#if opportunity was all you needed to justify your actions

[sophsicle]

i can't quite believe i have to clarify this. but. when people say "you shouldn't criticize fanfiction" they are not trying to imply that you *can't*. people always snap back with "well it's on the internet so i can criticize it if i want to" and yes, obviously you can. but i think you might be confusing opportunity with justification. like. yes, fanfic authors give you the opportunity to criticize them by posting something online. but that doesn’t automatically justify you doing it. you're still an asshole for deciding to use that opportunity to needlessly ruin someone’s day. because there is no justifiable reason to tell an author everything you hate about their work. it achieves absolutely nothing. does not in anyway progress the human race. you just want to make someone feel small. and you *can* absolutely do that. but it's a weird fucking hobby my guy.

#can you imagine tho #if opportunity was all you needed to justify your actions #like the amount of murder #Im telling you #ANYWAY #im tired of this argument #yeah okay you got us #we can’t make you be nice #goddamn #soph rambles

[yoonyia]

I have said again and again that the United States of America has one of the worst propaganda programs I have ever seen

the worst part is that it works perfectly

#this has nothing to do with the citizens of the country #its just that the government is built on a primarily flawed fondation #its power is built on the idea (or more realistically the promise) of freedom and opportunity #so anything that goes against this idea can be used as propaganda material #and we mean everything #because in a international world you can not have free reign over everything by one country #like all healthy relationships you sometimes have to compromise or support eachother #this sometimes means you will have to give up your resources or make diplomatic decisions that arent always in your favor. #but whenever something that is “unfair” or “a risk to our nation” which can range from a balloon to a flipping war #they can just touch on the nerve that is freedom and make people believe or atleast think they believe in them long enough #to justify the countries actions #its such a horrible way of using propaganda and its honestly easily broken down IF the USA wasent a global super power #i dont know why i needed to talk about this but i had too #there are people who justify the Isreal attack on gaza and Palestinians by calling it a defensive response #and the idea is unfathomable #genocide? as a defense response? #are they hearing themselves? is what my immediate reaction was #but its deeper then that #its more then that #its so #so much more then that #its a foundational belief within the nation that some people cant pull themselves out of because how could they? #its like trying to unlearn everything your parents thought you that you later learn is horrible #for some its easy #for most its hard #but for some its impossible #thats the same with systematic life long propaganda like this #patriotic citizens are plentiful in any country but the thing that makes america so distinct is that their patriotism is so deeply rooted #the word of the motherland is golden to some and you cant just reverse that #i wish them well and i wish palestine the best.

[writingwithcolor]

Diversity Win: Is "Crazy Rich" POC Representation Necessarily Empowering?

sodapopsculptor asked:

I’m writing a story with two sets of protagonists: A trio with a Black girl, a Latino, and a Vietnamese-American boy who all come from middle-upper class to ridiculously rich families, and a pair of white working-middle class sisters. They’re all heroes of this story. I’ve seen way too many rich white people and poor poc people in fiction, and I’m kinda getting sick of it, but I’m worried that by having the poc kids be rich and the white girls not so much, I’ll be reinforcing the idea that poc somehow rule the world. The only time the rich kids use their status as leverage is when the Asian threatens to sic his cop dad on a bully (race unstated but I imagined him as white) picking on a freshman, and during the Black girl’s birthday party, when she pays the biggest jock there fifty bucks (And later says offhandedly that it was just what she had in her pocket) to chase off a creep hitting on her.

OP, have you ever seen the “diversity win!” meme before?

I understand that your motivation for these narrative choices is to give POC a chance, if you will, to be the rich characters. But it is evident from this ask that you have not asked yourself what this entails. I want to ask you to critically examine the race and class intersections you’re creating here, as well as these kids’ roles in oppressive systems.

You explain that these rich POC are heroes and only have righteous reasons for leveraging their power.

But is your Black girl character aware of the potential disciplinary and/or legal consequences her jock accomplice might face while she has the resources to keep her hands clean? Are you?

Is your Asian character aware of how much of an abuse of power it is to “sic” a cop on someone, and the sheer amount of harm a criminal record or incarceration does to a juvenile with behavior issues? Are you?

So you want to put POC in positions of power for #representation.

Does it resonate with the group you’re representing?

Do you research and portray the unique ways race, ethnicity, class, and majority vs. minority status come together?

Or are you putting these characters in oppressive hegemonic roles for the sake of a power fantasy, on behalf of a group you're not even in?

To your question, you're not reinforcing the idea that "POC rule the world" because such a generalized belief does not exist. Instead, you're reinforcing:

The idea that society has “winners” and “losers.”

The idea that the problem with disproportionately powerful people is the lack of “equal opportunity” as opposed to the power imbalance to begin with.

The idea that those in oppressive positions of power need only have the right intentions to justify their use of it.

To be clear: that is not to say that you can't have jerk aristocrat billionaire millionaire crazy rich POC. Evil or mean rich characters are fun! I have some myself! You can even have rich characters who are gentle-hearted and well-intentioned, but you have to know the ways in which they’re privileged and decide how aware of that your characters are. That’s no problem.

But if you think that wealthy and powerful POC would have the same values and priorities as their poorer counterparts, you’re deluding yourself. There’s a reason why the quote “power corrupts” exists. There’s a reason why no matter where you look on the globe, there are historical dictators and tyrants.

If you want bratty rich POC who lack regard for the consequences of their actions, because you want bratty rich characters, great! If you want them because it would be uplifting or empowering representation? You’re doing it for the wrong reason.

~ Rina

I fully agree with Rina, and truly want to emphasize the last paragraph.

If you want bratty rich POC who lack regard for the consequences of their actions, because you want bratty rich characters, great! If you want them because it would be uplifting or empowering representation? You’re doing it for the wrong reason.

I don't think you need to aim to subvert or purposely make all the BIPOC rich and powerful and the white people poor and suffering. Add diversity and include upper class rich and class privileged BIPOC, sure thing! And you can avoid your fears of intentional subversion message by including rich and powerful white characters as well, even if they're not the focus of your story. Just their existence helps. You could also include middle-class characters of Color as well.

More reading: Black in upper-class society

~Mod Colette

#class #upper class #capitalism #POC #creator responsibility #asks #representation #wealth #privilege #subverting tropes #intersectionality #crazy rich asians #last edited 1/8/24

[loserlvrss]

꒰ 𝐅𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓! ꒱ 김동현

summary : you’ve been bored of your boyfriends calm demeanor, so you decided to prank him just to see if he’d start a fight — however, it gave you something much better

genre : kinda angsty, suggestive, leehan x afab!reader tws : language, kinda toxic behavior, suggestive content author notes : sorry this took a while i’ve been supah swamped but i hope you enjoyed the direction i took your request in !! word count : 1.4k

you don’t know why you were doing this. even as you applied the black, green and blue makeup, you couldn’t think of a valid reason. yet, here you were, sat on your couch scrolling through your phone, just awaiting the opportunity to prank your sweet, unsuspecting boyfriend.

maybe he’d gotten too comfortable in your relationship. hell, you used whatever excuse to try and justify it. but, the truth is, you wanted to see if he had it in him to get mad at you. he was so damn peaceful all the time — you loved that about him, really — nonetheless, deep down, your heart raced with the thought; the anticipation when he’d finally catch a glimpse of your artwork that he’d deem someone else’s.

this was fun.

you knew it’d work. you’ve never let leehan purposefully leave marks on your skin, not because it didn’t feel good to have him kiss you, but simply because you’ve always found them tacky and a hassle to cover up. you’d wasted so much makeup in the past trying to do so, so whenever he’d come close to leaving purple patches, you’d tell him to stop. he’d even bargained with leaving them in places only he could see, but you still refused. especially if you couldn’t return the favor.

you knew this was an evil way to push his buttons, that you oh-so-desperately wanted to see pushed. it was selfish, really, however at this moment in time the plan was already set into action. you wanted to start a fight, just to see if he could.

he’s never gotten mad at you. he’s never yelled at you. he’s never dared put a hand on you. and that was a dream, but somewhere deep down, you knew it was also just as boring as it was desirable. you wanted him to yell at you — at least once — manhandle you — consensually, of course — you wanted so much, and maybe this wasn’t the right way to bring it up, but it didn’t matter anymore as his voice broke through the silenced air.

“what’s that?”

“what’s what?” you asked, acting obliviously as you scrolled through twitter and instagram in turns.

he shrugged, and you don’t know if it was the fact that he seemingly didn’t care, or if it was that maybe he just brushed it under the rug as anything else, that began to piss you off.

nonetheless, you decided you were in it for the long run. after all, you wanted to see if he’d start the fight.

and throughout the rest of the afternoon you’d catch leehan staring in your direction, shifting his gaze when you’d make eye-contact. he kept a calm demeanor, never asking again what the purple marks on your neck were. he’d even hugged you before he left for practice, getting all up close and personal with the artwork.

you were finding it hard to believe he hadn’t noticed.

maybe he was gathering his thoughts. maybe he was trying to decided why you didn’t smell like another man — why he knew you wouldn’t do that to him. maybe as much as his buttons were pushed, this was it for his stemmed anger. maybe dance practice was his way to relieve the stress you caused from time-to-time. maybe the cool, calm and collected leehan was the only version of your otherwise, smiley, boyfriend.

maybe you were beginning to feel bad because you had no idea the feelings he had towards this prank. did it upset him? you wouldn’t be none-the-wiser to it if it had. he was good at shielding emotions, and maybe that’s where you needed to draw the line. maybe that’s where your conversation should’ve began, instead of whatever the hell tiktok had inspired you to do.

you kept looking at the clock on your home screen, counting down the minutes until he’d come back to you. and just as you had decided to end the prank, opting for a civil — adult-ish — conversation, a text illuminated your dark screen.

it read: we need to talk.

yet you couldn’t decipher the hidden meaning. of course you knew what it was about, that’s the only thing that’s been wrong throughout the last few months between you two. what else could it be? and why, now that you were finally getting what you wanted, didn’t it feel good?

you didn’t answer him, partially because you didn’t know what to say; it was a prank. i just wanted to see if you’d get mad at me. i’m so bored of this. nothing seemed correct, or frankly, truthful.

you also knew that he wasn’t far. he wouldn’t have texted you otherwise, just to torcher you — though it would’ve been deserved. so, you waited by the door for your boyfriend to get back, the thought of washing away the eyeshadow long gone.

then, it finally opened with the pattern of your key code. the air became thick and you found it hard to swallow with a lump in your throat. were you sorry? yes. did you feel bad for being immature? yes. was a tiny part of you still curious to see how this would play out?

yes.

"y/n," was the first, and only, thing he muttered for a couple of excruciatingly long minutes. you watched as he put his bag down, eyed him as he took his shoes off, and almost burst when he ran a hand through his hair. maybe leehan was able to torcher you, even if unintended.

his eyes finally met yours, but then they drifted to your neck, and further to your collar bone. he knew. he's known since the first question left his lips hours and hours ago.

"what's that?" his arms snaked between each other, and you found it wrong to think it was hot, but you very much did.

almost like deja vu, the same feeling crept up from down within you. "what's what?" you reenacted. although this time, he didn't let it go. he approached you quickly, too fast to get away before you were sandwiched between the plaster and his body.

his hands were slow with movements. those oh-so-stupid-fucking-hands that had you, literally, at his fingertips. one forcing your head by your jaw to expose your neck, while the other brushed away the hair that disguised the marks from his view.

you fronted being indifferent, but truth be told, if he wasn't holding you up your knees would have buckled already, leaving you as a mess on the floor in front of him.

"you must think i don't know you," he voiced, holding eye-contact as he pushed his thumb between your lips, gathering just enough saliva to then press the digit to your neck and swipe. and it smudged with enough force, despite being labeled as waterproof. "tell me why you felt the need to paint these on. i couldn't think of one good reason all day, princess."

and the nickname he always called you — innocently and less than — had your heart in absolute shambles; the anticipation was just as good as if he'd raised his voice you thought. maybe your vanilla-scented boyfriend had finally gotten the hint that you wanted more, despite going about it in a less than thoughtful way. and maybe you realized that you didn't hate that he was always nice, no you loved that about him, but sometimes it was okay if he wanted to be a little bit meaner with you. after all, he could always say my ... anything he wanted, and that would still mean that he saw you as his forever only.

"i-i," you couldn't think straight when he attached his lips over the previously (fakely) marked spots. his breath was hot, lips gentle then firm as he sucked against the spots he knew you'd rarely let him have his way with. "i — uh, fuck. leehan,"

his voice was low against the shell of your ear, sending a shiver down your spine and a whimper up your throat, "if you wanted something, you could've just asked me, baby. i'd give you anything."

the eyes that you've grown comfortable with always seemed to be there despite the firm placement he had you in. you knew he loved you more than anything, so you knew his words were true. and his demeanor broke when he kissed your lips, almost giving you whiplash.

his palms laid flat against your cheeks, thumbs rubbing sweetly, "if you wanted everyone to know that you're mine, let me do it myself."

reblogs, likes and comments are greatly appreciated! thank u!

#kpop #kpop requests #kpop writing #kpop imagines #kpop oneshots #kpopidol #kpop bg #romance #kpop fluff #kpop suggestive #kpop smut #boynextdoor imagines #boynextdoor x reader #boynextdoor #boynextdoor drabbles #boynextdoor smut #boynextdoor leehan #kim donghyun #bnd x reader #bnd fluff #bnd imagines #bnd #bnd smut #bnd hard hours #bnd hard thoughts #bnd leehan #kpop boys #kpop drabbles #kpop x reader #kpop x y/n

[gay-dorito-dust]

Bi-Han so yk going to get Johnny instead of Bi-Han setting Kenshi free it’s ofc reader, Bi-Han snapping like he does but when he says Johnny lay his hand on reader? Please may I request this?

I can’t write endings for shit apparently 🤣 🦦

Upon meeting the washed up movie star Johnny Cage, all you wanted was for someone to shut him up, even if it meant allowing yourself a brief few seconds of silence because those few seconds of utter silence would be nothing short of paradise; especially considering how much the man loved to run his mouth in the presence of very powerful people.

Men like Johnny were Bi-Han’s biggest pet peeve and you didn’t even feel the need to look over at him to feel his annoyance permeate the air, whereas his patience with the actor grew ever thinner with every passing comment made; Now normally you wouldn’t have questioned or gone against Liu Kang’s wisdom but Johnny Cage was possibly the last person you suspected he’d choose, but then again Lord Liu Kang wasn’t the kind who’d blindly choose people at random.

‘y/n,’ Liu Kang gestured towards a tied up Kenshi. ‘if you please.’

‘Of course Lord Liu Kang.’ You replied as you swiftly brushed past Johnny in the process, aware of the fact that his eyes were lingering on you longer then deemed appropriate; which earned him a murderous glare from Bi-Han as he grunted out a warning at Johnny’s lack of decorum, but that didn’t seem to stop anything that would come afterward.

‘Alright, alright. I’ll play my part in this martial arts LARP. The missus ought to get what she paid for.’ Johnny uttered to himself, as if he was waiting for someone to call for action, because not before long he was done hyping himself up and was already making long strides towards you whilst you were undoing a particularly tight knot. ‘Hey you! Get your damn hands off him.’ You looked over at him to scoff indignantly as you dismissed his theatrics that no one had the time nor patience for.

Upon seeing your unwillingness to participate in the scene he had created within his own head, Johnny furrowed his brows as his hand grabbed onto your bicep, causing you to flinch and halt all movement. ‘I said get your hands off-‘ but before Johnny could finish his line, Bi-Han interjected the scene by forcefully ripped him away from you; only to then send him flying across the room and into the stand that was holding up an hichuli, which shattered into a million pieces.

After seeing to it that Johnny was no longer going to be a problem going forward, Bi-Han was quick to be at your side, his voice already muffled behind his mask was low and hushed to that of a gentle whisper. ‘The idiot didn’t harm you did he?’ He asked as he assessed your bicep for anything out of the ordinary, in hopes to justify his need to knock the washed up actor down another peg or two from thinking he was within any right as to touch you. You smiled as you placed your hand down atop of his, your thumb caressing his cool skin softly, before raising his hand up to your lips to demonstrate your gratitude towards him by pressing a kiss there.

‘I’m fine Bi-Han.’ You reassured as your eyes then wandered over to glance at Johnny’s state when he groaned in pain, wipe the remnants of his hichuli off of his person as he stood back up but you were already looking back at Bi-Han when Johnny stared daggers into his back, angrily muttering under his breath. ‘You just stole me of my opportunity to hand being the one to hand his ass to him.’ You added and by the way his brows rose in curiosity, you knew that Bi-Han was smirking with pride beneath the mask at your comment.

‘Had I let you do away with him as you please,’ Bi-Han began, taking back his hand from you to then brush his fingertips down the expanse of your arm. ‘It wouldn’t have been much of a fair fight on his end.’ He finished and you couldn’t help but beam brightly at his words, feeling warm within your chest knowing how much faith and confidence he had placed in your capabilities to handle things on your own. To have him trust that you can hold your own was all you ever needed to hear from him to know that despite knowing this, Bi-Han wasn’t above his tendencies in keeping his beloved safe.

It was sweet in a way, seeing as he was often a little awkward and stiff when it came to the romantic aspects of your relationship but that didn’t mean that his attempts in showing that he cared were any less valid. He was somewhat of a secret sweetheart once you’ve saw past the walls he’s built and learnt how to recognise his affection through his every action.

‘Was that necessary brother?’ Kuai Liang’s voice interrupted your moment as he stood next to Bi-Han, casting you a concerned look to which you waved off with a hand. ‘To put him in his place.’ Bi-Han responded as he looked at Johnny in avid disgust, making sure to stand almost entirely in front of you, as though shielding you from the actor, whilst staring him down in silent challenge when he chose to look over at the three of you; Like hell Bi-Han would ever let someone like Cage get that close to you again and he would be best to keep that in mind because if he were to tear his luck, Bi-Han wouldn’t be held responsible for fighting him at full force.

#mk x you #mk x y/n #mk imagines #mk imagine #mk x reader #mortal kombat 1 x reader #mortal kombat x y/n #mortal kombat x you #mortal kombat x reader #mortal kombat imagine #mortal kombat imagines #bi han imagines #bi han x you #bi han imagine #bi han x reader #sub zero x reader

[cowardz]

𝙔𝙖𝙣𝙙𝙚𝙧𝙚! 𝙑𝙞𝙘𝙩𝙞𝙢 𝙭 𝘽𝙪𝙡𝙡𝙮! 𝙍𝙚𝙖𝙙𝙚𝙧,

✧ You at least had the conscience to feel guilt. It didn't make your actions justified, and your victims did not care for a second how you felt, but it gave you the peace of mind to know that you don't take pleasure from cruelty like the others.

✧You were a selfish person to the core. The second you were given the opportunity to climb the social ladder you grasped that opportunity with both hands, even if it meant joining the friend group of the cruelest bullies in the school. To remain with the group you had to show that you fit in, so you began to participate in the torment.

✧It started with just a few cruel words, then pouring a drink on someone, and then eventually you were expected to help the leader of the group brutalize his victims. You felt guilt, but never enough to consider stopping, you were given an opportunity you couldn't afford to squander after all.

✧Your desire for popularity did not come from nowhere. At your old school you were just like the students you harass now, an outcast. Transferring schools was your opportunity to make something of yourself, even if it meant hurting people the same way you were hurt.

✧Your "friend" seemed to have a favorite victim with the way he was always picking on one particular boy, and it wasn't hard to see why. His appearance was unkempt with untrimmed messy hair and deep bags that brought attention to his vacant eyes. Everything about him was unsettling, more akin to a ghost than a human being. Even the kinder souls (not that there were many) of the school avoided him like the plague. The general consensus was that something was very wrong with this boy, and nobody was stupid enough to stick around and find out what. Everyone except your little group leader, and grudgingly yourself.

✧ One day after a particularly brutal bout of bullying you hang back from the group. Stepping back into the bathroom you cant help but feel remorse at the site of the crying boy sat on the floor. Maybe it wouldn't hurt to show your guilt this one time. Its not like he could ruin your reputation, somebody would have to be willing to talk to him for that.

✧So you crouch down and wipe the blood from his forehead as you whisper, frankly inadequate, apologies. The juxtaposition of his current situation compared to the one he was in just five minutes ago has his head reeling and his heart pounds inexplicably. Nobody had ever treated him with such care, most wouldn't even make eye contact with him. Your confusing behavior, and maybe also his blood loss, leads him to a slightly delusional conclusion.

✧Nobody so kind could ever choose to be a bully. You must have been forced! Yes that's it, your sweet angelic soul was taken captive by those heathens and forced to participate in his torture. Maybe the lead bully had blackmail on you, or perhaps you were tormented in the same way he was behind closed doors.

✧That thought had him biting his nail in anxiety as he thought about you, the only person who was ever kind to him, being hurt. You were like a lamb among wolves, but don't worry he would make a pretty good guard dog :)

✧soon he was dead set on maintaining his delusions, if anyone tried to say you chose of your own volition to hurt people he would react with violent outbursts. To him you needed to be saved from the evil that's been hurting the both of you, and he wasn't opposed to getting revenge while he's at it.

You might have been better off avoiding him like everyone else...

#tw yandere #yandere #male yandere #yandere x reader #male yandere x reader #tw bullying #yandere oc #yandere oc x reader #yandere headcanons #yandere hcs #yandere victim

[jessmaybank]

My best friends brother series; Part 3 - It all comes crashing down

Series masterlist

Outer banks masterlist

Paring(s): Rafe Cameron x fem! Kook reader.

Word count: 1.6k

Summary: it all falls apart at Wards charity event.

Warnings: alcohol use, swearing, mentions of sex, angst.

Authors Note: Thank you for all the love I have received from this series!! There will be more parts to this, so enjoy :) btw this is angsty.

A week had past since you slept with Rafe, and you had spent the time reflecting on your shitty actions. You had betrayed your best friend, and there was no justifying your actions now. There was no going back.

What hurt you the most was the lack of aftercare from Rafe. He just walked away like you were nothing. The worst part though, was that you were naive enough to think it would go down differently. You only had yourself to blame.

You spent the week doing all you could to avoid Rafe, but that would end today. Ward was throwing a charity event at the golf course to help his image. To your dismay, Sarah would not take no for an answer when she asked you to come.

So, there you stood, at the entrance to the golf club, mentally begging your heart palpitations to stop. Here goes nothing.

You make a beeline straight to the bar when you enter, needing something to take the edge off. You text Sarah that your at the bar and you tell her to meet you here.

You were about to open your mouth to tell the bartender your order, when a male voice beats you to it.

“She’ll have a vodka soda, no ice. Beer for me please”

You already knew it was Rafe, but you turned your head for confirmation anyway. He was wearing a white collared shirt and Grey trousers, with a sweater draped around his shoulders, his kook-like style on full display.

Your eyebrows furrow as your shoot him a look, one that says how the hell do you know my drink order?

“You’ve been ordering the same drink for years Y/N. I’m observant” he says.

His eyes trail up and down your figure as he studies you, admiring just how good you look in your white tennis skirt, your thighs on display for him. It took everything in him not to pick you up, throw you on top of the bar and wrap those tanned thighs around his waist.

Your agitation was growing by the second. He could pay attention enough to learn your favourite drink, but not enough to catch on to your anger towards him.

“Yeah, well, how about you observe me walking away from you, asshole” you say, turning around to get away from him.

Rafe grabs your arm, forcing you to stay put.

“Let go of me”

“What’s your problem?” He asks, a confused look splattered on his face.

“Your my problem, Rafe. I’m not doing this right now” you spit.

You wanted to yell at him, you wanted to ask how he could just fuck you like he did and then leave without a word. But you had too much pride for that.

The bartender puts your drinks down, and you take the opportunity to grab your liquid courage and retreat, making your way outside onto the course.

Eventually you find Sarah, and you put on your best poker face on to cover your bad mood, which fortunately she doesn’t question. After a couple drinks, you both decide to play some golf.

Rafe couldn’t take his eyes off you, his blue orbs filled with desire as he watches you play, paying attention to the way your skirt rises every time you take a shot. You were sticking your ass out just to tease him, and holy shit was it working.

He could feel his trousers tighten as he watched you run a hand through your hair, the summer heat getting to you. Your skin glistened with a thin layer of sweat as you took another shot, your cleavage on full display as you bent down to get another ball.

Watching the scene before him made all the anger towards you leave his body. How could he be mad when you looked like that?

Only feelings of confusion were left, he had no idea why you were so angry, and he was eager to find out.

You left Sarah on the course to use the bathroom. You wash your hands and fix your lipgloss in the mirror before heading back out. You turn the corner in the hallway, and see Rafe walking towards you.

You try to turn around and walk the other way, but he stops you, grabbing your arm and pinning you against the wall, before moving his hands to either side of your head, completely cornering you.

“Leave me alone” you protest, rolling your eyes as a gesture of resistance to his dominant action.

“Your a brat, you know that” he tuts, moving his left hand to grab your jaw, forcing you to look up at him.

“And a tease” he says lowly in your ear, the raspiness in his voice making you clench your thighs together. You were not going to submit to him, not this time.

You let out a sarcastic laugh, and Rafes jaw clenches, a serious tone now plastered on his face.

He wraps his hand round your throat, the cold metal of his rings digging into your neck.

“Drop the attitude” he says, the coldness in his words making a shiver run down your spine.

“Why? So you can fuck me again, and leave me there, naked in your fucking kitchen, like I mean nothing to you?”

The moment the words leave your plump red lips, his hand drops from your throat, his face softening as he scans your features. You were full of hurt, and he could see it.

“That’s why your angry? Y/N I-“

“I’m not angry at you Rafe, I’m angry at myself. It’s my mistake for thinking it would be different with me” you say, a pitiful smile spread across your face as you expose your vulnerable state to him.

“Of course it’s different” he says, his right hand moving from the side of your head to your cheek, cupping your soft skin.

He gave you a look that said please, please believe me. But you didn’t.

Before you could bat his hand away, your eyes flicker to a figure watching you both at the end of the hallway.

Sarah.

Being best friends with Sarah for years, you knew her like the back of your hand. She was going to kill you.

“Shit” you mutter, pushing Rafe away from you. He’s confused at first, but when he follows your eyesight and sees his sister, his eyes widen.

“I knew it! This is why you’ve been acting off these past couple weeks? Your fucking my brother?”

“Sarah, I can explain-“

“Don’t” she snaps, before storming off.

You chased after her into the car park, but she drove off before you got a chance to speak to her.

Tears streamed down your face as you plopped yourself onto the pavement, dialling Sarah’s number. The depressing sound of the ringer filling your ears as she ignores your calls.

After about 5 minutes, you decide to pull yourself together, and do what you do best, which is taking full advantage of an open bar.

Each sip of the vodka tasted better than the last, the burning sensation in your throat beginning to fade as you become number and number.

Rafe noticed your puffy eyes and red cheeks from across the room, but he couldn’t bring himself to approach you. He knew this was his fault, there was nothing he could say to fix it.

Once you decided you were drunk enough, you stumbled your way through the crowds of people, wanting to go home.

“Y/N, how much have you had to drink?” A male voice says, and you realise you accidentally walked into Rafe.

You ignore him, trying to push past his figure. Unfortunately, he was much stronger than you.

Before you could comprehend what was happening, he was picking you up bridal style and carrying you into the car park.

“What are you doing” you slur.

“I’m taking you home”

Too intoxicated to fight back, you let him put you down and guide you into his passenger seat, doing your seatbelt up for you and shutting the door before walking round to the drivers seat.

The ride home was silent, your head resting on the window as you ponder the dramatic events that occurred tonight.

Rafe was racking his brain for the right thing to say, his mouth opening and closing constantly like a gulping fish. Before he could decide on a sentence, we arrived at your house.

You undo your seatbelt as he drives us up the gravel driveway, eager to get out as soon as possible.

“I know this is my fault” Rafe starts, his finger tapping erratically on his leg to try and calm his nerves.

“I’m sorry. I’m going to make this right Y/N, I swear-“

“Right?” You chuckle, the coldness behind you eyes unmissable.

“All you do is hurt people Rafe. You’ve hurt me” you say quietly, staring at the windscreen infront of you. You couldn’t bring yourself to look at him.

“Y/N, please-“

The slamming of the car door interrupts his pathetic attempt at an apology, and you run towards your house. Your eyes well up for the second time tonight as you rummage in your purse for your keys, the tears and alcohol together making your vision blurry.

Finally, you scramble through the door, slamming it shut before putting your back against it. You slide down until your sitting on the cold marble floor, bringing your knees to your chest.

Rafe punched his steering wheel over and over, his vision blurry as his anger takes over him. His frustration is evident as he runs his hands through his hair, a string of curse words leaving his mouth.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck” he rambles, before turning the key in the ignition and driving off into the early evening fog.

————————————————————————-

Tags: @rootbeerfaygo @kys4-20

#obx #outer banks #drew starkey #rafe cameron #rafe cameron x reader #rafe cameron imagine #rafe cameron smut

[1-800-imagines]

drunk texts part 3 | r.c.

series masterlist here!

cw: violence, mentions of past abuse

to say you were worried about what was about to happen would be a huge understatement. with rafe gone, your anxiety grew by the minute, your heart hammering.

since your white shirt had been ruined by fucking jungle juice of all things, you had put rafe’s shirt on and then put yours on the ground.

his shirt was huge on you and covered your shorts. but as you were lost in your own thoughts you hadn't noticed someone approaching.

but then you heard his voice. and not the voice you wanted to hear. it was blake's. your head snapped towards him.

he looked at you and registered what you were wearing. with a sarcastic laugh tinged with a deep bitterness in it, he snapped, “oh so NOW you think you can whore it up with rafe?”

your breathe caught, despite hating him, you still felt the need to justify all your actions and tell him that it wasn’t like that, “no, it’s not. my shirt.” you were stumbling on your words and pointing to your stained tank top on the ground which looked even more incriminating at this point. 

he stalked closer to you, “you think i’m gonna believe a slut like you?” his hand moved to your jaw and squeezed it. tears welled in your eyes. memories of him holding you in that position during fights surged your memory.

but little did you know, rafe wasn’t far behind blake and he was hot on his trail. rafe had gone looking for him but saw blake leave the crowd as he had already spotted you.

“hey asshole, take your fucking hands off her.” rafe shouted, grabbing blake’s shoulder to turn him around. 

before you could comprehend what was happening, as soon as blake turned to face rafe, rafe punched blake in the square in the face, causing a loud crack. 

you stood entirely still, scared to move. rafe grabbed blake by the collar of his shirt, “leave her alone, from now on.” he shoved blake away from him, blake's nose bleeding heavily.

"you could've broken my fucking nose bro!" blake shouted.

"yeah and that'll be the least of your fucking problems if you lay another hand on her. you get me, bro?" rafe's voice was laced with venom.

blake threw his hands up and backed away, "whatever you say man, not like i wanted that crazy bitch anyway."

those words punched you in the gut and you let out the smallest gasp, rafe clenched his fist and was about to hit him again but you caught his arm. "not worth it, please." you whispered softly.

as soon as he realized it was you touching him, his body relaxed slightly. blake took the opportunity to high tail it out of there. rafe turned to you and frowned. “you okay?” he whispered, touching your cheek that was still slightly red from blake’s grasp. 

you nodded and looked at his hand that you were holding, “you’re bleedin, rafe.” you took his hand in yours and grabbed your shirt off the ground, wrapping it around the fist that had protected you. “thank you,” you whispered, "you didn't have to do that for me". 

“don’t thank me sweetheart. you don’t deserve that shit. blake never deserved you in the first place. no one will ever be good enough.” his non-injured hand moved a piece of hair behind your ear, “don’t forget what you’re worth.”

you were shaking from the encounter. rafe noticed immediately. “do you wanna get out of here?” he asked softly.

you nodded too eagerly so he said, “go tell your ride you’re leaving so your friends don’t worry about you. i know sarah will be worried. i’ll be right here.” you hesitated, looking back towards the crowd where blake was. rafe, sensing your hesitation added, “i’ll wait right here for you. keep my eyes on you the whole time.” with that reassurance from him, you wandered into the crowd to find pope.

your eyes met blake’s and he scowled at you, then making it very obvious that he was enjoying what was now happening to him. there was a random girl grinding on him, dancing.

pope wasn’t far and when you walked up to him, he immediately asked you, “are you okay?”

“yeah, some shit happened with blake. i’m gonna leave.” you said softly.

“let me drive you.” pope insisted.

you shook your head, “no it’s okay. i got a ride. let the others know so they don’t worry? i’ll see you back at the chateau tomorrow.”

pope sighed, “of course. be careful.”

you smiled back at pope and made your way back to rafe. “everything good?” he asked.

“yeah, i told pope to relay the message. let’s go please.” your voice was barely above a whisper.

he slipped his non-injured hand into yours and led you to where he had parked his truck.

#rafe cameron #rafe cameron x reader #outer banks imagine #outer banks #obx #outerbanks #requests open #rafe x reader #rafe obx #rafe cameron imagines #rafe cameron imagine #rafe x you #outerbanks rafe #outerbanks imagine #obx fic

[gayofthefae]

Something about the way that in some ways, Jonathan was right to not let Will know he was going through things, because look at what Will's response was. Crying, being offered support for his struggles, freshly heartbroken, he said "I'm always here for you too". It's the kind of thing that's sweet on the surface. Like how when he woke up in the season 1 finale, he asked if Jonathan's hand was okay. But it's all symbolic. It's always all deeper. And just like with the painting, just like with the tonka truck, if he sees the slightest wince in anybody else, he will gut himself at the first chance to sacrifice his own happiness for them. And Jonathan knows it. And you can't exactly call it a fault, but it isn't a good thing.

It's one of the reasons beyond queerness and romance that it is SO important for Will's painting lie to have caused damage to Mike. Because he rips himself apart at the first chance and he justifies it by telling himself that it successfully made things better. He'll rip his own skin off to make you a band aid and then tell himself that it's okay, because at least you got your band aid. So he NEEDS there to be no "at least". He NEEDS to have done something so horrible to himself and have it help no one; have it make things worse, actually. He needs to have hurt someone else by doing this, because he will never care that he hurt himself.

You could tell him hurting himself barely helped someone else and he'll tell you it was worth it. You could tell him hurting himself didn't change anything and he'll tell you it was worth it to try. The one thing you can tell him that will get through to him at all is that hurting himself hurt someone else. That he shouldn't have done that.

Mike should be angry. Or if not angry, at least hurt. And Will needs to KNOW it. Will needs to know that him hurting himself hurts others. He needs to hear the words "if only you hadn't done that, things would be better".

Will Byers needs the wake up call that breaking his own heart breaks everyone else's too, because they love him. The nature of the tragedy of self-sabotage is that you didn't have to do it. The whole point of this plotline is for him to learn if he had done something for himself, everyone would have been happy, but because he took the first opportunity to sacrifice himself without even checking if it would do any good, it made everything worse.

Will needs to see the truth of his actions, which is that the speed at which he jumps to sacrifice himself means he doesn't even consider if it's actually good for others, he makes assumptions without asking questions to justify his sacrifices, so at the end of the day, is it selfless or self harm?

Will Byers needs to reach the breaking point of regretting deprioritizing himself.

#will byers analysis #will byers #stranger things #byler #the painting #the byers brothers #jonathan byers #byler predictions

[dailyadventureprompts]

Monsters Reimagined: Asmodeus, Lord of all Hells

I think I know what may be happening....You’re trying to atone me, and I didn’t do anything wrong...You want to know what I’ve always hated about mortals? why I spit on your forgiveness, why I loathe your redemption? To reach a hand down to somebody they need to be beneath you,

And I’m Beneath Nobody.

Brennan Lee Mulligan as Asmodeus for Exandria Unlimited: Calamity

@pikablob​ was asking about my ideas on devils and mentioned Asmodeus in the process, and while I’ve already done a monster’s reimagined on devils, I figured it was a good opportunity to talk about my take on the biggest of big bads. To summarize, I like to go back to the mythological roots of devils less as agents of a universal evil but as individual manifestations of judgment, looking to test or punish mortals for their failings. This ( along with Brennan’s showstopping performance in calamity) gave me the idea of an Asmodeus as the ultimate critic of mortalkind, an entity that can see all of our flaws and nothing of our virtues.

TLDR:  There are many evil gods, wicked things that preside over cruelty and misfortune in all its forms, but there are few that would claim to be the god of evil itself. Though to hear the lord of all hells tell it, there is nothing touched by mortals that is NOT evil: no act that is not in some way rooted in self interest, no moment of self determination that is not a transgression, no soul that is not some way corrupted. To allow the Father of Sin into your heart is to accept that people are fundamentally wicked creatures deserving of punishment, and that punishment cannot come soon enough.

Bio: Ruling from the lowest depths of the pit, Asmodeus sits a throne surveying an empire built on torture and damnation and deems it insufficient. There is evil in the multiverse and that evil is called mortals, things gifted with the tiniest spark of life who every day choose the wickedness of existence. His purpose is  to be the scourge that drives the animal towards the slaughterhouse, to take hold of mortal life and shape it into useful purpose, with the only useful purpose being the ultimate destruction of all wicked things

The hypocracy of being an evil god punishing evil does not for a moment shake Asmodeus. Spirits cannot choose their nature, nor can animals, but mortals which live in the intersection choose to be evil every day, and worse yet, have the capability to choosing evil at any time. In spite of his divine status, and in many ways because of it, Asmodeus is actually incapable of perceiving good in mortals, believing that good intentions or earnest affection are yet more lies and hasty justifications that mortals buffer themselves with to excuse their faults and selfish action. None can then judge the atrocities he commits because none are without sin, even if to find that sin he needs to peel back layers of causality and unconscious feelings to find a thread of wrongdoing. 

To purge the universe of the blight of mortals Asmodeus cultivates power and fear: Power in the form of legions of devils and devoted servants who’s hateful hearts he feeds like a furnace, fear in the form of agents which sow division in mortal hearts and a myriad of private hells filled with infinite forms of torment.

Swear to serve Asmodeus, say his mouthpieces, and you will be spared the infinite torment when the boot on your neck breaks through to your spine, or when his hordes come to put your home to the torch.  Give up on the falsehoods of hope, love, and kindness,  visit punishment on others and you may be rewarded for your service

Behind the scenes: I’ve talked quite a lot about how d&d uses the idea of objective evil as a staple of its worldbuilding, and how in doing so it ends up falling face first into pro genocide rhetoric. In attempting to make badguys that the party is 1000% justified in killing on sight it ends up stumbling into some very fucked up thought experements.    Monsters in vanilla d&d arn’t just evil because they do bad things, but they do bad things because they are inherently evil:  They pillage, they enslave, they despoil, not because these things benefit them ( as it invariably gets them killed by adventurers) but because these acts serve as an outlet for their wicked natures.

If our heroes’ enemies are fundamentally evil, then any action which opposes them must be good, and any pillaging, enslaving, or despoiling the party does can be excused provided the targets belong to the designated ingroup. This is almost identical to the reasoning that was used by crusaders, conquistadors, slave owners, and fascists, and what is now being used by the evangelical to deny people rights and life-saving aid to this day.

What I wanted with Asmodeus was an entity that looked at the party like a group of murderhobos look at an orc: an ugly brutish thing that is only useful in so far as its suffering and death can benefit them.  Maybe it’ll be funny if they make it beg for its life. The party feel they’re justified in this because they know the orc is objectively evil ( because the books said so), just like Asmodeus is justified in plucking the souls from mortals and making them suffer for eternity because he knows, in his flawed omniscience, that they are deserving of it.

Signs: The sounds of tortured souls wailing from below, symbols of power glowing red hot, the manifestations of lesser devils.

Symbols: A five pointed star made of jagged metal, a black throne or crown atop numerous bodies.

#monsters reimagined #asmodeus #fiend #divinity: pain #divinity: death #divinity: punishment #divinity #deity #mid level #high level #villain

[devourable]

hello, it's me again. from yesterday? i think it was. hopefully... okay so thank you for answering my questions and all. now i wanted to request the delinquents, the alt kids, and abraham or honestly you can do whoever. though i'm unsure if i need to be specific about the request,, but the only thing i can think of is how far would they go to get reader? to make them stay with them? something like that;; now if this makes no sense then i'm sorry and you can act like this never existed. have a nice day!

❥ the lengths they'll go · yanderes & their limits

❥ the softies

these yanderes prefer to not hurt others or you. their behavior mostly extends to stalking, breaches of privacy if given an opportunity — mostly harmless behaviors that go unnoticed by most, either due to being demure or because others genuinely just can't see them as the type to do the things they do. they will only go as far as to hurt someone if they pose a genuine threat to you/your relationship with them. a relationship with them is one that can be the most akin to normalcy, but don’t be fooled — it’s not hard to goad them into doing something unforgivable. and once they've started down that path, it's simply not possible to get them off.

the church boy | delta | aaron, judas | the widower | the parents

❥ the masqueraders

these yanderes only behave to maintain their connection to you. they don't care about others nor how their actions effect them, but know that acting out could hinder their relationship with you. so they're sneakier with how they work their way into your life. they like how you never notice that people who bother you always seem to get into painful 'accidents' or end up in life ruining incidents; or how you always seem to have no choice but to depend on them for one reason or another. they're masters of manipulation, terrifyingly good at putting up a facade to most and never get caught for their actions because of it. they don't mind the harm done to others if it gets and keeps them closer to you.

the prodigy | the hacker | the gym bunny | faust, anton | dominic, mattias | the mermaids

❥ the monsters

these yanderes care for no one but you. they’ll do whatever they have to in order to have you all to themself and they won’t feel bad about it, either. they’ll maim, sabotage, kidnap, and/or kill just about anyone who gets in their way with little, if any hesitation or guilt. they don't care who knows, and they don't care if they get caught. they want you, need you, and even if you don’t realize it right away, you need them too. to the monsters, the end justifies the means. and they'll do everything they can to get to the end. they'll destroy everyone and everything — including themselves and even you, if they have to — to achieve their goal.

the butcher | the beast | the villains | the hunstman | the coven | the farmer

#inbox | anons #lovesick | ocs #i loved this ask so i answered for all my ocs lool #format heavily inspired by mazzy!!! #yandere x reader #yandere x you #yandere boy #yandere x oc #yandere headcanons #yandere imagines #yandere oc #yandere girl #poly yandere #soft yandere #nb yandere #nonbinary yandere #also spoilers for upcoming ocs hehehe

[clazaries]

Karma in the Form of Justice -slightlydark!Steven w/ a hint of Marc x thief!reader

Summary: An opportunist thief takes their chances stealing from the wrong tomb and has to face their karma in the form of Moon Knight. Basically, don't get on the wrong side about Egyptian matters when it comes to Steven and if he teaches you something, you better remember it. w/c: 6.9k Warnings: none really, mentions of violence and murder :) and my horrible knowledge of ancient egypt. You are the bad guy in this a/n: first fic! I kinda wrote steven slightly differently to canon steven and made him a little darker ;) ENJOY

***

It started out innocent. Because, of course, you were only 7 years old at the time. When the class was emptying out through the doorway, little, dumb Timmy left his British Museum pencil sitting freely on his desk, begging for someone to claim it. That someone was you. The urge to take it was overwhelming and you succumbed to temptation, stashing the pencil deep into your pocket when no one was looking and when no one could figure out the mystery of the disappearing pencil, it was exhilarating knowing that you were the only one who held the secret as to where it went. 

The feeling followed as you got older. 

It started out with a pencil. Then a pencil case. From a pencil case to a school bag. Within that school bag was a purse containing a little over £1.50, but still, it was a treasured find. From purses to watches, necklaces, rings, valuables, anything that could be pawned and make you that slightly bit richer. When you were old enough to realise about the illegalities of your little habits, guilt and paranoia began to make themselves known to you. But they were equally matched with the feeling of euphoria and the adrenaline of getting away with it, so although you did try to tone it back, you never really stopped. 

By your late teens, the routine grew tiresome and you endeavoured for something bigger, better, flashier and ten times more riskier. You had to look no further than your very first pilferage. 

The British Museum.

~~~~

If you ever tried to justify your actions, what sets you apart from the usual petty thieves is patience and intention. Thieves lack the former but embody the latter. They grow greedy and would plan and scheme and waste hours (the stupid ones don’t plan at all), throwing themselves into a situation that would inevitably result in handcuffs. You, on the other hand, were an opportunist, patient enough to know to pounce only when the moment presented itself on a silver platter. Why chase the thrill when you could let it find you? 

On one random day during the week while your parents were enjoying their two week vacation to Italy, you decided to skip school and take a trip to the Museum. You did very little research before entering (after all, less planning means less intention means less suspicion), so you were pleasantly surprised by the museum’s ongoing exhibition of artefacts from ancient Egypt. 

Your legs carried you in no certain direction, weaving in and out of the display cabinets of stone statues, plaques of hieroglyphics and crumbling pieces of sand. Despite it all being rather interesting, the artefacts weren’t the only thing your eyes were scanning for. Within the first room alone, you spotted 6 cameras and one patrol officer meandering just as casually as you were. There was no need to panic though, you were here to peruse. Not to steal. 

You couldn’t promise yourself any restraint should the opportunity arise…

“Ah! I see you’ve found the Ushabti of Pa-Di-Pep.” An enthusiastic voice from your left appeared behind you. You turned to see a man with black curly hair, donning an enthusiastic smile as his eyes bounced from the ‘ushabti’ and you. “26th dynasty,” he muttered a little quieter. “Very old. Well, I guess that’s obvious. Wouldn’t be an exhibition on ancient Egypt if it was modern.” As his laughter died, your eyes caught the glint of his name tag on his jacket. Steven. You gathered he worked here. 

“Oh, cool.” Your tone was rather disinterested and couldn’t be more sarcastic if you tried. “You know your stuff.”

“Oh it’s right up my alley actually. I’ve spent loads of time reading up on this kind of stuff. I could tell you anything about everything in this room. If you’d like?” The way he rolled on the balls of his feet like a child told you that he so clearly wanted to. You decided to indulge in him, only because you could get something out of it. 

“Sure. It would be a great help towards my school project.” A clever lie, one that is easily bought by the sad little man beside you, lighting up his eyes and rolling his enthusiasm back to high tide. “So what about this ushabti, then? Anything else you can tell me about that?” 

The man rambled on for a little while longer than you wanted, waiting for that perfect opportunity to segue onto the question that was hot on your lips. What was it worth?

“...figurines could also be inscribed with passages from the Book of the Dead, the intention of which was to secure safety for the deceased in the afterlife.”

“So not quite the ideal decoration to have in your house then?” 

“Oh no, no, not at all. These are funeral artefacts, usually left buried along with a tomb.” 

“Bummer. I was really looking into sprucing up my living room with one of these,” you jested, bumping a gentle elbow against his. 

He elbowed back, “would really take the ‘living’ out of ‘living room’.”

“Definitely not worth it.” You began to look around the room, gambling with the idea of whether or not an opportunity could be found here. The security might’ve been too much of a risk. But it didn’t mean you couldn’t window shop. “So tell me then, out of anything in here, what would be worth having in your living room?” 

“Where to begin? Oh! Here…” 

Honestly, you zoned out, not having the slightest interest in anything he was saying unless it had any relevance to you. The man droned on and on about the history and the magnificence of each piece he talked about but nothing about its worth. You were about to try and cut ties until you both came across an interesting piece that gained your attention. 

“And this is the bronze figure of the Egyptian God Ptah-”

“Ptah? Who’s he?”

He looked at you, dumbfounded, as if you'd just asked what day it was. “Who’s he? He’s only the Egyptian God of creation?! He was believed to have dreamt creation in his heart and gave it life with his breath.” 

Spare me the poetry, pal. What’s it worth? Give me a number. 

“So top shelf mantle material.” You feigned interest, smiling widely at him. 

“Definitely. A very expensive one at that. Would set you back at least 37 grand.” 

Interesting. 

You stayed for a little while until the number of witnesses dwindled into single digits. The museum was beginning to close up, staff were outnumbering visitors with the majority of them leaving through the gift shop which conveniently sold replicas of the bronze figure ‘Steven’ showed you earlier.

You always told yourself that you never planned, but another opportunity had opened up to you and you couldn’t help but call it fate. 

It went flawlessly. When no one was looking you swiftly snatched the real bronze figure, giving you the seconds you needed to make it to the gift shop before the panicked patrol officer alerted staff. The hubbub of the precious missing artefact opened up the second opportunity to swipe a replica from the shelf. 

“Oh, excuse me!” You had yelled, holding the replica up in the air, the real one encased in your rucksack. “I saw some kid walking out with this, I believe it belongs here.” Your sickly smile fooled the patrol staff, knowing none the wiser, and kindly took the replica with a relieved breath, placing it back onto its pedestal.

You walked out the museum 37 grand richer.

~~~~

Whenever you pulled something off like this, you tended to keep your head low for at least a week after, limiting the amount of times you left your home, and kept communication to an absolute minimum. Within a few weeks, you were back to your normal self. However, this time the euphoria was very short-lived. It had been a day after your theft when the paranoia settled in and you had never known it to be so all-consuming. With a pilferage worth 37 grand, it meant that the stakes were far too high to wager with. Finding rest was a rare luxury for at least a week. You tried to ease your way through the days feeling conflicted and, in all honesty, petrified of the foreseeable. With each day that passed, you found it harder and harder to keep your paranoia at bay and you didn’t dare leave your home and the mental torture plagued you with restlessness; having to check locks four, fives times before you left each room. 

Your home started to feel like less of a safe space. You couldn’t explain the feeling you had every morning when you woke up, itching with an unease that someone had been watching you, spying on you, observing you with resentment in their eyes with what you had chosen to do with your life. It was then you started to notice things being out of place; the ridge in your carpet had changed shape, curtains had been drawn wider than how you usually left them, a kitchen chair was facing just a degree or two out of place. That same night, you remembered standing in the middle of your bedroom with a cold breeze drafting around you, but it wasn’t the reason for your shivers. To your left a creak of the floorboards, to your right a moan of the wind. Something wasn’t right. Something definitely wasn’t right. 

It could’ve been your paranoia, it could’ve been your lack of sleep, but you were certain you spotted two glowing eyes peering through your window from across the street, staring directly into your soul. 

“Fuck this,” you whispered to yourself. Without a moments’ hesitation you reached for the bronze figure you had stashed within the hollows of your wall. “Time to get rid of this.” 

Being quite the weasel you are, you sold the bronze figure for almost double the money on the black market and made the very bold decision to get out of the country before you were consumed by guilt. 

~~~~

3 years later

“You ready?” Amon asks you, propping up his scarf over his face to fight against the sandy winds. You nod to him before following him into the entrance of the tomb that lies just beneath an alcove, hidden in the shadows of the dunes. 

Amon had already scouted the entrance of the tomb a few days prior, so he takes lead on the scavenge guiding the way with a bright white torch and the moment you step into the tomb, you become his shadow. The tunnel is narrow and carries a draft only a fraction of the winds outside and it’s something you’re thankful for, otherwise you would be dripping right through your clothes with sweat. Every step is with caution, every living breath is considered your last, both you and Amon are aware of the risks that these tunnels carry. 

Amon, being a local, had his reasons for entering the tunnel; he knows of the treasures and rarities of what lies inside, a conversation that caught wind and found your eavesdropping ears in the midst of a busy town outside Cairo. Not to mention, he’s as greedy for his share of the fortune if you are skillful enough to succeed. Unfortunately, being a local, he also has his reasons not to enter. On a spiritual level, this tomb is considered to be cursed, ladened with traps of an Egyptian mind that could easily kill you with one wrong step. He is too afraid to do it alone.

On a more realistic level, the structure is unsupported, tunnels weaving their way beneath tonnes and tonnes of ancient bricks, sand and rubble that could collapse at any given moment. That’s the real risk you’re more frightened of. 

“How much of this did you actually scout?” You ask.

“I go until no more.” His broken English rises above the low moaning whistle which Amon claims to be the voice of the dead, warning you to turn back while you still have a chance. You don’t heed his superstitions.

You both eventually reach the point that Amon had mentioned and honestly, you were expecting it to be a lot further into the tomb and not just a few minutes into the journey. Before you, a collapsed section of the tunnel with a small point of entrance between the ground and rubble. Eyeing it up, you realise it’s big enough that you could squeeze yourself through there if you held your breath but taking a second glance at Amon, there’s no way his 5'10 well-fed body could do the same. 

He gestures to the blockage, “I go until no more.” 

“Right.” You heave a sigh, considering your options; ignore the risks and do it alone, or turn around and walk away from it all. 

Alas, that small hole is an opportunity. And where there is an opportunity, there is possibility. 

You begin to strip yourself of your equipment until you are down to a few layers of clothing. You lower yourself onto your stomach heading face first through the opening. “When I get through, pass me my equipment, okay?” Amon nods in understanding, but not without mentioning how crazy he thinks you are. 

It’s an awkward shuffle through to the other side. Hands, elbows, knuckles and knees are scraping against the ground in an attempt to push your way through, aided by the breath of relief when you make it to the other side. Beams of white light shine through the cracks in the rubble and when Amon hears you made it, he passes through your equipment. 

You find his eyes through one of the cracks. “Will you wait?” You reluctantly ask, suddenly feeling vulnerable now that you have been separated. 

“Yes. I have walkie-talkie. Atamanaa lak al tawfiq.” You don’t know what he said, but from his tone and the way he looks at you with hope you guess that it’s along the lines of ‘good luck’. 

With a final nod, you head off into the unknown, your torch shining the way. 

There’s a million thoughts running through your head as you delve deeper into the tomb, but yet not one that gives you any comfort. What if there isn’t anything to find? What if you get lost? What if Amon doesn’t wait for you? What if you get trapped? 

What if you die?

They remind you that you are way out of your depth here, you aren’t an adventurer nor an explorer of any sort. You’re an opportunist thief who takes their chances where they shouldn’t. What the hell are you doing here?

You force yourself to swallow your growing discomfort, clinging on to the small possibility and Amon’s knowledge that you do find something worth your while. Besides, it’s that small possibility that motivated you to crawl through that opening and continue your journey. You have to keep going.

The tunnels eventually open up into a massive hollow cavern lined with broken paths and cliff edges, hanging over a substantial drop. You take a moment to collect yourself, eyes following the paths and finding that the only way is down. Down into the pit of darkness. There isn’t a sound to be heard, and if it wasn’t for your powerful torch, you wouldn’t be able to see a thing. The breeze has calmed to nothing, not a single wisp of your hair moving upon your head and the heat starts to become more of a nuisance. Your palms sweat as you cling onto protruding rocks along the wall and your torch threatens to slip from your grasp. It’s a challenging obstacle course, manoeuvring yourself from one path to another, planning and scheming as you go. 

“You there Amon?” The bleep of the walkie-talkie bounces against the walls of the cavern, its echo travelling for miles. You estimate that you’re about 50 feet down from where you started.

“Yes. Everything okay?” 

“Yeah, the tomb goes deep. I don’t know if the signal will carry if I get to the bottom…” you pause, hesitant over your next words. “This might take a while. If you don’t hear from me in 4 hours, then just leave.” 

“Leave you? No, no, no, I wait in car. You come back in 4 hours. Yes?” 

“Okay. I’ll contact you again when I get to the--shit!!” What stops you mid-sentence is the pair of glowing white eyes at the bottom of the cavern, floating, watching, observing. You’ve seen those eyes before. It was unnerving the first time but it’s even more terrifying the second time, a new wave of fear now rattling your bones. Your heart rate picks up, your pulse almost thrumming in your ears in sheer panic. No, no, no. It can’t be…

You shine your torch towards the eyes but in its deathly white glow, they disappear, reappearing only when you avert your torch.

“Hello? You okay? Hello?!” Amon’s almost yelling through the walkie-talkie. 

“I’m okay, sorry, just…” You have no idea what to say, eyes glued to the glowing ones miles below you. “Just got a fright.” 

“Be careful,” is that last thing Amon says to you before the line goes dark. When all is silent, you’re left to quietly battle against the glowing pair of eyes, unmoving and unblinking. You don’t dare take a single step, adamant on keeping your gaze locked firmly below you with two hands clenched around the torch in a white-knuckled grip. You quickly become stuck in a cycle of shining your torch onto them, repeatedly watching them disappear and reappear in the hopes that they’ll eventually vanish forever. 

“Fuck…just leave me alone,” you quietly murmur to yourself. When the eyes refuse to react, you bravely decide to take a single side step, closer towards your next descent where you know you will have to detach your gaze, but you know you can’t stay here forever. The eyes don’t move, they don’t blink, they just keep watching you. So you take another step, and another, and another…

Within a matter of panic-inducing seconds, you eventually reach the edge of a ridge when your torch begins flickering, the light dimming with each flicker. “No, no, no you have to be kidding me!” Stressed, you bang the torch against your palm in a nervous attempt to keep the light, it’s your only salvation right now, you can’t lose it. You could’ve sworn the batteries were fully charged. You had them charging overnight knowing you were going into a dark tomb, why aren’t they working? Fuck, why won’t they work?! 

Despite your distraction, you’re hyper aware of the eyes below you, eyes that you are not currently watching and having lost your composure, your paranoia floods you with thoughts that this was what they were waiting for; their moment to pounce. They could be scaling the walls towards your position. They could have moved and you wouldn’t know. They could be inches from you and you wouldn’t even notice until it was too late. You feel it. They’re crawling closer and closer and closer…

After a few heart stopping seconds, the torch finally flashes to life and with a desperate sob you shine the bright beam towards the eyes as if the light is your shield. Like before they disappear, but unlike before, they don’t reappear. They’re gone. You can’t see them anywhere. Not above, not below. Gone. 

The stress overwhelms you and you drop to your knees, passing a strangled whimper and letting your heart rate slow to an easy beat. Fuck. You’re still a long way to go, how are you going to manage? 

Against your better judgement, you continue at a slow and agonising pace, still very aware of your surroundings as if you’re expecting the eyes to appear again. Thankfully, about an hour and a half of descending down the multiple jumps and hazardous steps, you reach an opening. Finding another narrow tunnel that leads you away from the cavern seems like a saving-grace and you don’t give the glowing eyes another opportunity to appear before you follow the trail. 

“Amon, can you hear me?” Your walkie-talkie hisses a low frequency back at you. “Amon, are you there?” 

No response. You are truly on your own now. 

You readjust your rucksack straps, retie your bootlaces, wipe the sweat from your brow, and with feigned determination, you set off through yet another dark, narrow tunnel with your untrustworthy torch in hand. 

You quickly find that this one isn’t like the one you and Amon travelled through at the entrance, this one feels like a maze. Despite it having only one path and being completely linear, there is a tight 90 degree corner every 5 or 6 steps. Left, right, left, left, right, left, right, right, left. It’s unnerving because even though you know you can’t get lost and you know exactly where you came from, there’s no way of telling what lies ahead of you, no way of telling what lurks just around the corner, waiting for you in the darkness. What’s worse is that there’s no way of telling if anything is following you until it’s exactly five steps behind you which, by that point, there’s no outrunning it. You’ve never felt paranoia like it and the deeper you trail, the more anxious you become. 

After fifteen minutes, you feel you’re going in circles. Logically, you know it isn’t possible but the disorientation you feel convinces you otherwise. You’ve taken so many left and right-hand turns that you’ve lost count and you just can’t map it out in your head. There has to be an end, this can’t go on for much longer. 

After another five minutes, you stop to gather your sanity tucked neatly into one of the many corners of the tunnel, keeping track of where you came from and where you intend to go. You cleanse your mind with a refreshing drink of cold water, splashing some sparingly across your forehead and the back of your neck, revelling in the small relief it brings you. The droplets on the ground are the only evidence of your travels and you figure it would be a good indication should you succeed in making it back. Just a couple of more hours, you tell yourself. You can do it. 

Composed, you rise to your feet ready to take another step but before you do, your torch flickers again, subjecting you to intermittent seconds of pure darkness. Your heart stops dead in your chest. The last time that happened the eyes were watching you and you can’t bear to think that time is repeating itself. 

Your strategy from last time fails you and no matter how hard you hit the flashlight against your palm, this time it doesn’t come back to life. Flicking the switch off and on again does it no good either and your breathing becomes panicked. Crouched in the corner, you’re enveloped in darkness. It’s so dark that you begin to see swirls of your imagination floating in front of your eyes, so dark that you can’t even see your hand inches from your face, yet still your eyes flicker around frantically as if you could see. 

Helpless, you turn to your other senses, feeling around the rocky sandy ground in search of your rucksack where you know you packed emergency flares. It’s a struggle to rummage for them and until you do, you keep on high alert, listening out for anything out of the ordinary. 

That’s when you hear it; the crumbling of sand, the crunching of footsteps and the soft ruffle of fabric. Someone’s here. There’s no doubt about it. Everything in you is screaming to just abandon the flare and just run but fear keeps you rooted with your hand deep into your rucksack. Your heart feels like a weight in your chest, banging against your rib cage to escape the situation you’re in but your brain tells you to stay, hoping that whoever, whatever, is here is just as blinded by the darkness as you are. If you move, it’ll hear you. 

Your hand eventually knocks against the flare, feeling the familiar cylinder encased in your hand. Alarmed, you pull it out and set it alight, its red flare bursting to life. It gives light to the corridors to your right and to your left…where a tall, daunting mummified figure in white stands, glaring its glowing white eyes on you. Its sudden presence kick starts your reflexes and adrenaline pumps through your veins, pushing you to your feet with a hysterical whimper escaping your throat, and before you even know it, you’re running almost blindly through the tunnel. There isn’t a second thought spared to the broken flashlight and the rucksack full of equipment you mistakenly left behind, running further and further away from whatever is stalking behind you. With the flare outstretched, red walls zoom by you as you try to cut every corner, scraping shoulders and elbows against the walls in a desperate attempt to increase the distance between you and that thing. 

You can hear it behind you, marching at a quick pace, its footsteps drumming into your ears gradually getting closer and louder. Oh God. It’s right behind you. Keep running, keep running, fuck just don’t stop running!

Tears and sweat glide down your cheeks and you begin to worry that it’ll be the last thing you feel before this being captures you. However, you're granted one last chance of salvation when you turn a corner and see that the tunnel stretches out into a long, straight, narrow path, giving your legs a chance to break into a full uninterrupted sprint. Towards the end you see an archway leading you into the heart of the tomb where a sarcophagus lies in the centre of the room; the very one Amon described as being a goldmine of treasuries. If you can just make it there…

You pick up speed at the moment the tunnel surrounding you begins to rumble, tremors setting your feet off course and pushing you off balance. Little stones and flecks of dust fall from above you and land in your eyes but you know you can’t afford to stop, knowing that that being is still behind you. Little did you know that you had set off a trap, stepping on a plate that triggers the corridor to collapse, no doubt a preventative measure to stop people like you from pilfering the tomb within. But you had been running so quickly, you barely even noticed. Perhaps if you keep running just as fast, you might be able to escape from being crushed to death…

The rumbling becomes so loud that it drowns out the footsteps from behind you and you put all of your remaining strength into sprinting as fast as you can, pumping blood and adrenaline to your legs as they carry you closer and closer to the tomb. Every step is paired with an exhausted pant, your own voice crying out with exhaustion and fear. You have to make it. You can do it.

You dive into the tomb just milliseconds before a large solid rock closes off the entrance, separating you and the being. 

All is silent in the tomb. The rumbling ceases and the footsteps are long forgotten. When a shred of sense returns to you, you take the dying light of the burning flare to the wooden torches dotted around the tomb, not only giving light to the room but giving light to the very, very fucked up realisation you’ve just had. Four solid walls surround you. 

There’s no relief to be had, because although you had just escaped being crushed to death, you now face death in a far more morbid way. There isn’t another way out. You’re beginning to think that you’ve made yet another mistake; being crushed would’ve been a quick and painless death. Now, with no other means of escape, you’ll be subjected to a long, agonising, painful torment, forever waiting for the moment that starvation, thirst, suffocation and time consumes you.

You didn’t just enter any tomb, you entered your own tomb. 

“Fuck!” You scream, falling to your knees, already bloody, bruised and scraped but the pain doesn’t translate when you’re deep in despair. “Fuck, fuck, fuck!” The walls swallow your cries, accepting your defeat. 

If it wasn’t for the situation you find yourself in, you would be revelling in the numerous pieces of ancient artefacts around you, gushing over the rusted gold that shines on the mantles on the walls, laughing with hysteria about how your discovery had just made you a thousand times richer. But no, all you can think about is how claustrophobic you feel, how your lungs burn in your chest and how you will never see the light of day again. 

You spare a thought to your parents whom you had failed to keep in contact with. For the first few months you kept it to just once a week; a picture of your face with an unidentifiable background and a message telling them you were safe. They learned pretty quickly after your sudden disappearance that you weren’t going to answer any of their questions and soon accepted that your weekly message would have to suffice. It was all they needed to know; you were okay and you were safe. Despite the numerous ‘how’s, ‘where’s, ‘what’s, and ‘when’s, there was only ever one ‘why’. 

‘Why did you do it?’ 

Your parents knew exactly why you fled on the day the British Museum had reported a missing bronze figure alongside a grainy picture of your profile captioned ‘number one suspect’, but the one little detail that left them mentally spiralling over their own parenting techniques, wondering where they went so wrong was…why? 

Why did you do it? 

Why indeed. 

The pencil, the pencil case, the rucksack, the purse, the £1.50, watches, jewellery, everything you had ever snagged in your life, was it all worth it? Was this your karma? 

You aren’t sure how much time has passed before you have no more tears left to cry. Completely numb from crying you come to a stand, quickly arriving at the anger stage in the five stages of grief over your own inevitable death. You begin kicking the sarcophagus, knocking things off the mantles and punching anything your fist can connect with with reckless abandon that you don’t even care for how much your temper tantrum is costing you. Everything hurts but you just. Don’t. Care. 

Hours later, exhaustion begins to creep up on you just when the fire of the torches begins to flicker to nothing and before they completely die out, you take one last look around your tomb. You think it’s been more than four hours now which means Amon will be long gone. You are all alone.

Lying in the corner surrounded by the remains of your temper tantrum with all hope lost, you close your eyes. 

~~~~

“Tut tut tut.” A male voice murmurs, arousing you from your slumber. The room is dark when your eyes flicker open, so it’s impossible to miss those glowing white eyes standing at the far end of the room. Fuck. Not again. They startle you so much they jolt your body to full attention, your chest feeling heavy as if you had been defibrillated back to life. “What a waste.” The footsteps lurk around the sarcophagus, scuffing against the shards of the ceramic artefacts you smashed earlier. How he can see, you have no idea. Yet, you still feel the need to push yourself further back against the wall.

You take a shaky breath, mustering the courage to speak. “Please…” The eyes sway casually as the being walks nearer, standing over you cowering in the corner. Before either of you say another word, something drops at your feet. It’s your rucksack. 

“Open it,” he instructs smoothly, a hint of an American twang interlacing his words. “It’s much too dark in here, and I’d prefer to see the fear in your eyes when you get what you deserve.”

Keeping your eyes rooted to the being in front of you, deja vu runs coldly through your veins as your hand sneaks into your rucksack to find the flare. However unlike last time, you’d rather face him in the dark, not a single cell in your body wishes to greet the mummified adonis standing inches before you, threatening you. 

“Go on,” he encourages, eyes flitting to your bag. He knows you don’t want to. It’s pitiful how much you don’t want to. 

When the red glow illuminates there you see him, in fact it’s all you can see. The intimidating being you had only seen for a split second before in full display. His silhouette is so all-encompassing, the red glow doesn’t reach far past him. He’s wrapped neatly in white bandages with gold embellishments on his chest with a flowing cape cascading down his back, resembling warrior regalia. Shadows flicker behind the contours of his hood that hangs over his masked face, giving away no emotion. Everything about him is a mystery and you can’t help but feel vulnerable knowing he can see everything about you, reading the terror in your eyes as if it was written out for him. 

You pull your legs to your chest as he crouches down, levelling with you. 

“I usually don’t deal with petty thieves until they start messing with things that shouldn’t be messed with.”

“Who are you? How did you get in here?” 

He chuckles menacingly, tilting his head. “Looking for an escape? Don’t bother. You won’t be leaving here. At least not until I’m done with you.” 

“What…” Your voice scrapes against your dry throat. It’s been hours since you last had a drop of water. “What are you going to do to me?” 

He doesn’t immediately respond, but instead looks into his own reflection in the gold plating of an artefact you smashed, muttering a tense “not now, Steven.” Steven? What? 

He turns back to you. “The same thing I did to your partner on the surface.” Amon. Shit! 

“Is…is he dead?” 

“Almost. I left him with just enough of a heartbeat to keep him alive, enough to teach him a lesson I know he will learn. You - however - I have no hope for.” 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you lie, “I was only exploring.” 

“Hmm, I highly doubt that - shut up Steven!” Your brows furrow with confusion, who the hell is Steven? Looking around, you can’t seem to see anyone else here in the room with you and this being. He doesn't give you a second to question his weird antics, coming very quickly to a stand with a grunt and pulling what looks like a gold, crescent shaped weapon from his chest and into his hand. “You’ve been thieving from the moment you knew you could. You know yourself you’re never going to change, so I’m here to put an end to it, to make sure you never get away with something like this again - dammit Steven, fine! But don’t let her get away. She’s mine.”

“What the fuck-” Before another word leaves your lips, the being morphs, or rather, his regalia does. The bandages unravel, withering away to reveal a white tux, donned by the same glowing eyes peering down at you. 

“Exploring, eh?”  

You’re taken aback by the minor change in his voice, his inflection. All Americanisms smoothly disappear and in place a British accent shapes his words. One that seems far too familiar for your liking…

“What…” 

“Gathering research for your school project?” He crouches down again, leaning closer and invading your space. “Or scouting the place out for a heist.” His tone isn't questioning anymore. They’re words of a statement, of a fact he knows is true. It’s really starting to shake your nerves. Something about all of this feels disconcerting. 

“Who the fuck are you?” 

“It’s a shame, really.” He stubbornly ignores your question, picking up a fractured piece of artefact. “This statue would’ve looked really nice on a living room mantle. Really would’ve spruced up the place.” 

Your heart stops and your breath catches in the back of your throat. The conversation throws you back into your memories, images of the British Museum flashes through your mind. The Egyptian exhibition. The bronze figure. The bumbling staff member who showed you it all. The name on his badge was…

“Steven.”

“Ah, so you do remember. See, you’re smarter than you look. That’s what fooled me all those years ago when you manipulated me into thinking you were just an innocent student looking to learn. You bloody well used me, didn’t you? Cost me my job.” 

“Look, Steven, I’m sorry, o-okay? I was young and stupid, I didn’t know-” 

“Young, yes. Stupid? No. You knew exactly what you were doing when you walked out with that figure. You knew exactly what you were doing when you stashed it in your bedroom walls. I looked everywhere for that statue, waiting for you to reveal where you hid it. And you fucking sold it!” So you weren’t seeing things that night. You know that feeling of being watched wasn’t just a figment of your imagination, it was Steven. “You knew what you were doing when you walked into this tomb. But I bet you don’t know whose tomb you walked into, or what ancient artefacts you recklessly broke. Still ‘willing to learn’? I hope so, ‘cos I think it’s fucking hilarious.” 

Steven comes to a stand and begins marching over to inspect the side of the sarcophagus. At that moment, the light of the flare illuminates the rest of the room and your eyes dart to the entrance where the stone that locked you in here no longer exists. How? Never mind. Survival first, question later. As ever, you take the opportunity and make a dash for the entrance, your legs a little lethargic from your lack of sustenance. 

Sadly, you only get so far. A broad arm wraps around your neck and pulls you flush against Steven’s body. “Ah, ah, ah. Not so fast.” His crushing strength borders dangerously between cutting off your oxygen but keeping you conscious enough to hear the words as he mutters them down your ear. “See this sarcophagus here? Do you know who it belongs to? 

“No!” You ball, kicking up a fight. You barely push him off-balance. “I don’t give a fuck, let me go!” 

“See this is why I find the irony of this hilarious. Go on, have a guess. I’m intrigued to see if you’re capable of learning a lesson.”

Steven man-handles you, gripping your jaw to fore to look at the large sarcophagus in front of you littered with inscriptions of a language you can’t translate and decorated with hieroglyphics you don’t understand. You get the feeling it’s something that Steven had already told you about during his ramblings at the museum. But he talked so much about shit you didn’t care for and you didn’t retain any information unless it had to do with its price. Fuck, whose sarcophagus is this? 

“I…I don’t know. Please, just let me go, I promise I won’t steal anymore.” You’re sobbing now, your tears rolling down your cheeks to be absorbed by Steven’s white suit. Frustrated, Steven tightens his hold on you.

“No, come on. Focus. I need to know that you didn’t just use me, I need to know I taught you something. Now what was it? I’ll give you a clue, it was one of the first things we talked about.”

Fuck. It was about some Ushabti thing, right? 

“The Ushabti?” 

“God, you butcher the pronunciation. But well done. The Ushabti of who?” 

You really can’t remember, and you feel it will be the death of you if you don’t. So overrun with hopelessness, you completely give in to defeat and fall weak in Steven’s arm. “I just want to go home.” 

“No, not the Ushabti of I-just-want-to-go-home. Who. Was. It?” 

Come on, think! Who was it? Da…Fa…Pa-something. Pa…Pa…

“I’m going to be reeaalllyyy disappointed if you don’t get this.” Steven’s harsh voice vibrates down your ear, his mask pressing firmly against the side of your ear. 

“Pa…”

“Yes?” 

“Pa-Di…” 

“Almost there, darlin’” 

Finally, the knowledge springs to life and the syllables roll off your tongue. “Pa-Di-Pep?” 

“See? You did know it, which means you’ll know what these inscriptions are on the side of this sarcophagus and on all the relics in this tomb, which means you know why I find this so funny.”

If you had the breath to sigh, you would. He’s right. You do know why. The scraps of information he fed you come whizzing back with a stab of irony. You understand it now. 

“Passages from the Book of the Dead, the intention of which was to secure safety for the deceased in the afterlife.” You relay his words back in your voice, Steven chuckling maniacally behind you.

“And you just broke them all. Bad luck, eh? No safe passage to the afterlife for you. My buddy Marc will make sure of it. If you haven’t already realised, I’m the brains of this body. Marc is the brawn. Never misses a kill that one. Do you, Marc?” 

Steven suddenly shuffles behind you, maintaining that iron steel grip he has around your throat. When the material of the mask traces the shell of your ear and his voice returns, his tone has changed. Deeper, lower, threatening. 

American. 

“Kind of you to say, Steven. Y’know, it’s a shame Steven isn’t kind enough to let you live. So, little thief, what’ll it be? Shall I kill you where you stand, or do you want to join Pa-Di-Pep in his sarcophagus?” 

#steven grant x reader #marc spector x reader #moon knight x reader #oscar isaac x reader #moon knight #oscar isaac #oscar isaac fic #karma in the form of justice #steven grant #marc spector #oscar isaac characters #steven grant x you #marc spector x you #oscar isaac x you #moon knight x you #mcu #jake lockley #moonknight #fic #oscar isaac fanfic

[ohcorny]

i need to post loic soulsov character analysis because if i don't i'll die. he's been plaguing my thoughts for *checks watch* like three to four days because we get SO much information about him and who he is in just this one nugget of the game and i'm spinning out of control about it.

spoilers for the most raw bits of the prelude so obviously go play the game first and then come back and read me ramble and make wild assumptions about this man and the direction of his character

so i have been obsessed with this (paraphrased because i'd have to whip through nearly the whole game again to correctly quote it) exchange between the voice and loic:

"Are you prepared for the world Ysme would create?" "Could it really be any worse than this one?"

and god. bro. bro. the absolute devastation necessary for this man to feel this way, about a woman who lied to him from the moment they met (which he clocked! very early on!), mugged him with a gun, SHOT him with that gun, and then when she became his ghost-god immediately realized she could force him to commit suicide by cop if she wanted. this woman did all of this to him, and when given the opportunity to just let her die--arguably justifiable given her goals and how she threatened him and the fact her death was entirely of her own doing--he doesn't. even though "don't let this woman die", a morally good thing on its face, is actually "let this violent, selfish woman become god with the ability to remake the world in her image, while also becoming her slave" and he knows it.

because to him, that's preferable to the world he lives in. your world has to be so bad for that to be the case.

and it is! his world is that bad. not the physical actual world, which yes, is harsh and cold and dangerous outside the mosaic, but his world, his daughter, in an incurable coma. there is a cruelty to somebody you love being incurably sick. to the selfish, hurting heart, it can be worse than if they were just dead. you can mourn somebody who's dead, and move on from your grief, but as long as they're still living, you're shackled to hope, constantly grieving. there is no moving on, there is only waiting for it to end. you might bargain, as loic does in his search for the flower to cure her, but it's still just waiting.

and when ysme comes into his life, he gives up on waiting. he has been haunting his own life until then, doing good at lamplight because it was within his power while he was there, but i don't think it was ever with dedication. it was something to pass the time as he looked for the flower. essentially selling his soul, surrendering his free will to ysme, this incredibly dangerous, selfish woman, is better than living as he has been. because he's selfish too.

what i like so much about loic is that he's presented as this very kind, soft, unassailable dad who wants to do the right thing. A Down to Earth Good Guy, to contrast with the chaos of ysme, but he's fucking selfish! while he couldn't have predicted the raw physical power of exalted ysme, he still knew she would receive the power to remake the world. and he still decided: fuck this world.

the natural assumption is that his kindness will balance out ysme, and i'm here for that narrative, but honestly. i think she's going to make him worse. the seed of selfishness is already in him, and he's indulged it by giving her power over him, and that must be in some way a relief. he's effectively surrendered responsibility for himself and his actions over to her. he can no longer be fully blamed for anything now that she has power over him.

and i think he's tired of being nice. i think he's ready to go apeshit.

.........and while that would make a good button to end this on, i have to mention: there is a non-zero chance he thinks she's hot and the idea of being a goddess' slave is hot. he's a grown ass man who we know for a fact HAS fucked, and while ysme was like "i thought you were a dead wife guy. i guess you still could be" my money is on divorced. my theory is lia was going over to her mom's house in that flashback.

like yes, all of that above is the main motivator, but i'm not ready to discount sex. loic wants to be lifestyle dommed. because what i just described about surrendering his free will is literally the appeal of being a sub: giving somebody else control, so you don't have to feel the weight of it. this is a story for adults about adults and it is on that le guin shit of linking a sexual fantasy inexorably to the world building and plot thrust, and i am ESPECIALLY here for that.

and i think that's everything i had to say about loic soulsov. i am exorcised. i'm better now.

#soulsov #soul of sovereignty #i wish i could bring this energy of analysis to my fuckin book club but i'm here writing essays about hot dads instead

[http-sheep]

lonely part 2 ꕥ

father figure!Miguel O'Hara & reader summary: You're his dead fiancé's daughter. You just lost your mother and now Miguel's left you alone to live in another dimension.

Contains: Mentions of death, bad parenting, mental illness, ANGST, not proof read.

WC: 1411

part 1

‧₊˚ ☁️⋅♡𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ☾

They had banana pancakes for breakfast that morning, blissfully unaware of what was to come. Unaware that would be their last breakfast together.

Or that Miguel would receive a phone call hours later and be asked to identify his fiancé's body.

It didn't make sense. They were supposed to get married and begin the next chapter of their life. They were supposed to grow old and gray together. Instead, she was laying cold and pale in an equally cold morgue. Her chapter ended. The mortician gave him the ring in a tiny plastic bag that felt impossibly heavy in his palm.

The night Dana died, part of Miguel died with her.

Then there was you, her daughter. Her doppelgänger. Fuck, why did you have to look so much like her? It was unbearable, and he felt like he was being haunted every time he looked at you. It wasn’t fair to you, but he couldn’t help it.

So he would just leave, only coming back every few days. Only at night when he knew you were asleep so he wouldn’t have to risk seeing your face.

He distracted himself with work and spending more time researching the multiverse. He stumbled upon this one particular dimension's family a few months after Dana's funeral. He began watching them on his platform obsessively, living vicariously through his alternate self. They had a little girl and he could see little bits of himself and Dana in her. 

He fell in love, and as if the universe heard his prayers, an opportunity presented itself. He watched as his alternate self bled out in an alley. He buried him too, somewhere no one would find him. But wasn’t this better? He would take over so they would never have to mourn their father and husband like he did for Dana.

And he continually justified his actions for months, so deep in delusion he couldn’t see the damage he was causing. Though, he could never bring himself to make another batch of banana pancakes no matter how Gabriella begged.

Then he lost Dana. Again. The dimension crumbled into a myriad of colorful pixels before his very eyes.

----

In the midst of his grieving, your face appears crystal clear in his mind.

Fuck, when was the last time he went home? When was the last time he saw you? Has to be months now. But it's in that moment he realizes you're all he has left. The only one who hasn't died or abandoned him. Yet. Dread pools in his gut at the realization.

As rushes back home for the first time in months, all he can think about is seeing you. He needs to make sure you're still there. That you haven't abandoned him.

"Cariño, I'm home," Miguel shouts in the doorway, but he’s met with silence. "(y/n)?"

When you don't answer Miguel frantically begins tearing through the house, fear and panic bubbling up.

Miguel strains to hear sounds of movement, of life, but there's nothing. The oppressive silence weighs on him as he frantically searches each room.

"No, no, no," he mutters, panic rising. This can't be happening again. He can't have lost the last link to his happiness, his salvation.

Stopping in the middle of the empty apartment, Miguel clutches at his hair, breathing hard. His eyes flash red and his fangs slide out as he tries to reign in his swirling emotions. Anger, grief, guilt, panic - it broils inside him, threatening to erupt.

He needs to find you. Now. Miguel races outside, using his enhanced senses to track you. It doesn't take him long, your scent and energy signature are still strong despite the distance and time apart. As he swings and runs through the city, following the trail, Miguel berates himself.

How could he abandon you like that? Get so wrapped up in his own pain that he didn't see yours? What kind of man does that make him?

He won’t fail you again. Once he finds you, Miguel vows to never let you out of his sight. To protect you, to care for you, to make up for his failures.

—

He almost doesn’t notice you amongst the other travelers at the train station, curled in on yourself at a lone bench. You have a suitcase with you. You were planning to leave for good and Miguel’s heart twists at the realization.

Miguel approaches slowly, as if afraid you'll bolt like a frightened doe. His eyes glow dimly red in the darkness, focused intently on you.

He says your name that comes out like a plea on his lips. His voice is gravelly with emotion. "I've been looking for you."

He stops in front of the bench, towering over your huddled form. You look so small and fragile, so different from the vibrant personality he remembers. Guilt flashes through him. This is his fault.

Miguel kneels down cautiously, trying to meet your lowered gaze. "I'm sorry, cariño. I'm so sorry I left you alone." His voice cracks slightly.

One large hand reaches out slowly, gently grasping your chin and tilting your face up. His skin is warm against yours.

"But I'm here now. And I promise, I'm never going to abandon you again." Miguel's eyes blaze with intensity. "You're mine, understand? No one is ever going to take you from me."

His posture is almost predatory as he looms over you. Waiting for a response, for acceptance, for you to acknowledge the unbreakable bond between you. He needs this, needs you, like air in his lungs. You are his salvation, the one good thing left in his ruined life. 

You stare at him in shock, like you've seen a ghost. Miguel has to fight back the urge to sweep you into his arms and never let go. 

But after the initial shock wears off, anger flashes in your eyes.

"You left me! I needed you and you left without a fucking word!" You push on his brick wall of a chest that does nothing but hurt your balled fists. "For six months."

“I hate you, I hate you,” you cry before dissolving into sobs, heedless of the bystanders shooting concerned looks your way.  “I needed you.”

Miguel doesn't budge as you push against his chest. He takes your weak hits without complaint. When you struggle in his hold, he tightens his grasp just enough to keep you close.

"Shh, I know cariño, I know," he rumbles softly. Miguel brings up a hand to gently wipe the tears from your cheeks.

"Leaving you was the worst mistake of my life. I thought I could escape the pain, pretend it never happened." His jaw clenches. "I was a coward. And you suffered for it."

Miguel tilts your chin up again, forcing you to meet his intense gaze. "But I swear to you, that will never happen again. I'm here now, and I'm not going anywhere. No matter how hard you try to push me away."

The hand on your chin moves to grip the back of your neck firmly. "You want to be angry? Hurt me? I'll take it. I deserve it." His voice drops to a rough whisper. "But I'm not letting you go. Not now, not ever. You're stuck with me."

Miguel feels you slump against him, the anger and fight draining out of your body as quick as it came. He keeps one arm wrapped securely around you, supporting your weight.

"I've got you, princesa. I've got you," he murmurs. Miguel scoops you up effortlessly, one arm under your knees and the other supporting your back. He holds you gently against his broad chest.

Your exhaustion is evident - you feel impossibly light and frail in his arms. Worry creases Miguel's brow as he takes in your wan skin and limp hair. Guilt gnaws at him, knowing he's responsible for letting you waste away like this.

But he'll fix it. Starting now.

"Let's go home," he says quietly, already moving with swift, sure strides. Miguel glances down at you cradled safely in his embrace. "I'll take care of you. Get you fed, draw you a hot bath. And then you're going to get some rest."

His tone brooks no argument. This is non-negotiable. You need him, and Miguel relishes being needed, being able to provide and care for you. It gives him purpose.

"Everything's going to be okay now. I promise." He presses a gentle kiss to your hair. "I'm here."

#miguel o'hara #angst #astv #across the spiderverse #spiderman #fanfic #reader insert #miguel x reader #platonic

[forestdeath1]

Do you think James really matured? If so, why do you think he still hexed Snape? And if you say that it was because “Snape never lost an opportunity to hex him” why has he never told Lily?

This is a genuine question I simply want to know your take because you’re probably the only person on here that likes them both.

No, I'm not the only one. There's also @seriousbrat and @fiendishfyre and maybe someone else.

I've always thought that James matured in the sense that he stopped seeing what he does as a worthy knightly deed. In other words, he realized that it's not something to be proud of and that it's worth showing off. And that strutting around like a pompous turkey, cursing everyone you don't like, even if you justify it in your head by saying they're filthy Slytherins — that's just rubbish behavior.

But James didn't become someone who would turn the other cheek. The Marauders, even as adults, stuck to the idea — an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth. I don't know what you mean by "matured," maybe that James became like Dumbledore or like Harry... well, no. From the conversation between Sirius, Remus, and Harry, it's clear that they fully justify James's actions in his seventh year, because they're all children of a different mindset "an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth," and they don't understand any other way. They don't turn the other cheek for a hit, they hit back. So they justify James, and I think James felt the same way back then.

But he knew that Lily had a different mindset, plus Snape was her best friend, I don't think she would have wanted to know all that. I think she wanted to exclude any mentions of Severus from her life altogether; it caused her pain. Actually, the fact that James understood it needed to be kept secret, not bragged about, shows that he at least started to think that it could actually be unpleasant for Lily (before in SWM James humiliated Snape with pride and constantly glanced at the lake, thinking Lily would appreciate how "cool" he was).

So, if for you "maturing" means finally understanding that violence in any form is unacceptable— then no, James didn't mature. Even Remus and Sirius didn't "mature". From this perspective (typical Christian morality, which is abundant in the books), Harry, for example, acts much more maturely in PoA when he decides not to kill Peter.

#james potter #the marauders

[writerthreads]

How to write morally grey characters

By WriteAway on Servicescape

Morally ambiguous characters are those that are not simply heroes or villains. They fall somewhere in between, and as such, add a layer of depth and complexity to your story. The truth is that most humans in real life are not pure angels or simply bad people, but rather hold elements of both. Morally ambiguous characters can drive the plot in interesting ways, allow for great character growth, and sometimes end up being some of the most memorable characters in a book.

Morally ambiguous characters can start off with good intentions and then be driven to evil by others or by society, or they can start off evil and come to redeem themselves. Alternatively, they can remain ambiguous and complex throughout the whole narrative, and leave the reader to make up their own mind about them. Either way, these characters certainly make us think about the nature of good and evil and the complexity of the human psyche.

Give them a backstory

Understanding where they came from is important for any character, but it's particularly crucial when your characters are morally ambiguous. Often, the struggles the character went through in the past go some way to explaining their negative character traits now, or at least make us empathise with them a little.

The backstory is important for character development, and it is a great place to explore ideas of personal responsibility vs critiques of society and the results of terrible experiences. Whether your character was bullied as a child, pushed to the margins of society, or something else entirely, give them a rich background that helps us understand why they act the way they do.

Understand their motives

All characters should have needs and desires, and reasons they do the things they do. Often, when it comes to morally ambiguous characters, their motive is exactly what causes them to slip up and do morally questionable, cruel, or destructive things. This can be true whether or not the motive is itself a good one or not.

A morally ambiguous character can be a wonderful opportunity to explore the idea that the ends justify the means, and the corrupting force of power. Whether your character's motives are good but lead them to terrible actions, or whether it is precisely the selfishness of the motives that lead to your character's downfall, give them goals and desires that force them (and the reader) to grapple with choices and dilemmas. And the motives don't have to be as dramatic as the ones mentioned – as with Jay Gatsby in The Great Gatsby, it can be something as simple as a desire to win back a lover that leads a character into moral ambiguity.

Give them a weakness

Going all the way back to ancient Greek tragedies, the idea of the hero with a fatal flaw has lived on in literature for thousands of years. A morally ambiguous character may be fundamentally good, but marred by a particular weakness, such as cowardice, vanity, shame, or anger. The characters in F. Scott Fitzgerald's The Great Gatsby are full of fatal flaws. For Daisy Buchanan it is her vanity and desire for wealth and admiration. For Jay Gatsby it is his love for Daisy, as well as his shame surrounding his background.

Your character's weakness doesn't have to be the ultimate cause of their downfall or even their central character trait. The main point is that they have certain elements in their nature that challenge them, tempt them, or cause them to struggle. It doesn't matter what they are, but weaknesses make morally ambiguous characters more believable, layered, and human.

Give them redeeming qualities

This goes without saying, but you can't have a morally ambiguous character without giving them some redeeming qualities. Whether they are primarily good but are driven or tempted to wicked acts, or whether they are basically villains with good motives or elements of kindness, there needs to be some level of balance.

Severus Snape is often cruel and sometimes corrupt, but he ultimately makes the right choices where it matters. The Artful Dodger is a thief and ultimately betrays Oliver in Charles Dickens' Oliver Twist, but he also helps Oliver and displays feelings of sympathy towards him. Moreover, his actions can be understood in light of his circumstances and experiences.

In the end, it doesn't matter where your character falls on the scale of morality. The important thing is that they have a believable and interesting combination of motives, flaws, and redeeming qualities. If you can get these elements right, you will have yourself a really fascinating, morally ambiguous character.

Let them grow and change

Character arcs are essential to good storytelling. No character should be exactly the same at the end of a book as they were at the beginning. The mechanics of plot are important but are ultimately meaningless if they don't cause development on the part of the characters. However, when it comes to morally gray characters, the way they change throughout the narrative is particularly important.

George R. R. Martin is a master of the character arc. Both of the Lannister brothers are not presented as particularly praiseworthy at the beginning of the series. Tyrion, while harmless, is shown to be philandering, selfish, and lazy. Jaime Lannister, on the other hand, is an outright villain, as he pushes a young boy out of a high window just to protect the reputation of him and his sister. Both go through redeeming character arcs, with Tyrion becoming a paragon of thoughtful justice with a commitment to seeing good prevail. Jaime has perhaps the most striking redemptive arc of the series, but his love for his sister is the fatal flaw that spells disaster in the end.

Many supervillains and other characters experience the opposite type of character arc. In the recent Joker movie, we observe the Joker not as a simple villain, but as someone who was pushed to evil from his experiences and the cruelty he suffered at the hands of society. He begins as a sympathetic character, but by the end he is without question a villain. However, it need not be as black and white as this. Jay Gatsby's weaknesses certainly lead to his downfall, but it is up to your interpretation whether he is ultimately a tragic character or someone who has received his comeuppance.

As we can see, a character arc need not be simple or go only in one direction. Your character can struggle continuously with moral questions, leaving the reader unsure up until the finale what side they will end up on. You can end your book and leave it ambiguous whether the character was ultimately good or evil, or perhaps a very human combination of the too. The main point is that the experiences they have and the actions they undertake throughout the novel must affect them in some way, so that they develop as a character.

Keep the readers guessing

The previous point touches on this, but one way you can keep readers fascinated throughout the whole book is to keep them guessing about the true moral nature of the character and what they will do next. Severus Snape is a prime example of this. We as readers are left unsure right up until the end of the series whether his loyalties lie with the Death Eaters or with the Order of the Phoenix and those fighting Voldemort. In fact, people still argue about whether Snape really redeemed himself enough to be the namesake of one of Harry's sons or not. If your character causes arguments, you have done something right!

There are multiple literary devices you could use to keep your readers guessing. You could pepper little hints throughout the narrative that show the possibility of redemption or allude to potential disaster. Instead of revealing what the character is thinking, you could merely show us their actions, leaving us to interpret them. Alternatively, you could be explicit about the mental struggles the character is going through when making moral decisions. Whatever your method is, leaving things uncertain and keeping various possibilities open is what makes the audience want to keep reading.

Give them difficult choices

Choices often drive plot and character development, and difficult decisions are a central way in which authors can allow ambiguous characters to struggle with moral questions and keep readers guessing. The choices that these characters make can redeem them or be the catalyst for their downfall. Snape's decisions to join the Death Eaters and later to leave and join the fight against them, is the cornerstone of his character development and much of the plot of the Harry Potter series. Jay Gatsby's initial decision to lie to Daisy about his background is the key choice that leads to his life of dishonesty and unhappiness.

In many cases, the choices that characters make are key events that determine the shape of a book. They are also great opportunities to explore difficult moral questions and dilemmas. Maybe your character has to choose between the greater good and personal desires. Perhaps they are faced with a decision that hinges on loyalty to loved ones versus making the moral choice. They could be tempted by greed, vanity, cowardice, or anger. There are so many difficult choices you can force upon your characters.

Not only can such decisions drive the narrative of a book, but they can also make readers think about very real dilemmas they face in their own lives, and broader questions about the nature of "right" and "wrong." A really good book doesn't just entertain us, but makes us think and forces us to come to our own conclusions. It makes us consider things we may not have before and leads us to apply ideas to the real world, no matter how magical the setting of the book is.

Focus on relationships

Often, the decisions that a character has to make and the experiences they go through are closely linked to other characters. In the case of Frankenstein, the central relationship is between the monster and the scientist who created him. It's not a relationship that involves much contact, but it is what the narrative revolves around. Relationships can redeem, such as Snape's love for Harry's mother Lily. Alternatively, they can cause a character's downfall, such as Jaime Lannister's incestuous relationship with Cersei or Gatsby's obsession with Daisy Buchanan. Relationships are a great motivating factor for morally ambiguous characters, whether they lead to temptation, redemption, or other moral challenges.

In addition to that, it's important to consider the conflicting motives and forces informing all of your characters. Although not all your characters need to be morally ambiguous, they should all be complex. Even the most heroic character can struggle with temptation and can make the wrong choice from time to time. Even the evilest villains should have elements that we can empathise with or moments of kindness. Otherwise, they are nothing more than a caricature. That does not mean that you cannot have people who are essentially good and those who are essentially evil. However, inserting a little ambiguity into all of your characters makes them more authentic and human. Each character should be well-rounded, believable, and multifaceted. Writing explicitly morally ambiguous characters can help you make better characters all round.

#writers on tumblr #writing #story writing #teen writer #writers #writers block #writing inspiration #writing tips #creative writing #writing advice #writeblr #writersofig #writersofinstagram #writing prompt #characterisation #character development #villain #hero and villain #villains and heroes #heroes and villains #morally ambiguous #morally gray