#for 5 dollars a month traumatize yourself!

[asherlookit]

someone tell the dropout art department I will be invoicing them for my therapy what the absolute FUCK

[preciouslandmermaid]

nothing’s gonna hurt you baby (carmy x f!reader)

Note: I’m only on episode 5 of “The Bear” but uh they genetically engineered Carmy in a Lab and I couldn’t get this pathetic, high functioning but also traumatized baby girl out of my head.

Let me know if ya’ll want me to continue this because I probably could.

Pairing: carmen berzatto x fem!reader

Content: 18+. MDNI. Smut.

Warnings/Tags: cursing/foul-language, smoking, protected sex, enemies to friends with benefits (sort of), banter, rivalry, second person POV, Porn WITH plot, slow-burn, grinding, light edging, semi-public/car sex lmao

Synopsis: Your grandfather bought the building across from “The Original Beef of Chicagoland.” After his unexpected death, you found yourself shouldered with the immense responsibility of turning these four walls into something worthwhile.

It doesn’t help that the new owner of Original Beef, Carmen Berzatto, is up your ass constantly and trying to get you to shut down before you can become a threat to their business.

(Read on Ao3) ||||  (Masterlist)

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

“Did you see that someone bought the spot across from ours?” Fak asked. “I wonder what they’re gonna turn it into.”

“I don’t know. Probably a fucking GAP or something.” Riche said while lighting his cigarette.

“Cousin, can you give me a hand with this shit?” Carmy asked while holding a milk crate – one of many deliveries – with an exasperated look to Richie.

Richie gestured with his hand, cigarette pinched between his index and middle finger, “I’m having a smoke break, cousin, give me a minute. Jesus Christ.”

“Fuck you.” Carmy muttered, rolling his eyes, and carrying the heavy crate alone.

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

You settled your hands on your hips, surveying the space of drywall and hanging working lamps, and a fine white dust clouded the air. You barely had a minute to catch your breath between the funeral and meeting with your grandfather’s lawyers and dealing with your over-zealous family. To call this place a “work in progress” would be an understatement. According to all your grandfathers’ files and notes, it had been a bitch to get around all the red tape and legal bullshit to avoid the building being demolished.

It was an older building which meant someone had to check for lead, asbestos, faulty wiring, and every single other goddamn possibility under the sun. Then, he went and did what all old fuckers do – he died. He died and left the shitshow to his favorite grandchild. What an honor.

You pinched the bridge of your nose. A tension headache pressed against your nasal cavity since brunch and now it demanded to be noticed.

“So, you see,” The foreman continued, “we will need to gut out the left side if that’s still where the kitchen is going to be. I’ve got plenty of guys working on it, though, don’t worry.”

“How long?” You hissed with your eyes closed. The bright workman’s lamps were aggravating your head.

“Huh, how long?” The foreman stroked his sweaty mustache with two fingers. He was a soft, pudgy guy with a weak chin and perpetually watery eyes. Upon first meeting him, you thought he’d be a better fit as a Mall Santa instead of the head of your grandfather’s multi-million-dollar project.

“I’d say we’re looking at two more weeks to finish up these repairs. The drywall won’t take long – I know a guy and he can have that done in a day. You still wanna open in June?”

It was less than three months away. It sounded impossible. But your grandfathers’ notes expressed the importance of a summer opening to gain the most income and foot traffic. Your grandfather had been a shrewd and hard-working businessman. After all, this wasn’t the first restaurant he opened, and it was kind of fucked that he left you this one and not the other ones (which were doing well).

You nodded. “Yeah, June.”

The foreman made a note on his clipboard. “Now, if you’ll follow me—”

“Actually,” You held up a hand, “I gotta – I need a smoke break.”

You hadn’t had a cigarette since…Jesus. This morning? No wonder you had a migraine from hell and your heart kept pounding erratically. The foreman (whose name you were pretty confident was Tom) nodded enthusiastically and gave you a sympathetic look. You stepped outside to the cold, early-March air and inhaled deeply while fishing your cigarettes out of the pocket of your black, leather duster coat.

You tapped the bottom of the cigarette package against your palm before pulling one out and perching it against your lower lip. Your reached into your other pocket for your lighter. Your fingertips met empty, silk lining and few mysterious crumbs.

“Shit.” You checked your other pocket, only finding your cellphone and wallet, and your heart plummeted. “Shit.”

You whipped open the glass door and popped your head back into your restaurant, “Yo! You smoke?” You asked the foreman.

He looked up from his phone with a jolly little smile. “No! Quit years ago, thankfully, you know it’s really been such a blessing that my wife and I--”

“Cool.” You released the door handle and let it swing closed. You paced in front of the building (your building) and sulkily kicked a crushed Sprite can off to the side. You glanced across the street.

As a teenager, you followed your grandfather in his walkthroughs of his restaurants. A golden rule of all food place establishments? Everyone smokes. Although, that rule might be less common in the world of vaping and electronic cigarettes. You checked the street both ways before crossing with your hands tucked in your pockets and the unlit cigarette dangling from your lips.

You ignored the front entrance and walked to the side, where the customer cars would be parked, and some Divine Benevolence must’ve been watching over you because a man with a blue apron was smoking while crouched near a door.

“Hey, man!”

He turned to look at you and you were momentarily surprised by his appearance. He wasn’t classically handsome, but his eyes were as blue as Lake Michigan during the summer, and his dark golden hair artfully curled around his face. He looked like he just rolled out bed while simultaneously looking like he hadn’t slept in 36 hours. A few tattoos scattered across his arms, but you didn’t bother to look closer at any of them.

“Hey.” A charged moment passed while he sized you up and probably made sure you weren’t here to try and shake him down for change.

You gestured to the cigarette in your mouth, “I lost my lighter. Do you mind?”

He reached into his pocket and held his lighter to you. Wordlessly, you took it, lit your cigarette, and tilted your head back with a euphoric exhale of smoke. The rush of nicotine to your head and bloodstream immediately eased your headache and anxiety. Small miracles and small mercies. At least now you could continue your meeting with Tom (God, you hoped that was his name) and figure out the rest of the restaurant bullshit.

All the family lawyers told you to sell it and give the headache to someone else and let them turn into a Starbucks or whatever. But you couldn’t sell it. For all the headache and stress, it was grandpa’s last project. His final legacy. You couldn’t just let that shit go.

“Thank fuck.” You muttered with intense feeling. You held out his lighter to him, “Thank you.”

“Keep it.” He said before standing and leaning his back against the wall. You shrugged and slipped the plain, gray lighter into your pocket.

He watched you curiously, then said; “We don’t open till three. What are you doing here?”

There was something defensive to his tone. Hell, maybe he suspected you were a co-worker’s crazy ex-girlfriend trying to stalk them. The thought of it made you smile - you never had time to be anyone’s girlfriend.

You chuckled, “I was across the street. I figured if anyone had a lighter, it would be a stressed-out restaurant employee.”

His eyebrows raised. “You bought that place?”

“Nah.” You flicked ashes onto the pavement. “My grandad did. I guess he saw some hidden potential or whatever.”

“Oh yeah? What’s it gonna be?”

You smirked. “Cat café.”

His brow furrowed and his jaw went a little slack, “You’re kidding.” You enjoyed watching the expression morph across his face. It gave him a boyish edge to his exhausted features. And – it was just fun to fuck with strangers.

“Yeah, I am. I’m fucking with you.” You said while laughing. You took a final drag of your cigarette and snubbed it out on the bottom of your boot. You’d throw away the stub into a drainage grate or a trash can on your walk back. “Thanks for the light, chef. See you around.”

He pushed away from the wall and followed after you for two steps, “Hey, wait.”

You looked at him expectedly. A light, cold breeze stirred your hair and a piece of trash skated across the pavement with a harsh, grating sound. You should’ve kept walking. It wasn’t like you to wait around, for anyone, especially not random kitchen dudes who you only needed to borrow a lighter from. While he looked at you, something unfamiliar fluttered in your stomach and it wasn’t nerves or anxiety.

“You know, most business fail in their first year.” He said, “I’ve seen all the workers going in and out of that place. You might wanna tell your grandad to cut his losses while he’s ahead.”

You scoffed and your mouth dropped open in surprise. “Wooow.” You said sarcastically.

Your hackles raised at the patronizing vibe of the statement. Most businesses fail in their first year? Yeah, no shit. As if you didn’t already know that. As if your grandad didn’t already know that after opening dozens of places and plan out a twenty-something step guide for success. You already had your family biting at your heels to sell and cut your losses. You didn’t need this random line chef who probably couldn’t tell parsley from cilantro to tell you how to run a business.

In some twisted, backhanded way, you could how he was trying to be nice and offer unwanted well-meaning advice. Yet, as soon as the thought entered your mind, a more ruthless follow-up thought was born: Is he being nice? Or is he just trying to get rid of the competition?

“You know what?” You flicked your cigarette stub onto the ground near the front of their restaurant. Fuck them, they could sweep it up if they were such experts.

“If I ever figure out a way to speak to the dead - I’ll let him know.” You said with heated venom in your tone. You spun on your heel and briskly walked toward your restaurant without looking back. You threw yourself into listening to Tim (apparently his name was not Tom) and making suggestions while carrying your grandfathers’ impressive ringed binder of notes. The later half of your evening was spent sitting outside on the curb making phone calls while balancing the notebook on your lap.

Every time you felt like going home and calling it quits—you thought of him. That blue-eyed, self-righteous, cocky bastard. You worked until your mom called with a threat that she’d send you an Uber if you didn’t get on the L right now. You closed the notebook and stared across the street at the now-dark, empty Original Beef of Chicagoland. What a stupid name. It’s way too long. You scowled and grabbed your pack of cigarettes out of your pocket. You pulled out the lighter he gave you and stared at it with enough heat to start a housefire. Whatever. Fuck him.

You’d find a quickie-mart to buy a new lighter from on your way home.

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

“Did you see the absolute smokeshow that’s working across the street?” Richie asked, leaning against the counter, “I swear to God, I thought they were shooting a commercial over there or somethin’.”

Syd frowned at his statement.

“She works there?” Fak asked. “What does she do? I’ve only seen construction guys.”

“Behind!” Carmy announced while maneuvering past Richie and setting down a container of relish. He glanced at Richie and Fak talking even though they both were supposed to be doing other things. Like prepping for their fucking lunch opening in the next three hours.

“Dude, I dunno, but she’s there like all fucking night.” Richie said, “I’m gonna talk to her tonight and see what’s up.”

“No way! She’s way out of your league.”

“Fuck you!” Richie aggressively pointed at Fak, “I’ve got more game than you, alright? You wanna go fucking talk to her and see if she’ll go out with your fatass?”

“Hey! I’m a nice guy and I have a lot to offer! Aren’t you technically married?”

“Don’t bring my fucking marriage into this! You fucking asshole!”

“I’m stating facts!”

“Yeah, here’s another fact for you—"

“Would you both shut up and get back to work!” Carmy snapped, “we’ve got three hours till lunch service.”

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

“I can’t believe you’re dragging me to this.” You said while holding onto a brightly wrapped birthday present on your lap. “I have work to do.”

“You always have work to do.” Your mom replied sternly while flexing her hands on the steering wheel. “Jimmy was a good friend to your grandfather.”

“So that means I have to give a shit about his kid?”

Your mom snapped your first and middle name at you.

You put the present on the floor near your feet while your mom talked about your grandfather and his connection to Jimmy – you heard the story a dozen times. Jimmy gave your grandfather his first loan to open his first business, a restaurant that focused on quality waffles and signature pancakes, and ever since then Jimmy has been at every opening (blah blah blah). She claimed that before her divorce to your dad and your subsequent move to Cincinnati that Jimmy made an appearance at your tenth birthday party. Despite all her reasonings and explanations, you couldn’t see how this was an optimal way to spend your day. You needed to sign work orders, and paint the walls, and re-tile the flooring, and a thousand other things. June would be here before you could say “Chicago Bears.”

You pulled out your phone to answer some emails before your arrived at Jimmy’s house.

You stepped out of the car and heard a chorus of screaming and laughing children echoing from the backyard.

“I already hate this.” You muttered while slamming the car door shut.

Your mom sidled next to you and held out a tube of lipstick from the depths of her big, pink Valentino bag and you stared at it, dumfounded.

“You’re serious?” You made a sweeping gesture to your bare legs, “I’m already dressed up.” You said to the floral, knee-length dress that ran like liquid across your skin. Hell, you even spritzed some light perfume behind your ears to mask any lingering scent of plaster and drywall. This wasn’t one of your business school schmoozing events created to network and leverage clients. It was a fucking children’s birthday party. (Unless your mom suspected you were going to find a DILF to snatch up or something).

“You look exhausted, darling. A little color to your cheeks and lips won’t hurt.” She nudged the lipstick closer, expecting you to take it, her thin eyebrows raised into her pulled-back hairline and her mouth set in a severe line.

“Fine.” You spat.

You snatched the lipstick up and passed over her birthday present, “I’ll find a bathroom, shall I?” Without waiting for an answer, you shouldered your way into a house full of noisy, obnoxious guests and blindly found your way upstairs. You knew you were being a bitch and you’d need to apologize later. But why couldn’t your mom understand that this wasn’t a priority? It was her dads’ restaurant that you were trying to build! Why didn’t she care more?! Why couldn’t she acknowledge that you were busting your ass for a June opening? It wasn’t like this was easy.

You locked the bathroom door and leaned your forehead against it. “Fucking…shit…fuck.” You faced your reflection like a woman walking to the executioner’s block. You ran your fingers through your hair, mussing it lightly, and then applied the lipstick with care. There. It was decent enough.

Someone knocked on the bathroom door.  

“Yeah! One sec!” You tucked your mother’s lipstick into your small clutch and opened the door wide. Your heart dropped and your eyes reflexively narrowed. The fucking line cook! This party just went from bad to ‘I am in Hell, actually’. Unfortunately, he must have recognized you because his jaw went slack and his stupid, blue eyes widened in shock. You could already see the apology forming in the lines of his mouth.

“You’re--“

“Nope.” You went to brush past him, and his arm abruptly shot forward and grasped the doorframe to block you. Your nose nearly bumped into his bicep, but you caught yourself and glared at him. Why was he in his dumb fucking blue apron? Was he Jimmy’s personal chef too?

“Do they not teach manners in culinary school?” Just in seeing him, everything came back in a whirlwind rush. His aggravating tone, the pressure of your grandfathers’ legacy, and his nefarious so-called advice for you to close your goddamn business. Anger, white-hot and claustrophobic, burned inside your chest.

“I owe you an apology.” He said. “It was none of my business.”

You scanned his face and felt a hot flush at the nape of your neck. It bothered you that he actually didn’t say ‘I’m sorry’. In terms of apologizes, this one felt like a lukewarm frozen dinner in the microwave.

“Be honest. Are you sorry that my grandfather is dead, and you sounded like an asshole? Or are you sorry for telling me to close?”

“Twenty percent of businesses close in the first year. That’s just fact.” He said.

“Actually, it’s higher than that for restaurants. Thirty percent close in the first year.” You said with all the arrogance and haughtiness you could embolden into your voice after four years of business school and interning with your grandfather. You weren’t a child. You were a capable, intelligent adult who could do fucking anything.

“Look...” He finally brought his hand away from the doorframe, releasing your cage, and carded his fingers through his hair. That explains why his hair always looked like he just rolled out of bed. You thought with a wry smile to yourself. You folded your arms over your chest and waited for him to continue with his ever-so-wise, thought-provoking statement.

“I don’t have time to argue about this.” He said.

You clicked your tongue. “What a coincidence. Me either!”

“But!” He cut in and stepped into your path before you could walk away. “Whether you’re making it into a fucking cat café, or a Mexican spot doesn’t matter, because you’re betting on losing dogs. That street doesn’t get foot traffic. This isn’t New York.”

This close, he smelled a little like charcoal and sweat. Didn’t your mom mention something about hot dogs? Wait. Was he catering the birthday party? Incredible. He had this birthday party locked down and had the audacity to argue with you about your business’ future. It was more obvious than ever that he wanted your restaurant gone just to save his own profit margin. Typical.

“I seem to recall a restaurant that’s right across from mine that’s open.”

“Because we’ve got regulars.” He sounded almost desperate when he said it. Regulars could still go somewhere new. A new plan unfolded in front of you. You wouldn’t just make your restaurant the best to honor your grandfather. You’d make it better than any other restaurant on the street. You’d have lines to rival an Apple Store on release day.

“You know what, thank you so, so much.” You clapped your hands together in a prayer in front of your chest, making your sarcastic tone thick and obvious. “God, thank you! Wow. I cannot believe I didn’t know you needed regular customers and a steady income to make your business succeed! I’m soooo relieved you were here to guide me.”

He rolled his eyes, “Yeah, yeah. Alright. You always have this fucking attitude when someone’s trying to help you?”

You side-stepped him. “Go fuck yourself. Enjoy the party.”

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

You dodged a kid running past with a NERF gun and found Jimmy in the loud kitchen. “Hey, Jimmy, who is catering your party?”

“Who is? Oh, it’s Carmy and Richie.” He pointed outside the sliding glass door to the grill. “You know them?”

“Nah.” You glared at the backs of their heads. “Which one is which?”

“Carmy is the short one. Richie is the asshole.”

“They’re both assholes.” You mumbled, though Jimmy caught you and laughed. Richie stopped by your restaurant-in-progress a few days ago. He asked a couple benign questions about the place, and then started criticizing the work that your employees were doing. He kept saying shit like ‘If it were me, I wouldn’t have used that type of plaster’ and ‘well, if it were me, I would’ve gone with the other bolts here because these strip like a motherfucker’. You ended up telling him you needed to lock up just to get him to leave. You suspected, especially after that conversation with Carmy upstairs, that he came over to spy on you.  

“You’re right. Oh! Oh shit!” Jimmy noticed someone across the room and suddenly ducked away to go outside. You grabbed a fistful of chips from the kitchen island and ate them out of your palm while walking around. You were not going to eat whatever Carmy, and Richie cooked up. Hell No. You’d rather starve on potato chips and cans of fruity seltzer.

You found your mom in one of the sitting rooms and hand signaled to her that you were blowing your brains out with a gun. She waved you off. Great. Time for Plan B – call an Uber and deal with mom’s wrath later.

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

Your clothes were paint splattered, but at least the restaurant looked nice. You decided for an earthy tone and painted the walls a greenish gray. According to the paint swatch – it was called “Bitter Sage”. You thought the name was fitting considering your mixed emotions about the restaurant. Most days, you were filled with the fortitude and passion to complete the project no matter how many roadblocks got in your way. There were many, many roadblocks.

Other days, however, you angrily wept into your cereal bowl at three in the morning because it was Hard, and No One was Helping, and Why The Fuck Did Grandad Leave You This Place!

Mostly though, you were fine even if you were behind schedule. You weren’t planning to paint this on your own, but Tim’s employees got stuck at another job, and he couldn’t send anyone out until tomorrow afternoon. Rather than wait, you came here and painted it yourself. Easy-peasy.

You pulled your hair out of your sweaty face and pulled your pack of cigarettes out of your back pocket. You frowned at the weight of it. It felt off. You’re fucking kidding. You stared at the empty pack like it personally offended you. Your arms and shoulders trembled from exhaustion. You were sore right down to the bone. The idea of walking to buy cigarettes felt impossible.

“Hey, God, yeah – it’s me.” You said to the ceiling, “Did I kill a bunch of nuns in a past life or something?”

You checked the time on your phone and 11:13PM stared back at you. You looked out the large bay window across the street. No, no way. You’re not gonna go bum a cigarette from him. Your fingertips twitched. He’s probably not even there. Just walk to gas station. Come on. Power through the pain.

“Wait…” You said out loud, “who says I have to talk to him? I can ask literally any other chef there.”

Richie smoked. You smelled it on him beneath his overly powerful Pine cologne. You locked up the restaurant behind you and jogged across the street with your heart in your throat. This was so stupid. You were going to give yourself an aneurysm from stress. You should turn around. Your legs and thighs ached with discomfort from all the crouching and stretching you performed while painting. You should definitely turn around and walk to a gas station. The closest one was only twenty-five minutes on foot.

You turned the corner. Carmy was sitting on the trunk of someone’s dark green car. Fucking shit. You froze like a rabid racoon. You were in the middle of the parking lot behind the restaurant. It wasn’t like you could hide and it wasn’t like you could turn around like “Oh whoops! I took a wrong turn!” He saw you instantly and you caught his jaw clenching in the low, fluorescent light of the streetlights. You hated the prickle of awareness that flushed across your skin beneath his glacial gaze.

It wasn’t too late. You could turn around and run with your tail between your legs.

It’s too bad you never ran from anything a day in your life. You lifted both your hands in a placating manner. “Truce.”

“You’re the one fighting with me.” He said plainly. You disagreed with that. Just because he wasn’t telling you to ‘fuck off’ didn’t mean he wasn’t planning and hoping for your downfall.

You shrugged. “You struck a nerve.”

The smoke from his cigarette circled around his head like a misty halo. You stood there, a few feet away from him perched on the trunk like a throne, the pavement slightly damp beneath your paint-dotted sneakers from rain earlier today. You were painfully aware of the sweat glistening off your skin and the frizzled mess of your hair. Not that you cared what you looked like in front of him. It’s not very intimidating if your business rival sees you looking like a wet rat.  

“So, what do you want?” He asked, resting his elbows on his knees while his feet balanced on the back bumper. “You already have my lighter.”

Shit. You couldn’t even claim to have forgotten about it. You carried it with you every day and ultimately, stupidly, thought of him whenever you used it.

“How much will you despise me if I ask to bum a cigarette?” You fished his lighter out of your front pocket, “I will give you your lighter back as a trade.” You stepped forward and extended your arm to him. He looked at the lighter, then at you, with a whisp of smoke curling in front of his blue eyes. He plucked the lighter from your fingers without touching you.

You accepted his proffered cigarette, but before you could ask for the lighter back, he held it alight in his hands—with one hand cupping the tiny flame. You leaned forward, finding yourself closer than expected between his knees, with your heart thundering through your eardrums. You peered up at him, his face awash in orange flickering light, his long eyelashes shadowing his cheeks, before the cigarette caught flame and smoke unfurled around your mouth like a dragon’s exhale.

Your exhale shuddered, both in relief and in something else, and you yanked your gaze away from his though your body remained frozen in place. You could practically feel the heat of him radiating off his body. You weren’t sure why your first impression of him was to call him unattractive. He was handsome if you liked your men sweaty and muscular with exhausted, doleful eyes. Which maybe you did. Maybe.

You swallowed and listened to the distant sound of police sirens. It shouldn’t matter what he looked like. He was your direct competition. He told you to shut down every time you spoke to him. You saw him, sitting on the bench outside his restaurant, looking at your place with disdain. You weren’t friends. You weren’t even close to friends. All your friends lived in Cincinnati.

“Why’re you here so late?” You asked. Because you said truce and also, because you wanted to know. You had your reasons to stay up late – you had a restaurant to build. His place already existed. It didn’t make sense to burn the wick at both ends if you didn’t have to.

“Do you actually care why?” He retorted drily.

“Well now I fucking don’t.” You said while laughing, “Forget it.”

Something rippled across his face too quick to catch. You assumed it was anger based on the tenseness of his shoulders and the muscle flaring in the line of his throat. He hopped off the trunk, forcing you to take a small step back, but you were still chest-to-chest. Your heart flipped. So, it was going to be like this, was it? You refused to step back further. He could awkwardly shuffle by you if he needed to leave and see how he liked it. Dick.

“Do you even give a shit about anyone except yourself?” He hissed, “Every time I see you, you’re always a fucking asshole to everyone.”

“You really waste time thinking about me? I’m honored.” You narrowed your eyes up at him, “because I don’t think about you at all.”

Your chest heaved, your lungs switched gears from calm and regular to very much not calm and irregular. You weren’t sure what it was about him that got under your skin so easily. Fuck, maybe it wasn’t him. Lets not give him all the credit. You might feel this way about any hot-blooded guy who looked at you like…like this. His dark pupils nearly engulfed the whole sky of his eyes.

“Yeah?” His nostrils flared.

You licked your lips. “Yeah.”

The tension rippled between you like a rubber band stretched too thin. It would snap. It was destined to snap. You’re not sure who surged forward first. Probably him. One moment you were staring each other down with heat-filled gazes and in the next moment, his mouth was on yours, lips parting and tongue delving behind your teeth. You groaned and fisted your hands into his thin white t-shirt. His arms encircled you in an unyielding grip and one hand lifted to clutch the nape of your neck and stop you from squirming away. Your world spun for a second and then you felt your back bump into the trunk of his car. Someone moaned. (Again, it was probably him). You suckled softly on his tongue, this kiss wet and obscene, smearing salvia on your chin. It felt too good. You pushed your hands up his shirt and were rewarded with the hard, muscled planes of abdomen beneath your fingers.

Carmy hissed and brought your lower lip into his mouth, biting, and you whined into his mouth with wanton abandon.

“You like that?” Carmy grumbled. His thigh shoved between your legs, and you lifted your hips, grinding yourself onto the wedge of his thigh. A shockwave of pleasure rolled through your lower abdomen. His mouth skirted along your jaw before his teeth met your neck. Your fingernails dug into his stomach in response. Your eyes rolled back into your skull, seeing stars, while Carmy’s mouth latched over your skin and sucked hard enough to bruise. Your hips canted, rocking back and forth, riding his thigh like a horny teenager who was afraid to take it past second base.

You were too tightly wound. It had been too long since you took someone to bed. It was embarrassing. The way he had you panting in his ear and scratching your nails into his back. The friction of your jeans and panties rubbing against his jeans was rough but electric. As long as he kept his fucking mouth shut, you could ride his leg, come, and then go home and pretend this never happened.

“You’ll think of me now.” Carmy whispered harshly into the shell of your ear and his breath ghosted over the wet spot he left on your neck. “Whenever you see that.”

“Oh, fuck you.” You whimpered, one of his large hands covered your breasts and squeezed, the sensation only slightly deadened by the fabric of your t-shirt and bra. You weren’t going to let him win. You slipped your hands out from underneath his shirt and grabbed his face between your hands, crushing your mouth to his, and plunging your fingers through his soft, curly hair. You were already so close. Your skin flushed with heat, body burning with unresolved desire, as your cunt squeezed and pulsed.

“S’close.” You whined into his mouth, feeling your orgasm about to crest and take you into oblivion. He slid his thigh away from you, taking away your source of pleasure and enjoyment, and you wanted to scream. You groaned in frustration, cheeks flushed, lips kiss-bitten and wet.

“Fuck. You.” You spat.

“Yeah?” He braced his arms on either side of you and tilted his hips away so you couldn’t grab him and pull him closer. A quick glance to his jeans at least revealed that he was hard, and your ego purred in satisfaction. If he gave you blue balls, then you could just do the same to him and walk away right now. “We could fuck in my car right now if that’s what you want.”

Absolutely, yes. However, You were not going to reveal that little secret right away. You made a show of thinking about it, crossing your arms in a way that made your breasts lift, and looking to the heavens with a perplexed expression.

“You fuck a lot of girls in your car, Carmy?” You teased.

“You’d be the first.” He breathed.

Your heart fluttered and you ignored it. Obviously, it meant nothing. He just wanted to get off. Same as you. Tomorrow, you’d go back to hating his guts for all his arrogance and cocky advice and you’d create Chicago’s best restaurant across from his little one. Everything would be right with the world.

You tilted your head to the side, “Unlock it then.”

Carmy did not – to your surprise – unlock it right away. Instead, he kissed you again and held your face between his hands while pressing the full length of his body against yours and pinning you to the car. You could feel every muscled inch of him and the hardness in his jeans. You awkwardly snaked your hands between your bodies and palmed his cock, earning a surprised grunt from Carmy. He rocked his hips into your hand for a second, maybe two, before pulling your hand away and dragging you by the wrist to the backseat of his car. Your head felt dizzy with anticipation and excitement. It wasn’t a very big car. Carmy spread his legs out while sitting in the backseat and began unzipping his pants. You looked around briefly to ensure you were alone before taking your jeans off outside the car and climbing within.

The second you were kneeling on the beige upholstery, Carmy’s hand came between your legs and cupped between your legs. You gasped and bit your lip at the firm, almost possessive grip. You braced one hand on the upper backseat headrest and the other clung the driver’s side seat and met his eyes blown-wide with desire.

“You’re soaked.” He mumbled, before pushing aside your wet panties and sliding his index finger into you. Your entire body quaked and the sound that escaped your lips was nearly a sob.

“Shut up.” You swallowed roughly while he pumped his finger in and out of you. Again, Carmy took the upper hand. You couldn’t have that. You looked down at his waist. He had unbuttoned and unzipped his jeans, pushing them down to his knees, though his boxers were on, and you could see the bulge of his cock straining against the cotton. In the confined space, you lowered your torso to the seat with your legs still kneeling and pulled his cock free. Carmy’s breath hitched. You refused to give him time to recover, before your tongue licked along the thick length of him. His hand remained between your legs, playing with you, while your mouth enveloped the head of his cock.

You moaned around him. His hips jolted. You kept one hand on the base of his cock, the other you used to stead yourself and rested on his knee, as your mouth worked over him. Your tongue swirled around the tip before you swallowed him as deeply as you could go and gagged.

“Fuck!” Carmy shouted.

A trail of saliva drooled from your mouth and down your chin. Your hand twisted, squeezing, and pumping as your lips followed it. Your lips were tingling and starting to go numb, but you couldn’t stop. Stopping would be mean he wins. But you could feel yourself edging closer again, and wouldn’t it be nice to come while sucking his dick? The inside of your thighs felt slick, and your walls pulsed as your orgasm rapidly approached.

You moaned around him again, thighs squeezing together and clamping his wrist, as fireworks lit off at the base of your spine. You felt Carmy’s hand suddenly come to the back of your head and his hips jolt upward, hitting his cock against the back of your throat, and you gushed over his fingers as you came. Your body, previously tensed in rolling desire, relaxed and you slowly lifted your mouth from him. You wiped the back of your mouth with your hand.

“I need to fuck you. Please. God.” You didn’t even have time to respond, because Carmy was grabbing you, and pulling you over his lap. You were spread open above him, cunt weeping, and muscles quivering. You braced your hands on his shoulders and looked at him. His face was flushed, a curl fell over his forehead in an almost picturesque nature. You waited with bated breath, unable to form a sentence if you tried, as he rolled a condom over his cock.

If you spoke, you’d probably say something stupid like: I need you too.

Carmy leaned forward, pushing your t-shirt up, toward your collarbones so your breasts were exposed. He nibbled across your skin, hands on your hip, guiding you forward as you slowly lowered yourself onto him. Carmy released an extended, pleased moan. He felt better than you expected. Better than imagined. (Not that you had imagined it. Definitely not).

“Fuck, fuck.” He panted, before he flicked his tongue against your nipple. “God, you’re so good. You feel so good.”

Your arms encircled his shoulders, hands tangling in his hair, as you shifted your body above his. You shivered as the length of him slid in and out of your wet, aching cunt. There was no decorum or grace to this. The interior of the car grew muggy and humid, the windows fogged with perspiration, as sweat shone across your skin. Carmy kissed your chest, your neck, your chin. You avoided kissing him, hiding your face in his shoulder, biting him softly, or tilting your face away. Kissing before sex was foreplay. Kissing during sex was intimate.

He licked the sweat from your collarbones and pulled your hair while dripping scattered praise across your skin. You lost all thought, all feeling, and found yourself reduced to a puddle of need. You gripped his shoulders, your breasts bouncing, as you rode him, and he squeezed your ass in tandem. The entire world blurred into a watercolor painting. There were no stresses, no worries, no needy banks, or over-bearing lawyers. It was just you and Carmy, skin to skin, sweat-soaked and delirious.

“Don’t stop.” You panted even though you were in control. “Please.”

“Fuck – I’m about to—” He cried out your name. His entire face and neck were flushed bright red. His eyes screwed tight, and his worried brow furrowed. Your walls squeezed him. He pulled you in, pulled you closer, as his head tilted back onto the seat. The moment he was about to come, you dropped your mouth down onto his and kissed him. Carmy moaned into your mouth, his breath puffing out through the corners of your lips, with the faint taste of cigarettes on his tongue.

Joined like this, you could feel your rapid heartbeat against his and you pressed your flushed, hot face against his warm shoulder. His large hand trailed along the bumpy knobs of your spine in a tender caress. You trembled against him, panting, and feeling him twitch inside you.

Reality came crashing down a second later. You drew away from him and blinked to clear the fog from your mind.

You and Carmy spoke at the same time.

“I left my pants outside.”

“Do you need a ride home?”

He blinked several times, eyebrows raising, and his lips quirked upward into a smile. “You left your pants outside?”

“Yeah, I took them off outside and didn’t bring them in here with me.” You braced your hands on his shoulders, awkwardly swung your leg over his hips to climb off him and readjusted your underwear. Carmy looked at you. And OK – maybe it was the sex. It was probably the sex. But you suddenly felt way more naked than you actually were. He looked at you like he wanted to say something.

Even worse than that, he looked at you like he wanted to touch you in a non-sexual way. You could see it in his eyes. He was going to do something cheesy like brush your hair out of your face. You cleared your throat and opened the driver-side back door to collect your pants off the ground with an exclamation of relief.

“Good! No one stole them.” You said while shimmying them over your legs with difficulty (in part due to soreness, but it was mostly because of the confined space of the backseat). You smoothed your shirt and ran both fingers through your hair before climbing out of the car.

Carmy leaned forward and stopped you from shutting the door behind you. “Are you even gonna answer my question?”

You squinted at him. In the near dark, you could see a hickey blossoming on his left shoulder. A flare of pride ignited in your chest.

“I’m gonna just catch the L.” You gave him a two-fingered salute. “Thanks.”

You walked away, toward to your restaurant, so you could get your purse and coat. You heard his car start and smiled. Good, he gets it. You needed your phone to check which station you needed to get to. You still weren’t adept at knowing which was closest. Worst case scenario, you try to find an Uber at…whatever time it was.

You rubbed the back of your neck, thinking of a hot shower, and what Take-Out you’d order for dinner when Carmy’s car suddenly pulled up next to you with the windows down. He leaned across the center console to look over at you.

“Get in.”

“My mommy told me not to get into cars with strangers.”

He said your name, followed by a very impassioned - “Jesus Christ.”

“It’s past midnight.” He said, as if that meant anything to you, “let me drive you to the closest station if you’re gonna be this fucking stubborn.”

You stopped walking and stood on the sidewalk with a perturbed expression. This wasn’t part of the plan. This wasn’t how the world worked. You and Carmy were rivals. He shouldn’t care if you got murdered while walking to the train station. It would be good for his business if you were gone—what the hell was he doing? What game was he playing? It made no goddamn sense.

“Just because I let you see my tits doesn’t mean you need to look out for me.” You countered, “Go home, Carmy. I can take care of myself.”

His jaw clenched and he looked away from you to the front windshield. “Alright, fuck it. Fine. I tried.” His tires squealed as he pulled away and you smiled at the retreating sight of his car. Your heart, however, pressurized like a boat capsizing underwater. You rubbed your hand over your chest. Weird.

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

After your shower, you wiped away the condensation from the mirror and caught sight of the angry, red-purple bruise on your neck. Your fingertips lightly touched it and a surge of emotions swelled up inside your chest. His hands, his mouth, the needy sounds he made and the ones you made in response. Then, came the realization that you never actually saw him smile until after you slept together. And his smile was, in retrospect, very nice. He had a dimple in one cheek and not the other and his eyes – which you generally considered cold – crinkled with warmth.

Your hand dropped from your neck.  

“Fuck.”

> Part Two ||||| [Fic Master List]

[rtothe3rd]

Being a girl;

I don’t like the “pick me” misogynist idea that stereotypically “feminine” things are inherently negative or shameful and can’t overlap with “masculine” ideas or qualities, and I hate how toxic and sexist and pro-ED the embracing femininity communities (coquette girlblogging) can be, as if being a woman is made of suffering and a woman's body is a vessel for misogyny in thin, white, childlike standards of beauty. Fuck it all; I do love the color pink and wearing lip gloss and buying clothes and Lana Del Rey and sometimes I even look at my horoscope and I use copious amounts of hairspray, but I want to be a lawyer when I’m grown up and and I swear like a sailor and I’m an honors student and my favorite thing to talk about is politics and I’ll debate anything that breathes, and I try not to equate my worth (or anybody else's) with the number of inches around my waist. How can’t those two things coexist? Why can't I put Taylor Swift's album drop and the senate midterms on my calendar? Why can't my walls be plastered with photo strips and artsy postcards alongside my 4 framed speech awards? Why can't I fantasize about being in love and also about kicking a nazi in the face? I'm a female; therefore everything I do is feminine, no matter what people say. I want to celebrate and RECLAIM femininity for myself and for womankind, not for the male gaze. Coquette pro ED and pick-me-choose-me-love-me subcultures have one major thing in common: catering to men and men in particular. The day that we as women stop hating ourselves is the day we stop feeding into a school of thought that fuels a multibillion dollar industry that creates and profits off our insecurities. If you're gonna wear makeup, wear it for you. If you're gonna change your weight, do it for your physical and mental health. If you're gonna get plastic surgery, understand why. Why you've always wanted bigger/smaller breasts, a bigger/smaller butt, a flatter stomach, a smoother face. Girls, don't feel rushed to go through puberty, but when you do, celebrate that you're maturing and changing. The stretch marks are healthy. Your breasts don't need to be any bigger or smaller to serve their purpose, whether that is to feed children or just exist. The blood is not filthy, it's a sign of health. Yeah, I know it sucks, but don't let anybody make you feel bad. Those asshole boys wouldn't exist if their moms never menstruated. And to women MY mom's age, you don't need to starve yourself to achieve what filthy pigs tell you you should look like after carrying and delivering a pregnancy for 9 months. You don't need to be as thin as you were at 20, this is supposed to happen. You don't need to inject toxins into your face to make it look like you've never smiled or seen the sun. You don't need to be ashamed of living and aging naturally, aging is healthy, you are supposed to get older. When was the last time you heard a a man your age complain about lines on his skin or 5 extra pounds? When was the last time you saw a male celebrity's stomach rolls or cellulite blown up on a tabloid cover and picked apart by the whole world? when was the last time you witnessed a man reduced to his appearance? why do WE owe beauty to the world, a world where our bodily autonomy is in jeopardy? Why are we only beautiful when we're weak and starving and cold, where we're miserable and tired and hurting, when we're manipulated and injected and stuffed and exploited and profited off of and sexualized and traumatized and forced? forced to perform and change and carry a child? Men will pay to see videos of naked women seducing them and turn right back around and advocate for our disenfranchisement. Men have been taught that they have the authority to reduce us, shrink us down to sex symbols and forget our humanity, and these men do what they want and make millions and get elected to America's highest offices and win grammies.

If you're a woman and you're reading this, you do not owe a man's perception of you to anybody. Every time a grown man online treats me like I'm stupid; every time a boy taunts me about Andrew Tate; every time another woman acts like politics are inconsequential; every time I remember an 80 year old man making obscene gestures to me on the street; every time I read a school dress code implying that my body is inherently pornographic; every time another pig is elected to our government; every time our trans sisters are oppressed and excluded by other women, the fire grows. soon it will consume me.

[a-shared-experience]

I guess it’s hard for me to understand why other people don’t understand ..

I’m not some save the world do - gooder who lives in magical frou frou la la land but here’s the thing …

Christmas is an extremely difficult time when you’re poor and alone because society has deemed it this magical frou frou la land where everyone has tons of material gifts, delicious food, cozy fireplaces and loved ones wearing matching flannel.

I guess if that’s what yours is like , try imagining waking up freezing cold in a tent, wearing the same outfit you’ve had on for a month, soaking wet socks , trench foot… happy you didn’t get raped … or robbed of the last meaningful belonging you’ve managed to keep with you. You’re lucky to have a 5 piece to smoke to drown out the loneliness and dissociate from your own hunger.

Then you have to drag all those big emotions around as you walk to whatever service is closest to you and eat dinner with strangers who also happen to be in crisis. At best you’ll get a smile or a hug from an outreach worker who tells you they care about you before they themselves retreat back to their homes.

I think it’s human nature to want revenge when someone has stolen your dignity. Even if we find ways to control those urges I highly doubt anyone is high and mighty enough to not think about payback , a way to settle the score. If you’ve got something to lose it’s a little easier to talk yourself down but imagine having nothing.

To be honest, jail is often highly considered when one doesn’t have adequate shelter or access to meals or healthcare. At least it’s warm and there’s showers and toilets and fresh sweat pants.

So if you take everything away, that leaves a person with many needs and few options to meet them.

If we don’t care about them, we can’t expect them to care about us. Don’t be surprised if the week before Christmas you see a spike in our crime rates following encampment closures.

When encampments are moved this further displaces the already displaced. It doesn’t equate to someone being sheltered. We often see widespread infectious disease because people can’t be found and can’t be treated and the issues can’t be contained. Shigella outbreak is real, viral pneumonia is real, covid 19 is real, influenza is real , hepatitis a/b/ c is real, hiv/ aids is real… the list is endless.

When emotional instability and physical discomfort becomes too much for an individual to control they often turn to something external to regulate themselves - for instance: substances of any kind. With little money and a terrifying toxic illegal drug market this leads to increase of substance poisoning and related health issues such as cardiac arrest, frost bite, severe wounds, low blood sugar, etc- which increases our need for emergency medical services both in short and long term duration which is funded by tax dollars and puts strain on our already collapsing system.

This causes traumatic injury to the affected person and oftentimes to the community at large, including our first responders. Sirens alone cause a flare up in symptoms related to post traumatic stress disorder for many individuals. In the current global public health crisis it is common for such events to lead to fatality. Many of my coworkers have pulled a body out of a tent , but not as many as they’ve found scattered along our sidewalks because there’s nowhere to go.

Yes encampments are unsafe, being unhoused is pretty fucking unsafe but we are ok with that because we equate it to personal failure and personal responsibility. Yes they are messy because we do not recognize that people will consume waste whether they pay rent or not and we do not provide city initiatives such as garbage pick up , washroom facilities , showers or any thing of the sort. You’ll notice that many encampments are within a few blocks of our biggest metro police station and that the garbage tends to get piled up in a specific area because survival is similar to our version of thriving and yet it is unsupported in every essential way.

We don’t seem to actually care about anyone’s safety or dignity or worth. We are too self absorbed and concerned with our imaginary image being upheld.

See I’m not really a do gooder but more of a big picture kinda person…

I see everyone’s little images

None of them look very perfect , maybe that’s the Virgo in me ;)

Just some things to think about I suppose.

When I came back from my pedicure I checked on some folks hanging out in my parking stall

“ you good?” I asked

“ yep” one of them mutters back

Define good right?

I couldn’t help but notice how clean my stall was…

It’s called respect , dignity, compassion… it goes along way…

Such big progress in 24 hours , I’ve got a better track record than the Edmonton police that’s for sure.

But who I am…

What do I know

Happy holidays

[leiakenobi]

The Chick in Apt 56

Fandom: Ex Machina (2014) Pairing: Nathan Bateman/F!Reader Rating: Teen Word Count: 1.9k Summary: After your next-door neighbor leaves you a note about how he heard you having sex, the two of you unintentionally begin a written back-and-forth. Warnings: Innuendo, but no sexual situations. A/N: So neighbor AU Nathan has actually existed for the better part of a year through this lil headcanon post, but now here he finally is in fic form! I didn’t end up following the original headcanons too closely, but they were still very much on my mind while I was writing.

Cross-posted to AO3 here! I think this fic is more readable over there, but the whole thing is in this post below the cut as well.

——

[Yellow post-it note, affixed to door knocker] To the chick in apt 56— Don’t know if you’ve noticed, but our walls are thin as shit. And as much as I love the sound of a girl getting railed, I get up at 5 A.M., so if you could schedule future booty calls for a more reasonable hour, that’d be great.

 [Pink paper torn from memo pad, slid under door] Nathan— Sorry if it was difficult for you to listen to a woman actually experiencing some pleasure. I’ll be sure to cater to your busy schedule from now on. P.S. We’ve both been here for nearly two years. I know you know my name.

 [Yellow post-it note, haphazardly slapped above doorknob] Funny. Just keep it down please.

[Pale blue post-it note, covering peep hole] Girl in 56— Were you louder on purpose??? If so, thanks for thinking of me while you were fucking, but the least you could do is scream my name next time. Helps me finish.

 [Pink paper torn from memo pad, slid under door] Surely you’re too busy trying to get your beauty(?) sleep to jerk off to the sound of your neighbor fucking. How else would you get up in a timely manner to get to your early morning workout at Planet Fitness?

 [Pale blue post-it note, stuck on door] As if I’d work out at Planet Fitness. (I know you said that because you knew it would annoy me. Which—fuck you.) P.S. I have a package scheduled to come tomorrow while I’ll be at a last-minute meeting across the city. Could you find time to sign for it in between your sexcapades?

 [Pink paper torn from memo pad, slid under door] Fine.

 [Pale blue post-it note, stuck on door of apartment 55] FedEx— Please get signature from woman in apt 56.

 [Pink paper torn from memo pad, taped to package] You’re fully cat-sitting for me next time I go out of town.

 [Pink paper torn from memo pad, slid under door] Someone’s a hypocrite. A shame you couldn’t make her finish. My parents are visiting over the weekend, so if you happen to get laid twice after such a long dry spell, could you do it somewhere else?

 [Pale blue post-it note, stuck on door] She came just fine. Twice. And dry spell? At least I’ve never implied that was why I’d never heard anything from your apartment until a few months ago.

 [Pink paper torn from memo pad, slid under door] If you think those fake moans meant she came, you’re deluding yourself. And I’m sorry, I was trying to be generous. Figured a dry spell was the reason you got off so fast.

 [Pink paper torn from memo pad, slid under door] Nathan— We were eating dinner.

 [Pale blue post-it note, stuck on door] Why do you think I fucked her in the kitchen?

 [Pale blue post-it note, stuck on door] Could you sign for another package on Thursday?

 [Pink paper torn from memo pad, slid under door] You ask like I’m not still traumatized by the experience of making small talk with my parents while we listened to you fuck some girl’s brains out. Besides, you weren’t exactly grateful last time.

 [Yellow post-it note, stuck on door] Because you left thousands of dollars worth of tech in our hallway! Why did you think they required a signature?

 [Pink paper torn from memo pad, slid under door] For the tenth time Nathan, if you didn’t want me to leave it in the hallway you should’ve said so.

 [Yellow post-it note, stuck on door of apartment 55] FedEx— Please get signature from woman in apt 56.

 [Pale green paper torn from memo pad, slid under door] Heads up that I’m having some friends over tomorrow night so it’ll be noisy. You’re welcome to come if you want, assuming it doesn’t interfere with your old man bedtime.

 [Yellow post-it note, stuck on gift-wrapped box] Fuck you for not telling me it was your birthday.

 [Pale green paper torn from memo pad, slid under door] I told you you didn’t need to give me a gift! On a related note—a vibrator is not a good gift for someone you’re not fucking.

 [Yellow post-it note, stuck on door] Just thought the buzz on yours is sounding weaker than it used to. Figured you could use a replacement.

 [Yellow post-it note, stuck on door] Did you like it?

 [Pale green paper torn from memo pad, slid under door] I don’t know what you’re talking about.

 [Plain white 8.5- by 11-inch paper, typed, left on counter underneath a Tupperware of oatmeal cookies] Nathan: - Please feed one scoop of food once in the morning and once in the evening if possible (but one double scoop earlier in the day is fine if you wouldn’t be able to give him dinner until very late). - He loves pets while he eats. Not saying you have to give him pets, but he will look at you expectantly if you don’t. - I normally try to empty his litter every day, but if you could just do it once about halfway through my trip, that’d be fine. - If you can, some playtime or cuddles would be nice to make sure he doesn’t feel too lonely. His favorite toys are in a box next to the couch. He loves people and should recognize you by now, so he’ll probably jump right up to cuddle if you just sit down next to his favorite blanket. You’re welcome to stick around and read or watch TV for a bit while he sits with you. - Hope you like oatmeal cookies. I tried to go with something healthier so that you don’t feel a need to up your SoulCycle regimen. [Handwritten underneath] Thanks again for doing this. Stay out of my bedroom. [Handwritten underneath that] I don’t do SoulCycle and you know it.

 [Yellow post-it note, stuck on bedroom door] The contrarian in me nearly went in here out of spite.

 [Pale green paper torn from memo pad, slid under door] Thanks again for cat-sitting. The little asshole keeps looking at the door around dinnertime like you’re gonna come in to feed him. I’ll be home every night this week, just return my spare key whenever.

 [Yellow post-it note, wrapped around key and slid under door] Your pussy has good taste. Thank you again for the cookies. I’m out every night but here’s the spare.

 [Yellow post-it note, stuck on door] Sounded like a lousy fuck last night.

 [Pale green paper torn from memo pad, slid under door] Oh my god he was still here. No need to comment on the quality of my sex life, Bateman.

 [Yellow post-it note, stuck on door] Hey, at least I didn’t imply that you were the problem.

 [Pale green paper torn from memo pad, slid under door] When you actually make someone come, I’ll retract my statement.

 [Pale green post-it note, stuck on door] A girl bailed on our dinner plans after I already started cooking. Help me eat some of it?

 [Pale green paper torn from memo pad, slid under door] If this is how you ask all the girls into your apartment, it’s no wonder you can’t get a second date. I mean, that plus. You know. The other thing. The you’re bad in bed thing. I’m saying you’re bad in bed.

 [Back of a receipt, left on night stand] That was a bad idea. I couldn’t find my bra, give it back when you have a chance?

 [Pale green post-it note, stuck on plain brown box] Found it. When do I get my retraction?

 [Pale green paper torn from memo pad, slid under door] What, you need it in writing too?

 [Pale green post-it note, stuck on door] If there’s one thing I learned from my lawyer parents, it’s that I should get everything in writing.

 [Pale green post-it note, stuck on door] Bad joke, sorry.

 [Pale green paper torn from memo pad, slid under door] I’m used to it, you make a lot of bad jokes.

 [Pale green post-it note, stuck on door] Will you stop avoiding me if I agree it was a bad idea?

 [Yellow paper torn from memo pad, slid under door] That depends, do you actually agree it was a bad idea or do you just want me to stop avoiding you?

 [Pale green post-it note, stuck on door] If it means that you’ll avoid me forever, it was a bad idea.

 [Yellow paper torn from memo pad, slid under door] Going on a weekend trip and my friend who was supposed to cat sit came down with the flu. Can you help out?

 [Inscription on the front page of a copy of Much Ado About Nothing, left on counter] To the chick in apt 56— I was browsing your bookshelves while looking for something to read, and I noticed your copy of Much Ado looked pretty rough, so I picked up a new one for you. Same editor, since I know some people are picky about that sort of thing. I always went in more for the tragedies, but I think this one is growing on me.

 [Yellow paper torn from memo pad, slid under door] You’re not Benedick.

 [Yellow post-it note, wrapped around key and slid under door] Never said I was.

 [Yellow paper torn from memo pad, slid under door] You doing alright? I haven’t heard you leave for three days.

 [Yellow post-it note, stuck to empty Tupperware] Thanks for the soup. Were you lying about it being store-bought? I finally felt up to shopping today and couldn’t find anything like it anywhere. I’d pay honest to god money for you to make it again.

 [Scan of soup recipe, slid under door] [Handwritten underneath] If I recall correctly, you’re a capable cook. I’ll warn you that it doesn’t taste as good when you’re not sick. It’s like magic.

 [Yellow post-it note, stuck on door] Do you think I could get another cold if I asked enough strangers to sneeze and cough on me?

 [Yellow paper torn from memo pad, slid under door] Don’t you dare. You’re insufferable as it is but you turn into a big baby when you’re sick.

 [Yellow post-it note, stuck on door] I’m having some people over for my birthday on Saturday. (See how easy it is to mention that it’s your birthday?) Come, maybe?

 [Yellow paper torn from memo pad, slid under door] I think I have time to make an appearance.

 [Yellow post-it note, stuck on door] Just postpone your date with my vibrator and come to the party.

 [Yellow paper torn from memo pad, folded and taped to a Tupperware of oatmeal cookies] Nathan— That was a shit move on my part, I’m sorry. It was a fun night and I got carried away, but you were right to stop me. Thanks for being uncharacteristically nice about it. After the way I acted last time, I definitely deserved worse.

 [Yellow post-it note, stuck on empty Tupperware] Just didn’t want you to regret anything.

 [Yellow paper torn from memo pad, slid under door] Maybe I do, a little bit. What if I did? I think I might.

 [Yellow paper torn from memo pad, left on pillow] You look cute when you let yourself sleep in. Since apparently my coffee isn’t good enough for you, I’m running to the place down the street. I’ll feed the little menace before I go so if he tries to get you out of bed, you can ignore him. xx

——

interested in my other fics or my taglist form? you can find them on my masterlist here

taglist: @abelslittlebunny​, @aellynera​, @alwritey-aphrodite​, @amneris21​, @anetteaneta​, @bdavishiddlesbatch​, @be-the-spark-flyboy​, @brandyllyn​, @clumsy-stormtrooper​, @ew-erin​, @foxilayde​, @hayley-the-comet​, @hyperfixatingmenever​, @iflostreturntobudcooper​, @jitterbugs927​, @knivesareout​, @leto-duke​, @lostgirlheather​, @louderrthanthunderr​, @marvelousmermaid​, @moonlightburned​, @mstgsmy​, @one-hell-of-a-disappointment​, @poedameronloverx​, @prettylilhalforc​, @princessxkenobi​, @pumpkin-stars​, @rosiefridayrogersunday​, @salome-c​, @starryeyedstories​, @sugarpunch-princess​, @thedukeofcaladan​, @whovianayesha, @yourbucky084​

[vampyrly]

: / i need any help and/or validation for a situation im dealing with

ok heads up this is going to be potentially very long to read and get through, like possibly 10 minutes at most but it is detailed and information heavy, i dont want to leave anything out

if anyone knows me/knows me on twitter and has seen my tweets where i've detailed the bullshit my roommate has done in the past you'll know i dont particularly like their presence based on their immature and gross antics. well ladies and gentlemen just when i thought they couldn't possibly sink any lower as a person, they pulled through the shit olympics and won gold.

my roommate has a cat, they had it prior to moving in and on their account the cat has been by their side 24/7. it is very attached and has most definitely developed a form of separation anxiety because of this. there hasnt been an issue with how often they stay with their cat up until recently... their girlfriend got her own apartment and over the past few months my rm has been staying with her 24/7. as in, is practically never in the apartment. they only come back to refill their cats food/water and is immediately out the door again. occasionally they will sleep overnight but after that they are back out the door.

as anyone who understands cats or animals in general would realize, this is essentially neglecting a cat, one you have gone from being with every day, to essentially never seeing. and this was not gradual, it was a damn near sudden change. you can probably imagine this is putting a lot of confusion and stress on the cat. over time, the cat has reacted more physically. they have become prone to crying by the door, biting the gf's toes, glaring at her (i guess), and such.

now, about a week ago, the cat had bitten my roommate incredibly hard to the point of drawing a lot of blood. apparently this was so traumatic to the rm that they now refuse to even be in the same room with the cat (there have only been a handful of times where they've slipped into the room to grab an essential and shimmy back out) so much so that they brought an air mattress, set it up in the living room, and is now temporarily sleeping there. no, im not joking.

now im not going to go into detail about why this buildup from the cat occurred, i think it should be pretty obvious already why, but to my rm, they fully believe this behavior is aggressive and unusual. as in, this cat had malicious, negative intent to do harm on its owner. its owner which, up until months ago, they were so attached to and clearly loved. as a friend has pointed out, this isnt signaling aggression. this is signaling a need to get attention in any way possible. their own cat had scratched them up so bad to the point they almost had to go to the ER, but it wasnt because the cat was aggressive, it just thought it was playtime! the case is different here yes, because unlike my rm the friend actually takes care and gives attention to their cat, so this was a very rare occurrence. simply put, this cat is lacking so much stimulation, attention, and basic interaction that this, to me, felt like a last resort. because clearly, the constant cries of sadness wasnt doing anything for them. they're currently in the process of rehoming the cat and will permanently ditch it on the 28th. thats still another 5 fucking days of this cat being in these neglected conditions, and thats not counting when this started, which was 17th, 18th if were being generous on account of me misremembering the date of events because who can blame me so much has already happened its becoming difficult to keep track.

a cat that they up until this point loved and gave attention to as apparent by them claiming she is for emotional support, is being thrown out of their life without remorse over one instance of """aggression""" (dont make me explain why it wasnt again.)

my roommate knows full and well that they have every ability and every second on their hands to bring the cat with them to the gf's apartment but guess what? they simply choose not to do so! i guess those toes getting bitten was so traumatic because oh yeah may i add, the girlfriend is a massive enabler of the roommate and sees absolutely no issue to the actions they are taking in response. i doubt they even tried to properly warm the cat up to a person who is a newcomer to the relationship. im sure they both think in their heads that this is the most responsible thing they can do as pet owners and that they're such good people for rehoming a cat they cant take care of anymore. yes, nothing more responsible than neglecting an animal that needs social interaction as much as that one in particular is in dire need of. responsible pet owners would have never let it escalate to such a point, i'll have you know.

my roommate has done a lot of bullshit that has made me want to pull my hair out, but at the very least, it didnt involve a living creature. this however draws a line as i refuse to stand for animal neglect simply because im an outsider and have no direct say in the situation. i've taken as much action as i possibly can, phoning and texting and emailing as many people as i possibly can. i hesitate to say this is straight up animal abuse because as firm as i can be i try to give people the benefit of the doubt BUT. i will say that every single person i have relayed all of this info to thus far has told me that this is grounds for animal abuse.

yesterday i ran into my rm and they told me "heyyy sorry about her crying constantly, its just not possible for me to be in there whatsoever!" and when i asked if they have someone refilling the bowls and litter on their behalf they said "nope just me" ????????? simultaneously on the same day i said fuck it, i am going to break out the secret key i have to their room to check on the cat. yes i have a key to their room, i have never used it until now and if you want to ignore everything thus far to give me some shit about trust or whatever consider: i dont fucking care. as it turns out the food and water bowls are the type that automatically refill. so, hmmm. theres that part out of the way, but of course, you cannot put in a machine to automatically interact with a cat on the level of a human. as for the litter, i couldnt see since i didnt step more than a foot into the room as to not impede boundaries on the cat and i didnt want my roommate to suddenly come home to me knees deep in their shithole. it was probably in the closet but then how is that being cleaned? those automatic cleaning cat litter boxes dont come cheap and i know damn well they cannot afford one. and may i just add as a tidbit, the room has a sitting scent of pee. though seeing as how gross my roommate can get im betting its just them and not the cat. also that room was cold as fuck. were at 60-70s right now in terms of weather right now it does not need to be that cold......

here is a video i was able to capture. i mounted my phone on a monopod in order to get a scope of the room without stepping in too far.

i decided that the least i can do at the moment is to head out to dollar tree and get a toy or two so i can at least provide some amount of stimulation. before i left, i checked on her again.

she was just laying there, keeping her distance, and didnt lurch at me whatsoever. i came back with a feather wand and played with her for a couple of minutes. she responded a little to it, but for the most part she was peering out the door wondering where the hell her so called responsible owner was. i took my sweater off and let the cat sniff it. i have zero relationship with this cat, infact its the first time i've ever properly seen it as it is locked in the bedroom 24/7.

now you may be asking yourself, why is this cat locked away in a room 24/7 like rapunzel locked in her tower and not roaming freely in the open apartment? i too would like an answer to this! i rarely spend any time in the living room but even if i did i have NO issue with it chilling in there.

someone i phoned did bring up a good point that for AS to consider a legitimate case of abuse or even do anything, there'd need to be no food or water. so essentially, unless you're straight up physically harming an animal outside of their headquarters they dont fucking care. want to be proven further on that? my rm actually did speak with AS at the start of bite-saga. surprisingly they werent 100% truthful, and, get a load of this, they told them that the cat potentially has a virus, and that they need to be quarantined the entire 2 week period. thats some lying bullshit if i've ever heard some!!! not only that, just a few hours ago i peeped the girlfriend had the vet get back to them about lending a muzzle!

SO. heres the current situation as of today and what will occur to tomorrow: i finally phoned someone who is going to drop by the apartment tomorrow, potentially with another person (these are not random people, im simply keeping their status as anonymous as possible to maintain their privacy) to check on the cats conditions. they'll also call AS again and nudge the rm in a way where it seems AS needs them to expedite the surrendering process sooner than later. i cant imagine another 5 days of this going on, but theres only so much that can be done that doesnt involve me straight up catknapping the poor thing and rehoming her myself. this is the condition of the cat as of a few hours ago:

if i were someone uninvolved and saw this, i would have assumed she were a stray that broke into the room........

i try not to be petty and villainous, but a line has been crossed and the disgusting mistreatment of an innocent creature is a crime i refuse to allow be sweeped under the rug. if theres any benefit to living in a relatively small town, its that everyone knows or at least recognizes everyone. far too many people already get away with animal abuse, at the very least i can make as many people here as aware of their antics as i can. is that wrong to do? should i not air all that i can out about them? im so tired and exhausted. i've lost so much sleep over this and im probably going to lose a lot more. thanks for reading.

[hillbillyoracle]

Dealing with Stress When You Live in a Rough Place

This isn't necessarily tarot or shadow work, but I wanted to write a little bit about strategies I've found useful for dealing with my neighborhood in it's current state. All of this can apply to managing stress generally but I'm focusing on folks in my boat. I'm incredibly sleep deprived so it's going to be rambly - I'm warning you now. But hopefully this helps someone.

I've shared a little bit about what's been going on in other posts; we hear shootings at least weekly, people will play loud music so loud the window rattle really late at night, all out brawls have broken out in the parking lot, our neighbors bang against the walls even in the middle of the night, most our neighbors have made it clear they don't like us because we're gay, we've had our car broken into at least 2 in the last month, kids have taken to beating our cars with sticks, climbing on and under them, screaming in front of our house, beating on our door and running off - like y'all it's a lot!

I talk about this so folks can know where I'm coming from. Some folks read this and they're horrified, some folks are going to read that and be like fuck that's tame. How hard a situation looks really does depend on what your normal is and how you were raised. For me, it's pretty intense. I was raised in out in the country so I didn't grow up living really close to people like I have to here in the city. And country neighborhoods have their own brand of rough, do not underestimate it, but most of what I've compiled here is going to be about living in close proximity with other people in areas with high crime rates.

Mindset Shifts

The Sooner You Accept Your Lack of Control - The Better

And I mean really accept it. Not just intellectually understanding that there's not anything you can do, but getting as okay with that as you can manage. For folks who are already traumatized that's a whole lot harder to do. Living in a space that traumatizes you daily will also make that harder as time goes on. But it's been some of the most important work I've done while living in a place that this. Sometimes I cope by being very public about what I'm going through, sometime I cope by

Sensory Management is Not a Luxury, It is a Necessity

This has become overwhelmingly clear to me that sensory overload in rough neighborhoods is a wildly underdiscussed health issue. There's measurable health differences in people who are exposed to a lot of noise versus those who aren't. I'm autistic so this is something I have to do just to function but I've seen a huge shift in my girlfriend's mental health since living here too. Take it seriously and try to attend to it just like you would any other health concern, making it a part of your routine. This is where adapting Polyvagal strategies has come in handy.

Good is Still Good Even If There's a Ton of Bad

There are very few moments of pure joy in a neighborhood like this. One of the reasons that a gratitude practice has been genuinely helpful is that it's shown me how much good can get swept away in the tidal wave of crap in a place like this. So that I don't feel helpless or internalize how worthless places like this are designed to make you feel, I try to resist by reflecting on the good. IT helps me feel like my life still has meaning while I'm living here and it's not a waste to be right where I am right now.

I Am Not Failing Myself For Not Getting Sleep, Food, Safe, Etc

I'm lucky that we've been good on food but sleep and safety have been in short supply. I realized I often felt like I was a bad person for being in this situation where I couldn't sleep, I criticized myself for not being able to sleep through all the noise and getting worked up. I have to remind myself daily that I'm not failing myself for what I can't really control. I'm not a bad person because of what people around me choose to do.

Polyvagal Strategies Adapted

Nature

Ideally, when you're trying to regulate your nervous system, you'd want to get out into nature more. It's just flat out not accessible or safe to do so here. I'm lucky that my room faces a nice tree and when I'm getting stressed, I take some time to just sit and really look at it. I try to notice the details. I also really enjoy feeding birds on my window sill. I invested in a big bag of bird seed with some Christmas money that's lasted me at least a year now but I used to get bags for about 5 dollars at Kroger. If you can't get close to nature, lure it to you.

Need something totally free? You can also pull up livefeeds of bird feeders on YouTube. I used to watch them when I couldn't walk to put out birdseed. Still very helpful. Nature cams in general are great. Put on a nature doc like Planet Earth. Change your computer and phone backgrounds to have natural landscapes. Even just sketching landscapes and having landscape are around your space can help.

If you can buy some soil, dig some up, or swipe some from a public garden bed, you can grow some small plants on your window sill. You can grow a lot of seeds from vegetables and some fruits you get at the store. You can also collect seeds from trees and try to grow them (it's difficult, plant several at a time). Take cuttings of plants you can identify as safe. Extension services will also sometimes send seeds for free. Taking care of a plant really helps us spend more time in the restorative part of our nervous system.

Sound

At the intersection of sound and nature is nature noises. If you're trying to block out your neighbors anyways, nature noises are the best option. I've had the best luck rain and storm sounds. Water noises in particular have a calming effect on our nervous system. If I really need to block something out I'll layer a rain generator over some music I like (rain sounds + Elliot Smith = a vibe).

Music in general can have different  activating and calming effects on our nervous system. Pay attention to what music activates you and makes you more likely to be in conflict with people when you listen to it and what music makes you more social. Physically relaxation is harder for me personally to gauge. As a person with trauma I can't always tell when my body is relaxing or not. So paying attention to how I treat others helps me check myself.

Temperature + Touch

When we're warmer, we tend to feel more socially connected than when we're cold. Put on some extra clothes, pile on the blankets, take a bath, or grab a space heater if you have one. It's worth increasing the temp a little if you're stressed. Too hot and we can begin to feel crowded out. So if you're feeling the need to flee, it's worth trying to cool off a little. I usually do this by splashing some cool water on my face.

While we crave touch from others, touch from ourselves also helps calm our nervous systems! Jin Shin Jyutsu has been super helpful for me. There are a few videos online. I recommend searching Facebook for a woman local to me - Jennifer Bradley. I took one of her in person classes before the pandemic and it's been very helpful especially around sleep. I think the only place she's got her recent videos up is on her Facebook page but they're worth tracking down. She's a very good teacher and just a very soothing presence in general.

There's some evidence that just imagining being hugged or held is calming on the nervous system. Some goes for imagining ourselves out walking in nature. Don't be afraid to spend time daydreaming!

Breath + Movement

A lot of unsafe neighborhoods make common advice like going for a walk completely out of the question. However, even just moving more around your space can help. Yoga has been very helpful to me. My partner finds bodyweight exercises really help her. Any movement you feel good doing counts. Including movement you imagine yourself doing as well.

Breathing is movement, or seems to have a similar effect at least. I really recommend checking out a few breath work strategies to use. You've always got your lungs on you so it's easy to use. I like the in for 4 counts, hold for 7, release for 8 pattern. Breath is a direct line to the nervous system and I try to do a breathing pattern several times a day just to regroup.

Cognitive Strategies

Journal Like Your Life Depends on It

I'm not joking. TMS journaling - journaling stream of consciousness very intensely for about 20-30 minutes and then destroying what you've written - has been key not only to me surviving this place but having fewer Fibro flares than when I was living in much calmer places. But honestly all journaling is helpful. I've been keeping a daily journal in Notion and that alone has been helpful. Making sure I've gotten as much as possible off of my mind throughout the day has helped so much. Find a journaling strategy that allows you to take the cognitive load of (or a few) and practice them as often as you can. Not into journaling? I used to take videos of myself talking into the camera and save or delete them depending on whether I wanted to come back to them. Are words rough? Draw your feelings or scenes as you saw them.

Find the Story That Works

There are a bunch of conflicting ideas about what the right view of trauma and the story of it is. I personally really hate any narrative that places me as a victim. For better or worse, I like to look at what I've learned in any giving situation. So in my current situation, when I'm overwhelmed, I remind myself that I'm only getting a glimpse of what some people in places like this go through. It's increasing my empathy and expanding my awareness which allows me to better serve others. It's made me more committed to keeping my materials accessible over profiting. There's been a lot of benefit when I frame it that way. And that works for me. If that story isn't helpful for you - work to find a frame to narrate your experiences - as they're happening - that help you feel more whole.

Conclusion

I'm not sure if these strategies will work for other people but I wanted to at least have something out there than people could hopefully find if they're struggling with the same thing. Basically, if you can't fix it - manage it. Find ways to make the experience less traumatic if you're able to. Manage your sensory input. Do what you can with what you have where you are. Too many folks will tell you that you absolutely have to change your material circumstances before you can address mental health but for many of us that's just not possible. Or in the words of one of my favorite Buddhist teachers, Robina Courtin, "If you can do something, do something, but if you can't, what are you going to do?"

[lovemesomesurveys]

Are you better at cooking dinners or making cakes/biscuits/sweets? Neither. I make ramen or something easy in the microwave or oven.

Have you ever cut someone else’s hair? Nooo. I would not mess up someone’s hair.

Who was the last guest in your house and what were they staying for? My aunt and cousin came over Saturday to hang out for a late birthday get together. We just played a few board games and ate.

How many long term relationships have you been in? Zero.

Do you sleep with all the lights out, or do you leave a lamp or even the television on? I sleep with the TV on, which I’ve done since I was a kid, but for some reason I’ve been leaving my floor lamp on lately, too. I just end up falling asleep without turning it off.

Who is one person you have forgiven, but still have not “forgotten” what they have done? That’s how it is with anyone; I forgive but don’t forget.

Are you a fan of Lana Del Rey? I like some of her songs.

Do you know your blood type? No.

Do you know your mother’s birthday? Yes.

Have you ever been pregnant? No.

How old were you when you first went on a plane? I was 16.

Have you ever had to take out a loan for anything? Yeah, student loans.

Are both of your blood parents still in your life? Yes, thankfully.

When was the last time you went apple picking? I’ve never done this. 

Someone asked you what you wanted, what would you say? A beach vacation.

Have you ever been drunk at school or work? No.

How many bedrooms are in your house? Two.

Are you smart about computers? I know some stuff.

Have you ever played Just Dance for Wii? No.

Do you own a Xbox 360? Nope.

Would you ever do a sex tape for a million dollars? No.

So, do you need a nap? It’s almost 830AM and I just got up like an hour ago, but yeah I could definitely go back to sleep. 

What would you rather be doing? Sleeping.

What sport are you the best at? None. Do you have a little sister? What’s her name? Nope.

Do you complain a lot? I feel like I do now. :/ I didn’t used to. 

Would you rather go to an authentic haunted house or an ancient temple? Neither.

Do you like fruity or minty gum? I only like minty flavored gum.

Are you looking forward to any day of this month? No.

Have you ever gotten detention? Nope.

Is there a traumatic event that you’ve experienced that’s changed your life? I’d say the one that made me a paraplegic. 

Do you buy a majority of your clothes from a certain store, or do you just pick out items of clothing you could see yourself wearing, not caring about the store it came from? Most of my clothes are from Boxlunch and Hot Topic.

Have any of the artists you’re fond of released new albums recently? Yeah.

Would you ever keep your favorite animal as a pet? I have a doggo. I would never have a giraffe for a pet for obvious reasons, though.

Ever cried so much you threw up? No, but felt like it.

Who is your best guy friend? I don’t have one.

What do you two do when you hang out? --

What is a movie that you thought you would hate but you ended up loving? Star Wars and the Marvel and DC movies. 

Do you even like horror movies? I love ‘em.

Do you live in the country? No.

What is your favorite accent? Some southern and British accents.

Have you ever had a boyfriend your parents didn’t like? No.

Do you drink Pepsi or Coke? I drink both.

What do you plan to do on your 21st birthday? I had a little get together at home with family and my best friend at the time on my actual 21st and then the next day my cousin, my best friend, and I went out of town for the weekend to one of my favorite places. We drank that night and then did touristy things and shopping the rest of the time.

Do you have any person in your family with an addiction to beer? Yes.

Do you take a lot of pictures? Not anymore.

What kind of face wash do you use? I don’t. :X

Does drama always seem to follow you? Not drama, but other issues.

Does anybody in your family race? No.

Are you closer to your mom or dad? My mom.

How much money did you used to get from the ”tooth fairy?” I think it was $5.

How long do you want to live with your parents? I have no plans to move out for the foreseeable future. It’s best for me to live at home and I’m perfectly fine with it.

Do you have a laptop or desktop? Laptop.

Do you like your parents? Yes, I love my parents.

Do you secretly like someone? No.

Would you ever date your best male friend? --

What are you currently listening to? I’m watching The Middle.

Do you want to be single? Yes.

Did you go out or stay in last night? I stayed in.

Have you pretended to like someone? No.

How is your heart lately? Sad.

Are you wearing socks? Yeah, I’m always wearing socks.

What do people call you? Stephanie, Steph, Sis.

Do you get stressed out easily? Yeppp.

Have you ever been taken to the emergency room in an ambulance? Yes.

What is wrong with you right now? At this moment I’m tired and hungry.

Do you own something from Hot Topic? I own a ton of things from Hot Topic.

Would you rather sleep with someone else or alone? Alone.

Do you still talk to the person you last made out with? No.

Have you ever seen your best friend cry? Yes, several times. :(

Did you get any compliments today? No.

Have you ever gone to a beach? Numerous times. I love the beach.

What would you say if someone asked you to get high right now? I’d say nah.

Do you believe that everything happens for a reason? Yes.

Have you ever done volunteer work just because you wanted to? Yes.

Do you have long nails? My nails are barely there at all.

Do you like the gender you are? Yeah.

Do you generally look nice in photos? No. Or ever I feel like.

Have you ever had a stick insect as a pet? Ew, no.

What colour are your father’s eyes? Blue.

If I handed you a concert ticket right now, who would you want to be the performer? Hmm. Would you ever get into a long distance relationship? Probably not.

What’s the most thoughtful present you’ve ever received? That’s hard to say.

What’s your favorite hot beverage? Coffee, duh.

Did you ever play an instrument? If so what? Piano and violin. 

Would you rather carve pumpkins or wrap presents? Wrap presents.

Do you think you’re important? Not at all.

What’s the best compliment you’ve ever received? Hmm.

Have you been diagnosed with any mental disorders? Yes.

Have you ever moved to another state or country? If so, how did it feel to be new? No.

Do you know how to properly eat food with chopsticks? Nope.

What was the first thing you ate today? I had my nightly bowl of ramen around 2AM.

If you could spend the day, doing absolutely anything, with anyone, anywhere, what would it be like? I’d spend it at the beach.

If I were to ask you how you are doing, and you were only able to answer completely honestly, what would come out? I’m not doing well.

What is the one thing that you have been avoiding that you should do? There’s a few things I should get taken care of but have put off for quite awhile.

Is there anything that you wish you could take back? Oh yes.

What, in your mind, could make you truly happy? Good health.

If you could change one conversation in your life, what would you say differently? Would it have REALLY made any difference? This is too deep for me right now.

When is the next time you’ll change your hairstyle? Will you color it? I don’t know. I cut it super short over a month ago and now I’m letting it grow it out a bit before I get it styled. 

Do people normally say you’re a fast typist, or are you rather slow? Fast.

Have you ever been considered the ‘smartest person in school?’ No.

How many drugs are in your system? Does my prescription pain med count?

What’s on your schedule for tomorrow? Nothing out of the ordinary.

Do you currently have any bite marks/hickeys on your body? No.

Do you call anyone baby? Nope.

What’s your current mood? Bleh.

What were you doing before filling out this survey? Watching The Middle.

How late did you stay up last night? I think I fell asleep around 4ish.

When was the last time you cried really hard? Recently. It’s not a rare occurrence. :/

Is your hair longer than your shoulders? Not anymore. :( Like I said, I cut it super short because I had to.

[diyunho]

The Joker x Reader - “Incubus”

Incubus is a special type of metahuman that can enter people’s mind and the only one known to possess such abilities is Y/N. Captured by an underground agency and forced to obey orders, she has a new task today: to get inside The Joker’s head and find out where he stashed half a billion dollars after he pulled what everybody calls “the heist of the century”.

“Regression will begin shortly,” one of the doctors announces on the intercom. “Prepare for countdown.”

You lay on the cold metal table next to the Joker’s body: he’s medicated into a dreamless sleep, ready to have you purge his mind for the answer to the burning question: where did he stash half a billion dollars?

After being arrested two weeks ago, The King of Gotham refused to speak and disclose any information to the authorities; they tried everything: drugs, blackmail, best intimidation tactics and psychologists without success.

J didn’t crack.

Fed up with the puzzling mystery, CIA decided to use the top secret research facility operating under the grid where the infamous Incubus is held prisoner.

“A few reminders,” the flat voice echoes in the sealed laboratory. “Do not attempt to elude us, we have your little girl! If you aim to play us we’ll revoke visiting time.”

You blankly stare at the ceiling, upset they repeat the same rules when you’re forced to use your powers; the 15 minutes you’re allowed to spend with Mia on Saturdays is all you live for since they incarcerated both of you six months ago.

How you wish you could kill them but they found a solution to prevent you from rebelling.

“Please note that in case you plan to get inside our brains and compel us to stop breathing, your daughter will die. Confirm acknowledgement.”

“Confirm,” you bitterly reply because it hurts to have your child endangered; you could end them right this moment if it wasn’t for her.

Unfortunately, they found a way to subdue your terrific ability: the crew assigned to project Incubus carries portable heart monitoring devices 24/7; they resemble wrist watches and if just one individual’s pulse deactivates, it will set of the explosive in Mia’s collar. The 5 years old has no clue that what she believes to be a cute necklace is actually a device meant to eradicate her.

“Countdown to regression,” the clinician reports and the speakers carry his words around the room. “Five, four, three, two, one. Initiate!”

**************

You walk in the darkness, surprised you didn’t bump into memories yet: usually that’s the first thing you stumble upon when invading a person’s subconscious. He’s been under your spell for 10 minutes now and the void proves his twisted mind is probably worse than anyone thinks: The Clown is lost in the maze of his own insanity.

A couple more steps and you finally distinguish four doors ahead which means you’ll be able to analyze The Joker’s recollections.  

First Door

The little boy cries in the middle of the room and you slowly approach, wondering if you should interfere or just observe. But tears fall from those innocent blue eyes and the fact that he’s maybe your daughter’s age makes you decide.

“Why are you crying?” you kneel by the young Joker and he wipes his face with the sleeves of his raggedy shirt:

“My mommy died.”

“Did she? I’m sorry… Do you miss her?” you manipulate the conversation since warping his thoughts might lead to your quest: discovering where the money is.

“U-hum,” he nods and asks. “I don’t like it at the orphanage, I want to go home…”

“Perhaps I can help,” you pull him in your arms and he whispers:

“Who are you?”

“Your worst nightmare,” Y/N sadly concludes because it doesn’t bring her joy to distort an already broken mind, nevertheless she‘s here bearing a clear purpose. “It’s ok,” you hold the child and soothe him. “I’m sorry this happened to you.”

The little boy whimpers, clinging to the stranger showing him kindness then vanishes in thin air: you got rid of a painful memory and replaced it with a nicer one.

Now The Joker will remember that someone comforted him when in reality it never happened.

Second Door

The young man is standing in front of the burning cottage while the firefighters are struggling to put out the blaze. He’s covered in ashes and his lips are barely moving; you can hardly discern what he keeps on repeating:

“They’re still inside… they’re still inside…”

The 24 years old Joker is numb and all you can conclude he seemed so different back in the day.

“Who’s inside?” you inquire and he glimpses your way without realizes he’s in shock.

“My wife and son. I couldn’t save them… I didn’t make it to the second level, the flames were too strong…”

You bend over and grab the blanket resting at his feet, placing it around his shoulders.

“I’m sorry they’re gone, you did everything you could.”

He glares at the Incubus for a split moment before disappearing: you just lift the burden of a horrifying experience and now The Joker will remember that someone offered consolation when in reality it never happened.

Third Door

The man is sitting on the floor with his back against the padded wall, tightly confined inside his straight jacket. He keeps screaming, then maniacally laughing and sobbing in the same time while straining to escape the garment.

“Calm down,” you slide near him. “You’ll hurt yourself if you continue.”

The 27 years old tries to articulate a couple of coherent sounds before reprising his yelling.

“Stop squirming,” you cup his face and make him pay attention. “Look at me. Relax,” you caress his cheeks. “Deep breaths, ok?” you plead with the madman. “Sssttt, it’s fine…” Y/N stares in his eyes and the shouting gradually dies out. “There you go,” you brush your forehead on J’s prior to him fading away: you switched a terrible incident into better conclusion by mimicking sympathy when in reality it never happened.  

Fourth Door

You’re surprised to notice The Joker talking to shadows: a woman and a little girl judging by their silhouettes; he resembles the most wanted criminal lying 10 inches apart from you in the secured establishment pushing you to accomplish their instructions.

A recent memory? Does it mean he has another family?...

You want to come closer and the sight of the contours disappearing is intriguing; The Clown rubs his temples and you can tell he’s distressed.

“What’s going on?” you dig in his brain for responses.

“They took my Queen and my Princess!” he grinds his teeth with resentment.

“Do you know where they are?”

“Yes,” J grumbles and evaporates saying a baffling phrase: ”I have to find the perfect plan in order to reclaim what’s mine!”

So weird the memory dispersed before you misled the truth in your favor … What the heck is going on?!...

The Cell

No rooms left and you stroll in the murkiness again, angry your scheme didn’t lead towards a better result: oddly enough The King of Gotham failed to unveil extra hints that could have aid you in discovering where the fortune he snatched is.

“Hello sugar,” the raspy intonation halts you in your tracks.

Y/N detects the heavy bars forming this square shaped cell containing what she suspects to be a version of The Joker; it’s difficult to restrain her astonishment since she’s witnessing a rare phenomenon: nothing less than a mind prison.

Jackpot! If he buried something deep inside and locked it even from himself it could mean you reached your destination.

“It’s nice to have visitors,” the eerie apparition chuckles. “It gets lonely.”

“I bet,” you pout. “Why don’t you break free?”

He kicks the bars, enraged he has to explain:

“I’m sure a superior creature such as the lady joining me knows a mind prison can only be opened from the outside!”

He’s self-aware! This is absolutely unbelievable: humans are never conscious within the deepest layers of their psyche.

“You are correct: you can only open it from the outside,” you agree. “What’s your name?”

“Joker. What’s yours?”

“Y/N.”

“Duh, I know,” he snickers and lets his tattooed arms hang loose outside the bars. “You have a kid, right?”

He sees your doubt and his gratification builds up to new highs.

“Yes.”

“What’s her name?”

“How do you know it’s a she?!” you counterattack with a quiz.

Damn, this whole charade is getting more and more fascinating by the second!

“I know soooooo many things,” the entity yawns. “For example I’m sure you wonder how I ended up in here.”

No sign you would deny his rambling thus he enlightens the riddle:

“Some are born with certain “gifts”, some develop them after a traumatic experience. I’m the lucky recipient of the latest, although I was locked in here from day one. If I had someone shatter the seal and by someone I mean you,” he points his finger at the smirking Y/N, “I could help you run from the place you hate. Tell me I’m wrong, but aren’t you trapped also?”

“You’re sneaky, I’ll give you that,” you laugh at his attempts to influence your actions.

“And you’re too powerful not to realize what’s going on! Snap out of it!!!” he hisses. “Are you single sugar?” the anger building up makes Y/N frown.

“None of your business!”

“Humor me, I beg,” he emphasizes the words.

“Yes,” you scoff and his demeanor doesn’t lower your guard.

“Are you 100% certain you’re not married?”

“What’s this nonsense?!” you sneer at the stupid conversation.

“Maybe you don’t remember because you created your own mind prison where you chained crucial data in order to protect the ones you love after you were captured. What’s your daughter’s name?” he sulks and you grumble.

“Mia.”

“Are you sure?”

“Of course I am; do you think I don’t know my child’s name?”

“And you think I don’t recognize my own wife standing in front of me??!!!!” he snaps at your hesitation. “Set me free! Set me free and I’ll show you! I can get inside your mind and unlock your cage: you’ll remember everything!”

“Who do you think you’re talking to?!” you growl at the absurd sentences: like his devious tactic would work on you!

“I’m talking to the Incubus, am I not?”

Your mouth opens in amazement since there is no way in hell he could know that.

“Do I have your attention now?” the beast reprimands. “Good! Here’s what you deliberately forgot: nobody knows that we’re married, it’s better that way; yet a woman with your capabilities is bound to attract unwanted attention anyway. When we got together, we had a deal: you’ll never get inside my head and you consented. No? Doesn’t ring a bell?...” he cracks his joints. “After they took you and Emma from me…”

“Who’s Emma?” you interrupt, more and more convinced there’s something fishy happening inside The Joker’s subconscious.

“Our daughter, her name is not Mia, you just replaced it after you were both kidnapped in order to sever all connections with the past. Can’t blame you: it’s a great strategy given the circumstances: create a mind prison, hide everything connected to protect me and her. Last thing you needed was for them to find out we are actually acquainted in the most intimate way. That would have been a disaster! Do you know why I stole half a billion dollars and let them catch me? I knew that if I do that they’ll use everything possible under the sun to make me spill the beans. When all fails, won’t they flaunt the last ace in their sleeve? That’s how I got here sugar, it was the ultimate goal. I can’t function without my girls so I came to get them!”

“Listen here,” your menacing attitude takes over. “Who do you take me for?! Your fictional tale is starting to piss me off so I advise you to quit before I make your neurons crumble to pieces!”

“I’ll pretend I didn’t hear it,” the feral beast sniffs the air. “You always kept your end of the bargain and never got in here before to poke the past. I respect that, sugar. Now I had no choice besides letting you in.”

“Stop it! Stop your lies!! You’re nothing more than a projection of The Joker’s mind!”

“Ahhhh,” the evil grin flourishes behind the silver teeth. “I am so much more than that. Do you want to get out of this facility? I suggest you set me free and I will prove I’m telling the truth!”

“Bullshit! What can you do anyway?! I can kill everyone and run, but my daughter will die!”

“Not if I help: you can make them stop breathing and I could keep the hearts beating until we get the key that unlocks Emma’s collar! It’s a dual team mission.”

“Her name is Mia! How do you know about the collar?!” the dumbfounded Y/N mumbles.

“Weren’t you listening? I know a lot of things!”

“Even if we assume you aren’t lying, how will you keep their hearts beating?!”

“Set me free and I’ll show you! SET. ME. FREE!!!!!! Or we are fucking doomed! Set me free!” he punches the bars. “Set me free and I’ll open your mind prison! You’ll realize each word I uttered is genuine! You’ll remember all of it! SET! ME! FREE!!! What do you have to lose, huh? Nothing! Do it!! Do it!!!!”

“How could you get inside my mind?! I’m a metahuman!”

“Goddamnit! SET ME FREE AND I’ll SHOW YOU!!!!! Do you want your daughter to perish in this place?! Do you???!!!”

You definitely are beyond skeptical; still… at least he’s correct about this: you have nothing to lose; you approach with caution and part the bars enough for the trapped entity to squeeze outside.

“Thank you honey,” he clumsily bows and before you can react he snatches in his arms and kisses you.

Y/N feels this electrifying sensation taking over, stupefied to understand what it means: she just unleashed another Incubus. And she always thought she was the only one!

You gasp for air and open your eyes, processing all the recovered memories rushing through your brain: your own mind prison was opened as promised.

You tilt your head to look at The Clown and he grabs your hand, panting:

“Are you ready sugar?”

**************

People keep falling to the ground, each step bringing you closer to your freedom. Emma’s face is buried in your neck as you jump over corpses on the way out of the underground laboratory:

“No peeking!” The Joker scolds and her little hands hold you tighter while obeying.

“Ok daddy.”

“Don’t be scared,” you kiss her cheek and continue the rampage towards the exit.

Screams intensify around the three detainees escaping their faith: the adults can’t afford any weakness or grant mercy to the ones that showed them none.

In the end, what is more terrifying than one Incubus that could plunge the world into complete darkness?

The answer is simple: two of them.

 Also read: MASTERLIST

You can also follow me on Wattpad and AO3 under the same blog name: DiYunho.

[puregonzoadrenaline]

Single Dad at 33yrs Old

I never thought I would be where I am right now. Even if I had planned it on paper I would never have believed that I would be the type of person to be dumb enough to have a child without a financial safety net. Knowing the mother longer than a year wouldn't have hurt either, but as you may have read on the headline, we split ways so she can date a guy named Todd. I'm sure he's really nice and I shouldn't say anything mean, because after all, I was also dumb enough to think someone named Kimberly was going to want to settle down and have a family, be loyal and loving no matter how stormy and tumultuous things got, and be a compatriot of the universe of "We,"--a family; unit; a symbol of happiness, clarity, legacy, and commitment. I would still take her back, that's how naïve I am when it comes to navigating these waters and oceanic latitudes and longitudes of hellish proportions.

I spent the year of 2020 like a lot of single parents. I had my son five to six days a week from January to November staying inside our crappy two bedroom apartment watching learning videos or movies. occasionally finding an outdoor activity. My parents were still helping me financially since the separation, but it got to be too much for them, and I acted immaturely about it like any other person going through a midlife crisis would. In November, I finally broke down and applied for food stamps. A few months later I applied for TANF, or cash assistance through the Department of Human Services. The weirdest part was I had been applying to jobs regularly, always networking and always asking people if they would hire me or had work. Once the real shutdown happened in March of 2020, I couldn't find a job anywhere. My parents finally cut me off, and now I owe rent from December to now. I have been deviously evicted by one of the richest and most well known real estate companies in the United States, due to the fact that I reluctantly signed a 6 month lease term in November that ended just a week ago--after pleading and begging my parents to help me move my son and I to anywhere but the home where his mother and I treated one another so rotten that she had to leave and date someone named Todd.

Now, it's April. Todd is living with someone I used to call my wife, all my things are in a storage unit while I stay at hotel and work an unarmed security job. I have applied for federal assistance to go back to college this May since the only thing keeping me from making more than 39K a year is a Bachelor's degree. I am 18K in debt because of hospital bills that were sent to collections, I owe over five thousand dollars to a real estate company, and I still haven't received any stimulus checks or my tax return. Oh, did I mention the mother of my child is dating a guy named Todd?

I don't want to sound bitter. Everyone lives the way they think is best for them. The human race is the most selfish, self-destructive and divisive organism on this planet. We're our own worst enemy. What we need is more compassion for one another. We need to forgive ourselves and others always and immediately. The divide amongst us is a threat to our survival. Unless we are willing to unite, we will never conquer space. We will never get off this planet unless we can learn to compromise. We must stop traumatizing people and using people as lessons of our exemplarily ability to manufacture institutionalization, especially when it only acts as a piggy bank for the already exceptionally rich and wealthy do-nothings of the top 1%. Well, I wouldn't say they do "nothing," but I would say they definitely don't do anything for we the people who have no exorbitant wealth accumulation.

I am not sure how I planned on ending this. I'm not sure I planned anything, really. I will say I am open to change. Not just for myself, but for my son. Anytime I feel like I am in hell, I can look in his eyes or see his smile and see a true miracle of God's grace. I know that sounds cheesy, but give me a break. I am just a millennial that went to college a little later than my high school peers did, also had a kid later than a majority of them, and am now a real bachelor seeking a Bachelor's degree. The best part is having a little 4 year old ball of 100% pure energy--sugar or no sugar--keeping me in check and motivating me to push ahead towards goals I should have accomplished in my early 20's. If his mom ever get's smart and realizes I am the real deal, totes cool. I would love to be a real family. Until then, I can be an example for my son on how important it is to always study and set goals for yourself, to never give up, always adapt and overcome obstacles--even when feel like you can't and you break down and cry 2, 3, 4, maybe even 5 times a day...just know, God's love is real. Even if you don't believe, his love is real. Though he may test us, if you are intelligent enough to see his messages and the work he does, you will be okay. The world is evil enough. We are evil enough. So, don't waste time being evil, rather, spend time being better. God wants you to improve. Believe in yourself and his protection.

-MJD

[aliteralgrizzlybear]

I remember seeing a post that says "a lot of people from cities say/think they're from small towns and they're wrong" and it bugs me a bit -- not because they're wrong, but because +at least in the US) there's a lot of overlap, and this ignores the broad middle category of Small Cities, which are a mixture of the worst of both worlds:

Buses exist, but they don't work, don't run on time, and usually cost more than you can afford. This means that you live in the same amount of area as a big city, but you still have to drive or walk to go anywhere unless you want to be an hour early or late and have a curfew of When Buses Stop Running, which is usually by dusk, and also usually includes weekends and holidays.

No maintenance of city services. Water and sewer companies that are contracted under a city don't do their jobs until sewage is literally flooding into the streets. Roads don't get fixed, or they get halfway fixed before the money runs out, and then there's a bulldozer and a bunch of traffic cones sitting out for 6+ months blocking a major through-way. Buses, despite being inaccessibly expensive, only get fixed when they break down to the point of not being able to move, and are never cleaned beyond a quick sweeping. That overwhelming smell of piss in the seats of the 5? It's been there since 1993. It'll be there until 2030, because there's no ventilation. Roads would be better off if they were dirt.

There will be more than one grocery store: there might be three! You will have to drive to all three grocery stores to find anything you need beyond the most basic staples of food and hygiene, because they're all supplied by UNFI and UNFI is constantly fudging one store's order so they can fulfill another, and they're all "who gives a fuck about this shithole town anyway?"

Everyone still expects you to grow old and die there. That sounds like the worst possible fate, but the wage difference between what you get at a shitty part-time job and the minimum income needed to move away, even just to a different small city, may as well be billions of dollars, because you can't make that happen.

Oh, jobs. There are jobs. They exist. Would you like to work at one of several fast food places, one of the three grocery stores, The Mall, the GameStop (which is the only normal store in The Mall that hasn't closed down five times) the "adult store," or as part of a pyramid scheme? In all cases, your job will short you on your paychecks, be run by that creepy guy who has definitely wanted in your pants or bullied you or both since high school despite him graduating years before you, put you on part time and schedule you just under full time hours and making sure you're constantly understaffed so that you get maybe one five minute break in your 5 hour and 45 minute shift and a totally different schedule every week that you only get to find out by driving back on what may or may not be your one day off, labor laws and basic human decency be damned. Also get used to the army recruiters dropping by and asking you if you want to do a job that Totally Won't Traumatize You And Force You To Commit Murder.

Just like actual small towns, there's nothing to do except "hang out" or go to a bar if you're old enough. There might be two more bars than you'd expect to have in a small town. They are all owned by one guy. They are all exactly the same.

Yes, there's a Wal-Mart on the outskirts of town. It's a desolate thing.

Just outside of your small city are the farms. Beyond those are forests and highways and... more farms.

There is some kind of public works attraction because someone thought making an old-fashioned carousel, or a big modern park, etc., would bring in tourism. It cost the city so much money. It's practically derelict.

The last census counted potentially more than 50,000 people. That's a lot of people! You will only see the same hundred or so people the entire time you live there. There are no events where you can meet more people. You still only hang out with the people you knew in high school. If you're straight, you're either married or you've run out of people in your dating pool. If you aren't straight, you're desperately trying to move to a less small city so that you don't kill yourself before some right-wing Christians get the chance.

On that note: your city was planned with the idea that 10,000 people living there was a few decades away. Now there's more than 50,000 people. Enjoy the wonder of a big city traffic jam on your rural and neighborhood roads, every single day. Also enjoy power outages whenever the weather requires air conditioning or heat, whenever the wind gets high, during nearly every thunderstorm, and whenever an electrical transformer explodes because it hasn't been maintained in 30+ years.

Everyone talks shit about the other towns and small cities that aren't the one you live in, knowing that people in those places talk shit about yours in exactly the same way.

There is a doctor's office and a dentist, and even a specialist or two beyond that -- possibly more than one office of each. You will not drive as far as the people in neighboring small towns to get to them. They will be just as overworked and unhelpful for you as for the people coming from out of town.

[bluewatsons]

David Marchese, James Ellroy on his life in crime, his imaginary dog and the need to provoke, New York Times (August 19, 2019)

James Ellroy: I’ve had precious few moments, where I’ve said to myself: ‘Ellroy, you are the king. You’re the greatest crime writer that ever lived.’ The reflex kicks in . . .You’ve got more work to do.”

David Marchese: Almost all your books are set in the past,1 and I know that you’re intentionally disconnected from modern culture. Are you missing out on something important by not living more deeply in the times in which you live?

James Ellroy: I have a quotation here. [Ellroy removes a note from his shirt pocket.] This is the great pianist Glenn Gould on the great composer Richard Strauss. “The great thing about the music of Richard Strauss is that ... it presents to us an example of the man who makes richer his own time for not being of it, who speaks for all generations by being of none. It is an ultimate argument of individuality, an argument that a man can create his own synthesis of time without being bound by the conformities that time imposes.” That says it all.

David Marchese: O.K., I know you like to do shtick in public. Is that shtick2 about concealing anything?

James Ellroy: A lot of it is being the pit bull staked by chain to a spike in the front yard. I’ve been writing a book for a couple of years, and then they slip the chain off and I can run wild. But I realize part of it is a cover-up. My early life was horrible privation living with the unhousebroken dog and my dad3 telling me, “I [expletive] Rita Hayworth.” I passed that off as [expletive], and then 10 years after my dad died I saw a Hayworth biography in a bookstore and looked his name up in the index. It didn’t say he’d eh eh eh but it did say that he was her business manager between about 1948 and ’52.

David Marchese: Could any of your self-mythologizing stand to be deflated?

James Ellroy: The more I look at my own life, the more I realize that traumatic influences have played a part in it. I’m talking about my mother’s murder.4

David Marchese: Hasn’t your mother’s murder always been central?

James Ellroy: Yeah, it formed my mental curriculum. But there’s a particular aspect of my youth that has become distorted by repetition—like going to jail.5 It was not the big house. It was the jail of six-man cells and two stupid white guys, two stupid black guys and two stupid Mexican guys lying about their daring criminal exploits and their movie-star girlfriends. “Oh yeah? With Marilyn Monroe?” “Yeah, sure.” And also my breaking into houses6 and sniffing girls’ undergarments and stealing five-dollar bills. Technically it’s burglary, but it was craven. It was circumspect. It was very easy to do back then. People didn’t have answering machines. You rung up the phone, and if they didn’t answer they weren’t home. I did that 15, 16, 17 times over the course of two and a half years and got away with it.

David Marchese: You stopped around the time of the Manson family murders, right?

James Ellroy: Yes. That’s when people started having the security signs, “Patrolled by Bel Air Patrol.” So I quit doing it. I never stayed in the houses very long. Fifteen, 20 minutes. Maybe a half an hour. All together that was probably 10 hours of my life. But on a great many occasions I spent 12, 13 hours a day reading in public libraries. I wasn’t presenting information disingenuously, but looking back as an older, wiser person, I go, “I mostly just read a bunch of books.”

David Marchese: Are there any parallels between your state of mind when you were sneaking into people’s homes and your state of mind when inhabiting the life of a fictional character?

James Ellroy: Trespassing was about curiosity and yearning. It was for the girls at Hancock Park.7 Those girls live in me—Kathy, Julie, Peggy. I grew up a poor kid within a few blocks of this ritzy, WASP-y enclave. What I did required a certain concentration and was thrilling even though it was immoral. I was trying to sate my emotional hunger. For decades now, the only thing that has done that for me has been creating large-scale fictions set in the past.

David Marchese: Why do you pine for the past?

James Ellroy: There’s this old Stephen King quote. Someone asks Mr. King, “Why do you choose to write about such gruesome subjects?” He said, “Why do you assume that I have a choice?” Fate tapped me on the shoulder and said, “Hey, Ellroy. I got a job for you.”

David Marchese: My armchair-psychologist reading would be that you want to be back in the era in which your mother was still alive. And I have a hunch that your feelings about social probity and your conservatism are a reaction to the chaos of your adolescence.

James Ellroy: There’s a big element of truth to the latter. My feelings about probity are also about shame for my old disordered state and the crimes, albeit small, that I committed. As for my mother, Jean Hilliker, I’ve always marked historical events by whether she was alive for them. I’m always thinking about stuff like that.

David Marchese: In old interviews, you’ve described yourself as the kind of guy who spends his evenings brooding about the women in his life. Is that still the case?

James Ellroy: I brood like a dog. As far as my second ex-wife and once-again girlfriend, Helen Knode,8 and I go, monogamy was never the problem. It was cohabitation. So this is Helen’s idea—We have two pads. We’re in downtown Denver. I got a two-bedroom loft, and Helen has an identical one down the hall from me. I’ve got everything turned out exactly the way that I want it. Lots of pictures of bull terriers, pictures of my own book covers, the bust of Beethoven. I’ll sit at my desk and I’ll put my feet up and I’ll brood.

David Marchese: About what?

James Ellroy: About the new book, about this particular book tour. Mine is a big career, and people sometimes deny the solvency of the new books because they had a signature reading experience with a book way back. “The Black Dahlia,”9 that’ll be the only book for them. Or they conflate the movie “L.A. Confidential” with the novel “L.A. Confidential.”10

David Marchese: Are you only brooding on work?

James Ellroy: I’m very happy with Helen. I’m not brooding on Shirley Knight in “The Rain People,” which was a movie from 1969. Or Lois Nettleton on a couple episodes of “The Fugitive.”11

David Marchese: “The Fugitive” was such a weird show. There was always this implied sexual tension between Richard Kimble and whoever the lead actress was in a given episode, but nothing would ever happen.

James Ellroy: This is very, very interesting. “The Fugitive” exerted a deep pull on me. A romantic and sexual pull. Wherever Richard Kimble would go, the grooviest woman in the town — which somehow always looked like the San Fernando Valley — would gas onto him and they’d have their moment of truth and they may kiss a couple of times. But it was all unconsummated because he had to run from Lieutenant Gerard. The actresses on that show did a number on me. June Harding, Shirley Knight, Brenda Vaccaro, Diana van der Vlis, Suzanne Pleshette, Sandy Dennis. That’s the only time I’ve ever been obsessed with a TV show.

David Marchese: Aside from TV shows, what other products of the past do you miss?

James Ellroy: There was a stretch of Wilshire Boulevard in L.A. that had stores that sold wide arrays of perfectly fitting Shetland wool crew-neck sweaters, perfect saddle shoes, perfect tweed jackets and shawl-collar cashmere sweaters. You can’t find that stuff anymore. Nobody wants to dress that corny. You know, I also used to go [expletive] crazy buying women clothes. In ’07, I was on the loose in L.A. during the time of my divorce and I had a wingding with a woman. In the couple of months this wingding went on, I bought her $20,000 worth of clothes.

David Marchese: And then it ended?

James Ellroy: Yeah. She kept the clothes, which is O.K. Hey, I try.

David Marchese: I feel like maybe you romanticize women in a weird way. Where does that tendency come from?

James Ellroy: One day she was there, Jean Hilliker, and then one day she wasn’t. She died horribly. She’s been through a thousand metamorphoses with me. I finally realized that in the two memoirs I wrote that are very much about her that I didn’t get to the heart of her. It was because my gift is fiction. I’m not a journalist or a memoirist. Hence, Joan Conville12.

David Marchese: Trying to get to the heart of a person who died when you were 10 is like trying to catch smoke.

James Ellroy: Yeah, you can’t. I’ve overdramatized my mother. I’ve underdramatized her. Helen has told me a trillion times, “Leave your mother alone. Let her rest in peace.” I’ve honored her in fiction. I tried to get to the core of her in a dramatized fashion. I co-opted the exterior facts of her life. I don’t know if there’ll be a moment of peace with that.

David Marchese: When you say that your mother has been through a thousand metamorphoses, does that extend to your feelings about real-life as well as fictional women?

James Ellroy: I’m a sucker for a tall redhead. That’s for damn sure. I think that I’ve never gotten over sex.

David Marchese: What’s that mean?

James Ellroy: Just the whole thing. O.K., here’s a joke I first heard in the early ’60s. It’s a howler—“I want to find the guy who invented sex and ask him what he’s working on now.” Sex is a head scratcher. It remains prevalent. I was sitting with Andrew Wylie, my agent, in Columbus Circle a couple of days ago so he could smoke a cigar on his way back to the office. We were sitting there, talking a little, looking around a little, and I said, “There sure are a lot of healthy-looking young women in New York City today.” He said, “I don’t have to tell you, do I?”

David Marchese: In the past when journalists have asked you about your conservative politics, you sometimes give confrontational answers. Were those authentic reflections of your thinking or an expression of your urge to needle? I’m thinking about stuff you said about Obama.

James Ellroy: I don’t even remember what I said about Obama.

David Marchese: The word “hate” came up.

James Ellroy: I voted for him! But what did I say? That I hate him or something like that?13 I think it was a British journalist who I said that to. We were sitting in a hamburger joint in L.A., and he was pissing me off. He was hassling me about Obama, and I was like, what do you want me to say?

David Marchese: It does seem as if you’re often asked to justify your politics in ways that wouldn’t be expected of liberals. Why is your conservatism treated as something requiring explanation?

James Ellroy: Being conservative is considered by many people as a codified expression of—You’re not nice, you’re unenlightened, you’re not one of the gang, you’re not one of the humanists. It should be evident in “Perfidia”14 and “This Storm” that I despise totalitarianism. I write characters who are the good guys and who also occasionally drop the racial slur, the anti-homosexual remark, but with these characters racial animus is never a defining characteristic. It’s a casual attribute. I like the idea of race as anecdote. I live by anecdote. I live to the exclusion of epigram. Those who think that all people who would express racial animus do that because of a deep-seated hatred boiling within them don’t understand that at a certain time and place it was the common linguistic coin of the realm.

David Marchese: I understand that people have a tendency to define conservatism in narrow political ways, but what does it mean to you?

James Ellroy: I have always described myself as a Tory. Underneath my profane exterior, I’m very concerned with decorum, with probity, with morality, and I have a painfully developed conscience. I despise unconscionable acts, whoever is perpetrating them. Helen says that what I am more than anything else is a Protestant. That’s what it is.

David Marchese: Can you tell me what you meant when you said you live by anecdote and to the exclusion of epigram? Am I wrong in thinking that anecdotes and epigrams aren’t terribly dissimilar?

James Ellroy: We were talking about race. In my books, I deploy racial anecdote, unmediated by any kind of preaching, any kind of philosophy. For example, two months before the first Watts riot, I had adventures in South Central Los Angeles, repossessing cars, going around with an unscrupulous fellow, looking for street hookers. I had heard a rumor that if you want to get a girl, you go to Cooper Do-nuts on Western Avenue and Adams Boulevard. You talk to one of the counter guys there and he’ll always know somebody who will drive you around. Well, I did this. I was 17. 1965. The girls had themselves a couple of white tricks, that’s for damn sure. We had all kinds of adventures, driving around to one pad after another and shooting the [expletive] with all these black folk. It was a rollicking good time. So, I live in anecdotes like that. I see something, it makes human sense to me, and I’m on it like a pit bull.

David Marchese: Do you feel any internal friction between your conservatism and, for example, your obvious relish in the content of the anecdote you just described?

James Ellroy: There’s the old F. Scott Fitzgerald line.

David Marchese: About how the test of first-rate intelligence is someone who can hold two opposing ideas in his mind?

James Ellroy: Absolutely. It’s an old saw, and that’s me. Mine is a Christian ideal that expresses of the presence of God and the presence of sin. It’s that kind of duality. It’s banal in my case, and in my expression, in my every way of life. But you can only do the do-right so much before you’re going to have some reaction against it.

David Marchese: Critics have called your books nihilistic. But to my mind it’d be more accurate to argue that the characters in your books care too much. Does that make sense?

James Ellroy: You’re absolutely right, and nihilism is a maddening criticism to hear. Optimism is best expressed in “This Storm” by the two words “people change.” They do. Elmer Jackson enters “This Storm” as a good-natured, horny rube who has the common good sense to hate the Klan, because of their high jinks in his North Carolina hometown. He’s chastened by the events of the book, and he changes. The character of Hideo Ashida changes. Dudley Smith changes. William H. Parker changes. If people as hard-core and as driven by the animus of the times as these folks can change, that’s optimistic.

David Marchese: Reading “This Storm,” which is so much about American Naziism and racial paranoia, it’s hard not to think of the resonances between the time in which the book is set, 1942, and today. Were you thinking about those resonances as you were writing?

James Ellroy: People have asked, “Isn’t this novel with all the whacked-out right-wingers and left-wingers and anti-Semites and nativists and race hucksters really about America today?” I said, “Nah. It’s about America in 1942.” Nothing stands in for anything else. If I wanted to write a novel about America today I would damn well do it. I don’t think much about what’s happening today.

David Marchese: Do you read anything contemporary? Or is it mostly old crime stories?

James Ellroy: I’ve read Daniel Silva15 because a colleague at Knopf said, “You might like this guy.” And that’s that. I’ve read through a lot of anthologies of Library of America; American noir of the ’30s, ’40s, and ’50s and American noir written by women, the two volumes edited by Sarah Weinman. I’ve been going at that like a pit bull.

David Marchese: Speaking of dogs, tell me about your current bull terrier.16

James Ellroy: Helen and I have an imaginary bull terrier named Ingrid. We have a great deal of fun anthropomorphizing bull terriers. Ingrid is a reddish-brown and white bull terrier and also a psychopathic cop who’s immortal. Her first enforcement gig was with the pharoahs when they were whipping the Israelis into slavery. Ingrid’s also very badly alcoholic.

David Marchese: That’s too bad.

James Ellroy: Yeah, but she’s immortal. Wherever Helen and I live, Ingrid joins the Police Department and goes on the robbery squad. Ingrid does what a great many people would like to do. She phone-books suspects and shoots ’em in the back. The anthropomorphizing is all in good humor. There’s no explicitness. Ingrid’s idea of a man is the sodden, overweight, alcoholic police officers she’s seen in cop movies. Her favorite film noir actor is pudgy and corrupt Edmond O’Brien.17 We never get into the mechanics of a human man and a dog doing it or anything like that because Helen and I are very wholesome at our cores. I love dogs insanely. Though I can’t tell you how many times I’ve been bitten.

[ncityofangels]

Shoot Out (Mafia!AU, Jooheon x fem!Reader) pt. 1

a/n - Hi all! Before I begin I just wanted to say this is my first fic on this site so hopefully it doesn’t suck too bad. My friend @kmusictriggers requested this scenario (cuz y’all are dry and don’t request anything) but this is going to be a series so this is NOT THE END. I will update, hopefully frequently, but I want to gauge the reaction first so here it is! Part 1, ayeeee

--> Part 2

Summary - You meet Jooheon on a whim during a traumatic accident in your life. You don’t know what he does for a living, but you know he’s well off. As things progress you start to doubt where all the money comes from. One night you walk in on him handling mob business and get pulled into a life of crime and treachery. Things are good for a while, you being the Bonnie to his Clyde, but soon you start to question how far would you go for the one you love?

Word Count - 1.2k

Genre - some fluff, mostly angst towards the later chapters, maybe a sprinkle of smut who knows ;)

Warnings - maybe some “vulgar” language to some of y’all idk.

“Hey, Y/N! Before you leave, I was wondering if you were able to stay a few more hours to help review this advertisement we’ve been working on? You’ll get overtime.” your boss caught you right as you were getting on the elevator. You sighed. You knew that if you declined then you might as well consider yourself isolated from all other major promotions for the station. You worked at KBS and any chance you had to offer your services in exchange for a promotion was a good opportunity. “Yeah sure, I don’t have anything I need to do tonight anyway” you replied, hoping he didn’t sense the irritation in your voice. 

After a couple hours of pouring your ideas and opinions into this toothpaste commercial the station was running, you were finally able to pack your stuff and leave the building. “Thank god it’s only 10, I might have time to actually eat dinner before I have to go to bed” you whispered to yourself. You had put yourself on a strict regimen of falling asleep by 12 so you would be able to get up bright and early to prepare for another day of work.

The truth is, you loved your job at KBS, you were a prominent editor in the company and pretty much had free reign over what was put out on the channel. The hours were great, and so was the pay, but a lot of times you’d end up having your free time stolen away just to edit one more commercial or review one more thing. It was a little inconvenient but I guess that was life right?

As you walked home, you put in your earbuds, blasting some underground hip hop you had discovered recently. You passed closed supermarkets, little hole-in-the-wall restaurants, and other small businesses. You always thought it was interesting how you could discover something completely new every time you walked the streets of Seoul. This was one of the reasons you had always wanted a career in broadcasting. You wanted to give a voice to the owners of tucked away places. Sometimes those were the best stories.

You were almost entering your neighborhood when you heard a raspy voice call out from behind you. “Hey lady! Come over here!” You barely heard the voice but it was loud enough to interrupt your thoughts. You quickly turned around trying to identify where the voice was coming from. “Over here!” you heard. In an alley to your left you noticed a man. He was beyond a little raggedy and looked desperate. “Do you have any money you could spare?” he replied. You were always a little nervous around people like him. It was a horrible thing to think but you couldn’t help how you felt. Slowly approaching him, you reached in your purse. You remembered you put $5 in there earlier to buy a coffee but of course never got around to it because of the overtime you were forced to work. “This is all I have on me at the moment. I wish I could give you more but I don’t have anymore cash.” You answered him, stretching out your arm to hand him the dollar bills. He took it out of your hand. “Thank you so much miss!” he replied. You smiled to him and went on your way, feeling good about what you just did. You resumed your music, until you heard his voice again, this time a lot closer. You could feel his dry breath on your neck. “I know you have more you little slut.” You were able to slightly turn towards him to shove him away, but were interrupted by a sharp knife piercing the side of your stomach. You fell to the ground in shock. He yanked your small purse out of your hand and started running in the opposite direction. What the hell just happened? All you could think about was the steady leak of blood coming from the wound. Was this really how it was going to end? You lying on the pavement, slowly draining yourself of blood until you drifted into a deep sleep? Before your eyes closed, you heard a voice coming from nearby. You only heard bits and pieces but managed to gather “Come on…...help…..have to take her…..Kihyun”. What a sweet voice you thought. Every syllable dripped from their mouth like honey. At this point you were delirious, any and everything randomly popping into your brain. Eventually you fell into a sweet unconsciousness, but not before you felt your body being lifted from the cold asphalt.

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

Jooheon POV

“Pay up Seungcheol. I’ve tried being patient with you, but obviously you aren’t taking my graciousness seriously” Jooheon said to his tenant. “I..I’m.. sorry boss, I know I’m three months behind, I...I….just need more time. My daughter you see is only an infant and we still have to buy formula.” Seungcheol pleaded with his superior but he knew it was a lost cause. Jooheon was relentless whenever payment was owed. Especially if he made a personal visit. “I’ll give you a week to pay your dues, but if you haven’t paid by then then you’re going to have a lot more to worry about than buying your kid formula.” Jooheon replied. “Thank you! Thank you so much boss. I’ll get everything in order.” Seungcheol replied, bowing to his superior as he left the store. “If we hadn’t had to make more runs I would’ve had you torture him on the spot.” Jooheon said to Shownu as they walked down the street to their next stop. “Okay boss. Are you sure you just don’t have a soft spot for people in despair?” Shownu replied, acting extra over-the-top, just to irritate his superior. “Yeah, yeah, don’t press me or I’ll have you tortured too” he responded to his employee. They walked down the road in silence until they heard a muted scream coming from ahead. “Did you hear that, boss?” Shownu asked curiously. They stopped in the middle of the street, anticipating more sound but heard nothing. “Probably just someone getting nailed in an alley somewhere. None of our business. Let’s go, we have more stops to make.” Jooheon replied, as he resumed walking towards his next tenants store. “Wait, boss, what is that?” Shownu continued, referring to the still body laying in the boulevard. The next thing they saw was a disheveled old man running towards them tightly carrying a small beige purse and a bloody knife. “Get out of the way or I’ll kill you too!” the man yelled at the pair. Finally realizing what had happened, Jooheon yelled “Shownu go catch that homeless man, we have to teach him how to properly treat a lady” As soon as the words left Jooheon’s mouth, his bodyguard sprinted to catch the man. It didn’t take long as the older man was in horrible shape and wasn’t healthy enough to properly escape the clutches of a mafioso. “Got him boss” Shownu exclaimed, trying to project his voice far enough for his employer to hear. It didn’t take long for Jooheon to reply. “Good. now come here and help me, she’s losing a lot of blood. We have to take her to Kihyun.”

[timelordthirteen]

Killing Time 18/?

Detective Weaver/Belle French, Explicit

Summary: A Woven Beauty Law & Order-ish AU. Written for Writer’s Month 2019.

Chapter Summary: A little time apart, brings clarity.

Notes: Warning in this chapter for more talk of the miscarriage. I'm surprised at the low levels of hate I got on that last chapter. I thought there might be a bit more venom, but I had also hoped it was obvious that Weaver wouldn't be leaving for long. I hope this soothes all the wounds as we set up our pair for the homestretch and some surprising revelations.

Warnings: Miscarriage reference and discussion. Please see AO3 for complete warnings and tags.

[AO3]  Previous: [1] [2] [3] [4] [5] [6] [7] [8] [9] [10] [11] [12] [13] [14] [15] [16] [17]

By the time the elevator reached the ground floor, Weaver knew he had fucked up.

By the time he stepped out into the cool fall air and lightly falling rain, he also knew he deserved every one of Belle’s cutting remarks. In the moment it had been hard to stop the same old things from happening, to keep from pushing and pushing until they both said things they’d regret. Of course he���d stormed out of his own apartment like a jackass, and even though he wanted to go back up immediately, he needed to clear his head and figure out what to say before he did.

He flipped up the collar of his jacket and shoved his hands in the pockets, heading north towards the convenience store that was two blocks away. It was a walk he made often. When his mind couldn’t let go of a case, he would make his way down to the store, a short list of grocery items in his hand; milk, bread, or the chocolate chip cookies he’d become a little too partial to. The distance there and back was long enough to unwind his brain and either let him see the connections he was missing, or helped him to relax and let it go until tomorrow.

Sighing, he waited at the corner, watching the traffic pass, the tires squelching against the wet asphalt. He hoped Belle was all right. That was truly his greatest worry, that his leaving wouldn’t just upset her, but that it might send her into some kind of fit, like what she’d had when they returned to her apartment. He didn’t know what went on in her nightmares or in the moments where she would stare off into space, only to startled herself back to reality.

She didn’t think he noticed as much as he did, so he chose not to interrogate her, the same as he’d done after the miscarriage. He realized now, entirely too late, that method had probably made things worse. What had happened recently wasn’t healthy for either of them and was likely making it all worse. She didn’t love him. He’d resigned himself to that fact, in spite of the attraction that still simmered between them.

A sign glowed up ahead, MINI MART in large red letters cutting into the darkness, and the rain started falling faster. Weaver pushed inside the store, and headed for the counter.

“Evening, Detective.”

The man behind the counter smiled at him, and Weaver gave him a short nod. “Pack of Parliaments, please, Sam.”

Sam’s eyebrows lifted as he reached up to retrieve a pack from the slots above him. He set it down and then slid it forward across the counter before stepping to the side to ring up the purchase.

Weaver tossed a cheap Bic lighter on the counter as well, and then pulled out his wallet. The math had been familiar once upon a time, the cost of a pack of cigarettes and a lighter at your average convenience store or gas station.

“8.50,” Sam said, waiting as a ten dollar bill was laid down. He dropped the change in Weaver’s hand, and frowned as he walked out the door.

Outside, the rain was more insistent. Weaver peeled the plastic off the outside of the pack and dropped it in the trash can on the corner. He stared at the rows of cigarettes in the slim, white box, and exhaled. It had been over ten years since he’d quit smoking, replacing the periodic smoke break with scotch at the end of the day, but old habits were too easy to fall back into lately.

He pulled one out, stuffing the rest of the pack deep in his pocket, and set it between his lips. The lighters were even cheaper and more finicky than he remembered, and that combined with the fat, steady drops hitting him, made it take several flicks before the flame sprang up. He could feel the heat of it on his thumb, almost searing with how close it was. The wind made it wobble, and then abruptly snuffed it out, and he sighed. Perhaps it was a sign.

“Hey, buddy, you got one of those for a man who served his country and then got the shaft?”

Weaver turned, frowning, and saw a man in a long green coat, military style, sitting on a bench. The jacket was not unlike the one he’d picked up at the surplus store ages ago. The man looked mildly disheveled and dirty, like he’d slept in his clothes one too many nights, and Weaver assumed he probably had, likely on that very bench or in one of the many alleyways. His face was thin, and his beard and hair ragged. The city had done a lot recently to try to help the homeless population, but it was clearly not enough.

“Sure,” Weaver said, giving the man a crooked smile. “Take the whole fucking pack, mate.”

He tossed the cigarettes at the man, who caught it one handed, followed swiftly by the lighter.

“You for real?” The man looked at his hands and then up at Weaver.

Weaver shrugged. “Yeah. I quit too long ago to start up again.”

The man nodded and lit up, sending a curling stream of smoke into the wet air. “I hear ya, but a man’s gotta have something to get him through his troubles, right? Good brew, good smoke, or a good woman.”

Weaver looked away, and then reach inside his coat to pull out one of his contact cards. “Hey, you know the diner over on 15th? Granny’s?”

The man eyed the card as he held it out. “Yeah?”

“Take this and give it to the waitress with the red streak in her hair. She’ll make sure you get a good meal.”

The man took his card carefully, holding it up as he took another puff of the cigarette. “Detective Weaver.” He looked up and shoved the card in his breast pocket. “I appreciate that, but as you can see I am a bit down on my luck at the moment. Left my wallet on the bus.”

Weaver let out a short laugh. “I know that feeling.” He pulled out his wallet again and took out his last bill, handing it to the man. “The meal’s on the house with my card, but there’s a place just down from the diner, across Lake Street. It’s not great, but this’ll get you a room for a few hours, get you out of the rain. Take care of yourself.”

He turned to leave as the man blinked at him, calling out, “Thanks, Detective.”

Weaver raise his hand, waving the man off as he stalked back down the street. He was starting to feel damp, and there was a tightness in his chest again. Fucking good deeds. He’d never done much of that before Belle. He wouldn’t have chased the man off, but he wouldn’t have given him the time of day either.

The walk back to his building was faster than the walk to the mini mart, but not just because of the increasing rain. He hadn’t really decided anything except that he wanted to be home, with Belle, whatever that was for now. He’d have to apologize, but she wasn’t wrong. His father’s influence plagued him even now, decades after leaving Glasgow and a grave behind. He wiped a rough hand over his face, and shook his head. She was right. As soon as things had become difficult, he looked for the corner to cut. It was how he’d come close to nearly drowning a man in a warehouse, and how he’d walked away from the best thing in his life.

The miscarriage hadn’t been the start of anything, only the culmination of the pile of fuck ups that his life had always been. The worst was that Belle was still carrying it with her, even almost three years later. The circumstances of it hadn’t helped, and overall it had clearly been more traumatic that he’d ever understood. It triggered the end of their marriage, and he was sure that had only contributed to her dwelling on the event.

All because they’d both been too afraid to talk about what they were thinking and feeling.

Shaking his head again, he punched in the code for the outside door and yanked it open as it buzzed.

Bell’s tears dried on her cheeks as she lay curled up on the sofa.

Eventually, she made herself get up and go to the bathroom where she stripped off her clothes and stood in the hot spray of the shower. The steam curled up around her as she drew her finger down the glass, clearing it momentarily and watching as it fogged over again. She could still see the line, the smudge of her skin left behind on the glass, just as she could still see Jack’s blood in her kitchen when she closed her eyes.

Turning, she tipped her face up into the water, letting it run over her head and soothe the steady ache in her temples. Surprisingly, she wasn’t worried about where Ian had gone. He often went for walks when a case was bothering him. Sometimes she’d go along, the two of them strolling quietly arm in arm for a few blocks, listening to the city around them, before turning and heading back home.

This was still his apartment, and it was unlikely that he’d stay away all night. After he returned, she needed to apologize, and it didn’t matter how late that was. She doubted she’d sleep much without him around anyway. Bringing up his father had been a low blow, something she’d never ever done before, not even during their worst fights. Everything she’d heard of the man was despicable, and to throw that in Weaver’s face, especially when she suspected he was just as vulnerable as she, was unfair.

She scrubbed her face and washed her hair before turning around to let the water beat on her neck and back. Her head was still pounding, but that always happened after she was upset, and it was nothing that a little aspirin wouldn’t cure.

Her mind drifted back to the moment in the kitchen a couple of weeks ago. Ian had said he loved her, and she’d been so ready to say it back, as soon as she caught her breath, when Rogers called. Since then she’d been holding it in, thinking that somehow it would be better if he went on thinking she didn’t feel the same, that it would make it easier to go back to their separate lives when all this was over.

She wasn’t sure if it was a good idea for them to be together again. Despite their best intentions, things between them only ever seemed to get worse. If they tried again only to fall apart once more, she wasn’t sure she could come back from that, not after - everything.

More and more she had been thinking it might be a good idea to talk to someone about what had happened to her, both the attack and the miscarriage. She didn’t have perspective on any of it, and how could she when they were things that happened to her? The logical part of her brain said to stop dwelling on it, to let it go, but that was obviously easier said than done. She’d tried, so many times, and at one point she was convinced she’d finally moved beyond it, only to have the stupidest thing bring it back.

Maybe it was the fact that she blamed the miscarriage for ruining her marriage, and as a by product, herself. Again, logic insisted that was silly. Yet here she was, standing in the water as it slowly turned cold.

She shivered and reached for the faucet.

Belle was back on the sofa, a movie she’d seen at least ten times playing on the TV, in her soft flannel pajama pants and a tank top, when Weaver came home. She heard the click of the lock before the door slid open, and twisted in her seat.

Weaver seemed almost surprised to see her, but he gave her a flat smile and a shrug.

She pushed herself up, goosebumps rising up on her bare arms. “I'm sorry.” She waited until he turned back to her, having draped his leather jacket over one of the bar stools. “I - I didn't mean it,” she continued. “I swear, Ian, I - I didn’t.”

He shook his head and took a step forward. “No, you did. And you were right.”

“No,” she insisted. “I'm not.” He frowned slightly, and she noticed his hair looked slightly damp from the rain. “Where did you go?”

“Down the block to the corner store,” he said, running a hand through his hair. “I bought a pack of Parliaments, stepped outside, realized I hadn't smoked in a fucking decade, and I really didn't want to start up again.” She seemed startled by that, and he sighed. “So I gave the pack, one of my cards, and my last twenty to a homeless Vet, and sent him to Granny’s.”

Belle’s head tilted. “Ruby still work there?”

“Yeah,” he said, taking another cautious step forward. She hadn’t moved from her spot by the sofa, though she had obviously showered and changed. Perhaps she hadn’t felt as bad about his leaving as he’d feared, which only solidified her lack of feeling for him in his mind.

“I told him to give my card to the woman with a red streak in her hair and she'd make sure he ate well.” He gave her a half smile and shrugged.

“See?” She smiled back at him even as tears sprang to her eyes. “You are better than your father. You're a good man, Ian.”

He looked down at his boots. “Sometimes.”

“No.” Her strong voice, made him look up. “All the time. You're not - “

He shook his head again. “No, I am. A lot more than I ever wanted to admit. Shit gets hard and I...”

He sighed and swallowed.

“Ian...”

“You pushed me away,” he managed, somehow finding his voice even though his throat felt dry and tight. “After...”

She nodded, her lips pressed tight as her arms folded around her torso. “I know.”

“I didn't know what to do.” He let his right arm rise and fall, palm slapping against his thigh. “Or what you wanted me to do.”

“Why?” Belle sniffed loudly and wiped at her eyes. Her lip wobbled and she touched her fingertips to it, fighting to hold back the anguished noise on the back of her tongue. “Why did you let me? Why didn't you fight for us?”

He exhaled heavily, his eyes closing for a moment. “I know how to fight for what I want when it's work,” he admitted, the realization like a lead weight in his gut. “When it's a case, or a warrant, or a theory. But not - not when what I want is you.”

She came closer, drawn in by the raw emotion in his voice, until only the width of the sofa separated them. Her throat bobbed as she swallowed. “I didn't know what to do either. I knew something was wrong. I knew and I should have...”

Her body swayed, and Weaver moved quickly, catching her by her arms so she wouldn’t fall to the floor. Her hands came up, but she didn’t fight him, just pressed her hands to his chest, her eyes fixed on the sliver of exposed skin where his shirt opened at the neck.

“I should have...” She cut off her own words with a ragged sob and curled her hands into fists.

“Belle, no,” he said, trying to pull her to him. “No, please, sweetheart. Come on, let's sit. Let's just calm down.”

She reeled and pushed hard against him, trying to shove him away, but there wasn't enough strength left in her arms.

“I don't want to calm down!” One hand pulled back and came down on his chest in a feeble thump. “I want to be angry! I want to scream!”

Her body shook again and her eyes squeezed shut as she let out the most tortured noise he’d ever heard. His heart nearly broke at the sound of it, and he let her fall against him, his arms coming up around her to hold her tight as she buried her face and yelled into his shirt.

“You be angry then,” he said, squeezing her gently. Her breath was hot through the fabric, and he could feel the faint wetness of her tears, almost the same as the rain outside. “Be whatever you need to be.”

Belle’s face turned to the side and one hand opened against him, her palm pressed over his heart where it was pounding in his chest. “You weren't there...”

“I know.” He took a shaky breath and closed his eyes, resting his cheek on top of her head. He wasn't there when she needed him, and it would be his greatest regret. “I'm so sorry, Belle. You're right, I should have been there.”

After a minute, he guided her towards the sofa, and they sat down, side by side. His arm stayed around her shoulders, and she twisted sideways to curl against him. She seemed so small and fragile to him, so diminished from her usual fiery self.

"We were so happy," she said. "And then - then everything fell apart, and I couldn't stop it. It was like you put a wall up between us. I thought maybe you hated me."

Weaver pulled back as she sniffled into his shirt. "What? No. Why?"

She glanced up briefly. "Because of the miscarriage?"

His eyes went wide. "No! No, never, Belle, never. I could never ever be mad at you for that, okay?"

She breathed out and in, relief flooding her as she let his words sink in. "I didn't know that then. I didn't know what else had changed other than that."

He sighed and pulled her close, rubbing his hand up and down her back in what he hoped was a soothing motion. It felt good to be letting out the insecurities and uncertainties he'd been mulling over in his head for years.

"I thought you wanted space. I thought you'd tell me what you needed, what you wanted me to do. I didn't know how to handle any of it. It was like - like I'd lost some part of you too."

Her head moved, shaking no against him. "I didn't want space. But I didn't understand how it might feel for you."

She closed her eyes and relaxed into the steady stroke of his palm. It had never dawned on her that he felt the loss of their baby as keenly as she did. It wasn't fair to assume he could have just moved on as well.

"I felt like it just happened to me. I didn't think..."

"We both didn't." He pressed a kiss to the top of her head, and breathed in the light scent of her shampoo. "It was easier to focus on work, on things I could control. I thought it would all pass and then we'd be fine."

"Like it never happened?"

"No, not like that." His hand moved around to her side and hitched her closer, until she was practically sitting across his lap. She came willingly, her face pushing into the warm crease of his neck.

"I didn't want to forget that it happened. I just...I didn't want to see you hurting anymore," he said. "I thought maybe me being around was making it worse. We kept fighting over stupid shit."

She looked up at him with puffy, red rimmed eyes. "That was mostly my fault."

"Stop. Okay?" His gaze and voice were soft. "Just...nothing is anyone's fault anymore."

"It was," she insisted. "And I didn't realize that it would make you think I didn't want you around. I needed you and I pushed you away..."

"I should have asked why you left, but I just..." He exhaled and tried not to think of his father. "I gave up. I don't believe you can make anyone stay in a relationship, I learned that the hard way with Milah."

"Yeah."

The mention of his ex-wife stung. His shit of a father and his awful ex; how many more terrible memories could she dredge up and throw in his face?

"I wanted you to be happy. I thought if being rid of me did that, then okay, I would give you that, and I wouldn't fight it."

She shifted, freeing her arms enough to wrap one around him and lay the other over his shoulder. She needed to hold him as much as she needed to be held. She needed him to know that it was okay, that she didn't blame him either.

"God, I fucked everything up."

His lips twitched. "I think I contributed a solid sixty percent."

She pulled back just enough to give him a look. "So this is a group project now?"

"Explains why everyone is miserable."

Unable to help herself, she let out a snort into his chest, and bit her lip as she smiled up at him. "It's not all bad."

"No?" His look was almost incredulous. "We have six dead bodies, two serial murderers, and zero actionable leads."

"I meant with us," she clarified. Her lips quirked slightly at him. "But thanks for the depressing recap, Detective Maudlin."

He rolled his eyes and muttered a sorry, grateful for the break in the tension. “Do you feel any better?"

"Yeah," she admitted, sliding off of his lap and pushing to her feet. "Sorry, I guess I had kinda saved all that up."

Both of his eyebrows lifted as he stood. "Apparently..."

She gave him a look and shook her head, more at herself than anything. "I'm sorry I hit you. Before."

"Don't worry about it." He smiled crookedly and rubbed at the middle of his chest. "I'm tougher than I look." Belle smiled and looked away, and he reached for her, resting his hand on her shoulder. “Do you...want to talk about anything else?”

Belle sighed and raised her hand, pulling his hand off her shoulder as she turned. “No. I just - really want to go to bed.”

Her hand slipped into his, and he rubbed his thumb over her knuckles as he exhaled. Another night sharing a bed with Belle probably wouldn’t kill him. “Okay.”

“And, um...” She took a breath and squeezed his hand. “I love you.” Weaver blinked at her, and she shrugged, giving him a soft, half smile. “I never stopped, Ian. I’m sorry I didn’t say it sooner.”

He felt the air rush out of him as her hand moved up his chest. She looked tired and worn out, but her red tinged eyes were still the most beautiful he’d ever seen. He felt all the tension draining out of him, all the shit from the last two years and the last few months fading to the back of his mind.

“I love you too,” he managed as she pushed up on her toes to kiss him.

It was soft, almost startlingly so given how rough and passionate their most recent encounters had been. She caught his bottom lip, briefly, and when she made to pull away his hand came up to cradle the back of her head and draw her back to him. Her mouth opened, her tongue brushing lightly over his. It was teasing or wanton, but more familiar and quiet, like the kisses they'd often shared in the late hours before they both fell asleep.

She swayed a bit as she broke the kiss, but he held her firmly, the corner of his mouth curved.

“I don't...I don't know where we go from here,” she said, her fingers playing with the collar of his shirt. Her mind felt dizzy and sleepy, her body almost languid now that she'd let out so much of what she'd been holding inside.

He sighed and wrapped his arms around her, pulling her into a hug. “Me either, to be honest.” She yawned against him, and he dropped a kiss to the top of her head. “How about we start with sleep, breakfast at Granny's, and take it from there?”

Belle tilted her head up and smiled. "That sounds like the best idea you've ever had."

It was a matter of minutes for Weaver to strip off his clothes, leaving himself in just his boxers. The rain had tapered off, but the lingering chill sneaking in through the drafty corners made Belle shiver. She drew back the covers and climbed into bed, settling herself on her usual side, waiting. A moment later, he slipped in next to her, sighing as she turned over and pressed against his side.

There was something achingly familiar about what they were doing, but instead of a sinking feeling of dread and a slight pain in his chest, there was a calming peace and a pair of cold feet on his leg. Her hair tickled his chin, and he smiled, closing his eyes.

[manicbeans]

Sure Bell, Let’s Talk

Yesterday I wrote an article about Bell Let’s Talk day for my job and it was well received so I wanted to share it here (but I’m pasting the article below the cut instead of adding a link because I don’t want folks to find my job)

In 2005, the vacation company Sky Travel announced via press release that the third Monday in January is The Most Depressing Day of the Year (or Blue Monday). This was calculated by a scientific formula which measures factors including weather, number of broken New Year’s resolutions, monthly salary, and amount of financial debt. The proposed solution, says Sky Travel, is to increase your debt by leaving the country. The Geographical Cure is romantic but also falls into the symptomatology of the DSM. In the words of Lana Del Rey,

“I moved to California but it’s just a state of mind, it turns out everywhere you go you take yourself, that’s not a lie.”

This concept and formula has since been co-opted to sell everything from alcohol to office supplies. This year, Blue Monday fell on January 20th. By then, Bell’s annual Let’s Talk campaign was well underway.

Since 2010, the Canadian telecommunications giant Bell has spearheaded an annual initiative to “begin a new conversation about Canada’s mental health”. This includes a “tool-kit” with a conversation guide and a powerpoint to help you talk to your friends and family about their mental well-being, as well as resources for teachers to pass on to students. One page sends you to a website which offers a list of “crisis centres across canada”, but when I looked, there were no resources offered in Montreal (where Bell is centered), and one of the first listings took me to the website of a funeral home in Surrey.

The Let’s Talk campaign culminates with 24 hours where Bell will donate 5 cents every time users send a text, make a phone call, or use social media. While this contributes to projects in desperate need of funding, it’s tough not to be cynical when looking at Bell’s annual 5.5 billion dollar profit. Bell exists to make money, and the more times we say their name the more money they make. The campaign also came under fire in 2017 when an employee of a Bell media company was fired after requesting time off for mental health reasons. CBC reached out to Bell for a statement during their coverage of the incident but Bell didn’t want to talk about that.

Other criticism of the Let’s Talk campaign centers around the over-simplification of mental health issues, and the pressure on individual experiences and actions instead of systemic discussion. Bell ads on social media encourage gestures like supporting a coworker over coffee, but what if your coworker needs support because they’re not being paid a livable wage, or they’re dealing with workplace harassment? Teachers are offered lesson plans or workshop slides to start conversations with students about “mental illness”, but not how to connect it to larger issues like sexual violence, addiction, or eco-grief. As the effects of climate change and biodiversity loss become more obvious and the conversations turn darker and more urgent, more people around the world are attributing symptoms of anxiety, depression, and Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder to concerns about the future of the planet, and having to deal with the aftermath of increasingly common catastrophes like the ongoing fires in Australia. Mental health is an environmental, social, and economic issue, and leading workshops on meditation in the face of these kinds of challenges feels like cleaning up a beach to prepare for a tsunami.

University students are a specifically vulnerable population when it comes to mental health issues, due to factors ranging from academic and financial pressure to isolation and distance from friends and family. Illnesses like schizophrenia and bipolar disorder also most commonly emerge in your late teens or early twenties, and can be triggered or worsened by drug and alcohol use. Despite long-standing statistics that demonstrate the mental health crises on most university campuses, support is difficult to find. Often the waitlist to see a psychiatrist or counsellor is months long, and the follow-up can be sporadic and unreliable. Grassroots groups offer free peer-support services, but these groups are always fighting for their existence in the same capitalist hell-scape that leads students to their door.

On their website, Bell insists that if this is a crisis you should go to a hospital or call 911. My friends and I look at each other and solemnly promise never to call 911. Police are usually the first to respond to a mental health call, and those interactions can be traumatic at best and fatal at worst. The US-based Treatment Advocacy Center reports that “people with untreated mental illness are 16 times more likely to be killed during a police encounter than other civilians”, and this risk is always higher for people of colour.

What’s the answer, then? The sun sets before 5pm, Australia is still on fire, when François Legault does something racist it’s not even news anymore. I skip a party to work on a paper about wealth inequality and then fall asleep before 10. My roommate comes home from the late shift and we don’t see each other for days. We leave words of encouragement on sticky-notes in the kitchen. I get an email about my school’s next Mental Health Fair and think about whispering all my fears into the soft ear of a Cocker Spaniel. He can’t do anything about it either.

I guess one of the things that irks me is that Bell is making money off of communication. When they say “let’s talk”, they mean “use our products”. Pay us so you can connect with your home. Pay us so you can be there for your friends. They’ve turned connection into a commodity when it’s vital for human survival. Connection and communication are free and radical, and they’re all we’ve got. Let’s talk about potlucks, eco-grief circles, singing together. Support your coworkers by starting a union. Support your friends by feeding each other and telling stories. Bell wants to “begin a new conversation”, I want to continue the one that’s been happening for thousands of years, where a community supports each other and makes sure no one gets left behind. As Lana Del Rey would say, “Fuck it. I love you.”

[maknaesdancersrappers]

on the sixth day of kinkmas, my lover did to me:

[ g a g s ]

>>DOYOUNG

>>warning/s: blindfold, light bondage, quick fellatio, cheating, dirty talking, vulgar language, uhh implied creampie??? and breeding kink bc idk its growing on me im probably having existential crisis

a/n: rj gets carried away pt 2 ft doyoung

-

Kim Doyoung was a powerful man; the CEO of his own company at the age of 26, had multi-million franchises across the globe. He had everything; a mansion on an acre land he owned, vacation houses in each province of the country, the latest models of sportscars parked in his garage, a beautiful wife of 5 years—you would include “loving,” but that was only used for publicity.

When Doyoung had married his wife, he had no say in the matter. It was pre-arranged by their families, a contract made by their grandfathers. He didn’t care at first, it’s not like he was in a former relationship or even wanted one. For the first few months after their wedding, they did try to work things out; actually try to fall in love with one another, but in the end, as he had come to find out, she was only in it for the sake of making her family happy.

They had sex, plenty of it. All vanilla and boring—Doyoung wanted more, but she wouldn’t even let him hold her wrists down for a few goddamn seconds. The sex stopped when he found out about her lover: a high school sweetheart she was forced to leave because she had to marry him. And since that day, they’ve established that their relationship was purely just a piece of paper, that their status of husband and wife is nothing but a title to the public and their families.

You only came to the picture when Doyoung had made a surprise visit to one of his hotels in Busan. He parked his matte black Audi s8 beside a white Jeep Wrangler.

He steps out of his car to stretch his limbs and hears squeaking from behind him. As he turns, he sees you through the rolled down window of the Jeep; panting and sweaty, hair disheveled.

It doesn’t take long for him to realize you were riding someone—and from the look of disdain and annoyance on your face, it wasn’t going to knock your socks off. You notice him and he doesn’t move a muscle, unashamed of being caught watching you. You didn’t even care that he had seen you because the man beneath you was coming—quite loudly and finished with a smile on his face and a scowl on yours.

When you look back up to the man that had been watching you, he was gone. You almost felt embarrassed, only because he had to watch such a pathetic excuse for sex.

“You didn’t have to walk me to the elevator.” You quipped, clicking your heels against the polished floors.

“If I didn’t have to go to this emergency meeting, I’d walk you all the way up to your room.”

You spare him a sarcastic smile, “If it really was an emergency, you would have just dropped me off.” You turn the corner to where the elevators were and found the man from earlier. He has his hands in his pockets and gaze to the floor.

“Can I see you later tonight?”

“Nope.” You snapped, “Beauty rest for the wedding.”

The elevator doors open after a ‘ding’ and you briskly walk inside after the man.

“How about after—”

“I’m driving back to Seoul next morning. I’d rather not.” You swipe your keycard on the sensor and press your floor number.

The man you were with frowns, “Oh, well, then I guess I’ll see you at the wedding.”

You forced a smile at him before the elevator doors close and once they do, you groan, rolling your eyes until they land to the male who had witnessed everything. “Sorry you just had to watch the worst free live porn ever.”

He smirks, shrugging “I can’t say I’ve seen worse. I was wondering why a Seoul city girl like you would be with a Busan boy like him, he must be your partner for this wedding you’ve mentioned.”

“Oh, you know how it goes, single bridesmaids and groomsmen, yada yada, getting lucky and all that—well, he did. I did not, I definitely did not.” You’re reminded of the ache between your legs that you had to deal with back in your suite.

The elevator dings again and it opens to the lobby; no one gets in and you raise a brow at the man. “Aren’t you gonna get off?”

He looks at you, contemplatively.

The doors close and the elevator starts making its way up to bring you to your floor.

“I work for this hotel. I think it’s only right I escort a customer to their floor, especially after such a traumatic encounter that happened within the building, and make sure you have everything you need.”

“To say you work for this hotel is an understatement, Mr. Kim.” You laugh, finally recognizing his face under proper lighting.

“So you know who I am.”

“That handsome face of yours has been on the news a few times, so yes, I do know you.” You hum, warily eyeing him, “Your wife and I went to the same high school. She’s my junior.”

Doyoung scoffs, “Then you must know her lover, they were high school sweethearts.”

You look up at him, wide-eyed. “I-I do… I’m sorry.”

“My wife and I have come to terms that we’re only binded by a marriage contract. We’re just waiting for the right time to file for divorce. There’s no need to appologize.” The elevator doors open and he places a finger against the button to keep it that way, politely smiling at you. “I hope you enjoy the rest of your stay, Miss…”

You say your name and begin to step out of the lift.

He repeats your name with a slight purr. “If there’s anything else you need, let me know.”

Everything began there; and six months later you don’t regret the encounter. You can still remember how you came undone once from his fingers, another with his mouth, and three consecutive orgasms with his cock. Even though you were completely spent, sensitive and overstimulated, you wanted more.

Doyoung gave you more and more every time you meet. You didn’t need an exchange of words to know what your bodies wanted; he wants complete control while you wanted to be used.

“I don’t understand how the men before me let you go to waste. They’re idiots.” He grumbles, taking off his wristwatch.

You chuckled, the little vibrations from your throat stimulating his cock as you sucked it. He had called you over to his house in Anyang when he found out you had a meeting nearby; that had been cancelled due clashing schedules so here you were, on your knees before him.

“They didn’t let me go. I let them go. They’re idiots for not knowing how to pleasure me even though it’s the simple concept of ‘give and take,’ hmph.” You quietly say after pulling away from his shaft, pumping it with both your hands. “What about your wife? Didn’t she find pleasure in this?”

“I guess it’s different if you’re in love with someone else.” Doyoung tosses the accessory aside as if it didn’t cost a hundred thousand dollars and starts working on untying his tie. “Also, can you stop calling her my wife?”

“She still is, though, until you file for divorce and until then, I’m still technically your mistress.” You push his cock closer to his stomach and lean forward to kiss his balls. “I thought you two had the papers already?”

“Our parents want a grandchild—and while both our grandfathers are still alive, they’re more than eager to hold their great grandchildren before they die.” He groans and you don’t know if it’s because of his dilemma or your mouth playfully nipping at his testes. “And of course they had to mention that when we were about to announce our divorce.”

You kiss his cock one more time before rising to your feet, “I’d offer you help, but I don’t know how aside from letting you use my body as a stress reliever.”

“It’s enough, trust me.” He smiles, tipping your chin with his finger and kissing your forehead, “Open your mouth.”

You look at him incredulously at his request, hesitantly parting your lips.

He jams his rolled up necktie in your mouth, holding you steady by your nape. The sweet smile on his face was now replaced with the expression of what you can only describe as the face of a predator, which meant you were his prey. “Enough talking. Do what you do best, sweetheart, and be a good slut for me.”

He pushes you over the bed and pulls your tight shirt up your body, leaving it around your eyes and kept your arms by your head. You feel him palm your breasts for a moment before the strapless bra you wore came off.

There was a soft sigh before you felt his mouth closing on your left nipple while fingers tweaked the other. You arch yourself towards him when it ended so quickly, his mouth leaving your skin with a pop before you feel him working to get your pants off.

After your slacks came off with your panties, you lay there; waiting with a necktie in your mouth and a shirt above your eyes. You knew what he was doing. He was standing there by the bed, shedding the remainder of his clothing and watching you; daring you to do something he wouldn’t like so he could punish you for it. But tonight you wanted to be rewarded.

He probably hoped you’d grow impatient and shrug your shirt completely off, but instead he watched you spread your legs apart and invited him to stare at your pussy, pink and sopping with anticipation.

You feel a lone finger quickly trail from your entrance to your clit, eliciting a gasp muffled by your gag and your hips lifting upwards to chase the contact.

“If I had you like this everyday, with that tight pussy of yours just waiting to be pounded by my cock, I’d be a father in no time.” He scoffs and you hear an appreciative hum that tells you he brought his finger to his lips.

The mattress by your feet dips down and you feel his hands run along your inner thighs, teasing you as he avoids contact where you wanted it the most.

You whine through your gag but he seems to ignore it, moving your legs so they would be draped over his thighs.

“I’ve always been one to use protection, but I remember the first time we met. You were just begging to be fucked by me, crying about not caring if I had a condom on or not.” His weight shifts on the bed again and then you feel the tip of his member pushing into you. You’re moaning through his necktie, jaw already aching at being jammed open for so long. “I came twice in you that day and you know what, sweetheart?”

He starts to thrust all of a sudden, pounding into you so quickly that your walls struggle to adjust to his girth and are rubbed raw. You feel his fingers digging into your hipbone with a bruising grip as he surges himself into you repeatedly. “It. felt. so. fucking. good.”

You cry as loud as you can through your gag, wanting to move your own hips to meet his thrusts.

“I’ve never thought about kids, [Y/N]. Have you?” He hisses, switching the angle of how his cock enters you and causing you to moan again. With your lack of response, he shakes your hips against him, “Answer me.”

You vehemently shake your head, tempted to take your shirt off so you could look at him, but you kept them overhead and held your forearms. He resumes his actions, letting go of your hips to fondle your chest.

“God, I love your pussy, sweetheart. Always so tight, no matter how much I fuck you. So fucking delicious—always so wet when I see it, always eager to take my cock. Your pussy is just perfect for my cock, don’t you agree, sweetheart?”

You’re breathing heavily through your nose now, almost choking on your saliva when you tried to breathe through your mouth. You shake your head.

“No?”

You mumbled back something, but obviously it was obstructed by the makeshift gag. You do your best to swallow the saliva that’s accumulated in your mouth despite the necktie and repeat yourself. “Yours.”

“Mine?” Doyoung repeats, and in your head you can see the confused expression he tends to make, “Are you trying to say this pussy is mine, sweetheart?”

You nod, writhing under his hold and finally able to meet his thrusts with your own fervent movements.

“Really? This pussy is mine, sweetheart?”

You nod once more and he stills, length halfway inside of you. His hands are no longer on your boobs, but resting back on your hips. Before you can complain about his inactivity, he drives himself back into you with a force strong enough to send your body further up the bed. It’s creaking this time with the headboard hitting the wall and creating the softest thud.

Doyoung brings his thumb over your clit, rubbing furious circles upon it, relentlessly, until you’re crying out loud and struggling.

Unable to keep still, you try to remove your shirt but he catches you, pushing your arms back down above your head.

“If this pussy is mine, sweetheart, I would want nothing more than fill it up with my cum. Is that okay with you?”

You shake your head in agreement.

He groans, continuously thrusting. “And if I get you pregnant, sweetheart? What will you do, huh? Will you keep it?”

You don’t know how but you were able to scream out a discernible and resounding “Yes!”

Without ceasing his movements, he tears your shirt off from your face and limbs, and your eyes adjust to the sudden brightness. When you finally focus on him; with his eyes lustfully glaring down at you, jaw strained, and his entire body tense as he brings you closer to your climax, he asks through gritted teeth, “Do you want me to get you pregnant, [Y/N]?”

He fishes his necktie out of your mouth, disposing the damp thing on the floor, and cluthes your jaw to pull you in for a kiss.

You break off the kiss, placing your hands on his hot skin, “I want you to fuck me until I do.”

Doyoung growls, rolling your bodies until you were on top. “Then go get it for yourself, sweetheart. Chase that chance to have my children.”

Like a maniac, you ride him; gyrating your hips, clenching around him. The beautiful sound of his moans is music to your ears and merely fuels you to move faster. You reach your climax first, throwing your head backwards and jerking erratically above him; which triggers his own, ejaculating deep within you.

Your lower abdomen feels hot as you calm down from your high, still gently moving your hips despite being sensitive to ride his orgasm out, each sporadic squirt of his seed making you flinch.

With his cock still seated comfortably inside of you, you feel yourself fall backwards, making him sit up and guide you gently down the bed and lay between his legs.

“Aren’t you on birth control?” He asks, voice completely raspy and out of breath.

“No.” You confessed, “They make my boobs too sensitive. I just take ‘morning after’ pills after we fuck.”

“Do you plan to take them tomorrow?”

“Do you really want kids?”

He shrugs and you snort, “Doyoung, will you even take responsibility if I get pregnant?”

“Of course I will! What do you take me for?” He exclaims, obviously offended. He smooths his hands over your thighs, “I just don’t have experiences with kids to know how I’ll fare with them. But I do know I’d like an heir to my company.”

You gesture for him to help you sit up, both of you wincing when he does as your bodies are still connected. “I’ll take the pill, only because it feels wrong to try and make a baby when your parents want you to have one with your wife.”

“Again, can you stop calling her that? She doesn’t even call me her husband anymore. Also, I never said they wanted me to have a kid with her. Technically, they never specified who the mother of their grandkids can be—they’re only assuming her because they don’t know what’s really going on between us.”

“So no pill?”

“It’s up to you, really.” He chuckles, nuzzling his nose against your cheek.

“Is that why you’re still hard?” You lick your lips at how his dick is throbbing inside of you.

“I’m telling you,” Doyoung sniggers into your ear, “There’s just something about your pussy that makes me want to fill it up.”