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misscammiedawn · 1 month

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Time Loops and Dissociation

CW: suicidal ideation, glitchy unreality, overt depictions of self-harm, parental abandonment

This essay contains full game spoilers for In Stars and Time.

You wake up to your alarm at the same time every day. The same view greets you from your window. Same sheets. Same outfits in your closet to get dressed in. Same choice of drinks in your kitchen to put in the same choice of cups. Same 24 hours but a different day. What better way to capture the existential horror of disconnecting from the world than to simply take away the words "but a different day" and make it the same 24 hours.

Time Loop fiction likes to capture the monotony of being caught in a rut. For some stories, like Groundhog Day, the rut could be that of not working on one’s self and accepting the eternal trappings of a never ending moment and not seeking change. For others, like Palm Springs, it is the conflict within a romantic relationship between one partner wishing to grow and find new experience while another wishes to remain in the safety of the known. Others still, like All You Need Is Kill, the conflict is a matter of maintaining one's optimism and drive in a hopeless fight against an antagonistic force that will crush their spirit upon the weight of eternity.

The constants in this genre are the forces of change and stagnation. Exit can be accomplished via self-improvement, it can be accomplished by having the bravery to risk leaving safety, it can be accomplished by killing every last time looping alien until you’re the only one left. But the allegories are always there. Tomorrow can only be attained by growing beyond Today. Change doesn’t happen in a day and as those stuck in a time loop know… a day can be an impossibly long time. And what does a person do during that impossibly long time? Repeating the same acts over and over again, where people become predictable and all the complexity of life has been stripped down until there’s nothing but cold empty and predictable monotony? You dissociate.

Dissociating is the experience of detaching from reality. Dissociation encompasses the feeling of daydreaming or being intensely focused, as well as the distressing experience of being disconnected from reality. In this state, consciousness, identity, memory, and perception are no longer naturally integrated. Dissociation often occurs as a result of stress or trauma, and it may be indicative of a dissociative disorder or other mental health condition.(*)

Every time loop story inevitably includes a segment where the pain of going around and around becomes simply too much to handle and the audience must witness the protagonist's mental health decline in real time. It is the moment in the story when they no longer feel able to connect with other humans, when they disconnect and just succumb to the weight of the eternity that they are trapped within. For most the idea of being stuck in a rut is a horrific thing. People are a social species. We seek connection and we seek change. We actively want to grow. But this is not true for everyone. Some are so scared and scarred by the world that they dare not ruin the safety that they have managed to find. Narrowing one's world down to avoid conflict and danger is a common feature in Complex Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, particularly in those with a tendency to freeze in the face of their emotional triggers.

The flight-freeze type avoids potential relationship-retraumatization with an obsessivecompulsive/dissociative “two-step.” Step one is working to complete exhaustion. Step two is collapsing into extreme “veging out”, and waiting until [their] energy reaccumulates enough to relaunch into step one. The price for this type of no-longer-necessary safety is a severely narrowed existence. - (Complex PTSD: From Surviving to Thriving - Pete Walker)

And that is the heart of any time loop. Safety at the price of a narrow existence.

For this essay I want to talk about a piece of media that masterfully manages the time loop dilemma while managing to depict a remarkably strong representation of Complex Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. Today I want to talk about In Stars and Time. Because if I'm gonna highlight a time loop story for my essays on dissociative disorders then I'm going to do the one which has a "Press X to dissociate" mechanic.

In Stars and Time is an RPG Maker game in the stylings of Earthbound and Final Fantasy. The star of the play game is Siffrin (he/they), a silly little one who tells light-hearted puns and has their tongue stuck out in a :3 cat face smile.

As the thief type of the party he leads the group through dungeons to deactivate traps and find keys he can sometimes be bad at his job. They have managed to help the team get to the final dungeon and take on The King who has managed to freeze most of the nation of Vaugarde in time. Their adventuring friends are Mirabelle (she/her), the housemaiden; Isabeau (he/him), the fighter; Odile (she/her), the researcher; and Bonnie (they/them), the kid. Siffrin finds themselves trapped within a time loop. Reliving the same 2 day period as the party make their approach to The King and must defeat him to release Vaugarde from being eternally frozen in time. The game speaks frankly and kindly on many topics beyond mental health and trauma. Among the many rare and beautiful things it organically depicts it has an asexual and an aromantic discussing society's pressure to enter relationships and perform intimate acts, a trans masc discussing the destructive and yet necessary process of transitioning and two expats discussing how difficult it is to integrate their cultural roots (or lack thereof) with the values and expectations of the dominant culture of their new environment. Keep that last one in your back pocket for now. It'll be important for later. This is the last chance to check the game out unspoiled and so if anything I have said intrigues enough then please buy the game (Steam - Switch - Playstation 4 - Playstation 5 - GOG - Itch.io) and enjoy it. The game is about 20 hours at a casual pace (WR speedrun is 2.5 hours) and it has much in the way of hidden conversations and content that can help a person stick around and dig deep to find all the content in the game (but watch out). Go with my blessing and check DoesTheDogDie for content warnings if needed. For those who have played or want to read on into spoiler territory, then please forgive my long-windedness. I've too much time on my hands and have not cultivated the skills or talent to present this as a video for passive enjoyment. Let's begin. The game is split into 6 acts so in the interests of not bombarding with information. Shall we follow suit?

Act 1 - The Stage

The curtain rises and the play begins. Act 1 makes up the first loop from Siffrin's perspective. If not for the time loops then this would be a very short adventure. Siffrin wakes up from a nap in a field as they will every single loop from now on. They are in the final town before the enemy stronghold, one final day to rest and gather their strength and resolve to save the country. The group's leader, Mirabelle, has decided to have a sleepover. One final day, one final dungeon, one final fight... and then it's all over. The world will finally be saved. It'll all be over... Siffrin spends the day speaking to their friends, making a wish on the local Favor Tree to spend time with an ally after the adventure and then it's on to the adventure. Isabeau has something he wants to tell Siffrin but decides it can wait until they have saved the world. Entering the house and moving through the first few rooms all seems to be going well. The party of friends beat their first few enemies and Siffrin is sent to check for traps in a corridor leading into the main areas of the house. He checks and checks and checks and doesn't find anything so...

The trap is activated by feeling safe.

For clarity I wish to say much of the analysis and discussion is our personal read of the plot. Before writing this essay we reached out to insertdisc5 to ask about how they approached depicting mental illness in the game and they responded that it was not a matter of research as she was worried about checking off boxes rather than depicting authentic experience. Which makes it all the more impressive that the game was able to depict so many aspects of Complex PTSD so seamlessly. From Walker's book the primary symptoms of CPTSD are:

Emotional Flashbacks Tyrannical Inner &/or Outer Critic Toxic Shame Self-Abandonment Social anxiety Abject feelings of loneliness and abandonment Fragile Self-esteem Attachment disorder Developmental Arrests Relationship difficulties Radical mood vacillations Dissociation via distracting activities or mental processes Hair-triggered fight/flight response Oversensitivity to stressful situations Suicidal Ideation

Over the course of the game Siffrin displays many, if not all of these. One of the core conflicts of the game is Siffrin's feelings of loneliness and abandonment as well as their inner critic and toxic shame.

Another common trait of those with C-PTSD not referenced in the above list is a sensitive startle reflex. It is mentioned in the same book at a later point, however:

A startle response is the sudden full body-flinching that survivors experience at loud noises or unanticipated physical contact. This is usually a somatic flashback to previous abuses.

I bring this all up now because Siffrin's first death. The cause of the first loop. HIS FIRST FAILURE. Was because he let his guard down. He felt safe for even a moment. This is not a reading or something which can be brought up for debate. On floor two of the house there is a book that explains the traps and speaks of the boulder that landed on Siffrin's head earlier:

Throughout the entire adventure Siffrin will have the toxic and universe validated belief that if they ever drop their guard, even for a single moment they may die. This belief will only get worse as they progress, unfortunately. For those with Complex PTSD they walk through life in a state of hyper-vigilance. Never quite feeling safe. Siffrin died the moment he let his guard down. [Dawn here. This is turning out to be the longest Media, Myself and I article by a wide margin. For the sake of not destroying everyone's timelines I'll put the rest of the game under a readmore. I would so very much love it if you did click on, though.]

Act 2 - The Performance

The curtain rises and the play begins. Again. Much of Act 2 is spent trying to get to The King and defeat him. Mistakes such as forgetting a key on an earlier floor or taking a wrong path will cause Siffrin to need to loop back. All the while inwardly berating themselves for their carelessness, knowing that in a world without the time loops they would have been trapped and unable to challenge The King at all. We are also introduced to Loop, a star who watches over Siffrin during his journey. Loop is in the time loop with Siffrin and can follow his progress, offer advice and comment on everything. Loop is a little disaffected and likes to play things silly and coy and can be a little mean at times. But they say they're here to help Siffrin. As the adventuring friends climb to the final boss we get to see Siffrin's rapport with the party. Siffrin likes to stay on the sidelines and listen in to other people having animated conversation. Everyone is nervous to touch him having universally come to an understanding that Siffrin does not like to be touched. They make fun of Siffrin's poor memory (another common trait of those with dissociative disorders that we will talk about more in time) and they treat one another warmly. However during a bit of banter in a snack break...

(source: ISAT Script Project) Note that Siffrin internalizes the comment "we're not friends." instantly. From this point of the game until a latter moment all times that Siffrin's monologue refers to his party the word "friends" is replaced with "allies". They are so sensitive to abandonment and rejection that the they simply accept Odile's words, not even aimed at Siffrin themselves and internalizes them deep enough that the HUD of the game itself changes to accommodate this belief. It was mentioned at the start that Siffrin is a silly traveler who enjoys puns and makes light of most situations. In battles the game uses a Rock, Paper, Scissors weapon triangle and all of Siffrin's attack names are puns. In the profile menu he sticks his tongue out. His battle image is a playfully confident smirk.

During the game we always have access to Siffrin's inner monologue and can tell how they interpret the world around them but they seldom ever voice their opinions. This allows us to see how often they are convincingly laughing on the outside while hurting on the inside. Siffrin, unable and unwilling to approach their shame and self-loathing and terrified of becoming a burden to their friends allies will deflect whenever he sense that they are hurting.

A person (or dissociative part) may avoid being aware of inner experiences such as feelings or thoughts that might evoke shame. Thus, he or she is not aware of the experience of shame, typically does not acknowledge the negative experience of self, engages in denial, and attempts to distract self and others away from the painful feeling. For example, a person who felt ashamed in therapy might start making jokes or flippantly comment that the session is boring or useless, or he or she might try to change the subject entirely or even switch to another part that has a different agenda. The experience becomes neutral or positive; shame may be disowned or denied, or overridden with joy or excitement in distracting activities (joking around, talking about something else). There is little to no awareness of shame or one’s shameful actions, faults, or characteristics. The motivation is to minimize the conscious experience of shame or to prove that one does not feel shame. - (Coping With Trauma Related Dissociation - Suzette Boon, Kathy Steele, Onno van der Hart)

The other key thing we have come to learn about how others perceive Siffrin is their memory issues. Memory issues are a constant part of dissociative disorders with a lack of childhood memories being a key feature in Complex Dissociative Disorders such as Depersonalization/Derealization Disorder and Dissociative Identity Disorder. If I am being honest about my motivations for writing this essay, while playing it I keyed in on the lack of memories early and assumed it to be an allegory for such trauma. Even made a Tumblr post stating this. On the top floor of the house of change in a secret room and only during Act 2 there is a bit of dialogue where Siffrin speaks about their childhood.

This was the moment we knew we needed to write about this game. What is missing from the text above is that when Siffrin stammers on their words there is a time loop effect. The first one in the game that is activated by something other than a death or the natural end of the loop. Siffrin edits out this conversation so that not even he can remember it.

Amnesia goes far beyond normal forgetfulness. It involves serious memory problems that are not caused by illness or extreme fatigue, by alcohol or other mind-altering substances, or normal forgetting. Amnesia falls on a continuum. People with a dissociative disorder may recall some aspects of an event but not other essential parts of it. In some cases all memory for certain events is unavailable for conscious recall. Some people with a dissociative disorder describe their memory as being like “Swiss cheese holes,” “foggy,” or “full of black holes.” They may suspect that something happened, or may have even been told by others that something happened to them, but have no personal recollection of events and often feel afraid to think about them. People may have amnesia for longer periods of time during which normal life events took place, for example, a person may report being unable to remember anything from the fifth grade, or from ages 9–12. - (Coping With Trauma Related Dissociation - Suzette Boon, Kathy Steele, Onno van der Hart)

Instinctive use of time travel to edit out parts of a conversation that a perspective character does not wish to accept or confront is a fantastic allegory for how dissociative symptoms manifest. When a person or dissociative part stumbles too close to a severe trauma trigger. To speak from personal experience it is a moment where in a conversation a question comes up and the answer feels wrong in your mouth. Like you just lied. But you know you didn't intend to lie... so of course you interrogate the piece of information and the wall of confusion that hits can make a person feel truly powerless. Like you're not even certain of what you are saying anymore and a mixture of shame and fear flood in and tell you to stop talking, stop lying, stop exaggerating, stop speaking, stop, stop, STOP. Poor Siffrin shouldn't have their memory made fun of. But... his friends allies don't know. Do they? How could they? Siffrin doesn't speak up and when he does it tends to be a showy performance of being light hearted and silly so no one can see how hurt he is. Because if he does try to be honest... well. You saw what happened when they tried to open up. Through hard work and persistence the allies loop enough times to gain the knowledge and strength to win against The King. The King's first attack will force the allies to see a vision of the future and without a special magic shield will kill them in a single strike. Siffrin stays determined and prepares his allies. Helps them become stronger. Helps them win. The world is saved. Everyone in Vaugarde is released from the time freezing spell... But something's wrong... Siffrin is given a chance to talk to everyone as they all happily speak about what they'll do now that the country is saved but no matter what happens. Isabeau attempts to confess the thing that he wished to tell Siffrin if they won but is interrupted before he can get the words out, much to Siffrin's annoyance. The world is safe. All is well. It shall return to normal soon enough... only thing to do is speak with the head housemaiden and accept the praise and thanks for all the hard effort in saving Vaugarde... Then world starts to fall apart and... The second act comes to an abrupt close.

Act 3 - Family and Culture

The curtain rises and the play begins continues. The loop begins with Siffrin back at the start, even though the day was saved. Simply killing The King must not be enough. There must be a reason that the loops are continuing, even after Vaugarde is saved. The only way to understand is to find out more about why The King is able to freeze the country in time and if it has anything to do with why Siffrin can loop back. Speaking with Loop, Siffrin recognizes that as long as there are ideas and leads to explore then giving up is not going to happen. Loop seems reluctant to encourage Siffrin to continue, in fact Loop seems doesn't appear surprised by the time loop continuing at all. Loop is an interesting character and deserves an article unto themselves. We should focus on Siffrin right now.

Their first order of business is to attempt the Golden End exit route. It worked for Bill Murray, why not in this situation? Simply work out a way to make everyone have a perfect loop. Saving the world isn't enough. Siffrin can solve everyone's problems. Here we learn that Bonnie, the kid, harbors a deep well of shame for allowing Siffrin to be blinded in an eye while protecting them earlier in the adventure, before the loops. Siffrin, true to their dissociative nature, did not even remember the event. Siffrin also spends quality time with the adults in the party. Always hoping Isabeau would be brave enough to confess this loop. On this journey up the house of change the team are closer and more caring. No one makes fun of Siffrin for bumping into the counter. Siffrin discovers that the other party members have noticed his breathing exercises. Very helpful for those with dissociative disorders, by the way. They ground the body and allow one to ease somatic symptoms by soothing the nervous system and preventing activated sensations worsening symptoms. As they get closer to The King the warm and familial banter continues with Odile using the word 'friend' out loud. A guarded Siffrin allows themselves to confront Odile on saying that they were not friends (something she did not even say this "Golden" loop) and through an awkward but kind conversation she confesses she, a Too Old For This lady cannot feel comfortable calling a group of people with a pre-teen "friends" but she can perhaps call them "Family" The menu updates. Siffrin's Allies are now Sif's Family Members. This remains true in all the menus no matter what happens in any loop. But in this moment, there is a golden ending. There is joy. Though Isabeau is unwilling to discuss his confession when Sif is feeling vulnerable. They need to have a Feely-Feels talk. Sif hates the idea of a Feely-Feels talk. Yet, even still... In this moment Sif is loved.

Many people with Complex PTSD have attachment wounds from their family of origin. The concept of a found family is common among survivors, particularly in those who choose to go Non-Contact with the family of origin. Others, like Sif, have lost their family to tragedy and simply have no roots to return to. The role of a chosen family is vital in the healing journey. Survivors can become aggressively attached to those who they view as chosen family and are often activated by the concept of another loss. The wounds of losing one family enough to have massive impact on how the survivor handles relationships going forward. It is why unstable relationships is listed as a symptom of CPTSD and why there is such a big overlap of CPTSD and BPD diagnosis.

There’s no way around the fact that on the journey to finding your chosen family, you will get hurt. People you thought would be there for you will abandon you, people will decide they no longer have the emotional capacity to hold space for you, and… people who made promises to be by your side will betray those promises. That’s not anyone’s fault. It’s just life. Not everyone belongs on our journeys, but… when you find the right people, don’t let go of them. Nurture the relationships, reciprocate the support, and above all, respect the myriad of ways that people can and will show up for you. - (The Role of ‘Chosen Family' in Trauma Recovery - Monika Sudakov)

Sif is desperately attached to the Family Members that they travel with. In many ways the only reason they can endure the time loops is to protect them. Any time there is a prompt which threatens these relationships Sif's monologue insists that they will not abandon the script that ensures their safety and happiness. Yet despite all this power of love and Family, the loops continue. Which is fine. Golden Ending was a long shot anyway. Clearly it has to be related to The King and it's power to stop time. It seems to know the mysterious art of Time Craft. Talking to The King will help. The answers are still attainable and now Sif has a Family. To get the information required to learn about Time Craft and The King one must interact with as many books and items in the house of change as possible. In doing so we learn more about Sif and their history. By this point in the story the concept of croissants has come up a number of times for the party. In the opening town Sif has the option of buying one from a bakery and gives an uncharacteristic scowl. When they are spotted in the house Sif tends to duck out of conversations, not caring to listen to people talk about the pastry he loathes so desperately. He jokes about it and obfuscates but Sif hates croissants. With a burning passion. There is literally a food that can kill him in the game (he is allergic to pineapple and can die on a banana plantain peel) but his ire always turns towards croissants. Croissants are an emotional trigger for Sif. They harbored such a deep hatred of croissants that when, in Act 4, he is pressured to tell everyone what he wished for at the start of the game he says that they wished for croissants to disappear forever. Sif's reactivated trauma is related to croissants. Up until now he had been living his life blissfully unaware of his dissociated experiences and yet a croissant cracked the amnesia barriers that kept him safe and now each time he sees them they cannot help but be reminded of "The Incident". By examining the Silver coin in their inventory a number of times one can see "The Incident", a moment that happened days before the plot began which informs Sif's entire emotional state throughout the game...

(source: ISAT Script Project) Note the time skip at the tail end of that sequence. Sif was thinking too heavily about the trauma again and skipped time to avoid thinking about it. Dissociative barriers. He literally cannot think about it. The universe won't let him. Sif's home isn't there anymore. In the canon of the game where reality can be rewritten on the whim of a wish, the country that Sif comes from was wiped off of the map and all knowledge and memory of it has been erased, even from those who lived there. Sif's trauma is that he lost his home. His family. Everything and everyone that he ever knew. Through traveling with his family members he has gained a slither of the emotion, comfort, connection and safety that he lost and in being reminded of all that he lost so close to the end of their journey he was reminded he can and will lose it all again and the thought is too terrifying to process. This is the core conflict in Sif's heart for the entire game. The more they interact with memories of the destruction of his homeland the more keenly aware he becomes of the fact that the quest will end and his family will go their separate ways and abandon him. They have no home to return to when this is all done. CPTSD is not currently recognized by the DSM-5. An official diagnostic description can only be found within the ICD-11. On the ICD-11 page for Complex-PTSD there is a specific segment for "Culture Related Features" that reads:

Cultural variation exists in the expression of symptoms of Complex Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. For example, somatic or dissociative symptoms may be more prominent in certain groups attributable to cultural interpretations of the psychological, physiological, and spiritual etiology of these symptoms and of high levels of arousal.

Given the severe, prolonged, or recurrent nature of the traumatic events that precipitate Complex Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, collective suffering and the destruction of social bonds, networks and communities may present as a focal concern or as important related features of the disorder.

For migrant communities, especially refugees or asylum seekers, Complex Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder may be exacerbated by acculturative stressors and the social environment in the host country. - (ICD-11 for Mortality and Morbidity Statistics)

We do not learn much of Sif's culture of origin but we know that they were in tune with The Universe, that they had spiritual aspects that allowed them to use Wish Craft and follow when fate leads. Act 3 is an info gathering quest on The King's motivations and we discover that King and Sif both hail from the same country and have lost all their social bonds, networks and communities and cannot even recreate the specifics of their culture. It has literally been erased. No culprit is ever named for this atrocity but from Act 3 onwards Sif mourns this lack of roots and via the power of the magic that prevents anyone from remembering the country they cannot mention this tragedy to anyone. Though Odile is able to infer it. Odile is also an immigrant to Vaugarde, her mother was from Vaugarde and her father from Ka Bue. Her mother abandoned her and Odile's quest in Vaugarde is to find parts of her history within the foreign land and fill in the parts of her soul that she feels are incomplete from the lack of her mother's presence and history in her life. In Act 3 the two bond over it as part of Odile's "friendquest", in Act 4 and beyond Sif's inner monologue seethes with bitterness and envy for Odile having connections. The initial connection of them both being foreigners in an accepting land caves to the pain of loss that consumes Siffrin whole.

(source: ISAT Script Project) What's worse is that some of the things that the family members joke at Sif about for being too forgetful to know the words "Kiln" "Pottery Wheel" or "Stuffed Animal" (though they do remember on some loops) become less about silly forgetful Sif letting incidental information slide out of their dissociative mind. It becomes making fun of a person speaking a second language and not having complete mastery over it. By Act 5 Sif has no patience for the playful jabs because they happen every single loop and they hurt. Minimizing is a lot harder in a time loop. Every small moment of tiny pain repeats again and again. Every time Sif bumps their hip on a counter the party laugh at him. Well... except for the time he screamed at them for it... or the time he collapsed into a defeated pile on the floor on the verge of tears. Heaven help me if bumping into a counter hasn't been the last straw to break my facade when the weight is too much to carry. Poor Sif... As Sif learns more about Time Craft and the country that both he and The King come from, Sif starts to gain an understanding of The King's motivations. After losing one country he couldn't bear to risk losing another home. Vaugarde was so kind to him and took him in and he wants it to remain perfect and safe forever. Frozen in time like a photograph. Now that Sif has come to recognize how important his Family Members are to him, they understand. To have people you love and consider Family is so important and the idea of losing that is simply unspeakable. It is a fate worse than the time loops. By now Sif has done the Golden Ending a time or two...

He understands why The King would do this. The final loop of Act 3 allows Sif to attempt to convince The King not to fight. The pair have attempted to bond over their roots, they have tried to force The Universe to allow them to speak the name of their nation (but it refused to be said) and now Sif wants to try and use understanding. The King agrees. He stops the fight. Asks Sif to come to his side and... Then he freezes the Family Members in time. He understands now that Sif is using Wish Craft to fight him and he cannot win on traditional terms so he decides to carve it into Sif's memory, a reminder of what happens if he continues defying The King's will. He picks up poor little pre-teen BonBon... and FORCES SIFFRIN TO WATCH AS HE CRU-

Act 4 - Shame Spiral

The curtain rises. The play begins continues. And Sif is not okay. They witnessed the game break the well established rule that the kid was not able to be hurt. Even in runs where you lose to The King Bonnie always gets away. The Family will always go out of their way to ensure The Kid survives. It's happened so many times by now one doesn't even think to question it... And the player had to watch. There is no avoiding that event. Sif will lower their guard to speak with The King and offer compassion and trust to someone they thought of as a kindred spirit and no sooner had they laid down their arms for a moment they were punished for it. Brutally. It's the rock again. Feel safe, even for a moment, and it comes crashing down to crush with full weight... only this time it's not the Sif taking the hit. Sif can take all the hits in the world. It was BONNIE. Someone else was crushed because Sif trusted. From this moment on Sif's intrusive thoughts become louder and meaner. Look above at the conversation with Odile about her roots and notice the changes between Act 3's inner monologue and Act 4's. By this point in the story Sif is losing track of how many loops they have gone through. Unless you keep your Memory of Self equipped you will find that any time you loop forwards or backwards the loop counter will jump up by leaps. Sif is so numb to the cycle by now that they're just dissociating through iterations of the time loop. Other times he 'blacks out' bits of time include sleeping at the clocktower. We learn that he never ever sleeps at the tower. He just blacks out and comes to at the house ready for the next run. All Sif can remember is what the player sees. But stuff does happen besides that which we see. It's not just the amount of time that Sif has been in the loops that is causing this degradation of mental health, though. It's the continuous activation taking a toll. When a person is continiously hyperaroused they become disaffected, chronically dissociated and begin experiencing somatic symptoms. Headache, stomach ache, exhaustion with no ability to sleep, hunger without ability to eat. At this point of the story Sif is constantly hungry and is not sleeping at all. The primary cause for this is the attachment trauma being continuously triggered. Where in early acts it was a matter of worry over losing his new family while being reminded constantly of losing his old one, now he is reminded of allowing his family to die because of his actions. The shame spiral claims him and his emotions become wild, even if he is not able to express them outwardly. This level of emotional sensitivity is a primary symptom of Borderline Personality Disorder. The similarities between CPTSD and BPD are enough that much of the discussion around the potential for including CPTSD in the next revision of the DSM centers around whether it should replace or be combined with BPD. The Foundation for CPTSD writes on the topic:

At one-time, complex post-traumatic stress disorder was proposed as an alternate form of borderline personality disorder because of the shared link to severe childhood trauma. The jury is still out to recognize CPTSD as a diagnosis in the DSM, but it is believed that the symptoms and causes of BPD and CPTSD overlap substantially, but it is not warranted to replace one diagnosis with the other or conceptualize CPTSD as a subtype of BPD. Borderline personality disorder and complex post-traumatic stress disorder are commonly found together, with between 25% and 60% of people living with BPD also having CPTSD. Complex post-traumatic stress disorder is listed in the 11th edition of the International Classification of Diseases (ICD-11), and this has spurred research differentiating the two disorders. Evidence suggests that CPTSD and BPD may represent a continuum of the stress response, and both seem to have a component of dissociation involved. The most significant difference between the two diagnoses is when they form. CPTSD typically forms in early childhood, while BPD forms during early adolescence. Having both CPTSD and BPD makes life difficult, to say the least. - (CPTSD Foundation)

BPD is a personality disorder categorized by attachment wounds. Part of the diagnostic criteria includes "Frantic efforts to avoid abandonment, whether it is accurate or not, by family and friends" It is safe to say Sif feels this way about their family. They lost their entire home, their history, their family of origin. They cannot conceive of losing the family that they have gained. The concept is simply too painful for them to consider and so emotional and dissociative barriers force away anything which could potentially bring the topic of losing them to mind. Heaven knows we can understand the impulse... But since being directly responsible for failing the promise they made to protect Bonnie this is no longer a matter of fear of the unknown, it is shame in having failed to keep a promise to protect. This shame grows and cripples Sif's emotional regulation, leaving them prone to volatile outbursts of their repressed rage. Either forcing it inwards on the self or outwards on others.

When you feel chronic shame, you believe that no amount of punishment or corrective actions would be sufficient, and you are unable to forgive yourself or have any empathy for the terrible suffering shame brings to you. It is as though chronically ashamed people have received a life sentence of shame with no hope of parole, even when they are unsure of exactly why they are bad. In fact, some people will say there is no particular reason they are bad and unworthy: The mere fact that they exist and take up space on the earth is shameful enough. They believe they are not worthy of living and do not deserve anything good. In such cases, shame is an emotion of hiding: The last thing an ashamed person wants is to be open, vulnerable, and seen by others. Thus, it is an emotion that often is not addressed sufficiently in therapy, even though it is a major impediment to healing. - (Coping With Trauma Related Dissociation - Suzette Boon, Kathy Steele, Onno van der Hart)

Act 4 is about learning the origins of the Wish Craft that rewrites the universe and allows for Sif to use Time Craft. We learn that any time they are upset they will instinctively rewrite history to prevent the things that they fear from coming to pass. This includes moments when their anger gets away from them and they lash out at their family. Some optional scenes include forcing Isabeau into a kiss or screaming at Odile when she knows too much and tries to help Siffrin. Any time these outbursts happen time rewinds and only Siffrin is left with the knowledge that they happen, deepening the growing well of shame. All the while Sif feels more hollow in the interactions he has with his Family. In forcing them to be their best selves via the "Friendquest" events every loop he starts feeling like he is manipulating them. Where he felt loved the first few times he now accuses himself of forcing them to love him.

To the degree that our caretakers attack or abandon us for showing vulnerability, to that degree do we later avoid the authentic self-expression that is fundamental to intimacy. The outer critic forms to remind us that everyone else is surely as dangerous as our original caretakers. Subliminal memories of being scorned for seeking our parents’ support then short-circuit our inclinations to share our troubles and ask for help. Even worse, retaliation fantasies can plague us for hours and days on the occasions when we do show our vulnerabilities. I once experienced this after being very honest and vulnerable in a job interview with a committee of eight. Over the next three insomnia-plagued nights, my outer critic ran non-stop films featuring my interviewers’ contempt about everything I had said, and disgust about all that I had left out. Even after they subsequently and enthusiastically hired me, the outer critic plagued me with “imposter syndrome” fantasies of eventually being exposed as incompetent in the new job. - (Complex PTSD: From Surviving to Thriving - Pete Walker)

It doesn't matter. Sif tries everything. Learns all the things that they can learn. Explores all the hidden areas of the house of change. Nothing matters. It's hopeless.

And with each loop The King's attack shows Sif a vision of the future. What do they see? Endless looping or... does Sif see the future beyond the loops? After the party return to their various homes? Act 4 ends with The Head Housemaiden, the only one who could have potentially held answers telling Sif outright that there was no escape... Before the loop begins anew.

Act 5 - Curtains

[Hello there. It's me, Dawn. I'm pausing the essay and dropping the cute little play structure to reiterate the Content Warnings from the start of the post. During Act 5 there are options to commit self-harm that a player may stumble across unintentionally. During previous acts one has to work exceptionally hard and against the game and characters within it to unlock a means of self-harm and it is unambiguously seen as a bad thing. In Act 5 there are no external forces to comment on Siffrin's actions.] The curtain rises. No point in wasting time. Get the actors. Make them strong. Beat the king. Do it right this time. Unfortunately our star has lost all of the mental fortitude they had. They were so strong for so long but there is only so much a person can take before they let the anger win. It is all too common for people with significant trauma to harbor resentment and anger in their soul. It sometimes remains repressed under layers of emotion numbing dissociation, it sometimes turns inwards into self-destructive acts and viewpoints and it sometimes turns outwards into explosive acts of physical or emotional violence. But it's there... lurking within the injustice of all the pain a person has felt.

When you have experienced a trauma, anger often becomes the central emotion that you feel. Angry thoughts about revenge may consume you. According to Enright and Fitzgibbons (2000), your anger is more destructive if you focus it on another person or people; it is intense, even in the short term; it leads to a learned pattern of annoyance, irritation, or frustration with others who are not the source of your anger; it is extremely passive; it is extremely hostile; or it is developmentally appropriate for someone much younger than your actual age (e.g., you act like a two-year-old and have a temper tantrum). - (The PTSD Workbook Mary Beth Williams)

and so... with the 5th act of our play about to begin, the star wakes in a familiar meadow for what may be the hundredth time... and they simply cannot take it anymore.

The actor on stage has reached Rock Bottom and likely unlocked the skill Rock Bottom to go with it, though they are beyond the silly puns now. Rock, Paper, Scissors, Breathe or Heal. Just get to The King. Just kill it. One. Last. Time. The GIF above starts with the line "YOU WANT YOUR FAMILY BACK!!! NOT THE FICTIONAL CHARACTERS THAT HAVE TAKEN THEIR PLACE!!!" Up until now we have only spoken about dissociation in terms of zoning out or blocking out memory. I now want to talk about Derealization and Depersonalization. DPDR has been a subject of other Media, Myself and I essays, most notably our discussion on Night in the Woods. To be brief about it for this essay Depersonalization is a detatchment from one's sense of self and Derealization is a detatchment from reality. Our star has become so disillusioned with the endless looping that they no longer view their surroundings as real. The people in their life are just actors in a play that they are directing. Everyone says their lines. Even the star must say their lines. But there's still some stage direction. Some purpose that our hero must fulfill. They know that there is a chance if they can just kill the king without Mirabelle landing the final shot. Then. Maybe... In their disaffected state and unable to convincingly perform their lines in the play, our star manages to upset everyone else on stage causing them to doubt if it would be safe and productive to continue traveling with such a horrible disgusting unreliable stupid person. This causes the final act to be a solo performance. One final walk through the house without friends allies family actors to help. At the clocktower the other actors talk about our star and are uncertain if they can trust them any longer. Our star reacts by rejecting them entirely and going it alone. There is a concept in BPD called Splitting in which a person devalues or exaggerates the value of an individual in their compromised emotional state. It can cost a person relationships if they act out of these temporary emotions. At the start of Act 5 the actor manages to scream at the kid for getting in danger, calls the fighter a coward and mocks the researcher for her mother abandoning her. The individual, so desperate to shield their wounded heart, pushes the people they love away because their proximity is too close to their open wounds and they push away to maintain space. This is particularly true in those who struggle to create healthy emotional boundaries. This game is such a god damned call out at times. As the actor climbs the house everything is broken. The universe itself is trying to maintain the reality of two wishes that it needs to make a reality. "Save Vaugarde" and the one the main character wished for in Act 1. Do you remember what it was? The Universe cannot allow Siffrin to remain with their Family Members if they run off alone and reject them. The Universe simply cannot accomodate such a reality. Everything is falling apart. What proceeds is the ISAT equivalent of a Genocide Run in Undertale. Everything is broken and wrong. Rooms are breaking the collision boundaries of a video game, textures are cut wrong, doors lead to the wrong location, time is looping without rhyme or reason. And the menu is blunt. You cannot change your equipment, now stuck with Memory of Emptiness with the description (Nothing comes to mind, hahahahaha!) Some rooms contain hallucinations that make our star feel more abandoned and empty and mournful of their situation. In rooms where they would normally receive a modicum of physical comfort brushing against the other actors there is nothing now.

(Aaaaaaah…) (You rub your arms once, twice, thrice.) (Your throat tightens) (You feel like you're floating in your own body.) (If only someone would touch you to make sure you're real! Someone, anyone!)

This is an example of extreme depersonalization. Also the garden has a table with 4 healthy plants and 1 dying plant to the side. Our star notices it and it acts as a visual indicator of the barriers between the director and their actors. Some of the other rooms on the Act 5 climb depict overt self-harm...

It can be understood as a substitute action for more adaptive coping that attempts to deal with a variety of overwhelming problems, many involving too much feeling (for example, loneliness, abandonment, panic, inner conflicts, traumatic memories) or too little feeling (numbness, depersonalization, emptiness, feeling dead). Self-harm is thus often related to the need for regulation skills, that is, finding ways to modulate and tolerate unbearable inner experiences, such as painful emotions, or traumatic memories (Gratz & Walsh, 2009; Miller, 1994). Some people harm themselves in secret and carefully hide the inflicted wounds from others. Other people harm their bodies in places that are visible to people around them. (Coping With Trauma Related Dissociation - Suzette Boon, Kathy Steele, Onno van der Hart)

The shame only increases upon doing these optional (but distressingly unprovoked) actions. Honestly, if I had one criticism of the game and its depiction of mental health it is that there is no way to know that looking at the cupboard with the eye patch conversation would cause a self-destructive action. As someone with extreme sensitivity to depictions of suicide and self-harm I felt that having no agency or warning over that (I had no reason to assume this would happen. Any other form of self-harm requires selecting a menu option. This one jumps out at a player unexpected) was... unfair. It is noted in monologue that breathing exercises no longer work by this point of the narrative and due to not being at the clocktower our star is proceeding with no food and no sleep. Their already bottomed out mental and emotional state is in sore need of external intervention. Something the actor both desires and rejects in equal measure. Upon finding and fighting The King our hero is frozen in time and locked in a dream. Placed face to face with their worst fears and worries of how their actors Family would perceive them.

(source: ISAT Script Project)

After the screen stops being blurry and the player wipes the wet spots off of their Nintendo Switch. The fear of being perceived. The fear of being seen as manipulative. Being seen as insincere. Being seen as lazy or too afraid to change. Callous. Aimless. Manipulative. So many survivors have these negative scripts and inner critics. Caught in their cycles. Their own little loops. But there's still hope. Family. The chance to be vulnerable. The game concludes with Sif's Family saving him from The King. But even though The King's spell is broken and the people of Vaugarde are unfrozen the sky has a giant red crack in it. Sif's wish is still tearing the world apart. Realizing that when the quest is over everyone will go home Sif has their temper tantrum, becoming the final boss in which every move is a choice to either lash out at the party or lash out at themselves. A boss mechanic version of the final embers of a violent extinction burst. That is to say a person who does not have control over their ability to maintain a sustained behavior will lash out and attempt to assert control in order to prevent losing the conditioned routine.

An extinction burst is characterized by a temporary increase in the frequency, intensity, or duration of behavior being extinguished through operant conditioning. This phenomenon occurs when the reinforcement for a previously learned behavior is removed, leading to an initial escalation of the behavior before it decreases and eventually ceases. While not all instances of extinction involve such bursts, they are observed in some cases, particularly during the treatment of problematic behaviors. Extinction bursts can complicate the treatment of behavioral disorders, as they may temporarily increase undesired behaviors like aggression or self-injury, making it challenging to assess the effectiveness of interventions. (*)

In this case Sif is lashing out because he has no way of preventing his Family from going back to their lives. It's a destructive and unhealthy mechanism. The fight ends with everyone refusing to let Sif run away or hide anymore. He is forced to admit that his wish was to stay with everyone. That he didn't want the family to go away. He opens himself up to the vulnerability of being seen of being understood and yes, even potentially rejected. The Family agree to travel together at least long enough to get Bonnie back to their sister. But there are no guarantees what happens beyond there. There is love. There is acceptance. There is honesty. There are no more time loops. Maybe now, finally... there can be change. Growth. Tomorrow.

In time loop fiction everything eventually loses meaning. There are no permanent consequences, no external pressures, nothing inherent to strive for, no meaning but what the protagonist(s) give themselves. The option to just accept things and remain is always there as Andy Samberg's character in Palm Springs does. The option to never stop trying to escape is there for those like Keiji in All You Need Is Kill.

The brilliance of In Stars and Time is that there are two wishes that are influencing the universe. The wish of the people to save Vaugarde from being frozen in time and Siffrin's wish to remain with his family. Change and Stagnation. That's what it always comes down to in these time loop stories and the conflict in this game is that those two forces are playing against one another. The only outcome was to give up on one or the other. As we'll learn in Act 6 there is no reality where Siffrin gets to stay with all 4 party members. They will have to separate at some point. Accepting change is accepting that things can and will and do end and life will go on and you have to be okay with it. Many of our essays have focused on representation that includes a healing journey from Ange Ushiromiya accepting the circumstances of her tragic past to Elliot Alderson's 4 season long representation of trauma therapy for dissociative clients. I think the thing I love about In Stars and Time is that it's the long and arduous process of a chronically traumatized individual asking for help. It's the first step on the healing journey. Acceptance. Siffrin spent the entire game in denial and rejection, making jokes and pushing things aside. Our long and hard journey was just getting to the point where they were able to recognize and admit it. And I really hope that Sif and their family members will be okay. I wished on my leaf for Sif to see Ka Bue with Odile. I hope they get to go. But as insertdisc5 says when asking any questions about what happens next "it's your turn" -

Stars that was a long one. Thank you for sticking with me if you read the whole thing. We like to write these essays as a matter of helping our study on dissociation (we, ourselves, are a DID patient and reading and comprehending this material is essential to our recovery and treatment) and providing a little insight to bits of media that are positive examples of what we go through. If you enjoyed always feel free to leave an ask or leave some silly tags. I never care if I get a flop post as writing is its own reward but the encouragement is good for my ego <3

Special thanks to @insertdisc5 for answering when I reached out for comment on the writing of this essay. The reply was helpful and encouraged us to take our time and write this with extra care. (In Stars and Time can be found on Steam, Itch, GOG, Nintendo Store and Playstation Store. The Prologue Game can be found on Steam and the Start Again comic on insertdisc5’s website) Media, Myself and I is a series of Tumblr Essays for positive depictions of dissociative disorders. Other essays include: A History of Murder Alters Discworld and Plurality Incidental, intentional and accidental representation Gender, Dissociation and Clinical Stigma in The Third Person Recontextualized Memories in Umineko Derealization in Night in the Woods and Metal Gear Solid The Dangers of Hypnotic Personality Play in Penlight System Origins in The Incredible Hulk Relationships with Systems in The Incredible Hulk The Healing Journey in Mr. Robot

...wait... what happened to Act 6?

I did say Loop deserved their own essay, didn't I?

#dawn posting #say the line siffrin #media myself and I #watch me post my trauma in public #cptsd #bpd #let's do the time loop again #in stars and time #siffrin #odile #isabeau #bonnie #mirabelle #isat #isat spoilers #time loop

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s-4pphics · 1 year

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tag, you're it! (e.w.)

ITS PRIDE MONTH PUSSSSSSYYYYYYY

omg this is kindaaaa…. yeah

imma lil proud LOL hope y’all like it

wc;cw: 14.2k, ceosdaughter!ellie, tagger/artist!oc, ANGST!!, mentions of depression and suicidal ideation, illness, parental death & brief mentions of funerals, descriptions of foster care/homeless shelters and poverty, both oc n ellie have daddy issues, MOMMY ISSUES!!, brief mentions of drug addiction(coke), homophobia DURING PRIDE MONTH🤨🤨, internalized homophobia and misogyny, ellie is a horny touch starved loser n kinda stalkerish?, mentions of criminal injustice(police, prisons, etc.) i hate it here, rich ppl being demons, SMUT!!!!! MDNI!!!!, light descriptions of masturbation, potential dubcon!!, sexual tension😟, bratty subbottom!ellie, mean domtop!oc she carries her dick on her like a glock lol, slight fearplay, KNIFE PLAY/BLOOD, DIRTY TALK, finger and strap sucking, fingering, pussy eating, MOMMY KINK!!, nipple play, squirting <333 n creaming <333, riding, reverse cowgirl, slapping(FACE!!! ass titties), hitting it from the bbbbback, loss of virginity, masochism LOL, a lil ass play LOL, pretty taboo themes catch it

“She’s… I genuinely believe she’s deranged, your honor! She’s… uncontrollable! Look at what she’s done to our city! Civilians can see her tracks everywhere they go, and it’s disgusting! Not to mention she’s a pervert!”

You rolled your eyes as you listened to the high-pitched, ongoing shrieks of one of the wealthiest women in the state as she spat belittlements of you to the judge.

You were… fucked.

You adjusted in your uncomfortable chair, leaning back and crossing your arms over your chest, turning your head to eye your lawyer, arching a brow at him as you waited for his defenses for you. He looked… scared shitless, to say the least.

Yeah. You were definitely going to fucking jail.

Were these pieces of shit really going to treat you like Satan himself for pulling a measly, little prank? Has April Fools truly lost all meaning?

A couple of days ago, on April 1st, you took it upon yourself to spray paint ♡GIRLDICK♡ across the largest building in the city, which just so happened to be owned by the Miller family, if anyone even bothered to call their cultist bond that. Their wealth swiftly accumulated when the now deceased founder of the organization, Joel Miller, discovered some new form of AI technology… or whatever the elders at the shelter told you. His death shook your city years ago; You weren’t sure why it was so moving for people, but R.I.P, you guess.

You assumed they were just another group of elitist fuckers, but he must’ve been decent at the most; You still remember his memorial broadcasting on the small TV at the shelter as the other residents mourned in solace.

Regardless, you hope all their institutions across the nation collapse one day, preferably with the rest of them inside.

The broad in the black, silk suit kept pointing her finger at you, and it took everything in your spirit to not get up out of your seat and rip it clean off her hand and shove it down her throat.

Not every tag you’ve done around the city has been rooted in “perversion”. There’s nothing perverse about… loving girldick. It’s a way of life!

Fuck security cameras.

Unbeknownst to them, you’ve already been coined as a hidden talent in the city, at least according to some people you know at the shelter. You’re faceless in the eye of the public, but that separation doesn’t negate their appreciation for your artwork. You even went viral for the mural you painted of your father for his birthday two years ago, even though the fucker that posted it on Instagram hadn’t included your signature. You could bet millions of people have seen it by now, and you gained absolutely nothing from it.

But, of course, your form of creative expression was being reduced to a jizzing penis. You've created countless mosaics around the city that represent the purest forms of love and sex, and now you are being blasted for being some sort of corrupt sicko. You only drew what came natural to you, and if people felt a way about it, they could choke on the fattest girldick known to humanity. You hate rich people.

Your father didn’t sacrifice everything he had to teach you the complexities of sketching for your name to be attached to outlines of dicks. You didn’t grow up watching your father skip meals so he could get you a new water paint set for your birthday every year for your art to be lawfully ridiculed. The only comfort this situation brought was that you knew he would’ve found the sloppily drawn cock hysterical. You still remember his laugh after all this time.

You miss him dearly. You probably could’ve been just as rich, if not more, as the bitch at the other table if he was still here with you. He would’ve ensured you didn’t stray off into the life you live now.

Being in foster care was the dissipation of your joy. You were considered a problem child very early on: fighting the caretakers when they tried to calm you, cursing at them, stealing, and nobody wanted to adopt you because of that, regardless of your talents. You were set up to fail too early, and you despised the world because of it.

Your record was horrendous, and you were going to jail. You fucking hate rich people.

… Except the Miller's eldest daughter. She gets a pass.

And she keeps staring at you.

Every time you caught her sparkly eyes, she blushed and looked forward, her freckles surrounded by a deep red that rushed down her neck. She was dressed much less… sophisticated than her mother: her hair tied back in a low bun and littered with black bobby-pins, a dark-blue sweater, rings on her thumb, black pants, and clean Vanz.

You knew a lesbian when you saw one. You could barely hide your knowing smirk.

“My child doesn’t need to be exposed to such… nauseating ideologies! Think of the children of the city and what they’re forced to see because of vile people like that,” she pointed at you again. You were this fucking close to stabbing her with that pen in front of you.

Your daughter’s gay, Mrs. Miller.

“With all due respect, ma’am,” the judge started. What kind of backwards shit was this; Wasn’t she supposed to be respecting him? “It’s important that we stay on track. You’re specifically suing her for vandalism— “

“Ongoing, unchecked vandalism! This is not her first charge, your honor, it’s her seventh! She’s… she’s— “

You tried to tune her out, looking around the congested space of the courtroom, and you caught eyes—shiny, green eyes— on you. Again.

She was fiddling with her hands in her lap, her teeth picking at the dry skin on her bottom lip. But she didn’t look away this time. You watched her eyes trail over your face, down to your jaw, your neck, your chest, only to come back up to your eyes.

You did the same, taking in the dots on her soft cheeks, her eyes, her pretty nose, and mouth, looking her up and down, biting your lip, letting her know you were gauging her. She was cute, you had to admit.

“—sentenced to three years in federal prison— “

You looked up in shock, feeling like your body had been dunked into a tub of ice water and left to die, instantly stiffening at the announcement of your sentence, the sound of the slamming gavel nearly putting you six feet under.

You couldn’t do anything but stare at the judge in disbelief as he organized his papers emotionlessly, your lawyer putting his hand on your shoulder. You knocked it off and glared at him. You looked over to the table, the family already up and taking their leave, Mrs. Miller’s hand tightly enclosed around her daughter’s wrist as she dragged her out the wooden doors.

Two security guards were already walking towards you with cuffs, gripping your arms too roughly to pull you up out of your seat and latching the metal around your skin. You started to panic as they walked you towards another set of doors.

“Wait, wait, my backpack, I need my— “

“You aren’t allowed to have anything on you. Your property will be held by the court until further notice.”

“But— “

“No buts, and don’t resist,” you felt the security grip your arm harder, and your anxiety peaked, your panting breaths hardly leaving your body.

You didn’t resist. You couldn’t. Your life was shattering around you in slow motion, loose shards slicing through you with intent to kill.

You allowed the brawly men to drag you… anywhere. You didn’t care anymore; You were tired, and no longer had the urge to fight left in your heart.

Ellie was brought up in isolation.

Homeschooled, no friends, no purpose outside of being the vessel to represent her family name, creating the next line of heirs for her father’s company.

The benefits of his successes had simply… appeared when she was fifteen.

She remembered how he went from being present, gave her the utmost attention, played sports with her, taught her how to sing and self-defense with his past down switchblade, to not, completely cut off from society as he barricaded himself in his study and worked relentlessly on new forms of technology. Being an only child brought nothing but loneliness for her after a while.

But then they were rich. They moved to an affluent neighborhood and into a two-story house in a matter of months, driving Porches and buying out stores. Wealth appeared, but the relationship with her family suffered because of it.

Her father fell ill, and after a multitude of hospital visits, teary farewells, and a memorial, he was gone. Merely a memory that hardly seemed real. Her and her mother’s relationship became even more unsteady after his passing.

Ellie’s mother swiftly took over the company in an almost authoritarian way. She interacted with society in a robotic, rehearsed manner. Mechanical, soulless, the only proof of her humanity exposing itself when she snorted white powder.

Her mother had brought up the idea of marriage the second she turned eighteen, a year before her father’s passing, saying that there were multiple well-off men that were eager to be with her, willing to give her children. Multiple.

Men…. children… having children with men. Money. The empire. Her mother.

It all made her nauseous.

… But art didn’t.

She’d always kept her journals secret. Left in a box on the highest shelf of her walk-in closet where the maids couldn’t find them.

She expressed everything that she couldn’t to her mother on paper. Her depression, her insomnia, her desire for death, her mourning, the need for sex with non-men, any form of physical connection, something—anything that made her feel human, normal.

She needed a fucking hug. A kiss. Sex. She wanted to fuck.

The first time she saw your artwork on an abandoned building as she chauffeured to the museum, she’d nearly fainted.

It’d been two women on top of each other, the most intimate parts of their body covered with the other’s hands and skin. One had her head between the other’s legs atop blankets and flowers as the other… apparently in the middle of an orgasm. Her mother always made the point of sex sound so… stiff. Lifeless. Merely a factor of procreation.

But your art was so erotic. Sensual. So full of pleasure and softness and care.

She’d almost jumped out of the car and onto oncoming traffic to get a closer look at every detail, but the car was too quick. She couldn’t even get a fucking picture.

And she was soaking. How the fuck was she going to explore a museum when she was dripping like this?!

You’d given her one of the strongest orgasms she’d ever had in her life when she returned home that day, and she didn’t even know who you were. She’d spent hours with her hand between her legs as she thought of your creation while her mother was out working, moaning and crying out as loud as she wanted, and she wasn’t even embarrassed.

She would sneak out in the darkest clothes she had when her mother passed out on the couch, and just walk. Specifically in search for anything with your signature that she’d memorized like it was her own. She’d taken pictures of your content, memorized them, got off to the suggestive ones in secret, and appreciated your love and passion for your craft.

She’d even started recreating her own depictions of eroticism. All with women. They never looked the same: different heights, all skin tones and body types, anything that she could think of, she drew it. She’d tried to envision what you looked like after only a few weeks, and she prayed her envisions were at least somewhat accurate.

She never could draw self-portraits with precision, but she knew it was her. She was always in the middle of the raunchiness that she conjured up in her mind, being touched everywhere, tied up, beaten, completely ripped apart and forced to forget the suffocating world around her. Her reimagining's of herself would be drowned in pleasure, sometimes by you, by herself, by faceless strangers. Anything she wanted.

When she saw you for the first time, she almost couldn’t control herself.

She’d felt like a fucking creep as she ducked behind parked cars to watch you paint all over an abandoned freight train behind a trashed building. The streets had been silent as she watched you decorate the metal cart in floral interpretations of pussy, her heart in her throat.

You looked gorgeous and focused and tired. So, so tired, only in sweats and a tank top with a hefty bag strapped to your back. She assumed you kept your art supplies in there.

Ellie couldn’t keep her eyes off you when she’d seen you during your court hearing.

You were just as gorgeous as the first time she saw you, but, somehow, even more exhausted. Far away, not really present, but she couldn’t blame you. And she couldn’t stop staring, enthralled by you. Even in your grayest moments, you made her feel vibrant. And that brought her guilt.

But it also made her lustful. Hungry.

And she couldn’t stop staring.

When her mother dragged her out of the hearing, she was enraged, even more so when she degraded you on the way back to the car.

You fucking stared at that whore the whole time!

Don’t ever, in your life, embarrass me again.

I’ll throw you in the gutter with that rat if you ever disrespect me like you just did in there. Do you understand?

Ellie didn’t even know what she did to garner a response this aggressive, but she was used to it. And, for the first time in her life, she didn’t care. She didn’t give a fuck.

At that moment, she knew what she had to do.

It was your fifth day in prison, and you felt nothing.

You didn’t cry, you didn’t plead, you simply succumbed to your destiny in silence. Your father would be so disappointed if he were alive.

I raised a fighter, so you fucking fight!

But you couldn’t. You were tired, and you wished you could stay asleep, never to wake up again.

You’ve been working like a dog since you got here, and you accepted it. This was your life, and you felt nothing.

Until your cell unlocked. These fuckers were probably here to shit talk you again.

They cuffed your wrists and led you somewhere. You didn’t care where, keeping your head down as they encased your arms in a calloused grasp. You hoped this location would be your last forever.

They led you into an empty room and uncuffed you. You saw the old sweatsuit that you’d received from the shelter, and your heartbeat sped up. You looked at the security in confusion. What the fuck were they doing? What were they about to do?

You could barely hear what the officers were saying, jumbled words of bail bond and cash payments molding together and sounding like a foreign language to you. They undid your handcuffs and pointed towards the clothes, murmuring for you to change so they could transport you back to the courthouse to retrieve your belongings.

What the fuck is going on?

When you returned to the shelter, you inspected your bag. After nearly scrubbing your skin off while showering.

The contents were all in their original condition, each individual item wrapped in plastic with small notes attached to them. Except for your dick. You assumed the court had no comments.

Your paint, your brushes, random hairpins, your notebooks. They were all there in their original condition. Thank god.

What you didn’t expect to see was a new jacket, sweatsuit, and small note wrapped in the same plastic from inspection.

You ripped the plastic open and retrieved the note, unfolding it and… confusion, arousal, and fear rushed through you, shocking your body as all your feelings shot down your spine.

It was a sketch of… you. And a girl bent over with her hands bound behind her back as you fucked her. An… incredibly familiar looking girl.

A freckled girl. A rosy-cheeked girl. The rosy-cheeked girl from a week ago with the psychotic, sadistic mother.

Her expression in the sketch was pure ecstasy. It looked like she was screaming, her cheeks shaded dark with water-paint and her hair a reddish-brown, thrown in all sorts of directions. Her eyes wild and erotic. Yearning. Teary. Her pleasure seemed dream-like.

And you looked just as gone. Head tossed back, sweaty with your dick shoved inside her pussy, your nails digging into the soft skin on her hips, small, but deep, bloody scratches following the painful glide of your fingertips that make the red blotches on her backside. There were small doodles of strap-ons and pussies smudged, erased, fixed to perfection that seemed almost manic. Obsessive.

You looked at the bottom of the crumpled piece of paper, a small signature across the bottom of it.

♡GIRLDICK♡

Come back home. Five days.

E.M.

… Come back home? You don’t have a fucking home. And who the fuck is E.M? Your heart was beating against your chest, climbing up your throat in an attempt to escape your body entirely. You couldn’t stop your eyes from flying across the sloppy penmanship.

… ♡GIRLDICK♡

E.M.

♡GIRLDICK♡

… Miller Enterprise.

Miller.

… Freckles.

…. What in the fuck.

It was almost dark, and you were shivering as the wind blew past you.

It had been five days.

You were eyeing the large building in front of you from across the street, a giant M slapped across the top of it, windows galore, hoodie on your head and trembling hands shoved in your pockets.

You could see the last bit of employees trickling out of the building, clad in suits and tight pencil skirts, heavy briefcases and clicking heels.

You could also see the fresh white and black paint covering where your spray-painted dick used to be, and it made you chuckle to yourself. You were almost tempted to recreate it with your new snagged bottle of acrylic. It supposedly glowed in the dark.

But then you saw a dark shadow in the corner of your eye, hurriedly moving past the glass of the entrance.

Your heart raced instantly at the thought of being discovered, and you followed the body's movement. You could see it was Ellie the closer she got to the glass, dressed in a black sweater and comfortable pants, and her same shoes from the court hearing. She looked antsy, a bit on edge, but curious. She was anticipating seeing you.

You could see her messing with the keypad on the door, the loud sounds of locks clicking over the bustling streets. Flashes of red, swiftly replaced with flashes of green shined through the maxi-glass, and she looked around at all the doors. What was she checking for?

She seemed satisfied with her job, and she slid the entry door open, leaving it slightly ajar so she could slip something between it.

She gave one last glance at the system before bolting back inside and down the lengthy hallway before all the hall lights shut off.

Did she… did she just disable all the alarms for you?

Now, you were the one anticipating meeting her.

You ran across the street the second you got a chance, hurdling through traffic before running up onto the sidewalk and treading the stairs.

You looked down and noticed two pens taped together, holding the door open. You picked them up and inspected them, a glossy, silver M near the gel tip.

You stepped inside before anyone noticed, the door automatically shutting behind you before the same green lights came on, a robotic voice confirming that the doors were locked.

You were inside the Miller Enterprise, and you were terrified.

Ellie was so nervous.

She’d been checking her Chanel watch all day, obsessively monitoring the windows to see if anyone that resembled your form had arrived, but she was disappointed every time she looked. No sign of you, yet.

The later it got, the more anxious she became. Did you see the note she left in your bag? Was it too forward? Did you think she was fucking crazy? Did you hate her for what her mother did? She prayed not.

She was currently pacing around her mother’s—father’s—dark office, every step of her shoes echoing in the nearly empty room. She hasn’t been in here since she was seventeen, and it brought just as much anxiety as it did the first time.

This will all be yours when I’m gone, don’t fucking ruin it.

She hated everything about this space. Every aspect of her dad was completely gone. All his pictures, his vinyl, his pens and pencils, his nameplate. Everything. All of it, completely void of emotion.

She hated it, she hated it.

But then she heard a clang in the hallway, and her anxiety picked up even more before she could process it.

She quickly made her way over to the exit, peeking her head through the doorframe and examining the hallway, searching for you. The noise had to be you! You really came! She could feel her nipples getting hard already.

But she saw no one. No one was in the dark hallway.

… Fuck.

Why did she shut the system off? The lights wouldn’t come on!

Her hands instantly got clammy, her heart racing, and her knees shook. She hadn't felt like this since she was a kid, and she was horrified.

Someone’s here to hurt you, someone’s going to come in and hurt you!

You never leave doors unlocked! He always said to lock your doors, never, never, never—

She couldn’t stop the intrusive thoughts from taking over her entire body, reaching into her pocket and pulling out her father’s switchblade, pressing its latch down to expose the blade. She slammed the door shut and walked over to the large window and tried to steady her breathing. She looked out of the glass and inhaled harshly.

Keep your grip tight when you strike!

Calm down calm down calm down—

“Boo.”

You saw Ellie jump with a hard gasp before spinning to face you, a fearful look on her face and her switchblade in hand, pointed edge towards you.

You could see her chest rise up and down with every shaky breath she took, her body trembling and cheeks flushed. You felt like your body was going to burst into flames, but you hid it, grinning slyly at her as you stepped forward.

Deep breath.

“Hi, Ellie.”

Another step forward. She took two back, nearly pressed against the glass.

“Y-You,” she stuttered as her eyes darted around nervously, and you could see her cheeks flushing in the darkness, “How’d you get in here?”

“I think you know how.”

You shrugged, the contents of your bag shuffling on your back. You pointed towards the large, stretched windows behind her that oversaw the entire city, the hustling streets and lights beaming into the dimly lit room from the last bits of sunset.

“View’s incredible,” your mockery littered in sarcasm. Don’t let her know you’re scared.

She took a bold step forward as her brows furrowed, anger twisting on her doll-like face. You took two, as well. You saw her eyes dart to your feet before meeting your gaze to hiss at you.

“There’re cameras on every floor of this fucking building! I press that button,” She darted her small knife towards the enclosed, red button on the side of the wall, a large print of EMERGENCIES ONLY directly above it. “And every cop in this city’ll show up and take your ass back to the fucking gutter where you’re supposed to be.”

… How the fuck was she going to threaten you when she told you to come here?! What was she playing at?

She pointed her weapon back at you. You ignored your confusion and raised an impressed brow before walking forward without pause, pulling her mother’s chair out from under the desk, the wheels squeaking against the marbled tile. You saw the grip she had on her knife tighten.

You smiled at her. “You’re pretty good with a knife, honey.”

“Fuck you. Don’t fucking call me that.”

“I dunno,” you scoffed, twirling on your heels as you took in the luxurious space around you. “I can bet my bottom ass dollar that you like it.”

Her glare hardened, and your smile brightened. You finally moved to sit in the chair, the plush leather molding against your body and stuffed backpack. You scooted back under the desk and rested your elbows on the hand-carved rosewood, completely calm. At least outwardly. Your insides were jittery from adrenaline.

You quickly inspected the contents of the desk: her mother’s matching rosewood nameplate, some loose paperwork with large sums of money scattered on them, dark pens and markers, and a signed restraining order. With your name on it.

You’re apparently not allowed a hundred feet within the perimeter of the building.

… Funny.

“Press it.”

Her scowl hardened, “What?”

You pointed a lax finger towards the button as you looked up from the document, “I said press it. You want me gone so bad, right?”

She didn’t reply, her fingers fidgeting around the knife as she adjusted her grip. Her eyes nervously flitted across the room, all over the white floors, back on you.

“You’re not gonna press the fucking button.” You spat with a devilish smile. “And I know why.”

“Fuck you, you don’t know sh— “

“You paid my bail.”

You heard her release a shaky exhale when you sliced through her words, her eyes widening in shock like she saw through you, and you knew you had her. Your smile widened as your nails pattered where you tapped on the desk.

“Uh huh. Why’d you do it?”

Her throat moved as she swallowed, and you almost laughed.

You reached into your jacket pocket and pulled out the piece of paper that kept you company in your small cot during your restless nights, unfolding it and holding up the explicit depiction that she left in your bag days ago. You pressed her as you swung the chair with your foot, “Think somebody’s got a little crush. Mommy’s gonna be so upset with you.”

“FUCK YOU!” She marched towards you until she was in front of the desk, her scent enclosing around you before you felt the incredibly sharp blade against the side of your neck, and you stiffened in terror. You looked at her in shock, studying her expression. She looked pissed, but you saw… something in her eyes that made your core squeeze tight.

It was vulgar, needy, and you hoped she missed your body’s excited shudder at her crude rage.

She didn’t. Curiosity shone behind her lust and fiery, her enraged shrieks shook your eardrums.

“You’re fucking worthless! You really think anyone’s gonna care about you rotting in a fucking cell?! You’re… you’re nothing! You’re a low life! You’re… you’re! —“

You deadened your own eyes as you slowly moved to stand, but she pressed the knife deeper into your skin as she leaned over the desk, your faces closer together. You stiffened and felt a sting on your skin, and a drop of wetness. Your pussy squeezed, and you could feel sweat looking under your jacket.

“Gonna kill me, Ellie?” You glared at her, your heart pounding with fear and exhilaration.

Say you want me. Say it, sayitsayitsayit!

Her eyes were vengeful as she scanned your face, but you saw that glint grow behind the harsh overcast. Something you craved just as badly as she did.

“Really want mommy to see her precious girl killing somebody on camera? Hm?”

“She,” her breath shuddered. “wouldn’t give a fuck if it were you, I promise.”

You barely whispered your reply as you leaned even closer, your nipples hardening under your sports bra and your underwear clinging to your wetness.

“Then do it.”

The heavy breaths she released hit your face in a burning wind, and your core tightened once more. You could see the aggression on her face slowly dissipate, that giddy sparkle in her eye overtaking her pupils as they darkened.

You felt the cold steel pull away from you slowly, her hand coming down on the desk, — unfortunate— and it threw you into action.

Your hand flew up to her throat and squeezed the sides, and you heard the clatter of the object as it hit the wood. You heard her suck in a choked breath as her eyes glossed over, suddenly desperate and wanton and scared like you’d been seconds before. She looked like a neglected kitten, and it made you hold her neck in tighter constriction.

She whimpered aloud as she attempted to gasp, her hand coming up to grab your wrist, but you snatched it away with your free hand, and it limply dropped to the desk, her body submitting.

You leaned in closer to her, and her eyes squeezed shut, lips puckered, silently begging for you to kiss her. You snickered.

You let her neck go and slammed your palm across her blushing cheek, a loud crack! filling the room.

She cried aloud, looking like she was about to burst into tears as she jumped off the desk and backed away from you, her hand pressed against her searing cheek. You rose to your feet and circled around the desk, rushing towards her until she was pressed up against the window. Tears were running down her face. You shoved her closer against the glass, grabbing her cheeks to force her to look at you.

“You’ve been watching me, haven’t you? I got a little fan, is that it?”

“N-No— “

“Yeah, I do. Fuckin’ stalker. Probably gotta whole shrine t’me in your fucking room. Does mommy know that you worship me? The lowlife who fucked up her building?” You snapped at her.

She flinched at your tone before she choked out a gasped sob, “I j-just liked what you m-made.”

“Stop crying, Ellie.”

She nodded as she sniffled, wiping the tears off her cheeks. You grasp loosened on her cheeks as you cupped her face, your thumb brushing away the wetness on her already bruising skin. You noticed how she leaned into your caress. It made your heart jolt.

“Look at me,” you whispered.

She hesitantly met your eyes.

“You wanna kiss me?”

She looked down at her shuffling feet, and you saw her fist clench.

“Answer me.”

“Y-Yes, wanna kiss. Just… just one?”

You hummed in satisfaction, inching closer towards her like you did previously. She stiffened but shut her eyes tightly, her plush lips poking out in a pucker once more as your noses touched. You chuckled and whispered, your lips brushing against hers as you spoke.

“You ever kissed anyone, baby?”

She sighed out an uneven nuh uh, her mouth chasing yours. You grinned wider.

“Oh? M’gonna be your first kiss?”

She whined out a needy uh huuuh!

You stuck your tongue out, slowly running the wet muscle over her lower lip, and you felt her whole body tremble against yours. She brainlessly stuck her tongue out to lick yours, but you pulled back. She tried to follow you, but you yanked her head back by the small bun at the back of her head, the soft strands curling around your fist.

She let out a moan, and your tongue licked up her exposed throat, leaving a trail of spit up her chin, all the way to her mouth.

You relented and connected your mouths, and she let out a shocked noise into your mouth. You slipped your tongue in her gaping mouth, wet, smacking noises filling the room as you kissed her hotly. She couldn’t keep up with your quick movements, her lips and tongue moving sloppily against yours. Her spit was all over the outside of your mouth.

You felt her hands come up to your hips to grip your jacket in a tight fist as she moaned into your mouth.

The noises she let out were so sweet: little, excited gasps and whiny keens as she tried to pull you closer.

You released her hair and grabbed her chin to move her head to the side. You kissed down her neck, and she jerked against you. Her breaths increased in pace as you pecked her sweaty skin, lapping your tongue all over the side.

You sucked into the skin under her ear, right under her jaw, pulling her sweater down to mark her collarbone.

“Pleeease, pleaseplease, ah— “

You mumbled in between gentle sucks, “What, Ellie? Talk.”

You felt her hands grab your hips tighter, but she said nothing. You pushed her hands off you roughly and looked at her with piercing eyes. She shrunk into herself when she met them.

“When I tell you to do something, you do it. You understand?”

She nodded quickly.

“So fucking talk,” you gritted out.

“Want,” she whispered with a sharp gasp. “Want you.”

You smirked, “You want me?”

“Mmhm!”

You shoved your backpack off your shoulders, the thud echoing when it hit the floor.

“Want me to do what?”

She paused before looking down at her feet again, twiddling and picking at her fingers as her face burned red.

“Um…”

You rolled your eyes and turned away from her, but you felt her hand grab your wrist and you stopped. You looked at her in annoyance.

She looked at you tentatively, her breathing shaky.

But then she slowly brought your hand in between her legs.

She shivered as she placed her hand on top of yours, making you rub her cunt back and forth. She released pleased sighs as her lashes fluttered, her head falling back against the window as she looked at you up and down.

“P-Please?” She licked her lips. “Wan’you here.”

You scoffed in shock, and her thighs squeezed down on both your hands. You pressed your palm closer against her, and her hips bucked into you.

You moved closer to her, your clothed chests pressed together.

“Move your hand,” you spoke quietly, just for her to hear even though you were alone.

She dropped it limply. You pressed your palm into her covered clit, and she moaned.

You leaned in, your lips brushing her cheek as you spoke.

“Baby just wanted her pussy touched? That’s why you acted out earlier?”

She didn’t speak as she panted heavily. You brought your hand up to slap her cheek again, and she released a pained cry as her hips twitched.

“Talk!”

“Yes! Needa… need t’be touched!”

“Tell me where.” You brought your hand back down to her pussy as fresh tears slid down her cheeks.

She sobbed. “A-Anywhere!”

You leered at her soft face. “Yeah? I get t’choose?”

She nodded quickly, her eyes screaming touch me, please! Make me cum!

“Open your mouth, honey. Stick your tongue out.”

She mewled softly, but did what you asked, her shiny, pink muscle glistening under the beaming city lights.

You brought your hand up, rubbing your index and middle finger on her soft tongue.

“Get ‘em wet.”

She hummed as she sucked them into her mouth with no hesitation. You felt her tongue messily swirl around your digits as she sighed contently, and you pressed an encouraging peck on her cheek.

You slowly fucked your fingers in, pulling them out, only to push them back in again. You almost awwed aloud when she chased your digits every time you pulled out. She was already drooling for them.

You pressed her tongue down as you fucked in, and she gagged on them. Her eyes shot open and they instantly watered, her throat tightening around you.

“Bet you suck a mean dick,” you muttered before you could stop yourself.

She moaned loudly as you fucked deeper into her mouth, pressing down on the back of her tongue.

“Oh, yeah? Want mine down that pretty throat?”

She garbled and nodded as much as she could with your fast thrusts in her mouth. You couldn’t wait to fuck it open.

“Snooped through my shit, didn’t you? Saw my fucking cock and creamed yourself? That’s why you bought me new shit?”

You saw her bring a hand down to touch her pussy, her hips bucking into her own hand, chasing any stimulation. You grabbed her wrist and pulled it away from her.

You finally eased up on her throat and pulled out completely, lines of slobber connecting your fingers and her mouth together. You cut them with your own tongue, her spit clinging to the edges of your mouth.

You planted a smacking kiss on her lips before you shoved your hand down her dark, flared pants and into her boxers.

She squealed when you immediately found her clit with your spit covered fingers, the slippery bud sliding between your already drippy fingers. You watched her hand fly to the white windowsill for balance as your hand went wild on her cunt.

“Such a wet fucking pussy. Feels good, baby?”

Her brows creased as she nodded, her body rocking with your movements. “A-Ah! —“

“Uh huh. You touch yourself like this when mommy’s at work? Hm?”

Her head shamefully jerked in confirmation. You could see her now: her pretty legs spread on her plush bed, her sopping pussy squeezing at the thought of you fucking her just how she needed. She’d be grabbing at her tits as she flicked her clit, desperate to cum all over her blankets for you. Your pussy was so wet.

“You think about me when you do it?” You knew the answer, but you needed her to say it. Confirm that she thought about you just as much as you thought about her.

“Yes! Yes, yes!”

“Fucking whore, no wonder she hates your guts.”

She moaned louder at your degradation. “S’c—coming! “

Your fingers were practically vibrating on her cunt, her clit thumping as her orgasm built. “Get my fingers nice’n sloppy, angel, c’mon— “

She reached down to grab your wrist as she jumped on your fingers, but before you could slap her, her body tensed, and her eyes rolled into her skull. You felt her clit pulsate under your touch, and you knew she was cumming.

“Fuckmemommy!”

You couldn’t stop the shock that appeared on your face as you watched her thrash on your hand, gasping out, asking you to please fuck me, mommy! Need you to fuck me!

You just massaged her through it, pressing your hips up against hers so she couldn’t run from your touch.

“Wan’mommy to fuck you, angel?” you mumbled in your daze as your pussy dripped, your brain barely registering what you just said.

“Yespleasepleaseplease, gimme— “

“Fuck, baby, need mommy inside you?” Your heart was pounding in your ears.

“M-Mhhm!—“

“Gimme your leg,” You lifted it up with your free hand, bringing it up so it came around your waist.

You slid your fingers down to her twitchy entrance and slipped the tip of your pointer finger inside. You almost moaned at how her walls clung to you, sucking you in deeper, milking you.

“Tightest fuckin’ pussy,” you mumbled to her, and she whimpered when your finger arched inside her. You prodded around until she slumped against you, pushing her hips down on your finger. You leaned in, your lips brushing her ear as you cooed right there? yeah? feels fuckin’ good?

She couldn’t even speak. She just plopped her head onto your shoulder and sloppily kissed your neck. Your cunt clenched and you flinched when her soft tongue licked into the small slit she made earlier. You heard her hum as her tongue swiped a line from your collarbone to your cut; She was licking your blood up like a fucking dog!

It made you punch that spot in her harder, and she cried out against your skin, her nails digging into your forearm.

You slowly pushed your middle finger in, and she sobbed as she stretched around you. You arched your thumb out to rub her clit as you poked that spongy spot in her pussy; She was so loud for you.

“Like when I touch you there?”

“I like it, like it s’much!” You felt her nodding mindlessly against you.

“Gonna cum on me again?” you spat at her.

“Fuck yes!”

“Know you’re gonna cum hard, can’t even fuck you like I wanna, squeezing me so tight.”

You dug your fingers as deep and fast into her as her cunt would allow. Her walls were choking the fuck out of you, practically screaming for them to stay where you were pressed inside her. How the fuck was she going to take you fully?!

The thought of breaking her open made you shake, “Gonna make this pussy take me. Can’t wait t’give you this fucking dick.”

Then she started screaming out for you, trying to get you closer, wrapping her arms around you, her leg dropping onto the floor. “Ohgodohgodohgod, m’cumming, mommy, I’mcu—AH!”

You almost fell back when she went limp on you, her knees buckling as her slick coated your fingers, your palm, her panties. You used your weight to push her back against the window, her head thudding against the glass like before, but she seemed too engulfed in her desire to care. You almost brought your hand up to comfort her sore spot, anyway, but you stopped yourself.

You took her in: practically dangling off you as she wailed from orgasm, her face beat red, the bun at the back of her head almost loose, her eyelids fluttering. You sneered at her, a nasty grin on your face.

“Atta girl, so excited for cock, ain’t she?”

She could only grind out yesyesyes between her teeth, her fingers still squeezing down on you as you rubbed her clit, her orgasm slowing down.

“You gotta make me cum first, m’kay?”

“W’na make… mommy cum!” she nodded like a bobblehead as she slurred.

“Yeah? Want mommy’s cum in your mouth?”

She wept desperately, “Yes, please, need it!”

You grinned, catching a glimpse of your desperate reflection in the mirror. You’re so glad she was too fucked out to notice.

“C’mon, honey.”

Ellie stood in front of you as you sat in her mother’s chair, her shoes kicked off.

Your bag was tossed next to you as you stared at her, noting her fidgeting stance. She wasn’t looking at you, at all. She was looking down, specifically at your occupied hands.

You’d picked up her discarded knife from the table, inspecting its rusty, scratched design, slightly bloody blade, retraction. You couldn’t stop fiddling with it.

“W-What’re gonna do with that?” You heard her ask.

You ignored it. “Where’d you get it?”

“It was my dad’s.” Her voice went sharp.

“What kinda father lets his baby play with such sharp objects?” You said in between sarcastic snickers.

“He’s fucking dead, who cares.”

You finally looked up at her sharp tone, examining her tense face, and your playful smile slowly dropped. She tried to appear as if mentioning it didn’t bother her, but you recognized that look in her eye from anywhere. Grief fucking sucks, no matter how much time passed.

“… Hm.”

You looked down at the blade again, then back up at her, “He taught you how to… handle it?”

She shrugged, her brows raising as her arms crossed over her chest. You nodded.

Your arm was suddenly incredibly itchy. “Mine taught me how to… draw n’stuff.”

You looked off to the side awkwardly as you reminisced on the first pack of colored pencils he’d bought you. You remembered how particular he was about the art utensils and their conditions. You didn’t realize that he was trying to ensure their quality because he couldn’t afford another pack until you got older.

Always make sure these bastards are sharpened! That’s true precision!

“… Cool,” you heard her say, and you looked at her, “Were you guys, uh, close?”

“Mhm,” You nodded stiffly, and silence surrounded the two of you. Ellie awkwardly nodded as she stared at the floor, and your lips twitched before you turned to stare out the window.

Some time passed in pure silence before you heard her speak.

“… Still wanna, uh… D’you still wanna fuck?”

You looked at her as she fumblingly scratched the back of her head. Her eyes met yours as her ears burned. You grinned as your shoulders rose.

“Up to you.”

“Like… I still wanna if you do,” She nibbled on her bottom lip.

You leaned back in her mom’s seat.

“Ellie.”

The deep tone of your voice made her look up, her eyes shining like crystals as her arms dropped to her sides.

“Yes?”

“… C’mere.”

She moved, her sock-covered feet padding on the floor until she was in front of you.

You looked up at her, your hand coming up to play with the hem of her sweater.

You spoke softly, “Off. C’mon.”

She grabbed the back of her top and lifted it over her head, her bare chest jiggling with her movements. She tossed the fabric to the floor.

You eyed her chest like you were going to swallow her whole, her perky nipples urging you to reach out and pull on them. Her pussy is so fucking sensitive; Were her nipples just as bad? Worse? Could she cum just from you touching them? Fuck, she probably could—

“Are they… Do you like them?”

Her soft whisper cut through your gawking. You met her eyes through your lashes as she squirmed in front of you.

Your hands came up to grab her hips, massaging them gently.

“Yeah, baby. They’re so pretty, fit you perfectly.”

She sighed in content, “T-Thank you.”

You planted a soft kiss to her tummy as you looked at your thumb around the elastic of her pants to pull them down.

Her stomach jerked with every sharp breath as your lips moved on her bare skin. You felt her hand come up to your shoulder to grasp it as she stepped out of her pants.

Your hands traveled upward to grab both her tits in a rough squeeze. She wheezed and arched her back so you could get closer. You heard her murmur a quiet fuckme, and you looked up. She was watching your every move with wide, curious eyes. You held her gaze as you licked up her torso, and she whimpered.

You brought your hands back down to grab the back of her thighs, moving her closer to your lap. She placed her hands on your shoulders as she climbed on top of you, and you sucked her nipple into your mouth.

She grinded down onto you and moaned, and your eyes fluttered shut. Your tongue made circular movements on the pert bud, and you hummed at the taste of her soft skin. Her head fell forward as she gasped right in your ear, and it made you suck on her hard.

Her hips were jerking on top of you, trying to fuck down onto your clothed thigh as her nails plunged into your back.

“Feels so… mmh!”

You brought your hand back up to her other tit and played with her nipple with your fingers.

And then you slapped it. Hard.

She let out a sharp squeak and mindlessly bounced on top of your leg; You could feel a slight dampness building on your jeans, and you scoffed at her, sneering when you pulled away. You hit her other tit just as hard, your spit transferring onto your palm.

“Ah! Fuckfuckfu— “

Smack!

“Yes!”

SMACK!

She squealed. “M’gonna cum!”

You reached up to slap her face before pulling her hair to the side with a tight fist.

You quickly grabbed her switchblade off the desk and unlatched the blade, the sharp edge popping up. You instantly pressed it to her neck, and she choked on a ragged pant.

The lust in her eyes was accompanied by fear, and you grinned.

“Don’t get scared now. You were waving it around earlier. So ready to fight, huh?”

She shuddered, rutting down on your leg again, and you pressed the sharp edge into her skin harder. Her eyes shut tight, and two fat tears fell down her cheeks. She nearly bounced on you.

“I could fuck you up right here, you know that, right?”

“Please, mommy, needa cu—!”

You moved the knife away and released her hair, slapping her in the face again. “Shut the fuck up, you nearly slit my fuckin’ throat and now you wanna fuck. I should leave right now, fucking brat.”

She sobbed, “Nonono, please don’t leave, mommy don’t go, m’sorryI’m— “

“Mommy, don’t go!” you mocked. “Get on your fuckin’ knees.”

You kept the blade pressed against her jugular as she clumsily shuffled to the floor, her cries shaking her body.

“You wanna apologize?” She nodded jerkily, minding the silver edge on her vein.

“Yeah? Wanna make mommy feel better?” You said with a mean pout.

“Mhm!”

You sloppily kicked your boots off and shoved them under the desk.

“Take m’pants off, baby. C’mon.”

She moved quickly, unbuttoning and tugging your jeans and underwear down your legs as she sniffled. She yanked them off with a hard tug, and her eagerness made you giggle as you lifted your hips. You unzipped your jacket and pulled it off your shoulders, tossing it to the floor, leaving you in your black tank top. You could’ve sworn you saw a glimpse of a grin on her face as she eyed your breasts before she dived towards your cunt.

You shoved the knife closer against her, and you saw blood pool at the edge of the blade. She looked up at you with an anxious expression.

“I didn’t say you could touch me. Ask nicely.”

She looked confused as she mumbled brokenly, “Ask you what?”

Your brows furrowed at her, “My mistake. You probably never had to ask for shit in your life.”

Her bruised cheeks glowed red as she looked down in embarrassment.

You grinned slyly. “Say, mommy, may I eat your pussy, please?”

Shock overtook her expression before she rolled her eyes at you and looked to the side.

“You’re fucking cra— “

You yanked her dark hair back and pointed the end of the blade against her bruised jaw. Her ragged breaths hit your face.

“Say it.”

“Y-You're not gonna hurt me,” she stated unsteadily.

“You don’t know shit about me, and even if I did hurt you, you’d want it. Admit it.”

She avoided your gaze and her lips quivered.

You continued. “You’d let me do anything I want because you’re disgusting. A filthy fucking slut with a silver spoon in her mouth.”

You huffed at her with a frown. “And you like girls. You’d be just as worthless as I am in her eyes if she found out.”

You nodded over to her mother’s nameplate, and her eyes shut like she was a child getting scolded for stealing candy at the store.

“I’m right, baby? You don’t want a husband? Don’t wanna get bred for the empire like she wants?”

She shamefully shook her head as tears fell down her face. You didn’t even know if she was in that circumstance or not, but by her reaction, it seemed to cut her deep. You ignored the searing pain in your chest.

“Mhm, so,” you turned her head so she could look at you, her red eyes burning through yours. “Something you wanna ask me?”

Her mouth dropped open in submission.

“M-Mommy, may I… May I eat your pussy, please?”

You smiled in satisfaction, placing a gentle kiss on her wet forehead.

“Yes, baby, you may.”

You pulled the knife away from her and set it on the desk, grabbing her chin to plant a kiss to her mouth. She whined happily into yours.

You pulled back and adjusted your position, leaning back with your legs spread, the underside of your knees hooked into the armrests of the seat, your cunt on full display for her. Your sopping pussy was right next to her face, and you saw her eyes flutter in delight.

“Want me t’show you how?”

She nodded intensely.

You brushed away the flyaway hairs on her forehead, your hand planted on the back of her head.

“Spit on my clit, babe. Get it nice n’wet.”

She released a glob of spit right onto your pulsing bud,

and you sighed as it dribbled down to your hole. You tilted her head back, remnants of slobber collecting on her chin. You gathered spit in your mouth and pulled her lower lip down, her mouth falling open. You spat onto her tongue, and she moaned, tilting her head down to spit it out all over your pussy. You bit your lip so hard; you almost drew blood.

You reached down and spread your lips, your throbbing clit poking through. You could see her trembling as she eyed you.

“Wanna taste, Ellie?”

“Yeah, please, mommy,” she choked out.

“Lick me, then, honey.”

She wasted no time, the tip of her tongue circling around the nub instantly. Your mouth fell open at the sensation. The pink muscle was so soft, the licks slow and gentle, barely there.

“Doing so good, baby, take your time,” you sighed out.

She keened at your praise; her lashes flitted like butterfly wings in Spring as she rubbed your clit in deep licks.

“Fuck, Ellie, s’so sensitive,” she whined against you, eyes begging for your approval as she watched your expression. You caressed her burning cheek with your pointer finger, and she licked deeper.

“Fuck, baby, that’s it, making me so happy,” her eyes rolled shut as she tongued you, sliding her tongue all over your pussy in slow strokes.

You moaned out every time she came up to lap at your clit. You guided her head down to your hole, and her tongue slipped inside, slurping up all your slick. You were gasping her name out as her tongue wiggled inside you, swirling all over your walls.

“Such a good girl, fuck, El!” you groaned out as wet sounds filled the room. “Wanna make mommy cum?”

She hummed excitedly and nodded, her tongue moving back up to massage your clit. You tightened her grip on her head, forcing it to move back and forth her hums shaking your clit.

She moved her head faster against you when she sucked your clit into her mouth, and your head fell back against the chair as your eyes rolled back. Your thighs were shaking, toes curled as you squealed out encouragement. You needed to cum, she was going to make you cum!

“Get me there, pretty, m’— gonna make me fuckin’ cum— “

“Wan’mommy’s cum, please?” she sloppily murmured against you.

“Gonna get it, baby, m’right there! —“

She was fully moaning all over your clit, “Gonna fuck you so good, angel, fuck yes!”

You peeled your eyes open and looked back down at her when she released your clit to moan aloud. Her drool and your pussy juice were all over her pink lips as she sighed and whimpered in pleasure. You couldn’t see what she was doing, but her forearm was moving frantically as quiet shhlcks filled the room.

“Ellie.”

“Mommym’gonnacum— “

“I swear to g— “

“S’so wet, oh god, please!”

SMACK!

Her head flew onto your thigh at your hard slap to her face, and she screamed out as her body tensed up. You watched her with a scowl as she squealed out m’cummimgsohardmommy against your skin, a puddle of drool forming on your skin.

You yanked her hand out of her boxers, and she whined in protest as her orgasmed died, her hips bucking back into the air. You stood up, pulling her up by her waist and bending her over the desk, holding her down by her neck.

“Stop fucking with me, Ellie.” You pulled her boxers down under her ass, taking in the sight of her still pulsating cunt and her twitchy ass.

She spat at you over her shoulder, “Or wha— “

SMACK!

She groaned out in pain against the wood when your hand connected with her asscheek in a fiery slap, your hand burning.

“Motherfuc— “

SMACK!

You hit her and hit her. And hit her again. And again. Until she was jerking away from you, her hips bucking against the desk and your handprints covering her ass in a cherry-red tint.

You don’t even remember how many times you slapped her, but she was sobbing out apologies against the desk, asking for your forgiveness over her tears.

“You done fucking around?” Your hand felt like it was in flames when you dropped it on the desk.

“Yesyes, mommy, I won’t—sob— won’t fuck up again!”

“I was actually gonna eat your pussy out,” you scoffed out nastily, and she only cried harder at the insinuation that you weren’t anymore. “You don’t want that, you don’t want me fucking nice.”

You pulled away and walked towards your discarded

bag on the floor, digging through it and pulling your dick out, stepping into and adjusting the straps as you watched her bruised ass jiggle with each wail.

Your dick stood up as you walked back over to her. You gave her one last hard slap on her marked ass and pulled her up by her arm, shoving her onto her knees in front of you so she was trapped between you and the desk.

You could see her wiping away tears, but you grabbed her chin, forcing her to look up at you.

“You want dick so bad? Get it wet so I can fuck you.”

Shock appeared on her face.

“Y-You’re gonna fuck me with that?” You watched her inspect the size of you. The length, the girth, all the ridges. Her breathing got heavier the longer she stared.

“Now you’re fucking scared, really, Ellie?”

“I’m not sca— “

“Talk back again, and I’m leaving. You’re getting on my fucking nerves.”

She glared at you, but looked down, straight at your tip, then back at you.

And then she spit on it, a fat glob of saliva dribbling down the sides of your cock. Her hand came up to wrap around the base, rubbing her spit into the silicone. She held eye contact with you as she stuck her tongue out. You reached down and placed your hand on top of hers, slapping your tip on her slobbery muscle.

“Good fucking whore, good n’sloppy,” you let go to pat her still-red cheek with a heavy hand, and her pretty eyes hardened, her blush deepening. She dropped her mouth open, her lips curling on the tip as she sucked on it. You bit your lip as you watched her tongue swirl around you.

She moaned around the silicone, her eyes filthy. Her hand spread her spit up all over you as she took in your inches slowly, jerking you off and slobbering on you at the same time. She looked like a fucking pornstar, like she practiced for this, like she wanted to impress you, and you shook like you could actually feel her mouth. Your pussy was desperate to cum, but you pushed it aside and watched her.

She released you with a wet pop, her tongue flicking around your tip like she was lapping at your cum, and you couldn’t stop the moan that left your mouth.

“Nasty slut, goddamn— “

She smiled like you just called her the prettiest girl in the world before sucking you back in, her head bobbing up and down as she slurped you up. There was so much spit on your length that it started dripping onto the floor.

You bucked forward, your hips moving on autopilot, and she choked on you, her hand coming up to your thigh to squeeze it. You ignored her grasp and fucked into her mouth harder, pinning both her arms above her head on the desk. She gargled around your dick, and you could only imagine the tightness of her throat with each gag.

“What, baby? Don’t like it? Want me t’stop?” You gritted out. And you thrusted deeper. She moaned and her mouth opened wider.

She was making wet noises around you, her head thudding against the top drawer of the desk when you fucked in. You fucked your entire cock down her throat, and she gagged hard.

You pulled out and let her go.

She fell forward and coughed hard, her drool pooling down on the eggshell floors as she choked. You watched in irritation as she heaved.

“Get up,” her gasps slowed as she breathed in deeply, and she lifted her head to glare at you from her hunched position.

“Get up.”

“Fuck you,” she spluttered.

“I’m gonna. Get up.”

Despite her bitterness, she slowly stood and instantly bent over the desk with her scarred ass poked out towards you. You chuckled when you saw both her holes pulse in excitement.

“That’s how it is?” you slapped her asscheek, and her hips bucked back against your hand.

“Uh huh,” you heard her crackly mumble dazedly. “Need you t’make me cum.”

“Seemed alright doing it yourself a few minutes ago.”

She ignored you, and you smirked, “Need your cock, mommy, pleeease, please— “

You reached out, running two fingers over her drenched slit, and she pressed back on them as she sighed in pleasure. You slowly slid your fingers down to her clit, and she moaned aloud, her thighs jerking.

“Look at this fucking pussy, jesus.”

“I-It’s pretty?”

“Yeah, baby, fuck,” your mouth watered when you saw her walls clench. “Can’t even be mad, you’re so fucking hot.”

“Then fuck me,” she whined out sweetly, looking at you over her shoulder.

You leaned down until you were eye level with her pussy, her walls squelching and squeezing repeatedly. You bit your lip and kitty-licked her cunt, her slick painting your taste buds as her smell surrounded you, and she jumped at the feeling.

“Taste like fucking honey.”

“So do you, made me so wet,” she exhaled as she shivered in anticipation.

“S’gonna hurt,” you whispered, more to yourself as you eyed her tightness.

“Don’t care.” She pushed back on your face.

“Put your hands behind your back. Don’t move them.”

She shuddered and obeyed instantly, her hands overlapping at the wrists at the small of her back.

You pressed one last kiss to her pussy before standing upright, “You move your hands, I stop.”

“Not gonna move, mommy,” she whispered in between unsteady breaths. “Make me feel good, please. Please, please.”

“Shh. Got you, baby. Open your legs,” you caressed her back and she squirmed. You felt goosebumps rise all over her skin, and you smirked.

The gap between her thighs widened even more for you, her cunt on full display. You could hear her beckoning you to pop the tip inside her in tiny, desperate whispers, and it made your core clench.

You inched closer to her until the back of her thighs pressed against the front of yours. You wrapped a hand around your wet dick and brought it up to her slit, soaking it in her gooey slick and sliding it between her silky lips. Her cunt was already soaking your entire length and you didn’t even fuck her yet. She was subtly pushing back on you, trying to get you inside her.

You heard the enthusiasm in her voice when she keened, “Mommy, please, it’s right there!”

“Mhm, I know, I see it,” you mumbled wetly, her gooey cunt looked so pretty under the light of the city, shining like glitter.

“Making mommy so wet baby, such a pretty girl,” you brought your cock back up to her slit and pushed forward, slowly popping the tip in her snug opening. She squealed loudly, and you saw her fists clench at the end of her spine as her walls clung to you, pulling you in.

“Yesyesyes, oh god, mommy, fuck, uh huh!”

“Yeah, baby? It hurts?”

“Nooo, feels s’good, oh shit! —“

You slowly pushed in another inch, gauging her reaction for any discomfort, your thumb moving on her hip softly. She tried to push back to take you deeper, but you held her hips down.

“Fuck mefuckmefuckme— “

“Gonna be my good girl, baby? Gonna take it nice’n deep?”

“Yeah, mommy!”

You pushed in even deeper, and you could feel the resistance of her cunt the more you slid in. You couldn’t stop the moan you released when she said your name.

“Y-You’re splitting me open, ffuck— “

You pressed in the last bit of your dick, her ass resting at the top of your thighs, your hands propping you up on the desk as you leaned above her, placed on either side of her head. She was sighing heavily in satisfaction, and you could see her glossy eyes rolling.

“Feelin’ good?”

She nodded slowly, “U-Use me, mommy, please use me t’cum, fuck.”

“Gotta take care of my girl first,” you fucked out of her slowly before snapping your hips, fucking all your inches back into her, and she screamed. “Such a tight pussy.”

You bent down to kiss her pretty back, down her spine as you stroked her deeply. You’d barely completed your fourth stroke before you felt Ellie tense up under you, her body shuddering as she moaned quietly to herself. You snickered at her.

“Baby’s cumming?” you licked up her spine again.

You could only see her nod in jerky headshakes from where you stood, her cheek pressed against the desk. You looked down at where you were connected, and you could see how her walls struggled to choke your dick. You grabbed her wrists in one hand and fucked her through her orgasm, your free hand sneaking under her hips to rub her clit.

The second her body relaxed, you saw the muscles in her back flex again, the arch in her back deepening, “Mommy, think—m’cumming again, oh god, motherfu— “

“How many are you gonna give me, angel?” you rubbed her clit faster, fucking in harder.

“I feel it, I feel it, fuck!” She wasn’t listening to anything you were saying as she yelled in her pleasure. You could see how much she was wetting your cock, lines of her slick forming every time you pulled out of her. You angled your hips downward when you fucked back in, and she shouted your name out, her warnings of her orgasm echoing in your ears. You released her clit and pinned her down by her neck again.

“Like it right there, baby? That’s the spot?” You could feel your core squeezing with every cry she let out, her voice completely broken, her squeals scratchy.

She was babbling about something, but you weren’t listening, the squelchy sounds of her cunt increasing in volumes as you forced your dick in her, stirring her guts up.

You looked down and saw her ass squeezing with every quiver of her cunt, and you licked your lips. You let her wrists go and brought a hand to your mouth, sucking your thumb in to wet it before rubbing her ass with it.

She let out a loud slew of ah ah ahs before you felt a burst of wetness on your thighs, dripping down onto the floor. Her entire body was jerking back onto your, her rosy ass jiggling every time she hit your hips.

But then you heard a slam above her shouts of pleasure and mommy!

You looked up to check on her unsteady form as she continued to drench your lap, her hand resting on the back of her mother’s nameplate, her fingertips digging into the wood as she screamed in her euphoria.

It made you fuck her harder and pull her hand away from the dog tag. You didn’t even care about punishing her anymore, you needed to cum. You’d been riding that edge since you got here, and you knew you were going to cum so hard.

You leaned over her body and grinded into her, moving her hand away from the plate and sitting back up in its position. You grabbed her by her spit-coated chin so she could look dead at her mother’s name. She whimpered and tried to look away from it, but you tightened the grip on her face to keep her still.

“Look at it, baby— “

She sobbed, murmuring how hard she was about to cum again, her eyes fluttering as she stared at it, her cheeks glowing like apples.

You bent down to her ear, “You embarrassed, angel? Huh? Wanna close your eyes? Gonna squirt on me again?”

She was looking dead at the plate, “You’re so deep, mommy, fuck yes, m’gonna!—“

“Nasty fucking slut, taking it so good,” You looked up at the clear window as your thrusts picked up pace again, the entire city shining through the glass in all its glory. Every light of every building, people roaming, honking, noises of construction. It was all beneath you, and it was all theirs. The strap was bumping on your clit with each thrust.

“Look at your city, baby,” you lifted her weightless head by her wild, knotted hair and made her look into the distance as you groaned in pleasure. “Gonna be all yours one day, can do whatever you want with it soon.”

“Fuuuck— “

“Uh huh, you like having that power? You can get whatever the fuck you want— “

“M-Mommy!”

“Just need a baby, right? Gonna g-give her what she wants? Gonna give her that precious heir, that golden child?”

“Yesyesyes! Wan’your baby, ge’me fucking pregnant!”

You moaned at her begging as you babbled mindlessly to her, “Gonna cum in you, fuck, need it… t’catch— “

She was screaming about how your seed was going to catch in her womb, how hard she was going to squirt again, begging you to fuck her harder, hurt her, make her bleed, make her scream. You could feel your senses leaving as your orgasm built as she pushed back on you, and you moaned her name in her ear.

“Fuuuck, Ellie,” your clit jerked, and you let her go, her head falling onto her arm in front of her as she yelled in euphoria. “Gonna make that bitch raise my fuckin’ kid while I’m gone? Huh?”

She didn’t even react to your slip of your departure, “Yeahyesyesyes! Fuck, I’m cumming!”

You felt another spray of liquid drip down your legs as you drilled her, and it triggered your own orgasm. Your clit jerked as your release rushed through you, your walls clenching as your body shook on top of hers, grinding against her to ride it out. You could almost feel the sensation of filling her up, her cunt sucking your cum deep inside her.

She was still moaning above you, wringing the last bits of her orgasm out on your cock. You whined against her sweaty skin, the aftershocks moving through you.

You felt her go completely lax underneath you, heavy sighs leaving her parted lips.

You both caught your breaths in soothing silence.

After Ellie asked you to show her how to kiss properly, the pounding of your heart refused to slow down.

You were seated in her mother’s chair once more, her wetness still coating you in stickiness as she straddled your lap, her arms around your neck as she gazed at you nervously.

“We just fucked, why do you look like that?”

Her brows creased, “Like what?”

“Like you’re scared.”

“I’m not scared,” she whispered, her eyes flickering down to your lips before looking back up at you.

You only hummed at her, brushing your noses together before leaning forward, grabbing the back of her neck to pull her down to you. Her eyes shut tightly, and her lips puckered in front of yours, and you pulled back, grabbing her face to stop her.

“Stop doing that, just relax.”

“… What’d I do?”

You mimicked her, poking your lips out stiffly before breaking out into a grin. She huffed with a tiny smile, shaking her head, “Sorry.”

You shrugged, uncaring. She looked down, “Where do I put my tongue?”

You snorted, “Nowhere yet.”

You craned your neck up slowly and connected your mouth with hers gently, your lips molding against hers. She sighed and leaned closer into you, her arms tightening around the back of your neck. You felt a sharp sting in your chest at her delicate touch, and you pulled away. A soft smack filled the room when you separated. She smiled softly, “That was cute.”

You nodded stiffly, murmuring a mhm, before looking down. Out the window. Behind her. Anywhere but her eyes.

You felt her nuzzle against your cheek, kissing it gently, “Are we… uh, fucking again?”

“You want to?” The pounding in your ears was giving you a headache.

You felt her nod. Another kiss to your cheek. Another pull in your heart.

Your hands planted on her hips, lifting them so she could sit on you, but she grabbed your wrists to stop you.

Her hands latched onto the hem of your shirt, attempting to pull it up and over your head, but your hand caught her wrist. Not harshly, but stern.

Her eyes softened at your masked expression, releasing the gentle grip on your shirt, “I’m, uh… I’m sorr— “

“It’s fine. Ready?” you grabbed the base of your dick in your hand, and she mumbled a quiet yes.

You felt her hand come on top of yours as she helped you guide it to her entrance, and your breath shook as you exhaled.

Her hips came down on you at her own pace, your free hand resting on her hip. She gasped when it slipped inside, her hands coming to support herself on each armrest.

“Feels different like this,” she whispered huskily.

You smirked, “I know, take your time.”

She nodded, slowly sinking down on you. You saw her eyelids get heavy as her walls caught on every ridge of you, her head falling back in her pleasure. Her soft locks disheveled all over her head, her bun nonexistent as her bobby pins stuck out from every direction.

She slid in too deep, though. She let out a pained gasp as she caught herself on the chair, her brows furrowing.

“Okay?” you checked in.

She nodded, her lip in between her teeth, “So deep like this, fuck… don’t know if I can go all the way down.”

“It’s fine, babe, make yourself feel good.”

“H-Help me?” her breathing was picking up as her hips bucked.

Your other hand flew to her hips, digging into her soft skin as you guided her hips on you. You eased her into a deep grind, and her hands flew behind you, landing on the headrest behind you.

Her head rested in the crook of your neck as she followed your movements, her wet moans hitting the side of your neck. The sensation of her breath on your skin made your pussy clench.

“Am I—gasp—doing good, m-mommy?”

“Fucking me so good, baby, shit,” you whispered in her ear, and she moaned aloud in yours. She sped up on you, the harness digging into your clit with each swivel of her hips.

Your hands moved down to grab her ass, spreading her cheeks before slapping them, grabbing the plush of them in your hands. She fucked you harder, and you felt her spit drip on your neck as she wailed into your skin. You threw your head back on the headrest when she sucked on your neck, right on your open scar.

She lifted her head up and looked at you with gentle eyes, her hands moving down from the headrest to grab your cheeks in a soft touch. She was panting on your mouth, her lips brushing against yours with every jump on you. She was so close and she smelled so good, her lips soft.

She whispered dreamily, “Can’t stop cumming— “

Your eyelids fluttered, “Then don’t. Give it to me, m’so close— “

She grinded harder as she leaned down to connect your lips in a honey-sweet kiss. You reciprocated against your brain's desires.

Push her away. She’ll never be yours! This is all she wants from you!

Tears built in your eyes as your peak approached, her moans increasing in urgency against your mouth. You sucked on her bottom lip, biting it hard. This is the most eager you’ve felt since you touched her.

“Cum with me, pleasepleaseplease— “

“I’m gonna, baby, fuck me hard!”

She was going crazy on your dick, full-on bouncing on you, taking it all despite her protests earlier, and you felt yourself tipping. Your pussy squeezed and soaked the harness as your orgasm pulled in your gut. You looked down at your cock, and it was drenched in her white, sticky substance. She was creaming all over your cock as she used you. It made your eyes cross in your skull as your euphoria hit you.

You were so loud as your nails tore into her skin, your moans matching hers in volume. You felt another splash of fluid on you, and you came harder, another wave crashing through you. You would’ve curled in on yourself if she wasn’t on top of you.

You felt her tongue slide into your hungry mouth, swirling around yours as you shouted through your high. She was making you feel so good, and you couldn’t fucking think.

You felt like you were cumming for minutes before the harsh pulses slowed into soft twitches, her hips slowing, and she bent down to kiss you. The touch was soft, sweet, undeserved. You stiffened, on guard immediately.

She was close, she was too close. Her soft caresses on your face snapped you out of your intoxication, pulling away from her mouth and grabbing her hips to pull her off your dick.

“T-Turn around, Ellie.”

“Huh?” she asked softly, her eyes teary and delicate.

“T-Turn around,” your voice trembled.

“O-Okay.”

She was too fucking close.

She lifted off you, planting her feet on the ground and you spun her. You pulled her down on your lap, her ass in front of your cock. You grabbed your tip, pushing it past her entrance, and she mewled. She took it with ease, mewling out as her back arched into you, swallowing you whole as she sunk down again.

She planted her hands on your knees and immediately bounced on you, her toned ass meeting the base of your harness with every jump on your cock.

You could see her pussy suck on your inches, suffocating your girth, her walls clinging to you.

You grabbed her neck and pushed her forward slightly, and she cried out in painful pleasure. You planted your feet on the floor and fucked up into her.

“Fuck! Your dick feels so fucking good! Oh my—agh!”

You saw even move cream spread over your dick with every fuck inside her squishy walls. You were moaning with her, fucking her harder, faster, the hand on her neck moving up to pull her hair hard. The sound of wet skin slapping accompanied the sounds you both made in your pleasured state.

You were going to cum so fucking quick, “Fuck, Ellie, shit— “

“I’m gonna cum so hard, mommy!” your hand in her hair flew down to her hip, grinding her down harder on you. You moaned at the feeling.

“Yeah? Already?” You were right behind her, those euphoric waves pulling in your gut.

“Fuck—fuckyes!”

“Want it so bad, get it all over this fucking dick, baby— “

Her hand that'd been playing with her tits flew down on top of yours on her waist, her fingers lacing with yours tightly as she shouted, screaming your name. She met your harsh thrusts as she bounced, and she squirted on you again, and you watched it gush out of her, wetting your stomach and harness and the chair beneath her, the sound of splattering liquid on the floor making you cum the hardest you ever had. Your vision whitened as your orgasm crushed you.

She kept cumming on you, and you kept cumming for her. The pleasure didn’t stop, and all you could do was scream her name out like she did yours, hold her hand tighter as your brain melted. She rocked back and forth on you, prolonging your orgasm, making you cum harder. It just kept building in intensity, the aggressive pulses wracking through you, your toes curling as she milked you, and all you could do was take it.

You blacked out in her mom’s chair, the last thing you remember seeing was her pulsing, squirting pussy, pulsing ass, and the auburn stars that painted her entire back.

Some time passed, your lashes fluttering open as you felt soft touches on your face.

You were met with delicate, green eyes, Ellie looking at you with a softness you hadn’t seen in years. It felt foreign, deep, and it made your heart pick up in panic.

You pulled away from her touches and looked around unsteadily.

She was too close. Too fucking close.

The office was a mess: clothes everywhere, the floor was soaked, the whole room smelled like sex and pussy, desk askew, its contents thrown everywhere, Ellie’s tears and puddles of spit all over the surface. You could even see splatters of… her on her mother’s restraining order against you.

You were suddenly terrified, moving into action and guiding her off your lap so you could stand. You undid the straps of your dick and stepped out of it, cringing at the drying stickiness, and throwing it into your backpack.

You heard her speak from behind you, “Hey, hey, you okay? What’s wr— ‘

“Nothing’s wrong, I’m fine, I gotta go,” you said tensely. Unwelcoming. Guarded.

“Did… did I do something?” She sounded too soft, too gentle.

“No, Ellie, I just, I gotta go,” You dressed erratically, pulling your underwear up and jeans on, wincing at your cum sticking to your garments.

You could hear the crack in her voice, “Can I… do you need help or— “

“Ellie, I’m fucking fine. I’m fine, okay? Forget it.” You spat over your shoulder as you repacked. Don’t look at her, don’t fucking look at her.

She sounded just as anxious as you did, “W-Why are you so upset with me all of a sudden? What’d I do— “

“You didn't do shit! Can you fucking drop it please!”

Her breath shuddered, “I thought… I thought we were… okay?”

You whipped around to face her, an incredulous look on your face. Your heart shattered when she flinched, but you yelled at her anyway. Why the hell did you look at her?

“Why the fuck would we be okay?! Did you forget how we fucking met in the first place!” You pointed behind her to the soiled court order, “We’re never going to be fucking okay! Get that through your fucking head.”

You reached down to grab your heavy bag, throwing it over your shoulder in a hurry. You felt like you were going to suffocate. You needed to go. Right now. You turned towards the door. You hadn’t even shut it all the way when you came in.

“I’m never going to see you again, am I?”

Your own tears fell at the dejected acceptance in her voice. She sounded so broken, and it was all your fault.

But you knew this was for the best. The two of you could never exist together in bliss, even though meeting her was the most human you’ve felt since you were a child. Since your father was alive.

But you were too different, too damaged. All you would do is hurt each other, you would resent each other, grow to hate, to regret. The world was too cruel, and she was not prepared for its harshness. You were barely prepared, and you lived it every day. And you promised yourself to never go through the despair of loss again. You walked towards the door and heard her release a quiet sob.

“No,” you pulled the knob, the spacious hallway being another reminder that you didn’t belong. Not here, not anywhere. Her mother was right.

You were worthless. Held no value in this society.

In another life, you could’ve been something great. Your cards could’ve been different, better. You could’ve made your father proud. The two of you could’ve been happy.

“You won’t.”

You left the same way you came, moving in urgency before her sobs lured you back to take her in your arms, against your will.

Maybe in another life.

hi lol OOOOOOWEEEEE

this was heavy sorry gworlies i love sad shit

don’t hate me too much?

omg tell me what y’all thought or whatever *looks away shyly

thank u 4 reading if u did :3

hi taglist love yall @cherriessxinthespring @ellieswifee @elliespookie @belovednanami @sevikasimp @saturnsellie

#ellie williams smut #ellie williams au #ellie williams #ellie williams angst #ceosdaughter!ellie #ellie the last of us #ellie tlou #lesbian #ellie williams x you #works 𖧧࣪

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samwhump · 6 months

Text

a (very inexhaustive, wincest-heavy) sam whump reclist

@transfemmesam asked me for Sam whump recs a few days ago, and I've had other requests in the same vein before (I can't imagine why.../s) so I thought I would throw this together, since these authors deserve all of the love and support for their contributions to our li'l fandom corner.

like I mentioned in the title, this is not at all a comprehensive list; I have at least ~200 more fics in my to-read queue that could thematically fit here, but alas, I have stupid shit like a job and a body and a dog to take care of, so. I'm always happy to get recs along these lines, so if you notice anything important missing, hit me UP. (and don't take any omissions as any specific commentary by me -- it's likely I just haven't had the chance to read it yet, haha.)

disclaimers:

some (most, honestly) of these contain potentially triggering and dark content, including but not limited to rape/noncon, torture, and suicidal attempts & ideation. I have tried to note content warnings where applicable, and most of the works are hosted on ao3, so the tags should have most of the information you need to make an informed decision. that being said, tread with caution. all of the summaries provided are from the original author, with warnings added after by me.

the list is in alphabetical order and separated into wincest and gen categories. a lot of the gen is also focused on the sam & dean relationship, because...I am what I am. and what I am a sucker for these two dipshits. there is also a brief section at the end with a few fics that don't fit into either category.

gen

All That Goes Unspoken by amnesiawife:

A case forces Sam to confront something long kept buried. (Set nebulously in season 12.)

CW: discussions of past rape/noncon, victim blaming

Beneath the Trees 'verse by Lise (5 works total, starting with Beneath the Trees, Where Nobody Sees):

Sam doesn't go to Stanford. Everything goes downhill from there.

CW: suicidal ideation

a boy is a cage by ad_castra:

After expelling Gadreel from Sam's body, Dean thinks they're in the clear. If only they were that lucky. // S9 fic wherein Gadreel's grace causes some adverse side-effects in Sam's mind.

CW: past referenced rape/noncon, body horror

body of proof by Askance (doomcountry):

There are things Sam hasn't told his brother. They're all in the envelope laid on Dean's pillow.

CW: heavy discussion of past rape/noncon

break these bones 'til they're better by redskyatmorning:

After Sam’s torture at the hands of the British Men of Letters, the latest in a long string of violations, he is rescued by Dean and Mary – and forced to ponder his broken relationship with his own body. Months later, when Sam is resurrected and tormented by Lucifer yet again, Dean confronts Mary and Sam gets his revenge against the devil.

catching my death (staring out an open window) by ad_castra:

Sam gazes at the window, catches the faint pink hue tinting the sky. It’s so realistic - he could breathe in the fresh air if he were really here. ----- They got Sam out. Sometimes, just knowing that isn't enough.

CW: implied past rape/noncon

Death of Convenience by WilsonTheMoose:

It should have been easy. Wendigos are no joke but daylight slows them. The weather's been unpredictable though and perfect, idyllic hunts don't exactly stay that way where they're concerned. Or Sam has one card to play and never stops to think that Dean would care if he killed himself.

CW: suicidal ideation, references to suicide

Echoes of Hell by The_Nightbreaker:

It wasn't real. He wasn't in Hell anymore. That's what he tried to tell himself over and over. But two centuries of torture don't disappear in a day. Sam struggles with visions of Hell, fighting to maintain his grip on reality. Dean hates that he can't protect his brother from what isn't real—but curse him if he doesn't try. When the boys stumble on a case with ties to the Devil himself, will they be able to pull themselves together in time to stop the sacrifices? Or will the echoes of Hell finally overtake them? Aka, season 7, but the plot is Hell trauma, not leviathans.

CW: suicidal ideation

Evening Shadows by withthekeyisking:

Sam is hallucinating the monster who tortured him for nearly two centuries, Dean feels like he's failing his brother, and a diner waitress bears witness.

CW: past rape/noncon

Everything Dies Given Time by Lise:

AU from 5.03. Sam discovers something wrong with himself, and learns to live with it. Only a lot less functional.

CW: suicide/temporary character death

The Freedom to Be Loud by jribbing:

It hadn’t occurred to Dean that maybe Sam remembered so much about that little nowhere town because something memorable had happened there.

CW: referenced past rape/noncon

golgotha by redskyatmorning:

There’s a vacancy on the throne of hell, and Sam is desperate enough to save Dean from Michael’s possession to give into the abyssal depths of his own darkness.

Head Space by ameliacareful:

A witch curses Sam leaving him blind, deaf, and bedridden. Left with only the inside of his own head and the occasional touch, Sam begins to unravel.

CW: suicidal ideation

Hiraeth by inkandpaperqwerty:

(n.) a homesickness for a home to which you cannot return, a home which maybe never was; the nostalgia, the yearning, the grief for the lost places of your past "Dean... I made a really big mistake." For a second, Dean actually thought things were going okay. He was out of Hell, Sam agreed to stop drinking demon blood, they had just wrapped up a successful hunt... for once, everything was okay. And then it wasn't. "I overdosed." Not at all.

CW: suicide attempts, suicidal ideation

if i could leave (i would've already left) by serendipity0930:

“I have a mission from God for you,” the Angel whispers to the man. “It is time for you to do what you were born to.” The man’s face twists into a smile, delighted over being chosen by Him, a purpose from God digging into his heart, carving out a place to fester. “Hunt.” ... 05x03 AU where Zachariah is even more determined to keep the brothers apart and hunters are all too willing to take Lucifer's True Vessel off the board for good

CW: referenced suicide

It's A River (But Not In Egypt) by Lise:

He's still a liar. Maybe always has been.

CW: toxic Sam/Lucifer dynamics

Kindred Instruments by PinBitch:

They’re in a tug of war and Sam is the rope. He doesn’t need to be alive for that. OR Sam dies in detox, being flung against the walls of a metal box will do that to you. Dean and Ruby pick up the pieces.

CW: temporary main character death, permanent supporting character death

lazarus trick by katsidhe:

Sam's alive, so everything is gonna be okay. 13.22 coda.

Let All Mortal Flesh Keep Silence by Lise:

Sam's back. He's in one piece. That's the problem.

CW: self-harm

love is like ghosts by redskyatmorning:

I’m poison, Dean had said instead of I’m sorry. Well, Sam wants to say, what does that make me? What the hell does that make me? (A look into Sam's mind in the aftermath of the Gadreel possession.)

The Other Brother by RadioFriday:

Sam and Adam are pulled from the cage at the same time. Sam is not right, and Adam, stuck as his caretaker, is not pleased.

Oxygen by inkandpaperqwerty:

“Cas! Cas, please! Please, answer me! Cas!” Castiel ignores Dean for several minutes, but then Dean gives him an opening that might help him complete his mission. So, he goes to investigate, and what he finds is a very bloody, nearly dead Sam. Dean tells him where the injuries came from, and Castiel quickly becomes confused. It doesn't make sense, but Dean tries to explain it to him, and slowly... Castiel begins to understand.

CW: suicide attempt

Post Hoc, Ergo Propter Hoc by AmberSock:

Sam waits, kneeling, for his execution. What if Dean hadn't missed?

CW: temporary character death

Safety In Distance by GalaxyThreads and SpiritClusters:

The Mark of Cain is a brand of violence. Sam was an idiot to think that he'd be exempt from it, just because he and Dean are siblings.

sometimes a kind of singing by adi_rotynd:

Sam gets cursed. They're dealing with it. Jack can see souls. That one they're not dealing with quite as well.

CW: past referenced rape/noncon

Soul Windows by GalaxyThreads and Spirit Clusters:

A few months after his birth, Jack learns how to see souls. Then he comes to a realization about the Winchester brothers, Sam in particular, and it's not a pleasant one. (gen)

Starry Night by keepcalmsmile:

Sam attempts suicide-by-monster. Dean tries to help. It sort of works...until it doesn't.

CW: suicide attempts, suicidal ideation

such fragile, broken things by The_Bookkeeper:

Sam wishes that Dean would just get it over with already.

The Tale of Sir Galahad by keepcalmsmile:

Sam once said he could never be clean like Sir Galahad. Dean assumed he was just talking about the demon blood. Turns out, Sam was talking about something else too. WARNING: Extended discussions of the aftermath of rape and childhood sexual abuse (but NO description of the actual events). Happy(ish) ending, but potentially very triggering.

CW: past rape/noncon, mentioned CSA

They Hammered in His Teeth by jribbing:

Sam has a secret.

CW: suicidal ideation

today's troubles (are history tomorrow) by a_good_soldier:

"It's not really something I know how to share," Sam had said. In which Dean figures he ought to help Sam out a bit.

Touch and Go by themegalosaurus:

Tag to 9.19 (Alex Annie Alexis Ann) in which Dean realises why, exactly, Sam is so angry about what happened with Gadreel.

trust fall by ad_castra:

“I’m nothing like you,” Sam hisses. Nevermind relating to the anguish of going it alone. Nevermind that he knows what it is to be strapped down and forcibly cleansed against his will. Sam wonders if these trials are purifying Crowley as well.

Words Like Glass by broken_cinders:

Dean never figured the cage wouldn't leave a mark. He was prepared for memories, flashbacks, and nightmares. He wasn't expecting the words Sam brought back with him or the way they made him seem just a breath beyond Dean's reach.

Wound and Unwound by fascra:

Sam stops eating spring of his freshman year.

CW: eating disorder

wincest (dean/sam)

Brittle by thecapn:

Sam Winchester has an eating disorder.

CW: eating disorder

Don't You Cry No More by sixtysevenlmpala (schittyfic):

The first time Sam gets badly hurt on a hunt, he doesn’t cry. Dean does.

Fall On Your Knees by dollylux:

Sam doesn't quite make it home on the last day of school before winter break.

The Fall Will Probably Kill You by killabeez:

Set between 7.04 and the aftermath of 7.07. Dean is not as okay as he'd like you to think. Neither is Sam.

CW: self-harm

Feels so good to feel again by Trojie:

The pain keeps Lucifer at bay, at least to start with.

Follow In Your Form by withthekeyisking:

Sam is hallucinating Lucifer in the wake of Cas bringing his Hell Wall crashing down. To make matters worse, it seems like this has his dormant powers flaring back to life.

Last Temptation by merle_p:

Sam is running a fever again, the kind of fever no Ibuprofen or cold compress will bring down, the kind of fever that is eating him up alive, eviscerating him from the inside. He is too hot and too cold and too pale, delirious and shaking, resonating with whatever divine energy the trials are subjecting him to, and Dean is not sure how much longer he can stand to see him be in this state. Because Sam is quite possibly dying, and there is nothing Dean can do to stop it. Because Sam is dying, and he just. Won’t. Shut. Up.

CW: mentioned past rape/noncon

leeches by Anonymous:

Sam discovers a spell to make everybody forget him. He’s convinced it’s for the best. Pre-Stanford.

CW: attempted kidnapping/torture

Make Thick My Blood by themegalosaurus:

“You’re going to kill me, Dean,” Sam says, eventually. And all Dean can say is, “I think I am.” A season 10 AU, set after 10x14 ('The Executioner's Song'). Cas finds a solution that might cure the Mark of Cain; but if they're going to go through with it, Sam has a terrible price to pay.

CW: mentioned past rape/noncon

Prophecy of an Abomination by ashitanoyuki:

Sam is kidnapped by fanatically religious hunters and crucified. Coming back from this won't be easy. Canon-divergent from midway through season 2.

Recall by De_Nugis:

Sam's having a hard time telling what's real and what isn't, especially when it comes to some voicemails from Dean.

The Room Upstairs by brokenlittleboy:

Sam comes back from hell, but he’s inside-out and all wrong, and Dean can’t fix him.

CW: mentioned past rape/noncon

Ruin You (and its companion fic Worth) by Mumble_Bee:

Cole fucks Sam with Demon!Dean watching from a devil's trap, snarling that anyone would dare touch what was his. “I told you I don’t care what you do to his face or his blood or his fucking nose,” Dean growled, “but you put your dick anywhere near him and I will end you.” “Better hurry up then, Dean, because I don’t think I can wait much longer.”

CW: explicit rape/noncon

Snowed In by HelloStarlingFics:

When working a case, Sam and Dean get stuck out in a shack in the woods when the snow comes in hard and fast. Trouble is, Sam’s hated the cold ever since the Cage. Time for Dean to step up and look after him.

Wake by minchout:

Gadreel has had Sam for four years, and Dean, lost in guilt and obsessed with finding a way to get his brother back, has isolated himself in a cabin in the Missouri Ozarks with nothing but the woods, a stray dog, some chickens, and all the books the Men of Letters had to offer to keep him company. Then Sam shows up one day without his passenger, and Dean learns quickly that it doesn't matter that Sam is with him again - there is still a lot of work to be done before they can find their way back to each other.

Wanting to Forget by morganaDW (morgana07):

1-shot. S1 fic. After getting Sam freed from the Benders Dean thinks all he has to cope with is some bruises and cuts. He learns quickly just how wrong he is when Sam wakes up with a nightmare, reliving his brief but bad captivity in every detail. Sam just wants to forget & Dean has to try to get him to let him help. Will one night of cruelty and pain ruin what’s been formed between them?

CW: referenced past rape/noncon

when I wake up I'm afraid, somebody else might take my place by quake_quiver:

Sam doesn’t remember the last time he cried for Dean like he did that night. And now it’s been…two weeks. Maybe more. Sam is tired, and in pain, and starting to doubt that Dean’s going to show up. He’s weak and shaking from a combination of constant pain and hunger. Sam longs for Dean. Dean would make it better. Dean would fix it.

CW: rape/noncon, body horror

Wire Inside Me by merle_p:

There are a lot of things Sam hates about his current condition, to the point where he sometimes feels for the gun under his pillow at night, blindly toys with the safety, imagines pressing the muzzle into the underside of his chin and pulling the trigger just to make it stop. But there’s nothing he hates as much as the shadows he sees in Dean’s eyes whenever his brother is looking at him these days. It’s not an expression he remembers ever seeing before, but Sam thinks it’s probably something like revulsion. Horror. Disgust. What else could it be.

CW: referenced past rape/noncon, body horror, forced pregnancy

Worth (and its companion fic Ruin You) by Mumble_Bee:

Episode 10x01 "Black" where Dean is a human, and very, very, pissed off to hear someone has hands on his brother. “It’s nothing personal,” Cole whispered into Sam's ear, too quietly for Dean to hear, “but I need to kill your brother, and I need him off his game when he gets here. I don’t wanna hurt you, kid, but I’m going to, anyway. I’m going to hurt you a lot."

CW: explicit rape/noncon

you'll never see us again by according2thelore:

Then finally, his eyes trail over to Dean. His pupils are pin-point thin, and his hair is straggling in his face so Dean can’t see most of what expression lies there. Sam usually wakes up from nightmares in one of three attitudes: confusion, fear, or calm. A scary, sense-prickling calm that Dean hates more than anything else. Resignation, almost. Or: Sam suffers from nightmares and touch starvation post-Cage. They do their best to deal.

other Sam/Lucifer noncon

Cage Fight (No Way To Do This Right) by Dyed_Red:

Sam’s visit to the cage is already going awry, but Dean’s one-man rescue ends up skidding it sideways into territory neither him or Sam are ready for. (Gratuitous episode scene re-write. If Cas hadn’t come till after, if he hadn’t been there yet when Dean ran down to the 'parole' cage after hearing Sam scream - how bad could it have got for the brothers before he made it?)

CW: graphic rape/noncon

Into Being by withthekeyisking:

When Sam wakes up in the cave on Apocalypse World after having been killed by vamps, it's not just to find Lucifer there with him. It's to find him in him.

CW: graphic rape/noncon, necrophilia, forced pregnancy

Reggie/Tim/Sam noncon

a pointless resistance for you by withthekeyisking:

Sam doesn't know how long he's been with Tim and Reggie by the time Dean shows up and tries to take him out of there. Long enough that's he's already lost one baby and is pregnant with the next. Long enough that this life is starting to feel like all he knows.

CW: graphic rape/noncon, forced pregnancy & miscarriage, victim blaming

screaming birds sound an awful lot like singing by withthekeyisking:

Sam has done his best to move past what Tim and Reggie did to him, pretending it never happened at all. But running into them again makes that very difficult—especially when Dean gets involved.

CW: referenced past rape/noncon

Waste 'Em All by withthekeyisking:

When Tim and Reggie try to force the demon blood down Sam's throat, he spits it back out. He has no interest in being turned into their own personal attack dog. They don't...take it well.

CW: explicit rape/noncon

#sam winchester #sam whump #supernatural #supernatural fic rec #wincest

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guess-that-ship · 4 months

Text

S11 Finals

Two Sides of the Same Coin

cw: major spoilers, suicidal ideation

Heads and Tails are the same person. Heads is the first, having been put in a situation they couldn't bear to be in anymore, and due to divine intervention is placed in a new body to guide Tails, who has been put in the same situation they were in. Tails does not know the real identity of Heads, and Heads intends to keep it that way. Due to their intense self-loathing, Heads passive-agressively lets it out at Tails, teasing him all the time, and yet they are the one person Tails can confide in about their situation, and both bond over it.

Eventually, everything is too much for Tails to bear, and they lash out at everyone, Heads included due to the secrets they've kept from him. The situation being all too familiar, in order to stop Tails from destroying themself like they did before, Heads, while never directly engaging with him, helps from a distance, guiding Tails towards his happy ending. And Heads hates it. It's not fair that fate wanted them to fail just so Tails could do what they couldn't.

When Tails returns, Heads explains everything about what happened to them, and forces Tails to fight them to see who gets to keep this happy ending. They hate Tails because they hate themself, and they hate themself because they hate Tails. But Tails doesn't feel the same way. When he wins, Heads just wants Tails to kill them and be done with it, but Tails refuses. It was thanks to them that Tails was able to get their happy ending, and it wouldn't be right to keep either of them from it. Heads fades away, their job done, but both promise to meet again.

The Moon and Stars

Star and Moon are childhood friends, always by eachothers side. Star is a quiet child, reserved and bookish, while Moon is loud and rough, often picking fights with the other kids. The two are inseparable, balancing eachothers worse tendencies while encouraging their best. During this time, Moon feels herself developing a crush on Star, but keeps it secret. However, as time goes on, circumstance pulls them apart, as Star's parents are killed in an accident and she is forced to leave her home. Now alone, Moon's more reckless tendencies are all she has left.

Life carries on for both of them. Star attunes herself to her magic potential, goes to college, and loses herself in her studies. Moon drops out of school, taking odd jobs and joining in criminal groups to get by. After many years, and by complete coincidence, Moon sees Star on TV one night, and all of those feelings from her childhood come rushing back. Moon drops everything and travels to where Star is, hoping to see her friend again.

When the two finally do reunite, Star is exhausted, both mentally and physically. While the sight of Moon brings her some comfort, the weight of the pressure she set upon herself is threatening to crush her completely. Moon gives her a chance to show her strength, offering to fight her. Moon wins the fight easily, with Star barely able to land a blow. Moon, deep in regret, tries to comfort her, only to find Star clutching a locket Moon had given her in their childhood. Moon, surprised she still had it, shows Star her own, which she had also kept all those years. Finally, the two decide to leave together, allowing themselves to rekindle the love and care they had for each other all those years ago.

#s11 #tournament poll #s11 finals #spoilers

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deathbxnny · 6 months

Text

Alright, I've finally found the time to write the second part to "No Happy Endings" for my dear Flower Anon! This one is very dark, so please read the content tags, before reading the one-shot!!!

(Part one)

Content: CW!VAGUE SMALL MENTIONS OF MURDER, DECAPITATION, Potential ooc Arlecchino?, heavy angst, hurt/no comfort, small mention of depression/suicidal ideation, blood, gaslighting

Reader has no set pronouns!

((Not fully proofread))

《And he imagined you with him. (Lyney x Reader)》

"Do you understand the point of this mission, Lyney?"

It was a simple question.

One, that on any other day, could've easily been answered with a single word. But ever since you've disappeared over two weeks ago, Lyney found himself at a loss for an answer. He shifted on his feet, tongue wetting his chapped lips, before he hummed weakly and nodded. None of his usual bravado or confidence in sight.

"Ofcourse, Father."

He winced ever so slightly at the absolute pathetic stutter in his tone. Why did he even bother replying at all? There was no point in hiding his true feelings, not that he could have. They were engraved in his sleep deprived and pale face.

But Arlecchino decided to play along with his lies. Something he'd come to regret until he took his last breath.

"I knew you did, ofcourse... but just in case you dared to forget one day, let me give you a reminder you'll forever remember."

Lyney raised his head for the first time since he and his siblings were asked to meet the Harbinger in this dim, dark room. He felt a slight shiver run up his spine at the cold and unimpressed gaze that met his unsure one, his body stiff and painfully tense. His siblings on each side of him didn't move a singular muscle, perhaps out of fear of getting her attention next. And for once, he deeply wished to be out of the spotlight.

Arlecchino slowly raised her hand, before placing it on top of a box. Had it always been there? He didn't remember, the room suddenly feeling so suffocating and warm. Sweat rolled down his forehead, as he chose to ignore the worried glances that Freminet and Lynette gave him.

He knew that it was painfully obvious that something was wrong with him, and yet, he still wanted to keep up the facade desperately. It was a matter of survival at this point. And it made him wonder in that moment what had brought him to this point again.

It was still you, ofcourse. It was always you. Ever since that night, he had ro regretfully reject you.

In the agony that filled him over the last few weeks without you, he had begun becoming very sloppy and clumsy with everything he did. He was completely out of it, practically spiraling head first into a deep hole he didn't want to crawl out of anymore. He just wished to know where you were.

He hadn't slept properly in forever. He couldn't keep food down. He saw you in every mirror, in every reflection. He heard your laughs in the sound of birds chirping in early mornings, heard your stories in his wild, hazy dreams of your ever fading figure.

Every was just you. But you were nowhere to be found.

He had tried finding you after that night, he really did. And yet, no one knew of your whereabouts. You had disappeared overnight, your home empty and vacant, no trace of you, despite everything still being in place. It's like you never even went home after the ball to begin with.

Deep down, especially now, he knew what had happened to you. He could see it replaying in his Father's eyes, perhaps even see the blood dripping off her sharp talons that seemed to dig into the lid of the box in silent anger that not even she could conceal. But he still chose to dream.

He chose to believe that you had simply left the country, like the rumors told him you did. He imagined you laying in the bright fields of Mondstadt, the wind blowing through your clothes and hair, as you sung beautiful memories. He imagined you traversing through the vast and empty Sahara of Sumeru, eyes squinting against the scorching sun. He imagined you drinking tea in Liyue harbor, your eyes gazing out longingly into the distance as the sun set over the ocean. He imagined you visiting a Shrine in Inazuma, the Sakura trees swaying in the wind as you rested against them.

And finally, he imagined you in Snezhnaya with him, your hands intertwined, a golden band on each of your fingers. He imagined you doing all of those things with him, just like you always told him you wanted to. He loved it when he heard you speak of your future with him always in mind. It gave him the feeling of having a choice for once.

Even if it was all crushed under the Knaves heel now.

"Father, I-" "-Open the box, Lyney." Arlecchino slid it towards him, uncaring now if the blood that poured through the thin cardboard drenched the wood below. Said young man felt Freminet step behind him ever so slightly, Lynette practically not breathing anymore once she realised what was going on. The terror and disbelief that filled the air was palpable.

"Father, you didn't..." Lynette was at a loss for words, not knowing what exactly she was accusing the woman of. Or perhaps she didn't want to believe it. Freminet gripped onto Lyney's vest, his hand shaking as he gulped weakly, when Arlecchino sighed and shook her head in utter disappointment from where she sat.

"I can't believe that such a simple distraction made you all stray so far from what you are really here for. Especially you, Lyney. Didn't you want to take my place one day?" No. No, he didn't. Not anymore. He wanted to die more than anything. Melt into a puddle at her feet and hopefully merge with the blood that dripped off the table onto the floor. "Prove to me that you meant it. Prove to me that you understood our mission. Because this-" She tapped a sharp claw against the lid, her head resting against her palm as though she was bored. As though she wasn't completely destroying whatever was left of his heart and soul. "-should've never made me have to do this. It's your fault, and you have to fix this now."

He hated the way she spoke to him. He felt like a child being scolded. He knew she was trying to twist his mind and reattach the strings you had cut with your love for him. And yet, he realised that it didn't even matter anymore. The quicker he got done with all of this, the quicker he could see you again. He despised how that actually filled him with slight relief. He had truly completely and utterly given up on everything. And Lynette was the first to notice, as she shook her head and whispered for him to not do it. To not do this to them, to himself.

But Lyney just pried himself free from their grasp, stepping forward, a calm smile finding his face. "Ofcourse, you're right, Father. As always." "Lyney, no, please-" "-We've angered Father enough already." The young man uttered nearly sternly before his hand took Arlecchino's place, his thumb pressing against the underside of the box's lid. And then he paused. His hand was trembling, giving him away. But he couldn't let his last show end like this. His smile stretched wide and painfully when he flipped it open at last, his body taking in a deep, shaky breath.

He had found you at last. And it broke all his dreams with it.

Freminet gagged and turned away, a hand clasping over his mouth. Lynette blinked rapidly, nearly stumbling into a seat behind her, practically close to passing out. And Lyney? Oh, how he crumbled. He couldn't take it. He couldn't take the sight of your head resting in this small box, the disrespect making him sick with anger and disbelief. His hands slapped against the table, as he leaned over it, shoulders trembling when he finally began crying pathetically. It hurt. Everything hurt.

And the malice and spite became even clearer when he noticed the rainbow rose that was placed behind your ear. Just the way he used to do it.

He burned with fury, the flames reaching high and wide, spreading into every part of his body, until he met his Father's unimpressed gaze at last through his blurry sight. He hated her. He hated everything. Why did she do this to him? Why couldn't she just have threatened you to leave the country? Why? He had so much to say, so much to scream at her, but all that came out of him were gasps for air and uncontrollable sobs.

Arlecchino hummed in approval at the broken state of all of her dear children, before she stood up, having achieved her disciplinary goals for the night. She didn't spare them a glance anymore, as she passed by them, knowing she had gotten the point across loud and clear. Lyney slid to his knees, unable to bear any of it anymore.

"I hope, my reminder will be enough to return you all to the right path. Fountaine will thank you for your pain." She said, closing the door behind her on her way out of the room, a satisfied smile on her lips at the sound of well-deserved agony.

It was all for the greater good in the end, after all.

Okay! This one was admittedly a bit difficult to write, but I hope you liked it anyway, Flower Anon! I'm always super thankful for your great request!!!<33

#genshin impact #genshin imagines #genshin #genshin x reader #genshin impact fanfic #genshin x you #genshin x y/n #lyney x you #genshin lyney x reader #lyney x reader #genshin lyney #lyney

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blessedarethebinarybreakers · 6 months

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Sorry if this is a heavy question but I don't know where else to go. Is it true that you will go to hell if you commit suicide? And if not, how can I be sure? Completely sure?

I don't ask for bad reasons, just that I have a degenerative disease and there will eventually come a point when i'm still alive but can no longer live at all. Hopefully that's still a long ways away but I want to have a choice when that time comes, rather than existing for potentially years with severe pain and no joy. But can I do that without condemning myself to an eternity of the same?

CW: suicide, hell, degenerative disease, euthanasia

Hi there, anon. I fully believe that a just and loving God would never condemn anyone who is going through the kind of internal and external struggle that leads to suicide.

I have a long article on Medium where I explore instances of suicide ideation in scripture that I recommend to you. Overall, I conclude that condemnation of suicide is not present in the Bible: the few instances of completed suicide are presented pretty neutrally; and the many instances of suicide ideation elicit God's compassion, not condemnation.

Throughout scripture, God’s response to depressed and suicidal people is not condemnation, but

validation of their experience;

removal of the factors that make them depressed/suicidal; and

helping them access a more abundant life.

When it comes to your degenerative disease, that second point might sound absurd or even offensive. I do not tout cureism; I'm absolutely not telling you to put on rose-colored lenses and pretend your disease will magically go away. While it's possible that medicine may advance in your lifetime to help prolong your life or ease your pain, it sounds like you're very aware of the realities of your disease and the more likely path it will take.

But while I don't believe in a magical genie God who vanishes away all pain and illness in our lives, I do believe in a God who enters into our suffering. A God who, when removal of pain is not possible, endures that pain with us; and who guides us into community that will support us in all that we go through. And who, yes, ultimately brings us into abundant life — partially in this life, fully in the next.

___

Along with biblical support for God's compassion for suicidal persons, Christian denominations that used to promote the idea that suicide leads to damnation have since revised those views.

As our collective understandings of mental health have developed over the last century or so, it's become more obvious even to the most traditional groups (e.g. the Catholic Church) that claiming that people who die by suicide go straight to hell is an extremely callous and unjust view and frankly, a grievous form of victim-blaming.

Instead, while emphasizing the seriousness of suicide and urging suicidal persons to seek professional assistance, most churches now assure the loved ones of those who have died by suicide that God's mercy and love cover all things. And those churches with a solid social justice mindset invest their resources in removing the societal factors that lead someone to suicide, rather than blaming the suicidal.

___

I hope this helps ease your fears somewhat, anon. You may also find encouragement in my #hell tag, where I frequently talk about how I don't believe in hell at all. God's will for all of us is relationship and thriving; and when I believe anything at all I do believe the words Jesus taught us: "thy will be done, on earth as it is in heaven." Suffering and death will not have the last word; punitive "justice" will not have the last word; God's restorative justice and all-embracing love will.

Wishing you as slow a progression in your degenerative disease as possible. And no matter where this life takes you, I pray that you find your people, who will support you and advocate for you, laugh and weep with you, learn and live and love with you; and that you feel God's deep, abiding love, holding you close through all things.

#suicide tag #suicide ideation #degenerative disease /#hell mention #death mention

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sillymaxing · 7 months

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Idk what to call my AU, but here are some character descriptions and hcs.

CW: mentioned war, mentioned torture, mentioned suicidal ideation, imprisonment, isolation.

General

When the main 4 were living together, Tord was 25, Edd was 25, Tom was 24, and Matt was 23.

Tord moved away when he turned 26

And then 3 years later he comes back, now 28.

And within a month, He is kicked out cause all of the events in The End.

The invasion happens a year later. When Tord had time to regroup.

Tord

Doesn’t show his face. He wears a very silly red armored mask.

5’8

He’s an inventor, engineer, scientist. This man is SO smart.

He knew about Tom’s Monster form for a while. Even before he moved out. He just didn’t say anything.

More focused on work than romance or even friendship.

Absolutely no restraint or hesitation on the battlefield.

Very much addicted to smoking. It’s to the point where he claims he can’t think straight if he doesn’t smoke.

Really wishes Edd and Tom were just random people instead of old friends, because now he feels guilt and remorse hurting them.

Paul is like an older brother figure to him.

Patryck is someone Tord met when he moved away originally. They totally met at the gym.

Paul

In this AU, Paul is actually a HUGE behind the scenes guy.

The Red Army was his idea originally.

In fact, he was going to be the leader.

But he met Tord, and saw CRAZY potential.

Convinced Tord to move away and train underneath him.

Listen, this man has like maxed out charisma. Convinced this little red guy to leave his entire life behind.

Tord is the face of the Red Army, and the one making most of the decisions. Paul is like his advisor.

Didn’t actually like Patryck at the start, but they work as fine coworkers. They can get along pretty well now.

Paul is 5’10

In his early 40s

Patryck

Patryck was a regular dude going to college and studying Supply Chain Management and Information Systems.

This guy is a businessman through and through.

Tord tried to convince him to join the Red Army, but Patryck insisted that he finish college first.

And he DID!! But during college, Patryck would train with Paul and Tord. He learned how to handle melee weapons, firearms, etc.

In his early 30s.

5’11

He really likes video games. Keeps a Nintendo Switch in his room at the Red Army base.

Really wants to grow out his hair, but Paul and Tord have instructed that it can’t be longer than shoulder length due to safety precautions.

Normally has his hair in a ponytail or man bun.

Tom

Okay so Tom’s monster form is like 20 feet tall.

While in his monster form, he isn’t really conscious.

He can kinda control when he turns into his full monster form, but can’t control when he turns back human.

Has this half human half monster form? But it varies. The more monster-like he is, the more foggy his brain gets.

REALLY bad suicidal ideation. He tries to remain strong and tough, but after about a year of being in a lab, it starts to eat away at him.

5’10

The most notable traits of his monster form are razor-sharp claws, teeth, a spiky tail, horns, and purple literally everywhere.

He isn’t allowed to talk to Edd. Isn’t even informed that Edd is captured.

Ever since experiments started, Tom’s craving proteins a lot more, and eats a lot more food in general, since he has to maintain his monster form for longer.

Once Tom starts cooperating, he gets little rewards! Like being able to talk to Matt, extra rest time, comfortable clothes, longer showers, even gets to go outside sometimes.

Edd

Oh boy.

When Edd abandoned Matt, he ran to start the Resistance.

Edd REALLY misses Tom. Regrets not staying around for him.

REALLY good with melee weapons.

Unmatched rage towards Tord. Towards any Red Army soldier. And now that Matt joined the Red Army, only proving Edd right, he now has unmatched rage for Matt.

If Edd and Tom were actually able to talk to each other, they would plan their escape.

Like actually HATES Tord. Hates him more than anything.

5’9

Really misses how things used to be.

Regrets ever letting Tord back in their home.

He feels like all of this is his fault, and that he could’ve prevented it.

Constantly replaying his past in his head, thinking about what he could’ve done differently.

Stays in an isolated cell after his capture. Only a handful of soldiers are allowed to interact with him.

Tord keeps him painfully updated on Resistance survivors that have joined the Red Army since his capture.

Matt

First of all, he’s 6’2.

He isn’t imprisoned for that long compared to Tom and Edd. He’s only in a cell for like 2ish months before being let out. This is mainly because he gave up fighting about a month in, but Tord needed to make sure Red Army actually had Matt’s loyalty, and it wasn’t just a lie.

Matt went from the cell straight into duties, becoming an official member of the Red Army.

Matt works as the supply manager?? Idk the right name for it, but he tracks food and water supply. He’s Patryck’s assistant too.

Matt takes on a few other duties here and there. He doesn’t do anything battlefield related.

Matt is also tasked with showing new recruits around the main base.

He has a room right next to Tord’s.

Sneaks away to bring Tom food or to just talk with him.

#eddsworld #eddsworld future #ew tord #ew edd #ew matt #ew tom #red army #red leader #ew paul #ew patryck #eddsworld au #future matt #future edd #future tom #future tord

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flowwochair · 11 months

Text

Why did Jean-Baptiste Bessieres burn his correspondence? (a list of - unprofessional - theories)

Writing a post to de-stress in between one of the most annoying to research university assignments I've done in a while (what historians don't tell you is that research can be the biggest pain in the ass aspect of writing I guess).

Anyways, today in the Napoleonic Bubble server I was talking to some friends about Bessieres's mystery correspondence and reasons why he could've burned them (as his motive for doing such wasn't entirely clear, nor can we be certain of the contents of the many letters he burned). Here's a couple of the theories I came up with, I'm listing them off just for fun and to see what you guys think, I might be a history major but please don't take these too seriously as I literally came up with them on the spot as we were talking.

Let's start with the Murat related theories to get my BessiMu obsession out of the way first: 1 - Bessieres had been secretly corresponding with Murat This one is pretty self-explanatory, especially after Murat's betrayal, Bessieres himself could've been accused of treason had he had been corresponding with Murat. Furthermore, neither seemed to hold disdain for each other following Murat's betrayal. One point I will need you to keep in mind is that Murat grieved for Bessieres death, something I sincerely believe he wouldn't have done had they been in bad terms. In this case, their correspondence may not have been political, instead being general conversation between the two which Bessieres was still scared of being caught for. 2 - Bessieres had been corroborating with Murat in some other way - Bessieres was making plans with Murat either for Murat's return to France or for a potential attack from Murat. Bessieres, as Murat's long-time friend, would've been an excellent source of insider information for Murat if we're to believe they were still communicating. Where this theory falters is where you believe Bessieres's laid his loyalty more strongly/sincerely (with his boss and friend Napoleon, or with his long time friend and coworker Murat), additionally, I am unsure (regardless of Murat's access to insider info and his notorious stubbornness) how viable it would've been for Murat to literally fight his way into good graces again so...

Now for the other theories 3- Bessieres was working with France's enemies (betrayal theory) - Bessieres may have burned evidence of him providing information to France's enemies or requesting to switch over to their side. The realism of this theory once again depends on where you believe his loyalty was and how strong said loyalty was by the later years of his life.

(CW: DISCUSSIONS OF SUICIDE/POOR MENTAL HEALTH FOR THE NEXT 2 THEORIES)

4- Bessieres was planning to commit suicide - Bessieres in 1813 was reportedly in an incredibly depressive state. Although I do not believe his death was nor could've been planned/orchestrated, there is a possibility that him burning his correspondence was him preparing for such. He may have been planning to commit suicide at a later point, and his actual death may have happened to come earlier than he had planned. By 1813 Bessieres had become an incredibly hopeless and broken person, his friends were dying left right and center, one of his best friends had been entirely banned from France, the empire he had sworn loyalty to was on the edge of crumbling apart, he was in extreme debt, he wasn't short of reasons for suicidal behaviour/ideation. 5 - Bessieres was not in a sound state of mind - Bessieres burning his correspondence was an irrational decision. His mental state had been deteriorating and him burning the correspondence was evidence of him thinking illogically as a result of this. Said mental strain could've been caused by his depressive state or by PTSD he had developed along the course of his career.

(END OF CW)

6 - The correspondence was related to the blackmailing which he fell victim to - As you may or may not know, Bessieres's debt was largely caused by blackmailing involving affairs he had. The correspondence he burned could've been related to said blackmailing. Either as fuel for more blackmail or as evidence that he was being blackmailed.

Okay, that's all the theories I have so far, feel free to tell me what you think or even better: add your own theories!!! I'd love to know your thoughts or extra info you may have on this c:

#napoleonic #napoleonic era #napoleons marshals #joachim murat #jean baptiste bessières #napoleon #implied bessimu I guess #napoleonic wars #historical theory #historical speculation

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ghostwise · 2 months

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loud bark, deep bite 1.2k words, Astarion/Durge Astarion and Aya commiserate during the party. cw: intrusive thoughts, casual suicidal ideation, alcohol

There was a thought in the back of her infested mind. It started in the morning and persisted as night fell, stars spinning overhead like dancers spun across the field.

Aya sang until her voice grew hoarse, and plucked at her lute until the strings left harsh indents on her fingertips. She loosed her voice like a flag unfurling, belting out lyrics until she was breathlessly forgetting the words—and still the thought plagued her:

Poison in the barrel of wine. Set fire to the carriages where the sleeping babes lie. Kill one of a pair of lovers. So many victims, so little time.

“Tell me if you know this one!” Aya laughed, eyes shining. “Sing along if you can! Gods know I’m making it up as I go along!”

To the casual observer she was as any other reveler at the party, enjoying herself and making merry. But as the night dragged on and the party slowed down that changed.

People slept in a wine-induced stupor, or they settled into cozy company by one of several campfires, chatting with friends, or finding some privacy with a lover. As Aya watched the dwindling crowd, a hint of panic seized her.

To be alone was a terrible thing.

Alone meant she might do things she’d regret. Alone meant the grotesque Butler might return—and who knew what demands he’d make if and when she saw him again? Even now, the cloak that hung around her shoulders was proof that he was real. Real enough to be a problem at least. Unless she was just that far gone.

She had the distinct impression that revealing himself to her alone, tempting her with gifts and then vanishing before her eyes, was his way of isolating her. But to what purpose? And on who’s behalf?

“I’ll strangle him,” she muttered aloud, hands tight on the frets of her instrument.

“Strangle who?”

Pulled from her thoughts, Aya blinked and cast a slow look over her shoulder. She relaxed only upon seeing who it was.

“Just talking to myself, as usual,” she sighed. “Pay me no mind.”

“Alright,” Astarion quipped, dropping the matter.

The man had been conspicuously absent for most of the party, and she briefly wondered where he had been. He had a bottle of wine in his hand and an easy smile on his face as he sauntered over.

“You know, there are any number of potential partners for conversation among our camp tonight. Why talk to yourself when you can talk to one of them?” he asked.

“I have little to say to these people.”

“Oh? And yet you’ve spent hours in their midst, performing for them with such dedication!”

“Sometimes the center of the stage is the best place to hide,” Aya explained with a dry chuckle. “Besides, I don’t risk being dragged into inane conversations while singing.”

Astarion paused and looked away, taking in her words. He took a small sip of wine from the bottle. It was curious. She hadn’t seen him really consume anything—other than her own blood—and she’d assumed until now that he couldn’t partake in alcohol.

“I can leave, if you prefer,” he said after a moment, sweeping his red gaze back to her.

“I didn’t mean you,” Aya replied flatly. “You’re… scintillating.”

“My, my!” He smiled broadly. “I’m so glad we agree! Here I thought you were merely tolerating me.”

Aya returned the smile with something that didn’t quite reach her eyes.

“No,” she said. “It’s the rest of these oafs who irritate with their endless complaints.” She set her instrument down and continued in high-pitched mockery, hands splayed in melodrama: “Oh help! Help! The cult is terrible! Oh! But not as terrible as the war! Oh! But not as terrible as starvation and poverty! DEFINITELY not as terrible as having worms for brains! Gods! I am sick of it! As if we didn’t have problems of our own. And it’s even worse now that they like us. Should’ve been a dagger through my head instead of a worm.”

She dropped onto a nearby cushion—one of many strewn throughout the camp—as Astarion laughed.

The sound eased her down some. Truth be told, she liked how careful he was with her. It was comforting not to be misunderstood. He treated her like she was dangerous, because she was. A bit patronizing, trying to get on her good side—she recognized a performance when she saw it—but he didn’t avoid her either, and gods, she didn’t want to be alone right now, unsettled as she had been all day. Thankfully he didn’t seem intent on leaving.

“I hate it too,” Astarion said, joining her. “This is awful.”

“Really?” Aya asked. “Admiration and fawning respect is awful? I rather suspected you’d take advantage of the circumstances. Find yourself a little snack to indulge in.”

“My favorite little snack to indulge in is right here,” Astarion replied smoothly.

“Flatterer.” Aya smiled and shook her head.

“I’m being sincere, I assure you.”

She took the bottle of wine from his hand and aimed a measured look at him as she drank from it. To her parched throat, the wine was delicious. The grove had spared no expense. She handed the bottle back with a satisfied hum.

“I take it you’re hoping for another taste?” she suggested.

“More than just a taste, actually,” Astarion said, fingering the neck of the bottle.

His voice was hushed and low, with a cloying quality to it. The conversation had shrunk to fit the little hollow of space between them, flipping into something intimate with surprising ease. She was not surprised at how quickly he cozied up to her, narrowing the distance between their bodies. She was a bit surprised at how welcome the flirtation was, especially when her mind still sang: Kill this one slow. Keep his pretty eyes, keep his pretty hands, to remember.

“We could steal away, you know,” he continued. “Make our own fun.”

Aya couldn’t help it; she laughed sharply.

“Are you quite sure, Astarion?” she asked, and she had just been thinking about how lovely his eyes would look in a jar, so it seemed only fair to issue a warning. “I have no memories and very little sense! There’s not much to me save some scars and scattered pieces of a mind… angry, petty impulses, like a child. I am fragmented. You want to fuck half a woman?” The question ended in another laugh, amused and a little cruel. “Which half, I wonder?”

“Hmm,” Astarion said, and he gave her a once-over, undeterred. “I wouldn’t put it quite so crassly… but you seem whole from where I’m standing. A little scattered, as you say, true—but that just means you could use a little help picking up the pieces. An extra pair of hands to put you back together, my dear.”

Gods, he was good.

He almost sounded like he believed it.

Aya licked her lips. She searched her mind carefully, trying to make this decision with care. They were kindred spirits, after all; actors following a script both were familiar with. Insincerity and ulterior motives lurked in both their words. But at the core of it, something beckoned irresistibly, warranting a closer look.

It did sound fun.

“Show me,” she challenged.

Then the thoughts in her mind surged, taking on a different hue as he grinned his sharp smile.

Had she done this before? When? Where? With who?

And those hands brushed against her again. They cupped her face, finding the frantic pulse fluttering beneath her skin, as Astarion gave her a fanged kiss.

#rinnywrites #bg3 #baldur's gate 3 #durge #astarion ancunin #astarion x durge #oc: aya #finding her voice and she's a little menace i love her

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catziraphale · 2 months

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Tags + About

Last edited: 01-09-24

TAGS:

💕 Emotional Support | self care | soft domestic fluff

🤍 cat Aziraphale | Aziraphale | Aziraphale's Diary entries | things he wouldn't say in his diary

🖤 cat Crowley | Crowley

🧡 Bad Cat Omens (for the canon-typical angst and disturbing events) | tw: suicidal thoughts | tw: suicidal ideation

ABOUT:

Cat!Aziraphale is a Flame Point (cream-coloured with orange markings) Ragdoll.

Ragdolls are big kitties. In general, they are mild-mannered, not very active, and can be clingy with their humans. (Aziraphale doesn’t present with that last important trait. He lacks those “genies”, as pointed out by Sandalphon.)

Crowley is a Bombay cat. This breed is active, curious, and loves attention. In the vids, they seem to walk with a characteristic sway. Also, look at these Eyes!

___________________

Emotional Support:

💕 Asking for comfort is self care, and sometimes self care is hard; but remember: you matter and people care (if you think no-one cares, I do)

💕 Providing (virtually): purring, cat hugs and kisses, fluffy fur to put your face in, etc.

💕 I'm just a not-so-little cat, so I don't have all the Answers, but there's plenty of love in my heart (that I'm not sure what to do with) 🥰

💕 I reply to every single Ask; if there's no reply, it's most likely due to Tumblr messing up (I hear it happens)

💕 You can tell me anything; I only ask to put a little "cw" somewhere in the message, if it's something potentially triggering, please

___________________

All the pics used here should be public domain (the background/header is the Alpha Centauri (the white-ish one on the left) 🌟🤍🖤🌟)

If you notice that I didn't put a proper content warning or a cw/tw tag, please let me know; I want this space to be as safe as possible

#about the blog #introductory post #my Cat Omens #comfort cat

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just-some-random-blogger · 3 months

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Less Dire Situations | 2

Part 1 2 3

Peter liked you the moment he met you after moving in with his Aunt May. Unfortunately, he never got the guts to talk to you. The idea disappeared after grade school and high school graduation, so you can imagine how surprised he was when you answered his ad for Advanced Calculus tutoring. It felt like he could actually get a shot with you… and then you jumped off the Manhattan Bridge.

Peter Parker x Reader | 5k+ | cw: fem!reader, DD:DNE, suicidal thoughts/ideation, suicide attempt, themes of depression, social withdrawing, emotional masking, canon divergence, angst, hurt, typos, etc.

A/N: this is originally posted on ao3

My breathing is shallow as I sit cross legged on the top of the pillar of the Manhattan Bridge. I'm terrified to move, not just because the wind was threatening to blow me into the road, potentially traumatizing a poor driver, but because Spiderman was sitting down next to me.

He hasn't said a word since he's caught me. There's nothing but silence and the stars between us.

I can't believe Spiderman saved me.

"I can't believe you jumped."

I whip my head to him. He's already looking at me.

My mouth opens, "I- I didn't mean to say that out loud."

The masked man stares at me for a moment then looks front. He curls his legs into his chest and wraps his arms around them, "I did."

I turn to my hands and begin to pick at my cuticles. My throat constricts, and my eyes grow foggy with tears. He only said two words but they sounded personal, they sounded... angry. I feel my lips quiver. I mean, I don't blame him. He's probably had to save so many idiots from jumping to their death. He's so over this.

I would be too, if I were him. As if fighting criminals wasn't enough, now he's got to look after the mentally ill? That's above my pay grade, and I'm sure he doesn't get paid.

I scratch my eyes when I feel hot tears stream down my face. I shudder as I hear the call of the abyss. I look out into the body of water, glimmering under the city light, beckoning me. I shakily mutter under my breath, "sorry, Spidey."

I feel him looking at me. I feel him look at me the exact manner I hoped to never get looked at. He was pitying me. He had his face covered and I wasn't even looking at him but, dammit, I knew he was pitying me. Worse, he was genuinely sorry for me.

I rub my philtrum and curl into myself. I flinch when I hear him sigh. I slowly turn to him when he moves

He faces me, leaning on one leg, "I'm just shocked you'd want your last place on earth be Manhattan Bridge. Like honestly. Why would anyone want that? If you're gonna go through all that trouble, might as well pick a better bridge."

Spiderman cocks his head to the side, "like Brooklyn."

I look at him for a moment. I can't figure out if he's joking or if he was just from Brooklyn.

"Or something connecting to Staten Island."

I begrudgingly chuckle at his words. The sound I make actually surprises me.

I hear him mumble something under his breath as he looks away.

He brings his legs into his chest again, and so we're both just hugging ourselves.

I gasp when a couple of birds pass us. I cover my ears and watch as they fly away.

"You get used to it," he says as I watch a flock of birds disappear into the city.

I turn to my knees as he continues, "the world feels different up here. You're just one of the birds, looking down at this concrete jungle, just tryna avoid street signs and glass windows."

I wrinkle the fabric of my pants into my hands. A shiver runs down my spine as the wind begins to seep into my clothes.

I feel him scoot closer. "You want me to," he mutters, "bring you down?" He takes a moment before asking, "you want me to take you home?"

I rapidly shake my head, "I don't want to go back."

He sighs and rubs his nape, "sweetheart, I can't leave you here."

I sniffle and finally turn to him. He had both hands on his shoulders; he's massaging the area firmly as he looks around, clearly agitated. I wipe my nose on my sleeve, "you from Brooklyn or what?"

"What?" he turns to me.

My voice sounds like my nose is clogged, because it is, "I didn't think Spiderman was from Brooklyn, although, I think it kinda makes sense."

He chuckles out, "oh yeah?" He rests an arm on his knee, "how so?"

"You wear a Spider suit."

He sniggers, "and?"

"Only someone from Brooklyn would even think to pull that off."

Spiderman snorts. I chuckle under my breath as he throws his head back, "HA- you know what, I take that as a compliment."

"It is," I lean back to get a good look at him, "I used to have a such a crush on this one guy from Brooklyn."

"Really?"

"Yeah, he moved to Queens for a year but then moved back," I mutter.

"Ah, so you're from Queens."

"Yeah."

He nods and fidgets his feet, "what are you doing in Manhattan then?"

I shake my head and turn to my lap.

Spiderman feels the reluctance but he still asks, "what? No bridges over there?"

"Hmm," I brush my hair behind my ear. I release a shudder, "none quite like Manhattan Bridge."

He hums, "let me guess. You had your first kiss here."

"Nothing so obscene," I sigh and rub my arms. I cross my legs and hunch over. I shake my head, "this was the bridge I took into Manhattan, to my fucking dream school in my fucking dream city. It's all I ever wanted as a kid. It's all I prayed for, and I have it-"

My head begins to thump as I force-suck air through my clogged nose.

"I got a scholarship. I got a dorm. I do commissions to pay for what I need, but I hate it," my voice cracks as I begin to sob, "all my life I've had people shit on me for wanting to get an art degree. And now I'm thinking," I scratch my eyes, "yeah. Maybe they're right. The only way I'll have a stable living is if I work for some conglomerate and sell my soul."

I turn to Spiderman, finding his whole body was faced towards me. I sniffle, "I don't want to sell my soul, Peter."

A wind gushed between us.

"Fuck- sorry-" I wipe my face rough, "sorry. I- I have a friend named Peter. He's my only friend-" I break into a pathetic laugh, "but actually he's only my friend because I pay him."

Spiderman's gaze feels heavy on me.

"I don't know, I just- it's so exhausting to keep up with people from this fucking city. They're always doing something and I-" I shake my head, "I can't. I really can't. And I fucking can't lose my scholarship so I looked for a tutor, because fuck all as to why an Animation student needs to do Calculus-- and this kid named Peter Parker charges like 10 dollars an hour, which is really good and he's really good- and-

"-and it turns out the guy is actually from Queens too and, shocker, we went to the same grade school AND high school, but I had no idea who he was cause my overachiever ass had 100 clubs to focus on, and he remembers that horrible dance choreo I did with my friends-- who don't even speak to me anymore-"

At this point, I could feel that my eyes were so puffy and I could barely breathe from all the snot in my nose.

Still, I continued, "and eventually, I realized he was the kid people picked on, and then I wondered if any of my friends picked on him, and now I was asking him to help me, but he's just the sweetest guy ever. He's so just so smart, and patient, and funny, and kind, and sometimes I look at him and wish I could go back and stand up for him, or go back and I be his friend. But I liked how everything was for myself back then, so I didn't give a fuck and I didn't do a damned thing because I was a stupid kid- and- and-"

I take in deep, shaky breathes in the hope of calming myself.

"Hey, hey," Spiderman apprehensively places a hand on my shoulder, "I'm sure he doesn't hold it against you-"

"Well, he should," I snap, "neutrality is just as bad, or sometimes worse than being a bully. At least you can pick out a bully, at least you know they want to hurt you and you can get ready for a punch. But neutral people see that shit and decide it's not worth lifting a finger for. They pretend there's peace just because it's not their war. And they take that to their graves."

I feel a shiver ripple through my body. I shake my head rapidly, "I don't want to live like that. Peter never deserved that. And he deserves way better than being friends with a bystander."

"... are you still a bystander?"

"I- I don't know," I speak with a wobbly voice, " I haven't seen anyone get picked on, which probably means I am-"

"Now, hold on. Looking for fights where there aren't ones isn't the right way to go about the world."

I chuckle dryly, "but the world is just always one move away from a fight. There's nothing but unrest and uncertainty."

Spiderman links his hands together, "thats definitely one way to look at things."

"Please don't fucking glass half full me right now."

"I won't," he shakes his head, "trust me, I'm not qualified for it. And I'm a glass half empty kind of guy actually."

I wipe my face.

"Don't you think Peter should decide what he deserves though?"

I don't respond.

"The thing about accepting the glass is half empty is knowing there's space to add more to it," he moves in front of me, "maybe he was also excited to see someone familiar. Victims of abusers tend to stay because they think it's all there is--not that I'm calling you an abuser- but you- with the half empty analogy-"

"I get it," I raise a hand, "sometimes we're willing to overlook the bad for a little good... which is really fucked up."

"And you know," he points a finger, "if this Peter guy is as smart as you make him out to be, realistically speaking, I doubt he'd hang out with you if you made him want to jump off the Manhattan Bridge."

I chuckle. I actually chuckle. I wipe my nose, "you've got a sick sense of humor, Spiderman."

"Hey," he raises his hands, "you laughed."

I chuckle again then release a breath, "I can only hope so... I hope I'm someone in his orbit."

Spiderman doesn't respond.

"He's one of the few people in the world that's actually gonna do great things. He's so good at what he does. You know he's taking Advanced Calculus just because he can, and he's so good at it he teaches Math majors? He's a Bio-Chemistry major! And he's passionate about it... I wish I had that."

"Aren't you passionate about your drawings?"

I give a dry laugh, "I hate what I do. I feel like I've fallen out of love." I chortle, "but I can't quit it because it's all there is for me."

I shiver again. I rapidly rub my arms.

"You don't have to cross this bridge," he says, placing a hand on my knee, "people built other bridges because there are other ways to reach a destination."

I shake my head and laugh with no amusement. I whisper, "I just want to jump."

I watch him as he stands, his suit somehow appears like it's absorbing and deflecting the light from the city. "Okay," he tilts his head down, "then jump."

I, admittedly, am taken aback by his words.

I wait for him to do something, to say something, because there was no way he was actually taunting me to jump right now.

A pit in my stomach pressures me to stand and throw myself off to prove a point. I shakily push myself up, and that's when he reaches out to me.

"Or jump with me."

I look at his extended hand.

He stares at me for a long while then says, "we can keep jumping off Manhattan Bridge until you don't want to."

My cheeks begin to burn because of my hot tears.

"You have to take my hand though," he whispers, "if you chose to stop bullying yourself, you can't be a bystander either. You said it yourself."

I let out an ugly cry.

"Do for yourself what you couldn't for someone else."

My cold, trembling hand lands onto his gloved one. It seems he is equally as cold as I am, but then warmth cascades through my entire body when he clutches my hand in both if his.

I see my vague silhouette on the lenses of his mask. I must look atrocious.

He presses his lips onto my fingers then slowly let's me go. He steps back and looks out to the river, "jump."

What?

"It's okay."

I look at him with worry.

"Trust me," he places his hands on his chest, "I will catch you, no matter what."

The sentiment makes me want to puke. I feel deeply disturbed. I feel like I'm being made a spectacle of. Was vulnerability always so performative?

"I-" don't want to, I almost say. But I can't... I can't now, not when I'd already told the hero of New York more than I've ever told anyone in my life. Not when someone who I had been waiting on to come save the city came to save me.

My lips quiver at the realization.

He came to save me.

I turn away from him and close my eyes. I take one deep breath.

I leave my life into his hands as I step off the platform.

I descend. Faster, and faster, and faster and-

And faster I went-

I open my eyes and find the waves below me inching nearer. With my arms up and the wind ripping at me, I begin to scream in panic. The fear in my body makes me go rigid. I realize that I could get saved and still die in the process.

It dawns on me that--

With a grunt, I collide into a body and I'm being swung upward.

I grunt at the force of the impact. I shriek and cling onto Spiderman twice as tight as he he did on me.

I whimper.

He nuzzles against me, "I got you. I got you, sweetheart. I got you."

It feels surreal when my feet touch the ground. I feel like I'm in the clouds and my legs aren't meant to touch the floor.

I shudder against his embrace. Spiderman had been holding me ever since he brought us down and, honestly, I didn't feel at all like letting go.

I breathe against his trapezius, his scent was so inviting, so... safe. I was slightly up on my tiptoes to keep my arms around his shoulders. He had a bend to his posture to keep level with me. I knew I could not keep him like this forever because of this.

Against my will, I slowly break away and look at the man before me.

The streetlight by the river shoreline made his red suit look maroon. Spiderman parts from me just as slow, as if equally unwilling to separate.

My heart pounds when he rest his head against mine.

"Are we about to kiss right now?" I whisper.

He chuckles, slightly pulling back, "it wouldn't be right to take advantage of you in your state."

"Thrilling to know Spiderman would kiss me."

"Says the girl who's flirting with me right now," he tilts his head.

"I wasn't flirting. I was asking. It was to lighten the mood."

He says nothing for a moment, "I don't think anything can lighten suicide."

The mood dies. Coldness creeps up my spine.

Spiderman rubs my back and nods, "you doing okay?"

I chuckle dryly, breaking away all together. I turn to my feet. What a question. I fidget in my spot, my tongue itching to say I've not been okay for a long time, but instead I look back at him and smile, "I'm okay."

I continue to put distance between us. I wrap my arms around myself, expecting him to allow me space. My stomach drops when he steps closer.

His mask is expressionless but he sounds disappointed, "I don't enable crooks, sweetheart."

I flinch when he swipes my cheeks with his thumb.

"Quit cheating yourself."

I step back and cover my face; heat spirals over me when my hands find evidence of tears I've involuntarily cried.

I bury my face in my hands and turn away from him. I roughly wipe my tears; a wave of pathetic shame overcomes me.

I inch away from him. Each step was meant to encourage myself into composition but it does the opposite. I feel like a storm cloud-- heavy, dark, and pouring down. I'm crushed by my own weight.

Unable to control my sob, I break down and curl into a ball, squatting on the floor, hugging my knees.

I feel him come down to my side.

I whine against my elbow, "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I just-"

"Don't apologize. There's nothing to be sorry about," he sits down, "let it out."

I lift my head and look over my shoulder. Spiderman stares at me. My pathetic likeness is reflected on his lenses. I look away and wipe my nose, "I just- I don't- it's a lot. It's all too much- I..."

"Hey," he raises a hand, "you don't have to explain right now. Just let it out. I'm here."

I laugh. I'm here.

I pull on my sleeve and wipe my tears.

"What's funny?"

I look at Spiderman and shake my head. I chuckle again and repeat his words, "I'm here."

He is silent for a moment. He pulls his head back and sounds offended, "well, I am."

"I know," I say through blocked sinuses. I sniffle and wipe my nose, "I know."

He looks at me a few seconds then nods, "we can stay here as long as you like."

I sniffle, "what about... don't you have other people to save?"

"I'm saving you."

A pit of guilt grows in my stomach, "yeah, but what about people in burning buildings?"

"What about your burning building? It seems like it's been burning a while now."

I say nothing. I turn to my feet.

"And anyway, you can only walk towards one thing at a time, if not, you'd be walking aimlessly," he shuffles on his spot.

I can't see his face but I can feel him looking at me.

"Does that make sense?"

I nod, looking at the dirt beneath my feet.

He huffs, "I try not to think about the people I could have saved when I wasn't doing anything of," he does air quotes, "significant importance."

I look up at him as he stands. He stretches his arms with a grunt, "believe it or not, I'm just another New Yorker trying to get by when I'm out of this suit. I'm not a millionaire or a genius."

I watch him as he stretches his legs, "I believe you."

He freezes, "woah, woah, woah," he points a finger, "I don't like your tone."

"What tone?"

"What, like, Amazing Spider-Man isn't so amazing as a man," he straightens up and places a hand on his chest, "I'll have you know I am very much slightly above average as a man."

I give a clogged-nose laugh, "your girlfriends must love that."

"Oh," he places his hands on his hips and stretches from side to side, "they do."

I laugh, hard enough that snot threatens to spill from my nose. I wipe my philtrum and push myself up to a stand.

Spiderman stops stretching.

We stare at each other for a prolonged second.

"Can I take you home now?"

I rub my hands together, "will you be swinging me back?"

He chuckles softly, "I mean, if you want. I was thinking a walk would be good for you though."

My brows quirk, "you want to walk me? But you're in your suit."

"So?" he shrugs and crosses his arms, "wouldn't be the first time someone in a spiderman suit walked around New York."

I smile softly. He was right.

I nod and wipe my face in my hands, "okay."

He perks, "okay?"

I nod faster and chuckle, "yeah. It's quite a walk from here to my dorm though," I throw a thumb over my shoulder.

"Don't worry. My cardio's up to snuff," he shrugs and tilts his head, "my girlfriends love that too."

We walk down the streets in silence. For some reason, it was not a heavy or awkward silence. I felt like I could just keep to myself and it would be okay.

The problem with keeping to myself is that the silence feeds my thoughts which then eat at me.

The quiet street seemed loud now, everything felt like it was out to get me.

"Hey," I call out softly. For a split second I regret speaking out and I pray he didn't hear.

Spiderman did hear though. He whips towards me, "yes."

I barely manage to keep my eyes on him as I explain, "this is an odd request- but- do you mind holding my hand as we walk? It's just that, I don't know... I'm feeling overwhelmed."

He reaches out a hand to me.

I stare at his hand, finding it daunting to take it, "actually... can I just hold your arm?"

He offers his arm.

I take it.

We continue to walk.

"Yoo," a random passerby says, "hows it going spiderboy?!"

"Good, good," Spiderman says, waving at him.

We eventually reach my building.

I slowly pull away from him just before we reach the façade.

"This is me," I mutter, hands sliding down his arms.

Spiderman looks up at the building and turns back to me, "fancy."

I shake my head and smile, "it's a dorm. I'm a scholar, remember?"

He holds my hand just before I can pull away, "I remember everything you say, baby."

I am rigid when he lets go. The way in which he said that was so intimate, so earnest.

My chest tightens and I barely manage to whisper out, "please don't speak to me like that."

He stands still, "...what?"

My throat tightens.

"Earnestly?" he mutters.

Was he a mind reader? "Yeah," I speak with a broken voice. I watch passing cars, "you'll make be think you're in love with me."

"Is that such a bad thing?"

"Yes," I snap, turning back at him, "you don't know me."

He is perfectly still, save for his hands that slowly raise in defeat, "I don't."

I sigh deeply.

"Which is why I'm honored to know you like this."

I chuckle dryly, "fucking hell."

I turn away from him and walk towards my building entry way. Half expecting him to follow after me, I am surprised to see he didn't.

"1 pm."

"What?"

"One o'clock tomorrow," he motions with a finger, "I'll meet you on your rooftop."

"What?"

"I've got stuff to do in the morning, but I'm free after 1. Meet me there then."

I step forward, "now, wait a sec-"

"Remember. One," he says, right before slinging away.

"Holy shit," Arnel, the dorm's night guard, says, "did that fucker just teleport?"

I turn around. The dark skinned man walks to my side and examines the scene. I shake my head, "no. It was web... things. That was spiderman."

"Damn, kid," he turns to me, "you're friends with the Spoods?'

I do not reply.

"Speaking of friends, Peter was begging to get in. He said it was important because you weren't answering your calls. I told him policy is policy," he explains, "that being said. He looked so frantic, I was about to let him in, but he bolted down the block."

My lips part.

"You good, kid?"

My heart pounds. I can't lie to Arnel. He's got a bullshit detector the size of the Empire State. I shake my head, "I got into an accident... I'm better now."

Still a lie, but Arnel doesn't note it if he catches on. The man presses his plump lips into a thin line, "alright, well go get some rest. You look like you need it."

I him watch me as I go inside.

When I get into my apartment, I feel bile rise up my throat. The sight of my place repelled me. I head straight to my bedroom, insides curdling when I see the boxes of stuff I had already packed. I turn to the middle of my bed where my phone and suicide letter was, the former lit up with a buzz.

I grab my phone and see Peter's ID.

Guilt eats away at me, yet it's not enough for me to answer.

When the call ends, I see the notification that it's been the 30th attempt.

I see 61 texts.

My eyes water.

I flinch when he rings me again.

With a gulp, I answer, "hello?"

"..."

"... Peter? Can you-"

"Oh my fucking go- do you have absolutely any idea how fucking scared I've been! Where have you been? Why haven't you been answering your phone? I tried to go to your dorm! They wouldn't let me in."

His nagging is as comforting as it is grating, "calm down, dad. I left my phone at my dorm."

"You called me then left your phone at your dorm?! Wow. That's some next level evil right there."

I sigh and crawl on my bed. I pull my shoes off and lie down. Tears drip the sides of my face. I take a deep breath before replying, "it wasn't on purpose."

"... well, damn, it feels like it is."

I stare at the glow in the dark stars on my ceiling, a sight I never anticipated seeing again. It clenched at my heart.

"Did you call to give me that Tawagoshi?"

My throat tightens.

"You love this 8-bit dog."

I do.

"What gives? I've got so many questions," he speaks my name, making electricity pulse through me.

"I bet you do," I mumble, mostly to myself.

Peter voice falls soft, "what's going on?"

My breathing is strangled. I do my best to keep it even as I respond, "I'm shedding some skin. I thought to try out calling, but damn--" I chuckle bitterly, "--this really could have been a text."

"Not this time," he blurts from the other line, "I'm coming over."

"NO!" I yelp, sitting up, "please. I'm exhausted-"

"And you still haven't told me why-"

"Tomorrow," I blurt.

"..."

I sigh, "I'll tell you tomorrow."

"..."

"I promise. I'll ease all your worries, dad."

"I don't want to be eased," he says firmly, "I want to be told the truth "

I shake my head and stare at my screen. The name Peter Parker stares back at me.

I am snapped into reality when he calls my name again.

"I'm still here," I respond.

"Breakfast at 5th?"

"... ok, Peter."

"Alright. Get some sleep."

"I will, dad. Love you."

"I-"

I end the call.

I wake up with a headache and stomach ache. Fitting, if you asked me.

I could barely open my eyes because of how crusty it was, the salt from my dried tears bunched up my lashes.

The air was cold. The sun wasn't shining yet. There was a distant siren whirring from afar. It couldn't have been any later than 5 am.

I look at the ceiling, as much as my crusted lids would let me, and gaze upon the faint neon glow of the stars on the surface. I think about how happy I was when I put them on during the first few days I moved in here.

I miss her.

I miss who I was then.

The siren sound gets closer. I prop myself up on my elbows.

I grab my phone. I see the the notifications I had for Spiderman.

Spiderman saves Manhattan Bridge jumper. Watch: Footage Of Spider-Man Saving Jumper On Manhattan Bridge Spider-Man Catches Manhattan Bridge Free-Faller

I press on one of the links. I curl my legs over each other as I scroll down the article. I do a double take when I catch the massive Help Hotline badge just below the headline. I stare at it for a second, then scroll down to the video footage.

The video is loud with street noise. The perspective is from a boat. It starts out with a 360 view of the scenery, then ends with a woman saying some things about Manhattan Bridge. Someone screams. The camera is shaken. It's far, but clear enough to see a figure descending from the bridge. There is panic within the boat. People scream in horror.

'Spiderman!' yells someone. The one recording fails to catch him when he'd just arrived but caught the moment he caught the body-- my body... me.

Goosebumps form on my shoulder when they cheer and thank God for him saving me. They laugh and hug themselves. The video ends.

My eyelids are no longer crusty. They are wet again, eyelashes beaded with tears.

I flinch when the sound of something heavy is placed on front of me. I snap out of my trance when Julia smiles at me, "pancakes and sausages."

I perk and watch as she places Peter's order in front of him, "bacon, eggs, and a muffin."

"Thank you," Peter smiles at her, moving his plate back to make room for the coffee Julia places in the middle of our orders.

"Enjoy, loves," she chirps, "give me a call if you need anything else, alrighty?"

Peter smiles again, "thank you, Julia."

Julia smiles back. I manage to return it when she looks back at me.

I stare at my food as she walks away. I look up and see Peter looking at me, rather seriously at that.

I smile and grab a fork and knife. I cut my food and take a bite, even though I wasn't hungry, "anyway, as you can see, I'm still in one piece. You don't have to worry about me. I'm just going through a burn out phase. You understand."

"No, I don't actually," Peter grabs a fork and stabs his muffin. He takes a bite, eyeing me as he set the muffin down, "this feels too scary to me. You can't just do such drastic things in one night and expect me not to be concerned."

"So, I gave away a few things and tried out calling," I chuckle as I pour syrup on my pancake, "it's not like I reinvented breathing."

Peter stares at me as I stuff my mouth with food. I chew and smile at him, even though it hurt to see him so distraught and disturbed.

I put my silverware down when he calls my name.

"You know about the jumper on Manhattan Bridge?"

I turn to my plate and shake my head, "I have a push notification for the Spoods, so duh."

"..."

I slowly look up at Peter. He rests his head on his hand.

"Morbid news to wake up to," he mutters, almost in a whisper.

"The dystopian reality is, it's just another day in New York city," I take a bite of my pancake, "another day in this dying world."

My stomach drops when he says my name.

I grab a glass of water, "mmm?"

"I saw it last night. I was terrified. I started to imagine what it would be like if it was someone I knew..."

I grip my glass tight. My face tightens and twitches neurotically. I release the glass with a thud and shake my head, "don't imagine things like that."

"I know, but it kept going. And I was so concerned about you--"

My spine tingles.

"--you weren't answering your texts," his voice is low, "I thoug-"

"Hey, I'm right here."

Peter stills.

I take his hand and clutch it, "don't worry about something in your imagination."

His face is hard and unreadable. He takes my hand and squeezes, "you know Ms. V? I talked to her yesterday."

My brows furrow.

"She said you weren't passing your requirements. She's concerned about you."

I pull my hand away.

He catches it, "I'm concerned about you."

Peter gently tugs my hand towards him and rubs my skin. My arm breaks into goosebumps. I rip my hand away.

A thick silence envelopes us. He watches me intently. He speaks my name slowly.

"It's burn out," I blurt and force myself to smile. It's a small one, a painful one, but it does the job of distracting me from crying, "Ms. Vasquez knows I could do better, and I can... but I can't."

I play with my food.

I look up and find Peter's unreadable expression. I smile, "it happens. It'll come back to me."

He says nothing.

"Of course," I sigh, "you wouldn't know that, Mr. I-Got-Everything-Figured-Out."

He doesn't budge when I give him a teasing look.a

"I mean, leave a few braincells for the rest of us," I cut my pancake. I stare at him for a moment then shrug, "I'm just relieved you're ugly."

Peter snorts. Begrudgingly.

I snort with him and watch how he relaxes. He leans back on his chair and shakes his head.

"We're having a serious conversation," he motions between us.

"Oh, I know Mr. Parker," I chew my pancake, "you are seriously ugly."

Peter shakes his head again and takes a bite of his muffin.

I am relieved that he is sated.

I turn back to my food.

Peter pulls out his Spiderman mask and opens his mouth. He stares for a moment. He tucks it back in his pocket and shift in his seat.

I look back at him.

He looks back at me.

I take some of his eggs.

Peter pretends to be annoyed, "you should have gotten your own."

I shrug, "snooze you lose."

#dd:dne #peter parker #peter parker fanfic #spiderman fan fiction #spiderman fanfic #avengers fan fiction #peter parker angst #marvel fanfic #marvel fan fiction #marvel au #peter parker x reader #spiderman angst #andrew garfield fanfic #spiderman andrew garfield #spiderman fic #spiderman au

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69constellationsinatrenchcoat · 6 months

Note

I'm so sorry if this is too personal.. You've talked about suicidal ideation before. When you're feeling that way, what keeps you alive?

Gosh, this is… such a good question. And no worries <3 it's not too personal for me.

Cw: mentions of suicide and death (mostly positively)

It'll vary by alter, I'll try to get the others to respond if they're comfortable.. for me (🔥), there's a few.

- Knowing it's my role as the primary protector to keep our body safe to the best of my ability.

- I've always doubted the existence of an afterlife, and truthfully I'm a bit jealous of anyone who can believe there is one. And in doing so, I have no idea what's next.. is it just... an end? do we just decompose as science suggests? does my system get broken up according to their beliefs? do we get reincarnated? does heaven/hell exist..? If so.. where am I going?

Those kinds of questions keep me up at night. I don't like to admit it but I'm afraid of missing out on life, of missing opportunities to grow, to learn, to find out about the others.. to solve the hazy mystery that is our past, and to understand what motivates and drives humans to act the ways they do... and I'm afraid of dying; of the sheer unknown of it. No one who has ever died has ever lived to tell the tale, and that scares and intrigues me in a way I can't begin to explain in any comprehensible way.

And.. the three greatest things that keep me alive...

- our out-of-system friends and family; both the knowledge that our closest friends wouldn't be aware if we died (they're online, I doubt anyone would think to reach out to inform them), and that it would hurt our loved ones far more than a lot of our system realise.

- The knowledge that there isn't just One Of Us. Rock bottom does often appear absolutely bleak, and we have struggled with suicidal ideation on and off since the age of seven, and consistently since twelve. However, in my eyes... it's not really suicide when you know you're a system. The way I see it (and I'm not speaking for everyone in our system, or systems in general), but if I were to kill the body, I'd be killing more than just my conciousness. I'd be taking out not only myself, but my children, the host, our trauma holders; my family, friends, colleagues, and strangers. As I see it, it's closer to mass murder from non-consenting parties than a suicide, even if it appears to be a suicide from the perspective of an outsider. The others have as many thoughts, feelings, beliefs, and reflections on the would as I do. If I wouldn't commit suicide knowing that I would kill several others in the real world, why would I do that to a single body but multiple people? Just my take.

And lastly,

The hope of becoming a psychologist. Every time my mind strays to ending it, I imagine myself sitting in a pale blue cosy room decorated with a small pride flag, mental health posters, cushions and bean bags, speaking with a client. Maybe that client is telling me why they chose to continue living. Perhaps, I'm speaking with them about their worries about their mood. Perhaps we're talking about the weather, or their disability, or how their family didn't accept them for who they are, or how cupcakes are simply muffins with hats.

It could be a conversation about how they're scared they're treating others poorly. Maybe, my client is a small six-year-old girl whose father brought her in because she was struggling with attention in her classes...

Perhaps, they're six, maybe they're sixteen, they could be sixty, or a hundred and six and telling me about their life as a final gift. Whoever they may be... I'm staying for those future lives. For those I can learn from, and potentially, teach.

... Amber being vulnerable on main? What's this, the apocalypse??

#posted by 🔥#thank you #actually did #actually dissociative #future psychologist #reasons to live #did joy #depression recovery #recovery

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ambling-rambling · 2 years

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Hey!! I'm not sure if your requests are still open, but I have a really interesting and slightly *spicy* Winter Solider one in mind.

So like imagine Y/N is also a "lab rat" of HYDRA, who constantly teases Bucky and makes me very uncomfortable with her jokes. She then escapes and he is sent to retrieve her, and as she tries to hide and keep a low profile he finds her walking through an alleyway at night...👀

He like jumps from nowhere in front of Y/N and she is like freaked down. He goes to grab her to take her back to HYDRA, she fights back bla bla bla, then he goes in and chokes her against the wall and she makes some extremely dirty comment about it or something

Idk i had this idea for a bit but i don't have any talent to write anything that even sounds remotely acceptable.. So here I am! I adore your work!

Oooohhh I love all things Winter Soldier to be honest. Spicy means smutty in my mind so I hope that's what you intended. Thank you so much for being my first request! I hope I did your vision justice and that you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it!

Pairing: Winter Soldier x reader

CW: the usual Winter salad bar of implied torture, brainwashing, violence, self loathing, an explicit shot of suicidal ideation. explicit smut, choking kink/breath play

Part Two here

The Runaways

God y/n was infuriating. You treated training like it was a game, always with your lewd little comments and the way your hands would linger in obscene places, distracting him before you kicked him, or grappled him and made a move to take him down, which was its own kind of distracting, pressed body to body like that.

None of the others impacted him that way. It was something about y/n's flippancy. Your utter disregard for the missions of HYDRA, for the enrichment and training HYDRA gifted you with, was obvious. You never missed a chance to take a swipe at whatever handler or doctor or trainer was within reach. You were a liability. He wasn't surprised when you disappeared.

It was a reminder to him to do as he was told, even when it hurt. It was a reminder that HYDRA would do away with him when he'd outlived his usefulness.

He must, above all, continue to be useful.

It was a survival instinct he couldn't shake, even when he sometimes wished he could, when he longed for death, when he poeticized it in his own mind, the way death might caress him like a lover and carry him away from all the violence and the confusion and the gaps in his memory that infuriated him as much as they terrified him. He thought it would be peaceful compared to this.

------------------------

Y/N had been missing for several weeks when they pulled him into a mission brief. Seeing Pierce himself listed as the target would have been less surprising than that image of you. He'd been sure they'd killed you.

But somehow, against all odds, you had escaped. The mission was simple. Neutralize the threat by any means necessary. They didn't care if you were brought back into the fold or if you were dead.

The only thing that mattered was that he left no witnesses.

It wasn't hard to be a ghost in a city this size. It was, however, slightly trickier to take down a target without witnesses. He couldn't afford to put down half the city just to bring one rogue agent to heel.

You were difficult to find, and some part of the soldier's mind approved; maybe you had been listening to some of the shit he'd tried to teach you. But students rarely outwitted their master, and he found you eventually. Trailing silently along from rooftop perches, the soldier evaluated, contemplated. There had been no information about where you were holed up. He couldn't guarantee there wouldn't be potential witnesses around. If you were smart, you would make sure there were, and so far, you'd been smart.

But then, you left him an opening, ducking into a dark alleyway, glancing furtively over your shoulder.

The soldier didn't wait, dropping from the roof to the ground with a slight clatter, but he was on you before you could fully turn to assess the threat, leveling that super strength and speed to his advantage.

You hit the dirt with an audible thud. "Thought I taught you better," she Soldier growled.

And you laughed at him.

"Maybe I've got you right where I want you big guy. You think about that?" you asked, scissoring his leg between yours and wrenching, forcing some of his weight off of you, enough to roll free.

He hadn't considered where you might want him, and he didn't bother to now. You were a viper, eager to confuse him, a threat to the goals of HYDRA. His mission.

You lunged to your feet, and the soldier cursed that he'd trained you so well. The two traded blow after blow, neither quite gaining the upper hand. In spite of that, you never reached for the knife he was sure was sheathed at your hip. Then again, neither did he.

The two were both sweating by the time you stumbled, and the soldier moved in, metal fingers closing around your throat. He didn't meet the resistance he expected, no screaming or begging. The sound that left you was...lewd. A moan. And when your hands met his chest again, it was to pull, not push, dragging at his shoulders, pulling him inexplicably closer.

"You like it, Soldat, don't you? Your hands around my throat?" The soldier faltered. He didn't like hurting people. He did it because he had to. But your hips arched into him, and were met with resistance. He was rock hard beneath the tactical pants. You smirked, and when your hand skated down, he didn't try to stop you. Metal fingers curled a little tighter against your throat, but then your hand was on him, palming him through the pants, and his breath caught.

You smirked. "C'mon, Soldat. Don't you wanna know what you're missing out on? What HYDRA is keeping from you?"

More lies, he thought. Except the way you were rubbing him had sensation coursing through his whole body, thoughts hazy, a need growing, more insistent than the thirst or hunger he'd so effectively learned to ignore.

He shuddered, and you yanked at the fly of his pants.

"What are you doing?" he growled, fingers tightening around your throat, making you wheeze slightly.

"Showing you what you're missing. You'll like it, I promise."

Your hand was in his pants now, cradling his cock. The soft skin of your palm as you rubbed had his hips jerking forward with a low grunt, against his own better judgement.

His fingers loosened around your throat as he rocked into your touch.

"Feels good, don't it?" you asked with a wicked smirk. He hesitated, and then nodded, because there was no denying the way his body was responding to your touch. "Trust me, it gets better. Touch me," you moaned, your hips arching in a mirror of the soldier's.

"What?" he asked. It was probably a trap, another tactic to distract him, but he found he just didn't care.

"Touch me," you said again. One handed, you yanked at the button and zipper on your own pants, shoving them down awkwardly, but then the soldier was there, helping you.

"What..." he started to ask, and you pressed a hand on top of his, guiding his hand between your legs and then a finger to your clit, making you whine. Your head tilted back, into the brick of the wall behind you, your throat stretching under his hand. Your hips rutted into his touch, and hesitantly, slowly, his warm fingers quested deeper, came away wet.

"What is that?" he whispered, rubbing the substance between his fingers.

"Arousal," you answered easily. "Means I like what you're doing."

He nodded, satisfied with that answer, and he leaned in to touch you again, his attention split between what you were doing with your hand, stroking his cock until his legs practically trembled, and what he was now doing with his hand.

His head leaned closer, pulling in your smell, now laced with what he catalogued as "arousal." He groaned as you squeezed a little tighter, hips jerking forward as he gasped. He rubbed at the soft spot, observing the way your breath caught, the way you rolled into the touch, and his lower lip caught between his teeth.

Experimentally, his finger glided deeper, along your crease, until he found an opening. He drew back, watched your face as he pressed a finger in. You writhed, and to his surprise, leaned into the pressure of his hand at your throat, capturing his lips, hot and wet and something about it had his cock throbbing in your hand, making him grunt.

"You like that soldier?" you asked, wickedly, trailing lips along his jaw. He drew his finger out and then pressed back in, more quickly now, as his own need and wanting grew.

"Put your dick there," you mumbled, hips rocking forward to meet him.

He rocked his hips forward, and your nimble fingers guided him to your entrance, coated with desire. He slid in and his eyes widened at the sensation. You both moaned, your hand sliding across his body, pulling and clawing at his hip, until he was seated completely to the hilt.

You both stood for a moment, gasping and shuddering at the sensation. He groaned, and then drew back without prompting, sliding back in again. The next stroke was a thrust, making you both moan, his hand tightening on your throat. Something about the constructed airflow was almost enough to send you spiraling into orgasm right there.

His rhythm faltered a little as he drew closer to completion.

"Don't stop," you urged, wheezing against his grip on your throat, which he immediately loosened. The metal hand went to your hip instead, dragging you into each thrust, cock hitting even deeper. Your eyes rolled as your entire body clenched around him, and the soldier grunted, gasping as he came, cock throbbing into your fluttering walls.

When it was done, he slumped forward, pinning you even more thoroughly against the wall as your legs trembled. Your hands trailed to his face, framing his jaw so you could kiss him, soft and sweet, and then harder, before drawing back to search his face.

"Come with me," you whispered hoarsely. "It doesn't have to be this way. Run away with me," there was almost a note of pleading.

Standing there, with his softening cock still buried in your body, heaving for breath with more pleasure firing through his nerves than he could ever recall, the soldier felt himself falter in his mission for the first time, at least that he could recall.

He'd never been more tempted.

#winter soldier x reader #bucky barnes #winter soldier x y/n #winter soldier fanfiction #winter soldier #winter soldier smut #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes smut #bucky barnes x y/n #request #anon <3 #anon request #anons welcome

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omgkalyppso · 10 months

Note

20 - Do you need me to carry you?

Okay this is funny because I sent this same prompt to someone else but for entirely different vibes than I'm about to write for you.

Additionally, I may use or entirely rewrite this moment for a longer fic at a later time. But I instantly knew which moment I wanted to write for this.

Cazador's dead bitch. cw for Cazador and Astarion history (very light). gore. blood tw. character death (Cazador and Lady Incognita). suicidal ideation. ends abruptly

The dissonant silence of the ritual site could hardly be called peaceful. The absence of the other spawn — now vampires, the quiet of the foiled archdevil, the departure of an unkindly and unlikely god, the dead of House Szarr, all left a unmistakable void — a hollow curse in the air that silently screamed for more, more, more. The air vibrated with magic unfinished, potential unrealized, satisfaction unsated.

There was nothing to be done for those Astarion had failed to save, for those he had failed to kill, for the years, and dignity, and power lost to him. Nothing to be done for the blessing of a god who had respected him only for what he had become in a fit of vengeance, who would have continued to feel no kinship with him had he remained a spawn.

The deep, pressing pain that ate away at his insides, aching with a vampire's hunger, was a reminder of his precarious balance on a scale of worthiness to every cosmic and societal scale that would measure him.

"Astarion?" prompted Lae'zel.

The sound frightened him into standing straight and dropping Cazador's staff, Woe, so that it crashed and clattered on the stone.

Her alien voice, her impossible presence here in Cazador's dungeon had him stammering, remembering his company and his purpose.

"Apologies, I just—"

Upon taking a step, Astarion, so accustomed to blood, and now awash with it, found that his boots splashed upon the floor, so sodden and saturated was the dais. His eyes widened in surprise.

"He will not come on his own," Lae'zel grumbled in concern.

"We have no need to rush him," Étoile said to soothe her, but all Astarion registered was that she was suddenly beside him, picking up Woe, and then striding away across the dais, collecting his ruined armor from where he'd — from where Cazador had—

"Astarion," Wyll beckoned. "I reckon civilization sounds pretty good about now? A bath and a bottle? Something to soothe the body and the mind?"

"Don't patronize me," he hissed, knowing the empty weight of the silent dead at his feet was the only reason Wyll would hear him, but he was more irritable as Lae'zel, approaching from his side, extended a hand, whether to drag him or comfort him — both were tantamount to the same invasion of his autonomy. He stumbled away from her before she came close, near shouting, "Don't touch me!"

Turning his face away to his feet, Astarion was faced with the broken body of Lady Incognita, the littlest Szarr and Cazador's greatest regret — aside from himself. He didn't turn his gaze back on the others as he stepped over her, towards them, whining as he went.

"Let's just ... go." He wrapped his arms around himself as he felt Wyll and Étoile's presence to either side of him as he passed between them. He took a few more steps before stopping to call over his shoulder, "This place reeks of death and I want to feel alive again."

Étoile nodded Lae'zel ahead, and she lightly jogged to get in front of Astarion, taking point on any remaining threats or servants they may yet come across, seeking the result of the ritual.

Astarion was grateful that at least Wyll and Étoile allowed him some space as he slowly made his way to the stairs, yet when his whole body wobbled when he lifted his foot to take the first one, it seemed Étoile couldn't be dissuaded from quickening their pace until they were immediately at his back, and Astarion sighed.

How strange to be separated from his siblings so soon, but not in death, to be among allies and betrayers. Cazador's voice rang in his head, disappointments he'd expressed from minutes past and from years ago, punishments, and promises, and praise for the most vile acts.

The companions around him had led him astray.

He was here of his own conviction.

He was a walking contradiction. He was weak.

Soon, after a rest, he would be a vampire, and possess all the powers that were denied to him, and be the strongest he had ever been.

The slick blood on Astarion's boots and the flat, featureless staircase in this subterranean hell did not agree with one another, and he slipped, and the part of him that remembered wanting to bargain with Cazador when he was in a charitable mood whispered in the darkest corner of his mind that he was right to fall, that he should have jumped, that such an end would be as one final command from his master. His siblings would know, somehow. They'd undoubtedly think it fitting, for how he'd flirted with ending their lives.

It was barely a fraction of a second, but still it was disorienting to be righted. Étoile had their closer arm around him, barely touching his shoulder, but their far hand had caught and squeezed tight on Astarion's wrist, forcing him to standing.

"Are you alright?" Étoile asked, firm, grip unyielding.

"Let. Go," Astarion said with more venom than he intended. He felt outside of himself as Étoile sighed and released his wrist. He attempted to wrangle himself. "I'm capable of a few more stairs, darling. I—" He huffed, the set of his eyebrows failing, a guilty sensation of a different nature constricting his throat. "Thank you."

Wyll whistled to stop Lae'zel from getting too far ahead, causing Astarion to squint in heavy irritation. Perhaps it wasn't that the air around the ritual site was stifling, maybe that was just his existence, now and forever.

"Astarion," Étoile coaxed, assertive and sincere, shocking his eyes back open. They looked pained, sad, but after ... other conversations, Astarion didn't imagine it could be pity putting that slant in their mouth, that hesitation in their body language. "I could carry you to the top of the stairs, if you wanted."

"No," Astarion blurted instantly, moving half a foot back before settling back in place, eyes tracking the movement of Étoile's hand when they reached out to his elbow once more, as if he were falling away again. They had carried him before, once or twice, but not like this, where the world felt surreal and his boots squelched with his master's blood.

"No," he said again. "I-I-I," his eyes sought the distant walls, the faraway cages, the yawning chasm, "I just need a moment."

"Here?" asked Étoile, not judgmental, but concerned.

Stilling his movements, catching their eye, Astarion nodded his assent.

This stair was wide enough to turn about on, and slowly Astarion turned again to look at the ritual far below. It was a nightmare. Not his, but someone's. It was everything he could have hoped for.

Steadily, Astarion lowered himself to the stair, sitting on this precarious piece of rock in a setting he was never meant to survive. If not for the mindflayer worm, if not for those who chose to be here ... he wouldn't have.

"Not an hour ago Cazador was standing there," Astarion observed. "He was ..." he scoffed. "Well, he was killing his whole family. But he was also pleading for a way out. He was looking to me for ... supplication. For clan. For understanding. And now? He's gone."

Wyll opened his mouth to respond, and Astarion heard the gasp of his breath that preceded a word, but Étoile, to his side, raised a finger to their lips, silencing him. The Blade of Frontiers nodded quickly, and Astarion wondered what he would say — what he could say in regards to the passing of the Gate's most terrible of vampires. It should have mattered to him, but Astarion could only feel the terror of the past few hours, the past ... forever, in his blood.

"I can't overstate what a permanent presence he was in — not 'my life,' the way you would mean it, as an occupant or an obsession. But in my very existence, at the core of myself," Astarion gestured with his hands, tapped upon his chest, and wondered about bearing himself so thoroughly. But with so much blood, tacky and fresh, decorating his skin, he felt raw and as if they'd seen the worst of him already. "How and why I lived? Every emotion tied up in every decision that flittered across my mind was for Cazador. How to escape, how to feed, how to feel, what to dream." 'To avoid his ire, to escape his attention, to appease his hunger,' Astarion told himself. "After all these years — these centuries — it's really over."

He could make out Cazador's gore among the rest in the massacre they were leaving behind, shredded as he was. His was the corpse in the most wretched state.

This would likely be the last time he saw any of Cazador, unless one counted having to wash the blood from himself once they were out of here.

Astarion squirmed. He recalled being unable to wriggle in discomfort as Cazador's hands traced his face, as his lips found the crook of his jaw, so close to where his punctured scars immortalized their connection.

'Fourth, thou shalt know that thou art mine.'

Astarion felt a horrible laugh bubble out of him, tears risking him again, but only just. Freedom. He never thought it would taste like this, half aching, half terrified, maybe more ... He reached into himself for the joy, to those unanswered prayers from a time when gods mattered, to the smallest, most hopeless parts of his undead heart, to make sure they knew, he was safe.

"What I've lost," Astarion observed, not looking to Étoile, but nodding towards them, "what I've gained — it's all so much."

#long post #astarion #oc tag: étoile #baldur's gate 3 #baldur's gate 3 spoilers #my writing #i made this #the fanfiction i mean #barely edited #ask to tag

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coffeeandcalligraphy · 1 year

Text

24-Karat Harrison | BODY BACK Update #3

THE WRITING UPDATE WE'VE ALL BEEN WAITING FOR (I’M WE)!

Let's chat chapter 3 of my literary fiction novella, BODY BACK! Harrison stares at himself in so many bathroom mirrors, gets down to Don't Cha (Pussycat Dolls), tries to forget the man he once was, reclaims himself through excess, & more! Post under the cut!

Logline: After an argument with his mother draws him much too close to the past, Harrison turns to Jeremiah to help him develop a gilded persona.

Update 1 | Update 2

BODY BACK taglist (please ask to be added or removed :))

@thelivingdeceased @writinglittlebeastss @cuntylittlesalmon @obssesedwithscandaledits @jaydewritesfiction @keira-is-writing @onomatopiya @dustyplotbunnies @euphoniouspandemonium @rowansghost @strangerays @rodentwrites @wildswrites @saltwaterbells

Random thoughts turn into...

A couple weeks ago, I was oversharing in my tags and in the process of doing so, came up with the phrase "24-karat harrison."

#I don't drink but I can positively say drunk rachel would 100% be just harrison like 24 karat harrison #actually going to get him to describe himself as 24 karat harrison in the next bb chapter fantastic this was a productive random thought

AND SO 24K HARRISON WAS BORN!

What does it mean to split yourself into two facets, one polished, one unpolished? What could you do if YOU were "24-karat" for a day? This phrase instantly shaped the entire direction of this chapter.

Also, as a poet, I cannot overlook how wonderfully "24-karat" and "Harrison" match each other. VISUAL congruency?? Syllabic harmony??? THE ASSONANCE?? He was built for this.

The plot

CW: this is the most *mature content* chapter I've written in BB so there are mentions of sex, drugs, and suicidal ideation.

"24-Karat Harrison" jumps right off the last chapter of BB where Harrison's stormed away from his mother after she drives him to Lonan's apartment (lol). He arrives at Jeremiah's place tired of who he is and in desperate need of a major change.

The chapter is split into two simple halves: scenes in Jeremiah's apartment, and scenes in a Las Vegas nightclub. How Harrison manages to get into so many shenanigans in these two locations alone astounds me! :)

Scene A:

Harrison turns up on Jeremiah's doorstep soaking wet from the rain. He's looking for a distraction :) & Jeremiah provides :)

Scene B:

A Haremiah pillow talk moment that ends abruptly when Harrison asks Jeremiah if he has Tylenol???? (romantic king /s)

In scene A, Harrison noticed Jeremiah hosted a party. Here, he asks him why he wasn't invited, and Jeremiah suggests it's because he seems too quiet to party

Scene C:

In an attempt to manufacture a more confident personality, Jeremiah helps style Harrison, complete with a fur coat and cowboy hat (horrifying).

Scene D:

Harrison retreats to the bathroom while he and Jeremiah wait for their ride to the club. He's not confident despite the new outfit and goes feral on Jeremiah's hair products, makeup, cologne etc. He finally sees 24-Karat Harrison in the mirror and is pleased.

Scene E:

At the club, Harrison and Jeremiah run into Biyu, Jeremiah's friend from Chapter 6 of Moth Work. His confidence is shot when she suggests he's quiet despite his new persona.

Scene F:

Harrison dances with Jeremiah, but is unable to shake Biyu's comments. He presses Jeremiah for validation, but Jeremiah wants to have a good night, not therapize the man he's seeing.

As Harrison continues to pester, Jeremiah reunites with his friends and is drawn into a (potential) group make out session. Harrison gets overstimulated.

Harrison flees to the club bathroom for reprieve when he again catches his reflection and doesn't recognize himself. His lack of recognition angers him--he's tired of seeing everyone in his face but himself.

A man--Perry--who is one of Jeremiah's friends, interrupts Harrison at the mirror to flirt. Harrison is agitated but drawn to him nonetheless.

Writing process & themes

I talked about how I structure chapters for BODY BACK in THIS post, but essentially, I orbit each scene around a particular theme.

I didn't really know what the theme of this chapter was until yesterday. I'd noticed I kept "repeating beats" throughout this chapter--particularly, Harrison analyzing himself in bathroom mirrors, which happens THREE times. At first, I thought I'd done something wrong because Harrison seemed to keep "backtracking" in narrative which made his psychology seem inconsistent.

By the time I got to the final reflection analyzation though, I realized THAT was the theme--bobbing between extremes when you're in the middle of an identity crisis.

What Harrison doesn't admit to himself in this chapter is that he's lost himself since he broke up with Lonan. The only Harrison he knows is the Harrison who chased Lonan across the country, put his needs above his own, etc. Now that Lonan's gone, Harrison doesn't know himself at all. This is why he reaches toward 24k Harrison, a caricature of himself painted in broad, unsubtle strokes--at the very least, he won't forget himself if he looks ridiculous.

But it doesn't work! This is because versions of who he "was" keep popping up. He can't help but feel like the vulnerable person he was when he was with Lonan.

Therefore, we really explore extremes in 24kH. Extreme pleasure VS extreme hollowness (Jeremiah kissing him in the doorway and then immediately walking away in scene A). In scene C he’s hot but he’s not. He wants to sleep with himself but he’s not desirable at all. He's alright with begging but wants to be begged. He wants to live a very specific life where he buys cowboy hats for livestock and eats ice cream with his hands but he also wants to die. He’s Jesus but he’s discarded bits of gold (THANK YOU for pointing that out @jaydewritesfiction!). He’s twinkling but he’s the dullest person in the room.

It took me a while to actually see I'd been doing that--purposefully creating contradictions in narrative--the ENTIRE chapter. Smh Rachel, good job with all those literary devices you didn't realize you were using.

This chapter took me a lot longer to write than I wanted it to (about a month), but it's also because it's SO long (7k, which is currently half the manuscript). I'm so happy with how it turned out though because its creation represents EVERYTHING I love about it: impulsivity, chasing highs, uncovering darker folds of you the longer you sit inside manufactured gold.

Music

Music was SOOO important in the conception and understanding of 24kH for me, more than usual! In fact, I've made a very specific playlist that is a track-by-track breakdown of the chapter (in order).

Here's a quick breakdown of each song & where they go in the chapter!

1. Nobody by Greyson Chance (studio version) - Backbone of the ENTIRE chapter!!!! Chapter starts with this song.

2. Hands by Greyson Chance - Haremiah make out ANTHEM <3. Also in scene A.

3. Hellboy by Greyson Chance - End of scene A where Haremiah gets... intense lol love <3

4. Fade Into You by Mazzy Star - This is on the radio while Haremiah gets DOWN. Start of scene B.

5. Aloe Vera by Greyson Chance - Haremiah sharing a joint & pillow talk song. Middle of scene B.

6. I Got So High That I Saw Jesus by Noah Cyrus - Haremiah sharing a joint & pillow talk song but it's getting sadder & more internal. End of scene B.

7. Nobody by Greyson Chance (live version) - CRITICAL song for this chapter so it appears twice!!! Live version is Harrison at the start of scene C.

8. Black Mascara by Greyson Chance - Harrison analyzing himself in the mirror ANTHEM (this song is also the backbone of this chapter). Harrison goes feral in the bathroom because he thinks he's better off when he does what he fucking wants etc.

9. I'm Too Sexy by Right Said Fred - Actually this is supposed to be the Shrek version :) so :) anyway self-explanatory. Rest of C.

10. Welcome to the DCC by Nothing But Thieves - Walking into the club anthem (scene E).

11. SexyBack by Justin Timberlake - Dancing and feeling real good about it (beginning of scene F).

12. Don't Cha by The Pussycat Dolls - SELF-EXPLANATORY don't you wish your girlfriend was hot like 24-karat Harrison (middle of scene F).

13. Sex & Other Drugs by Greyson Chance - Fleeing to the bathroom anthem (for sex & other drugs??? maybe; rest of scene F).

I also wanted to talk about the significance of the track Nobody because... it's this WHOLE chapter! I wrote this tag essay about it a couple weeks ago when I shared an excerpt where Harrison sees himself as a trophy while in the 24kH getup (excerpted later in the post):

#also there are many greyson chance easter eggs here #the trophy bit i've already mentioned is a reference to the live version of “nobody” #where he goes 'i'm not the trophy you think i am' #which is actually not in the studio version #ANYWAY the LIVE VERSION is a sad piano ballad of THAT #so anyway I love that the trophy line #was cut from the studio version but is in the sad piano version lol #don't know how to more articulately describe harrison's psychology in BB except for... that

The idea of "I'm not the trophy you think I am" really is the thematic crux of this chapter. Harrison KNOWS he's not good enough for Jeremiah. He also knows he wasn't good enough for Lonan. Everyone's looking at him like he's a saint somehow--to Lonan he was, only mattering when he was long martyred. Jeremiah sees too much good in Harrison, good that Harrison doesn't see in himself. At moments, Harrison IS confident. He IS the trophy. But then there are those sobering moments when reality hits him and he knows he just isn't (SAD). It's why he creates 24kH because HE could be good enough (and the truth is, he still isn't).

Excerpts

Jeremiah greets Harrison at the door lol:

Jeremiah might be the only man alive who’d open the door for someone as soggy as Harrison.

He’s shirtless and damp from the shower, a green toothbrush lodged against his gums. His heathered sweats drape low on his waist, bronze skin varnished with moisturizer. And Harrison likes this—a man mid nighttime routine—but what he likes more is how unstartled Jeremiah is when he grabs him by the hips and kisses him so hard, bristles jolt against his tongue. What’s he looking for in another man’s mouth—heavens, gods, a prayer? Fuck if he knows. What matters are Jeremiah’s chiclet teeth, Jeremiah’s healthy gums, the way in one gulp, they all become Harrison’s. And this is what normal is, yeah—Jeremiah a minty man ensconced by a bare tungsten bulb, Harrison his midnight lover, both of them in need of the other simply because they are here, alive, men.

Jeremiah gives Harrison whiplash lmao show him king!!!:

But in one dizzy breath, they’re separated, and the thought is gone as quickly as Jeremiah who slinks through his apartment like an unbothered shorthair, telling Harrison to lock the front door, to follow him to the bathroom.

Harrison’s ears buzz. He stares at the living room, wipes his mouth of foam, his lips tingling with menthol. Jeremiah hosted a party earlier. A game of parcheesi scattered on the coffee table, the kitchen sink teetering with mismatched cups, saucers. Cigarette butts pock a strawberry-shaped ashtray like seeds. Harrison salivates, tempted for a moment to filch around for one salvageable enough to relight. It’s only when Jeremiah calls his name that he shakes out of his stupor. But still, by the time he reaches the beaded bathroom door, he has to distract his mouth by digging his lips into the scalloped moulding.

Jeremiah crooks a brow at him in the mirror, then turns to the sink, spits. He’s gargling with mouthwash when he asks a question.

“What?” Harrison asks. His head hurts. Jeremiah would have a bottle of acetaminophen in his medicine cabinet, wouldn’t he?

Jeremiah holds up a hand as he swishes, rubbing at spats of toothpaste on the mirror with his wrist. He spits again. “You go swimming or something?”

Jeremiah is an ANGEL in the bathroom:

Jeremiah leans against the counter, haloed by one of three lightbulbs that isn’t blown out over the vanity. Harrison offered to replace them a week ago and still hasn’t done it, perhaps because the low light is more inviting, the way it cups Jeremiah like mist. Though maybe any lighting would be inviting to Harrison when he’s like this—in such high need of ravaging something.

Jeremiah wets his lips, glancing away with a mute smile before he looks right back. “Or is the rain really bad?” Harrison takes a step forward, and then another, another. Suzanna could be looking for him, calling everyone she knows in this city to help bring her son home. She won’t sleep tonight, and Harrison won’t either but for different reasons. In front of him, Jeremiah is as sunny as he is unaware, his curls plump around his ears, a man Harrison would like to undo with one look—to make beg, like gods make their believers do.

Lonan Clark behaviour:

“You’re like a wet dog,” says Jeremiah. A breath wheezes in his chest.

Harrison looks up at him. From this angle, bowed against another man’s body, he could look like a believer in supplication. Please go gently. Please spare my life. “Thank you.”

CUTE Haremiah interrupted by Harrison's terrible timing:

Now Jeremiah nuzzles into his ribs. He smells like soap and orange rinds, his tattooed skin downy under Harrison’s callused fingertips. He traces an empty fishbowl on Jeremiah’s arm with his pinkie, a half-finished anatomical heart with his thumb, a wobbly dandelion with his ring finger, the cherub guarding his elbow with his index. I love you, he could say. They’ve known each other for two weeks, hung out less than ten times, spent most of their time examining each other’s hands. But this could be love, right? Jeremiah’s made him breakfast every night he’s stayed over—peach French toast, hot muesli, black coffee. Every time they watch film noir on Jeremiah’s two-seater, they simply find each other’s hair and twirl, sometimes meet each other’s mouths and hover there, these clement weekend lovers.

“You got any painkillers?” Harrison asks.

Jeremiah jerks against his skin, his nose knocking into Harrison’s shoulder blade. He hikes onto his elbow, brows furrowed like he’s about to say something when his eyes narrow on Harrison’s finger.

“You’re wearing my ring,” he says, leaning toward Harrison’s hand for a better look.

“Am I?”

If I were Harrison I would simply just forget about Lonan because JEREMIAH???

Jeremiah should paint his room sage. The cherrywood picture frames warrant it. In the corner, a gold mirror flares like Jesus’ spoked halo. Two crinkled issues of the New York Times on the vanity, an ivory sheepskin throw collapsed in the corner. Jeremiah exists here mid-motion—the condom wrappers on the hardwood leading to the mattress like Hansel’s pebbles, sunglasses spoked in a magazine rack, a used cotton ball stained with black nail polish on the windowsill. Harrison absorbs it all on his back like rapidly flattening dough. He could be part of this room, too. Last Monday, Jeremiah suggested he move in. “You can sleep in the bathtub,” he joked, but kissed the back of Harrison’s neck. He’d smelled bright like the leather polish he’d buffed onto his bomber jacket. “Or elsewhere.”

Jeremiah as a trophy & LMFAO tYLeNoL???

Now, Harrison weakly reaches for Jeremiah’s hair, winds a curl around his finger. Jeremiah is soft like brioche and as dazzling as a mirror ball. And what’s the difference between worshipping him and Jesus if they are both men? At least Jeremiah is here, a trophy in front of him.

“Tylenol?” he whispers.

Cont'd:

Jeremiah places a hand on Harrison’s face. In his eyes, Harrison is insufficient, an edge of a man. Perhaps it’s the headache or Jeremiah’s gentle concern, but after a moment, the feeling is so unbearable that he pulls away and buries his face in the pillow. The mattress springs when Jeremiah rises, and for a moment, Harrison feels suspended in air like a crucified Jesus above the altar. He doesn’t have a face, a body, a heart. He is just dust.

Harrison wants to be a spider so he can finally be a homeowner?? ok same:

He slumps back onto the bed, analyzing the popcorn ceiling when Jeremiah climbs in next to him. He slings an arm around Harrison’s bare shoulders, and they pass the joint back and forth, its scent rich like oregano. The smoke is delicate as a dissipating spider’s web, pale and gauzy like a curtain in morning light. As Harrison smokes, he imagines what it might be like to be an arachnid—the many homes he could make.

Harrison really knows how to ruin a moment pt. 5 bajillion:

There’s a damp spot on the ceiling that’s only visible when car headlights skirt past the building. Harrison’s meant to ask about it, but what would be the point now? It’s not like he could fix it—and if Jeremiah doesn’t look at the right time, he’ll never notice. “You didn’t invite me,” Harrison says.

Jeremiah jumps. From here, he’s a mere lump under the covers, the only physical evidence of him his warm breaths on Harrison’s stomach. “What?” he asks.

Harrison twists the joint, puffs. His tongue feels bloated like his jacket. “To your party.”

A pause. When Jeremiah next speaks, his voice is muffled by the sheets. “I didn’t think that was your scene.” He rests his cheek on Harrison’s sternum, and he’s heavy like the jacket too. “You know. Crowds.”

“What made you think that?”

Jeremiah burrows out from the duvet. Harrison knows he’s trying to look at him, but he’s caught up in the ceiling again, the way that patch ebbs like a candle’s flame. “You’re…”

“What?”

“I don’t know,” Jeremiah says, crossing his legs. “Meek.”

Harrison wants to laugh—meek like a lamb, a poplar, a monotonous prairie, a man’s whispered okay, a frail river, a piano’s high C played over and over and over and over and over again—but what comes out instead is a whimper. Jeremiah cups his face again, says something about good things, compliments, the power in mildness. He smells like baby powder now, plumeria—and why is that? He’s a man forever in change even in the simplest of ways, thriving in his evolution. Harrison’s favourite colour has been the same since he was four.

He holds Jeremiah’s jaw to shut him up. His eyes are flecked with topaz today, sienna tomorrow. If Harrison could touch God tonight. If Harrison could believe in something for just a minute.

“Make me feral,” he whispers.

COWBOY HAT??

Jeremiah starts with a new jacket. He’s made it clear that Harrison can’t go clubbing soaking wet, so they rifle through his closet and land on a fur coat that was last dry-cleaned months ago. It’s knee-length, the sleeves wide catacombs, the taupe fur brindled like Eliza’s tortoise-shell ring. Lonan’s ring, technically. In front of his standing mirror, Jeremiah unearths it from the garment bag like it’s a body, holds the hanger in front of Harrison so the fabric drapes off his chest.

“You like it?” asks Jeremiah, cheek pressed to Harrison’s shoulder blade. He’s laid out a tasseled button-up for himself that glitters like hematite in the light, and he’ll dazzle in it, of course—Jeremiah is built for this, the sharpened eyeliners on the bathroom counter, the dented cans of hair mousse, the nail file on the dresser, the ridged perfume atomizer he’ll mist himself with a moment before they leave the apartment. He is sleek beauty, a marbleized man ready to be polished, adored.

And what is Harrison, then? With the fur coat cinched against his body, he could be polished, too, couldn’t he? Sure, he isn’t a gilded icon, but maybe he sees Jesus in his face right now because he has the potential to be, or because at their cores, they’re both sad men. His hair doesn’t have to look like Suzanna’s, but instead like the young bark of cinnamon. And his eyes—they’re not his father’s but his own, an unmarred pool of teal. Maybe he’s a little rough where he should be suave, but that’s hot nowadays, isn’t it? Besides, if Jeremiah sees something angelic in that mirror, then yeah, Harrison could see it too. Forget his cryptic mouth, his hair that’s too long as Suzanna pointed out, his eyes and the way they’re wounded, not like a deer’s in headlights but like a deer’s in death. Forget the scar across his forehead, the way another man’s hands used to touch it not like it was lightning but a pathway to some better place. Sure, Harrison’s no Christ, no Jacob, no God—but why should he be? He’s here under the tungsten bite of Jeremiah’s chandelier, a man in shameless excess, eyes more spangled than this country’s flag. And he could stay here, couldn’t he? He could enjoy staring at himself, not like he’s bronze but like he’s pure gold.

Cont'd (this is so sad LOL):

He straightens, adjusts the fur on his shoulder. In truth, he looks too much like his mother, stands too much like his father, stares too much like Lonan. His hands aren’t soft. He’s got split ends. At best he smells like cigarette smoke, car exhaust, chlorine. But what does Jeremiah see? Maybe someone loveable yeah, maybe someone to cry over. For a moment, Harrison worries the answer is nothing at all.

And then a nose nudges against the back of his neck, Jeremiah muttering about Madonna’s new album, buying new razors, growing his own marijuana. In minutes, they’ll be dancing until the room spirals or until they’re extensions of the other, whichever comes first. And Harrison will love it all because he loves everything about his life—this new jacket, this new man, this face that isn’t a reminder of who used to look at it, this muggy room, this mirror like a portal he could almost step through, this breakthrough because he’s gold. He’s gold.

Harrison steps away from the mirror, presses a hand against his eyeball. He’s going to need another Tylenol. An Ibuprofen for the hell of it. What if Jacob never dreamt of God, made the whole story up? What if Jacob just wanted to run away with his livestock? Harrison could use livestock.

He turns to Jeremiah. “You got a cowboy hat?” he asks.

Harrison making out with himself because that's a normal thing to do:

Funnily, Jeremiah does have a cowboy hat. It’s aptly doused in cow-print, smells like plastic and mulch. In the bathroom, Harrison adjusts its stampede strings around his chin.

He leans against the counter, pressing his thumbs to his cheeks. He pulls at his eye sockets, his skin giving like a tablecloth twisted under the heave of roasted turkey. His eyes are rimmed in scarlet—how many times has he seen Suzanna with these eyes, and do her eyes look like this now? She’s probably looking for him, calling his name out in the night like it’s a prayer she knows won’t be answered. Would he take himself to bed like this? In thirty more minutes when he guzzles a vodka soda, his answer will be absolutely.

Harrison, he mouths to himself in the mirror. The bathroom is filmy or maybe it’s him—he’s in chrysalis, bloated in his own becoming or suffocation or whatever the fuck. The thing is, he doesn’t need a god and might be a king, but he’s also a man with a pounding headache. He tries again, his mouth shifty like cornmeal, like ash: Harrison. What do kings do when they get migraines? Buy a donut? Eat a saint? His eye sockets are vacant, his cuticles spinning into one another, hair sentient from the pool. Harrison. The walls smell like Jeremiah’s hair gel, Jeremiah’s fingerprints, Jeremiah’s latest cologne. In a minute, the paint could start peeling and Harrison could pick up the chips, tack them to his jaw like they’re gold stars or little HELLO my name is stickers. HELLO my name is, HELLO my name is, HELLO my name is. Harrison. Harrison. Harrison. He kneads his cheeks like he’s sourdough, pinches his eyebrows, goes: Harrison, sticks his fist in his mouth tries again—Harrison. Jeremiah knocks on the door, says something about leaving soon, a friend waiting on them.

Harrison sinks onto his elbows, hovering closer to his reflection. If he were another man, he’d kiss himself, right? Without a thought, he does, mouth glugging against the mirror. He doesn’t need any touch but his own—not Jeremiah’s, not Lonan’s. He’s a man in love with himself, right? He’s a good dancer, never burns pancakes, isn’t afraid of spiders. What’s not to like? When he pulls back, panting, his eyes are watery and he needs a drink now, a god to abandon, a lake to drown in, a coastline to paint, a mother to cry into, a Bible to burn, a guitar string to snap, a dragon tree to kill, a father to remember, a prayer to scream, a place to close his eyes and sleep forever.

He grabs Jeremiah’s eyelash curler off the counter, crimps his lashes so hard he pinches his skin. He doesn’t care. He’s yanking open cupboards and pulling out an eyeshadow palette, smearing silver pigment onto his eyelids, under them. He’s raking a wand of black mascara through his lashes like he’s the grass buried under leaves—like this is the only way to reveal himself. And maybe this is the way, spritzing himself in Jeremiah’s vetiver or orange rinds or baby powder. Harrison. He wants to punch his nose until he bleeds. He wants to kiss himself again.

0 to 100 all the way back to 0 babe:

Harrison meets his eyes in the mirror. Is he an animal? He must be something feral, starved of something and ravaged by that hunger. He could touch himself right here. Or not. He’s barely a man, staring at his face not like it’s his, but like it’s someone else’s. And how tired he is of that. Being a shadow.

He is the MOMENT:

Before he exits the bathroom, he studies his sterling reflection. He’s not who he once was. No Christ, no Jacob, no Jeremiah. And he shouldn’t be. Because he’s twenty-four karat, twinkling, not just otherworldly, unforgiving, untouchable, not just a god or a man—but a trophy at last.

Biyu puts Harrison in his place lmaoo:

By the time they cab to the club, Harrison’s so high he can nearly taste the neon lights. As they slot through the front door with other partygoers like flocking geese, he blinks at the rush of it all—the women comparing press-on nails by the coat-check, the men wearing vinyl and leather and glitter, drenched in cologne and sweat.

“You’re late,” comes a voice which should be familiar to Harrison, but under the thump of bodies, sounds as generic as a bag of baby carrots.

“Fashionably late,” says Jeremiah, his arm slung around Harrison’s furred shoulders. He pulls him close, toward the person, the woman, smells like sea salt, iron, a new set of rings flaring in the blue spotlights. “You remember Harrison?”

As if on cue, Harrison lifts his eyes to Biyu’s, Jeremiah’s friend from the restaurant. Tonight, she wears a gold cowlneck dress, her lipstick the colour of rust. And something’s different about her hair—the sides of her bob shaved, which is more of a relief than he’d like to admit. She’d looked alarmingly like Reeve when they’d met, moved like her, sounded like her. Maybe he’s too high to see it now, but what does it matter—a win is a win.

Harrison tips his hat, already searching for the bar.

“The quiet one,” Biyu says.

His eyes snap back to her. Her pupils are large disks, and if he squints, almost look like they’re pulsating. “What?”

“You were quiet,” she repeats.

Don't Cha!! ft. this:

Harrison dances because he knows exactly how to. To thready vocals, he lulls his arms through the air, drags his palm down Jeremiah’s chest when an electro version of Like a Virgin comes on. On the lighted dance floor he’s nothing but rattling limbs, inelegant turns, raunchy dips. Shifting atop his head: the cowboy hat. In his hand: a vodka soda topped with a maraschino cherry. Through half of Don’t Cha, he holds the red cocktail sword between his teeth like it’s a rose, nudges it against Jeremiah’s lip as they kiss, break apart, kiss again.

“Do you think I’m quiet?” he asks between a spin, his head unspooling like a cylinder of thread. The clang of drums spikes up his throat—soon, he’ll need a refill on the drink. More weed. A crucifix to snap.

Jeremiah twirls under Harrison’s arm, a magnetic man in his tourmaline glister. He could follow any man in this club home tonight with his silver nails, his exposed collarbone. “Kiss me again,” he says, sweating, his fingers hard around Harrison’s shoulders—half from his grip, half from his rings.

Jeremiah is really too patient:

This is what he needs, a consideration of fruit and the man in front of him, all svelte limbs, acidic mouth, sharp eyeliner. As he ducks to In Da Club and shimmies to Waiting for Tonight, he digs a palm into Jeremiah’s cheek—he’s solid like limestone, burnished as bronze, his eyes amber portals like a patch of quicksand.

“Did you tell Biyu about me?” Harrison asks. His head pounds, the music too loud, swelling in his ears like an inflating airbag. He should go back to the bar now. They’ve got whiskey sours, gibsons, margaritas. If he flutters his eyelashes long enough at the bartender, maybe he’ll get a little more than a free drink—that’s fine too. Kelly Clarkson sings about praying, breaking, and he could do both in the hands of someone who smells like blood oranges, tastes like Bible paper, stares like Jesus the moment before he performs a miracle, couldn’t he?

“Focus on me,” Jeremiah says, guiding Harrison closer by the hips, so confident as his wooden Mary bracelet jolts with the movement because he’s here in this blinking room, dancing because he’s twenty-one just like Harrison, because he’s electric, alive, because he’s blinding like noonday sun, steady as a fountain cycling the same water over and over, because he’s unashamed in this brisk light, shocking like the zip of battery acid on a tongue. He doesn’t need to try, melds into the bleating crowd like he’s part of it, and he is. He smells like pomegranates, tastes like cherries the next time Harrison kisses him—Chapstick? Cocktail?—and tomorrow, he’ll rise early for a shift at Greta, slip on his navy uniform polo, his makeup untouched despite everything Harrison will do to him tonight because he’s faultless, not quiet, hair precariously puffed, nails buffed to a glassy sheen. He and Biyu might catch breakfast at dawn, bond over their glittery eyelids, their intrinsic closeness, wonder over poached eggs if he’s worth it—graceless Harrison in this cowboy hat and smudged makeup, his jacket cuffs soaked with vodka soda, his head lolling to the insistent voice of Justin Timberlake.

“Biyu thinks I’m quiet,” Harrison says, knocking back the rest of his drink, his neck cracking. He wants to scratch off his face, replace it with someone else’s. “You think I’m meek. So what is it? Do I need to get a tattoo or something?”

Jeremiah glances around the club, his irises starred by a spotlight. What does he see when he looks out at the crowd? Perhaps he recognizes half of these people—from the way he ordered at the bar to the way he slunk so easily onto the dance floor, Harrison assumes he’s been here before. And maybe it’s not just that he recognizes everyone else on the floor, but that they recognize him in return.

Cont'd but with a lot more mouths:

“Did you hear what I said?” Harrison asks.

Jeremiah’s eyes snap back to his, except there’s something hazy there, something tired. “What would a tattoo do for you?”

“I don’t know. Edge? I just think I could—”

And then Jeremiah’s turned away again, right into the arms of someone else—a tanned man with a dense mustache and olive eyes, the man going, “It’s been too long,” and Jeremiah going “It’s been too long,” their grins calcium white, flashing in Harrison’s face. He throws a hand up to his eyes, squints when a second later, the man pulls a woman toward Jeremiah, her hair cropped low and cotton candy pink. She kisses his cheek, says he looks ravishing, he looks like a comet on its way to ignite planet earth, and they’re all holding each other now, friends bopping to Gwen Stefani, admiring each other’s bracelets, thumbs, friends curving toward each other’s ears, kissing each other’s cheeks, each other’s mouths.

Harrison blinks because how many hands do they have now? Every second they seem to multiply—pink hair girl with four, Jeremiah with six. One’s tongue the other’s. Their fingertips fusing. The club fritzes around them like it’s confetti, the lights rippling into a Christmas bow and now there’s a redheaded man running his nose along Jeremiah’s neck, down Jeremiah’s shoulder, wrist, hand. Harrison had just done that back in his apartment, pinned chest-to-chest against him like a monarch fastened to a spreading board, and here Jeremiah is now, enmeshed in touch, in adoration because he should be adored—the men congregating around him now have their priorities straight. If they all got on their knees at Jeremiah’s feet, Harrison would understand. They aren’t exclusive, don’t even know each other’s last names, and besides, how can Jeremiah help how everyone magnetizes around him? Harrison can’t blame them. Jeremiah is illusory under the disco ball’s speckled light, his throat long, biteable, his eyes syrupy in his high. A woman takes him by the shoulder, but not just any woman—Biyu, and her eyes are pinched, analyzing, because she’s looking at Harrison, her glossy crimson nails on Jeremiah’s cheek, and she’s kissing him too now, her body joining the cluster, and it’s good, the way they all roll limbs to synth, the way they turn into each other’s faces and kiss, kiss, kiss. The music clangs, their mouths full of spit. The DJ says to hold your partners close, and they don’t have to. They are not simply together, not simply in chrysalis, but osmosed in their becoming.

Cont'd (GIANT sentence - CW: self harm)

A hand on Harrison’s elbow. He flinches and is surprised to see it’s Jeremiah who’s touched him. How did he get here so fast? Harrison expects a trail of blurry bodies to follow him, but where did everyone go? They’ve dashed from the club like embers scattering from a dulled fire, nowhere to be seen but dangerous anyway and weren’t they all just over there, under there, and are they lonely on the ceiling and how do they plan to get down and is it too loud in here and why is no one using their indoor voices and should he cover his ears and where is his mother now and how did Mary say I love you and did she ever dream of fleeing to Hollywood or speeding down the I-40 or telling Gabriel no and why does everyone worship a god who demands and calls it creation and what’s his name again—Harrison?—and when did his hands sprout from child to whatever he is now and should he dye his hair red, cut his wrists again and is it possible to be young and happy about it and is he still dancing, he’s still dancing, dancing, dancing, dancing, and someone’s complimenting his silver eyelids and would he like them to touch him gently and is it hot in here to anyone else and does he taste blood or the ocean and is this what it feels like to die in holy light and Jeremiah’s right in front of him, unkissed, still as dark water, as Lonan in the night, and now he’s holding Harrison’s face, his rings cool against his skin, and he’s kissing him too, tastes like spearmint and chocolate lip gloss, rum and Coke, rusted metal—the mouths of everyone in this room and this isn’t so bad, how their bodies net into each other, how in one breath, Harrison’s teeth clack against Jeremiah’s, and in the next, clack against another man’s and then another’s, his stubble rough, mouth sour, a chandelier earring flailing against his cheek, and then through his ear, his hands wound into cinnamon hair and he could be kissing himself and maybe he is and doesn’t he want that, the floor gelid, the music like cotton wool, their pelvises threaded, the walls caving, their mouths locked, the floor lava, the room too bright, his headache like an earthquake, two pairs of hands rattling to the beat of this bursting room one moment, then clutched together as they follow each other to a dim bathroom.

This section was inspired by @dallonwrites' lyrics in narrative post!!! also soft Felix cameo <3

The room is electric purple, smells like grapes, sweat, flexes under Harrison’s shoes like a sandcastle collapsing, like a sinkhole swallowing a house. Bodies weave across the floor, someone lighting a joint in the corner, someone reciting Sylvia Plath into a paper bag, going, the happening of this happening, going, the earth turns now.

Harrison’s head pounds—he should’ve brought a blister pack of acetaminophen because at least then he’d have something to punch, or he should’ve punched out his own eye by now, disappeared with another man who isn’t Jeremiah and didn’t he try, and where is the man with cinnamon hair now? Harrison turns to look for him, but the room ripples with his movement, shirring in staccato clacks around him like a shaken rice maraca. He’d hoped he’d write his number on a man’s wrist tonight even though he doesn’t have a cell phone—he’d hoped he’d go home with someone who shouts the lyrics to Madonna’s Everybody in twilight’s stillness, a man who’d let the DJ shake him, a man who’d let the music take him. And he could do all of that with Jeremiah—Jeremiah who probably did those things at the party Harrison wasn’t invited to, Jeremiah who knows how to pass off frozen spanakopita as homemade because he’s a good host, Jeremiah who knows how to kick people out of his apartment with kindness, Jeremiah who’s built to be kissed, to be loved. And where is he now? In the artificial light, Harrison hunts for him too—but he’s not in the unhinging bathroom stalls, not in the teal grout, the running sinks, and maybe he never existed at all, missing like Jesus in the tomb—body gone, body gone, body gone.

Cont'd BODY BACK BODY BACK BODY BACK:

Harrison rubs his eyes. His ears still ring from the clatter outside, and he stands at the bathroom’s entrance like a child who’s lost his mother in the mall. Should he sit down? A group of girls form a ring on the floor, chant about Leos, Britney, men. Someone shuffles in past him, knocks into his shoulder by accident, apologizes over and over, their hands clutched against his face—I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry.

He yanks away. Don’t touch me, he wants to say, I don’t want to be touched ever again, but by the time he’s located his mouth, his eyes pulsing to a hi-hat, his nose burning on a cloud of cherry smoke, the person’s gone too. He presses his fingers to his eyes, wishes for a soft bed, a place to land, but then he’s rocking forward, right into someone else.

At first, they just stare at each other. The man’s got the same look in his eye—something gilt, something feral, an identical fear in his mouth. Harrison blinks hard, and the man does too—not a man, actually, but his own reflection.

He approaches the mirror, jolts at the way he touches himself—more carefully than he’s ever been touched before. Who are you? he wants to say. He’d like to leave this place now, the club, Las Vegas, the earth. He’d like to buy himself a pet tarantula, run off a cliffside, eat a tub of ice cream with his bare hands. Why did he come here again? His mind is so quiet. This could be peace. But who is he? In Jeremiah’s bathroom he knew, but now there’s this stranger ahead of him, the person who must be him—someone’s chandelier earring grazing his jaw, the cowboy hat lopsided, mascara running down his cheeks even though he hasn’t cried. Where did you go? he mouths, but he knows. He’s disappeared also like Jesus in the tomb, his limbs vanishing one by one, his skin melting off his hands—body gone, body gone, body gone. He grabs his cheeks, panicked because he’s on fire, gold tossed into the crucible. He’s going to burn to ash. He’s going to need a burial soon. His face has been stolen, his breastbone and knuckles too. A month ago, someone spat him into a basket like his body was ripe for the offertory—body gone, body gone, body gone.

“Back,” Harrison says, nose grazing the spattered mirror. His chest swells, and maybe he is burning, and maybe he’s right here, hidden somewhere in the pinprick of his reflection. “Back,” he repeats. He isn’t thoughtful. He isn’t profound. Maybe that’s fine. He squeezes his tear-duct, sticks out his tongue. He’ll die eventually, let his body disappear, but not right now. “Body back, body back, body back.”

Cont'd ft. Harry-something (CW: mild violence):

“I know you.”

Harrison whips around. In front of him stands a redheaded man—the same redhead who’d held Jeremiah close on the dance floor, trailed his oily nose along his neck. He wears a pair of browline sunglasses, a black vinyl vest draped with silver chains. He holds a clove, its smoke clouding the ruby pinging off his ring finger, his mouth ghosted with what looks like red lipstick.

“What?” Harrison says, jumping when the bathroom door clangs open and in come two more women. He lifts his fingers to his mouth, pulls up a hangnail until it stings.

“I saw you out there,” says the man, taking a puff of his cigarette. “Harry-something?” He looks like a scarlet ibis, strangely translucent. “JJ’s friend.”

Harrison digs his fingertips into his eye socket. His head feels like it’s been cleaved with an axe. “Harrison.”

Redhead smiles, blows smoke into Harrison’s face. “What’d you say?”

“My name is Harrison.”

“I’m Perry,” he says, and Harrison wouldn’t give a fuck if his name was Matt Dillon or Rob Lowe or Nash Baker because he’s blowing smoke into his face again, his clove flailing like a dislocated finger. He gestures to Harrison’s outfit, nodding. “You’re like a one man show.”

Harrison covers his eyes. Maybe he can find a dark hole in this club to dive into, somewhere no one will find him again. “What does that mean?”

Perry’s smile falters momentarily, but then it’s back, all teeth, no lips. “You’ve got this flair. You ever been told that? Weird, but good, it’s—”

The second he purses his lips to blow out more smoke, Harrison grabs him by the throat, pulls him so close he can see a constellation of blackheads on his chin, feel his heart hammering.

Perry yelps, nearly losing his hold on the clove altogether.

Harrison arcs his jaw around his ear. He smells like orchids, freshwater. “Don’t ever do that again.”

Cont'd - Harrison is weird :)

Perry laughs, the sound strangled beneath Harrison’s grip. Smoke fumbles out of his mouth like worms. He really does look like a bird, which in this case, isn’t a good thing. “Noted.”

“Do you want to kiss me?”

“You have a hand around my throat.”

“That’s not an answer.”

Well, I'll leave it there lmao!!! Sorry I subjected you to this man, but hope you enjoyed this gigantic update!

FIN. MAGNUM OPUS COMPLETE!

See you soon!

Rachel

#writeblr #writing #amwriting #writerblr #writingupdates #ohhhh harrison #this was so hard to write because of all his bad decisions but also SO FUN FOR THE SAME REASON #PLS TELL ME WHAT U THINK IT'S BEEN ME AND THIS CHAPTER FOR A MONTH ALONE I NEED VALIDATION <3 #next chapter perry gets his moped STOLEN (I wonder by who...)#bodyback

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