#she hates bill. so she's making fun of HIM directly.

[the-californicationist]

Let's get you to 100, new gif addition and prompt ask!

Reader likes being controlled, even as she chafes against it, but there's only 1 person she wants to have that privilege.

You decide who, have fun writing lovely 😏

heyyy!! im backkkkkkk 😘 sorry for the wait! had to go on a bit of a hiatus, so thanks for being patient. and thank you so much for the ask!! sexy as hell babes omg. hope you like it. i went a little overboard on the word count sorry 🫣

TW: light bdsm and contol themes, rough sex

Soft Reins

His voice followed you down the wet sidewalk as you made your escape, striding in long reaching steps to put more distance between yourself and your apartment. 

“C’mon, bonnie! Ye cannae walk in this shite. It’s pissin’ down. Bonnie!”

You waved and smiled up at Soap as he hung over the balcony of your shared space, a deep frown pasted across his mouth as he tried to dodge the raindrops. 

Living with the boys, as you lovingly called them, was full of challenges. For one, they seemed to be oblivious to deep cleaning of any kind, and if you didn’t have the primary school style chore chart hanging on the fridge, your whole house would descend into chaos. The only exception was their captain, and his standards were thankfully on par with your own. 

But, even worse, they were nosey. They seemed to love to be in your business, always making excuses to join you on nights out, standing in an all-too-intimidating pack when you brought home dates from said outings. Even Price was not above casually bullying an unsuspecting potential someone. It was enough to drive a girl mad.

You never got a call back. Any bloke brave enough to follow you back to your place, flanked by your surly entourage, was only as courageous as he needed to be to get his dick wet. After that, he’d ghost you. There were plenty of eligible partners who had much less intimidating roommates. 

In the past year, the longest relationship you had was with a man who didn’t make it over to your house for nearly four months. You had gone through all sorts of trouble to keep the boys from finding out about him, and you guarded his address like it was the nuclear launch codes. You thought you were in the clear when the team had to leave for another deployment, but one morning — when you were wearing only your boyfriend’s tee shirt — they decided to come tromping back in, totally unannounced. 

It was all over, then. Back to the drawing board. 

Gaz was the worst offender by far. Once, when you had planned a spa date for yourself, you’d been treated to all sorts of services that you didn’t order. The staff kept insisting that it was complimentary, but you knew in your heart that it wasn’t. By the end of the visit, you were left fretting about the bill. But, when you walked up to the counter, you discovered that it had already been paid. 

 “Oh! Your mister called it in. Already paid.” The clerk’s smile was blinding in only the way a clerk’s smile could be.

“And who is the mister?” You smiled to yourself, not with much joy, shoving your credit card back into your wallet.

“Well, he said he was your mister. A Mr. Garrick?”

Of course. 

You had only to turn around to see his shining red Beamer revved and waiting to take you to lunch. Gaz’s sunglasses gleamed in the daylight as he grinned down at you, standing over his car, his elbows resting on the roof, smug as could be.

You met him in the parking lot, bags and bags of essential oils and spa creams, heavy in your hands.

“Kyle,” you said curtly, “What did you do?”

“Nothin’, babes. Get in. We’ve got a table at that sushi joint you like.”

You complained that Gaz was overstepping. You moaned about Soap being heavy-handed. You lost your temper when you found the fourteenth Air Tag that Ghost had sewn into the bottom of your trainers. It was too much. You hated feeling trapped, and you thrived in your independence. But, living with these men meant that your desire for freedom was directly at odds with their desire for control. 

It wasn’t their fault, really. That was who they were. They were good at their high-profile special operation world-saving careers because they were good at control. It was what made them great soldiers. 

But, one of them was far better at it than the others. 

Captain John Price didn’t follow you down the street. He didn’t chase you in his shadowy, blacked-out Evija. And he certainly didn’t need to hide trackers in your clothes. No; his control was insidious. It made your blood boil, and it had you questioning your every move. He had a way of making you think that what he wanted was what you wanted, and when you ultimately discovered his plans, you could only blame yourself. Price was the king of control, but that wasn’t the worst part. 

The worst part was that you liked it. 

You hadn’t been home for the holidays in years. Ever since lockdown, and your huge workload at your office, you just couldn’t find the time to make it back. International flights were hard to plan, expensive, and it seemed like something always came up. When you mentioned it off-handedly to Price, he’d comforted you, 

“Tha’s alright, sweetheart. I’m sure you’ll find the time this year.”

That was in June. By December, your boss had mysteriously found out that you had a full week of extra paid time off that you needed to take, and your credit card called you to let you know that your airline mileage points had doubled. It was as if everything in the universe had aligned so that you could make it back to your family. 

You’d told the boys over dinner one night, and they celebrated with you, happy for you to be able to finally live your dream. Then, Price had grabbed your phone, reading the email and going over the fine print. 

It grated on you, but you needed to learn how to pick your battles in this house. So, you waited for his approval, tight-lipped. 

“Double miles… ah, there’s a catch,” his voice rumbled in his chest, low and even. 

“What catch?” You panicked. Nothing could upset this perfect balance you’d achieved.

He pointed down to the conditions, and you read it for yourself as he told you,

“Says here they granted double miles for two tickets purchased.”

“Two? Who the fuck am I going to get to come to Saskatoon in December?” You sighed, head in your hands, trying to figure out how you were going to make it work.

“Well, the boys are heading up to check on MacTavish’s mum, but Kate’s got me on a leash. I can ask her to make me remote on this project, if you want.”

His tone wasn’t sly. It didn’t sound like he was hiding something. If anything, he sounded earnest, and it was such a kind gesture of friendship that he would be willing to join you in order to help you see your folks. 

But, that’s what wormed its way under your skin. You knew it was him. You just couldn’t prove it. Months of God knows what kind of backdoor, black-market dealing and manipulation, all orchestrated just to…

Just to what? Make you happy?

Inwardly, you struggled against your bindings, the invisible ropes he’d so carefully weaved just to have you come to him of your own free will, bent on your hands and knees, obedient and eager for your reward.

“Jonathan…” You started to resist, to rebel. Every time you started your sentence, you were stopped in your tracks by the cold, hard truth: He didn’t force you to do anything. You’d done it all of your own free will. 

That was how it had started. But, holy fuck had it escalated. 

Price was the perfect gentleman on your flight over, mysteriously charming his way into business class seats. He downloaded some of your favorite movies onto his iPad, even though you didn’t remember ever telling him that they were your favorites. He even snuck his way back to the flight attendants’ galley, laughing and joking with them, procuring you two extra desserts from the carts since you were such a fan. 

Then, he met your family, and he fit in perfectly. It was as if he was the missing member, a long lost kin, just waiting to be reunited into the fold. Your mother couldn’t figure out what had you so bothered. 

“About time you brought a good one home. Even your Uncle Billy likes him, and Billy —”

You rolled your eyes, 

“And Billy doesn’t like anyone, I know. I know.”

“Honey,” your mother looked at you with a sternness that she didn’t often muster, peering at you over her rose-rimmed glasses, “Why can’t you just let someone take care of you for a change? He’s a good man.”

A good man. 

John Price was a killer. No, he was worse. He was a CIA-funded, black ops, government-overthrowing war machine, capable of literal atrocities. You hadn’t heard much, but you’d heard enough. If any of these people knew how quickly he could turn a crowded room into an empty one, none of them would be looking so fondly at the way he snuggled with the dog or complimented your dad’s knife collection. 

But, that wasn’t why you protested, was it? If you were really being honest with yourself, the reason why you were so against letting Jonathan War Machine Price run your life was that it was yours to run. You didn’t need anyone’s help.

You didn’t need it.  

You could handle things on your own. 

You liked being able to spread your wings, fly your own path…

You were nobody’s puppet.

But, you were starting to like the way he was pulling your strings. When he would take the pressure of choice away from you, after you’d already been making a million other decisions at the end of a long day, it eased something inside of you in a way that nothing else could. It was like he was using those huge, rough palms to massage the hurt out of your head, to show you that it didn’t need to be such a battle, you didn’t need to keep fighting. He would do the fighting for you, and he was determined to show you that he was good at it. 

Even now, as you stomped through the rain, you knew what you were running from. You told yourself you were avoiding John, that you wouldn’t let him see you struggling to hold yourself together. After a much needed switch into a different position at work, the stress of your own expectations weighed heavy on you. But, you wanted them to. You wanted to know that you could still make it alone. You didn’t need John Price. 

But, you’re wearing the slicker he bought for you when yours got left in a cab.

So?

But, you smell like oud, saffron, and bergamot; the perfume oils he found for you at that local boutique you love. The same one he always compliments when he smells you wearing it. 

So?

But, you’re tired and wet and cold, and all you want is for him to tell you what you want.

So?! 

The soft, amber glow of a cigar stopped you in your tracks. A man was sitting on your bus stop bench, his arm slung over the back of the seat, his legs spread wide, taking up as much space as he liked. He was smoking slowly, enjoying every breath, savoring the flavors. Flavors you knew all too well: vanilla, licorice, sweet cedar, and whiskey. 

His sharp, blue eyes only met yours when you let out a labored sigh.

“What are you doing here, John?”

He took another drag, letting the ashes smolder, their warm glow making him look more and more like the Devil, a fallen man bathed in the light of a fire he lit all by himself. And damn proud of the blaze, too. 

“Just waitin’ for my ride,” he smiled in the way that a cat must smile at a mouse under its paw, “Do you wanna sit down, sweetheart?”

“No! I don’t wanna sit down,” you threw up your hands, “I want you to stop meddling in my life. You’re not allowed to keep making me feel like… like I need someone… some — Like I need someone’s fucking help. I don’t need anyone but me.”

His tone shifted in a sudden heat, like a flash in the pan, unexpected,

“Do you think I have any bloody help?”

Price let the question sink in before standing in front of you, his gaze never leaving your eyes. His voice was soft and gravelly, thick with smoke, and yet each and every word cut into you as sharp as a blade,

“Do you think anyone comes to help me when I’m deep in some bullshit, fuckin’ around in Rammaza? Just me, is it? By myself?”

“I don’t… no, I don’t know…” You hated how small your voice sounded in this tiny bus stop hut, the pounding rain drowning out your words. 

John looked at you as if he was waiting on you to find another answer, and then his face softened. He flung the cigar onto the pavement and crushed it out under his boot, smashing the tobacco into the cement without mercy. The object of his affection, once consumed, now snuffed out under his own power. 

His hands wrapped around your shoulders, caging you in, warm and safe from the wind blocked by his broad back. He sighed, his mouth drawing a tight line across his face, 

“Of course I need fuckin’ help. I have my men, and they have me. And I keep you here,” he jammed a finger hard into his chest, “Deep inside me, remindin’ me what I need to come home to. I’m not… meddling in your life, love. I’m trying to put you in mine. I thought…” 

He pulled away, sitting back down, looking up at you with a unique look on his face, 

“I thought that’s what you wanted. If I’m wrong,” he let out a dark, bitter chuff, “You need to tell me right now. ‘Cause all my plans have you in them.”

The rain made the plexiglass roof sound like it was shattering, over and over, the concussive slam of the storm created an oppressive din. He was waiting there, looking at you, asking for your next move. What was your plan?

“Am I wrong, sweetheart?”

You waited, trying to see how many steps ahead he was in front of you. If you said yes, if you said no; what decisions had already been made for you? Did he know what you were going to say before you did? And the real question: Why were you fighting so hard against something you wanted so badly?

You shook your head back and forth, just enough for him to see. HIs eyes lit up with hope and energy, a renewed flame.

“Then, come home with me. Quit bein’ so bloody hard on yourself. Let’s get you dry, love. C’mon.”

So, you obeyed. 

Nothing was more humbling than climbing into a squat little sports car when you were drenched to the bone. You curled yourself right into his cage, feeling silly for ever wanting to escape from it. Why were you pulling so hard against such soft reins? Couldn’t you see that he wanted to take care of you? To remove all of your barriers, to clear your path? You would be more powerful under his wing, soaring far beyond what you were capable of on your own. Why deny yourself a bite of the apple? It was ripe, the snake had promised, and sweet. 

He helped you up the stairs to your flat, walking you past his men as they gathered together in the kitchen, speechless, for once. None of them dared question their captain’s choices, and he had chosen you. More than that, it was clear that you had chosen him. 

Once you were in his room, behind a locked door, he held up a hand and stopped you in the entryway, shivering and dripping by the door. 

“Wait here.”

You waited. 

You waited some more. 

Just when you thought you would turn around and take yourself to bed, he returned dressed in a dry tee and a pair of running shorts. He carried two large, fluffy towels, and his face was set into a serious mask. All business. 

“Take off your clothes.”

You hesitated, looking at him to make sure you heard him correctly. 

He met your gaze, standing so close to you that you could feel his breath against your cheek. His chest was inches from your face, and you had to look up in order to meet his eyes.

“Take.”

He grabbed your phone out of your hand and dropped it on his entry table.

“Off.”

He rucked the jacket off of your back, peeling it down your arms and letting it fall to the ground with a wet slap.

“Your.” 

His fingers pulled the tie out of your ruined braid, letting the elastic roll onto his wrist. 

“Clothes.”

His hands went back to his side. It was up to you to do the rest. He wasn’t here to do everything for you. You were not his plaything. You had to choose to obey him. He wanted to watch you choose to follow his orders, not because you needed to, but because you wanted to.

Slowly, and a bit unsure, you began to shed your layers. You started with your shirt, almost knocking into him with your elbows since he was towering over you, standing in your space. Then, you writhed out of your jeans, peeling them off of your legs, kicking away your shoes in the process, stepping gingerly out of your socks, needing to hold onto his thick trunk for balance. 

Now, in just your bra and panties, you waited, hoping he’d hand you a towel. 

“What did I say?” He asked in a hushed tone, the timbre containing just enough warning to make your cheeks hot. 

“No, John. The boys are here in the kitchen!” You protested, whispering in a low hiss. 

This was beyond what you expected from him. You’d been keeping him at arm’s length, despite his constant pressure to be in your life. Sure, there had been moments of weakness. You’d shared a kiss, and you had let his hands wander when you watched a movie together on the sofa last weekend, but that was as far as things had gone. Stripping naked in the bright light of his apartment suite was something else entirely. Not to mention what sort of noises would seep out under his doorway if things got out of hand. 

“Stop,” he grabbed you by your face with both hands, making you look at him, “Stop fighting me. I am in this. All the way. The only time I wanna hear you tell me no is when you really mean it. If you say stop, I will immediately stop. Do I make myself clear?”

You nodded. He released you and put his hands on his hips, impatient. 

So, you slid out of your bra, slowly letting the cups pull away from your breasts, the lace cold and damp on your skin as it joined your outfit on the floor. As you rolled your panties off of your hips, stepping out of them and shoving them under your jacket with your toe, you felt more than just naked. You felt vulnerable and a little scared. 

What would he say? What did he plan to do? You realized, with a chilly shudder, that you didn’t even know his personal preferences. He’d never even given you a cursory glance into his mind, and reading his thoughts was impossible with that serious poker face. Most men wore their thoughts right across their eyes, or some (like Soap) even muttered them aloud, unconcerned about any judgment or scrutiny. If a man wanted you, you’d know. They were an open book. 

But the captain was very hard to read. 

Suddenly, as you stood back up, warring with your own mind, you were surrounded in fuzzy, comforting warmth. He was drying you off, wiping your arms and legs with reverent care, squeezing the rain out of your hair, using the corner of the cloth to wipe your face, holding you in his arms when you felt weak, off-balance, exhausted. 

It seemed as if the more you relaxed into him, the more power you gave up, the more it began to stoke his fire. While you became soft and pliant, he shifted into a fierce protector, covering you with his hands, bracing you with his heavy bones.

Price wrapped your hair into a high bun with an unexpected level of skill, and he carefully stretched your hair tie around it. When he turned to face you, you caught him staring at your body, raking his eyes over your breasts and studying the curve of your mons. It was as if he was groping you with his eyes, and each swipe of his gaze felt like a lick from his warm tongue. It was enough of an invasion that you wanted to put your hands in front of yourself, to hide out of some sort of shame.  

But when you made a move to cover yourself, the look in his eyes was enough to make you stand with your hands at your sides, allowing yourself to be on full display for him and that ravenous glare. He hadn’t even needed to chastise you. His mere desire was enough of a correction. 

Then, almost like a reward, he wrapped the towel around you, letting you hold it tight to your chest. 

“Tell me what’s goin’ on inside that pretty head,” he commanded you, his voice quiet but firm. It was just a simple question, but you knew it was loaded. So, you brushed him off, tossing out cheap bait, wrapping the towel a little tighter around yourself, hoping he’d drop it. You shrugged,

“Just cold.”

His jaw set with a click, and that soft purr became a warning growl,

“That’s one,” he held up his finger, “The next lie will cost you that towel, pretty girl.”

You stared at him blankly, trying to find a way through this labyrinth he had — apparently — custom built for you, sending you down twists and turns and dead ends as if he knew exactly how you’d try to steal back some control. But every way out seemed like a worse fate than simply allowing yourself to trust him. Nevertheless, you tried again. 

“I am cold, and I’m tired. It’s been a long day, John,” you sighed, shifting towards him, trying your best to take back the lead to his strange dance, “C’mon, don’t you wanna take me to bed?”

You reached out a hand and snaked it under the hem of his shirt, exploring untouched skin, letting your nails scrape through a dark patch of thick hair, right above his waistband. Your fingers got as far as his navel before he snapped. 

The cold absence of him ripping the towel away from you felt worse than you expected it to. In fact, you hadn’t actually taken him seriously. You protested, indignant,

“Hey! What —-“

“You think this is the same game you’ve always played,” he snarled, throwing the towel away and shoving you to your knees, his hold crushing and cruel on the nape of your neck, “You think, because those lads will eat any scraps you throw to them,” he nodded behind you, gesturing toward his men only a thin wall away, “That I’ll be satisfied with a taste, hm?”

His tone was mocking, and there was an undercurrent of darkness that lingered between each word like a warning, like the red of a poisonous berry that shouldn’t be picked and yet sagged ripe and ready on its stem. 

“You always get your way with them, don’cha? You know that a bit of skin and a little attention will keep them on you for days. And they reward you for it. They text you at all hours of the fuckin’ night, beggin’ you for just one more look, one more bite,” his mouth was right next to your ear, bending over you, casting his shadows across your face, and all you could do was kneel there, fully under his control, unable to move against his immense strength, “But, that’s not what I want.”

Your eyes dared to slant over to the growing monster that pressed its warm body against his shorts, hanging heavy and stretching the fabric, and you dared to hiss at him, even in your compromised position, using his title like a knife, aiming to scrape him with it,

“Seems like you do, Captain.”

He smirked, you could feel his smile against the sensitive skin of your earlobe, and you could see his almost infernal expression out of the corner of your eye. Even though you were trying to get under his skin, it made you feel like you were playing right into his hand yet again, helpless to his will. 

He stood up, never letting go of his grip on your neck, pinching the muscle like you were a caught rabbit, his writhing prey. Then, with a force that made your stomach drop, Price shoved your cheek into the crotch of his shorts, bringing you face to face with the outline his swelling shaft. Your nose was buried in the fabric, and you could smell the soap of his detergent as well as the musk of his sex that throbbed underneath. 

Then, he rucked down his waistband to show himself to you, pressing his length along your cheek, the softness of his skin surprising you just as much as the size of his thick, hefty prick. 

He held your neck in one hand and his cock in the other as he began to stroke himself up and down, letting your temple  and cheekbone feel the slip of his velvet foreskin. You could hear soft, wet clicking sounds as he coated himself in his own fluid, using the clear, dripping pearls as lube. 

You tried to move your jaw to taste him, eager to know if the heady, intoxicating smell of his skin matched his precome, hungry for his reaction to your mouth. But he stopped you, tightening his grip and scolding you like a naughty pet,

“My body wants your body, love. I’ll admit that,” he chuckled, not halting his lurid, jerking pulls, using your cheek for friction, “But I want more. I don’t want a taste. Or a bite. I won’t be satisfied.”

He frowned a bit, shrugging off his confession before he continued, 

“I want you to trust me. Trust that I’ll be here for you, that I’ll always be here. So,” he tugged on your flesh, forcing you to meet his fiery gaze, “Tell me what you thought.”

What were you supposed to say? That you were insecure about your looks? That you weren’t sure if he’d approve? That you were either too much or not enough and you weren’t sure which?

You turned your mouth as much as you could, trying to at least lick along the warm underbelly of his rod, aching to taste him, but he jerked you back into place, laughing at the disappointment on your face,

“Lips to yourself, love. Only good girls get fed.”

You rolled your eyes up to him, and you knew you had to make a choice. He was joking, but it was a façade. He was using it like a shield, waiting to see if you would actually relinquish your control or if you’d cut and run like you did with everyone else. 

So, you decided to trust him, giving him what he wanted, a full confessional on burning, bent knees, eyes cast up at your new master, praying for his communion, your tongue eager for his body and his blood and his love.

You made sure his eyes were locked on yours as you spoke softly, unflinching in your resolve,

“I was worried you wouldn’t like what you saw. I needed you to want me. I was afraid.”

The relief that washed over him was nearly palpable. His whole body responded to your admission, all of that tightly-wound uncertainty melting away in the heat of your submission to him. 

“That’s it. Good,” his voice was heavy with his relief, and he almost seemed like he was slipping into a trance, rubbing himself in steady, long strokes, shuddering against your cheek, “And what now, hm? You want me to let you go? Let you free? Or are you gonna let me in?”

You didn’t break your eye contact with him, but you wavered, sure of your decision but overwhelmed when you had to say it out loud. You squeezed your thighs together, feeling the slick mess he was forging between them, trying to find some comfort. You took a breath and told him,

“I’ll let you in, John.”

His throat held back a long, low groan, the pleasure of your surrender or the pleasure of his hand forcing it from his chest. You weren’t sure which. 

His grip loosened on your neck, but he didn’t let go. His voice was barely above a whisper as he told you his rules in hushed, broken phrases, holding himself back from the edge,

“You belong to me, now, sweetheart. You might be in charge at your bloody job, but everything else is mine. Do you hear me?”

You were going to answer him, you’d even planned to tack on a cheeky little yes, sir, just to show him you were playing along, but he had other plans. Always a step ahead. Before you could even breathe to speak, he pressed the tender head of his cock between your lips and deep into the warm hollow of your mouth, his wide form forcing your jaw to fall open to let him inside of you. It shocked you to be taken that way, not roughly but so certainly, with such surety, as if there was no other choice but for him to take you. You shifted, but with his knuckles tight against the base of your skull, you couldn’t retreat. Other than lolling your tongue along the body of his shaft, or swallowing against its drooling tip, you were powerless. 

His face twisted into a hungry sort of smear full of teeth and lips, grimacing at the feeling of being surrounded by you. Every inch that he drove himself deeper, his breathing would halt until at last, as he buried himself into your clenching throat, his lungs had emptied, and he was sighing with a ragged, guttural cry. 

“When you’re with me…” He continued his dark promises to you, the words choppy and broken, only threaded loosely together between panting gasps, “Even when I’m a fuckin’ world away, I promise that I will take care of you,” he pet your cheek with the softest affection, admiring you like a work of art, “All of you. You will sleep when I say. You will eat when I say. You will come when I say,” he smiled a little more cruelly at that, watching your eyes widen. And, as you began to wish for air, planting your palms against his firm, muscular thighs, ready to push away, he looked down at you with a lurid satisfaction, “You will breathe when I say.”

You were choking. You could hear yourself in the quiet of his room, your throat gurgling, full of your own viscous drool, escaping where it could along the stretched line of your mouth, running down your chin and neck. You felt the flare of panic rise up within you, and you tried to pull away in earnest, writhing against his grip, trying to escape from him and failing, turning your body in shameful futility. 

Price bent his face toward you, folding himself to whisper his lustful words, making sure your eyes met his, pressing your nose into his soft pubic hair,

“You. Breathe. When. I. Say.”

He kept himself contorted like that, keeping his face low to watch your eyes, to witness your struggle, and you felt hot tears burn down your face, the effort overcoming you. But, you wanted to show him that you could obey. You wanted to trust him, to show him that you were willing to give him your freedom, knowing that only he was worthy of such a gift. So, you swallowed deeply, watching as it made his eyes flutter, and again, and again. Over and over, you closed your throat around his steel-hard length, choking when it became too much. 

Still, he kept you there. As brave as you’d been with partners in the past, even those moments were fully eclipsed by this one. You had never even thought that you might be capable of holding your breath for so long. 

You were sobbing wholeheartedly now, your eyes reflecting your desperation, tears pooling and spilling across your face. He was watching you cry, whispering breathless nothings, soft words of encouragement,

“I’m so proud of you, sweetheart. You’re so fuckin’ good. My good girl.”

Just as purple and blue spots began to obscure your vision, he pulled himself out of you in a terrible, wet departure, leaving you clutching his hips, sobbing into his belly, watching his hard cock pounding, swaying at full height, swollen with blood and eager for its finish. You could feel those same soft, dark hairs matting down as your tears soaked into them. He ran his fingers through your hair, keeping the fallen strands out of your face, still holding you at your nape, but just to comfort you. 

You imagined him letting go, and you felt… sad, somehow. He would have to release you at some point, but you were in such a submissive state, just the idea of him leaving you without his guiding hand was too much to bear. 

Your cries turned to a twisted kind of grief, and when he heard your tone change, he dropped to the floor with you, holding you to his chest, rocking you back and forth, shushing you and talking to you in a hushed voice,

“Shh, baby. Tell me to stop. Tell me…”

You grasped at him wildly, uncontrolled, holding onto whatever part of him you could, shaking your head,

“No, no. Don’t — don’t let me go. Please, I can’t… I need… I need you to touch me.”

You planted one of your hands across his, covering the one that gripped your neck, pressing it like a plaster, like it was keeping a wound healed, like it was a dam in front of your frothing, vengeful river; it was a lifeline and you were adrift. 

“Sweetheart,” he sighed, “I’m not gonna let you go. I’m right here. Shh. Shh. It’s alright. I’m here. C’mon. Come with me.”

He lifted you, helping you walk on sore, shaking legs, your nerves sparking across your skin. Then, with his hand still firmly planted against your neck, he led you like a shepherd with his lamb, marching you to his bedroom. As you approached the bedframe, your thighs hit the mattress, and Price guided you forward until your body lay flat against it. The duvet was cool and smooth against your belly and breasts, and you tucked your arms into yourself, looking for warmth. 

You felt John plant gentle kisses across your back, trailing them down your spine, and after the overstimulation you had just gone through, even his lightest touch was electric. 

Your tears had stopped, but still you panted, sniffling, trembling from the shock of his careful kisses, waiting for whatever would come next. 

You felt his hips press against your exposed ass cheeks, his shorts now missing, and all you could sense was his warm, furry skin. You sighed into it, happy for the connection. 

“Spread your legs,” he commanded.

You complied immediately, all of your tortured resistance gone from you now, ready to trust him to take care of you. 

The unknown was what made your belly swarm with butterflies, and as you waited for his next move, your mind raced with possibilities. 

Would he be cruel? Would he punish you for your lying when he had first taken you in? His hand might strike your tender flesh, slapping your ass and leaving red, angry marks. 

Would he be lustful? Your mind fed you imaginary moments where he would press his cock into your pussy, skipping any foreplay, simply using you like his warm, wet toy. You thought that he wanted more, something more intimate, but if not, you would let him. You were his to use. At this point, you were so pliant, so open to his will, he could use you over and over and you would take him. It was a dark confidence you had never known until now. 

Perhaps he would simply stop. Maybe he perceived you as weak, as if you couldn’t take what he wanted to give you. He would simply comfort you, pitying you for your wrecked state. It was this thought that turned your stomach. Surely, he knew you better than that. John Price was not the pitying type. 

As the base of his cock lay nestled in the cleft of your ass, still as hard as a stone, his long shaft was shoved up against his lower abdomen, pulsing with unslaked desire. Then, as he settled himself, pleased with your spread display, John began to slip the very tips of his fingers into your pussy. He was just feeling your softness, plucking at your petals, laying them open with his hand, using your own wetness to paint your lips and the tight muscle of your hole, preparing you for more. 

His voice broke the trance that his touch had put you in, 

“It kills me when I have watch you putting yourself through hell. You are so strong, but you deserve to have everything you want. Everything you need, I’ll make sure you have it. I promise.”

He was so sincere, and his voice sounded so sure. It was like he was sharing an old memory, something he knew by heart. 

“John, please…” You whispered, feeling yourself slipping, slowly becoming untangled by his touch. You needed more, but you had no words. You could barely concentrate, and your mind was swimming in a liminal space, trapped in a loop of mounting bliss. 

“What do you need, sweetheart? Tell me.”

“I don’t know,” you felt your tears return, and although you were desperate for something, you couldn’t find the answer. 

“Shh, shh, shh. You’re alright,” John rubbed your back with his free hand, smoothing your skin with his warm touch, “Does my pretty girl need to come?”

You nodded, daring to glance over your shoulder at him as he worked on you, his finger now sinking deeper into you, gently prodding your walls in long, aching circles. His other fingers were cradling your folds, slipping between them with each undulating thrust, brushing beside the swelling body of your clit and making you throb with need. 

He felt it, and you saw a warm smile spread across his face,

“I can feel you needin’ me. So wet for me. Fightin’ me so bloody hard. Thought I’d be wantin’ you forever. Do you know how many nights I’ve dreamed of havin’ you under me like this? Fuck, I need you so badly, baby.”

You felt his grip tighten on your neck again as he pressed you deeper into the soft mattress, his prying hand picking up the pace. His thick finger finally slipped down to the knuckle of his fist. As he fucked you on his hand, you could hear your body’s slick as it softened for him, submitting to his power just as you had done, your body at peace with your mind. 

He pressed a second finger beside his first, twisting them together, curling the tips to rub you from the inside, making you feel the deep ache of your orgasm building within your belly. 

You tried to find more friction, rocking your hips against the bed, squeezing your legs together, needing more but completely helpless to his pace and pressure. 

Price stopped, pushing his fingers right into the tender flesh of your neck as a warning,

“Open,” he shoved your foot away, spreading them for you, “You keep fighting and fighting… fine. I’ll give you something to fight for, hm?”

You tried to twist your knees together again, but his legs stood apart, holding you open. Then, you felt his threat. He put the head of his heavy prick against your greedy hole, dipping it into your wetness like a seal into warm, melting wax.

“C’mon,” he squeezed your nape hard, once, just enough to get your attention, “You wanna drive? Fuckin’ drive, love. You think you can fuck yourself better than I can fuck you? Prove it.”

You narrowed your eyes, glaring at him, watching the muscles ripple and pop in his forearm that held you down, unwilling to give you full control, and yet allowing you to set the pace. You saw his other hand rub the curve of your hip, dropping lower to grope your ass, egging you on. 

Unwilling to beg, you thrust yourself down onto his shaft, gasping from his girth, only managing to fit half of him inside of you, physically unable to go any deeper on your own. But, you tried again, lifting away, sinking back, repeating your movements and reaching between your legs to rub your clit as you fucked him.

But, it wasn’t enough. You felt so close to the edge, and yet you couldn’t tumble over it, losing your rhythm, chasing it down, too weak to reach the peak you knew was right within your grasp. 

You grunted in frustration, and his cruel laugh made you turn back towards him again. 

He shrugged,

“I thought you wanted to be in charge. Does it feel good, sweetheart?”

“Fuck!” You gasped, trying to catch your pleasure and feeling it slip from you yet again, humping your hips against the bed shameless and desperate. 

“Tch,” Price gripped the inside of your ass cheek, shaking it and rolling your soft flesh in his hand, “Too bad, love. I wanted to give it to you. Shame, really.”

“John! Please,” you caved, sobbing out a short moan, begging him impatiently. 

“Please, what?” His question came just as he decided to press himself deeper into your body than you had been able to go, sinking into you like a hand into a glove, a tight, all-encompassing fit. 

You whined, rolling your fingers over your clit faster, feverish, ready for relief, 

“Please make me come.”

“You will come…” He stretched you, giving you no warning, the sharp feeling of his invasion making you catch your breath, “When I bloody tell you to.”

Then, as if to prove it to you, he stuffed his length into your pussy, never pulling back very far, choosing instead to massage you with his cock, using his base to stretch you wide before rolling away. The sensation overwhelmed you, and his size made your mind go blank. Any words that formed in your mind turned to whining cries of pleasure on your tongue.

There were no sounds of lewd pounding of flesh on flesh. All of Price’s work was deep and wet, churning inside of you like a volcanic sea, hot and untamed. He, however, made plenty of noise, praising you in every way he knew how, speaking in half-clipped phrases, losing his sentence to a groan of relief as he fed himself to you, filling your pussy like a hungry mouth. 

You felt yourself getting closer by the moment. Each grinding thrust was pushing you ever nearer to that gleaming, crackling fuse. He had lifted you, unintentionally, unable to understand the effect of his strength, and your toes could barely scrape the floor. You could feel your sacral core clenching around him like a delicate vice, grabbing for his cock, trying to hold him within your belly, some twisting grip of nature used to ensure that his creamy come ended up where it belonged, soaking into your womb.

Your clenching made him pause, which, in turn, caused you to cry out to him, wordlessly babbling, begging for him to return, to keep his pace. 

“Don’t you dare, sweetheart. Don’t you dare come,” his voice was like rattling brimstone, smoky and burning within his throat. 

“Please…” You whispered, unable to lift your raspy, keening voice. 

With shallow, teasing thrusts, Price used his cockhead to softly pop in and out of your soaked hole, swollen from being well-fucked. Just hearing a vibrator would have sent you over the edge at that point, and you fought him, trying to get any sort of power at all, rolling your body like a caught snake. 

“Stop,” he said curtly, “Stop fighting. Be still.”

You quieted yourself down, breathing heavy, sweating into his sheets, shivering like you had a fever, burning up from the inside out. 

For the first time, you felt his hand leave your neck, and his fingers twisted themselves into your hair at the base of your skull. Slowly, carefully, he lifted you by your head, forcing your back into a vicious arch, letting your breasts hang freely, your arms trying to balance you, mostly worthless since Price had full control of your torso in this position. 

His free hand slid around your front, groping you wildly, plucking your nipples and filling his palms with the meat of your breast. Then, he replaced your fingers with his own, pressing beside your sensitive clit, rolling it softly in long, firm strokes. 

You heard yourself make a new sound, one you’d never made, an animal’s grunting, something reckless and feral. 

Then, Price took up his stretching rhythm again, fully in charge of everything you were sensing. To you, he may as well have been in control of your mind. It was no use to you; you were at his mercy and it was everything you’d ever wanted. 

“Do you trust me?”

Your thoughts swam, unable to even consider anything but the truth, and amongst all of your vocalized ecstasy, you managed to reply,

“Yes.”

“Don’t come. Keep it. Just like that.”

“J-John!”

“Wait, wait, wait… good girl. Good.”

“Ohhh, fuck…”

His next words seemed barely human, snarled at you through bared teeth,

“Now. Come for me. Come f— fuck! Holy fuck.”

When you felt him spill into you, you had almost no control left over your own orgasm. Your heart felt like it had leapt into your throat, and all you could experience was your shining, explosive finish. You heard no sound, and your eyes went white, rolling back into your head. You couldn’t breathe, or scream, and if it wasn’t for John’s immense body holding you tight, you would have crashed into his bed, all used up.

His orgasm was as long as yours was, and he finished in slow, fearsome thrusts, burying his head into you as deep as he could reach, smearing your lips with your mixed fluids, caring nothing for the mess. 

“C’mere, love. Come to me,” Price held you to his chest, finally pulling himself from you, holding you as close as he could, laying beside you in a sweaty, spent tangle of arms and legs. 

You lay your head on his chest, catching your breath, only to tumble into a dreamless sleep with him, your body exhausted from your effort. 

When you woke up the next day, you could feel him all over you. He had left you alone in the bed, and yet your skin and bones kept his imprints. You could feel the ghost of his fingertips on your neck, and you were sore in places you weren’t sure how you could be. Everything was a wet mess, and just when you worried about how you’d cross the apartment without yesterday’s outfit, you saw that John had left you a note. 

Training day on base. I'll be back tonight. Dinner on me. Wear this. xx

Under the note, Price had laid out his favorite dress of yours, a blue satin slip of a thing, and (with the tags still on) you found a matching lace set of bra and panties in the same pretty color, just your size. You couldn’t see the price, but when you searched for the brand online, you couldn’t help but blush. He'd spent more than just a pretty penny on this outfit. You couldn't help but notice that the delicate lace would show through the thin fabric of the dress, making little raised ridges where your nipples would be.

Whatever you’d just agreed to when you said you’d let John Price into your life was about to get very, very interesting. 

AO3 Link

[quintinh43]

a blurb/fic of Quinn and elem school teacher and them “fighting” over paying for something!

Thank you for requesting, I had so much fun writing this 🥰

-

It was an unnaturally hot day in mid-April in Vancouver. People were treating it as of was a summer day in July. Everyone was out in shorts and dresses, having picnics or tanning, or swimming in spring chilled water of the Pacific.

You and Quinn were no exception. The beautiful day had coordinated with one of Quinns' rest days, which had all miraculously fallen on a Saturday. Meaning you didn't have to work. All in all, it was a very happy coincidence that you and Quinn decided to take full advantage of.

Quinn had proposed going out for breakfast, which had turned into going out for brunch because Quinn kept getting distracted by how gorgeous you looked in your floral printed sundress. He had eventually just tossed you onto the couch, bunched your dress around your hips, and ate you out till you were shaking beneath him.

Brunch was amazing. Quinn took you to an outdoor rooftop restaurant that served the best waffles you had ever eaten. When you leaned across the table with a piece of waffle on your fork for Quinn to try, he grinned and winked at you as he closed his lips over the fork suggestively.

Your cheeks flush all the way down to your chest and it made Quinn's grin grow even wider. After brunch the two of you decide to walk the coastline. You hand is wrapped around Quinn's arm as the two of you walk the park, playing the game of trying to decipher the detailed life stories of strangers.

"Oh, ice cream!" You jump excitedly pointing at the ice cream stand that has a long line, "please, Quinn, can we?" You ask, eyes glittering with hope.

Quinn chuckles, "of course we can baby," he says pressing a kiss to your forehead. It's the moments like this that make him wonder why it took him so long to tell you he loved you.

You tug him over the the line, chattering excitedly about the prospective flavours. Where you were always down to try a new flavour, Quinn stuck with what he liked. He would never tell you, but one of the reasons he did it was so if you were disappointed in the flavour you got, he would trade with you because he knew you also liked his flavour.

"Ooh Quinn! I think they have raspberry white chocolate!" You grin shaking his arm eagerly.

"That what you gonna get?" He asks, unable to keep the smile off his face. Seeing you happy makes him happy. And with the combination of the sunny weather, he can't keep the smile off his face.

"I don't know yet, I'll decide when we get there. What are you getting?"

"Take a wild guess," he snorts, flicking you in the forehead.

"Meanie," you huff, bumping his chin with your head playfully.

Soon enough it's your turn to order, "I'll have a scoop of strawberry cheesecake in a waffle cone, and he'll have a scoop of cookie dough in a waffle cone as well, please."

The poor teenage girl who looks like she hates her life, scribbles down your order with a nod. You shuffle around your purse for your card, but Quinn is already slapping a twenty dollar bill on the counter.

You snatch it off the counter quickly with a glare, and slap your card in its place. Quinn grabs your card off the table and replaces it with another bill thats gone just as fast as the first one. The girl looks ready to strangle you both. Quinn pulls out another twenty, and half wrestles you out of the way while he hands it to the girl directly.

"Keep the change," he mumbles apologetically, dragging you out of line to wait for your ice cream.

"Quinn," you turn on him with a glare, "what was that for?"

Quinn plays confused, "What do you mean?"

"I was going to pay!" You huff, crossing your arms over your chest. Quinn rolls his eyes, mimicking your position.

"Babe, please, not this again." He groans

"Quinn, I asked you to get ice cream, that means I have to pay." You grumble.

"I say this with all my love babe," Quinn says squishing your cheeks between his calloused palms, "That's a stupid fucking rule. I'm your boyfriend, I'm always gonna pay."

"But I don't want-"

"I have a strawberry cheese cake, and a cookie dough in waffle cones?" The girl calls out, cutting your arguemnt short.

You smile, at her thankfully while Quinn grabs the ice cream. He hands you yours and slings his arm over your shoulders as the two of you continue your walk.

"Why does it bother you so much when I pay for things?" Quinn asks seriously, taking a lick of his ice cream.

"I'm a grown adult." You say grumpily, "I can pay for my own things."

Quinn flicks your ear, "Don't give me that bullshit. Tell me why it bothers you so much."

"I feel bad," you mumble.

"Why do you feel bad?" Quinn pushes, offering you a lick of his ice cream. You take it gratefully, offering yours in return. Quinn happily takes a lick, humming in approval.

"Dunno, I just do" You shrug, "I don't want you wasting your money on me."

Quinn looks slightly offended "Baby, its not a waste. I love paying for you. If you wouldn't kill me for it do you know how long ago I would've given you a credit card on my account?"

"Oh God, please never do that," you groan, covering your face with your free hand.

"You still haven't given me a real reason as to why you don't like it when I pay." He says again, fingers tracing comforting shapes on your collarbones.

You sigh, head dropping against his shoulder, "I don't want everyone to see me as a the girl who's with you cause of your money."

Quinn looks at you incredulously, "are you serious?"

You nod sheepishly.

"Babe, who gives a fuck what random strangers think? You're my girl, I wanna spoil you in every way possible."

"I know, I know, but for some reason, it really gets to me." You sigh.

"Well, you'd better stop letting it get to you because I'm paying for everything for the rest of our lives," Quinn says dramatically.

You snort, elbowing him in the ribs lightly, "ok, hot shot."

"Seriously baby, if that's the only reason, don't let it bother you."

"I'll try," you say, taking a bite of your cone.

"You'd better." He says, pressing a kiss to your forehead. Suddenly, there's something cold sliding down your cheek. You can help but screech, jumping away from Quinn. He's laughing as you thumb a glob of cookie dough ice cream off your face.

"How dare you!" You gasp, licking the ice cream off your thumb. You dip your finger into your ice cream to retaliate, but before you can wipe it on his face, he's grabbing your wrist and sucking your ice cream coated ginger into his mouth. Your brain short-circuits, cheeks turning a brilliant shade of red.

Quinn smirks around your finger and lets it fall from his lips. "What's wrong, baby?" He teases, like he didn't just do what he did in public.

"You are so bad," you mutter, still blushing.

"Only for you baby," he grins, pressing a kiss to the side of your head, "only for you."

-

A blurb from this universe

[b4mpyre-k1zz3s]

Steve-O X Bimbo!Y/N HC’s!

Steve-O X Fem!Y/N

Warnings: Suggestive content, crude language, drug use, alcohol, lingerie, dick size jokes

An: Thank you for sending in requests! At the moment, my inbox is as dry as a desert, so please keep them coming! While writing this fic, the dynamic i had in mind was sorta similar to Michał Wiśniewski and Mandaryna if that makes sense :) I really love writing for Bimbo!Y/N so if you have a requests regarding that, feel free to send them my way!

The two of you couldn’t be more different: you, a multimillionaire heiress, and your boyfriend, the guy on tv who sets himself on fire and shoves stuff in his ass for a living.

To break it down, the dynamic between you and Steve is that of a rich woman and the little dog she keeps in her purse

And because of that, you really couldn’t be a better match for each other!

He’d never been one for the whole party girl, heiress type, but he was surprised at the fact that a girl as normal as you was brave enough to go for him in the first place, disgusting antics and all

But there was something about his edgy, manic bad boy image that you were all over!

Unlike what usually happens with celebrity couples, it was you dragging him around to every party in LA and showing him off to the paparazzi

I mean, how couldn’t you? Your boyfriend knew all these fun tricks!

Steve couldn’t complain about all the newfound attention and free flowing drugs, pulling out all the stops to impress you and your rich friends.

A couple people tucked dollar bills into his mankini as he shook off charred bits of hair from his last stunt while preparing for his next,

“Alright! Does anybody gotta stapler around here?”

Respectively, you tagged along to every Jackass premiere, wearing your sparkly little kitten heels and cute sequined mini-dresses while Steve stumbled in with one hand on your waist and the other gripping a fourty,

Likely shirtless, wearing a pair of sneakers and baggy jeans that sat a good couple inches below his boxers.

Still, that didn’t stop the two of you from going all out with the PDA in front of the cameras…

The rest of the jackass guys were shocked when you showed up, having written him off every time he mentioned that he was dating that Beverly Hills party girl from all the tabloids

Blinking in surprise at the two of you, an amused smile spread across Johnny’s face, “Wow…when you said you were datin’ Y/N, you really wernt kidding, O…”

Eagerly shaking Knoxville’s hand, you gushed about how excited you were to meet him,

“Ohmygod! This is sooo crazy! Stevie’s told me all about you guys!”

From out of your line of sight, Bam shot a glance at Ryan and made some comment about what street corner Steve picked you up on.

Your everyday life was so vastly different from his in so many ways!

Take the day you met at a cafe for lunch- one of those fancy places that he could barely believe he was eating at,

“Y’know, I’ve been livin’ off’a cold cereal and Hungry Mans for, like- forever…”

Unlike most girls in your position who’d find that a turn off, you just saw it as him missing out on good food, “Really?” You leaned in close next to him, pointing to a few items on the menu,

“Well, if you ask me- I think you should try this, ooh! Or this- and this is really good too…”

Steve’s etiquette isn’t exactly up to standard, so while you nibbled away at your fancy French pastry, he drank directly from his bowl of soup.

The paparazzi loves your relationship. Or really, really hates you- you couldn’t tell

“Y/N slumming it with Steve-O in West Hollywood Cafe!” One tabloid headline read, printed in bold red text above a photo of the two of you,

But what they didn’t show was the second that followed- you giggling and reaching out to wipe the corner of his mouth, and him smiling in that cute, boyish way he always did.

After a while of you gushing over him like he’s just the most perfect man, like- literally ever, his buddies began teasing him about you

Whether it was about how Steve didn’t smell like Newports and ass anymore and that the world must be ending or how, for lack of a better word, civilized you were making him.

Hell, even Knoxville got on him about his fancy new clothes you paid for,

“Well, it’s like she treats you like her toy or somethin’. I mean, she’s a beautiful lady- don’t get me wrong, but…”

Of course, this led Steve into a long, drunken rant about all the kickass hollywood parties he’s been going to- all the booze and drugs and bad behavior you could stomach,

(Not to mention the wild sex you had)

He vividly described the time he got so horribly drunk at Carson Daily’s place that he nearly took his eye out with his bidet

“And if you think that’s bad, you don’t even wanna know what I did to Nick Lachey’s sheets, dude…”

On the weekends, you’d usually drag Steve around a couple boutiques or the mall even though he couldn’t buy you fancy clothes given he was dead broke

But he couldn’t complain about his smoking hot girlfriend asking his opinion about what underwear she should buy at Victoria’s Secret,

“Ooh, look at this!” You held up the most gaudy cheetah print bra known to man, “Now we can match!”

Well, he wasn’t about to argue with that…And he knew the value of a woman who could appreciate cheetah print.

While you were in one store or another, you ran into an old friend and told your boyfriend that you’d be right back as she pulled you aside

“Y/N- what in the world are you doing with a guy like that?”

Well, you liked him- a whole lot in fact, but you knew that answer wouldn’t satisfy her. So, you thought of the next best thing,

“Well…” Leaning in conspiratorially, you whispered in her ear, “He has got the biggest cock I have ever seen. I mean- massive.”

Yeah, she can tell that to the tabloids…

When Steve later asked you about what the two of you were chatting about, you told him the truth and you could’ve sworn you saw him blush, “Wait…But I don’t-“

“Yeah, I know you don’t! But she doesn’t...”

[sunburstsandmoonshadows]

As someone who doesn't know anything about Coraline, could you explain your au a bit more to me? I'm very intrigued and loving the art :)

Sure can!

It got long so under a read-more it goes lol.

The plot of Coraline is that Coraline, a twelve year old girl, moved with her parents to an old house turned into a set of apartments called the Pink Palace. Her parents are overworked and pretty checked out, so Coraline is left to wander around, and stumbles across a small door in the wall that lets her into the "Other World." There she meets a version of her mother with buttons for eyes calling herself Coraline's "Other Mother", who says that everyone has "other" parents in an other world and that she can stay with them instead of her real parents in the real world--but first she has to let the Other Mother sew buttons in place of her eyes too.

Coraline obviously tries to put that off as much as possible, and continues to be shown how "wonderful" the Other World is by meeting Other Residents that are just there to entertain her. Other Wybie, based on a loud, annoying boy she met, is now incapable of speaking and just does whatever she wants to do. The other adults living in the apartments put on shows for her to have fun. But the whole time, cracks are forming in the fun of the Other World, and Coraline continues to refuse the buttons, leading the Other Mother to kidnap Coraline's parents to force her to take the eyes unless Coraline wins a game they agreed to.

The Other Mother turns out to be a monster that feeds on childrens souls and gains access to them by taking their eyes, and the Other World is a trap of her creation to make children agree to it. Every other person in the Other World were never real, just puppets she was using in the trap. Coraline escapes with her parents with and traps the Other Mother away with Wybie's help, and they all live happily ever after.

Mabel's the Coraline of this au, left feeling bored and lonely as Dipper (the Wybie) hits it off with the Uncle Stanford (the parents) they were sent to live with for the summer. She goes exploring, finds the Other World, and meets her Other Family.

I'm playing fast and loose with some elements of the Other World lore for this au--here, Bill is the Other Mother in the sense that he's controlling the strings and wants to get Mabel, but he doesn't act as anyone directly. He's more of a venus flytrap to original Other Mother's spider and her web. Stan, playing as the "Other Stanford", was one of the children Bill captured but couldn't eat. It's implied in the plot of Coraline that the Other Mother needs her victims to accept the button eyes before she can eat them; the acceptance can be forced by coercion, but she can't just grab a child and start ripping eyes out. Here, Bill got impatient and tried that with Stan, but since Stan never accepted the eyes and his death he's stubbornly still himself. Trapped in the world, but unable to be eaten. He's basically a grisly bit of fat you can chew forever that will never soften, lol.

Still, Bill has enough control over Stan to force him into the sham lie and to make him one of the puppets luring Mabel into the Other World, which Stan hates.

From there the plot remains very similar. Mabel is lured in, keeps putting off the button-eye-replacement, and grows more and more disillusioned with the Other World and starts trying to fight back. Dipper, as the Wybie, discovers clues about past victims of Bill in the real world, and Ford is later kidnapped by Bill and turns out to have been the twin brother of Stan, not his real-world counterpart.

Mabel wins the game set by Bill with help from others, rescues Ford (and perhaps Stan too...), and traps Bill away with Dipper's help. Hurrah! Victory! Everyone is traumatized but at least they're alive :)

That's what I have so far!

[thecluelessdoctor]

a review of Gravity falls from someone who had never seen it before.

Alright so I've meant to make this post for a while but then I got... sidetracked *glances at my fucking au* ANYWAY

I'm basically unbias to the show, due to the fact I have no nostalgia for it. Ill only be talking about the show it's self for the main review.

Anyway, now that that's out of the way, let's talk about Gravity Falls.

Oh yeah, and spoilers for gravity falls. Im sure most of you have seen it but- yk just in case.

I watched the show 2 times in a row. One time mostly just for me, and the other time with my little sisters. Somehow both times made me cry it's fine.

Let's get my praises out of the way first before I begin to criticize the show (yes, I do have things to say)

Number one, the actual mystery. Genuinely so fucking good. Like going in I already knew Ford existed, and I knew Bill existed, but that was it. And I thought the mystery wouldn't be a mystery to me due to this but I was WRONG. BRO WHEN STAN FUCKING PULLED UP WITH THE PORTAL I WAS F L A B B E R G A S T E D. I WAS BAFFLED. OR OR- FIDDLEFORD NOT JUST BEING A CRAZY OLD GUY BUT INFACT A ONCE GREAT SCIENCIST THAT TRIED TO DESTROY HIS MIND- it was insane.. I only had the parts, but I didn't know how they fell into place, and it was BEAUTIFUL. Hell the mystery even had my little sister theorizing.

Stan, Dipper, and Mabel's arcs. Say what you will but I think they were done perfectly. Especially Stan's. You don't even realize how he has grown as a character until the end and it's AMAZING. Dippers arc of learning how to not grow up so fast (relatable ...) and Mabel's arc of accepting that she will grow up (ALSO RELATABLE?)

The character designs. We all know, I eat up a good design. And these guys are no exception. I love how Mabel has a different sweater at least every episode, very fun. Dippers design screams nerdy kid I would bully or be friends with in 6th grade, and Stan is.. yeah I really like Stan okay. He's perfect. His design reflects his eccentric nature really well. Also Shriner fez. We need more characters with a Shriner fez. (Fun fact: I didn't know what those hats were called until watching this show.) bill is a very simple design but I love it.

Also, I love alot of the foreshadowing the show does, even if at times unintentionally. Such as with Stan and how he sadly goes out. Every representation ends up being destroyed in some way.

I also really like Ford as a character. Idk if it was intentional, but he portrays a lot of narcissists rather accurately. I live in a family of narcissist, and a lot of them act directly like Ford (especially my dad and my ex-step- grandpa) but Ford I feel like is a good representation of how a lot of people, especially narcissists, actually change. Yes, shockingly, they can. Usually being the one to pull the trigger on something they love tends to do something. Not all the time but it happens. Idk.

Also I feel like I need to talk about Mabel and Dipper more. Starting with Mabel. Mabel is fun. She reminds me of my sister, both good and bad. Though I don't understand the amount of Mabel hate there is. Like seriously she's just a 12 year old kid. I was the same way when I was 12. I was a trashy kid. Hell, I'm a trashy teen!!! And Dipper? Yeah he's dipper. Shockingly I don't have much to say about him other than the fact he reminds me way to much of the guy friends I've had since 3rd grade lmfao.

Next is the animation. The animation is pretty consistently good, I like it. Especially in some of the more dramatic scenes. All of not what he seems, a tale of two Stan's, and weirdmeddon (I can't spell) are especially well animated.

There's a lot more i wanna say, but those are the major things.

From now until when I say, it's gonna me my personal criticisms of the show. Course I am no professional, I'm literally [AGE REDACTED] minor. So yeah.

Number one: the timeline. Oh my god the timeline. As a fun thing to do on the side, I tried to sort out the timeline- IT TURNED INTO 2 HOURS OF ME SITTING THERE, PIECING THIS SHIT TOGETHER. it's not as back as some fandoms (looking at your FNaF) but STILL

The lack of Ford. I wish Ford has been introduced earlier in season two, or they had a few more filler episodes involving him as a center (similar to the episode D, D, and more D.)

The ignoring of the fact that Pacifica is borderline abused??? She's AFRAID of her parents??? She flinches at the bell??? Like what the fuck-

The lack of in show development between Bill and ford. I kinda wish it showed a bit more of their relationship in show.

Those are all my major criticisms. I don't have anything other than those that aren't more personal tastes than anything.

But ultimately, I fell in love with this show from the get go. It was the weirdest thing I'd watched in a while, and I loved it, hated it, and cried because of it. Truly on of my favorite shows I've ever watched, and I really wish I knew what it was when it was in its hay day, because truly that would have been great. However in 2012 I was only like- 3-6 so- yeah

Very much a ten outta ten show, and if you somehow haven't watched it, please do.

[billconrad]

Character Character Flaws

    Humans are loaded with flaws. Some we can correct, some we can mask, and others are there for life. A big part of growing up involves overcoming, putting up with, and dealing with our shortcomings. Plus, we suffer from, put up with, and attempt to correct other people’s faults. In short, the flaws are a big part of life.

    During my last four years of writing, I learned that it is essential to focus on the flaws that drive a character’s actions. Readers need to know the reasons behind motivation and character flaws, which are the key to explaining decisions. Jane steals a car. Why did she turn to a life of crime? Has she stolen vehicles before? A writer must explain Jane’s ethics in advance so that her actions make sense.

    Readers dislike actions without foundation. It would confuse readers if Jane had a normal day and randomly stole a car. What about a logical explanation? Jane needed money and stole a car. While logical, this explanation does not help. Lots of people need money, and they do not steal. Something inside Jane must allow her to be a criminal.

    When I create a character, I list their flaws in a character biography and let the reader know about them as early as possible. For example, the main character in a recent book lacks confidence, is a know-it-all, and is uncomfortable around forward women.

    When this main character makes a mistake, readers directly trace it to the above flaws. Of course, people are more complicated in real life, but taking 100 pages to describe a character’s nuances would bore a reader to tears.

    I like flaws that people can relate to, such as arrogance, low morals, lack of confidence, greed, perfectionism, workaholicism, bad finances, gambling, and addiction. I stay away from complex flaws like mental problems, complex childhoods, evil influence, altered physics (non-human flaws), heavy religion, and bullying. I also avoid controversial flaws like racism, sadistic abuse, and mental/physical disabilities. I feel these lead to low sales and bad reviews. Plus, such flaws are not fun to write about.

    In my experience, the flaws are the most essential part of a character’s background, but picking them requires a light touch. I have learned the ideal number is five and make sure they do not overlap other characters.

    Let’s examine two popular characters. Superman has good looks, a solid job, a girlfriend, a friendly attitude, and his only weakness is Kryptonite. In the movie Die Hard, John McClain is an arrogant drunk with a terrible temper. We expect Superman to win because he has nothing preventing him. I think John is a superior character because moviegoers rally as he succeeds and relate to his failures because they are apparent.

    A character that overcomes many flaws seems unrealistic, like they are cheating or have gotten outside help. A character with silly flaws is also difficult to relate. “People hate me because of my good looks.” “Having money is my big problem.”

    In real life, flaws hinder us, and we spend much time dealing with them, yet they make up a big part of any plot. Is that life imitating art?

    You’re the best -Bill

    March 22, 2025

    Hey, book lovers, I published four. Please check them out:

   Interviewing Immortality. A dramatic first-person psychological thriller that weaves a tale of intrigue, suspense, and self-confrontation.

    Pushed to the Edge of Survival. A drama, romance, and science fiction story about two unlikely people surviving a shipwreck and living with the consequences.

    Cable Ties. A slow-burn political thriller that reflects the realities of modern intelligence, law enforcement, department cooperation, and international politics.

    Saving Immortality. Continuing in the first-person psychological thriller genre, James Kimble searches for his former captor to answer his life’s questions.

    These books are available in softcover on Amazon and in eBook format everywhere.

[courtingchaos]

Tryouts

Bully Masterlist

Summary: Lucas and Max have a conversation without having one; end of summer signups begin.

Word Count: 1.7K

Warnings: None

A/N: I was gonna be corny here and talk about the long lead up but like, no one else has been anticipating me posting this the way I have. I’ve been on the edge of my own seat waiting and the muse finally came back from the corner store, surprisingly with the cigarettes she promised. This is a prelude of sorts, a small snippet of life outside of the main story. Expect more of these as it progresses, everyone is up to something.

No Explicit Content but 18+ No Minors

“Wait so you’re gonna actually try out for soccer?” Lucas stops walking out of shock while Max just keeps across the parking lot towards the arcade.

“It isn’t so much a ‘try out’ as it is ‘show up and be interested’.” She stops to wait for a car and shoots her boyfriend a look over her shoulder. “So don’t get too excited, they’ll take literally anyone.”

“Hey! I’ll be excited anyways!” He catches up to her at the door, shooting his arm around her to cut her off from grabbing it for herself. Lucas sees the eye roll and chooses to ignore it. “We can be like, an athlete couple.”

“Oh my god.”

“We could trade Lettermans.”

She tries to hide it but he can see her grin that she pulls off to the side of her face. “Sick. You’re sick Sinclair.”

“Oh come on, you know you want to.”

Max stops at the token machine to dig out her wad of dollar bills. “I don’t even know if I want to play! I’m just…looking for something to get me out of the house.”

Lucas leans on the top of the machine to singsong at her. “There’s always a seat at the table.” He wiggles his eyebrows and she hates that she laughs.

“In Wheeler’s fart infested basement? I don’t think so.” She scoops the tokens out to hand them to Lucas, her own personal coin purse while she keeps her high score for the afternoon. “He doesn’t make El do it so why should I be forced to play?”

“He doesn’t force her and plus, they aren’t talking right now.”

“What?�� She whips her head to look at him. “She didn’t tell me anything!”

Lucas gives her a side eye before walking away towards the Dig Dug machine and Max follows him close, hands pulling at his shoulders to get him to stop moving, and when he doesn’t, fingers dig into his side to try and tickle it out of him.

“Tell me! What happened!” If this was anyone else she might consider this bullying with the way she pulls at the hem of his shirt and shakes his whole body when all he gives her for an answer is a laugh at her pretend annoyance. It isn’t until she manages to get a leg up off the stool and onto his back that he threatens to drop her tokens.

“If I get off you, you’ll tell me?” She asks him directly in his ear so he winces away with a chuckle.

“If you get off me I won’t drop your coins.”

Lucas hands her two tokens when she puts both feet on the ground and nods his head at the arcade. A silent standoff for a moment before Max gives up with a heavy sigh, sitting down when the tune jingles behind the screen.

“Okay, this morning Mike called to hang out and I told him we were gonna be busy but he could tag along if he wanted to.”

“Why do you do that?”

Lucas ignores her. “But he said he didn’t want to be around you because you were probably gonna make fun of him all day and if he wanted that, he’d just go over to El’s.”

“So they had another fight?”

“I guess? It sounds like she was teasing him about being in the basement all summer with his Nintendo and he blew up.”

Max frowns at the screen. “Did he say that? I don’t think I’ve ever heard him own up to a damn thing.”

“Surprisingly, yeah. He said that Hopper came in and told him to get the hell out if he was gonna yell like that.”

“He got yelled at by dad? No thank you.” She shakes her head a little to stop the memory of last night from resurfacing and of course Lucas catches it. Try as she might to keep her family stuff firmly behind the front door of their home, it’s been sneaking out lately and waving at anyone who pays attention, Lucas in particular.

“You okay?”

Her eyebrows knit before she can stop it but she’s focused on the game, fingers tapping on the thick buttons. If she doesn’t respond then maybe Lucas will shrug it off and keep telling her about Mike having a tantrum. Maybe he’ll tell her about the Fighter he built for her and try for the hundredth time this summer to get her to play the dumb dice game. Or maybe he’ll double down and bring up her brother’s black eye.

“I saw Billy peeling out earlier.”

There it is, she thinks to herself and holds back the eye roll. “So did half the neighbors. He likes the attention.”

“He stopped long enough to flip me the bird.” He laughs like it’s normal.

“Yeah?” The game means nothing now. Her fingers slap at the cabinet and Lucas just keeps looking at her with pity. “Well don’t feel bad for him, he should know when to shut up.” She acknowledges it but won’t name it, especially when she was there for its christening. Voices that raised over her headphones, the splintering of a mistreated door being kicked in for the twentieth time and a loud smack of knuckles before it’d gone silent. “He pushes Neil for fun.”

Lucas stares at her like everyone else has that’s ever seen her stepdad go off on his kid.

Max feels the lump crawling fast up her throat so she swallows to keep it tucked below her ribs where it can settle until later. “Lucas…” His name comes out soft on the end of a heavy sigh. She doesn’t really have anything to say, nothing she wants to admit to him right now, at least not while the sun is shining.

To his credit he looks uncomfortable in the face of her minor slip but it’s gone as soon as she notices it. “You’d tell me, wouldn’t you?”

Talking without talking. It’s like their special ability, their mutant powers, not quite mind reading but close. He asks her the obvious question without using the words so she isn’t embarrassed. So others don’t overhear.

She really thinks about it. Tries to remember a time that Neil had ever directed that temper at her and comes up with a blank. It’s always anger by association, always behind Billy when the blame rolls in no matter how loud she’d get about her part in the issue. That had only happened once and her mother had swiftly pulled her out of the room and into the car and they’d gone to the mall for most of the day. Max thinks about all the times she’s come home to a new bruise on Billy or another broken dish in the trash. She thinks about how Lucas has never seen the inside of her house but she’s been all over his, every nook and even through the attic, even through Mrs. Sinclair’s garden.

“Yeah.”

The game jingles at her in a mocking defeat but the wasted tokens don’t matter. She stares at Lucas who does his best to wait for her, his hands shoved far into his shorts pockets until she makes the slightest move for him and he wraps her in a hug, tight and lighting quick. Thankfully it’s lunch time and thankfully the attendant today has wandered off and thankfully it’s just them in the arcade with all its trills and beeps. Cabinet screens flash around them and all that matters is the hug and the quietly whispered “I’m sorry” that Lucas presses into the top of her head.

Lucas agreed to meet Max at the field ten minuets after her drop off time to avoid anymore general jackassery from Billy, but when he’d folded himself out of the backseat of Steve’s car he’d had to brace himself. The Camaro sat idling on the far side of the field with its owner leaning on the hood, a brunette vying for his attention next to him, but no redhead in sight.

“You okay?” Steve asks while pointedly staring at Billy across the field.

“Yeah I’m…he won’t do anything here.”

There’s the trill of whistles and Robin is shooting out of the passenger seat, cursing and slamming her foot into a cleat. “I told you we were gonna be late!” She screeches at Steve as she barrels down the small slope with her bag swinging wildly from her shoulder. She waves both hands at the coach and yells something about traffic and that’s when Dustin gets out of the car finally, his finger pointed to the middle of the group of girls.

“There she is.”

Red hair shines bright in the early morning sun and Lucas can’t help the smile that grows wide. Beside him Dustin nudges him, says something about googly eyes and makes his horrible whip sound but Lucas tunes him out. Max is tucked into herself until Robin pushes her way over and a smile appears, a laugh too when she points up to the three of them on the hill and she grabs Max’s hand to flop it at them in a crude wave.

Dustin waves back with the folded up signup sheet and he elbows Lucas again. “See man? Nothing to worry about.”

“I know. I just—“

“Worry?”

“Shut up.” It’s good natured. Dustin laughs and asks him again if he filled out the papers, if he brought his character sheet and it isn’t until Steve whistles at them and points to the school parking lot that Dustin finally cuts it out. A van has rumbled in and before it can park, a shaggy head pops out and looks around before throwing his hands up and yelling.

“Henderson!”

Dustin takes off, calling Lucas with him over his shoulder to follow, but Lucas hangs back for a minute. He watches Max whispering with Robin, can see her easing up. The smile hasn’t left her face, just faded into the conversation as she nods her head along to something said to her. Beside him Steve sighs when the horn on the van goes off three times in quick succession and Lucas looks over to see Dustin giving him a pointed, annoyed look.

“I’d go over there before he pisses Munson off.” Steve seems to be watching Lucas struggle to leave and he taps him on the arm to assure him. “I’ll keep an eye on her, okay? I promise I won’t let anything happen.”

“Thanks man.”

[iennoganan-aha]

I thought I was done being disappointed in stranger things. Falling out of love with a hyperfixation that brought me so much joy already sucked, but the whole Noah Shnapp shit really ruined it for me. I wasn't planning on watching or supporting season 5 anyways, but finding out Argyle won't be in s5 has really stripped away any want still buried deep in my brain man, like I'm not even slightly interested in watching illegally now. (I wasn't planning on it but curiosity is strong sometimes)

Jonathan was my favorite character, and Argyle is SO important for his character. Like putting aside how important Argyle was to the plot of s4, his importance to Jonathan was reason enough for him being there since Jonathan NEEDED him.

Argyle was the ONLY relationship he had that didn't have expectations. He could be free and loose and himself around Argyle. This isn't hate towards Will or Joyce or Nancy because he loves them and the story likes to ignore it but those relationships all come with expectations that the story has hinted at being hard for Jonathan to manage.

He loves his brother and his mom but the role he was forced into so young has really damaged him and how he views himself. The expectation to be a fatherly figure, an authority figure, a protector. I know Jonathan doesn't mind doing it because he loves his family but it's a lot of pressure and if s4 told us anything (again, even if the story likes to gloss over it for some reason) that pressure was too much for him.

And I LOVE Jancy, I love Nancy, but again s4 told us directly that in some way he feels a lot of pressure with her. He feels the need to give up on his dreams in one way or another, because it's either he goes to college with Nancy doing something he doesn't exactly wanna do, or he doesn't and he loses his girlfriend. He fears communication with her because she might get upset, at the end of s4 you can see that while he trusts Nancy and doesn't think anything is going on with Steve because he also trusts Steve, we can't deny the writers might do some lame ass love triangle bullshit this next season which will put even more pressure on Jonathan because now he might lose his girlfriend to his previous bully 🧍‍♀️

Argyle was SO healthy for Jonathan's character! He helped get Jonathan out of his comfort zone in some ways, in all 4 seasons with Argyle Jonathan was the most free and silly and acted like a teenager! He could just be a teenager with Argyle. He wasn't a supportive big brother or boyfriend or oldest son or any of the stigmatizations from his home town with Argyle, he was just Jonathan. Instead of worrying about taking care of Will, or getting a job to help pay bills or (at the time) fighting monsters, he was playing golf in the middle of a car dump with his best friend, getting high in their pizza van and having fun. I dunno, I just think it's a shame we're taking away his only friend that he isn't dating or related to.

I also fear that the did it for a reason of pushing the love triangle because let's be real if Argyle was there Jancy would just communicate. Argyle wouldn't stand for them dancing around each other and Steve being an issue he'd be like 'talk it out 👏🏼👏🏼'

Again this isn't even MENTIONING how important he is to the plot of s4 in general? Some people say he was just the comic relief and while he definitely played that role, he also is the reason half the main cast are alive?? Without Argyle; will, Mike and Jonathan would be dead! They would have no escape from the government SHOOTING THEIR HOUSE AND TRYING TO KILL THEM. they would have no transportation to find El, they'd have never even found El! They'd never have found a place to make a bathtub so El could save max, they'd never have made it back to Hawkins! He is an important character not just to Jonathan (because while I adore their friendship and this post may make it seem that way) HE IS NOT AN ACCESSORY TO JONATHAN! He was a fun character, a relavent character!

They could have done so much with him, imagine how he could have interacted with other characters? Character pair ups that could have been awesome? Steve and Argyle would be SO FUNNY! Argyle and Dustin, Argyle and Lucas bonding over neither being fucking white, Argyle and Robin being a comedy duo, Argyle and fucking Nancy having a conversation as Jonathan best friend and girlfriend respectively, or Argyle finally just meeting the girl he's heard about for a year- i dunno the possibilities are endless and the duffers are lame for not doing ANYTHING with the potential of these characters.

Oh well, I lost respect for Stranger Things a while ago, but a part of me is still passionate about the story being told and it really is a shame for Jonathan's character. But I shouldn't be surprised the writers have always kind of hated Jonathan. Those stonathan moments better be great I guess, I dunno I won't be watching it 🤷🏽‍♀️🤷🏽‍♀️

[daisypreaker]

cherry wine stains 7.0

all previous parts in pinned.

Alcoholism.

It's a heavy word, meaty, sticks like mango fibers between the teeth. By the time someone suggests it might be relevant to you, you're already a lost soul, wandering in a forest where the trees are broken liquor bottles, each label fancier than the next. Did you hear about so-and-so? Yeah, I hear they're an alcoholic now.

A stamp of disconfirmation on your validity as a well-functioning human being. There is no such thing as a functioning alcoholic. It's a bandage term, to disguise the inevitable slip-and-kick of the stool.

But Amara thinks she's functioning perfectly well.

It started with a glass of wine after dinner, as most things do. She hated the bitter taste as a teenager. Her tastebuds are still puerile, but the fuzziness she couldn't appreciate when she was younger is well-cherished now. Adults are more patient; they can get through the nasty bits for the soft, cushy marrow underneath.

If only she hadn't developed a hobby of painting the bottles once she was done with them.

Now the evidence is all over her home. It's like a serial killer removing the bones of her victims and painting them to hang as wind chimes (like that one episode of Criminal Minds that she kind of sort of remembers watching when she was too drunk to move).

At first she tells herself it's to cope with Rafael's threat. But when two months pass by and nothing happens, she can't say that it is. Besides, he was found in the river last week, chock fill of heroin that hadn't yet left his system. Amara knows for a fact he never touched drugs, not once he began to deal them.

It must have been Aegon.

She wonders when he graduated to murder, and if that means he sees people differently now. Knowing how easy it is to kill another person must transform the psyche irrevocably. She also wonders who told him Rafael was making threats towards her because it certainly wasn't Amara herself. Or if that was even the reason Rafael had died.

She'd gone home the night she saw Aegon at the club and drank until she couldn't see straight. Elizabeth and Gwen returned later to put her to bed, thinking she had simply had too much fun at the club and then somehow, rather responsibly, gotten herself home in a taxi.

Two months since that night.

She's learned to live happily in her forest of painted glass bottles and the day job she took on in between performances because nothing pays the bills these days except for crime. But she doesn't have the stomach for that.

It's how Aegon finds her.

An insistent bell press should have warned her who is on the other side. He's had the same way of assaulting doorbells since he was a child.

Her surprise at seeing him is dampened by the way he recoils at the stench of alcohol.

Shame washes over her, like the tide regurgitating garbage onto the beach. She doesn't look great either. Hair unwashed, dark circles, body doused in fabric that neither flatters nor enhances. Some days, she's swear she's put on weight. Others, her skin feels glued to her bones with nothing in between. She can't tell what she weighs anymore; her eyes skim over the reflection in every mirror she passes as if staring directly into it will bring a monster to her door.

But it hasn't. It's brought Aegon.

He snaps into action the way only an older brother can. With three younger siblings, he's never lived in any other state.

When she argues, he snaps at her, and they have a screaming match unprompted. It's as if no time has elapsed. Just last night, they were together, and now they're fighting again. She says something about it's my life blah-blah-blah and i'm fine and he tells her to shut up and take a fucking shower. That works better than kind words could have, because she goes upstairs just to get away from him.

And then once the shower is done, she realises she feels better, which of course annoys her all over again. But all the shouting has worn her out. She doesn't have the energy for more.

She stays up in her room - which is surprisingly neat - and hears him walking around downstairs tidying up. Elizabeth and Gwen haven't been home in a couple weeks, so it's been Amara alone, turning the place into a badger's den.

It isn't till she hears the clink of the glass bottles that she runs down in a panic. "Don't throw those away. I painted them."

"And I can paint a dope syringe and call it art," is his acrid response. "You've collected them like fucking trophies."

The brutality of his hand gathering them up leaves her feeling as substantial as a piece of crumpled paper teetering on the edge of a windy balcony.

She drops herself on the bottom step to watch as Aegon clears away months of her hard work. My liver struggled through all that for nothing.

He drops off the garbage bags by the bins and when he returns, Amara has her head between her knees. She is going through a list of things he might have wanted to tell her in person.

I'm leaving the country.

I'm going to jail.

I'm engaged.

I'm going to be a father.

She'll never know how she manages to force the words out. "Why are you here?"

Aegon stares at her with a hooded expression that either means run or are you fucking stupid? Neither makes her feel very good.

She wonders why he's being such a prick. Or if maybe he was a prick all along, and she just chose to ignore it because he was less of a prick to her than he was to everyone else. And don't we all just love to feel special to pricks like that?

"Why? Do you want me to leave?"

"If you're going to keep throwing away my stuff, yes."

"That wasn't stuff. You're an alcoholic and you're wearing it like a badge of honour. And don't you dare tell me you can do what you want."

"I wasn't going to."

"Yes you were."

She was.

"Still. Something brought you here. Or someone."

"You've been ignoring my calls for weeks."

Amara frowns. "No, I haven't. You never called."

He holds out his hand for her phone, and she doesn't think twice before handing it over. Most people would. Phones are such intimate objects. Giving them to someone unlocked is the animal equivalent of rolling over to expose your belly.

"Why do you have my number blocked?" he asks.

"I don't have your - that's not your number."

"It's my new number."

"...oh." Comprehension sinks in. "I was getting a lot of cold calls around that time. I started blocking numbers I didn't know. You probably should have texted first."

Aegon flares his eyes as if to say yeah, no shit. Maybe that would explain the negativity straight out of the door. She wasn't feeling too happy that he'd ghosted her, but he was going through the same thing. Knowing about Sara meant she hadn't bothered to follow up and ask why she was no longer on his contact list.

He comes to sit on the stairs, a couple steps beneath her, and they stew in the silence. The atmosphere feels loaded, like a gun about to go off. Or maybe that's all in her head. Aegon has both his hands shoved into his pockets, one leg carelessly tossed over the other as his eyes fill with light from the window.

"I'm sorry for the mess."

He snorts. "You call this a mess?"

"It kind of is." She bites a hangnail and looks around. "I think I like letting myself go just to see how bad it can get."

Aegon chuckles. "And this is your worst, is it?"

"I'd say so."

"Spoken like a ballerina."

"You don't think this is bad?"

"I think you're a functioning alcoholic who would have tidied up eventually and pretended nothing was wrong."

"There's no such thing as a functioning alcoholic. I looked it up."

"Newsflash: if you're looking it up, you are it, angel."

Her stomach does several somersaults at the familiar pet name. He doesn't seem to realise - or care - that he said it. Perhaps it's always been ordinary to him that Amara is something as hyperbolic as an angel. It's something he's never questioned. That both flatters and worries her, because the only way to go from high up in the heavens is down, down, down.

"Functioning alcoholic and an only child. Would explain the refusal to ask for help in order to fester," he continues.

"People with siblings fester too, you know."

"The ones with crappy siblings, yeah. You could have called Helaena. She clearly seems to think you two are closer than you do."

"That's not true. She's one of my oldest friends."

"Oldest doesn't mean closest. Do you want me to tell her how I found you?"

"No."

"Then you're not close."

"If you came here to lecture me, I'd rather you left."

"Unblock my number. Then, I'll leave."

She snatches up her phone and does exactly that, but before she can show it to him, Aegon grabs her wrist and forces the action himself. In the process, he pulls her nearer, and her damp hair falls over him like a scented curtain. She sees him visibly inhale, coupled with a slight tremor in his jaw.

Their eyes meet and she thinks of Rafael floating in that river.

Aegon's hands feel the same as they used to, not at all like they've killed someone.

But the soft blue edge to his eyes is gone. He has less patience. And now her wrist is caught in his hand, and he is staring at her like he wants to tear into the soft skin of her neck. Or she's imagining it all. Living inside a mind you don't trust is a hell all on its own.

"Next time I call you, pick up," he tells her.

Danger licks at the words like the flame of a lighter.

She's not imagining it.

Once he's gone, she lies back on the stairs, waiting for the fear to kick in.

Her childhood crush is gone, and in his place is someone that has learned to carve his place in the world with violence.

But the fear doesn't come. There is nothing of the sort.

Instead, it feels like a chain has wrapped itself around her neck and Aegon holds the other end.

She can't remember the last time she felt so secure.

[danceworshipper]

@hphm-ship-week Prompt 5: Second Wizarding War

Fun fact, none of my ocs directly participate in the war!

Ship: Gracie/Charlie 💚🐉

Date: late June, 1997 (been in Romania for 6 years)

Fuck, it was supposed to be a good day. There were new Norwegian Ridgeback eggs that were set to hatch sometime before noon, and the whole sanctuary was throwing a party after. Someone was making fresh pizza. Would it be considered a bad coping skill to just ignore what they'd learned until tomorrow?

...yeah, it would.

Bill had been attacked. A bunch of Death Eaters and Fenrir fucking Greyback had been set loose on Hogwarts, and while no one had died, it sounded like Bill had come close.

"It's bad," Arthur said through the Floo. "I almost didn't recognize him."

Gracie thought her fingers might fall off, but she wasn't about to ask Charlie to let go of her hand. Not now. He looked like he might faint, and while Gracie was a Healer, she'd really rather if he didn't collapse on their living room floor.

"But he's okay?" she asked.

Arthur sighed. "He should be, but we can't know for sure. It's close enough to the full moon that Remus is worried something could happen, but he doesn't think it'll be anything serious. We're just going to have to wait and see."

"Is he awake? Can I come talk to him?" Charlie begged.

"He's still asleep. And these fireplaces aren't set up for international travel," Arthur responded. "He was up for a little while last night, and he was talking fine and remembered everything. I think the worst bit is the scarring."

Bill had been scarred before - he was a cursebreaker, he'd gotten a lot worse than that - but werewolf gashes on his face was a whole other level.

Gracie felt ill just imagining it. For probably the millionth time, she cursed the general wizarding world's lack of research into werewolves. There was no fixing a scar left by a werewolf, even in human form. Someday someone who actually gave a shit would figure it out, but not while this war was turning more and more people against the idea of werewolf rights.

"I've got to get some rest," Arthur said after a long pause. "I'll call you again later, alright?"

Charlie didn't answer. Gracie took one look at his face and sighed. She knew that blank expression a little too well; he wasn't there anymore.

Arthur knew it too. "Take care of him, Gracie," he said. "Bill's fine, really. I promise."

"I will," Gracie said, and the flames went out. Charlie didn't react at all.

Even as broken as he was, there were some things that Gracie knew Charlie couldn't miss, and one of those things was a hatching. He'd be devastated if he didn't get to watch their little baby claws stomping around while they squeaked. Resigning herself to a long fucking day, Gracie steered Charlie toward the kitchen to get some breakfast in him.

(Bill was one of her first ever friends, dammit, why wasn't she allowed to break too?)

She got some toast in him, and that was probably as good as she was going to get, so she gave up on the idea of a big breakfast so that they could skip lunch.

"We're going to his wedding," Charlie said suddenly.

Gracie turned the sink off, dishes half washed, and sat down next to him at the table.

"I don't care what's going on here," he continued. "I don't care if they fire me. We're going to his wedding."

"They wouldn't fire you for that," Gracie said, taking his hand.

"Even if they did."

"Okay."

"Should we move back home?" Charlie asked, looking at her for the first time since Arthur called. "I hate that they're all fighting for their lives and we're just carrying on like nothing's happening."

Gracie wanted to say an immediate no, no fuckingway, she wasn't doing that shit again and he couldn't make her, but she forced herself to breathe. The answer was still going to be no, but she understood where he was coming from. This was his entire family at risk. Hers was far from the action, so of course it would be easier for her to choose self-preservation. Plus, Charlie was a dumbass Gryffindor, so it was in his nature to be bold and rash and get himself fucking killed -

"No!" she snapped, and then sighed, because she hadn't wanted to say it like that.

Charlie stared at her in surprise.

"We can send them money and supplies, or we can bring them over here, but I'm not risking you," she said. "I can't risk you."

Squeezing her hand, he nodded. "But we're going to the wedding."

"Of course we're going to the wedding," Gracie agreed. One wedding wouldn't kill anyone. "And right now, we're going to see the hatching."

Finally there was a small spark back in Charlie's eyes. "Yeah, okay, lets go."

Somehow, they managed to make it through the hatching and even the party with only a couple of people asking if everything was alright, but it was a close call. Gracie practically fell into her favorite armchair - the one Charlie had found in an antique shop that was the perfect shade of Slytherin green - and let her eyes close. She had a pounding headache, induced both by stress and a bit too much alcohol.

She could hear Charlie pacing by the fireplace, waiting for Arthur to call again. It had better be good news when he did.

"Love, wake up."

Gracie forced her eyes open. When the hell did she fall asleep?

Charlie had tears in his eyes, but he was smiling brightly. "Bill's on the Floo, if you want to talk to him."

Wide awake, she was wide awake. Gracie jumped out of the armchair and ran to the Floo, and there his image was: beaten, scarred, and clearly exhausted, but smiling.

"Don't I look badass?" Bill joked. "I'm thinking I should get another piercing, really lean into it. Maybe a lip ring?"

"Fuck off," Gracie said, and Bill laughed, and it was all okay.

[what-gs-watching]

“Each of us is more than the worst thing we’ve ever done.”

So I’m settling into this job and being a person again and I’m trying to pull myself slowly out of my comfort watch hole. My brain is starting to handle things again. 

And apparently I thought it was a good idea to finally finish Barry. Because I’m an absolute fucking idiot. Like, girl, why would you jump into the deep end like this?!

It’s because I love Bill Hader, of course. And because I’d watched the first two seasons awhile ago and was totally enthralled with NoHo Hank and I thought it was kind of fun and it fed my murder bloodlust but holy SHIT you guys.

Wherein, an ex-Marine gets talked into becoming an assassin and that’s fine for a while but then he decides maybe he wants to be an actor and become an actual person instead of just a killing machine. And it gets fucking horrible. 

Like, I’m really trying to figure out why seasons one and two I was kind of okay with, but I just finished the whole thing and jesus fuck, what the fuck? Ripping my heart out of my chest, goddamn.

WHAT THE FUCK DID I JUST WATCH. 

I’m gonna be honest, I’m not sure my brain actually is ready to process all of this. Y’all are forcing me to think about what we’re all capable of as humans, and I kind of hate that. We’re not inherently evil, we’re not inherently good. We do fucked up shit but we can also love and be great friends and be kind but we’re also selfish as hell and scared all the time and honestly we just need positive reinforcement and fucking support and when we don’t get it, horrible things happen.

Barry becomes a killer because the guy who was basically an uncle to him, Fuches,  saw that he was good at it and figured out they could make some money and he used him and convinced him it would give him a purpose but then he meets Gene Cousineau (and oh my GOD Henry freakin’ Winkler in this, wowwwwww he’s incredible) an acting teacher running a ragtag class, that gives him a bit of encouragement, and it occurs to him that maybe he can be something else. So he tries. 

But he’s also still a fucking assassin and his old life and his new life gets intertwined and a lot of it is absolutely ridiculous. We see Chechen gangsters bumbling their way through trying to get a foothold in LA and that’s how we meet NoHo Hank, who I’ve decided is actually the star of the show, for me. He’s chill, he’s kind, he’s trying to bring some class to being a thug, and he takes an instant liking to Barry. He truly wants to be friends, while utilizing Barry’s specific set of skills. It's cute.

I’m not going to outline the entire plot because there is a ton going on, but after digesting some of this I have to say that Sally Reed, Barry’s love interest, is my least favorite character. She’s a great actress, and she’s fake as hell, but she’s also trying to be weirdly virtuous like she’s truly an artist and not out for the fame of it. But she absolutely is. And when she finds out what Barry is she’s so disgusted, but baby girl, you don’t really have a leg to stand on. What she does while they’re in hiding? I can’t. 

And really, she and everyone else does end up getting their comeuppance. Over and over again we see people making the worst decisions they can because of their selfishness, their drive to be something they’re not, reaching for something maybe they shouldn’t. Crazy fucking rivalries that end in insane amounts of murder for no reason other than feeling slighted or proving themselves. 

Cousineau is a dick as well, but he doesn’t necessarily deserve what happens to him. He had tried to change, but he was weak. And we all are. We are all all of these characters in one way or another, and it’s the fucking choices we make that damn us. Which is gross and true and frustrating and horrible and hard to accept. Most of the time, it’s hard to directly look at this show head on. Why did I do this, again? 

But then there’s real moments of levity and humanity. The relationship Hank ends up forming with Cristobal, the head of the Bolivian syndicate - it’s pure and it’s sweet (and eventually, absolutely fucking devastating - Hank’s last scene, good lord). The few moments where you can see Fuches does care about Barry as more than just an asset. The scene where Hank and Cristobal pitch an alliance between two rival gangs in a Dave & Buster’s of all places, seeing the guys they’ve come together to pitch clutching stuffed animals and prizes they won. Barry and Sally’s early relationship and their excitement at putting on a production together. 

Basically, this show ends up saying a lot and I hate most of it, but it’s all something that people should probably hear. This was NOT the show to get back into new content with, that’s absolutely clear, I 100% need a palette cleanser, but it’ll stay with me for a good long time. 

Do you want to feel ways about a lot of things all at once and find yourself screaming at the TV for a few weeks? Barry’s gotchu. You’ve been warned.

[bllsbailey]

Bill Maher Slams 'The Left' For Cutting Off Family Members Over Political Differences

Bill Maher attends a game between the Houston Rockets and the Los Angeles Lakers at Crypto.com Arena on December 02, 2023 in Los Angeles, California.

Podcaster and television host Bill Maher recently went off on certain individuals on “the left” who tend to cut off their conservative family members during the holiday season.

“It’s so funny you mention that because, like today, we live in this time when you’re not allowed to have friends from the other side or cross lines politically,” Maher said on a Sunday episode of his “Club Random” podcast to guest Jay Leno.

“And I forgot that there’s an example of that way back when, a guy who crossed lines politically. ‘Ooh, the worst thing you could ever do – be friends with a Republican. Ahh! Call 911!’” Maher jokingly continued.

“This is what I f***ing hate about the left, you know. And they’re not going to get me over to the Trump side, which they think they will sometimes, but just the idea that, you know, ‘cut your family off for Thanksgiving if they voted for the wrong guy.’ F*** off, you f***s. And Sammy [Davis Jr.] – when he hugged Nixon, he was ostracized by the left A LOT. That was an early harbinger of that,” he added, referencing singer and actor Sammy Davis Jr.’s famous moment of hugging former GOP President Richard Nixon.

Bill Maher tells Jay Leno that his least favorite part of the left is how they will cut you off from their lives if you are friends with someone from the right: Jay Leno: "Remember him [Sammy Davis Jr] hugging Nixon? At the time he was seen as a traitor." Bill Maher: "A guy who… pic.twitter.com/eRkiAv0Bwg— Eric Abbenante (@EricAbbenante) December 23, 2024

However, this isn’t the first time that Maher has pushed back on leftists promoting isolation due to political differences, as he previously criticized Dr. Amanda Calhoun, a child psychiatry fellow, along with MSNBC’s Joy Reid for promoting politically-motivated distancing from family members.

“There is a societal push that, if somebody is your family, they are entitled to your time,” Calhoun stated. “And I think the answer is absolutely not.”

“So, if you’re going through a situation where you have family members or you have close friends who you know have voted in ways that are against you, that are against your livelihood, then it’s completely fine to not be around those people, and to tell them why,” Calhoun continued.

— Kevin Bass PhD MS (@kevinnbass) November 9, 2024

“To say, ‘I have a problem with the way that you voted because it went against my very livelihood, and I’m not going to be around you this holiday, I need to take some space for me,” she added.

Maher sarcastically clapped back at Calhoun and Reid, asserting, “Oh, how pure. [That’s] like not letting certain people sit with you on the bus.”

“Think about that, a mental health professional advising people to isolate during the holidays. And don’t forget to drink too much and put on weight,” Maher continued.

“You know who I really wouldn’t want to have Thanksgiving dinner with? This overly educated, i.e. extremely stupid, Ivory Tower academic,” he sarcastically stated.

“But I would because if we ever want this nation to heal, this is what we have to do, force ourselves to reach out and find out why someone feels the way they do, and make the choices they make without prejudging them [as] a monster,” Maher added.

Back in May, on CNN, Maher faced criticism from Democrats yet again during an interview, as he was asked why his rhetoric toward the left has completely “flipped.”

“I haven’t turned. Yes, people have said to me, ‘You made fun of the left more than you used to,’ and guilty, I have, because the left has changed,” Maher told CNN’s Fareed Zakaria during a sit-down interview.

Stay informed! Receive breaking news blasts directly to your inbox for free. Subscribe here. https://www.oann.com/alerts

[eyeofprovidence]

more laughter fills the landscape, endlessly echoing even as he speaks – if the eyes engraved on every essence of this terrain could laugh, they would be.

"SO PROTECTIVE! I THOUGHT YOU USED TO HATE HER!" humans are weird, never saying what they mean... but the truth comes out eventually, even if it requires a little push. "IS THAT WHAT KIDS SAY WHEN THEY ACTUALLY LOVE SOMEONE? THAT THEY'RE THE WORST?" sure, dipper's not going to care to focus on technicalities right now, but he can't help but be curious!

still, the laughter rings in the background, thousands of eyes glued upon dipper. "OF COURSE I WANTED TO BE THE ONE TO REVEAL MYSELF!" it'd be no fun if his girlfriend went ahead and spoiled the surprise for him, would it? "THERE'S NO WAY SHE'D DO ME JUSTICE! HA, YOU SHOULD'VE SEEN HER, SHE WAS ALL –"

where the statue of pacifica crumbled, an alive pacifica is conjured in its place, tears streaming down her cheeks as her eyes squeeze shut... before opening them to look directly at dipper, desperate.

"LIKE THAT!"

the background of laughter distorts, overlapping with the quiet sobs and roaring flames and whatever pathetic sounds of misery dipper is currently making.

dipper asks if it's about the journals, as if this is about anything else – he's dug into pine tree's mind enough to know those are the most useful things he has to offer. "YOU GOT IT, IQ!" with a snap, the trio of journals appears, even if, well, bill doesn't know if the kid's in possession of all three. "HAND 'EM OVER, AND I'LL LEAVE BLONDIE – HELL, I'LL EVEN THROW IN SHOOTING STAR! – ALONE."

next to the all-too-realistic pacifica appears a similarly sobbing mabel, eyes looking desperately to dipper.

"SO! WHAT'LL IT BE?"

the horror that crossed dipper's face upon bill informing him he had visited pacifica as her god damn PARENTS was incomparable to any display of discomfort he had shown previous. ❛ you sick fuck, ❜ the man spat, a pure rage rattling his ribcage, a protective rage unlike anything he had ever felt swelling in his chest— unable to stop it from coming out full force. ❛ where you too cowardly to show her it was you ?? scared she was going to tell me that you were here before you could reveal that to me YOURSELF ?? ❜ dipper wasn't trying to hide it anymore, he couldn't if he wanted to, it was written all over his face.

dipper wanted to hit something, hit BILL, scream until his throat was raw— until the flames on his arm swallowed his entire body whole and left him as nothing more than a pile of ash.... but dipper silenced himself as bill went on again, the searing pain in his arm that had been momentarily forgotten now coming back full force as it ripped through him once more, crumpling back down to his knees— torso falling forward as he braced his other hand against the earth, eyes screwing themselves shut. he felt the shake of the ground once more, looking up as statues began to pepper the plane of his mindscape faster than he could keep track of, his gaze sporadically tracking them, trying to make note of who was appearing.

the man was sent scrambling when the ground began to peel back, trying to find patches of untouched earth to stay planted on, but there was no escaping the tens, hundreds, thousands of eyes that blinked open— staring at him, tracking him, watching him. looking up at bill, dipper couldn't even begin to process what he was feeling. the anger was blinding, but there was something beneath it as well, and his mouth opened to voice it before he was crippled by a new pain piercing through the bone of his forearm— splintering up until it struck his shoulder, the agonizing cry ripping from him unlike any that had come in the past. if the visual of the eye embedded in muscle wasn't enough, the pull on the fibers each time it blinked at him had him dizzy with nauseas. ❛ what is this about ?? the journals ?? ❜ dipper howled, barely able to keep his head up, growling through the unforgiving pain bill was putting him through. this was a dream, he knew that, but it didn't make the pain, the anger, the fear he felt any less real. fuck bill and his persistent need to be a cryptic, satantic ASSHOLE.

❛ what CHOICE are you talking about ?? ❜

[sternbagel]

Inspired by the wonderful OC lore that @charlotte-balfours-garden​ wrote and posted, I decided to finish this piece that’s been sitting in my drafts for months about my own RDR OC, visual references here!

Note: This takes place in canon, Chapter 3, and while everyone calls her Alberta Taylor at this point, it’s not her real name, just something she’s been going by for years because of something in her past. Professionally, she’s a bounty hunter, but has dabbled in other things. 

Read This First

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Well, at least the one thing today that hasn’t been surprising is Arthur finding Al has dragged a chair over to his tent to read, one leg propped up on the chest at the end of his cot. Sometimes she’ll set up there to get ample shade from the sun, and according to her, the chest is the perfect foot rest height. 

“Afternoon, Arthur,” she greets lazily as she turns the page.

“Miss Taylor. Comfortable?”

“Sure.” She cuts her eyes up at him from under the brim of her hat, seemingly just to give him a greeting glance and smile, but when she spots the shiny new accessory pinned to his vest, her head raises higher. “You steal that off a dead lawman or somethin’?”

And it begins, Arthur thinks with a snort. “No, Dutch—” he waves an arm in the direction he came from, though Dutch has long ago left that area—“got us ingratiated with the local sheriff, so now we’re honorary deputies.”

“Was Sheriff Gray drunk?” 

That’s surprising. They only met the sheriff yesterday, and he’s not sure the full story of their encounter has been relayed to the rest of camp, just the orders not to cause any trouble. “How’d you know his name?”

As soon as the words leave his mouth, he realizes that most likely, it was Hosea. Those two are close. 

She answers with a cavalier shrug before he can say anything. “I’ve been here before. Once. Didn’t stay long.”

Arthur takes the bait she leaves out. “Why not?”

“Well, it’s Lemoyne. I don’t spend very long here if I can help it. But first time I got to Rhodes lookin’ for bounty posters, Sheriff Gray was puking in the bushes. Somehow he managed to get out that they do all the bounty hunting themselves. No reason to go back.”

“Well, that’s pretty much how I found him when I went lookin’ for Dutch and Bill.”

“Figures,” she laughs, shaking her head. “Not that I really care, but where is Bill? Didn’t see him come back with y’all. Still with the Sheriff, ingratiating himself?” She looks thoughtful for a moment. “I didn’t get that impression off him, but I wasn—”

Arthur holds up a hand and shakes his own head with a smirk. “No, no, the Grays around here don’t seem… his type. Matter of fact, I should probably warn Bill to just play it cool—“

“What, drunk, dumb, and ignorant ain’t Bill’s type? What about that guy we saw him chattin’ up at that saloon in Armadillo?”

“That ain’t what I mean,” he snorts.

“I know.” Al flashes a playful smirk. “I’m just messin’.”

“Well, anyway, no, he’s off hidin’ some wagon full o’ moonshine we stole off some bootleggers under the Sheriff’s orders. Hosea’ll know what to do with it.”

“Moonshine?” This seems to pique her interest, again to Arthur’s surprise. “You know who you stole it off of?”

“Yes…” Arthur’s eyebrows knit together. He slowly lumbers over to his table, laying down the deputy badge and watching her carefully. Al’s expression is calm, but it’s a thin enough veneer that he sees the curiosity building by the second. “What’s it to you?”

“Curious.”

“Yeah.”

The book in her lap finally closes. “I used to run with some moonshiners not too long ago.”

“Alberta Taylor. Well, I never took you for a bootlegger.”

She throws an arm over the back of her chair and lets her head fall back, exposing more of her neck. It’s then that Arthur notices she’s not wearing her usual green neckerchief. Or her green jacket. She must be really burning up to be in just her workshirt and jeans. “Not every professional bounty hunter is a staunch upholder of the law, Arthur Morgan,” she says matter-of-factly with a lift of her brow.

“I never said that. Didn’t mean it neither. I mean, look who you fell in with, I know better. I just ain’t seen you drink much moonshine.”

“Sure. Always been more of a beer and tequila woman.”

He plops down on his cot and lights a cigarette. “Then what you doin’ runnin’ with moonshiners?”

“Tell me who you stole the liquor off of first, cowboy.”

Arthur concedes. Al is stubborn. “The Braithwaites. And those fellers that run around here with those yellow bandanas. Sadie and I ran into ‘em a few days ago. Uh—”

“Lemoyne Raiders?” She sneers. “I’d hoped someone had snuffed ‘em out by now. Hijo de putas.”

He takes a long drag of the cigarette before answering. “Yeah, that’s them. You’ve had some run-ins with ‘em, huh?”

“Like I said, just the once. Three of them stopped me on my way into Rhodes. Brought ‘em into town, dead, which is when I met Sheriff Gray. They didn’t have any bounties on ‘em, so all I got outta one of his deputies was five dollars. I know they weren’t even worth that much, but he coulda paid me more,” she grumbles. Her light Cuban accent comes out more the lower her voice goes.

“Sounds about right. Least ya got paid somethin’.”

“I guess.” She picks at the spine of her book for a moment. “Wasn’t long after that I met a… moonshiner legend, so to say, through a mutual friend. Though friend seems to be pushing it.”

He gets the sense she’s not fully sour on the “friend,” so his shoulders shake in amusement. 

“He was a lot like Uncle, actually.”

“Lord.” Arthur snickers, smoke billowing out of his mouth. 

“Yeah. Not as lazy. Probably younger, but who knows.”

“I reckon Uncle ain’t as old as he wants folks to think. Besides just bein’ too lazy, it’s probably why he don’t trim his beard.”

Al laughs, rougher than usual until she coughs and clears it up. “Damn humidity.”

“Tell me about it,” Arthur agrees, leaning forward and propping one elbow up on his knee. “So, this… moonshiner legend.”

“Ever heard the name Maggie Fike?”

The name isn’t familiar, but it isn’t unfamiliar either. “Don’t think so,” he settles on. 

“Well, she’s been mostly out this way rather than out where y’all been running around. Revenue Agents caught up to her a couple years back, tried burning her alive. Didn’t work, but gave her a nasty scar and bad eye. Almost puts Marston to shame. Almost,” she adds with a grin as he walks between Arthur and Strauss’ tents.

“Take a look in the mirror, Miss Taylor,” he grumbles back. Then he chucks a cigarette butt at a chuckling Arthur. “You too, Morgan.”

John disappears around the side of the tent as Arthur brushes off the butt. “Cranky cause he ain’t had his midday nap.”

“Pick better material.”

Al chuckles and presses the palm of her hand on her hat, affixing it more securely to her head. “Anyway…”

“Anyway…” Arthur sighs lightly. “You said she survived?”

“Yeah, went into hiding for a while. Somehow got a hold of my ‘friend’, who then asked me for help gettin’ her business back on its feet. Easy work at first. Finding a good location for the shack, gettin’ her some supplies, that stuff.” She waves a hand around. “Most folks don’t pay much mind to a bounty hunter buyin’ supplies in bulk like I was or destroying illegal stills. Sometimes I brought in the other moonshiners to the local town to collect on a bounty. Made for a better cover for what I was really doing.”

“Takin’ out the competition.” Arthur chuckles. 

“Exactly. Then came—”

“What the hell are you two talkin’ about anyway?”

Al puts her hand back on her hat before tipping her head back, almost touching the back of the chair, and looks at John, upside down. Arthur leans forward more to get his own look and the rangy outlaw, who’s circled back around to the other side of his wagon. 

“And what the hell is that?” John asks. He’s looking directly at the badge on Arthur’s table, disgust etched into his features. As if it’s some rotting, maggot infested carcass Arthur’s using for decoration.

Arthur sighs and briefly explains again.

“So this is just another excuse for you to play dress-up, eh? Guess I need to tell Hosea you’re itchin’ to go scammin’ with him again.”

“You do that, it’ll be your pecker in the stew pot next meal.”

Al’s crossed her arms over her chest and is watching them with barely contained amusement. “Playing dress-up? I don’t think I’ve seen that side of you yet, Arthur.”

“And you won’t,” he growls. “Only reason Hosea takes me on those jobs is because he knows I hate it. Just once I’d like him to take Marston instead.”

“You sure about that?” Al studies John as if she’s a talent agent in the big city. “Doesn’t he like to avoid mayhem on those jobs?”

John snorts indignantly. “Yeah, well, I’d like to see you try and follow Hosea’s lead. I swear even he don’t know what he’s doin’ half the time.”

“But it works.” Her eyebrows raise pointedly. 

“But it works,” John concedes. 

“Well, next time you go, let me know. I’d love to watch y’all work.”

“Whatever,” John grumbles as he waves her off and saunters away. Apparently he’s given up on butting into their conversation.

“I ain’t pullin’ that type of job with Hosea again. What we had set up in Blackwater, sure, but not...” Arthur wags a finger in the air, then unfurls the rest of his fingers and waves his hand once before letting it fall back in his lap. “Not that. The girls and Trelawny are much better’n me anyway. Safer that way.”

Al shrugs. “I won’t argue that.”

“So, back to what you was sayin’?” Arthur’s not willing to let the moonshiner story drop. It’s not often she lets down her walls and tells stories of her past that don’t directly involve some bounty she’s nabbed. He knows what happened to her family, but that had been a moment he wasn’t meant to see, and neither of them have ever brought it up again.

“So after we get a shack set up, she gets word of where this old buddy of hers is, go rescue him so he can make our moonshine. Not long after that, her nephew’s gettin’ moved from Sisika, so I go rescue him.”

Arthur pulls the cigarette from his lips and folds his arms across his chest, leaning back against the wagon. “Just you against a bunch of lawmen?”

“Don’t sound so surprised, Morgan,” she drawls, lolling her head to the side.

“Suppose I shouldn’t be,” he chuckles.

“No, actually, I had a couple friends with me, cashed in on some favors. I’m not stupid or reckless enough to take on an armed prison transport.”

Arthur just shrugs. “Woulda believed you either way.”

“You’re too trusting,” she remarks. There’s a teasing lilt to her voice, but her eyes sparkle with something else. 

“Perhaps you’re right.”

“Well, we bring them back to the shack, get the business up and running. Enact some revenge on a rival of hers in the meantime, I get to kill the agent who tried to burn her. Spent about a year with them. I didn’t do a lot of the actual running of moonshine, one of those friends who helped me break out Maggie’s nephew, Lem, did most of that. I focused on taking out the competition, clearing out Revenue Agent roadblocks when we were sure we couldn’t sneak past them. The real dirty work. But I didn’t mind, kept me moving, out of the government’s crosshairs enough that I could keep killin’ those damn agents.”

Arthur cocks his head curiously. But she isn’t done talking, so he lets her continue, holding onto his question for now.

“Couple months before I ran into y’all, I told them I’d have to leave. I’d spent so much time in this area, couldn’t… Needed to get out and go back out west. See some old friends, see some open country. They reckoned they’d be fine without me, but threw them the name of another friend I knew’d be able to help them, pick up my slack.”

“So… you think they’re still runnin’ that shine?”

“No reason not to. Never heard anything about her being captured. Got a letter from them while I was in Blackwater, actually. They’re doin’ well.” She gives a fond, reminiscent smile. “That friend is working with Maggie now, too. Dunno how she stands him, but…”

“Good. Since we’re over this way, you plannin’ on seein’ ‘em?”

“They’re north, Roanoke Ridge territory. Might, if I feel safe leavin’ you fools by yourself for more than a week.”

Arthur chuckles and shakes his head. “I reckon we can survive without ya for that long.”

“With all the trouble you been causing lately? I don’t think so, Mr. Morgan.” Al fans herself with her book, smirking at Arthur pointedly.

“I actually got another question for ya,” he diverts.

“Shoot.”

“I been thinkin’ about this since you got here, but now, knowin’ how much you seem to hate the Revenue Agents, how come you’re a bounty hunter, takin’ payouts from the government, but runnin’ with a bunch’a outlaws? After a year of runnin’ shine, that is.”

A simple shrug is her reply, and the pause is so long Arthur isn’t sure she’ll actually give him an explanation, until, “You have your code, I have mine.”

“Huh,” he grunts. They watch each other casually for a long moment, then he asks, “You gonna explain?”

He can see her weigh her options, and eventually she relents. “You know…” Her expression immediately tells him what she means: her past, what happened to her. 

“Yeah,” he offers quietly.

“Well, nobody’s born a seasoned gunslinger. When I first started bounty hunting, I had to take the easier targets. Most big pay days, or the jobs that are good start for those of us that’re green, they’re people who rob banks with a pen, rich people doing rich people crimes. They’re soft, easy, and all it really takes to catch them is knowing the land better and being tougher than city folk. Which ain’t hard at all. So, until I could stand on my own, those were the only kinds I took. Then I started goin’ after the bastards I really wanted to. People like the Johnson Brothers.”

She nearly spits the name. Arthur feels the sting in her soul.

“I never take those soft bounties anymore,” she continues after a deep breath, seeming more like herself again with every word. “Unless I need a break. But it’s been a while since I have.”

“Been a while since you took a bounty at all.”

She must notice the question in his voice. Not judgement, but question. “No. You’ve been kicking up too much fuss. Wouldn’t be smart for me to be seen around town here more than once or twice.”

Arthur rolls his eyes. While it is mostly true, it’s about all he’s going to get out of her, but he knows the real reason why. Even if she won’t admit it to herself. “Got me there, Al.”

“Not hard to do, Arthur.”

[bunny-carrothunter]

the questions you get are scary lol

so could you rank your poinion on the villains from best to worst?

thank god finally an sfw asks for the wordgirl tag alfkjskd there's like so many villains jfc but I'll try to be brief. Rank as in favorites or how good they are villains? I’ll do the latter, the former I’ll make a separate post for it.

this is my opinion on ranking, ik everyone has their own.

Villains I won't even mention cuz I don't have a big enough opinion on: Coach, Masked Meat Marauder, Timmy Timbo, Rhyme&Reason, Raul, Glen, Royal Dandy, Amazing Rope Guy, Big Left Hand Guy, Guy Rich (even tho I love him) and Kid Potato (RIP ;-;).

17. Eileen

Both easy to get her riled up and get her to calm down. Just a nuisance, not really a villain. Also her episodes are just either tedious or give us all collective ptsd from that one annoying spoiled child in middle school.

16. Seymour

Above Eileen cuz he's actually entertaining sometimes. Daran Norris voicing any character will automatically be a fun time. Good at tricking people (tho that doesn't say much when those people are from Fair City) and concepts can be fun.

15. Invisi-Bill

Yes, just him and not his bf, dont hurt me. On his own, he can both fun and tricky but he's much too focused on being the center of attention or prideful to really do much. I love him, but as a villain, he could use work. He and BLHG just do it for fun and status so can't blame them.

14. Granny May

An OG but I’m putting her low because most of her crimes/schticks seem to be the same thing. And yeah their effective (with the people of Fair City, lol), but it does get boring sometimes. And it sucks cuz she’s such a girlboss but she does get pushed aside a lot compared to the other villains, specially in later seasons. I feel they could of done more with her, tbh.

13. Butcher

I'm gonna get lash for this- As a character, I love Butcher. 10/10 dad material. But as a villain.. It mostly sometimes feels he just does it just because, not out of any motive, other than maybe wanting to be appreciated and respected by his veteran-villain dad, Kid Potato. He's THE OG villain voiced by the show's own co-creator, and yet when put with other villains, he kinda lacks motive. Love him, but compared to the next villains, he's low here. Love ya, Butcher.

12. Maria the Energy Monster

She's like Eileen but actually a threat, and with much more personality. Not only can you not attack her directly because well electricity, but it's hard to actually defeat her when she's literal just an element, but love that despite it she still gets her own character.

11. Nocan the Contrarian

Nocan is when you take a himbo and give him the title of a villain and no further instructions. Most of the time he's just vibing but as a villain, he can be difficult to defeat and that's a compliment. Both strong with a weapon and physically, but also just a lot of fun.

10. The Learnerner

Weird Al. That's it.

9. Victoria Best

Now here's where we get to actual motives for being a villain. On her own, Victoria is a complex, love-to-hate character, but when she decides to play the villain, Victoria can be a real threat. She'll go lengths for jealousy and approval and that can cause problems not only for Wordgirl but everyone else around her. It makes it not only interesting to watch but WANT her to do better, unlike other villains you just enjoy to watch actually play as the show villain.

8. Ms Question

Harmless at first, Ms Question actually does possess abilities that can cause chaos and harm when she focuses. Not only can she confuse and escape any enemy just with her super natural abilities, but she can also spread her power to food that can spread much quicker and more discreetly. Not only that, she can materialize a hoverboard on command not only for her but others she carries around. Mischievous at her core and absolutely fun to watch. She actually got rid of all the villains in town singlehandedly and would of won if they hadn’t come back.

7. Whammer

Absolute chaos of a man that vibes and I love him. Physically, he’s definitely the strongest of the villains, being able to take down a ship with a single pebble and lifting a ferris wheel right off its hinges. AND a himbo? Whole package. I love Whammer, he’s funny, adorable and so fun when it comes to character interactions.

6. Lady Redundant Woman

Girlboss. The fact she works in retail and chooses to be a villain on the side like a hobby is so funny to me, go off girl. Her ability to duplicate anything, not just art but actual people is lowkey OP? AND NO ONE TALKS ABOUT IT? Feral lady that bites rude people’s ankles and we stan.

5. Tobey

Before you attack me, hear me out. Tobey relies mostly on his robots, which he’s really good at, however without it, he’s literately just a kid. I would of liked to see if he’s as good in computers as he is in engineering like if he was able to hack into electronics, that would be another thing (tho I AM using this hc for a fic I’m writing), but if doesn’t have his robots or the funds for (”The Shrinking Allowance” comic being an example of this scenario), plus the fact his only motive is getting Wordgirl’s attention, doesn’t do much for him as a villain. Still, he is still quite formidable.

4. Mr. Big & Leslie

Ignoring the fact Mr Big almost did take over the world twice, he and Leslie are also just fun to watch as a duo. Admittedly Mr Big could do more damage if he didn’t have Leslie to keep him in check, who’s has actively stopped or interfere his plans because she just decided to lol. Mr Big can be more evil than other villains as he’s one of the few that did incapacitate Wordgirl (Ms Power included) for some time. But alas, it’s his own incompetency (and well, himboness) that prevents him from getting to say Two Brains level.

3. Chuck

Talk about never judge a book by its cover. The fact Chuck has ACTUALLY managed to take over the world/city with the rest of the villains under his command and everyone just casually forgets because yeah you wouldn’t expect it from someone that lives in his mom’s basement. It’s not clear if he buys all his weapons or makes them himself, but he def makes the best out of them.

2. Ms. Power

Absolute no doubt. If it wasn’t for one weakness of just not listening to her, she definitely would have been OP. Not to say she already wasn’t, being up to Wordgirl’s level, but unlike Wordgirl, she needs someone else’s weakness (and well feelings) to win. Still, OP, 10/10 villain, love Jane Lynch, so much potential and I like her. 

1. Dr Two-Brains

Was there ever any doubt? Fan favorite aside, there’s a reason he’s the top villain. Not only is he the most story/plot written villain with past history with Wordgirl herself, inventions alone, he’s basically a super human with ridiculously enhanced sense of smell, teeth to chew drywall and even steel bars, enhanced speed and of course super intelligence. He’s up to Dr Cockroach level of intelligence to build a ray out of arts and crafts and scraps. And ALL THAT aside, this man can sing, dance, ice skate, is a frequent cook, can speak mouse and has an incredible charisma. Goes without saying, there’s a reason he’s a favorite villain to almost everyone.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x

This is a semi old ask but I don’t plan on rewriting anything SO SORRY FOR THE LATE RESPONSE ANON

[polysyndetonaddictsupportgroup]

The latest chapter fully has made me lose my brain. You were right the Job and Daisy buddy cop jamboree IS the best. And that conversation between Tim and Jon?? Man. So much going on and so much going on just beneath the surface. Love the way Tim guilty thinks back to what Elias said about everyone using Jon, and love the way that is kinda what he's doing. Also love the way he *knows* something awful has happened but he doesn't want to dig into it because he doesn't want to risk pulling someone aboard Danny and his already sinking lifeboat. He can't afford to care. SO fascinating.

Also unrelated but were there a way to anonymously send you fanart (to prevent the off chance of someone I know irl finding my blog lol) you would be swimming in fanart. Because hoo-boy. Anyways love the chapter!!

Ahh thank you for your kind words!

Legitimately i cannot put into words how much fun i find the daisy and jon buddy cop jamboree. they're both so insane and chaotic. I have so many Shenanigans in my head that the two of them have committed over the years of their partnership that will probably never make it into nhthcth on account of it not being relevant to the plot. they're just such a fun dynamic. jon won't stop buying daisy stuff for her home renovations on elias's personal credit card. she's like 10-15 years older than him and they do everything together. sometimes that's killing the eldritch manifestation of violence and sometimes that's bottomless mimosa brunch billed directly to peter lukas. daisy went from violently fucking hating this guy to spending almost every single day with him and going on multiple vacations with him and no one understands why. they're so funny to me. I want them to have a wwdits style tv crew following them around at all times.

See i LOVE tim as a character because he's a genuinely good guy but he's also not without his own limitations and he has been shown to have like, an ability to recognize and accept when he can't change something.

Tim's instinct is to help. Like, he went back for Jon and Martin and literally carried Jon through the Jane Prentiss attack. At the Unknowing, when they were planting explosives, he was trying to convince everyone to let him try to save the victims of the ritual that were still alive. He's really, genuinely good, and he wouldn't have been like those people in the Institute who turned a blind eye to Jon growing up because he was worried about his job.

But he also has limits. Like, season 3, his anger overrode basically everything else, and when Sasha disappeared after the Season 2 finale, he wasn't trying to find her. Martin was sitting there begging Daisy to bring her home safe, and Tim, who was shown to be closer with her than anyone, had already given into a grim acceptance that she was dead and there was nothing to be done.

It was the same thing with Helen--when Martin and Tim were wandering Michael's corridors, they saw Helen trapped inside. Martin kept insisting that they should have helped her, and Tim completely shut it down, because he had this very bitter understanding that they couldn't help her, so stop thinking about it and stop talking about it. He didn't fight it; he accepted it; he did not try because of it.

Tim's a good person, but he's distinct from some others in the cast by the fact that 1) he will look at the practical realities they're living in and (bitterly) accept them, and 2) he's got some things that will override and take priority when he makes decisions.

Danny is and always will be the number one override for him. Like, we get so little on them in canon, but what happened to Danny seems to haunt Tim right to the end. Tim upended his entire life trying to find the thing that killed his brother. When we get the Statement on what happened, we find out that Tim is still searching all these years later, even if he did get a bit comfortable and complacent over time. Like, he can cite offhand the last statement given regarding a circus. He's still pulling all the books on Circuses. He never let go of what happened to his brother, even though he accepted (for lack of a better term) what happened to Sasha before he knew what happened to her and before she was declared dead. Danny had been gone for years by the finale, but Tim went to his death so he could kill the thing that took him away.

So Tim in nhthcth is in this huge phase of major internal conflict right now, because every single one of his major pillars of decision-making are in conflict.

Danny's his ultimate override. He's the thing that makes Tim not give a shit about anything else--everything has to fall away to Danny making through this alive. Unlike Tim in canon, he actually has a chance to save Danny. Canon Tim was willing to die over his brother's fate--a Tim that has a chance to save his brother will go so much farther.

But he's still someone who is able to clock when something's completely and utterly fucked. And Tim is the best situated out of everyone in the cast save Jon to understand how dire these circumstances actually are.

Danny's in little brother baby jail. He's spending all day trying to wriggle information out of Mike because Tim's pitching a bitch fit every time he tries to leave the apartment, and Jon doesn't even want Tim there, let alone Danny. He's playing Uno with Mike and trying to subtly slide in "hahah hey for the sake of conversation do you happen know of any like. evil contract breaking powers." He's trapped in that John Mulaney bit of eating triscuits and asking someone if they had ever seen a ghost. Thoughts and prayers for Danny.

Martin and Sasha's priorities are different from Tim, and the information they're looking at is different. Sasha, especially--she's chasing the contract, not the circus, and she's in such a state of paranoia that she's trying to rely on information that comes from her, not anyone else. She's not been exploring the Statements or been learning about the supernatural world the way he has.

For the most part, this happened off camera, so to speak, but it's been discussed multiple times that Tim's been tearing through everything that he thinks can help him understand what's going on and how to stop the thing after his brother. He's going through the library, he's reading all the Statements he can. He's been trying to get practical experience via tagging along with Jon, which keeps getting stymied, so he goes back to the library and the Statements.

Which means he goes to the Archives every day and struggles against the dawning realization that what they're trying to do just does not happen. He reads the Statements, and people either die, or they are let go, or they become the monster themselves. Options one, two, and three. And the vast majority are people who die horrible fucking deaths--or, worse, don't get the mercy of death. He has been spending every day desperately trying to find a Statement of normal schmucks like him and his brother beating something determined to finish their meal and going back to their normal lives, and they just aren't there.

Tim in Season 2 and 3 most consistently displayed an understanding that the supernatural was not something they could beat. People just get eaten by monsters, and that's their lives now. Nhthcth Tim has been getting that same horrible, dawning certainty of "This is a fight I have no chances of winning" with the immediate follow up of "But it's Danny. I have to."

Which makes him painfully conscious of the fact that he cannot afford to be a good person right now.

Because the thing is? Danny should have died in the theatre, as far as he's aware, and Tim knows it. He should have never even made it home that night. You don't get out on your own--these things let you go. Even if he somehow made it out on his own, Breekon & Hope should have been able to drag him back easily. He should already be dead. Tim knows it with a devastating certainty.

And he also knows that the only reason why he isn't is because Jon has been paying the cost of keeping him alive.

Danny getting out of that theatre cost him his skin. Mike protecting him? Cost Jon a food source, and apparently is going to probably get him tossed off a building down the line. Getting Elias as a backstop ended with Jon having to start taking live statements again and letting assistants down. Hell, Jon has to fucking escort him to and from Mike's every single day, because Tim may just get picked up by Breekon & Hope if he doesn't.

Tim's painfully aware that Jon’s well-being and Danny’s have a negative correlation right now. He is so uncomfortably aware that he's borderline sacrificing Jon's wellbeing for his brother's, and he's accepted that basically using Jon is the only way he has of getting Danny through this alive. It goes against his nature, he's a good person who doesn't want to hurt someone else for his own benefit, but he'll keep doing it for Danny.

And he knows that's going to be a lot harder to do if he gets to know Jon.

Out of all of the assistants, Tim actually has some of the greatest suspicions of how deeply wrong things are. Like, Martin saw how bad Jon got as a kid, but Tim’s been exclusively privy to Elias’s manipulative bullshit in a way the other two haven’t. He never got fed the lie of Jon being Elias's spoiled and beloved ward. His first introduction to this mess was Jon saving their asses several times over, and it has been nonstop red flags since then. One of the first thing that Jon tells him is that he hates being called Jonathan, and it's all Elias calls him. Jon turned into a nervous, frantic mess at the idea of assistants, and Elias has been trying to force it for years. He was sarcastic in the face of clown death, but actively scared at the possibility of Elias coming down. Jon cannot be reminded that man exists without launching into insults so creative that Tim almost feels like he should write them down for reference.

Tim spends more time with Jon than anyone out of the cast. He’s walking to and from work with him every day, spending time with him at mikes and at the archives, and the way Jon behaves fucking terrifies him. Both in a “your life is a spooky nightmare” kind of way and in a “you act like the aftermath of a tragedy” kind of way. He knows somethings deeply fucking wrong with Jon.

And he’s also genuinely honest about liking Jon. He doesn't like him the way Danny does, per se. Jon simply enchants Danny. Danny wants this man in his life forever. He wants to be roommates with him. He wants to go on a roadtrip with him. He is the world's most interesting man to Danny and Danny has never wanted to be best friends with someone so badly in his life. He's hilarious, a good person, and every single thing that comes out of his mouth is the absolute fucking wildest thing he has ever heard in his life. They fucking booked it from a monster clown together through a nightmare eldritch theatre together, which is the start of an epic friendship if Danny has ever heard one.

Jon’s a big “if only” to tim. Jon’s funny and kind and they get on great. Tim thinks that if they had met and Jon had just been Danny’s friend that he dragged home with him, he’d love being this guys pseudo older brother or something. But he’s clocked the situation, he’s figured out that Jon’s world is not something you can stay just out of the sightline of. It’s cut all ties or be eaten. So Tim’s already read the writing on the wall, made the mental calculation, and realized at the end of this, if they get out, he’s going to have to look the guy who saved their asses at his own expense in the eye and tell him they’re abandoning him forever. Thanks for the rescue that was costly to you in unspeakable ways, please never contact us ever again.

Tim needs Danny out, alive, and everything he’s seen and read has led him to a not unreasonable understanding that that’s going to require using and abandoning Jon as an absolute best case scenario. That’s weighs unbearably heavy on his conscious when Jon’s someone he likes and is actively worried about. If he knew the truth? It would be impossible.