#talking to the void but if you know you know

[1800titz]

Chapter 11 of TDIAG ٩(◕‿◕)۶

CW for this one: p in v, semi-public sex, alcohol

WC: 9.4K

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When Isla crumples into her bed, over sheets tucked tight, edges to corner, her sandals are still on her feet, unshed. They dangle over the edge of the mattress. It entirely slips her mind that she was meant to send Harry a text that she’d gotten home.

You’ll text me when you get home. 

Safe and sound. She feels something wedged between her molars — seaweed, maybe, and the bitter tang of unease. A faze that washes over her tongue as she prongs it out from its enamelized prison. She’s safe and sound, sprawled over linen, and somehow the churning behind her ribcage doesn’t simmer away. 

She’d been instructed to send a message, actually. It’d been a command. The first time is an accident, but she begins to wonder if she’s breaking some unspoken, unagreed upon rule when she airs Harry Realtor’s Good morning text the next day, sidling out of bed to haphazardly attempt taming her mane of sleep-mussed hair for the workday. 

She thinks, it must stipple more into a morally ambiguous territory, rather than a simple sex-rule-disappointment thing, when she notices his Everything okay? message a few hours post her lunch break… and opts to silence his notifications entirely. 

She doesn’t know what she’s running from. Seeing his texts surge through the aether and light her LED alive makes a raw panic curdle her bloodstream, but she’s known for weeks that the leather and chains — an alter ego she’d become well accustomed to — was entwined with the seemingly sweet real estate agent, masquerading. 

Metathesiophobia. That’s what it’s called on the internet. A long word for a throbbing affliction. Harry doesn’t text again. Dissecting the root of the discomfort feels like discomfort in and of itself. 

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There’s a thin partition between girl’s-night-woo and stuffing an empty chasm in your chest with agave tequila. It slides down into a cavity that already burns on its own, incinerated muscle in the vale of her décolletage — her own consequences, skin muggy over the surface even under the flits of the fans hanging overhead. Karmic misfortunes. Isla’s skin would sear if he was here, but how the vug between her ribs seethes without his touch. Pay the dues. It’sa tardy bill tucked under a creaky mattress — there’s a smoldering hole burnt through the center, and springs stick from its charred flesh. 

Salut. 

She takes a swig, sets the glass down, and thumbs at the salt on the rim. The charms on the bangle sway. Miryea wiggles her eyebrows. The void sizzles. The recipe: one part unrequited longing, one part margarita. Isla misses cherries and scorching kisses. 

She’s moping. Probably, she should find a nice guy — kind eyes burnished in bar lights, twinkling, one button undone under his collarbones. The kind of grin that could get her, half-lidded, to forget all about that wallowing hole. She should let him buy her a drink, smooth the pads of her fingers over his warm knuckles when he passes her something citrusy and strong. Kiss him like there’s a mask sealed to his eyes, let him skim her incisors with his tongue. She wouldn’t bite. Good girl. Sir for the night. He’d slot between her thighs, but it wouldn’t mend that rotting lacuna — a bandaid, skin glued to flesh over sweaty bed sheets. 

“Can I buy you a drink?” 

Isla looks. Bandaid isn’t talking to her. He’s tow headed, and leant against the bar, one elbow on the soapstone, wedged in the liminal void between the stools. Miryea does that thing she does, then, that slow, charmingly bemused blink — little old me? She never sleeps with them, but she’ll watch them pull their wallets out and pass cash across the bar, then take their drinks with a friendly curl to her mouth. Miryea doesn’t even bring her card to the bar. 

Isla nearly, actually contemplates finally texting him back. 

It’s funny, the way liquor bottles melt to orbs, glinting in the light when she focuses on the broad array behind the bartender, traipsing and bantering, and lets her eyes rest, lids open. I’m sorry. Blue Moscato, bleary, is a glowy Neptune. Her eyes gloss salty. I miss sleeping with you. She blinks and cobalt reshapes. I miss you. Blue Moscato. It’s just a bottle. 

It’s just sex. 

Isla spares another glance. Bandaid’s choice of shirt is eclectic and unbuttoned just enough to showcase the faint dusting of snowy chest hair adorning the space between his swarthy pecs. 

She thinks they start talking, then. Lime has never felt so glum. He buys Miryea a drink. Isla thumbs more of the salt off, just until the tip is tacky with simple syrup.  

“—Hey.”

She twists her chin. Miryea’s cradling a glass of something green in her palm. 

“Let’s head over there.” 

Free drinks. 

There’s a wall behind the wrought iron staircase — tongue and groove cedar climbs behind the railing, paneling in vertical slats to the ceiling. It splits off a secluded booth. 

It’s a Friday night. All she wants is to be bracketed by Harry’s warm, massive biceps. She wants to nip into the sinew of pumped, onyx etched muscle, at the anatomically accurate sketch of the heart there, and she wants to feel the top row of his front teeth latch on the cartilage of her ear in response. She wants to feel the mirthy rumble in his chest against her back before she hears him hum over gristle; this soft, muffled roll grounding with the same energy of bare toes wiggling at the edge of a muddy littoral. Instead, there’s a pending hangover. And anyways, this nightlife does little satiate her nightlife penchants. The gaping hole between her ribs throbs. It’s still sort of burning from the margarita that she holds onto. She imagines it’s unlikely that she’ll find a bandaid big enough to paste over the ache. Probably, she’ll end the night sobbing into her pillow. And maybe Isla needs a good fucking cry. 

She always needs a good fucking cry — that’s the entire basis of her membership, of masks and mean hands prodding at her skin, pinching, twisting, smacking, fill the void. Fill the void. Fill the void. 

He’d wedged into that gap, curling, pried her ribs apart and stuck his hands in. It’s just empty now because she’s pushed him out. 

Isla blinks hopelessly at the little circle of Bandaid’s friends, a plait of lively camaraderie coiled around a steatite tabletop. The stem of the glass nearly splinters in her fist. There’s something pleated into the coterie — it’s got hands the size of baseball mitts with elegant piano fingers and the shading of an anatomical heart on its sleeve. Those colossal hands cushion a lowball glass in a new coat of red. 

Harry’s head is turned to the side. 

He’s loose. Lax. A trio of buttons in linen undone — which is one more than Blond Bandaid. In good spirits, if the blithe smile cresting his pink mouth — in response to something a friend has said — and the serenely planate state of his brow bone is indicative. At least, just up until the point where her silhouette catches in his peripherals, hanging fire like a stunned deer in the middle of a one lane road with headlights veering from behind a thicket. A clangor echoes in the depths of the cavern, bleedy.

Two weeks is enough, apparently, to forget what it feels to be the focus of those eyes. The revelation is enough to punch breath from her lungs. They’re sizzling. 

If her presence is enough to throw him off kilter, he’s absolutely perfected the art of not letting it show. Green roams, but there’s nothing insightful in the breadcrumbs. He regards her in the way a stranger ogles a pretty thing that he’ll never approach from across the room in a fuggy bar — a one-over that loiters on shapely hips from a distance, a piece of patchwork in the quilted night, before the stranger’s eyes retire. It nearly makes her bristle. She’s earned apathy. Her phone is a brick in her pocket. 

Harry looks …well. Suspiciously, which spurs the bristling. Unaffected, nearly. Expecting something different feels selfish, but it doesn’t appear that he’s been moping nearly a fraction of the amount Isla has. Is. He takes a slow slip of clear liquor, and the ice bristles in the glass, clinking as it sloshes, in her favor. 

Bandaid clears his throat. He’s initiating introductions — motioning past an awestruck Isla Cleery. Her counterpart is much more in the element to milk free drinks.

“Miryea.” 

And he lists names, clockwise. Isla doesn’t catch any, doesn’t particularly care to, besides the name she already knows so well. It lives on the tip of her tongue, burning hot, waiting for the opportunity to fly off the muscle at every inconvenient moment when they’re donning masks and fucking. 

Miryea teeters on her heels and waves, chin dipping with the acknowledgement of each man, and Isla only recognizes she’s still ogling Harry when Bandaid motions to her. There’s an awkward pause when his tone wears this dubious edge — an implication that he’s in need of her assistance that’s mottled by her inattention. 

“Isla,” she supplies, mouth melding into that midway forced, polite variation of a smile. Close-lipped, the kind she’d share as a kid at cocktail parties with a parent’s palm pasted over her shoulder. 

Harry’s eyes don’t wander, then. Not even for a second. It’s a peculiar kind of gravity; she to his eyes and his eyes to …her. 

“Isla,” Bandaid parrots, like he’s tasting the emphasis of her name. 

He sticks a hand out. It dwarfs her own in its grasp — she settles into something firm; habitually professional. And then—

Bandaid raises the back of her palm to his mouth for a chaste kiss.

“Sam. Very pleased to meet you.” 

Her eyes skirt. He’s watching, but his features speak nothing. Instead, he brings the glass to his mouth and tips. Seal it with salt. In her peripherals, Harry disengages into conversation. The line rends. 

Sam isn’t inherently a heinous looking guy. In fact, most would deem him conventionally attractive. Sharp, chiseled. Symmetrical, and all that. Attractive on the biological scope, where the sake of attraction depends on indicators of good health. He’s got symmetry, she thinks. And he doesn’t fit Sir.

If Isla had anticipated that girls night would involve tucking into a booth with the source of the gnarled cavity in her chest, she’d have opted for wine coolers over Love Island reruns in the safety of her living room.

She doesn’t quite know how it happens — the way Miryea strays from Sam’s arm to opposing eye candy. This one’s more her type, with dark, close set eyes and a perennial brooding to the shape of his features. She curls up in his corner, batting her lashes as precedent to every word out of his mouth, and as consequence, Sam sets his sights on the only other sweet, pretty thing seamed into the booth. Quiet, hands in her lap with this gaze that roams off in what’s nearly a flighty panorama. 

He tucks his cheek into his palm, and drums the back of a short nail over his tumbler. It clinks. 

“What do you do, Isla?” 

She looks up and blinks like the precipitous glare of the spotlight has stunned her back, tethered from floating in the aether. 

“I’m a paralegal.” 

His eyes crest — almost like intrigue, and sallow lashes sweep when he blinks and stirs, “Paralegal. You’re a …sophisticated woman.” 

Sam plays it nonchalantly. He doesn’t stare at her tits — doesn’t linger in the naked flesh that sunders dark fabric, the bare vale that starts at her neckline and peaks above her navel. He doesn’t even try to look. But she can see it in his face. Like he can be the balm to the wound. Let me in. 

It only takes a second, a fleeting glance to find a different set of eyes. Jade boring from across the soapstone. They’re sharp, flinty like talc. A hide of green snakeskin and fingers perpetually flexing over an invisible, clandestine whip. Or, maybe, the neoprene padding of a leash handle. He’s practically tugging on the phantom of it across the table.

Isla swallows. 

Envy. 

He’s jealous. 

The tick in his jawline, like a vicious maw waiting to bite — the way his thumb smears over the rim of his glass and his forefinger taps the crystalline body. One, two. 

Three. 

The way he pastes his gaze to his drink — a crick in his neck like he’s wryly amused. 

It dawns on her, then. The searing from across the table dissipates any prior nonchalance so suddenly, Isla wonders if she’d been entirely imagining that Harry was ever distant or carefree. He’s stewing over the flame of this show — Sam toeing at the hedging, an islet that bears the imprint of another man’s teeth. He raises the glass to his lips and rolls a mouthful of something bitter and sharp. Contemplating. Isla can’t tell if the grimace that comes after is the result of liquor heating his taste buds or the sight of Sam, half-lidded in flirtation, anticipating her response. 

He spits it like barreled oak turned sour behind his lips, but it’s light. Easy, like jabbing at a friend. A man doesn’t tell a friend not to piss where he pisses with a foaming snarl, after all. 

“She doesn’t want to fuck you.” 

Sam raises his eyebrows, almost stunned by the insert. It flees quickly, though. Stains over with smarmy indignation. The kind from a friend to a friend. His laughter catches on a scoff. 

“Fuck off.” 

Harry is the wingman of the century. 

She sets her three-quarters nursed marg onto the table, jaw set when her gaze splits to the emphatically apathetic shaping of Top Tier Wingman’s features. He runs the tip of his index over the lip of his glass like he’s smug to cockblock. She hopes his choice of company has no interest in spiking her beverage. 

“I’m going to— go. I have to…” Isla settles on nothing, lamely. It sort of miffs her more. 

Her face crinkles as she stands and makes a beeline for a hallway where she knows she’ll find a restroom. It’s a single use, and the blessing of her night comes in the form of no line. Two doors parallel each other, and she slips in through the screeching crack of one, doused by borderline desperation. 

It’s quieter here. Still loud in her head, but quieter. The same sensual track leaks from covert speakers, bumping with bass. Tinny, like it’s played through the other end of a phone — and the high’s worn off, the depths of her buzz quelled by him. It still spumes through her veins, but Harry always was a sort of sobering experience. Except, he made her float. Her lungs feel like they’re sinking, shrinking into the boundless black hole of the cavity. Isla stares back at the madwoman in the mirror and opens the Calm app. 

Breathe. Hold that breath. A knock seeps, stemming from the opposite end of the heavy-set door. Four seconds. She eyes her reflection. There’s a knot of emotion in the pit of her tummy — she thinks her innards are coiling, sloshed with tequila and margarita mix, and it’s a brutally nauseating combination. 

“Occupied.” 

It might feel strange at first, but it’ll feel more natural with practice. Someone raps their knuckles against steel, more purposeful. She sets her phone onto the sink and screws her eyes shut. The guided meditation is still playing when she sniffs, twists at the knob, and tugs open the door, half-expecting to tell a drunk person off for their lack of patience. 

The animation of a sun rocks happily over the LED, riding the blue wave of symbolic inhale, like twisted irony. Hold that breath for four seconds. In her loose-gripped balk at the sight that greets her, Harry slinks through the crack like rain through a gutter. 

Words fail. They’re useless, substanceless things that do little to salve over the chasm when he leans back against the door, slipping it shut under his weight. His arm skulks behind, with little subtlety, and clicks the lock back into place.

Hold. Let it go. 

Isla scrubs a hand over her face and launches another frantic one in the direction of the smartphone, still blaring the script of a mucked up, guided meditation. Harry blinks, sticks a ring-adorned hand into the pocket of his slacks, and unveils a little pin of a key. His eyes are still serpentine — whetted like the scales of a viridian snake, and somehow, they’re softer than they’d been. They flit from her face to her wrist and back. She’s still cuffed in golden love shapes and emblematic adoration cleaved. 

“Do you want this, or are you just opting to get it sawed off?”

That’s— not the conversation started she’d been expecting. Her cheekbones teem with a parabolic warmth. This shame doesn’t feel good. 

“Um. Yeah, I’ll take it. Thank you.” 

She’s guarded the way acreage is girdled by barbed wire, post to post, its razor sharp teeth spearing to a soft touch. Harry notes it in the way she tenses when he prompts, taking a step, “Let me help you.” 

She does stick the joint out in his direction, though, almost hesitantly; at first like a testy child, and then with the energy of a flighty, cornered mammal. Instead of hissing from her corner, there’s silence as her eyes roam everything in the space but his stature. 

“Was the date that bad?” Harry tries, eventually, fingers curling over bone. 

The pin turns in the keyhole. Clicks. Green flickers up, then back to the bangle as he wrests it apart. A crinkle forms between his brows — the void between her ribs expands and falls, as if making room for something breathing in the depths. Hibernating. 

“Because I thought it went well, but if I did anything to offend you and I misunderstood, I’m sorry.”

Her voice would be wet, probably, if she wasn’t still so riled. It comes out quiet, the next thing — under her breath, face tipped down like a kid mid-chastise. 

“What the fuck was that?” 

Despite the weight of the words, her voice is low, almost like a sinner whispering in a confessional. It’s rage soft spoken — the blistering sear. She does her best to curb the tremble in her fingers; his warm digits brush her skin in a way that she hasn’t felt in weeks, and the small contact feels like the nostalgia of diamorphine. He could pry her ribs apart with his hands, traipse over trails of veins wandering in a two-fingered saunter, and still find home. 

Harry pauses. His eyes are sharp again, that bladed edge whittling. He peers up from his handiwork. 

“Pardon?” 

“The— you know what,” Isla looks at him. Really looks at him. “You pretend you don’t even know me, and then you try to— what? Mark your territory?” 

Metamorphose. Something smugly sneering rears, something ugly and viridian, probing out; it starts in the shapes of his brows, crinkling them until they’re reborn in a self-satisfied smoothness. It lingers to his mouth; a flash of teeth. His eyes. 

“He wanted to get his dick wet. Did you wanna help with that, sweetheart?” 

Inhale. Isla blinks. It dissipates, curdling back like an eel that’s met a wall of halite. His face softens, sours, downturned to quarry tile. 

“You stood me up,” Harry reasons, wagging his head in denial, “You did that, not me. Why would I act like we’re anything more when you…” 

Hold that breath for four seconds. It’ll feel strange at first—

“You’re playing games,” Isla argues, hands motioning wildly before raking back through her hair — the bracelet is grasped out in his palm, now, and he’s watching her, expressionless, before the features there twist, “You’re— you— blending the lines, into— into—“

The richness of the insult is practically gilded, Harry thinks wryly. He imagines it entrapped in a tomb of gems. “Games? I’ve always been upfront, darling. You wanna talk about games? 

Isla sets a hand onto the sink, uncuffed, and watches where the bangle is fisted by knuckles that aren’t quite white. Yet. 

“—Like the ones you played — crossing limits with no prior discussion. Kissing me? You want to talk about blending the lines?” 

Her face creases.

“Oh, Christ, Harry. Okay,” she feigns placating, hands motioning as if to counteract the seething spitfire of her cadence, “I’m so sorry I broke the contract—“

“Oh for fuck’s sake, this isn’t about the bloody contract—“

“—Without being your good, little pet and asking permission, first.” 

Isla’s always been like spitfire — a cannon biding, full of soot and char. It’s always been a welcome development; the burn was always a pleasant warmth radiating. Somehow, he’s always felt like the carbon dioxide to her flame. This, though, feels like kerosene, and Harry’s no idea when her pellets grew fangs. 

She watches it in live action — the way his topography alters like colorful emblems sifting through a slot machine. Appalled. Sore. Detached. There’s an impasse in the space between their atoms, slick over the tile like dirty mop water. 

He barely looks her way when he outstretches the bangle and its companioned key, and he sounds like defeat personified when he tells her, eerily calm, “Alright. This is yours.” 

Isla doesn’t take it. Not at first. Harry doesn’t say a word. The words rot in his throat.

“It’s yours,” she counters, instead. 

She’s never seen the man so pacific, not to canon balls kissing his skin, as when he wrenches her loose fist apart with his own fingers. Hands it off like she doesn’t belong in his warm palm. Not any shred of a remnant. 

“Pawn it if you want.” 

Her lungs crackle. The torrid pit hisses as the tip of the blade twists. She slumps against the wall. The bracelet and the pin dangle in a loose grip crossed over her front. She can’t even manage a flimsy smile, and this feels like a poignantly hysterical margin to their chapter. A last page in a poky bar restroom. 

“So. This is it?” 

His mouth is a line — straight and unwavering. It parts to parallel. Seams together. There’s the coppice of an all consuming forest fire in his gaze (something left to smolder) when Harry declares (it’s an answer), “…I never treated you like that.” 

“…You’re right,” Isla says. She ogles her sandals, dipping her chin in agreement.

Harry rests a hand on the knob. He doesn’t swivel the lock. 

“You didn’t. I’m just—“ Isla nods. “You didn’t.” 

Harry gnaws into his cheek, nods back all slow-like. 

“…It was a good date.”

“I’m glad you had a nice time.” It’s not clipped. Just tired. Impartially …adjusted. The chasm heaves, bleeding over. 

The cavity could swallow her whole. She imagines it eating away at her from the inside-out as the door clicks and she peers up to find emptiness as her company; suckling at her marrow and gnawing at soft tissue as the tips of her digits judder over her phone for an uber. Her tongue draws over her lips. Saline mingles with credence. 

“I was scared,” Isla blurts. She’s not nodding anymore — she shakes her head down at the toes of her copper leathered shoes. 

She searches for the words in the gap — a pregnant pause that stifles his patient palm, curled at the door. Her shoulders heave on the nervous breath that her lungs expel, so much so that the words seep out saturated by the tremor. “I was scared— about. Blurring the lines. I was scared because the club is one thing, Peitho is one thing, and… I’m so different. When there’s no masks, there’s… feelings. And, I don’t know.”

The bare shapes of his face soften; the plush of his mouth, the chisel to his jaw. She misses it, still trembling down at her slip-ons like gearing to wrack with sobs; shedding denial. It wades up her vocal chords. Flees its prison. Every word she’s managed to swallow down for a long duration of two weeks bobs gracelessly from the depths. 

“I was wrong. I was so wrong, I’m sorry I did that to you. But I have feelings for you, and I can’t stop thinking about you, and seeing you here—“

He bleeds around her like watercolor smearing through the bounds of predetermined charting — a warm orange weeping into azure; chilled ring bands contouring a warm brush at the crest of her cheekbones. Slinking up her jaw, the pad of a thumb under her eye socket, a forefinger at her scalp, tucking hair. 

“—It’s— it—“

“Hey,” Harry croons, “Hey.”

He doesn’t tell her he hates to see her cry. 

“I’m—“

“Hey. S’alright. It’s okay,” he laves at the palpable symptoms of the wound; her broken visage where a thumb swipes over a crinkle in her brow bone, a lash line globbed with frantic emotion, smearing makiage. 

He scorches her veins with his touch — it spumes through like his warm press is a catalyst for a sweltering wave of dopamine. Words morph as a strawberry mouth ghosts over her cupid’s bow. Okay, it’s alright, hey. She purses her mouth against a thumb sweeping over a wet frown; mouths at it. Chiaroscuro is this — soft pledges, the pad of a thumb grazing a front tooth in the top row. It’s okay. Rolling into the gap until it wrests apart. Hey. Pressing to her taste buds. There's thunder behind her ribcage. He could lick up her pulse point and feel it; probably senses it in the tip of her tongue. A mid-spoken kiss on salt when his thumb meddles out, daubs the edge of her lips, slicks over her cheek with spit. 

He could strum her like a guitar, Isla thinks, crawl up her ribs with his fingers, coddle the column of her throat with his hand and she’d sing the prettiest tune. He knows it; a string snaps when her hands roam up the firmness of his torso. Come here, little thing. You’re already marred by my teeth.

They traipse from the wall, each step slotting toe to toe like puzzle pieces sticking into notches and grooves where they fit, mouths meshed with his broad hands splayed over either side of her skull. Those belong, too. 

“Are we doing this?” Harry sighs against her mouth, stirred heady like he already knows. There’s fingertips toying at his belt buckle. She nods into his grasp, hedonistic when she stuffs the bangle into his pocket. 

And then—

He tells her, “Beg.” 

His eyes are sharp again; the swinging tip of braided kangaroo leather. It wags, ominous; talc skates feature to feature, drinking in the falter the way he’d been sipping on Casamigos.

“I—“

“Beg—” Harry parrots, cool fingertips curling over the nape of her neck, thumb smoothing up at the little space of skin under her ear; a minor affection. Her eyes mingle on his mouth. “—Me to fuck you. Beg like you deserve it.”

Isla swallows. Garbles a plea out, riding the rail of a mewl. The fond graze under her ear mutates, a light scrape with the butt of a blunt nail first and then tenebrose squeezing at her jawline. The cup of his hand draws divots into the flesh of her cheeks, makes something burning slosh in the trench of her belly and claw up her chest when her breath catches. Harry tips his head, and despite the stifling firmness of the motion, the polarity of his tone makes her lashes flutter. Lighter, softer. 

“Come on, pet. Better than that. Convince me.” 

Her mouth parts. She leans into him like his words have given her a headrush, and the brush of his lips to her own will mend and stabilize. He lets her, but he doesn’t meet her in the middle, cocking his head back. The space between them wanes. 

“Please fuck me. Please.”

It’s a poor kind of attempt — wouldn’t pass in the Dungeon where his eyes would skirt, in slits, and shapes of muscle would wallow in the jaundiced light of a single lantern overhead. It works well enough, though, here. 

In a split second, they’ve rearranged. Spun like cards passed counter-clockwise over a table. Eros meets her in the mirror. Unveiled, he basks in a yellowed glow from the light, chin tucked over her shoulder. Isla watches emerald embers caper from the echoes of their profiles, to the side of her face as he eases hair back behind her ear, and back. 

“Look so pretty,” he murmurs, low against her cartilage, and the plume of his breath makes her bones ache. She’s pliant, a marionette in his grip; there’s a rather large hand that fondles over her throat like a meaty collar. The other trails up her torso, skimming at the bare flesh hungry fingertips find. A set of eyes flickers to the mirror. She meshes with them in the reflection. Drowns. “Look at you. All dolled up. Pretty, pretty girl.” 

His grip over her windpipe isn’t harsh — not to the extent she’s felt the same grasp linger there before. Despite that, the headrush from it, like oxygen atoms simmering down from her veins on their poor uptake, spurred by his words, feels like he may as well be carrying her by the neck. 

“Who’d you wear this for?” 

It’s grit out through the cracks of his teeth, a cheek flush to her hair when he smooths his free hand down her tummy and climbs back up to finger at the hem of the plunging vale. “Not for me.” 

Her lashes flutter back at her from the mirror on a heavy inhale. He admires the two of them. A perfect match, lit aflame. His fingers slink and dance over a sliver denuded as he wrenches the valley, between fabric, down her diaphragm wider. 

“Wanted to look all pretty for someone? Some nameless, walking cock?” Harry murmurs, pleased when he sees the twitch in her brows — disagreement — and feels the jut of her chin all the way from the base of her throat where his hand rests, a minute side-to-side. “Hm? Have them fuck you in the bathroom like a dirty whore?”

Her next swallow catches, cornered by his palm in its esophageal prison. 

“Maybe… Sam?” 

“No,” Isla spurns. 

“No?” It’s soft condescension, glazed in it and unconvinced, “But that’s what you want, isn’t it? You kiss me—“

An achy roll welters up her spine, ridging up through her rib cage when he tweaks a budding nipple poking through polyester and linen. 

“—Put your hands all over me, like you’re desperate,” Harry tells her, a smooth baritone of molasses that permeates her eardrum, and his voice grows quieter when he smushes closer, like he’s desperate himself to croon the filth. Nearly grazes the gristle there with his blocky teeth, “Like you’ve wanted to get fucked in the bathroom all along. Did it make you desperate, baby? Missing me?”

His slacks (Italian wool blend) feel grainy against her backside when he shimmies the hem of her dress (bodycon) up and over — just up the side to its lopsided demise, one hip sweltering out bare for a peek of a black thong and the other still clad in a sloping border. Like fibers that shouldn’t coexist with skin, shouldn’t cumber flesh on flesh. He wedges a thumb under the patent string of the thong, tows it back like the digit is a lever, and smooths a plane of four fingers tucked together, bumpy nooks, down the puffy bud of a nipple sticking through fabric. Snaps. Like rubber braced to her wrist, the elastic piece at her hip sends a tremor through her knees. Harry traces the outline of her cunt, over her panties, with a middle finger and wrests back one side of her neckline. Then, the other, to scrape the nail on his thumb over a bare nipple. The reflection that meets her in the mirror is in sordid tatters — partly denuded, a half-dressed doll in his big hands. He toys with its soft skin. 

The hand that’d mounted over her throat meanders to her jaw, jams a thumb in to the edge of her mouth, stretching one corner, gripping bone and snaking over wet teeth. She puffs warmth into his palm; his skin tastes like kismet. 

“Could’ve spent so much time bouncing on my cock by now,” Harry tuts. Sighs. “Open.”

Then — Good girl. His lips smear over the crest of her cheekbone before he turns to the mirror and sloppily burrows a set of three fingers against her tongue so unceremoniously, she nearly gags posthaste, brows pinching and eyes skirting up to the ceiling. He’s a steady plinth — unwavering nonchalance painting his features — when she rocks back in jarred reflex, neck craning. A sloppy sound crawls from the depths. His eyes flicker, chin pivoting from the mirror to the side profile of pliant acceptance, three fingers deep to the hilt of his rings, a micromosaic goldfinch, a pearl nestled by an aerie of gold. He draws them out, sleek with saliva. 

“Good girl,” Harry tells her again, sounding nearly impressed. Almost.  

There’s a tang on her tongue — regalia, ornaments coiling his digits, tequila, and a top coat over sanguine lacquer. A nakedly ruddy streak of skin by her mouth, where the foundation has blotched away, catches her eye when she folds over the sink with a hand at her nape, a muck of kohl beneath her eye sockets. Isla wonders what the real aftermath will look like. The hand smooths down the shuddery hills of her spine, then prises her dress to rest over the dimples etched into the small of her back. 

The plush of her thighs splays against chilled ceramic. He spreads her apart until she’s practically on display under the flimsy set of strings she’s deemed underwear, nearly everything intimate peeking for its lewd debut, and crushes a handful of flesh until it’s milky under the tips of his (still wet) fingers. Heat flares between her thighs at the bite. 

“What did you miss more, sweetheart…” Harry beckons, blunt cerise clawing into her skin as her brows pleat.

He drags the pad of his forefinger down the stream of tenebrose linen, where her littlest hole spasms at the pressure in passing. 

“…Having your clit played with—“ he toys at the seam of her gusset, pries it off just enough to feel the bare warmth of the bud pulsing under his singular tap. 

She thaws into the sink like tap water spouting when he pulls her panties back over and mingles, prodding a cotton-coated thumb against the rim of her cunt. “Or getting fucked?”

Her arteries thrum with fire. 

“Only enough time for one or the other,” he encourages, eyebrows climbing in the mirror — it feels like a ploy.

Isla’s brows crimp when she answers; he’s still fondling in monstrous callous, and she’s sure her skin will be branded with little crescents at the nip of his blunt, carmine-polished fingernails — sharp borders to a warm handprint over flesh. 

“Two-for-one?” She rocks forward and back, squinty, “…Package deal?” 

Harry hums. It’s mirthy; a paradox to the cruel linger of his touch before he peels off (eyeing the white imprint of bloodrush), and smacks in the same area. Isla tips forward, eyes screwing.

“Package deal…” Harry murmurs under his breath, smoothing over florid skin, sight flickering like a light. 

“You can multitask,” Isla reasons, and she muzzles a squeal with the roll of her lips when he pinches. 

Nothing’s new, Harry finds. It’s pleasant, like the kiss of cement to the wheels of an aircraft, or the view of blue aether and the plume of its clouds. Your feet will always find the same ground, soles shackled by gravity, and you’ll always rediscover the same sky in the roll of the sun. A pillow pasted to the same spot of a couch when the lock clinks open and you regress from a trip abroad. The pith of familiarity. 

“…Getting fucked,” Isla admits, soft like a sinner whispering secrets in a confessional. 

He meets her gaze in the reflection. She’s still squirming, a little, but it’s different now; little juts in response to an absent-minded, featherlight rake of his fingertips over the same area he’d tattooed with his palm. Harry wriggles her panties to the side. She chews into her bottom lip, watching the mirror, all the way up until the precipice; he prods, sweeping a fingertip from her entrance to the hood of her clit, and slick tails it. 

“Then you’ll get fucked.” 

It’s marinated in the pit of her tummy, this sultry ache that teems from her inner thighs to her core and snakes up her midsection, stuffy, and hot. Wanting. Isla watches a backdrop of tile and meaty arms clad by linen work as the teeth of a zipper sunder apart and a button nudges through its slit. She simmers in that familiar broil when his leaky tip probes, slides and aligns. 

Harry feeds his cock into her with little warning, stretching the rim taut, and draws a soft sound that sounds nearly lodged back by her tonsils in volume. 

It’s a pleasant ache, familiar, emphasized by the poignant emptiness of two weeks; a chasm, bristling at her ribcage, born from that emptiness, starved. It aches enough for her jaw to tense as he eases in, sharply watchful in the mirror. Nirvana crackles up his spine — the bliss of this tight squeeze. 

“That’s it, baby,” he soothes, petting at her hip, flickering between watching her sloppy hole split apart over him and her own visage, tension reflecting straight ahead. 

And then—

He’s in to the hilt before she knows, a squelching heat that envelops to his base, nuzzled skin to skin. Isla doesn’t have the same view, but it’s lewd, this welcome sting that bores to her marrow, a deep pressure where he’s tunneled and stuffed his fat cock — the sight of his jaw pornographically unhinged on a soundless groan as he retreats a couple of inches, slick, wet, and nudges back in. Isla hangs her head. 

“Eyes up, Isla,” Harry demands.  

The weight of her name, as his cock bullies into her, prompts her to raise her chin and hone ahead like no other encouragement. Soft dialogue, something with a keen pierce, Isla, Isla, Isla — she’s never heard it before as he’d slotted in between her sticky thighs. She rocks back for more — more, more, more. 

He’s already threadbare in composure. Worn out by the blade of sordid impulse pressing at sutures. He’s being nice to her, petting at her hips, easing in like the spongy warmth doesn’t get his cock throbbing and weepy. Like the lustrous claws of temptation don’t curdle up the blood in his veins, coaxing to sink in and pound — it’s expertise in exercising self-restraint, this genial pace he’s set, inch by inch. 

And this greedy, greedy little thing grinds back against him, unsatiated and ungrateful. 

Then it registers. 

She’s still greedy, so he swats at her from behind (revels in her squeak), but smooths up under bunched fabric after to scrape at bare skin with the pads of his fingers. 

“Oh, you liked that, did you?” Harry cooes, burrowing in til the globes of her ass kiss the stems of his laurels — her pretty mouth pries open into a nirvanic o. “Hearing your name, stuffed full of my cock?”

He prompts, when there’s no response, “Answer me, Isla,” and drags a few inches out and pummels back into her sopping cunt hard. 

“Yes.” 

A whisper. A whine. Confession. 

He sets a pace when her irises are all loose in their sockets, climbing up behind her lids and a fluttery lash line. Drills in something mean, a cruel tempo that rocks her, skin smacking on skin. A resounding coalescence of flesh meeting flesh and vulgar squelches as Harry batters in, bouncing off the walls of a narrow single use restroom. 

She makes little sounds. Little oohs and unphs that he pounds out of her, partly spurred by the laxness of alcohol tiding her blood stream, and partly the way he mercilessly spears her over his shaft. 

Harry folds over her, cups a palm to her curved pout and smushes, hissing, “Be fucking quiet.” 

And still, he doesn’t stop rocking into her, little nudges that frantically jut up against spongy walls and scrape at the spots, deep inside, that she can’t reach on her own. Isla keens into his fingers. 

He stops. 

Only for a moment, posturing up behind her and dragging out all the way until only his tip kisses her rim, breaching only a tad, and then plunges in all the way hard. Brutishly, in a way that fosters a blunt kind of pang she feels to the depths of her joins, snaking plica and curves of bone. Grinding away. 

“You’re going to apologize,” Harry tells her slowly, nudging out, inch by inch, fraction by fraction, pausing midway to bask in the desperate pulse of her sloppy cunt. Don’t go. It ticks the left corner of his mouth up, has him tipping his face up to the ceiling. Smooths out the way he pets her, a clean slate, composed and sharp when their eyes clash in the mirror. 

Harry’s always had it. Lingering in the lull, kissing at the atmosphere between their atoms — a steely character in nonchalant hues. The kind that wordlessly controlled. He pistons in with a jab of his hips, and again, and again. 

He prompts, enunciated, with a pink mouth highlighting the syllables, “I’m sorry—“

A pummel forward and fingers curling over her shoulder — a notch for leverage. It’s a welcome pressure, like the hard kind that dispels a knot long ago lodged in muscle.

“I—I’m sorry—“

“I’m sorry for disrespecting your time—“ 

It’s strained. Vehement and pent. Porcelain digs into her pelvis, and it hurts when he grinds her into it, harder and harder with the momentum of his hips, like rocking forward over a boulder. 

“I’m sorry for—“ the breathy reprise melds with a high, soft sound that creaks from the back of her throat. 

It doesn’t matter — the vista of her ass bouncing over his cock, or maybe her lashline saturating in the mirror… some part of it all has him gnashing his teeth and doubling down. 

“Pardon?” 

Her eyes loll. 

“I’m sorry for disrespecting your— your time,” Isla manages, bobbing over the empty basin. 

“I’m sorry for disrespecting you,“ Harry prompts. It hitches on a soft breath, the kind that’s commonplace when her spongy walls are squeezing, but the flinty snakeskin doesn’t taper. It bores in the mirror, smoldering like viriscent bonfires dancing in his sockets. 

Something spalls. Isla hangs her head, pulsing helplessly over his cock when he bottoms out. Her clit throbs. The words catch in this wet limbo at the back of her throat, churning, either to be swallowed or spit back up. A soft sob climbs from the back of her tongue. 

In return, the hand that’d clawed into her shoulder melts. It’s still there; a gravity that keeps her fettered to porcelain, and epoxy resin, and slick cock between her thighs.

“Alright?” — something that spills out through pants, strained, and at first, it doesn’t even register that he’s asking a question. He’s checking in. Her fingers scrape over the escutcheon. 

It should feel pathetic — it does, when she responds to the sputter, like a slow roll over the brake pedal, in his pace with a low whine and a haphazard roll backwards, if it even counts as that. The nudge doesn’t earn her the same blissful stretch as when he pounds, but it gets him just that much deeper. Just enough to feel him burrow where he belongs. It spumes through every major artery — shame, and it spills into the crest of her cheekbones, ruddy and coated with mascara. He bottoms out— like, really bottoms out. The bleary reflection of a cinch tightens between her brows when he sloppily coils her hair into a makeshift pony over his knuckles, in almost immediate response, and yanks, craning her neck back. 

“Stay still,” Harry hisses. It’s dominion through the cracks of his teeth. Augury, promise, something wound tight. Submit. Her scalp tingles with a familiar sting. “I asked you a question.” 

There’s still hair wrung over one fist when the other hand cradles her throat. The chill of his rings bites. “…If you don’t answer, I’ll stop.” 

“I’m— keep— yes,” she whimpers, agreeing with her chin in juts that makes the throb at the crown of her head radiate.

A fizzle seeps from the unseal of her lips. He lures her head back harder just to sponge a kiss to her temple, another to the wet corner of her eyes. Tastes salt when he pulls off and licks out his mouth. His fingers unweave. 

“…I’m sorry for disrespecting you.”

She only meets green in the mirror for a moment before he angles his hips and sets a nasty tempo with his thrusts, like he fucking hates her, bracketing her hips with his meaty palms, tongue tucked to the backs of his teeth. 

“Yeah, you fucking are.” 

It’s an anchor; this brutality. These fingers sunk into her skin and muscle with iron, the way he spits filth, eyebrows pinched, with little hiccups of breathy grunts and groans splintering his speech. Like clandestine gyves fettering her to the cold press of the sink, his hard grip, her own body. 

She does look the part of a proper, dirty whore getting fucked in a public bathroom of some bar, just like he’d earlier suggested. A strand of frizzy hair dangles over her face — stitches gone loose where skin meets a hairline — swaying with every harsh plunge of his hips. Her eyes are watery, glazed by rapture, a conglomeration of chemicals surging through her bloodstream, coaxed by each and every hard pump from behind. What little residue of ink that’d slicked her lashes lingers in clumps and muddles onto the skin beneath, smoked in sullied smudges. Whore stares back in the mirror; clustered, sopping lashes, a ruddy-tipped nose, the shape of a mouth smeared and wide, tethered between holding his gaze and seeping back behind her skull. A doll that makes noise at the brush of a button when he folds over and his fingers slip between her legs to bully her clit. 

Someone knocks. 

“Be a good girl,” Harry huffs, face creased with fervor as his hips snap and his digits roll frantically sloppy circles over the bud, “and tell them that we’re occupied.” 

All Isla can manage, as he pinches between her legs and pummels in, is a wordless hum through a sealed pink pout, features twisting helplessly; a crinkle to her nose, a downturn at the edges of her mouth. 

“You wanna cum?” Harry sputters to a grind, something that rolls wall to wall and pins, fingers slotting to her clit in a V that runs slick and doesn’t quite hone where she needs it. He murmurs against the shell of her ear, “Hm? S’that what you want?” 

She takes a moment, maybe to process that he’s slowed his priorly cruel rhythm into something crueler, and as his balls grind against her clit, settle over a rigid V, Isla whines and nudges back against him in protest. Then, there’s fingers digging into a lovehandle, sharply, gone altogether as her head is wrangled ahead.

“Fucking look at me. You wanna cum?” 

Her eyes blink open. There’s something feral pasted to her back in the reflection. 

“Tell them we’re busy. Tell them we’re busy, or I'll stop.” 

Another knock from the door paralleling their shapes; antsy knuckles snapping over steel. Slowly, Isla nods. Starts. 

“It’s—“

Harry pulls off and out, snapping his hips forward with little warning. It jolts her into the body of the basin and stifles all progress of semblance. Before her eyes roll back into her skull, she manages to catch the vista of him, devilish, mouth curling in wicked ploy. Isla groans loud enough for the entire hallway to hear. 

“Occupied,” he slams his fist against the door. One knock back for two; no more follow. His eyes veer ahead, “Get yourself off. Want you gushing over me.” 

Her fingers reach her clit with wild hunger, parroting the filthy shapes he’d drawn into her flesh as he plunges in to the hilt, out to head, back — hungry, hungry, hungry. He chases it, the hot squeeze of her pussy tensing over every ridge of a vein, every millimeter he offers. How can he not, to such a sweet embrace? He could strum her like a guitar, his taut string to pluck by a fingertip. She tenses, scrabbling at the sink with one spasming hand, the other drawn where the tips of her digits can brush where they mesh. 

“Oh, fuck— please— can I—?”

Habit. Something he’s nailed into her, time after time, crushed through flesh. Please’s and Thank you’s, Can I’s and May I’s. And now, the sinew has healed around it; this new norm. It furrows in between his pecs, this nasty satisfaction. His. 

“Go on,” he spurs, tempo haywire as she jolts over the sink, like every muscle is washed in electricity, and throbs over his cock. He makes her watch; the way she tips, his fingers tangled in her hair and angling. 

And he chases it harder. Bounding. A precipice in the depths, between her legs. The tide rises, coils up in tsunami from between his laurels. His mouth shapes a gruff garble of her name when he spills, pulsing, burrowing in as far as he can get. 

“Shit,” Harry breathes.

Her head sways and sags when he lets go of her hair, shuddering over the sink and panting. When Harry tucks his way out of her, she clenches like she misses him again. Don’t go. Stay. A little rivulet in cream leaks out, and he brushes it back inside with the pad of a forefinger. 

“Hold it,” Harry demands, but it’s soft, like hands brushing her hair back. He pulls her gusset back over, pleased. 

She’s still shuddering and folded over the sink when Harry tucks himself back into his slacks, petting at the small of her back. He buckles up, pressing the fronts of firm thighs to the naked backs of her own, a sort of grounding to the foundation before he has the opportunity to stroke his hands all over her in gentle respite. 

“Feeling full?” he teases. Strokes his fingertips over her underwear, where the fabric’s begun to grow wet from his release. Isla rocks back in response. Like asking for more, like asking for anchoring. Pull the ship back to the shoreline. 

Harry rolls the dress that he’d bunched up back over her curves, smoothing and sorting her out. That’s what happens now; smoothing the crinkles with a warm press like a plugged iron. It starts at her waist, in the cinch, where he combs his hands up her sides to fondle at the ribcage and the bit of flesh there, and then meanders up her shoulders, thumbing at her nape. 

“Good?” Harry mumbles. There’s a twitch in his mouth at the way she rolls her neck, still silent over the basin, and nods. 

Good sex or good manhandling over her shoulders, thumbs drawing circles beside the vertebrae under her nape, Isla’s unsure. Good…

“M’proud of you,” he tells her. 

It’s a sudden compliment — shatters the silence and has her deltoids and traps stiffening under his palms. It’s like he senses it, probably feels it under his fingers. Isla imagines his brow bone furrowing as she raises her head to look back at him. 

“For what?” 

“For being honest with yourself.” 

She braces against the sink and unfolds into his back, twisting into the caress that climbs up the side of her throat. Harry doesn’t kiss on her, almost like he’s afraid, pending in limbo from the typical. He does drag up over the crest of her cheekbone, though. She eyes the onyx thumb pad that retires. 

“How fucked is my makeup?” 

“Pretty fucked, pet,” Harry tells her, rolling his lips into his mouth as if to muzzle back the beginnings of dimpled grin (she feels she’s been starved of for ages). 

“Fuck.” 

She swivels to catch a glimpse of the madwoman — now, makiage dismembered — in the mirror, but pivots back into the warm press of his hand over the fleshy margin of her cheek when he prompts by unceremoniously grasping at the bones in her jaw. He culls a paper towel, wets it with a flick over the faucet, and runs it over under a socket to catch smudges. Aftercare, in a manner. Something stirs on his face — trickles as a huff of laughter. 

“Fuck,” Harry echoes, sponging over warm, smeared skin, more, more, and then— “I don’t know that I can save this, Isla.” 

She peers into the mirror. 

“Jesus Christ, what did you do to me?” 

“—Not that much,” Harry reasons, the frame of his arms serving as chocks for her to the basin. He plants his hands on either side from behind, and then raises one to roam up her tummy as she wipes, ruddy skin streaking in patchwork, “…Not even close to the usual."

A balmy heat murmurs through her at the implication and throbs when he tucks his chin over her trapezius, partly shrouded by her hair, and hums, “This is a sexy dress, by the way. Did I tell you that?” 

Isla leans into him. It’s the closest to normalcy she’s felt in the last two weeks. It tapers when she sets the sopped paper at the edge of the sink, scared to ask (splinter the rapture of soles on eggshells, crowding land mines). 

“…What now?”

Harry shifts. His palm no longer strokes over her stomach, but rests on the basin behind her own. Brushes at her wrist with the tip of his pinky when he declares, “I want to see you.” 

Isla doesn’t twist back to face him, or look into the reflection ahead. 

“See me …how?” 

“See you like this. I wanna see Isla.” 

There’s that foggy murk behind her skull, that smog that dazes words, all too familiarly. Harry breathes behind her. 

“What are you doing tomorrow?” 

“I was planning to mope.” 

It’s simple. He rocks up behind her, and she imagines a close-lipped smile curling his mouth. 

“Any way you can find a couple of hours somewhere in that busy schedule to see me?” 

Isla blinks and meets him in the mirror. 

“Like a… date?”

“Like a date.” 

She keeps the hand with the towel on ceramic. Lets the mucky wad go to let him wheedle his palm over her own and slot his fingers in the webbed gaps. 

Harry tacks on, “If you’re comfortable with that.”

She wants to turn into his embrace, nuzzle into the broad expanse of his chest and scope the shapes of his features with her fingertips; the slope of his nose, the upturned corner of plush pink below. Ghost over a cupid’s bow. She tilts her head and squeezes over his digits. 

“And what… now?”

“Now, now?”

“Now, now.”

“Now… we,” fingers notch firmer into those gaps — the crevices between her digits longing for his touch the way the oozing cavity in her chest has pined, “—go out there, and you… sit there, look pretty. Pretend you didn’t just get fucked.” 

He swaths her wrist with the bangle; a missing limb, nearly — a piece of her that’d been rived with something the size of a thimble. A piece of him. 

Nobody says a word when they return to the booth. A kind of acceptance — knowing. A sort of respectful retreat in the sideline of Sam’s eyes when he skims and retires. Miryea talks with her eyebrows. Later. It’s even quieter when Isla slips into the nook under his arm, and then something flourishes in the lull. Normalcy. Stable footing. The conversation kicks back up.  

She’s wet between her thighs. Not a pulsating warmth that yearns, but a sticky film of his cum that’s sullied her, tucked up in her underwear. It weeps out over the course of the night. She crosses her legs. Uncrosses them. It seeps, and his hand roams down the small of her back. She coddled by the leather cushion of a booth and him. It purrs in the depths of her chest; something satiated and warm. 

He coils into the chasm with an outstretched offering; a manhattan stacked with a mountain of cherries.

#harry styles smut #harry styles #harry styles writing #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles one shot #dom harry styles #harry smut #harry styles one shots #harry styles fic #harry styles fanfic #mean dom h #harry styles x oc #harry x oc #harry styles fluff #harry styles angst

[tiredsurvivoronmain]

When they were talking about Wesker, I can't help but when he said this to Jill (when she said it was like living in a nightmare being controlled), I think he was also talking about himself when he said this.

He had only just opened up to her about Piers (apparently the first time he's told her about him years after his death), and it almost felt as if he was confessing his guilt/loss and that he had planned on retiring, Piers being the one to take over from him. He looked vulnerable telling her, the way he held the water bottle with both hands as if he needed something to hold and ground him, like it took real effort to open up (he's still affected by Piers' death). When it came to Wesker, him 'opening up' carried over and he may have confessed how he felt about Wesker still being in his mind, memories and nightmares. It could have also been Piers he was having nightmares about and he struggled to come to terms with the loss. Not necessarily in a romantic sense but it's obvious losing Piers hit him hard. However his relationship/rivalry with Wesker was longer and more intense, it would make sense that he'd still feel that connection to him like an old scar that won't fade and gives him pain. He also uses replicas/weapons that were Wesker's, if he wanted to be done with Wesker, why use them at all? Would he have not had other alternative weapons to choose from? Wesker's dead (as far as he's concerned) yet he still has that connection to him. If he was the one who commissioned the series of weapons or was the one to name them after Wesker... Did he do it to honour his memory? Or that he wanted something of Wesker or that connection with him to stay? And what would Jill have thought of it? Chris using replica weapons of the man that controlled her and made her live a nightmare? "And if you're not careful, it'll swallow you up." Perhaps he said that because that's what has happened to him, that the nightmares of Wesker have consumed him or had at one point consumed him.

The why he looked and acted empty after killing Wesker, you'd think he'd be happy or relieved it was over like the others were. Maybe he was at first but after a while the emptiness began to settle; he trained for so long to fight Wesker, he had a purpose and a goal. When Wesker was gone it left a void that needed to be filled. But something that had such an impact and influence on his life would have left him feeling empty. In a way, he killed part of his identity that day.

Then there's this scene in RE6

WHY was Chris prepared to die because he killed Wesker? As if he felt guilty or regretted it? He didn't know Jake personally, he didn't try to defend his actions or explain that Wesker was trying to destroy the world. Yet he willingly confessed and felt he deserved to be shot for killing him.

It took Chris a strangely long time to answer, why did he have to even think it over? He wanted to take Wesker down for personal reasons and because he was ordered to, it should have been a quick and obvious answer. My guess is that he was having flashbacks to Wesker, possibly his final moments. The way he sounded when he answered was as if he had no choice but to kill Wesker, that it wasn't for the same personal reasons he had before. He had to kill him in the same way of putting down a rabid dog, to protect people and to put it out of it's misery/pain. "I had to, he wouldn't stop. He was beyond saving."

Whether he felt actual guilt/regret for killing Wesker or it was merely a very dangerous tactic to get through to Jake, it's hard to say.

Ironically, there have been many occasions Wesker has aimed a gun at Chris and never fired, not even to miss for plot or as a warning. Jake, his son, did what Wesker couldn't in his 10 years of rivalry with Chris.

And of course, this scene in the RE1 remaster.

I've talked about this in another post but long story short, he still cared about Wesker despite being betrayed by him, that just moments ago shot Rebecca. Chris laughed and mocked him seconds before and was held at gun point, but the moment Wesker got attacked he immediately tried to help/save him. He cared.

And he still did, even after his death. Using Wesker weapon replicas, protecting and defending his son, possibly still having Wesker's STARS knife from the events of Code Veronica...he needs to have something of Wesker to be part of him. Whatever his reasons, despite all the pain, anger and hatred, he refuses to let him go and let the past be buried. He is both haunted and embracing the ghost of Wesker. The longer the absence of Wesker goes on, the more Chris is changing. Deep down he may have been hoping, wanting, Wesker to come back. 10 years pass and there's still no sign of him, the realisation turning into grief and regret. Wesker gave Chris purpose (just like how Chris gave Wesker purpose), now that purpose was gone, things just aren't the same anymore and there's nothing he can do to get him back. Wesker may have been right after all; their fates really are forever intertwined.

#chrisker #chris redfield #wesker #albert wesker #analysis and theories #long post

[thelov3lybookworm]

Mine? (part 4)

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3

Summary: He just wants to talk.

•○●⛦●○•

A/n: we love short chapters... right?

anyways, enjoy!

(dividers by @saradika-graphics)

Y/n tensed, staring back into the grey eyes she used to be in love with.

How did he know she was here?

She glanced at Nash, who held Adelaide close to himself.

No, he wouldn't do that.

Y/n thought about it for a moment as she stood.

Did he tail us?

Her eyes widened when she realised that he had, in fact, been tailing her.

But he wouldn't meet her eyes, locked on the babe in his brother's arms, his gaze accusing.

"You knew?" His voice was calm, calculated as he looked at the other two brothers, who simply stared at their feet. "You all knew."

"Gray-" Nash began, his face serious, but Grayson cut him off.

"Get out."

"What do you mean get out? We're staying here-" Jameson complained, standing as he glared at Grayson. All the while, Y/n watched, a pit in her stomach.

"I want to talk to her. Take the baby, and get out."

Y/n could feel all their eyes on her, but she only stared back at Grayson.

"Y/n?" Nash mumbled, and Y/n gave him a curt nod.

"I'll be fine." She glanced once at him and Adelaide meaningfully, who was drooling over the collar of his shirt.

Nash gestured at Xander and Jameson to get out, which they did, leaving Grayson alone in the room with Y/n as they locked the door behind him.

Y/n sighed, settling back in the armchair she occupied. "What did you want to talk about?"

He stared at her, his eyes hard, before stalking forward.

"I just want to know. Why did you leave?"

Y/n’s eyebrows rose.

"Are you seriously asking me that?"

Grayson was not amused, his jaw clenching as if he was trying not to lose his temper as he walked towards the fireplace mantle and leaned against it.

"Yes, Y/n, I am seriously asking you that."

Y/n laughed, the sound void of humour. "Why did I leave, Grayson? Besides the fact that you thought that night was a mistake?"

"So you left because I told you that it was a bad idea to fuck my friend? Well, forgive me for not realising how sensitive you are and that you couldn't understand why it was wrong."

Tears stung her eyes as Y/n stared at him, the dark, empty place in her chest that was filled with resentment and sadness, the place that once overflowed with her love for him, filling with anger at the way he tried to downplay what he had done.

She took a deep breath, trying to calm herself down because she didn’t trust herself to not slap him to a pulp.

"Why do you think I let you touch me that night, Grayson?" She didn’t let him answer. "It was because I genuinely was in love with you. And maybe a little delusional, considering I thought you might actually have moved on from Emily and Eve and decided, to, I don't know, be a sensible human being. But boy was I wrong."

"Y/n-"

"No, Grayson. You don’t get to interrupt me. You wanted to know why I left, so you better zip it and listen."

His mouth closed with an audible click as she stood, tears now pooling in her eyes.

"I watched you be so hopelessly in love with so many people Grayson, watched as you got your heart broken by each one of them. First Emily, then Avery, then Eve. all the while I burned for you. All the while I was right there, waiting for you to realise that you didn’t have to be alone."

Y/n sniffed, taking a step towards him, her eyes unwavering as he straightened. "That night, when we made a mistake, you were just using me to get over Eve. you did not care that you hurt my feelings. You just wanted to have what you couldn’t get from her. And right after, you tell me it was a mistake. How could I stay after that, Grayson?"

He swallowed. "I’m sorry-"

"How could I stay, knowing that when you found out that a life was growing inside of me because of your mistake, you would probably just leave me to take care of a child you helped create by myself? Knowing that you would be disappointed and probably ask me to terminate?"

Y/n continued to step closer to him, watching his reaction closely, tears beginning to leak down her face as she whispered in his face. "How could I stay, knowing that in the off chance that you wanted to be in the life of my daughter, there was a possibility that you would turn out just like your father?"

His eyes flashed, and with their close proximity, Y/n could see the silver lining his eyes. But she did not care. He deserved to feel the pain that she went through. He deserved to know that it was because of him she went into hiding.

"I wouldn't have abandoned you two had I known, and you know damn well that I wouldn’t have turned out like him."

Y/n smirked. "Do I now?"

"You could’ve told me Y/n. You know how much I value family. You knew, and still you ran off."

The anger that surged in her veins was quick to overpower any sense of self she had, and she moved before she realised what she was doing.

The loud crack was satisfying still, and the red handprint left on his cheek was enough to soothe her wounds.

"Maybe instead of telling me how stupid I was in not informing you, you should ask your mother why she thought she could make decisions for you."

His head snapped back to her, his eyes wide.

"My- Skye?" Y/n watched as a tear made its way down his cheek. "She knew?"

Y/n laughed. "Of course she did. Did you really think I would put my daughters future in jeopardy by keeping her away from her father just because I wanted to be petty?"

He stayed silent, gazing into Y/n’s eyes. "Did she tell you to stay away from me?" He leaned in. "How much did she have to pay to buy your silence?"

His voice was harsh, taunting.

"Nothing. I was not about to risk the lives of my family and daughter by going against her wishes" Y/n mumbled, taking a step back, ready to leave.

He blinked, shock evident in his gaze. "She threatened to…"

"Yes, Grayson. She threatened to wipe out my entire family, as well as my then unborn child if I even dared to hint at you that I was pregnant."

All the harshness bled from his face, leaving behind a vulnerable boy who was hurt more than he should have been at his age. "What would she gain-"

The door clicked open. "Y/n?"

She turned to look at Xander, who looked like he wanted to be anywhere but here. "Yes?"

"It’s Adelaide. She’s been crying for the past ten minutes. I think she’s hungry."

Y/n nodded, and with one last glance at Grayson, who stared at his brother with panic in his eyes, followed Xander out.

She knew he wanted to talk more, but she was done with the conversation.

The Inheritance Games Taglist: @dahliawarner

Mine taglist: @aaronwarnerobsessedmylove @blocked-zombieartist @lillycore @lanterns-and-daydreams

@bubybubsters @berryzxx @riddlesb1tch

#grayson hawthorne x reader #grayson hawthorne #the inheritance games #tig fanfic #tig x reader #grayson x y/n #grayson hawthorne fluff #grayson x reader #grayson hawthorne x you #grayson hawthorne x reader angst

[sweetbottletops]

Often finding your little (queer) friend group takes until college so in a way Mitsuki is ahead of schedule.

Ch 85

I'm somewhat surprised Mitsuki felt scared by the festival masses even tho music is her special interest and that's most likely the same for everyone else there. Not being able to feel togetherness even there among fellow fans feels really extreme...and lonely.

But she is a headphones kid after all and when at their little concert date earlier it had been Aya freaking out in a more normal way and Mitsuki was more chill and grading their English ability. Maybe she's been one of those distant, cerebral stand-still-and-stare concert goers before this trip.

It's starts off with your hat. Then she'll have your Netflix password, take a couple of your dresser drawers, and before you know it you locked in your Ikea-instructions-plus-one for life and are surprising her with a refrigerator you didn't properly discuss.

I'm bothered that Mitsuki's past festival experiences that she talked fondly about were still her feeling alone, locked in her head, and out of sync. Do something, Aya! She's becoming that depressed fish again!

*tangent* There's that MA (18+) Mitsuki midriff that's going to cost Yen Press manga sales.

"Hello! Kooooga-san!" It's Aya there to snap her out of mental drifting. And she's literally being a physical anchor now too. Someone mentioned skinship elsewhere like it was 2008 again and yes. Aya has gotten comfortably handsy.

Not just pinky promises anymore.

While getting out of sorts Mitsuki specifically picks out Aya in the crowd. It can feel settling to have someone to emotion check against when you don't know how to feel.

At the aquarium it hadn't worked out quite like this. Aya took a few steps away from her and Mitsuki immediately emo fished herself into the void. This time she doesn't have that othering hit so strongly and instead seems to finally latch onto the collective atmosphere.

For someone who likes to be overstimulated with music and headphones alone she's come a long way from that to sharing earbuds with Aya, playing her own music, and now actually feeling plugged into the collective live music experience. Imagine how that'd feel looking down from the stage.

Facing the same way and together in a Mitsuki sandwich.

What a nice found community/family chapter for Mitsuki on Mother's Day. I wonder if we're ever going to find out what happened with her parents or if it's, for she and Joe, past news and not in the top ten of their current concerns.

#the guy she was interested in wasn't a guy at all #arai sumiko #green manga #manga #yuri #kinioto

[vanillimouse]

CW: Cannibalism (fantasized), blood, gagging (no vomiting), DARK

Thinking about a reader that struggles with love that’s all-encompassing.

Maybe you’ve been deprived of it and are fascinated by the concept—or the reverse, you’re spoiled rotten, no a foreign concept to you. Either way, you’re greedy. Looking upon human features with a sense of sonder isn’t enough. You need to touch them, crush them, own them. Squeeze the color out of their eyes and suck the melanocytes out of their skin.

A reader who knows that the average 250-pound hog will yield 150,000 calories’ worth of meat. A reader who knows this varies based on the pig. A reader who also knows that, essentially, humans are long pigs, similar enough to swap organs.

It’s natural to you that you’re drawn to men in the military. They’re the biggest, the baddest. The strongest—taking one down would be like a hominid versus a mammoth. The challenge excites you. And everything about them is documented well, from their muscle mass to their blood type. The government’s finest pigs, and you get to pick.

-

SIMON “GHOST” RILEY

Your love for him makes you feel awful.

It’s unfortunate that you met him. He’s lived an animal existence already—knows what it’s like for greedy things to pick and pick. There are scars on his body and nicks in his ears. He pads around like some sad dog. Not aimlessly, but like he believes he should be somewhere worse. Like he’s grateful for the nothing he’s gotten.

You think the universe has a sick sense of humor. You wonder if he lived as a lamb once and was butchered. And then was brought back to be human and butchered again. And again. Mentally, then physically, metal hooks cozy in his ribs. You wonder if you’re just fate for him. Because of this, you remain delicate.

He’s quiet company. So are you. You appreciate it. It lets you mull over him. Your favorite part of him is his eyes, you think. Feline almond made sultry by the paint smeared across his lids. Pretty, two matching voids, both framed by eyelashes more luscious than your own. You like the contrast; golden hairs, black iris. His gaze is sharp. You can tell where he’s looking even if you can’t see his pupils.

That’s a part you’d miss if you decided to devour him: his alertness. It must be hell for him, but it’s a wonder for you. His eyes eternally flick, scan. There’s an intelligence they’d miss if they glazed over. If they unfocused forever.

Your growth is proportionate to his. At first, it’s silent lunches spent together–revelment in and acclimation to a new source of heat nearby. If he grunts, so do you. If he speaks, so do you. You wonder if he’ll tire of you, interpret your mimicry of him as mockery. He doesn’t. If anything, he appreciates the space. You’re inoffensive.

Seeing his petals open only makes you hungrier. He’s quite talkative with those he’s close to. He’s goofy, too–something easy to miss under his deadpan delivery. When he fucks with you, it makes you greedy. Saliva pools under your tongue. He’d be warm, you think. Fit for a stew. Something that steams as high as the tea you both shared in your silence. Hardy, spiced. You pretend to hate his dad jokes.

When you lunge at him, it’s because he let you touch him. That was an unspoken rule for months–you didn’t touch him. He hovered in your space, tantalizingly close, casting a shadow over you, but he was off-limits. Not until he gave you the okay.

It was while you sat beside him on his bed, watching him craft a new mask. Another period of silence. Those were rarer these days, but still happened. You were happy to listen to his breathing, to observe the dexterity of his long, weathered fingers. He had gotten tangibly better at stitching. They were less visible. Straighter; neater. You would joke about it, but you were too comfortable.

You leaned in too close. You could blame it on his weight tugging you in his direction like a gravitational pull. You could also blame it on your peace-softened limbs, bones boiled down to jelly. Either way, your arm brushed his. You could tell it did because he tensed the microsecond before he felt the fabric of your long-sleeve.

You were ready to apologize. Fully prepared for him to kick you out, to ban you from the one place he found safe. You couldn’t conceptualize your punishment. It was a rule you had never broken before, not even by accident.

Your mouth opened and he silenced you. The roundness of your eyes and the way you gathered your body was sorry enough.

“‘S fine.” He muttered, but he stopped sewing. The needle sat frozen between his fingers, eyes fixed on nothing in particular. You cleared your throat.

“Could I, then…?” You were greedy. You were pushing your luck. “Just your shoulder, I mean.”

“Said it’s fine.” He huffed.

Your touch was light, experimental. Like he was a fragile bird that you got to hold. He didn’t tense as much because he expected you. You promised the shoulder, but your hand moved lower. Away from the dip of his collarbone to the expanse of his bicep. It was thick–your fingers, spread as they were, couldn’t wrap around it. You trailed lower, lower, lower still, until it was his wrist you were threatening. His hand had moved away from his lap. It rested on the bed, available to you.

Down a hand, he bundles the needle in the mask and casts it aside. “Pettin’ me like I’m a dog.”

“I thought that’s what you wanted?” Your voice betrays the grin on your face.

You don’t even care to look up. You’re too engrossed in this. He runs hot, infernal against your fingertips. He’s pale enough for you to be able to trace his veins, so you do–trailing blue until you reach the leather of his palms.

“I hear that if you can see an ‘M’ on your palm, it means you’ll get married someday.”

“Yeah? You see one?”

“Yeah. And I feel sorry for the lass.”

He chuckles at that. It’s a low rumble, probably the closest he can get to a giggle. You like it. It makes you feel starved. With two of your own, you lift his limp hand. It’s heavy. Veins roll down his palms like lightning bolts.

You don’t know if you can handle this. His flesh is a temptation to you. He doesn’t understand that you want to score him and roast him over an open flame. You want him to be part of you forever. You think it’s beautiful, what male grasshoppers do to satisfy their mates. The idea of his body fueling your own is euphoric.

The attack is abrupt. You’re staring into the webbing between his fingers, then your teeth are in it. Specifically at his thumb where there’s a bit of extra skin. You clench your jaw as hard as you can muster, and to your surprise, he hisses. He’s human, but he didn’t strike you as one to show pain.

His blood trickles into your mouth. It isn’t much, as you didn’t clamp down on a hotspot. It’s thick and savory and rich to you. You groan and flex your jaw, chewing on him, urging more blood to eke out.

His hand tangles in your hair. It’s the roughest thing he’s ever done to you. The pain in your scalp is excruciating enough to loosen your jaw.

The noise you make when he forces you away from him is inhuman. Like a wounded animal, like a parasite detached from its host. Your eyes are misty. You’ve been caught. You don’t know how to explain that this is what love means to you. There’s no other method for you to cope. You want every piece of him that’s still intact.

“Please, S-”

“Easy, love.” He catches you before his name spills like his blood from your mouth. It’s gathered at the edge of your bottom lip. He didn’t bleed that much; it’s mixed with your spit. You’re drooling.

“I just need-” You grit your teeth, eyes squeezing shut. His wounded hand is moving. It cups and swallows the lower half of your face. His other hand remains in your hair, but it loosens.

This is a messy affair. He’s rubbing blood on you. His thumb, pad already slick with your spit, slides past your lips. He taps his nail against your teeth. The gates open. You allow him to slide his thumb over your tongue slowly. There’s a salty taste to him.

“Shoulda told me this ‘s what you needed.” He grunts. His thumb doesn’t stop moving, not even when your teeth pinch at him. This bite doesn’t seem to affect him. Either his fingers are less sensitive or you simply caught him off guard the last time. You gurgle.

He continues until his thumb hooks and a wave of nausea washes over you. You release his thumb, if not for a moment, and nearly choke on your spit.

“Careful.” He warns. “This better?”

In your valiant battle against vomiting, you push more saliva out of your mouth. It slips like molasses down to your chin. You try to bite again and manage. But when the pressure is too much, his massive thumb hooks again. This time, you do gag.

It’s torture. You can taste him, you can nip him, but you can’t gnaw on him. A tear rolls down your cheek.

“We can do this for as long as you like.” Simon purrs. He’s petting your hair, now, soothing you. You’re like a disobedient puppy to him.

You should be angry, but you honestly feel relieved. He knows how to handle you. He sees your sickness and treats you with the best medicine that he can think of. Your teeth grind—you feel thick skin shifting over bone. His tongue clicks.

He hooks his thumb.

#first time I’m posting my writing ouuhhh I’m gonna hurl #ghost x reader #simon ghost riley #price gaz and soap are next #SORRY #dark cod fic #writings from space #nefarious activities #call of duty #ghost cod #simon riley x reader

[bijoutarot]

No Contact: Everything You Need To Know

Image 1

Image 1 this person is seeking to move on asap after the fallout. This person can’t stand the thought of actually being single and taking their time. Their philosophy is that to get over someone you have to get under someone else. They are having a difficult time filling the emotional void of your absence. They anxiously search in apps for anything that will occupy their time to forget about everything that you two argued about.

Image 2

Image 2 this person hurt and betrayed you very deeply. They are wondering if there is a word deeper than sorry. This person is hoping you two can start over and that you can put behind their transgressions. Losing you has been a great loss to this person. They feel as though they lost a lover, family, and someone who they wanted to be with long term. They used to go out a lot to drink with friends but not recently. You seem to be pushing them away.

Image 3

Image 3 since you two lost contact this person has been through a journey. They notice that you have been thriving more now that your focus is completely on you and your wants. Secretly, they feel guilty that they were holding you back. Your glow is so bright and everyone has been complimenting you. This journey has proven to them that they are truly lost. They envy how confident and secure you are. For some of you this can be a close friend that you have outgrown. This has been happening over time. They also compare your journey vs theirs and wonder why you are so blessed while they have lost. They are always experiencing financial hardship.

Image 4

Image 4 this person is hoping that baiting you into an argument will get you talking to them again. They feel like negative attention is attention. You have withdrawn emotionally from this person and it hurts them deeply. They thrive off of your love but unfortunately took it for granted. They never felt a love like yours before and since you have suddenly changed they feel the difference. They compare the people they meet to you hoping they can coach them to be like you.

Which images resonates?

#vampire #vampire diaries #true blood #roswell new mexico #the originals #pac readings #detailed pac #pac tarot #tarot pac #pick a image #pick an image #astrology community #astro blog #tarot and astrology #taroteverydays #free tarot reading #paid tarot #tarotista #tarotblr #tarot blog #divination #daily tarot #future spouse readings #future spouse pick a card #future spouse reading #astro news #tarot tumblr

[finnlongman]

Sometimes I try to explain what I do on this blog to my agent and whether this counts as actually promoting my books and I'm like, look, on the plus side, when my adult books come out I'll know I've got a ready audience of people who want Weird Medieval Stuff, because all I ever do is throw Weird Medieval Stuff into the void and see what happens next. But currently, no, I would not say I am doing a great job of Being An Author In Public, because I do probably spend more time talking about obscure novels from 1894 and their possible 17th-18th century inspirations than, you know, my own books. People seem to like it this way and I am just giving them what they want. Also, I need SOMEWHERE I can be deeply odd about in-progress research and the Bluesky character limit really cramps my style.

#would it make any difference if i behaved differently though. probably not #you're all here for the nicheposting at this point

[velvet-vox]

My Top 10 Favourite Male Villains of all time.

"How arrogant of you to think that any of us are anything but irrelevant". -John Greer, Person of Interest (2011-2016).

There comes a moment in a blog's life where some things are just long overdue, and while the argument could be made that this happened way too early, I'd say that as long as this helps me to find my groove, I am free to experiment as much as I want.

So..... Villains.

Gotta love them. As long as I do not meet them in real life. This post is in particular about male villains since I have one dedicated to their female counterparts in the pipeline so expect that to come soon enough and for this part to be rewritten. By the way, "villain" is a generalisation, I can totally put antivillains, antagonists or more general antiheroes in this list; your definition of "Bad Guy" can vary greatly and so can mine, someone like Walter White from Breaking Bad could have made it in here. My taste is very unusual, so prepare yourself for some unexpected picks.

Also, since these are meant to be some big celebratory posts, for the occasion I'll reveal my Italian heritage and translate every line of dialogue in Italian and publish it separately with a link, so that English readers who are learning Italian can exercise.

But first, some honourable mentions:

Oropo (Wakfu): Once you see the number 2 spot for both this list and the female villains list you might notice a certain pattern regarding my personal preferences when it comes to which characters I tend to gravitate towards the most, but while we're just talking about this guy, I cannot stress enough the amount of wasted potential that lies within his concepts and execution. Really needed two seasons of 25 episodes each to explore it to their maximum.

Tai Lung (Kung Fu Panda): Really like him, but not as much as others, I'll explain it better in one of the entries of my villainesses list. Also, unironically I feel like he's too sympathetic for his own sake and the movie's.

Bill Chyper (Gravity Falls): It's been way too long since I watched Gravity Falls, I really can't give you an accurate opinion on this guy anymore.

Flintheart Glomgold (DuckTales 2017): That season 2 episode. If you know what I'm talking about, you KNOW. Also the music for that whole sequence was a banger, really driving home the deranged nature of that twist reveal.

Big Jack Horner (Puss in Boots The Last Wish): I feel like when people praise Jack for being a breath of fresh air in a stale environment, they often forget just how good of a villain he was in his own right without the larger industry wide void of truly devious antagonists that act out of pure malice.

The Wolf (Puss in Boots The Last Wish): Two villain entries from one movie? Of course it was gonna be The Last Wish, what else could it be? Honestly I don't even wanna talk about this guy, you need to experience the movie for yourself.

Rob (The Amazing World of Gumball): Everything I have to say about this guy gets talked about much better by the number 6 Spot on this list, but as it stands Rob was my first villain OTP and the guy who opened the box of Pandora for me on what an antagonist could and should be, since then my perception of villainy only widened and now I enjoy their role in a story in much different way.

And now, with that out of the way, let's finally start with the ranking of my personal favourite male villains of all time.

Major spoilers down below:

Number 10: Silco (Arcane)

This guy is the reason that brought me to specify who or what counted for this list as trying to simplify Silco into one specific group of characters is a challenge that can only end in a misunderstanding of what makes Silco such a complex and fascinating character with an amazing character arc, that ends with him not being redeemed, mind you, but allows the audience to grieve in such a way that would make a side character death jealous.

When writing an antagonistic character, Silco is my goal and high standard, and just for that he deserves all of my respect and endless praise.

Now, admittedly, Silco's arc takes a while to kick in, but it works out to his advantage by the end of it since you don't realise just how much you've grown to care for him until he's dead and you're left with the surprise.

10 out 10, the nation of Zaun would have been much better (worse) with him than with Vander.

Number 9: The Riddler (DC)

The Riddler is literally my ride or die villain, when I'm in the mood for him, he's literally my favourite antagonist ever; when I am not in the mood for him, I completely forget about his existence.

When compared to many other entries on this list, Riddler is definitely more on the pop culture side of antagonism, and when you've been around for almost a century, you tend to have many different versions of the same character written by different writers, so I wanted to highlight here my favourite versions of him:

Arkham Games: He's hilarious. He's not my ideal Riddler, but whenever he comes on screen, his whiny rat's ass voice stimulates my pheromones.

Batman The Animated Series: I've heard somewhere that this version of him is disappointing, and to that I'll say... yeah, but only when he wasn't on screen, because otherwise, he kind of slayed.

Matt Reeves The Batman: This is the version that rekindled my love for him after so long. Out of every interpretation of The Riddler throughout the years, this is the one version that treated Edward more as a character rather than an obstacle for Batman to overcome, and for that I'll be eternally grateful.

LEGO Batman The Videogame: My very first introduction to The Riddler and the Batman universe as a whole, this version has a permanent place in my heart , I love how much information and emotion you can get out of him by just looking at his mannerisms and quirks alone; unironically, being silent helps him reach that quote on quote idealised version of Riddler that I was talking about earlier.

Number 8: The Snatcher (A Hat In Time)

There are many things that can carry on a villain in a story, their evolution, stage presence, complexity, thematic contrast to their counterpart, and so on and so forth. While an antagonist can check off many of these boxes simultaneously (like the one pictured), there's one box that is almost impossible to truly nail perfectly: comedy.

You see, comedy is subjective, and when your main antagonist is also the funniest part of a given story, it becomes hard to also match a sense of gravity and menace that allows them to also be an imposing threat, even harder is to give said antagonist depth and a tragic backstory.

But somehow, out of nowhere, The Snatcher from A Hat In Time manages to simultaneously be the funniest character in his section of the game, carrie said energy throughout the whole experience even down to the DLC, simultaneously strikes the balance between being scary, wholesome, sympathetic and tragic, exude an insane amount of charisma, all while having a deeply disturbing backstory that touches on some heavy themes and re contextualises his actions into something more complicated and out of a broken man, everything I just said + he's the biggest bastard in his videogame and never repents nor does he have his actions called out.

Snatcher really has all the right cards that make a stationary character work and uses them to his maximum potential, and it works because his character arc throughout the game is more about becoming affectionate to Hat Kid than it is about redeeming himself.

Lastly, his voice actor, Luke Sizemore, aka Yungtown, really sells the performance of this devious soul eating worm and burns his catchphrases into your brain for the rest of eternity.

Fool.

Number 7: Judge Claude Frollo (Hunchback of Notre Dame)

You can never say no to a classic.

There's nothing that I could say that hasn't already been said by thousands of videos on YouTube, but I'll try anyway: you see, Frollo is the reason why we need a new term to identify certain villains that aren't "sympathetic" but still make you feel some sort of human emotion and a form of "I wish someone could give you the care you need to fix your life", I guess the term empathetic exists, but when do you really see it used?

Now, don't get me wrong, Frollo is absolutely not sympathetic in the slightest, he wants to r##e a Romani woman that's way younger than him, but you can still feel that he's very troubled about it in the Hellfire scene and has definitely a lot of unidentified issues and internalised bigotry that could be worked through, even if it's too late to work through them right now.

In general, I feel like people forget that the main reason why past Disney villains worked had to do more with their human traits juxtaposed to their malice rather than just their plain wickedness, otherwise the Horned King from the Black Cauldron would be top of the Disney villains league and that couldn't be further from the truth.

We should really strive towards writing more villains like Frollo, less omnipotent beings that end up falling flat because they don't have much thematic relevance aside from being a threat (Bill Chyper works because he represents Ego and he's used sparingly) and more average vicious individuals who use their power and influence to get what they want.

All in all, if you've seen The Hunchback of Notre Dame, then you know why this guy is here.

Number 6: The Spot (Spider-man across the Spiderverse)

"You've hit me with a bagel!" It's still the greatest villain origin story of all time. There's truly something maniacal about this reveal, like the entire universe was shattered and reality was shocked at the mere realization that while Miles was having his coming of age moment back in the first film, this guy was having his normal life completely and utterly shattered by a combination of both our heroes stepping up to do the right thing and our doofus lack of foresight and self reflection; all of this stuff is hilarious and completely made up for the film but good god they did such an amazing job tying all the elements together in an unexpected way that makes sense and parallels the journey that our protagonist faced in the first movie.

Like with Rob from The Amazing World of Gumball, and a little bit like number 2 on this list, I just really enjoy the concept of turning background characters who had no relevance whatsoever into the big bad of the story who's been there all along and the heroes (and the audience) just couldn't notice.

With The Spot in particular, there's that sense of satisfaction of turning the wasted potential of a villain who has been underestimated for literal decades and treated as a "villain of the week" (God do I love the meta narrative of this movie) into an actual competent, well written antagonist that is aware of his reputation and strives towards bettering himself and his powers.

He's also the funniest character of his movie too and the voice acting of Jason Schwartzman only accentuates his mannerisms and pettyness.

He also has the coolest usage of portals I have ever seen and his whole "There's a hole inside all of us" is simultaneously hilarious and very deep personal information that can only be understood if you put yourself into his shoes.

Number 5: Lord Shen (Kung Fu Panda)

"Happiness must be taken. And I'll take mine"

.....

What a character.

What a movie.

You cause so much pain and suffering, because you don't understand the people around you, and then those people banish you, and you can't understand why, so you start to believe that they hated you.

They never loved you, so you keep causing pain and suffering but it's not that easy anymore; the guilt starts to resurface, all those bodies keep piling up, but you can't stop because then it would have all been for nothing; so you keep chasing those dreams of grandeur because that's all you have left; the emptiness in your heart can no longer be filled by love, so you try to fill it with something else.

You try to fill it with power. You try to fill it with glory. You try to take everything else for yourself so that you can fill that cup, but it doesn't work, because that cup has no bottom.

And so you're left... with yourself.

And the damage you've done. But now it's different; you've failed. You are left with nothing. Nothing.

And so you outrage, for the last time... And then it all ends. Forever. And you've finally come to accept this, after all....... Who could ever love you?

Number 4: Spamton G Spamton (Deltarune)

You know, in retrospect, it's kind of insane what Toby Fox managed to achieve when creating Spamton.

Not only because Spamton feels like the most insane combination of ideas ever conceived, but also because Toby Fox created such a complex character with such a complicated language and personality and then not only shafted it all aside for the players to go out of their way to interact, but also made all of this in what are officially 2 or 3 cutscenes at most (4 if you consider his shop encounter as one) and only one of them being truly mandatory.

You spend so little time with Spamton, and most of that time is spent fighting him, and yet by the end of it you've become enlightened by the knowledge of him, that after a while... you forget how scary it all was.

All the memes comparing Spamton with Turbo are 100% correct and justified, Spamton truly is Turbo but better; you go through an insane rollercoaster of emotions with this character that you are left absolutely dumbfounded when it all comes to a stop and you go back to play the rest of chapter 2 normally.

I'll admit, I've considered putting Spamton in place of the Number 3 spot on this list; but then I've realised that on an objective level, the next entry totally deserves to be ranked above Spamton; plus, with at least 5 more chapters of Deltarune on our way, whose to say that one of the next gremlins won't be able to dethrone even the number 1 spot?

Drumroll for our top 3:

Nox, the Watchmaker (Wakfu)

There will never be another experience in my life as cathartic as watching the first season of Wakfu for the first time ever again.

On a later rewatch, the initial problems of the problems you've noticed throughout the season become too apparent to ignore, but the first time everything that goes from the tournament to the finale is one of the best paced arcs of television, and everything that happens when the team reaches the Sadida kingdom is just peak Wakfu.

And the king, the culprit, the crown jewel of properly paced stories and arcs is no other than the sad clockwork dilf himself: Noximilliem Coxen the Watchmaker.

Arguably, the greatest sympathetic villain of all time. There has never been another case of a character who has committed such vile, unspeakable crimes, and yet still managed to make me root for them while simultaneously not putting down the heroes.

And let's not be mistaken here, Nox is pretty evil:

Aside from the generic murder, Nox also defiled and stitched together the corpses of multiple victims and turned them into his obedient puppets in order to commit even more murder and genocide in order to achieve his goals.

Also, this is one of the funniest crimes Nox has committed: he abused his dog. It's really not that funny nor that important in the context of the show, but if you look back at it from my perspective then it's really like: Oh yeah. That happened too. Lol.

By the way, he fixes the one problem I had with Tai Lung from Kung Fu Panda, where he's too sympathetic of an antagonist for Western audiences, so the writers had to go out of their way to make him more evil than he really was and that's why in retrospect his death scene really sucked, but with Nox his defeat may actually be the best part of his entire arc and I want a One Villainous Scene video with the "20 minutes" scene.

Words alone cannot do justice to the treacherous, gut wrenching emotional rollercoaster that is experiencing his story for the first time. An hour long video essay would only serve to cover the basics and fundamentals, while for the real deal you need to watch the first season of Wakfu for yourself.

Number 2:

Bradford Buzzard (DuckTales 2017)

And now it's the perfect time to pull out my final wild card, the hole of the sink of my autism, the masterpiece of wasted potential that is Bradford Buzzard from the DuckTales remake of 2017.

When you'll also see the number 2 spot on my villainesses list, you'll come to realise that this spot is more of the "I really wish I could put this at number one but I can't because objectively he doesn't deserve it and the majority of things I love about him in canon were probably an afterthought and in fanon were never plausible to begin with."

And that's how I feel about Bradford Buzzard, an antagonist I spent more time thinking about than probably anybody else on the Earth.

The show runners were so genius for this: we are going to create an original character that will probably struggle to maintain a foot print on the franchise due to the way the Duck verse works, we'll give him an insanely cool backstory and motivation, all coupled with interesting character traits and ideology, we'll make him the ultimate foil to Scrooge McDuck that has been working with him for literal decades, we'll make him the one who has got the closest to isolating Scrooge and destroying his family, and THEN we'll turn him into a generic anime villain that shoots lasers and fumbles his own plan and loses because of insane plot armour and contrivance. Good job writers.

And now, for the one and only,

Number 1:

(Note: I specifically chose this picture to avoid spoilers)

Qilby (Wakfu)

Boy oh boy, where do I even begin with this guy, he's the first Wakfu related post I've made on this blog for a good reason, nothing can compare to the level of bastardy that this thumb sucking old fart is capable of putting you through.

If Nox is the single greatest sympathetic villain of all time, then Qilby is by far the greatest twist villain of all time, and the crazy thing is that he surprises you two times in a row, at first by revealing himself as more evil than you could ever imagine, and the second time by being more complex than you could have ever anticipated.

Let me paint you the picture: you just finished the first season of Wakfu after being drawn towards the show by the hype surrounding Nox, so you think to yourself "Oh, now there won't be any more thought provoking, well written antagonists" and you start the second season.

So far, everything is normal, even better of the first season in terms of engagement value, but you can't help but feel the lack of a Nox like figure inside of the story, but at this point, you just accept it.

Then the final six episodes roll around and OH MY GOD WHAT IS HAPPENING, HAS THE WHOLE SHOW JUST GONE INSANE? ( The answer being that it was insane from the start)

But hey.

That's just Qilby for you.

Good job, you old sad bunny man.

#top 10 #big jack horner #puss in boots death #person of interest #john greer #wakfu #oropo #kung fu panda #tai lung #gravity falls #bill cipher #ducktales 2017 #flintheart glomgold #the amazing world of gumball #tawog rob #arcane #silco #dc universe #the riddler #a hat in time #ahit snatcher #the hunchback of notre dame #judge claude frollo #spiderman across the spiderverse #atsv spot #lord shen #deltarune spamton #wakfu nox #bradford buzzard #wakfu qilby

[peanut-with-wifi-access]

What's up with MK?

[a theory crafted thru pure over analysis and attachment to minor characters/scenes]

{thank you to @trix-with-wifi-access for listening to my rants and assisting in my insanity}

spoilers for Lego Monkie Kid, s5 trailer not directly included tho.

If any of this is unintelligible, blame the fact it's like 6am and I'm only writing all of this outta a sudden burst of motivation.

I don't think MK is okay

Yeah, stating obvious aren't I? Well, I don't mean mentally. Ofc he's not mentally okay. I mean physically (or magically at this point tbh)

I think there's something Wrong with whatever MK is. But b4 I dive too deep into that, let's set up some bases.

MK's monkie statue. We all know that's his. He showed to Pigsy's doorstep covered in clay, which considering Nüwa, this statue is 100% made of.

The thing I wish to point out is that it's broken. Nearly in half. Something went wrong here.

We know we can't trust a word outta Subohdi's mouth, considering that not only does he claim MK's statue was remade from the fragments of Wukong's egg (which was made of stone, not clay) and even says himself that he doesn't know what's up with MK.

Anyway. As you likely recall, right after all of this, The Ink Curse throws Subohdi out of the way and appears directly to MK.

The little statue disappears, and the curse emerges from an ink puddle stemming partly from the rock.

And it appears looking like Monkie!MK.

The Curse (fuck it I'm tired of typing that. This is why we have fan names—) Mozhi doesn't appear like this to anyone else, other than manifesting as past Wukong to mock him alone. Wukong, also a monkie.

but it only does that after it's been directly provoked and attacked. MK didn't do anything, and Mozhi still appeared. In a mockery of what he truly is.

Mozhi appears in the form of an animal. In the form of everything MK's denying. It switches back and forth between "we" and "you". I also wish to mention MK's slip up with "we help people"

For some reason, Mozhi feels the need to directly confront MK, to the point of even attacking him with his own powers (and... Well I'll save that for another post actually).

Why?

Why did Mozhi decide that MK being in denial of what he is was so bad it needed to appear and beat the truth into him?

"This is your fate, your friends will turn on you, seeing you for the monster you will become. They will destroy you, Harbinger Of Chaos"

"Then prove us wrong."

is it just me, or did this seem like a last minute Warning? To be careful of what you will become, or you will be destroyed by your own friends?

Prove us wrong. Us. MK believes it. MK believes that his friends will inevitably turn on him. He doesn't just need to prove Mozhi wrong. He has to prove himself wrong.

Harbinger Of Chaos. We're all so tired of hearing that title, aren't we? Everyone in fandom talks about it non-stop. But I have seen very few mention something rather important.

Chaos is yin. The darkness with the speck of light.

and of course, yin cannot exist without yang.

Chaos cannot exist without Order.

I think that's what happened to the statue. Chaos lost it's Order, dark lost it's light, and now everything is eternally doomed. Unless said Order is found of course, but I'll get into that eventually.

What would the power of chaos do to make up for the lack of order? Well, it'd try to find something to fill the void. To fix that broken half. Anything will do, it just needs more power. It's too weak, it cannot survive like this. Without order.

... I'll just say it. I'm 99% sure MK's actual Mystic Monkie Power™ is Mimicking. The desperate attempt of chaos to fix what's broken without the necessary tools.

Would make thematic sense too. Chaos is unpredictable, Clay is easy to mold, etc etc.

But what does this really have to do with anything? Well, let's tie all those orange threads together, hm?

MK is not as strong as Wukong or even Macaque, two of the other 4 Mystic Monkies. Oh he's certainly strong (need I remind you of what he did to Azure) but simply not as undyingly OP as the SundialDuo/ShadowPeach.

He's weakened by whatever happened to his statue. Whatever ripped Order from Chaos.

MK's clay statue is broken almost in half, and he's only approximately half as strong as he really should be.

I think MK is only one half of a Mystic Monkie that was supposed to truly embody Yin/Yang. Something happened, and the statue that was supposed to become that monkie was broken.

MK winds up with most of what he needs to survive and stay stable (as shown by his statue being about 60% intact) but he's not as strong as he should be, and is left scrambling for anything that can give him even a scrap of the power he's supposed to have.

What happened to the other half? What happened to Order? Well, that leads into another theory... But let's just say I have my suspicions involving a barely-a-character that I got too attached to.

after all, what's more orderly than memories?

Ignoring that, focusing back on MK. My prediction for s5 is him finding out about this from Nüwa. After all, my theory is that she broke the statue.

... Ah, forgot to mention that. Allow me to elaborate.

I think Nüwa was genuinely excited to create something new. Something powerful. A Mystic Monkie! Finally!

But why was she allowed to do this? Because there was one less Mystic Monkie. With Macaque dead for who even knows how long, there was a long time where there were only 3 of the original 4 Mystic Monkies.

Nüwa took this opportunity and ran with it, getting permission from whoever to create a replacement, since Mac didn't seem to be coming back.

But come back he did! And having 5 Mystic Monkies running around would be such a pain to keep track of, especially considering what happened with Wukong!

So, Nüwa was either commanded to break the statue, or did it herself. Destroy what she had created so that nothing like Wukong would ever happen again

Oh but how attached she got, to a little statue not even brought to life yet. So much potential. So much power. Made of the same Clay she carefully crafted her original, precious humans out of. She always loved to create, but was never allowed to bring what she made to life again.

... Well, this time they only said not to have another Mystic Monkie running around... Nobody said she couldn't bend the rules a bit.

With that, the statue was broken. Her precious clay, her yin, her little Chaos. She put him with the humans. They'd take good care of another clay like them! She doesn't even remember what she did with yang, the Order, the—... the other half. She was too focused on watching her precious Chaos.

Even going down to the mortal realm herself, to keep a closer eye on him. She was there when the sky broke, when Chaos went too far, so she'll be there to assist. To tell her perfect Clay where her stones are, so that he can fix this mess, just as she had years ago.

Five stones.

Four monkies, one half.

—·–-–·—

TL;DR

MK is only one half of a Mystic Monkie (clay, chaos, yin) bc Nüwa's an overly attached idiot and Mac died so this all technically Wukong's fault lmao.

#lego monkie kid #lmk #monkie kid #lmk mk #lmk qi xiaotian #lmk nuwa #nuwa lmk #qi xiaotian #qi xiaotian lmk #mk lmk #mk the monkie kid #ink mk lmk #sun wukong lmk #lmk monkey king #monkey king lmk #lmk Macaque #Macaque lmk #lmk six eared macaque #six eared macaque lmk #sun wukong #six eared macaque #lmk theory #lmk spoilers

[merrimentsmight]

I could be persuaded to read some cute domestic fluff with Cicero x Listener 🥺

I could also very much be persuaded to read any kind of NSFW about Cicero. Literally doesn't matter what kind, whether he's alone or with Listener or anyone. And bonus point if he's a sub 👀🙈 but honestly anything goes with my funky little jester man, he is so versatile in terms of NSFW, like is it just me?

The common area was hot, the oven full of coals, and Cicero and his Listener were baking boiled cream treats together. He had the jacket of his motley off and draped over a chair, and stood in his undershirt constantly stirring a pot of hot sweetened cream and egg yolks over the fire, sweat glistening on his forehead.

Conversation had fallen into a comfortable lull, but unless he was focused, sneaking, hiding, Cicero could never let silence stretch on too long. “I once met a man, a fair sailor,” he mumbled to himself, half singing half talking, “who thought of his wife as his jailer.” The custard was starting to bubble, it would be done soon. “Well, I took him to bed, left a hole in her head, and we both sailed away feeling haler.” Cicero giggled, and gave the pot a final stir before grabbing it with a thick cloth and removing it from the fire.

“Hmm, is that one true?” asked the Listener, looking up from where they were cutting dough into careful squares. Cicero came up behind them and placed the pot of boiled custard onto the table, where it would probably burn a circle into the unfinished wood.

“Wouldn't you like to know, my jealous Listener?” he asked, standing on the tips of his toes to tuck his face in the crook of their neck, which smelled like spring and powder. He watched them fold in the corners of each of the squares and place them onto a baking sheet, and unhooked himself from around them before grabbing the pot again and dolloping custard into the centers of each folded pastry. 

The Listener raised an eyebrow and picked up the full baking sheet; the raw pastries sliding around as they moved. “You’ve never killed my wife,” they scoffed, and slid the sheet onto the grate over the hot coals, “you've never even offered.” 

Something sparked in Cicero’s eyes from under the cloth he used to wipe his forehead, and he watched them as they bent, watched the shape of their back, the curve of their ass through their clothes. Accosted by a softness inside of him, like his insides were necrosing, full of a neediness that felt like weakness and was weakness but that he would never be free of, he was sure, even when he was dead and in the void, Cicero realized that he needed them now. Not when they were done cooking, or later after they retired to bed, or even in the couple of moments it would take to bring them to somewhere closed off and private. 

By the time they turned back around he was kneeling in front of them, pressing his face into their apron. Crazed, sycophantic, cloying. “Cicero is sorry! He would if you had one! You wouldn’t even have to ask.” Soft lips pressed to the back of the Listener’s hand, and Cicero followed, pivoting on his knees as they readjusted to lean back against the cooking table. 

They looked around. Babette was off killing a healer in Markarth, and the rest of their siblings were, well, dammit, they were adults. More significantly, none of them were immediately present, and Cicero was. He was very real and making himself known, two fingers sliding slowly back and forth beneath the waistband of their pants.

“You're insatiable, aren't you?” they said, feigning annoyance, untying the apron and lying it on the table next to them with a puff of flour.

Cicero nodded, looking up at them with wide eyes, like he was about to start salivating. “Oh, I’d do anything for you, kill anyone for you, please, please, please let me make it all better, show you how I need you...” His voice leveled off into a whine, and sent arousal rolling down the Listener's spine. 

Face hot already, the Listener played along with their overeager fool, “if the food burns I'll be terribly, terribly upset.”

“Mhm,” he laughed, lusty, stupid, lovesick, unbuttoning the Listener's pants as fast as he could manage, and only pulling them down to their thighs before his face was buried in their cunt. His nose pressed into their clit, tongue laving against their labia before he drew back. 

“The Listener has nothing to be jealous of,” said Cicero, pressing his hand up to tease their entrance, “nothing at all.” He jammed two fingers up inside, curling them forward, and his cock throbbed at the choked gasp they made. He dove in, too enthralled for moderation, for buildup, lapping at their clit fast and hard, pushing the Listener’s hips up onto the table so that they could kick off their pants and lock their legs around his shoulders. 

“The sailor didn’t moan like you, my sweet Listener,” said Cicero, fingers anchored and thrusting inside, the Listener starting to fall apart around him already. “He didn't taste like you, didn't follow our Lady.”

They were gripping the table with both hands, squeezing hard, occasionally looking around. It was silly. Cicero would not have stopped no matter who walked in; not until his job was done. It wouldn’t take all that long. The Listener had started to rock their hips, and when they breathed out his name, harsh, like a warning, he knew they were nearly there. 

“He didn't love Cicero like you do,” he said. Simply, finally. He leaned back in to wrap his lips around the Listener’s clit as they cried out, legs shaking, hand shooting out to grip Cicero by the hair and hold him in place as they rode out their orgasm against his face. They couldn't see it, probably couldn't even feel it, but he was grinning. His cock was so hard it was starting to hurt.  

The Listener had to let go of Cicero’s hair to lean back against the table, afraid that if they didn’t prop themselves up they would collapse backwards. “Where did you get so good at that,” they said, and then, “oh, gods, the oven.”

Cicero was able to get to his feet first, and looked over the still baking pastries. “No worries my love, they look perfectly fine,” he said smugly, “Cicero thinks they might even be a little undercooked.”

#its not just you hes got range #asks #my writing #cicero x listener #cicero skyrim #cicero x reader #goodnight my friends #you can put the tire irons away #ill put it in the archive tomorrow

[scummy-writes]

I do this often but sorry for just. Postin a lot, and not posting fully finished smutfics lately.

I'm being more self-fulfilling with what I am writing lately, and I joke about the piss fic a lot, but it's also random ships, random fluff, this and that.

However, I am painfully aware that smut is why the majority of the followers I have follow me. I am aware that a lot of you came from vamp, from me writing Isaac and Arthur, sometimes theo, comte, etc... and now i've flipped around to writing someone who, in comparison, is a creep and not at all the character types you guys came here for- and I'm writing weird smut that isnt really super sexy? Some of it was, but then some of it was me opening up a word doc and sharing my thoughts in odd ways.

I am... having fun. On ao3 ive been going back and forth with drabbles/ideas with a new friend. Ive written out hcs that were purely just for me and realized that very bluntly and very quickly, I've shared some sfw stuff that was also bluntly shown to be just for me. And while I am not looking at it going "my writing sucks", I am looking at them and feeling a bit lonely on here at times. I often feel like I am talking to a void. I don't know how to change that outside of posting detailed smutfics that focus on things I may not want to focus on right now.

Outside of Glimpses of Teal and Auburn, and outside of random drabbles/reqs/comms I make, I don't think there is going to be future fanfics I make of Isaac and Arthur. I love them, I love them a lot! But ive also explored a Lot with them. I've also written them for years. There is more I would like to write, I have random Isaac wips that I still think about very often, but other ideas hit me more. I would rather set expectations to a realistic setting, rather than make a vague promise that isn't guaranteed.

Thats been weighin on me a lot lately, especially with villains releasing. I can tell i am likely going to enjoy later routes, they're ticking off a lot of boxes on themes I like but typically don't feel safe exploring in other media, so then I know I'd be juggling three interests at once and thats very difficult for me. I really dont know how so many writers can writer for a multitude of fandoms at once, I feel like the max for me is 2, or a vague 3. (And realistically, its possible villains will just be a thing I enjoy consuming more than creating for).

I do have comms I am working on, and outside of those I do not know when I will have a normal smutfic again. I enjoy exploring other things, but again I do know that its not why a majority of you are here!! I don't say this as a "ill make one soon!" psa, but rather... I'm having fun. I'm aware its not everyones cup of tea, but its not going away anytime soon. If that's something that displeases you, I would recommend thinkin about just occasionally checkin in on my blog instead, or just asking to be on my taglist so you can just get pinged for things without having to follow me.

And, well. I am chatty. I like having distractions from irl, and sometimes I pop in here in burts of posts. I say sorry since i know the anxiety is Clear and Radiating off of those posts, and sometimes I just feel awkward about it.

#scum talks #still gonna talk tho. im gonna yap. #im quiet irl i gotta yap somewhere. yap yap

[lokiusly]

this is a delulu account btw 🤠💃🏽💅🏽

#idk who is on here for realistic shit but it’s not here!! #miss girl!!! why would I think logically about a superhero show #wildddd #I’m not going to interact but that’s crazy that people feel the need to police others #the post was not for you #PSA if you see a post you don’t like you don’t have to interact with it. just make your own post if it BOTHERS you that much #anyways Lokius is canon! #and if it ends up not being canon then !!! idk it’ll just live on here! and that’s disappointing but wow a community that all came together #for a love that they perceived to be true? in a romantic sense— yes that’s amazing. we don’t need your canon. we can thrive without it #would be nice though #talking to the void but if you know you know #also I think that sometimes we know that maybe theories are just that #but like also it’s fun??? let us be damn sis #god wouldn’t it be amazing if Lokius was canon on the MCU screen to the general audience? #manifesting it! #anyways even if they not canon there’s a branch where they are byeeee have a nice day! #brb going to touch grass lol

[braxiatel]

You mean to tell me that Grian actually named his bow “his charm and good looks” canonically with his whole entire grick? You mean to tell me he ACTUALLY killed Scar and it showed up in chat as “Goodtimewithscar was killed by Grian using his charm and good looks” ??? Right in front of every other hermit on this good christian minecraft server??????? What in the homosexuality is going on I thought that was a fan edit,,,,,,

#Grian is one of the most characters ever #you know that he must have felt to proud of himself for that one #I can just picture his smug little face #obligatory I am talking about the characters not the content creators tag #hermitcraft #Hermitcraft spoilers #Grian #hermitshipping #scarian #mcyt #the void collection

[milkcryptid]

trickster & mischief

#stiles stilinski #void!stiles #nogitsune!stiles #teen wolf... movie???? i dont know what you're talking about haha dont be silly :) #teen wolf #teen wolf fanart #stiles fanart #milkcryptid #my art #just him... very attached to the idea of stiles and nogi making a comeback but this time they both on the same team #just you know nogi is still a little shit but now its on our side kinda thing #idk i just like dark stiles and fun chaos #nogitsune #void stiles

[puppyeared]

personal character design headcanons + brainrot

Note: the re-bound!au does NOT belong to me, it belongs to @chipper-smol I’m just not normal about it lol

#I SAY PERSONAL BC ITS MY OWN SPIN ON IT. NOT CHIPPERS CANON UNLESS THEY DECIDE TO OR NOT YOU HEAR ME /LH #I made a banner and everything this time. PLWEASE send them your questions not me JAJFHDSF #I thought it would be cool if macaque has two separate forms as a shadow and inside a mindscape. like I wanted his shadow form to reflect #him in his prime and then the mindscape form as what he looked like when he died. or a more vulnerable state at least #based on LBD appearing to MK as the ivory lady when she died in the S3 special. I don’t know exactly what it was but my first thought seein #the white void was she was appearing to MK in his mindscape to talk to him. so I built on that #I wanted to give him a more ‘Smokey’ look as a shadow just based on how he manipulates them in the show like in shadow play. I hope this #makes it look cool and immaterial. and then his mindscape form would be more battered up and tangible #the last couple images are chippers ideas though since they said the monkeys are drawn to MK when macaque is possessing him lol #and the fact that macaque doesn’t have any senses unless he’s possessing someone + literally sniffing out wukong in the scroll 🤨📸 #I also have a vivid image of macaque moving from the mindscape to physical form like umm. kind of like when he passes the boundary between #physical and spirit/mind(?) it’s like the shadow covers him like ink. or pulling Saran Wrap over your face and it clings to your skin #so it kind of makes the shadow seem like a sort of shell or covering.. and I love the idea of MK meeting macaque in the mindscape for the #first time too. like the moment mac rescues him from LBD and MK sees him all battered and tired looking brooooooo #I’m not even sure if that would count as a mindscape but it rattles around in my brain like loose marbles #god I fucking love this au. gives me imagination fuel swear to god #my art #doodles #lmk #Lego Monkie kid #Monkie kid #lmk au #re-bound!au #rebound au #lmk sun wukong #lmk swk #lmk macaque #lmk six eared macaque #lmk mk #lmk xiaotian

[nancywheeeler]

hopeless time loop. the way out isn’t to save everyone. the way out isn’t to save even one person. the way out isn’t to change anything. the way out is accepting how it happened the first time is how it always will be. that’s how you acted, that’s how they acted, that’s how you would have acted every time if you weren’t given the curse of hindsight. the way out is accepting you can’t fix the past; you can only forgive yourself for it.

#there's this game i love called little hope that plays with these ideas (though not with a time loop) #i do love time loops narratives that explore how a person is confronted with their life and their choices #when forced to live the same day over and over again #and i LOVE time loops that try to reverse mistakes made and lives lost #but to see a character put themselves through loops upon loops upon loops #trying to rectify past mistakes (especially in the case where people died) only to be confronted with the reality it isn't working #and even in a loop where they save everyone the loop just resets #because the universe is essentially saying 'no that isn't how it happened and you know that's not how it happened' #it compels me! #i feel similarly about time travel where time 'fights back' #like this idea that there is a central timeline that time does not like being diverted from #so it will try to course correct itself #you save lincoln from an assassination only for him to die in a train crash #it's a cool way to confront the idea of fate #anyway all tragedies are hopeless time loops thank you for coming to my ted talk #a shout into the void #1k