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gloomskulls · 5 months ago

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⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ WHAT LIES UNDERNEATH [cult member peter parker x reader]

pairings: dark! peter parker x reader

blurb/part 2

⇢ ˗ˏˋ SUMMARY ୨୧ after losing your family, your friends, and your boyfriend, Peter Parker casually crashes in your life out of nowhere. His presence was welcoming, as his so-called village is too. But his hospitality seems to have something darker underneath

⇢ ˗ˏˋ WARNING ୨୧ NON-CON/DUB-CON (RAPE), heavy manipulation, toxic relationship, cult beliefs, oral (fem receiving), drugging (use of an aphrodisiac), p in v, multiple orgasms, breeding kink, obsessive behavior, mild violence, mentions of death, depression, suicidal thoughts, implied murder. lemme know if I missed any. READ AT YOUR OWN RISK!

If you don't wanna see my dark stories, please block the tag #madi: dark content

a/n: this is loosely based on Midsommar, it's a really good movie. I have changed some stuff that i didn't feel comfortable writing or I just didn't want to write. Also this maybe the worst smut you've ever read probably. don't steal any of my shit or I'll steal ur head.

"I'm sorry sissy, the darkness is consuming me, and I will take them with me"

Those were the last texts your sister sent you. You were worried sick about her cryptic message and wanted disclosure from her, but she hasn't written back.

Your sister has been known to be a rather mentally challenged person. She was just venting to you. Right?

It was unnaturally still in the air, sitting at your kitchen table with the phone pressed close to your ear. Your fingers drummed an erratic rhythm against the edge of the table, still collapsed trying to ground yourself. All night, your sister has not picked up her phone. The strange text messages she had sent earlier in the day replayed like a broken record in your mind.

How many times have you been thinking of something really wrong, more than you would admit, but still dismissing it?

Somehow tonight felt different.

You texted Harry to reassure you, but the typical unsympathetic reply only served to add more weight to that chest heaviness again. Now you are left alone with your thoughts, and each one seems darker than the other.

You were about to not pick the phone because it looked like a spam call to you. The number was unknown, but that gut feeling inside you made you press accept.

"Hello?" Your voice dared as you strove to steady it.

The unknown caller said your name as they spoke, "Is this her?" The voice on the other end was calm but carried a cold detachment that made your stomach drop.

"Yes," you replied.

"This is Officer Hill with the NYPD. I'm sorry to tell you we've had an incident regarding your family," she said.

Air disappeared from your lungs suddenly, and your grip tightened against the phone. "What kind of incident?"

"I understand this is tough," she said, her voice carefully measured. "But I need you to come to the station. It's better to speak in person."

The issue of reality has been stretched and heavy between you, and it was so unbearable. “No,” you spoke finally in a panic voiding interiorly. “Please, just tell me now. What happened?”

There was a moment's hesitation in Hill's case. In that moment, you could feel the world starting to crack around you.

"There is no easy way to say this," she finally managed to come up with. "Your parents and sister were involved in a fatal accident. I am so sorry."

You could not comprehend those words for a moment. They swayed in the air outside with an unreal and incomprehensible quality. "What do you mean? Are they okay? What—"

"They didn't survive," Hill said softly, and that cut through your spiraling questions.

The phone fell from your hand and banged tipsily on the table. To this resonating rattle in the small space, however, your ear was tuned out. Your chest tightened, and the phrase ran in your brain, echoing in shallow gasps.

They didn't survive.

The days that followed the funeral just passed in a haze of hollow condolences and noise deafening silence. Your world had been torn apart while everything moved forward—all relentless and lame. Harry, your boyfriend of 2 years stayed as he assured you, but his presence seemed more of a fulfillment of an obligation than any comfort.

He was not exactly a cruel person; at least not really overt, for distance was a high-dubious chasm with every awkward conversation and with every minute spent by him scrolling through his phone instead of talking to you. Not blind are you to those glances he exchanged with his buddies once they assumed you weren't watching. There is pity instead of love and comfort in his eyes whenever you cry.

The last straw fell on a quiet Friday evening. You had dragged yourself to the apartment of Harry, looking for refuge in his presence after yet another sleepless night. He was lounging in the couch with one hand gripping a phone while the other was a beer.

"I feel like I'm falling apart," you admitted softly and settled next to him. Your voice cracked, and at last, the tears that were kept in were poured out. "I don't know how to do this without them. I don't know how to… keep going."

Harry glanced towards your direction, the look on his face inscrutable. After that, he set his phone down and fell into this heavy sigh as he rubbed the back of his neck. "I understand, okay? But you can't keep unloading things like this on me. It's…it's too much."

Your heart sank. "Too much?"

"I'm not your therapist," he said in defensive. "I don't know what you want me to do. I can't fix this for you."

"I'm not asking you to fix it!" You snapped while accepting the anger that had replaced the hurt. "I just need you to be here. To actually care."

He didn't answer immediately. Instead, he diverted his gaze from her, tightening his jaw. "This isn't fair," he muttered.

"What do you mean fair!?" you yelled, your volume rising. "Me grieving my whole family? It isn't as terrible as needing the person who's supposed to love me to act and comfort me?"

Harry stood up immediately and started pacing the tiny living room. "I didn't sign up for this," he said. The words cut like knives. "I feel like… like I'm drowning too. I'm trying to keep my head above water, but here you are, pulling me under."

Your breath literally caught in your throat at that last sentence, as if a blow on the physical plane had hit home. "Is that really how you see me? As one who drags you down?" You asked in disbelief.

However, he stopped pacing and turned toward you, shoulders sagging. "I don't know," he said more quietly. "I don't know what I feel anymore. My friends tell me I should end it. They say I can't do this to myself. But I thought, you know, that might help."

"Help?" you echoed, voice breaking. "You think pity keeping me would help? Do you know how humiliating that is?"

Harry looked away. "Well, I'm sorry! alright!? It's not like I want to be part of your fuckin tenth reason in your suicide note!". Guilt was scrawled across his face when those words left his mouth. "I didn't mean for it to be like this."

You stood waveringly. Nevertheless, your voice remained firm. "If this is too much for you, then spit it out. Be frank for once, Harry."

He hesitated, his silence answering the question you hadn't dared to ask outright.

You nodded, swallowing the lump in your throat. "Well, that's what I figured."

You took your bag and stepped out of the apartment, closing the door behind you just before the torrent of tears fell as you stumbled down the street. For the first time in weeks, you were truly alone. Sure, Harry wasn't the best boyfriend, but now you didn't have family, Harry, heck, you don't even have friends to pat you in the back and tell you it's alright.

You were truly alone, crying in the middle of the streets.

A week later, at the dinner party of an old classmate's friend, Peter Parker walks into your life.

Peter wasn't meant to be there—he admitted that soon after you started the talk. "I kind of crashed this," he confessed with a sheepish grin, rubbing the back of his neck. "I heard there was free food, and, uh… I have no self-control."

You laughed against your will. It was a real laugh that felt vaguely familiar after weeks of grief.

He was awkward but charming, with rapid tumbling out of words out of his mouth as he tried to start a small talk. "So, uh, how do you know Sam? Are you a friend from work? Oh wait, no, you don't look old enough to work with him—wait, not that you look like a kid or anything. I just meant—"

"It's okay," you interrupted, smile still there regardless. "I get it. I am also kinda crashing here, I never really got a proper invite, I just found out from one of my old classmates that there was a party, now here I am"

The more you could talk to him, the more you would discover how easy it was to be in his company. Unlike Harry, who had always been polished and withdrawn, Peter was frank and genuine, emotions laid out for all to see.

And by the end of the night, he had known your family. You had not intended to tell him, but somehow the way he listened— actually listened— made it spill out.

"I'm so sorry," Peter said softly, voice laced thickly with empathy. "That is… I can't even imagine what you're going through. But, if you ever need someone to talk to—or like, someone to distract you with dumb jokes—I'm here."

You've been taken aback by his earnestness. Finally, after what felt like years, someone might have noticed you.

It was indeed one of those nights which made time stretch out into eternity. You were there with Peter on a park bench where the faint light of the flickering city lights was shining through dense bushes and trees. The air was crisp, a cool kind that could very much seep into one's bones, yet Peter's company made it bearable.

He had this way of filling the silence without forcing it: sometimes talking, rambling on about whatever random thought invaded his head, sometimes just sitting with a person comfortable in the quiet, and today, he was acting especially thoughtful, staring at some faraway towers protruding above the skyline.

"Can I ask you something?" he suddenly blurted out, breaking the stillness.

"Sure."

He hesitated, bit his bottom lip as if he couldn't decide how to start, and began speaking. "Do you ever feel like…I don't know, like you're stuck?"

You blinked. It caught you off guard. "What do you mean?"

"Like everybody around you is moving ahead, but you're just there standing still," he explained, his words pretty crumbling out in that earnest, awkward way of his. "Like no matter what you do, you can't catch up."

The question was a little more awkward for you than you'd expected. "Yeah," you quietly admitted. "too many times than how I want it to be"

"It's tiring" he said, his eyes still far. "I get that. After my uncle… well died, after all that, I felt like I was trapped in this… I don't know, this loop. So, I couldn't allow myself to be happy because it would feel wrong, you know? Like I didn't deserve it."

You were gaping at him, flabbergasted by his openness. Peter was not the kind to talk much about himself—not like this, anyway.

"How did you get out of it?" you asked in a soft voice.

He smiled faintly. "I didn't. Not really. But I found something that helped."

"What was it?"

Peter gazed upward at the stars. "My hometown. It's a little dot in the middle of nowhere on the map. Quiet, kind of old-fashioned place. But there's something… something grounding."

He stopped for a brief while, casting a doubtful glance at you. "I go back every summer. It's like hitting a reset button or something. And, uh… would you want to join me this year?"

Totally unexpected. "You want me to go with you?"

"Yeah," Peter said quickly, blushing in the face of it. "If you want to. No pressure, or anything. Just you have been through a lot, and I thought maybe time away might help or something. It's not fancy or anything—definitely not the kind of place with five-star hotels—but it's peaceful. And I'd be there, so… you wouldn't be alone."

At his words, your throat became somewhat tight. He was not offering a vacation. He was inviting you to an escape.

"I don't know," You finally ventured with a little quiver of voice. "What if I just feel worse?"

"You won't," Peter said firmly, his brown eyes locking onto yours. "I won't let you."

There was something so genuine about the way he said it, like he truly believed he could protect you from the weight of your grief.

"What is it like?" you asked, helpless curiosity walking over your hesitation.

Peter's eyes set aglow at that moment, brimming over with a lot of excitement. "Oh gosh! Now where do I even begin? Okay, so there's this diner right in the middle of town. It's run by Mr. and Mrs. Beck. They've been married for like fifty years or something, and they make the fluffiest pancakes you've ever tasted in your life. And then there's this old library. Small, yes, but it has this weird charm, you know? Everything is crooked, and half the books are falling apart, but I love it. Oh, and there's this great big field just outside of town—it's perfect to stargaze because you can see the Milky Way out there. It's insane."

Now he was practically bouncing out of his seat, his enthusiasm almost contagious.

"It sounds… amazing," you found yourself admitting. A small smile tugged your lips.

"It's amazing," Peter said earnestly. "And I think you would love it. Everyone is so welcoming there. It's like… a little bubble of goodness in this horrible world sometimes."

For just a moment, you let yourself imagine it, far from the city and the reminders of everything that had been lost, somewhere I might again breathe.

"Okay," you said finally, barely above a whisper.

Peter's eyes lit up. "Really? You're going to come?"

"Yeah," you said, surprising even yourself. "I think I need this."

"Trust me; you won't regret it," Peter continued, his grin stretching from ear to ear.

For the first time in what felt like forever, you felt a flicker of hope. Maybe this trip wouldn't fix everything. Maybe it wouldn't fix anything. But for now, it was enough to know you wouldn't be facing it alone.

It was a surreal feeling about the trip toward Peter's hometown. It was almost a relief because you sensed that you were really leaving everything behind, even thought it was just a few weeks. Driving in a comfortable pattern with Peter talking animatedly about all of the town's strange things, while you listened and occasionally chimed in with a question or a laugh at one of his goofy replies.

As you drove farther from the city and the scenery opened to rolling hills and dense forests before you, Peter shifted in his seat to adjust the radio. The soft tune filled the car and merged with the sounds of the tires over the road.

"You are going to love it," Peter said, glancing at you with an innocent smile. "Air's so fresh it nearly smells fake, and the stars. They're nothing like anything you've ever seen before. I promise."

"I'll hold you to that," you said, smiling despite the nervous knot still twisting about in your chest.

The town came into view just about the time the sun started sinking, dipping the horizon in gold and pinks. It was a little bit smaller than you had in mind, the kind of place that probably knew everyone by name.

Peter slowed the car as you entered the main street, which was lined with quaint buildings that appeared to have been plucked from another era. A few of the local's whereabouts were either on their porches talking, in their gardens working, or taking their dogs out for a walk. They would almost wave at Peter as they drove past.

"See? Told you. Nicest people on the planet," said Peter returning the waves enthusiastically.

"No shit," you said, watching a woman coming across with a basket of flowers smile toward you warmly.

Peter stopped in a graveled driveway leading to a homely two-storied fairy tale house. Crooked white picket fence and wildflower-laden garden, there was little that screamed charm.

The moment the car stopped, from the front door, she came, a petite woman in her 30's with brown hair, beaming with kindness in her eyes and warmth in her smile.

"There's my darling nephew!" she called out.

Peter jumped out of the car, practically bounding onto her, hugging her. "Aunt May!"

"And you must be the girl Peter keeps talking about," she said, her bright eyes finding their way to you. "Peter has told me so much about you."

"Oh, um, hi," you said, stepping out of the car and giving a small wave.

"Then that's it," she said, surprising with her strong hug for her small figure. "It's so lovely to finally meet you. Come in! It's rather hot out here during the summers"

Once you stepped into the house, you were met with interior that was as cozy as anyone could expect, the design suggests mixes between vintage and modern furniture, with colorful throw blankets and knickknacks making it feel lived in. There was also a faint waft of freshly baked cookies, which you soon spotted on the kitchen counter.

"Make yourself at home," May said, "Your room's already set up upstairs. Peter can show you around."

"Thanks May," Peter replied, already grabbing your bag before you could protest.

Up came Peter, leading you to a small but cozy guest room overlooking the backyard.

"Hope that's cool," said Peter, dropping your bag next to the bed. "Not fancy, but it's quiet."

"It's perfect," you said, placing your backside on the edge of the bed and taking a moment to breathe.

In the following days, Peter became your own personal tour guide, leading you through the town every nook and cranny, and introduced you to everyone as if you were already a part of the community, and to your surprise, they all welcomed you with open arms

Mr. and Mrs. Beck would insist on serving you their best pancakes while there at the diner even after breakfast time.

"We have heard so much about you," Mrs. Beck said it with a twinkle in her eyes. "Peter's nearly counting the days until you came."

Peter turned red and scratched the back of his neck. "Thanks, Mrs. Beck. Subtle as always."

Library, this was to be; the charmingly ramshackle structure seemed to sag under the weight of its many books. Peter's eyes lit up as he walked through those rows of crooked shelves with his fingers trailing over the spines.

"This here was my escape growing up," he said, pulling a worn copy of The Hobbit from the shelf. "Any time things got… overwhelming, I'd come here. Just me, a book, and a whole lot of silence."

This was the kind of moment when one caught a glimpse into Peter's world of quiet, reflective, introspective thinking where the depths beneath the sunshine state, as always, reside.

The very field that Peter had described so vividly turned out to be even more breathtaking than you ever imagined. The grass stretched out in every direction, swaying gently in the breeze, and the sky above was that of a canvas painted with stars, brighter and bolder than he had ever seen.

With a dramatic sigh, Peter flopped onto the ground, patting a spot next to him. "Come on, you're not getting the full experience unless you lie down."

You hesitated to lie down beside him, letting the cool grass tickle your arms as you stared up at the infinite expanse of sky.

"Wow," you breathed.

"Yeah?" he said, turning his head towards you. "It's like the universe decided to show off or something."

They lay there silently for a good while with the sound of the rustling grass and an occasional chirp of crickets. That was the most peaceful you had felt in a long, long time.

Maybe it was a little initial self-talk that told you it was just small town hospitality. People in cities don’t wave at strangers, though maybe that’s simply what people do out here. Maybe they were just genuinely curious about a stranger in a little place where everyone knows everyone.

But as the day went on, those small gestures, those innocent jests began to feel… different.

It started out slow.

At the diner, Mrs. Beck lingered longer than she ought to while refilling your coffee, her smile warm but sharp, penetrating eyes boring onto you.

"You're feeling like one of us already, aren't you?" she would have said, almost as if it were a statement rather than a question.

You gave a polite smile with no idea of how to answer. "Uh, yeah, everybody's really welcomed here."

"Oh, good," she said, with a firm nod. "That's what we want."

There's something in the way she said it, words weighing a lot more than they were supposed to.

And so it went; the Becks household was not the only one. The pattern held true for nearly every encounter.

"How are you settling in?"

Not "welcome" or "hi and how long are you staying?" The last kind of question you would expect from someone meeting a newcomer. The question, however, assumed permanence. It assumed that you were settling in, that you live here now.

Initially, you passed it off as just another one of those quirks that could be attributed to small-town hospitality. Maybe that's just their way of being polite. But after a few more days, it became pretty hard to ignore the repetition.

You brought it up to Peter one morning as the two of you sat on May's porch, sipping coffee and watching the sunrise.

"Is it just me," you began, keeping your tone light, "or does everyone here ask the same question?"

Peter looked up from his mug, a confused smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "What question?"

"How I'm 'settling in.' Like, literally everyone has said it."

"Oh, that?" Peter chuckled, brushing it off with a wave of his hand. "That's just how people are around here. Small towns, you know? Everyone's in everyone else's business, and they just want to make sure you're happy. It's aggressively wholesome."

You nodded while struggling to let his explanation take root in you, but that feeling of unease lingered.

Then came the presents.

The librarian insisted that you check out a copy of Little Women, even if you just went there to browse.

"You'll love it," she said, sliding it over the counter to you with a knowing smile.

"How do you know?" you asked, only half-joking.

Her smile didn't waver. "I just do."

At the hardware store, the owner gave you a tiny potted shrub. "Every home needs a little bit of green," he said cheerfully, but his eyes had a dark intensity that made him more intimidating.

"Thanks," you mumbled awkwardly, holding the plant as you walked out.

It was the kind of gift given to a father like you, not at all because you wanted it, but so they could wave it in your face.

The real breaking point occurred one night at the diner.

Peter was treating you to dinner there after spending the afternoon wandering around town. It was quieter than usual, the counter occupied only by a few regulars. The place smelled of coffee and fries, and while Peter was busy demolishing a plate of the latter, you excused yourself to go to the washroom.

The hallway at the back of the diner is dark and narrow, the overhead fluorescent lights humming in slightly grating tones. At the door marked "Women," you caught snatches of voices from the kitchen-garbled, urgent.

"…And she's settling in?"

"She seems fine so far. Peter's doing a good job keeping her comfortable."

You were frozen with your hand on the doorknob. Your pulse raced. "Good, she has to feel like she belongs, it's important."

Then there was a crashing sound of many dishes, followed by a long heavy pause.

"So," says the first voice, "you think she suspects anything?"

"No. Not yet."

There, silence fell between the voices after that, then just the faintest clink—the sound of silverware-and the quick pounding of your heartbeat resounded in your ears.

When you stepped back to the table, Peter's easy smile greeted you. "Everything cool?" he asked as he dipped a fry into ketchup. "Yeah," you said quickly as you slid into your seat. "Fine."

The mind remained racing.

They must be talking about someone else—a new hire at the diner. Maybe a new family into town. There was no way they were talking about you.

Right?

You tried to shake it off, sinking into Peter's chatter about the upcoming festival, but the unease clung to you like a second skin.

May's small guest room became so beautiful in the rays of the morning sun that they filtered through lace curtains and softly flecked the walls. You stared ridiculously at the ceiling, a heavy weight on your chest, making sleep unusually elusive. Thoughts had been just too loud and tangled.

Those whispers from the diner, the rehearsed kindness from townspeople, and the way he seemed to brush it all off so easily were elusive things you couldn't shake off. The most you told yourself was that it was probably nothing.

This is what you told yourself as you forced yourself out of bed and down the stairs. Peter wouldn't lie to you; he was the most genuine person you knew. Right?

The smell of pancakes and coffee greeted you in the kitchen.

By the stove stood Peter, his hair at odd angles and humming a tune under his breath. For a moment, you let yourself relax. This is Peter, your Peter.

"Good morning, sleepyhead!" he greeted, grinning at you with that boyish grin. He slid over a plate of pancakes drenched in syrup and topped with fresh strawberries.

"Morning," you replied, low enough to be heard.

"You okay?" he asked, tilting his head.

"Yeah, just didn't sleep much," you tugged and picked little at your food.

"Frowning," Peter said and kept down his fork. "Anything troubling you?"

"No," you lied quickly. "Just one of those nights."

He studied you for a moment, and you forced a small smile. Whatever the unease was, there was no reason for dragging Peter into it. He'd just dismiss it as he always did.

At last, the day was spent in a well-practiced blur of activities. It seemed Peter had made up his mind to keep you as busy as possible, even dragging you around the town park and to that creek he used to catch tadpoles as a kid. And if that weren't enough, he picked you up from the bakery where the sweet aroma of pastries was very strong. Offering you so many pastries till your stomach ached

Evening had cloaked the house in darkness, and so much for bottled up emotions. After dinner, the two of you sat alone in the living room: May well and truly off to bed. And that left you here with Peter sprawled across the couch flipping through some book, while you closed yourself into a tight little knot in the armchair.

"Peter," you broke the silence.

He blinked up at you with alarmed eyes. "Yeah?"

"I need to ask you something."

His brows knitted slightly, but he set aside the book. "Sure. What is it?"

You pause, heart racing. "Last night at the diner I heard something. Two people in the kitchen were talking about me."

Peter's face remained impassive. Still in his eyes, there was a flicker of something that disappeared as quickly as the light.

"What did they say?"

"They said you were doing a good job keeping me comfortable. That I need to feel like I belong." You paused, faltering with your voice. "Peter, what does that mean?"

Peter leaned forward, dangling his elbows on his knees. "It's nothing, they were probably just being nosy. People here care about each other, and when someone new comes in, they get… curious."

"That is not how it sounded," you said shaking your head. "It sounded like, intentional. It sounded much like plotting."

"You're overthinking this" Peter sighed rubbing back on his neck "Seriously, this town—it's different—close-knit. They just want to ensure you feel welcome, happy here, nothing but that".

“Then why does it feel so fake?” you pressed, raising your voice. “Everyone acts like they already know me. Like they’re expecting something to come from me.”

Peter tensed his jaw, and then he did not speak anything for a moment. He then stood up suddenly. "I brought you here for your help," he said in a hard tone. "I brought you here so you might begin a fresh mental state, a place where you could heal. And instead of appreciating it, you are looking for ways to tear it apart."

"I didn't ask for this!" you shot back, standing as well. "I didn't ask to be dragged into some town where everyone acts like I'm part of some… some secret club!"

Peter turned to you, eyes flashing. "You didn't have to ask! You were falling apart. You needed this. And I've been trying my best to make things easier for you, but you can't even see that, can you?"

The words hit you like a slap. Staring at him, breathless, tears filling your eyes. "Peter… why are you doing this?"

He softened immediately, shoulders slumping. "I'm sorry," he said quietly. "I didn't mean to—look, I just… I care about you. I hate seeing you so lost. I thought bringing you here would help, but maybe I was wrong."

You wiped your eyes, and the mind is busy with thoughts. Maybe he is right. Maybe you are over-reacting. Peter was not that manipulative. He was just worried.

"Okay," you said finally, your voice shaky. "But if this town is so great, then why does it feel like there is something you are not telling me?"

Peter's eyes drifted towards the window momentarily—as if to check whether there were eavesdroppers outside—"It is not like that," he said, whispering faintly barely audible.

"Then tell me what it is," you said. "If you want me to trust you, then stop keeping secrets."

Peter sighed deeply, his shoulders sagging. "Alright," he said. "But you're not going to like it."

"And that's supposed to mean what?"

He moved closer, looking you straight in the eye. "Some things are better demonstrated rather than told," he said, his tone even more pleading. "I'll tell you everything tomorrow. Just…give me another day."

You gawked at him, feeling your belly tie up in knots. Every instinct in you screamed to demand answers right now, but for some reason, the look in his eyes stopped you. He looked… desperate.

"Fine," you said with reluctance. "One more day."

Peter nodded, a relief washing over his face. "Thank you," he said almost inaudibly. "I assure you, it will all come into perspective soon."

But climbing into bed that night only made more pronounced the doubts gnawing at you louder than they had done before.

The cold, crisp evening air wrapped tight around you like a noose, as they led Peter into the woods. Try as you might to ignore the uncomfortable hollow in your gut, the longer you sat in this strange, unsettling village, the more you felt that something dark ran underneath it all. Every villager's smile, how they seemed to know just a little too much about you—everything just felt orchestrated, perfect.

You had held the doubts to yourself, buried deep down because Peter had always been the perfect anchor. But tonight, something flickered in his eyes—his tense shoulders and that almost undetectable flash of something darker crossing his face—told you that you were no longer in control.

You entered the clearing, gasping for air by the time you stepped into the structure resembling a stone chapel. The door agonizingly creaked open, bringing in the cold air from outside in juxtaposition with the stifling heat within. There, illuminated softly, were the others. A few you recognized from the eerily quiet familiar faces that watched you through predatory eyes.

It felt thick and heavy in the air, almost stultifying. The walls were closing in, and the silence was becoming almost oppressive. Peter gently but firmly drew you forward, his comforting presence still providing warmth, though everything else seemed wrong.

He was more weathered and older than you imagined, the drawn skin of his face tight over sharp features, pale and unblinking eyes matching his face. The robe hung dark and almost blended into shadows as he approached you. A murmur swept through the people gathered, and you paid little attention. Everything spun in your head and your heart drummed against your ears.

"Peter," said the man with a voice which grated like a rusty hinge, as if he had been whispering for years. "She has come."

Peter's eyes had been fixed on you for some time, and now he nodded slowly. The heat of his gaze made your skin crawl. The man checked you out from head to toe, and his intense eyes seemed to promise a lot of something. "Perfect," he said under his breath but not for too long so that others could hear him as he shouted, "She is the one. It's time."

Time, just like that word, seemed hollow, reverberating in the air around you like a bad omen. Instead, you opened your mouth to argue or question what part of this was really happening, but then, Peter squeezed your shoulder so tightly that it felt like it might crush your bones.

"It's okay," he whispered against your ear with his very warm breath. "I'll explain everything. You'll understand soon enough."

But understanding was the last thing you wanted to happen. All you had in mind was running. The man stepped forward, never breaking the eye contact. "Our village has managed to survive for many centuries and still thrive at its odds. But there is one rule that we have to abide by—there is one rule that can't be broken. After every eighteen years, one of our own must depart from this world and find someone in the outside world—from beyond these walls to someone pure."

Your mouth went dry. "What… what do you mean by that?"

"Every time a child turns eighteen, he must leave for a period of time to spend in the world outside, learn its ways; but after this period, he must return, and he must bring someone from the outside to add to the village."

Your body suddenly turned ice cold. "What do you mean, bring someone from the outside?" You spluttered. Your voice barely made an impression on the silence.

The smile of the man became broad. "A new family member. A mate. Someone to whom they will get married, with whom they will create children. This is the law."

You turned to Peter with wide eyes filled with horror as your heart stuttered deep in your chest. "What do you mean… a mate? You want me to…?"

Peter tightened his grip on your shoulder and breathed shallowly. "That's how it is done. This is how we survive. The village needs strong new blood. The children produced from these unions keep the bloodline pure, preventing inbreeding."

Inbreeding. That one word roared through your mind like no other thought. You couldn't breathe. You felt suffocated under the weight of all that.

"What… what are you saying?" you gasped, stunned and unable to take in everything being revealed to you.

Peter stepped even closer; eyes dark with something almost predatory. "That's how this works. You're part of the plan now. You have no choice. You are here because you were chosen. You are going to help us keep the village alive. Our survival depends on… "

"No," you whispered, stumbling backward as you tried to retreat. "No, this isn't right. You can't—this isn't—"

And suddenly, an old man stepped beside you, his shadowy tallness overshadowing you. "You will understand soon. You are not the first, nor will you be the last. Every child who leaves returns with someone. And they will mate, they will bear children. This is how we preserve our people, how we protect our bloodline." He said as if it was your duty, as if this was your destiny.

"No!" You screamed tearing the air with your voice now choked in emotions. "This is insane! You're insane!"

The gentleness from Peter that used to soothe you all vanished, replaced by the steely resolve. He took another step forward, and instinctively you recoiled. "I did not want you to have this," he said, his voice low and strained, "but it is how it is. You will come to understand, and you will see that it is for the best."

The other villagers watched you with silent intensity as the space surrounding you felt as if it were closing in on you, with walls pressing from all sides. You could feel their hungry and expectant eyes on you.

You wanted to run. You wanted to yell.

But as soon as the old man reached out his hand to grab you, Peter's hold on your arm tightened, his fingers digging into your skin, keeping you anchored. "You don't understand yet," he said quietly, his voice tinged with something darker, something that, as it sent chills down your spine, made you think he was going to take you off somewhere to be tortured. "But you will. Soon, it will make sense. The only way to survive is this. This is something we can't let you ruin."

You were trapped. The weight of their expectations crushed you, their smiles now twisted masks of something monstrous beneath.

"Your child will also do the same duty," the old man said softly. "When they come back to the village with their mate, they will fulfill their destiny. They will carry our future."

Your chest constricted. Every part of you screamed to escape, to run, to fight against the suffocating nightmare into which you had been dragged. All the while, in the depths of your consciousness, you knew that there was no escaping this; they had planned for this. They had chosen you.

Back against the stone wall of the chapel now, your breath came in rapid, gasping suction since the reality began to drown in you. It beat loudly in your chest, a frantic mind racing for exit routes, for freedom from the path that had been laid out for me like a spider's web in all its horrible detail.

Peter's gaze was cold and cruel; it was no longer the warm presence one had hoped for. The heady words of the old man echoed in your ears, chilling and impossible to escape, like a curse. "You will return. You will bear our future."

As impossible as it was to believe, you finally realized it, this fucked up cycle wanted you to be part of it—and not by choice.

But you weren't going to let that happen.

You pushed past Peter and felt the sharp sting as he grabbed at your arm. You broke free, legs now trembling beneath you, as you headed for the door. You had to get out. You didn't know where you were running, but the woods were the only option. The only chance at freedom. You burst through the chapel door and into the cold night air, stumbling over uneven ground.

You heard footsteps behind you, but you didn't dare look back. The wind howled around you, swallowing up any sounds from the village. Your lungs burned as you pushed yourself faster, harder, your breath ragged from panic clawing at your chest.

You didn't look up when you heard a car approaching, but you didn't stop either, as your mind told you to keep running, to escape, but your legs were beginning to fail you.

The car stopped short before you, the headlights blinding. You turned with a wild heart as the door to that vehicle swung open. A man in a police uniform stepped out, his expression unreadable.

"Hey, are you alright?" he asked, with a soft voice but underneath carrying an authority.

He wouldn't let you trust him, and you could be in danger. "I-I need help," you stuttered, barely able to catch your breath. "They're chasing me. They—they won't let me leave."

The officer stepped closer, his eyes darting toward the woods behind you. "Who's chasing you? What happened?" His voice was smooth, coaxing, calm.

You stumbled toward him, the last shreds of your resistance slipping away. His presence was comforting, the uniform a familiar sign of safety in this strange world that had turned upside down. "Please," you gasped. "I need to get out of here. Please help me."

The officer smiled, that warm, almost paternal smile that gave you a moment's feeling of cocooned safety. "You are well within safety here. Get into the car and I'll take you to the station. They won't find you."

You didn't even think twice about it. Worn out and shivering, you climbed into the passenger seat of the car. The door slammed behind you, then the engine revved into life. You sank into the seat, closed your eyes, letting the sound of the engine create an illusion of safety. Finally, you escaped. Finally, you could breathe again.

The engine growled before heading out with the officer looking at you and softening his expression to almost a grin. "A strange night out here, huh?" Are you really sure you are, okay?"

You shook your head, catching your breath. "I need to get away from those people… I don't know who they are but they're dangerous."

"People can be dangerous, can't they?" he mused.

You glanced at him. "Yeah, I guess. I just don't know who to trust anymore."

Soft chuckle from him, as if to sense that it sounds contrived, that it has to be learned. "What's trust? You just have to know whom to get along with and whom to avoid. It requires experience."

You just turned to the window and trees and darkness rushed by. The mind was reeling from the attempt at grasping everything that has happened as it was really too much: the town; the event; Peter's cold stare; and now this—this officer who has apparently materialized at just the right moment. He must be the one sent to rescue you.

"Where are we off to?" You asked

"Oh, just a little way out of town," he replied, his voice smooth, almost too smooth. "Nothing to worry about."

You nod, fatigue dragging heavily on your eyelids. For a moment, it felt good, like all was well. But then the cop's voice became a personal one.

''I'm Steve by the way, Steve Rogers. Was just coming here for a quick stroll," he began, "I never thought I was going to be out here, helping someone like you. It is really funny, how life turns out."

Brow furrowed, and incomprehension written all over the face. "What do you mean?"

The very slight narrowing of the officer's eyes at you, just for an instant, was followed by his returning gaze to the road ahead. "I spent a lot of time in these parts, and the people can be somewhat…. they are peculiar. But then, I guess you already know that."

Heck, what was he talking about? "What do you mean by a little hard to understand? Who do you mean by that?"

Just above a smile, something confidential, something dark, flickered across the officer's lips. "Well, my wife, Peggy… she was from around here. She got them, you know? Understood what was going on. It took me a long time to realize it, but eventually, I figured it out. I did too."

Your heart stops, hammering against the confinement of your ribs. "Peggy… Carter?" That name rang in your mind like a bell, sharp and dissonant. You had heard that name before, only in whispers, a long time ago.

From what you remembered Peggy Carter was one of the most vicious woman in the police force, even in her short time in doing her job. One day she got married to a man named Steve and nothing was heard from her again. As if she disappeared, she completely left her job and duty, and so did Steve who was a fellow police like her who also vanished from the face of the earth. That was all you knew, and all of that happened 10 years ago. Many believed they moved. Some believed

The officer's smile brightened, but now it had no warmth. His voice went down low, as if telling you a secret you weren't supposed to know, "That's right. Peggy Carter. She was special. A part of something much bigger than either of us ever realized. I didn't understand it at first. Thought she was just a regular woman… but then I saw it. I saw everything for what it was."

It had caught in your throat because your mind was connecting all the dots. Peter, in actual fact, couldn't stop saying that you were here for a bigger thing, that you actually belonged. And now there is the officer, Peggy Carter, the strange village thing, the quite twisted ceremony—now everything starts to get clearer while terrifying you.

Your pulse raced, and once more, you cast a glance at him, eyes wide with realization. "You… you’re one of them, aren’t you? You’re one of their… their plan.”

For just a second, something shadowy, something colder, flicked through his eyes; and with that flicker, somehow you knew you'd made a terrible mistake trusting him.

Steve Rogers, the cop smiled "I was hoping you'd come around sooner or later. You're a bit smarter than I thought," his voice was light, like he was discussing the weather. "However," a dangerous tremor lurked below his words. "Peggy always said you'd be the perfect addition - just like I was, just like she was."

You sprung back, your first instinct was to reach for the door handle, but before your brain could register what was happening, the vehicle shifted violently. Body flung against the door; your head crashed against the metal side with a sickening thud. Stars exploded behind your eyes, and suddenly, everything muffled.

When you woke up from what felt like the worst sleep in your life, but you weren't sleeping, or did you just doze off and you couldn't remember any of it? Everything felt like a blur, memories were juggled up, and everything seemed out of place. How did I get here again? You thought to yourself.

It was strangely silent all around. The engine's rhythmic humming gave way to a stifling, heavy silence. You couldn't move. The air around you was thick and stifling; you had a throbbing headache that was likely to make you nauseous.

You couldn't even comprehend what was happening before you saw the door of the car opened, your whole-body weight made you fall off the vehicle. You audibly groaned as your body hit the rough dirty cement

Lo and behold, standing right in front of was Steve Rogers, towering above you, his face expressionless. His cold stare that piercing through your soul at you while your arms continued to adjust the sleeves of his uniform with a calm expertise.

He circled you as if he was predator cornering its prey. He stopped just at your head. He looked at you with an expressionless face, he slowly smiled, the creepy type of smile you would see psychopaths do on movies.

You wanted to run, punch him in the face and fucking run. But you couldn't, it felt as if your feet have already given up on you, plus the blooming pain in your head made it hard to think.

"It just never gets the job done" He frowned momentarily, your eyes widened in fear as you saw him take a beer bottle from behind his back, you shook your head, no please, please, please. You tried your best to crawl away from him, but you couldn't even feel your legs.

You sobbed in defeat, but he just caressed your cheek and wiped your tears away, as if to lure you into a false sense of security. With all the softness of a feather, he said, "You'll be fine," really more to reassure himself than you. "The ceremony's just waiting for you."

Before you can act, a hard bang on your head seems to lurch your stomach. The officer had swung a beer bottle at your skull; it hit with a sickening crack and within the instant the pain exploded into darkness pressing behind your eyes, and the world went black.

It was the scent of incense—sickeningly sweet and heavy enough to churn in the stomach. Candlelight flickered. shadows danced on stone walls, making the small space feel smaller by the second.

You woke up all lethargic with a blooming headache. You felt relaxed underneath the soft bed that you laid, but once you took in the stone walls, it felt like a train has hit you. All of the events from a few hours ago running you over.

Your mind raced, scrambling for an escape route, but all you saw was Peter standing between you and the door.

He never looked more like a stranger.

The once boyish charm which drew me to him was now a hollow mask as he hid himself behind his dark eyes. The face had no malignance—worse, it was soft, almost tender, like he really believed in what he was about to do. And that thought haunted me most terrifyingly.

"You are trembling," Peter said, his calm and soothing voice only making the fear spike higher. "I know it's a lot, really overwhelming, taking it all at once… but… it will be okay, I promise you."

"Peter, please," you whispered, your voice breaking into pieces at the seams. You could hardly utter a word without your throat choking it. "You don't have to do this. Let me out. I promise I won't tell the police—"

But that was where he cut you off by shaking his head sadly. "You don't understand. This is my home. It is where I belong. And now, it is where you belong too. We are part of something bigger here. Something meaningful."

"Meaningful?" you spat. "You kidnapped me, lied to me, and brought me here to…" The words cracked at the tightness in your throat. You couldn't even say them. I dawned onto you that you have been too trusting with Peer, but who wouldn't? Who knew that clumsy little sweet Peter was capable of doing something this fucked.

Peter stepped closer, casting a shadow over the too small room where it suddenly felt claustrophobic and anchoring. “I didn’t kidnap you. I saved you.”

His voice is insistent, though not harsh. “You were lost out there. Alone. No family, no one who cared about you. Don’t you see? This is your chance to start over, to have a purpose. To be loved.”

“Loved?” The word struck your lips like venom. “This isn’t love, Peter. This is… this is sick.”

It darkened slightly his countenance, as a spark of frustration crossed his face before it was replaced by forced patience. "You're scared," he softly pronounced. "That's normal. But fear does not last. Once you embrace your role, once you understand what we're building here, you'll see that it's not sick. It's beautiful."

“No,” you whispered, the soft sound swallowed by the thrumming of your heart. “No, this isn’t survival. This is—”

“But” Peter cut you off firmer now like a knife slicing through your protests. “It’s already decided. The village chose you. I chose you. And now… it’s time to fulfill your purpose.”

Peter looked at you, with a voice deceptively soft. “It’s not about what you want. It’s about what the village needs. What I need. We can’t let our bloodline die. Every generation, we bring someone in—someone like you. It’s how we survive. How we thrive.”

“Not,” that voice barely came out through the rapid pounding of your heart. "No, this isn't survival. This is—"

The words sent the waves of nausea throbbing through you. Your knees buckled, landing you onto the edge of the bed, your body shaking violently. Peter knelt before you, hands gentle as they gripped your knees. The touch made your skin crawl, but you were frozen, paralyzed by fear.

"You are afraid," he repeated, the tone almost tender. "it needs to be this way. After the ceremony, you'll see there is clearly a need for it."

"Peter," you choked out, barely in a whisper. "Don't do this, please."

He tilted his head, softening in expression as if he really thought given how pitiful you look. "This is for them. For us. For the village. You'll thank me one day."

The door creaked open, and two women stepped in to the door. They moved with quiet, almost unnerving precision their white, long, and flowing robes covering the ground as they entered. Both had faces that seemed devoid of emotion—serene but cold as if they had performed this ritual hundreds of times before.

You instinctively tried to press yourself into the corner of the bed pulling down from Peter. “Who are they?” you asked unsure though your voice came out shaky and weak.

Peter turned toward the women; his posture casual almost welcoming. “They’re here to help,” he said softly as though the explanation should comfort you.

Help. The word in your stomach was like poison. You didn’t need help. You needed to escape.

One of the women carried a bowl filled with a dark unknown substance that shimmered strangely in the candle's light. She laid the bowl down on a small wooden table near the bed, her movements carefully controlled. The other carried a smaller cup with her fingers clutching tightly as she looked at you.

“Don’t,” you said, your voice trembling as you shook your head. “I’m not drinking that.”

It’s just to help,” he said calmly. "You’ve been through so much. You lived so much. You’re shaking. You’re exhausted. This will relax you.”

“I don’t want to relax!” you cracked your voice rising in desperation. “I want to leave! Please, Peter, don’t do this!”

He sighed, as though disappointed but his patience did not waver. “I know you’re scared,” he said reaching out to hold his hand on your knee. “But this isn’t about fear. It’s about trust. You trust me, don’t you?”

Your stomach tilted and a cold wave of nausea was rolling over you. Why would he even ask that question? "Peter, you are not the person I thought you were. I don’t trust you. I don’t even know you anymore.”

Peter’s jaw tightened somewhat ever so slightly, as if flickering with guilt. Peter was the funny and clumsy guy you met at a party, but this Peter. You don't know which dimension he came from. But his guilt was immediately gone in an instant replaced by the same calm, unnervingly patient expression, accompanied with a reassuring smile that could've been comforting in different circumstances.

“It’s my fear. I think that can be said,” he said, his tone softening again. "Once you let go of this, you will see. You’ll feel better.”

He gestured toward the woman with the cup to reach closer to you. Her movements were graceful, fast rehearsed as she held the drinking. The cup itself was simple, wooden. But compared to what's inside looked nothing compared to ordinary. It was a dark murky brown with faint swirls of crimson that seemed to ripple on its own.

Your stomach churned at the sight of it, you wanted to gag at the thought of even coming in contact with that liquid, you said again "I won't drink that." Your voice barely above a whisper.

The woman didn’t respond. She held the cup in her hand, as if waiting for you drink it still.

Peter reached for your hand and firmly gripped on it, but not a forceful one. "It’s okay,” he said softly, his eyes locking with yours. “This will help you. I promise.”

You tried to pull your hand away, but his grip tightened, and the woman moved the cup closer to your lips. Panic rolled. Your heart began to beat, and tears were falling from your eyes. “No!” you shouted thrashing against Peter’s hold. “Let me go!”

But he didn’t let go. His strength was shocking and unyielding as he held your and instructed the woman to force the drink in your mouth. The dark liquid sloshed down the rim, spilling onto your trembling chin as you refused to open your mouth, moving your head back and forth so that you could just avoid the unknown and disgusting liquid.

“Please don’t fight this!” Peter shouted; his tone now laced with urgency and desperation. "It’s better if you just let it happen."

The woman tilted the cup and poured the thick liquid into your lips. You clenched your teeth, refusing to let it in. Peter’s hand moved to your jaw, his fingers pressing firmly until your mouth opened involuntarily. Liquid graced on your tongue, its taste vile and metallic like rotting herbs and rust.

You gagged and coughed violently as they forced you to swallow. The bitterness burned all the way down, leaving an acrid aftertaste that made you want to rip out your tongue, you fell on the bed as you gripped your throat—massaging your throat, a pathetic attempt to soothe the taste that felt like it travelled all the way down to your throat, it didn't have any burning sensation, it just felt like your throat had taste buds.

You convulsed on the bed, “What the- What was that?” you asked; out of breath as you tried to gasp for air.

Peter stood “You’re going to feel it soon,” he said, pushing a damp lock of hair off your brow.

It was a gentle warmth blooming in your chest, then outward like the bright afterglow from the strongest of drinks. Then it grew. It scorched through your veins, making your skin feel alive with a burst of tingling sensations. Your breaths came quicker as you kept trying to dismiss the feelings, but they just wouldn't listen.

“W-What is happening to me?” came the stammers from you in a trembling voice.

Peter knelt beside you again, touching your knee ever so lightly with his hand. “The elixir is working its magic on you,” he said kindly. “It allows you to let go. To free yourself to connect with what is meant to be.”

This warmth soon transformed into a more diabolical sensation, a slow burn that throbbed low in your stomach that stretched to your clothed womanhood. Suddenly every nerve ending on your skin was hypersensitive, sending a shiver down your spine against that crawl of fabric over your body. Heart racing, but it was hardly with fear.

“No,” you whispered, shaking your head. “No, this isn’t right.”

Peter merely smiled all the wider and relaxed his squeeze on your shoulder. “It’s okay to feel this way,” he said. “Your body is just responding. It’s natural.”

While your mind was telling you every reason to fight it off, your body would have none of it. That heat, the damn heat; it clouded everything snuffing off every thought but that strange feeling growing in you.

Peter leaned in closer as he whispered “This is how it’s supposed to be. Don’t fight it. Just let it happen.”

Your brain screamed against this intrusion, invoking all the force it could muster to reject it, to reject him. But your limbs felt heavy, thick, sluggish, as though they had been clapped into a steel frame. The drug took effect, you loathed it and wished to deny the dull calling of unwanted pleasure.

"Please," you managed to whisper, letting your tears flow down your cheeks. "Don't do this."

In every way this was wrong. You didn't want to partake in this, you wanted out. Peter was not the person you thought he would. Maybe he was before all of this, but not now.

Peter held your face with both his hands—gentle yet firm. "It's been done," he said, pinning his gaze on yours with steady resolve.

The heat had become unbearable; it drummed against your thoughts and created ceilings that pressed down on you. You could hardly breathe, each breath barely manageable since all control was lost over thoughts revolving around him. The very touch of him inflamed every nerve in your body.

Peter continued to lean forward until the distance separating your two faces became almost nonexistent. The darkness of his brown eyes was rendered soft, for all that, it was chillingly out of place now. "You're trembling," he said softly, his voice dipping with mock concern as he brushed his palm over your damp forehead, lingering perhaps a moment too long.

You turned your head away, yet your body was heavy and unwilling to cooperate. "P-please," you whispered, not even sure what it was you were begging for at this point—mercy, some distance, anything but this.

Peter's hand slid down again to cradle your face, thumb grazing your cheek. The warmth of his touch felt like additional treachery against your body, which leaned into his hand, once again, even though the screams of your mind were saying otherwise. "Shh," he said, his voice dropping to a soothing pitch. "It's okay. You're safe here. With me."

His words twisted a knife that lodged in your heart, and you were still trying to find a protest when his other hand clamped on your waist—gentle yet firm. Just enough pressure was applied to make acutely aware of every detail of your closeness: the scent of wood smoke and something faintly sweet, flooding your senses and drowning all your composure.

"You've had to fight for so long," he said; there was almost a tenderness in his voice. "Let it go—let me take care of you."

You shook your head weakly, your lips parting to say no words that would come. Everything in you resisted, heavily dulled by the drug that now crumbled your defenses and left you helpless to bask in warmth blossoming in your chest and the sickening affinity of Peter's presence.

He angled his face, gazing down at you as the thumb of his right hand traced the curve of your jaw. "So beautiful," he murmured, almost a whisper. "Yet you don't even see it? You are something else—so special."

The tears that had built up in your eyes crashed down, scalding lines down your cheeks. "Please," you said again, but it came almost like a feeble whisper, your power to protest fractured.

Peter leaned forward, and his breath ghosted over your lips. "I've waited for this," he murmured, as though revealing a secret. "Waited for you. I thought I would never even have a chance with you since you were so fucking smitten with your dick of a boyfriend. But you're mine now,"

And before you could think, hit him back or convince him otherwise, his lips crushed against yours.

The kiss was languid, purposeful, and claiming. His mouth flowed with an unsettling confidence, an almost eerie manifestation of such rehearsed movement, if it existed at all. You wanted to break apart from him and scream and fight him, but your body let you down one last time; it was folded under the drug and against the full force of his presence.

His hands moved, one remained cradling your face, while the other tightened at your waist as a gentle reminder that you belonged nowhere else. It was a kiss more claiming than forceful, a silent proclamation of his ownership over you.

He finally pulled away but only to press his forehead to yours, feeling warm against your skin. "It's time" he whispered, it was loud enough for the women to hear. They immediately scurried out of the room and closed the door on their way out.

Before even asking what was going on, Peter attacked your neck. You shrieked at his sudden actions. He kissed, licked, and bite every single portion of your neck.

Peter's hot tongue licked your skin as he leaned closer, lips barely grazing the curve of your neck. A shiver made its way down your spine as he softly sucked on the sensitive flesh, forming this sweet vacuum that made your heart stand still.

Peter kept on kissing and nibbling at your neck, fueling his excitement that grew hotter like a fire, determined to engulf you both. His hands tightened around your waist, drawing you closer as he deepened the kiss, lips and tongue moving together in a dance that spoke both pleasure and pain.

You winced; you want nothing more but for this to end. You tried to imagine yourself in another scenario, a happy one. That one time where Harry bought you this wonderful necklace for your one-year anniversary. Things were still calm, peaceful.

You were so deep in thought that the ripping sound of fabric made you flinch. You have realized that Peter has ripped off your thin graphic t-shirt, leaving nothing but your bra on full display for him. But of course, the bra didn't stay on for long.

He ripped your bra off you with such force. He threw the bra elsewhere, that was the least of his worries as your he saw your mounds with all its glory. Blood rushed up to his cock at the sight of you half naked and slightly damp from sweat. You on the other hand just wanted nothing more but all of this to end.

Peter leaned in, his lips grazing your skin down to the soft curve of your delicate breast. His mouth latched onto your nipple, and he started to suckle; the soft gentle tug sent a jolt of sensation radiating through your body. Your hands fisted the sheets as you let out a shriek.

"You have no idea how long I have waited for this moment" His words came in muffled since he was still stuffing his face with your breasts, but you heard it loud and clear. How blind were you? Peter has been lusting over you, longer than you even met him, how come you never realized it? All the warning signs were there, but they were subtle, now they're just coming to light now that it was too late.

He had grown more daring now, sucking, kissing, and licking every inch of your breasts. He nibbled and sucked at the curves, gently biting the flesh around them. Meanwhile, his hands traveled all over her torso, cupping and squeezing dear breasts as if to remember every contour.

"So beautiful," he whispered in between kisses. "Perfect. Mine." Those words sent a shuddering chill up your spine.

Peter stared into your eyes while he was sucking and nibbling on your breasts. They would have been a sweet sight if the present state of affairs were any different.

He released your nipple from his mouth, as drool connected from his lips to your erect nipples.

With urgent impatience, Peter fumbled with the buttons of his shirt and then tore it off, revealing a sculpted torso that demanded attention. The muscles of his torso flexed while he moved, and for a second, you could not help but look at the sheer grace and control that radiated off his body.

Now, Peter had long ceased to be interested in himself; he was now concentrating all his energy and attention on you. The moment he grabbed hold of your pants, and his fingers had clasped tightly around the waistband, panic ran through you at the sight of him pulling down on them. You didn't want to give in, not now, not ever.

Your hands went straight up to push against him; you punched at his chest with all the remaining strength that you have that wasn't stripped off by the drug. Your fruitless attempt on trying to gain some space between your bodies.

"Peter, no," you said, your voice wavering but earnest. "I don't want to. Please!"

His eyes never left the prize, and nothing was going to stop him. He yanked your pants down, regardless of how you kicked and thrashed against the force with which he was pulling. Your underwear met the cool air.

A wave of embarrassment washed over you as you realized that Peter was staring down at the small scrap of fabric that barely covered you in your most intimate area.

He wrapped his fingers around your underwear's waistband. You tried to squirm away from him, but he held you tight, his grip like a vice. In one swift motion, he ripped the fabric from your body, leaving you completely bare.

Peter's eyes had wandered across every inch of your naked body, you tried to look away from him, but your face was met with a wet pillow, you didn't even notice that you have let out a few tears.

Peter dove on to your crotch and his warm breath rolled over your sensitive skin like a wave of fire. His tongue flicked out as he suckled at your clit, and involuntarily, jolts of electricity pulsed up your spine. You attempted to push him off you once more, but Peter was far too strong

Peter continued his assault on your pussy, you felt a familiar sensation happening. You shook your head as your body betrayed you. Peter seemed to notice this, "There she is"

Before you knew it, he inserted a finger in your hole as he continuously licked your clit with such vigor.

You let out a strangled moan as your hand flew to his hair. Peter smirked at this as he slowly fucked you with his finger, which was a stark contrast to his tongue who ravished you like you were his last meal

"God, such a tasty pussy" He murmured, which just sent vibrations to your pussy. He continued, his tongue circles your clit, licking and sucking on it like he can't get enough. "Good lil fuckin pussy" He moaned as if he's the one getting head.

He continues to lap on your juices, slurping any arousal seeping through as if he hadn't drunk water in many years.

His voice low and soft, whispering how good it is, how perfect your sweet pussy was for him. "Fuck, baby, you're so fucking sweet—so good for me. God, I'm so glad your mine now." He kisses it so passionately, muttering praises to it while his tongue laps you up.

And as he continued to lick and suck at your clit, you felt a building pressure inside yourself. It felt like every nerve ending had been ignited by Peter’s ministrations.

Your legs stiffened, your hips jerked upwards, and your entire body began to tremble with anticipation.

With such joy and pain, you felt like you were seeing stars right in front of you. The intensity was too much to bear as your grip on Peter's hair tightened

That instant when the knot finally snapped and a deluge of pure, harmless ecstasy engulfed you, your body contorted, muscles oscillating and contracting rhythmically; an intense orgasm swooping upon you like a tempest.

Your legs stiffened and your toes curled in pleasure. You clutched at anything and everything. Peter's hair, bed linen, anything to hold on to the threads of reality, as everything before your eyes dissolved into an ocean of forced bliss.

River of tears were falling from your eyes. You couldn't help but reminiscence your time with Harry. For the first years you were together with Harry, he was sweet and loving, even if your relationship has turned sour after Harry found another hobby, he would never force himself inside you. When you had sex, it was always consensual.

With the final ripples of the orgasm fading away, Peter finally pulled his head from between your legs. His gaze brushed over you with a kind of possessive pride, and he took the disarray of your body in the messy fondle of your hair, the daze that lingered from where he brought you so close to the edge that you fell over it, and the slick of sweat glistening over your skin.

“You look tired,” Peter said with a soft almost guilty tone, "But I'm afraid that that was just to prepare you, were just beginning"

When those words came out his mouth you shook your head as you begged him, "Please Pete, please" You sobbed, your words barely even intelligible.

"Shhhhhhhh" He shushed you, "The more your accepting, the sooner this will end" No, you didn't want to accept this, there must be another way, there must be.

As he stood up and took off his pants, exposing his erect cock. His cock slightly bounced once the boxers were fully off of him. He climbed on top you as both of you were now fully naked as the day you were born.

"The bedding ceremony is about to begin” Peter said, low in his throat, his voice husky with desire. “It's going to hurt, but I think I prepped you enough”

He then aligned his cock to your slit. You gasped as his bulbous tip entered you, he wasn't big, but he was thick. He slowly pushed his cock inch by inch inside you, your sensitive flesh was still sore from the previous orgasm.

Peter suddenly thrusted deep inside you, fully losing patience, with a forcefulness that took your breath away. His cock touching your cervix when he bottomed inside you, it felt almost painful how intense it was.

“Please, Peter,” you pleaded, attempting to push him away. "You're hurting me."

But Peter just smiled at you, it gave you tingling shudders through your spine. “That's the first step of the ceremony” he said, pulling out then plunging back in. “You just have to learn to accept what I’m giving you, if you learn maybe Goddess will reward you"

His relentless cock was battering your insides, and you were starting to tear up. It was nearly unbearable agony; the pleasure was subtle that you could barely even get the gist of it, the searing warmth that burned itself into your very essence.

“Stop,” you said again, trying to wriggle out of his grasp. "Please just stop."

Through the pain and the fear, you never lost hope. So you fought back with a passion you never had before.

Your hands raked Peter’s chest, ripping at his skin to the point he grunted in surprise. Your fingers sank into his skin, but he only chuckled—a sound that was hollow and empty.

Unfazed, you fought on. Your teeth dug into his shoulder, biting down hard enough to make him hiss. But even as he grimaced, he wouldn’t stop — his hips pumping a relentless rhythm, one that threatened to swallow you whole.

You swung your fists, punching into Peter's face and chest with a frenzied abandon. Forced down in front of him as he sunk his cock deep within your needy hole, you tried to twist away, to squirm free as he held you in place, the weight of his body pinning your hands above your head, forcing you to take this.

And you tried, even though it was entirely pointless. You kicked your legs to try and buck him off you. But he was too heavy — too powerful — and he laughed again as he kept your legs pinned down beneath him.

With each thrust Peter grew more aggressive; almost brutal the heat inside you was burning you up; threatening to consume all reason and make you numb.

You were lost in the agonizing bliss, as Peter's cock continued its merciless assault on your insides. The fire in your belly grew more intense, it felt like it was spreading through your insides like wildfire.

"God, you're squeezing me so hard" Peter breathed as his thrusts slowed down just a little bit.

Yet whilst you sensed you were in pieces on the inside, that you were toppling apart, something in you relished it. It felt like your body had turned against you, reacting to the vicious attack with a disgusting cocktail of agony and pleasure.

Peter thrusts forward and you felt your hips bucking in time with his, your mind spinning in horror. It was like your body had created its own consciousness that responded immediately to the arousal with animal instinct that couldn't be suppressed.

You were losing yourself in the sensations, being sucked into a world both dark and depraved, where no line could be drawn between pain and pleasure. It was the most terrifying feeling in the world, when you wondered if you would ever find a way out of the grip of this monster who was responsible for everything.

With every thrust, Peter became more aggressive, more brutal - You could feel yourself losing control; teetering on edge, ready to plunge headfirst into unknown; uncertainty ignited both fear and anticipation.

Your breaths were coming in small gasps now as Peter gripped your hips, his fingers digging into your skin like a vice. You attempted to move; attempted to wriggle against him—but it was futile: he was too strong

This friction just poured gasoline into the flames that had been raging within you—turning those pleasurable sensations into unbearable ones. The edge of your sight blurs out; stars dance along the border of your vision as the world narrows down on a single point of focus: Peter

In pure ecstasy moment you found yourself surrendering, submitting to the wave pleasure that is tearing up your body. Its fear inducing and freeing sensation — like leaping off a precipice without a net — not knowing what awaits at the base.

The world went white and quiet. You hear Peters voice in your ear whispering "Come for me" and with that your body explodes into thousand pieces

You weren't sure what happened, your mind all fogged and your pussy sore. The only thing you have noticed was that Peter was still thrusting inside you.

He leaned as he whispered the most haunting words into your ear, "I almost feel bad for you. I guess you should always follow what your parents says, don't trust strangers"

@gloomskulls 2024. DON'T COPY, TRANSLATE OR USE ANY OF MY WORKS HERE OR ANY OTHER WEBSITES. Photos don't belong to me

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morikosa · 2 months ago

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hiii i hope u are doing great i have a request can u write a ff where reader is a massive crush on gojo for 2 years and he rejects her really harshly and she decides to move on from him and she gets a guy who really love her like love in first sight of thing and later gojo regrets and realizes what he lost you can end it however u like

IT'S TOO LATE

You had always known, deep down, that the kind of love you felt for Gojo Satoru was one-sided. It wasn’t something he’d ever say out loud, but you saw it in the way his eyes flicked over to you just before he would laugh with his other friends, how his attention always wandered, and how he dismissed your feelings in that way that only someone with too much power could.

For two years, you had quietly fallen for him. It wasn’t a glamorous or fast-paced love. It wasn’t like the stories or dramas that flooded your mind in moments of loneliness. No, your love for him was the quiet kind, nurtured by little moments over time.

You couldn’t even say exactly when it had started, this crush that would turn into something much heavier than you had anticipated. Perhaps it was during those long nights in the library, the way his laughter echoed through the halls after missions, or maybe it was when you found yourself alone in the same room, and you realized just how much he pulled at your heartstrings with every casual smile. But you were patient.

You were waiting for a moment when he would see you—not as the second-strongest sorcerer, not as his teammate, not as the girl who was too shy to speak up—but as someone he could love. And that moment came, one fateful afternoon.

You had decided, finally, to confess. It was a quiet day at Jujutsu High, no missions, no curses lurking in the corners. Just the two of you in the garden, under the canopy of trees. Gojo was lounging lazily on the grass, his sunglasses perched on his head, eyes closed as he half-listened to you babble about something you didn’t even care to remember.

But you cared about him.

So, gathering your courage, you whispered, “Gojo, I… I need to tell you something.”

His eyes fluttered open lazily, and for once, he wasn’t smiling. It was just you and him. The kind of moment that, in hindsight, should’ve felt perfect, but instead, felt like it was setting you up for something worse than you could have ever imagined.

He sat up, brushing a lock of hair from his face, clearly waiting for whatever confession you had in mind. “What’s up?”

“I like you,” you said, heart racing. “I have for a while. I... think I’ve loved you.”

For a moment, there was nothing but silence between the two of you. The world seemed to hold its breath. You waited, your fingers twisting nervously in front of you, hoping, praying for him to say something kind, something that would make you feel like the decision you had made was the right one.

But instead, Gojo burst out laughing. Not the easy, carefree laugh you were used to, but something harsh, something detached. “What?” He wiped his eyes as if your confession were the funniest thing he had ever heard.

“No. No way, don’t be ridiculous.”

You froze, that familiar ache starting to grow in your chest. He stood up, pacing slightly, still laughing in disbelief, and then turned to face you, eyes glinting behind his sunglasses.

“You and me? That’s a joke, right? You’re like a little sister to me, don’t make this awkward. Besides, I’ve got too much on my plate with being me to entertain something like that.”

The words cut deeper than any curse he could have thrown at you. A little sister. You had always been more than that to him, hadn’t you? He brushed it off, acting as though it didn’t matter. But it mattered. It mattered more than anything else in that moment.

Your heart shattered into a thousand pieces, but you kept your composure. No tears, no visible crack in your voice. You stood, nodding slowly, feeling a coldness descend upon your skin.

“Yeah, I get it,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper. “I’m sorry for bothering you.”

With that, you turned and walked away, leaving Gojo to his comfortable oblivion.

You could have stayed. You could have let your heart linger in the space where Gojo’s rejection had made its mark. You could have waited for him to come around, to realize how wrong he was, to apologize and see the way you had always seen him. But you knew better than that. You knew you had to move on. You couldn’t keep hoping for someone who didn’t see you.

It was time to stop being his shadow. It was time to become something more.

Months passed, and life at Jujutsu High went on. You became more focused on your training, your missions, and your own personal growth. No longer did you wake up hoping to catch a glimpse of Gojo. No longer did you wait for a random moment where he might look at you the way you had always wanted.

And then, one evening, you met him.

Kaito.

He was a civilian—a regular person, completely unaware of the cursed world that surrounded him. It was a chance encounter. He had gotten lost while traveling, and you had helped him find his way. You didn’t think much of it at first. He was kind, funny, with a quiet intensity that seemed to balance you out. But then, as days turned into weeks, you realized that he saw you. Really saw you.

He wasn’t intimidated by your strength or your connection to the world of jujutsu sorcery. He didn’t fear you. He didn’t put you on a pedestal.

He simply loved you.

Kaito fell in love with you easily—like something destined to happen, like fate’s gentle hand guiding him toward you. It wasn’t an overwhelming love that hit you in a rush. No, it was slow, steady, building in the space where Gojo’s rejection had left you empty. And you allowed yourself to love him back.

It wasn’t instant. It took time. But with every smile, every shared moment, you saw him. You saw Kaito—the man who was everything you had needed but never thought you could have.

Gojo noticed it first in the smallest of ways.

You didn’t greet him with your usual soft smile in the mornings. You used to light up when you saw him, a subtle wave or quiet

“Good morning, Satoru.” Now, you barely glanced at him in the halls. If you spoke, it was out of duty—curt, professional.

He chalked it up to awkwardness at first. Maybe you were embarrassed about your confession. Maybe you needed space. But weeks passed. Then months.

And your silence didn’t fade—it hardened.

Gojo had always been surrounded by attention. Admiration followed him like the sun, unyielding and predictable. People wanted his power, his charm, his approval. He’d gotten used to it. Complacent. But you?

You’d always been different.

You were soft-spoken, warm in ways the world wasn’t, but you never asked for anything from him. You offered kindness freely—never expecting, never demanding.

And he—he had destroyed that.

At first, he convinced himself he’d done the right thing. He wasn’t boyfriend material. He was too dangerous, too complicated. Getting close to him would only get you hurt. It was better to crush your feelings early than to let you suffer later.

That’s what he told himself.

But now? He wasn’t so sure.

Because the version of you that existed now—quiet, distant, unreadable—was a stranger.

He missed your voice. He missed your dumb little jokes, your way of bringing tea to the library when he was passed out on the desk, the softness in your gaze that no longer belonged to him.

He realized he hadn’t just lost a confession. He had lost you. And that realization came with a bitter twist when he saw you in town, laughing—really laughing—with someone else.

Gojo had just finished a solo mission and was grabbing some sweet from a bakery when he caught a glimpse of you near the bookstore across the road.

You were with a man.

Not a sorcerer. Just… someone ordinary.

But the way he held your hand, the way you leaned into him, the way your eyes sparkled—

It gutted him.

#gojo x reader #jjk x reader #gojo satoru #jjk gojo #gojo saturo #satoru #satoru gojo #jjk angst #gojo angst #angst #gojo satoru x reader #tw. dark content #satoru x reader #satoru gojo x reader #jjk satoru #jujutsu satoru #gojo x you

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bvrnesher · 2 months ago

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❝ Write me a Sonnet ! ❞ — part. i

🫧 ꣑𓍢 Stormy's Typewriter;; Write me a Sonnet, part. i ♡ starting a series—if I make a part ii, of course.

✦ — tap here for my chb masterlist !

YOU SAW HIM PASS BY every day.

Each morning, while the sun still yawned over breakfast. Each afternoon, in the dust and discipline of your legion training. And how could you not see him, when Jason Grace was everywhere? Wherever your gaze wandered—there he was. Those blue eyes, bold as a love sonnet whispered from heart to heart, always holding a quiet certainty that things would turn out as they should.

There was something in him. Perhaps in the way his steps never faltered, as if the ground itself recognized him. Or maybe in the way his presence entered a room—not loudly, not seeking, but inescapably. He carried something rare, something magnetic. A stillness that spoke louder than noise. A command not of force, but of calm. He drew attention not to boast, but to balance. He inspired respect not through fear, but through the ease with which he bore himself.

And when your eyes found him—when they truly settled on him—something shifted. A spark. A quiet bloom of warmth beneath your ribs. As if the world tilted, just slightly, to let a little more light in. As if, for a fleeting breath, everything became more vivid. His eyes shimmered beneath any kind of sky—sunlight, torchlight, even the gray of storm clouds—always clearer, always brighter, always transparent.

They say the eyes are the windows to the heart. And with him, that saying became truth, sacred and unshakable. Looking into his eyes felt like stepping into something eternal—something vast and kind, unafraid. But that truth only lasted as long as you didn’t look at your own reflection.

Because in the mirror, or in the river’s surface, or in any glass that dared to hold your face, your eyes told a different story. There was no light in them. Nothing remarkable. Nothing anyone might pause to admire, not without effort or pretense. They were just… eyes. Yours. And they never shone the way his did.

Still, you longed. Not in the desperate way of fairy tales, but in the quiet, enduring way of rituals. You longed for him with the same steady pull that led your feet, every morning, down the path that crossed his. It wasn’t that you followed him—of course not. You simply happened to walk the same road. At the same time. Every day. A small grace. A secret blessing. To exist, if only in passing, in the orbit of his light.

Jason was a dream. Not just yours. He was the dream of the whole camp. The kind you don’t dare touch, only admire from a reverent distance. He was the example. The ideal. The leader who never faltered. The perfect praetor—steady hands, clear mind, eyes fixed on something greater than himself. Always ready. Always prepared to rise when called, to carry the weight when no one else could.

And still, despite all that, he never once looked down on the rest of you.

And maybe that was the cruelest part of it all.

Though he always seemed a little... stoic. Distant, even. Not unfriendly, not unkind—just unreachable in a way that made you hesitate before speaking. It wasn’t that he dismissed others or held himself above anyone. He was polite, gracious even, but always with a kind of calm detachment, like his thoughts were anchored somewhere far beyond what the rest of you could see. He would listen, offer one of those soft nods or easy smiles, and then disappear into his duties with the kind of focus only someone born under the weight of Jupiter’s name could carry.

And that’s how you found yourself here.

You didn’t even remember the first time something in you began to change. There was no clear before and after, no sudden realization. Maybe it started the first time your paths crossed in those in-between spaces of Camp Jupiter—at the same corners, the same quiet hours, the same stretch of road beneath a pale sky. Or maybe it was him who began appearing in your world, as if drawn in by something.

It wasn’t anything dramatic. Just small things. Glimpses. Accidental eye contact. The way your steps sometimes fell in sync when he walked past. Things so subtle they almost didn’t exist. So quiet you convinced yourself you imagined them. And maybe you had. You’d always been good at keeping yourself grounded, at focusing on your training, on your responsibilities—on what was expected of you. That life was steady. Predictable. Safe. You were like everyone else in the legion: loyal, capable, tired. The afternoons were long, your muscles sore, your thoughts often drifting as you walked home beneath the orange spill of sunset.

It became a routine. After training, you would walk past the Senate House, letting your feet carry you wherever the day’s thoughts took you. You weren’t searching for anything. You weren’t chasing him. But still, every evening you found yourself in the same place, at the same time, always alone, always walking the path he sometimes took. There was something peaceful in those moments, something honest. You were nearing your fourth year of service. Some days had slipped by like dreams, others had dragged like stones, but you had endured them all. That counted for something. You were still standing.

And then, it changed. Not all at once. Not in a way you could name. It was subtle, like a shift in the wind or the way the light feels different just before a storm. You didn’t notice until much later, until the moment had already happened.

One day, as you passed the Senate House, the sun was beginning to fall behind the mountains, the sky melting into shades of amber and violet. It stretched above you like a painting in motion, and for a moment, it made everything feel still—like the day itself was holding its breath. You were distracted, fiddling absentmindedly with one of your earrings, your thoughts tangled in something quiet and soft. You weren’t looking where you were going. You were watching the way the sun dipped behind the ridgeline, disappearing slowly, as if reluctant to leave.

And then, a brush. A soft bump at your side—barely a touch, really. You flinched out of instinct, and before you could turn fully, a hand settled briefly on your shoulder. Warm, steady, grounding. It was only there for a heartbeat, but it left something behind. Not a mark. Not a bruise. Just a spark. Like electricity beneath your armor, humming low and sharp.

"Sorry," came the voice—quick, almost casual, as if the word had left his mouth before he even registered the contact.

You knew that voice.

You turned, already knowing what you'd find—or rather, what you wouldn't. He was already walking away, not looking back, his steps easy, unaffected. But your eyes followed him anyway, caught in that moment like a thread pulled taut between you.

Jason Grace.

And it was, you were almost certain, the first time he had ever said a word meant only for you.

💐 — a/n: This is a short one, but I intend to maybe make it into a series? Anyway, I tried something new with my writing in this one. It's the first time I've published something like this, so I hope it's not bad. 🫂 + I was sleepy while writing this, so it's probably a shit.

🏷: taglist open ! — if I do write more 🤟🏻

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anki-of-beleriand · 10 months ago

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The Best Kept Secrets - Ch. 1

Summary: Wanda was on the verge of breaking down when she was called to attend her brother's engagement party. Alone and unable to keep up with her father's expectations she makes a deal with the devil that would lead her to discover a side of her that may either destroy her or bring the happiness she so craves for herself.

Pairing: Female!Reader x Wanda Maximoff

Warnings: au, Moder setting, No powered charcaters, cheating, idiots in love, unrequite/requited love, jealousy, drama, angst, broken hearts, homophobia, more warnings as chapters come in.

Author's Note: Hello guys! I hope all of you are doing amazing. So, now that I finished two of my favourite stories, I would love to start a new one. Now I need to warn you, this is a real story, some of the events you are going to read happen in real life and of course charcaters had been changed and adapt to fall into place with the story.

Thank you for reading, and giving me the chance to share this with you. Remember English is not my mother tongue, so apologise in advanced for any grammar, spelling or funny mistake you may find in here.

Chapter 1

Nothing to write home about

In the present…

- St Pancras International Railway Station, 3:30pm -

It hadn’t stopped raining since you left home almost two hours ago.

You stood by the platform with your eyes glancing at the empty space surrounding the station, your mind completely blank as you detach yourself from the world. The sound of conversation and laughter grew louder around you, it was a cold day and the jacket barely covering your trembling body; the weight of the last year came crashing down into your soul as the train finally made a stop and people started disembarking scattering around while ignoring your lone figure standing still.

The train was punctual, as always.

You lifted your eyes to the sky, the dark clouds gliding above your head reflecting the storm breaking into your heart.

A lot had happened in a year, and you wished you had been spared the heartbreak of having met the woman that was now haunting your dreams.

You snorted wiping away the tears falling down your cheeks, your hand tightened around the handle. It was not used thinking about the past, nor was it worthy to dwell in it; yet as soon as you went inside the railway truck trying to get away from your life in England.

Your eyes closed tightly, your ears straining to hear the people filling out the wagon as you waited for the train to leave the station. You wished it was easy to forget, that your mind was not fixated on what had happened and that your heart was not so foolish as to hope.

Without opening your eyes, and with your eyes filled with tears you wished, not for the first time, that you could forget…

How everything started a year ago…In the past

“It’s raining.” The voice broke the silence in the library, you snorted leaning back against the chair while holding the book closer to your face.

“This is London, it is always raining.” You replied curtly trying to catch the words on the book before settling down on the table.

You knew it was useless to continue working while you have your roommate tapping on the table with her fingers, you cocked your head raising a brow at her. Natasha Romanoff huffed, tapping rapidly her eyes going from the window to you, then back again.

“What is it?” You finally asked, the young woman shrugged but after you glared at her she rolled her eyes straightening up.

“There is going to be a party, more like a function tonight.” Natasha gauged your expression, her green eyes gleaming with a silent request you were dreading already. “Everyone is going to be there, and I want you to go with me. As a date.”

“As a favour.”

Natasha couldn’t hide her wince, and you could only snort at her obvious attempts to get you on her side. You knew what she was interested in, a blond-haired woman that had caught her attention after a conference in which the woman had charmed her way into Natasha’s mind. The redhead leaned forward placing her hand on yours, there was a soft pleadingly glance in her and you knew you were sold as soon as you made eye contact.

“I really want to see her again,” Natasha was not one to ask for favours, she had learnt from an early age to never let anyone have a hold on her and this petition was something you knew cost her not only her pride but also her confidence.

“What do I gain with this?” You crossed your arms refusing to give into the smile that broke into Natasha’s face.

“Well, for one, you may finally get to meet someone.”

You snorted, rolling your eyes, “doubt it. Continue.”

Natasha scowled at that, she really wished you stopped thinking you were not good enough or attractive enough, or smart, and funny, and lovely enough for anyone out there. She knew that you hadn’t had the best of childhoods, and that your experience with friends and relationships had only left a broken mark in your heart and soul.

“This is also a chance to get to know people that may be interested in investing on your investigation,” this time around Natasha could see that she caught your attention, she held back her smile without stopping her rant, “I mean, I know the school has given you full support with the doctorate, but to continue your work you will need someone supporting the investigation.”

You chewed on your lower lip, lowering your gaze for a moment. It was true that you had been looking into someone that might have wanted to be interested in your area of expertise, it was hard as it was to find someone interested in history, much less in founding an investigation on that field. You could know those events usually hosted people whose interest in such topics were what you needed.

“I guess I could go with you,” you finally gave in, rolling your eyes while ignoring the triumphant smirk Natasha was shooting your way. “But I don’t want setups! And I don’t want you pushing me to get the phone number of anyone, got it?”

Natasha hesitated for a moment before she finally gave in, “I promised.”

“Good, then when is this thing happening?”

Natasha’s smirk grew even more, and a feeling of dread settled in your stomach; for some reason, you couldn’t help thinking her smile was hiding her real intentions with this sudden invitation. But your head soon dismissed that thought, even if that was the case, Natasha had always been transparent in her set ups and she had already promised this wouldn’t be one of her plans to set you up with one of her crazy friends.

At least, that was what you hoped for.

______________________________________________________________________________________

Kate pursed her lips watching amusedly as Wanda failed her to strike the golf ball with her club. The young woman was grabbing the thing with all her strength while holding her posture just as tense, this was the fifth time she failed to hit the ball and it was going from amusing to just plain pitiful.

“I can’t believe…” Wanda gritted her teeth throwing the club to the ground, Kate came right at her holding her tightly while she sobbed into her arms.

The tension had come after the news of Jarvis’ marriage reached out to them; it had been a normal day at the club. Nothing too out of the ordinary until one of the oldest ladies in the club came to Wanda’s mother with the latest news about the young hair to the Jarvis fortune. He had married the woman of his dreams, the one he had been dating officially while messing around with Wanda just before leaving her humiliated and broken-hearted.

The man had done anything and everything he could with the young brunette, he had actually dared to talk about marriage and a future with Wanda until the very end.

“Wanda, dear, you never thought I would actually go through with it, did you?”

The man had said to Wanda after she found out about his fiancée, Wanda had been standing by the door of his flat, the man sneering down at her.

“You were there to help me prepare for my future; you were a good plaything until I have to settle down. I hope you don’t take this personally, but I do need a real woman in my life. Not you.”

Up until then Wanda had accepted the secrecy of her relationship with Jarvis, she had enjoyed the solitude of their relationship until it was quite evident the man didn’t have any intention of presenting her to his family. Or to meet hers.

“I was such an idiot.” Wanda mumbled hugging Kate tightly, wishing they were alone in the golf course.

“No, Wands, he was an idiot. That motherfucker…” Kate said, earning a watery chuckle from Wanda.

Kate placed her hands on Wanda’s arms, she offered a tender smile shrugging.

“Wanda, there was no way for you to know what was happening…”

“I should have known, you know?” Wanda placed a hand on her face, she tried to cover her eyes while letting the pain pierced her skin, with her heart twitching uncomfortably inside her chest. “I wish I could die.”

Kate lowered her gaze, hating to see her best friend in such depression, she hated knowing Wanda had been fighting all her life against her own insecurities and the heartbreaks that come with who she really was and how much she was worth. It had been like that for people like them, everyone thought money was everything, that it would get them happiness, and healthy relationships, but in reality it had broken a deep voice that sometimes they filled with whoever showed them a glimpse of kindness and love.

“Perhaps…I just…” Wanda trailed off, she took a deep breath and then looked away. “Perhaps I was not meant to be loved.”

Before Kate could say anything about it Wanda turned to her, “let’s just keep playing, I want to forget for a moment. Please?”

Kate wanted to say something else, anything to help Wanda through the pain of what had happened in the lapse of a month. Her life had changed, and it seemed as if the world had conspired to make her life a misery. With a last sympathetic glance, Kate Bishop grabbed her club and followed her best friend through the golf course making sure she could vent her frustrations without giving into desperation.

Afternoon had fallen rather fast for Wanda’s liking.

She sat at the table Wearing the same clothes she had used during her game, the weather inside had worsened with heavy rain falling onto the club's property. She grabbed her cup of tea hearing the story from Gwen who had found Kate and herself resting in a corner of the restaurant. Wanda had drifted away after she started telling them of her oncoming engagement party.

“Of course the both of you are invited, I still haven't decided on how many people will attend,” Gwen fixed her hair giving a lighthearted giggle, “but let's say that Peter had already panicked and the sheer amount of people we are inviting.”

The conversation could have died there, no more was necessary but Gwen had always been naive and just a little dense about the reality of the world. She settled her grey eyes on Wanda, a twitched of the woman's lips told Kate she should say something but she was too slow to react.

“I have heard from a very good source that Victor Von Doom would be there, and your stepmother has already made arrangements for you to be escorted by him to the reception.” Gwen leaned forward placing her hand on top of Wanda’s one mistaking her dumbfounded glance for one of shocked nervousness.

“Aren't you happy about it? I know he has tried to get into your father's good light. and he even asked Pietro if he could approach you with the intention of dating you.”

“Excuse me?” By now Wanda was trembling indignantly, she knew pretty well what the intentions of the man were. Ever since she was in high school he had tried to buy her and her father to get access to the family's reputation.

Wanda despised him, he was an arrogant jerk who could care less about her desires or her feelings. The fact that her stepmother was dealing to get the man into a party that she would potentially attend was insulting and quite frankly disturbing.

Gwen blinked confusedly, grabbing by then the tone of voice from Wanda. Her face fell and Kate felt sympathy for the blond-haired woman who was now fidgeting under Wanda’s glare.

“Van Doom is an imbecile whose reputation has been tainted by his inability to hold a business standing,” Wanda stood up, whatever frustrations she had been experiencing in the last month finally getting the best out of her. “Frankly I pitied the woman that fell into his hands, now Gwen if you excuse me I have a function to attend and I am already late to get ready for the event.”

Wanda stood up leaving the table in a rush, Gwen sat there furrowing her brows torn between being offended and perplexed. Kat stood up as well, she shot Gwen a smile placing her hand on top of Gwen's one.

“You better don't invite that man to the party, Gwen. Wanda really hates him, and the fact her stepmother is messing around to try and set her up would be a door to conflict.”

Gwen shifted frowning, “Kate, I'm looking out for her. It has been so long since she dated someone, we all are getting either married or have a relationship going on whereas she is…alone. It's not right. I was just trying to get her to meet someone, perhaps dated and have a family on her own?”

Kate winced at those words, Gwen had been their best friend for as long as they could remember. But as soon as high school ended it was quite obvious where her interest lay and this had erected an invisible wall amongst them. Gwen looked up at Kate trying to find agreement there, but she knew her friends were free spirits, they were always following their own rules and most of the time Gwen didn't find that wise, or even practical.

“Look I know that, but Wanda.she is not like that. You know that. For her what she is doing right now is important,and she really does not care for marriage. At least not out of social convenience.” Kate offered a half smile, “you were lucky you met a man you fell in love With and that loved you back, but you know that is not the case and regardless of what you or the others said…”

“Wanda wants to fall in love. To be loved and loved back.” Gwen nodded as if finally understanding, she softened her features, a flash of urgency growing in her grey irises. “Oh, I didn't want to…”

“I know, but Gwen you need to start listening to others and start listening to yourself and stand for what you think is right or not,” Kate hesitated before giving the blond a hug. “It was good to see you, Gwen. Don't be a stranger.”

“Please, tell Wanda I'm sorry and I will make sure no one she doesn't like is invited to my engagement.”

Kate walked away from the place rather relieved to know Gwen found a real man that cherished and loved her dearly. She didn't want to think what would have happened if a different individual had approached Gwen when she was younger. With determination behind her strides, Kate strolled down the halls towards the parking lot. In no time she found the car, Wanda was looking gloomily to the horizon, detached from what was happening around her while the tears gleamed under the thunder breaking into the sky. Kate huffed running under the rain before going into the car.

“Gwen says she is sorry.”

“Hn, okay.”

Wanda turned the engine on, she grabbed the wheel tightly, breathing deeply. Her face fell for a moment, then with a tired stare she turned to Kate.

“Will you go with me tonight?”

Kate nodded shifting in the seat, “you know I will.”

“Thank you.”

Nothing more was said, but Wanda couldn't stop thinking about her life in the last couple of months. She wished she had never believed the lies woven by Jarvis, that she hadn't fallen in love with the man to the point she was ready to forsake Her family and her life for him. She remembered those moments she shared with the man, his sweet words when taking her out on dates and trips, the moments of passion they shared in her flat and the secrecy with which he held their relationship. She had been such a fool, well-played by a man who looked nothing more than the comfort she could offer while his official girlfriend found herself in the spotlight as the love of his life. Wanda had always felt the twisting pain of the knife in her heart, she had seen the red flags and yet her love for Jarvis had blinded her to all of them.

Now, she was alone, broken, and unloved.

Just as it was supposed to be.

With a sob leaving her lips, Wanda cleared her throat and held back her tears. She needed to stop crying, and she needed to get out of her own misery, her mind turning to her friends and work. If she focused on them, perhaps the dull pain in her heart would recede and she would find peace once more.

_______________________

The moment you were welcomed into the world of Academics, you thought it would be a place where nerds of all ages would be around reading, working on new mathematical theories or perhaps on the newest inventions that would change the world. It was something out of the stereotypical image people had of the academic world.

The were mistaken, of course

Most of the time you found yourself in fancy dinners, and in multiple conferences in which your main task was to forge some kind of engagement and gain the favour of a rich individual to donate to your investigation, your department or perhaps the school itself. It was exhausting, you had to smile and shake hands while pretending to like everyone you came across.

The night was still young, yet you had already caught sight of important personalities attending the function meant to give money and brains to the military. Your eyes caught sight of Jean Gray and her husband Scott talking with Professor Reed and Sue Storm. Then, just as you suspected it, you found Bruce Banner talking animatedly to some woman wearing a military uniform while Another one stood in the distance. If Bruce Banner had come to this meeting then, that meant…

“Well, well, well, if it isn't my favourite theorist in the whole wide world!”

You winced hearing the deep, baritone voice of the one and only Tony Stark. You winced and straightened up while turning around, the man was smirking at you with his eyes covered by the shades he usually brought to every event. His hand stretched out, without any hesitation you took it in yours without hiding your perplexity at the encounter.

“Tony.” Your greet was formal, with just a hint of curiosity in it.

“I thought you didn't like these kinds of events.”

“I don't.” Your reply was received with an incredulous stare.

“Then, what are you doing here?”

You wondered the same thing after going back home and getting ready for the night. Natasha had selected your clothes carefully, and her instructions about your behaviour had been quite clear. At the moment, you were just waiting for the redhead to arrive and lead the rest of the night until it was time for her to approach her blond-haired angel.

“You never know where you would find the love of your life, Tony. So, I am here waiting to see if anyone in this forsaken place knows more about arts, science, and books than money and fuckery in general.”

Tony bursted out laughing, placing a hand on your forearm, you snorted, shaking your head while matching the grin the older man wore at the moment. You had been but a teenager when Stark Industries had discovered you in the dirty and forgotten streets of Colombia. A missing child with almost zero chances to grow beyond a mediocre job and education, you had solved a puzzle the Learning and Development department at Stark Industries had devised to hunt for geniuses around the world. Of all the people they recruited at that time, you were the only one that actually got to climb up the ladder inside the Industries and the University.

You had always thought this would earn you powerful enemies, however the total opposite happened and now Tony Stark stood behind you as your protector and main source of income.

“I thought you didn't believe in love.” He stated offering his arm to you, after a moment of hesitation you hooked your arm with his and started walking around the great hall.

“I don't.” The answer rolled out of your lips with conviction, your eyes sweeping the hall trying to locate Natasha.

“And yet, I bet you are looking for that one connection that may change your life.” Tony placed a soothing hand on yours, his eyes downcast for a moment.

“Do you believe in love, Tony?”

Tony chuckled, cocking his head, “I do.”

You snorted with a hint of disbelief in your eyes.

“You are a womaniser.”

“Was.”

The word was said with fire and determination, you couldn’t help the surprise in your eyes while the older man shrugged nodding to the balcony. You followed his stare, your eyes caught sight of a group of people talking in The cold of the night.

“There is someone I want you to meet.” Tony chanted hisnvoice, the sudden hardening of his words Told you he meant business. “He is an old friend of my dad, and has been an important member of the Oxford Board, and a private consultant for the Parliament.”

You raised your brows, now completely at loss as to why Tony was taking you to this person while wondering if perhaps the invitation from Natasha was for another reason. Tony sensed your trepidation, he offered a smile making sure you were looking into his eyes.

“You have the potential to be exceptional, your mind and the way you work are your innate advantages and it is about time you break that comfort zone of yours and start exploring something else.”

“Tony, I thank you for everything you have done for me, but something like this…” you trailed off when Tony shook his head.

“I know why you have been hiding, but whatever happens you will always count on me.” Tony winked at you resuming his stroll towards the balcony. “Besides, who knows? Perhaps this is what you need to start believing in yourself and you may even find love.”

You held onto your scepticism, you knew the man had a soft spot for you and he has been supporting you from an early age, this was the only reason why you didn't contradict him and decided to follow him up on his offer. There was nothing wrong with that, after all, and perhaps this encounter would give you the chance to try something new. Something different.

It was a dark and cold night.

The sound of muffled conversation coming from the main hall could barely be heard once they stepped into the balcony. You lifted your face welcoming the cold wind brushing your heated skin, your arms shivered with goosebumps travelling down your back.

You lowered your gaze, finding yourself looking into the deepest shade of green eyes that you had ever seen before. They belonged to a young woman that was wearing a white dress with her hair falling like a cascade of cobalt contrasting with her white, smooth skin and the soft blush on her cheeks. The woman was beautiful, her intense stare caught your breath while your lower abdomen broke into a myriad of fluttering butterflies. Your words caught in your throat, and your mind flash a red warning, as if you were forgetting something important but couldn't grasp what it really was.

It didn't matter, though.

As soon as your eyes found those of the young woman you could only see contempt and just a tad bit of annoyance. You furrowed your brows, confused at her reaction to seeing you. What was with the hate?

“Tony Stark, I didn’t know you were in the country.”

Your attention was soon claimed by the command hidden behind that voice, your face turned to a mature man with dark, brown eyes and a comforting smile. His eyes shone smartly while they turned from Tony to you then back to the other man, he placed the hands on the armrest on the wheelchair he was sitting in. You tried to focus your attention on him, but the glare coming from the beautiful woman behind him was making it quite difficult to concentrate.

“I arrived yesterday, and have some business to attend to.” Tony then stretched his hand towards you, stepping aside to give you the spotlight.

You stood rather awkwardly, the black dress you decided to wear tight around your body with the cold night brushing your skin. The man sitting on the wheelchair lifted a single eyebrow, his lips never lost the kind smile but it were those eyes holding a spark of mischief that made you wonder just what the hell were you missing.

“I want to introduce you to my protegee, Y/N Y/LN.”

The man nodded towards you, lifting his hand while making sure to never break eye contact. You wiggled, stepping closer and taking the warm hand in yours.

“It is a pleasure to meet you, sir.”

“Charles Xavier, at your service.”

The name clicked inside your head, your eyes went wide while you took in the form of the man then back to Tony who was smiling at you all smugly and proud.

“I’m sorry sir, you said Charles Xavier? As in Profesor Charles?” You asked lifting your eyes when the brunette snorted, rolling her eyes before settling her glare on you.

“The very same, I see my reputation precedes me.” Charles stated highly amused, he gave you a quick glance more to examine you than to actually give a check over. “But the one who is actually surprised is me.”

“You, sir?”

“I am ashamed to admit I thought you were older than what you really are.” Charles stated leaning back, he never lost his smile and his eyes went from you to Tony.

“That’s a common mistake, sir. But you are really a legend.” This time around you sounded excited to meet the man, Tony puffed out his chest knowing he had done the right thing.

“Oh, please, an old legend ready to give way to the newest generation.” This time around he waved away his hand before turning to the woman standing silently behind him, “let me introduce you to my goddaughter who is uncharacteristically quiet this evening. Wanda Maximoff.”

Now everything came crashing down inside your mind.

Your arm that was already stretching out to offer your hand stopped midway, your eyes shot up rather quickly and you found yourself looking into Wanda’s own eyes and you understood then and there the resentment.

You knew that young woman, you had seen her before and had even kissed her once in a public place that ended up with her fighting her boyfriend after the incident.

The initial shock waved off, your lips broke into an easy smile that soon was joined by your eyes and amusement was clearly drawn in your face. The woman narrowed her eyes, she stepped forward and, not for the first time, she slapped you before turning to the old man who was flabbergasted.

“Uncle Charles, I think I am not feeling well. Thank you for the invite, I will text you as soon as I get home.” Then she turned to Tony, nodding to him. “Mr. Stark.”

You stood frozen in place, your cheek stung with the force of the slap yet you couldn’t help but laugh at what just happened. Charles glanced at you apologetically yet completely curious as to what had gotten Wanda so worked up she decided to slap you in such a public place before leaving without an explanation.

“Well, it is good to know you are still good at making friends,” Tony said after the initial shock passed, you turned to him placing a hand on your cheek, the smile still on your face. “What the hell did you do to her?”

Charles tilted his head just as interested as Tony with what had just transpired right in front of them. He had known Wanda from birth, and he knew she had quite the temper, but this kind of reaction was something he had never seen before. And if he were to be honest, with how things had been lately, he found refreshing just how full of life she looked just moments ago.

“Hey! I didn’t do anything to her, we just…” You trailed off lifting your arms, Tony rolled his eyes when you waved your fingers trying to find an explanation. “I…we meet under unfortunate circumstances and by those specific circumstances, I may have…well, you know what? I probably deserve the slap, so no harm done.”

Tony opened his mouth to say something when the laughter from Charles caught his attention, you tried to hold back your smile and Tony was actually surprised to see that reaction from the older man. Charles waved his hand away before settling his eyes on you.

“I bet there is an interesting story behind that, but I also know Wanda may be quite explosive at times.” Charles shrugged before grabbing your hand and squeezing comfortingly. “Now, there would be a time for stories, for now I would like to know you more in the professional capacity.”

You furrowed your brows and soon it was quite evident why Natasha had brought you to the function.

Your life was about to change in ways you never thought possible.

That was how the story of your heartbreak started.

With a slap and a job proposal.

______________________________________________________________

AN: So, this is the first chapter, i hope you guys enjoy it! tell me what you think and don't forget to like and share it you so want it!

#Fanfic #Marvel AU #Modern Setting #Wanda Maximoff #Female Reader #Female!Reader #F!Reader #WandaxReader #Wanda Maximoff x Female Reader #Wanda Maximoff x Female!Reader #Imagine Wanda Maximoff

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agentnoun · 24 days ago

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Expedition 33: So... Are They Real?

I've done it. I've cooked up the ultimate bad take. The one that will finally get me canceled. And the worst part is, I think I'm right, so I can't even pretend I'm trolling when I get yelled at.

Let's rock.

A question that pops up regularly in discussions of Clair Obscur: Expedition 33 is this: are painted beings real? Is the painted world real? People have also (correctly) noted that the story doesn't really reckon with this question. It throws out a few ideas around it, gestures towards it here and there, shows you the ways that Painters disagree on the topic, but it never really dives in.

Well, I have the answer, and nobody's going to like it. There's a reason it's not more of a central question in the story:

It doesn't matter.

Are they real? Are they fake? Are they half-real? Are they just as alive as people from the outside world, or not?

By the time Act III starts, it doesn't matter. They may have been real once, or not. But eventually, it stops mattering. It may have been even earlier than that by certain interpretations, but by Act III, I think, no matter what, the reality of the Canvas world is no longer relevant.

Okay, before you block me, let me try to justify this. Let's look at both endings and talk about this idea in the context of each.

A Life to Love (The "Verso" Ending)

The whole painted world stops existing so it's not real anymore. If it ever was, it isn't now. This one's pretty easy.

A Life to Paint (The "Maelle" Ending)

A question for my fellow writers: in the stories you write, how real are the characters to you? I don't mean "are you emotionally invested in them" or "do they seem to take on a life of their own when writing is going well." I mean: how real are they?

Follow-up question: when you're done with the story, when you step away and let it go out into the world on its own, does that change? When you're not holding the reins anymore, when you can no longer make changes to the characters or their world, how did your relationship to that work change?

This, I think, is the question that "A Life to Paint" is asking. Because the thing is, whether or not Maelle can "puppet" people (I don't think so), or whether she uses her Paintress powers to modify the world in ways that deny agency even without direct control (seems plausible), I don't think this world can be real--not just to her, but to anyone. A world being painted, actively being modified by a demiurge who didn't even create it in the first place, is sort of automatically "not real" in the same way that our world is "real."

In other words, a Painter living inside of a Canvas indefinitely, whether their own Canvas or someone else's, is basically this guy:

If you're unfamiliar, that's Dr. Manhattan, a character from Alan Moore's graphic novel Watchmen. He was once a mortal human, but a super-science accident essentially made him a god, capable of existing across time and space and able to manipulate matter at the atomic level with just a thought.

And it doesn't take long for the world to stop being real to him, no matter how much he tries to hang onto his mortal point of view. That's not him anymore. He's an immortal, timeless, near-omnipotent entity and, surely but not slowly, he loses touch with what it means to be mortal at all.

To him, people are barely more than characters in a story, and now he has the power to rewrite that story at will. This makes him detached, to say the least. That timeless way he sees everything means that humans are barely more "alive" to him than stars, planets, rocks, and space dust. They're just matter.

And what of the people who aren't Dr. Manhattan? How does this all look from their perspective? If Dr. Manhattan existed in our world and could rewrite your reality as he saw fit: how real would the world feel to you now? Even if this god is fully benevolent, if they only ever change anything to try to make people happier, what does that mean for your agency? Can you ever be sure if you achieved something or if a god handed it to you? Can you be sure your choices are your own, I mean really sure?

To me, at least, there's no way that life--that my whole world--wouldn't feel empty.

Now imagine that those "rewrites" are imperfect. Let's imagine that he could bring back the dead, recreate them out of atoms. Are those the same people? If it's your loved one, can you ever be sure it's really them? How would you ever even have a hope of knowing? Would this hypothetical god figure even know?

That's not exactly Maelle in "A Life to Paint," but I think it's a potentially fruitful comparison. She might not be able to literally puppet people around, but she can just repaint anyone who dies. She can just erase anything that might be unpleasant or painful. She can't ever be sure that her repaintings of Aline's creations, or of the descendants of Aline's creations, are even "the same," and nobody else can be sure, either. And for her own creations--her own repainted Verso--she can modify them just to see if maybe this change makes them happy.

How could that world ever be real again? If it was ever real to begin with, it isn't anymore, and whatever reality it used to hold is immaterial.

So, What I'm Trying to Say Is...

This isn't a story about genocide. It's not even really a story about the end of the world, except in the most metaphorical sense. (To quote user rozzingit in one of the best posts I've ever read about this game, "Verso's death destroys an entire world, because that's what death does.") It is about grief, certainly.

But it's also about art. It's about the relationship between creators and what they make. It's about art as a reflection, a clear one or a twisted one, and how it can be both at the same time. Art as comfort vs. art as expression/release vs. art as escape, and how it can be all three at the same time. It's about how art can take on a life of its own if it's allowed to but how creators can deny it the chance to do that in so many different ways. It's about changing art until it no longer resembles itself, until it is destroyed. It's about losing yourself in fantasy to the point that it no longer matters what's real and what isn't.

The game never gives you a clear answer to the question of this world and its people's reality--and never really even struggles with the question much--because it doesn't matter. Whatever you choose at the end, the world in Verso's Canvas is not real. Whether it ever was, well, that's unanswerable, because it isn't anymore.

A Palate Cleanser

If you'd like to read a much better take than mine, this excellent post by lyrebright looks at a similar question from a different angle, and I really like their entire analysis. Their concluding statement has stuck with me ever since I first read the post. To quote:

It's a game about ghosts. And the kindest thing you can do for a ghost is lay them to rest.

#i'm done for #i've never had a good opinion about art in my life and i'm not about to start now #expedition 33 #expedition 33 spoilers #clair obscur #clair obscur spoilers #clair obscur expedition 33 #clair obscur expedition 33 spoilers

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revilloutionaire · 4 months ago

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Can we kill therapy-speak in fanfic?

Don’t get me wrong here. I’m not saying your characters can’t be familiar with therapy keywords. But the use of it in fanfic is just killing off any sort of real, emotional stakes in certain fics. *cough* the my hero fandom

I’ll be real with you; I don’t want my characters to approach a situation with an acute awareness for any possible triggers or emotional responses in an attempt to build rapport with another character who has experienced severe trauma and/or abuse. And sure, let’s say that it is a professional, whose job it is to approach these situations. That doesn’t mean you have to write them like a mental health textbook vs a textbook victim of trauma.

For example; “Aizawa stepped back, not wanting to trigger any sort of trauma response from the abused teenager.”

Yeah, sure. Aizawa is a professional who, as a professional hero, probably has education in dealing with situations like this. But the way it is written is clinically detached, cold, and also way too professional from a man who has probably attended a total of one therapy session on mandate after witnessing the death of one of his best friends (which he never got over btw).

When you want to write a character who is attuned to other people’s needs and fears, try using less therapy bingo words, and be more descriptive of the emotions of the scene.

Instead; “Aizawa carefully stepped backwards, attempting to show he meant no harm. He knew how easy it was to scare a starving alley cat, you would be surprised how the same logic applied to a starving teenager.”

See? Isn’t it so much more soulful? So much easier to connect with? Sure, the first passage got the point across: Aizawa is aware that the kid he’s approaching is likely a victim of something traumatic, so he is approaching it as such. But the average human doesn’t have the dialogue of an occupational therapist, so writing situations like the characters are occupational therapists, kills off any sort of relatability for readers who don’t attend weekly therapy sessions. And even for people who do, it feels more like sitting in the armchair instead of absorbing yourself in the worlds and stories you’re trying to tell.

I’m not saying to ditch the mental health awareness altogether. Sure, having emotionally stunted characters create for interesting stories, but you can tell just as compelling of a story without having to resort to textbook wording. Instead, use that therapy foundation to build something more around your characters. Because using the therapy speak is just the same as telling, and not showing.

With that, good luck with your next hurt no comfort fic, and happy writing!

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olderthannetfic · 2 months ago

Note

https://www.tumblr.com/olderthannetfic/779889755795095552/httpswwwtumblrcomolderthannetfic779634954778?source=share

It's so depressing seeing someone in the comments on this one go, "Wouldn't it be funny if, instead of reacting to something in-universe the way a real person would, the black girl was sooo over it bc she's read about black magical girls?"

No. The MCU and Big Bang Theory and Family Guy may find "I'm so ~*~unaffected~*~ and ~*~over it~*~" funny but it's lazy. It's lazy writing. Writing characters is hard. Writing Snarky Irony Poisoned Aloof Diet Edgy MC #4000 is easy. I get that the familiar is comforting to some audiences - it's why Family Guy never dies and people still rewatch MCU movies instead of watching something new - but it's boring to audience members who want actual stakes. If the characters are constantly going, "I'm over it. I don't care. I'm not impressed. Something has shown up that ten seconds ago I thought was physically impossible and I refuse to treat that as significant", then why the fuck should the audience care?

No, really, that's not sarcastic - why would anyone care about another media property where the characters keep reminding you that no one, not even they, take this seriously? What's engaging about that? Allegedly it's "funny", but I'm not even clear on how that works when this is so fucking common. I grew up on the MCU and at this point characters being totally unaffected by finding out that how they thought the world worked is wrong is just a day ending in y. But even if it wasn't common... it makes the character too stupid to root for, honestly, if they, like an anti, can't tell fiction apart from reality. If they react to a real event the same way they do as a fictional one, that's not funny. That's every person in my dorm, basically.

This is an unpopular opinion with my generation and with Millennials. But the reason you see people blowing up for this show is because it isn't on its' hands and knees pleading with you, "We're detached and cool and aloof! We're not taking this seriously! We promise not to be sincere!" Instead the people making it asked, "How do we tell a good story? What sounds in-character for these characters to say?"

And even on here, you get braindead losers going, "Okay, but imagine if instead of Zira acting like Zira, a character whose race, age, hobbies, personality, attitude and background inform her reaction, she just went 'haha me no care me read manga'? Wouldn't that be funny?" No.

Genuinely, it depresses me that Pretty Pretty Please I Don't Want To Be A Magical Girl has writing that is too sophisticated for the kiddults of the internet. Go rewatch some superhero movies with a Chris in them if you want that shit.

(The extra stupid part is that Zira DOES have several moments of being unaffected and trying to play it cool. She just also shows enthusiasm for one thing and that one, singular moment is too much variety for people who want everything to be as uniform and familiar as possible.)

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otp-after-dark · 1 month ago

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“The more difficult it was to love the particular man beside us, the more we believed in Love, abstract and total. We were waiting, always, for the incarnation. That word, made flesh.”

This line from Atwood’s THT novel has been etched into me ever since I first read it. It’s messy. Romantic. Rooted in theology, philosophy, desire. It’s a contradiction — just like the book. And it’s the most honest thing I’ve ever read about love.

Because it doesn’t speak to fairy tale love. Or safe love. Or easy love.

It speaks to the kind of love that lives in the ruins with you. The kind that changes you. That doesn’t need to be pure to be real. That doesn’t need to be public to be true.

This quote — this entire passage — is the thesis of THT. Atwood was never writing about "happily ever after." She was writing about how people stay human inside systems designed to hollow them out.

And June? She survives not because she becomes cold or perfect or self-righteous. She survives because she remembers how to want. Because she lets herself love, even when it’s dangerous, even when it’s wrong, even when it makes no sense.

“We were waiting, always, for the incarnation.”

That’s Nick.

Not a fantasy. Not a savior. Not a symbol. A real man. Flawed. Quiet. Bleeding. Complicit. And the incarnation of love in the darkest place imaginable.

Loving him didn’t save June from pain. But it kept her whole. It tethered her to the part of herself Gilead couldn’t take.

I didn’t need a happy ending. I didn’t need sunshine and closure and a white picket fence.

But what I did need was an ending that was earned.

What I needed was: A woman who doesn’t walk away from the love that sustained her. A man who doesn’t get reduced to a ghost in the machine. A story that understands that messy, complicated, gut-wrenching love is not weakness — it’s humanity.

Instead, the show told us: That loving someone like Nick — someone flawed, dangerous, but loyal — is a mistake. That June’s survival means detachment. That the “real world” doesn’t have room for complex love, only correct, simple love. It told us that traditional love — clean, sanctioned, externally approved — is the kind worth fighting for. That the love that fits neatly into boxes, that doesn’t challenge the status quo, that doesn’t ask hard questions — is the one that wins.

But that’s not The Handmaid’s Tale. That’s not the story Atwood wrote. This story was never about choosing the man with the cleanest résumé. It was about breaking the rules — all of them. About surviving in ways you’re not supposed to. About loving in ways the system can’t predict, and therefore can’t control.

Nick and June were never traditional. They were never safe. But they were true. And they were dangerous to Gilead precisely because their love didn’t follow the rules. Because it wasn’t handed to them — they built it. They bled for it.

So when the show decided that love like that had to be sacrificed for something simpler, more acceptable, more palatable — it didn’t just abandon Nick and June. It abandoned the point.

But that’s not the book. And that’s not The Testaments, either — where love and loyalty still survive in the background, where the human heart remains a factor.

So yeah, I’m disheartened.

Not because Nick and June didn’t get a romantic ending. But because the writers refused to give them a narratively honest one. Because they pretended this story was never about love — when it always, always was.

Atwood understood that choosing to love someone who is difficult, complicated, flawed — especially when you are too — is one of the most radical things a person can do.

It’s not blind. It’s not passive. It’s a conscious, daily act of seeing someone fully and still saying: yes, you. Especially when the world tells you that love is dangerous. Or selfish. Or futile. And that love —not the violence, not the vengeance — is what ultimately broke Gilead.

And that, to me, is what real feminism is about. Not perfection. Not purity. Not moral absolutes. Choice. The power to decide who you love, how you love, and what you’re willing to risk for it. To say: this is mine, and I choose it — even if it’s messy. Even if the world tells you not to. You own it. Out loud.

And that’s what hurts the most: June never got to make that choice. Not fully. Not freely. The show skirted it, deflected it, passed it off in glances and silence. And in doing that, it robbed her of what should’ve been the most radical act of all — choosing the flawed, complicated love that made her feel alive.

And that’s why I’ll never accept a version of this story that treats love as weakness. That frames complexity as failure. That suggests safety is more noble than honesty. That tells us simple is more righteous than real.

Because love isn’t less valuable when it’s complicated. It’s more. And choosing it anyway? That’s the most radical thing she ever did.

#nick x june #nick blaine #tht #june osborne #max minghella #tht season 6 #love quotes #love #feminism

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snaccpopstudios · 1 year ago

Text

From the River to the Sea.

The staff of SnaccPop Studios wanted to reach out to our fans regarding our stance on the genocidal acts committed against Palestine. Though the conflict thrived well before 2023, these last few months have shown an escalation of cruelty that has become impossible for the rest of the world to ignore.

To state the matter frankly; we stand by Palestine. We acknowledge that blood is not only on the hands of the Israeli government, but also the American, British, and other world governments who have and continue to enable Israel's actions. Any government, company, or corporation that attempts to accommodate "both sides," or inadvertently shows support through inaction is equally complicit in creating a climate in which this genocide is allowed to take place. It is for this reason we feel compelled to speak out and condemn these acts for what they are; genocide, theft, ethnic cleansing, and mass-murder.

We believe that all those responsible for these innocent deaths must be called for and prosecuted as murderers in the first degree, regardless of status. But we also acknowledge that this will likely never happen.

In light of this, what can we do? We believe that it is not the citizen's burden alone to end this genocide, and yet we must call upon every individual person to reflect on this matter and do what we can to make things right. An initial step for many of us would be to seek to educate themselves on this matter. We must learn from history to avoid unwittingly contributing to further oppressions. We will be providing a few trustful sources for you all to further educate yourselves and donate to, if you are able to.

We must also ask everyone to remember that these lives are irrevocably lost. Children who are now without parents, families separated and lost–these people's lives will be permanently affected by these events, if they survive. Their pain and trauma will impact the future for everyone on our planet. It is vital to acknowledge this and treat it with the gravity it is due. It is so easy to distance ourselves from these events, to compartmentalize the trauma of people we don't know, people who live so far away from many of us. It is easy to get caught up in the narrative disseminated by mainstream media, to detach ourselves from the real human suffering, to view it as a story that has nothing to do with us. We must perform due diligence to discern the truth and act accordingly. Acknowledging the suffering and remembering all that has been lost is vital to holding Israel accountable for their genocidal acts.

We must also use our empathy to realize that this is one of the great injustices of humanity; by allowing it to happen now, we further enable it to happen to other disenfranchised groups in the future. None of us are truly safe if we allow this brutality to wage unchecked. We cannot allow our governments to believe that we will tolerate or condone this, now or ever.

Links:

Care for Gaza. Providing distribution of cash, food, or other supplies needed like medicine or clothes to displaced families in Gaza. https://www.gofundme.com/f/careforgaza. As of writing this, the GoFundMe is no longer accepting donations, but their PayPal in their Twitter (https://twitter.com/CareForGaza) still is.

Pious Projects. Providing menstrual/hygiene kits to those who menstruate in Gaza. https://piousprojects.org/campaign/2712

eSims for Gaza. Helping those in Gaza remain connected to the outside world, stay connected with families, and show what’s happening within Gaza. https://gazaesims.com/

History of Palestine and debunking myths spread: https://decolonizepalestine.com/

PDF Booklet provided by Bisan on her Instagram. Advocating for Palestine that recounts Israeli propaganda and how to spot and debunk them. https://sites.google.com/view/advocatingforpalestine/?fbclid=PAAaZtxfP5EBAZSRP6h15wi96-dnCuOgOlE0aXKVB8gCtQbokaSE9N1nxzkuA_aem_AaIBVrty_hSHN28vgu0T-rJly_eLH5YAFKxLcCLLBNBXl8QZiUe4fvR-pkBV_8x6UyM

Boycott, Diversity, and Sanctions (BDS) website: https://bdsmovement.net/

Please note these aren’t all of the available resources out there, but a few collected, trusted ones. Take the time and effort to look and reach further yourselves, as we will continue to do so ourselves.

SnaccPop Studios 🍉

#snaccpop studios

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loquaciousquark · 1 month ago

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Hello! Not a question just wanted to drop in and say I loved watching your playthrough of Veilguard. I’ve been a long time lurker reading and enjoying practically every fic of yours so it was really fun to hear your process of developing Kata’s personality and motivations.

Most days I’d have it on while I was at work but I finished it on Friday so now I don’t know what I’m gonna do to make the workday go faster haha. Anyway just wanted to say thank you for sharing it! The DA fandom can be cranky to say the least so seeing you genuinely enjoy the game was like a breath of fresh air (not to mention a lot of your reactions to characters and lore drops were very similar to mine)!

Hope you’re having a lovely weekend!

Ahh, I'm so glad! I had a blast with this game, start to finish, & I'm very close to starting a fresh Nightmare runthrough which I do intend to stream. I have such a better idea of who Kata is now, and I want to take her through the game again and get her narrative really right, especially as regards the timing & story structure. Plus, I want to figure out exactly where the Lucanis romance beats fall for her; I don't think that kiss at the end is their actual first kiss, but I don't know where it actually is!

Plus, I found that combat honestly so fun, and I want to enjoy the early levels again where it's no powers, all skill. I want to feel rewarded for my perfect parry timing & my headshots!! I want to go back to the fundamentals!!

Yeah, I've heard the game had its controversy, but I've done what I can to stay away from that, ahaha. I went into this game prepared to be pleased and with very low expectations, and keeping the mindset of "this game development was restarted twice & it's a miracle it exists at all" helped a lot. It also helped that my immediate circle of DA fans (who played well before I did) really loved the game as well, which I'm sure colored my opinion.

Plus, I think my total detachment from Veilguard's development period honestly was a huge boon. Because Inquisition didn't land for me the first time I played it, I didn't touch that sandbox at all! I didn't spend ten years thinking about Veilguard's possible storylines or Solas's outcomes or writing speculative meta about the Veil; I stayed firmly in my very Kirkwallian DA2 playground & was happy there. I think I wrote Solas's name in fic literally once. If I'd been invested at all in his story back then, if I'd had a decade to think about what I wanted from VG and for Solas and my Lavellan, I think I would have gotten super invested in certain ideas and concepts and possibilities and been inevitably disappointed.

(This segues into a half-thought I've been tossing around—I was quite shocked when a friend told me some people were sad there wasn't an option to side with Solas & complete the ritual, which had literally never once occurred to me as a desirable thing in all my DAI/VG playtime. I wonder if that's because I spent so many millions of words & thousands of hours in DA2's very Veiled-Off universe; to destroy or remake that world would feel like its own death to me, and a death of the future I wanted for Hawke & Fenris. Maybe that's why I felt so strongly against it the whole time. Food for thought!)

Anyway, not having an Inquisitor I loved until about five months ago I think really benefited my experience, as did not having to wait before playing the game. I'd never read a Solavellan fic in my life! I'd never had one iota of investment in his outcome! I'd spent ten years watching tragic fanart float over my dash and sadly shaking my head at those woeful Solas girlies! While the reversal of my own investment was an absolute slap in the face, it did mean I was able to go into VG with the emptiest head & the lowest romance expectations, which meant I was super easy to please from the start, hahahah.

It also helped that the stuff VG got right for me was way more important than the stuff I didn't like as much. The Solas material, Rook, the combat system, the Inquisitor they built, the companions, the back third of the Lucanis romance—those were great. I loved those. I left those events with a huge smile on my face. Those things were infinitely more important to me than the stuff I struggled with (some vocabulary/world tonal mismatches, the middle third of the Lucanis romance, some storylines/quest beats I thought were pretty heavyhanded). It's not a perfect game in any sense, but it did so many things I loved that to dwell on the misses doesn't seem productive.

I mean, I have a million words of DA2 on AO3. I lived in that world for like fourteen years, and boy does that world have holes. Plot, mechanics, combat, characters, even the non-brown-ness of the graphics—it was a complete break from so many of the Origins systems. I remember the huge outcry when that game was released. I remember seeing posts of people shredding their DA2 discs and burning the case inserts. I remember people absolutely railing against Anders' characterization and getting in huge arguments on the kink meme about the Arishok & Elthina & Isabela's pants. There've always been huge jumps in world implementation from game to game, and with the super long dev time, I figured VG would be the same. I guess I just tried to keep that in mind as I moved forward.

(I think it also helps that while I loved my Inquisitor and grew very fond of Solas over my replay, I still don't think DAI is a very good game. I do not like the map design, the combat system, or some choices they made with some of the companions; I think the inventory & UI systems are criminally clumsy. Those are really important aspects of modern gaming to me [I was much more tolerant the first time I played DA2, sue me], and for VG to polish those so well significantly improved my enjoyment of actually playing the thing.)

(Another side thought: I do wonder how some of VG would have been received had it released eight years ago instead of right before the election last year. The world was different then, and I wonder if some material would have seemed less graceless at that time, and if some voices would have been less virulent.)

Anyway, this reply has completely gotten away from me; if nothing else, thanks for giving me a place to finally get down some of these thoughts! Like I said, I'm really eager to get back into the game & Kata's story, & I'll post here when those streams start. Thank you so much! <3 <3

#quark replies #emietook #dragon age veilguard #datv spoilers #solas #solavellan #dragon age #long post for ts #meta

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obsidianpen · 5 months ago

Note

Your opinion on f/m ship is sadly very common even among readers themselves. I got out this mentality after reading a lot of Hermione fanfics. In B&G Hermione comes off as an individual with independent and often conflicting beliefs and personality so it was really easy to detached myself from her and see her more as a character than a projection of myself. I’m just really surprised that it made you anxious writing her.

I grew up reading Bl in an environment where queer books are being published publicly/officially and from what I’m seeing people are more accepting nowadays. This isn’t really the kind of opinion you’re asking for but I think female writers writing mlm actually help the lgbt community. I’ve seen so many gay men and women write books and enjoy it openly now. Less censorship now too.

oh yeah. I do wonder why that is the case so much, and there’s probably a lot of reasons for it. In my case personally I know it had a lot to do with always comparing myself to other girls, caring almost solely about what made me ‘desirable’ and both doing anything to achieve that and feeling like I was competing with everyone around me… that constantly comparing and judging bled into books, too. I tend to judge FMCs much more harshly than MMCs, though I’ve grown aware of that and try to do better. (Didnt stop me from DNFing fourth wing though. I hated how violet was written 😂).

but yeah I see this in the fanfiction community a lot. If hermione is emotional and cries or whatever, people complain and think it’s annoying. If it’s Harry, he’s a sweet baby angel with valid feelings too good for this world. If Hermione is a bit too plain she’s ’basically a self-insert’ or a Mary Sue. But lord knows I’ve clicked on far too many stories where Harry is bland AF and no one seems to care. I’m speaking hugely vaguely ofc but I do think Hermione stories get hit a lot harder when she’s not written super in character; feels like readers will not only forgive but applaud an OOC extra sensitive/smoll/cutesy or, alternatively, crazy overpowered OOC Harry. Can’t help but think gender plays a massive role here.

and to your last point, I agree. I think any writer creating a thoughtful and well crafted story helps, regardless of whether or not they’re a man or woman or whatever. The ‘well crafted’ part being critical, of course. I once read a story that featured a f/f pairing and it was written by a man but I only found that out after I was halfway through the book because I kept stopping and thinking, this is so bad???? This has to have been written by a straight man who has no idea how women who were friends for years speak to each other???? Aaaaan I was right lol.

#Rant

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yuseirra · 2 months ago

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On the Ambiguity of This Manga (Four Interpretations)

Hopefully I don't write more of these anymore o<-< I really want to feel every positivity and move on~~ but here's another thought I had for today regarding this piece once again~

I think I’ve managed to interpret over 90% of the truth behind this manga’s story.

I think I’ve interpreted it, but…

I want to bring others to see what I’m seeing here, but the work itself abandoned everything so irresponsibly, so it doesn’t really work... I’m sad.

Why is knowing this stuff important? Well, it’s not that important. Even if this manga fails, I don’t really care at this point. (Actually, I hope it doesn’t get popular. I hope they don’t make any more anime. Because it hurts people. I no longer expect this work to handle its subject matter respectfully. Confusion is okay, but this manga doesn’t provide a proper perspective on things that shouldn’t be handled recklessly. If you’re going to deal with them, you should at least be clear about what you're saying—if you leave it ambiguous, the focus gets lost, right? The message either doesn’t come across or gets fuzzy. And as far as I can tell, the author doesn’t seem to care about that. Why that might be is today’s analysis.)

More than anything... I just want the truth to be known, though, because it hurts. It’s too sad, too horrible, and pitiful.

I think if people just knew about it, it’d actually be easy to grasp what’s going on.

As for the author… the way I see it, there are four possible reasons for how they handled things.

They hold all the keys and secrets of the story, right? And yet, they chose not to reveal them in the end.

That means their stance is basically: “You figure it out.”

Let’s start with the most generous interpretation:

1.The Generous View: They believe they’ve given enough hints and are betting on readers discovering the meaning on their own, genuinely thinking that will convey more meaning than if they explained everything themselves.

This may not be entirely untrue, but if that were the case to a greater extent, I wouldn’t be this bothered and upset. Sure, there are hints, but they’re ambiguous, and the author didn’t give us any decisive ones. It doesn’t line up with real-world logic, and supernatural fantasy elements are involved. Plus, it’s culturally specific (tied to Japanese lore), so if they wanted to reach a broader audience, they should’ve done more to get things across.

Even putting aside the plot itself, the execution of scenes feels outright malicious. (As I’ve written before through various analyses, the plot actually makes more sense than it first appears and has supporting elements. Honestly, I even think the plot shouldn’t be changed.) But there are so many emotionally sadistic scenes—scenes that didn’t need to be that harsh to convey the point.

Like in Volume 1, when Ai gets stabbed—I should have predicted what was coming and dropped the manga there. But back then, I assumed the author had a clear point they wanted to make, and that they’d express a strong thematic message with this. I thought, “Okay, what are they trying to say?” So I stayed.

But no. The pain this manga gives doesn’t match the clarity of the author’s voice. Their words are vague, mumbled, superficial, and shallow. They want to make a sharp point without taking responsibility. They put the characters through immense suffering, but as the narrator, the author stays distant, as if saying, “Tsk tsk, that’s just how you all are,” with a detached attitude.

If they truly wanted to express sorrow or call for change or say something is wrong, then that final chapter or the volume extra (which I haven’t read, just skimmed the plot) shouldn't have ended up like that.

That was just running away from the responsibility of dealing with the topic.

Sure, how much can one person really do? I understand that to some extent, speaking from my own perspective. But if you're going to bring in material like this, you can’t leave things so murky.

2. The Author Got Hurt During Serialization and Gave Up At Some Point. Then They Chose a Message They Thought Everyone Would Find Acceptable.

This also doesn’t seem completely untrue. But it clearly isn't the only reason.

Because if you look only at the final chapter, yeah, the surface message is safe. It's probably something everyone may agree on.

But the events leading up to it? Not at all. Those developments were intentional. They were deliberate.

We had seriously intense incidents right before the end, didn’t we? The main character stabs himself, drowns and strangles someone. Total chaos. Then we see him gasping, saying he wanted to live, suffering. Then there’s a funeral scene where someone slaps a corpse across the face. The author drew all of that.

That’s not the setup for a “safe” story.

The idea that the author was hurt or exhausted—I can consider that. I won’t presume to know exactly what they were feeling. But looking at this, that possibility does come to mind.

Still, if the plot stemmed from their convictions, like I mentioned in 1, then those convictions were executed in a way that was overly vivid and cruel.

They could have avoided drawing the scene of Aqua and Kamiki drowning together, or strangling each other, or that funeral slap.

Kana slapping Aqua? Sure, that could fit her character.

But it could’ve been shown differently. She could’ve said something like “I should’ve slapped that guy” while talking about Aqua.

The author chose this method—there were other ways.

This is using your talent to deliberately hurt someone.

And if you do that, there’d better be a payoff or a message that’s equally strong.

If there were, I’d go along with it, try to understand.

But like I said earlier, they just muddle through. They don’t say what they want to say. So this isn’t the kind of story that can just be tied up with pretty drawings and sparkles. And I think the author knows that. But they’re pretending not to. It’s not that they don’t realize. This author knows full well what kind of story they’re writing, what kind of feelings it’ll evoke in people.

Didn’t they write romance manga? Then that means they have at least some confidence in understanding human psychology. Actually, that's what pulled me in!! That's my interest, to the extent that it is my major! Seriously, I've never brought up about this before I read this manga, it's so frustating...

Reading this manga, you start to think the author may be someone with some deep wounds.

Every single character in this work—except maybe background extras—has some twisted part in their heart.

Even a character like Frill, who’s played for laughs, gives off a slightly forced vibe that feels unsettling.

Maybe the only one who seems genuinely untwisted is Kotobuki Minami? But even she has that odd trait of speaking in a dialect despite being from a region where they don’t normally have one.

Melt? He’s fairly okay, but his past was twisted, too…

All of them have inner darkness. Which is fine—but they’re all a bit overly sensitive and on edge. And that’s because they’re all hurt.

Kana, at least, is open and unfiltered about it, which makes her kind of endearing. She’s actually the relatively bright one out of the cast.

But in a different genre, Kana might have ended up being the main source of conflict, not because she’s a bad person, but because of how her character operates.

Yes, no one’s completely free of inner darkness. Having flaws does help make a character more three-dimensional. But in this manga, every character is made to be twisted after being created.

They all bottle things up, never say anything, and carry them around alone. It’s not just a few characters—it’s how all of them function.

At this point, it feels unnatural.

Which makes me think the author sincerely believes “everyone’s like this,” so they shaped their characters accordingly. And that’s probably why the ending turned out the way it did.

A massive storm swept through—and then, pretending everything’s calm.

“They’re shining somewhere far away. There were hardships, but!”

That kind of ending.

But inside, I think they’re all rotting. What I think this story needed was to open the wounds and perform surgery.

Drain the pus, reset the broken bones.

But this work doesn’t do that.

In my view, this wound isn’t something that can be patched up with a bandage and a pretty layer of fake skin. But the story just ends as if that’s enough. The thing is, even while doing that, everything shows in their expression, you know? That look of cold sweat and discomfort, pretending everything’s fine?

Just say something! Say you need help. Say what you actually need.

But maybe they don’t even know anymore. What they need to do. I honestly don’t think they truly believe they’re okay themselves, not deep down. They clearly don’t look fine. Still, maybe they’re acting like this because they don’t know what action is needed… or because they’ve already decided that saying anything wouldn’t change a thing.

Yet they show the pain—clearly and constantly. It’s like they’re waiting for someone watching them to figure it out and make the call, get them treated, schedule the surgery. But they won’t take that first step themselves.

That’s why I describe this manga as being passive-aggressive toward the world.

3. So now we’re at interpretation #3 (and yes, these interpretations are shifting from more generous to increasingly less charitable): maybe the author wanted to mock those who don’t "get it," or maybe they didn’t actually care much about the core subject to begin with and never intended to propose a real vision. Or maybe it was just self-indulgent—showing off—or perhaps they gave up entirely.

I didn’t want to think this way, but this possibility is hard to ignore. In fact, this is what stands out most clearly for me, which says something. I try not to engage in baseless criticism of others, and I did my best to stick with interpretations 1 and 2… but there are simply too many moments that don’t make sense within those readings alone. If it were only 1 or 2, I wouldn’t be angry—just saddened.

Like I’ve said many times, this manga doesn’t have much to say relative to the amount of pain it inflicts. If it were purely personal, that would be one thing—but if it aims to say something on a social level, I think it has to convey the author’s own thoughts and reflections more clearly. As it stands, it feels shallow. Like someone grumbling at the news with a sigh and a “tsk.”

It’s not that the work lacks all sense of awareness—but even so, it feels like a candle with a faulty wick. You light it, and it flickers briefly before dying out. You light it again, and the same thing happens. The flame is there, and you can see what it’s trying to say—like critiquing society’s rejection of idols in love, or how the public sometimes cruelly lashes out at celebrities based on limited information. But it never goes any further. It just… presents the issue, then moves on. Even the main characters don’t talk about it at length.

Think about it—Aqua and Ruby’s mother was murdered for having children while being an idol. So shouldn’t this story, at some point, explore their perspective on idols and love? Like: “Our mom still loved us. It’s wrong to deny that love,” or conversely, “Our mom truly wanted to love, but it seems our dad got her killed for it. Is love itself a curse for celebrities? Is romance impossible for them?”—even that kind of doubt would’ve been something. But the story never engages. It brushes against these themes, then simply watches from a distance. Aqua and Ruby's very mother got killed on the idea that idols can't have lovers or children, right? Why don't the two kids who had that tragedy happen to them ever question that idea or how wrong that situation is?? And it's not like they were normal children, either, they are reincarnated human beings who lived at least a decade after having been born into their new lives. But what they decide to do is take revenge on the father who had kids with their mom. Like getting rid of him would make things better. Even if he's really the one who wanted Ai dead(which is so far from the truth), this is such a; shallow approach to things. In the end, literally nothing changes. Who knows the same thing won't happen to Ruby if she decides to get together with someone? That can still happen for sure, but shouldn't the work tackle this subject?? Say something about it? Question why it is that way? Or does it believe it's pointless because it's too obvious?? But this work drags around with deciding if whether Kamiki should be punished or not, if he's really the culprit or not/going after the guy for so long- that doesn't seem like the priority of the story. What I felt the authors think is that the priority is that they believe this is fun, playing guessing games about who's the real murderer or not, but this is a subject that hits too close to real life. They need to give clarity on how this subject should be handled!! That's a responsibility they must have taken to bring in the subject of a celeb being murdered by a crazy fan!!! It doesn't do that and leaves all this ambiguous!!

Speaking of which, what really baffled me was when Kamiki’s experience of childhood sexual abuse gets mentioned, and the narrative just transitions into: “How long can someone stay pure in this industry?” Sure, someone says, “That’s not okay,” but… that’s it. That’s all. This happens every time. Nothing gets resolved, nothing is proposed, and the characters who suffer just grow up blaming themselves. And the story doesn’t do anything about it.

You might argue, “What could one person possibly do?”—but even up to the final chapter, the manga maintains this approach. Aqua believes that killing one man—the man who he claims would ruin Ruby’s future—will somehow fix things. And yet, to me, what Kamiki says makes more sense. What does killing Kamiki change? Ai died. Ruby was attacked. These tragedies came out of society’s warped expectations of idols—expectations taken way too far.

But Aqua doesn’t seem to reflect on that at all. He just says, “Whatever, my mission is to protect Ruby,” and kills Kamiki, then himself. Meanwhile, Ai was trying to save the man she loved. And honestly, I don’t think this man ever meant to hurt her. He believed that Ai ended up that way because of him, and he went mad trying to do something for her. To me, he’s the one who suffers most in this story. I really do think he only meant to send her flowers.

And then this man—driven mad by grief—gets drowned and buried like a monster. As if that wraps everything up neatly. Maybe that is the message. “We’re all the same. You act nice, but nothing really changes. Even if a celebrity like Ruby goes through hell, you’ll just consume her story like entertainment, as long as she shines on stage.” Maybe that’s what this manga is saying.

But I just can’t believe the authors wrote this only to say that. Is that really all there is?

Surely they wanted to express some empathy toward people. Some awareness of the industry’s problems. At the very least, I think they must have wanted to say, “Something is wrong. Something must change.” And if so, then the bare minimum should’ve been to make that clear, especially by the end. Not this thing where Ruby cries and throws up for a while and then runs forward, and suddenly everything is wrapped up in a shining glow.

If you want to show that something can be changed, you have to show how. That it changed because someone did something. That’s what gives the story weight and direction. Otherwise, it just feels… abandoned. Irresponsibly tossed aside. It wouldn’t even take much—just one or two lines.

And the worst part? I predicted this ending. If you go back and read my analysis before the final chapter came out, I said that Ruby would still shine, still spread love, still save people.

Because Kamiki is Sarutahiko-Okami—the god who grants wishes—and he answered Ruby’s wish.

Because Ruby is Amaterasu.

Ugh, this is so frustrating.

4. Finally, the interpretation that might come off as the most disrespectful: maybe the creators just capable enough to discuss this in depth.

Honestly… that’s the simplest explanation. And I think a lot of people would agree. I read Glare & Sparkle—was that the one with the creator interviews?—anyway, I vaguely remember something about the writer admitting they weren’t particularly interested in the entertainment industry at first.

Still, if you’re going to publish a serialized story tackling these topics, even if you yourself as a person aren't so interested in celebrities and how they work, you have to approach it with a basic human sense of empathy—frustration at injustice, compassion for others. Especially when real people work in that industry. You should treat it with care and respect.

I don’t want to say this manga completely lacked those things. I imagine they did a lot of research. Probably quite thoroughly. And I appreciate some things that are present within the work. It did make me think about some things.

But if this is the best they could express, then I think we’re back at square one. On why this work is so ambiguous at that. There are a few possibilities.

The ambiguity was intentional.

They wanted to go deeper, but it was too hard, so they gave up.

They hold a kind of elitist contempt for their audience.

There was external pressure, or it became too heavy a burden.

It just wasn’t a topic they found personally meaningful.

This really was their best effort.

Maybe they were actually trying to tell a different story altogether (like focusing on occult/mystery elements, believing that would serve the narrative better than taking a clear stance on social issues).

Maybe they felt their own level of reflection wasn’t enough to take it further—and that this was “good enough.”

But if so, then the level of insight this manga ends up offering is:

“People are too caught up in their own worlds to understand someone else’s pain. They just want pretty stories, and as long as it all looks good on the outside, they think everything’s okay.”

…Did they really write a 16-volume series just to say that?

As for what’s been written—well, that’s the author’s freedom, and I respect their creativity. Honestly, the setup and structure aren’t bad at all. Like I said before, I think this author is very intelligent.

But again, as I keep saying—if you’re going to tell a story where people drown, get stabbed, lose their families, take their own lives… if you’re going to go there, then at the very least, I think you should clearly communicate to the readers what it is you're trying to say through all of it.

The readers have followed that story, watched that suffering unfold, and felt that pain with the characters, haven’t they? And even if they didn’t feel it deeply, surely they were curious. “So why did it turn out this way? What happened here? What is this story trying to say?”

Yes, sure—there is a surface-level plot. But me, right now—I think I get what this story is trying to say. I can see that there’s something underneath it all, something more than what’s shown.

But the reason for not saying it out loud—fine, do what you want… but I think saying it clearly would’ve been far better than not saying anything at all. At least then I’d be able to understand. I like it when I can see clearly what the author was thinking, how they felt, and what they were trying to convey when they wrote this story. Isn’t that why authors write in the first place? Because they want to communicate something? Or is this just about dumping out what’s in your head and leaving it there for people to stumble over and figure out?

But if you’re really the kind of author who doesn’t care what kind of reaction your story gets, then you wouldn’t write a story like this, right?;; It’s just so obvious—this person is not emotionally detached!! Honestly, judging by what I’ve seen of them, this author seems incredibly sensitive. I feel like they’re the kind of person who gets hurt very easily. Or am I wrong?

Again, I just wish that if there’s something you want to say, just say it. You’re an adult. You’re older than me, you have more experience than me.

Did this person see deeper into the abyss than I did? Then again, I probably don’t understand the abyss at all… I watched a video about idols today and—ugh… There really are all sorts of people in the world. Maybe they got into this topic while researching and ended up going dark inside. Maybe they thought, “How can I write something cheerful about a world like this?”

But still—at least say what you want to say!! That way, there’s something to take away from it. “Ah, so this is how this person thinks.” That’s what I wanted to see.

Even if I don’t know much about the industry, there are still these universal emotional undercurrents that we all share, right? I’m honestly not that interested in the entertainment world either. I barely pay attention to celebrity news unless it’s about a major crime or a really heartwarming story. But even with just that level of interest, you can still talk about people.

I don’t get why this manga keeps being so passive-aggressive. And even if I can tolerate the passive-aggressiveness, what’s so frustrating is that it still ends up muddying what it’s trying to say!! If you're going to drag in such serious issues, take some responsibility for the material!! Beautiful artwork isn't everything!! Just because the character designs are pretty and the characters have strong personalities doesn’t mean that’s enough!! If you’re going to tell a story about that world, then at least pick one thing you really wanted to say and make it clear. Don’t run away from it.

Yeah, that's all for now.

…Ugh. You know what? I’m just going to stop overthinking my interpretation now and push forward comfortably.

In fact, Kamiki is probably the most internally torn character out of everyone, and yet—ironically, he’s also one of the least twisted in terms of his inner judgment. Ai, on the other hand, got pretty twisted. But that was because the author deliberately placed her character in such a situation where she'd suffer like that. She's, in fact, such a pure and kind-hearted type, but because she was hurt so deeply, she became disillusioned.

Kamiki, on the other hand…I believe he was someone who really wanted to believe in people. That’s what led to all the problems. When he was young, he didn’t know how to be wary of others. He kept thinking, “If I do well, if I just do this, things will be okay.” And when things went wrong, he kept blaming himself. All the way to the day Ai died—he took it all onto himself. That’s what drove him mad!!

He’s not some malicious person who would send a knife-wielding man to Ai. What he wanted to send her was flowers. Flowers. And regarding Ryosuke—Kamiki knew that he was someone Ai would recognize. She did recognize him, remember? Kamiki knew Ryosuke was Nino’s boyfriend and a fan who went to handshake events. So then—do you really think Kamiki sent Ryosuke to hurt Ai? No way. Did he think Ryosuke would harm her? Scare her? Absolutely not!! If he had thought that, then Ryosuke would’ve been the worst possible choice. He’s a fan. Who imagines a fan hurting their idol?? Kamiki had known him for years and thought he was a good person. He trusted him—and I think that was all genuine.

If Kamiki had held any ill will toward Ai, he would’ve chosen someone else. Someone with no connection to her at all. But what he really wanted was to go see his kids. To congratulate Ai on her dome concert. Then things happened… and he couldn’t bear it. He broke. He wanted to do something—for Ai, about Ai—and that’s what kept him alive. But that, in whatever way it spiraled out, led to these devastating consequences… and that's how Aqua has tracked him down.

I keep, keep saying this. I figured this out before it even came out. And the fact that people still haven’t caught on—it’s frustrating and painful. The author shouldn’t have left this unspoken like that!!!

I just wanted to uncover this for everyone. I really wanted to pull this part into the light...

Surely people at least figured this part out? They must have seen that much, right?

But by leaving it vague like this—honestly, the effects it has are really not good. The focus here shouldn't be on whether Kamiki is the evil one or not, what this manga should have been discussing is something else entirely, and I see that, I actually consider it as a pretty good message but the fact that the authors themselves bury it is so frustrating. But like I said, it really doesn't go so much about the subject matter so much either, so perhaps they feel they achieved everything they wanted and are really satisfied with it.

In that case, I may be holding my expectations too high. But that's called believing in them! I thought they could do good and be really thoughtful about the materials they handle, it's not like it doesn't exist at all, right.

#long post #oshi no ko #oshi no theories #hikaai #oshi no ko spoilers #hikaru kamiki #ai hoshino #aqua hoshino #ruby hoshino #spoilers

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