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antimony-medusa · 11 months

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I just have vauge thoughts about Fandom, and Creator Notices, and Boundaries, and I'm just gonna ramble for a second here.

Okay, so you end up really liking a show or event to the point that you want to make something for it, generally you want to show it off. You want to share it with other people who like the show or event, and have them go !!!!!!!. That's fun, that's normal. We all want to be enthusiastic about [show/event] together. That's our starting point.

Enter social media and official actor/streamer/writer accounts.

Now fan artists, a good portion of the time, can make their art and then thanks to the wonders of social media, they can go straight up to the actual people who made the show and show their art, and have them go !!!!, and get the actual creators to like it. Maybe not if they're drawing hard gore or NSFW, but if you're drawing a soft canon family moment, or a cyberpunk au, or behind the scenes look illuminated, or kick-ass character design, you can get a creator notice.

Fan writers, by and large, do not get creator notices. This is because looking at art takes two seconds, and reading a fic takes between ten minutes to ten hours. Creators can be out there scrolling art in a way that most of them, frankly, do not have the time to devote to Ao3 searches sorted by kudos. And I think among writers there's a little bit of a sense that that's unfair, and writing is just as much as art as visual art is, so we should be getting creator notices, and we should all act as though we might get a creator notice at any time. On all platforms. Cause what we're doing is real art, right? And we all saw the art get retweeted?

And this sense that creator notices— cause we've all seen them happen with art— spreads until we all think that they could happen at any time. Thanks to the wonders of social media. And very rapidly, the "you can get a creator notice" turns into "the highest honour is a creator notice", and we're all gunning for that, and you SHOULD be gunning for that. You should be looking for the creator to weigh in on your art. You should make sure that there's nothing in your work that the creator doesn't like. If you're an artist, you shouldn't be playing with gender in your art, or draw them being tortured, or anythign NSFW, and if you're a writer, you need to make sure that you don't have anything "weird" in your writing. In practice, let's be honest, this just turns into demonizing NSFW work and saying that anything we don't like is NSFW. Looking at you the "you can't draw the streamers with boobs" discourse.

Anyways, I think going after creator notices is a bad idea for many reasons— a, let them rest, b, bad atmosphere for the fandom, c, let's be honest, an awful lot of fandom stuff is weird from the outside. Let it stay in the fandom.

First thing is like, there are only so many hours in a day. Fan artists can tag their people but it's SO much of a huge and rude demand on someone's time to ask them to read your fic and tell you if it's good. That's the request you make cautiously to your beta reader, and then everybody else on this planet earth gets to opt in to your work. Do not TTS stories to people, do not hand them copies at cons, like— if they want to find it they can find it.

Second thing, creator notices hovering over the fandom like a sword is not a good attitude for creativity. Fan work is supposed to be transformative, it's about taking the original work and going "oh but what if they didn't die" and "what if they lived in space" and "what if they were a family" and "what if they kissed". Gunning towards a creator notice at all times takes you from an independent person following your creativity to a contractor working under someone else's vision. All the time.

Trying to adhere to the source material isn't bad in essence, there's a spectrum of "how do you feel about canon" in fan work that ranges from "trying to hit all the same beats just with a twist" to straight up adversarial attacks, and all of that is fine and part of what fan works are. But if the only stuff that gets written is the stuff that we think the creator would approve of, a) that's stifling to both creativity and people who have an adversarial relationship with canon, you shouldn't start to be branded as "weird within the fandom" cause you're mad at a plot arc b) you very rapidly run into the issue where you're adhering to someone else's morals, and sometimes you don't agree with random person's morals. Anne McCaffrey famously said that fan works were okay as long as you didn't make any of the dragon riders gay. I guesture at you about that. Sometimes a creator is way more comfortable with NSFW stuff than you are, that doesn't mean you should feel forced to make NSFW stuff for their approval! You shouldn't have to 100% agree with someone's vision for an art piece to be able to roll up and go "yes but I think there should be like 50% more evicerations in here" and acting like the creators are the ultimate authority in fan spaces is a bad atmosphere for making fan works.

Sure, absolutely, showrunners get to decide canon. But the whole point of fandom is that sometimes I have a better vision for my story, and maybe I don't want to think about what the creator says at all. If I'm not gunning for the creator's approval, let me stay in my little circle with the creator blocked and adding more pregnancy to the QSMP, or whatever. Follow your bliss.

Third thing, like, okay. There has been a move in fan circles, and especially in mcyt circles, to say that if we just cut the NSFW stuff out, everything we're doing isn't weird, and the creators can look at it. I honestly think this is a failure of both imagination and perspective.

If you have written someone being vivisected, it's gonna be a trifle weird for the actor of that someone to come into contact with that. It is doubly weird if you're depicting a character who shares the same name as the actor. Is it bad to write the vivisection? No, this is fandom, we get to do terrible things to characters here, and that's not for the actors, that's for the audience of two hundred people who saw the words "Schlackity vivisection cannibalism necromancy" and said "clear my schedule, I know what I'm doing tonight". Awesome, continue with the gore.

And like, again, this isn't just NSFW. You can have something that is the fluffiest most platonic story in the world, and I'm saying look at me, look at me honestly, consider this; isn't it going to be just a little bit weird for a grown-ass man to open up a story where they've been aged down to four years old and they're lost and sad and their friends are their family and rescue them and there's cuddling and petting and snackies and pet names and they get their blanket and suck their thumb and take a nap. Look me in the eye and tell me that's not gonna be weird for an adult to read that about their character who shares their name. Okay? We're all on the same page here? Awesome. Is it bad to write kidfic? No. Kidfic rocks. I am your target audience, I am clicking through. I am leaving a keysmash comment. It is also, like, look at me here, focus— it's weird if you're outside the fandom. Platonic? Yes. for the actors/streamers? No. And that's because it's not FOR outsiders to the fandom, it's for the fandom. It's for people who rotate the characters so much that they go 'wouldn't it be sooooo cute if they were babies wouldn't it be adorable', it's not for the actual guys who had a meeting with an accountant today.

MCYT in particular has a horrible practice of saying that because everything has to be for the streamers, nothing can be NSFW unless they've approved it specifically, but somehow everything else is cool? I cannot express to you how much stuff I've read and enjoyed that even the smallest amount of thinking about should let you know that we keep that stuff away from the guys driving the block men around. Fine to write it, I say again, go for it. Please completely divorce yourself of the idea of a creator notice for it at the same time.

Should we show the streamers porn? No. We also should not show the streamers the thing where they're physically abusive parents of their friends. We should not show them the stuff where they're babies. We should not show them things where they're bigots. We should not show them things where they have hybrid instincts that tell them to kidnap someone. Really not sure about showing them a story where they're a cop who takes bribes. Like come on now. Really, as soon as you diverge from canon you're getting into stuff that's probably going to be weird for the crdeators. And that's why again, we don't show it to them, because it shouldn't be for them, it should be for the other people who are like "oh you're doing something fun with the character there, awesome" and click through. Weird for the creators, because it's for us.

Fandom should not be for for the creators. We can make stuff for the creators ocassionally, but I really think it's healthier for the fandom, and probably a lot less weird for the actors/streamers/writers, if we stop acting like what we make is all for them and should be shown to them. Some of it is just for us! That's fine! Make it for the people who have an rss feed for "autistic technoblade" on Ao3! Make it for the people who show up in your inbox asking about your "Philza gets arranged married to a different QSMP guy every week" au! ! Make it for the people who have three spellings of "charlie slimecicle" followed on Tumblr! Make it for the people making helsmit fancams! Make it for the fifteen people who suscribed to you after you posted that fic about the various wilbur bursonas kissing each other! Make it for the people who have Puffychu art saved to their phones! Make it for the fandom!

Leave the creators alone, make the fandom for the fans.

#discourse #dsmp #qsmp #fandom meta

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ravneski · 1 year

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Desecration

Kokushibo x Fem!Reader

They take what they can't have and bathe in the sacrilege.

this has also been uploaded to ao3 (kudos and comments there would be appreciated <3) link here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/46981597

warnings: smut, cunnilingus, fingering, menstrual sex, dubcon nearing the second half of the fic, mentions of pregnancy, implied breeding kink, religious imagery, sexual violence, strangling/choking, fisting

word count: 5.4k

Fate was a cruel thing.

Dragging her eyes from the floor, she cursed herself for not staying alert, for not paying attention to which room she had mindlessly entered. The Upper Moon One’s aura pervaded, thick as well-trained metal. She stared and he stared back, six eyes unreadable but nostrils flared, shark in water detecting what slicked her fukusa.

“One day.”

Since she had started bleeding. She tensed. “What of it?”

“It will… be painful.” Kokushibo’s golden gaze bored into her.

“There are worse pains,” she dismissed, face blank. She made to turn.

“Are you going to Doma?”

She graced him a near unnoticeable nod.

“Will you… spread your legs for him?”

Centimetres away from him in a flash too quick to be perceived, her veins frosted. “Doma tells me you opened your own for Daki.”

Their gazes swept one another, rising and falling as the moon did, but nothing as renewing as moonlight enveloped either. “Mourning her?” she drawled.

“I utilised her for… what her job dictated she do…”

Her upper lip curled in disdain.

“And you,” Kokushibo continued, knuckles white from the clasp on his sword’s tsuka, “are no different… from me. Go… to your whore.”

She laughed at that, but the mirth was dry sand, rigid as though hardened by unremitting waves. “Doma isn’t my whore.”

“Then what… is he? Your lover?” he replied, derisiveness worn like armour.

“You tell me,” she said after a moment, gathering herself. “You know his body as well as I, do you not, fornicator?”

A vein throbbed at the side of his neck. “You never hesitated… to run to me when you were bleeding… yet now you spare… time for aimless ambling…”

“Say what you mean.”

Even in the gentle light of the Infinity Castle, Kokushibo was but a shadow. The dark side of the sun, she thought. He knew only his shadows, and she found herself drawn to be engulfed by the same fate. His expression held solemnity it was never without, but by now she saw the veneer. As he inched closer, the fractures in his mask seemed ardent.

“Can Doma not taste… your flow?” he asked, interest sincere. “The one that follows the moon’s cycle… is it beyond his reach?”

“He likens it to wisteria,” she admitted, reluctant as she was, “and talks of the mere touch burning him.”

“One man’s bane… is another man’s ichor.” The suggestion in his voice rang sharper than any demon slayer’s blade. She made up for his mishap, his nerve to close their distance and his barely veiled want, by widening the space between them again.

“It’ll be such ichor to him if I allow him to draw blood from my womb,” she pointed out.

“Will you?”

“Will our lord let me?”

“Mutinous thing,” sneered Kokushibo. “When have you cared… for our lord’s boundaries and laws?”

“No more than you.”

His hand, wrapped around his sword’s tsuka, twitched. “I remain constant.”

“Then leave.”

After a second of hesitation, one he tried with fervour to conceal but seeped through to his countenance, the constriction of his pupils and the scorch in his irises, Kokushibo stayed where he was. “You bleed heavier than… last time,” he noted.

“Do you observe through your Transparent World every time I shed?”

He shook his head. “You misunderstand… I smell it. It permeates.”

And he was the only one who could detect her moonblood. Besides herself, and their master, but Kibutsuji Muzan was swamped in more crimson than she could ever spill.

She pivoted, but Kokushibo grabbed her wrist, iron and impetuous. “He’s angry,” she said as her excuse to leave, searching the old samurai’s face. “The boy who bears your brother’s mark and wears your brother’s earrings is making mincemeat of the lesser Moons.”

The mention of his twin left him cold. “That person will… not miss you,” he wagered. “You have time spare.”

He melded, still, to her wrist, unyielding; the shock of his skin pressing hers reignited what she had long assumed abandoned, a stinging ache that rippled between them as waves in storms devastated ships, naked and exposed. Ghosting the pallid paper of her flesh, his nails were a parody of humanity, short and plates plain. Kokushibo coveted what he could not have. For one to receive, one had to give. The human body had to be sacrificed to exceed its feeble limits, its brittle mortality. His façade was flimsy, and with the right amount of force it would shatter and out would come the demon that he had sold his soul to become.

His gaze drifted to her abdomen, which she had clutched in fruitless instinct, before once more locking with her. “Let me,” he said.

It took little time to think over her answer, as much as the sour wrath in her stirred. She acquiesced, and his hands wandered beneath the silk of her clothes.

She was undignified in this bestial position, but Kokushibo lacked the temerity to penetrate her through his cock. She could not bear to meet his face; ignoble though the stance of coitus more ferarum was, it provided sanctity, a way to avoid the intense blaze of those six unblinking eyes. Wooden floor scraped and pricked at her elbows as she used them to support herself. She focused on the crevices of the floorboards, the cracks resembling abysses with their infinite black hollows, wondering how much hot red had rolled into them and festered over the centuries.

Her robes were hoisted up, impudently close to the tender swell of her breasts but secure enough to not reveal them, welcoming him, exposing more than flesh when her heart jumped from the warmth of his invasively close breath. Kokushibo explored her, parting her like petals; when her folds had become so wet she didn’t know, nor wanted to, but his fingers trailed them, tentative as though she were made of glass and he feared breaking her. Sticky with her flow, his digits climbed up to the flushed bud and grazed it with their course tips. Betraying her, her hips gave an involuntary buck. This was decadence, she mused. For the both of them. They would consume the other in every way but literal, the same way he had. Muzan was a blight impossible to efface and stained them even now.

His tongue skimmed the plush of her inner thighs, scraping at the dark cardinal smearing them. The organ roused an acute jolt from deep inside her as it slid in, blood and arousal mixing and gliding to form an easy lubricant. The electric reaction of her body wasn’t quite arisen from satisfaction, but neither was it spawned from pain; it curled and coiled as an endless serpent, a visceral sensation of a latent guilt and a repressed thrill.

Heat unfurled within her, a spark of life, but it wasn’t enough. Grinding her teeth together, she turned herself around, lying on her back. Their gazes tangled, a flash of resentment shared between them; overwhelming the cramps of her womb convulsed something keener, a wretched desire too close to impalement. She raised her thighs for him anyway, as easily as the gates of hell would open for them both, and let the mongrel feast.

The flat of his tongue pressed against the nub at the top of her sex. Long fingers, svelte and elegant enough that they seemed unfitting for a sword-wielder, moved inside her in a focused rhythm, the squelch of sloughed tissue and blood resonating as her body relaxed, sucking him in deeper. Kokushibo’s tongue carded the lips of her quim, dragging down to near his fingers then slithering back to her clitoris, which rose like the opening flowers under sunlight’s grace. Her hips played and rutted to the tempo he dipped in and out of her with, stomach crawling as much as it flipped as she thought of how he had arrogated her with such facileness. Raking the tatami, she searched for a modicum of anchorage over herself, some dose of stability.

She was pitiful, but so was he, and equally deviant. They were deformed, her kind. Demons were death, but they dreaded finality so. She was no exception. Was that widespread fear, lurking in the caliginous heart of every demon, an innate one? Did each of them know there was no salvation in death for their forsaken souls, but only the expecting flames, searing and everlasting?

Once, she had encountered a god, beautiful and bright and unequalled, and underneath layers of false flesh the scars from the conflict, eternal in their retribution, still burned like the sun. If the fires of hell were real, she had felt their touch already, and her cells had never forgotten it.

They were monsters unspeakably damned. Hideous and acrimonious, most couldn’t give reason for why they continued to live other than base instinct, that primal hunger that gnawed and gnawed, impossible to sate. They were greedy to their finest fibre. It was why they were territorial beasts. Sometimes they mated, the odd few, those who dared, foolish and tainted, but it never lasted. Eventually they cannibalised each other, skewing bones and mangling flesh until there was nothing left. The hunger grew too great, too indomitable. Demons could not kill demons through any other means. She summoned the guts to look down at the one on his knees, submerged betwixt her thighs, lapping at nutrition, lifeblood, that which symbolised renewal and viability, and thought there was something poetic about fucking functioning as death.

“He’ll never find the amaryllis,” for those six eyes saw so much, what others could not; she waited to see who those eyes belonged to, the samurai or his lord. “He—” then she stumbled, his two fingers pressed against a hard edge inside her. Drowned into silence by the waves of venereal indulgence.

“A woman’s hatred… is a sort of devotion,” mused Kokushibo from between her legs.

She lowered her gaze to him, gripping his dark mane to lift his head away from the hot throb of her cunt, though his fingers stayed encased. Pliable, he made a pretty picture painted in her. “Devoted to you?” she ridiculed.

“To him.” His tone was dull.

“I would rather kneel to Ubuyashiki’s Pillars,” she growled. “Your nonsense is bovine. Hold your tongue.”

“Many of our kind would sacrifice themselves to… see our lord live, but you would… throw away your life to see him die.” When Kokushibo tilted his head, the thick, ropelike tendrils of his hair swayed, midnight black percolating into glossy crimson. Strands stuck to the viscous gore around his mouth and he pulled them back. “Do you not… think that is a form of devotion?”

Her jaw clenched in indignant ire.

“Your enmity for him will never… be enough for him to kill you.”

“Does this come from one traitor to another?” The gumption of him to look inquisitive, as though he understood nothing, persuaded her to continue, treading on dangerous grounds. “He was your enemy. And I know you became a slayer to imitate your brother, not out of integrity or duty, but did you never once feel the slightest antagonism towards that person? How can you serve a remorseless man who has slaughtered and devoured thousands after once claiming you would put an end to him?”

“Do you revile him for… his carnage?”

Kokushibo was a mess of slick red, a deceitful embodiment of the rivers of Sanzu. Besmirched by her, flaunting thick fluids and stringy sombre clumps, with the gleam of something darkly holy when her blood caught in the fortress’ ochre illumination, but his features were peeled back into a snarl, teeth whetted and splenetic. Claret dressed between them dribbled past his mouth and down the strong, arrogant angle of his jaw; he was too monstrous to be divine, the beast vespers was sung to ward against than to revere, closer to a wolf than a deity as half a dozen eyes narrowed in synchrony and she recalled the time when he had been her sword, and wondered if this blood was of a wound from where he had turned his weapon on her.

“It’s pointless to wage war against a calamity,” she conceded, then groaned as he stroked that spongy bump at the top of her wall in repeated, lazy beckons, the flick of his wrist and the hook of his fingers.

Grotesquely prurient, ichor in the tiny cracks of them, his lips flitted upwards. “Have you… capitulated to him?”

The question gave her pause. Did she submit? After a millennium chained to her lord, she knew she would never be free of him, that his grasp was indefinite and all-consuming, larger than she could fathom. The gods, if any existed, had surely abandoned her long ago, deserted her to his clemency. But Kibutsuji Muzan was not merciful. Cruelty was in his very appellation and thrived in his every word and action; under his dominance, even those who escaped him through his noxious curse perished in agony, humiliating and revolting, when they uttered his name.

“No.” Her finger smudged scarlet as it traced his jaw.

Riled by her answer, Kokushibo tasted the watery flow that clung to his own fingers. “So learn your place,” he chastised. “Besides, where was your… guilt when you feasted on the defenceless child that… carried rare blood in its body, which now… rests in your gut?”

She smiled, despite his nerve. If she was wilful, she was not alone.

“You bleed a constant rage…”

Waning as the moon did, jilted by the inimitable sun, the smile faltered.

“It ebbs and flows… endlessly in your veins. Are you… not weary?”

His bones trembled as her nail lengthened and sliced into his gristle-coated skin, which split with the proficiency of soft carcass under the butcher’s carving knife. Close to his left bottom eye that it seemed like a rose tear trickling, his blood mixed with hers, finer and more lurid. She lifted a rouge fingertip to her lips and gave a languid lick. With the thorn and bristle of marechi, he withered her, but he lacked its lure. She swallowed him, “And you taste of the storm,” and his fury mingled with hers.

Eyes dark, Kokushibo pulled back. “Your contumacy will not… kill you,” he warned, as if he hoped repeating his admonition would cause her to change. Though he was not a man to indulge in delusions.

Her hand snared in his hair. “Then what do I do with this anger?”

“He is your master,” and she loathed the reprimand of his tone, smooth and ugly.

“He is yours,” she corrected, defiant against his caution anyway, claws pricking at his scalp as her lips thinned. “Is there fulfilment for you in being his lapdog?”

“Akaza retains… that responsibility,” he responded dryly.

“Then what are you?”

“His servant.” The kanji in his eyes, indurated sable that whispered of unfaltering centuries of loyalty, fealty cut regal by the blade, gleamed in the flickering flaxen light of the lanterns. So are you, it rebuked.

She shifted, threading his locks between her fingers. “His ever-faithful Upper Moon One. The strongest of his subordinates, staunchly dutiful to our master,” the word was spat, but eased as she continued with a malicious lilt, “spread for him. Taken by him. Ravaged by him.”

Kokushibo’s eyes flashed. “Why does he allow a creature like you… to roam untethered?”

Oozing furrows were dragged out across his roots. “When did questioning that person become your position?”

“I... am his associate.”

“Is that what you tell yourself when he’s wedging his cock down your throat?”

Rivulets of red ran from his scalp where his hair lay matted, his beautiful strands spoiled by the knots they were weaved into. She reached out, a hand around the thick trunk of his neck, and wrenched him forward until their noses were near touching. Releasing its tight grip around his oesophagus, her hand crawled upwards, spiderlike, stopping its pilgrimage at a flame which befouled his pale flesh. The mark stretched from the right of his sharp jaw, down the side of that strong neck to his collarbone, her fingers descending beneath the white rim of his relic kimono. She brought her lips to his ear, fingertips dancing over the crimson crest as she felt his pulse, faster than it ought to be for a being of tenacious stoicism. Against the shell of his ear, as all his eyes shifted right to follow her, she crooned in a whisper, “Samurai-sama.”

Kokushibo turned to stone, scarlet trickling down his chin and splashing her naked calves. Then he recoiled, swift as a blade sheathed, pulse spiking further and noble face hardening. Her gaze dropped to between his legs, to where the carnal ache of him protruded through the obsidian layers of his hakama.

“Your tongue ought to be cut,” he snapped.

“Well,” as she began to play with herself, Kokushibo traced every movement with captivated attentiveness, the arch of her back, the heave of her breasts under her robes—with his Transparent World her clothing could be no obstacle, but, whether principle or that men like him preferred the notion of undressing those they lay with, unwrapping their prize, he never indulged in perversion of that kind—the glisten of arousal garnishing her, the cruor dripping out to nestle in the creases of her lips, “I’m certainly glad your tongue is intact.”

While he regarded her with contempt under long lashes, the heat of his groin did not dissipate, a rapt need to slide between her. His breaths were heavy, chest she knew was bedecked with fierce muscle rising under the affluent fabric of his clothing. She paused. “Doma…” she started.

The moment that name was out of her mouth, her curiosity, storm’s gale she had never been able to overcome, was assuaged as his expression soured like fruit gone grossly rotten. Nobody in the Moons would pull out the false diviner from under the sun if he were to be struck by it.

Kokushibo rested his chin atop her imbrued mons. “What kind of slut lies with… a man and speaks of another… male she’s bedded?”

“Don’t insult me if you lack virility where your subordinate doesn’t,” she hummed. “At least I’ve never been reamed open by our master. How much honour did you have, mighty swordsman, when he sodomised you against your will?”

Tapered teeth glistened as Kokushibo glowered.

“You’ve always been undeserving of what I gave you.”

“Perhaps, but… our blood still call to each other.”

Such was devastation’s path. In fleeting wonder, she pondered how many had died to their hands over the distorting centuries. “Then you defile me. We are contaminated by the other. We are filth.”

Kokushibo healed, each gash she had carved into him during irascible delectation repaired by regenerating skin, his hair smoothing out the knots from heady red.

“Filth resonates with filth,” she told him as he pushed her to the floor and tore apart the rest of her kimono with insolent dare, for though her womb had quietened it was not yet silent. “Our blood endure a murky stream,” as he left cochineal fingerprints across her breasts, exposed to him as he lowered his lips to one and suckled with neither care nor violence, but with a rhythm that had her racked in a feverish shiver.

“In a just world, I’d see you… swell and distend with… the weight of my seed,” Kokushibo murmured against her teat, flicking his tongue against it and watching it erect. She blanched.

When his fingers entered her this time, they were not kind, but curled with purpose. They buried deep within her, pumped in and out in time to how he toyed with her nipples, one clasped between the serrated ends of his canine teeth and the other caressed by the hand not thrust within her, rolling it as he kneaded the fullness of her breast on his palm. Stuttered breaths seeped from her open mouth as she smarted from him, yearned in earthquake-like shaking, the coil in her stomach tightening as she clenched around him.

“We bleed sacrilege,” she gasped, and soaked him in her exhilaration.

Sudden warmth ensconced her as he withdrew from her breast, a string of vermilion saliva snapping, and hid his face in the crook of her neck in a jarring imitation of affection, but it came not from the abrupt facet of affinity and nor was it born of the gratification that had just flown through her, a gentle current now turbulent with terror. Her gaze sidled over the steel thew of Kokushibo to the figure in the corner of the small room. His aura was as weak as it had been when their paths had first met, devoid of killing intent or bloodlust. A chilling resemblance to the Upper Moon demon marked him, but he was distinctly human—and distinctly dead, she reminded herself; yet here he was, defying the laws of the universe once again, and that scared her more than those sixty years after coming across him—with his hanafuda earrings and his soft maroon eyes, connecting with her own.

Cold terror dredged upwards like the pull of limbs from seaweed’s shackles, a fear that had never been conquered despite the centuries separating that night and now. Kokushibo took notice of her stiffened limbs, but in his fatalistic arrogance assumed it was his doing and continued rubbing at her clit in concentrated circles, still resting at her neck.

The Sun Breather stepped forward, face resolute in its emptiness. Vacant gaze, hollow expression. In life, he had never smiled, so Kokushibo had told her. She wondered if a person like Tsugikuni Yoriichi had ever had anything to smile about.

“Leave now,” she whispered to the apparition’s brother. “You’ve fulfilled your purpose.”

Kokushibo’s fangs left her neck and he frowned down at her, bemused. “Stay,” he said, moving his hands up to the slope of her shoulders as if in preparation to hold her in place.

“Stay?” Humouring the lingering note in his request.

“Beneath me.”

“Would you have me like that?”

His hakama rustled with his movement, the grind of his hips, the hardness of him taut and desperate to break free as it rubbed against swollen lips hidden under a thatch of raven hair. “How many men have… had that pleasure?”

“Not Doma,” she confessed.

“Not Doma,” he agreed in pride, then, embittered, “feminised by your wiles… Let me take you as… you should be taken. Under me.”

“Will he kill me then?”

Out of the corner of her eye, Yoriichi ventured another step, only a centimetre but enough to make her skin smoulder with memory. No, she would not die. Not to her master’s cells, not to the Sun Breather’s ruby sword. Across a thousand years, a single opportunity had come to her, a scalding escape, but Yoriichi had failed to take her head.

Years upon years later, here she lay, a man aneled in her blood looming over her with hungry eyes and hungrier cock while a universe beyond her comprehension played games with her.

Although the unworldly dimension of the Infinity Castle protected them from day’s influence, she and the other demon suddenly tensed in unison nonetheless. All Kibutsuji’s mutant creations felt the surface of dawn, a knell within the fibre of their bones to warn them of their only predator. It came with a hounding instinct to run, even if one was safe from the sun’s culling reach. To run and run until the blest recitals of matins was inundated with unfolding nightlight.

As daybreak erupted in another realm, Amaterasu’s sacred child faded, though not before his lips opened and moved with the motion of talk. Nothing audible departed from him. Her heart pounded against the confinement of her chest. Kokushibo finally realised she was glaring past him and turned to follow, greeted by a void corner. When he looked back at her, he discovered no one under him and muttered her name beneath a churlish breath.

“What reason have you to remain? Leave,” she repeated, by the fusuma. Sweat mellowed her body, throbbing from the aftermath of multiple climaxes, but a darker heat piqued within her as she scrutinised his ensanguined form, the wet mess of his face and hands. “You won’t send me to the gallows, Kokushibo, but something worse. Go.”

He towered over her in the blink of an eye. “I don’t… understand you. Women—”

“You don’t need to.”

Bold, he outstretched his hand and splayed his palm in the valley between her breasts, feeling the hammer of her heart. “Do not think me cunt-struck,” the fingers there decayed from paramour’s caress to the scuttling perfidy of insect legs, straining for prey as they made way down a breast and sullied it shimmering cardinal. He groped at her, the roughness men didn’t care enough to reign in. Their teeth nipped and nails scratched. Always squeezing and grabbing. “You will not treat me… like one of your whores, disregarded… once I’ve made you come,” and he placed emphasis on those final words, conceit blatant.

Kokushibo was an animal. The closest of the Moons to Kibutsuji in terms of power. It was only natural, in all the unnaturalness of demons, that he should be so mutant and repulsive, so it puzzled her that she found him beautiful. It, she supposed, was the beauty of a thing ethereal, or perhaps transient; a sacrificed animal, immolated by an unknown force. He was the bleeding lamb, the shot and limping cur, that which was so harrowing it could not be turned away from, the morbid fascination that stirred delight in the sickest minds.

Still, as the lamb bolted from the hand that reached to console it, and bodies withered and mortified from the undertaker’s embrace, his beauty spilled into evanescence. Butterfly wings broke when touched. He mouldered and came to fester a violent, disturbing darkness. While she dwelled on this, he made his move. Pushing her down, mounted above her with the full weight of his strapping form, shoving three virulent fingers inside her.

She pelted him with a livid glare. “I’ll defer when that man dies.” For she would not submit now. That went unspoken, but he heard it. Perhaps his samurai teachings to adhere to greater strength was the only reason his cock remained clothed.

“Do you… crave death so badly?” Covering her body with his own, he slotted a fourth finger in. The delicate lining of her womanhood stung, his nails nicking as they danced inside her.

“Are you killing me?” she mused. Viridian claws slashed at his violet-ebony kimono, finding purchase in his broad shoulders. Mordancy dripped from her tone like how blood trickled down the hard ridges of his torso.

“Death will not give you peace.”

Perhaps it wouldn’t, but this life was far from pleasant. Though she shook her head at him, Kokushibo drove into her with vigour, the scourge of a whip. She shoved at his chest, his moonlight skin sickly pale, but he did not budge and, in some irreligious depth of her where she ached for this, the intemperate madness of sinners who trod the thin line of destruction and endurance, she was glad for it.

“Stop this,” but her words sounded empty to even herself. He didn’t, because he was a man who took what he wanted and obeyed the whims of only one other beside himself. Audacious, apathetic, awful, he inserted his thumb, then pushed the entirety of his fist inside her. A snarl tore from her throat, and his other hand came to close around that. He did not squeeze, but the mere presence of him around her neck was the potent pressure of a noose. Wet slaps rebounded in her ears as he twisted his fist, drawing his knuckles against her. She burned as if ablaze as she stretched to accommodate the violation.

Why was he here? What had he come for beside the sweet, metallic taste of cunt and the clench of red insides? It was something born of a selfish motivation, she figured that. No different or better than her. Though someone of his station should not act on self-serving wants.

Farther Kokushibo breached. To her unease, her body did little to prevent him. “I thought this was altruism?” she hissed.

His thumb pressed against her jugular, some vile punishment for opening her mouth. It marked her with a hue of cerise, an eager bruise blossoming under the skin. “This is not amity.” By the drag of a craven’s fingertips, veneration was rescinded. “It is… contrition. Yours.”

Bellicose blood smeared her, slewed down the inside of her thigh, not her moonblood, but thinner, of a greater, brighter constitution. Venous, drawn from a wounded and maimed creature, dismal and writhing like a worm on a hook. The hardness of her cervix turned friable. There was a knife—or a sword, she thought wryly, and wondered if he would fuck her with his disgusting katana if he could—in her cunt and it stabbed its way to where no foreign intrusion should have. She spasmed, wrenched out the arm of the hand clasping her smarting neck and suddenly they were both bathed in sticky red, tepid as it gushed from Kokushibo’s socket. It reeked. Not of them, but of him, the laden scent of Kibutsuji. Vessels for his violence, clawing at each other like rabid dogs, fuelled by the instinct to tarnish and impair, the need to rip apart with teeth and talons. They were nothing if not that man’s vestigial reflection; as Kokushibo hollowed her out and the sordid point of his nails pricked at the firm, barred organ of her cervix, it was not the samurai that penetrated, but his lord. A maggot burrowing away, carrying a corrosive disease. There was sin in their veins and it ate at them.

“Warm my bed,” said Kokushibo, too frustrated to be a growl, too stark to be a plead. A demand, one which she spat at him for, all noble airs abandoned. He flinched as if her saliva cauterised. She hoped it did, hoped that his patience was a manacle and not frangible thread. She had seen what monstrosities cultivated within sullied wombs; the devils seized out of broken hellmouths in downpours of black ichor; the thousand deaths endured in pregnancy, in childbirth, in motherhood. That was not a desirable end. It was not true death, but something beyond it, worse and unending, and men were baleful enough to inflict it on any wench they deemed deserving.

Depraved in the way ruby tainted rare moons, Kokushibo gouged her in repeated blows, battering the closed pale-pink neck of her uterus. She wept as his cursed touch shed more of her flesh than her own body could. A malevolent torrent of something she couldn’t put a name to raged within the leaking fissures of her. Here, raising a hand that trembled as it pressed his cool cheek, she was close enough to delve out his awful eyes, to slit his neck, to divaricate his limbs. Close enough to devour him.

But she wouldn’t. An insidious weakness.

When she yanked his savage fist out of her, she freed herself of her cage as well as gaoler. Torn from her insides, the pear shape of her womb, hot and rosy, and aperture of her cervix. Arteries and veins fell like tears, burst like shattered mosaic. She threw the poison in her system to the floor, where it soaked the wood with her diseased red, and relished the surprise on his face.

Kokushibo scanned the consecrated blood daubing him, then his gaze scraped her, fibrous sclera and aureate irises glowing, pupils blown. All they were was blood. They rotted with it, congealed and decayed until there was no trace of who they had been, only the stench of who they had slaughtered. They were their victims’ legacies, harbouring so many ghosts.

Crucifying agony dulled with each passing second. Already her body was repairing itself, working against her as it always had, cancer regenerating within her. Kokushibo rose and she stepped back, bare before him like an offering, though she was not sure what virgin oblation she could be when she had already been eaten; she could not consume him when he had consumed her, and from that she knew he was desecration. Vitiated in the spoils of him, she fled to ensconce herself within the umbrage of endless slanting corridors, praying they would guttle her too.

#kokushibo #kokushibou #kokushibo x reader #kokushibo smut #demon slayer #kimetsu no yaiba #kimetsu no yaiba smut #kny smut #demon slayer smut #kny #demon slayer x reader #kny x reader #kokushibo x you #kimetsu no yaiba x reader #kokushibo x y/n

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olderthannetfic · 5 months

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I think something just clicked for me about the whole Anti vs. Proship debacle.

Both sides view "media consumption" as an expression. Antis say that reading or watching or playing something is an expression of a person's innate moral compass. According to them, when you read Black Butler fanfic you are expressing your approval of child being in a romantic relationship with a demon in real life.

And proshippers rebutt that with the fact that reading, watching, and playing things is an expression of your trauma or sexuality. They get a lot more nuanced, but to them if you read Black Butler fanfic, you're expressing your own anxieties about or experiences with a type of relationshp that you know is wrong in real life, or maybe you're expressing that you think it's kinda hot in fiction (but mostly the trauma, they're *really* keen on trauma as a an excuse for liking things).

But I don't consider being a passive audience member as an expression. Writing fic or drawing fan art is an expression of what I think is hot or interesting in canon, kicking headcanons back and forth on Tumblr is an expression of how I feel and think about canon, sharing recs is an expression of what I like and what I think my friends will like, leaving comments on a fic is how I express my thoughts to the author, even a kudos or Tumblr like is an expression of the fact that I appreciated something. But simply reading fic is not how I express anything. The bare fact that I enjoyed a fic or canon is not a social interaction or an expression of any kind.

Having thoughts or feelings about what I read and watch and play is not how I express things about myself, I have to share those thoughts on Tumblr or through fanworks to express them.

And thoughts and feelings shouldn't be counted as expressions of something deeper. Your thoughts and tastes are the things you express (if you choose to), they are not themselves public expressions of deeper traumas or moralities. No one knows what you're thinking unless you tell them, and going through life as if everyone can read your mind is a pretty horrible way to live.

Eh. A lot of the "proship" side just thinks antis are idiots, not that anything is necessarily about your sexuality or trauma. Those are just things you say to rebut "You have no right to like this" if you don't have the balls to say "I do what I want!"

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orangepanic · 1 month

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I'm probably going to regret this later.

I had a good friend say to me recently that she's not reading any more books by white men. Clearly she was looking for congratulations. Instead, all I could feel was sadness.

To me, the point of pushing for diversity and representation in media is exactly that. Diversity, and not just to put points on a scoreboard or get kudos from your socially-minded friends but because you actually care about broadening your mind. For too long, too few people's perspectives and experiences have been overrepresented in history and popular culture, which limits our thinking and perpetuates the kinds of marginalization and discrimination that hurt society as a whole. We need to actively, aggressively correct that. But to me that means a process that is additive, not subtractive.

Add books to your reading list by people from different backgrounds and cultures, or that center characters who aren't like you. And "aren't like you" should be broad. Read a different genre than you'd normally pick up. Read about somebody older or younger than you, someone whose brain works differently, or someone who grew up in a different part of the country, even if they might look like you on the outside. Do this, but don't only do this to the point that reading becomes a chore or a performative action, or to the point where you're now cutting out other perspectives entirely. I hear so many sad stories these days about how little people read, and I think part of that is because there's been a push for reading as a requirement, as education, and that only certain kinds of books are okay to read because they contribute to this goal. That's such crap. Read what you want because it is fun! But then also add to that experience with new, different books. You never know what else you might like (looking at you, native Hawaiian vampire story). Growing your reading pie isn't about "no more of this" but "yes, more of that."

And the same can be said for fandom. Fandom has always been as space for people to explore different kinds of characterizations and relationships that aren't heavily reflected in popular culture. That's largely why we have transformative works. But lately I see this almost puritanical push in fandom for everything to check certain boxes when the whole point of fandom and fan creations is to make shit up. Don't see enough hairy-chested mlm werewolves on screen? Draw your favs as hairy gay werewolves who kiss! And if you've never thought about your OTP as werewolves, be open-minded enough to explore it, or to read someone else exploring it just to see how it is and stretch your brain a bit. Maybe you'll like it, or learn about werewolves. Maybe you'll hate it. Either way, support each other.

And like the books, this process should be additive. Push yourself to be open to more ships and interpretations of characters and canon. Also, curate your fandom experience, and if you explore something and it isn't for you, that's okay. It's for somebody else. And the fact that it contains no werewolves doesn't make it wrong, or boring, or toxic, or anti-werewolf, or something you need to tell the creator not to make anymore because you want to be seen in online spaces as coming out against what is unpopular so that you, by reflection, will look popular. If you do this you're looking for the fandom equivalent of kudos for saying you'll never read a book by a white man, leaving everything from Neil Gaiman to Tolkien on the table and thinking that makes you look progressive instead of sad and small and like you're trying desperately to sit at the right table in middle school. In short, fandom isn't a zero sum game any more than reading is. And real diversity in fandom means adding in the content and perspectives and characters we're missing, both on and off-screen, (and not just the ones you like, but the ones you might not) as well as not weeding out the ones that we already have. We can have more together, not less.

#rant #will probably delete this #but arggh

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blazinghotfoggynights · 20 days

Text

Wank is definitely trying to infiltrate the fandom. The proliferation of posts aimed at the fans of specific ships, fans who do not like characters or character development, or fans who point out unrealistic situations and behaviors is definitely frightening. So, I will say a few things and keep going.

(Disclaimer: If you don't like my views, kudos to you. It's called free thinking and free will. Maybe if you explain why you don't agree, it will open a fun dialogue.

Saying I am wrong or I suck doesn't bother me and does not count as supporting your views. You can't leave anon comments. You can thank a few who can't act like civilized humans for that change. I am always open to discussion and debate, if it is respectful.)

Here goes some of my thoughts on current fandom war topics I have seen:

BuckTommy is gross/pointless/forced/not believable.

I don't think it is gross. Lou isn't my type, but I can tell he is a handsome man. So, I understand someone being attracted to him.

I think Buck needs to explore himself, not just his sexuality, outside the 118. As for not being believable, I think it is. And there are many interpretations, I believe, that could be correct.

I don't feel this is forced in the way most of the posts I've seen are implying it. I think Tommy was a convenient character and maybe TPTB are using this as a way to get that character, and possibly his unit, more exposure. Spinoff maybe? When you think about it, it would have been just as easy to create a new character and have him force Buck to look within himself.

I think the relationship is very believable, but not for the most common reasons.

This is organic attraction and a natural progression.

Maybe.

Maybe not.

I believe that even though we are in a new season, Buck is still traumatized by dying. I think he is hiding it well. I think throwing himself into a relationship with someone who was obviously only into him due to his brush with death distracted him. But I don't think Buck has dealt with dying and what that dream showed him. There is no way he does not have a lot of unresolved issues.

I think Natalia was a distraction that actually worked for a while. But, if you go back to the scene where he tells Eddie they broke up, he is obviously in need of attention. He is blatantly resentful after Eddie says he is unavailable due to Christopher's date but asked Marisol to help chaperone. (Eddie is no better. Listen to how he says Natalia's name.)

So, we have a man who died, didn't deal with that at all, threw himself into a relationship with a death doula, the relationship ended, his safe place was now taken by Marisol, whom Eddie was asking to fill a parental role that would have been Buck's before.

In that one scene Buck was slapped into a reality where Eddie is not always available when he needs him, he is no longer Christopher's de facto second parent, and Eddie is trying to move on a build a family with someone else.

We know Buck doesn't have the healthiest coping skills. I was waiting for him to go off the rails. He was drifting alone.

Enter Tommy. Tommy who is instantly drawn to Eddie. If you never find out that Tommy is into men, and look at the sparring, the fixing Eddie's car, the FLYING THE MAN TO VEGAS FOR A SOLD OUT FIGHT, the intense focus, amazing adventures, and acts to impress Eddie still seem like someone showing off for someone they like.

You can interpret the scene of Tommy, Eddie, and Buck separating after watching Bobby and Athena as Tommy being smitten with Eddie, watch how he stares at Eddie, and Buck trying to draw Tommy's attention away from Eddie, whom he is already seeing slip away due to Marisol.

(I will probably explore this in another post.)

In other words, I think Buck was experiencing a breakup, seeing Eddie as slipping away, still shaken by his death, and not dealing. Tommy could very well be Natalia 2.0, a distraction when he needed it. Tommy was into Eddie but Eddie was taken and wasn't giving him any signs that there could ever be more. Buck needed someone and Tommy saw an opportunity with a hot man.

Buddie doesn't make sense because Eddie is not gay.

May I remind everyone Buck was canonically straight for six seasons?

Eddie doesn't have to be gay. He could be bi, pan, demi, or whatever. I've touched upon Eddie Diaz's unusual behavior with and toward women in prior posts. I have been on this Earth long enough to know that Eddie Diaz does not behave like a typical heterosexual male.

I also know sexuality is not as concrete and clear as we always think it is. A lot of people have figured out in their 30s, 40s, 50s, and beyond the sexuality they genuinely believed they were was not quite accurate.

Eddie's relationships have all been based on what he feels he is supposed to do. That man has never once shown a genuine sexual attraction to any woman he has been paired with. He never looks at any of them with that gleam in his eye.

But you know who he does look at like that? Buck. He has done it many times throughout the series. (That will probably be a separate post, too.)

Eddie doesn't pursue women. He doesn't feel comfortable with relationships naturally progressing with those women. When he finds himself in a relationship that is moving to another level he panics, literally. He basically has kicked every woman out, yet he invites Buck over all the time.

Eddie Diaz is not straight. Eddie Diaz has never had a functional, stable relationship with a woman. Eddie Diaz is just as messed up and in need of thrice weekly therapy appointments as Buck.

BuckTommy and Buddie can't coexist.

Why not? How many people here have only had one partner in their lives? It happens but it is rare.

Many seem to overlook that Buddie can't happen right now anyway because Eddie is with Marisol. So, just as Eddie jumped at Marisol because Buck dove into a relationship with Natalia headfirst, why would it be such a stretch to consider that Buck is throwing himself into an opportunity with Tommy because Eddie is taken.

I keep pointing out those two are the poster children for unhealthy dynamics.

Some fans don't like Tommy Kinard.

What's wrong with that? I've seen many valid reasons fans given by the fans who don't like the character. I've seen some that are ridiculous, too, but I scroll quickly past those.

Tommy, canonically, was a terrible person but is now a fan favorite and suddenly redeemed.

I get it. He says he was struggling with his sexuality and trying to fit in and all is forgiven. 🙄 Personally, I don't know why the hell Hen would ever forgive him. I understand forging a positive working relationship with him, but as a woman, I have seen so many men treat us, I am a woman who has worked with people of all races and sexualities, badly in the workplace and a simple "I'm sorry" is supposed to be enough to erase the damage and anguish that casual misogyny, racism, and homophobia caused. It hurts when you are insulted, humiliated, and punished for something you can't control, such as your biological sex, race, or sexuality. He wasn't a dumb kid in junior high trying to impress some kids so he could be their friend. He was a grown ass man who chose to bully a woman due to her sex, race, and sexuality. What makes it worse is he is gay, too!

Some fans have said they see negative personality traits in the character. I didn't initially, until I rewatched his scenes after reading some posts on social media. I missed a lot of little things. He's older. He's experienced. He knows how to woo someone. But he also talks down to Buck. When he says Evan, it isn't warm and loving like when Maddie or Eddie says it. It is almost scolding and reproachful. I also concur with those who say he uses snark to put Buck in his place and Buck doesn't even notice. (Let me stop right here and state that if those traits are meant to be subtly conveyed, Lou Ferrigno, Jr is doing a damn good job.)

It's perfectly fine to dislike the character. There is no rule saying fans have to like every character on the show.

BuckTommy and Buddie can't coexist. If Buck is with Tommy, it is a slap in the face to Buddie. If Buddie happens, it is a slap in the face to BuckTommy.

Buck and Eddie have been with other people. If they ever get together, their pasts don't matter. I hate to be the one to tell you, but wedding night virgins? Not common anymore.

Buck is exploring man on man sex with a man who knows what he is doing.

Eddie is in a relationship, too. He's learning about himself. Catholic guilt. Not living for himself.

Every single relationship they have had has shaped them and taught them something.

I wouldn't even be upset if Eddie figured out he liked men, then spent time with an experienced man.

Everyone in the 118 needs to find outlets beyond that group if you ask me.

I admitted early on I am a Buddie endgamer, but I am enjoying seeing slutty Buck openly thirsting over Tommy. I would enjoy seeing Eddie openly thirsting over some sexy man for a while, too. Bring on the breathless begging for the D. I get it. I have been there, baby. When the D is good, you don't mind begging.

So, those are just some thoughts based on the state of fandom right now.

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ijhyo · 1 year

Text

CHAPTER 4

what was supposed to be a fun weekend away with friends turns into a sinister game of hide and seek where their lives are on the line. trapped in a lake house cabin with only six hours on the clock, can y/n figure out who is behind the mask and manage not to get caught all before sunrise?

PAIRING. soobin x gn reader ; beomgyu x gn reader ; yeonjun x gn reader

GENRE. college au ; mystery ; thriller ; escape room ; angst ; horror ; humour

WARNINGS. character deaths (quick, act surprised) ; injuries ; blood ; swearing ; stabbing ; guns

WORD COUNT. 7k

A/N. FINALLY! she is here! after 300 years the final installment of the here i come series is out GOD BLESS. never have i been so happy to finish something in my life. very big thank you to everyone who continued showing interest in this fic even though this chapter took forever, this is truly for u I LOVE YALL! some of u have kind of guessed the killers so kudos to you, big brained people. i cant think of anything else to say just here you go, thank u, enjoy!!

TAGLIST. @tsupuffs @ren-chib @yjwfav @mykalon @junityy @iyeonjuni @fallingforhoon @fairybinie @enhacolor @cheorei @jjhmk @acciomylove @yeonjunsgf777 @soobin-chois @chosoluvr @odxrilove @soobisms @strawbrinkofdeath @etherealcherrie @maemarahuya @1-800-ryujin @wisecheesecakecloud @fairyofshampgyu @i-haewon @cottontvil @minthicons @bettyschwallocksyee @glyxiebear @calumsfringe @luvrboygyu @clyspm @celestialgyu @fallingforya @gyumie @ihsmarat @wooseoft @tatansoobin @wccycc @hello0i @prodsputnik @yotser @yhawnnzz @najaemin138 @ljnfav

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When you come to, you are laying in a bed, an overhead light shines glaring harshly in your eyes. You blink blearily, trying to get used to the brightness of the room and getting your vision to focus.

Movement catches your attention at the foot of your bed. You see Lia moving around the room, picking up your dirty clothes to do the laundry because you always forget to put them away, humming under her breath as she works.

Saturday was always laundry day.

After you got out of bed, you would be the one to take out the trash and go shopping for any groceries you needed. By the time you’d get back, Lia would have already finished with lunch.

You’d watch a movie or two, maybe play a game if you could convince your roommate, and order take out for dinner.

Right about now, she would tsk her tongue and throw a dirty shirt at you, telling you that you need to start cleaning up for yourself. You’d roll your eyes fondly and promise to be neater. Lia would accept it even though she doesn’t believe you and the process would be repeated all over again the next week.

You wait for the shirt to hit your face. It never comes.

Instead, the illusion is shattered when your eyes finally focus on the person you saw and see that their back is way too broad to be your friend’s and that, looking around curiously, this was not your apartment.

Everything comes rushing back then.

The game. The killers. Lia.

You’re laying down comfortably but you feel dizzy. Raising a hand to your head, you feel cotten where your temple should be and find that pressure causes a sharp sting to shoot up to your forehead. You let out a low curse at the pain and the other person finally takes notice of you.

He moves to your side, relief written on his face. “Oh, you’re awake, thank God.” You try to place the boy in your memory but draw a blank. “You passed out sometime between the lake and here and didn’t wake up for half an hour. I was starting to get worried.”

Yeonjun, your brain supplies when all the recent events catch up to you.

Now that you could see his face illuminated properly, pretty seems like an understatement. His dark hair is pushed back, revealing his forehead and you didn’t think that could be attractive, but here you are.

Yeonjun is still watching you. You clear your throat. “Um, thanks. For helping me.”

“You’re welcome,” he says smiling. “You looked like you needed it.” You suppress a scoff. If only he knew. “How many fingers am I holding up?”

His sudden question snaps you back. He has his hand up in your direct line of vision. “What?”

“I’m checking if you have a concussion. I dressed your wounds as best I could with zero first aid training but I need to make sure you won’t pass out again on me.”

His fingers are really pretty. You blink. “Oh. Three.”

Yeonjun smiles, satisfied. “Okay. Good, that’s good.”

He walks around the bed and disappears behind through a door. You use this opportunity to look around the room Yeonjun put you in, not finding it familiar at all.

Knowing that it is not far from Soobin’s lake house, you think that this house must be on the same level of extravagance, or at least close to it, but this room gives no indication of that. It’s smaller than the bedroom you were going to spend the night in before but still larger than the one in your apartment.

There is indications of use around; a t-shirt hanging on the back of a chair; shoes spilling out of the closet; and the faint smell of cologne lingers in the air. It all seems so boy that the only conclusion you draw is that this is Yeonjun’s room.

The boy in your returns with a glass of water that you accept gratefully. You hadn’t realised how thirsty you were until you downed the drink in seemingly one gulp. Yeonjun watches amusedly as you wipe your mouth with the back of your hand and you feel your face heat.

“Where are we?” You ask, holding the glass in your hands.

Yeonjun looks around the room in thought, humming. “About ten minutes away from where I found you.”

“Do you live here?”

“Nah,” he denies easily, taking a seat ay the foot of the bed, being careful to avoid touching your legs, “I’m just house sitting. The family that lives here is away at their other vacation house. In Japan.”

At your stunned look (you’re pretty sure that your mouth is open wide), Yeonjun nods hugely. “I know. Rich people, am I right?”

You scoff. “You could say that.”

It goes quiet. Yeonjun watches you curiously, his heavy gaze makes you avert your eyes to the glass in your hold. You clear your throat. “Aren’t you going to ask me what happened?”

He winces. “Can I?”

You shrug, feigning nonchalance, before launching into your recount of the night’s events. You watch his face as it goes from curious to shocked before finally settling on what is a mixture of disbelief and disgust.

Which, sums it up pretty nicely.

“That’s…Fuck, I-I don’t even know what to say. Who would do that?”

It feels oddly reassuring hearing this surprise from someone who has zero knowledge of the fucked up party you were just at. You inhale sharply. “Don’t know yet. But I’m gonna find out.” And you were. You couldn’t sit here forever.

“And the rest of your friends? You said you think they’re…” Dead. The word hangs between the two of you, too scared to be spoken aloud for fear they might be true.

“Well,” you start decisively, “they might not be.” With that, you swing your legs over the side of the bed, holding back a cry at the pain that erupts from the sudden movement.

Yeonjun’s hands shoot out to steady you, eyebrows creased with worry. “Woah! What are you doing?”

“I’m fine,” you grit out, pushing off the taller boy.

“You’re quite literally not. You might not have a concussion but fuck, Y/N, you’ve been stabbed. You can’t go out there. You need rest.”

Continuing out of the bedroom, you find yourself in an enormous foyer, almost as grand as the Choi family’s. “I need to make sure my friends are okay. I need to make those bastards pay.”

Your path is blocked by a very tall wall standing in your way. You roll your eyes, knowing that he used the fact that he doesn’t need to limp to pass you. “And how exactly do you plan on doing that?” Yeonjun stands defiantly, arms crossed and displeasure clear in the hard set of his jaw. You are getting quite sick of boys telling you no.

You stop in your tracks, thinking.

Then, “Do you have any knives?”

2 HOURS LEFT

The trek up the hill is hard with your injuries and takes longer than it should have had you been in full strength. The ground is soft beneath your feet, gives way every few feet and you have to readjust yourself carefully to avoid slipping.

A knife, so graciously given to you by Yeonjun, is hidden under your shirt. You walk in a way that it won’t accidentally nick your side. It feels awkward but it works.

Nearing the house, light spills out into the night, the grand chandelier still on. It is jarring almost, how the trees go from being cloaked in darkness to being bathed in bright light.

The front door is deserted.

You feel the warmth from the fireplace rather than see it, noting how it is still on, despite everything. That someone was stoking it.

You enter cautiously. Hand hovering over where the knife is, you stalk your way back into the kitchen and the sight of your altercation with the seeker leaves a sour taste in your mouth. The kettle remains strewn across the floor, a puddle of water mixed with blood spilled across the wooden floor.

Heart hammering loudly in your chest, you approach the door to the wine cellar, hand clutched to your waist. You know there is a possibility that the seeker could be there, could jump out and surprise you at any moment, but now that you have your own weapon to defend yourself, you wouldn’t let that fear stop you from finding Lia.

A crash.

Your head whips around frantically at the sound. Straining your ears, you listen carefully for any indication of where the noise came from. Quietly, you duck behind the kitchen island into a crawl. The knife nicks digs into your stomach but you ignore it, focusing on controlling your breathing so as to not bring attention to your location.

There is a slam as something collapses against the ground.

“Get away from me!”

Your heart stutters.

Soobin.

The sound of heavy footsteps gets louder with every passing second as someone walks closer to your hiding spot. Peaking your head around the side of the island, you try to get a glimpse of who it is, but the wall of the kitchen obscures your view. Clenching your teeth, you steel yourself to take the risk and reveal yourself to see who it is.

Slowly moving from your crouched position, you rise to your feet and are greeted by the back of the boy you have liked for two years, the boy who went through all this trouble just to try and create a night you’d enjoy.

“Soobin.” Your voice cracks around his name. Tears well in your eyes and threaten to spill.

He turns and your heart soars. “Y/N?” Relief washes over his features as he takes you in. He barely gives you time to respond before he crosses over to you and engulfs you in a massive hug.

Immediately, your shoulders relax and all the tension in your body melts away when his arms wrap around you. “Oh my god, Y/N, I’m so glad you’re okay. I was so worried, you just disappeared and I couldnʼt find and there was blood everywhere I, I thought—”

Pulling back slightly, you press a gentle hand to his face to stop his rambling. “I’m okay, I’m okay.” His eyes search yours and he nods numbly, bringing a hand to cover yours.

Soobin laughs mirthlessly. “Some game night, huh?”

Your chuckle comes out wet. “Not exactly what I had in mind, no.” You chance a look over his shoulder, expecting to see one of the seekers pop out and ruin the moment. Focusing your gaze back on Soobin, you graze your eyes over his face, going through a mental checklist of injuries. There’s a cut above his eye and dried blood crusts his cheek. Aside from that and a split lip, he’s fine. You exhale in relief. “They didn’t get you,” you breathe, more of a statement than a question.

He’s in front of you, face beneath your fingers, real and alive.

Soobin nods once. “They tried to, but I got away in time.”

“That’s good. Have you seen Beomgyu? Lia?”

“No, I’m sorry,” he admits solemnly and you feel your heart constrict. That doesn’t mean anything, you remind yourself, stopping yourself from thinking the worst. He must read your mind because his eyes rove over your face and he kisses his teeth. “Y/N…” he warns carefully, but your mind is up.

You tell him as much, but he’s still against it. “You don’t have to do anything, Y/N. The doors are open–we could leave! Get out of here right now.”

While what he is saying sounds appealing, there is nothing more that you want than to get as far away from this house as possible, you couldn’t—wouldn’t—do that without your friends. “I came back here because I couldnʼt leave you guys. I found you and I’m not leaving until I find the others. I’m not leaving without them.”

There is a possibility that you are in over your head. That even if you did manage to get past the seekers, the chances of you finding your friends alive was slim. You know that’s what Soobin is thinking, that he’s just trying to be rational. You expect him to argue, but instead he just sighs. Glances up at the ceiling. Locks eyes with you again.

“Okay.” Even though he agrees, you can tell he’s still apprehensive. “But I’m going with you.”

You nod, offering him a grateful smile that he returns. Your mind flits through the faces of the other people who were at the party, a drop in your stomach when you remember all the people who died. “What about the others? Yunho and Wooyoung?”

At the mention of their names, Soobin’s eyes darken and his jaw sets.

Cocking your head to the side, you ask, “What is it?”

It takes him a moment to respond, a myriad of emotions passing on his face as he considers whether to tell you whatever it is or not. He comes to a decision when he inhales sharply and pinches the bridge of his nose. You watch him curiously. “They…fuck. They’re the seekers, Y/N.”

You blink owlishly. “What?” you question, barely above a whisper. There’s no way. It can’t be. You saw them, you, you played with them, you might have even gone as far to say you could have become friends. They couldn’t have…

But Soobin’s mouth is set in a hard line and suddenly the room seems too small. “But how could they…in the screening room, they were with you. How could they…?” You can’t get the question out but Soobin understands anyway.

His face softens as she shakes his head. “They joined us later, before I found you. And then, after you left, so did Yunho. He came back as the seeker and killed Jongho right in front of us, and we all ran. I saw Sumin’s body at the top of the stairs and I was just attacked. It’s them. They’re behind all of this.”

You feel sick. Bile creeps up your throat and threatens to spill out, but you swallow it down.

Shutting your eyes tight, you exhale shakily. It didn’t matter. It didn’t change the fact that your best friend was missing.

Squaring your shoulders back, you lock eyes with Soobin.

“I’m getting Lia back. And those bastards are gonna pay.”

His eyes widen in shock at your concoction but he recovers quickly. Nodding once, he grabs one of your hands and leads you out to the living room where the couches have been turned over and the coffee table lies on the carpeted floor in pieces, splinters of wood littering the ground.

You chance a glance at Soobin. He really put up a fight, huh?

“How are your parents going to feel about you trashing their house?” you ask, going for a joke.

He responds with a cheeky grin. “Great, if I never tell them. I’m sure I can convince them to spend a couple winters in Jeju and they’ll be none the wiser.”

Whether or not he’s kidding, you can’t tell. The thought of his family owning yet another holiday home—in Jeju no less—is…strange. You think that if you try to comprehend just how rich Soobin is, steam would start coming out of your head. You personally had never travelled further than the places you’ve lived, let alone had houses purely for the purpose of visiting during specific seasons.

But this must be normal for him as he doesn’t even bat an eyelash. Okay. Cool. You’re just going to assume that Soobin has a house in every major city of Korea at this point.

The two of you barely make it past the staircase, past Isa’s lifeless body that has since turned a ghostly pale yellow, when a voice yells from behind you, thick with malice and so raspy it sounds as though it ripped through their throat, “Soobin!”

Simultaneously, you and the boy in question’s heads turn, hands still clasped together, and come face to face with the seekers. Masks still donned with the same cloak they’ve been wearing all night, you wonder who is who.

One of them steps towards the two of you, and you surprise yourself by planting your feet firmly in place. “Soobin,” he says and with a chill down your spine, you find that it is, in fact, Yunho, his voice familiar to you after all this time. Why he’s decided to ditch the voice modulator, you don’t know. Your eyes narrow.

Next to him, Wooyoung practically seethes. Closing the distance between you, he stalks over, knife brandished like a sword, crying, “We’re going to fucking kill you—!”

BANG!

Wooyoung stops in his tracks. His head drops to the center of his chest where you notice a pool of red spilling through the cloak and spreading outward. At the same time he drops the floor to his knees, you turn to look at Soobin. With a gun in his hands.

ONE HOUR LEFT

Soobin gives you a sidelong glance out of the corner of his eye. “Make them pay, right?”

You swallow, your heart hammering wildly in your chest. Right? That is what you said, this is what you wanted, but—fuck. He has a gun? Has he had one this entire time? He knows how to fire one? The knife pressed against your stomach burns against your skin.

Soobin doesn’t acknowledge your apparent discomfort, he doesn’t even look at you. Instead he watches Wooyoung clutch his chest desperately, blood seeping through his fingers. Watches Yunho rush to his friend’s side, distressed as he yanks off the mask from his face. Watches as his friend’s name falls from his lips in between a string of “no, no, no, no”s that sound something between a plea and a prayer.

He watches all of this impassively. His face barely twitches. He looks almost bored.

In the past night you have seen more people die and be killed than you would care to count, and yet, seeing the boy you’ve cared about for years put a bullet in someone so easily, without so much as a flinch, makes something ugly curl in your stomach.

Revenge is what you wanted, but something about this feels wrong.

Yunho crouches over Wooyoung and removes his friend’s face, brushing the shorter boy’s hair away from his forehead. “You’re okay, you’re okay, you’re okay,” he repeats, a mantra as he rips off a piece of his cloak to press against the wound, over the sound of Wooyoung’s laboured wheezing. He turns to glare at the both of you, something heady and full of hatred. “What is wrong with you?” he cries out, voice thick with anguish.

You find yourself wanting to defend yourself, to tell him that you didn’t do anything, that you never knew Soobin would do that. But you stop when you remember that they hurt your friends, they hurt you; you have the wound on your your leg to prove it and—

Oh, god.

You’re going to be sick.

Masks thrown to the side on the bloodied floor, you can see their faces clearly. Soft light rises from outside as the sun makes its ascent over the horizon—Has it really been that long since this fucked up game started?—and casts a glow across their features. Their unmarred features.

You slammed a kettle of boiling across one of their seeker’s faces; you burned him. And yet, here they stand, skin as smooth as a baby.

Eyes blown wide, you exhale shakily, “It’s not them.”

“What are you talking about?” Soobin asks through a scoff. You take a step away from him, hands trembling at your side at your revelation.

“I-I hit one of them. Neither of them have any scars or anything. It’s not them. Soobin, they’re innocent.” He looks at you for the first time since firing his gun, one that is calculated, like he’s assessing you, and has his jaw clenching. He’s never looked at you like this before.

From the ground, Wooyoung laughs mirthlessly through gritted teeth, catching your attention. Blood spittles from his mouth and you wince. “You think this fucker doesn’t know that?”

Yunho nods in Soobin’s direction. “He’s the one who knocked us out and put us in these clothes to frame us and forced us to pretend to be seekers. He threatened to hurt that Beom—”

With a tired sigh, Soobin rolls his eyes and aims his gun at the two boys. “This is tedious.”

Two shots.

One through Yunho’s head and another to Wooyoung’s chest, right where his heart is.

The shots rings out in the expansive living room, reverberating in your ears. You think you flinch, but you can’t be sure. Not with how your body feels as though it’s been doused with cement. You can’t move.

“What the fuck, what the fuck, what the fuck?”

Your mind was spinning. Soobin just shot two people. Two innocent people. Two innocent people who just accused him of—oh, god, you can’t keep the bile down anymore.

You heave.

“Oh, don’t tell me you believe them. Those guys?” Soobin asks disbelievingly, waving the gun around like it’s like a toy and not a weapon that just killed two people.

“You shot them,” you say, arms shaking at your sides.

“Yeah. After they killed my friends.”

“I just told you they didn’t!” Your voice cracks around the last syllable and Soobin’s face softens. He takes a step towards you, arm reaching out for you, but you step back, putting as much distance between the two of you. “Don’t touch me.”

He tries to stop you by saying, “Hey, don’t be like that,” but you just shake your head, trying to wrap your head around the last few minutes, but you find that you can’t. Nothing makes sense.

Nothing about the boy you liked being a gun carrying murderer makes sense. Nothing about the weekend that was supposed to be a fun time with your friends turning into a bloodbath made sense. The whole situation was making your head and you were so tired.

You just wanted to leave and go home to your tiny apartment with your best friend and watch a movie and complain about your classes over beer. You wish Soobin never planned this stupid party in the first place.

Your heart stutters in your chest.

I planned this whole thing for you.

The room tilts, like the world has been shifted on its axis. Moments from the night start slotting together like puzzle pieces in your mind as you recall the way Soobin wanted you to hide together at beginning of the game, how he just so happened to find you after Sunghoon was killed, how even though he claims to have gotten into a fight with the seekers, he barely has a scratch on him.

How he killed Wooyoung and Yunho despite you telling him they weren’t the seekers.

That ugly thing in the pit of your stomach grows and spreads throughout your body wraps itself around your throat.

Tears prick your eyes, sick and disbelief clawing up your throat. “You…” The words lodge themselves under your tongue.

Soobin’s face morphs just then.

Gone is the look of boyish care you have grown so familiar with, that you have fallen in love with, and is overtaken by a smug, snakelike grin. The sight chills you.

He claps. Actually applauds as he looks at you with something akin to pride. “God, you’re so smart. I knew you’d get it, you know? I always believed in you,” he admits, awe lacing his voice. Checking his watch, he whistles. “And with forty-seven minutes to spare! Wow. Your intelligence is one of the things I like about you, you know?”

What the fuck was happening right now? Was he confessing to you? Right now?

“What the fuck is wrong with you? You were fucking timing me? Why the fuck would you do that?”

“For you, obviously.” He says it matter-of-factly and it gives you pause. “You know,” he starts, walking around the base of the stairs with the air of someone giving a seminar, “when I told the guys that I knew you’d figure it out, they didn’t believe me. I said ‘That Y/N? She’s smart, she loves riddles. She’ll put two and two together.’. But they were adamant that the stress of the situation would be too much for you to handle and you wouldn’t be able to think clearly, blah blah blah. Psych majors. You know how they are.” He says it like the two of you are in on a joke together.

You want to wring his neck.

“And I guess they were right, kind of, but you pulled through in the end. Just like I knew you would.” Soobin flashes you a smile that before tonight, would have left your knees weak, but now the sight just makes you angry.

The fact that he thinks you should be flattered that he apparently thinks highly of your deduction skills in a situation he orchestrated that ended with so many people dead makes you sick. He bet on you.

With the seekers, you think abruptly. It has to be.

Your mind works quickly, trying to figure out who they really are and you gasp at your revelation.

His smile widens and you have half a mind to punch it right off. “I think introductions are in order, don’t you?”

As though summoned, two dark figures walk towards the both of you from a secret door in the walls of the living room. The seekers. One of them pushes someone along roughly—Beomgyu, your brain supplies—, a knife pressed against his throat.

A wave of relief washes over you as you lock eyes. “Y/N,” he exhales, breathlessly, eyes raking over your body. “You’re okay.”

“So are you,” you nod, voice dripping with relief, then you wince. “All things considered.”

He chuckles at that. “I suppose it could be worse.”

“Shut up,” the seeker holding Beomgyu snaps, the same voice modulator that has been tormenting you for six hours crackles.

The other one regards you lowly, through the black eye holes of the mask they don. “Y/N!” they announce dramatically, but Soobin raises a hand to stop them.

“You can ditch the voice now, guys. She figured it out.”

“God dammit!” they curse, ripping the mask off in an angry huff. “I can never have any fun around here.”

Finally, the identities of the people who have made your night a living hell is revealed to you. The boys standing in front of you are two you have only seen in pictures, heard about through anecdotes, the who, up until six hours ago, you had so wanted to meet.

Taehyun and Kai. The fucking seekers.

“What the fuck?” Beomgyu curses incredulously, staring at the faces of boys he used to pass in the halls at school.

Earlier that last night Soobin had told you that his two best friends were away at a yacht party.

We were having so much fun but you just had to go and rock the boat!

Jesus Christ.

You hadn’t thought much of it at the time, but now, it clicks in your mind perfectly. You barely hold back a scoff. What a terrible clue.

Kai’s mouth spreads snakily across his face, in an unnerving imitation of a smile. “Hey, Y/N. Nice to finally meet you.”

You snarl.

Off to the side, Soobin is practically vibrating in place, bouncing on the balls of his feet like a little kid. “You figured it out, right? I was worried that telling you about the yacht party was too much of a throwaway comment and then there was the issue of trying to find a way for Kai to slip in something about a water or a boat—Have to thank you, Beomgyu, for that stunt you pulled. Really appreciate it.”

Your childhood friend physically recoils at that. Taehyun grunts and presses the knife against his throat deeper. Beomgyu winces.

Shaking your head, you turn and confront Soobin. “So what was the point of all this? You guys killed all these people for what?” A tremor goes through your hands so you ball them into fists at your side.

Soobin cocks his head to the side innocently. “For you, Y/N. You love game nights. You love riddles and puzzles and mysteries, so I came up with the biggest one just for you.”

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Beomgyu exclaims. “You’re telling me that you did all of this, killed all of your fucking friends because you have a crush?”

Behind him, Taehyun shrugs noncommittally. “People who experience traumatic events together are inexplicably bonded for life.”

A beat.

“You were trying to fucking trauma bond with me?”

“You make it sound so simple,” he complains, waving the gun dismissively. “I made rules, people, there was structure. You know the order people died was the order they knew each other? Of course you did, you probably realised. But what you didn’t know is that Beomgyu—” he points the gun at him— “was supposed to go first. But you guys screwed it up! How the hell do you guys even know each other?”

“Your mom introduced us,” Beomgyu hisses defiantly. Blood trickles down his neck in response.

Soobin squints his eyes as if bored. “Real mature. Anyways, I saw you two talking in the kitchen at the beginning of the night so I had to do some emergency rearranging. So, in a way, Sunghoon dying first is kind of your fault. Granted, he would have died anyway, but, you know. Semantics.”

The same sweet boy who used to walk you to class and take you out for coffee after stressful exam weeks, the same boy who helped you out with homework and made you feel like the sun was bursting in your chest by smiling was the same one who hurt you, your friends. And he didn’t even feel an ounce of remorse for it.

“Fuck you,” you spit menacingly but you are just brushed off.

Soobin waves a dismissive hand in the air. “Plenty of time for that later. Now, we have to address the elephant in the room. The elephant, of course, being Beomgyu. Killing him now would mess up the order and I’m kind of a stickler for the—”

He doesn’t get to finish because out of the corner of your eye, Beomgyu elbows his captor in the stomach hard. Taehyun keels over, releasing him and you spur into action. Surprised, Kai takes a moment to recover before he is slashing at Beomgyu’s arm with his knife. Beomgyu hisses in pain, clutching his shoulder.

Rushing to Wooyoung’s body, pain flaring up your leg, you pry his knife from his fingers and say a silent apology in your head. “Beomgyu!” you yell. He turns to you and after a split second decision, you throw the knife in his direction.

Miraculously, he catches it by the hilt and, before you can blink, he’s lodged it in Kai’s throat.

The first seeker splutters, hands flying to press against the wound but it proves futile. Blood gushes from his neck like a burst pipe. Kai chokes as blood gets into his throat, coughing up red.

It’s a gruesome sight but it fills you with satisfaction, watching as he, too, succumbs to the same death he subjected your friends to.

Kai let's out a final wheeze before he falls to his knees, one arm reaching up to Beomgyu who watches on, face blank and chest heaving. Finally, Kai’s body goes limp and hits the floor with a thud.

“Well,” Soobin starts with a clap, turning to Taehyun, “guess I owe you that island.”

His friend grunts weakly, still recovering from Beomgyu’s assault. “You shouldn’t bet against me,” Taehyun admonishes when he rises to his full height.

Soobin nods sagely, chuckling. “I have learned my lesson.” Beomgyu steps back towards you and you reach for him instinctively. Soobin tracks the movement and something downright evil sparkles in his eyes. “Tell you what,” he says, addressing Taehyun, though his eyes never leave you and Beomgyu. “Do one more thing and I’ll throw in another.”

“An island?” you question incredulously. This was just getting ridiculous.

Taehyun shrugs. “It’s part of his inheritance. But now, it’ll be part of mine.” He stalks closer to the two of you causing you to back up to the stairs, nearly tripping over Isa’s body.

Knife pointed, he draws nearer menacingly. He’s after Beomgyu, you know. In some twisted form of logic you know that he won’t hurt you, not with Soobin right there.

Beomgyu tries to stand up straight but you can see the pain clear on his face as he clutches his injured arm. Taehyun grins at that, and lunges—

A wine bottle swings against his head from behind.

Taehyun’s body stills. He crumples to the floor in a heap of black fabric, head hitting the ground with a loud thud.

“Fuck rich people,” the assailant spits, chest heaving and your heart squeezes.

Lia.

She notices you and she lets the bottle drop from her grasp and the two run to embrace the other. All the tension you were holding in your shoulder eases, your body physically sagging against hers in relief.

You don’t even realise you are crying until damp spots start forming on her shoulder. Tears rack through your body at the feeling of your best friend in your arms, alive just like you believed she would be. Her grip around you tightens as she clutches the back of your shirt as though she fears you’ll disappear if she lets go.

“They attacked me in our room when I was grabbing my book, then tied me up and left me in the cellar. Told me that it wasn’t my turn yet. I tried to loosen them but whoever tied them used some kind of fucking boats knot. Broke one of the bottles and cut the rope with a glass shard—and my hand, too.”

It is her only injury, you note when the two of you finally pull apart. She has ripped off the left sleeve of her shirt and wrapped it around her hand as a makeshift gauze. It is stained with a giant blotch of blood but she’s alive.

She nods to Beomgyu appreciatively and he responds with a two finger wave. As she takes in the scene, all the blood and mess and bodies littering the floor, you see how her jaw tightens and eyes narrow. When they settle on Soobin, she spits in his face.

He recoils in disgust and wipes it away with—he’s got to be fucking kidding—a handkerchief from his pants pocket.

“You fucker,” Lia sneers.

He merely rolls his eyes. “Oh, great the band’s back together,” he drawls unenthusiastically. “There’s still twenty minutes left of the game, can we wrap this up?”

Aiming his gun between Lia and Beomgyu he pretends to ponder who he’s going to kill next. Lia stares him dead on, defiance dancing in her eyes and you have never been more in awe of your friend before.

“Y/N?”

Everybody’s heads whip around to the front door where Yeonjun stands in the threshold, confusion dancing in his eyes as he takes in the scene.

He came.

“Jesus fucking Christ!” Soobin exclaims haughtily, arms going up in annoyance. “Who the fuck is this guy?”

“The guy who called the cops,” he reveals, jutting out his chin as he walks towards you. “They’re on their way.” The last part is directed more to you than Soobin and you have never been more grateful to see a boy you just met.

“Good,” you say nodding, eyes narrowed as you stare down the boy you used to look at only in administration, “you’ll be dead before they get here.”

Soobin has the nerve to gasp in faux shock, clutching at his heart as though you’ve wounded him. “Okay, ouch. That’s hurtful, babe, how could you say that?”

“You tried to kill me. You made me think my best friend was dead.”

He holds up a finger to stop you and you have half a mind to slice it off. “Point of correction: I never tried to kill you. I would never hurt you, Y/N. I did all of this for you! I ruined my favourite holiday house for you! Now I’m stuck with Jeju and fuckass Tokyo. Do you realise how much I’m giving up for you here and you think I’m the bad guy?”

“You’re insane,” you say incredulously.

“Insane for you.”

“Go fuck yourself.”

“Oh, come on.” He sounds like a petulant child. Which, you suppose, is exactly what he is. “I killed for you! You think, what, fucking Beomgyu can say that? You think you’d be happy with some asshole from across the lake with a terrible dye job? No way, baby! I’m it!” By the time his spiel is over, his arms are outstretched on either side of him, chest heaving like he’s just ran a marathon.

Lia grimaces. “Did you just fucking quote Gone Girl?”

“Ben Afleck rents out his L.A. house to us, of course I did.”

“What the fuck, man?” Beomgyu expresses, face pinched.

“And this isn’t a dye job, dickwad, this is literally my hair.”

Your best friend turns to Yeonjun and stares like he’s an idiot. “Time and place, dude.”

“Y/N. Baby.” You feel yourself cringe at the pet name. He holds out his hands and takes a step towards you. “You can’t tell me you don’t want this.” Soobin’s voice takes on a sickly sweet lilt, one that would have had you melting if you didn’t find out he was a psychopath.

Thinking about your friends, a wave of protectiveness and a pang of guilt pass through you. They’re here because of you.

With determination coursing through your veins, you step forward. “You’re right.” Behind you, your friends all verbally express their shock. You ignore them. “This is what I want.”

Soobin’s smile drops into an ‘o’ shape as he inhales sharply. When he glances down at the space between the two of you, he is greeted with the sight of a knife—Yeonjun’s knife—sticking out his abdomen.

“Huh,” is the last thing he says to you.

“Go to hell,” is the last thing you say to him.

Hand still on the hilt, you withdraw the knife only to stab him again. And again, and again, and again.

Over and over until you lose count, you plunge the knife into his body, piercing his skin. Blood splatters all over your face and front but you don’t care. You are moving on pure rage at this point. Rage at this boy who turned your favourite thing in the world against you, who put your friends in danger, who has more money in his left pinky than you’ll ever see in your life.

Finally, you slow, and watch as his eyes roll to the back of his head. His body falls to the ground and, for the first time since Sunghoon died in front of you, you smile.

A real, genuine smile spreads across your face as you turn to take in your friends.

“You look like shit,” Lia comments, her own grin growing on her face.

You lift a noncommittal shoulder, teeth bared. “You should see the other guy.”

Beomgyu laughs at that, hearty and full, taking over his whole body and the rest of you aren’t far behind.

Turning to Yeonjun, you find yourself growing shy. “You came.”

“I couldnʼt in good conscience let you walk into a murder house, now could I?” he asks with a tilt of his head and an easy-going grin.

You huff out a laugh and gesture to your blood covered body. “I’d hug you but I’m kind of a mess right now.”

“I don’t know,” he drawls, eyes raking over you appreciatively. Your skin flares wherever his gaze lingers. “I think the blood and guts is working for me.”

Somewhere next to you, Lia fake gags. “Oh, god, Y/N, your new boyfriend is gross.”

“Shut up, Lia,” you admonish without turning to look at her.

Yeonjun chuckles good-naturedly. “How about we reschedule that hug? Possibly after a shower. Preferably over breakfast.”

Feeling your cheeks warm, you nod. “I’d like that.”

“Great. I’m craving pancakes and I could use a hug, too.” You turn to see Beomgyu standing with a cheeky grin on his face.

There is a low grunt from behind you. Slowly rising to his feet is Taehyun having recovered from the wine bottle to the head. Steps staggering, he glares daggers at Beomgyu. “The only hug you’ll be getting is one from death. I’m getting that island—”

A bullet lodges itself in his head and he falls back, eyes blank. Soobin’s gun in hand, Lia stands with it aimed out in front of her.

You don’t even know when she grabbed it.

She exhales heavily. “I needed that.”

Despite everything, you laugh. “So. Breakfast?”

Everyone grunts in affirmation and starts talking over each other about where they should eat when they get back to the city. Obviously, you need to wait for the police to arrive so that you can give your statements. Someone needs to talk to everyones’ parents, let them know what happened. But you’ll cross that bridge when you get there. Together, of course.

Trauma bonded and all that.

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iamamythologicalcreature · 2 months

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An Ask Game for Writers to Procrastinate Working on Your WIP(s)

(Not like I need the assistance, but I'm so thrilled to be thought of as a writer that I'm totally doing this.)

Thank you so much for the invites @aristocratic-otter, @bookish-bogwitch, @shrekgogurt, @ic3-que3n, @ivelovedhimthroughworse, @drowninginships, @best--dress, @you-remind-me-of-the-babe, @monbons, @thewholelemon, @whatevertheweather, and @youarenevertooold! (I think I might be the last one in the 'verse doing this, but that won't stop me from tagging more people at the end.) I've loved reading everyone's answers!

Okay. Here we go. I am absolutely using my flimsy claim to authorhood to answer these. >.>

1. 🦈Tell us the name of your/ one of your WIP(s):

The Haunting of Simon Snow

2. 🍄Describe your WIP/one of your WIP(s) in the format of “___ + ___ =___”

Construction Worker!Simon + haunted manor house = a most interesting summer job

3. 🌍What tags or warnings will your / one of your WIP(s) need if you intend to share it?

Well, it's a ghost story. You can draw some conclusions from that.

4. 🧭An alternative title to your/ one of your WIP(s)?

A Victorian's Gothic

5. ⚠️Which WIP your most likely to finish or update next?

It sure as hell better be Haunting. I mean, my goodness, it's looped around my brain like a too-patient boa constrictor, just sloooowly squeezing.

6. 💾What is your document of your WIP/ a WIP called? (not the stories actual title but what you’ve saved it as)

snowbaz.scriv is my catch-all Scrivener file for all ficcy things

7. 🖍Post Any sentence(s) from your WIP.

There’s a person that I used to be. Magic I used to hold, magic that held me. I have done everything I can to forget that feeling, because it was never supposed to be mine. I was never magic. He’s magic. He’s magic, and I can almost touch him. He’s magic, and he can almost hold me. I live on the edge of almost all the time, so that’s enough. (It’s never enough.)

8. ♻️A scrapped idea for your current WIP.

This was originally planned as a story written in letters. (Doing that with something else, now, and it works way better in a different story.)

9. 🤔What’s a story you’d love to write but haven’t even started yet?

I'm going to stick to snowbaz fanfic for this, because if I broaden it any further, this list will instantly become quite long. (I have a lot of original story ideas.) For snowbaz, though? Well, there's the one I'm planning for COTTA. There are a couple AU's that I've written way too many notes on. And then a Fangirl crossover fic that I sincerely hope to someday write. (Technically I started it, but only a few hundred words at this point.)

10. 🤡How many WIPS are you actively working on?

Actively? One. Maybe two. Kinda thinking two, but the second one is new and more of a game at this point, so we'll see. (Not quite so actively I also have my Baz fic, my "Silence" fic where Baz successfully steals Simon's voice. It's roughly (super roughly) outlined, and I've written several scenes, but it's on the back-burner for Haunting. And COTTA. No more new fics after that, though! I really want to tell that story!)

11. 🛠Is there a scene or anything in the WIP you are struggling with right now?

That's funny. What a question. XD YES. Yes, there are scenes. I'm designing Pitch Manor to get through this damned scene LOL

12. ❤️Not a question, just a second Kudos to send.

Thankee kindly!

On the off chance there are any fic writers left out there who haven't yet done this... Tags! @mooncello, @cutestkilla, @blackberrysummerblog, @hushed-chorus, @fatalfangirl, @onepintobean, @j-nipper-95, @facewithoutheart, @angelsfalling16, @noblecorgi, @alexalexinii, anyone else who wants to. Cheers!

#ask game #get to know me #tumblr tag game #tag game #snowbaz #snowbaz fanfic #works in progress #fandom friends

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rogueddie · 9 months

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NSFW Steddie Fic Rec, Part 2: Bottom / Sub Eddie

Important: READ THE TAGS! Also, leave a comment and kudos! These fics are amazing and I love them and I hope y'all do too 💦

And for this one too, heavy emphasis on 'read the tags'. 🔞

Screw Todd, Steve's Her (His) Daddy Now

ArtaxLivs

Steve keeps calling himself Daddy "unintentionally" and Eddie...well, Eddie's about to lose it and do something he might (probably won't) regret.

Words : 5,087 Chapters : 1/1 ❗ : Light BDSM

AO3 : x

When You Sweat That Toxic Haze, I Love Your Smell

astromirage

“I’m sorry, shit ‘m sorry,” he whines, desperately needing to rabidly thrust into Steve’s cunt, to hold him down, fuck him until he’s cock stupid, drooling, only being able to beg for release, and Eddie’s dick.

“You better fucking be, don’t do it again,” he begins moving, propping himself up, just to work back onto his dick, doing this a few times, each drawing delicious noises from both of them.

Steve settles in, rocking against Eddie, the most pornographic sounds tumbling from his lips as he arches his back, burying Eddie’s cock in him deeper. His thighs burn as he fucks himself on Eddie, clenching around him, causing Eddie to groan, faltering in the stance he had sitting up. Their sweaty skin slaps together softly as Steve methodically uses Eddie, slowly working Eddie up.

Words : 3,661 Chapters : 1/1 ❗ : FTM Steve

AO3 : x

In My Boxers, Half Stoned

Eddywow

"You can," Eddie said, almost sounding like he was nodding along to his words. The image was too pure for Steve. "You could say anything you want to me and I'd- I think I'd be into it. Because I saw your pics and like, I know your face isn't in them but- but I really like them. Is it okay that I liked them?"

Words : 12,338 Chapters : 2/2 ❗

AO3 : x

Melt Me On Your Tongue

indelicate

“This okay?”

“Yeah it’s— shit, it’s more than okay, Steve.”

“… you’re crying, Eds.”

Eddie can’t hold back a choked off noise then, somewhere between an overwhelmed laugh and a sob.

“No one’s ever done this to me before.”

He doesn’t know if he means no one’s ever given him a bath, or braided his hair, or just any of the things Steve does for him, really.

Eddie's never had a Steve before.

Words : 5,879 Chapters : 1/1 ❗ : Mild Painplay

AO3 : x

Done Deal

morningberries

“I’m sorry, your royal highness, but I don’t accept trades, or favours, or IOUs, or promises, or anything relating. I accept cash. That’s it. End of story.”

“Are you sure?” Steve stepped forward into Eddie’s personal space and was pleased to see the other man’s round eyes grow impossibly larger. “I feel like I could offer you something that you want, that isn’t cash.”

Words : 3,644 Chapters : 1/1 ❗ : D/S

AO3 : x

The Bartender Was A Trap

MixAddams

Wouldn’t it be hilarious if Steve was just naturally amazing at DND?

Like he can see the strategy clear as day and can’t understand why the other players are taking so long to decide on their next move. He’s never caught by surprise by the story. He built his nearly flawless absolute weapon of a character in less than twenty minutes.

Eddie fucking hates it but oh boy does it turn him on

Words : 2,889 Chapters : 1/1 ❗

AO3 : x

Ozzy sucks

dirtyvalentine

And the pièce de résistance comes when Eddie tells him, "You could cover my mouth."

That one scares him most.

Because, well, "How are you going to use your safeword?"

"I'm not."

"What if you need to?"

"I won't."

"How do you know?"

"I'll never need to. Just trust me."

Words : 14,465 Chapters : 1/1 ❗ : Non-Con

AO3 : x

Emphasis: Major Trigger Warning for Rape Obviously I'm recommending this fic, but I do want to be clear; the content, what actually happens, in this fic? It's tagged Dead Dove for a reason. Heed the tags!

Open Up Baby

murdertrashbabyrat

Eddie calls him mommy one time, one fucking time, as a joke, he swears just a joke but then Steve looks at him, expression stern, hands on his fucking hips of course, and says, “Behave,” before snapping at Robin that she wasn’t putting this album on again and if she puts it on again he’s gonna destroy her and then she puts it on and he’s chasing her across the house and it’s funny and he should be laughing but instead he’s a little bit stricken over the fact that he’s fucking hard.

Words : 5,008 Chapters : 1/1 ❗ : Mommy Kink

AO3 : x

Whatever you want, Birthday Boy.

FluffyChicken

The club is fucking crowded when they arrive. Robin announces to the security man at the door that it's his best friend's birthday, and to Steve's dismay, she starts telling everyone who's listening that it's actually Steve's twentieth five birthday.

Fuck. Steve wishes to have twenty five years again.

"There you are, birthday boy!" He announces with a pretty smile that makes Steve go hot all over. Maybe he should take off his jacket.

Steve looks at his drink, the glass decorated with a silly pink umbrella, and smiles, reaching for his wallet and opening over the bar to pay.

“This one it’s on the house, handsome!” The bartender yells at him, putting his hand over Steve’s, stopping him. "Happy birthday!"

Words : 15,783 Chapters : 4/4 ❗

AO3 : x

#stranger things #steve harrington #eddie munson #steddie #fic rec #ficrec

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jtl07 · 2 months

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jtl07 fics, spring 2024

We interrupt the posting about various water animals with my first fic recap of 2024!

An admission: I’m still in a rollercoaster of a headspace (also still open to song recs so I can make noises on the guitar btw) - I was, gently, reminded that it’s not even been a year since life upended itself and there’s been a lot that's happened in the past couple months, even more in the past couple weeks, so. We’ll take it one step - one water animal, one guitar riff, one fic recap - at a time.

General stats

Total on this pseud: 5

Fics posted (in chronological order):

Cat’s Cradle security checkpoint logs - Just a snapshot in the form of the contents of folks' bags

tell me all the things you believe - or: one year later

even though you're not mine - or: Ava comes back, but not hers; or or: Princington's artwork strikes again

i see you clearly now (i hold you dearly now) - or: on touch and waiting and wanting; or or: Ava comes back invisible

nineteen, again - or: Ava at thirty-eight

(Per usual, more numbers and thoughts under the cut)

More numbers

(As of last night; some of the numbers seem to have changed but only slightly)

Total words: 26,369

Shortest fic: 813 - Cat’s Cradle security checkpoint logs

Longest fic: 19,010 - i see you clearly now (i hold you dearly now)

Average/Median word count: 5,274 / 1,676

Most hits: 2,128 - i see you clearly now (i hold you dearly now)

Least hits: 555 - Cat’s Cradle security checkpoint logs

Average/Median percent of *interactions to hits: 21.3% / 22.0%

Highest percent of interactions to hits: 23.1% - nineteen, again

Least percent of interactions to hits: 18.7% - i see you clearly now (i hold you dearly now)

*where “interaction” = kudos, comment threads, bookmarks

General thoughts

None of the regular stats (all the word count stuff) were a surprise to me, so I added some new stats looking at interactions and hits. Interaction totals seem to correspond with hit counts (hence why I didn't note those above) but what was interesting was the percentages. Yeah, it's a difference of only a couple percentage points but the nerd in me is intrigued. As in: I wonder if the length and premise of "i see you clearly" was both draw (hits) and deterrent (interaction)? Also several comments mentioned liking the setting age-wise of "nineteen, again" so that plus the fact that there were a lot of familiar faces was perhaps folks knowing what they were getting into? idk, really can't draw any conclusions - it can also just be simple reader behavior.

Actually, speaking of which, another interesting thing I observed: I did an initial pull using the bookmarklet on the 25th, then updated the numbers last night. The numbers that changed the most were hits and, surprisingly, bookmarks (kudos were next, and comments hardly changed). I hadn't realized that bookmarks were utilized so much.

Fic that surprised you:

Technically "i see you clearly now" fits this prompt - but then again, it fits every prompt in this recap lol - but the fic I want to talk about here is "even though you're not mine. I had fully expected not to post anything for February (context: I have a soft personal goal to complete something every month) but then @princington had to go and be amazing lol. I distinctly remember seeing their art (linked above) and immediately being beset by two different ideas. I then went for a walk and during said walk, lines starting coming for the shorter idea. Near the end of the walk, the ending for the fic came to me as well, and by that time I was speedwalking to get back home and write it all down! It had been a while since I'd felt an idea take hold of me that quickly and completely - it's such a rush and was fun to write. That one definitely would not have happened without Prince's fantastic work <3

Fic that you're proud of:

Okay now I'll talk about "i see you clearly now" lol - everything about it was terrifying, from the length, the content, the style. It really was unexpected because the opening came fully fleshed out early on, which usually points to a quick little fic. But I remember hitting 3k and looking over what I had so far, and thinking very clearly: ohshit, this is going to be long. But I think what won out over the fear was this curiosity - I wanted to see where this fic was going to lead me. There was something in it that kept drawing me back, even though I didn't know at all where the story was going, something in me felt surprisingly, idk safe exploring what was, for me, uncharted territory.

Fun fact #1: I think it was around the 5k~6k mark - before I'd gotten anywhere near the ending, mind - I'd had this thought (which I'd fully written down in my notes lol) of having a fun spicy one-shot as a follow up. And then shortly thereafter, I realized how crucial physical intimacy was to the story and how it there wouldn't be a follow up - it had to be integrated into the fic. A lot of internal screaming ensued lol

Fun fact #2: I surprisingly didn't do a lot in terms of editing. The biggest was a rewrite of the phone conversation between Beatrice and Mother Superion. I remember feeling a bit iffy about it and @gohandinhand (best beta ever seriously!) gently highlighted it as well. I guess it was one of those scenes where I needed to know what the story was before I could really write that scene in a way that fit everything else. It was interesting because I felt that's how it was writing the fic as a whole - it wasn't very linear, it was more like I'd write one scene near the beginning, which gave some inspiration for a scene near the ending, which then brought me to a scene near the middle. It felt quite intricate, seeing how adjusting one area affected another, affected the whole.

Fun fact #3: Before I wrote the reunion, I sat down and studied a bunch of fics because I'm a nerd lol - there's that one post, which I of course can't find now, about how there's nothing more embarrassing than writing smut that doesn't turn anyone on, which I felt very keenly lol - I was like, jt, if you're going to do this, you better damn do this well. So I went through some other fics and studied structure, word choice, pacing - it was quite enlightening actually, and something I think I'll do more of this year. (Studying, I mean. Not the - well, I shouldn't promise anything about what I will or will not write lol)

Fic that was the hardest to write:

Much as "i see you clearly now" terrified me, it actually wasn't hard to write. Similar to Beatrice's arc in the story itself, I as the writer had to just be patient and allow it take form in the time it took. I mean, even that rewrite that I mentioned came on fairly easily.

Now that I think about it, I do remember "tell me all the things you believe" being difficult to write. Yeah, quite a number of afternoons sitting at a nearby Starbucks pulling at my hair lol The main prompt for that was simply to mark the occasion (that being my own 1 year of writing Warrior Nun/Avatrice). I think what I'm learning is that things are much easier when an idea is couched firmly in a character or an emotion. (For example, I mentioned a while ago having a hard time with i walked with you once, which could have also been due to not having formed a good grasp of JC's character)

Oh I also had not a difficulty writing, but a difficulty posting Cat’s Cradle security checkpoint logs - I'd thought it was too simple yknow? But ultimately I thought hey, this is all just for fun, not everything needs to be complex and worldchanging so why the heck not.

What's next?

Gosh that's a question I've been carefully avoiding what with being in the midst of so much transition. I've been doing a lot of resting and found myself being drawn to studying structure again - kishoutenketsu in particular (I recently found some studies I'd done a couple years ago, I might clean those up and post them here), and how to layer complexity onto that. Which is timely because there's a couple ideas that came to me late last year that I immediately knew were going to be complex and kinda put them on the shelf because I didn't think I was ready to write them. Writing "i see you clearly now" has made me question that thought so hopefully the studying will help bring up my confidence to at least try.

In any case, there are still plenty of ideas (Beatrice voice: "there's always more") it's just a matter of figuring out which ones feel right to write. I'll likely continue to be a little quiet here - save for the posts of the water animals lol - but I'll be around.

Anyway, huh, apparently I had much more to say than I thought I would for this recap. If you made it this far, wow, a virtual cookie for you! Hope the end of March brings some rest and comfort <3

#jt writes fic #words about my words #jt's fic recap

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