#tw: allusions to SA

[the-girl-with-too-many-ideas]

Unpopular opinion, If the story was told from Shen Jiu's perspective, svsss would be a horror and Shen Yuan the villain.

I mean, you're talking about someone who had little to no automony their entire childhood. Who was a slave and suffered unspeakable horrors at the hands of his master to the point of developing a fear of men. Who knows what it is like to have no control over your body or what happens to it.

So, to be not only kicked out of his body, but forced to watch as someone else occupies and uses it (arguably doing and becoming everything he was rumored to have been and done) would be viscerally horrific.

(This is why I firmly believe that YQY would take the Shen Yuan revelation badly. He was a slave too, and without a doubt, knows how much Shen Jiu valued his freedom and autonomy above everything else. He would be so horrified and devastated to learn that his Xiao Jiu was stripped of both again while he stood by and did nothing again.)

[sincerelybubbles]

Here's a dialogue prompt for Emily please! Try this out pls. Love you Kam sm sm. "So why are you here?" "To make a fool of myself." ok ty lysm

even though i watched u type this, the wording makes me giggle every time i look at it.

emily prentiss x tech analyst!reader <3

warnings: fem!reader, cannon typical violence, very brief allusions to sexual assault (nothing happens!), angst and fluff! mutual pining.

word count: 5.4k

Emily is the loveliest thing you've ever seen and you can't imagine how she could ever possibly like you back. She enjoys the game, though, and teasing you is her favorite hobby.

-

It’s a sunny day. Warmth trickles down with the scattered light through the leaves. Patterns trace your arms, throwing your skin into a collage of different shapes and shades. Leaning back on your elbows, you watch people mill about the park. You look back down at your arm after a few more minutes, this time focused on the small watch resting there. With a sigh, you stand up and dust off your pants before picking up the small blanket you laid out and tucking it into your bag. 

You walk back to work, enjoying the sounds of the people around you. You lingered too long at the park during your break and are hoping that nobody notices your slightly late return. Maybe the team will be in a meeting, gruesome pictures you never quite learned to stomach plastered on the board, entirely oblivious to your tardiness. 

Unlikely, but a welcome thought soothing your anxiety as you push the door open and scan your badge at the security desk. 

“Welcome back,” the security guard says, smiling at you over his paperback. He’s an old greying man and you vaguely recognize him. You think he’s new and send him a warm smile in return. 

“Thanks,” you glance at his name badge, “Martin!”

You walk past him and step into the elevator. “Wait!” A voice calls and you reach forward to hit the hold button instinctively before you register the voice as Emily’s. 

She jogs into the elevator with you, smiling gratefully. “Thanks, I’m already running a little behind.” She lifts a container and shakes it a little. The label is from the Italian bistro across the street, about a ten-minute walk away and always nearly triple that in wait time. 

“Brave of you to go there during your lunch,” you joke, returning her smile and pressing the button for your floor. 

You hope she can’t see how your hands shake as you reach forward.

“I know, I just love their Pasta Brado. Have you tried it?”

“Can’t say I have. I’m boring, I usually go for the parm.”

“You’re not boring,” she says so earnestly that you can’t help but blush. You cough as an excuse to raise your hand to your face and hopefully hide it some. “You do have to try it, though. Here,” she offers you the plastic box. 

“Oh, I couldn’t. And I already ate.” You ignore the way your chest hurts a little at how enthusiastic she is. The worst part? She doesn’t even know how endearing her simple kindness, her casual enthusiasm, is to you. 

“Tomorrow, then. We can go together.” The elevator doors open as she says it and she steps out with an affirmative nod to solidify it. “Don’t try to bail out on me either, I know where to find you.”

“Yeah, I'm okay,” you say, feeling lame as you step out behind her. “I would love to.” She’s too far to hear you, though, already heading to Spencer’s desk and jumping right into his conversation with Morgan. 

Someone says your last name and you turn on your heel to see Hotch and cringe slightly. “I was trying to find you.” It’s a kinder way of him reminding you that you’re nearly ten minutes late back from your lunch. 

“Sorry, sir.”

“It’s fine. Do you have the reports finished from last week's trip to Huston?”

“Yes, sir, they’re at my desk. One moment.”

-

You and Emily don’t go to the bistro the next day because she and the team are sent to a small town in Kansas that night. 

“I’ll owe you lunch,” she says, hand on the back of your desk chair and brushing your shoulder as the team rushes to the jet. 

“Don’t worry about it!” You reassure her.

“I’m taking you to lunch,” she calls over her shoulder, pretend-glaring, “you will try that Brado!”

And then she’s gone, leaving you giddy and breathless. 

You know she’s just being friendly – she treats Spencer, Morgan, and JJ all the same as you – but her efforts to spend one-on-one time with you outside of work still have you feeling like a schoolgirl passed a note from her crush in class. 

You try to remind your heart to stop singing because Emily probably isn’t even gay and definitely isn’t interested. Instead, Garcia scares the shit out of you when she interrupts your inner monologue. 

“Lunch with Emily? Things are getting serious in your work marriage.” You hadn’t seen her walk into the room and jump at her voice, hand jumping to your mouth to suppress a yelp. “Sorry! Sorry!”

“It’s okay, didn’t see you.”

“Your loss, I look fantastic today.”

“As always,” you smile up at her, nose wrinkling and genuine fondness filling your senses. 

“Careful, wouldn’t want a workplace affair,” she jokes, leaning against your desk and picking up the stress ball you keep handy. 

“Stop,” you moan in good nature. “Nobody else calls us work wives.”

“That’s just because they don’t have my brilliance and excellent observational skills.”

“Nor do they have the same privy to my more personal thoughts,” you say, glancing up at her before returning to your paperwork. With the team leaving so quickly to tend to a missing child's case, you’re not getting home in time to cook dinner but are hoping to leave early enough to grab food instead of resorting to your freezer stash. 

“I would hope not. You know I can’t be replaced, baby.”

“Does Morgan know you talk to all your work besties like this?”

“I most certainly do not. You’re a regular bestie, not a work bestie.” A wink and then her expression sobers. “I do have an actual reason for visiting your humble cubical, though.”

“Hm?”

“I’m going to need extra hands for this case. It’s time-sensitive, as usual, and seems like it will be particularly tricky.”

“Yes ma’am,” you say, dropping your pen and standing to follow her. 

Your position at the bureau is kind of a catch-all. Most of your time is spent logging data, building reports, and doing general research for the team. Occasionally, though, you jump in to help Garcia with real-time research. Nothing as high-stakes as her direct assignments, more background work. Calling offices to talk to managers, combing through more meticulous data, generic census material to rule out obvious dead ends. 

It’s stressful work that technically isn’t what you’re paid for but you never complain. Your team saves lives, consistently putting themselves in the line of danger. If you have to spend a few hours a month helping Garcia call a suspect's manager at McDonald's to see if he still works there, it’s literally the least you can do. 

“Yes, so, it looks like our unsub…”

You drown out Garcia’s brief about information you already have sitting in front of you and begin vetting possible suspects from the large pool her system created.

It’s going to be a long night. You think about future Brado to cheer you up. 

-

“Reid, Prentiss take the back,” Hotch’s voice fills your ears. You imagine the pair nodding and splitting off from the group. 

This is your least favorite part of helping the team with active investigations – listening in on the calls. It’s rare that you and Garcia join the line when they’re approaching the unsub but, with you helping her, it isn’t a risk to distract Garcia and a much quicker method of getting any new information the team needs. It’s a new system you’ve only tried thrice, unsure how having microphones on 24/7 will work, and it grants you and the team more fluid communication.

Still, adrenaline floods your veins as you listen to their coms, the sounds of Garcia typing a constant behind their voices, imagining every way this could go wrong. 

You suspect the girl is still alive, the uncle doesn’t seem to have any reason to kill her just yet, but your fear for her grows with every minute. 

“Clear!”

Your eyes fall to the receipts flooding your screen. Ammo. A new rifle and pistol. The team knows but the evidence of this unsubs ability to hurt any of your friends, your family, isn’t helping your nerves. 

“I think he’s going to the roof!” Morgan’s voice, clear in the comms. 

You click out of the documents. Two swift motions on the screen. The firm press of the button. 

“Morgan, you’re on foot. Prentiss, follow him. Everyone else in vans, go!”

“Garcia, map out possible escape routes from the roof,” you instruct. 

She nods, screens shifting immediately. She puts on her own headset with one hand and clicks on the call and starts to bark information to Hotch. 

“Got her!” Reid’s voice sounds and you deflate a little. He mutes as he begins to console the small girl. 

You know you can take off your headset now, leave the call, and go to your paperwork. There isn’t much more you can do to help – you’re sure that’s what you’re supposed to do – but you stay on anyway, listening. 

“Right on Elmore!” Morgan calls. You find the street on Garcia’s screen, eyes tracing the path you think they’re taking. 

“We’ll try to cut him off,” Rossi says and you can hear tires in the background of the call. The click of a steering wheel cutting to the side too quickly. Someone’s labored breathing – probably Morgan’s as he dead sprints. 

“Stop! Put your hands up!” Emily shouts. The firmness in her voice makes you sit up straighter in your chair. 

You hear something that sounds vaguely like, “bitch,” before a loud pop drowns anything else out. 

“Emily!” Morgan’s voice, more pops. 

Gunfire. That’s gunfire, your brain recognizes. 

Your blood has gone cold.

“We need a medic!” Morgan shouts. Hotch’s line blinks red, going dead as he calls the ambulance. “Emily, Emily.”

Rustling. Cars. Sirens. Morgan’s line goes dead after you hear a car door slam shut. Then Reid’s and Rossi’s. Emily’s is the last to stay green, blinking.

You and Garcia stare at each other as you listen to Emily be loaded into an ambulance. Listen to Morgan tell the team, voice far away and barely tangible, that the unsub only managed to fire out one shot before he downed him. 

Neither of you can hear where she was shot or how badly injured she is before Emily’s line goes red as well.

-

“Emily?” You call softly, rapping your knuckles softly on the frame of the cracked hospital door. 

Your name, faint, answers you and you take that as permission to nudge the door open. The room looked dark from the hallway but Emily has the small lamp embedded on the wall switched on, throwing her face into harsh shadow. 

“Hey, you,” you say, walking in, arms full. “I brought things.”

“You didn’t have to do that,” she says, trying to sit herself up further and wincing as the motion pulls on her stitches in her abdomen. 

“Wait, let me help you,” you say, setting your things down and reaching out a hand. 

You wait for her nod before touching her, letting her grasp your arm and looping your other arm around the back of her waist to take most of her weight yourself. 

“Thanks,” she mumbles. You can tell she hates feeling useless, hates needing help for something as simple as sitting up, so you drop the subject with a nod and kind smile. 

You turn around to the small rolling tray where you put your things down, pulling two black containers out from a plastic bag. You feel silly and very awkward as you turn around to show them to her. 

“I know it’s probably not quite what you meant but,” you set the containers down on her bed and pop one open. 

“The Pasta Brado! Oh man, I was going to treat you.” She’s pouting through a smile, attempting to put on an upset facade and failing miserably. 

It’s so cute that you struggle with what to say next. 

“Thank you, really. You can pull up that chair, if you’re hungry now.”

You grab the chair she’s motioned to and drag it to sit next to her. “I’m hungry if you are. It might be a little cold, though, it’s kind of a far walk.”

“You walked here?” Emily asks, tone appalled and face comically shocked. 

“Yeah, my car broke down last week. I’ve been walking to work – it’s actually really nice out right now – and I couldn’t find a cab from the bistro.” You busy yourself with the food while you talk, opening the second container, setting it on her legs, and unwrapping the plastic cutlery for her. 

“Jesus! You didn’t need to come and see me if you don’t have a car. You didn’t need to come at all, actually. I really appreciate it,” she amends, seeing how your bashful smile freezes on your face, reaching forward as if to touch your face and brushing your shoulder instead. “It’s really sweet of you but you didn’t need to walk all that way. Isn’t it like a twenty-minute walk from here?”

Over thirty, but you nod anyway, knowing it won’t help your case to correct her. “It’s not a big deal. You were shot in the stomach, of course I wanted to see you.”

“Ah, so you wouldn't want to see me otherwise,” she teases, nodding and pushing her pasta around with her fork. She doesn’t even try to conceal her grin. 

“Ha ha, very funny,” you mumble. You take a bite of your food and your eyes widen. “Oh my god.”

“I knew you would love it,” she beams, watching your expression as you taste the food. You you she meant to say it in a gloating way but you swear you can hear a sort of fondness behind the words. Something in you warms at her ability to know you so well. 

You tell yourself you’re overreacting about both thoughts. 

“You were right – Emily this is unfairly good.”

“Oh, I know,” she says, taking her own bite and letting out an exaggerated moan, complete with an eye roll. You giggle and she smiles at you. “Thank you, this is exactly what I needed.”

“You’re welcome,” you say, holding her eye contact. 

She's been in the hospital for three days, transferred back to Virginia last night; her hair is unwashed and unbrushed, and she’s wearing no makeup and a hospital gown. 

She’s still the prettiest girl you’ve ever seen. 

-

Your car is fixed by the time Emily is released from the hospital two days later and you offer to take her home. 

“Hi Sergio,” you greet the cat brushing against your legs as Emily disengages the alarm. 

You set her things down by the door before turning to offer her your arm. Emily doesn’t pretend that she doesn’t need the help when it’s just you two, something you’re grateful for after watching her struggle with the team around, and lets you guide her to her bedroom. 

You set about making her comfortable, turning down her sheets and propping the pillows up so she can sit. 

“I’ve got it,” she laughs, playfully pushing away your hands. 

You laugh along with her, raising your hands and backing away. “I’m going to go put the rest of your stuff away and get you a drink.”

“Perfect, I’ll take an old-fashioned. Don’t forget the cherry.”

You roll your eyes at her, scoffing and leaving her room. 

You throw her clothes and go-bag in her laundry room before making her a glass of water and another glass of juice. Once you’re sure she’s settled in her bed with her book, you return to the kitchen to make her a few dinners, ignoring her protests. 

-

Emily is back in the field much sooner than you would have liked. 

“I was cleared by the doctors,” she tells you, coat slung over her arm as she digs through her bag for her badge. 

You smile at Martin, sending him a mock exasperated look, before she finds her ID and shows it to him. 

“It still seems too soon, Em,” you persist, reaching forward to push the elevator button and turning so you can lean back to watch her face. 

“Em?” Emily asks, the hint of a smile pulling up the left corner of her mouth. 

You sort of feel like you could die in that moment, just from the heat that simple gesture surges through you. 

“It just sort of slipped out, sorry,” you say, thoroughly embarrassed. 

The elevator dings and the doors open, throwing you off balance for a second. This doesn’t help your already flared nerves as you stumble back and drop your bag. You reach down to gather it and the files scattered across the floor. 

You’re kneeling to stuff everything in your bag when Emily crosses your line of sight again, wide smile on her face – teeth fully on display and nose scrunched, you are in desperate need of help – holding out your notepad.

“I think the nickname’s sweet. I kind of like the idea of having a name only one person, only you, calls me.”

All of the air has left this godforsaken elevator, the heat must be on, you stare dumbly at her as she reaches forward to grab your bag and put the rest of your papers inside of it for you. 

And then, realizing you look like an absolute idiot, you snap back into your body and cough slightly. The doors ding and open again, you grab your bag from her and stand slowly. Smiling at her, still crouched on the floor and looking, amused, up at you through her eyelashes, you say, “Okay. Thanks, then, Emmy.”

You walk away after that brief flash of confidence, telling yourself you’re just imagining how you swear her face flushed bright at your comment. 

And if Morgan mentions a few minutes that Emily seems flusters, well, who can blame you for floating on that high for a few days?

Except she doesn’t let it go. 

She corners you on your break in the kitchenette. Literally. She catches you when you’re examining the coffee pot that has been making concerning gurgles for the past few days and leans on the counter behind you, effectively blocking your exit. 

Not that you really want to leave. 

She’s wearing a red tank top and dark jeans, her hair is loose around her shoulders, eyes steadily trained on your face as you work. 

“Hello,” you say, quiet in a way you’re not normally. 

“Hi.”

“What’re you doing?” You ask after a few more moments of her silently staring at you while you pretend to know what you’re doing with a screwdriver. 

“Enjoying the view.”

You drop your screwdriver and relish in the sound of her laugh. 

-

You’d love to say that you had some suave answer to return her charm but you think you spent it all that morning with your boldness. 

You’re not shy but confidence doesn’t run in your blood either. You��d say you’re pretty normal – average. You don’t find much wrong with that, you know you have other qualities that build you up into an interesting person. You love your friends and coworkers deeply, for one. And have an intense trust in them and their abilities. 

That trust is always tested in your day-to-day at work but never more than now as you feel the car around you make turns at highway speeds. You think you’re on some sort of back road but it’s hard to tell from the trunk given the obvious lack of windows. 

You’re calmer than you thought you would be if kidnapped. 

Groaning after one particularly rough turn that has you jostling against the sides of the trunk, you allow your head to thump back and stare at the inside of the dark car. Light breaks through the cracks of the hinges of the trunk and you wonder if water trickles through when it rains. 

You’ve been in here too long to consider if you’re focused on the wrong things. You’re scared shitless, of course, but the adrenaline faded about an hour into your drive and now you’re just bored. 

Imagine that – bored as fuck in the trunk of a stranger's car, wrists burning from the rope and jaw sore from where it’s been forced open too long by the fabric tied around the back of your head. 

You’re just allowing yourself to reimagine your morning with Emily when the car stops and the engine cuts. 

You snap back into the present, energy flooding your system again as your brain flicks into overdrive. You might spend your days paper-pushing behind a desk, but you passed your physical. You’re smart, you’ve heard the stories of how these victims survive captivity. 

When the trunk pops open, you squeeze your eyes shut to prevent pain from the sudden lack of light. You don’t want to be blinded and the action has the added benefit of pleasing your captor. He put a hood over your hood when he grabbed you, muttering in your ear in tense tones that you would do best to not even try to see him. 

Say what you will, you usually do a pretty good job at following directions. This one is easy and happens to be number one on your list right now – keep him happy so he keeps you alive. 

“Good girl,” a gruff voice says before a calloused hand gropes the back of your neck to yank you forward. Scratchy fabric envelops your head and your hot breath bounces back against you, trapped against the fabric of the hood. 

You stand when his hands start to grab your waist, pulling yourself to your knees and allowing yourself to be lifted from the trunk.

You want to run but know now’s not the time. 

“Look at how well-behaved you are!” His breath is wet against your neck. He stands too close, hands clawing under the hem of your shirt to cling to your skin. 

He walks you forward like that, chest pressed against your back and breath slithering down the collar of your shirt to hang uncomfortably over your collarbones. 

It’s becoming increasingly more obvious what this sicko wants from you and your stomach is twisting at the thought. You urge the team to hurry up, knowing your absence would have been missed ages ago. They have to be looking for you by now. And, with how sloppy this dude seems to be, he must have left a plethora of clues waiting to be found. 

You have to repeat this to yourself as you hear a door lock click. 

“Took you long enough. This is the girl? She’s kind of … well,” the second man kisses his teeth with a sharp sound. You’re pushed forward again. “Whatever floats your boat man.” The door shuts and locks behind you. The second man's voice fades as he talks, disinterested. 

You wonder if it’s wrong to feel slightly insulted right now. 

“This way, doll.”

You listen. It’s saving your life to be complicit in his directions, so you listen. Still, you’re shoved harshly to the floor once you get to where he wants you, knees striking what feels like cement. Before you can recover, your cheek stings and your head is whipping to the side from a sudden slap. 

Then, there’s a kick to your ribs. You fall onto your side, too winded to even cry out, lips falling open in a silent scream. A boot in your belly. Your ribs again, your hip and back. 

“Why?” You manage to sob out. “Why, why?”

You don’t get an answer.

-

You’re not overly religious but you thank whatever heavens or universe exists that he leaves you alone once he’s done kicking the shit out of you. Your ribs are bruised but the worst you expected hasn’t happened. 

The boredom returns as you lay with throbbing ribs. At least one is broken and every breath hurts. You can’t imagine sitting up and, luckily, with your hands tied behind your back, it’s not really an option anyway. 

It must be near an hour later when you’re fading out of consciousness – a purposeful choice on your part to save your energy – when you hear the front door burst down. 

“FBI! Hands where I can see them!” Morgan. You nearly weep but think better when your stuttered gasp makes your side throb. “What the fuck?” You hear shouted in reply. “Robb, what the fuck man.”

There isn’t much of a resistance from the living room. The second man is shouting at what you can only assume is the first – your initial kidnapper – but there’s nothing else other than that. 

“Clear!” You hear Hotch call. Spencer replies and then you hear the door nearest you open. 

His voice calls out your name. You deflate against the floor. A second, you know he’s scanning the room with his gun before holstering it. “Clear! I need a medic!”

Hands, gentle, against your face, removing the hood. Swifter after that, removing your gag, and then hand binds. 

“Hey, Spence,” you say, trying to smile up at him. 

“Shh, you’re okay. We’ve got you.” He starts to support your weight behind your shoulders and the pain that brings is too intense to prevent your yelp. 

“Oh my god, is she okay?” You hear Emily ask seconds before you see her. She looks concerned, hair now in a tight ponytail and FBI vest strapped over her chest. She whispers your name once and then a second time, reaching forward to gently brush your hair out of your eyes. 

“Hey, pretty,” you say, words tumbling out of your mouth before you can catch them.

“Hi beautiful,” she answers, reply just as soft as your own. Earnest. 

It makes your heart ache and, for the first time since being yanked off the road walking to grab lunch, you start to cry. 

“Hey, hey, I’m sorry. I’m sorry, beautiful, it’s okay. You’re okay.” She repeats this as you’re lifted by the paramedics and cry harder. 

She repeats it when they stitch up where kicks burst the skin over your cheekbone open, repeats it as she trails a hand down your arm in gentle patterns while they examine your ribs and confirm that you’ve broken two, maybe three. 

She tries with you in the ambulance. 

You can’t help but think about being on the phone when you heard Emily be shot weeks earlier. You squeeze your eye shut as they insert the IV, beyond grateful that she’s there to hold your hand while they do it. The tear that falls down your cheek has nothing to do with the pain and everything to do with the thought that you couldn’t have been there for her in the same way. 

An odd thought, you realize, but it’s the one you’re stuck with as you drift away when the pain medicine enters your system. 

-

You’re sent home three days later. You insist on spending the night alone, afraid to admit you’re scared because, honestly, nothing much happened to you. 

Oh, of course, everyone tries to convince you otherwise but you know they’ve all had it worse. You were gone from the bureau for about eight hours and spent most of it bored. 

So you force yourself to spend the night alone. You don’t need help moving around or doing things for yourself so you convince yourself you don’t need help. 

You’re cooking dinner when the doorbell rings. You wipe your hands with a dish towel and take your time walking to the door to look through the peephole. You don’t know who took you yet, you haven’t asked and nobody has said, but you can imagine seeing him through the door. Waiting for you, waiting to kill you this time. 

Okay, yeah, maybe Spencer was right when he talked about PTSD and usual levels of anxiety, but you’re so tired of him being so right all of the time that you really want to prove him right.

There is no man standing on the other side of the door, though. Instead, you see Emily, holding a plate wrapped in tin foil and looking serene in your apartment hallway. 

You open the door quickly, unlatching it and turning off your alarm with a few clicks. “Emily?”

“Ah, man, I was getting used to Emmy,” she jokes, stepping inside with a smile in your direction and kicking off her shoes. 

You can’t think of an answer so you just smile at her, hoping she’ll take the lead. You’re tired and she must see it because she offers the plate in her hands to you once the door is closed and the alarm is reengaged. 

“Rossi sent me with it with explicit instructions to not let you share it.”

You giggle and take the plate. “I’ll have to tell him thank you. It’s kind of out of your way to come all this way, though, isn’t it?”

“Not out of my way at all,” she says, words dripping with meaning as she holds your eyes. “I would have come even if Rossi didn’t have food for you.”

“So why are you here?”

“To make a fool of myself,” she says, casually, like that’s something people say every day, “probably. You’ve just gotten back from the hospital and I know you said you wanted to be alone, but,” she swallows and her words are becoming more rushed as she speaks, “I said the same thing and you still stayed.”

“Emily?” You ask, setting the plate down on your hallway table and clearing your throat. “Ah, Emmy?” You amend when she cuts you a look. Your attempt to diffuse the tension doesn’t work and she steps closer so you’re toe to toe.

“That doesn’t really answer your question, though. You’re sweet enough that you would let it go, but,” she shrugs, reaching forward to gently loop her fingers around your wrists. “Stop me if this is awful timing. Please,” she says, leaning forward and staring into your eyes. 

You feel like you’re suffocating, but if this is death, you’ll greet it gladly in the irises of Emily Prentiss. You’re caught in the trap of the moment, heart hardly breathing, all aches and sores forgotten because Emily is leaning closer, breath fanning across your face. You feel intoxicated, ensnared. 

Everything that has ever been exists here, now, in this moment. Every breath used to blow out birthday candles and blow away eyelashes – breaths with purpose, with wishes, with intent – exists between the two of you as she leans closer and closer. Closer, still, and how can so much distance exist between you two when you’ve been standing so closely?

“Just, stop me, if you want,” she whispers against your lips, eyes falling shut. 

Time yawns again, freezing. Your eyes open, hers closed, beats of seconds pausing. Hesitating for you to hold this moment in your hands. You’re grateful to appreciate it because she really is so lovely. Her bangs are pushed back from her face with a headband – imagine that! Emily owns headbands! – and you can see every detail of her face. Her elegant nose, her slim eyebrows, her narrow, prominent, lips.

And then your heart finally catches up, beats loudly, cracks whatever fragile plane of glass holding the moment so perfectly still, and her lips are meeting yours. 

You gasp into her mouth, hands breaking out of her hold to grab her face. You’re afraid that she’s going to pull away before this kiss can be fully real. Before you can actually taste her – lemon cake and rain and warmth. Before you can memorize the feel of her lips pressed against your own before you can drag her closer and slip your hands into her hair. 

But she doesn’t pull away. She meets your enthusiasm with a sigh and then enthusiasm tenfold. You can feel relief in the kiss, feel how she relaxes into you. She takes a step forward and you take one back half the amount to account for it. 

A tilt of your head and it’s better, impossibly. She’s firm, sturdy, beautiful. Confident. Lovely, lovely, lovely. 

And then she reaches forward to hold you to her, hands brushing your ribs to wrap around your back and you can’t hold in the gasp of pain that causes you to stiffen. You want to take it back, want to ignore the pain, want to keep her near, but she won’t allow it.

“Oh, I’m so so sorry. Are you okay? I’m sorry.” You smush the apologies against her lips, removing one hand from her hand to guide her arms around your shoulders where they won’t hurt. “Okay! Okay,” she giggles, leaning back with several short kisses that do nothing to satiate you. “I need to know you’re okay.”

She can obviously tell she hasn’t hurt you too bad by your reaction, but the sweet caution in her voice has you melting further. 

“I’m perfect.”

[ghostboneswrites2]

Safer

Summary: After the fall of the prison and a brutal assault, Daryl cares for you.

NOTE (please read): A mutual requested this a while ago. Took a long while to write, and tbh I considered turning the req down given the premise and my firm stance on writing graphic SA which you can find here. However, they explained to me that they are a victim of a violent s*xual assault, and they expressed it would be healing in a way to have a story where they were cared for by their comfort character. After some consideration, I decided to go for it. I'm sure a lot of us have been victimized by people who couldn't control their urges, or those who lacked respect for our boundaries, bodies, and consent. Myself included. So, this story is for us, to those of us that can stomach it. 

DISCLAIMER: There are no scenes of graphic SA, only the aftermath. While I will not be telling any descriptive scenarios of being assaulted, I do want to clearly express that this is a generally heavy story and it may not be suitable for all audiences. Please consume responsibly.

**I will not be tagging anyone on the taglist due to the content of this story**

18+MDNI ||  WARNINGS: non-graphic allusions to SA, violence, mild nudity descriptions, generally heavy content so I can't say it enough: TW!!!

Banners credited on my masterlist!!

        Daryl's vision was blurred as he blinked himself to consciousness. It took him some time to gather his thoughts and recognize his surroundings. His wrists and ankles were bound together, his mouth gagged with a cloth that tasted of sweat and filth. He stared up at the treetops towering over him. It was dark outside, save for the dim light of a dying campfire a few feet away. He lifted his head from the forest floor and looked down past his feet. Lumps of sleeping bodies under raggedy blankets and torn sleeping bags rested around him. His heart raced as his memories crept back in; of you, screaming his name, of him fighting off the group of men who caught him off guard, of twigs snapping and a searing pain over the side of his head. Was that why his face felt so sticky? Was it dried blood?

        His eyes strained in the fading light of ember and ash. Where were you? He noticed a crumpled form at the foot of a tree. Her breathing was shallow and her clothes were torn, pants not even pulled up over her bare behind. That much, he could see. His throat tightened. His eyes watered. What the hell had he let them do to you? How could he have let this happen? He had to get you out of there, and fast. If they hadn't killed him yet, that was surely on their agenda.

        He began to squirm and writhe against his restraints. Whoever tied him up had experience. Just as hopelessness began to set in and cloud his judgement with fear -- real, genuine fear -- he noticed a reflection in the leaves. Just a few feet past his boots, a man was curled up on his side, snoring lightly in the calm breeze. His back was turned to Daryl, and behind him set a grungy backpack with a blade sticking out of the smallest pocket in the front. He glanced back  to you, shivering on the ground, unsure if you were awake or unconscious or simply passed out from the exhaustion of prior events. 

        The sight of you in your disheveled mess was all her needed to kick him into gear. Carefully and hastily, he scooted himself down toward his only chance at redeeming his status as a loyal protector of the weak and vulnerable. Ideally, he'd be able to accomplish this in silence, but he was not in an ideal situation. His circumstances were heavy, laced in sweat and angst. The leaves beneath him rustled as his back slid across the ground, twigs snapping or moving to the side as he made his way closer to the large hunting knife. He'd pause between each scoot, studying the sleeping men around him for any sign of movement or wakefulness. When he'd decide the coast was clear enough, he'd resume. It felt like an eternity, but he made it there. 

        His core muscles strained as he sat himself up. He realized how sore he was. He must have taken a good beating. Seemed fitting, though. He was never one to go down without a fight. He left that sort of weakness in his past.

        He guided his shaky, bound hands over to the bag. He slowly slid the knife out of the front pocket. His heart raged against his ribs. He didn't dare take a single breath until it was secured. 

        Slow. Slowness. Slowly. He repeated every variation of the word in his mind as he positioned the knife between his palms and dragged it back and forth until the rope finally severed. A silent breath of relief escaped him as he ripped the gag from his lips and worked on the rope tied around his ankles. When he was free, he stood and counted the sleeping bodies beneath him. Excluding you, there were four. 

        He considered waking you up and running for the hills, but he couldn't leave any loose ends. No, he thought of it like when your t-shirt has a loose thread. You could leave it to keep unraveling, or you could burn it at  the base and extend the lifetime of your clothes. He decided he needed to burn this string before it could unravel any further.

        Starting with the man closest to him -- the one who so graciously left his knife in plain sight for the archer -- he krept over and crouched down, plunching the blade into the base of his skull. Then, he moved on to the next, and the next one, and the one after that, until they were all a problem of the past. Until that pesky little thread could do no further damage to the rest of the shirt.       

        When the dirty work was behind him, he dropped the knife and rushed over to you. Your wrists were tied like his, but you were tied to the tree so you couldn't run. He eyed you over and gulped. With your pants not fully covering you and your shirt all ripped up, he could see the finger-shaped bruises littering your skin. There was blood on your inner thighs. Your lips were swollen and cut. His blood heated until it hit a boiling point. His hands trembled as they hovered over you. Touching you  felt like a crime, but he had to wake you. He had to get you out of there.

        "(Y/N)." He whispered as he laid a hand on your shoulder. You were shivering in the cool air, but a thin layer of sweat blanketed your exposed flesh. He gave you a gentle shake. "((Y/N), c'mon. We gotta go." He pleaded softly.        

        Your body jerked and you jolted awake. You gave him no chance to explain as you scrambled to your knees and cowered away against the tree. 

        "(Y/N) it's me. It's Daryl." He attempted his most soothing tone of voice. "C'mon, let me get ya cleaned up."        

        He outstretched his arm, offering you his  hand. Without making eye contact you made a move to take it, but you were stopped by the restricting force of the rope that kept you anchored to the tree trunk. He moved quickly for the knife he tossed to the side earlier and returned with it. Without the pressure of remaining silent, he had your hands free in seconds.

        He wasted no time helping you to your feet and averting his gaze as he slid your pants up where they belonged. He found he had a hard time keeping his mind straight and focused as your weeping filled the quiet campsite. 

        "Shh.." He cooed, keeping one hand on your upper back as he ushered you along with him to gather his things and yours. A smart man would have rummaged through the belongings of the ones he killed, too, but he wasn't concerned with making a smart call at that point. He was only worried about you.

        "It's alright. C'mon. Let's get ya somewhere you can rest. It's alright. C'mon." He felt useless as ever, repeating the same generic words of comfort as you limped along beside him. He never urged you to up the pace, he didn't drag you along or have you carry your own bag. He felt like the least he could do was shoulder the weight of survival on behalf of you both. He couldn't get the image out of his mind of ou laying there,caked in blood, sweat, and bruises. A girl like you should have been caked in perfume and makeup. You hair should have been done up nice for a Sunday brunch, not matted with leaves and dirt. Your clothes should have been pristine and well fitting, unlike the filthy torn clothes that were beginning to hang off your frame like tender meat falling from the bone. You didn't deserve this. You didn't deserve any of it.

        Eventually he found an acceptable spot that looked like it could have been a den for a hibernating bear. It was a big shrub by a little stream, perfectly indented to give you both enough room to crouch under its foliage. He gently set you down, dropping his bow and your bags beside him. He crouched down in front of you and scanned you, worry written articulately over his features. 

        Your eyes remained glued to the ground. Your nose was upturned in disgust but your eyes told a different story; one of pain and despair and mourning for the person you were before that night. Your frown was deep enough to leave a scar. 

        "(Y/N)..." He breathed. Your eyes slowly found their way to his and welled with tears all over again. Of all things you had -- meaning, being alive and away from those men -- there was nothing you were more grateful for than his blue eyes staring back at you. You hated the way he looked at you with defeat and pity, though. You hated that he had one more thing to worry about. Still, he was there, and he was welcome. "Let's get ya cleaned up, okay?"

        You nodded once, if absentmindedly. Your thoughts were elsewhere. You couldn't pinpoint their location, though. They were scrambled, swarming all around you, like gnats you couldn't swat away.

        He pulled an old shirt from his bag and leaned over to the stream, getting it nice and wet before wringing it out. He turned back to you and brought it up to your cheek, gently dabbing and swiping away at the dirt, grime, sweat, and blood. He moved on to your neck and hands, then he paused. You both looked down at your jeans. You knew it needed to be taken care of, and he did too, but the question was really about which one of you would be brave enough to work on the gruesome scene between your legs.

        One look at your expression and he knew it couldn't be you. But, how could it be him? He couldn't put you in such a vulnerable position. No, not him.

        That's when the lightbulb went off over his head. The stream, of course.

        "Here." He offered you a hand. You took it slowly and he led you to your feet. "Wanna get in the water?" He asked. You stared down at the serene flowing water, trickling just before your feet. He cleared his throat. "I don't gotta look."

        You almost could have laughed. After everything that had happened, Daryl seeing you bathe wasn't really a concern. Still, you had to maintain some shred of dignity, and washing those men off of you was a much needed stride toward leaving that horrid night in your past. So, you nodded, and he turned away to start a fire where you could warm up after rinsing off.

        The button was busted off of your jeans. You guessed they couldn't waste their time with something as simple as undoing a button. You let out a shaky sigh and gritted your teeth. You moved to bend over and slide your jeans down, but a searing pain shot through your insides. You whimpered. "I can't." You barely managed.

        "Huh?" He asked over his shoulder.

        "I can't." You spoke up with a tremble. "I can't get them off. It hurts."

        His throat tightened up. Had they really been so cruel to you?

        "Ya want me to..." He trailed off.

        "Please." You whispered and shut your eyes. He stood beside you and pulled your pants down to your ankles, kneeling down as he did so.

        "Grab my shoulder." He instructed softly. You did. "Left leg." He said. You pulled it out. "Now the right." 

        With your jeans off, he stood up and looked down at your face, which you his from him, avoiding his gaze. 

        "Your -- Uh.." He glanced down at your underwear. You nodded, not needing to see what he meant. He followed the same process with those and turned away as soon as he was done. You cleared your throat. 

        "Can you help me sit?" You whispered. He sucked in a breath. It wasn't that you were annoying him. Anything but that, actually. He was glad to help you in any way you needed. It was the simple fact that you needed the help that was eating him alive. The thought that those guys could hurt you in this way, to this extent, was infuriating and heartbreaking. 

        He turned back to you and hovered behind you, placing a hand under each arm to support you while you lowered yourself down into the water. Once you were sitting on the creek bed, you adjusted yourself and sighed.

        "Just, uh, watch for snakes, okay?" Was all he could say before turning his attention back to the fire finally.

        Your frown deepened as you stared down at your bloodied thighs. A plop beside you startled you before realizing it was just the old shirt he was using to clean you up.

        "Figured ya might need it." He mumbled.

        You gripped the cloth in your hand and stared at it. Blood and filth stained it. Your lip quivered as you ran it over your inner thighs, scrubbing your own dried blood away and watching it disappear in the gentle current. You hissed and winced as you cleaned yourself where you were really injured. 

        When you were done, you peered over your shoulder, where Daryl stared at the small flame. He felt your eyes on him and he looked up at you. 

        "Need some clothes?" He asked.

        "Please." You replied. He nodded once and rummaged through your bag. He could only find a semi-clean shirt, but no more pants. He pulled his own bag forward and searched for the new two-pack of boxers he'd scavenged awhile back. 

        "I, uh, didn't see no more pants, but... You can have those." He said, holding your shirt and the fresh boxers out to you.

        "Thanks." You pressed your lips into a thin attempt at a friendly smile. 

        He turned away again so you could change your shirt, but you needed his help with the boxers, which he did without you needing to ask, and without a single peek at you.

        He helped you back over to the den where you could warm up by the fire. You kept the blanket in your bag, so he made sure to wrap it around your shoulders while you sat.

        "Ain't got no food." He broke the silence after a little while. You nodded.

        "Not hungry anyways." 

        "Mm." He hummed. "Get some sleep. I'll keep watch."

----

        By midday, you were on the move again, trailing right behind him as he stomped slowly over the underbrush so you could keep his pace. He'd stop every now and then, and though he didn't say it, you knew it was because he didn't want to overwork you. 

        By late afternoon, the sun was on the far end of the sky, casting an orange glow over the woods. 

        Daryl had barely been able to look at you, and you couldn't exactly claim any different. You two had taken a break again, sipping water and scanning around for any game or edible plants.

        "I want ya to know.." He cleared his throat, shattering the thick silence that glazed over you both all day. "I want ya to know I didn't see it. None of it."

        "I know you weren't looking." You deadpanned.

        "Nah, not at the stream. I meant -- I didn't see none of it." He clarified. He had a sneaking suspicion the reason you couldn't bare to look at him might have been the possibility of him seeing what had happened to you. He, however, just hated seeing you look so broken, knowing had he been more vigilant yesterday, none of those guys would have been able to sneak up on him. You looked at him finally.

        "I know. They hit you over the head 'cause you were fighting them."

        "Mm." He nodded. "I just... I need to tell ya I'm sorry." His voice cracked as he looked down at his hands and back up to you. His leg was bouncing anxiously and his gums must have bled from how hard he chewed at them.

        "Why?" You pushed your eyebrows together.

        "I shoulda been lookin' out. Shoulda protected ya. Shoulda--"

        "You were. You have been." You cut him off. "You've looked out for me every day since the prison. You've been protecting me since the quarry. You protect everyone. That wasn't your fault." You insisted. He just looked back down at his hands and sniffled, blinking back tears. He scolded himself for being the one to cry, when you were the one who got hurt. "Hey." You pressed on. "Listen to me. You got us out of there. You took care of them. You saved me. Then, you still took care of me. If we were still back there, they would have killed you and robbed you by now. And, if they hadn't killed me yet, I'd be wishing I was dead. I wouldn't be here without you. I would have never survived even before last night without you, and I wouldn't be sitting here telling you that today if it weren't for you."

        He looked you in the eyes as you spoke every word. It was a great relief to him that you weren't angry with him -- that you didn't blame him. Still, he felt so uneasy.

        "Can we camp here?" You asked suddenly. He shrugged.

        "Yeah. We can." He agreed. His voice was still broken.

        "Can I sit with you?" You asked. He looked confused but he still nodded, even if he was unsure what you meant.

        Ignoring the aches all over your body, you crawled over to him and sat in front of him, between his legs, leaning your back against his torso. He was stiff, unused to being so close to someone, but he didn't resist. As you settled in and got comfortable, he rested his arms by your sides.

        "You didn't fail me, Daryl. Nobody makes me feel safer."

Join the taglist || Masterlist

[imagine-darksiders]

Thank you to the marvellous @humboltsquid for commissioning a fanfic with pregnant Reader attempting to hide said pregnancy from the Horsemen because she fears they'll buy into the social rhetoric surrounding single mothers who don't know who the father is.

TW: Vomiting, morning sickness, drinking, Pregnancy, briefest allusion to sa, no actual sa took place, everything was consensual, both parties were drunk, Reader remembers most of the night except the guy's face and name. Horsemen are predictably angry about someone touching their little sister.

---------------------------------------------------------

Porcelain, cold and consolidated, bites into the sensitive skin of your palms as you grip the edge of the bathroom sink, your arms locked like overheated pistons just to keep yourself standing upright in defiance of how your legs seem determined to collapse out from underneath your weight.

To your right, the loo gurgles noisily, flushing away any traces of the meal you’d spewed up into it only moments ago. At least the sound helps to drown out a voice thundering at you from the other side of the door.

“Let us in!”

Fumbling with the tap for a moment, you bend down, spooning a palmful of fresh, cooling water into your mouth. As you do so, you spare a baleful glance down at the loo again, and the food lost to its pipes… Perfectly good rations… all gone to waste.

Five years on from the Great Resurrection and Earth’s agricultural efforts are finally on a steady incline. While the food situation isn’t anywhere near as desperate as it was when Humanity woke up to a world without excess, that doesn’t mean you’re particularly pleased to see precious rations wasted because you couldn’t hold them down.

And now that you’re supposed to be eating for two…

Groaning, your expression twists into a look of remorse, and you place one hand gently on your stomach, roaming a palm over the bump that lays hidden beneath the baggiest jumper you could find. You’re only too aware that it won’t be so easy to hide the swell in another couple of months.

You barely manage to bite back another miserable groan as a colossal fist hammers against the door so viciously, you almost wonder if the wood will splinter and break, which starts to seem more likely when seconds later, a familiar voice booms out, “If you don’t open this door, I’m tearing it from its frame!”

Ah… That’ll be War; youngest of the Four Horsemen, an armoured, muscle-bound colossus who also just so happens to be one of your very dearest friends.

A friend who has been growing rightfully suspicious of you over these last couple of months…

There are only so many excuses you can fall back on to explain away your frequent and unexpected dashes for the nearest bathroom. You can only thank the Creator that neither of the Four seem all that well-versed on the more delicate biological functions of humans.

Swiping a wrist over the back of your mouth, you lean away from the sink and assess yourself in the mirror, doing your best to ignore the taste of vomit still sitting like a layer of fuzz on the roof of your mouth.

‘How long are you going to keep this up?’ you pose to your reflection, her sleep-stained eyes bearing back into yours as if she too has had the same question.

It’s been like this for a few weeks now, ever since the dreaded Morning Sickness wrapped its hands around your guts and wrung them with a relentlessness that leaves you scrambling for the closest bathroom at least twice a day.

It wasn’t this bad in the first trimester… Now entering your second, things are getting a Hell of a lot harder to manage. To hide.

Slowly letting your eyes slip shut, you exhale through your nostrils in exasperation as a different voice accompanies the first. “Kid? I uh… I think he means it. We just wanna make sure you haven’t drowned in there.”

Strife… The humour he tries to inject into his quip is overshadowed by his hand rattling at the doorknob. He’s worried. They all are. You wouldn’t have thought it possible, if you didn’t know them personally, though each Horseman will swear up and down they don’t ever feel such trivial, human emotions.

Actions, however, speak louder than words.

Their sister, Fury, has hardly left your side ever since Mrs Gaffe tutted at you from across the hallway and you immediately retreated into your apartment, leant back against the door and wept into your hands. She didn’t know… She didn’t know Mrs Gaffe who lives on your floor is also a chemist, and she’s also the very woman who sold you your pregnancy test… and the subsequent tests you went back for when the first came up positive. You’d spent over an hour convincing Fury that, no, she doesn’t need to defend your honour by besting old Mrs Gaffe in combat. Though you let her know you appreciated the gesture.

You try to think the best of your neighbours. And you certainly didn’t like to think of Mrs Gaffe being a gossip, but judging by the curious and frequently disdainful glances other people in the building sent your way, you soon came to realise your secret was not such a secret after all.

You’re pregnant. And the father is nowhere to be found.

You only hope word doesn’t get back to the Horsemen somehow. You don’t think you could bear it if their gazes turned sharp and pointed as well.

Outside the bathroom door, you hear War grunt at Strife to move aside, and at last, you decide you’ve stalled enough.

Shoving yourself off the sink, you spin around on a hell, regretting the action as a wave of dizziness threatens to knock you back down to Earth, but it’s soon dispelled with a deep breath and a second to gather yourself, calling, “Okay, okay, I’m coming out.”

Someone – Strife, you think – grumbles, “Finally.”

Grabbing the handle, you pull the door towards yourself and tilt your head back, blinking up at the two, immense shapes blocking the entire width of your hallway. If it weren’t for the space between your bedroom and bathroom being meagre at best, you imagine you’d have the remaining two behemoths cramped in there as well.

“When did you guys get to be so clingy.”

War’s ice-blue eyes glare down at you from beneath a crimson hood.

You start to edge past them, feeling like a fish trying to squeeze between a pair of grizzlies. Just as you make it past and put your back to them entirely, you hear Strife announce, “All right. That’s it.”

“What’s it?” you ask hesitantly as he advances on you, his heavy, metal boots thudding on the carpet. Before you can react, the Horseman suddenly slings a bulky arm around your waist and hoists you off your feet, tucking you into his side. You’re forced to fold almost in half, bent over Strife’s uncomfortable gauntlet with most of the pressure bearing down on your stomach.

“STRIFE!” you exclaim, horrified.

“I’m not lettin’ you go until you tell us what’s been goin’ on with you,” he huffs, clomping into the living room with War bringing up the rear. By the window, Death twists his bone-mask towards the commotion, his shoulders flattening, unimpressed. “Brother…” he warns.

Fury too, tosses Strife her own disparaging glare from the sofa and barks, “Is it truly necessary to manhandle the human?”

You, however, hardly pay attention to a word they exchange. Your mind is utterly and wholly on the point of your stomach that’s digging into the Horseman’s gauntlet. You can cope with the discomfort, but it isn’t just you anymore.

There’s no thought to the cry you let out, just a plea borne of a desire to protect the little life growing inside you, by any means necessary. “Strife!” you exclaim, smacking your palms against his armoured thigh in a bid to relieve some of the pressure around your gut. “Put me down! The baby-!”

No sooner has the word left your lips than you find the arm restraining you springing open, letting you tumble to the floor. A jolt shoots through you as your hands and knees strike the carpet, but all you can celebrate in that moment is that the strength of a Horseman is no longer curled around your vulnerable stomach.

You don’t look up at the Horsemen until you’ve pushed yourself back to your feet, patting down your jumper. When you do happen to glance up, your face immediately falls.

Death has shifted from his position by the window and now stands several, jarring feet closer, he and Fury both, in fact. The latter has somehow leapt from her seat on the sofa in the time it took you to gather yourself up off the floor.

But more disconcertingly, they’re still. Utterly motionless as if they’ve been caught in a pocket of frozen time.

Gulping, you tentatively twist your head over a shoulder, only to find War and Strife are in much the same state.

Strife has backed up to stand next to his brother, his liquid-gold eyes round beneath his visor, neither one of them twitching so much as a single muscle. It’s… eerie. You don’t think you’ve ever seen them so still before. Death, maybe, but not the other three.

It only occurs to you then that you might have let something slip.

Then, at last, just as you wet your lips to call out to one of them…

 “What did you say?” Fury breathes, cutting neatly through the heavy blanket of silence draped over the room.

Blinking owlishly, you turn back to face her, your mind scrambling for an adequate response.

“What… what do you mean, ‘what did I say?’”

Feigning ignorance it is.

You actually leap several inches off the ground when the Horseman suddenly explodes back into motion, storming forwards in your direction and exclaiming, “What baby?!”

“B-baby?” you double down, backing away from her until your spine collides with a solid torso – War. “Who said anything about a baby?”

“You just did!”

“Did I?”

“Y/n…” Death utters in a slow and cautious tone as though he’s afraid you’ll bolt at the slightest provocation - Hell, given the furtive glances you keep swinging around his side at the door to your apartment, he might be in the ballpark. His voice alone carries enough authority to silence his sister, and more than enough to make you clamp your jaws shut painfully tight. “You’re with child?”

It’s strange, but despite the inflection on his last word, you get the impression he isn’t asking you if you’re pregnant, but merely whether you’re ready to admit to the fact.

The hopelessness of it all dawns on you when you meet his enduring, gilded stare.

He knows.

And if Death knows, there’s little point in continuing your efforts of duping the other three. In spite of outward appearances and their frequent, often frightening disagreements, the Four Horsemen have a bond stronger than tungsten. So, with a head that suddenly feels weighed down by months of secrecy and deflection, you lower your gaze to the floor near his boots and give a slow, sombre nod.

It’s as though your little confirmation is all that they needed to lift the veil on any and all doubts.

The shadows they cast on your carpet suddenly start to tremble as an overhead light flickers, strobing on and off until it sputters weakly back to life and holds steady, albeit dimmer than it had been before.

The Horsemen seem to grow in size, muscled shoulders bulge like raised hackles and four sets of eyes flare with an ethereal light as they shift their weight, bearing down on you like toppling monoliths.

“I’m gonna kill ‘em,” Strife mutters venomously under his breath, “I’m gonna kill whatever bastard laid a finger on-”

“-W h o  t o u c h e d  y o u?” the eldest Horseman’s growl cuts him off. It’s guttural and animalistic, so much so that you can’t withhold a flinch. You could count on one hand the number of times Death has outwardly lost his temper, which makes it all the more alarming to witness.

Stumbling over your words for a beat, you keep your eyes fixed to the floor as the Old One stalks across the meagre living space towards you, his ominous shadow growing along the carpet to swallow you whole. When it seems he’s right on top of you, you finally blurt out, “N-Nobody!”

In hindsight, that wasn’t the most logical answer.

Fury – her vibrant hair whipping behind her like angry, coiling snakes - scoffs, tucking her arms firmly across her chest. “Nobody?” she parrots, “I’m no expert, but don’t these things usually involve two parties?”

“Great! Now she’s lying to us,” Strife barks, pacing back and forth behind you and throwing a hand up to rake the fingers of his metal gauntlet through his stiff, black hair, “I don’t believe this, we go off world for two weeks-!”

“Were you hurt?” War’s voice, though less jagged than Death’s, is pitched low enough to rumble through you until it resounds inside your chest. You can feel his presence behind you, too close for comfort, the living embodiment of rage and violence.

You suddenly fear for the man whose face and name you can’t recall.

“I… no,” you protest, hugging your elbows close, “It wasn’t anything like… like that. It was an accident! We were out drinking, and I-“

“DRINKING!?”

Your mouth snaps shut as Death lurches towards you, and you’re finally forced to tear your eyes off the carpet when his sinewy fingers slide around your biceps and he hauls you a foot off the ground, holding you up to his mask and subjecting you a shout that’s rife with unparalleled urgency. “You know what that does to a human’s inhibitions!” he demands.

His hands are gentle, neither hurting nor bruising the delicate skin on your bare arms, but the power behind even his gentlest grasp is frustratingly insurmountable.

You’ve never liked how easily he can manhandle you. “Yes, Death! I know what alcohol does!” you snap back, kicking your legs and trying to twist out of his grip, “I’m not a kid anymore, stop treating me like one! And put me down!”

You’re aware that your point is all a matter of perspective. For the Horsemen, there’ll always be some small part of them that continues to see you as a youngling. You’re human, after all. A hundred years wouldn’t even see a Nephilim out of adolescence. Not to mention that the Horsemen have all but declared you as one of them… One of theirs - an unconventional, human sibling they’ve taken into their fold.

It's not so easy for them to simply stop seeing you as their little sister, no matter how much you might wish they would sometimes.

As your retort fades into silence, Death blinks, recoiling his head slightly with wider eyes, and it will only occur to you later just how rare it is to make Death falter.

The other three, although their bodies still quiver with barely contained adrenaline, have fallen quiet whilst you stare down their eldest until at last, he lowers you gingerly to the floor, setting you safely on the carpet once again and retrieving his hands.

You’d never dare to say it aloud, but in that moment, something like shame flashes over the dark sockets of his mask.

“Why didn’t you tell us, kid?” Strife asks, the crux of his question tinged by badly concealed hurt.

“This, Strife,” you sigh, throwing your arms out towards he and his siblings, exasperated. Fury with her face set into a thunderous scowl. War’s metal gauntlets curled into bludgeoning fists. Even Strife is idly tracing a finger on the stock of Redemption in its holster, and Death – especially Death – whose ancient magics are still causing the lamps in your room to fade in and out…

Heaving another, immense sigh, you continue, “This is why I didn’t tell you.” Well. It’s one of the reasons, but at this point, it’s a fairly vital one. “I mean, look at you!”

Each Horseman shares a glance with one another.

“You’re all raring to go on a manhunt to find a guy who didn’t even do anything wrong!”

“Didn’t do anything wrong?” War grunts, teeth still bared despite following the lead of Death and reeling in his temper, if only slightly, “He mated with you-“

“Oh, hell, War, don’t say it like that,” Strife complains, grimacing under his visor.

“-and now you carry his child, and he has abandoned you both?”

Biting at the soft flesh inside your cheek, you withhold a frustrated groan and remind yourself that War’s sense of Honour is vastly inflated. The ‘father’ of your child’s ignorance won’t excuse his absence, not in War’s eyes.

Even so, you try to dissuade any ideas of retribution before they can gain traction.

“He didn’t abandon us, War. He probably doesn’t even remember I exist! Goodness knows I can hardly remember that night…” You trail off, lowering your gaze to the floor.

Death’s eyes are suddenly the hardest to meet. You recall your first introduction to Lilith; the self-proclaimed mother of all Nephilim, and subsequently the Horsemen themselves. You know of the demoness’s… reputation. You also know firsthand how much the Eldest Horseman despises her. You’re terrified Death will see something of Lilith in you, that you’d be so liberal with your own body as to end up with a child.

The inside of your eyelids start to burn. “And now everyone is gonna think I’m just some skank who went and got knocked-up by a stranger and… and-… They’re always gonna look at my kid and wonder who the father is. I don’t even know who the father is.”

There are tears prickling at your eyelashes, but you force your hands into fists at your sides, refusing to wipe them away lest your draw attention to them. The Horsemen see anyway.

Light blooms back to its full power across your apartment, your lamps stop trembling, and a pale finger crooks beneath your chin, tilting your head back until you’re peering up at a stoic mask of bone.

Death’s ebony hair falls in curtains around his face as he bends a little to speak to you in a hushed yet urgent tone. “He didn’t…” Hesitating, he draws in an unnecessary breath to fill dead lungs and alters his trajectory. “You were not forced…?”

You wish you didn’t know why that question is so important to Death, why the concept of consent means more to him than it might the others.

“No,” you reiterate miserably, “That’s one thing I do remember. I wanted, uh… it, at the time, a-and so did he. He didn’t know this would happen any more than I did.” You pause to lay a hand over your stomach, furrowing your brow as you give it a pensive stare and missing the way Death’s shoulders slump with relief. After a second or two, you hesitantly raise your chin to look him in the eye again, hoping that what little determination you can inject into your voice will hold strong. “… Look, I’m not proud of it, but it happened. I can’t change things… and… I’m keeping them. I’m sorry, but I’m keeping this baby.”

You hold your breath, expecting arguments, expecting a rebuttal or perhaps even a scoff or two.

“Why would you be sorry for that?” Strife pipes up instead.

It throws you off kilter. Pulling away from Death, you swivel around to frown uncertainly at War and his brother, fiddling with the hem of your jumper’s sleeve. “Well… I mean… I-I’m having the baby…“

When you don’t say anything further, War raises a hand and pulls down his hood, exposing the full extent of his wispy, white hair. “Yes?” he prompts, the unspoken ‘and?’ ringing clear as a bell.

“I’m having the… baby of a… of a man I don’t… know?” you finish slowly, glancing at each of them in turn.

“Big deal!” Strife announces so abruptly, you have to do a double-take, “You don’t need him to help you raise a little human! You’ve got us!”

Nodding her head, Fury adds, “Far be it from me to agree with Strife, but… in this case, he may be right.”

War grunts his own agreement, and when you throw an incredulous look at Death, you’re floored to see him dipping his head in concurrence as well.

“You’re…” Darting your tongue out to wet your dry lips, you squint at the eldest Horseman, asking, “You’re not angry?”

He’s quiet for some time, contemplative even as his gaze roves lower until it comes to a stop on your torso. Then, gently, he replies, “The only qualm I have is that you’ve been trying to bear this weight on your own two shoulders. And while I wish you had told us sooner, at least now we know how to help you.”

“Help me?” you utter, voice cracking.

Death’s eyes dance with a sudden fondness. “Well,” he replies, “As I’m sure Strife has told you repeatedly-“

“- you’re one of us,” said brother butts in, expertly finishing Death’s sentence and stepping up beside you to lay a heavy palm on your shoulder, “We take care of our own. Same goes for your kid.”

You’re too late to stop a choked noise from escaping the base of your throat, but before you can say anything, War steps forwards, towering over you as he pounds a solid, metal fist against his chest, directly over his heart in a show of allegiance.

“You and yours will always have the protection of the Four,” he proclaims.

“You… you don’t have to, you know,” you sniff, swiping a few fingers beneath your eyes, “I signed up for this baby, you guys didn’t. It’s okay if you don’t want to get involved because -“

“-Oh, don’t talk such nonsense,” Fury gruffly interjects, “You’re sorely mistaken if you think either one of us will be leaving your side for the foreseeable future.”

“Fury,” you laugh wetly, aiming a wobbly smile at her, “You mean that?”

The surly Horseman’s lip curls but she merely shrugs and retorts, “I may not care much for children, but someone will have to stick around to teach our youngling how to fight.”

Our youngling…

Your heart squeezes appreciatively, even if she might not have noticed the slip.

“That’s just her way of sayin’ she cares about children if it’s yours,” Strife’s voice murmurs in your ear, and with a gentle nudge at the small of your back, he pushes you towards the sofa his sister has vacated. If Fury hears him, she doesn’t dispute his words.

As you’re herded to sit down, War, ever the more practical of his siblings, is busy casting a rather dissatisfied look around your apartment, making a quick mental note to ramp up fortifications. He’ll have to schedule watches between himself and his siblings too…

“I can’t believe it,” you mutter, half to yourself, half to the Horsemen, sinking down among the cushions of your sofa and shaking your head, “I’ve been so worried about telling you guys I’m pregnant, and you’re just… okay with it.”

“As if we’d be anything else,” Death sighs, roving a quick look over you from head to toe. Squinting slightly, he adds, “Hmm… I’m not, however, okay that you can’t seem to keep food down lately. I take it that’s why you’ve been disappearing so suddenly of late?”

Giving him a sheepish nod, you shuffle to one side, allowing Strife to flop heavily onto the sofa next to you, his enormous thigh squashing you up against the arm rest. “I’ll go for more rations in a bit,” he announces, eager to provide.

“I can go,” you say, “They are for me, after all.”

Burly shoulders bristle in a display of faux authority as Strife instantly argues, “Nuh uh. You’re stayin’ right here where it’s safe.” He grumbles a nonsensical sound, then begrudgingly admits, “Hate you leavin’ at the best of times…”

Despite the niggle of exasperation that begs you to remind them you’re not helpless, just pregnant, you offer him a warm grin and bump your shoulder against his side, saying, “You’re going to make a great uncle, Strife.”

To say the Horseman’s mask almost flies off as he whips his torso around to face you would be an understatement.

You have to lean back, as though pushed away by the sheer intensity of his blazing stare. “What’d you say?” he breathes.

“I… oh, I, er…” Realising you may have overstepped, you swiftly attempt to backtrack. “I mean, that’s not what you have to be called, I was just-“

“-Uncle... That’s the brother of a human’s parent…” His eyes shine like the sun as they bore into you across the sofa. “Right?”

Uncertain, you quirk a brow at him. “Uh, yeah?”

He contemplates that for a second before he asks in a far smaller voice that almost doesn’t sound as if it belongs to the boisterous Horseman you know, “I’m your brother?”

“Of… course?” you blink, surprised that he’d need to even ask that question, “Of course you are. You said it yourself, I’m one of you. Sorry to say it, but that goes both ways. You’re my brother Strife. A-and if you’re okay with it… I’d like you to be this baby’s uncle.” Tearing your eyes off the sharpshooter whilst he none-too subtly coming apart at your side, you send a tentative look up at War, peering at him from under your lashes. “You too, big guy. But! Only if that’s okay with you? I just… want them to grow up knowing who their family is…”

War coughs into a mighty fist, hoping to hide the tiny smile that’s trying to bloom at the sides of his mouth, “In that case, it would be an honour to be acknowledged as the child’s ‘Uncle,’ until my dying breath.”

Always so serious. Giving your head a fond shake, you flash their sister a knowing look and call, “What about Aunt Fury? You on board?”

“Hmph, well,” she shrugs one shoulder, turning to glare at the wall, “It… has a nice ring to it, I suppose.”

You’re not fooled. The way she’s keeps having to wrestle the corners of her lips back into a terse line speaks volumes.

“Of course, I haven’t forgotten about you, Death,” you say, at last addressing the Reaper who is watching the proceeding with a calm, reserved expression. At least until he catches the little smirk lifting your cheeks. “Or should I say, Grandpa Death.”

At once, the Nephilim’s expression flattens, unimpressed. “If you introduce me to that child as ‘Grandpa Death,’ perhaps I won’t be sticking around.”

“Ah, you love it, Gramps, don’t try to deny it,” Strife teases, leaning in to stage-whisper in your ear, “Look at him, I don’t think I’ve ever seen the miserable bastard this happy.”

You have to stifle a snicker for Death’s sake. True to form though, while his eldest brother’s fearsome scowl persists when it lingers on Strife, it soon grows soft again upon turning back to you.

And in that one look, shared between a human and the eldest surviving Nephilim, you realise categorically that Death is with you. All of them are. They aren’t worried about your reputation. They won’t concern themselves with the idle gossip of your neighbours.

They’re family, as is the small spark of life steadily growing inside your stomach.

And father or no, your child is still going to grow up under the watchful eye of the Universe's most diligent and protective guardians.

[hueningsloverr]

౨ৎ love !

pairing: huening kai x reader summary: you spent a while thinking love isn't real until someone makes you reconsider word count: 0.5k tw: allusions to sa (never fully mentioned simply hinted at) extra: i'm back (how longs it been?)

love wasn't real - at least not according to you in january of your freshman year of high school. you had just broken up with your boyfriend, your first boyfriend. it wasn't working out, and the stress of school and trying to maintain a healthy relationship was getting to you.

he didn't take it well.

he was able to prove love wasn't a real thing because overnight the love he harbored for you turned to hate, and suddenly all your friends had you marked as public enemy number one.

love wasn't any realer two months later when the only boy - only person - you had been able to trust locked you in a closet. whoever came up with the name 'seven minutes in heaven' clearly had the wrong idea about which part of the afterlife that game originated from.

but then huening kai came along. he was different, something you noticed from the start. at first it was subtle, the way he smiled, listened, and understood everything. then it was how treated people with genuine kindness, and the way he was able to make everyone feel seen.

it took time for you to let your guard down. in your eyes, why would kai be any different? but he was patient, far too patient for a teenage boy. he didn't push or pry, he simple existed. when you struggled with your homework, he was there to help. when you felt overwhelmed by the whispers and the gossip, he was there to distract you with stories and jokes. when you felt like you couldn’t trust anyone, he was there, proving trust wasn’t something that needed to be earned, but something that could be given freely.

the first time you realized you might actually care for him was on a rainy afternoon in april. you were soaked and miserable, and he showed up with an umbrella and your favorite hot drink, having somehow known exactly where you’d be.

as he walked you home, you felt something shift inside you. it wasn’t sudden, like a bolt of lightning. it was slow, like the blooming of a flower after the frost fades.

with kai, love didn’t feel like the cliche battlefield. it felt like coming home.

it was in the quiet moments, the shared laughter, the understanding looks. it was in the way he respected your boundaries, never pushing for more than you were willing to give. it was in the way he supported your dreams, encouraged your passions, celebrated your victories, and comforted you in your defeats.

love with kai wasn’t about grand gestures or dramatic declarations. it was about consistency, about showing up day after day, about choosing each other even when it wasn’t easy.

trust, respect, and genuine affection.

it was about friendship that blossomed into something more, something deeper.

and for the first time, you realized maybe love was real.

maybe it was just a matter of finding the right person to share it with. and maybe, just maybe, that person was kai.

a/n: completely based off of my high school experience and the love i wish to one day find

©2024 - all rights reserved to hueningsloverr, please do not plagiarise or translate any of my work

[random-thot-generator]

Love Thy Frenemy + Interlude

On the Streets of Soho: Just You

ONE SHOT/INTERLUDE

SIMON GHOST RILEY x FEM READER

Summary: Simon makes a journey through Soho hoping to find some relief.

Warnings/Tags: MDNI 18+ Only - Explicit language, explicit sexual content, sexual thoughts and allusions to sex but no actual sex, prostitution/sex workers/solicitation, ***TW- mention of SA (Simon's)- non-graphic, mention of torture- non-graphic, no use of Y/N

(Notes: This is basically just me weaving my personal head canons concerning Simon's past trauma and how his current sex life evolved into the plot. No beta. Embrace the imperfections.)

banners & dividers by: @saradika-graphics

Interlude

-

“To love at all is to be vulnerable. Love anything and your heart will be wrung and possibly broken. If you want to make sure of keeping it intact you must give it to no one, not even an animal. Wrap it carefully round with hobbies and little luxuries; avoid all entanglements. Lock it up safe in the casket or coffin of your selfishness. But in that casket, safe, dark, motionless, airless, it will change. It will not be broken; it will become unbreakable, impenetrable, irredeemable. To love is to be vulnerable.”

― C.S. Lewis, The Four Loves

-

The cobbled streets of Soho are crowded this time of the evening.

The cacophony of music and the buzz of a hundred conversations flow around Simon as he walks among the throng of people. Crossing to the next corner, he turns down another street, noticing the giggling birds in short skirts sashaying ahead of him. They're no doubt heading for one of the night clubs further down the way.

There are many streets in Soho that have an almost carnival-like atmosphere about them, inviting wanderers with their twinkling string lights, busy shops, and outdoor eateries. However, there are other areas, like where Simon is currently going, that are geared more towards… adult entertainment.

One of the sashaying birds glances over her shoulder at Simon, then turns back to whisper something to her mates. The others then glance back as well, only to erupt into whispers and tittering giggles. Simon ignores them, focusing his attention on the signs advertising the discotheques, bars and clubs, instead. He slows to peer through a pub window, feigning curiosity, but he doesn't go inside. His destination is further along; he's just passing through.

He walks past a long queue outside a dance club. The music is pounding like a heartbeat, bass thumping so hard Simon can feel the percussion through the soles of his boots, the vibration tickling up his shins and setting his teeth on edge. He glances up at the gaudy sign above the blacked-out doors. The club is called 'Bangers', spelled out in electric blue letters. Simon rolls his eyes.

Bloody stupid name, he thinks, but then reconsiders. It's actually spot on, now that he thinks about it. Clubs like that are nothing more than human meat markets, strobe-lit hubs for anonymous hook-ups and drunken fucks in the loo. His lip curls at the thought. Playing Russian roulette VD-style with some random drunk slag doesn't appeal to him. He's careful about where he sticks his dick, is more discerning about who he fucks, which is why he gives the preening birds with their coy smiles and come-hither eyes no more than a cursory glance.

It's been several months since Simon has been to Soho, long enough that he can't remember the exact month anymore. It was cold, that's as much as he can recall, months before you had moved in with him. He also recalls (with some annoyance) how he had been unable to look you in the eye after his last trip there, watching you work behind the bar at the Dog the next day, chattering away at him as you normally would while his gut twisted with something that felt suspiciously like guilt. He'd not been back to Soho since.

Until now.

And this time, it's because of you.

That's not true. It's because of him. This mess is his fault, his failure.

He made a bad call, sharing you with the team. He let one little mention of you slip, and it snowballed from there. Not even he is sure if that little slip-up was accidental or not, but once he'd opened that Pandora's box, there was no shutting it again. He gave them an in, Johnny and Gaz ran with it, and Simon went right along with them.

He made a right cock up of things. Exposed you, then put his bloody claim on you. He had no right to do that― has no bloody right to you at all, but he let his ego dictate how it all went down. Christ, he shared your fucking pics with them. Stupid, stupid mistake. He's potentially put you in danger, doing that. Then again, if someone was already watching him, he put you on their radar months ago.

That was another bad call. Should've stayed away from you, but he didn't; hell, he bloody couldn't, no matter how hard he tried.

He'd cut ties with you for multiple reasons, the biggest among them to protect you, then turned around and fucked it all up. He just never expected you would open the door and let him back in, not after the way he'd treated you. When he went back to the Dog that rainy night, his only thought had been to fix what he broke and part ways on better terms, not pull you back in after pushing you out.

He still doesn't know what possessed him that night. He went back to you knowing he should leave well enough alone, but there he was, scratching at your door like a hungry stray and you let him back in, like the sweet, trusting fool that you are. Christ, what were you thinking? Why did you forgive him? He still gets pissed thinking about it, but in that moment, honestly, all he'd felt was relief.

Because he had his doll back.

Simon never knew he was a starving man until he got a taste of what his life could be like with you in it. It's addictive, that life you feed him, and it's made him greedy, possessive. He wanted you closer, wanted you to feed him more, so he took advantage when you were vulnerable. After what happened with Finch, he offered you safety, security, the promise of family and free reign of his house. You took his offering then turned around and achieved the impossible. He gave you his haunted house and you turned it into a proper home. You filled it to overflowing with light and warmth and fucking flowers. Selfish mutt that he is, he took it, took it all and fucking devoured it whole. He gorges himself on it daily, and that should be enough.

But he still craves more.

It's wrong to want more. You give him everything, everything, so he should be satisfied. He should be content to have you in his home, in his life, but now he wants more, he wants you, all of you, and that's... wrong.

Doesn't matter, though. Even if he knows it's wrong, it's done nothing to curb his craving for you. If anything, it's only made it worse. You've become his forbidden fruit, tempting him to reach out and take a bite. And it's because of that temptation that he's finally been forced to make another trip to Soho.

As Simon makes his way to his destination, he glances around at the buildings now surrounding him. Tall, skinny brick and mortar structures stacked together, just a few stories high; Soho's infamous walk-ups. Their entrance doors stand open, their lighted entryways revealing the narrow staircases and the signs that simply declare 'Models'. Those in the know understand that the men and women who work in these walk-ups have nothing to do with modeling. They're sex workers, professional prostitutes, and Simon has been a paying customer of theirs for years.

Before you, Simon had no qualms about paying for sex. It was simply a means to an end, meeting his basic needs to keep himself on an even keel. He saw nothing wrong with it, thought it was money well spent. As he'd once told you, a soldier's lifestyle wasn't conducive to sustaining romantic relationships, not that he'd ever fancied having one. He told you that he didn't have the patience for it, and he had believed that when he said it. It was easier to hand over a few quid, get what he needed, then be on his merry way, no muss, no fuss.

But again, that was before you moved in with him.

Now, the quid that he withdrew from the ATM earlier weighs heavy in his pocket. He withdrew enough for a thirty-minute session plus a tip. He plans on telling the bird if she can give it to him the way he likes and can finish him off quickly, she'll earn herself a good tip. He's not doing this expecting mind-blowing sex. He just needs to blow a quick, hard nut to sort himself out, then he can hurry back home, so he can make this up to you. He feels like a right sorry bastard for dumping you off like he did, because he was in a rush to get to fucking Soho to bang a prostitute.

He'd waited until he'd picked you up from work and dropped you at home before telling you he had some 'business' to take care of in London. Guileless, you'd blinked up at him, trying hard to hide your disappointment. It fucking gutted him when you simply nodded, then told him you would keep dinner warm for him. That was bad enough, but then you gave his hand a quick squeeze and murmured, "Drive safe, Ri," with that sweet fucking smile on your face, and it felt like his chest caved in.

Fuckin' hell...

He glances up at a street sign and something close to dread makes his gut feel queasy. His steps begin to slow, boots scuffing on the sidewalk. The address he's currently seeking is just around the next corner, then he'll cross Green's Court to a walk-up that houses a consignment shop on the ground floor with two separate flats above it. The bird he's picked out is in the first flat, working under the rather unimaginative alias of 'Desireé'.

Simon already knows that he doesn't want to do this.

But he also knows he has to.

It shouldn't bother him this much. It's not like he hasn't done this before. He visits Soho whenever he gets to the point that he can no longer scratch his own itch, and nothing but a wet cunt will do. Since you moved in, however, that itch has become an incessant burn. His control is starting to slip, and it's been getting worse since the May Day celebration. It's become such a struggle to keep his hands off you that he has to force himself away from you. Otherwise, he'd have you bent over the nearest flat surface.

Yeah. Something's got to give, and it cannot be him.

Grunting in frustration, he pushes those thoughts out of his head. He needs to focus on the task at hand. If he can see this through, it will help quell those urges you so obliviously keep stirring up inside him. Once he gets what he needs, he'll be right as rain again, and you won't be in danger of getting drilled against the wall.

Is he looking forward to this? No, he's not, but he figures it should be just like riding a bike. Once he gets going, biology will take over and instinct will kick in, then nature will take its inevitable course. It won't matter who he's fucking, then.

Still, the thought of fucking some other bird while you're waiting at home for him sticks in his craw and leaves a foul taste in his mouth. That feeling only gets worse when he rounds the corner, and the walk-up he's looking for comes into view.

Fuck. He's here.

Simon comes to a stop. He suddenly realizes he's gagging for a smoke, so decides to have one before going up. Fishing his cigarettes out of his pocket, he slinks into an alley, tugs down his face mask and lights up before pressing himself back into the shadows. He inhales as he casts his eyes up to the lit windows of what he assumes is Desireé's flat. A shadow crosses behind the pulled shade and disappears.

Fuck, he doesn't want to do this.

But he has to.

He exhales a stream of smoke and rubs at the ache still lingering in his chest. He knows the cause of it. It's been there since he drove away from you, and it's only gotten worse. There's not a damn thing he can do about it, though, not without risking the destruction of what the two of you have built together and probably ruining your life in the process. He'd fight for you, kill for you, fuck, he'd even die for you, but he can't— No, he won't fuck you.

But even with such a threat hanging over his head, he still fucking wants you. He wants you in a way that scares the bloody shite out of him.

Which is why he needs to do this.

But fuck him! He doesn't bloody want to!

Simon closes his eyes and thumps his head back against the dingy brick wall. Christ, he's never been so conflicted in his life. It's not like he's cheating on you, for fuck's sake, but damn if it doesn't feel that way. You're his friend, not his woman; he is not stepping out on you. There's no logical reason for him to feel bad about taking care of his own needs. It's just fucking; it doesn't mean anything. He has every right to do this.

But still...

He would rather take a bullet than for you to ever find out where he is and what he's about to do. He wouldn't be able to face you again if you ever found out, because he knows how bad it would hurt you. He knows it would hurt you because he knows you care about him, and he knows those feelings run deeper than bloody friendship. He knows this because he feels the same damn way. You're more than just his friend. You're his Dee, his doll. You're just... his.

And fuck him, he knows he's yours, too.

Dammit, he really does not want to do this.

But now he knows he has to. Because he can't lose you. Fuck no. That's not an option anymore.

He gives himself a mental shake and puts out his cigarette. Straightening from the wall, he clenches his fists and stalks across Green's Court to the walk-up. The open doorway beckons, he just needs to step through. He stops at the threshold and peers up the narrow flight of stairs.

There'll be a 'maid' in attendance up there, hanging about in the hallway. She'll ask who he's there to see then will inform him whether or not Desireé is 'indisposed'. That's the polite way of saying whether or not she has another customer. The prostitutes don't take appointments, so it's first come, first served. Unbidden, the hope rises up inside him that she already does have a customer, so he'll have an excuse to leave.

Gritting his teeth, Simon forces himself to step through the doorway.

The sound of plodding steps coming down the stairs has Simon's eyes darting upward. A bloke with thinning hair and a soft paunch hanging over his belt appears, his jowly face florid but clearly sated. His eyes meet Simon's for only a split second then skitter away as he lifts his left hand to wipe the sweat from his brow. The glint of a gold wedding band catches Simon's eye, and something cold and oily slithers and twists in his gut. That dull ache in his chest flares to life. Simon rubs at his chest and averts his eyes until the bloke walks out of the building.

"Least I don't got a ring on my finger," Simon mutters to himself, like that somehow matters, then begins climbing the steps.

When he reaches the first landing, a wiry, thin bird with her mousy brown hair pulled back in a low ponytail exits a small room. Her smile is tight-lipped but polite, her eyes assessing as she greets him.

"Can I help you?" she asks, folding her hands together at her waist, the picture of discreet decorum.

"Here t'see Desireé," he grunts in reply.

The 'maid' nods and points to a door down the short hall. "I believe she's free to see visitors. That's her flat there. Just knock."

Simon nods his thanks and steps around the woman, noting how leaden his feet feel as they take him to Desireé's door. His arm too feels heavy as he lifts it to rap against the painted wood. His neck grows hot, scalp prickling with anxious sweat as he hears the light tread of footsteps drawing near. When he hears the locks disengage, he takes a step back before the door swings open.

Desireé peeks around the edge of the door and offers him a tentative smile. Her eyes scan over him before she opens the door wider. "Well, 'ello, luv. Would ya like t'come in?"

She steps away to allow him entry, but Simon doesn't move because he's too busy staring at her.

When he was going through all the models' profiles online, he'd taken an unusual amount of time before choosing. That's not something he normally did. He usually didn't give a shite what they looked like, long as they had a clean cunt. Yet he remembered feeling frustrated as he clicked through profile after profile without success. If asked, he would have assumed it was due to a general lack of interest. None of them appealed to him until he'd seen Desireé's profile pic, and suddenly his search was over. Now he understands why.

This bird looks enough like you to pass for family. Maybe a sister, but definitely a first cousin. She's of the same height and a similar build, though she looks a bit older than you. Damn near identical hair, eyes close to the same color.

Bloody fuckin' hell...

"Well? Are ya goin' t'come in?" Desireé inquires.

Simon blinks and then shuffles through the door, trying to hide how rattled he is. Christ, how did he not see it before? She looks like you. It's like he set himself up to fail without even knowing it. He has to wonder if he's completely lost the bloody plot, because this is fucking mental.

He waits for her to lock the door behind them, doing his best not to stare but failing, then follows her through the small flat. His brain instantly compares her shape to yours. She's more hard angles compared to your soft, rounded curves. She doesn't move like you either. And her perfume makes his sinuses burn.

When she asks if he would like a drink, Simon lifts his gaze to see her smile knowingly; she thinks he's admiring the view. He shakes his head, thinking her smile doesn't hold a candle to yours. She gestures for him to take a seat in the sitting area. He sits down in a worn leather club chair, shifting around as she perches demurely on a chair opposite him.

"So, first things, first, luv," she begins her spiel. "Are ya a return customer or do I need t'go over the basics with ya?"

Her voice grates on his nerves. It's high and nasally, with a Cockney accent. It's not soft and slightly husky like yours. This will definitely be a nonverbal session, he decides.

"I know the drill," he mutters.

Desireé nods, giving him a sultry smirk. "Brilliant. Saves us some time, dunnit?" She settles back in her chair and crosses her legs, her skirt riding up to expose more thigh. "Since yer not new to this, I s'pose ya already know what ya want, then?"

Simon speaks it by rote, the same thing he always asks for. "Thirty-minute session, straight sex, no extras. And I have requirements."

Her eyes narrow just a fraction, and she hums, looking him over slowly. She then tilts her head in a coy way. "What're yer requirements, then?"

Simon launches into his list.

"Don't like muckin' about, so don't bother with the strip tease an' lingerie. Rather ya just get naked in the loo; prefer ya prep yerself f'me while yer in there. Ya can wear a robe out if ya like but lose it before ya get on the bed. Want ya on yer hands an' knees at the foot o' the bed.

"Don't want ya touchin' 'r kissin' me; I'll do the touchin'. Keep yer eyes forward 'r down, jus' not on me. Prefer ya not t'speak unless I ask a direct question 'r there's a problem. If there is, speak up. Don't want none o' tha' fake moanin' an' carryin' on, either. I go at it fast an' hard, but I ain't no brute. 'M big, so if it gets t'be too much, say so 'r give me three hard taps an' I'll stop. Tha' bein' said, ya should prob'ly use some lube when ya prep. An' before ya ask, the mask stays on. Tha's non-negotiable."

Desireé gives him a slow blink. "That's pretty specific," she murmurs, but then lifts one shoulder in a shrug. "But I can do that. I'll ask that ya have a care how ya handle me, though. I don't mind ya gettin' a li'l rough, but I don't like marks or bruises. Bad for business. Most blokes don't like seein' another man's marks, yeah?"

"Yeah, I get it. I won't mark ya up."

With the negotiations now over, Simon hands over her fee, but makes sure to let her get a peek at the extra quid in his wallet. He then mentions being pressed for time and his willingness to kick in a little extra if she can move things along. Pound signs dancing in her eyes, Desireé gets a move on, hurrying to the loo to get ready for him.

Simon shifts uncomfortably while he waits, leaning forward to brace his elbows on his knees as he stares at the closed bathroom door. That ache in his chest has gotten worse; it's burning now, deep and searing. He's still put off by how much Desireé resembles you, but luckily, that's where the similarities end. One look in those jaded eyes of hers told Simon all he needed to know. She might look like the girl next door, but Desireé is a pro, through and through. Case in point, not balking at the mask or his long list of requirements.

She probably thinks he's a dom, but that wasn't necessarily true. Simon doesn't derive pleasure from having a woman play the submissive. His requirements aren't a part of any kinky personal proclivities. They are necessary, as is his need for complete control, otherwise, he simply cannot perform sexually. It didn't used to be that way for him, but since his stint in Mexico with that sadistic cunt, Roba, this is his lot.

Sex was never the same for Simon after he was captured by Roba. The torture and sexual assaults he had endured while he was a prisoner broke him in a way that he thought he could never be fixed. His perception of sex was warped, twisted into something dark and brutal and ugly. Sex became a weapon that could be used to torture, humiliate and manipulate him. It took years before Simon could touch a woman again.

Even when he finally worked up the courage to have sex again, he'd been nearly overwhelmed with anxiety, terrified he would suddenly snap or have an episode and unintentionally hurt the bird he was with. Somehow sensing he was struggling, she had taken the situation in hand, guided him through it with patience and a gentle hand. She had been a prostitute as well, which is probably why he's gravitated towards them ever since.

Or he did until you came along and mucked up the works. When it comes to you, those necessary requirements of his go right out the bloody window. When it comes to you, it's not about base needs or physical release. It's about experiencing you, pleasuring you, claiming you. He doesn't just want you; he fucking craves you. When it comes to you, he doesn't feel in control and that fucks with him. A lot.

He's dreamed about kissing you. He's fantasized about ripping off his mask and staring into your eyes as he takes you against a wall. He's laid awake at night wondering what sort of noises you would make for him, how it would sound when you finally came while crying out his name. He wants to see your face when he makes you come. He wants to suck your tits and bite your ass and mark you up. He wants to eat your cunt and taste your cum. He wants to watch you suck his cock before he fucks you senseless in his bed. And then he wants to do it all again. And again.

He doesn't want that with anyone else. He only wants that with you. Just you.

Fuck. Just you.

Simon's head drops in defeat.

When Desireé steps out of the loo, he knows in his gut that this isn't going to work. He subconsciously tried to substitute you with a bird that looks like you, for fuck's sake. But she's not you, not even close, and that's why he feels nothing when she shrugs out of her robe and climbs naked onto the bed. He breathes out a resigned sigh.

Climbing to his feet, he steps to where Desireé dropped her robe and retrieves it. He sees her hips sway in invitation as he nears, her lubed cunt on full display. His cock doesn't even stir. He shakes his head, bemused. He popped a chub that morning watching you come down the stairs in one of his ratty old tees, but a naked bird waving her ass in his face does nothing for him.

Only you can stir up that fire inside him. Just you.

"Change of plans, luv," he murmurs, draping the robe over her before taking her by the shoulders and helping her off the bed.

Brows knitting together, Desireé looks up at him with a perturbed expression as she shrugs on the robe again. "Thought ya said ya knew the drill, mate. Once the session starts, there's no renegotiating."

"Not what I'm after," he tells her, taking a step back. "This ain't workin' f'me. 'M takin' off."

Her eyes narrow. "There's no refund, ya know," she warns him, sounding wary.

Simon waves her off. "Don't want one."

Taking out the extra money he'd been holding for her tip, he folds it and presses it into her hand. "Sorry 'bout wastin' yer time, pet," he says, then walks to the door and lets himself out.

Once he's back out on the street, Simon wastes no time retracing his steps back through Soho. He's still bricked up, but he no longer feels conflicted. He's finally realized that he's been fighting a losing battle this whole time, knows that he never stood a chance.

Because it's you. Just you. For him.

When he makes it back to his truck, he climbs in and cranks the engine, then pulls out his phone and calls you.

"Hey, Ri! What's up?"

Simon's eyes close at the sound of your voice. "Hey, doll. 'M on my way back. Need me to bring anything home?"

You hum in thought. "Mm... Nope. Just yourself, I reckon."

Simon chuckles, that ache in his chest finally easing. "That's all ya need, huh? Jus' me?"

He hears your breathy laugh. "Yeah, Ri," you reply, your voice soft and husky. "Just you."

Simon feels his cock twitch at those words and huffs out a laugh. "See ya in a few, love."

"Okay, Ri. See you soon. Drive safe."

Simon rings off, tucks his phone away, then reaches down to adjust his cock with a weary sigh. "Fuck, doll. Bloody killin' me." He grunts out another laugh, shakes his head and steers his truck towards home.

And you.

Just you.

-

prev. >>> next

[aurorawritestoescape]

A Villain’s Monologue

Pairing: serial killer!Joel Miller x f!reader

18+ DEAD DOVE!!! Heed the warnings!

Tw: dead dove, non-con, allusions to smut, mentions of SA, mentions of death, bondage, gagging, swearing

Word count: 650

A/n: if you’re sensitive to any of the warnings, do not read the fic! I don’t condone the actions of the character. It is all fictional!

——————————————————————————

Silly girl… You really thought you’d be the one to get me? Have some balls on you; I’ll give you that. Sneakin’ into my home like that... snoopin’ around. What were you tryin’ to find, Nancy Drew? Some kind of evidence—an earring, a set of teeth?? Haha... I’d never keep anythin’ like that. I’m not dumb! Been doing it for what now? Hmm, 7 years? Haven’t been caught. Not even suspected…

Oh! A cop came over once to ask about that girl. What was her name? Melissa, Melody? Fuck it, doesn’t matter. Real pretty, gave it to her good. She was beggin’ me to fuck her. Yeah, choke me, daddy! She’d been enjoying herself, for sure. Well… until…

And that cop...See, I’m Joel fuckin’ Miller! A single dad, thanks to that bitch! A workin’ man, always charmin’, nice. I showed all my concern! No, officer, I haven’t seen her around. Yes, of course I’ll join the search party. Damn it was fun being the only one to know we’d never find her in those woods.

And you, baby. Ugh! How long have you been suspecting me? Sorry, forgot you’re gagged. I bet it’s since that night. Did you hear her scream? Right? Nod if I’m right, slut?! Yeah, that bitch was loud. It’s a pity you couldn’t just forget about it. Look the other way. Began stalking me, got so fuckin’ close! I’m the one who stalks, sweetheart.

Remember that night when I caught you in the alley behind the bar. Were you followin’ me and that chick? Did you think I was gonna…? Nah, she had similar hair to Her, but… somethin’ was off. Lost interest. But you! Fuck, you were hot. Scared shitless. Did you think I was gonna kill you? Strangle, like all of them? No. You look nothing like her. You were safe. Well…woulda been safe if you hadn’t begun your sleuthin’.

A pity, really. Been such a good playthin' for daddy. That first time. Your heart was beatin’ so fast, like a little bird’s, flutterin’ under my fingers. Felt it when I was gropin’ your tits. Hell, I love ‘em. Look at you! Tied up and helpless. Want me to play with your tits? If I just slide my dick between them like this, shhh! Sit still! I’m sure I could come just fuckin' your boobs, sweetheart. My cum on your beautiful face. Here. I’ll make you eat it all up, every drop. Shhh, stop flinchin’! Don’t be shy on me all of a sudden.

You’re such a slut. Came all over my cock in that dark alley. Your neighbour, your dad’s friend, made you moan like a filthy whore. Still can see my cock slidin’ in and out of your tight cunt. Ah, the sounds! Fuck, you were so wet. You bitches are always so wet for me.

But you just had to go and ruin all of it. Have you been snoopin’ around for a long time? Since you started comin’ here, so I’d fuck you? Began noticing it. You’d ask hella weird questions. What do you have in the basement, Joel? Where do you go after work, Joel? Haha. Cute. I thought, "Well, even if you suspect somethin’. You have nothin’ on me.” Just your pretty mouth on my dick. Haha… You give a mean blowie baby. Pity really.

Today you really pissed me off. Breakin’ in like that? What if Sarah were here?! You’d scare her to death! I should’ve dealt with you the moment I found you in my bedroom. Well… maybe it’s for the best… Should daddy play with you one last time? Your last time… yeah, I’ll bend you over that table, ruin your little hole. And don’t worry, I’ll make sure you come and soak my dick real good. Gagged, tied up—just how I like you, sluts. Promise you, you’ll enjoy your last minutes.

Thank you for reading!

Comments and reblogs are appreciated!

[lesbianlotuswitch4]

tw?? allusion to sa. funny event w my and my sister

convo between me and my sister:

Me: Did you know Obama has a pinterest?

Her: Obama in his mitski era (referencing Barack Obama's top songs of 2021)

Me: Trump is in his good luck babe era (referring to a Trump x Biden Chappell Roan music video on youtube)

Me: *singing you can kiss 100 boys in bars*

Me: I'd say Trump would be kissing girls in bars but really he'd grab them by the-

[archivalofsins]

The Re-traumatization of Amane Momose

Today, I'll be discussing Amane Momose's case with @apatchworkstar. (Hi, it's Star! I hope you enjoy this post; or at the very least, find it informative!)

Specifically we'll be discussing the ties it has to trauma and retraumatization. This is a two-part post that covers the entirety of Amane's case. Part two will be added when it is completed.

Over the course of these posts, I set out to prove that Amane Momose’s previous verdict has caused long-term mental distress, anguish, and mixed with the actions of other prisoners has served to retraumatize her. Then highlight how due to these upsetting events and environmental triggers Amane Momose has fallen back on the teachings of her mother for a sense of security, safety, and allusion of control.

Leading to the tangible regression we see throughout Purge March. Along the way we'll be highlighting how the audience's previous choices were responsible for eliciting this trauma response and the danger each prisoner within Milgram poses to others there including Amane Momose herself.

1. Re-traumatization

Firstly, let’s talk about retraumatization,

What is it?

“Retraumatization is reliving stress reactions experienced as a result of a traumatic event when faced with a new, similar incident. However, as the result of the passing of time many people do not realize the stress they are experiencing is related to an earlier trauma in their lives. A current experience is subconsciously associated with the original trauma, reawakening memories and reactions, which can be distressing. This type of reaction is common and survivors should realize there are steps that can be taken to manage or relieve symptoms.”

“Survivors typically cope with retraumatization by employing avoidant coping strategies originally developed during childhood to cope with the original abuse. The experience of retraumatization appears to lower survivors’ threshold for future retraumatization by confirming survivors’ view of healthcare as a threatening experience. Without intervention, retraumatization can result in unhealthy outcomes due to the negative effects of stress on survivors’ mental and physical health along with interruptions in healthcare caused by avoidant coping.” - “A number of reports suggest that mental health patients may experience exacerbation of post-traumatic symptoms due to encounters in the mental health system, such as violence by other clients or forcible restraint by male attendants (Center for Mental Health Services & Human Resource Association of the Northeast, 1995; Geanellos, 2003; Jennings & Ralph, 1997; Smith, 1995). A Massachusetts task force investigating the effect of restraints on abused populations reported that research indicates at least half of all women treated in psychiatric settings have a history of physical or sexual abuse. The task force found that the use of restraints on people who have been previously abused often results in the reactivation of trauma symptoms and can cause setbacks in treatment (Carmen et al., 1996). The task force developed a specific set of guidelines for assessing clients’ trauma history and recommended altering restraint and seclusion policies to reduce risk of retraumatization.”

X- (TW: For mentions of childhood SA. Because it's a study on the retraumatization process in survivors of that.)

(Star, here! A clear example of Amane employing one such avoidant coping mechanism is shown through this image.

The umbrella is represented as both her shield and her weapon. A perfect visualization of how Amane views her faith. Not only as a shield from persecutions or a justification of her behaviors as we see in her first voice drama,

"The standards that judge my sins are somewhere else – in my heart, my blood, my entire body, they are firmly rooted in all those places!" And within those standards, your murder was not a sin? "Exactly!" "I see." "Ah, I am looking forward to it! Seeing whether your judgement will align with that of these higher standards! If that is the case, maybe Milgram would be the right world for us to live in, rather than the outside world! Milgram relies on your judgement, isn’t that right? In that case, you could become the mediator for a far more righteous world!!" And if my judgement is not in your favor, what will you do? "I will refuse your judgement."

This shows that Amane falls back on the teachings of her cult to regain a sense of autonomy during stressful or traumatic situations. Possibly a coping mechanism she developed during her time under her family's care. It was a mentality that likely shielded her from some of the rougher emotional impact that kind of abuse can have on someone simultaneously giving her a sense of control and possibly hope that things may improve. It did not remain just a shield though.

Over time, this became an offensive weapon to fight back against injustice or the incorrectness in the world that was befalling her. Something displayed by the umbrella being represented as a scepter within her mental space.

All of this comes together to display how Amane uses her religious teachings as a coping mechanism to hold onto some form of autonomy and as something to use to fight against perceived threats.

This is not only displayed through these visuals but these lines from her song as well,

Magic

``Even I can say "I'm sorry". Even I have hope. I swear! I'm going to be a good girl now! That's it!" - "Not meaning to brag, but I’m pretty happy; I’ve made up my mind so they don’t make that face at me again. But it’s not scary at all, because it’s love! I can really think it’s great. See, isn’t it a great thing?"- "I won’t say “I’ve had enough”; Will you laugh with me and forgive me?"

Purge March

"Good morning, ladies and gentlemen! It’s the beginning of a most wonderful day! However, there are blasphemers and silent bystanders, who would have it otherwise. We must not give into them; they are the ones that should be judged! With pure, unsullied body and soul, let us preach all that is true and right." - "I disavow you, eyes corrupted must be crushed."

Amane uses her faith how one actively chooses to use an umbrella as a shield against rain. Relying on it to help see her way through bad weather. Using it as support during difficult or distressing times.

Rain is something that can be thought of by some as "good" in small doses, but eventually you need to get out something to stop yourself from getting drenched and falling ill.

In Purge March, rain is heavily associated with the abuse that Amane faced growing up in her household. It is also consistently present within her mindscape; specifically, as confetti when she isn't being directly punished. This shows that Amane is aware of her abuse's omnipresence and is hypervigilant to what may trigger a flare up in punishment.

The fact that it is usually confetti alludes to her softening what it is until it gets so bad, she can't ignore it anymore. Something that we briefly see her attempt to do before the confetti turns colorful and her eyes change,

Before breaking into colorful confetti, we see Amane look up to the sky through her umbrella as it begins to rain. As though searching for a reason, a silver lining or any justification of what has just occurred. A way that she can think of this as a great thing before realizing she can't. Not just because it simply isn't a great thing, but because someone (more than likely her mother) has broken a promise to her somehow (more than likely by killing the cat because it's very common for abusive parents to go of if you just do one thing or take this punishment nothing else will happen I'll never bring it up again actually just to not do that.). Something illustrated through these lyrics in Purge March,

"I don’t need it any more, if you’re going to break your vow."

The color in the confetti illustrates the change from being the punished to the punisher. As they march forward from beneath that endless white.)

Things that may cause retraumatization and the signs of it.

Negative thoughts. Feeling on edge very anxious tense or easily startled. Intense feelings of guilt, anger, fear, anxiety, horror, sadness, shame, or despair.

22/04/19 (Futa’s Birthday)

Futa: Ahh...... I'm not wrong...... I wasn't doing anything wrong...... Shut up, why are you going on and on about something so minor...... It has nothing to do with you...... Aaahhh......

Amane: Oh, were you talking to yourself, Futa-san? Or maybe there’s something there you’re able to see?

Futa: ……! O-oh, it’s just you. It’s nothing. ……but well, on that note. Hey- Don’t you have anything  happening too? Since being in here, just suddenly getting anxious. Feeling as though loads of people are all there condemning you, telling you- You were wrong.

Amane: ……I’m fine. I don’t know what you’ve done or what it is you’re worried about- But I think if there’s something you believe in, you should stay true to it. It’s not something that should waver just because other people said something. I personally don’t plan on changing my own beliefs even if I’m told I’m wrong either…… …today is your birthday, correct? I’ll pray for God to keep you under his care.

"It’s so hot, so hard to breath, there’s no solace for my heart."

"Or maybe there's something there you're able to see?"

Backdraft

"Don’t get cocky, you in that cypher." - "The fight’s up here! Come up to the ring and face me!"- "You and you, throwing around rules for fun, hoisting up morality and feeling good. Should I succumb, make your wish come true? Full of yourselves, are you?"

Dissociation. Experiencing strong reactions to triggers. Social withdrawal and isolation. Avoidance of people, places, or situations related to the traumatic event.

22/10/24 (Shidou’s Birthday)

Amane: ……Kirisaki Shidou. How long do you plan on continuing this foolish behaviour?

Shidou: I wonder what you might be referring to there. I’m just doing what I need to do. If anything, I’d be happy if you would lend me a hand.

Amane: I warned you. I can no longer turn a blind eye to this wickedness taking place right in front of us. You’re bringing ruin unto yourself. Do you understand?

Shidou: No, I don’t understand. It’s my job as an adult to teach you that throwing a temper tantrum isn’t going to make everything go your way. If it’s a test of endurance you want, I’m happy to oblige, Amane.

"No, I don't understand."- "And furthermore- This may be outside of profession, but her mental health is deteriorating as well."

It is outside of his profession and that is perfectly illustrated by the fact that he only highlights Mahiru's deteriorating mental health and says nothing about the others.

23/01/17 (Mahiru’s Birthday)

Amane: Happy birthday. Mahiru-san. How is your body feeling?

Mahiru: ……ah, Amane-chan. Thank you. Yeah, I’m fine. Now I can move around if I use a wheelchair…… It’s all thanks to Shidou-san looking after me……

Amane: I’ll give you one warning. The two of you are dabbling in something tabooed. If you continue to go against the way of nature like this, you’ll just bring an early death upon yourself. Think hard about this.

Mahiru: Amane-chan……? Are you really Amane-chan……?

"You’ll just bring an early death upon yourself."

Q.10 Which of the other prisoners do you get along with?

Kazui: Shidou-kun, Mikoto and me all smoke together, so I think we get along well.

Amane: If I had to pick someone, then Yuno-san and Mahiru-san.

Amane's Second Voice Drama

Amane. Don’t think you’ll be able to lead the conversation with that total change in attitude. Is it the result of the judgment that you’ve ended up like this?

"“Like this”?"

The dazed look in your eyes. The atmosphere around you. The way you speak. In comparison to the first trial, it’s like you’re a different person.

"Hm."

Everyone who was unforgiven told me they heard voices judging their sins. They’re experiencing a lot of emotional stress as a result. Were your changes influenced by that as well?

"Hah? Those stupid voices, huh? Yeah. I have heard them as well. However, such things do not pose a major problem."

What?

"We have firm teachings. We have a clear and noble faith. No matter what kinds of things other people might say, these things cannot be shaken."

21/10/06 (Mikoto’s Birthday)

Mikoto: ……ah, Futa? What’s up? Did you come to celebrate my birthday?

Futa: Hah!? Like I care about your birthday. ……what’s up with you, though, you’re usually a lot more excited. I thought you were the sort of idiot who’d make a big deal over your birthday.

Mikoto: Yeah, usually that’d be the case. ……I think I must be getting tired. It’s like I’m anxious over something but I can’t really explain what it is…… Like, the feeling that I’ve been totally wrong about something. Haha, but it’s not like talking to you about it is gonna do anything.

Futa: Yeah, yeah, just like you say. Talking to me about it isn’t gonna help. ……but, it’s not like I don’t get what you’re saying. Or rather, I understand exactly what you mean. And if it’s the same thing as I’ve been feeling, then it will just get stronger as time goes on…..probably.

22/10/06 (Mikoto’s Birthday)

Haruka: Mikoto-san. Um, are you ok……?

Mikoto: Ah, Haru-kun. It’s been a while since we last talked, huh. Yeah, I’m fine. Are you doing ok……?

Haruka: Ah, I’m fine. I’ve been enjoying myself, a lot. Um, I’m sorry, for avoiding you. I was a bit scared. Of you, honestly……

Mikoto: Ahhh, yeah. I’ve been lashing out whenever I go to sleep, right? ……it’s fine. Even I think you’re right to be scared. You know, I kinda just hate that I don’t even know what’s going on myself…… haha. Ah, but despite all that you still came and talked to me because it’s my birthday, right? Thank you, you’ve grown into a good man.

Q.07 Are there any prisoners you get along with?

Shidou: Kayano-kun has become like that, and I can’t spend my time smoking at the moment, so the smoking trio has disbanded, which is a bit lonely.

Mahiru: I talk to Shidou-san a lot now, since he’s looking at my injuries. Also, Yuno-chan.

"I should have saved you, but why are you crying? Rely on me, praise with your song, I am your savior."

Practice your spiritual beliefs or reach out to a Faith Leader for support,

"Hm. Is that so? Are the prisoners who weren’t forgiven feeling lost right now? Maybe they need our faith as well."

23/04/19 (Futa’s Birthday)

Futa: ……! Oi, is it just you. Don’t scare me like that. You shouldn’t just stand there saying nothing. Hah, what? Did you just come to laugh at me for being weak? Dumb brat.

Amane: No. I just came to observe. To see what people are thinking. To see who is being corrupted. What about you, Kajiyama Futa?

Futa: I understand even less of what you're saying than I did before. Brat, you're on the side who weren't forgiven too, right? ......So, why can you still stand? Don't- you can hear it too? The voices blaming us. ......I don't have the energy to do anything like this.

Amane: It goes without saying. Because there’s something far more important than the voices of people we can’t even see. People are able to get back up again. As long as there’s something to guide them. Kajiyama Futa, by coincidence today happens to be your birthday, correct? Don’t you think it’s a good opportunity to be reborn? If, right now, you could shake off those around you trying to drag you down to depravity, and could change––

23/06/27 (Amane’s Birthday)

Amane: What is it…… Kashiki Yuno. Don’t sit so close to me. Go away.

Yuno: Sorry for barging in when you’re getting into your worldview thing. But Mahiru-san’s finally managed to get to sleep. Humour me with some small talk while I take a break. By the way, Amane. Have you ever wished you were never born? I’ve thankfully lived a pretty fun life so far, so haven’t really. But you seem to be struggling with something. So I kinda wondered if you thought like that.

Amane: ……I don’t think that. Being born into this world is the first miracle any person experiences and is something to celebrate. Even if after birth I was put through trial after trial, the value of that will never disappear.

Yuno: Hmm. Ok. ……happy birthday, then. It’s good that you were brought into the world, I guess.

23/07/05 (Mu’s Birthday)

Futa: Oi, you. Is he ok? He’s not even left his room lately.

Mu: You mean Haruka-kun? Hmm. Yeah, probably. I’ve been bringing all his meals to him so he should be fine. Isn’t that great of me?

Futa: Hah? Who the hell says that sort of thing about themself. ……ah, no, well, right now I understand a bit. When you’re feeling down, it’s nice to have someone who relies on you and accepts you. The rest of us can’t really understand you from where we’re standing. But well, if you’re Haruka’s “salvation” then I guess it really is great.

Mu: Salvation……? I don’t know what you mean. Futa-kun, you don’t sound like yourself. Did you hit your head or something? Oh, wait, you actually did, didn’t you. Ahaha. Ah, putting that aside though, did you know it’s my birthday today?

"Then I guess it really is great."

Magic

"I can actually think of it as a good thing, see isn’t it a great thing?"- "I can really think it’s great. See isn’t it a great thing?"

Backdraft

"Is it all ok if I offer penance? No helping it, out of the question."

"Pressure, pressure! Falling head down- Pressure, pressure! Whatever you do, you’re still last in line- Pressure, pressure! Applause receding far away- Me, the result of blame-shifting, no, can’t find that funny- With just one mistake and I’m out of chances Bless me, please, with one more chance- It’s not even my fault, not even slightly."

"Pick up your mouth-piece Grind your teeth and strike a pose Just like O2, burn yourselves into oblivion."

"Oblivion and the River Lethe Oblivion asks forgetfulness of us in both its meaning and etymology. The word’s Latin source, oblīvīscī, means “to forget; to put out of mind,” and since its 14th century adoption into English, oblivion has hewed close to meanings having to do with forgetting. The word has also long had an association with the River Lethe, which according to Greek myth flowed through the Underworld and caused anyone who drank its water to forget their past; 17th century poet John Milton wrote about “Lethe the River of Oblivion” in Paradise Lost. The adjective oblivious (“lacking remembrance, memory, or mindful attention”) followed oblivion a century later, but not into oblivion—both words have proved obdurate against the erosive currents of time."

Synonyms: Forgetfulness, Nirvana, Obliviousness.

"Burn yourselves into oblivion- Burn, burn! Open this door and check if you want to I’ll deign to hear your last words if you want, a vanishing FIRE."

Eternal Oblivion- A philosophical, scientific, religious concept stating that's one consciousness ceases forever upon death. This concept is commonly tied to religious skepticism, secular humanism, nihilism, and atheism.

"'Tis ordained, thou shall follow thine destiny. 'Tis ordained, thou shall discard vulgarity. 'Tis ordained, thou shall deliver unto those thou believest in. 'Tis ordained, thou shall stay thine course, then perish."

Q.12 What is the meaning of life?

Kazui: Who knows. If you ever find out, let me know.

Amane: I think it’s something you first understand when you reach the end of your life and look back on it. I’m doing my best to live in a way that I won’t regret when that time comes.

"Being born into this world is the first miracle any person experiences and is something to celebrate. Even if after birth I was put through trial after trial, the value of that will never disappear."

@doctorbunny Also reminded me that Futa's second voice drama is literally called, "Baptism by Fire" as well. Yeah, trial two is shaping up to be the cult-gram prelude whether Amane is Innocent or not. So, have fun with that everybody. Oh, and it'd be super nice if people stop deluding themselves into believing the outcome of this trial is going to stop something that has already occurred/has been occurring thanks.

Now back to the topic at hand-

All of these are signs of retraumatization not just in Amane but two other prisoners as well. Yet, if that's not enough- What else shows us that Amane has been retraumatized?

Well, Purge March visualizes perfectly that these circumstances have retraumatized Amane. Especially if one were to take the visuals from Magic and her most recent mv and compare them. Something many people outside of myself have done.

People have pointed out that in Magic we see Amane riding on top of a cloud. However, the entire set that Amane is standing on is a Heaven on Earth of sorts where she takes center stage.

The white cloud-like structures around the rainbow stepped pedestal with the old symbol of the cult firmly behind it as Amane turns away from it at the start of the song.

Before the clouds cover up her face and fade us into this,

Amane bursting up from beneath the cloud, appearing to sit on top of it in confusion and shock. She holds this confused and shocked expression until all the others float around and then she's by herself again at which point she smiles.

It's only when they are shown not to visibly be around (it's implied they're still around just not directly near her) does she smile- After this the mascots circle beside her again. In a familiar way at this point- Well in a way I feel should be familiar considering how much Purga March has been viewed over the past few days-

The cloud displaying the title of Amane's first song resembling the symbol on the flag that we see in Purge March. The mascots circling the symbol with Amane around her song's title. A song and title that like with the other prisoners is something uniquely hers. So, I find it curious that instead of using the symbol associated with the cult the double clouds- Something again she displays prominently at the beginning she instead puts her song title on a singular cloud and has these mascots circling it.

Creating a vague visual illustration of the symbol on the flag they carry at the end. Something unique to them that she created all on her own.

The cycle of punishment displayed throughout the song also only begins after Amane and the mascots have fallen from on top of the clouds as well. Going under them. Purge March follows up on this by visually illustrating again that punishment is represented not only by being submerged in water but overshadowed or smothered by any sort of force. Be it the clouds or her mother's shadow or hand.

Something is always above Amane when she is getting punished.

"After you cry, repent, and kneel, it’s now your turn to say that hopeless “I’m sorry”." - "I'm sorry! Sorry! I'm sorry for breaking the rules..."

"Remember MY cries, MY repents, MY words of “I’m sorry” that I said to you?"

This is something that is further displayed through the imagery used to end off Purge March and the way it mirrors how Magic ends,

No longer is Amane beneath these clouds but in front of them once again as Magic started. Amane is now able to act on her own beliefs at her own discretion. It's even more telling that she goes from standing with Yuri and Riyone to by herself and pointing her wand at someone.

What we can tell from the use of clouds, and shadows over the course of Magic and Purge March- Is that when Amane is beneath them it is a sign of her not having control of the situation and being subject to the whims or beliefs of others. This is why we believe the fact that Amane remains beneath clouds throughout most of Purge March is indicative of her declining mental health and a sign that this experience has retraumatized her.

2. Reactive Abuse

Star here. I would also like to touch upon the concept of "reactive abuse" and how it may play a factor in both the prisoners and Milgram as a whole.

Reactive Abuse, is a term used to describe when a victim reacts in a volatile manner (that could be perceived as abusive to those uninvolved or uninformed about the situation) in response to their abuse. This term is not meant to be used in a way to blame the victim or shift any of the responsibility for the abuse onto them but describe in further depth the multitude of responses individuals can have while undergoing abuse.

How a victim responds to their abuse/abuser does not immediately turn them into an abuser themselves. The lack of knowledge around this phenomenon and the various ways people can respond to abuse has created a situation where the victim's response to the abuse can be viewed as abusive. Especially when the way the victim responds is viewed as socially unacceptable or abusive itself.

This makes it appear as though the actions of a victim trying to defend themselves are on the same level as an abuser harming their victim. Sometimes causing it to appear that there are two abusers in the relationship when there is only one. This is made even worse by the fact that sometimes abusive individuals count on their victim responding in this way or goad them into responding in that way to make themselves appear better or their behavior seem more justified in the eyes of outsiders.

A prime example of this would be intentionally acting in a way that the abusive party knows will elicit this sort of response from the victim- So the abuser can record the victim’s behaviour and claim that how the victim behaved was worse.

A side note, but it's a fair possibility that this happened to Mikoto, hence his hypervigilance regarding being filmed without knowledge.

20/05/25

Mikoto: ……I’ve really got caught up in some trouble, huh. What even is this place? It’s probably a TV reality show or something. ……but to think someone in this day and age would try to do a project that could land them in so much trouble. Uh…… Mahiru: Ah…… I’m Shina Mahiru! You can just call me Mahiru. And you are……? Mikoto: Kayano Mikoto. I’m fine with just Mikoto too. Ahh, I’m glad there’s someone here who’s easy to talk to…… It’s nice to meet you, Mappy. Mahiru: ………………Mappy???

20/05/31

Mu: Hey, Mikoto-kun, aren’t you scared of this place……? You can’t think of any reason you ended up here, right……? Mikoto: Ahh, yeah. Of course, it’s not like I’m not scared at all. But just between you and me…… I still haven’t dropped the thought that this could all just be a TV show. I mean, I really haven’t ever murdered anyone.……and if that is the case, we’re definitely being monitored. For like a prank setup or something. Wouldn’t it be super uncool and embarrassing to get angry or lash out and have it shown on prime time? Mu: Is that what you think……? A prank, huh…… I hope that’s all it is…… Mikoto: Ah! If that is the case, then you’ll probably be super popular since you’re so cute, Mucchan! There’s a lot of girls out there who make their big break coming off reality shows like that!

20/06/15

Mikoto: Hey, it’s kinda a bother having you be so angry and tense all the time. You should stop trying to get everyone to pay attention to you. You’re a uni student, right? You can’t act like that once you start working properly. Futa: Huh!? Shut up. Not like I care what you say. Even though we’re in this shitty situation, you’re just chatting away, it’s stupid. Aren’t you the one who’s acting out of place here?……also the fact you give everyone nicknames is just gross. Mikoto: *sigh* It’s more stupid to be taking this all so seriously. I mean, it’s definitely just a reality TV program. There’s no way a real prison exists that’s this lax. Also, I don’t give nicknames to everyone. I don’t give them to young kids like Amane, or to the hard-to-approach types like Shidou-san. I mean, I’m not giving you one, right? Futa: ……oi, which group are you trying to say I am?

First trial website voice line

“Ah, I got it! This must be some sort of reality show. There’s no way it’s broadcasted, so maybe an online program?”

John Doe

Your name and age? "Uh… Mikoto Kayano, 23. Wait, no! I've been wanting to talk to you this whole time, guard-kun!" What is it? Make it short. "Alright… when is this whole thing going to end?" Huh? "No, it's obvious, isn't it?! Suddenly being dragged to a place like this, being told all this weird stuff about killers and all that– is this some kind of comedy? A reality TV show? One of those monitoring things? I've been holding on to that thought this whole time, and that was also the reason I tried to get along with the others! Y'know – because that'll look better on a TV show, right?! But look, this is stretching out for way too long…! What's up with this?" ......You really still believe that? That MILGRAM is some kind of joke? "I do! Of course I do! I mean… I really don't remember. Even if you talk about sins or murderers– I don't know about any of that! I'm just a normal worker at a company…"

This is a concept shown very well in Purge March. The way Purge March ends is with Amane proclaiming that she’ll punish her abuser in the same way they abused her.

“Here and now, it’s my turn to tear you apart. So there is no second time, I’ll give back the judgment that you gave to me.”

You will see that is exactly what she did. She waterboards her abuser, likely tases them and then beats them- to death in this case. Though given the size of the bruise on Amane, it seems as though she just gave as good as she got.

One could argue that this is happening within Milgram too. Es intentionally pushes Amane, Fuuta and Mikoto to their mental limit within Milgram, provoking a (rightfully upset) reaction.

For Amane, in both Apostle and Death and Of Blessedness and Punishment, Es goads her into reacting in a volatile manner by repeatedly throwing her wish to not be treated like a child in her face, dismissive of her ideals and belief system at best, though mocking would be a better descriptor. When she does reach her limit and react, they make fun of her. The only exception to this is in Of Blessedness and Punishment, where Amane pushes Es’ sore spot. That being a fragmented identity. She then proceeds to mock them right back, asking them if they are alright before saying to get better by themselves as this is a trial from god.

With Fuuta, Es takes overt advantage of how quickly Fuuta is to react to others’ input and how he takes people at face value. This happens in both trials in different ways. In Braze You, it was Es making the active decision to tease Fuuta since he acted the most stereotypical to being put in this situation. In Baptism of Fire, they give Fuuta a small glimpse of hope about being voted innocent before turning around and saying that they’ll judge no matter how much their “comrades” cry. When Fuuta lashes out at this, saying that he'll kill Es if they don’t vote him innocent, they dismiss him. They state that if they truly are the same, then they’ll get whats coming to them at some point anyways.

As for Mikoto, in John Doe, Es repeatedly pushes on the idea that Mikoto killed someone but forgot. This is despite the fact that Mikoto is in clear distress about the concept. They also mimic how he speaks when doing so, using speech mannerisms such as “it’s only natural to think that, right?” and “That’s the only logical conclusion”. This pushes Mikoto to switch, his other personality doing his best to shut Es up and prevent more mental harm. This is the only reaction to throw Es off, but even then, they continue to egg on the other personality. This results in the other personality laying into Es harder until Kotoko intervenes.

Es also attempts this with Haruka, though to varying degrees of success. In The Writhing of the Weak, Es attempts to get a volatile reaction from Haruka, by acting as a stereotypical “bad cop”. They are instead blindsided by how subservient he comes across, and how easily he accepts any form of attention. It doesn’t matter if it’s framed in a negative or positive light, Haruka’s just happy to have someone look at him. In Metamorphosis of the Weak, however, Es manages to draw out a response by stating the fact that Haruka isn’t out of the woods yet. Haruka reacts in three different ways here.

One, stating that Es is weird and mean for taking back their acceptance after voting him innocent (likely due to Muu’s influence, as that’s a complaint that she’d have).

Two, stating that he can kill anything smaller than him (presumably a train of logic that lead to his murder).

Three, saying that Es wasn’t his mother and only Muu was, before threatening violence against Es if Muu wasn’t voted innocent. When they remind him that the prisoners can’t attack the guard, he switches tacks and says he’ll die if she isn’t voted innocent, before bragging that he can learn. When Es calls him a dumb ass for this, he replies that he was born one.

Es is also aided by the fact that they are within a position of power compared to the prisoners with their status as “warden”. It doesn’t seem to occur to Es that this nebulous position could be ripped away from them at any time by Jackalope.

Es is put in a position where the audience would want to sympathize with them, due to factors such as age, lack of memories and being pushed into a position of heavy judgements without prior preparation. There’s also the fact that they are a stand in for us. This means the audience are more likely to excuse or defend their behaviour. Adding all this together, if the prisoner reacts in a way that’s considered “unsuitable” the audience is predisposed to be on Es’ side. Saying things such as “the prisoners are being unreasonable” and that “if they were truly sorry, they wouldn’t be reacting like that”.

3. Why was Amane retraumatized by her verdict and Milgram?

So, with all that out of the way... We've explained a few things.

Firstly we've explained what retraumatization is and how it may be impacting multiple prisoners. Secondly, we explained the reasoning behind our belief that Amane has been retraumatized by her previous verdict. Then thirdly we explained reactive abuse and how that may play a factor in some of the prisoners' mannerisms.

However, we haven't touched on why exactly Amane was retraumatized by her verdict. She states that she doesn't really mind the voices because something like that can't shake her beliefs.

Plus, she even takes it a step further stating she's already been told these sorts of things before,

Amane Second Voice Drama

"Aren’t we the same? Me and Warden-san. You know, I’m aware that I’m out of the ordinary. That my environment was peculiar, and that everyone [else] is normal."

Amane…

"In fact, there have been people who said that to me. I’ve been told things like, “You’re being deceived.” “You can still make it right now.” “You’re crazy.”."

…

"You are treating me as a child after all. Because I’m a child, you believe that I must have been brainwashed. It’s not like that. I, too— children, too, understand everything! Please don’t just decide that people must be unhappy."

…

"I’m happy that I was born to my parents! It was a bit difficult, and it could feel restrictive sometimes, but I’m really happy that I could grow up on such beautiful teachings! I want to live this way!"

However, she states this in terms of her religious beliefs. Something she's only fallen back on after her retraumatization. The core request within Magic was never please say my cult is good but Amane asking if it was alright for her to act in her own self-interest,

"Dear wise one, Am I worthy? Is it ok to spoil myself?" - "Is it ok to be weak sometimes?"

So, what was denied by the audience was Amane's right to make decisions for herself, not the cult's doctrines. Making it no surprise in retrospect that she would fall back on these teachings to reinforce her worldview. Add onto that the punishment Milgram gave is literally one of the forms of abuse she underwent constantly hearing voices berating you-

Amane Trial 1 Voice Drama

I've kept you waiting, Amane.

"Yes, you did. You're late."

Alright, let us start the interrogation.

"I don't want to."

Hah?

"I won't acknowledge it."

What do you mean?

"It is your duty to apologize to me first."

Uh-huh...

"Nh...Do you understand?!"

...?

"It is vital to always be on time for things. When you do something wrong, you need to apologize. These are both my personal rules and the rules of society."

Are you done? I would like to start the interrogation.

"No, I am not done talking. I need to make sure you are aware of your mistake."

Sigh...

"Why are you making a face like that? Is there something you want to say?"

I'm not in the mood to play around with you... Listen, Amane.

"What is it?"

Don't get the wrong idea. You are an inmate, and I am the warden. That's our dynamic. I have no intention of letting you order me around.

"Hm... But if you're the warden, as you say you are- Shouldn't you take the prisoners' opinions into consideration?"

Don't make me laugh. I'm not your teacher at school; it isn't my goal to teach you things or guide you on the right path. Milgram's goal isn't to turn you back into decent human beings and get you back into normal society. What's needed here are firm honest judgements and decisions.

"Judgements and decisions..."

All that is needed is a decision on whether your crimes are forgivable or not. I don't have any responsibility beyond that. And I have no intention of letting myself be fooled by the impression you are just a little kid.

"I see. Is that so..."

It is. Now let's get to the interroga-

"Then, please apologize to me not as the warden but as yourself."

...As myself?

"Yes. It is only natural for a person to apologize to another for breaking a promise."

...

"Why are you looking so doubtful? Are you not human?"

No, I'm sure you're right. ... I apologize.

"Okay! I'm kind, so I shall forgive you. That's nice, isn't it? If my parents were in my place you would have been lectured for another hour."

I'm glad I wasn't born into your family.

"...Is that so? Alright, we're running late. So, let's start the interrogation!"

(I think it's important to note that Amane has parents here meaning both of them would have lectured here for another hour. Not just her mom.)

And what is hearing these voices but constant lecturing and berating with no end? Not even the freedom of thought she used to have in order to cope with these things. It's a new sort of sound torture where someone isn't even safe in their own mind.

Also, I thought it'd be fun to point out this other similarity in thinking between Futa and Amane,

Q.01 What do friends mean to you?

Futa: People who get excited about the same things as you.

Bring It On

"You apologize if you do something wrong, you learn that even before words, don’t you?" - "When you do something wrong, you need to apologize. These are both my personal rules and the rules of society."/ "Yes. It is only natural for a person to apologize to another for breaking a promise."

This part of her first interrogation may also be why they say this in their second,

"But we are generous. For now, let us make some time for a conversation with you. After all, our history is one that is built on dialogue."

Next time in part two- (Also known as next time on my declining mental health and Star's increasing sleep deprivation!)

[coffeemakerwriter]

GhostSoap playlist

TW’s: suicide, SA, death, depression, grief, abuse mentions, heavy angst with little to no fluff, may be ooc!! Heavy on soaps death!! Please proceed with caution and let me know if I miss any tags!

A/N: I prefer light and fluffy stuff for ghost and soap but :)) I thought this would be fun! I don’t really have any angsty headcanons for them but I kinda just wrote out my thoughts for this :) this is probs super out of character but that’s okay!

Wc: 1k woords!

Reckless driving by Lizzy mcalpaine and Ben Kessler:

I don’t exactly know why this fits, but it makes sense to me in a way, I think in the way that ghost and soap are both reckless, but ghost is reckless in the way he doesn’t care if he died, but I think in a way, he doesn’t want to take soap with him, and I think that’s frustrate soap, that ghost is so willing to risk his life for him that he’d go as far as to kill himself if it was needed. As long as it keeps soap alive.

The Gold - Phobe Bridgers version:

I think of this in the way after the soap's death ghost is different, ‘I don’t think I love you anymore, that gold mine changed you’? That feels like after Soap's death ghost someone says how different he is, closed off, ‘I don’t wanna be me anymore’ could be ghost agonizing on how he feels because of ghosts death and feels guilty about how he’s been acting since and fears it’s damaging his remaining relationships.

Cherry wine - live by Hozier:

Soap to ghost is a spitfire, loud and wild, hard to contain, harsh barks of laughter and his eyes light up at an ability to fight, but he loves when he’s calm too. “Her fight and fury is fiery Oh but she loves Like sleep to the freezing

Sweet and right and merciful I'm all but washed In the tide of her breathing” can be how soft soap is with ghost, how sweet he can be regardless of his bright and fiery personality. He would love him regardless if he was soft or harsh.

Born to die by Lana del rey:

Regardless of whatever timeline you look at, both of them are born to die, never actually destined to be together forever. Either they both die or one is ripped away. Neither get a happy ending.

Johnny boy by Twenty One pilots:

‘Get up Johnny boy’ can be ghost begging soap to get up, getting more and more distraught as he repeats it, the sickening realization that his pride and joy isn’t getting up, because his pride and joy is dead. ‘I will carry all your names, and I will carry all your shame’ can be ghost vowing in some way that even after his death he will make sure he means something, that his death didn’t go in vain and even with his faults and mistakes he will make sure Johnny will be carried on.

Army dreamers by Kate bush:

The entire song can be played on the fact that soap's body is being brought home, that his coffin is being home to his mother and sisters, how they wish he had chosen something else to do instead of being a soldier, an army dreamer. How he died so young, and how he’ll never make it past his 20’s. But even then, he’ll always be his mammy’s hero.

Not strong enough by boygenius:

I think this kinda deals with more so, ghosts grief with soaps death, how he feels empty and doesn’t know why he is the way he is after he dies. ‘Do you see us getting scraped off the pavement?’ Could be in allusion to the fact he thought about killing himself after soap's death, that in some way he felt like it was his fault soap died. And maybe the emptiness he feels going home to shared space, knowing that soap won’t be there anymore, knowing that he’s alone now. Knowing that he’s never coming home.

I bet on losing dogs by mitski

Ghost holding soaps body, cradling his head in his lap, his baby, he’s watching him die, holding his cold, lifeless body. He knew he wasn’t gonna live, how do you survive something like that? That’s a bet you can’t win. He knew he wouldn’t survive, so all he can do is hold him in his last moments and offer comfort in his last moments. Because either way he’s watching him die.

Savior complex by Phobe bridgers:

I think soap wants to help ghost get better, offer him a place of comfort, save him, but ghost isn’t all that open about things. Not his childhood, not roba, and sure as hell not his family. But soap wants to be there for him, show me yours show you mine? He’s willing to be vulnerable with him if only he’d be vulnerable too, soap thinks he will be, with time at least.

Sarah by Alex g:

I don’t really know how to explain this one either, just the fact I feel like ghost would feel like he’s in a dream, constantly seeing Johnny, seeing his face, hearing his voice, running to him, only for him to be woken up just before he can reach him. I feel like ghost would wait for him like a dog, despite knowing he’s gone, he’s not coming back, he still waits. Or atleast waits till he can join him.

All for us by labyrinth:

I feel like Johnny and ghost would do anything for eachother, they love each other so much that they would die for the other. They would risk their careers for each other if it came down to it. Genuinely I think they’d kill for the other if they had to, without a thought.

Feel better by Penelope Scott:

I think ghost found comfort in his unwellness after soap's death, a routine maybe, I think ghost agonized over it not only becaUse of just how close they were in general but because someone had actually loved him, loved him despite his flaws, his issues, despite everything they loved him. I think in a way, he thinks he’s incapable of being loved. But soap disproved that, and the fact that he loved him despite everything made it hurt even more.

Funeral by Phobe bridgers:

Imagine ghost talking at soap's funeral, going to the funeral of someone he cared so deeply about that he didn’t think would die so soon. Imagine him having to talk to his mother, comfort her and tell her how much her son meant to him. And how sometimes he wakes up from nightmares of johnny's death, only weeks after it happened, and how he just has this deep feeling of sadness and emptiness and he can’t help but wonder if it’ll always be like this.

I love you so by the Walter’s:

Imagine ghost seeing soap in a dream, begging soap to stay only for him to tell him he needs to let go, but he’s not ready to yet. He doesn’t want to let him go, he doesn’t want to forget him. He loves him. Why does he want him to forget? He doesn’t want to forget his smile, or the way his eyes crinkle when he laughs. He doesn’t want to forget any of it.

Freaks by Surf Curse:

I feel like ghost dreams about soap a lot after his death. And everytime he dreams of him he hopes he doesn’t wake up, either because he wants to stay with him just a little longer or because he hopes somehow he’ll die in his sleep, so he can finally be at peace.

We’ll never have sex by leith ross:

I feel like ghost has a fear of sexual intimacy or at least some anxiety around it. And he’s afraid that soap will want to initiate that sort of stuff with him, and he’s worried that soap will leave him when he finds out that he doesn’t like sex all that much, or that can make him uncomfortable at times. He's in therapy for sure, but that doesn’t make it completely go away. But I think Johnny would be understanding, willing to listen to him when he explains how sometimes it makes him uncomfortable. I don’t think Johnny would do anything to make ghost uncomfortable on purpose. I do think he’d make sure ghost is comfortable with anything sexual.

Mr. Loverman by Ricky Montgomery:

I think this is just mainly ghost missing Johnny, maybe drinking too much one night, agonizing on how much he misses him, what he could’ve done differently, and if he got there sooner, could he have saved him? Would he be sitting here beside him instead of in an urn?

Like real people do by Hozier:

I think this is just them learning to love, being soft with each other, about how they met, I don’t think soap would ask very many questions about ghosts' childhood, I think he’d figure out pretty early on that it wasn’t a good one. I think he’d let him speak about it when he was ready, when he felt safe to do so. I think in a way he’d feel a sad bitterness when he sees ghost exhibit behaviors he learned from his childhood, like walking quietly, doing things to please him when he got upset, things to make him happy. I think that’s when Johnny would connect the dots, that he didn’t have a good childhood. I think regardless of that though, Johnny would treat him with the care he deserves, and I think ghost would do the same too.

Nothings new by Rio Romeo:

I think ghost would settle in this emptiness that he felt like he could never get out of, this never ending feeling that nothing will ever change, that he will always feel empty now that soap is dead.

Sunlight by Hozier:

I think soap and ghost do make eachother happy, that they work well together as a couple, that they have boundaries that are good and they communicate well. Soap his ghosts sunlight and he’d die on that hill. Soap means everything to ghost and soap is the same way with him. I feel like they make eachother better as people and learn to better themselves for the other. Because they WANT to make their relationship work.

J’s lullaby (darlin’ I’d wait for you) by Delaney Bailey:

I think in a way, ghost will always wait for soap to come back, he’s always gonna hope for him to come through their front door after a deployment, and curl himself into his side and rest their for the rest of the night. Logically he knows that won’t happen, but he’d give anything for it to. Because he’d do anything for his Johnny.

[vidavalor]

Please tell me you think there's a word thing happening with the turnip and the inkwell because I can't make it make sense.

Hi there. 💕 Hope you're having a great week so far. I'm making spaghetti tonight, if you would like some. With fresh basil from my herb garden. 😊 I have some ideas on it below. I believe there are word things happening, yes.

The turnip and the inkwell has two levels of meaning, imo. It first comes up when Aziraphale is roleplaying his magic act for Crowley, who is standing in for the audience, which is all a bit meta. On this level, it's a metaphor for the creative process. How so? Well...

Turnips are boring as fuck vegetables lol. No one, in the history of the world, has ever craved a turnip and, yet, we'd be sunk without them, especially as they are also grown to feed the animals on which some of us feed. Metaphorically, a turnip is the boring, banal, everyday blahs of life. Common human experiences that link us together but appear uninteresting on the surface until, through some creative magic, a way to bring them to life is uncovered. To turn those turnips into inkwells through a spark of divine magic and then some human labor?

That is to tell a story. It's what making art is.

That is only one of the two metaphors at work in the scene, though.

There is another level of this, which is that the turnip and the inkwell are also a metaphor that Aziraphale came up with when creating his magic act. He created it within the context of the story of Good Omens so it has a whole, other meaning to him and Crowley.

For the below stuff: TWs: SA, PTSD

To look at a metaphor meant to be penned by Crowley and/or Aziraphale in the story, we have to come at it from a word history and wordplay direction. To come at the turnip and the inkwell from an etymological standpoint, then, is to start with the turnip-- and that means learning about the history of a word that we use commonly today to describe a heinous act: rape.

Rape is an Old French word that comes from the Latin words rapum and rapa. Best that people can tell, it wasn't until sometime in the 14th century that the word began to mean a sexual violation. Originally, the word rape was the name given to what we now refer to in English as the turnip.

At the time, rape was not just the name for the turnip but also an umbrella name for anything in the category of plants that we now refer to as Brassica rapa-- with the Latin roots still visible in there, as you can see. The turnip is still the most commonly grown plant in that category and the main root vegetable. Also in that category are plants that we now call napa cabbage and bok choy, among a few other, less common ones. Rapeseed oil is derived from plants in this category and was once, like the turnip, referred to just as rape. For a little while in the late 1800s, it was also referred to by a name I'll include here as it feels relevant: bird's rape.

In his magic act, Aziraphale transforms a literal turnip into a literal inkwell because it's metaphoric for what he considers his true skill as a magician-- helping to turn his Brassica rapa'd partner into a well (healthiness; full container; water source) of sexually euphemistic ink.

The turnip and the inkwell is the bits of the Fish meta that discuss Crowley and Aziraphale dealing with Satan's attacks on Crowley and what that all had to with ancient Rome, etc., in a metaphor, basically, and one that Aziraphale made up in the story.

Other posts involving this theme and Crowley, should you be interested: the one on Satan's abuse of Crowley; the one about the show using allusions to the myth of Hades & Persephone in this bit of Crowley & Aziraphale's story; and part of the deep dive into what it means to dance.

[deeptrashwitch]

A Haunting Past (pt.8)

Tw: mention and allusion to kidnap, mention and allusion to death, mention and allusion to torture, mention and allusion to severe wounds, allusion to SA

Alyssa Price, referred as Aly in the first part of this part, is an OC who belongs to @alypink ! Please go and give her love, she's amazing!

Taglist: @alypink @stuffireadandenjoy @snootlestheangel @tapioca-milktea1978 @islandtarochips

@justasmolbard @mutantthedark @mctvsh @welldonekhushi @midnight193

"What are you thinking about?" Wraith quietly asked her with a raised eyebrow

"I'm confused about what happened, because...why kill the biggest weaponry supplier of the goddamned web? It doesn't make sense" she murmured

"Yeah, it's weird, do you think they'll try to do the same with the rest? I mean, we take Green Chameleon and Black Swan out of the game, and they killed White Tiger" Dominique murmured now frowning "they only are three now, it's good for us, but I don't understand..."

"Me neither, but we need to continue...I don't think we can go one by one, we have to take the two apart of Red Dragon all down at the same time"

"Do you wanna use the second squad?"

"...No, we need teams like us"

"So?"

"Let's call Aly, she knows what teams can fit better in each mission. We can give her all the intel that we have, and you can coordinate with her about the time, day and team that'll help us"

"Well, Alyssa is certanly someone I can trust about this, but it worries me what Red Dragon can do if he knows we have allies like her"

"Include her into our back up plan, we can protect Lily and anyone who needs protection. Also, Price is Price, he'll be damned if he let's something to Aly"

"Don't be so sure, something changed"

"What?"

"Soap MacTavish was shot in England trying to stop Makarov and a bomb used for an attempted attack, he's stills alive...but Price and his people are erratic because of it" Wraith explained with a sigh "I can't predict what will they do, even if he will protect Aly and Lily as usual...I'm afraid I don't know the reach of his consecuenses now"

"...Then let's bring them to Black Tomb, we're a high security base and we can protect them better"

"I like that plan better, I'll call her as soon we finish here"

"Thanks Dominique"

"Don't mention it" she said while she went to prepare everything for the explanation

Alicia sighed when Wraith proyected part of the archives of Firewall, trying to wrap her head to tell them about it. She stood in front of the table just waiting, then looking at Jackson and Edward in silence, wondering what their reaction will be. Dominique nodded towards her at the same time that the old emblem of the operation appeared in the screen.

"Alright, before I start telling you about Broken Statue...you need to learn about the operation before. During many years the USSOCOM chased after a trafficant with connections all over the world, and in 2016 we prepared an operation to get him and get information about a nuclear weapon cache" Alicia said with serious voice "I was sent and Wraith was assigned as intelligence there as well"

"We talked with many superiors of the different branches, retired and in active service, to know which teams should go to the locations. There were six, and so were six places where we could find Anwar Carabalí, well...Orisha" Dominique intervened to explain the technical part "two from the Army, two from the MC, a SEAL Team and a team from the USAAF. Alicia, I hope you remember the places...?"

"I do, and the teams. SEAL 3 was sent to Casa Blanca, the 101th was sent to Yamena, the 4th from Raiders went to Cairo, the 720th went to Brazzaville, the USSOCOM sent the 8th from the Rangers to Beirut...and the 267 was sent to Luanda" she muttered while she looked away "by that moment, I was the command officer of the Task Force, and that same year they died"

"You were there...?" Edward whispered, getting pale as he shared a look with Jackson

"Yes, I was there as well as you were" she answered with tired voice "I continue, SEAL 3, the 4th, the 101st and the 720th didn't find much information, some things about some other sites, useful...but not what we were looking for. Instead, the 8th found about the cache and we found Carabalí, but it wasn't good, we got the worst part"

Dominique showed ten archives under the name "Burning Heaven", all of them were soldiers, and half of them were marked as dead.

"This is the case from Lebanon, they called it Burning Heaven after the trap was known. Their Captain, Taylor Smith, talked with me once I came back to the US...we were in the same hospital ward" Alicia admitted with a long sigh "they were locked into the room with the information, none of them were meant to leave that place, but they had charges prepared for any case, so they escaped. From ten soldiers three of them died for chemical exposition, chlorine gas especifically, two died days later because of their injuries during the withdrawal and exposition to the gas...the rest of them were hospitalized during more than two months because of the gas and the Captain was discharged of the Army for permanent damages to his lungs and throat"

"What I'm about to show you, is a recording of that day recovered from the body cameras of the three first soldiers" Wraith said with a stone face "you need to understand, everything that you see here, our enemies are replicating it. So be aware of the danger you'll be exposed from now"

"I'll be outside, I can't bear watch that, call me when that finish" Alicia said, walking outside without being able to look at anyone

"Alicia" Wraith called, looking outside "it's time"

"On my way" she answered, walking towards the conference room

"Are you sure about this?"

"No, but I need them to know, I won't let the story repeat"

Dominique nodded with sadness, but followed her inside, where the ten Specters and the Colonel were silent, thinking. Then as Alicia took the pictures from the envelope and Wraith started to desclasify the archives, everyone looked at her.

"What you will see might change the whole perspective you have about me, and probably will stain all memories we have together" she said in a whisper that was well heard by everyone "I won't blame you if after this you decide to hate me or fear me, that would be understandable"

"All ready" Wraith said, making Alicia sigh

"At first se were supposed to raid the places at the same time, but for logistic reasons it wasn't the case. Instead, the 267 started the mission first and the other teams folowed, and that day was when we were declared MIA" she said with steady voice and shaking hands, making her cross her arms "someone betrayed us and we were ambushed by Orisha, once he captured us, we were jailed into one of his sutes in the middle of the angolan jungle. During two weeks and four days we were there, and...I was the only one who came back"

"Cap, but the inscription on the memorial-" Marcus tried to say, shutting up when he noticed the shineless eyes of his Captain

"I know, a helo crash...that was the excuse the CIA put for it, but the reality was other"

"What happened there?" Jackson asked, having a bad feeling

"Hell on earth" she muttered with pain "Carabalí wanted everything, the future raids, the members, the back ups and the equipments. As the officer in command, I was the only one with the complete information, and he tried to get it. At first he attempted with bribes and threats, when he didn't get anything about it, he started to use all kind of torture to make me talk"

It left everyone frozen, and instinctively they looked at Alicia's scarred arms and face.

"I never said anything despite what he did, for...a complete week I was cut, burnt, beaten, psycologically tortured and electrified in an attempt to make me tell them everything. And after that week, they learned about how loyal I am to my people and my ideals, so they started to use my team against me"

"What does that mean?" Luke murmured, thinking about the archive he accidentally found

"...During some days, after especially horrible times on that room, Carabalí's men took one of my soldiers and also started to torture them. I heard all their screams, and I couldn't do anything about it" she whispered while her grip over her arms became stronger, almost making little wounds "all of them had it worst, most of them didn't have the information they needed...those bastards just wanted to break me with them"

Alicia sighed, closing her eyes for a second, but shook her head before taking the envelope again. When she opened it she stared at them for a second, then took the pictures and walked towards the table, yet not looking at anyone.

"These are pictures that came to the light after the rescue mission, whoever betrayed us that time got this...this was us during that second week, our worst days"

The first picture was of a man, with his eye inflamed and his jaw in a weird position, also filled with little cuts.

"The Lieutenant, Richard Porter...he went as Blade"

The next one was a woman, her face was covered with dirt and bruises, her eyes filled with absolute fear and pain...and with bruises on her neck.

"Kate Petrova, Sergeant and the only other woman...she suffered the most, they did the unthinkable to her" Alicia whispered, letting a tear fall "she went as Hope"

While she whipped her tear, she left the third picture. Another man, muzzled, with blood running down from his forehead, frowning with anger.

"He was Leo Jameson, used to go as Tiger, our second Sergeant" she clarified looking away

When the fourth picture was left on the table, almost everyone was feeling sick, but they said nothing. It was a man too, with a long cut over the place where his eye should have been, but the eye wasn't there...and that was just one of his wounds.

"Sean Walker, Private, went as Marble..."

The fifth picture was a man, tired and filled of sadness, with part of his cheek gone and with his nose broken.

"Arthur Greenhill, Private, went as Lotus" she said, tapping at the picture with one finger "he...saved my life"

And the last picture left everyone frozen with horror, and Alicia was shaking as she put the picture over the table, trying not to see it. It was maybe as young as Francis if not more, with red eyes because of the crying, bruises all over his face, cuts and burns.

"...Jason, his name was Jason King. The kid went as Runner, a young one just sent to the 267 by that time"

As everyone tried to process everything, Alicia left one more over the table, calling everyone's attention. Every single soldier had to hold their breath and their desire to puke, because they now were staring at Alicia's picture during that time. She was staring at the camera with emotionless eyes, with all the cuts around her mouth open, with bruises all over her face and little burns going down her neck...the only thing missing was the huge burn scar on the side of her neck.

"They died because I was stubborn, because I didn't say anything, mostly after the Lebanon raid. And a day before the rescue team found me...I had to see them die" she said as she gathered the pictures inside the envelope and gave it again to Wraith

"Alicia" Dominique murmured, worried

"If I don't do it now, I never will"

"...Okay"

"Blade was first, they promised him our freedom if he killed himself and so he did in front of me. Hope was forced to drink machinery antifreeze, she...she begged me to help her, to make it stop" she muttered with broken voice, at the same time that her eyes filled with tears "Tiger was shot in the head, Marble...they left him to bleed out. Lotus had an option, or he used a red hot iron to burn me, or they'll bury it in my eye...he chose the burn and once he did it, he was shot. And Runner, he was alredy insane by that time, he just wanted to go home and once he looked at me and begged to take him home...they shot him as well"

"W-what did you do after that?" Noah asked, pale and scared

"Nothing, for hours I did nothing, I couldn't move for the shock...until I heard that Carabalí would be there the next day" she hissed while her eyes filled with anger again "I waited to the next day, and then I snapped. When I went to the old comms office, I digited a code that only US troops knows and that gave the sign to the rescue team"

"How many were...?" Elliot asked, having goosebumps

"There were 12 mercenaries inside" Wraith intervened, with obscured eyes "none of them survived. The causes of death were slit throats, broken necks, smashed traqueas and one with bullet wounds...but that last one wasn't Alicia's doing"

Alicia sighed, looking at her boys and at Alejandro, but they said nothing. She put her hands in front of her, for a second seeing in a flash how they were dirty and covered in blood.

"I know I'm a monster, I won't deny it, I was consumed by rage" she admitted, looking away in shame "I don't have any justification, but you needed to know"

"What happened with Carabalí?" Alejandro questioned, dead serious

Alicia and Wraith shared a look, and the Captain nodded towards the agent, who just sighed and went to look for a video.

"It's better to see it yourself"

[Video]

[The camera moved with the person wearing it, getting near to the entrance of the prison site, which was pitch black inside. But some sounds alerted them, and all the rifles pointed towards the entrance, everyone expecting an army going outside to fight them. Instead of it, it was just a person who walked (rather limp) towards them.

It was Alicia Marchant, who just limped towards them with a metal box on her right hand and...a head on her left hand, Carabalí's head, dripping blood yet. She looked at them with a stone face, throwing the severed head to the ground in front of them, looking at all the soldiers.

"Orisha is dead, and there is the rest of my team" she said, pointing to a pyre "maybe even more soldiers under the soil"

After saying that, she limped towards the helicopter, with everyone getting out of her way because of fear. The camera noticed how she hugged the box against her chest, with a tight grip, and with a little tear running down her dirty cheek.]

The short video finished, while Alicia leaned against the wall, with her eyes closed and with a frown, don't wanting to remember.

"You okay?" Wraith asked quietly, walking towards her

"...Kind of" she admitted, feeling chills "it isn't the best thing to remember"

"I bet, I still remember those first nights when I visited you"

"Mmm"

"What do you think they'll say?"

"I don't know, but whatever it is...I won't blame them"

"But what about Alejandro?"

"I'm scared of loosing him" she admitted with a vulnerable voice "but I can't tie him to me without knowing my dirty secret, it wouldn't feel right"

"We can always go to drink if anything happens"

"Hmm"

"And about the boys?"

"I won't force them to stay, they're free to go if they want to"

For a second nothing happened, with Alicia already preparing herself for the hate, the screams, the scolding, while Wraith was ready to take her out of there. But when Luke hit the table, with enough strenght to make it sound like a thunder, they both jumped out of fear as Alicia reached instantly for her karambit. The red-haired Lieutenant was furious, cursing down his breath before standing up and start walking like a caged animal.

"If he wasn't dead, I would kill him myself!" he roared, passing a hand over his hair "that son of a bitch! He should've suffered as much as they did!"

"Calm down" Jackson hissed, livid as well "he's gone, but there's still a traitor. That's the one we need to hunt"

"We don't even know who is it" Alexander pointed, angrier than they ever saw him, but controlling himself "even if we investigate, how we will be sure that they won't have more power than us?"

"Oh, fuck that" Elijah snarled, furious as well "if we have to fight the goddamned president. We. Fucking. Will"

Alicia was seriously surprised just as Wraith, and they were equally confused when they shared a look, shrugging without knowing what to do. Then Alejandro also stood up, leaving everything in silence as the team glared at him, and walked towards Alicia while Wraith took some steps aside. The Captain looked to the floor, expecting the worst, but was dragged into a desperate hug on Alejandro's part.

"I'm sorry" he whispered, hugging her tightly, trembling "I should've gone there, I...I should've helped with the rescue. God, maybe if I didn't listened to my superiors and went anyway-"

"It's not your fault, Alejo" she whispered too, hugging him back "there was nothing you could've done, and I'm glad you didn't have to see me like that"

The man didn't say anything else, just kept the hug going, until he broke it and smiled sadly.

"Can you give me some time? I...need to think some things, before I do a stupid decision"

"All the time you need"

"Thanks, amor"

Alejandro kissed her cheek and walked outside, mumbling something down his breath with a worried expression, under Alicia's sad stare. Then Edward sighed and walked towards the screen that had that last frame frozen, turning it off before walking towards Wraith, who just nodded in silence. Soon the pilot looked at his friend, and he put a hand on her shoulder, squeezing it a bit.

"I'm happy you're alive" he said, with his eyes also filled with tears "sorry, I never noticed"

"Never say sorry to me, I didn't want any of you knowing this"

"Still, rely on us too. We prefer you alive, so don't overwork yourself and let us help"

Everything was in silence again, but slowly Alicia noticed how none of her boys was hating her, instead they were furious on her behalf. Even Francis, always the happier one, was spitting with rage as he learned everything, and let's not talk about the short-tempered ones. She couldn't stop a giggle, that called everyone's attention, and soon she was laughing.

"Cap?" Nicholas asked, confused and worried "are you okay?"

"Yeah, it's just...that's been a long time since someone was like this. Usually people wish I died there" she answered, looking at them with a touched smile as she cried "I'm just overwhelmed and happy that you want me alive! Sorry"

Everyone looked at her with surprise, even Wraith this time, and felt bad for the woman while she continued crying. Then Marcus took out a handckerchief, walking towards the Captain, offering it to her with a soft smile.

"Well, you've always been there for us and treat us like your family, Cap. And you're part of our family too, of course we want you alive! We'll stay by your side every time, doesn't matter what will happen" he said while she took the handckerchief "also, you're the only one who can control our craziness..."

Alicia laughed again, this time with joy, and then she looked at her team. They all were smiling at her, even Jackson was, and it felt...good.

"Well then, we still have work to do" she said, back with her usual steady voice, cleaning her tears "the traitor stills out there and even if I wish we can hunt them, Six Aces still are the biggest threat for us right now. Let's go for them, then we go for the traitor, you copy?"

"YES CAPTAIN!" they answered at unison, determined

"Then I'll talk with Aly, I'll bring news soon" Wraith said with a little smile "let's finish here as soon as we can"

[hexhomos]

hey I’m here from ur Twitter, saw some of your posts about gale/astarion mystra stuff because I haven’t played the game yet and wanted to know about TWs/if it’s handled well/etc. I don’t really mind spoilers if they’re necessary! thank you

Id say as pretty traditional DnD adaptation game there is a lot of bloody battles and i guess... disturbing implications? when it comes to things such as kidnapping/murdering/cannibalizing people and general eldritch assassin blood cult stuff that has to do with the BG series.

If your particular concern are depictions of SA/CSA the game is written in such a way that they all took place quite some time in the past, and those discussions exist mostly in the realm offhand mentions or between-the-lines presence in the dialogues of companions -- as all of the core companions in this game are in some way abused and not quite cognizant of that abuse all of the time, and the player has the option to help them.

MILD EARLY SPOILERS FOR BG3 WARNING

Gale and Astarion are the only companions where that theme of abuse/agency crosses into sexual territory; Astarion explicitly speaks about being tortured in non-sexual ways as part of being a thrall/vamp spawn (basically an eternal servant for a Real Vampire) and his romance route includes multiple discussions of those things & the atrocities he's committed under that household. The game writers do not include sexual abuse in those infodumps- that i know of- but Astarion seduced people to their doom and has a weird relationship with sex as a result. Gale is not aware that he was being groomed at all and actually believes that he's the one who did badly towards his abuser, but the other companions Will question this interpretation of events and as the story goes on if you romance/befriend Gale he is able to look back on his situation and realize the 'love' he was used to was frankly sort of rotten in comparison. idk how deep it goes if you're doing friendship only but i can attest at least in romance mode that happens.

There are other situations in game (particularly at a brothel) where allusions to their abuse are made and they seem very uncomfortable being peer pressured or propositioned to. I think for a game of this size and mainstream appeal it's handled fairly well, mostly kept offscreen, and has thematic relevance to the story as a whole and the storylines of the other companions. Multiple parts of these storylines are also incredibly optional: you have to seek out these characters to learn more about them, and some of the more telling interactions aren't *given* to the player so much as found if you pay attention, if you get what I mean. I think BG3 as a whole is very entertaining and well written but you should go in knowing a measure of gritty dark themes are a central part of this setting, and while not all of it is perfect, it's one of the Best for its genre.

as a postscript: characters in this game can literally break up with you if you cross or don't care for their boundaries.

[brybryby]

I completely agree that Miles Upshore is queer, and Waylon is on the spectrum as well! If you have your friends analysis still plzzzzz link! I crave the content!!!

HI HI THANK YOU FOR THE ASK! 💜

I wish I had his analysis still!!! aarrrrgh it's been so long ;-; But I can try to relay some of the points he made (and add some of my own)!

This gets pretty lengthy so be prepared :')

I also added external links but they’re only there if you want to read more about the point I’m making! Feel free to skip them!

also // TW for mentions of SA

Miles

Story-wise, my friend found it interesting that Miles was the perfect host for the Walrider. Wernicke and Alan Turing were friends/lovers who worked on the technology that culminated into Project Walrider, so there's already a sense that the Walrider was founded on Wernicke and Turing's love for each other.

So, before I move on, I'll talk a bit about Alan Turing. In college, I had professors praise him for being the “Founder of Modern Computing”, cracking Nazi code, and also for being an advocate for gay rights.

More details here:

Out of every prominent scientist during the Cold War Era, Alan Turing was selected to play a role in Outlast's stories. And he didn't just happen to be openly gay—JT Petty purposefully made this significant to Wernicke's character. Not to mention, Wernicke made allusions to Frankenstein, allowing us to inspect the parallels between Wernicke & the Walrider with Frankenstein & Frankenstein's monster. When it comes to gothic & queer literature, Frankenstein is on the forefront of it, and I'm confident that JT Petty would be familiar with that (since he's a writer who's well-versed in horror/gothic art).

With Frankenstein, there's this idea to create life without heterosexual means (under the impression of cis-heteronormativity). Frankenstein's monster was also a sexualized creature—supposedly a representation of the “ideal man”—described as “beautiful”. Additionally, the novel was a critique of patriarchal norms through elements of sexualities. These aren't too different from Wernicke & the Walrider. The Walrider is arguably created through homosexual means in its abstract (Wernicke & Turing). This particular version of the Walrider that possesses Billy & Miles is stated to be the “masterpiece” by Simon Peacock—its appearance is also fairly sexual. And similarly, Outlast critiques patriarchal norms through its grotesque visuals of “masculinity”.

Frankenstein queer analysis:

Frankenstein sexual suppression analysis:

With all these story elements, there's certainly a queerness about the Walrider AND Outlast, which the devs openly embrace.

There's also many parallels between Frankenstein's monster and Miles. In the United States (and westernized countries in general), there are societal standards that function around cis-heteronormativity. Think of the traditional American nuclear family: A husband/father who's the breadwinner and patriarch, a loving wife/mother who cooks and stays at home to take care of the kids—they're mostly white, Christian, and American citizens. [WARNING: TRIALS SPOILERS AHEAD] The ideal American man is further illustrated in Officer Coyle's dialogue: “If only they were upstanding citizens like myself. Pay your taxes, do your job, fuck your wife, put a little something in the plate at service. America don't ask much.” Miles is arguably the antithesis of this, which is likely the reason he doesn't have any close friends/family—he was likely rejected by society. Frankenstein's monster follows a similar arc: he is also rejected by society and seeks refuge in seclusion. (The concept of “rejection by society” is inherent in queerness.)

With these parallels, it makes sense for Miles to be the ideal host for the Walrider. Additionally, Miles embodies queerness that isn't strictly homosexual—I mean his whole background/lifestyle is already, by definition, “queer”—but questions regarding his sexuality arise when inspecting other details of his character.

My friend pointed out the whole “Manhandler Hairspray for the Active Man” detail in Miles' apartment. There are a lot of homosexual undertones in the label, and it's hard not to think otherwise. “Manhandler” and “Active” are terms which indicate the “top” role in gay culture. I mean, it's possible that Miles is just embodying the “metrosexual” identity (basically straight men who embody characteristics associated with homosexuality) but metrosexuality is rooted in consumerism, which doesn't exactly align with Miles' character since he is openly critical of capitalism. I think the hairspray hints at queerness (or at least gender non-conformity).

Article on “metrosexuality”:

https://www.nytimes.com/2003/06/22/style/metrosexuals-come-out.html

The most revolutionary detail that my friend pointed out was the fact that Miles went out of his way to roast the ever-living shit out of everyone he came across at Mount Massive, begging the question: why is he so fixated on the appearances of other men? This could stem from his own insecurities of being rejected by society or insecurities of his own vanity (considering the hairspray he uses and the fact that he goes jogging…and if he's just trying to be healthy through exercise then he needs to explain his self-destructive alcoholism…idk…jogging for mental health? It’s open to interpretation…WAIT I mean he could just be keep up his physical fitness also with all the investigating he has to do anyways fjshshkdhd). It was just interesting that Miles was so fixated on physical appearances that it makes me wonder if he'd make similar comments about women—I don't believe he would and I'll explain below.

I know that we need to take Red Barrels' tweets with a grain of salt—they're known for deleting tweets that detail misinformation about the protagonists—but I find this tweet particularly interesting. I may be looking too much into it, especially since it's just a tweet and not presented in the games/comics, but it certainly is reflective of Red Barrels' values of respecting women and not viewing women as sexual objects, along with the notion of dismantling cis-heteropatriarchy/chivalry. It certainly doesn't mean he's not straight, but he doesn't particularly view women as sexual objects either (and I know that straight men are capable of not viewing women as sexual objects). Food for thought.

Some extra stuff:

Anti-conservatism and punk ideology (which Miles explicitly embodies) are pillars of queer culture in the political sphere.

The Germanic folklore, which the Walrider is based off of, exhibits notions of sexuality (though, probably not in the best light).

[TRIALS SPOILER] Wernicke’s dream therapy is associated with Dr. Easterman’s queerness—Easterman would be distracted by Wernicke’s handsomeness (and they both explicitly critique heterosexual relationships). Again, this supports the Walrider’s themes of sexuality.

Waylon

As for WAYLON, even though there isn't concrete evidence in the games to intentionally indicate queerness, that isn't to say he is entirely heterosexual (because assuming he's heterosexual is yet another product of the “ideal American man” image in a cis-heteronormative society, and Outlast's narratives are about dismantling this notion). In fact, now that you bring it up, I agree that Waylon can be considered on the queer spectrum/under the queer umbrella.

Regarding the “dismantling the ideal American man in a cis-heteronormative society” concept…the devs, artists, writer(s), actors, and contributors to the games' development are not only open/accepting of things outside of society's norms/expectations, but many are social activists. Chimwemwe Miller (VA for Chris Walker) is outspoken about being Black, Black history, and racism—he also narrated an audiobook which discussed racism, colonialism, & imperialism. Erika Rosenbaum (VA for Lynn Langermann) organized provisions for refugees and is active in environmental causes and feminism—she also spoke out during the #MeToo movement. Shawn Baichoo (VA for Miles, Waylon, & Blake) is also vocal about feminism/racism and was a huge advocate for his character Wrench's bisexuality from Watch Dogs 2, which became confirmed in a later installment of the Watch Dogs franchise.

I bring this up because Red Barrels actually entertains the idea of Waylon x Eddie (in the hypothetical that Eddie wasn't an antagonist like he was in the game…so like, erasing his problematic features baha…this deserves an analysis of its own) without mentioning sexuality or anything like that. Obviously, this can be seen as a way to entertain the fanbase, but I think it's worth mentioning that Waylon isn't opposed to homosexuality. After all, Waylon never makes homophobic remarks in his notes nor comments on male sexuality—he's just fearful of being assaulted (as anyone would be, regardless of gender/sexuality). He would, in fact, engage in a homosexual relationship according to this hypothetical.

(Note: the term “insane” is a harmful descriptor in this context, which is why I wrote “wasn’t an antagonist like he was in the game”)

So yea! I definitely think there's queerness with Waylon's character. And I don't exactly mean this to be “representation” because there's a lot of responsibility that comes with that, but ultimately I think it adds to what the franchise and the devs are trying to do—normalize queerness and dismantle the notion of the “ideal American man in a cis-heteronormative society” (and if you've studied socioeconomics/social theory, you know that this notion is a product of capitalism, which is another important theme in the franchise).

Here are some resources about the intersectionalities of cis-heteropatriarchy, capitalism, & queerness if you'd like to read more about it :)

(this one below is quite lengthy, but goes VERY DEEP)

All in all, my interpretation is that the franchise operates on the idea that “queerness” is normal or innate, but social structures are what label it otherwise. I've seen a lot of discussion surrounding Outlast characters' queerness, and it's interesting to me that the antagonists' sexualities get more attention amongst casual players than the protagonists' sexualities (and I think I can understand why, it's just a lot to unpack).

Just as many of the antagonists can be read as queer, the protagonists should arguably be read through the same lens. I truly do think Miles and Waylon (and even Lynn and Blake!) deserve to be inspected under queer lens. Doing so aligns with the franchise's philosophy/narratives. Also the idea of “queer characters taking down capitalism” is super empowering (and actually very identifiable hehe).

(Sorry, I think I projected a lot of my own personal values and biases into this post LOL hhhjdsfh feel free to critique anything I've written!)

This is my first time inspecting Waylon through a queer lens, so thank you for the ask!! I had a lot of fun writing this up :D

[modern-inheritance]

Modern Inheritance: Grip (Title to be figured out later) (Trigger Warning)

(TW: Allusions to and metaphors for SA/Attempted SA, pinning by someone in a position of power, torture, Durza being Durza. The usual besides that.)

Everything hurt.

That wasn’t new. Durza being the one to take her back to her cell was unusual, but it wasn’t new. He kept his hand wrapped firmly around the wild start of her braid, tight against the base of her skull. Half pushing, half pulling her forward as the cracked bones in her left leg forced muscles to give out every other step. 

The fact that he had stopped the torture before she had gone unconscious even once…that was new. And it wasn’t like it hadn’t been ‘productive’ for him. Arya’s throat was raw from screaming, the lingering feeling of red hot iron pushing against bone pulsing through her body. It had been difficult to stay awake, even more difficult to struggle onto her hands and knees and try to stand after he released her restraints.

Always get up. Her rule for surviving this place. Spitting in Durza’s face was a close runner up to that, but it wasn’t always feasible, water being withheld and all.

The cell door crashed shut. Everything flared white and searing when her body hit the ground, shocking her back to a brittle alertness. 

She took a few moments to breathe, bands of muscle and ribs clamoring in protest of the deep inhales and tight exhales, and then forced herself to roll onto her back. The cell floor was always cool. It would take some time for the chill to seep through the tunic, he hadn’t left the snaps open this time, but it would reach the wounds that lined her back eventually. Some modicum of relief.

Arya froze a split second. 

Durza was looming over her. Still inside the cell. 

That was definitely new.

She tried to rise up on her elbows, start clawing her way back to upright. Get up. Always get up.

He pounced. Slammed her back to the floor with an animalistic growl. Her raw wrists were clamped in one of his pale hands, pinned above her head, his other palm pressing hard into her collarbone. His weight settled on her hips, knees tight to her sides, jamming into the bruised flesh.

Arya snarled and thrashed, tried to lift herself against his hold. He pushed back, squeezed tighter, leaned closer. Closer….

His eyes. There was something different about his eyes. 

A cold jolt of lightning struck in Arya’s belly. It made her still, eyes wide, teeth locked and lips tight. 

What was that look? That…that wasn’t there before when he looked at her. He’d always been predatory, always regarded her with a certain calculating gaze that bordered on gleeful, amused, hungry even. Bloodlust dominated it, thrilled at having such a resilient plaything at his disposal.

But this was…this was an altogether different gleam of hunger.

His perch on her hips was suddenly much more alarming. 

She turned her head away, tried to free her wrists as blood slickened his grip. He responded by digging his nails in deep, her bare flesh giving way as easily as if he had pierced her with blades. 

“Now, now.” Arya jerked involuntarily, fingers trying desperately to claw at empty air, anything to loosen his hold. His breath was cold against her exposed neck, suddenly very close. “None of that. Where would you go, little elf? There is nowhere to run, nowhere to hide.” Fuck, she could feel him smiling. 

A harsh growl rattled from deep in her chest when his free hand trailed over her throat. The soft laugh he responded with was far from comforting. His fingertips, nails pricking as they went, drifted from the near-black cut arching up from her jaw, down the soft underside and lingered over her jugular. He seemed to revel in the frantic beat of her thready pulse and leaned closer, inspecting the bright lines of blood that welled up in the wake of his touch. 

A sudden thrash of her pinned hips nearly dislodged him. The desperate twist sliced agony from the base of her skull to the bottom of her heels, a clipped cry tearing from her as fresh burns ripped open, half sealed wounds oozing blood onto the floor. 

Durza released a growl of his own at the sound, desperate and hungry. His hand found a renewed grip on her throat and tore away the prison tunic. 

The elf snapped her teeth back at him, hands finally free, scratching and clawing like a feral animal. The damp air of the cell on her bare chest was a bucket of ice water in her veins, blotting out the pain, the bile rising. 

If she could get him off, then she could fight properly. His fingers around her throat were the only thing controlling her upper body, and with them there he had to fend off both her hands tearing at his face with only one of his own. 

Eyes. Those fucking disgusting eyes. 

Arya surged forward, vision fading at the edges, lunging for his head. She felt her fingers latch on, thumbs driving up and in and

Two of his fingers. Between her ribs. 

Inside. Her ribs. 

Well, if that wasn’t a metaphor….

“Does this hurt, little elf?” His chuckle was low, deep in his throat. He knocked her trembling grasp away with a shake of his head, crimson hair wild and flashing bloody in the moonlight. 

‘Yes!’ If his other hand hadn’t been around her throat she was sure she would have screamed her response, everything in her body spasming as his clawed fingertips grazed something inside her chest. 

She could feel him searching for it again, the disgustingly satisfied noise he made when her eyes shocked wide and a strangled gurgle rose from her mouth when he made contact.

Durza eased his weight back from her neck. Licked his lips when the woman’s eyes rolled back at the influx of air, the reflexive gasp. 

The sensation of her lung pressing against his fingertips, warm, wet. The thrashing as her body tried to get away from the source of pain, pulsing the muscles to contract around him, clamp her ribs tight down on his fingers. Her ragged half screams that ended in growls of frustration, only to be replaced by new, unavoidable agony as her starved blood forced her to take another breath. Begin the cycle again.

Oh, yes. This was what he was drawn to. What he wanted. The feeling of her writhing beneath him. Corded muscle under his hand, the strength she still had, her fighting back with every ounce of it only to find a fresh reserve. Her nails, blunted, half missing from his treatment, digging into his forearm as she dragged up more and more resolve in the face of agony unimaginable. 

The Shade did nothing to hide the delighted shudder that rushed up his spine, eyelids fluttering as he inhaled. No fear. He never smelled fear on her. The sharp scent of anger, of boiling blood, of glass-shard tenacity….

This one…this one would never stop fighting. Such a resilient, resistant plaything. 

He wanted that. He hadn’t felt this in a long time.

And then the logic surged forward, drowning out the rabble and screaming of the spirits to take, take, take. 

Not now, not yet. Mustn't break such a delightful toy, ravage such a treat, so soon. He should savor it. If he pushed too far, if he took his pleasure now, all at once, gorged himself on it, then it would be gone forever. She would fight far longer than this. More, now that she had seen his intent.

Intent.

Her eyes were somehow still open. Even when he twisted the two fingers buried in her chest cavity, they stayed open. Burning. Boring into him. Unmistakable in her intent. A promise.

If he did this, and she didn’t manage to kill him, then it would be the death of her. She would do her damnedest to take him over into the abyss with her. 

No matter his fate, she would die with a smile on her lips through the screams. 

And he didn’t want that. 

Slowly, with every molecule of his mind and the spirits swirling within it screaming in discontent, Durza slid his fingers from between her ribs. Wordless spells closed the rifts left as they retreated until, with a quiet squelch of blood and crackle of cartilage, he broke the connection between their bodies. All that remained as evidence was a ragged scab. 

His arm twitched. He ripped the scab open. 

The spirits were nothing if not petty in their spite.

Arya coughed hard, the oxygen rush spotting her vision just as the frothy blood splattered the ground. He’d stopped. Why would he stop? If he was going to have his way then get it done with. If anything it could distract him enough for her to get at his eyes again. Rip them out and crush them.

The second she could feel her muscles, she tried to twist out from under him. 

All it earned her was his hand around her throat yet again, the side of his palm digging into the underside of her jaw. His thumb wandering, running over her skin as if stroking to soothe. Possessive.

Rat bastard.

“If I did not think it would kill us both,” The man-shaped monster mused, dragging his claws across her abdomen, over the silvered scar bolting from her hip, as her body flexed and tensed with her jerking movements. “I would have you for myself.” 

He was suddenly at her neck again. Faster than she could suck in a breath his filed teeth sank into her collarbone. It splintered like old wood, snapped to pieces under the force. 

She didn't even have the breath to scream.

And then he was off her. Staring down at the mess he had made, tracing her form with eyes gleaming in the ghostly moonlight that dripped from the barred window. Licking the blood from his thin lips slowly. Savoring it.

If she had anything in her stomach, Arya would have lost it at the sight. 

As it was she struggled to sit up. Her right arm popped and ground against its own weight, sagging limp at her side as she pushed off the floor with her left. She met his gaze with the malice of a fucking god, ignored the carnal smile that curled his lips as she shifted her good leg under and started to rise, still barechested and her body on display. 

She wore the lack of modesty as she would full battle rattle, head high, tenacity in her veins, fight on, fight on.

Get up. Always get up. Doesn’t matter what’s going on, what’s been done, what you have or don’t have. 

Get. Up. Now.

And then Durza’s stupid, shiny boot connected with her right shoulder with a resounding snap. 

The elf howled, slammed back to the ground again in bright flashes of blinding white and the smell of burning. It felt as though a landmine had gone off inside her trapezius, shredded muscle and bone and nerves and she could feel her shoulder blade in pieces pressing up against the back of her ribs and into the flesh above her shoulder. Her right side was on fire, rivaling the irons and the spells and it was all so much.

“I think that’s enough for today, little elf.” Cartilage and bone fragments crackled as Durza shifted his weight, leaned over her to pluck the discarded prisoner tunic from the bloodstained floor. “You have been most…giving, for me today.”

She couldn’t answer, not even with a glare. Her eyes were screwed shut, left hand pawing pathetically at his boot.  

He removed it after a few long moments of contemplation, reveling in the sight of the agony he had caused. A quick check and brief spell healed the tiny tears in her arteries and veins that threatened to rupture, protected them from bone shards until he deigned to heal the ruined arm. The elf lay gasping in air when he finally stepped away.

The cell door closed behind him with a satisfying clang. He waited. He knew she wouldn’t let herself stay there for long. 

It was a handful of minutes. Longer than most times he had left her conscious. But he soon heard the scuffle, the hissed noises of a creature fighting through pain. The stumbling patter of her bare feet as she staggered to the cell door and fell against it. 

Oh, how brave and foolish of her. She curled her left fingers around the bars in the window for support and glared out at him, wheezing through clenched teeth. 

The look was easy enough to decipher. It’s why he had waited, after all. One last humiliation for the day.

Durza let his face split with a languid smile, all bloodstained teeth and ill contained satisfaction. He hooked the bloodied tunic with the tips of his index and pointer fingers, held it up for her to see. “Want this back, do you?”

Her expression didn’t change, all fire in her eyes and stone on her face. A trickle of sweat fell from her temple, the effort of standing even with the door’s support taxing her to the ends of her failing strength. 

The Shade hummed. He stepped back, twisted mirth in his maroon gaze, and held her shirt out to her. Beyond her reach. And she was not quite so foolish as to put her last good arm through the bars.

The smile widened. 

He let the garment fall from the tips of his fingers. It landed on the floor in a sad pile, snaps clicking on the concrete.

Her gaze followed it. Flicked back to him and she narrowed her eyes.

Slowly, painfully, the woman unfurled just her middle finger from where it was clamped around the bars. 

Durza merely tossed back his head and laughed. 

And then his hand was through the window, fingers fisted in her hair. He slammed her face against the bars, her cheek tight to the metal as he leaned in and whispered in her ear. 

“Do not make me revisit my decision, little elf. I could have you whenever I wish.” He bared his teeth as she did. He could feel her shaking in his grip, pain or weakness or some combination of the two. 

It wasn’t fear. She still smelled of cold rage. No fear, no terror. He smiled again, renewed heat stirring in his belly. “A worthy death, taking one of your kind. And such a feisty one at that.”

She snapped her teeth and rumbled a growl pierced by the crackling of trapped air deep inside her chest. Rammed her intact shoulder into the door even harder than he had yanked her forward. It rattled on its hinges, another reserve of strength neither of them expected. 

But the jolt was enough. The woman gave a ragged groan and sank to the ground, curled against the reinforced oak as the waves of agony overwhelmed her mind. Her consciousness faded, disappeared, as she was dragged into the darkness, away from it all.

Durza stood before the door for several moments longer, focusing deep within himself. Quelled the ache and heat and placated the spirits screaming for him to continue, to forget his higher self.  The rabble subdued to a murmur, he turned back to the stairs at the end of the hall.

Another day. He would have his prize.

[evolnoomym]

WIP Wednesday!

Thank you for the tag lovely @joelmillerisapunk 🩵

I’m still only working on my first story and it’s gonna be a Sugar Daddy!Joel Miller Fic. So far it’s mostly OC’s past and just a lot characterization. These snippets are not finalized and may change. If it’s not obvious these events described are not made up those are real and they happened to me.

!Tw! : allusions to SA

“Her first kiss happened, when she was 13 and still played with dolls. He was 21 and had just gotten his drivers license, already moved out and had a job. Two years later at 15 she thought that 25 year police apprentice was deeply in love with her, would make her his, she thought he truly cared about her, but no….no he wanted to fuck a minor, he was after the thrill of a tight young pussy, to be the first to break her in and then throw her away once she served her purpose.”

“She was only 17 when it happened. The friendly guy in her semester group, the one who was troubled himself but made her feel like it’s okay, that he understood her, that she’s not alone in this fucked up world….Yeah that one, he would turn into a terrible nightmare who’ll haunt her for years to follow.”

“That voice, the way he talks….she would recognize it anywhere. He was right there, the monster who looked so nice in the beginning was just a couple inches behind her. She could practically feel him breathe down her neck just like he did that night….”

Npt: @aurorawritestoescape @milla-frenchy @penvisions @wintrwinchestr @mrsmando @tightjeansjavi @mountainsandmayhem @strang3lov3 @joeloverture @janaispunk @beefrobeefcal @iamasaddie @xdaddysprincessxx @joelsgreys

🩵🙏🏻