#so many fucking descriptors i could use here

[frnkiebby]

fuck. just.~🎃

[m4tthewmurd0ck]

Tom Blyth x Actress!Reader

no y/n and i try to avoid descriptors but do use she/her. you star in house of the dragon and your character is aemond targaryen’s girlfriend (let me live ok i know we could change him! he told me!!) aaaand also tbosas as sejanus girlfriend (get it bc rachel and josh and now you and tom). your character in tbosas is nova may winter.

your social media ~

just a fun little social media series, will do this in between editing my coriolanus snow x reader series. first part below the cut, sometime early 2023.

liked by enews and others…

tmz_tv trouble in paradise? rachelzegler and tomblyth spotted looking a little cozy last night! wonder how yourname and joshandresrivera feel!!!

yourname heartbroken!

↳ joshandresrivera shocked!

↳ yourname betrayed!

↳ joshandresrivera bamboozled!

↳ yourname flabbergasted!

↳ joshandresrivera devastated!

↳ yourname yeah that we weren’t invited hadbdjsndj

↳ tomblyth i hate you both 😭

↳ rachelzegler you guys literally had reshoots for tbosas though????

↳ tomblyth and we offered to reschedule for when all 4 of us could go?

↳ yourname fuck we’ve been exposed

↳ joshandresrivera gotta blast!!!

username wait are they really dating?!

↳ username no. rachelzegler is dating joshandresrivera and tomblyth is dating yourname.

↳ username waaaait i just read tbosas. obviously coryo and lucy gray, but also yourname character is dating joshandresrivera character 😂 so everyone had to kiss each others significant other 😂😂😭

↳ username oh to be yourname and rachelzegler

🐍🐍🐍🐍🐍 30 minutes later 🐍🐍🐍🐍🐍

⚫️⚪️⚪️⚪️

⚪️⚫️⚪️⚪️

⚪️⚪️⚫️⚪️

⚪️⚪️⚪️⚫️

liked by taylorswift and others…

yourname here to serve your #snowbaird needs! first 3 📸 are the love of my life and tomblyth is in the shots too.

rachelzegler hahaha i love you

↳ yourname marry me when???

tchalamet where was the post for paul and luna when dune came out? #fakefriend #betrayed

↳ yourname timothée??? i literally made a whole youtube video talking about my experience with dune? and i sung your praises for like 10 minutes???

↳ tchalamet not the full first name 😳

joshandresrivera and what about the ship for our characters 🤬

↳ yourname istg you’ll get an entire post dedicated to u once the film is actually out.

↳ joshandresrivera carry on 🤭

ewanmitchell aemond and juliette didn’t get a post either 🤨

↳ yourname aemond killed my baby lucerys, he doesn’t get shit 😞

↳ ewanmitchell you did a whole post when osferth died????

↳ yourname my sweet baby osferth did not deserve to die either 😔

username damn yourname your onscreen boyfriends are low key needy af 🫣

↳ yourname i know right 😩

tmz_tv 👀

↳ yourname this was a joke. i’m laughing at you, not with you.

yourname has blocked tmz_tv

tomblyth caption got me like 😧… and what’s the last photo my love?

↳ yourname my lockscreen is what it is.

↳ username “my love”

↳ username she said my lockscreen hahdudsbdifesz one of us one of us

hunterschafer you’re my spirit animal

↳ yourname hunter is the ACTUAL loml you guys

↳ tomblyth “heart been broke so many times” - rod wave 😧

username i read the book. coriolanus has to choke nova may. tomblyth did u develop a choking kink 🤭😏😏😏

↳ yourname hahahaha username i love you so much for this

↳ username someone spoil it for me why does he choke her

↳ username nova may figures out that coriolanus is the one who betrayed sejanus right when he’s executed and she goes to confront him later. this is when he and lucy gray first get to the cabin. she has a gun but he manages to throw it to the other side of the room. and at least in the book he slams her against a wall and tries to kill her by choking her.

↳ username istg they better put this scene in the movie.

↳ username but does he kill her?

↳ yourname watch and seeeee!

↳ rachelzegler so proud of my girl yourname! we can’t talk about it too much because #spoilers but you guys she’s incredible and it was so cool to watch her and tomblyth film that scene

username i bet tomblyth felt so bad having to be mean to yourname

↳ yourname all jokes aside, tomblyth aka the actual number 1 love of my life, he did feel so bad 😭 i love seeing him turn into coriolanus because it’s obviously so different from who he actually is as a person. but after each take he’d immediately ask if i was okay 🥺🥹

↳ username god i’m so single

if you’d like to be tagged in future tom blyth x actress!reader let me know!

[princessbiteme0o0]

Just Friends, Hmm?

SMUT, SMUT, SMUT

So in other worDS MINORS D.N.I. 🔪

(Thank you @littleskeletonprincessss for the pic :) )

This is pure filth…

💫Beware💫

Description: Welcome to, I’m bored and my mind likes to run wild (a dream that I had last night). Schlatt makes my heart do the buhbump type o’ flutter (his dumbass makes me melt) so I hope you enjoy this as much as my brain enjoyed the dream.

Warnings: AHEM. SMUT… very VERY detailed smut ;)) Slight (fem pronouns, some adjectives) descriptors used, kinda Daddy kink? It’s only used a few times sooooo- but it’s HEAVILY implied.

Other than that, I’m sick and easily irritable, so if you don’t like it, don’t read it. Otherwise, hope you enjoy. (I don’t think it needs trigger warnings ((just Jay being rough)), but if you disagree lmk). Love y’all ❤️

(Updated A/N): RAAAAHHHH I AM SORRY IT TOOK SO LONG- I’ve had a very rough last few days.

—💕—💕—

Schlatt should’ve known better than to cave when Ted asked for him to bring her onto the podcast. She was a fellow streamer and they hadn’t decided whether their relationship was anything real or if it was just ‘for funsies’, as she put it.

Biting the inside of his cheek, he watched her image through discord as she answered questions here and there for Ted, while he just leaned back in his chair and his eye twitched.

“So, (Y/N)… Anyone special in your life?” Ted asks, a small smirk on his lips as his eyes flashed to Schlatt’s- Ted had his suspicions, but no substantial evidence to his assumptions.

“No, not really.” She hums softly, taking a sip from her energy drink- He could use that.

“Where’s the gamer supps, (Y/N)?” His tone was stern and it made her eyes do a little flutter- that Ted definitely didn’t miss.

“Did you check up your ass and to the left?” She is quick to quip back, despite her little tumble.

“No, but would you like me to check yours?” He has an eyebrow raised in subtle warning and Ted is all grins as a warm blush raises on her cheeks.

“In your dreams, pube-cheeks.” She hisses out, glaring through the camera.

“Wanna repeat that, sweetheart?”

“Am I missing something?” Ted interjects, but she quickly composed herself and she shook her head, while Schlatt recovered from his fuming at her comment.

“Not a thing, Teddy.” She hummed, batting her eyelashes at him. The subtle flirtatious gesture did nothing but stoke the fire set on Schlatt’s ass.

“Mmh, that right, Honey?” If she was at his house right now, he’d bend her over his desk, finger fuck her until she couldn’t see straight and make her beg for him to stop. A brief silence on her end and her eyes becoming hazy for a moment was a sign that she was slipping back into submission, just at the way he spoke.

“Th-that’s right.” She tried to confidently huff out, but her voice came out shaky as she stuttered on her words. The interaction went forgotten between Ted and Tucker, but Schlatt couldn’t help but smirk each time he noticed her looking at him and adjusting herself in her seat. Once the recording for the podcast was over, Schlatt gripped his phone firmly in his hand and dialed her number.

“Jay…” Her voice whined as she answered. He let out a soft ‘tsk’, clicking his tongue before replying.

“Now, now… Is that any way to answer the phone, Toots?” He teased, making a soft whimper sound through the speaker of his phone. Chuckling softly, he leaned back in his chair.

“I’m sorry…” She mumbles softly.

“Then why don’t you come over here and show me just how sorry you are, Pumpkin?” He hums warmly, the grumble in his voice making her rub her thighs together and let out a shaky breath.

“Yes Sir…”

-

She doesn’t remember much of the drive to his house (obviously not, with so many distractions on her mind). Somehow, she became coherent enough to realize she was sitting in her car, staring at his house. Her heart raced in her chest, as it always did when he was involved. For the first time in a long, long time, someone made her feel special; made her want to dance in the rain, made her want to lay on a blanket and stare up at the stars. He made her want to do all of the stupid, cute shit you see in the cheesy romantic movies. He also made her melt, whether that be between her legs or her heart sat comfortably in her chest- she wanted to give him the world even though he already had it.

When she finally summoned the courage, she stepped out of her car and made her way towards his front door. Before she could even knock, the door is swung open and she’s pulled inside. The door is quickly slammed shut and she’s shoved against the wall, both hands pinned up by his right hand and his left hand resting comfortably around her throat. Her eyes closed and a smile spread across her lips at the feeling of his fingers pressed up against her soft skin.

“I don’t know what you’re smiling for, Toots.” He whispers in her ear, his mutton chops brushing against her cheek. “I never said I’d let you cum.”

“But, Jay…” She whines making him chuckle. Every sound she made and every expression that crossed her pretty little face made him fall more and more in love with her. He struggled to keep his composure for a moment, but then he lets out a soft tut.

“You made your bed, Honey… Now I’m gonna fuck you in mine.” He growls lowly, moving to quickly throw her over his shoulder. She lets out a soft squeal as he does this and she smacks his ass repeatedly as he walked towards his bedroom. She was giggling wildly as he trekked his way up the stairs and he felt his heart melt at the sound. He delivered a solid spank to her rear and she let out a soft sound somewhere between a yelp and a moan. Throwing her down on his bed, he crawled slowly and menacingly over her, his fingertips ghosting up the inside of her thighs.

“Not seeing anyone, hmm?” He asked, eyes glancing up at her as he leaned down to kiss her belly over her shirt.

“I- I’m-“ She stuttered out nervously, body trembling with every touch from him.

“What was that?” He played dumb, fingers moving further upwards and sneaking below her skirt.

“Jay I-“ She’s quickly cut off by a lewd whine when he presses his thumb firmly against her clit through her panties.

“Finish your sentence, Doll.” He hummed the demand as if it were the most simple thing to do in the world.

“P-please Jay…” She whines, hands reaching down to rush him, but the reply he growled made her retract her hands.

“Don’t you fuckin’ dare.”

“Yes Sir…” She mumbles and he slaps the inside of her thigh, making her repeat it more firmly to show that she understood. He pushed aside her panties and with a feather-lite touch, his fingers passed over her and he closed his eyes at the warmth while her juices already soaked his fingers. Her thighs subconsciously tried to close and as a result, he buried his teeth into her skin. She whined and thrashed beneath him as he sucked a warm, wet hickey on her inner thigh.

“You don’t seem to have such a problem with my pube-cheeks when they’re rubbing between your thighs.” He grumbled, leaning forward to press a soft kiss to her sensitive bud, making her mewl his name.

“Jay!” Her voice whined out, making a chuckle reverberate through his chest and the air rolled vibrations across her warm, pulsating center.

“Maybe I should call Teddy and let him hear who really makes you feel good.” He growled softly, biting the inside of her thigh.

“N-no!” She squeaked out, hands fisting into the sheets as he sucked a dark purple mark on her soft, pale skin.

“Why not? You thought it was so appropriate to flirt with him right in front of me. What? You tryin’ to make me jealous, Toots?” He hummed, eyes peering up at her. As soon as his eyes met hers from his place settled between her legs, she looked away in an attempt to hide her growing blush.

“No!” She snapped, but he could practically hear the deception in her tone.

“Surely you know better than to lie to me by now, Angel.” He spoke lowly, a growl settling in the back of his throat while he spoke. Her legs quaked and the blush on her face creeped down her neck as she slowly became more and more embarrassed.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She huffed, a frown set across her lips. While she wasn’t looking, Schlatt used this opportunity to press his middle finger and his ring finger inside of her. Her facial expression twitched, but she tried to hold her guard.

“C’mon, Pumpkin… You can tell me.” He cooed, trying to coax the truth out of her by curling his fingers upwards, making her body jolt with a rush of pleasure that made her blood run hot and her heart rate jump.

“Jay… Please…” She begged softly, her legs twitching on either side of him as he continued to work his fingers.

“You make it hard to focus when you beg with such a pretty voice.” He hums, tongue flashing out to run across her pretty little flower while he worked his fingers.

“Nnhhg J-ay!” She mewled, her legs closing around his head.

“Mmh look at you, my pretty little angel… I bet Ted would just love to see your face.” The sound that came from the back of his throat when she tightened around him at the thought would’ve struck fear into the depths of her soul if it wasn’t for the amount of pure bliss coursing through her every cell. “Oh, so you like that idea, hmm? Like letting your dear, sweet Teddy know who you really belong to?” He hissed, biting down on her clit and ripping a scream from the back of her throat.

“Schlatt! Pl-please!” She had tears running down her cheeks by now as she thrashed under his hold. He was quick to wrap one of his arms under her thighs and yank her closer to him so his face is pressed so deeply into her that she couldn’t possibly escape.

“Who do you belong to?” He growled as he pulled his fingers from her and replaced them with his tongue.

“You, Jay! I’m all- yours!” She hiccuped out, choking on her tears.

“Louder.” He grunted into her, the vibration of his words making her legs shake and clench around his head, squeezing his cheeks.

“I belong to you…” She whispered, barely able to breathe with the sheer pleasure making her body stutter and attempt to silence her, but Schlatt would have none of that so he sucked her throbbing bud into his mouth, flicking his tongue over it as he sucked. “Daddy!”

That one word made him stop for a moment. He lifted his head just enough to stare seemingly through her soul. “What was that, Toots?” His voice was just a touch above a whisper and he held back a smirk, just staring at her. Whimpering, she shook her head as her cheeks grew an inflamed shade of red.

“N-nothing Jay.” She mumbles out, unable to make eye contact with him. He gave her absolutely soaked pussy a light slap in correction.

“None of that…” He grumbled as she whined and mewled in embarrassed pleasure beneath him. “Say it again.”

“No…” She whispered softly, rapidly shaking her head in vibrant insecurity. Growling, Jay lowered his head between her legs again in an attempt to hear the word tumble from her lips again. When he slipped his fingers into her, angling them upwards and started sucking on her clit again, her hips bucked up and pretty whines fell from her lips once more. “Please, please, oh god, please Jay, please! Please, Daddy!” She cried out and Schlatt was absolutely delighted with the arch of her back and the sound of her voice.

“That’s it… Good girl, good fucking girl.” He hummed into her and in a second her hands were buried in his hair as she twitched over and over again.

“More- I need- Nnghh-“ She choked out, tugging on his hair. Schlatt pulled away for a moment and leaned his head on her thigh, looking up at her with a dopey grin.

“What is it, Pumpkin? Tell me what you need.” He cooed, placing gentle kisses along her thigh. His sudden turn to gentle behavior made her heart melt and her composure break.

“Need you, Daddy. Need it so bad.” She whines out softly, her voice broken and desperate.

“Aww, is that right? Baby doll needs her Daddy’s cock? Hmm? Is that it?” He asked while gently massaging her hips with his hands and placing warm, wet kisses across her abdomen.

“Need your cum… Please, Jay… Please?” Her request made him grind his hips against the bed. A deep rooted groan leaves him and he completely abandoned her aching cunt. Her words, her voice, her desperation, sent him into a state of pure adrenaline driven lust. Sitting back on his heels, he shoved his joggers down, making his cock bob free. He gripped her hips and yanked her towards him, curling her legs up over his shoulders and laying his body against hers. Sliding his cock deep into her, a squeak of surprised pleasure leaves her and his body twitched, letting out a sigh of relief.

“You want me to make you a mommy? Hmm? Want me to fuck a baby into you so I can see you all round and gorgeous?” She couldn’t do anything but mewl for him with the position he placed her in. He was quick to piston his hips against hers, hand squeezing between them so that his thumb could brush over her clit in tight circles.

“Yes Daddy! Yes, yes!” She nearly screamed, back arching and body shaking. Schlatt used his free hand to gently wrap around her neck, applying pressure carefully to the sides. A dark chuckle leaves his lips when he watches her eyes roll back in her head.

“Hope you’re ready, Toots… I’m not stopping until you’re so full of my cum that there’s no way you’re not pregnant.” He hums, pulling his hand from her neck to slip two fingers into her mouth. He watched and his cock twitched as she looked up at him with those big, innocent blue eyes as she sucked on his fingers and attempted to muffle her moans around them.

“Then, when I’m done with your pussy, I’m going to plug you up and make you swallow my cock. How that sound, my little Angel?” She whines and her pussy tightens as she approaches the edge. He slowed his thrusts just enough to teeter her on the edge. “Tell me who you belong to.” He grunts out between slow thrusts.

“You, Jay, you… I’m all yours- I love you.” As soon as the words leave her mouth, his thrusts pick back up, along with the movement of his hand on her clit. His lips crashed to hers, slipping his tongue into her mouth to assert his dominance, as if it wasn’t already clear enough.

“Fuck, Darlin’, I’m gonna cum.” He grumbles against her lips, pressing his forehead to hers.

“Please, please, please, please.” She chanted, nails digging into his shoulders, sure to leave marks for the next day. With a growl mixed somewhere with a groan, he shoves his cock as deep inside of her as it would go and releases. The feeling of his cum painting her walls caused a chain reaction- tears streaming down her cheeks, illegible sobbing words, her pussy clamping down so hard it nearly suffocated him and then finally, her pussy squirting and covering over his lower half, her lower half and even the sheets in her juices.

“Oh fuck, Pumpkin.” He mumbles as he tries to catch his breath. A smirk slowly inches its way across his lips and his eyes turned into a devious storm. “You made quite the mess, tsk… Let’s see if you can do it again.”

[fanfictilltheend]

❤️‍🔥Violent Heart Part 2:  ♪Remember when I moved in you, and the holy dove was moving too ♫ (or the VERY DARK Stepdad!Mechanic!Covict!Joel x Afab!you one)❤️‍🔥

Hi I apologize that a lot of these reference pics are just of white girls. I tried to find "aesthetic" images that go with the story but so many of them are just of white people and I want to call myself out for this because in the fic's only descriptors are that she has hair and is AFAB -- nothing about race. I also realize that all of the girls in this are skinny too and Y/N's body type is never specified. Sorry fam!! These images are just to get the creative juices flowing and don't truly depict anything from the fic!!

A/n: It’s here!!!!!! 18+ Only. This took me 7 freaking months so you mofos better like, reblog, and comment. This is both my most and least personal fic I’ve ever written and it is dark and relies heavily on plot (smut this time tho!!) READ ALL OF THE TAGS DO NOT COME FOR ME UNLESS YOU DID THIS FR FR. This ones for my dark joel fangirlies(guys and NBies) and the daddy issues fam ily ❤️‍🔥 (also not me naming my fic in part after hallelujah by leonard cohen but there is a reason!!!!!!!!!!)

Summary: Part 2 picks up with Y/N at age 20 and how her relationship with Joel has changed and gets steamier.  SMUT and feelings <3 Also check out this playlist of music that’s in the fic!!!!

Tags (PLEASE READ): Afab!you, pov change, Infidelity, threats, age gap, dressing Joel up (swear I wrote this before he wore that outfit to the SAG awards — the mr.Darcy-core one), racist comment (from Y/N’s douchey boyfriend), douchey boyfriend, confidence issues, feelings, voyeurism, masturbation (m and f), kissing, penis in vagina sex — unprotected (wear a condom), lightest hint of ass play, scar worship?? kinda??, daddy issues, daddy kink, using music lyrics to move the plot, multiple orgasms (m and f), religion and god discussions, stepcest (kinda bc technically he is divorced from her mother), tagging psuedo-incest just to be safe!!, use of y/n

Word Count: ~13k

PART 1

AO3 Link

Violent Heart Masterlist

Full Masterlist of all my work

If you’re being honest, you’ve always had a little crush on Joel Miller. How could you not have? The first day you’d met him had been like some kind of fucked up yet extremely satisfying whirlwind of a daydream. He’d come in, broad and tall and strong, and saved you from your evil (though you do love him somewhere deep, deep down) older brother’s onslaught. Protected you like a knight in shining armor from his punching, beating fists. Treated and touched you so tenderly, so many miles different from how your own father did that you’d been hit with whatever the pleasant opposite of whiplash is. And the way he finally punished Aiden after years of his reign of terror, the violence of it, the justice of it. You didn’t have words for it then, but the way you looked into Joel’s eyes when he was doling out that righteous punishment became some kind of strange secret understanding between the two of you. Maybe it was the first sign of love? You aren’t sure.

As a kid, he’d given you what you like to think of as quiet butterflies. They were always there when he spoke to you, looked at you, touched you, beat the shit out of your father and brother for you, but they were faint enough that you could ignore them. It was a comforting, fluttering kind of love, a gradual understanding of your loyalty to one another. But then puberty hit and the insects became incessantly loud when you thought of, wrote to, or talked to him. They ate at your heart day after day while Joel was in prison – the longing, the missing. Aiden told you that you were obsessed with him. Your mother told you to forget him, that he would forget you. But somehow, he didn’t. You wonder if those bugs live in him too. You wonder if they are quiet or loud and if they gnaw .

You think that they are probably loud. You think this for a few reasons. The first is that you know for a fact, you can feel it in the lining of your soul, and from the evidence of his constant correspondence and care for you, that he is just as obsessed with you as you are with him. The second reason is the fact that you think but aren’t one hundred percent sure is that the last time you’d hugged him he’d gotten a little hard (you don’t want to think too much into that because he is only a man who had been deprived of touch for a long time – but still you wonder…). And the third is the way he looks at you like you are the universe like you are the last drop of nectar and he is the last butterfly left on Earth in a famine. 

That’s how he’s looking at you now in the passenger seat of his old, clunky pickup. You know that he wanted to drive, but you wanted to show him how well you could because he had never seen. Never had the chance to see how well you had fixed, maintained, and took care of his baby and of course he gave into you like he always does. He's smiling at you quietly, but his eyes contain multitudes. Right now mostly pride at your driving.

Joel is a bit different than how you remember sitting near him in the truck the last time you were together, him as a free man, you as a little girl. Somehow, even though you are obviously bigger now, he still seems massive and broad and stronger than ever. His biceps are huge – probably from all the time he had to work out in prison – and peeking out under his blue t-shirt that you brought for him, you think you see the outlines of some tattoos. You look a little closer. On his right arm is text in curvy black ink. You think it reads, “Sarah.” You smile softly at that. On his other arm is a strange orange shape that you have to squint at to understand. The edges of the object are jagged but they form a shape like a badge – and then you know what it is! It is the guitar pick you made for Joel as a child. The one that had pricked his finger and drawn blood and he stuck it in his wallet. You can’t articulate how honored you feel that Joel loved you enough to tattoo something you made for him on his body, permanently, forever. 

“ Well , the light only turned green damn near eons ago,” he complains about your driving, but you know he is just teasing.

There is hardly anything wrong you can ever do in Joel’s eyes. He grins at you a bit lopsidedly and you smile back. You also can’t help but notice the greying of his brown hair. It’s a bit longer than it used to be too and the length gives it a little bit less of a shaggy look. You think it suits him, makes him look a bit older and more distinguished than when he first came into your life twelve years ago. 

Objectively, you know it’s weird to think that your ex-stepdad who is a convicted felon is hot, but it’s just something you’ve always known and thought like that the sky is blue or that orange is your favorite color. You know it’s weird to think of someone who was? – is? – supposed to be a father figure to you that way, but it’s already second nature at this point. You’ve had a few boyfriends (luckily all of them had treated you right), but none of the feelings you’ve ever had for them have compared to the cosmic-sized love and affection you have for Joel and you’ve never known anything different. The years you spent longing, missing, loving, obsessing over, and aching for him in every way under the sun, can’t be healthy, you know this, but they have eclipsed practically every other relationship in your life. No one has ever made you feel as safe and protected and loved as Joel has. No one else has ever looked at you the way he does. No one else’s entire existence has revolved around you the way his has. The sheer devotion in his gaze is enough to make the butterflies inside you scream and beat their wings against your insides like hungry bats. 

And you especially know you shouldn’t have these feelings about another human being violent enough to be capable of taking a life – inebriated or not. You’re grown now and know the man he killed was a scum-of-the-Earth child predator, and secretly you’ve always wondered if there was more to the story than Joel told the police in the official court transcripts you’d read as an adult, maybe even something to do with you since you had been there that day in the repair shop when they met , but you haven’t pressed because you’re sure the whole thing is quite traumatic for Joel and if he ever wants to tell you, you know he will. And more importantly, you don’t really care. Drunken, violent idiot or not, you were already deeply invested and never intended on wavering in that. You’re not sure there’s anything Joel could do to get you to stop loving him and that both terrifies and excites you. 

“Okay, whatcha wanna eat?” you ask, reaching out to rub Joel’s shoulder gently. “Now that you’re free you can have whatever you want! On my mom’s credit card of course. Swear I won’t tell her.”

Joel grins.

“Deal,” he tells you. “I was thinking of a nice steak dinner.”

***

You pull into the fanciest restaurant you can find in the tri-state area and sit down to order a regal, all-American, full three-course steak dinner (though you’re both woefully underdressed – not that you care – though the host gives you a dirty look). All the while, you tell Joel about your major (psychology) and how you want to become a counselor for abused children.

“That’s sort of beautiful, sweetheart,” he tells you with a genuine smile that used to be so hard to coax from him, but now seems to float over to you so easily and gently like a kiss from something as soft as the wings of a butterfly. “Wanting to help defenseless children. You’re kinda like a guardian angel for them, ya know? Damn proud of ya! Also, these mashed potatoes are goddamn delectable!” he exclaims after taking an experimental bite. “Have I mentioned that prison food is shit?”

You smile bashfully and want to tell him that he is your guardian angel (you wonder if he thinks the same of you) and inspiration in a backward sort of way for wanting to help kids in the first place since he was so good at protecting you for the most part (though you obviously don’t believe violence is the correct answer in your line of future work). But kids need protectors. Somehow you know that deep down you forgive him for all of the violence he caused because you would forgive him for anything. And him being proud of you? You don’t think there’s a better feeling in the world than that! You burst with pride. Your real father never said that to you, but Joel doesn’t feel like your father now. He is something different entirely. Something that entirely belongs to you.

“And you’ll meet my boyfriend, Max, tomorrow,” you nod as Joel moves onto the steak and lets out a soft moan at how good it tastes. “He’s heard a lot about you.”

Joel’s face flattens.

“And who is this kid exactly?” he sneers a little, attacking the steak with his knife. 

You smile internally at the obvious jealousy he’s trying to hide from his voice.

“Hey, Max is a decent guy!” you insist in his defense. “He’s pre-law. Real smart. He’s gonna be an important person someday, I know it. You’ll get on.”

That last part is a bit of a lie since you’re not sure the two will actually like each other. 

Joel examines your face, looks deep into your eyes.

“All I know is, just because someone is important, don’t mean they’re good to you or for you for that matter.” 

You can’t help but think of your father, the most “important” man you know and how much of a degenerate he is compared to someone ostensibly average like Joel who didn’t even have a status symbol like a college degree and how perfect of a man you think he is, despite his obvious flaws. You blush a little, scrunching up your nose. 

“Just lookin’ out for you, sweetheart,” he continues, smiling at the way you do. “He ever fuck with you – he ever break your heart, you know just where to send him, alright?”

“Yeah, Joel,” you grin. “Don’t need you getting any more jail time though, alright?” “You may have made a valid point,” he concedes with a smirk. 

***

When you two enter your shitty, one-bedroom apartment it’s already dark outside. Joel actually grins when he notices his and your guitars have both been mounted on the wall. 

“We can play ‘em tomorrow,” you tell him excitedly. “If you want to, I mean…”

“Hell yeah, I do,” Joel smiles. “Wanna hear ya singing for me, honey. I missed that.”

You smile to yourself.

“You can have my bed, and I’ll take the couch,” you decide, getting back to business. 

“No way, babygirl. I ain’t taking your bed.”

“Joel, you’ve literally been on a prison mattress for eight fucking years! Can’t imagine that’s been very comfortable.”

“That’s exactly why I won’t mind the couch. That’ll feel like heaven to me. Don’t want you messin’ up your back, sweetheart.”

You open your mouth, but Joel beats you.

“And that’s that,” he insists. 

“Alright, alright,” you concede, knowing by the look on his face he’s not budging. If one thing, Joel has always been stubborn, but you like that about him. “D’you wanna watch a movie or something?”

“Actually, baby, if ya don’t mind, I’d like a quick shower. Been dreaming about taking a real, private one for ages.”

“Yeah, of course!” you nod, motioning toward your bathroom door. “Towels are under the sink.”

Joel makes his way inside and soon steam is billowing out the bottom of the door. 

You busy yourself with some homework, but just as you walk past the door to grab a glass of water, you think you hear Joel singing.

You listen more closely over the fall of the running water and make out him singing the chorus of an old ABBA song with a deeper, sadder tone to it,

♪ “ Slipping through my fingers all the time / I try to capture every minute / The feeling in it / Slipping through my fingers all the time / Do I really see what's in her mind? / Each time I think I'm close to knowing / She keeps on growing / Slipping through my fingers all the time…” ♫

You feel like such a sap, but you feel a tear forming in your eye at the way Joel must be thinking about his and your relationship and everything he missed in your life. You aren’t mad at him, but his absence hurt in a way you didn’t know you could feel. And you’ve never blamed him, really, but the lack of him for eight years of milestones really did kill a piece of you. You can’t help but imagine a butterfly at the bottom of your stomach with its wings pulled off. That’s how you felt all that time without Joel – like a butterfly without wings. A writhing worm of a human being, senseless and lost in a giant world full of forces you couldn’t control. 

You listen to Joel’s beautiful, deep voice until you hear him turn off the tap and you scurry away and act innocent. 

Joel emerges from the bathroom then with nothing but a white towel around his waist, steam from the shower floating lazily into the room behind him like precession. And oh, wow, is he ever a sight to behold. His hair is wet, dark brown flecked with grey, and starting to get curly from the moisture. You also can’t help but notice his broad chest, the expanse of it, the dark curls of hair, his bulking, muscular tattooed arms, his soft, hairy tummy, the V-shape of muscle that descends beneath the towel, his happy trail. You are overwhelmed by the soaking beauty of him. You’d seen Joel shirtless before, sure, but it had never felt like this . 

“Gon’ grab some of those clothes you bought for me and then maybe we could watch something?” Joel asks as you try so fucking hard not to stare at him.

“Sure!” you squeak, staring down at your notebook at the kitchen counter. 

You think you see a smirk from Joel, but you're not sure because your gaze is averted as he grabs some clothes to change into and disappears back into the bathroom.

When he reemerges, dressed in a wifebeater and shorts that accentuate his form, you two sit next to each other on your cushy sofa and surf the TV for something to watch. You feel Joel’s hairy knees against your jean-clad one and your heart flutters.

“Can’t believe I’m really here,” Joel says softly as you pass re-runs of Full House, a dog show. “Like I gotta fuckin’ pinch myself to know it’s not a dream.”

Suddenly you feel a large, weathered hand on your cheek.

“Missed you so much, babygirl,” he murmurs, looking into your eyes, massaging the line of your jaw ever so lightly, trying to hold your skittish gaze. “More than I even have words for.”

First, you avoid looking at him a bit bashfully, but then you stare up cautiously into those big brown eyes that feel like a familiar kind of home and you’re such a goner. You lean into his warmth, the warmth of his hand.

“Missed you too, Joel. So much,” you admit, never wanting this moment to end or him to let go of you. “More than anything.”

He leans forward a little and for a second you think…but then he’s leaning in and planting a heavy kiss on your forehead. A kiss that has weight to it – not those soft, weak ones that Max gives you haphazardly when he’s drunk or high – the only time he’s brave enough to be vulnerable with you. This kiss says something, means it so sincerely too. 

“Love you, honey,” he tells you. Then his face falls. “Sorry I…wasn’t quite there to say that to you enough in person.”

“It’s okay, Joel. I forgive you,” you insist. “I love you so much, dummy. More than you even know!”

But you truly do appreciate the sentiment. 

***

You settle on an old, black and white classic, Paper Moon, that’s playing on the TV Land channel.

Joel wraps a big arm around you and you snuggle close. You’re pretty sure there isn’t a better feeling in the world than being this close to him. Even after all these years he still smells like Joel; like home (and, if you’re being honest, a bit like your vanilla shampoo) .

You lean against him, your cheek pressing into one of his firm pecs. You begin to feel sleepy, drunk on the steady sound of his heartbeat, alive and beating against you and really here . 

You nod off.

***

At first, you don’t believe it, but you feel someone with strong, firm arms lifting you into the air, cradling your back and the insides of your knees in a bridal-style carry. The movement wakes you, but you don’t open your eyes because the safety and security you feel is too good to give up. Joel carries you to your bedroom and lays you down gently in your bed. You’re still in day clothes and shoes so Joel takes off your worn sneakers with a feather-light touch and places them at the foot of the bed – you can tell from the soft thumps it makes. He maneuvers you so tenderly under the covers and tucks you in with love and care. You wonder the last time someone did that for you and pull up a blank. If anyone ever did that for you it was probably Joel. Maybe your mom did when you were really young. Certainly your father nor Aiden ever did – your father hadn’t liked to touch you except out of anger – kind of like you had some kind of weird, contagious disease. Aiden’s hands had almost always hurt too, but not Joel’s – never his. 

He breaks you from your thoughts by pressing another kiss to your forehead. Your eyes are still closed so you aren’t sure, but you think he watches you for a second and lets out a long sigh. 

Then you hear your bedroom door close softly so as not to disturb you. You smile, you can’t help it, and drift back off into a peaceful sleep.

***

You wake up to a mumbling, grunting sort of sound. You look over at your clock and read 3:42 a.m. You sit up. You can kind of hear some muffled noises coming from outside your room. At first, you feel a little concerned – like maybe Joel is in pain or something as he is the only one who could be making the noises. The walls in your apartment are paper-thin. Like you could hear him sneeze clear as day if he were to because sound travels through the shitty walls so easily. You should have told him that. But what the fuck is he doing up at 3 a.m.? 

You creep (and you mean creep) silently to the door of your bedroom and open it the tiniest crack. The way your apartment is laid out, the back of the sofa is the first thing you see and the back of Joel’s head about six feet away. He doesn’t sound in pain the way he’s groaning and then you understand exactly what he’s doing. Of course the man is jerking off! After being in prison, stuck around people for so long of course he wanted a good, private wank. He isn’t looking at anything from what you can tell, no magazines or anything. Must be using his imagination. You wonder what he’s thinking about, if he’s gotten good at that over the years.

You should turn around, slink back into bed, and cover your ears with a pillow so the man can have some privacy. But, fuck, the way he’s grunting. His voice is so fucking deep and sexy and then he lets out a soft, vulnerable moan and you feel heat envelope your whole body. You think you hear a soft fuck roll off his tongue and your heart almost beats right out of your chest. You can hear the lewd slapping of his fist on skin getting louder and more intense. Then you hear a soft take it, fuck. And Jesus, you are so fucking wet between your thighs. You ought to be ashamed. Instead, you reach down your hand feverishly beneath the band of your jeans and soaking underwear instinctively to stroke yourself ever so slightly. You sigh in relief, but you are fucking gushing, your fingers covered in your slick. You can’t see anything besides the back of Joel’s head, technically, so this couldn’t be that wrong, could it? He lets out a soft groan, you can tell he’s holding back so as not to be heard, but the desperation in the pathetic little noises this hulking man is making is turning on every switch inside you. Oh how you want to go over there and take him in your mouth, to taste him. God you are so fucked up! You’re still touching yourself gently, not really fully going at it yet, considering the possibilities that could follow if you went over there. But before you can decide to do anything, Joel positively whines, moans, and grunts fuck, unh, and you think but aren’t sure, babygirl, and finishes.

You stop dead still in what you’re doing. Did he really say “babygirl” or was that just your horny-ass imagination playing tricks on you? You’ve never heard Joel call anyone babygirl except you. Was he really thinking of you? On the one hand, if true, mega fucked up. On the other, wow, incredibly hot. You think about going over there and asking him to finish you off or something as crazy as in all those dumb romance novels you used to read in middle school, but just as quickly as the idea comes to you, you hear another noise: loud snoring. Joel is asleep.

Typical.

You snort to yourself. That was so quintessentially Joel. You don’t want to disturb him now. The moment has passed. And only then is when you remember you have a fucking boyfriend. 

That doesn’t stop you from closing your door softly, crawling back into bed, and reaching your hand down beneath your panties to touch yourself. You stroke your clit, imagining it is Joel’s rough hand rubbing against you. Holy fuck. You haven’t been this wet since you used to touch yourself thinking about him in the past. It’s like he can reach every part of you, every layer in a way that no one else can. You know the whole thing is so fundamentally fucked up, but you can resist sinking into your favorite fantasy. The smell, the touch, the feel of him. You imagine the noises he was making so beautifully on the couch, feel heat coil through your entire body, and immediately cum hard without even sticking a finger inside yourself. 

The pleasure you feel is so unparalleled and real you have to cover your hand with your mouth not to scream out your powerful orgasm. 

Sweat drenches your whole body as you come down. 

God, you are so fucked.

***

The next morning you wake up to the wafting smell of someone cooking eggs. You emerge from your room a little sheepishly from last night’s events to find Joel behind the kitchen counter making eggs and toast. 

“Mornin’, babygirl,” he grins, his eyes shining like he’s excited about something.

And then you realize: that something is you.

You grin back.

“Good morning, Joel,” you beam at him.

You were so afraid things would feel awkward after what you heard last night, but nothing ever feels awkward with Joel. In some ways, he’s still just your average dorky, friendly old ex-stepdad, convicted felon. In other ways, everything about him sets your heart on fire, but it would be stupid to ruin what you have with him because you think it’s remotely possible he might be interested back. You know this is dramatic, but if he flat-out rejected you, you think you might die. Truly. Like those butterflies inside you would beat their wings so hard they’d burst your heart.

“‘Membered you liked ‘em poached,” he nods, breaking you from your thoughts. 

He scoops two poached eggs onto one of your plates and grabs a piece of toast from the toaster which he smears with butter like how you used to eat toast as a kid. You can’t believe he remembered.

“Thanks so much,” you tell him.

He grabs a few eggs and toast for himself and sits beside you at the counter. 

“Nice to be able to cook me ‘n you some real food,” he remarks. “If I eat one more cup o’ noodles in my lifetime I swear to God Almighty…” he trais off.

He’s looking at you like you put the goddamned sun in the sky. Your heart melts as you stare at his features, the faint curls in his hair. Oh, how you want to reach out and touch him. But that just isn’t how you operate. You won’t ruin what you already have.

The butterflies in your chest howl. 

***

` You lay out the day’s schedule to Joel. You have plenty of time to hang about (you see him eyeing the guitars), and then you need to go shopping for some actual clothes for Joel since the things you brought for him don’t constitute a proper wardrobe. Then you will go out to dinner and meet Max. 

Joel grunts a nod at that last part. He doesn’t seem too thrilled.

“Wanna show me what you’ve been playing?” he asks hopefully as he gets up to put both of your plates in the sink,

“‘Course!” you nod enthusiastically. “Max says I need to work on my fingerpicking so I can’t promise it’ll be all that good.”

Joel rolls his eyes.

“Show me what you’ve got.”

***

You sit down on the couch right next to Joel, each of you holding your respective guitars in hand, across your laps. 

Joel looks ecstatic to have his guitar back in his hands. He fiddles with the tuning and finger-picks a faint melody.

“Haven’t played one since the prison band. But then some dumb motherfucker clobbered another sorry son of a bitch to death with a saxophone so that ended our music privileges,” Joel explains. 

“Jeez,” you reply.

Joel is sitting so close you can feel his body heat. You just want to hear him sing, but he insists on hearing you.

“Joel,” you try as innocently as possible. “D’you remember how to do an A-flat? I forget and I need it for my song.”

“Sure, baby. Lemme help ya. Now put one finger on this bit of the 4th fret here,” he begins, snaking a big arm around your shoulders so he can maneuver your fingers to the correct position. 

His touch is electric. He feels so good and warm. You feel the intense urge to climb into his lap and embrace and stay there forever. His big caloused hand full of scars places your fingers correctly for the chord. The same hand that must have jerked himself to completion last night…You can’t help but wonder how much cum there was…The truth is, you know how to make an A-flat. You just wanted to feel him.

He backs away and you whine internally at the loss.

“There we go,” he says soothingly, reaching out to rub your shoulder. “That one can be tricky. Now where is my performance?”

Your nerves are squirming around inside you but you begin to play and sing to the best of your ability. 

You look into Joel’s eyes.

♪“ You've got a heart on fire / It's bursting with desire / You've got a heart filled with passion /  Will you let it burn for hate or compassion?” ♫ you sing. 

Joel watches you intently, sitting up straighter. 

♪ “What's the point with a love / That makes you hate and kill for? ♪

You sing as best and as seriously as you can. You look up and think you maybe see a tear in Joel’s eye.

When you finish, it’s clear Joel is finding it hard to select the right words to convey what he’s feeling. 

“I–” he tries. “That was…well, let me just show you how I can answer that if anyone ever could to a performance as beautiful as that.”

You blush. 

He begins to finger-pick a familiar tune, Instantly, you are transported back to eight years old in the back of Joel’s old pickup truck, listening to one of his many cassette tapes. It’s “I’ll Never Find Another You” by The Seekers. The original version of the song is pretty happy and upbeat, but the way Joel sings it slowly in his deep and weathered voice makes you feel sad and achy inside. The emotion behind his voice is palpable.

♪ “But if I should lose your love, dear / I don't know what I'd do / For I know I'll never find another you / Another you / Another you…” ♫ he trails off.

It’s your turn to tear up a little. It’s crazy to know he means every word he’s singing too. He sings like every word is his last breath. When he finishes you are crying a little.

“You oughta record an album,” you sniffle, leaning into his shoulder, throwing him a side hug.

“Wanted to be a singer,” he replies with a small grin, leaning his head against yours. “Back when I was young.” 

You sit back up straight.

“You did? I never knew that.”

“Don’t tell nobody really,” Joel replies, looking a bit sad you left his immediate proximity. “Just a stupid dream ‘n all that crap.”

“‘S not stupid,” you tell him. “You really have a beautiful voice, Joel. It’s like if I could take it, hold on to it, and keep it forever in my chest pocket next to my heart, I would.”

“That’s where I keep you, baby,” he tells you honestly.

He reaches up a big hand to yours and guides your own to place it right on his heart over his plaid shirt. You can feel it beating steadily below your palm to the rhythm of something as delicate and ferocious as the beating of butterfly wings.

“Right here.”

***

You take Joel shopping. At his insistence it is nothing fancy, just the local department store. That doesn’t stop you from dressing Joel up in ridiculous outfits of your choosing. You make him try on a Hawaiian shirt, some golf polos like your dad liked to wear, a pinstripe suit and he lets you because saying no to you has never been in his vocabulary. He acts grumpy on the outside, but you can tell he is amused. You know in the end, you’ll just end up buying every flannel shirt and jeans combo they have in the store, but it’s just fun anyway. You watch the fabric hug his torso, his tummy, the slight bulge at his waist. At one point he comes out shirtless and you try very hard not to swoon as you stare at the hair lining his chest and his adorable little tummy that you for some reason have the urge to bite. The band of his Hanes boxers sticks up past his jeans and he looks so good. He even lets out a genuine smile. The middle-aged sales attendant who is helping you even takes a good look at him which makes the butterflies inside you swarm possessively. 

Finally, you make him try on a proper white-collared button-down shirt and black dress pants with matching black shoes and he looks so good you’re actually at a loss for words when he asks you what you think. They hug the curves and lines and planes of his body so nicely. All you can do is ask him to put on a black tie to match and he does at your behest following some customary griping that he would never wear such a monkey suit in the first place. The effect that a fully dressed-up Joel has on you is not one to be reckoned with. He might as well be wearing the men’s version of lingerie for how it makes you throb and ache between your legs. He looks like a force of nature, commanding and tall. It makes you weak. All you say is,

“Looking good, old-timer.”

He snorts.

When you finally ditch all the fun clothes and grab the essentials, Joel offers to go pick up the car while you pay. He tries to give you his eight-year-old credit card, but you insist on treating him on the condition he buys the “monkey suit.” After a bit of prodding, he gives in and you go to the sales attendant to pay at the counter. 

“Your dad is really cute,” the sales attendant giggles to you as she rings up the pile of clothes. 

Your cheeks go a bit red. You don’t really care enough to correct her.

“He’s my guy,” is all you say absentmindedly as you fish out your wallet from your purse.

The sales attendant hands you the receipt and on it, you see a scrawled phone number.

“For If he’s single,” she explains. “I’m Barb from sales.”

You look her over. She’s close to Joel’s age and conventionally pretty with long brown hair. The exact kind of woman Joel should be dating should he choose to get back in the game. Your stomach twists and the butterflies howl inside you.

You take the receipt, thank her, and join Joel back in the car (who is more than happy to be driving this time). 

“What took so long?” he asks casually. “You two writing a novel in there?”

You think seriously about what you should do. You consider letting the bugs have their way and tearing the receipt with Barb’s number on it to shreds. But you want good things for Joel. The chance of you two ever being together the way you wish is so far-fetched that you know you shouldn’t even be thinking it. A literal pipe dream. He was your stepdad for christsakes. He literally fucked your mother! (Gross!). Barb is exactly the kind of woman Joel should be going after if he’s up to dating right now. You hand him the receipt begrudgingly. 

“Sales Lady likes you,” you sat flatly. “Name is Barb.”

“Oh,” he says softly like he’s a bit flattered. 

He looks back at her through the glass door of the store and she waves at him. He waves back politely. You feel your stomach twisting into knots. 

“You think…you think you’re gonna call her?” you finally ask as casually as humanly possible, dreading the answer. 

Joel looks over at you, his gaze sweeping over you. Then looks back at Barb through the window. He looks her up and down.

“Nah,” he says with a smirk, looking back at you. “She ain’t my type. Only need one girl in my life right now anyways,” he winks.

Was that Joel flirting? With you?

Regardless, you smile back and then sigh in relief and grin to yourself as you two drive away. 

Much to your satisfaction, Joel crumples up the receipt and throws it out the window for good measure. 

***

You get ready for dinner, to go to a nice Mexican-Japanese fusion restaurant that Max picked out. You wear a red dress that accentuates your figure and matching heels and to your shock, Joel reemerges from the bathroom in the white button-down shirt and black dress pants you picked out for him (you had been sure flannel would be part of his ensemble). God, he looks good. A part of you wants to ditch Max and just stay here with Joel forever. He looks you over, his dark eyes sweeping over your frame. You think there is a tinge of possessiveness in his voice when he says,

“ Christ, you look beautiful, babygirl.”

***

You arrive before Max and sit down at the fancy white table-cloth-covered table next to Joel, a booth facing you. Max finally makes an appearance a half hour late and sits down across from you, sweeping his hair out of his face, sliding into the booth. Joel is frowning and the butterflies beat their wings inside you nervously.

“Sorry I’m late,” Max announces, puffing out his chest a little and smoothing out his collared shirt as he looks down at his watch and then over at Joel. “Hey, baby,” he says to you. Then, “And, uh, nice to meet you. Joe, was it? Heard a lot about you.”

“Joel,” Joel replies flatly, eyeing Max.

Max is a good-looking guy, everyone says so, but he looks more like a little boy than you’ve ever thought as he squirms uneasily in his seat under Joel’s unrelenting gaze and launches into a tirade about his frat’s inter-mural lacrosse team practice and how his team should have totally won the scrimmage and that’s why he’s late. And of course, he was the one to score the most goals.

“And the taxi cab driver was a nightmare. Only spoke Spanish. It’s like, if you come to this country speak fucking English, am I right?”

You notice Joel’s jaw tighten and his fingers clench. 

“Max, that’s so rude!” you tell him, frowning. “We’re at a fucking Mexican restaurant!”

“Anyway,” Max continues, rolling his eyes at the interruption like he barely even heard you, smirking. “Where’d you go to school? What do you do for work, Joel?  Besides making license plates, I mean. Kidding!” he insists as you stare daggers at him. 

Joel leans forward ever so slightly but you slip your leg over his to hold him back and he calms down a fraction. It’s like when you touch him, everything tense in him melts away. 

Joel sits up straighter in his chair and looks at you, stretching his arm across the back of your seat protectively like it’s a casual thing and not an unconscious sign of possessiveness.

“I’m a mechanic,” he grunts unceremoniously to Max. “I mean, I was anyways…Didn’t go to school.”

Max frowns ever so slightly. 

“You didn’t go to college? You must’ve gone to trade school at least?”

“Nope. Picked up what I know over the years. Not everyone gets a free ride from their parents,” Joel smirks.

“Free ride?” Max snaps. “I’ll have you know I spend every summer interning at a law firm!”

“Yeah, your dad’s,” you can’t help but snicker.

Max’s cheeks turn a bit pink.

“At least I’m not a psych major,” he shoots back. “I mean, no offense, babe!”

“What’s wrong with psychology?” Joel snarls, his eyes darkening. “You ought to be proud to have such a thoughtful and intelligent girl like Y/N studying such a topic.”

It’s your turn for your cheeks to go pink. 

“Joel–”

“Who said I wasn’t?” Max sneers. 

That makes you feel a bit better. 

“I’m just saying, she could have inherited the second-best law firm in the tri-state area from her pops if she was pre-law like me,” he smirks.

Your smile fades, used to hearing this kind of shit from him. He knows you and your father don’t get along at all, but not the full extent of it. He also knows you don’t have an interest in pre-law. But you swallow down how you really feel.

“It’s fine, Joel,” you tell him, placing a hand down on his thigh.

It’s not that you enjoy the way Max has been talking to you, but you are so used to it from the men in your life that it feels like the common denominator must be you. And sometimes it feels like maybe they have some kind of point. And fighting back only makes things worse. You’ve learned that over the years the hard way.

“It’s not fine!” he snaps like he’s trying to get you to see sense, looking deeply insulted on your behalf. Your heart thunders in your chest. “This boy has never worked an honest day in his life and he’s telling you what you ought to be doing? Bet his hands are soft as a baby’s ass. He doesn’t know shit about you, babygirl.”

You may not know the hardship of labor that Joel has taken on in his life, but your hands are not smooth. They are full of scars. And Joel is right. Max’s are soft like silk. You look down at the most prominent, ugly scar on your middle finger. You don’t even know which man in your life gave it to you. But you do know it means something. Shows you survived something. Survived your stupid father too, not that Max seems to care.

But Max never loses. 

“Whatever,” he smirks dismissively. “Sorry I’m not some, like, common blue-collar worker. But I guess I should be taking advice from someone who became a fucking convicted felon ‘cause they drank too much one night,” he shrugs with a terrible sneer.  

You know it’s over then.

But Joel surprises you. Doesn’t immediately strangle Max like you thought he might. Simply stands up tall and silent over Max’s frame which has suddenly begun to shake ever so slightly in obvious fear, his blue eyes widening. Joel’s fists are clenched tightly at his sides. 

“Wouldn’t mind them sendin’ me right back in, ” Joel growls low. “Drunk or not.”

You shiver and Max positively cowers. 

“Got something to say? Don’t wanna take it outside?” Joel leers, smirking ever so slightly at the trembling boy before him. “I’d even let a little boy like you take the first swing.”

“Your stepdad’s a freak, Y/N,” Max stammers, not taking his eyes off of Joel. 

“Joel, it’s fine, okay?” you growl, not wanting him to actually hurt your boyfriend. Let alone in public! “Shouldn’t talk about Joel like that though, Max! Jesus!”

“Babe, I’m sorry, okay?” Max tries, eyeing back and forth between you and Joel. “I’m just trying to look out for you. I don’t get what you see in him with a real Dad like yours! Your dad has so much to give you!”

Look out for you? So much to give you? What could he possibly give besides a stupid law firm and two black eyes? 

Max looks a bit desperate. Him apologizing for anything is actually a new concept for you. Your heart twitches ever so slightly. He must actually like you a lot. But Joel would never do anything to hurt you if it was in his power. At least not intentionally, unlike your real father. 

“That’s it. I’m leaving,” Joel snarls moodily, turning around. “Don’t want to do things I might regret to Mr.Future-Corporate-Lawyer over here. Have fun with him .”

Joel looks deeply hurt. Like you are choosing Max over him or something. That’s never what this has been about, has it? Doesn’t Joel know you’d do anything for him? That the hurt on his face hurts you more than anything you’ve ever felt. Ever.

“Joel, wait!” you decide and disappear after him, leaving Max behind at the table.

“Babe, what the fuck!?” Max yells, but you don’t care. “Come back here!”

***

You ride back in silence, Joel’s hands turning white against his grip on the steering wheel. 

When you break through to the front door of your apartment, Joel finally snaps, the anger on his face directed at something that feels like you for the first time in your life.

“You really love that little son of a bitch, don’t you?” he sneers, uncharacteristically harshly towards you. 

“So what if I did?” you shoot back, a little shocked. “It’s none of your business, Joel. What the fuck?”

“It is so my business,” he snaps back. “That kid is no good for you, Y/N. He doesn’t understand you. You deserve someone much better than that who will actually go to the ends of the earth for you. He wouldn’t do anything for you.”

There is a desperation and vulnerability in Joel’s words and tone that you’re not sure you’ve heard before. He sounds like he had been waiting the whole car ride to say this, maybe even his whole life. You aren’t sure.

“Max does give a shit about me,” you try to convince yourself, getting angrier. “I mean at least he was there for me while you were gone.”

Joel flinches.

“How do you know what’s so good for me and what’s not when you dipped out of my life for eight years?” you continue harshly. “Because why? It wasn’t because you were drunk, was it? It was because you couldn’t control your anger. You never could.”

He stares at you.

“I controlled it for you,” Joel says so quietly you almost miss it. “ You are the only reason I did any of it.”

“What?” you stammer, not sure you want to hear more. “W-what do you mean, Joel? Any of what?”

A million thoughts begin to run through your mind, but you push them aside. Theories about the case and your ideas of Joel’s true nature all threaten to drown you but you push them away.

“Do you want to know why I really killed that sick son of a bitch?” Joel asks dangerously after a long moment of silence. You stare at him, your body frozen. He looks down at his hands, flexing them like he can still feel them punching or around that disgusting man’s throat. “Why I killed him all those years ago? It was no accident, I’ll give you that. Manslaughter, my ass. I killed that scum of the Earth because he threatened you . To do terrible things to you with those disgusting hands of his. So I broke each one, but it wasn’t enough. I killed him because I didn’t want you to get hurt and because I didn’t want you to live in fear of him. I was tired, Y/N. Tired of being afraid for you in a world that doesn’t let you do shit except fight back. I loved you so much, Y/N, it hurt me. It scared me, but I couldn’t let him hurt you. I’d die before I let anyone hurt you again, not him, not your father, not Max, not anyone. You have to understand. I love –” 

And then it’s all over. You’re not sure who moves first, but you think it might be you. The butterflies are rustling and thundering and screeching inside you and you kiss him. And Joel kisses back, devouring your mouth in his. You grab the back of his graying brown hair and pull him as close to you as you think is humanly possible. He cradles the back of your head so gently you almost lose your breath. And you are kissing and kissing and kissing and kissing. There is nothing else in the universe except this kiss. You have never felt anything like this in your life. It is like every butterfly inside you has gone silent. It is like the world has stopped just for you and something new is forming inside you.

Joel killed that vile man for you. To keep you safe. Like he always said or showed that he would. He gave his life away for you. He did the unspeakable for you.

He bites down on your bottom lip and all your brain can manage to coherently think is: more, harder .

But then Joel is breaking away from you slowly.

NO! your heart cries out, the delicious pleasure and pain draining away from you. The butterflies swarm dangerously inside your chest, worse with every inch he travels from your lips.

“Joel,” you whine. “What? You…you don’t want–”

“Don’t even say that, Y/N,” he growls dangerously. “Of course I want you. How could I not? I have spent my entire life wanting you in some capacity, baby, but I ain’t no good for you either, alright? I…” he says slowly like it takes every inch of his body to agree to say this. “I am not a good man, Y/N. I never have been. I’ve done wrong in every chapter of my life. You deserve someone much better. I don’t want to hurt you. Physically or mentally. Our history… The damage I’ve done…” he trails off.

“You don’t understand,” you swallow, tears forming in your eyes. “You have already loved and hurt me more than any human being on planet Earth. And yet somehow there is nothing you could do that would keep me away from you, don’t you get that? The Joel Miller I love is not a good man and I don’t care. I want all of you. All of the pretty and crooked pieces you try to hide away from me. You killed a man with your bare hands, arguably one of the worst things a human can do, and I don’t care. I still want you, Joel. Maybe even more because of it. No one has ever loved me the way you do and that is the love I want and it terrifies me.”

A single tear falls down Joel’s right cheek. You reach up to wipe it away, but Joel grabs your hand on the way reflexively, so you help him wipe his own tears away. 

“I love you,” you whisper.

“I would move the Earth for you,” Joel whispers back.

“I know,” you nod. “I’ve always known. I–”

But he is kissing you again before you can say another word, like a man starved. You hold onto his cheeks, your fingers caressing his stubbly beard. 

“ Joel,” you whine when you break for air.

“I wanted this so badly,” he says softly, grinning a lopsided grin. “Can’t believe this is real.”

“Me too,” you giggle.

You have to lean up a bit, but you press your forehead to his gently.

“Oh, baby,” Joel smirks. “You’ve made me the happiest man alive, ya know that? You like

it when I go a little rough, honey?” he smirks down at you in satisfaction, reading your mind.

You have to stop yourself from getting lost in the warm pools of his brown eyes, your panties soaked.

He reaches an affectionate hand down to rub your side softly.

“This okay, babygirl?” he coos, massaging his hand down your torso.

“I’d let you do anything to me, don’t you know?” you snicker. “Pain or pleasure, it’s all the same to me. I like all of that. I just want you so bad.”

“Think a safe word is in order,” Joel grins, leaning down to kiss your neck. “How about ‘butterflies?’” you suggest. 

“Sounds good to me, baby,” he grins, looking genuinely happy for the first time in hours. 

He leans down and places a calloused hand around your throat, not squeezing (yet – you hope) and plants soft kisses and bites down your expanse of skin. 

“All mine,” he mutters into your skin. “My beautiful babygirl.”

You feel his erection pressing against you through his black dress pants which makes you moan softly.

His hand trails over your crotch and he starts rubbing over the tight fabric of your red dress.

“That okay?”

“Yes,” you whine. “Want more, Daddy.”

Oh shit. You don’t mean to say it like that! You know it is about ten levels of fucked up to call Joel that, but how is it your fault that in every fantasy that’s how you think of him? You figure you’re probably past the point of weird and every other standard of decency, but you’re still afraid.

“Sorry…” you mumble. “I–”

“No, no, baby,” Joel says quickly. “It’s alright, you can call me whatever you want. I don’t mind, sweetheart.”

“You think it’s weird,” you mumble again, further stupid tears forming in your eyes.

He snickers. 

“Baby, I think we’re beyond weird at this point. Let me show you how turned on it makes me.”

Joel takes your hand and places it on his crotch. He takes your left hand, the one with the scar and you cringe a little, but he is rock-hard.

That’s good because you’re positively drenched.

“You’re okay, sweetheart. Daddy likes that more than you know, alright?”

You take your hand back, smiling, but you cover your scarred finger, shocked he will allow this fantasy for you.

“Whatcha hidin’ from me, baby?” he asks, noticing the positioning of your hands.

“I hate that scar on my finger. ‘S so ugly,” you admit.

Joel looks flabbergasted. 

“That’s the last damn thing I think of when I look at you. Ugly? Who in the fuck told you that?”

“How it got there is ugly. It’s marred skin, looks gross,” you mumble.

Joel moves to take out his cock, and when you nod he unzips and unbuttons his dress pants, pulling out his length. You have fantasized about his cock for god knows how long so you are more than excited to see it. He reaches to place your left hand with the scarred fingers around the length of his dick, which is thick, but longer than you expected. The leaking head is almost purple and your mouth begins to water as you stroke him gently.

“It’s part of you,” Joel tells you, his eyes connecting with yours. “I love it. It shows you survived. Gonna jerk off to it, Daddy loves it so much. And when I’m done you’re gonna love it too. Swear I’ve got so many over the years I can barely even count ‘em. Even got a few on my middle finger. Maybe even one from a certain guitar pick you made me. Nothing like that could ever make me stop wanting you, ya know that, right?”

You smile and take your time stroking him, wanting to show him how much you love and care for him, scars and all.

He grunts softly, closing his eyes, but then shoos your hand away with a feverish kind of want. 

“Yeah, touch yourself now, baby. Daddy wants to see how wet you are for him. With that scarred finger. C’mon, now. ‘S gonna make you feel so good.”

You do as you’re told and reach down underneath your dress and begin to touch yourself, especially with your middle finger. You stroke your clit and then your dripping wet slit. You moan softly as Joel’s eyes rake over you, taking in every sigh and groan you emit. The butterflies are forming something big inside you, which presses against the inside of your tummy and ribcage.

“Daddy,” you whine.

“Enough, little one,” Joel whispers. 

He takes out your hand and begins to suck the slick off of each of your fingers, groaning deeply, making intense eye contact the whole time.

“Fuck, angel,” he moans, having a tough time keeping himself together, you can tell. “Taste and smell better than like how I pictured. Like you were fuckin’ made for me, I swear.”

He reaches a hand of his own down to stroke himself and his moans become more desperate. Finally, he sucks on your middle finger covered in your slick and groans so deeply you feel like you might cum untouched. He stares into your eyes. 

“ Mine, ” he growls possessively. “Oh, shit! Gonna–”

Then he takes your left hand and leads it to meet his throbbing cock. You stroke him, harder this time, fisting his thick length, moaning softly and that does it for him.

Joel cums all over your hand, oozing white globs of cum over your fingers, once, twice, three times. 

“Fuuuuuck, babygirl,” he groans. “Oh, shit, I’m so sorry! Couldn’t help it. Yeah, suck it off, baby. That’s it,” he commands, and you do, licking up all of his cum, even the part that got on your middle finger. 

When Joel comes down he still looks half-crazed with desire.

“Sorry about the, uh, early release. It’s been a while since anyone touched me,” he babbles in embarrassment, his cheeks flushed pink. “But I don’t wanna hear shit about your gorgeous hands ever again, you hear me, babygirl?”

“Yes, Daddy,” you nod, snickering. 

He looks like that one word has set his entire universe back in order again. You honestly don’t care at how fast Joel came. You love how much it shows he wants you. And his heady taste is making you weak. You could taste him for days and days and never get tired, you’re sure.

“Can still get you off though, don’t worry. Shoulda let you cum first, but I couldn’t help it with the things you do to me. Goddamn. Can Daddy eat your pussy, baby?”

You grin, but then your face falls. 

“Didn’t shave,” you admit, feeling dirty. 

Max hates your hair down there.

Joel looks at you in confusion.

He laughs, his face scrunching up.

“Oh, sweetheart. You think I care about that? Only little boys give a shit about things like that. Not men.”

You shiver.

“Really?”

“Of course I don’t care. Didn’t ya hear what I just said? C’mon now. You can lie down on the couch.”

You follow instructions, pulling your dress over your head to reveal white lace panties and no bra. 

You move to take the panties off, but Joel stops you, staring at the lines and curves of your body. 

“Jesus, fuck,” he growls, taking you in.

You think you see his cock twitch ever so slightly. He palms his softening length instinctively.

“Beautiful,” he snarls, pushing you back on the sofa. 

You happily fall backward. 

He lies on top of you, his white button-down shirt pressing against your naked body tantalizingly. 

He bites your lips roughly and you groan against him.

“Daddy’s mouth,” he commands against you.

“Yeah, duh, Daddy,” you snicker.

As if he even needs to say it! 

He kisses down your neck expertly and you begin to shiver and whine, your pussy aching with need and neglect.

He stops at your breasts, sucking and biting each one.

“Daddy’s tits,” he declares, snaking a finger over the lace panties that protect your clit. “Of course,” you respond, moaning softly, grinding needily against him.

He continues lower, licking down your breasts and over your tummy which he plants with kisses that tickle and then one hard bite on your hip that leaves behind teeth marks.

“Daddy’s body,” he impresses upon you.

“Yes, Daddy. Only yours.”

“No more of that little shithead, Max,” he snarls, an inch above your clit.

“No more Max,” you repeat as he presses kisses down your pussy, still covered by soaked white lace panties. 

“Only Daddy.”

“Only you.”

“Good girl,” he growls.

He finally removes your panties and begins to eat and suck your clit and pussy so hard and enthusiastically, swirling his tongue around your bundles of nerves that you grow exponentially closer by the second.

“Joel,” you whine. “Oh my God.”

It doesn’t take long. The second his calloused hand is pressing a finger and then two inside of you it’s over. You were so needy for him that you could have even cum from just his mouth alone, but his hands are what send you over the edge. And something different happens as orgasm crashes down upon you. The butterflies all join together and transform into something bigger and softer, caressing your insides, cooing. It feels like a breathing white dove is spreading its wings inside you, the tips of its feathers brushing against your rib cage. And you cum harder than you ever have in your life. 

Pleasure engulfs you in currents, facilitated by the gentle flapping from deep

inside your body.

“ Joel,” you moan. “Oh my God. Daddy, pleaseee–”

“Please what, baby? Make my princess cum again? I would eat that pretty little clit and

pussy every day for the rest of my life if I could, fuck. God, so perfect and you’re so fuckin’ tight. Look how fucking hard you make me, angel.”

He takes one of your hands and places it on his half-hardening cock. Not going to lie, you are partially shocked at his recovery, but another part of you seems to know that if there was anyone in the universe that could do that to him it had to be you. 

“Never got hard again from anyone I’ve ever fucked before…” he trails off dreamily like he can read your thoughts. “You’re so gorgeous, babygirl.”

“Not so bad yourself, handsome,” you tell him lazily, pressing a kiss to the side of his mouth as you pull him closer to you. 

The heat from his body keeps you so warm and tender and for a moment you lie on the couch, Joel’s still-clothed body pressed to yours.

“Can you fuck me, Joel?” you ask, squirming against him needily.

“You can’t say that shit to me, baby,” Joel groans, his cock getting harder. “Not quite ready yet.”

“Lemme help you out,” you offer, pouting. 

You reach down and stroke his half-hard length and then bend over and press a gentle kiss to the tip of his cock.

Joel swears, staring down at you with so much adoration it pours off his face. No man has ever looked at you like that before. You’re certain. Perhaps no man ever will again? Not like that.

“Shit, baby,” Joel babbles stupidly, his eyes threatening to swallow you up in that beautiful shade of umber. “Never gonna forget this moment,” he grunts as you begin to suck his cock properly, feeling it slowly get hard enough to throb between your lips with each thrust of your head and gluck of your throat. 

You stare up at him, your eyes wide and wanting and Joel lets out a soft, vulnerable moan as you begin to really suck him and take him down the walls of your throat.

“ Unh , babygirl, fuck,” he whines and you have never quite heard Joel so desperate before. “Gotta pull out or I’m gonna cum. Holy fuck.” 

It sounds just like it did the night you accidentally spied on him jerking off. 

“You’ve been thinking about me a lot, huh, Daddy?” you ask, releasing Joel from your mouth like he wanted, though his hips buck forward ever so slightly with desire, the tip of his cock just barely scraping against your mouth. He grunts.

“Maybe so,” he replies, looking a little guilty. “Don’t know how not to these days.”

“Heard you on the couch last night,” you whine yourself. “Had to touch myself ‘cuz of it, Daddy. I’m sorry.”

Joel reaches out a hand to cup your crotch and rub against your slick pussy.

“That’s so fuckin’ naughty, baby,” he groans. “Look how wet that made you. All for me.”

You steal a glance at his cock and find that the tip is weeping too. And he is so fucking big compared to the size of your hand. Fuck!

“You were thinking about me, weren’t you?” you whisper.

“All about you, baby,” Joel nods in agreement, his hips twitching ever so slightly. “‘Bout touching you just like this.”

He slinks two big fingers inside you and you moan deliciously, the feathery wings of the newly-formed dove fluttering against your insides. 

“Gotta stretch you a bit more,” he grunts into your throat, pushing in a third finger. “Daddy’s so big and you’re so tight, angel. Don’t wanna hurt ya. Not too bad at least. Not yet…That’s it, pretty girl, fuck,” he grins when you slide back on his thumb in pleasure which had traveled to the rim of your asshole “Good girl, so good for Daddy. So naughty too. Don’t think Daddy won’t punish you.”

“Want you to hurt me, Daddy,” you moan. “When you fuck me. Please fuck me hard. I want all of you – pain and pleasure. One hundred percent Joel. Joel, please, I need–” 

And Joel does stop for a moment.

“Never hurt you in a way you didn’t beg for,” he tells you seriously. “You know that right, baby?”

You stop your rutting against him and look into his eyes.

“Are you kidding? You would protect me with your dying breath. I know that, Joel. Never been afraid of you since I’ve really known you. Not once. I mean: fuck; you gave up your whole life for me. To keep me safe, for fuckssake. In every word you say and don’t say to me I can feel how much you love me.”

 “I do love you so much, babygirl,” he whispers, nuzzling your forehead. “If I had to, I’d do all of it all over again if it meant I’d get you. I’ve made mistakes, big ones, but protecting you, loving you was never one of them.” 

Warm tears trail down your cheeks, but Joel licks and kisses them away. 

“Wanna feel me inside you?” he asks. “Don’t wanna go too fast, but I need you, baby. Needed you for so long…Sweet little pussy’s just cryin’ for Daddy, huh? Gonna fit me just like a glove, I just know it — if you wanna…”

“Yes, please, fuck me, Daddy! Please, Joel Wanna feel you—ah!” you moan as Joel shoves his entire length into your pussy in one hard thrust eagerly. “Oh my God, please fuck me harder!” you moan, reeling from the deep blend of pain and pleasure of him sinking inside you, clenching down around the thickness of him. “Joel, please!”

He pauses, sweat glistening on his brow, sneering.

“You really want harder?”

You shiver. The way he says that makes your heart beat wildly in your ears.

“Because babygirl, I would treat you like porcelain if you want it so. I will never hurt you, my angel, my gift from god, my goddamn sweetest heart please know I will break my fucking hands before they would hurt you, before I would ever hurt you in a way that you didn’t want, no matter how much it hurt me. Do you understand me?”

“Of course, Joel. But you want it too,” you smirk. “You aren’t innocent in this, are you?”

“Fuck, of course i’m not innocent. I want you, babygirl. In every way there is to want another. Want every inch of you, inside and out. Wanna mark you up so the world knows you’re mine, honey. Want everyone to smell me on you and know I marked you, moved in you, darlin’, please, see, I’m no fucking Hemingway, I didn’t go to college, I’m not like you with words, but I need you to understand that I mean this with my whole chest and heart. Really, I’m not a big talker, never was, babygirl, but I need you to understand I—”

  “I do, you dumbass fucking fool!” you shout, giggling at his desperation. “I’d understand you even if you were speaking another language. You’ve made your intentions loud and clear. I don’t want a Hemingway, I want Joel Miller!”

You pull him in for a kiss and he thrusts in you again a second time and you end up moaning clumsily in his mouth, but you can feel him smiling , smiling like some dumb idiot against you and maybe you called him the correct insult because he is a dumbass fucking fool for you. And it turns out you must be one as well because you are smiling like an idiot for him too.

“ Joel,” you moan as he begins to move inside you, hitting deep places that Max or any of your previous exes never went. Pleasure is tracing itself along the line of your stomach. “Oh my god, I love you so much,” you babble and you’ve never meant that more than you do now.

You can feel Joel coming apart above you, plowing into you, sighing deeply. His grunts and moans and thrusts spur on the intense pleasure. 

“More!” you moan. “Oh my god. Harder, please, I need–”

Joel plants rough bites on your neck and kisses too like he’s trying to consume every inch of you. 

He places a large hand around your throat questioningly and you nod.

“Beg for it,” he commands in his deep, sexy voice — the voice that’s been in every wet dream you’ve ever had. You think you might just pass out from the sound alone. 

“Choke me, Daddy,” you whine as pathetically as you possibly can, batting your eyes. “Oh, please, I could cum from just this, but I want more. More of you. All of you.”

“As you fuckin’ wish, baby,” he snickers in amusement. “Bet no little boy ever fucked you like this, huh?” he growls, continuing his rough pace, slamming against your walls, his eyes growing wild.

“They don’t compare to you, Joel. It’s always been you. In every orgasm. Fuck, never felt like this! Shit! Shit!”

Joel reaches out his large scarred hand and applies gentle delicious pressure to your throat. You know even something like this can be dangerous, but you crave that feral look of violence in his eyes and the power that comes with it. You want him to own you completely – every inch of you. You want him to mark you just like he said he wanted to because he is yours and you are his and has it ever really been any other way? You can’t remember properly from the pleasure rushing through you, the white dove inside you spreading and fluttering its wings, cooing softly. You think it’s only ever been what you feel now.

“Joel, Joel, fuck!” you scream, orgasm building in you.

“I know, babygirl. I know,” he coos himself into your mouth.

He pulls you closer, presses his nose to yours, his lips to yours, biting and kissing like a starving man possessed. He looks into your eyes and it’s there! That look of pure predator closing in on its prey, that look of ownership but also the most intense love you think you’ve ever witnessed. You would recognize that look anywhere. Your starved brain cries out for oxygen beneath his iron grip. 

“Gonna cum again, angel,” Joel growls. “Gonna make you cum so hard you’re never gonna forget who you belong to. Whose pretty pussy this is.”

He is pounding so hard against your cervix and his dick is so big inside you and the pressure of his hand squeezing around you is so overwhelming and the scent of him could make you faint straight then and there, but you let go and feel yourself cumming in enormous waves as you squeeze down around Joel’s prick, the pleasure more intense than any single bodily experience you’ve had.

“ Daddy ,” you whine breathlessly, tears trickling out of your eyes. “Oh my god!”

“You’re mine, babygirl, always have been–FUCK!” he shouts into your throat, collapsing on top of you.

And then you feel him starting to empty himself inside you, painting your sensitive insides with trustful after trustful of hot cum. You’ve never felt so helplessly full and sticky in your life, the brilliant pleasure billowing through every inch of you. You want to feel like this every day, stuffed full of Joel’s cock, so close to him you can feel his heartbeat against yours, the one true place you belong. 

“So beautiful, babygirl,” he whispers in an exhausted type of awe.

When your words come back you reply,

“Shut up, you’re the hot one,” through a snicker. 

You look down at your body, covered in purple bite marks and bruises forming like galaxies across your body. 

Joel snorts. Then he sits up on the couch and you lean your cheek against him. You lean up to kiss his cheek and he blushes ever so slightly.

“I said a lot of stuff, Y/N, but I want you to know that I meant all of it,”

“Yeah, you probably said more in the last hour than you’ve ever uttered in your entire life,” you tease, sitting up.

“I’m serious,” he snickers.

“I am and was too,” you nod. “I’m so glad that you’re here with me — that we did this. I know that our…origin story is weird and unconventional and some might argue straight up wrong, but I need you, Joel. I don’t care about that or think I could go back to pretending to be what we were.”

“You think I’d want you to act like that?” he asks incredulously. “You think I want this to just be a one-time thing?”

“Of course not,” you smirk. “But as close as we are I can’t actually read your mind. I mean…how are we going to be together realistically?”

“I’m not sure,” Joel admits, frowning a little. “For now it has to be a secret unless you want your mother or brother in jail for murdering me this time around. But someday, I dunno. It’s dumb…”

“What?”

“I just have these thoughts sometimes about you ‘n me. I…” Joel’s cheeks turn a bit pink. “Had a lot of time to think in prison, you know? And I’d Imagine us living on a ranch somewhere quiet out in the country with a flock of sheep. I could work at the tractor and auto-body repair shop that’d be out there, you know, in this dream of mine, and you could be a counselor at a local school if that’s what ya wanted. I don’t know, l know it sounds silly, but nobody would know or bother us there. But I want you to finish school and have the best life possible, babygirl. I’d wait a thousand years for you, but if you didn’t want me anymore the way we are now, I’d respect that. And if you’d allow it, I’d still be there for you just in a platonic sense — or just there for you however you want because I can’t imagine my life with you in it. I’d do whatever it takes, brokenhearted or not. I just can’t be separated from you like that again. A day longer in prison and I could’ve keeled over and died. And it’s crazy how much I mean that.”

“I don’t ever want to be separated from you again, Joel,” you agree. “I know the original plan was for you to find work and get an apartment of your own and I would love for that to still happen, but with you being intimate with me in every way – even if it has to be a secret. I don’t pretend to know what the future holds, but I need you in mine. I’ve never needed something more than I need that. Understand?”

Joel pulls you into a hug and leans his chin on the top of your head. He kisses it then your forehead. You lean up and plant a kiss on his throat and then his Adam’s apple.

“Don’t mean to get too ahead of ourselves now. We can take things a day at a time,” he mumbles into your skin.

You yawn contentedly, the tiredness clawing at your eyes, so unbelievably spent.  

“I like hearing about your dreams and I’d go anywhere with you, Joel. But I am kinda dead from how good you just fucked me. Take me to bed?” You ask exhaustedly into his chest.

“Of course, babygirl,” he smirks down at you.

***

You don’t let go of Joel all night long, burrowed up against his chest, his heartbeat against your ear. And he doesn’t let go of you either. After the most intimate night of cuddles and snuggling you’ve ever experienced as well as the deepest and most restful sleep you’ve had in ages, you wake up to Joel gone from the bed. You frown, having wanted more than anything to wake up in his strong arms. Fear grips your insides as you wonder if he finally realized last night was a mistake and that you were never meant to be together in the first place (what you fear more than anything). A stupid vulnerable tear comes to your eye, but then you cock your head and hear music playing. Guitar music. 

You think of your apartment as shitty, but truthfully you care deeply about your little private space and one of the things you do actually love the most about it is the tiny balcony that overlooks a measly courtyard and part of the city. That’s where you find Joel in the deck chair holding his guitar, strumming it lazily.

“Mornin’, beautiful,” he says, fingerpicking a melody that scratches at the back of your mind with familiarity. 

“Morning, handsome,” you tell him softly, plopping your smaller hand down on his shoulder. 

The city hasn’t woken up yet, the soft glow of morning shining beams of light onto you and Joel, filling you with warmth. You sit down in the deck chair next to him, bathing in the sunlight.

“Whatcha playing?” you ask curiously, crouching to sit up on your knees.

“You know the song ‘Hallelujah’ by Leonard Cohen?” Joel asks in that beautifully deep voice of his. 

He isn’t even singing yet but you could listen to him forever. 

“‘Course,” you nod. “It’s a classic. You used to play it for me once in a blue moon.”

“Know what the word ‘Hallelujah’ actually means?” he asks. 

You think about it for a second.

“It’s about praising god and all that, right? Why d’you ask?”

He pauses, both his words and fingerpicking. 

“Babygirl,” he begins and you can tell he’s about to say something serious. “You know I’m not too good with words, but I need you to know this: I’ve never had much to thank god for in my life, except for Sarah, you know? But then He took her away…”

You place your hand on Joel’s and he looks at you sadly, but appreciatively. He flips it over and holds it in his giant paw of his own marked-up hand. 

“And I was so fucking angry. Nothing left in me. The only good part of me gone. I was a broken man. And I hated Him. But then He, despite the shit I’ve done…He gave me you . And I know our road hasn’t been easy or fair, and the pain you’ve felt and I have felt but…I guess what I’m trying to say is you are the reason I believe that any type of…goodness— of holiness— can exist in this universe. And I’m not a religious man, I don’t believe in most of that dogmatic type of shit, and I don’t think you do either, but I do think someone or something is up there and I wanna thank them for you. Does that make sense? Do you wanna hear what I mean? I just feel so damn grateful.”

A tear you hadn’t noticed was there rolls down your cheek. 

“Of course it does and of course I do,” you tell him.

You think perhaps this is the closest thing he can do to bearing his soul to you. 

And then he leans over and kisses the tear away and begins to fingerpick the familiar melody.

♪ “I heard there was a secret chord…”♫

You listen to his deep weathered voice as the sun grows higher in the morning sky, casting both light and shadow over Joel’s wrinkled, handsome face. The light trails over you too. You feel the dove inside you cooing contentedly, dusting its wings gently against the edges of your insides. 

♪There's a blaze of light in every word / It doesn't matter which you heard / The holy or the broken Hallelujah…”♫

When he finishes he places his large, scarred, calloused hand in yours and you hold it between your own scarred fingers.

“Thank you, Joel,” you tell him, meaning every word. “I think there’s hope for us, you know? I don’t believe in hippie-dippie type stuff, but something in this universe did bring us together. And I’ll be forever grateful for that too, ya know?”

Joel squeezes your smaller hand, his big fingers engulfing yours as the dove coos louder inside you.

“Babygirl, you know that I ain’t a good man, or a rich and educated one like maybe you thought you’d end up with, but I am less of a broken one because of you and I’m never letting you go. If we’re together, I think we have a chance.”

A/n:PLEASE COMMENT LIKE REBLOG IM BEGGING IM PLEADING IM CRYING DID THE SMUT LIVE UP TO YOUR DREAMS????

PART 1

PART 3 (coming soon)

Violent Heart Masterlist

Full Masterlist of all my work

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@toxicanonymity @motelprincess444 @epicrainbowsheep @anama-cara @sheepdogchick3

@denileisariver @lochnymph  @mewantpeepaw. @fandomdaydreamer  @r3dheadedwitch

@paanchusblog   @prettystrangething @untamedheart81 @kotourasan123 @valkyreally

@lunpycatavenue

[sapphicantics]

Two Sides of the Same Coin | Chapter One

Pairing: Regina George x fem!reader

Summary: After a nobody destroys the Jocks and insults the Queen Bee without a care or an apology, you get catapulted to the top of the social food chain next to aforementioned Queen Bee, Regina George, who now has to learn to share the spotlight with North Shore’s new bad girl. | Or alternatively, your ‘don’t give a fuck’ attitude sucks you and Regina into each other’s worlds sending you down a path you never expected.

Chapter word count: 1.7k

Contents: vaping, underage drinking, mentions of weed, threats of violence, mentions of broken bones, shitty comebacks - I think that’s it, lemme know if I missed any

Note: Alright, I’m finally here with the first official chapter of Same Coin. Now I don’t know how often updates are gonna be for this fic but they will be coming, I’ve got so many ideas for it.

Intro - Chapter 2

— — — —

Menace is a bit of a crazy term to use to describe someone who sticks up for themself, but this is high school and everyone loves to exaggerate, especially boys with fragile egos who can’t stand the school knowing they got their asses kicked by a girl.

And when the girl is you — a girl who keeps to herself and minds her own fucking business like people should do any-fucking-way — oh, there’s bound to be countless descriptors thrown onto you to help rebuild their fragile masculinity.

Volatile, temperamental, crazy, psycho just to name a few.

You’re not sure how those are supposed to rebuild their masculinity, especially when you can just kick their asses and knock it right back down again. Despite those seemingly negative connotations that come with your new title, it does, admittedly, have a rather nice ring to it.

Anyways, nice ring or not, negative connotations or not, title or not, you’ve got far more important things to focus on instead.

Like why the fuck Charlie Hudson is in front of you right now.

It’s lunch and you’re under the bleachers with a strawberry flavored vape pen in hand. You take a hit and blow a cloud of smoke past your lips, raising a brow at him.

He doesn’t speak for a while probably assuming you’ll do so first, but you just take more hits from your vape and continue to stare at him. He approached you, he came over here to you, he’s interrupting your time so he must want something from you and he either tells you on his own or he doesn’t tell you at all. It makes no difference to you, but you’re definitely not gonna ask what he wants.

It’s only when you check your watch does he remember he’s on a time crunch and finally opens his mouth to speak. “I’m having a party tonight. I was thinking you could swing by for a bit.”

“Why would I do that?”

“Well, it’s gonna be a whole thing, you know?” No you don’t know, and that really doesn’t answer the question on why he’s inviting you or why he thinks you’d even want to go, but thankfully he continues. “Real big, real fun, real cool…” he reaches into his pocket, pulling his hand out and passing some cash over to you. “…really need someone to bring the Mary Jane.”

You tilt your head at him, looking between him and the cash before sliding your vape into your jacket pocket. You pluck the cash from his hands and flick through the stack. There’s a couple thousand dollars here — broken up into smaller bills because why not — a little over a thousand by your count, sixteen hundred to be exact, which is far more than you usually charge to supply a party, but if the rich boy wants to give you all his money then you’re not gonna stop him.

Perhaps, this might make you a thief to some, but really, what’s one more negative connotation added to your name?

You slip the cash in your pocket and nod. “I’ll be there at ten.”

He flashes you a smile as you walk past him and brush your shoulder against his. There’s no force behind it — okay there’s a little force behind it, not a lot though — but still he flinches at the pressure and you don’t miss the way he reaches up to rub at his shoulder out of your peripherals.

That reminds you that you need to make a few things clear. Well, one thing, specifically.

“Oh, and Charles?” He hates that name, thinks it makes him seem like an old man and what better way to ensure he knows you’re serious than calling him by his government. He seems to understand this as his eyes snap to yours and he tenses. “If North Shore wants a chance at making it to state this year, it’d be in your best interest to ensure your brother is on his best behavior tonight. Unless, of course, Lucas wants more broken bones. You got me?”

The bell rings behind you then, a seemingly ominous warning to the boy whose face is now alight with fear. You don’t bother waiting on a response, you know he’ll obey your wishes. You smirk and turn on your heels, disappearing into the school.

— — — —

You show up at 9:45.

Fifteen minutes before the agreed upon time, a rather gracious compromise in your opinion.

One you’re already starting to regret as you walk into the house.

The music is blasting so loud you can barely hear yourself think. The house stinks of sweat from the hundreds of people crowded around each other, dancing, singing, laughing, and making out.

Everyone is drunk — some way more wasted than others — but somehow they all seem to sense your presence and part for you like the Red Sea. Some of them even turn their heads to see if it’s really you before quickly looking away and whispering to their friends.

You roll your eyes at that and Charlie takes this moment to finally make his appearance, trudging his way out of the kitchen. He makes a detour once he spots you and after a quick greeting, he leads you out to the backyard. “You got the stuff?”

“What a stupid question,” you scoff. “You think I’d take your money and then show up to this party empty handed with this duffle just for fun?”

You shrug the bag off and place it on the ground between the two of you, unzipping it as you do so. Inside is a bunch of pre-rolled joints and plenty of bags of weed for those who prefer to use a bong. There’s some rolling papers in there so people can roll their own joints, but you’re pretty sure if anyone does rolls their own joints tonight they are not using the weed you bought — because they don’t trust you so they won’t trust the weed you bought, and also no one goes to a party without their own weed. On the off chance that they do use yours, however, the necessary supplies are there.

Charlie whistles at the haul, eyes wide, clearly not having expected this much from you, but that’s not really surprising.

“Damn, I knew you were a pothead but that’s pathetic even for you.”

It is surprising, however, that Charlie took time out of his day to summon an actual demon from hell to this party.

You say this out loud. On purpose. Because it’s your mouth and you’ll say whatever you want.

“What the fuck did you just say?”

You turn your head to see none other than the devil herself, Regina George, glaring at you.

“You fucking heard me, Regina. You’re a demon and you should go crawl back into whatever fiery pit of hell you came out of.”

“Yikes, someone’s feeling dramatic today. But if I left, who would teach you how to dress?”

You chuckle and shove your hands into your pants pockets. “Rather presumptuous of you to assume I would want fashion advice from someone who looks like a copy and paste Barbie doll.”

“Oh, sweetie, it’s adorable that you think your opinion matters-,”

You hold your hand up to stop any further comments and start talking over Regina, effectively cutting her off and shutting her up. “I’m so glad you said that because your opinion does not matter at all, not to me especially when I didn’t even ask, and acting like it does is only going to do you a disservice so I’m gonna go ahead and let you know - I don’t care and you can keep the rest of your shitty opinions to yourself.”

Regina scowls and steps into your personal space, pointing her finger at you, inches away from jabbing into your skin. She’s towering over you slightly and now that she’s so close, you have to tilt your head up to hold eye contact with her. “Listen here you little bitch-,”

For the second time in less than a minute, you cut Regina off, smirking at the little vein that bulges on her forehead. “No, I don’t think I will, actually.”

Regina is about to blow. You can see it in her eyes, in the way her shoulders are so tense, and if you can see it so can anyone else in the vicinity. You lean closer, lowering your voice to a whisper so only she can hear. “Be honest, are you just mad this shirt got to come out of the closet, and you didn’t?”

Regina’s hands are fast.

SMACK!

But so are yours.

You catch her wrist in your hand before her open palm can collide with your cheek, the sound echoing like a gunshot in the backyard. A hush falls around those outside and you feel dozens of eyes lock on the two of you.

Regina tries to pull her hand away and you tighten your grip in response - not enough to leave marks or to cause pain, just enough so she’s forced to stay where she is.

She glares at you, her eyes alight with fury and jaw tense. The air crackles with the intensity of her anger, and you can feel the heat of her rage radiating towards you. But there’s no backing down now.

“Enough, Regina!” you snap, your voice firm and unyielding. “This isn’t the time or place for this!”

Her eyes narrow, and for a moment, it seems like she might explode again. But you hold your ground, your own anger flaring to match hers.

“We’re not doing this,” you continue, your tone brooking no argument. “Not here, not now.”

She looks ready to argue, but you cut her off, stepping forward with a fierce determination. “Back off, Regina. We’ll settle this later.”

The tension hangs thick in the air, but she finally takes a step back and you release her, her jaw still clenched. Without waiting for her to respond, you turn on your heel and stride away, your heart pounding with the adrenaline of the confrontation.

You venture inside and slip into the kitchen, grabbing a beer. You down it in one go and grab another one for the road before leaving out the front door.

It’s gonna be a hell of a day tomorrow.

[nonbinarybrainstorm]

Request: IDW, Brainstorm/Getaway, simultaneous penetration (idk if there's an accurate descriptor, imagine them fucking/being fucked each other at same time). I really enjoy the idea of Storm (a self-proported egomaniac) and Getaway (often puts a facade of sucking up as a means)

Additional content: Rough sex, (kinda) quid pro quo

Brainstorm sighs as he finally opens the door to meet Getaway who’d been pestering him from behind the thick (but clearly not thick enough if Getaway’s voice could still make it through) metal, glaring at the sly mech. Getaway doesn’t wait a moment before pushing in past Brainstorm while rambling off but Brainstorm had stopped listening a while ago.

Grabbing Getaway by the shoulder, Brainstorm turns him around, “I told you to lay off already! I have too many projects as it is, I don’t need to take on whatever inane idea you have.”

Undeterred, Getaway presses into his space, “Aw, c’mon… It’s just a little pistol. You love making those!”

Brainstorm scoffs and pushes him back before going to his workbench, determined to ignore Getaway but now that menace is actually in his lab, and knowing that is like an itch on the back of Brainstorm’s helm… There’s a long beat of silence before Brainstorm feels a light tickle on one of his mounted guns and he whips around to grab Getaway’s wrist only to be crowded against his workbench.

“What’s all of this for anyway?” Getaway’s tone dips into something smooth, confident even, “You’ve been on strangely good behavior lately… why is that? It’s not because of Perceptor, is it?”

Brainstorm stiffens and tries to push Getaway back only for the speedster to grab his hips, thumbs gliding over his plating.

“There’s no use in trying to impress the guy, Stormy, he’s just his own kind of mad genius stuck in his own little world,” Getaway insists as he tucks his pointer digits into the seams of Brainstorm’s panty plates, teasing the delicate wiring there, “You should focus on someone who already appreciates your talents…”

It’s pointless to resist the sensation, Brainstorm shivers at the charge crackling from Getaway’s hands, all the way up his spinal strut.

“You make it sound like your idea is actually worth my time,” Brainstorm scoffs but his cocky attitude is severely diminished by the soft hum of his fans.

“But Stormy…” Getaway’s hand travels around Brainstorm’s hip and trails down lightly to cup his codpiece, earning a soft grunt, “You know I’m good for it.”

“I told you not to call me that,” Brainstorm grits out as Getaway starts rubbing over his panel, sending little sparks of charge through it. He stumbles back a bit, propping himself up on his workbench while Getaway rubs his panels.

Getaway follows after him eagerly and Brainstorm groans at the soft hiss of Getaway releasing and pressurizing his spike, “Ugh, how do I keep letting myself get here?”

“You know I can give you what you want, what you need,” Getaway purrs, finding the manual release on Brainstorm’s panels and dipping a digit into Brainstorm’s warm valve to coax it into producing lubricant.

Brainstorm sucks in more air through his vents and spreads his legs, letting Getaway finger his pale valve, the thin strips of biolights flaring as lubricant begins to trail down Getaway’s fingers. Getaway slips his digits out of Brainstorm’s valve and slides his slick fingers up Brainstorm’s spike before curling his hand around it to squeeze firmly, forcing a groan out of Brainstorm.

“Just make up your mind already!” Brainstorm snaps only to be cut off by a moan as Getaway starts pumping his fist over Brainstorm’s spike.

“Actually, I was thinking of trying something. You like innovation, so, you’re gonna love this,” Getaway taunts as he shifts his legs, hooking one over Brainstorm’s hips.

There’s a distinct creak of metal as Brainstorm grips the edge of the workbench at the feeling of Getaway pushing his valve onto Brainstorm’s spike, the tight little space already feeling so wet and hot.

“Hah, n-now the tricky part…” Getaway swallows down his moans and moves back slightly to grab his own spike, basking under Brainstorm’s rapt attention as he watches Getaway move his spike down to rub against the folds of Brainstorm’s valve. It takes some maneuvering and more than a little cursing until Getaway’s spike is rubbing against Brainstorm’s spikes now both firmly pushing into each other’s valves.

“Ah… this is definitely one of your more creative ideas,” Brainstorm pants out only to grab at Getaway as he starts to finally move.

The movements of their hips are awkward and jittery at first, unused to the position until they’re just pushing and grinding against each other, their spikes no longer rubbing roughly together now sliding with the aid of the lubricant building between their valves. As they grind against each other, their anterior nodes bump and flare as the touch completes the circuit, making the charge bloom between them. It’s a mess of heat and charged lubricant that has Brainstorm feeling like he’s losing his mind, finding it hard to tell where he begins and Getaway ends. He feels so full as Getaway’s spike pulses in his valve, the shallow ridge just under the head of his spike catching and connecting with the strips of nodes along Brainstorm’s soft walls as he feels his own spike practically milked by Getaway’s valve that spasms and squeezes around his spike.

Brainstorm hefts Getaway up and flips them around to pin Getaway down, hiking his leg up higher to get closer, deeper as he curls his own leg up over Getaway’s other leg to plant a knee on the bench, now properly fragging Getaway. Lubricant drips onto the pristine surface as Brainstorm uses Getaway’s spike and valve, their valves kissing every time Brainstorm thrusts against Getaway who can do nothing now locked in Brainstorm’s hold and wracked with the charge building between them. Getaway grabs at Brainstorm’s back, trying to find a purchase on anything as his legs twitch uselessly against Brainstorm and he tucks his head against Brainstorm’s shoulder, his processor feeling fully fried. His back hits the bench as Brainstorm slams him down, pushing as deep as he can into Getaway while taking his spike in equal measure and Getaway feels heat bloom inside his valve as a sudden wave of charge overwhelms him, dragging him into overload by force.

Getaway’s digits scratch up Brainstorm’s paint as he cries out, shaking as he spills his own load into Brainstorm as more and more of Brainstorm’s transfluid fills his hungry valve until he’s weak and fully spent. Transfluid and lubricant run down his thighs as Brainstorm pulls away, leaving him feeling far too cold as the frigid air of the lab brushes against Getaway’s exposed spike and valve now a mess of fluids, his spike still twitching in the air. Brainstorm picks up a cloth and starts cleaning himself of their mixed lubricant and transfluid, unbothered by the mech he’s left mewling on his workbench.

“Fine, I’ll work on your stupid pistol while you clean that up,” Brainstorm flicks his chin and Getaway follows the motion to look at the small puddle that formed along with the small patch on the edge of the workbench that’s dripping down.

“Heh, sure, no problem,” Getaway catches the other cloth Brainstorm picks up and tosses at him, waiting until Brainstorm is engrossed in his work to stand on incredibly jittery legs, hissing, “Damn…”

[daintylovers]

Champagne Coast

1.1 Pilot

Seth Cohen x Hailey Atwood (oc)

A/N: hehehehe I just loooovvveeee my stiles stilinski variants. this is an oc and she is ryans sister- twins! at least, same ages. I'm gonna try not to have too many physical descriptors of her, for all we know she could be adopted. hope you enjoy!

"Trey, what if we get caught?" Ryan was always so quick to assume the worst.

"Ryan," I started, "We won't get caught, but you might if you keep overthinking things."

"Hailey, this is grand theft auto. Real-life fucking grand theft auto, not the video game. Something seriously could go wrong." I just rolled my eyes in response. We had done this several times by now, jacking cars for parts. We needed the money, and of course driving around random cars was always fun. A way to blow off steam from the stress of everyday life.

Catching on to my facial expression, Trey slung his arm around my shoulder, "There's the spirit, Bambi." That was my designated nickname. It was a running joke, at first glance everyone assumed I was just an innocent little thing. It helped me get out of sticky situations. More than enough.

"Come on Ryan. Are you in? Or are you out?" Aforementioned boy sent a glare in my direction, willing me to change my mind. I just shook my head with a smile. No way out of this one.

One of Ryan's best qualities was his inability to say no to me. I was always dragging him into my messes, and thankfully he would always arrive with a mop in hand. Ready to clean up the disasters left in my wake. I could feel sorry for him, if I thought about it enough. But that's just it, I didn't.

If it weren't for me, we might be stuck living at this house, for the rest of our lives. No stories to tell, no anything, really. I can't live like this. And he shouldn't have to. Ryan was one of the good ones. And if I could find a way to get him out of here, he could establish himself, and pull me from these ashes.

"Fine. But," Here comes the ultimatum, "Hailey, you stay as far away as possible. You aren't getting thrown in a cell again." Oh, but it's fine if he does it?

All three of us had terrible track records. From fights to breaking and entering, the cops were our biggest fans around Chino. But now we had to be more careful than ever. Trey wasn't a minor anymore. While Ryan and I were each one way from juvie. Ryan had been on the fence for three months now. While I got my final warning just last week, for punching a guy in the nose. He had been trying to grind up against one of my friends, and she had repeatedly told him to fuck off. But to no avail. Ryan tried to hold me back, but I had slipped easily from his grasp, hitting my target so forcefully that his head snapped back and his nose was left bleeding and crooked.

****

Our target was a shiny, souped-out black sports car. I wanted her. I debated trying to convince Trey to let us keep it for a few days.

Ryan was still wary so Trey began to speak, "I'm your big brother. If I don't teach you this, then who will?" Then he smashed the window open. So much for keeping it for a little.

"I don't know Trey-"

"Hailey, get Ryan to get in the car or I will leave his ass for dead." Could have just told him that yourself. I wasn't Trey's biggest fan, but he got shit done. I admired that. Very resilient, the lot of us.

Ryan climbed into the passenger seat, while I took up the back. Situating myself in the middle, I had the perfect view and the empty streets we were about to race. Trey hotwired the car like it was nothing and we were on our way.

Except we didn't get very far before sirens started following us. Fuck.

"Trey pull over."

"Ryan- fuck off man no way."

I tried, "Trey, please. Maybe we can make a run for it."

Trey turned around to spat something at me, but swerved the wheel on accident, causing the car to smash into the building adjacent.

Kids, always wear your seatbelt. Especially if the driver is a fucking idiot. I flew from my seat, but Ryan's arm caught me and pushed me back. My head bounced off the seats. My ears started ringing, and I swear my neck almost snapped from the force.

Someone was talking, but I couldn't make out the words. Or the voice for that matter. But the flashing lights told me enough. I watched Ryan put his hands up, and look at me. He jerked his arms up a little and I got the memo.

With raised arms and my head spinning, I tried to prepare myself for the jail cell.

****

My neck hurt like no other when I awoke. One of the guards had been knocking against the bars, guess I hadn't heard him. He looked pissed. "Get up kid, Someone is here to see you." Who the fuck could that be?

With bleary eyes, I forced myself into a standing position. I held my wrists out so he could slap the cuffs on them before he led me to the visitation room.

Walking in, I spotted Ryan instantly. He was sitting with some older man, who had papers out in front of him.

Like he had some type of sixth sense, Ryan turned his head to face my direction, giving me a soft smile, happy I was alright. He was always the more worried one during this type of thing. He had a point though, girls are never treated the same.

Sitting down, he was quick to assure, "Bambi- you alright?"

I nodded, my throat feeling scratchy. He looked at me with concern, "How's your neck? The crash probably affected you more."

"I'm fine Ryan. Just a little banged up" I replied, voice sounding like hell.

I turned to face the newbie, who was watching our interaction like a hawk.

"Hailey, it's nice to meet you. My name is Sandy Cohen, and I have been appointed as your guy's public defender."

Having already thought about my fate all night, I wasn't feeling too hopeful. I just stared at him, with no expression. He didn't care if I rotted in prison for the rest of my life. No one did. Besides Ryan, but because of me, we would rot together.

Ryan asked about Trey, and that made me pay more attention. Was it bad, that I had forgotten about him? During my all-night freakout session, I hadn't once thought about how this would affect him. The only things on my mind had been about Ryan and I.

"Well, Trey is over eighteen. Trey stole a car, had a gun in his pants, an ounce of pot, and a couple of priors," He had a gun? "Trey is looking at anywhere from three to five years."

The man, Sandy, continued, "I'm not here for Trey. I'm here for you two. Ryan, your grades? Why is a smart kid like you in here right now?" Because of me. "And Hailey, you have community service written every which way. What, steal a car to help out the neighborhood?"

I couldn't help myself, "Something like that."

"She speaks." He laughed a little. I just stared at him. "Hailey, fighting? That doesn't seem like you. Ryan, truancy charges? Come on guys, why are you doing this to yourselves?"

Not receiving any answers, he trudged on, "What is your guys' plan for the future? College? Trade School? Anything?" This guy was trying so hard to remain hopeful for us. What a joke.

But- if we're really being honest, his questioning was making me a little sad. I had no future. Never really did. But Ryan? God, Ryan could do so much. I think I might be sick.

I guess my face cracked, losing it's blank expression in exchange for desperate eyes. If you looked extra close, my lip was sure to be quivering. If Trey were here, he would have laughed at me. He didn't take too kindly to emotions. Ryan learned that quicker than I did growing up, which is why his expression never faltered.

"Mr. Cohen, with all due respect, modern medicine is advancing to the point where the average human life expectancy will be one hundred. But I read this article that said social security was bound to run out by the year of 2025. Which means people are going to have to stay in their jobs until they're eighty. So, we don't want to commit to anything too soon."

Sandy laughed, but persisted, "Look, I can plead this down to a misdemeanor. Petty fine, probation. But seriously guys, stealing a car because your big brother wanted you to it's stupid and weak. Two things, neither of you can afford to be right now." Well, actually we can't afford to be anything right now- fancy lawyer ass. "We three are cut from the same cloth. I know it may not look like it right now, but I was once in your position."

I cut him off, done with whatever this was supposed to be, "And look at you now, hot shot." He hadn't expected that. Just a minute ago I looked ready to crumble, but now I was turning my desperation into anger. I just wanted this to be over.

****

Mr. Cohen managed to get us out, shortly after. Now the sun was blaring down on us. I had Ryan on one side, and Mr. Cohen on the other.

"My office will be in contact to remind you of your court date."

"Got it," Ryan answered, as our mother's car screeched up to us.

She stumbled out and thrust her poorly manicured finger into my face. "Unbelievable! This is the kind of family I got. Pathetic!"

Mr. Cohen looked like he was the one getting publically berated. "Ms. Atwood? My name is Sandy Cohen. I am Ryan and Hailey's attorney."

"You should have let them rot in there. Just like their daddy. Just like their stupid brother." Then she grabbed my wrist, pulling me to the car, "Let's go! Now!"

I was already buckled in, not wanting a re-run of last night, before Ryan got in. His hand reached back, and I took the tiny card from him.

It was Mr. Cohen's card.

****

Once back at the house, a pit of dread formed in my gut.

Mom had already poured herself another drink, before she turned her attention onto us, "I can't do this anymore."

"I'm sorry Mom," I answered almost immediately. I was always the one apologizing first. I hated myself for it, yet every time I couldn't help myself. The Bambi nickname was more accurate than most people knew. Deep down, I desperately craved some sort of parental figure's love. Dad left, and Mom only cared when it benefited her.

"I want you out! Both of you."

"What?" I stuttered, tears springing to my eyes immediately. Hearing my wavering voice, Ryan was quick to grasp my hand, assuring me we would be fine. She didn't mean it. She never meant it. But the what-ifs always pestered me.

"Come on Mom, where do you expect us to go?"

Her boyfriend answered for her, "You heard her. Out! Now!"

Ryan was pissed, all of mom's boyfriend always treated us like shit. "This isn't your house, man."

"Oh, you think you're a tough guy, huh?"

Ryan's grasp on my hand tightened, and then he dropped it.

"Both of you, stop it." Mom tried, weakly.

But Ryan couldn't help himself, "Why don't you get the fuck out and stop freeloading off our mom."

The guy punched Ryan square in the nose, so hard that my brother stumbled back into me. I saw red.

I stepped out from behind Ryan and went to make my mark, but the guy was quick. He caught my fist in the air, twirling my arm around behind my back, then shoved me to the ground. My lip caught the corner of the side table, and I felt blood start to fill my mouth.

I felt someone lift me from the floor, knowing Ryan was the only one who would touch me after that. If I thought my head hurt before, then this was hell on earth.

We were out the door in minutes. Making quick to get the hell out of dodge.

****

No one wanted to house us. Ryan tried everyone we knew. I tried everyone and their mothers, and yet all we got was rejection. I had one last try, and my money dried up. Reaching into my back pocket, I pulled out the card we received just hours beforehand.

How did it get this fucked, so fast?

I showed the card to Ryan who just nodded, what other choice did we have. Sure the park benches were always an option, but after last time? No way.

Mr. Cohen was the only one to pick up.

****

The house we pulled up to was something straight out of a movie. I didn't even realize people actually lived like this. Talk about growing up on the wrong side of the tracks.

We were just about to go inside before Mr. Cohen stopped us and told us to wait just a little.

Not having any other options we nodded our heads.

Ryan started walking down the driveway, pulling his pack of cigs from his jeans pockets. I followed him down, waiting for him to finish lighting up.

Once he took his first puff, he looked down at my puppy dog eyes. He smoked but hated it when I did it. But I guess he was feeling sorry for me because he handed me his pack.

He turned his gaze ahead of him, so I took one out. Then after a second thought, I took a few more out, hiding them in my jacket pocket.

"Put them back." He chided.

Damn, I thought I was safe. I put most of them back, keeping an extra one. He turned and gave me a look, not having my antics.

"Please, Ryan. Just this once."

"You're getting your once right now," He said, sneaking his hand into the pocket to retrieve his stolen goods. Then he offered me the light and allowed me a taste of heaven.

Looking up, I spotted a girl across us. She was staring at Ryan. Of course, she was staring at Ryan.

Feeling a little out of place, I made my way up the driveway again. These rich people need to lock up their homes more carefully.

I made my way through the backyard, careful not to fall into the gigantic fucking pool in the middle. If I had a house like this, I would swim every night.

I continued snooping around and noticed the back door to the house was also unlocked. I stubbed out the rest of my cigarette and made my way inside.

Making my way around the corner, I was caught by the owners. And Ryan.

"There she is, girl of the hour. Thank you for gracing us with your presence." Mr. Cohen joked, while his wife looked like her head might pop off at any minute.

Sheepishly, I waved my hand and made my way to stand next to Ryan.

"You must be Hailey," the woman said, offering her hand. I shook it while nodding my head. "Great, well, you two will be staying in the pool house. Which I'm sure you have already found." Touche.

"Thank you, Mrs. Cohen." Ryan and I said in unison like the Shinning Twins.

The rest of the night was spent in said pool house. I had wanted to keep wandering, but Ryan wouldn't allow it. So instead we both tried sleeping, tried being the keyword.

****

I woke before Ryan did. Odd, because normally it was the other way around.

Tip-toeing around his sleeping form, I successfully exited the pool house.

I wasn't alone for long before, I heard a slight shriek. Looking inside the house, I saw two doe eyes staring back at me. Then I let out my own shriek. Who the hell is that?

He was clearly younger than Mr. Cohen, but I wasn't aware they had a kid. Unless they didn't, and this was some sort of looter.

Sliding open the door that separated us, the boy stepped outside, ready to question me. But I beat him to it, "Who the hell are you?"

"Huh- Who the hell am I? Who the hell are you? Why are you in my backyard?"

"Wait, you live here?" So not a looter, my first theory was proving to be more accurate.

"Yes!" He exclaimed, "But you don't live here. And you're pretty, but with the cut on your lip, I'm assuming you aren't here to befriend me. So please leave before I get my lawyer dad to throw your ass in jail."

"Well your lawyer dad, just helped get my ass out of jail. So I feel pretty good about my standing with him right now."

This made him falter, "Wait, aren't you supposed to be a boy?"

I just raised my eyebrow at him.

"Sorry, my mistake. I must have heard wrong last night," then to save his ass, he extended his hand, "Truce?"

"Sure, spaz." and I put my hand in his. We awkwardly shook hands for longer than necessary, before I pulled away.

"Seth, but close enough. Wanna play video games?"

****

We played on his living room floor for about thirty minutes before Ryan caught us.

"What the hell Hailey, you left?" Seth swerved his head toward the intruder so fast, that I was worried he was gonna get whiplash.

Answering the question I knew was on the brunette's lips, I said, "Technically Ryan, I didn't leave. I relocated."

I looked to Seth, with his big questioning eyes, "Seth, meet Ryan. Ryan meets Seth. You two are like opposite sides of a coin." Then I smiled at Ryan, mouthing "sorry".

"Hi, Ryan. I wasn't aware there were two of you." That last bit was directed to me. I shrugged my shoulders. "Well, you want to play?"

****

In the next few hours, I received a lot of information. Seth was in love with Summer, a girl, not the season. Ryan was in love with Marissa, the girl from last night. But most importantly, Kirsten, the woman from last night, was in love with playing dress up.

We were currently residing in her room after she insisted that Ryan and I should attend the fashion show later that night. She had heard that Ryan was invited and thought that meant I would want to go too.

Don't get me wrong, in another life, I would eat this up. But, I didn't have high hopes for trying to fit into this richy rich society.

Kirsten had loaned me a dress, light pink silk that dropped down to my knees, with an asymmetrical hem at the bottom.

"That looks great" she smiled. Catching her gaze in the mirror, I tried to smile, but it looked more like I was in pain. She wasn't wrong, it did look great. Probably the greatest I have and would ever look. But I just felt so empty.

No empty was the wrong word. I felt too much, like one wrong breeze and I would fall off the cliff I was on.

"Thank you for the dress. And for your hospitality."

She made her way behind me, patting my back gently, "Come on sweetheart, the boys are probably waiting."

****

"Welcome to the dark side." Seth introduced. We had arrived at the function, and I was trying to stay mindful of why I was invited.

The show started soon after we took our seats. Ryan's Barbie doll, the model-faced girlfriend came out first. Then a slightly shorter brunette bounced out after, and Seth turned to whisper in my ear, "That's Summer." Of course, it was.

He tilted his head slightly to look at me, waiting for my approval. I gave him a thumbs up, then brought my lips up to the shell of his ear, "She's really pretty Cohen. Watch out, I might just steal her from you."

Pulling back, I looked at him and we erupted into giggles.

Once we turned our attention back to the show, I noticed that Summer had already gone back. So much for Seth's five-second glance at her.

I turned back to him one last time, ready to mouth "sorry", but he was already looking at me. I proceeded anyway, but with my cheeks heating up. He just shrugged his shoulders, then reached out to turn my head back.

After the show, Seth and I managed to be separated from the rest of the group. After failing to find our group, we lingered off to the side.

"You know, you could have been up there tonight." he started.

I looked up at him and gave him a smile, "Really? I was thinking the same about you. I could totally see you swinging your hips to be beat up there."

His cheeks turned red, but before he could come up with another witty comeback, Ryan found us. "Guys, we should go to that girl Holly's house. She's throwing a party."

"A party? No- no I'm good actually. I like my house."

Never one to back down from a party I said, "Come on Cohen, what if Summer is there."

That got his attention, cheeks turning brighter by the second.

"Come on!" A girl from the back of the car ahead called out.

Looking at Seth one more time, I wiggled my eyebrows and started walking back. "Come on Seth, you heard the girl." Then I turned on my heel and got into the car.

Looking around, I noticed a certain brunette bombshell was sitting right next to me. She offered me her hand and I accepted, "I'm Summer. You're Ryan's sister right?"

"That's so close, you almost knew my name!" She looked embarrassed and I felt guilty. "I'm Hailey, and yes, I am Ryan's sister."

"Awesome!"

****

I had been at the party for about an hour now, and still no sign of the boys. Not that I had searched too hard for them. Instead, my eyes had spotted the booze fairly quickly, and that ended up with me dancing with some guy. He was cute, but not cute enough for me to stop thinking about Seth. I hoped he actually came out. He needs to experience life a little.

Parting ways with the guy, I motioned to the drinks and he followed suit.

Then I spotted just who I was looking for. "Seth!" I stumbled over to him.

He turned around fairly fast and caught me as I thrust myself into him, going for a hug but failing. He laughed and held me up, hands on my waist. "Hailey!"

"You have a boyfriend?" A voice interrupted.

"Boy-boyfriend, no, no I'm sorry," Seth said to my former dance partner. Who ignored the boy, looking at me instead.

I was bored of him so I just nodded my head and then turned to ignore him.

He must have left as I made my way to get another drink because Seth came to stand right next to me. "How much have you had to drink?" He asked.

"How much have you had to drink?" I tried to counter. He just laughed at me, before a commotion erupted outside.

Noticing Ryan wasn't near us, I had a sneaking suspicion that he might be involved in whatever was transpiring outside. I tried getting through the crowded kitchen, but between being slightly more than drunk and being shoved back by unsuspecting elbows, I wasn't making it very far.

Seth, noticing I hadn't made it as far as he had, turned back to grasp my hand, and then pulled me through.

Once we got outside, I watched Ryan get knocked in the face by some blonde douchebag who shouted, "Welcome to the O.C. bitch!"

What the fuck is happening?

****

We left the party quickly after.

Coming out of the bathroom, I felt refreshed after being able to take a hot shower. Ryan and Seth were sat on the couch by the bed, talking about the night.

When I came out, both boys looked at me and then held up snacks.

We talked and giggled for a while until each one of us had our eyes closing by themselves. Seth had been curled up on one side of the couch for a while now. Any minute and he would be out like a light.

I excused myself to use the bathroom one last time, as Ryan went out for another smoke.

When I came out, albeit I took a little longer than anticipated Ryan and his Barbie doll were curled up on the bed. Damn. That was my spot.

My only other option was the floor, or the side of the couch that Cohen fist rested on. I made my way to the couch, gently pushing his legs to the side, trying to get the pillow that he rested on. I figured the floor was a safer place than being kicked in the head in the middle of the night.

I was trying to be subtle, not wake the sleeping boy, but he foiled my plans. "What are you doing?" he whispered soft, voice clogged with drowsiness.

"Nothing, go back to bed."

He sat up, rubbing at his eyes the way a small child would, "Seriously, Hailey, are you sleeping on the floor?" he questioned.

He made a move to get up, but I placed my hands on his shoulders pushing down slightly. "Seriously, I'm not letting you take the floor. If you're going to be so stubborn, just sleep on the couch with me."

"Cohen, I don't want your freakishly long legs to kick me."

"They won't. Just come on," he said, removing my hands from his shoulders so he could scoot over. "See, enough room for two."

I debated it for a second, I had never slept in the same spot as a boy. But Cohen took my silence as rejection and immediately moved to stand. "I'm sorry, I- I should take the floor."

"No!" I was quick to interject.

"No?"

"No- just lay down again."

"Are you sure?"

"Positive Cohen."

And with that, he laid back down and opened up his arms. I crawled next to him, my back to his chest. He encircled by frame, "Is this okay?" I nodded in response, feeling the sleep hit almost immediately.

****

"Look, Ryan, Hailey, I'm sorry. I don't mean to play bad cop, It's nothing personal," Kirsten started.

Just minutes ago she had burst into the pool house, furious in only a way a mother can be. She didn't even question the fact that I was in her sons arms, only glaring at him and pointing behind her.

Seth got the hint and removed himself from me, following his mom back into the house like a scolded puppy.

Ryan and I made our way in shortly after, headed for the kitchen for one last meal before we were inevitably kicked out.

"I'm sorry, you two seem like such nice kids."

"It's okay, we get it," Ryan answered.

She was nice enough to allow us to stay by the Seth, so we made the trek upstairs.

Knocking on the door, I entered first. "We have to go," I told him.

"You're leaving?" he questioned, clearly sad.

Ryan spoke up, "We have to take care of some things back home."

Seth got up and shook Ryans out stretched hand. They did a typical boy handshake, before turning to me.

Seth and I looked at each other, unsure of what to do. I made the first move, going in to wrap my arms around his waist. I felt him stiffen at first, and then he reciprocated my motion.

When we pulled away he said, "Well, I can't wait to come visit you guys down in Chino. You can show me your world."

****

Our world no longer existed.

Once we pulled up to the house, Ryan and I were met with the shell of our home. Abandoned with a single poorly written letter.

Awesome.

"Come on." Mr. Cohen, our savior, to the rescue once again.

Back to exploring Seth's world instead.

****

A/N: holy fuck this took so long to write. but- yipee!! thank you for reading <3

[onbearfeet]

Bloodstone Manor Location Masterpost

Okay, since the next bit of Monster Mash is gonna have to happen at/near Bloodstone Manor and Ted needs to go for a walk in the woods nearby, where do we think it is? The US and UK are the leading candidates in the fandom, but I need to pick a spot so my characters can get the fuck out of Ohio. My money is on the US, but I'm open to counterpoints.

Things to bear in mind:

1. Ulysses had a British accent. Elsa's accent is posh British. Verussa had an American accent, with some Broadway Mid-Atlantic that could suggest fancy New England OR just putting on airs. It's entirely possible one of the couple moved to be with the other, but that doesn’t settle which side of the ocean it happened on. Elsa's accent could be from a UK childhood OR a UK boarding school OR a choice to emulate her mother and annoy Verussa.

2. The house is old--or at least full of old stuff--but there's something of a history of Europeans bringing their weird-ass shit across the Atlantic and building absolutely batshit mansions in the US. Probably because there's more open space for it here.

3. The establishing shot of the rotunda shows it in hilly or mountainous terrain, with what looks like pine forest around it, and it sits on a parcel that is either big enough or far enough from neighbors that no one expects any outside response to roars, screams, explosions, etc. Either there's no one around to hear it or people REALLY mind their own business.

4. Of the hunters who make it to the funeral, one has a Scottish accent, two have American or Canadian accents, and one has what sounds like a South Korean accent (although apparently the actor was born in Argentina and moved to the US in the 90s, and I'm going off the many Korean-American voices I've heard at work, so "Korean-American" might be a better descriptor). Those are the people with connections to Ulysses and the time, resources, and motivation to show up to wherever this is. That suggests the location is most accessible to these people and not others. (Yes, I know, I've left out Jack's accent, but he was going to travel to wherever Ted was anyway; he had enough motivation that distance alone wasn't going to stop him.) North America has the numbers here; it's more likely that one Scot got on an international flight than that two North Americans did.

5. The guards are wearing "tacticool" BDUs and carrying some kind of zappy sticks or stun batons. The lack of guns is interesting and may indicate a location with stricter gun laws than the US ... or just that Verussa didn't want to accidentally kill her captive and that a lot of monsters are bulletproof anyway. The guards look and move a hell of a lot like an American tactical team and sound vaguely American when they're screaming. Would Verussa import guards, or hire local muscle? My money is on the latter.

6. Ulysses was old as balls. In the comics, he was positively ancient, and the opening narration implies he was old enough to be wearing pre-20th-century clothes in a flashback. He's definitely old enough to have gotten his hands on a nice piece of property in the UK, but also rich enough to have just bought a mountain in the US. He was also around for the last century-plus of history, and that may have affected his choice of headquarters. If the original Bloodstone Manor got bombed out during World War 2, for example, he might have moved to a less bomb-filled location.

7. Corpse Muppet! Verussa found somebody willing to turn her husband's remains into a Cryptkeeper animatronic. I have no idea whether that's a thing in the UK, but there are definitely enough weirdo taxidermists, puppeteers, and general pieces of work here that someone would take Verussa's money to do it. There are even subcultures here that traditionally sit the corpse up at the table for the wake, so it might not even be that weird to the right professional.

8. Flaming Tuba Guy is available for the funeral. Real Flaming Tuba Guy is American and takes his flaming tuba to Burning Man. I have no idea whether the UK is also a likely place to find a dude with a flaming tuba, but I have difficulty imagining a smooth process for getting a combination brass instrument/flamethrower through customs. I don't think there's a lot of international Flaming Tuba action unless private jets get involved. Wherever Flaming Tuba is from, I'm betting that's the jurisdiction where Bloodstone Manor is.

9. Jack makes it to Bloodstone Manor. Now, I've talked before about his being highly motivated and distance not being an obstacle for him, but if we assume he didn't use a magic portal or something (big if, I know), he had to go by land, sea, or air, and that takes time, no matter how motivated he is. Jack is centuries old, has a history of involvement with violence, and speaks with a Mexican accent. Wherever the Manor is, a dude matching that description was able to get there in time without setting off a ton of international alerts. The fact that Jack is as old as he is AND unknown to the hunters despite being a werewolf suggests that he prefers to keep a low profile, and by now he's practiced at it. He wouldn't want to leave a paper trail, especially when he's on a rescue mission that he knows will likely involve killing people. (I know he doesn't WANT to kill anybody, but the odds of him and Ted getting out of there with a zero body count were always slim. And he brought a bomb in his pocket.) Between his money and his accent, Jack would have an easier time moving around undetected in North America; he could reach a North American Manor by car rather than having to smuggle himself on a boat, charter a private plane (with a flight plan!), or go through customs at Heathrow or wherever. Not that he wouldn't risk getting on SHIELD's radar to save Ted, but if the hunt happened soon after Ted's capture, Jack would be more likely to physically reach the Manor in time if it were in North America.

10. Ted! Ted is at the funeral, obviously. In the comics, Ted canonically lives in the Everglades and honestly that's the best place for him. Verussa would have to have Ted transported from Florida to wherever the Manor is. All the logistical problems of moving Jack across an ocean are magnified in moving TED across an ocean. Again, it's much easier to move him within North America, which I'd consider a point in favor of a North American Manor. If the Manor were in the UK, wouldn't Verussa have gone for a victim based closer to home?

11. Sushi. "Let's do sushi; I owe you that." Apparently Jack and Ted have a history with sushi. I have absolutely no idea how common sushi restaurants are in the UK, but on the west coast of North America, you can pretty much throw a stick and hit one. (I know this because I moved last fall, and one of my first priorities in the new place was Find The Good Local Restaurants. Google was like OH, YOU WANT SUSHI?! HERE ARE TWENTY PLACES. Seriously, it's almost as common as pizza, at least in California.) I assume the boys aren't heading into a major urban center for food after their escape, so wherever Bloodstone Manor is, Jack thinks he can find a rural, exurban, or suburban sushi restaurant within a couple hours' travel (close enough that he can go, pick up their order, and make it back to Ted before raw fish goes funky). Sushi restaurants, at least in the western US, tend to be run by East Asian immigrants--part of the larger culture of immigrants starting restaurants within the first or second generation of arriving here. For stupid racist reasons, most East Asian immigration to the US took place after 1965, so there are a lot of sushi restaurants here that were established in or after the 1980s. Sushi restaurants also tend to be more common in coastal regions here, presumably because REALLY fresh ocean fish get more expensive and harder to acquire farther inland. Jack proposing sushi, if he and Ted are sitting on a log in the US, suggests they're somewhere near a coast, in a region with a sizable post-1965 East Asian immigrant population. (BTW, the reason I keep saying "East Asian" instead of "Japanese" is because a LOT of these restaurants in my area are run by Korean families, more rarely Chinese or Vietnamese ones. I've been in exactly one sushi restaurant here that was run by a Japanese family, and it was 40 years old.) Of course, I don't know shit about the takeout culture of the UK; maybe Yorkshire is full of sushi restaurants or something.

Conclusions.

Between the geography, the accents, the material culture, and the logistics, I think the balance of probability suggests that Bloodstone Manor is in North America, most likely the United States. There are multiple hilly or mountainous regions with pine forests near coasts, close enough to centers of East Asian immigration that the boys can reliably get their sushi.

So with all that in mind ...

[foxyanon]

Zahkriisos

Summary: No summary, just notes. So for those who don’t know anything about Skyrim, I’m going to give a simple overview of a few things. The Dragonborn is essentially (in its most basic form) a hero of legend. Hermaeus Mora is a Daedric Prince (kind of like a demon) and his realm of Oblivion (kind of like hell) is Apocraphya (he’s know for being a hoarder of knowledge, hence the book named world). The title of the story gets its name from a dragon priest mask, which means Bloody Sword or Sword-Blood.

Pairing: Cultist!Masema x Dragonborn!Reader

Word Count: 2772

Rating: 18+, Minors DNI

TW: Implied smut, blood, mentions of death, Dragonborn is a Breton but no other descriptors used, religious references

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters from Wheel of Time or The Elder Scrolls nor do I own any of the images used.

Dividers by @arcielee

Masema had been found on the shores of Solstheim by the Skaal, having washed ashore after a bad storm ravaged the island a couple years ago. He had foggy memories of his life before, but he did know he was a warrior and not from here. He was taken in by the Skaal shaman, Storn Crag-Strider, and nursed back to health, so he felt he owed it to the old man to stay and help out as needed. Even though he never felt connected to the All-Maker the way everyone else in the village did, he was still respectful of the religion and the culture. Even though he wasn’t born of the people, they still treated him like one of their own which is why the shaman decided he should help protect the pilgrims during their pilgrimage to the All-Makers stones. It was to be a long journey, one that would take months as the stones were scattered across Solstheim’s landscape.

It was at the Beast Stone, just beyond the borders of Thirsk Mead Hall, where he felt his lord’s presence for the first time. They had traveled to all the other stones and this was the last one before they would return to the village, something Masema was grateful for as he was tired of living on the road. It’s not that he didn’t enjoy spending time in nature, but the northern part of the island was all snow and ice which meant it was really fucking cold all the time. He was standing guard over the camp when he heard Lord Miraak’s voice call out from the stone before he was enthralled, the entire party starting to chant about the return of the Dragonborn and erecting shrines to their new overlord. Masema followed the orders of Miraak, first through entrapment and then of his own free will as it was the closest he had felt to any divine being in his entire existence.

As the Cult of Miraak grew, he moved through the ranks and eventually was the one giving orders to the new recruits from the Temple of Miraak. When rumors of another Dragonborn reached his ears, Miraak had given the command for Masema to send people to eliminate the ‘false Dragonborn’ in Skyrim and upon proof of their death, he would be rewarded. At first he sent out some recruits who were eager to prove their loyalty, but when they didn’t return, he started to get suspicious. There were reports of what this mysterious person was capable of, claiming they could slay dragons single-handed and were currently one of the more well known adventurers of the land. After the third attempt at killing this person, Masema started sending the more skilled men and women. After eight months of failure and many dead worshippers, Masema was well and truly pissed. If he wasn’t needed at the Temple, he’d go out and handle business himself but that just wasn’t possible right now. Preparations for the return of Miraak to the island took priority, so he resigned himself to sending another small group in the hopes this thorn in his side would finally be dealt with.

It was another cold day in the temple when Masema heard the most wonderful news. The other Dragonborn had sailed from Skyrim and was currently at Raven Rock, thanks to none other than Gjaland Salt-Sage, the same ship captain he “persuaded” to send the cultists to Skyrim originally. He even learned that the secretive person was a Breton, but no name was ever revealed to him. He thought things were finally looking up and that he’d be able to deliver the body of the false one to his lord, but how seldom does the fantasy match the reality.

As it turns out, this mysterious creature was working with the Skaal to remove Lord Miraak’s influence from the island. Somehow, on one of his trips away to check on a few things at the Earth Stone, this infuriating Breton got into the temple, killed all the cultists there and stole the Black Book from its pedestal. The nerve of that foreigner to desecrate sacred ground really solidified his resentment for them. Masema decided to take matters into his own hands and search out the defiler on his own, swearing to his lord he would handle matters before he set off in search of his target. Naturally, of course, this would be a monumental task as he would have to be careful to avoid the people he once called friends and his elusive prey seemed to be a master of hiding in plain sight. The only identifying thing about them other than the full set of ebony armor was the mask they wore, the ebony metal hiding them from the world. He recognized it as Zahkriisos, the mask of the dragon priest that was buried in Blodskal Barrow, an old Nordic ruin north of Raven Rock.

He tracked his query across all the island, but they were always one step ahead of him. With the help of Frea, Storn’s daughter, they slowly but surely cleansed the stones and cut off Miraak from speaking with any of his worshippers. After the second to last stone was cleansed and the false one had obtained all of the Black Books, Masema knew he needed to return to the temple and try to defend the last stone. It was here that he heard his lord’s voice for what would be the last time, telling him that all was as it should be and that his destiny was to battle the Dragonborn at the summit of Apocrypha. Lord Miraak claimed that the fate that had been chosen for him would come to pass and that he was pleased with the loyalty and devotion Masema had shown him.

It was here that Masema was waiting for them, standing in front of the Tree Stone in his robes and mask, the last member of a once strong cult. He saw the Dragonborn glide down the hall, their cloak flowing behind them and the mask covering their face as well. He tried to determine the identity of the Dragonborn, but their armor covered them from head to toe, the ebony metal muted in appearance and fitted in the most generic of ways. The soft clanking of their boots on the stone echoed down the hall and into the chamber he occupied, steadily getting louder the closer they got. When they finally stopped several feet away, the tension was palpable as they sized the other up.

For a moment, they both stood there and stared at each other in silence, the weight of their respective destinies entwining with one another in the space between them. He noticed they traveled alone, the Black Book in their hands as they prepared for the final battle against Miraak. There was an energy that clung to them and their armor, the kind that only the favored of the gods could possess and that gave him pause. He found he had no desire to fight them, the futility of their situation coming into focus for him. He could not prevent their destiny from playing out, but he could choose whether he be another body for them or to stand aside and live another day. He chose the latter.

”I will not interfere with what fate has decreed. I shall watch over your spirit as you do what you must,” Masema stepped off to the side, head bowed slightly as he addressed the Dragonborn. The only response he received was a simple nod before the masked warrior opened the book, the tentacles of Hermaeus Mora bursting from the enchanted pages, wrapping around their form and pulling them into Oblivion with a sickeningly green flash of light. All that remained of the mysterious Breton was a spectral image, one that offered no insight to the identity of the physical person.

After what felt like an eternity of pacing back and forth in front of the stone, the book came alive and unceremoniously spit the body of the Dragonborn back out. Masema was startled at the sudden appearance, until he saw the blood dripping from a wound on their side and off their blade onto the stone ground beneath them. There was a new crack in the mask, their shoulders heaving as they pant in an attempt to catch a breath. No words needed to be said, Miraak was dead and the victor returned to the land of the living.

Wordlessly, Masema helped them up, careful not to agitate the wound as the two staggered down the dank halls of the crumbling temple. The walk to the old medical room passed in silence, the sounds of footsteps and heavy breathing bouncing off the stone walls with a soft echo. He helped the Dragonborn onto a wooden cot draped with furs before wandering towards the shelves in search of healing herbs or potions. He hears the telltale signs of the wounded Breton removing their armor, the sounds of metal and leather hitting the ground while his back is turned. When he turns around after having found a single healing potion amidst the disorganized shelf, he nearly drops the glass vial when he sees the Dragonborn for the first time.

He’s surprised to see a woman sitting on the cot, a thin wound bleeding from her hairline and the once pristine linen tunic sticking to her torso, the gash on her side bloodying the fabric. He was frozen in place, her eyes capturing his and the smirk gracing her lips indicating she is used to such behaviors. She holds her hand out, waiting for Masema to hand her the potion he holds. Even though her injuries look serious, she doesn’t push or taunt him, simply being patient as he collects his thoughts. With a shaky breath, Masema closes the distance and hands her the vial, watching as she downs it in one. He’s so caught up in being in front of such beauty that when she speaks, it startles him.

”What is your name?” She asks simply, her voice soft as she lifts her tunic and gets a look at her injury. She lifts her hand, a warm light emitting from her fingers and wrapping itself around her like an aura as she casts a healing spell that closes the wound better than any stitching. Masema watches a little starstruck as the woman literally glows for a moment, forgetting she had asked a question. When she raises a brow at him, he blushes furiously and swallows hard, having been caught gawking at her.

He clears his throat and looks at the ground, grateful for his mask hiding his face from her. “My name is Masema, Dragonborn,” he spoke quietly, fidgeting with his gloves and taking a few steadying breaths.

”A pleasure to meet you, Masema,” she gave him her name and he tasted it on his tongue, finding that the name suited her beautifully. “Would you mind if I asked your story? You are the only cultist who hasn’t attacked me outright and I’m curious as to why.”

He nodded in agreement and they proceeded to talk for hours, the candles burning low by the time they finished. She listened to his story, no judgment or anger in her eyes when he told her the truth of his involvement with Miraak. About halfway through, Masema felt comfortable enough to remove his mask and the act of trust made her smile, something so minor but it made his heart beat a little faster.

After she decided needed to leave the ruins to find food and clean up, Masema found himself unwilling to leave her side. He followed behind her after she got dressed again, letting her lead the way through the labyrinth of halls. Once outside, they both breathed in the cold fresh air, a far cry more refreshing than the stale air inside the temple. He hesitated as she started off in the direction of Thirsk, wanting to stay with her but unsure if she would want that. He looked around at the landscape, trying to gather the words to ask, but she beat him to the punch.

She was stopped several feet away, Zahkriisos held loosely in her hands at her side as the sun shone brightly behind her. ”Masema, how would you like to adventure with me?” Her question offered him the choice to walk away, but when she was looking at him like that, he couldn’t resist accepting her offer. He’d follow her to the end, to the very halls of Sovngarde and beyond if she’d let him.

She smiled and nodded, looking out over the horizon before turning and continuing on her journey. Masema breathed a sigh of relief, a smile on his face as he looked at the yellow mask in his hands. It was a symbol, a reminder of a life he was no longer living. With a sigh, he left his mask on the stone steps of the now deserted place he once called home, leaving behind one life and eagerly walking towards the next.

Masema had been traveling with the Dragonborn for several months now and he learned a lot about this woman in that time, like the reasons his assassination attempts never worked. For starters, she was the leader of half the guilds in the damned kingdom. He also learned that she only used her respective titles when outright doing business for them and wore different masks when dealing with the general population, only a select handful of her closest allies knowing her name. He practically swooned upon learning she had trusted him enough to know her identity, even more when he discovered through a friend of hers that she rarely kept traveling companions for more than a few weeks. Apparently this was to help maintain her secrecy, but since he had proven himself to be trustworthy and loyal to her, she kept him by her side.

His life finally had purpose again, serving and protecting her on their travels having made him realize that Miraak was a fraud, using his divinely given powers to assert dominion over the people he was meant to protect. Whenever he felt shame for his past actions, she was right there to tell him that his future doesn’t need to be weighed down by the consequences of the past. She did, however, prevent him from falling down the same path of reverence he once showed Miraak, claiming that she had no desire to be worshiped by the masses and that history wasn’t kind to those who sought such power. Even if she wouldn't have a following like her predecessor, Masema had no qualms being wholly devoted to her. He found her desire to aid everyone, even the poor and displaced, inspiring. It’s no surprise her kindness towards him and everyone else had him falling in love with her.

It was during one of their adventures, camped somewhere in Whiterun Hold under the stars and two moons of Nirn, when he finally confessed his feelings to her. He had felt nervous, his palms sweaty and avoiding her gaze as he stared into the small campfire. When he heard her get up and walk over to him, he finally dared to look up at her and was shocked to see her hand outstretched towards him, a silent request to take it as she stood there in the low light of the fire. He placed his hand in hers, standing up and following her towards their shared tent, his breathing uneven as she pulled him along behind her.

No words were said, their lips finding the others in the darkness of the tent and hands pulling at laces and straps of their garments. Masema laid her back on her bedroll, taking his time to learn her body even if he couldn’t see it. His fingers traced over old scars, his lips following close behind. He licked, kissed and bit her skin, leaving physical marks on her the same way she had done to his soul. He doesn’t know how long they stayed wrapped in each other, just know that it wasn’t nearly long enough. They fell asleep in each other’s arms, the sounds of her soft breathing as she rested her head on his chest the most wonderful thing he thought he’d ever experienced. Masema sent a silent prayer of thanks to the Creator and the Divines for giving him a chance to find redemption, feeling a sense of certainty spread through his veins at the idea of aiding the true chosen of Akatosh.

Taglist: @valeskafics @sihtricfedaraaahvicius @whitedarkmoonflower @gemini-mama @alexagirlie @thenameswinter99 @mrsarnasdelicious @synintheraven

[anghraine]

On a less cheerful note, I was thinking with some frustration that I've reached 2024 and somehow I'm still not okay, even though there are so many good things about my life and so many people in it to help me, why am I like this-

And then I was remembering a conversation I had earlier with another early modernist about how her conservative Southern Baptist upbringing led her to feminism and academia, and how I didn't say "I get it" because I didn't want to make it about my Mormon-raised-with-some-Catholic-influence personal issues when I've had basically nothing to do with Southern Baptist anything.

And then I was thinking about discovering lesbians were a real thing via visiting a church bookstore at around... age 12 and seeing pamphlets for conversion therapy. I don't remember clearly what they said, just that they were from Evergreen whatsit and I was scared for years after.

And gradually, I figured out the weird way that people talked about my bio dad's sister was because she's also a lesbian, but her conservative Catholic family found it easier to pretend not to know. This led to a weird conversation a few years ago with my grandmother (bio dad's mother) where she was asking why I never have any men in my life. I mumbled something about just not really being interested, and she was like ... oh, you're like your aunt :)

me: Um—well—yes.

my grandmother: Just so devoted to your career :) There was this wonderful man I thought she really loved, but she just didn't have space in her life for marriage.

me: *blink*

And I was also thinking about, basically, a million other things from growing up in rural US towns when I did. At the time, much of it felt too individually small to justifiably get worked up about, but much of it still rattles around my mind. Some things were bigger than I even realized, in fairness—say, the Evergreen pamphlets represented something much bigger and worse than I really comprehended at that age. I was pretty much on my way out by the time I fully got it (and Evergreen is more or less gone now, I think—while I'm still here and still queer, hah). Some of the gender shit + homophobia of that time seems almost comically trivial in this era of senators ranting about the corrupting filth of LGBT+ people, or alternately it's so dated that even said senators wouldn't bother.

Anyway, it's kind of wild how I just ... don't think about a lot of this a lot of the time, and actively wonder how certain things got so fucked up in my head even though my life has been easy in many ways. And then I'll have this early modern British lit/feminism conversation and not think about it much at the time (we ended up having a perfectly nice conversation about the Pacific Northwest and the deficiencies of Shakespeare scholarship) and have a mostly good day and then somehow end up staring blankly at the wall at quarter to midnight thinking about how scared I was as a teenager.

I do not like being angry tbh. I'm irritable, sure, but rarely actually angry because I find it so unpleasant, even in the fairly slow and cold way that I generally get angry.

But I've been trying to organize my thoughts and I think I might be angry about this. I was more familiar with "gay" as a slur than as a descriptor into my 20s because, see, the church preferred to talk about people struggling with same-sex or same-gender attraction as part of these earthly trials, not gay people. Describing people as gay might be too validating or something, at least then.

And part of the reason this stuff can be so difficult to navigate in the present is that very "at least then." Because things could get far better than has ever actually happened, and it wouldn't make anything better for who I was at 15. I'm the one carrying that around. Not uniquely, since tons of us came out of that environment and others of similar kinds, but—

Okay, ethically, I believe that people always have the choice to simply do better than they did in the past and this should be encouraged. But that doesn't un-do anything for me.

It's fine and good to say, look, certain things are much better than they were in 2000 (or whenever). And that's true, some things are, and I'm not at all sorry about that. But sometimes it seems like those of us who are still around are supposed to just forget the things that shaped us when we were reaching adulthood, like it doesn't matter any more because that was another time and we're in our 30s or older. Like we shouldn't still be affected by our own pasts, even when the main actors are still around and completely unrepentant, or were hateful until the day they died.

I am angry about it, in my way, I suppose.

[flemlem]

thougts about the creation stream [21.02.24] because i finally have them in order. Im going to try to keep this as factual as possible, but there may be some bits that I cant Not Be - also, this is going to be pretty damn long, i have many things to say and Im putting them all here, I'll try put all the opinions / heavy speculation at the end :>. Also sorry if it feels disjointed in places, I got real busy 2/3 of the way through and had to leave it for a while, so im not sure if i got all the points hit that i wanted to. (there should be a read more cause when i say long i mean Really Fucking Long but idk)

so first off, all the aliases that creation uses for other people (that I can find or reasonably assume).

Sunny (loved shell) rank 1

Chayanne (duck shell) rank 2

Tallulah (trauma shell) - rank 3

Empanada (pancake shell) - rank 4

Richarlyson - Rank 7

Tubbo - Primary Protector, Creator, Boss (unsure but will explain)

? - Centre Control

Philza - Guardian

Cellbit - Guardian (unsure)

Bagi - (slow) keeper

Niki - Keeper

mostly facts [though there are some interpretations and such]

tubbo is Really Really old. This is backed up by Many things, most on the stream, though a couple not. When creation is talking to chayanne in the ruins he says that tubbo created him a 'long long time ago'. The sheer amount of time is Also backed up by the fact that creation says he 'miss when this place was not ruins', did you see the state of those ruins? there were a few stacks of blocks left over on the tips of mountains that have virtually nothing distinct about them, the only descriptor used for all the blocks is also that they are ancient, so like-. The place has Lava surrounding it. In general just the state of the place kinda shows just how old it is. Though some fun things about qTubbo's age is that he Knows how old he is, or at least that he had been around for a long time. Going back to Fits birthday party when he says he's been dead for a long time. He is aware that he's been around a long time, though he doesnt add that to his age. In the message to Sunny he says that he's 20, not like, 70903405803. Just 20. cc!tubbo also confirmed on his alt stream later that qTubbo was infact 20 years old. He did also say that 'how long he's been around is another question' and then told people they were digging too far when they then asked how long qtubbo had been around for. He did however also say that 'his [qtubbo's] age stagnated when he was frozen' so qtubbo had to of been 19 when he got frozen [cause the 20th birthday was celebrated when tubbo was on the server].

Something that I have no clue about is exactly the connotations that are around it telling Chayanne that tubbo 'made me for you'. Creation also says something similar to Sunny at some other point in the stream. This is?? really confusing to me??? because it's heavily implied that Creation was created Before Tubbo was frozen. This could imply that Tubbo has re-programmed Creation at some point since being defrosted. Though the main running thing throughout Creations involvement has been that Tubbo Cannot Know About Creation At Any Cost. Originally it was Creation would die if Tubbo [Creator, specifically] knew. Then after Tubbo died it changed to Tubbo [Primary Protector, specifically] would die if he knew about Creation. Though then we get to something else that challenges this thought. During the recording shown at both the start and end of the stream Tubbo says that the message can only be unlocked by 2 people and that he never wants sunny to have to meet them. Obviously one of these people is Creation, as Creation mentioned on phils [and others] streams later the day that tubbo died that Creation had a message that could only be shown to sunny if Tubbo died, so this leaves 2 options for how this worked[that I can think of]. Either there was a moment in time, it had to of been after sunny was in tubbos care, in which he knew about Creation and Neither of them died. Or one of the people that could access the message passed it onto creation and tubbo was never aware of Creation.

Creation mentions 'The Old Order' as well, specifically that Creation misses the old order. The main question is about, what is the actual title of it? is it 'The Old Order', the 'Old Order' or the old 'Order'. If the title is just 'Order' and old is a descriptor then we could reasonably assume that it was a historical part of the current Order, though does Creation know about the current Order? Im unsure. If its either of the other ones then it's just a Title. Simply what the group is called. Not much is mentioned about the old order, other than that tubbo was at least associated with it, or they, somehow, stole Creation from him. It is also implied that they were at least where the ruins were, maybe all over the island, mainly from Creation saying that it misses the old order around when it mentions when the building wasnt ruins. Going off the block descriptions, this ruin is a ruin because of a 'past calamity'. Nothing else really mentioned about the calamity, just that that is why its ruins now.

The Operation is only mentioned a few times. It's never stated exactly what 'the operation' is. We know that the operation is something akin to a mission because when Tubbo first mentions it, in the 'if I died, last resort' recording, he says thats he never would of signed up for 'this scheme, this... operation if you will'. If he didn't say scheme before than it could of been, well, anything really, but the word scheme has some specific connotations that at the very least rules out some possibilities. After this first mention it is only referred to as 'the operation' [as far as I can find]. Creation does talk about it several times though. Something that it says is that it was a last effort to 'hold on' before Tubbo joined the operation. This implies that creation was made Before tubbo joined the operation. In the same last resort recording Tubbo does specifically say 'I would not have signed up for something like this'. He Signed Up to take part in whatever operation they are referring to. There is the implication that he signed up for this specifically because he didnt have Anything to care about before he signed up for it. He had nothing to live for, no... Purpose one may say?[side eye emoji]

okay so, the data. This is... something. In the description of the item it says that it was made by tubbo, the main thing is, When? We can glean a few things about this data from the stream [and a couple other places]. Going further into the description of the item. It says that it tracks Tubbo's vitals, statistics and locations. Going slightly out of this stream, this could be heavily why tubbo is Wrong. It doesn't say that it has his feelings or personality. Another thing to do with that is that tubbo did at Some Point send a chat that said that the data was incomplete/something along those lines[dont ask me when, I dont remeber, im pretty sure theres a screenie floating around in one of the tubbo tags tho]. Something that I find kind of weird is when Creation tells sunny that Creation cant promise that Tubbo will come back the same. The way its phrased could mean 2 things in my opinion. The first one being that Creation simply Does Not Know what is contained in the data. Creation does not know how much of Tubbo is in there, when it was made, if it's been damaged, if its been Tampered With. Or something that I think is almost as plausible, Creation phrases it that way because Creation is talking to a Child. One of Creations main purposes seems to be protecting the Eggs, both physically and emtionally [see: Creation hugging Sunny after Tubbo died] so maybe Creation was trying to break it to Sunny as gently as possible. Not straight up say 'Your dad is going to be Different' but just, something small to prepare them for it, so that Sunny isn't blind sided by the change. The data was also in Central Control's possession. When they have to go grab the data creation specifically says that 'Central Control has delivered it'. So Some How, CC got the data. This also raises some questions about the password on the chest the data was in. Why was it Sunny's adoption day? Did Tubbo make the box and CC can just teleport things into it at will but not change the password?

What exactly Is Creations purpose? We are told that it has something to do with protecting the eggs, but also not Entierly revolving around them. We are told that tubbo created it for chayanne and sunny, we can reasonably asume that its not just for them but All the eggs. But creation shuts down after guiding the construction of the revival machine, saying that its purpose is finished. But that has nothing to do with the eggs? This doesnt fit with the rest of the pieces we have on the board to me because it was called the First Video Log. Why call it the first if there was never going to be a second? Surely if Creations only purpose was to resurrect tubbo then it would of known that it was going to die. And also just protecting the eggs cant be its only purpose because then it wouldnt of said that it could shut down because its purpose wouldnt of been complete? Its purpose Never would of been complete until all the eggs were dead? This confuses the fuck outta me. Though something about its purpose does seem to be that it is to learn. It comes off very naieve about the world at large, though it trusts sunny when they tell it that the boat will keep the water away. It seems in awe of most things around it, or surprised or dismissive. saying 'woah' when looking at the station . Saying 'oh my god' when the creeper explodes. it says 'I did this for you [boss]' after saying that it was learning fast. Learning seems to have a lot to do with it's purpose. Tubbo says, in the Alt stream later that 'It's [creation] just a little guy... mainly copying, trying to fit in to not like, fail it's purpose' We could take this as learning to fit in being its purpose, Or the more obvious one being that its purpose relies heavily on being able to fit in. Is that so that the eggs and parents trust it to care for the eggs? or does it have something to do with the old order?

Now we get more into theory and heavy interpretation area, so buckle up {a lot of this next bit is half baked thoughts that I cant connect to anything else, so, yeah}

Something about Tubbo's character specifically, kind of related to his age? though more so to do with What The Ever Loving Fuck his character IS. So. QTubbo has been around for A While, that we know, we Also know that hes been dead for a long time as well. We know that hes not a robot, curtesy of Creation's 'not like a robot, no'. Though, where does that then leave him. He can still be restored, he can be shut down and he's been dead for a long time. And yes, specifically dead. Why? because when talking about Creation tubbo says that it was never alive in the first place so 'not dead, no', whenever qTubbo is talked about, the word 'Dead' is Always used. Never anything else, so he Was alive At Some Point. Though then theres the question of How The EverLoving Fuck Can He Die If He Is Already Dead???? idfk

Okay so, next thing. I fully think that the calamity has something to do with how tubbo got frozen. Whether the calamity has something to do with Why creation was created in the first place, if said calamity has something to do with the reason why creation was a last attempt to hold on. it could also be something to do with the reason why tubbo was frozen. If its less so a punishment and more so something along the lines of recuperation, then maybe he got hurt. Or it could be something to do with 'The Operation', Im just kind of spit balling at this point. Maybe the calamity wasnt natural. maybe the operation was some kind of last ditch effort to go against some All Powerful being or group.

SO explaining the thing about putting 'Boss' in Tubbos list of alias'. This is Very Heavily how IM interpretating this. When they are collecting the blocks in the ruins, there are a couple times that Creation goes in F5 and starts talking, staring directly into the 'camera'. During this he says 'Boss I am learning fast, see how well I'm doing. I did this for you.' and 'Boss one day I hope you will remember me'. This is heavily off of that second one. 'I hope you will remember me one day'. Sure, 'boss' could be near anyone, Infact there is a high chance that 'boss' is Central control. But just. hear me out [which i hope youre doing if youve read this far down]. Who else could Creation reasonably label 'boss'? Who do we Know does not remember creation? Tubbo Created creation, and has subsequently forgotten about creation, whether thats of his own volition, for his safety or some other reason, I dunno, but I think its got legs.

[whatsnewalycat]

Psychomanteum / Chapter 1

Pairing: Dieter Bravo x F!Reader

Chapter 1: Honey, This Mirror Isn't Big Enough for the Two of Us

Rating: Explicit (18+ only)

Series Summary: You've recently taken on the customer-facing responsibilities of the small-scale cannabis bakery you and your late husband ran out of your apartment, which introduces you to occasional customer, Dieter Bravo. A friendship is sparked when you realize you have something in common: you've both died. What Dieter doesn't tell you about his near-death experience, though, is that it foretold his life with you.

Word Count: 6.2k+

Content / Warnings: alternating POV, death, sitting shiva, stitches / scars, cannabis, edibles, drug use, alcohol use, haunted mirrors, spooky stuff, verbal argument, face slap, cheating, sexual grieving, a dick named Glenn, meet cute

Notes: Chapter title from "Honey, This Mirror Isn't Big Enough for the Two of Us" by My Chemical Romance. Hey friends! I have a couple things right off the bat: (1) the reader has a name (Louella/Lou/Lua) and has scars and tattoos, but no other physical descriptors; (2) I'll be trying to release new chapters on Saturdays.

[ Tag List ] [ AO3 ] [ Title Song ]

When people ask what it’s like to die, you’re supposed to tell them it’s terrible, even though it isn't. Like leaving a shitty yelp review for a restaurant when you actually really loved the food, but you have a vendetta against the owner and their staff.

Death Louella F. Rating: 0/10 Scary as fuck. Not in a cool, vintage way like Bram Stoker’s Dracula, but in more of a can-you-believe-people-cream-their-pants-over-this-shit way like Stephanie Meyer’s Twilight. Ugh. They sent me away at the door and wouldn’t even tell me why. RUDE!!!! I would rather die than go back.

It’s only polite, after all. If everyone knew that it fucking rules to be dead, nobody would stay here in these decaying bodies, on this doomed fucking rock floating through space. So, when your good friends (like good good friends) ask, you give them the inside scoop.

Death Louella F. Rating: 10/10 The single most magical thing to happen to me during my existence in the mortal realm. Truly ethereal. I only had the 1 hour trial, and I wanted upgrade to the forever package, but my dad forced me to return to my meatbag (BOOO!). Can’t wait to do it again. Absolutely TO DIE FOR!!!

That’s why, now, when your just ok friend Kourtney comes over on the last day of sitting shiva in your apartment, and she asks you what was it like to die? in the same cadence she asks how's your mom?, you don’t tell her the truth.

You don’t tell her than every waking moment you’re alive now is torture because you don't understand why you weren’t allowed access to the club. Why could Ethan go, but not you? What could you possibly have left to do that doesn’t include him?

Instead, you give her a wane smile and joke, “Oh, ya know, I had better shit to do, so here I am.”

Her big sky blue eyes soften and her shoulders slump when you tell her this. Then she threads her blonde eyebrows together and gives a sympathetic frown, “Oh, honey.”

No matter how many times you try this line, everyone responds with pity. You need some new material. Kourtney wanders off into the kitchen before you can respond.

When you look around the living room from your vantage point on a sitting stool, you briefly notice that all of the other visitors are gravitating towards the kitchen, too. Then the opaque black stain that looks like a black hole in the middle of your otherwise pristinely white carpet catches your eye. You tilt your head as you study it, wondering how it can be so impossibly dark.

“Are you ready, Lou?” your father-in-law, Adam, asks you from across the room.

You lift your gaze and look around at the other sitters, realizing they're all staring at you expectantly.

“Yeah, yep,” you finally respond, then get to your feet. They follow suit.

After gathering their belongings, Ethan's immediate family crowds around your apartment's entryway to bid their farewells. His mom and dad tell you that they’ll call you in a few days to check in on you. You believe it. Unlike everyone else that promised you’d “talk soon,” Adam and Sarah mean it. 

"If you need anything, and I mean anything at all, please don't hesitate to call us," Sarah tells you, then scoops you into a great big hug. When she pulls away, she holds you by the shoulders and stares at you with tears pooling in those brown eyes that break your fucking heart. You look away when you say goodbye.

Your stepson, Ben, literally scoffs when you tell him to call you if he wants to talk about it. Which is just like a 16-year old to do. When his mom is distracted, fussing over your stepdaughter, you try to level with Ben.

"Listen. I know. I know people just say that. My dad died when I was 16, too. It fucking sucks. And I get it. So if you wanna talk to someone who knows which shade of 'this fucking sucks' you're going through, I'm your guy."

This time when he responds, the snotty tone is gone. It's replaced by a morose veil over his eyes and he just nods, "Ok."

The 12-year old, Talia, saves your phone number and tells you she’ll send you snapchats.

Even though you iterate these comforting half-promises to communicate in the future, when you tell Ethan's kids you’d “talk soon,” you don’t mean it. They don’t, either. But that’s alright. You never thought the too-little-too-late maternal bonding would stick, anyway.  

Once the last mourning visitor leaves, and door clicks shut, you deadbolt it, and you’re... alone. It's surreal. Moping around the silent apartment, you reorganize things to your liking, collect sitting stools, and tug the fabric off the mirrors. You're stunned momentarily after each reflection you unveil.

The person you see is a stranger. Your skin is very Bride of Frankenstein, stitched together with pieces of tattooed corpses. Just over a week ago, your body was twisted and mangled, but doctors slapped you back together in time to bury your husband. Briefly, you consider covering all of the mirrors again until you're farther along in the healing process, but decide against it. What the fuck does it matter, anyway. 

For at least five minutes, you're anchored in front of the spare bedroom door, its key pinched tightly between your thumb and index finger. You locked it last week to keep nosy visitors from poking around during shiva. God only knows what kind of shit they would stumble upon, considering how out-of-control Ethan was towards the end. Not to mention the deep freezer filled with bulk amounts of flower and cannabutter.

There are two huge mirrors in the room that you want to uncover. But this room is- well, was- his space. On most days, he spent hours in there, isolating, listening to music, hanging out with friends, or whatever else. Not like you'd know, since it was just another club you weren't invited to join. A deep sense of foreboding infiltrated your psyche when you covered the damned things, and it somehow feels worse now. 

A fuzzy, uncomfortable buzzing starts under your skin as you stare at the old brass door knob. You’re just about to say fuck it and try again later when something clatters from inside the room. Your hands work on their own accord. They slide the skeleton key into its slot, then turn the knob and push the door open. It swings back on its hinges with a groan and butts up against the doorstop with a thud.

The room is neat and clean, like it was a week ago, but you immediately notice two things that make your hair stand on end:

The picture frame

The mirrors

When moving into this apartment, Ethan insisted the 4x6” ceramic picture frame be transported on your lap from the dumpy apartment in Bushwick. His little brother, Benji, gave it to him for his birthday the summer before he fell through the ice. The photo depicts a 12-year old Ethan with his arm around his little brother’s shoulders, both smiling from ear-to-ear as they hold up the fish they caught off the dock of their childhood home in Eagle Bay, NY. 

One bare nail stands erect on the navy blue wall. That’s where it was hanging when you locked the door last week. But now, the picture frame is propped up by the easel back in the middle of the shiny hardwood floor.

It doesn’t make sense.

On the westernmost and easternmost walls, the matching set of Regency era mirrors, which hang across from one another, are uncovered. Their intricate bevels are illuminated by the fading sun, casting shadows into the mahogany frames. The bedsheets you covered them with last week are crumpled on the floor beneath them.

“Why are you covering the mirrors?” you asked your great-grandma, watching her from the doorframe of your parents’ room with curiosity. Her paper-thin skin drooped over the hills and valleys of her hands, shifting over bones and blood vessels as she secured a white cotton bedsheet to the full-length mirror with clothespins.

“So his spirit doesn’t get trapped inside,” she explained simply.

You shake the memory from your head.

They’re just mirrors.

Ignoring every cell in your body that screams at you to get the fuck out, you take a few cautious steps forward, then pick the picture frame up off the ground. The pad of your thumb rubs against the smooth finish of the white ceramic. An ache radiates across your chest as you stare at the young boys with their matching smiles, backdropped by tall pines and open waters. Suspended in time, happy and carefree in their favorite place.  

Now they’re both fucking dead.

The urge to cry tingles at the back of your throat. You look up at the bare nail sticking out of the wall across the room and march towards it. A shiver of warning runs down your spine as you walk past the antique mirrors. You mount the frame on the wall in its place.

But then you’re frozen.

Spiders are crawling around inside your spinal column, spinning webs, exploring every inch. And, it’s fucking insane, just childhood memories fucking with your head, but you swear you feel eyes on your back. A shudder racks your body. You look straight down at your feet, holding all of your concentration steady on them as you turn around towards the door.

The buzzing in your bones intensifies. Instinct engrained in the folds of your brain for a millennia, since homo sapiens were hunters and gatherers, urges you to look up look up look up because someone is watching you. Hunting you.

Fighting your seized muscles, you make yourself take one step forward.

Adrenaline floods your bloodstream and spurs you into action without thought. Your feet carry you past the mirrors, out of the room. The spiders mobilize, scurrying inside your spine, making you nauseous. As your trembling hands fumble with the doorknob, your eyes betray you.

They flick to the westernmost mirror.

And just barely… you think you see someone staring back at you.

“What is this?” Anika’s Bulgarian accent is the first thing Dieter hears as she shakes him out of sleep. His response is to roll away from the nuisance and pull the white duvet over his head. She jumps off of the bed and yanks the blanket away from him in a series of furious tugs as she hisses, “No. No sleep. Get up.”

When she succeeds in retrieving the whole blanket, she throws it on the floor by her feet, exposing Dieter's naked body to the megawatt afternoon sun. The intrusion sets him off, and he groans, pinching his nose in response to the headache throbbing in his eyes and nose, “Fuckin’ a, Annie, what?”

Sitting up, eyes still closed, he grumbles, “What could be so fucking important-“ he cracks open an eye, throwing his palm down against the mattress in frustration, then sees the headline displayed the iPhone she's holding in front of his face. 

LEAKED: DIETER BRAVO PARTYING WITH INSTAGRAM MODEL

He squints as he reads it again, then snatches the phone away, scrolling through the short article on the tabloid magazine DIRT’s website.

The Cliff Beasts 6 star, Dieter Bravo, was spotted with Instagram model, Lilly Stokes, getting hot-and-heavy at several LA nightclubs late last night. Reportedly, the duo were heavily intoxicated, seen taking shots and snorting lines of illicit substances. In the photos obtained by DIRT, the disheveled Bravo, sporting a half-buttoned floral shirt and jeans, can be seen groping Stokes, dressed in a hot pink slip dress and stilettos, as she straddles the actor in a roped-off section of Aspect’s VIP lounge. This scandal is surfacing amid rumors of Bravo’s marriage with Anika Bravo being strained to the breaking point. Dieter and Anika met in 2020 during the filming of Cliff Beasts 6, a film made infamous by the hit documentary Beasts of the Bubble. The couple tied the knot in 2021, immediately following their escape from Clifton Hotel. In one of their only public appearances together, the newlywed couple raised eyebrows when they brought fitness guru Kate Ridley with as their date to the Beasts of the Bubble premiere. Since then, the Academy Award winning actor has been under fire for alleged infidelity and drug abuse, as well as displaying bizarre behavior, such as his appearance on The View in September, when he told host Meghan McCain that he “hopes hell is real so (her) dad burns there forever.”

As promised, the article includes a slideshow of photos depicting him and Lilly making out in a booth at Aspect the previous night. Dieter tosses the phone to the side, and all he can do is shrug, staring up at her with cold eyes, “Whaddya wanna know?”

They sit here like this for a beat, frozen in their stubbornness. As if he doesn’t know the question on her mind.

She blinks, swallows hard, and crosses her arms in front of her body. Then finally breaks and asks, “Is it true?”

As if she doesn’t know the answer.

He grinds his jaw back and forth, considering the consequences of what he’ll say next. She stares at him.

Fuck it.

“Yeah,” he admits to his wife, averting his gaze as he runs his fingers through his hair, “Yeah I fucked her.”

Anika rears back, then slaps him across the face, gritting her teeth together as she growls, “FUCK YOU!”

His cheek stings as her palm jerks his head to the side. He deserves that.

Sure, he could have lied, but there’s no use in denying it. There he was, caught on camera with Lilly's tongue down his throat and his hands up her dress. From there, they stumbled into the bathroom of the club. He gave the bathroom attendant $200 to guard the door. Then, he snorted coke off her perfect tits, bent her over the granite top sink, and fucked her speechless.

The bathroom attendant won’t be speechless, though. Dieter is sure that for another $200 from any number of tabloids, the gangly, pasty skinned kid would unzip his rubber band lips and tell all. 

"Well, what the fuck am I supposed to do, Annie!? You won't fucking touch me!" the cords of his neck stick out as he leans forward barks this into her face.

"Don't deserve to be touched," she spits, narrowing her eyes as she inches so close he can feel her breathe, "Leave me alone all the time. Do you know how lonely I am, Dieter? What kind of man leaves me alone all the time?"

"Fucking AGAIN with this. Really? Every fucking time I come home, it's all I hear," Dieter stands up out of bed and stomps over to the closet, Anika hot on his trail. He starts mocking her, using an exaggerated Bulgarian accent, "Oh I'm so sad, you leave me alone in this big house with all this money, oh nooo!," then he turns on his heel to scoff in her face, "Get over it, for fuck's sake. It's tired."

Her shoulders sag. He knows he went to far. He’s being mean. Cruel, even. But he can't stop. His father’s anger, flooding from his hindbrain through his mouth. 

"It's how I feel, Dieter," she squeaks, big brown eyes filling with tears. He starts digging through drawers of the built-in dresser for boxer briefs, then stuffs his legs into a pair. She sobs, "I didn't know it would be like this. So lonely."

"Yeah?! Welcome to my FUCKIN' LIFE!" he screams into her face, then rips a shirt off the hanger and pulls it over his head before storming off.

You sink down into your purple velvet couch and turn on the TV. Fresh-out-the-shower damp hair sticks to your cheek when you rest your head on a black and white checkered pillow. In an attempt to take your mind off what you thought you saw in the spare bedroom earlier, you flip through various streaming services for a distraction. However, your attention is drawn to the shiva candle dwindling down on the fireplace mantle.

Each time it flickers, dread seizes your heart. You hold your breath and watch it, unblinking, until it steadies.

It happens again.

And again.

Your eyes flit to the opaque black ink stain in the middle of your carpet, only for a moment. But it's long enough. When you look back to the candle, the flame is gone. Black smoke curls and dances in celebration around a glowing orange wick.

He’s gone.

This fact creeps into your consciousness slowly, but surely. The same way the cold settles into your bones when the temperature is below freezing. It starts off fine, maybe a little brisk, but manageable. Then your nose, fingers, and toes start to feel frosty. Before you know it, you can't stop shivering, and can't even remember what warmth felt like.

Hugging your knees to your chest, you squeeze every ounce of oxygen from your lungs. Your brain prompts you to inhale. The breath comes as a shattered gasp, and your chest heaves, but the well of pain is too far underground. The tears don't come. You’re unable to tap into it and release the pressure that's been building for nine days. You're about to fucking explode.

Your gaze shifts to the window. It’s dark outside. You try to decide who to reach out to for support. Each person you consider would come over and sit with you as they awkwardly make conversation. They would probably try to talk to you about Ethan, or tell you about how their friend’s cousin had a husband croak on them and they did abc, then xyz, and voilà! They’re cured!

And you just can’t with that shit right now. You don’t want to be pitied. You want to have a normal conversation. One where you aren’t expected to cry and talk about it. You want to be how you were before.

How you were before, but without him.

“Whiskey neat,” Dieter tells the bartender without looking his way.

When he glances up into the mirror behind the bar, he sees the version of himself that Anika hates the most. Mop of curly brown hair stuffed under a baseball cap, sunglasses covering half his face, wearing sweatpants and whatever t-shirt he happened to pull off the hanger before heading out the door.

“Airport Dee,” her lip would curl up and touch the columella of her nose, “I don’t like him.”

“Airport Dee means Working Dee, which is better than Broke Dee, right?” he would try to reason, meeting her eyes over his sunglasses, tugging her closer for a kiss goodbye.

She would arch a brow and back away from him, her sneer firmly in place, “I like Home Dee the most.”

The last few times he left, he didn’t even say goodbye. He thinks that maybe Airport Dee isn’t the version of him she hates the most anymore.

His phone buzzes. He pulls it out of his pants pocket to see the text from his wife.

> ANNIEBABY: > If u get on the flight, we’re done

An amused laugh trickles from his throat. The bartender, a handsome, tall, blonde man with terrific posture, slides a coaster in front of Dieter, then places the lowball glass on top of it. Just in time. Dieter picks it up and swallows it in one go, then tells the bartender, who’s foolishly walking away, “Another.”

The bartender turns on his heel and raises a well-kept eyebrow at Dieter, who responds by reaching into his wallet and slamming a $100 bill onto the bar, advising, “This is your tip if you keep ‘em coming and don’t fucking look at me like that again.”

“You got it, boss,” the man responds as he grabs a bottle of bourbon and flips it upside down over Dieter’s cup.

The phone starts buzzing again, but this time it’s his publicist. He picks up with a cheeky, “Darlene, it’s been ages, what in the world could you possibly be calling me about?”

“Just wanted to call and let you know you’re making my life a living fucking hell today,” she volleys the same faux-sweetness back to him.

“Welcome to the club,” he mumbles.

“How’s your wife?”

“Terrible, she’s leaving me,” Dieter drops this bomb, then tells her, “Hey, I’m boarding a flight for the, uhh- the screen test thing, I’ll call you later.”

“Dieter, don’t you fu-“

He hangs up and puts his phone in airplane mode. Morphine was such a good idea.

Instead of the all-consuming anxiety that typically accompanies one’s name trending on Twitter, all Dieter feels is an overwhelming sense of fuck it. That’s what morphine is good for, after all. Not for all the time, though. Just emergencies.

He imagines a bottle of MS Contin but instead of the prescription label it just reads EMERGENCY OBLIVION.

“Having a rough day?” the bartender asks, looking from the discarded phone to Dieter’s smiling face as he leans against the bar.

Dieter giggles and shakes his head, “Fuck off, you don’t care.”

“I- I care,” the bartender frowns, then pushes off and stands up straight.

“You don’t. Not really. You’re just nosy,” Dieter grins with a shrug.

He downs the whiskey, slams the cup against the bartop, then points to it. The bartender refills the cup and fucks off. Dieter sighs with satisfaction and floats into the abyss.

About mid-way through your third vodka cranberry, you start to feel more comfortable in your skin.

A short-statured man hangs his winter coat on the back of the barstool next to you and sits down. A green knit cap hides any indication of hair on top of his head, although a trimmed beard hints that it'll be dark brown if he has any. When he looks your direction through thick rimmed glasses frames, you meet his honey brown eyes and you smile.

Granted, it’s not a smile you really mean, but he’s cute and he sat right next to you at a bar that has plenty of other open seats, so, you’ll play the part.

“Do you mind if I sit here?” he inquires, gaze trailing up and down your form.

You shake your head, “Not at all.”

“Thanks,” he gives you a wide smile, then flags down the bartender and orders a drink.

You sit back and look up to the flatscreen TV playing the Knicks game, pretending to care, watching the teams dribble a basketball from one side of the court to the other. Back and forth, back and forth. It seems so fucking pointless.

“You a Knicks fan?” he asks, following your line of sight to the TV.

“Hmm?” you blink, then realize you are furrowing your brow up at the game as if you’re interested, “Oh, no. I don’t give a shit.”

This makes him laugh. He shows you those pearly whites again, then extends his hand to you, “I’m Dante.”

“Louella,” your hand meets his. It’s warm and sandpapery. His thumb rubs against the back of your hand as you shake.

You ponder what this stranger’s hands would feel like on other parts of your body. What it would feel like to forget, just for a while, that Ethan’s hands were the last ones to touch you. What it would feel like to forget that he’ll never touch you again.

“That’s a really pretty name,” he comments, not letting go of your hand, not ceasing the movement of his thumb on your skin. A tingle trickles down the middle of you and produces goosebumps across your flesh.

It’s the only enjoyable sensation that has managed to rise above the soul-crushing emptiness of the past week and a half. Your skin aches and yearns for more.

You try to stretch your smile wide and make your eyes sparkle as if you’ve never heard that before, “Thank you, Dante.”

“Can I buy you a drink?” he lets go, then leans forward against the bar.

Your eyes flick from his thick lips to his honey brown eyes and you nod.

“Dieter fucking Bravo!” Glenn hollers at his longtime friend as Dieter approaches the well-dressed table.

Friend might not be the right word. Enabler is probably closer to the truth. His nasally voice booms across the dining room, earning a few disgruntled stares from the highbrow patrons expecting a quiet lunch on the Upper East Side. 

Dieter offers a nod in the general direction of the outburst, then pulls out the chair perpendicular to Glenn and plops down, picking up the menu as he scoots in his seat.

A peeved, but incredibly handsome, waiter comes to the table and pours ice water in a glass for the new arrival, “Welcome, sir. Can I get you anything to drink?”

“Whiskey neat,” Dieter answers, then dismisses the waiter's presence as he glances around the room through tortoiseshell Ray-Bans and tells Glenn, “You finally got your wish. Anika is filing for divorce.”

“About fucking time,” Glenn guffaws and claps his hands together, “Was it the thing with the uh, what’s that broad’s name, Bailey?”

“Lilly,” Dieter corrects.

“Lilly,” Glenn repeats, “Irregardless, congratulations, my friend. Welcome to the divorcee club!”

Dieter’s face scrunches up in disdain at the enthusiasm as he mutters sarcastically, “It’s an honor.”

“We should celebrate,” Glenn winks. 

He knows Glenn well enough to know that "celebrate" means "go on an alcohol and drug binge so outrageous, you'll be trying to chase that high for a year." And, fuck, that sounds like a slice of heaven. The last time he "celebrated" with Glenn was pre-COVID. They were awake for 2-days straight, going to nightclubs, stripclubs, country clubs, whatever. It was a blast.

He thinks it was, at least.

“I don’t have to go back to the studio ‘til Wednesday, so I’m game,” Dieter gives a small grin, then rubs his hands together.

The waiter returns with Dieter’s drink and takes their order, then talk of celebrating recommences. Glenn leans over, trying to be as discreet as his voice can manage, “What kind of stuff ya looking for?”

Dieter ponders this, leaning back in his chair as he rolls head on his shoulders and sips his drink. The first thing that comes to mind are these "special" baked goods he gets sometimes when he’s in New York. The guy hand delivers them, and they were better than any pastries he’s eaten otherwise, “straight” or not.

“Doesn’t matter. I just want to get out of my fuckin' head. I’m gonna see if I can get some of those edibles we got last time. The pastries, what’re they called?” Dieter snaps his fingers together trying to jog his memory.

“Cookies?”

Dieter scoffs and shakes his head, “You think I don’t know what a fucking cookie is? No, it was like a donut.”

“Like a…” Glenn screws his face up and shrugs, then takes a sip of his old fashioned, “Like a long john?”

Idiot. Dieter pulls out his phone, clearing notifications from the Lock Screen from his lawyer, Darlene, and Anika, then sends a text message to Ethan.

< ME: < In NYC. Want what I got last time, can u do that?

“I texted the guy,” Dieter advises, then briefly looks at the last message he received from Anika. 

> ANNIEBABY: > My father was right about u

He ignores the sharp stab in his chest at this remark, remembering how hard it was to convince her dad that he wasn’t a piece of shit. Just as he’s about to hide his phone again, it buzzes.

> ETHAN NYC: > Idk what you got last time. $150/ dozen pastries. $100/ 2 dozen cookies. $50/ 4 brownies. Have to pick up here now FYI, in downtown Brooklyn.

< ME: < Ok. Surprise me. 12 pastries, 24 cookies, 12 brownies.

> ETHAN NYC: > You got it. Should be ready by tomorrow afternoon. I’ll text you the address when they’re ready.

“Alright, edibles won’t be ready 'til tomorrow, but it’ll be worth the wait,” Dieter announces to Glenn, who’s also fucking around on his phone.

Glenn nods, then looks up around the room and back to Dieter, leaning in as he asks, “So you wanna go do a few lines in the bathroom, or what?”

Once the second-to-last order has been picked up, you pour yourself a glass of wine. It's noon, which you consider a socially acceptable time to start drinking.

You turn the stereo on and start prepping for the next day while you sip wine and sing along to the music on your baking playlist. Aside from getting fucked by Dante in the bar bathroom the other night, baking is the only thing that has taken your mind off of the fact that Ethan is dead. 

It's the stupid little things you wouldn't have expected that sting the most.

His prescription refill reminders dinging on your phone. Leftover takeout from the day before the accident starting to emit an unacceptable odor. A package arriving yesterday from something he ordered online. You stare at the nondescript cardboard box now, as it sits next to the stack of outgoing pastry boxes, and wonder what's inside. 

All of these things and the deep ache they cultivate... but you still haven't cried. Everything feels so far away, like it's not real. Is this normal? Are you broken? 

You swallow the remaining wine in your glass and refill it. 

There’s a buzz on the intercom. You pad over to the screaming box, holding your wine glass by the stem as you press the DOOR button.

A knock sounds on the door a minute later, so you turn the stereo down from a roar to a murmur. You open the door to reveal a broad, relatively tall, tan-skinned man. Pillowy lips fold in a frown and he narrows his dark eyes at you. His age shows in the creases of his face and the sparse grays in his patchy facial hair. 

“Hi,” you greet the unrefined, but notably handsome, stranger, “Come on in.”

He does so cautiously, furrowing his brow with confusion as he peers around the apartment like a frightened animal, and you explain for the 8th time today while extending your hand to him, “I’m Louella. I’m Ethan’s wife.”

“Dieter,” he meets your hand and shakes it, avoiding eye contact. When he turns his head to the side to examine your kitchen, you catch a glimpse of his profile and feel the urge to run a finger down the center of his aquiline nose. 

“Ohhh!” you exclaim as your face heats up, “DEE-ter! Not DIET-er. It’s your name! That makes sense.”

He runs a hand through his mess of curly brown hair, “Yeah.”

When he does this, his knit sweater pulls up over the waistband of his jeans and exposes his bellybutton. Your eyes fall on the soft section of his broad body and you suddenly can’t tell if your mouth is dry, or if you’re drooling, but you swallow hard, and- is it fucking hot in here?

“Sorry,” you shake your head and feel the heat of embarrassment creep up your neck as you make your way over to the kitchen counter, “I just, um, I haven’t really met any of our clients in person. I thought maybe you were someone on a diet? I don’t know. Ethan had all kinds of weird fucking code names for people.”

“I didn’t know Ethan was married,” Dieter comments as he pinches one nostril closed and sniffs, then rolls the sleeves on his sweater up to his elbows. His jaw is clenched like he’s grinding his teeth. He’s practically fucking vibrating. 

This dude is coked the fuck up.

“Technically, he’s not anymore, because he’s dead,” you nod, then clear your throat and try to move on to the next subject as you fidget with your apron, “But yeah, I’ve always done the baking, so it’ll be just as good. I just can’t drive. Sorry for the inconvenience.”

His head jerks back and he unleashes a booming, bright laugh that brings an actual smile to your face, “Did you… did you just yadda yadda the fact that he’s dead?”

“Mhmm, yeah,” you laugh nervously. Your entire head is lit ablaze up now as your attention is drawn to his gorgeous smile, “This is like the tenth time I’ve done this today, I’m a little desensitized to it.”

His cheeriness disintegrates as he realizes he's laughing about your recently deceased spouse. 

“I’m-“ Dieter’s mouth gapes open and he tries to generate a response. You meet his glossy eyes, and notice now that his pupils are blown out so wide over the dark brown irises, they appear black. They remind you of Ethan. The black ink stain on your carpet.

And they’re filled to the brim with that annoying fucking look. Pity.

“Don’t- don’t say you’re sorry,” you sigh, real smile waning into one that’s painfully forced, then gesture to the stack of boxes on the counter, “Just pay me and you can be on your way.”

Dieter climbs into the backseat and sets the pastry boxes between himself and Glenn. He can’t shake the puzzled look from his face. Glenn lifts the cover off one of the boxes and grabs a brownie as the driver starts off down the street.

“What?” Glenn asks with a mouth still full of brownie. His dilated eyes search Dieter’s face, narrowing with suspicion.

Dieter frowns as he scratches the scruff on his chin, then snaps his head back and forth, cracking his neck, “That was weird.”

“Why? Did he hit on you or something?” Glenn’s words form around the food in his mouth. Dieter’s lip curls in disdain at the homophobic implication. He swears Glenn forgets that Dieter is not straight sometimes.

“No,” he scoffs and turns to dig a pastry out of the box in spite of the cocaine buzzing through his veins, suppressing his appetite.

When he bites into it, he finds it’s exactly the one he was trying to think of yesterday. Apple Danish. His shoulders wiggle and he groans in delight as the flaky crust gives way to apple filling inside. He swallows and clears his throat, “No, it wasn’t even him, it was his wife. The guy died.”

“She hot?” Glenn asks, not looking up from his examination of the remaining brownie.

Dieter nods as he chews, raising his eyebrows to indicate fuck yeah.

“How’d he die?” Glenn questions. His eyes are flicking all around the backseat of the town car, knee bouncing at lightspeed to spend some of his amplified, god-like energy. Dieter can tell he does not give one single fuck, he just wants to move his mouth.

“Didn’t ask,” Dieter takes another bite and throws his head back, groaning “Fuck, that’s good.”

Glenn shoves the rest of the brownie into his cavernous mouth and nods in agreement, “Good call.”

“But, she just casually mentioned that he died,” Dieter shakes his head and swallows the pastry.

“Weird,” Glenn comments in a disinterested tone as he grabs for a bottle of champagne waiting in an ice bucket by his feet.

Dieter licks his fingers and shakes his head again, “That’s not the weird part.”

“Then what the fuck is the weird part?” Glenn snips, growing impatient, all red-hot edges, fueled by cocaine and alcohol.

It wasn’t the off-putting way you spoke about your husband’s death. Or your apartment filled with a haze of loneliness so palpable it felt like someone was squeezing Dieter's heart.

Glenn wipes the brownie crumbs off his hands onto the seat of the car, then passes two champagne flutes to Dieter, who pops the last bite of Apple Danish into his mouth and takes the glasses. The unmistakable champagne POP! makes both the men flinch. Glenn fills both of the glasses that are shaking in Dieter’s unsteady grip. A substantial amount overflows onto the floor of the vehicle.

Dieter takes a swig of the bubbly, then explains, “When I OD’d, before they revived me, I saw her. It was like a memory, man. But it wasn’t, because it didn’t happen yet.”

He thought maybe the wires got crossed with someone else and he got the wrong memory. Fuck, he doesn’t know how it works. In the moments of clarity during his near-death experience, he knew, somehow, that he was seeing the future. His future. Each time he looked back on the experience, though, he grew more unsure.

But you opened that door into your apartment, and it was like déjà vu. High ceilings, purple crushed velvet couch in the living room that reminded him of Prince, pastry boxes stacked on the white granite countertop in the kitchen that looked made for a chef. It smelled like vanilla and pastry crust. 

Louella. One of your bare arms looked torn to shreds, tattoos once cohesive now crudely pasted back together, ribbed with newly formed scar tissue. Your smile, the real one, occupied your whole face.

"Weird," Glenn responds. He's scrolling through Twitter on his phone, not even listening.

There was more, though. 

Waking up in your bed, morning light spilling onto the two of you like a spotlight, his fingers tracing the map of scars up your leg.

Holding your hand while walking down the icy, snow-dusted sidewalk outside your apartment building. 

Kissing you in front of an ordained minister, cheers erupting from the crowd of spectators. 

Louella. Who the fuck are you? 

[ Next Chapter ]

[alluralater]

I’m really glad I found your blog, I just started my side tumblr! I wanted to pick your brain, a blog showed up on my dash with a post about how when other blogs have “Men DNI” on them it makes them uncomfortable as a non binary and gender fluid person. The reblogs had a lot of tags with some discourse, but someone said “it’s a persons traits that make us uncomfortable”. I know when you drop a text post the descriptors are purposefully non-binary. I was just wondering how you felt about that.

hi! many of my posts are gender ambiguous, not specifically nonbinary. i am a lesbian with zero preference, and i believe even if i had them, i would still make highly inclusive nsfw content. but my lack of preference (though okay maybe i do favor people who bend their gender a bit more than those who don't) does lend a hand to the fact that many of my posts are gender ambiguous <3

i don't want to be so callous about it but i'm gonna push through the reluctance and say that people fighting over an innocuous "men dni" tag need to go outside and touch grass. the implication is consistent that it is exclusionary of those who identify solely as men- period. and the even more loud implication is excluding cisgendered heterosexual men. there is nothing wrong with people not wanting men to interact with their content and stating such. those who are saying it excludes nonbinary and genderfluid people should do less speculating and be instead directing their questions to the authors of that content. it makes literally no sense to say it is exclusive if they haven't asked the people making the posts with "men dni" tags.

internalizing the 'plight' of the patriarchy is lame as fuck. cis straight men are excluded from sapphic spaces plenty of the time for blanket coverage comfortability/safety reasons and many cis men complain about it (for reasons that cannot be seen as anything less than strange + creepy entitlement). to imagine that nonbinary and genderfluid people are looked at in the same regard online is wild. irl there is PLENTY of bigotry thrown at them, but honestly 90% of the people on here never post their faces or bodies and so it's not as though authors are combing through and being like "oooooOo you give me man vibes- time to add a men dni tag." it's not personal. to assume there is negative intent in regard to nonbinary and genderfluid people on the basis of a men dni tag would be just that- an assumption.

nsfw content creators operate on the foundation of trust and honesty with our audiences. these kinds of things could be easily solved by those who feel uncomfortable dropping that content creator an ask to clarify the meaning of their men dni tags. considering men dni tags are like 90% targeted at cisgendered heterosexual men, it seems like discourse for the sake of discourse if you ask me, which you did. but i'm not nonbinary or genderfluid so- it's not really for me to say with any kind of absolute. i can only speak to this as a lesbian who curates nsfw content for a wide variety of lovely sapphics <3

[vergess]

you seem like a good person with genuinely nice intentions- i also find it really awful when people go "dont bully people because they COULD be autistic" instead of just saying "don't bully people." the idea that someone hates me, or thinks im cringe, but chooses not to be rude to me because i seem autistic to them is way more hurtful than them just bullying me... (obviously the ideal is for them to never bully anyone) and the argument that we shouldn't bully individuals with "childlike/cringe" interests because they might be autistic is really infantalizing, because it assumes that autism and having "childlike/cringe" interests are interlinked when i don't really think that's the case. (using childlike/cringe in quotes because i don't really believe any interests are childlike or cringe, just those are common descriptors used by people). again, you seem like you have really nice intentions, and i'm pretty sure we all agree, bullying is bad, it should never happen, but the idea of not bullying someone because they could be autistic is just harmful to the autistic community + doesn't stop bullying. have a wonderful night, im sorry for sending you an ask <3 im sure you'll get some hate so i wish you the best

Look, you also seem nice. You're the last ask that slid in under the wire before I turned them off completely due to the mass harassment.

That means you sent this before all the submissions and DMs once I turned asks off, where people started getting really fucking nasty. I am trying very hard not to hold those people against you, but it has been a long fucking day.

So, I'm trying my best here to be patient and kind when I write this essay, instead of just blocking or reporting you. You seem like you might be willing to listen. Even if you're not, your message makes a good starting point for me.

Because I have two major problems here.

1: Autism absolutely correlates with preferring media aimed at younger audiences.

This is not universal, and it's not because we're ~stupid~. It's nothing to do with """"mental age"""" or whatever trashfire talking points you've heard. You may recognize the more clinical terminology from diagnostics, even. It's a major identifiable symptom called "age-inappropriate interests and behaviours." (I personally prefer age-atypical; the current technical language is still, unfortunately, age-inappropriate.)

These age-atypical interests are caused by combinations of disability related factors including but not limited to:

Children's media has cleaner sound balancing with stronger dialogue tracks that make following the language easier. There also tend to be clearer pauses and tonal cues.

Children's media is often safely predictable in its outcome. Someone may die, but probably not the main hero, for example. This predictability is desirable for many autistic people in a hobby, as it limits distressors.

Language used tends to be plainer, with less reliance on quick flying quips that are hard to hear/read fast enough, or clever implications in screenplay. Many other autistic people love complex "adult" film specifically because they are fluent in screenwriting and enjoy exercising that fluency. Many more autistic people never learned screenplay fluently. Pretending that all autistic people have the same level of fluency in screenplay is not conducive to having a genuine conversation on this subject. All of this information and more is available to you it you associate yourself with non-verbal, less verbal, and intellectually disabled autistic people right here on tumblr.

Children's media is often translated into more languages than adult media, especially with dubbing. Being able to hear and read the dialogue simultaneously is a super basic access issue that autistic people are stuck fighting all the damned time, and kid's shows are some of the very few types of mass accessible pop art that actively enable that.

Speaking of mass access: children's media is often very easy to access, with a tendency towards being hosted on multiple stream sites, broadcasting in syndication, etc. This means more autistic people have access to it, and thus by simple numbers, more of them will enjoy it than niche artforms we are rarely allowed to interact with freely.

Media consumption more broadly is a desirable hobby for many autistic people because it can be done alone or with friends, as one's energy levels allow, and both forms can be similarly gratifying. This is a level of control over socialization that is very rare for most autistic people.

You'll also find trends of autistic people gathering around other subjects that have these qualities, not just children's media. Just off the top of my head, both kink and train collecting meet these standards, particularly as regards control, stressors, and access; both are also famous for being disproportionately autistic.

Indeed, this tendency to gather around accessible, controllable hobbies that can be engaged with alone or in small groups creates the very notion of "cringe."

People don't think watching kid's shows is bad in a vacuum: they think that autistic people are shameful, and thus anything we congregate around is shameful too. Including watching kid's shows.

Pretending that autistic people don't have an above average level of interest in media made for kids is nonsense. It's nonsense. It actively worsens everyone's perception of both the diversity of autistic experiences. You can claim that anti-bullying campaigns are bad for autistic people all you like, but no amount of research has ever or will ever back up that claim.

Either you are lying, or you have been lied to.

Autistic people are so well known for this that it's literally how we are identified socially AND diagnosed medically.

That's the reality.

No matter how much you hate it: other autistic people are still going to be drawn to hobbies you don't share, and they are still going to be abused for it. Including so-called """baby movies."""

Enjoying media you don't is not grounds to say that actually the abuse other people face is made up and doesn't need to be addressed.

Liking kid's shows is morally neutral.

You must acknowledge it as a morally neutral statement of fact, not an accusation of personal failing. Liking kid's shows is no better, no worse, no different from liking mid-16th century tapestry, or artsy experimental music from cities I've never heard of in countries I've never visited.

If you cannot even admit that all non-violent hobbies are equally legitimate, then we have no common ground upon which to continue a discussion.

As long as you operate under the presumption that any autistic who is less complex in their interests than you is not worth acknowledging, then you are not worth this discussion. You can try again when you've learned not to be pro-bullying.

Which brings me to

2: You are still, right now, loudly and proudly insisting that being anti-bullying is Bad Actually.

Once you've accepted the fundamentally morally neutral nature of being into something kinda "cringe," ask yourself why your reaction to anti-bullying campaigns rooted in that neutrality is to separate yourself from the other autistic people demanding to be treated with the basest level of human respect.

To then pass on blatant lies about those people (whether knowingly or by mistake), and claim that they are hurting themselves. To demand that those people "stop hurting themselves" by obeying your rules. Rules that, whether you wish to admit it or not, were very obviously made out of ignorance and will very obviously cause great harm.

Those lies are now fueling hatred of a damn anti bullying campaign. The single most milquetoast conceivable.

Furthermore, this is an anti bullying campaign modeled off some of the most successful abuse interventions for autistic people that have been studied to date. It is a campaign started by other autistic people to protect ourselves from the heaps of ableist abuse we receive daily.

And you loathe it enough to join this cavalcade.

But see: the anti bullying campaigns work. They save lives. They improve quality of life in every measurable field. And they have done for literally decades. This is a closed matter. A proven fact.

Whereas spreading misinformation about the diversity of autistic experiences actively worsens that quality of life. Another proven fact, actually.

Your choice is between a proven benefit to autistic people started by and for us. Or a proven detriment that causes huge amount of death in our community.

And right now, with all your genteel kindness, silk gloves and sweet honey? You've chosen "do the thing that makes autistic people suicidal". Worse, you've convinced yourself that this is a good thing. That increased suicidality and abuse benefits all autistic people because the method thereof happens to benefit you.

I don't know how you think it benefits you. Maybe it makes you feel safer in allistic society. Maybe it just boosts your ego with a rush of vicious justice serving glee. Probably it's something else entirely.

Whatever the reason, you've nevertheless chosen the second most common cause of death among autistic people ages 10-35 as the thing you want to support.

See, telling people not to be abusive shitheads because like 70% of their abuse is rooted in an unexamined hatred of disabled people is not """"shoving politics where it doesn't belong"""" or whatever else. It's identifying and acknowledging the root issue, and attempting to actively address it.

So, with all that out of the way:

WHY did you think sending me this misinformation would make me more sympathetic to the literally dozens of people who have done nothing but harass me for 13 fucking hours now?

[gynandromorph]

Hi, more Jessie questions (apologies if you got these before, I didn't scroll down to the initial post);

In the sushi comic Emily says Jessie could just go with 'that sushi' and get the sushi she wants, and I'm gonna assume that's true. But does that mean the power is relative, or is it based around Jessie? Let's say Jessie goes to a hardware store, and forgets what specific type of screws she needed to get. If she were to go 'those screws' will the power know what she is referring to, or will the power default to what it thinks she wants? If Jessie plum forgot about the screws and then remembered them in the parking lot, could she go 'get those screws' and have them appear in her bag, or would she have to go back into the hardware store for the power to understand the command? Or would Jessie have the clearance of mind to go 'make me remember what screws to get' and avoid this entire hypothetical?

And;

What happens if someone prays to Jessie? Abrahamic* prayer is really weird, because nobody tells you that a prayer is not a wish. From my own experience (Anglican, non-conformist and high church) people love talking about the impossible power of the thing above you, but not in a way that helps you think about communication with it. I've gotten a lot more out of prayer since following the Gods, because the Gods are, imo, humanities stewards, but both of us are controlled by the fates. Even if the prayer is honoured, fate can invalidate the reason for the prayer, and neither me nor the Gods can do anything about it. But the God is a sustainer, the reason why humanity is, so people treat it like a wish giver. If life goes well for you, than the God answered your wishes, and you pass that along as what prayer is. If the God does not answer your wishes, you did not pray hard enough. Accepting that the old god is not 1:1 the God, I assume prayer works in a similar way to our world. So how does this effect Jessie? Can she hear prayers? If she can, can she turn off the prayers or respond to them? Obviously Jessie is a bastard dirt creature, I love her for it, so can she just chose to fuck with someone by responding to their prayers 'wrong'?

And;

I love how you draw pogs so much. The sushi comic really made me think about it because holy shit, Jessie pog, but it's just something you're really good at drawing! There's a dupe picture from a while back of dupe and I think gray (?) Pogging at each other, and that dupe pog has become my default pog when I think of a pog. Just true Platonic ideal of a pog

Thrilling questions going on here. If I knew more about demonstratives, this would likely be easier to explain, but, if the audience gets it, the power "gets" it - for the most part. In the screw example, if Jessie had mentioned getting screws at the store, retrieving "those screws" after forgetting them would work, because the audience would understand what screws she is talking about. If she tried to refer to "those screws" to remember the screws, or learn what screws she needed, this wouldn't work, because she's trying to reference knowledge she and the story don't have. Similarly, she could invoke retrieving "those screws" for as long as it would register to a competent member of the audience. She could even get the right screws by looking at what she needs the screws for and then invoking "those screws." Another example is "that guy" -- Jessie usually specifies what "guy" she is referring to with a small identifying descriptor, because it won't work in a crowd. She could be referring to many guys. However, with only one other guy around, she could just say "that guy." On top of that, "a guy" can work. "A jogger" can work if there is only one person jogging in the vicinity, etc.

Second question: Jewish prayer actually does structure itself in a way that is like making a request to a king -- it would be rude to walk in and ask for a favor first, so it is sandwiched in between prayers that are only praise. I don't know about other forms of worship, but it is sometimes accounted for in a faith. I never like seeing Judaism lumped in with more general terms if it isn't accurate, so I have to nitpick. It's great that you brought up fate. Fate is

an important concept

in Idletry

which it goes great lengths to explore indirectly.

It is one of the core thematic concepts of the story, and consequently, I need to dance around it to avoid some of the biggest spoilers in Idletry. The way fate is described here, I would simply consider it another God which controls all else except, perhaps, itself. The story takes it a different direction, where I'd say that fate is uncontrollable, but also entirely controlled by the individual. As far as we know, Jessie isn't subject to inevitabilities such as fate. Tangents aside, the "prayers delivered through Twiddler arguments" bit is actual canon, so Jessie needs to be bored enough to check her Twiddler feed to even notice prayers. She listens to them directly at first, and quickly decides that is very overwhelming AND boring -- the Twiddler decree is not only for entertainment, but to force prayer to be easily turned on and off (for Jessie). She can also respond to them directly (on Twiddler, usually). She can and absolutely has fucked with people just because she didn't like what they prayed for, how they conveyed what they want, or I even have a joke where she responds to someone's prayer saying she won't help them because they don't have pronouns in bio. The snowglobe guy specifically argued with Jessie on Twiddler because she wouldn't acknowledge a particular prayer. The religious organization that springs up to worship her initially spends most of its time reviewing and refining the prayer formats of its congregants; it entices more people to join because wishes they post on Twiddler tend to be granted (or at least taken well). Am considering having them more involved in the handling of prayer later on, but there may simply not be enough time in the plot in between their introduction and Jessie going bitchcakes.

this pog takes up 50% of my language processing.

[marshmallowprotection]

Love love love love the unknown art but cheritz is back at it again with the ultra skinny woman with comedically big tits for how small she is type bs....like WHY can't they be normal about women.

I digress...this is a much bigger issue than cheritz but it kills my ability to enjoy the fanart.

I'm looking forward to your analysis, though! :')

TW; Fatphobia

Fatphobia is a legitimate problem across the world, and it bleeds into everything when society values fat bodies as less than. I'll use fat as my descriptor because I'm comfortable with using that word, but I'm aware some people don't like that word because of how they've been treated. So, just know I'm using it for myself here.

I say this as someone who was fat growing up, I always felt like I was valued less than everyone else. When I nearly lost my life a few years ago, I lost a lot of weight. It's difficult to talk about because everyone around me told me I looked "so much better". People started to treat me differently. People started to look at me differently. I was seen by society and perceived in a different way than I had been my entire life and it made me angry. I'm still angry about it.

Someone who used to bully me for years tried to hit on me. As if I'd give someone a second fucking look when I know they wouldn't value my fat body. I didn't look better and I sure as hell didn't feel better. It hurt to know people looked at me and said I looked great when I was actively dying. When I was miserable, people thought only of weight loss as a "good thing".

Because society puts so much value on "skinniness", people could give less of a fuck about it. My body was "skinny." It didn't matter if I was on my death bed to them.

People with MC's body do exist in some regard. Bodies come in all shapes and sizes in this world, there's no one body that's going to look exactly the same, but there are more body types than just a small waist and large breasts.

I think it's important to be mindful of the way we talk about all bodies because it's not fair to anyone that we live in a world that prioritizes certain traits over others. But, if you're not careful about how you're phrasing your frustration, you could hurt someone else like how you have been hurt. The smallest comment about someone's appearance could hurt them, it doesn't matter if it's about your weight, skin color, shape of your eyes, shape of your nose, etc. Words can hurt others in so many ways.

It's important to sit down and stare at the real devil in the room. The perpetuation pushed by some people in this world that "eurocentric features should be the beauty standard." That's just racist. It's bound by racism and all it does to hurt everyone. Ugh.