#Prayer circle for my mother to be normal

[bolyde]

I am taking an unplanned trip back home! My flight leaves fairly early tomorrow. Due to a lot of issues with our land lord refusing to fix issues I’m going home to help my mother consolidate a bunch of my belongings just in case the apartment gets red tagged in the following months.

I intend to do some writing while away, but I genuinely don’t know how busy I’m going to be. There’s approximately 26 years worth of items to go through and while I cleaned a lot before moving cross country, there’s still a ton.

Upside: cat photos when I get home

[thelastofhyde]

i. the likeability paradox.

pairing. joel miller x fem!reader

synopsis. joel miller is not a man who strives to be liked, with a chip on his shoulder and a scowl on his face, until his world is flipped on its axis when the pretty young thing living under bill and frank's roof, with an irritatingly unwavering smile and the literal sun shinning out her ass, says those five damned words: i don't like you, joel.

warnings. no use of y/n, enemies to lovers, slow burn ( i have several oneshots planned for this couple ), unrequited love ( except you will never catch joel miller admitting he feels anything beyond grief, hunger and exhaustion ), pining, poor communication no communication, no seriously joel is down bad it's actually disgusting and highkey 🚩toxic🚩 but luckily red is your favourite colour, sunshine!reader, grumpy!joel aka canon joel, kinda perv!joel ( if you squint ), implied queer!tess, undefined age gap ( reader implied late-20s ), descriptions of canon-typical violence, smut ( oral- f receiving, fingering, degradation, panty stealing, hair pulling, dirty talk, dubcon due to intoxication, joel kinda gives her a wedgie at some point and honestly i don’t know what i was hoping to achieve with that, discussions of a lacklustre sex-life pre-apocalypse ). reader is a) hinted at being shorter than joel but it’s not central to the plot and b) described as lithe but the meaning intended is graceful, not thin!

word count. 12.9k

hyde’s input. half-way through, the regret of choosing to write this from joel's pov started to settle in but lmao i was too far in to not commit to the bit. don't come at me for the fact the timeline or events may not seem plausible with canon, i just wanna write this silly little depraved fic about joel in peace :( anyway, enjoy my first attempt at writing for tlou, forming a prayer circle rn in hopes that this doesn't flop because i will cry and you will hear about it

taglist. @kayleezra​​ @newavenger + add yourself to the taglist here !​

read on ao3 ! ( capitalization available )

distaste is not new in the life of joel miller.

in particular, one that is loaded, aimed and fired directly at him. he is not a likeable guy, often by choice and rarely by accident. the years of pain from a bleeding wound have now scarred over into nothing but an empty shell of the man that once was, from a world that no longer is, and he’s tried little to fill himself back up.

if anything, he’s made himself more empty.

rid himself of feelings, that which saves him the weakness of appearing sympathetic. discarded the need for luxuries, for which he’d scarcely cared for prior to his world ending. lay to rest what was left of the optimist inside him, leaving behind the danger of hope for it to rot with the rest of the infected.

an apocalyptic world brings out all sides of man that one would never dare to engage with in normal civilisation. joel learned swiftly that he was built to endure, quick to evolve and adapt to the new world order. the man who once worked his hardest to keep the peace among his neighbours, smiling that little bit wider on days he’d catch them scowling to themselves in hopes of brightening one part of their day for even a simple moment, would be at odds with the man who wears a heavy layer of enjoyment when met with the scowling glances and the hushed voices, all the watch out for that miller guys passed between cowardly members of fedra and the keep away from mr. miller's lawns spoken harshly from mother to child becoming music to his failing ears.

this plague of fear-driven dislike keeps him alone, how he likes to be, no one to lose and nothing to be taken. somewhere along the years the idea of safety in numbers has morphed into an illusion, something people say and never truly mean, to distract themselves from a reality more bitter than a snowstorm: in times of survival, people become dead-weight.

“so that’s all i am to ya, huh? dead-fucking-weight?” his brother’s voice still echoes in that damned space he calls a home, weeks or months or years since the day he’d departed for something else, somewhere else, leaving joel to do what joel does best: endure.

somehow, silence was easier than telling the man he’d taught to tie a shoelace, to shave his beard, to tune a guitar that he was the dead-weight, doomed to drag all those who remained too close down into his pit of despair.

she was an exception, his tess, buried 5-feet-under in her own swell of darkness, nothing but the tips of her fingers stretched out above her head to feel the sun upon her skin and keep her from going that last foot deeper. they’d made a home for themselves in one another, one where he keeps them fed, and she keeps them safe, and neither of them keeps the place clean.

she never asks for more, and he never offers it, both content to survive without the weight of affection smothering them. contrary to the belief of any misfortunate soul who’s encountered the pair within the quarantine zone, she is the one who holds the leash, tugging joel along close by her heel and keeping him from wandering off into the wild to surrender himself to a feral lifestyle.

which lands him here, sat at a table playing happy family, each time he dares to snark out a few words being met with the sharp kick of tess’ foot against his shin.

“... and then,” frank struggles over a cough, so excited in his story-telling that he fails to separate taking a breath from taking a sip of his wine. with a roll of eyes and a disapproving grunt, bill’s no more than two seconds away from clapping down on his back, urging the other man’s wind-pipes to unblock and welcome back airflow. “otis dragged his muddied self over the whole house. we were finding paw-prints for days!”

joel’s unamused, too keen to think of what a nuisance that would be. as if incapable of feeling the buzzing energy of disinterest, the german shepherd drops its head further up his lap, begging for a morsel of anything that sits atop the table.

“which means i was cleaning paw-prints for days.” bill, the only one at the table besides himself who wears the looks of a cynic, grumbles out before shovelling what remains on his plate into his mouth.

frank is quick to shush him.

“i’m sorry, again, bill,” he doesn’t mean to break eye-contact from the mutt at his thigh, but the voice calls to him like a siren calls to a ship in the night, like a flame dances and seduces a moth into its brightly burning touch of death, a spotlight in the dark which promises- or threatens- more light to come. “i’d no clue there was a storm coming till we were already a good few miles away, and there was nowhere to take cover to wait it out.”

there you sit, parallel to him.

the sun rests lower in the sky as time carries you all into the late noon, its rays a beacon of light bursting out just behind your head, painting you in the glow of the golden hour and staining a mockery of a halo above you. it hurts his eyes, this brightness that you so easily bask in, forcing him to squint and deepen the frown on his face.

you catch him with his sights on you, at some point, and the smile you meet his scowl with has him cursing at the sun, and the moon, and every star that sits between.

the threat of a great war looms in the air as you rush to rise up and help clear the table of the remnants left behind- none of which joel can account for, mouth to keen and body too starved to skip out on enjoying the mundane luxury of a fresh, home-cooked meal. the battle ends swiftly as you surrender to bill’s hardened stare, and frank’s disapproving head-shakes, and tess’ own plan of action to simply force you down back into the seat you’d been sat in- the one you always sit in.

“you, sit. no one should have to clean up the food they made.”

they get no fight out of him when they insist he’d done enough catching the so-called food.

silence casts its shadow over the table, dampening the light and painting you both in a mockery of greyed tones- truthfully, it is the disappearance of the sun hind a large cloud that causes such a thing.

being alone, with you, is something joel’s never mastered. the affliction of your presence is so much greater when there’s no one else to balance out your natural shine- the kind that has his head spinning and his cock aching-, no one but him.

were he not a sick bastard, he’d try harder to not make you sad.

something bumps his hands, ripping him out of his moral self-condemnation. the dog meets his gaze, eyes a widened mess of puppy-dog pleading that punctuates its existence with an impatient whine.

just like your owner, he finds himself thinking and not saying- never saying-, yet to find your bark.

the ball’s a sticky mess of slobber and dirt, and joel touches it all the same, throwing it up in the air once, then twice, before tossing it across the yard. he’s slumped back in his chair by the time he registers the dog’s departure, a ball of dark fluff bouncing its way across the garden, and all the man can think is fuck, he’ll be feeling the effect of that throw on his shoulder come the morning.

the pain is not enough to stop him from tossing the ball again, and once more, and then yet again, sending the dog in a never ending loop of chase, grab, retrieve- a parallel to his life of wake, survive, sleep.

“he likes you,” you never leave things the way he wishes them to be, bursting his bubble with the vocal reminder of your presence.

as if on queue, prompted by your addressing of it, the dog drops its interest in joel, and the ball, and the chasing, tail wagging uncontrollably by the time it reaches your side. standing on its hind legs, it collapses the front of itself into your waiting lap, and joel watches how you wrap your arms so easily around something that could cause you harm.

to envy a creature that licks it own shit off its ass is a new low for joel.

“thinkin’ he might like ya more, sol.” the nickname rolls off his tongue with ease, the safer option than uttering your name, a vice and virtue he’s only permitted himself in idealistic fantasies that play out in his own troubled thoughts.

“most people do,” whether you mean to make it seem like you’re degrading his very existence or not, he’s unsure, but it rouses a chuckle out of him.

he takes note of how you don’t protest the name he’s branded you with, not like how you’d fought tooth and nail against it every other visit he and tess have made.

“you’ve got a whole load in common, you know? i think that’s got something to do with his fascination-”

“how the hell’s a man like me got somethin’ in common with a four-legged mutt?” there he goes again, making that smile slip down your cheeks with a simple use of his voice. it helps as much as it hurts, frown loosening up and eyes no longer strained beneath the bright shine of your visceral optimism.

“well, you’re both... hairy,” he restrains himself from reacting, washing down a laugh with the help of the dregs of wine that lay collecting at the bottom of his glass. he’s let his appearance grow more rugged over the past few months and your noticing of this brings an unwanted warmth to his aching bones. “and have the most kickass women in your lives to stop you from dying.”

he’s interested to know what life would be like under your protection.

discovering the answer brings the threat of pain, and loss, and an openness to vulnerability he can not afford himself, so he takes the safer option: “‘s easy stayin’ safe when you live in this fantasy land. doubt your mutt’d last any longer than a day out in reality.”

with you as its protector.

he doesn’t say it and, still, it somehow hovers in the space between you both, a heavy, syrupy implication that slips down your throats and threatens to suffocate you. he watches you choke on it, coughing on his cruelty and feigning it to be a simple clearing of your throat. your eyes glue themselves on the dog, delicate fingers smoothing over the well-groomed hairs down its back.

survival has turned him into a man who knows when to seize an opportunity, and this is one he takes with both hands, basking in the simplicity of staring, watching, observing you without the crime of being caught.

but i could keep you safe.

he toys with the danger of uttering such a thing aloud. it’s not the first time he’s thought it. truthfully, he’s unsure when it first nestled its way into his mind.

his memory, which ails him more than it aids him these past years, would have him believe it was way before the dog had even appeared, back when it was just bill, frank and you. a few whiskeys in and a campfire lit for you all to gather for warmth around- why you’d all chosen to sit out in the gardens on a winter’s night joel remains unsure of to this day-, it was frank who’d prompted the question. “where were you all when... this started?” tess went first, braver than most people he knows, sharing stories of a version of herself he’ll never meet. 

he never imagined her working in a bank.

bill, with reluctance, took the next step, keeping his account factual and to the point. “was shit-faced drunk and getting my stomach pumped.” he’d been quick to skim over the story of the young nurse who’d guided him to safety out the hospital, losing her own life in exchange for his survival. she was barely out of school. “i knew her dad, bit of an asshole, but boy, was he proud of his baby for graduating.” frank couldn’t let him swim too deep in his thoughts, afraid a current of guilt would trap him and drown him in the depths of it, and so he raised his own voice and began his tale.

joel had always been a good listener. being a single parent to a teenage girl required him to be, or so... she would have had him believe, nights at the table set for two spent listening to the playground he-said-she-said gossip. years later and he at last prefers things this way, a rare gem of safety found in the act of saying nothing and hearing everything- that his hearing will allow. all this to say, he’d tried his best to pay attention to frank’s impassioned retelling of his heroic misadventures that had lead him to the unintentional arms of bill.

but you weren’t smiling.

he watched you, you watched the dancing flames, face stoic and drained of that natural shine his eyes had only just started to be able to gaze upon without the threat of being blinded by such light.

the desire crept up on him like a tiger to it’s prey, hiding in the far off bushes until the opportunity to strike presented itself and the feeling lunged for joel’s back, gripping him in its claws and piercing his ribcage with its gnashing teeth. with each bite, it plagued him with the delusions of a wandering mind, imagination left free to run laps around his head with visions of you from another life, another time, another set of people gathered round a dining table. he’d wanted to hear about the ones you’d lost, and comfort you with all the things he hated hearing (“you’ll keep ‘em alive, in spirit and memory!” “those we remember never truly die!”). he’d needed to bend a knee and swear a vow to be the one to stand between you and death, to fight for your survival on your behalf. ‘could keep you safe. there, then, the thought did cross his mind.

he’d washed it down with a swig of lukewarm, flat beer.

“-could fix it, you know. i’m good with my hands.”

he almost chokes on his own breath.

i'm good with my hands, it swims in circles round his mind, replaying and echoing off the walls of his skull. and he knows- oh, how he knows- that he’ll be replaying it in those moments of solitude for the next few nights, weeks, months- however long it may take till he forgets the way such thought-provoking words sound on your lips.

“what?” the question leaves him harsher than he intends, drawing an enemy line between you both with the foul sound of it. in the corner of his eye, he swears he sees you flinch backwards, physically recoiling from the disdain-filled bullet he fires in your direction.

the mutt in your lap retreats, hackles rising as it turns to face joel once more.

he sees it, in the dog’s brutal protectiveness over you, this similarity you claim exists.

“your watch, it’s broken.”

“hadn’t noticed,” he’s retreating into his own space now, mentally and physically, scraping the legs of his chair against the ground as his mind works to strengthen those walls that threaten to crumble so often in your presence. “don’t need ya to fix it.”

you pull a face, brows furrowing and lips pouting. confusion.

“don’t you want to know the time?” you ask, as if time could ever be relevant in a rotten world where down is up, and up is down, and joel miller is not the overprotective father to the most delicate creature the god he’d stopped believing in had gifted him, just to force him to watch as life snatched her away.

“i don’t keep it for the time.”

you smile, and this one’s a killer, piercing straight through the cages of his ribs to carve itself into his withered heart.

the german shepherd relaxes with the rebrightening of your aura, shaking out the tension from its body before sauntering its way back over to joel, ball in mouth and tail wagging excitedly, as if it hadn’t just contemplated having its first taste of human flesh.

he’s throwing the toy in a matter of minutes, enjoying the repeated run and retrieve game, and the renewed silence that comes along with it. nature sings its tune with rustling leaves, cawing crows, and pounding paws. it’s almost so easy to leave your offer, your words, his broken watch in the rearview mirror of this otherwise pleasant afterno-

“ooh, so there’s a story to tell!” you’re blinding him with your excitement, lithe limbs leaning forward in your own chair in an attempt to reach closer, table between you be damned. “i’ve never heard any of the joel miller backstory, this should be-”

“i get that likin’ everyone is your thing, but would’ya give it a rest?”

nature falls silent.

skies grow dull.

you juggle sadness.

there’s a crash that comes from within the house, followed by the unmistakable sound of tess’ sailor mouth, cursing whichever delicate dish she’s broken into smithereens with the help of her accident prone hands. the dog’s lain itself down upon the grass, ball between it’s paws as it begins to bite, and chew, and break it under the pressure of its canines.

joel wonders what the mutt’s practicing for.

“sure,” then, with the return of your voice, all sounds resume, harmony upon planet earth once more. only, the gates have been shut in his face and joel finds himself forced to watch as everything unfolds from the outside, an unwelcome visitor forced out into exile with the fungal freaks and the inhumane. “but you’re wrong. i don’t like everyone.”

“‘s that so.” his eyes roll. the hole he’s dug for himself sinks deeper, casting you higher up on the pedestal joel will always be wiling to place you on.

“yeah,” you’ve risen out your chair, gifting him the view of how the fabric of your dress dances above your knee, a final twist of the knife in his heart that he lets you pierce his flesh with each time he surrenders himself to your existence. “i don’t like you, joel.”

the hours come and go, but your words linger like a bad tattoo, shamefully engraved into his skin and banning him to a life of noticing the horrendous thing each time he passes by his own reflection.

we’re staying, for tonight. tess had called the shots, and he’s been learning not to argue when she gives him one of her stern looks, biting down on the comments he’d wanted to make of the dangers of being out of the qz for too long, which would likely earn him nothing but a shrug and the reminder that they both were off duty the following day

the nights are beginning to grow darker as winter grows nearer, leading bill and frank- mostly frank- to excuse themselves to bed, bidding the two visitors with a final reminder to make themselves comfortable in whichever room they can find. if only joel could remember which door leads to yours.

the two women in his life remain awakened, passing a bottle of wine between each other as you both converse back and forth, catching each other up on one another’s life, satiating that craving for mundane gossip.

tess recounts the scandal of the poor boy who’d been caught sleeping with a fedra agent’s wife, you whisper that frank and bill had been fighting again recently. the memory of being ambushed by raiders- now dead raiders- comes to life once more with the help of tess’ voice, while the promise to uncover what exactly bill and frank were hiding from you as of late is sealed in your words.

at some point, he lays himself to rest atop the couch, legs stretched out and arms crossed over his chest, ignoring the squeeze of the fabric over his forearms as the too-small flannel struggles to contain the muscles forged by the need to survive. at another point, he’s lulled to sleep by the lullaby of your mingling voices, a safety blanket draping itself over his tired body and enveloping him in the comforts of having that which he struggles to care so little for, so near him once more.

-n’t tell me you’re a virgin.

the words are muffled as the man slips back into consciousness, a frown coming to rest on his forehead as he battles against the demons urging him awake, the nightmarish memories of car crashes, and soldiers, and so much red chasing him away from the sleep he longs for so badly.

a protest rings true in his head and his ears.

was gonna say. knew you were young, but not that young.

it’s the sound of your laughter that awakens him fully, saving him from the tortures of his own mind.

“god, no! me and my ex, we... a few times. it was alright, i guess. i just, yeah, there’s not much to miss.”

he’s unwilling, unable to reopen his eyes, curling in on himself as he rolls over onto his side. a groan slips past his lips, one he’s hoping tess and you will dismiss as nothing more than the sleep-filled rambles of a dreaming man.

neither of you make any acknowledgement of him.

“not much to miss?! sweet christ, you’re breaking my fuckin’ heart.” he’s learnt over time the common traits of a drunken tess. each word becoming an exclamation, curses becoming more frequent, and that irritating habit she’s picked up of imitating his own accent. there’s no need to bother opening his eyes, joel’s already sure he’ll find his companion with flushed cheeks and glassy eyes. “i’d give up a hand for some head!”

you must do something, pull a face or shake your head, for the sound of tess’ renewed shock fills the room. he wonders, as the sound bounces off the walls, how late into the night it’s grown.

late enough that the cicadas singing outside the window are now accompanied by the hoots of an owl.

“you’ve got to be shittin’ me.”

“it bores me!”

“it bores you!?”

the couch beneath joel creaks as he shifts once more, turning his back on you both as the ability to contain his laughter grows harder with each word you exchange and each gasp tess gives. the last thing he needs is to be caught eavesdropping on your sex life like some dirty old pervert.

the crueler part of his mind replays your voice, i don’t like you, and the knife twists in his guts this time.

you like tess. love her, even. it’s been that way since the first time you’d met the duo, eyes giving one look over the woman before the smile on your face grew even wider, voice as sweet as honey sighing out finally someone with a pair of boobs, i’m bored of the sight of my own. joel’d gotten caught up in the thought of how he’d never tire of such a sight that he’d failed to acknowledge your greeting towards him, catching just the moment you drew your outstretched hand back to your side and offered him an understanding smile.

maybe that was the moment you decided you didn’t like him.

“must not have been doin’ ya right,” the bottle of southern comfort is working its wonders on the older woman, accent growing further and further from its true nature with each glass she nurses. joel hears the faint sound of ice smacking against glass and knows it must be yours. you’ve always struggled with liquors, slipping as many ice cubes as you can manage into a glass in hopes that they’ll eventually melt and water the alcohol down. it’s oddly endearing, you think no one has noticed. “this fella of yours.”

joel has no right to despise the idea of you and some fella.

he does so, regardless.

“well,” he imagines the shape of your meek smile and the way you shrug your shoulders. “we were each others firsts.”

“that’s no excuse! trust i left mine cryin’ into her pillow the first time i went down.” tess and he have a silent agreement to never speak of the nights joel would take refuge on their beaten-up couch while tess indulges herself between someone’s thighs in the bedroom. no discussing the sounds she pulls from her concubines, no addressing the wet patches left behind to stain their shared sheets, and definitely no speaking on how his hand winds up stained in his own cum.

you scoff and follow it up with a saccharine laced giggle, so sweet its bound to rot your teeth if you even attempt to hold it in. “what, are you offering your services?”

this he likes less than the image of you with some fella, the thought of having to lay upon a mattress on which tess had raised you to heaven while he once again remained locked out in the dark leaving his skin crawling with unwarranted rage.

“‘as sure as i am that you’re sweet all over, ‘fraid to tell you i like my women a little older than you.”

he knows he should do the same, should lust after those women his own age who shoot him carnal looks in the streets of the qz. it should be skin his own age that he longs to taste, and eyes who’ve seen as much as his own he wants to stare into, and lips as cruel as the ones he owns that he fights off the urges to kiss. but he can’t, and he won’t.

and you’re the one to blame.

you, with the glow of a thousand suns. you, with the hands that tend to flowers instead of corpses. you, with the gentle nature he’d have to spend the rest of his days fighting off every other living thing just to protect.

his own self being the first he’d need fight.

joel wonders what he’d missed in his hours- if it had even been so long- of rest, how the playground gossiping dissipated into reminiscing the pleasures of supple flesh and the sins of unfulfilling lovers. sleep steals him away once more before he can find the answers.

the next time he awakens, he’s drowning in a plight of cruel memories, a cold and brutal ocean of faces, places, and traces of the ephemeral sentiment of happiness he’d possessed once upon a time, back when the price of letting one’s guard down was not so high.

he’s learnt, with time, that losing her comes in waves. some small, meaningless little things, that ripple joel’s surface and coast gently over his dirt ridden skin. others, tsunamis. big, angry, all imposing. they’re born in ground-shaking explosions of grief, building speed, and height, and weight the closer they grow to crashing over him.

amidst the passing of time, he’s tried to keep himself busy in his awakened hours, to keep his mind occupied and avoid thinking about her too much. but the waves always come back, no matter how hard he tries to fight them or swim away from them. they catch him off guard, crashing over him when he least expects it. in the middle of a raid, lost in thought and standing ten inches deep in grime, blood, infected, and suddenly the weight of her absence will hit him like a ton of bricks.

the currents grow more violent whenever he closes his eyes.

this evening, it had been a minuscule wave, yet it’s damage still leaves him with sweat slicked skin. he reenters the land of the living choking on his own fear and shooting up-right, hardly registering his surroundings till his feet hit solid ground. the gentle, barely-there croon of a sinatra record punctuates the room alongside the dim glow of a lightbulb which flickers with the threat of expiring and leaving naught but the moonlight to wash over the dark of the night. across from him is tess, nursing a half-emptied cup against her chest and wearing tired eyes. snoring comes from below him, where joel finds he’s a mere foot away from having stepped upon the sleeping dog, curled in on itself and laying soundly by his side.

you take up no space of this room.

neither the dog nor the drunk pay him any mind as he pushes up onto his creaking knees, stretching out his limbs in a fight to undo the tension in his aching bod. languid steps carry him out into the hall, where he freezes under the self-questioning of where he’s going.

there are three answer to this: where he should, where he could, and where he would.

he should find himself a bedroom, perhaps be ostentatious enough to rid himself of those stale clothes and let the warmth of running water wash away the sins he’d committed throughout the day. a good night’s sleep, atop a mattress where springs do not dig into his back and the sheets are clean as could be, it would do him good.

he could head towards the kitchen, quench that thirst that he’s awoken with, cottonmouth and a headache to go with it too. perhaps he’ll find himself something to eat, indulge in the luxury of readily available food just this once, he’s sure frank wouldn’t mind. bill definitely would, but that’s not something he’ll need care about when he’s miles out and heading back to the qz.

he would try find you, open whichever door it is that leads into the haven that must be your bedroom. he imagines its clean, and organised, and smells of some syrupy lavender that is bound to nauseate him as he smothers his face into your bedsheets, eyes shut, and mind relaxed, the threat of those violent waves no concern to him as he anchors himself with an arm around your warm skin. skin he’s never felt, yet he stands firm in his belief it must be the most soothing thing to touch, as gentle and inviting as the heart it keeps safe within it.

i don’t like you, joel.

those words stop him from trying.

he tells himself it’s for the best.

with a mind of their own, his legs have made the choice for him and deliver him outside the opening to the kitchen. he swallows down a gulp of his own saliva at the prospect of a glass of water. the door’s already half-opened, and joel nearly thanks christ for it as the fear of waking anyone with the squeaking of the handle is eliminated. the darkness of the night encompasses the room, even with the moon’s shine reflecting off every surface it touches: the counters, the knife stand, the metal drawer handles, the refrigerator.

the refrigerator.

it’s open, a blue light shining out of it and illuminating anything it its proximity. a subtle beeping noise rings from it, and suddenly joel’s back in his thirties, dead-beat yet well-intentioned brother stealing the food off his own plate as he beckons his pre-teen daughter back into the kitchen.

keep leavin’ this open and it’s a job you’ll be gettin’ this summer, not a dog.

she never lived long enough to get either.

he catches something move beneath the artificial light. cautious at first, it’s all the more startling to find the object of his ire and the embodiment of his desire stood leaning back against the countertop, a glass full of orange liquid pressed to a mouth that parts and welcomes in the sugary sweet delight.

“why aren’t ya sleepin’?” the words rasp out his throat, catching and scratching on the parts of him that still yearn for something to wet his tongue with.

beneath the light, you shrug, “could ask you the same thing, texas.”

he curses tess for teaching you such a nickname.

he curses himself more for the way you saying it twists up his insides.

you’re teasing him, smile a little looser and eyes less focused than he’s used to seeing. whether you’re tipsy or simply delirious with exhaustion, joel remains unaware.

he grunts, daring to take a few steps further into the kitchen. the door behind him closes over and give the illusion of the space becoming smaller, tighter, more compact.

“i asked first.” you laugh, at him. full on chest-rumbling, hand over your belly, head thrown back- so abruptly it nearly crashes against the corner of the opened cabinet door. the corner of his mouth is curling upwards before he can catch himself. he hopes the refrigerator light shows less of him than it shows of you, bare legs, and messed hair, and pointed nipples all on display for his undeserving eyes. “‘s so funny, huh?”

“nothing, nothing,” he successfully fights off the urge to follow the drop of orange juice that spills down the side of your mouth, over your chin, down your neck, disappearing beneath the collar of your dress. perhaps he is not as successful as he believes. “just never heard the joel miller say something so childish. you’ve usually got your panties all in a bunch if someone so much as looks at you for too long.”

you make way as he inches closer, sliding yourself over to rest against the island counter. a fragrance of things he can’t quite pinpoint, but enjoys nonetheless, wafts in his face as he travels down the path to the sink. uncouth and unbothered, joel opens the tap and cups his hands beneath the stream of water.

“you know there’s a cupboard full of glasses right next to you, right?” you call out behind him as the man brings water to his dry lips, splashing and just about guiding his head beneath the stream. the thirst does not budge. he hums an acknowledgement of you, yet continues with his method.

by the time he switches the water off, you’ve made yourself busy, back facing him while you work at something atop the counter, a consistent chop-chop-chop filling the silence that settles between you both.

“i’m making soup,” you state, like there’s nothing quite more logical you could be doing at whatever-o’clock in the morning it is. “make sure you take some with you when you leave. tess said she’s been fighting off a cold the past few days, need you to keep her warm and fed for me.”

would you do the same for him, if you knew he’d been the one to catch that damned cold in the first place? four days of just about coughing up his lungs, and not a single soul- not even his tess- had offered soup, nor warmth, nor sympathy. he’d not needed it, until now, when he hears you gifting it to someone else.

i don’t like you, joel.

of course you would do the same. not because you care, nor because doing otherwise would way heavy on your conscious, but because you’re nice. nice in a way he’ll never be, has never been. patient, welcoming, comforting, warm. all words that spring to mind when one thinks of you. they violently oppose the closed-off, angry, dark cloud that had rolled in years ago and casted it’s shadow over joel’s entire persona.

he straightens his back, weight shifting from one foot to another as he contemplates you from behind. the sway of your dress as you move has him in a trance, beckoning him closer before he can even realise he’s taken a step. his hands drip water onto the floor in a rhythm, and the record player sings in the distance as a reminder of tess, and your sweet out-of-tune humming fills the empty kitchen with a brightness greater than the moon, but that’s not what joel hears.

i don’t like you, joel.

i don’t like you, joel.

i don’t like you, joel.

i don’t like you, joel.

over and over, you taunt him without even trying, nailing the words into his head and heart, impaling him with your sweet condemnation. you’re not the first to say it, to his face or otherwise, yet you’re the first to evoke such a reaction out of him, to leave a lasting impression hours after you’d declared such a thing.

and, suddenly, joel’s angry. at you, at himself, at the sound of that damned knife in your hand slicing down onto the chopping board. the fog of his ire blurs his vision, rendering him to move blindly through the night.

only when he finds himself looming over you from behind does his vision clear.

a hand meets the curve of your hip and you gasp, leaving joel to wonder if it’s because the shock of his cold, damp touch or, simply, because it’s his touch. without a thought spared, he firms his grip, fingers squeezing tight enough he feels your flesh bulge between each one, a bruising promise joel gifts you.

you may leave your marks emotionally, but joel’s will always be physical.

“why,” he pulls in a breath, loading up the will to keep his voice a low rumble, a quiet disturbance in the night for no ears but your own to hear. “don’t ya like me?”

if not for the pause in your practiced movements, knife stilling midway through slicing a carrot, he’d believe you’re unaffected by his proximity. “why do you care?” 

he scoffs, “i don’t.”

“hmm,” this hum is far less delightful than the way you’d been following along to whatever melody tess was playing in the living room. “sure sounds like you do.”

“yeah, well, i don’t,” he insists, and he swears he almost feels the way it only digs deeper the hole he’s created for himself.

joel knows he cares. it’s been burning at his skin and itching on his mind since the moment you’d welcomed yourself to a little bit of unfiltered honesty, dropping the perfectly poised and eternally polite mask you’d worn since the moment he’d first met you, an attitude he loathes as much as he anticipates surrounding himself with it each time he’s tugged along for the trek to bill and frank’s. 

what joel doesn’t know is why he cares. there’s nothing to be desired about him, no traits to respect and certainly no looks to admire. he’s near crafted his entire being in a way that makes sure of this, the more undesirable his presence is, the less likely he is to be approached, be it by other people or fate itself.

maybe there was a part of him that had wrongfully imagined you being the exception.

instead, you’re stood barefoot in the latest of hours, knife working away the vegetables in front of you, dress sticking to skin beneath his damp hand, and you don’t like him.

not one bit.

joel grabs at your hips harder, his free hand curling round the shape of your left forearm. his feet shuffle forwards, until there comes a point where one would struggle to make out where you end and he begins. his chest pressed to your back, his muscular legs trapping your soft thighs, his forehead digging into the side of your head so intensely it threatens to shatter both your craniums and leave nothing but dust made by bones blown into smithereens.

he inhales, and finds you don’t smell of lavender.

“for the record,” he watches your movements over your shoulder, entranced with the back and forth sawing of the knife through unidentified vegetables. ‘s like how i sliced that raider’s throat, he thinks, and instantly regrets it. no part of him should ever be compared to you. “i don’t like ya either.”

he’s lying through his teeth, hoping you don’t notice.

the knife never ceases its movement. back and forth, back and forth. chop, chop, chop. blurs of greens, and oranges, and more greens cover the counter before you. it’s oddly soothing, this repeated and unbroken pattern, reminding joel of times he’d found comfort in the mundaneness of cooking a meal after an emotionally exhausting day. perhaps, this has the same affect on you, a momentary lifejacket to keep yourself afloat amongst the waves that haunt you awake.

the hand on your forearm travels, mind of its own, drawing up the shape of your shoulder with featherlight touches that contradict the way his nails dig deeper into the the skin you hide beneath the waistline of your dress.

“that’s not news,” you must think he’s blind to the hitch in your breath when his fingers slip over your pulse-point. 

it’s his turn to respond with a hum.

“you only like yourself,” words more untrue have never been spoken before the man who’s every moment is spent drowning in his loses. his wandering touch halts. “a little selfish, if you ask me. but, that’s just what i think.”

this strikes a nerve. fury commands his hand into a fist and fingers find themselves tangled in the tresses of your hair. the realisation of how surprisingly soft it feels barely finishes registering when he’s pulling on it, dragging your head along with, till it lays flat on his puffing chest and your eyes stare up at him. “d’ya know what i think?”

even upside down, your beauty is striking.

“no, unlike you i don’t care what you think about-” joel tugs on your hair once more.

“i think you’re a brat. a silly little girl who thinks she can smile and get away with murder.” you could. he’d forgive you as you soak your hands in the blood you draw from him. knife in the heart, bullet through the brain, bat to the face, he’d slip away easily from this life if only to have you smile as he goes.

 “you’re hurting me,” you whine, joel growls.

animalistic, beastly, a rabid animal sinking its claws into its defenceless prey. his gaze dances over your features, catching himself before he can sink deep into your captivating eyes, tracing the shape of your mouth, slipping down the peaks of your collarbones.

your dress- red, a colour joel miller will no longer associate with bleeding wounds and stained weapons- sits tight on your chest, squeezing the swell of your chest beneath the fabric, and gives away all your secrets.

“you like it,” he speaks in awe, unable to pull his eyes off the two stiff buds that poke against the red fabric.

“no, i don’-” dampness follows wherever his hand goes, fleeting as he makes the journey around your waist and up your side, crawling higher and higher to where he can feel your heart beating from within your chest. “joel.”

he retightens his grip on your hair, aiding you with the way your curve your spine and force yourself deeper into his uncaring, ungentle, enamoured touch. whoever joel had been in a past life must have moved mountains or performed miracles to grant him the luck to be holding you this way, the fingers he’d gifted with nothing but the cocking of guns and the feel of his own pulsating lust now expertly tweaking at one of your stiff nipples, all thoughts of the fabric scratching at your sensitive skin dissipating into the abyss as he realises you’re enjoying the pain.

“heard ya, earlier, in the living room,” at the time, he’d been mortified to be overhearing such intimate words between you and tess. the blood that insists on rushing to his crotch now wants you to know, to hear the admission of guilt be spoken from his own mouth. “ talkin’ bout your past.”

he doesn’t specify.

he doesn’t need to.

you give away your shock with parted lips, widened eyes, frozen eyelashes, pupils staring up at him like a wounded fawn he’s about to take his first bite out of and, hopefully, it won’t be the last one.

“tess turned you down,” the hand on your chest switches sides, donning your other breast with some much needed attention. his hand must still carry residue of the water, for you gasp and shut your eyes in the shock of his touch, your own fingers shooting up to scratch at his wrist. near convinced you mean to push him away, the pressure against his hand that pushes deeper into his unholy affection has him realising otherwise. “i wouldn’t.”

you say nothing. joel pulls harder.

“too bad i’m-” you cut yourself off as he presses himself closer to you, your poor hips bound to awaken with bruises from the counter he’s got you pressed against. with a distance so small he can hear your teeth grind, joel watches you like a hawk. the twitch in your brow, the flutter of your eyelids, the bobbing of your throat as you silence what he imagines would be an otherworldly kind of moan, a whine he’d let kiss his ears and wind up poisoning himself with the torture of it replaying in his head each waking moment till he kicks the bucket, once and for all. the want to see you fall apart evolves into a need. “too bad i’m not offering you the chance.”

joel miller is a hot blooded man, at his core, weak to emotions and vulnerable to the warmths of flesh. with notches on his bedpost and a tally of lives beneath his belt, he sees little wrong with taking what he needs.

“who said anything about an offer?”

the descent to the floor is far from graceful, with bitten back groans of pain as clicking noises resound throughout the room while his joints bend and break in an effort to get him where he needs to be, where he’s needed to be for far longer than merely this exchange on kitchen grounds: on his knees for you.

a part of him would prefer it if you weren’t wielding a butchers knife.

the other part wishes you were facing him, eyes full of that repressed anger, hatred and discontent you likely harbour for him as you point the blade down at him and threaten to paint the floors with his blood. you’ve yet to do that, and so he takes it as his queue to progress.

smoothing his hands up your legs, he admires the landscapes of your body from this angle, with legs longer than any tree in the amazonian jungle and curves with peaks that resemble the mountains of the himalayas. arriving at the top of your knees, the hem of your dress both welcomes and conceals his touch, inviting him into the wonderful world it hides beneath it yet denying him the privilege of feasting his eyes on your paradise, an island of safety amongst the open ocean of his mind.

your breathing is measured, precise, too rhythmical to be natural, the subconscious action now turned into a practiced routine you mean to maintain nonchalance with. perhaps you’re yet to realise that, while he may remain indifferent to those that surround him, joel knows how to read people. and, right now, you’re a whole novel of lust, awaiting for someone to open up your pages and drink in every lyrical prose you promise to tell.

joel finds purchase mid-way up your thighs, hands sliding around to the front of them to grip the buttery smooth skin and ground himself in the reality he kneels before.

you breathe in, you breathe out.

one knee buckles, ever so slightly, the weight of you collapsing into his welcoming hold. he revels in the feeling of supporting you, in every meaning of the word, thumbs not even waiting on a command from his consciousness to begin soothing your tingling skin with a gentle back and forth movement to match the knife in your hand.

inhale, exhale.

your legs straighten once more, a hand of his winds its way back out from under your skirt and shoots up to grab your free one, dragging it down his pits of desire.

“hold,” he’s parched all over again, mouth drier than the texan wastelands on a hot summer’s day. all he can do to survive is peel up that infuriatingly soft, red fabric of your dress, skin unveiling itself to his hunger struck eyes. with the skirt bunched up, he shoves it into your awaiting palms, pinning your hand against your own waist. “don’t move.”

where he expects protest, he receives more breathing.

lace covers your skin, a delicate shade of a colour his eyes can’t quite distinguish in the dark of the night. one flicker of his sight to the very core of your body and he notices it, that tell-tale sign that you’re enjoying this little display of attention, despite what your measured breaths may have him believe. a wet patch, your wetness. the stickiest, sweetest of honeys that only a woman like you can possess, and a man like him should never bare himself witness to.

curiosity gets the better of him- one day, joel hopes, this will get him killed- and his touch is reaching for the lacy fabric, fingers curling themselves in the waistband of your panties and the fabric that covers your right asscheek before curling his hand into a fist, tugging upwards.

in and out, shaky breathing comes from above.

the lace pulls tight on your delicate skin, no choice but to nestle itself in the slit of your cunt as two pretty soaked lips peak out from each side. a heady smell he can only begin to describe as stiflingly sweet, tongue-tingling tanginess hits his nose. he makes sure to take a deep breath, letting the blood rush straight to his head- the one that sits packed uncomfortably in his tightened trousers.

delectable as sin, you keen back into his fist, back curving ever so slightly. there’s a tremor in the hold you have on the fabric of your dress. joel basks in the visual affect he’s beginning to have on you, no need to doubt if the fabric of your underwear rubs at your likely aching clit. he wonders if the sting of the lace digging into your skin hurts. he thinks it must hurt.

his fist curls tighter, pulls higher.

“ah,” at last, a ripple in your surface. though you still wield a knife, the carrot you’d been failing to chop rolls off the counter and onto the floor, lost somewhere in joel’s peripheral vision.

“shut up,” he grunts, like it doesn’t make his balls throb to hear you whine. “people are tryin’ to sleep.”

you scoff, and for a moment you seem to have rediscovered your composure. “tess is drunk as a sailor, and the old men could sleep through nuclear warfare.”

“‘s that an invitation to see how loud i can get ya,” he’s still caught in the way you mold against the lace, slickened skin carrying a reflection of the moonlight. this, he thinks, is what all them poets were writing about in their prose of love and beauty. “or a challenge?”

“it’s an invitation to stop lecturing me on volume control,-” you catch yourself, he realises, right before you can gift him some nickname a sweet girl like you would never use. asshole, dickhead, bastard, he’s heard them all and, still, he wants them on your tongue, in his mouth, condemning him for all the brutish, oafish ways he masks his obsession for you.

as coquettish as it may be, painting a picture worthy of a front-page on some playboy magazine, the sight of lace becomes a nuisance he no longer holds the patience for. so he strips you of it, hand moving to pull the garment down, down, down the length of you, till it hits your ankles. he awaits no movement of your own, taking it upon himself to lift each of your feet individually out the leg-holes.

it’s merely impulse that has him shoving the soiled lace into his back pocket, though he’s sure he’ll make use of them on lonely nights.

“you’re drippin’” his proclamation is ego-driven, pride swelling in his chest as he takes in the full sight of your bare heat. the view is a little obscured from behind you, but with the right amount of tilting of your hips at a certain angle and the widening of your legs, he’s bound to sit front row and centre for your private show. “‘s actually a little pathetic, sweetheart. is it cause ya like it when men get mean wit’ ya?”

he can imagine the way you’d roll your eyes at his words, and it has him thinking about how you’d look with your eyes rolling back for different reasons, reasons he’s about to gift you.

but first, he curls one hand around your ankle and tugs the limb along as far as he wants it. much better, he now faces no blockage in the path up to your slit, freely letting his wandering hands ascend to his newfound heaven. perhaps he’ll revisit the life of gospel, if you promise to be the altar he prays before.

cool fingers to warm skin, you swallow a gasp a little too late for joel to not notice as he drags the tips of his middle finger up the length of your slit. soft, puffy lips part for him, until he presses against that special button that’s bound to turn on your engines.

rolling his finger over your clit a few times, he refamiliarises himself with the female anatomy, with your anatomy, memorising each soft bump and meaty lump he finds along the way.

it happens so sudden, and unwillingly, the way his mind switches to thinking of tess. he wonders what exactly it is she does to those poor things she sends home on shaky legs, where she even begins to touch them. joel imagines she makes use of what she has and starts with her fingers.

so he does the same.

working over your slippery wetness, he coats the tip of his middle finger with it, till he finds what he’s been searching for: the gateways to your heaven, your entrance. he breaches your walls with that single digit and somehow that’s enough to have you squeezing around him so tightly he wonders if blood still manages to flow to his digit.

two, three, four pumps of his hand and he’s introducing his pointer finger too, pressing them both into you to witness the ways you mould around this wider stretch, the lips of your cunt a pair of cushions his knuckles collide against each time he fucks his fingers in.

“so now you shut up. ‘s the matter, huh?” he’s contradicting himself and he doesn’t even care, too busy focusing on curling his fingers inside you, delighting in the feel of that spongy tissue they press against. “am i too borin’ for ya?”

“you’re the most infuriating man i’ve ever- oh!”

a tongue meets skin.

the knife clatters onto the counter.

you lurch forward.

his hand pulls you back.

“tess was right, ya know?” he can still taste you on his tongue, nothing more than a simple lick over your slit and your salty pleasure already seeps deep into his veins, staining his very being with the memory of his new favourite flavour. he pulls his fingers out, slipping them up to your clit. three little taps to the pulsing bud- tap, tap, tap- and he’s slipping them into his mouth, tongue working overtime to clean up every last drop of you that coats him. “that boy of yours wasn’t doin’ ya right.”

the common sense that screams at him to not feel envy over some ex-lover, someone who was likely barely even an adult at the time and no longer appears to be around, is no match for the green eyed beast that commands him to tell you, without using words, that he can do better- touch you better, protect you better, fuck you better, if you’d just let him.

‘could keep ya satisfied.

that’s a new thought, one he’s never needed before yet never wanted more, a burning ache to be worthy of your trust, affection, lust. he’ll never forget the first time he thinks it, mouth salivating at the sight of you.

“is this the part you say some cheesy line straight out a porno? what ya need is a man, a man like me!” the softness of your giggle is still sharp enough to cut through the tension, god it’s never sounded sweet, and joel finds himself freely smiling into the darkness, yet still too stubborn to laugh at the deep voice you attempt to imitate him with.

“well, was you who said it,” his mouth finds it’s way back onto your soaked heat, taking his time to work his tongue up the length of it, his saliva mixing itself in a nasty cocktail with your wetness. he imagines the air is cold against your skin, and that you like it, memory of those hardened nipples hidden beneath the fabric of your dress. “but if ya insist.”

diving in head first had always been his style, from his first lover to his last, and to now, knees aching on the kitchen floor. the tip of his tongue dances round your clit, tantalising you to grind your hips to the rhythm of his sinful touches.

licking into you, he’s reminded how much he enjoys that swelling in the chest that only comes from bringing another pleasure. 

he’d not been a perfect lover, far from it, but he’d liked to believe at one point he’d been trained by only experience that comes with age, years of touching wrong and kissing badly to learn the right ways to make those he shared a bed- or a counter, or a backseat, or a club bathroom- with see angelic white as they writhed and squirmed under his touch. you’re lucky to have him now, matured by past lovers and broadened by age, with all the knowledge he needs to open your eyes to how a man pleasures, kisses, loves.

he’s out of practice, sure, with recent years adding notches to his belt that were merely frantic, unexpected, barely undressed run-ins with strangers, in strange places, cock barely getting a moments affection before he’d be spilling his seed and tucking it, limp, back into the confines of his trousers and locking it away beneath a zip.

what a perfect excuse you are, for joel to remaster the arts of lust.

it’s messy, wet dripping down his chin and staining itself into the stubble of his growing facial hair. it’s noisy, his mouth openly groaning depraved joy into your warmth as you sing him a song of sweet euphoria, slowly building towards that crescendo on the horizon. it’s animalistic, barely human as he revokes all earthly needs such as rest, and food, and socialising, his mind, and soul, and heart, and cock all screaming in unison to spend whatever days he shall possess on his knees before you.

and all the while you writhe and wriggle, some times running away from him touch, other times rutting so far back into him that you threaten to suffocate him somewhere between your warm thighs, and sugar sweet cunt, and the two well-rounded globes of your ass. 

his only saving grace is that he can’t see you.

hearing your pretty whines, and hand-muffled moans, and heavy intakes of breath is enough to curse him for the rest of his waking days, condemned to wander the wastelands of earth knowing the noises you make on the brinks of pleasure, with a touch-starved man satiating his hunger for flesh and blood with the sugary sins of your soaked cunt.

burrowing deeper into you, his consciousness rips through the fog of his lust to curse out his perversions as the tip of his hooked nose bumps against the puckered entrance of your ass. it does nothing to stop him tearing his tongue away from your clit, flattened as he drags it over the expanse of your cunt, and over your taint, and up the crack of your behind.

“n- ah,” you can’t deny him while sounding so eager for more, the tip of his tongue now circling your back entrance, mimicking the treatment previously given to your little pearl. “no, don’t, not there.”

next time, he thinks, we’ll try that next time.

sights returned to his previous desires, he works to rip every sigh, and every whine, and every dirty little song you’ll grace him with. the sound of whatever record tess has put on in the other room becomes a safety blanket, dousing you both in the warm protection of not being overheard.

and, then, he does it, he makes the ultimate mistake.

his eyes flicker to the left and he finds himself faced with the stove that sits within bill and frank’s- and, by an extension he does not enjoy to remember, your- kitchen. there’s little that’s remarkable about the appliance, just your standard, everyday oven that he’s sure you’ve spent countless hours cooking up those comforting meals he’s come to anticipate each time tess tells him they’re due a visit.

except, the oven door is made of glass.

glass which now paints the most pornographic masterpiece for no eyes but his own. you, with hands gripping the island’s counter like your life depends on it, and the skirt of that goddamn dress he’s envied all evening for the way it got to rest against the warmth of your thighs now bunched up in your tight grip, and your head thrown back, curving your spine in a way that has him wondering about the other ways he’d be able to bend and break you beneath his touch.

 and then there’s him, down on his knees like a devotee laying himself down to worship his goddess, face burrowed in the space between your legs, mouth devouring you from behind with the help of his hands, the same ones that had strangled a man less than a day before and reigned fire down on countless others for years, that now grip the meat of your thighs to pull you back onto him, fucking his tongue into your sopping heat.

the image will haunt him more than the face of any man he’s killed.

“d’ya touch yourself, sol?” you don’t answer him, but that’s okay. in a sweet change of pace, joel miller’s perfectly fine with talking enough for the both of you. “yeah, bet ya do. late at night, right? once you’re all alone in bed. ya seem like the kind who can make herself scream.”

you back into him, smothering him under the weigh of your body. becoming his holy grail, he drinks from you like it’s the key to eternal life, and what a way of living this would be, time disregarded as nothing but meaningless while your bodies melt together in the heat of passion.

fucking his fingers back inside, he becomes frantic beneath the need to make you cry, fall completely apart with only his hands to hold you together. “let me do the honours this time though.”

you don’t scream, can’t scream, hand over mouth muffling whatever profanities and theatrical proclamations he rips from within you with the stroke of his agile tongue, the only muscle of his that’s yet to develop aches and pains. he imagines that will no longer ring true once he awakens past sunrise.

he’s unsure how much longer he works his tongue over you, slipping and sliding through the liquid pleasure, but it ends with fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him away and tilting his head up.

you’ve never looked more holy, moon casting it’s shine around you, eyes glossed with unshed tears, lips parted and swollen from the pressure your own teeth had bitten down on them with. your expression, he can’t quite read. not sad, not happy, not mad.

your eyes catch on something, abandoning his own for something closer to the floor, to which he follows and finds exactly what you’re staring at: the evidently dark patch that now stains the front of his jeans.

the discomfort of trekking back to the qz will now be tenfolds worse in the stains of his own pleasure.

“joel...” his name is nearly a beg, a prayer, an invitation. hand still in his hair, you tug, pulling him upwards off the ground. legs open wider and back arches deeper, a seductive sight that your body pleas for him with.

he swallows a groan, knees alleviated at last from the floor, and presses himself against you once more. strong arms crush you in an embrace, pulling you back into him as his head slips to rest against your shoulder. he’s capricious with the way he lets himself litter a few wet kisses over your neck, breathing in the smell of you.

“that,” you grind back into him, a torturer who takes his aged body as her victim and toys with his barely recovered cock, the cum in his trousers sticking uncomfortably to his skin. he pulls tighter on your body, grounding himself in the weight of it against his own to find the sanity to finish his sentence. “shouldn’t have happened.”

joel hopes no one awakens as he slams the door on the way out of the kitchen.

people once spoke of how the only certainties in life were death and taxes but, nowadays, the words don’t ring as true and the guarantee of life with taxes has morphed into something else entirely; a reality where death and time go hand in hand. as sure as tomorrow will arrive, death will come too, eventually. not today, however, and joel miller finds himself stood throwing a ball back and forth for a dog.

it chases and retrieves, trailing it’s happy self all the way back to him only to spit the ball down at his feet, siting and waiting to repeat the process once more. there’d been a time where this is all he’d wanted: white picket fence, dog in the yard, home-cooked meals filling a house with warmth.

that dream seems so far away now, even as he stands within it.

he cracks his back, huffing out a groan. “no, not again. my back’s fucked as it is, buddy,” with no one around to witness, joel lets himself crouch down onto his knees- both popping obnoxiously as he does so- and rakes his hand over the german shepherd’s head. it whines and makes an attempt to nudge the ball against him, protesting in the only way it can. a scratch to the ear does the trick to distract the animal, to which it tilts its head and forces itself deeper into his blunt nails. “not so bad, are ya? huh?” never in a million years did joel think he’d be talking to a dog when him and tess had set out for their routinely visit to the bill and frank’s. never would he have thought that would be the least shocking event to unfold on this trip.

he hears you before he sees you.

“you planning to make your knees familiar with every surface of this place, texas?”

he tries to rise, he truly does, but the four-legged foe he’d been petting mere seconds ago betrays him the instant it catches sight of you, charging past him and knocking him over in the process, ass to floor and head to sky.

the world above is a storm of greys, clouds swallowing one another with a looming threat of danger on the horizon and not a lick of the sun’s warmth seems to make its way through.

so instead, it sends you.

peering over him from above, hair a tangled mess, eyes a wreck of under-bags and sleepless tears, the collar of your jumper lowered just enough at this angle that he can see a tease of cleavage, you radiate a brightness like no other, more dangerous to his naked eyes than uv ray could ever be. he’s squinting again, frown etching itself on his forehead with the threat of becoming permanent soon. a few more years and his face will be nothing but frown lines and crows feet. at the very least, he considers, i’ve survived long enough to wrinkle.

the smile above him is worth a million laugh lines, a kindness laced within it that matches perfectly with the hand you hold out. when he does nothing but stare at it, you wriggle your fingers, enticing him to take a hold. he does most of the work, truthfully, but you play a part in pulling him back to his feet. upright once more, he can’t help but bask in the way he’s able to physically look down on you.

“thanks for tiring him out,” you’re the first to talk. you’re always the first to talk, and he curses you for it. “won’t need to walk him as far tonight.”

a queasy feeling overtakes him at the thought of you walking the dog alone at night, nothing but the moon to light your way. he’ll need to remember to tire the dog out next time he visits. “no problem, thanks... for feeding tess and i.”

“no worries!” you’re so kind, so good, smiling at him with a cheerful chirp in your voice. he can’t wrap his head around how you can bring yourself to treat him this way. “oh, actually, that’s why i came out here, i was looking for tess-” of course you were, when would you ever be looking for him? “hold on!”

you shoot off back inside so quickly that otis just reaches the doorway by the time you return. with an idle pet to his head as you pass by, joel once again sees, in the way such little affection can have the dog so elated, that resemblance between them you’d spoke of. in your hands, you carry an array of containers full of food- soup- each filled to the brim.

“i wanted to give you these, before you guys leave,” you’re explaining yourself, and joel wonders if it’s nerves that bring you to need constant babbling to fill any gaps of silence. he can’t imagine how he could make you nervous and therefore that thought is quick to be discarded. “i know the journey up here and back can be long, consider them a token of my appreciation towards you both for-”

“why don’t ya like me?” he cuts you off.

pathetic, he knows, but he can not stop himself, a deer caught in the headlights of your brightly burning, too-good-to-be-true, too-pure-to-be-fake personality.

you show no signs of hearing him, smile unwavering as you continue to hold out the boxes to him, “there should be enough to last you a few days, if you watch your proportions.”

it’s too much for him to handle- the food, the smiles, the sweetly glistening eyes-, and joel just has to know, needs an answer before the heat of his confusion consumes him entirely in its flames and leaves nothing but his smoking remains.

so he tries again, louder.

“why don’t ya like me?”

“and i’d probably say you’re best to heat it up, especially for tess,” you ignore him, again, lips stretching what can only be described as uncomfortably wider. “winter is sure coming in faster than last year, isn’t it?”

he grabs at your arm, fingers curling round the swell of your bicep as he speaks through gritted teeth, "answer me." like a frightened dog backed into a corner, he bares his teeth and yells his bark.

"for someone who doesn't care,” you try his patience, knowingly or not, and his grip tightens. you don’t flinch, welcoming the sting of his blunt and bitten nails against your flesh. “you sure do talk about my opinion a lot."

"answer the damn question, girl.”

“or, what?” you’ve got him there, he’ll admit, holding no real plan as to how to punish your silence. “you gonna give me the same treatment as last night?”

had he known you’d be so unabashed to mention the events on the kitchen floor so flippantly, as casually as one would speak about the weather, he’d never have dared to get on his knees. truthfully, he’d not given things a second thought, disregarding the later for the now, living in the moment with caution thrown to the wind over what the morning would bring. perhaps he’d hoped you’d been intoxicated enough to dismiss the memory as a nightmare, maybe he’d wished you’d keep away from him to free him of the volatile grip you have on his soul.

instead, you stand tall, proud, eyes fiercely staring back at his own as you challenge him to retaliate, mock you with none of those saccharine smiles you hide harsh tones behind.

joel says nothing.

“how about this, let’s make a deal, like the ones you and bill make.” inching closer, crowding in on his space and forcing him to take note of the smell of freshly cleaned clothes mixed in with your own fragrance. clean, warm, inviting, scents he’d never given meaning to before now. “you get me something, i’ll tell you what you want to know.”

he grunts out a response, hands meeting his hips as he juts out one knee, the shifting of weight between feet a perfect distraction to the rising tension in his worn-out jeans. “what d’ya want? ‘cause if it’s somethin’ like a gun, think again. i ain’t messing with none of bill’s strange politics on you havin’-”

“a dress.”

“a dress?” the statement has him quirking his brow, burning questions swimming in the depths of his eyes as he stares back at you.

“yes, and don’t look at me like that!” it’s hypocritical, he believes, for you to berate him for the looks he sends you when all you do is cast stones his way with your gaze yet shake him to his very core each time you smile. “i need a new one, my favourite one got ruined whilst making soup.”

unaware he’d even began to lean closer, joel’s quick to recoil, as if your words are bullets and his skin the target you hit on the bullseye every time. 

“joel!” his name resonates from somewhere in the house.

neither of you dare to break eye contact. again, his name is yelled. this time, he manages to identify tess as the owner of the voice. habits have him used to running to her whenever she calls, but habits have never been caught between the choice of tess or you. 

his feet remain glued to the ground.

tess yells once more and, though you speak up, you don’t dare look away. “think you might be needed inside, macho man. your missus is calling.”

“she ain’t my-”

“you two just gonna stand and stare at each other all day, or will you help a woman out already?” tess enters the scene somewhere behind you, a blur of her familiar shape standing out the front door.

only when your head spins and he no longer finds himself lost in the black of your eyes does joel take her in completely, hair clearly damp and complexion a little paled by her hungover body. in her arms, she struggles with the weight of a folded table. you approach first, he follows, his two hands aiding in carrying it out into the front yard as you retighten your grip on the boxes of soup in your arms. 

“i should probably,” laying the containers down on the now unfolded table, you fidget with the sleeves in your hands, eyes downcast with something he can only read as guilt. he decides he much prefers the fire they hold when you berate him. “go check on the food, before it burns.”

you’re in the door and out his sight before he can so much as ask you to stay.

tess and him hit the road by noon. earlier than predicted, later than he’d wished for. the bite of cold already marks the air, despite the sun heating the world with its rays. he walks a little ahead, feigning ignorance to the repeated coughing coming from tess and racking his brain for answers.

answers to why he’d never noticed how hoarse she’d been sounding till you pointed it out. answers to what awaited them both upon returning to the qz. answers to when will be their next chance to visit the safe haven bill’s created. answers to why you don’t like him.

i don’t like you, joel.

it motivates him to walk quicker, faster, racing to put as much distance between himself and that damn kitchen floor, miles upon miles not enough to rid him of the dull ache in his knees that goes hand in hand with the throb within his too-tight-jeans. if he were alone, he’d break out in a sprint. but tess is here, he’s not alone, and home will simply have to wait on the passing of time to drag him back to it.

till then, he needs to find a dress.​

[bruhhxiao]

Like when we were younger

(sfw/nsfw)

paring Anubis x step-sister!reader

! warnings: paring sister reader x brother Anubis=incest (they are related by Osiris), depression, violence(?), (Y/N used) !

requested by @gongyunlian

“Try to convince him Y/N, please…”

“uncle Seth it’s not like I enjoy this situation, my brother looks like another person” You told him walking in circle as he sat on his throne.

“Osiris changed him! My only son…” you patted Seth shoulder.

“Hours… Hours says it’s better this way..” You whispered

“He’s wrong! And you know Y/N!”

After you left Seth you went to visit your mother Isis, she fall in a deep state of sleep since your father Osiris was killed by Seth. She loved your father and she raised Anubis like her biological son, like Hours and became gods. Osiris betrayed her after all the love she gave and showed to him… she forgive him after she knew about Anubis real father.

“I promise mother, I will try to take him back.” You caressed her right cheek.

A few days later you went to Anubis temple, it was a chilly night and it was quieter than usual.

“Anubis can I have a word with you?” You knelt in front of his statue, but this time he didn’t show up like he used to. You were the most close compared to Hours. You were siblings and we never been against each other. You were one thing.

“Please I have something to tell you..” You last said before leaving the temple walking bare foot on the cold sand of the desert.

“Can you please stop following me and talk normally?” You said looking at your shadow watching Anubis coming out of it. He just stood in front of you silent.

“Look at yourself. You never talk, you always hide your face under this mask even when we are alone… where did my brother go?” You tried to reach his mask to take it off but he snapped your hand leaving you speechless.

“Your father is worried! Hours knows something i don’t. Tell me Anubis, tell me please…”

“Seth is no longer my father I don’t need to go see him” he disappeared dissolving into the darkness of his shadow.

You were bathing playing with the blue lotus that you brought with you into the bath. You were a god, the god of protection, anxiety, perfection and purity. The blue lotus was your symbol, your blessing. You probably inherited this specialty from your father and you remembered how you and Anubis played with this flower when you were younger and far from the responsibility of your journey.

“Why are you so stubborn..”

“He is keeping you safe…” You look on the side you stop Hours sitting on the balcony of the chamber looking at the red sky.

“From what Hours? He is hurting himself standing by the one who made him like that”

“You don’t get it! He wants to see Seth suffer! Watching his most important ones standing by his side!” Hours shouted flying away leaving you even more confused, how could Osiris hurt his own son to take revenge over Seth.

“You said you wouldn’t never leave me..” You said thinking about the promise you and Anubis made when you were young.

You went to his temple again sitting in front of his well sculpted stone that was made for prayers towards the god. You left a gift like human do, you left a blue lotus.

When you went back to your mother you saw Anubis talking to her leaving a blue lotus. As he was about to disappear you dashed to him grabbing his mask revealing his long curly black hair, his shocked expression made you ran through the hallway leaving the servants confused. He chased you by the shadows trying to get his mask back.

“Now you know how I felt when I was younger!” That’s right he used to tease you taking away your toys or food and made you ran for minutes until you ended up crying but that was actually an excuse to be close to you, to cuddle you, to protect you.

“Y/N…” He groaned stepping close.

You took off your mask showing your features that Anubis couldn’t see after he became a god. He grew up so you did but he didn’t expect to find you as beautiful as the first time he saw you but there was something that he never felt when he was younger. You wore his mask was jumping around your chamber trying to escape.

“I look good right? You can take mine if you wan-“ He grabbed you by the gold necklace and he pinned you to the wall.

He took the mask and he threw it on the floor, you were surprised by his actions but he didn’t give you time to realized what had happen that he grabbed your cheek pulling you against his lips. The kiss wasn’t aggressive but you could feel the desire. He picked you up caressing your hips to your breast. He snapped back making you land on your feet leaving you breathless.

He grabbed his mask walking out of the chamber. He was speechless, he was angry and guilty at same time… he hated himself for this.

“what about Isis? Please help her Anubis!” You shouted as he disappeared in the shadows.

You were walking in the dark desert a hand grabbed your ankle from the could orange sand. Anubis hand.

“Your mother.” He says as a tear falls down on your cheek

“she woke up.” He continued as his hand melted in shadows and sand.

When you arrive Isis was sitting on the edge of her bed next to her was Nephtys consoling her.

“Mother!” You shouted running towards her but your aunt Nephtys stopped you.

“Y/N! Have you seen Anubis?” She asked a bit worried looking first Isis and then back to you. You nodded.

Your back laid against the cold wall near the balcony, head lost in thoughts until a cold hand holds your shoulder.

silent as always.

“What is wrong with you!” You say angrily without even turning to see who he was. You knew, you could tell by his touch. You stood up taking off your mask grabbing his black tie pulling him near you.

”What happened to you…” You started again until he snapped his black soft curls hiding his expression, teeth biting into his lips almost about to bleed.

“Anubis..” You called softly grabbing his cheek making him look at you as you freed his eyes from the hair.

As you leaned closer caressing his cheek trying to read into his eyes he liked his lips.

“He’s gonna hurt you…” he finally spoke leaning closer to your face.

“I don’t want him to hurt you.” He continued.

He leaned close, lips crushing into yours with his hand behind your neck. As you kissed him back he pushed off. He grabbed your hips picking you up.

“I won’t let him…”

He says as he reveals your breast massaging it as he kisses your neck. He brings you to the bed laying on top kissing every inch of your body.

“you’re so soft”

He said dry as he kissed you to your lips to your hips. He takes your bottom off making you jolt by his sudden action. You covered your body calling his name for once making him snap from his fantasy…

He doesn’t say anything he kisses you cuddles you going from your neck to your hips. He kisses your intimacy softly and slowly as brings a finger inside by surprise.

He added another finger thrusting slowly but steadily while his lips leave kisses on your tummy.

He pulls the fingers out and flip you with your belly against the mattress. His chest pressed against your back as he goes inside making you arch your back.

“I can’t hold it anymore” He says while your fists clenched on the linen sheets.

He waits a few seconds before he starts moving holding your belly with his hand while you cry out the pain that becomes pleasure in no time. Anubi is gently but gives you every inch of him as he kisses your back to your neck kissing it, sucking it, biting it. He slipped out making you turn and face him.

“my baby…” you mumbled you use to tease him every time back in the past, tease his protective side as the older brother.

He grabbed your hand and he kissing it before leaning down kissing your lips while caressing you cheek.

He hugs you tightly as he goes back in with his face pressed in your neck leaving marks and wet kisses trying to hide his moans. You arch your back as you’re getting closer and he thrusts deep. He bumps his nose into yours as the thrusts became slower but stronger taking away your breath. He holds tightly as you both came together.

After a few second he leans down and kisses your lips and then laying on top of you resting his head on your chest as you stroke his curly hair while you looked outside at the dark blue sky.

It reminded you when you used to spend time with him in the past where he would let you cuddle him so you would stop complaining, but it was an excuse for him to be close to you and spoil him with your affection and cuteness. He knew that in the future you would cuddle him with stronger feelings.

~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~

Henlooo guys this is such an unlucky day! First I want to apologize to @gongyunlian for taking months to upland their request but I had some family issues. And I finished the story this morning but I was such in a hurry that most of the finale got deleted so I had to rewrite it, so apologize if it’s boring or doesn’t make sense at all. Small reminder, English isn’t my first language so ignore the grammar mistakes if there are any. LOVE YA<3 and feel free to ask something request are open!

[atopvisenyashill]

patterns of abuse with jaehaerys

this post made me deeply depressed and i reread f&b which was my first mistake.

tldr i’m making the argument that jaehaerys definitely sexually abused saera and alysanne, and likely viserra and gael, and also i hate this man. if you disagree and want to say so *nicely* that’s cool but if you hardcore love jae and don’t want to hear criticism, maybe just scroll past bc i���m not nice to him at all (obviously, i’m accusing him of csa lol).

breaking this down by each woman, so there’s 6 sections: saera, viserra, daella, gael, alysanne, and alicent.

saera targaryen

If she were the king’s firstborn, or better still his only child, she would be well content. Instead she finds herself the ninthborn, with six living siblings who are older than her and even more adored. Aemon is to be king, Baelon most like will be his Hand, Alyssa may be all her mother is and more, Vaegon is more learned than she is, Maegelle is holier, and Daella…when does a day go by when Daella is not in need of comfort? And whilst she is being soothed, Saera is being ignored. Such a fierce little thing she is, they say, she has no need of comfort. They are wrong in that, I fear. All men need comfort.

that’s septon barth’s opinion on her and barth is always right. simply put, she’s a deeply neglected child who acts like a brat to get her parents attention because she’s learned the only way they’ll pay attention to her is if she’s causing a problem.

Before she was eleven, she was stealing wine and ale instead. By twelve, she was like as not to arrive drunk when summoned to the sept for prayer.

The king’s half-witted fool, Tom Turnip, was the victim of many of her japes, and her unwitting catspaw for others. Once, before a great feast where many lords and ladies were to be in attendance, she persuaded Tom that it would be much funnier if he performed naked. It was not well received.

stealing alcohol at 10 and being a committed alcoholic at 12 is not normal behavior. it is a sign of something deeply at wrong at home. also, the way she kind of, sexually humiliated tom, someone who is too “innocent” to even realize she’s sexually humiliating him…gives me the ick re: how she views sex.

Saera had learned the art of getting anything she wanted from her father: a kitten, a hound, a pony, a hawk, a horse (Jaehaerys did draw a firm line at the elephant). Queen Alysanne was far less gullible, however, and Septon Barth tells us that Saera’s sisters all misliked her to various degrees.

i don’t like this. nothing wrong with giving your child gifts (see ned going above and beyond to get arya not just instruction on how to fight but also a specific style that would gel with being smaller than your average opponent) but in conjunction with “jaehaerys ignores saera unless she’s pressing him for an expensive gift which he immediately gives her and alysanne doesn’t get why he caved so quickly” its an alarming dynamic.

also speaks to how isolated saera specifically was, that the only siblings that like her (aemon and baelon) are usually out and about, and there’s a clear wedge between saera and her sisters, even viserra.

The screams were coming from Tom Turnip, who was lurching helplessly in circles trying to escape from half a dozen naked whores, whilst the patrons of the house laughed uproariously and shouted on the harlots. Jonah Mooton, Red Roy Connington, and Stinger Beesbury were amongst those patrons, each one drunker than the last. They had thought it would be funny to see old Turnip do the deed, Red Roy admitted. Then Jonah Mooton laughed and said the jape had all been Saera’s notion, and what a funny girl she was.

again with sexually humiliating tom.

it continues with her friends. it’s not unusual for a 15 year old girl to want to fool around with other 15 year olds but alys and perri are all guilt ridden and upset and alys is with child. it reminds me a lot of cersei sexually abusing taena in affc. when she’s caught (now, mind you, she’s been marched in front of her parents sitting on the throne and not brought to them in their private rooms. she’s being treated right off the bat as if she’s guilty of a crime and not guilty of being a shitty teenager):

“She went from denial to dismissal to quibbling to contrition to accusation to justification to defiance in the space of an hour, with stops at giggling and weeping along the way,” Septon Barth would write. “She never did it, they were lying, it never happened, how could they believe that, it was just a game, it was just a jape, who said that, that was not how it happened, everyone likes kissing, she was sorry, Peri started it, it was such fun, no one was hurt, no one ever told her kissing was bad, Sweetberry had dared her, she was so ashamed, Baelon used to kiss Alyssa all the time, once she started she did not know how to stop, she was afraid of Stinger, the Mother Above had forgiven her, all the girls were doing it, the first time she was drunk, she had never wanted to, it was what men wanted, Maegelle said the gods forgave all sins, Jonah said he loved her, the gods had made her pretty, it was not her fault, she would be good from now on, it will be as if it never happened, she would marry Red Roy Connington, they had to forgive her, she would never kiss a man again or do any of those other things, it wasn’t her who was with child, she was their daughter, she was their little girl, she was a princess, if she were queen she would do as she liked, why wouldn’t they believe her, they never loved her, she hated them, they could whip her if they wanted but she would never be their slave. She took my breath away, this girl. There was never a mummer in all the land who gave such a performance, but by the end she was exhausted and afraid, and her mask slipped.”

What does Jaehaerys ask after all of this? “Have you given any of these boys your maidenhead?” Her response:

“True?” said Saera. It was in that moment, with that word, that the contempt came out. “No. I gave it to all three. They all think they were the first. Boys are such silly fools.”

Now mind you, Alyssa and Daella have both died of childbirth recently and her parents are mad she had sex as a 16 year old bordering on 17 year old, and not the fact that she like, at best peer pressured her besties into having sex and now one of them is pregnant. jaehaerys has only asked if she’s still a virgin.

“I will be married,” the princess said. “Why shouldn’t I be? You were married at my age. I shall be wedded and bedded, but to whom? Jonah and Roy both love me, I could take one of them, but they are both such boys. Stinger does not love me, but he makes me laugh and sometimes makes me scream. I could marry all three of them, why not? Why should I have just one husband? The Conqueror had two wives, and Maegor had six or eight.”

i keep trying not to give my opinion and just lay it all out but the thing is i’d just be reposting the whole scene because it’s just filled with so much weird sex stuff. if you don’t remember it, go reread it. it doesn’t feel (to me) like regular “george is bad at writing sex” vibes but “george is purposefully trying to skeeve you out” vibes but i am willing to admit i could be wrong and he really just doesn’t understand what he wrote.

anyways remember how i said saera acts out to get attention from her parents? all she’s done here is act out, her “crimes” are basically nonexistent; beyond how alys feels about being pregnant, saera consensually had sex with boys around her age who aren’t married, and then blithely compared herself to some asshole relatives. if your teenager idolizes dick cheney that’s probably worrying but not a crime! this is not how jae treats it however.

When the princess heard his words, she rushed toward him, crying, “Father, Father!” but Jaehaerys turned his back on her, and Gyles Morrigen caught her by the arm and wrenched her away. She would not go of her own accord, so the guards were forced to drag her from the hall, wailing and sobbing and calling for her father.

The king was angry and unyielding, for his shame was deeply felt, and he could not forget Saera’s taunting words about his uncle’s wives. “She is no longer my daughter,” he said more than once. Queen Alysanne could not find it in her heart to be so harsh, however. “

saera tries to escape.

This time the princess was not allowed to return to her own chambers. She was confined to a tower cell instead, with Jonquil Darke guarding her day and night, even in the privy.

Princess Saera watched from the window of her cell. Jonquil Darke, her gaoler, made certain that she did not turn away.

that’s as her dad is murdering stinger btw. is he a creepy 19 year old? yeah. but like, making your 15 year old watch you murder her 19 year old trust fund baby stoner boyfriend sure is something.

so then they sent her to the silent sisters where she’s beaten all the time and has to pray all the time and she runs away, becomes a sex worker and literally never looks back.

The truth did not come out until a year later, when the former princess was seen in a Lysene pleasure garden, still clad as a novice. Queen Alysanne wept to hear it. “They have made our daughter into a whore,” she said. “She always was,” the king replied.

“You need her as a Dornishman needs a pit viper,” Jaehaerys said. “I am sorry. King’s Landing has sufficient whores. I do not wish to hear her name again.”

but before we move on, let’s look at one more related ick, when saera’s sons show up to the great council:

From Essos came three rival competitors, grandsons of King Jaehaerys through his daughter Saera, each sired by a different father. One was said to be the very image of his grandsire in his youth.

after her drinking, acting out, and jaehaerys’ focus on calling her a whore, explicitly pointing out that one of her grandsons looks just like jae is a choice. i know they’re super inbred. it’s still uncomfortable in context.

viserra targaryen

alysanne makes no sense here but i’m just gonna quickly explain instead of lay it out or we will be here all day bc viserra’s engagement is completely nonsensical. theomore manderly is old, ugly, has a shitton of heirs, and viserra clearly doesn’t want to marry him. also if she wanted to be queen, why is she going after baelon, aemon is still alive. anyways jaehaerys is no help here, then she goes to baelon for help, but she’s also super drunk.

Frustrated, Viserra next turned to her brother Baelon in hopes of rescue, if court gossip can be believed. Slipping past his guards into his bedchamber one night, she disrobed and waited for him, making free with the prince’s wine whilst she lingered. When Prince Baelon finally appeared, he found her drunk and naked in his bed and sent her on her way. The princess was so unsteady that she required the help of two maids and a knight of the Kingsguard to get her safely back to her own apartments.

she gets drunk with some friends again, goes riding, breaks her neck. i wanted to point out this pattern of drinking and acting out at a young age. as well as this pattern of targaryen daughters who aren’t “meant” for a brother and are promised to men who are old and with heirs

daella targaryen

i wanted to add daella because her getting married at 15 makes as little sense as viserra, and her match to a old man with several heirs is equally nonsensical. but also this:

“I would never marry her,” the boy said, in front of half the court. “She can barely read. She should find some lord in need of stupid children, for that’s the only sort he will ever have of her.”

where did vaegon get that mouth.

Daella was not clever, even her septa had to admit. She learned to read after a fashion, but haltingly, and without full comprehension. She could not seem to commit even the simplest prayers to memory. She had a sweet voice, but was afraid to sing; she always got the words wrong. She loved flowers, but was frightened of gardens; a bee had almost stung her once.

Jaehaerys, even more than Alysanne, despaired of her. “She will not even speak to a boy. How is she to marry? We could entrust her to the Faith, but she does not know her prayers, and her septa says that she cries when asked to read aloud from The Seven-Pointed Star.”

The queen always rose to her defense. “Daella is sweet and kind and gentle. She has such a tender heart. Give me time, and I will find a lord to cherish her. Not every Targaryen needs to wield a sword and ride a dragon.”

so daella is 12 at this point.

Her sixteenth nameday was fast approaching, and with it her womanhood. Queen Alysanne was at her wit’s end, and the king had lost his patience. On the first day of the 80th year since Aegon’s Conquest, he told the queen he wanted Daella wed before the year’s end. “If she wants I can find a hundred men and line them up before her naked, and she can pick the one she likes,” he said. “I would sooner she wed a lord, but if she prefers a hedge knight or a merchant or Pate the Pig Boy, I am past the point of caring, so long as she picks someone.”

i just don’t like this. other “simple” targs are not required to marry, like vaella and aelora, two of daeron ii’s grandfaughters so i don’t get why daella is pressured into marrying before she’s even of age. at least jae 2 forced rhaella and aerys because of a prophecy? what is jae’s reasoning for so sexualizing his daughter?

gael targaryen

this one is definitely a reach but i’d like to point out that this is basically all we know about gael:

Princess Gael, a sweet, shy child of seven, became the queen’s constant shadow and support, even sharing her bed at night.

and our information on how she dies is so shady:

A sweet-natured girl, but frail and somewhat simpleminded, she remained with the queen long after her other children had grown and gone, but in 99 AC she vanished from court, and soon afterward it was announced that she had died of a summer fever. Only after both her parents were gone did the true tale come out. Seduced and abandoned by a traveling singer, the princess had given birth to a stillborn son, then, overwhelmed by grief, walked into the waters of Blackwater Bay and drowned.

how does gael get pregnant by a traveling singer when she never leaves her mother’s side? why doesn’t anyone in court know gael got pregnant and killed herself until after aly and jae both die and how was this even found out?

am i implying that jaehaerys sexually abused all four of his daughters? yes because he literally sexually abuses his own wife.

alysanne targaryen

“I am forty-two years old,” she told the king. “You must be content with the children I have given you. I am more suited to be a grandmother than a mother now, I fear.”

King Jaehaerys did not share her certainty. “Our mother, Queen Alyssa, was forty-six when she gave birth to Jocelyn,” he pointed out to Grand Maester Elysar. “The gods may not be done with us.” He was not wrong. The very next year, the Grand Maester informed Queen Alysanne that she was once more with child, to her surprise and dismay.

he uses the birth that killed their mother and that is condemned by rhaena and alysanne as reckless and cruel of rogar to force on her. that birth.

at this point as well, he had abused saera and daella, then they’re gone, then viserra starts drinking and dies, then jae marital rapes aly into having gael, giving him access to another young girl to abuse…i’m aware this is a very uncharitable reading of him but…

alicent hightower (and kind of alyssa targaryen)

Ser Otto’s precocious fifteen-year-old daughter, Alicent, became his constant companion, fetching His Grace his meals, reading to him, helping him to bathe and dress himself. The Old King sometimes mistook her for one of his daughters, calling her by their names; near the end, he grew certain she was his daughter Saera, returned to him from beyond the narrow sea.

saera is the one he fixated on yet again but notable that he’s fixated on his daughters as he dies and not his sons, despite jaehaerys turning to drink after aemon died bc he was so upset.

He announced his intention to wed Lady Alicent of House Hightower, the clever and lovely eighteen-year-old daughter of the King’s Hand, the girl who had read to King Jaehaerys as he lay dying.

The Hightowers of Oldtown were an ancient and noble family, of impeccable lineage; there could be no possible objection to the king’s choice of bride. Even so, there were those who murmured that the Hand had risen above himself, that he had brought his daughter to court with this in mind. A few even cast doubt on Lady Alicent’s virtue, suggesting she had welcomed King Viserys into her bed even before Queen Aemma’s death. (These calumnies were never proved, though Mushroom repeats them in his Testimony and goes so far as to claim that reading was not the only service Lady Alicent performed for the Old King in his bedchamber.)

i know it’s just mushroom being a perv but a rumor that 15 year old alicent “serviced” jaehaerys existing besides rumors that he mistook 15 year old alicent for the daughter he last saw when she was 17 - and viserra was 15, gael 19, and daella 15, all around alicent’s age and all died before age 20. all the targaryen girls that weren’t born “for” a brother exit the narrative after some sort of sexual abuse that centers around jae, as teenagers; daenerys was born for aemon, alyssa for baelon, and maegelle for vaegon before they both fucked off and maegelle was too pious (and too old). this idea of being “for” a brother leads directly to alyssa’s death before 30:

“You were made for battles, and I was made for this. Viserys and Daemon and Aegon, that’s three. As soon as I am well, let’s make another. I want to give you twenty sons. An army of your own!” It was not to be. Alyssa Targaryen had a warrior’s heart in a woman’s body, and her strength failed her. She never fully recovered from Aegon’s birth, and died within the year at only four-and-twenty.

and alysanne being “for” jaehaerys is how he excusing sexually abusing her into a risky pregnancy. essentially what i fear is that because saera, daella, viserra, and gael aren’t “for” someone, jaehaerys gets it into his mind that that are for him. even without him raping them tho, that subtext is there! he is entitled to saera’s virginity and calls her a whore multiple times, even decades after she’s left, and murders her boyfriend in front of her. he claims a weird sexual ownership over his neurodivergent daughter daella and his alcoholic, depressed daughter viserra, and we get zero information on gael’s pregnancy or his reaction to it. but jaehaerys deciding his daughters are “for” him certainly has a basis in canon just judging from the erratic and worrying behavior of his younger daughters.

jaehaerys is a creep and i hate him and i don’t know how much of this is on purpose (like, will aegon vi or dany find out jaehaerys was a shady pedo and it shatters their world? will dunk and egg find it out and it affects their plot somehow? did george just put it in there to make a comment on power and monarchy and misogyny, similar to aegon iv raping the bracken women? or is just there for window dressing creepiness, like “i will pepper in the fact that jaehaerys is sexually obsessed with his daughters” thing?) or if george just made jaehaerys sexually obsessed with his daughters on accident?

on the one hand, it seems out of character for george. he romanticizes drogo thru dany’s eyes but it’s clear he’s meant to be seen as a creep (dany talking about being pregnant followed by “she had just turned 14” is sickeningly jarring for a reason) and also, drogo dies bc of his own pride. sansa doesn’t like any of the old dudes touching her; she is at least marginally freaked out by her wedding night, the unkiss, and lf & dontos taking liberties with her, and rightly. the story that’s told about the mountain raping a girl and making the father pay him is meant to disgust us. the walk of shame is a harrowing chapter to read, because whatever cersei’s crimes, this sexual humiliation is not something she deserves. on and on. yes, we all hate the way arya is sexualized in the mercy chapter, but crucially, she’s not blithely and happily seducing these pervs, she’s going hard candy on their asses. is this just messy set up for something like that?? i think, given how little dany knows about her family’s crimes that somehow learning jae sexually abused (and maybe even impregnated) his own daughters after she herself experiences sexual abuse would be huge. the same goes for aegon vi learning that sexual abuse runs rampant in his family tree; would he empathize with saera hiding out in essos to escape the sexual abuse of her father, see some of elia and his own plight in her? in gael?

or did george really just. not realize how sexually obsessed jaehaerys was with his daughters?

idk how to end this. where’s the winds of winter george i need answers.

[askens-konge]

𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐂𝐀𝐍𝐎𝐍: 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐃𝐎𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐀𝐍𝐓𝐒 𝐎𝐅 𝐎𝐃𝐈𝐍

While it is true that no other Dominant of Odin had been recorded in history aside from Barnabas, he was not the first Dominant of the eikon. He is one of many throughout the several millennia but due to the collapse of civilisation roughly two thousand years ago and the exodus of the Circle of Malius to the outer continents as a result, scholars do not know about previous reincarnations.

Odin is normally passed down in the Tharmr family from parent to child, but can manifest in any other member of the family if the ritual is not performed correctly or Odin simply rejects the child. The previous Dominant of Odin was Barnabas' mother, who was struck down in Ash during a raid from a different tribe on their village. Since their return to Valisthea, she has not used her powers and in general was known for her mercy and her good nature. Therefore, no one outside the village knew about her inheritance of the eikon to begin with.

Barnabas was forced to kill his mortally wounded mother in order to inherit the eikon and awaken it—he was eleven years old at the time. This ritual is the common way to inherit Odin. His mother did the same with her parent and so on. Children are prepared for this duty and memorise a prayer for the occasion.

"I stand before you, Odin. With your dark blade at your chest, I challenge you to grant me your blessing. I call upon you, Warden of Darkness, to grant me your strength and your power. Take your former vessel as blood tribute in your honour, and take my own body as the vessel for your will."

Now, like I said, the ritual is not always performed and Odin inherited from parent to child. This was the case for the second Dominant of Odin. The first Dominant of Odin was a woman named Bestla, who perished in a battle against the first Dominant of Phoenix. The Rosfield's legendary blade Dawnbreaker was forged to its completion when she was killed with it, and thus banishing the darkness. The next Dominant of the Warden of Darkness was one of her grandchildren, who had not been born at the time of her death.

Later on, Odin's preference for the child who strikes down their parent became well known among the tribe due to an accident in which a father was about to kill his son in rage. From this, the ritual was slowly developed.

Although the story did not survive outside the records of the Tharmr family as an oral story or the secret records of the Undying, the Dominants of Odin are referred to as the "Children of Bestla" to this day.

[cinewhore]

Worth Every Dime

I’ve been reading a lot about the “Dollar Princess” and this story came to me and hasn’t left me alone since. 

A little history lesson: dollar princesses were American new money heiresses in the late 19th century who married normally broke nobility from Britain to receive a higher title while the men got a large chunk of change.

Authors note: starting to do more original things as I felt that fanfic was pushing me to create in a sort of box I did not wish to be in. Yes, there may be some grammar issues but surely they can be overlooked? It feels nice to write something for me again without the strain of all that comes with sharing your creations. Enjoy it or not. In the words of a great scientist: “I didn’t make him for you!”

Audrey Everett was a handful and she was very aware of that fact. It shown in every aspect of her life, from the elegant outfits she wore to the people she occupied herself with. She enjoyed that no one in particular could manage to rein her in. Her parents, however, found it repulsive.

“You mustn’t act so brash.” Her mother would scold after yet another suitor denounced their pursuits for her hand. “You’ll besmirch our name.”

What’s in a name?

Well, for the Everett’s, it was oil. Lots of it.

James Everett knew how to play his hand right and make risks that even the other professionals in his line of work wouldn’t dream of.*Lucky bastard*, they would whisper behind their glasses during a social gathering. How did he get it all? The money, the house, the wife, the picture perfect family?

The American dream.

It’s yours, too, if you could afford it.

While it was enough for James, his wife proved different and she made sure to remind him of his shortcomings every chance she got.

“Our daughter will never marry and be seen as some sort of spinster. Or worse, incompetent! Barren!” Margaret would hiss at him.

Margaret knew both of those things to be untrue for she had hired the best tutors for Audrey and saw to it that her daughter remained pure after she was caught with the boy from the other side of town.

No, Margaret wanted more. She needed more.

The ad in the paper came to her seemingly out of thin air. All her prayers had been answered.

The plan was simple. A title in exchange for a hand in marriage. There were hundreds of British men searching for their American sweetheart and Margaret was going to ride this train all the way to the bank.

“No.” Audrey would later exhale, glaring down her mother from across the table.

“Do not backtalk me. A bunch of other girls have done the same thing and look where it gets them! A noble title, high status, an estate with servants at every corner. You’ll be treated like a princess.”

Audrey steels herself, perfectly sculpted eyebrow raising. “I know what it gets, mother. A piss poor excuse of a man and a cold home.”

Margaret gestures to Ann, pointing to the table. Ann scurries over quickly, clearing the tea cups and half eaten sandwiches while keeping her head down. Margaret is careful as she gets up from her seat, pacing toward Audrey.

“Do you wish to end up alone? Without someone there to take care of you? Do you not want me to be a grandmother?”

“If my children are to be raised by you then I suppose I’m doing them a favor by never having any.”

The slap was expected.

“You better learn to fix that attitude and mouth of yours because this is happening, your choice or not.”

Audrey took one look at her future husband and one thing was certain: she was going to eat him alive.

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

Matilda checked her bags, assuring that everything was in tact. Nothing was amiss as she didn’t have much to her name but it never hurt to be certain.

Fool, she thought. You need to stop acting childish and return home. Shaking her head, Matilda clutches her belongings tightly, looking over her ticket stub. Her trembling fingers rub circles over the material, wearing it down with each passing touch.

The ticket salesmen looked her over twice before handing her the ticket, asking if she needed another. There was no way an unchaperoned woman such as herself was making the trip on her own.

She muttered her thanks, briskly walking off to avoid another form of questioning. Should anyone else ask, Matilda answered them by saying her husband was awaiting her arrival and this proved to be a sufficient answer for most.

The horns from the ship sounded and a startled Matilda jumps onto her feet. The quicker she got aboard, the faster she could get to her new life and leave this messy one behind.

The mixture of foreign languages caressed Matilda’s ears and made her giddy for the world she was preparing to enter. Sure, New York was a melting pot but London was rising from the ashes and she wanted so desperately to belong.

Matilda was lucky that she was able to afford a second class ticket, indulging in the small luxuries it brought her. She was careful not to stray about too much as there were strict rules about where she could and couldn’t be, a natural conformist. It would only be day three of her journey where she would break this rule, scrambling to get to the top deck for fresh air.

The regret and realization began to settle and it reached its lanky hand up Matilda’s throat, helping her empty her stomach and ruined her sleep.

She gasped for air as if it had been stolen from her, hands gripping the railing with loose might. The inky sky stretched on for miles and this is when Matilda knew that there was no turning back.

Sharp whispers break her brief panic and Matilda makes herself smaller as she observes a man and a woman some feet away from her, in a heated conversation. She had half a mind to speak up but the cat had her tongue and was refusing to let go.

From the shadows, Matilda gazes intently as the man grabs the woman by her shoulders, forcing his mouth onto hers. The woman stops in her tracks and it makes Matilda reel backward, afraid that she would be labeled a peeping tom for being present for such an intimate moment.

Before she could sneak away, the jingles of the lady’s jewels adorning her dress causes her to halt.

“..may have my hand but you’ll never have my body or my heart.” The woman spits, struggling in the mans hold.

“If you think I married you for your body then you are sadly mistaken. Do not think for a second that I am without affections but if you wish to keep the title I gave you, you must learn when to be a good girl and take it.”

The irate man makes another advance on the woman but she calculates this and takes a swift step to her left, his foot getting tangled in the bottom of her dress.

Matilda to this day couldn’t accurately recount what she saw as the truth or a figment of her selfish imagination but either way, with a tiny slip, or perhaps it was a push, he went over the railing.

Audrey’s chest heaved as she heard the splash from below, making a careful effort not to look. What she did not see, she couldn’t lie about.

Matilda remained frozen in her position, assessing what to do next. Should she call for help? There had to be some sort of  night patrol. She stopped the thought before it could fully form, not understanding the gravity of the situation laid out before her. There had to be more to this story.

In the span of a week, Audrey Everett had become a bride and a widow.

Gathering her wits and the retched gown she swore to burn after tonight, Audrey begins her descent back to her suite when she stops. The hairs along the back of her neck stand on edge, legs wobbling as she turns her torso. Out of the corner of her eye, nestled beneath a small light, was a figure.

With bated breath, Audrey regards the lady with slight terror and awe. Goosebumps from along her arms, mouth left agape. Their gaze locks, remaining in tact for what felt like an eternity. The rest simply faded into obscurity.

This is the story of how they fell in love.

[fatedwithmbc]

I love break week. There’s something about NOT having to take those purple Alka-Seltzer sized tablets that makes me feel the tiniest bit normal. Aside from still having moderate levels of fatigue, my dysphagia has taken a break from disrupting my eating and I’m sleeping well.

I’m making my leave of absence goals happen too. I may be sleeping late, but I am getting physical movement or chores done every day. I am getting my ass out of bed and doing shit. I’m proud of my new self- but also mourning the old self who could run circles around new me.

The grill I bought yesterday was delivered today. It’s all set-up, tested and now safely covered. I was able to get the old one out to the front yard (Mom-Mom helped with some of the harder parts, i.e. porch stairs). And now I just need to pray that a scrapper will drive by and snag it up Thursday night/Friday morning.

Aside from that, I filled the bird feeder. Checked on the brood in our bird house (still chirping away) which is a highlight for me. Just hearing those little guys and knowing they were born and are being cared for in a couple pieces of wood just makes me happy. And I feel protective of them even though I can’t see them. I see the parents though. The males are known to be aggressive, so I am very careful when I approach the underside of the birdhouse just to get an earful of their warbling. They are House Wrens (if I identified the adults correctly).

Next was filling Bailey’s water dish and watering the Dragon Tail I received from my friend Allace. It was sheer irony that she picked that plant to give me as it was one of my Dad’s favorites. He would select them for his own garden, when he decided to create and tend to one. He had a green thumb and could care for a plant instinctively, without instruction. I think a tiny bit of that may have been passed down to me as I’ve been able to keep my African Violet growing and healthy- same with our Prayer Plant and a Shamrock that I repotted (it had been on it’s last legs and last sprig). It has thrived since repotting. Same with our Wandering Jew. I have a few more I’d like to replant by the end of summer: a Christmas Cactus, a Bird’s Nest Snake plant and I’ll probably find something to nurse at Primex.

Plants aside, I completed the “chores” I had. Mostly admin tasks to ensure my leave of absence is on track to end when my doctor indicated and not earlier. I also enrolled in a vendor program called Prudent RX that will aid me with the costs of my cancer medication until my deductible is met. This will be a huge help. Insurance pays $13,000 per month for this drug and that is definitely not in the realm of affordable for this average “Jane”. I contacted my nurse navigator to get a definitive answer as to where my lab work needs to be completed. I’ve always gone to the cancer center, but I need to ensure it’s in-network and that I don’t need to use Quest or LabCorp. I suspect I’ll have to go outside of the cancer center. I also made an outreach to a local woman who unfortunately lost her teenage son to cancer. She created a foundation and I contribute what I can since it’s inception. But ultimately, I was asking if she had a suggestion for a support group. This was a suggestion from Cheryl and such a good one as now I have a woman who has MBC that I can talk to- who wears my shoes, feels my feelings, and is still coping and living despite the diagnosis.

With the medical chores completed, I was finally able to drop off my Sister-In-Law’s Mother’s Day gift. We were able to spend some time chatting which was nice. It’s been awhile since her and I had some time together- well, my last visit with all of them was Easter and/or Jackson’s first T-Ball game. He has another one tomorrow that I hope to make it to. I briefly saw my brother before they had to pick Jackson up from school.

I went to Starbucks prior to stopping back home to change into sneakers for Walking Wednesday with Brian. We walked about 3ish miles. I didn’t wear my watch or bring my phone, so this is a guesstimate. I like not having my phone or watch - it makes me more present as to what’s on the trail and by the water (animals; mostly the birds, today some deer) and more present in my conversations with Brian. Gosh, I’m just so lucky he was chosen and accepted the role of my God Father. He has been so amazingly supportive. He’s encouraged me to walk everyday, but I’m not sure I’m there yet. I also told him about my blog, and stressed it’s anonymous with the exception of a few close friends and family who know about it. I’m on the fence about sharing with him. He encouraged my writing, stating it’s cathartic and it is. I don’t do this because I’m “good” at it. I do it to clear my mind and my heart. Am I betraying him by not sharing this with him? More food for thought.

I still have my two big projects: yarn donation and closet clean out. I’ll start on them, but they feel overwhelming- maybe because it means I am getting rid of things. I have unusual sentimental attachment to things. Clothes and yarn typically don’t fall into that space, but I don’t know how else to explain the avoidance of either task aside from them requiring significant effort. I will do these things. They will get done. Shoot, I’ve done more difficult things (my small contribution to cleaning out Dad’s apartment).

Well, as midnight approaches, I’m going to let my magical Apple Ring Hybrid Gummy help me drift off to dream land.

El fin.

[foulbearobservation]

hey hi hello coming to your ask box direct from my real life occupation as an adult bc I saw that gifset of camila-iS hE stEALING praYERS FrOm GOD-no-last-name and lost it in the break room.

honourable mention on the “camila is a fake nun” evidence list should go to that scene is S1 where Lilith has just come back from hell and is all banged up in Dr Salvius’s totally dubious medical facility (don’t get me started) and Beatrice and camila are like “damn girl death sure didn’t stick huh” and camila crosses herself like she’s voguing - the level of drama in the movement was entirely incompatible with her being a serious nun and I am incapable of seeing otherwise.

ALSO I saw the “camila bi-panics with Ava” thoughts (LOVE by the way and PLEASE let us witness Ava explain to bea why she’s losing her shit over her phone) and I raise you the aftermath of mother superion getting that “hi so I’m maybe into Lilith? Thoughts? (And prayers?)” text from cam and just drinking scotch staring into the middle distance contemplating the stats of all her nuns actually being gay

(bonus points if all her totally normal and not at all charged “heated philosophical debates” with dr salvius begin to circle in her thoughts while playing the jaws theme)

Wow sorry this became an essay bestie being Responsible exacerbates the mental illness yknow how it is 😔

hello sorry to make u lose it in the break room 😭 in my defense I'm usually losing my shit in my office so at least I get to inflict the pain on others now lmfao

HELP I always think catholics look a little silly when they're doing the sign of the cross but now I gotta go back and rewatch those scenes because they're filled with So Much camilith

ALSO not this being the thing that makes mother superion want to renounce her vows like she gets that fun update from camila and goes. fuck I need a drink. FUCK I'm a nun I can't drink. fuck I have a homoerotic friendship with local scientist. FUCK.

mother superion absolutely does not get paid enough for this like she's SO TIRED

[mutterboard]

Yeah, I’m not a crazy stalker or anything, just scroll radblr tag often. No hate to you either. Just curious.

(First of all I'd love to explain myself more correctly but my English is Shite and second, I realized this may not be the answer you're looking for since it's more of a personal opinion rather than an objective one). I find the concept of religion very primitive already, I always did since I was a child, and seeing people try to cater it towards circles who are clearly against it it's just very... weird to me but I understand it's probably not malicious. My school is catholic hence we always had to do the little Lord's Prayer and the pledge of allegiance before class like normal but I slowly realized how out of touch I was with religion by being with my peers. Others did ALL those small rituals which seemed really unnecessary and complicated to me so in my little peanut brain plus a small talk with my mother I started to engine that, I liked the morals of catholism but not the church. I started to hate the version of God people gave me, so I claimed to be agnostic. The morals I "believed" in too became senseless as religious people used it to support their bigotry and ignorance, most major religions work with operant conditioning and suppression of the thoughts that stray from the particular belief. Soon there was nothing I actually believed besides facts because I understood that my thinking didn't had to be defined by religion.

This is rambling, but what I'm trying to get into is that even if your religion is supposedly not -phobic or bigoted and anyone can be part of it, why do you promote it to people who clearly think religious beliefs serve no purpose in modern life? Is that you can't think without having a preset of beliefs you're allowed to have, or do you have to remind yourself you have those beliefs everyday? I think we're confusing religion with philosophy here (or even your own spiritualism)(?) You can believe in anything you want to, even if your religion gets to 4 or 50 people it shouldn't be my problem but there is a difference on how religion operates thinking (Linking everything to faith) and how you, are boxing your thinking into a religion. I'm sorry this take sounds ignorant and immature towards whatever you believe, I'm open to read your reply Anon despite... Me hating everything lolz.

[gealach-in-a-misty-world]

Nestled at the head of a supercontinent, framed by sky and sea, lies Luriat, the city of bright doors. The doors are everywhere in the city, squatting in walls where they don’t belong, painted in vivid warning. They watch over a city of art and avarice, of plagues and pogroms, and silently refuse to open. No one knows what lies beyond them, but everyone has their own theory and their own relationship to the doors. Researchers perform tests and take samples, while supplicants offer fruit and flowers and hold prayer circles. Many fear the doors as the source of hauntings from unspeakable realms. To a rare unchosen few, though, the doors are both a calling and a bane. Fetter is one of those few. When Fetter was born, his mother tore his shadow from him. She raised him as a weapon to kill his sainted father and destroy the religion rising up in his sacred footsteps. Now Fetter is unchosen, lapsed in his devotion to both his parents. He casts no shadow, is untethered by gravity, and sees devils and antigods everywhere he goes. With no path to follow, Fetter would like to be anything but himself. Does his answer wait on the other side of one of Luriat’s bright doors?

"Is the chain ever free?". Vajra Chandrasekera's The Saint of Bright Doors is a lyrical marvel of a novel, a richly detailed exploration of agency, cults, and familial abuse. In this standalone, fantastical story, we follow the son of a major cult leader as he leaves home and finds himself in a city with a thousand strange doors. Not everything is clearly explained, but the nebulous nature of some things really sells the atmosphere. The major questions are answered, though, and some more, letting the reader glimpse some tantalizing truths.

The worldbuilding is immaculate, detailing a complex world that's so much more than what it's shown, as clearly said in the surprising final part of the novel, which is exhilarating with its paradigm shift. We explore the city and then the world with Fetter, uncovering secrets and trying to overthrow a tyrannical government that vanishes people into prisons as big as a country. We see him lose himself in many identities as he tries to be many people at once, uncertain of his place in the world, molded by his mother's abuse and by his powerful father's absence. The doors are a riveting mystery that remains partly unexplained.

The supporting cast is a delight, from the jaded revolutionary to the door scholar to his fellow Unchosen. Fetter's mother gets some more spotlight in the second half, and her story sheds some light on the nebulous nature of this world. She is a formidable character, looming large in the narrative, perhaps more than Fetter's father, who's still masterfully painted when we finally get to know him. And then the twist leads to a payoff that, while feeling somewhat abrupt and sudden, still works.

The narrative normalizes queer relationships, although in-story queerness is formally against the law. Fetter is bisexual, and he has to navigate what his relationships mean when he struggles to be someone that he's not. There's an intriguing glimpse of a wlw relationship in the background, which in some way ends up shaping the story.

The Saint of Bright Doors is a stunning debut, a lyrical delight.

✨ 4 stars

[You can find more of my reviews about queer speculative fiction on my blog MISTY WORLD]

[cl0udy3]

𝐃𝐈𝐒𝐂𝐎𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐄𝐃

lo’ak x (omaticaya) reader

fluff :3 (maybe a little bit of angst :o)

a/n: idk lol just wanted to write some more

quick rundown: you and lo’ak are in a secret relationship, who knows how long he’ll last without his mom/the ENTIRE clan finding out lol

𝐋𝐨'𝐚𝐤 𝐚𝐝𝐦𝐢𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐚𝐟𝐚𝐫, 𝐰𝐚𝐭𝐜𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲 𝐦𝐨𝐯𝐞. He was completely entranced by your flawless motions as you splashed around in the small lake, his siblings jumping around in the water near you.

Your rugged personality seemed so elegant to him. He was in love. 

It had been a few weeks since he realized it. He began feeling nervous when things that seemed normal before, almost gave him heart attacks now. 

When you would sit on a rock above him, feet hanging off the edge, while he set between your legs so you could braid his hair; how your hands would slightly graze his face while you moved it to do his hair at a certain angle. The way he could feel your plush thighs next to his face. Anything you did would make him a stuttering mess.

Although, his mother was not so pleased with this. Neytiri began noticing the way Lo’ak acted around you. How he would flush so much easier, and his stuttering. 

“I do not like her, she does seem like a good girl to be next Tsahik with you!”

“Mother please!” He was begging on his knees at this point, “I love her,”

“No is no my sweet child. I want you to stay away from her.” Neytiri stared at her son sternly, her face in a slight frown, eyebrows furrowed. Lo'ak mumbled some silent curses under his breath and ran out of the tent. Neytiri watched as he left, her eyes following every moving limb as he ran.

Lo'ak felt tears threatening to fall as he sprinted further from the hut.

“Ah, my Lo’ak-” You quickly walked to talk to him, but he harshly pushed past you and kept sprinting, ”Lo’ak?” You yelled, his figure only shrinking faster. You followed him as he dashed into the lush forest, his feet hitting the greenery and making soft sounds as he dashed further in.

The closer you got, his sobs were audible. He had run so far, you were near the Tree of Souls. You heard him whispering, “Ma Eywa, hear my prayers and convince my mother to like her,”

“Lo’ak?” His head snapped to you, your figure slowly coming to light as you peeked around some leaves. You walked to him. His cheeks were slightly wet with tears and he was on his knees, hands clasped together. Lo’ak released his hands and stood, his footsteps light as he walked over the foliage to you.

“She does not like you,”

“Who? Lo’ak what is going on?!”

He sniffled and hugged you, resting his head in the crook of your neck. You felt his tears stain your chest with liquid as he lightly cried once more. Lo’ak raised his head and looked at you, his eyes pink. He was worried, angry, sad, and everything in between. 

“Lo’ak what is going on, please just tell me!” He only sniveled in response, still silent, unable to form any words or sentences as the shock from his mother’s rejection still didn’t sit with him.

“I want you to be the future Tsahik with me.” He blurted out.

“What?” You were aghast. The words that spilled out of his mouth were not something you didn’t want, but it was still surprising.

You hugged him closer, trying to comfort him, “Ma Lo’ak, it is okay. Please, just, calm down.”

 He shivered under your touch and continued sobbing. He wanted to tell you everything, but he couldn’t.

In the forest, a twig snapped and you turned your head, alert of any invaders. Though, nothing appeared. You turned your attention back to Lo’ak and began tracing circles on his back.

Neytiri was spying in the bushes, watching your interaction with Lo’ak. She did not like you nor trust you with him, therefore coming to check on you and Lo’ak in your ‘secret spot’ where the two of you would stay together.

“Lo’ak, it is all okay. If your mother does not like me, it is fine. I cannot take you away from your family.”

Lo’ak raised his head to look at you, your eyes slightly shining with the reflection of the Tree of Souls. Your beauty never ceased to amaze him. Whenever he would gaze into your eyes or stare at you while you gathered rations for the tribe, even the way you gracefully splashed around in the water with his sisters.

He straightened his posture and looked at you, smiling, “Oh y/n, how you never cease to please me, only making me love you more and more.”

You giggled and a light rose-colored blush dusted your cheeks. Lo’ak raised his arms and caressed your cheeks with both hands; you raised yours as well to hold his hands in yours.

Lo’ak kissed your forehead and embraced you.

Neytiri continued watching from afar, although she was taken aback by your last statement. She was starting to maybe consider you different than she expected.

“Now, Lo’ak, leave before your mother gets angry and apologize to Neytiri, I am very sure you fought with her before you came to the Tree.”

Lo’ak laughed lightly and kissed your cheek, before leaving. He still grasped your hands as he walked, slowly letting go as he walked further. 

And so, after, you and Lo’ak entered a secret relationship, hidden away from Neytiri and the rest of the clan.

Albeit, Neytiri still managed to know about them, she kept her acknowledgment a secret to see her son’s happiness.

One day, while out with the Sully family daughters, Neteyam and Lo’ak followed the three of you to a small clearing. The brothers sat off to the side in a corner, while you and Tuk flicked water at each other.

Kiri dipped her feet in the small pond of water, laughing as you and Tuk played. 

Neteyam watched the three of you with a smile on his face, enjoying the moment with his family. He looked over to his younger brother, who had an especially wide grin.

“What are you staring at lover boy?”

Lo’ak snapped his head back and looked at Neteyam, “W- What are you talking about bro,”

Neteyam snickered and playfully punched Lo’ak’s shoulder.

“Don’t think I haven’t caught you staring at her like she’s some sort of angel sent by Eywa.”

Lo’ak looked away, his face and ears turning red. Neteyam laughed loudly and fell back, kicking his legs in the air.

“I knew it!”

You turned your focus to Neteyam and Lo’ak, who was blushing while his brother died of laughter. In a sudden pounce, Tuk took advantage while you were distracted and jumped on you, falling into the water. You yelled as you fell, Tuk laughing while she sat laughing on her back on the grassy floor.

“Tuk, you rascal!”

You smiled and lunged at Tuk and tackled her, tickling her while she laughed uncontrollably.

Neteyam wiped a tear from his eye and stood up, sitting on a rock next to Lo’ak. He looked at his brother expecting some kind of smile, but he was frowning. 

Lo’ak reminisced about that night when Neytiri utterly rejected his proposal for you as his Tsahik.

“Lo’ak, are you ok?” Neteyam is slightly worried.

“It’s fine, just mom doesn’t really like her.”

Neteyam did not have much to say. He only left it there as you approached them, noticing a glum atmosphere between the two. You grabbed Lo’ak’s hand and dragged him into the small pool with you.

“Cheer up, come on!”

Lo’ak felt the recoil as the sudden dragging sent a jolt through his body. His frown turned into a smile as you firmly gripped his hands and pulled him to the pond. 

He stumbled to a halt at the edge of the small body of water. You had already stepped in, hand still grasping his.

“Come on, Lo’ak!”

Kiri and Tuk came from behind and pushed him in. 

Lo’ak lost his footing and tumbled into the pond, landing on you with a thud. You closed your eyes as the two of you fell into the water. 

Your hands came up, feeling his chest as his hands lay on the sides of your head, and one of his legs between yours. You opened your eyes and instantly flushed red. The proximity between the two of you made it extremely warm between each other.

“Ah! Lo’ak uhm-”

He pecks your lips, “Shhh, calm down.” He chuckles.

You smirked and pushed him off.

“Now you’re getting it, come over here y/n!”

He launched himself at you, capturing you in his arms and throwing water at you. You protected your face, laughing while trying to defend yourself from Lo’ak’s attacks.

ੈ♡˳

It had already been a few weeks since you and Lo’ak had kept your secret relationship. 

Suddenly one day, Neytiri approached Lo’ak while he was with you. 

He had accompanied you while you went out to gather herbs and food for the clan. 

Neytiri had a straight face and she had a slightly ominous aura emitting from her. 

You and Lo’ak were laughing, playing around. Your mate turned his head towards the sound of leaves moving. His mother came to light.

“I would like to speak to the two of you.” 

Her words sent a chill down your spine and you set the small basket down, grabbing Lo’ak’s hand. You looked at him in the eyes, confident. He nodded his head and walked closer to Neytiri with your hand still firmly grasped in his.

“Now, Lo’ak, you may have thought you were sly and could get away, but do not think it would escape my vision.”

Lo’ak swallowed a lump in his throat, “Mother I-”

“Ah, shush. I know the two of you have been secretly meeting each other. I gave it some good consideration and I will...”

She paused hesitantly, “I will let the two of you be partners.”

Lo’ak’s ears slightly perked up and he let go of your hands, engulfing his mother in a tight hug. He smiled. He was so happy almost to the point of tears.

“Thank you, mother! I knew Eywa would hear my prayers!”

Neytiri looked at her son with adoration and softly pat his head while embracing him. She closed her eyes and rested her head on his for a moment.

You stood awkwardly not knowing what to do. Neytiri opened her eyes and looked at you.

“If you hurt him in any way, I will make sure you live a life of hell.”

You sweat nervously, “Ah! I promise I will not, Mrs. Sully.”

She gave you a small look of approval and then let go of Lo’ak.

He ran up to you and cuddled you deeply. You rested your head in the crook of his neck and sighed contently. 

Lo’ak lifted your head from your chin and stared deeply into your eyes as they shined under the speckled sun that fell through the thick layer of trees.

“𝐍𝐠𝐚 𝐲𝐚𝐰𝐧𝐞 𝐥𝐮 𝐨𝐞𝐫“

You smiled happily, “I love you too, Lo’ak.”

a/n: SORRY IF THIS IS BAD ITS KIND OF HALF ASSED LMFAO

[lucids]

Cut off fake friends to save your life.

"I've cut off so called 'friends' who I've known for years because it wasn't feeling right. I'd rather be alone than be around the wrong people."

"Frenemies. They are very dangerous people. As soon as you stop serving a purpose to them, they turn on you."

"Everybody displays red flags even though it's subtle."

"If you do have an instinct that something is wrong, listen to it and pay more attention to what is going on."

"Always pay attention to the vibes that 'friend' gives you."

"This is why so many of us stay to ourselves. You can't trust people these days."

"I'm so grateful that when my spirit tells me someone is not for me I stay away from them and I don't give a darn who don't understand it or like it."

"When you upgrade your life and become successful you really need to constantly reevaluate your social circle too."

"This proves that people who prefer to be alone and introverted are not crazy."

"God tell us to love each other but not that we need to hang out. Keeping to yourself is the true path."

"Exactly which is why I love being an introvert can't trust anybody nowadays."

"Facts I love being by myself and staying to myself bc u really can’t trust anyone these days."

"People call me crazy for being alone everyday, but my life and my kids life is all that matters I am not losing my life over low vibrational people period! I am an introvert and introverts are very wise and we use our discernment."

"Proud introvert here. People can call me whatever they like I wouldn't change for the world. The only friend I need is God and I have family that loves me."

"I make no apologies for distancing myself from people. I can sense when something is off with people; therefore, I keep a small circle."

"There is nothing wrong with being selective and choosing wisely."

"Crazy means illogical. I don't know why normal people think introverts are crazy. They don't make sense."

"Been called boring and weird for loving my alone time. This is the reason why. People really don’t care about you but what you can do for them. I stay to myself for a reason."

"I don't visit anyone and don't let anyone visit me. My mother lived the same way and I follow suit."

"I be alone and I’ll stay alone I can feel when something isn’t right immediately and I will not fool with you! No we are not crazy!!! We are wise and intuitive with a spirit of discernment!! It’s my protection in this crazy world!"

"I am constantly preaching to people about the importance of picking good people to travel/vacation with."

"You really have to watch who you call a friend. I spend a lot of my time by myself, as I grow older because you learn everyone is not your friend."

"Upgrading yourself brings out a different level of bitter in some people. Especially when you both started in the same predicament."

"I stay to myself, mind my business, and move in silence."

"We can not control who our children decide to have in their space but if you instill 'quality over quantity' it will always bring them to question each and everyone."

"You better listen get away from people that don't like you I'm so serious."

"Fake friends are more dangerous than real enemies."

"The truth is keeping fake friends is like signing your own death warrant. Just don't do it."

"You start to notice the little stupid jokes and jealousy. Never be afraid to walk alone."

"That's why I keep to myself."

"I tell these youngsters all the time, know the difference between a friend and an associate.  I've got people I've known for 30 yrs, they throw that word friend around. I just smile at them."

"Parents do our best to guide our children but once they’re young adults, prayer, advice and encouragement is the best we can do! This world has a lot of negative energy floating around and some are easy hosts for it, used to carry out evil acts. Keep your circle small and solid. Trust your intuition and don’t second guess yourself when you feel that someone around you is toxic or a threat to you in any way. Wishing us all peace, positive energy and God’s protection."

"Jealousy is the absolute worst emotion. If someone is jealous or envious of you...RUN as far and as fast as you can away from that situation. It may not seem like a big deal to you but to the person who is envious or jealous, it's definitely a matter of life or death with them."

"Please ladies, cut those fake friends, fake feelings, and fake relationships out your lives. You don’t need them."

"Don’t let people know everything about you."

"That’s why I only associate with women who love to see other women prosper."

"As you grow and elevate reevaluate the relationships in your life: business, romantic, friendship, family. Not everyone needs access to you."

"Honestly, with the way this world is coming to, we all should try to stay to ourselves. Get to Know ourselves. Enjoy your own company. Listen to your intuition! Have a Very, Very Small or No Circle at this point. Ask the Most High for Wisdom and Clear Ability to make Wise Decisions."

"Stay Safe."

[natalieironside]

"In the Court of the Nameless Queen" now available in ebook and paperback (wow very cool)

Hello everyone it is I, award-winning speculative fiction author Natalie H. Ironside, author of The Last Girl Scout and Lead and Roses: Love Songs at the End of the World and as heard on the Tales to Terrify podcast, and I've gone and done did it again. If you like dark fantasy and queer erotica featuring big hot monster women and sword-swinging girls (both cis and normal) who love girls, golly have I got something for you!

Take a trip across the sundered worlds to the Queendom of Corynnod, a dark realm of sorcery and desire, ruled over by she who is Queen, goddess, and mother to us all, in four fantastical and titillating tales of wonder, adventure, love, sex, and—of course—spiders.

Herein you'll find the following four exciting and XXX too-rowdy-for-tv tales:

BROOD: A true and credible account of how Freydis Thorkilsdottir, war witch, became Freydis Gothi and the Mother of Abominations. Freydis Thorkilsdottir, soldier and war witch in the army of the Nameless Queen, has always struggled to find a place for herself as a transgender woman. She volunteers to lead men over the walls in a castle assault, in hopes that, should she survive, she might earn the attentions—and the favors—of her great and terrible araneidan Queen . . .

Chanting prayers to their Queen, they drew a circle of blood around the altar and lit candles, bathing the nighted cathedral in flickering light. As they worked, the Nameless Queen nibbled Freydis’ ear and whispered, “You know what’s about to happen, right?”

“I’ve… heard stories, my Queen.”

“The stories are mostly true.”

Freydis at once gulped in terror and moaned in delirious anticipation.

THE APOSTATE: An account of how Freydis Gothi made the acquaintance of her most beloved and treasured servant. Fleeing oppression and unspeakable abuse, Kristina Kaminski—a woman who loves women in a land where such things are not allowed—travels into the grim and mysterious north and meets a most peculiar woman upon the shores of the sea. As she settles into her new life, it comes to pass that a dark conversion often necessitates a dark baptism . . .

The two women kissed as, overhead, the sounds of revelry upon the knarr’s deck grew louder, more intense. Freydis nibbled Kristina’s lip as she broke off the kiss and said, “I must say that the thought of corrupting a Khethian nun is rather delightful.”

“I put myself here of my own knowing volition, Freydis. I’ve come pre-corrupted.”

TRANSMUTATION: An account of the coming of Steff Pelczynski, diabolist, to Caer Eldur and the court of the Marchioness. Steff is no man, but don’t try telling her that. When the young wizard travels into the north, seeking a change, she—with the help of a rather commanding older woman—finds a change she didn't know she was looking for . . .

“Be whoever I’d like. You know, on that same night, I met the most fascinating woman; a woman who’d been born a man. I’ve not been able to stop thinking about her since.”

The astrologer smirked. “Have you given any thought to why you can’t stop thinking about her?”

“I’m sure I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“You’re a terrible liar, wizard.”

THE CARNIVAL OF CARNAL DELIGHTS: An account of how Freydis Gothi acquired her legendary sword. Freydis Thorkilsdottir, Kristina the Apostate, and their friends take an excursion to a festival of wondrous terrors and delights where nothing is as it seems . . . and things already seemed pretty suggestive to begin with!

They came at last to the Queen’s bedchamber, a wide, circular room of black stone with spiderwebs spun along the walls. Freydis, as she had so many times before, strode through the darkness to the pile of silken purple cushions by the far wall and stood there with her hands clasped behind her back, awaiting orders.

“I would like to know more about what your body is doing,” the Queen said. “Disrobe.”

“As you command, my Queen."

(Tagged as: High fantasy erotica, monster fucking erotica, trans erotica, wlw erotica, LGBTQ erotica, Liege x Retainer, Hurt x Comfort, Dominance Hierarchy, Sex Magic, Servant of Darkness to Lovers Speedrun, found family, praise kink, body transformation)

***

"But Natalie," you say, "how can I get my hands on the greatest book of swashbuckling transbian monsterfucker erotica ever written?" Well, I'll tell you. It is:

Available on Gumroad

Available on Amazon (in ebook and paperback! Wow!)

(big big thanks to @thebibliosphere for the header image and tag assistance, @kodyboye for the formatting, @chillgamesh-the-swing for the editing, @neladoesart for my author photo, and of course the wonderful and eternal @soul-hammer for the cover art)

(click the readmore for a list of "too hot for Tumblr" tags to know what to watch out for and/or spot your fetish)

Arachnids

BDSM etiquette.

Blasphemy.

Breath play (implied).

Breeding.

Collaring.

Competence Kink.

Edge Play/Tease + Denial.

Exhibitionism.

Flogging.

Group Sex.

Humiliation/Degradation

Inflation Kink.

Monster Mommy/breastfeeding kink.

Ownership/Pet Play.

Power Exchange.

Praise Kink.

Restraint Play.

Sado-masochism.

Self-discovery.

Service Kink.

Size Kink.

Sub/Dom.

Urophilia.

(a breakdown of content notes by individual story can be found here: https://www.patreon.com/posts/in-court-of-60615054)

[lunavenefica]

Mabon Spells-Pt.2

Deities associated with Mabon include all Wine Deities – particularly Dionysus and Bacchus, and Aging Deities. 

Emphasis might also be placed on the Goddess in Her aspect of the Mother (Demeter is a good example), Persephone (Queen of the Underworld and daughter of Demeter), and Thor (Lord of Thunder in Norse mythology). 

Some other Autumn Equinox Goddesses include Modron, Morgan, Snake Woman, Epona, Pomona, and the Muses. 

Some appropriate Gods besides those already mentioned are Mabon, Thoth, Hermes, and Hotei.

⛤A Growth Spell to Persephone

Persephone is the ancient Greek goddess of spring. 

She spends six months of the year with the god Hades as goddess of the underworld and six months on Earth with her mother, Demeter. 

Her arrival on Earth is marked by the beginning of spring. 

You can use this spell to achieve growth in any area of your life, such as career, finances, or your personal life. 

⛤You’ll need:

A metallic gold ink pen

Paper

⛤How to:

Write your wish with metallic gold ink on paper, then say:

"Persephone, goddess of spring,

thank you For the green earth and

for the flowers in the meadow.

Grant my wish and help it grow."

Hide the wish. Then at Mabon, when Persephone is about to return to the underworld, burn the wish and scatter the ashes outside.

⛤Ritual to Honor Demeter and Persephone

⛤You’ll need:

Red or Yellow flowers for Demeter

Purple or black flowers for Persephone

Some stalks of wheat

Corn

Sickles

A chalice of wine or grape juice

Pomegranate

A black  candle for Persephone 

An orange candle  for Demeter

⛤How to:

Decorate your altar with symbols of Demeter and her daughter; add flowers and  stalks of wheat, corn, sickles in baskets. 

If you normally cast a circle, or call the quarters, do so now. 

Turn to the altar, and light the Persephone candle. Say:

“The land is beginning to die, and the soil grows cold.

The fertile womb of the earth has gone barren.

As Persephone descended into the Underworld,

So the earth continues its descent into night.

As Demeter mourns the loss of her daughter,

So we mourn the days drawing shorter.

Winter will soon be here.”

Light the Demeter candle, and say:

"In her anger and sorrow, Demeter roamed the earth,

And the crops died, and life withered and the soil went dormant.

In grief, she traveled looking for her lost child,

Leaving darkness behind in her wake.

We feel the mother's pain, and our hearts break for her,

As she searches for the child she gave birth to.

We welcome the darkness, in her honor."

Break open the pomegranate (it's a good idea to have a bowl to catch the drippings), and take out six seeds. 

Place them on the altar. Say:

"Six months of light, and six months of dark.

The earth goes to sleep, and later wakes again.

O dark mother, we honor you this night,

And dance in your shadows.

We embrace that which is the darkness,

And celebrate the life of the Crone. Blessings to the dark goddess on this night, and every other."

As the wine is replaced upon the altar, hold your arms out in the Goddess position, and take a moment to reflect on the darker aspects of the human experience. 

When you are ready, end the ritual.

⛤A Prayer to Ker Morrighan

“Oh Morrighan,

Bringer of destruction and darkness,

I embrace you tonight.

Without rage, we cannot feel love,

Without pain, we cannot feel happiness,

Without the night, there is no day,

Without death, there is no life.

Great goddess of the night, I thank you.”

Take a few moments to meditate on the darker aspects of your own soul. Is there a pain you've been longing to get rid of? 

Is there anger and frustration that you've been unable to move past? 

Is there someone who's hurt you, but you haven't told them how you feel? 

Now is the time to take this energy and turn it to your own purposes. 

Take any pain inside you, and reverse it so that it becomes a positive experience. 

If you're not suffering from anything hurtful, count your blessings, and reflect on a time in your life when you weren't so fortunate.

⛤ A Prayer to The Goddess

“Beloved Crone, Giver of Insight

We give you thanks for coming here

We thank you for your guiding power

As the Wheel turns toward the darker hour

You give us wisdom, you give us peace

It shall sustain through winter’s increase

Beloved Crone, we give thanks to thee

Giver of Insight, blessed be

Hail and farewell!”

⛤ A Prayer to The God

“God of the Harvests, Lord of Shadow

We give you thanks for coming here

Thank you for the harvest fair

Apples and fruit are picked with care

Into the looming night you ride

Your gifts to us we receive with pride

God of the Harvests, we give thanks to thee

Lord of Shadow, blessed be

Hail and farewell!”

⛤Isidora⛤

[solradguy]

GG2OMC (ENGLISH): SOL - UNPARALLELED CONFESSION

Word Count: 1449 Warnings: None Chapter Index & Credits Page・ Mobile Friendly Version Archive.org download page (.PDF + uncompressed art scans)

Illyria was a city of modern architecture that many expected to become the new capital of the world in the near future. Sol Badguy, a man who hunted Gears, biological weapons, as a bounty hunter, visited this city at the request of an acquaintance as winter approached, just before the end of the year. 

“I think he’s in the cathedral down the street.” 

The woman Sol was talking to concluded her explanation, “Please, that man…”

She bowed her head deeply and her long hair, which was tied up with ribbons, swayed and fell down her back. 

“What a pain in the ass…”

With a frown, Sol replied in a bland manner. He was not in a particularly bad mood and anyone who knew him would feel this behavior was no different than usual. 

“...This little brat?”

Sol said, shifting his gaze downward. He meant the boy who was hiding behind the woman’s skirt and looking up at him fearfully. The boy was about three or four years old based on his appearance. He had pale golden hair, porcelain-white skin, a well-defined nose, and a light green left eye. The boy’s clothes fit him elegantly. In one of his small hands he was holding the woman’s skirt, and in the other he was carefully holding a stuffed animal as big as his face. If Sol had not had prior knowledge that he was a boy, he might have mistaken him for a girl. The boy’s overly-groomed appearance gave the impression that he was somewhat out of touch with the lives of normal people. In the harmony of such comprehensive beauty, there was one detail that stood out and caught Sol’s attention. It was the boy’s right eye.

An eye patch was worn over the boy’s right eye as if to cover something sinister. It was eerily real, with only that one spot in particular out of balance with the artistic harmony of the rest of the boy’s image. For a moment, Sol forgot to blink and stared at it. Perhaps concerned by Sol’s gaze, the boy, who was too young to even be called a boy, looked away and plunged himself deeper into the shadows of his mother’s skirts. 

“...Yes, he’s my...no, he's our child. We had him about six months ago.”

Sol was convinced. The boy was already as tall as his mother's waist, too big to have been born only six months ago. Of course, this was impossible at the normal rate of human growth. The mother's expression faded. Normally, this would be the happiest moment in a woman's life. However, she was not able to enjoy the happiness of raising her son in these circumstances. 

Sol's steps were heavy on the cobblestones. It was late afternoon and the high-end residential part of the city he was in was empty of crowds. The smoke from a passing house tickled his nose, as if the people inside were preparing lunch. He turned down an intricate alleyway and soon the view opened up. A stone structure laid ahead. 

He opened the wooden door and stepped inside. The building’s dark interior spread out before him, and the air felt drier than that of the world outside. There was a small amount of light coming in from above through ornate stained glass windows set in the stone walls. 

When Sol turned his gaze back to the front, he saw a statue of the Virgin just below. And, facing the statue of the Virgin, he saw a young man kneeling down on one knee in prayer. There was no one else in sight. Beside the young man was his favorite sword. 

How many years since I last saw him? The last time was... While Sol was thinking about it, the young man noticed his footsteps and turned his head to look back at him.

“...Sol?"

The words were said with a mixture of surprise and confusion. Their gazes met. After a moment, Sol inhaled sharply and frowned. The man’s face was far removed from that of the Ky Kiske that he had known. His cheeks had lost their color, his lips were dry and cracked, and dark circles lay under his eyes, which seemed to have lost their light. And, above all, he was wearing an eye patch over his right eye, just as the child Sin had been wearing earlier. 

“Hm… I get it now…” 

Sol said to him, intentionally letting his disgust show. Ky did not respond. There was silence for a while, and a cool air enveloped the two of them. Ky was the first to break the silence when the dry air shook as the cathedral’s bell rang to announce the time. 

“Why… are you here?”

He was thirsty, and spoke as if he had to force the words out. 

“Your God begged me to do this. Apparently your confession’s taking too long.” 

“What do you… mean?"

Ky muttered as if he was trying to dismiss the idea. 

But before he could say anything more, Sol closed the distance between them and attempted to deliver a heavy punch to Ky’s body. Ky quickly rolled to his side and avoided the attack. 

“What the hell are you doing?!”

“You've become even more disgusting than before…”

“Are you kidding me!”

Ky vigorously leapt off the floor and reached for Sol’s arm. Sol, without moving, grabbed Ky’s arm first before it reached him.

“You… You don’t understand my justice!”

Ky shouted at him as if the words were difficult to say, as if he was second guessing himself. 

“I’m not interested in your damn justice!” 

Sol's greatsword cleaved through the air horizontally. Ky quickly blocked the attack with his sword, Thunderseal. The two swords clashed violently, sending sparks flying and a roar reverberating through the cathedral.

“Alright, I’ll play with you. So, you better come at me with everything you’ve got!” 

Ky bit his lip and clenched his fist. His sword crackled with lightning. The first flash of electricity – Sol repelled Ky’s attack with ease, as if he was bored by it. 

“Your confession starts here!” 

◆ ◆ ◆ ◆ ◆ ◆ ◆ ◆ ◆ ◆ ◆ ◆ ◆

After clashing swords numerous times, the two backed off from each other. Most of Ky’s attacks were avoided, repelled, and sometimes counterattacked. Ky was not in good physical or mental condition to begin with. Unable to hide his fatigue, he leaned back against his beloved sword and exhaled. Sol, on the other hand, was unperturbed and showed no signs of fatigue. “What’s wrong? You finished already?” 

“...I’m still… still…” 

Ky, panting, rallied his energy and stood back up again. Sweat glistened on his forehead and dripped off his face, which was beginning to have color in it again. His eyes were beginning to shine again. 

“Are you feeling a little better? Heh, it’s not enough!” 

Sol raised his massive sword and Ky readied himself in response. Sol took a big step forward. A moment after he swung his sword…

“S-Stop!” 

Something clung to his feet, something that stood out in sharp contrast to the bleak and brutal environment. 

“...Sin?!”

“What is it, kid? What’s wrong?” 

Sin clung desperately to Sol’s leg, refusing to let go of his hand. 

“Papa... I hate you… I hate you! But if you get hurt, Mom will die. I won’t forgive anyone who hurts Mom!” 

“I see. Aren’t you afraid of me, kid?” 

It was obvious that he was afraid of Sol. Sin looked as if he was about to start crying. The hand holding the stuffed animal was trembling slightly. 

“I’m scared. But… I won’t forgive you!” 

Sin said as he bravely stood up to the big man more than twice his size.

The sword fell from Ky's hand and hit the floor. Tears overflowed from his right eye and trickled down his cheek.

“Jeez… Even your son is better than you, isn't he?”

Sol scratched his head.

◆ ◆ ◆ ◆ ◆ ◆ ◆ ◆ ◆ ◆ ◆ ◆ ◆

"Sol... I need you to do something for me.”

"...What is it?"

“Can you take care of my son... Sin, for a while?”

"...Huh?” 

"I know it's a lot to ask, but..."

Sol was caught off guard by this unexpected offer and was uncharacteristically flustered.

Sin looked at the two adults alternately, whether he understood their conversation or not, and compared the two of them.

Then Sol asked back, “...Is that your solution then?”

“Well...no, no. But give me some time. Until I create a world where my child and wife can laugh..."

Ky answered without hesitation. Sol smiled wryly.

“You're not going to complain about how he grows up, will you?"

--

Chapter Index & Credits Page・ Mobile Friendly Version

[angelsanarchy]

Alone Together - Eddie/OC One-Shot Series PRT 2

Prt 1

Lunchtime was probably my least favorite part of the day at this point. I had thoroughly planned to keep eating in my car but the guidance counselor started talking to my dad about therapy as I was exhibiting "antisocial tendencies".

The truth was I didn't really feel comfortable anywhere. I walked through the cafeteria and felt like people were hoping I wouldn't sit with them or the eyes of people silently sending sympathy like I was going to drop dead at any moment. I decided I would find a table and start sitting there with headphones on so no one would approach me or try to tell me how "brave" or "strong" I was for just showing up to school and existing.

Keeping my head down in my notebook and tuning everything and everyone out seemed to be working. I felt the weight shift at the table but didn't bother looking up until I saw a ringed hand sneak across the table and steal one of my pretzels. I looked up and Eddie was smiling at me. I shook my head and removed my headphones.

"I'd ask if I can help you but you seem to be helping yourself." I shut my notebook.

"I noticed you were over here trying to blend in with the table so I figured I would sneak a few snacks and check in on you." Eddie smirked, keeping his voice low enough that he didn't draw attention to us. I silently pushed the open bag towards him and he lifted his eyebrow assuring he understood the gesture was welcomed.

"Apparently it's frowned upon to eat in your car so I've been banished to the cafeteria where I can be social and inviting for all those who wish to gawk and feel sorry for me." Eddie leaned across the table.

"Would you like me to make a scene? Take some of those eyes off you for a bit? I'm pretty good at lunchtime chaos." He smirked and I knew he would hop on this table in a heartbeat.

"As noble as that sounds, I think I'll keep it in the back pocket for now. No need to drag you into my self-loathing for the day." I patted his hand graciously.

"As the resident metal head, I feel it's my job to see what you're currently listening to in order to make a decision on our future conversations." Eddie slid my walkman across the table to pop open the cassette deck.

"Journey...bit soft but I suppose it could be much worse. It also suits you." He shut the walkman before stealing another pretzel.

"Suits me? Do tell." I laughed.

"You're a soft badass. You've got this very sweet, quiet demeanor but you've been through shit. You're tough, no matter what these narbos think, you don't need anyone's sympathy or empty words." Eddie had a way about him that could pull the attention to him with loud and dramatic statements but what a lot of people didn't seem to realize was he too had this softness.

"Hey Danielle, is this freak bothering you?" I jumped at the sudden voice behind me and Eddie leaned back from me.

"Don't you have balls to dribble or sermons to conduct?" Eddie fired back.

"Look freak-" I cut them off by standing up, gathering my things, and looking at Jason.

"That's enough. I can handle myself just fine, thanks. Eddie wasn't bothering me, I don't need help and my name is Dani. if you actually knew me beyond what your prayer circles and gossiping mothers say you would know that." Jason looked dumbfounded.

"I'm sorry I didn't know-" I cut him off once more.

"Of course, you don't. No one bothers actually knowing me. They just want to patronize and coddle me like I'm glass. I'm not anyone's charity case and I don't need saving." I raised my voice and now realized everyone was staring.

"Now if no one has anything positive to say I'm going to go back to my original plan and eat in my car." Jason looked embarrassed and backed away quickly with his hands up. Eddie followed me to the door touching my arm to stop me.

"Hey...can I level with you? Stop trying to blend in. It's never going to work. You can try to hide in your notebook or tune everyone out but you are far too superior to be normal Dani Murillo." I felt the blush on my cheeks and tucked my hair behind my ear. I held out the remaining pretzels and he took them awkwardly.

"Thanks...you still owe me a bag of pretzels." He had eaten the majority of the bag so I felt it was a decent way to accept his kindness and not say anything that would make me look stupid. He snorted a laugh before kicking the door open and holding it for me to pass through.