#LIKE WHO. THE FUCK . IS YOUR INTENDED AUDIENCE HERE

[deoidesign]

Thinks about my next series again... I drew the icon for it!

I'm planning to have it launched within a year! I'm hoping for summer 2025. I want to make a prelaunch page before Time and Time Again ends so people can subscribe if they're interested, but I'm worried the series return would be too early...

[kapriisunz]

CLOWN THRONE & BALLOONS | LA!Buggy x fem!reader

Summary; You like kneeling for Buggy while he’s on his silly chair.

Warnings; Descriptions of Buggy being hot on said chair, fucking Buggy on said chair; Oral (m receiving), p in’ v, fem terms, you ride until you die.

LIVE ACTION ONE PIECE SPOILERS

A/N; FanFic writers please hurry on this I need this man carnally. Gotta smash the clown fear out of me. Also I’m not a fanfic writer but we need someone to jumpstart it, so if this isn’t up to your standard: my bad, I’ve never written and published before especially NSFW.

p.s: If it gets out that the actor doesn’t like his portrayal to be used in this type of way, I’ll be deleting this out of respect. Until then, Enjoy.

Masc!reader here! <- not made yet.

Under a harsh spotlight that only lights a tiny portion of the carnival tent, you’re kneeling in front of your captain. Right, in between his legs, with your head resting dangerously on his thigh, staring up at him.

Buggy had laughed Cabaji out of the tent when he had reported back from Shells town all before you came in.

He’s ‘relaxed’ on the wooden carnival chair, his hat hanging from on top of the back bar of the seat, with one of his legs propped up on the armrest and foot swinging lazily really helps encourage the imagination.

his brows crease his paint, shoulders are tense as he giggles at his speech.

Recounting the way Cabaji spoke of someone—and not him—had taken the Grand Line chart, you almost feel sorry for Cabaji.

The way Buggy speaks of this sounds as if he finds this amusing, you’re sure a part of him does but you can tell that he’s all but relaxed.

Buggy’s pride is flashy tales of himself, finding pure enjoyment from his endeavors so he can showcase them to the world. So, when some nobody ‘pirates’ haphazardly steal a map he planned to steal himself? He laughs.

But it seems all too forced.

"Captain?.." You ask.

He still wears his white and red striped bandanna however it does work as intended since you can still see fray blue hairs that linger around his face.

You wonder, if you asked, if could he put his blue hair into a ponytail. But you shake that thought away.

Buggy grumbles in thought, rubbing his forehead with his fingers, minding his clown paint. You frown at the sight of him and gently stroke his thighs in an attempt to soothe him. 

“What will we do?” His eyes snap down at you, sending a thrilling chill down your spine. He giggled, almost too giddy for this situation.

He hums while cocking his head down at you and grinning mockingly. He sits upright, putting his leg down with a loud thud, trapping you in between him, and making your breath hitch.

“The map is mine.” He states tucking a fray hair behind your ear causing you to try and lean into his hand.

However, he snaps his gloved hand to your chin, pulling your face and bringing you closer to him. The wood floor creaks and your knees are a little chafed from kneeling for too long, but you pay no mind- too focused on Buggy and how his face is ever so close to yours. Your noses almost touching.

“And I’m gonna get it back.” He brushes his thumb over your lip, smudging your clown makeup to the side, making you nod up and down at his own words. “No matter who I have to kill.” He lets you go, pulling back against the chair again, you let out a breathy sigh you didn’t know you were holding in.

You can tell that he’s stressed, that he’s angry since he spent months planning only for it to be for nothing.

A light bulb lights above your head.

Looking around the tent, you and your captain are the only people present as the other ‘freaks’ of your crew must be perfecting their ‘performance’ or taking care of the ‘audience’.

You muster the guts to carry on rubbing his thighs while gradually moving your hands upward along him.

You again place your head on his thigh while feigning innocence. You feel up the striped tunic and then tug at the hem of his pants. He swiftly grips your wrist and causes your breath to catch.

“What are you doing?” He eyes you.

“I..want to make you happy,” You continue, trying your best to not show how worried you are, worried that you step a bit too close to danger with your intentions.

He bends forward and looks at you in the eye. His stare makes you even more nervous, aren’t able to determine if he is angered by what you are doing from the stoic way he stares.

You’re about to apologize but to your surprise, he presses a kiss to your wrist almost too affectionate.

He lets go of your hand and grabs the back of your head, pulling you into one kiss. You let out a moan, heat rising to your face both in shock and rosemary-colored lust. He pauses to look at your face, his hand entangled into your hair with a vice grip.

“You want to take care of your captain?”

He asks tightening the grip on your hair and making you bite back another moan, but you nod on your own this time.

He leans back casually, chuckling at the sight of you. His red paint had smeared over your mouth, you must look stupid, pathetic even: You knelt in front of him hair ruffled and face paint mucky but he found humor in your messy appearance.

“Show me,” Buggy purrs with a wave of his hand for you to continue, a lustful glint in his eye, you nod.

You’re now set on a mission, and that mission is to give your jolly captain the most mind-numbing head. And maybe more if you’re lucky

With his consent, you continue with newfound courage, you unlace his tan trousers as he spreads his legs for you, giving you more room.

Your heart pounds against your chest.

You want to please your captain.

You glide your hand down and graze his crotch, a prominent bulge in his pants all while he watches, hissing at your touch.

Finally, you pull his pants and underwear down to his mid-thigh, his cock throbs against his abdomen.

Buggy, who still has a hand in your hair, tugs you closer, nervously you take his heavy cock into your hand and give an experimental stroke.

With a flat tongue, you follow a long vein, giving a lengthy lick from the underside of his shaft to the pinkish tip, his chest is heavy as he breathes, trying not to roll his head back and keep his eyes on you.

He wants to watch you do this.

“Such a good girl..”

Needing more praise from your flashy clown captain you continue.

Your mouth is on the mushroom tip as you suck down, taking him halfway to not trigger a gag reflex.

You clench your thighs together at the groan he makes desperate for any friction, you bob your head on his cock while giving rough strokes on the part you can’t fully take.

However, Buggy forcibly pulls your head down on him making you grab his thighs and gag slightly, he waits only a moment for you to recover, your nose buried into his bunched tunic.

You give him a light tap and he has you moving your head again along his cock, you slowly learn to breathe out your nose and hollow your cheeks as you take him.

You’ll most likely have a sore throat after this.

Your eyes tear up a bit as you take him, his dick hits the back of your throat rhythmically and ruthlessly. Letting you moan around him, and making him buck his hips at the sensation.

“Fuck . . . you’re doing so well,”

Fuck, you want him to talk more, you’re positive that your nails have dug into him as you feel a shock of arousal pulse through your cunt.

You need relief, and Buggy notices that.

He pulls your head off him, a long string of saliva from your mouth to his dick. He pulls you up by the collar of your shirt to make you hover in his lap. Your knees are now on either side of him.

He wastes no time though, a hand under your skirt and a long drag of his fingers from your cunt to your clit over your panties.

You instinctively cry out, but Buggy is quickly on you, drowning out your moan. The kiss is sloppy, but you and he don’t mind.

“You’ll need to be quiet, you don’t want someone from the crew to get curious about the beautiful noise coming from here.” All you can do is nod, and try to not make much noise by biting your lip.

He’s experienced but rough with the circles he rubs on your clothed clit. He pulls your panties to the side but frustratingly rips them and throws them to the side-, and checks how slick you are with another long stripe.

You’re unsurprisingly ready without much touching from his end which he smirks at, he places his gloved hands-that have damp fingertips- on the divot of your hips.

You place your own hands on his shoulders the fur of his coat nestled between your fingers as you grip it.

You slowly lower yourself onto his cock, the pink leaky tip at the entrance of your cunt, you can feel it already throbbing.

You are about to fully go down but Buggy beats you to it, a bit impatient he bucks his hips up into you. Your legs around his thighs tense and shake at the sudden intrusion, keeping his words in mind you bite your lip, and you bite hard.

He groans at how tight and warm you are.

He begins to bounce you up and down, and once you follow the rhythm you’re both panting and groaning, hard to stop yourself from doing so when take the opportunity to explore your body.

His gloved hands tail all over your figure, teasing your chest through your shirt.

You take the time as well, to gaze at him, every part of him and then, you decide that; you want to bite his neck.

And you do.

He’s caught by surprise when you pull his ascot to bite and suck on his neck, so much so that he gives you a whiny moan when you do so.

At the noise, you feel your walls clench around him, making him hiss and buck his hips up into your sopping pussy.

Determined to have his dick mold your cunt in his shape you start to move faster and deeper, still leaving purple and red marks along his neck -and clown paint, at least you aren’t the only one who looks stupid now.

You can feel the build-up in the pit of your stomach, a tight coil forms ready to snap at one extreme movement.

Buggy’s also close having the same overwhelming feeling.

He enjoys having you rubbed up against him, your teeth biting at his neck trying so hard to keep your mewls down but they’re right in his ear.

Throughout this, he wasn’t ever suspecting to have you at his feet licking stripes on his dick nor have your slick tight pussy bouncing on him and dirtying his clothes, and to be fair he’s quite enjoying himself.

He’s a goner once he hears the next moan.

“Buggy. . .”

Fuck, your whine did something.

However he doesn’t want to cum before you do, so he holds back for just a bit so he can tail his hand in between the both of you to map tight circles on your clit.

Now your body trembles as the coil in your stomach snaps in half, and your walls clench around him

He finally lets himself roll his head back, muttering intangible swears, riding his hips up into you, his whole body tenses.

His cum jerks into your spasming pussy, you whine at the feeling too dazed to worry about any repercussions of this.

He rocks your hips along him, riding out the final moments of your orgasm before slumping back on the chair.

Both of you are breathing heavily, but you find that your ‘mission’ was a outstanding success as you see a genuinely but hazy grin from your now completely relaxed captain.

Maybe those nobodies stealing the map weren’t so bad.

[sp0o0kylights]

Part One / Part Two / Part Three (You Are Here)

Complete Thing on A03

Sure enough, Jason Carver had brought a priest. 

The idiot himself stood next to the guy, smugly grinning like a hunter posing with his prized buck, a small crowd already gathering. 

Opposing them was Michael Wheeler, hands planted on Hellfire’s table and back up like a pissed off cat’s, mouth moving faster than Eddie thought possible.

He couldn’t hear what Wheeler was saying. 

Frankly did not want to know what Wheeler was saying, and could only do his damndest to intervene before Mike tanked the situation entirely. 

Gareth and Jeff flanked him, both tense as hell. Neither had backed down though, standing tall and holding ground even as Jason pulled more and more people into his little spectacle. 

Lucas and Grant on the other hand, were standing off to the side.

They weren’t cowering exactly, but both were definitely wincing as Gareth opened his mouth to add his own two cents. 

Given the scowl on the priest, it was probably something nasty, 

‘Fuck.’ Eddie thought, teeth clenched, as Jason drew out his arms, making an even bigger production for his little audience. ‘Fuck, fuck, fuck!’ 

The worst thing of all? 

Dustin managed to reach the group before anyone else did. 

Wheeler and Emerson might have low charisma, but Dustin had a particular combination of snark and a know-it-all attitude that really pissed off authority figures. 

(And Eddie would know, given he was the reigning champion of pissing off authority figures.) 

He did, however, slide in right in time to hear the priest respond. 

“I don’t care for your tone, young man. Jason here has some concerns over your club and I have to agree, what I see is quite,” The guy paused, jowls jiggling as he looked over their table, clearly eyeing Hellfire’s logo. “alarming.” 

 At least wasn’t an actual sermon.

Not yet, anyway. 

Eddie came up right inbetween Mike and Dustin, intending to make himself out to be the new target for all to aim at.  

There was an art to making yourself the sole owner of everything evil in this world, and Eddie had learned it all, trial by fire style.  

“Carver is full of--” Mike snarled, and thankfully was cut off—not by Eddie, or the hand he’d just clamped onto Mike’s shoulder—but by Harrington. 

Who sauntered right up as if he was joining everyone for dinner, and not walking into a circus act.

“Hello Father.” Harrington said, voice warm and welcoming.  “Would you like some of our cookies? We have a sample platter.” 

“Oh--Steve!” The priest blinked, actually blinked, that he was startled to see Hawkins’ golden boy appear next to him. “I’m sorry but no. I’m ah, here for other reasons.”

He paused so long it was nearly comedic before tentatively asking; “ Are you with this table?”

Like the guy couldn’t see the same Hellfire logo plastered across Steve’s ridiculous jock chest. 

Eddie opened his mouth to give a resounding no, Hellfire shirt or not--when Mike of all people put an elbow into his side. 

As if Eddie was the one who needed to be silenced.  

“I am.” Steve put an arm down on Dustin’s shoulder, squeezing it in a way that looked like fond encouragement (but what Eddie was pretty sure was actually a warning in the same way the hand on Mike’s shoulder was.) “I came to help out my friends and fundraise.”

Then he beamed, face lighting up with the full Harrington charm, giga watt smile and all. 

Now the priest just looked awkward. 

“You’ve apparently been fundraising for what I have been told is a…Satanist Club?” 

It was hilariously delicate, how the priest said it. Like now that a respectable member of Hawkins was here, he had to be more careful about what words he used. 

Eddie would have interrupted then.  Retake the reins and do what he did best in terms of making everyone forget about everything but him--except Carver was rounding on Harrington, and well.

He was always a fan of the rich eating each other. 

“You cannot seriously be with these--these,” Jason’s eyes darted to between him and the priest, before physically reigning himself in. “hooligans, Harrington!” 

“I’m sorry.” Harrington said, and whatever Jason had been expecting to get hit with, it wasn’t “good ol’ boy” southern charm. 

He blinked, taking on the air of a kicked puppy who couldn’t understand why someone would be so mean as he glanced around the crowd.  “I think I'm a little lost here.” 

Jason clearly wasn’t prepared for that either. 

“What?” 

“This table is for a storytelling and math game.” Steve spoke slowly, in the same way one explained things to a toddler. “You have to roll dice and add the numbers up to do anything."

“It’s not a game, Steve.” Jason spat back. “It’s an evil trick made to tempt the susceptible minds of children to the dark arts!” 

Personally, Eddie was amazed Carver even knew the word susceptible let alone be able to properly use it in a sentence. 

(He tried to open his mouth to say so, and once again got elbowed, this time by Gareth. 

The look he gave his younger friend could have melted steel beams.)

“That’s what this is about?” Harrington slid his arm off Dustin's shoulders, leaning back to look at the priest and the people around them in a show of blatant disbelief. “You think the nerd club is related to satanism?” 

It was Eddie's own tactic--arguing that D&D was “using academic skills” and “making math fun!" not that Hellfire had ever been successful using it.

Of course, they weren’t Hawkins golden boy either. 

Jason sputtered. 

“It has monsters and--demons in it! It makes children do spells and sign over their souls!” He flung a hand out, for the first time acknowledging Eddie by pointing at his shirt. “Just look at that! It’s awful!”  

"Hey." Eddie said, hand going over his very well drawn dragon.

“I once had to stop an argument about how much weight a wooden bridge could hold.” Steve countered, hands moving to his hips. “I only got them to stop by agreeing to take the kids to a library so they could look it up.” 

He squinted, in Carver's direction, deadpanning; "I take it you think the library is evil now too?"

“The name of the club is called Hellfire!” Jason shrieked, sounding more like an angry teakettle than anything dangerous. 

“Look I get that it sounds scary,” Steve said, the tiniest hint of pity entering his voice, “but they’re trying to make math problems and English essays sound cool. It’s the same reason Father John here calls our annual haunted house Hell House, isn’t it? So people go in it to begin with?” 

Harrington turned to look expectantly at the priest, and Eddie had to admit it was an excellent way to both pander to the guy and sound like Jason was making a big deal out of nothing. 

Perhaps, he’d stay quiet after all. 

(Even if it went against Eddie’s entire being to do so.)

“Well, yes, but--” Father John had clearly picked up on the fact he was losing this particular argument, but plowed forward regardless. “Those activities are supervised by the church…” 

“This is evil Harrington, and you should know better to promote it.” Carver tacked on, like this was a two bit comedy sketch. 

“When I played it we just saved some poor town from a bad guy who set it on fire.” Steve rolled his eyes. 

Then he leaned in, converting his voice into a stage whisper that somehow projected it, giving the impression that everyone around them was listening in on a secret. 

“The doctor said it was a really good way for Dustin and Erica to process the mall fire. He’s a specialist--my mother managed to convince him to fly down to help all the kids who got hurt.” 

Eddie was 100% sure that was total bullshit, but the mere mention of Harrington's mother had seemed to have an effect on the people around them.

 Like Steve had invoked the name of an old but beloved God, not always benevolent but definitely memorable. 

“She’s always been a champion of helping when you can.” Steve spoke to the priest, like they were having a conversation between just the two of them. “Encouraging people to volunteer and helping fundraise.”

“She has been." Father John said, in the kind of instant way one does when they don’t want to offend a very large donor.  "Tell your mom I look forward to her coming back from her--ah, trip.”

 With an awkward glance to the table, he added; “...I suppose I don’t see how math comes into play?” 

“Oh it’s right from the start. Hey Jeff, come here, show Father John how you have to do a bunch of calculations and stuff to make a character.” 

“Ah--right.” Jeff sprung to life, moving around the table to Steve.

“We uh, we start with this character sheet…” 

“Eddie Munson runs the club.” Jason interrupted, before Steve could get Jeff to going.

“He’s right there! Does he look like this whole thing is just an innocent board game?” 

This was a last ditch effort, and it was clear by the chattering that had started circling amongst their audience that everyone knew it. 

Unfortunately, it was a good one.

This was the downside to making yourself a target. Once a bad guy, always a bad guy--particularly in the eyes of the PTA. 

“Munson?” Harrington dismissed with a scoff. “He’s harmless.” 

Which was news to most of their audience given the amount of attention Eddie suddenly had on him, but it was fine. 

He was used to the disapproving stares and glares, and gave his best award winning smile in response. 

Jason looked at Harrington like he’d lost his mind. 

“He has skulls on his fingers for fucks sake!” 

“Jason.” Steve admonished, in a perfect mimic of an upset southern mother. “Language.” 

Carver's jaw dropped, face purpling in rage.

Steve ignored him, turning back to the Priest. “I don’t know what's gotten into him but I’m sorry Jason’s wasted your time, Father.” 

“Munson is a drug dealer!” And ah, here came the Hail Mary move, Carver's one and only trump card.

“We all know he’s a drug dealer, and he’s using this--this game, to give drugs to kids!”

“Really?” Steve turned. “Lucas, what happens if I ever catch you smoking weed?” 

Lucas answered instantly. “You’re going to make us run laps at five in the morning.” 

“For a month.” Dustin added, with an exaggerated shudder. 

It would have been too much--except his disgusted face sold it. 

“Eddie’s just loud and wants to be a rockstar.” Harrington said, like this he was harmless.

No one on Steve's side of things had ever thought of Eddie as harmless.

 “I’ve babysat these kids for years and Eddie was a huge help in making sure no one in high school messed with them.” He continued, like they were some sort of team or friends even.

(Like Eddie hadn't been at Harrington's throat all day, pissy and defensive.)

“We have a real bullying problem right now. Funny enough,” Steve’s nailed Jason with a look, “I keep hearing that it’s coming from the basketball team.” 

“What are you implying?” Jason asked darkly. 

“Just that it’s funny how nobody got caught fighting when I was team captain.” Steve returned. 

God the man was such a bitch. Eddie kind of wanted to kiss him a little. 

Okay, more than a little.

“I get you have some kind of beef with Munson, but let’s not drag a bunch of people into it. Especially not Father John.” Harrington was playing up to the mothers around him now, dismissing Carver entirely as he did so. “He’s a busy guy.”

“Very.” Said Father nodded solemnly. “I do not appreciate being pulled into a high school squabble.” 

Jason’s mouth swam through shapes, words stuttering out of it. “This isn’t, thats not--”

“We can talk about this after church on Sunday.” Father John interrupted, the finishing blow to Carver's little show.

“You came all this way, at least have a cookie on us.” Steve said with an appeasing tone, reaching an arm back behind him.

Quick on the uptake, a cookie appeared in his hands. 

He offered it out to the priest, who took it happily.

"Okay, who wants cake!?” He called, in a clear and obvious dismissal of Jason. 

Who stood there, like he couldn’t believe what just happened. 

His eyes slid to Eddie's, fists clenched tightly at his side, hatred pouring off him so strongly one could almost taste it.

Eddie winked at him.

(Unknown to him at the time, Jason had also looked at Steve--and Steve would wink too.)

xXx

Steve Harrington, who Eddie had been an absolute ass all day too, had looked Jason Carver, a Priest and half of Hawkins in the eye and announced that he, Eddie Munson, was a good person at heart.

It made Eddie want to vomit a little when he thought about it too hard.

“I know this is horrible timing,” Robin said, sidling up as the crowd finally dispersed, “but I really, really need to talk to you.” 

Eddie turned, head full of far too many thoughts and ready to tell her such, when he caught sight of Buckley's face. 

Was reminded, by the sheer nervous, ‘horse about to bolt’ vibe, that he owed it to Robin as a fellow queer not to be a dick about her accidental outing.

Even if all he wanted was to preen in the wake of Carver’s defeat. 

‘See Mothers of Hawkins? Your own golden boy just gave me his stamp of approval!’ 

A mental image that immediately changed to Steve Harrington’s name stamped on his ass and dammit he had to get ahold of his thoughts before he fell down rabbit holes like this--!

“Back there, at the stairs,” Robin started, voice dropping low, and Eddie didn’t miss the way her eyes kept seeking out Steve, like he was some kind of safety net--which he probably was. “What um--what did you hear?” 

It took a lot of guts to come talk to him, knowing what he'd overheard--particularly given they'd just fended off the church.

He'd never exactly underestimated Robin Buckley, but then, he'd never expected this level of badassery from her either.

“Eddie?” Robin prodded again, chewing hard on her bottom lip.

“Sorry, distracted.” Eddie waved a hand behind himself. “Not everyday the King decides to defend your honor to a priest.” 

With a little bow, he offered his elbow out to her, a clear signal to take it and let him escort them away from unwanted ears.

In a show of bravery, Robin took his elbow and let him lead, even as she frowned up at him, looking like she was about to say something.

Likely it was in defense of Harrington, but Eddie had been interrupted enough for one day. 

“You and His Highness over there really should be more aware of your surroundings." He started, voice low. "Lucky for you, you’re among friends. You and Dorothy both.” 

He reached a foot out, tapping Robin’s own. 

Right on top of a doodled pair of tits. 

Robin let go of his elbow and glanced down, before flinging her head right back up, panicked.

"I--"

“If you’d like I can pretend I never heard a thing.” Eddie interrupted, dropping his voice into the gentler tone he reserved for delicate conversations.

People were always surprised by the lengths he went to make sure someone was comfortable--but then, people also forgot how often Eddie heard things he shouldn’t. 

People didn't take drugs just for fun, after all.

“Or I can offer a friend of a friend discount on my wares,” He put a finger to his lips, miming smoking with one hand while he opened his vest with the other to flash the little pink triangle pin that sat inside, announcing his own sexualities status.

“and we can, say, discuss the differences between radical and social feminism while admiring the fine forms of Susan Sarandon and Peter Hinwood?”

The smile he gets is two parts relief, one part genuine delight and Eddie grinned right back at her, flicking his vest closed.

“I did not take you for a Peter Hinwood type.” Robin said it hesitantly, still waiting for the other shoe to drop. “Thought you’d find Tim Curry’s…acting skills, more to your taste.”

“In the case of Rocky Horror? I am Tim Curry.” He announced, loud and proud (well for this kind of conversation at least.) 

He was rewarded by the tension finally melting out of Robin’s shoulders. 

(This, Eddie reflected, is what he should have been doing this entire time, instead of getting tied up in knots over Harrington and turning into some kind of non-conformist tyrant.) 

“Do you actually know the differences between social and radical feminism?” Robin challenged, braver now, and Eddie knew then and there he’d been successful in assuring her her secret was safe.

That she was safe, with him.

“Guess you’ll have to find out.” Eddie said, giving a playful nudge to her shoulder. 

Baths in the laugh he gets for it, and for the first time today feels like he’s finally on firmer ground.

They chatted for a moment longer, making a loop on the very outskirts of the gym, voices hushed when it came to things that small town ears shouldn’t overhear--but of course, Robin couldn’t just leave things at that.

“Hey Eddie?” 

“Yeah?” 

“Can you do me one more favor?”

“Anything for you, my favorite feminist.” 

For the first time since this conversation started, Robin managed to sound firm. 

“Stop referring to Steve as a King.” 

She rushed ahead, anticipating being cut off, and thus Eddie is hit with a wave of words, none of which he’d ever thought he’d hear in relation to thee Steven Harrington. 

“He’s working really hard to get away from it, the whole King thing and how he used to be. I don’t know what all he did to like--you guys,” She flapped her hand in the general direction of Hellfire, “and I know he wasn’t an innocent bystander, but I kinda realized over the summer that I blamed him for a lot of things that were in my own head, and that he wasn’t--he was never as bad as I thought he was and he's still trying to make it up to me anyway.”

Robin trailed off, seeming to try and piece out what she wanted to say next without giving away the whole farm. “It’s not some act, Eddie. Steve’s really trying to change.” 

Which yeah.

Eddie could see that, now. 

Maybe not before but…

“Okay.” He said, after a long, long moment. “No more King Steve. Got it.”

The smile he got for that also felt like a victory, even if it was wrenched out of him.

xXx

Two hours and a dispersed crowd later, Eddie found himself once again stuck in his own head. 

The facts were thus:

Steve Harrington was a good dude. 

He used his good dude-ness to save Hellfire from a literal priest, right smack in front of God and Principal Hairy Ass both

All of Hellfire actually liked him 

According to Robin Buckley, Steve was entirely fine with “all us triangles” quote/unquote 

And;

Eddie was jealous.

He was self aware enough to admit it, alongside the fact that Jason Carver aside, maybe Eddie had been the villain today instead of Steve. 

Which meant he not only owed Harrington an apology, but he owed it to both of them to work out his own stupid shit before it blew up in his face and cost him all his friends.

(He’d have called this move “pulling a Harrington” before today but now that feels mean, which Eddie supposes signals he’s grown as a person or some shit.) 

So now he sits on Steve’s beemer, knowing the move will likely antagonize the ex-jock but equally knowing he’s planning on jumping off the car the second the guy comes near, and that the move itself will get Harrington to listen to him the second he’s done supervising whatever Hellfire’s youngest is doing.

(Eating leftover cookies like the older members are as they finish packing up, Eddie assumes.) 

Ducking out like he did had allowed him some much needed time to think things though. Figure out what he was going to say--without an audience present.

He’d apologize publicly if he had to. But being vulnerable is hard, and given the way his friends had been acting, Steve isn’t the only person he owes an apology to. 

For now, he’ll begin here, without an audience. 

Eddie doesn’t get to plan for long--only gets to rehearse a few lines of his little spiel when a pointed cough jerks him back to reality. 

There stands Steve Harrington, a fat wad of cash in one hand and a box in the other.

Like a man sent to the gallows, Eddie leapt off the beemer, squaring his shoulders. 

He could do this.

 Apologize-- and mean it. 

Not that Steve gave him the chance to. 

“The guys told me to give this to you.” He said, holding out the cash. Then he took a breath, like he was preparing to go to war, and added; 

“I know you weren’t happy with me being here, and you probably don’t want this, but Dustin said you really liked cinnamon brownies so I made you some.” 

The box was now held out alongside the cash, proof that Steve had tried to start this whole thing off on the right foot. 

Eddie stared at it, then at Steve. 

Felt the guilt chew on his gut just that much harder.

“I have been shitty to you all day. Why are you giving me this?” 

Steve shrugged. 

“To be fair I didn’t exactly make it easy on you either. You said jump and I said ‘watch this’.” Steve laughed, a small, almost self depicting sound. “Dustin’s been on my ass all day about it.” 

Of course he had. 

“Mine too.” Eddie admitted. “It's his tone, I swear."

“Yes!” 

Carefully, Eddie reached out, accepted the box and the cash. 

“Thanks by the way. For the stuff you said about me earlier.” 

Steve grimaced, cheeks tinting a (lickable) red. “Yeah sorry, I--”

“No not--not that stuff.’ Eddie said, mentally hauling his thoughts back in line, fiddling with the cash. “The stuff about being a good person. No one’s uh. Said that. About me.”

Not except for Wayne, but Harrington wouldn’t know nor care about Eddie’s uncle. 

Steve shrugged. “I didn’t say anything that wasn’t true.” 

He’d argue that, except something was off. 

It took Eddie a moment to place it--that the wad Steve handed over was way too big for the little bake sale they’d just attended. 

He tucked the box under his arm, quickly counting the stack with a smoothness only drug dealers and bank tellers could manage.

“It’s all there, I promise.” Steve told him simply, but without judgment. He sounded like he expected this and that didn’t sit right with Eddie either. 

Not that he could do anything about it because he’d just counted up didn’t make any sense. 

Not trusting himself, Eddie stacked it back together, before counting it all again. He was faster this time, trying to figure out among all the ones, fives and tens how the hell they had managed to sell that many cookies. 

Particularly considering the most expensive thing was one of the cakes and he’d watched Steve sell it for fifteen dollars. 

So why were there three twenties sitting in the stack? 

“Either you up charged the absolute shit out of someone’s mom, in which case I congratulate you, you sneaky devil,” Eddie said slowly, “Or you put extra cash in here.” 

Steve blushed properly this time. 

Eddie zeroed in on his face, watching as Steve rubbed the back of his neck with his hand, trying to pull his charming mask into place.

He didn't quite manage it.

Hadn’t even been wearing it before now, Eddie realized suddenly.

This entire conversation Steve had a realness to him that Eddie had never really seen. 

Had maybe not wanted to see, from someone like Harrington. 

“I don’t know what you mean.” Steve protested, like a kid who’d been caught with a hand in the cookie jar. “That’s what we charged.” 

“You are a terrible liar.” Eddie accused, hand trembling. “We can’t take this, man. This is a almost two hundred dollars.” 

Way more than what they’d need for Gen Con. It was enough to get them two fuckin’ hotel rooms! 

“If It helps any, I didn’t do it for you.” Steve’s blush slid into something more genuine, as he nodded his head to where Hellfire was spilling out of the gym doors, laughing and shoving one another. 

“They deserve to have a good trip.” He added, eyes fond as he watched Dustin and Mike squabble over how to fold Hellfire's banner.

It made his whole face soften, the harsh features of his jaw turning into something that was so adorable Eddie wanted to bite through it. 

“Do you want to come?” Someone said, and it took both Steve’s startled look and a second long pause for Eddie to realize that someone was him.

Stupid, stupid, stupid-! 

“To the convention?” Steve asked, looking doubtful. 

Pity that Eddie was already nodding, like his brain and his body were at a total disconnect.

Maybe aliens had finally taken him over. Or a demon. 

(Demonic possession could frankly explain a lot about today, Carver’s weird little power play aside.)

“Dude you don’t even like me.” Steve said. “Why would you want me to come along?” 

“I dunno Harrington. All of Hellfire seemed to like you, and not just my freshman.” Eddie countered easily, gliding right over the fact that he himself did like Steve.

Way more than he should, and that right there was half of Eddie’s problem. 

“They have pretty good taste in things.” He waived a hand, as if this wasn’t a complete 180 from how he’d acted all day. “I could understand if you didn’t want to slum it with us nerds though.”

Steve rolled his eyes. 

“I’ve been slumming it all day with you nerds, if you haven’t noticed.” 

“Yeah? What’s your verdict on us?” 

“Not as bad as you could be.” 

Eddie tilted his head back and laughed. “High praise from the King!”

He felt bad immediately after, and made himself promise to be more mindful about Robin’s ask--but  thankfully Harrington didn’t take it hard. 

(Habits, Eddie knew, were hard to change.

Took a lot of careful attention to change. 

He had a long road ahead of him, and he hoped this little olive branch put him a few miles down it.) 

Steve awarded him a small smile. “I haven’t been the King for a long while, man. But if you guys have an opening, I think I wouldn’t mind being a knight or whatever.” 

“Ste-eeeve Harrington, defender of the realm.” Eddie nodded once, decisively. “I can see it.”

He tucked away the cash, and thus missed how Steve looked weirdly contemplative at that. 

Raised his head and stuck out a hand. 

Tentatively, Steve took it. 

“Welcome to the club, Harrington. We meet on Fridays. Bring snacks.” 

“Cookies okay?”

“Going by Gareth’s judgment, they’re more than okay.”

Eddie smiled and Steve smiled back, and God how he hated how fucking cute Harrington’s face was. 

Particularly since he now got to think of the guy as “Steve” without feeling weird about it. 

As in his possible, potential, friend Steve.

What a fucking trip that was. 

“Oh, and Steve?” He called, the thought hitting him as Steve turned to welcome the group making their way to the beemer.

Steve had let his hand fall, turning to open the front door of the Beemer with a cocked eyebrow.

Eddie flicked a finger out, lightly tapping the Hellfire logo. “Tell Lucas I’ll get him another shirt. That one’s all yours, big boy.” 

If there was a pink hue to Harrington’s cheeks, he was blaming sunburn. 

(Two months, six days, and one meddlesome asshole named Henderson later, and Eddie would find out that Steve had in fact, been blushing.

He’d be furious at Dustin’s involvement, if it hadn’t directly led to Eddie finding out Steve’s blush did in fact go down his chest.

And his happy trail.

And his--

Well.

Men do not kiss and tell. 

Not to fucking freshmen, anyway.) 

THERE IS A GEN CON, "THERE WAS ONLY ONE BED BECAUSE DUSTIN IS A MEDDLESOME SHIT" BONUS BUT it's on A03 cause it was long enough to be its own post and I wasn't gonna add it to this one. You can read it here LINK

[munson-blurbs]

Thinking about Rockstar!Eddie meeting you at an autograph signing and getting off to the thought of you after his show...

“Here ya go,” Eddie says, forcing a tired smile as he hands a freshly-autographed CD to a beaming fan. Pre-show merch signings were part of the deal, and they certainly brought in the extra cash, but after five months on the road, the members of Corroded Coffin are tired. Eddie scratches at the five o’clock shadow dotting his face, glancing at his watch. Just another ten minutes until they can wrap this up and start soundcheck. Then they’ll be back on the bus, shipping off to whatever city’s up next.

The security guard lets the next two people up to the table. Eddie reaches over to the pile of CDs, giving an exasperated sigh as he asks, “Name?”

That’s when he hears your voice.

His head snaps up, and he relaxes as he takes in your shy demeanor. You’re holding the hand of your friend–girlfriend?--hey, it’s the ‘90s; anything is possible. Your eyes sparkle as you say and spell your first name, biting your lower lip and averting your gaze from the gorgeous rockstar in front of you. “Pretty name,” he murmurs, writing a short message and swirling the Sharpie over the CD cover to make his exaggerated signature. “Pretty name for a pretty girl, yeah?”

You just giggle, and the girl next to you squeezes your hand. “She’s, like, completely in love with you,” she blabbers. “Every damn day since we got these tickets, it’s been, ‘What should I wear? Do you think Eddie will notice me?’”

You free your hand to elbow her, a little harsher than you’d intended. “Dianna!” you hiss, burying your face in your palms in a feeble attempt to hide your humiliation.

But Eddie just cocks his head, checking you out from head to toe. “Oh, he definitely noticed you,” he muses, handing you the CD with two lanyards. “You ladies wanna watch backstage? ‘Course you do; Charlie will bring you where you gotta go and, uh,” he looks directly at you, sending an excited shiver down your spine, “maybe we can notice each other a bit more later.”

You and Dianna nod vigorously as the beefy security guard leads you to the backstage VIP suite. A waiter comes around and takes your drink orders. You ask for a vodka soda, and Dianna gets a Long Island iced tea.

“You sure about that?” you whisper as the waiter walks away. “Those are really strong.”

Dianna shrugs. “It’s not every day we get free drinks. Might as well drink as much as we can.”

Meanwhile, Eddie’s fumbling his way through soundcheck, thinking about the way your breasts peeked out the top of your Corroded Coffin tank top, how your denim shorts perfectly cupped your ass, the shiny gloss that emphasized your lips. God, he wants those lips wrapped around his hard, throbbing–

“Munson? You wanna get your head out of your ass so we can put on a show?” Jeff’s voice booms through his mic. 

“He’s thinking about that hot chick he gave backstage passes to,” Gareth teases, and Simon makes kissy noises at their lead singer.

Eddie launches his guitar pick in Gareth’s direction, narrowly missing his head. “Shut the fuck up, all of you,” he grumbles, but he knows that they’re right. Just get through the show and she’s all yours. He palms himself over his pants discreetly. He’s never been more grateful for his guitar, since his tight leather pants do nothing to hide his burgeoning erection.

Corroded Coffin puts on a hell of a show, as usual. They close with “Rock Hard,” their hit single about hooking up with a groupie after a concert, and Eddie thanks every celestial being that it’s the last song of the night. As soon as the band thanks the audience and says their goodbyes, Eddie dashes offstage. He bolts into your suite, all sweat and smiles. “How’d you like the–” He stops, frowning when he sees an empty room, save for Charlie, who’s smoking a cigarette in a lounge chair. “Where is she?”

“Sorry, Casanova,” Charlie drawls. “Her little friend drank too much, got sick all over the bathroom. Had to get them outta here before she ruined anything else.”

Eddie groans, throwing his head back as his bandmates laugh at his misfortune. “Goddammit,” he hisses, pushing his perspiration-soaked hair from his eyes.

“C’mon, man,” Simon claps a hand on Eddie’s back. “There’s a bar down the street; plenty of the girls from the show will be there…” He wiggles his eyebrows suggestively.

“Nah, I’m just gonna head back to the bus. ‘M pretty beat.”

“Oh, something’s getting beat tonight,” Gareth jokes. Eddie flips him off, but once again, he’s right.

He’s barely closed the curtain to his makeshift bedroom before he’s hastily unbuttoning his leather pants, shoving his ringed hand into his boxer briefs. Just the sensation of his own touch has him bucking his hips. He runs his thumb over the bead of pre-cum pearling at his tip, using it to lubricate his palm. He uses his free hand to tug his pants down to his knees, sitting on the bed. He imagines you on your knees in front of him.

“S’big, isn’t it, baby?” Eddie coos. He leans over, letting a trail of saliva drip from his mouth to his shaft. “Thas’ right, spit on it. Such a dirty fuckin’ girl.” He grips the bedsheet with his left hand, dragging his right from base to tip. 

“What’s that? You want it in your mouth? Oh, pretty girl; you don’t have to ask twice.”

He fucks into his fist harder, feeling himself grow in his own grasp. “Mmm, let me make a mess of that face. Ruin that fuckin’ makeup you worked so hard on. Wanted me to notice you; well, I sure fuckin’ did. Knew I had to have you, sweet thing.” If you were actually here, you’d be gagging on his dick as your nose grazes the thatch of curls on his pevlis, tears reflexively gathering at the corners of your eyes. Your mascara would start to run; the telltale sign of a good blowjob.

He loosens his hold on the sheet, cupping his balls. “If you do that, ‘m gonna bust in that sinful mouth of yours, fuckin’ swear.” A harsh chuckle escapes his throat. “Bet you’d like that. Bet you’d take my whole load down your throat, swallow it all, yeah?”

Eddie brings himself right to the edge before forcing himself to slow down. “I know, baby. I know you wanna keep sucking me off. But I wanna–no, I gotta be in that perfect little pussy. Now, come sit on my cock. Nice and slow–thassit.” He tightens his grip on his length, keeping a slow rhythm to mimic the feeling of gradually filling you up. “You can take it, don’t worry. I’ve got you, baby girl.”

He bites his lower lip so hard that he swears it might bleed. “Oh, angel. Y’feel even better than I ever imagined, holy fuck.” He increases his pace, choking out a pathetic moan. “What’s that? You want me to come inside you? So desperate f’me, aren’t you?” He whimpers at the mental image of you bouncing on his cock, tits pressed up against the dusting of hair on his chest. “Come with me, fuck, wanna make you come. Want you to cream my cock while I fuckin’ fill you up.” Eddie lets out one last pornographic moan as thick, hot ropes of cum spurt out onto his thick fingers. He pants, trying to catch his breath as he comes down from the high of his orgasm.

Cleaning himself up, Eddie grumbles to himself about your stupid drunk friend and how he’s so tired of fucking his own hand. He falls asleep quickly, worn out from the combination of the concert and his own post-show escapades.

The next morning, Eddie wakes up and wipes the sleep from his eyes. The bus driver has already set out for their next destination, somewhere in Bumblefuck. Eddie doesn’t care, he just wants you. Real you, not the fantasy he’d conjured up last night.

“Hey, boss,” Charlie says when Eddie pads out to the bus’s common space. “Forgot to give this to you after the show.” He hands him a folded piece of paper, which reads:

Eddie:

Had to get Dianna home before she puked on the carpet. I was not paying for that to be replaced–the tickets for your autograph already bankrupted me…

But if you wanna stop by my hotel room later, just give me a call. I don’t think you were done noticing me. I certainly wasn’t done noticing you. 

xo

You signed your name with a glossy lip print and your hotel room extension.

“Charlie,” Eddie starts through gritted teeth, “if you can convince the driver to turn this bus around, I won’t fire you.”

--

[reblive]

An except from Eric’s journal that i’ve thought about often as of lately. I have no place to put my thought so I will speak on here. No intent for discourse, I just have no outlet to speak on this matter. If this is not the space for you, just don’t read it. I don’t really care to hear anything.

“Society may not realize what is happening but I have; you go to school, to get used to studying and learning how youre "supposed to" so that drains or filters out a little bit of human nature. but thats after your parents taught you whats right and wrong even though you may think differently, you still must to have more of your human nature blown out of your ass. society trys to make everyone act the same by burying all human nature and instincts. Thats what school, laws, jobs, and parents do If they realize it or not and them, the few who stick to their natural instincts are casted out as psychos or lunatics or strangers or just plain different. crazy, strange, weird, wild, these words are not bad or degrading.. if humans were let to live how we would naturaly it would be chaos and anarchy and the human race wouldnt probably last that long, but hey guess what, thats how its supposed to be!!!!! society and goverments are only created to have order and calmness, which is exactly the opposite of pure human nature. take away all your laws and morals and just see what you can do. if the goverment was one entity it would be thinking "hey, lets make some order here and calm these crazy fucks down so we can be constructive and fight other goverments in our own little so called self created "civilizied world" and get rid of all those damn insticts everyone has" well shit I'm to tired wright anymor tonight, so until next time, fuck you all”

In some way in pains me to see the way he felt about the world and the wrong doings of those around him. If you take a second to sit and read what he’s saying it’s like part of his authenticity comes out and then transitions back to switching to speak to the audience and how he wanted to be seen. I can’t always articulate in words the feelings I get when I think about him but it’s genuinely always painful. He was so hurt, and described his pain, but still shadowed his true feelings of distress for the audience. He cared about what other people thought about him even in his writings, and it’s so disheartening that he was that broken and plague by the environment he was in. I take time to consider how people cannot feel empathy for him and I understand it due to the situation at hand (obviously) however, considering how he was 17 years old writing this, he was just a kid. He was once how we all once were, innocent and compelled to continue on the paths of our lives the way that the nature of society intended us to. It really goes to show how fucked up he had it. This draws me back to the butterfly effect, was there one decision by himself, or inflicted upon him by others that brought him to where he ended his life? Empathy is a theme he seems to disregard in his journal entries, and quite frankly, all of media and the world deems him as un empathetic because of his writings. We didn’t know how he thought of himself in his head, we didn’t know the guilt, destruction, and true pain he went through that was genuine. I find this a reason why there is much more weight put onto him within his person. “It’s only a tragedy if you think it is, and then it’s only a tragedy in your own mind.” (7/29/98) I suppose this is how we all (who empathize with E&D) feel and can relate to.

Thinking too much about his pain these days and what he once was and how he became what he was. Being truthful and honest are two different things. Being truthful, factual, what he did was terrible. Being honest, feelings, I have so much pain in my heart for how he was feeling. There’s nothing anyone can do now (whom empathize)

[houseofanticipation]

You're sitting with your friend Sam at a coffee shop, catching up. She's telling you about an instagram ad she keeps getting for some audiobook streaming service. "It's just crazy," she says, "because I was just telling Lucille I wanted to start reading more books but I never have the time, and then it's like instantly I'm getting these ads all the time."

"So what," you say over your steaming mug, "you think they're listening to you?"

Sam shakes her head. "Honestly I think it's almost scarier than that. They have so much information about us, they don't even need to listen to our conversations. They just know, based on everything they've gathered about me, that I'm probably someone who wants to listen to audiobooks."

"Well they can't be that smart," you say. "Because the only ads I've been getting lately are for something called Slut Cream."

Sam raises an eyebrow. "You must know I'm going to need more details."

You take out your phone and find an ad to show her. It's not difficult; literally all of the ads you see on instagram are like this. They're even showing up in other places now, on webpages you visit or apps you use. This one is one you've seen before: a beautiful woman in a crop top that just barely covers her nipples is proudly displaying a squeeze tube of the kind you'd buy sunscreen or toothpaste in. The caption says, "Being a slut isn't a hobby—it's a lifestyle! Step up your slut game with Slut Cream! Shop Now"

"I don't even know what slut cream is," you say. "All you get when you look it up is a bunch of porn."

"Well, obviously it's a way to step up your slut game," says Sam sagely. "What does it say on the website?"

"Oh, I'm not clicking the link," you say. "I don't want to encourage them! What I want to know is why suddenly this ad is all I can seem to see!"

Sam shoots you a wink. "Maybe you're just a slut. These data brokers know us better than we know ourselves."'

What neither of you know is that it's actually quite easy to buy online ad space, and they let you get pretty specific with your intended audience.

I live in the next apartment over from you. I've been watching you for a long time, studying you, listening to you through our shared wall. We've talked a few times, some terse conversation at the mailboxes or in the hall, which is how I knew enough about you to place those ads, with audience parameters so specific that probably only you and about five other people would see them. I had fun making them; hiring the model to do the photoshoot, dusting off the skills I picked up in that college graphic design course, creating a website for this fake business (though I'm disappointed you still haven't clicked through to see it). If you actually tried to buy slut cream, the website would tell you we're currently closed due to high traffic, and to check back later. Nowhere on the website does it explain what slut cream is.

A number of strange things happen to you over the course of the following day. On your lunch break you walk down the block to the deli by your office. You're in here every weekday, but today the energy here is different. People are staring you, side-eyeing you, having whispered conversations that stop abruptly when you get too close. As you're walking back to work, an old woman spits on the ground as you pass, you'd swear you heard the word "whore!" hissed under her breath. You wonder if you should say something, stand up for yourself, but she's elderly, probably confused, and you decide to be the bigger person.

In the hours after lunch, you're propositioned by no less than seven of your male coworkers. You've had to refuse a few invitations to dinner in your time, but seven in a day is completely out of the ordinary, and the things these men are offering to do to you go way outside the bounds of first date stuff. One guy tells you the conference room is empty, if you want to go for a quick fuck; another guy tells you he hasn't cum in a month, and if you sucked his cock he'd pump so much cum down your throat that you wouldn't need to eat dinner. Your boss even tells you he and his wife are looking for a third and he thought of you first, like he's offering you a big promotion. The strangest thing is that all of these men seem genuinely surprised when you turn them down. Like this sort of thing usually works with girls. One guy even says, "sorry, I was just trying to help."

It was pretty easy to hire actors for the deli and the street. You go to the same place every day, so I knew where they'd have to go and roughly when they'd need to be there. The harder part was getting your coworkers to play along, especially because I was picky about getting people who could sell the act. For a few of them all it took was money. A few of them I had to blackmail. For your boss I had to call in a favor, get his boss to threaten his job. He protested, but I think it made his cock hard, thinking about fucking you alongside his wife.

I keep this up for a few weeks. Anywhere you go I have people watching you, talking about you behind your back. I have people approaching you on the train, at the park, in restaurants, offering to fuck you like they're doing you a favor. You stay firm in your refusal—I wouldn't have expected any less from you—but I can tell it's beginning to eat at you. I watch you try to figure out what you're doing that seems to give all these people the wrong idea about you; you start to dress more modestly, talk less, even walk a little less confidently. But none of this will change anything. All it will do is make you feel more repressed.

After a month, I decide it's time to make my move. I could probably wait longer, but the anticipation is getting too much for me, and besides, you're beginning to get a little wild around the eyes. I'd hate to break you before I've had my fun. One evening, when I know you're home, I unlock your apartment with the duplicate key I had made two months ago. You're in the kitchen, washing dishes with headphones on; you didn't hear me come in. I leave the door open as I approach you, admiring the way you shake your ass to whatever it is you're listening to. I get right up behind you and stay there for a moment, lavishing in your innocence, feeling my cock strain at my belt as I imagine taking it away from you. Then I reach around front of you with both arms and plunge my hand into your panties

You shout in shock, fight back, try to push me off as the headphones fall off your head. But I've got you pinned against the counter, my full body weight against you, one hand down your pants, the other groping your breasts. Once you realize that fighting won't help, you stop struggling and ask me what I want. "Please," you say. Just hearing that quiver in your voice almost makes me delirious with lust. "Please, let me go. I don't want this, please."

I bury my face in your neck, kissing and breathing you in. You smell incredible, like fear and sweat and sex. I bring my lips up to your ear, let them brush against you as I speak. "Of course you want this, baby. You've been trying so hard to hide it, but you don't have to hide with me. Look, you left the door open for me." I let you turn your head enough to see the door hanging open just as my fingers find your clit. I'm rubbing you gently, tenderly, just the way I've watched you touch yourself through the webcam I have in your room. My other hand is under your shirt now and I'm squeezing your breast, rolling your nipple between my fingers, feeling it slowly grow full and erect. You try to stifle a soft moan and I kiss your neck again. "It's okay, baby. You don't have to be ashamed. It's okay to want to feel good. Let me make you feel good."

You clutch your face in your hands and let out a cry of frustration and humiliation and agony and pleasure. You barely know me; I'm the guy next door who sometimes looks at you a little too long. The guy you speed up to avoid in the hall. But that feeling radiating from you clit... You think how exhausting it's been, doing everything you could think of to change people's perception of you, get them to stop looking at you as a slut, how none of it has done you any good anyway. You wonder if you'd have had more fun fucking Jim in the conference room, or swallowing Dylan's cum, or having a threesome with your boss and his wife. And that throbbing in your clit, the agonizing pleasure...You remember that beautiful woman in the ad: "Being a slut isn't a hobby—it's a lifestyle!" You think about how happy she looked, how fulfilled. You remember Sam's words: "These data brokers know us better than we know ourselves."

It does feel good, doesn't it? To let me touch you, pleasure you, to let go of this act you've been holding on to. Isn't it okay to want to feel good? Why did you ever let anyone make you ashamed of that? You try out another moan, letting the pleasure well up through your chest and out your mouth. It feels good, so you try another, and another, and then you're leaning back into me, grinding up against me, delighting in the feeling of my hard cock against your ass.

"Good," I say. "You're letting go of those silly hang-ups. Now we can have our real fun." My hands still around you, controlling you, I half lead-half carry your trembling body to the bedroom. I throw you on the bed, face up so I can get a good look at your eyes, see what I've done to your mind. Those same eyes that have avoided me in the hall so many times now gaze hungrily up at me, wanting me, needing me.

Who am I do decline?

I pull off your pants and panties as a single unit, letting you take care of your shirt for yourself. I kick of my own bottoms, letting my throbbing cock slap against your leg as it springs from its confinement. Don't think I don't notice the way your whole body shivers when it touches you. I lift your legs and push your knees up towards your ears; you're remarkably flexible. It must be all that yoga I've watched you do at the place downtown. I've greatly enjoyed your visits to that place, so it's nice to see they weren't in vain.

You're afraid of me, all of a sudden. Maybe some part of you is seeing sense, realizing you'd have to be crazy to let a guy like me come into your home and fuck you like this. But what was the alternative? Have me rape you? Let me tell you, darling: I would have raped you. You feel the head of my cock gliding over your skin, exploring your inner thighs and pubic area, and tremble at my touch. I want this, you tell yourself. This is what a slut like me needs.

All the same, you cry a little bit when I penetrate you. It's not because it hurts—it does hurt a bit, but you're wet enough, and it's not entirely a bad pain. It's not because you're afraid—well, maybe in part, but that's not the core of it. You cry because you're finally letting go. Letting go of the person you used to be, or thought you were. It's the relief of knowing you don't have to pretend anymore, wrapped up with the mourning you feel when you lose a potential version of yourself. I lean across you as my cock fills you up, and tenderly, I kiss away your tears. "Hush, my darling. I'm here. I will always be here. I will love you despite what you are, when everyone else turns away in disgust."

My weight on you feels good, comforting. The way I press down on your legs, stretching you out, driving my cock so deep inside you that it brushes your cervix. It hurts a little, but is that any better than you deserve? Could a slut like you really expect to find better than this? Better than unconditional love and a desire to give you the pleasure you need?

I'm speeding up now, my face something like an animal, furious and insistent as I gaze down at you. There's darkness behind my eyes, you think, something cold and cruel. You thank God I'm on your side. My hips are like a hammer on your pelvis now, and with each thrust you feel my cock bulging inside you, throbbing and pulsating with anticipation. When I finally plant my seed in you, groaning and growling and pressing you further into the bed, you find there's something comforting about the warmth of my cum inside you. Maybe my seed will take root, make you swell up with me, make you mine. As I roll off you, huffing and panting, the tears begin to stream down your face again, this time from joy.

What did a slut like you ever do to deserve someone who loves you like I do?

[milf-murdock]

Well, I’m about to hop out of the bath, and unfortunately I did have to stop just before things got ~juicy 😔 but here’s a lil WIP to hold ya over

Kate Laswell x Wife!Reader

Warnings: gross men being creepy, but Laswell comes to your rescue 😘 canonical swearing, and just a lil nsfw (I might keep writing if there’s an audience for it lol) I do owe you some Top Laswell, anon

Truth be told, you hated coming to base. It was all so rough and rugged, a veritable Good Ole Boys Club that smelled like cigars and gunpowder. You keep your head held high as your step across the gravelly terrain, the small heel of your shoes adding a slight wobble to your step. You catch the eye of a couple of soldiers and ignore their thirsty gazes as they stop to gawk. Picking up the pace, you hurry to your destination: the bar. Just past the far edges of the base, it was obvious the foul-smelling, secluded establishment was less intended for civilian patrons and catered more to offering a place for military officials to take the edge off. You hated this place even more than you hated the base itself, but you know Kate loves a beer right after a job, and John had texted you to meet them here, which could only mean one thing—Kate was back.

The pungent smell of stale beer and cigarettes floods your nostrils as you open the heavy door. It takes a second for your eyes to adjust to the dim lighting, but you find your way to the bar. Once again, you keep your head held high, pointedly ignoring the men who don’t even try to pretend they’re not checking you out.

You adjust the hem of your skirt as you take a seat on the bar stool, anything to keep your hands busy. It’s only a matter of moments before a slurred voice comes from behind you, and your shoulders stiffen.

“Well what’s a pretty thing like you doing in a place like this?”

Despite your better judgement, you glance over your shoulder to see a tall, older man in uniform. You can smell the beer on his breath, and you don’t even bother to hide your grimace.

“I’m waiting for someone,” you respond curtly, turning back around.

“Hey now, don’t be like that. Just give me a smile and I’ll be on my way.”

You ignore him, busying your hands with a stray thread at the edge of your skirt, tugging to pull it loose.

You hear a scoff from behind you before you feel a rough hand on your shoulder. “I’m talking to you, bitch,” he growls.

Your breath catches in your throat, completely frozen under his touch.

And in the next second, you hear another voice—a female voice, low and full of a threatening malice.

“I suggest you take your fucking hand off my wife.”

Relief floods your body, your eyes fluttering close as the weight lifts from your shoulder.

“Shit, I- I didn’t—“ the man stammers, hands raised as he takes a step back.

Laswell steps closer. “And if you ever call my wife a bitch again, you will find yourself on the fucking street with nothing but a dishonorable discharge to your pathetic name. Is that understood?”

Without a word, the man turned to flee the bar, not even passing a glance to his group of encouragers, who all found themselves instantly fascinated by their pint glasses in hand.

“Katie!” You exclaim, leaping from the bar stool to throw your arms around her neck. Her laugh fills your ears, and it sounds like rays of pure sunshine.

“Hi, bun,” her voice is low in your ear as she holds you close. “Told you I’d be back before you know it.”

You squeeze her even tighter, standing on your tiptoes to match her height. “Every minute apart from you feels like an eternity, Kate.” You can’t stop the slight break in your voice as tears well up. “I’m so happy you’re home.”

Kate pulls back just enough to press a fierce kiss to your lips. Your mouth parts in surprise at the passion; typically Kate’s kisses are on the more reserved side in public. Kate uses your parted lips as an opportunity to slide her tongue into your mouth, immediately taking dominance. You melt like putty in her hands, falling into the kiss. All too soon, Kate breaks the kiss, leaving you breathless and your lips swollen.

She smiles down at you with a tenderness only reserved for her wife, one hand coming up to brush your cheek. “Let me take you home, bunny.”

You struggle to put together a coherent thought after that damned kiss. “But don’t you want—you usually like, uh,” you blink furiously, trying to think past the rising need taking over your body. “Beer?” You finish lamely, feeling the flush in your cheeks as your gaze bounces between Kate’s lips and her bedroom eyes.

Kate chuckles, leaning in close to whisper in your ear. “Fuck the beer, sweetheart. I have better plans.” A shiver races down your spine and you can feel the wetness pool between your legs.

Kate pulls back just a bit, her lips hovering above your own. “Does that sound ~good?” She’s teasing you, her sweet breath fans over your face, and you can’t help but imagine that breath elsewhere. Your cunt clenches, and you bite your bottom lip, holding back an audible moan as you nod your head eagerly.

Kate has you eating out of the palm of her hand. And she fucking loves it.

“After you, my love,” she coos as she steps aside and lets you lead the way back to the car. You stumble across the bar, looking for all intents and purposes like you were the one to overindulge, though you hadn’t had a sip of alcohol. But Kate knows how you get when she’s gone for long periods of time. She knows how you get when the need is absolutely eating you whole, that fire of desire coursing through your veins. It turns you into a puddle, nothing more than a weeping mess entirely at her mercy. Kate clenches just thinking about it as she watches your ass sway in that perfect fucking dress she knows you wore just for her.

[cobragardens]

CORRECTED & UPDATED! Clothes + Equivocation = Romance:

The Husbands in 1793

EDIT: I made a significant error when I wrote this. As @goodjomans kindly points out in the comments to Part 2 of this essay (massive shoutout for this, goodjomans! also I love your name!), Aziraphale is the one who dresses the executioner in clothing like Aziraphale's original ensemble, not Crowley. This changes my conclusions about the meaning we can take from this scene!

On the one hand, mea culpa, y'all. I shall get on with eating my crow. On the other hand, I had to go through this frame-by-frame to catch which of the ineffable spouses puts Jean-Claude in his new togs, and the answer only lasts three frames. Here it is:

After Aziraphale changes his clothes, but before Crowley snaps his fingers and unfreezes time, there's a shot of the executioner over Crowley's shoulder, and he is now wearing a light coat with gold embroidery on the shoulders like Aziraphale's. Aziraphale arranges the executioner's death, not Crowley. So I feel like an idiot for missing it, but not a total idiot.

Let's discuss how this information changes what we can read from this scene! I'm going to leave my original text in place and edit with bold green. I can still stand by most of this essay, but this detail changes how I read the meaning of the husbands' communication at the end of this scene.

So we're all clear on the fact that the universe of Good Omens is an inescapable nightmare dystopia in which either of the husbands' merciless authoritarian regimes could be watching or listening to them at any time, yes? And that if either are caught 'fraternizing' with the other that means discorporation, torture, memory wipe, and/or death for either or both of them, yes?

Which means Crowley and Aziraphale can never speak or do anything openly to each other about their friendship or attraction or love. Everything they say and do has to have an innocuous meaning they can point to in case anybody ever sees or hears something Team Azcrow can't explain away. Walls (and ducks) have ears, and the price of slipping up--as we see in 1827--is heavy.

When a character says or does something that has two distinct meanings because they need to disguise what they really mean from one party but make their meaning plain to another, lit-nerds (and lit nerds🍃) call this equivocation. Equivocation is a kind of coded communication meant to pass hostile ears and eyes in plain sight but reach its intended recipient with its true meaning. The 1793 scene is jammed with it.

A lot of that coded messaging revolves around the clothes Crowley and Aziraphale choose in this scene, so--THESIS PARAGRAPH, BITCHES--we're going going to talk about how their clothes read to the people of this time period and location, what their clothes tell us about their characters, how their clothes help them equivocate, and what they're really saying with that equivocation. And Spoiler A-fucking-lert, it is ROMANTIC AF PRETTY GD ROMANTIC. Let's get nerdy!

We start with Aziraphale's beautiful champagne-gold and powder-pink ensemble.

This outfit would tell people of this time period 3 things about Aziraphale:

That he's insanely wealthy--These clothes would be silk, hand-embroidered with thread made with actual gold. Each individual garment could cost years' or even decades' worth of working-class wages and take a team of skilled artisans dozens to hundreds of hours to make.

That he's a fop--i.e., a man who loves fine clothes and dressing up and looking fancy. By the 1790s in England, once-fashionable foppishness was giving way to the Neoclassical 'Corinthian' style, and was considered effete. (Fun note: During this time period, effete did not automatically indicate gay, and pink was considered a masculine color, so while Az. is queering it up to the audience here, his clothes would not have read as gay or overtly effeminate to the other characters around him.)

Even though he's insanely wealthy, Aziraphale wears clothes that are decades out of fashion.

According to the Victoria & Albert Museum, "As the [18th] century progressed, the male silhouette slowly changed.[...] Coat skirts gradually became less full and the front was cut in a curved line towards the back. Waistcoats became shorter. The upper leg began to show more and more[...]. Shoes became low-heeled with pointed toes and were fastened with a detachable buckle and straps or ribbon[.]

Source

That description is not what Aziraphale's wearing. Judging by his heel height and the length of his waistcoat, Aziraphale is wearing a style that's at least a decade older than this:

And this is from 1765. The great crepes caper happens in 1793, almost 30 years later.

My inference: Just as he has in the modern period, Aziraphale has settled into a style he really likes and refused to let go of it long after it's gone out of fashion.

We'll come back to this set of Aziraphale's clothes in a bit, but we need to talk about Crowley's first, because Crowley's clothes in this scene help render a line he says later about this outfit very flirtatious and darkly romantic.

First, some background: What was considered acceptable attire for wealthy people in France changed pretty much overnight during the French Revolution after the storming of the Bastille in 1789 and the fall of the French monarchy. Instead of advertising wealth, clothes now had to advertise political allegiance, and they had to do so loud and clear. And if you didn't want to be murdered by the French First Republic, that political allegiance had fucking better be to the Revolution.

People started wearing a looooooot of super patriotic shit. And I mean it was like little kids on the 4th of July; clothes were red, white, and blue in any hue and garish combination and print. The cockade, a fabric rosette in the colors of the French flag, was required by law to be worn by men, and despite that was just as popular among women. To show solidarity with the laboring classes, the fabrics the wealthy wore went from embroidered silk in light Rococo colors (what Aziraphale is wearing) to sober neutrals without decoration in wool, cotton, and linen.

Now, the script note for Crowley's clothing in this scene is this:

But clearly there were some changes made between script and filming, because Crowley does not appear standing behind Aziraphale; he appears lounging.

And he's not dressed as a French peasant.

Here's how French peasants dressed in 1790:

Peasants at this time wore styles that distinguished them from the styles of the upper classes not just in materials, colors, or patterns, but in shapes. Full trousers and cropped boxy jackets in French flag colors were the marks of the laboring-class Revolutionary, and both styles were huge changes from hundreds of years of French fashion up to that point.

And that's not what Crowley shows up wearing. Crowley is wearing the knee breeches, stockings, waistcoat, and frock coat of a wealthy man, and in fact his clothes reference a very specific type of wealthy man.

In the 1790s, if you were an aristocrat who wasn't happy about the Revolution and you were so sure of your privilege that you would risk your life showing it, you wore black in mourning for the monarchy and in protest of the violence of its deposition. If you were an aristocrat who wanted to protest and you didn't want to be immediately murdered by the French First Republic, you wore a style called half-mourning, which was black with a colored coat.

Here's a picture from a 1790 fashion magazine of an aristocrat in half-mourning:

"The text accompanying the plate describes his ensemble as 'half-mourning,' referring to the aristocrats who lamented 'the diminished powers of the monarchy and [signaled] their willingness to die for the royal cause'" [emph. added]. [Source]

Notice: the shoes, stockings, breeches, waistcoat, and cravat are all black. You with me?

Because here's Crowley in 1793:

I've turned up the brightness and exposure in this image so he's more clearly visible against the stone, but I haven't warmed it up. He's wearing a coat that's a dark blackish red. Everything else, even his cravat, even his shirt, is black. (The black shirt is anachronistic, a lovely little nod to Crowley's refusal to wear angelic white.)

This is 179fuckin'3, y'all. Marie Antoinette is executed in 1793. It's 3 full years after that fashion plate up there in his bright red jacket, and that lil dude was already risking his neck way back in 1790. As we can see from the fact that the government are apparently now grabbing random wealthy-looking Englishmen off the street to murder without trial, the time for a man demon to be sauntering around Paris dressed in all black or even nearly all black is well past.

Crowley's also wearing a whole assload of huge silver buttons, which would have been flashy and tacky and frankly pretty weird in 1793 but very definitely an eccentric Rich Person Thing to do, bc regular buttons at this time were horn or wood and covered with the garment's fabric. The only man in France who could get away with this fancy aristo shit anymore was Robespierre himself, and only "devotion to the cause[...] excused Robespierre’s showy dress since he was perceived as a bridge between the politically empowered bourgeois deputies and the ardently antimonarchical unenfranchised classes." [Source]

So when Crowley teases Aziraphale--

--both of them are perfectly well aware that Crowley's outfit would get him just as killed as Aziraphale's.

And that's why Aziraphale's expression is annoyed when he has abandon his "standards" and change his clothes. Because Aziraphale's the one who needs the favor, Crowley makes him take one for the team and wear the goofy hat.

The clothes Az. changes into here still tell people that he's rich, but they also say he's a hardcore Revolutionary. The red jacket in a current cutaway style, the cockade and sash, and the bonnet phrygien (the red garden-gnome cap) all announce this guy is a huge supporter of the Revolution. His clothes are all still aristocratic in shape and materials (and he keeps his now-unfashionably frilly lace cravat), but he's no longer flaunting obscene wealth in a city filled with angry starving people, and the gnome cap says he's in solidarity with the working classes even if he isn't one of them.

Once he restarts time, Crowley is not leaving that prison cell safely without either changing his clothes or taking Aziraphale with him, because Crowley looks like a rich asshole protesting the fall of the monarchy--which is frankly exactly the kind of thing he'd show up wearing to the Bastille during the Reign of Terror (just like he wears athleisure in Heaven). But Aziraphale's new appearance covers for them both: if the rich-looking guy with no cockade and wearing all black under his almost-black coat is in with this other guy who's obviously a Revolution fanatic, then the rich guy's probably okay, right? He just forgot his sash at home or something. Bees.

Something else happens when Az. changes, too. Look at Aziraphale's new dress from a different angle:

Half-mourning is a white shirt, but a black cravat, so this isn't half-mourning. He's wearing three different badges of the Revolution to make up for the fact that Crowley looks like a Satanic libertine (which tbf he is), but Aziraphale's new ensemble is black and dark red.

Y'all. Aziraphale changes into Crowley's colors.

Now, this is a more fashionable and higher quality version of what the executioner is wearing, so Aziraphale has very plausible deniability here; if anyone ever pulled him up on it, he could say he just copied our man Jean-Claude.

But let me show you what English fashion looks like right now:

This is a French painting of a wealthy Frenchman, but he's wearing the English 'Corinthian' style. It was painted in 1795, so this would have been the very cutting edge of fashion in England in 1793, and the fabrics and colors look right at home in Revolutionary Paris. (He's wearing the cockade on his hat, btw.)

Look at all that angelic white! The buttery almond of the buckskin breeches, the golden kidskin gloves, the rich tan of the riding boots! The blue of the greatcoat! All colors we know Aziraphale prefers!

And yet this is what Aziraphale chooses:

We know from the entire rest of the show how very particular about his clothes Aziraphale is. And yet 150 years before he (accidentally) admits in words that he's Crowley's friend, Aziraphale wears Crowley's colors to take him to lunch to say thank you for a rescue.

When we decide whether a character's speech or action is equivocation, one of the things we check is whether equivocation (and deception generally) is something that character does elsewhere in the text, which, with Aziraphale, hahahahaha, DUH. He's already using equivocation in this scene.

The lunch date itself is equivocation on Aziraphale's part. Aziraphale tries to thank Crowley for the rescue, but Crowley says,

So Aziraphale says,

No more words like "thanks" or "rescue" used, but a couple hours of good food and drink and conversation, Aziraphale hopes, will express the gratitude toward Crowley it's not safe to speak aloud. With this, Crowley and Aziraphale explicitly establish that they are equivocating for each other's safety and using coded communication--immediately before Aziraphale changes into Crowley's colors.

So yes, Aziraphale may well copy the executioner's clothes. But consider: When a character who can't speak or act openly says or does something that has two or more possible meanings, this can be read as equivocation.

We don't get a face reaction from Crowley about Aziraphale's new 'fit, so we can't be sure how he feels about this. But this whole scene is, even on its surface, about 1) the meaning clothes transmit to a viewer ("Oh good Lord," says Aziraphale when he sees what Crowley's wearing) and 2) how to show gratitude and appreciation when you can't speak of them openly. And we know Crowley notices clothing and clothing colors, because look at what he wears, like, ever. So it's very reasonable to presume he notices Aziraphale wearing his colors, and it fits well with both the rest of Crowley's actions in this scene and with his being very hurt and angry when Aziraphale later characterizes their interactions as "fraternizing."

Right, so we've covered what's going on with the husbands' clothes, and we've looked at two examples of equivocation on Aziraphale's part, viz., lunch and his change of colors. (Here's an example of equivocation on Crowley's part as well.) Now let's look at that super interesting thing Crowley says about Aziraphale's first outfit.

Here's the line:

Crowley follows up here on earlier lines in which he teases Aziraphale for coming to Reign-of-Terror Paris for crepes: "Dressed like that?" meaning Aziraphale was guaranteed to get arrested dressed like an aristocrat. The top layer of equivocation is always an innocuous meaning: the plausible deniability meant for the hostile/unsafe listeners. That's Meaning 1.

But "Dressed like that, s/he's asking for trouble" means two other things, too. It's a veeerrrrry familiar phrase, isn't it? We've all heard that arrangement of words in that order before. It's used when people think someone (usually but not always a woman) is dressed to invite sexual attention.

How do we know we're supposed to take this modern meaning from this phrase? This is how:

We have learned in literally the previous sentence to this one that rain has not been invented yet. The only two humans in existence have just left the Garden. Balloons definitely do not exist yet, humans couldn't tell you what lead is, and yet this is a phrase Crowley uses and Aziraphale understands. This tells us, the audience, in the very first line of the very first scene with these characters, that their speech is anachronistic and modern, and that we are to understand their phrasing in its contemporary sense.

So. When Crowley says "Dressed like that, he was asking for trouble" in 1793, we should read that in the context of the scene and in the senses the phrase carries to us today.

And since Crowley is using a phrase that means the executioner is dressed to invite sexual attention, and the executioner is wearing clothes identical to Aziraphale's, then Crowley is necessarily telling Aziraphale that when Aziraphale was wearing those clothes--those frilly, effete, unfashionable-for-decades clothes that nobody else likes and the French now murder people for wearing--that was, in Crowley's view...provocatively sexy. Meaning 2.

"Dressed like that, s/he was asking for trouble" is also what people say to justify violence, especially sexual violence against women and queerphobic attacks against men perceived as gay or just 'insufficiently' 'masculine'. In fact justifying assault is likely the most common way this phrase is used today by a wide margin. Meaning 3.

Crowley's joke isn't even really a joke in this sense; it's a vicious barb. And, because it must, it sounds like it's at Aziraphale's expense: You wore the wrong clothes, you weren't careful enough to guard yourself against the men who want to do you harm, so you deserved the trouble you got. Meaning 1.

Except remember: Crowley is also dressed for trouble. And Aziraphale is aware of this. Crowley's 'fit would be almost as offensive to the Revolutionary French of 1793 as Aziraphale's Rococo pastels, and probably just as likely to get him arrested and murdered by the state if he weren't making letting Aziraphale keep him safe by wearing the cockade and the silly hat. Crowley's not saying anything about Aziraphale here that he's not also saying about himself; and as we know from Aziraphale's initial "Oh good Lord" when he turns around and sees Crowley's black and red half-mourning (with extra black and gobs of silver), Aziraphale knows it.

Then why the rapey joke, Crowley?

This is fucking why:

Crowley rocks up at the Bastille just in time to witness some grubby fucker assault his friend. Assault the person Crowley will greet 15 seconds after this as angel.

Crowley's first act after freeing Aziraphale is to send this dude to his death. Nope! Aziraphale is the one who arranges to have the executioner killed in the clothes he would have killed Aziraphale for wearing. He takes Jean-Claude's ability to speak (but not to make sounds, interestingly! Jean-Claude can still whimper, Jean-Claude can still cry!) so the executioner can't tell anyone about the 'mixup.' It's unclear which of them blocks the executioner's power of speech. The vicious joke about assault in Meaning 3 isn't at Aziraphale's expense at all. It's not You wore the wrong clothes, so you deserved the trouble you got. It's If this guy thinks you deserve trouble for wearing the wrong clothes, he can eat his own rules.

And that's the other piece of evidence that, along with Crowley's ensemble, shows us the audience and Aziraphale which meanings Crowley intends with his equivocation. Meaning 1 is cancelled out by Crowley's clothes. That leaves Meanings 2 and 3.

Crowley and Aziraphale share clothes as a common interest. They don't have the same style, but they're both aware of current fashions, and Heaven and Hell aren't. You can't tell me Hastur or Uriel would recognize the significance of Crowley saying "Dressed like that, he's asking for trouble" about someone else while wearing black stockings and cravat and waistcoat himself. And that means Anything the husbands communicate to each other through clothing choices goes undetected by their masters.

SO. With all this in mind, let's go through the 1793 scene again and look at what their clothes help them say without words.

Concluded in Part 2!

[olderthannetfic]

I deeply do not understand fandom creators who try to get people to stop reposting their creations on platforms where the OP doesn’t have an account. Asking people to credit them - absolutely! It’s reasonable to want credit for your work. But to insist that the work only be appreciated by people who have accounts on the exact platform the OP has? And to ask followers to harass any re-posters en-masse until the re-poster and all rebloggers delete the content? I’m baffled by this.

How is fans sharing your work and linking fellow fans back to your account a *bad* thing?!

--

Are you new?

Most creators don't want their work reposted. They may appreciate shares from Youtube and the like. They certainly do not appreciate someone making a separate video upload or whatever.

Fandom creators are even warier, particularly about their work escaping its intended context and finding hostile outsiders. Of fucking course they do not want their work on some other platform. That's the way to get waves of harassment sent back towards that fandom creator. It also often involves lots of asspats for the reposter and nothing for the creator.

I have no sympathy for reposters crying that they got harassed over art theft. Stop stealing if you can't take the heat, asshole!

Maximum audience is what shitty influencers want. It is not the ethos of fandom. Some people seek fandom fame more than others, but there has always been a strong sense of finding your corner, not of trying to get your shit out to the entire world.

WHY THE FUCK would I care about people needing the "convenience" of my fic on their own platform of choice? I use AO3 because I support AO3. I loathe Wattpad and will certainly not want to increase its popularity with my free labor and my content.

Yes, it does annoy me when people screenshot this blog and put it on twitter. I am intentionally not on twitter because twitter is garbage. I have no desire for my own writing to increase twitter's relevance. Fandom should stop treating twitter like The Place To Be. If people feel like they're missing out by being there and not here, good!

And obviously, I roll my eyes when some attention-seeker posts my shit to reddit and gets eighty billion upvotes. If you love me so much, go give my reddit account that karma. (If you're doing your own hobbydrama writeup or something, that's different though. I'm talking about c&p posts with little of your own content.)

There are different ways of sharing, and some of them are more annoying than others. Some platforms are irrelevant to a creator, while others they actively oppose being popular. Nobody is going to know or care if you post some fan art to a private discord with your friends.

Have some god damn sense, anon.

[danandfuckingjonlmao]

me, waking up drenched in sweat, violently sitting up in bed and letting out a gasp: IT'S A METAPHOR FOR BEING A YOUTUBER

idk if someone already thought of this and this is also probably the most obvious reading of it but here i go anyway: i was just walking a dog and listening to potato prints and when phil said "you've come a long way daniel" i was like "huh phil is in the teaching position in all of these just like he was for youtube" like phil just gives editing pro tips the whole time and it all parallels their story as a youtube duo.

and obviously the entertainment industry is rife (not proper usage of that word but it Feels Right so fuck you) with satanic symbolism/imagery/iconography/motifs. being an entertainer is "selling your soul to the devil" etc etc and we know dan hates being a youtuber and does feel that way. you gotta upload twice a day every day in order to be the number one art channel on youtube dot com after all. you gotta make those crafts for satan. bo burnham has a ton of lyrics/songs that i'm thinking about rn like "you used to do comedy when you felt like being funny but now you're contractually obligated so dance you fucking monkeeeey DANCE MONKEY DAAAANCE" and in "repeat stuff" which is a commentary of how mainstream pop love songs and pop stars have to be really superficial and unoriginal because they need to appeal to everyone and at one point he sucks satan off lmao and is like AHFRUEHQFWIIO I AM A VESSEL IDUSHISKA 666 KAJSDFI ILLUMINATI UIGDFSAHIO FREEMASONS. highly recommend looking at the lyrics to that song if you're into that kind of thing.

also the (very rightful) dig at phannies for the "don't cry craft" spamming like "we love all of our crafty audience that spread the message of this channel on all the other videos on the internet! everywhere! everybody enjoyed that!" is how creators who want to keep status have to address their audiences no matter how annoying or harmful they're being. thinking of the ajr line "stay out of politics, stay on the fence / stay out of all of it to keep half your fans" because like,, yeah if a creator ever expresses an opinion that declares their feelings on one side of an issue then they will lose support (smosh is a perfect example of a bunch of people never ever ever expressing an opinion if it could be considered controversial among their audience, like refusing to address the genocide happening right now and just taking their zionist member who the fans are mad at out of some videos to be like "shhhhh nothing to see here we don't know what you're talking about"), ESPECIALLY if that issue is the behaviour of their audience.

obviously the first dapc video was not made with any intended meaning, they just woke up and were like "let's be weird and freak people out" and they did that, and then adding in symbolism and making it all mean something developed with time. but i'm gonna pretend that it has always had consistent meaning because i'm neurodivergent and love overanalysing silly little media.

i am so jhfbvdahfkiufadkhlj right now so if anyone has more theories or things to add lmk and thank you for coming to my ted talk

[annwrites]

—fucked my way up to the top

lay me down tonight, i'm your favorite girl. i fucked my way up to the top. this is my show. — hardcorepornking!billyhargrove x softcorepornqueen!reader ; ☆*¨*

tw: nfsw

He leans across the table—his black button-up undone all the way down to his navel, advertising a perfectly tanned and sculpted chest, golden curls falling over his forehead, and that signature smirk somehow now instead replaced by a nervous smile.

"Billy Hargrove— but you'd already know that," he says with a shake of his head.

You slide your hand into his.

"Y/N," you reply with a soft smile.

"Glad we don't have to use our stage names for this meeting, at least," he says with a chuckle, still shaking your hand, as if he's forgotten that it's still within his grip. "Yours is fuckin' adorable, though. 'Lola Love'. I'm—I'm a huge fan. I want you to know that. I mean, I've seen almost all your movies, own most of 'em on tape."

"That's very sweet of you to say. I'm glad you enjoy my work."

You glance down to your hand and his brows furrow before a look of realization ghosts across his features.

"Shit, sorry," he says sheepishly, releasing you then.

Your manager and his both exchange looks, before the four of you finally seat yourselves.

Your cross your thigh-high clad legs—pink fluffy slippers on your feet—and Billy is reluctant to remove his eyes from your pink, satin robe.

He's fucked more women than he can count, but you... You're the one he's wanted to above all others for years. With you...getting paid would just be an added bonus.

Billy's manager opens his mouth to begin speaking, until the young man interrupts him, now grinning, eyes full of excitement just to be near you. "I want you to know, before we start, that I've always wanted to work with you. I mean, since I got out here—since I started shooting movies—it's been a constant dream of mine."

You smile warmly. "That's very flattering."

You then focus on his manager, wishing to now properly start the meeting.

Billy leans back, heart thundering in his chest, and actually fucking blushing. He's never been like this before. With all the others, he's always the one who plays things off as nonchalant. They're the ones who want his attention. But you...you clearly like to keep things strictly professional.

He can respect that. Makes you even more attractive—not that he thought that possible.

It's just that...you're fucking perfect. Perfect body, the goddamn sounds you make when you're on camera, how wet you get, that you make your orgasms seem so real, that you're so sensual, and all your films seem so intimate and beautiful. He's been chomping at the bit for years to get on-camera with you, and now here it finally is: his dreams coming true.

Not that it hadn't taken him being up his managers ass for weeks on-end to get this meeting arranged.

But hopefully you don't know that.

His manager then clears his throat. "Alright, so, we're all aware that you and Billy create two entirely different kinds of content. But our hope is that, by bringing two of the biggest names in porn and the leading lady and man of your respective genres into one film, it can serve as a sort of merging of the 'best of both worlds', so to speak. I mean we," he glances to Billy, who nods his head, leaning back, before he turns back to you, "think this can be a huge opportunity. And we have a lot of ideas, but this is going to be a very collaborative process the entire way through, so I think the best place to start is by asking what hard limits there are for both of you. Because that can really help by narrowing things down."

You clasp your hands in your lap, nodding.

Billy smiles, gesturing to you. "Ladies first."

You smile in return. "Thank you."

You look at his manager then. "Well, mine is a fairly extensive list, in truth. I make my films for a very specific audience, and I don't intend to go against my own interests, but I am open to new ideas. So, to start with, I don't do degradation—I won't lie there while a man throws vulgarities at me. No hitting, slapping, strangulation—"

Billy interrupts, leaning forward. "I'm sorry. Strangulation?"

"Mhm. I know you all in hardcore like to refer to it by 'choking', but wrapping your hands around someone's throat while they struggle to breathe is technically strangulation."

You turn back to his manager then, leaving him tiffed that you're being so short with him. Already this meeting isn't going how he'd always imagined it would...

"I'm not opposed to spanking, but lightly—I won't tolerate any sort of treatment that will leave a bruise or marks. Other than hickys, that is, and even then, it depends. No yanking on my hair, either. Tangling his fingers in it is fine—"

Billy snorts. "'Tangling my fingers'? What's the goddamn difference?"

You blink at him. "I'd prefer if you didn't use vulgar language during this meeting. It makes you come off as hostile, which, in turn, makes me uncomfortable."

He clamps his mouth shut, bouncing his leg in irritation.

"But, to answer your question, tangling is more a...romantic gesture to bring me closer to you, I suppose. Yanking is pulling roughly on it to induce pain. I don't do pain."

He raises a brow, resting his bent elbow atop an arm of the chair, placing his chin in his hand, his index finger pressed to his cheek, his middle over his lips.

You continue. "No spitting on me, no just...pounding away inside of me—"

Billy interrupts again, and shuts his manager down as soon as he turns to him to try and calm his temper that he knows is about to ruin everything. "What, exactly, is it that you do, then? I mean, it sounds to me like the things you are willing to go along with would be a lot shorter list."

You study him for a moment, liking him less and less with each word that he speaks, your patience nearly run-out. "I thought you said you'd seen my work?"

"I have. And I think it's real sweet the stuff you do, but...have you seen any of mine?"

You shake your head. "I don't believe so. No."

He grows quiet for a moment. "None. Not even—"

"I'm sorry. Hardcore just isn't a genre that appeals to me. It's nothing against you, personally."

"Well, sweetheart," you bristle at term, knowing he's using it to demean you. "Softcore isn't my thing. But that's why we're here. To come up with something that leaves both sides satisfied. Sounds to me like you just want another softcore snore fest where you'll get to call all the shots."

You stand then, having had enough.

Richard, your manager, does as well. "Thank you both for your time and for showing interest in working with me. I appreciate it, but I can say with certainty that I'm not who you're looking for. I hope you both enjoy the rest of your day."

Billy's manager stands, then, knowing his client has blown the opportunity. That when it comes to you...second chances simply don't happen.

He shakes your hand. "Thank you for meeting with us. It was great talking to you."

"You as well, Ron," you say before extending a hand to Billy, who's still sitting in his chair, fuming.

"So that's it, then? We come all the way here just to get told no before you even let me speak."

You cross your arms. "In truth, Mr. Hargrove, I find your behavior to be grossly unprofessional. And, given that fact, I don't feel comfortable with even the idea of getting on camera with you—having sex with you even less-so—I wish you luck in all your future endeavors, though."

With that, you nod to Richard. "If you have any further questions, you can speak to my manager, Rich. I'm sure he'll be happy to answer them. But I really should get back to work. We have some re-shoots to get to today. Thank you for coming."

It's just as you've reached the door that Billy lets his top fly off. "You don't think it's the least bit 'unprofessional' that you barely let me get a fucking word in edgewise? That we come to you with a great opportunity and—"

Rich speaks up. "Mr. Hargrove, I have great respect for both you and Ron—he and I go way back—but I won't allow this behavior in my studio. I don't know how you all run things over at yours nowadays, but I can tell you that things around here are done a lot differently. Y/N has declined the offer. The meeting is over. I'll escort you both out."

With that, you step out, shutting the door, Billy's muffled yelling coming from behind you as you head back to set, fluffing your teased hair back into place.

Billy's hands are balled into tight fists at his sides as your manager leads him and Ron out of the building, until Billy pauses, standing stark-still, watching with wide eyes from a distance as the cameras roll, filming you laid back on a king-sized bed positioned in the middle of a set that's meant to resemble a well-decorated bedroom.

His jaw clenches as he watches another man lay his body atop yours, easing his long cock inside of you and your eyes roll back, your lips parting as you let out a moan that makes even his own dick stir in his blue jeans, wishing to fucking God that were him right now.

You press your palms gently to the guy's shoulders, turning your head to the side, your eyes fluttering closed as he presses firm, gentle kisses along your soft skin, whispering something in your ear that Billy can't make out as he eases in and out of you—the microphone just out of the shot, but close enough to catch the sweet whispered nothings he says to you.

The fucking cameras aren't even filming your privates and yet he still gets to stick himself inside your cunt. Nothing around here, or in softcore in general, makes any fucking sense to him.

Why have sex if all the good shit is left out? If none of it is even shown on-screen? All your genre serves to do is tease, while his at least pleases.

Rich clears his throat and your eyes pop open, staring at Billy, him staring back at you while he adjusts himself, heading toward the door, while you cry out in ecstasy from behind him.

Once he and Ron are outside he turns back to him. "I don't give a shit what you have to do."

He points to the door they'd just exited the building through. "But I want that to fucking be me."

Ron crosses his arms. "Startin' to think this is less about makin' a movie and more about you gettin' to fuck that girl."

Billy shrugs, pulling a pack of cigarettes out of his front pocket, lighting one up. "Maybe I want both: have my cock being inside her immortalized on tape for all to fuckin' see."

"Lola?"

Shit.

Slowly, you turn around to who you're sure is an adoring fan—mentally preparing for them to start gushing about how much they love you right in the middle of the street, in front of the tropical drink stand you'd just finished purchasing a smoothie from.

And then you breathe a small sigh of relief. Very small.

"Billy."

"Sorry, Y/N, I should've said."

You take a sip of your drink. "Don't worry about it."

You step past him.

"Nice running into you," you lie, with a pleasant smile on your face.

He then reaches out, taking your hand in his, which you immediately yank out of his grip.

"Is there something that you need?"

His eyes trail along your body—your lacy little crop-top, the skirt tied together at one of your hips; advertising one of your long legs, your dainty sandals, and the heart-shaped shades that rest atop your nose—before he replies.

"I'm sorry, alright? For the way I acted that day. Just..." He needs to word this carefully if he's going to get a second chance. Fuck Ron and telling him that his previous one was his only. He doesn't know just how persuasive he can be.

He sighs. "Put yourself in my shoes. Ready to jump out of my skin I was so excited to work with you, only to be rejected almost immediately. It almost felt like you were looking for an excuse to say no. I get why—you don't do hardcore. But that's my life's work. It's the man I am. We came to discuss ideas, which never even happened."

You shift your weight from one foot to the other, considering. "Maybe you're right, that I was on the defense. I just...have my reasons—"

He interrupts. "Help me understand what you have against it: trying something new; working with me."

You slide your shades up, into your voluminous, teased hair, studying him for a moment. "Like I said before, initially my hesitancy had nothing to do with you. But when you lashed out... I don't work with men—with anyone—who behaves that way. I've done it before, and once I got myself out of that life, I promised I'd never do it again. I make no exceptions. Even if you are the 'king' of your respective 'ring' right now."

His brows furrow. Are you implying what he thinks you are?

He leans in toward you, heart hammering at the prospect of it. Peeling back a hidden layer he'd never known about. "Wait. Did...have you done hardcore porn before?"

You swallow thickly, taking another sip of your drink.

"Oh, sweetheart," you say, reaching up, tucking one of his curls behind his ear, and his heart skips a beat like a goddamn schoolboy. "The movies I made make yours look like child's play in comparison."

His eyes flit between yours. "I never—I thought... I've never seen—"

You lower your shades again. "They're not something you'll ever find in the adult section of Blockbuster. I wouldn't even know how to get ahold of a copy of one of them myself, even if I wanted to. But I don't, because I want nothing more than to keep the past where it belongs: behind me."

"What...were they... Are you trying to tell me you shot, what?"

You grow quiet for awhile. "Walk over to the beach with me?"

He nods, and the two of you cross the street during a brief break in traffic, seating yourselves atop a thick concrete wall that reaches up only to your waist.

You take your shades off, setting them beside you as you stare out at the blue ocean ahead.

"I'm telling you this for a number of reasons, but before I do," you turn to him, staring him down. "If you breathe a word of this to anyone, I'll deny it all. And then I will go to the tabloids, to the press, to whoever I must, and your career in porn will be over. Both I, Rich, and the production company have lawyers on retainer, and I will not stop until I've taken you for everything that you're worth. Do you understand me? I still have ties to some very nasty people in this industry who would love nothing more than for me to owe them a favor."

He nods, keeping silent, realizing just how well of an actor you truly are when you're on-screen and all sweet and submissive and gentle, as opposed to this. Domineering...

"When I started out filming...it was on handhelds in people's basements. Abandoned houses. Pay-by-the-hour motel rooms that probably should've been health-coded. I did it because I was desperate for money. Because, as a woman, using your body is always the one sure-fire way to earn a paycheck. So I took whatever they gave me."

You pause.

"In more way than one. Whether I wanted to or not. I just...got through it. I didn't say no. Because I didn't know that I could. Not that they listened when I tried."

A muscle in his jaw feathers.

"But without the way I started, I never would've gotten to where I am now. I gradually made connections, clawed my way to the top through literal blood, sweat, and tears. Among other things. But once I did—make it to where I wanted to be all along—I refused to ever settle for less than I deserve. Less than what I want.

"Every movie of mine has had me attached to it in more than just my starring in it. Not a single frame goes in that I don't personally approve. I want what I release to my fans to be something that I'm proud of. Something that stays faithful to my vision of what I want my career to have been known for when you, and those like you, run the rest of us out of the industry."

He scoffs. "You don't really believe we're chasing you out of town."

You look at him. "What're my films—that are more about art and beauty and love and intimacy—compared to a quick, brutal fuck? I make my movies for women to use me as a voyeur to live out their fantasies of men loving and desiring them—putting their needs and wants first, as opposed to their own. This industry is run and owned and pander to by and for straight men. I'm just...a dying breed. No one cares about story anymore. They just want to get right into the action of a woman being slapped around and having erections shoved into every orifice as quickly as possible."

You shake your head.

"And you see me as just another asshole who's contributing to it," he states.

You sip at your drink.

"I thought you said you'd never seen my material?" Billy asks.

You shrug. "I got curious after the meeting. I rented one, went home, and could only stomach a handful of minutes before I had to shut it off."

He doesn't bother asking which one. They're all the goddamn same.

Unlike yours, which are always unique in various ways. Creative, and maybe even sometimes beautiful.

The two of you are quiet for awhile, listening as waves break against the shore, as children run across warm sand, laughing and chasing each other, seagulls cawing overhead.

"So now you know. Know why I don't allow brutality or degradation in my films. Know what you're creating. I'm not...trying to shame you. Different strokes, I know. And I understand that. That sometimes even women like to get rough. There's nothing wrong with it, so long as everyone is consenting. I just can't...ever do that again."

"I'm sorry," he says quietly. "That you went through that. For my behavior. For...making you see me as being no different than them."

You finish off the last of your drink. "I appreciate your apology."

You look at him. "And I forgive you."

He takes the cup from you, chucking it into a trash can but a few feet away and you grin at the gesture.

"This mean I get a second chance? I know you're real famous for those."

You clasp your hands in your lap. "I worry that you're the type to get aggressive when you don't get your way. I mean, it took me telling you something incredibly personal just for you to—"

"For me to what? Understand you? I had no way to know. I just...saw that day as you insulting what I do, rejecting a generous offer, then walking away like it didn't mean anything more to you: making something unique and one-of-a-kind with me. You made me feel about an inch tall, while I practically fuckin' worship you."

"I didn't mean to come off that way. I get easily defensive at times. It'll sound completely backwards, but sometimes... I feel like in front of the camera is the only place I can let my walls down. Maybe it's because I get to become someone else for awhile. And I can pretend like that opening up is just me acting."

He turns to you. "You have no idea how long I've wanted to make something with you. Wanted just to meet you."

He pauses. "We did. Once before."

Your brows furrow. "Oh?"

He shrugs, looking down, the heels of his boots bouncing off the concrete wall. "Some party in the hills a few years ago. You already had made a name for yourself by then. I was scared shitless because I was just getting into the industry. Honestly, even then you were my favorite porn actress. It's just everything about you. The way you look, your body, the noises you make, the way you talk, and I know you don't show it, but even just hearing how wet you get—in almost every fucking movie—I just...just being near you took my breath away."

He crosses his arms. "So I went up to you—you were surrounded by others like you; famous, I mean—told you I was a huge fan and they started to laugh, made jokes, but you just smiled, gave me a kiss on the cheek and told it meant a lot, that I was sweet to say it. Those five seconds were the only time all night that I didn't want to crawl out of my skin. And I told myself I wouldn't stop until I saw you again, but on set one day, making something together."

You consider all he's said. Both today and during that meeting. One thing is for certain: he has a crush. He's all but said it—made it abundantly clear. "Can I ask you something?"

He looks at you, nodding.

"Is this offer about wanting to make something with me? Or wanting to have sex with me?"

He tucks a loose tendril behind your ear. "Is it so bad if I say both?"

being a softcore porn starlet—the starlet—came at a hefty price. but you vowed once you made it out of the underground: never again, and to that principle you've held true.

now your work appeals solely to the female gaze—making you one of few in the industry who refuses to make films that instead pander to the masses: to the male gaze. you'd, instead, envisioned dreamy, intimate, romantic productions, and once you had a seat at the literal and metaphorical table, you demanded to be listened to. had refused to be backed into a corner ever again, or to allow even one minute of film to ever be released that you hadn't had a hand in, or been proud of creating.

enter billy hargrove—current king of hardcore porn—and someone you've never had an interest in working with. the reverse cannot be said for him, however. so, he begins pressuring his manager to get him into a room with you to talk about making the biggest 'blockbuster' of both your careers.

things immediately get off to a rocky start as each of you butt heads over the nature of what your shared film should be, with one of you eventually walking away entirely from even the idea of the project, until truths are shared during a chance meeting, and chances are taken.

headcanons:

they do end up making a big movie together that is her dream film & he's just honored that he gets to be her leading co-star in it. gets to be a part of that with her.

it does technically end up having both soft & 'hardcore' elements. in that it does finally show penetration and oral, unlike her other works, but in a very tactful and gentle way.

[esther-dot]

I mean it's worth mentioning that Mirri exploited the grief of a fourteen-year-old girl, one who attempted to save and protect her, taking both her husband and her child (and therefore her security and stability in the society she was still pretty new to, as well as getting a lot of the slaves Dany saved from worse fates killed) in the process. I'd probably kill someone for that too. And if I knew I'd get a dragon out of it? Fuck that bitch if I can't have my son I'm having a dragon.

Like yeah it's not great but per the moral standards of this series Dany is pretty good

I've already explained, Mirri didn't kill Drogo, and Dany knows Mirri didn't kill Rhaego.

As for Dany's age meaning she isn't responsible for her actions:

"Unsullied!" Dany galloped before them, her silver-gold braid flying behind her, her bell chiming with every stride. "Slay the Good Masters, slay the soldiers, slay every man who wears a tokar or holds a whip, but harm no child under twelve, and strike the chains off every slave you see." She raised the harpy's fingers in the air . . . and then she flung the scourge aside. "Freedom!" she sang out. "Dracarys! Dracarys!" (ASOS, Daenerys III)

Dany ordered her men to kill kids younger than that.

And Dany "saved" Mirri? They burned and murdered and pillaged and raped throughout her village. Dany thinks of it all as the cost of the throne ie Dany's ambition demands it. You don't have to agree with each POV, every thought they have. Sometimes you are meant to judge them. Listen to Mirri's perspective on being saved:

"I spoke for you," she said, anguished. "I saved you." "Saved me?" The Lhazareen woman spat. "Three riders had taken me, not as a man takes a woman but from behind, as a dog takes a bitch. The fourth was in me when you rode past. How then did you save me? I saw my god's house burn, where I had healed good men beyond counting. My home they burned as well, and in the street I saw piles of heads. I saw the head of a baker who made my bread. I saw the head of a boy I had saved from deadeye fever, only three moons past. I heard children crying as the riders drove them off with their whips. Tell me again what you saved." "Your life." Mirri Maz Duur laughed cruelly. "Look to your khal and see what life is worth, when all the rest is gone."(AGOT, Daenerys IX)

And then what does Dany do? She takes Mirri's life.

"You will not hear me scream," Mirri responded as the oil dripped from her hair and soaked her clothing. "I will," Dany said, "but it is not your screams I want, only your life. (AGOT, Daenerys X)

Dany didn't save anything. She took. She repeatedly benefits from other people's suffering.

You can convince yourself to be cool with this, but the author isn't. He didn’t intend for audiences to work themselves into moral pretzels to avoid condemning Dany or realize where her story is going.

Here is what he said of some famous Dany essays:

And here are some quotes about Dany from those essays:

(link)

This is not a hero.

[charlottelie]

oh, lucifer?

chapter i. (or, selkie sees a snake) ✧･ﾟ

tags: reader uses she/her pronouns, fem!reader, reader is a trapeze artist, sinner!reader, reader works at lu lu world, no use of y/n, ducks galore

.

You hadn’t meant to. Your guiding philosophy in life and afterlife had always been ‘Ask for forgiveness, not permission’, and it seemed so sound a maxim that you were usually slightly bemused when you found yourself in the unfortunate position of actually having to ask for forgiveness. Upon your arrival in Hell you had thought, Well, I certainly didn’t mean to end up here. Upon your arrival in Lu Lu World you had thought, Well, I wouldn’t say I exactly intended to join a Hadean circus. You hadn’t meant for either of these moral catastrophes to come about—that is, your sending yourself to the Other Place and your working at a fairground—but, despite all your good intentions, here you were. Rotten luck. 

You also hadn’t meant to be late for your act again, but here you were, late as always. You dusted your hands with chalk, briskly clapping them more out of habit than anything else as you examined your makeup in a misty mirror someone had propped up outside the dressing rooms. A poster on the wall, framed by peeling paint, announced your act in proud block capitals: Selkie, the Flying Seal! They had put you right before the interval. Did that make you the star performer? Third-best, at any rate: best were the acrobats, Belladonna and the Bedbugs, the grand finale, and second-best was Sunny’s balancing act, which opened the show. You could hear someone approaching, and fast. Your boss, no doubt, come to gently encourage you to get the fuck onto the stage. 

You looked at him mildly: Didier, who insisted it was pronounced ‘Didi-AIR’, tall, half-imposing, mostly composed, rarely generous, currently furious beyond belief. 

“Selkie! Where the fuck have you been? You’re on in thirty seconds! Ten, nine, eight—” 

You liked to think of him as sort of a lost soul, someone you’d taken under your wing, although, of course, he had been the one to take pity on you and hire you in the first place, and, of course, it was your soul that was on the line. “I’m sorry, Didi-yur,” you said quietly, and he scoffed. As you watched him thoughtfully, compassionately, he grabbed you by the shoulders and half-pushed, half-led you onto the platform—surely a textbook case of abuse in the workplace, if you weren’t in Hell—and you gave him a final glance of serene benevolence before, at his command, you whipped around, stepped into the blazing golden lights of the great circus tent, waved to the crowd, flashed a smile, and leapt from the platform into the open space before you. 

The breathless silence. The hot dusty air. The rush in your stomach like an oncoming wave before you lightly caught the bar another performer had flung towards you, adjusted your grip, and neatly somersaulted to another swing. Here a half-turn, here a straddle whip, and here, at the very peak of the motion of the trapeze, you let go, and hung impossibly in the air for a second before you plummeted, as you were wont to do, and were caught by another trapeze artist. Of course the dizzying leaps and the melodramatic plunges were part of the act. You knew the movements, the swings and the sways and the somersaults; you were, admittedly, at home here. The onlookers roared in delight; your heart, admittedly, soared. But as you spun, leant back, shifted your weight, glanced at the audience, you noticed, about three rows from the front, an unprecedented, unsolicited, indeed undesirable arrival: the strangest demon you had ever met. Or, at least, the strangest demon in the past three days. 

The fine kettle of fish was this. Belladonna, Sunny, Pell-Mell, the clowns, the knife-throwers, the knife-throwees, even the Bedbugs, bless their hearts, had all signed their souls over to Didier. He had expected the same of you when you had been given the job. But you, unused to asking, used to getting, were not prepared to quite merrily hand over the one thing that had guaranteed your continued existence to a man in a slim red tie. And so you had taken on a different sort of contract—which could have been hot, but, regrettably, Didier was not inclined to make such exchanges. You were simply paid far less than what you needed. That was all. The prosaic truth. He had you under contract, but nothing so poetic as a soul-binding one. You simply sewed your own costumes, went without breakfast. You scrounged around for whatever you could whenever you could. You had taken up residence in a formerly-disused caravan with the structural integrity of a multivitamin capsule. 

You had found there was little glory in starving, little romance. It was the banality of it that struck you, when you sighed weakly after your taps wouldn’t turn on, or Didi cut off your electricity, or you found you would have to choose between food and heating. It was the endless rolling of the cold and empty days that you suspected would grind you down in the end. But of course they were punctuated by your dazzling nights, your whirling wheeling flights through the grandly lit top tent that drew so many to Lu Lu World. And of course you were resourceful. 

In your life you had always been willing to bend the rules. In your death you were no different. You had the right kind of mind for business, and your business was, up there and down here, remarkably effective. Any con, put-on, cutup, cantrip, flimflam, ramp or scam anyone could think of, you’d done it. You once stole a woman’s shoes and sold them to her husband’s mistress for twice the retail price. Double-joke was on her, because purple was not her color. Only yesterday you had sold a sweet-looking sinner an ‘astral lightning rod’ meant to attract ‘negative interdimensional frequencies’ and channel them into their neighbors’ houses. The lightning rod in question was a refashioned rake you had found in the bins outside the gift shop. To put it plainly, as it were, if it had to be said, you were a, quote-unquote, ‘scammer’, though you and yours would never call it that. You hadn’t meant to end up in this trade, after all. You would like to think you had an entrepreneurial mindset. 

This entrepreneurial mindset had landed you in a stall (without a permit, obviously) in the Lu Lu World food court, having donned a wig and taken on the persona of a charming Texan aunt. Here you sold separately heart-shaped chocolates you had bought in bulk, meticulously unwrapped, and meticulously re-wrapped in shiny pink paper, to whichever passing demons or sinners appeared lonely or gullible or both. You told them all these chocolates, if consumed, would make anyone fall in love with them. To a pale imp in a band T-shirt you had sold three for five times what you’d paid for a box of eight; to a fishlike sinner whose disinterested girlfriend had abandoned him for the fairyfloss stall you sold five at, you told him, fifty percent off (which was three times the usual price). They had told their friends; their friends had flocked to your stall; soon afterwards, your original buyers had come back for more. But now there was a lull in business, as there usually was at this time of the afternoon. So when you noticed a duck demon – literally, a demon the size and shape of a duck, albeit a cartoonishly cute one – with an odd gait and a faraway look in his eyes, you were thrilled to have once again hit the jackpot.

You called him over excitedly. “Hey there, friend, what’s got you looking so glum?” That caught his attention. Hook. “You know, I see all sorts of people come through here. But ain’t none of them got such a positively chap-fallen look on their faces—not to insult you, gorgeous.” He was watching you with wary curiosity. Line. “Come on. Don’t you wanna tell old Mrs. Appleby all about it?” Sinker. 

“You’re not married,” he said. Sinker? That was strange. 

“What?”

“You’re not married. You’re not wearing a wedding ring.” Was he one of those? A flirt? Read: creep? Those were often easier to sell to. 

You pointed at your sign. Mrs. Appleby’s Apple-licious Treats. “Mrs. Appleby. That all that ambiguous?” you said, which won you a small smile from this bizarrely fluffy, bizarrely yellow duck. He flew surprisingly gracefully (you, the Flying Seal, knew what made a graceful flight) towards your stall, perching on the countertop just in front of your merchandise. And as he did so, you felt a dull crackle of power in the air, but, habitually incautious, you ignored it. Perhaps an Overlord-adjacent was taking a piss behind the neighboring food truck. Something like that. 

“It’s just heart-shaped candy,” he said. Usually demons looked like they’d just crawled out of a monsoon drain. Not this duck. He looked like a dapper gift-shop-plushie, the kind that comes with a sweet tag with their inevitably adorable name, written beneath it, Please look after this [relevant animal]! 

“Just heart-shaped candy? Why, this is the best heart-shaped candy you’ve ever had the good fortune to feast your eyes upon! ‘Why is that, Mrs. Appleby?’ Why, I’ll tell ya!” He seemed to be enjoying himself, not least because he hadn’t left. “This chocolate is magic!” That earned you another smile. 

“Really? Is that so?”

“Sure is. Straight from my distant uncle Asmodeus. Just eat one, wait three hours, and you’ll be feeling sprightly as a spring lamb. Two’ll have all the hens—or the men, don’t look so dejected, whatever you prefer—running after you like you’re catnip and they’re a litter of kittens.”

“Hold on now. You’re trying to sell me chocolate…chocolate-ified love potions? Love potion-ified chocolate? Love-ified—” 

You waved a hand at him in pleasant dismissal. “Now, don’t you overthink it, honey. I just saw you needed a helping hand and Auntie Appleby thought she’d take a”—you surprised even yourself with this one—“quack at it.” For a glorious moment he struggled between delight and disappointment. Then he laughed, genuinely, and smiled at you with something like satisfaction.

“Two’ll make me catnip. What’ll three do?”

You paused, then shrugged nonchalantly. “Well, I ate three, and look at me now.” 

And after that it really had been sinker, and you’d sold him a box of ten and wrapped it up in pink parchment and given it to him in a pretty heart-shaped bag with added glitter. You wondered if he’d realized he was being fleeced. There was an air of irony about the way he treated you, but you were pleased to play along. A sale was a sale.

Naturally, though, you tried not to encounter people you’d sold something to after you’d sold it to them. You’d been a little careless today, telling them to wait only three hours. You’d thought that’d be enough to get them out of the grounds, but this duck was persistent. As usual, you hadn’t meant for this to happen. He still had his heart-shaped bag. He was sitting smugly in a seat far too large for him. Did he recognise you? Could he recognise you? The Flying Seal was a far cry from homely Mrs. Appleby. It could have been a coincidence. Perhaps he just liked the circus. It wasn’t strictly unusual to re-encounter your customers. But he was watching you intently, you realized, before you had to maneuver yourself into the arms of your closest friend in the circus, your counterpart, Pell-Mell, the Soaring Fiddler. And then, still incautious, you let the strange duck slip from your mind, and flung yourself from the catchbar again. 

Lucifer had decided to visit Lu Lu World less out of curiosity and more out of boredom and a vague sense of duty. It was, after all, his theme park. He’d been reckless, coming as a duck, but who’d guess this out-of-place, out-of-sorts waterfowl was the Lightbringer himself? Besides, he’d wanted to watch the circus. He hadn’t quite known what to expect. Perhaps he’d expected to be disappointed. 

But now he watched you in what seemed your most natural state. Flying, entertaining. Even without the wig and the bizarre Texan accent he recognised you (he, of all people, knew what made a good trick, a good show). He saw how you fed on the crowd’s cheers like they kept you alive. It was miraculously complex and miraculously simple. You were happy they were happy. He watched you as you rose and dove through the air as your namesake might through water—easily, happily, unembarrassed—and the lights, your smile, the spectacle, recalled to him, dimly, as if seen through rain, something he had felt a long time ago. 

You landed delicately on the platform opposite the one you had arrived from. “Selkie, the Flying Seal!” the ringmaster declared triumphantly. You winked mischievously at the audience. Did you realize they were thrilled with you? Could you realize it? Did the whole performance require a level of obliviousness? You caught the outstretched hand of your fellow performer, a small, slender girl sporting a glossy bob, and lifted her onto the platform. The two of you gave a final bow, and you, beaming, looked not down at the audience but up at the distant lights. 

Lucifer decided half-consciously that he ought to come back.

[haine-kleine]

Taking a break from doomposting to once again ponder the meaning of the chapter from a storytelling point of view. It fails to complete any storyline point previously established. Ochako is still repressing her survivor's guilt and covering it up with fake sweet smiles. Deku and Ochako don't really reach any understanding nor comfort each other after this traumatic experience: Ochako still blames herself for Himiko's death, Izuku has seemingly moved on from Shigaraki's death using it as a learning example on his way forward. The party is random and the cheer is forced. Eri mutilating herself with the help of an adult hero goes unaddressed. The old lady is the only character exhibiting any development but it falls flat because we don't have much reason to care about the character who is not Tenko that she saves. It was Shigaraki who needed saving and didn't get it.

The one thing this chapter achieves is destroying any hope the readers had left. The next chapter is not necessary, judging by how meaningless most of the epilogue chapters have been so far.

But looking at this from another angle, the one thing Horikoshi can do, after killing the remaining embers of our hope, is subvert our expectations.

The only logical conclusion from the nameless boy looking so much like Tenko was obvious, but his appearance had very awkward timing if all the purpose this character has is to show the positive changes in society. He would have fit in the framing of chapter 427, which was focused on the society's opinion about Shigaraki Tomura and how they perceive him. It talks repeatedly about the collective fear of the next Shigaraki resurging and what preventive measures they can take. The old lady, whose character purpose was to not save Tenko, even appears in that chapter! If the positive change was the intended message, why cut her narrative into awkward parts and squeeze the second one in place of Ochako's supposed resolution? And once again, why show the boy so early? He appeared in the chapter that started slowly revealing the fates of the villains, and his appearance was immediately followed by Touya's. The logical connection is obvious. Teasing that not-Tenko character to leave the audience guessing for a month, seems like a red herring, and if the nameless boy being saved by a person who could have saged Tenko and didn't, is just there to fool our expectations, it's an unnecessarily cruel move from the author. He knew what he was doing. Despite his death, the epilogue heavily focuses on Shigaraki Tomura and various people's opinions on whether or not he deserved to be saved. Horikoshi killing him and saving a new barely introduced character in his place seems like a negative answer from the author himself.

Then, again

Shigaraki's death, despite being confirmed by the characters, was not actually shown on screen, with Kurogiri being conveniently close by, very motivated to save him.

So what if the not-Tenko boy is indeed a red herring, whose purpose is to fool the audience for one last time?

Here are some random ideas how this can work:

• not-Tenko is actually Tenko, his memory is just fucked up. The boy's backstory is about being kept imprisoned by his family in the house against his will. Well isn't that awfully convenient, cause you know who else hated being in his house

• Tenko is not the new boy, but he is alive, out there somewhere. Healing, being taken care of by Kurogiri, possibly trying learn using his new quirk. Watching his name being dragged through the mud on the news everyday.

• Tenko reconstructed himself back from the dust wrong, as it was his first time using the new quirk. Maybe he had accidentally merged himself with Kurogiri. Maybe non-Tenko's memories that he shares are his damaged consciousness' rendition of Tenko's actual backstory. Maybe he decided to leave Japan forever and fucked off to America, who even knows, the author clearly doesn't so go wild with your imaginations

[eriexplosion]

Okay so. I cannot take it seriously when people say that we weren't led to think CX-2 was Tech. Because no we were not just having foreshadowing of the creation of an Evil Bad Batch. The clues led directly to Tech.

We have to start with the fact that they didn't kill him off definitively. Start with his survival being debated (and there's no way they didn't know it would be debated because I choose to believe they are not stupid) then introduce a character that lasts suspiciously long and has weirdly intense beef with Crosshair and you already are inclining people towards believing this is Tech.

CX-2 goes through a speedrun of Tech scenarios with 1. the leg crushed by a heavy falling object, similar to Ruins of War 2. knocked over by an explosion leaving him dangling above the abyss from a line like Plan 99 3. going over a waterfall and crawling out in a shot that completely matches the scene from The Crossing.

One or two of these is a coincidence, all three together less so.

Plan 99 notes mixed into The Battle of the Snipers. Which the Kiners only explained as the notes 'sounding good in brass' and nothing else.

He gets distinctly Tech like dialogue and no I don't just mean 'domicile' though we do have to acknowledge that no one else in Star Wars uses this word on the regular. We also have the exact match of 'Who are you' to Decomissioned, and the matching of 'I have simply cut off her means of escape' to Tech regularly saying 'I am simply-' when explaining himself, which again is something no one else in the show shares. Tech has a distinct way of speaking that matches CX-2, especially as of Point of No Return. (And CX-2 doesn't really sound like Crosshair, because Crosshair is just straight up not as chatty as CX-2 and never has been.)

He gets a long, unnecessary scene with Phee where he suddenly forgets how to be a murder assassin and starts playing soft.

He doesn't shoot Hunter when he has a chance and chooses to instead shoot his own man, he doesn't blow up the Marauder while Wrecker is inside, and when Omega surrenders he opts to just wait for her to hand him her communicator. He doesn't even shoot Shep when Shep starts talking back to him, all of which indicated that maybe for whatever reason he didn't want to, bolstering the Tech theories.

Getting into an opinion rather than analysis here but: Evil Bad Batch is a stupid fucking idea, it serves no purpose whatsoever other than a cool boss fight that adds nothing to the story. Having a CX be someone, anyone they actually cared about would have been interesting and actually played into the themes of family and forgiveness that were set up earlier in the season. Instead it's just more people to kill off to zero interesting payoff. It's stupid.

Every person I spoke to offline thought that this was Tech. All of them. People that have never looked on social media, watched a theory video, anything. All thought CX-2 was Tech and were confused when he was speared. This was not terminally online theorizing gone wild, this was a very widespread thought and assumption.

So, if they didn't mean to do any of that and at no point intended to imply this was Tech and were solely trying to foreshadow their 5 minutes of Evil Batch fight? They did it poorly. When the majority of your audience actively believes you are leading to one direction only for it to be some other direction that you meant to lead them to, the problem is not The Audience Didn't Read It Right, the problem is you wrote it badly.

[cradle-quill]

Living in Your Shame, an ABDL Story by CradleQuill (Reupload)

Disclaimer: All content is fictional, consensual, and intended only for mature audiences. All characters depicted are adults aged 18+ _

Let's be honest. You don't deserve big girl panties anymore. You don't even deserve pull-ups. You've pissed the bed four times already this week, and you've had two daytime accidents as well. We've tried potty training, kiddo, and it just isn't working out for you. I think it's time we give up on it entirely and just put you back in diapers. I mean honestly, that's what you really want, isn't it? Why else would you so helplessly and pathetically fill your panties like a fucking toddler all the time? I mean come on, are you really that much of a baby? What, you just can't hold it anymore? Aww, poor baby just can't make it to the potty on time. Well, that's alright sweetie, that's why we're putting you back in diapers, so you never have to worry about making it on time again. You can just squat and fill your diapers wherever you are, no matter what you're doing. Sure, everyone around you will stare and probably even laugh, but you deserve that kind of humiliation for being such a pathetic fucking loser.

Aww, what's the matter, is baby gonna cry? Look at that, you can't even stop your tears from welling up. Go ahead, cry for Daddy, let's see those tears and your best widdle pout. Be a good girl for Daddy. 'Atta girl, go ahead and prove to Dada what a pathetic little shameful girl he's really dealing with here. God, there you go. You're really doing it, crying right away on request like an obedient little pet. You really are too far gone at this point. And now your cheeks are all red because I'm calling you out. Well good, you deserve to hear what a good little slut you are for Dada's praise, always doing whatever you're told without question. No matter how much you fuss, I always know you'll give in because deep down, we both know this is what you really want. You need it. You crave it.

That's right, a grown woman like you craves being treated like a child. You should be ashamed of yourself. What would your family, friends, and colleagues think? Let's be honest, we know they'd all be ashamed of you. And why does that turn you on, knowing how deep the sense of shame goes? I think it's because you're even more perverted than Dada is. You get off to the shame and humiliation, and at this point, you just can't live without it. This is who you are now, and that's why we're going to grab all your big girl panties and cut them up with scissors before throwing them away. You won't be needing them ever again. From now on, it's diapers full-time, baby girl. _

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