Not sure if this is too specific but I NEED top geto that lets fem!reader top him just for once thinking reader would fail but geto immediately gets humbled !!! Not to mention geto is definitely very very vocal !!!!🤭
❤︎ ໋𓈒 cocky geto find the idea of you topping him adorable but he soon gets humbled quickly
“baby, are ya sure,” he’d hum with a coy grin, leaning back against the cushioned sofa. he had the look is pure amusement plastered on his face. his tone and the way he structured his tone to make himself tease you even further made you lightly pout. with a hand gripped against your waist, he runs a thumb against your bare skin. “you…you wanna ride me?”
“you don’t think i can?” you furrow your eyebrows, just barely hovering over him. geto has a free arm stretched against the edge of the couch, eyeing you up and down with a sly grin.
he swiftly shakes his head. “i’m not saying that baby, i jus’ think it’s cute.”
“cute.” you repeat, giving him a brief deadpan before you start to align yourself. you intake a breath…feeling his leaky tip marginally brush against your entrance. geto liked getting underneath your skin whenever he could, but you wanted to show him how wrong he was.
geto snickers at your reaction, softly grazing his thumb repeatedly down your side before he murmurs in a soft raspy tone, “prove me wrong then.”
“i’m going to, suguru. so shut up and lie the fuck back.”
“y-yes ma’am.” he suddenly stammers, feeling your hand lightly go around his throat. you slowly rock forward against him, and geto leans back, getting turned on from the grip you had.
his back leans against the cushion before he stares at you, a sudden cold sweat running down him metaphorically. “shit, you’re serious?”
and despite everything, he still had a coy grin poking against his lips. the feeling of your hand that went around his neck, it made his dick twitch a bit. you choking him briefly. adding just a bit of pressure, you drag a thumb, rubbing up against his adam’s apple. “i like your confidence princess, but—”
“suguru,” you grumble, and the moment you start to sink down on his thick base, he lets off a grunt. in the midst of your pussy taking him fully, you move your hips forward a bit—a quick jerk to make him eat his words. geto’s head goes back, feeling your hand still around his neck.
“if—if you’re gonna choke me, at least do it harder princess.” he grunts, a left hand of his snaking towards your ass. you nearly slip off a moan, remembering how handsy he was. he grips your ass before giving it a light spank.
a brat even till the very end.
with a swift eyeroll, murmuring a, “fine,” you squeeze his neck a little bit tighter — geto looks so pretty underneath you.
once you start up a rhythmic pace, his groans become more vocal. the grip your cunt made against him had him nearly in shambles.
geto’s smirk never fades. you start to grind against him in such a way that he just can’t shut himself up.
he’s balls deep, stirring up your insides to where you lean right up against his chest to nip near his neck. soft chaste kisses.
“fuckkk, good. kiss my neck, jus’ like that.” and his voice, it was a pitchy low. a bit of rasp underneath it, he continued to pause every few seconds to swallow and he’s panting.
heavily…
the way your skin slaps and clouts ruthlessly on his thigh turns him on entirely so.
the recoil of your ass—geto was forevermore a handsy man. he’d run and trace his fingertips on your skin, low husky grunts skidding past his spit-glossed lips each second.
he loved grabbing your ass as it fucked back against him. you studied his facial expressions. such a pretty man. his hair was a mess, it wasn’t tied up so strands just went all across his face as you rode him. purely occluding his vision.
“…mhm, you’re such a tease,” he murmurs, feeling you start to playfully suck on his neck. geto’s thigh starts to bounce idly in the background and you press your hands on his chest.
he had an abashed expression, eyes half-lidded, and speaking of eyes…his dark irises, they were dilated. all because of you.
his pretty girl that was making him eat his words up. he catches you starting before scoffing.
“f-fuckkk me,” he huffs out, feeling you vigorously clamp down on him again and again. it had him dizzy, mind unintentionally spasming,
your perfume scent making his heart race. “grippin’ me so tight, ‘s no fair.”
massaging the middle part of his neck, you lean in to kiss geto.
he returns the gesture, his tongue moving against yours and he moans. it’s more of a whiny moan if anything. jerking your hips slightly, he squeezes a hand against your waist—huffing and puffing.
he felt a bundle of nerves surge all through him. the way you moved back and forth against him, a groan gets caught in his throat and before he knew it, he starts to feel himself coming close. that quick.
“y-you’re gonna,” he breathes, his chest kept heaving and heaving..
geto’s bare chest, a few dark hairs of chest hair decorating his skin. you hum, dragging a finger down his chest, giving his perky nipples a playful pinch to watch him whine. “gonna make me cum too quick, s-shit.”
“what happened to your confidence, sugu?” you mutter, keeping up a pace. you start to quicken a bit to where he can barely keep up.
geto could barely register anything, his mind—it was ditzy. thinking of nothing but the way you pussy soaked down on him, clenching stupidly around his cock. “you said i couldn’t ride you, baby.”
“you still can’t,” he pants, trying to keep up his façade but you could literally hear from his tone.
he was so close to the edge. feeling you play with his nipples, geto bites his tongue. “i-im sensitive there, woman… you’re so f-fuckkk..”
you smile, nipping near his neck again before he groans—eyes rolling back, he gnaws on lip as he feels his orgasm unsteadily approaching.
your hips, the rhythm it had made him so woozy. he wanted more, he brings you in for a kiss again, and you move some of his long strands from his hair.
geto shivers, feeling you ride against him faster before within seconds…it happens.
he shoots right inside your gummy walls, a raspy groan departs from his lips once he feels himself pouring right into your cunt. dumping such a thick loud, you slow down your hips to stare at geto.
“don’t… don’t look at me.” he retorts, a near pout going against his lips. he wasn’t use to this, you getting the higher up on him.
you giggle, pressing a plethora of kisses near his nose at how he came too early. he grunts, the second you inch closer towards him, his dick that was still inside you twitched. pumped so full, you felt him coat your walls with every drop. “give… gimme another kiss, i need it.”
“you don’t need a kiss, geto,” you tease, being more of a chaff by refusing for a second.
as you moved closer towards his lips. he lets off a needy whine, his glossed lips were so trembly. he wanted more of your taste… so much. “if you want it that bad, just say pretty please.”
his eyes narrow at you, still letting off breathy pants before replying with a grouchy. “…no.”
“then you’re not getting a kiss.” you snicker with a shrug, watching the pout go against his lips again.
it was cute, seeing him try to keep up this bratty act. but not even seconds later, he deeply sighs with an adorable half eye roll. “okay, okay…. um. give me a kiss. pretty please. f-fuck, i want you.”
“good boy,” you mutter, giving him a quick kiss that he barely blinks. he wants more of you.
geto’s face flushes hard from the sudden pet name, and he groans once he feels you reach down towards his dick still perfectly buried inside you. you realign yourself, giving him another long kiss before briefly departing, softly uttering a, “now lie back, baby. ‘m not finished.”
“this…doesn’t mean anything by the way,” he tries to elucidate, yet shuts up the moment you softly wrap your hand around his neck. geto leans back, going manspread before with a pant, he smiles—still a brat. “but.. do your worst, baby. finish fucking me then. if you can, h-heh.”
"This event ends the moment you write us a check, and it better not bounce, or you're a dead motherfucker"
-- Big Bill Hell
There was a time when you'd see little old ladies paying for the groceries with a hand-written personal check, holding up the line, causing an immediately-forgiven slight sense of annoyance with those behind her. Buddy. Those days are over. They've been over. What, did you think you were going to just pop a couple extra zeroes on the end of your paycheck there? Maybe scan your paycheck, open it in photoshop, make a template, print em out all nice? You think you're the first to think of that, dipshit?
It takes the law a long time to catch up with the state of the art. You're reading this on the internet, which means you never use checks. The law has caught up. Your ass will be going to prison immediately and you will see zero return.
You can't even kite checks anymore, and hell, nobody under 40 will even know what that means, due to the blazing fast, two day settlement on all ACH transactions. Let me paint you a picture.
You get paid on Friday, but it is Monday, and bills are due on Tuesday. And you're broke: $0 in the bank. Goose egg. Pop open your checkbook, go to a store, "buy" some things, write a check for the amount. The cashier takes it!
Now take those things you "bought", across town, to another store location, and return them for cold hard cash. Sweet. Bills paid. Friday rolls around, and you just make it to the bank to deposit your paycheck before it closes. After the weekend, the checks you wrote finally post, and they don't bounce! You've kited a check. You've surreptitiously taken a zero-interest loan. And we know your broke ass. The interest rate on that short-term payday loan should have been straight up usurious. We're talking 29%. That makes predatory fuckers like us horny for sex. We're so mad. Now you are going to Federal Prison. For a good minute. Fuckface.
"Neither snow nor rain nor heat nor sleet, if you fuck with the mail, we'll rip your nuts off"
-- Ronald Mail (Inventor of Mail)
Many people have this misnomer that the most powerful people in politics are democratically elected. The president, of the United States, of America, is a stupid cartoon hotdog. All of them, I don't care. Way less clout than you'd think. Brilliantly, it is the people that the hotdog president appoints who are actually doing anything significant. The director of the CIA. The fucking chairman of the Federal Reserve. Probably the, like, most senior, uh, general of the military, and shit too. I don't know, we don't "do" army here at Bloomberg. You probably don't even know their names! I don't! These are the ones you should be seeing in your sleep.
There's another position like that. Appointed directly by the hotdog. The Postmaster General. That's a real title. He's the CEO of the mail, and buddy, what he may lack in political power relative to the director of the CEO, he makes up in raw sexual energy. Total Tom Selleck energy. Like an airline pilot. We're talking Donald Sutherland in Invasion of the Body Snatchers. I'm tentpoling in my black business slacks just writing this, and all my Bloomberg newsroom bros are peering over my shoulder and also tent-poling. We're not gay though, and especially me, I'm probably the least gay, but sometimes I just lay awake for hours at night what that mustache would feel like pressed against my lips, the unbelievable and utter, total sense of security I'd feel burying my head into his hard chest.
You get it. He's your dad. And if you fuck with the mail, you've fucked with the tools in your dad's garage. And dad's been drinking. You're in for it, bucko, you are in trouble. Do you think the United States Postal Service actually makes any money? Hell no. It costs like five bucks to mail a box basically anywhere I can think of and they give you the boxes for free. You can just walk in the post office and take them. I do that, and then just throw them away, I don't know why, some kind of compulsion. Being able to move shit around like this, quickly, cheaply -- Jesus H, I've got a huge amount of money in my bank account, probably tens of trillions of dollars (due to financial knowledge gained from reading Bloomberg articles) and I could probably mail every single person ever something and still come out in the black.
No way pal. They've thought of that already. The Postmaster General is going to know every time, and he's going to grab you by the shirt collar, wearing his cool as fuck hat, and you're going to get your pants pulled down, and your bare ass spanke...I need to go use the restroom real quick.
We rely on the mail system to get important shit done. It's not something to be taken lightly, and it isn't. Trust me. This is why, like almost every other person who receives mail in this year 2023, I just fucking put a wastebasket under my mail slot. I don't even shred that shit anymore. I just burn it. Takes less time.
COST: $0.63 (Postal stamp)
"Can call all you want, but there's no one home //
And you're not gonna reach my telephone //
Out in the club, and I'm sipping that bubb //
And you're not gonna reach my telephone"
-- Lady Gaga
I read something wild that the children of today do not know what a dial tone is, because of how fucked up and stupid they are. Isn't that super fucked up?
While it's not really our style, allow me to fill you in on some ancient, arcane knowledge about the telephone. You can turn it on, and then you can punch in numbers. Any numbers. Random ones, or maybe not random ones. If the ten numbers you punch in are the same as the numbers in someone else's telephone number, their phone will ring, and then you are talking to them. This is called "Phreaking".
Here's the kicker: You can tell that jackass anything you want. "Oh, Hi, Yes, I am Reginald Sumpter calling from Avalon Consulting LLC, we are just following up on the invoice we sent you. Please remit to ###### routing ###### account."
BOOM! Your name isn't Reginald whatever and that company doesn't exist, but you just received a deposit. It's fucking beautiful. What have you done wrong? It isn't your responsibility to handle who your business' clients/etc are, it's their's. If they want to just pay you money for no real reason, well, that's kind of on them, isn't it? I haven't stuck a pistol in your face and demanded everything in the register.
Well, it's too clever. It's too slick. This is the United States of America. It's one thing to commit a felony like armed robbery, it's another thing to piss off someone in charge of the accounting division who uses a special bathroom you need a key to get into.
You can do it on the computer too, I use a PC Computer at work and send email, so you can see how it'd work there. You can make a document that is indifferentiable from a real invoice and, straight up, 1/3 of the time they will pay that shit. Lmfao.
It's called wire fraud because, uhh, duhhhh, there's wires. What do you think that thing is strung between the telephone receiver and the dialer? And computers? Give me a break. There's so many wires with those.
COST: $0.25 (Coin for payphone)
"People calculate too much and think too little."
-- Charlie Munger
It is insane how dumb the common man can be when it comes to our world of expertise. I hear this same sentiment, like, ALL THE TIME:
"Durr hurr I will buy an insurance policy for my car or house or whatever so that in case something happens to it I will get money". And then that same person proceeds to drive safely or not burn their house down. Dumbest crap imaginable.
Let me break it down for you. Insurance is a two player competitive game. There is a winner and there is a loser. Go take out an expensive insurance policy on your American sports car. Buy a neck brace, a football helmet, and pack that bitch with throw pillows. Then get in the left lane of a major highway at like noonish, let it rip and then SLAM on your brakes. Hit from behind! Your fault! Congratulations. You have won insurance. How this gets past people is beyond me.
You can only do this once or twice before the insurance companies catch on. Then they don't want to fuck with you. It is also..I don't know man...something feels off about taking a car or a house, which like, some guy had to build and just destroying it, but that is only a weird emotional thing, since you're making money, more than whatever the destroyed thing is worth, so in reality you've built that house plus some extra. You've contributed.
COST: $106.00 (Average monthly car insurance payment)
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
SUBSCRIBE TO MY WHATEVER FOR PART TWO, COMING SOON. i'll post it later today probably. whatever time frame will juice the numbers. have a sneaky peaky
The day that you understand that fanfiction has no literary/value difference to published literature and writing is the day you will understand exactly why readers and authors need a symbiotic relationship in fanfiction media just as much as the published author and their reader.
Right now, you have unlimited access to free literature.
I don't think a lot of you fully grasp the actual, true meaning of that. You are accessing literally as much content as you want, that you have had to do absolutely nothing for, for free. And often on a single website that you are also accessing for free, and don't need a hundred and one different kinds of log-ins or passwords or paid subscriptions to access.
If I want to read a specific type of story, I don't have to spend gas money to go to the bookstore that might not have the story I want, or funnel money into a blood corporation like Amazon to access it. I don't even have to pay someone for the time and effort and skill it took for them to write it.
I can go to my search bar. I can type in 'AO3' and I can access 141 variants of the same story for free and all in less time than it takes for my morning coffee to brew.
I am accessing content that cost these authors literal hours of their lives. Their time, their skills, their research, all for free, and I have to do absolutely nothing in return for it.
We take this kind of freedom and resource for granted, and even more so the people who actually enable us to have it in the first place.
Writers who talk about wanting engagement aren't being greedy, needy or selfish. They're not writing just for the 'clout' or whatever kind of half-cocked accusation you want to make. They're asking because engagement is what fuels more content. More community fulfilment. More productivity.
A lot of writers write for themselves, but they also write because its something they want to share with other people. Its a contribution to a shared interest. Its longevity to the enjoyment you experience within that space. Its a continuity of a limited source.
So many people sneer at fanfiction authors who offer commissions and it genuinely makes me want to rattle them all like a marble in a bean can.
Because you pay for books. Because someone took the time to write it. You don't sneer at the rows and rows of books in stores. You don't demean the authors who spent literal hours, sometimes even decades of their lives writing them.
People who write fanfiction are still authors.
Fanfiction is still literature.
Fanfiction's existence depends entirely on the authors.
Appreciate what you have. Understand the value in what you are being given.
Basic gratitude and respect is by far the absolutely minimum you should be giving in exchange for quite literally all the free literature you could ever want, on demand.
Hi there! I'm Neural Nets. I make kink content. I specialize in audio content about mind control. I also produce video, make games, and create experimental content for personal massagers.
If I have a kinky vision, I aim to make it real. I learn the tools I need for them.
I made the first content for "bimboization" over a decade ago. It was supposed to be private. It got leaked and cycled into thousands of spicy video dishes. I left the scene and returned to find it EVERYWHERE. That was fucking surreal.
My content is much better now. I learned the tools to make the horny impulses real.
Some of my content is free. You can find free things here, on Discord, on Reddit, on Soundgasm, and on Spotify. My media presence is a bit scattered because of bans and illness, but it's there.
The real archive is on Patreon. That costs money. It doesn't cost very MUCH money, and I think it's well worth it. That's your call, though.
I am definitely over 30. I don't disclose my exact age because hacking. "Over 30" should be enough. If you're hoping I run for US Senate, I appreciate your optimism and mourn its imminent passing.
FAQ:
Do you answer asks?
Yes! I turned off anonymous asks here. Trolls should commit to the bit. That said, I appreciate asks and I answer all of them if they're in good faith.
2. Do you answer DMs?
I leave my DMs on here. I wrestled with that decision.
They're on for: a. people I've known for a while or b. people contacting me about projects, like VAs and spicemakers
Any other questions go to asks.
3. How do I voice act in a Neural Nets production?
You contact me. You'll need to provide a voice sample.
If I cast you, I'll direct you to the casting spreadsheet. It has deadlines. If people miss deadlines, their parts get recast. I can direct, but I can't micromanage your time.
Sometimes, people are very underconfident in their voices, and it makes them feel bad. If that's you, I empathize. I'd be happy to answer questions and give advice! I shouldn't direct you, though. I don't want to unwittingly hurt people by directing.
4. Do you believe your content?
I believe in equality and radical honesty. I unequivocally believe in consent. I wish political and economic systems did too.
I have dark impulses. I like some schtick and some kayfabe. I like trickery and manipulation - in consensual kink.
All my content addresses things that turn me on, but my ethics trump my desire for a host of braintrained pleasers.
5. Do you do AI stuff?
Not really. I've tried machine learning tools. Porn is the cutting edge of new tech, after all.
I like automated tools to generate effects. Purely generated stuff, like image generation? Overall, meh. People make me horny. Mechanized people can make me horny. Machines, by themselves, don't make me horny.
6. Aren't you evil?
No. Some people are bad at reality testing. Some people chase clout. I naively engaged them initially. That was a mistake.
If anyone has beef, they failed to contact me privately. That's the damning mark of clout chasing.
I'm flawed and human, but I'm neither your hero nor your villain.
7. Aren't you dead?
No. In late 2022, I was diagnosed with multiple sclerosis. It's partially genetic, so I sorta saw this coming. That was my worst lifelong fear, and it happened.
Fortunately, though, we caught it early and they have banger drugs for it now. Monoclonal antibodies destroyed the misbehaving parts of my immune system. I'm in NEDA, which is like remission.I recovered compromised motor skills through a year of totally brutal and partially self administered physiotherapy. I ate a lot of pavement, so it's a good thing I used to skate.
If you saw me now, you probably wouldn't clock anything. Lucky.
I am annoyed at people who mass reported my last blog shortly after I came out as sick. It takes a special kind of miserable to delight in that. Regardless, I'm back and that's not my problem.
I missed this platform, as completely broken and dysfunctional as it is.
synopsis y/n convinces the Skittles to play truth or dare. It's all fun and games until Reggie doesn't like your answers. He storms out and, when you go to confront him, he's forced to admit how he feels.
Word count 1309
note loosely based on a prompt I saw @sufferingstarlight write from.
warnings a little sad, angst, mention of death eaters/the dark mark, some swearing
pairing Regulus Black x reader (no pronouns I think? Although I was writing it thinking f! Reader)
I couldn’t believe I’d convinced all these pureblood wizards to play a muggle game. But there they were, all my friends, sitting around me and playing a game of truth or dare. Evan charmed a Hufflepuff girl into giving us some weed for free, and we’d smoked it outside before running giggling back to the Slytherin common room. The seventh years all left at the first sight of us. They probably knew we were in the mood to start some trouble.
It was never hard to sneak Dora in anymore, although that probably had something to do with Regulus’ clout among our housemates for being a Black. Or maybe our housemates’ fear of him being a Death Eater. Either way, it worked out well for us. Dora was leaning against Reg, her long legs splayed in front of her. I was in a similar position, my top half leaning on Cas so she could play with my hair. It was the most euphoric feeling in the world to have her hands in my hair, especially when I was high. Evan was between Cas and Reg, while Barty sat between Dora’s and my feet. It was a good position, since I could give him a good kick whenever he said something stupid. With all that brain of his, one would expect him to say less dumb shit.
I was just recovering from a fit of laughter at Evan’s last confession when Cas asked “y/n, truth or dare?”
“Hm,” I pretended to think. Normally I would love a good dare but, knowing Cas, she’d try to give me something she knew I’d struggle with. No one quite knew how to push my buttons like my best friend. “Truth this time.” I cracked my knuckles for effect.
“Alrighttt.” I could feel the vibrations in her chest as she spoke. “If you could kiss any of the boys at school, who would it be?”
My stomach dropped. Of course, she still had found a way to torture me. Oh, that girl was going to get jinxed later. She’d never be able to sleep safely in our room again. There was no way I could tell the truth. It would be painfully embarrassing to admit who I really, really wanted to kiss in this group. I wouldn’t live it down. Barty was wagging his eyebrows at me, and Evan looked equally interested in my answer. I was always so careful to keep who I liked close to my chest, though I suspected everyone already knew. I had to think of something before the length of time got way too suspicious. I let a glance fly over at Reg. Like always, he just stared at me, eyes blank, a slight furrow in his brow. I should say Sirius. Then maybe he’d actually react to me for once. Then maybe I’d know how he felt. Saying Potter might hurt him even more… But I couldn’t do something like that to him.
“Uh, Remus, I guess.” I shrugged.
Barty wrinkled his nose at that. “That boring friend of Sirius’?”
“He’s not boring,” I protested, “he’s… nice.”
A scoff from Regulus.
I sat up straight, ready for a fight. “Is there something you want to say?”
“Nope.” Cocky asshole.
“Fine.” I crossed my arms. “Reggie: truth or dare?”
“Truth.” His dark eyes were still blank but I could see tension in his lips.
“Who in school would you kiss?”
He shook his head with a small laugh. “This muggle game is ridiculous.”
All at once he was standing and stalking out of the common room with the haughty grace typical of all the Blacks. Pandora looked shocked when he disappeared from beside her and nearly fell over. Other than she and I, everyone gave a collective shrug. It wasn’t out of character for Reg to leave so abruptly, to get rumpled over nothing. But this time I hopped up from my spot as well. He couldn’t just leave like that.
“Where are you going?” Evan asked.
“I’m going to find that fucker.” I called back over my shoulder.
“Oh boy.” I could hear them all break out into laughter as I slammed the door behind me.
Regulus wasn’t hard to find. When I didn’t see him in the dungeons I knew where else to look. It was late in an October evening, and I had to wrap my arms around myself as I followed the edge of the Black Lake. There was no moon above, the only reflections cast on the water from the monolith of a castle behind me. So many days we’d spent out on the bank of the lake, on the side closest to the Forbidden Forest. There was nowhere else he’d go.
And there was Reg, pacing back and forth, his hands held out in front of him grasping the cold air. Strong hands. Piano hands. Writing hands. Hands I’d almost reached out for so, so many times. He appeared suspended in an argument with nothing.
I held my tongue until I was near, but had to speak when my presence wasn’t acknowledged. That close, I could finallyI see emotion on his face. Twisted up and white as a sheet.
“Reg, tell me what’s going on.” My voice was soft, barely more than a rasp.
“Nothing.” Still not a glance at me, though he’d stopped pacing. His chest was heaving as if he’d been yelling. “Go back inside, y/n.”
He loved to give orders. As if anyone had any reason to obey him.
“I’m not going anywhere.” The words flew out of me with a bite, and he looked up as if he’d been slapped. Maybe my tone was too close to his dreadful mother’s for comfort. But I couldn’t worry about that. We’d been playing pretend for too long. “Do you have a problem with Remus or do you have a problem with me?”
He scoffed again, his eyes up to the moonless sky. “You have no idea what I’ve got going on.” He always had to play superior. Always had to play prince.
“Salazar, Regulus, I’m not a bloody idiot! Do you think that little of me?”
He glared down at me, his eyes glistening. I took a step closer. The gap between us was so small I could feel his breath.
“Either you’re jealous and you want me or you don’t and you’re the blood purity asshole Black family heir you want everyone to think you are. Just say which.”
“Stop.” He shook his head at me.
“I’m already in. You can’t scare me away.”
“Please stop.” Head still shaking.
“I am in love with you, Regulus. I won’t take it back because it’s true and you can’t ignore it anymore.” I could see the water welling in his lower lids. It was in mine, too.
“We can’t,” he breathed.
My hand, out of reflex more than anything else, lifted to his chin. I brushed my thumb along his bottom lip. He didn’t shy away from my touch like he had so many times before.
“Please walk away.” There was so much desperation in those eyes. “Please.”
“Why?”
He grasped his sleeve and wrenched it up. I didn’t have to look; I already knew.
“If I have to take the mark myself, I will. Anything. Anything.”
“Fuck,” he sobbed, the tears finally falling. He let himself fall forward with them, our foreheads bumping against one another.
“You love me.” I didn’t ask, but it was a question. A desperate question I’d asked myself about him a million times before. Does Regulus Black love me like I love him?
A nod that shook my own head with it. His red-rimmed eyes bore into me. “I love you.”
I moved my hands to cup his face on either side. “You never told me your answer.”
Other characters in this junior high drama-mystery, that is so bad, CAA would convince our Boston Dumb Fuck it was a smart vehicle for him.
Because let's be honest, the crazy fan narrative is tissue paper thin and frankly uninspired. So who else we got!
The Publicist, who couldn't sell a sweater to a naked man in Winnipeg in the dead of winter and did no vetting of possible partner's problematic behavior. Did she think the fans would be that dumb because they saved him from a dick pic embarrassment? By the way, this is way worse that any dick pic.
The agents, looking for extra revenue streams now that their human trafficking pipeline has gotten too much exposure with the biggest client rotting in prison. Also include some (streaming) studios here who have deals with said agents and need their own additional revenue streams now that they figured out their existing business models don't work anymore, but are in need of a fourth yacht and 3rd private jet.
The ingenue who has been told her value is what is on the outside and how she can make older men feel. They will give her anything she wants and she doesn't have to work hard like the racially inferior, ugly and fat ones. It's not her fault everyone else is jealous. And if she doesn't get her way she acts like a petulant child and throws a tantrum until those around her capitulate.
The clout chasing friends, and possibly family. Whether it is for free trips, social media exposure, acting roles or just plain dickishness, they love taking advantage of their little cash cow, even if he looks sick, over worked, depressed and empty. Just keep smiling in them fancy photos while your "friend" slowly fades away. But then I guess the joke is on them, because, like the destruction described at the end of "The Lorax", "Unless someone like you cares a whole awful lot, nothing is going to get better. It's not."
The lawyers who can't seem to get The Golden Boy out of a super shady contract. No morality clause? No milestone clauses where if it looks like the situation is causing either party damage they could bail? Seems to me some of the requirements reek of illegal behavior- bribery, blackmail/coersion, immigration violations, along with punative emotional damages (just read the GQ article and look at most any picture of him since last November and you can see what I mean).
And finally, we have The Golden Boy himself. The one who could do no wrong. But that was only because he "shushed" all warnings out of his head. Whether it was hubris, greed, carelessness, frivolity, gullibility, obfuscation or just plain stupidity, he got himself into this mess somehow and can't seem to get himself out of it. It has destroyed his relationship with his fans, his ability to find and choose good roles, taken the joy and sparkle out of his eyes, caused him to dissociate from his entire life and career (says it himself in the GQ article), given up to smoke pot and play video games all day like a loser, "married" someone with the exact opposite traits he claimed to desire and is now associated with the antisemitic racists he used to fight against, while displaying some nasty misogynistic behavior throughout the process. And for what?
A/n: Okay, so this one got real personal real fast. Many of Spinner’s insecurities are my own. I meant this to be a soft little snuggling for warmth fic, but then things happened. Even in a world than hasn’t entirely gone to shit, it’s so hard to hang on to doing the things you love even if they don’t make you money or get you likes or clout. Also, I rabbit holed a lot about the spinning process and plant dyes but there’s only so much i can do. Any inaccuracies are on me.
Warnings: slurs. Mentions of past relationships gone bad. Shitty family dynamics. Reader is neurodivergent, diagnosis unspecified. Old enough to be married on outbreak day. Ageism. Bullying. Gruff Joel.
No one in Jackson calls you by your name. You’re Spinner or Weaver or Yarn-lady. Turning wool into yarn into clothing that spills out of your needles when you can’t sleep, socks and hats and mittens. You had a spinning wheel, looted from the historical society, but it was old and dry as a bone and the wheel split the one time you tried to use it despite how careful you were, so now it’s the drop spindle, the endless rhythm of it, a sensation so close to your own pulse that you don’t think much of it any more. Waste of time your father told you when you built a loom in the garage, your useless hobby your ex-husband called it as if he didn’t spend all his free time playing GTA and Zelda and Final Fantasy. Every family gathering since moving out a hybrid of when are you going to settle down, when are you going to give us grandkids, when are you going to get a real job, as if you didn’t spend half the year doing paid demos and plying your wares on the ren-faire circuit, good if not entirely predictable money, but it didn’t count because you didn’t make it in a cubicle farm.
You always knew you weren’t like them but could never quite pin down what made you different, what made you other, your Mom told me not to marry you because you’re a fuckin retard, your ex had spat during the fight that ended your marriage. And, for as shitty as your ex was, you knew he wasn’t lying about that part. Two brilliant sisters and then you. An odd afterthought of a girl. Got yelled at for staring at people when you weren’t looking at anything at all. Got yelled at for not making eye-contact, look at me when I’m talking to you.
Funny how they’re all dead and you’re still alive.
You hear folks talk sometimes. Waste of time if you’re asking me. They drug a whole container of clothes from the old Walmart. In your mind you grab them and shake them and yell in their faces that that world is never coming back, that we’re gonna have to get our shit together real quick or our grandkids are gonna be wearing untanned hides and rotting plastic tarps. But you don’t. You just spin your wool into yarn, and do your assigned tasks. Everyone helps everyone. That’s how things work here. Folks come and help you pick and soak and scour the fleeces. You show them how to card the wool and how to make drop spindles of their own and turn fleece into yarn, but most of them give you odd pitying looks. That world is dead, you want to tell them. It’s been twenty years. It’s not coming back, but you know in their secret hearts they don’t believe it.
Everyone helps everyone. So that means you help with the gardens, help with the harvest, help in the kitchens, reinforcing a gate or raising a barn or clearing brush for firebreaks. You’re at your best when you can work with your hands and not have to talk much. Everyone helps everyone and you know how people think of you with your wool and experimental plant fiber yarn and onion skin dyes and mordants. You can feel it even when they don’t say it right out loud. No place in this new world for people like you. Only the strong survive. So you put yourself on the roster for watch duty and patrols. Watch duty is fine by you. Sit in one of towers along the wall and peer out over the vast and unchanging dark, rifle leaned against the wall in case something happens, two way radio for emergencies only and it’s quiet and unchanging and you don’t mind at all.
Patrol is a different animal. Why do you keep signing up for this? Maria asked you, I know you hate it. Can’t make someone else do something I won’t, you told her, but that’s not the whole answer. You want to feel like you’re doing something real. Like you’re contributing. Like you’re not as helpless, as useless as everyone seems to think.
You show up for your assignment. A foot patrol. Day out and day back. Over night in a shelter house a little over halfway round the trail. You’ve got a bedroll and a change of clothes and the canvas bag you use for foraging. Your patrol partner eyes you skeptically and you curl into yourself. Everyone’s heard the rumors about Joel Miller. People shrink from him. You’ve seen it. When he comes into the tavern or the caff or the lending library people suddenly find someplace else to be. Figures.
“You Spinner?”
“Yeah.”
“I’m Joel.”
“I know.”
“You good to go?”
“Yeah.” He looks at you the way someone might look at an odd bug or a difficult equation, and then turns down the trail and you follow.
He doesn’t say much. Which is a relief. Last time you were on patrol you were paired with Ez who could not shut up for the life of him. That trip out and back was a running commentary of things Ez missed and things Ez remembered and a million other things you could not give the faintest of shits about. Joel doesn’t try to engage you in conversation and you are glad for that. A soft hold up means he needs a moment to go take a leak in the weeds, and you creep off too to do your business. You’ve seen plants along the trail that you could use on other patrols, sumac berries and oak galls, but you never said anything, just tried to remember on the off chance you’d be out here again.
“Joel? Can we stop?” The question surprises you as you ask it. He turns to look at you, “This is curly dock.” You hunker in the tall weeds on the side of the old road, logging trail most likely, frantically clipping stems and pawing roots out of the ground, dirt plating itself under your nails, scrabbling for what you can get before Joel tells you to hurry it. Even dried out and dormant, it’s still good.
“What’s it for?”
“For making dye. If I can find the right mordants I can get some nice golden yellows from the roots and the seeds. I’m still figuring it out.”
“How much you need?” Joel hunkers down beside you and starts slicing off the flower heads that look like clusters of coffee grounds. You shrug.
“I was just gonna fill this bag,” you say, “I’m still testing it out.” Joel stands and you yank a few more roots out of the ground.
“I’m gonna make a blaze,” says Joel, slicing lines into the bark of a young cottonwood.
“Huh?”
“So the others’ll know there’s something useful here.”
“Thank you.” Joel nods, folds his blade away, puts the knife back in his pocket. He turns and continues along the winding game trail and you follow, small smile playing at your lips. Useful. Not a word often used for you and what you do, you and yours. The other artisans. Figuring out how to tan hides and dye wool and save seeds because that world isn’t coming back. They’ve managed to drag a few trailers of that world from the Walmart, teams of horses foaming around their bits, sweat darkened flanks and for what? Clothing and shoes and cans and dry goods for now. There’s only so much to be looted. And then what? That world isn’t coming back. Even if cordyceps went away, that world isn’t coming back. Who could fix the world? Not Fedra, that’s for damn sure. Not the folks in town who talk too much.
He stops walking and you almost collide with him.
“Look.” You follow the track of his raised hand over his shoulder, a herd of deer crossing the path, a buck standing stone still, looking at you with shimmering black eyes, antlers curling up like old tree branches, while the does and yearlings cross behind him, all long limbs and flicking ears and quivering noses, and you feel yourself smile. You remember a time in your life when seeing deer in the back yard was a magical thing, you and your siblings and your parents pressed to the curve of the bay window, watching them pass through the trees like shadows. Even after everything you’ve seen since, your heart contracts with the old wonder.
“They’re beautiful.” You glance at Joel and see the curve of his smile, the way it dimples his cheek.
“They are.” The buck flicks his ears and springs off into the gray light, the rest of the herd gone like ghosts, and the wind stirs after them, and you pull your coat closer, tuck into yourself.
The faint spats of rain against your cheeks have turned into a steady, miserable drizzle. Nothing to focus on but how cold you are and Joel’s retreating back, and you silently curse yourself for not dressing warmer. Bright blue sky scrimmed over and swallowed by low, blank clouds, not quite cold enough to snow, but the damp air makes your knees and hips and knuckles throb. Should’ve dressed warmer. Fall in this part of the world can turn on a dime.
Not too far now, he says, but by the time you reach the shelter little pellets of sleet are mingling with the rain. Shelter is a rough, drooping structure with yellowed plastic sheeting taped over the small windows, crude wood stove blacked with smoke, ugly welded chimney poking up past the sagging roof. Joel hunkers in front of the wood stove. Folded cots lay against the wall and you pull one out and unfold it, smells like mold and motor oil, and you get another one, one for you and one for Joel.
“Shit,” he murmurs low, “Wood’s all punky.”
“Will it catch?”
“Yeah. Maybe.”
You and Joel sit on your cots and eat, bread and cheese brought from home. The fire in the stove burns low and ugly. Joel has set up lengths of firewood in a straggled ring around the stove, hoping the heat will dry them, but the cold creeps in, unroll your sleeping bag and try to rest. Sleet spats against the roof, against the plastic shrouded windows, wind blows hard enough to send huffs of smoke back down the chimney, not that the fire is doing much, seething hiss and low smolder, sluggish embers, weak orange glow that does little to ease the cold. You jam your hands into your armpits and curl yourself tight, crunch your eyes closed and wait for your own breath to warm you, but there’s no position, no way of tucking your limbs against yourself that does a damn bit of good, the cot creaks and squeaks with each shift of your weight.
“Stop movin around so much.”
You can see the slope of his shoulders picked out in the weak firelight, his back to you. Your throat constricts and tears prick at the corners of your eyes. You lay with your arms crossed, peering up at the cobwebbed beams I won’t cry, I won’t, but the tears slide out of you all the same, fever hot where the rest of you is so cold, close your eyes and try to make yourself stay still, at least until Joel falls asleep. Your teeth chatter. You can’t stop it. You wonder for the millionth time why you’re still here, familiar poisonous rut that your mind runs in, why are they all dead and I’m still alive? Can spin wool into yarn while people snicker behind your back for it, you know that world isn’t coming back, the easy one where you could go to a store and buy a heavy coat to keep you warm, an electric blanket to keep you warm, once this is over, you hear them say sometimes, once this is over I’m gonna eat nothing but rare steaks for an entire year, once this is over I’m gonna buy my girl a ring, once this is over, we’ll never be cold, we’ll never be hungry, we’ll never be hunted once this is over. You feel your chest tighten. Your breath comes hard and fast. Your chattering teeth and ragged inhales betray you. You hear him move and tighten your arms across yourself, try to stop your tears and teeth.
Joel knows the sound of muffled crying. Tess would cry sometimes in the dead of night, curled away from him, when she thought he was asleep. Your shuddered inhale and tight clench of your shoulders give you away. His first impulse is to turn over and ignore you, let you blend into the spackle of rain and sleet and let sleep take him, but a dull spike of guilt lodges in his gut, can’t fix the world, but maybe he can fix this.
“Hey, Spinner, you okay?” You roll on your side, poke your head out of your sleeping bag to look at him, can’t quite meet his eyes, you shake your head.
“Can’t get warm,” you say, “It’s stupid. My hands--“
“That wood should be a dried out a little,” says Joel, “Try and see if it catches.” You get up and moving around feels a little better, hunker by the wood stove and tuck a length in, flames licking low and yellow, you blow into the fire, hoping the wood will do more than hiss, more than useless white smoke of escaping water vapor, hold your hands in front of the low lazy flames and grey-ashed coals. You prod at the small nest of logs with a stick, turn one over and the fire licks up bright. You can hear Joel moving around behind you, scrape and rustle and he’s pushed the cots together, he’s unzipping his sleeping bag.
“What’re you doing?”
“I’m gonna zip these together,” he says, “It’s warmer this way.” Your cheeks and ears burn. You shouldn’t even be out here. Can’t even keep yourself warm. Can’t look at him.
“You don’t have to--“
“C’mere.” You glance at him, his dark eyes shining in the weak firelight, “It’s okay.” You nod, more to yourself than him, crawl in beside him and zip the bag around the two of you, and before you can protest, Joel has pulled you half atop him, rubbing his hands briskly down your arms and back.
“When we were kids, Ma got it in her head that we should go on vacation for Christmas and see real snow,” he says, the motion of his hands rucks your shirt up a little and he smooths it back down.
“Colorado?” you ask.
“Maine,” says Joel, and you laugh through chattering teeth, “Ma rented us a cabin out in the ass end of nowhere. I’ve never been so cold in my life. Dad showed us how to zip our sleeping bags together. It was warmer after that, ‘cept Tommy wouldn’t stop kicking me. Here. Give me your hands.” Joel folds your hands into his, squeezes your fingers, and then cups your hands in his, and blows, breathes into the cage of his hands around yours, you remember coming home from a day spent playing in the snow, cheeks and ears and toes and fingers burning as they warmed and your Mom taking your hands like this and breathing into them like this, and your eyes scrim over, sink your teeth into the meat of your lip but it does no good, the tears slip out.
“I’m sorry.”
“For what?” For everything, you want to say, but don’t. “Weather turned on us, that’s all.” Joel rubs his thumbs over your knuckles, “You don’t need to be sorry.” Presses your hands tight in his, holds them to his chest, and that’s how you fall asleep, warmed by his breath, hands folded together between you.
You don’t speak of what happened. Just pack up your gear and head home, following him down the trail, it feels like he turns to check in with you more, but maybe you weren’t paying attention on the way out.
“Hey you got a package!” says Ellie. Joel misses coffee. Almost killed a man over a dented can of Folgers, misses the taste and smell and waking slow with a cup cradled in his hands. He’s barely staggered into the kitchen, barely nursed the coals in the stove into life, waiting for the kettle so he can have some herb tea that warms his hands at least, but Ellie is up and bright eyed and talking a mile a minute. “Package?”
“On the front step, stupid.” Joel rubs at his eyes.
“Why don’t you quit yappin and bring it in for me?”
“Lazy ass,” says Ellie, but Joel hears her grin, hears the door open, feels the puff of frigid air. Ellie plops an irregular bundle wrapped in string and old newspaper on the table. “I gotta go,” she says, “Gonna be late for school—“
“Hey! Did you eat?” But Ellie’s already out the door, leaving Joel to examine the lumpy parcel, rain-dotted darkening newsprint scavenged from God knows where. Joel unties the string and winds it into a careful coil, turns the bundle over to unwrap it. Thought I’d return the favor, the note reads. No name, but who else could it be? Broad scarf of thick cream colored wool with a pair of socks to match. He runs the pads of this thumbs over the precise rows of stitches, brings the bundled scarf to his face and breathes in, not unpleasant smell of sheep and grass.
“Oooooh, looks like Christmas came early!”
“Ellie!” Joel feels his face going hot.
“What? I forgot my bag,” she says, scooping said backpack off it’s hook by the door, heads back out into the bright, bitter day, frigid air blowing loose snow across the threshold, turns to grin at him, her split eyebrow quirked up. “You know she likes you, right? She actually smiles when you’re around—“
“Git! You’re letting all the warm air out.”
“If those socks fit you can thank me!” And then she’s gone, door closed behind her.
“Jesus Christ,” Joel says to his empty kitchen. Wraps the scarf around his neck, just to see how it feels, imagines your hands busied with knitting needles, maybe a spinning wheel like in Sleeping Beauty, hands that felt like ice in his, the uncertain way your eyes would fix on his and flick away, didn’t say more than three words to him until you happened on that patch of weeds in the ditch along the trail. Burdock? Curly dock? It looked like used coffee grounds on stems, but you were so happy about it. Your face lit up. You smiled. He sits at the kitchen table, hoping that Ellie hasn’t forgotten anything else, and peels his socks off, threadbare, thinning at the heels, so he can try on the ones you made for him. They fit perfectly. Gonna have to talk to that girl about prying into grown-ups business, the thinks.
You wouldn’t be here if not for Lina’s birthday, she came to your place with three cakes of beeswax, knows you need it for waxing the finer threads you spin, the ones for leatherwork, for sewing book pages onto spines, we’re getting together at the Bison! You should come! And Lina is one of the few people in town you like. She’s always been kind to you, never seems to mind when you start talking scouring and lanolin and how you want to start working with plant fibers. She’ll talk endlessly about her hives and how the weather effects the honey, what’s in bloom and what isn’t and how it changes the taste. So you sit with Lina and her handful of friends, drinking hard cider and wishing you were home sitting in front of your wood stove drop spindle in your hand, endless, thoughtless repetitive motion until sleep calls you. When you spin the things you’ve seen recede, slows your ever racing heart. You fidget, calloused fingers rubbing together, the motion you make when you spin, not wanting to be there, but not wanting to let Lina and the other half-dozen people you interact with down, an impromptu artisans meeting, you and Lina, Jimbo the paper-maker and his daughter, Tim who used to teach high school chemistry before everything went to shit. Joel’s here, him and his brother seated at the bar, talking over their drinks, faces serious. You feel yourself start to smile. You’re not sure if he’s been around more, or if you’ve started noticing him more, like playing punchbug when you were kids, there were Volkswagen Beetles everywhere if it meant getting to hit your cousin as hard as possible without getting in trouble for it—
“Oh look it’s the Artists.” You feel your jaw clench and Lina puts on her brightest, cheeriest, go-fuck-yourself smile.
“Hi, Kev,” Lin chirps, “To what do we owe the pleasure?”
“Maybe I want to wish you a happy birthday,” he says. Kevin and his lot. Supposed crack-shots. Take every opportunity for long patrols, ex-military if you believe their yap. Picked off some clickers and expect everyone to kiss their asses.
“Consider it wished—“
“And maybe I’d like to know what we’re risking our necks out on perimeter for--“ And this shit right here is why you rarely leave your house, if it’s not Kevin it’s some other jerk wanting to know what you’re here for. Same question you’ve asked yourself so many times. Why are they all dead and you’re still alive? What are you here for?
“Maybe I want to know what you ar-teests are doing while me and my boys our out risking our lives in the dark.” You know how this will play out, how it always plays out, Lina will placate him with offers of hot honey and soap, the rest of you will bend the knee, make polite noises about how you wouldn’t be able to do what you do without people like him keeping you safe. Never mind that no one’s seen a proper pod of clickers or runners in months, a few lone stragglers and that’s it, your eyes flick up to Jimbo’s and you see the resignation there. Let him have his say, take the ribbing and move on, and you see Joel, pushed back from the bar, looking your way. Your face goes hot and your neck goes tight and you are angry, Kevin and his bullshit always makes you angry, but this is different, brighter and sharper, and before you really know what you’re doing you are up in moving yourself into Kevin’s personal space.
“How those Walmart socks holding up? Your little toesies start poking through yet? Getting a little thin in the heels?” He grins wide, hands on his hips,
“You offerin to mend my socks, Spinner? Got a girlfriend for that. ‘Less you think you can do better-“ He laughs and his dumb buddies do the same—
“What’s this shirt made of?,” you pinch a bit of his yellow and black flannel between your fingers, “Feels like a cotton poly blend. Probably more poly than cotton. Too bad.”
“You tryin to flirt with me, here, Spinner? Bit long in the tooth for all that aren’t cha-“
“You know why wool is so much better than poly-cotton blends like this? Wool holds its heat even when it gets wet. You can wear wool in a rainstorm—“
“So what?”
“So you’re gonna have a cold walk home.” You dump your nearly full pint of cider down the front of Kevin’s cheaply made flannel shirt, turn tail and bolt for the front doors.
“Woo!”
“You tell im, Spinner-“
“You fucking BITCH!”
“Don’t.” Joel’s voice the last one you hear before bursting into the snow-shot night.
You fetch up near the huge pine tree in the town square all lit up for Christmas, on the steps of the gazebo where the choir’s set to sing a few days from now, a rag-tag group led my Moira who’s got to be pushing ninety and teaches the kids how to read music and pick out middle C on the desperately out-of-tune piano in the Hall. They sound so sweet together.
For now the square is silent save for the gentle ticking of snow falling on snow. You’re cold and you should go home, but your rolling gut says to sit right here and wait, a couple pints of cider and spent adrenaline roiling your insides. Stupid, you think. You’ve made things worse, Kevin and his goons will just double down, but you were so angry—
“Hey.” You glance up from the nest of your hands and the gathering snow, feel Joel settle beside you on the step.
“Hey.”
“That was brave, what you did in there.”
“How come I feel like I’m gonna throw up, then?”
“You want me to break his legs?” You look up at him and he’s smiling, a little one that just curves his cheek.
“You’re joking.”
“Mostly,” says Joel. “If Kevin bothers you again, you come tell me-“
“You’re wearing the scarf,” you say, and feel yourself smiling wide, and now his eyes flick to the side.
“It’s real warm,” he says.
“I’m glad you like it.” And you sit in the silence together for a beat, mesmerized by the slow falling flakes, catching and haloing the strung lights. A few years from now, these bulbs will be candles, but for now it feels a little bit like it used to. Joel stands and offers his hand.
“Can I walk you home, Spinner?” You let him pull you up off the step.
“Yeah. I’d like that.”
Hi i have a genuine question? if a creator on the QSMP says very specifically, i do not like it when people draw/create NSFW surrounding me and my character, would you not feel a bit iffy doing that knowing they said that? I don’t care if you post NSFW or anything because i have the tag filtered, but i’m just curious on your answer
No, because I'm not showing it to them directly, I hide any content that may be not safe for work from every creator, regardless of their opinion, and I killed the catholic priest in my brain that makes me feel guilt for doing anything. My content isn't made for them, it's made for other fans on this site. I don't make things for clout. I make things for myself to enjoy, and other people are also free to enjoy them if they like. There's not much I can say to convince people on this, just like, maybe reconsider what exactly is defined as "good" or "bad" to you, and why they're defined that way.
And, like, not every culture is like the US, a lot of American ideals are built on sex and sexuality as being these scary concepts with way too much weight behind them. I think giving sex and porn this like untouchable level of grandiosity or fear actively, like, makes people ridiculously repressed in an unhealthy way. I guess I just don't think of sex as this scary concept made by the evil sluts and whores of the world wanting people to sin, sex is just a thing people do. Sometimes it's hot. Sometimes it isn't.
CW: hate speech; hate comments; mentions of sexual assault; mentions of homelessness; mentions of drugs; mentions of eating disorders and diet culture, commentary on the industry, YN is introduced as mixed-race, half being Korean, and the other part is never mentioned.
YN's POV
“Soloist yn yln was recently seen at a restaurant in Hongdae with k-hiphop rising star Lee Ryuk”
“The love is in the air: yn yln was spotted in Hongdae with Lee Ryuk”
“More than just a song, yn yln and Lee Ryuk were seen together in Hongdae this weekend”
1. [+568, -0] Wow I can’t believe they are together. She's so much better alone. He’s just not worthy of her.
2. [+499, -5] yn and Ryuk are great singing together but I don’t want them to be dating.
3. [+486, -0] I just can’t accept that she did that to us! Ryuk is not good for her!
4. [+320, -67] You are all complaining about Ryuk but he’s the best thing yn could get. She’s just famous because she’s the niece of a Chaebol.
5. [+309, -0] Ryuk is not a good man. He smokes and drinks like an old man, yn deserves someone much better and that will treat her right. I bet it is fake.
6. [+225, -6] yn is a grown woman and she can do what she wants but that doesn’t mean I agree with her choices, she deserves so much more than a man-child like him. He mocked a lot of people before and was not held accountable. I don’t believe yn would date him.
7. [+175, -0] I won’t be a yn fan anymore if she confirms to be dating Lee Ryuk. I don’t want to be connected to these types of people.
My manager sighed by my side, her nails insistently tapping on her phone screen, probably dealing with my problems.
“Can you stop reading those stupid comments?” she spoke, her eyes still glued to her phone. The woman didn't even have to turn to you to know what you were doing.
“I’m being massacred by a relationship that is already over” I turned my head to the window, watching as the quiet morning started to slowly awake. The buzzing started to slowly increase as people started to leave their houses for work. Seoul waking up.
Then there was silence, a quiet agreement between us both that I needed my space and peace before having to deal with the storm of fans outside the music show studio.
My mind was racing with thoughts. I felt guilty, ashamed, embarrassed. All my company’s staff worked hard for me to be where I was in my career; all for me to ruin it because of a shitty fuckboy, because I was dumb enough to fall for his words and charm.
My management company was nicer than most of the ones in the business, allowing me to be - somewhat - free since I was their biggest name. My albums, shows and merch being their biggest source of income.
I met Ryuk when we collaborated on one of his songs. He was the rapper, and I was the soothing voice on the chorus and bridge. He was a very talented man, one or two years younger than me, and having debuted a few months more than a year ago. He was nothing but nice, sweet and kind to me, saying romantic and flirty stuff all the time, treating me like a princess. So, me, being the hopeless romantic that I am, fell for him, blinded by all his red flags.
Ryuk liked to play it cool to the public eye, saying stuff just for the clout, and acting like someone he did not seem to be. Not that I didn’t do that, it was part of our job after all, playing an act for the people who watched us. But his problem was that he was getting more and more problematic with his words. And the worst part was that his company was encouraging him.
Then he started to act like that with me after a few months of dating, showing his true self, ditching our dates - that it took us weeks of preparing since our schedules were always so full - to go out for smoking and drinking with his friends, coming back to my apartment completely drunk and high, asking for things I wasn’t comfortable to give him yet. Not that I was a virgin, it was that I wasn’t comfortable enough with him to do it.
The final drop was when one night he appeared in my apartment out of his mind trying to force me to sleep with him and when I refused he started yelling, spitting at me that I was a prude, then I was a whore, the throwing a bunch of gifts I had just received from my fans on the ground and walls, breaking and destroying them.
Last night we finally met at the same restaurant where he asked me to be his official girlfriend almost a year ago. I forgot to make a reservation so our table was a little visible from the windows, but I didn’t care, I just wanted to end all of this. So I did. I broke up with him and I was really glad I did in a public setting, otherwise, he would probably throw a tantrum. He just resumed his madness sending me a fudging paragraph of a text message, and proceeding to wait for my reaction. The text was far from nice, saying all the worst things and calling me all the worst names someone I thought once loved me could say. But I guess it’s better being written than screamed at my face in front of a bunch of unknown people.
I was so out of my mind, and, not gonna lie, relieved, that I failed to notice the crowd of fansites and paparazzi waiting for us outside the restaurant when we left. I just wanted to leave that place, to go back to my apartment and cry like a little kid in the arms of my manager. No. To cry like a grown woman who had her heart and trust broken.
“The director said we can have a meeting after the recording, is that okay?” I hummed confirming, still not looking at the woman by my side. “YN, sweetie, I know it’s a hard thing for you but soon a new scandal will appear and everyone will forget it” her soft hand caressed the top of my head and down my arms, squeezing my hand warmly.
“I know. I just feel so… disappointed in myself” I turned my attention finally back to her and met her motherly expression looking at me. “All the signs were there and I still chose to ignore it. I’m sorry”.
“Don’t be” Jiah shook her head, her smile never disappearing. “If the director says anything to you, I’m here to defend you, ‘kay? You’re my little girl and I’ll fight for you with my life” I chuckled and nodded, laying my head on her shoulder and letting a few teardrops fall.
Being a soloist was hard, especially after leaving my previous small company when the failed group I debuted in disbanded for an even smaller one. And even more, being a mixed-race idol. But I didn’t give up. I couldn’t give up. Not after so much work put on it. It was my biggest dream, even if that meant I’d have to go under extreme diets, plastic surgery, and training sessions that would last longer than my body could stand.
But I was lucky enough to be found and signed by my current company, they were far from my previous one. And the other ones around. They didn’t pressure me both physically and mentally, they wanted me to be true to myself and my art, wanted me to make good music, with soul, purpose. In the beginning, I didn’t debut per se, I was launched as a regular Korean singer, outside the k-pop industry. The company, and myself included, didn’t mind if I stayed in the indie valley of Korean music, being known only inside the country, but after my first EP and music video as a solo artist was released, I regained a lot of my fans back, as well as new ones that truly enjoyed my music. I was praised by netizens and music websites articles for my raw and emotional music, which I always proudly said I was the one writing and even helping produce.
After a few more releases, I was finally invited to participate in my first music show stage. The rest was just a huge domino effect. Music shows, comebacks, officially being part of the K-Pop Industry™, participating in variety shows, and even having my own vlog series on my YouTube channel.
Me, my company, and all the staff were really happy with my success because they didn’t know if I was going to make it further than a few music shows appearances due to the way I was free to be the most of myself. Truth be told, the industry is merciless, those who don’t look the same, act the same, and even sound the same are ostracized, judged, bullied. I saw some of the prettiest people in the country being bullied online for such stupid things, things that did not make sense anywhere else but this industry. But I made it, I was the point outside the curve, the spark of hope for a change in the business, a role model for girls and boys who looked just like me.
The buzz of the city started to fade in the background as the loud screams of fans outside the studio started to increase closer and closer I got from it. I felt my hands clammy with anxiety, the rate of my heart increased absurdly fast and my breath become quick, short and shallow.
JIah was the first to leave the car, the square sunglasses framing her face perfectly as she walked with her perfect posture, making her look even more professional, and dare me say, scary. She was respected and loved among my fans, everyone knew how hard she worked for me and I always made sure to thank her every time I had the opportunity.
I took a few deep breaths before leaving the black car, shaking my head trying to make the bad thoughts go away and just focus on my fans and performance. As soon I left the car, I was flooded with even louder screams and flashing lights everywhere I looked. If there I was something I would never get used was the camera flashes going off all at the same time. They blinded me and made my head hurt, it even became a joke among my fans that from ten pictures taken of me, nine I would have my face scrunched or my eyes closed.
I bowed and waved to my fans, loads of them holding signs and gifts. I looked over at my manager who bowed her head and I went to talk to the people gathered in the cold air to get a chance to see me. Even after all these years, I still don’t get used to the fact that these people came to see me, to support me and my art. I smiled happily as I signed their albums, pictures, and notebooks, took some selfies with them, recorded special videos for their friends who couldn’t be there.
I was really glad none of them brought the Ryuk issue up, only asking questions about my music, my comeback, if I had eaten or drunk coffee already, or even saying loving words about my work.
I made a few more poses for the ridiculous amount of cameras before bowing and sending flying kisses to the people and entered the studio, the warmth of the place’s heating system embracing me like a plush comforter was wrapped around my shoulders.
My lungs took the deepest breath I could, the anxiety slowly fading and taking place by another type of anxiety, this one more manageable and already known to my body.
“YN~ssi, please follow me” a girl a few years older than me, and a face of a few friends, called for me and my team. I followed her suit as I bowed and smiled at the other staff and a few other idols I met on the way, making sure everyone was treated equally. “Your performance is in a bit more than an hour, I’ll be calling you fifteen minutes before you go up on stage, make sure to be ready on time” I nodded and she left the room.
“She could at least pretend” Jiah spoke as the door closed in front of us, going straight to the table of goods. I always wondered if the other groups had the same table as me, and if they had, if they were allowed to eat. “Ugh! I love mubank so much, they have the best coffee” the woman grabbed two of the paper cups, giving one of them to me, which I gladly accepted.
After a few sips of coffee, my team finally started to work their magic on me as one of them recorded me for my vlog.
My concept for this comeback was easily on the list of my favorite ones, it was very colorful, almost decora-like, inspired by the aesthetic of the early 2000’s. My hair was painted in a beautiful pastel shade of pink with half of my bangs and a single thick strand of hair in the front dyed blue. My hairstylist put it up in two high pigtails braided with extensions to make them look fuller and longer. I loved this look so much, It made me feel like a teenager again, being a little rebellious and experimental with my fashion and hair.
When I first debuted I was only sixteen, practically a child, with a mind even younger and immature due to years of training and lack of social interactions outside the company and the girls who would later debut with me. I wasn’t fully aware of the implications of our concept back then, I was just happy that I managed to debut. Being the maknae, I was constantly babied by the girls, the company, and our fans. But some of the fans - especially older men - were very… creepy, to say the least, with me. Both in person and online. I remember being scared of going to fan signs and fan meetings. And reading the things they’d say about me and my body online always made me sick, I hated it. But the company used me and my popularity among those men to the group’s advantage. As the comebacks passed, my clothes started to get smaller and smaller, to the point where my safety shorts were appearing. The choreographies became more explicit and sexual, and I felt like my parts, the ones where I was the the center, were even nastier.
But, to my company's dismay, that didn’t stop your group from flopping. Two of the girls left due to unfair treatment and payment. They tried to replace them by putting three new members but only a few months after that one of the new girls got involved in a drug and cheating scandal and was kicked out of the group. The company started to treat us badly, not promoting us properly, and abusing us both mentally and physically, until the only two other original members besides me placed a lawsuit against our manager, an old disgusting man, who assaulted us. I didn’t have the money to pay a lawyer to sue them, but I got happy like I did when they won the case. The group was then disbanded and the company shut down.
After that, I felt lost, terrible, useless. I lost all my sense of self. That group was everything I had, everything I was. Without them, who was I? What I was going to do from then on?
For months, I used the little money left to stay at cheap hotels and look for places to work as I also looked for open auditions for other companies. I got severe allergies and rashes from bed bugs and other microscopic beings living in those old beds. I tried to reach what was left of my family but nobody answered, not that I expected them to, but it never hurts to try.
After all my money was gone, I spent a few weeks going from house to house of my former members, who I still kept and keep contact with, but they also had their issues and I didn’t want to bother them any further.
Then an angel appeared in my life. Jiah. She met me at my most vulnerable moment. I was sick, anemic, starving. I was living on the streets when she found me and recognized me. Jiah then took me to her house and gave me a warm shower, warmer food, and even warmer clothes. At the time she had a boring office job and was struggling with her at-the-time fiancé. She asked for a sign, something that showed her she needed to change, to leave everything behind and start all over. She considered me her sign. So, after that, she left her fiancé, and figured out she was lesbian, and all that pent-up anger inside her was her internalized homophobia crushing her. She left her job and started to work freelance for some of her previous clients. The real change came when I asked her to become my manager after I signed my new contract.
Since then, she’s been by my side, being the manager I always needed and the mother I always wanted.
“Fifteen” I heard the staff’s voice from before sound from the door, awakening me from my trip to memory lane. I was so lost, so disassociated from reality that I even realized I had my hair and makeup done, as well as dressed up.
“How long was I out for?” I asked Jiah, her eyes never leaving her tablet, already used to my moments of introspection.
“Almost an entire hour” she answered and turned to look at me. “Try not to disassociate when doing other stuff, doll” she winked and nudged my side with a smirk, my cheeks heating at her comment. “Let’s go before I have to deal with that girl again”.
We both left the dressing room and were met with another group in front of your door coming back from their performance. Their hairs were sweaty, falling to their faces and some of them had even taken part of their outfit off. I saw a camera behind them before bowing politely since they were my sunbaes, well, at least from my solo debut perspective. I excused myself before leaving for my performance but not without noticing a few murmurs and noises from the boys getting behind.
“I think you have famous fans” I jokingly slapped Jiah, giggling as I felt my cheeks heat a little.
Hey so maybe this is a stupid question, but I'm curious to hear your opinion....
What do you think they're doing with BloodMoon? On the one hand they're acknowledging how BloodMoons known nothing but hate and being used, which makes me sympathetic and seems to indicate a direction of change/redemption. But on the other hand, its FUCKING BLOODMOON. Hes garnered hate because hes an insane psychopath that has admitted that they enjoy the killing and dont see it as a curse. That's not someone you leave loose or free. It seems that solution is to kill them again, but that also seems like a waste cuz they JUST came back and now have a custom VR model.
I dunno, I'm sorry for rambling, I just want to hear what others think. Cuz to me they're giving us plenty of reasons and tidbits to want a BloodMoon redemption of some sort, but BloodMoon has seemed to make it very clear that they dont want to stop being the bloodthirsty killing machine and have "killed" and/or burned bridges with the individuals who would have TRIED to accept them. So I'm confused on how to feel and what to think....
I don't know honestly.
On one hand, they point out constantly BloodMoon's abandonment issues and him being constantly used as a tool.
While I am disappointed with how KC's death was handled, I do agree that he needed to be fridged by Bloodmoon in this case. (I just wish the circumstances aligned so KC didn't antagonize him for no reason and didn't throw his life away for no reason. And due to his inaction caused many more homeless people to possibly die, and now it seems like he was just feeding the homeless for clout on tinder and not genuinely care about these people.... I honestly find the stupid easy jabs at the homeless in the sams series kinda gross and while it has been toned down I still wish it would stop all together...)
And what I really think will happen, Bloodmoon wants to be fixed... but since his introduction... Bloodmoon (well, the old Bloodmoon, not the Bloodmoon based on Ruin's SAMS wiki lore... cause remember. This is Bloodmoon 2.0 with not all his memories in tact.)
He did seem to lament that he had these bloody cravings.
youtube
Yeah. I haven't forgotten this episode. Released on the Day of the actual Blood Moon.
(I kinda miss when they used to talk with their hands to convey which twin was which)
It was the first time we as a fanbase realized that his urge to kill is more of an addiction and he has said as much a few times.
And retrospectively, looking back on this episode, (cus at this point I didn't care about bloodmoon back then. It always takes me a bit to warm up to a new SAMS character) Bloodmoon is exceedingly lonely.
He has himself. But that's all. no one will ever really get him or understand him. And I think there's a great lament with that. Being unable to be understood from anyone outside of your twin or 'other'. Yeah, you have eachother, but no one else.
I'm wondering if Bloodmoon 2.0 has this episode in his memories. As he seems to be determined to rip and tear and kill.
My working theory right now is that Nice Eclipse WILL fix Bloodmoon as he wants..... but he'll also fix his cravings.
The best case scenario is that Bloodmoon will only crave shades of red.... and rare steaks....
or... this might cause complications in the duality of their nature, and maybe one of the twins might get broken, with the other needing to be alone for the first time since they woke up.
I don't know. I really think Nice Eclipse will pull through... and give Bloodmoon everything he wants, and more. Because I don't think Eclipse will readily fix Bloodmoon in his entirety and just let a homicidal maniac run loose and terrorizing everyone.
Bloodmoon was the only person Sun felt guilty about, and even Old Moon felt as if Bloodmoon, given enough time and the right circumstances could change.
We also know that Ruin Eclipse is possessed by the Ruin Virus. So he isn't in his right mind, and can easily be redeemed as well. He just needs that virus out of him.
I'm already seeing a lot of parallels with the Eclipse and Lunar takeover. And How Lunar was developing more as a person and strongly learning Eclipse was bad for him and the side of good.
Meanwhile, Bloodmoon is slowly figuring out that he's been used his whole life and he no longer wants to be a weapon for others. The only way he can prevent himself from being a tool in this way, is to not play the game.
If so, may I request sub Scaramouche/wanderer x kinda clingy or just very affectionate reader who hugs/kisses him a lot and accidentally makes him flustered? Can be nsfw 🤭🤭🤭
If you aren’t accepting requests, please feel free to ignore! 😚
The Balladeer Wanderer x Reader
☆— I HOPE YOU'RE READY FOR WHAT I'M 'BOUT TO DO <3
☆A/N: RAGHHHHH RAGHHHHHH RAGHHHHH *horny roars*
☆Warning/Notes: ARCHON QUEST SPOILERS!!! NSFW UNDER THE CUT, Minors idgaf give me clout/hj but fr though being horny is normal ig, No gender specified for reader
⋆ Before he got his older memories back he was just a wanderer, then he met you.
⋆ Achievement unlocked!
⋆ "simp-ly in love with you"
⋆ He loved your hugs and kisses
⋆ Clings on to you like a bear
⋆ But when you both encountered traveler and got his memories back...
⋆ "Ahhhh I knew I wouldn't fight some metal head. Who would've thought. Does this count as enemies to lovers?" You questioned as if he- no, Scaramouche didn't almost kill you.
⋆ He was quite shocked that you were still the same even after all of that.
⋆ He felt embarrassed, ashamed, head over heels (again) all at the same time!
⋆ he's quite confused, he knew you understand what he went through but damn you a lil too loyal😭
⋆ everytime your lips pecks his cheeks, the way you give warmth to his cold body, the way you intertwine your hands with his.
⋆ He felt at ease... Until Nahida wanted to spend time with you both.
⋆ Oh god not lesser lord Kusanali
⋆ Oh god you're still affectionate
⋆ oh god oh lord oh barbatos-
⋆ You were talking about your recent interest but stopped when you noticed Nahida's eyes on him.
⋆ He was looking away from the both of you.
⋆ "I think I got it!" Huh?
⋆ "This reaction, it's called "flustered" isn't it?" Ohhh
⋆ "Yes Nahida" you replied, "Want me to show you one more example of this reaction?"
⋆ The boy panicked
⋆ "wait no-"
⋆ "Hope you're ready for what I'm 'bouta do <3." You said attacking him with kisses, Nahida giggling
⋆ "ACK WAI–"
–NSFW TIME
Kinda sucks tbh
Warning: praise kink, use of "good boy" once, implied dacryphilia, use of "ma'am/sir" on reader
No genitals mentioned for reader
You know, the classic Creampuff anon combo
⋆ oh god.
⋆ you.
⋆ YOU.
⋆ You made him weak.
⋆ You had him wrapped around your fingers (maybe literally too LMFAO)
⋆ When you place your hands on his thighs.
⋆ When he feels your hot breath on his shoulders.
⋆ The way you look at him with half-lidded eyes.
⋆ The way you pepper kisses on his palm as he grinds on you.
⋆ The way you call him a "good boy" for taking it all.
⋆ My guys a walking "me when yio, uou me when, when I, when"
⋆ "Hahh.. ma'am/sir.. feels good s'good.." he tells you, almost out of breath
⋆ You simply kissed his lips, not stopping.
⋆ "Look at you. You look so beautiful like this."
⋆ He was gonna cry, in a good way!
⋆ The sensation mixed with your praises made him dizzy
⋆ "I'm gonna cum, please ma'am/sir let me cum, pleasepleaseplease– mph!" you kissed him, going faster.
⋆ He whines, back arched as white strings of his cum came out.
⋆ "HHhhah Y/N... thank you I- I love you.."
⋆ after cleaning yourself and him up, you placed him on your lap.
⋆ Humming, you brushed your fingers through his hair, taking care of the knots after this night.
i havent breathed anything else but dead plate for the past 3 weeks
im so sad i didn’t get the rody plush AND NOW I HAVE TO WAIT UNTIL JUNE TO SCOUR FACEBOOK MARKET FOR ONE 😞😞
it was like $46 when i asked my mom to get me one but she came back at me with “you already spent $80 on plushies in this shop” (leaves out the minute detail that she spent half too and it wasnt all on plushies it was a homes essential shop.. for a house… because it was an essential..)
ugh so then the next morning i checked it since my friend told me she would buy one for me since she’s filthy rich , checked the website and it was GONE
checked twitter, “2 minutes left to tet your rody before hes DEAD!” *8 hours ago*
alright yeah i see how it is ..,. maybe if i get enough clout rachel will notice me and give me one for free 🙏🙏
for now i just have to rely on my hallucinations to will a rody plush in my room
anyways thats it from me bye my loyal 0 followers 💗💗