#COUGH COUGH @ a certain former feminist on here

[terven-queen]

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

An Officer and a Gentleman

Warnings: non-consent sex and rape; oral, anal, cheating (sort of), name-calling.

This is dark!(silverfox)Lee Bodecker x (married)reader and explicit. 18+ only.  Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Synopsis: Your after hours work gets in the way of your day job.

Note: I had the first half sitting around and finished it so here ya go. It takes place in the 70s so Lee is older and it was inspired by an article I read about the creation phone sex lines by a housewife in the 70s (which now of course I can’t flippin find). But anyway, here you go.

Thanks to everyone for sticking around and putting up with me and thanks in advance for all your feedback. :)

I really hope you enjoy. 💋

<3 Let me know what you think with a like or reblog or reply or an ask! Love ya!

The sheriff sat down in his usual spot as you wiped your hands on the rag tucked into your apron. He set his hat on the table and tidied his greying hair. Even at his age, his locks were thick and looked soft. Strands of brown lined the shining silver and shone under the diner lights.

He came in at the same time every day, only an hour into your shift. You approached and flipped the cup on its saucer before you filled it. He took only sugar, no cream 

or milk. You smiled as you watched him read over the menu, he never ordered anything but the waffles.

“Good morning, sheriff,” you said as you held the carafe aloft. “Lookin’ to try something new?”

“‘Dols Leck’?” Lee Bodecker mispronounced the French words, “What’s that?”

“Dolce Leche,” you corrected, “It’s caramel.”

“Hmm.” He rubbed his ruddy cheek and reached for his mug. He drank and held out the menu. “Waffles with strawberry.”

“Extra cream,” you finished for him. He nodded and had another gulp as you walked away.

You put in his ticket after you replaced the coffee pot on the burner. You checked on the few other customers along the counter and wiped down the empty tables. The bell rang and you went to grab the sheriff’s breakfast from the window. You set the plate down before him as he folded the newspaper and replaced it in the little holder at the end of the table.

“How’s Eugene?” He asked as he unwrapped his cutlery. “And the boy?”

“Gene’s still on nights.” You lamented and subconsciously touched your stomach. “Little Ezra’s almost a year now.”

Your boy was buxom and buoyant. You smiled as you thought of his round cheeks and warm brown eyes. You only wished his father was around more to take him off your hip as you cooked and cleaned in your spare hours after work. Eugene was asleep as much as he was at the factory. You saw each other in passing as you scraped for ends meet.

Ezra was with Eugene’s mother during the day. You’d pick him up and take him home to wait for your husband to wake. If you were lucky, you got a kiss before he grabbed his lunch pail and headed out for his twelve hours. You hadn’t gotten more than that since before Ezra came. Neither of you had the time or energy, though the want was there.

“And you sheriff? How are you doing these days?” You asked before you could get lost in your self-pity.

“Ah, you know. The same old. Patrol’s ain’t too exciting.” He cut into the stack and licked his lips. He was a man with a sweet tooth, a substitute for his former alcoholic habit.

“Well, you enjoy, sheriff, you know how to get my attention.” You left him and did a round of refills for those eating and greeted the new arrivals.

Lee was always alone when he came in. He never brought any of his cadets or officers, he just sat, read the newspaper, and ate his waffles. He wasn’t married and had no children. Nearly fifty years on his back but he seemed content on his own. You almost envied him as you struggled with your small family.

🚔

You laid Ezra down carefully in his crib. He was getting big. You tickled his forehead and watched him for a moment before you left the room. It was late. Eugene was gone and the phone would ring soon. You had to prepare yourself for your night time duties.

It started small. An idea found in the pages of one of those feminist magazines, the very ones your husband called good kindling. A woman lost her job, still hard-fought for the domestic sex, and found herself in a similar way as yourself. Money was always needed and harder to come about. So she started her own service for the lonely men. A phone line with illicit intentions.

You read about it in the late stages of your pregnancy and laughed at the idea. It was so stupid. So scandalous. But once you were back to work and Eugene was on the late shift, you grew lonely and your checkbook was harder to open.

You hand wrote the little cards after a visit to the phone company. Eugene didn’t know about the second line. The number redirected to your main line and was active for only three hours a night, after your husband was gone. It was registered as a commercial line so each incoming call was billed to the dialer and a percentage was refunded on your own invoice.

You left the number around town, certain not to be seen as you dropped the cards in the car shop and the bar. At least, you hoped you hadn’t been seen.

The first night had you addled and sleepless until your shift began at the diner. It was hard to keep up the sultry voice and the lies. Difficult to act like the whole thing didn’t make you cringe. The men called and said their dirty words as you encouraged them with moans and little prods. “Oh yes, baby.” or “Tell me more.” It felt like you were cheating on your husband but it kept his plate full and the house warm.

The phone didn’t ring right away that night. Later in the week, you got more calls but one or two was better than none. The real profit was keeping them on the line as long as you could, but there were times you had to end abruptly to see to your wailing child.

You were half-asleep when the first call came in. You fumbled with the receiver and batted away your fatigue with your lashes. You held in a yawn and your sleepiness added to the allure of your put-on voice.

“Hello, mister, what are you longing for tonight?” You laid back on your pillow and played with the spiral cord.

“Well, I…” You blinked and held the phone against your ear. He sounded familiar, as many of the men did, but his timbre made your ears prick sharply. “I don’t know. I never did nothing like this before.”

You squinted and thought. You knew him but you couldn’t place the twinge in your head.

“I can start for you, darling,” you offered. “Mmm, tell you what I would do to you?”

He cleared his throat and you heard movement. He was nervous. So many of the men sounded the same. Most of them were afraid of being caught by their wives or uncertain about their desires. At first, you had the same fears but had since grown indifferent. It was human nature, as natural as one’s instinct to quench their thirst for water.

“How do you like it, darling? You like it when a lady bends over? I like it like that. Or maybe you want to start with me on my back.”

He groaned and you heard the receiver scratch. He let out a strained breath and moved the phone to his other hand.

“I want to use your mouth.” He said at last. His voice was low and gristly. “I want to push your head down in my lap as I choke you with my cock.”

You stared at the ceiling as you reclined and hummed. “Oh yeah.”

“Shut up.” He snarled. “I don’t want to hear your voice, I just want your mouth on me until you can’t fucking breathe. I want to hear you struggle. I was your tears streaming down your face and salting the taste of me on my tongue. I want to hold you down and cum until it’s deep in your belly.”

You parted your lips and raised your brows. You were still focused on trying to recognize the voice. His tone made you quiver. He was more forceful than most men. A lot of them just talked about sucking on your tits or went straight to fucking.

“I’d love that, darling.” You lied and bent one leg over the other as you swayed your foot.

“I said shut up!” He hissed. “I want to hold you down with my hands around your neck. I want to fuck you until your screaming. I’ll fuck you until you bleed. Until you beg for me to cum again.”

His breath was furious and you heard something else. The phone was moving against his chin as he moaned and you were certain you could hear his hand somewhere else; lower. It set your cheeks on fire and you sat up. His voice, his breath, the sheer anger and lust laced in his rasps. Your throat tightened as if he was truly choking you.

“But I want to cum in your ass. I want to make it hurt. I want you to cry as I tear you apart from the inside.” He growled and coughed as his voice fizzled out. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.” He stroked himself furiously and the receiver dropped with a thump and you flinched. “Fucking bitch, yeah, you want my cock deep in your ass. Fucking whore.”

Your fingers hurt as you gripped the phone tightly and listened. His curses streamed steadily until the line clicked and died suddenly. You lowered the receiver and stairs at the little whole clustered together on the mouthpiece. You set it in the cradle and turned to sit on the edge of the bed.

It was unlike any call you’d had. It was terrifying and made your blood curdle. You felt as if it had actually happened as your chest was heavy and your heart raced. You blew out a shaky breath and reached to silence the ringer. 

That was enough for the night.

🚔

The next day at the diner, you couldn’t stop yawning. You hadn’t slept much as the call replayed in your head over and over. The man’s voice was so clear in your mind and every time you started to drift off, he spoke in your ear. You dragged the rag over the top of the counter as Amelia spoke with the elderly couple in that corner.

The door chimed and you looked up. Sheriff Bodecker took off his hat as he entered and nodded at you. With the coffee pot in hand, you went to his table, already set for his arrival. You wished him a good morning and filled his cup. His voice was thick as he muttered his response and picked up the menu. He looked as tired as you felt.

“Strawberry, sheriff?” You prompted.

“Hmm,” he scratched his chin, stubbly from a missed shave. “This Dolsay Leckay. I’ll try that today.” He held out his menu. “I’m trying new things this week.”

You took the menu stiffly and nodded. “Waffles with dolce leche sauce. Right away, sheriff.” 

You turned and walked off to write out his ticket. You returned the coffee pot to its place and set down the menu as you took out your pad and pen. Your hand shook as you scribbled out the order. You stuck it in the window and leaned on the counter.

It couldn’t be him. You were crazy. You didn’t get enough sleep and you were wanting to hear that voice everywhere. Your reassurances were weak and only made you shiver as you righted yourself and continued wiping down the tables.

You angled yourself to look at the sheriff as he squinted down at the newspaper. He stuck his tongue out as he read to poke his top lip and tilted his head coyly. He cleared his throat and coughed as his order rang in the window. 

You went to grab the plate and struggled not to fumble it. It was him. The way he coughed, the gravelly scratch of his throat, the deep and firm undertone. You couldn’t deny it was him. You were stunned you hadn’t recognized him at once.

“There you are, sheriff,” you said as you set down his plate. “Enjoy.”

“I think I will,” he rubbed his hands together. “I’m starving this morning.”

“If you need anything,” you made your usual offer.

He looked at you and smiled. You noticed how his eyes strayed to your name tag and the buttons of your blue dress. He turned to his waffles and took out the knife and fork.

“Thanks, sweetheart,” he said as he ran the tines of the fork through the dark caramel. “I think I’m just fine.”

You left him to eat and straightened your apron. You were confident you’d changed your voice enough that he didn’t have the same epiphany. Even so, everything about him was different. At least in your head. He was no longer the desolate sheriff, he was desperate and demanding. He wasn’t who you thought he was. He was a man with a lot of power and a hunger to use it.

🚔

It was several days before you dared to leave the ringer on after Eugene’s departure. Your husband was loving but almost entirely absent. Since Ezra was born, he’d only grown more distant and work could not excuse him completely. When you ate dinner late with him, he barely heard you as he kept the radio on and those nights he didn’t work, he didn’t touch you.

You felt worse for your own misdeeds. The phone line made you shy and sullen with him. You should tell him but you didn’t know how and truly, you couldn’t. You knew he wouldn’t take it well and even if he was barely there, you couldn’t lose him. You were already painfully alone.

That night, he volunteered for overtime and so you hardly saw him before he headed out. He said you needed the money but your books were well balanced from your own after hours work. You’d done it to take the burden off of him but he still took the extra time, even as you argued that your bills were in good standing. 

Was it you? When had it all grown so cold?

Ezra ate his mashed peas and you set him down for the night. You heard him cooing still but you kept to your schedule even when he was wide awake. He always tired himself out and never fussed very long.

You sat on your bed and read. You checked the time. The phone would start soon and that night you couldn’t leave it off. You needed the money and you couldn’t be picky about where it came from. The month would be over and there would be a whole new batch of debts to account for.

You jumped as it rang. You kept the volume low so it didn’t carry through the whole house and you answered after several rings. You gave your usual greeting and breathed a sigh of relief when it was one of your regulars. You closed your book and picked your nails as you went along with his routine.

When he finished, you wished him a good night. You were dead tired but one more call wouldn’t hurt. You waited and grabbed the receiver on the first ring.

“Hello, mister, what are you looking for tonight?” You made your voice higher and breathier.

“Shhhh.” The long hush chills your veins. “Don’t talk.”

You quivered. It was him. You looked at the phone cradle.

“Don’t hang up.” He said as if he could read your mind. “You want it, don’t you? You want to feel me inside you. Down your throat, fucking the whore out of you.”

“I…” you uttered.

“I said be quiet.” He barked. “I want my cock so far down your throat I can feel it as I choke you. I want your spit all over me, I want you gasping and gulping until you pass out and I’m fucking your mouth lifeless.”

Your eyes widened and you listened in disgust. He growled and his hand slapped off his thigh as he pleasured himself. You sit paralysed as fear bubbled in your chest and you felt as if he could see you. You crossed your legs and huddled down over the receiver.

“I want to fuck your cunt until it hurts to sit down. I want to hear my body slam into yours, I want you to beg me to stop and keep going at the same time. I’m going to fuck you until you can’t make a noise, until all you can hear is my cock pounding inside of you.”

“Please…” You wanted him to stop. You wanted to hang up and yet you were terrified to move.

“And I know you want it too, whore. I know you need it. Not these words, not these calls, but you need me,” he shuddered “and I need it just as bad.”

He grunted and the line grew still. He hissed and cursed. 

“I’m a fucking mess,” he sneered. Another silence and you think he hung up. His voice startled you when he spoke again. “Who’re ya?”

“Wh-what?”

“I ain’t stupid. You’re some lady in the county. Maybe some lonely housewife. Ain’t sound like no prostitute I ever knew.” He sniffed and let out a groan. “Maybe you some dumb teenager playin’ games on the telephone, huh?”

“I don’t-- No. I--” You hung up. 

You stood and pulled the line out of the phone and dropped down heavily. You put your head in your hands and shook it. Fuck!

🚔

The next morning at the diner, you served the sheriff with a false smile. Every time he spoke, you heard the words he said to you on the phone. Although his tone was placid, his fervour played over and over in your ears. And when you overpoured his coffee, you apologized only to have him assure you it was alright and let you mop up the mess with your rag.

He left you his usual tip and you cleared his table. The newspaper was tinged from your spill and you dumped it on his plate. As you did, a card slipped out onto the table and your handwriting stared back at you from the carefully cut rectangle. You hid it quickly in the newspaper and rushed to toss it all in the trash and drop the plate in the bin.

It must have been a mistake, you assured yourself and excused yourself for a breath of air. The chef, Carson, was already by the kitchen doors and you said yes to a smoke from his pack. You lit it after the third try and inhaled the tobacco deep into your chest. You would go to the phone company tomorrow on your day off and shut down the second line. Your lesson was learned. It wasn’t worth the spare pennies.

Your day dragged by as all you could think of was the line. When you got to the phone company, you were jittery with worry. It was easy enough to shut it down but the fee cost you your tips for the day. You checked the clock before you left, bound to be a few minutes late picking up Ezra.

As you came out onto the street, your open jacket flapped in the wind over your uniform and your mary janes clacked on the pavement as you rushed to get to Enid’s and pick up your son. When you stopped at the corner to wait for traffic to pass, a flash and a honk made you jump.

Sheriff Bodecker pulled up to the curb and rolled down his window. He waved and leaned his arm on the door as he peered out at you.

“You needa ride?” He asked.

You smiled awkwardly and clutched the handles of your weathered purse.

“Sheriff, no thank you, I’m not goin’ too far,” you waved him off.

“Nonsense, you on your feet all day. It’s the least I can do.”

“You must be busy.”

“Radio ain’t goin’ off,” he slapped the door, “now come on.” He reached down and opened the door, stepping out with a groan, “Get in. You always are so nice down at the diner.”

You swallowed and your lips quivered as you tried to hold your smile. You followed him around the other side of the car as he opened the door for you. You got into the vintage cruiser and crossed your legs as you cradled your purse on your lap. He closed the door and dropped in on the other side.

He shifted into gear and pulled off. You thanked him and fiddled with clasp of your purse.

“No problem, but uh, I just needa know where you’re goin’,” he chuckled as he slowed at the next four way.

“Oh, I gotta get Ezra from his gramma’s,” you explained, “She lives just down Carsbee.”

“Not far at all,” he commented as he turned the wheel, “So, how was the rest of your day then?”

“Not so bad,” you said breathily as he looked at you in his mirror and you focused on the pedestrians on the street, “and yours, sheriff?”

“You can call me Lee if ya like,” he offered, “And wasn’t so bad either. Which number is it, sweetheart?”

You sniffed at the pet name, he was usually so formal at the diner with his ma’ams.

“21B,” you answered as you wiggled your foot nervously, “you can just drop me off. It’s not too far to home.”

“Don’t be silly, I wanna meet your boy,” he intoned, “you talk about him so much.”

“Oh, uh, of course,” you murmured as he pulled up along the front of your mother-in-law’s, “I just gotta go get him then.”

You hooked your purse over your elbow and slid over the seat. The sheriff kept you from opening the door as he bid you stay and got out quickly as he rushed around the front of the car. He opened the door like a gentleman and removed his hat. 

“I’m old but I haven’t forgot my manners,” he nodded and waited for you to step out.

You got to your feet and thanked him again before you strolled up the crooked walk to the front door. You knocked and let yourself in like you always did. You could hear Ezra babbling as he played with wooden toy cars. Enid sat in her usual spot and rocked as she watched him.

“How was he today?” You asked as you grabbed the bag you always left with him and packed up the loose ends beside it.

“Loud,” Enid muttered, “hyper.”

“Well, he’s at that age,” you grasped your purse and Ezra’s bag in one hand and picked him up from the floor as he reached out for you. “Alright, Ez, say buh bye to grammy.”

He waved and cooed as you held him on your hip. Enid said buy in her grumpy way and got up to see you to the door. You came down the single step as Lee waited by his cruiser. Ezra buried his face in your shoulder as he turned away from the sheriff.

“Don’t be shy, Ezra, this is the sheriff, Mr. Bodecker,” you tried to shake him upright but he clung to you and hid.

“Ah, don’t worry, I’m used to that,” Lee laughed and opened the door, “people see the badge and they’re not so friendly.”

“He just goin’ through a phase,” you assured as you sat with Ezra in your lap.

As Lee shut the door, you let the bags lean against it and the car dipped as he got in the other side. He turned the engine and you gave him your own address as your son squirmed in your lap. At the first corner, Ezra found the courage to look at the sheriff and the officer looked back and stuck out his tongue.

“He looks like you,” Lee said as he pushed down on the pedal, “real cute.”

You accepted the compliment and hugged Ezra tighter. You could barely process the sheriff’s words as your mind returned to those he spoke the night before. Every time he spoke, you heard him, hissing and cussing at you.

You were relieved when he came up to your house and you turned to grab your bags. You felt a tug on your elbow as you balanced Ezra and your things. You looked back at Lee as he held your arm.

“I’ll get the door,” he said, “you just stay put.”

You waited as he let you go and once more, opened the door for you. He took the bags as you climbed out and you protested that you were fine. His hand settled on your shoulder as he pulled you to face him.

“Well, sweetheart, you gonna invite me in for some coffee?”

You were shocked by his boldness and couldn’t hide it. You blanched and looked at Ezra as he tugged at your jacket. You laughed awkwardly.

“Eugene’s still sleepin’ for his shift, I don’t--”

“We got some things to discuss and I think the least you can do after I was so kind as to drive you home is a coffee.”

You squinted at him in confusion. “Maybe another time, sheriff, I’d really hate to wake--” you reached for your bags and he stopped you with his grip firm on your wrist.

“Does he know?” Lee asked in a gristly voice.

“Know what?”

“Know you a whore?” Lee sneered.

You reeled and tried to twist from his grasp. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“You can’t say them words on the phone and not mean ‘em,” he leaned in close, “Now I think you know what I want to talk with you about so you invite me in and I’ll be real nice about it but if you keep me out here, I can’t promise your neighbours won’t get a show.”

You pouted and rocked Ezra as he began to fidget, sensing your discomfort. “Please, I got Ezra--”

“You put him in the next room so we can discuss,” Lee insisted.

He let go of you and you nodded dumbly. You watched him wearily as you turned and led him up the walk. You unlocked the front door and he followed you inside. He hung his hat on the rack with his leather jacket and you hurried into the bedroom to set Ezra down in his crib. You distracted him with his stuffed rabbit and left him. He was usually due for a nap around then anyway.

When you got back to the front room, Lee sat on your couch and you went to the kitchen to start the coffee. You waited for the water to boil and filled the percolator as you dreaded what would come next. You poured a mug and set it out on the coffee table with the sugar dish. 

Lee leaned forward and spooned the sweet powder into his mug as you stood and wrung your hands. How had he figured it all out? How long had he known? Was he going to tell Eugene?

“Sit,” he said as he inhaled the savoury scent and took a cautious sip. His mug made a deafening clink as he set it down and you sat. “I s’pose you went by the phone company to end your little game.”

You sucked your lip in nervously and nodded as you looked down guiltily.

“Mhmm,” he hummed, “you know I was down there a few days ago and they just hand the records over if I say I got a warrant. They ain’t look close enough to realise it’s just a receipt.”

You gulped and kept your head down. You ran your tongue against your lip and blinked away the moisture in your eyes.

“How long you been doin’ all that?” he asked.

“Couple months,” you admitted, “I just needed some extra money. Ever since Ezra was born…”

“But you could get another job.”

“I gotta be home for the boy. Eugene never is.”

“Now a woman don’t be talkin’ like that if she happy. If she not alone.”

“Stop, please. It was a mistake. I’m sorry if you feel like I--”

“Sorry?” he interrupted, “you’re sorry? You think Gene would accept that?”

You sat in silence and picked at the button on your jacket. You hadn’t even bothered to take it off. “You gonna tell him?”

He let out a heavy breath and took another drink of coffee. “Now where’s the fun in that?”

You looked at him and furrowed your brow in confusion. You shook your head as he smirked.

“I will if you make me but if you want me to stay quiet--”

“Sheriff--”

“Shhhh,” he raised a finger, “now, you want me keep my mouth shut, you be waitin’ for me tonight after he goes.”

You stared at him in terror as your heart threatened to jump up your throat.

“And then we’re done talkin’. Then you do all those things we spoke about.”

“You can’t-- I got a son.”

“And a husband but you still be talkin’ to strange men about your pretty little pussy, don’t you?”

You blew a shaky breath between your trembling lips and sank down in the chair in shame. “I thought you were a good man, sheriff.”

“I am, don’t mean I’m not lonely.”

He drained the rest of the mug and coughed. He stood and adjusted his belt, his hand lingering on his belt. You watched his finger trace the barrel and your eyes crept up to his face.

“I’d hate to wake your husband, sweetheart, so I’ll be on my way.” he retreated around the couch and paused by the door, “but I’ll be around.”

🚔

The night went by faster than any. You never felt like you got much time with your husband but it was almost as if he was gone as soon as he woke. He left you with a peck on your forehead and dread in your chest. You thought of telling him, you wanted to confess and fix everything that had broken, but you couldn’t. You were too ashamed.

So when he was gone, you put Ezra down for the night and hoped the Sheriff was just trying to scare you. He couldn’t be serious, could he? You’d known him for years and he was only every sweet at the diner. He was a solitary man but was never unkind. That afternoon, he had been an entirely different man.

You sat on the couch, no radio, no nothing, and picked at the lines of your hand. You were certain you would sit up all night and laugh at yourself in the morning. He was just making sure you stopped, that had to be it.

But then the knock came and your whole body went rigid. You waited until it sounded again, harder, louder. You got up and went to the door. You didn’t need to look out to know who it was. You opened up and Lee watched you with his menacing blue eyes. They were no longer the gentle gems you knew from the diner.

“Sweetheart,” he drawled as he stepped inside and you backed away from him.

He closed the door and locked it then he removed his hat and jacket, just as he had earlier. He bent to ease off his boots and stood as he cleared his throat. He peered behind you and looked around your small house.

“I’m just in time, huh?” he mused as he touched your side and let it slip down to your hip. “What you shakin’ for?”

“I thought…” you rasped. “Sheriff, you know me. I’m not a bad woman.”

“You ain’t?” he snickered. “I do know you. I’m the only one in the county who knows the real you.”

“I don’t understand why you’re doin’ this,” you whined.

“I’m old but not decrepit,” he took your hand and raised it, “and you’re a beautiful woman. I daresay,” he kissed the back of your hand, “motherhood did make you even sweeter.”

“Please,” you begged.

“You get in that bedroom before I lose the last of my will,” he bit his lip as he looked you up and down and released your hand.

You shivered and backed away from him. You went blindly to the bedroom and stopped in the doorway. You couldn’t, not in the bed you shared with your husband. Lee came up behind you and wrapped his arms around your middle.  His hot breath tickled your ear as he leaned into you.

“I wanna see what you hide under that dress,” he purred, “now don’t make me ruin it.”

You gasped and drew away from him. You neared the foot of the bed and unbuttoned the top of your dress. Your fingers were ungainly as you struggled and you pushed the sleeves down your arms with a stifled sob. You shoved the fabric past your waist and hips and his growl made you stand upright with a snap.

Your stockings were held up by fraying garters and your old underwear added to your shame. Your brasserie was pointed and too tight. You hung your head and balled your hands into fists.

“Turn around, I wanna see you,” he said.

You reluctantly obeyed and stared at the floor. He hummed and his thumb ran over his belt buckle. A sudden cry made your blood cold and he scowled. Ezra was awake.

You moved to go to him and the sheriff blocked the door.

“I gotta go to him. He must’ve had a bad dream.”

“I’ll take care of the boy. You just be waitin’ when I get back.” he ran his tongue under his teeth, “naked.”

He pointed to the bed and didn’t leave until you took several steps back. You listened as he went to the small room attached to the master. You worried he might hurt the boy but his coaxing voice surprised you. 

“Shhh,” you heard the distant tone, “it’s okay, son, it’s okay.”

You reached to unhook your bra and sat to roll your stockings off. You needed this man gone. If you abided him, he would be away sooner. You dropped the last of your clothing to the floor and sat on the edge of the bed. Your nails dug into the blankets and you closed your eyes.

It was over a year since you’d been touched. That alone made you shy but that man made you terrified. You heard him enter but didn’t look up at him. “You get up on all fours and ready that mouth for me.” he ordered as you heard his buckle tink, “yeah, I wanna start there.”

You swallowed and did as he said. You felt like some lowly animal as you stared at the floor. You heard the flutter of fabric as he stripped and when he came close, you shut your eyes. He grabbed your hand and jerked you to the edge. He tapped the tip of his cock along your lips.

“Now, open up, sweetheart,” he snarled, “I know you remember every word I said.”

You parted your lips and he forced his way into your mouth. He poked at the back of your throat but didn’t relent. You gagged as he sank down your throat and your entire body twitched. His hand went to your neck as he drew back and pushed back in. He felt himself as he invaded your throat over and over.

“Ah, yes, that’s it,” he uttered, “you can’t tell me you’re not a whore. You take me like one.”

You tried to swallow around him and breath and it made him groan. He kept fucking your face as his hand squeezed your throat. Your spit spilled out and smeared across your face and his pelvis. He kept your head bobbing until you were dizzy and dazed.

He stopped, deep down your throat, and grunted. He let out a shuddery breath and pushed you off of him. You slipped down onto your stomach and gasped over the side of the bed.

“Hoo, I almost blew,” he huffed, “oh, you bad, bad girl.” He trailed his hand down your back and slapped your ass, “turn around and get back up.”

You whimpered and lifted yourself back to your knees. You moved stiffly around and wiped your mouth as the taste of him stained your tongue. He grabbed your hips and pulled you back. He kneaded your ass with hungry growls and pinched your thigh. He felt along your cunt and tutted.

“You wet for me,” he taunted, “just from a taste, sweetheart.”

You dropped your head and he moved closer. He pressed the head of his dick against your folds and ran it up and down as you slickened. He lined up with your entrance and his large hand gripped your hip. He slid into you with a sigh and you let out a startled cry. Maybe it was because it was so long but he felt massive. You quivered around him and clenched your teeth.

“Oh, fuck, you want it just as bad as me, don’t ya?” He bucked his hips and you exclaimed, “how am I suppose to hold back with you squeezin’ me like that?”

He didn’t hold back as he caught his stride. He hammered into you as your flesh slapped loudly. You feared the noise would wake your son again, or worse, be heard by the neighbours. He groaned and grunted as he rammed into you and your thighs quaked. Ripples rolled over your spine and multiplied down your legs.

He stretched his hand over your back and slid them up to your shoulders. He bent over you as he forced your arms to fold beneath you and pushed your head into the mattress. He stilled and wiggled his hips until you moaned. He pulled one hand away from your shoulder as the other spread over your neck.

He slid out of your cunt and spread your juices up and down. He guided his dick between your cheeks and leaned into to pant in your ear. “I didn’t forget about your ass.”

He pushed against your hole and you tensed. His hand tightened on your neck and he poked harder. 

“You relax or it’ll hurt more,” he coaxed, “come on, almost…”

He pushed past your ring and you both gasped. Your eyes filled with tears and you sniffed as he urged himself deeper past your resistance. He let out a long breath as he advanced inch by inch. He drew back each time before adding more and when he was at his limit, you sobbed and clawed at the mattress.

“Oh, oh, fuck, oh, shit,” he swore as he rocked his hips, “you know, urgh, I wanted to do this for so long. Even ‘fore I called.”

He growled and built a steady pace as he stretched you. Your tears seeped into the blanket as his grip threatened to break your neck. His belly bounced against the top of your ass as he rutted without restraint.

“I always thought ‘bout you over that table. Always thought-- Always thought you deserved better than that husband,” he rasped out, “but I never thought you’d feel so good.”

He slammed into you harder than before. Your legs fell out from beneath you and he was quick to descend over you, covering you with his body as he bent his arm across the back of your head. He fucked you into the mattress as your head began to spin and your body reacted to his.

You’d never felt anything so intense as the maelstrom of pain and pleasure building inside you. You moaned and muttered until the sudden tide swept you up and had you murmuring like a fool, drooling onto the bed as he kept on.

He planted his hand on either side of you and lifted himself. He dropped his hips down into your ass over and over. The symphony of flesh filled your mind and you succumbed to the afterglow of tortured delight. He sank as far as he could and spasmed.

“Shit, oh, sweetheart, sweetheart,” he slowed and lowered his sweaty body onto you. You suffocated beneath him as his heart beat against your back. “Oh, you made me… made me blow.” He tilted his hips. “You feel how I filled your ass?”

You let out shallow breaths and turned your face into the blanket. He grunted and raised himself off of you, his cock slipping out easily and his cum trickling down after. He fell onto his back beside you and tried to catch his breath. He reached over blindly and let his fingertips dance along your ass.

“Really it ain’t your fault,” he said as his fingers crawled along the top of your thigh, “a man must be crazy to leave you all alone at night.”

[feminetflix]

De atracos y ab*rtos - Of heists and ab*rtions or How women are being robbed.

⚠️ this contains major spoilers for LA CASA DE PAPEL / MONEY HEIST season 1, specifically episode 3!

Personally, I have experienced the series la casa de papel (original title) or money heist as progressive, realistic and not afraid to deal with certain topics like domestic violence which I will be commenting on in posts yet to be published, female trans representation and occasionally peppered with numerous feminist parentheses (see characters like Nairobi and dialogues around/involving her opinion).

However, there are certain aspects I did not enjoy to watch / do not support. That is normal and every show has its flaws, those resulting all the more dangerous however, as money heist is not just any show. The series is thanks to its popularity by now a relevant aspect of people’s opinion-forming and plays into the perception of many people all around the world, coming from different cultures and having experienced all kinds of upbringing. The target audience is not specified, yet crime drama (the genre) is estimated to target both females and males aged 15-40 years old. Means, also targeting minors and adolescents. Again, all cultures / religions / races / classes etc etc included.

I am fully aware that this kind of range was not expected and therefore not taken into account by producers, talking about the first two seasons that were solely meant for a Spanish audience, not an international one. (The series was initially intended as a limited series to be told in two parts. It had its original run of 15 episodes on Spanish network Antena 3 from 2 May 2017 through 23 November 2017. Netflix acquired global streaming rights in late 2017). The analysed / discussed scene is indeed part of this maybe not so carefully crafted content. Cough.

Let’s get right into it.

Characters interacting: Mónica Gaztambide (Esther Acebo), one of the hostages who was also Arturo Román's secretary and introduced as his mistress and “Denver” (Jaime Lorente), one of the robbers participating in the heist [Denver is an alias, all robbers being referred to with city names]

Context: Mónica has an affair with Arturo Román (Enrique Arce) -hostage and former Director of the Royal Mint of Spain- which leads to an unwanted pregnancy. Numerous factors influence her (for now) final decision: she doesn’t want the child. Shortly after, the robbery unfolds and she’s taken hostage among other people. She then requests an ab*rtion pill, which at some point arrives in the mint alongside other medical supplies. The scene analysed: one of the robbers (Denver) is supposed to hand her mentioned ab*rtion pill. Before that he holds an emotional speech on the subject, morally risen forefinger, accusations and tears included.

Here the dialogue without comments:

————Now my opinion / the actual post:

“You need money, right?” One might think that the amount of money seen in this frame (20.000,-€ approx. $21.701,50 according to Denver) is an exaggerated, way too generous gesture. Let me tell you, it is not.

According to a 2017 report from the U.S. Department of Agriculture, the average cost of raising a child from birth [to] age 17 is $233,610. If that made your heart skip a beat, take a deep breath before you read on. Incorporating inflation costs, it will be more like $284,570. Since that’s based on 2015 numbers, we can expect the cost will be even higher, babies born since then.

[…] This average includes everything from housing, food and transportation to healthcare, education and childcare to clothing, personal care items and entertainment.

Let me now remind you that Mónica is a secretary, so she likely earns (barely) enough money to be financially independent herself (taking into account that she lives near or maybe even in Madrid, her workplace, the Royal Mint situated there, so housing alone is hella expensive) and can’t really expect reliable support coming from the potential child’s father, Arturo Román, either, who initially denied support himself, their relationship a secret to the family and wife he already has. Phew.

Btw: A University of California at San Francisco study found that women who were turned away from ab*rtion clinics […] were three times more likely to be below the poverty level two years later than women who were able to obtain ab*rtions. 76% of the "turnaways" ended up on unemployment benefits, compared with 44% of the women who had ab*rtions.

“Enough to get the kid diapers until he graduates.” The problem or let’s say points raised above are now also being ridiculed or not taken seriously to say the least.

She takes the money, sticking to her decision however. “So, what’s the problem?” Or “Then, what is it?” A million additional things, Denver, believe it or not a potential child is a big deal. That and none of your business.

Also, see the reaction? How he stares at her in disbelief (and possibly even disgust, see the risen corner of his lips?). How he looks at her as if she were heartless, selfish, a monster – the picture often painted in this debate when it comes to women who decide to terminate a pregnancy. How he doesn’t respect her “no, thanks” and continues. Continues influencing her, later on even starts to mansplain his way into her stone cold heart. Okay, then let me continue as well.

“That he’ll f*ck up your life? […] Your son. Better to have your life f*cked up by your son than any of these sons of b*tches. Or me.” Call it ‘f*ck up’ or not – that is entirely her perception, her decision and I’d dare to say…she knows best.

First, because regardless of the fact that she is a woman and you are not – well it is indeed her life and, uhm, excuse me Denver, you’re no sibling, no friend, no acquaintance, quite the contrary, you have known her for what? Three minutes and already jump to conclusions?

Take the privilege of explaining her how a child would f*ck or not f*ck up her life?!!

Secondly, what makes him assume the gender of this cluster of cells, this potential future life, this basis for a potential life that may later on develop into a life (it is not a walking talking baby boy already, my friend!).

Personhood begins after a fetus becomes “viable” (able to survive outside the womb) or after birth, not at conception.

Does it provide a smooth transition for that awfully funny and figurative “son” – “sons of b*tches” (org. Hijo – hijos de p*ta) line or is it literal propaganda?

Why does he say “your son”, although he cannot possibly know? I’ll tell you. In order to distract the audience from the fact that he is referring to a pea-sized basis for a potential life by painting the picture of an already existing male human being. Mónica, do you really want to murder your son? Mónica, does that cute little doe eyed baby boy really f*ck up your life? Yeah, propaganda at its best.

Also, another example for ridiculing the point “a child would destroy my life” by comparing an unwanted pregnancy to a literal robbery at gun point. Great one.

“This f*cks your life up. A kid doesn’t.” Do you see that raised gun, that is quite literally an extension of a raised index finger? Wow, the drama. On a different note, did you notice the symbolism? A weapon stands for death, murder and guess what is also often equated with murder.

“How do you know what f*cks up my life? What do you know?” Finally. Exactly. He doesn’t know her, like at all. He doesn’t know her situation and no, he’s also not the pregnant one or anyone who would have to worry about that.

What do you answer to that, hmm? Let’s make this whole dispute even more emotional and dramatic. That ‘a cute little son isn’t as bad as a robbery’ didn’t convince her?

Let’s try with an extraordinary f*cked up and tragic life story, nobody asked for. Its goal? Showing the oblivious, naive, little secretary what real ‘f*ck up’ means, despite the evident lack of any sort of knowledge when it comes to her life (story). Again, conclusion-jumping and wallowing in prejudice at its best.

Have a look at his expression while ‘lecturing’ her. How disrespectful, how belittling. ‘Oh please, what do you know about life?’. On a wider scale: ‘How could we possibly trust women to rationally and with a clear conscience decide such things for themselves – concerning life and death, if they have not the slightest idea, living in their bubble of security and stability and no real problems’ etc. This is everything but taking women and their reasoning abilities, their judgement seriously.

“My mother was going to ab*rt me.” Now the audience doesn’t only have the mental image of a potential cute little son, it is furthermore provided with the image of a living, breathing human being standing right in front of them. Just look at him and his pleading puppy dog eyes. No actual child actor could have done it better.

Thank god she did not go through with the ab*rtion, right? Oh thank god she was not allowed to.

Taking advantage of this frame to remind you of the fact that we are still talking about a POTENTIAL future life, not an existing one that is nevertheless put above the mother’s already existing life in this impudent, low and unfair debate.

“But first…she inhaled the heroin she had to sell to be able to pay for the ab*rtion. Then she was caught by the police. Between jail, drugs and the police, I was born. What do you know?”

1)Adding even more emotions, subtle accusations and drama to that oh so rational dispute? Check. Making his situation seem two thousand times worse than hers (which he, again, has no clue about)? Check. Subconsciously painting the picture of reckless, irresponsible drug addicts/ “lowlifes” or generally female members of “society’s margins” usually being the ones to abort and make it seem like the state’s or whoever’s responsibility to prevent them from deciding for themselves? Check.

2) Then he even tears her valid ‘what do you know (about my life)’ out of the initial context of being confronted with endless assumptions and prejudice and blows it way out of proportion in order to demonstrate the insignificance of … everything concerning her? Her background, her life, her reasons. Everything.

And FINALLY *drum rolls* the wild theories and hypotheses and presumptions she was dying to hear because since he, I repeat for the twelfth time, has no actual clue about her life, let’s make up one.

“Because it seems that you don’t have a very exciting job. And maybe outside of work your life is not that great either. Or what is it that you do? ‘Kilates’? And Friday night drinks, right? What a f*cking drag. Another plan ruined by the kid[…]” That and the entire following paragraph. Wow. All accusations thrown at women who decide to abort in one.

Because OF COURSE a middle aged, down to earth, intelligent, responsible woman like Mónica Gaztambide has no other reason for terminating a pregnancy than not being able to drink alcoholic beverages or party anymore. Because OF COURSE it is valid to assume a woman or any person for that matter one has known for half an hour and interacted with for literal five minutes has a boring enough life that would not be affected in any way by a pregnancy, birth and ultimately being forced to raise an unwanted child. Because OF COURSE Denver would know how much a pregnancy can affect somebody, especially one that is forced upon a person. Quite frankly he has no idea and no right. The audacity.

“Do [your friends who are also mothers] seem f*cked up? / Do their lives look f*cked up? No, right?” Because you know best. Not only regarding her life but on top of that also that of her friends. Because those pregnancies or motherhood in general did under no circumstances end a career or prevent them from pursuing one in the first place or cause the end of a relationship or force them to stay in a toxic or even abusive relationship or change their financial situation completely or rob them of their fragile financial independence and/or free time altogether or cause any (mental) health complications or … you get the point. Oh, and because their situations are completely identical to Mónica’s situation, that is additionally not half as dramatic as your life story. Of course, Denver.

Seeing the ‘rational’ argument doesn’t really work, let’s add yet another dramatic, emotional rhetorical question. As a precaution.

“Do you know how much a child can love you?”

How could she, being the heartless, cruel, selfish, irresponsible, ridiculous and impulsive murderess you’re ‘exposing’ her as?

⚠️ Another spoiler warning for seasons 3 and 4 and still 1.

Would Cincinnati - that’s her sons actual name, not alias – really love her like he does now?

Friendly reminder: his biological father (Arturo Román) let her know - right from the start - that he wouldn’t take on any responsibility whatsoever, regardless of his later statements about doing so. Why those statements don’t matter? Despite his awareness of her state, despite knowing she was pregnant he shortly after urges her on to steal the cellphone she is caught with right after the analysed scene, ready to risk her life and the potential life of his unborn child. Literally, because as soon as she is caught with it, Berlín orders Denver to execute her.

So to those of you who will now say “but- but Cincinnati is okay and has an amazing life and does love her” etc etc, first think certain things through. If Denver wouldn’t have spared her, if she didn’t just happen to get together with him and if the heist didn’t just happen to work out like that, what then?

Cincinnati would have a different name. What else? Well for one, he wouldn’t have a father (that is now Denver) like at all, resulting in possible daddy issues / issues in general. How I know Arturo, the biological father, wouldn’t be there for them, wouldn’t fulfill all his empty promises?

Did he canonically care about his son? Was he devastated that he was not given the possibility to see him or did he instead focus on that random book of his and his speeches about heroism and honour and so on? If he wouldn’t have called his wife by his mistress’s name and through that expose himself, if his family wouldn’t have left him all alone, don’t you think he would stick to them? Just to paint a picture of who the father is and how he behaves and what we can assume from that behaviour. So the probability was high she would’ve been left alone with I quote “all the love” and of course all the responsibility. It’s a thing, Denver.

Secondly, if she didn’t just happen to turn into a millionaire thanks to the heist working out, would she really be able to provide a life for Cincinnati? Would she really be able to remain financially independent? Would her life at her son’s side really be all peace and harmony if she wouldn’t just so happen to be able to live from heist money?

So many coincidences, so many risks and no security. Can we really blame her? Do we have the right?

With these questions I will end this seemingly endless post and leave you to think about it, reflect certain things and – if you want to – share your opinion(s) with me. Please don’t hesitate to do so, as long as those contain rational arguments and most importantly respect. Thank you for reading!

(Also: sorry for the extensive censoring, I had to, otherwise it wouldn’t appear in the tags.)

[formerly-rosaline]

About Rose

I’m not sure if I already have one of these, and I can’t find a template to make one, so I’m just gonna shoot my shot and do my best here.

Full name: Rosaline Pearl Sirena Draconus Durant

Time and place of birth: Wednesday, April 1st, 1992 at 3:01am (the witching hour) in the Touro Infirmary Hospital of New Orleans, Louisiana.

Zodiac: Aries sun (fire), Pisces moon (water), Aquarius rising/ascendant (air). Pisces, Aquarius, and Capricorn (earth) dominate her natal chart. Monkey (water). Alder tree. Red hawk/falcon. 

Species explanation and list: Came about through ritual as well as conception originally; her soul collects more species each time she’s born (reincarnated) to non-human souls. Her soul is fragmented, there are more Roses throughout the world of different names. She only inherits certain traits from each species. She is predominantly draconic, sirenic, and succubic. Rose also has some wolf/lycanthrope, vampire (tribrid - blood, energy, and sexual separate from the succubus), banshee, Valkyrie (last life as one), Amazonian, basilisk (possibly only for this life), fairy, human, and possibly more - she doesn’t know everything just yet. Without feeding, her abilities become even more drastically limited. 

Characteristics: Abilities may begin in childhood, but Rose’s memories don’t begin to resurface until teenhood and young adulthood. She may also repress her memories, furthering the process, in attempts at normalcy. Jack of all trades. Artist, but not in the layman usage of the word - dancer, singer, creative writer, musician. STEM major, always good at STEM. Linguaphile; often multilingual. Current fluencies: English and French, with some German, Spanish, Latin, Greek, Korean, and Russian. Much of her interest in languages and ability to learn them rapidly stems from former lives. Very pensive and philosophic, a stoic in the regular sense of the word but an existentialist in practice. 

Favorites: 

Fast food: Whataburger

Ice cream: chocolate chip cookie dough

Sushi: eel

Starburst: pink

Jolly Rancher: blue

Color: every shade of blue

Feature: her eye color

Dish at Olive Garden: The Tour of Italy

Italian dish: Alfredo anything

Asian dish: Japchae

Steak: Medium rare filet mignon

Eggs: over easy

Pizza topping: pineapples

Comfort food: macaroni and cheese

Wine: Riesling

Thanksgiving dish: Stuffing

Ice cream topping: mochi or cookie dough

Alcoholic drink: Scotch

Starbucks drink: Chai latte, affogato

Harry Potter film: Deathly Hallows part 2, but book is Goblet of Fire

Marvel movie: Avengers Infinity War

Beatles Song: Hey Jude

Instrument: drums

Band: Snow Patrol 

Person: George Lewis

One Hit Wonder: Cars by Gary Numan

Beach: Pfeiffer Beach, Los Padres National Forest, California

Animal: goat

Season: fall

Thing about a rainy day: staying in

Flower: Lily. Seriously. Don’t fucking buy her roses, it’s not funny.

Sea creature: her damn self

Winter sport: luge

Fairy tale: Vasilisa the Beautiful 

Eye color: green

Day of the week: Saturday

Way to relax: hot bath

Thing to do: make others smile

Mental disorders: PTSD (doesn’t deal with her past traumas, emotionally detached, dissociates regularly), bipolar disorder. Eating disorders, elaborated on at the end of this post to prevent triggering. Substance abuse disorder (alcoholism and more).

Abilities: generally, able to do much by pure will and thought. “If looks could kill,” incarnate. Some technopathy. Outbursts of preternatural strength. Slight elemental control, minor mind control. Communication with entities beyond the veil despite her attempts to shut them out. Astral projection. 

More abilities and characteristics, positive and negative, by species:

1. Dragon: old soul/wise beyond her years, increased intelligence, heightened senses, increased empathy and strength, stronger persuasion via a golden tongue, foresight or future-delving. Manipulation, word twisting, speaking in riddles. Strong debater. Bloodthirsty. Intensely greedy. Power hungry. Delusions of grandeur. Arrogant. Pansexual. Extroverted. Stubborn and/or hard-headed. So cold you’d bet she’s anemic. Close-minded. TOO LOUD. She wants your heart, but on a GOLDEN platter; she’ll never love you. You are so beneath her, who the fuck do you think you are? Enemy of the siren. Fiercely loyal to those who have earned it. Family is the most important thing. Money can buy happiness, and it has for her. Warmest smile. Tacky bitch. Really good at Words with Friends, Scrabble, fighting you, chess. Wants you to succeed in life, and gives you unsolicited advice on how to do it all the time. Annoying. Always has an upset tummy. Does she have IBS? Beyond the veil: red with orange eyes. Your typical bigass crimson red dragon, will breathe fire on you. Her kind is less prevalent than they once were.

2. Siren: leads people astray readily. Seduction. Outright deception. Enticement and intimidation via a silver tongue. Increased strength and agility. Strong swimmer. Telepathy with other sirens. Enemy of the dragon. Brutal bitch. Savage, almost feral at times. Ambivert. Manipulative. Intensely maternal. Your mom friend to the extreme. Loving. Pansexual. Invasive. Monster. Might eat your liver in the pool. Always too hot. God, that voice, let’s hope you never hear it. Opera. SUSHI!!!!. Friendly, communal even, but only with those she considers family. Too good for pop music unless it’s Ariana Grande; increased hearing, gets audio overload at any normal volume. Subtitles, please. Can’t fucking understand English to save her life. Will teach you sirenic, but you can’t speak it. Whistle notes. LOWER YOUR FUCKING VOICE. Half-naked, huge tits. Firm hugger. Beyond the veil: ugly ass deep sea thing you never want to see, but her Venetian red tail is pretty... Second, translucent eyelid. Sirens of the sea are populating as rampantly as always, given the content of the earth which is saltwater. Avoids all of her kind to protect one she loves.

-Unpopular with both dragons and sirens due to some old war. These two species are most dominant.

3. Succubus: a touch that can manipulate, seduce, control, compel. Feeding, starving. Glamour. Conceited. Preppy bitch. Sarcastic. A gaslighter. Manipulative. Extroverted. PANSEXUAL, literally doesn’t care, will fuck you, don’t let her. Fake. Craves you. Enemy of the siren. She’s that overly sexual friend where you can never really tell whether they’re kidding or really trying something with you, you know? She’ll never tell, either. Got that?? Fear her. Run; she will definitely fuck your brains out and fucking eat you, God she’s fucking starving. RUN. Don’t give her a drink, and so help you if she gets to three or more. There is no God; God is dead, she has killed him, she drained his chi. RUN AWAY: fucking demonic. Don’t let her in. She made sure no one is here to help. Don’t look at them. They won’t help you; they’re under her control. You will be too. Beyond the veil: Horns. Tail. Wings. Greyish-purple all over, even her eyes; looks like a gargoyle. She doesn’t eat enough to pigment, and who cares? Glamour will make her perfect anyway. Finds feeding unethical. Slip-ups happen, though; I’m coming for you.

4. Wolf: increased agility, strength, and durability. Heightened stamina, senes. Increased stamina. Fast healing. Telepathy with other wolves. FIERCELY loyal. Respectful. Hungry. Bloodthirsty. Feral. Beast. Aching in her soul and bones. Titanium. Sushi. Friendly and communal all the time. Pansexual. Major ambivert. Audio overload too. Will cry if someone raises their voice from across a room. You’re too boomy. Stop that. Will kill anyone who makes you shed a tear. Don’t let her. Specifically tell her not to while you are crying. She will do it, I swear. Alpha bitch. Beyond the veil: albino Eurasian wolf, mistaken for an Arctic wolf. Icy grey eyes. Her kind is dead; those eyes show it. What’s an alpha without a pack? Heartbroken. 

5. Valkyrie: Literally wishing to death, has to stop herself from it because it’s so easy. Planting doubt in the minds of the steadfast and resolute. Asexual. Will give you hallucinations. Manipulative. Spooky bitch. Might want you dead, might not. Don’t cross her or she’ll imagine you to eternal slumber. You won’t be in Valhalla, either.

6. Amazonian: Increased strength. Tracker. Skilled with weapons. Will navigate. Misandry. Lesbian. Introverted. Feminist bitch. Will stab you.

7. Banshee: Future-delving. A screech that will drive you mad and physically harm you only when members of inhuman royalty are dying. Introvert. Asexual. Beyond the veil: Blind as a bat, deaf as a white cat. Only sees the astral world in her head. Just looks like herself minus the white eyes. Only brought out by screaming, and terrified the entire time, but can remain after. Will cough or vomit blood for a while after screaming. Can’t control it. Scared bitch. Voice may not return to normal for weeks. Enemy of the siren. Prefers to, and sometimes must remain after screaming, mute. Cannot sign. Can see and feel your energy.

8. Basilisk: Increased ability to intimidate. Muted. Affinity for reptiles. No other abilities or notable change. Beyond the veil: she cannot turn into the giant snake of lore, nor turn to stone. If looks could kill, she would just kinda spook you. Literally just herself. Angry bitch.

9. Fairy: No increased abilities but she’s cuter and has more of a sweet tooth. Vocal change to higher pitch. Please give her Jaffa cakes, hot tea, and head pats. Beyond the veil: a tiny, wingless fairy of greens, golds, and purples. Don’t let the look fool you. Evil bitch. 

10. Vampire: Increased sense of hearing and smell. Bloodlust. Ability to compel. Seduction. Extrovert. Clean freak. If there's no blood on her, it's like she never did it. Feeds on the environment around her, including people, naturally. Constantly tries to keep that shut off. Wants very badly to eat you. Hungry bitch.

Sometimes she wakes up a certain species, sometimes situations or location bring them out. Sometimes the need to feed or emotions will cause certain species to rush to forefront. This is akin to having different personalities, but it’s all her. 

Face Claims: 

-Young Adult (main): Penelope Mitchell, The Vampire Diaries, The Curse of Downers’ Grove, Hemlock Grove.

-Adult: Jennifer Morrison, House, Once Upon a Time, Star Trek.

-Teenage: Jenny Boyd, Legacies, Hex, Viking Quest.

-Child: Emily Alyn Lind, Revenge, Enter the Void, J. Edgar.

Physically in this realm: curly blonde, cornflower-eyed, average height (around 5′6″), girl next door but relatively average appearance, with multiple piercings (nipples, several ear piercings, and belly). Birth mark on the top of her left breast.

TRIGGER WARNING: EATING DISORDERS, SELF HARM:

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.

She has a highly fluctuating weight (between 114 and 178) due to eating disorders - anorexia nervosa restrict type and bulimia nervosa binge purge type. Sheuses exercise, laxatives, suppositories, etc rather than the usual purging. Faint cut scars adorned her thighs and left wrist; she had them tattooed to cover them but the white lines still showed. There was a flower over the wrist, a portrait of a fox on her right thigh, and a portrait of a Renaissance-era woman on her left. There were cigarette burns inches below the Renaissance woman and the flower tattoo. There was another one midway on her outer right forearm.

.

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[regrettablewritings]

Dios Meme-o! (Rafael Barba Mini-Series, Pt. 3)

Part 1 Part 2 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8

Rafael’s poisons of choice (coffee and scotch) could be divided up between day and night respectively. The coffee was for obvious reasons: To keep him awake and alert, to keep him going even when his work day was driving him to the brink of insanity (as it did all too often). The use of the scotch was also typically obvious: To drown out the stresses of the day, its trials hardly ever actually being over in the grand scheme of things. A cool down of sorts to balance out the caffeinated upper.

This evening, however? Rafael wasn’t sure exactly what the scotch was trying to boot off: the stress of the workday, or the revelation that he now appeared to have a small following? He decided the answer to be both as he took another sip of his drink. He wanted to believe that it was more so the former option but there was just something about the latter that made it stand so firmly in his mind.

Probably had something to do with the fact that even after the messages sent to him about his occupation and . . . tum (Rafael fought off the desire to shudder at the word), Carisi and Rollins continued to send him two more posts of a similar vein.

Where were they even specifically even getting all these? Rafael wondered. His eyes landed on his laptop.

Words and pictures travel fast, Rollins’ voice echoed. But just how fast was what Rafael wondered.

Against his better judgement, he committed a dangerous act born of morbid curiosity, enhanced by the slow but certain influx of bourbon into his system: He typed his own name into Google.

The first few results were what he expected: References to his past cases, articles on his most recent feats of interest, a handful of articles on his words at the most recent press conference.  

. . . Then there was what came after.

Rafael had heard about Tumblr, but not much if he had to be honest. Sites like Twitter or Facebook or other niche sites tended to be more of what he faced on a regular basis. But a site specifically platformed for blogging surprisingly did not cross his path as often as one might think. It therefore posed within him a sense of worry that the first time he would approach Tumblr would be because his name had become a tag on the site.

He was right to worry.

The deep blue background was offset by an assault on the eyes: text posts here, pictures there, gif sets of his past quotes to cameras before or after a court case, but mostly of him during his speech at the press conference.

His eyes weren’t sure where to look first, where to escape from first but no matter where he went, he’d always end up somewhere just as bizarre.

Some posts were weird –

“God those hands – like fricken’ face-huggers! I want them to smother me!!!” Without thinking, Rafael looked at his hands. He never really noted them as being big, per se. And despite the copious amounts of likes and reblogs featured in the notes section, and that nobody could even see them as they were now in real life, he couldn’t help but want to hide them.

At least three more Tum™ posts in either text or picture form with quadruple the notes and responses. In that moment, he began to strongly consider dieting and nearly opened up a new tab to research for that specific consideration.

“Lookit them veins in his hand. I wanna suck a hickey on them. Just slurp ‘em up like noodles.” . . . What?

Some were surprisingly nice, if not composed in a more bombastic way than what he felt was necessary or was used to –

“Oh, look at his tie!! I love that pattern!!” He had to admit, he himself was quite fond that the pink paisley tie they spoke of.

“Holy crap, you guys, he has green eyes! GREEN FREAKING EYES!!!” A little excited over something he’d considered uninteresting, but Rafael couldn’t stop the faint flutter of pride bubbling within him.

“His hair looks so smooth. He needs to be allowed to grow his hair out, he’d have beautiful long hair!” That made his lips purse. His hair hadn’t been long since high school, and even then it barely reached his shoulders. Frankly, his hair tended to get a little fluffy the longer it grew anyway.

“Handsome, dresses nicely, works hard, is a feminist – guys, I think I’m in love.” Yet another huge jump over something he didn’t consider to be too big of a deal. (But at least this person appeared to have decent standards.)

“Ok but it should be illegal to work a suit like that.” The self-importance fluttered a bit harder, both for the suggestion that he not only looked good, but for the fact that the ensembles he prided himself on were actually appreciated by complete strangers.

“Steal his look”, complete with clothes and accessories very similar to his own but for a fraction of the cost (how economic of them).

– Before dipping right back into weirdness . . .

“D.A. stands for ‘Dat Azz’” proclaimed Foodlemynoodle, who was ever so kind as to include a photo taken by the press of Rafael’s retreating form with a second picture edited to focus specifically on his ass.

“Barba looks like the type of guy who’s a stern lawyer in the streets but a spicy papi in the sheets <3.” There was so much wrong with that suggestion that Rafael didn’t know where to start.

“don’t you just wanna use his tie to tug him down and make out w/him?” The multiple notes responded all agreed. This worried Rafael, as tugging on someone’s tie could be very uncomfortable.

“I’d rather snap those suspenders tbqh,” came the response. Rafael grimaced, the memory of pain from previous accidental snappings becoming vivid for a brief moment.

“i want dat sloppy papi dick™,” announced one user, adding a gif of Spongebob Squarepants fervently licking a picture of Rafael that had been photoshopped into the original image.

It went on like this, growing increasingly more awkward and disconcerting by the scroll. It was only out of curiosity that Rafael kept going. That sick, masochistic curiosity and intrigue that compels someone to watch a train wreck or a distressingly bad YouTube video that gives you secondhand embarrassment. He’d just moved beyond what felt like the twentieth post about his “splendid tummy” when he’d come upon a post that wasn’t quite like the others in terms of text. It wasn’t crude or even necessarily complimentary per se but –

           “Get you a man who looks at you the way ADA Barba looks at his coffee ❤ lol jk   nobody’ll look like you like that just get ADA Barba.”

Included was the image of him at a coffee shop, receiving a cup of his favorite day drink, a rare smile gracing his features. Well. That was unnerving. Sure, he went to get coffee at an embarrassing and even likely unhealthy rate but for someone to have taken a picture of him at all while doing so was just . . . wrong.

One person called Ballr00mbombshell responded with, “Stale cinnamon roll, too jaded by this world.” This made Rafael’s brows pressed downward. Cinnamon roll? What did cinnamon rolls have to do with anything? As if his subconscious had directed him there, his sights landed on the tag section of the post:

#He was buying a cinnamon roll too!!, #such a cinnamon roll, #he probably needs something sweet if his job is dealing with such awful situations, #eat and drink on my sweet cinnamon roll son.

Okay, he thought as he moved his laptop further down his lap. Maybe I was better off not knowing . . . Wait. Cinnamon rolls. While never one to fully discriminate against foods, cinnamon rolls weren’t a thing Rafael normally got. Wait! He recognized that outfit! It was . . . It was the same damn one from the press conference! A trembling hand reached for his replenished glass of scotch and directed it to his lips, taking as hefty of a gulp as he possibly could without warranting a coughing fit.

Did he have a stalker? Already? Granted, after all his years in his field, he shouldn’t be so surprised by how fast fanaticism can rise and to what lengths. Should he tell Liv? She was so pissed the last time he avoided telling her about a threatening presence in his life . . .

As the burning liquid trickled down his throat, Rafael nearly paused it in its tracks. He realized one more thing: The angle of the photo. It was taken at the back of the shop, by the window judging by the looks of it. From the corner, he could just make out a barrel containing chips.

The girl with the Hello Kitty watercolor phone case!

An agitated grunt rumbled from Rafael’s chest and out of his mouth as the revelation became clear. He knew he wasn’t imagining things! Never before had the soft suggestion of watercolor and the innocent cuteness of a beloved children’s character worked together to produce such malcontent.

As tempting as it was to continue, the minor brush with the idea of being stalked mingled terribly with the alcohol in his disgruntled system. Rafael called it a night and tried to sleep decently.

The heavy presence of rounded stomachs and hand veins in his dreams made this out to be a difficult task.

[metatiki]

Life ramblings

Speaking about my life in any kind of public forum has always been exceptionally difficult for me. Even though I know to the most absolute degree that no one will care what I have to say, talking about something as simple as a haircut can make me nervous and make me delete/rewrite/never bother with a post.

Case in point: the reason I've been pretty much only slightly ghosting on Tumblr and nonexistent on Dreamwidth: changes in my life.

It's one thing to endlessly research and learn and analyze and wonder, but it's always another to actually begin the journey, especially when you start it so much later than most. Self-discovery for me is a winding trail with several side paths that I always want to explore, and that makes it a road which can take me quite a while to traverse to the next important crossroads.

For the one or two of you who might actually read this, buckle up. This really is a ramble.

Coming to the realization that I was transgender was both easy and gradual. Easy, because once that bulb turned on, it explained a myriad of different behaviors, preferences, and ideations. Yet it was also gradual, because I literally had no framework to even think it might be a thing for me until I met and RP’d in a group with an FTM a while ago. I suppose to younger people it might be mind-boggling that I’d never even considered it a reality until then, but without any media presence (and I have a very narrow view of pop culture as it is anyway) or literary examples, the idea that I might actually be a man rather than masculine-leaning woman was a foreign one, and certainly not something I could apply to myself in any substantial sense. So I had to realize it was a thing, and then research gender dysphoria to see if it was just a wild idea, or if I fit the criteria. And boy, did I, to a T. *cough*

Once I figured that out, I then had to decide if I want to transition or simply accept the diagnosis and see if I could just live the rest of my life. After all, it's been over twenty years since I was in high school, after all, and I've gotten college degrees, married, divorced, and been an employee at multiple companies in that time. I’d obviously been able to live this way for a number of years as an adult, so could I simply continue and simply make small allowances here or there? Transitioning at any age is never easy, but the challenges differ from one age group to the next. I had to carefully weigh my choices and make the final decision - which was that I absolutely did not want to finish my life as a woman.

I've been absolutely fortunate to have a supportive network of family and friends, and work so far has been accepting (though it's not generally public knowledge there yet). Still, there's a lot I have to sort out, from inside my head to determining how I fit in the outside world (not that I ever figured that out in the first place).

And with that new male self-identity in place, other aspects of my life have shifted in fundamental but subtle ways. I'm a feminist, but not a woman. I'm questioning my sexuality (again), but it hasn't really changed so much as the POV to consider it has altered. I'm re-centering myself in the world in a way that I completely ignored before because everything was wrong so it didn't seem worth it to try. I'm actually working on my health seriously for the first time in my entire life - again, never a concern because my body was completely disconnected from me prior to acknowledging what I truly am. I'm analyzing my ASD and introvertism and a myriad of other things, wondering what will change and what won't, what was me and what was the result of my social and gender dysphoria. All this while my body is literally changing and my psyche shifts to the most calm and *right* it has ever felt since before puberty.

It's fucking amazing and fucking terrifying, all at once. And I don't regret the decision for an instant.

As for fandom, I certainly identify more closely with male protagonists and mlm romances now. To be fair, that was building as I came closer and closer to my decision to transition, but now that all that is settling into place, I understand so much more about my writing and my preferred POVs, why my favorite characters are who they are, and why I feel so distant from certain characters and ships. I had to put my playthrough of Andromeda completely on hold because I'm hoping (against hope) that the mlm romances will be improved as they promised. Ironically, I was finally able to complete a run-through of the original Mass Effect trilogy because I stopped trying to play as a woman and just gaymanced my way through with an M!Shenko story that, despite its flaws, I absolutely adored. I'm even going to go back and replay DA2 with a male Hawke and see if I connect better. Oh, and my former canon Hawke? Yup. Transgender man, always was. I just didn't realize that either.

It has put a distance between me and Tumblr, though. It's subtle, but I notice it when I try to re-engage with fandom and utterly fail. I've distanced myself from my old blog and presence even further and pretty much abandoned the two sub-communities within the fandom that I tried haphazardly to belong to: writing and modding.

For writing, I have three major stories left open/unfinished: my Warden story, my Cullrian fic where Dorian becomes the Inquisitor, and my canon Inquisitor Martin Trevelyan story. I adore my Warden, but I feel so distant from her that I wonder if I'll ever pick that up again. I love my Inquisitor Dorian story as well - I had so much politics and fun with derailing the canon plot planned for that one - and of the three, it's the one I'm most likely to return to writing. The one I want to do the most is my Martin Trevelyan story, but I'm not sure I want to pour myself into writing that story when I'm feeling so distant from the fandom itself. I don't write for accolades, necessarily, but I do like to feel a connection between my readers and myself for fic, and the time for DAI has come and gone. It's hard to write when I feel that no one will read it.

As for modding, I now regret my involvement in that community. I don't have a suitable personality or a viable skillset to offer, and I should have just backed out early and let someone else take over and do what I did, but better. A couple of other blogs have stepped up to the plate, for which I am grateful, but it's a weekly debate with myself whether or not I should just delete that sideblog - heck, my whole Tumblr - and simply move on. The only reason I don't is that I know there are quite a few links to some of the tutorials and lists on the sideblog, and I feel it would be unfair to do so. Yet I tried and failed at Discord, and am completely disinterested in modding ME:A, so I think that ship will not sail again.

In addition to that, I've been in a constant re-evaluation of my online presence and what it means. The release of ME:A had me intrigued at first, but as time has progressed, I've come to realize that even though I enjoy and love the game itself, I feel no connection whatsoever to other fans of it. I don't like the fanart, I don't like the same characters as everyone else, and I simply don’t experience it in the same way I'm seeing it on my dash. People are leaving Dragon Age behind again (which is fine, fandoms are always circular), but I don't choose to move on. And it's getting harder and harder to find meaningful ways to interact with what remains of the parts of fandom I am interested in. Outside of my perennial RPs (which is still Dragon Age), I don't really maintain an online presence except for what little I've struggled to establish here on Tumblr - and the value is diminishing enough that I wonder how long I'll be around.

So. Anyway. Many ramblings later, I guess I just needed to get all that out and written down somewhere. My apologies if you actually read all this. And kudos, as well.

At least Tiki is a unisex name. That I don't have to change.

Tiki on Dreamwidth | AO3 | FF.net

[chiseler]

THE FRANKFURT SCHOOL FOR WAYWARD GIRLS

Putting "acceptable" limits on depravity in the name of compromise and "reality" is how fascism eventually triumphs. Or so said Professor Yvonne De Carlo of 'Miss Yvonne's Academy for Wayward Hussies' also known as 'The Frankfurt School' --  a place of higher learning for delinquent, pregnant scholars. "Your new president is merely proof that the depraved nature of power is given license by tolerating all but its excesses" said Professor De Carlo as she powdered her ample cleavage in full view of the astonished, pinafore-clad undergrads gathered for her lecture on the 'Dialectic of Fascism and French Manicures Made Easy-Peasy'.

"You want to know what brought Trump to power? Hint: It wasn't a sudden, inexplicable, sewage-strewn wave of raw hatred poised to strike down public schools, libraries and national parks at the behest of a braying, stupid mob of "privileged" former factory workers. It wasn't merely insanity wrought by decades of institutional neglect or unchecked greed -- although that was a big part of it. It was *nice* people willing to accept certain 'realities' to ensure their place at the proverbial table remained a pristine space of individually apportioned, locally sourced food; a place where rhetorical restraint replaced actual political solutions to any given problem.

You chose 'safe' over actual justice -- meaning someone else's kid will take a police bullet to the chest so that we can all read heavily redacted versions of Mark Twain in the peace and comfort of a colorful ball pit of higher learning like our own Frankfurt School, which I should mention was only made possible by a generous corporate donation from a multi-national purveyor of processed pork by-products with vaguely German origins. At the end of it, you'll all be awarded a certificate declaring you free from venereal diseases, and the skills necessary to lower live poultry into a vat of ammonia in a subsidiary facility owned by our trustees. At your age, I was performing burlesque numbers on the mean streets of my Canadian homeland at the behest of my stage mother. But I'll tell you all about that later in the term when we cover 'Hoochie-Coochie Cave Dancing of the Early Ottoman Empire - as Explained by a scantily-clad Miss Yvonne Waving a Jewel-Encrusted Saber'. Consider that your 'trigger warning'. Now let's proceed:

It was enough that we embraced Caitlyn Jenner and applauded Meryl Streep giving the phone book version of the Gettysburg Address to her wealthy patrons -- I could give a better soliloquy while swallowing a sword and balancing a cobra on my head, but I digress . . . It was enough to sprout a 'dad boner' over Pussy Riot to declare ourselves -- "punk rock", even as we devised ways to make earth's human and animal life redundant during brainstorming meetings that took place in an indoor ergonomic playground that served wheat grass martinis on tap. My dear friend Frederick Marcuse who took me under his bosom . . . or was that the other way around . . . argued that the technocratic efficiency of advanced, industrial societies had rendered it 'one-dimensional', and as such, resistant to all critiques of it. Our "aversion to introspection" according to Adorno -- another generous benefactor to the Frankfurt School -- renders left-opposition to Trump little more than an elite-led, sour grape authoritarianism that is unable to contemplate its own role in a paradigmatic shift towards a more 'unprincipled' and unpredictable variety of global aggression. If you don't believe him, just ask a white feminist how writing 'rape culture' on her boobs in sharpie will 'shame the patriarchy', and this will give you some idea about why I start every afternoon coughing up a ball of mentholated phlegm into my cornflakes.

Let me tell you what brought us to this precise moment of imminent planetary collapse: It was "nice" people with library cards and rescue pets accepting the kind of compromises that result in bulldozing homes in the occupied territories of Palestine, imprisoning whistle blowers, putting indigenous land everywhere under threat, and even sodomizing a half dead Pan-African leader while he lay dying in a drainpipe.  

It's the 'realists' who sign off on nearly $40 billion in military 'aid' to Israel so that it can build more settlements in defiance of International law, and the similarly counterproductive reasoning that blames Russian hackers for the DNC's corrupt maneuvering to install its preferred Wall Street-friendly candidate in defiance of roughly half the voting population. The same folks who cry foul the loudest when an asshole takes his rightful place on the golden, Imperial throne after they have spent years polishing it for him, and expanding its powers to flush away civil liberties and environmental protections. Now all of a sudden that reclining, ermine-trimmed commode in the Oval Office is a "hot seat". Back in the day when I was bumping and grinding on the Paramount lot for chump change, Charlton would grab me by the pussy and . . . well, never mind that now. Let's just say that my jungle cat put up a fierce resistance that left a permanent scar on his manhood and not a single scratch on my lady mandibles.  Not sure where any of this is going, but anyhoo . . .

It's the 'nice' -- meaning the technocratically-minded gatekeepers of the 'left', who perform the linguistic feats necessary to justify, say, the involuntary sacrifice of dozens of dead Bedouin wedding celebrants in Yemen to maintain cordial relations with a despotic petrostate that helps prop up a neighboring Apartheid regime equally ill-disposed towards its benefactor. 'This is why we can't have nice things like brutalist revolving restaurants atop Manhattan office towers', they will remind you. Ingrates like you always second-guessing the stuff we do to prevent maniacs from seizing power here at home'. The nice among us, whom we used to call 'Good Germans', prefer that you don't bring 'false equivalency' into reasoned discussion about state-sponsored murder, and focus on the positive . . . like . . . um . . . 'At least under Trump, my sad face selfies will have all the political urgency of Guernica'.  

It's the "nice" that refused to hold Obama's feet to the fire, giving him carte blanche to capitulate wholly to the more clamorous and opportunistic voices of his inner circle without ever troubling his conscience. The guy was so cool he could grant clemency to Chelsea Manning AND bomb a failed state into further oblivion all in the same week. "Nice" folks would never venture into the treacherous waters of condemning or even criticizing your country's first black president for reasons entirely to do with the sort of career-minded, self-preservation that says "Bummer about Leonard Peltier, but Michelle Obama sure rawked that Zac Posen dress on the cover of Vogue!"

When someone *reaches across the aisle*, it's usually to grasp at the last straws of power allotted to them by whichever democratically elected fascist regime happens to control Congress. Or it's a hands-y director trying to cop a feel on a red-eye flight from LA. Yes, Otto Preminger, I'm talking to YOU!

To make a long-winded lecture only as long as it takes to dry one's nails after the second coat of Revlon's 'Dead Roses on a Dusky Tomb': Trump didn't win in spite of your 'reasoned' acceptance of the outgoing president's expanded powers, but because you were willing to rationalize its unsavory aspects long enough to ensure its unchecked and unbridled form reached its inevitable conclusion".

Professor De Carlo then flounced out of the lecture hall with the scent of Shalimar, and two or three shirtless Cabana boys trailing behind her discarded veils. "I'm off to powder my you know what. Class -- and I mean the particular one that conflates legal weed smoking with political resistance - dismissed"!

by Jennifer Matsui