#it's just this fucking victim complex that's driving me up the walls

[frankensteinmutual]

one of my housemates is so fucking sensitive it turns me into a person I do not like

[someone-ds]

Totally insufferable is what he is. But God am I just drawn to insufferable men.

He walks with his chin up, clothes worth more than two of my paychecks combined, a kick in his step, and a smirk across his clean-shaven face that would bring any woman to her knees.

He has mastered the art of a souverain aura. He has had a thing for getting the rise out of me since day one. And how I hated his guts, ohh how I hated everything about his stupidly handsome face. He is smart I’ll give him that, almost as smart as me. Our professor has grown fond of our rivalry, instigating heated discussions and making us meet heads every lecture. I love a challenge and mmh how delicious of a challenge he is. Our eyes meet more often than I’d like. He watches me, in return I watch him. I cannot help myself. When he talks my ears perk up, the corners of my mouth curl up, and my eyes usually roll because of his awful trash talk. I fall victim to his charm and wit. I wish to sink my teeth into his throat and mark him as mine. He talks and talks to try and get a reaction out of me. Over the summer he has apparently forgotten how much fun it is. So he does it all the time. Was sich liebt neckt sich what loves that teases

And tease we do. He drives me crazy, he makes me wild. I want to just shut him up with my lips, he brings the worst out of me. And he loves that. God how he saviours my annoyed eyes and angry huffs. He feeds off it. It’s almost animal-like how we prey on each other. He drives to Germany every weekend, he’s from there. Something I tease him about constantly. the way he says certain words makes me cackle. ‘What was that? What did you just say, sorry I didn’t get it?’ ‘Ugh, how do you guys say that??’

My hometown is on his way to his hometown. So, he mentions every other Monday when he comes back to class. On Friday it so happens that instead of going getting off a stop later than he does; I get off at the same time as he does. We’re going to his apartment, in a building with a porter, community kitchens, cinemas, gaming rooms, saunas, and pools. It is straight out of a fucking movie. The walk up to the apartment he talks about the area, his feet and mine falling into sync. I am awestruck, cranking my neck up to see all those beautiful skyscrapers that surround us. It feels like I’m in a totally different city, a feeling that will continue to grow the longer you spend in his bubble. We walk into the rotating doors, and the portier watches me closely and asks me what I am doing here. ‘She’s with me’ he barks and goes up to him. He signs some paper and scowls the man for his rude behavior to his guest. I stand awkwardly to the side. A warm feeling in my stomach. ‘She’s with me’ echoes through my head. Strangely it sounds lovely coming from his lips. There is a tablet in front of the elevator behind two glass doors he used a keycard for us to pass through. He punches a number in, I’m too distracted to see which one. I scan the walls and the floor. We go in. The elevator is spacious and weirdly has no buttons on the inside. There is a red LED indicator telling us which floor we are on. ‘Wait, which floor do you live on again?’ He lowers his head a bit, I can hear the smirk on his pretty pink lips when he says ‘The 23rd’ My jaw drops. Then my head falls back, and a nervous laugh leaves me. I’ve never been this high above the ground before. My knees buckle a bit. He squared his shoulders and stepped out before me. He casually strolls the corridor talking about the VIP features he has; I pay him half a mind. More interested in my surroundings, the carpet and the wall, and the decorations. We go through the gaming lounge. ‘It’s a short cut’ he says and winks. I’m still awestruck and too mesmerized by everything to even consider mocking him for the cheesy line delivery. We are on the 23rd floor of a luxury apartment complex and all I can think about is how much I do not fit in here. We get to his door, it’s the last one in the hallway. He goes in. I stay two steps behind him not sure if I should come in or wait until he’s done grabbing his bags. ‘Come in, I’m sorry it’s so messy… I rarely have people over’ he says the last part more quietly. ‘Should I take my shoes off?’ is the first thing that leaves my mouth. He looks down at my feet and then just shakes his head no. ‘Nah you’re fine, doesn’t matter’. His apartment is smaller than I thought it’d be. A small kitchenette, and a queen-sized bed with a TV in front of it. A small desk and a beautiful dark blue velvet couch. The bathroom is off to the side down a small corridor. But what gets me is the view. The floor-to-ceiling windows and a terrace that wraps around the whole apartment. He opens the door for me and rushes off to pack his bag while I stand quietly by the door. I walk around trying to get a feel of who he really is. A postcard by his bedside table and a picture of the family dog tell me he misses home more than he lets on. I get it- I think to myself. On his desk are two bottles of Dom Perigon 2010 and 2008. A small but heavy Porsche Trophy with his dad’s name on it. A small frame with a family picture around a table in a restaurant. He has his mother’s eyes. I wonder if anyone has ever told him that. I venture out to the balcony. The wind has my curls flying all over the place. I feel like a little kid giggling out there. I look over the city that I have come to call home for the past year. It looks completely different from up here. I feel like I’m on a different planet altogether. ‘How much do you pay for this?’ I say as I step over his clothes that had fallen from the clothing line. ‘1200€ without the garage, it’s 100 more with’ he says nonchalantly as if that’s not more than I make in 2 months.

My knees buckle again. I’m a bit dizzy, the wind and the adrenaline from being up so high are making it worse. I go back inside. I see an elegant black suitcase in the corner of the room. ‘Wouldn’t it be funny if that was a Rimowa suitcase?’ I think to myself. Those things are stupidly expensive. I go look at the black leather nametag with his Initials carved into it, I turn it over and of course, it is a fucking Rimowa suitcase. ‘You’re so fucking predictable.’ I shout in his general direction. ‘Is it true that you get lifelong insurance on these things and if it breaks, they provide you with a different one until yours is repaired?’ ‘Yeah, that’s true, I mean I paid 2,3k on that. That’s the least they can do.’ He changed his clothes and puts his driving shoes on, I bite back the remark about how only old men have dedicated driving shoes. We’re back at the elevator. We go from the 23rd floor to the -2nd floor in less than 30 seconds. We walk around the parking garage and the trunk of a black Q5 opens on its own as soon as we round the corner. He puts his bags inside, shuts the trunk, and walks over to the driver’s door. I’m still looking at the car. The plate with his name and lucky number on it sits proudly on the car. Gobsmacked. What the hell… I get in. The plush leather seat is nice, soft, and smooth. I feel like I’m in a Rocketship. I look around and every second that passes the more in awe I am. He reverses out of his parking space and off we go. His car is so high that I can’t really see over the hood. We drive out of the garage onto the busy streets of Vienna that are beginning to feel more like fucking Miami. He has a panorama roof that slides open, and he puts his hand out the top. The other rested comfortably on the leather steering wheel. ‘Be honest how many times have you stuck your head through this?’ He laughs and shakes his head. ‘Never I just put my hand out like this.’ It is weirdly attractive; he looks expensive and by association, I do too. And that feeling is growing on me. I have been in some car accidents and get nervous being in cars with people I’ve never driven before, especially young rich guys with a car that has 250 horsepower and an inflatable ego. ‘You’re not going to drive like a crazy person, are you?’ ‘I drive more than 500km in a week and have been for over a year, I’m better than most drivers. You’re safe with me don’t worry.’ He turns the music on and I relax in my seat. I then say something about being so high up in the air. He presses some buttons on the little touchpad in the middle of us and I can feel the hind tires lift and the car rising. Then the front tires, I watch as the hood of the car rises while we stand at the red light.

What. The. Fuck? He just lifted us 10cm off the ground. This is so intoxicating, I feel drunk. Bubbly and happy. More from the nerves but also from the sheer ridiculousness that this boy is. He drives us out of the city, and I relax in my seat. We talked about the car how much it cost and the upgrades he got. He starts singing along to the song that is playing. The sun is slowly setting and a strip of light slices through his eyes vertically leaving a honey chocolate strip in his eyes. I ask him how loud the music can get, and he puts it up all the way. And again, I feel like I’m not in Vienna and not with my academic rival but with a friend in Miami. The roof is open the music is loud and good, and I am getting used to feeling like I’m above the rest. The conversation goes from the car and his apartment to his dad and grandparents. His dad is a professional horse rider and owns a hotel that belonged to his grandparents. They own 35 horses and have like 5 luxury cars. He has a younger brother who lives with his mother. His parents are separated. He used to watch his dad on TV and cheer him on. ‘He was home for a day or two a week and then traveled for 3 weeks, I never saw him.’ ‘Did you miss him?’ I ask quietly. It seems like he loves his dad a great deal. ‘No’ his face crunches up a bit, tilting to the side. ‘He was never there so how could I even miss him?’ That breaks my heart a tiny bit. I ask about his mother. ‘Oh, she works in IT’ he says, and I can tell he is embarrassed. ‘Oh, that’s so cool what are you on about?’ His brother has a Michelin-star restaurant named after him. He has to come by every few weeks to walk around and say hello to the guests. The image of that makes me chuckle. I am still mostly looking up at the panoramic window that graces the roof of his car. A pleasant conversation is held with good music coming through the speakers. The wind makes my hair fly around. I feel free.

He drops me off at my house, and I shut the door not before wishing him a safe trip.

He is insufferable and mean. But he is a good guy. Not that I would know what that means. Good guys were never my type.

And over the weekend my mind kept going back. To the feeling of freedom.

[temporalbystander]

Okay so I was scrolling through my old posts, as I do when I can't sleep, and I found something. Something from way back when I was making the switch from Dusk to Faybon as the main OC behind this blog (who here remembers that mess right?). It was something I had reblogged from someone that called Alya bashing racist and listed some very good points on why this was the case.

As stated previously I have an Alya bias. One that tars her negatively whenever she enters the main spotlight of the story. What's interesting is that, reading through what I wrote in response to that message, this bias has clearly gotten worse for no discernible reason.

Cliffnotes version on what I wrote there but basically it was me stating that Alya should never need to apologize or need redemption from Marinette because hurting her is not something Alya is capable of doing. Marinette is Alya's best friend and the best person Marinette could have in her corner. She'll help Mari with whatever crazy plan she concocts but will drag her out of whatever negative spiral she gets herself into.

Rest of my realisation, and adult language, under the cut because I want to spare as many walls as I can.

That being said.... Salt is an insidious poison and the mind is a susceptible mess. I don't know when I stopped believing what I wrote on that post (though I know exactly when it became rage inducing IYKYK) but somehow, through slightly more aggressive characterisation and a more assertive and fleshed out Marinette. I went from having Faybon and Alya clash because it made sense character wise, to doing it because Alya was clearly in the wrong. From thinking I could write Alya accurate to the show to filling her with the same salt I'd seen in other fics.

That last one is also a victim of me overestimating my writing abilities but the key point still stands. I thought I'd long since gotten passed the point where I use OC's to enact my vendettas on characters. Turned my stories away from the simple "fix-it fics" I had started out with. And yet, despite believing Faybon to be my most complex OC (which isn't saying much considering every one of them is just the same dude with different aspects emphasized.) I began hating a character more than my character had any right to. I began believing the exaggerated aspects that slipped through, in stories that otherwise respected her, while forgetting what my own belief on her was.

I will forever be annoyed at the whole "Nino knows of Marinette's crush but Alya will smack him for bringing it up while pretending everything is fine" but and that will never get resolved. And my OCD, or whatever the Frick it is, will always trigger when I hear the phrase "I'm Marinette's best friend" instead of "Marinette's my best friend" (seriously if someone has a theory on just why this little thing irks me as much as it does I'd be beyond grateful. The other issue is clearly worse and yet this one just drives me nuts for some reason.)

And of course theres the "fic-that-shall-not-be-named" that made me add sexual content to the "do not show" tags so that I never had to worry about being triggered by it again. Seriously I don't want to harp on a story I never read but fuck that fic for making me feel this way. For making that summary stick in my head everytime I close my eyes and think of Alya. For all the vile negative feelings it caused, the nausea and more, fuck it.

Anyway, back on topic, all this will forever be a problem for me (especially that last one) but none of that is in anyway deserving of the extreme hatred I have given the aspiring journalist. The sheer contempt I have had Faybon view her with. The burning rage her mere presence near the story plot causes. In terms of canon she has made one mistake. One thing that seriously needs addressing. Beyond that? Alya has done nothing wrong and I really hope I can stop feeling like she has. I'll keep trying.

[the-daughter-of-lilith]

The list just keeps on growing…

- No self respect.

- Poor boundaries.

- Misaligned actions & words.

- Poor communication.

- Not valuing my time & energy.

- Doesn’t love themself enough to love someone else.

- Needing too much validation from other people.

- Not enough depth.

- Cares too much about physical appearance instead of the mind and soul.

- Not respecting my body enough to warn me about STDs ahead of time.

- Over-explaining themselves and never shutting the fuck up. (Walls of texts, excessive voice memos, etc.)

- Talking about the future with me too quickly.

- Love bombing.

- Not making an effort to have a life outside of me. (other commitments, own identity, etc.)

- Consumed by the thought of me.

- Not having a significant dating history to understand what they like in a person.

- Wanting me to fill a void of loneliness with themselves.

- Fantasizing about an idealized version of me.

- Consistently using my “trauma” against me, in the form of “pity.”

- Getting to know me too much and not elaborating on much about themselves.

- No significant drive in advancing themselves mentally, physically, or financially.

- Reaching out to my friends about me instead of speaking to me directly.

- Using spirituality as an excuse for the connection (fate, twin flame, soulmate, etc.) instead of being rational.

- Victim complex.

- Deceptive antics.

- Impulsivity.

- Withholding information.

- Taking advantage of vulnerability (Manipulation).

[cqsuanla]

fury shakes the rafters

pairing: dark!nat/f!reader

summary:

Aside from the cannibalism, Nat is mostly the same. Still ridiculously strong and stupidly hardheaded. And that face — flinty, cold, mean. Nat’s always been mean. 

(inspired by jennifer’s body)

additional notes: mommy kink, dom/sub, bloodplay(?), dacryphilia, uhh pussy spanking, choking, unhealthy relationship, terrible aftercare

title from a song suggested by an anon: nobody by the crane wives

(ao3)

The light in the stairwell flickers, but it doesn’t make a difference, dim and dirty as it is. It buzzes distantly in your ears. You’re too focused on taking the steps two at a time to notice. You hold your groceries to your chest and fish your keys out of your pocket. If you were strong like Nat, you might just have knocked the door clean of its hinges with the force of your body. Instead, it crashes loudly into your wall, and you nearly fall on your face from the momentum. 

In a bid to gain purchase on your wall, you sweep your coat rack over, and you stumble over it. The clatter makes you wince — you hope she’s in a good mood. It’s hard for her to process stimuli when she’s weak. You scramble onto your hands and knees, shoving scattered boxes and cans into the grocery bag. 

Then, the rhythmic thud-thud of footsteps. You pause, exhaling as your eyes close. 

“Drink?” in a monotone. 

Yikes. You open your eyes, biting your lip. Steel-toed boots. You’ve told Nat a million times that this is a shoes-off apartment. She never listens, and you never argue more. Nat stays; she’s the only one who’ll stay. You can’t drive her away. 

Her right boot rises, scraping against the floor, and you flinch. It just kicks a cereal box away so it can nudge at the shopping bag. The way she says your name, evenly, firmly, has you blinking rapidly, has your hands automatically shooting to the bag, following her prompt. Thank god the bottles are fine. You don’t know what you’d do if they had shattered. 

You wiggle a beer out of the pack, and only then do you dare to make eye contact. 

“Hi,” you murmur. 

She gives you a brief glance, impassive, before snatching the bottle from your hand and returning to her spot on the armchair. “That fucking coat rack.” She flicks the cap off your side table, grungy and scratched up for this very reason. The cap bounces off the wall and disappears under the couch. “Just move it further in. You never listen.” 

You did, weeks ago. You don’t say so. 

The coat rack came with the place, and it was nice, so you refused to get rid of it. Nat hated it, hated that it was so close to the door in your already bite-sized entryway, but never enough to throw it out herself. But you did move it because her complaints were valid, and you wanted her to like being here with you, living here with you. Anyway, she stopped complaining afterwards. Not that you think she noticed — you supposed it was a minor inconvenience to her, the way a fly was, annoying when it was in your face but non-existent once it stopped bothering you. 

Quietly, you move your groceries to the kitchen island, putting everything but your new medical supplies away. There are dirty plates in the sink, which you’ll wash after you make yourself dinner. You wonder what she’s eaten – you’d just bought two new steaks, but Nat likes a bowl of strawberry ice cream now and then.

The TV channel switches in the background. Nat snorts, and you peek around the wall to catch a report on the gruesome series of murders that have been happening lately. People in the neighbourhood hardly went out anymore, too afraid of the dark now. It would scare you too if you weren’t well aware you’d never fall victim. Nat was with you, after all, and you were with her. 

You would be with her for as long as she’d let you. So, what if she was the monster in the dark? So what? It was Nat. Your Nat. She came back to you, talked to you, fucked you. It’s not like she was disembowelling you in some grimy alleyway. She kept most of the violence away from you because she cared. Anyway, like everyone else, she had to eat. You couldn’t fault her for that. 

You’re pulling the gauze out of its packaging when Nat scoffs loudly at the news. They must’ve insulted her because she clicks the TV shut, practically inhales half her bottle and flings the remote onto the couch. 

Then, she sets her sights on you, meek behind the counter, and raises an eyebrow. “Honey, the hall’s a mess. Clean it up.” 

You frown. “You’re still hurt.” 

She rolls her eyes. “I’ll eat tomorrow, and it’ll be fine.” 

You don’t think so. The longer Nat doesn’t eat, the worse it gets. It’s how she’s in this mess in the first place. Nat’s ethereal after a feeding, next to omnipotent. But the guy she picked to eat last week turned out to be some sort of track star because he had booked it at the first sign of trouble, and she’d been forced to retreat when the sirens started blaring. The day after that, she picked a local thug as her next meal, and she’d been caught off guard by the switchblade. So, here she is: slumped on your couch and stitched up sloppily. 

Her hair is limp, skin wane and dry, and in a bad enough mood that you can basically feel it every time you’re within a two-meter radius of her. 

Her physical weakness emboldens you a little, makes you think you can get away with a bit of stubbornness. You pick up the gauze and tape and round the corner. A car speeds by, high beam making Nat’s eyes glint a deep green in the dark. The green follows you the whole way until she has to crane her head around to watch you slip her tank top off a shoulder. 

Those eyes weren’t like that before when you first started dating. You don’t mind the changes, though. Aside from the cannibalism, Nat is mostly the same. Still ridiculously strong and stupidly hardheaded. 

“You don’t want to listen?” she asks, almost conversationally. 

You know better. You clench and unclench your fist. Shakily, you lift it and tuck a hair behind Nat’s ear, hoping foolishly that it will placate her. 

“Baby,” says she, like a gentle mother to a misbehaving child, “you should really listen.” 

You trace the bumps of her stitches, staring hard at her shoulder so you won’t have to see that face — flinty, cold, mean. Nat’s always been mean. 

“At least answer me.” 

“No, Nat,” you mutter, undoing the bandages on her bicep. “I don’t want to listen.”

To her credit, she lets you fix her up. Methodically, silently, you clean her wounds and rewrap them in new bandages. She doesn’t get in the way unless it’s to take a swig of her drink. 

When you’re done with her arms and back, you move to her front. She’s got an ugly gash on her calf, bruised midway from where the man had kicked her bleeding leg. You imagine this is causing her the most pain, not just physically. Nat’s not great with sitting still. She’s independent to a fault, enjoying control to the point that it’s probably some sort of diagnosable complex, and this restriction on her mobility has her restless and irritated. 

Looking down at her, at the space between her knees, you wonder if she’ll cooperate with you. The last time you tried to clean her leg, she’d torn your duvet in half and has since refused to let you look at it. But Nat tilts her head, coy, and gestures toward the space in front of her with her bottle. 

“Scared?” she whispers.

You glance at her face just in time to catch her tongue tracing the jagged end of a canine. Mutely, you shake your head. She smiles wide.

“Liar.”

Of course. You’re always scared of her. For her, too. But you don’t think it matters; it doesn’t change anything. You just want to help her, be good for her. Anyway, she’s trying to get a reaction out of you. You refuse to take the bait, raising your eyebrows and wiggling the bandages in your hand.

“Fine.” With a roll of her eyes, she parts her legs. 

As if dealing with a feral animal, you move slowly, cautiously, afraid to make sudden movements lest she starts getting violent. You squat down and reach for the cuff of her sweatpants. 

“Ah, ah.” She slides the leg back, staring down her nose at you. You pause. “Kneel, baby.” 

Her eyes — did the ring of green get thinner? Your lips part, anticipation beginning to seep into your body, and you comply. Once you’re settled, looking up at her, she makes that same careless gesture with her bottle. A go-ahead. 

As you work, she shifts to put her beer on the table and then combs a hand into your hair. You tense, eyeing her nervously, but she only watches you, imperious, intense, and remains silent. Nevertheless, you pick up the pace, tossing the antiseptic aside and winding the gauze around her pale calf. 

She’s startlingly warm under your hands. Ever since… whatever happened to her — she wasn’t exactly forthcoming with the details — she’s run hotter than ever. You can’t sleep under a blanket with her anymore unless you’re shirtless; the heat would be unbearable. Not that Nat has any complaints about that. 

“All done,” you murmur. 

The lack of reaction from Nat gives you the courage to lean forward and press a sweet kiss to the top of her knee. The hand in your hair rewards you with a gentle scratch, and you can’t help melting into a smile. She’s still got that air of arrogance about her when you look up at her, but she’s not glaring. Which is why it comes entirely as a surprise when she clenches a fistful of hair in her hand, yanking your head back, and slaps you clean across the face with her other hand. 

You take the full brunt of her palm with a cry, almost toppling over were it not for the grip on your hair. Your cheek burns, and so does your eyes. Mostly from pain, partly from the shock of it, maybe a little from shame when you realize you’re getting wet from the rough treatment. 

Nat tuts. “Crying already?” 

You imagine you look pretty pathetic on your knees for her, eyes glassy.

“Don’t give me those eyes, baby; you know I can’t help myself.” 

“I just wanted to help.” 

“I know,” Nat says gently, tipping your head back again so you can see the false sincerity on her face. “You can fix this, you know?” 

Your eyebrows furrow, thoughts racing a mile a minute to puzzle out what she means. 

“Don’t think so hard. You’ll hurt yourself. I’ll show you how, dumb baby,” she coos as she nudges your chin with the knuckle of her finger, and you can’t help flushing deeply at that. Then, she offers a hand, and you take it, and she tugs you up into a straddle on her lap. “Come here.” 

You instinctively wind your arms around her neck, clinging on. Beneath you, she tenses and lets out a low rumbling sound that resonates deep in her chest. You inhale sharply. 

Teeth. Sharpened to deadly points. Poised over your neck. Nat’s breath comes short and hot against your skin, and her tongue, when it peeks out, drags wetly across your skin. 

This has happened once before; the first night she’d come back changed. Like before, she noses at your flushed skin, teasing you with the possibility of damage, and trails her teeth down to your traps. Back then, she hadn’t bitten you. She won’t now, you think, you hope. 

She sighs again, hovering over the meat of your shoulder and prodding her teeth against you. Doesn’t break the skin. 

“Don’t make it worse for yourself. Are you scared?” 

This time, you nod. Nat’s lips curve into a smile, and her hold on your thighs tighten enough to bruise. 

“You should listen, sweetheart,” she says against you. The front of her teeth scrapes over you when she speaks, leaving red marks behind. “I hurt you less when you’re good. Don’t you know?”

“How can you be in the mood?” you wonder, burying your face into the crook of her neck. “You’re half dead.”

“Barely.”

It would take a lot more to kill Nat like this. Anyway, how could you be in the mood when your girlfriend’s cut up like this? 

Nat stands abruptly, ignorant to your yelps and complaints, and dumps you back onto the couch in quick succession. Before you can even register what’s happened, she’s yanked your bottoms down to your ankles and has climbed between your legs. 

Even after that, you don’t get the chance to speak. She wraps her hand around your throat and pins you to the cushions. You grab onto her wrist.

Her body bears down, and you break into a sweat, in small part due to nerves, some part because she’s shoving her hand up your shirt to grab roughly at your bra, but mostly because she’s near scalding. You’re convinced her blood runs at a constant boil now. You’ve grown to love the heat, though. With her, pleasure comes white-hot, and you’d want it no other way. 

“Nat-”

“No,” she growls, and you get an eyeful of her monstrous teeth. She flexes both hands, cutting off your airway and squeezing your breast painfully. You whimper, wound tight as a coil. “Listen to me, baby.”

You look at her through hazy eyes. 

“Those eyes again. God, I love you like this.” Foolishly, your heart clenches at those words. She rucks your shirt up and claws her nails down your front. Beads of blood bloom from the thin scratches she leaves behind. “You’re beautiful when I hurt you.”

Her hand nearly crushes your throat closed, but then she releases you, and you suck air in desperately. Your hands, shaken off her arm, reach for the sides of her head. “Nat,” you croak, tasting the salt from your tears on your lips. “Nat.”

She shakes her head, descending on your chest. It hurts – badly. “Be good for mommy.”

“Mommy,” you gasp out, arching into her mouth. She ignores your pert nipples, electing instead to lick and suck at the burn between your breasts. “Please, please.”

“Shut up,” she hisses. Oh, her teeth are still out. “Hands above your head.”

You obey, another sad sound crawling out of your abused throat. 

The dark pits of her eyes drink in the sight of you, face crumpled in pain and need. A thumb wipes up the last of your blood, and she delights in smearing it across your cheek. 

“Messy baby, clean up after yourself. It’s basic,” she chides, thumb still rubbing at your face as if she were fixing up some runny mascara. “Be good now.”

You don’t dare to speak, just nod and look pleadingly up at her. Your core aches from neglect. 

She makes quick work of that, reaching down to feel the slick between your thighs. Humming, she smirks and very deliberately rubs her middle finger over your clit. You jerk up into her, mouth falling open even as you strangle your moan. 

“I could do anything to you, and you’d still want me.” 

Again, you nod. 

“Where did my little liar go?” she baits. You shake your head. “Say ‘thank you, mommy, for letting me breathe.’”

It takes you a moment to gather the brain cells and say: “Thank you, mommy.”

Her smile widens, teeth back to normal. “Again, for the lesson.”

“Thank you, mommy.”

She brings her hand down on your cunt, full strength. You scream, jolting away from her. Well, you would have if she hadn’t pressed you down by the chest, entirely uncaring about the wound she’d left there. Tears leak out the sides of your eyes, trickling into your hairline. 

“Thank me for that too,” she demands.

“Thank you,” you cry around a hiccup. 

One more spank, and another, and another. Your legs kick uselessly against the cushions, body twisting after every awful smack.

“Thank you, thank you, thank you!”

Your hole clenches around nothing, slick leaking onto the couch. Then, two fingers dip into you, and Nat thrusts them up hard and fast. She’d shoved them in on a contraction, and it hurts for a second before she’s curling her fingers into the velvet of your walls. 

She makes a pleased sound. “Tight as always. Makes me want to tear you in half, baby.”

You stare up at the ceiling. “Th-” She starts up a fast pace, digging her fingertips into your front wall. “Thank you!”

Her cheek rests on your chest, listening to the thunder of your heart. “We should try that big one.” Impossibly, your heart rate quickens at the thought, and you manage to shake your head. She laughs, the sound sharp and cruel, and music to your ears. “Maybe another time then.”

She sits up then, still working her fingers into your cunt, and moves her other hand to your mons. She pets gently over your labia, a sharp contrast to the vicious pace she’s keeping up. Your head spins. 

“My baby,” she breathes, “good enough to fucking eat.”

But she parts your folds to press her fingers into your clit, circling them once, twice, thrice, and you’re so close. So desperately close. 

She leans down, near delicate in her movements, and licks into your mouth. You taste copper and beer and the faintest sweetness. Urgently, you try to kiss back. 

If she’s mean, she’d pull back and deny you the chance to come with her mouth on yours. 

She must think that you’ve suffered enough, though, because she rubs her thumb at your clit and drives her fingers deeper into you, and you push up as far as you can into her body with a scream. You’re swallowed in molten heat, pleasure stripping away at you until you’re just bones on the couch. 

When you come to, Nat’s pulling out some bandages for your chest. You’re too tired to do or say anything, forced into silence by her dominance. 

She smiles at you, still not kind, but it doesn’t look bestial like before. Maybe just self-satisfied. She strokes your sweaty hair as she fixes you up, shushing you if you moan quietly from aftershocks or pain. You are in a lot of pain, bruised and scratched up as you are.

“Good girl,” she says when she’s done. 

Finally, you muster the energy to grab her hand and say, “Thank you.”

She lets you hold on for a few seconds before pulling away. “Sure.”

You wish she’d hold you for a bit, but you don’t vocalize it. She’s been through too much in the last few days; you shouldn’t burden her—

“Don’t be fucking needy,” she says, suddenly and harshly. Your face must have given you away. 

“I don’t mean to be,” you mutter, bringing your arm up to cover your eyes. Feeling stupid, feeling mad that you feel stupid, you say: “It would just be nice if you’d stay for a bit.”

A hand grabs your arm, yanking it away from your head, and you’re treated to a view of her scowl. “Where would I go?”

You didn’t mean it that way, but you don’t know how to get out of this hole you’ve dug yourself. “I-I don’t know.”

Out of nowhere, her hand slaps your cunt again, overstimulated, sore, puffy. You groan, curling in on yourself and hugging your knees to your chest. 

“Fuck, Nat.”

She takes the opportunity to sit down on the end of the couch, where your legs once were. The TV turns back on, and you hear her take a sip from her can of beer. “Clean up the hall later.”

At least she stayed.

[reidgraygubler]

the threat is gone (spencer reid/reader)

Title: the threat is gone

Requested: yes, was a request someone sent to @imagining-in-the-margins, but I took it off her hands :) (Reader is being threatened by an unsub and is given safety instructions by reid that she disobeys out of boredom, so when the threat is over she tries to joke/lie/argue her way out of trouble but he’s in total dead serious fbi interrogation mode and calmly hauls her over his lap and doesnt stop til she’s crying hard and has told him everything and then he comforts her n from there whatever)

Couple: spencer reid/fem!reader 

Category: angst, slight smut (either way, minors dni)

Content Warning: swearing, dishonesty, being spanked (to the point of tears), aftercare, D/s dynamic, reader being a brat, usual criminal minds case stuff, post prison & post series!reid, implied age gap (10 years),  use of a safeword

Word Count:  3,901

Summary:  Spencer sends Reader to a safe house after she’s threatened by an unsub. Reader decides to take her fate in her own hands and leave the safety. When Spencer finds out what she did, there’s hell to pay

A/N: happy easter to those who celebrate! pom (aka @imagining-in-the-margins​ )posted this in her discord and said if someone had any ideas for this, we could have it. and i loved the request so i took it off her hands. also thank you to @newportonmymind for beta reading this for me!! thank you all so much for the support! i really do appreciate it. check out my masterlist!

{***}{***}{***}

“Anderson and a cop are going to take you to a safe house,” Spencer looked down at me. I shifted on my feet as I looked up at him. My heart was in my throat. I didn’t think this unsub was that bad. 

“I’m not going to a safe house, Spencer. Being here is probably the safest place I could be. By your side… With the team,” I stepped up to him as I grabbed his hands. He looked down at me, a certain frustration in his eyes. 

“His victims are too much like you. We’re not taking that chance, I’m not taking that chance. Do you understand?” Spencer’s voice was low as he spoke. I swallowed roughly as he placed his hands on my shoulders.

“Yeah, yeah, fine, I understand,” I scoffed and shrugged his hands off my body. Spencer looked at me, watching as I collected my belongings. 

“Please, just trust me,” his voice was soft. I looked up at him, putting my bag across my body. 

“Yeah, of course, Spence, I trust you, wholeheartedly,” I smiled at him. He didn’t believe me. Granted, I didn’t exactly believe myself either. Why would I? I’m being snappy and sarcastic, and dismissive to everything he said. “I’ll be safe. Anderson and a random cop will be with me. Do not worry,” I went up to him before pressing my lips to his. 

“It won’t be for long. We’ll be back home before you even know it,” Spencer smiled, resting his hands on my hips before kissing me again. “You’ll listen to me and Anderson, understand,” he kept his tone soft and quiet, but still held authority.

“Yeah, yeah! My life is now in his hands. I wholeheartedly trust you and Anderson,” I whispered as I kept my eyes on him. He looked down at me, his honey-like hazel eyes watching every detail on my face. Part of me wondered why he stared at me the way he did. Was he memorizing every little detail of my face, just in case something happened to me?  Nothing will happen to me, that’s the whole reason why he’s having me go to a safe house with Anderson. 

“I love you,” his voice wavered slightly with his words. It was clear he was trying to not let his emotions show, but was also obviously losing. 

“I love you too,” I smiled before pressing his lips to mine for the briefest moment.

“Sorry to interrupt,” a voice came from the doorway, forcing Spencer and I to part. I swallowed roughly before turning to look at the door, seeing Anderson leaning against the doorframe. “But we’re ready to go,” he looked between Spencer and me.

“I’ll see you soon,” Spencer lifted his hand to my face, gently holding my cheek in his large palm. I swallowed roughly and nodded. “And don’t forget your promise. Follow your orders, and be a good girl,” he whispered the last part so only I would hear it.

“Ye-yeah, yeah… We’ll see you soon,” I repeated what he said before kissing him one last time. As much as I didn’t want to, I stepped away from Spencer’s body and followed closely behind Anderson. The cop that was behind us held a jacket over my body to hide my identity and keep me hidden from anyone unsub. 

“We’re going to stop at your place before we go to the safehouse, so you can get some clothes, toiletries and other belongings,” Anderson looked over at me once we got settled in the car. I glanced over at him and nodded.

“Yeah, okay,” I swallowed roughly and nodded, “Will we be able to stop at a store too?” 

“Everything you should need, food and entertainment, should be at the safehouse when we arrive,” Anderson backhandedly answered my question. I furrowed my eyebrows as I stared at him.

The rest of the drive to the apartment was tense and silent. It was almost like we were in a library. Any sound or comment that was made, any breath that was breathed, felt wrong and I should be executed for it. But, that would kind of defeat the purpose of me going to this safehouse, right?

“Be quick, we only have a few minutes. We have to be on the road before dark,” Anderson looked at me as we both walked up the steps to the apartment complex. I glanced over at him and nodded lightly.

“Will do,” I nodded as I pulled out the keys and unlocked the building’s door. Anderson stayed standing outside the building, by the door, as I went inside.

The apartment that I shared with Spencer was a mess, but to be fair it was mostly Spencer’s mess. Books, papers and files scattered over any surface. And if there was an exposed surface, it was occupied by a coffee cup. At the office and on the road, Spencer is neat and organized, but at home, when his walls come down and once he’s in the zone, the organization goes out the window. Teaching tended to take a back seat; the papers that littered the room (and office and bedroom) consisted of papers he has/is supposed to grade.

I think the only organized room was our bedroom. Even though no one else ever entered that room, he always had it pristine. He knew where everything was, and if one thing was out of place or out of line, he’d know in an instant. We had come to a shared agreement that the bedroom was for bedroom activities only. If we could keep work stuff out of our room, we would. Our room was the only truly the only place we had control, hence the cleanliness and order of it.

I was quiet as I grabbed my backpack. Shoving my clothes into it, I muttered strings of profanities. Spending time in stupid safe house sounded like pure hell, absoulte boredom. Why would he think I would be okay at a safehouse? I could be useful at the office, and safer too. What’s safer than being with the team, not to mention with Spencer?

With a deep and resigned sigh, I threw the straps of my backpack over my shoulders. Anything to make Spencer happy, I suppose. I was a brat, but this didn’t seem like something to fight him on. 

I quietly exited my home and went back outside, where Anderson was still waiting. 

“Ready,” I looked over at him, feeling a fake smile grow across my lips. Anderson looked at me and nodded before taking the lead back to the cop car. I looked over at him and nodded as the car finally jerked forward and took off. 

If I thought the drive to the apartment was bad… The drive to the safehouse was worse. If I had known it was going to be a 1 hour drive, I would have fought harder. This time around, I could sense that Anderson was trying to make some sort of an effort to make me feel better about this situation. But it was clear it was a fail of an attempt too. He kept talking about the things he enjoyed rather than common interest, or small talk. Yes, Spencer could do the same, but at least his factoids were adorable or at least relevant.

I almost felt bad, because I had honestly stopped listening to everything he said. I’m not sure when I stopped listening, sometime around the time he started talking about baseball. I take back what I said about Spencer, this was far worse. I swear, I actually liked listening to Spencer ramble on and on when he info dumps. But Anderson… 

“Anderson,” I looked over at him, cutting him off as he spoke, “Please… For the love of God… I know you love baseball… But you have got to stop talking for five fucking minutes,” I took a deep breath as I stared at him. He looked back at me before closing his mouth and nodding. 

Thankfully, the rest of the drive was silent. I almost couldn’t believe how quiet it was. And, I almost couldn’t think of a time where it was silent for such a long period of time. I suppose in the moment I was thankful that things were turning out the way they were.

“Here’s your bedroom,” Anderson spoke cooly as we walked past a room. I looked over at him, feeling my exhaustion spread through my body. “Rest all you want. There’s some books that Spencer sent over that you could read. As well as movies you could watch,” he looked over at me. I looked back at him and nodded.

“I think I’ll do that… Everything that’s happened today… I’m exhausted,” I laughed nervously as I entered the room. Anderson looked at me and nodded, watching as I closed the door. I pressed my back to the door once it was shut, clicking it locked with a sigh. 

My eyes scanned across the bland room. It consisted of a bed, a night stand, a lamp, and a window. Of course, all safe houses are basically empty homes. Fake houses that looked lived in, when in reality they were nothing.

But then I looked back at the window… We were only an hour away from the apartment… Surely I could...

“Like hell I’m going stay in this stupid safe-house with Anderson,” I scoffed before rushing over to the window. I threw it open so fast I was worried I’d broken it. I didn’t have every step of my escape planned out, but I knew I had to get out of here. I knew I could think on my feet, so the spontaneity didn’t faze me.

I had to be quick as I had to make sure that Anderson didn’t clue into what I was doing. Because the second he knew that I wasn’t in the the safe house anymore, was the second Spencer knew, and then I’d be in big trouble -- worse than if the unsub were to catch me. 

“Okay, okay,” I whispered as I patted down my pockets, feeling for my phone and wallet, trusting that everything else that I needed would be in my bags. I’d be back by the end of this case. I wasn’t exactly running away, I was just getting away because this was stupid. The safest place I would have been in was with Spencer and the rest of the team. I knew that, and I knew Spencer just needed reminding that I was right.  

‘I wasn’t running away,’ I thought to myself as I looked out the window. It wasn’t a far jump. 3 yards at least. I wouldn’t get hurt by that, should I? 

I glanced over my shoulder, just making sure no one was watching me, before finally jumping out the window. I grunted when I landed on the ground. Then, I was off.

There was a coffee shop not far from the house. That was my destination. And then from there, I’d get an uber or taxi back home, or shopping, or someplace else. As long as I was away from danger, I was okay. 

I could feel a certain anxiety grow up my throat the further I got from the safe house. It wasn’t because I was afraid that I was going to get hurt. It was because of Spencer. I just wasn’t sure how he’d take to that news -- but I could take an educated guess. It was honestly a matter of time before I go-

Spencer Calling…

I stared at the screen, looking at the picture of Spencer and I at one of Rossi’s fabulous parties. I swallowed back my fear and anxiety, and took a deep breath of courage before pressing answer.

“Hel-”

“Where the hell are you!?” Spencer growled as his voice came through the speaker. Fear… Fear grew in the pit of my stomach, and it was hard to breathe. “I swear to God,”

“I’m fine! I’m safe…” I returned as my steps slowed on the sidewalk. I didn’t totally answer his question. I didn’t really want to tell him I was at a coffee shop 5 minutes away from the safe house. Because then he’d have Anderson on my ass in a second. 

“That doesn’t answer my question, and you know that,” Spencer snapped back. I froze in my tracks, my heart beating harder than I could control. “Where are you? Make me ask again and I won’t be nice,” 

“Spencer,” I started, my voice low and shaky, “I can’t tell you,” I shook my head. I could hear the breath of air that Spencer let out, and it only scared me more.

“If you’re not back at that safe house in 20 minutes, you will have the biggest punishment. Do you understand, Princess?” 

“I’ll be safe, Spencer,” I muttered. I stared at the ground for a long time as we both stayed silent. It was hard to say how long passed, but it was a while. “Bye Spencer,”

“If you hang up, I swear,” he started but I didn’t get to feel the end of it before I hung up. I swallowed roughly before continuing my trek towards the coffee shop as my phone buzzed continuously.

{***}{***}{***}

“Where were you again?” Spencer asked, just to ask. He didn’t forget. The man he is? He’d never forget. Especially something like this.

“Coffee shop and Library, I thought you would just have Garcia track me.” I mumbled as I waited for him to unlock the door. My stomach was slowly churning the longer he took to unlock the door. Although, I was okay with how slow he was. The slower he took, the longer I had before the punishment.

Spencer huffed out a breath of air and shook his head. I stared at him, watching as the door finally unlocked and was pushed open.

“Do you have any idea how irresponsible that was?! How… How much danger you were in?!” Spencer shouted as we both entered the apartment. I glanced at him as I made my way to the couch.

"C'mon, I was probably safer at the library and coffee shop anyways! Bastard knew I’d go to a safe house and our apartment," I shrugged as I flopped onto the couch. Spencer looked down at me like he was the parent reprimanding their disobedient child. Granted, that’s kind of how our dynamic was when we weren’t at work or it was a normal day. I do have to admit though, I was wrong for not going where he wanted me to.

"You directly disobeyed me. Do you have any idea how dangerous that was?! How could you be so reckless!? You have no idea how scared I was when I heard you weren’t at the safe house,” he shouted, but as he got closer to the end of his sentence, his words got quieter and his voice cracked. I looked up at him, the feeling of guilt suddenly eating away in my stomach. 

“I’m sorry… I don’t know what else you want me to say or do, Spencer…” I muttered before shrugging. I glanced at him as he stood on the other side of the coffee table. He rolled the sleeves of his shirt, quietly muttering something as he went. “Spencer, look, I said I’m sorry… I’m home and I’m safe…” I watched him with anxiety bubbling in my stomach.

"You disobeyed me, put yourself in danger,," his voice was low as he stood up. I watched as he walked over. The hairs on the back of my neck were instantly standing, and I could feel goosebumps grow all over my arms. “Sorry just isn’t going to cut it,” he looked down at me. I looked up at him, and I knew exactly what he was about to do. So my next question was redundant.

"Wh-what are you doing?" I looked up at him. My heart was suddenly in my stomach as he lowered to my height. I tried to look anywhere but him, but that was hard when he placed his finger under my chin, coaxing me to look at him. I tried my hardest to not look up at him, but it was so hard to not look at him. He was right there and he was my favorite person to look at. But, to be fair, when he was mad it made me a little nervous.

"Well, you decided to go and break my instruction. And you know what happens to little girls who disobey their rules," he kept his voice low as he spoke. I dropped my gaze to my lap as he sat beside me. A shiver shot down my spine as I locked eyes with him… In that moment, I knew I was done for...  

"Wait, Spencer," I exclaimed as he grabbed me by the waist and pulled me so I was lying across his lap. I lifted my head and looked up at him with wide eyes “Spencer! Spencer! Wait! Please!” I struggled as I squirmed in his lap. I wanted so badly to just slide out of his arms, but the way he held me made it damn near impossible to slide away from him.

“I’ve asked for an explanation and you didn’t provide one,” he spoke cooly. He kept his hands on my back, and not going any lower than my hips. I took a moment, struggling to breathe as I thought of why I left the safe house and Anderson. 

“I was just bored, okay? I was bored. And thought it was stupid that you had me leave the office and the team to go to a safe house,” I tried to wiggle from his grip again, but failed when his hold on me tightened. I swallowed roughly, hoping my truth telling would work, but I had a feeling it wouldn’t.

“Is this the truth?” Spencer asked, his tone somewhat overly nice. I bit my lips together and nodded lightly.

“It’s the truth, I swear, Spencer, it’s the truth,” I whispered. I knew telling the truth would lessen the harshness of his punishment. And, maybe it would. He does know when to be gentle.

“I’m happy you gave me the truth. But that still doesn’t mean it was okay to disobey me, you know that, don’t you Princess?” he whispered as he brushed down my hair. I let out a deep sigh before reluctantly nodding. 

“I know,” It was inevitable at this point. I owned up to my mistake, and now I need to own up to the punishment. And I knew exactly what was going to happen. 

“I’ll go easy on you, okay?” He kept his voice low. He knew if his voice was any louder, I’d instantly back away from all of this. “I think ten strikes is appropriate... Do you agree?” 

I would rather have less, and Spencer knew that too.  But if I argued he’d only add more. Which was worse than the ten he already offered. I knew that after he’d be okay and it’d be over with.  Fuck, I already wanted it to be over.

“Yes, sir,” I sighed deeply. I lifted my hips enough for him to pull my pants down over my bottom. My chest tightened as I tried to take a deep, shaky breath as I anticipated the first strike. 

My ears could just barely pick up the soft rush of air from Spencer’s hand before it landed hard against my bottom. I took a sharp breath of air and dropped my head down to the cushion.

“One…” I whispered as my hands gripped his pants tightly. I swallowed roughly as I tried to steady my breathing. Spencer gave me a moment to breathe before giving me two and three in a quick go. Four came after a brief moment. But then… Five was when it started getting shaky for me. Tears had started rolling on my face between three and four, but it didn’t start becoming trouble till five.

“Five! I understand! I swear! I’m sorry!” I cried out once his hand connected hard with my ass for the 5th time. And, okay, that one hurt, like a lot. I couldn’t tell if it was the sting that hurt, or the repeated assault on the sore spot… But I knew it hurt. With each strike, I could almost feel Spencer’s anger and anxiety. I definitely felt bad about doing what I did.

I don’t know if I’ll make it to ten...

“Just five more,” Spencer spoke softly as his hand carefully massaged my butt-cheek. I could tell he started feeling bad. But, we both knew he had to follow through with it. 

His hand whizzed through the air and smacked against my ass. A loud crack came through the air, and a sharp gasp fell from my lips. And, that was it. I definitely don’t think I’ll make it to ten. This was it. 

“Buttercup!” I shouted as my eyes snapped open. I could still feel the tears burning down my cheeks. Before Spencer could make contact for the 7th time, he stopped. He kept both his hands away from my body as I moved away from him. With that, we were both silent for a minute, as I tried to recalibrate my breathing. 

Spencer looked over at me, sensing his sudden change in demeanor. His anger and anxiety was gone and replaced with a guilty panic. The atmosphere changed.

“Are you okay?” Spencer asked after a minute had passed. I was, painfully, sitting on the next cushion away from him. I needed my space. I bit my lips and nodded as I roughly wiped my cheeks. 

“I’m okay,” I whispered looking back at him. I watched as he slowly lifted his hands, offering both of them for me to hold. I stared at them for a while before just falling into his sigh, a shaky breath, almost a sob, going through my body.

“I got you; you’re ok, you’re safe. I was so worried. You have to understand how dangerous it was for you to just leave like that. I thought I was never going to see you again,” Spencer whispered, bringing a hand to run over my hair. I bit my lips and nodded.

“No, I know… I’m sorry for… I’m sorry I didn’t listen to you. I don’t even know… I should have just stayed at the safe house,” I whispered as I pressed my face into his shoulder. I felt as he let out a deep sigh and wrapped his arms around me, resting and hand on my lower back. 

I was happy he didn’t mention how I told him the truth a little bit ago. My body could feel the exhaustion from the whole day. It wasn’t just the punishment, or the little bit of arguing, or even the running away. It was everything combined. I needed sleep soon. Spencer knew that too.

“Why don’t we go into our room and cuddle,” he whispered as he continued stroking my hair. I sniffled lightly before laughing. Just like he was reading my mind. He knows me better than anyone. “I just want you safe in my arms.”

“Yeah, yeah, I think I’d like that a lot, actually,” I looked up at him. Spencer smiled at me before lightly pressing his lips to mine. 

if you want to be a part of a taglst or have any comments about this one shot, let me know here

taglist: @itsmyblogandillreblogifiwantto, @thebluetint

[hello-nichya-here]

Ok, so what in your opinion is the WORST mistake that the showrunners for Game of Thrones made in terms of content, either it's addition or redaction?

WARNING: Looooooong post ahead

Themes are for eighth-grade book reports

This absurd quote by one of the showrunners explains why exactly the show fell appart. They wanted to make a story... without themes. Anyone with a minimally functioning brain will tell that this is impossible because every story, even the simplest and least complicated story there ever, has a theme. Even a nihilistic story has a theme "Nothing matters". Every. Story. Has. A. Theme.

But Game Of Thrones didn't, at least not after the writers ran out of books to adapt and did their own thing. Everything every character did was no longer to build a narrative, but to essentially act as click-bait. The focus was to make people keep watching, not on making any content that was worth watching.

The first four seasons had it's problems, just like the books had it's problems, but Martin's writting was so brilliant that it managed to stay good even while being handled by absolute clowns. The moment season four ended was the moment the show stopped being an adaptation and became it's own thing - and like I explained before, said thing wasn't a story.

Shock

Both the show and the books had MANY shocking, heart-breaking and downright horrifying scenes: Daenerys being raped by Drogo; Bran being pushed out the window after accidentally seeing the queen fucking her brother; the whole deal with Craster and his daughters; the Dotrakhi destroying Mirri's village and her revenge against them and Daenerys; Ned's death; Melisandre giving birth to a shadow baby that killed Renly; The Red Wedding; Jeoffrey's death; Tyrion killing his father; Theon being tortured by Ramsay...

The difference is there were REASONS behind the shocking scenes Martin created. Even when you look at things like rape and torture scenes and threats of rape/torture - Martin used those scenes to remind us that the world he created is an EXTREMELY dangerous and downright vile place, and that the characters are never truly safe, and that there are WAY worse things than just being killed.

Dumb & Dumber on the other hand, gaves us scenes like an evil, former man of the night's watch evily making an evil speech to his fellow evil men, evily drinking whine from a human skull while nameless women were being raped in the background - but little does he know that Jon Snow, the hero, is about to wreck his shit. It takes something that could realistically happen (and that did happen in the books) and takes it up to eleven because the writers think shock is the same as quality and that the audience is SO STUPID that they need to practically make the actor jump out of the TV, grab us by the shoulders and scream "I'M EVIL! I'M THE BIG BAD! ROOT FOR THE HERO TO KILL ME!"

Pretty much every bad guy became a parody of Jeoffrey, ironically enough because the writers took Jeoffrey too seriously. He was a cruel, sadistic character, who had WAY too much power - but he was also a spoiled baby whose reply to Tyrion bitch-slapping him wasn't a threat, but "I'M TELLING MOM!" Jeoffrey worked because he was only allowed to do his thing whenever smarter, more competent characters like Tyrion and Tywin where not around, meaning his actions, while inhumane, never reached the point of no longer being believable.

The horrible things that happened to the characters no longer felt "right". For instance, Sansa had just been taken to the Eerie by Little Finger, who has a weird complex in which he sees her both as the daughter he never had with Catelyn AND as a replacement for Catelyn, and she was starting to truly be a player instead of a pawn... and then the writers realized "Oh shit, we should have not cut the Jeyne Pool/Fake Arya' plot, that was important" and forced it on Sansa, making Little Finger hand her on a silver plater to Ramsay and turning her into a victim AGAIN, this time to a man that dramatically fights his enemies without a shirt own, practically saying "come at me bro"

Compare this to Ned's beheading, or Catelyn and Rob being betrayed and killed by the Freys. These moments were shocking and downright depressing - but they were earned. The writting was on the wall for anyone to see: Ned was at the mercy of Jeoffrey, and the Starks had given the Freys, who are notoriously disloyal, a reason to resent them. These twists felt completely natural, were the only logical way for the situation the characters were in to play out, AND they had consequences to plot instead of just making the audience gasp and then being forgotten about.

Plot armor

It's kind of ironic and almost tragic that the show that became famous for killing characters later became the worst type of high-stakes series, putting the characters in situations they could NOT survive, not even if a goddamn miracle happened, and having them live anyway. What's even worse is that it happened repeatedly. If I had to see Jon Snow almost die and then survive anyway one more fucking time I was going to lose my mind.

There's no bigger proof that there were just no consequences for the "main" characters anymore than watching the second, third, and fourth episodes of season either. The first sets up that this battle against the night king and his army of undead is likely going to kill the majority of them, if they're lucky... and then in the third we see the plot armor in all of it's "glory", and then in the forth we find out that the Dotrakhi, who had ALL been killed, actually still have half the numbers they had the night before, somehow. Even red-shirts weren't dying anymore.

DORNE

This disaster needed it's own session because HOLY SHIT, it's a miracle/tragedy that everyone didn't go "Fuck it, I'm never watching another episode of this stupid show."

The Dorne plot in the books isn't perfect, but what the show did to it was so fucking bad that I'm pretty sure the writers didn't even read the Dorne chapters in the books, they just looked at a wiki, wrote down the names of a few characters and then did their own shitty thing.

In the books, Doran Martel is a clever, dangerous man, who pretends to be harmless so people will understimate him and step right into his trap. In the show, Doran Martel... died. That's it. I can't remember anything else that happened to him. Add him to the list of "Brilliant characters that became stupid due to shitty writing", I'm sure Tyrion, Varys and Little Finger will love making him company.

The sand-snakes, one of the main driving force of that plot, were all distinct characters in the books, with their personalities, goals, methods and motivations - basically they were created by a writer who knew what he is was doing. In the show they were all the same "character" who could be perfectly described by that horrible, cringy, PAINFUL line one of them (I can't even remember which) said to Bron "You want a good girl, but you need the bad pussy" (Seriously, if that actress ever kills the show-runners as revenge for having to say that, she'll be 100% justifyed in doing so)

And we cannot forget the driving force behind that unwatchable shit show: Ellaria Sand. In the books, the death of Oberyn made her believe that revenge only leads to more blood-shed. In the show, his death enraged to the point of wanting to avenge him and his family, and she did this... by killing his family. If that doesn't explain how insane and stupid this plot-line was, I don't know what will.

Hype = Character assassination

Many shows are based around the conflict between the bad guys and the good guys. Game Of Thrones is not one of these shows. Or at least it wasn't. As they ran out of ideas, the writers started mutilating every single character until they could be label as "Good" or "Bad", regardless of what felt right to the story and to the point that there was nothing left of said characters. Stannis's actor, Stephen Dillane, straight up said that the only thing he got from being on the show was money and that his character's motivations and decisions were nonsense - ironically enough, that kind of brutal honesty means that the writers had THE perfect actor play Stannis, and wasted his fucking time.

Here's a list of the characters that fell victims to this horrible fate: Catelyn Stark, Tyrion Lannister, Sansa Stark, Arya Stark, Jon Snow, Melisandre, Stannis, Jorah, Daenerys (bonus points for being mutilated into being both a generic, shitty "hero" and a generic, shitty "villain") Greyworm, Rhaegar Targaryen, Lyanna Stark...

Pretty much the only character who became more complex in the show than she was in the books was Cersei. While her book self was never just a "Generic Evil Queen", the show version of her was far more sympathetic, which made the stories she was part of interesting. Too bad the writers ran out of ideas of what to do with her after season six and just left her by the window drinking whine until Dany showed up to kill her. Which brings us to...

Why is this happening?

Cersei was seen as a threat in the last two seasons based on nothing but the things she HAD done. Her story just ended the very second season six did, but since she was still alive despite being one of the bad guys she had to die... I guess. She (and by extention Jaime) joined the list of characters that had nothing to do, but were still around: Davos, Theon, Yara, Melisandre, Bron, Sam, Gendry, Bran (the last one being SO unnecessary that he was cut from season five and no one noticed)

To combat that issue, the writers gave characters "motivations" that made no sense. For exemple: Sandor Clegane. His only reason to be in the show was so he could kill his brother. The problem was that Gregor was already dead. He was a walking corpse. There was nothing left of the abusive brother Sandor once knew, meaning he had no reason to fight him, and that, to keep Sandor around, the writers should have come up something new (like the redemption that book fans have been waiting for, and that has a lot of backing evidence). You might as well have had HIM be the one to randomly fly out of nowhere and kill the night king despite having no connection to him.

And since we're talking about the night king... Arya was the one to kill him. Why? Because the writers ruined Jaime's redemption arc, meaning that the only fitting ending for him was to die with Cersei, and so Arya could not kill Cersei despite wanting to, having the ability to do, AND having heard a prophecy that said she'd "Shutting brown eyes, blue eyes, and green eyes forever", the last one being the only one she had not done AND applying to Cersei. But Dumb & Dumber admitted they had no plan for this, so now that they were at the last season, they needed to do something with it, and they retconned it to mean Arya would kill the night king...

But Arya killing him meant Jon had nothing to do, so Dany had to go mad so he could kill her. To "hint" at that, they ignored all the not at all subtle foreshadowing the previous season had of Dany and Jon having a kid, and they even showed her getting jealous that he was technically the true heir... even though that made no sense since they were going to rule together anyway, and even after Dany went full "Mad Queen" she ASKED HIM TO RULE WITH HER. But anyways, he kills her and becomes king...

Except he doesn't actually become king and him being a secret Targaryen has no effect in the plot, because Bran needed to become king so there'd be a reason for him to be alive, because his magical powers turned into a plot-device. A plot-device that wasn't used at any goddamn point. Seriously, the only thing as bad as Bran becoming king was Euron's existence - dude was THE most useless villain ever AND the worst Jeoffrey parody.

A darker story (literally)

I could not end this rant without bitching about this. What is the point of spending an ungodly amount of money on sets, costumes, make-up, special effects... and then using such poor lighting that no one can see what the fucking is going on?

Anyway, this disaster of a series was so absurd it should be used as an exemple of what NOT to do.

[fairycosmos]

hey, i have a sister who struggles with addiction. she moved out from our parents to my place when she turned 18, so that she could have some space and that her highs and lows wouldnt affect our younger siblings that much. but shes been going through a hard time for quite long now, which causes her to treat us around her like complete shit. her behaviour led into a pretty bad argument, which led to me driving her to our parents in the middle of the night cause i couldnt mentally or physically handle the shit she was giving me anymore. after that night, she never returned to mine and told our parents to pick her stuff and move it into a new apartment that she got for herself (which locates in the same building as her friends who she uses substances with). she hasnt reached out to me at all, even though we have been around each other and i cant bare to approach her either, cause im still upset and hurt. my mom said that shes already prepared to lose her. i heard from her friends that shes told them that if she goes unconscious, theyre not allowed to call the ambulance or try to help her. i am worried sick to my stomach everytime i think about her and i feel so powerless. my parents just say that theres nothing more we can do, she goes to psychotherapy and shes under the social services but still i feel like we should do something more to help her or to stop her from destroying herself. im so sorry if this message makes you feel uncomfortable, but since ive followed you for quite awhile and i know your experiences with these things, i would appreciate if you could help me with this situation or at least try to give me some advice, how to cope with these feelings that come from loving your sister that struggles. i dont want to lose her.

hey, i am so sorry to hear this. there's a lot i could say and a lot i want to say but can't really articulate. i don't think there's any one size fits all advice for such a complex and heartbreaking situation. i guess i'll begin with what i'm sure of, and that is that your boundaries and feelings are justified. addiction literally rewires your brain and perception of the world beyond recognition, to the point where the only thing the person cares about is their vice. it's just total tunnel vision, selfishness denial and violence on top of selfishness denial and violence. being around ppl like that, especially a loved one, is beyond exhausting, it's its own special kind of hell. like screaming at a brick wall. it's totally understandable that you had to take a step back after falling victim to her erratic, manipulative and abusive behaviour. the drug use explains it but it absolutely does not excuse it. you're really brave for putting your foot down and prioritizing your own mental stability when it all got to be too much. know you never have to regret that. having said that, it's possible for two conflicting feelings to coexist and for them both to be (for lack of a better word) valid. she's your sister - of course you're worried, of course you're terrified for her. of course you love her even while feeling like you hate her, at times. it's alright to let your emotions be illogical, to just weather the storm and let them pass through you. write it down, talk to your loved ones, maybe consider speaking to a therapist or hotline over it. it's perfectly normal to need that support and talking through your circumstances may be illuminating/lead to some personal revelations regarding how you want to approach this. ultimately, you're angry because you care. after a while i was like that too, with my sister. although i tried to let her know that i was more worried than frustrated during our conversations, sometimes i still couldn't help the internal rage. all because i wanted her to wake up to reality and for her to be okay - i didn't get her thought process at all, didn't get her version of the world. and i felt so fucking powerless because she just strayed so quickly from her path, despite what she was telling me, despite her being relatively fine mere months prior. despite us being best friends and on good terms. it's a headfuck, and you don't have to know what to do, you don't have to have anything figured out. just try to focus on what you need, today.

the hardest thing to accept is the fundamental truth of the situation, and that is that you can't fix this for her. can't love her out of it, can't enable her out of it, can't fight her out of it. all you can do is be there for her emotionally while still maintaining the appropriate boundaries necessary to preserve ur own mental wellbeing. it's completely okay if you need more time - i know you said you cant bear to reach out to her at the moment, which makes total sense. but since you sent this message and i can still see that you're beyond concerned and it's only getting worse, maybe you could consider calling her or sending her a text or meeting her for coffee when you're ready. just to let her know you haven't stopped thinking of her. and that you care about her so much, that when/if she's ready to get help you will be with her every step of the way. even if shes battling addiction for the rest of her life. if she screams at you, if she breaks down, if she ignores you for what you say - fine. but at least she'll know on some level that she is not alone, and at least you'll know you did what you could with what was in your control. also about her being under social services - is there any way you could get in touch with them, maybe explain that youre still worried about her and that you think she needs a higher level of care, maybe ask them if theres anything proactive you can do in collaboration with them to maximize the help shes getting? i dont know how it works where you are, that might be a no go, but i just thought i'd mention it. i'm sorry, i know it's a disappointing answer, but i really don't realistically think there's any other. there's only so much of this that is in your hands and so far it sounds like you've done and are doing everything possible to stay sane while looking out for her. i really really hope something clicks for her and that she starts to listen to you and her loved ones soon, that she begins to approach recovery out of the genuine need to get better. but it really does have to come from within her, all you can do is encourage it. im sending you both so much love. i know more than anyone how fucking stressful it is to have to wake up to this every day, and i'm so sorry. if you need someone to talk to, my inbox will always be open. you deserve peace in your own life, too. take care x

resource one

resource two

resource three

[kjmsupremacist]

Don't ne shyyy name the reasons why they'd drive you up the wall ~

HELP HAHA ok

taeil - odd. also he's too quiet.

johnny - every. everything. every fucking thing about this man. he's an aquarius. he's a jock. he's embarrassing. he'd open his mouth and i'd just have to smack the shit out of him. i just know he's annoying.

taeyong - nothing he's perfect

yuta - first of all im so sure that man uses a three in one. second of all he's got way too much scorpio in his chart to be allowed to live i love him in theory but i know i wouldn't in practice

kun - nothing; he'd be sick of me

doyoung - aquarius. definitely has a stick up his ass. he'd try to mansplain something to me once and i'd snap

ten - as long as we were on the same team things would be fine. the instant he starts pestering me its over.

jaehyun - worst aquarius in nct by far and that’s saying something. im the opposite of a jaehyun victim. that dude is so much of a Man it makes me SICK. every day i think about how he touched his foot while cooking and didn't wash his hands.

sicheng - nothing i think we'd vibe. i want to judge bitches with him.

jungwoo - he has to be the strangest human person on the planet. he'd refer to himself as puppy and i would drop kick him into the pacific ocean

lucas - he's so loud. just so loud. and i know that man is messy. he's sweet so he'd last longer than some of the others but he'd start doing stupid shit soon enough. also he's an unapologetic jock like he likes working out unironically.

mark - straight and repressed. i know were all like aw i'd like to be friends with mark. no. he can't handle SHIT. not weird enough and way too awkward

dejun - he is a theater kid through and through and for that reason alone i would not be able to stand him

kunhang - his energy .... is insane. i just know he's obnoxious. he thinks hes clever but he's really just annoying. no.

renjun - i just think he has a superiority complex and while i can respect that in some bitches i can't respect it in manlets who are younger than me. bitch i will step on your hobbit ass.

jeno - he gets up early to exercise. that alone makes him repulsive. also like any given boy in his 20s has no emotional intelligence and way too much hubris but i think since jeno grew up a celebrity its even worse for him

donghyuck - dude NEVER SHUTS UP. he just strikes me as one of those people who think being annoying is cute and funny and they think it's great when their behavior pisses other people off when in reality everyone is like. people like you are the reason why i hated middle school

jaemin - i think he's insane. like even if we spoke the same language i still don't think we could understand each other he makes no sense!

yangyang - he's just such a little shit. ten and kun both beat his ass daily so i can't imagine how i'd react

shotaro - nothing i like him

sungchan - nothing i like him. both of these could just be due to the fact that we haven't seen much of them yet

chenle - he's rich. also i think he'd try to be mean to me which i cannot abide from a child. 10/10 would throw a slipper at his head

jisung - he is an emotionally stunted idiot raised by other emotionally stunted idiots . he's been babied his whole life and i simply wouldn't be able to deal with him.

[bitchassbucky]

.eps (cut)

Word Count: 1.7k

Warning/s: dark!bucky x dark!reader, MAJOR CHARACTER DEATH, blood mention, gore and dismemberment, murder, toxic/abusive relationship dynamics, sedation/drugging/use of sedative, stockholm syndrome-ish, one very special character reveal

A/N: this version of the epilogue is the 'clean cut' - there's a good chunk of it missing but it's not particularly important to the story. if you want to read the EXPLICIT version, there should be another one uploaded at the same time. (sorry, this is scheduled so i don't have the link yet lol)

follow the CTRL series:

i - .exe

ii - .avi

iii - .raw

iv - .png

v - .zip

CTRL playlist CTRL moodboard

Safeness, comfortability, warmth are all but a false sense of reality.

When a prey takes down its walls, the predator moves in. Camouflaged in familiar colors, in words that you’re used to hearing, in praises, in lies. Most predators use the mask of the night to move in darkness—unyielding and calculated. Come morning, there will be only one left alive, tainted with victory and bloodshed.

You and Bucky have been engaging in a dance for two—a battle of who’s willing to take the leap of faith and unleash hell upon the other.

Stifled smiles and pursed lips.

The air is filled with unsaid irritants, little things that ticked away like bombs.

There was no time for pleading, no time for mercy, no rest for the wicked.

Did you still love each other?

How far are you willing to go to keep up with his… complacency?

Bucky’s mundane life already taking a toll on you. The endless nightmares of him feeling you. The swirling vision of Bucky being with you every waking—and sleeping—moment: it grates your soul to shreds.

“We’ll be together forever, right?”

“Yes, darling.”

“What about the day after forever?”

“That too, honey.”

Where was the man you loved so deeply? The man that broke his morals just to be with you?

Was he under this hull of a Yes Man? A poor little thing that says ‘yes’ to everything like a puppy.

The man you held so dearly now slipping away, chipping his humanity, shedding the once-human.

“Would you marry me tomorrow if I asked you?”

“Of course, baby, why wouldn’t I?”

“Would you kill for me?”

“I’m meant to do the same for you.”

It’s irritating how Bucky gave up too quickly. Too fast, moving too fast. The gazelle let the lion tear its neck as it lay there, unmoving, letting the blood seep into its hide.

When you first met Bucky, it was your own fairytale unfolding before your eyes. Kismet, reality, forgiveness from above. He was soft and shy, passionate, lively.

Far from what you expected from a man his age—you blame Steve for forcing you into his narrative before. That all men are out to get you. They will hurt you. They will use you and leave you for good. But Bucky? Bucky came in like a knight. He saved you from the carcass of your past. He saved you from the sins that you prayed and knelt for.

Bucky taught you how to love.

Bucky taught you how to live for yourself.

Bucky taught you that being alone doesn’t mean you have to be lonely.

“It was an unspoken little thing, wasn’t it?”

“What thing, baby?”

“Our love.”

“Yes, honey, it was.”

He worships you.

He worships you like a fucking God and you hate it.

Suffocating, too suffocating. You dove straight for the water and now you’re drowning.

Do you still love each other? The question hangs in the air, heavy with its weight, light as a feather.

It’s all your fault. It’s all your fault. It’s all your fault. It’s all your fault.

You stand there with a syringe half-filled with a horse sedative. It’s a concern how easy it is to waltz into a pet store and pick up a general anesthetic. You make a mental note to look at it later.

Bucky’s body slumps forward, his forehead meeting the edge of the table with a dull thud. If the overdose doesn’t kill him, the weeping crack in his head will.

Holy fuck, humans bleed a lot. And fast. Good thing you already have that clear tarp taped down. Even with the hush money stuffed down your throat, it would take a good nick to regrout the kitchen.

“What is that for, honey?”

“I’m painting the cabinets.”

“Okay, darling.”

So you let him bleed, surprised that the liquid is redder than what you thought it would be. A soft gurgling noise came from Bucky, the last of air escaping his dead body. You stood there, syringe in hand, as you thought how to dispose of a six-foot-tall man without arousing suspicion.

Not that he’ll be missed anyway: the local news and the internet already branded him as a psycho and you as a victim. You were both victims in this fairytale. They reported his case as “skipped the town like the sicko he is.” So, no—no one’s going to look for him.

The sun was high up in the sky and there was a dead body in your kitchen.

A butcher and a surgeon walk into a bar for a drink. “What do you do for a living?” Said the butcher, “I save lives! What about you?” The doctor answers. “I save animals from dying slowly. We’re basically the same. You’re just very clean.” You see, the butcher comes into the bar covered in blood, reeking of death. The surgeon, on the other hand, wears his white coat with pride even though he’s surrounded by death every passing second.

Today was the day you learned that you have the tools of a butcher and the precision of a surgeon. Unlike before.

You carefully take Bucky’s fingers off of his left hand, leaving a skin flap on the edge of the last knuckle for you to stitch close later. Four promises. Four goddamn promises and he broke all of them.

It was his fault that he’s dead. He made you do this.

Placing the body into the trunk of a rental, you begin your journey to the end of your fairytale. Off to the woods, where you buried your first love. In a town where not everyone who dies leaves.

The drive to and from the place was tiring, to say the least. The internet connection of the diners was spotty at best. Locals were overly friendly with the city folks who came passing through their towns. The roads reek of roadkill and manure from the farm animals that were left to roam for fresh grass.

At least you get to come home in a spotless apartment, alone once again.

But not lonely.

Your space is yours again. No trace of anyone anywhere. Immaculately yours.

—

Humans are social creatures.

No one can truly be alone, especially in today’s world where we’re connected to everyone—whether we liked it or not.

Leaving your wretched job behind was an easy feat to do. No one can say no to the victim of such a vile crime. That’s all they saw you: a helpless little thing. So off you went; saying half-assed goodbyes and sending emails of courage and hope and fucking resilience.

Your resignation meant that the company’s free of any dirt from you, Bucky’s disappearance quickly becoming a joke and a rumor blending in one.

They let you leave: in your bank account a fat check ensuring that you’d shut up about the scandal for months until you can’t feed yourself no more. So you packed your bags and jet off without looking back. You never liked that apartment anyway.

Nevertheless, you found yourself looking into another dead-end job in one of the towns you stopped over before. It’s a charming place like time froze in their plaza while the rest of the world went on. You found a small studio apartment in a street tuckered away from the main avenue, you settled there as days became nights and nights turned into days.

You woke up one morning craving a healthy serving of coffee and pancakes, luckily the town’s local diner wasn’t far from your new home.

The coffee was too hot, the pancakes were amazing, fluffy, and just right. You’re sitting in a sunny booth, the warmth doing its wonders.

“Hi, can I get today’s paper, please?” Your voice is sweet as you call your server, giving her a quick smile.

A pair of Raybans adorn your face, unconsciously hiding behind its darkened glasses. The waitress gives you a thick stack of newspapers, refilling your cup with black coffee.

Upon opening the paper, you ignore the town’s headlines and go straight for the job postings. The door jingled open as patrons come in and go, waving to familiar faces.

Job Vacancy Announcements

Secretary to the Town Sheriff

You skimmed over the rest of the details, only noting the address of the office. The job looks quite lucrative for someone who would only take messages and organize files for the sheriff.

Looking over the job posting again, you read over the words walk-ins only. That shouldn’t be hard enough.

The diner looked deserted save from the man sitting behind your booth. Leaning over and tapping his shoulder, you put on a polite smile, “Hi, sorry, do you know how to get to the sheriff’s office from here?”

“Hello, darling.” The man croons in an accent, he looks over to you, “join me in my booth, will ‘ya?”

You’re in no position to reject his proposal, you’re the one who needed an answer.

Taking your coffee cup, you slide into his booth, “hi.”

“Just the face I wanted to see.” Clean-shaven, a hint of mint and smoke, and something woody; a worn leather jacket and white button-up shirt hugging his soft frame. “Some folks over on the apartment complex were talkin’ about a city girl wanting to rent a studio all by herself. That happen to be you?”

You look over to him, trying to understand how that small of news spread like a wildfire, “yeah. I moved in a week ago.”

He leans over, smiling sweetly as he unabashedly lets his eyes roam your features, “What’s a city girl like you doin’ in a place like this? I hope we ain’t too boring for you, gal.”

Chatty—he’s way too chatty.

“Just wanted a change of pace, really. Away from the bustle of the city.” You rustle the paper, clearing your throat to get back on the matter on hand, “so the sheriff’s office? Is it too far from here?”

“What business are ‘ya bringing into the office?”

“A job, actually. Says here that they’re looking for a secretary.” You might as well tell him everything, he seems too chatty to be dismissed over and over again.

“Well, darlin’, today’s your lucky day. No need to drive down the old road.” He reaches down to his seat, pulling up a brown hat, “Hi, I’m Sheriff Bodecker. Now, to whom do I owe the pleasure?”

You bite back a giggle, you’ve always wanted to be involved with the law.

[thattimdrakeguy]

So many straight people will do what ever they can to be an asshole to trans people and it pisses me the fuck off every damn time.

Fuck, so many people in-general do what ever they can to be total pricks to trans people, and it drives me up a fucking wall.

Each time I see some new stupid shit being said just to treat trans people differently or badly it leads me to just feel this sense of pit of anger fill through my body. 

Trans people are people.

I’m sick of hearing people treating a certain kind of genuine existing person as “other”, because of their own tepid bullshit.

And what’s with so many straight people acting like they’re now the true oppressed? The hell you are. Isn’t no body judging you every time you be yourself in real life unless you’re actually bad of character. Other people can’t be themselves and be genuinely good hearted people without some form of judgment.

Everybody has a damn victim complex where they can’t process the difference about being shamed because you’re an asshole speaking bullshit, and being shamed just because of being your honest self that didn’t do shit to anybody.

It’s not to say there isn’t any false social justice bullshit that isn’t really justice for anything, and is actually just a bunch of melodramatic dillweeds looking to be virtuous because deep down they’re actually just self-centered and egotistical.

But playing dumb to the reality of the situation is no good for anyone.

Trans people are people and they don’t deserve to be treated otherwise.

Fuck anyone that thinks anything else. 

[yuta-nakamots]

119 - n.jm

Pairing - Jaemin x Reader

Genre - Horror/Thriller, Angst

Warnings - Cheating, familial problems, character death, mentions of sex (though no descriptions of it), blood, violence, public humiliation (not in a nsfw way), yandere tendencies

Summary - Misfortune is all around you though you were never the true victim of it until now with Jaemin by your side. Will you make it through these troubles or die trying? Will you be killed or become the killer?

Word Count - 4.1k

Written for the #NeoHalloween writing festival hosted by @nct-writers​. Check out the masterlist here.

To say that your life was rough would be just about an understatement. As a third-year student in university, you had already moved out on your own and had begun supporting yourself. Though your family was wealthy, it didn’t mean that everything in your life was handed to you on a silver platter because not everything that glitters is gold.

Your mother, who used to be a strong businesswoman who started up her own brand, was left heartbroken and devastated when she found out your father and seemingly loving husband had been having an affair for the past two years. She turned to alcohol and drugs in order to forget her sorrows and give her relief if only for a short while. You didn’t know what happened to your father after he moved out, only that he was happy with the woman he had been cheating with.

It soon became an addiction and you tried your best to save her. You scheduled and brought her into therapy appointments and followed her doctor’s orders to keep a close eye on her, but there’s only so much a college student can do. Your younger brother wasn’t helping at all either.

Chenle, only a year younger than you, has had his eyes set on taking over your mother’s business ever since he realized that special treatment he got at school from others when they heard his last name. He fed into your mother’s addictions and would reverse all the progress you made with her. “Don’t you want her money? She’s not in any state to get back in the business world so let’s just take what she has and run.” Chenle told you one night after you had finally succeeded at putting your mother to bed.

You looked at Chenle, appalled that he would even dare to say such a thing, even more at the fact that he had been thinking about this for so long. “We’re her children,” you reminded him, “she will share it with us as she wishes and she can make a comeback if you just stopped making things worse.”

“Me? Making things worse?” Chenle scoffed, mocking his disbelief. “I’m only helping things along. The faster she stops breathing, the faster we’ll get her money and I’ll get her business.” You could only shake your head at him as you pulled him out of your mother’s bedroom that now seemed much too large for her frail self. “Think about it, we can take over and split it fifty-fifty and the media would love us for it. ‘Zhong children take over their mother’s business after her passing in honor of her legacy’. Come on, can’t you see it?”

You felt nauseous at the images Chenle was painting in your mind and you knew there was only so much more of this that you could handle before you reached your own breaking point.

That’s why you brought your mother into a care home when you and Chenle were supposed to be at school. He wouldn’t know where you took her and you chose to pay for it using the money in your own bank account, though admittedly most of it was your mother’s money. Your parents had already bought you your own apartment when you first entered college, in case you wanted more independence though your mother’s condition is what stopped you from leaving. But the same day you left her at the care home was the same day you finally moved in.

As long as your mother was away from Chenle and you went in to check on her daily, everything would be fine, so you thought. You had even met your neighbor and he helped you move in. He was your age, even attended the same school, and went by the name of Jaemin.  

Ever since your first year in college, your life had already been filled with issues from your own family on top of the already heavy workload from classes, leaving you little to no room for a social life. You weren’t an outcast, but you definitely weren’t popular. People usually didn’t spare you a second glance unless they knew the lineage you came from which is why you suddenly felt small under the eyes that were staring into you.

Looking up as you took your seat in economics, you saw the familiar face of your neighbor, Jaemin, as he smiled down at you. As you settled into your seat, he slipped into the one next to you before leaning over and whispering a ‘good morning’ in your ear. You’d be lying if you said you didn’t find him attractive.

Within just a week of having known Jaemin, he had already become one of your closest friends, which came as a surprise since he was also one of the most popular boys on campus. But that didn’t stop him from walking home with you after both of you were done for the day. “A princess should never be left to walk on her own.” Jaemin insisted. “Who knows what dangers could be out there, waiting to attack her?” He pondered animatedly as he linked his arm with yours as you started your journey back to your apartment complex.

It was also within a week that it took Chenle to confront you. There he stood, in front of your apartment unit as you and Jaemin stepped out of the elevator. “What did you do with her?” Chenle demanded.

“What do you mean?” You questioned, faking cluelessness as came to stand in front of him, leaving Jaemin at his own unit.

Chenle rolled his eyes. “You know damn well what I mean. Where’s mom and what did you do with her?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” You remarked dismissively as you unlocked your door.

“She’s living with you isn’t she?” Chenle sneered, barging into your apartment the second your door was unlocked.

“Go ahead, search all you want. You won’t find her here.” You took off your shoes inside the doorway before depositing your belongings in your room while listening to Chenle romp around in the background. Once you had finished unpacking your bag, you stepped out of your room, closing the door behind you, your brother still going on his little rampage. “Can you tone down the temper tantrum? I’m going to get a noise complaint from the-”

Your sentence was cut off as he pinned you against the wall, his hands holding you by your shoulders as your back slammed into the hard surface. “From who? Who will you get a noise complaint from?” His eyes bore into yours as his grip only tightened. “You know damn well that we own this apartment complex so a single noise complaint doesn’t mean jack shit.”

You raised your hand to slap him, his attitude was simply annoying, but he was faster. Chenle quickly had both of your wrists in one hand as he brought his face closer to yours. “Stop being such a bitch and tell me where she is.”

“You know I won’t do that.” Chenle let out a groan of frustration, his free hand running through his hair before it came straight for your throat. You yelped in shock as he started to apply pressure, slowly limiting your oxygen intake.

“If you’re not going to help me, then maybe I should just kill you. Right here, right now.”

“You would never.” You choked out.

“Oh yeah? What makes you say that?” He sneered, enjoying the pitiful state he had you in.

“I’m your fucking sister, Chenle.”

“That doesn’t mean anything to me. If I let you live, you’ll only take more of what is rightfully mine. If you die, I can take over everything on my own and never have to deal with your annoying ass-”

Just as quickly as you started seeing spots in your vision, they were gone, the pressure on your throat was relieved and you keeled over, finally able to take gulps of air. You weren’t given much time to recover, the yells from your brother down the hallway pulling you out of your haze as he fought with another person on top of him. “Who the fuck are you?” Chenle exclaimed.

“Her boyfriend,” the person said, the deep voice easily recognizable, “don’t you dare hurt her ever again, or else it will be you getting killed instead.”

“You talk as if you have the power to do so.” Chenle retorted, only angering his attacker further.

They landed a square punch on his jaw before pulling a book off the shelf next to them and slamming it into his head, effectively knocking Chenle out. “Jaemin, what are you doing?” You yell, running in to stop him from doing any further damage.

“I heard him hurting you, princess. I can’t just let him get away with it.” He explained, pouting at you as if your brother was not lying unconscious under him. “I saved your life didn’t I?”

“God,-fuck, Jaemin, just get off of him.” You yanked him to his feet before attempting to pull Chenle up onto your back.

“Oh? What is my pretty girl doing now?” Jaemin asked, a sadistic smile appearing on his face.

“Getting him to a hospital because I can’t have my brother dying in my own apartment you sick fuck.”

Jaemin chuckled before responding while taking Chenle from your arms and carrying him on his own. “He won't die, he’ll just be knocked out for a bit.”

“And how would you know that?” You ask as you guide Jaemin out the front door, trying your best not to panic as you map out the way to your car and to the hospital.

“Experience.”

Jaemin’s answer should have troubled you but it was the least of your worries once you were nearly speeding on your way to the hospital, wanting to make sure Chenle was okay. You brought him into the ER drive-in and you and Jaemin watched as the staff wheeled him away on a stretcher. You stayed to answer a few questions, claiming that it was a case of self-defense out on the streets and you had come across it on your way home with your, self-proclaimed, boyfriend, before heading out once all the information was sorted.

“So, Chenle Zhong...he’s your brother?” Jaemin started as both of you were getting back into your car. You nodded as you started the engine and put on your seatbelt. “Which means...Sarah Zhong, The Sarah Zhong is your mother?” Again, you nodded as you shifted the car into gear and pulled out from the ER drop-off zone. “So he was in your apartment, about to kill you because he didn’t know where his own mother went?”

“There’s a lot more to it than that, but let’s just get home first and I’ll explain everything to you then, okay?” Jaemin let out a grunt to acknowledge you as he placed a hand on your thigh and went to check his phone. “But first, actually, what’s up with you suddenly becoming my boyfriend? First with Chenle and now at the hospital?”

“Isn’t that what I am?” Jaemin asked, his voice sickly sweet.

“You are a boy and you are my friend, but that does not make you my boyfriend, Jaemin.”

He sighed next to you. “What if I asked you right now? What if I asked, right now, ‘y/n Zhong, will you be my girlfriend’? What would your answer be?” You drove in silence, your mind going blank. “I know you find me attractive.” He interjected before letting it go silent once again. “Look, it’s not like you have any other choice or else-”

“‘Or else’ what?” You interrupted. “Tell me, why do I not have a choice here? Why are you forcing me to be your girlfriend?”

Jaemin gently squeezed your thigh upon noticing your hands were shaking on the wheel. “You pretty brother will probably press charges against me and if you don’t want your family to get exposed, the best way to do so would be following the alibi we set out for ourselves.”

Coming to a stop at a red light, you leaned forward and rested your forehead against the top of the steering wheel. “Fuck.” Jaemin was absolutely right. “Fuck” you yelled, this time startling the boy next to you.

Jaemin remained quiet as you sat hunched over before quietly mumbling “green” to let you know the light had changed colors. You drove through the intersection, feeling something in your life shift, and so began your relationship with Jaemin.

You had explained everything to Jaemin that day once you arrived back at your apartment complex, from your father’s affair up until now with Chenle having confronted you earlier in the evening. You had also broken down in tears and asked Jaemin to stay the night with you, which he gladly agreed to do, not that it would have been much trouble for him anyways since he lives next door.

A fake sense of calm consumed you in the following month. You and Jaemin entered a sort of honeymoon phase in your semi-fake relationship while your mother’s health continued to improve and Chenle made his recovery. You don’t know how he did it, but Jaemin had managed to doctor up some footage, making it look as if Chenle had been mugged just outside of the complex, and two figures, assumed to be you and Jaemin, came into view and helped him into a car nearby before driving off.

The investigators didn’t stay around much longer after that, closing the case as if it were as easy as a hit and run. You knew Chenle would be furious with you and you lived every day in fear of him turning up unannounced, ready to take your life again. Being with Jaemin made you feel safe, oddly enough, even with all the red flags he had thrown your way. From knocking Chenle out to the fixed footage and even the way he had the proper cleaning supplies to wipe any evidence of Chenle having been in your apartment.

Jaemin showed you love more intensely than any of your past relationships that sometimes you had to remind yourself why you were doing this. The way he kissed you was absolutely enrapturing, the way he caressed every part of you so gently sent butterflies through your body. He had even made love to you a few times, all while confessing his adoration for you. He held your hand and let you wear his clothing, acting as a model boyfriend that any girl would wish to have.

Being with Jaemin wasn’t all that great though. He teased you, sometimes even publicly embarrassed you, though he chalked it up to being his way of showing his affection. Today was the worst of all. You had stayed up trying to finish a paper for econ, but you just couldn’t get the words to flow and ended up bullshitting nearly all of it. Jaemin had known all of this, yet he volunteered your essay to share during class when your professor had asked for any names. “Ah yes, Ms. Zhong, it would be a pleasure to hear your writing.” He said as he stepped down from the podium.

“Jaemin, I fucking swear to god-” You whispered through a fake smile.

“It’s okay princess, you got this. You’re smart, I know you are.” He encouraged through a genuine smile though the intentions behind it were less so.

As you stood up on the podium, you cleared your throat while holding your sad excuse for a research paper. “I wrote my essay on the stock market and investments, and how we shouldn’t buy into such things as all these numbers are digital and cannot be withdrawn into physical money.”

“With all due respect, Ms. Zhong, your paper sounds absolutely wonderful but the topic of this research paper was on how politics affect economies worldwide.” Your professor informed you.

You paused, feeling hot chills pass over you. “Uh, yes, that’s what my essay is on. I just meant that I had chosen to write about it from a more fundamental scale.”

“Oh, yes, of course!” Your professor exclaimed, clasping his hands together. “Please, do continue in that case, I’m terribly sorry for interrupting.”

“So, like I was saying,” you began again, glancing over at Jaemin, only for him to shoot you a smile, “we should not buy into the stock market since it is all digital and wealth is not promised.” Your presentation went on like this for the next few minutes, occasionally looking at Jaemin whenever you wanted to finish and step off the podium, but his gaze changed immediately whenever you took a step towards the edge and it forced you to stay up there, talking around in circles, confusing yourself. “This is why prices are so inflated with what our past presidents have done in the economy-”

“Thank you, Ms. Zhong. I do believe it is time we moved on to the next paper.” Your professor advised, much to your relief as he gave you a look of pity and condolence while allowing you to step down before he resumed his position at the front of the class.

You were on the edge of tears as you sat back down next to Jaemin and you swatted his hand away from you when he tried to wrap an arm around you as if to comfort you. You felt your phone vibrating in your bag as Jaemin texted you but you didn’t even bother checking it, choosing to zone out while staring at the white walls of the lecture hall instead.

After your professor excused the class for the day, you made a beeline for the apartments, not even caring that you still had one more class. Jaemin called out for you and ran after you but you thanked whatever divine being above that blessed you by letting Jeno, his best friend, pull him off to their shared biology class.

Had you been a little more attentive, maybe you would’ve noticed the near carbon copy of your car parked at the end of the garage as you pulled out. But you didn’t, only seeking your mother’s comfort as you drove off to the care home since it had indeed been a week since you had last visited and you promised that you would come at least once a week.

When you arrived at the care home and passed through the main lobby, greeting the staff working as you were a familiar face among them, one of them stopped you. “Ms. Zhong! Sorry to stop you, but a person by the name of Chenle Zhong came by to pick up your mother. We didn’t know if this was something you had arranged or not but he had all the credentials and your mother seemed to recognize him enough so we let her go.”

You froze in absolute shock and panic. “What do you mean you let her go? You left her with some stranger that you don’t even know?”

“We’re truly sorry, but he did have all the paperwork to prove his relation to you and your mother so there was nothing we could do.” The worker said, speaking quickly in hopes of ceasing your anger.

You took a couple of deep breaths before looking around, noticing all the eyes on you. “How much did he pay?” Silence. “I said, how much did he pay?” You yelled.

“$150,000.” The woman behind the front desk spoke up. You knew it, you fucking knew it would happen but now there was nothing left to do except wait for Chenle to show up.

You don’t know what came over you but something compelled you to enter Jaemin’s apartment instead of yours once you returned to the apartments so you went along with it, dropping your bag at the foot of his bed before lying down and falling asleep as you waited for him to finish at school.

Your sleep was a black dreamless sleep and you woke with a jolt, your heart pounding, not knowing what time it was nor why you woke up in this state. You looked out of the window, noting that it was now dark out, meaning that you had probably slept for at least an hour or two, which answered your first immediate question. The answer to the second came when you finally registered the yelling coming from next door. Next door...your apartment.

Scrambling out of Jaemin’s bed, you didn’t even bother putting on your shoes, bursting in through your front door and running down the main hallway towards the living room, the source of all the noise, to find a bloodied Jaemin on top of an equally, if not more, bloodied Chenle, the weapon in question lying a few feet away from them, the warm red liquid slowly dripping from the blade of the kitchen knife onto your beige carpet. “Jaemin, what the fuck are you doing?!” Both boys paused at the sound of your voice.

“Oh, my sweet girl, I had come home to wait for you after you had run away but instead he came to me. I knew all about how he had bought you mother so I figured, why not give him injuries that will cost another $150,000?” His face smiling at you with the bloodied fingerprints plastered on his pale skin was a sight you knew you’d never forget.

You slowly stepped towards them, your brain working at speeds beyond your comprehension. “Jaemin, how did you know about my mother? I had only just come from there so unless Chenle told you...” you paused to look over at your brother, who shook his head before coughing up some blood, spitting some in a glob at Jaemin.

Jaemin cooed at Chenle as he wiped the blood off his face before running that same hand through Chenle’s hair, locking his fingers into it and yanking Chenle’s head back at a painful angle. Chenle yelled out in pain, his cries muffled when Jaemin pulled a blanket off your couch and stuffed it into Chenle’s mouth. “You see, princess, I had their security circuit pulled even before you told me about your family’s misfortune.”

“Wha- but how...why?...” You struggled to grasp at all the information being connected in your head.

“Your cheating father had an affair with not only your mother and mine as well.” He looked between you and Chenle, enjoying the shock that was mirrored in both of your expressions. “That’s right, my mother is the mistress who stole away your father. However, he is the man who broke apart my family too when she ran away with him, leaving me with my abusive asshole of a dad.”

You continued moving closer and kneeled down once you were in front of Jaemin, bringing yourself to eye level with him, even if the smell of blood was making you feel like passing out. “I figured that by killing one of you, I could force you stupid Zhongs to get back together and bring my mother back to me. But I couldn’t bring myself to pull the trigger, not when I’ve fallen so madly in love with you...which leaves me with him.”

Jaemin lunged for the knife next to you only to find that you picked it up much faster than he did. You stood up and backed away from them with the knife as Chenle attempted to shove Jaemin off of him, but Jaemin was stronger though not by much. “Princess, please do both of us a favor. He tried to kill you and he’s shown how little you mean to him. Do you really think he’d share everything equally with you?” Your eyes darted between both of theirs. “Don’t you wish for my happiness? After all the love I’ve given to you?”

Your gaze locked with Chenle’s who was shaking due to the overexertion of his body. “Does the pretty boy have something to say?” Jaemin cooed as he pulled the blanket out of Chenle’s mouth.

“It’s me or him, y/n. Me or him.”

“Alright, that’s enough.” Jaemin said before pouncing back on Chenle, both his hands wrapping around Chenle’s pale neck.

You threw the knife, hoping for it to reach its target. It did, and you watched as his body stilled and went limp right in front of your eyes, the blade pierced through his heart. It was honestly a lucky throw but regardless, the blood on the knife was because of you.

You are the killer now.

[oureuphoria]

Worst of You - JJK 01

You meet him under horrible circumstances but that doesn’t stop you from developing a very abnormal and completely unsolicited crush on your local hot police officer™. Too bad you have a bitch of a best friend, anxiety and an inability to learn from your mistakes which cripples your chances to be with the man of your literal dreams. Oh, and he has a lifetime’s worth of baggage at 23.  Or “I’m not leaving until you tell me what’s wrong.” “Cool, I’ll let everyone know that you’re moving in then.”

Genre: fluff, angst, comedy 

Pairing: officer!jungkook X collegestudent!reader

Word count: 2.2k

Warnings: Mentions of violence (stab wound), mentions of anxiety, swearing

Note: I was watching B99 and I was like ‘Woah, Jungkook would be a hot cop,’ and now we’re here. 

| 01 | 02 | 03 | 04 | 05 | 06 | 07 | 08 | 09 | 10 | 11 |

If someone had asked you to write a novel about the adventures of your life, it would be extremely thin. Not from your lack of experiences (although it is a pressing factor) but more so from your inability to think about yourself for longer than 3 minutes without feeling sick. You were not a particularly hateful person, especially not towards yourself, but you were an active and anxious thinker and your mind was often boggled with thoughts about what you could’ve or have done wrong and it was exasperating.

For example, occasionally, your professors would allow students to spectate professional research experiments and that month, you were selected (out of pity because Alex was selected and the Professor knew she was your only friend). You knew this was supposed to be an “interesting learning experience” but it was a complete and utter bore. At first you’d convinced yourself it was only boring because you were hungry, then you began to realise it was boring because your singular braincell could not comprehend such complex material on an empty stomach.

So, you left the room to go to McDonald’s, for educational purposes of course. That was where you went wrong because instead of peacefully enjoying your McChicken you were dealing with your phone which was blowing up with messages from Alex about how you were missing ever so much from the research lab. However, it seemed to you that perfectly cut fries were more interesting than watching microscopic cells bounce around in a microscope for an hour.

It turned out that watching microscopic cells bounce around in a microscope for an hour was worth a lot of credits and you wallowed in self-pity for the mere 24-hours that followed that realisation.

You had fucked up once again, only three days after witnessing all 3 minutes of the splendid research experiment. It was a Saturday and you were standing outside your dorm building watching a student yell at a stray cat. It was around 2 in the morning and you were sneaking back from your late shift at the convenience store. Usually, you would have been terrified and confused but you were so tired that you violently pinched your arm and blinked rapidly, hoping it was just an illusion. When the peculiar scene didn’t disappear, you realised this was real but it was too late since the man was now sprinting after you across your quiet and empty campus.

Four years ago, if someone had told your 16-year-old self to participate in your P.E classes because you would later be chased by a crazy man at 2am then you surely would’ve listened. But unfortunately, no one had done such a thing and you were beginning to realise just how regrettable that was. Your running performance was mediocre at best, definitely not fast enough to out run this man across an extremely large campus and you were beginning to lose your breath.

Your only option was to quit while you were ahead and either find somewhere to hide or use your very non-existent combat skills to karate kick the man into the other dimension. Naturally, you hid behind the giant administrator building. As you were finally behind the safe confines of the old brick wall you moved to reach for your phone when you heard an alarming scream. As much as your brain wanted to relish in the relief that the scream wasn’t coming from you, you couldn’t shake the instant guilt. You called the police and tried to sound as reliable as possible but your voice was dripping with fear and you stuttered over your words like a toddler.

Once you were able to clearly see the student, lying on the lawn in pain with what appeared to be a stab wound the guilt completely consumed you but part of you couldn’t even believe this was real. Students woke up from the deafening sounds of sirens and it wasn’t long before this would become a commotion so the officers made quick work of the scene, the ambulance moving him to their van and the police officers continuing their reports. You were asked to go to the station where you would be further questioned by another officer and you didn’t quite understand the need for that escalation but you compiled nonetheless. You didn’t need the police and your conscience to think you were guilty.

You were seated in the backseat of a police car, behind two male officers. Their conversation fell numbly to your ears, your mind already submerged deeply in thought. You didn’t snap out of your trance until the officers repeatedly called for you. “Did you know the boy? The one who was, uh, attacked?” The officer was trying to find the right terms and you commend him for that much, but the last part felt more like an unsure question than a statement and that didn’t sit well with you. “No.” Your answer deadpanned the chance of a conversation, the silence after being the proof. The drive continued for about 3 minutes before you stood at the information desk where you were asked to join the secretary on a walk to the interrogation room. “The officer will be with you shortly. Would you like anything to drink?” She spoke curtly, the annoyed look on her face told you she’d already done this too many times. “No thanks, I’m fine.”

You were confused and guilty and scared. None of this made any sense, you - who never, ever, experienced anything outside your boring routine - was now being questioned for an attack? You were convinced you were borderline insane and that this was just a horrible dream. But, with every tic of the annoying clock on the plain wall behind you, you grew less convinced that this was anything but reality.

“Hello.” The officer walked in, and suddenly you felt like you were in some sick, twisted rom-com because that man might have been the most beautiful man you’d ever seen. You didn’t mean to become distracted but he looked like he’d just walked out of a magic mike production and you were frankly astonished because this had to be a dream. His eyes were dark but they shined in the light beautifully, however the furrow in his eyebrows scared you enough to stop staring at his eyes. His build was clearly very developed, he looked like you could bench press you 40 times over and not even break a sweat. Or maybe he was just really fucking hot.

“My name is Officer Jeon and I’m here to ask you a couple of questions, I don’t want you to feel afraid or pressured, just answer me honestly and you’ll be fine.” Although he’d meant to sound soft and reassuring his words sounded more like an indirect threat. A threat that you heard loud and clear. You gulped quietly, the dryness in your throat mocking you as you recalled rejected the offer for a drink. You nodded when you realised he was expecting an answer but it clearly wasn’t enough. “I need you to use your voice at all times in here, this could be used in court and we need you to be very clear so nothing is misinterpreted. Do you understand?” You wanted to cry. All you’d had in plan for the night was to get to your dorm, eat some 99 cent ramen and go to sleep yet here you were at 3 in the morning in an interrogation room for an attack you weren’t even sure you ‘witnessed’. “Yup.”

“Great, then let’s begin. Can you start by stating your name and age?” “Y/N, L/N. 20.” You nearly stuttered which would have been beyond embarrassing. You seriously couldn’t even manage your own name? “Alright, Miss L/N. Why were you out so late?” You paused for a moment to rehearse your answer but you couldn’t quite get it all out. “I work at a convenience store.” You gestured to your name tag for effect and he nodded, writing something down in his notepad.

“How often do you work there?” The question was irrelevant, unrelated and the first tell-tale sign that you were not a witness; you were a suspect. However, you were too tired to notice. “Twice a week. 4pm-2am.” “You live in the dormitories, correct?” You nodded but he gave you a pointed look that reminded you to use words. “Yes.” “2 shifts a week can’t possibly sustain you. How do you pay your dorm fees?” This was when your tired brain began picking up on the fact that you weren’t just a witness. “I tutor high school kids. It pays enough.” He didn’t reply, just wrote something down in his notepad again - an action which was beginning to make you anxious.

“When you were interrogated by the field officer you told him that you were hiding behind the administration building when you’d heard the victim scream, why were you hiding there?” “I was hiding from the uh, a-attacker.” “How did you encounter him before that?” “I already answered this…” You were visibly nervous which couldn’t have looked very promising. “Then you won’t mind answering again.” His tone was menacing and if you weren’t already very intimidated by his role and demeanour then his strikingly good looks would have done the job. You’ve always been very intimidated by attractive people which proved to an insane burden.

“I was returning to my dorm block when I saw him yelling at a cat, he saw me and began to lunge my way so I started to run but I’m not very good at running so I hid behind the building instead. I was in the process of calling the police when I heard the scream and I didn’t move until the police came.” He seemed unsatisfied with your answer but that was understandable. Your monologue wasn’t confidentially given, you stuttered and stumbled over your words consistently out of anxiety, but he didn’t know that and probably thought you were the very thing you had been running from.

“How did you know that the man chasing you was a student? You said he was in the initial questioning.” “I wasn’t sure. It was 2am and he was standing on a student campus, outside a student dormitory. So, I assumed he was a student.” Your tone was a little vindictive, possibly from the frustration of being labeled as a suspect for a crime you were positive you didn’t commit. “Did you know the student who was attacked?” “No. When can I leave?” The question came out rushed and on impulse but you didn’t care. You were far too tired to. “When I ask all my questions.” You nodded absentmindedly, focusing on the plain table instead.

“You think I did it, don’t you?” Tears were welling up in your eyes but you were too dehydrated to cry.  “Right now you’re only a minor suspect, these are routine questions we have to ask and I really don’t see the issue with them if you’re truly innocent.” That surely shut you up, and made you feel a little stupid. Normally a question like that would never come from you but your exhaustion was taking a toll on your patience, and it was a heavy toll at that. “I’m sorry.” His angry features softened at your shaky voice. “How about we continue this tomorrow. Is 2pm okay for you?” You spaced out again, which was probably why he wanted to continue the interrogation the next day. “Is that okay?” He repeated, this time more pressing, you nodded but were quick to once again correct yourself and mutter a quick “yes” before you grabbed your backpack and suppressed the urge to Naruto run out of the room.

You walked out of the double doors only to be met with the dark night sky and a creeping fear that there was someone following you. You walked home from your shift every Friday and Saturday night and until that day nothing extremely bad had happened. Yet here you were cowardly glancing over your shoulder with every chance you got. You hated walking at night because your paranoia constantly slowed you down and what should’ve been a 10- minute walk turned into a 23-minute walk. It didn’t help that your recent encounter kept replaying in your head, the image of the poor victim on the floor vividly appearing every time you blinked.

As you rolled yourself up in a blanket burrito to escape the dark amiss of the night (more or less your own thoughts), you began to lull yourself into a soft sleep before your roommate, Alex, rudely barged into your room with little concern for your sleep.. “What happened? Why did you leave with the officers? Everyone’s talking about it you know, you’re on everyone’s snapchat story and your clothes really aren’t that flattering.” “A student got attacked and I was the only kind-of witness. The officers wanted to do some further questioning and how many times must I tell you its the uniform.” She sighed in relief before crushing you with a hug. “I’m glad you’re okay.” You suffocated under her grasp but you knew better than to try to fight Alex. She left the room to allow you to sleep but not before rambling about how she assumed you had turned into a rogue murderer.

[babylon-cal]

Wildflower {c.h}

Pairing : Calum x Gender Neutral Reader

Requested : by @wildflower-tae : hiiii!! first of all i love your blog,i've followed you for a long time and i love your content. can i request like a scenario/imagine/one shot idk what's the difference haha,with calum based on their song 'wildflower' ? you can do whenever you want with it. hope u have a good day/night. love u,stay safe ♡

Warnings : Mentions of Non-Descriptive Sex

 Word Count : 1.7k

Wildflower (noun) a flower of an uncultivated variety or a flower growing freely without human intervention.

Nothing about how you two met was cliche. It wasn’t like those moments in cheesy HBO rom-coms where the two love interests would lock eyes with each other from across the room in a party, immediately knowing what to say and falling in love soon after. It wasn’t bumping into each other on the street, causing a clumsy exchange followed by soft glances and one of them asking for the other’s number. You and Calum had met naturally, on a random Saturday night. It wasn’t fate. It just happened. Maybe it was a coincidence.

You had snuck out your bedroom window, your feet landing on the grass below. Dressed in your large coat that was wrapped around your old t-shirt and fell to the mid-thigh of your jeans, you jogged across the lawn and out onto the street. The wind blew against your face and hair as you did so. You didn’t have a plan on where to go but you just let your legs carry you to wherever it wanted to, turning left into another street and past the corner shop that you always bought your ice cream from. You were walking now, your hands in the pocket of your coat, one of them fiddling with your pack of cigarettes, the cardboard slightly torn on the edges.

You approached the neighbourhood football field, the only source of light being a streetlight that stood a few metres away. The empty mass of green in the darkness was such a contrast to the usual bright and cheerful atmosphere of children running around after a football for hours, their giggles and yells floating into the air. The two goals that were on either end of the field had rusted posts, the white paint chipped in some places, exposing the reddish brown metal underneath. On the adjacent sides of the fields, were some empty wooden bleachers that looked unfamiliar since they were usually occupied by parents during the friendly football matches that the neighbourhood committee organised every month.

As you approached one of them, you noticed someone sitting on the top of the bleacher seats. He was wearing a dark coloured hoodie and sweatpants, with a beanie nestled neatly on his head. He had a cigarette between his fingers and he didn’t notice you to the left of him, swinging over the railing to land about 3 feet away from where he was.

“Got room for one more?,” His head turned to notice you, hands in your coat pocket, a small smile on your face. He blinked for a few seconds before speaking up.

“Sure, why not?” He took another hit of his cigarette as you sat next to him, a few inches of space between both your legs. You took out your pack and pulled out a tab. “Here, let me,” Calum said, offering to light it for you with his lighter. He was definitely more friendly that you would have thought him out to be, judging from how he looked at first glance. His thick eyebrows accompanied with the moderate amount of facial hair above his lip and across his jaw and chin made him come across as slightly intimidating, his voice being a contributing factor to that as well. You placed the cigarette between your lips as he lighted it for you, his eyes meeting yours momentarily. You used this to give him a cheeky, flirtatious look causing him to awkwardly look down at the flame, only to find a particular interest in the shape of your lips as an orange hue from the fire casted itself on them.

“I’m Calum, by the way,” his voice was deep but also soft at the same time, like the feeling you get across your arms when a warm blanket wraps around them when it’s raining outside. Tingles that lasted for a few seconds.

I hear you calling out my name, I love the sound

“Calum?” you repeated and took a puff. You hated how terrible it tasted - like a bunch of household chemicals, which was easy to say it might as well be, to be fair. The first time you smoked, you remembered it being so dry and it burned your throat but it calmed you down. Since then, it always felt like your lungs were wrapped in a warm blanket - like Calum’s voice did to you just a few seconds ago.

I love the taste

Only yourself and Calum knew how you ended up connected at the lips, the cigarettes dropped from your hands and falling through the crack between the rows and onto the grass below, burning themselves out. Your hands were wrapped around his neck, while he had one hand on your thigh as his other pressed against your back. You could taste the herbs and chemicals on his lips and was certain he could taste them on yours as well. However, you were too busy focusing on how it felt - surprisingly soft, not at all chapped, and the tiny hairs around them poked at your face. It tickled a little bit. His hand on your thigh radiated a heat that you had never found anywhere else.

And I can see it in your face, you’ve got a side you can’t explain

Kissing Calum felt like an escapade from the daily hustle of everyday life, being a victim of capitalism and forced social conformity. Conventions trying to label everybody and categorise them into boxes. Kissing Calum felt like a “fuck that” to all those things. It felt like eating chocolate cake at 3a.m. because no one can tell you not to or taking long drives across the empty streets at 7a.m. to watch the sunrise in a lookout because no one really takes the time to appreciate something like that anymore. Not like you would ever let this man you just met know this, regardless of whether he had his tongue in your mouth or not.

You always thought your mind to be like the universe - ever-expanding with all its multiple complex structures and forms, where no one really understands what they’re ALL for or how they got to be but it takes a long time for an outside body to discover and understand its functions, compositions and complexities. That was just how your brain was wired, you let it do its own thing - there was no need for intervention. 

Unlike you, kissing a random stranger they had just met was out of Calum’s nature. At least, since he turned 20. However, there was something about your energy and presence that made him feel impulsive, dare he say maybe even careless. All of his personal convictions and promises he made to himself seemed to shrink and hide themselves in the back of his mind when he let go of his inhibitions to impulsively press his lips to yours.

You’re telling me you wanna come over, you wanna be closer

You pulled apart from the passionate exchange, your lips distanced by only a few inches. The heavy breathing led to the smell of tobacco and tar overwhelmingly stimulating your senses causing slight discomfort to settle at the back of your throat. Calum’s hand had moved further up your thigh, his large hand now resting on the side of your ass and the warmth radiated through the material of your jeans.

“Let’s go back to your place,” you suggested and he fully agreed. Going back with a man you just met? Sounds like a wish for the most awful things you could think of but you took the risk anyway, especially when he gave your ass a gentle squeeze and kissed you again for a few seconds. He let out a low hum as he did so, the small transfer of vibrations from his throat drove you absolutely mad.

Cuz I know where tonight is going

The walk back to Calum’s house was spent with paced footsteps and your hand gently held in his. The air was colder now, and you felt it breeze through your hair. During this time Calum had learnt a few things about you, realising that you were quite the opposite to him. As the headlights of the black Subaru shone as it drove in the opposite direction of your walk, the conversation between the two of you had led Calum to ask you what your plan for the future was.

“I don’t know,” was all you replied, a small smile tugged at your lips. His face was drawn to confusion soon enough, his eyebrows furrowing as he glanced at you.

“You don’t know? How do you not know?” By this point you were at his front door. He searched for his keys and unlocked the door.

“Less talking,” you replied, closing the door behind you as you entered and pulling him in by the collar to connect your lips hastily. Soon enough, a trail of clothes were left leading up to his room with the night ending in heavy breaths and the creaking of the beds shrouded in secrecy within the four walls.

You’re the only one that makes me…, everytime we…,

Calum had found your carefree, liberated nature absolutely fascinating and the sex felt like something out of a dream. Intense, passionate and almost like a haze when it ended but it was the best each of you could have asked for. It happened again, and Calum knew that if he gave in, you would be up all night tangled with each other.

I’ll tell you what I like

He had asked you for your number as you put your clothes on at the foot of the bed. If it wasn’t for the bedside lamp that he had turned on, the room would be in pitch darkness. As you tied your shoelaces, you looked up to him when he asked the question, the covers now covering the lower half of his body. You blinked over the tattoos that were intricately spread out across his torso, noticing a MMXII under his right collarbone.

My wildflower

“Well, I usually don’t give my number out,” you said walking towards him. “because i just like meeting people or bumping into them,” you paused “but..” you leaned in closer to his face “maybe I’ll see you around the football field again,” you pressed a kiss to his cheek and proceeded to leave his house, leaving him wondering and desperate to see you again and as much as he wanted to be able to see you what he wanted, he figured by now that you’re a wildflower, growing freely without human intervention.

[nagia-pronounced-neijia]

scream (until you’re satisfied)

It's a quiet night for once: peaceful, even.  The sun sits low on the horizon, casting gloam over the usual summer mist; insects buzz in the trees, loud and soft and loud again.  Ligiea smiles out her open kitchen window at the little copse that has taken over the edge of the complex parking lot, then slides her thumb over her phone for the last time before she starts on her dishes.

On the windowsill, a bluetooth speaker -- designed to look like an antique radio; it had delighted Nate for about four seconds before he realized he couldn't actually tune it -- begins to croon a soft jazz cover of an early 90's grunge song.  She smiles, humming along, and gets to work rinsing tzatziki and chili sauce from her plates.

Something rustles in the copse.  She doesn't hear it; she sees birds suddenly burst from the green, wings beating, out of the corner of her eye.  She sets the pan she'd fried her flatbread in back down in the sink, watching with instincts sharpened by too much shit having tried to kill her.

She hasn't made it back to the dishes when the scream cuts through the night.  It lasts so long and comes so deep from within someone's throat that she hears it gurgle for a beat before it pitches back up.  When the voice finally gives out, there's only enough time for a sharp intake of breath before it starts again.

Ligeia ignores the chills that roll down her spine, the hot-cold rush of adrenaline through her veins.  She picks up her holster and pepper spray, the Agency-issue Volt, and  tucks her badge into her pocket.  Detective Attano steps out the door, pacing in the direction of the scream.

##

First fun fact of the night: the scream didn't come from the damn woods.  That would have made sense.

Second fun fact of the night: Bobby's standing at the entrance to the laundromat.  This makes Ligeia instantly suspicious, and he apparently knows it.  The red ambulance lights flash onto his face and then off again, lighting him up before they leave him in shadow, and it makes what he clearly wishes were a fetching smile look demented.

"Miss me, angel?"

Ligeia bites down on her first reply, because she can't think of their college years -- or make a crack about her annual fucking chlamydia infection when she'd dated him -- without wanting to hit something.  She smiles like she doesn't want to punch her ex and says, instead, "What do I do with myself when I'm not watching your career circle the drain?"

That one hits the mark.  He flinches and takes a reflexive step back, like she'd slapped him.  And then he pours on the greasy smile, but there's an angry edge, a tightness, to his smile.  "I see dinner didn't go down so well all alone."

She's not allowed to say, 'shut up and get out of my way,' but she can say, "This is a crime scene, Bobby.  Just because the caution tape's not up doesn't mean you get to lurk."  She makes a shooing motion with her fingers.

He's not dumb enough not to move, but she hears his feet on the concrete as he tries to peer through the windows into the darkened building.

Third fun fact: when the ambulance is sitting in the parking lot with its lights on, and the paramedics are sitting uselessly in the open back of the bus, there's no good news.  Ligeia nods at Jeri and Ryan, and mouths three letters.

Ryan just nods dejectedly.  Beside him, Jeri winces, shrugs, and mouths them back: DOA.

Ligeia doesn't let herself sigh, much though she wants to, and jerks the door open.  She ignores the words "Spin Cycle 365" printed in white on the glass, focused as she is on finding the lightswitch.  It takes a few useless, obnoxious moments of groping in the dark before her fingers touch plastic.  She flips three switches in a row and the lights return with a click and a buzz.

She sees exactly how Jeri and Ryan had come to the conclusion of 'DOA.'  It's rather hard not to, given that the poor girl had fallen onto the floor, eyes wide and staring, mouth still open in a scream.  But there's no sound coming out of her throat anymore.  No breath in those apparently very powerful lungs.  Pale white marks dot the very corners of her mouth and jaw.

Ligeia kneels down next to the girl, considering, and pulls a pair of latex gloves from her blazer pocket.  She skips looking for any kind of trauma -- there would be blood, probably -- and instead picks up the girl's hands.  The victim's fingers are cool and soft, still flaccid rather than in rigor mortis, and it is the worst kind of intimacy.

She can't imagine how Verda does this every day.  Maybe she just likes people and all their intricacies too much.

Not a single defensive wound.  Not even a sign she'd thrown her arms out to catch herself as she fell. That's a reflex; she must have been unconscious or dead before she started to fall.

There's no new sound, but she feels something like a shift in the barometric pressure of the room.  Adam and Morgan both have a quality to them, an intensity that seems to suck up all the air and interest, even when nobody's looking at them.

Ligeia straightens.  "Looks like a heart attack, but I'll know more after Verda or the Agency pathologists take a look," she says.  She doesn't need to look back to know they're watching.  "Will we let Doctor Turner and Verda take the lead on this, or is the Agency going to take custody of her just in case?"

The words come out professional.  Not cheery, certainly, but smooth, practiced.  Like her heart isn't beating hard inside her chest, like she's not thinking about Murphy.  Like there's something going on in her head other than an endless litany of a prayer she keeps hoping she'll get to stop praying: no more deaths, please, not in my town.

"This is a known phenomenon to the Agency," her mother's voice says.  The tone is endlessly gentle.  "We'll take custody."

It takes her a few more moments to look away from the girl and the blue puddle of laundry soap.  It smells like fake tropical flowers and banana; it's probably called something like 'Bahama Breeze.'

#

Ligeia drives back to the warehouse, stopping only for fuel and a cup of petrol station coffee.  It's thick and tarry as the stuff she puts in her car, smells about as astringent, but it wakes her up.  Unit Bravo beat her back by at least fifteen minutes.  That doesn't surprise her, given her slow car and pit stop.

What does surprise her is that Adam is waiting for her by the entry.  He had been standing stiffly by the wall, like particularly handsome statuary, and as she passes him, he unbends.

"So what was I looking at in there?"

"A fae victim," is Adam's reply.  He stops moving when she does.

Ligeia starts putting together 'fae,' 'screaming,' 'laundry,' and 'death,' and what she comes up with makes her groan.  "You're kidding, right?"  But this is Adam, and he wouldn't joke about this.  Not even Farah would.

"They aren't what the folktales make of them," is his reply, steady and a little snide, like usual.  He sounds a little softer when he adds, "So few of us are."

They've had the talk about his disapproval of humans romanticizing vampires.  She even understood it, to an extent.  She felt the same way about the slew of torture porn and serial killer movies that came out in the early 2000's.  She still feels that way about the Purge movies and the way they glamorize surviving violence, the way they assume everyone's first thought is murder.

Point is, Ligeia sees where he's coming from.  She doesn't push.  She stays right where she is, just a little too close to him to be professional.

"I guess I should go inside and find out what they're really like," she says.

Adam holds the door for her.  She turns her head just enough to look over her shoulder at him as she goes through.  She offers him a smile and watches his jaw relax by a fraction.

Nate smiles up at her from where he's found an armchair -- she could swear he's always making himself smaller, and he's so big that the back of her neck thanks him, but she hates it, too.  There's a haunted edge to the way half his jaw has tensed, and when the smile slips, she can see that his focus on her has wisped away.  He's the same Nate as always, but he's somewhere else right now.  Somewhen else.

Morgan's the one who says the word.  She breathes it out around grey smoke, her tone heavy and dark not only from the cigarette but from her own closely guarded feelings.  "Banshees," she says, and near her, Farah actually sighs.

[idreamtofmanderleyagain]

Hellraiser Fandom and the Invisibility of Women’s Abuse

I’m starting to come to terms with why the Last Drive In interviews stuck with me in a bad way.

It kind of eluded me for a while, but to give you guys the emotional lead-up to what was underlying my sense of discomfort and irritation, let me explain a few things. When I heard the interview was going to happen, I watched some portions of a different Last Drive In episode to get a sense of what the whole thing was about. It’s your standard hosted horror movie show. 

It’s also awkwardly sexist. They have a character on it, Darcy The Mail Girl, who as far as I could tell in my first viewing, basically exists on the show to be ogled and be the butt of sexual humor. The men filming would even break the fourth wall to snicker and whistle when she would say something sexual. In 2020, it was extraordinarily cringe-worthy to watch, and I’m at a loss that we’re still living in a world where this is normalized. It was like watching something from the 80′s. She is extremely objectified on the show. 

I don’t blame her for this. Apparently, she was the victim of some awful bullying and body-shaming fairly recently, and I don’t want to put more suffering on that girl’s shoulders. I respect her. I think she respects herself. The circumstances surrounding a woman being in a position like this are complicated, and I do not pretend to understand her situation. She’s also allowed her own feelings about what she can and cannot handle, and what is and is not okay with her.

Nevertheless, the segment I saw in that other episode with Darcy was alienating and even rather upsetting. I felt a second-hand humiliation and pain. I didn’t feel like Darcy was put in a position where she was in control of her own sexual expression. Perhaps Darcy’s actress disagrees with me, and that’s fine. But as a female audience member, I was already feeling a sense of unease and unwelcome.

So I was obviously primed for discomfort before the interviews even started.

Joe Bob Briggs (the host) said a few things that did not sit quite right with me. Quite frankly, he repeated some more annoying fanboy statements that tend to stick in my craw. His rather basic interpretation of the film, juxtaposed against the awkward, stifling feeling of watching Doug and Ashley try to explain the deeper concepts that eluded him reminded my of my own frustrations listening to the male fans of these films’ constant comprehension failure.

How many times does Doug have to repeat the words he’s basically memorized by heart regarding the tragedy and complex nature of Pinhead? Why does this get forgotten, glossed over, even retconned so much?

Why does it always feel like Ashley gets disregarded? Every time we see an interview with her (which is comparatively rare), nobody really speaks to the deeper thoughts she expresses on her character or the narrative, but every man in the comments has something to say about her hotness level.

When we got to the point that Ashley tried to explain to Briggs that she thought Pinhead was fair in a certain scene, and that Pinhead was speaking to Kirsty’s accountability for her own desires, Briggs responds incredulously; “You think Kirsty OWES Pinhead?!” 

Ashley had spent a portion of the interview having to dismiss the relevance of characters like Steve and Kyle in Kirsty’s life, and was now suggesting a deeper subtext in her interactions with Pinhead that both A) did not cast Kirsty as pure and sexless and without culpability, and B) did not cast Pinhead as her aggressor but as her psychological mirror. 

This is the subtext that is most often disregarded by casual fans and some hardcore fans alike, that Kirsty may not be the innocent and sexless Final Girl, and that Pinhead may not be the predatory Slasher monster intent on using a sharp weapon to penetrate her violently for his own gratification, and that dynamic may not be the be-all-end all of their relationship for the rest of time.

I’ve been turning Brigg’s incredulous response around in my brain for a while. And it’s made me realize something about how men experience Hellraiser’s narrative, and why it differs so greatly for many women.

Doug has more than once spoken to the fact that women react to Pinhead very differently than men. He was of course speaking of the sexual interest he would get, but he has remarked upon the fact at least once that he’s not entirely sure why that is, exactly.

It’s...not that strange to me that women desire rather than fear the character, or that Ashley would have a more positive response to Kirsty’s relationship with him rather than her relationships with the seemingly benign boys of the films. 

There is an order to which women first learn about sex. For some it’s a little different but I believe this is a fairly common experience: The very first thing we learn is that it’s going to hurt (but maybe also feel good after). The second thing we learn is that boys will want to take it from us and will manipulate and lie to us to get it, but that it’s supposed to happen in a loving relationship. The third thing we learn is that we want it too, but we aren’t supposed to because it’s dirty and wrong for us to want it. 

Women grow up with an inherent anxiety around sex, an anxiety that is complicated by our own desires.

Everything in Hellraiser is perfectly reflective of a reality that men clearly do not have the context to fully comprehend, because women’s real experiences of desire, and of male violence, are a blind spot.

The men who hurt women don’t have pins in their head and wax gothic poetry about suffering. They don’t wear dark capes and turn into bats and hypnotize women from their windows to drink their blood. 

The men who hurt women look like Frank, or J.P. Monroe, or Trevor, or Channard, or every bumbling aggressive fool Julia seduced home. 

They look like Larry and Steve. 

Larry let his wife scream “no” and “stop” several times before he responded, regardless of the true reasons she was screaming those words. And when he finally did stop, it was out of anger rather than concern. This is, as far as I’m aware, the most common form of sexual violence a woman can experience - a man they give their trust to suddenly doesn’t respect a “no.”

So, so many times, I have heard men say how badly they felt for Larry, how innocent poor Larry was. 

Men live in a fantasy world where it’s more comfortable for them to imagine characters like Larry as good man, a victim of Julia’s callousness who isn’t in Hell not because he never touched the box, but because he is inherently innocent. They live in a fantasy world where it’s odd that Steve abandoned Kirsty the minute something deeply traumatic happened to her (Briggs remarked upon this). Raise your hand if a man has done the same to you when the cards where down.

Steve’s response to Kirsty getting too drunk to stand properly was to “jokingly” tell her to lie down in this sleazeball way that indicated he was insinuating taking advantage of her intoxicated state. Also one of the most common forms of sexual violence a woman can experience.

The men who Julia took home would respond aggressively when she chickened out of sex, either blindly or in an attempt to shame and guilt her into proceeding.

Should we talk about the fact that Kyle is a psychiatrist who shouldn’t be romancing a traumatized patient in his care who’s parent was just fucking brutally murdered? Or does that feel too petty in comparison?

The men who hurt women are more typically their friends, their fathers, their uncles, their boyfriends, their husbands.

What’s so funny about all of this is that Pinhead somehow does better at consent than these men, at least in a manner of speaking. He’s the only man who legitimately listens to Kirsty, and responds to her “no.” No matter what he threatens, he always stops to hear her out, lets her do what she wants, is always talking about her desires and pleasure, and in the end always ends up destroying the men abusing her rather than going through with ever harming her. 

Briggs seemed keen on viewing Pinhead as a Satanic figure. Historically, what is the role of women who are in a position to encounter the devil? Usually, they are witches, wanton women who gain magical power through sexual communion with the devil. A framework of propaganda that men have historically used to persecute women.

The men who hurt and oppress women in real life don’t look or act like Satan, but they sure as hell are ready to write narrative after narrative of Satanic figures menacing women while they save the day, and they sure as hell like to blame women for preferring “bad boys” and “assholes” over the “nice guy.” 

It’s more comfortable for men to imagine Pinhead as this cool figure of pure evil with no feelings or capacity for mercy, because they can live vicariously through his violence (particularly when they’re writing him doing it to half-naked women, looking at you H3) and yet simultaneously distance their moral identities from him. 

It’s more comfortable to compartmentalize what good vs. predatory masculinity looks like in a way that benefits their self-image and the status quo. This is a lie men tell themselves.

It’s safer for men to point to Pinhead and say, “this is what a predator looks like,” while curiously never speaking of the callous, scummy and predatory behavior of every single other man in the films, even to the point of occasionally discussing the perceived tragedy of fucking Frank’s spiral into darkness long before they can feel entirely comfy imagining Pinhead as having a past where he was a good man with sad feelings, or regard his act of self-sacrifice for Kirsty as anything but a moment of weakness that was “bad writing” and therefore should never have happened.

There is an extraordinary irony in a man arguing with Pinhead’s own actor over the nature of his evil, while running a show where a female character’s fuckability is her main characteristic and it’s okay to behave as if she doesn’t even have real feelings.

All this nonsense in the spaces I go to have fun, while we’re dealing with the background radiation of a President who’s sexual abuses are swept under the rug, his masculinity praised regularly and his violence against our people gaslighted. While we’re dealing with the mass-recorded aggressive violence of police - white men in positions of authority whom we are supposed to trust to keep us safe. While men make other men laugh about the violation of girls so they don’t have to deal with the reality of one of the “nice” funny guys being a predator.

Fuck you. I’d rather burn.