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shadyteacup · 3 years

Note

If you’re still doing requestsssssss how about a hcs of Dazai x fem! Reader who is like Midari from Kakegurui 😌

Ooh thats a nice one! Yes love, I'm still doing requestss

And I'm so sorry, this is so late... also it's very long n I'm not exaggerating. It's not even funny I'm so sorry

I'm Crazy, But I'm Free

Dazai x Fem!reader who is like Midari

• You and Dazai probably met during his days at the port mafia.

• I can imagine the mafia capturing you because of how much trouble you were causing in a casino.

• UK, when big businesses pay gangsters for security?? Yeah, similarly the casino you were playing at, has paid the mafia.

• You were already banned from many other casinos, as your games either end with you gaining a lot of money, or begin with a dangerous condition.

• Many people were quite afraid of you, and wanted to avoid even being in the same room as you, as they couldn't handle the severity of the danger you pose with every game.

• Anyways, so you were warned by a few members of the mafia twice, but you, being the fearless adventurer you are, flipped them off and continued to seek a life threatening game.

• So then the mafia decided to use violence, and cornered you in a dark alley. You pulled out your beloved gun.

"Well, well, well! Do you boys want a fight!?", you excitedly point the gun at them.

"Put your weapon down, Ms. L/N. We are here to warn you for the final time. Stay away from this casino. Further misbehavior will lead to dangerous consequences."

You hum, thinking up a plan.

"How about this. My revolver has 5 bullets. And there are five of us. How about we all take turns to shoot blindfolded!"

You excitedly shove them in a circular arrangement.

"I'll go first! The rules are that every person gets a chance to shoot from the center of the circle. If the bullet misses, everyone takes a step ahead, closer to the center."

You explain, grinning at the men clad in all black.

"If a bullet hits me, I'll agree to your terms. If it hits one of you lot, then you can't stop me anymore. What do you say?!"

The mafiosi were weirded out by this. What if you had a good aim, or an ability that allowed you to shoot them with your eyes closed? They didn't have much intel on you, and only knew you to be a girl from a rich background, who had come to Yokohama for higher studies.

"That's enough. Grab her-"

• Thats when our boy showed up. Dazai was curious when he overheard some of the men talk about some 'fearless girl that had flipped them off even after two rather threatening warnings.'

• So he had decided to tag along, staying in the shadows, until now.

• "I think it will be a wonderful idea. Play along, gentlemen. I want to see where this goes."

• You shot, and missed. So did the other guy. Then the other one. Now, the circle had shrunk really small. You were almost in the line of fire at this point. There was an 80% chance of getting shot.

• "That's enough." ,Dazai said, as he walked to stand in front of you.

• "You are daring, aren't you. You're not afraid of death."

• Staring into his eyes, you saw a reflection of yourself. A dark, lost soul stared back at you.

• "In fact, you arranged this little game to ensure that you got hurt. You perfectly planned it out, and ensured that as the circle gets smaller, you would be in the direct line of fire."

• "You missed the first shot on purpose, didn't you?"

• He had seen right through your game.

'What's this guy's deal?', you thought.

"Why would you stop the game when it was at its peak? Hah? Whats wrong with you, man?!", you angrily grab his collar. "I was just beginning to have fun, and here you are, ruinjng it!"

• Taken aback by your bravery, he just blinked at you.

"Do you know who I am?"

"Yes, obviously, idiot. But that doesn't give you any right to interrupt our game."

"Oh? So who do you think I am."

You give him a 'baka janiono?' look.

"You are their leader. Probably an executive of the mafia, judging by your expensive suit. Why?"

The thoughts running through Dazai's head were along the lines of :

'Just who is this girl? How does she know about the mafia? Surely my men weren't dumb enough to tell her who they work for. How does she know about my position? She surely didn't just guess that, right?? And why the fuck does a student have a gun? Does her family have connections within the underworld? She obviously doesn't fear death. Will she be a good addition to the mafia?'

• "What are you thinking about, baka? Answer me."

• He smiled sweetly at you, and firmly gripped your wrist, pushing it off his collar.

"There's someone who would like to meet you"

Before you can retort back, he continues,"You seek adventure, do you not? You want to feel something worthwhile. Something akin to facing death, something that will give you an adrenaline rush. I can give you all of that. If you come with me, that is."

• Mori was shocked when he heard about what had happened. He agreed with Dazai's decision to make you join the ranks. He needed such fearless crackheads in his organization.

• He paired you up with the double black, making you an executive too. You hadn't quite agreed to his terms, but he had offered you to just accompany the ginger and the brunette on a mission. And had let you make the final decision .

• You three had to go to an abandoned warehouse, where some people were tampering with the mafia goods. There, you saw how sadistic Dazai was. How manipulative and bad he was. It made you fall for him. Hard. Plus, you realized the risk of being a mafiosi. It was quite thrilling.

• When you got back, you had screamed at mori to let you join. Quite literally begged. And he, ofcourse, agreed. You hadn't even given him a chance to threaten your life, which was the usual norm, when a valuable asset wasn't willing to join the ranks of the feared organization.

• You trained with dazai. And purposely got hit. It turned you on. But you never mentioned anything, in fear of being rejected.

• Dazai, ofcourse, noticed this, and one fine day, confronted you about it. You told him just how much you love him. He was always intrigued by your sadistic side. He saw a part of himself in you. The daring, brave, smart side of yours was something so similar to himself, yet unique. You were seeking the same thing that he was, that is to feel something. He felt sadness, and loneliness, and he never had a purpose in life. You, someone who had it all, a good family, a great marksheet, and a pre set goal in life, were willing to give it away, just to feel something. He, someone who was stripped off of a normal childhood, was never given the opportunity to choose. He used to think that maybe he was to blame. Maybe if he had had better luck, he would have gotten a good childhood, a purpose. But now that he knows you, a genius, smart person, who had it all, but threw it away, he realized that maybe life really is worthless. Maybe, he wasn't to be blamed. And that, oddly enough, made him feel better. To know that no matter how much lady luck favors him, life would still be fucked up, and that it wasn't his fault, made him hate himself less.

• And so, you two became a thing.

• Let's just say, that both of you are equally freaky.

• You want him to dom u, and he gladly accepts

• You guys try it all... I mean, especially with guns.

• I can imagine you both sitting at a boring meeting, when you decide to edge him on, and you're not even touching him. Your gun is.

• You both claim atleast one spare room on every floor of the building, for your.... activities.

• You are like his praise queen.

• He loves that.

• Always rough. Always. And you guys are into spicing it up.

• Anyways, you both never decide to commit double suicide.

• Thats because dazai wants a beautiful way out, while you want to feel the thrill of facing death. You don't really want to die, you just want to know the feeling of almost dying. You want to feel something exhilarating.

• When Dazai decides to leave the mafia, you are all for it. As long as you get to stay by his side, you were ok with it.

• Like Midari, you are a very perceptive person, and can easily guess what's going on in someone's mind. Dazai was easy to read for you, as his thoughts were pretty similar to your own.

• You were smart, cunning, and could read peoples mind with ease. So it was pretty easy for you to guess what's going on in Dazai's mind, sometimes even predicting his next moves.

• You really fit in with the ada, coz that place is filled with crackheads, and you and dazai are no exception lol

• Also, you get along with Yosano really well.

• Like, if you weren't so loyal to dazai, you would have become Yosanos slave. So would i ngl

• Anyways, you and dazai always mess with kunikida. You two prank him till the breaking point. You two are such a menace in the office. Always skipping work, slacking off, but really shining when it comes to actual detective work, like solving mysteries.

• You are a valuable asset to the ada, coz 1. You are smart and 2. You can intimidate the enemy into giving in, thanks to your sadistic games.

• You are also a very good companion. You can easily understand what the other is feeling, and end up comforting the gang.

• I can imagine you roasting Kunikida for being such a nerd, but at the same time giving him accurate and well needed advice .

• You do the same for your bf, and the two of you have many late night convos about topic that Dazai had never discussed with anyone before. Because no one had quite understood him the way you did.

• Midari is actually a pretty deep character, and just like her, you have many layers. There's the sadistic side, the goofy side, the careless side, the intelligent side and the insightful nature.

• You would be his perfect partner, as you'd support his crazy, reckless ideas, but at the same time keep him afloat, and prevent him from drowning in his own thoughts.

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bratconnor · 3 years

Note

Loooooook so I'm trying to write this as a fic but writing is so DIFFICULT so I'm sharing this idea with you instead since you support curly hair Connor x bearded markus

First time markus decides to "grow" a beard Connor laughs at him initially thinking it will look ridiculous. But then he actually sees it on him and 👀 oop. He needs to feel like on his skin YESTERDAY thank you. So Markus kisses him to give him what he wants but "That was lovely Markus...but when I said I wanted to feel it I didn't mean on my face"

Queue one very long session of ass eating.

EXPLICIT (18+)

"I'm thinking of growing out a beard."

Connor, who is lounging on his and Markus' bed, looks over to Markus and raises an eyebrow. "What?"

Markus is standing in front of their full-length mirror, stroking thoughtfully at his chin as he stares at his reflection. He's clad in a dark suit and looks absolutely gorgeous. "For this meeting. Not too long or anything. Just a little. Y'know, I haven't tried altering my appearance before. I feel like maybe it would make me seem more... relatable, to the humans I work with to pass android laws. I've heard a perfectly unchanging appearance can be unsettling to some of them."

Connor studies Markus' face in the mirror, admiring his scruffy and handsome stubble. He thinks its length suits Markus incredibly already, but he tries to picture Markus with a beard using his data banks and preconstructive programs. The idea makes him giggle. "I don't think it'd suit you, Markus."

Markus' gaze cuts to Connor's, making eye contact through the mirror, and he pouts. "Come on. Not even a little bit? I think it might look good."

Connor smirks at Markus, stretching languidly out on the bed like a cat. "I don't know. You might look silly. At least from the image I can gather."

Markus turns away from the mirror to face Connor and props his hands on his hips, giving him a flatly disapproving look. "I thought boyfriends were supposed to support each other."

"Of course I support you, Markus. I'm supporting you by letting you know you'd probably look silly."

Markus pouts some more for a long moment, then strides over to the bed, looming over Connor's splayed form. "Well, I guess I can trust your insight. I knew right away how cute you'd look with curls." He reaches down and runs his fingers lovingly through Connor's hair, which had been modified to curl naturally.

Connor had found that he enjoyed taking the time to style and coif himself in the morning. Markus liked to tease him sometimes for being so vain.

Connor grins up at Markus, leaning into his touch and all but purring as Markus pets him. "You might be late to that meeting if you don't leave now," he reminds, batting his eyes prettily and turning his head to fit his cheek demurely into Markus' open palm.

Markus gathers a few locks of Connor's hair and tugs on them gently. "Tease. Don't you have things to do besides laying in bed?"

"Nothing very urgent."

"Well, I'll see you when I get back this evening." Markus leans down and presses a firm kiss to Connor's lips. Connor returns the kiss, laving his tongue across Markus' lower lip. Markus pulls away and looks at Connor sternly. "You behave."

Connor smiles innocently. He reaches to grab Markus' retreating hand. "See you this evening."

---

When Markus comes back through Jericho's gates that evening, Connor has just come back from patrolling the perimeters, dressed in a coat and scarf, finishing his conversation with the patrol that's about to replace him. He catches sight of Markus striding purposefully across the foyer, his dark suit layered with his billowing trench coat. These things aren't what make Connor all but short circuit right then and there, thirium rushing to his face and pump beating erratically against his chest.

It's that Markus has grown himself a beard despite Connor's earlier teasing. And it makes him look absolutely hot. The dark hair cleanly frames his jaw and his full lips, and brings out the bright gemstone colours of his monochromatic eyes like nothing else. Paired with the suit and coat, he looks divine. Connor feels struck dumb for a long moment as Markus notices him in turn and approaches him. The closer he gets, the more something seems to build up inside of Connor.

"Good evening, sweetheart," Markus greets with a playful smile, sweeping to a stop in front of Connor, his coat falling gracefully back around his form. "How was the patrolling?"

Connor can't seem to gather his words for an unnaturally long time, before he finally stammers out, "You grew out your beard."

Markus nods and strokes at said beard, raising a brow somewhat sheepishly. "Yup. I know you thought it'd look funny, but I think it sort of suits me, no? I did get some compliments."

Connor swallows the excess cleaning fluid he hadn't realized had been pooling in his mouth. "Ah- Hm. You look. Um."

Markus inclines his head ever so slightly, amused. "Do you like it?" Connor licks his lips carefully and suddenly he's hyper aware of their proximity, of Markus' slight height advantage and how he has to peer a little bit upwards to make eye contact. He's hyper aware of the way Markus' outfit compliments his broad shoulders and his pretty face.

"Yes, I... I stand corrected," Connor manages, unsure what his own face is doing but knowing it must be silly. His cheeks feel hot. "You look really good, actually. Very handsome."

Markus grins. "Thank you. And look at you dressed for the weather," he reaches out, catching the ends of Connor's scarf and tugging on them, drawing Connor even closer. "You always look so cute in this." Oh rA9.

Connor doesn't really think much before he reaches up and strokes his fingers across Markus' jaw, the rough prickliness of it sending pleasant shivers across his skin. It's so much more noticeable than before. He wants to feel it scraping across his cheeks as Markus kisses him. He wants to feel it scraping against all the places that Markus likes to kiss him.

Markus breaks Connor out of his stupor by grabbing him by the wrist and tugging his hand gently back down. "I need to report back to the others for a bit. I'll meet you back in our room soon, alright?"

Connor nods and steps reluctantly away from Markus, suddenly very shy about how public of a place they're in. Androids are looking at them. "Yeah. See you soon." He leaves for their room straight away, forcing himself not to keep glancing at Markus over his shoulder but feeling Markus' gaze on his back the whole time.

---

As soon as Markus has taken his coat off and deposited it on the hook by their bedroom door, a waiting Connor leaps into his arms and kisses him hard. Markus makes a startled noise in his throat, and then his hands are gripping at Connor's waist, partially to keep his balance and partially to return the affection.

Connor pulls away and gazes at Markus from inches away, doe eyes half lidded and lips parted and glossy. "Kiss me more, Markus," he murmurs, voice raspy. "I want to feel it all over me."

Markus blinks dazedly, running his splayed hands across Connor's waist and pressing them to the small of his back, keeping them pressed together. Well, this had sure escalated quickly. "You really like the beard, huh?"

Connor wraps his arms around Markus' neck and leans in, rubbing his cheek against Markus'. "You're so sexy. And it feels so good on my skin." He presses his lips to Markus' ear, tongue brushing the shell as he rasps out, causing Markus to shiver, "Please, Markus, I need it... Kiss me all over."

It doesn't take much convincing after that for Markus to rid them both of their shirts and have Connor on his back on their bed, Markus laying between his splayed thighs, chest to chest and crotch to crotch as they kiss deep and wet and aggressive. Markus grinds himself down against Connor rhythmically, and Connor arches up against him in return, whining and gasping into Markus' mouth as Markus steadily tongue-fucks Connor's.

Markus' beard is scratching at Connor's cheeks and jaw, and it feels so fucking good combined with the soft wet warmth of Markus' lips and tongue, a juxtaposition of pleasure that leaves Connor somehow dizzy, heady with his need for more. He can't stop running his hands across Markus' beard, torn between that and running them desperately across Markus' shoulders and biceps.

At some point Markus breaks away from Connor's mouth- rather, Connor finally allows him to- and drags his bearded jaw across Connor's as he moves to suck at a sensitive spot behind Connor's ear. He parts his lips and drags his tongue down Connor's neck, kissing across his clavicle back to the center of his chest, prickly sensation following the soft heat everywhere it goes and driving Connor wild. Connor clings weakly to Markus' shoulders as Markus kisses and sucks his way down Connor's chest, massaging his tongue across Connor's pink nipples each in turn, pressing down hard as he swipes firmly back and forth then scratches his beard across the sensitive buds while switching between one and the other. He holds Connor in place as Connor writhes and pants at the feeling, gazes up at Connor's sweet face the whole time from beneath dark lashes.

"Markus," Connor suddenly whines, and Markus hums curiously without stopping. "Nhh- everywhere, Markus, please- hn..." Connor scratches his nails gently across Markus' scalp, gazing back down at Markus with a dopey expression. His cheeks are a lovely baby blue, and his hair is starting to fall in soft curls across his forehead. He seems a little shy, and Markus realizes then what Connor is asking for. It's one of their favourite activities to do in bed.

Without pausing, Markus sucks and licks his way down Connor's stomach, delving his tongue teasingly into Connor's navel as he passes over it and making Connor jolt, before pulling away to undo Connor's pants and tug them off.

Markus doesn't think he'll ever get over the image of Connor naked and spread out beneath him with a flushed face and needy eyes. This was the same android who had been programmed to ruthlessly hunt androids, to hunt Markus, now giving his body to Markus willingly and lovingly.

It sets Markus' insides on fire, and he clasps Connor under his creamy thighs, shoving them up and flush against Connor's chest, bending him double. Connor yelps and his hands fly up to either side of his head, fisting in the sheets beneath him. He bites his lip and his lashes shiver with the utterly adoring look he levels at Markus, who settles himself comfortably between Connor's legs, holding Connor in place with his knees against his shoulders, exposed to a completely filthy degree.

Connor's pretty cock is flushed dark and leaking against his stomach, ass taught enough for the soft round cheeks to be parted and exposing his asshole, as pink as his nipples and as glossy as his kiss-stained lips with self-lubricant, some of which has dripped own between his cheeks in a damp trail ending with a dark spot on the bedsheets. Markus releases a low, gravelly groan and happily settles in for a long night of this view.

Delicately, Markus kisses down a trembling thigh, the limb jumping with Connor's sensitivity and anticipation as Markus' mouth slowly and gently descends, scruff tickling around it. Connor feels rubbed raw all over his face and chest, and the untouched skin of his thighs seem extra sensitive as a result, ratcheting up Connor's desperation as Markus' lips draw closer to his most sensitive, helplessly exposed areas. Then Markus licks between Connor's cheeks, following the slick trail of lube up to Connor's hole and swiping across it vigorously, tongue pressed flat. He continues firmly stroking his tongue against Connor's furled little entrance, then closing his lips around it and sucking in even pulses, delving his tongue inside between each suck, steadily pushing deeper until he's massaging at the silky sensitive skin inside of Connor. His bearded cheeks brush and rub constantly against the inside of Connor's thighs and between his asscheeks.

Markus keeps at this for a while, and Connor slowly turns into a pile of limp android limbs, messy with drool, self-lubricant, and pre-cum, flushed blue from his ears to his chest as he gazes off into some distance with glazed and unfocused optics, tongue lolling as he pants soft and open-mouthed. Each time Markus' tongue brushes at his oh-so sensitized insides, he mewls and rolls his hips down against Markus' face, smothering him with his ass, though he hasn't got the brainpower to even realize it anymore and Markus loves it besides.

Markus eats Connor out for a long time, and at some point Connor has flailed a hand down to clasp over one of Markus', synthskin melted away as he holds on for dear life, though there's almost no strength in his grip. Markus has removed his in return, and they share hazily and dreamlike in each other's pleasure, their connection loose and lax.

At some point Markus feels Connor's slow and lazy climb towards orgasm, and steadily renews his vigor, feeling Connor building up quicker, keening whines leaving him with every heated exhale until he goes over the edge with a drawn out, groaning whine, shuddering almost violently as he cums in long pulses across his own chest and stomach, completely untouched.

When Markus manages to pull his face out from between Connor's thighs, his beard is soaking wet, and there's beard rash on every inch of skin around Connor's asshole. As Markus looks up, there's more on the inside of his thighs, across his chest, and around his mouth. Connor looks absolutely wrecked. His hair is a mess of curls and drool stains a trail down his cheek, chest covered in his own spend. Markus climbs back up the bed until he's hovering over Connor, leaning in to kiss him softly on his lips.

"What about you?" Connor asks when Markus pulls away, seeming to be coming out of his post-orgasm stupor.

Markus smiles. "It's alright."

"No, please." Connor flips himself over onto his stomach, cheek pressed to the bed as he looks at Markus over his shoulder, sweet and beseeching. "I want you to fuck me now."

Sweet rA9, Markus is going to die.

#ANON YOURE SUCH A HERO THIS IDEA IS SOOO HOT #SORRY ITS A BIT DIFFERENT BUT 🙏🙏 I HAD TO WRITE IT #LOVE U KISSES *MWAH MWAH MWAH* 💕#ask answer #request #rk1k

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trillian-anders · 4 years

Text

the assistant

pairing: ransom drysdale x reader

warnings: violence, angst, fluff, smut && SPOILERS

word count: 6.8k

description: part 1 of 5. CONTAINS MAJOR SPOILERS, PLEASE DO NOT READ IF YOU HAVE NOT WATCHED THE FILM. you’ve been working for the thrombeys for four years now, the last three years of your service being a glorified babysitter to the most annoying, self-absorbed, dickhead hugh ransom drysdale.

You wanted to smack that dumb smirk off his stupid dumb face.

Hugh Ransom Drysdale. The bane of your fucking existence. Standing there with that stupid fucking smirk on his face, he fucking loved this. Watching as you cleaned up his mess. A crying girl on his doorstep and you, his assistant (aka babysitter), trying to calm her down enough to get her to leave his house. This dumb contemporary floor to ceiling windowed, minimalist, empty souled house. The girl had been picked up at a bar last night. Charmed by his handsome face, the money he was careless to spend, the way he spoke to you like you were the most beautiful thing in the world.

It was a fucking joke. A trick. You’ve seen it a million times and you’d be willing you bet that you’d see it a million more.

The door blocked her view of him, your clear view of him from the side, sipping on a mug of coffee in his hands and fucking smirking.

“He won't even see me?” You hated when they cried. Like each of them had this idea that they’d go home with Ransom Drysdale and fuck him so good that he’d tie them to his bed and never let them leave or something.

You sighed heavily before replying, “Mr. Drysdale has business to attend to, he’s unavailable at the moment, but I can leave him a message if you’d like?” You did this maybe five or six times a week. In the early morning hours, after his sexual escapade and some rest, Ransom would wake early and leave for the gym. In that time you were supposed to ‘take out the trash’ as he described it. This morning, the girl left dazed and confused in the fog taking an uber back to her home, but returning an hour later trying to plead her case. It was giving you a migraine.

The girl stepped back from the porch, shoes crunching against the gravel as she searched the windows for his face. “FUCK YOU RANSOM.” She shouted, flipping the bird into the air. The man hiding to your right, choked on his coffee in laughter as you watched the girl get back into her car and disappear from sight.

“What's on the agenda today Ransom,” You shut the door quietly, turning to face him, “Because if I have to do that again tomorrow I’ll quit.” He scoffed in indignation.

“You’re not gonna quit,” He drained the rest of his mug, “You can’t even leave the house long as you got that.” He gestured towards your leg. Sitting firmly on your right ankle was a house arrest bracelet. One meant for him, but carefully bribed into being put on your own leg. The stupid son of a bitch got away with murder, after the death of his late Grandfather’s housekeeper by his own hand and the attempted murder of the girl that got the entire Thrombey fortune, he stayed the lucky son of a bitch he had been his entire life.

Evidence was mishandled, not enough proof. That whole, ‘beyond reasonable doubt’ thing. The rich asshole got fucking house arrest and court mandated therapy. Even after there were three fucking witnesses to him attempting to murder Marta Cabrera.

Money oiled the gears of the justice system, letting the trust fund baby slip through without consequence. That’s where you come in.

You worked for the Thrombey’s before. As a tutor to Meg when she began to fail her english class. For whatever reason, Lynda and Richard Drysdale liked you, assigned you a new task. Their sweet baby boy Hugh, called Ransom by everyone but the Help. You’ve worked for Ransom for three years now. The first year before the death of his Grandfather and Thrombey patriarch, and now two years after his death and wouldn’t you know it. Hugh Ransom Drysdale wrote a fucking bestseller.

Everyone wanted an insight into this family. Harlan Thrombey always said there was so much of him in Ransom. He wasn’t lying.

Ransom wrote the first of what you knew would be many new Thrombey family murder mystery novels. And he was reaping in the cash. He was two months away from his next big release. Something you’re sure would fly off the shelves just as quickly as the first.

“Don’t worry,” He said, “I’ve got a deadline to meet.” His coffee mug abandoned by the front door for you to clean up, he left you to officially start your day. He retreated into the study he created for himself to crank out the last four chapters he needed for his book, maybe.

Due to circumstances beyond your control, you were the one placed on house arrest. As long as no one was notified that Ransom left the perimeter of the house you were being paid well, and you being paid well meant your younger sister gets taken care of. You were able to send her money every month to help with the fact that she was staying with an estranged aunt. It hadn’t been easy once your mother died, but the Thrombey’s lighten the load so to say.

That’s why you were washing Ransom’s sheets that reeked of sex, picking up and disposing of torn panties and tossing used condoms the fucking dick couldn’t be bothered enough to toss two more feet into the trash can in his on-suite. You’d invested in rubber gloves.

On days that Ransom had to meet with his probation officer he would wear a dummy bracelet. It got him by and soon the fucker would be over and done with house arrest all together. You’d be able to move back home then. Hopefully.

“Ransom, you ever gonna eat today?” You knocked on the open door of his study, bringing his attention from his computer to you, who held a bowl of pasta in your one hand. He sighed, leaning back in his chair and rubbing his eyes. There were multicolored post-its surrounding his computer. Your mind made the connection with how similar it was to his Grandfather’s own workspace. You gently placed the bowl on his desk, turning to pour him a tumbler of whiskey from the small bar in the corner of the room.

“I don’t know how the old bastard ever cranked out two books a year,” His neck cracked. “How is that even possible?” He took a large bite of the pasta, squinting at the screen. His eyes quickly shifted to yours, watching you set down the glass of whiskey in front of him. He grabbed your wrist. “Stay.” It was an order. “Sit.” You took your place in a chair across from him.

“Harlan wrote every day,” You told him, “You write whenever you’re not off sticking your dick into anything that breathes.” He laughed at that.

“Not everything that breathes,” He typed a few more words into the word document, “I haven’t fucked you yet.” Your core pulsed, he said yet.

Audibly you scoffed, “I would never willingly fuck you Ransom.” You pulled your legs up onto the chair to make yourself comfortable. He smirked at that, eyes not leaving the computer screen.

“I wouldn’t be so sure about that.” That stupid smirk. You hated that fucking smirk. So condescending.

When you first met Ransom you were probably very much like the girls that you now pry out of his bed at 8 am. You had been tutoring Meg at the family home, sitting at the kitchen table going over Othello when he sauntered in, digging through the cabinets for snacks. You could feel Meg tense up next to you and that’s when he turned. He was so fucking pretty. Blue eyes, well kept hair, cashmere sweater, those broad fucking shoulders, and on his face, stretching that full bottom lip you wanted to tug between your teeth, was a smirk.

That pulsing throb between your thighs soon was quickly forgotten as he opened his mouth and began to speak, “How’s it going Meg, trouble reading? Or do they not teach you how to read when you’re a liberal? Lord knows you guys never fucking understand anything anyway.” Meg snapped back at him, but you were stunned. You could tell he said that on purpose, knowing it would make her go off on the tangent he was now, finding a sick pleasure in it. That was the first time you’d seen the smirk. You’d lost count of how many times you’ve seen it since then.

“I really hate you Ransom.” You sighed, sinking further into your chair. He had almost finished off the bowl of pasta by now, whiskey long since emptied. He thinks it’s funny, you hating him because he responds looking you in your eyes, maintaining his smirk,

“I know you do baby.” He liked to do that. Call you pet names. Once he had even pretended you were his wife when you accidentally walked in on him and a girl he had been balls deep in, bent over the back of the couch. He fucking LOVED that one. The girl had cried, embarrassed, apologizing as she picked her bra up from the floor and slunk out the front door behind you. That was a while ago. Pre-Murder. You should have seen it then. How insane he actually was.

Ransom was incredibly smart and was a quick thinker. It was part of the reason that he had gotten away with murder in the first place. You knew that. It showed in his novel. He would have you read chapters, give him your opinion, before writing and rewriting. Showing you again. He’d ask you if you could figure out who was the murderer, a sinister glint in his eyes, arms crossed, standing above you waiting. He could only be satisfied if you didn’t have a clue.

It was a gift, you supposed, the ease in which he wrote to make every character a possible suspect in completely new and incredible scenarios. He had three books in various states of completion that he was chipping away at, the one he was currently working on seemingly better than the previous published.

His Mother, the one who gave him the silver spoon and cursed him for having it his whole life, was suddenly proud of him. His Father, now divorced from his Mother, would come by weekly asking for money. Ransom loved that too. His Dad got nothing due to the prenup, leaving him penniless. The cushy job he had at Lynda’s real estate empire was gone, and now Dad was working at local agency scraping by on low commission. Last week his Father came to the door while Ransom was writing and muscled his way not too kindly past you into the house.

“Ransom!” He called, finding his way into his son’s study. You quietly shut the door, returning to folding laundry. The door shut tightly behind him and sounds had been muffled. It’s only when their voices went from calm to a screaming match did the door wretch open and Ransom followed his Dad out, both red faced.

“We’ve given you everything in your fucking life and you can’t even give one iota back.” Ransom opened the front door, gesturing to the porch.

“Get the fuck out, and don’t come back.” His voice stern and commanding.

“Fuck you Ransom.” With that he was gone. The silence that had settled over the house was thick, Ransom’s hand still resting against the closed door before he took a breath and, without taking a glance in your direction, returned to his study. Closing the door.

The echo of that argument sat in the house for the rest of the day, Ransom leaving soon after to find a body to lose himself in. If the murder trial did anything, it made Ransom into a bad boy and girls fucking loved it. He wasn’t, technically, guilty after all.

You attempted to clear the bowl in front of him, but was stopped by his hand. His eyes never left the screen as he brought your hand to his lips, placing a kiss in your palm, before dragging your arm to his other shoulder, hugging himself with it awkwardly until you gave in and wrapped your other arm around him, holding him tightly for a moment.

He was soft sometimes. His Mom never held him when he was a kid. He was left alone a lot while she was building her empire. Babysitters never stayed long, nannies came and went. Sometimes you truly felt bad for him, other times you remember that he was a dick and that he loved to play tricks and torment anyone and everyone that was supposed to take care of him, including you. The only difference was you weren’t able to leave.

He let you go soon after that, letting you clean up the mess from dinner and stoke the fire place warming the house that always seemed too cold. As you stood by the fire, arms wrapped around yourself you could feel him behind you, coming to wrap his arms around your waist, leaning his head on your shoulder as you stared into the flames. There was a moment or two of silence as you both stood there.

If this were any other situation, if Ransom loved you, if this was someone who loved you, if this someone cared enough to care about the things you care about, this would be kind of romantic. But it’s Ransom, and he didn’t care about anyone but himself, he definitely didn’t care about you, and he one hundred percent didn’t care about anything you care about. “I’m going out.”

His arms left your waist and his chest left your back leaving you cold. “For fucks sake Ransom, I don’t feel like throwing out a girl tomorrow morning.” You turned to watch him throwing his coat on. He smirked. He fucking smirked.

“I’ll give you a break and throw her out myself then.” And he was gone.

Hours later you’re woken by the sound of Ransom coming home, sure enough he wasn’t alone. Soft giggles and a bang, he’s shoved her against the wall beside your room. There were muffled groans as you assumed she found her knees right there in the hallway. He got off on this shit, you knew. Often stopping somewhere outside your door to start his sexual escapades. Knowing you were mere feet away, like some half-assed exhibitionism. It wasn’t long after that the girl squealed and there was more muffled talking before they moved to his bedroom. To which you shared a wall.

Your bedroom, before you were a live-in, housed a bunch of items you believed graced a teen boy’s bedroom walls at one point. And still, shoved in the corner, were playboy model cardboard cutouts, “They’re vintage, mint condition, and worth a lot.” Sure, Ransom, sure they are. Arcade games, framed patriots jerseys, a lacrosse set from his high school days. You were shoved in the middle of it all, a single bed shoved against the wall surrounded by what once was a room full of teenage boy memorabilia. A shrine to his youth.

The headboard soon came knocking and hope for sleep was lost. The girl’s moans escalating to shrieks. Either he was as good as he says, or these girls really care about his ego. Either could be true when there’s more than one comma in your bank account.

The kitchen was much quieter. A steady rocking still came from upstairs, but thankfully it was muffled by the floor. As you made a cup of tea you figured you would see if he had printed off a new chapter ready for you to read. You hope he wouldn’t have gone out without finishing it anyway.

You were not sure why you cared to be honest. You had this love/hate for Ransom. He was an annoying prick who did something really fucking horrible, but he also made it very clear to everyone involved that you had nothing to do with it. There was a scary moment there, after his arrest, when you were brought to the station for interrogation. You hadn’t known he had even gotten up to any of these crimes. He kept you completely in the dark and he was sure to let his arresting officers know that. You hadn’t even seen him since the night Harlan died when he left the party stranding you at the estate.

Money does crazy things to people. The threat of his steady income leaving was enough to push him to do something crazy. He was lucky enough that the recorded confession magically was erased. He was lucky for dirty cops. He was lucky that even though his mother despised his lifestyle she didn’t want him to go to prison. He was so lucky. Now with his first novel sitting highly on the bestseller list, he seemed even more lucky than he did before.

His study was on the opposite side of the house from his bedroom, muffling the sounds enough for you to flip through the packet left on top of his keyboard. Three chapters away from completion you were following the detective through paces where things felt more confusing than ever, the clues were unclear and there was not much to go on, but the tension between the eldest son of the victim and his ex-wife were mounting and it was hard to believe that maybe this guy had nothing to do with it despite what was described as an ‘air-tight’ alibi. You read through the chapter twice, scribbling your thoughts in red pen along the margins.

“What do you think?” You jumped in your chair, looking up to see Ransom in the doorway.

“You scared the shit out of me,” Your hand still clutching your chest. He had a glass of water in his hand, chest bare, solid navy pajama pants slung low on his hips. His chest hair always got you, just a little bit. He tugged his bottom lip between his teeth and pushed off the door jam to walk into the room, taking a seat in the chair you occupied hours ago. “It’s good,” you cleared your throat, “I’m not sure how much longer I can wait for you to finish to be honest.” He chuckled softly.

“Let me see.” You handed him the packet and his eyes scanned the margins, reading your comments. They were mostly reactions, that’s what he liked. He wanted to know how you reacted to everything he put in front of you, did you like the romance, the tension, the lust he was trying to write between the ex-husband and wife? Or was it too distracting from the plot? Is the detective too unbelievable? He’s a character for sure. Can you figure out whodunnit yet?

“What are you doing out of bed?” You asked, spinning the chair side to side, waiting for him to put the packet down.

“I told you I was going to kick her out.” He took another sip from his water. You scoffed,

“And you couldn’t start doing this sooner?” A smile stretched his lips,

“I like how much it bothers you.”

“It’s annoying,” you said, “Worst way to start my day.” He laughed.

“That’s the only reason?” He asked, throwing the packet back on the desk, leaning back in his chair. Smirking.

“You’re such an asshole, you know that?” You pushed back from the desk, moving to exit the room. He quickly grabbed your wrist, tugging you over to his side where he looked up at you,

“If you wanna take their place, just let me know.” Your other hand came up to smack him on his shoulder, causing him to laugh as he released you, letting you take your exit.

“Dick.”

You found him the next morning at his desk, looking as though he had very little sleep. “Babe could you get me some coffee?” You yawned in the doorway,

“Sure.” It didn’t take long before you were setting the cup in front of him. “Your therapist is coming by at one.” He nodded, not looking up from his computer. “I’ll come get you when it’s time for you to get ready.”

He was focused. You weren’t sure where this focus came from. It was every once in a while that he would find this stroke of inspiration and write for a whole day straight. Hopefully he will be finished his book before schedule and be able to get ahead for the next one.

Soon he was washed, dressed, and ready for the one person he dreads the most. He hated therapy sessions. There were only ten more he needed to do before the court mandate was over. Ten more weeks until you were able to get this lovely ankle bracelet off when you would hopefully be able to go back to the routine you had with him before. Where you’d sleep in your own shitty apartment and show up to work a 9 to 9 five days a week.

After sessions he was always moody, quiet, and tended to need his favorite single malt restocked the next day. Not exactly in line with how he should be tending to whatever revelation the therapist has been streamlining him to, but that wasn’t any of your business. You could say though that during the last 42 weeks of sessions this refractory period was shortening to less and less time, maybe tonight you won't be peeling him off the floor of the study and dragging him up to his room drunk off his ass.

While in the session you were trying not to listen in on, you were sunk heavily on the living room couch, drinking coffee and reading the latest chapter he had slapped into your hands before entering back into his study. The book was so close to being finished, the last two chapters leading you to the big reveal and aftermath. The climax was steady taking hold and you were more sure than ever that the eldest son had something to do with it. You didn’t know what he did, but it was something.

He looked mad enough to kill as the Doctor left. Slamming the door, barely missing the Doctor’s jacket sleeve as he made his hasty retreat. Ransom stood seething for a moment by the front door, a chill running down your spine. He had murdered someone before, something you try to forget seeing as you are forced to spend so much time with him. His hands clenched and unclenched at his sides. It felt like an hour before he moved.

“I’m going out.” The words spoken sternly as he stomped his way up the stairs like a petulant child, returning moments later, cleaned up, eyes blank, before grabbing his coat and slamming the door loud enough to make you jump.

Aside from Ransom’s Mother never being around and aside from his Father’s string of extramarital affairs and aside from his Grandfather’s need to push him in every direction but close, you wish you could say that Ransom had a good childhood. But he didn’t. When he was little the kids picked on him for being rich, and when he was bigger they only became friends with him because he was rich. He was such a bully. At least, that’s what his Mother told you once drunk off chardonnay at his birthday dinner last year.

Disappointment.

That was a clear sentiment for the small family get together, and by small family get together you meant the dinner you cooked and Ransom looking like he’d rather be in prison than listen to his parents bicker over his Father’s new (Not so new seeing as he’d been caught kissing her by a PI before Harlan’s death) girlfriend. She was smart enough not to come.

This night was looking a lot like that one. Ransom, after his parents left and you began to tidy up, began to scream at you.

“What gave you the fucking right you dumb bitch?” He was spitting, face red as you cleared the dishes. “You’re only here for the money. The fucking money. How much is she paying you huh?” The bottle of expensive whiskey he had been drinking throughout the night was in his hand, swinging it around and taking pulls straight from the bottle. “Not enough obviously because you would have let me fuck you a long time ago.”

Your face flushed red as your own anger began to rise. He continued, “Never, ever, fucking again will you allow my parents in this house, do you understand me?” His unoccupied hand grabbed your arm tight enough to bruise, turning you to face him. His eyes wild and unfocused. “I said do you understand me?” You not so gently wretched your arm from his.

“Don’t touch me.” He always fucking did this. Blamed you for things you had no control over. Lynda approached you about a dinner for Ransom’s birthday. It was her name in your paystubs. You can’t say no.

“How dare you-” He began, but was cut short.

“No Ransom. No.” Like scolding a fucking dog who put his paws on the table. You threw the bowl you currently had in your hands into the sink, turning to fully face him. “I am only here for the money and I am only here because your Mother pays me a lot to be here.” His jaw clenched. “But I’m also here because I’m the only fucking person who even remotely cares about your ungrateful prissy spoiled ass and if it wasn’t for me you’d be sitting in this fucking glass house, alone, with only your own self-righteous attitude to keep you company. So don’t you ever touch me like that again. Do you understand?”

He loudly clunked the bottle onto the kitchen island, stumbling in your direction as you backed yourself into the sink. His trial had just concluded two weeks ago, Fran’s murder fresh on your mind and you wondered if you just made a terrible mistake. Over the course of this rant, the alcohol was sinking into his bloodstream, it turned his anger into a crippling depression. One that resulted in his hands softly grasping your shoulders, and tugging you into his body. His face found your neck and slowly started to grow damp with what you realized were his tears.

Your heart broke a bit, too much empathy, even for this asshole. Your arms came to wrap around his shoulders, letting him cry it out.

That was the first and only time you saw Ransom cry over anything. If he hadn’t been as drunk as he was you knew that moment would never have happened. The sweet little moment that made your heart ache was quickly gone the next morning when Ransom made you coffee and thought it would be hilarious that after you thanked him for being so sweet he joked that he poisoned it. You could still recall the cackles of laughter as you spit your coffee into the sink.

That was the day he began writing his first novel.

He came home alone tonight which was strange. And far earlier than normal. You usually were in bed, or holed up in his study by the time he arrived him after a night out. Staying out of his way as he drug a bubbly hopeful girl up to his bed to satisfy his own needs for the night. He found you tonight, sitting outside, watching Netflix on your tablet by the firepit you had decided to light, a hot cup of tea sitting on the end table next to you. Cozy and wrapped in a blanket.

You could feel his eyes on you from the doorway. You tapped the screen, pausing your show and turned to look at him. His hair was slightly mussed, face flushed, and socked toes curling from the chill. He was looking at you strangely.

“You’re home early.” You placed the tablet down on the end table, turning to face him. He nodded, crossing his arms and leaning against the door jam.

“I just needed a drive.” There was a soft smile on his face, well that’s new.

“Is everything okay?” He never tells you anything, but the sentiment matters. He looked to his feet, nodding.

“I’m probably going to try to stay up and finish the book tonight.” He shifted himself back into the house, your voice calling out to him,

“Come sit out here for a bit. It’s calming, just take a break from thinking for a minute.” He sighed and looked at you again, debating something in his head.

“I need to be alone.” You tried anyway. He disappeared from sight. And that was that.

The next day Ransom began acting even more strangely. The book was finished, the last two chapters handed wordlessly to you as he left for the gym on what you’re assuming was no sleep. That wasn’t the strange part. The strange part was when he returned three hours later bearing a box of donuts from your favorite bakery and two lattes, on his face was a smile.

“What did you do?” You accused, “Did you poison this?” You gestured towards the latte he placed in your hand.

“No.” He laughed, sliding the box of donuts to you. You stared at him skeptically before taking a sip. Tastes normal.

“Are you sick?” Your wrist coming to lay across his forehead, temperature feels fine.

“No.” He laughed again, pulling your wrist from his forehead and kissing your palm before opening the box of donuts, pulling a cinnamon sugar donut to his lips. “You just told me the other day how you missed these and I figured since I passed the shop on the way back it wouldn’t hurt to go pick some up.” It was suspicious. You continued to look at him skeptically. He sighed, placing the donut on the counter, grabbing the latte from your hand he took a large sip of it. “I didn’t fucking poison you Y/N.”

Okay.

Okay. You examined the box of donuts, pulling out the bear claw that was begging to be eaten. Still warm. You moaned in delight as soon as the warm pastry hit your taste buds. You really had missed these. Opening your eyes, you saw Ransom staring blankly at you before his eyes shifted to the packet by your side.

“All finished?” You swallowed and nodded, sliding the packet marked with red over to him and as he began to study your notes you tried to think about what could have possibly gotten him in such a good mood. The Doctor’s visit was odd enough. Yes he was angry when the Doctor left, but then just a drive? Not a blackout drunk, bringing two girls home to pleasure himself with and accidentally falling into a line or two of coke night, but a drive?

Maybe therapy had been working? Maybe he had a breakthrough? He finished the novel. The eldest son had something to do with it, his airtight alibi just that, a cover for the crime having been committed at a different time than the coroner’s estimated time frame due to him freezing the body and allowing it to thaw in the house.

You had asked Harlan how he came up with such incredible stories once. He said they just popped into his head fully formed, his brain moving faster than his fingers. He kept a little notebook with good ideas and would simmer in them as long as it took for a stroke of inspiration. The rest was just typing.

He smirked at some of your comments, ‘what a fucking joke’ you wrote next to the eldest son’s monologue about being passed over, his whining, annoying, self centered crying about how life wasn’t fair.

“What’s the smirk for?” You asked, removing the lid of your latte and dipping part of the bear claw in it.

“The lack of sympathy for Greg.” You scoffed and rolled your eyes.

“He’s a fucking loser.” Ransom’s eyes met yours, “I bet you see a lot of yourself in him.” That made him laugh.

“What? You don’t like spoiled rich men?” He leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms in front of his chest. You rolled your eyes, taking another sip from the milky sweet latte you didn’t know would feel like your life’s blood right now.

“I think you know the answer to that.”

“I think you find me endearing.” Ransom smirked. Your neck flushed.

“I find you annoying,” You admitted. “I only put up with you because of my paycheck.” He licked his lips.

“Sure,” He closed the packet, pushing it aside to take another bite of the donut, cinnamon sugar dusting his lips. “You put up with me because you’re secretly in love with me, but you know that I would never get with The Help.” This made you laugh.

“If you want me to be the Help I’ll gladly call you Hugh if it means you leave me alone.” He placed his paper cup on the counter, circling around to you.

“I like when you call me Hugh.” His hands came to rest on your upper arms, grinning.

“You’re disgusting.” He laughed at the clear displeasure on your face, spinning your stool around to him, and you leaned back, creating some distance as he came to stand between your legs.

“You don’t mean that do you baby?” His fingers toying with the ends of your hair. You could feel your nipples harden in excitement, body betraying you. A wet growing between your legs.

“Ransom what are you doing?” You said in exasperation. You weren’t blind. Ransom was gorgeous. You’d maybe, possibly, gotten off to the thought of him once or twice or maybe more than that in the four years you’ve known him. But he was also a scumbag who fucks and then throws girls out hours later. His moods were hot and cold. He had major Mommy issues and he’s not technically guilty of murder, but he’s a fucking murderer. But also… he’s been going to therapy and after that fight on his birthday last year he’s never laid a hand on you in anger again, there’s been some arguments sure, but he’s mostly nice to you. Caring even.

“Why don’t you love me Y/N?” His voice almost came out as a whine. He was playing with you.

“Ransom stop.” You pushed him away gently. He was fucking smirking.

“Usually there’s a ‘don’t’ in front of that.” Cocky bastard.

“You’re the worst person I know. And I hate that fucking smirk.” You picked at your now cold bear claw, trying to turn from him.

“Why don’t you wipe it off my face then?” Your eyes met his and you glared.

“What’s gotten into you today? Maybe you should go out early. Find some girl to satisfy whatever you’re going through right now.” His hands met your hips, spinning your stool back around to face him.

“What if I want you to satisfy whatever I’m going through right now.” His groin fit right up against your core and you could feel his throbbing heat between your legs. Fuck.

“Don’t make this mistake Ransom.” You placed one hand gently on his chest, attempting (but not really) to push him back. His forehead coming to rest against yours. “You don’t want this.”

“This is the only thing I’ve ever really wanted.” His breath mingled with yours, sweet, cinnamon and coffee.

“You’re not thinking straight.” His lips brushed against yours, tongue coming out to wet his lips, his eyes locked with yours. Why weren’t you pushing him away? Your breath hitched as his tongue accidentally grazed your bottom lip.

“The only clarity I’ve ever had in my life has been when I’m with you.”

His lips pressed heavily against yours, pushing you back against your bedroom door as his hand came to tangle in your hair. He was all consuming, body hot and heavy against yours. Your core was thrumming with want, moisture pooling in the crotch of your yoga pants. His hips were rolling into yours and you could feel the hard length of him against your belly. His lips quickly moved across your jaw to your neck and you could hear yourself moaning softly as he licked, sucked, and nibbled on the sensitive skin below your ear. Your hands clenching the soft material of the t-shirt by his hips, dipping your fingers slowly into the waistband of his shorts.

His lips parted from your neck, hand tilting your head back so he could look into your eyes before taking your mouth once more. His mouth moved down this time to the tops of your breasts, hands leaving to shift the thick wool cardigan off your shoulders and onto the floor before dropping the straps of your camisole and exposing them to the air, nipples already pebbled in excitement.

You hadn’t dated in a while, unable to because of your paid house arrest and before that the way Ransom had worked you to the bone picking up after him. And the touch from someone else always felt better than your own. His hands felt huge on you, protecting.

Your head met the door as he enveloped your right nipple in his mouth, rolling the sensitive bud on his tongue until he felt the left neglected, and switched, beginning to toy with your right nipple between his finger tips. Moans and heavy breaths were the only sounds in the hallway as Ransom made his way down your body, slipping your yoga pants and panties off your hips as he found his knees before you.

“Ransom-”

“Shhhhh,” He pressed his lips against your naval, working his way to your trembling core. His hand lifted your right thigh, draping it over his shoulder as his eyes focused in on your, what you knew must be soaking, wet pussy. His eyes met yours from his knees, your legs trembling with anticipation, eyes locked as his pink tongue came to meet your pussy for the first time, a shuddering breath being released from you urged him on further.

His thick fingers spread your lips open, exposing your clit to his gentle assault. A building pleasure in your core as his tongue began to skillfully work, pulling moans from your mouth. How was he so good at this? Experimenting with different strokes, different pressure, finding what you like.

“Just like that, oh my god.” He rolled his tongue against your clit, eyes finding yours once more, keeping pace. You could see the corner of his mouth pull up in a smirk as he began to work you up to climax. “You’re such a fucking asshole, I hate that fucking smirk.” Head hitting back against the door as he used his fingers to tease your opening. “Oh my god.” Your hips bucked against his face, causing him to use the arm currently wrapped around your thigh to splay open on your abdomen, holding your hips still. The wet noises and soft grunts from the man between your thighs only caused you to grow closer to your release.

“You taste so fucking good baby,” moaned between your thighs.

“Don’t fucking stop.” You scolded. So close. So fucking close. He obeyed, continuing his assault on your dripping pussy, fingers entering your tight channel to stroke against your sensitive walls. He buried his face further into your pussy, nose coming to rest in the soft curls there as he watched you come undone. Your moans escalating in volume as you felt your body tighten with pleasure, hips begging to buck against his face as he rode you through it. He continued to lick and suck on your clit until your hands found his head, pushing him away, legs shaking as you dropped against the door, knees coming to rest around his body.

That fucking smirk, “How was that?” He asked, face glistening with your cum.

“Fuck you Ransom.” And he fucking laughed the bastard. What a fucking dick. He brought his face back to yours, gently claiming your lips. The tang of your pussy ever present as you felt him consume you. Your heart was still racing as he picked you up from the floor, bringing you into his bedroom and ever so gently laying you down on the sheets you had just changed two hours ago.

His eyes were shifting between yours, a strange expression on his face.

“You can’t kick me out tomorrow Ransom,” Your breathing was heavy as he began to work at your neck, his hands going to remove his gym shorts. “I can’t leave.” He pressed his lips back to yours as you felt him rub the tip of his dick against your clit, your body shaking with over-stimulation. It felt so intimate. Before, his eyes on yours as he brought you over with his tongue and now as he slowly enters you, stretching your walls with his thick cock, eyes not breaking contact he sighs,

“I think you’re the only person I’ve ever loved.”

#ransom drysdale x reader #ransom drysdale #knives out #chris evans

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astorytotellyourfriends · 3 years

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(💜 me again! Please feel free to tell me to stop sending these if you’re bored of them but I’m having fun talking about cute head canons, so if you want me to stop sending because you’re too busy or anything you can totally say so and I won’t be offended!) I loved what you added about Bobby and Luke and their cute kisses 😭 I love the idea that maybe Bobby has added a little to the group as well as them rubbing off on him? And like it’s shown a little in that before they were playing a simple game of truth or dare and even that ended in a catastrophe because they were just total opposites but after that they’re able to meet in the middle a little more and it’s the start of that friendship??? Maybe Luke says they should ask back and forth like the guys vs Bobby because they realised that they all know each other so well that there was never any point of them asking anything serious or anything because they already knew everything about each other? Like… they were all there for every embarrassing moment or problem that came up in each other’s life so there was no point asking like “who was your first kiss?” Because they had grown up together so they already knew the answer? But they realise that Bobby doesn’t! So they’re just asking back and forth cute or funny questions and stuff, and the guys are all really shocked at Bobby’s answers haha. They’re like “have you ever been drunk?” And are staring like 😯 at him as he tells all of his crazy drunk stories hahaha! And Bobby clearly wants more insight into their lives because he has been thinking how crazy their friendship is all night! And Bobby is equally as shocked to hear that… Luke’s parents aren’t at all shocked or annoyed when they see Alex or Reggie curled up in his bed on a Friday night because they’re so used to it, because Bobby’s parents would go crazy! And Bobby asks if they’ve ever seen each other naked and Reggie says very seriously like it makes total sense “Alex has a pool” and Bobby is like “……….so you…….. skinny dip?” And they’re laughing a ton like “NO!” And Luke explains that they always have to get changed in what Alex’s mom calls the pool house but is really just a shed lol, and Bobby is laughing and the guys are laughing and they’re all just having fun!

awwwww omg i love the idea of Bobby like, corrupting them a little bit and in return they soften him up 🥺

like Luke and Reggie are totally into the idea of doing things that are a little bit bad while Alex is like “no guys we still shouldn’t do that” and Bobby’s like “i mean... Alex is right” bc even though he’s done this stuff it doesn’t mean it was a good idea or fun 100% of the time and maybe Alex was still skeptical of Bobby bc of what happened earlier but when Bobby takes his side it makes Alex think ok maybe he’s not so bad!

but of course you KNOW Luke and Reggie would still wanna try doing some of the dumb stuff that Bobby’s already done bc they’re himbos to the core and Luke is still desperate to impress Bobby (even though you know Bobby doesn’t need to be impressed, he’s totally head over heels for this dumb boy).

and i just looove the idea of all of them getting to know Bobby and vice versa and staying up like all night asking all sorts of dumb questions until they’re all like soooo tired they can hardly keep their eyes open and then in the morning when Luke’s mom wakes them up with the smell of pancakes or something Bobby feels even more embarrassed bc he’s definitely never been taken care of by someone else’s mom like this and he doesn’t really know how to handle it!

but then Luke pulls him into the chair next to his and holds his hand under the table and squeezes it every time Bobby starts looking like he might spin out.

because like, every time he’s ever spent the night at another friend’s house it’s basically just been like he wakes up, grabs whatever stuff he’d discarded the night before, and then leaves. but with these guys, the sleepover doesn’t end just because they woke up. they all stick around at the Patterson’s house and help tidy up the pillows and blankets and stuff and then like around midday Bobby’s so sure that Luke’s parents are going to kick them out anytime but then Reggie suggests they go to the pier or something and hang out some more and to Bobby’s total surprise Luke’s parents even offer to give them all a ride???

obviously they don’t fit super well in the backseat of Luke’s dad’s car but Alex takes the front seat and Luke sits in the middle with Reggie and Bobby on either side and Luke totally holds Bobby’s hand the whole way 🥺

#answered #Anonymous #bobby x luke #fic ideas #ONCE AGAIN I AM SOFT #purple heart anon

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pixiegrl · 3 years

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Everybody Make a Scene

I wanted to write a Muke Halloween prompt and @reveriesofawriter suggested “muke as the couple behind me in the drive thru earlier, the one in the passenger seat was in full costume face paint and everything to look like a creepy doll, my window was rolled down and so was theirs and I heard them arguing about how "the dog can't wear that costume, it's not the right vibes"

So it’s now November but I write this anyway so here it is. Enjoy!

Also as a bday gift to @thenervousduck. Darling you own my heart you always have such nice, wonderful, insightful things to say about the things I do and you’re always so encouraging and wonderful and I hope you have the best day!

On ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27355099

“I don’t know why we needed to go get coffee at Starbucks. We have perfectly good coffee at home and we have to set up for the party,” Luke says. Michael huffs. Luke doesn’t have to look to know Michael’s rolling his eyes at Luke. The line of cars in the drive through inches forward.

“We were already all decorated for the party; you didn’t need to put anything else out. Besides, getting out of the house and getting some coffee could be good for you. You’re so tense today.”

Luke grips the steering wheel tighter, refusing to look at his boyfriend in the passenger seat. Luke will not be the first one to break in this argument. He’s always the first one and he refuses to let it happen this time. He doesn’t want to deal with Michael today, it’s Halloween.

“Luke, come on, you have to look at me at some point,” Michael says. Luke glances to his side, making eye contact with Michael. He’s in full costume already, makeup done to look like some kind of creepy doll. It’s well done, looks like a cracked porcelain mask, but Luke’s too blinded by rage to truly appreciate it.

“No, I don’t. First you decide against the couple’s costume without telling me and now you don’t even want to dress the dogs correctly.”

“There’s no correct way to dress the dogs! I think putting them in cat ears would be funny!” Michael says, voice raising in aggravation.

“It’s the wrong vibes!” Luke yells. They’ve been having this argument since September, when the topic of Halloween costumes was first mentioned. Luke had been insistent that they do a couple’s costume that involved the dogs as well. Michael has offered a half hearted agreement to this, but he clearly hadn’t taken it too seriously. When Luke had decided on woodland creatures (he claimed deer and Michael was supposed to be a fox), he thought it would be cute if their dogs were similarly themed. He even went and bought a bumble bee costume for Petunia, a ladybug for South, and a mouse one for Moose. It was all fine and excellently planned, until this morning, when Michael had walked out of their bathroom with his makeup done and holding cat ears. They’ve been arguing since, about Michael’s costume, about their failed couple’s costume plan now, about the dogs.

“There are no vibes! How can there be vibes for dog costumes? Having them be cats is funny!”

“The dogs can't wear those costumes, it's not the right vibes!”

“What does that even mean? It’s a Halloween party!” Michael snaps. Luke can see the girl in front of them turn slightly, like she’s listening to them but trying not to make it obvious. Luke forgot that their windows are rolled down. He’s a little embarrassed that the people in a Starbucks drive through are witnessing them fight about this, but Luke also wants to be right about this whole situation.

“And we have a theme! I decorated the whole apartment to look more forest-like. I have the deer antlers. I was going for a whole thing and you messed it up now.”

“Luke, it’s not that big of a deal. It’s just a party and no one is going to be paying attention anyway,” Michael says. He visibly rolls his eyes now. Luke grips the steering wheel harder, knuckles going white. It’s so stupid of him to get so worked about this, it really is just a party. It feels like more than that, that Michael’s just disregarded Luke’s opinion and what he wants to do. Luke loves Michael and he knows that Michael loves him, but sometimes it just feels like Michael doesn’t listen.

“It’s just that this is the first Halloween we’ve been able to spend at home, together, where we get to dress up and have people over and celebrate. I put alot of work into planning and decorating and I wanted us to have a good fun time. I know it doesn’t seem like a big deal, but it is to me,” Luke says. Michael’s quiet. Luke can tell that he wants to say something, from the way he’s glancing down at his lap, twisting the bracelet he’s wearing. He doesn’t get a chance to, since it’s their turn to order. Luke orders his usual iced vanilla coffee, Michael’s dragonfruit refresher, and 2 cake pops because he thinks they deserve them. Michael’s quiet through the whole order and doesn’t say anything until they’ve gotten their drinks and are already driving home.

“I didn’t realize it was that big of a thing for you. Halloween’s just a dumb holiday, the whole purpose is to dress up and be goofy. I didn’t think you were serious about the couple’s costume, it’s never been a thing before.”

“Well, I wanted our first Halloween at home to be special. I thought it might be fun. You don’t have to do it if you don’t want to. I just thought it might be fun,” Luke mumbles.

They spend the rest of the drive home in silence. Michael keeps picking at the label on his drink, eyebrows furrowed in concentration. Luke doesn’t want to push it. He’s tired of arguing with Michael about this and he doesn’t want it to ruin the whole party worrying about this.

Luke ends up in their bedroom when they get home, deciding he needs the space to get ready. Their house is already decorated, strings of fairy lights and fall leaf garlands hanging around the downstairs of the house, mixed in with the pumpkins, bats, and ghosts they’ve set up. Luke doesn’t particularly like Halloween being scary and had wanted to make it more fall themed over anything else. Michael had agreed, as long as he was allowed to put one scary decoration in the house (a skeleton that dropped from the ceiling specifically designed to scare Calum and Ashton when they showed up). Luke’s proud of the work he’s put in, creating a woodland fantasy. Michael teased Luke for ages that he was trying to live out his dreams of being a fairy, poking fun at Luke’s love for all things magical and rustic. While it’s not Luke’s usual choice of decor, he appreciates the vibes it gives off. Maybe Luke does want to be a fairy. Would certainly be less responsibility.

Even though Michael’s messed up Luke’s plans, it doesn’t mean he isn’t going to stick to his original idea. Luke sets himself up at the vanity mirror, putting his coffee down on a coaster and grabbing his makeup. He can hear Michael playing music downstairs, hears the dogs barking, and Michael trying to shush them. It fills Luke with fondness, that even though he and Michael are having a disagreement, nothing in their house has changed. It fills Luke with warmth and comfort, the certainty that everything’s okay.

Luke shifts through the makeup he has, pulling out his golds and browns for his eyes and the special gold lipstick he saves for special occasions. It feels like it’ll look nice with his deer look. He starts painting his face, sweeping the eyeshadow colors over his lids and winging out, snorting when he realizes that Michael’s playing Monster Mash downstairs. Michael enjoys the song immensely, to the point that he starts playing it on September 1st and carries on all the way to October 31st. If Luke’s in the room with him when he plays it, he usually ends up pulling Luke into a badly choreographed dance to it, just to see Luke laugh along to it. It brightens Luke, seeing Michael enthusiastic and gleeful about something.

Luke goes about the rest of his makeup, drawing on a little deer nose and some white freckles on as well to complete the look. He pulls back from the mirror, admiring the look he’s created and satisfied with it. He gets up, draining the last of his coffee, and goes to the closet, pulling out the flowy, floral dress he’d bought specifically for this costume. Michael had teased him, called him Stevie Nicks and everything, but had told Luke to buy the dress when he’d hesitated at the last minute (he’d kissed Luke too in the dressing room, darting behind the curtains to press his lips to Luke’s, trying to shush him when Luke wouldn’t stop giggling even though Michael was clearly trying to stop laughing too). He puts on the dress, zipping up the side, and pulling on his glitter gold boots. He snags the headband, with a small set of flowers on it and deer antlers, from the bed and slides it onto his head, adjusting it to sit nicely in his curls.

“Babe, are you done yet? I have something to show you,” Michael yells from downstairs. Luke rolls his eyes, grabbing his phone and empty cup from the vanity and venturing out of the bedroom.

“If you rearranged anything that I set up, I might have to…” Luke starts, stopping mid sentence when he reaches the bottom of the stairs and notices that Michael’s standing in the living room, wearing the fox ears. He’s managed to get all 3 dogs into their costumes too, convincing them to sit nicely at his feet. Michael grins when he sees Luke’s shocked face.

“Michael, how did you manage this,” Luke asks, slowly making his way over. Petunia notices him, making her way over to him, little bumble bee wings swaying as she walks. Luke drops down to crouch in front of her, rubbing her ears gently.

Michael shrugs, “Well I thought about it and you were right. Putting the dogs in cat ears was a little dumb. They’re cuter like this anyway.”

Luke smiles gently up at Michael, “Mikey, that’s really sweet.”

Michael rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling widely, clearly pleased that Luke’s happy. Luke starts to straighten up, when his fingers bump against something hidden in Petunia’s wings. Curious, Luke looks down and pulls out a ring box. His heart stops, clutching the box in his hand. It can’t be what Luke thinks it is.

“Michael?” Luke asks, pitch going up as he stands up, holding up the box and turning to Michael. Michael’s down on one knee between Moose and South, holding his hand out.

“I can’t do it properly if you don’t give me the ring Luke,” Michael says. Luke hands the box over, watching as Michael takes it and pops the box open. The ring is beautiful, a blue stone set in a gold band. Luke’s still too stunned to do much more than stare at Michael’s earnest, open, adoring expression.

“I’m not really sure what I’m supposed to do now,” Luke says. Michael laughs, clearly nervous.

“Well, I believe I’m supposed to give a big speech to you and then you’re supposed to tell me yes.”

“Go on, tell me all about how much you love me.”

“God you’re incorrigible. Maybe I won’t,” Michael says, pretending like he’s going to close the box.

“No, you started, now you’re contractually obligated to keep going,” Luke insists, grinning when Michael opens the box again.

“Luke Robert Hemmings, you’re a pain in my ass and you will probably continue to be a pain in my ass, but I love you. I love you so much that sometimes I forget how much I love you because it’s just part of me. I don’t know what I’d do without you and your big ideas and all of your love and joy and happiness. I want to continue letting you annoy the shit out of me and wake up next to you everyday and deal with your terrible cooking just so I can see you pout when I try to correct you. Will you marry me?”

“That’s the worst speech ever. Of course I will,” Luke says. His hands are shaking slightly, vibrating with excitement as Michael scrambles to stand up. He tugs Luke into a kiss, holding onto his face tightly for a few moments, until he remembers the ring and pulls back to put it onto Luke’s finger.

“Sap. You did this so you wouldn’t forget our anniversary.”

“No, that would be me asking to get married on your birthday so I definitely never forget our anniversary,” Michael says. His lips are covered in gold and Luke huffs, raising a hand to wipe it off.

“Dork.”

“Your dork.”

“I can still reject your proposal.”

“Nope you said yes. You’re contractually obligated to marry me now.”

“Who says?”

“I do,” Michael says, grinning widely. Luke huffs, fond and full of love and happiness. Maybe Halloween isn’t so bad after all.

#5 seconds of summer #luke hemmings #michael clifford #muke #my writing #its just a dorky halloween prompt

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kewltie · 4 years

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the idea that bakugou katsuki, a war hero and the empire's hound, is a man of great stature and even fiercer reputation of a volatile powder keg yet quite frankly so freaked out by izuku, HIS OWN HUSBAND, attempt of playing footsie that he broke a table IS SO HILARIOUS TO ME!! katsuki spend so long giving himself to his country and ppl and that HE literally had NO TIME for romance or like consider any romantic entanglement let alone think of the husband he left behind while he chase after new adventures; so yea he's a goddamn virgin lmao.

even when he's back home now his job as the empire's hound (which basically taking on tasks too dark and secretive that nobody can touch) means he running around the slums of the city to catch baddies so he's constantly hanging around other lowlifes SO HE GOT A BAD REPUTATION. a scoundrel and rake is what the rumors say about him and they all sigh pitifully when they spot izuku bc poor izuku, to have such a terrible no good husband hang around brothel houses :((( WHICH IS FUCKING FUNNY bc katsuki is devout in his marriage vows and also hello VIRGIN!! not that anyone know that, NOT EVEN IZUKU bc believe in katsuki's honor in their marriage but HE HEARD THE RUMORS and katsuki does keep v beautiful friends around (they're his informants lol) so izuku thought katsuki used to play around but now that's married he doesnt and wont.

so izuku GOT INTO HIS HEAD that katsuki is ~experience~ and prob had like a hundred lovers in the past while izuku is virginal and chaste and BORING so he tries v v hard to learn how to a good lover which means taking advice from racy romance books from his book club lmao. look, izuku is a quirk learner and HE'S always open to new experience and he's going to be a good husband and lover ok!!!!! so he's taking lesson to try to seduce katsuki and get his interest but he's so new at this he's afraid katsuki will laugh a him and find him lacking... so when he heard katsuki was hanging around one of the most famous oiran, a super high class prostitute, izuku IS SO JEALOUS bc how can izuku compare to such a beautiful and talented being??? so he thought he ramps up his game and tried for a footsie W KATSUKI BUT ????!!!

katsuki's reaction isn't to laugh and/or tease him about it but BROKE A DAMN TABLE as he reeled back and looked at him in shock and horror and izuku IS SOOO CONFUSED like???? did he do something ??? is that not how you play footsie??? OMG did he embarrassed himself?!! izuku thought he didn't come on strong enough, that his game was just too weak that it drove katsuki away which make izuku even more determine to be better next time! esp when he had the idea to meet up with the oiran and take a personal lesson on seducing his hubby lol. not knowing AT ALL that katsuki was internally SCREAMING ABOUT IT bc izuku, his super traditional and proper husband, just fucking ran his foot up katsuki's THIGH and he's did it all coolly like HE'S NOT FEELING KATSUKI UP UNDER THE TABLE AND AS;DJFAS;DJF. look, they're both dumb virgins who think the other is like some experience lover when in truth neither of them HAVE ANY EXPERIENCE AT ALL and they really aren't equipped to deal with any attempt of seduction/flirtation properly even though THEY'RE MARRIED TO EACH OTHER!!!!

i love the idea of clothes and accessories acting as symbolism and a state of mind. it's a constant theme in a lot of my fics - how and what you dress can set the tone of the entire space you occupied, sending a wordless message out into the world.

izuku normally dressed in traditional kimono all his life but when he left the countryside and moved into the city to be with katsuki where western influence have taken roots and many new western trends are popular right now, izuku starts to adapt and fashion is one of them. the shift from izuku's kimono to a western dress and pantsuits parallels his shift in perspective from the tradition views he hold and to new ideas brought by his new environment. though it doesn't mean everything old and tradition are bad while new things are all good!! izuku loves his kimonos and there's a history that come with them as they are handmade custom and pass down within his family so there's a lot of meanings and legacy to these old kimonos; news thing may offer a better insight but there's still a lot of value in tradition. like how in the first scene izuku decide to change his whole wardrobe to meet katsuki for lunch and how formal and austere he dressed, changing his demeanor as though he's putting on an armor. it's the way they make him feel stronger and confident that he may not feel otherwise. in that moment he fell back into his kimono, something he had known and grown up with all his life so it's the most comfortable for him and hold him up even when his doubts and insecurity weigh him down. this is the armor he chosen to wear when he's about to go to battle. the type and color of the kimono he wore, the way his hair is pinned and a certain hair accessory, and the mortif sewn into the kimono are all signs of his mood and how each is like a plate of armor on top of each other, layer and by layer building up his confident.

izuku lacks confident that much is clear esp when he'd pretty up uproot his whole life to move to the city to be with katsuki and uphold his place as katsuki's husband. he knows he's lacking in this strange new environment so his only defense mechanism is to fall back on old ways. izuku wants to be firm when he see katsuki and by dressing in that austere and cold formality of the kimono with dark colors and phoenix motif his message is that he wont be subdued by w/e katsuki say; and he says it w/o ever having to say a single word :P

izuku is really obsessed w being a good spouse, omega, and fulfilling his duty bc that's all he has ever been taught and that's how he measure his own worth. if he's not being upholding the honor and prestige of the background household,,, what use is he then? he's so desperate to be that 'good spouse' who doesn't complain, who doesnt question, and who doesn't fail at any task given to him that he come off as this unfeeling and obedience doll who only know how to stay faithful at his husband's feet which isn't izuku at all. we know he's endlessly curious, ravenous for knowledge and new ideas, reckless to a fault, and so v v v kind that it can hurt him but those aren't necessary quality for a spouse of a future duke so he squashed it and put up pretense of a more poise, charming, and compose person. which few even see through his mask BUT ofc katsuki eventually does and he hates when izuku puts up a front and hide his true feelings from him and that's where their first argument come from. IZUKU BEING PASSIVE AGGRESSIVE AT HIM and katsuki telling to GET MAD, YELL AT HIM, ETC he rather izuku be real with him then having to face this smiling doll who only know how to carefully chose his words and say things he doesnt really mean when he want izuku to poke and prod and get angry and emotional at him bc he knows underneath that smile is a cat w claws lol. at the end of it izuku only wants to be included in katsuki's world bc his job is v v v important to him and to be on the outside and hearing rumors and stories of what katsuki is doing and not actually a part of it hurts izuku deeply bc they're married and in this together!! katsuki prefers to keep izuku from the ugly side of his job bc well it's dangerous and there's a unsightly things he doesnt want izuku to see and/or exp but izuku, wants to bear katsuki's burden too so he doesn't have to go at this alone!! marriage is partnership after all.

it's an interesting dynamic of where izuku keeps pushing more from katsuki and katsuki being a closed of jerk about it trying to keep a distance bc he has no time to entertain a relationship bc OF HIS V IMPORTANT JOB even tho they're already marry but izuku is persistence lol. they're going to keep this whole push and pull dynamic till one of them give which is going to be long ass time bc they're both stubborn lol but izuku didn't literally MOVED HIS ENTIRE life to be w katsuki to settle just for marriage w him, he's going to win katsuki's heart also!

#on writing #regency a/b/o au

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ill-skillsgard · 4 years

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Henry’s Birthday Weekend - Friday Night - His Mistress

Warning: 18+ sex toy play/mentions of cheating/marital conflict/mature language & themes. Please read at your own discretion.

Note: Hi! What started as a fun little idea has turned into something much longer than expected (surprise, surprise). I feel like Henry’s birthday deserves to span an entire weekend and be full of unexpected surprises and sexiness. So here it is... Friday Night.

Read more Henry x Mistress imagines here > Masterpost

You fiddled with the shoulder straps of the bra, making sure they didn’t cut into your skin. The oxblood lace didn’t cover much, but that was the point. The garter belt around your waist matched the red of the bra, although you wouldn’t see the finished product until you clipped the garter straps to a pair of stockings. Those were waiting behind the purchase counter.

Satisfied with the set you chose, you slid the lock from the door and peered out with a smile in hopes Henry was paying attention. He looked up from his phone and gasped like you had strutted out nude.

“Babe! I told you, I don’t want to see it yet!” Henry covered his eyes with his free hand.

“Okay, okay,” you withdrew into the change room, locking the door behind you. “I think this is the one.”

“Great. We’ll pack it up and take it home.”

Henry held your hand with his right and the bag from the lingerie shop in his left as he escorted you to his car. He opened the door for you, waited until you sat down, shut the door and circled to place your purchase in the trunk. Before sticking the key in the ignition, he reached between his legs under the seat and pulled out a small box wrapped in pink paper.

You instantly glared at him.

“Henry! It’s your birthday, not mine!” You berated.

He smirked and passed you the box. “It’s a gift for me.”

“Then why are you passing it over?”

“Well, because... It’s also a gift for you. But mostly for me.”

When you woke up that morning, you got the feeling Henry’s version of a birthday celebration would have a lot to do with giving you gifts. The lingerie was one thing. He could justify that it was for him, but the pink box confused you. Until you ripped open the crepe paper wrapping, you glowered at the item in your hand. Then you turned over the box, and it all made sense.

Henry’s smirk developed into a beam he couldn’t reel back. He adjusted in his seat, slicked back his hair and played with the knot of his tie as a distraction.

“Wow. This is—okay, I can see how this is sort of a gift for you.” You held up the box and giggled.

It was a palm-sized vibrator in cotton candy blue with a flat side and an insightful diagram on the back of the package. Henry pulled out his cell phone and waggled it.

“I can control it with my phone.”

“I see that,” you sang.

“You’ll wear it for dinner. Along with the set and those heels I bought you last week?”

His uncertain tone propped your eyebrow. “Oh, I will, will I?”

His large hand slid up your knee and ruched up the fabric of your pencil skirt to squeeze your thigh. “Yes, you will.”

All ambiguity in his voice melted away, and the expression left on his face was one of sternness. When Henry bucked up, straightened his tie and asserted himself, he passed well for threatening. It reminded you of the way he carried himself at work and how his subordinates took him as seriously as a bomb set to explode. It was his birthday, after all.

“Yes, sir,” you agreed.

“Good girl.”

Out of nowhere, Henry decided it best to drop you off at home to get ready for the night. Before he left, he instructed you again to wash up like he meant to eat off your skin, wear your new lingerie set under your outfit and stash the vibrator between your legs. Then, after a long kiss goodbye, he gave you a wink and left you to stew in the excitement.

You laid out the night’s outfit, showered, shaved, and prepared for an evening of secret naughtiness, humming as you went. The vibrator rested in its package on the foot of your seldom-used bed. It called out for inspection as you towelled off from your shower. You plucked it from the packing foam and caressed the smooth finish with your thumb.

There was a button on the vibrator and a small, oval-shaped magnet to help lock it into place. Before you touched the raised nub to turn it on, your work phone rang. It skittered across your vanity table with each vibration until you picked it up, scowling at the screen as though it had slapped you.

Mary Deaver calling

Whenever Henry ignored work calls or forwarded them away, it redirected them to your work phone. It was standard practice, and you were used to receiving client calls during odd hours, but Mary’s name gave you a dreadful empty-gutted sensation. For a moment, you considered ignoring the call, but that would be unprofessional. You had to keep a cool head and answer the call just like you would for any other person.

“Good afternoon, Henry Deaver’s office.”

Mary chuckled from the other end. “It’s funny how he has you answering the phone as though you’re in the office.”

“I beg your pardon, Ms. Deaver?”

“Oh, so you know who I am?”

You bit down on the inside of your cheek. “Mm-hmm. Caller display, ma’am.”

“Henry isn’t in the office. Where is he?” She asked.

You glanced over at your bed, covered with gifts from Mary’s soon-to-be ex-husband. It filled the hollowness in your gut with a warm trickle of satisfaction that rose and rose until your chest was alight with amusement.

“Usually, I’d be able to answer that question for you, ma’am, but today is Henry’s birthday, and he’s out of the office.”

“I know it’s his birthday, you twit. I’m his wife.”

“Hmm. Well, I’m sorry, Ms. Deaver, but Henry has taken the day off. I think I heard him mention golfing.”

“It’s Missus Deaver. And I’ve called his buddies. He’s nowhere to be found.”

“I’m sorry, Mary. I’m under strict instructions not to bug Mr. Deaver today.”

Her scoff grated your eardrum. You held the phone from your face, glaring at it as though spit had come flying through the earpiece.

“I want his girlfriend’s number.”

“Mary—”

“Give it to me. I know he has one, so don’t play dumb. He told me.”

You sighed, mock-patience dragging out your breath until she stopped talking. “I can’t give you any information about my boss’s personal life. Please, Mary, I’m just trying to do my job.”

“I don’t want to get angry, girl, but you’re not making it easy. Can’t you see what he’s doing? He’s cheating on me, and everyone is allowing it to happen! They’re all patting him on the back and running circles for him. Would you think a fellow woman would recognize this and come to my defence? No!”

All you needed was another repeat of Mary’s hailstorm of insults, and the thin strand holding you back from screaming would snap. You listened as she droned on about women helping women, but she was pandering to the wrongest ear possible.

“Mary,” you cut her off. “You’re separated. You’re both locked in a divorce settlement. I can’t treat you like his wife when I know that’s not true.”

The line went quiet. Then, a bubbling of laughter popped against your face. “You know... I was going to make it easy for him, but not anymore.”

“Miss—”

The line hacked off, and you stood in the middle of your bedroom, staring at the black screen of your phone. With a heavy sigh, you opened a new message to Henry and told him about the call you had received. He replied within seconds.

She’s called me twenty times. I think I should just answer. She probably wants to wish me a happy birthday.

The last thing Mary said to you before hanging up fastened on the edge of your lips. Did you want to ruin Henry’s entire day by relaying her cryptic threat? On any other day, you would have told him the unabridged truth, but not on his birthday. Not after the wonderful morning and before the evening’s promises took flight.

She was angry as hell and asked for your GF’s phone number.

Awkward.

Very much so. I gotta say, Henry... I’ll be thrilled when she gets it through her head that you’re no longer husband and wife.

Why? What did she say?

She just demands information on you. I told her you said not to let anybody bother you and that you MIGHT be golfing.

That’s good. And I know, baby. I’m sorry. All I can do is work through this as fast as I can.

I know.

After the call, you didn’t feel sexy and titillated as you had after your shower. But you couldn’t let it cut holes in the night’s plans. You had to suck it up, breathe deeply, and remind yourself that divorce proceedings were a long and stressful process, and you had jumped aboard of your own free will. You signed up for this.

When Henry pulled up to collect you, the incident was long from your mind. You’d taken a couple of hours to reset, dress and figure out the most comfortable spot to hide the vibrator in your panties. At first, the toy felt too foreign for comfort, like a pad that had no business lining your underwear. But the longer you spent with it pressed against your most sensitive spot, and the more you thought about how much fun Henry would have teasing you, the more you disregarded its existence.

Until you got in Henry’s car, and he pulled up the phone application, you forgot about the object stowed away in your undergarments.

“What are you doing?” You asked.

“Making sure it works before we head out,” Henry replied.

He pressed a button, and a fine buzz tickled to life. You clenched your legs together, eyes round and wide as Henry giggled and asked, “is it working?”

“Yep,” you peeped. “She workin’.”

Dark amusement moulded a leer so devastating on his face, and you wanted to forget the dinner and go back to the condo to have sex instead. Henry couldn’t stifle his entertainment.

“Okay, I’ll turn it off,” he said, and then nudged the cursor up, increasing the intensity.

“Henry!”

“How’s that feel, baby? You like that?”

“Stop, stop, stop, stop.” You clutched the edges of your seat.

Henry relinquished, turning the toy off and pocketing his phone. “Oh, my God. This will be so fun.”

Your boyfriend had been correct. The night was full of teasing and low whispers detailing what he wanted to do to you after he got you back home. At the dinner table, you sat with your fingers gliding up and down the stem of a wine glass, awaiting the buzz to startle you.

After the waiter took your menus away, Henry casually reached into his pocket and set his phone in his lap where he could navigate in secret. The vibrator hummed to life, and you flinched, causing the wine in your glasses to tip back and forth. The rumble between your legs heightened, then dissipated, only to peak again and again and again. Up and down, low to high, back and forth until you shot him a playful, accusatory look.

“I can’t believe I... I agreed to this. Um. Oh... Oh, Christ. Henry.”

He anchored his cheek to his propped fist, his other hand under the table playing with the app. To on-lookers, it would appear Henry was staring lovingly into your eyes from across the table which was normal behaviour for him, but his trigger thumb was happily teasing you from afar.

“How about we keep it on low for a while? You think you can handle that?” He asked.

“Maybe,” you breathed out.

As promised, Henry lowered the strength to the first level. Yet, even that setting shook your core with devilish waves.

You lifted the wineglass to your lips and calmly took a sip, though you were anything but calm. The sensation dug into you, culling forth wetness that absorbed into the gusset of your new panties. It was time to start playing back.

“Wow, I don’t think anything has ever made me this wet before. Honestly, I feel like I’m sitting in a puddle.”

Henry masked his intrigue with a snort and a long sip of wine. “Is that so?”

“I’m not kidding, Henry. It’s like the Falls down there. I don’t know if I’ll be able to do anything with you after if you... If you—”

That same darkness from before overrode his face, a rare expression that unsettled your emotions. Henry leaned over the table to stroke the back of your palm. “Who said you have a choice?”

You flashed your teeth. Henry was playing a rather lewd game by firing off a warning shot. Tonight was about what he wanted, and not what you doled him. It’s what he wanted for his birthday; to be the big, bad man with the power. But there was no way you could resist rocking the boat.

“Henry, please. The sommelier is coming right this way. You have to—”

“Let him come,” Henry shrugged.

He reclined—a cool, calculated smile on his face, pupils dilated.

The tinkle of piano keys mixed with the low murmur of guests was enough to muffle the sound of the vibrator, but only just. If you pressed down on the chair, the toy would hum louder and garner attention. You had to clench your thighs to stifle the noise. Henry knew you struggled and took his time discussing the night’s wine choice with the sommelier. The man was enthusiastic about Henry’s assessment and played favourites with your table.

Talk of cherry notes, oak and nuts were a poor distraction. You cared not for the history of the region the grapes yielded from nor the casual brushing from one topic to another, unrelated one. The man had to leave, and Henry wouldn’t allow it.

The purring between your legs felt more like a hiss after long. Pressure built up in your groin, and you were unsure if you had to pee or if you were on the brink of a powerful orgasm. Whatever the sensation, you pushed your chair out, nodding at the two men.

“Excuse me. I have to use the washroom.”

Henry’s mouth snapped shut as he watched you leave your seat and walk toward the restrooms. When you were out of sight, you let your expression slacken. By the time you entered the lady’s room, the vibration had stopped. You halted, waited for a second and scoffed when the toy stirred again.

You waited a minute in the restroom, washed your hands and picked the lint off your outfit as you composed yourself.

In your rush to return to your roguish boyfriend, you pushed open the door and clipped a man’s shoulder. He recoiled in the hall, whipping you an offended scowl before his eyes took you in. You recognized the man, but couldn’t place him in your memory. You forgot about the toy going haywire in your underwear and went pale.

“Hey, don’t I know you from somewhere?” The man asked.

A prickle of alcohol from his mouth tainted your airways, and you realized the man you’d hit with the door was one of Henry’s colleagues. A man named Frank, whom you hoped you would never have to see again.

“Yeah, I do know you! You’re from the hotel.”

“Um, no. I don’t—I don’t work there.”

“But you did!” Frank exclaimed. “I couldn’t forget your face.”

“Oh. Well, thanks.”

“What’s a little server girl from the Southside doing up in my neighbourhood?”

You backed away, shrugging, and chuckling your nerves down. “Just on a date. Sorry, I should go.”

Then you turned and shot off to your table. Henry spotted the worried look on your face and waited for you to sit down before asking questions.

“You okay?” He asked.

“Mm-hmm, yep. Oh, except that Frank guy you work with is here, and he saw me in the hall.”

Henry’s chin wrinkled, the faint dimple glimmering as he drew in his eyebrows. “Frank? Frank, who?”

“I don’t know. Could you please stop the thing now?”

It was too late. Frank spotted Henry from across the dining room. “Henry goddamn Deaver, is that you?”

Frank’s voice carried over the music, earning several queer looks and murmurs. You tapped the table frantically with your finger as the man lumbered forward into the eye of the dining room.

“Henry, please. Henry. Now. Turn it off. Please,” you hissed.

He fidgeted with his phone, turning up the strength by accident in his haste. You made a face like swallowing a shot of lemon juice. The rumble gyrated and continued to do so until the very moment Frank bumped into your table. It ceased, and you let out a frustrated breath, covering your face with one hand to mask your identity.

“Hang on just one hot minute now. Southside, you’re not on a date! You’re trying to shake me like last time. And Deaver! What the hell are you doing out this late? Isn’t it past your bedtime? Won’t Mary wring your neck?”

Then it was Henry’s turn to hide his face. “Frank, would you lower your voice? The whole restaurant is looking this way.”

Frank’s brow knit together while he tried to fit the pieces together. He stared at you, then at Henry, then back at you. The lopsided grin between his red cheeks flattened.

“What’s going on, Deaver?”

“I’m having dinner. It’s my birthday.”

Frank thumbed at you. “This your side-piece?”

You, mortified, let Henry handle the reigns of the conversation. Without a comment, you downed your wine in one large gulp in hopes the alcohol might wash away your embarrassment.

“No. This is my whole piece. I’d introduce you, but you’ve already met.”

“No shit, you’re banging the cutie from the coffee shop now? What about Mary?”

Henry’s cheeks, already pink from wine, then turned red. “We’re divorced.”

“What!”

More eyes locked on your table as you sank into your chair and wondered if it would be rude to fill your wine glass up to the brim. Henry turned his pursed lips out, rubbed four fingers across his forehead and sighed. “Frank, good Lord, can’t you be quieter? Do you have a megaphone stuck in your throat?”

“Why the hell didn’t you tell me, Deaver? I swear we just saw each other, and you were happily shackled.”

“This,” Henry remarked. “This is why I didn’t tell you. Because I don’t need attention and public humiliation.”

“Frank!” A woman’s voice, equally voluminous as Frank’s cut through the tension.

Frank’s face drooped, all zeal rushing away. The woman beckoning him motioned him along with an impatient wave of her hand. It was his wife, you presumed, and she had her coat on.

“Fuck me, Deaver. You got life sorted, don’tcha? Hot little girly-friend, no more ring. When the hell are we getting together to celebrate?”

“I’ll have my assistant call you,” Henry said.

Frank waved his club-like hand, missing your face by a bare inch. You recoiled in your seat and blinked a few times to showcase your concern.

“Bullshit, Deaver. I’ve heard that one before. Come on. We gotta get together and go to the titty-bar or something. You’re single now!”

Your boyfriend opened his mouth, but no words tumbled out. Instead, he chuckled while shaking his head and motioned at you.

“Frank, I just told you I’m not single.”

The large man swung his eyes at you. He scanned you up and down, smirked and tapped the table with one hairy knuckle. “You’d let this old boy go with his friend to the rippers, wouldn’t you, sweetheart?”

You stared at Henry now, daggering him with sarcasm and a fake smile. “Oh, yeah! Henry can go to the strip club with you, Frank. I’m sure he’d love that.”

Henry covered his face with both hands. “I’ll call you Frank, but it looks like your wife wants to leave.”

“I’ll be waiting for that call, Deaver. And if you don’t... The phone goes both ways. I won’t let up until you say yes!”

“Okay, Frank. Have a good night.”

Frank placed his mit on your shoulder and squeezed you. “And you too, honey. I hope to see you again very soon.”

There were too many things you wanted to say at once. Henry fiddled with his apologies but came up speechless. He spread out his hands in a tabletop version of a shrug, snickering to himself at the absurdity of what had just happened. You wanted to be angry, but your mouth quirked, and soon, you were laughing.

“Want me to pen you in a date with Frank? I’m not well-versed on what adult entertainment establishments exist around here, but I can do a little research, and—”

“Please, stop. That was so, SO embarrassing.”

“Yeah? Try having a vibrator on your junk going ballistic while bumping into that hurricane of a man!”

“Maybe this wasn’t a good idea,” Henry muttered.

“What wasn’t a good idea?” You asked.

“I don’t know. I—hold on.”

Henry fished his phone from his pocket. Was Frank already calling him? He squinted at the screen and scrolled his thumb up twice before clicking something.

“What is it?” You inquired.

The vibrator whirred to life. Your back snapped straight as a blissful smile poured over Henry’s face. His bottom lip disappeared between his teeth. The edge of the table made a good spot to hold on to while he played with the settings on his cell phone.

“No, I take it back. This was the best idea I’ve ever had.”

#henry deaver x mistress #henry deaver fanfiction #bill skarsgard fanfiction #bill skarsgard imagine #castle rock fanfiction

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i-am-parsec · 3 years

Text

11/02/2020

Hey, so...I had a bit of a crisis a couple days ago and now I’m here, writing again. I think I can still picture your smug look whenever I’d admit I was “wrong”, even if my memory is very unreliable these days, I can still see it and I know for a fact that’s the look you’re giving me right now. You little shit.

Um, they are probably not gonna like reading that. They don’t like it when I “pretend I can actually communicate with my missing, most likely already dead ex husband”. Weird, right? Like I don’t see how that would disturb them, ha.

I suppose I now should explain to you who “they” are. I’m talking about my doctors, Dr. Richard Willson and Dr. Alexandra Freias, who, little fun fact, my sister hired solely on the basis of her being 1. A woman and 2. Latina. I guess she thought I’d “bond” better with someone who looked more like, but the funny bit is that Dr. Freias’ mother is Russian and she looks like a photocopy of her mother. What I’m trying is that, not only was my sister’s idea dumb, she also did a terrible job at executing it because my doctor looks white as hell. She is nice, though, and I’m grateful about that. And no, Dr. Freias, I am not writing that just so you’ll forgive me for destroying your brand new phone yesterday but yes, I am very sorry about that, or at least as sorry as I can be these days and I promise my dumb sister will replace it as soon as possible.

I’m gonna have to get used to the idea of these letters having a bigger audience than before. In the sake of my little agreement with my lovely health professionals, I’ll be open and honest and admit...I don’t like it, it makes me uncomfortable to share this, my only safe space, with people who are basically strangers to me, but I am aware this decision was taken for the sake of everyone's peace of mind. When I’m writing, I’m focused, more relaxed, less prone to spiral down after Dr. Willson gives me a mocking look and sighs at the mention of your name, Chase, so this is a good thing: I get to talk to you and my doctors get a bit of insight on what’s going on inside my mind without me losing my shit and breaking everything around me, something they claim to desperately need.

I am a woman of my word, so I will continue this little daily exercise if that is what everyone thinks is best for me, even if I can’t help but laugh at the idea that this might give them any kind of extra data about me or you or anything related to this mess our lives have been for the past couple of years. I’ve already told them everything, from the very beginning. They refuse to listen, I refuse to give in and spew the nonsense they are trying to feed me instead of the truth I already know, then we all get frustrated and eventually...we start the cycle again. Circles, we are just going on and on in these fucking circles and it does annoy me, but I guess I have accepted it to a certain degree - I’m stuck. This is my life now, an eternal retelling of the hell I’m trapped into, while being trapped within said hell.

I am lost here, Chase, lost and blind. But I keep moving, even if I know how it is all going to end, I still walk. I walk towards you, mi amor. You are my North, my compass in a world without poles, paths or direction. Ever since we were kids I’ve been doing that. You gave me purpose in a pointless world, a home in a deserted land, a glimmer of Hope among absolute darkness...so I’ll do my part, I’ll take my medicine, I’ll go to my appointments, I’ll write my letters. I’ll be good, I swear, for you, for the kids, for my sister - who bends over and backwards for me, even if I can’t seem to forgive her-, hell, even for my doctors, who refuse to actually listen to me but also refuse to give up.

Oh, before I go, in case you were wondering why I had the mental breakdown: I was telling the doctors about our wedding and it hit me that it was the 31st. I got quiet for a second, a bit teary and informed them that that day would have been our ten year anniversary. I laughed when Dr. Freias pointed out that we got married on Halloween and told her it was on purpose, that you love this holiday so much that you begged me for months to let you proclaim your undying love for me in front of our few friends, both of us being in full costume in our tiny backyard.

That’s when it all went sideways. “Undying love”. Dr. Willson just had to remind me with a smirk that we are divorced. I would like to explain in more detail what happened after that but truth be told, I don’t know. Last thing I remember was staring at him, my whole body shaking and then, dropping under water. It's a familiar sensation by now, but it never gets less disturbing or less violating. When I was back in control of my body, the room was a mess, I had three men holding me down and Dr. Willson’s forehead was bleeding.

I do not forgive him for the unnecessary remark about my civil status but I do regret, greatly, ever hurting him and I appreciate him not quitting. I don’t know why he wouldn't, I’m just glad I don’t have to deal with a new smug asshole who thinks they have the right pill and therapy combination to fix my unfixable brain. At this point in my life, I will always rather stick with the devil I know than the devil I don’t, and besides, Richard is no devil. I should know.

It’s late now, almost 8, so I’ll send this to Dr. Freias and be on my way to bed. See you there, my love.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Link to all the chapters in chronological order, here. Link to the last chapter, if you can even call it that, here.

Well. Here’s the thing. I am too broke for therapy and too uninspired to write anything original that could probably be more nurturing to my soul than a fanfic that I started 2 years ago...so I’m here, back to my bullshit. And also, Sean is finally dropping some new crispy fresh ego content so I guess...I’m doing this. I’ll be posting daily, the quality will be shit, there might be no actual progress to the plot and it is going to be mainly me just using Stacy to vent. I have little to nothing going on in my life right now, and I vaguely remember I used to get joy from writing so in order to get even the slightest bit of serotonin, I set myself the goal of writing everyday, no word minimum or special prompt in mind, I’m just going to write, and if it’s good, great and if nobody reads, fine. I’m just trying to get back whatever pieces of myself I can find, which I think is a feeling this character can very much relate to. That might be why I’m returning to her.

Or maybe it’s the fact that I was very invested in her before I fell in love and then I was so engrossed in my relationship that I completely forgot about her and then I had my heart broken in a million tiny pieces, losing any kind of sense of self or purpose in life and now, almost six months after my first real breakup, I’m trying to rebuild myself and I secretly hope that going back to Stacy, a character that was very dear to me, I can find whatever it is that I’m looking for. Maybe, but who’s to say?

Anyway, if you read all of that bullshit (and I mean the whole post, not just my after-chapter ranting), I feel like I owe you some kind of reimbursement for emotional damages. Sadly, I’m poor, so all I can offer you are memes. You can slide on my DMs for your payment of memes. Do not feel the need to ask me how I’m doing, I am doing Fine...in the sense of I will not be yeeting myself from a rooftop any time soon, no matter how sad I might sound, I’m just a whiny bitch using writing as a coping mechanism. I’m okay, like not really, super mega hyper ok but I’m ok. If you’re concerned, I appreciate you but don’t be. I’m writing to deal with my feelings, that’s like, healthy, right? So yeah, we good.

see u tomorrow

❤️Tag list❤️: @amyxmiaplay @beckofthewoods @closedworldofmathiel @darktrash-drash @fanfictionrecommendations-com @flyingfishflopsthings @fruitycasket @hiimizzyxoxo @hishex @scarlet-mangata @mcomegalletas @mijako98 @mysterious-cupcake-ninja @mysticalanimallover @novasingalaxies @plutoandpolaris @probablyghosting @randomartdudette @saltyweirdbi @scarlet--raven @septicuniverse @skyewardlight @thevampireauthoress @youllnevertaketheskyfromme @rats-this-username-is-taken

#Stacy Brody #Chase Brody #Jacksepticeye #Antisepticeye #Unaddressed Letters

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calypsoff · 3 years

Text

Nineteen.

I remained on the tour but it’s gruesome, Robyn and I haven’t really spoke on that, we haven’t spoke on the things that happened on the first day. I think it is something we have to speak on once it’s over, but I am concerned they are pushing her way more then they should, I am not sure. Who am I to judge, I don’t know this business but I haven’t slept in a bed for five days now but that doesn’t bother me because I am not the one performing every night, I mean she is late every date but that is not the point, I am just a concerned boyfriend I guess. We are currently going to London, short flight there but Robyn fell asleep as soon as we got on this, I decided to be good and quiet for her sake I guess. I mean if you asked me five days ago I would have left her but when we got to Paris it just kind of hit me, this is gruesome and they are squeezing every penny out of this woman, I don’t know how she is doing it. Is this what touring is like, Rorrey has said it’s not this bad actually but it seems terrible. I don’t think this is normal, I am tired from just being here, imagine how she feels. Looking over at Robyn asleep, I must really love Robyn because I swear I was ready to leave, I just really do love her so much. Shit is annoying that I do but I am glad I stayed, just because I have been there for her. We decided to not speak on it which has been fine, I think she needed the support. Resting my head back on the seat, I ain’t going to sleep for an hour on this thing, it’s dumb so let me go and see my two friends, getting up from the seat. Everyone is pretty much asleep on this thing; I would feel worse having an hour sleep so let me not. Looking over at Robyn once more before walking off, I do see Robyn’ point. The tour became a gossip factory because of what I did, how I attacked a journalist but slowly it’s being pulled back to what she is doing. Robyn keeps showing out, showing that we are ok but we are right now.

I knew my friends would be awake, we just laughed as we saw each other. I feel for Tina having to sit between these two “you not letting ling ling sleep?” I questioned crouching down “TJ can’t stop talking to her, I think bro wants that” Barry pointed out “erm be quiet! There will be no such thing” raising an eyebrow “Tina I seen you flirting with him, you do know this nigga about to be a whole dad?” I don’t want TJ fucking with Robyn’ crew “he told” letting out an oh, he is being truthful as fuck, he must like her “really?” she nodded her head “he told me everything, right from the part where he told she is your ex” nodding my head “I am glad he told you the truth, everyone is asleep in there. I am awake and I know the party is here” I laughed, they all hype and shit “what is Rihanna doing!?” someone shouted, looking behind me “sleeping” looking back over at Barry laughing “I feel you are taking my job Chris” Tina pointed out “am I?” frowning at her “I do everything you do, besides kissing her but I miss holding her water and towel when we go to stage, we going to fight soon” I snorted laughing “you playing, I do no such thing” is she stupid “I think she is right Chris, we been peeped you being towel boy” I sighed out smiling “I don’t like this, it’s too much” getting up from my position as someone is walking by “yeah she been real tired” Tina agreed “don’t you think it’s bad when I am having to pick her and take her into the car, like they are covering shit up. Who did this?” I am dumbfounded “Jay Brown” that sounds about right.

Looking around me, the fans are really partying still “you going to stand in the audience with us this time? Tina tell him, he needs party with us” laughing out “erm, I will” they been asking me for a while “after he washes the royal pussy” TJ said, Barry and Tina both screamed out laughing. Leaning over to try and grab him “I was joking! Man, what the hell” I swear I want to beat his ass “ayo Tina, you really like it here? I mean having to sit next to these two?” Tina seems to like it “you have very good friends, we have had people ask about you and they were both singing praises and then they have looked after me so much so no complaints” I am shocked “they ok, but you should come to Texas one time. You will have fun with us” I jumped at someone holding onto my waist “sir, we will be landing so if you can sit down” letting out an oh “dang, you scared me ma. I will but see ya’ll on the flip side” dapping them “and you Tina” she dapped me “tell Rihanna she needs to have drinks with us!” they don’t know my poor Barbadian cherry is struggling, she is wrapped up asleep trying to catch up but I don’t think that hour will help at all. I really don’t like that Jay Brown dude, I am going to say it to Robyn when I can because he seems to work Robyn like crazy and then gives me funny looks, I ain’t done nothing to him either.

Unbuckling my belt and getting up from my seat, Robyn has not woke up at all. Even when landing she didn’t wake up so I thought I would wake her “Robyn, hey” moving back her sleep mask, she isn’t waking up “get her ass up, the hell” Mel said behind me, pressing the forward button to bring her seat forward “we here?” Robyn said, her eyes still firmly closed “yeah we are in London” Robyn cleared her throat “great” moving back from her seat as she stretched out “is she getting up?” Rich asked, nodding my head. She is taking her time “I need painkillers” Robyn mumbled “why?” I don’t know why but I asked why “I am feeling so much aches and pains in my body” nodding my head “once we get to the venue then we can” she is so grumpy “how are you still alive? How are you still lively” rubbing my chin smiling, Robyn looked at me. Her eyes are so red “just me, I ain’t really doing much unlike you, you know” picking her shades up “thank you” grabbing her bag before getting my own bag, I guess I will hold her stuff while she gets off this plane. I really hope she apologises for her swearing at me though, like right now I am dropping it, but she has been so mean. I think at times even now she has those moments where she wants to snap at me.

Robyn wanted a shower and stuff but now we are late again, not that it’s my issue that is on her “what are you putting in your eyes?” I questioned; I am confused “drops to make my eyes less nasty. My eyes look a mess, are they better?” she looked at me, nodding my head “yeah” I dragged out “I really don’t feel too good at all, I am so drained. Did you get my red bull from the room?” nodding my head leaning down, unzipping the bag “I just don’t feel me, I expected this tour to be busy but not as busy as this. It started off so hectic too, thank you. You have really pulled through for me” holding out the red bull to her “I got you, I get a little scared that you about to faint. Like when I was holding you, I don’t like that. Something about Jay Brown I don’t like either, he seems to be working you too hard too, why? He keeps laughing at me” Robyn sneezed, near scared me when she did because that was loud “you’re going to be so unwell when you have finished this” Robyn nodded her head as she drank her Red Bull, Robyn seems so calm right now, I mean for now “you left your ego in Mexico?” shaking my head laughing “you said for now, I am doing that. Like if I didn’t love you Robyn I wouldn’t do that, I do love you, so I am just wanting to know what is up with you. I ain’t enjoyed this shit at all, I been here just worrying because of you” Robyn cooed out “you care about me a lot” nodding my head “I do, we get heated. I see how hard you work, I just don’t want you to be working yourself to death for these” I am annoyed about them working her too hard, they could have at least gave her a break between shows.

I have really taken Tina’ job, I can only laugh about it “we are an hour late” Jay Brown said to her, it’s wild to me how this Adam guy gets to see Robyn naked, like she was naked walking around and now he is dressing her, now that ugly nigga Jay Brown is here “I know, don’t you think I know. I am going out as soon as I am ready” Adam took the earrings out of my hand “thank you, you’re a great helper. Ok you are now dressed” Robyn walked by me “lets get you ready to go! Rihanna is coming” some guy said down the walkie talkie, following behind Robyn as she rushed by people “let’s go, let’s go people. Come on!” Robyn shouted, her entourage ran behind her and this is my cue to step back and watch her go, I sighed out watching her walk to the stage. Hearing the roar of screams as Robyn could be heard, nodding my head turning on my heels. I am going to stand in the audience like I promised my niggas here “I am going out front” I said to Tina “have fun” walking off to go out front, I have no idea where I am going but I will find them.

I think I have heard enough of Rihanna to last me a life time, I mean that’s my baby though “thank you” I said to the barman taking my Sprite, I am in the back not knowing where them dumb niggas are, they said they will find me so I will wait here. Taking a sip of me drink “please do not stop the music!!” TJ shouted, I snorted laughing “welcome to normality, look at him with his AAA pass” TJ grabbed it to look at “what can I say, how is you both. Had enough of Rihanna yet?” Barry chuckled “it’s been an insight, while you were busy arguing and getting in trouble I been promoting Black Pyramid, check the page when you can” he better then me “I can’t wait for S and M to come on, best part” side eying TJ “oh my god, you’re her boyfriend” looking to the side of me and then looking down at the hand on my arm, this pretty chocolate girl. She looked about eighteen I would say “am I?” I always do this “you are, you’re jokes. Hey! Look this is Rihanna’ boyfriend” oh shit she got a whole bunch of friends “I am not” shaking my head “then how you get this pass? Nigga you are, that is so good” they got a dope accent “I like you accent” I complimented “thank you” looking to another friend of hers, now she is a woman “you all from London?” I asked, London got some beautiful black girls, this is crazy “hell yes we are, this is so dope that you are literally here hanging around. Can we have a picture?” frowning “me!? I am not famous, I am just a country nigga, I don’t know this shit” putting my hands up “you so are! You are dating Rihanna, come on!” TJ just smiled at me “you London girls are nice, yeah” TJ is eyeing them up, oh good “you’re missing the concert” I pointed “he has a dimple, you’re actually so fucking cute” I busted out laughing grabbing Barry’ shoulder, this is funny to me.

Barry and I just eyes each other up, I mean what the fuck is happening. I did not ask for this or ask for these girls to stand by me. I just keep drinking my Sprite, I don’t see myself like that. I don’t know what they assume I am, I mean I guess they are doing to get close to Rihanna, I am not sure but these girls are hanging off my nuts right now. Bopping my head as where have you been started to play “what is your favourite song from her?” looking away from the stage “uhm, I would say this song” I think I need to go back to where I should be, hitting Barry’ arm “I am going” I said to him “already?” he know damn well “so the picture” oh god, she is hanging off my nuts for this “man, ok. Quick. But I ain’t famous, like why me?” I am confused “either way you fine, you’re going to be something big” I sighed out, I guess if she wants it. Shuffling to the side of her “can you take the picture” she passed TJ the camera and the rest of the girls ended up coming to me “pussy magnet, man” I swear I find this funny. It is funny to me because it’s wild to even comprehend that people want to take pictures with me, putting my hands behind my back as TJ took a picture, and then another one “thank you, nice meeting you ladies” saluting them “I am out of here aight” dapping Barry, I am done with this.

Stood at the side of the stage, we found love can be painful when you want it to end “thank god” I breathed out, can Robyn say her bye so we can go back to New York already “I hope you all love the album as I do, I did it for you all. London, until next time” taking in a deep breath, I am not even caring for this shit, I just want Robyn off the stage. Nobody knows the pain she is in or the fact she is very tired “I love you London!” thank god, she is done. Turning back around and moving out of way, the band played out. She will be here soon “great night, let’s go!” Jay Brown shouted and clapped; he is trash as fuck. I sighed out heavily seeing Robyn, we made eye contact and she just came into me, she fell into my arms out of nowhere too “I am tired” she said in a whisper, she has one more date left, she will do it even though she needs to cancel.

#Chrianna FF #Chrianna #Chrianna Fanfiction #Fanfic #Fanfiction

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bluewatsons · 4 years

Text

Alice Bolin, The Ethical Dilemma of Highbrow True Crime, Vulture (August 1, 2018)

The “true-crime boom” of the mid- to late 2010s is a strange pop-culture phenomenon, given that it is not so much a new type of programming as an acknowledgement of a centuries-long obsession: People love true stories about murder and other brands of brutality and grift, and they have gorged on them particularly since the beginning of modern journalism. The serial fiction of Charles Dickens and Wilkie Collins was influenced by the British public’s obsessive tracking of sensational true-crime cases in daily papers, and since then, we have hoarded gory details in tabloids and pulp paperbacks and nightly news shows and Wikipedia articles and Reddit threads.

I don’t deny these stories have proliferated in the past five years. Since the secret is out — “Oh you love murder? Me too!” — entire TV networks, podcast genres, and countless limited-run docuseries have arisen to satisfy this rumbling hunger. It is tempting to call this true-crime boom new because of the prestige sheen of many of its artifacts — Serial and Dirty John and The Jinx and Wild, Wild Country are all conspicuously well made, with lovely visuals and strong reporting. They have subtle senses of theme and character, and they often feel professional, pensive, quiet — so far from vulgar or sensational.

But well-told stories about crime are not really new, and neither is their popularity. In Cold Blood is a classic of American literature and The Executioner’s Song won the Pulitzer; Errol Morris has used crime again and again in his documentaries to probe ideas like fame, desire, corruption, and justice. The new true-crime boom is more simply a matter of volume and shamelessness: the wide array of crime stories we can now openly indulge in, with conventions of the true-crime genre more emphatically repeated and codified, more creatively expanded and trespassed against. In 2016, after two critically acclaimed series about the O.J. Simpson trial, there was talk that the 1996 murder of Colorado 6-year-old JonBenét Ramsey would be the next case to get the same treatment. It was odd, hearing O.J.: Made in America, the epic and depressing account of race and celebrity that won the Academy Award for Best Documentary, discussed in the same breath with the half-dozen unnecessary TV specials dredging up the Ramsey case. Despite my avowed love of Dateline, I would not have watched these JonBenét specials had a magazine not paid me to, and suffice it to say they did very little either to solve the 20-year-old crime (ha!) or examine our collective obsession with it.

Clearly, the insight, production values, or cultural capital of its shiniest products are not what drives this new wave of crime stories. O.J.: Made in America happened to be great and the JonBenét specials happened to be terrible, but producers saw them as part of the same trend because they knew they would appeal to at least part of the same audience. I’ve been thinking a lot about these gaps between high and low, since there are people who consume all murder content indiscriminately, and another subset who only allow themselves to enjoy the “smart” kind. The difference between highbrow and lowbrow in the new true crime is often purely aesthetic. It is easier than ever for producers to create stories that look good and seem serious, especially because there are templates now for a style and voice that make horrifying stories go down easy and leave the viewer wanting more. But for these so-called prestige true-crime offerings, the question of ethics — of the potential to interfere in real criminal cases and real people’s lives — is even more important, precisely because they are taken seriously.

Like the sensational tone, disturbing, clinical detail, and authoritarian subtext that have long defined schlocky true crime as “trash,” the prestige true-crime subgenre has developed its own shorthand, a language to tell its audience they’re consuming something thoughtful, college-educated, public-radio influenced. In addition to slick and creative production, highbrow true crime focuses on character sketches instead of police procedure. “We’re public radio producers who are curious about why people do what they do,” Phoebe Judge, the host of the podcast Criminal, said. Judge has interviewed criminals (a bank robber, a marijuana brownie dealer), victims, and investigators, using crime as a very simple window into some of the most interesting and complicated lives on the planet.

Highbrow true crime is often explicitly about the piece’s creator, a meta-commentary about the process of researching and reporting such consequential stories. Serial’s Sarah Koenig and The Jinx’s Andrew Jarecki wrestle with their boundaries with the subjects (Adnan Syed and Robert Durst, respectively, both of whom have been tried for murder) and whether they believe them. They sift through evidence and reconstruct timelines as they try to create a coherent narrative from fragments.

I remember saying years ago that people who liked Serial should try watching Dateline, and my friend joked in reply, “Yeah, but Dateline isn’t hosted by my friend Sarah.” One reason for the first season of Serial’s insane success — it is still the most-downloaded podcast of all time — is the intimacy audiences felt with Koenig as she documented her investigation of a Baltimore teenager’s murder in real time, keeping us up to date on every vagary of evidence, every interview, every experiment. Like the figure of the detective in many mystery novels, the reporter stands in for the audience, mirroring and orchestrating our shifts in perspective, our cynicism and credulity, our theories, prejudices, frustrations, and breakthroughs.

This is what makes this style of true crime addictive, which is the adjective its makers most crave. The stance of the voyeur, the dispassionate observer, is thrilling without being emotionally taxing for the viewer, who watches from a safe remove. (This fact is subtly skewered in Gay Talese’s creepy 2017 Netflix documentary, Voyeur.) I’m not sure how much of my eye-rolling at the popularity of highbrow true crime has to do with my general distrust of prestige TV and Oscar-bait movies, which are usually designed to be enjoyed in the exact same way and for the exact same reasons as any other entertainment, but also to make the viewer feel good about themselves for watching. When I wrote earlier that there are viewers who consume all true crime, and those who only consume “smart” true crime, I thought, “And there must be some people who only like dumb true crime.” Then I realized that I am sort of one of them.

There are specimens of highbrow true crime that I love, Criminal and O.J.: Made in America among them, but I truly enjoy Dateline much more than I do Serial, which in my mind is tedious to the edge of pointlessness. I find myself perversely complaining that good true crime is no fun — as self-conscious as it may be, it will never be as entertaining as the Investigation Discovery network’s output, most of which is painfully serious. (The list of ID shows is one of the most amusing artifacts on the internet, including shows called Bride Killas, Momsters: Moms Who Murder, and Sex Sent Me to the Slammer.) Susan Sontag famously defined camp as “seriousness that fails,” and camp is obviously part of the appeal of a show called Sinister Ministers or Southern Fried Homicide. Network news magazine shows like Dateline and 48 Hours are somber and melodramatic, often literally starting voice-overs on their true-crime episodes with variations of “it was a dark and stormy night.” They trade in archetypes — the perfect father, the sweet girl with big dreams, the divorcee looking for a second chance — and stick to a predetermined narrative of the case they’re focusing on, unconcerned about accusations of bias. They are sentimental and yet utterly graphic, clinical in their depiction of brutal crimes.

It’s always talked around in discussions of why people like true crime: It is … funny? The comedy in horror movies seems like a given, but it is hardly permitted to say that you are amused by true disturbing stories, out of respect for victims. But in reducing victims and their families to stock characters, in exaggerating murderers to superhuman monsters, in valorizing police and forensic scientists as heroic Everymen, there is dark humor in how cheesy and misguided these pulpy shows are, how bad we are at talking about crime and drawing conclusions from it, how many ways we find to distance ourselves from the pain of victims and survivors, even when we think we are honoring them. (The jokey titles and tongue-in-cheek tone of some ID shows seem to indicate more awareness of the inherent humor, but in general, the channel’s programming is almost all derivative of network TV specials.) I’m not saying I’m proud of it, but in its obvious failures, I enjoy this brand of true crime more straightforwardly than its voyeuristic, documentary counterpart, which, in its dignified guise, has maybe only perfected a method of making us feel less gross about consuming real people’s pain for fun.

Crime stories also might be less risky when they are more stilted, more clinical. To be blunt, what makes a crime story less satisfying are often the ethical guidelines that help reporters avoid ruining people’s lives. With the popularity of the podcasts S-Town and Missing Richard Simmons, there were conversations about the ethics of appropriating another person’s story, particularly when they won’t (or can’t) participate in your version of it. The questions of ethics and appropriation are even heavier when stories intersect with their subjects’ criminal cases, because journalism has always had a reciprocal relationship with the justice system. Part of the exhilarating intimacy of the first season of Serial was Koenig’s speculation about people who never agreed to be part of the show, the theories and rabbit holes she went through, the risks she took to get answers. But there is a reason most reporters do all their research, then write their story. It is inappropriate, and potentially libelous, to let your readers in on every unverified theory about your subject that occurs to you, particularly when wondering about a private citizen’s innocence or guilt in a horrific crime.

Koenig’s off-the-cuff tone had other consequences, too, in the form of amateur sleuths on Reddit who tracked down people involved with the case, pored over court transcripts, and reviewed cellular tower evidence, forming a shadow army of investigators taking up what they saw as the gauntlet thrown down by the show. The journalist often takes on the stance of the professional amateur, a citizen providing information in the public interest and using the resources at hand to get answers. At times during the first season of Serial, Koenig’s methods are laughably amateurish, like when she drives from the victim’s high school to the scene of the crime, a Best Buy, to see if it was possible to do it in the stated timeline. She is able to do it, which means very little, since the crime occurred 15 years earlier. Because so many of her investigative tools were also ones available to listeners at home, some took that as an invitation to play along.

This blurred line between professional and amateur, reporter and private investigator, has plagued journalists since the dawn of modern crime reporting. In 1897, amid a frenzied rivalry between newspaper barons William Randolph Hearst and Joseph Pulitzer, true crime coverage was so popular that Hearst formed a group of reporters to investigate criminal cases called the “Murder Squad.” They wore badges and carried guns, forming essentially an extralegal police force who both assisted and muddled official investigations. Seeking to get a better story and sell more papers, it was common for reporters to trample crime scenes, plant evidence, and produce dubious witnesses whose accounts fit their preferred version of the case. And they were trying to get audiences hooked in very similar ways, by crowdsourcing information and encouraging readers to send in tips.

Of course the producers of Serial never did anything so questionable as the Murder Squad, though there are interesting parallels between the true-crime podcast and crime coverage in early daily newspapers. They were both innovations in the ways information was delivered to the public that sparked unexpectedly personal, participatory, and impassioned responses from their audiences. It’s tempting to say that we’ve come full circle, with a new true-crime boom that is victim to some of the same ethical pitfalls of the first one: Is crime journalism another industry deregulated by the anarchy of the internet? But as Michelle Dean wrote of Serial, “This is exactly the problem with doing journalism at all … You might think you are doing a simple crime podcast … and then you become a sensation, as Serial has, and the story falls to the mercy of the thousands, even millions, of bored and curious people on the internet.”

Simply by merit of their popularity, highbrow crime stories are often riskier than their lowbrow counterparts. Kathryn Schulz wrote in The New Yorker about the ways the makers of the Netflix series Making a Murderer, in their attempt to advocate for the convicted murderer Steven Avery, omit evidence that incriminates him and put forth an incoherent argument for his innocence. Advocacy and intervention are complicated actions for journalists to undertake, though they are not novel. Schulz points to a scene in Making a Murderer where a Dateline producer who is covering Avery is shown saying, “Right now murder is hot.” In this moment the creators of Making a Murderer are drawing a distinction between themselves and Dateline, as Schulz writes, implying that, “unlike traditional true-crime shows … their work is too intellectually serious to be thoughtless, too morally worthy to be cruel.” But they were not only trying to invalidate Avery’s conviction; they (like Dateline, but more effectively) were also creating an addictive product, a compelling story.

That is maybe what irks me the most about true crime with highbrow pretensions. It appeals to the same vices as traditional true crime, and often trades in the same melodrama and selective storytelling, but its consequences can be more extreme. Adnan Syed was granted a new trial after Serial brought attention to his case; Avery was denied his appeal, but people involved in his case have nevertheless been doxxed and threatened. I’ve come to believe that addictiveness and advocacy are rarely compatible. If they were, why would the creators of Making a Murderer have advocated for one white man, when the story of being victimized by a corrupt police force is common to so many people across the U.S., particularly people of color?

It does feel like a shame that so many resources are going to create slick, smart true crime that asks the wrong questions, focusing our energy on individual stories instead of the systemic problems they represent. But in truth, this is is probably a feature, not a bug. I suspect the new true-crime obsession has something to do with the massive, terrifying problems we face as a society: government corruption, mass violence, corporate greed, income inequality, police brutality, environmental degradation, human-rights violations. These are large-scale crimes whose resolutions, though not mysterious, are also not forthcoming. Focusing on one case, bearing down on its minutia and discovering who is to blame, serves as both an escape and a means of feeling in control, giving us an arena where justice is possible.

Skepticism about whether journalists appropriate their subjects’ stories, about high and low, and about why we enjoy the crime stories we do, all swirl through what I think of as the post–true-crime moment. Post–true crime is explicitly or implicity about the popularity of the new true-crime wave, questioning its place in our culture, and resisting or responding to its conventions. One interesting document of post–true crime is My Favorite Murder and other “comedy murder podcasts,” which, in retelling stories murder buffs have heard on one million Investigation Discovery shows, unpack the ham-fisted clichés of the true-crime genre. They show how these stories appeal to the most gruesome sides of our personalities and address the obvious but unspoken fact that true crime is entertainment, and often the kind that is as mindless as a sitcom. Even more cutting is the Netflix parody American Vandal, which both codifies and spoofs the conventions of the new highbrow true crime, roasting the genre’s earnest tone in its depiction of a Serial-like investigation of some lewd graffiti.

There is also the trend in the post–true-crime era of dramatizing famous crime stories, like in The Bling Ring; I, Tonya; and Ryan Murphy’s anthology series American Crime Story, all of which dwell not only on the stories of infamous crimes but also why they captured the public imagination. There is a camp element in these retellings, particularly when famous actors like John Travolta and Sarah Paulson are hamming it up in ridiculous wigs. But this self-consciousness often works to these projects’ advantage, allowing them to show heightened versions of the cultural moments that led to the most outsize tabloid crime stories. Many of these fictionalized versions take journalistic accounts as their source material, like Nancy Jo Sales’s reporting in Vanity Fair for The Bling Ring and ESPN’s documentary on Tonya Harding, The Price of Gold, for I, Tonya. This seems like a best-case scenario for prestige true crime to me: parsing famous cases from multiple angles and in multiple genres, trying to understand them both on the level of individual choices and cultural forces.

Perhaps the most significant contributions to post–true crime, though, are the recent wave of personal accounts about murder and crime: literary memoirs like Down City by Leah Carroll, Mean by Myriam Gurba, The Hot One by Carolyn Murnick, After the Eclipse by Sarah Perry, and We Are All Shipwrecks by Kelly Grey Carlisle all tell the stories of murder seen from close-up. (It is significant that all of these books are by women. Carroll, Perry, and Carlisle all write about their mothers’ murders, placing them in the tradition of James Ellroy’s great memoir My Dark Places, but without the tortured, fetish-y tone.) This is not a voyeuristic first person, and the reader can’t detach and find joy in procedure; we are finally confronted with the truth of lives upended by violence and grief. There’s also Ear Hustle, the brilliant podcast produced by the inmates of San Quentin State Prison. The makers of Ear Hustle sometimes contemplate the bad luck and bad decisions that led them to be incarcerated, but more often they discuss the concerns of daily life in prison, like food, sex, and how to make mascara from an inky page from a magazine. This is a crime podcast that is the opposite of sensational, addressing the systemic truth of crime and the justice system, in stories that are mundane, profound, and, yes, addictive.

#true crime #adnan syed #media #ethics #The Way We Live Now #culture #andrew jarecki #james ellroy #criminal justice #detective fiction

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prettyboysdontlookatexplosions · 4 years

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Lover is the Queliot Soundtrack!!

this is 100% true and i have hyena yelled about it at length before and continue to think about it really a bizarre amount... i had a lot of weird feelings about lover when it came out ANYWAY because i have a lot of weird feelings about taylor swift which i like to attribute to the fact that we are astrological mirror twins of a kind (cap sun sag stellium vs. sag sun cap stellium) because honestly i am truly powerless to explain through logic why it is that i think about her so often and in such depth given that my reaction to most of her work is pretty muted in either direction. but like, the thing between me and being really into her as a musician had always been this overall hollowness i felt in her writing, like she has from the beginning definitely had her consistent strengths and her moments of total brilliance, but so much of her lyrical material feels like it was made by a martian whose exposure to humanity was watching a bunch of CW dramas, or whatever (which itself also isn’t necessarily like awful but i always bristled more about it because people tended to praise her specifically for her eye for detail and her emotional insight and i was like ??? that’s the part you like? but where... is it?) (this is all also happening in a context where i encounter her first at age 19 so i’m old enough to think teenagers are children but too young to understand that i’m only very barely not a child and way too young to empathize forgivingly with my teenage self much less take that healing and use it to fuel an expansion of empathy for others and a general diminishment of kneejerk reactivity, also my journey of taylor swift opinions is inextricable from the internet contexts of feminist blogging/tumblr pop talk, and the evolving conversations there and my own shifting ideas about them, i hung around in for a long time... anyway.) (CAP SUN SAG STELLIUM VS. SAG SUN CAP STELLIUM I AM DOOMED TO DISPROPORTIONATE FASCINATION)

the thing she tuned into earliest, the subject matter on which she found her voice first, was heartbreak, right, and it never bothered me the way it did some that to public appearances she’d never had a relationship longer than 3 months; you can get your heart broken in 3 months. artists in general tend to be people who experience feelings strongly, i think less because you need to feel things strongly to make art (which i’m not sure is true) than the other way around: people who experience feelings strongly need to find a way to deal with that, and art, making or experiencing it, is one of the more socially acceptable and productive coping mechanisms around. a certain inner grandiosity can be useful for artists, which is why melodrama is a perfect album. (melodrama manages this very neat balancing act of being wry and self-aware enough to let you know it’s on purpose but also being full-throatedly committed to the affective grandeur of being 19 and on fire; i mention that mostly because another shade of my doomed fixation with taylor swift is she’s a proxy for my issues around sincerity & jadedness & shame &, yeah, where the hell into all of that art fits.) i think this is probably especially true for artists working in a form like music, like pop music, that succeeds viscerally or not at all, that can include an intellectual dimension but can’t rest solely on matters of thought, can be analyzed but not wholly appreciated primarily through the analytical mind. music like emotions is a bodily experience and you can’t instruct your body into what may appear a more proportionate response, so there’s relief in watching someone else skywrite commonplace heartbreaks as big as they always feel inside us. megaphone to my chest: broadcast the boom, boom, boom.

it was her descriptions of love that left me colder, and as her career went on there was something to—i don’t really want to get into the question around her celebrity self and a narrative of victimhood, except i think it’s more complicated than people on either side of the issue tend to acknowledge, but it was a difficult narrative to escape, and it did intertwine for me in noticing in her work a certain... i don’t even know what to call it. “lack of introspection” comes to mind, but obviously taylor swift is no stranger to her own thoughts; the way people talked about it tended to hinge on this idea that she never took responsibility in her music, that it’s alway someone else’s fault, which, see above re: it’s complicated. i don’t think that narrative about her music would have taken hold without the narrative about her public persona, and it’s a weird thing where i see resonance in that critique with the thing i’m trying to name but also think that on its own it doesn’t mean much. there are plenty of great break-up songs that take no responsibility. part of the joy for me of pop (used in one of the broader senses) is precisely that because songs exists as 3.5 minute bursts of sensation it’s a realm particularly suited to indulging pleasurably in the less evolved areas of our psyche. the role of the artist is not to meticulous address across their body of work every emotion a human being can have. it’s never bob dylan’s fault either but who wants to hear that song?

i keep talking about the narrative around her persona and again: complicated. i’m not going to detail the factors, because it’s not 2015. but it’s not like at times she didn’t lean in, right? i mean she can be so annoying. and i think what i was reacting to was not so much her insistence on positioning herself as a victim (i mean, after the initial shock i kind of fell in love with look what you made me do, not despite but because of the fact that it’s so dumb and nasty) but simply that the repeated act of self-positioning over time near inevitably invites a certain calcification. there’s a line between shaping your memories into narrative to make use of the meaning you can find there, and attaching to the story of yourself so strongly that you lose sight of your actual self, which is unfixed and fluid and ever-changing. it’s possible to begin scrambling subconsciously to match your self to your story, rather than the other way around. and a public self, a self which exists in lopsided unrelationship with people you will never meet, exacerbates this tendency for all but the most secure in their true identity. there’s spiritual danger in becoming a brand. there were a lot of reasons i deleted my not even very popular personal blog but one of them was this: i had started to worry that i might be ready to outgrow the self i had built there and not be able to see or actualize it. years ago i read a book about the ancient celts and the only thing i remember was the suggestion that the religion of the druids retained a degree of spiritual potency and mysticism lost to the ancient greeks because the druids didn’t write anything down. i don’t know if that’s true but it stuck with me.

anyway. when reputation came out i called new year’s day the first song she’d ever written as an adult specifically because of how it located the self in the verb of loving—don’t read the last page, but i stay—which felt to me like the first true thing she’d said about love. and then after hammering us with the one-two punch of the two most heinous songs of her career, because whatever else taylor swift she also is a dummy with terrible taste, it turned out that lover was after all an album that mostly lived there too. it was an album where she did cop to bad behavior, no winking or cuteness, and more than that where she named regrets in a way that had weight; i still kind of can’t believe taylor swift came out with something as real as “i never grew up / it’s getting so old.” and it was also the album where she first sounded convincingly besotted, uncomplicatedly joyful; the album where she finally learned years after crossing over how to write a pop song that was actually fun. there was an ease to it, a refreshing and novel sense of not having anything to prove. and it just really fucked me up listening to it and thinking inescapably that these might be linked: that it really seemed like what happened, partly, was taylor swift fell in actual love and it let her give up on some of the frantic posturing that was choking her art. that something really good happened and it made space in her head and therefore in her songs for the beauty and the ache, the ugliness and the joy. i recognize that this has long since passed unhinged territory regarding speculation onto the spiritual journey of a famous stranger. i really don’t get like this about anyone else, including any of the many artists i like a lot more. blame it on the stars.

anyway, so that’s all a dementedly long way of saying that even beyond which the fact that nearly every track on this 18-track behemoth is undeniably Queliot Content, i have these preexisting bizarre and unreasonable feelings about the like meta-statement of lover as an album in taylor swift’s body of work, what it means not just as a collection of songs but as this album coming from this artist, which........... are also, now, Queliot Content???? because that’s all the quentin/eliot thing, right: these are two people who are very, very afraid of their own darkness. they latch onto these narratives of self partly to try to escape the parts of themselves they don’t want to look at. and it’s not even that those narratives are totally wrong: quentin really is brave and loyal and caring and all that hero stuff; eliot really is funny and sharp and fond of the finer things in life. (there’s nothing about lover that is not deeply, absolutely a taylor swift album.) but they’re incomplete. they’re archetypes. they don’t have room for the fullness of their hearts and their lives, the bad stuff and the good. they’re so afraid of their flaws and their pain that they can’t see their strengths or feel their joys. quentin in season 1 can’t see that really and truly alice doesn’t give a shit that he’s not as good a magician as she is, and that will only ever be an issue as long as he makes it one. eliot can’t see the depths of his own enormous heart, or trust margo’s love enough to follow up on her emotion-bottles plea to save their friendship. and this sucks for them, and also for the people around them! they do a lot of bad things in their attempts to protect themselves.

and the very lovely thing the show unbelievably seems to have well and truly done by accident and had no interest in exploring but which remains nonetheless delightful to consider rly is this exact idea of, like: together they find something good and it doesn’t fix anything but it makes space for everything. bleep blorp, beauty of all life. the bad and the good. they find something good and it helps them be brave. it helps them let go of who they’re “supposed” to be, not to reject every piece of it out of hand but to pick and choose: what here serves me still? what reflects who i am today? pruning away the defenses you just don’t need anymore. i used to think “i forgot that you existed” felt like a rep-overgrowth taylor mistakenly thought she needed, over-narrativized context-setting for an album that really stood on its own, and, i mean, it is that, a little bit. she’s still taylor; her version of chilling out is still most people’s frighteningly intense. but i like how weightless it is, how sonically it recaptures the kind of quiet elation of that feeling. how “i thought that it would kill me, but it didn’t” is about the strange distance of that past self so convinced she could never let go, which is to say it’s also about healing. about recognizing your own enough-ness so that you can see what it is you really need. quentin and eliot are both constantly asking this question: what is the thing that is going to fill up the space inside of me where i should have something else? is it school, magic, clothes, wine, a girl, a boy, a crown, a quest? and the answer is—it’s not “each other.” the answer is nothing. but their kind of open-hearted love is the thing they need to see that’s true.

#well this got... predictably unhinged #i was talking to someone about nostalgia for 2013 tumblr so this caught me in like #a particular mental place i guess #also it's feed your dad to cannibals day in the middle of quarantine #no apologies for content in either of those circumstances!!!!!#the magicans #kinda

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tiaragqueen · 5 years

Note

Can I have 5 in manipulative yandere starter prompts for garou :>

Over A Barrel

✂ Pairing: Yandere! Garou x Reader

✂ Word Count: 1,3k

✂ Trigger Warning: Killing, stalking, mention of domestic violence, possessive behavior, yandere theme.

[Edited]

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For those who want the sequel of At Variance, here it is.

5. “Don’t think of it as a ‘punishment’… it’s more of a lesson.”

Part 1

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“Because to take away a man’s freedom of choice, even his freedom to make the wrong choice, is to manipulate him as though he were a puppet and not a person.” ― Madeline L'Engle

It has been a few weeks ever since Garou’s little… tantrum. For those who have witnessedthe little spat, they might consider it as more than just a mere tantrum. Afterall, it was bordering on violence. And just a bit more, it could cross the domestic abuse territory.

Honestly, you couldn’t blame them for thinking that way.

Garou was never hesitant to throw hands when needed. Or inyour case, asserting his dominance.But it wasn’t so much of a tantrum, in your opinion. If he did mean to hurtyou, he could’ve done that easily and quickly. Your strength was nothing compared to his, and the splitcoffee table in your living room proved the largedifference between both powers.

And ever since that fateful day too, Garou had sort of‘stayed’ with you. Probably to keep an eye on you or something. As assured ashe could be, he still wouldn’t want you to suddenly change your mind despitethe subtle threat and leave him. Itwas almost funny how hard he tried tocover his paranoia with sneers and lies when you knew better.

Not only that, but you also noticed that he had begun tofill you in more regarding his recent battle. Normally, he would sulk aroundwhen the enemies were nothing like he’d expected or kept quiet to refrainhimself from accidentally lashing out to you. He might not exercise highself-control, but even he could be rather considerateof your feelings. Now, he had made it a point to brag about how they were too‘weak’ for him to handle regardless of his fluctuating level of satisfaction.

It didn’t take a genius to know that he was trying to implyhis power over you, or how he wasmore than capable of killing fellowhumans should you ever resort to a more ‘violent’ payback. It wasn’t like youcould do it, anyway. And he knew it,too. Yet, despite his annoying bragging, he also had a strange tendency toleave those heroes alive afterbeating relentlessly rather than dead like you’d expected to.

Not that you prayedfor it to happen, though. It was just something that you automatically assumedsince he seemed so… passionate whentalking about his ideals.

You sat on your knees, staring at the bloody carcass infront of you. From afar, it might look like you were mourning its death. Butyou knew better than taking pity on a being that almost killed you on the spot.It was just a way for you to prolong the thick silence since running wasn’t theoption anymore. Not when you had blown up your only chance of seeking help from the nearby heroes. He could easilydefeat them to the ground, yet you remained optimisticthat someone would come to save you someday.

“What are you doing here?”you hissed. “I thought you went to fight that A-class hero.”

“Oh, trust me I did.”His reverberant voice was calm. Toocalm for your liking. Too calm for someone that should be angry. “I think I should be the one who asked you that. What thefuck are you doing here? Didn’t yehear the announcement earlier? I’m pretty sure yer apartment isn’t sound-proof,unless ye chose to make yourself deafby blasting yer shitty music at full volume again.”

Fiddling with your fingers, you feigned deafness over hisquestions. Garou heaved a weary sigh, clearly unimpressed with your sorryattempt of maintaining innocence.

“Aren’t ya going to thank me? I saved you, y'know? Without me, ye would’ve been long a goner.”

You gritted your teeth, refusing to give him the attentionhe secretly craved. Garou might notbe the most affectionate boyfriend to ever exist, but even he liked to be takencare of – or in your case, fuss over –once in a while. He was still a human,after all. He wasn’t a completemonster like he’d called himself. What was the point of dating if he rejectedthe idea of loving attention? “I was doing fine.I didn’t need your help.”

“Oh, is that so? ‘Cause ye looked so fucking scared back there. That monster almostturned ya into its damned fodder. I don’t know if ye could survive by justthrowing rocks on to that thing.” Histone took a lighter, mocking one. “Nowonder it laughed at ya. I thought it was quitecute too; how ye struggled around like that.”

Unable to contain the frustration and sadness anymore, youwhipped your head towards him. “Shut up!” you snapped. “Just… shut up, okay?! I know I’m not stronglike you. I know I’m weak. So stopmocking me!”

The howling of the wind followed your outburst. You breathedheavily, staring at his impassive face through your blurry gaze. The tears lefta hot track along your cheeks as you sniffled.

“If ye already know yer weak,” he began, voice soft yetdevoid of any emotion that might give you an insight into his true feelings. Was he angry? Was he sad?Nobody knew. “Then, why did ye insiston escaping?”

Your stomach dropped. Trembling, you averted your gaze fromhis piercing one and looked down. Well, what did you expect? That he would befooled by your pitiful attempt? Thathe would pretend to not see the obvious? That he would go away if you yelled at him? Garou was smart, you knew that much. But, again, optimism forced you to stay hopeful. That someday, someone – anyone – would come into your rescue,even though he had saved you earlier.

“I’m not fucking stupid,[Name].” He blinked emotionlessly, calmly, patiently.As though he was your father and you were his daughter who had made a mistakeand tried to cover it with poor excuses. “I knowwhy ye escaped. But honestly, with all these dangers lurking around, ya thinkye can fucking leave that easily? Ya think ye can live for more than an hourafter ye stepped a foot outside yer apartment?”

Garou jumped down from the ruins of a destroyed house andstood beside you. “I don’t know if yer just plain dumb or what, but you clearly can’t look after yer damn self if youalmost got killed five minutes afteryou escaped.”

You froze, eyes dilated. “You… How did you know? Did youstalk me?” You turned to look at him in the eye, trying to search for any hint that he might be joking. A slighttwitch on the corner of his lips, the laughter that bubbled in his throat, themirthful glint in those sharp irises. Anything.“Did you stalk me, Garou?”

Clicking his tongue, he rolled his eyes. “Why do you thinkyer still alive until now?”

The breath hitched in your throat once the truth dawned onyou. Not that it hadn’t, you just wanted indulge in denial a bit longer. Afterall, playing oblivious was easierthan facing reality.

“You don’t think ye can prance around without my knowledge,do ya?” he scoffed. “How fucking naïve.Thought ye were a bit smarter than that. I’m disappointed.”

“H-how long…?”

“Since I left the dojo, honey.”

The sarcastic pet name left a bitter sensation as you bityour tongue from retorting.

“Saw ya running like a fucking lunatic and met thatmotherfucker on the street. I wanted to see how long you could fare on yer own,but turns out, my hunch was damn correct.”He sighed like he was the one who was tired and not you who had struggled to survive and almost lost your fucking life in theprocess. “But ye know what? Don’tthink of it as a ‘punishment’… it’s more of a lesson.”

You remained immobile as he lifted you effortlessly andcarried you bridal style back to your apartment. It wasn’t like you could runaway, anyway. Not anymore.

“If ye escape again, I might let ‘em cripple you for life soye can’t run away from me anymore.” You winced when he tightened his griparound your injured body. “Yer stuck with me.Remember that.”

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