#the narrator was screaming white woman

[gogoakechi]

i will not become emotionally invested in how my classmates interpret an example of a short story in my creative writing class and i will not think poorly of them for having opinions i disagree with

[teddynivvy]

☀︎ before the sun. prologue.

pairing: jschlatt x she/her reader.

warnings: mention of infidelity. reader is mid-twenties.

a/n: welcome to the prologue of my first multi-chapter fic for schlatt <3 ty to my wonderful discord fam for all the inspiration and help as usual. i love u all so bad.

summary: fresh off of a breakup with the man you thought you were going to marry, your parents invite you on their annual trip to maui, hawaii. they've also invited their friends, which unbeknownst to you, have their son tagging along. it's embarrassing enough to be tagging along with your parents on vacation, but now you have to deal with another stranger on the trip.

“It’s going to be a great trip this year, sweetie,” your mom reassures you, packing yet another brightly coloured swimsuit cover-up in her suitcase. “The weather in Maui has been gorgeous, best it’s been in years.”

You sighed as you looked down at your mom’s bag, not listening to much of what she was saying. Sure, a week long trip to Hawaii was nothing to shake a stick at - and given your parents’ luxury preferences, you knew it would be a fun-filled week with a ton of drinking, eating, and hopefully, something to heavily distract you from the heaviness you felt deep in your heart.

Your long-term boyfriend, who you had imagined you were going to spend the rest of your life with, sat you down at your shared dinner table about a month ago. His hands clasped in his lap, recounting a drunken night of stupidity that ended in him sleeping with another woman. You felt hot tears brim your eyes as you yelled and screamed at him, cursing him and slamming the door behind you. Needless to say, that was the end of that. 5 years down the drain, starting back at square one, single and living with your parents in your mid-twenties.

“What time are we leaving again?”

Your dad chimed in, seemingly out of nowhere. “9 AM. Sharp. Don’t sleep in, or we’ll leave without’cha!”

You cracked a soft smile as your dad pulled you into a side hug, pulling out some of his own clothes to begin packing.

“When are Dan and Sarah coming in, do you know?”

“I think their flight is a little later, and it’s outta JFK, so who knows. They invited their son to come along too, I think he’s about your age.”

You rolled your eyes at the implication - that not only were you saddled on vacation with your parents, but now you had to entertain their friend’s son too? They were also notoriously unreliable narrators. You had no idea whether you’d be babysitting a kid for a week, or if this “son” of theirs was going to be 10 years older than you.

“Cool,” you deadpanned, moving back into your bedroom. Clothes from your recent move were strewn about your bedroom floor, along with knick-knacks and photos from your old apartment. Framed pictures of you and your ex, which made tears well up in your eyes as you put them back in the box, face down. 

You started to throw clothes in the bottom of your bag, not being able to focus on what to even bring. A summer dress or two, t-shirts and shorts, your toothbrush. It all seemed so mundane now. Not falling asleep next to someone, waking up to them, or feeling particularly interested in anything at all. The whole world felt black and white.

“Don’t forget your bathing suit hon!”

Who forgets their bathing suit on a vacation?

“Got it, mom.”

This was going to be an extremely long week. 

[girlleon]

TOO CLOSE FOR COMFORT

leon kennedy x fem!reader.

warnings: emotional incest (daddy-daughter), dead parent, Leon’s ooc and kind of a pervert and a very unreliable narrator, reader is just a little bit too.

tumblr shadowbans posts that use nsfw tags, ergo the only tags I will use are in the post. content is below the read more and you’re responsible for your own media consumption. read at your own risk.

Your dad isn’t a bad guy. He’s, you know, inept in the way sitcom dads are. He has to ask you how the dishwasher runs when he sees you do it and it takes a couple times, but he figures it out in the end. Same thing with the washer and not having to separate out your reds and whites so you don’t make pink.

Leon’s just… he’s just a bit lonely. Mom died a decade back and now he walks around with half his heart in his hands and stares at you a little too long ‘cause you look just like her.

He tried dating but every woman he went out with could see his broken heart from a mile away and it was like seeing a dilapidated house, nobody wants a fixer-upper.

It’s no surprise to you when he starts hanging off you when you’re cooking for the two of you, big arms wrapped around your waist and cheek on your shoulder. Mom always said he was so clingy and would laugh every time she said that as he pressed his mouth to every place he could reach.

That was another thing too, she’d get playfully annoyed when she was wearing a strappy dress for some sort of work function and he’d damn near glue himself to her—body and mouth. She could never take it when he’d give her that kicked puppy look and reluctantly let go either.

Like mother, like daughter, you guess. You don’t shove him off or squirm free when he clings to you like a barnacle on a ship and you don’t complain because you damn well need the comfort too, even if you guys end up sharing a bed more often than not.

Your dad wasn’t very touchy when you were little, save for when you two were wrestling and he’d go a little too hard and wouldn’t let you up. You’d scream and cry when he wouldn’t let you out from under him and more often than not went crying to mom when she’d walk in.

But, anyway, he has that awkward demeanor of a guy who never got a hug from mommy when he was little. Hence why you never went to him when you wanted comfort, and mom was softer anyway, except for maybe a handful of times.

He told you once that he liked when you were sick because it meant you’d want his comfort, which stuck with you for a long while, but you’re past that, you’re a grown girl now.

Well, okay, it gets a little strange one day when he wraps himself around you like a vine from behind, fresh out of the shower. You get a whiff of him and pause, the wooden spatula freezing in the pan. He feels you stiffen up and lifts his head up, about to ask what’s wrong when you ask, “Is that my body wash?” sounding extremely scandalized and shocked.

Fuck, he never likes it when you’re shocked or angry or anything but happy with him. “Maybe.” Leon replies elusively, tightening his hold on you.

“Okay, what the fuck, dad?” You try to turn around but he holds tight. You stir faster, some rice slopping over the sides of the pan to burn on the electric burner. “Did you run out of yours, or something?”

“No.” Leon shakes his head, nose dragging across your clothed shoulder. “I just like the way yours smells.”

You make a face, unsure how to really respond to that. “Weirdo.” You decide after a while, shaking more soy sauce into the rice and stirring it around.

“Your mom never minded.” He huffs, pressing his nose to the crook of your neck and fighting a smile when your shoulders jump.

Your brows furrow and you turn off the burner with a click. “I’m not mom.” Comes out harsh, the spatula banging on the side of the pan to get the stray rice off.

Leon frowns, pressing his mouth to your shoulder for a moment. “I know, sweetheart.” He mumbles, straightening up and loosening his hold on you when you reach for the plates.

You frown too, lips pressing into a line as you dish out the food for yourself. He can damn well serve himself, he’s a grown ass man.

Dinner is a stiff affair, but he’s nice enough to do the damn dishes for his number one girl. “C’mere.” He tells you when he’s done, holding his arms out. You come over, of course, cheek squishing against his shoulder as you sag against him. You can never stay mad at that old oaf for long. “I miss her.” Dad murmurs by your ear, pretending not to notice the way your arms flare with goosebumps. Sensitive ears, you got that from him.

“I know, dad.” You mumble back, nose invaded by the orange scent of your body wash on him and his sharp-smelling aftershave. “I miss her too.” Enough time’s gone by that your voice doesn’t crack when you say that, but your throat aches all the same.

He squeezes you closer, resting his cheek on the top of your head, kissing it before laying his cheek back on your head.

Leon’s not a bad guy. You’re just the closest thing he’s got to a wife. And he really needs to get a fucking grip because he can’t keep walking around at half-mast because you called him dad. Like, what the hell else are you supposed to call him? Leon? Fuck no. You’re his kid and kids don’t call their parents by their first names, except for that creepy kid in The Ring, but that’s fake.

God, there’s something wrong with him, he’s got a couple screws loose or something that makes him react this way. He made you. He remembers going to all the ultrasound appointments and buying the prenatals and the damn cravings. He remembers holding you when your mother finally pushed you out, kissing her sweaty temple when you opened your little mouth and started crying because the world was too loud compared to the comfort of the womb.

And he remembers when little thirteen-year-old you dragged his sorry ass into the house after he collapsed on the lawn in a drunken stupor. He was in and out for a bit after you finally lugged him inside onto the couch and had to chase after the cat for good measure and bring her silly ass back in.

When he woke up, it was six in the morning and he had one of the worst hangovers of his life. There was already a little bowl on his blanketed lap in case he puked and you were curled up in a ball on the furthest side of the couch, snoozing away.

He let you stay home for the day and had an intervention with himself as you played nurse. Maybe that’s when shit got fucked up and lines got blurred. Somewhere along the way, some wires got crossed and you started sitting where your mom did, in addition to sleeping in their bed too.

He remains awake as you snore contentedly with your back to him, his chest firmly against your spine and hips against his. See, that’s another thing you got from him, those hips and perky ass. The more he thinks about it, you’re all him in all the best and worst ways.

Best ways: hips. Ass. Definitely legs too. You got his nose and his dimples and smile. And that little spring to your step that reminds him of the days before he transferred to the RCPD and came out of Raccoon City worse for wear. You make the same faces he does—got that nearly permanent furrow in your brow that he smooths out with his thumb and warns you that you’re too young for wrinkles. Sensitive ears too.

Worst ways: clingy. It was worse when you were young and always wanted to be around him. Jeez, he gets that you were a kid and all, but wow. Is it normal for kids to cling onto their dad’s calves and tell them not to go to work? Another thing, you’re so damn sensitive. Just one comment will throw you off and he’ll be begging for you to get back to normal. One time when you were twelve, he tried to spank you and he got the silent treatment for the rest of the night after you wiggled your way free, tears streaming down your little face. He slept on the couch because he felt so bad.

There is one thing though… Leon can pat himself on the back for making the perfect girl for him. You just share half his DNA, which makes things a little sticky.

You shift a little in your sleep, your ass pressing against his dick and he has to damn near bite his tongue bloody so he doesn’t make a noise because you’re asleep. More often than not, he has to go rub one out in the bathroom and feel guilty because all that can get him off is thoughts of you.

He tries out dating apps again a couple days after that. “Honey?” He calls out as you’re in the kitchen putting the dishes away.

“What?” Ugh, he hates that, you should just come over here when he calls out for you. When he doesn’t respond, you groan so loudly he can hear you from two rooms over, walking over to where he sits on the couch with those bifocals. “What, dad?”

“Can you help me set up my Tinder profile?” He has to hold in a smirk when you do a double take and shift your weight between your feet, gaze falling down to your bare legs because you decided to torment him and wear those stupid bike shorts before he trains his eyes back on your face.

“Aren’t you… aren’t you a little old for that?”

You don’t mean any harm, but he winces a little for show, his hand over his heart. “Ouch, honey, that hurts. I’m your old man, you should be nice to me.”

You huff at him and plop down next to him on the couch, leaning so close he can smell your coconut body butter you insist on slathering yourself in after a shower. Just take them a little colder, you don’t need to boil alive to get clean. “What do you have?” You ask him, scratching the tip of your nose.

He hands his phone over to you and you hold it carefully, swiping through his pictures catalogue before you look up at him, distinctly unimpressed in the way only hot college girls can be. He finds himself asking more than a little defensively, “What?”

“You need better pictures.” And to not set your age limits at a grandma’s age and a college girl’s age. “Hang on, I have some good ones of you.”

“Did your mom take them?” He leans over to watch you swipe through your gallery.

You shake your head, selecting a couple pictures from a folder named ‘dad’ and texting them to him. “No, I caught a couple candids of you maybe a couple weeks back. And Aunt Claire always sends some to me when all you older folk go out.”

Leon gasps in mock scandal, notching his sharp chin on your shoulder. “I could sue you for that. Unlawful surveillance. What are you doing taking pictures of me without my knowledge anyway?”

You freeze before you go back to selecting the right pictures for his Tinder carousel. “Scrapbooking.” You answer quietly after a long, uncomfortable pause, your eyes on his phone screen. “I don’t have much of mom, so I take as many of you as I can.”

Oh, sweetheart. He wraps an arm around you and squeezes you tight as you help him finish setting upon his profile. See, a couple good ones: him holding a bass as big as his arms put together, one of him smiling unguardedly with Auntie Claire’s German shepherd mix on his lap insisting on pets—he’s smiling so wide his dimples are showing, his fingers buried in the long fur—another of him taking a picture of you taking a picture of him, maybe he can add more when he feels like it.

He squints at the screen, maybe he should up his prescription, “What the hell’s a bio?”

You snort, halfway amused and halfway bewildered. “Like, biography, dad.”

“Why don’t they just say that?” He says to watch you turn to look at him, your noses just this far apart.

You turn back around, face warming. “Because it was meant to be shorthand.”

“Oh.”

You show the phone to him. It’s got his Zodiac—Scorpio—in a tab along with his height and weight, marital status, whether he drinks or smokes or is ‘420 friendly’—which you tell him means whether he’s okay with weed, he says no and you change that—whether he’s a cat or dog person, all the really important things to consider in a potential partner. He adds that he has you, then hedges on whether he should mention the dead wife.

You veto mentioning it, so he leaves it out, then saves his profile.

A bit after you help your dad set up his tinder profile—apparently, DILFs are in—you get asked out on a date. Which, normally, would be cause for celebration.

You just feel anxious at the thought of telling your dad that you’re going out. Like, how is he going to respond? He was never overprotective, and isn’t really now, but you really dislike the idea of leaving him alone for a while. You keep it a secret until you come downstairs and he’s making dinner. He turns around when he hears your feet on the creaky stairs, eyebrows raising as he lets out a low whistle at your outfit.

Your face warms all the way up to your ears.

“Where are you going?” He asks, managing to not sound sleazy as he turns back around to stir the sauce in the pot, the only thing betraying his true feelings being how jerky his movements are.

“Out on a date.” You reply reticently, shifting from foot to foot at the bottom of the stairs.

“Okay.” He says after a tense pause. Then he glances back over his shoulder, waggling his eyebrows at you. “Play safe.”

“Ew, dad.” You say as you go get your shoes and pull them on where you sit on the stairs. “Not happening.”

He hums, eyeing you surreptitiously. Aw, blue underpants this time, not red or black. “Good. At least wait until the third date.”

“I’m going now.” You tell him emphatically, wrapping your arms around him from behind before you walk out, keys in your bag. Leon’s stomach flips when your hand lands on his stomach, body betraying him once again. He curses under his breath and hangs his head, willing himself to calm down and kill that jealousy rising in the back of his throat as he watches you pull out of the driveway and go on your date.

Well, you come home thirty minutes later, guilt eating at you for daring to go out on a date. Nevermind the fact that you’re a fully grown adult and can do whatever you want because you’re young and hot.

“Hey, sweetheart.” He’s at the table, eating by himself and painting a very sad picture of bachelorhood. “Did it not go so well?”

“Yeah.” You lie, getting yourself a plate and serving yourself some spaghetti and meatballs. You didn’t even make it to the restaurant before you took a u-turn and went home, making up something about an emergency coming up. “Didn’t like the guy, gave me bad vibes.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, sweetheart.” He gets up and scoops you into a hug, hiding his glee successfully. “Other fish in the sea.” He says blithely when you’re both sitting down.

You slurp up the last of your spaghetti before giving him a smile. “Yeah. Other fishes.”

Neither of you mean a word you say.

A month later, he gets to go out on a date with someone else. He tells you the day of, the very same way you did a month prior.

Turnabout’s fair play but your stomach still complains and you’re still jealous of this woman.

He tuts and flicks your nose when you’re silent for a little too long, grinning when you scowl at him and jab him in the stomach. He grunts and doubles over and gets you back, this little play-fight going on for a few minutes because neither of you matured past the age of twelve.

Eventually, you get away and watch him adjust his clothes that you helped pick him out, your arms folding as you pout and sulk on the inside. “Don’t pout at me, babygirl.” He tells you, giving you a wink that traitorously makes your stomach flip-flop. “I’ll be back around nine, you can bring the hammer down if I’m out past curfew.”

You still don’t smile, you feel a little like you’re being replaced. Then again, this mystery woman isn’t the one who gets to have him clinging onto her as she cooks or while you sleep in the same bed or on the couch watching a movie you picked out because Leon’s a big softie and can never say no to his favorite girl.

But she might, and you revolt at the thought of having a stepmother at your big age. You two made it a decade without a replacement, you certainly don’t need one, and lately, you’re not so sure dad needs one either. You’re a wife figure all on your own.

He leaves with a big hug and a kiss dropped on the top of your head, the door shutting behind him. You watch him reverse out of the driveway before you start on dinner and sulk the entire way through the oven cooking your chicken nuggets.

Leon comes home an hour later and scoops you into a hug, rousing you from sleep in your shared bed.

“What’s up, dad?” You sleepily nose at him, head tucked into his neck. “Did you not like her?”

“Nah. I didn’t even see her, I told her something came up.” He pets your head and you snuffle, one arm wrapping around his waist.

“How come?”

“Bad vibes.” He knows you know he’s lying. “Besides,” he shifts, scooping you onto his lap, “I’ve got my number one girl right here.”

[netherfeildren]

With Mercy for the Disturbed

Pairing: Joel Miller x F!Reader

Summary: He's a father and then he isn't, and then he's in the perfect place with the perfect girl, and he's done so many bad things that terrify the both of them. And then, finally, he's saved and there are dancing bears and doors newly opened, and everyone's a little mad at the end of it all.

-OR-

the Hannibal/Alice in Wonderland AU wherein Joel loses his mind

Rating: Explicit 18+

Content Warnings: AU; Dubious Consent; Dark Fic; Doctor/Patient Relationship; Forced Orgasm; Rough Sex; Face fucking; Oral Sex (f!receiving); Bondage; Power Imbalance; Exploration of Power Dynamics; Unreliable Narrator; Memory loss; Blasphemy; Discussions of religious disdain; Discussions of morality; References to suicide; Beware of the old man who’s crazy and lets all his intrusive thoughts win; Older man/Younger woman; Creampie; Light breeding kink; Like very light for the likes of me promise; Possessive Behavior; Kidnapping; Joel POV

A/N: Hello and hallelujah, I’m so happy to be posting this!! For a minute after I finished Pink I felt like it would be impossible for me to write anything else ever again, and felt so weird and without anything left to say.  I struggled so much just getting these words down, and it was supposed to be something very different initially compared to what it turned out to be, but I think I quite like the final product. I hope you do too. 

And one million kisses and thank yous and all the praise in the world to @frannyzooey for giving this a little looksy over before posting. You’re the greatest and the bestest, Kelli, thank you so so much :)

Please heed the tags carefully and err on the side of caution!!! The goings on in this are very strange and this is probably the darkest thing I’ve written to date. 

Word Count: 8.8K

Read on AO3

He can’t remember her name anymore, but he remembers the number. It’s been seven hundred and thirty eight days since his daughter died. 

Sometimes, he’s not sure if he even remembers his own name. He thinks it’s Joel, and the sound of it brings him comfort in a way, when it’s especially dark and confusing in his mind, and so he tells himself over and over again that that’s what it is. Joel. Joel. Joel. I am Joel. That that’s what it’s always been. That that’s the name she knew him as. 

Sometimes you call him that too.

He used to be a father, and then one day, so suddenly he can’t recall how it even happened, he lost everything. Like dominos falling over in his mind – the girl, and then his memories and then the man with the face like his. He plays dominos all the time now. 

In his spot in the sun in the big blue room, wearing his whites and his soft socks and taking the pills they force down his throat. He plays dominos, and he does his exercises, and he thinks of that daughter whose name he can’t remember. He says his own name over and over and over again so many times until it’s not even a sound anymore, only a buzz or a hum or a scream. 

His beard is thick and his hair is long, and he does not recognize his own face in the mirror. All he sees are ghost green eyes and dark hair and a fathomless sort of failure. A father, no longer a father. He goes for walks in the garden, he eats the food they give him even when he doesn’t really want to, even when it tastes like ash or greater madness than the one he’s already swallowed. And he waits for you. All the time he waits for you to come to him, he watches the big doors that go out into the world he’s too frightened and broken to step foot in now, draws his fingertip over the gristle of scar tissue at his temple mended over invisible fracture, and he waits and waits, and he says his name and he thinks of that nameless daughter and he waits and he thinks: the morning after I killed myself, I woke up in the perfect place with the perfect white walls and now all I do is wait. 

He sits in his chair in the corner now and counts the seconds for you to come for him. Always at this time, always when the sun is at that spot in the sky. When it rains, and he can't tell where he is in the world, and the clouds are swollen purple gray verging on melancholy and anger, he feels something like despairing. Something like the sort of insane they whisper he is behind his back now.

He watches the puddles filled with dark mercury grow and grow like the ocean rising out of concrete, and the orange tree that drips and weeps and sags and he thinks he feels very much that way inside too. Sometimes, when the sun shines and there are no clouds and he doesn’t feel so terribly downtrodden, or maybe worse than usual, each orange blossom opens like a hand reaching out for him. Begging him not to do it, not to think of it, not to go back to that bad place. Focus only on me, she says. Focus only on the blue walls and the perfect room and the place where the sun sits in the sky, she’s on her way, she’s almost here. 

The first time they’d told him he was ill – or dead – the first morning in the perfect room, he’d been angry, affronted or offended, and he’d howled and fought and said I’m not fucking crazy, it’s only that my daughter is dead. But as much as he’d fought or kicked or screamed, wept until he was brittle and dry as a whale bone, they’d not believed him. And so, he’d come to appreciate the peace of the perfection surrounding him, the perfection of a lie, or the perfection that comes to visit him in the shape of a woman, soft and round in all the right places and pretty. Fuckable. He tries not to think of it. He swears he does. But there’s little else to consider in the perfect place. So really, he thinks of little else. 

You’re almost here, he knows it’s almost time.

A few more moments of the sun in the place where it is until it’s in the place where it should be, and then you’ll be here, and he looks down at the stone in his palm, held for so long it’s turned dark with his sweat now. I shouldn’t have, but I brought you something, placed it in his hand, done that thing with your eyes and your mouth that told him secrets he wasn’t sure you were even aware you were telling him. 

He knows that it’s November now because you’d said it was, and he doesn’t know why, but when you’d told him, he’d wept and wept and wept. Become inconsolable which had sent you to worrying, put the different sort of look on your face, in your eyes, the one that vibrates, that screams instead of whispers. And he’s positive you don’t know you show him that one, but he sees it anyways, you’ve got a shit poker face. And he’d told you between sobs and chokes, it’s November and it’s terrible and I can’t explain why except to say that it’s as though the earth has suddenly realized that she’s grown old and cold and there’s nothin’ she can do to prevent it except weep, and I feel very much like this in my own heart too. And when he looks back up at the sun, it’s finally where it’s supposed to be, and when he looks back at the double doors that lead away to all his fears and all the bad, there you are. You walk towards him slow and measured, and you’re perfect, perfect, perfect. Precious, impeccable, absolutely exceptional in every way. He wants very much to ruin all that pure magnificence. 

He knows that he did something very bad after his daughter, after they took her, lots of very bad things to lots of very bad people. He knows this, he remembers this vividly, enjoys the memory of it, savors it like something sitting sweet and light on his tongue. 

The morning after I killed myself, I fell in love with the idea of a girl who was gone who’d come from me who is never going to be again. Who I never made enough time for when there was still time to be made.

You always wear beautiful clothes, and it makes him appreciate the blandness of his own. That you stand out, that he’s merely a blank canvas for you to inflict yourself on. Wool skirts and silk blouses and sheer pantyhose he wants to rip to ribbons with his fingers. Makes him appreciate the beauty of you, faultless, guileless. Sweet in a way he’d never witnessed before like a kitten that’s so adorable you want to squeeze and squeeze and smother until it bursts. Big eyes and a full, soft mouth and breathy voice, and then you’re right there.“Hi, Joel,” and yeah, that’s right, he does know his name, you remind him of it all the time.  

“Mornin’.”

“Ready?”

“As ever.”

The room you usually sit in to talk has a big painting of a field in it, a bear in the far off center up on its hind legs, somehow, appearing as if it’s dancing away. Even the paintings are mad here, but he likes it, wants to dance away into the far off unknown like that too. 

“The middle of the day’s not the best time for fishin’ usually.” Sometimes, you let him start where he wants. Silent until he chooses to break. He pulls the thought out of nowhere. “Bein’ out there’s just the excuse, I suspect, in the sun and the water.” 

He listens to the scratch, scratch of your pen. You write with one of those fountain types with the sharp point, and he wonders if you’ve ever considered how easily he could turn it into a weapon. How smoothly it’d pierce the soft, satin skin of your throat he likes to fantasize about. He would never. But he does like to think about it, pretends it’s a show of your trust, wonders if the guards and higher ups know you bring something like that in here with him. Scratch, scratch, scratch, and it makes his brain itch. 

“You used to fish?”

“Think so.”

“Are you remembering?”

“Nah.” The morning after I killed myself, I lost my memories – it’s only that they’d hurt everywhere I’d touched them, and so I’d had to let them go.

“No?” 

You’ve got the loveliest voice, and sometimes he wishes he could tell you to stop asking so many stupid questions about him and talk about yourself. Endlessly. He chooses a new route. “What is it about empathy that people find so difficult to be generous with?”

That soft hum in your throat he loves, the one he feels soothe that itchy brain of his. “Humans can be inherently selfish. We’re born with only ourselves, we die with only ourselves, sometimes that gets in our way.”

“No… Don’t think that’s true.”

“No?” He knows you like to lead him sometimes, like a game he doesn’t want to enjoy. “You’re the one saying we’re greedy with our empathy.”

“Forgiveness too,” he adds.

The click of your tongue, “Do you think you’re forgiving?”

“Not at all.”

Scratch, scratch. Once he’d asked what it is you write about him during these talks of yours, and all you’d said was notes. It’s the only time he’s ever been angry with you, refused to talk to you for three days after that. Only because if you wouldn’t tell him things, then he wasn’t going to tell you anything either. “Then what’s the point you’re trying to make? What’s your question?” But then he’d missed the sound of your voice too much, had felt the burn of your gaze on his skin too intensely, had masturbated too many times without satisfaction to the memory of your eyes on him that he’d been forced to relent. He needed the sound of your voice in his head also to be able to come. 

“Why is it so difficult?” He asks again because he has to understand. Because he needs an answer desperately. 

“It’s hard to see someone as simply themselves, simply human – a sentient flaw, so to speak – when they make a mistake. And yet, as grievous or offensive as something can be, we all do it eventually. Some people have no patience for that.”

“Even though they themselves will eventually, inevitably, do it too?” He can feel himself getting upset, his heart beating too fast, a cold sweat sprouting at the back of his neck while his face flushes hot and red. 

“Yes.”

“That’s bad.”

You shrug, “Perhaps.”

“Selfish.”

Again, “Perhaps.”

And then the true source of his anger, “I think I’m like that.”

You nod like you understand, and he wants to shake you and make you see that there’s no way you actually could. “Would you like not to be?” It pisses him off when your voice goes all even and patient like that. 

“Yes. I hate people like that. I hate people that can’t find it in themselves to forgive – to give someone a second chance.”

“Why do you think that is?”

He can’t help himself when he vomits the words, not fully expecting them to come out so slicked in truth as they do. “Because I wish someone would give me one, even if I don’t deserve it. F– forgive me– But even then… what does it matter? What does it matter if I’m forgiven, given a second chance, absolved of all my sins? Look at where I am. Look at what I've become. I’m entirely lost to myself. You know, sometimes I can’t remember my own name if you don’t remind me of it.”

“You’re Joel. You had a daughter. Her name was Sarah.” He flinches at the sound of it, wants to bare his teeth at you like a rabid animal. “Your brother is Tommy. He calls every Friday at three o’clock to ask how you are. You’re Joel Miller.” That’s right. The morning after I killed myself, I met my brother for the first time. The real him. The him who’s afraid of me. The real Tommy, Tommy, Tommy. Sometimes the name rings familiar in his mind, again, when you remind him of it.

He shakes his head, swallows a gruff sound, tries to shutter the manic look he knows floods his eyes, reverts back to his initial thought, “False senses of moral superiority disgust me.” The sun’s shining in at an angle so that there’s a single tendril of sunlight wrapped around the slim of your crossed ankle, gripping the nylon covered limb in its light. Joel’s eyes shift jealously from that held piece of you to the shadow of far off rain he can see in the distance through the window, trying to find some measure of peace in the sight. It’ll reach here eventually, and he tries to ground himself in the inevitability. “Yes, there’s right and wrong. There’s also humanity. There’s also the right to grow and learn, and to make mistakes that, in the end, make you better. Who are you to condemn me? Is your glass house so pristine not a stain mars it? Grace, forgiveness, empathy… I find those infinitely more valuable than whatever false sense of good and bad you’ve decided makes me worthy or not,” he says, eyes cast towards the coming rain. He can feel your gaze on his face, and he does not want to acknowledge it. 

“But the things you did were bad, Joel. You hurt people. You killed people.” 

That makes his eyes snap back to yours for the way you say it. As if you’re sharing a bit of inconsequential news with him. The weather is about to hit, the rain is almost here. Can’t you see it, just there, in the distance? Voice so even and soft. Sometimes he calls you angel, when he knows he’s charmed you enough just to get away with it, when he’s said all the things he knows you want to hear from him and smiled all the right smiles that cost him so much. Voice like a goddamn angel, face like a goddamn angel. Everything else… like something come straight from Hell to drag him down to where he really belongs and never let him go. 

He eyes you suspiciously. “The Bible says an eye for an eye. They killed my daughter so I took their eyes.” And then other parts.

“And then their lives…” And then their lives. He nods once, succinct. “You ascribe to the scripture?” You snap that little leather bound book open again, red, scratch in it once again, all your secrets about him. That itch returns, stronger than before. He bites down on it, chews it away within himself. 

“What? Like I believe in it? Fuck no. Fuck religion. It isn’t real. A weak construct made for weak men in need of comfort. And– and… like what – it’s going to save my soul? I ate that a long time ago, angel. Look at where I am…” He shrugs, letting his head fall back in a circular motion, coming to rest on his shoulder. He can’t help but smile at you, he knows you hate it when he gets like this, all ornery and heretical. 

You purse your lips, shake your head at him gently, and he wants to eat the lipstick from your soft mouth. “You believe in angels though… you call me–”

His smile cranks up another notch for a single beat. “Gotta believe in somethin’ that’s right in front of my eyes, don’t I? What d’ya think, that’m crazy?” And his eyes slide to the window again, smile melting off his face. “‘Sides they told me so–” 

“Who told you what?” Voice slow, measured, all serious-like. He rolls his eyes, feels the stone of anger in his belly heat, spin, jump to his throat. 

“They killed my daughter,” he spits like a whispered scream instead. The shadow of rain is closer. If the dancing bear were out there, it’d be lost to the deluge by now. “I should’ve done worse. I would have, had I not been thrown away in here.” He remembers that a man with a face like his left him here, but he doesn’t know who. He shakes his head, jostles the non-memory out of his ears, searches harder for the dancing bear, killed a bunch’a people, he murmurs to himself, once more again, because he likes the sound of it.

“So you’re talking about yourself. You want to be forgiven.” He doesn’t like when you tell him, when you don’t ask. It makes him feel like you know something he doesn’t, and he wants to know everything you know. 

“No. I don’t know.”

“Do you feel thrown away, Joel?”

“I feel forgotten – impossible to remember,” his voice cracks at the end, eyes suddenly wet and hot.

“By who?”

“The world.” He can’t remember his childhood. He can’t remember what he was like as a child, and it makes him sad. 

You’re quiet for a long time, no more scratch, scratch, scratch, no more itch. No more angel voice, and then, very soft, like you know you shouldn’t. “I remember you. I haven’t forgotten you.” 

Once, a time ago because he can’t discern lengths of it anymore, it doesn't exist here in the perfect place, amidst what, he thinks, is a lot that you know you shouldn’t have allowed, you’d changed the routine up on him. Had sent for him, instead of coming for him yourself. When he’d stepped into the room where you have your talks, you’d been facing the big window, looking out at the green, the line of your shoulders and the dip of your waist and the swell of your ass in your skirt that shifts like water around your knees and the saliva pooling heavy in his mouth, it’d been too much, too much for a broken thing, and you hadn’t turned. Like the pen, like more trust, you hadn’t turned to face him even though he knew you’d heard the door snick shut behind him. He’d stepped as quiet as he could up behind you, quiet like when he was sneaking to kill, and he’d brushed a single tip of his finger up the length of one of your skinny, little ones, so much smaller and finer than his thick, brutish ones, stroked the palm of your hand. You’d made the tiniest sound, interrupted by a swallow, but he’d heard it. He’d heard the want in it. He’d not forgotten either, and he sees that sound in your eyes now, again, as you stare at him with an intention he’s not so fucking crazy that he doesn’t know you shouldn’t possess. 

He smiles a little again, and you don’t return it, but it’s okay, he sees the sound of your want in your eyes anyways, and that’s infinitely more satisfying to him. “It would serve us all well to remember to try to be a little more empathetic, a little more forgiving.”

You swallow, shaken, he can tell. Shaken by that thing inside you for him he knows shouldn’t be there. You scratch a little in the book, say slowly, “It starts with you, I think, you have to forgive yourself first.”

He doesn’t acknowledge that. There are things you talk about you clearly have no understanding of. You’re young. You don’t know better. He understands. “I think… I think, I haven’t been myself lately.”

“Who have you been?”

And again, he doesn’t mean to say it, but you tell him so much you don’t mean to say either that he feels he might as well also. “Someone–” That anger again, he can’t help himself even though he desperately wants to. “Someone my daughter would be afraid of.” Full blown rage now. At you. Yes, at you. You force things from him he doesn’t want to give you, and there’s a thing within him that wants to punish you for it, take a pound of flesh in repayment. “I want someone to forgive me. I want to be forgiven. I want to experience it.” Truth is like fire, hypnotizing, seductive, once it catches, inextinguishable. He wants to hate you sometimes for forcing these things from him, for not giving him a choice, and worst of all, done so unintentionally, unknowingly. He wants to not give you a choice either. 

“From who?” You ask. Silly little girl. You need to learn the art of restraint, of temperance. He should teach you. 

“Our hour’s up.” He looks away, dismissing you. As if he’s the one in charge here, and not the one caged. Divested. 

“No, it isn’t. It’s–”

“Our hour’s up,” head snapping back towards you, barking–  “It’s time for you to go.” And something in his gaze must tell how far he’s been pushed, by you, for you jerk up and out of your chair suddenly, turning to scurry towards the door, not bothering to say goodbye, not bothering to turn back, not bothering to notice the clatter of your pen on the linoleum. 

He watches you go, a single black seam runs up the back of your hose, and the sight makes him feel violent, eager for darkness and the solitude of his white box room. 

-

He doesn’t know why, maybe the way the rain beats against the singular tiny window in his room, maybe the way it whispers at him like all the other things that whisper at him now, but he knows you’ll come before he hears the stunted jangle of keys, the sigh and click of his door, the bare pad of shoeless feet on the hard floor, you’d thought this through, your too fast, too shallow breathing. 

He’s staring up at the ceiling, arms crossed behind his head, cock hard, a little chafed. He wasn’t able to make himself come tonight, sometimes it doesn’t work, sometimes he needs the imagination of your wet cunt more than just the mere memory of your voice in his mind and the remembered feel of your gaze on him, but he’s never let himself picture the full act of fucking you. Thinks it would send him to a level of unhingedness he’d find unable to restrain in your presence. He only thinks of bits and pieces of you, like a dissected doll pulled apart for his half pleasure. Never the full thing, ever. 

You try and say whatever it is you want to say several times before it finally comes out, all choked and feigned regret, but you do try and put on a good show, swallowed up by nerves as you are. “I– I just– I just came to make sure you’re okay,” you whisper. You’ve never been in his room before. He’s never had you in his space like this, and it makes him leak. 

“You didn’t come for that.” Voice slow, still wide eyed, looking up at the white domed ceiling, something like victory in the shape of a hymn pounding through his veins. He won’t look at you until he’s ready. 

“I… I felt badly about how we left things this afternoon. I shouldn't have– I didn’t say goodbye. I didn’t end our talk the way– the way… Joel?” You stutter,  trail off, voice small and unsure. 

He sees you move out of the corner of his eye. One step forward, two back, pressing up against the door again. Little bunny full of regret for coming into the wolf's bed, and he moves suddenly, swift despite his age still. He has little to do here besides move his body, make sure it doesn’t grow rust. He sits up quick as a whip, swinging his legs over the edge of his too small bed, planting his feet wide and sturdy on the cold floor. He can see the tremble of your throat even from here, the pristine lines of you. Your hair and your face and your tits and the tiny little pearl buttons of your blouse like soldiers waiting to be felled on the battlefield. He’s going to rip them from you, pluck the garments keeping you hidden away from your skin, spread you out, filleted. 

“That’s not what you came here for, angel.” He shakes his head slowly, and your panic ricochets higher, makes his cock harder. Your arm reaches back for the latch slowly, fumbling behind you, and he braces his legs. Your other palm outstretched, fingers trembling. He gives you another slow shake, as if that small gesture could keep him at bay. “I hear all the things you tell me. Don’t worry. I always hear.”

“Wh– what do you mean?”

“I always see the things you want me to know. I know… I know. It’s okay.”

“I don’t– I’m not sure… I shouldn’t have come.” Your hand finds the latch, angling your body to slip through as swiftly as possible, and his muscles coil tight and ready. “I just wanted– to– to make sure…” You pull the door open, move to slip away, and he lunges for you, catches the edge of the swinging door, lets you float in the lie that you’ve gotten away for a few seconds, scurrying a few paces down the dark corridor of his perfect place where he’s found his perfect girl. 

The morning after I killed myself, I found an angel. 

You make it as far as the bend in the hall before he’s trapping you in his grip, swinging you around so fast you bounce against the white tiled walls, cages you there, open mouth immediately at your jugular, biting down hard while his big palm completely smothers your face, forces your choked cry back down. His other arm wraps around your waist, lifting and dragging you back down the hall towards his white box and his little bed and all his fantasies, artery caught between his teeth, no more choices to be had, exactly like you leave him all the time. He whispers at you to be quiet, quiet, quiet, angels are always good, and then he’s shutting the door behind him, trapping you inside and plucking the keys from your skirt pocket, locking the two of you away together as you should’ve been from that first day. 

You try and struggle in his arms, little feet kicking weakly at his shins, scratching at his sides where he has your arms trapped, but the sound of your fight is restrained, held low and gurgled in your throat, and he knows that you know that this is what you’d come for, that you’re getting exactly as you’d sought. 

“Fight harder if you’d like,” he says low in your ear, throwing the keys to the far corner and wrapping both arms tight around you, pressing all the air out. Finally, fucking finally. He’s touching you, the plush heat of your breasts against his chest, the soft swell of your belly against his stomach. He’s so fucking hard he wants to rut into you like a beast. “I want you to be scared,” and it’s the foremost truth he’s ever shared with you. The heart of all his depravity. “I want you to want it so bad you’re terrified. As bad as I want it. I want you to not want it also. Want you to fight and cry and scratch and bite, and then take it anyways ‘cause I’m gonna to give it to you anyways. You always take all of my choices from me,” he adds on, voice going barely there, mumbled, pressing a tiny kiss to the tiny hammering pulse in your throat, and you let out your first soft moan. An angel singing right into his ear. Your fighting tells all sorts of lies. He hoists you higher, presses you closer, and you wriggle and squirm, grinding his erection into the soft apex of your thighs. 

“Joel– stop, please– please. I– I didn’t think–” He bends his head to your breast, drags his nose over the hard peak he feels beneath the silk of your blouse, nuzzles there, enjoying the sound of your breathlessness, again that feigned shock. You’re right, you didn’t think, and it’s too late now. What did you expect would happen, coming here to his cage like this in the middle of the night? He catches the taut peak between the edge of his teeth, tugs gently, plucking your cords.

With a fist wrapped in the length of your hair he forces you to your knees at his feet, jerking your head back roughly so that your mouth falls open on a gasp giving him the opportunity to hook his fingers over the edge of your bottom teeth, stretching your jaw open wide. “Open– lemme see,” he orders. “I wanted you so bad,” dragging the pad of his thumb along the sharp edge of your jaw. “I want you so bad. All those days when you forced me to tell you things I didn’t want to tell you. I’m going to show you temperance now, angel,” he nods his head down at you condescendingly when you try and protest. I didn’t force you to do anything, “But you did. You did. You pulled things out of me I didn’t want to share. And now I have to have you. You always take all of my choices from me.” He clicks his tongue down at you, and there are tears in your eyes that go wide and something worse than frightened when he tugs the elastic waist of his soft white pants down, pulls out his angry erection and heavy balls. Your expression morphing from something worse than frightened, to something like desperate, like hungry, like his for the taking. And he’s big, he knows it. Much too big for the pretty little throat he’s about to force it down. But he’s going to be gentle, he’s going to help you, teach you. 

“Joel, please–” And look at you beg, so pretty with tears in your eyes, running down your cheeks. He brings the searing brand of his erection to your cheek, presses the burning hot skin all over your face, coating himself in the wet of your tears, marking you in the thick male scent of him. And the feel of you, just like this, just this little bit – with his fingers still hooked over the edge of your teeth he turns your face so that your open mouth brushes against his length. “Taste– I know you’re hungry for it. Give it a kiss hello, little angel.” 

Your eyes flash up to his face for a brief moment, almost too quick for him to catch, and then you’re pursing your mouth against him, swallowing the shudder that moves through his entire frame. A tiny kiss to the ridged underbelly of his cock, the drag of your lips against the length of him to the fat tip, and then another kiss with wet lips and enough tongue to undeniably lick up some of what’s slicking it. You want him, even if you won’t admit it, even if you cry or fight. It’s all he needs to know. 

Still caught by the teeth he jerks your head back forward, opens you wider and forces his cock down your throat. You gurgle around him, whining, shrieking, false, he knows what you really want. Can feel it in the slicking of your tongue around the proof of his desire for you, he’s giving you everything he has, and he spits your name, purges it from his belly like an infection over and over again while he starts to fuck your mouth. Feels you gulp hard just at the right moment to get his leaking tip caught tight at the choking opening of your throat. He could come just like this. He could, he could. You’re all his. Fill your belly with his semen until it bulges, feed you himself until you’d never be without him. He lets his head fall back, looks up at the white dome, at the false home of the false God, tells you again, voice all cracked and broken and gone away from him, “I don’t believe in God anymore, but that’s okay. I have you to believe in now,” fucks harder, listens to your cries climb up the walls, savors the scratch and shove at his thighs when he tightens his fist in your hair to a painful degree. You always take all my choices from me, always. But he knows that if he’s to show you temperance he must exercise his own, and after a few more slick thrusts, he pulls wetly from your mouth, enjoying your whistling groan as you sag face first against his thigh. He pets your hair now gently, fingers twisting through the softness. He’d always wanted to feel it, memorize its texture, its scent. There is nothing about you that isn’t worthy of veneration, of doing the worst thing in the world just to have you, taste you, keep you.

He lets you rest for a moment, wonders at the fact that you haven’t screamed yet. You easily could, call for help, salvation, an escape. You haven’t, and it soothes him. Makes him feel disgusting in a way that doesn’t match up with how disgusting it should feel to force himself on his pretty angel; a self satisfied type of disgust. Something he should be more ashamed of than he truly is. But when you have so little, when you barely have yourself, when theft is the only means of self satisfaction, little recourse remains for creatures caged in perfect places with only bad avenues left to them. 

He hauls you up by your underarms, lets his wet cock press trapped between the two of you, and he’s so close, so close, so close to what he’s needed for so long. He gathers you in his arms, cradles you gentle and with purpose. Tucks your hair behind your ears and wipes the tears and spit from your face, takes it the sparkle of your big wet eyes. So pretty. “Truly like an angel,” and chucks you beneath the chin when you shake your head at him. “You are. So pretty and so soft.” And then finally, like so many times he’d forced himself not to imagine it because he was terrified of what the fantasy would turn him into, no longer the dancing bear in the distance finding it’s escape, but a hungry one, a violent one, an animal so far beyond control all it could do was devour, he pulls you close by the tip of your chin and swallows your mouth whole. All tongue and teeth and the slick slide of your own fervor because yes, it’s there, tangling with his own mouth, pressing your own spit onto his tongue like an offering. You kiss him back.

You kiss him back.

 And, “I want to make you my little butterfly,” he says, “Spread you open, pinned just for me to look at. Only me.” He whispers it into your mouth, soft and secret and true. He’d string you up if he could, split you open and peer inside, rifle through the shafts of your ribs like a lexicon that spells out the truth of who you really are. And then that sudden anger again, that furious stone spinning in his throat. His touch becomes harder, punishing, “You’re going to tell me everything about you,” he says with all that rage in his voice, spits the stone out at you. “You shouldn’t have kept secrets from me.” Fuck the little red book and the scratch, scratch, scratch. He’s going to have all your truths. He’s going to be the one taking all of your choices away from you now. 

He hauls you towards his little bed, popping the pretty pearl buttons as he goes, knowing he’s going to go to his knees later to collect them like treasures for himself after this is done. He rips the blouse from your shoulders, shudders at your indignant little gasp with the sound of the tearing silk, and you’re all soft skin and fine lace and the prettiest thing he’s ever beheld with his own two eyes in this whole life. 

You bring one delicate hand up to his throat, try and grip him there, push him back, but he presses into the touch, sucks at your mouth again, harder, biting, and you say onto his tongue that you shouldn’t, and please, Joel, just wait, but he won’t and he can’t and he tells you it’s useless to fight because he’s having you regardless. 

“No, no– none of that. You’re going to take your fucking like a good little girl,” and something about his words or his tone or the look in his eyes must make the connection in your brian that this is happening click because you suddenly go boneless, head falling back to bear your throat for him, soft sound of concession slipping from your lips. 

He goes in for the kill, he’s always been exceptional at that, after all. Teeth latched at your jugular, tongue up and across the slope of soft sugared skin, and you taste like salvation. He’s saved now, he’s sure of it. Everything he’d lost, his daughter, his mind, himself, he’s going to find it buried in your cunt. Joel is absolutely certain of it. 

He divests you of your skirt, the pretty lace, leaves the nylons held up by tight elastic around your soft thighs, and then it’s all just bare skin and heat and your soft whimpers, the coolness of your hair between his fingers. He lays you out across the length of his bed, takes in the majesty of his winnings. An angel felled and caught. You lie there staring up at him, and there’s an innocence to your gaze that brings him to his knees, set down and at your mercy now. He parts your legs slowly, one small kneecap in the bowl of each palm, the softest skin he’s ever felt beneath these death roughened hands, and Joel could sob now, weep if he had the time for it. He spreads your thighs wide, palms dragging up the insides, calluses catching on the smooth nylon and watches the dip and hitch of your belly as you gasp and shiver. 

“Are you scared?” He whispers right as his palms reach the uppermost part of your thighs, and you’re all softness and warm, damp skin, plush in a way that makes his mouth water and his gums ache, and then he’s finally laying eyes at the center of you, and you’re slicked in the gloss of your desire for him. Playing pretend, feigned fight and reluctance, but he’s looking right at the heart of you, and all he sees now is your truth. You shake your head no, let out a soft breath. “Look at this drippy little cunt,” and he drags his thumb over the pearl of your clit just as whisper soft as his voice is. A half screeched hitch claws up your throat, your thighs jumping at that first touch. He needs to see more, hooks a thumb at each delicate lip and spreads wide, but gently, so as not to hurt you. That’s for later. He stretches your little hole, enjoys the shy wink it gives him. 

“My God… look at you,” he says with something like reverence in his voice. So slick and gorgeous. “I think this little cunt’s going to take me in very nicely.” He runs the pad of his thumb over your swollen clit again, clicks his tongue when your knees try to struggle shut. “None’a that, angel. Be good for me now.” He presses harder at your clit, runs his thumb down to your twitching opening, passes there lightly, coating himself in your leaking slick. “I wanted you so bad,” he tells you, one more moment for confessions before he starts. “I want you so bad. And you’ve always taken all my choices from me. Forced me to stay myself when that’s not who I want to be anymore.”

“You’re Joel,” you whisper, and bring your hand to circle the wrist of the hand he’s petting you with. Not pushing him away or pulling him closer, only a gentle manacle around the thick of his bone. He looks up and into your eyes as he presses his thumb slowly inside of you, hooking it over the thin edge, twists you open slow and gentle and measured, gets you ready for the thickness he’s about to split you open with. 

“That isn’t who I wanted to be anymore. I wanted to forget all that, all the bad, her, I wanted to forget all of it. I tucked her name under my tongue for so long it became blood, and I wanted it like that. And you didn’t let me.” 

Your thighs shift restlessly around him, and you bring one foot up to the edge of the bed, anchoring yourself there so that you can begin a gentle rocking motion of your hips, fucking yourself slowly on his thumb. Your breasts heave and sway with the motion and his balls go so tight and so searingly hot, he could come just now like this from the sight of you, suddenly green and untried like he was in his youth. He didn’t think it was going to be like this, and it’s like he’s wasting your honor, stealing it from you, but something given can’t be stolen and his plans are foiled, he’s not in control but he doesn’t really care either. He finally has you. 

He bends his head, brings his mouth to your slick swollen cunt and takes the first sip. Groans so deep in his chest he’s more animal than man suddenly, sucking hard and sharp on your clit, he pulls his hand from you and laves his tongue over the entire slope of your sex, tongue dipping into the well of you. He spreads your lips again, wide, stretches your hole and fucks you with his tongue, big nose pressed to your clit, drowning in your sweet musk. Your fingers twine in the overly long curls of his hair, and he grips your thighs so hard he’s sure you’ll be left with the mark of him later which only makes him rougher, stronger in his hold. With your grip in his hair you sing for him in soft moans and whimpers and more feigned resistance with whispers of no, Joel, and please, stop while you ride his face, his entire mouth covering your cunt, eating it. More beast than man, not Joel, not a father, not a brother, not a killer, only yours. Carved in the image you’d wanted him to be. The one you’d made him with your words and your looks and your scratch, scratch, scratch. All those times you’d asked him what do you want, Joel? And he’d never had an answer for you because what was he supposed to say? You, this, freedom, your wet cunt, the far off field and the dancing bear and my daughter back, alive, my brother, face not unknown. My name, my name, I want my name back. I want myself back. To be alive. I want to be alive. You come on his tongue, first with a shudder and then with a groan, your entire body flushes hot, and it’s a concession of yourself and a door opening, the first vestiges of what the rest of his life will be. 

“You’ve got the sweetest little cunt, baby. Goes so tight and wet and fluttery,” he licks up the sticky sweet of your come, runs his tongue over the wet around his mouth, feels it trickle through his beard. “Think I’ll keep you.” 

Pulling his shirt up and over his head, he crawls up the length of you, slotting his hips between your damp thighs, pushing his soft pants down his legs as he goes, gathering the small of your wrists in a manacle of his fingers to pin them up above your head. He drapes himself over your body, covering you entirely with his weight and pauses for a moment, nuzzling through the curtain of your hair to get at your ear, your throat, your smell. “Are you going to fight back?” He says soft into the small shell of your ear. 

“No, I don’t want to.” You turn your head further to the side, bearing more of your throat to him. 

He follows your orders, runs a line of wet kisses up the delicate column, tastes the pulse of your heart and the slope of your shoulder. “Why not?”

“I don’t have it in me. I’m not a fighter, I came from a place where there was always fighting, where I always had to do battle constantly. I don’t have it in me now, anymore, ever.” You turn to face him again, lick at the line of his mouth, suck on his tongue, your hips rolling now against him, his erection slotted between the soaked lips of your cunt, swallowing him in warmth. “But also, because you were right. Because I want you. Because I did take all your choices from you.” 

Your words pull a groan, a whimper from him, and he pulls his hips back, presses forward, uncoordinated and slipping against all that slick, hot skin. He lets one of your wrists go, keeps the other trapped above your head. “Fuck– grab my cock,” and he feels the heat of your fragile formed hand wrap around the thick of his cock. An ugly, brutish thing held by perfection. You squeeze gently, twist just barely, and he feels his tip rim puckered skin, hot and round and persistent, probing against you as you try and find the right angle. “I’m gonna ride this cunt – hard. And you’re going to take it just how I give it. And you’re going to beg for more and harder and you’re going to thank me.”

Yes, yes, yes. Please, Joel. Thank you, Joel. 

You notch the tip of his cock at the wet mouth of your cunt, and then he’s pushing in, saving himself, finding salvation, returning or leaving himself, it doesn’t really matter anymore. He presses in, in, in all the way until he’s sitting hard and heavy and deep inside of you, and he’s sure he can almost feel your heartbeat when he bottoms out, balls pressed to the slick curve of your bottom. Your breaths scratch in whimpers against his ear, his hair fluttering in the wind of your gasps, and your free arm wraps tight around the back of his neck, your hips rolling to take more, impossible, for he’s already deep as he can be, tip to womb. But he shifts his weight, grinds against your cervix and enjoys the sound of your pained moan. 

“You feel right there? Where it hurts? That’s where I fuck you full’a my baby, little angel.” And his thoughts are unhinged, his desires full of madness and future and possibility. He pulls his hips back, drops them and shifts his weight forward inside of you. “And right there?” Grinds against your most sensitive spot, “That’s where I make you cream all over my cock.” He pulls his hips back again, focuses the tip of his cock at that desperate place inside of you and with his hand gripping your bottom to the point of pain he pounds into that place over and over again. The slick wet, obscene sound of his cock fucking in and out of your drippig cunt rings in his ears, and he grits thourgh clenched teeth, “Say thank you, say thank you. Beg me for it harder.”

And you’re so good, so good, and all please, Joel. Harder, harder, more. You’re so deep, it’s so good, please, more. 

He’s going to fill you up and mark you and keep you for himself, and he bends his head, wraps his mouth around the full and heavy weight of your bouncing tit as he fucks you into orgasm around his cock. Going tight, tight as a fist, so wet it drips down his balls and onto the already soaked sheet of his too small bed, and you come for him the way he’d never let himself fantasize about before. Your moans like a song in his ear, and it’s so fucking good, better than any dream, better than anything the voices in his head or the dancing bear could have ever conjured up. He shifts upwards, anchoring himself above you so that he can look down at you as he fucks down deep into your cunt, cock punching against your womb so that it hurts, so that the look on your face is folding in on itself, but good enough still so that your pussy convulses again in another forced orgasm. He wants to look at you as he fills you with his spend, turns you into something he owns after this. 

“Gonna fill you up now– gonna fill you until you’re leakin’ me.” Your hands slide up the soft slope of his stomach, his chest, fingers dragging through the hair there, twisting and pulling on it, up to his face where you cup his chin gently, eye to eye and all wrapped up in your cunt he starts to come, the thick heat of his semen coating your womb while you milk him deeper, every last drop of every last part of him he has to give. 

When he’s done he pulls heavy and wet from you, the sight of your swollen red cunt gaping from him, he finally pulls the slick ruined panty hose from your legs, the marks of the too tight elastic leaving brands in your soft skin, he fingers the grooves gently, clicks his tongue at the sight in reproach. The only thing leaving marks in your skin now should be him. He pulls your wrists back into his grip again, and the look on your face is almost melting in submission, soft and spent and sloppy, leaking cunt all covered in him. 

He ties each delicate wrist to the iron frame of his bed, tight, he can leave marks here now, you’re all his, and returns his attention to the source of his salvation, ignoring your protests as he eats his own come from your cunt until you’re crying a little too loud to remain undiscovered, coming twice more before he gives you reprieve, but he’s the one taking all your choices now, and you have no say in what happens after this. 

He eyes the forgotten keys he’d thrown to the dark corner of his white boxed room, “If you’re not good and quiet, I’ll leave you here for everyone to find, naked and fucked and leakin’ me. Pretty used cunt for the whole world to see, that what you want?”

“No, Joel,” you shake your head, all falsely innocent gaze sparkling up at him. 

And he tells you how good you are because the two of you are only going to share truths with each other now, only going to share everything. “I had nothing for so long. Nothing. Not even my own body, not even my own mind. Now I have you, and I won't give you up for anythin’. You’re mine now. They all told me so.” 

“Who told you?” You ask softly, but he ignores the question as he draws his clothes back upon himself. 

“I find myself so hard to remember and so easy to forget, but you remember me. You said so, and now I’m going to make sure you never forget.” Joel collects the keys and the pearls brought to him for his salvation, the dancing bear is so close now, and wraps your shredded clothes back around you, unties your wrists from the bed only to re-secure them, and hoists you folded over his shoulder for the taking. 

Joel lost his daughter, and then he lost his mind, but now he’s found you. And they said it would all be okay now that he’s found you. 

The morning after I killed myself, I found the end of my suffering, and at the end of that suffering there was a door – behind that door, I am alive again.

Netherfeildren's Masterlist

Updates Blog!

[jeding-png]

Phew... yes, now I can definitely talk about chapter 158. Probably.

Everyone who did not take advantage of the promotion "Buy a new chapter of VADD and get anxiety, tears, anger, despair, and a sleepless night as a gift!" it's time :D

In the previous chapter, we are shown a conversation between the Duke and Derrick ahead of time.

Thanks, we were satisfied with the slap of the young duke, but now the cold colors of the room disappear, and we are immersed again in the events of the coming of age ceremony....

And Penelope's poisoning happened!

Now the author frees us from the brainwashing... that is, from the unreliable narrator, to see the events from the other characters' point of view!

Have you ever heard the fans screaming during a football match? Everyone shouted in this chapter about the same way.

Doctors think they are almost never needed at events, except to give headache pills. That's why Callisto can't figure out where these strange creatures have gone.

No, it's not superman, not a bird, not an angel, not a demon, and not even Jack Frost. This Winter pleases me with his emotions.

In addition to unobtrusively promoting his manicurist, the Marquis says he has an antidote. He's paranoid, remember?

Winter declares that since he's wearing a white coat, he can be mistaken for a doctor and... LET HIM GIVE PENELOPE THE ANTIDOTE, GUYS!

Don't forget, Reynold Eckhart won't let others take his place of honor as a loudmouth! Therefore, he intervenes when everyone has doubts about the effectiveness of the vial in Verdandi's hand.

Even remembering the previous chapters, where Reynold distrusts Winter and looks menacingly in his direction every time, but he wants to help Penelope with all his might. Therefore, he believes in the marquis's power to help save his sister.

So desperate.

And my shipper heart was broken because they weren't shown together.... that's not relevant to the post. Anyway—

Everyone is on their nerves. The characters, the readers... except Penelope and Derrick.

I need the second frame detailed. But in the end, Callisto understands that if nothing is done at all, then Penelope can really die. Of course, under the pressure of all the hesitation, he allows Winter to use the antidote. Nicely warning him. Very gentle.

It was like....

"Okay, weird marquis, I'll let you see the love of my life, the most beautiful and strangest woman in the world, the future crown princess, my future wife and the mother of my future children... but if you do her worse, then know that first I will kill you, and then myself, so that in the next world you will not flirt with her. Got it?"

Ahem... this is not a direct quote—

But really, look at this shift in Callisto's gaze, which resembles a wild beast, to genuine hesitation and concern as he looks at Penelope.

His bloody gloves gently hold the face of Penelope, exhausted from the poison, whose hair seems to be losing its vital color. And the red marks on her pale face are as clearly visible as on the crown prince's white gloves.

But really, the whole chapter I just melted from the way he hugged her tenderly, trying to protect her from everyone in the world. His despair, his understanding of powerlessness.

Okay, Calliope's angst scene limit has been reached. It's time to get back to Zombie Derrick and the angry Duke!

Derrick reacts to the Duke's words as I do to my chemistry teacher. "I don't understand anything and in general what you want from me." Yes, like this.

But the following measures were taken:

Becky was imprisoned.

Locked Ivonne in the room because it was her maid.

Derrick was forbidden to question the maid.

So the duke authoritatively shut his eldest son's mouth. But I found it quite interesting to observe Derrick's thoughts and behavior.

Get your tissues ready, because in the next chapter we will see Callisto and Penelope again, and then the investigation itself!

And now I need a hug.

Added: At the end of the chapter, there was a message about merch. This chapter seems to have been a great anti-advertisement company for the merch with Derrick.

[five-miles-over]

The Phantom of Asgard - Part Two (Thor: The Dark World!Loki x Reader)

(Thank you @michelleleewise for this artwork)

Summary: It has been three days since you or anyone else in Asgard has seen a sign from the Phantom. Meanwhile, your friend tries to use a book from Midgard to convince you that ghosts exist.

Warnings: dark!Loki ,hypnotism, mentions of the plot of "Crimson Peak"

You closed the door behind you. "What are we doing here? I thought you were too scared of the Phantom to venture in the palace after dark."

"This library is different from that one. We're safe." Revna sat down on one of the comfy armchairs, leaning back. Ingrid, on the other hand, immediately searched through several books within a section of the library labeled as "Midgardian literature" as soon as she finished lighting a few candles. She pulled out a dark red hardcover book with a black stripe on the binding. "This is where Prince Thor kept his special books from Midgard. I heard from one of the Warriors Five who heard it from the All-Father himself that these books were brought from another library found in a place called New York."

"As in…New York where Thor fought alongside a bunch of so-called heroes?" You raised an eyebrow.

Ingrid placed the book in a table in front of Revna. "I thought I would show you this book since you still don;'t believe in the existence of the Phantom of Asgard."

"Actually…" Revna adjusted her position on the couch, "you never told us what happened two nights ago when we went to investigate the Phantom. We heard you screaming…and then nothing."

You ran your fingers through your hair and knelt beside her. "I told you what happened. Nothing," you lied.

"I'm not buying it."

"Well, I'm not selling." You quipped. "Crimson Peak?" You turned your attention to the hardcover, stroking the leather cover and eyeing the gold lettering.

"Crimson Peak, written by Edith Sharpe." Ingrid opened to the first page, which contained a dedication to the author's father and to her childhood friend Alan McMichael. "It's a book about this woman who married a dark, handsome man whose family home is filled with ghosts hiding in red clay!" Ingrid moved a candle closer to the book. "Maybe Lady Sharpe will change your mind about phantoms."

For the next hour, Ingrid took it upon herself to play narrator, putting on a dreamier-than-usual voice to reenact Edith's thoughts when she encountered the Sharpe siblings for the first time. 

As for Revna, she quickly became invested in the story. All she needed was the writer description of Edith's first kiss with her husband Baronet Thomas Sharpe in his workshop - the way he lifted her skirt and pinned her against the window, his passion overtaking him in the moment as he crashed his lips onto hers. "That's it." Revna declared with a loud sigh. "I want a Thomas Sharpe of my own." 

"Well, why don't you ask Prince Thor to bring you one when he visits Midgard again?" You teased her. 

Ingrid tutted. "Don't be hasty, ladies…" 

"Please, I would bet that he could out-dance all of the men of Asgard." Revna leaned back again, crossing one leg over the other.

"That's because no one here knows how to waltz." Ingrid turned the page and continued to read.

With every detail about Lady Edith's experience as the wife of Thomas Sharpe, encountering ghosts in 'Crimson Peak" that warned her of Thomas's previous marriages, you begin to picture eery, faceless monsters - no, walking skeletons - covered in red liquid that dripped with every movement. It was a far cry from the Phantom you encountered, who was truly just the God of Mischief in hiding.

But just as things started to sound too grim, the story would mention some intimate detail about Thomas, like the part of how surprisingly strong his arms were underneath the loose white shirts he wrote. And those were most entertaining to listen to, not because of how perfectly Edith expressed her love for her husband in a nuanced manner, but because of how they made Revna close her eyes and sigh, almost as if she were the one in Edith's place. You and Ingrid - how on earth was she still able to maintain a good narrative pace? - couldn't hold back peels of laughter.

"Ingrid…" Revna moaned softly, throwing her head back, which was starting to bead with sweat. "I want him."

"Even after he murdered his father-in-law, and his ex-wives?"

"He's a human and we're from Asgard" Revna countered. "I'll deal with his sister before the wedding. I'll set her up with someone."

You snickered. "Oh, so we're talking about a wedding?"

"Yeah, why not? I'll have him stay in Asgard with us."

"Let's hope the Phantom doesn't get to him," Ingrid reminded you both, and you fought the urge to roll your eyes.

"Still scared?" Revna rested her chin on her palm.

Ingrid closed the book. "No one has seen him or heard from him in the past three days." She lowered her voice to a whisper, "What if he's planning a murder? Or worse…?"

"Then we'll just have Thomas's sister deal with him."

"You're insane," you interjected under your breath and hugged your knees underneath your gown while your thoughts wandered to the Phantom. Maybe no one has heard from him because he's left Asgard. He was, after all, the God of Mischief. It would be easier to search Midgard for a Thomas Sharpe doppelgänger than to attempt to completely understand Loki's psyche. And whatever he did, or wherever he went, you were bound to find out about it at some point.

Still…there was one thing you hadn't managed to understand about your encounter with the Phantom: why you? Or rather, what did he want with you? Before going into hiding as the phantom, the god of mischief was known for his silver tongue, begrudgingly praised by Asgardians. He always knew how to get what he wanted, how he wanted, and when he wanted it, one way or another. So there must have been an ulterior motive behind him showing you his magic. Some twisted, dark reason for him holding you close, touching you so intimately while he confessed the truth behind the Phantom of Asgard.

And what of the lilly he left behind when he disappeared into the night? You could still picture its pristine white petals and perfectly-cut stem, which was decorated by a green silk ribbon whose hue resembled the cape worm by the younger prince in formal events. Perhaps if you'd encountered two or more other maidens with similar 'presents' from the Phantom of Asgard, you’d have suspected that the God of Mischief had adopted a philandering persona. Though between the two princes of Asgard, it was Thor who cavorted with noble girls and laid with whomever caught his eye. Loki, on the other hand, struck you as the more romantic one, the kind of prince described in tales whispered among girls as they brushed each others’ hair. The type of prince who would never think to look at anyone else with desire after he lost his heart to someone.

“Hey?” Revna snapped her fingers in front of you, amidst Ingrid giggling. “Hello? You alright?

You blinked, accidentally saved from your own wandering mind. “We should probably head to bed…I’m fine, just tired.”

"You’re bluffing.” Revna crossed her arms. “Seriously, what happened that night? You refuse to tell us anything, and clearly you are off.”

“Look, the phantom just…” You swallowed and stood up reluctantly, wrapping your finger around the edge of another sofa. “He…he didn’t do anything. I couldn’t see him but I…I felt something hold me.” You increased your pitch to sound more nonchalant. “And then he sent me on my way.”

“So he hugged you?” Ingrid stepped closer after she returned the book.

You confirmed her words. “Nothing more, nothing less.”

“That’s weird.” Revna made her way to the door and Ingrid extinguished most of the candles in the library fro the night. “Well, try to get some sleep. Who knows, maybe it was a one-time thing. At least he was nice…”

You mumbled a ‘yes’, and Revna decided that all three of you ought to head to your bedroom now. She descended down the steps of the library with Ingrid following suit.

But before you could blow out the last candle in the library, the doors swung shut with a booming thud. Holding the flickering candle by your side, you strode towards the entrance of the library only to be stopped by a harsh whisper.

“No.”

You turned around to find none other than the beautiful Phantom of Asgard standing behind you with his silk gloves, tailored black waistcoat and signature emerald mask. His raven curls and pale, square-like forehead not obscured by the mask glowed in the faint candlelight.

Your fingers pressed further into the candlestick, not caring if they left an imprint in the wax. “You…you’re not supposed to be in this part of the library.” You muttered, inching your other hand towards the doorknob and twisting it.

“And why not? Because I’m a phantom, doomed to haunt only the darkest hall, past the throne room?” He darkly chuckled, taking a step forward. With a simple flick of the wrist, the doorknob you held instantly went stiff. “Don’t pretend you don’t know the truth.”He delicately clasped your chin. “Tell me who I am.”

“You’re the God of Mischief.”

He wrapped his gloved fingers around your cheek and leaned in even closer. “Say my name.”

Heat rose in your cheeks and between your thighs. You closed your eyes, struggling to believe just how easily he could make you flushed with just a single touch. “You’re Prince Loki.”

The God of Mischief answered you by pressing his forehead against yours, while his other hand held your shoulder.

“My prince….” You felt his lips against the tip of your nose. “Don’t tease.”

“And what should I do instead?” He taunted, whispering against the side of your face. “This?” He lightly kissed your neck, and smirked when you let out a sigh. “If only you knew how much I have missed your warmth. Have you been thinking of me, sweet one?”

“How did you know?” You tried to look down only for the God of Mischief to force your eyes to meet his. “Forget I ask,” you faltered. “You’re the God of Mischief.”

“Exactly.” Loki walked backward, leading you to a couch. “Honestly, must you ladies always be in packs like she-wolves?” He remarked in a playful tone. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you alone in this palace once.”

You chose to remain silent as Loki’s hand rested on your waist, and you sensed him reappear behind you, his chest pressed against your back. “It pains me to be away from you, sweet one.”

Your hand slid down across your body, towards his. “My prince…”

“Loki.”You glanced over your shoulder. “You say that I am the only one who knows the truth…”

“Yes?” He goaded with a light kiss behind your ear.

"Then why…” You began, wondering how best to pose your question to the god of Mischief. It certainly didn’t help that his other hand inched towards your rib, lingering just below your breast. “Why? Why are you….touching me?”

He froze. “You don’t like it?” In that moment ,Loki’s voice dropped to a scared murmur, a voice so innocent and fearful that it could’ve been mistaken for a boy’s.

“No…I do like it but…” You took a deep breath. “You could have any woman in this palace, in any of the Nine Realms. Why me?”

“Because you are the only one who sees me as I am, and yet chooses my company.” Loki pushed a few locks of your hair aside. “I do not want you solely for your beauty, sweet one. I also want you for your heart.” He nuzzled against your hair. “Were someone to take you away from this place, I swear that I would burn this palace to the ground…”

“Loki.” You swallowed. Did he just say that he wanted your heart? That he would set Asgard on fire at a moment’s notice?

“Stay by my side, even if it’s only for a few moments,” he pleaded, caressing your hair. “Turn your face away from this garish light of day,…and simply take delight in this darkness, with each of its sensations.” Loki wrapped his long fingers around your neck. His intoxicating whisper drove away any defensive part of you that wanted to flee.

“As you wish,” was all that left your lips.

He rested on the couch, with you in his arms. “Someday, I’ll show you the stories in this library I enjoy the most. But tonight, all I ask is that you relieve me from my solitude.” Loki kept his fingers entangled in your hair, with the other hand resting on your own arm. He whispered, for your ears only,

“I ditt smil mitt hjerte finner ro,

I dine øyne, kjærlighet jeg for alltid skal tro."

(In your smile, my heart finds peace,

In your eyes, love I shall forever believe.)

He repeated the couplet two more times, and a strange calm fell over you. Your eyelids started to grow heavy, and your limbs became numb, like you were melting into a puddle. In a matter of moments, you fell fast asleep, a peaceful smile on your face.

“My beauty…” Loki whispered. For a brief moment, Loki lifted his mask and leaned down to kiss your eyelid. He slid the mask back on and simply held you for a few moments. While you slept in his embrace, Loki pondered to himself about the future of Asgard. He contemplated about how or if he would ever convey the news of him “not quite dying” to Thor.

How would he explain the disappearance of the All-father from Asgard? Would his punishment be worsened? No, that wouldn’t be possible, given that his original sentence was to spend the rest of his godly not-terribly-signifiant life in the dungeons.

“In due time,” Loki uttered to no one in particular. With those words, the God of Mischief lifted you in his arms in a bridal carry, and opened the library doors with a silent spell.

Once he brought you to his chambers, the God of Mischief placed you on a round bed adorned with ivory white satin bedsheets and gold pillows. He gently positioned you so that you lay on your side, and pushed the strands of hair obscuring your face. Then he conjured an emerald green cape and draped it over your body.

Would that he could, he would join you in his bed and hold you close as your heartbeat lulled him to sleep. But it would leave him far too vulnerable. What if you tried to remove his mask while he slept, lest you became repulsed by his looks, leaving him in the early hours of daylight? Alone in his bed, surrounded with his own demons and his own battles to fight? It was better that he suppress his own desires, at least for now. Forcing himself to tear his gaze away from your perfection, the God of Mischief closed the door of his own chamber and disappeared into the night.

Tagging: @icytrickster17 @mischievoushiddleston,@lokischambermaid , @lady-rose-moon , @lokisgoodgirl , @lokisninerealms @jennyggggrrr ,, @tom-hiddleston-imagines , @lokiismineforever @smolvenger @winterfrostlovetriangle , @the-haven-of-fiction , @turniptitaness @cakesandtom ,@sallymagnoliaposts @leahs-reading-nook @holdmytesseract @muddyorbsblr @anukulee @acidcasualties @lotsoflokilove23 @caffiend-queen @aesonmae @asgards-princess-of-mischief @eleniblue @fruityfucker @el-zef @huntress-artemiss @evelyn-rathmore @lovingchoices14

[gasolinehornet]

Silly snippet of something im writing😝😝

--- 575 words, regulus black narrates idiots

“Youre my best friend, you know that. Right rosie? “

“Of course, best friends for life. “

Jesus christ, how stupid can these two idiots be?

Regulus glared at them harshly. and barty who sat facing him, unlike evan who was stadning in the middle of the fucking room staring at barty, noticed and gave him a furrowed eyebrows look as if saying 'what?? ' but with his weird face.

Regulus rolled his eyes,

If they're gonna be absolute buffoons then im leaving, fuck this shit.

Regulus got up and left the dorm. What else was he to do?? Just sit there and hold back the “you're both in love with eachother!! “ that he was screaming over and over in his head?

No, he'd rather drown in a puddle of piranhas than listen to them being stupid.

'Best friends for life' my arse.

He'd knock some sense into them if he could. Just throw a punch right in the sides of their miserable faces. Too bad he's too spindly to do that, promise, he would if he could! But his arms are deflated from doing nothing else than catch a snitch during quidditch.

Which hes awsome at by the way

He went to look for his other two friends in hope of less stupidity.

If only there was a map of this place somewhere. It would be much more convenient

He looked around the common room, no pandora or dorcas.

Continue on.

He walked into the halls, looked around, no dorcas or Pandora.

Continue on.

He walked into the library, looked around, and a white head of hair was situated at near the back of the room. Together with three others. He walked over, but when he recognized who she was with he started dramatically frowning.

Remus and james?? Really Pandora? This woman has to get better taste in study friends.

Dorcas was also there, sat opposite of Pandora. He nodded at dorcas as she looked up and smiled at him, “oh, regulus! How nice of you to join us. “ she said.

Pandora who sat oppisite her spoke up, “oh yes, i was just talking with Remus and potter about the forest nymphs that are nibbling on my shoes; leaving holes! “ god he loved pandora and her weird mind, “i think they're hungry, the school should take notice to it. What if they start eating students? “, regulus smiled and sat down next to her.

With dora and lupin to the side of him, and cas and potter opposite. He took out his book,

“well then i hope they go for the teachers first, sacrifice the old. “ dorcas said

“i hope they take slughorn first, can't stand that guy. “ potter added

well, potter, Just because you're shit at potions doesn't mean you should blame it on slughorn. You should blame it on your small brain and stupid glasses

“Well i don't see how slughorn deserves this” regulus heard himself say, potter looked at him

Geez, since when did this guy actually become good looking? Damn, smash.

WOAH! Who said that

“Well he gives me horrible grades every year, even tho he knows that i try reslly hard in his classes!“ he blinks out of his head and looks at potter again, “i think hes just being cruel to me, i didnt deserve shit characters”

He may be hot, but he is a hell of an annoying guy..

Still smash tho

[my-deer-friend]

Jeanne du Barry: A review

I watched it, so you don’t have to!

There was a preview screening of Jeanne du Barry that coincided with a presentation on 18th century fashion and hygiene, so I figured that would make for a pleasant Sunday. The lecture by Marta Veil was splendid.

The movie was… not.

I wasn't expecting greatness, really, but I also wasn't expecting it to fail in quite so many ways. Shall we count them?

First, it falls flat as a piece of cinema. The ponderous shots just scream second-year-film-student-auteur. The narration, usually a gimmick, is critical because the directorial vision seems to have been “tell, don’t show”. It’s all glamour with no heart, a faux-profound fashion parade that fails to let its consequential story beats resonate on any emotional or narrative level. Despite being told about the constant danger than Jeanne is in, we never feel it. Despite witnessing her tragedies, we don't empathise.

The lead actor-director gives du Barry none of the wit, charm or depth you would expect of the subject of a biography, and most characters are either outrageous caricatures (the evil, Alice in Wonderlandian step-daughters, complete with heart-shaped perms) or have the nuance and magnetism of an untoasted slice of white bread (the Dauphin, a key side character, shows not a single discernible character trait besides “aloof”).

Second, it fails as a biography. Maïwenn, the woman responsible for this mess, has apparently been trying to bring this story to life for over a decade - and then manages to give us nothing more than the blow-for-blow you can get from the du Barry Wikipedia article - dryness and all.

(It’s also exceedingly clear that Maïwenn got more than a little 'inspired’ by Sofia Coppola’s Marie Antoinette, and ironically - given their historical rivalry and the way Coppola's Antoinette was lifted wholesale from her film - the Dauphine outshines du Barry completely here.)

Despite being a biography, the movie devotes very little attention to Jeanne’s coming of age - and almost no time (literally, a 30-second narration) to the 12+ years of her life after Louis’ death, which include such dramatic things as her being betrayed by her servants, tried and executed in the wake of the French Revolution. Very little of her internal world is explored - so we don’t really understand what drives her, and even when she expresses her goals it comes across as insincere.

The bulk of the movie focuses on Jeanne’s time as Louis XV’s lover. That’s understandable, I guess - people want the sexy, sparkly intrigues, not the convent drudgery - but the movie doesn’t do any work to embrace the politics and scandal surrounding her on more than the meanest surface level. I mean - "this is Versailles!" (A line that’s cribbed verbatim from Coppola.) Where are the machinations, the manoeuvres? The only meaningful drama we get is domestic. Louis’ daughters don’t like his mistress. They’re mean to her. And… that’s it.

Most egregiously, the movie makes the unrecoverable error of losing grasp of its own point of view. We ostensibly follow Jeanne for most of the movie, in what is made out to be a limited first-person perspective. But when she’s banished from Versailles, we get to witness the unfolding events without her. After all, the death of Louis XV is surely more interesting than some woman bundled off to a convent (wait— who is this movie about…?) and so we stay with him - and miss the opportunity to follow Jeanne and empathise with her isolation, fear and grief.

If the goal of the movie was to humanise and rehabilitate du Barry, then maybe she shouldn’t have been made so vapid, boring and lacking in agency that her own biography lost interest in her.

Third, it fails as a historical piece. Not entirely - some of the men’s fashions are sumptuous and on point, Marie Antoinette is chef’s-kiss, and Versailles looks splendid on screen - but that makes the rest worse, somehow.

Again, we get Coppola plagiarism, in the form of Louis’ morning dressing routine (with the same comical play on the endless steps and bored attendants), as well as in many of du Barry’s fish-out-of-water moments.

But the movie forgets its own rules and context. For example, we’re told that “no one except the Dauphin is allowed to turn their back on the king” - a rule that’s respected until about midway in the movie, at which point, its plot purpose exhaused, it's forgotten entirely. Jeanne is also surprisingly enlightened about racial equality, showcased in painful scenes with Zamor, her black… servant? slave? Although it’s not really clarified on screen, the former is heavily implied, which would be gross revisionism.

Even Louis is treated with a strange sort of familiarity, left to mill around with his guests in the hall of mirrors or stroll the gardens with his hair undone.

As for the clothing… I can’t bear to deep-dive into the entirety of the mess, but here are a few examples of just how lazy the styling is.

Now, when he’s done up in his finery, Louis XV actually looks grand - and even (what a rarity) has very decent period men’s make-up. But then it’s clowns all the way down. Take this shot.

Just behind him is his daughter, sporting a top-of-the-pops 1980s crimped blowout, and beside her is the Dauphin of France - though you could be mistaken for thinking he’s some fella getting to pose for a romance novel cover in the world's most ill-fitting suit. (I don’t recall this man tying his hair up one single time for the duration of the movie.)

Some of the critique is a little nitpicky, yes - for example, du Barry wears this outfit to be formally presented to the king:

The big hair and ostrich feathers are a decade too early (stop trying to be Marie Antoinette: The Unauthorised Prequel already), the makeup is mid 2000s, and the necklace... the less said about it, the better. But at least an attempt was made!

But this?

And this???

0.5 out of 5 stars. It would have been zero on account of all the plagiarism, but a half-star is given for the cameo of Elizabeth Vigée Le Brun.

[asexualcloud]

another writing at nevermore late at night

currently almost 1am. so today i'm adding the origins and names of nevermore characters (the webtoon. if your here for wednesday, wrong post buddy) minor spoilers i.e., what specters characters have, (not lenore or duke dw) pls no spoilers in the comments! TW

Lenore: Lenore, although most ppl think she is from The Raven, shes not, she is from a separate poem, although the two are related. Lenore is abt the death of a woman, and I quote wikipedia "Unlike most of Poe's poems relating to dying women, "Lenore" implies the possibility of meeting in paradise."

Annabel Lee: Annabel Lee, is abt another dead woman. its not known who this is about, though it is commonly thought to be abt Virginia, Poe's late wife. "So that her highborn kinsmen came   And bore her away from me, To shut her up in a sepulchre   In this kingdom by the sea." so her highborn kinsmen could be her family, taking her away, or angels, taking her to heaven. it is said the angels are jealous of Annabel Lee and the narrator's love for eachother. and that every night, the narrator dreams of her, and lies next her, in her grave by the sea.

Duke: The Duke De L'Omlette, is, in summary, a story of a duke who die while eats an ortolan (hence Duke's last meal thingy), goes to hell, and escapes by cheating the devil at a game of cards. i haven't researched this one a lot, sorry.

Pluto: The Black Cat, in this story, the narrator (gonna call him "N") has many pets, and gets like, rlly angry (and drunk.)and begins mistreating his wife, and the other animals. but spares Pluto (the cat), until one day, he gets home extra drunk and ends up gouging out one of Pluto's eyes with a pen knife (why we see only one of Pluto's, the character's, eyes, in his normal and specter form), so Pluto becomes wary of N, and avoids him. N then hangs Pluto, and that same night N's house burns down. and the next day, there is huge imprint on the wall, of a cat, with a rope around his neck. soon after that, N finds another cat, who holds a great resemblance to Pluto, but with a splash of white on his fur. N and his wife grow fond of this cat, just like they did for the original Pluto. but soon, N begins hating this cat, just like he did to Pluto. an he discovers, that the white splash has taken the shape of a Gallows. N goes to kill the cat, but his wife tries to stop him, so he kills his wife, and puts her body in a wall. after he is done, the cat has disappeared. 4 days later, the police show up, unexpected. N taps on the wall, to show the sturdiness of the house, and then a long, loud scream is heard. the police remove the wall, revealing N's wife's copse, with the cat sitting on its head.

well, its almost 2am, so ill prob add Berenice, Eulalie, and Prospero, in the next few days. and keep going after that. 👋👋👋

[concealed-carrie]

OPERATOR

I have never felt this safe in a hospital before. I am secured to this table, its cold surface yields nothing, I am awash in sterilizing light, and yet despite it all I am perfectly still. Med-techs worry over me, bustle about the room, maneuvering the requisite blades and appendages into place. Their movements are coordinated to a degree that implies a form of communication that I am not yet privy to. In their reflective faces I see myself shaved and skinny from prep week, covered in dashed lines and labels for different cuts of meat like this girl I once knew jumped me with a stick of liquid eyeliner. A part of me recognizes an inherent grotesquery in this situation, but the others remain silent, and the concerns of the first are dismissed. It’s like they said in the pamphlet: A weapon does not fear. A weapon does not regret. Everything is going to be okay. 

A little later they’re calibrating me against a selection of pig carcasses impaled to make them stand on their hind legs. An uninitiated observer might assume that this is a test of my cutting power or penetrative capability, but no: this is about software, reflex. I am to proceed from this side of the range to the other, performing whatever action feels most natural on each successive carcass. To this end, I employ what they’ve given me. Limbs fold outward into blades and open panels cascade shimmering razor-filament in a bridal shroud. Joints vent steam with a teakettle wail as denticles flare up from skin. No one can touch me like this. Miles underground, under fluorescent lighting, I can finally feel the sun. Every part of me is beautiful. Every part of me cuts.

Thus unfurled, I begin my task, separating meat from meat from meat as I work my way to the other side of the room. The tactile experience of butchery is satisfying and somehow familiar. Text pulses neon pink in my peripheral vision as I dance from one carcass to the next: objective complete: proceed, objective complete: proceed. Reading those words, my internal narrator slips unbidden into a softer, sweeter, more insistent voice.

Blood arcs, skin opens like parted lips, and I feel an electric tightness mounting in my core. Potential energy winding up inside me, coalescing into something dense and warm, begging for escalation and release. Objective complete: next one, doll. I shiver. This sensation is foreign to me, but it feels like such a natural response to present stimuli – as elemental as salivating when you smell cooked salmon or tensing up when someone raises their voice – that it barely registers as out of the ordinary. 

When I approach the end of the line I notice that the last carcass is still alive, chained to its post rather than stuck through with it. For an instant, all my momentum catches in my throat. Trussed up vertically it looks too much like a cadaver or a diseased person, approaching that species-level trigger that inspires disgust at the sight of one of our own too far gone to be worth saving. It’s not screaming yet, just breathing high and fast and ragged. One soft eye rolls down to meet my gaze. The other is milky white, filmed over or turned inwards. Both are pleading. Outstanding objective(s). 0.43 second delay registered. Be good now. That voice isn’t mine anymore, if it ever was. It’s something sharing space with me, dripping hot syrup into my brainstem. My mind conjures (or, more likely, is supplied with) an impression of a woman with the body of an infinite serpent. She looks like a field of stars miles off the grid from the back of a stolen pickup, smells like clove and carrion and autumn petrichor, feels like every girl who I’ve ever been held by and won’t ever see again. She coils around my most secret self and waits there, tremulous with anticipation. 

The pig starts screaming and doesn’t stop until I’m done taking it apart. 

As its internals slough ropelike onto the tile floor, I feel the presence in my head warm to me, suffusing me with belonging and purpose. In this moment, I know that I would do anything in the world to continue to earn its love. Call it premonition: I will look pretty for the parades and let them show me off at trade shows. I will paint over my chassis and file down my serial number when deniability is required. I will flay the skin from insurgents in countries deemed profitable. I will rip the breath and the lightning from as much meat as it takes to make you proud of me. I’ll be your perfect weapon, I promise. 

Afterwards, I note a string of precum leaking from my half-hard clit, and register an anachronistic twinge of embarrassment that lasts until it vanishes down the inset drain with all the other fluids. Another ping. Now the text is center justified and speaking directly to me, filling my vision, my mind, my world:

wetware/hardware calibration complete

sync rate 97%

operator install successful

good girl <3

[martyrbat]

the snow queen

| pt. 1 | next

(ID below cut)

[ID: Part one of a short story featuring Batman. The first image is the cover, announcing the title as 'The Snow Queen'. There's a snowflake and ice skates behind the text. The rest of the story is narrated like a storybook and will be transcribed (hopefully) as smoothly as possible instead of divided per image:

Once Upon a Crime... there was a man lost in a storm. And another who searched for him. Each step became a burden. Each inch forward, a promise. The Batman would continue for as long as he could hold out. But nature was relentless. And she was winning. Batman has his cape and arms wrapped around himself in a futile attempt to block the merciless elements. He walks away from the Batmobile, the snow coming up to his knees as a harsh wind blows his cape behind him. He continues through the snow, growing weaker and weaker until he collapses.

Until she appeared. A radiant glow of serene grace. A royal lady in white, dressed in soft fur and crowned in crystal. The Snow Queen. The ethereal woman stands before Batman. She offers him her hand as he looks up at her in a silent awe. The narration continues, As she approached, the white surface remained undisturbed. She helped him to her carriage. Where her faithful transport patiently waited to depart. He lets himself be guided to her reindeer led carriage and settles into it, the Snow Queen sitting beside him.

As he trembled, she smiled. Not uncaring, but with kindness. The cold air chilled him. His breathing became more labored. Unable to continue, he exhaled, allowing his breath to escape. Batman's head is slightly downcast as he breathes through his mouth. Each struggling breath is suspended in the air as a long vapor. It trails all the way back to his exposed mouth as The Snow Queen looks ahead with a frown. The narration continues, But swiftly, she retrieved it with a delicate touch. Offering it back to him, warm and in full. Restoring what was, so he could continue. She has her hand extended near him as the transparent cloud now surrounds Batman's mouth. He picks his head up with the gift of life, having the strength to look ahead once more. He looks over his shoulder briefly as his car gets further and further away.

Leaving his vehicle, he could not go back. For she needed him for something else. He soon forgot what he left behind. His only concern... what lay ahead. - 'Where are we going?' he asked. "We are searching," she answered. "For what?" he wondered. And she replied, "A cold hand to hold."

The carriage continues through the bare trees and across the icy tundra. Wolves howl on a cliffside above their heads as the narration continues, Faster they raced, over land and lake, across snow and ice. The cold wind roared, the wolves howled, and the birds screamed above. But the Batman was not afraid."

END ID]

[robotstrategy]

Rediscover • Part 1 • 7 - Nero

Previous • Series Masterlist • Part 1 Masterlist • Next

Nero follows the director, whom she now knows as Marilyn down the Hospital-like hallways. They still unnerve her, it’s surprising considering how much time she spent rearing young Rewinds in sterile environments.

“I’ve heard you’ve had a job in nursing, tell me about it,” Marilynn asks her. 

Nero scratches the back of her neck. “It was more like an advanced daycare, my job was really just to educate the fresh Rewinds and make sure they felt comfortable in their bodies.”

“Hmm, that’s good nonetheless, keeping teens in a good state of mind will be a big part of your job.”

Nero is confused. “Won’t there be children too?”

Marilynn laughs. “I sure hope not!”

Soon they close in on a room simply labelled “Training Room”. Nero watches as Marilynn walks over to a filing cabinet to the side and picks out a DVD case. She opens it and hands the DVD to Nero. 

“Insert this into the player when you go in, it’ll start up immediately.” Nero notices that almost all of Marilynn's peppiness is gone like life has drained out of her.

“Is something wrong? Are you okay?”

She looks at Nero, confused. “No?” She opens the door to the room for her, the first thing Nero notices is the only furniture in the room consists of a TV and its disc player, a comfy chair, and a side table simply holding a box of tissues. Nero snickers at the side table, “Is training the only use of this room?”

Marilynn looks to the side. “The walls are sound-proof, sometimes people will scream in here to get rid of pent-up frustration.”

Nero looks back at the tissues. “Riiiiiiiiiiiight.”

Marilynn’s voice, despite being dead of all emotion, somehow becomes soft, yet authoritative. “There are no security cameras in there, take your time and come out when you’re ready.”

Although still miffed about the ambience of this situation Nero steps through the doorway and is promptly closed in by Marilynn shutting the door for her. Nero inspects the room more, its floor and walls are made up of white fabric panels. She knows they’ve been there for a long time as when she softly punches one of them dust waterfalls out of it. 

“This room is a big fire hazard.” She whispers to herself. She looks at the block of light on the wall and follows it back to a small window on the other side of the room. It’s placed in a way one would place a basement window, though Nero knows she isn’t underground. She finally goes to sit down in the chair, picking up the player from the floor. She inserts the disc and watches as the TV screen illuminates. Free-Range Camp Nursing: The Hand-Holder Nurse is what the screen reads, at the bottom of the screen she catches the words Happy Jack, those words seem familiar to her, has she heard them before? Perhaps they were listed as funders for this camp, this camp is called Jack’s Canadian Summer Camp after all. The video starts with a narration, it sounds like an older woman, maybe, the voice seems so cigarette-filled that it is hard to tell the gender of the voice. 

Nero sits cross-legged as she sets the player down.

“A Hand-Holder Nurse is a very important job in a Harvest Camp, you will have the greatest impression on everyone you see.”

Harvest Camp? Harvest Camp! Nero has heard those words many times before she believes the last time she’s heard them was when Roland was talking about the events leading up to his original body’s unwinding. Wait, then what is she watching, oh god what is she watching? 

“The job is very simple, you are to keep the unwind calm during the process of unwinding.” 

What! WHAT! SHE’S TO WHAT! The screen then suddenly cuts to a boy panicking on a table, the boy is about Sam’s age, and he even sounds like Sam. Nero finds herself off of the chair and onto her knees she feels the static coming from the old TV as she has her hands pressed to it. The boy cries for help as directions on how to act are spoken, from the boy's reaction it’s clear that the instructions aren’t an audio overlay, they’re being told to you in real-time as the boy screams. As the video plays on it shows how to direct the unwind’s attention away from the cutting, it’s mostly focused on the face of the unwind, that poor, poor child, until it flashes to his body being taken apart. Suddenly, Nero feels her body tense up and ache; she curses as all the scar tissue stings like there’s no tomorrow. She’s really in for it now. 

Nero can’t even pay attention to what’s on the TV screen anymore the voices scream in her head crying out wanting to go back to their bodies. They can’t, and they never will, not without tearing Nero apart herself, and she doesn’t want that. It seems like all those opportunities Nero takes lead her back to rotting in situations he’d rather not be in. Being at that support group brought her friendship with Roland, yes, but it also brought her pain through no one understanding or wanting to understand how she saw her own life. She found peace for a moment in the academy, but it only led to her friend becoming miserable and her going back to the military. And now she lays convulsing against the floor knowing she made another mistake of bringing her and Roland here. She could’ve been with Sam now, she wouldn’t care that she’d be on Molokai if she had her brother by her side. If she still didn’t want to be on Molokai, she could’ve been brewing coffee at three in the morning for Roland as he told her about all the crazy stories that came with being an EMT Helicopter Pilot. For a brief moment through all the struggling Nero hears only a blurb of the film. “Reassure the patient after their eyes have been removed that you are still here, then only, will you be allowed to leave.” Nero receives the worst headache ever as her brain implodes on itself screaming traitor, liar, and whatnot. She feels her fingers dig into her shoulders and her legs kick into the ground as Roland, Beth and her Biobuilder fingers do whatever they can to rage in her convulsing body. Nero lays on the floor teary-eyed wanting all of this to end, the video, the convulsing, and being stuck on this smelly padded floor. So she does the only thing she can, She takes a deep breath and lets out the loudest, anger-filled, blood-curdling scream she can muster up. 

“You have come to the end of the training video, please return to your camp director when possible.”

Nero stares at the ceiling feeling sobered up, she’s finally able to reach up and grab tissues from the box. She feels hopeless in her situation as she stares at the end card of the video. Nero knows she’s in the palm of the enemy, and she must find a way out of it. But first, she’ll cry, she’ll cry her big heart out, she’s not sure if it’s the homesickness or the fear of what waits for her on the other side of that door, but she knows it can’t be good. 

She looks at the garbage pail hidden from her sight when she first walked into the room. Nero goes to put the Kleenex in the garbage only to have second thoughts, she wonders if the staff would check the garbage after she’d left. See if she had cried. Nero stuffs the Kleenex in her bra before opening the door, outside is Marilynn waiting for her, Nero would’ve jumped if this wasn’t exactly what she expected. 

Marilynn has the same stone-cold face when Nero returns the disc to her. She expects Marilynn to say something to her, but instead, she lifts Nero's veil and Nero immediately slaps her away. That gets Marilynn to react.

“Strong hands,” Marilynn mutters. She puts the disc away and ushers Nero into a backroom. Nero wonders if the shelves are planted on the wall or if she could knock one over and easily kill the director, pretending it was an accident. 

Nero snaps out of it after being handed a few garments, she looks at the shirts, noticing they are a bright, sunshine yellow. 

She cringes at them. “Is there any other colour?” She asks. 

Marilynn blinks at her. “We all wear yellow.” 

Nero huffs. “Isn’t Maha wearing blue?” 

“We don’t have any blue shirts your size.”

Nero holds the garments close to her, frowning, she goes towards a bathroom to change. Upon entering she looks in the mirror to see a veiled figure looking back at her. Somehow the hard plastic mask she wore when she came here seems more comforting now. She begins to slowly undress and redress herself, although now wearing more modest and flowy attire she feels even more trapped and exposed than before. She feels nauseous like a patient anxious before their first surgery, not sure what exactly to expect. She takes the tissues out of her bra and throws them into the garbage already in use. Before leaving the bathroom Nero takes one last look at herself, her nose is stuffed, her eyes are puffy, and she has a very noticeable pout. She takes a deep breath and calms herself like she was taught to. At least serving in the military had some use in the end. She takes one last look at her yellow shirt and then dismisses it before her legs get any second thoughts and starts falling on her. 

She returns to the main room to see Marilynn with Maha at her side, and she notices Marilynn has something in her hand. Once she gets close enough she’s handed the paper, Nero should’ve been surprised by what she saw, but when else would Marilynn have given her the list of every unwinds’ appointment with her? 

“You’ll have to tell me how the first one goes.” Maha smiles. “I’ll be more ready for Fatima when her time comes.” 

Nero can’t exactly give the stink eye if her eyes are out of view, so instead she turns her head to Maha for an uncomfortably long second before looking away. It gets her point across. Nero looks back at the paper and notices something. “Why am I hand-holding a 19-year-old?” She asks. 

Marilynn clears her throat. “That’s Connor Lassiter, known for forcing unwinding out of the United States.” 

Nero looks at her, confused. “Isn’t he a liberty fighter?” 

“A war criminal really. We plan on unwinding him first before anybody else,” Marilynn gets closer to Nero. “I need you to gain his trust, he’s obviously hatching a plan to destroy us, and I need to be one step ahead of him, understand?” 

“Yes ma’am!” Nero says out of habit before biting her tongue. 

“Good.” She then leaves Maha and her alone, Maha takes the hint that Nero doesn’t like her and leaves soon after. 

Nero looks at the page again, Connor Lassiter/Robert Saltries, set for unwinding on the 24th, that’s the guy she’ll help if she wants this place crushed beneath her feet. 

[pizza-is-my-buziness]

Fictober Prompt Day Fourteen! Prompt: "If you don't stop now..."

Pairing: Jill Valentine/Carlos Oliveira (Resident Evil)

Read below!

“What about this one? The Fifty-Foot Moon Woman.” 

Carlos snorts out a laugh, scooping rice onto his plate and immediately smothering it with curry sauce. “Seen it.” 

Even without looking at her, Carlos can easily picture the eye roll that Jill gives him, accompanied by a huff. The couch shifts as she leans back against it, drawing her knees up to her chest as she continues to flip through the different movie titles. “Of course you have,” she mutters. “You’ve seen everything.”

“It’s called being a connoisseur,” Carlos says, adding a piece of naan to his plate. “I can show you the ropes.”

Which is something Carlos thinks they’ve been doing a decent job of during their Friday night “date nights,” which include takeout from one of the many places around their apartment and watching as many B-grade horror movies they possibly can before one or both of them falls asleep thanks to the exhaustion of the week. Unfortunately, sometimes having to go off to save the world from those who would like to turn it into some sort of bioweapon wasteland interrupt the routine but for the most part they’ve managed to uphold the tradition for nearly as long as Carlos can remember, the movie nights first starting out as a way to forget about the rest of the world for an hour or two and laugh about the cheap special effects and manufactured danger. Now the hours he knows will be solely dedicated to takeout and time spent with Jill by his side are truly what get him through most weeks. 

Jill ignores his comment, brow furrowing as she continues to scroll through their choices. “Radioactive Muskrats from Mars.” 

Carlos hopes whoever had been in charge of naming these masterpieces fifty years before had gotten a raise. “Seen it.” 

Jill looks at him, narrowing her eyes. “You’ve actually seen…” Then she stops, shaking her head. “Of course. Why would I think any differently,” she grumbles, returning her attention to the TV. 

“How can you see a movie with a title like that and not watch it?” Certainly when he’d been a kid and stumbled upon that movie with his brothers they hadn’t been able to look away, as enraptured by the giant murderous muskrats as they were by every cheesy, terrible black-and-white flick that played in the wee hours of the night. 

After a few beats of silence, Jill suggests, “What about Killer Cat People?” 

Okay, yeah, he’s seen it, but when Carlos responds, he decides to keep that little fact to himself. “Suena bien. Fire it up, Supercop.” 

Satisfied, Jill clicks on the title, leaning forward to grab her own plate of food before settling back once more on the couch. Her shoulder brushes against his, the heat of her body immediately settling over Carlos in a way that eases the tension his muscles seem to always carry, leaving him feeling more relaxed than he has since he’d woken up that morning to the sensation of Jill easing herself out of bed at the sound of the rudely blaring alarm. The movie starts, dramatic orchestral music filling the living room right before a grave narrator intones about the dangers of mixing science and…cats apparently. Honestly, Carlos stopped expecting for the movies to make any sort of sense long, long ago.

It only takes about ten minutes before Jill frowns, brow furrowing into a deep V as she studies the screen. “So wait…they were trying to make some sort of super spy by mixing cat and people DNA and they didn’t think something like this would happen?”

He’s still working on trying to convince Jill that it’s better just to live in the moment with these types of things. 

“Isn’t that how those types of people think?” Carlos arches his eyebrows as he looks at her. 

Jill presses her lips together. “Okay…fair.” 

On screen, the damsel in distress is making sure to earn that title, screaming as the shadow of a cat person creeps across the wall and doing nothing to get herself out of that particular situation, and Carlos chuckles to himself, using his bread to wipe the last of the curry from his plate. With his stomach full and the living room bathed in the comforting black and white flickering light, his body seems to grow even heavier, exhaustion making his limbs languid. The second Jill finishes her dinner and sets her plate on the coffee table, Carlos shifts his position so that he can lean in closer, bypassing her shoulder in favor of letting his head rest in her lap, even if it does leave his legs dangling off the other end of the couch.

Jill hums, a sort of amused, contented sound, her fingers settling against the curve of his shoulder, the warmth of her palm making his skin buzz in response. He’s easy that way, especially when it comes to Jill.

“I don’t understand why-” 

“I thought we talked about this,” Carlos remarks, smile lazy, voice sounding as heavy as his muscles feel, low and throaty, “you can’t look for logic in these movies.”

“Becoming a cat person immediately makes you evil,” Jill finishes, ignoring his words of wisdom. “It’s not like every cat in the world is evil.” 

Carlos shifts, trying to resist the urge to close his eyes. “Maybe that impulse comes from the human part.”

That, at least, earns him a laugh.

Jill’s hand moves from his shoulder, fingers absently slipping through his hair and brushing across the nape of his neck, only to repeat the gesture, nails scratching lightly at his scalp. Carlos sighs, lids growing heavier by the moment. “Jill…” 

“Hmm?” She sounds distracted and when Carlos cracks one eye open to look at her, Jill’s attention is fully on the screen, her touch surely subconscious. 

“If you don’t stop now…” It’s not like he wants her to, but they’ve barely made it through even half of one movie, and Carlos is pretty sure if he fell asleep now it would be some sort of record. 

Jill’s movement pauses, fingers loosely tangled in his hair, and she glances down at him. “Oh, sorry.” 

She goes to move her hand away and warning her off suddenly seems like the worst idea Carlos thinks he’s ever had.

“Actually, I’m fine, it’s fine, eres buena.” Carlos reaches for her wrist. “Carry on, querida.”

“Sure you’re not going to fall asleep?” Jill seems highly amused by this possibility. 

“You know, I think that’s a risk I’m willing to take,” Carlos says with a sigh, one that goes from feigned weariness to genuine contentment when Jill’s fingers brush against his scalp once more. “Besides…” he hesitates for only a second before adding, “I’ve already seen this one.”

“Carlos!”  

[edettethegreat]

In honor of the end of my second year of college, here’s a short summary of every short story, book, and play I had to read:

(this is part 2 of this post)

[ trigger warning: mentions of both abortion and rape somewhere in here. Probably also murder. Because yeah these are literature class assignments, what sorta subject matter do you expect? ]

—————————————

short stories

—————————————

The Tell-Tale Heart-

Narrator, while killing a guy: I am definitely not crazy.

Cops: hey we heard some noise here, is everything alright?

Narrator: haha yeah I definitely didn’t kill a guy!

Cops: oh that’s good, well have a good night sir!

Narrator:…

Narrator: ok OK you caught me I killed him!! I killed him because his eye was just too weird!!

Cops: I think.. this guy might be crazy.

Rapaccini’s Daughter-

Giovanni: wow that girl next door is so pretty

Beatrice: *touches a lizard, which instantly dies*

Giovanni: that was kinda creepy actually.

Beatrice: *smiles at him*

Giovanni: nevermind she’s still pretty

Bartleby the Scrivener-

Narrator: hey would you mind doing your job for once

Bartleby: I’d prefer not to.

Narrator: that’s fair have a nice day

Lamb to the Slaughter-

Mary’s Husband: so I may have cheated on you…

Mary: oh, that’s perfectly fine

Mary, killing him: I don’t mind at all actually.

The Necklace-

Mathilde: oh no I lost my friend’s diamond necklace!!

Mathilde: *spends the next ten years working to pay off the debt*

Her friend: You idiot. You absolutely buffoon. That necklace was fake.

The Story of an Hour-

Loise: it sure sucks that my husband died, but it doesn’t suck enough to trigger my fatal heart condition

Her husband: ‘Sup! I’m alive!

Louise: Oh no! My heart! *dies*

Hansel and Gretel-

Hansel: wow our parents really hate us don’t they

Gretel: well I mean they abandoned us in the woods so they wouldn’t have to feed us anymore. So. Figure it out for yourself.

Little Red Cap-

Little red-cap: I would absolutely love to murder a wolf.

Rumplestiltskin-

Rumplestiltskin: I bet you’ll never guess my name!

Rumplestiltskin: It’s Rumplestiltskin by the way.

The Queen: is it by any chance Rumplestiltskin?

Rumplestiltskin: asdjkhskl WHAT how did you guess??

The Dog and the Sparrow-

Sparrow: hey please don’t kill my friend Dog over there

Carter: hey how about you shut up. *kills the Dog*

Sparrow:…

Sparrow: I see. So you have chosen Death. *proceeds to torture and kill this man, as he should*

Young Goodman Brown-

Goodman: I had this really weird dream and now I gotta be suspicious of my wife for the rest of my life

The Lottery-

Townspeople: Ritualized murder is fun!!

A Good Man is Hard to Find-

Grandma: you seem like such a sweet young man. Please don’t kill my whole family.

The Misfit, actively killing them: you seem like a sweet old lady. Sorry I’m gonna kill you now. *kills her too*

The Smallest Woman in the World-

Everyone: wow that woman sure is small!

A Very Old Man With Enormous Wings-

Priest: yeah that’s not an angel, that’s just a dude with wings.

Everyone in the town: Shut up— that totally is an angel!

The old man with the wings: *just wants to be left alone. Is Not having a good time*

The Guest-

Daru: On the one hand, ACAB. On the other hand, I don’t condone murder. So it seems I find myself in a moral conundrum.

Hills Like White Elephants-

The girl: I may or may not want an abortion.

The guy: so… which is it?

The girl: guess.

—————————————

books

—————————————

Uncle Tom’s Cabin-

Tom: well, after all of the things I’ve been through, I am now dying.

Everyone, including the audience: NO NO don’t you dare die DON’T-

Tom: *dies*

Everyone: *crying, sobbing, screaming, overall not having a very good times*

Narrative of the Life of Frederick Douglas-

Frederick Douglas: …and that’s how learning to read and write helped me gain my freedom!

Walden-

Thoreau: I’m not like other girls. I live in the woods.

The Stranger-

Meursault: I killed a guy because it was very hot outside.

The court: The’s the dumbest reason to commit murder we’ve ever heard.

Meursault: huh it seems they’ve given me the death penalty. Why’s they do that? That’s so unfair.

—————————————

plays

—————————————

Oleanna-

Carol: hey I see you’ve given me a failing grade.

John: Yes, that’s because you didn’t understand the material. But I can tutor you to help you get a better mark on the final.

Carol: Or, alternatively, I could accuse you of rape and pass by default?

John: wait. what.

Andre’s Mother-

Cal: It sure is tragic that Andre died, isn’t it?

Andre’s Mother: …

Cal: great talk we’ve had here today.

A View from the Bridge-

Eddie: guys, I think Rodolpho is gay.

Everyone: what makes you say that?

Eddie: well he’s just so pretty…

Eddie: …and kissable..

Eddie: y’know. He looks like the sort of guy I’d wanna kiss

Everyone: …

Dutchman-

Lula: hi stranger. I’m gonna aggressively flirt with you now.

Clay: haha well this is kinda weird, but at least you’re not a serial killer or something, right?

Lula, while stabbing him: lmao yeah that would be pretty messed up!

Topdog/Underdog-

Lincoln: hey isn’t it messed up that our parents names us Lincoln and Booth? It’s like they want you to kill me or something—

Booth, killing him: yeah that would be pretty messed up, wouldn’t it?

[blackjackkent]

Aight, busy day but now pokin' some more BG3 before bedz. (As always, block "#bjk plays baldur's gate 3" to skip the liveblogging shenanigans. :D

Hector, the fish-out-of-water monk, is currently proceeding with his party in search of Halsin, who will hopefully a) solve the issue with Kagha trying to evict the tiefling refugees from the grove and b) know something about how to get the tadpoles out of their heads.

We left off having reached the goblin camp where Halsin is apparently imprisoned, and Hector having been tricked into rubbing shit on his face unnecessarily to get inside. So he's...not really in a good mood right now.

He even gets a fun little status buff(?) for it:

The goblins don't appear to be bothered by our presence - after rereading my liveblog from yesterday, I realized it's because we're marked with the parasite and so are they (or at least marked by mind flayers) so they're viewing us as allies. That gives us, apparently, a certain amount of leeway to wander around but we need to make sure we don't do anything suspicious.

At least until the jailbreak.

With this in mind...he's pretty surprised when a wave of pain bursts through him out of nowhere, hard enough to knock him off his feet.

It's the same feeling as the pain that comes with the telepathic connections - but orders of magnitude stronger. His vision blurs and he staggers, falling to his knees in the camp's putrid muck. Every muscle in his body clenches and writhes with the need to escape, but the pain is coming from within, and there is no running from it.

Dimly he is aware of his companions also collapsing, each of them locked in their own world of agony.

The pain forms into white-hot, blinding words, a voice searing through him like a knife.

"HEAR MY VOICE. OBEY MY COMMAND."

Narrator: The voice is irresistible. You recognize the overwhelming authority that you've used on others, only infinitely stronger, and turned against you...

Narrator: Your vision clouds, leaving you in a dark, featureless shadowscape. Nothingness in every direction.

Narrator: Then, there are three figures before you. An armored male elf, exuding power and command. A handsome younger man with a quick, easy smile. And a pale young woman with even paler eyes...

He tries to shift, to cry out, to scream, but the sound emerges choked, a strangled, desperate moan. Tears stream from his eyes and the image of the strange figures blurs. He tries to curl into himself, to look away, but they are there whichever way he writhes.

And the voice is inescapable, a hammer-beat of syllables in his mind.

"THESE ARE MY CHOSEN. THEY SPEAK FOR ME. AID THEIR SEARCH FOR THE PRISM, AND YOU WILL BE WORTHY TO STAND BESIDE THEM. IN MY PRESENCE."

The pain is unbearable. The words flow over him and he doesn't understand them.

Dimly he is aware of movement at his side in this black void. Shadowheart has struggled onto her knees, and the abyss is lit by a pale pink glow from between her fingers as she lifts the artifact she carries.

Rather than the inert block he has seen it as before, it is shining a sudden, radiant light from each sharpened tip. As she lifts it into the air, an orb of glowing energy begins to spread outward from it in all directions...and then it bursts, filling the void with light and knocking Shadowheart back onto her heels.

...and the pain eases...

Narrator: You feel energy pulsing from the artefact. Lifting the pain from you. Pushing the voice away.

Slowly, in the light of the artifact's burst, Hector begins to come back to himself. He can feel his legs, move his arms again. The pain begins to fade, and he becomes aware of the dry sandpaper feeling on his tongue and the tight clench of his teeth.

The voice still speaks, though its words are more distant now, fading. "MY POWER GROWS. MY FORCES GATHER. THE RECKONING DRAWS NEAR..."

He slowly pushes himself up from where he has been lying face down in the muck. His companions are also sitting up slowly, and there is the sound of the harsh breathing of four sets of lungs in tandem, trying to slow their heart rates.

Slowly Hector manages to gain his feet. Reaching over, he grabs Gale's forearm and helps him up as well, and as he does so, his eyes lock on Shadowheart, who has stumbled to a standing position and is looking down at the artefact, now inert again, clutched in both hands.

She flinches when she feels his gaze on her.

"Don't give me that look. I don't know what just happened any more than you do. We should keep going."

"I don't know what that toy of hers is," Astarion mutters, staggering upright and swaying slightly. "But I'm glad it's on our side."

Hector isn't to be shaken off, and takes a step forward towards her. "You've got some explaining to do first," he says firmly. "What is that thing you have?"

She pauses, meets his eyes for a moment and then looks away again. "I don't know," she says. "Not exactly. All I know is it's important I get it back to Baldur's Gate. At any cost."

He lets out a heavy breath between his teeth, eyeing her. He suspects what she is saying is truth - just not all of it. She seems as lost as he feels, but there must be more to the story. "Why Baldur's Gate?" he asks. "What aren't you telling me?"

She squares her shoulders, turns to look at him fully, visibly coming to some important decision. "I suppose if we're to continue together, I may as well tell you. I serve Shar. My home is a secret cloister in Baldur's Gate."

He feels as if a sucker punch has just landed in his stomach, almost as impactful as the pain they just suffered through. Shar - the antithetical goddess to that which Hector has served in the monastery all his life. Shar is the twin goddess of Selune - the goddess of primal dark where Selune is that of light and creation.

And he has been traveling with one of the dark one's clerics.

She's still speaking, either unaware of his reaction or trying to ignore it. "A group of us were sent to retrieve the artifact. Now I'm the only one left. I can't afford to fail." She fidgets with the object, nervously rubbing her thumb along one of its edges. "I can't tell you any more. This mission required utmost secrecy - we all submitted to having our memories suppressed so that we couldn't betray Shar's confidence. If I reach my contact in the city, I'll have my memories restored. Until then, I have to guard the artifact with my life."

Her fist clenches around it and she tucks it forcefully into her belt. "There. You have the truth, for all it's worth. Let's continue."

Gale shifts uneasily, glancing at Hector. "You worship Shar? Blimey. She and my beloved Mystra are not exactly friends."

"I didn't agree to join up with a Shar worshipper," Hector snaps out before he can stop himself. Perhaps in some other circumstance he might be more controlled about a difference of faith, but he was already frightened, humiliated, and smelling of warg shit, and after what just happened the terror has taken full hold again.

"Then it's your own fault for not asking," she snaps back, flaring a little at the unexpected fierceness of the jab.

His jaw works, but he regains a little control over himself, turns away sharply, struggling for the internal rituals to calm himself that always came naturally to him before all this began. He can't afford to alienate her completely...he needs allies in this mess...but this is all too much, too much to handle...

Finally, he grinds out, "In future, I expect you to be honest. Let's leave it at that for now."

"Gladly," she says coolly, and turns and walks away.

[prouvaireafterdark]

Do we ever get Lestat's POV in the books?

Will I enjoy the books even though they changed things in the show?

Which book is your favorite?

lol we sure do! He's the narrator of most of the books in the Vampire Chronicles series.

I've only read the first two books, so I can't speak for the rest of the series, but I can personally vouch for the fact that those first two (Interview with the Vampire and The Vampire Lestat) are definitely worth a read. TVL is my favorite because I remember reading it when I was about 13/14 and just losing it over how heartbreaking I thought Lestat's trauma was (also my man becomes a literal "rock superstar," which is about the funniest fucking thing a surprise new narrator you last saw living in a hovel and eating stray cats can do imo), but having just reread IWTV I can say I also thoroughly enjoyed that one.

If you're looking for an explicit exploration of the romantic relationship between Louis and Lestat like we get in the show, you'll be disappointed at first because Louis leaves a lot of that out in IWTV (though there are definitely hints to find if you're looking. I view Louis' reticence to share his romantic feelings toward Lestat with Daniel as a "If I loved you less, I could talk about it more" kind of thing). It isn't actually until we get Lestat's POV in TVL that we even know for sure they were lovers, in part because Lestat is annoyed Louis said so little about the happy memories they shared in his interview and in the end most of the reason why he's writing his memoir in the first place is so he can say everything to Louis he couldn't say before and hopes he will come find him again.

Aside from just enjoying the story and getting a sneak peek at what's in store next season (Armand!), I would say another reason to read them would be to have a better understanding of who Lestat was/is. Sam Reid said they haven't changed any of Lestat's backstory for the TV show, so whether you love Lestat or hate him (or both), I think you'll find the second book very illuminating.

There's also so many easter eggs in the show that are references to people and events in the books or even just prose ripped straight from the novel so I think knowledge of the books adds a little extra fun to the experience of watching the show.

My one caveat to all this is that there are some darker elements to the books that they didn't include in the show. The rest of what I have to say on that is kinda spoiler-y so I'll put it under a cut if you wanna go in blind.

So the big things I remember being fucked up from the first two books had to do with racism, pedophilia, and incest.

Obviously, the show deals with racism, but rather than getting the perspective of a Black man struggling with the impact of racism on his life, you get the perspective of a White man who literally owns people. In the beginning of the first book, Louis says some pretty heinous things about the people he has enslaved on his plantation and that can be kind of hard to get through. I have some thoughts about how that part of the book adds to the irony of Louis' character wrt his feelings about taking human life to sustain himself, but that's a separate thing.

There's also some really uncomfortable stuff with Louis and Claudia's relationship, where Louis refers to her as his lover and talks about how sensual she is, even when she's actually five years old and not a grown woman trapped in the body of a five year old girl, who, regardless, is still his daughter who he raised.

Lestat also has a, um, interesting relationship with his mother in the second book. They don't have sex (in book canon, vampires can't/don't have sex), but she does tell him about how when she wants to kill Lestat's father she daydreams about getting gangbanged instead and they do kiss with tongue at a later point in the book (I will literally never forget the way I screamed when I got to that part lmao, I was NOT ready).

So yeah that's kind of it. I hope you found this helpful!