#well that came out freudian

[kneelingshadowsalome]

Hi I want to hear more about könig's dysfunctional family please!

I don't know where this backstory came from but it would explain a lot of things!

CW: Angst, self-hate, moral ambiguity, patricide

König’s dad left before he was even born. The way his mom still describes this man as some amazing hero, the greatest love of her life, she makes it sound like it’s König’s fault that he left. Ergo -> it’s König’s fault that his mom is so unhappy.

That’s why König has this deeply ingrained feeling that he should never have been born and so he tries to make himself as small as possible in the household. This becomes increasingly difficult after the growth spurt, but hey, at least he can make himself less of a burden in other ways…

He never tells his mom about the bullying stuff, about the disturbing websites he found when he was 13. Nor does he share his revenge fantasies that are starting to get out of hand, so much so that his school curator tells him he could go to the army if shooting as a hobby interests him so much. No one ever talks about the elephant in the room, how even a simple, old man at school can see inside König’s soul better than his own mother.

His mom had difficulty taking care of herself, which means König learned to juggle with all kinds of adult things when he was little. Running to the store, doing the laundry, heating up food or preparing it from scratch when mom forgot became this kid’s normal, as did listening to her gushing about this incredible new man she found online. König listened at least 15 times how this time, it’s different: this time, she really could sense how there’s this deep connection unlike ever before. This time, this mysterious savior will make things better for all of them and help them financially – even the sex is great!

König vaguely knows he shouldn’t be learning all these details about his mom’s sex life, especially when he’s already forced to hear just how great the sex is, but after a week of Would you like to come in's, his mother is pacing around and sitting next to the phone and sighing deeply. Eventually, she's crying her heart out on the sofa. Again.

She bawls how all men just want one thing, how König is all she has, he’s such a good kid, such a charming boy who would never abandon a good woman, yada yada, and König tries to comfort her as best as he can. At the age of 17, he’s relieved to get out of his childhood home, the house of many pains. But when he gets headhunted to KorTac, after many many years, and gets his first paycheck... 80 % of it goes straight to his mom.

---

If we’re talking about yandere universe König, well, his curse was that his father was very much there and abusive to both him and his mother.

To König, the day he killed his dad was the day he grew up, and even though it took several years for his mom to talk to him again, even though he regrets maybe one or two of the ~20 stabs he put his old man through… König knows his mom is secretly grateful. He’s her hero; he saved her from that monster.

He will save a lot of people before this sick thing called life is through...

[trashogram]

He Chose You (Pt. 9)

Lucifer/Reader: Lucifer chooses you to be the mother of his child. Rated Explicit.

Warning: Character Death, and minor details of childbirth.

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10 | Part 11 | Part 12 | Part 13 | Part 13.5 | Part 14 | End

“You’re glowing!”

You’d scoffed while watching as your body literally began to illuminate from the inside out.

“Well of course.” You’d snickered, looking from your hands to Lucifer. “Every mother does.” 

Your hand came up to clasp your mouth shut, but the Freudian slip was already out there. Lucifer stared at you and you stared back. 

Your lips wobbled and torso trembled until you could no longer hold it in and burst into laughter. Elation ran its course, and Lucifer joined you — laughing so hard that he slapped his knee. 

When you fell into his arms and let yourself be held, you imagined it would only be for a little while. This bizarro pregnancy had you on some kind of high, and all the worries and doubts that had been building up disappeared. 

—

You can’t remember for how long you’ve been walking but there’s discomfort in the soles of your feet. The landscape changes as soon as you truly behold it. 

The endless field of tall grass and the trees so tall they could touch the sky had been replaced by golden sand. You could feel its gentle heat on the ends of your toes. Beyond the sand is a gently rolling ocean, lilac beneath a honey gold sky as the sun has only just set. The sound of rhythmic, rushing water is so real and so close that you’re immediately calm. 

Memories flood your mind like a sneaker wave. You’re a child again, running away from the water as it laps at you. The shock of the cold water goes away quickly and you want to follow the pebbles and seashells that drift back out with the retreating tide. 

You look back, away from the sea, and see the blonde woman behind you. You grin. 

She’s wistful. 

It stamps down on your joy. The air is salty and wet blowing through your hair and inhaled through your nostrils. You want to speak, but you can’t think of a thing to say. 

“I wish this was goodbye.” Her voice carries above the waves, muffling them until they’re nothing but a dull roar. 

—

You awoke to the sensation of falling and seized in your bed. Lucifer startled beside you. He’d been sleeping wrapped around your belly; a compromise to laying perpendicular to you so that he could continue talking to the soccer-player in your stomach. 

He or she had not stopped moving since they decided to make it known that they were, in fact, not dead.

(You’d chided the baby for that, and for doubling in size in less than two week’s time, much to Lou’s amazement:

“Hell isn’t ready to be ruled by two speed demons.” You’d deadpanned.)

“Huh?” He grabbed you without thought. “What—”

Movement erupted from deep down in your core, muscles clenching and unclenching quickly, forcing you to seize again. 

“I think I’m — ugh!” You gritted your teeth. “—I’m going into labor.” 

Lucifer doesn’t do anything for a long moment. 

Then he flew into a panic before you could say ‘Jesus Christ!’. 

—

The hallway outside illuminated with the sheer brilliance of your body, literally glowing. It hadn’t stopped since it started, only a few weeks ago. Fortunately, the glow was tied to an almost paralyzing euphoria. It was the kind of delight that turned your blood into gold while racing through your body. The kind that kept you from complaining that you’d become Tinkerbell.  

“Steady. I’ve got you!” Lucifer assured whilst trudging over the carpet with you in his arms. 

An influx of pain rippled through you for the first time, providing distraction from the mortification you might’ve felt in that position. It hasn’t escaped your notice that the Prince of Darkness was a shortstack. Your brain had a hard time accepting that for as small as he appeared, Lucifer was capable of unimaginable feats of strength and endurance. 

So, you didn’t think about it. Instead you focused on breathing in and out deeply as your partner kicked at the front door of your neighbors’ apartment with the toe of his boot. 

As if waiting at the door, Warren Farrow appeared from behind the polished wood. His expression was of minute surprise, but within seconds he was turning back and calling for his wife.

Lucifer managed to pivot the two of you into the Farrow home. Warren guided you with an unusual vigor in his step, as though he were a man decades younger. 

“We’ve had it set up for weeks now, Sir.” Warren said gravely. 

Through the convulsions, you observed the inlet that Lucifer had taken you into. It was like a roomy closet, covered in tapestries and littered with candles of all shapes and colors. 

Warren’s wife was flitting about, quickly lighting the pitch-black surroundings until you could see the mere outline of things. 

You were drawn to the center of the crowded room, where a humble white cot covered in white towels contrasted everything else.

It occurred to you then that this entire pregnancy had been a shit show, not the least bit because you’d never gone to any OB. You hadn’t checked in with any hospital, or stepped foot in one — how could you? 

Therefore, any  and all “check-ups” you’d had had come from your creepy neighbors with their tea and their scrutinizing questions and their buzzard-like stares.

You’d consoled yourself throughout with the brief, semi-serious talk with Mrs. Farrow three months into gestation.

“What? Were you a midwife or something?” You asked incredulously. 

“Yes, honey.” Cass had patted your hand like you were a simpleton. “I helped deliver babies for over 15 years. I was younger than you were when I first started!” 

You had stared. ‘Oh god, how many crazy cultists are actually nurses in disguise?’

“Here we go, all set. You can lay her down here.” Cassie came over brusquely, smoothing over the wrinkles in the cot before Lucifer put you down. 

He laid you on the sheets, light as a feather, jarring as you felt your belly weigh you down. The King didn’t go far, reluctant to let go of your hand. You held on like a vice as well, gripping and squeezing with each contraction. 

You felt pinches in and around your abdomen, but the pain was… off. It came not from true agony, but the overworking of your internal organs in contrast to the pleasantness that you embodied post-glow stick phase. 

Hearing childbirth horror stories all your life, and just the horrors of raising children in general, you expected to be screaming and thrashing. 

This wasn’t as bad as some of your past periods had been. What’s worse than that, however, is the unnecessary guilt you feel for how troublesome it isn’t. 

—

Lucifer struggled to remain in one spot as the urge to pace up and down the cramped little birthing room ate at him. 

He didn’t want to leave you — not that his two hosts would dare make him, regardless of tradition — but old habits die hard. He was fidgeting, putting all his weight on one foot then the other. 

You were his exact opposite, laying placid and relaxed on the birthing bed, eyeing the little room. Microexpressions flitted across your face, some of confusion and some of hurt, but aside from your firm grasp on his hand, and the occasional grunt, you may as well have been dozing off. 

Eventually you glanced at him. 

“Do you wanna sit down?” You asked calmly. 

Lucifer tried to laugh but it came out like a strangled wheeze. “Nahhh, this is fine. I’m fine. Are you fine? I mean I know you’re not fine, but can I do something? Whatever you need, I can get it for you!” 

His rambling ends with you bopping him between the eyes teasingly. “You’re silly.” 

It’s inexplicable, but Lucifer’s mood lightened at your mellow admonishment. He meets your warm, drowsy expression with an adoring smile of his own. 

“I am.” He kissed your forehead. “You’re an angel to put up with it.” 

A too-loud rasp interrupted the soft moment of nothing but affection and kisses. Cass was standing at the foot of your cot, hands on each of your knees as she kept your legs apart. 

“Get ready, honey. You’re on your way.” She hailed. 

–

A cry split through the air and it went straight to your heart. 

You gulp down air (Lucifer mimicking you without meaning to) with sweat pouring from your hairline. The lack of pain hadn’t meant a lack of effort, and you still felt like you’d run a marathon just to pass the little being currently wailing in Mrs. Farrow’s arms. 

“It’s a girl.” Mrs. Farrow declared.

There was no attempt to hide the sidelong glance she gave Mr. Farrow. The lines and grooves on the elderly man’s face deepened until he resembled a gnarled tree trunk.

“Hmm.” Was his reply, deep baritone rolling like thunder in the tiny room. 

Vehement indignance blazed to life inside your mind when the old man looked at you, critical and disappointed. You felt like tearing him and the rest of this old, tacky room to shreds. Yet, exhaustion had planted its roots deep inside of you, and all you could do was glare at the old couple from your makeshift bed. 

‘Why does it fucking matter?’

“Gimme my kid.” You growled.

As if to piss you off further, Cass ignored you in favor of wiping the baby clean before passing her off to Lucifer. The old bat presented her to the King like she was a fallen bannerman’s sword, even curtsying while doing it. 

It was so weird that it brought you out of your anger for a second. 

Lucifer was clearly apprehensive, and his insecurity made the grand gesture stranger. He swallowed visibly, making eye contact with you when he couldn’t break away from the internal turmoil he was struggling with. 

“Bring her to me.” You demanded. Lucifer nodded vigorously, cocking a head toward you. 

It was fucking nonsensical, but at last Cass obeyed and brought you a bundle wrapped in silky black. 

The baby’s wailing tapered off as soon as she’d made contact with you. And like a child on Christmas morning, you shifted to sit up as much as you could and pry open the swaddling cloth. 

You sniffled. 

All at once, the breath caught in your throat and your eyes welled up with tears.

The newborn was as flagrant as her father in terms of skin tone and hair. She hadn’t yet opened her eyes but already you could see none other than a spitting image of Lucifer himself. Right down to the rosy apple cheeks that made up her pudgy little face. 

You were a little surprised to see that she had a nose. A little black smudge, puppy-like - anomalous like the little growths on her forehead and the itty bitty spade on the tip of her wagging tail. 

She was perfect. 

“I think she’s a Charlotte.” You manage to tear your eyes away from the miraculous hellspawn in your arms just long enough to search Lucifer’s golden gaze. “What do you think?” 

His Majesty is a whimpering mess beside you. “Y-yeah. That’s perfect.” 

Peeling the blanket back just that much more, you lean toward him. It takes a little coaxing, but sure enough Lucifer traces a delicate claw over the child’s tiny brow. 

“Hello Charlotte.” He whispered. “We’re so happy you’re here.” 

Adoration overwhelmed you, nigh on visible like the air was tinged with its color, its scent, its warmth cocooning the three of you. 

Daddy, Mommy and baby. A strange but happy little family. 

Lou embraced the two of you, hiding his face, and subsequent weeping, in the side of your neck while your baby cooed. 

The background chants of ‘Hail Princess Charlotte’ and ‘Hail King Lucifer’ were, thankfully, not enough to ruin the moment. 

Nothing could. Until. 

It doesn’t dawn on you that anything is wrong when the glow has faded. It’s only the incidental look at your fingers, with Charlotte’s tail curled around them, that freezes you. Numbness then began to crawl up your body, as if waiting for the moment that you’re brain would connect the dots. The copper scent of blood made your nostrils flare and heart hammer.

Fear clutched at you in an instant. “Take her. Take the baby.” 

Your desperate hiss and barely-there shuffle to push Charlotte into Lucifer’s arms fully had his face falling. 

“W-wai-wh-What’s happening?” He asked, panic rising. 

Mrs. Farrow is prompt, crone’s face scrunched and nose prominent as if she could sniff out the issue. She’s stood at the end of the bed, already lifting the sheets off your body before you can seek her out. 

A stiff hand appears over the covers, covered in shiny dark claret. “She’s bleedin’ too much.” 

Lucifer’s eyes blazed from where he hovered. “Why?”

The elderly woman was ready to shrug, but she stalled. Perhaps out of fear. “It happens, your Grace. Birthing a baby takes a toll on the mother, sometimes it’s too much.”

“Then why are you just standing there?”Lucifer bared his fangs, ivory in the lowlight. His eyes were a haze of vermillion, so opaque that you couldn’t find his pupils or the soul inside. “Help her!” 

The truly demonic scrape of his vocal chords frightened you, as did the sudden appearance of tusk-like horns protruding from his skull and the fire coming to life between them. His beautiful skin marred and stretched and cracked as if his form were a prison barely containing the true beast within. 

Energy crackled in the air, heat rising to blow back your hair and dry the air from your lungs like a flung-open kiln. The breath was stolen from your lungs as ivory wings shot out and overtook what little space was left in the alcove. 

Reality was literally distorting around Lucifer’s warped rage. 

Mr. Farrow, for all his reticence, reached for his wife’s shoulder from within your line of sight. 

“Lucifer.” You hissed, bearing the brunt of his inhuman stare when he turned to you. It took real energy to speak. “I need you… the baby…”

It didn’t take anymore prodding for the blond to intercept your daughter once your desperation got through to him. The Devil slowly shifted back, revealing the depth of his fear in the cloudless turn of his gaze. He met you halfway - finally - and pulled Charlotte close to his chest.

A pang of thankfulness made laughter bubble up from your diaphragm. It hurt. Everything hurt again.

“Stop. Wait.” Lucifer begged, voice turned to ice. Fragile, cracking. His natural white glow had dimmed significantly like a cooling star. “This isn’t— I promised you this wouldn’t happen! This can’t happen!”

A shudder ran through you. 

“Hey.” You lifted a hand and placed it on his pale cheek, thumb brushing over where white met red. “Nothing… for it now.” 

“No, don’t, that’s… No.” His agony was so palpable, as his fury had been. 

“You’re gonna be a great dad.” You murmured. 

Lucifer bowed over the side of the bed with Charlotte snug against him. You could feel the warmth of his breath, and then the splash of his tears against your cheek as he broke down. You felt it deep in your bones, and the lump in your throat that choked you. 

“Not without you.” He said. “I can’t do this without you.”

A pained smile was your response. Vision a-blur. Cotton tongue.  

“You… will.”

Lucifer shook his head fiercely. “I promised you. I swore I wouldn’t let anything happen to you. I can’t… I can’t...” 

“Please. Please don’t — ” Anguish turned Lucifer’s once melodic voice into broken notes. “Don’t leave us. Please, please, please.” 

His sobs intermingled with Charlotte’s whimpering. She fussed as she was woken from her doze by the growing, tangible urgency. You wished you could calm both of them. Take them in your arms and make it all go away, promise that you weren’t going anywhere. 

“Please. Please. Please.” The word fell from the Devil’s mouth like a prayer. 

You wondered if he really was praying. Praying to his Father. 

It broke your heart. 

The candlelight around you was getting brighter as the rest of your surroundings grew dark. Lucifer, as brilliant as he was, lingered somewhere in between. You squinted when his features began to fuse together in your mind. It did little to help, as large, dark shadows blotted out the corners of your sight. 

Charlotte was bawling and you fought to open your eyes again. You hadn’t realized they’d closed. 

You were so tired. The will to rise up and comfort your baby was dwindling. Everything had succumbed to a thin stream of light in a sea of darkness. 

With a breath, and another Herculean effort, you opened your eyes again. 

White blinded you. 

And then you were nothing.

***

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[wolfish-trickster]

I want to choose you now

Gojo x fem!reader, Geto x fem!reader

Part 4

Previous part

Word count: 2K

Summary: Gojo comes to you to talk. You and him decide to have a serious conversation again. Both of you make some hurtful freudian slips, but Gojo still tries to win you back.

Warnings: bad grammar (possibly), typos, angst, very little comfort

Taglist: @ilovebattinson @catobsessedlady @tqd4455 @nanao4k

@abcdefghijklmmopqrstuvwxyz @username23345 @www-kiana-mp3 @wirwirfr

Gojo knocked on the old door with probably too much force but he didn't really care.

He was well rested, freshly shaved and nicely dressed. The sky was clear with birds chasing eachother in the air which smelled like fresh flowers. It was a beautiful spring day. If it wasn't for the anxiety and guilt crushing his chest he would call this the ideal weekend.

Some shuffling behind the door and a sound of key unlocking said door later and Gojo was met with his old friend's face.

"Hey Shoko," he tried sounding nonchalant but it came out forced and fake, "is Y/N here?"

"Yes," she said and stood firmly in the free space between the halfway opened door and the doorframe, "will you cause trouble?"

"Don't you know me?" he teased with a nervous smile. Shoko didn't smile. Gojo gulped. "I won't. Promise."

This made Shoko smile. A little bit. "Good, you can come in," she opened the door wider and stepped out of the way.

It's been a while since Gojo's been to this place. Most of his time lately has been devided equally between Geto's and his shared home with Y/N. Well, more or less equally. But even though some furniture got replaced and Shoko rearranged a decoration here and there he could still feel the remnance of the trio they once were. The framed picture of their highschool graduation above the fireplace. The almost unnoticible stain on the carpet from Gojo's messy way of drinking milk after Geto dared him to eat the spiciest chili they could buy. Shoko didn't even change the kitchen table. He could still see that little burned spot from Shoko teaching both Geto and Gojo how to smoke. Gojo smiled when he remembered how both of them coughed like crazy and Geto almost burned down the whole kitchen with his fallen cigarette, hence the burned spot. And right next to it sat...

"Hi," you greeted in a small voice. Even though you tried to have neutral face he could see the sadness behind your eyes. The dissapointment. It fueled Gojo to fight even harder to earn your trust again.

"Can we talk?" He said without a greeting.

You and Shoko exchanged a look he couldn't decipher.

"Is there something to talk about?" You asked in return. Your seemingly neutral expression turned hostile with your eyebrows lowering over your eyes creating a slight scowl.

He realized he should've greeted.

"Yes, there is," he said gently and slowly took a step towards the kitchen table. You didn't flinch or tried to move away from him, which he took as a good sign.

"Like?"

"Us."

You shook your head. "There is no us Gojo."

He felt mild anxiety before. Now he felt like he could throw up.

"You blew it Satoru," said Shoko from behind him, "apologize, make peace and go."

"Since when are you on her side?" He snapped without thinking.

"What the hell Gojo?" you half yelled at him.

His head snapped back at you. "I-I didn't mean it like that. I-" his head kept turning from Shoko to you. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes. He needs to play this right. He can't afford another fuck up. "I'm sorry. But can you leave me and Y/N alone for a while?" he turned to Shoko with a pleading look he knew will work on her. He has mastered it over the years. "Please."

Shoko pondered it for a while. In the end she closed her eyes and sighed. "I need to go to class anyways," she said as she passed him to get her phone from where she left it to charge in the kitchen. Neither of you corrected her it's weekend and therefore no school.

After changing from pyjamas she walked to the front door. "Don't wreck my house, okay?"

Gojo didn't know who was this sentence meant for but he still nodded and mouthed a 'thanks'.

The door closed. The air got even more tense somehow. Gojo wanted to say everything at once but he had no idea how to start.

He pointed at the chair that was next to you, question in his eyes behind his black shades.

You nodded.

He smiled in relief and and turned the chair so he was fully facing you but sitting on it backwards as well to have the backrest to hold onto.

"So," he started and pushed the lump in his throat as deep as possible, "I had a talk with Suguru and-" you squirmed in your seat.

"Let me finish!" he quickly said in panic you'd walk out again after mentioning his best friend. "Just please let me finish."

"I didn't say anything," you said calmly.

"Yes but," he realized arguing with you would make the already bad situation even worse. "Nevermind," he looked at the floor. He never realized how much it resembled the one at Suguru's.

"Go on. You talked with Geto and?"

"Right," he nodded, "I talked with him and he made me realize I don't want to loose you. You are very important to me and now I see why you were upset. I admit, I was really spending too much time with him. But, I'm willing to try minimize my time with him and maximize the time I have with you."

You scoffed and smiled, still avoiding looking him in the eyes. "So you needed a third person to realize something was wrong with you?"

Gojo frowned. "There's nothing wrong with me."

You nodded. "Okay, sorry. I worded it wrong. But you understand don't you?"

"Yes, I do," he didn't. But in fear of making it worse he left it at that.

"Good," you leaned back. "At least we're getting somewhere."

He nodded. "Look, Suguru told me there were two types of love, one for friends and other for lovers. All my life I thought there was just one type of love. I was really confused when I first started having feelings towards you. At our first anniversary I realized I even forgot he even existed," a sad chuckle.

"I think," he continued, "that was the point when I wanted to spend more time with him. As to not lose him," he clarified.

Your expression slowly turned from neutral to sad to heartbroken.

"But I'm willing to fix that! As Suguru said you should be loved in a way a girlfriend is and I'll learn just that!"

"Oh, so you only loved me as a best friend till now?" You snapped and finally looked at him.

"No, that's not what I said," he raised his hands, palms turned towards you, as if he was calming down a wild animal. "I just told you I'm willing to work for this and even that isn't good enough for you?"

"Gojo-"

"Satoru."

"Gojo," you frowned at him. "I don't want to be with someone who literally has to learn how to love me."

"But I can do that," he said softly. "I can do that for you. See?" He reached out to wipe the tear slowly making its way down your cheek. "I can-"

You slapped his hand away before it could even touch you. "Why?"

"Huh?"

"Why do you want to be with me so much? You're free to hang out with Suguru as much as you'd like now that you're not with me."

Gojo closed his mouth. Did he hear correctly? "Why did you call him Suguru and not Geto?"

"Oh my god," you rolled your eyes, "that's what stuck with you? Out of all..."

"Answer me! Why are you using his first name and not mine?"

"It slipped out! Don't avoid-"

"Slipped out, my ass," he rubbed the bridge of his nose under his glasses. "Do you like him more than me now? A guy you barely met versus a guy you've been with for three years!"

"Can you stop?!" you cried out.

"Oh, why? Because I hit a sore spot? Did you get bored of me and developed a crush on him instead? Is that why you caused this whole mess in the first place? To break up with me even though I try so-"

"Me?!" You asked in disbelief. "It was you who was never home! And now you're blaming me for that?" your chest kept rising and falling rapidly. You placed a hand on it to calmed it down.

"No, I'm not blaming you for anything. See it's not my fault you had no one but me to fill your time!"

Quiet. You leaned away from him deeper into the chair.

"Y/N, I-" he had no words. How does he fix this. "I didn't-"

"Can you just answer the damn question?" you wiped your tears and gathered enough courage to look him in the eye. "After all of this, why are you still here? Why do you want me back? Don't you hate me?"

He violently shook his head. "No, god no! I could never."

"Then why?"

"You mean a lot to me."

You raised your eyebrows. "And?"

"And..." he needed to buy some time to think. What did you want to hear from him? What words would make you believe he really wants to have you back? "And I love you?"

Sad chuckle. "You're not even sure about that yourself."

"I am!" He argued back and cringed. He must've sounded like a stubborn child to you. "I love you Y/N. I really do. And if you think I don't then teach me what kind of love you want me to have for you."

"I already told you," you groaned. "I don't want you to force yourself to love me. I wnat someone who will want to love me on their own."

"I don't force myself. I really do love you. But it's obviously not enough or the right kind. Please Y/N."

He reached for your hands and even though you pulled them away he still grabbed them and held them. They were cold as ice.

"We felt good together, right? We had fun, we went out, we talked all night long. Don't throw this away. I don't want to be alone."

His hands held yours as if his life depended on it.

"So you just don't want to be alone," you concluded and sniffled.

He shook his head. "No," he wanted to say more but he didn't know what. He wanted you back. To hug you as the two of you fall asleep. To cook with you again. Spend time with you. Even without Suguru. He was ready to try that. He'll be there, just as he said. Gojo tried telling his head and his heart it's okay to neglect Suguru now. Focusing on you will become his priority. He'll do better this time. He begged his mouth to say all of that. And yet.

No words fell. From you nor him.

Clock kept ticking. Sun shone through Shoko's replaced window and created a beautiful rainbow which fell on your joined hands. Gojo smiled. Then something fell on the back of his hand. A tear.

He looked up. You were crying, but your head was also pretty far away. The tear that fell was his. His head maybe didn't know yet. But his heart. It knew.

You freed one of your hands and wiped his cheek. "You know what's the worst though?" you asked through your tears.

"Hmm?"

"It's not how you refuse to aknowledge you were in the wrong. Or how you still want to force Suguru into all of this when it should be just the two of us. It's none of that," you stood up and for the first time someone towered over Gojo and he felt true fear of what was about to come. "It's how you talked so much and yet you never said sorry."

*

"You sure they won't kill eachother there?" Geto asked as he gave Shoko his own lighter. Shoko threw her old one away and gladly accepted her friend's.

"I hope they won't," she slipped a new cigarette between her lips and lit it. This must be her third one in this hour. Right after she left she called Geto to meet up. Gojo was a dear friwnd to both of them. But they took a liking to you too. It hurt Shoko to hear how much of an ass her good friend was but ultimately she sympathized with you more. She hoped Gojo would come to his senses and do the right thing.

"Besides," she breathed out some smoke, "Satoru is a little dense but he isn't stupid. I trust he'll say the right words."

Geto hummed and kept walking.

Shoko pitied him. She was in a fairly difficult position. Gojo was her friend, sure, but so were you. Geto though? Gojo was his best friend since forever and Y/N was the girl he fell in love with. She was there when Geto got drunk one night and blabbed about how much he liked you and how good you were. She only thought it was a cute little crush from his side but after he sobered up she knew. He was speaking nothing but truth.

Even if Shoko knew Geto was much more mature than Gojo and you would much more appreciate him in the future Geto kept telling her the same thing: he can't do that to his best friend.

But even though she knew all this, she couldn't help but tease him one last time. "And even if it doesn't work out you can at least get a shot," she playfully nudged him.

"So you're well rested now," smiled and rubbed his arm.

She cocked her head to one side. "What do you mean?"

"Last night," he explained but Shoko was still clueless. "We texted," he tried more but it still didn't ring a bell for her.

"I was sleeping last night, Suguru," she took a drag from the cigarette and blew out grey smoke.

Geto stopped in his tracks. "What did you say?"

"Eeeh, I slept?"

Geto shook his head. "No, I meant what did you call me?"

"Suguru? Like always?" she said and studied his face. It turned from realization to blush to pure horror.

"You've always called me Suguru. Not even when we first met you didn't call me by my surname," he muttered and fished out hsi phone from his pants. He quickly found Shoko's contact and scrolled to the messages he had with her. He slowly turned his phone for Shoko to see. She got so surprised her cigarette fell from her hand as she stared at the last message next to her contact picture.

Geto...

[carlyraejepsans]

mind if i get sappy both negatively and positively for a sec?

if you've been following me for a while you'll remember just last year when i was still in highschool and i was so, so lonely and this blog was getting more popular than i meant for it to be. i was a wreck. i had straight up nightmares about hypothetical call outs and people taking my words out of context to turn people against me and that I'd lose the few people i genuinely thought of as friends. i used to go over my old posts deleting them and obsessively editing the wording when i felt it could be twisted to mean something else. even worrying that the fact they COULD have a double meaning meant i was secretly a horrible person in some sick freudian sense. not a good time to have moral OCD! or anon asks open, lmfao.

and i look at my past self now, after my biggest fear realized so many times it's now a monthly annoyance at worst and well. of course i did. i had no one else! that was the extent of my friendships at the time. the people i met and came to love online were the only place i felt truly safe to be myself around without having to fight for my right to be respected or putting on a persona.

but guess what? that's not the case anymore. I'm out of my parents' house, i have authority over my own decisions and presentation, i have friends at school (real friends! more than I've ever had simultaneously in my life!) that enjoy my company in person and include me in the things they do, fully respecting my chosen name and identity as a trans person. i have a queer community to share my burdens and my joys with, i am finally, finally getting started on HRT which is a dream I thought I'd never reach... and guess what. even my online friends didn't give a fuck. i was so paranoid about being alone again that i forgot to consider that they... also care about me, just like i care about them. that they're not gonna dump me out of nowhere because some random asshole decided i was their parasocial nemesis of the week, and if they had doubts or questions wbout something, we could discuss it in private and either agree or agree to disagree on friendly terms.

idk I'm just doing the best I've ever done in my life. this period of my life is perhaps the first time I've ever felt like a complete and whole person. it gets me a little tender hearted looking back and seeing how much I've grown since the time "something like this" would've been world ending.

anyway if any of this rings familiar to you, know I'm proud of you as well. in the way you've grown AND in the way you will grow, given time. hold the line, soldier. things get getter. that's a promise.

[dwobbitfromtheshire]

"Are we going to talk about it?" Steve asked as he walked into the RV after Eddie.

They were in the middle of a clearing, preparing their gear and preparing for war. Hopefully, this was the last time they had to do all of this shit but they didn't have that kind of luck. So, if Steve was going to talk to him, it had to be now. He quickly locked the RV door behind him, ignoring Eddie's raised eyebrow.

"Talk about what?" Eddie asked.

"You calling me big boy," Steve said.

"I wasn't calling you fat if that's what you were wondering," Eddie said.

"I know. You were flirting with me," Steve said.

"What? No, I wasn't!" Eddie squeaked.

"It's okay, man, I like men too," Steve said. "I actually kind of liked it. I didn't really expect to like that nickname but coming out of your mouth. . . Yeah, I definitely like it. I didn't think you'd ever catch on to the fact that I was flirting with you."

"You were flirting with me?" Eddie asked.

"Of course, I know who Ozzy Osborne is. Everyone heard about the bat thing, man. I just said I didn't to drive you crazy," Steve said.

"Hm," Eddie snorted and muttered, "Well, it worked. When did you realize that you were gay?"

"Oh. Yeah, no, not gay. Bisexual," Steve replied.

"Oh, shit, like Bowie," Eddie said with wide eyes.

"And it wasn't until someone walked into Family Video a few months ago that I realized that appreciating a man's ass isn't exactly straight," Steve blushed.

"Was that me?" Eddie asked hopefully.

"Yeah, cutest little ass that ever walked into the store," Steve said, and Eddie blushed as he played with the zipper on his jacket. "So, when did you realize?"

"You aren't going to believe me!" Eddie exclaimed.

"Come on, try me," Steve said, giving him a crooked smile.

"Now," Eddie stuttered. "I just realized that now I like men and women!"

"Now?!" Steve asked.

"Yeah, you told me that I was flirting with you. I didn't know that I was! Completely unaware! I was totally checking you out on the boat and when you were flirting with Nancy! I'm totally jealous, man, so I threw my jacket at you, hoping to stop you. Of course, it just made you look so much hotter, but I figured that having a sexuality crisis in the middle of the end of the world was a bad idea, so I pushed it down and panicked. Starting going off about you and Nancy, pretending like I didn't want it to be me that you looked at. . . That you flirted with. I like men! I want Steve Harrington, I want you!" Eddir said as he waved his arms around. "And I know how crazy I sound, but I want you."

Steve smiled and stepped forward, cupping his face. He grinned when he felt Eddie relax beneath his touch.

"You've got me," Steve said.

"I do?" Eddie asked.

"Yeah."

Eddie gripped the back of Steve’s jacket and crashed his lips to Steve’s. Surprised, Steve steadied himself by wrapping his arms around Eddie's neck. Eddie moved his hands to his hips, moaning as Steve deepened the kiss. Eddie pushed against the wall and groaned when Steve broke the kiss.

"You really like pushing me up against walls, huh?" Steve asked.

"I know what I like now. . .big boy," Eddie smirked before attaching his lips to Steve’s neck.

Suddenly, there came a loud banging on the door, causing them to jump apart.

"Uh, just so you know the walls are very thin, and everyone pretty much heard what Eddie said," Robin said.

"THIS IS SO COOL!" Dustin exclaimed.

"I think they might be okay with it, but then again, Dustin does get excited about radios," Robin said.

"Well, what kid doesn't like it when their parents get together?" Max asked.

"They're not my dads!" Dustin exclaimed.

"Oh, yeah, how come you called Steve 'dad' the other day? Yeah, I heard about it," Max said.

"It was an accident!" Dustin exclaimed.

"Or a Freudian slip," Max teased.

"Robin! Make her stop!"

"Okay! It's time for you two to stop having mommy and daddy time because Aunt Robin needs a drink!" Robin exclaimed.

"Maybe if we pretend like we didn't hear her," Eddie whispered.

"Come get your kids, asshole!" Robin yelled.

Eddie pulled away from Steve with a sigh. He took Steve’s hand in his.

"Come on, Mama, let's go face the music," Eddie said, grinning at the blush on Steve’s face. "Another nickname that you like?"

"Fuck you."

"Oh, man, I hope so," Eddie said.

It was a week later, after Steve had gotten him safely to the hospital and the gates were closed for good, that Eddie woke up. He wondered if it had all been a dream, but then he saw Steve standing over him, looking at him like he did in the RV. Eddie could still taste his lips on his. Not seeing that everyone was in the room, he smiled only at Steve.

"Hey, Mama."

"Uh, does Eddie think that Steve is his mom?" Mike asked.

Wayne looked at Steve, who was blushing.

"No, son, I don't think that's it," Wayne said.

And then Eddie realized something that he hadn't really even fully comprehended in the RV. It was who he was. Still quite high on pain medication, Eddie continued to not see that there were other people in the room.

"Holy shit, I'm bisexual!" Eddie exclaimed, and then he blinked rapidly. "Hey! What are you all doing inside my head?"

"Well, we just thought we would pop in for a visit. See what it's like in here," Robin said. "It's kind of a mess."

"Robin!"

"What?"

"Oh. That's fine. Just don't knock anything over and ignore the dirty Steve images. They're mostly just his ass. Well, his face too, but mostly his ass," Eddie said, and then he fell back asleep.

Everyone slowly turned to look at Steve who shrugged.

"I'm not ashamed of anything. My ass and face are fantastic. He didn't say anything about my hair, though," Steve frowned, and he looked at everyone who was still looking at him. "Do you have a problem with me and Eddie?"

"NO!" Everyone said at the same time.

"We love you, Steve, and we would never - " Nancy started to say.

"Back off, Fancy Hair, he's mine," Eddie snorted and then went silent again.

"Oh, I guess he likes your hair," Steve muttered with a scowl.

"What Nancy is trying to say is that we love you, and we would never judge you for who you like. . . Man, or woman," Joyce said. "From what Will's told me, he's a good guy."

Steve’s scowled softened as he gazed at Eddie, and he took his hand.

"He is, he really is," Steve said.

"Big boy," Eddie muttered in his sleep.

[shares-a-vest]

"One piping hot cocoa," Wayne announces, setting an Indy 500 mug in front of Eddie, "Extra cocoa."

The boy is sitting at the kitchen island, drawing and taking up what little space is left on the countertop with his tools. He's been sitting there for a good hour now, working on some of his fantasy drawings.

Wayne wants to tell him the dragon he is working on is getting pretty good - quite realistic compared to the wibbly line work he'd started with when he first came to live with him two years back. But he doesn't say anything, just stirring his coffee a moment longer than necessary.

Eddie places his free hand around the mug handle and Wayne stills, hoping the boy will at least stop to take a sip and save himself from a spillage.

"Thanks, Dad," Eddie mumbles, moving the mug a little too close to the paper's edge.

They both pause.

Eddie mid-pencil stroke, Wayne mid-sip.

The boy sets the pencil down and grumbles at the purple streak now painted clean across the dragon, ruining its brilliant sunset-like shades of red, orange and yellow. Wayne tilts his head. He thinks his nephew might have intended to colour the eyes purple.

He also suspects his heart might have just skipped a beat – even if he isn't too sure how he feels about the cause of the awkward silence they have fallen right into.

And their silence is never awkward. Just calm. Peaceful.

Wayne had always been that way anyway, but he'd made an effort when Eddie showed up two years ago, with a duffle bag of clothes, an armful of his favourite books and a beat-up old acoustic.

He wanted to give Eddie time, too. Let him be himself. Guide him without being too militant. Though, considering Eddie's boisterous age (the boy is now twelve – where in the world does the time go?), sometimes that's easier said than done.

But a purple streak ruining a sunset-coloured dragon seems a heck of a lot different.

"I... didn't..." Eddie stutters, scrunching the corner of his drawing in a fist, "I didn't mean that."

The kid scratches his head, brows wobbling and lip quivering as he runs his fingers over the hair, likely remembering he has no curls to twist worried fingers around just now.

Wayne braces a hand on the countertop, willing himself not to curse to the heavens over his own stupidity. A couple of months back, he'd made the downright asinine decision to allow his brother Al to take Eddie on a fishing trip. He was perfectly within his rights as the kid's father to do so.

Well, at least at the time, he was.

But Al rolling back into town with a suspiciously shiny car and Eddie sporting a buzzcut with disappointment in his eyes was the final straw.

He picks at the chipped Cubs logo on his own mug, mulling over the best place to start with this one. But Eddie slips off his stool and books it down the hall, firmly making the decision for him.

He sighs and slides the drawing closer. Turns out Eddie was working on adding details to the dragon's scales with the purple pencil.

Wayne gives it a full few minutes before he heads down to Eddie's room.

He opens the door to find his nephew lying flat on his back with his hood over his face and the drawstring pulled so tight that it only leaves room for a small breathing hole.

He chuckles, shaking his head as he moves to sit by the edge of the bed. Eddie pointedly folds his arms.

"What's going on in that noggin, kid?" he asks, leaning towards the hooded form, "If it hasn't been swallowed up into a fabric void, that is..."

Eddie stills for a moment before puffing out a laboured breath.

"I didn't mean it," he says after a long silence, "Freudian Slip."

"Eddie, you know I haven’t the foggiest what that one means."

Even though Eddie reads a lot of books, Wayne still doesn't know how his nephew comes up with half the stuff he says. Eddie groans and paws away at the tight drawstring. He starts to really struggle with it so Wayne reaches over to help.

"There you are," he says, smiling once he gets the thing untangled and open.

"It doesn't matter," Eddie gripes, waving a dismissive hand before letting it fall back against his chest.

Wayne looks around. Eddie must have tidied his room yesterday judging by the empty laundry basket – even if he didn't place the thing back in the hallway.

He's a good kid.

Wayne pinches his nose, hoping that the prickling sensation at the corners of his eyes will go. He looks down and instead focuses on his striped socks, a pair Eddie gifted him last Christmas that he saves for Sunday afternoons.

"You can call me 'dad' if you want," he finally offers.

"I don't," Eddie bites back.

The first feeling out in the kitchen might have been a hearty thud of his rusty old heartstrings, but this one stings. Wayne nods a little more curtly than he'd hoped.

Eddie huffs and scrubs a hand over his face.

"I don't mean... gah!" he babbles incoherently for a moment like he does when he is frustrated beyond words and trying to mind his manners, "All I mean is, the guy I call 'dad' – or I'm supposed to – sucks. So – to me – the word doesn't mean all that much. And you aren't like him at all. Which is why I didn't mean it."

"I understand," Wayne nods.

He looks up to find his nephew teary-eyed. Eddie used to wail away as a toddler, running around with all his big feelings. But over the last few years, with everything that happened with his parents and now living here, Eddie has struggled to express himself beyond frustration and acid-tongued anger.

Though, as he wipes his eyes, that might be changing. Just a little.

"Any plans for this afternoon?" he wonders aloud, patting Eddie's knee and catching on a dang tear in his jeans.

Eddie shrugs, "Might go practice with the band."

"Ah yes," he smiles, "The talent show."

"We are going into battle," Eddie clarifies, enunciating every syllable with the faintest smile.

"And I expect an invitation to come see your performance, regardless of what that flyer over there calls the thing."

He points to the school's Talent Show flyer Eddie has had pinned to his bedroom wall since the start of the school year.

"Sure thing, Old Man," Eddie says.

"Hey now," Wayne chuckles, "I'm going to draw the line with some other choice terms of endearment, y'know?"

Eddie scrambles to the edge of the bed, a cheeky grin stretching across his face.

"Maybe we should discuss this further over some cold cocoa."

[arlerts-angel]

ONGG i just read ur softdom!armin x shy!afabreader and wanted to request – what if armin found out reader has started to steal his hoodies so she could get off somehow because she didn’t know how to ask him for pleasure? 🤭🤭 (‘m sorry the meds are making me crazy-)

note: are you kidding me!! 😩🤤 this was so much longer than i intended hnjksjshdj i love this anon!! i hope you enjoy too ❤︎ also!good morning, i've finished proofreading this at 10:30 am lolol

cw: armin x shy!afab reader are roommates, olfactophilia, voyeurism, masturbation (m! and f!), pet names (angel, pretty)

18+ ❀ minors kindly dni ❀

for a couple of times now, you've raided armin's hamper of previously worn clothes. it's too intimidating to ask him to help you get off, so you instead take his hoodies to aid in pleasuring yourself. you smell them, taking in his scent. his clothes smell so warm and inviting, like he'd swallow you whole in a hug or rearrange your guts. either one would suffice.

you take the hoodies back to your room and strip down to your bra and underwear. you lay back on your bed and begin to touch yourself as you breathe in his scent. you let out a few soft and quiet moans. though you are alone, you're still too bashful to make lewd sounds any louder. when you're aroused enough, you slide the second hoodie over your pillow and rise to your knees, placing the pillow between your thighs. you bring the other up your nose and begin to grind your clothed pussy against the pillow and let your imagination of armin run wild.

"armin–" you moan. freudian slip. you shut your mouth, but unbeknownst to you, the "damage" is already done. armin came home quite early from the library today. your door was ajar, giving him just enough of a view. he indulges in the scene before him, getting hard at the sight of you.

he slowly unbuttons his pants and slides his boxers down just enough to free his cock, hard and leaking precum. he spits in his hand and begins to stroke his cock as he watches you. he knows good and well he could just walk in and fuck you right then and there, but it was more exciting trying not to be caught. he has thought of this very moment many times, more than he'd probably like to admit.

you grind against the pillow covered by his hoodie more desperately now. your bed squeaks slightly and your slew of curses and moans of his name bring him close to his orgasm. his strokes grow faster and his breathing becomes unstable.

you moan his name one last sinful time and ride out the high of your orgasm. the sound of his name leaving your lips sends him over the edge. stringy ropes of cum collect in the palm of his hand. he dashes to the bathroom to clean up. you throw on a big t-shirt and walk back to return the hoodies to their designated hamper.

you are stunned by his presence like a deer in the headlights. he looks at the hoodies in your arms and back at you, his eyebrows raised. "what are you doing with those, y/n?" he asks innocently, as if he didn't just see a thing, much less cum to it. you're a stuttering mess trying to come up with an excuse. he grabs your chin gently and looks into your eyes, grinning devilishly.

"you're so sweet..." his voice trails and so does his hand. he gently grabs your hair in his fist and lifts your head up slightly, earning a soft moan from you. he looks in your eyes, still grinning. "i've got something that feels much better than my hoodies, angel."

shit, he saw. your heart is in your throat, but you manage to ask what he means. his grip on your hair tightens a little more, making you wince. "you know what i'm talking about, don't you? tell me what you were doing with those." he replies. why the hell is this turning me on? you think to yourself.

"i-i was, masturbating." you admit. you are well aware that he's loving this. he nods and lets go of your hair, his hands sliding down your body, stopping at your waist. "now... tell me y/n, do you want me?" he asks softly in your ear. you nod in response. "use your words, pretty. tell me exactly what you want." he coos.

"i want you to fuck me." you say without hesitation. he picks you up and carries you to his bedroom. "see? that wasn't too hard. just say that next time, angel."

[sixty-silver-wishes]

ok so with all the academic footnotes and whatnot, every bit of intersectional criticism has been touched on in house of leaves (yeah I’m doing the stupid blue house thing). but can we talk about how extensive the theme of intertwined postcolonial/feminist theory is. like there’s the idea of the house being both feminized (that tongue in cheek bit about it being an allegorical vagina was hilarious to me after reading a TON of freudian crit), and also you have all the academics arguing about why navidson went back to the house- whether he wanted to possess it, die in it, etc. but then you also have the house as “uncharted territory” that needs to be explored. and that’s nothing new in intersectional theory at all, BUT here’s where it gets layered-

each of the male “lenses” (as I’ll be referring to them) has some sort of feminine presence as an idealized muse, who is also a source of guilt. for navidson, it’s delial (put a pin in that), for johnny, it’s lucy/thumper, and while we don’t know a ton about zampano, we do know his notes were compiled by women he knew. it seems like in order to delve deeper into the house or the story, they all depend on some female presence, and for johnny and navidson, as their sanity unravels and they become more and more exposed to the house, their views of these female figures are deconstructed. for johnny, lucy/thumper was put on a pedestal, primarily for her sexual appeal to him. however, we see him gradually see the women in his life more and more as people, and by their last meeting, it appears that he refers to her as the “happiest place on earth,” rather than her genitalia as he did before.

as for delial, things get more complicated. for one, we don’t even know her real name. we’re seeing her through navidson’s lens, just as we’re seeing the house. we never see the prize-winning photo of her, or know anything about her besides what navidson tells us. at first, we don’t know she was a starving sudanese child, and with the idea of a man having a fixation on a girl, we are led to assume she was a past lover, like how johnny talks about “clara english.” but when we learn more information on her, she also resembles the house not just through the layers we see her through, but also through that intersecting postcolonial/feminist lens. navidson is a white american man who takes a photo of a starving african child, “possessing” her through taking the photograph and giving her a name he came up with- therefore inventing an identity for her. if you’ve read my “caligari” analyses, you’ll know I have a lot to say on power dynamics, renaming, and identity- and in addition to that thought, we have the idea of perspective contributing to a power dynamic as well. through taking the picture of delial, navidson gets to look, and therefore frame this child in his image, showing his image of her off to the world for a pulitzer prize.

and yet, and crucially, we have the idea of guilt coming into play. navidson’s guilt over delial- creating an identity for her, taking the picture and winning the prize- may very well be connected with his return to the house, from an intersectional feminist/postcolonial lens (something, surprisingly, the “academics” in the book didn’t point out, at least from what I remember. I read the thing in a week). he’s aware of his privilege and prestige, and that’s the source of his guilt. but at the same time, he can’t stop exploring; he becomes addicted to the house. I think it’s crucial that we don’t learn about who delial is until we find out what the house is; just like johnny realizes lucy/thumper more as a person the more he reads, navidson’s guilt over delial grows as well.

[matttgirlies]

Matt & Me🎀

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24

a story heavily based on Priscilla Presley’s Book “Elvis & Me” based in the 1950’s - 1970’s.

fem! reader x singer! matt

disclaimer!! - in no way am i saying matt would ever support or do these kind of things, for the sake of the book certain unethical things do happen at times.

warnings - mentions of an affair

y/nn = your nickname for any confusion🩷

Chapter 20

In my diary entry dated April 5, I wrote, “The baby’s getting more beautiful as each day goes by. Dr. Turman said she’s healthy and progressing well. Matt went with me to the pediatrician, waiting outside in the car. He also accompanied me to the obstetrician. He’s insisting I keep up with my regular checkups taking care of both of us like a doting father.

“But I’ve been lonely for him since the baby’s birth; he is still withdrawn. It’s been two months and he still hasn’t touched me. I’m getting concerned.”

The following day, I wrote, “I asked Matt if anything was wrong, if he’s lost his desire for me. I saw this made him a little uncomfortable. He told me he wants to make sure my system’s back to normal—that he doesn’t want to hurt me. That made me feel a little better.

“We brought Charlotte to our room, put her in the middle of the bed with us. She’s such a good baby—we can’t believe she’s ours.”

Matt and I started getting back into our regular routine. Since the baby was born, we were spending more time at Graceland, eventually moving all the horses back to the original stables, James selling much of the equipment and, later, the Circle G itself.

Matt accepted fatherhood with a great deal of joy, but the fact that I was a mother had a disquieting effect on him. I didn’t understand at the time, but later on I would learn more about men who are very close to their own mothers. I am no purveyor of Freudian theory. I believe when a man comes into the world, his first unconditional love is his mother. She cuddles him, gives him warmth, the breast for nourishment, and everything he needs to exist. None of those feelings has a sexual connotation. Later, when his own wife becomes a mother, this bank of memories is ripped open and his passion may dissipate.

When Matt’s mother was alive they had been unusually close. Matt even told her about his amatory adventures, and many nights when she was ill, he would sleep in her room with her. All the girls he took out seriously had to fulfill Mary Lou’s requirements of the ideal woman. And as with me, Matt then put the girl on a pedestal, “saving her” until the time was sacred and right. He had his wild times, his flings, but any girl he came home to he had to respect.

Now I was a mother and he was uncertain how to treat me. He had mentioned before we were married that he had never been able to make love to a woman who’d had a child. But throughout my pregnancy—until the last six weeks—we had made love passionately. He’d been very careful each time, afraid that he might hurt the baby or me, but he was always loving and sensitive to my needs. Now months had passed.

On April 20 I wrote in my diary: “I embarrassed myself last night. I wore a black negligee, laid as close to Matt as I could while he read. I guess it was because, I knew what I wanted and was making it obvious. I kissed his hand, then each finger, then his neck and face. But I waited too long. His sleeping pills had taken effect. Another lonely night.”

Finally, months later Matt made love to me. Before we made love, he told me I was a young mother now, that being the mother of his child is very special. But I wrote in my diary, “I am beginning to doubt my own sexuality as a woman. My physical and emotional needs were unfulfilled.”

We returned to Los Angeles, where Matt was filming Live a Little, Love a Little. He started getting into his old habits again. Frustrated, I started searching for dance classes to enroll in. I looked through the local Yellow Pages until one class caught my attention, a school for jazz and ballet not far from home.

The studio was small and unpretentious; the owner, Mark, was an extremely attractive and dynamic man of forty-five. He was an excellent dancer and a fine teacher, and by the time I left that afternoon, I had enrolled for private lessons.

Still too shy to dance in front of a group, I wanted to wait until I was sure I could keep up with the other dancers before taking a class. I began taking private lessons three times a week. Mark’s personal interest and attention were flattering, and I was soon doing lifts and jumps, things I’d never thought I could accomplish.

He said I had the potential to be a good dancer, and he pushed me to the limit. Out of frustration and pain I would want to quit. Demanding that I continue, he told me I was building character and forced me to repeat the same routine until it was nearly perfected. This made me realize that I could go further than I’d ever dreamed.

He believed in me, and I was accomplishing something. For the first time I was creating, feeling good about myself, and I couldn’t wait to get to class each day.

Mark was charismatic and I was particularly vulnerable. In lieu of a passionate marriage, dance was becoming my life; I was obsessed with it, taking all my frustrations and feelings into the studio. I found myself thinking about Mark even when I was home. I had only seen him a few times in my life and yet I was unable to get him out of my mind. I rationalized, telling myself it was because he was always there for me. He seemed to understand me, while the man I truly loved was involved in his own world. I began to relax, enjoying myself almost against my will. It had been a while since I’d spent some time with a man who validated my abilities and appreciated spending time with me alone. It was also the first time I was not competing for my own identity. This was a high I had not experienced recently. I had a brief affair and decided to end it.

I came out of it realizing I needed much more out of my relationship with Matt. Matt and I decided to get away to Hawaii.

This was the first time we’d gone on holiday, and I was hoping that it would be a second honeymoon, that my experience with Mark would be forgotten. We took along Charlotte, her nurse, Nate, Amber, Patsy and her husband, Gee Gee, Steven and his wife Nora, and Charlie. We checked into the Ilikai Hotel on Waikiki, but soon found that Matt couldn’t go to the beach without attracting a crowd. We decided to rent a house on a private beach and spent the rest of our vacation there.

We had a great time, and Matt and I were like two kids again, away from the pressures and the filming—and away from Mark, to whom my attention would occasionally wander.

It was there that we met Tom Jones, and Matt became very fond of him. He had always enjoyed Tom’s vocal style, especially in “Green, Green Grass of Home,” which Matt had first heard while traveling from L.A. to Boston. He’d called me when they’d stopped in Arizona, encouraging me to get the record.

Tom Jones and Matt enjoyed an instant rapport. After an appearance at the Ilikai, Tom invited us to his suite, along with our group. Within minutes the champagne exploded and the party was on. We laughed, drank, joked, drank some more (lots more), jammed—and reeled back to the Ilikai at dawn. Matt had had such a good time he personally invited Tom and his group to join us the next day at our beach house. A friendship was born, a friendship of mutual respect and admiration.

One of Matt’s outstanding attributes was his conviction that there was room for anyone with talent in the entertainment field. In my experience, only a few stars are this generous. Greed, insecurity, jealousy, ego usually keep celebrities from supporting one another.

Matt could spot talent instantly. In Las Vegas, we regularly took in lounge acts featuring various up-and-coming artists, and if Matt liked the show, he patronized the club, encouraging the entertainers to pursue their careers, infusing them with confidence and enthusiasm.

Some of his favorites were Ike and Tina Turner, Gary Puckett and the Union Gap, dancers Tybe and Bracia, and old-timers Fats Domino and the Ink Spots, all talented people deserving acknowledgment in their craft.

One night we visited Barbra Streisand backstage at the International Hotel, now the Hilton. It was a classic Streisand performance and Matt, after a few too many Bloody Marys, wanted to tell Barbra his impressions. We were ushered backstage to her dressing room and Matt’s first words upon meeting her were: “What did you ever see in Elliott Gould? I never could stand him.”

In typical Streisandese she retorted, “Whaddya mean? He’s the fah-tha of my child!”—leaving Matt speechless.

Matt had some other very special favorites—Arthur Prysock, John Gary, opera star Robert Merrill, Brook Benton, Roy Orbison, and Charles Boyer’s recording “Where Has Love Gone?”

He couldn’t abide singers who were, in his words, “all technique and no emotional feeling” and in this category he firmly placed Mel Torme and Robert Goulet. They were both responsible for two television sets being blown away with a.357 Magnum.

Matt’s five-year contract with MGM was up in 1968 and he was finally free to move on to new challenges. Even Colonel admitted that Matt’s career needed a shot in the arm. NBC made him an offer to do his own television special, with newcomer Steve Binder directing. There was no initial format, but the idea was tempting and the money was right. The fact that there was no script—that it was an “open development”—made Colonel hesitant to agree. Colonel demanded more control than that, but Matt wanted to meet Steve, make sure that they could get along, speak the same language.

It had been years since Matt had appeared on TV and he was nervous. To his surprise, Steve was much younger than he had anticipated, extremely perceptive, and soft-spoken, a startling contrast to the studio heads he’d worked with, men much older, with hardened, preconceived opinions on how Matt should be packaged and sold. For the first time in years he felt creative. Steve Binder gained Matt’s trust and had the sensitivity to let Matt just be Matt. Steve observed, took mental notes, learned Matt’s ways, discovered what made his star comfortable and what got him uptight.

During their meetings Steve sensed Matt’s fear that he hadn’t been before a live audience in years but he noticed that Matt came alive backstage in the dressing room jamming with the musicians.

Each day he grew more confident and excited about his new project, taking pride once again in his appearance, watching his weight, following his diet, and working closely with the show’s costume designer, Bill Belew, creating a look we hadn’t seen him sport in years—the black leather suit.

I was surprised when he said, “Sattnin, I feel a little silly in that outfit. You think it’s okay?”

Matt knew this special was a big step in his career. He could not fail. For two straight months he worked harder than on all his movies combined. It was the most important event in his life.

During this time I was discovering whole new worlds of music—Segovia; Blood, Sweat and Tears; Tchaikovsky; Santana; Mason Williams; Ravel; Sergio Mendes; Herb Alpert—and I was anxious to share my new enthusiasms, music and dance, with my husband. I wanted to bring energy to our relationship in the hope of strengthening our marriage. Discussions at the dinner table now included Leonard Bernstein and Carlos Montoya, but they held no appeal for Matt; the TV special was consuming all his thoughts.

He was away much of the time, and when we did see each other our level of communication was strictly superficial. Each absorbed in our own separate pursuits, we had little in common except our daughter. My approach with him was delicate: I was aware of the distance growing between us. But because of his preoccupation with the special, I realized that the last thing he needed from me was a statement that I feared we were drifting apart.

In his absence, I was taking care of Charlotte in addition to attending dance classes in the morning, ballet in the early evening, and two jazz classes at night, lasting often until one in the morning. I was now studying with a new dance instructor, who was using me to give demonstrations for the evening classes. Many of the students were professional dancers. I had diligently worked my way into the company, rehearsing four hours every day to master new steps, constantly pushing myself to new limits, and eventually I was to take a place in the dance company, anonymously performing shows on weekends at colleges in the L.A. area.

Matt’s Singer TV special was a huge success, the highest-rated special of the year, and his finale, “If I Can Dream,” was his first million-sell-ing record in years. We sat around the TV watching the show, nervously anticipating the response. Matt was quiet and tense through the whole program, but as soon as the calls started, we all knew he had a new triumph. He hadn’t lost his touch. He was still the King of Rock and Roll.

It was a blessing for both of us. The hours I devoted to dance released him from the strain of my dependence. My new interest didn’t pose a threat in the sense that taking up a profession would have. I was still there to tend to his needs, as he wanted his wife to be, while also creating my own world, no longer intimidated by the magnitude of his. I was growing, learning, and expanding as an individual.

This new freedom nearly came to an abrupt end when a newcomer to the clan decided to take it upon himself to investigate my comings and goings. He reported to Matt that I was seen coming out of a dance studio at a late hour and did Matt want him to carry it any further. Matt’s unpredictability in dealing with certain crises in life could be astounding.

Logically, such a volatile man would explode. Instead, he made no accusations. His only comment was, “Little One, there are some people who are insinuating you’ve been seen coming out of a dance studio at late hours.”

“It’s true. You know I’m part of the company. It’s not just me leaving. That’s the time we break.”

I pleaded with him to tell me who was starting trouble. All he would say was, “Let’s put it this way: He’s new and he’s treading on dangerous ground. If he knows what’s good for him, he better keep the fuck to his own business.”

After the success of his special, Matt devoted several weeks to a recording session, and again he was highly motivated. For the first time in fourteen years, he’d been persuaded to record in Memphis, at the American Sound Studios, a black company where major artists, including Aretha Franklin, had recorded their most recent hits. The studio musicians were young and Matt had a great rapport with them. More importantly, he made great music with them.

He’d be at the studio singing until the early-morning hours and then return the next evening, full of energy and ready to start again. His voice was in top form and his excitement was infectious. Each cut was more terrific than the one before. We’d listen to the songs over and over, Matt yelling, “All right, listen to that sound,” or “Goddamn, play it again.”

Colonel stayed away from this session. Matt was the artist, and he was on a roll. He ended up recording so many songs, it took RCA a year and a half to release them all, including hits like “In the Ghetto,” “Kentucky Rain,” and “Suspicious Minds.”

Watching Matt sing with confidence again, honing each word in his own style, filled us all with pride. What a contrast to sessions in the past that had been filled with anger, frustration, and disappointment, resulting in late arrivals or, on occasion, no-shows.

At one point he looked over at me, smiled, then casually started singing “From a Jack to a King.” He knew it was a favorite of mine. Later he sang “Do You Know Who I Am?” As I listened to the words, I couldn’t help but relate to them.

After four years of lackluster songs, he was back on the charts again, and RCA could no longer complain about him. They’d been threatening the Colonel that if Matt didn’t have a recording session soon, they were going to rerelease some of his old songs.

One success led to another. Since his TV special, he was eager to begin performing in front of a live audience again, to prove to everyone that he hadn’t lost his touch. Looking for the best source of immediate income, the Colonel made a deal with the nearly completed Las Vegas International for Matt to headline there for a month, at a salary of half a million dollars.

Vegas was the challenge he needed to demonstrate that he could still captivate a live audience. This was what he loved most and did best. But it was a major challenge.

He hadn’t made any real demands on his voice in years and now was locked into two shows a night for twenty-eight days straight. Anxious, he wondered whether he was up to the strain, whether he’d draw sellout crowds, whether he would be able to hold an audience for a full two hours. He wanted this new act to be accepted, feeling he now had more than his rock-and-roll gyrations to offer.

Not only was this a crucial time in his career, but there was the additional pressure of the unprecedented fee and the fact that Las Vegas was the only city where he’d bombed, thirteen years earlier, in 1956.

He wasn’t the kind of person who’d come out and say, “I’m scared.” Instead I’d see it in his actions, his left leg shaking, and his foot tapping. He held in his fears and emotions until at times he would explode, tearing into anyone who happened to be around. At dinner one evening Matt said that he was concerned about his hairstyle, and I mentioned I’d seen a billboard of Ricky Nelson on Sunset Boulevard. His hair was long with a slight wave, and I thought it was extremely appealing. I innocently suggested that Matt take a look at it. “Are you goddamn crazy?” he shouted. “After all these years, Ricky Nelson, Fabian, that whole group have more or less followed in my footsteps, and now I’m supposed to copy them? You’ve gotta be out of your mind, woman.”

He left the dinner table in a rage. He had always been hailed as an original and now he was afraid that in Vegas even that wouldn’t be enough. I knew I had injured his ego and for that I apologized.

In preparing his show for the International, Matt pulled out all the stops. He was in top form—on a natural high quite independent of pills. He was more trim and physically fit than he’d ever been.

Excerpt from: "Elvis and Me" by Priscilla Beaulieu Presley. Scribd. This material may be protected by copyright.

a/n - these next few chapters will be a little slower paced sorry!!🎀

[writingway-in-writinghell]

S3E7 - Ted is not straight

Okay but apart from all the crumbs everyone’s reading (including the ~was~ that could very well allude to a subversion):

This was a Trent episode, like, purely on a narrative level, right. Trent who’s reminded of his initial doubt in Ted. Trent who came to Richmond for his book (which he’s totally naming The Lasso Way), only to find a Ted who… kinda isn’t Ted at that time. Trent who tries to coax him out of his shell with the video of Nate ripping apart the sign (and probably realizing too late that it doesn’t really help Ted at all). Trent who, just like Ted, is perhaps beginning to ask himself, “why am I here?”

Almost all cuts to him in this episode can be read purely in this light. Yes there’s subtext, the red string on his wrist etc., but those things are all VERY subtle and more a matter of blink-and-you-miss-it.

Except for one cut.

When Ted - for whatever reason, because it sure isn’t relevant - mentions he “was a STRAIGHT fella” in the US sports business.

We cut to Trent here, and only to him. We see… doubt, perhaps? The man is still so unreadable to me, but there is definitely something, and the cut alone, the cut to the confirmed gay man, while another is referring to himself as “straight” (past tense notwithstanding), in a speech where said man talks about boxes we put ourselves in and the right choice after a bunch of wrong ones…

That cut, in this exact moment, when Ted refers to his sexuality, has NOTHING to do with Trent’s arc. It can only be linked to Trent’s own sexuality imo, and to the ~boxes~ we’re confined to.

Could it be that Ted was talking about gendered expectations, about what men in sports are ~supposed~ to do and look like? Sure.

But then a simple “as a man in sports” would’ve sufficed.

Nope, he specifically mentions his sexuality.

Maybe it’s some kind of Freudian slip on Ted’s end. He specifically says “was”, after all. Sure, the whole story takes place in the past, but have you ever talked about your own persistent identity like that? Wouldn’t “a straight fella in sports, I could only really do X” be more in line with Ted’s usual speech pattern? The whole sentence just sounds stiff coming from him.

No, with the cut to Trent and the speech it all leads to, I can only conclude that they’re still doing something with Ted’s sexuality. Whether he discovers (or remembers?) that he’s bi or pan or whatever it may be (I can also see him as sex-positive ace tbh, the way he doesn’t really comment on attractiveness and more on style of others)… This is in the text, fellas.

Perhaps he doesn’t realize it yet, but Ted Lasso is not straight.

[seeingteacupsindragons]

Perhaps some of you remember that time I wrote up an entire essay for the TVTropes forums to get William cemented as a Magnificent Bastard because you literally have to get fictional characters vetted by people who care an absurd amount about this to add them to the trope page.

I am now back on my bullshit, and just got Albert confirmed (Louis is in the works, but the voting looks good for him so far). I did his write up today and it should be up later this week? I enjoy the short version as well.

And now:

The Work

Moriarty the Patriot is a (very loose) retelling of the Sherlock Holmes stories combined with James Bond set in the late 1800s, focused on Professor James Moriarty and exploring his motivations.

The Character

This post is to open a discussion specifically on Albert James Moriarty, older brother of Professor Moriarty (who we already confirmed) and one the Professor's Co-Dragons. Albert is the original "Moriarty" family member biologically who took the other two in as children, and is the leader of MI6 for most of the series.

Why Is He a Bastard

I mean, he kills his own younger biological brother and his mother by hand and then arranged for the entire rest of his family and servants to die in their sleep in a fire. So like. Is that enough?

He also took two orphan kids in, then basically said, "Hey, in exchange for getting your little brother heart surgery he needed to live, help me murder like so many people. Kthx."

He tends to come off colder than either of his brothers, which is sort of impressive since they're all murderers.

I like Albert, but he's certainly a bastard.

But Not That Bad?

Much like his brothers, Albert is trying in a very fucked up way to improve society by murdering people he thinks are making society worse. He is...trying to help in a Pay Evil unto Evil sort of way.

Honestly, Albert is the Moriarty brother who gets the least amount of sympathy from fans, although this shifted a fair amount after it was revealed he has severely untreated OCD, which is a massive contributing factor to his need to eliminate the hypocrisies of all these abusive nobles who keep going to Christian churches. But it's not like most people with OCD are murderers, so there's a limit to how far this Freudian Excuse is going to take him.

Is He Charming/Magnificent

Albert is, according to an official Japanese fan poll, the second most popular character in the series (second to the protagonist of the series, who won by a landslide). This seems to track from the interactions I've had with people. So people are charmed by him.

Albert is also in the series pretty much assigned to "socialization" on behalf of everyone else. He doesn't seem to really like it very much, but he gets along with people rather well. According to his official character profile, he's still getting asked out and courted even after losing his title and going to prison for the murders, so apparently people are really into him.

He also has a similar flair for the dramatic to his younger brother. This is absolutely a man who is going to revel in elaborate schemes and acting a part. While he often asks his brother to arrange details and plans, he always shows up to convince people that he's just so worried about his kidnapped brother, please help him, and oh, gasp, people have died, how tragic.

But Is He Brilliant?

This, I think, is a key factor in Albert's case here: Most of William's subordinates are very subordinate to him. It's made clear that William expects all of his crew to be able to think and plan for themselves and make their own decisions, but the series doesn't always take time to show that off for everyone. Albert does get that time.

Albert often sees opportunities before he engages William for a plan to make it work. Manipulating Mycroft Holmes into getting MI6 created so he could lead it was Albert's idea, and he executed the plan (and he leads MI6 when it's not doing Lord of Crime business), even if William came up with many of the details to help him out. Albert is the one who sees the potential in Adam Whitley and brings the topic up to William.

Also, Albert was the first person to bring William's dreams of killing nobles and creating a brighter world into fruition and set it into a tangible, real path. He and William are frequently tagged as the only two who originated the entire plan.

Albert is a brilliant opportunist and an excellent man to have making sure everything goes off without a hitch, even if the details of getting things done aren't really his forte.

He's brilliant.

What About His Competition?

Most of the nemeses in the series are focused on William, and Albert is his subordinate. Basically none of Sherlock or Milverton's attention ever splashes Albert's way. The person he really engages with in a competitive dance with is...Mycroft Holmes. And while Albert doesn't exactly win, neither does he lose to Mycroft. They come to a couple of agreements and passes to work together and watch to make sure the other isn't getting in their way.

Verdict:

Yes.

[moderndayamymarch]

i’m not sure where this idea that dumbledore is the reason tom riddle became wizard hitler came from but i don’t buy it. i know the cool kid thing to do is blame dumbledore for every bad thing that happens in those books, but dumbledore isn’t the reason riddle was like that™️.

by the time dumbledore first meets riddle- he’s already traumatized those two kids in the cave so badly that they’ll never recover, killed some girl’s rabbit and hanged it from the rafters, and is a klepto. the kid literally meets the all childhood behavior indicators of a serial killer.

dumbledore in the meeting with riddle only displays concern for riddle and the other childrens’ well-being. he offers to help riddle and tells riddle that stealing/intimidating other students isn’t permitted at hogwarts. and he’s valid for pointing that out!! riddle admits to intimidating/stealing from the other kids. that’s something dumbledore kinda can’t let slide.

ppl cite dumbledore making a snide comment to harry about riddle wanting to be special as evidence he was out to get tom. current dumbledore made that comment as the result of knowing who tom riddle became. past dumbledore only vows to keep a close eye on him. present dumbledore even says he had no idea he’d just met wizard hitler. and past dumbledore’s not wrong for keeping an eye on riddle. also that’s common practice in the education system. when a child is noted to have behavioral issues (esp when those behaviors concern other students), admin will have a school counselor keep an eye on them or assign them a para. dumbledore also obv didn’t turn anyone against tom. everyone else loved him! so dumbledore’s watchful eye obv didn’t impact riddle’s school career really at all. all of the teachers believed he was a good role model student and he was even named head boy.

also even if, a teacher not liking or trusting you does not mean you get to become a neo-nazi. harry put up with snape’s bs and it didn’t lead to him declaring himself a “lord” and splitting his soul into pieces.

it was also the 1940s/30s and muggles did not have the psychological abilities/knowledge that we do today. wizards 1000% didn’t. if he’d been sent to a psychiatrist then, they just would’ve said some freudian bs about his mother and not actually helped with his problem of lack of empathy/guilt

the reason that riddle’s like that™️ is actually pretty understandable and makes sense psychologically. we know now (and actually by the 50s) that children who are starved of physical contact/emotional connection/and stability in early childhood can struggle to develop empathy, feel guilt, form connections, and that can lead to deviant immoral behavior. riddle grew up in an orphanage in the 40s during wwii with no familial connection. having abilities would make him feel “special” and better than the other orphans bc his abilities are the only thing he has going for him. add that to the above issues, and you’ve got someone that would abuse their powers for their own gain, especially to feel “special”. like tbh riddle’s prob not that different psychologically to like charles manson or jim jones (which is peak irony that a therapist in the muggle world could actually easily be able to explain his psyche while the wizarding world struggles)

my final point is this: dumbledore, while extremely flawed, isn’t the reason tom riddle became voldemort. if anything, slughorn and the old headmaster drove him to that end through their enabling far more than dumbledore did by keeping an eye on him. we even saw in riddle’s diary that “keeping an eye on him” consisted of dumbledore basically asking tom “you good?” when seeing him in the corridor. a behavior that reminds harry of dumbledore’s own interactions with him. and yeah eventually dumbledore called riddle out and was like “i heard you’re a fascist now” but that was after riddle had killed his own father, set a giant snake loose in the school, started calling himself “lord voldemort”, and started the wizard hitler youth

[toastofthetrashfire]

Shadow the Series and Hamlet

Okay so after finishing the first half of Shadow there’s so much to unpack. So instead of doing the research I should be doing for my dissertation, let’s dig into some connections between literature and BL once again!

This won’t be a fully formed meta, and I’ll probably have to make a whole other post once the whole series is out. But I wanted to start thinking about how the show is dialoguing with and speaking to similar themes as Hamlet within a queer framework.

I thought I’d work my way through some different interpretations of Hamlet and connect back to Shadow. To be clear, I’m working with scholarship on Hamlet rather than any personal interpretation of Hamlet itself (which I unfortunately haven’t read or watched in many a years).

A quick summary

Hamlet and Shadow via Freud's Oedipal Complex

Hamlet and Shadow via Lee Edelman's work on queerness, the death drive, and queer time

Hamlet and Shadow via self-recognition and resistant readings

A few other directions

Hamlet and the Oedipal Complex

Back in 1897, Freud wrote about Hamlet in a letter to a friend noting that ���falling in love with the mother and jealousy of the father…[was] a universal event of early childhood.” So Hamlet was one of the texts that Freud was thinking about when he came up with the Oedipal complex as a concept.

You may be asking, as I often do, who gives a fuck what Freud thought? Well over time, Freudian interpretations of the play highly influenced how it was performed and the ways that themes about subjectivity and sexuality were portrayed.

The 1948 and 1990 film adaptations in particular put stress on a sexually charged dynamic between Hamlet and his mother Gertrude. The later film has Hamlet lying on top of and wrestling with his mother before they kiss. More recent adaptations tend to move away from this, but, overall, it’s been extremely influential in terms of how the play has been interpreted and adapted.

So how does this come up in Shadow? 

Dan’s role as Hamlet is closely framed around his relationship with his father who he beats up in the dream world right before his death. We’re introduced to Dan’s dad during his audition for Hamlet. Perhaps in the most obvious parallel, Dan recites Hamlet’s lines as he goes to find his father’s ghost. And of course, this is when Dan’s dad appears as a ghost as well.

Yet, Dan’s narrative with his father seems to buck the expected relationship between father and son. Throughout the play, Hamlet struggles between a desire to fulfill his filial duty and avenge his father and the increasing violence and tragedy this brings. But Dan? In the face of abuse, he chooses to defiantly reject his father and filial piety, accepting and even wishing for his death. In many ways, Dan’s dad is more analogous to Claudius, the usurper and man trying to kill Hamlet. Through his abuse he loses the right to be Dan’s father. 

A shallow oedipal reading of Hamlet, frames Claudius as the father Hamlet is trying to kill, but ignores that this dynamic is born from Claudius’ cruelty. By acknowledging abuse, power, and violence Shadow perhaps takes an interesting step away from a pure Freudian reading. Because ultimately Dan doesn’t want to be his father! In fact, as he speaks with him and beats him up, we can see the way Dan is shaken, not by the act of harming or killing his father, but by the idea of becoming him. His father makes clear that “becoming him” is aligned with ideas about what it means to be a man, to be “the father” within a straight patriarchal society. And in a beautiful moment of clarity and defiance as they discuss what love looks like, Dan clarifies that his mom left his father not him. 

Okay so he "kills" his dad, what about his mom?

To be honest, when I was wrapping up my watch of the episodes, my head went towards the oedipal theory as a crack theory. What if the ghost is his mom, that’d be pretty effed up lol...But now that I’ve seen that the connection isn’t just one I made, it doesn’t seem as far fetched. The scenes between Hamlet and Gertrude in the 1990s film certainly could be an influence on the shadow getting sexual if they went that route. But to be honest I don’t really think they’ll go this way. Or at least I hope not. They’re already doing more nuanced things with the oedipal dynamic. Plus I think there’s more going on if we turn to queerer interpretations anyway.

The Death Drive, Queering Freud, and Queer Time

In Freud’s work, he talked about two opposing forces. The first was the death drive (later termed Thanatos by later psychoanalysts). This was a drive toward destruction that stood opposite to eros or life-producing drives such as sex, survival, and reproduction. 

Now, in 2004, queer theorist Lee Edelman would come in and queer the heck out of these concepts. I’ll be over simplifying Edelman’s points a lot here, but hopefully the core will remain. 

Edelman would point out that the life-drive was often weaponized rhetorically, politically, and socially as a way to reproduce cultural norms. Edelman often writes about "the Child"--that is the mythical idea of a child that we should be building society and the future for. Think of how often the “think of the children” rhetoric gets used in anti-queer politics, for example. In fact, Edelman points to oedipal readings of Hamlet as one way that dominant straight society has attempted to manage a narrative where reproduction and futurity are foreclosed. Oedipal readings of Hamlet, then, could be seen as an attempt to suppress the death drive, to put it out of sight where it can’t cause disruption or anxiety.

Of course, Edelman also notes that the death drive is inherently tied to and projected onto queerness and queer people–onto “those abjected as non-reproductive, anti-social, opposed to viability, and so as threats to the Child who assures and embodies collective survival”. And so, Edelman argues that queer people should embrace the death drive and queer time–that is non-futurity and non-linear, non-productive time. 

So how might these ideas be showing up in Shadow so far?

I might think of even more later, but here’s a short list:

1. All three of our main characters are abjected. Nai is gay, Trin is gay and mentally ill, and Dan is potentially both. I think we could argue that the connection all three of them have to death also quite literally marks them as abjected. And perhaps we could consider how the supernatural elements thematically and symbolically connect to their alterity and the way this is in conflict with social norms. In fact, I’d argue that, unlike Nai and Trin who are explicitly stated to be queer and/or mentally ill, Dan’s alterity is playing out through this more allegorical channel so far. 

2. Literal death as a central focus. 

3. Haunting as a limbo between past and present. This liminality feels very queer here.

4. The idea of vengeful ghosts makes the death drive perpetually present in a way that haunts futurity. Interestingly Edelman describes the death drive as a “negativity that haunts the social order” and which is “projected onto those who occupy the position of the queer.” Haunting has very queer thematic possibilities. 

5. Think of the ghost story told in the market in episode seven. The homophobia on display clearly ties queerness to death in a way that speaks to straight norms and anxieties. 

6. Dan is told by the monk that what is happening has to do with overlapping time frames: past, present, and future

7. Dan often loses his sense of what is real or a dream, but he also has moments where he loses his sense of time and temporality. Notice how when the art statue fell and he saw his classmates dead we jump back to before he even spoke with Nai. It’s not just losing time but jumping back and forth. 

8. Sexy times with a shadow monster are certainly non-(re)productive 

9. We learn that Trin has been trying to change things, disrupt the social norms, but he is shut down and told the school needs to hold onto tradition. While we often think of tradition as referring to the past, it is very much about continuing and reproducing this into the future. School director: "But think of the future Children who won’t get to experience the epic highs and lows of high school hazing”

10. There seems to be a tension at play between Brother Anurak who is trying to get Dan to just stop believing in the shadow (not sure if that's his actual motive but still) and Dan who is slowly starting to embrace the shadow (literally and figuratively). Perhaps this could be read as embracing the death drive and queerness. 

Hamlet, Self-Recognition, and Resistant Reading

Another theme that has often been explored by folks interested in Hamlet is that of self-recognition. The play focuses so very much on Hamlet struggling with his sense of self. And this speaks well to contemporary western ideas of the individual. One scholar, Marjorie Garbor, has noted that “the experience of Hamlet is almost always that of recognition.” While another, John Gouws remarks that Hamlet and Shakespeare’s sonnets both “seem capable of functioning like Rorschach inkblots, by making us reveal (increasingly) more about ourselves the more we try saying something about them.”

It’s interesting to me then that Hamlet and Rorschach tests are both used in Shadow, but they don’t seem to say all that much about Dan. The blot is simply a tool to test if Dan is still seeing the shadow. It isn’t used to psychoanalyze him further. And when Cha-aim asks Dan to compare himself to Hamlet he hilariously just says both their dads are dead. Of course we know that Hamlet’s dad and Dan’s aren’t exactly analogous either. Dan rejects this sort of self-identification. Or perhaps, the play rejects him? At the very least we know that he can’t perform the type of filial love that Hamlet has for his own father.

But perhaps this rejection has queer implications as well. There’s a really lovely article from the perspective of a queer South African director, Thys Heydenrych. He talks about reading and staging Hamlet through a queer and decolonial lens. In his piece he quotes Hanna Kubowitz who discusses queer readers' relationship with texts. She notes that “[b]eing heterosexual has several benefits…One can enter into most cultural narratives…on the basis of simple and satisfying identification.” This of course made me think of the moment when Cha-aim asks Dan to identify with Hamlet.

Whether we read this as an active refusal on Dan’s part or as the play being inhospitable to Dan’s identification, Cha-aim is asking Dan to express and perform identity here. Perhaps this could be read as her asking Dan to narratively self-identify with straight culture and values. It makes sense in the context of her having feelings for him and ties well into the scene where she tries to pick his costume. While Dan isn’t yet identifying as queer, he seems to be dis-identifying from straightness just as he dis-identifies from his father’s version of manhood. 

Still, motifs of self-recognition or the struggle to understand oneself seem to abound. The use of mirrors in episodes 6 and 7 speak to this theme well with the blurring of self and other, while also tying into both horror motifs and the Greek mythology being referenced (Orpheus and Eurydice, narcissus perhaps). Is the shadow a part of him?   

What I’ll be curious to see is how the show chooses to engage with this theme. Will Hamlet continue to serve as a narrative that is inhospitable to identification or will it be queered. There’s a tradition of scholarship that thinks about resistant reading. This is when a reader engages with a text that wasn’t designed with them in mind, but finds potential despite this. Certainly Shakespeare’s work and Hamlet in particular have been interpreted as queer at times, and Hamlet is definitely open to these readings.

When it comes to Shadow, however, I’m interested in what one scholar, Lois Tyson, has asked about resistant reading: “How might the works of heterosexual writers be reread to reveal an unspoken or unconscious lesbian, gay, or queer presence?” This idea of a hidden queer presence speaks well to the idea of haunting. I’m really interested to see how the use of Hamlet as a narrative might speak to the idea of queerness as hidden presence and whether this continues to play out in the second half.  

A few other connections that I want to wait to think on more:

-Madness seems to be a shared theme but I want to see how Shadow handles this as a whole before commenting, but you can check out my post on queer and crip time in The Eighth Sense if you're interested in that element at all

-Power and oppression. Heydenrych’s article mentions a 2010 production that focuses on Denmark’s repressive political system and themes of surveillance, control, and abuse of power. These seem like themes working their way into Shadow but I’d want to be more familiar with the topic in Hamlet

-Suicide. There are versions of Hamlet that heighten this theme further with Gertrude and Ophelia in particular being framed as making attempts. 

-Play within a play and the blurring of fiction and reality

-Decolonial and religious elements

Sources:

Heydenrych, Thys. “‘To tell our Storie’: Reflections on a Queer Adaptation of Hamlet in Twenty-first Century South Africa” Shakespeare in Southern Africa vol 30, 2017. pp. 43-55

Edelman, Lee. “Against Survival: Queerness in a Time That’s Out of Joint” Shakespeare Quarterly, 62.2, 2011. pp. 148-169.

Edelman, Lee. No Future: Queer Theory and The Death Drive. Duke University Press, 2004.

Note: Most other sources were mentioned in the Heydenrych piece

[electronickingdomfox]

"Vulcan!" review

A novel by Kathleen Sky, from 1978. This one was bad, bad, BAD. I'd say it's the worst I've read so far, and I really hope it doesn't get any worse than this. The characters, in particular Spock and McCoy, are sometimes unrecognizable, the barebones plot barely makes any sense, and the (self-insert?) character is really unlikable. At least it's short, so through sheer masochism willpower, I got to read it in record time, to forget it as soon as possible.

Spoilers under the cut:

The Romulan border is shifting, since the magnetic fields that determine the Neutral Zone are being affected by ion storms. Soon, the system of the planet Arachnae will fall under Romulan territory. I mean, it will be rightfully Romulan, simply because of the shifting nature of borders as they're defined. Is Starfleet going to accept this, just as the Romulans would have to accept a natural expansion of the Federation, if it came to happen? Nah! Prime Directive be damned! They send the Enterprise to investigate if there's intelligent life in Arachnae that may be worth to keep in the Federation. (And if there is, then what? Do they start a war? On what basis? Whatever.)

In order to determine if the Arachnae inhabitants (some sort of giant ants) are intelligent or not, they need the help of Dr. Mary Sue Katalya Tremain. A biologist who is so, so brilliant, that Starfleet invented new medals just for her, and whose intelligence surpasses even Spock's. As soon as they learn she's coming aboard, Spock and McCoy start competing for her affection (yes, Spock too) by filling her cabin with gifts and flowers and whatnot. But when she beams aboard, it turns out that Dr. Tremain is actually an insufferable bigot who hates Vulcans, and can't even work with them. She's also a major crybaby that resorts to faking hysteria whenever she can't get her way. One has to wonder why Starfleet even allows such a person to be part of its ranks (well, maybe the fact that she's sleeping with a Commodore explains why). We don't see much of her legendary brilliance either, but we learn that she has big boobs. And yes, this book was written by a woman. Obnoxious as she is, she's still a Mary Sue. So everyone has to turn a blind eye to behaviors that would be otherwise unacceptable, and make sure the little princess is comfortable. After all, there must be some good reason for this woman's bigotry (there isn't, but whatever), since she's too wonderful to simply being an asshole. McCoy gets into full "I'm a lover, not a doctor" mode right after seeing her. And five minutes later, he's hitting hard on her, though he seems more of a lecherous creep, rather than a charming, southern gentleman. Ah, yes, he helps her unpack her things, which gives him a chance to paw the sexy lingerie inside the luggage (didn't you know? sexy lingerie is fundamental when going to explore a giant ant planet).

The first half of the book is just a really boring Freudian psychoanalysis of Tremain, only to determine again that, yes, she hates Vulcans, for some undisclosed reason. Meanwhile, McCoy can't decide whether he wants to be professional or horny. He switches back and forth more times than I cared to count. Two days later, he's fallen completely in love with this horrible person who mistreats one of his best friends. Anyway, Tremain friend-zones him soon, so he gets nothing but a little kiss on the forehead. Not that I felt bad about him; McCoy is an asshole in this book.

The second half of the novel gets a bit better, as Spock and Tremain beam down to the planet to meet the Arachneans. McCoy misses the beam down because he was busy chasing after some alien cat in the veterinary section. Yes, the horniness made him stupid or something. So when the giant ants attack the landing party, a lot of people die, and they don't even have a doctor. Kirk can't beam them up because Romulans have appeared to claim the planet, and he can't lower the shields. And that's what Kirk does for the rest of the novel: absolutely nothing. Meanwhile, Tremain and Spock have to work together in order to survive, so she's marginally more professional now. It's Spock's turn to be stupid, though, as he starts to make lewd comments about her, and spying her while she undresses. The reason being!? I don't know, something about proving she hates Vulcans (yeah, I knew that already).

In the end, Spock is attacked by the poisonous ants. And he mind-melds with one, to discover they're not, in fact, intelligent, so it's okay to leave the planet to the Romulans. The mind-meld, however, leaves him insane, and believing he's one of the ants. To restore his sanity, Tremain has to mind-meld with Spock, which is probably the best scene in the book. Then, while exploring her subconscious, it's finally revealed why she hates Vulcans so much. The reason is... she felt an unrequited love for her former Vulcan captain (gasp! I wasn't expecting something like that, no, not at all). Kirk finally decides to do something, and lowers the shields to beam them up, before Spock dies of poisoning, Romulans or not withstanding. He could have done so hours ago, though, before so many people died. Sigh...

Spirk Meter: 2/10*. Kirk stands firmly on Spock's side against Tremain's bigotry, and he's the only one who doesn't tolerate any of her bullshit, just like Chapel (you know, the two persons who love Spock the most). There's also a line about McCoy liking Spock, but not in the same way that Kirk likes him. Though, on the other hand, Kirk's very stubborn about following Starfleet's orders, even if it costs Spock his life, so I don't know... Characterization is hardly coherent.

There may be some Spones too. Tremain says that she can't really love McCoy, because she doesn't feel for him all the things that McCoy feels for Spock, which in her opinion, is love (she's quick to clarify it's not the same kind of love, but still...). McCoy also becomes quite hysterical when Spock's dying on the planet, while Kirk keeps calm. Apart from this, Tremain (who hates Vulcans because of an unrequited crush on one) functions as some sort of placeholder for McCoy himself. It's insisted upon how alike they are, and how they share the same hobbies. Spock calls her "Doctor" all the time, and his banter with her reminds a lot to that with McCoy. In fact, when Spock is being a perv towards Tremain to anger her, he compares his enjoyment of it to the one he gets from riling McCoy. It's rather telling how the author is taking everything from Spock and McCoy's dynamic, while using a woman substitute as a no-homo screen.

*A 10 in this scale is the most obvious spirk moments in TOS. Think of the back massage, "You make me believe in miracles", or "Amok Time" for example.

[youremyheaven]

wait 😭😭 help i meant freud basically came up with a theory that children are attracted to the opposite sex of their parents, like sons being attracted to their mums during their younger years, this is oedipus complex, reference to his case study of little hans, hans was scared of his father finding out he liked his mom in that way so his fear generalised to horses. sigmund then used dream analysis to help him resolve his fear and the father - son solved this issue out.

i meant that maybe subconsciously i was seeking out people that was similar to my father? THAT WAS ALL I PROMISE NOTHING IS WRONG HERE 😭😭 i just found it interesting they had similar placements

I did study psychology, I'm very familiar with Freud

He also basically faked this theory. Many women who were sexually abused by their fathers came to him for help and he basically rewrote their medical history to make it seem like they wanted to bang their fathers 🤡

Also Freud's theories are widely considered by the psych community to be outdated and sexist and straight up crazy

All that said. I do believe that subconsciously we're deeply influenced by our parents. They represent masculinity and femininity to us and become our first introductions to those concepts. It only makes sense to seek some version of that in people we meet?? I don't just mean romantically but in general, we often attract people with similar naks and planets repeatedly and chances are, it's present in our families as well.

It's interesting to me because I've never been interested in anyone who remotely has my dad's placements but my mom??? Her placements recur frequently in my friends, partners, romantic interests etc but it's never her moon or rising or whatever (prolly cause I have those naks myself) it's always that Venus in Swati of hers or her Jyeshta placements 😤 (I do have Mercury DK , soooo).

[thecameronchronicles]

Sessions

TW: Dark(ish) Rafe. Therapy. Smut. Language. 

SUMMARY: As Rafe’s therapist, you have become immune to his attempts and fantasies…until his intimidation takes control over prior reservations…

WORD COUNT: 2700

*Requested*

Sessions

Rafe Cameron had become your patient six weeks ago. After a mental breakdown to his father and a handful of questionable life decisions between cocaine and brutality among those of a lesser social class, he sat across from you with those preying eyes you ignored as you made notes upon your memo pad. This was how the sessions always started. In silence as you would feel him analyze you in carnal conviction. Beginning at the point of your heels, he would luxuriate his analysis to your legs folded across each other, andu upwards to the two buttons unclasped to expose just the right amount of cleavage without being too sultry, until his eyes finalized to your lips. 

"Have you had any more of those thoughts, Rafe?" You questioned, finally lifting your eyes as he was unabashed when noticing his eyes lift from your chest. Not a blush or even an apology, just an adjustment on the couch before he nodded. 

"And what do you do when they intrude your mind?" 

"I think about you..." 

"Our sessions, you mean?" You corrected as he shook his head, no, before leaning his elbows onto his knees. 

"I mean you." 

"What about me?" You played blase, just as you had every time he would make some flirty comment that crossed that line you'd never even been tempted to cross with any other patient. But he was intimidating in a way that made your thighs press together when his eyes trained on you. He was damaged but not to such a degree that was beyond redemption, which pulled at your heartstrings. And if you were primarily vain, you couldn't deny how attractive he was. Those soft blue eyes darkening with lust, those long fingers sliding across the curve of the chaise lounger, and his muscles always on view beneath his polos and button ups. 

"All the things I want to do to you..." Your eyes paused for just a moment as you thought of your own vision. Bent over that chaise, skirt lifted enough to learn how he'd make your panties sticky with slick by his voice alone. His fingers wrapped within your hair as he pounded into you with melodic tunes of skin-to-skin contact sounding out between you. 

But you were a professional. And these fantasies were just that. So you played to his words to a certain degree before you would alter it for the sake of the delicate lace between your thighs. 

"Are these violent thoughts, Rafe?" His jaw clenched to the way you spoke his name, almost like a loving mother on the cusp of reprimanding him but with a sultry timbre that would have given Freudian assessors a field day to analyze. 

"For you, yes...But in all of them, you're smiling through your tears..." 

"Why am I crying?" 

"Because you took me so well and you were choking on me." 

"And do these thoughts make it easier to handle the ones of violence?" 

"They are distracting..." Your eyes moved to him with focus, reinstating the dominance you could feel slip prior to your questioning. 

"And what else do you do to get rid of these thoughts?" 

"Are you asking me if I jerk off thinking about you?" Your curiosity was piqued, and yet you were intrigued. Of course, you'd had former patients come on to you, but it was either direct or just by a gaze alone. But with him, he treated it like a game. You would look, he'd look away, vice versa and then he'd comment about being lonely and single, describe his methods of intercourse and his reviews from past lovers, all while you maintained professional-barely. 

"Does it help?" 

"Every day. Every night. Anytime I’m alone…Just before I came here, in fact. In the shower...imagining you were on your knees for me..." 

"Do all of your fantasies have me that way for you?" 

"Only the ones I'll tell you about." 

"And the others?" 

"I'd rather just show you..." 

"I think you understand how inappropriate this is. You want to get my reaction. But there isn't one to give..." 

"No? Then why are you blushing, doctor? Why are you always pressing those thighs together beneath that little clipboard for just the tiniest bit of relief from the friction that shift gives? And why don't don't look me in the eyes when I talk about sex?"

"It's common that you may feel a way about me because of a predetermined maternal-" 

"No. I sure as hell know when I'm not wanted, alright? But you..." He now stood, licking his lips, and moving painfully slowly towards you. 

"You want me...And I'm here...And if I have to take another hour talking about my feelings and my father...my lack of a mother figure...I'm gonna do it with you either riding me or me pounding into you-" 

"Rafe, I need you to sit back down. This isn't-" 

"Appropriate..." He slowly nodded as you matched his vertical positioning, fluffing the lines of your skirt flat, before moving towards the door. 

"If you can't behave, we'll have to cut today's session short..." You were able to take hold of the door knob, breathing a sigh of relief to know that in a few feet you could relieve the blaring pulsation between your legs once in your main office. 

"My dad pays for the hour. How am I supposed to explain coming back early? I'm cured?" He chuckled, "We both know nobody would buy that...I'm as sick as they come and the only thing that makes me feel remotely sane is the idea of being inside of you..." He had towered over you from behind, your breath hitching as you cleared your throat from the lump left by a lack of verbiage desperately trying to remain professional. 

"I'm not the outlet you need, Rafe. I am sure there is a nice girl-" You were suddenly shoved against the door, wrists bound by only one of his hands as it was taken above your head, as your clipboard and adjoined memo pad fell between you. A gasp of genuine surprise left your lips. 

"I don't want a good girl. They're boring. I want a woman...someone who knows her body enough to tell me what she wants and take everything I can give..." He took his second hand to your jaw, turning your head so he could speak against your cheek. 

"For hours...even days..." 

"Rafe-" 

"You have all of these theories about me, right doc? How my lack of a mother figure makes me cruel against women...but what about you? What event happened to you that made you willing to be treated the way we both knew you want?" 

"I-" 

"Daddy issues? Asshole exes too nice to make you come the way you need but too mean to listen to you? Maybe just curiosity?" He scoffed. 

"I'd listen to you..." 

"Another theory..." He pointed his finger as if having been offered a sudden epiphany, before moving it across the buttons of your shirt in a descent, taking one open as your lips parted to correct him, until he interrupted you into silence. 

"I'm your favorite patient. Just like I look forward to every Thursday at ten...you get excited in a way that is...inappropriate...never really acting on it because you're afraid the fantasy will be ruined...But I'd make every single one come true..." He pulled your blouse apart with a forceful test, buttons flying in every direction before his lips were on your exposed breasts, only a bra staring back at him. 

"Against this door. Over that couch...against that window..." His hand now moved to your skirt, lifting it enough to see the matching black panties in wait for him. 

"Just for reference, I prefer red. Next week, I want to see you in red..." 

"There won't even be a first time, Rafe..." 

"We both know that's not true. There won't only be a first. But a second and a third. Until one of us gets tired of coming or by some miracle you actually manage to make those thoughts go away. But until then..." He pulled his hand around your neck. 

"Everything alright?" Your assistant asked upon hearing the commotion on your side of the door. His hand was quick to squeeze your neck so the only thing you could say was a weak whimper of his name. 

"Tell her everything is fine, or I'll fuck you over the desk out there for everyone to know the lengths you go to for your favorite patient-" He tightened his grip enough to where you began to see those black spots of nearing unconsciousness. 

"I'm giving you one chance to listen, or I swear you'll regret it." He released you in the nick of time as the question was asked by your assistant once again. 

"I'm alright." 

"Tell her to cancel your next appointment." His eyes looked to the clock set on the bookshelf on the far side of the room. 

"Tell her to clear your whole day-" 

"I have other patients-" 

"And I'm losing mine. You do NOT want to push me, doc. I have a lot of frustration and you're just lucky enough to be the outlet for 'em. So do it." He spoke behind a clenched jaw as you nodded. 

"Clear my day..." 

"Are you sure? Your next appointment-" His fingers rubbed at your clit as your body arched towards him. 

"I'm sure!" You spoke quickly as he smirked. 

"Good fucking girl-" His grin widened as he brought you to the center of the room, his belt taken around your neck, tightened just enough to allow you breath, but easily pliable by his domineering hold. 

"I've thought of this every fucking time...and you're gonna do it exactly how I want...right?" 

You paused, looking towards the door before he pulled the belt. 

"You don't get to leave. But by all means, go ahead and scream...I'm still not stopping until you come...and talk back or disobey...and you won't even get to do that." He pulled the tail of the belt upwards so you were forced to look at him. 

"Open." He watched as you produced your tongue, his spit now on your tongue by his projection, before his second hand made quick work of his belt. 

"You're gonna spit it on me...rub me until I say...Now." You nodded before taking him from his pants, his fingers relaxing the belt enough to give you enough freedom to obey, before he then pulled your hair with his second hand, but more in appreciation than domination. 

"Good girl...Nice and slow for me..." You spit the excess of saliva onto his shaft, massaging his shaft with the mixed lubrication, before taking him to your lips. 

"I didn't say to take me yet!" He scolded, "Try it again and have good luck explaining to your other clients why you can't sit for a fuckinf week-maybe two..." You nodded. 

"Keep stroking me..." You obliged as you watched his head cry for you, beads formed on his tip. 

"Eyes to me while you put it in...Slowly..." You obeyed in careful precision. 

"Good. Now keep those eyes to me..." You took him further, his body tensing and relaxing to your focus and motions. 

"I knew you would be a goddess on your knees...maybe a bit of a devil, too, yeah?" You nodded. 

"Now work it for me...I know you've thought about it...Let me hear you choke on me, doc..." 

You weren't able to assess how long you'd been on your knees for him due to the tears on your eyes. But by the ache in your knees and burn of your stretched and battered throat, you knew it had been in length. And you had continued beyond your own limits until hearing him curse and moan over you as your eyes continued to fixate on him. 

"Give me those fucking lips-" He pulled you around him and into a straddle as he carried you both to the edge of that chaise. Removing the rest of your clothes, he brought you onto his cock as you groaned at the relief of its pressure. 

"Keep fucking riding me...but don't come until to say...yeah?" You nodded as he smiled, his eyes falling to the space between you as he took in every action of your body against him. 

"So many dirty thoughts and tensions doc...and you're gonna fuck em all out of me..." 

You nodded. "So then do it...make me come...I know you can..." 

You stabilized your fingers into his shoulders before he removed the belt from your neck and used it to bind your hands behind your back. 

"I want you so fucking sore that you don't feel tempted to let anyone else touch you...I'm gonna mark you and drain you until every single part of you belongs to me...and you try to fight it..." He stationed himself, still speaking against your mouth.

"And I'll breed you until you've given me all the little Cameron's I want...Keeping you at home...where you'll wait for me every night...in what color lingerie?" 

"Red..." 

"Good..." He returned his hands to your hips. 

"And this?" His thumb moved over your clit. 

"Not even you get to touch it...It's mine...like these..." He took one of your breasts in his mouth, basking in the soft skin and hard pebble of your nipple as you rolled your hips. 

"And this-" He slapped your ass. 

"And you're gonna be a good girl and listen...Because you want to please me...to fix me..." He chuckled. 

"And right now...fuck me...right?" 

"Yes..." 

" Louder." 

"Yes!" 

"Louder!" 

"YES, Rafe! JESUS!" 

"Good girl...now I want you to come for me...think you can do that for me? No hands." 

You nodded.

 "I'll even help..." He sped the flicks made over your sensitive flesh as you rode him with every ounce allowed as he was manic beneath you, silencing your attempts to control the pace, before feeling his hand wrapped around the back of your neck for stability. 

"Beg for it-" 

"Give it to me Rafe! Please!" 

"Yeah?" 

"Oh God, Yes! Please!" 

"Keep asking for it...keep begging-fuck!" He grunted as you smirked. 

"You like that? Huh? You like begging for me?" 

"Mmmhmmm..." You answered. 

"Then keep fucking going...I’m so close...gonna paint you, doc...make you drip with me...with us..." He tightened his grip on your neck as you moaned into whimpers. 

"Yes! Rafe!" 

"Come for me. Right now! Give it to me! Right fucking now!" He demanded as you felt your body tremble as he was quick to follow. 

"Shit! Fuck!" He clenched his jaw, nails tracing the sides of your legs as his eyes slowly pulled open. 

"Got any theories about that?" He teased as you tried to move from him, guilt and fear of your career made vulnerable by this indiscretion, you felt him pull you back into him. 

"That shouldn't have happened today..." 

"You're right. It should have happened the first fucking session-" He had unbound your hands by now, but still kept you against him. 

"Rafe, it can't happen again. It won’t-I want you to get better..." 

"And for the last hour, I haven't thought of hurting anyone...of anything but you...and you want to deny me that…progress?" 

"There are other things you can do, a different therapist-" 

"Not for me." He moved effortlessly across the room, taking hold of the tape recorder. 

"You try to end this between us...you try to get out of it in any way and I go to the board with this..." 

"Rafe..." 

"I'm expecting that red lingerie next week...no panties though...and no touching yourself until then..." He would dress quickly and leave as you sat in awe, wondering if this therapy session was more for you or him…

Taglist: @hopebaker @iovdrew @penny4yourthoughts @magnificantmermaid @pickingviolets @lovedetlost @trikigirl271 @maybankslover @slut4starkey @slvtherinseeker @obxiskewl @obxxrxfes @bluesongbird @slut-era @ailee-celeste @rafesbae