#cadence don't look tag

[runelocked]

i’m still mad at you. / henry

WITH HENRY'S BACK TO HIM, WILLIAM'S SMILE GOES UNNOTICED AND UNRELENTINGLY SMUG. With tender ministration, the man sinks his lips against the other’s shoulder, pressing down feather light before growing more intense. He’s left dozens of marks before similar to the one he’s making now, but each is special: marks Henry as special, though he doesn’t doubt the words his friend mutters so grouchily back at him. “Is that so.” A statement, not a question: he’s not blind; knows when he’s pushed a little past his usual insufferable nature to a point where Henry is genuinely annoyed. So he’s gentle when he tugs him closer, gentle when his lips part to reveal shining teeth that glint before they suck at Henry’s neck; well, as gentle as a wolf can be. “Let me make it up to you, then . . . ”

[ohcaptains]

knuckle velvet

synopsis. he walks you home, then lets himself in.

pairing. logan howlett x f!reader. tags. [18+] dubious consent, vaginal penetration, female receiving oral sex, spitting. honey don't feed it, it'll come back type beat.

Some deep part of Canada, where everything was white. Snowstorms that swarmed through the sky, and the only warmth you could find came from the bottom of a bottle.

The wood floor of the sticky bar you worked in was soaked from frost covered boots – haphazardly scraped across the welcome mat, owners preoccupied with getting their first drink than keeping the place tidy.

You existed there, behind the bar that patrons lent against, like a metal cage with leering onlookers. They paid in drinks, but you took the money home as tips, your warmth stoked in a fireplace.

How you’d ended up there in that forgotten part of the world, you didn’t know.

Perhaps you’d followed a narrow path, one strung out with thorns and rubbish, but the money was okay.

When it got slow, and there wasn’t much else to do, your boss let you read a bit, too, while you sipped on your endless supply of Coca-Cola.

At the end of your shift, your teeth were fuzzy from all the sugar. 

An easy existence, but some nights, the patrons got too friendly.

They were fresh off their trucks, looking for some place warm to bury for the night, but you weren’t offering.

So, you’d peer at them, watch them make a fool of themselves as they spewed putrid words in your general direction – alcohol and lack of sleep causing the floor to sway from beneath their feet.

It was always the new boys who would try it.

Risk it all for a chance between your thighs, unaware of the hound sitting at the end of the bar, nursing a whiskey and a vendetta.

The first time he fought for you, the air had changed. Gone cloudy with the chance of a brawl – that sixth sense that all bartenders have switching on.

“Lady said no, ain’t she?” he bellowed from across the bar.

The voice thick with smoke and alcohol, you recognised him as the guy who’d been drinking whiskey all night, but he was as sober as a nun. No stumble to his step, or slur to his cadence, either.

He was built like an oak tree. You noticed when you served him. Slid him his drink and gazed at the sheer bulk of him. At the weathered, handsome age to his face, to the spray of grey in his brown hair.

His thick arms were snugly buried under a button up shirt, and you didn’t see, but rather imagined, the way his muscular legs were stuffed into jeans, and the way his size 12’s rested against the hardwood.

His eyes though, were hiding something. Milky brown concealing his curiosity – easily done with the hard panes of his face.

You imagined letting him take you home, and you thought about being friendly, before a whisper in the back of your cranium told you to back off.

Perhaps safer.

You didn’t know where this man had come from, let alone where he’d been. So, you continued to serve him drinks, and tried to ignore the quiet hum of his presence, until the hum turned to a crash.

The patron was scorned. He paused, and turned to the end of the bar, where the brown eyed stranger was waiting. “What’s it to you?” he slurred.

But the man with the whiskey wasn’t looking to him. He sipped his drink, and said, “she said no. You don’t remember your manners?”

The bar adorned an eerie quiet. Nerves sat low in your belly, heart picking up speed.   “This guy serious?” he asked you.

You went to say something, but he was already throwing words at the stranger.

“She yours or something?” “It matter?” “Can’t blame a guy for trying.” The stranger scoffed, and brought his drink to his lips, “whatever bub.”

“We got a problem?” the man uttered, stalking towards him, but his friend took him by the arm and whispered something in his ear, forcing him to deflate.

You wondered what he’d uttered. Whether there were rumours about the guy – a reputation you didn’t know about.

Brown eyes didn’t bat an eye when the man and his buddy slid out the door, cold filling the room before the door slammed shut.

The bar exhaled.

People went back to their business, and you thought about it, you really did. Thought about leaving him alone. Going back to your measly existence. Your home – the pit for all of your things.

But it didn’t win over in the end.

You topped up his drink. He took it, and glanced at you, brown eyes ringed with mystery.

“That happen often?” he uttered, voice a gruff grunt.

You put the bottle down, and looked away, thinking back to last week when you nearly fought a guy for staring for too long. You glanced back to him. “Sometimes.” “Your boss is an asshole for letting you work here alone.” “That so?” you laughed, shocked at his candour. He nodded and downed his drink, eyeing you from over the rim.

Finished, he put the glass down on the bar, and shrugged his jacket on. He got up to leave, and you felt a chasm begin to open up in your chest.

You went to say something. Anything, to make him stay. But he paused and looked over his shoulder.

His jaw was clenched when he tentatively offered, “be safe.”

When you locked up, he was waiting for you. 

It didn’t scare you. Really, it should, but when you left the bar and saw him standing there, toking on a cigar in the cold, all it did was make you pause. He stood there, gazing at you, eyes clouded by smoke. 

“You waiting for me?” you uttered, making it real, even if the light drift of snow was giving the world a dream like quality. 

He shrugged. “Just waiting.” 

You nodded, and put the bar keys in your bag, ignoring the chasm get wider. If he was going to rob the place, he’d have to get through layers of receipts and tissues to get in. But you knew the bar wasn’t what he was after. Something about his posture, the luring look in his brown eyes — curious, like he was trying to figure something out. 

You began to walk past him, but when he didn’t follow, you paused. You peered over your shoulder, and he was still looking at you. 

Taking you in. “Well,” you started, hitching your bag up your arm, “you gonna walk me home, or what?” 

He followed you in comfortable silence.

Just you, the night, and the crunch of dirt under his boots. His cigar smoke drifted by, and it wafted through your subconscious, followed by pine, and crisp scent of the snow.

He sounded like the noise of the woods — ever present in these parts. A comfort, if one had adapted to its unpredictability. When you got to your familiar walkway, you opened the gate, but he didn’t follow you through.

Instead, he stood by the entrance, watching you unlock your door like he’d just dropped you off from a date. it was when you were halfway through that he spoke up. “You work every night?”

“Yeah,” you started quickly, looking to him. “Apart from Wednesday and Sunday.” He considered you, then gave you a sharp nod, and turned to leave.

That’s how you ended up with a wolf at your door.

Every night, he was the last one left, then he silently walked you home.

Some nights, you’d find him leaning against the entrance, and he’d quietly peel away from the door and follow you. At first, he simply walked closely behind, a looming shadow, until he began walking beside you.

Then one night, you let him in.

Made him a cup of coffee to fight off all the liquor he consumed, and he sat at your kitchen table, and drank every drop.

Watched you in the low, fluorescent lighting, and you did the same. Curiously studied him. He looked different in your home. In your kitchen. Looked a little softer around the edges, even if he couldn’t relax completely.

It went like that for a while. It was on one of these nights that he gave you his name, followed by a shitty cup of coffee. Sometimes two. Maybe a biscuit, or a piece of cake. Leftovers turned into home cooked meals. Sat at the kitchen table and watched him eat. Roast beef. Mashed potatoes. Lasagna. Sipped at your cup of tea as he slopped up his pasta, using the back of his hand to wipe the sauce off his mouth.

You left him finishing off his plate to get ready for bed, and it was when you were sorting your hair out, that he came into your bedroom and began taking his boots off.

You stood at your mirror and watched him place them near your door.

Then he reached up and began unbuttoning his shirt.

One by one, you watched his thick fingers reach the bottom. He took it off, revealing a white tank off and broad chest, and hung the shirt up on your door frame.

Jeans next.

Popped the button and shucked them to his feet -- threw them with his boots and dragged himself towards your bed.  

You went to say something. Anything.

But he looked so exhausted as he crashed onto your frilly bed, that all you could manage was, “You lock the door?”

Logan nodded. His eyes were already closed, and he was hugging the pillow when he uttered, “you coming to bed, or what?”

You let him stay the night.

Maybe it was raining, maybe he was too tired – it didn’t matter. All that mattered, was that he was warm, and sometimes, when you woke and felt the terrifying ache of being alive, he’d be there to quiet the pain.

Hush you with the soft swell of his lips and wandering hands.

You’d come with a hushed whisper, hot and sticky over his calloused fingers -- drowsy from how high he took you. Then he’d kiss you, fix your clothes, and go back to sleep.

Always the middle of the night. When it was dark and quiet out, and it felt as if you were the last people alive.

His skilled hands bringing you to the brink, a soft kiss, then back to bed.

You would wait for it. Watch him nurse his whiskey at the end of the bar, the night dragging with every drink you poured. Then, he watched you lock up.

Waited at the door for you, so you could walk home together, wordlessly taking the familiar trail.

He’d eat, you’d watch, then leave for your room.

Once, you woke to his head between your thighs. The night was quiet, room dark – slither of moonlight from your window cutting a line through your bodies.

You were slick with sweat, and as you flexed your taunt muscles, they fizzled and singed. Hot heat pushed low in your belly, rooted between your thighs.

Logan hummed, and you reached down and grabbed a fistful of his hair, whimpering his name to grab his attention.

He had palm fulls of you. Fists of your thighs, soft of your belly, leaving marks with his desire – desperation. The first thing he did was apologise. Muttered a hoarse, m’sorry, into your soaking cunt, but continued tasting you.

You used his hair as leverage, and hitched your hips up an inch, causing his nose to bump into your sensitive clit, and you hissed, as if in pain, but the sound trailed off into something similar to his name, and Logan grunted, moving your hips further up so he could twist a thick finger inside.

You took all he gave.

Moaned into the pillow beside you as you rocked your hips against his face, soaking his nose and mouth. Said shit you didn’t mean, but meant all the same, and Logan got off on it.

This mysterious man who had taken over your life, grunted your name like it belonged to him. Made you come on his thick beard and puffy lips, then made you taste yourself as he kissed you.

You hugged his sweat slick frame to you, fingers scratching his scalp, mindlessly grinding against his clothed cock. You were content to just kiss him, until he dragged his fingers between your thighs again.

You startled, gasping into his hot mouth, but Logan hummed, near smiling against your lips.

“’think there’s another in there for me,” he drawled.

When he fucked you, there was so much of him that you went blind with it. Eyes half lidded, delirious as he pushed inside, making himself fit. Stuffing you full, then pulling out, just to feel it all over again.

Again and again. You moaned his name into his soaked, scarred chest. Felt yourself leave your body, so hot, so wet, that it was all sensation. Just the slap of his hips against yours, the feel of his hands on your tits, in your mouth, telling you to open wide.

He spat, and when he missed, he smeared the mess off of your chin and rubbed it into your cunt.

Made you come, then filled you with his own. Leant back, and watched it drip out of you. You were so consumed by him, that you didn’t have enough energy to feel self-conscious.

No, when he had his wild eyes on you, you reached between your thighs and stuffed it back inside.

The next evening, and he was back at the bar, waiting for you to bring him his whiskey. When you placed it in front of him, those wild eyes were on you again.

Waiting. Always waiting.

Waiting to play out your usual routine.

masterlist | ask | reblogs appreciated endlessly

[kittenintheden]

I've had a fair few people ask me how I write dialogue, and other than touting the sort-of-dismissive-feeling "I've had a lot of practice and have been doing this a long time" comment I usually make, here are a few quick tips for improving dialogue writing.

1) Listen to people talk. Like. This sounds very "no fuckin duh." But I don't mean casually overhearing conversations. I mean if you have a character with a specific background, then get some headphones and find video/audio of someone you envision them speaking like, close your eyes, and simply listen. Full immersion. Let the cadence of their voice and the vocabulary they use wash over you. Absorb it.

2) Read some screenplays and start listening to dialogue like a writer. Screenplays are a good source because film/television often relies heavily on dialogue to communicate character. The lines are intentional, they're economic, they convey ideas in a way that most of us wouldn't be able to come up with off the cuff. Consider the different ways lines can be delivered and how that can change their entire meaning.

3) Everyone has vocal tics. We all have certain ways of speaking. It's where regional accents and slang come from and it's how we express a specific image of ourselves. People SPEAK differently. Uptalk, vocal fry, pauses for emphasis, laughing to lighten the heaviness of the words, certain turns of phrase, mumbling, showmanship, whatever. Train your ear to clock those things and figure out how to use them to bring out character personality.

4) Check out some improv. If you have an improv group in your area, check them out! There's also tons of improv content online. If you're ever like "how did someone come up with that absolute fucking BANGER of a line just off the top of their head???" The answer is 1) they probably didn't just think of it, and 2) they've practiced rapid-fire back and forth, often with a comedic bent.

5) Read out loud. If you're ever like "what would a real person sound like saying this," you have the answer. Say it yourself, in the way you envision them saying it, and see where it sounds clunky and can be smoothed out. Is there a way for you to convey emphasis where it's needed?

6) Dialogue tags do in fact matter. Every once in a while you'll see the advice that you should NEVER use dialogue tags besides "says/said" because "the dialogue should speak for itself." It's mostly bullshit. Don't use them for the sake of adding a different tag to every line of dialogue, but the WAY people say things can change the meaning of the words. So use them intentionally.

7) PRACTICE. Look. I fuckin know lol. But this advice always stands. Any creative expression requires practice to improve. It's incredibly rare to have a "natural" talent for anything. So just keep on keeping on. You're doing great. And you will continue to improve.

[peachesofteal]

Dead Disco / Chapter 10

Dead Disco masterlist

Ghost/Soap/female reader 3.1k words - AO3 Warnings-tags: 18+ no smut but this fic contains mature themes. Relationship issues, anxiety, self loathing, crying. Angst. Brief mention of asshole ex. Eating related issues. Mention of prescription medication, mental illness and depressive/manic episodes. Pre established throuple. Darling is her/your own tag/warning. Excessive internal monologue. You held onto the hot pan too long, and now you’ve been burnt.

"Look at me." 

"I can't." You keep your eyes clenched tight, so tight it hurts, lungs burning inside your chest. 

"Yes you can, darling. Just open your eyes." Simon's voice is soft, an entreating melody, grit and gravel smoothed out with the gentleness of his words. You get lost in it, the soft murmuring, the easy request, and when you open your eyes, he's still right in front of you, thick palm on the back of your neck, Johnny by his side. "Good girl." 

"I'm sorry." You whisper, and Johnny's brows crease, his fingers brushing along your cheek. 

"Ye dinnae have anything to be sorry for, darling. Ye never do." 

"I didn't-" you gasp for a breath, and Johnny shifts, moving so that you're in front of him, sat between his legs, back against his chest. His hand holds yours, nestling above your breastbone. 

"Breathe with me. Ye can do it." 

"I didn't- I wanted to be better. Be different. I didn't want you to see." You try to explain, try to make sense of it for them. Simon's fingers intertwine with Johnny's, his other hand still firm on the back of your neck, your body cradled between them, in the space that once never existed, a space that now feels like it's been carved out just for you. Johnny pushes closer, holding you tight, and Simon leans forward, forehead touching yours, voice barely a murmur. 

"We've always seen you, darling." 

The floor is a fairly comfortable spot to lay.

It’s comfortable enough, you suppose, as you lay on your back with your eyes fixed on a spot along the ten-foot-high ceiling. Maybe you could paint the ceiling. With clouds. Or a night sky. That might be cool. 

Voices vibrate through the flat, locked door the only thing separating you from them, Johnny’s tone pitching with increasing anxiety, Simon’s cadence soothing, and calm.

He’s calling your name. Calling you darling. Calling you anything to try to get you to come to the door.

You’re overreacting. 

You’re a fool. 

You close your eyes. A night sky might be cool. You could do a lot with the stars, or maybe even the milky way. Get some greens and greys and cobalt in there. Make it look like a long exposure photo. And the moon, you could certainly paint the moon. You’d have to find a ladder tall enough though. And you’d probably need help. You haven’t painted from a ladder in years, not since you did that one mural for- 

“Darling.” It’s Simon. Again. And again, and again, again. Darling, darling, darling. “It’s getting late. Will you open the door?" You keep your eyes closed, but for a minute, your mind fractures, splitting in two, confusing emotions and thoughts bubbling up to the surface.

Don’t think about it. Don’t. 

“No.” You croak out in a whisper. It’s quiet, but he hears it. You know he does.

“Please. I need to know you’re alright, at least.”

You held onto the hot pan too long, and now you’ve been burnt. 

It’s late. The streets are probably mostly empty. You could run down them, if you wanted. You could take a train anywhere. You could take a plane, even, go on a vacation. Go somewhere nice. Go somewhere tropical, maybe get a cute rental, spend some time in the sun or by the oc- 

The thoughts are rapid fire. They spill over, trying to patch up the expanding wound in your heart. They grow and twist, convincing you it’s a good idea, the best idea, to just slip away for a little bit. To go somewhere you don't have feel this, where you don't have to know this as well as you do. 

Don’t think about it. Pack it up. Put it away. 

Johnny’s eyes haven’t left your face. His fingers stroke from the crown of your head and hairline to your temple, your cheek. He’s staring at you like you’re something precious, like you’re a piece of gold, something marvelous he’s never seen before.

���What is it?” You ask, half asleep, drowsy in the bed. You’re still wrapped in a post orgasm haze, cocooned in the soft and sweet of their attention, affection, and Johnny only smiles, leaning forward to press his lips to your forehead. 

“Ye’re so special to us. Ah love ye. Did ye know that?” You shrug, ducking your face away, pressing it into his shoulder to avoid his eyes. 

A wave of longing crashes over you. It swells in your heart until tears prick in your eyes, and you take a deep breath to steady yourself. 

It’s so much. So much more than you ever imagined. So much more than you ever thought you could have. 

“She doesn’t.” Simon says over your shoulder. His hand sits on your waist, the touch firm. Grounding. Like a tether to their world. Their love. You turn, nose pointing up towards the ceiling, looking at him through your peripheral, your fingers intertwined with Johnny’s, holding onto them both. Seeing them both. 

“Tell me again.” 

The TV in the living room is on.

You can hear it’s faint murmur, some movie playing on low volume, the guys undoubtedly sitting stiff on the couch, waiting for you to appear.

You stare at the dark, nearly blackened trees that you’ve painted onto canvas, long, broad brushstrokes taking up too much space, bark texturized to appear burnt, nearly dead, forest scourged by a disease or fire, you’re unsure.

“It starts to chafe us.” Us. Us, he said. Us. Him and Johnny. Right?

“It doesn’t seem fair.”

You’re unsure of everything right now. Unsure about how you should feel. Unsure about what’s happening inside your head.

“-sometimes I worry… about it being the right thing…” The more you think about it, the more you start to lose your grasp. Were those his exact words? Did he mean something else?

For the first time in a long time, you think about one of your ex's. You think about a person who made you feel so small, so much like a burden, a horrible, unwanted responsibility, all the time. You'll never have what regular people have, he said. No one will ever be able to put up with this fucking circus. No one will want this. 

Was he right? 

You should have gotten out. The sentiment replays over and over in between your ears, the awful, miserable doubt and fear and sadness picking away at you until you can feel yourself starting to compartmentalize it all, trying to sort it into neat little bins, trying to keep the weight that is sinking to the bottom of your soul from drowning you, trying to build a wall around your heart.

It’s not conscious. It’s like you’re not even in the driver’s seat anymore, not feeling the full effect of your emotions, not letting it in.

It’s how you felt, when you packed your bags the last time. How you felt when you checked into the hotel, like you were on autopilot. Buried beneath a mountain of feelings but enclosed in a glass cage, segregated from it all.

You should have gotten out. 

“I said I was listening.” 

“But I don’t want ye to listen. I want ye to talk, darling. I want ye to tell us how ye’re feeling. We can’t do this if ye’re not able to communicate.” Johnny’s voice is steady, but there’s a hint of anger behind it, a small flare just starting to light. It makes you angry, that he’s getting angry, and it churns in your stomach until you’re biting out a retort. 

“I communicate just fine!” 

“Do ye?” He snaps, exasperated, your head jolting backwards with wide eyes. “Because from where I’m standin’ it feels like ye’re trying to be stubborn on purpose. Like a child.” 

“A child? You’re calling ME a child?” The air in their apartment is suddenly paper thin, and you hold your breath as Johnny watches you with that same, unchanged, irritated expression. 

“Alright. This is over. We’re taking a break from this conversation.” Simon tells you both, fingers sliding over your shoulder, the touch meant to comfort, reassure, but you jerk away. 

You eye your purse, your keys on the counter. 

“I’m just gonna go home.” 

“No.” He rebukes, and Johnny pales. 

“No, darling. Ye just got here, and we missed ye so, so much. I’m sorry, I dinnae mean-” Johnny pleads, crestfallen, and it makes you feel worse. Like you’re failing him. Like you’re failing at this. Like you’re not good enough for it, for them. “Please?” He adds, and you wilt, silence falling over the three of you again, awkward and wrong. 

“It’s alright.” Simon says. “If you want to go. I’ll take you home.” 

“I can get home on my own.” You try not look at him, finding mundane details in the floor, the sink to stare at instead of their faces, resisting eye contact until Simon steps directly back into your line of sight. 

“I’ll take you.” He steps closer, and like there is a magnet pulling you into his orbit, you respond, tilting your face backwards, letting him see everything. The tears. The anger and sadness. The confusion. He’s intentional with his movements, letting you anticipate everything, the movement of his hand, the bend of his body as his lips come down to press against your forehead. “Tomorrow, alright?” He asks and tells with the words, seeking permission, giving command. Tomorrow, you’ll talk. Tomorrow, you’ll get it sorted. Tomorrow, you and Johnny will apologize. And you’ll try again. Like you always do. 

You nod, because the promise of tomorrow, the assurance that this hasn’t all come crashing down, is the only way any of you will be able to sleep tonight. 

“Tomorrow.”

They both straighten on the couch when the door clicks open.

“Hey.” Johnny says softly, hopefully, and Simon says nothing, just watches you like you’re a wounded animal that might try to flee at any moment. On edge. Vigilant.

Your mind turns, but nothing comes out of your mouth. No response. No acknowledgement. Just empty silence that feels like a thousand pounds, all laying on top of the three of you. Suffocating you. Killing you.

You beeline for the bedroom.

Running away. You’re running away. Are you really going to run away? 

The memory of the hotel haunts you, the awful, empty pit in your stomach that could have swallowed you whole, the dark curtains and dark room enveloping you in a never-ending spiral.

All you wanted was to be found. All you wanted was to be home, with them.

All you wanted was your home, the one you built, made, suffered for, with them. The one that you carved out inside your own bones to hold space for two others, not just one. The home that you completely changed your life for, the love that you believed would see you through it all. 

The love that was always them first. The love that you barged in on, knocked walls down, forced yourself inside of. The love that they held for one another, before they ever held it for you. 

Your head feels like it's underwater. 

Did you make a mistake? Should you have sent them away that time? Should you have fought yourself harder?

The bed calls to you. It begs you to lay down in it, to burrow yourself beneath it's soft sheets, curl up on top of it's ridiculous mattress. Get lost in it. Be found in it. Let your boys curl themselves around you in it, let them kiss you softly and make you promises about how much they love you, or how they understand the way you feel.

If you close your eyes, you can almost see the future. Minutes would pass before Johnny crept inside the door, scoping it out. Doing the recon. Looking for you. His heart would soar when he saw you in the bed, his fears allayed, and he'd hold you so tight you'd think you were suffocating. 

If you were lucky, Simon would come and turn your brain off. Johnny would pass you to him and he'd bring your deepest insecurities, your worries to light, dragging them out to be exorcised and vanquished, by the only men capable of doing so. 

Is that what you want? 

Should you have gotten out? 

“There she is.” Johnny coos above you, warm palm cradling your cheek. You blink, fog encasing your mind struggling to clear, and you push yourself up onto your elbows. 

“What-“

“Happened?” Simon finishes from where he kneels next to the couch, concerned eyes trained on yours, not missing a beat. 

You blink. What did happen? Did- 

“When was the last time ye ate something, darling?” Johnny asks, not unkindly, palm at your back to relieve the pressure from your elbows, moving you into a sitting position so he can take the spot on the couch behind you, effectively wrapping you up in his arms as Simon settles on the other side. 

Shame curdles your stomach, hot embarrassment flaring in your veins. You avoid peering over Simon’s shoulder at the disarray of your kitchen, wincing when you realize he’s sitting on a pile of your dirty clothes. 

“I had breakfast.” You whisper, but Simon shakes his head. 

“When?”

“Yesterday.” You try to adjust, to sit more upright, but the sudden movement has your head spinning, and your palm covers your eyes, little groan in your throat. 

“Easy.” Johnny soothes. Your water bottle is in his hand, and he unscrews the lid for you, lifting it to your lips. “Slow sips, darling. Not too much.” 

It’s easier this way, you realize. Easier to do what’s being asked of you, easier to listen than to think. After a few sips, Johnny pulls the bottle away, and wide fingers stroke your cheek. 

“This is what you were talking about. A few weeks ago.” Simon murmurs, concentrating all his focus, all his attention, on you, fingers still caressing your skin gently. Lovingly. 

“I didn’t mean for it to get so bad this time. I… usually have a better handle on myself.” You try to lie, but Simon cocks his head. 

“Do you?” His fingers hold up the scrap of paper, the one with your note to yourself scrawled across it. 

‘You HAVE to, or you’ll regret it.’ 

You bite your lip, but Simon’s thumb presses into it, rolling it out from beneath your teeth, as Johnny rubs your arm, lips soft against your temple. 

“I’m going to take you home. To ours.” Simon tells you slowly, each word deliberate “Johnny is going to clean up your apartment and pack you a few things for the rest of the week.” When you don’t answer, brain slow to catch up, Johnny murmurs in your hair. 

“You have to agree, darling.” Simon watches, silent for a moment before he answers the unspoken question, still cradling your face with one hand. 

“You can trust us.” 

“Where are ye going?” Johnny asks when you appear from the bedroom, hesitant steps keeping him far enough from your body, desperation written all over his face.

“Out.” Your answer is short, sufficient. It feels like it’s coming from another person. You still think you might be underwater.

“Out? No… we need to talk and-“

“I don’t want to talk. To either of you.”

“Darling. Stop.” Simon tries to cut you off, but you turn sharply, away from them both, backpack swinging on your back.

“Ye canae run away from this, from us.” Johnny pleads. “We need to talk about it. Communicate. Like we promised.”

“Like we promised?” You hiss, sizzle of anger breaking through the ice that’s frozen in your veins. “The promise that we made to always tell each other how we’re feeling, the one that he can’t honor?” You jerk your thumb towards Simon, who tries to take a step towards you, only for you to retreat. “Don’t corner me!” you snap, and against your attempt at control, your voice breaks, sob welling in your chest.

Don’t think about it. 

Don’t think about it. 

“It’s alright.” His hands are palms out, cautious. It’s supposed to make him look like he’s not a threat, make him seem harmless. But he’s not harmless. This gaping hole in your heart says so. “We don’t want you to leave.” He implores. “Please. I- let me explain.”

“There’s no need. Everything is pretty clear.”

“No, it’s not.” Johnny argues. “Just, let Simon at least tell-“

“Tell me what? Tell me how it’s not fair? Does it chafe you too, Johnny? You also thinking what’s the right thing? Because it’s an us thing, right? You and him. It’s an us and me. It’s the us that I suffer for.” Your voice crests, and Johnny flinches.

“I made a mistake.” Simon whispers. “Don’t let my stupidity make you question your place in this relationship. We love you, darling. I love you.” Tears burn at the back of your eyes, and you feel the horror of the truth, the confusion about your love for them, their love for you, searing together into a snarled mess.

“If I left you, the both of you, at the end of the day, you’d still have each other. You’d still be together, and I would have nothing!”

“That’s not true. We canae exist without ye.” Johnny sounds broken, hopeless, but you blow by it, dancing around Simon to pull your prescription bottles from the kitchen cabinet by the sink.

“If I died tomorrow-“

“Do not say that.” Simon cuts you off. “Don’t ever say that.” His knuckles are white at the edge of the countertop, expression stricken, and Johnny looks horrified. They both watch you like they’re afraid of what you might say next, what you might do, and nausea pools saliva on the back of your tongue.

Don’t think about it. 

You close your eyes, and search for that underwater feeling. That untouchable feeling, the boxes being packed away in your mind, and try to cling to it, try to shut up the incessant stream of doubt and loathing and everything going wrong inside your head.

They don’t need you. They have each other. 

You chafe them.

Don’t think about it.

“I need…” You trail off, trying to take a deep breath. Trying to organize your thoughts. Trying to hear yourself through the noise of everything else, through the searing pain that’s ripping through your heart.

“It’s alright, darling.” Simon murmurs, encouraging you. “Tell us what you need. Whatever it is.” Johnny’s face has shifted from despondent to hopeful, eyes wide and locked onto yours, while Simon waits, his normal steadfast and patient demeanor nowhere to be found, instead he’s more anxious, more nervous than you’ve ever seen.

You close your eyes again. Your voice shakes when you finally speak.

“I need a break.”

[whaleofatjme1920]

Kinktober Day 4: Stalking/Obsession

Stalking/Obsession - Eyeless Jack X F!Reader

Warnings: DUB CON, breeding kink, biting, marking

AN: I don't speak Polish so forgive me </3. ALSO this is a take on my dear @creepynoodleheadcannons's prompt featuring EJ on Day 19 from their 2022 Kinktober. Will tag the fic HERE.

KINKTOBER MASTERLIST

Reblogs are appreciated!

In the darkness of your room, you sat curled in your sheets with the feeling of dread coursing through your veins. Sweat ran down your brow, down the back of your neck and soaked your bed as you stared at your window. You saw his shadow looming just outside, a monstrous being that had been tormenting you for the first half of the year. Your heart thumped wildly in your chest like a little rabbit about to be caught in the jaws of a wolf as his claws scratched against it. 

He’d never been so bold before. 

When he first started, he was silent. His sharp claws played with the seams of your mind, delicately lifting the fragile threads before popping them up and breaking them, reveling in the sound of the strings snapping. It was small. A coffee cup you’d thrown away with your lipstick marks had gone missing but you assumed you’d managed to throw it out somewhere else. The hairs from your brush had been cleaned out but weren’t in the trash. Some of your clothing had gone missing. You assumed that you were becoming increasingly forgetful, but your underwear going missing? Your still full shampoo and conditioner bottles disappearing? 

And then he revealed himself. You thought you’d accidentally summoned a demon when he first appeared in the corner of your eye. He was always there, watching, waiting, and so fucking persistent. The way he spoke about you was deranged, like you were the only thing he craved in the entirety of his life. He spoke of how sweet you’d be - his final meal, the feast to end all others. 

“Go… Go away,” you shakily cried out while you dug your face into the pillow in an attempt to fend him off. But you knew it was a useless attempt. Tonight was the night he’d finally make you his and devour you whole. Your body shook with fear as you watched the shadow of his hands move sluggishly, like he wawa toying with you on how slow he could be. Toying with you, building up his own anticipation with glee. You heard Polish spill from his lips, or maybe an archaic form of it, and like magic, the window flew open. It invited the colder of October air into your room, red and orange leaves spilled across your floor as his large form blocked out the light of the moon herself. 

“You don’t really mean that,” he purred. His voice was deep and laced with a Slavic accent that sung with the cadence of ancient gods and their demons. His face was hidden by a mask, a dark pool of inky blue while the eye sockets wept with tar. If you looked close enough, you could see the knife marks of where it had been carved a very, very long time ago. He slipped through your window despite his size. Your nose filled with his scent. Musk. The earth. Iron. Smoke from campfires not long doused. Ammonia. 

Your stomach wanted to wretch at the very smell of him. Fear stoked every part of your body as you pried your eyes away from your pillow and peeked up at him. He was large, much too large. The moonlight framed him as dark and imposing. He was strong, you knew that, and his skin was the color of ash. And for a creature that seemed to take joy in pursuing a much more human form, he still reeked of otherworldly. His legs were cloven, like that of a black goat, and his teeth were sharp, slightly yellowed and large like that of an apex predator. Roots and the earth seemed to crawl up his legs like the earth itself wanted to reclaim him, and his joints didn’t seem to fit him right. His elbows, his knees, shoulders, everything was popped into place haphazardly, a vessel to contain something much larger than what he was born as. 

He took advantage of your fear as you looked up at him. His grin only widened behind his mask. He crawled up your bed, caging you in with his body. His clawed hands traced your warm body as you balled up in a weak attempt to shut him out from you. 

“Please, don’t,” you murmur as you watch his clawed hands crawl up your body. “I already told you no-”

He gave you a look from behind his mask before reaching his hand upwards to remove it. His arm moved over to rest it on your nightstand, as if he were making himself comfortable. His mouth was curled upwards into a grin, large and knowing. 

“Come now, kochanie moje. Don’t be so frigid towards me. Open up. Let me in.” His sharp talons moved to cut your clothes from your body, not caring about your cries of protest. “You cannot resist me forever,” he whispered in your ear as your body trembled. “Try and fight as you may, your body calls for me, and I must answer. You were meant for this,” he breathed in your ear as you meekly held your hand up to his large chest in another attempt to push him off. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you whispered. 

“Tak kochanie,” he whispered back, “you do. I need you. Don’t you see what you’re doing to me? I need your body, your heart, your mind, your very soul,” he groaned as his hand traced your soft, supple skin. “I want to breed you to make you mine forever.” 

His words sent chills down your spine as you shook like a leaf. You shook your head. “You can’t-”

“Don’t worry,” he purred once more, voice hungry and lusty, “I’ll make it feel good. I always do.” 

You were almost snapped out of your fear from the second half of his sentence but found it quickly returned when his teeth sunk into your neck. “Oh fuck!” You yelped, feeling the warm blood from your neck bead downwards to drape your collarbone and your nape. “What the hell was that for?” 

Jack didn’t immediately answer, only grinned and opened his mouth. A long, purple tongue slithered out and lapped at the teeth marks he’d left, a soft apology for drawing blood. “Mating mark,” he answered. “One of the many physical kinds I can give to you.” 

You kept your mouth shut as you felt his hands barely leave you to the belt of his pants. He undid it, and then slowly pumped his cock. Large, knotted, that was all you could see in the darkness only illuminated by the moonlight. So distracted by how girthy and large he was and the fact you KNEW he wouldn’t fit inside of you, a cry ripped free from your throat as his other hand effortlessly pried your legs apart. 

Jack’s clawed fingers easily moved down to your pussy, already wet from the budding anticipation. He cooed condescendingly. “Awh, and here I thought I would need to convince you even more.” His index and middle finger opened your lips up, and through the darkness, his sockets keyed in on your glistening pussy. “You were made for this, to please me, to be bred by me.” Slowly, he slid his index finger inside of you and watched through the darkness of your room as you bloomed for him. Heat painted your entire body, most notably your cheeks - Jack’s always had the ability to sort of ‘toggle’ thermal vision - and that’s where the heat was most notably concentrated. Well, that and definitely between your legs. Your pussy was burning for him. Needed to be filled, didn’t it? 

His index finger was soon joined by his middle, and he stretched you out as best as he could. “You feel so warm, kochanie,” he grinned. “So soft and sweet, and you smell just as good too. Maybe I should get a taste before I take you,” he thought aloud. 

Fearing retaliation, you hesitantly nodded. “Okay,” you squeaked like a deer caught in headlights. It didn’t help that your body seemed to call for him. Despite how much you knew this wasn’t good, your body squeezed around him. When his thumb circled your clit, you moaned softly, embarrassed that you showed him even a smidge of pleasure. He thumbed your clit some more and felt your hips buck up. 

And he laughed. Jack laughed. 

“See? I knew you couldn’t resist me.” After he fingered you a little bit more, enjoying the sounds of your soft moans and how you desperately tried to deny your true feelings towards him, he pulled his fingers out. “Do not pout,” he chuckled as he lifted his fingers to his lips. One of his tongues slithered out of his mouth once more before curling around his slick covered fingers. An obscene moan left his lips, and if he had eyes, you were sure that they would be rolling up. “Gods, you taste so good,” he praised. “So sugary and meaty,” he moaned again. “Perfectly made for me.” 

Jack mounted you this time, the head of his cock pressed against your tight lips as he watched you squirm underneath him. It was magical to see you buck your hips up like you could hardly resist him. “Open up, kochanie,” he cooed as he started to push his thick cock into you. He grinned when your nails dug into his uncovered forearms while your eyes widened. “Wrap your legs around me and breathe. Take me. Take me,” he whispered again and again, his hips pushing closer and closer to your body as his cock split you open. 

You did just that, legs wrapped tightly around his waist before moving your hands up to his back. Your nails dug into his hoodie while you pulled him tightly against you. Your heart rate skyrocketed as he pulled his hips back and then thrusted sharply forwards, the head of his cock hitting your cervix while not even fully hilted inside of you. His knot was thickly pressed against you, far too big for you to take, balls rested against your ass and heavy with cum. “Oh, oh my gods-” you wept as your body struggled to adjust to his size. He felt so big, every part of him. 

“Bloom for me,” he urged as he started to thrust his hips. His lips danced across your neck as he cock filled you with every thrust. “My sweet, sweet girl,” he praised, “look at you. How beautiful you are.” 

Your thighs were tense as he began to pick up the pace as you softly moaned for him, unable to deny any longer just how good Jack was making you feel. The tears that had welled in your eyes slipped down your cheeks but you unashamedly kept calling out for him. Your pussy felt so stretched open and still small as your slick gushed around him. You were soaking the bed from how good he stroked you. You arched your back slightly into his chest and tipped your head back to allow his lips to travel back up to your throat. You felt his teeth playfully move around where he’d already bitten you before softly biting you on the opposite side to mirror it. 

“You’re mine now, kochanie. Mine now forever.” The sounds of your moans were like music to his ears as he listened to your moans and how your body grew closer and closer to being knotted. He’d breed you, and then you’d have no choice but to be his for all eternity. 

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Don't Speak 47

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as dubcon/noncon, obsession, stalking, manipulation, reclusive behaviour, disordered eating, dissociation, and other possible triggers. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: Reader is a reclusive loner who ventures down to the library on a simple mission. Her task is complicated by the man she meets there. (f!short!reader)

Character: librarian!Andy Barber, Steve Kemp

Note: look, i'm trying to focus.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me 

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!)

Love you all. Take care. 💖

You run your thumbs over the suede cover, “for me?” 

“A new journal, sweetie,” Steve smiles. It’s the first time you’ve been to his office since... well, since Andy. It’s been almost a week since you left. “A fresh start.” 

“Oh, uh... it’s so cute,” you admire the embossed dove in the corner. 

“Just like you,” he purrs. “It’ll help in the next phase of your treatment.”  

You look at him and wince. There’s a shift in his posture, a certain click. He’s Dr. Kemp again, not Steve. Not, as he says when he has his arms around you, your husband. You bite your cheeks and rest the journal on your lap. 

“Next phase?” 

“Yes, well, you just start using that and we’ll get there. For now, let’s check in. How are you doing? How are you feeling?” He asks in the gentle cadence that soothes you. It’s almost as if he’s a totally different person there. 

“I think... I think I’m okay. I...” 

“Sweetie, come on, this isn’t home. We have to do real work. So, let’s talk about Andy.” 

You grip the edges of the journal and shrink down, “do we have to?” 

“Now, you know we have to. You can’t keep running away. That was very intense, wasn’t it? Leaving.” 

You put your head down and nod, “yeah...” 

Silence. He waits and sniffs. He shifts and sighs. That noise, that release of breath, makes you shudder. It reminds you of Andy. 

“Are you still afraid of him?” 

You nod again. 

“But you’re safe. With me. So why are you afraid?” He prompts. 

You let go of the journal and wring your hands atop it, “I don’t... I dream of him. He’s angry and... he’s chasing me or... I’m locked up and he won’t let me go--” you cover your face and shake your head, “no, I don’t want to think about it.” 

“Now, Dove, we are making progress. You can’t just do that every time you get scared, right? You go so far and then you immediately pull back,” he tisks. “So let go into that more. You’re afraid of him. Why?” 

You flinch and look at him. You pout, “he hurt me. You know--” 

“Right now, I don’t know anything. I need you to tell me.” 

You stare, open-mouth, horrified. You couldn’t even write those things down. You swallow dryly. He nods and leans forward.  

“Take your time.” 

You look down. You can’t look at him. You wallow in the tension and suck in air through your nose, letting it over from your mouth. 

“He... he... he kissed me when I didn’t want to. I never asked... never said... and he touched me,” you eke out. “And... it hurt when we were in bed together--” 

“Sweetie, you don’t need to be shy. Sex is natural, we both know that. If you aren’t completely honest with yourself, let alone me, you can’t work through this,” he coaxes. 

You sniffle and scratch your nose. “He held me down...” 

You close your eyes as it trickles out. Little by little. It builds to a stream with your tears as you recite all the things Andy made you do. The things he said to you. How he said without saying it that he would hurt your sister. 

“Good job, sweetie,” Steve praises. “Why don’t you take a break, come here?” 

You jolt up straight and blink at the room. You nearly forgot he was there. You catch the journal before it can slip off your lap and hug it. It’s your shield. 

Steve rubs his thigh and you stand up. You cross to him with tiny steps and he reaches for you. He directs you around to sit on his lap. He rubs your shoulder as he lean into him. He tickles along your neck. 

“Alright, so, let’s work on your journal, sweetie,” he slips the pen from his chest pocket, “here.” 

You take it from him. He curls his arm around you and opens the journal, holding it over your legs. You click the nib of the pen out and peer down at the blank page. 

“Well...” he shifts beneath you, spreading his knees wider. As he does, you feel something. Him! He’s hard. You put your head down and shakily hover the pen over the page. 

“What do I write?” 

“Hmm, well, I can get you start,” he wiggles under you so his dick presses against your ass. “’Today, Dr. Kemp helped me. We talked about my trauma and now I won’t be afraid of Andy because I know the doctor will protect me.’” 

You write without thinking then pull the pen back and reread the words. You gasp. “Trauma?” 

“Why, yes, sweetie, you understand now what he was doing, right?” 

Your eyes burn again and your wipe your tears away with your sleeve. Steve’s hand flutters up your naked thigh and he plays with the hem of the skirt he picked out for you that day. You nod and gulp, biting your cuff. 

“I understand,” you murmur around the fabric. 

“And that’s the first step to sorting out all your feelings. You did a very good job today,” he pets your thigh, higher and higher, “you trust me, right? You know I mean it, I’ll protect you.” 

“Yes, yes,” you squeak. “Of course.” 

“Mmm,” he purrs and puts his lips against the shoulder of your sweater, “we’re all done, sweetie. You did so good.” 

“I did?” You bat your webbed lashes and drop your hand. 

“Oh, yes, you did,” his other hand comes up to nudge your chin as he feels along the front of your panties, “gimme a kiss, sweetie.” 

Your stomach does that thing. It flips but this time, it hurts. You turn in his lap and press your lips to his and daintily touch his cheek. You like touching him, just like that, small little curious brushes. He smiles against your mouth and pokes his tongue inside. 

He groans and rubs your pussy through the cotton. You clench your legs around him as his other hand cradles your head. The journal falls to the floor forgotten as he grunts and twitches. He prods you through his pants once more. 

“Sweetie, you’re hurting me,” he utters against your cheek. 

“Oh, no,” you try to push off of him, “I’m sorry--” 

“No, no, I just need... need you to help me,” he purrs as he leans back and looks you in the face. “Sweetie, did I ever tell you how pretty your mouth is.” 

“What?” You can’t help but smile and his eyes cling to your lips. 

“Yeah, yeah, when... when we are you know... together, I always watch it. The way you curl your lip when you cum...” he drags his thumb along your lower lip. “Do you wanna use your mouth on me? Like I do you?” 

Your chest pounds and your ears singe. You only ever did that with Andy and you didn’t like it but you like Steve and things are nice with him. You bite down on your lip and his eyes fixate on the movement. You squeeze his hand between your thighs. 

“Yes,” you answer as you trace along his cheekbone. He is so handsome and his eyes are so brilliant and bright and he’s taken care of you. And you want to enjoy the time when it’s the two of you. 

You squirm and he lets you go. You get off his lap and he groans again. He drapes his arms over the chair and leans into the puckered leather. He sets his feet wider and watches you. You stand before him, buzzing with nerves. 

“Go on, sweetie, you’re in control.” 

You hesitate. Huh? You only ever do what others wanted. But he’s handing you the reins and now you feel you might get tangled in them. 

You come close again and look down at the bulge in his pants. Your eyes round and you look at him. He urges you on with a nod. You grab his pants and flick open the fly. You’re trembling. You finally get his zipper down and fall to your knees. 

He groans and wriggles in the seat. You reach into his boxers and pull him out. You hold him lightly and he drones, “tighter.” You squeeze and drag your hand up to his swollen head. He shudders and grips the armrests until the creak. 

“Oh, sweetie.” 

“Does it hurt?” You ask. 

“No, it’s good,” he growls, “oh, baby, please, put it in your mouth.” 

You stare at his dick. You can’t look him in the face. You lean in and breathe warmly over him. He twitches again. You press your lips around him and he voice rumbles from his chest. He grunts as you spread your mouth over his tip and slide him inside. 

You push your tongue to him as you move your hand down to his base and he whimpers. 

“Dove,” he reaches to cradle the back of your head, shoving you down, “like that.” 

You take him until you nearly gag. He lets you up but not off, pushing you deep again. He rocks his hips in time with his guiding hand. 

“Touch yourself, too,” he orders, his timbre turning gruff. 

You hum around him and keep your head bobbing. Your spit plasters over the side of your hand and around your lips. The sucking noise fills your ears and curdles deep in your stomach. You’re both intoxicated and disgusted by the sloppy act. 

He says it’s up to you. You can’t stop if you want to, right? But you don’t want to stop. 

You snake your hand down under your skirt. You touch where he had. The cotton is wet. You slip your fingers around the edge of your pants and flick over your clit. You whine around him and he moves you faster, up and down his length. A saltiness mingles with your saliva. 

“Ooh, sweetie, oh, you’re so good. So good. You treat me so good, don’t you?” He snarls as he clutches your hair in his fist. “Mmm, do you feel good too? Are you wet? Mm, I know you are. Just thinking about the way you take me, I’m almost... I’m about too...” 

You try to pull off as you feel his pulsing in your mouth. He doesn’t let you. He holds you in place and pumps his dick into you from below. 

“No, please, I want you to taste me, baby. Don’t you want to taste me? Mm, I know you do. Fuck, I’m gonna blow. Are you ready, baby? Swee-ee—etie.” 

He spasms and cums, filling your mouth and throat. You choke and it shoots up your nose so you can smell it. You cough around him and your spit and his semen dribble out around him and leak onto your hand. He lets you go and you pop your mouth off of him and spit into your hand. 

“Mm, I’m sorry, sweetie, I couldn’t hold it,” he cups his sac as his dick flops against his pants. “You’re too good.” 

“It’s... okay,” you rasp and swallow what you can. “I just...” 

You pull your other hand free from your panties and search around for a tissue. You get to your feet and wobble around to the box on his desk. You stop at he red streaked down to your knuckles. Shoot. 

“Oh...” you stare at the mess, “I think...” 

“Mm,” he groans as the chair echoes him, “ah, that’s okay, sweetie, I don’t mind a bit of blood.” 

“I’m sorry,” you quickly wipe you fingers clean. 

“It’s natural, sweetie. It means you’re healthy,” he purrs. “You know, you should put that in your journal too. Track your cycle, make sure you’re regular. Stress can really affect your flow.” 

“Oh, I guess... sure...” you turn back to him as he plays with his softening cock. 

“Mm,” he strokes slowly. “I still wanna feel you on me, sweetie.” 

“But--” 

“I told ya, I don’t care,” he sits up and sighs. “How about you bend over the desk? I like your bum.” 

“Oh,” you nod and face the desk. You can say no, you just have to say it. Say it. “Okay.” 

He stops behind you and pushes his pants so they heap at his feet. He grabs your hips and wrenches your skirt up. He scratches you as he pulls down your panties and you squirm in embarrassment. You don’t want him to get all bloody but he says it’s not a big deal. You don’t want to disappoint him. 

“I’m a doctor, sweetie. You know, it’s good to do this while you’re menstruating,” he bends his knees and pokes along your cunt. “It helps with cramps.” 

He thrusts into you, forcing you to your toes and you brace the desk to keep from falling forward. He grips the back of your neck, his other hand tight on your hip, and he ruts into you. There’s no patience left in him and you really just want it to be over. 

[inkofthebrain]

Hey I was wondering if you still take requests for lee from bones and all. If you do can you do one where reader is a non eater but travels with Lee and Maren (maybe they're in a relationship with Lee Maren as well if you're comfortable) and when they meet brad and jake , Jake says something ( maybe insinuating that he wants to eat her) and they get protective especially lee. If you don't want to write or don't feel comfortable it's ok. Thank you! Have a good day/night!

FOUNDERS’ BLUES

[Lee x Reader oneshot] 623 words

Tags: No y/n, non-eater Reader, lee being protective, no Maren (sorry bae ily)

Warnings: Bones and all typical shit. Mentions of abuse and parental addiction.

A/n: I made this a song fic and idk how I feel about it. Anyway song if from a deleted scene with those mf hillbillies. Enjoy <3

———

———

Beat and bloody, walking along the steaming asphalt of the highway in the peak of summer. Your feet were walked bare and you could feel your pulse behind every cut and bruise.

That was when Lee found you; “all bloody and beautiful.” You had taken enough beatings from your addict parents and when they brought you close to death, you knew it was either that or life on the road.

He took you to a nearby diner to fill your stomach before he started pressing you with questions. You couldn’t hold it in, you told him everything.

He had gotten you a motel for a few nights so you could recover. At first you thought his actions were due to his sincere concern, but when he had snuck into the motel room he booked for you covered in blood; you soon learnt the truth.

I run the roads 'cause I know best.

Leave the highway for to get my rest.

Sleeping o'er the meeting house and dream of who tastes best.

Your parents were declared missing by none other than their drug dealer a few days later. Lee thought you would have hated him, he had only snuck in to take advantage of the shower, but when he said,

“They’re gone.” you just hugged him.

I come to town and I know best.

I greet the day on my two legs.

More months than you could count on your hands had passed and you and Lee had gotten extremely close; physically, emotionally, on every level.

Slide my arms inside these red and grey tails.

Push the window open, find the reverend up and dressed.

I fear the Lord, but I know best.

You and him had ran into another duo, two hillbillies in the woods; Brad, the eater, and Jake, a wanna-be eater. What a gruesome pair.

I clean the floor and stay a day.

Slip in your room, lay my hands on your frame Daughter come and die for me, protesting less and less.

Close your eyes, I'll do the rest.

“You’ve got a sweet one there, dontcha’ Lee?” Brad’s cadence on sweet made chills run down your spine. You, as calmly as you could, gave Lee’s arm a squeeze and he gave you a knowing look.

Midnight comes and it's the best.

Stare the stars at me, the moon to ingest,

“What do you mean by that man?” Lee barked.

“Oh come on, don’t tell me you’ve never thought of it!” Lee sat up and scooted a little in front of you, ready to jump at the creep at any second.

“You are crossing a line man” Lee threatened.

The smile he had on his face when he noticed was sickening, you wondered if he was always this off-putting.

You leaned in and asked Lee if it was time to go and he gave you a subtle nod.

Leave the untold buried in a sack where no one guessed,

and take the ride that runs the best.

You got up and quickly walked to the car until you heard Lee yell, “RUN!”

Your head snapped back and you saw Lee running right behind you, the hillbillies on his tail.

You threw open the truck door and slid to the driver's seat, leaving the door open for Lee.

“KEYS!” You yelled, Lee was one step ahead of you and threw the keys in the bay of the truck.

As you threw your arm down to grab them, Lee jumped in the truck and you started it. You drove off and watched the two men run behind the truck.

I'll take the ride that runs the best

I'll take the ride that runs the best

I take the ride that runs the best.

[yanderes-galore]

I have a request. Could I please request a Yandere Princess Cadence for The Yandere MLP Virus AU?

Hm... sure! Doing this with Cadance could be cool! (She's a fav of mine) Using @koipaper 's idea for how the virus started (Hope I tagged the right person 😭) Not fully proofread!

Yandere Virus! Princess Cadance Concept

Pairing: Romantic

Possible Trigger Warnings: Gender-Neutral Darling, Obsession, Manipulation, Yandere virus, Blood, Violence, Death, Murder, Body horror, DARK THEMES, Forced relationship attempted.

Poor Cadance has no clue what Twilight has done.

The princess knew of the younger princess's crush, but didn't know the extent.

She had no idea Twilight tried to cast a love spell on you... only to do it wrong and curse you.

Upon being sent a letter of distress, Cadance left Shining Armor and Flurry Heart to check things out in Ponyville.

She worries for Twilight... especially if this really is some sort of emergency.

Cadance has no idea what awaits her.

When she arrives at Twilight's castle everything's a mess.

There's no sign of the princess... and Ponyville itself looks in disarray.

The Alicorn is careful, wandering the streets carefully.

She even cringes back when she sees blood in the streets.

What happened...?

Going further into Ponyville she's met with broken architecture and blood.

Perhaps even a corpse or two.

Soon she even sees the results of the virus.

Emancipated ponies... bloody wounds... all staggering about with smiles and bloodshot/dilated eyes.

It's by this point Cadance knows she has to escape.

But then a pony comes rushing away from a horde, fear on their face.

Cadance charges her magic and steps in, pacifying the infected while standing in front of the pony.

By the time it's all done the alicorn turns to the pony.

Said pony is you... injured and bleeding... shock written all over your face.

"P-Princess Cadance...!" You manage to gasp out. "You shouldn't be here!"

The alicorn is confused as you sob.

"P-Please... leave me be...! Save yourself!"

There's then movement behind the alicorn, she turns around to see a familiar purple alicorn staring her down.

The older princess freezes.

"Twilight...?"

The purple alicorn says nothing, looking maybe the worst out of all the infected.

Then her gaze stares at the other alicorn.

"Why do you have them?"

Cadance glances at you now standing behind her, you're shaking on your legs.

"Twilight... what happened...?"

There's shambling silhouettes that walk closer, Cadance recognizes them as Twilight's friends.

They're all infected....

"Give them back..." The purple alicorn rasps, stepping forward.

"Don't take what isn't yours...!"

It's then Cadance uses her magic to carry you, running off with you.

You're too weak to be able to warn her anymore... you're so tired...

Cadance flies and runs for her life, infected ponies following close behind.

She'll save you... you'll be protected...

She just needs to get out of her.

By the end of the escape attempt Cadance has a few wounds... but nothing bad.

By the time she manages to lose the other ponies she focuses on your wounds.

You're too tired to fight anymore... you're happy to be out of Ponyville...

But you fear for what happens next.

Cadance is oblivious to the curse you have, carefully taking you back to her castle to tend to your weak body.

You're kept in your own room while Cadance explains to Shining Armor what happened.

You may be bandaged... but you still cry.

Not from pain... but at the fact you realize you've caused all this.

Unless anything is done about it... you'll cause it all to happen again.

You fear corrupting Cadance... so you plan to leave once rested.

But as she checks up on you... you can see her gaze shift.

You fear it's already too late...

The Mane Six are long gone in their insanity... the rest of Ponyville might be too...

Your next goal is to escape the Crystal Empire... you have a theory on how to help yourself...

You need either Zecora... or Queen Chrysalis.

So, without thanking Princess Cadance... you leave.

Said Princess then freaks out when she sees you gone.

After all... the virus has settled in...

She won't stop searching for you...

Not until she has you... like every other infected pony you've encountered.

You're in danger without her.

[totallyjustabunchofhocuspocus]

Fic: One Foot Out the Door (Won't You Come Back Inside?) 1/2

Eh, I got a little stalled on Come Away, O Human Child and felt like writing some different flavored angst :) (Happy Ending guaranteed though!) Besides, all the cheating 'fics in the Buck/Tommy tag on AO3 made me sad this week (no hate, I just don't like infidelity stories) so I thought I'd give Tommy some angst that didn't involve him getting cheated on.

Pairing: Buck/Tommy (mentioned Buddie, but it's one-sided in this)

Being perfectly honest, Tommy had always kind of known that Eddie might eventually come between him and Evan.

The concept hadn't even really bothered him at first. Kissing Evan had been an impulse decision…he was unfairly hot and kind of adorable when he was flustered, and he said he wanted Tommy's attention. What was he supposed to do? Not take the opportunity to see if any of the (admittedly, kind of mixed) signals the kid had been throwing off would lead anywhere?

Even after their (disastrous) first date, and the (awkward) encounters at Howie and Evan's sister's wedding, he really and truly hadn't thought things with him would go anywhere serious. He liked Evan, sure. He walked that line between pretty boy and muscle man that got Tommy's motor running, they had great conversations, and (and Tommy knew this was selfish, but he'd never claimed to be completely altruistic) being with Evan brought him plenty of chances to reconnect with the 118 in ways that his text-every-once-in-while friendship with Hen and Howie just hadn't provided. Sue him—he liked Harbor just fine, but that was a job not a family and he was kind of bummed that the 118 had only become what it was now after he left.

He'd honestly thought his relationship with Evan was just going to be a fling. He'd have a nice time with a gorgeous man and maybe get the chance to resolidify his ties to the 118, and in exchange he'd give Evan the kind, gentle introduction to life as a queer man that Tommy had never really gotten. They'd have a good time for a few weeks or months and then probably part ways…hopefully amicably so Tommy could keep his friendship with Eddie and his place with the 118. In the best case scenario, he and Evan could still be friends too.

That had been the plan. That had been the logical conclusion just based on his observations of Evan and his own experience and relationships. He saw where this was going, and he was okay with that. Really, he was. Tommy had learned a long time ago that Happily Ever After was only easy to find in the movies, and even when it did show up in the real world, it wasn't people like Tommy that found it. Didn't even have anything to do with being gay. Life had taught Tommy Kinard to temper his expectations long before he'd ever realized that part of himself. So. He'd scouted the terrain, decided it was worth his time, and settled in for the perfectly predictable ride.

And then Evan had fucked it all up by making it completely, utterly impossible not to fall completely, utterly in love with him.

Evan…Evan was fucking sunshine.

Tommy had known he enjoyed talking to him…he'd been unprepared for how much he'd come to love the way Evan's brain worked. The random facts and research binges, the constant shifts in focus. Evan was so curious about anything and everything, and Tommy had grown used to the cadence of his boyfriend's voice washing over him like the waves of the ocean whenever they were together, the way Evan filled the silence of his house whenever he was there, but always let Tommy talk too, always listening attentively and engaging, even in topics that didn't really interest him.

He'd expected Evan to be a good lay. He just had that vibe about him and…look, people gossip okay? Evan's…exploits right after he joined the 118 weren't exactly discreet. He had not been expecting to discover a lover. Evan was generous in bed, adventurous and creative in ways that left Tommy a little breathless. He'd expected to have to take the lead, but apart from some understandable hesitance at the start, Evan had never been shy about…well, anything they did. He could be coy and sweet, happy to be manhandled and bossed around, to look up at Tommy through his lashes and call him Daddy in a voice that went straight to Tommy's core. But he was equally thrilled to turn the tables, be loud and demanding, pin Tommy down to the nearest surface and go to town…whatever suited their mood. God, Tommy had never had someone match him like this. Never had someone who felt like they were made to be in his arms. Never found someone who could slot so seamlessly into his life.

They had their hiccups, of course. They were both stubborn men who weren’t always great at communication. They had to learn each other's tells and signals. Evan got into his head about things, could be clingy and needful in ways that were a little foreign to Tommy at first. Tommy tended to bottle things up until they festered, could become snappish and aloof in ways that had clashed badly with Evan's abandonment issues a few times. They worked through it, though. They learned together, improved together. Tommy didn't think he was exaggerating when he said this was the healthiest relationship he'd ever had. He couldn't help the warm glow of pride the day Hen had confided in him that she thought it was Evan's healthiest relationship as well.

He loved Evan. He hadn't expected to, but looking at where they were now, it seemed inevitable.

But. He had always kind of expected Eddie to eventually come between them.

Tommy wasn't an idiot. He wasn't unobservant. It took him approximately zero point five seconds past meeting them to clock the weirdly intense energy between Evan and Eddie. Tommy was no stranger to the kind of bonds their line of work tended to inspire. He was ex-military and a first responder…he knew you didn't rush into life-threatening situations with someone and have a normal friendship with them. Whatever was between Evan and Eddie wasn't that.

They were entrenched in each other's lives. Damn near inseparable. Tommy had seen plenty of guys become unofficial family, plenty of guys who stepped in as uncles and godfathers for their squadmates’ kids. But Evan was effectively Eddie's co-parent. Christopher's other father. Eddie clearly relied on Evan for emotional needs that a partner (a life partner, not just a work partner) should fulfill, and Evan did the same.

He'd be lying if he said it wasn't a little off-putting for someone who wanted to date one of them. But he liked Eddie a lot, and Evan was so damn gorgeous…and he really wasn't expecting it to get serious. Their connection read to him as intimate, but not sexual–even if he privately thought that was mostly because Evan could be charmingly oblivious and Eddie was deep in the kind of denial that only intense therapy and self-reflection could break through–and so he decided to risk it.

In a way, he thought that he had it easier as Evan's partner than anyone who tried to date Eddie would ever have it. He understood Eddie and Christopher’s place in Evan's life, cared about them both, and was perfectly content being a “trusted adult” rather than any kind of parental figure in Christopher's life. And it wasn't like Evan was Chris's primary parent. Evan just had more room for a partner in his life and his heart than Eddie did.

To be completely fair to Evan, Tommy didn't think he was a replacement or a substitution. He knew Evan loved him. Just…he had never been able to shake the feeling that he wouldn't have been his boyfriend's first choice. And if Eddie ever figured himself out, ever got to a place where he was comfortable offering Evan a choice, Evan would take it.

It wasn't something he dwelled on. Not something he spent all his time waiting for. But it hovered on the peripheral of his growing feelings for Evan, snuck in haunt him at odd times, a darkness that never overshadowed their love, but never dissipated either. He thought he had it handled. He really did.

*

“So,” Karen drawled, flopping down in the lounge chair beside him with a glass of wine and a slice of the (very excellent) cherry pie Buck had made for the gathering. Tommy was considering going to get another slice himself…he loved Evan's dedication to his fitness routines, certainly had no complaints about the results, but he did enjoy it when his boyfriend took breaks from his more restrictive nutrition regimes.

“So?” he repeated with a raised eyebrow, well used to the roadmap Mrs. Wilson (both of them) tended to follow with serious conversations. And judging by the tilt of Karen's mouth, this was going to be a serious conversation.

“How are things? Haven't seen you in a while,” Karen replied, taking a sip of her wine.

It was true. Tommy hadn't been able to attend the last few get-togethers at Bobby and Athena's new place for work-related reasons (wildfire season was the worst no matter how you sliced it, but it was especially shitty for air support), and his and Evan's schedules had been lining up infrequently enough the last few weeks that when they did have time off together, they mostly spent it in bed rather than socializing.

“Going great,” he said, settling more comfortably in his chair to watch Evan swing Jee-Yun up onto his shoulders and start galloping around the yard while she shrieked in delight. He didn't even try to hide the dopey smile he knew was spreading across his face. It wasn't like their friends weren't aware of how smitten he was with his boyfriend.

“Did you and Buck have a good time up in San Diego? I had to work late the night Buck came over for dinner. Missed the pictures.”

The smile widened, a warm flush flooding his chest at the thought of the trip he and Evan had taken just last month. An anniversary trip. Their one year anniversary (okay, more like fifteen month, because wrangling PTO from two separate stations was a bitch), a milestone Tommy had only made it to a handful of times, and never since coming out. It wasn't anything extravagant or fancy. They hadn't even flown, preferring to drive up the coast and stay for the weekend in a charming bed and breakfast Evan had found online. They'd gone sightseeing, eaten entirely too much “viral” food Evan found on TikTok (a surprising amount of which had actually been worth the hype), and filled their nights with the kind of unhurried, earth-shatteringly intimate lovemaking Tommy thought existed only in romance novels.

“We had an amazing time,” he gushed. As if drawn by a magnet, his eyes found Evan again, watching his boyfriend fondly as he tossed his niece in the air a few times before spinning her around and dramatically pretending to ‘drop’ her, only to catch her and resume tossing her high.

Karen nodded to herself, smiling gently. “Gotta say, you really messed up a few betting pools. Romantic getaway, one year anniversary…we were pretty sure you’d come back with some kind of announcement,” she said, wagging her eyebrows significantly.

He froze a bare second, but his wits rarely let him down. He smirked at her, and rubbed his belly. “Sorry, nobody's pregnant. I've just packed on a few pounds. Evan's a damn good cook, you know? Although I did notice Athena's not drinking tonight…”

Karen leveled him with a look. “I dare you to go say that in earshot of her,” she said dryly.

“Oh God, do I really look that stupid to you?”

“Kinard.”

“What?” He held his pretended ignorance for a few more seconds before cracking.

“Not to be all stereotypical on main, but showing up to the second date with an engagement ring and a UHaul is more your tribe's deal, Mrs. Wilson. It's only been a year.”

“Hey!” She balanced her plate of pie on her lap and reached over to smack him lightly on the bicep. “And no, it's not like we expected you two to come back engaged–”

“What'd Howie have the odds at?”

Karen waved a dismissive hand. “Seventy-five to one, but that's beside the point. You two have been solid. I've never seen Buck this happy, and you seem pretty content yourself. But you're not even talking about taking next steps? Moving in together? Getting a dog? Something?”

For the second time that evening, Tommy froze. He knew he was staring at Karen like a deer in headlights, knew he was giving away far too much in his expression. His brain ticked over a few times, like an old engine trying to cough to life on a cold day. Shit. Shit, shit, shit. He and Karen were friends, he liked her a lot…but they weren't this kind of friends. They weren't confidants like this. Unless…

“Did Evan say something?” he sputtered finally.

Karen took a contemplative sip of her wine, watching him with sharp, assessing eyes. Fuck, he'd prefer getting grilled like this by Hen. She was scarier, and fiercely protective of Evan, but also a little less surgically insightful in her observations.

“Hen brought it up last week,” she admitted after a moment, with a slight wince. “She was teasing him, since she knows his lease is up in a couple months. Buck…spiraled a little.”

And damn it. Damn it. He'd known about the lease, of course. Evan had mentioned it in passing a couple of times. But not in a way that had any weight of expectation…not in a way that made Tommy think he was hinting at anything. Fuck.

Karen narrowed her eyes at him, brow furrowing a little. “I mean--it’s not a big deal. Stereotypes aside, a year really isn't that long in the grand scheme of things. Buck's not expecting you to ask to move in together. I think it was more that you two haven't talked about the future at all. Which, again, everyone has their own timeline, but just in case you were waiting on him to bring it up, it's gonna have to be you. Buck's too gun-shy.”

Tommy couldn't help grimacing at the words. Yeah. That tracked. He knew all about Evan's previous girlfriends, and the couple times he'd ended up cohabitating. Of course Evan would be wary of even broaching the subject. Goddamn it.

“Hey,” Karen said suddenly, her voice going a bit quieter. “Tommy, I was just curious. Maybe a little worried. You two have seemed really happy….”

Tommy shook his head, sighing. “We are. Yeah, no, we are. I should've figured he was…I just should've noticed.”

Karen seemed to be realizing she had stumbled onto a larger issue than she initially thought. The wineglass joined the pie plate on the grass and she scooted her chair a little closer to his, turning her whole body towards him. “Okay, I feel like I'm missing some context here. What's going on?”

Such an easy question. One he even knew the answer to.

He wanted to take the next step with Evan, was the thing. Fuck, if he was honest with himself, he'd been wanting to take the next steps for a while now. Moving in together. Joining finances. Getting a goddamn dog.

Little pieces of Evan had been finding their way into his place for months, now. His toothbrush and preferred shower products in the bathroom. His spare clothes in the bottom drawer of Tommy’s dresser. His weird-ass organic oat milk and protein powder in the kitchen. Small little pieces and Tommy wanted more. Wanted it all. They'd been together for almost a year and a half. Karen was right, if Tommy saw a future with Evan it was well past time to start the discussion. The way they'd been going, their anniversary trip would have been the perfect time to bring it up, to ask Evan to just give up the loft and come stay, come be with Tommy all the time.

He could see a future with Evan. He could see everything with Evan. Rings. Vacations. Pets. Fuck, Evan had him thinking about kids and he'd never thought that was something he wanted. He could see it, though. He could see them growing old and gray together. So what was the hold up?

A loud burst of laughter startled him, and he looked over to find Eddie had stolen Jee from Evan and was spinning around and around while she shrieked for him to go faster. Evan was perched on the arm of Christopher’s lounge chair, watching the scene with a soft smile as he draped his arm around the boy's shoulders.

Yeah. That was the hold up.

Something must have shown on his face, because Karen followed his line of sight. He averted his eyes when she looked back at him.

“Tommy,” she started, but he just shook his head.

It wasn't like he hadn't known going in that Evan's place in Eddie's and Christopher's lives (and theirs in his) was…a lot. Probably more than a lot of people would be willing to put up with. He cared about the Diaz boys too, though, and again…he hadn't been expecting to love Evan so damn much. And really? It had been fine. A little awkward at first, but he liked to think that they'd all learned to walk a line that let all of them get what they needed out of the relationships. It had been fine.

Then Eddie started getting more serious about therapy. Not that he hadn't been before. After the…situation…that had resulted in Chris going to spend the summer with Eddie's parents, he'd started seeing one of the department counselors again. But eventually he'd moved on to more intensive therapy–sought out more specialized treatment. Tommy had actually been the one to put him in touch with a veterans’ group some of his friends from the service attended, and through them, Eddie had found a therapist he really clicked with. Someone who worked with combat veterans exclusively, saw PTSD every day.

It had been great. Even knowing him for a relatively short time, Tommy could see how much stronger he was. How much more settled and sure of himself.

How much he was realizing about himself.

Tommy wasn't going to say anything. He wasn't going to bring it up until Eddie did, knew intimately how difficult it was for you to admit something like that to yourself and live honestly…especially for guys like them, however unfair that was. He'd supported his friend, he and Evan both had, but privately he thought it was kind of a tossup if Eddie would ever let himself finish that journey.

It was fine. It was all fine.

Eddie was getting braver, though. Tommy could see it. Could see him settling further and further into his own skin, getting closer and closer to being able to be who he was meant to be. It was wonderful, and awful at the same time. Wonderful because Eddie was his friend who he cared about, and no one deserved to have to live a lie. That kind of denial festered inside you. It poisoned you from the inside out. Eddie was a good man. A good friend. Tommy was glad it looked like he'd be able to lance that wound and drain the poison.

It was awful because Tommy wasn't an idiot. And he could see the way Eddie looked at Evan.

He'd always kind of thought Eddie might come between them eventually.

“Look, I love Evan. I really do. I want a life with him. But–” he gestured towards the charming tableau: Evan with his arm around what was for all intents and purposes his and Eddie's kid, while Eddie played with Evan's niece. He shrugged at Karen, twisting in his seat a little so he wasn't facing his boyfriend and the man who was also in love with his boyfriend, and who had a connection to his boyfriend that Tommy deep down didn't think he could compete with. “Writing on the wall's a little obvious, isn't it? Sue me, I'm kind of hoping to at least keep my dignity when he…” He broke off, gritting his teeth so hard he felt the muscle in his jaw jump. “When he moves on,” he finished, as steadily as he could. Fuck. He'd never said it out loud before. It fucking hurt.

“What?”

He hadn't heard Evan approaching them. Neither had Karen, judging by the way her eyes widened. Slowly, agonizingly, Tommy turned in his seat to find his boyfriend staring at him with the most hurt, betrayed expression he'd ever seen on Evan's face.

He'd always kind of thought Eddie might eventually come between them.

But not like this.

[runelocked]

²²⁾ “if i have to pull over, you won’t be able to walk for a week.” ( and one more from henry because omg / @ladyseidr )

WRONG THING TO SAY IF YOU WANT TO GET ANYWHERE PRODUCTIVE WITH WILLIAM ! Immediately aroused, the man's dark eyes flicker over to Henry, a little smirk twisting around his lips as the last of his self control fights to maintain any sense of decency. Your best friend is trying to drive you both to work, he scolds himself, get a grip. You can have as much sex as you want when you get to the office.

But, he helpfully reminds himself, the office is twenty minutes away. And Henry is here, now, looking delectable, and his words are so promising, and - and -

Well. William has never even tried to practice restraint before, not really. So his hand mischievously slides back over Henry's lap, presses more insistently into his crotch, stroking through his pants innocently like he has no idea what he's doing to the poor man. He's hard himself, and has a hard time keeping his voice level when he speaks. " I don't believe you, " he says, sweet, sugary, " I think I'll stick to keeping myself entertained like this, thank you. " Go on. Stop the damn car, Emily.

[thousand-winters]

One thing I really like about Saiki is, since his friends have no idea he has psychic powers, they all hang out with him because of who he is as a person. And when you think about that, it's really funny but sweet that they all pretty much tend to gravitate toward him anyway.

Because he generally seems like a bit of a quiet, grumpy person (his friends know sometimes they have to bribe him with sweets to get him to get somewhere lmao), Teruhashi mentions he's super hard to read too, which is fair since he has a very neutral face and generally also "speaks" in a super moderate cadence, plus he does go "are you stupid?" every so often.

But none of that is really a problem because they all adore him!!! They don't even know he's helping them all the time but they adore him. And it strikes me too particularly because some of them are even protective of him (everyone freaking out when he passes out, Kaido being relieved that at least Saiki got away from the delinquents trying to beat them up, etc.).

Thinking more about it, from their perspective it makes a lot of sense too. If I'm not mistaken, he's Nendo's and Kaido's first friend. He might get a little fed up with Nendo being so simple minded and with Kaido's dramatics, but even if he gets snippy, he's not cruel or mean with them for that, and for all he complains, there are times where he's just hanging out with them casually and not because he was forced by circumstances, like when Teruhashi decided to tag along for ramen and made things complicated for him.

Speaking of, Teruhashi initially was interested in him because she thought it was impossible that someone wouldn't be attracted to her but I get the feeling she likes him because he actually treats her normally too. Which later extended to the others as well, of course, but Saiki was the first one plus the one who's most consistently not reacting to her as a pretty thing to look at.

Then there are characters like Hairo and Toritsuka that are not in the "core" friend group but they still find Saiki fairly reliable. I think a lot of it is that even without the powers, Saiki is actually a very supportive friend, he often participates in the activities they do or helps them out in more obvious ways than what he does behind their backs.

Saiki in general appears like this quiet, but reliable presence who's there for all of them no matter what, so I think it makes sense that these bunch of teenagers tend to be like "ah, I feel like doing this fun thing, who should I do it with... oh, definitely Saiki!"

[antimony-medusa]

"There's just something about that guy that means I don't trust him"

Okay so, Phil has got the wrong read of Sunny. I'm gonna start off with that. He thinks they're a confident unconcerned material girl who is comfortable in the fact that their dad loves them, and potentially he thinks that they're a bit older than they are? Whereas people who have been able to see her one-on-one with Tubbo know that she's quite a bit more shy and insecure and young than she puts on! He's been taken in by the facade they're putting on, and I think that's part of why he is making jokes and comments that don't hit well. To understate how yesterday went. I think he botched the interaction with Sunny in the musuem and I hope someone tells him that, so he can apologize and fix that. And to be clear, as a phil viewer, this does interesting character work with Sunny as a sensitive child and I'm in favour of Sunnymin pursuing this line of lore. I'm staring with my little cube guy watching googles looking for the result when Phil realizes he scared a child, with great interest.

Because when you look at the musum one in context, my read is that was phil pivoting badly from an out of lore discussion into "oh hey I can explain something to sunny, who is confident and centred and knows her dad adores her" and then jokingly tried to explain the tallulah experience, and then we know from Sunny signs later that that went over like a ton of bricks. Mistake. However, when we're discussing it, I think it's fair to not have that understanding of the lore though, and to take a more pointed, villainous read of the lore! Go for it with discussing phil as cold and brusque to people who aren't his family, discuss Sunny feeling all alone in the musuem, fill your boots.

But guys, when you're discussing this as meta, I am seeing a lot of tags that are really really eager to paint Phil entirely and unequivocally as a villain and specifically cruel to children and cruel within the family, and there's an element to that that concerns me.

Phil, the cc, the guy, acts working class. He has an accent from a particular part of england that is traditionally working class, but he also has storytelling cadences and humour styles and attitudes towards challenges that are very familiar if you are from a working class or lower income community. I'm from an entirely different continuent, but the area I'm from is the sort of area that people make jokes about, and the whole way Phil acts as a CC is very familiar to me. (Note: even when he's talking about travel or stuff, he still has the "worked retail for a decade" mentality and pays attention to the staff and stuff and what they're doing, check out the brazil storytelling vod.)

And Phil's cubito, when he's not deliberately making a character like osmp crowfather, tends to have the mannerisms of someone who is working class. Even if you're not from a lower income area, I think most people can clock this, subconciously if nothing else. He swears a lot! He banters and roasts his friends and family but would absolutely do anything for them. He's informal in a very specific way.

Which is why when people pivot immediately into "why is he threatening and bullying children again" and "his wicked is showing", and "oh he's a evil stepfather/cruel stepmother" and "can we kill the child abusers now" I go Oh No.

Working class mannerisms are already stereotyped as especially prone to domestic abuse, among other ills. If you are going "oh something about him just always seemed like he would be cruel to children" maybe— push back on that one?

In the same way that during the election I was going "that may not be the play" about americans who didn't know what it was but something about Forever was just so angry and agressive (and they were talking from a perspective that viewed forever as a person of colour, regardless of how he's perceived at home), you might be talking from a perspective that encourages you to interpret Phil's behaviour with children as especially suspect. Potentially. Consider it.

And again, Phil biffed it in the musuem. That was a misstep that had me (autistic) going "oh no I see how you got there but you can all but see the sims negative relationship marker thing pop up". But I'd ask you at least to consider that it wasn't intentional cruelty, and that people can make social missteps before you jump immediately to interpreting their actions in the worst light possible.

[carolmunson]

you keep me without chains | em.

this is a re-post of a ramble fic of me processing some stuff i've been through and am struggling with in my own healing. if you're familiar with my 'bad at feelings' series, it's in a similar vein of writing except eddie is incredibly soft and sweet to reader who is going through her own stuff. eddie sucks here, i don't think it's a correct characterization of him but it's just me using him as a placeholder.

originally, i didn't want to put this story in the tags because it's sad and explores the mindset of someone in a non-physically abusive relationship. however, since it is DV awareness month, i wanted to make sure to express that if there are people reading this who are struggling that they aren't alone and there are people there that understand and support them. and also that if there are younger readers reading (still eighteen plus!) who aren't sure if they are in an abusive relationship they are maybe able to get some context via fiction. my inbox is always open. DV Hotline US: 800-799-7233 DV Hotline UK: 0808 2000 247 tw: 18+ mindors dni, references to emotional and psychological abuse, minor threats of physical violence.

he left this morning with a kiss on your cheek and your lips, a nuzzle against your temple when you gave him two thermos's, one with hot black coffee and the other with the beef stew you made last night. hot hot hot. the way he likes it.

you made bread, so crisp on the outside, pillowy soft on the inside. he groaned when he popped it in his mouth at the dinner table, soaked in broth and butter. you warmed some in the oven when you put his lunch together, wrapping it in foil to trap the heat -- maybe it'll keep until his lunch hour. he might eat it all before his lunch hour. he never eats breakfast really.

you clean the counters and do the laundry while he's away. no kids to take care of, not yet at least. you mend his spare coveralls, treating the grease and oils stains, resewing his name tag stiched in red thread. you shine your mary janes and stilettos, shine his doc's just to be nice. you fix his patches on his vest from the last show he went to. you clean the stubble out of the sink in the bathroom.

he has the car so there's nowhere to go.

you shower, you do your hair, put make up on, go through the motions while he's not home. he hates to wait for you to do it but you hate looking tired when you're out and about. better to do it when he's busy doing something else.

next door neighbor is heading to the library, knocks on your door to see if you wanna come with. she just wants you to get out of the house for once, stop playing wife to a man who hasn't married you yet.

you hesistate, wanting to be home in time to make dinner, but you can't imagine the library taking too long so you go. she looks at you with a strained pity that you can't stand. he doesn't hit you, so why does she even look at you like that? he'd never do that. he just got back from all that shit with a few screws loose. he never knows what he means when he says it.

he's always sorry. y'know? he's always sorry. sorta.

doesn't hit you but you know how the day will go by the way he says good morning. by the way he wakes up with you -- or without you. know how the night will go by the way he breathes when he comes in through the storm door. by the cadence of his steps on the metal stairs. by the way the van pulls in.

sometimes things break and that's fine cause he just replaces them. he knows he shouldn't have thrown it, he knows he shouldn't have tossed it, he knows. he knows. that's why he gets it the very next day. new plates, new house phone, new coffee pot, new records, new casettes, new picture frames, new flower pots. he doesn't throw them at you. he's only punched the wall twice. he slams his head against it all the time. cause he knows he's not good. he knows. you go to the library and check out some books, laugh at your neighbors jokes, tell her about your weekend in the city visiting his friends. he held your hand in front of everyone and pulled you onto his lap, he joked with you and you laughed the whole time. you went to see a band play that you'd never heard of and he got you a t-shirt and the next morning you all went out for hot chocolate and breakfast and he kissed the whipped cream off your lips and ran his thumb over your engagement ring over and over. he never stopped calling you baby. so charming. so perfect. you don't know what you did to earn it, but you've been chasing it ever since. modeling that week's behavior into this one. tip toes through the tulips of the trailer. jagged. shell like.

you get home from the library and lunch, she even stops with you when you mention you have to go to the grocery store. out of eggs for meatloaf, needed some canned string beans for one of the sides.

it's the best dinner you've made in a while and the mashed potatoes are double whipped and extra buttery because he can never get enough of them. you know that it's little things like that. you love the smile he gets when you tell him you do some things just for him, so blushy and boyish.

'that's so nice, baby,' he gushes, 'thinkin'a me.' and god he gushes. cries when he can't contain it. saw you in a new dress and wiped his eyes. new hair cut sent him into orbit.

so pretty.

you're so beautiful, i don't deserve you.

you're gorgeous i -- i can't even like, think.

presents on your birthday. handwritten notes with tear drops washing over the ink in a wave, blurry letters blue and black, black and blue. he'd never hit you. too in love. too bursting with affection when he looks at you. too nervous when you look at him when he takes you out. when he plays a show. when he sees you get dressed into your pjs at night. you're so good to me. especially when you hold him through those nightmares. when you calm his anxiety, those deep breath panic attacks. the ones that the meds miss when he misses them. you're patient through the mood swings and he always says thank you. he always says it -- you're the only one that understands him. that sees him. sometimes you don't get it. that's what he says at least. you don't get it and that makes him upset. but you're not sure what there is to get. and you try not to get sad about it -- 'bout anything really 'cause you're not the one who got a few screws knocked loose. nothing bad like that happened to you. i mean, sure, maybe some bad things happened to you but not like the way bad things happened to him, right? you wouldn't get it. but he gets you, he tells you all the time. he gets you so well. symbiotic. the only person who knows you, the only person whose been in your skin -- right? at least that's what he says, and he's said it so long you can't help but believe it.

your eyes fall on the newly vased roses he bought you two days ago from the florist near the shop. bright red petals opened and fat, contrasting against the pea green of the walls. you smile at them while you pour gravy over each plate, extra on his mashed potatoes. he kissed you this morning, he was almost late leaving the house -- couldn't stop kissing you. couldn't stop looking at you with those brown eyes, sparkling with a mischief saved for tonight.

the van rolls in as you set the table, still in your outfit from earlier, the books you checked out on the counter need the flowers. the storm door opens off kilter, your throat constricts. you know by the way he doesn't say anything when he comes in the house. work boots kicked off with loud thumps. his jacket swishing with a thwap when he throws it with a grunt to the ground. something bad must've happened at work. 'hey honey,' you say quietly, 'got dinner for you.'

you know better, watching him turn the corner into the dinette, looking down at you from where he stands and you sit. you hold a mug full of orange juice on the table, fingers tapping on it silently while he holds his gaze. 'you goin' somewhere, dressed up like that?' he asks, there's nothing behind those sparkling eyes now. dulled out to hollow brown.

'no,' you shrug, you know how to coreograph your responses now -- still stepping on his toes sometimes, 'went to the library with gina, she just wanted a friend for some errands.'

'you know gina doesn't like me,' he nods, walking to the fridge to grab a beer, 'she doesn't like us together. she hates me.'

'she doesn't hate you, ed,' you assure, voice still calm, mediating, 'no one hates you.'

'your folks hate me, your sister hates me,' he nods, curls bouncing while he takes a swig, like it's normal conversation. so steady, 'you think they like that i got you ever here in this trailer park?'

'my parents don't ha--'

'they do.' and that's final. you don't argue. and he's right. your parents don't like him and that's why you don't call anymore, and they stopped calling you too. so did all your friends from back home.

'so what'd gina tell you about me today, then?' he presses.

'nothin'," you shrug, 'we didn't talk about you.'

'of course not,' he laughs but it's one that sends a chill under your skin, a laugh to not seem so mean when you know he's about to be, 'she was prob'ly tryna set you up with someone. that's why you got all dressed up right? anything to look good for other guys out there.'

's'cuse me?' 'you heard me,' he nods, voice still steady like nothing's wrong, 'that's why you wore all those tight jeans in the city last weekend, right? those dresses? tryna show off to harrington and the guys. don't act like i didn't notice.'

'what are you talking about? why didn't you say anything when we were there?' you heart rate quickens, you try not to get mad.

'i shouldn't have to. but that's how you are, y'know?' he shrugs, another swig, another chuckle, 'makin' dinner and everything, you must've been out there makin' eyes at everyone if you made my favorite.'

'i wasn't doing that,' you urge, voice raising, tears threatening to pool, 'i just made it cause you like it, cause it makes you happy.'

'so you just do anything to make sure i don't get mad? do you even know why you do stuff like this for me?' he asks.

'what are you even saying?' your voice raises again, a mild yell. you're frazzled now, heart racing, head already scrambled.

'don't yell, what're you -- fuck babe, see! this is why gina doesn't like me,' he grits through his teeth, 'cause you're always making a scene over nothing. you're over fuckin' reacting.'

'i --' your voice catches in your throat, quieting, 'i'm sorry? i'm sorry.'

'd'you even know what you're sorry for?' he nearly sneers, 'always sayin' your sorry over nothing. y'know somethin' babe, sorry loses it's meaning when you're sayin' it all the time. it doesn't mean anything from you anymore.'

you nod, losing your resilience, too confused about how quickly you got here -- and he's right. you're always apologizing but half the time you don't even know what you're apologizing for. just that you feel like you need to be sorry. like you need to say sorry.

he holds that stare on you like he's waiting for you to speak again. daring you to say something. you stare down at the wood grain of the table, blank and empty -- numb, even. the mug between your hands is warm from how hard you were gripping the ceramic to keep you grounded.

's'what i thought,' he nods, voice a low rumble while he makes his way to the bathroom.

he'd never hit you.

the slam of the bathroom door makes you flinch.

sometimes you wish he would. maybe it would hurt less than this. at least that physical pain fades, right? at least it wasn't the same dull ache on a bruise that won't go away. are you hemmorhaging? do you just not feel it yet? will it be too late when you do?

he slides into bed with you at night after spending the rest of the evening out back with the other couples and families that were smoking ribs, having a little fire out in the brush. he smells like cigarettes. you could hear his grizzly laugh through the windows while you laid in the dark of your bedroom. too tired after the way he spoke to you to do anything else. everyone's favorite mechanic loverboy in the park.

you feel his fingertips on your shoulder, one of them gliding down the slope of your arm. he presses his lips to your shoulder blade, your eyes shut -- blearing with tears from that dull ache.

'dinner was really good, baby,' he says softly, a whisper.

you try to get out a thank you but it becomes a choke, a sniffle, a gasp. then a cry and then a harder one, remembering how he rolled his eyes at you two weeks ago when you cried after he threw out the love letter you wrote him for your four year anniversary because 'you didn't mean any of that shit anyway'.

he sits up, shushing you softly while his hand smooths over your bicep.

'what is it, sweetheart?' he asks, 'are you mad at me?'

you shake your head no. looking up at him, lying flat on your back. he looks so handsome in the moonlight, concerned eyes and tilted head peering down at you. 'n-no, ed. m'not mad at y-you,' you push out, head still scrambled. you feel guilty about last weekend, about going out today. what if guys really were looking? you know you weren't looking at them but what if they got the wrong idea? gina doesn't know what she's talking about, she's always hated ed. ever since they were kids.

'you just havin' one of your moments?' he asks, soothing voice, 'yeah?' one of your moments. always just one of your moments. couldn't be him, you're just -- maybe you're over thinking it.

'yeah,' you nod, 'm'sorry i went out with gina, baby i -- she didn't say anything bad about you.'

'it's okay,' he smiles, 'm'not mad at you. never mad at my girl.'

'no?' you ask, swallowing hard -- your heart leaps. he's not mad. maybe he just had a rough day.

'no doll, m'never mad at you. you always think i'm mad at you,' he says, thumb brushing away the tears that threatened to roll down the sides of your face to your hair line, 'you need me to kiss it better?'

another sob rips through you, nodding, because you do. you need it. and you sort of hate that you need it. you hate yourself for needing it. but he kisses you and it does feel better. he knows how to kiss you just right, he always has. he knows just where to put his hands. just how to pull away and brush his nose against yours. how to kiss your forehead between affirmations. smooth and understanding, like a movie scene. his kisses are his apologies. his sorry. you accept it every time.

because he doesn't hit you and he never would. in the morning, when the bathroom door slams so hard the walls vibrate, you flinch.

[violentdelightsandviolentends]

Western Nights.

You don't expect to bump into your dad's best friend Javier in a church basement on the outskirts of town. You also didn't expect to fall in love with him. Life seems to be full of surprises - and Javier was the biggest surprise of all.

Pairing - Dad'sBestFriend!Javier Peña x Female Reader

Age Rating - 18+

Word Count - 3.6k

Warnings - cursing. sexual content at the end. talk and themes of PTSD. brief mention of domestic abuse. several mentions of panic attacks. age gap (but all very legal and consensual). smut in future chapters.

Author's Note - it's finally here!! i've had this idea for so long and i'm so glad to finally put pen to paper. the dads best friend trope is one of my biggest weaknesses and javier peña is my favourite character ever, so naturally this was born. this fic will tackle some topics that may be a little tough for some people, so make sure to read the warnings!! can't wait to get this up on its feet and running, and for javi and peaches story to develop <3

as always, reblogs, comments and feedback (even anonymous feedback!) are immensely appreciated!! <3

Masterlist. Requests.

Series Masterlist. The Playlist.

Healing isn't linear. Recovery is a journey. This is a choice I have to make. No one else can make it for me.

You're repeating reassurances to yourself in your mind as you descend the stairs to the basement.

It's dimly lit, and it takes your eyes a minute to adjust. When they do, you're able to make out an old, heavy, oak wood lectern at the front of the room. Rows of flimsy plastic chairs are set almost as an audience, and tables line the edges. The carpet is worn, beige, and stained, the entire space smelling like must and bad coffee. You wonder how many girls like you have stepped foot in here in the past.

You pull the sleeves of your sweater down over your wrists and stick to the back wall, willing yourself to become invisible. Watching as people mill in slowly, you take a deep, steadying breath. In for 4. Hold for 4. Out for 6.

"Hi!" a middle aged, dyed blonde, motherly woman screeches at you. The cadence of her voice makes you jump.

"Sorry, sweetpea! Didn't mean to scare you," she looks you up and down before continuing. "You're new here, ain't ya?"

Her southern accent, albeit very high pitched, is somewhat comforting. It's something familiar in this room full of the unknown.

"Yeah," you just about manage to choke out.

She surveys you again, this time with no judgment. You realise she's just trying to figure you out, as you are her.

"If you need anything, just come find me. I'm Primrose."

You smile gently at the floral moniker, and decide that Primrose might be some much needed support. Her motherly aura was calming you ever so slightly.

"Alright, ladies and gentlemen, if we could all talk a seat, that'd be fantastic."

A tall, curly haired man - who can't be more than 30 - wearing a name tag sticker that reads 'Tobias' has taken his place behind the lectern, gesturing at everyone to sit down. You pick a chair near the back, slouching down and ducking your head.

"Wonderful. Hi, everyone."

A chorus of hellos echoes around the room, everyone clearly used to this routine.

"For anyone who's new here, I'm Tobias, but everyone calls me Tobi. I've been a Priest for the last five years, and I've been running this group for the last two. Usually, how it works is that we get a few people to come up and speak through their experiences."

Your chest tightens, and you have to remind yourself to keep breathing. As if he sees your panic, Tobi continues.

"Most people find that being able to talk freely and without judgment is a useful coping mechanism. PTSD is complex, and it isn't something that can ever be fully 'cured' - but we can find ways to make things easier. You're in a room full of ladies and gentlemen that might not understand your experience, but definitely understand your feelings."

He catches your eyes across the depth of the room and smiles gently. You muster up the strength to smile back cautiously, and he nods before speaking again.

"Some just come here to listen. Others find it beneficial to talk. No one is going to pressure you, judge you, or scald you. This is a safe space. Share as much or as little as you'd like. Okay?"

Everyone nods and murmurs in agreement. Tobi seems to have a way of reassuring the entire room without really trying. He's calming, tender hearted, genuine. You like him already.

"Who wants to start?"

Primrose shoots up out of her chair on the front row and makes her way to the front. Tobi squeezes her shoulder as she passes, and she beams at him.

"Hi, y'all! I'm Primrose."

The room is clearly familiar with the blonde ball of excitement. Everyone yells greetings at her, her energy almost infectious.

"Most of you know my story, but just in case you don't -"

Her eyes flit to you briefly, and she smiles. You half smile back, relaxing slightly.

"I was in a marriage where I suffered domestic abuse. He used to hit me, manipulate me, call me names. You think it, he did it."

She takes a breath, putting the smile back on her face where it's faltered.

"I have some news to share. I'm engaged!"

A few people jump out of their seats to hug her, congratulating her with pats on the back and yelled excitement.

"Thank y'all, thank y'all! I couldn't wait to tell you guys. I just... I never thought that I could ever be happy again. I certainly never thought that I'd ever find the courage to be with another man, after everything. But I've found someone amazing. And he treats me like a queen. So, to anyone who's new here - it is possible. I promise you. Y'all better help me pick out a dress!"

The room erupts into applause, and Primrose smiles so bright you're surprised the lights don't shatter.

After Primrose, an elderly man named Walter takes the stage. He explains his experience in the military, and the trauma and violence he witnessed for years. You learn that he's a recovering alcoholic, who wasn't had a drink for 9 years. He shakes slightly where he stands, leaning against the cane in his hand. You can tell he's lived through hell.

Finally, after Walter, Tobi stands at the lectern. He's the sole survivor of a car accident that killed his two best friends. After struggling to cope, he turned to God, and became a Priest to better help people just like him in his community. He speaks with such ease, such grace. A wave of calm sweeps over the room as everyone listens intently.

He checks the brown leather strapped watch on his right wrist before clicking his tongue.

"Well, folks, that's all the time we have for today! Feel free to stick around and chat to each other, as always. There's coffee and cookies on the table, and Janet made some of her famous honey loaf too. Thanks for coming. Same time next week?"

Everyone agrees in shouts and thumbs up directed towards the front. Slowly, people rise, stacking their chairs away before making their way over to the table where the coffee sits next to the styrofoam cups.

You remain seated for a little longer, catching your breath. Your teeth are digging into your bottom lip, knawing at it anxiously. You suddenly taste pennies, and lick up the blood quickly with your tongue.

Standing up shakily, you fold your chair at its hinges and add it to the stack at the front of the room. A yawn overtakes you, tiredness suddenly settling into your bones.

Coffee. You need coffee.

You make your way over to the tables, timidly smiling at Primrose as she shows off her ring to a small group of people. Just as you reach over and grab an empty cup, you become suddenly aware of a presence behind you.

"Don't drink that."

A warm, rich, booming voice hits your ears. The large, looming presence comes a little closer, towering over you.

"Trust me, honey. It's the worst coffee you'll ever taste in your life."

You know that voice, it's familiar timbre.

Javier Peña.

You turn around to be met with the sight of him peering down at you intently. He's wearing a flannel and blue jeans, heavy boots on his feet. He smells like musk, sandalwood, and the Texan heat.

God, he looks good. He's strikingly handsome. Objectively attractive. Everyone in your town agrees that Javier Peña is one beautiful man.

And seemingly unattainable. Since leaving Lorraine at the altar years ago, no one has heard any word of Javier so much as dating.

"Such a waste," your mom always says. "Gorgeous man like that. He could have anyone he wants!"

And it's true. Chocolate hair, broad shoulders, strong thighs. The man is a heartthrob.

A heartthrob with a secret, apparently.

"Javier?" you question. "What are you doing here?"

It's now you realise that he's here. At the meeting. You've done such a good job of keeping your head down, going relatively unnoticed. And now, staring down at you, is your dad's best friend. So much for covert.

He must see the realisation on your face. Or maybe he notices the way your breathing quickens. Either way, he places a warm palm on your shoulder, looking at you carefully.

"Hey. It's okay," he reassures. "I won't tell if you won't."

You nod meekly, trying to stay calm. In for 4, hold for 4, out for 6.

The basement suddenly feels too small, too dark, too stuffy. The carpet is too scratchy, the chairs too hard, the table too white. You need to get out before your chest caves in.

"You know, if you still want coffee, there's a diner like ten minutes from here. They do really good pie," Javier tells you, distracting you from your impending panic attack.

You take a breath and nod.

"Yeah. Okay. I like pie."

"Come on," he encourages, gesturing at you to lead the way. "Walk with me."

✵  ✵    ·　 ✵ 　　 *  · ✵

You and Javier walk steadily side by side in silence, fingers occasionally accidentally brushing each other. After it happens twice, you decide to put your hands in your pockets the rest of the way, ignoring the warmth that radiates off him.

You eventually arrive at Cherry Pie Diner. The neon sign is blinding, shades of bright pink, yellow and blue flashing and flickering. Inside, the white overhead lights illuminate classic red leather booth seats and waitresses in pinafore aprons.

"Here we are. When you go in, ask for JoJo. She'll take care of you," he winks.

You stand stuck in your place on the sidewalk for a minute, processing his words.

"You're not coming in?"

He seems taken aback by your question. Now he's the one processing.

"You... uh - you want me to?"

"I, uh, yeah. I mean... if you're not busy... I just, uh - nevermind. Sorry. Forget I said anything."

"I didn't want to overstep, you know, it, uh- But if it's okay with you... I could do with some coffee."

Javier smiles at you gently, gauging your reaction. When you smile back hesitantly, he pushes open the door to the diner, gesturing at you to head inside.

✵  ✵    ·　 ✵ 　　 *  · ✵

"What looks good, honey?"

You raise your eyes from the menu you were staring at intently to quirk your brow at Javier.

"Hmm?"

"I asked if anything looked good," he repeats kindly.

"I, um, I'm not sure. What do you recommend?"

"The peach pie," he says without hesitation.

The quick response makes you laugh, the melody of it tugging at Javier's heart strings. He realises, sadly, that he hasn't heard that sound in a hell of a long time.

"Listen, I know it's not anyone's go to," he justifies, "but it's honestly the best thing on the menu. There's nothin' like it."

"Okay," you say with complete certainty. "Peach pie it is."

JoJo is a bubbly, Southern woman with rosy cheeks and a smile that never seems to falter. She takes your orders happily, flirting with Javier like you weren't sat watching, confusion and awkwardness plastered across your face.

"You two seem close," you approach gently, trying to make conversation.

"Yeah, I know her husband. JoJo's been serving me here for at least 10 years. Peach pie, every time," he laughs.

"I'm usually a cherry pie girl. Maybe you'll convert me."

You both sip steadily at your coffees, humming in contentment at your first bites of pie. Halfway through your slice, you break the silence.

"Okay, fine. This might be the best pie I've ever had."

"I told you," he smirks. "I'll never lead you wrong, honey. Promise. Not where pie is concerned, anyway."

You finish off your slices in comfortable quiet, neither of you quite sure what to say next.

"So, uh... about tonight..." you begin nervously.

"I won't tell anyone I saw you, cariño. I swear."

You breathe a sigh of relief.

"Thank you, Javi. Really."

Javi. The nickname so rarely used, it makes his heart stutter for a second.

"You're... you're not gonna ask what I was doing at that meeting?"

He tilts his head slightly, gazing at you carefully before replying.

"If you wanted to tell me, you would. I'm not gonna push you. These things take time."

He smiles like he knows. You think, maybe, he does.

"Can I ask you something?"

"Anything, sweetheart."

A breath. In for 4, hold for 4, out for 6.

"Was that your first meeting too?"

He shakes his head, soft curls rippling.

"I've been going for a few months. I sneak out of town every week, so I'm pretty sure Chucho thinks I'm having a secret love affair. He doesn't ask questions."

You both laugh, and JoJo's head whips up, her curiosity peaked. She's never heard Javier laugh like this. Sure, he chuckles at her jokes, but the sound doesn't usually reach the corners of the room like that.

"He'd probably love it if you were, you know. Your love life is often a topic of conversation in my house, among many others in our neighbourhood."

He scoffs, and kicks your foot under the table teasingly.

"Man, nothing happens in that damn town, does it?"

"Nothing at all. Think we're overdue a secret love affair from you, Mr Peña. It might liven things up a little."

"Shut it, you," he chuckles, rolling his eyes.

You pull the sleeves of your sweater back down over your wrists again.

"I haven't seen you in a while. Think my dad is starting to get worried, you know."

A deep crease appears between his brows abruptly, hand rubbing the back of his neck.

"Yeah. I've just been busy, I guess. Tryna sort my shit out," he snickers dryly, no real humour in it.

"So did you do it?"

"Hmm?"

"Sort your shit out?"

Now he laughs genuinely, bright smile gracing his cheeks.

"Absolutely fucking not."

"Man, I know the feeling," you reassure.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

Your breathing speeds up slightly, eyes darting around the room. Javier notices, reaching across the booth to grab your hand. He intertwines his fingers with yours, thumb rubbing comforting patterns on your skin. You take a deep breath. In for 4, hold for 4, out for 6.

"I feel like... like I'm... uh...," he nods at you reassuringly, squeezing your hand a little tighter. "I feel like I'm drowning. I'm barely keeping my head above water at any given moment. And I'm tired, Javi. Fuck, I'm tired."

A warm, salty tear escapes you, running down your cheek. Javi leans forward and brushes it away with his thumb, big brown eyes never leaving yours.

"It's okay, cariño. You're okay," he murmurs. "I get it. God, I get it."

"You do?" you sniffle.

"I do," he confirms. "More than you could ever know. And I know how lonely it feels. But I promise you, sweetheart. You're not alone. Not anymore."

His voice is like warm honey, soothing and golden. It melts into you, releases some of the tension from your shoulders. The tightness in your chest loosens slightly, and you take a deep breath. You find the courage to look at him again, and find that he hasn't taken his eyes off you once. His gaze is like an anchor, tethering you to reality. You surprise yourself by not wanting to shy away from the intensity of it. No, you want more.

Javier lets go of your hand to trace his fingertips up your forearm. He draws patterns carefully, as if he's learning every inch of you, committing you to memory. Like he isn't sure when he'll get to touch you like this again. If he'll get to touch you like this again.

You're still looking at each other, neither of you gathering the courage to look away. It's as if Javi is reading the words off the very surface of your soul. You're not sure you've ever felt so understood in your life. It terrifies you.

Without thinking, you grab a hold of Javier's hand and raise it to your lips, kissing each of his knuckles gently. The tenderness makes his heart ache.

"Hermosa," he sighs almost wistfully.

The sound of his voice snaps you back to the present moment.

"I'm sorry," you stutter, letting go of him. "Fuck, Javi, sorry. I don't - oh, I... fuck."

"Why do you do it?" he asks.

"Do... do what?"

"Apologise for everything. Every other word out of your mouth is 'sorry'," he chuckles affectionately.

"Sorry," you mumble without thinking. You pause, registering your words. The two of you break out into laughter, clutching at your stomachs.

"Are you?"

"Am I...?"

"Are you sorry? Or do you just say it because you think people want to hear it? You can't apologise for your entire existence, cariño."

You look into those warm, chocolate eyes, and realise he's read you for filth. He's right.

"I'm not sorry," you whisper.

He quirks a brow and nods attentively, urging you to continue.

"For... for what I just did. I'm not sorry."

You're praying that he understands what you're trying to say. I'm not sorry for my tender gesture. I'm not sorry for this connection we've made. I'm not sorry for my soft heart.

"I'm not either," he replies, barely above a murmur. You hear him, clear as day.

You reach out, this time, and interlock your fingers with his across the table. His large hand envelopes yours, and he squeezes. It effects you more than it probably should.

JoJo drops a plate behind the counter, the red and white china shattering across the checkerboard floor. The smash snaps you both out of the moment, making you jump. Your heart kicks into overdrive, battering against your ribcage.

"Hermosa, it's alright. Just a plate."

You hear him, but your nervous system doesn't seem to want to cooperate. Your breaths become laboured and frantic, and your hold on Javi's hand tightens almost painfully.

"Come on, Peaches, let's get out of here. It's getting late."

Javier stands from his bench seat and pulls you up with him, never once removing his fingers from where they're locked with yours. He shoots a smile over to JoJo, who returns it with glee. The two of you walk across the parking lot, hand in hand, illuminated by the neon light of the diner's sign. The colours dance across Javier's cheekbones, reflecting off the brush of his mustache, painting the rich brown warmth of his hair. He's never looked more handsome.

✵  ✵    ·　 ✵ 　　 *  · ✵

"Peaches."

"Hmm?" Javier asks from where he's leaning against the side of your car, back in the church parking lot.

"You called me Peaches. In the diner."

He nods, smirk etched on his streetlit face.

"Because of the pie."

"Because of the pie," he echoes.

"I like it," you confess quietly. "Peaches."

Javier pushes off the vehicle and stands, towering over you. Without a second thought, he brushes a thumb over your cheekbone in a featherlight touch.

"Sweet like peaches," he murmurs. "Too fuckin' sweet for a world like this one."

You look up at him, breath catching in your throat when you meet his eyes. He's gazing at you with adoration. With tenderness. With so much softness. Your knees go weak with the weight of it all.

It hits you, suddenly. The realisation.

You want to kiss him.

You want to kiss Javier Peña.

You want to kiss him more than you've ever wanted to kiss anyone in your entire life.

You're stood in the parking lot of a church on the outskirts of town with your dad's best friend and you're feeling the closest thing to happy you've felt in months.

You take a step forward, closing the gap between you. The warmth radiating from the older man settles itself in your bones, shielding you from the chill of the night. Just as you tilt your face up towards his, your phone buzzes.

Jumping apart as if you've been caught, you check your messages with shaky hands.

"It's my mom. She thinks I'm with a friend, so she's just checking in. She doesn't like it when I drive in the dark."

The mention of your mother snaps Javier out of his peachy haze.

"You should get back, cariño. It's late. Sorry for keeping you."

"Now who's apologising for no reason?"

He laughs, and you feel like you've won a gold medal. An achievement in its own right.

You climb into the drivers seat of your car, starting up the engine. Just as you're about to leave, Javi taps on the window. You roll it down.

"Same time next week, Peaches?"

"Same time next week, Javi."

You drive away with a smile on your face and a warmth in your stomach, the taste of peach still lingering on your lips. You notice that Javier drives behind you steadily, following you carefully to make sure you get home safe.

✵  ✵    ·　 ✵ 　　 *  · ✵

You're staring at the ceiling.

You're plagued by insomnia.

According to the Internet, it goes hand in hand with your PTSD. You make a mental note to work up the courage to ask Tobi about it in the next meeting.

You lie in bed, watching as the sunlight slowly illuminates the room. Usually, you'll make a cup of tea, read a book, watch a TV show. Pace around the room like a caged animal. Count sheep. Do yoga. Listen to music.

Tonight, you take a different approach.

Tonight, you slip a hand under the waistband of your underwear, and replay the way Javi murmured your name in the diner on repeat.

It does the trick.

@frogers @farintonorth @not-a-unique-snowflake-blog @pedrobaby @grace46 @harriedandharassed

[husbandhoshi]

LILY HI ITS ME STAR!!! HOW ARE YOU I LOVE U AND WISH U ALL THE BEST MUAH MUAH!! also: perhaps smth a little naughty at 11:36 PM with lab partner!wonwoo 👀👀

tags: college!au, inexperienced!wonwoo x f!reader, nerd!wonwoo, experienced!yn, oral (m!receiving)

[11:36]

wonwoo has never liked chemistry.

the periodic table looks like a colorful placemat and a titration might as well be a long winded recipe for a terrible cocktail. (although the ones at the delta tau delta chemistry themed party were good. they served them in little beakers, and wonwoo thought those were quite cute. that was also the party where he met you.)

speaking of you—unlike chemistry, wonwoo does, however, like you a great deal.

which makes chemistry much more tolerable because you are his lab partner.

on the first day of lab, when they had asked the class to pair up, you walked over to him, and wonwoo almost melted right into the ground.

"you're the only one here i know," you whispered, waiting for him to lean down to your height. he did, and you smelled like cherries. "we talked at the delt party. wonwoo, right?"

"yes, i'm wonwoo," he had said, words tripping and tumbling off of his tongue like he was learning to speak for the first time.

it was no better at the party, except he was drunk and you were drunker, and you had made the grave mistake of asking him what classes he was taking. two mike's hard lemonades and a battery acid vodka shot later, his dumb ass was still talking about emily dickinson, and you, somehow, were standing there in those mile-high heels, listening as if he was the most interesting guy at the party.

i think she's totally into you, mingyu had said, in that loud, spitty cadence he has when he's 90% beer.

don't be ridiculous.

but then you had asked wonwoo to walk you to your dorm, and you took the long way, winding right through campus.

he doesn't dream often, but he thinks the one he had that night was red and smelled like your lip gloss.

now, he thanks god for the miracle that is you in an oversized hoodie and shorts in his room past sundown.

granted, you're there to work on the last lab report of the term, and he had seen you just two nights ago at the kappa party, but wonwoo thinks he likes this version of you best. (that night, you had tried to break in your new heels. he ended up holding onto them, and you ended up holding onto him on the drunken stumble home. whether it was for support or for something else, wonwoo doesn't know, but he wishes he wore something different than the ratty polo from the back of his closet.)

"thanks for all your help," you say, closing your lab notebook. "i don't know how you're so good at all of this."

"i'm not," he laughs. he hands you your pencil case with the sailor moon charm, the one you were so proud to show him when he mentioned he watched anime. "it was all you."

you wave him off and bend down to put your things in your bag.

wonwoo tries his best to avert his eyes. he really does.

it's a valiant effort. there's a book out of order on his shelf (anna karenina, tolstoy). he really should have put that gundam figure away before you came over.

and your ass is perfect, but that doesn't really surprise him because he doesn't think there is a single thing wrong with you.

"you know," you start, still rifling around in your bag. "i heard something real interesting from mingyu the other day."

"hm?"

wonwoo changes the backlight color of his keyboard. it does not make him calmer. instead he feels all the peely leather on his gaming chair poke through his sweats and he tries not to think about the little birthmark you have on the back of your thigh.

"he told me that..." you stand straight and turn to face him. there's a fresh coat of gloss on your lips, like a magic trick. "you have a crush on me."

wonwoo doesn't know what to say. he likes to think before he speaks but now you're walking towards him and thinking isn't really an option anymore.

"right?"

"um."

not good. he didn't think he was that obvious but he's no liar.

"fine, i'll start." you're standing right in front of him now, and he thinks the gulp he takes is audible. "i like you."

he watches your lips form around the words, glittery and confident, and if he wasn't doomed before, he certainly is now.

his near perfect gpa is doing jack shit to help him understand why someone like you, gorgeous and funny and smart and popular, would ever take a second look at the gangly boy in the glasses.

but you are—in fact, you're staring with an intensity that makes him afraid you can actually see right through all the clothes he's got on.

"i—" come on, wonwoo thinks. they're the words he wanted to tell you outside your dorm building three weeks ago when you said you didn't know anyone quite like him. "i like you too. a lot."

"good."

the first thing he learns is that you're forward, and he likes that.

the second thing he learns is that your lip gloss tastes like cherry.

your mouth is hot and soft on his. he thinks he died and went to heaven, and then you're kissing him again, catching his bottom lip between your teeth so he whines into your mouth.

the last time he tried kissing was during senior prom. his date stood on her tiptoes and he accidentally bumped his nose into hers and missed her mouth and the whole thing was a disaster.

and yet now, wonwoo feels like he's melted right into your hands. you lead and his body just knows how to follow.

"you're shy, huh?" you murmur, pulling back to look at him. "that's so cute."

he doesn't quite know what he looks like but his glasses are slipping down his nose and he feels the menthol sting of your lips all over his. there has never been this much blood in his cheeks but that doesn't quite make sense to him because he feels all of it going straight to his dick.

"you're perfect," is what the primordial ooze in wonwoo's brain manages to put together.

you kiss him again, and when he remembers to relax his lips enough, you're slipping your tongue in and letting him suck, and you moan.

wonwoo swears he could have blown his load right there and then—when it came to you, it really didn't take much, and now he's wondering what your skin tastes like, craving the cherry of your cunt.

your hand on his chest, sharp nails and glittery rings, trails down nice and slow. it feels like he's on fire. it's a wonderful distraction from the sensation of your teeth on the pretty, taut skin over his collarbone, but then you're biting and licking and he feels his balls get so tight and heavy in his pants he might just cry.

and then your hand comes to rest on his lap, right over his hardness, and wonwoo's about to protest—no, no, sorry, i don't mean to have a boner! i've never been kissed like that before in my life!—until you drop to your knees, right in between his parted thighs.

"has anyone ever touched you like this?" you say, voice low, dizzying. "anyone ever made you feel good?"

he shakes his head no, a new, sudden wave of desire climbing his bones.

mussed hair and swollen lips, you look more beautiful than anyone wonwoo's ever seen in his entire life. he doesn't know what he did in a past life to earn this but he must have saved the world.

"p-please," he says, but it's somewhere between a moan and a gasp because you're palming him through his sweats, the sensation foreign, thrilling.

"patience," you tease, and he would be morbidly embarrassed at the spot of precum on his pants if you weren't already thumbing at it yourself.

once you take his cock out of his sweats, he knows he's losing whatever battle he was fighting. he sees how your hand looks so little around it, and it's his nth struggle to make sure he doesn't just cum in your face. maybe another day, if he's so lucky.

"i-i might cum really fast," he confesses, because he doesn't know how to really say he's never gotten a blowjob before.

"good," you answer. unlike him, somehow you always know exactly what to say.

the third thing wonwoo learns that day is that he's fully, wholly, entirely obsessed with your mouth. with your slick bottom lip, with your tongue, and now with the way he sees your gloss-smeared mouth wrap taut around his cockhead.

wonwoo can never return to watching porn again. there is simply no one quite like you.

"f-fuck," he pants, the feeling overtaking him all at once. "feels so good, mouth's so good—"

one look at your eyes, big and watery and good for him, and he feels his cock twitch in your mouth. and then you start moving; you take him all the way to the base and then some. he feels your tiny little throat close around him, and the groan he lets out is nothing short of pornographic. he never thought he was that big, but seeing your eyes well up and your mascara get all dewy as you gag around him is doing something crazy to his brain.

it doesn't take long for you to fall into an easy rhythm. you're figuring him out so fast, and that would scare him if it didn't feel so good. your tongue's on his veins, the underside of his cockhead, and he's already gripping the armrests of his chair with white knuckles.

you sink down again and swallow around his length, let your throat do all the work, and wonwoo throws his head back, chest heaving. his eyes flutter shut, and the fluorescent ceiling light phases in and out of vision as you give him what could possibly be the best head you've ever given someone in your whole life.

"gonna cum s-soon," wonwoo manages. "you're so fucking hot."

it's either a moan or a whimper that comes out of you when he says that, and he thanks his lucky stars he has the wherewithal to put that information in his back pocket. he doesn't know when or how but his plan is to return the favor to you in full. and if that involves a copious amount of praise, he's all the better prepared because he has no shortage of nice things to say about you.

you take him once, twice to the base and wonwoo feels all the heat in his balls and his belly and then he's cumming, more and harder than he ever thought possible. he almost thinks it's like a piece of his soul was taken from him.

"d-don't have to swallow," he says, but you do, every last fucking drop until it's dribbling from your perfect mouth, and wonwoo is now fully convinced you are a real life goddess.

i'm an addict in the making, he thinks, but then you smile at him with those eyes, and he doesn't think that's such a bad thing.

he searches for the right words to say, something cool, experienced. it's a constant effort to be that guy for you because he's still not really sure why any of this happened.

"stop thinking so hard," you say, coughing once, then wiping your mouth with the back of your hand. "i can see your wheels turning."

how you can read him so easily is beyond him. he wonders if you knew he was in love with you the second he laid eyes on you at the delta tau party.

where are my manners, wonwoo then remembers, and the post-nut clarity possesses him to brush the hair out of your eyes and help you up from your position on the ground.

"i like you. i don't care how experienced you are."

he hears you, and he believes you. instead of arguing, he cups your tear-streaked face in his hands and uses his thumbs to wipe your cheeks.

"plus, i think i'm a pretty good teacher."

you smile, and wonwoo has the confidence to kiss you back, for real this time.

[aheckinmess]

Weak Spot (Dad Sukuna)

(Part 1 of Cursed, Not Cute.)

Read on AO3.

Tags: Dad Sukuna, OC Child, Mildly Out of Character?, I Mean I Tried, I Really Tried to Keep Him in Character, Given the Circumstances, But Just in Case, Sukuna's Daughter, And Yes She Has His Sass

Word Count: 1,021 words

Summary: After Ryomen Sukuna has complete control of Japan as the King of Curses, he has a child that he's determined to train into a vessel of villainy, just like him. Things don't exactly go according to plan.

Chapter 1: Weak Spot

Sukuna should have seen it coming the second the damned woman told him she was with child. A night of passion and lust had resulted in a child of his own. One that he knew would be hellbent on destruction, just like him.

“I will raise you to be stronger even than me.” Flames reflected in his red eyes as he glared over the crumbled city below. He rocked her in his arms to the cadence of screaming victims below. “You cannot be weak if you’re going to inherit my legacy.”

A little girl with pink and brown hair looked up at him, babbling and cooing with a radiant smile. A smile reflecting paternal affection, dependence, and unyielding trust.

These were emotions he’d always thought he’d easily dismiss when the child was born. But truth be told? She wrapped him around her finger a little more with every passing day.

“We will rule this world together, you and I.” He promised.

The moment he felt such buzzing warmth for her, he should have killed her. Hell, he should have killed Asuka as soon as she’d said she was pregnant. Killed two birds with one stone.

But now, looking into his daughter’s eyes, his resolve crumbled. Her dark, pleading eyes squeezed a part of his soul that should have been dead long ago. He grit his teeth, raising his hand again to slice off her head. She’s just another obstacle in my reign of terror and misery! She has to go!

So what stopped him?

Those eyes. Those wide, loving eyes. Eyes that still stared at him with trust and adoration even as he held her life in the balance. A respect for her father that stood unshakeable even in the face of death.

“Are you going to kill me, Father?” Her lip quivered, though he’d long since taught her to be brave and keep her head high during her final moments.

Sukuna, for once, found himself speechless. With a roar, he threw his hands down before pacing across the balcony. Four sets of knuckles gripped the railing until they turned white, flattening metal with his great strength. This damn child. This. Damn. Child!

“I apologize, Father.” Her soft voice floated over to him. “I never intended for my weakness to cause you dishonor.”

“Silence.” Sukuna’s throat tightened in his fury.

The sound of crackling flames drowned out the silence between them as she listened obediently. Perhaps that’s why I’m so remiss to end her life. She's strong. Strong and obedient. Sukuna’s eyes met the gaze of a frantic woman clutching her child to her chest on the street as a curse cornered both of them. He flicked his wrist and the woman and her child dropped in a bloody mass without a second thought.

“I raised you to carry on my legacy,” He growled, slamming his fist down against the damaged metal and turning to her. For once, his brows wrinkled with pain, something he hadn’t felt in years. “Yet you stand before me, unwilling to follow the path of destruction I’ve set. Do you think I would just support your path of good fortune to others?!”

Her second set of hands always gave her away. While the bottom pair stayed by her side, she hid the top pair behind her back, fidgeting as her eyes glistened.

“No, sir.” She whispered.

“Do you expect me to accept such weakness from my own flesh and blood?!”

“No, sir.”

“Then what do you expect, Besu?!” He snapped, digging his nails into her cheeks as his frustration mounted.

“I don’t know.” She admitted.

Blood marred the sides of her face as he tried one more time to use his great strength to bring her a swift end. But he could only watch the blood drip from her chin before he pulled his hand back.

“Well, I don’t know either!” He huffed, raking two hands through his hair as the other two rested on his hips. With a heavy sigh, he responded as softly as the Curse King had ever dared. “I know what I should do.”

She didn’t say anything, and neither of them needed to. Sukuna knew she was a brilliant child. She was his offspring, after all. So she knew he should kill her, as opposed to giving her a gentle ending. They both knew he lacked gentleness with everyone.

Everyone but her. Why her?! I killed Asuka as soon as Besu no longer needed her milk. So why? Why, why, why?!

“I love you.”

Those words. Those damned words! Only she had ever uttered them. He’d never found a need for them from anyone else.

He whipped his hand around and bruised her cheek with the flat of his palm. She barely flinched and kept her back straight.

She knew not to say such things. She knew. Words had power. Those three little words already drove him to his knees as he rubbed a thumb over the growing welt, healing it in seconds.

“Love is weak.” He hissed, looking directly into her eyes. “I’ve told you that time and time again, Besu. You know that love is weak and…and…” He paused, waiting for the anger to pummel relentlessly into her before he broke. “And…and dammit, I love you too!” He clutched her against his chest. “I love you and I hate it!”

For those few moments he could only hold her and wish she were a newborn again, reveling in the fallen world with him. He wished she were not this sweet and precious 7-year-old holding his heart in the palm of her hands as she told him she didn’t want to be evil. He wished he did not feel this overwhelming urge to protect her until his dying breath. He wished he did not enjoy the relief that flooded him knowing she still breathed against his chest, trusting him with every inhale and exhale.

No. He wished he did not have a daughter at all. Because for the first time in history, Ryomen Sukuna had a weak spot.

And he knew it wouldn’t take long for the world to notice.

Continue Reading -> Ch. 2