#So much of this stuff is barely referenced and YET!

[firefighterkinard]

Made this Tommy Kinard timeline for a fic that I'm writing, but I figured that I'd provide a very stripped down version with the basics for anyone who wants to use it.

• Date of birth: February 11th 1984 (he has an early birthday because it's easier to work shit out) • Age 18 – May 2002 - enlists in army “streets to seats” program after graduating high school. • Age 18 – August 2002 - Completes Basic • Age 18 – September to mid-October 2002 – Warrant officer candidate school • Age 18/19 – Oct 2002- Jan 2004 – goes through the training at Fort Rucker, Alabama • Age 20 – Feb 2004 – deployed • Age 20 – June 2004 - Hardship or dependency discharge. • Age 20 – July 2004 – Tommy joins the LAFD. Does his 18 weeks of training. • Age 20 – end of 2004 – Tommy joins the 118. • Age 21 – end of 2005/Jan 2006 – Tommy finishes his probie year. Chimney joins the 118*. • Age 25 – 2009 – Hen joins the 118**. Gerrard is transferred. • Age 30/31 – late 2014/early 2015 – Bobby becomes captain*** • Age 33 – 2017 – Tommy leaves the 118 for Harbor/217. Buck replaces him near the end of the year. • Age 35 – 2019 – Howie calls him for the water drop. • Age 39 – March 2023 - Tommy meets Evan • Age 40 – June 2024****

Notes:

There are about five different versions of how you become a pilot through the streets to seats method, and some says there's an extra year in there, some count it combined with the other stuff, and I'm just sick of trying to work it out, so this is how it's gonna go.

*We know that the karaoke bar fire happened at the end of June 2005, so by the time Chimney did his training at the academy, it would have been either the end of the year or the beginning of 2006.

** Does the script apparently say 2010? Yes. Do I refuse to accept that because Hen can't have saved her life coach, done the training at the academy, been there while Gerrard was ousted, split with Eva, start a long-term relationship with Karen, and end up with Denny before the Senate okayed the repeal of DADT in December in less than 12 months? YES!

*** Bobby's timeline is also a mess, but there was time for an investigation into the fire, and him going through rehab before he hit Los Angeles.

**** Season seven's seven timeline is a train wreck but it's apparently been seven years since Buck joined the 118, and the cruise is referred to as being "last March" so I kind of gave up.

[joeloverture]

hook 'em horny | j.m. x f!reader

masterlist : coach!joel masterlist pairing: college football coach!joel miller x reader summary: [no outbreak] seeking petty revenge on your cheating quarterback ex-boyfriend leads you somewhere you shouldn't be — and then it lands you over the knee of his coach. warnings: (18+ mdni, don't make me say it again.) cheating done by a referenced oc, briefest mention of drugs, porn barely garnished with plot, age gap (22/52), smut, unprotected piv sex, creampie, vaginal fingering, potentially dubcon by way of power imbalance but consent is enthusiastic, daddy kink, sir kink, 'punishment' spanking, degradation, praise, brat tamer!joel, dom!joel, joel spits on her ass but otherwise no butt stuff, mild choking, body writing, so many pet names of so many varieties, aftercare, surprisingly fluffy [no use of y/n] word count: 6.4k a/n: this is a crazy idea to have considering joel can hardly handle ellie. i don't think he'd be able to handle ~118 college-aged boys. however, the idea of football coach! joel is hot to me (i mean, seriously, look at those sluts on the sidelines) so i made it happen. on a serious note, i am so sorry to the unnamed university this is based on. i toured you. i'm legacy. but... joel miller. let's make it clear this is for entertainment purposes only. this is a fictional work about fictional people that does not reflect the school itself, which is a fine institution whose head coaches historically do not fuck students in the locker rooms. shoutout to my dad who, unknowing what this information would be used for, explained to me how he snuck into this stadium 3x. don't do that, either.

You can’t even remember the last time you made a good decision.

Your track record definitely isn’t the cleanest: you chose to go to school in Texas, and then chose to stay there for four years. Choosing to go to that frat party in late junior year wasn’t your brightest moment, either, evidenced by the resulting hangover from hell and, predictably, frat flu. All things considered, those choices pale in comparison to hooking up with their all-star quarterback, Lucas Scott.

Dirty-blonde, blue-eyed, muscled Lucas Scott. He’s the sort of guy who looks like an eight when you’re looking at him after a few shots of tequila and a four when you’re sober. The sort of guy who, after over a year of dating, makes you split the bill halfway after ordering the more expensive entree. Crowned as the most efficient, precise, and instinctive quarterback the Longhorns have ever had. Apparently that instinct hadn’t been enough to drive him away from dipping his wick in every sorority girl’s candle wax. 

No matter how much post-orgasm Lucas panted into his ear that he loved you, you weren’t stupid enough to trick yourself into believing it. Staying with him was the easier choice, not yet wanting to reduce yourself to locker room talk. Walking in on him sloppily fucking some redhead nursing major was the breaking point. When it became less about you and more about your dignity.

So, yeah, you’ve never been one for making good decisions, and you certainly aren’t about to start now.

You thought breaking into the stadium would be some sort of monumental task. Trespassing here was normally reserved for campus rooftops and after-hours exploration, but once you’d gotten this batshit crazy idea in your head, you knew it wasn’t going to shake until you at least proved it couldn’t be done.

The open garage at the back of the building doesn’t help to deter you. It’s like there’s a welcome-mat outside saying, ‘Come on in and get what you deserve!’.

Who would you be to decline such a sincere invitation?

The garage is empty apart from some cushy golf carts, and the steel door behind them couldn’t be more tempting. If it’s locked, you tell yourself, you’ll go back to the dorm and forget about your incident of near-trespassing. 

You take small steps to the door, testing the handle. It springs right open, and all thoughts of leaving dissipate from your mind.

Who leaves the garage open and forgets to lock the door? Probably people with just as little between their ears (and legs) as Lucas. You scoff in half-disbelief, half-luck as you close the door behind you.

The energy feels stagnant this late at night, no announcer on the loudspeaker or swarms of burnt orange hats and T-shirts standing shoulder-to-shoulder. Industrial lights flicker above, their hums loud enough to make you wonder if you have tinnitus. Concrete lines the hallways, interrupted by a few silver-painted pipes arranged in a labyrinth up against the walls. A few security cameras are pointed at you. Before going any further, you pause to raise the hood of your Longhorns sweatshirt.

Even if you should be, you aren’t in much of a rush; you amble about, really taking in the sterile ambiance of the empty stadium. You turn a few corners, going in what feels like the right direction. You figure you’re getting closer when you spot what looks like it could be a security tower. Crouching behind a trash can, you wait it out, trying to peer through the untinted windows to figure out if there’s anyone in there at all. When you’ve determined it’s unmanned and let out a shallow exhale, you go back up to full posture and keep wandering around unsupervised.

You know you’re in the right place when you find your toes hovering over a red line painted on the oil-stained concrete: AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY BEYOND THIS POINT. 

Bingo.

Crossing that line without really thinking about it, you stick to your (so far) tried and true method of going wherever feels the most promising until you’re standing in front of the two black doors you were looking for. The door’s handle is an obnoxiously large longhorn, and you quite literally have to hook ‘em to get inside.

You’re starting to understand where the rest of the university’s funding is going when you walk into the locker room. After dating Lucas for a year, you know the football team is full of itself, but the Longhorniness of it all is… excessive. There’s the silhouette of the logo glowing on the goddamn ceiling, and if the jerseys the players are wearing on their digital nameplates isn’t enough of an indicator of who they play for, every backlit locker has a drawer with, you guessed it: a longhorn painted at the center. A brown vinyl couch wraps around the front of the room in direct view of a powered down videoboard that you can only assume replays highlight reels.

You roll your eyes. Again, your track record with decision-making isn’t the best, because you chose a school who puts every penny towards sweaty frat boys with brain damage from the amount of concussions they get.

And then you see it: a sign tacked onto the middle aisle of lockers that reads CORE VALUES. From top to bottom, HONESTY, TREAT WOMEN WITH RESPECT, NO DRUGS, NO STEALING, and NO WEAPONS. You have to physically clamp your jaw shut to restrict your laughter at the second one.

It doesn’t take you long to find what you’re looking for. Lucas Scott, #10.

His sweat-stained jersey hangs limply from the rack, and you eagerly tear it off, tossing it down onto the floor. Eager like a child ready to color outside the lines of a coloring book, you kneel down in front of it, pulling out the one thing you had prepared for tonight. A bold black Sharpie.

You pop the cap with your teeth, spitting it out somewhere on the floor as you start scribbling. Disguising your handwriting isn’t intentional, but you’re writing so carelessly and on such a foreign material that it comes naturally. Your tongue sticks out of the corner of your mouth as you work. In a year and a half, you’d never felt such satisfaction about — and certainly not from  — Lucas.

TWO PUMP CHUMP along the side. FIVE INCHES FULL MAST on the other. CHEATER at the bottom. WHORE across the front.

A throat clears behind you. You drop the Sharpie, a blot of ink forming on the mesh. You startle backwards, scooting until your back hits that stupid longhorn drawer. You’re expecting a janitor, maybe a security guard if you’re extra unlucky. 

That isn’t the worst of your options, apparently, because when you look up, it’s at Joel fucking Miller, head coach of the longhorn’s football team.

Your lower lip starts trembling, and that moment is when you decide maybe you need to start making good decisions. You’ve heard enough about Joel from Lucas to know he’s a total hardass. He could drag you by the ear to the dean and have you kicked out at the tail end of your second to last semester in this hellhole.

He glares down at you with his head cocked, hazel eyes far darker than they ever seem on TV. His scruff stipples his hardened jawline, lips thinned out like the worry lines pressed onto his forehead. If you were interested in digging yourself any deeper, you might stall to think about how good he looks: the faint trail of chest hair vanishing down into the neckline of his longhorns polo shirt, his fitted khakis, broad leather belt slung around his waist, and the slight bulge of tummy above it. You swallow hard and kick yourself for it.

“What exactly,” Coach Miller drawls, voice syrupy and sticky. “do ya think you’re doin’?”

Your mouth moves, but no words come out. He doesn’t seem very amused, his muscled arms crossing over his wide torso.

Joel shakes his head. “Ain’t a good look for you, hun, scrawlin’ that chicken scratch all over my QB’s jersey. Could get a real ugly charge for that.”

Heart crashing into your ribcage, you bite down on your lip. “I can pay the damages,” you blurt out.

He sizes you up all over again, eyes dragging up and down your body. They linger on your chest for a few extra seconds that you’re convinced that you just made up. “Can you, sugar? ‘Cause to me, looks like you’re the type to be chasin’ tips at whatever joint hires you.”

You don’t have the bandwidth to be as offended as you should be, especially because he’s right. You settle for glowering at him instead. A huff of laughter pinches out of him. “You give everyone you vandalize that blue look? Or is that lil’ number jus’ because you found out Lucas really ain’t that loyal?” With ease, Joel bulldozes over whatever thinning resolve you have remaining. 

“What’s that sign over there say? ‘Treat women with respect’?” You say. Joel’s backlit like all of those over budgeted lockers behind him. You squint your eyes. “You know that’s fucking bullshit. So what if I give him a taste of his own medicine when he’s been a minute man for every girl with a pulse on this campus?” You cap your Sharpie and clip it back onto your collar and get to your feet. So much for good decisions. “Fuck right off with that.”

“Hey, hey. Down, hun.” Joel holds his hands out to you, and you notice just how heavily you’ve been breathing, just how close you are to him. “Never said you were wrong. Kid’s a fuck up in all sorts ‘a ways. But I don’t like how you’re mouthin’ off at me, Miss Priss. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you’re in dire need of a spankin’ to set you right.”

Your breath cuts short and your cunt bottoms out without your permission. You don’t need a mirror to know your eyes just went glassy, your lips parted as your mouth goes desert dry. As discreetly as you can manage, you squeeze your thighs together.

Joel doesn’t miss it. You can tell from the moment his brows raise and his eyes sparkle, the corner of his mouth picking up a smidge. “Oh, yeah? That do somethin’ for ya, hun? Nasty little girl.” There’s a dangerous, uneven grit to his voice that has arousal burning like a candle in your stomach, the wax of your arousal syrupy against your thighs already. 

Your tongue darts out to wet your lips. Fuck.

“No,” you breathe out stubbornly, but you’ve already given yourself away, even to yourself. The insides of your thighs are molten, twitching with every throb of your clit between your legs. That flush of warmth from your pelvis is spreading, overheating.

Joel tuts. “You really think that? You can whine all you want ‘bout wantin’ respect, but at the end ‘a the day, you just wanna be treated like some whore, huh?” And, yeah, he has you figured out, has you in the palm of his hand. Even though you have no idea what someone like him could do to someone like you, you want him to do it. You want to find out. “I’ll tell ya what, sugar, you walk outta here right now and nobody but me’s gonna know you came pitchin’ a hissy fit in my locker room.”

You frown at that, a small arc of your pouty lips that has Joel’s eyes gleaming.

“Or,” he says. “You can pull those wet fuckin’ panties down – don’t gimme that look, I know they are – and I can give ya a real lesson in respect.” He shrugs, hands going to his waist as he looks you up and down.

He knows he has you the same way you know, but you aren’t just going to give in that easily. You flare your nose and counter, “If there’s nothing keeping me here other than a firm hand, why should I stay?”

He’s looking at you like he wants to take you apart. His fingers jump against his hips for the opportunity to break you down. 

“Sweetness,” Joel shakes his head as if it’s obvious. “if you let me, I could make you feel good. I’m guessin’ you got some vibrator sittin’ in the back of your desk drawer to use when your roommate’s out ‘n about, but you don’t wanna use that tonight, do ya? You want the real thing, hun, and I’d give it to ya real nice once I teach ya to behave.”

There it is again: Coach Joel Miller has you all figured out. Every syllable he says is doomed to send another shiver up your spine, and damn it, fuck playing coy.

You’re too busy tearing off your hoodie to think about how unsexily dressed you are, but the rushed nature of your actions punches a chuckle out of Joel. “Eager thing.” You’re halfway through kicking your shoes and leggings off when he saunters over to the couch, plopping down on the edge and patting his broad, khaki-covered thigh. Your mouth waters when you look back and see just how much the fabric strains against his leg. “Whenever you’re ready, hun.”

You waddle over to him, stripped down to the basics of your sports bra and everyday panties. It’s the furthest thing from erotic, but the way he’s looking at you isn’t. It’s primal and ravenous, enough to have you forgetting all about how you’d even gotten there in the first place. He licks his lips as he trails his eyes all over you, darkening a couple of shades when he looks at your cleavage. “Lucas is a fuckin’ idiot, baby.”

“Knew that already,” you mumble.

He pats his thigh again, bounces his leg. “C’mon, over my knee like the good girl I know you can be. Hurry up and I’ll only give ya five.”

You shuffle forward, relishing in the rubbing of your thighs that comes from it. He’s sitting on the corner of the couch at the perfect angle for you to rest your head on the arm. It doesn’t take any more convincing for you to put yourself over his lap, not that he needed to do much in the first place. You feel so much smaller than him. Your ass is up for him to do whatever he’d like to; it’s a tantalizing feeling you hadn’t gotten out of any intimacy – if you could call it that — with Lucas.

“Mmmmmm,” Joel groans as he runs a hand between your legs. He rubs at your slit through the soaked gusset of your panties. You can’t stop the way your hips buck, or the pitiful shout that jumps off your lips when he pins you down by the small of your back, robbing you of any friction. Between one arousal-riddled breath and the next, Joel tugs your panties off and flings them to the side. You know how it feels, tacky and cold on your core and thighs, so you can only imagine how it must look. Joel gives you a pretty good idea when he reveres, “Goddamn, pretty cunt is throbbin’ for it.”

He pulls apart your folds and you think you hear him lick his lips above you before he lets them go. The schlick noise your dripping pussy makes is nothing less than pornographic. Joel gropes you carefully, kneads the skin of your ass like you have all the time in the world. Under his ministrations, it’s easy to melt into the couch, forgetting why you’re there in the first place until his palm cracks down on your ass cheek.

The stinging impact has a slurred hnnnngh leaving your lips, and a fresh gush of wetness between your legs to accompany it. You keep your head tucked into the sanctuary of your folded arms, eyes squeezed shut so tight you swear you’re seeing stars. Joel’s quick to rub the spanked patch of skin, his palm soothing his ache. “That’s one, baby.” You nod into your arms. “Think you can take four more?” Another nod.

“I need to hear ya, hun. C’mon, head up f’me.” He taps the side of your cheek, and you prop your cheek up on your forearm. “Think you can take four more?” he repeats.

Your voice hitches, courtesy of the beating that echoes in your chest and between your legs. “Y-yes…” 

When the second hit lands, you don’t expect it. You flinch away from his hand when it comes down with a clap that leaves you squirming in his lap. “Yes, what?”

“Yes sir,” you whine out, back arching. Although a punishment, that spank has the same effect as the last: a live wire of arousal strung from your spine to your cunt.

“Takin’ it well,” he praises, squeezing your ass cheeks together. “Sure didn’t expect anyone to come crawlin’ in when I left that garage open, ‘specially not some slut like you with an ass that needs a spankin’ six ways to Sunday.” Just as quick as he can build you up, he can take you down a notch, but you can’t mind when it has you moaning all the same. “Oh, she likes that,” Joel clicks.

He rubs your ass again, and you’re bracing yourself for that next strike, pulled stiff with an arousing, anticipatory sort of fear. Only when you convince yourself it isn’t coming do you let all of that tension flood out of your body — and that’s when Joel smacks his hand across your far-too-trustworthy ass.

You cry out, pouting over your shoulder at Joel, who has a proud smirk drawn all over his face. You don’t even feel your hips rocking down, seeking whatever pleasure you can get until he reprimands, “Ruttin’ against my fuckin’ leg, now, huh? Don’t pretend you don’t like this.”

With a particularly good grind of your hips, you feel his bulge pressing into your thigh. From a mere graze alone, you can tell it’s huge. A whimper tears out of you at the same time he groans above you. “You got nothin’ to prove, ain’t gonna change the fact you’re a slut who needs to get spanked ‘n stuffed to talk ‘er into behavin’ a bit.”

“Can’t even follow your own rules,” you huff, apparently still interested in shooting yourself in the foot even when Coach Miller has you ass-up over his knee. 

“Don’t see how you care…” Joel slides a hand down between your legs. He rubs at your clit, an intense pressure that has you wanting more and less all at the same time, before dragging a thick finger across your opening. Arousal squelches between your legs and your hips jump – a dead giveaway to just how turned on you are, whether you like it or not. “when it gets you this turned on,” he finishes. Then that same finger is prodding at your mouth, glistening with your wetness. You whimper before tasting yourself, sucking obediently on his finger until he pulls away with a pop.

You sulk, “Don’t act like I can’t feel you ripping a hole in your jeans, Miller–”

The fourth spank is the hardest by far. The skin of your ass feels bitten by Joel’s ‘firm hand’. It’s the kind of hit that makes your legs kick in his lap and your fingers clutch in the couch’s arm for purchase. You wail, “Daddy!” Pain disappears from your mind when you realize what exactly you just said, quickly replaced by the churning coolant of embarrassment. If you were paying attention to anything else other than the shame suddenly inhabiting your chest, you might’ve been able to feel the twitch of his cock in his pants.

“Daddy, huh?” Joel hums, rubbing your hurt ass with one hand while the other strokes your shoulder. You bury your face back in your arms as an apology takes shape in the back of your throat. “Lucas your daddy, too?”

“No!” You squeak, adjusting in his lap. The hood of your clit catches on the rough material of Joel’s pants. Unable to stop yourself, you hump his knee again, shallow rolls of your hips. You can still feel his hardness against you. Needily, you tip your head up, panting as foggy pleasure hangs over your head. 

“Stop makin’ a mess of daddy’s dress pants, baby, unless you wanna be on your knees, lickin’ it up.” You keen, and he chuckles knowingly. “Shoulda known, little whore like you gets off on that.” 

Joel gives you a longer reprieve between the fourth and fifth spank. Instead, he strokes your ass and asks, “One more gonna be enough to set you straight, sweetheart?”

“Y..yes daddy,” you whimper. He hums in approval.

You shift back and forth, waiting for it to come — and when it does, it’s softer. It’s by no means a love pat, but it pales in comparison to his previous work. You still sniffle, squeezing your thighs together as he coos, “I know, I know. Poor baby, actin’ all high ‘n mighty. Can’t be on her high horse when she’s over Daddy’s knee.” Gentle, he pats your ass and guides you on all fours at the edge of the couch. He hums in approval. “See? Not throwin’ a hissy fit anymore. She’s all nice ‘n obedient when you get ‘er to act right.”

Joel spreads your pussy with his thumbs, and you hear the vulgar noise of him collecting his saliva before you feel his spit landing on your clenching hole. You’ve never felt so empty, not when your bottom drawer vibrator is buzzing against your core, definitely not when Lucas fucks you in the same old missionary. Whimpering for him, you arch your back to try to rub against his crotch.

“Quit your whinin’,” he snips, his thumb finding your clit in one swipe. Joel’s touch is firm, but not too firm, just enough to make your hips push down with a need only he’s ever made you feel. 

Without warning, his middle finger slides inside of you, thick and calloused and so, so right. “Fuckin’... tight.” Another slides in as he starts scissoring you open, apparently satisfied enough when he crooks his fingers deep in your cunt. Instantly, he catches that spongy spot that you can never reach on your own. You nearly crumple with the sensation, limbs going weak and buckling. “That the spot?” he asks, but he already knows.

“Mhm,” you moan, chin instinctively tucking against your chest as if you can get away from the pleasure he’s giving you, as if you’d ever want to.

Then — he stops.

His fingers sit heavy inside of you, so close to where you need them to go. “What the fuck, Joel?” 

"Baby, s’that how you get what you want?” He rubs your thigh with his free hand and gives it a quick swat. “Help daddy out, tight girl. I'm not just gonna let you get away with bein’ a spoiled brat. Work yourself on my fingers."

You’re putty in the palm of his hand – malleable, docile for him to treat or mistreat you however gets him hard. You whine, punching your hips back nonetheless. Grinding down, down, down, your cunt unresisting when he gives you another finger. It’s crude, the way you moan for him.

Even though he’s hardly doing anything, just the hand you’re getting yourself off on, that all-consuming strain in your body only gets stronger. “Daddy – close, please…”

 “Attagirl, atta-fuckin’-girl, give it to me.” He rewards you with a press of his fingers against that golden spot inside of you. Your orgasm splinters through you, an ecstasy-charged mist fanning over your body. Your release runs down Joel’s hand and your thighs with every clench of your cunt, like you’ve been skinned and set ablaze by your own desire. You fall forward on the couch, no longer able to hold yourself up, arms a tangled mess as you gasp into the cushion. “You come so pretty, baby. Messy pussy, too. Soaked me up to my goddamn elbow.”

You’re still reeling from the best orgasm you’ve had in months, maybe ever, when you hear obscene slurping noises from behind you. You cast a look at him, your arousal returning with a vigor at the sight of Joel sucking his fingers clean. He groans at the taste, and you swear you see his cock jump in his khakis. Stomach warped with desire, you’re about to plummet off of the very dangerous edge of doing just about anything for him right now.

“Please fuck me, daddy,” you plead, and in any other position, with any other person, it might be mortifying, something worth clutching your pearls over. But this is Coach Joel Miller, the last person you ever expected to be fucking, giving you the best fuck you never expected.

“There’s those manners,” Joel praises, leaning over you to press a brief kiss to your shoulder blade. You can smell your release on his lips, a sweet smell that’s so distinctly you. He eases off of you, presumably to take off his pants. There’s the shuffling of fabric, and when he returns to your side, you’re disappointed to find he hasn’t even unbuckled his belt.

You pout at him again, still desperate to get your way. Eye-level with his bulge, you’re salivating over it. You had made a mess of his dress pants, a wet spot formed just above his knee, taunting you. You lick your lips. 

“Think it’s only fair,” he says, looming over you. He’s holding the Sharpie you’d brought along with you. Your brows furrow as you look up at him through your lashes. “If I give ya the same treatment you gave his jersey.” His gaze is cocky as he pops the cap with his thumb, giving the marker a twirl.

Oh.

It shouldn’t turn you on as much as it does. Nothing about this should turn you on as much as it does, yet here you are, in a puddle of your own sweat and cum, itching for the next thing he gives you. And if it’s marking up your body before he fucks your brains out, so be it.

He nudges his head, gesturing for you to get down on your stomach. You lift your knees up and flatten yourself out on the cushions. The vinyl sticks and pulls from your skin as you get where he wants you. A soft, surprised noise leaves you when he straddles your thighs, his clothed cock nudging at your seam.

“Holy fuck,” you breathe out, because it’s the only phrase you can think of that even holds a candle to what all of this has become. 

A laugh fans out from under his breath as he starts at your freshly spanked, raw ass. The Sharpie is cold and foreign, tugging at your skin as he inks you up. “Gotta make sure you match before I dick you down, don’t I? What is it you wrote on his jersey? ‘Whore’? Between the two ‘a ya, I woulda put my money on you for that one.”

If that wasn’t enough indication, you figure out what he’s doing by the time he gets to the right cheek, what feels like an ‘R’ taking shape across your ass. He finishes the ‘E’ and sets down the Sharpie for a moment, his meaty palms spreading your ass. It still thrums with the afterglow of his spanking. You don’t think you can throb any more than you already are, but then he spits on you for the second time that night, this time landing it on your puckered asshole. A gasp flutters from your lips as you grind down into the couch, his spit dripping down your folds.

“See? Real whorish, fuckin’ my couch.” He taps your ass for good measure. “Asshole makes a perfect fuckin’ ‘O’, baby. Looks a whole lot better than that chicken scratch shit you put on his jersey.” You think maybe, just maybe, he’ll dismount you and pull his cock out, but instead he keeps writing, scribbling on your back and upper thighs. Every pull of your skin under the bleeding ink has you aching for him.

When he’s content with his work, he lifts off of you, hands fumbling to undo his belt. It snaps apart, dangling open around his waist as his hands open up his khakis. “You let Lucas fuck that sweet lil’ cunt raw?” he asks.

“No, I don’t,” you admit, unable to tear your eyes away from his cock as he pulls it out, and fuck you. Your eyes don’t even feel big enough to take all of him in, and you have no idea how you’re going to fit him between your legs. You almost go cross-eyed at the sight of it, his head leaking precum.

“Thought so. You gonna let me fuck it raw?”

“Yes, daddy,” you breathe out, drool pooling in your mouth at the thought of having him inside of you, having him inside of you bare. Yet another thing you never gave to Lucas in a year of disappointing sex, but are eagerly giving up to Joel. 

“Gotta be a real nasty slut,” Joel says, returning to his place atop your thighs, his thick ones framing yours. Your breath hitches when you feel the weight of his cock gliding through your ass cheeks and down to your cunt. “to let your ex-boyfriend’s coach bareback ya in the locker room.” A heady gasp tears from you when the head of his cock bumps your clit. He teases you — his cock, slippery with a combination of your arousal, skating from your clit to your spasming opening, not quite nudging in.

“Daddy, please – I need it… need you to fuck me, fuck me–”

He doesn’t make you wait any longer.

When he pushes in, it knocks the air out of your lungs. The only proof that you’re still breathing is when you let out a pitchy, desperate moan. Joel grunts, teeth gritted as he flattens himself down against your spine so he can roll his hips into yours. The pain of his size becomes an afterthought just as quickly as the pain of your spanking, dwarfed by the pleasure he gives you just as easily. 

“Fuuuuck,” Joel groans, nuzzling into the crook of your neck and shoulder. Inch at a time, he works you open, grinding his hips into your opening. “Could you be any goddamn tighter?” He bites at your neck from behind with every rock of his hips into yours until he bottoms out.

“Big,” is all you manage to squeak out as he hauls you back on his cock, already prodding your g-spot with his head. Your eyes roll back as you clench around him. 

His fingers go up to run circles around your shoulder, soothing you, grounding you when his cock has you anything but. “Mmm, I know, I know. You can take it. All whores can.” With that, Joel starts fucking you, really fucking you, a punishing, relentless pace where he pulls out entirely before filling you to the brim. Each snap of his hips into yours fills the locker room with shameless sounds, the mere background to your depraved moans.

“Never had your pussy stretched by a man double your age before, huh?”

“N–no! Never… never had my pussy stretched mu…much at all–”

Joel slams into you, laughs at the strained noise that you make. “Yeah? Those dumbfucks on my team not doin’ it for ya, baby?” You don’t answer, don’t think he’s expecting one until his hand wraps around your front, forearm pressed firm against your tits. His thick hand wraps lightly around your neck, jostling you. It’s not hard enough to blur your vision, but just hard enough to remind you of the power he has over you. The power you allow him to have. It’s invigorating. Everything about him is. 

Moans spurt out of you as you fumble to answer, “No da– daddy! You — ah! — do it for m–me!” 

“And what do you say for that? For goin’ outta my way to show you what a real fuck is?”

“Thank you, Daddy!” you cry out. You’re spilling down his thighs, the wet suction of your pussy around his cock making noises more vulgar than you’ve ever heard in porn.

His hand squeezes again at your neck, and you feel floaty, a bubble just waiting to pop. Pleasure dances in every one of your veins, every nerve ending burning like a match that he keeps striking ablaze.

“There you go, desperate slut just needs a freshly spanked ass, a good dickin’ down, and a hand ‘round her throat to behave.” Joel’s pace stays just as harsh, crushing your g-spot with his cock. “Should keep you back here for when we lose, tie you to the goddamn desk. Let my staff take turns with you, see how much crybaby you have left in ya when a dozen men’s loads are drippin’ outta your reamed fuckin’ cunt. Bet you like it when men use you.” The whine that almost gags you on its way out is enough to confirm it.

If he keeps talking to you and the wind blows the right way on your clit, you know you’ll be coming. You’re wringing out his cock with every flutter of your pulsing pussy. The beginning embers of your orgasm turn into a wildfire when he wedges his free hand down between your legs, rubbing messy circles into your sloppy clit. “Fuck, please, please, please,” you sob out, too riddled with pleasure to care about how pathetic you sound or look as you hump his hand while he pounds you.

“Can feel you squeezin’ me, baby.” Joel rasps, nipping at your ear. The hand around your throat falls fully to your chest, pressing you solid against him so he can fuck deeper, deeper, deeper. It’s enough to make you scream, hands clawing and scratching down his muscular grip on you. “C’mon, hun, give it to me, come on my cock, fuck.”

With another thrust, he has you pushed right down onto his fingers, rubbing and flicking you every which way. It’s all you need to come undone, your second orgasm of the night unlatching through you like something forked and angry, battering your sore limbs until there’s nothing left of it or you. You’re a mess, spit oozing down your chin as you slur “thank you daddy” like a broken record, thighs clamping around nothing.

Joel groans as you clench around his cock and continues his relentless pace, hips slapping against yours. The hand he’d been using to rub your clit migrates to your tits, grazing and then thumbing and then tugging lightly your nipples. “There it is, told ya you could be a good girl. Lettin’ your daddy use this cunt to get off, lettin’ me use you. I’m fuckin’ close, baby, where do you want me?”

And you want it even if you shouldn’t, want his cum deep inside of you, want it to leak out into your panties as you walk back to your dorm. You’re still no good at making decisions, too fucked out to tell right from left when you beg, “I–inside, fuck, come inside me, daddy, please.”

Joel practically growls at that, thrusts losing their steadiness as his hips jump and he hurtles towards his release. “Yeah, you’re a goddamn whore, beggin’ for this cum. And you’re gonna fuckin’ take it, yeah… fuckin’ take it.” He slams all the way into you for the last time before shooting his cum into your cunt, swearing and moaning. Breathing like he’s run a mile, he goes slack on top of you, pets the back of your head while he comes down from the exhilaration of his high.

With a gentle kiss to your shoulder, he rises, and the fantasy is over. His cock slips from your pussy, and you feel hollow with the loss. This is where he tucks himself back into his pants, runs a hand back through his hair, tells you to never show your face in his stadium again, and shoves you out the door.

And he does: tucks his softening cock into his boxers, zips up his khakis, does his belt, tames his post-sex head of hair. You wince even if you expected it, leaning down over the edge of the couch to grab your hoodie, already moving to tug it over your head.

“What do you think you’re doin’?” Joel asks, and his tone sounds much more different than the first time he’d asked you. He sounds offended. You blink confusedly, dazedly at him with your arms halfway through the armholes. “Let me clean you up, hun.” Joel side-steps the pile of your leggings and shoes, adjusting the hoodie on your arms and pulling it down your torso. “I know Lucas ain’t done you right, but you deserve to be taken care of, pretty girl.” Your heart pinches in a way that it shouldn’t, not for a hookup with your ex-boyfriend’s coach.

You shift, and he can’t help but look back between your legs where his cum escapes your hole. He manages to pry his eyes away, but not without licking his lips first. “I’ll be right back, baby. Promise.”

When he’s back, it’s with a damp rag. He crouches down in front of you, taking it to the apex of your thighs and wiping away the combination of your releases, careful not to nudge your sensitive clit. He kisses your thigh gently before pulling back, folding the towel on the arm of the couch you’d been crying into just a few minutes ago.

Joel shimmies your ruined panties up your thighs, followed by your leggings. You let him, breath cut like a snipped wire from the sheer intimacy of it all, intimacy you’d lacked with Lucas even after a year of trying. You’d stayed with him for comfortability at your own expense. How stupid could you have been?

Joel pats your knee, eyes soft and weirdly sincere as he looks at you. “I’m sorry about Lucas, honey, but I meant it when I said you deserve to be taken care of.” He rubs the back of his neck before holding something out to you. A business card, his work number plastered in bold sans-serif font across the bottom. “I know this is in reverse ‘n all, but I’d really like to take you out and treat you right, if you’ll let me.”

Saying yes is your first good decision in a while.

[luveline]

would you ever be willing to write the day spencer and stripper!reader met in the grocery store? i’ve always loved the concept when you’ve referenced it in the story, i would love to read it👀 you’re absolutely incredible and i can never say anything not anon to you because my blog is flooding you with notes constantly and i’m embarrassed😅

thank you for your request ❤️ fem!reader, 1.5k

cw for domestic violence and workplace abuse

There's this weird organic grocery store by Spencer's place that's far too expensive, but it's a ten minute walk, so that's where he goes. (Weird in separation to organic.) 

He needs a lot of groceries now he's home for the week. Bread, vegetables, rice, flour if he wants to try and make pancakes, which he does. He also needs a new pen to write a letter for his mom, but Leaven is slightly too small for a stationery section. 

He doesn't know what he'll say to her in this one. Maybe that the cases he's going on are easy, or that he's been reading about crows. She's not feeling well lately. It might help her to know he's doing gentle things, even if it isn't true. 

No, he thinks. Can't lie to her. He never lies to his mom. 

Eggs. Sugar. Coffee grounds. He fills his cart. It'll be a lot to carry on the way home, but better to do it in one go. He likes keeping busy but he's a human being, too, and he's looking forward to spending at least sixteen hours in bed after dinner tonight. 

You look tired, too. 

Your back is turned, but Spencer knows it's you. You must live close by, he's been seeing you duck in and out for months. Usually with a loaf of bread or a single box of painkillers tucked in your pocket. You don't steal, he'd be able to tell, and he wouldn't say anything if you did, anyways. All he knows about you is that you have a nice smile when you have the energy, and your voice is like silk. Purposeful or by nature, he's yet to guess. 

You're standing by the end of the aisle near the checkouts with a basket hanging from your fingers. All you're buying today is a box of pancake mix and a bag of peas. 

Weird, he thinks with a smile. Spencer likes weird stuff. It's quirky. 

You turn to see which checkout is empty and Spencer's smile abruptly drops. 

You have a bruise across half of your face. It isn't strictly fresh —he can see the split skin on your cheek starting to close in on itself, and your purpled eye is open (though barely). You're frowning. Spencer knows how bad it hurts to get hurt like that. For a split second he can't believe someone could do that to another person, and then he remembers the hundreds of women he's had the privilege to meet at their most vulnerable, who trusted him, and he thinks maybe he's capable of helping another one. 

“Hey,” he says. 

You meet his eyes with a funny smile. “Hey. Sorry, am I in the way?” you ask, your voice stretched, thin but not weak. 

“No, you're not, it's… I see you here all the time.” 

You hold your breath. When you talk, it rushes out. “So?” you ask wearily.

“Are you okay?” 

Your funny smile fades as Spencer's had. He supposes that's the talent of cruelty. Even when it's over, it's not truly over. Your bruise still hurts, and Spencer still needs to know you'll be okay when you go home tonight. 

“I see you all the time too. We've… we've actually spoken before, haven't we?” you ask after a moment. 

“Yeah, about spirometry. I was out of breath running and–” It doesn't matter. You asked him if he was okay, and he explained that he was, just that his lungs don't hold much air on account of his own laziness, and it doesn't matter. “Are you? Alright? It's a bad bruise.” 

“It's getting better.” 

It might be, but there's something so raw about seeing you standing there in your sweatpants too big for you and a hoodie with a hole in it, purple and yellow contusion across your eyes and nose like the clumsy stroke of a paintbrush. Spencer will admit to feeling sorry for you.

“Can I talk to you?” he asks, knowing this isn't the right place. “There's the cafe at the front? Let me pay for my stuff and–” 

“I'm really okay–” 

“You had a cast on your wrist two weeks ago and now you're here with a limp and a really bad bruise,” he says softly, imploringly, “I just wanna talk to you about it. You don't have to say yes, I'm not trying to be weird, but I–” 

You cut off his mile a minute speech with a small smile. “Okay. I'm not, you know, doing anything anyways. It'll be nice to sit down.” 

Spencer knows it's dumb, but he wants to show he has good intentions. He takes your basket out of your hands and nods toward the cafe past the checkouts. “I'll come and meet you.” 

“You don't have to,” you say, gesturing at the basket. 

“The damage is done, right? This place is ridiculous.” He doesn't like the way you're holding your hip. It makes him feel sick, even though there's no proof one way or another to say you've been hurt beyond your bruising.

He pays for his things and yours and meets you at the cafe. He's half expecting you to have bolted, but you sit at a table near the entrance, completely still. 

Spencer puts his two bags under the table and offers you your pancake mix and peas in their own bag. 

“Thanks.” 

“Yeah, no problem.” 

“It was my boss.” You look at your fingers, spreading them slowly over the table top. “I’m a dancer. Sorry. I know you’re going to ask.” 

“And he hit you?” 

“Yeah.” 

Spencer knows the number for every women’s shelter in every state, but he doubts it would matter to you. He can tell already that you’d say no. He can tell you’re scared, even if you don’t realise it yourself. “Is it getting worse?”

You can’t offer him anything else. He understands how that feels. There have been moments where he desperately wanted to tell someone, anyone, what was going on in his life, but he always holds his secrets like a perpetual ache in his throat. It’s like he can’t tell someone, even if they ask. 

Sometimes he just wishes they’d ask twice. 

“You can tell me. It won’t sound stupid,” he promises. He’s in some odd place between Agent Reid and young, terrified Spencer, determined to help you, but not sure how. “It’s getting worse, right?” 

“Yeah,” you say, the weight of tears on your tongue. 

“You’re a dancer. Is he just a boss– Does he… abuse you financially?” 

You laugh wetly. “He’s not my pimp.” 

He can feel his face heating up.’“No, but do you get paid on time? Everything you earn?” 

You shake your head. “No, I don’t get paid on time. He takes a percentage, and somehow there’s always another percentage, and then discipline. And now…” 

“Now he’s hitting you.” Very badly. 

“I’m not stupid.” 

Spencer frowns gently, talks softly, “I didn’t mean to imply that you were.” 

“No, I know, but I need you to know I’m not stupid. When we talked before, you– you’re so smart, I bet you know so many smart people.” 

He’s not sure where you’re going with this. Perhaps you don’t want to talk about being hurt anymore. It must be a kind of torture to be hurting and know that that hurting will come again. There isn’t an end in sight for you, just right now. 

“Can I buy you something to eat?” 

“I have money,” you say, taking your small purse from your pocket. There are a few notes wedged inside. 

“You can’t take painkillers on an empty stomach, and you should take painkillers again soon. You had some before you came, and they’re wearing off.” He meets your confused frown with a frown of his own. “Your hands are twitching like you want to move away from yourself.” 

“You’re very perceptive,” you say in that smooth murmur. Power clawed back, he thinks. You’re protecting one of the things you can control about how you’re seen when everything else is far from it. 

“I’m a profiler. Do you,” —he tries not to sound hoity toity— “know what that is?” 

“No.” 

“I’m an FBI agent.” You’re laughing as he takes out his badge. He joins you. “I know it sounds like I’m making it up.” Spencer offers you his identification passport slowly, so you know he isn’t wielding it around to be an asshole. “I’m in the behavioural analysis unit. We analyse the way people act. That’s why I know you’re in pain.” 

You take his badge, looking between his photo and his real face with a growing smile. “If you need all that to know I’m in pain, you’re not as smart as you think,” you tease, gesturing to the mottled skin of your bruise sweetly. 

Spencer buys you both cold sandwiches from the front of the shop and a drink to wash down your aspirin. It’s awkward, he guesses, but he’s used to that by now, and under it he can feel your palpable relief. You trust him to not hurt you, if nothing else, and he can work with that. 

[punnifullife]

I thought long and hard (and overthinking) trying to tie teen titans 03 to the batfam stuff in my AU. I really wanted to connect the other robins, Dick turning into nightwing, and the relationship with Bruce into this. so below are a combo of rough sketches and written out ideas mixed together bc i couldn't finish this without ripping my hair out. Originally I had it come right after season 5 ending with the weird alien thing (which is what bb and rae are referencing to) but..... anyways:

This gets long so the rest will be under a cut:

just FYI on changes already: Robin's look is more dan mora/og costume. I love Dick in the yellow cape (and i always associate the black cape to Tim so hehe) Like i said the alien WAS gonna be the main bad guy since this comic will also about things changing. but i got too overwhelmed reading up on what the alien was and it was a dimensional being and yadda yadda so it was bare bones and barely even brought up as i lost interest in drawing things out. Continuation:

this is where i didnt feel like drawing a transition to tt packing/traveling to gotham.,.. so it jumps to the meeting:

yess bb jason!! In my AU, this is when dick and jason meet. Dick claims batman hasnt changed, but yet Dick keeps tabs on gotham to know about jason just as much as bruce is aware of the teen titans (and even tho Dick says "oh look, a replacement. the batman cant go without a robin". he knows that isn't really the case. he's just still hurting from their fall out. and NO he does not feel jealous or anything like that towards Jason.) I will say that's where the main drawings stopped. but the story continues! But mostly text bc drawing it out became tiring. So: they work together in an upcoming fight. Batman (and teen titans) call out to "robin" so there's funny miscommunication as which robin responds to what. Jason proves himself to Dick that he can be a robin. Bruce is his usual skeptical self and it drives Dick up a wall. Bruce eventually calls Dick out for being the same way though (altho this is more of egging on to push Dick to make some more changes. since bruce never wanted dick to be like him).

Dick: You don't know my teammates. Don't act like you do. Bruce: You're right. I don't know them. Nor do I trust them with my son. Dick: Why can't you trust MY judgement. Bruce goes back to working, ignoring the statement. And Dick comes to a realization to how Bruce shuts him out (like what he did to starfire earlier). This leads Dick to reveal his identity to his team because he DOES in fact trust them 100%. There's some closure from that and this would kinda be a turning point in terms of his angst/edgy phase as a robin. As he officially passes the mantle to Jason and where he becomes Nightwing.

team reaction to face reveal:

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

I always thought the stuff Savannaclaw has around their eyes are natural markings since the fur around animal eyes often tends to be a bit darker

And since Jack still features the same markings in his loungewear while other characters don't have their make-up anymore

[Referencing this post!]

Oooh, that's interesting 🤔 That thought never crossed my mind!

I took a look at Jack’s Dorm Uniform look and his Relax in Room look side-by-side:

It very much looks the same, even down to the colors. When comparing to other characters’ eye looks, this is notably different. For example, Jamil and Malleus also appear to have “natural markings” in the eye area, but more likely these are just natural shadows that form due to their eye shapes.

This is a part of Yana’s art style, as you can see in the Ciel and Sebastian illustrations. You can also tell that these differ from Jack’s because the same color is consistently used around the bare eye for shading, whereas with Jack’s eyes, the shading used for crease differs from the darker color that lines the lower lid.

Jack also states in his Relax in Room vignettes that he usually does not wear makeup, so this may be an indication that what we previously thought was eye makeup is natural markings??? However, Jack’s “usual” look is his school uniform, not his dorm uniform. It’s possible that he goes without makeup for everyday, but wears makeup for when he puts on the dorm uniform.

We don’t have Leona or Ruggie’s bare faces yet (since their birthdays are in summer and spring, respectively), but comparing a few of their artworks, they do seem to still have their “makeup” (eye markings) on. We’ll have to see their Relax in Room card models to see if this theory holds!

Update: some people have pointed out that there isn’t makeup over Leona’s scar (otherwise the area of overlap would he darker). This is another point that may suggest natural markings around a beastman’s eyes, not makeup.

Interestingly, Rook—originally a student of Savanaclaw—does wear makeup, and he does it differently after transferring to Pomefiore. You can see in his Relax in Room version that he has shading around his eyes even without makeup. Then in his Pomefiore look, his eyeshadow extends to his upper lid. His Savanaclaw look has shadow only on the lower lid and follows the flick of his lashes. This mimics the “makeup” (natural markings?) of his Savanaclaw peers.

... But if that turns out to be markings that naturally appear around a beastman's eyes and NOT makeup... does that mean that Kifaji and Chenya just have those blue and purple rings around their eyes????? (I mean, I guess it's not unheard of since Idia exists and he has naturally blue lips and eye bags?? But his traits are on account of a curse, so...) Or is the blue/purple coloring makeup and they have brownish markings around their eyes if you remove the bright colors on top?

Lastly, it seems like Cheka lacks the markings we’ve bene discussing?? Though I wonder if that’s a product of his age (he’s only 5). It could be that he’ll develop those markings as he grows up.

[darkenedurge]

Edit / Update : Part 2 is now posted here.

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𝐇𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐲.

“ 𝐓𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐲, 𝐛𝐨𝐭𝐡 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐡𝐞 𝐤𝐧𝐞𝐰 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐲. 𝐘𝐞𝐭, 𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰𝐥𝐞𝐝𝐠𝐞, 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐰𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐧𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐟𝐫𝐞𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐟𝐚𝐯𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐞 𝐭𝐨𝐲. 𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐰𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐛𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐝 𝐢𝐧 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐬, 𝐣𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐚𝐬 𝐦𝐮𝐜𝐡 𝐚𝐬 𝐡𝐞 𝐢𝐧 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐬 – 𝐄𝐧𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐆𝐨𝐫𝐭𝐚𝐬𝐡. ”

.

CONTENT : P in V Sex | Implied Age Difference (Enver refers to Durge as “little one”) | Sloppy Make-Outs, Mark Making, all that good stuff | Referenced Switch! Durge | Dom! Enver Gortash | “Forgive me Father for I have sinned” (that’s.. basically the whole fic/plot) | Rough Sex | Spit as lube, fun !!

` Inspired by this post.

And also, this song;

.

˚ ✧.

“But, ma’am, you could have anyone you wanted–”

Your dagger was swiftly swung, landing just a mere fraction before it met the skin of the poor, fragile, meek, little butler. His eyes flit, from each corner of the room, to the door – as it remained open, only by a crack. If he ran, he surely couldn’t make it, and even if he did – that would certainly be the end for him. This was heresy, both you and he knew that equally. Yet, another shared knowledge, was that you would never free your favourite toy. You were bounded in his chains, just as much as he in yours – Enver Gortash.

It wasn’t a faux claim, to say that you could have anyone. Followers, worshippers, dedicants of Bhaal, were far too quick, eager to throw themselves at your feet – be bent at your will, trampled beneath your pretty foot. These were all trivial matters, and ones that you rarely indulged in for such reasons. Perhaps on occasion, for a quick fuck. Though, you were almost always unsatisfied – insatiable.

Always would you delve impatient, frustrated fingers into your begging cunt, bringing yourself to the edge with a flutter of your eyelashes. Pleasure, but not in its truth. No, that’s where Enver came in.

.

You weren’t sure how it had even occurred. He and you, had always had a lingering eye for once another – stealing glances and sparing the flick of your tongue across your lip, wetting the plush skin, as you allowed yourself only a second longer to indulge in his stature. Small, fleeting moments of tension had somehow, pinned you beneath him – his teeth assaulting your collarbones, marks of possession and brutality staining your skin. Even the simple, slight swirl of his tongue as his mouth enveloped your nipple, had you gasping – hand flying to his hair, fingers curling and taking a fistful of his shaggy, inky locks. His knee parts your legs, and you rut needily against him. To which, he chuckles – scoffs, and tuts, “Impatient little thing, aren’t you? Someone hasn’t been taking care of my favourite assassin in my absence.. I should’ve claimed you sooner.” Sweet, citrusy words. Words of praise that, pathetically, could’ve made you come right there and then.

“M’sorry..” You murmur, breath audibly hitching as Enver pinched a nipple between his teeth, “You just feel so good.”

He hums, and the sound reverberates through your chest – forcing a shiver to course throughout your body, riding up your spine. “We’ve barely started, little one,” His eyes greet yours, head raised as he speaks, “It’s not good quite yet.”

That’s when your lips connect, for the first time, and the entirety of your stomach coils into tight, pleading knots. Enver grunts, the noise muffled by your intertwined passion – drool seeping from the side of your mouth, sloppy, wet dances shared between your tongues.

You don’t see Enver naked, then. You wouldn’t for a while. For now, and hereafter, he’d simply shrug himself free of the confines that his clothes so needlessly, annoyingly provided. As lazily as he’d enabled himself, Enver only provided the same impatience for you – ushering your panties aside, in favour of wasting precious seconds tugging them down to rest at your ankles. In a strange acknowledgment of admiration, you favoured his methods. His comprehensive need to feel you swallow his cock, take him the way the Gods had so sinfully intended.

Enver wets his fingers, tongue resting upon his lower lip as he swiped the tips until they were adequately coated – lathering your entrance in his saliva, earning a subtle flinch on your behalf. No warning is offered, he pushes into you with force, heavenly in the way that it hurts – in the way he stretches you, as he bottoms out with a wavering groan.

Your walls flutter around him, your hands finding their place upon his shoulders as he begins to piston his hips at a relentless, pace – you squeak, squeal, your nails press into the supple flesh beneath them. Enver is not shy to make noise, in return, his mouth no prison to the grunts, groans and moans that follow – in tandem with his thrusts. Over and over, you feel him assault a spot you hadn’t even known existed – deep, deep inside of you, making you quiver and tighten rhythmically.

“Say my name, little one,” Enver pants out in demand, fucking you evermore, “Say my name.”

You could hardly deny the request of a man who was literally, fucking you senseless. Making your head spin, your cheeks flush and stomach churn. “Enver..” You whine, like a mewling kitten. No, not good enough.

Again, “Enver.” It’s louder this time, and your nails drag down his upper back.

“Enver!” Oh Gods, are you going to cum?

As your heart pounds mercilessly in your ears, you can distantly hear Enver release a small, huff of a laugh. You voice is almost hoarse, as a cry strangles from your throat, “Enver! Enver, I’m-!”

You came. It’s akin to that of a crashing wave, and a roaring fire, in beautiful unison. There’s a hot, swarming pool that follows – Enver, no doubt, laying his claim; cumming almost simultaneously, filling you to the brim. You’re trembling as he holds you, pulls you flush against his chest and peppers kisses to the nape of your neck.

.

He wouldn’t be staying long. Slinking off back, toward his duties without so much as a whisper. Still, such ignorance didn’t pain you. You knew he’d be back, this was the very birth of a whirlwind. One that was destructive, perhaps. But, destruction is your birthright. Your solemn purpose.

You sit, thighs sticky and skin glazed in sweat. “Father,” Your hand is clutched to your exposed chest, resting over the thrum of your heart, “Forgive me..please.”

[lillaydee]

The Unlucky One

Joel Miller (No Outbreak AU) / F Reader

When it comes to love, Lady Luck seems to have lost your address. After being left at the altar without so much of an explanation, you decided love is no longer something you are interested in. Not even meeting an unlucky-in-love-himself Mr. Grump could change your mind.

Right?

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WARNINGS: Protective Joel (The Last of Us), Good Parent Joel (The Last of Us), Soft Joel (The Last of Us), Joel is Bad at Feelings (The Last of Us), Joel Needs a Hug (The Last of Us), Hurt Joel (The Last of Us), Grumpy Joel (The Last of Us), Jealousy, Fluff and Angst, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Idiots in Love, unlucky in love, Child Abandonment, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Alternate Universe - No Cordyceps Outbreak (The Last of Us)

@peelieblue, @vickie5446, @harriedandharassed, @lovefreylove

SERIES MASTER LIST

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“God, I cannot believe this is what my life has come to! I must be the unluckiest person on earth when it comes to love!” the young lady moaned, drowning her sorrows in yet another tequila shot, as her friends coaxed her, telling her no, she’s not unlucky, she just hadn’t found the right guy.

“Come on, guys, there were ten of them in that group, not even the frumpiest one took a second look at me!” she continued, gesturing at the bartender to give her another, looking longingly at a group of young men who were, at the time, shamelessly ogling at a group of ladies your age walking by in kaftans that might as well have not been there – the barely there bikinis clearly visible through the flowy, see-through materials.

“I think they just preferred older ladies, sweetheart,” her friend said, slyly pushing the freshly poured tequila out of the way. “How about we get you some coffee huh? It’s not even five yet, sweetie. We’re in Bali! Let’s enjoy our time here, okay?”

The young lady scoffed, “As if I could, knowing that Ed is currently unloading his stuff into the whore’s apartment!”

The ladies surrounded her with hugs and coos, telling her to forget that bastard, let’s enjoy the holiday, okay?

“I’m telling you, I challenge anyone, ANYONE!” she yelled out to the entire bar, which went quiet for a bit before breaking into it's buzz again, “To tell me they are unluckier than me when it comes to love. Heck, I bet you a thousand bucks no one has it worse than me.”

You couldn’t help yourself. You snorted into your drink.

And just like that, five pairs of eyes snapped towards you.

“You taking the challenge, lady?” the young lady slurred, despite her eyes being so sharply trained on you.

“I don’t know,” you said, turning your body towards them. “Let’s hear your story, and then I’ll decide if mine is worth telling.”

She adjusted herself to be a bit more stable in her seat, taking a deep breath.

“Well, let’s see. My parents divorced and remarried and divorced again before I was ten, married and divorced so many other people I’ve lost count of how many step parents I have, shutting me up with money to keep me happy. I’ve been with my ex Ed since high school, thought I would finally have some stability in life. We went to college together, birds of a feather, all that. I thought we were golden. Ten years! And a month ago, I found out he had been cheating on me all along with his girl best friend, the one he kept telling me to not worry about. The one who was supposedly seeing someone else that conveniently, didn’t have a name, or had never been introduced to us despite the fact that we all grew up together. I came home early one night and found them in our bed, that I paid for, in my house, that I bought!”

“And you know what’s worse? He actually told me he stayed with me for my money! She didn’t have the money, nor the education to help him out financially, so now that we’ve all graduated and working, he can provide for her! So bubbye me, hello filthy whore who stood by and let him flirt with and later fuck someone else for ten years just so that he could have a roof over his head and money in his pocket! And now, I’m on vacation, where I can’t even find one man who would hook up with me!”

She burst into tears.

You wanted to laugh, but managed to rein yourself in.

“How old are you sweetie?”

“23,” she answered through sobs, her friends clamouring to give her tissues.

“Oh, sweetheart…” you said, refraining yourself from calling her a ‘sweet summer child’, “You have a long way to go, I’m afraid. Life’s gonna throw so much more shit at you before you find happiness.”

Her sobs lessened as she asked you, “How old were you when you finally found it?”

You smiled, lifting your hands, crossing both sets of your forefinger and middle finger together, “Any day now.”

Somehow, that gesture put a smile on her face, although it may have been from pity. “So, you wanna take me on my challenge?”

You thought to yourself, why the hell not. Better out than in, right? So you ordered another margarita and told the five young ladies your story.

**********

You were the product of a drunken mistake. Your parents were going through a divorce, and one night of drinking too much at a party in an attempt to be civil with each other ended with you in your mother’s womb. They divorced anyway, but at first, agreed to co-parent.

About two weeks after you were born, your Dad met Frank. Your mother didn’t take it well when she found out. As you grew up, it became evident that she hated you, the only love you ever received from her household was from your Grandparents. She completely ignored you, chastising you for everything that went wrong in her life. So as you began to understand your surrounding more, you started avoiding her, knowing that you were not welcomed in her vicinity, going to your Grandparents with your cuts and woes, throwing tantrums when your Dad dropped you off after spending the weekends at his and Frank’s.

When school started, your Dad wanted you to stay with him and Frank, wanting to enrol you in the school where Frank taught, the best school in the county. Your mother fought tooth and nail against it, though it took you a long time to understand why. Not like she had to pay for it. Not like she spent any time with you when you were home with her. It was a miracle your Dad refrained from taking her to the courts over it, thinking of the trauma it would put you through. When you turned ten, your Grandma passed away, leaving your mother quite a bit of money. She used some to purchase a house nearer to your Dad’s. Just a few streets away from that school he wanted to enrol you in. One would think it was for your benefit, but no. 

See, she had decided that she simply needed another child to be happy. So she adopted your sister, Nell, who was five at the time. Nell, apparently, had more promise than you, so she would actually benefit from that expensive school, but not you. Your Dad was furious, so was your Grandpa, and the two of them enrolled you at the school anyway. And oh, she was going to have to pay for Nell’s fees herself. Your Dad only agreed to pay for you. After all, he didn’t adopt Nell. She did. Boy oh boy was your mother displeased. So how did she repay him?

By making your life as miserable as she could.

Anything your Grandpa or Dad bought you, became Nell’s. Mommy-daughter days consisted of her and Nell going places, eating the finest foods, while you sat in the car. Your birthdays consisted of nothing from her, but Nell’s deserved a bouncy castle and a petting zoo. You had to eat TV dinners, while Nell got homecooked meals made from scratch with the finest ingredients.

And what did your Grandpa and Dad do?

Nothing.

They did nothing, because you told them nothing. You were puzzled by the way your mother treated you, wanting to earn her affection, convinced that you had done something wrong to earn her wrath, so you didn’t say anything. She always sent you to your Dad’s and Grandpa’s in your finest clothes, the ones they bought for you, the ones that Nell was too little to fit into. And because you never complained, they were none the wiser.

You had your first boyfriend when you were 16. Kyle. He was sweet. Your Dad, Grandpa and Frank loved him. Your mother? Not so much. Why? Because see, your sister, the 11 year old, had a crush on him. And you were standing in the way of her happiness. She did everything she could to get Kyle away from you. He didn’t budge, though, the sweet boy that he was.

But then, he was also your first heartbreak.

He was your first. The two of you had gotten a motel room prom night. You thought the night went well, for your first time. But you woke up to him crying at the foot of the bed, fully dressed.

He told you he was gay.

He had suspected, for quite a while, but didn’t want to believe it, not when his parents were the way they were.

And how did your mother react to the revelation? When you went home crying to her? She laughed. She told you it served you right for turning your own Dad gay. He wasn't before you came along. And then you arrived, and voila! Bill and Frank happened. Clearly, that was your doing.

And that was the day you found out the reason she hated you so much. Turned out, she had hoped that she and your Dad would reconcile after your birth. Instead, he found Frank. Naturally, it was your fault. At two weeks old.

Your Dad and Grandpa almost killed Kyle, but when they found out his own father had kicked him out of the house for being gay, your Grandpa took him in, even paid for his college tuition. Try as you might, you couldn’t find it in yourself to hate him, much less be angry at him. So Kyle remained in your life, one of your best friends to this day.

And the boyfriends that came after him?

Well, the second and third boyfriend you had was during your early college years, just a few months each. Both broke up with you without explanation after meeting your mother and Nell. It seemed they were uncomfortable with the fact that your underaged sister liked to accidentally run into them while half-naked in the house when you were asleep, or that one of them woke up to her touching him inappropriately while he was sleeping on the couch, something your mother insisted, claiming she didn’t trust you enough to not whore around under her roof. You didn’t even find out until years after. They were just so uncomfortable they didn’t even want to tell you.

Eric, your fourth boyfriend whom you met at 21 managed to remain your boyfriend for a whole year. He was the first man you were in love with. He was the greatest. So caring, loving, romantic. He was the first person you actually started dreaming of a future with. You made plans with him. You were all set to move in together after graduation, saving money on the side to purchase your own place together, start a life together. You thought you were set. You were wondering if your mother or Nell had said something to your previous boyfriends, so you refrained from taking him home to meet them.

But your mother guilted you into coming home for her birthday, where shockingly, she insisted that Eric stay with you in your old room rather than the couch. She and Nell were so nice to him you actually thought they were turning a new leaf.

Well, you thought wrong. Nell went to bed early, but your mother, you and Eric celebrated until well near midnight. Eric went up first, drunk from all the wine your mother kept pouring into his glass. Your mother had asked you to help her with the dishes after the little celebration, and you walked into your room an hour later to a passed out Eric sleeping on your bed, your sister wrapped around him.

Naked.

When you screamed at them, Eric woke up, confused, immediately pushing Nell off him when he realized it was her, and not you. She had visited him in the dark room naked while you were downstairs, and he was drunk. He thought it was you.

Nell was sobbing, telling your mother that he had willingly taken her virginity, and now he was denying it. Your mother screamed at you to get out, telling you how worthless you were for bringing him into her home.

He swore to you he was innocent, and you believed him. But the two of you could never bounce back from the incident. So you broke up, both of you heartbroken. You didn’t see him for a few weeks after that.

Until your mother called and asked to meet. When you got there, Eric was there too, confused at what was going on, not understanding why your mother had contacted him too.

Nell was pregnant.

Your mother demanded he marry her. He refused, only to be met with the threat of a police report, for raping a minor.

You could see Eric’s face turn white. Nell was a few months shy of 17. She was underaged. And there was no evidence to show she had done what she did, although you never doubted his version of the story. Even she didn’t deny it. But now the story had changed. She now insisted that he had raped her. And there was nothing he could do to prove otherwise. Not even your Dad, who ran his own law firm, could help him.

Despite your break up, you were devastated. You loved him. And now you had to watch him marry your underaged sister? You’d decided to attend so that he would have someone on his side. No one was there for him. His parents disowned him. His friends left him. Everyone believed he was a child rapist. You pleaded with them to believe him. You did. Why couldn’t they? They called you an enabler. Accused you of setting the whole thing up. Of trapping him to get into your mother and sister’s good graces. You felt helpless. So you went to the bathroom to cry it out after yet another futile last minute attempt to get his parents to at least see reason.

Your mother walked in and found you, shouting at you to stop being so dramatic and be happy for your sister. “Be thankful to her,” she said. “At least now he won’t turn gay. You know it was a matter of time before you turned him too.”

You could only sit and watch as the two of them got married. Conveniently, she lost the baby a week later. And when Eric tried to annul the marriage, the threat of statutory rape was again waved in his face. And just like that, Eric, the man you were in love with, the man you had planned a future with, the one who was going to be a doctor, ceased to exist.

A new man replaced him. One who was drunk all the time. Who did drugs. Who dropped out of college and couldn’t hold on to a job. Your heart broke every time you saw him. Any attempt to help him was met with accusations of trying to steal him away from Nell. And he was just as stubborn, refusing to hear you, refusing help, refusing any kind of hope altogether. Three whole years you tried. Every single day, you tried. It came to a point where he didn’t even answer your calls. Refused to see you at all, holed up in your old bedroom, which he apparently moved into after he and Nell married, having nowhere else to go.

So you gave up. You had to. You couldn’t possibly help someone who didn’t want to be helped. And the headache your mother and sister was giving you, all the accusations, all the snide remarks about wanting him back, not to mention bringing up Kyle and your Dad over and over again, were not doing you any good.

Shamefully, you didn’t cut contact with them, still yearning for your mother’s approval, even if she had made it quite clear through her actions that you would never receive it. You hoped. You distanced yourself, but you stayed in touch.

But then, a year later, your Grandpa passed. He left you everything. His properties, his money, everything. He had learnt of your mother and Nell’s antiques by then. Not one cent was given to your mother or Nell. That, it seemed, cemented your mother’s hatred for you. She took you to court, unsuccessfully. Your Grandpa’s will was ironclad. And your mother declared, right there outside the court building, that you were no daughter of hers.

So you stopped trying. No more.

You moved on. Graduated, moved to another city, started your Masters, and met Andrew.

Five years later, you were living the life in this new city. Your life with Andrew couldn’t be more perfect. You moved in with him, and for once in your life, you were happy. Really happy. You loved him, and he, you. Your Dad and Frank loved him, and he, them. His family loved you, and you, them. You had completed your Masters and was carefully planning to open your own business, which he fully supported, free-lancing in the mean time for the experience. Your mother and Nell were no longer in your periphery, although you did tell him about them. Your Dad and Frank travelled to the city often to see you, they were even present when Andrew proposed to you. He had thoughtfully called them and flew them in. Them, and your best friend Maria. They and his family were hiding, surprising you with their presence when you said yes. For the first time in your life, at age 30, you were deliriously happy.

But as the wedding approached, he changed. He got distant, coming home later and later, sometimes not coming home at all, blaming it on work stress. Big project, he said, deadlines, the likes. And like an idiot, you believed him.

That was until he didn’t show up at the wedding. Just ghosted you. Just like that.

As you sat in your living room, crying your eyes out, Maria, your Dad and Frank, his family with you, trying their hardest to calm you, you wondered what went wrong. Calls went unanswered, texts unread. They all stayed with you for two whole days after the wedding, and he was nowhere to be found. You woke up on the third day to his family angrily packing their things to leave, demanding you return the heirloom ring he had given you when he proposed, and they too, left without an explanation, telling you that you should be ashamed of yourself, not answering any of your questions, nor your dad’s.  

So here you were, in Bali, on what was supposed to be your honeymoon, but instead of your new husband, you were here with your best friend Maria, who was passed out from jetlag in your fancy honeymoon suite. You still had no idea what happened. Still clueless. But, as tired as you were, you couldn’t sleep. So you decided to drink your sorrows away, hoping that alcohol could help you sleep, drinking one cocktail after another, listening to the young lady’s sorrows.

**********

You downed the rest of your now watery and warm margarita, taking a deep breath, finally looking at the five pairs of eyes, all of which were now downturned with pity.

“So, did I win? I could use a grand to drink myself to death in the next week.”

They all stared at each other, taking a deep breath.

The young lady who had challenged you lunged at you, hugging you, sobbing for your misfortune. “I’m so sorry! God, your mother and sister are awful people! I’m so glad you cut them off! And your fiancé, what a jerk! At least have the balls to tell you why!”

The other ladies nodded, eyebrows scrunched, unable to think of anything to say to you. The young lady gave her card to the bartender, telling her to put a thousand dollars on your credit. You waved her hand away, telling her you were kidding. That she didn’t need to pay for anything. You just needed to rant. Make sure you weren’t overreacting, that your life was indeed, a disaster, that what you were feeling, all the hopelessness, the anxiety, the depression, were all warranted, expected, justified.

They vehemently agreed with you. Yep. Definitely justified. The young lady insisted that she at least buy you a drink, just because. You declined, telling her you were alright. “Go, enjoy your vacation,” you told her. “Your life may suck, but at least it’s way better than mine.” You picked up your little purse and got up to sleep the evening away, feeling a lot lighter now that you had unloaded it all on these girls.

“Wait,” the young lady said, holding her hand out to you. “I’m Tracy.”

You smiled, taking her hand. “Aria,” you told her.

“I hope you enjoy your vacation too, Aria, and not let those jerks in your life take this beautiful place away from you,” she said, giving you one more hug.

**********

You laid in the hammock on your balcony, wondering how the fuck your life had gone the way it did. Why did he just leave? What did you do? Was it so bad that he didn’t even think you merited an explanation? Were you supposed to know already but didn’t get it? You searched your brain, thinking about anything you might have missed. Did you perhaps say something? Do something he didn’t like that he had always complained about and he just snapped and couldn’t take it anymore? Was there an ongoing argument that slipped your memory? Did you take too much money from the joint account? Did you scratch his car?

So many questions popped up in your mind. It was making things up as it went along, asking this and that, seeing if that was a possibility of him just deciding to leave without so much as a goodbye. Was it Kyle? Was it your friendship with Kyle? It was, wasn’t it? He didn’t like that you and Kyle were watching that show together, Face Timing as you did, even when he was a good 500 miles away from you? That was it, right?

But he liked Kyle. He even called Kyle himself to invite him to the wedding. But Kyle couldn’t make it, his husband Ethan, who, incidentally, was your colleague first – you introduced them - was in an accident and had to be hospitalized. He only cancelled two days before the wedding, though. And Andrew had been distant for a few months.

Did you cheat on him with someone? Did you? You didn’t think so, but what if you forgot? Nah… that couldn’t possibly be, right?

Did you badmouth him to someone? Nag him? Shout at him?

Shit. Did he cheat on you?

That must be it, right? He found someone else and ran away with her? Or him? With your track record, you never knew. But who?

Could it be that new woman who joined his team? The one you met at the company dinner some time ago, she was just a week in, if you were not mistaken. The time sort of lined up. Vanessa, that’s her name, maybe. Or was it Valerie? He mentioned her maybe once, but you didn’t really know for sure. Oh, Vivian? Nope… Veronica? Didn’t sound right.

Danielle. That’s it.

But Danielle was happily married, you thought. You met her husband. Oh, well…  Andrew was happily engaged. Rings and marriage certificates wouldn’t stop cheaters. Right?

You felt as if someone squeezed your heart tight. You were happy. That’s what you thought. And he seemed happy too, up until these last few months. You felt blindsided. You didn’t even know what went wrong. You didn’t even have a definite answer. You didn’t even know where to go from here.

The house was his, it’s in his name, he was going to add you to the mortgage once the marriage was finalized. And now, what? You didn’t have a permanent job. There was a business plan, but now that Andrew had left, you didn’t know if you wanted to go through with it. He planned it all – what if he sued you for profit if you used the plan? Money was no issue, even if you stopped free-lancing. You had rental income from your grandpa’s properties, now yours, and there was the money he left you. But truth be told, the idea of going back to live in that city was giving you so much anxiety already you didn’t know what to do. What if you ran into him? You couldn’t go back to your old town, even the idea of being near your mother or Nell gave you itches, as much as you wanted to be near your Dad and Frank again.

What the fuck were you going to do?

Just four days ago you thought you would be here lying in this hammock with the love of your life. But now…

“Girl, I can hear you think from jetlag-land,” your best friend’s voice brought you back to reality. She came to join you on the hammock, laughing uncontrollably with you as the hammock swerved and tilted dangerously, threatening to throw you off as she climbed in and put her arm around you. You snuggled into her embrace, thankful she dropped everything to be here with you, although she insisted she was the one benefitting from this trip.

You fell asleep for a few hours and decided to order room service. You didn’t feel like meeting people. Frankly, although telling Tracy and her posse your story was therapeutic, you were rather worried that you would repeat that self-pity parade, and you didn’t want to. Where would that bring you?

But Maria begged you to come down with her. “We’re in Bali babes! Come on! mingle! Who knows, you might even meet someone to distract you!”

So you got dressed and went with her, making her promise not to make you meet anyone new. Dinner, a couple of drinks, and we will come straight up, right? Cross my heart, she said.

The restaurant was full, so the two of you made your way to the bar to wait. As you were deciding which drink to muddle your broken-hearted thoughts with, two glasses of vodka sodas were placed in front of you.

“We didn’t order these,” you quickly said.

“Courtesy of the gentlemen at the end of the bar,” she said, pointing at two men sitting together, another bartender handing them a glass of whiskey each, saying something to them while doing so. They looked at you, one looking much chirpier than the other, raising their glasses and taking a drink, looking impressed at what they were tasting.

“Oh, the one with the long hair is cute,” Maria cooed, raising her glass at them.

Well, a free drink was not a bad thing, you thought, following suit, thanking them for the drink from afar, a half-hearted smile accompanying it.

You were not even halfway through your drink when the long haired guy came to Maria.

“Hi, are you two waiting for a table too?” he asked.

“Why, yes we are,” your lawyer best friend answered, head cocking to one side, unnecessarily fixing her hair and dress, batting her eyelashes at him.

The fuck? What happened to not meeting anyone?

“Well, my brother and I just got a table, care to join us?”

“Oh, you’re so kind. We’d be honoured!” she picked up her glass and immediately went after him, taking his offered arm in hers. His brother was at the table, looking grumpy as fuck, seemingly not looking forward to dinner with a couple of strange women after all.

If you were to see your own reflection at that point, you would see the exact same look on your own face.

But… you were in a strange country, and your normally straight laced and serious lawyer best friend went through that vodka soda like it was water, so you shouldn’t leave her alone with the men who bought you alcohol. So reluctantly, you picked up your drink and followed her, who was already seated and talking to the long-haired guy as if she’d known him forever.

The grumpy one got up when you approached the table, pulling a chair for you, both of you still looking and feeling supremely annoyed at this sudden company for dinner. You gave him a reluctant smile, which he sort of returned. The two of you sat there quietly, hands on your glasses, waiting for your platonic companions to realize the table was now full. But all was in vain. The two seemed to think no one else was in the restaurant but each other. So you just got the waiter’s attention and told him what you wanted, and the Grump did the same before kicking his brother’s foot under the table, the latter and your best friend finally looking away from each other to order.

Dinner was quiet, at least on you and the Grump’s end. Maria and the brother didn’t stop chatting at all. When you finished eating, you told Maria you were going for a walk on the beach and then straight to bed. You doubted she even heard you, waving a hand at you without looking, still transfixed on the long-haired guy, who seemed equally besotted by her. You called the waiter again for the bill, but the Grump insisted on paying, grumpily, of course, just as you insisted the same, equally annoyed.

“No, you paid for the drinks, so it’s only fair…” both of you said at the same time.

Wait, what?

Your grumpy looks went away for a while, confusion taking over.

“We didn’t buy you your drinks,” both of you said, again, parroting each other.

Maria and long-haired guys stopped talking.

“Wait, we were told you bought us our drinks,” Maria said.

“We were told you bought us our drinks,” long-haired guy said.

The two of them suddenly got extremely giggly, at which point the grumpy looks on yourself and the Grump returned at full force.

When the waiter got to you, you asked for the bill, but he told you that your bill was already taken care of.

“By whom?”

“The person wishes to remain anonymous, Miss,” the waiter said, picking up the empty glasses, asking if you’d like anything else.

“Erm, no, nothing for me,” you said, still confused. Maria and Tommy mentioned they would like to go to the bar, have a drink or two. So you picked up your purse, asked the waiter to thank your benefactor for the four of you, and told Maria you were going for a walk, seeing as she didn’t really hear you the first time.

You were almost out the door when you realized the Grump had followed you. You stopped abruptly and turned to him, aggressively asking him what he was doing.

“I was just going back to my room,” he said, hands up as if worried you were going to shoot him.

Oh.

“You were going to the beach?” he asked.

“Yeah.”

“Let me walk you to the gate, at least? It’s dark.”

“I’m a big girl, Mr Grump, I think I could manage,” you said, before you could stop yourself, clapping your hand to your mouth at the realisation.

But before you could even apologize, he laughed. A pure, unadulterated, belly laugh. And suddenly, something shifted in you.

“I know you could, Ms Grump, didn’t mean it like that. My Mama would kill me if I didn’t offer,” he said, making you laugh yourself.

Two grumps on a holiday in Bali. Wonderful.

A group of ladies walked past, and you saw Tracy, smiling meaningfully at you, winking as she passed by, her posse giggling uncontrollably among themselves.

“You know them?” the Grump asked.

“We’ve met,” you told him. “Well, goodnight, Mr Grump,” you said, walking towards the beach.

“Good night, Ms Grump,” he said right back, standing there with his hands in his pocket until you disappeared through the gates.

When you got back about 30 minutes later, he was sitting in the lobby, still dressed in the same clothes he was wearing. Clearly, he hadn’t gone up after all, talking on the phone with someone. He hung up when he saw you, getting up and walking with you to the elevators. You didn’t punch in your floor number as he did his, exiting the elevator just as the door was about to close.

He smiled, “I’m not a creep, Ms Grump, just had to take a phone call, and now, I’m going to bed.”

“Better safe than sorry, Mr Grump,” you said, as the doors closed.

The two of you kept smiling at each other until your own reflections were all you could see on the shiny, highly polished doors.

---

Part 2

[anim-ttrpgs]

Hi! I haven't had a chance to play Eureka yet, but having read it a while ago and following your posts further explaining some of the philosophies behind it, I just want to say that, as someone with multiple disabilities, what you're saying here is really cool and i appreciate it a lot.

I was really hesitant at first glance, probably because of how long I've felt the need to justify my existence by minimizing the accommodations and resources I ask for, even (and often) to my own detriment. The whole idea of being a burden cuts in to that and hits at the heart of the insecurity, so it was a little hard to hear spoken so plainly. Ultimately, though, seeing someone acknowledge that there is truth to that insecurity - I am, indeed, asking for a lot more from the people around me than a fully abled person would be - but that it in no way undermines the worth of my own life was really fulfilling. So yeah, thanks lol

Thank you!

(some links to previous posts about this topic that are being referenced)

I know exactly how you feel. I don’t want to speak for all disabled people, but the shame of being a burden is something that I think most of us probably feel to some degree or another, and something that we would be better off without, which is of course a big theme of Eureka’s monsters.

Hell, even “able-bodied” people need to be taken care of when they’re kids, when they’re old, and when they’re sick. The distinction “disabled” practically only exists to determine who gets minor legal exceptions in a society where you’re only valued by how much you can do particular kinds of work, and plenty of “able-bodied” people do have a lot of things about them that hinder them but just aren’t visible enough or quite bad enough to qualify for the legal distinction.

So really, it’s something I think a lot of people could stand to unlearn. A little bit of selfishness is okay sometimes.

Sometimes, people take offense to the part of the metaphor that involves the actual killing and eating of other people by monsters, and say that the disability comparison works for the monsters that don’t have to kill people, but not for the monsters that do have to kill people, especially with the fact that their targets will often end up being other vulnerable people and not cops or CEOs or something. I have a few thoughts about that.

For one, well, the cool thing about fiction and fantasy is that it can present a more extreme and entertaining version of the real life problems that the art is about.

Secondly, for some of those monsters that don’t have to kill their victims or even technically have to hurt people at all to avoid dying, well, structuring your life around personal deprivation to ensure that you never harm or burden anyone else ever is kind of the thing that this anon brings up, minimizing their accommodations and resource consumption to their own detriment. “Disabled people should go without as much as possible and subsist on the bare minimum resources to sustain them” is pretty much the complete opposite of Eureka’s themes and I feel like saying that the only acceptable disability metaphor monsters are the ones that have a slightly easier time subsisting on the bare minimum harm without literally dying is not good.

Then there’s the issue of who they eat. Really, they can try to eat whoever they want, but the “hunting tables” that provide opportunities when (and if) the monsters go out looking for victims are primarily comprised of pretty average, often pretty vulnerable people, including old people, young people, homeless or just obviously poor people, etc.

One of the reasons is because, well, non-vulnerable people aren’t vulnerable. When a healthcare CEO makes decisions that result in many poor people being unable to afford proper medicine and thus becoming disabled, the burdens that creates don’t fall back on them, they fall back on other poor people. When a politician makes policy decisions that result in more people being unable to get money for food without resorting to violence, that increase in crime doesn’t affect their fancy gated community, it affects poor people.

I talk about monsters in Eureka as a metaphor for disability a lot, but that purposefully isn’t the only valid reading. A lot of them can represent anyone whose needs are impossible to meet without taking from others.

Eureka isn’t a masturbatory CEO-eating simulator because it isn’t about wish fulfillment or power fantasy. First and foremost that burden will fall on the shoulders of one’s own community, not the rich guy causing all the problems. Eureka (and future A.N.I.M. games like Silk&Dagger) doesn’t present a world as it should be, it presents a world how it is. And Eureka says if being a bit selfish and burdensome to your own community is necessary for you to not only live, but live with any degree of happiness, then that shame and guilt isn’t helping anyone.

Elegantly designed and thoroughly playtested, Eureka represents the culmination of three years of near-daily work from our team, as well as a lot of our own money. If you’re just now reading this and learning about Eureka for the first time, you missed the crowdfunding window unfortunately, but you can still check out the public beta on itch.io to learn more about what Eureka: Investigative Urban Fantasy actually is, as that is where we have all the fancy art assets, the animated trailer, links to video reviews by podcasts and youtubers, etc.!

You can also follow updates on our Kickstarter page where we post regular updates on the status of our progress finishing the game and getting it ready for final release.

Beta Copies through the Patreon

If you want more, you can download regularly updated playable beta versions of Eureka: Investigative Urban Fantasy earlier, plus extra content such as adventure modules by subscribing to our Patreon at the $5 tier or higher. Subscribing to our patreon also grants you access to our patreon discord server where you can talk to us directly and offer valuable feedback on our progress and projects.

The A.N.I.M. TTRPG Book Club

If you would like to meet the A.N.I.M. team and even have a chance to play Eureka with us, you can join the A.N.I.M. TTRPG Book Club discord server. It’s also just a great place to talk and discuss TTRPGs, so there is no schedule obligation, but the main purpose of it is to nominate, vote on, then read, discuss, and play different indie TTRPGs. We put playgroups together based on scheduling compatibility, so it’s all extremely flexible. This is a free discord server, separate from our patreon exclusive one. https://discord.gg/7jdP8FBPes

Other Stuff

We also have a ko-fi and merchandise if you just wanna give us more money for any reason.

We hope to see you there, and that you will help our dreams come true and launch our careers as indie TTRPG developers with a bang by getting us to our base goal and blowing those stretch goals out of the water, and fight back against WotC's monopoly on the entire hobby. Wish us luck.

[crienselt]

So I finished Oathbound last week (librarian perk in that we get the books early so they can be cataloged, and it was just going to be sitting there waiting for its shelf date. I mean, how could I not read it?), and I'm really looking forward to seeing how others feel about it because I think...I think I might be disappointed by it? Spoilers below.

I mean, I absolutely love Tracy's writing. It is so beautiful and engrossing and impactful. I still love Bree and will follow this girl off of any and every cliff, and I adore the rest of the cast with my whole heart. The newbies were great, as is the world expansion/deepening. The plot line of the missing girls was excellent and a very much welcome inclusion.

But...but I think I could tell that this book was not the original plan. None of the problems from the last book were solved aside from Bree maybe getting stronger? I do appreciate her journey here, and I can see how Tracy would feel having her explore her power and self outside of the Order and Rootcrafters was necessary, but I just...I don't know. I feel like everyone else was basically left in a holding pattern as a result? I guess maybe I was over anticipating it--the story as a whole and/or certain things, specifically. Like I feel like we still don't know much of the Moraines outside of Nick's info dump. And we met Natasia, but she and Bree barely spoke. Tracy was hyping Valec and he was great, but I'm not sure what she's referencing in said hype posts. The mulitple POVs were okay, though I remain slightly disappointed that it didn't stay soley in Bree's voice yet also dissappointed we didn't get more out of these other POVs. Are we ever going to learn about the other scions powers? And if this was supposed to be the book where Nick beat the golden boy allegations, man, it failed. 

Don't get me wrong I love Nick. He is a great character. But this boy cannot do anything wrong. Even when he apparently makes mistakes, no, he doesn't because it turns out it was actually just him protecting Bree. The way he always seems to know everything (plot points) already and knows exactly what to say or do for Bree, while really terrific, it just...I don't know? Annoys me? Hurts their realism? Because, honestly, I know people like to say Sel seems old (the way he talks), but Nick is the one that really seems the least like a real teenage boy. Sel's pretentiousness and arrogance and mood swings are very much a young adult. Nick with all his purposeful language and careful consideration is very much not a teenage boy. I guess maybe we chalk that up to being raised to be a king? I don't know. It's all just too perfect. Which feels like a dumb complaint because it's good for Bree. She deserves it. But it all just makes me shrug where the romance comes in.��

Which irritates me because I really WANT to like Bree/Nick. But I just don't. That isn't to say that I dislike it because that's not true. I just find myself feeling very "meh" about it. Reading Legendborn, it felt like more of a plot point than a grand romance, especially as so much of that book is really spent seeding Bree/Sel. Then you have Bloodmarked, which definitely opened me to enjoying Bree/Sel and if nothing else, the narrative had me actively waiting for and wanting that kiss to happen when it did. 

Then along comes Oathbound. I can tell Tracy was really trying here--so many tropes!--but a lot of it felt reminiscent of stuff she already did with Sel. The bickering, the attempts to hold back and mask feelings/inability to vocalize said feelings, the post shower torso ogling, the cutting short of an intimate moment because no, not like this*, etc. And I guess I just don't know what to make of the magical aspect of it all? Maybe I'm just not into destiny ships? It's like, okay, happy for them, moving on with life now. Not a ship that captures my imagination the way I want to be captured.

(I will say it is funny because I came out of Bloodmarked not knowing how Tracy could write a book like that if BreeSel isn't endgame. And now I'm coming out of Oathbound not knowing how Tracy could write a book like that if BreeNick isn't endgame. The love triangle honestly feels over. But, hey, I've no clue where the story goes from here. Maybe the poly people will have the day. But this book definitely did not lay the groundwork for Nick to have romantic feelings for Sel either, so maybe not? I think we're in nakama territory with those two, personally. All of this is to assume Sel ever stops being demonic. Not sure how he comes back from this or where this story is going at all.)

*Gotta say it was something to see Sel cut short their kiss in Bloodmarked because of Nick only for demonic Sel to use said kiss to try and hurt Nick.

At any rate, I'll be sat for book 4. I'll just maybe expect less?

[valentinoappreciator]

There's a First Time for Everything

A quick little drabble I put together after seeing the cutest radiostatic fanart <3 I haven't written for these two disasters before, so please forgive me, and don't be meanies about it ;v;

The post with the fanart can be found here: https://www.tumblr.com/byrdnight/768971048708374529?source=share Credit for the idea goes to @byrdnight, tagging you so you can read it as well :D

Media: Hazbin Hotel

Pairing: Alastor x Vox

Rating: M for Mature (nothing explicit, only a few references to actual nsfw stuff)

Word count: 2.8k

Tags included but not limited to: Established RadioStatic, implied / referenced Valastor, implied / referenced StaticMoth, light kissing, ice skating, first time ice skating, light angst???, but so much fluff to make up for that

Where else to read: AO3. Username: TheWeirdDane. Title: There's a First Time for Everything

Author's note: First time writing for these two, but I couldn't help myself after seeing the art <3 I hope it's to everybody's liking!

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

Dainty, white flakes drifted lazily through the crisp, cold air. Both were, of course, artificially created; things weren’t so fucked that Hell had frozen over yet. That didn’t take away from Vox’s almost childlike wonder at the snow, though. Alastor hummed softly and looked up into the red sky. 

“Are you about ready?” he asked with an aura of exasperation before turning his head to Vox, who was busy tying his skates. 

“Yeah yeah yeah, give me a moment,” Vox replied, tongue poking slightly out of his mouth, “these shoelaces are being annoying.”

Alastor rolled his eyes. 

“Well, you’ve got that in common.”

“Oh ouch,” Vox said flatly as he tied a knot on the skates’ laces and then stood up, turning to Alastor with an outstretched hand. 

“Well?” he said, and was surprised to see Alastor’s fluffy ears flatten against his head and Alastor turn a bit away from him. Vox frowned slightly, before figuring that Alastor maybe didn’t want to risk being seen with him in public like this. Well, he really should have thought about that before agreeing to go to the ice rink with him!

“Look,” Vox sighed, “if you changed your mind, you could’ve just told me so.”

“Would it have changed things?”

“Of course not. Now, come on, get on your feet and get out there.”

Alastor scowled up at him, refusing to take his hand. He crossed his legs and his arms, clinging to his microphone stand. Now it was Vox’s time to roll his eyes. 

“If you’re going to be a big baby about it, you can sulk in silence,” he muttered and pushed himself away from the rink’s half-walls to glide onto the ice. 

The cold air brushed against his face, and Vox took a deep breath in, closed his eyes, and let the breath out just as slowly. Oh, how he had missed this from his childhood! He vividly remembered going to the ice rinks with his mother and father. Remembered the excitement, the way he barely had to put effort into moving, the way his parents looked at him when they thought he wasn’t looking. Beaming, full of admiration. 

Like they thought he could get far with his ice skating skills. It was a wonderful memory. 

Vox kept his eyes closed for a couple of seconds, leaning full-tilt into the warmth of the memory. It was only him and Alastor here, after all, there was quite literally no risk of bumping into anyone non-important and cutting off their ankles. Unfortunately. It was an ice rink only for the absolute elite. Only for the most powerful of Overlords. 

He put one foot in front of the other and pushed the slightest bit, easily and smoothly gliding forward. Rinse and repeat. 

When Vox opened his eyes, feeling like all the passion of the Sun was glittering in them, he found Alastor, still sitting on the bench, still with his limbs crossed, still clutching his stupid microphone stand. But, as opposed to before, he was now watching Vox curiously, his ears perked. He caught Vox staring at him, and promptly looked up into the sky again. 

Vox rolled his eyes again before nimbly switching course, sliding towards Alastor with his hands behind his back. 

“What is it, Bambi? Afraid you’ll slip and fall on the ice?” he grinned and slid to a stop in front of him, shredding a bit of ice that landed on Alastor’s black pants. Alastor looked at him with as much disapproval as he could, which was a lot.

“Oh come on, Alastor,” Vox groaned and grabbed his arm, trying to pull him up. But Alastor was stubborn as a mule and didn’t budge. “What’s your fucking damage? I asked if you wanted to go to the ice rink with me, and you agreed. Now you won’t--- you haven’t even put on the skates?”

Alastor glared up at him, his ears flat against his head once more. He huffed and turned his head away from Vox. Vox groaned loudly and shook his head, both hands on his hips. 

“Should’ve fucking guessed,” he grumbled. “You really are just a big coward. You never try anything new and fun.” 

“Valentino begs to differ.”

“Fucking excuse me?” Vox hissed between gritted teeth, lifting one leg and slamming the skate’s blade down into the wooden bench so that he could lean down into Alastor’s personal bubble. He didn’t care if the blade got dulled from the action; he needed to know what the fuck Alastor’s problem was. 

Alastor growled quietly, pressing himself back against the bench as his ears went completely flat against his head. 

“I know Val fucks you regularly, so why are you acting like there’s a massive fucking stick up your ass? If you didn’t want to do ice skating with me, you could’ve just said so!”

“It’s not because it’s with you,” Alastor snapped back, clearly surprised by his own words. Vox blinked in surprise, but the fiery annoyance in his chest wasn’t dying down. 

“Then, pray fucking tell, what is it? Because you’re acting like a total prick right now.”

Alastor looked away for so long that Vox was tempted to push away again. Then The Radio Demon mumbled something. Mumbled. Not speaking loud and clear. Vox had to even look at his lips moving to make sure he was speaking. 

“I don’t want to look like a fool.”

“There’s no one here but us,” Vox said irritably, gesturing to the completely empty ice rink. Alastor seemed to kind of curl in on himself, as he sat there on the bench. He hid his lower face in his scarf. 

“I’m quite aware of that.”

Vox glared at Alastor, about to yell at him some more, when he had an epiphany. 

Wait... 

“Wait,” he said slowly, drawing out the word and watching how Alastor winced, “are you... afraid of looking stupid in front of... me?”

This got Alastor to glare back at him, ire in his eyes. Vox blinked down at him, utterly perplexed. Well, this was new. Usually, Alastor was so suave and nonchalant, so this came completely from left field. 

“But... I’m your boyfriend.”

“I’m quite aware, regrettably,” Alastor scoffed. 

Vox rolled his eyes once more. 

“I mean, you idiot, that you shouldn’t have to worry about looking stupid in front of me because we’re dating. I don’t care if you look stupid. You’re the prettiest motherfucker around.”

A beat of silence. Alastor blushed slightly. Vox cleared his throat. 

“Maybe don’t mention that to Val, though.”

Alastor was quiet, and Vox sighed. Despite the many layers of clothing, he was starting to get a bit chilly. 

“Look, Al. Just... I don’t care about looking stupid. Not when it’s you. My brand is perfection, but I’m not working right now, am I?”

“In those clothes? I certainly hope not.”

Vox pretended not to have heard him. 

“So just, please, relax. Put on the skates and join me out on the ice, please?”

Alastor glanced up at him as he dug his skate out of the bench. 

“I have never done this before,” he then revealed, again in a low mumble. 

Somehow, for some reason, this made Vox smile. A genuine, warm smile. The fire that had once been one of annoyance now became one of fondness, but he would be double-damned before he admitted that. Alastor was... willing to do this with him? Something he hadn’t tried before? Even if it made him look ridiculous? As far as Vox was concerned, there was no greater declaration of love. 

“That’s okay,” he said softly and cupped Alastor’s cheeks with his hands, the claws gingerly scratching through his hair. “We’ll take it slow. I’m a good teacher.”

Alastor huffed, but couldn’t run from the blush on his face. Vox smirked. 

“Now now, no salacious thoughts, young man.”

Alastor’s face went beet red, and Vox laughed gently. 

“I’m kidding. Come.” 

He pulled back and grabbed Alastor’s skates lying next to him before starting to kneel. 

“Please?”

Alastor was quiet for a long moment. Then he sighed deeply, rolling his eyes and putting his usual face back on. His legs uncrossed, and he bent down to take off his shoes. 

“Do you even beg this much for Valentino?” he asked jokingly. Vox grinned. 

“Only when he’s being extra insidious.” This got a warm and heart-felt chuckle out of Alastor, who proceeded to take off his shoes and replace them with the red-and-black ice skates in Vox’s hands. Vox tied them for him in silence. 

When the laces were done up and tied with a pretty knot at the top, Vox stood up without so much as a wobble. He reached his hands out to Alastor, who seemed to regret this whole thing, but nonetheless put his own hands in Vox’s. 

“I’m gonna pull now,” Vox warned, and tugged gently. Alastor followed, immediately wobbling and clinging to Vox. 

Vox would have been a lying bastard if he said he didn’t like it. Not that he couldn’t live with being accused of being a lying bastard. He had been called much worse, and much more accurate, things through the years. 

Alastor was wonderfully warm against him. He smelled nice, too. Well, Vox had to hand it to Valentino, the pimp had an uncanny ability to get people to present themself as nicely as they could. For Alastor, that meant taking actual regular showers and using cologne. He still hadn’t learned how to use a comb or a brush, though. 

“This was a mistake,” he hissed, ears flat and eyes closed tightly.

“Calm down,” Vox said soothingly and straightened, putting a hand on the small of his back. “Easy. Easy does it. Stand up straight. You can hold on to me if you need to.”

Alastor did need to hold on to Vox as he slowly, very slowly, stood up straight. His hands had an iron grip on Vox’s arms. In turn, Vox gently held Alastor. They stood like that for a little while. 

“There you go, that’s a good posture!” he praised, noting the flush going across Alastor’s face and filing this away for later blackmailing purposes. “Now, I’m going to go backwards, okay? You keep holding on to me.”

“No, no no!” Alastor yelped as Vox slid backwards a bit, forcing Alastor to move. 

“It’s okay, you’re doing great. It’s okay.”

He kept his gaze firmly locked on Alastor as he scooted further back. There was something almost akin to panic in Alastor’s eyes as they held Vox’s gaze, but Vox did his best to be calm and reassuring and soothing. Eventually, it had to rub off on Alastor. 

“See? You’re doing great!” he praised again after having moved a few feet and Alastor was still standing. Wobbling and uncertain, but standing nonetheless. 

“Shut up,” Alastor hissed, looking like someone spending all of his energy focusing on staying standing. His cheeks were burning red, his eyes wide open, his lips pressed together in a tight line. “Don’t patronize me.”

“I’m not. I’m being serious, believe it or not.”

They continued like that for a little while; Vox skating backwards and forcing Alastor to move as well. It was utterly clumsy and without elegance or grace, but Vox didn’t care. He was just happy - thrilled - that he got to do this with Alastor. 

As they went, Vox gave him tips and advice on how to move his feet and how to keep his posture. He wasn’t sure how much of it he retained, but he could see improvement after just a couple of rounds on the ice rink. He made sure to let Alastor know that his posture was improving and that his steps seemed to become more confident. Alastor glared at him, but Vox liked to think it was all a façade. 

Not that it mattered all that much, though. He got to be close to Alastor, didn’t he? And really, wasn’t that the stuff dreams were made of? 

“Okay, Al, you’re doing really great now. I feel confident in letting---”

“You are not letting go,” Alastor hissed immediately, clinging even harder to Vox’s arms, to the point that Vox had to stop himself from wincing. 

“You’ll be fine,” he promised.

“Vox, no,” Alastor continued, “you are not letting go so soon, you slimy little---”

“I’ll cut you a deal.”

“...” His ears perked adorably. 

“If you fall on your pretty ass, which I know you won’t, I will refrain from being smug and snarky about my superiority for a whole weekend at a time of your choosing.”

“You’re not superior, though.”

Vox rolled his eyes. 

“Look, do you want me to hold on or not?” 

“Do you want me to bully you around and prove how you’re inferior to me?” Alastor retaliated, even as he hesitantly loosened his grip on Vox's forearms. Now it was Vox’s turn to blush, but he played it cool with a little scoff. 

“As if you could.”

They glared at each other for a moment before Alastor let go of Vox’s sleeves. Very slowly, and very hesitantly, until they were only connected by Vox’s fingertips on Alastor’s hands. 

“Okay?” Vox asked, looking at Alastor.

He took a shuddering breath but nodded all the same, and Vox was filled with a bizarre kind of glee. Seeing The Radio Demon scared was a sight reserved for... hell, he couldn’t think of anyone who had seen Alastor nervous, let alone scared. Well, seen and lived to tell the tale. 

“Okay.”

Vox skated back a few feet, but remained within grabbing distance. Just in case.

Alastor’s knees wobbled, and he flailed wildly with his arms. Vox instinctively reached for him, but he managed to stand upright. Mostly. Well, somewhat. And, when Alastor got his knees under control, and the arm-flailing stopped, and he stood there, completely still, without help, Vox grinned widely at him. Alastor’s eyes were closed tightly. 

“See? I told you you could do it!” 

Alastor opened his eyes and looked around, then at Vox. His heart swelled with the thrilled surprise in his gaze. For just a moment, in this precise moment, Vox could feel his own childlike excitement at doing something all by himself when he had been but a kid. 

“You’re doing great, Al,” he said. Then he gestured to himself, waving a hand. “Now, come on, come to me.”

“Not happening,” Alastor said immediately. “I can’t move ever again.”

“Yes, you can, and yes, you will.”

Alastor shook his head so hard it threatened to disrupt his balance. Vox observed him for a long moment. 

“Alright,” he then said and skated back to Alastor who immediately reached out and clung to him. It was a highly unusual feeling. “It’s okay. I’m still really proud of you, Al.”

“Don’t say that,” Alastor mumbled, ducking his head. Vox stroked a few claws through his hair, carefully avoiding his antlers. They were always very sensitive, and he didn’t want to set off Alastor in any way right now. Maybe later, though...

Alastor instantly relaxed against him, even more so when Vox began petting his hair in earnest. 

“You did do well, Alastor. I’m not patronizing you or anything. I really am proud of you for the progress you’ve made today.” 

Alastor scoffed softly, but didn’t argue any further, so neither did Vox. 

They stood like that until Vox started getting chilly. Then he withdrew his hand, gently cupping Alastor’s cheek. 

“I’m cold,” he said, “do you want to go home?”

“Please,” Alastor mumbled, but didn’t let go. Vox smiled softly. 

“Give me a kiss, and then I’ll get us back.”

Alastor gave a quiet scoff, but nonetheless lifted his head. 

They exchanged a quick, yet surprisingly tender kiss, and as promised, Vox led them both back to the bench. They engaged in a bit of small-talk while they removed their skates and put on their own shoes. 

“Al.”

“Hmm?” Alastor hummed as he grabbed his microphone stand. 

Vox wanted to ask if he had overstepped any boundaries today, but he didn’t want to seem overly concerned. That would ruin his image. Thus, he instead grabbed Alastor’s scarf and hauled him in for another kiss, this one much more like the ones he was used to receiving from Valentino; deep and passionate, verging on being obscene. 

Alastor didn’t do or say anything. He just sat there, rigid. 

When Vox pulled back, he pulled Alastor’s hat onto his head and down over his eyes, laughing as The Radio Demon yelped and grumbled. 

“I love you, Al.”

Alastor snickered as he got his hat - and hair - under control. 

“A terrible decision, really.”

“I know,” Vox grinned as they laced their fingers together and started the walk back home.

[quitealotofsodapop]

Post-JTTW Stone Egged Au asks: Bad Ichor

Amassing some Post-Jttw egg asks with similar vibes of "reject gods. stay monke".

Hehehe many questions - main ref post here. Btw in future try sending one sentence questions/comment as replies to the specfic posts. sometimes I find asks referencing a post and I can't remember which one they're talking about.

Wukong in the au makes a concious effort to inform his cubs and his people of what his mother sacrificed to bring him into the world. Her statue and the paintings on the walls of Waterfall Curtain a tapestry of a ruler more fair and far grander that any celestial in the monkeys minds.

And when their little chaotic Eclipse twins found the Consort's resting place, more of Wukong's parent's sacrifice was uncovered. Along with the King's delayed twin brother Luzhen. The little prince grows up being taught how him and the "larger him" share parents, but they aren't here in person anymore but they love him very much. Luzhen has met his and Wukong's parents during the holidays that allow it and gladly runs up to Yē Lín and Shíhuā calling them "Baba" and "Mama" let he's known them all his life. He misses them a lot. But older Brother/Mama and Bama/Baba are really good to him so he isn't sad for long.

Wukong never lets Heaven realise that Luzhen isn't his biological child, as he fears the Emperor or Queen Mother attempting to sieze custody of Luzhen out of spite. The few higher up that know agree that baby monkeys need to be with monkeys.

Pigsy is still uber confused when Luzhen refers to Wukong as "mama" and "gege" in the same sentence tho.

Mac and Wukong are still super petty tho. They call upon their ancestors during the cubs' naming ceremonies to give their little one's blessings. And along with Shíhuā, Yē Lín and Guanyin making an appearance, the royal couple are invoked to send divine blessings of protection down onto earth. They know who's calling them. They aren't happy about it but they won't hurt the little ones.

MK is still a huge JTTW fan, even more so since to him it's like learning about all this cool stuff his family did back in the Before times! And he was there for a lot it! (even if he wasn't born yet). Him and his childhood besties deduced early on that they have *some* kind of family in the Celestial realm, just not sure who.

As for the Dragons:

Going by Ao Guang still being upset by the theft (barely, in Jttw his wife let Wukong have it), of the Staff, I imagine that dragon can be super petty. Ao Guang doesn't like Sun Wukong at all for the theft and the havoc in heaven, even if he was cordial to him during the Journey.

When the youngest son of the Ao Run/Ji is fatally wounded by the Samadhi Fire, basically every royal dragon had an attack of pstd to when they lost Ao Bing. They started to hate Sun Wukong for his recklessness.

Then DBK, Wukong's older sworn brother and godfather to his young twins, suddenly goes on a rampage forcing Heaven's hands.

The royal dragons basically took DBK's imprisionment as an excuse to bail out. Dragons don't like the gods, and they don't like Sun Wukong.

Mei's parents hadn't wanted to cut ties with the monkeys, but Mei was a super sickly dragon pup and Ao Yi simply couldn't emotionally deal with cutting off her family with that happening... her and Long Chen continue to send Wukong's family birthday presents, card, and the occasional letter - all covert like a spy mission. Other dragons who disagreed with the royals continue this practice as well.

And ofc S4:

:)

Nezha: "Jade Emperor, there's a message for you from Sun Qi Xiaotian." Jade Emperor & Queen Mother: (*super intrigued! Did he find out about their connection?*) JE: "Send him in." Nezha, peaks head out of window: "Yeah he's in." MK: (*busts through wall like a Looney tunes character, shaking with anxiety*) MK, like he's on fast-forward: "Mister Jade Emperor sir I'm so sorry but Azure Lion's got this memory scroll and he trapped my family in it. He tricked me and my friends into freeing his old buddies from the Brotherhood but he wont let my mom loose and NOW he has my baby sister and little bro (it's complicated) and they're on their way here right now to kill you and my powers are glitching out and I DONT KNOW WHAT TO DO!!!" JE: "Uhhh..." Queen Mother, rolls her eyes and turns to her entourage: "Prepare the safehouse. Contact all the bodhisattvas and the Kings of Hell, and tell our armies to be ready for a big game hunt. And get this child some peaches." MK: (*heavily breathing/mid-panic attack. gives thumbs up*) Mei, peaking her head in: "Wow. Girl bossing!" Nezha: "And Sun Wukong my lady?" Queen Mother: (*looks over MK like he's the most precious thing in the universe. like she doesn't want to let him leave*) Queen Mother: "For the sake of my daughter... find Sun Wukong's mate the Six Eared Macaque. He knows those Brotherhood brutes well. It's the least he can do for giving my grandson such distress with that disappearing act." Rumble & Savage, appear from the Queen Mother's shadow: "Do we gets peaches too?" "I like melon better." Queen Mother: "Who are these?" MK, calming down: "My older little siblings. They're twins. Azure didn't take them. Probably because he couldn't catch them." Rumble & Savage, proudly flexing: "We're too fast!" "And we got our bama's powers!" Queen Mother: (*notices little red tiger-stripe-like markings on the twins' bodies*) "OH!!!! He had twins! My love! More wàizēngsūnérnǚ! Twins too!!" JE: (*frozen stiff on his throne, completely shocked*) "Can the brown one repeat what he said about celestial beasts coming to kill me?" MK, blanking at QM's use of chinese: "Did the Queen just say-" Orchard Maidens, quickly shuffling the Noodle Gang out of the Throne Room: "SO! How about those peaches?" "You'll learn soon enough." "Sorry, but we're going into lockdown." "He's taller than didi!" "Must be mother's genes that did that."

Basically MK is calling in the big guns early cus he's panicking, abd accidentally uncovers the fact that he's somehow the great-grandchild (by reincarnation nonsense) of the two rulers of Heaven!?

All he wanted when all this Scroll nonsense happened was a day off!

[supmaww]

the video of my bug becky painting :) unmute for music!

details under the cut 'cause this was a fun piece and I like talking about my work

In case anyone is curious, the song in the background is "A melody better left unknown" from the Blood in The Bayou soundtrack. It's fitting for obvious reasons (RIP Kian ily, you down-bad failed rockstar), but it's also one of my favourite tracks because of how gutted it leaves you!! I'll never forget that feeling of dread when Grizzly started to write the song with Becky. God. My favourite scene of the entire series.

We never truly meet Becky in bitb, but she's my favourite NPC anyways. I could go on and on about her and Kian's relationship (and I have... let me know if you want me to dig up the post) and what could've been. She's the perfect tragic ex-girlfriend for this silly tragic story. She was dead before we ever even meet her.

I struggled a little with the colours of this, mostly trying to get them to show up on my phone. My monitor does not display colours correctly, so it can be tricky trying to make stuff bright and saturated enough while still maintaining the contrast I was looking for. I think I did okay, but ehhh I think it could be improved on. It still looks miles better on desktop. Sorry mobile users.

The flowers, red spider lilies, are an iconic symbol of death. I tried to think of something more unique and less overdone, but fuck it. Straight from google they represent "sad memories, such as last goodbyes or the death of a loved one", plus they're also linked to reincarnation?? Hello??? The fact that they're native to Louisiana and grow in bayous make them all the more perfect. They're Becky's flower, hands down. Plus they're spider lilies. Like the bug (or arachnid). Haha.

It's kinda tricky to see, but the front pieces of her hair floating in the water form little bug mandibles. Probably my favourite part of the piece. I got the idea midway through the sketch and I knew I had to follow through.

Speaking of her hair... it's brown. This is due to the fact I was referencing the very talented @/alkalineleak's becky design and got carried away with my beloved warm colours before remembering that one of the only actual canon descriptors of Becky is that she had black hair. Whoops. I adjusted it a little but alas... It's brown. In a desperate attempt to make her look less like Rachel, I gave her an eyebrow piercing. But it's covered mostly by her bangs. Oh well.

This is probably my first digital painting I've posted since I drew Chip as a werewolf for halloween last year (if I remember correctly). I've improved a ton since then, but I'm still learning. I find with paintings the lack of lines gives you wayyy more freedom but also makes conveying forms much more tricky. Though I like how it turned out!!

My art program crashed a total of four times, two of which seriously set back progress. Consequences of recording a timelapse on a computer that can barely run Clip Studio Paint in the first place. Still not as bad as my goobleck animation... don't talk to me about that

This was all a huge bout of chronic procrastination. I have actual art projects due, figuring that I'm in art school. I'm so screwed. Like a week ago I swore off fanart and yet here I am... didn't last too long did I?

I am no better than Kian and would also die and join the hive for Becky (bug wife! bug wife! bug wife!). I hope they're together in hell.

Okay damn I still have more to say but that's a whole essay and a half, so I'm going to stop myself there. It's also 4am and I gotta head to uni in 3 hours. God. Uhm... Happy halloween go relisten to bitb it's spooky season!! (edit as I am posting this the day after: wow, that was a bad idea)

[quincyhorst]

Hii!! I would like to ask if you perhaps have any headcannons or something on sengoku igajima??

Hello there! Thank you for your ask!

...I've decided to look through my old Ina11 docs/notebooks I had as to answer this, but turns out I barely wrote anything with Sengoku Igajima despite -also- being obsessed with them years ago ._.

I'm still able to remember few of the ideas I had, so I'll add them alongside new stuff. It is to say that most of these created alongside my sister; since we used to roleplay stories with Sengoku Igajima together <3

I like to start FF posts talking about their school, but... Until now I haven't thought much were SI could be. In their introduction they're said to be from 'Kinki', an alternate name given to the Kansai region (Where Osaka and Nara are). And the wiki itself also mentions that they could be from the former Iga province -mostly from the name and the referenced ninjas' origins-, which is now part of the Mie prefecture and its name is used for a city.

I personally picture the school being further from being closer to wildnerness, but not neccesarily on tall moutains like Senbayama. Their Matane no Kisetsu picture actually shows what could their village be, buuut it is way too far away. (Thanks again to @ ryuusei-boi for cleaning this up!!!)

Either way... The school itself has been founded and taken care by the "Igajima" family for generations. In origin times it served to help train ninjas during the "Sengoku" period with their own style's ninja arts, but as time passed and warfare changed, the school was forced to adapt into the modern times. Their techniques are still taught nowadays, but the school only allows to openly use them in recreative activities like soccer.

(This is mostly as to avoid getting in conflict with the authorities, because imagine one of these grown up ninjas participating in an assasination...)

The coach of the team is considered to be the current head of the Igajima family, and also the enforcer of the previous rule mentioned earlier. His age is totally unknown, but some on the school spread the rumours of him being around 80 years old age. If that's the case, then did he leave any descendants to take care of Igajima in the future? For now I'll leave it unknown; let's leave VROH to answer that for us.

(The Sengoku part of the name was something added for the school's anniversry after the 2000s, mostly a hommaje to its origins.)

Now, onto the players. I've seen many recent posts with Kirigakure and some with Fuuma; but I haven't seen anything with Hatsutori yet so...

His profile mentions he's the "keyman" that holds their teamwork together; but I think he also plays an important role with the actual relationships. He's the perfect middleman between Saiji -who tends to do things his way- and Koheita -who is strict about following rules and traditions-, and if it wasn't for his presence the team would have had a harder time on the Football Frontier.

Speaking of Fuuma, I like to picture him and Hatsutori having a close relationship, mostly because of them living in proximity by one another and a good relationship between their families. Fuuma tends to be very rigid with his code of conduct, but in few occasions he has agreed to listen to Hanzou's point of view instead.

The final characters I remember are Fujibayashi and Kousaka. They also have lived close since young, though this also means that the two have experienced many of Jin's usual sicknesses. Nagato doesn't mind, and in many occassions he has visited his resting friend as to give him some company.

However, his time at Sengoku Igajima marks a before and after, since Fujibayashi would become more interested on medicine thanks to Jiraiya and his frog oil usage. Similar to the latter he at first focused on traditional remedies, but he eventually switched to the actual medical field.

I like that during GO, he works for a small hospital located on their village, and every so often he visits Jiraiya's shop in search of useful things. Jin has worked there part time, though he is still searching for something to dedicate fully into. At least the support from family and friends has made him never lose his strength.

Apologies for my late reply, my classes started and turned my whole schedule upside down :'D I'll keep searching any old SI stuff I have.

Shoutout to the unnamed managers of the team, though. We decided to ship the both of them with Santa of all people LMFAO (Still a cute concept)

[kimberlyannharts]

LAST TIME ON.....VR Troopers? Sort of?

So if you're on a Power Rangers blog you probably know about how with that huge success came attempts to ride the hype by adapting other toku shows; from what I can tell the most well-remembered ones being Beetleborgs, Masked Rider, and, of course, VR Troopers.

When Prime first was announced they were quick to show off how the VR Troopers are being used for an official Power Rangers property for the first time in thirty years, and it's easy to see why. It's cool to pull characters from more obscure sources, and it opens up the possibility of others being used down the line too. So yay! Cool, welcome back, VR Troopers!

But what's confusing about it is...you'd think showing off how the VR Troopers are back would mean they're continuing the show, especially considering the show was cancelled before properly finishing its story, right? Well.....no, these are alternate versions of the characters. Well, that's okay, maybe it's a retelling of the show's general story but simply updated to modern times, like what the 2016 series did with MMPR? Not really, because this is set in a reboot of that series, in a new version of Earth with new lore - and the VR Troopers' role in it is fascist police serving the whims of a colonizing Eltarian society that hunt down Rangers and target oppressed citizens such as mutants, who are forced to live underground and scavenge for their survial.

So......welcome back, I guess????

It's VR Troopers #1!

= your dog is literally right there, man

= ignore the dad stuff in the first panel it's time to talk about the second one

= soooooooooo this issue gives no indication about where this fits in timeline-wise with Prime outside of "probably after #5" based solely on his comment about Valentina. That being said, the Troopers are a LOT more involved with the main series right now, with them capturing Mark, setting up a trade for Lauren, and from what the solicits imply, facing off against a Prime Zord. None of that is referenced, and it makes no sense for the events of this series to happen in-between all of that.

= So unless we get more hints of the timeline after this issue, my guess is (outside of, meta-wise, they want this to be less confusing for new readers who haven't read Prime yet) this series is taking place farther down the timeline than where Prime's at. Especially considering we have confirmation the issues are coming out every other month, which means this six-issue series is going to be drawn out until April of next year at the very least. So it's basically slowing itself down so it and Prime can be in sync by the time it ends. Why didn't they just release it later? eh. Considering how the VR Troopers' inclusion was one of the biggest talking points of Prime, I wouldn't be surprised if they were just quick to ride the hype and dish out as much VR Trooper news as they could.

Or maybe they wanted a series that would show the Troopers as the good guys so we don't hate them in the main series for being fascist cops. Or maybe both. Who knows! Anyway -

= oh boy, Robo-Joker? what's next?

= So for real, apparently this is a "Skug," the VR Trooper equivalent to Putties. Honestly I was very confused as to what was happening in this sequence until I looked it up and saw they can disguise themselves as humans

= HOTTIE ALERT HOTTIE ALERT HOTTIE ALERT

= Sexy implied robot body AND he's ACAB? sorry Ryan but I'm on this guy's side

= and so what if he's violently threatened hostages. Ryan also took a hostage whom the VR Troopers violently incapacitated and later used as a bartering chip to imprison an innocent woman so don't act like you're on some moral high ground, sir

= the other Troopers don't get much to do in this issue beyond backup for Ryan but at the very least I'll give it that JB was finally allowed to show some of his role as tech guy, as in Prime proper he's barely done anything of note besides fill the third suit. That being said, he still doesn't have much in the way of a unique personality yet, which is a shame

= Probably the most interesting thing about the issue is the confirmation that alternate realities will be a plot point, which could possibly end up connecting things to the 2016 series. The reality Mysterious Cloaked Guy is leaving even has a yellow tinge similar to the 2016 world's future, which could be a coincidence, but still noteworthy

= if the 2016 world really did fall apart thanks to Billy we all gotta beat his ass I'm sorry

= soooooo yeahhhhhh it's already pretty obvious as to what's going on here. It's almost TOO obvious to the point where you want to think it could be a red herring, but after catching the fact Mysterious Cloaked Guy has a copy of Ryan's photograph on a reread, it's hard to deny the fact that this is probably Tyler Steele, who rather than dying in his experiment, got zapped to some bad alternate world. I guess the real mystery is meant to be what exactly he's doing and what happened to him in the first place, but part of me wishes they just outright showed him as Tyler Steele to get it out of the way.

I did see another theory that it could be an alternate Ryan Steele as a twist, but......I've also kinda learned to stop overthinking theories when it comes to these comics lol

[thr0wnawayy]

Deku: The Doll (1/2)

Authors Note: This one's pretty heavy. I'm going to be honest, this was a hard one to write. But I think it encapsulates how severe things have gotten in the past 5 years since the war.

Warnings for vomiting, referenced mutilation and referenced SA.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Hosu District, Suiseki Junior High. (1 Year after the Incident Report)

Red.

For as far as the eye can see, there was red.

All over the room, it coated every surface.

It was in her clothes, in her hair.

She could taste it on her pallette.

Seeping, staining...

She'd done it.

The quirkless bitch had done it.

She'd triumphed over her tormentors and all it took was a baseball bat stashed in her (on her third now) guitar case.

The stench hit her nose before her vomit did. She barely made it to the bucket she'd placed in advance.

Deku, that is what they called her. A doll to be played with and pulled apart. No matter where she went, she could never escape the torment.

By this point crude kanji had been etched into every section of skin like sacrificial tomes. Yet the one that stood out the most, the one she hated was the one from that day.

木

偶

Originally it had just been a simple line, a remnant from the surgical procedure that saved her life, at the cost of her voice.

Then her teachers found out that their golden calf could no longer be of service, so they cast her into the flames. Just as they had all those years ago when her diagnosis first came through.

A destroyed textbook here, a curved grade there. It didn't matter Deku could work twice as hard as they could push against.

Then they got older, Her classmates taunts became more pointed, Their moves more bold.

Shoving, slurs and occasionally using her as quirk practice quickly became the new norm.

The teachers ignored her, or worse some would join in.

The gym teacher in particular had loved making (false) comments about her iq or using her as a demonstration.

Still she persisted, learning to simply ignore the comments. That was until some of her classmates got fed up with her disinterested attitude.

If you asked her, Deku would "say" this was the point that her glasses came off, the point she couldn't ignore her reality.

The multiple sets of hands holding her down as she writhed. The box cutter gliding across her flesh. The laughter, Deku remembers the laughter the most.

They left her there in the empty 7th grade classroom, not even checking to see if they cut too deep. (They hadn't, if only by miracle)

The janitor called the paramedics, she'd been lying in a shallow puddle of her own blood.

-- had become 木 and beneath it lay 偶. Displayed on her throat for all to see and mock.

Not even a police report, it had only gotten worse from there afterwards.

The touches and hits turned, personal and more dangerous. Shoved down flights of stairs, stolen clothes, destroyed property.

Burns, burns, BURNS, BURNS-

As she matured, they became more forward. Some of her classmates found alternative uses for their quirks.

They found a much more unpleasant use for her.

Deku vomited into the bucket again, before looking around to see the mess she caused.

Deku stifled a "laugh".

They'd always called her a freak, now she really was one.

Did she enjoy it in that way though, no.

She manages to keep down the nausea this time.

Now all Deku needed to do was-

Deku realized she couldn't remember her name. Did she even have parents?.

No, all of her stuff was at the orphanage.

Deku scraped her memory as she pulled out the specialized blue plastic bin from the walk-in closet.

She'd brought her own hacksaw, pulling it from it's hiding spot (also in her guitar case) and taking off the sheath.

Putting on her butchers apron with care, she reached under a specific desk for her final supplies.

It was time to get to work.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

After 3 hours of work, she was done. The unused shower looked spotless, she looked disheveled (as she did after any good beatdown) but otherwise clean.

All evidence and tools literally poured down the drain, perfectly to plan.

Her alibi was perfect, it's not like anyone checked on her anyways. So they'd have only word of mouth to go off of and with the rumors she'd spread.

They weren't getting a clear picture any time soon.

Her junior high had lost any funding for any real security after the SC placed it elsewhere. So there was no chance of her getting caught on any video feed.

Her peers were also out of the equation, it's why she waited for the week's end to roll around. Besides her tormentors, everyone just wanted to go home.

The section of the school she'd chose had been abandoned shortly after the Liberation War, leaving her free to move around without disturbance which was needed for her exit.

Deku packed up her belongings and lept out from the window, pulling on the string attached to the wood block keeping it open.

The window locked with a slam, having lost the one thing keeping it open.

Upon landing on the sandy floor, Deku slipped into the nearby alley and out of sight.

She didn't have to go up to the orphanage's door to know it was locked.

Deku did her usual routine, just like when they forgot to let her or the other kids in.

She grabbed onto the gutter-pipe and began to climb. It wasn't long before she reached her dorm. She popped the lock and silently slid inside.

One could describe her room as 'frugal'. A set of dumbells laid in the corner next to her shitty TV and gaming system, all sat on the floor.

Across from her closet, a potted plant sat on her laptop desk and her bed laid half done in the corner by her right. (she palmed her face as she realized she'd locked the door again).

Deku wanted a nap, but she needed a bath first.

Deku started the bath and began to undress, she figured she deserved a treat after going through that whole ordeal.

Normally she hated baths, it meant staring at her body for too long. Being reminded of what she'd suffered through.

Steam began to fill the room, prompting Deku to look into the mirror before it fogged.

She gazed upon her skinny yet surprisingly fit form.

To anyone outside of Japan, she'd be a tragedy. Every spare inch of Deku's body was covered in some kind of scar.

Lictenberg fractures, stab wounds, scabs, old burn marks and of course there was Kanji. A massive scar lay on her hip from where a shard of metal had once lodged itself.

She worked her way up her body more of the same, no place was off limits. Nothing was sacred.

Deku brought her right arm up to the mirror. She looked at her forearm's underside, the word "cocksleeve" had long since been burnt off but she knew what it was.

One of her classmates, a boy able to grow extra limbs from his mass, had marked it there, it was one of his favorite insults to use while he and the others-.

She gagged, slapping herself across the cheek to stop that train of thought from derailing.

After washing herself up, Deku finally sank into the bath and let her mind drift off.

'Let's see what tomorrow brings', she thought as she allowed herself to unwind.

[meaculpameahugeculpa]

Heyy, no worries about "replying late" that's not a thing, there's no deadline here, I LOVED reading your new addition to this

I'm starting a new thread, for simplicity's sake, it took me so long to scroll and find things you were referencing and then find the bottom of the post again, so here it goes:

"It's about the "intention" behind the work. "

Hmmm, I'm more of an "It's about what you take from the work" type of person, I feel resourceful watching horror for the whump, or other genres for the horror and stuff like that.

"Honestly, it's a fictional space in which softness, and strong, even "benevolent" emotions are allowed to be shown, without anyone questioning you (Or you questioning yourself): because yes! I FEEL BAD FOR HER! Wanna complain? No, I don't care that she is [insert morally heinous stuff], hahah!"

YESYESYESYES but also no, because I don't really feel the pity? I love them as they are, if they're all beaten and bloody and barely alive, I love them that way, if they're the one committing atrocities, I love them for it. To me it's about unconditional and radical acceptance, not pity or even necessarily compassion. The end result is the same though.

"It's a genre that forces you to question the people, the places, the ideas that make you feel safe, and makes those same safe spots terrifying and alienating."

DAMN that's so interesting!! To me horror is freedom to experience hars/strong feelings in a controlled manner. It's about the complete safety of having a say in what I want to go through emotionally, that I otherwise wouldn't have the luxury of, because things happen in real life that I have an immediate reaction to if I like it or not. Watching a favourite horror movie or show is an incredibly comforting thing to me, because when I know what emotions I'm about to experience, I can process them and deal with them, even with the strongest fear/horror/sadness without it becoming immediately overwhelming.

I can't say I've seen a lot of horror movies (I've seen quite a few, but not nearly enough), but my all time favourite shows are all horror, I stopped counting how many times I've seen them.

To me feeling alienated and unsafe is the baseline experience of being alive, it actually makes sense why this genre is so near and dear to my heart.

"Also, I need context for everything, to be honest. And sometimes it's just because of convenience: your villain's backstory might not be extremely convincing in a "regular" context, but it just makes sense if your story takes place in that City™️, for example, haha. "

This is such a struggle for me, because I don't really like the Context™, I'm unfortunately far too focused on the actions and the characters, it takes a lot for me to take an interest in the world built around them. HOWEVER. If I don't have an entirely functional, well-established, meticulously planned world/city/magic system/whathaveyou, I'm a ✨bad writer✨ xd

I kinda like writing stuff like this and getting into it, I don't care much for reading about it. Like, if I can pick up things about the Context™ or the City™ over the course of multiple chapters I'm the happiest with that.

"But those archetypes (villain/hero, in this case) facilitate the establishment of that dynamic" Oh yes they absolutely do!! And what a great job they do at it, it really is perfect. I just really like to see regular guys do horrible things for funsies and pick and prode at them to tell me why they did it. This, yet again, comes down to the micro or macro environment lens, through which we see whump. I like the little internal world that can only be created by two people, or better yet, one person (when the whumper character becomes the whumpees whole world, then it's literally just the whumpee in their own little microcosm).

"Unfortunately, a lot of women have been killed this year in my country, too, they were all femicides: it's not the same thing, but it's still oppression rooted in patriarchy and cisheteronormativity. "

That's absolutely horrifying, I'm so sorry to hear that. It isn't the same thing, it's terrible in a different way, people losing their lives are not comparable to people losing their rights, because we can still fight. The state of the world right now is devastating. You stay safe too!!!

"In my opinion, this conversation is inherently an act of rebellion to the system that you are living in: we are here, we are exchanging ideas, we are people and this is a manifestation of our humanity, and no one can take this away from us. Everyone reading is a witness. They don't want you to exist? You have been existing in my mind for three/four days now, haha. I've thought a lot about what we have discussed here. Nobody can wipe you out of my mind. Also, this conversation will probably exist here, on the Internet, for decades: the hope that, maybe, one day, it will reach better times makes me always feel more positive."

I just love this whole paragraph to bits, no notes, it's absolutely perfect. Also I'm living in your head rent free that's so nice!!!

"Heyy, no worries about "replying late" that's not a thing, there's no deadline here, I LOVED reading your new addition to this"

Thank you for saying this! School is literally killing me! The appreciation is reciprocal!

"Hmmm, I'm more of an "It's about what you take from the work" type of person, I feel resourceful watching horror for the whump, or other genres for the horror and stuff like that."

That's a very interesting point! Like, I could draw a parallel between this and me getting whumperflies from watching theatrical representations of Greek tragedies, haha! Does it make sense? No. Is it good shit? Absolutely yes, and nobody will stop me lol! (Why is the Antigone so good for that? God hahah!)

"YESYESYESYES but also no, because I don't really feel the pity? I love them as they are, if they're all beaten and bloody and barely alive, I love them that way, if they're the one committing atrocities, I love them for it. To me it's about unconditional and radical acceptance, not pity or even necessarily compassion. The end result is the same though."

That's surely a component too! Whump is a celebration of the character, it's an exaltation of their traits and story: you do not whump characters that you don't like! Also, the: "Let's just accept that this exists" is very important, too. As I've previously mentioned, Whump helps me deal with with incoherence, with AMBIVALENCE and to accept these two things: "Whumpee is whumper, but whumpee is villain, and whumper is hero, but whumper is caretaker! Also, whumpee thinks that whumper will hit them, but whumper does not want to do that, but whumper has hurt whumpee before, so hasn't whumpee gotta a point?", like this is just... so confusing, but in a way that feels extremely comforting to me! The trouble communicating, the characters' inability to detect and understand each others' intentions, it's just... rewarding!

"...because when I know what emotions I'm about to experience, I can process them and deal with them, even with the strongest fear/horror/sadness without it becoming immediately overwhelming."

Yep, it gives you control about the situation! It makes me think about a famous song, it's Vicarious by TOOL: it serves as a critique to the spectacularization of violence and tragedy, often accompanied with dehumanization, and while I think that this is the complete opposite of Whump, the sentence "Because I need to watch things die, from a distance" quickly to my mind.

"f I don't have an entirely functional, well-established, meticulously planned world/city/magic system/whathaveyou, I'm a ✨bad writer✨ xd"

Disagree! You should write whatever you want, full stop!

"This, yet again, comes down to the micro or macro environment lens, through which we see whump."

And yeah, I understand your point of view! I honestly see a lot of value in both of these approaches!

"That's absolutely horrifying, I'm so sorry to hear that. It isn't the same thing, it's terrible in a different way, people losing their lives are not comparable to people losing their rights, because we can still fight. The state of the world right now is devastating. You stay safe too!!!"

We are going to make it! And as I said, until then, we still exist, and we'll always do!

"o I'm living in your head rent free that's so nice!!!"

YESSS! You are!