#Twitter is just dead convinced that’s what I fucking want

[pluviophile-imagines]

If there’s proof that I never go on Twitter it’s that for the last half a year when I do my monthly “someone linked a tweet and tumblr’s dry so I might as well check for a few mins” scroll-through my dash on there has been entirely vtubers (u know who u are) and, inexplicably, a fucking criminal amount of Haikyuu slash fic in the form of Twitter threads

who the fuck prefers to tweet out their fanfic 50 characters at a time? absolute maniacs that’s who

#pattering on the roof #the vtubers r entirely bc the one active blog I follow has dived headfirst into vtuber brainrot #unfortunately the person running it is one of my best friends so I simply deal #the fanfics tho #Twitter is just dead convinced that’s what I fucking want #bc they’re ALL recommended posts #ITS NOT EVEN CHARS IM RLLY INTO #ITS ALL BOKUAKA AND SAKUATSU #the Twitter algorithm meets its match: a sorta-girl who never fucking opens the app 😭😭😭

[biteattheseams]

.

#fannibal twitter has convinced themselves s4 is going to be announced again 🙄 #like... it's been almost 10 years since the show started #I'm begging y'all to please let it go #even if there were a chance it got rebooted in some form #a) the show's 3 seasons finished with the perfect ending of hannibal and will being each other's own undoing #and b) it just makes more sense to do a spin off show rather than some sort of revival #because bryan fuller (not that I put much stock in what he says #i have personal problems with how he ran the show) #wanted to put clarice into the next couple of seasons and as far as i'm aware #there has been no reuniting of the clarice and hannibal characters in terms of copyright #so everyone on twitter has got a clown wig on and it's so fucking cringy and embarrassing #like yeah sure cringe culture is dead yadahyadah but the naiveté is painful to watch #raphaelle.talks

[viennakarma]

My dearest friend and enemy (2)

PART 2 | Fernando Alonso x Reader

Summary: You and Fernando always dreamed of the day you'd get into Formula 1. Unfortunately, the competition, the pride and the stubborness, get in the way of a beautiful friendship.

Word count: 7.1k

Tags: female!reader, driver reader, coming of age, ups and downs of a friendship, brocedes coded, very very angsty, cursing, anger, fights, overuse of flavio briatore as a plot device, lots of low blows, sprinkles of romance, kissing, making out, happy ending, not beta read

Relationship: Fernando Alonso x Reader

Note: Someone requested this, with this very detailed request, and it has consumed my every thought for the past week or two. I had to tweak some things from the request here and there, hope it's ok. It's heavily inspired by brocedes. (There is a lot of info that is wrong or inaccurate, I did this on purpose to fit my narrative, if you catch them, please ignore)

I was wondering doing a bonus part about Fernando POV throughout everything (to show he was ALSO miserable), but I don't know if i have the time and energy for it. Let me know if you guys would be interested in it and I'll do it in headcanons/topics.

I'm sorry if it feels rushed, this was taking way too long and I just wanted to follow my heart. Feedback and opinions are appreciated xx

Find me on Twitter!

PART 1 | FERNANDO'S HEADCANONS

You were moping and crying in the living room when the phone started ringing. Looking at the little screen that showed the number that was calling, you knew it was Fernando. You had memorized his number at some point in your lifetime. Your parents weren’t home, so you hesitated. You took so long that his call went to voicemail.

“I know you’re there,” he said, voice sounding tired, low and inpatient, “please pick up the-”

You pulled the phone cable, unplugging the call and silencing him. Wiping your tears, you stared at the unplugged phone on the little side table for what felt like hours, until your parents returned from work, when you got up to plug the phone back and pretend like you didn’t spend the whole day mourning a friendship you always thought would last forever.

After two days ignoring all calls, even Flavio’s, you decided that you’d shield yourself from now on, and you wouldn’t give Fernando any more ammo to hurt you. You met with Flavio at the next race, face heavy with makeup to cover up the sleepless nights you had gone through. You put your bag down and stared at Flavio across the table.

“Good morning. Let’s go back to work,” you said, gently pulling the stack of papers from his grasp. He called your name in that tone, of someone wanting a heart to heart.

“We should talk about the f-” He started but you cut him off.

“No, I don’t want to talk about that,” you said.

“I talked to Fernando and he-”

“I said, I don’t want to talk about it. He’s dead to me.” You repeated slowly, finally looking up at him. Flavio must’ve seen something in your eyes because he let the topic go.

You didn’t see Fernando for two more days, and when the weekend officially started, you avoided him like the plague. Even when you two were in the same place with other drivers, you’d ignore his existence for the most part. Whenever you were in a little circle chatting with other drivers and he arrived, you’d leave immediately. Press conference, you convinced Jenson to switch places with you so you could be as far from Fernando as possible. Even with team debriefs, with Flavio trying to make you talk to Fernando, you refused.

The rest of the season was insane, during team meetings and debriefs you were cold and barely talked to him. He didn’t try to talk to you either, and the silent distance only grew.

You were head to head in a race, you were P2 and Fernando P3 right behind you.

“Switch with Fernando,” your engineer said on the radio.

“He won’t fucking pass me,” you said into the radio, holding your position and pace. He was less than a second behind, and you refused to let him pass.

“I repeat, let him pass,” That was Flavio.

“If he manages to overtake me, he can go.”

He didn’t. You knew you had more pace, but still he insisted, and through the mirrors, you could see him closing in behind you. He tried to overtake but you pushed the car fast, and when he couldn’t anymore, he turned into you, touching his front right tyre to your rear left tyre. You were too fast. The mere touch of his tyre bursted yours. You couldn’t even get angry as you lost control of the car in a millisecond, the speed making your car fly into the air as it hit the gravel. With your car overturning a few times in the air, you watched your sight going ground, sky, ground, sky, ground, sky.

Then you blacked out.

When you woke up, you were on a stretcher being placed carefully inside the ambulance, you tried to get up, dizzy and someone handed you a bag where you threw up inside.

You had an insane headache as they took you to the medical center. Apparently, everything else was alright as you checked your own body for any injuries or problems. The doctor checked you but still made you through a round of tests and injected saline solution diluted with pain medicine in an IV drip. They also decided you’d stay overnight to make sure nothing was wrong. 

Your dad, who was watching from the garage, was the first to find you in the medical center, visibly worried and crying. He hugged you for a whole minute, before taking a step back and touching your face to make sure you were really alright.

“I’m ok, Papá. Just passed out when the car was spinning in the air,” You smiled softly, wanting to dissipate his worry.

“When you didn’t answer the radio-” He choked back tears.

“It’s ok, I’m ok now.”

“What are you feeling, darling?” He pressed, holding your hands to look for injuries in your arms.

“I’m all in one piece, Papá. Just a little sore, but that’s normal whenever a racing driver crashes,” you let him know, and he nodded.

“Let me just call your mother. She was so worried she wanted to get into the first flight here,” He told you.

“Tell her I’m alright and I love her,” you whispered and he nodded, going outside.

You sighed as you were left alone, trying to find a comfortable position where you didn’t have to move too much, since your whole body felt like it had been run over by a truck. The door opened and you thought it was Flavio, but you were faced with Fernando, still sweaty and in his overalls. He looked disheveled, but he was full of worry, even his eyes looked a little misty as he stood there a few meters from you.

But you couldn’t look past the anger when the memory of him diving into your car came back. He had gambled with your life, out of pettiness, out of envy, he couldn’t pass you, so he decided the next best thing was to take you out, not even caring about the danger he was putting you through.

“Leave.” You said, with gritted teeth.

“Please,” he begged with his voice softer than you had heard for almost a year, “let me just-”

“Leave! You could’ve gotten me killed, Fernando. Get out!” You said, louder. “Do you have any idea that you could have ruined my life in a moment of anger?! That you could have gotten me seriously injured or worse?! I would have never done that to you!” You pressed your index finger to the nurse button repeatedly, and a few seconds later, a nurse came in, “Ma’am can you escort him out please?”

You could see in his eyes that he was hurt by your words, but in that moment, all you felt was blind rage, for what he did the last time you spoke and because he crashed into you on purpose. You didn’t want to hear any excuses now that he realized he put your life in danger just because his ego couldn’t take a hit.

The next day, after you were discharged, you traveled for a meeting with Flavio at Renault’s headquarters. He met you alone in the meeting room, talking to you about the accident, and after making sure you were physically fine, he went off.

“What you did yesterday was reckless and you went against express orders from the team and from me. This is not happening again, or you will be risking your seat at Renault,” He said, his voice never leaving room for debate, you swallowed and nodded, “When the team orders you to do something, you do. No questioning, and no going against it. Understood?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Fernando was really worried about you yes-”

“I don’t want to talk about him.” You cut Flavio off.

“You two are best friends, it’s really sad to see you lose all that because of Formula 1” Flavio said, gently.

“He put my life at risk, Flavio. This is not something a friend would do,” you stood up, walking away but you stopped by the door, “Kinda curious how motorsports, the very thing that brought us together, is the same that tore us apart.”

Then you went to meet the engineers for the next race strategies. 

That night as you laid down at home, you thought that you’d never compete with Fernando solely because he was Flavio’s favorite. If it ever came to Flavio to decide whether you would win or Fernando would win, he’d always pick Fernando. You could’ve been fighting for the championship this year, he had promised you, instead you were being used as a step in Fernando’s path of glory, when you could be fairly racing him for the championship. You’d always come second to him there. That was also the moment you stopped seeing Flavio as a friend, and confined him back to a position of Team Principal.

You reread the Sauber proposal that came to you that year to start racing for them the next season, tempted to just go and make your name somewhere else. Somewhere where you’d be put first.

But deep down, a sense of indebtedness had rooted into your heart ever since the day Fernando told you the truth. You had to pay Flavio back for his trust and for his money, and the only way you thought you could do it was by becoming world champion under his team.

There was still a little kid inside you, a little kid who aspired to prove Fernando wrong, to become a champion and prove to yourself you’re more than him. More than who he wanted you to be, more than a loser.

You turned down the offer from Sauber.

The rest of the season you went almost robotically. You still gave your all every race, but your mood would always damper when you had to follow team orders.

“Ask if me and Fernando can switch, I’m faster!” You said on the radio. You kept driving, Fernando a little less than two seconds in front of you, but you were getting closer and would catch up to him in two laps.

“Negative, protect his position.”

“There’s a McLaren right behind me! They’ll pass us both!”

“Negative, team orders.”

You swallowed and held your position, trying to maintain your P2 and Fernando P1. But when the McLaren got close to you, they managed to pass you after a brief battle, going for Fernando a couple of laps later.

Later, you stood on the podium, looking ahead knowing that P3 could’ve been a P1 if they had let you fight for it. You didn’t look at Fernando on the other side of the podium, you just stood there, eyes watery. You pretended to take part throwing champagne for a few seconds, forcing a smile knowing that it would look bad not to.

The post race interviews were torture, and you wanted to go home and vent to your parents.

“How has it been to manage your friendship with Fernando outside the track?” A reporter asked, and your smile disappeared from your face.

“We were never really friends,” you shrugged, annoyed, you added “Are there any questions about racing instead of my personal life?” The reporter was silent, visibly taken aback by your responses, you had rarely been hostile toward a journalist before, you knew he would have a field day with just those replies, especially when your PR manager gave you a hard stare, “No? Thank you, see you around.”

You finished P2 in the race Fernando became champion for the second time. When you got out of the car, you watched as Flavio and Fernando hugged, jumping from the ground and celebrating. The number one and your team principal. After the podium ceremony, you didn’t bother to stay to spray champagne, just leaving and going straight out.

You got a couple more proposals from other teams, and you were tempted, until Flavio told you Fernando was leaving for McLaren the next year and offered you an extension. You took it under the condition to become the number one driver now that Fernando was out of the picture.

A part of you mourned the death of the dream, the one you had at fourteen to become teammates with your best friend. So many things had happened in between everything, now you would miss it. Only the good, not the bad and ugly. You wish you could go back in time, redo everything, and never allow yourself to lose your best friend on the way.

The next year you ended up striking an unexpected friendship with Jenson Button, Nico Rosberg and eventually the two rookies Lewis and Sebastian, who had been very vocal about being fans of yours.

You didn’t go back to talking with Fernando. You didn’t try and he didn’t either. It felt like the bridges were too far burned to recover.

One day as you walked out of the garage, you saw Fernando with a girl on the opposite side. She was clinging to his side, whispering. You knew he had his fair share of fun with grid girls but he never invited them to watch the race from his garage. You wondered if he was dating again, after a couple of years being nothing more than a player. You also wonder why it made a pang of pain flare through your chest.

You don’t linger too much. He had no reason to tell you. You weren’t even friends anymore.

You moved on, as much as you could. And eventually, you met Kaka, or Ricardo, as you preferred calling him. He was a footballer, a big name in the sport, playing for a big team in Italy. You actually met him at a gala party, the both of you being silly introverts, bumping into each other when trying to find a way out. You two ended up talking for hours on the balcony, watching the city lights.

He reminded you of Nano before Formula 1.

And you actually wanted to smash your own head against the handrail as you thought that.

After exchanging numbers and calling a couple of times, you managed to convince Ricardo to come to a Grand Prix. His presence was calm, funny without being mean, and so gentle. It was actually the calm between the storm your life and job was.

You were pacing around outside the motorhomes to try and see if he had arrived yet, since the last you had talked to him was when he was on his way. While waiting, your eyes found Fernando’s on the opposite side in front of McLaren, he was sitting down with his girlfriend telling him something. You stared at him for a whole minute, and for a brief moment, the anger left his eyes for something softer, something like-

“Hi, minha linda!” Ricardo showed up out of nowhere, and he hugged you so tight he actually swiped you off your feet.

Once the surprise passed, you hugged him back, your fingers finding their way through his hair. And he laughed, spinning you before putting you down. You talked for a bit, your face lit up as he told you about his day.

Your eyes unconsciously turned to Fernando, because you could feel that he had been staring at you for as long as Ricardo was there. His face was back to anger.

“You want me to give you the grand tour?” You offered, just so you could escape the weight of Fernando’s glare.

You took Ricardo by the hand and showed him all around, even introducing him to part of your team. After that race when you placed third, Ricardo invited you to a date, the first official one. After a couple of months and a few kisses, he asked you to be his girlfriend. You only hesitated for a second before smiling and squealing a yes.

Being the main driver of your team allowed you to live an entirely different season as a racer. You didn’t want to be arrogant, but you had it in the bag. You had the best car, the best engines, and just the perfect amount of boldness. Add insane strategies, and you were unstoppable.

Despite Fernando being your close rival on track, he was way too busy beefing with Lewis, his surprisingly great rookie teammate.

During summer break that year, you were on a trip to Brazil with Ricardo, but still, the night of July 29th, you got up at two a.m., slowly went to the fridge, where you got an ice cream pint. With a spoon, you sat on the handrail in the balcony, and watched the waves breaking on the beach a few meters away.

It was weird keeping the ice cream tradition alone, but you supposed it was even weirder not keeping the tradition. Staring at the stars, you wondered if Fernando had any ice cream to celebrate his birthday that day.

“Hi,” you heard Ricardo behind you, his hands sneaking around your middle and he hugged you from behind, laying his head against your shoulder, “everything ok?”

“Yeah, just wanted a little treat,” you mumbled, closing the lid on the ice cream, because a selfish part of you didn’t want to share the tradition with anyone other than Fernando. It was silly and stupid, and still… you couldn’t bring yourself to do it. You put the ice cream back in the freezer and smiled at Ricardo as he pulled you into his arms and carried you back to bed.

You came back from summer break with a renewed sense of focus. Deep down you knew that was your season. Your season to become world champion, and nothing was going to get in the way of that. As you won the first two races after summer, you became first in the standings, this sense of purpose being the one thing motivating you every weekend to give your best.

It was Interlagos that year when you needed only a podium to become World Champion, pretty much the same as Fernando two years before. The race was tough, and it felt like Fernando was out to get you, especially in a moment right in the middle of the race, when you were behind him in P3 and he tried to brake test you again, but this time you were quick to react, avoiding his rear and using his own dirty trick against him, turning sharply to overtake him from outer side, moving past him fast enough to gain some precious couple of seconds.

After that, you managed to smoothly overtake the P1 with a carefully planned pit stop that allowed you to come out first. Later on, you saw a crash, nothing too bad, but you found out it was Fernando and Webber.

“Are they ok?” You asked via radio to your engineer.

“Yes, they are already back on the pitlane.”

You sighed and focused back to your race, keeping your P1 safe, and going smoothly to take the checkered flag.

“Congratulations, Y/N! You’re a Formula One World Champion!”

You felt the tears coming down and dampening your balaclava, as you took one last lap to parc ferme, waving at the crowd that went insane.

It was like a huge weight was lifted from your chest. Because you were now world champion. You were there, and you deserved to be there, among the best. You didn’t need to prove yourself anymore, and you had finally paid Flavio back.

You jumped out of the car straight into your team, jumping with them, and Flavio ran up to you, pulling you into a tight hug. Jenson also found you and hugged you firmly, patting your back and Nico also hugged you, both of them were on the podium with you.

As you looked down from the podium, with a watery, emotional smile, you saw your dad crying like a baby and clapping his hands. Unconsciously, your eyes looked for Fernando, silly hoping it mattered something to him, that at least in the name of your former friendship, he would be there, but he was nowhere to be seen, and you felt like that was another nail in the coffin of your friendship.

Deciding to forget it, you drank champagne straight from the bottle, laughing as both Nico and Jenson paired up to drown you in champagne, looking happy for you.

After talking to your mom on the phone, you stood up, taking your bag and going out to look for your dad. You didn’t make it very far, as you came out in the hallway, you found Fernando, leaning against the wall. You paused, looking up to him while your heartbeat went up.

“I’m happy for you,” he whispered. And you wanted to believe it really badly, but thinking about him brake testing you during the race, trying to take you out, made you roll your eyes at him.

“Sure, you are,” you said sarcastically. He shook his head and clicked his tongue, like he was disappointed you didn’t believe him, “my debt is over now.”

“What?” He frowned, confused.

“I just paid Flavio for his investment,” you explained, “I’m not just here because you asked him to support me, I’m a damn great driver. I’m here because I deserve it, not because you took me out of pity.”

Fernando stared at you completely shocked at your words, something painful stabbing at his chest. He never thought you’d think like that over disgusting words he said in a moment of anger. Words that never meant anything to him, that he didn’t even believe in himself. The hurt in your eyes was the same from the day he said the words, when you cried looking into his eyes and telling him he was dead to you.

You walked past him and away. He wanted to shout that he never meant those words, that you were so much more, so much better. But you just left. Fernando followed you outside, trying to catch you and explain himself, maybe fix things between you, making peace.

But as he got outside, he paused, seeing you jumping in your boyfriend’s arms, laughing at something he whispered to you. Fernando swallowed, closing his fist and jealousy burned through his limbs, with such force that it felt like a fever.

Right after the Brazilian Grand Prix, Ferrari got in touch with you, offering a two year contract to become teammates with Kimi Raikkonen and drive for what was one of, if not the most classic team in Formula 1. After negotiations, it was a no brainer. You didn’t owe Renault anything any more. And that’s what propelled you to meet with Flavio that winter break in a cafeteria in Monaco. When you had called, he said he wanted to talk to you about something, which was convenient.

After pleasantries and small talk, you were ready to start, but Flavio cut you off without noticing.

“I have to tell you something,” he started, carefully, “Fernando is coming back to Renault next year.”

You froze for a second, not wanting to think too much about the implications of that. The fact that Flavio was willing to force you and Fernando to be teammates again even after the catastrophic ending you had before. Sighing, you covered your face for a second.

“I know you have reservations, but I’ve talked with Fernando and he’s willing to-”

“I’m going to Ferrari.”

And Flavio understood, after talking for a while. He knew Ferrari was most drivers' ultimate dream, and you weren’t immune to that either. Unfortunately for you, Fernando released the news he was going back to Renault a week before Ferrari announced you, and the media had a field day with that, tabloids and media outlets doing numbers of articles about you avoiding being teammates with Fernando again, since he was coming back and you were conveniently leaving almost at the same time.

Your races with Fernando kept being dangerous, one always trying to one up the other, dangerous moves and overtakes, close calls of crashing into each other, and more and more jabs publicly. The attacks at each other never stopped, and the media seemed to enjoy it, feeding into it ever so often.

One occasion, you were going for a win, and the only thing between you and that damn P1 was Fernando Alonso. So you kept your P2, biding your time as you tried to close the gap, leaving your chance at overtaking for the last few laps. When a fast turn came, you advanced, overtaking him, Fernando tried to defend his position, but you were getting the lead, and both of you were in high speed. Someone had to back out, otherwise you two would crash. But you were feeding off of anger and hurt, and you didn’t back down well into the turn, but suddenly, Fernando slowed down, giving up defending. You took the P1 and after a few laps, the checkered flag. You knew on the podium that Fernando was seething, his face didn’t hide that. Later, at an interview, someone brought up the dirty move.

“So, a very dangerous move at turn 2 during lap 47, no?” The reporter asked, trying to get a reaction out of you.

“I thought it was a pretty common battle, no?” You said, a condescending tone imitating him.

“Well, it could’ve caused you both to crash.”

“I took a risk, either I would pass and win, or we would both crash and DNF. Alonso was wise and went for the safest option.” I gave the reporter a fake smile.

You knew that answer would piss Fernando off, and a part of you knew he deserved it. Sometimes you acted on pure rage and pettiness, feral and way more aggressive against Fernando on track than you really needed to be. But he just pissed you off. Walking around with his model girlfriend, his attacks at your racing abilities, his pretty eyes that always seemed to find yours at the most inconvenient times.

Then, the race weekend would end, and everything that was left was shame. Your burning shame every time your mom’s eyes shone when she asked about Fernando, hoping you two would have made peace. You, looking away from her face every time you told her you knew nothing about Alonso because you didn’t want to see the disappointment in her eyes.

Later that year, after your two year anniversary with Ricardo, you accidentally found a ring box in his suitcase. A proposal ring, a beautiful big diamond ring, probably worth a small fortune. And you tried to feel happy about it, but you could only find dread in your heart. Despite loving Ricardo, you knew you didn’t love him as much as you could. And certainly not as much as she loved you. You didn’t love him as much as you loved-

Closing your eyes, you also closed your heart, and after that just like the coward you were, you broke up with Ricardo the kindest way you could. He was confused, because your relationship was tranquil, without many problems. It broke your heart to break his heart, but you couldn’t lead him on, you knew Ricardo was husband material, and the earlier you let him go, the earlier he would find his true happiness.

Ultimately, you decided to only pursue love after your Formula One career. Having a bit of fun here and there, and a couple of casual relationships even with other drivers, but nothing serious or public. When you found out Fernando was single again, a flicker of hope sparked in your chest, but when you saw him go back to his playboy ways… It died down.

Sometimes you would dream of a different life, of one you never lost your best friend… or even better, one that you never had to suppress the love you felt for him. And sometimes it felt too much, like all this love was just filling up your hollow heart, filling up until it overflowed, until you felt like you were drowning in it, because there was nowhere for this love to go. And you wondered, what do I do with this love, there's no one to give it to, there's no recipient to put it. So you would just ground your teeth and bear it, holding onto anger because that much love, that much longing did nothing but cause you pain.

Every time someone mentioned him outside race weeks, you felt ashamed.

Despite being in a top team like Ferrari, you’d only get a few wins, and some podiums here and there, so it wasn’t like you didn’t achieve anything. But you were a woman so it was obviously not enough, and the media started questioning your career and your place in Formula One.

After two years of you driving for Ferrari, Domenicalli, your team principal, sat you down to let you know Fernando Alonso would be joining the team the next year, and you bit the inside of your cheek, considering just retiring. The criticism was getting to you, and the perspective of living hell with Fernando as your teammate was a broken heart all over again.

When an opportunity arose to drive for Red Bull Racing, with a two year contract, you didn’t think twice before accepting. It would be your chance to turn the tide in your career.

It sent the motorsport world into a frenzy when your new team announced you and a week later Ferrari announced Fernando as their future driver. The same narrative of you running away from him was passed ahead. And of course, it got to the paddock. Most drivers that were close to you actually congratulated you, but of course, nothing was ever good for Fernando. And despite not fully talking to him, he was always willing to throw a mean comment at you any given day.

“And people said you’re washed” Fernando said right after the news broke, the second to last race of that season, his voice dripping with venom. You knew it was a backhanded compliment, he always did that when he wanted to get a rise out of you. He smirked, waiting for your feral clapback, as you always had one on the tip of your tongue.

But when he looked back at you, your face was stony, and you were looking ahead with your chin raised. You didn’t even look at Fernando, nor answered his taunting. You pretended he wasn’t there but he noticed your eyes were misty.

That had been a low blow, even for him. He didn’t know shit about your feelings regarding your career, but he knew exactly how the world had been treating it, and it made you burn with shame that he could add insult to injury this easily. You wondered why he would say something like that if, just like you, it had been years since the last time he was champion of the world. Two years pushing yourself to the maximum so you could achieve your second championship.

Fernando had been your best friend for so long, he knew exactly what buttons to push when he wanted to hurt you.

When someone else arrived, greeting you, you cleared your throat briefly before answering and plastering a smile that never reached your eyes.

“Are you running away from me?” Fernando cornered you later that same day.

“What?” You paused.

“I went back to Renault and you left, now I’m going to Ferrari and you’re leaving,” he shrugged. You scoffed.

“I’m not sure if you know, but my life doesn’t revolve around you, Fernando.”

“Well, that’s a weird coincidence, don’t you think?”

“What do you want? Why are you here?”

Fernando paused for a second, his eyes searching yours, he looked vulnerable, open like he hadn’t been in so long. He looked every bit your best friend from years before.

“I miss you, I-” He started, then cleared his throat.

“I miss the old you,” You swallowed a whole bunch of your pride just to be able to say those words.

“Things are different now…” Fernando started, his eyes full of hoping, of longing, “We could- maybe we could-”

“Fernando, we’re too far gone, what we said- what we did…” You muttered, feeling a lump in your throat, “how do one come back from that?”

“We could restart. Try again-”

“You lost me forever that day, Fernando.” You muttered, the tears holding on to your eyelashes. You didn’t need to specify the day, he knew, he had seen in your eyes the moment he lost you, “I spent so long hearing your voice in my head, telling me I wasn’t good enough, I shouldn’t be here, and I- I hated you that day. And I had to hold onto this hate, because the alternative was overwhelming sadness.”

There was a numbing silence for a couple of minutes, as you stared down at your own feet, trying to stop all the feelings you spent years carefully locking away from breaking free. So much had happened, you believed you and Fernando were too far to recover now.

“I’m a woman here, the first and only woman in so long, and the whole world was against me. You have no idea how it felt that my best friend, the person I trusted the most, was also against me,” You shook your head, feeling the tears drop.

“I’m sorry, Nena… I’ve never- I’ve never meant any of that.” He muttered, and you didn’t look at him to see if he was being genuine. You had formed walls around your heart to protect yourself from heartbreak, and you now had a hard time believing him.

“There are some things… that are not meant to be.” You didn’t look back at Fernando after you said that, choosing to walk away with this broken heart feeling ever present.

It was hard to keep going everyday. You had always faced backlash for being a woman in Formula 1, and you were used to it. But the media took a turn over the next few years. When you didn’t win more championships, when years passed and you were still there, along with other champions and future champions. They started to call you old, washed, telling you to retire and placing bets on when you’d lose your seat. It was baffling because it had been six years since your championship, but it had been seven years since Fernando’s, but still, you were the only one whose spot was questioned all the time. It was unfair, and whenever they came up to you talking about it, you’d ask them if they’d ask the same to older drivers or other champions. They would leave you alone for a week and then come back stronger, ready to throw your whole career under the bus.

Finally, you got another chance at the championship in 2013, after an unbelievable start of the season with five consecutive wins. That had put you first in the standings for the championship, and from there on, your team molded the season around you. Smooth sailing through the season, you became world champion in Suzuka, way too far ahead in the championship to anyone be able to catch up to you.

When you stood on the podium that night, you cried happy tears. You had once again proved wrong years of demerit from the world. As you looked down to search for your family, your eyes found Fernando right beside them, a proud, emotional look on his face as he kept a hand over his heart, listening to your national anthem.

He nodded at you with a small smile, and a part of you healed a little bit.

You enjoyed a couple of days of pure bliss after becoming world champion. Parties, celebrations and trips, they were all you did for the next few weeks.

When the FIA Prize Giving ceremony came, you had another bombshell to drop at the world. You were the most stunning you ever felt that year when you arrived at the ceremony, in a beautiful dark blue dress with little crystals all over the bodice, a beautiful hairstyle and even more beautiful makeup. Never in your entire career in Formula 1, you had felt so fulfilled, so happy.

Hearing your name being called as the winner, the number one, was different this time, and had much more weight, and it made your heart burst with happiness. As you walked up the stairs to the stage, receiving your trophy, you stopped by the mic.

“Thank you so much. I’d like to thank my family for supporting me from the beginning, my team for making the perfect season, and the perfect car for me to be able to achieve this. I’d like to thank all my teammates that, in one way or another, taught me some valuable lessons as a racer. Thanks to Flavio for taking a chance on my career when probably no one else would.” You said, with a smile. You took a good look around, all the people in this sport who made Formula 1 the most important category of motorsport, all your peers, all the teams. “I’m announcing my retirement from Formula 1, as of right now.”

There was a wave of shock and loud gasps in the whole room, flashes and flashes bulbing harder than before, journalists scrambling to take notes… But you kept smiling, hand firm around your trophy as you let the news settle down before speaking again.

“In 2007 I wanted to pay Flavio back for giving me the opportunity to be here today. That debt was paid that same year. After that year I wanted to win for myself, to write my name in the history books, and my dream is now realized. I feel like I should move on and make space for new upcoming talents.” Your eyes were wet with unshed tears, but you smiled, the first genuine smile in a few years.

Fernando felt his heart drop at your words. Things weren’t supposed to go like this, you two should be best friends, drive together, retire together. Go down in history together.

“I’m grateful for everything this sport provided me, the adventures, traveling around the world, the people I met and the people I lost,” there was a calm pause, and Fernando wondered if you were talking about him too, “Now it’s time to go and achieve new dreams. Thank you very much.”

You turned around and walked away under the applause.

Later, after the ceremony was done, you were getting ready to leave when Fernando came to find you. He was dressed in a beautiful suit, looking like a million dollar man.

“Nena…”

It made you pause. It had been a while since he called you like that with that specific tone. 

“What? Came here to gloat?” You couldn’t help but be defensive, worried.

“What?”

“I knew you’d be one of the happiest when I retired.”

“No, I would not-”

“You would, Fernando. You did. Many times you said I was done, that my prime was over, that I should retire…” 

“I never thought you’d easily give up!” He shouted at you, “Like you did in 2006, not competing against me.”

“That’s because they didn’t let me compete! Do you think I couldn’t have competed with you back in ‘06? I could, but every time, they would tell me to back off, to let you pass, to not fight you, to not overtake you-” You threw at his face, because you wouldn’t stand there and let him look down on you like that. You refused to back down now that you were finally free. “Pat threatened my seat if disobeyed team orders.”

“What?! Why did you never tell me that?” Fernando looked shocked. His fighting stance was completely gone now.

“You were going to be World Champion again. I would never take that from you,” You whispered, voice failing.

“Nena…” He said, like he wanted to drop everything. “Please, don’t leave. If Red Bull don’t want you, you can find another spot with another team, we can think of something.”

“Fernando, I’m not leaving because the team doesn't want me. In fact, they offered me a 3 year extension.”

“That’s not how it was supposed to go, remember? We planned that-” His voice was kinder than it had been to you in many years, “We would go down in history together. Win together, retire together.”

“When push comes to shove, only one wins… We learned that the hard way.” I say, with a sad smile, “Life doesn’t always go as planned. And I got everything I could ever want from Formula 1. Now it’s time for new stuff.”

“What new stuff?”

“I want to have a family, Fernando. People don’t stick around long for this lifestyle, you know that-” You shook your head.

With one last look at Fernando, your eyes watered, and you walked away.

Sitting on the porch, you looked up at the sky, thinking of what’s next for you. It had been months since you announced your retirement from Formula 1. The new season had already begun. It was your birthday, a refreshing new one.

You heard steps coming closer and your heartbeat sped up as you saw Fernando walking up to you. He sat down by your side, holding a pint of ice cream and two spoons. He handed one to you and in silence, you started eating ice cream.

“I’ve been looking for you,” he said after a few minutes of silence.

“Was it hard to find me?” You asked, with a tentative smile.

“It only took me my whole life to find you again…” He said, wistfully, his eyes shining under moonlight and you didn’t know if those were unshed tears or not, “my best friend, my nena, my girl…”

“I’ve always been here. Right here.” You said, eyes watering. You weren’t sure you could explain what that here meant, but somehow you knew he would understand.

Fernando took your hand, gently placing it on his chest, right above his heart.

“Right here,” he whispered, pressing his hand above yours, over his beating heart, “you were always here.”

Then, he kissed you. For the first time in more than a decade, for what felt like the first time for both of you. As his other hand pulled you closer, the kiss deepened, like a prayer and a promise. Both of you knew there was a lot of resentment to navigate through, and a lot of feelings you’d both have to unravel and understand. But there was one thing that was always there, through hate, anger and hurt… And it was love, unshaken, steadfast love.

As you broke apart, Fernando pulled you into him, hugging you tight for a few minutes, before pulling away to hold your face with both hands, his eyes looking into yours with so much devotion it melted everything away.

“We will be alright.”

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#f1 fanfic #f1 x reader #f1 imagine #f1 fic #formula 1 #f1 #fernando alonso #formula one #fernando alonso x you #fernando alonso x reader #brocedes #formula 1 fic #formula one fanfiction

[captainpulisic]

the rust that grew between telephones - c. pulisic

authors note: saw a video on twitter where christians parents called him a 'shy, soft spoken kind of guy' and I got really soft over him gif credit to owner word count: 2.6 k

you’re dead asleep when the phone screen begins to light up the room. you blindly reach for the it on your nightstand, refusing to fully exit your slumbered state. surely you had set your alarm clock to the wrong time last night, because there was no fucking way it was already time to start the day. you’d bet your life that you had just fallen asleep, at max, an hour ago. 

it’s okay, you try to convince yourself. it’s probably only midnight and I have many, many hours of sleep left. 

yet, as you peek one eye open, it is not your blaring alarm illuminating your screen and room. you’re met with christians contact photo. suddenly, you feel wide awake. the sleepiness and appeal to go back to bed is long forgotten, now only eager to hear his voice. 

answering the call, his raspiness indicated he’d also just woken up. you hear his low voice, “hey baby.”

oh.

oh how you missed his voice, especially as the first thing to hear in the morning. if you closed your eyes, you could perfectly envision waking up by his side. tired eyes and soft giggles, as he pulls you close to him. you feel slightly pathetic over how your heart begins to hurt. it had only been a few weeks since you’d last seen him, yet the yearning was unbearable. you missed him. you always do when you’re apart, but recently it has been worse. your skin itched for his, lonely nights spent counting down the minutes until the season would be over and he’d be coming back home. 

“hey you,” trying to sound as awake as you can, stifiling a yawn that wants to escape you. he must not realize how late it is on your end. sitting up, you pinch yourself a few times to become more alert. you manage out a somewhat energetic, “everything okay?”

“yeah, everythings okay over here.” his voice is softer than usual, sadder if anything. he pauses for a moment, you can feel his hesitation before speaking. soon enough he whispers his confession, uncertain and slightly embarrassed. you might have missed it if you weren’t hanging on to every word he was saying. “I just really miss you.” 

your heart aches even more, if possible. “i miss you, too.”

“like, really bad y/n,” he’s always struggled with properly articulating his feelings. he prefers to affirm his love for you with simple, small acts and sweet, shy touches. telling you his true feelings always resulted in him turning a blushing and stuttering mess. therefore, you know how much this must really be affecting him, for him to outwardly say this. your heart breaks as he goes on, “do you know how much it sucks to wake up and not have you right next to me? it’s horrible.”

you do know, you always feel like that in his absence. 

“i know, my love.” you sit up, trying to wipe away the weariness from your eyes. “but we’ll be together soon, yeah?”

“soon.” he confirms, it’s the only promise that's managed to keep him sane. 

hoping to keep him on the line and distracted from the ungodly hour he woke you up, you ask him about what he has planned for the day. its meaningless talk, really. he goes on about the scheduled training and new tricks they’ve been working on, occasionally complaining about the team's current slump. once in a while you hum, letting him know you're attentive to every word he’s saying. yet you’re more focused on how soothing his voice was, it was all warmth and safeness to you.

still clueless of the time, he asks what your plans are. you begin to mumble about the exams and work you have planned for tomorrow- well, for today. you too, in return, complain of how exhausted uni life has been treating you and the endless pile of assignments you can never seem to finish. 

your error is droning on about how tiring it all is, because it just makes you revert back to your drowsy state. you don’t even realize when your words begin to die off and a rather large yawn breaks loose.

“y/n? are you falling asleep?” christian frowns. he had been too wrapped up in the horrible mood he had woken up in, he hadn’t thought of the wretched time difference. “wait, what time is it?” 

“uhm,” your hesitation lasts too long for his liking. instantly, it all clicks for him.

“fuck”, he groans. “it’s the middle of the night, isn’t it?”

“no.”

deny deny deny. 

if he realized it was so fucking late, he’d send you back to sleep. that was the worst fate he could condemn you to, you were sure of it. with him training all day and the drastic time difference, moments to properly talk were rare. you weren't going to give up this precious, stolen time with him. your scarce phone calls consisted of quick recounts of what you'd both done that day and gentle whispers of how much you’d missed each other. too soon, one of you would have to hang up to either get started on your day while the other had to unwind from their day already spent. 

you didn’t care how childish you sounded, you weren’t going to let him make you go to sleep. he couldn't make you! 

“y/n.” he was much more serious, more stern. when he got like this, you liked to tease him, calling it his ‘captain voice’. that’d usually leave him with reddened cheeks and arguments long forgotten.

it comes out more of a question, then an assurance. “I was already awake?”  

“y/n.” he repeats. yeah, it was a long shot that he’d believe that. 

you mock him, “christian.” 

you hear him begin to huff out his disapproval of your childish antics. much to your dismay, another damned yawn escapes you. no point in trying to win now, you rest your head back on the pillow and accept your defeat. you sigh, “okay, I was asleep.”

he makes a noise that sounds like a mixture of a disappointed groan and a victorious ‘hmph’. 

oh my sweet boy, how I miss you. 

“i’m so sorry,” he’s sputtering out apologies faster than you can try to assure him it’s all okay. “I was dreaming of you and then I woke up and you weren’t here. I felt horrible. I needed to hear your voice before I went insane. I called without thinking, i’m so sorry I woke you. go back to sleep, please.”

your reply is automatic, “no.”

“yes.” he tries (and fails) to reason with you, “you just told me how busy you’re going to be in the morning!”

“you can’t make me!” you argue.

“y/n.”

“so i’ve been called.”

“go back to sleep,” he tries again. you’re tempted to do it just because it’s him asking you. you would do anything he’d ask of you, it's quite humiliating how you’re putty in his hands. no, you have to stand your ground. you had missed him too much and you weren’t ready to say your goodbyes. back to his shy state, “i’m now very embarrassed that I called.”

that irks something in you. you’re stupidly obsessed with him, you’d go days without sleeping if it meant you could always talk to him. the fact that he doesn’t get that offends you quite a bit. if he’s embarrassed over how much he misses you, then you should be utterly humiliated. 

“christian,” your voice comes out harder than you’d planned. “listen to me.”

instantaneously, his protest had stopped and the line had gone silent. you pull the phone away from your face, unsure if he’d hung up to make you go back to your unwanted slumber. no, the call was still connected. putting the phone back to your ear, you barely caught his faint, “yeah?”

“i’m glad you called.” suddenly, you feel as shy as you imagined he did. you also struggle to express your feelings but you’re desperate to keep him on the call, not wanting to part ways yet. “i’ve missed you terribly.”

another pause, “really?”

“I can’t believe you’d even question it,” you utter in disbelief. “of course idiot, ‘m always missing you.”

“i’m not questioning it!” all the clatter on his end of the line has stopped. you’d assumed he was getting ready to leave for training and now you were both left in silence. it takes him a few seconds to gather his thoughts and words. eventually, “i’m sorry, i’m just in my head right now. have i told you how much this distance sucks?”

“i know, my love” the urge to hold him and kiss him is borderline pathetic. trying harder to distract him from the sad thoughts and prior argument, you have to think fast. you drop your voice a tad lower. you try your best to sound as alluring as possible, “that’s why we should really take advantage of the time we have right now. c'mon, think of the fun things we could do at this late, late hour.”

you begin to mumble half-hearted details of what you had in mind, yet christian hums his disapproval.

“y/n, stop trying to seduce me.” the ‘captain voice’ reappears. “it’s only late for you and you’re about to go back to sleep, or else.” 

it’s a teasing threat. you both can’t deny the smiles you’re fighting as the conversation unravels. scolding words but you know him, this was your usual banter. 

“oh, yeah?” you counter back. “what are you going to do when you’re thousands of miles away, huh? and like i’ve said countless times, i’m not even tired!” 

“you yawned three times as you told me ‘all the filthy things’ you wanted to do to me, i’m positive you’re tired.”

“oh baby, I think you need to get your hearing checked because I was not yawning.” you scoff, scolding yourself for getting caught. your brain fumbles trying to think of a good comeback. you blurt the first thing that comes to mind, “that's just how I breathe.”

“then you’re the one who needs to go get checked because thats some weird fucking breathing.”

you snort, “has anyone ever told you how good of a flirt you are?”

“no,” he deadpans, the captain voice more present than ever.

“hmm, I wonder why. should we, maybe, try to figure out why that is?” 

“y/n,” he’s not letting you sidetrack him again. “please, go to sleep.”

you whine once more, “but I wanna keep talking to you.” 

“i know, pretty girl but you have to sleep.”

you feel yourself losing this fight. trying to find some common ground, “will you stay on the call if I go to sleep?”

christian weighs his options, “promise to actually go to sleep?”

“promise to keep talking?” you counter back.

“if i promise, will you stop answering my questions with a question?”

you force yourself to hold back your laughter, “will you?”

he laughs and you’re unashamedly proud that you’re the cause of it. you’re sure you hear him call you a ‘smart ass’ but he swiftly denies it. 

much to your delight, christian begins to tell you an in depth play by play of their last game and how he thought they could improve. half of you wants to fight the sleepiness and continue listening to his rambles, but the sane part of you begs for some needed rest. you don’t even notice when you drift off, slipping back into dreams of the next time you’ll see christian. 

meanwhile, christian chatters on, even after you’ve fallen asleep. as he gathers his things to leave, he talks about everything and nothing. he tells you about how mason gave up on learning chess within the first ten minutes of christian trying to teach him. he tells you about how he found a new restaurant for the both of you to try next time you visit. the whole drive to the bridge, he recounts funny things that had happened with the guys and the latest gossips he knew you liked hearing about. he even managed into sneaking in a few, shy ‘i love yous’. as he went on and on, he knew you’d want to hear this again, once conscious, but he didn’t mind. he’d happily repeat himself a million times for you. 

-

he’s gotten even more handsome, you’re sure of it. you hadn’t thought it was possible but here he was, in all his glory. big brown eyes and now close enough to chart the freckles across his cheeks. those stupid phone calls and banter don’t measure up to the way he’s looking at you right now.

he had told you there was no need to pick him up from the airport, that you shouldn’t subject yourself to the hassle. clearly you went against his wishes, tackling him as soon as you had sights on him. that's how you were now, pressed flush against him, arms entangled around each other with promises of never letting go. 

“hey baby,” he whispers, lips pressed to your ear. “lets go home, yeah?”

instead of replying, your wrapped arms give him a gentle squeeze. unaware of the few curious glances directed towards the pair of you, you wonder if it’s physically possible to get any closer to him. 

“i’m never leaving your side again.” you mumble, face pressed to his chest. you try to peek up a glance at him, looking away immediately when you see his heavy gaze already on you. why does he have to look at me like that? it makes me feel like i’m on fire. slightly shaking your head, “i’m serious, one day they’re going to have to pry my corpse from yours.”

his dimple is more prominent than ever, “y/n, you really need to stop trying to seduce me.”

you both laugh, basking in each other's presence. christian presses a kiss to your hair, reaffirming how much he had missed you. his left arm never unwrapping from your waist, even when you begin to walk to the car.  

it’s a quick drive from the airport to your shared home. after unpacking and dinner and intimate touches were shared, you’d found yourselves laid in bed. your head resting on his chest, your fingers were mindlessly tracing the outlines on his tattooed arm. 

christian lets out a content sigh, “you have no idea how much i’ve missed this, missed you.” 

“i missed you more.”

after the busy evening you had just spent, it’s no surprise when you see him begin to snooze off. you don’t mind, you finally had him in arms reach and reassurance that you had many days to have the conversations that had been too scant. 

 

you murmur, soft and quietly, “go to sleep, baby.”

“hey,” he barely peeks one eye open, the corner of his lip threatening to quirk up. “that's my line.”

you roll your eyes, giving him one final kiss to his bare shoulder “night, i love you.”

instead of responding, he wraps his arms around your waist and flips you to your side. you let out a surprised yelp but nonetheless, your body automatically finds the perfect way to fit with his. instantly, he pulls you close to him, leaving a delicate kiss on your earlobe. you barely hear his low, “i love you too.”

after that, his faint snores are all that is heard. you follow in his steps, eyes growing heavier by the seconds. yes, sleeping is much better when christians voice rings right next to you and not through a phone.

feedback is greatly appreciated please!

#christian pulisic #christian pulisic x reader #christian pulisic imagine #christian pulisic fluff

[modelbus]

can i please request a tommy x reader where the reader has a cat, a kid if you will, i just need some tommy interactions with his girlfriend’s cat 😭

I’m actually deathly allergic to cats so I had to ask my friends what cats do… they told me cats are either the devil reincarnated or cute fluffy guys, so let’s assume your cat is a cute fluffy guy.

Pairing: CC!Tommy x Gn!Reader

Cute Cat

Tommy is more of a dog person, but because the cat is important to you, he’ll tolerate it. If your cat is nice, he’ll warm up to it after a few visits, but if your cat is mean he’ll call it Satan and rant about it on stream.

He will refuse to call your cat anything but pussy. It’s gotten so bad that your cat responds to pussy as a name more often than its actual name.

“Here Pussy, Pussy!” Tommy yells.

“You know that’s not-“ you begin but get cut off by a loud meow coming from somewhere. “THE FUCK?!” Your cat doesn’t even respond to its actual name, but it’ll respond to pussy?!

If your cat ever scratches him, accidentally or on purpose, he definitely complains about it on stream like “HAVE YOU SEEN WHAT THAT EVIL MOTHERFUCKER DID TO ME?! WIL, WILBUR, IT TRIED TO KILL ME!”

He talks to it like it’s an actual person though, creeping you out sometimes.

“Stop staring at me like that, mate. I think you’ve got a staring problem.” Tommy points at your cat with the TV remote, “close them eyes before they dry out king. I know I’m hot, but you can’t have me. I’m a taken man.”

He's mean to your cat constantly as a defense mechanism because he’s meant to be a dog person. Don't worry though, he secretly loves your cat.

And he keeps trying to show off your cat to streams, constantly badgering you until you just give in.

His Twitter and Instagram are occasionally graced with cat photos, which he also uses as a sub goal.

The first time your cat brought a dead animal to you while he was there was certainly traumatizing for him...

"Hey Puss- what's in your mouth?" Tommy asks, cutting himself off.

"Huh?" You hum, turning to look at your beloved cat. All too used to owning a cat, you immediately recognize the dead animal being deposited on your carpet.

"What the fuck is that?"

"Tommy, don't freak out, okay?"

"IS THAT A FUCKING MOUSE?! IS IT DEAD?! YOUR CAT IS A MURDERER!"

Despite the trauma your cat has put him through, he still loves to play with it. His favorite is definitely one of those dangly feather things because he's amazed at how high your cat can jump.

Although he is very sick and tired of your cat trying to fight his feet and sitting on his shoes.

Tommy convinced you one time to get your cat "high" on catnip, which ended in a very weird Tik Tok.

"No, no, no, trust me. It's just a little catnip. He'll only get a little high."

"A LITTLE HIGH?! YOU WANT TO GET MY CHILD HIGH?!"

After you make a big deal out of it, he buys something for your cat's birthday like a good boyfriend <3

#tommyinnit x reader #tommyinnit x you #mcyt #dsmp #tommyinnit #mcyt imagine #tommyinnit mcyt #tommyinnit imagine #gn!reader

[live-from-flaturn]

My DFF Theory:

Phee and Tan are in it together, and they are fucking with legitimately supernatural forces.

Deets under the cut:

Phee is obviously guilty over saying what he did to Non after catching him seeking comfort in the arms of a literal groomer. And we don't yet know if they spoke again after that or before whatever tragic roofie bullshit is about to happen to Non. That being said, Tan is also new to the group. He "joined them later" just like Phee, after Non had already disappeared, but has no romantic attachments (unlike White).

Personally, I think Tan may be Non's mysterious older brother, New (not all older siblings have to be taller than you, as the shortest and oldest kid in my family).

Especially since he has zero qualms asking about Non despite how squirmy and uncomfortable the others get.

He's also in close proximity with Phee during most larger group shots.

At first I thought they might've been rotating who was under the Janta mask/taking turns harassing the group at large or doing their spooky window peeping. But after the bathroom incidents with White and Top, and the rate at which Janta appears/disappears in the woods, I think they may have actually sacrificed Keng in exchange for supernatural help.

I'm not going to go on a tangent about how "Phi" is also the casual term for 'ghost' in Thai folklore, but it's a detail to keep in mind.

Mophi folk priests are also said to work "using trances, sacred objects imbued with supernatural power (or saksit), possessions, and rituals". What's the best way to get your group's most annoying and shitty guy to dress up as the killer and take Por out for good? Or to convince someone that a nearly-dead guy just jumped off the couch and tried to kill them? Trances, baybee!

(the Janta costume and setting may also be soft references to Apichatpong Weerasethakul's "Uncle Boonmee Who Can Remember His Past Lives" but I can't say for certain since it's just a passing similarity)

Now you may be asking, "Well what about Phee and Jin?! Phee protects him in the faux-cemetery even though he's a certified weenie nibbler!" Or even, "Hey! Tan and Tee are in the woods together when they see the monster and both of them are scared!"

And my answer is: No duh! You don't want to give away the act by not freaking out when you see the creepy masked figure in the woods. And you certainly don't want to be the only guy who hasn't been harassed. Those would be the two biggest red flags!

Plus, how else are you going to make sure that the guy who posted revenge porn of your boo being groomed on Twitter gets what he deserves? Being at his side and offering comfort only to rip it away at the last second??? Priceless. And well fucking deserved imho.

So yeah, that's my theory so far. Thoughts?

#dead friend forever #dff meta #dead friend forever meta #dff the series #barcode tinnasit #ta nannakun #jj chalach #copper phuriwat #jet jetsadakorn #us nititorn

[some-rotten-nest]

Random DC/DP headcannons bc I can't sleep

Expect many typos

Danny hates storms, especially thunderstorms bc of the lighting cracking in the sky

Danny wears a power cuff like a bracelet that dampens his more violent powers bc he's scared of them (wail, large-scale ice like with undergrowth etc)

In one of his magazines, instead of bullets Jason keeps solid ectoplasm just in case, and so it's not conspicous

In his Phantom form Danny has a streak of black hair where his white usually is

Jason is fright knight (unless it's a Jason-Danny biologically related fic. Ghost Zone law says no one you share blood with (clones included) can become fright knight (but they can join the court and have other ranks))

Danny made a contingency plan against himself and with the help of a sibling (Cass most likely, though she did seem a bit sad) got it on the bat-computer. Password protected so Danny can't get into it. Bruce doesn't know and won't know until/if Danny goes bad. Bruce made a separate one for him.

Tim gets low and non-harmfil doses of ectoplasm in his coffee bc it is like a shit ton of caffeine for a living person. (Yes, some Amity Park drinks have ectoplasm in them too)

Danny asks Bruce, Tim and Lucius for help with Ghost King Shit TM

Duke has to squint when looking directly at ectoplasm (Danny's trying to find some solution but there isn't one)

Jason has a shadow core

Damian got extinct animals from Danny as a birthday gift multiple times (a dodo bird named Delilah, a messenger pigeon names Luke and a splendid posion frog named Ares)

To piss Bruce off, Jason got a pterodactyl he's named Flynn that he takes on patrol. Safe to safe, people get a hella more scared of Red Hood. Bruce hates it but Jason does actually love Flynn and Bruce can't bring himself to take Flynn awya

Danny made a patrol playlist for every member of the bat family and beyond bc he has one for when he goes out as Phantom (they all listen to their playlists and love them)

Before Danny was fully pulled into the family, he'd flinch at Dick's escrima sticks and still catches himself staring the weapon, his heart pounding

Danny found out Captain Marvel was a kid bc while on a mission with him, Captain Marvel pointed out that there was a pirate ship hovering above them and that Danny should probably deal with that. He'd, and any other Amity Parker that overhead, never laughed so badly in his entire life. Billy was never so scared & confused.

Bart and Danny are friends bc Dan had leveled most of the future before the Beatles took over what was left (I'm actually not that sure about Bart's backstory so feel free to correct me if something's wrong here)

Cass and Danny have staring contests alot. Sometimes the others think they've fallen asleep with their eyes open. They didn't.

Danny had a Twitter account for Phantom without Bruce knowing, but when Steph was trying to convince Bruce to let her have one she mentioned it and Danny had to delete it (he has an alt he now posts every embarrassing thing Batman does and has ever done)

Puns. So many puns between Dick & Danny.

Danny mumbles in his sleep

Crows flock to Danny like hungry tigers. Damian's envious but he gets to pet & feed them so it's mostly okay.

GW likes Jason and let's him borrow books whenever he wants to (also any destroyed book ends up with GW but that's a pretty common hc) but Jason has to swear not to give them to Danny. Not that Danny wants them.

Duke is helping Tucker out with studies and Tucker Duke with tech. Technus sometimes shows up too to help.

Johnny and Jason are dEAD bffs

Sam and Babs get on like a house on fire

Talia met Danny and they're actually friendly to each other. Sure, she's trying to trick Danny into giving her his throne, but Danny knew that and wasn't about to let that happen

Danny will randomly punch his siblings, smirk, then bow and say "my leige" and run away. The sibling now has the crown and is chasing to punch Danny back because honestly fuck that

Constantine is slightly terrified of Danny and Bruce uses it like a threat-- "John, if you don't answer, Danny will contact you." It works like a charm

When too excited, Danny and Jason will start talking in Ghost speech. It freaks everyone else but Damian and Cass out bc the same sounds came from the pits

Take, edit, have fun with whatever you want here. It's just bs that crawls around my brain for funsies and won't let me sleep.

#danny phandom #danny phantom #dc x dp #dp dc crossover #dc/dp #bruce wayne #damian wayne #danny phantom x dc #ghost king danny #dc dp au #dc batfam #dc red robin #dc batman #dc robin #dc au #dc headcanon #dp crossover #dp headcanons #dc x dp crossover #headcannons #batfam headcanons #jason todd #dick grayson #cassandra cain #barbara gordon #stephanie brown #duke thomas #johnny 13 #tucker foley #sam manson

[nicofan57]

i wanted to talk about this clip so here’s my thoughts on it and the entire situation from yesterday (rest is under the cut)

(transcript:

minute: oh but why wemmbu, why, we- clown you and i were against him before, why-

clown: i didn’t like it either, okay, let me- you know why-

minute: ill tell you better- ill tell you better than anyone he’s just gonna use you and spit you out whenever it’s convenient. or whenever you’re no longer convenient for him. i know it better than anyone!

clown: i think we can handle wemmbu.

minute: he can't die!

clown: oh but he could drop- (?)

minute: he's just gonna sit tens of thousands of blocks out and wait for everyone to kill each other until he's the last one. i know this better than anyone! why didn't you talk to me?)

so first let’s dissect this clip. minute saying "i know this better than anyone" brings me back to kings s1 . they worked together to take down the other team that had the mythics and when wemmbu finally got a hold of the lifestealer (i can’t remember the exact details.. time for a rewatch) he threw minute out, saying there could only be one king. which sucks more when you think about at the start of the server, minute was open to teaming with wemmbu because he genuinely thought they were friends like he was not seeing that coming. someone warned him wemmbu is not trustworthy and he went “wemmbus my boy he wouldnt do that" (or something along those lines). and it’s like. well he did end up doing that. and minute realized he was being used all along.

fast forward to foundation when wemmbu literally said something along the lines of (again, sorry this might not be accurate) he’d team with minute because

- minute is powerful

- he has gear sets

- he would give him stuff

and most of all because he’s too kind for his own good. he wants peace even with his enemies, which we all know from the current arc right now. and wemmbu knows that all too well he knows he wouldnt refuse siding with him even considering their history on kings. anyway we all know how the abyss arc turned out for them with the orbital

so here is this clip i posted a while ago (linked here, because i cant put more than one video in a post apparently) where minute talks about how wemmbu's betrayed him a million times and how he says it hurts but he moves past it (this guy....) well clearly he’s not going to move past it now. because behind his back wemmbu has been working with zam, the person trying to break him mentally, and wemmbu’s stolen his position of power and is going to undo everything he’s worked towards. and the worst part about it is that he even convinced minutes teammates from day one to vote for him.

it’s pretty clear that wemmbu knows minute more and is able to get to him better than zam, he knows how to get into his head, he knows what actually fucks minute up, and no offense to zam because zam did end up winning… he achieved his goal by employing wemmbu! but i noticed minute isnt worried about zam that much anymore, or any of the players at all. it’s wemmbu because he knows what wemmbu can do and he knows how fucked up the server is going to be under his presidency. worst of all he knows what’s going to happen to his friends, he’s been in their shoes before, he knows they’re going to be left for dead when all is said and done, and even though they betrayed him and voted for wemmbu he still wants to save them because he knows it all too well (i think he also did say this). he still has some good left in him, even after the betrayal.

though the players are using wemmbu's presidency term to get what they want, it’s always going to end up being minute against wemmbu, it’s a cycle that ive noticed keeps repeating lately . thank you all forcoming to my ted talk

(p.s. i copied and pasted this from my twitter thread sorry if theres any weird formatting. or typos. or bad english pleabse be nice to me smiles)

#zam dont look #lifesteal spoilers #minutetech #wemmbu #tanya yaps #long post!!!! long post!!!! #my friends convinced me to put this here c: #lifesteal smp

[sorio99]

So, I’ve pretty much entirely stayed out of the James Somerton discourse, because frankly, I just didn’t think I had anything that valuable to say. I wasn’t a fan of Somerton’s, I never watched his videos or fell for his lies, the first time I heard of the dude was in HBomberGuy’s video, and the most impact he’s had on my life is encouraging me to watch Todd in the Shadows.

That said, I did have thoughts as things developed, about his “apologies”, about his claims of depression, and even about the “suicide note” he posted to Twitter. But, I really didn’t feel like I had anything to add to the discussion that wasn’t already being said by at least 50 other people.

But uh, I have thoughts. About the latest developments.

One of the thoughts I shelved about Somerton in the past was that I wasn’t sure if the “note” being real or fake was the worse option. I really don’t have much sympathy for James, given some of the really heinous shit he’s said in the past, but I’ve never wanted him dead. I personally wanted him punished for his actions, and then removed from public view; I didn’t think anything he’d done deserved the death penalty.

While I do still think that, him posting a fake suicide note makes me VERY skeptical.

Here’s the thing: I’ve talked before about my struggles with my mental health, with Suicidal Ideation, and just general depression. There have been many times in my life where I have wanted to kill myself, and even one occasion a decade ago where I actively tried.

I’m also not a good person.

A few years ago, I did something bad to someone I cared about. I won’t go into details, for both selfish and non-selfish reasons, but suffice to say, it’s the kind of thing where I think most people would say I deserve some kind of punishment.

And I can say, based on that point in time, based on what I was feeling then, I could very easily believe that someone like James was actually suicidal.

I knew it could still be a manipulation tactic, I knew it probably was one. I even knew that, if it was real, it was still arguably a manipulation tactic. But I genuinely thought there was a chance, even a solid chance, that Somerton had wanted to commit suicide.

That chance has gone out the fucking window.

Let me be clear, also: the fact that James was horny posting on an alternate Twitter account, and engaging with media was not what convinced me that it was all bullshit. As someone who’s used the god damned Professor Layton games as a coping mechanism during depressive episodes, I’ve seen far weirder and worse responses to being suicidal.

It was how he talked about himself, responded to his defenders and accusers. The fact that while people were genuinely panicked at the thought that he might have tried to kill himself, he was purposefully stoking the flames and trying to make himself look better.

James Somerton is a fucking bastard, and I never want to hear from him, or ANY defenses of him, ever again.

#tw: suicide #tw: suicidal ideation #tw: suicide attempt #tw: suicide discussion #james somerton

[tortadecereji]

So, me and my friend @megamispe rewatched Monters vs Alians lately. My first thought? Why not make a komaeda centred au based on that lol. My computer broke, so I haven't drawn all the characters, but here's some doodles.

I'm having lots of fun with this au, so ill probably post more of it later. (Feel free to ask me about it if you'd like!)

Also, check Mega's twitter account, she gave me a lot of ideas for this au!!

The story would follow the same line as the movie, except that I added some stuff, so here's about the characters for now if you'd like to know:

Nagito Komaeda: Pretty much the same thing that happens to Susan in the movie, except... he's Komaeda...

Nagito was supposed to marry Byakuya the day a large meteor hit him. Said meteor contained a large amount of radiation that Komaeda ended up absorbing at the impact. Of course, he survived the incident due to his luck.

However, the radiation began affecting his body during the ceremony, which caused his previously light brown hair to turn white and his height to increase unbelievably huge. With that the wedding has been ruined, the guests were scared for their lives, Byakuya was grossed out by him now, and a monster containment organization has been called to capture him. The only ones who did worry about Nagito were Sonia and Gundham, but they could do nothing to stop him from being captured. Komaeda blames himself and his luck for ruining what should be the happiest day of his life and convinced himself that no matter what he tried, his chances of having the loving family he always longed for would always be taken away from him.

Byakuya Togami: He's the heir of the Togami corporation—just like in canon— and was about to marry Komaeda more for status and money than love. Nagito's family was loaded and had control over many interesting businesses for Togami, that's why he chose to marry Nagito, who was the only person left in his family. But once the radiation took over Komaeda, Byakuya gave up on the idea instantly. He did not want to deal with a giant-sized Komaeda, thinking that would ruin his image and career. It's not like Nagito has his family's assets now that he's a monster, so he's not interesting to Byakuya anymore. (Togami is a fucking asshole in this au, I'm sorry, Togami fans)

Sonia Nevermind + Gundham Tanaka: They're Nagito's best friends. Since Nagito's parents are dead, they're the ones who always help him out, including at his wedding. They were the only ones who were more for Komaeda himself after the meteor episode. Gundham even tried to stop some of the soldiers from the organization, but that was in vain, he and Sonia were pulled out of the area as well as the rest of the guests.

Eventually, when the monsters get Mukuro's permission to leave the containment base, Komeada goes directly to Gundham and Sonia's house so they know he's okay. Both Sonia and Gundham don't mind his new form, they're just happy to have their best friend back safe and sound.

Bonus: Gundham says that Nagito has reached his true form and that he knew from the start that Nagito wasn't entirely human. Komaeda shrugged it off as he knows it's just Gundham's dramatic way of speaking.

Mukuro Ikusaba: She takes the role of R. Monger.

Mukuro is a very talented soldier who got promoted to be in charge of area fifty-something(yes, the same as the movie. I'm not creative), where the monsters are being kept. She's cold looking and very straight to the point, but she also has a soft spot for the monsters she takes care of. That being said, she goes on her way to make sure they're comfortable in their new forever home, even if they can't escape to the outside world due to how humans would react.

After some months after Nagito's containment, Mukuro received the information that a huge alien robot bear had arrived on earth and proved to be a threat as it was killing innocent people and causing despair all over the place. Mukuro convinced the government to use the monsters to fight the robot since not even the armed force could, and in exchange, the monsters could finally be free.

Needless to say that Mukuro cared a lot for them, so she was very nervous about this decision as they could get hurt or even die.

Chiaki Nanami: Chiaki is a werebat. She has been in area fifty-something since she was 15. She's now 23.

Nanami has been found by the monster containment organization with one of her wings broken, so it was easier for them to capture her. It was a scary experience, she hated it there, but things improved when she met the Ultimate Hope, who she only calls Hajime(or Izuru if he's in control), they got attached very quickly as they noticed they were both very lonely and had problems socializing with the others monsters in the facility.

When she was 18, Mukuro got her promotion. Chiaki was cautious about her at first, but that soon changed as Ikusaba showed the monsters genuine care. Mukuro even gifted Chiaki a portable game console, which led to Nanami hyperfixation on games.

Nanami got interested in Nagito almost instantly, when he got into the facility, because of her curiosity. She surely hadn't planned that, but after some months, she and Hajime had developed a very strong bond with the white-haired man.

Hajime/Izuru(Ultimate Hope): The Ultimate Hope was born from a failed experiment a mad scientist performed on his son—Hajime Hinata— when the boy was 5 years old to try and stuff all talents known in the child's brain. That resulted in the creation of Izuru, however, the scientist hadn't expected Hajime's memories and soul to still be alive after the experiment. The Ultimate Hope was captured by the monster containment organization right after said experiment when they ended up killing their father in a post-trauma rage assessment.

Hajime and Izuru, despite showing different personalities, are the same person. They have the same feelings, same memories, same body... if, somehow, they were to be split apart, it'd be similar to cutting off a body member.

Hajime and Izuru intercalate who's in control of their body depending on the situation, Hajime being more in control during social and support situations, and Izuru during situations that require a bit more logic. Usually, Hajime's the one in control and izuru appears as his shadow. The same happens when Izuru takes control, but Hajime's the one being his shadow.

As previously mentioned, they take interest in Nagito and decide to approach him alongside Chiaki.

Akane Owari: She's a werewolf. Surprisingly the most difficult one to capture.

Akane has been found in a small village scaring some villagers away so she could steal their food and bring them to her younger siblings.

The monster containment organization tried to capture her more than once, but she always escaped using her inhuman speed. She also put up a fight leaving many soldiers harmed, but never killed them. She has only been captured one day when she came back to her cave and couldn't find her siblings anywhere. She lost the will to fight and let herself be captured.

She still don't know where they are, and that worries her very much, but she allowed herself to enjoy her new life since she not only got free food in the facility, but also got along pretty well with the other monsters.

King Monokuma: It is a gigantic alien robot that Junko sent to earth, in Japan to be precise, to torment the humans and bring them despair. However, King Monokuma is merely a distraction from her actual takeover plan.

She knew that the robot bear would get the world's attention, having most of the countries send resources that they believed would help take it down, as King Monokuma was believed to be a menace not only to Japan, but to the rest of the world too.

Still, even with how strong the robot was, it was defeated by the monsters strangely easily.

Junko Enoshima: Junko is an alien that destroyed her own planet. She's completely in love with despair and wants every living being to feel it.

It's always the same plan, she sends one of her Monokumas to scare the inhabitants of the planet she chose, and kills a bunch of people, only sparing a few that she thought that'd make wonderful remnants of despair and make them destroy their home planet themselves...

She'd watch the chaos and also plan more despairing things to do with the planet's inhabitants, like different types of killing games, until she gets bored and went to the next planet.

But earth is a little special for her, as it would not be the first time she'd be there. This time, she's eager to see a certain soldier again, but not only that, she wants the amount of power that had been contained within Komaeda(of course she doesn't knows that he's the one who has been hit by that meteor...yet).

Bonus thingy: Hajime/Izuru and Chiaki teach Nagito how to feel love. The trio + Mukuro and Akane become a founding family!!!

#sorry for bad english #this is probably the most cringe and self indulging au ive ever done #but its FUN!!! #my art #danganronpa goodbye despair #nagito komaeda #hajime hinata #chiaki nanami #izuru kamukura #akane owari #sonia nevermind #gundham tanaka #byakuya togami #junko enoshima #mukuro ikusaba #komahinanami #i mean #its there #* shyly adds *-> #danganronpa g/t #gtronpa #DRxMVA

[butterbabyflapjack]

ch. 2

Warning Tags (⚠️): darkfic, canon-typical violence, obsessive behavior, possessive behavior, stalking, blood and injury, bondage, bloodplay, manipulation, yandere, kidnapping, b&e, let’s hope the cops find you, knifeplay, coerced and non-consensual explicit sexual content, forced oral sex, throat fucking, rough sex, banter, dub-con / non-con, death threats, teasing, Ghostface is a funny silly murder man, Oh yeah and he wants to fucking kill you, dead dove: do not eat

You’ve been kidnapped by some sick fuck in a mask who goes by Ghostface. Tied with a pretty little bow and strung upside-down in a place you don’t recognize; where your newest, psychotic bestie intends to have oodles of bloody fun with you.

And as far as toxic obsessions go, you unfortunately may be more than just some random fling.

Wherein you slowly unravel Danny, and he slowly unravels you.

The flash of a camera awakes you; singes through your eyelids and forces you to wince your eyes open, one hazy blink at a time.

“Morning, sweetheart.”

Danny Johnson x fem!reader

NOW PLAYING >> CHAPTER TWO , total run-time: 8570 words

>> theatre one : tumblr chapter directory

>> theatre two : ao3

tags (💜): @thequeenofsimpin, @samsaurwrites, @whimsyvixen

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Author Notes: Whimsyvixen created the amazing artwork for this chapter! ♡ (and yes, if you didn’t know already, all her art’s amazing! – tumblr, twitter, ao3)

Panic doesn’t quite come close to the fear prickling over you; to the dread that eyeless, ghost-faced stare scrapes across your bones.

And amidst your worn-down wriggling – your statocic, shallow breaths – the last threads of your sanity urge you to be calm. To stay fucking calm, despite the fact that it’s getting harder and harder to think with your pulse throttling your brain. Despite how you’re strung up like wounded quarry, the man who hunted you lying in wait for when you’ll bleed.

Terror has a way of trying to rationalize the irrational, and in its grasp you’re left trying to convince yourself that this is all a joke, that you must be dreaming.

You hadn’t realized you’d been chanting as much aloud.

“Jokes are usually between friends,” the man in the ghost mask muses, cutting your breathy antics short as you stare, torn back to reality by his silky voice, by the way his height towers over you. “A gag between pals,” he continues. “They’re usually funny, too.”

He hums so lightly you almost don’t hear it, as if he’s softly smiling behind his mask as he trails a finger along the underside of your jaw, following along its curve in idled leisure.

“Do you think this is funny?”

You can’t respond. And he’s so, so silent as he waits for your reply. A void of sound, as slowly he slides the flat edge of his knife along your skin, smooth over that trail of goosebumps his touch just inspired.

“Do I sound like a pal to you?”

The air seems to flex around the hush that leaves you in, like he expects you to fill it. Like he expects you to answer him. And yet, even disoriented and terror-lashed as you are, you don’t want to give into him.

This psycho wants an answer? Well, you want cut down from this fucking meat hook.

Yes, you’re terrified. But still, some part of you is seething.

This guy can go fuck himself..!

Still, under the circumstances – which are far from ideal, by the way… it’s like he knows you can’t resist him for long. Can’t deny him what he wants you to do. What he wants you to say. And you can’t. You only manage to keep your teeth ground shut for so long against giving him his answer, and you’re too afraid to be cheeky about it.

“No,” is your eventual, unwilling admission as your body gently sways there, the skin of your ankles burning where those ropes hold your weight up, reluctance sticking to your tongue.

He hums lowly to himself as he watches you. Undecipherable behind his mask. Not saying anything for at time.

“And as for you dreaming, well…” His blade falls off your jawline, and his thumb replaces it. Sliding smoothly along the stinging knife wound he’d gifted you, with you sucking back a sharp breath of pain as he drags across it nice and slow. “Dreams don’t usually hurt this good…”

His disguise does nothing to hide the way his low voice curls like a predator’s, listlessly unspooling the innards of some helpless prey, toying ruby strands along fiendish fingers.

It’s enough to weep fear down your spine, and struggling against devolving into panic, you demand with all the fervency you can muster, “Wh-who are you?”

He sounds to subtly smirk. “I think you asked that one already.”

Lifting his blade again, he lightly drags its tip along the panicked thump-thump-thump of your rabbit-trapped pulse. Seemingly admiring the way it dances for him. “Maybe I don’t wanna give you my name yet,” he says. “Maybe I’m shy.”

You hate how he seems to adore your fear, but you can’t exactly help giving it to him. Tremors and whimpered breaths keep bleeding out of your bare, bound body the longer he lets gravity slowly ravish you. The longer his blade and devilry teases you.

“Please…” you hinge to his mask, hovering over you like a toying phantom. Your eyes owlish, panicked, imploring. Begging. “Please, please just let me go.”

“Where’s the fun in that?” he wonders. Amused, as desperation avalanches out of you.

“B-but I don’t even know who you are!” you stammer in hope of convincing him. “I don’t know anything, I don’t want to know anything - just–” Your pleas hesitate beneath the sound of his low, throated chuckle, but you force yourself to waver onward despite it, “–j-just - please, I won’t tell anyone about this - please, let me go, I’ll do anything–”

His knife tip freezes against your pulse, before falling away entirely.

“Anything…?”

That definitely seems to have his attention. And his lowered chuckle curls around you some more at the way you bite back in groveling, like there’s anything funny about it; the deep sound knocking around his chest.

“Baby,” he croons, pinching your chin like you’re some silly, cherub-cheeked child. And though you wince at the sting of it, you can’t seem to pull away. Frozen by even his smallest of touches. “Anything? Really? Tsk tsk… I had no idea you were so cliché.”

Unsure of what to say, of whether he wants you to keep on begging, or whether he’s actually annoyed by you offering something so stupid or if he’s just toying with you, your throat closes around actually responding. And in heedful silence, your captor studies those expressions wracking across your features. Seeming more and more… displeased, to your rising trepidation. The humor slowly slipping free of his resonant voice.

“I don’t like not knowing things about you, puppy,” he breathes at last. “It’s really not my style…” He rolls his broad shoulders once against the tension battling to consume him, the leather of him audibly twisting. “None of this is. Not really. I don’t keep pets. They’re really not my thing. But I couldn’t just… let you get away.”

Like a violent shift in tide, as if the moon’s been plucked from the sky, he’s suddenly not so fond of teasing. And something far more volatile boils beneath his blackness, strangled beneath his skin, like it’s fighting him – until you can actually hear his gloves twisting against the hilt of his blade. Can see the dense, muscled bridge of his shoulders tensing, holding him back from however that darkness seeks to satisfy itself. To sate itself, it seems, with you. And with his knife still in hand, he snaps up your jaw to make you look at him, so sharply you yelp.

“You did this,” he growls, the eyelets of his mask burning like onyx flame. “You. Did. This. And I really don’t like you ruining my plans.”

You can’t so much as blink, terrified by the way his temper seems to know you. Seems to blame you. Seems to covet, to burn, to long to punish you.

“I can’t decide, I can’t decide,” he murmurs, seemingly to himself, nearly rambling, “but… for now… I had to keep you.”

His grip nearly bruises as you struggle not to whimper in panic or pain. Unable to look away as he watches you rigidly. Until, at last – with a low, long, stiff breath – he tosses your face aside. And just as his mercurial wrath so suddenly consumed him, it seems all at once to ease from off the heavy line of his shoulders.

“Don’t worry, baby,” he muses, sing-songed once again. And though he sounds to smile, there’s grit to it, and his grip on your jaw remains vice-like in ensuring he holds every atom of your attention. “We’re gonna have some fucking fun getting to know each other. But where are my manners–” an apologetic hand graces his chest, while his other gives your face a slight squeeze, “–I interrupted your pathetic groveling, didn’t I? You were rambling on and on about something, something… what was it… ah,” he grins, his theatrics slipping away, “that’s right. You were saying that you’d do ~anything~ if I let you go…”

He’s all cruelly sly coquetry, and if you thought you couldn’t regret any fiercer offering an unhinged psychopath something so undoubtedly stupid, you’re proven wrong then. Especially when his grip on your jaw shifts, and he trails his thumb along your lower lip, tantalizingly slow. Eying the way your softness drags for him.

“I could do a hell of a whole lot with anything, sweetheart.”

Any kind of rational thought flees your mind like mice from a kitchen fire, and all that’s left behind are the aches wracking your strung up body and your anxious, inner chanting of: shit, shit, shit-!

It’s like he knows those thoughts inside your head. Like he revels in them. And after a moment more of admiring your rising apprehension, he muses gently, “But I’m a nice guy… So I’ll consider your offer. And I won’t even ask for much.”

Some sickly, recoiling part of you already suspects what he wants before he even says it.

“All I want is for you to open up wide for me,” he muses; so kind as to open your mouth for you already. Pushing apart your lips and sliding his thumb in despite how you try to squeeze your lips shut to prevent him. It doesn’t matter, and you don’t dare to bite him as he languidly strokes your tongue with the flat of his leathered thumb, far back enough that you can’t help but gag around him.

He thrums at the sound of your strained gags and whimpers; at the slick, warm feel of your mouth. The purr of him starved.

“Just open up like a good pet, so I can fuck this pretty mouth and snug little throat of yours…” he says. Teasing, yet grated by lust. “That’s all.” Chuckling as you struggle not to gag with those long, rough strokes of his thumb; like he wants you to choke for him.

“How does that sound, cupcake?” he wonders, and there’s no way he doesn’t know you can’t respond with his thumb massaging the edge of your throat. “That whet your appetite? You hungry for Ghostie?”

A fit of coughing overtakes you as he drags his spit-slicked thumb back out of your mouth, streaking wetness along your lips as he watches the way they slaver and shine.

“Words, sweetie,” he reprimands archly. “Tell me how much you want it. How much you wanna whore yourself for freedom.” He seems to smile. “Beg. And I might just let you.”

With your pulse hammering in your ears, it’s difficult to fathom whether or not you should be begging. Whether you should just give in already and give this psycho whatever he wants.

You don’t want to. You really don’t want to. But as acquiescence dances hesitantly on your tongue, your apprehension stops you from actually saying anything. Because beyond your fear of whatever else this psycho might do to you should you refuse him… what he’s asking for…

It shouldn’t be a difficult decision, should it? Your life might literally hang in the balance, just like all the rest of you. But you’ve never been throat-fucked before. Not ever. Let alone by some guy with a knife while strung upside-down from a fucking meat hook. And for whatever reason, some part of you doubts he’ll gently ease you into it.

It’s almost too much for your overcooked mind to even consider, your thoughts themselves recoiling. So you almost don’t believe you’re hearing yourself as, reluctantly, you waver, “Will… will you let me go, if I…”

You try, and fail, to swallow. Just as you try, and fail, to finish that sentence.

He hums in speculation, the deep sound vibrating in his chest. And as contemplation holds him, his thumb trails slowly off your lips. His hold on you slipping away entirely.

“I dunno,” he idles, casually. Like this is some kind of business deal he can’t be bothered to bring toward any sort of conclusion.

“I could fuck you either way.” His tone takes an edge. “You know, now that I really think about it…”

Carelessly, he shrugs, fingers treading round his knife-hilt. “Nah, forget it. Why would I trade you shit? It’s not much of a deal, really.”

With athletic ease, he sinks into a crouch before you, knees jutting wide. His right-side-up mask staring you straight in your upside-down face as you blink back your startlement at just how swiftly he can actually move.

“I could just fuck you and leave you here, and there’s not a goddamn thing you could do about it,” he says. “Wouldn’t even have to kill you myself. Gravity’d do it for me.” He watches your expression, before chuffing. Giving your nose a playful little boop with a gloved finger. “But I wouldn’t do that, sweetpea – I’m more of an up-close-and-personal type’uh guy when it comes to gutting the ladies.”

Studying you a moment longer, his low breath holds a hidden smile; his ghost-faced mask mere inches away from how you struggle against dizziness to keep his gaze. Before he rises fluidly to his full height once more, soundless as a shadow.

“Then again… well, shit.”

Conflicted, he turns away from where you’re hanging. Pacing back and forth a few steps whilst rubbing the back of his darkly cowled head. “I suck at making these tough decisions,” he mutters himself, almost like you aren’t even there. “I could just slice you open right now. But that’s not very romantic…”

His pacing pauses, and he tosses you a musing, sidelong look. Mask gently tilted. “But… then again… it might be fun to have you willing. Eagerly swallowing me down like a good fucking slut.” Slowly, he seems to grin. “At least at first.”

Fear feels to have frayed you, to have tugged you toward a precipice of being recklessly bold, and without thinking you actually scoff up at him as you hang there.

“Yeah, that might be a nice change of pace for you,” your sarcasm mutters. “I’m guessing you don’t get a lot of willing participants in whatever the hell this is you sick, fuck-ugly freak.”

Your glower catches on the way his black-leathered hands twitch at his sides, the grip on his dagger shifting. Though as you glance up to his face again, his mask is a guise you cannot decipher, especially while buried in inflexible silence. And almost immediately, you bite your lips closed in regret for having said anything.

Gods, you’re such an idiot.

Yeah, your sanity berates, let’s egg on the unhinged psycho. You know, the one who kidnapped you, the one eying you with the giant fucking knife – great survival instincts.

So much silence fills that stained, decrepit room. Thick enough to suffocate anyone within it. With Ghostface leaving you to dangle there in uncertainty, wriggling your painfully prickling toes, fretting more and more over what he might do because you couldn’t keep your big mouth closed.

“That’s not very nice,” he eventually breathes. Tapping the flat edge of his blade against his thigh, like he wants to drag your attention toward it. Like your gaze isn’t hinged enough to the glint of its metal already. “Especially for someone who wants to be on my good side. And just so we’re on the same page, pumpkin–” his boots scuff the pavement as he steps back toward you, with you recoiling as you hang in place, very much failing to get away. “You do wanna be on my fucking good side.”

When he reaches out for you, you flinch and twist your face away as if he might take a stranglehold of your face again. But he simply taps between your breasts with two fingers. Casually nudging your sternum so that your whole body sways from the hook he’s strung you on; even the smallest motion further disorienting you.

“Pretty or no,” he says, “whatever happens to you in here, whatever doesn’t…” You can almost feel his grin curling. “It’s all up to me.”

Grabbing a fistful of your hair to yank your swinging body back to stillness, you choke back a gasp as he roughly steers your face up into looking at him, his ghostlike features swimming. “And you think I’ll let you go with a few measly tongue tricks?” A few, lazy headshakes motion through the fog to chastise you, as gradually your vision clears. “God, you really are dumb…”

“It was your idea,” you blearily contest, to which he fucking giggles.

“Well can you really blame me?” he simpers, coy as a kittycat. Though his mischievous delight is as short lived as a matchstick dying in the dark.

“Sure,” his voice grates along your skin, asphalt on silk. His fingers knotting tighter in your hair, while his other hand draws his blade-tip down from your navel; the point of it raking a raised, rosy line across your skin. “I want to fuck you. I wanna fuck you until every inch of you’s raw from screaming for me. I want you to sob, and beg, and bleed.” Loosing your hair, his knife slipping off you, he dots your nose affectionately with every word that follows. “All. My. Ideas. Fun ones, too.”

Straightening his posture, he taps his plastic chin, black eyeholes staring down at you. Contemplating, as a lax, graveled hum rumbles through him. And lowly he says, “But letting you loose wasn’t. I’m failing to see where I benefit. You get where I’m coming from, right sugarbear?

His antics really aren’t helping with how difficult it is to keep untangling your thoughts from your hammering pulse. But he seems pleased as punch to taunt you with freedom before ripping all hope of it away. Toying until you’re a scrambled, desperate thing for him. And what was once revolting to even think about pales in comparison to him rejecting the offer. To him leaving you strung up here to die like this; or, worse yet, to fuck you like this anyway and then ‘gut you up-close-and-personal’ like he seems more than raring to do.

Cold sweat leaks up along your naked spine, sparks of panic trailed behind it.

You’re going to have to be smarter than mindlessly begging or needlessly pissing this guy off if you mean to escape all this. And you definitely mean to escape this fucking psycho. So, swallowing the anxiety lodged in your throat, you will yourself to sound braver than you actually feel. Forcing a coquettish inflection you hope will sway him, or at the very least amuse him long enough to let you keep living.

“I’ll make it worth your while.”

That seems to temp his attention. His head tilting just so as he peers down at you.

“Oh?”

Blinking past a flurry of wooziness, you force yourself to meet his blackened gaze. “My tongue tricks - they’re… they’re really good ones.”

A lie - you have no idea what you’re doing. And, fuck - you didn’t mean to let your voice tremble like that. But really… how hard can letting him use you be? I mean, it’s like he said… right? You just… ‘open up wide’, and… and…

Fuck, what the hell are you doing?! You shouldn’t be negotiating anything with him, especially not some fucked up, BDSM blowjob. Yet at the same time, what choice do you really have? You’re not exactly bountiful with fucking options here.

His silence washes over you. Buries you. Though his black eyes never seem to leave yours.

“Cocky,” he eventually purrs, honey-dark with delight. And though he’s oddly gentle about it, you still flinch as he reaches out for you again, carding gloved fingers through your weightless hair. Admiring. Studying. Contemplating.

For a moment, he simply strokes you like the pet he claims you to be, and it’s like your lungs are glass. Like you’ve forgotten how to breathe.

“Alright,” he breathes at last, and you actually tremble beneath his touch as pent-up anxiety and relief wring from your nerves. And you hate how his fingers pause within your hair, for just a second, before teasing along your scalp again. How he seems to revel in his every effect on you.

“Let’s see what your talented tongue can do.”

Unweaving his fingers from your hair, the tip of his hunting knife replaces that touch so gentle, ghosting along your hairline as you struggle not to pull away from the steel of it, afraid if you wince he might cut you. Shuddering as his other hand smooths up along your hip, pawing at your softness. “And if you manage to impress me like a well behaved, topsy-turvy little pet…” The blunt of his steel taps your cheek; an unspoken reminder to keep on looking at him. “Fuck it. I’ll let you loose.”

His tone’s as edged as his knife. But still, a tiny bloom of hope takes root within that ceaseless pit of dread inside your stomach. Hesitance leading your words as you question, “You… you will?”

He hums with a faceless smile, hidden as always behind his screaming mask.

“Cross my heart,” his hand slides off your hip, as slowly he signs across his chest, “hope to die.”

You can do nothing but stare as he releases you. Twisted up inside, desperate and throttled by nerves. That anxious knot in your gut pulling tighter as you watch him brush aside the length of his heavy coat with the back of a languid hand, thumbing open a tactical holster strapped to one thigh, easing his knife in with practiced deftness.

The fact he’s so well-versed with that knife only further unnerves you.

The sound of his belt buckle unlatching echoes with finality. The slide of his zipper spelling your undoing. And suddenly this is far too real – notions and actuality clashing violently in your head, spiking your already rapid heart rate until you fear your ribs might break.

“I-I…” you stammer. Staring. Wide-eyed. Completely fucking terrified. “I… I… I-I…”

His fluid motions ignore you. The back of one glove brushing the tip of your nose as he hooks a thumb into his loosened waistband, slowly dragging his pants and boxers down.

“I… I’m…”

Off they slide. Down the ridge of one hip, and then the other.

“I’m… n-not…”

“Not what?” he wonders lowly, and you don’t dare tell him. Don’t dare to vocalize, I’m not ready for this, I lied, I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing. Don’t dare to tempt whatever else might be the alternative.

One of his leather bracers grazes your cheek as he works his pants down below the curve of his ass, carved muscle sliding into view. The firm V of his abdomen leading your apprehensive gaze downward, following a trail of sparse hair trailed beneath his navel. His warm, bittersweet musk, rough with notes of cheap cologne and leather, breathed across your senses.

You’ve never heard whatever-the- fuck sound you make when he drags out his semi-hard erection, stroking its girth in one lazy fist, but it’s like some dying, terrified animal snuffed out in your throat. Because his fucking dick is the biggest you’ve ever fucking seen, and even half-mast it’s already more than enough to choke you.

Yeah, you’ve definitely gotten yourself in way too deep with this.

For a second you forget he’s even standing there, stroking his inhuman cock mere inches before your bewildered, terrorized face. Until his hoarse chuckling at whatever your expression betrays snaps you out of it, and you stare past that veined pillar in his fist to the ghost of his face towering far above it. That halo of light behind his cowl making him appear like some sort of shadow risen from hell.

“Are you waiting for an invitation, or…” his mask angles to look down at you. To watch as, unthinking, you bite your lips fiercely closed. “Baby, don’t tell me you don’t want this cock in your mouth…” he broods whilst eyeing you, “you were so damn eager a second ago.”

When still you hesitate – attempting to somehow, through the force of your panicking mind alone, create a black hole for yourself to slip away in, his tone lowers to a husky growl.

“Open your fucking mouth.”

He’s lost of patience. And worried what that might bring you, you try to do as he says. Truly. But your jaw won’t budge. Like it knows you’ve bitten off far more than you’re ready for.

“I can reward you for playing nice,” he muses amidst your turmoil. “Or I can find a creative way to punish you for wasting my time.”

It’s enough to stab through your apprehension. And, slowly, your lips nervously part for him.

He’s not exactly timid in smearing the swollen head of his cock along your lips, a dewy bead of precum slicking across them as you whimper like a cornered animal.

His other hand comes to grip the back of your head as he uses your lips to massage him. “Wider than that,” he purrs. “C’mon, I thought you were trying to impress me with that tongue of yours.” His voice leaks with honey the longer you resist him. More and more as you try to twist away, though his grip in your hair won’t let you. “You do want me to let you loose, don’t you?” he wonders lightly. “Hm… Maybe you changed your mind…”

Too overwhelmed to speak, too terrified to disobey, you merely try not to whimper as you finally give in, doing exactly what he wants. Opening your mouth for him. Feeling far too vulnerable. Only to flinch back against the hand cradling the back of your head and almost accidentally bite him as he slips a few gloved fingers into your mouth, firm along your tongue, the tang of leather overpowering.

You gag on instinct, though he shushes you.

“Hey, hey, shhh,” he cooes lowly. Stroking the slick, reluctant muscle of your tongue. “I just wanna feel that pretty tongue you’re so braggish about. Come on.” Slowly, his hand in your hair guides your lips further down the length of his fingers. “Give my fingers a taste…”

Nerves sparking like cut wires, you eventually force the warmth of your mouth to close in around him, working your tongue to wet his fingers as they curl and massage and stroke you. Sucking him as deep into your mouth as you can without gagging around him, which admittedly isn’t very far, but it’s still more than you’re used to and you really don’t wanna die right now.

He purrs like a prowling beast, so low it verges on a growl. The black chasms of his eyelets fixed to the way your cheeks hollow.

“Mmnh…” he hums, mesmerized for a moment by the way your tongue weaves around him. “Maybe you’re not all talk…”

There’s an almost pacifying effect to sucking his slowly stroking fingers. And you gasp down a sloppy breath as he slides them out from your mouth, trying to ignore how your head is spinning. Watching as he teases up and down his cock with the hand you’ve wet for him, while his other fist knots tighter in your hair, coaxing your lips closer.

“Go on,” he murmurs, steering your mouth to the rosy, swollen head of him. “Have a taste.”

The black chasms of his eyelets seem fixated to the way you force your tongue out. To the way you hesitantly lick up a rivulet of precum glistening along his head, the bittersweet taste of him tinting your tongue. And his breath hitches behind his mask at the way he drags his cock across your opened mouth for a moment, watching the way your tongue and lips shine, how their plush gives beneath his girthy weight.

He lets out a low, sawtooth sigh as you force your tongue to lave over the swollen head of him again; wincing at the bitter, masculine taste. And even though you don’t like it, even though you hate it and you definitely hate him – for some perverse, unthinkable reason… the heavy feel of him against your tongue makes your belly tighten.

“That’s it,” he breathes, and an uncomfortable, provocative flare lights up between your thighs. His fleeting praise prickling heat throughout you. “Don’t be shy.”

His fingers shift in your hair, and you almost think he’s going to force your mouth deeper – though he relaxes somewhat, groaning instead as you suck a few taut, veiny inches into your mouth, cheeks hollowing as his cock twitches against your tongue.

“Fuck, baby–”

Lust and longing make his voice thick, make him sound that much less cocky, and you hate how your body responds to it. Tightness and heat mounting in the base of your spine.

You tell yourself it’s because of how disoriented you are. Because of how much you hate him.

His grip in your hair coaxes you to keep going, his breathing going rough against the inside of his mask. A shudder rippling through the cords of muscle hidden along his forearms while you worship his cock like you’re lapping up summer-warmed cream off the cone. Hoping it's enough to appease him. That he won’t shove the rest of his girth down your throat.

You're really not sure you could take it.

Though any semblance of that hope shatters the very second every instinct you have, or should have, suddenly decides to betray you. Every shred of supposed sanity you possess slipping free from you entirely. Because for some fucked up reason you absolutely refuse to think about, him using you like this is somehow turning you on. And as your arms shift uncomfortably behind your back, tugging against the ropes that tie them while your wrenched-back shoulders ache, a small, breathy moan vibrates up your chest and through the way he guides your lips along his cock.

You blink in surprise at your own outburst as he continues fucking your mouth. Woozy, unable to think straight, hanging upside-down like this – that’s why you sound like that. Your wires are fucking crossed. That’s it – every other possibility is forcibly shoved from your overwrought mind. And the bastard actually laughs as you burn up with embarrassment, suddenly trying to spit his cock from your mouth so you can think, so you can rationalize, so you can breathe, though his grip won’t let you. His hold in your hair keeping you bobbing halfway along his length just as you had been.

"What was that?” he teases, working your wet lips up and down him as he fucks your blushing face. And your hands tighten into fists behind your back and you try not to moan again.

Beneath his lust, he chuckles low and sonorous, before murmuring, “You almost seem like you like this…"

Grabbing a firmer fistful of your hair, he pulls you down his cock until you gag. His length kissing the back of your throat every time he drags your mouth along him, and still you haven't taken all of him inside. "You don't mind if I take the reins, do you baby?" he questions over the sound of you choking for breath, strained tears springing like pearls to wet your lashes. "Not that you aren’t doing a hell of a job, but… fuck, your mouth just feels real fuckin’ good.”

Each time he guides your lips rougher around him, he drags himself deeper and deeper down your throat, and though your neck muscles tense reflexively against his size there’s nothing you can do about him using you, your mouth, and your throat however the hell he wants.

“I can't promise to be gentle," he breathes, more and more rasply as you’re forced to strain and gag and swallow more of him down, "but I think you're gonna like it anyway."

Strained tears stream up your cheeks as he fucks into your mouth more gruffly, though he doesn’t force himself past those tightest muscles constricting in the back of your throat.

"Don't give up on me now,” he toys thickly, seeming to revel in the way your wet lips stretch around him. A shudder running bodily through him at the feel of your wet, warm whimpers, wrapped so snug around his length. “You were doing so well a second ago…” His fingers grip harsher in your hair. “C’mon, open your throat… be a good girl for me…"

Despite being barely able to breathe, his voice sends waves of terrible heat curling through your veins. And convincing yourself you don’t have a choice, you fight against every instinct you have to try and relax your throat like he wants you to. Sliding your tongue along his cock as you stick it out of your mouth for him, giving him more room with which to fuck you.

He groans as he thrusts in deeper, rutting into the motion of him dragging your mouth up and down his cock. And your wrists and ankles twist against their binds, thighs squirming as he bottoms out inside your throat, holding your face flush against his taut groin for a moment to savor the tight, slick feel of you struggling to swallow him down, your throat flexing and gagging in waves. The way he makes you helpless, makes you his, making you mewl and whimper along his cock despite yourself, your insides sticky and twisted and hot.

What the fuck is wrong with you?!

“There’s a good girl….” he purrs, and all your worries melt. His fingertips stroking your scalp as you swallow the full length of him down, throat straining each time he thrusts deep into your drooling mouth, dragging your lips to the base of him with every assault. “That’s it… Fuck… Just like that…”

You can’t seem to help your breathy moans spilling around him as your vision swirls from lack of oxygen, and his responding groans send jolts of unwanted pleasure between your strung-up legs as he continues fucking into your throat, pumping harder and faster and deeper. His gruff and barely audible, “Ohh, fuck–” making your cunt clench around nothing, desperate to be filled by him just like your throat is.

You’re too fargone to question it any longer. Too disoriented to fight what some part of you might want.

“So fucking tight,” he growls as you struggle not to gag. “Keep going baby, keep – fuck – keep swallowing me down,” he demands, dragging your mouth more roughly around him, thrusting against your tongue faster. “Just like that. I’m gonna cum right down your fucking throat. Swallow me up like a good girl, kitten. Every last drop.”

And whether because he’s forcing you to, or because some twisted piece of you might like this, you gulp him down like the good fucking girl he wants you to be as his cock surges harder and throbs against your tongue, your face dragged into his groin as he bucks more urgently inside your mouth.

His climax tears through him with a hoarse, jagged moan. Hot cum spurting deep down your throat in pulsing waves as his fingers tighten in your hair, cock spasming as you drink him all down.

“Fuck,” he grits, the eyelets of his mask fixed to the way your throat bobs over and over as you suck and swallow everything he gives you, with you moaning and whining for more, reduced to nothing but disastrous need.

You’re at last able to choke back a haggard breath as he finally slides his wet, semi-hard cock from your abused throat; cum trailing like strings of sugar glass from your puffy, gasping lips.

"Fuck," he moans again, admiring the slavering, panting mess he's made of you. He runs his thumb along the spittle and cum coating your lower lip, as if admiring the way it marks you, the way it claims you. "That was fucking good, baby," he breathes, smearing himself further into you, and you have to remind yourself that you hate this, to convince yourself not to suck the fluid off of his thumb. “So fucking good.”

Still massaging your lips, his other hand slowly unweaves from your hair, tugging his pants back up, not bothering to immediately cinch them closed as they instead hang loose about his hips. The metallic clink of his belt buckle biting through your mutual, unsteady breathing. And not a second later he’s thumbed up the guard of his knife, taking its hilt and bringing the blunt of cold steel to kiss your hipbone.

With a slice that shears across your skin, so close yet not quite cutting, the snap of fabric and elastic echoes throughout the room, and your panties are suddenly wrenched off of you, with you gasping and twisting your thighs tighter together against the sudden, vulnerable chill left behind. And before you can even think to protest, Ghostface has one strong arm wrapped around your waist, tucking his blade away at his thigh and holding you as easily as if you weighed nothing; finally relieving that rope-burned aching that’s made your feet and ankles go numb. Though before you can feel too grateful for it, your face slams against his groin as he hugs your limp body more snugly to him, and you sputter against his opened zipper as you feel the muscle of him shifting, feel him grabbing for something from one of many cargo pockets.

Glancing blearily upward, you wince against the fluorescent light above his dark, cowled outline, blinking until you see his free arm angling a camera high above you both, poised for the perfect fucking selfie. And when you balk in alarm and try to twist away, not exactly feeling up for a fucking photo op, he gives your body a rough, punishing shake that has you hanging limp and obedient for him again.

“Say cheese,” he simpers, as his arm wrapped around your middle flashes a peace sign up at the lens. The click and flash of that awful moment being captured forever rending you momentarily blind, firelight branded across your vision.

He doesn’t wait for your eyes to adjust before he’s wielding his knife again, and those ropes cinching off circulation around your ankles are abruptly slit clean through – his hold on your waist keeping you from tumbling directly down to the hard, littered floor beneath. Though, once again, before you can feel too grateful for it, your psycho prince-charming lets you fall out of his grip like a sack of old potatoes, with you unable to catch yourself with how your arms are still tied behind your back.

You collapse in a rough, awkward pile on the floor; pain shooting through the shoulder that catches you.

Groaning weakly, you curl into the fetal position amongst the dust and filth as your head gradually stops ringing. And when your captor’s visage swirls into clarity once more above you, you see him standing like a black cloud. Like a phantom-faced tower. Holding your sliced panties to the slitted nose of his mask.

“Mmmmn…” he thrums, twisting wet fabric betweenst gloved fingers. “Positively drenched… You’re such a whore for Ghostie, aren’t you?”

Revulsion rises like vicious bile; disgust with him, with yourself, burning through whatever tightness still pulses through your core, as with vehemence you sputter, “N-no! I… I–!”

He inhales the scent of your underwear deeply through his mask again, exhaling with a starved, “Sweetness doesn’t lie.”

Your insides pull into uncomfortable knots, with you struggling to clamor, “Give them back you fucking bastard!”

“You know, I think I’ll take them as a little souvenir, but thanks for the suggestion," he muses whilst tucking your sliced and soaked panties away. The eyes of his mask never leaving you. "And before you get your lack of panties into any more of a twist, don’t worry – I’ll stop by your place to nab you some more tonight. Don't want you suffering without panties.” You don’t have to see his face to know he’s rolling his eyes. “Spare key’s under that cute little froggy planter nestled on the balustrade, yeah?”

Walking a bit away from the meat hook he’d so lovingly left you on, he kicks a metal bucket at where you’re currently crumpled, with you wincing and shirking away from it like a stricken dog.

“Commodities for the princess. See how much I spoil you?”

Bare heels digging into filthy concrete, you lift yourself up enough to kick and scramble away from him as best as you can, until your back and bound arms press flat against the wall behind you. Your knees tucking tightly to your chest - your bare, trembling legs the only shield you have against him.

“C-can I at least have my clothes….?” you waver pitifully, hating yourself for the way you sound. “Where are the rest of my clothes?” Every emotion you have is run ragged, leaving you some nauseating cocktail of pissed off, fearful, and far too desperate.

Your captor stares. Unreadable. That pale, silent scream scarred forever on his face. But even if you can’t get a read on his expression, the eventual, leathered flex of his dense shoulders strikes you as less than amused.

“Spoiled. Rotten."

Coming toward you, you choke back a shriek whilst attempting to kick further away from him along the floor, even with the wall pressed flush at your back – and he grabs you by the throat to stop you from scuttling too far away, yanking you roughly back toward him. Shoving your face down into your lap so harshly you can’t breathe as he reaches behind you for something. And you hear the rattle of metal against concrete as he grabs a length of chain from somewhere off the ground nearby; what you barely manage to glimpse of it shining much more vibrantly than anything else you've seen in this rusted, god-awful place.

You can’t see how, but you know he attaches it to the tether of your forearms wrenched behind your back, and the air is pushed from your lungs again with how carelessly he moves you about. Tying your chain to the nearest metal beam like you’re some kind of dog he doesn’t want straying.

"Listen here, princess," he says over the clashing of chain; and after giving your bonds and metallic leash a good tug to make sure they're solid – that you aren't going anywhere – he grabs your jaw and jerks your face up to his, leaning down to breathing beside your ear, the plastic of his mask and heat of his words skimming over you. "Just because I cut you down doesn’t mean I’m giving you whatever you want. I much prefer you like this, for the time being. Bare. Pathetic. Adorably helpless. Fuck, you really are cute."

His grip tightens until you whimper in pain, feeling like his fingerprints might bruise. His mask brushing more against your skin as you hear him suck down the scent of your hair. "And here’s the important part–” he growls against your ear, “–it really doesn’t fucking matter what you want. So be a little more grateful and shut the hell up."

Tossing your face aside, he leaves you slouched against the wall as he rises once more to loom over you. "Plus, c’mon… I couldn’t exactly leave you in what you were wearing, could I?” You can hear his cheshire grin. “Be hard to tie you up in all that.”

As you glower up at his ghostly face, a mirthful scoff escapes him at whatever vitriol twists your expression. “Don’t give me that look – I didn’t get rid of it. It’s still around. Who knows, we might even play dress up with it later. It’d look better painted red, anyway. How about that, hm? You’d like that, right puppy?”

You have no fucking idea why he keeps referring to your clothes as an ‘it’, beyond that his playful inflection weaves through you an unknown trepidation. And as he watches incomprehension rise across your face, slowly overwriting more and more of your anger, you can almost feel his lengthening smile settling in on you, hidden away behind his mask.

“Wait…”

Suddenly, he sounds much more amused.

You really, really don’t like that.

“...Don’t tell me you don’t remember yesterday?”

It only takes a split second for your whole body to tense against answering him. To resist admitting to him and, even moreso, to yourself, that… no. No, you don’t seem to have a fucking clue about whatever happened to you right before you woke up in this nightmare.

Panic floods through you at the realization, overwriting all of your senses, though you fight not to show it, not wanting to give this bastard any more reason to be amused. But after your stiff, rebellious silence drags on several seconds too long, he can’t seem to stop himself from laughing, anyway.

“You don’t…?” he wonders, with an undercurrent electrified by joy. “Not where I found you..? Not what you were wearing..?” You can hear his sharpened grin, edged sharp enough to slice. “Nothing at all?”

God, he’s like an elated, murderous puppydog.

“What about the day before that?” he wonders slyly. “Hm?”

“Fuck you!” you spit at him, fighting against the waves of anxiety fighting to overtake you. Because no matter how you claw at your brain, trying to wring it free of even a drop of memory, you can’t seem to remember what happened to you yesterday. And, worse still… some sickly writhing piece of you feels like you might not even be able to recall the past few days; though, under the circumstances, you’d really have no way of knowing.

For all you know, your memory could simply be missing a single hour…

Or a single day…

Or a single week…

It’s all a disorienting blur. And the fact that you really have no idea just how much time’s gone blank for you is absolutely, overwhelmingly terrifying.

Ghostface cackles while he watches your inner turmoil, feigning sympathy as he cooes, “Oh, baby…”

He slips out his camera again and snaps another pic of you before you have time to recoil away from it.

“Here’s a new memory for you,” he croons as you blink away the flash, and even through disorienting fear you’re somehow able to glower up at him like a sodden, bristling alley cat. Wishing you could bore holes through his head with the heat of your glare alone as his mask tilts to one side, admiring the photo of you half-naked and chained, cowering and captured on screen. “Remember that time you didn’t remember anything?”

“You’re psychotic!” you bite at him, hoping to insult him, to hurt him as much as he’s hurt you; though he simply hums with a slow and steady grin. Hidden, as always, behind his ghost-faced mask.

“Better watch that mouth,” he cautions idly. “I don’t pander to brats. Though I'm finding I really don’t mind teaching you how to behave.” He chuckles lowly to himself as you force yourself to keep on glaring, no matter how tremulously. "And if those sweet little sounds you were trying so hard to hide with my cock buried down your throat are any indication…" his tone carries an artful grin, “you probably won’t mind either.”

Sliding his camera back inside his pocket, he grants you a small shrug. “But alright. You caught me – I admit it. Knocking you out wasn’t an exact science.” Lifting a hand, he waggles a few fingers as if dispelling all of your many problems. “But I’m sure the drugs’ll wear off sometime, and you’ll get your precious memory back.” Behind the mask, he sounds to smirk. “Probably. And if not, well… I’m happy to paint you a new set of memories. Better ones.” His hand drops, his tone dragged with it. “Ones with me.”

With that, he saunters away, with you tensing in alarm that you’re apparently being left here – being left wherever the hell this is he’s decided on leaving you, without clothes or food or water or even your most recent memories. And as you twist against your chains as if to try and follow after him, you’re quick to cry out in his wake, “You said you’d let me go!”

“You’re a really bad listener.”

He pauses at the doorway, turning to watch you over one broad, black shoulder. One hand listlessly tapping along the doorframe beside him, like he’s being forced to impatiently coddle you while having much more important things to do. “I said I'd let you loose if your tongue impressed me. Which it did.” To your chagrin, he sounds to smirk. “It very much did. But I never said I'd let you go. No, you're stuck with me, sweetheart.” His voice flexes possessively. “Mine, for as long as I please.”

His fingers cease to tap the longer he watches you watching him, with you caught somewhere between spiteful and pleading.

“Don't worry,” he says. “You won’t miss me for long. I'll be back real soon to keep you company, honeybear. But if you wanna practice your operatics in the meantime – you know…” he gestures, listless, noncommittal, “maybe call for help a little, beg for someone – anyone – to please, please, help you, save you!” His hand drops again to his side as he continues with a devil’s amusement, “Long story short, feel free to scream your fucking lungs out. No one will hear you.”

Turning away again, something catches his attention enough to make him pause a moment more. Before he glances back to add, “Well, no one who can help, anyway. But it'll definitely give my cameras a show.”

Without wasting another glance, he ignores your screams of protests that he come back. That he let you go. That he’s a sick, twisted, demented bastard.

Meanwhile he saunters out into some sort of hallway you can’t see from the leash he’s left you on, strolling without a care in the world, broad shoulders lax and weightless. The rockslide of him chuckling to himself echoing about the walls as he does, along with his sing-song, parting afterthought:

“Nighty night, tiger.”

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

I'd love to hear what you think! And if you want added/removed from the taglist for future chapters just let me know 💜

#dead by daylight #scream #ghostface #ghostface x y/n #ghostface x reader #ghostface x you #fanfic #fanfiction #ao3 #slashers #please heed the warning tags #dead dove : do not eat #danny johnson x reader #danny johnson x you #danny johnson #jed olsen #dbd #ghostie #whimsyvixen #whimsyvixen art 💗 #slasher imagines #slasher x reader

[ultfreakme]

im a zutara multishipper though i often feel like a fake cause im not as hardcore as most of em.. i forgot all about that scarf scene its not as memorable as I'll save you from the pirates is that probalmatic imeaniguess but it was a fun scene in the cartoon ..

. so many zuts are celebrating over a silyl scarf scene but i can tell there's higher chances of hell freezing over than zutara and i dont look forward to them going again We were robbed when it doesn't happen. i love being a multishipper though cause i was very well fed with zukaang

im begging shippers not to bully gordon over shipping and it is interting to note how uncomfortable zutara makes the actors prob cause they recognize Kia is a teenager and Dallas is 22 year old.. theres hooplah over how the age gap is fine cause she' ll be 18 and theres a difference with 11/14 vs 15/ year old met guy when he was 20. of course kia is uncomforatble with zutara she met dallas aas a child. but here we got people treating her like she's an adult already.

the way kia is talked about creeps me out and i still think about the people telling me im a fake fan bec i think maybe we dont talk about kias age like shes not even real. i do enjoy the fanart comig from promo pics cause people are super talented but sometimes . it feels that people are shipping Kia/Dallas more than zuko/katara

Hi!! Honestly it's fine if you ship even if things for the ship are considered 'problematic'. I mean I ship Zukka and both of them have genuinely wanted each other dead or gone for a good chunk of the show lol.

I think, and I'm not going to generalize and say EVERY Zutara shipper, but one thing I've encountered as a pattern of difference between Zutara shippers and every other ATLA ship shipper, is canonicity. Zukaang, Zukka, Jetko, MaiLee, TyZula, Tokka, Taang, none of them are of the mindset that their ship will be canon so no one has any real problems with these ships. But a lot of Zutara shippers I've seen on twitter at least are convinced that Zutara was meant to be canon, and this inability keep fanon and canon separate is what's getting people's hopes up. And when it's made clear that these ARE separate, there's upset. I've seen the same thing happen with multiple other shippers and ships across fandoms.

Being a multishipper sounds fun anon, and I hope you're doing well <3

You're so right on the way people act about and treat Kia. Dallas has on interview said Kia is like a little sister to him, and yeah people keep forgetting that these two met when Kia was a child and he was an adult. It's why Dallas and Ian are fine when they talk about Zukka or can joke about "shipping" them.

I've noticed that people are doing the thing again(in 2024 dear GOD), where they keep waiting for young girls to be "legal" to be fucking creeps. People did it with Billie Eilish, the Olsen twins and a bunch of other female celebs and artists. I just feel terrible for her and Gordon, and I wish people would stop being weird about the actors and take a hint because Kia, Dallas, Gordon- none of them are being subtle about being uncomfortable about zutara. The only way they can be more obvious is plaster it on their foreheads. I didn't know about people talking about...ugh I can't even say it, Kia and Dallas like a ship GROSS. Leave Kia and Dallas out of it gosh. I got an ask a while back basically saying people will stop being mean to Gordon if Zutara becomes canon and I was flabbergasted. Like, you won't treat a child, with respect and dignity, because your 20 year old ship isn't real???

I've said this before, but people are just jumping to make Kia out to be more...older? People saying she looks like Gordon's mom(I will hunt these people on sight she looks like a child). And it's this, intermixing of sexism and racism and colourism (I've seen people be extremely disgusting about Dallas and Gordon too about their appearance. Pretty much everyone who doesn't fit into Western beauty standards are receiving awful hate- Thalia Tran playing Mai, Elizabeth Yu playing Azula).

People seriously need to get a grip and start learning to differentiate between fiction and real human beings or this is going to hurt EVERYONE involved, but especially Kia and Gordon. It doesn't matter if Kia is 18, she DOES NOT LIKE IT. DALLAS sees her as a sister, like i wish people would keep that in mind.

#natla #atla la #atla live action #riki asks #dallas liu #kiawentiio #gordon cormier

[bistaxx]

An annoyance I specifically have about qsmp tntduo fics is that they don’t even (usually) try to be like the qsmp versions of the characters. They have them act like dsmp, rivals that have a weird homoerotic tension. While in the qsmp, we’ve had Quackity being obsessed with Wilbur and Tallulah < and being convinced that Wilbur was the dad and tallulah was his kid. This is just the early stuff but it’s annoying how they pretend it’s qsmp when it’s clearly not.

(TNT MUTUALS SKIP THIS POST- SORRY ILY I PROMMY SRY! THIS ENDED UP TURNING INTO A RANT LMAO)

(Also none of this is my griping over what people are allowed to write or draw lol- i'm just bitching for my own sake LOL)

Yeah that's definitely a major part of my annoyance too, not helped by the fact that I also dislike /r c!tnt LOL- And I was actually interested in what q!Tnt as dynamic could've been but canon doesn't offer a whole lot to work with these days and fanon like you said either just makes them a poor man's rehash of c!tnt despite their q! counterparts being VERY different form those men or, like a mutual of mine brought up in their post, reduce q!Quack into this poor sad little wet cloth of a man that ONLY qWilbur could ever understand or fix because he's the ONLY man who actually cares about q!Quackity... just ignore Roier, and Etoiles, and Forever, and Baghera, and Cellbit, and Bagi, and- You get the point lol.

I think my last straw personally was seeing everything that Quack goes through be made to be about Wil- getting Tilin? Him and Wilbur can raise them together despite us knowing Luzu was the other parent! He loses his child? Dw he can raise Tallulah with Wilbur! Quackity's been kidnapped and replaced with Elq? Oh no! Onyl Wilbur will ever care or notice :( Just ignore that Jaiden witnessed this happen- Quackity is back, but his memories are gone and his mind severely messed with? Oh Wilbur will fix him- he'll teach him how to read and write and take care of him and they can be a family alongside Phil Tallulah and Chay! Quackity's been kidnapped again? Oh no only Wilbur will care Part 2 even though everyone quickly noticed Elq isn't Q! Quackity (and Phil) have weird tickets? This must be related to WILBUR somehow?! Quackity's DEAD?!? OH NO- WILBUR WILL BE SO SAD AND DEVASTATED! Quackity's back but extremely traumatized and broken after everything he's been though? He needs Wilbur to hug him and heal him :((((((((((((((-

And I wanna take a brief aside to complain about how people treat them and the eggs too- See I really like Quack and Pepito's dynamic, so I give into temptation and look on Twitter to find fanart of them... only to see them paired with Wilbur and Tallulah... with Quackity's OTHER CHILD Richas nowhere in sight! Because he just... doesn't matter I guess even though the two still care about each other a lot and still call each other father and son! Also the god damned disservice this stuff does for Talsy's character too- yeah she'd so be running over to hug Wil with her current growing resentment of him- but to know that'd require people to acknowledge her as more then just Wilbur's cute little daughter who exists only as an extension of him- SOMETHING SHE'S COMPLAINED ABOUT TO PHIL. But back to Quack...

Would you believe me if I told you people also did this shit during KARMALAND too- A SERIES THAT DOESN'T EVEN HAVE WILBUR PLAYING IN IT! That during the early days people were CONVINCED that k!Quackity was secretly an amnesiac c!Quackity and he was only drawn to k!Luzu because he reminds him c!Wilbur... yes people really fucking said that and god it made me so mad I won't lie 😭 People can headcanon whatever they want that's fine even if I don't gel with, the thing is it was just everywhere during the early Karmaland V days and people were doing to most to push it 'canon' cuz God forbid Q exist outside of Wil or c!tntduo in this Spanish server.

Listen- I never wanna be That Guy who DEMANDS people stop doing this or that- people can do whatever they want- I get missing a ship, I still miss Karmaland Luckity- I just wished people cared about q!Quack for q!Quack and not just tntduo. q!Quackity is a very flawed screw-up of a man with a big heart whose been through Hell and even though he wants to give up still chooses to keep on going for the sake of his new child- not to mention his mysterious connection to Elq and being forced to be a pawn to Oscurucho! He has a lot going for him outside of his celebrity crush! He has a lot of really good and complex bonds with other characters- he has a strong friendship with Etoiles, Forever tried to look out for him after Quackity lost his memories and Quackity in turn was visibly distressed when Forever went missing, HIS WHOLE THING WITH ROIER- LIKE- Quackity being a major part of the betrayal at the start of the server and Roier in turn ruining Quackity's reputation on the server in revenge but Quackity still tries to help Cellbit fix things with Roier during Festa Junina, Quackity admires the strength of Spiderbit's love to the point that it makes it reconsider his own view of what love is after his fake wedding with Wilbur's cardboard cutout, Roier still tried to help Quackity regain his memories when Quackity found Tilin's old diary, Roier is listed as one of the most important people to Quackity, during his hell coma in the maze portion there are photos of him and Roier everywhere, they even share custody of a child now- but no, Wilbur is the only one who gets or cares about Quackity, okay sure.

Anyway rant over- sorry anon I pretty much just used your ask as an excuse to vent about all my grievances I'm sorry 😭 People can send more anons about this if they want but I prolly won't answer- I don't like to bitch too much on this blog- this is the exception to that LOL I don't hate qWilbur either- I just don't care for q!tnt.

#tntduo neg #negative #ship hate #anon #ask #vent

[jeork]

TC Tag Game

As always I’m excessively late to the party, but thanks @renaultphile for the tag!

1. "He would not fucking say that" only they did and it's canon. When/who?

I don’t have a copy of the book at hand right now, but while Laurie is visiting home for the wedding he goes on a walk and recites this weird incest-y song to himself, then contemplates how it always felt relatable to him. I’m not saying he would not fucking say that, because obviously he does and I hear him quite clearly. But I am saying maybe he should not have fucking said that. 

Also Ralph calling Bunny “Boo”. I don’t care how drunk he was, you don’t randomly slip out with a word you wouldn’t otherwise use. It’s part of his vocabulary. This one had me in contemplation for months, like, would he ever call Laurie that? Does this count towards the bad habits and lifestyle choices he wants to abandon while being with Laurie? Whole scene’s just embarrassing af 

2. Did they kiss in the study? Yes/no + why you are 100% correct about this.

I think they probably did, but that it was very chaste. I’m convinced the kiss between Laurie and Andrew is supposed to mirror it almost exactly. The way I see it, Laurie didn’t fully process it and therefore just stood there. From the flashback he got later on while holding onto Ralph’s sleeve while they’re in Ralph's room I think Laurie might’ve grabbed onto Ralph’s arm a little. But other than that I don’t think he did much, which made Ralph decide he wasn’t ready yet.

3. Mandatory question about Ralph's alleged tattoos.

I wasn’t aware this is something people discuss lmao, I’ve only thought about it once myself. Gonna be a party pooper and say he has none, as it's "improper"

4. 53 vs 59 edition: quote a line or paragraph that is better in the edition you like the least.

I feel like me and @renaultphile are the only ‘59 truthers. I think I once even wrote an entire post just on why I like that Mary cut the knee-touch?

Again, don’t have any book copies at hand right now, but I remember one small detail in the ‘53 I really loved. During Alec’s birthday party while he’s blowing out the candles everyone is looking at him, and for a moment there’s this shared feeling of hopefulness. In the ‘53 Laurie feels someone’s eyes on him, but by the time he turns around Ralph has already stopped looking. Something about Ralph glancing at Laurie in this moment, who’s presence represents so much to Ralph, makes me ache. 

5. Which TC character would feel right at home here on tumblr dot com?

I guess the obvious answers would be something like Hazell, Sandy or Bunny, but I feel like Andrew would run the most terrifically angsty aesthetic account. Also young Laurie, he'd probably write bad poetry or something

6. Tag yourself at Alec's birthday party.

The two guys holding hands in dead silence, not because I can relate, but because they really set the scene. Or the petty shit-stirrer who snitches on Ralph having a boyfriend. Or the other petty shit-stirrer who cries "Here comes Bim"

7. Post a TC meme.

I used to run a TC meme account over on Twitter. I’ve planned on reposting all of that stuff on here sometime, in the meantime here’s one: 

8. Easy to talk about who deserved better. Who deserved worse?

Dave. The Mature Wholesome Elder act he’s putting on at the end is pissing me off. Self-serving cu- 

Also, following the heavy implications that Alec had been snuggling it up with Bunny for quite a while, I think he got off pretty scot free 

9. You can break the fourth wall (at any point in the novel) and say a single sentence to our protagonist, Laurie Odell. What do you say?

I really wanted him to stay friends with Reg. I always felt like Madge’s Aunt Vera joke was pretty funny and well intended, albeit improper and terribly timed. It didn’t come off to me as her making fun of him for being gay. More like her trying to awkwardly bond over it, similar to Reg during The Bathroom Talk™. If Laurie hadn’t been so emotionally rattled at that time I feel like he would’ve played it off. It was such bad timing for him. So I wanna scream at him “Chill out, they’re clearly not out to get you!” 

10. What's a question you have about TC? One you haven't found an answer for yet.

I think there still might be a couple minor details, but I can’t remember them right now. The only bigger piece of dialogue that’s still a little intransparent to me is Ralph’s whole speech at the beginning of their post-wedding trip argument. I have my theories about it, but would also enjoy to hear more. 

Considering I’m over a month late and have no clue who did this tag already I’ll open it up to whoever might still wanna do it. 

#the charioteer #mary renault #tc tag game #tag game

[my-mt-heart]

First of all, thank you for being always so insightful and open to discussion with anyone! You're one of the few I genuinely rely on when I need to talk and share ideas/doubts. I was thinking about the whole marketing discourse. Let's be clear, amc sucks at that, it did with all the spin-offs (which I only recently found out are more than 20???) and surprisingly with the three main ones as well because everything they did wasn't certainly enough compared to other networks. Amc has always done the bare minimum and every info about the richonne/negan&maggie spinoffs that reached me was mostly because of their fans. Yes they got promos and interviews (I think Dead City/Lauren&JDM even did more interviews than Andrew & Danai) but from my point of view their fandoms did most of the job. I don't even follow any of them but I used to have my twitter timeline full of their posts every single day, at any time. I remember they used to bomb any inch of their spaces with videos, speculations, headcanons, fanarts, endless convos and all that, which I think contributed to attract a lot of curiosity out of their fandom and it worked!!! I kept seeing so many tweets full of replies and theories and hype that I had to go on a mute spree because I couldn't take it anymore. Now my point is... why don't we do the same thing?? We as a fandom can do a lot to create hype and the target people (those who have stopped watching the show after negan showed up or so) would follow us because enthusiasm is what attracts the old fans who gave up. That's the real deal! We are!! TWD main accs would ultimately follow the flow, but we really... REALLY need to start it. Dead City next seasons (that'll air in 2025) is already being promoted and the fans are already talking about it, richonne fans are still being loud and lit like if their show were still on.... why can't we do the same? We constantly complain about Amc not being there for us but the first ones that should are... US. We need to be present and make noise and above all enthusiast!

You don't need to convince me that rallying works. Melissa wouldn't have had the option to come back if it weren't for all the noise her fans made. No one she worked with was offering her the support she deserved, so we had to do it.

With TBOC's promotion, it's a catch 22. Caryl definitely sells. Their fans can definitely build hype, and AMC can definitely save their money, but it's still their responsibility to release content that'll kick the target audience into high gear so that they stay motivated to post, speculate, make posters, and all the things, which would then reel in the Carylers who left at one point or another, which would then get the attention of the GA, and so on and so forth.

What they're doing instead is splintering what should be a reliable viewership. Norman's buzz words, reposts of fanart, and photos of Melissa/Carol just existing are hyping some of us while others are scratching their heads at why Carol is reduced to a subtitle, why the teasers are shipbaiting Daryl with a nun, and why two. fucking. years later we're still hearing about showrunners getting fired and Melissa being left out of S1 because she wasn't important enough. I would love to be enthusiastic enough to do the heavy-lifting, but if that's what's being asked of me, why do I need to get punched in the face first? How do I go about promoting a Daryl and Carol show if I can't even tell if that's what I'm really getting? Why aren't they leaning into what all Carylers love about their relationship? Why aren't they capitalizing on Caryl's/McReedus' chemistry? And if all of that is what half of Carylers who have stayed this long are feeling as well, the chances of getting lost Carylers to come back are slim, the GA/new viewers won't see the buzz, and supplementing with viewers who hate Cary/Carol won't work either because they aren't going to be in it for the long haul.

So again, if AMC wants my help, then I want them to motivate me. Tribeca will be...interesting? Because on one hand, the McReedus panel could be very reassuring, but 201 spoilers that will inevitably leak could be polarizing again depending on what Zabel and Nicotero did with it, and if that happens, well, I wish AMC luck trying to promote the rest of the season.

Thanks for reaching out. Sorry this probably isn't the answer you were looking for.

#caryl #carol peletier #melissa mcbride #daryl dixon #norman reedus #twd caryl #the book of carol #just bitching #bad caryler

[wow-thisismylifeiguess]

another take on the ‘141 treat Soap badly’ trope but mix in the end of the mwiii campaign.

Soap’s tried so hard to fit in. He’s done everything in his goddamn power to prove that he’s as good a member of Task Force 141 as everyone else is. He fucking /tried/. In the end, it gets him nowhere else but dead.

Laswell originally tries to convince him that it’s a shit plan and Soap somewhat agrees. It’s definitely cowardly, but he’s tired and in pain and he just wants this over and done with. He explains everything to her. The mistreatment, the coldness. The way they always act like he’s /replaceable/.

Soap got shot in the head saving Price’s life when he knows in his fucking heart of hearts that the man would never do the same for him. Isn’t that sick?

It’s a little scary, watching the way Laswell’s gentle eyes turn hard and crystalline as Soap tells story after story. She grits her teeth.

“Okay, John. I’ll help you.”

Two hours later, the John ‘Soap’ MacTavish everyone knows dies in his hospital bed.

—

When Laswell drags the remainder of the 141 to visit, they shuffle into the room awkwardly.

“Johnny, I-“

“Who are you?” John tilts his head in confusion. The man w a skull mask seems to freeze. “My name is…well. I was told it was John. And you are?” John’s voice is soft, his accent subdued. He sounds nothing like the old John.

“Kate? What’s going on here?”

Laswell shakes her head and sighs. Pinches the bridge or her nose before shuffling over to stand beside John, putting a hand on his shoulder. He looks at her oddly but doesn’t move.

“The doctors say it’s amnesia. It’s bad, Jo-“ She pauses. “Price. It’s bad. He most likely won’t remember anything. Didn’t even know his own name until I told him.”

The man she’s talking to, Price, his expression looks complicated. “How did that even happen? How do they know he won’t remember anything?”John frowns. He doesn’t like being spoken about like he isn’t sitting in the same damn room.

Before he can open his mouth, Laswell cuts in sharply. “John got fucking shot in the head, Price. Saving /your/ ass. Most people don’t walk away from that alive, let alone w amnesia.”

John still doesn’t say anything, just glances back at the group of men still standing at the door. He blinks at them and the one man who hasn’t spoken at all yet looks away, avoiding his gaze entirely. Oh. John doesn’t know how to feel about that.

He puts his hand over Laswell’s and she cuts herself off mid sentence. “John?”

“Am I supposed to know them?” He asks. “Do they know me?”

“No.” It’s a harsh response and nearly makes John jump. The skull mask guy says it. His eyes are narrowed and even w the mask, his expression is as harsh as his tone. “We don’t known you.”

With that, he turns and leaves. The quiet one leaves w him.

Laswell and Price speak for a bit longer, but eventually he leaves too. John is left alone w Laswell.

“You should consider being an actor after that performance. Sold it well.” Laswell tells him when she thinks no one is close enough to hear.

John shrugs. “Easy to convince them when they’re already eager to get rid of me.” He looks at her and smiles. He’s oddly happy. “Thank you, Kate.”

// maybe a part 2 where the guys find out Soap is faking? time skip? aftermath? Idk //

Also, note: these are usually posted on twitter first, so if anyone’s interested… 🫡 @/meisterscythe__

#sad soap my believed #I am in fact v weak for the ‘141 mistreating soap’ trope #cod #my post