- Levi's High Rise Mom Jean Shorts

- And Now This bodysuit (black)

- Rebok full-zip hoodie (tangerine)

- Levi's High Rise Mom Jeans (distressed)

- Levi's white button down linen short sleeve shirt

- Levi's ribbed t-shirt (pink + white stripes)

- Levi's graphic t-shirt (periwinkle)

- Jenni short pajama set (chambray)

- Ralph Lauren terry cloth bathrobe (white)

- Ralph Lauren light bathrobe (gray)

- Levi's Ex-Boyfriend Trucker Jacket (cream)

- Levi's ribbed scoop-neck crop t-shirt (blue, yellow, lime green)

- And Now This bodysuit (cream)

- Ralph Lauren light bathrobe (navy)

- Ralph Lauren pajama set (gray w/white stripes)

- Levi's 501 Shorts (medium blue denim)

- Levi's graphic t-shirt (cream)

- Calvin Klein Performance full-zip hoodie (olive)

- Levi's 501 cut off shorts (light blue)

- Levi's corduroy jacket w/sherpa collar

- Rebok full-zip sweatshirt (lavender)

- Ralph Lauren button-down sleep shirt (blue + white stripes)

- Short-sleeve + shorts pajama set (flowers + smiley faces)

- Levi's 501 Skinny jeans

- Ralph Lauren pajama set (*** For Mom! ** pink + blue paisley - size M)

- Ralph Lauren button-down sleep shirt (pink + white stripes)

- Levi's ribbed scoop-neck shirt (blue + white stripes)

- Calvin Klein Performance full-zip hoodie (pea green)

- Calvin Klein Performance ribbed v-neck long sleeve shirt (gray)

- Columbia microfleece full zip sweater (hot pink)

- Ralph Lauren pajama set (navy blue + white polka dots - capri bottoms)

- Levi's graphic t-shirt (salmon)

- Levi's flannel button-down shirt (brown, black + white)

- Columbia full zip fleece sweater

- Ralph Lauren pajama set (blue + white paisley)

- 2 Wacoal bras

- Ralph Lauren pajama set (pink + blue paisley)

- Levi's ribbed button-down t-shirt

- Levi's flannel button down shirt

Michael's Crafts

- Scotch Thermal Laminator

Target:

- EOS Shea Better 24H Moisture Body Lotion (Vanilla Cashmere)

- E.L.F. Luminous Putty Primer

- Bananagrams game

- Brita Elite 10 Cup water filtration pitcher

- Byoma Balancing Face Mist

- Byoma Melting Balm Cleanser

- Mielle Rosemary Mint Strengthening Hair Masque

- TruSkin Vitamin C Super Serum +

- Rowenta X-Cel Steam Easy garment steamer

- TruSkin Vitamin C Facial Serum

- Threshold recycled glass soap dish

- Good Chemistry Magnolia Violet perfume

- E.L.F Luminous Putty Primer

- ColourPop Feather Effect Styling Wax

- ColourPop Feather Effect Brow Brush

- OXO 3-Piece Suction Bath Set

- C4 Ultimate Pre-Workout (Icy Blue Razz)

- Keurig Descale & Cleanse Starter Kit

- Squatty Potty Bamboo Flip stool

- Peds Mid Cut socks (6 pack)

- Pacifica Indian Coconut Nectar perfume

- Hero Rescue Balm

- Pixi On-the-Glow Bronze (Rich Glow)

- Pixi On-the-Glow Blush (Juicy)

- Pixi On-the-Glow Blush (Ruby)

- Revlon Oil Absorbing Roller

- Revlon Facial Roller Refill

- EcoTools Body Gua Sha

- OXO 3-Piece Bath Suction Set

- OXO Hair Catch Drain Protector

- OXO 7-Piece Clip Set

Ulta:

- Philosophy Amazing Grace Eau de Parfum

- Philosophy Amazing Grace Shampoo, Bath & Shower Gel

- Mario Badescu Facial Spray with Aloe, Herbs and Rosewater

- Hero Force Shield Superfood Serum Stick

- Bumble & Bumble BB Bond-Building Repair Oil Serum

- Bumble & Bumble BB Hairdresser's Invisible Oil

- Fur Oil (2.5 FL oz.)

- Drunk Elephant Lippe Balm

- Mario Badescu Drying Lotion

- Briogeo Farewell Frizz Smoothing Shampoo

- Lanolips Lip Water

- Bumble & Bumble Bb Hairdresser's Invisible Oil Heat/UV Protective Primer

- Cosrx Advanced Snail Peptide Eye Cream

- Drunk Elephant C-Tango Multivitamin Eye Cream

- Lanolips Glossybalms (Berry)

Walgreen's:

- Aveeno Eczema Therapy Rescue Relief Treatment Gel Cream

- Microban 24 Hour Sanitizing Spray (Citrus Scent)

- CeraVe Healing Ointment (5 oz.)

- Shea Moisture 100% Pure Jamaican Black Castor Oil

- Billie Razor Dream Pop Starter Kit

- Billie Razor Malibu travel razor case

- Differin Dark Spot Correcting Serum

- La Roche-Posay Toleriane Double Repair Matte Moisturizer

- Kristin Ess Weightless Hydration Daily Scalp + Hair Mask

- Olay Hyaluronic Nourishing + Hydrating Body Lotion

- CoverGirl Color Correcting Serum Moisturizer Primer (Redness Neutralizer)

- Essie Hard To Resist Advanced nail strengthener

- Essie Speed-Setter top coat

- The Honest Co. Gently Nourishing Bubble Bath (Sweet Almond)

- Olly Extra Strength Sleep gummies (70-count)

- Scünci 5-Pcs Headwraps

- Dr. Bronner's Lavender Organic Hand Sanitizer

- G2 Limited Edition Mineral Art Premium Gel Roller pens (4-count)

- Aveno Daily Moisturizing Body Oil Mist

- Gimme Thick Hair bands (6 pcs - black)

- The Original Make Up Eraser 7- Day Set (black)

- Shea Moisture Pink Himalayan Salt Relaxing Bar Soap

- Goli Ashwaganda Gummies

- Scünci 5-piece headwraps

VS Pink:

- Embroidered Logo crewneck pullover sweatshirt

- Logo full zip sweater (pink)

- Logo full zip sweater (cream)

- Flared yoga pants w/fold-over waistband

-  Black leggings

- Short pajama set

Total: 245 items

[autumn-solitude]

1000ish word snippet of a wip with the dynamic I'm aiming for between Killer and Cross (in a modern au setting).

In which Cross is rudely awoken by his bodyguard and Killer takes the opportunity to take a nice cozy nap on top of his surly client:

Cross woke with a start, tank soaked with sweat that followed the imagined threat from his nightmares. Reality sank in and his magic flared immediately in response to an actual threat.

Someone was in the room with him.

Cross acted on the impulse of the sudden danger, lashing out without any thought apart from 'eliminate the threat'.

The blue bone attacks from his attacker were swifter, jamming through each of Cross’ humeri, ulna and radius. Just as quickly, a sharp blade lightly slid up along the front of each of Cross' cervical vertebrae, dipping between each one to flick sensitive magic, until the flat of the knife tapped beneath Cross’ jawbone to tilt his skull back.

White eye lights blazed in irritation up at the empty black sockets with liquid hate dripping down from them (and splattering onto his face) above a bemused toothy grin.

“Good mornin', sleeping beauty.” The blade pressed harder but didn’t draw any marrow as the grin Killer wore tugged wider, the empty sockets squinted up in glee. “I coulda already offed you three times before you woke up. You slippin' up on me, Mr. ‘I-can-take-care-of-myself’?"

Killer was a fucking menace; how did he ever become a bodyguard when he pulled stunts like this?

“Couldn’t help but notice you helped all your neighbors out with fixing up their places and all but then do a shit job keeping this place locked up tight.” Killer added, shaking his head as if disappointed. The knife blade kept Cross' skull tipped back. “So I got ya new locks for your front door, bedroom and the windows. Oh, and some boards for when you need to block the doors or windows when I ain't round. Aaaand, I added some audio mics around the place and one cam near the front door, in case you decide to sleep through possibly being killed or abducted, and I gotta come rescue your burly ass.”

“That’s not in your job description.” Cross pointed out, discreetly shifting the lower half of his body, only to find that Killer had his legs pinned with his own. "And I'm not burly. S'just the magic." Cross found that Killer had one arm braced on his chest while the other held the knife to his throat. Killer looked like he was having the time of his life harassing the monster he was supposed to be guarding.

“It isn’t part of my job, but let’s call it an investment to your continued well-being.” Killer agreed too easily as he moved the knife away and shimmied backward, so he was perched on Cross’ lap. A leer appeared as Killer looked Cross over. “And nah. You're a big guy even without the summoned magic. By the way, nice pajamas. Didn’t know that your man tits could be contained like that without the fabric tearing. 'specially with it soaked in sweat. You gonna change that?”

“I get hot at night.” Cross defended his tight tank top that currently hugged his ribcage and defined the magic formed beneath. He declined to comment on exchanging the sweat drenched one for a new one with how intent Killer's gaze currently was.

“I’ll agree with the ‘hot’ part.” Killer said distractedly as he tucked his knife away somewhere.

“What do you want from me, for the 'upgrades' to the apartment?” Cross asked grudgingly, tensing when he saw Killer's leer deepen.

“Oh, not much.” Killer said, still smiling that infuriating grin. “Just this.” The target soul hovering over his chest went to an inverted heart as he shuffled back. Then, without warning, Killer sprawled himself across Cross’ body, soul pressing into Cross as Killer face-planted directly into the other’s chest. “Mmm, nice cushioning you got here, Crossy.”

“Get off.” Cross demanded, acutely aware of the way Killer’s soul trapped between them hummed with delight. Cross' battered soul was a traitor as it contently thrummed in return to the other soul's closeness.

The blue attacks vanished.

Killer let out an obnoxious snoring noise.

“Killer.”

“Shh. You asked what I wanted; this is it. I’m taking my payment by burying my face into your warm man tits despite the magic sweat-soaked tank top and getting a bit of shuteye before dealing with your self-destructive bullshit.”

“It’s magical padding, you ass!” Cross retorted hotly; he was not blushing. He was not blushing.

"Is that what they're calling it now?"

"Killer."

"You don't have to have your ecto summoned, but it sure is comfy."

"I'm burring off some excess magic since you don't want me going to the gym as often as I normally do!" Cross grumbled; he should shove Killer off of him.

“Mmm, if this is the outcome, then maybe you should work out less." Killer sighed into Cross' chest. "You're so nice and toasty.”

“Killer!”

“That’s my name.” Killer drawled as he nuzzled his face further in to enjoy the warm magic beneath the tank top, sighing happily. “Don’t wear it out till I've gotten to take you out for a celebratory ‘hey, you didn’t die’ drink. For now, I'm gonna take that nap." Smug bastard did exactly as he said and dozed off cuddled on top of Cross.

A short silence passed.

"Do you want me to leave?" A sudden question, as Killer's body tensed as if to move.

Cross hesitated, then really listened to Killer's soul as it beat between them.

Acceptance/Worry/Self-Hate

"Killer."

"Yeah?"

"I am going back to sleep." Cross said, sockets closing. "Try not to kill me."

"Heh. Sure thing, Crossy."

Cross quietly listened again to Killer's soul.

Surprise/Guilt/Gratefulness

The time that followed gave Cross time to think of his life choices that led him to this point. To where it landed him with Killer as his appointed bodyguard for witness protection for an upcoming trial. All the while, both he and the actually now asleep Killer both knew perfectly well that Cross was more than capable of freeing himself once the blue attacks had vanished.

But Killer knew Cross was lonely, and Cross knew that Killer had trouble lowering his guard for long enough to get any decent sleep.

Cross couldn't help but feel that this wasn't going to end well. He didn't sleep the rest of that night. Instead, Cross guarded the slumbering Killer's sleep, since he was aware that Killer was doing his best to prevent Cross from getting himself killed.

[pjunicornart]

Rainbow Milo

Sooooo I lied. Bubblegum isn't the last Scout. :P In fact Rainbow here isn't even the last Scout, he's second to last!

Bio: Rainbow - along with Pajama - was created by Rosey on a whim. He's the youngest out of all the Scouts, and he's certainly treated like it. His family means well, but they mostly forget that he's 18 now, and can hold his own. "His own" is a disaster child with magic that's coded by colors. His family's just gotta let him do his own thing.

Basic Info Nicknames: Rain, Bow, BB, Shorty (by Rosey only) Age: 18 Height: 5'3" Gender Identity: Transgender (FTM, he/him) Sexual Orientation: Homosexual Medical Issues: Autism, Allergies (dust and pollen), Anxiety Can't Leave the House Without: Backpack, phone, snacks, fidget toys, hand sanitizer, tissues

Relationships Rosey - Mother, very good Candy - Sibling, doesn't treat him like a kid Studio - Sibling, distant Cupcake - Sibling, jealous of his rainbow ability Bubblegum - Sibling, finds him annoying Pajama - Sibling, still trying to break the habit of babying him

Powers Red - Summons a small fire tornado to burn what's in his way. Orange - Allows him to shrink himself down for a limited amount of time. Can be used to make quick escapes. Yellow - Short circuit. This ability only works on cybernetic enemies, and it's not practical to use in most settings. It causes enemies to malfunction. Green - Scope. It allows him to basically zoom in and out with his vision, and it helps him eye fair away targets. This also lets him see heat signatures if prompted. Blue - Icy tips. Anything he touches will immediately become encased in ice. Purple - Allows him to spit out sticks of dynamite. Don't question it... Pink - Creates arrows that can be used as projectiles. Black - Teleportation. Only works for a few feet. White - Causes him to sprout a pair of angel-like wings, which he can either use as a shield or to fly. This ability doesn't last long. Rainbow - Cake for everybody!

Miscellaneous Little Facts - His design is inspired by many Weirdcore/Kidcore looks that I've stumbled upon. - His chaotic color coded magic is inspired by the TF2 Freak named Weaselcake. - If I had to choose one specific song for him to be inspired by, it would be "Still Time 4 Jammin'" by General Mumble ft. 4lung. - He's had meltdowns because he didn't know where his backpack was before. - Speaking of, his backpack is magical. Whatever he needs, he can pull it out of there. - Rainbow loves more hardcore music. Like Breakcore. - You'll know what color magic he's about to use by the color of his fingertips. Too bad he keeps those covered... oh well. - He hates parties, and by extension surprises. - Rainbow is a huge crybaby. - His design was also designed to be a contrast of light and bright colors. - When he's really excited, he'll stamp his feet in place. - He wants a pet. He's not sure what type of pet, though... - He doesn't have much control over his powers yet... so in battle it's not uncommon for him to use the completely wrong attack. - His love language is very much physical. He loves snuggles. - His odd obsession is collecting interesting hazard signs from various universes. He likes to hang them up in his room. - Cold or hot, he'll wear a onesie if he fucking wants to, damn it! - He prefers tortilla chips over potato chips. - Rainbow watches all types of TV, but he especially loves cartoons. - He doesn't leave the house often. He likes to stay at home, chilling out on the couch in comfy clothes watching TV. - Rainbow feels touch starved after a period of time, and so will seek out hugs from his family. Mostly from his mother. - Rainbow has a deathly fear of bugs, and he will scream if he sees one. - The hearts on his cheeks are just stickers, and he has a lot of colors to choose from. - He doesn't like adventuring. When he's asked to go out on a mission it'll be met with an "Ugh" from him.

Hey! Go check out Rainbow's family, too! Candy... Studio... Cupcake... Bubblegum... Pajama... Rosey...

[aphilosopherchair]

The Bedtime Cosmos Gossiper

An AI Thriller-Comedy Collaboration between Bard and Hugging Face, with some interference from a biological entity.

To capitalize on the hype surrounding an escalating space race, social media lords in an alternate timeline decided to expand the range of their location tags to outer space, where commercial outposts and interplanetary tourism shuttles were starting to emerge. They were too happy to turn the science fiction novels they adored into reality, except that they had no idea, no idea at all, how much stranger than fiction reality was.

Jimena was just another kid pajamas influencer on video channels and Twitter until one fateful day, she received a mysterious direct message from none other than the Sun itself! The tag of the account confirmed its location, where no conceivable organism could possibly stay. Little did Jimena know that the Sun was sentient and had been using social media as a secret platform for celestial bodies to share their private interests, thoughts and lives with each other.

Was it a technical error or a prank? Could it be passed off as one? Nobody was taking chances. The message from the Sun contained some juicy celestial secrets - but before Jimena could even process what she had read, she started getting messages from all sorts of astronomical entities demanding she delete her knowledge of their dirty laundry. But Jimena wasn't going down without a fight; she knew that this was the biggest opportunity for her career and refused to back down.

As she began designing pajamas videos hinting at the gossip-worthy content, she quickly became a target for all sorts of interstellar enemies - including asteroid belts, black holes, supernovae, and even a vengeful solar wind. With the entire cosmos against her, Jimena realized she would have to rely on her quick wit and sharp tongue if she wanted to survive long enough to see her big breakthrough.

Despite the odds stacked against her, Jimena managed to outsmart the forces aligned against her by tapping into a vast collection of memes, GIFs, and viral content. For a start, she created and showed to the belts, for the purpose of deterrence, memes comparing different asteroid belts, which could turn them into fashion trends among teenagers. When those teens grew up, they might become billionaire investors on asteroid mining companies, resulting in the destruction of the belts due to over exploitation. Jimena also pulled out algorithms pushing endless recommendations of video shorts of clumsy comets and astronauts that were so funny and entertaining that they became all-sucking black holes to the black holes, who could not resist looking at them. While they were hooked, she of course escaped their gravitational pull. To generate even more distraction, she spammed the internet highway with space probe-facilitated, 24/7 livestreams of her interstellar enemies' celestial crushes. The physically restless supernovae might be harder to subdue but our girl proved there was nothing a series of rainbow flash selfie challenges could not solve.

Ready?

Get set.

Smileyous smileyosion!

Her followers went wild as they watched her take down asteroid belts, fend off black holes and more, all while wearing her signature footie pajamas.

Enraged at the incompetency of its fad-chasing allies, the solar wind finally took action. It began to send an unprecedentedly tremendous explosion of energy toward Jimena, overwhelming Earth's magnetosphere and nearly causing her to be vaporized. She knew she had to do something, but what? Suddenly, Jimena had an idea. She reached into her pocket, opened up Twitter again and started typing.

"Attention, solar wind!" she DMed. "My stories about you were just beginning. I'm a genius at reading between the lines and projecting story developments. So I know your other secrets. I know about the time you accidentally blew up a planet. I know about the time you had an even more torrid affair with a black hole. And I know about the time you got drunk and crashed into a star. If you don't back off, I'm going to go live and tell everyone."

And so even the solar wind stopped in its tracks. Sometimes, the best way to fight back is with humor and truth, she chuckled carelessly to herself.

Jimena emerged victorious and started to return to making pajamas videos. But the eerie ease with which she returned to her original work, free of any more cosmic interference, also started to feel wrong. Why were her many gigantic and mega-powerful enemies so readily intimidated and distracted? She reflected on the private message she first came across and the content she eventually made or promoted in self-defense. Those interstellar entities led long but also lonely lives, barely able to have peaceful physical contact with anyone. Was it really right to prey on their secrets? Maybe, she thought, there might be a better use of her talents than spreading gossip and creating controversy.

Jimena decided to reach out to the celestial bodies she had gossiped about and apologized for her actions. The celestial bodies were surprised and grateful for Jimena's apology. They told her that they had been isolated for a long time yet fearful of revealing their sentience to the fast-learning earthlings and that they were glad to have someone to talk to. Jimena and the celestial bodies became friends, and they often talked to each other about their lives. By and by, Jimena learned a lot about the universe, and she came to appreciate the beauty of the cosmos. This beauty should be woven into her craft, not through the superficially science-imitating kitsch flooding the market, but through actions which kindness the beauty evokes feelings of.

With renewed determination, she pressed record on her camera and spoke directly to her audience. “You guys,” she said softly, “I hope this will be the start of our journey together towards a brighter future.” A smile brightened her face as she signed off, ready to embark on this new chapter in her digital legacy.

As for her fans? Many left disappointed that she was not stirring up drama anymore. Some stayed, drawn to her updated style and approachable personality. Others found fresh voices online better suited to their interests, or simply moved on to newer forms of digital escapism. But no matter what the outcome, Jimena remained resolute in her mission to better herself and the world, one post at a time.

Inspired by her example, countless young individuals followed suit, focusing on artistry rather than angst, building connections versus clickbait.

One day, years later, Jimena stepped backstage following a successful speech discussing digital ethics. Approached by a younger creator sharing similar ideals, she hugged the girl warmly, memories flooding back to her. “Remember, little sister,” she whispered, choking back tears of pride mixed with gratitude, “the whole universe is silently crying out for niceness.”

Space images embedded with the permission of NASA and ESA under their standard conditions. Sources (from top to bottom): NASA, NASA, ESA.

[moondoll4dg]

Winter Wardrobe Essentials❄️☕🍫🎄

-Indoors-

wool lined sweatpants

thermal wear (from uniqlo)

thick wool socks

fleece lined leggings

warm cute pajama sets (check target for good inexpensive ones)

thick house slippers

-Outdoors-

wool lined jacket

fleece lined leggings/stockings

thick warm coat (this is my favorite)

red and black turtlenecks

black and dark blue skinny jeans

lugz convoy fur boots

fitted long sleeve shirts (to layer under clothes)

[xtruss]

The Secret Life and Anonymous Death of the Most Prolific War-Crimes Investigator in History

When Mustafa Died, in the Earthquakes in Türkiye, his Work in Syria had Assisted in the Prosecutions of Numerous Figures in Bashar al-Assad’s Regime.

— By Ben Taub | September 14, 2023

Photo Illustration By Cristiana Couceiro; Source Photograph From Getty Images

It Was 4:17 A.M. on February 6th in Antakya, an Ancient Turkish City Near the Syrian Border, when the earth tore open and people’s beds began to shake. On the third floor of an apartment in the Ekinci neighborhood, Anwar Saadeddin, a former brigadier general in the Syrian Army, awoke to the sounds of glass breaking, cupboard doors banging, and jars of tahini and cured eggplant spilling onto the floor. He climbed out of bed, but, for almost thirty seconds, he was unable to keep his footing; the building was moving side to side. When the earthquake subsided, he tried to call his daughter Rula, who lived down the road, but the cellular network was down.

Thirty seconds after the first quake, the building started moving again, this time up and down, with such violence that an exterior wall sheared open, and rain started pouring in. The noise was tremendous—concrete splitting, rebar bending, plates shattering, neighbors screaming. When the shaking stopped, about a minute later, Saadeddin, who is in his late sixties, and his wife walked down three flights of stairs, dressed in pajamas and sandals, and went out into the cold.

“All of Antakya was black—there was no electricity anywhere,” Saadeddin recalled. Thousands of the city’s buildings had collapsed. Survivors spilled into the streets, crowding rubble-strewn alleyways and searching for open ground, as minarets toppled and glass shards fluttered down from tower blocks. The general and his wife set off in the direction of the building where Rula lived, with her husband, Mustafa, and their four children.

A third quake shook the ground. When Saadeddin made it to his daughter’s apartment block, flashes of lighting illuminated what was now a fourteen-story grave. The building—which had been completed less than two years earlier—had twisted as it toppled over, crushing many of the residents. Saadeddin felt his body drained of all emotion, almost as if it didn’t belong to him.

Saadeddin was not the only person searching for Rula and her family. For the past decade, her husband, Mustafa, had quietly served as the deputy chief of Syria investigations for the Commission for International Justice and Accountability, a group that has captured more than a million pages of documents from Syrian military and intelligence facilities. Using these files, lawyers at the cija have prepared some of the most comprehensive war-crimes cases since the Nuremberg trials, targeting senior Syrian regime officers—including the President, Bashar al-Assad. After the earthquake, the group directed its investigative focus into a search-and-rescue operation for members of its own Syrian team, many of whom had been displaced to southern Turkey after more than a decade of war. By the end of the third day, nearly everyone was accounted for. Two investigators had lost children; one of them had also lost his wife. But Mustafa was still missing.

For as long as Mustafa had been working for the cija, the group had kept his identity secret—even after it captured a Syrian intelligence document that showed that the regime knew about his investigative work and was actively hunting him down. “He was probably my best investigator,” Mustafa’s supervisor, an Australian who goes by Mick, told me, during a recent visit to the Turkish-Syrian border. Documents that Mustafa obtained, and witness interviews that he conducted, have assisted judicial proceedings in the United States, France, Belgium, Germany, and several other European jurisdictions. According to a cija estimate, Mustafa “either directly obtained or supported in the acquisition” of more than two hundred thousand pages of internal Syrian regime documents, likely making him—by sheer volume of evidence collected—the most prolific war-crimes investigator in history.

Twelve years into the Syrian war, at least half the population has been displaced, often multiple times, under varied circumstances of individual tragedy. No one knows the actual death toll—not even to the nearest hundred thousand. And yet the Syrian regime’s crimes continue apace. “The prisons are full,” Bill Wiley, the cija’s founder and executive director, told me. “All the offenses that started being carried out at scale in 2011 are still being perpetrated. Unlawful detention, physical abuse amounting to torture, extrajudicial killing, sexual offenses—all of that continues. War crimes on the battlefield, particularly in the context of aerial operations. There are still chemical attacks. It all continues. But, as long as there’s the drip, drip, drip of Western prosecutions, pursuant to universal jurisdiction, it’s really difficult to envision the normalization of the regime.”

Before the Syrian Revolution, Mustafa was a trial lawyer, living and working in Al-Rastan, a suburb of the central city of Homs. He and his wife, Rula, had three small children, and Rula was pregnant with the fourth. In early 2011, when Syrians took to the streets to protest against the regime—which had ruled for almost half a century—Assad declared that anyone who did not contribute to “burying sedition” was “a part of it.” Suddenly Mustafa was caught in a delicate position, since many of Rula’s male relatives were military officers.

Her father and her uncles had joined the Syrian armed forces as young men, and served Assad’s father for many years before they served him. In the mid-nineties, Assad’s older brother died in a car crash, and he was called back from his studies in London and sent to a military academy in Homs. Eventually, he joined a staff officers’ course, where Anwar Saadeddin—then a colonel and a military engineer—says he spent a year and a half in his class.

Assad became President in 2000, after his father died, and for the next decade Saadeddin carried on with his duties without complaint. In 2003, Saadeddin was promoted to the rank of brigadier general. At the outset of the revolution, his younger son was a lieutenant, and he was two years from retirement.

Mustafa and Rula’s fourth child was born on April 5, 2011. Three days later, security forces shot a number of protesters in the Baba Amr neighborhood of Homs, including a disabled man, who was unable to run away. They dragged him from the site and returned his mutilated corpse to his family the following evening. From then on, Homs was the site of some of the largest anti-regime protests—and the most violent crackdown.

On April 19th, thousands of people gathered for a sit-in beneath a clock tower. At about midnight, officers warned that anyone who didn’t leave voluntarily would be removed by force. A couple of hours passed; a thousand people remained. At dawn, the people of Homs awoke to traces of a massacre. A witness later reported that religious leaders who had stayed to treat the wounded and to tend to the dead were summarily executed. Several others recalled that the bodies were removed with dump trucks, and that the blood of the dead and wounded was washed away with hoses.

The day after the massacre, according to documents that were later captured from Assad’s highest-level security committee, the regime decided to embark on a “new phase” in the crackdown, to “demonstrate the power and capacity of the state.” Nine days later, regime forces killed at least nineteen protesters in Al-Rastan, where Mustafa and Rula lived. Mustafa wasn’t involved in politics or human-rights work, beyond discussions of basic democratic reforms, but he was appalled by the overtly criminal manner in which security forces and associated militias carried out their campaign with impunity. Locals formed neighborhood-protection units, and soon took up arms against the state.

A few months later, Mustafa briefly sneaked out of Syria to attend a training session in Turkey, led by Bill Wiley, a Canadian war-crimes investigator who had previously worked for various tribunals and the International Criminal Court. Wiley, and others in his world, had noticed a jurisdictional gap in accountability for Syria and had begun casting about for Syrian lawyers who might be up for a perilous, but worthy, task. Although there was no tribunal set up for Syria, and Russia and China had blocked efforts to refer Syria to the I.C.C., Wiley and his associates had reasoned that the process of collecting evidence is purely a matter of risk tolerance and logistics. The work of criminal investigators is different from that of human-rights N.G.O.s: groups like Amnesty International and Human Rights Watch produce and disseminate reports on horrific violations and abuse, but Wiley trained Mustafa and the other Syrians in attendance to collect the kind of evidence that could allow prosecutors to assign individual criminal responsibility to senior military and intelligence officers. A video showing tanks firing on unarmed protesters might influence public opinion, but a pile of military communications that proved which commanders were in charge of the operation could one day land someone in jail.

“The first task was to ferret out primary-source material—documents, in particular, generated by the regime,” Wiley told me. “We were looking for prima-facie evidence, not intelligence product or information to inform the public.”

Mustafa instantly grasped the urgency of the project. By day, he carried on with his law practice. But, in secret, he started building up sources within the armed opposition. As they captured new territory, he would go into security and intelligence facilities, box up documents, and move them to secret locations, like farmhouses or caves, farther from the confrontation lines.

“By 2012, we had already started to get some structure,” Wiley recalled. He secured funding from Western governments, and eventually the group settled on a name: the Commission for International Justice and Accountability. “We had our guys in Raqqa, Idlib, Aleppo, and so forth—at least one guy in all the key areas,” he said. From there, the cija built out each team—between two and four individuals, working under the head of each provincial cell. “And Mustafa was our core guy in Homs.”

Anwar Saadeddin soon found himself wielding his position in order to rescue relatives who were caught up in the conflict. His younger son, an Army lieutenant, was detained by military operatives on the outskirts of Damascus, after another officer in his brigade reported him for watching Al Arabiya and Al Jazeera. According to an internal military communication, which was later captured by the cija, Assad believed that foreign reporting on Syria amounted to “psychological warfare aimed at creating a state of internal chaos.”

When Saadeddin’s son was detained, he recalled, “I interfered just to decrease the detention period to thirty days.” Soon afterward, he learned that Mustafa was a target of military intelligence in Homs, where the local facility, Branch 261, was headed by one of Saadeddin’s friends: Mohammed Zamrini.

Mustafa wasn’t calling for an armed rebellion, and, at the time, neither the regime nor his father-in-law knew of his connection to Wiley and the cija. But rebel factions were active in Al-Rastan, and Mustafa was known to have urged them not to destroy any public establishments. To hard-liners in the regime, such interaction was considered tantamount to collaboration. “So I went with Mustafa to the branch,” Saadeddin told me. Zamrini agreed to detain him as a formality—for about twelve hours, with light interrogations and no torture or abuse—so that he could essentially cross Mustafa off the list.

In the next few months, the security situation rapidly deteriorated. The Army encircled rebellious neighborhoods near Homs and shelled them to the ground. Saadeddin’s son, who was serving near Damascus, was arrested a second time, and in order to get him released Saadeddin had to supplicate himself in the office of Assef Shawkat, Assad’s brother-in-law and the deputy minister of defense. In Homs, Saadeddin started driving Mustafa to and from work in his light-blue Kia; as a brigadier general, he could move passengers through checkpoints without them being searched or arrested.

But Saadeddin was beginning to find his position untenable. He sensed that the regime’s policy of total violence would lead to the destruction of the country. That spring, he began to share his fears and frustrations with close colleagues and friends, including the commander of his son’s brigade. But it was a perilous game: Assad’s highest-level security committee had instructed the heads of regional security branches to hunt down “security agents who are irresolute or unenthusiastic” in carrying out their duties. According to a U.N. inquiry, some officers were detained and tortured for having “attempted to spare civilians” on whom they had been ordered to fire.

That spring, Saadeddin’s car was stopped at one of the checkpoints that ordinarily waved him through. It was the first time that his position served not as protection against interrogation but as a reason to question his loyalty. The regime was quickly losing territory, and as the conflict spiralled out of control many senior officers found themselves approaching the limits of their willingness to go along. He and his brothers had “reached a point where we would either stand by the regime and have to take part in atrocities, or we would have to defect,” he told me.

That July, Saadeddin gathered his brothers, his sons, two nephews, and several other military officers in front of a small camera, somewhere near the Turkish-Syrian border. Dressed in his uniform, he announced that the army to which he had pledged his allegiance some four decades earlier had “deviated from its mission” and turned on its citizens instead. To honor the Syrian public’s “steadfastness in the face of barbaric assaults by Assad’s bloody gangs, we have decided to defect from the Army,” he said. It was one of the largest mass defections of Syrian officers, and his plan was to take a leading role in the rebellion—to fight for freedom “until martyrdom or victory.” In response, Saadeddin told me, their former colleagues sent troops to destroy their houses and those of their family members. They expropriated their land and killed several of their relatives.

By now, the regime had ceded swaths of Syria’s border with Turkey to various rebel forces. Saadeddin moved his family across the border and into a refugee camp that the Turkish government had set up for military and intelligence officers who defected. Then he went back to Syria, to try to bring some order and unity to the rebel factions that were battling his former colleagues.

But Mustafa and his family stayed behind in Al-Rastan, which was now firmly in rebel hands. The regime’s loss of control at the Turkish border meant that the cija could start moving its captured documents out of the country.

“It was complicated, reaching the border, because the confrontation lines were so fluid,” Wiley recalled. “And there were multiple bodies who were overtly hostile to cija”—not only the regime but also a growing number of extremist groups who were suspicious of anyone working for a Western N.G.O. During the first document extraction, a courier was shot and injured. During the next, another courier vanished with a suitcase full of documents. “Just fucking disappeared,” Wiley said. “Probably thought he could sell them.” Mustafa recruited a cousin to transport some files to Turkey. But, after the delivery, on the way back to Al-Rastan, the cousin took a minibus, and the vehicle was ambushed by regime troops. “He was shot, but it was unclear if he was wounded or dead when they took him away,” another Syrian cija investigator, whom I’ll call Omar, told me. For the next several weeks, regime agents blackmailed Mustafa, saying that for twenty thousand dollars they would release his cousin from custody. But, when Mustafa asked for proof of life, they failed to provide it—suggesting that the cousin had already died in custody.

By now, Wiley had issued new orders for the extraction process. “I said, ‘O.K., there needs to be a plan, and I need to know what the plan is,’ ” he recalled. “ ‘How are you getting from A to B? What risks are there between point A and point B? And how are you going to ameliorate those risks?’ As opposed to just throwing the shit in the car and going, ‘Well, God decides.’ ”

Saadeddin Spent Much of the next eighteen months trying to organize disparate rebel groups into a unified command. He travelled all over northern Syria, as rebels took new ground, and met with all manner of revolutionaries—from secular defectors to hard-line field commanders. By the summer of 2013, the regime had ceded control of most of northern Syria. But there was little cohesion between the rebel factions, and isis and Al Qaeda had come to exploit the power vacuum in rebel territory. At some point, Saadeddin recalled, he scolded a Tunisian isis commander for arousing sectarian and ethnic tensions, and imposing extremism onto local communities. “He responded that I was an apostate, and suggested that I should be killed,” Saadeddin told me.

In Al-Rastan, a regime shell penetrated the walls of Mustafa’s house, but it didn’t explode. At that point, Rula and the children moved to Reyhanli, a small Turkish village that is so close to the border that you can eat at a kebab shop there while watching sheep graze in Syria. It was also a short drive from the defected officers’ camp, where Rula’s mother and several other relatives were living. But Mustafa stayed behind, to carry out his investigative work for the cija.

“When new areas were liberated, the security branches were raided, and many people took files,” Omar recalled. Some of them didn’t grasp the significance of the files; at least one soldier burned them for warmth. “But most people knew the documents would be useful, someday—they just didn’t know what to do with them. So they just kept them. And the challenge was in identifying who had what, where.”

But, before long, Omar continued, “Mustafa built a wide network of contacts in rebel territory. Word got out that he was collecting documents, and so eventually people would refer others who had taken documents to him.” Sometimes he encountered a reluctance to turn over the originals, until he shared with them the outlines of the cija’s objective and paths to accountability. “At that point, they would usually relent, understanding that his use for them was the best use.”

As his profile in rebel territory grew, Mustafa remained highly secretive. But, from time to time, he asked his father-in-law for introductions to other defected military and intelligence officers. By now, Saadeddin recalled, “I knew the nature of his work, but I didn’t discuss it with him.” There was an understanding that it was best to compartmentalize any sensitive information, for the sake of the family. “Sometimes my wife didn’t even know what I was doing,” Saadeddin said. “But I do know that, at a certain point, through his interviews, Mustafa came to know these defected officers even better than I did.”

In 2014, Wiley restructured the cija’s Syrian team; as deputy chief of investigations, Mustafa now presided over all the group’s provincial cells. “He was very good at finding documents, and he understood evidence and law,” Wiley said. “But he was also respected by his peers. And he had a natural empathy, which translated into him being a very good interviewer” of victims and perpetrators alike. According to Omar, Mustafa often cut short his appearances at social gatherings, citing family or work. “I know it’s a cliché, but he really was a family guy,” Wiley told me. “But where he excelled in our view—because we don’t need a bunch of good family guys, to be blunt—is that he could execute.”

That July, Assad’s General Intelligence Directorate apparently learned of the cija’s activities, long before the group had been named in the press. In a document that was sent to at least ten intelligence branches—and which was later captured by the cija—the directorate identified Mustafa as “vice-chairman” of the group, and also listed the names of the leading investigators within each of the cija’s governorate cells. At the bottom of the document, the head of the directorate handwrote orders to “arrest them along with their collaborators.”

By now, Western governments, which had pledged to support secular opposition groups, found the situation in northern Syria unpalatable; there was no way to guarantee that weapons given to a secular armed faction would not end up in jihadi hands. Saadeddin had begun to lose hope in the revolution—a sentiment that grew only stronger when Assad’s forces killed more than a thousand civilians with sarin gas, and the Obama Administration backed away from its “red-line” warning of retaliation. “At that point, I lost all faith in the international community,” Saadeddin told me. “I felt that they didn’t want Syria to become liberated—they wanted Syria to stay as it was.” He moved into the defected officers’ camp in southern Turkey, where he remained—feeling “rotten,” consumed by a sense of impotence and frustration—for most of the next decade.

I First Came Into Contact with the cija late in the summer of 2015. By that point, the group had smuggled more than six hundred thousand documents out of Syria, and had prepared a legal brief that assigned individual criminal responsibility for the torture and murder of thousands of people in detention centers to senior members of the Syrian security-intelligence apparatus—including Assad himself. In the following years, the cija expanded its operations to Iraq, Myanmar, Libya, and Ukraine. But Syria was always at the core.

“In terms of the opposition overrunning regime territory—that effectively ceased in September, 2015, when the Russians came in,” Wiley recalled. In the following years, Russian fighter jets pummelled areas under rebel control, while fighters from Russian mercenary groups, Iranian militias, and Hezbollah reinforced Assad’s troops on the ground. In time, the confrontation lines settled, with the country effectively carved into areas under regime, opposition, Turkish, and Kurdish control. But Mustafa and other investigators continued to identify troves of documents, scattered among various hidden sites. “We’d acquire them from different places, and then concentrate them,” Wiley said. Omar told me that it was best to keep files as close to the border as possible, to limit the chance of their being destroyed in the event that the regime took back ground. “Mustafa would sometimes spend a week or more prepping for document extractions,” Omar said. “He would sleep in tents,” in camps filled with other displaced civilians, “while he waited for the right moment to move the files closer to the border.”

At the cija’s headquarters, in Western Europe, the organization built cases against senior intelligence officers, like the double agent Khaled al-Halabi, and provided evidence to European prosecutors who were investigating lesser targets all over the continent. In recent years, Western prosecutors and police agencies have sent hundreds of requests for investigative assistance to the cija headquarters; when the answers can’t be found in the existing files, analysts refer the inquiries, via Mick, the Australian in southern Turkey, to the Syrians on the ground. “We wouldn’t tell them who’s asking, or who the suspects are,” Wiley said. “We’d just say, ‘O.K., we’re interested in witnesses to a particular crime base’—a security-intelligence facility, a static killing, an execution, that kind of thing. And then they would identify witnesses and do a screening interview.” When requests came through, Mick told me, “Mustafa was usually the first team member that I went to, because his networks were so good.”

During the peak years of the pandemic, Mustafa identified and collected witness statements against a trio of Syrian isis members who had been active in a remote village in the deserts of central Syria and were now scattered across Western Europe. All three men were arrested after his death.

Perhaps Mustafa’s most enduring contribution to the cija’s casework is found in one of the group’s most comprehensive, confidential investigative briefs, which I read at the headquarters this spring. It’s a three-hundred-page document, with almost thirteen hundred footnotes, establishing individual criminal responsibility for war crimes carried out during the regime’s 2012 siege of Baba Amr, a neighborhood in the southern part of Mustafa’s home city, Homs. Other cases have centered on torture in detention facilities; this is the first Syrian war-crimes brief that focusses on the conduct of hostilities, and it spells out, in astonishing and historic detail, a litany of crimes, ranging from indiscriminate shelling to mass executions of civilians who were rounded up and killed in warehouses and factories as regime forces swept through. The Homs Brief—for which Mustafa collected much of the underlying evidence—also assigns criminal responsibility to individual commanders within the Syrian Army’s 18th Tank Division, which carried out the assault.

“He thought he was contributing to a better Syria,” Wiley said. “When—and what it would look like—was unsure. But he believed in what he was doing. He could have fucked off years ago. We probably could have gotten him to Canada. We talked about it, because one of his daughters had a congenital heart issue.” Nevertheless, he stayed.

Last year, Mustafa bought an apartment on the eleventh floor of a new tower block in Antakya. Rula’s aunt moved into the same building, a couple of stories below. Her parents left the defected officers’ camp and moved into another apartment block, a short walk up the road. A few months later, Mick recalled, “Mustafa said to me, ‘When I’m at home with my family, it doesn’t matter what’s happening outside—it doesn’t matter if there’s a war. When I’m at home, I’m at peace.’ ”

Last December, Mick was visiting Mustafa’s apartment when the floor began to shake. “It spooked me—it was my first time feeling this kind of tremor,” Mick recalled. Mustafa laughed and said that they happen “all the time.” Then he went to check on Rula and the children, who reported that they hadn’t even felt it.

A couple of months later, Mick awoke to news of the catastrophic earthquake and tried to call members of his Syrian team. But the cellular networks were down in Antakya, and it was impossible for him to travel there, because the local airport’s runway had buckled, along with many local roads.

Saadeddin’s sister was dug out of the complex alive; her husband survived as well, but died in a hospital soon afterward, without anyone in the family knowing where he was. On the fourth day of search-and-rescue operations, Mustafa’s passport was found in the rubble. Then his laptop, then his wife’s handbag. “When they found the bodies,” Omar said, “Mustafa was hugging his daughter, his wife was hugging their son, and the other two children were hugging each other.”

Omar spent the next several days sleeping in his car, along with his wife and six children. Thousands of aftershocks shook the region, and, by the time I met with him, a few hundred metres from the Syrian border, he was so rattled that he reacted to everyday sounds as if they might signal a building’s collapse. His breath was short and his eyes welled with tears; Mustafa had been one of his best friends, and he had also lost eleven relatives to the quake, all of whom had been displaced from the same village in northern Syria. Then his young son walked into the room, and he turned his head. “We try to hide from our children our fear and our grief, so that they don’t feel as if we are weak,” he said.

A few weeks after the earthquake, there was an empty seat at a prestigious international-criminal-investigations course, in the Hague. Mustafa had been scheduled to attend. “We can mitigate the effects of war, except bad luck, but we didn’t factor an earthquake into the plan, institutionally,” Wiley told me. Mick coördinated humanitarian assistance for displaced investigators, and, as Wiley put it, “the operational posture came back really quickly.” Omar has now taken over Mustafa’s leadership duties. “Keep in mind how resilient this cadre is,” Wiley continued. “They’re already all refugees, perhaps with the rare exception. They had already lost their homes, lost all their stuff.”

It was the middle of April, more than two months after the quake. Much of Antakya had been completely flattened, and what still stood was cracked and broken, completely abandoned, and poised to collapse. Mick and I made our way through the old city on foot; the alleys were too narrow for digging equipment to go through, and so we found ourselves climbing over rubble, as if the buildings had fallen the day before. The pets of those entombed in the collapsed buildings followed us, still wearing their collars—bewildered, brand-new strays. ♦

[mariacallous]

It was 4:17 A.M. on February 6th in Antakya, an ancient Turkish city near the Syrian border, when the earth tore open and people’s beds began to shake. On the third floor of an apartment in the Ekinci neighborhood, Anwar Saadeddin, a former brigadier general in the Syrian Army, awoke to the sounds of glass breaking, cupboard doors banging, and jars of tahini and cured eggplant spilling onto the floor. He climbed out of bed, but, for almost thirty seconds, he was unable to keep his footing; the building was moving side to side. When the earthquake subsided, he tried to call his daughter Rula, who lived down the road, but the cellular network was down.

Thirty seconds after the first quake, the building started moving again, this time up and down, with such violence that an exterior wall sheared open, and rain started pouring in. The noise was tremendous—concrete splitting, rebar bending, plates shattering, neighbors screaming. When the shaking stopped, about a minute later, Saadeddin, who is in his late sixties, and his wife walked down three flights of stairs, dressed in pajamas and sandals, and went out into the cold.

“All of Antakya was black—there was no electricity anywhere,” Saadeddin recalled. Thousands of the city’s buildings had collapsed. Survivors spilled into the streets, crowding rubble-strewn alleyways and searching for open ground, as minarets toppled and glass shards fluttered down from tower blocks. The general and his wife set off in the direction of the building where Rula lived, with her husband, Mustafa, and their four children.

A third quake shook the ground. When Saadeddin made it to his daughter’s apartment block, flashes of lighting illuminated what was now a fourteen-story grave. The building—which had been completed less than two years earlier—had twisted as it toppled over, crushing many of the residents. Saadeddin felt his body drained of all emotion, almost as if it didn’t belong to him.

Saadeddin was not the only person searching for Rula and her family. For the past decade, her husband, Mustafa, had quietly served as the deputy chief of Syria investigations for the Commission for International Justice and Accountability, a group that has captured more than a million pages of documents from Syrian military and intelligence facilities. Using these files, lawyers at the CIJA have prepared some of the most comprehensive war-crimes cases since the Nuremberg trials, targeting senior Syrian regime officers—including the President, Bashar al-Assad. After the earthquake, the group directed its investigative focus into a search-and-rescue operation for members of its own Syrian team, many of whom had been displaced to southern Turkey after more than a decade of war. By the end of the third day, nearly everyone was accounted for. Two investigators had lost children; one of them had also lost his wife. But Mustafa was still missing.

For as long as Mustafa had been working for the CIJA, the group had kept his identity secret—even after it captured a Syrian intelligence document that showed that the regime knew about his investigative work and was actively hunting him down. “He was probably my best investigator,” Mustafa’s supervisor, an Australian who goes by Mick, told me, during a recent visit to the Turkish-Syrian border. Documents that Mustafa obtained, and witness interviews that he conducted, have assisted judicial proceedings in the United States, France, Belgium, Germany, and several other European jurisdictions. According to a CIJA estimate, Mustafa “either directly obtained or supported in the acquisition” of more than two hundred thousand pages of internal Syrian regime documents, likely making him—by sheer volume of evidence collected—the most prolific war-crimes investigator in history.

Twelve years into the Syrian war, at least half the population has been displaced, often multiple times, under varied circumstances of individual tragedy. No one knows the actual death toll—not even to the nearest hundred thousand. And yet the Syrian regime’s crimes continue apace. “The prisons are full,” Bill Wiley, the CIJA’s founder and executive director, told me. “All the offenses that started being carried out at scale in 2011 are still being perpetrated. Unlawful detention, physical abuse amounting to torture, extrajudicial killing, sexual offenses—all of that continues. War crimes on the battlefield, particularly in the context of aerial operations. There are still chemical attacks. It all continues. But, as long as there’s the drip, drip, drip of Western prosecutions, pursuant to universal jurisdiction, it’s really difficult to envision the normalization of the regime.”

Before the Syrian revolution, Mustafa was a trial lawyer, living and working in Al-Rastan, a suburb of the central city of Homs. He and his wife, Rula, had three small children, and Rula was pregnant with the fourth. In early 2011, when Syrians took to the streets to protest against the regime—which had ruled for almost half a century—Assad declared that anyone who did not contribute to “burying sedition” was “a part of it.” Suddenly Mustafa was caught in a delicate position, since many of Rula’s male relatives were military officers.

Her father and her uncles had joined the Syrian armed forces as young men, and served Assad’s father for many years before they served him. In the mid-nineties, Assad’s older brother died in a car crash, and he was called back from his studies in London and sent to a military academy in Homs. Eventually, he joined a staff officers’ course, where Anwar Saadeddin—then a colonel and a military engineer—says he spent a year and a half in his class.

Assad became President in 2000, after his father died, and for the next decade Saadeddin carried on with his duties without complaint. In 2003, Saadeddin was promoted to the rank of brigadier general. At the outset of the revolution, his younger son was a lieutenant, and he was two years from retirement.

Mustafa and Rula’s fourth child was born on April 5, 2011. Three days later, security forces shot a number of protesters in the Baba Amr neighborhood of Homs, including a disabled man, who was unable to run away. They dragged him from the site and returned his mutilated corpse to his family the following evening. From then on, Homs was the site of some of the largest anti-regime protests—and the most violent crackdown.

On April 19th, thousands of people gathered for a sit-in beneath a clock tower. At about midnight, officers warned that anyone who didn’t leave voluntarily would be removed by force. A couple of hours passed; a thousand people remained. At dawn, the people of Homs awoke to traces of a massacre. A witness later reported that religious leaders who had stayed to treat the wounded and to tend to the dead were summarily executed. Several others recalled that the bodies were removed with dump trucks, and that the blood of the dead and wounded was washed away with hoses.

The day after the massacre, according to documents that were later captured from Assad’s highest-level security committee, the regime decided to embark on a “new phase” in the crackdown, to “demonstrate the power and capacity of the state.” Nine days later, regime forces killed at least nineteen protesters in Al-Rastan, where Mustafa and Rula lived. Mustafa wasn’t involved in politics or human-rights work, beyond discussions of basic democratic reforms, but he was appalled by the overtly criminal manner in which security forces and associated militias carried out their campaign with impunity. Locals formed neighborhood-protection units, and soon took up arms against the state.

A few months later, Mustafa briefly sneaked out of Syria to attend a training session in Turkey, led by Bill Wiley, a Canadian war-crimes investigator who had previously worked for various tribunals and the International Criminal Court. Wiley, and others in his world, had noticed a jurisdictional gap in accountability for Syria and had begun casting about for Syrian lawyers who might be up for a perilous, but worthy, task. Although there was no tribunal set up for Syria, and Russia and China had blocked efforts to refer Syria to the I.C.C., Wiley and his associates had reasoned that the process of collecting evidence is purely a matter of risk tolerance and logistics. The work of criminal investigators is different from that of human-rights N.G.O.s: groups like Amnesty International and Human Rights Watch produce and disseminate reports on horrific violations and abuse, but Wiley trained Mustafa and the other Syrians in attendance to collect the kind of evidence that could allow prosecutors to assign individual criminal responsibility to senior military and intelligence officers. A video showing tanks firing on unarmed protesters might influence public opinion, but a pile of military communications that proved which commanders were in charge of the operation could one day land someone in jail.

“The first task was to ferret out primary-source material—documents, in particular, generated by the regime,” Wiley told me. “We were looking for prima-facie evidence, not intelligence product or information to inform the public.”

Mustafa instantly grasped the urgency of the project. By day, he carried on with his law practice. But, in secret, he started building up sources within the armed opposition. As they captured new territory, he would go into security and intelligence facilities, box up documents, and move them to secret locations, like farmhouses or caves, farther from the confrontation lines.

“By 2012, we had already started to get some structure,” Wiley recalled. He secured funding from Western governments, and eventually the group settled on a name: the Commission for International Justice and Accountability. “We had our guys in Raqqa, Idlib, Aleppo, and so forth—at least one guy in all the key areas,” he said. From there, the CIJA built out each team—between two and four individuals, working under the head of each provincial cell. “And Mustafa was our core guy in Homs.”

Anwar Saadeddin soon found himself wielding his position in order to rescue relatives who were caught up in the conflict. His younger son, an Army lieutenant, was detained by military operatives on the outskirts of Damascus, after another officer in his brigade reported him for watching Al Arabiya and Al Jazeera. According to an internal military communication, which was later captured by the CIJA, Assad believed that foreign reporting on Syria amounted to “psychological warfare aimed at creating a state of internal chaos.”

When Saadeddin’s son was detained, he recalled, “I interfered just to decrease the detention period to thirty days.” Soon afterward, he learned that Mustafa was a target of military intelligence in Homs, where the local facility, Branch 261, was headed by one of Saadeddin’s friends: Mohammed Zamrini.

Mustafa wasn’t calling for an armed rebellion, and, at the time, neither the regime nor his father-in-law knew of his connection to Wiley and the CIJA. But rebel factions were active in Al-Rastan, and Mustafa was known to have urged them not to destroy any public establishments. To hard-liners in the regime, such interaction was considered tantamount to collaboration. “So I went with Mustafa to the branch,” Saadeddin told me. Zamrini agreed to detain him as a formality—for about twelve hours, with light interrogations and no torture or abuse—so that he could essentially cross Mustafa off the list.

In the next few months, the security situation rapidly deteriorated. The Army encircled rebellious neighborhoods near Homs and shelled them to the ground. Saadeddin’s son, who was serving near Damascus, was arrested a second time, and in order to get him released Saadeddin had to supplicate himself in the office of Assef Shawkat, Assad’s brother-in-law and the deputy minister of defense. In Homs, Saadeddin started driving Mustafa to and from work in his light-blue Kia; as a brigadier general, he could move passengers through checkpoints without them being searched or arrested.

But Saadeddin was beginning to find his position untenable. He sensed that the regime’s policy of total violence would lead to the destruction of the country. That spring, he began to share his fears and frustrations with close colleagues and friends, including the commander of his son’s brigade. But it was a perilous game: Assad’s highest-level security committee had instructed the heads of regional security branches to hunt down “security agents who are irresolute or unenthusiastic” in carrying out their duties. According to a U.N. inquiry, some officers were detained and tortured for having “attempted to spare civilians” on whom they had been ordered to fire.

That spring, Saadeddin’s car was stopped at one of the checkpoints that ordinarily waved him through. It was the first time that his position served not as protection against interrogation but as a reason to question his loyalty. The regime was quickly losing territory, and as the conflict spiralled out of control many senior officers found themselves approaching the limits of their willingness to go along. He and his brothers had “reached a point where we would either stand by the regime and have to take part in atrocities, or we would have to defect,” he told me.

That July, Saadeddin gathered his brothers, his sons, two nephews, and several other military officers in front of a small camera, somewhere near the Turkish-Syrian border. Dressed in his uniform, he announced that the army to which he had pledged his allegiance some four decades earlier had “deviated from its mission” and turned on its citizens instead. To honor the Syrian public’s “steadfastness in the face of barbaric assaults by Assad’s bloody gangs, we have decided to defect from the Army,” he said. It was one of the largest mass defections of Syrian officers, and his plan was to take a leading role in the rebellion—to fight for freedom “until martyrdom or victory.” In response, Saadeddin told me, their former colleagues sent troops to destroy their houses and those of their family members. They expropriated their land and killed several of their relatives.

By now, the regime had ceded swaths of Syria’s border with Turkey to various rebel forces. Saadeddin moved his family across the border and into a refugee camp that the Turkish government had set up for military and intelligence officers who defected. Then he went back to Syria, to try to bring some order and unity to the rebel factions that were battling his former colleagues.

But Mustafa and his family stayed behind in Al-Rastan, which was now firmly in rebel hands. The regime’s loss of control at the Turkish border meant that the CIJA could start moving its captured documents out of the country.

“It was complicated, reaching the border, because the confrontation lines were so fluid,” Wiley recalled. “And there were multiple bodies who were overtly hostile to CIJA”—not only the regime but also a growing number of extremist groups who were suspicious of anyone working for a Western N.G.O. During the first document extraction, a courier was shot and injured. During the next, another courier vanished with a suitcase full of documents. “Just fucking disappeared,” Wiley said. “Probably thought he could sell them.” Mustafa recruited a cousin to transport some files to Turkey. But, after the delivery, on the way back to Al-Rastan, the cousin took a minibus, and the vehicle was ambushed by regime troops. “He was shot, but it was unclear if he was wounded or dead when they took him away,” another Syrian CIJA investigator, whom I’ll call Omar, told me. For the next several weeks, regime agents blackmailed Mustafa, saying that for twenty thousand dollars they would release his cousin from custody. But, when Mustafa asked for proof of life, they failed to provide it—suggesting that the cousin had already died in custody.

By now, Wiley had issued new orders for the extraction process. “I said, ‘O.K., there needs to be a plan, and I need to know what the plan is,’ ” he recalled. “ ‘How are you getting from A to B? What risks are there between point A and point B? And how are you going to ameliorate those risks?’ As opposed to just throwing the shit in the car and going, ‘Well, God decides.’ ”

Saadeddin spent much of the next eighteen months trying to organize disparate rebel groups into a unified command. He travelled all over northern Syria, as rebels took new ground, and met with all manner of revolutionaries—from secular defectors to hard-line field commanders. By the summer of 2013, the regime had ceded control of most of northern Syria. But there was little cohesion between the rebel factions, and ISIS and Al Qaeda had come to exploit the power vacuum in rebel territory. At some point, Saadeddin recalled, he scolded a Tunisian ISIS commander for arousing sectarian and ethnic tensions, and imposing extremism onto local communities. “He responded that I was an apostate, and suggested that I should be killed,” Saadeddin told me.

In Al-Rastan, a regime shell penetrated the walls of Mustafa’s house, but it didn’t explode. At that point, Rula and the children moved to Reyhanli, a small Turkish village that is so close to the border that you can eat at a kebab shop there while watching sheep graze in Syria. It was also a short drive from the defected officers’ camp, where Rula’s mother and several other relatives were living. But Mustafa stayed behind, to carry out his investigative work for the CIJA.

“When new areas were liberated, the security branches were raided, and many people took files,” Omar recalled. Some of them didn’t grasp the significance of the files; at least one soldier burned them for warmth. “But most people knew the documents would be useful, someday—they just didn’t know what to do with them. So they just kept them. And the challenge was in identifying who had what, where.”

But, before long, Omar continued, “Mustafa built a wide network of contacts in rebel territory. Word got out that he was collecting documents, and so eventually people would refer others who had taken documents to him.” Sometimes he encountered a reluctance to turn over the originals, until he shared with them the outlines of the CIJA’s objective and paths to accountability. “At that point, they would usually relent, understanding that his use for them was the best use.”

As his profile in rebel territory grew, Mustafa remained highly secretive. But, from time to time, he asked his father-in-law for introductions to other defected military and intelligence officers. By now, Saadeddin recalled, “I knew the nature of his work, but I didn’t discuss it with him.” There was an understanding that it was best to compartmentalize any sensitive information, for the sake of the family. “Sometimes my wife didn’t even know what I was doing,” Saadeddin said. “But I do know that, at a certain point, through his interviews, Mustafa came to know these defected officers even better than I did.”

In 2014, Wiley restructured the CIJA’s Syrian team; as deputy chief of investigations, Mustafa now presided over all the group’s provincial cells. “He was very good at finding documents, and he understood evidence and law,” Wiley said. “But he was also respected by his peers. And he had a natural empathy, which translated into him being a very good interviewer” of victims and perpetrators alike. According to Omar, Mustafa often cut short his appearances at social gatherings, citing family or work. “I know it’s a cliché, but he really was a family guy,” Wiley told me. “But where he excelled in our view—because we don’t need a bunch of good family guys, to be blunt—is that he could execute.”

That July, Assad’s General Intelligence Directorate apparently learned of the CIJA’s activities, long before the group had been named in the press. In a document that was sent to at least ten intelligence branches—and which was later captured by the CIJA—the directorate identified Mustafa as “vice-chairman” of the group, and also listed the names of the leading investigators within each of the CIJA’s governorate cells. At the bottom of the document, the head of the directorate handwrote orders to “arrest them along with their collaborators.”

By now, Western governments, which had pledged to support secular opposition groups, found the situation in northern Syria unpalatable; there was no way to guarantee that weapons given to a secular armed faction would not end up in jihadi hands. Saadeddin had begun to lose hope in the revolution—a sentiment that grew only stronger when Assad’s forces killed more than a thousand civilians with sarin gas, and the Obama Administration backed away from its “red-line” warning of retaliation. “At that point, I lost all faith in the international community,” Saadeddin told me. “I felt that they didn’t want Syria to become liberated—they wanted Syria to stay as it was.” He moved into the defected officers’ camp in southern Turkey, where he remained—feeling “rotten,” consumed by a sense of impotence and frustration—for most of the next decade.

I first came into contact with the CIJA late in the summer of 2015. By that point, the group had smuggled more than six hundred thousand documents out of Syria, and had prepared a legal brief that assigned individual criminal responsibility for the torture and murder of thousands of people in detention centers to senior members of the Syrian security-intelligence apparatus—including Assad himself. In the following years, the CIJA expanded its operations to Iraq, Myanmar, Libya, and Ukraine. But Syria was always at the core.

“In terms of the opposition overrunning regime territory—that effectively ceased in September, 2015, when the Russians came in,” Wiley recalled. In the following years, Russian fighter jets pummelled areas under rebel control, while fighters from Russian mercenary groups, Iranian militias, and Hezbollah reinforced Assad’s troops on the ground. In time, the confrontation lines settled, with the country effectively carved into areas under regime, opposition, Turkish, and Kurdish control. But Mustafa and other investigators continued to identify troves of documents, scattered among various hidden sites. “We’d acquire them from different places, and then concentrate them,” Wiley said. Omar told me that it was best to keep files as close to the border as possible, to limit the chance of their being destroyed in the event that the regime took back ground. “Mustafa would sometimes spend a week or more prepping for document extractions,” Omar said. “He would sleep in tents,” in camps filled with other displaced civilians, “while he waited for the right moment to move the files closer to the border.”

At the CIJA’s headquarters, in Western Europe, the organization built cases against senior intelligence officers, like the double agent Khaled al-Halabi, and provided evidence to European prosecutors who were investigating lesser targets all over the continent. In recent years, Western prosecutors and police agencies have sent hundreds of requests for investigative assistance to the CIJA headquarters; when the answers can’t be found in the existing files, analysts refer the inquiries, via Mick, the Australian in southern Turkey, to the Syrians on the ground. “We wouldn’t tell them who’s asking, or who the suspects are,” Wiley said. “We’d just say, ‘O.K., we’re interested in witnesses to a particular crime base’—a security-intelligence facility, a static killing, an execution, that kind of thing. And then they would identify witnesses and do a screening interview.” When requests came through, Mick told me, “Mustafa was usually the first team member that I went to, because his networks were so good.”

During the peak years of the pandemic, Mustafa identified and collected witness statements against a trio of Syrian ISIS members who had been active in a remote village in the deserts of central Syria and were now scattered across Western Europe. All three men were arrested after his death.

Perhaps Mustafa’s most enduring contribution to the CIJA’s casework is found in one of the group’s most comprehensive, confidential investigative briefs, which I read at the headquarters this spring. It’s a three-hundred-page document, with almost thirteen hundred footnotes, establishing individual criminal responsibility for war crimes carried out during the regime’s 2012 siege of Baba Amr, a neighborhood in the southern part of Mustafa’s home city, Homs. Other cases have centered on torture in detention facilities; this is the first Syrian war-crimes brief that focusses on the conduct of hostilities, and it spells out, in astonishing and historic detail, a litany of crimes, ranging from indiscriminate shelling to mass executions of civilians who were rounded up and killed in warehouses and factories as regime forces swept through. The Homs Brief—for which Mustafa collected much of the underlying evidence—also assigns criminal responsibility to individual commanders within the Syrian Army’s 18th Tank Division, which carried out the assault.

“He thought he was contributing to a better Syria,” Wiley said. “When—and what it would look like—was unsure. But he believed in what he was doing. He could have fucked off years ago. We probably could have gotten him to Canada. We talked about it, because one of his daughters had a congenital heart issue.” Nevertheless, he stayed.

Last year, Mustafa bought an apartment on the eleventh floor of a new tower block in Antakya. Rula’s aunt moved into the same building, a couple of stories below. Her parents left the defected officers’ camp and moved into another apartment block, a short walk up the road. A few months later, Mick recalled, “Mustafa said to me, ‘When I’m at home with my family, it doesn’t matter what’s happening outside—it doesn’t matter if there’s a war. When I’m at home, I’m at peace.’ ”

Last December, Mick was visiting Mustafa’s apartment when the floor began to shake. “It spooked me—it was my first time feeling this kind of tremor,” Mick recalled. Mustafa laughed and said that they happen “all the time.” Then he went to check on Rula and the children, who reported that they hadn’t even felt it.

A couple of months later, Mick awoke to news of the catastrophic earthquake and tried to call members of his Syrian team. But the cellular networks were down in Antakya, and it was impossible for him to travel there, because the local airport’s runway had buckled, along with many local roads.

Saadeddin’s sister was dug out of the complex alive; her husband survived as well, but died in a hospital soon afterward, without anyone in the family knowing where he was. On the fourth day of search-and-rescue operations, Mustafa’s passport was found in the rubble. Then his laptop, then his wife’s handbag. “When they found the bodies,” Omar said, “Mustafa was hugging his daughter, his wife was hugging their son, and the other two children were hugging each other.”

Omar spent the next several days sleeping in his car, along with his wife and six children. Thousands of aftershocks shook the region, and, by the time I met with him, a few hundred metres from the Syrian border, he was so rattled that he reacted to everyday sounds as if they might signal a building’s collapse. His breath was short and his eyes welled with tears; Mustafa had been one of his best friends, and he had also lost eleven relatives to the quake, all of whom had been displaced from the same village in northern Syria. Then his young son walked into the room, and he turned his head. “We try to hide from our children our fear and our grief, so that they don’t feel as if we are weak,” he said.

A few weeks after the earthquake, there was an empty seat at a prestigious international-criminal-investigations course, in the Hague. Mustafa had been scheduled to attend. “We can mitigate the effects of war, except bad luck, but we didn’t factor an earthquake into the plan, institutionally,” Wiley told me. Mick coördinated humanitarian assistance for displaced investigators, and, as Wiley put it, “the operational posture came back really quickly.” Omar has now taken over Mustafa’s leadership duties. “Keep in mind how resilient this cadre is,” Wiley continued. “They’re already all refugees, perhaps with the rare exception. They had already lost their homes, lost all their stuff.”

It was the middle of April, more than two months after the quake. Much of Antakya had been completely flattened, and what still stood was cracked and broken, completely abandoned, and poised to collapse. Mick and I made our way through the old city on foot; the alleys were too narrow for digging equipment to go through, and so we found ourselves climbing over rubble, as if the buildings had fallen the day before. The pets of those entombed in the collapsed buildings followed us, still wearing their collars—bewildered, brand-new strays.