#while also accusing you of being condescending

[hauntedbyjoel]

Hate Turned Hungry

pairing: joel miller x f!reader warnings: MDNI | age gap | rough sex | dom!Joel | degradation | choking (light) | spitting | mirror sex | face fucking | oral (f & m receiving) | overstimulation | power imbalance | light humiliation | unsafe sex | possessive behavior | brat taming | emotional obsession | dark themes word count - 13.5k summary - You used to think Joel Miller was the most insufferable man alive — grumpy, condescending, always in your way. Now he’s all you can think about. Every glance is a warning. Every word, a threat. And when he finally snaps, you find out exactly what it means to lose control.

-ˋˏ ༻❁༺ ˎˊ-

Sophomore year was... fine.

Not great. Not terrible. Just fine.

You got the grades you needed to keep your scholarship. Showed up to class. Went out enough that no one could accuse you of being boring, but not so much that you had to fake sick texts to your professors the next morning. You did what you were supposed to.

But somewhere along the way, you got tired. Tired of group projects, of roommates who left hair in the sink, of cafeteria coffee and lecture halls that smelled like damp carpet. You missed real food. Your own bed. Quiet.

So when your last exam ended, you packed your shit, dumped half your closet in a suitcase, and texted your dad your flight info without asking if it was a good time.

You didn't expect balloons or anything. But you also didn't expect the first thing out of your dad's mouth to be, "Joel’s gonna be around a lot this summer.”

That made you pause. “Joel?”

“Miller. Helping me finish the patio. Said he’s got time off between contracts, so he’ll be in and out pretty regular.”

Your dad either didn’t hear you or didn’t care. He was already deep in a monologue about gravel and retaining walls when you followed him into the kitchen.

And there he was.

Joel fucking Miller.

Leaning against the counter, arms crossed, bottle of beer in hand, face set in that same unimpressed expression you remembered from years ago. You hadn’t seen him in a while. Not since before graduation. He’d always been around when you were younger. Fixing things that didn’t need fixing. Offering to “help out” when no one asked. The kind of man who’d show up uninvited to your birthday party and then spend it bitching about how loud the music was.

You used to think he was fucking annoying and not in a fun way. In a gruff, overly serious, who-invited-this-guy kind of way. He was always in your space. Always talking to your dad like you weren’t there. Always looking at you like he could see through whatever attitude you threw out that day.

But now?

Now he looked like the kind of man your friends would lie about sleeping with.

And now he’s here. In your goddamn kitchen. Older, broader, tan from working outside, the sleeves of his worn shirt hugging his biceps like it was intentional. He’d grown out a bit of a beard. Just enough stubble to ruin your life.

You blinked at him. Actually blinked. Like a cartoon character rebooting. Your hand was still on your suitcase handle.

He didn’t say anything right away. Just nodded once, slow and unreadable, eyes dragging down your frame like he was assessing you. Not in a creepy way. Just…in a Joel way. Like he was still deciding if you were a pain in the ass.

“Joel,” you said, flat and unimpressed.

“Hey there, princess.”

Your spine straightened. That nickname used to piss you off, because when you were younger, he’d say it with that patronizing tone, like he thought you were spoiled. Entitled. A brat who didn’t know how to lift anything heavier than a lip gloss.

It used to make your blood boil.

Now it was doing something else entirely. Something lower. Hotter. Like your body hadn’t gotten the memo that it was supposed to hate him.

You scowled anyway, crossing your arms. “Don’t call me that.”

He raised an eyebrow, taking a slow sip from his beer. “Still got that attitude, huh?”

You crossed your arms, jaw tight. “Still hanging around like a stray dog?”

That almost got a smile. Just a flicker at the corner of his mouth, quickly buried behind the bottle.

“Been a while,” he said, unbothered. “You back for the summer?”

“Unfortunately.”

“Right. School’s up in New York, yeah?”

You gave a short nod, not offering more. But he waited. So you sighed. “It’s fine. Crowded. Expensive. Kind of bullshit.”

His eyes narrow, not unkind, but knowing. Like he already expected you to say that.

“Sounds about right,” he said. “City’ll chew you up if you let it.”

You shrugged, unwilling to agree. “Better than rotting in suburbia.”

Joel huffed — maybe a laugh, maybe not. He looked at you again, with that unreadable stare.

“Well,” he said, tipping the bottle toward you. “Welcome back.”

And then he turned to your dad, asking something about the new drill he’d lent him, and just like that, you were dismissed.

Not in a rude way. Not even deliberately. But your part in the conversation was over. Joel had acknowledged your presence, spoken, and then moved on like it was nothing. Like he wasn’t the hottest man you’d seen in real life in probably two years. Like he didn’t just activate something feral in the pit of your stomach without even trying.

You stood there for another second, dizzy, your suitcase still clenched in your hand.

Because what the fuck.

Joel hadn’t always looked like that. You knew he hadn’t. 

Now he looked like the kind of man who didn’t even know how hot he was. Stronger. Broader. Like he’d aged in slow motion and soaked up every good part of it. His beard was short, a little patchy, but it made his jaw look sharp. His eyes were deep-set and serious, even when he smiled. And his voice had weight to it now.

You couldn’t stop watching him.

Every little movement drew your attention — the way his fingers drummed once against the side of his beer bottle, the flex of his arm when he leaned onto the counter, the way he tilted his head slightly when your dad spoke, like he was actually listening.

You’d known him your whole life, and suddenly it was like your brain had rewritten him overnight.

You forced yourself to walk your suitcase to your room. Forced your legs to move. Forced your eyes not to look back over your shoulder and drink in one last glance at him.

But even after you shut the door behind you and collapsed on your bed, shoes still on, backpack half-zipped and slipping off your shoulder, your mind was stuck in the kitchen.

You stood there for a beat too long, heart hammering, skin hot. You couldn’t breathe right. Couldn’t think. Something low in your stomach was pulsing like an alarm bell, and your legs felt weirdly light, like they might give out if you didn’t sit the fuck down.

You made it to your room somehow. Kicked the door shut, dropped your bag to the floor, and sat on the edge of your bed like a girl who’d just seen God.

Because what the actual fuck.

He was not supposed to look like that.

Not Joel. Not your dad’s know-it-all friend with the truck and the permanent scowl. He wasn’t supposed to look like he belonged in a whiskey commercial. He wasn’t supposed to have forearms like that or a voice that made your stomach do weird, traitorous flips. He wasn’t supposed to look at you — steady, unreadable — like he already knew what you were about, and then turn around like you weren’t even worth a second thought.

But it mattered.

Your hands were shaking.

Not visibly, not enough to panic about — just enough that you noticed when you touched your face. Just enough that you wanted to lie down and scream into your pillow like a deranged high schooler with a forbidden crush.

You were so fucking gone already.

You laid back, stared at the ceiling, let the heat of the house sink into your skin. Your heart hadn’t slowed down. You didn’t want it to. Every second that passed made you want to run downstairs and see him again, just to confirm that your brain hadn’t exaggerated it. That he really looked like that. That he really sounded like that.

You could still hear his voice in your head. Still feel it in your spine.

Your phone was face-down on the bed next to you. You didn’t need advice. You didn’t even think they’d understand. But you opened your college group chat anyway, because holding it in felt unbearable.

you: my dad’s friend is gonna be here all summer you: he’s hot. like really hot. you: i’m gonna fuck him or die trying

You didn’t even wait for the replies. Just turned your phone over again like it was something shameful. Like saying it out loud made it real.

But it didn’t help. Nothing helped.

You could still see the way his shirt clung to his shoulders, how his fingers curled around the neck of the bottle, and that brief moment before he really looked at you—like he wasn’t sure what to do with what he saw.

Your thighs pressed together. You didn’t even notice at first. It just happened, automatically. You only realized when you exhaled and the tension was still there, low and tight and coiled like it had nowhere else to go.

You were in so much trouble.

So you did what any emotionally stable adult would do: climbed into bed in the middle of the day and burrowed under the covers like that would fix something. The sheets were still warm from earlier, the pillow too soft to be comforting, and even though your brain wouldn’t shut up, your eyes eventually did.

You don’t even remember falling asleep. One second you were staring at the ceiling, the next��

You woke up too hot. Disoriented. Mouth dry, hair stuck to the side of your face.

The fan was still going in the corner, buzzing like it had been doing something important. Your shirt clung to your back with sweat. Your phone buzzed once and went quiet — probably some bullshit screen time notification telling you you’d rotted your brain 43% more this week. No shit.

You sat up slowly, wiped your hand down your face, and squinted at the digital clock across the room. Late afternoon. The kind of hour that made everything feel heavy. Sunlight leaking through the blinds in slanted lines, painting the room in that weird in-between light that didn’t feel like day or night.

Then, downstairs something thudded.

You froze.

A second later came the sound of metal scraping on concrete. Then another thud—low and heavy, like something being shifted. A toolbox, maybe? The noise was familiar, but distant, like a half-remembered thought. Probably your dad. Doing too much again, for no real reason.

You pulled your hair into a loose knot, padded barefoot down the stairs, still heavy with sleep and vague irritation.

But when you stepped into the kitchen and glanced out the back window, it wasn’t your dad.

Joel was in the yard, bent over a stack of lumber, arms flexing beneath his T-shirt. Moving slow. Focused. Like nothing in the world existed except whatever he was trying to fix.

You watched him for a moment, letting it settle.

When you finally opened the sliding door and stepped outside, he didn’t look up right away. But when he did, his expression didn’t change. No surprise. No hesitation. Just steady eyes that met yours without blinking.

“Didn’t know you were still here,” you said.

Joel straightened with a soft grunt. “Didn’t know you were sleepin’.”

“I wasn’t,” you lied. “I was just—”

“Your mom’s at some class thing. Dad ran out to get more plywood.”

He said it like it meant nothing. Like it wasn’t the most dangerous sentence you’d ever heard.

You crossed your arms loosely, feigning casual. “So what, you got left behind?”

“Somebody’s gotta keep it movin’.”

You nodded slowly. “And that somebody’s you.”

He didn’t respond. Just looked at you for a beat too long, then turned back to his tools.

You should’ve gone back inside. But you didn’t.

You hovered for a beat, then said, “Hot out,” not because it was, but because it was the first excuse your brain offered to keep him looking at you.

“Sure is.”

“You always this sweaty before noon?”

He let out a breath — not quite a laugh. “Try movin’ bricks around and stayin’ pretty.”

You tilted your head, smirking. “I’m naturally pretty. You’re just old.”

That got his attention. His mouth twitched. Barely.

“That mouth of yours really hasn’t changed,” he said, brow raised.

“Neither has your attitude,” you shot back.

He didn’t answer. Just turned back to the bolts he was working on.

You stayed there. Watching. Simmering. Wanting something he wasn’t giving. And when he didn’t say anything else, you stepped back inside before you said something stupid.

But the damage was already done.

-ˋˏ ༻❁༺ ˎˊ-

It’d been a few days since you last spoke to him.

Not that you were waiting around for it. You had better things to do. Lists to make. Jobs to apply for. Endless tabs open on your laptop, none of which explained why you still froze every time you heard heavy footsteps downstairs — boots on the floor, a drawer opening — like your body was waiting for something your brain hadn’t agreed to.

Joel was back again. Of course he was.

Fixing something. Always fixing something. Same slow footsteps. Same way he moved through the house like it was his, like he didn’t need permission to open cabinets or track dirt across the tile. You used to roll your eyes at it. All of it. The sighing and muttering, the way he smelled like sawdust and sweat. It used to drive you crazy — just not like this.

Now it was something else entirely.

You were lying on your stomach in bed, pretending to scroll, when you heard him. Tools shifting. A soft grunt. The unmistakable sound of that goddamn wrench he always brought inside like it was a part of him.

You sat up. Peeled your shirt off where it stuck to your back. Told yourself you were just thirsty.

That was it.

Your feet moved on their own. Down the hall, down the stairs. Loose shorts slung low, tank top clinging from the heat. The air was quiet and thick, and Joel was crouched in front of the kitchen sink, one arm braced on the cabinet frame.

You wandered over to the fridge and opened it without hurry. Bent down slowly, casually, letting your shirt ride up as you reached for a water bottle on the bottom shelf. You stayed there a moment too long, pretending to search, fully aware of the way your body looked from behind.

Then straightened. Cracked the cap. Took a sip. Let it trickle down your throat as you leaned back against the counter.

Still no acknowledgment. Typical.

You didn’t say a word. Just took another sip and turned to leave. And as you walked away, you caught it. His eyes were on you. Low. Heavy. Hungry.

It only lasted a second. Maybe not even that long. But it landed like a jolt, pulsing through your whole body like static under skin.

You bit the inside of your cheek and kept walking. Didn’t look back, didn’t smile.

But your pulse was hammering, and your whole body buzzed with it — the confirmation, the tension, the undeniable truth of that glance.

He saw you and he liked what he saw. And now you knew.

The water bottle is still cool in your hand by the time you get upstairs, but you don’t drink it. Just stand there with your back against the closed door, staring across your bedroom like you’ve forgotten what you came in for.

You don’t even sit down before stripping off your clothes. It’s not some grand plan. Not at first. But by the time you’ve pulled on your black bikini — the tie-side one you debated even packing — it starts to feel like a mission. Like strategy.

Because if he’s gonna look, you’re gonna give him something to look at.

You catch yourself smiling in the mirror as you adjust the top. Not the sweet kind of smile either — the kind that could get you in trouble. That could ruin a man like him if he wasn’t careful.

Downstairs is still quiet when you come back through. The fridge hums. There’s a soft creak from outside — the deck, maybe — but no voices. No parents. You grab your towel, a random book, and the bottle of sunscreen from the hall drawer, then make your way to the backyard like you’re not plotting anything at all.

The deck boards are warm beneath your feet, the heat still clinging to them from earlier. You spread the towel out slowly, stretching a little more than necessary as you settle onto the lounge chair and lay back. The sun’s high, your skin already starting to prickle beneath it, and you can hear the steady rhythm of movement from somewhere behind the fence.

Joel’s still here. Still working. Still close enough to hear you if you needed something.

You wait five minutes. Maybe ten.

And then—soft, almost sweet— “Joel?”

There’s a pause. A clunk. Then the unmistakable sound of boots on concrete.

He rounds the corner wiping his hands with a rag, forearms smudged with sweat and sawdust, eyes hidden beneath the brim of his cap. He slows when he sees you but doesn’t stop. Just lets his gaze drag over the scene for a beat longer than it needs to.

“You alright?”

“Yeah,” you say, casual. “Can you help me with something real quick?”

You hold up the sunscreen, twisting the bottle lazily between your fingers. He doesn’t take it. Just looks at it. Then at you.

“You don’t have someone else for that?”

“Do you see anyone else around?” You raise a brow. “It’s just my back. I can’t reach it.”

He exhales slowly through his nose. “You’re a grown woman. I think you can manage.”

“Wow,” you say, smiling, “don’t be such a fucking prude.”

Joel stares at you, expression flat and unreadable. For a moment, you think he’s going to walk away. Maybe you pushed it too far. But then he steps closer. Gives a small nod, like he’s made some kind of decision. Like he’s choosing to stay.

“Turn around.”

You do, almost too fast, heart racing, stomach flipping. Your hair falls over one shoulder as you settle forward on your elbows, the backs of your thighs already warming under the sun.

He comes up behind you, and for a moment you brace yourself for something detached. Something quick, routine, maybe even indifferent. But the second his hands find your skin, that thought disappears completely.

His hands are rough. Calloused. Hot.

You suck in a breath.

It isn’t the chill of the lotion that gets to you. It’s the contrast. His hands are rough and steady, moving over your skin with a kind of focus that makes your breath catch. The pressure is slow and deliberate, like he’s taking his time on purpose.

Your back is burning, and the sun has nothing to do with it.

“You’re gonna burn in five minutes flat,” Joel mutters, spreading the lotion over your shoulders.

“Yeah?” Your voice is steadier than it should be. “Then hurry up.”

You swear you feel his hand hesitate — just for a second. A flicker. Then it’s back, smoothing the lotion down the slope of your back, skimming the sides of your ribs like he’s being careful not to slip.

Which only makes it worse.

He’s trying not to enjoy it. That’s what undoes you. Not the touch itself, but the restraint. The tension of it. The way his fingers dig just a little too hard, like he’s mad at himself for doing this in the first place.

He lets out a quiet breath. “You've changed. And somehow... not at all”

There it is. A spark. Not a full crack in the dam, but a hairline fracture — something just close enough to flirting that it hits your nerves like a live wire.

You grin into your forearm. “That a bad thing?”

"Not sure yet," he huffs.

A moment later, his hands leave your skin. You hear the soft clink of the sunscreen bottle hitting the deck, followed by the faint creak of him stepping back.

You wait. Just long enough to give yourself an excuse. Then you turn.

He’s still there.

He hasn’t moved. Hasn’t walked away. He’s just standing there, watching you.

The sun is behind him now, throwing sharp shadows across his face. You aren’t sure what you expected. Maybe an awkward glance to the side. Maybe a quiet goodbye.

But he doesn’t move. His eyes stay on yours.

And for one quiet, startling moment, neither of you says a word.

You blink. Swallow. “Thanks,” you say, quieter than you meant to.

Joel nods once. Barely. Then he grabs the toolbox off the table and walks back inside of the house without another word.

You stand there longer than you mean to.

Eventually, you grab your phone.

You tell your friends that you think you might actually lose your mind this summer. Say something vague about sunscreen and how his hands were rough—too rough to be accidental, right?

They blow up instantly.

Someone sends a voice memo screaming. Another says you need to film it next time. Someone else asks if he’s divorced, and a fourth says she wants you to “do it for the team.”

You laugh. Kind of. But it’s not enough to shake the feeling crawling up your spine.

You tell them you’re spiraling. That you’re thinking about things you probably shouldn’t be thinking about. That you might actually lose it if he looks at you like that again.

You put your phone on the table and stand up, making your way to the house. The sliding door gives with a soft clatter, and cool air greets your skin as you step inside. The shift in light makes you blink, eyes adjusting to the dimmer space.

The house feels cooler, the air still and quiet. Your footsteps sound louder than they should on the hardwood, each one echoing softly as you move forward.

The house is quiet when you walk in.

No keys in the dish. No car in the driveway. Your mom’s probably at yoga or barre or wherever she disappears to for hours at a time. Your dad? Maybe Lowe’s. Maybe Home Depot. Probably dragging Joel along to pick out something unnecessary.

You don’t know why it matters. You just know you’re alone.

You fill a glass of water in the kitchen. Take a few long sips. Keep expecting to hear boots on the porch or the murmur of conversation through the wall.

But the silence holds.

You go upstairs. You peel your bikini off piece by piece. You lie back on your bed.

And then you really spiral.

You think about the way he looked at you—not like he meant to, but like he couldn’t help it. Like he noticed you. Finally. Like maybe he wasn’t just being polite. Like maybe his hands lingered just a little longer than they needed to.

You close your eyes.

One minute, you’re still damp from the pool. The next, you’re soaked for a completely different reason.

You lie back on your bed, one leg still damp where the towel missed a spot. Your skin’s flushed—not from the sun, but from the memory.

From the way his fingers felt against your spine. How he touched you like he was trying not to touch you. Like restraint was stitched into every motion, pulling tight at the seams.

But in your head?

He doesn't stop.

You replay the whole thing in your head. Same pool, same sunscreen, same quiet pull between you. But this time, when his hand drifts to the small of your back, it doesn’t keep moving. It hesitates. Fingers settling just above the curve of your ass, slow and careful, like he’s thinking about what it would mean to go further.

“Shouldn’t let me touch you like this.”

But he wouldn’t stop.

He would trace the edge of your bikini bottom with one finger. Not slipping beneath the fabric, just following the line. Just enough to make your hips twitch beneath his hand. Just enough to make you shift, trying to play it cool.

His other hand would rest at your jaw, guiding your face toward his. Not forceful, just enough to make sure you’re looking at him.

You picture it now: Joel kneeling beside the you, one hand trailing lower, the other guiding your eyes to his. “Tell me to stop,” he’d say.

And you wouldn’t. You couldn’t.

Because this was your fucking mission, wasn’t it?

Something twists inside you, not painful, just sharp — like your nerves are waking up all at once.

“You wanna act grown?” A shake of the head. A quiet scoff. “Show me.”

But there’s no voice now. No rough fingers. Just your own fingers and the quiet whir of a ceiling fan overhead.

The room is too still. Too quiet. Too not Joel.

You open your eyes and let out a sharp breath. Your chest rises with the effort it takes to come back to yourself. For a second, you almost expect to hear him. His voice low and close, saying things he has never said. But all you hear is the soft creak of the house settling around you.

Your fingers pause.

Reality floods in. You’re alone. He never touched you like that. He never said a word. None of it happened.

But it felt so real. Still does.

So you let your eyes drift shut again, desperate to recapture it.

He’d lean closer, his voice barely a breath now, hot against your ear. “Thought you wanted this.”

You’d nod without hesitation, barely holding yourself together. You’d say whatever he wanted to hear if it meant his hand would keep moving, sliding lower with that same steady pressure. His fingers would trace the waistband, slow and deliberate, before slipping beneath the fabric.

Careful at first. Just enough to find how wet you already are. Just enough to show you he knew exactly what you needed, and exactly how ready you were for it.

Your hips arch into your own touch at the thought, mouth falling open. You bite back a sound as your fingers circle just right, matching the rhythm you know he’d set.

“Knew it,” he’d mutter. “So fuckin’ wet for me already.”

You lose yourself in it then.

His mouth on your throat. His hand between your legs. His body heavy and warm and everywhere. Not careful anymore. Not restrained.

He’d groan when your thighs shake, press his forehead to your shoulder, and hold you there like he’d earned it.

“That’s it,” he’d whisper. “Just like that. Good fuckin’ girl.”

You come hard—quiet, fast, and messy. Thighs shaking under your own hand.

And even when it fades, you don’t move.

You lie in bed for a while, replaying every second of that almost-moment until it’s not just fantasy anymore—it’s fuel. It’s fire under your ribs. It’s proof that Joel wants you, too. He looked at you. He touched you. He didn’t pull away like some concerned father-figure. He just stood there, watching your body react to him like it was the first time he really saw you.

And next time you’re gonna push harder. Be bolder. Give him even less of a reason to walk away.

Because this summer? You’re not leaving empty-handed.

-ˋˏ ༻❁༺ ˎˊ-

The next day, your mom tells you about dinner around noon, already buzzing about the menu, tossing out options like she’s hosting a wedding reception.

“Joel’s coming over tonight. Your dad asked him to stay after they work on the fence—so be nice.”

“I’m always nice,” you say, too quickly.

She gives you a look but lets it go.

You hide the way your stomach flips at the mention of Joel’s name. At the idea of him in your kitchen, in your house. Sitting at the table like it’s normal. Like it’s fine.

You’d taken your time getting ready.

Shaved everything, deep-conditioned, spent half an hour standing in front of your closet like it was a gallery wall. Eventually, you picked a sundress that wasn’t too short but still skimmed your thighs when you sat down. Soft straps, bare shoulders. One of those easy, flirty fabrics that made you feel pretty without trying too hard. You’d gone light on makeup—just enough to make you feel pretty without looking like you were trying too hard.

By the time dinner’s close, your nerves are barely containable. You keep imagining his eyes on you again. Wondering what he thought when he was touching you. Wondering if he went home and touched himself thinking about it. Or if he’s been trying not to think about it at all.

You’re still wondering when you hear his voice outside—deep and low, that familiar Southern drawl drifting in from the backyard like it belongs here. Like he does. Laughing with your dad about something stupid—plywood or screws or whatever men like them talk about with sunburnt necks and half-empty coolers beside them.

You glance out the window when they head in. Joel cleaned up—hair damp, a fresh change of clothes. He’s shaved. Or trimmed. Either way, it’s intentional. It’s for something.

He walks in, and his eyes go to you immediately.

Just for a second.

Not long enough to scare anyone—but long enough to confirm it wasn’t your imagination. Long enough to say, I see you.

You tilt your head, all innocent-like. “Hey,” you say, casual, like you don’t care he’s here. Like you didn’t spend an hour getting ready just in case he looked at you like that again.

Joel nods. His gaze flicks down and back up. Bare shoulders. That dress. He sees it.

“You’re gonna get cold in that,” he says, voice even but his eyes linger. “Kitchen’s freezing.”

You smile. “Guess I’ll have to borrow a jacket.”

His jaw ticks. “Not mine.”

That gets your attention. You go quiet, studying the way he moves — the grip he's got on the fridge handle, the way he avoids your eyes now, like looking again might be a mistake.

“You don’t like the dress?”

“I didn’t say that.”

He grabs a beer from the fridge but doesn’t open it. Just stands there, turning it slowly between his hands. The glass is slick with condensation, catching the light as it moves. His eyes stay on the counter, steady and distant, like he’s trying not to think too hard.

You ease forward a little. Not enough to draw attention, but just enough to close the space between you. Close enough that he can feel the change in the air. You know he notices, even if he won’t look at you.

“Would’ve picked something else if I knew you’d be shy,” you say lightly, fingers trailing the edge of the island.

Joel finally lifts his gaze. The look he gives you is steady and sharp, and it settles over your skin like static.

And when you crossed your arms — mostly out of irritation — your chest shifted with the motion. The neckline of your dress dipped lower, the fabric pulling just enough to press your breasts together. The curve of them lifted, pushed up by your own arms, framed perfectly between the soft straps and the shape of the dress.

It wasn’t intentional. But it wasn’t subtle, either.

They sat there, high and obvious, the kind of distraction that would be hard to look past. And the best part was, you knew it. You could feel the air brushing over the bare skin at the top of your chest. Could feel the way his gaze dragged, even if he tried to look away.

“Stop.”

One word. Firm. Not loud—but you hear everything behind it.

You blink. “Stop what?”

His eyes flick down again, quick and unthinking, like his body’s moving before his brain can stop it. That’s when you notice the change. His stance tightens. He shifts his weight, angles his body slightly away, like distance might steady him. One hand curls at his side, flexing once, like he needs somewhere to put that tension.

He’s hard.

You see it, clear as day, and your breath catches before you can even think of what to say. But he moves first.

He turns without a word, muttering something under his breath about needing to wash up, and walks out of the room. No glance back. No chance for a response. Just his footsteps down the hall, fading until he’s gone.

And you’re still standing there, legs locked like your body’s trying to hold onto something that already slipped through your fingers. There’s a tight, aching pull low in your belly, and nothing you do makes it ease up.

He was hard.

You did that. Just by standing there. Just by existing in that dress, in that room, looking at him the way you did.

You can’t catch your breath.

You’re supposed to join your parents in the next room, sit at the table like nothing’s happened, like you’re not losing your mind in real time. Like you didn’t just pull that reaction out of him with a sundress and a smile.

You glance toward the hallway, even though he’s long gone now.

Replay it all in your head. That flick of his gaze. That shift in his stance. The heat in his eyes before he remembered who he was—who you were—and shut it down.

God, he looked like he hated himself for it.

And why shouldn’t he? You’re too young. You’re his friend’s daughter. You’re a guest in your own damn house and still had the nerve to stand there hoping he’d look.

And he did.

He fucking did.

You take a step back, trying to reset. Trying to cool off. But it’s pointless. Your skin is flushed, buzzing in places that have no business reacting like this. You swear you can still feel the way he looked at you, like it clung to your body and soaked straight through.

You plant your hands on the counter.

But the need doesn’t fade. It settles low and steady, pulsing with purpose. Your body already knows what it wants, and now there’s no point pretending otherwise. Every second you stand there, it sharpens — not out of confusion, but hunger.

You want him to come back.

You want him to say something. Do something.

You want him to admit it.

Instead, you hear the bathroom door shut at the end of the hall. Running water. Silence.

He’s not coming back right now.

And that’s maybe the worst part of it—how badly you want him to. How desperate you feel. How completely wrecked you are over something that lasted less than thirty seconds.

So yeah. You freak out.

And then you sit down like nothing happened.

You join your parents at the table, heart pounding and hands way too still in your lap. You nod along as your mom talks about garlic bread and marinated chicken like you’re not still replaying the moment Joel adjusted himself in the kitchen.

He comes back a minute later. Calm. Composed. Like his dick wasn’t just hard under those jeans.

Like you didn’t fucking notice.

He settles in across from you, casual as ever, resting one forearm on the table while your dad passes him another beer. There’s a streak of sawdust still clinging to his wrist. A tiny scrape near his knuckle.

It shouldn’t make you feel anything.

But it does.

“Almost done with everything,” Joel says, cracking the bottle open like it’s nothing. “Just a few more odds and ends.”

Your dad nods. “Yeah—can’t believe how much we’ve knocked out. Seriously, man, I feel bad. You didn’t need to do all the extra stuff.”

Joel shrugs. “I don’t mind. I like stayin’ busy.”

The conversation eventually drifts.

Your mom asks Joel about work—some job on the north side that had him tied up for weeks. He talks about new permits, someone underquoting a kitchen reno, and how this heat makes everyone meaner than usual.

You play with the edge of your napkin. Pretend to listen.

Your dad complains about the neighbor’s lawn. Your mom brings up a new Thai place downtown. Joel doesn’t say much after that—just sips his beer and keeps his attention anywhere but you.

It starts to feel like the moment in the kitchen didn’t happen at all.

And then—

“Hey, remember that girl in high school?” your dad says suddenly, half-laughing, mid-sip. “The one who used to leave notes on your truck? What was her name—Kelsey?”

Your whole body locks up.

Joel chuckles. Quiet. A breath through his nose. Doesn’t really answer.

Your dad grins, nudging Joel’s arm like he’s setting him up. “Man, she was relentless. Thought you hung the moon. She’d bake all that stuff and just happen to show up whenever you had a shift. I swear, she timed her schedule around yours.”

You blink and set your fork down with a soft clink against the plate. Something tight pulls in your chest.

This isn’t just jealousy anymore. It’s heavier than that.

You’re the one who’s been orbiting him. The one flirting too much, pushing too far. And if this is how he sees it — if you’re just another girl who doesn’t know where the line is, if he’s only letting you hang around for the attention, for the ego boost — then you don’t know whether you want to cry or disappear.

You feel it rising, that hot, unbearable flush behind your eyes. A part of you wants to throw your fork across the table. Another part wants to crawl under it and vanish completely.

Instead, you take a breath and swallow it down.

You barely register the rest of dinner.

There’s some mention of your dad’s back hurting. Your mom brings out dessert even though no one asked for it. Joel laughs at something she says about needing to bottle her salad dressing and sell it at the farmers market. You smile automatically, keep your eyes down, and chew on the inside of your cheek until it stings.

Joel doesn’t even look at you again.

Not when your mom gets up to clear the table. Not when she sighs and says she’ll start the dishes. And not when Joel, fucking saint Joel, follows with a quiet offer to help.

"I can help with that," he says, like he means it. 

Your heart seizes.

“Oh!” your mom says, delighted. “You don’t have to, but that’s so sweet. She can help you!”

You blink. “Wait, what—?”

“Come on,” your dad says, already standing. “He fixes half the house, least you can do is help him load the dishwasher.”

Your mom shoots you a smile. “Be nice.”

You force a smile that feels like it might crack your skull in half. “Always.”

The kitchen clears out. Your parents wander off, plates in hand, like they didn’t just throw you into a minefield. And now it’s just you and Joel. Standing beside a counter full of dishes. Avoiding eye contact like it’s a goddamn war tactic.

You grab a plate. Set it in the sink. Joel runs the water.

For a second, neither of you say anything.

Then, quiet—barely above the hum of the faucet—he mutters, “You’ve got a real sharp mouth on you tonight.”

You glance at him. “Don’t act like you didn’t earn it.”

His jaw flexes. He scrubs at a plate harder than necessary. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe you should go ask Kelsey.”

Joel freezes. Just for a beat. Then looks at you—really looks at you—for the first time since the kitchen.

There’s a flicker in his eyes. Something dangerous. Something alive.

“You jealous over a girl who baked me brownies twenty years ago?”

You stare at him. “I’m not jealous.”

He laughs once. Low. Dry. “Sure you’re not.”

You snatch a fork off the counter a little too hard. “Maybe I just don’t like being grouped with every other girl who’s ever thrown herself at you.”

That lands. You see it in the way his shoulders tense. The way his grip tightens on the edge of the sink.

And then—quiet again, but colder this time: “You think this is the same?”

You don’t answer.

Because you don’t know what this is.

But you know it’s not nothing.

Joel turns to face you fully, arms crossed now, jaw locked tight.

“You’ve been struttin’ around like it’s your goddamn mission to drive me insane.”

You scoff. “I’m not doing anything you’re not letting happen.”

His eyes narrow. “You think batting your lashes and prancing around in that little dress makes you grown?”

“I am grown.”

“Could’ve fooled me.”

You feel the snap in your chest, all sharp edges and rising heat.

“You can pretend all you want,” you bite out, “but I saw the way you looked at me.”

Joel shakes his head, laughing once—but there’s no humor in it.

“You don’t get it.”

“Oh, I get it,” you fire back. “I walk in the room and you can’t even look at me without getting hard.”

He stills.

You know you’ve hit it now. That buried nerve he’s been trying to cover with silence and sarcasm and distance.

“You don’t know what you’re doing,” he mutters.

“I think I do.”

You move closer, closing the space between you until the air shifts. He doesn’t back away. Doesn’t speak. Just watches as you stop in front of him, close enough to be heard without raising your voice.

“You like it,” you whisper. “Even if you wish you didn’t.”

He exhales hard through his nose, like he’s counting to ten.

“You keep this up,” he says, voice low and strained, “and you’re gonna find out exactly how grown you really are.”

And then he walks out of the kitchen.

Leaving you standing there, heart pounding, whole body burning with equal parts rage and want.

You clean up in a daze. Not that anyone notices. Your parents are too busy arguing about whether the grill should be cleaned now or in the morning, and Joel—well, Joel’s long gone.

Didn’t say goodbye. Just left.

You lie on your bed later, legs still smooth from your shower, body too warm under the sheets.

Your phone is dark. Group chat silent.

You’re alone with it now—this thing in your chest that’s turned into obsession. It’s not a crush anymore. It’s not innocent.

You want him to look at you like that again. Want to push until he snaps. Want to know what it feels like to ruin him.

He wants me. I know he does. He’s just being a coward about it.

You wonder what would happen if you just walked into his house. No excuses. No fake questions about drills or light bulbs or fence measurements. Just showed up in that stupid sundress and asked for what you wanted.

Would he push you away again?

Would he kiss you this time?

You stare at the ceiling and plot your next move.

-ˋˏ ༻❁༺ ˎˊ-

When you woke up you were already thinking about Joel.

Not in a cute, butterflies-and-daydreams kind of way—but in the desperate, need-to-do-something-about-it way. It’s like there’s a pressure building behind your ribs, all that unresolved tension simmering with nowhere to go.

You replay the kitchen. The look. The way his hand twitched by his side like he wasn’t sure what to do with it.

You’d worn that dress for a reason. And he’d seen it. You know he had.

But he still wouldn’t touch you.

Still wouldn’t speak unless he had to.

Which means it’s up to you now.

You spend the whole morning plotting—half-thinking, half-fantasizing. Wondering what might happen if you caught him alone. If you pushed a little harder. If you gave him less room to pretend like he didn’t want it.

You’re still lost in your own head when your dad starts cursing under the sink.

You peek in to see him struggling with some stripped bolt, red-faced and muttering under his breath. Then he tosses the wrench on the floor and groans.

And that’s when he says it—without even looking up:

“Go ask Joel if he’s got a socket wrench that’ll fit this.”

The plan clicks into place before you even have time to second-guess it.

Phone in hand, you check your reflection in the hallway mirror. A quick glance is enough. No need to change. The top hugs just right, and your shorts are already flirting with the edge of decency. It’ll do.

Outside, the grass is warm underfoot as you step off the porch and start across the yard, like it’s the most casual thing in the world.

Like your heart isn’t pounding.

Like you didn’t rehearse six different versions of this exact scenario in your head last night.

Joel’s truck is in the driveway. Curtains open. Front door shut.

You knock.

No answer.

You knock again, a little harder this time, and step back just as the door creaks open.

He’s there. Barefoot. Coffee in hand. That same gray tee from yesterday hanging low over his hips. He smells like sawdust and lemon cleaner and him, and your mouth goes a little dry.

He leans against the frame, lazy and quiet.

“Need something?” he asks, voice scratchy like he hadn’t expected company.

You nod, keeping your voice light. “Socket wrench. Dad stripped the one under the sink.”

Joel breathes out through his nose, glancing off behind him. “Of course he did.”

He gives a small shake of his head, something between a sigh and a smirk, then pulls the door open a little wider.

"Come on in."

You step inside, doing your best to ignore the way his arm grazes yours. The entryway feels smaller than it should, the air a little warmer with both of you standing there. A quick glance around confirms what you already expected — everything is tidy, quiet, a little too put-together. You turn to face him, trying to keep your expression neutral.

He shuts the door and you follow him into the kitchen, floor cool under your bare feet. Joel moves ahead of you without a word, setting his mug down on the counter with a dull thunk. His hand brushes over a drawer handle, and for a second, that’s all he does—just stands there, back to you, knuckles tense.

He hasn’t looked at you.

Not once since you walked in.

You lean against the other side of the kitchen island, arms folded loosely under your chest, letting the silence stretch.

“So…” you say, like it’s nothing. Like your pulse isn't already skipping. “Busy day?”

Joel doesn’t answer right away. He opens the drawer and pulls out a wrench, holding it by the head like it might break in his hand.

“Yeah,” he mutters, still not looking. “Been runnin’ around all damn day.”

Another pause. He finally sets the wrench on the counter, slides it across the granite toward you—but doesn’t step back. Doesn’t give you space.

His eyes flick up. Land on yours.

And stay there.

“Here.”

You could just take it. Say thank you. Leave like a normal person. Instead, you step around the island. Close the gap.

You stop in front of him and tilt your head, fingers grazing the cool metal behind you—but not picking it up. Not yet.

“You always this quiet when you’ve got company?” you ask.

Joel’s jaw shifts. “Not when they’re invited.”

It should sting. Should be enough to make you back off. But the way he says it, low and steady like his patience is already wearing thin, only adds to the heat building deep in your stomach.

You move in closer, just a little.

He doesn’t step back, doesn’t shift, but his eyes track the movement. They drift downward for a beat before meeting yours again.

When you speak, your voice comes out quieter, softer than before.

“So uninvited guests don’t count?”

His breath ticks in his throat. He doesn’t answer. Doesn’t move.

So you keep going.

“‘Cause it kinda feels like you’re letting me stay.”

Joel doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t touch you. Just stands there, breathing slow, looking down at you like he’s doing the fucking math.

His voice is calm, almost careful, like he’s choosing every word.

“You really think this is a good idea?”

You blink up at him. “Why wouldn’t it be?”

You can feel it in the air between you — the tension, the effort it takes for him to stay still. It stretches tight, like his restraint has a weight all its own.

He doesn’t move.

So you do.

Your hand lifts, slow and careful, as if testing the moment. Your fingertips skim the edge of his shirt where it rests low on his stomach, soft cotton stretched over firm muscle.

His throat works with a swallow.

His hands stay at his sides, but his fingers shift slightly, curling once before going still again. He doesn’t stop you when you step in closer, when your other hand rises to settle gently against his chest.

Your voice is barely a whisper.

“So what now?”

His jaw ticks. “You should take the wrench.”

You lean up—closer.

“But I don’t want the wrench.”

Joel’s breath stutters. His hands twitch again, and for a second—just a second—it feels like the tension might snap. Like he might finally grab you, slam you back against the counter and say all the things he’s been trying not to.

But he doesn’t.

He leans down instead until his mouth is by your ear.

“You have no idea what you’re getting into," he says, voice rough and sharp.

Your breath catches. Then you smile.

“Sure I do.”

His eyes drop to your mouth, then return to yours. For a long moment, he just watches you.

No warning. No retreat.

Something in his expression shifts. He’s not looking at you like a kid anymore. There’s hesitation, maybe even guilt, but underneath it is something else. Want. Recognition. Trouble he knows better than to touch.

And still, he stays frozen, like he’s waiting to see what you’ll do next.

So you close the distance until you’re close enough to feel the heat coming off him.

You step into his space, hand trailing lightly up his arm. His skin is warm and rough under your fingertips—sun-worn and calloused, like it’s never been soft. You feel him stiffen. Not pulling away. Just holding still. Waiting.

“Thought you said this was a bad idea,” you murmur.

“I did.”

He says it like it still is.

And then he grabs your face.

Not gentle—possessive. Like he’s finally giving in, like he’s pissed it took him this long. His palm cups your cheek, thumb along your jaw, and before you can speak—

He kisses you.

It’s not sweet. It’s not slow. It’s the kind of kiss that says he’s tired of pretending. Heated, chaotic, and full of everything he wouldn’t say out loud.

Like he’s punishing himself with it.

Your lips part on instinct, and his tongue slides past, rough and claiming. His other hand clamps around your waist, yanking you in until there’s nothing left between you but heat.

“Fuck,” he mutters, barely pulling back. His breath hits your mouth. “You don’t make shit easy, you know that?”

You blink up at him, dazed.

His hand’s still at your jaw. Still holding you there.

“I’ve been trying to be good,” he grits out. “Tryin’ to ignore the way you look at me, the way you walk around like—”

He cuts himself off with a breath. Shakes his head like he’s disgusted—with himself, with you, with all of it.

But he doesn’t stop touching you.

Doesn’t step back.

His hand slides down your side, rough palm dragging over the curve of your waist. You feel it like a brand. Like confirmation.

“You want this?” he asks—low, serious now.

You nod.

“Say it.”

“I want you.”

It’s the softest thing you’ve said all day. And somehow it makes everything snap.

Joel’s grip tightens. Not enough to hurt, but enough to say you’ve crossed a line.

"Just this once," he mutters, breath hot against your cheek, "so you finally shut the fuck up."

You barely have time to react before he’s got you turned around, chest hitting the nearest wall. His hand slides down your back, flat and heavy, pressing you into the drywall like he owns you. You gasp, heat blooming across your skin. This is what you wanted. What you teased him for.

“You think you can talk all that shit and not get put in your place?” he growls, mouth at your ear.

You open your mouth, but no sound comes out. Your cheek scrapes the wall.

“That’s what I thought,” he says. His knee nudges between your thighs, forcing your stance wider.

You whimper. It’s the only sound you can manage.

He drags one hand up the back of your thigh, slow and deliberate. The fabric of your shorts rides up, and he palms your ass—squeezing hard enough to make your knees buckle.

"This what you needed? Someone to handle you?"

He laughs when your breath stutters.

"Say it. You wanted this."

You nod. Frantic.

"Nah," he says, voice cold. "Use that smart little mouth of yours."

You swallow. Try again. "I wanted it. I want you."

"Yeah?"

He grabs a fistful of your hair and tugs your head back just enough so you can hear him clearer.

"Then take what you asked for."

He presses his hips into yours—just enough friction to make you cry out.

And still he waits, drawing it out with maddening patience. He watches you shift under the weight of it, says nothing, does nothing, just stands there and lets you unravel. Every second that passes feels deliberate, like he’s letting you beg without ever needing to hear the words.

You grind back against him without thinking, desperate for any kind of relief, but Joel doesn’t move. Doesn’t let up. His grip stays iron-tight in your hair, his hips a wall of heat behind you—there, but just out of reach.

“So fuckin’ needy,” he mutters, almost to himself. “Didn’t even touch you yet.”

Your thighs tremble. You nod again, breath catching in your throat, but it’s not enough.

“Say it,” he says, voice like gravel. “Tell me what you want.”

“I want you to touch me.”

“Where?”

You hesitate for half a second and he yanks your hair a little harder.

“Everywhere,” you gasp. “Please, Joel—”

His name breaks something in him. You hear it in the way his breath hitches, in the way his palm slides down your stomach and under the waistband of your shorts like he owns the space.

“You beg real pretty,” he murmurs. “Bet you come even prettier.”

You whimper when his fingers find you—already soaked, already shaking—and he groans low in his throat.

“Fuck,” he breathes. “All this for me?”

You nod helplessly, chest heaving.

He pulls his hand away and you almost cry.

But he spins you around instead—rough but careful, like you’re something he’s still deciding whether to ruin or revere—and lifts you onto the nearby counter. His hand wraps around your throat as he leans in close, eyes locked on yours.

“Open your mouth,” he says.

You do.

And he spits. Slow. Dirty. Right on your tongue.

Your breath stutters. Your whole body flinches—but you don’t close your mouth. You swallow. You hold his stare.

“So you do know how to behave after all,” he mutters. 

His praise is dark and low and mean. A reward and a warning all at once.

Then his hands find you again, tugging your shorts down and guiding your legs apart with quiet purpose. He moves between them without hesitation, like he belongs there, like he never even questioned it.

One hand trails down the back of your thigh, steady and warm. His touch lingers, slow and certain, like he’s learning every inch by feel alone, like there’s no need to rush a single thing.

But he doesn’t do anything else. Just breathes against you. Lets the weight of his body settle over yours until you're trembling.

“You were so mouthy all week,” he murmurs, dragging his fingers up the inside of your thigh, maddeningly close. “All that talk. All that fuckin’ attitude. Where’d it go, huh?”

You grind back against him—desperate, shameless—but his hand comes down hard across your ass.

“Don’t start.”

You flinch. Moan. His palm stays there, heavy and unmoved.

“I’ll give you what you want,” he says, voice low and dangerous, “but you’re gonna earn it.”

Then he moves—slides his hand between your legs, just barely grazing you through your panties. His fingers stroke softly, deliberately avoiding pressure. You gasp, frustrated.

“You like teasing me” he growls. “That it? You like walkin’ around like that? Smiling like you don’t know what you’re doing?”

You can’t answer. Not when he’s doing that. Not when your whole body’s pulsing.

He laughs.

“You’re not so tough now, are you?”

Then he pulls his hand back entirely. Steps away like he’s done.

Just to make you whimper.

He steps back just enough to let you turn, air sharp in your lungs. His hand finds your hair again—fingers tight at the roots, pulling until your scalp tingles and your knees hit the floor.

It’s cold against your skin. You blink up at him, lips parted, heart hammering like it’s trying to break through your chest.

"Go on," he says, thumb dragging across your cheek. “You wanted to act grown, didn’t you? Let’s see what that mouth is really good for.”

You reach for his belt with trembling hands. You’re soaked already, thighs pressed together as you undo the buckle, slowly—dragging it out because you want to. Because he’s watching you, jaw tight and arms crossed like he doesn’t care. But he does. You can see it. The tension in his knuckles. The way his hips twitch forward when your fingers brush his zipper.

“You sure about this?” he asks, low and almost too calm. There’s something dangerous in it. Not hesitation—warning.

You nod. Whisper, “Please.”

Joel exhales sharply through his nose. “You don’t get to beg yet.”

His hand returns to your jaw, grip firmer this time, his fingers pressing in just enough to make your breath hitch. His zipper is already undone, and the shape of him is impossible to miss. Thick, heavy, straining against the fabric like he’s been holding back for too long.

“You want it?” he asks.

You try to answer, but he taps your cheek—mocking.

"Use your words."

“Yes,” you whisper. “I want it.”

“Yeah,” he mutters. “Bet you do.”

He pulls himself free, thick and flushed, already slick at the tip. The weight of him settles against your lips, warm and heavy, but he doesn’t push forward. Not yet. He just holds there, waiting, letting you feel it, letting the moment stretch.

You freeze.

Not out of fear, not even nerves—just the sheer weight of it, heavy against your mouth, the heat of him pulsing with every breath. Your lips part automatically, but he still doesn’t push. Just lets it sit there. Daring you.

It’s bigger than you expected.

You’ve imagined this. More times than you’ll ever admit, in the quiet, in the dark, when no one could see how badly you wanted it. But now that it’s real—right here in front of you, thick and slick and so fucking pretty—your brain stalls.

Your mouth waters before you can stop it. Saliva slips past your bottom lip, and the heat that floods your cheeks has nothing to do with embarrassment. It’s need, sharp and overwhelming, and you hate how badly you want to taste him.

“Open up,” he says, voice rough. “Nice and wide.”

You part your lips, but it’s not fast enough. Not wide enough. He tuts.

“Didn’t say half-ass it,” he growls. “Open.”

You stretch your jaw. Embarrassingly fast. You want to make him proud. Want him to see what you’ll do for him.

And then—he presses in.

Slow. Heavy.

The stretch burns. Not enough to hurt, but enough to make your throat tighten around him. Your jaw aches almost instantly. You blink hard, focus narrowing, breath steady through your nose as you fight to stay in control.

Joel groans low in his chest. His voice is rough, heavy with approval.

"That’s it. Fuckin’ knew this mouth was good for something."

Your hands grip the denim at his hips, fingers curling tight, nails pressing in. He pushes deeper, slow and deliberate, just far enough to make your eyes sting.

And still, he holds back. Watching you. Letting you struggle with the weight of him, your tongue flattened and lips stretched obscenely wide.

You gag around him, just barely, throat tightening as your eyes blur.

Joel watches you choke a little and smirks. Not cruel, but proud. Amused. Like this is exactly what he expected.

“Look at that,” he murmurs, thumb brushing a tear from your cheek even as he rocks a little deeper. “All that talk… and now you’re quiet as can be.”

You whine low in your throat. Can’t help it. He’s thick and hot on your tongue, the weight of him dizzying, like it’s short-circuiting your brain. Every time he presses in, your thighs squeeze together—aching, dripping.

“Didn’t expect you to take it this well,” he mutters. “Might’ve started this sooner if I knew you’d behave.” 

You moan. Or try to. It comes out garbled, desperate. Your jaw’s already sore and he’s not even all the way in yet.

His hand fists in your hair, tugging you off with a wet pop.

You gasp. Drool clings to your lip.

“Breathe,” Joel says. “Don’t want this to end just yet.”

You blink up at him, glazed, ruined, eager. He sees all of it and he grins.

Then he shoves back in, slower this time, groaning as your lips stretch tight around him again.

“Fuck, that’s better,” he pants. “Yeah. Just like that. Fuckin’—look at you.”

You do. Eyes glassy, chest heaving, spit dripping down your chin.

He grabs your face with one hand, holding you in place as he thrusts into your mouth. The rhythm is slow, controlled, each stroke dragging across your tongue before slipping back in, the tip catching on your lip just to make you feel it.

"You gonna come like this?" he growls. "Just from having your mouth full?"

You whimper, unable to answer. Your thighs are soaked, your core pulsing with every shallow grind against nothing. The friction from your shorts only makes it worse. You’re clenching around empty air, nerves lit up from the inside out, every part of you buzzing.

Joel chuckles, low and mean. “Course you would. Filthy fuckin’ girl.”

He pulls back one last time, leaving your lips parted and your breath caught somewhere in your throat. Your jaw throbs. Your chest feels tight, like you’ve been holding everything in for too long.

And then—

“Stand up,” he says. His voice is low. Final. “Take those fuckin’ shorts off.”

Your breath catches.

For a second, everything inside you short-circuits, like your brain’s still struggling to process what’s happening. Your throat’s raw. Jaw aching. Knees pressed into the floor, burning slightly from the pressure. You can still feel the echo of his grip in your hair, the stretch of your mouth, the way he didn’t let you come.

You should be spent. Used. Done.

But you’re not.

You blink, chest heaving. And somewhere in the mess of arousal and adrenaline, something steadies. A strange kind of clarity. Not logical—this isn’t that. It’s instinctive. Deep. Like your body recognizing what this moment could be.

He's standing above you now, waiting. Watching. His breathing’s heavier than before, chest rising under the thin cotton of his shirt. And he hasn’t touched you since.

You’re still on your knees, but your eyes flick up to his face. You hold his gaze, just long enough to test the air between you. Your thighs squeeze together, heartbeat climbing. You feel wild. Wired. Like you’re dancing the edge of a cliff with no idea what happens if you fall.

And then, slowly, you shift your weight to your heels and stand.

You want to see what happens if you play with fire a little more.

So you take a step back. Not away from him—just enough to put space between your bodies, just enough to give yourself room to perform.

He doesn’t move.

His arms hang loosely at his sides, but the tension in his body is impossible to miss. It sits just beneath the surface, tight and coiled, like a wire ready to snap. His jaw shifts. His eyes drop to your chest, then return to your face. Still watching. Still holding back.

You let your fingertips skim the hem of your shirt.

Just a light touch. Barely there. The fabric gathers slowly beneath your palms as you start to lift, inch by inch, revealing skin that tingles under the weight of his stare. Your stomach. The curve of your ribs. The soft lower edge of your bra.

He doesn’t say a word.

Doesn’t stop you.

Doesn’t help you.

So you keep going.

You raise your arms, twist at the wrists, and tug the shirt over your head in one smooth motion. It falls behind you, forgotten on the floor. You’re bare from the waist up now, save for the thin lace of your bra. It’s nothing. It’s everything.

The air touches your skin. So does his stare.

It makes you bolder.

You reach behind your back, unclasping slowly, making sure he sees every movement. One strap slips from your shoulder. Then the other. When the lace falls to the floor, you don’t cover yourself. You stay exactly where you are, letting him take it all in.

You want him to ache for it.

You want him to lose control.

But when he still doesn’t move, doesn’t respond the way you thought he would, something tightens in your chest. You shift slightly, the silence starting to press in, your heart knocking unevenly in your ribs.

That’s when you catch it.

The slight curl of his fingers. The sharp set of his jaw.

Your lips part. You exhale, head swimming from the power. From the anticipation.

You curl your thumbs in the waistband of your shorts.

“You said take them off,” you murmur, almost taunting now. “Didn’t say I had to rush.”

You slide them down slowly, letting the fabric skim your thighs, your knees, your ankles. You step out of them with care. Stand up fully—completely bare. Hot. Slick. Waiting.

Joel doesn’t speak. He doesn’t have to.

The look on his face says enough.

It says: You just made the biggest mistake of your life.

It says: You’re not in control anymore.

Then—he moves.

Two steps forward, and you’re backing up instinctively, spine hitting the wall. He follows, slow and deliberate, like he’s reeling you in just to show you how easy it is.

“Thought you were real cute,” he says, voice low. “Givin’ me a little show like that.”

His hand comes up, thumb brushing the bottom of your lip—not gentle. Not sweet. Just a warning.

“You wanna play, baby? That it?”

You swallow hard, breath catching when his other hand drops to your hip. Gripping. Anchoring.

“You think that little smirk makes you untouchable?” he mutters. “Think battin’ your lashes is gonna make me soft?”

He leans in—just enough for his mouth to skim your cheek.

“When,” he snarls, “are you gonna learn your fuckin’ lesson?”

His face is right in yours now, breath hot, chest rising hard. One hand pins your wrists above your head. The other drags down the front of your body, unforgiving, firm—claiming.

“You think this is a game? That you can look at me like that, put on a little show, and win?”

You’re gasping now, hips squirming, thighs rubbing together for friction. But he’s not giving you any.

“You want control?” he growls, voice gravel against your ear. “Then take it.”

He steps back, only slightly. Just enough to release your wrists. Just enough to test you, to see if you’ll move.

You don’t.

You couldn’t, even if you wanted to.

"Yeah," he mutters, voice low as he watches you breathe through it, eyes dark and steady. "That’s what I thought."

His fingers close around your wrists again. Not hard enough to hurt, but firm enough to make a point. To remind you who’s in control.

You’re caged between his arms, back flush to the wall, body thrumming with tension. He’s so close you can feel every breath he takes, the heat of him pouring into your skin like gasoline on an open flame.

He lets go of your wrists, just for a second—but your hands don’t move. Can’t move.

Because you're frozen. Dripping. Buzzing with the sharp edge of humiliation and thrill.

“Coulda been different,” Joel says. His hand drags slowly down your arm, over your waist, thumb brushing under the curve of your breast. “Could’ve had you nice. Sweet. Could’ve made you feel real good.”

He dips his head, nose brushing your neck. You shiver.

“But that’s not what you wanted, is it?”

He bites—not hard, but sharp enough to make you gasp. Your hips buck forward, instinctive, useless. His thigh presses between yours, pinning you down, and your breath stutters.

“You had to push.” His voice is darker now, all grit and fire. “Had to act like a fuckin’ brat.”

He presses into you with a single slow grind, firm and deliberate, and it’s enough to make your knees go weak. Your breath catches, balance slipping for a second as heat rushes through you.

Joel catches you by the jaw. Tilts your face to his.

“You knew exactly what you were doing,” he growls.

His voice is low. Controlled. Dangerous.

And before you can answer, before you can even breathe, Joel’s grabbing you by the waist and lifting you like you weigh nothing.

You yelp, legs wrapping instinctively around his middle. He doesn’t say a word as he hauls you through the hallway, one hand locked under your ass, the other braced against your spine, holding you so tight you can feel his heartbeat hammering through his chest.

“Put on a show?” he mutters, jaw flexing as he kicks a door open. “Let’s see how you like being the one watchin’.”

Your back hits the wall just inside the room—his bedroom. You recognize the mirror before anything else. Tall. Wide. Angled slightly toward the bed.

He doesn’t let you down. Just drags his mouth along your jaw, breath hot and ragged, before finally tossing you onto the mattress.

You bounce once. Gasp. And then—freeze.

Because he’s turning the mirror. Adjusting it. Lining it up perfectly.

“You wanted my attention,” Joel says, voice hard. “You’ve got all of it now.”

Then he’s on you again. Gripping your ankles. Dragging you to the edge of the bed.

“Eyes on yourself, baby,” he growls, climbing up after you. “Watch what you fuckin’ asked for.”

You try to blink, to breathe, but your eyes are glued to the mirror. To the image of yourself spread wide across Joel’s sheets, hair messy, chest rising in quick, shallow gasps. Your thighs tremble as he settles between them—broad shoulders parting you with ease, hands rough on your skin.

“Pretty thing,” he murmurs, dragging his palm up your inner thigh. “All that and now you’re quiet again.”

He watches your face as his fingers slide through your folds—slow, deliberate, soaking in how slick you already are for him.

“Told me you wanted it,” he says, not bothering to look down. “So show me.”

You moan when he sinks two fingers inside without warning, curling them deep. Your hips lift off the bed, but his free hand presses to your stomach, pinning you still.

“Uh-uh,” he warns. “You stay right there.”

You nod, breathless, whimpering when his thumb finds your clit and starts to circle.

“That’s it,” he mutters, watching the mirror. “Look at yourself. Watch me ruin you.”

You want to close your eyes, to give into the feeling—but you can’t. Not when he’s making you watch like this. Not when he’s so fucking good at this.

You whimper under his grip, trembling, thighs slick and clenched. Your body’s aching for release, every nerve ending on fire. But Joel? He’s calm. Cruel, even.

“You think you deserve to come?” he mutters, voice thick with amusement. “After all that?”

Your hips twitch, chasing any friction you can get.

A slow, dangerous grin spreads across his face. “Then you gotta earn it.”

You blink up at him, breath caught. “What?”

Joel leans in, mouth barely brushing the inside of your thigh. “You heard me,” he says, warm breath ghosting over your skin. “You don’t get to act like that and expect me to just hand it over.”

You’re squirming now. Desperate. Embarrassingly wet.

“Say it,” he says. “You gotta beg for it.”

Your jaw tightens. You try to hold back at first. But then he leans in and presses a single kiss against your skin, hot and open-mouthed, landing too low to satisfy and too perfect to ignore.

And you break.

“…Please,” you whisper.

“That ain’t beggin’, baby. That’s whining.” He palms your thighs, pushing them apart until you’re spread wide for him. “Try again.”

You whimper, cheeks burning with humiliation, but it doesn’t stop you. You can’t think about anything else. Not the way you're trembling. Not how desperate you sound. Just his mouth, his hands, and the unbearable promise of relief that’s almost close enough to touch.

“Please, Joel. Please eat me out. I need it—I need your mouth, I’ll do anything—”

“Anything?” he smirks, leaning in, lips brushing your inner thigh. “You don’t even know what that means.”

But he doesn’t make you wait any longer.

He licks you slowly at first, long, flat strokes that make your back arch. Then he seals his mouth around your clit, tongue flicking just enough to tease.

A moan slips out, loud and broken, as your hand flies to his hair. But he growls and knocks it away, firm and unbothered, like he’s not finished with you yet.

“Don’t fucking touch,” he mutters. “You come when I say you can.”

And then he dives in.

It’s overwhelming. Wet, hot, messy in a way that makes your toes curl. His tongue moves with purpose, fucking into you like he’s starving for it, like he needs to prove something. Two fingers press in deep, curling just right, grinding against that spot that makes your legs shake. His mouth stays locked on your clit, sucking hard enough to make your vision blur.

Your entire body tenses. The release builds fast, tight, pulsing at the edge—but it won’t break. He’s holding you there. Keeping you on the brink. Doing it on purpose.

“Joel—please—” you sob. “I’m trying—I can’t—please—”

He doesn’t let up. Doesn’t soften.

“You can,” he mutters, voice thick against you. “You want it? Say you fuckin’ deserve it.”

Your thighs are shaking. Everything’s clenching. You’re unraveling.

“I deserve it,” you choke out. “I—I need it, please, I need to come—please—”

Joel groans low against your cunt. You feel it ripple through you—rough, pleased, dark.

“Yeah,” he mutters, breath hot. “That’s more like it.”

And then—he gives it to you.

His mouth locks onto your clit, tongue working fast, merciless. His fingers grind into you deep, relentless, curling like they know exactly where to break you.

The pressure climbs quickly, sharp and all-consuming, until it makes your head spin. Every sound fills your ears—the slick pull of his tongue, the ragged edge of his breathing, the low hum of focus in his throat. It’s all too much, and somehow still not enough.

“You wanna come?” he growls. “Then fuckin’ take it.”

You do. It hits hard.

The orgasm tears through you, sharp and blinding, your body jerking with the force of it. Your thighs clamp around his head, your spine arches, and you swear you scream his name, though it barely sounds like a word. He holds you there, tongue unrelenting, working you through every wave without giving you a second to breathe.

When you finally go still, wrecked and soaking, Joel pulls back. His lips are wet. His eyes are heavy.

He doesn’t try to soothe you. He doesn’t speak softly or let you come down gently.

He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and says, calm and clear, “Get on your hands and knees.”

The words barely register. Your mind is still ringing. Your legs are shaking. But then his hand lands on your hip, not rough, not gentle, just firm. And he flips you over like it’s nothing. Like he already knows you’ll do exactly what he says.

“Hands and knees,” he repeats. “Face the mirror.”

You obey. You can’t do anything else. You crawl forward, dragging yourself up until you’re kneeling on all fours, arms braced against the headboard, your reflection staring back at you—flushed, glassy-eyed, lips parted.

Joel settles behind you, his presence a sudden rush of heat against your back. You feel him next. The thick weight of his cock drags through your folds, slow and deliberate, teasing your entrance with every pass.

He doesn’t push in right away. Just grinds against your slit, slow and heavy, like he has all the time in the world.

“You feel that?” he mutters, dragging the tip over your clit. “That’s what you wanted, huh?”

You nod frantically, pushing back against him—but he grips your hips, holding you still.

“Nuh-uh,” he says. “You don’t get to rush now. You’re gonna feel every fuckin’ inch.”

Then comes the pressure.

Just the tip, nudging at your entrance, pressing in with slow, careful force. It isn’t enough. Not yet. The stretch teases, shallow and incomplete, leaving your body straining for more.

“Say it,” he grunts. “You gotta tell me how much you need it”

You swallow hard, eyes locked on the mirror. You see it—the way your mouth falls open, the tremble in your arms, the raw anticipation in your stare.

“Please,” you whisper. “Please, Joel. I need it—I need you inside me. I can’t—fuck—I need it.”

He pushes in slowly, stretching you already. He doesn’t move. Just stays there, buried shallow, like he wants you to feel how big he is — how much more he’s holding back.

You gasp, hands scrabbling at the headboard. He’s hot, thick, already stretching you wide.

“That all you got?” he mutters, leaning forward. His chest brushes your back, breath hot against your neck. “You’re gonna beg for every inch, and I’m gonna take my time giving it to you.”

“Please,” you whimper. “More—please, fuck, I want all of it—”

Another inch.

Your jaw drops.

He groans low, voice right in your ear. “Tight fuckin’ pussy. So desperate to be full.”

He drags it out, inch by inch, shallow thrusts that barely go deeper, just enough to make you crazy. You’re panting. Shaking. Dripping.

“You wanted to play games?” he growls. “This what you wanted? To make me lose my fuckin’ mind?”

And then—finally—he bottoms out. Deep and brutal, burying himself all the way. You cry out, the stretch overwhelming.

“Fuck—so deep—” you choke out.

“That’s right,” Joel grits. “Take it.”

Your eyes flutter closed from the sensation, but the second they do, he stops moving.

“Eyes. On. The mirror.”

You blink fast, heart hammering, and force yourself to look up again. To see your own wrecked face. The flushed skin, the fucked-out mouth, the way your body’s split open around him.

Joel pulls out slowly, nearly all the way, and slams back in.

You scream.

“That’s it,” he growls. “You look at what you fuckin’ did. Every time you glance away—I stop.”

He pulls out again, painfully slow, letting you feel the absence, the ache. You keep your eyes locked on the mirror like your life depends on it.

“Good,” he mutters, dragging the head of his cock over your soaked entrance, teasing.

Then he starts to move.

Not fast. Not punishing. Just deep—grinding in inch by inch, each thrust deliberate, each stroke angled to make your body sing. The pressure builds again, slow and relentless, curling up your spine like heat from a flame.

Your arms shake from the effort of holding yourself up. Your knees slip against the sheets. Still, you can’t look away. The mirror keeps you locked in place, your eyes fixed on the way his hips move against yours, on the way your body takes him in so easily. Open. Desperate. Soaked.

He leans in, chest heavy against your back, voice rough in your ear.

“Feels different when you have to watch, huh?”

You whimper.

“Look at how wet you are,” he snarls. “Messy fuckin’ girl. This what you wanted? To get split open like this?”

You nod frantically, moaning as his pace finally picks up—each thrust harder, meaner.

Your thighs shake.

Your moans get louder.

“Gonna come again?” he pants, biting down just behind your ear. “You better ask real nice this time.”

You don’t trust your voice.

You can barely form a thought, let alone a sentence, through the haze crawling up your spine. Your whole body feels wired and wild, trembling under the weight of him. Every inch of him stretches you to the brink, every thrust a shock to your system.

It’s not just the way he moves inside you that undoes you. It’s the way he makes you look at it. Makes you see every inch of it.

The mirror catches every detail. Skin glowing with sweat, mouth slack, pupils blown wide. Your body moves without thought, lost to rhythm and heat, and the expression on your face makes it impossible to pretend this is anything but need.

You should feel shame. Maybe you do.

But God, it’s hot.

Your eyes lift to his in the mirror, drawn to the way he watches you. Dark, steady, completely focused. His hand stays firm on your hip, possessive and unmoving, like he knows exactly what’s his. Maybe he does.

You can’t keep it in any longer.

"I… I wanna come," you whisper, voice catching. "Please, Joel. I need it."

He doesn’t answer right away. Just grits out, "Yeah? Then tell me why."

You close your eyes for a moment, trying to breathe, trying to think.

And then he stops. Still buried deep, but motionless. Holding you there. Waiting.

“No,” you gasp. “No, no, I’m sorry—” Your eyes snap open. Lock on the mirror. “I’m watching—I’m watching, I swear—”

He waits. Still inside you. Still in control.

And you realize this is what he wants. Not just your body, but your surrender. The whole of you.

So you give it.

“Please let me come,” you whisper, voice wrecked. “Because I’m yours. Because no one else—no one else can do this to me. I want you, I need you—I need you to let me come.”

Joel’s hand comes up to your throat. Not squeezing, just resting there, heavy and sure. His mouth curves at the corner, equal parts approval and warning.

"That’s more like it."

He draws back slightly, just enough to drive forward again with force that knocks the breath from your lungs. His rhythm shifts—harder, faster, relentless. The bed groans beneath you. Your vision starts to blur. And in the mirror, your reflection begins to break apart, piece by piece.

"You don’t come until I say so," he growls, breath ragged. "And when you do, you remember who gave it to you."

You're close. Too close.

Your body’s screaming. Your brain’s melting.

Your vision goes white.

It doesn’t build slowly. There’s nothing gentle about it. Release crashes through you all at once, explosive and overwhelming, like something tearing loose deep in your core. Your body goes rigid, then shakes, then gives out completely.

The sound that leaves your mouth is raw and unfiltered. Loud. Desperate. Barely even a word. It’s too much and somehow not enough, and the pleasure is so sharp it robs you of breath.

Joel doesn’t stop.

He fucks you through it, one hand on your hip, the other still braced around your throat, keeping you exactly where he wants you as your orgasm tears through you. Your mouth drops open. Your nails dig into the headboard just to keep from floating away.

He watches the whole thing in the mirror.

“Look at you,” he growls, breath ragged. “So fuckin’ pretty when you come for me.”

You collapse forward, gasping, arms trembling from the effort of holding yourself up. Every nerve in your body is still sparking. Still twitching.

But Joel’s not done.

He slides out, and the emptiness hits you hard. A sob catches in your throat, raw and involuntary. Your body clenches around nothing, still aching, still desperate for more.

His voice cuts through the haze.

"Turn around," he says, low and steady. "I’m not finished with you."

You don’t hesitate.

You don’t resist when he flips you onto your back. His grip is firm, unyielding, moving you like you weigh nothing at all. The sheets burn against your skin, and your chest rises too quickly, breath catching in your throat.

Joel moves between your legs, eyes locked on you with something wild and hungry in his expression. He wraps a hand around his cock, still slick and swollen, stroking once, twice before lining himself up again.

“You gonna stay with me this time?” he mutters. “Or you gonna fall apart again?”

You don’t even have time to answer.

Because then he’s inside again. Deep. All at once.

And this time, it’s for him.

He doesn’t slow down. Doesn’t speak. Just drives into you with a force that borders on desperate, like he’s trying to bury something deeper than just his cock.

You can’t breathe. Can’t think. Your body’s a live wire, strung tight and sparking with every thrust. He’s not just fucking you—he’s claiming you. Dragging every sound, every tremble, every filthy reaction out of you like it’s his right.

“You feel that?” he mutters, voice rough in your ear. “That’s me. Inside you. Where I belong.”

Your breath hitches. That heat coils low in your stomach again, impossible and reckless.

“I could stay here,” he rasps. “Just like this. Fill you up every fuckin’ night until you’re ruined for anyone else.”

You whimper. He grabs your hips tighter, pace brutal.

“Bet you’d let me, too.”

His words unravel you. Not because they’re dirty—but because they don’t sound like dirty talk. They sound like promises. Like threats. Like he’s not going to let you go.

And you don’t know what that does to you—only that your whole body clenches around him in response.

Joel groans—louder this time, wrecked—and his rhythm starts to falter. Rougher. Needier. He’s right there.

“Say you want it,” he grits. “Say you want me to come inside.”

You choke on a breath. “I want it—I want you—”

His hands tighten like a vice. One hooks around your waist, the other tangles in your hair, pulling your head back as he fucks up into you, savage and possessive.

“You’re gonna take it,” he growls. “Gonna let me fill you up.”

And then—he breaks.

He slams in one final time, cock pulsing, spilling hot inside you with a sound that’s more like a growl than a moan. His body shakes, muscles locked, sweat dripping down his back.

You collapse forward, boneless and dazed.

Joel stays there, chest to your back, his breath heavy and uneven.

But it doesn’t feel finished.

Because after a long moment, he leans in, mouth against your ear, and says—

“You’ll think about this tomorrow. In the shower. In your bed. Every time you try to forget.”

He pauses. Breathes deep.

“And it still won’t be enough.”

-ˋˏ ༻❁༺ ˎˊ-

You’re on your side now, face buried in the pillow, skin flushed and damp. Your body twitches with the last of it, nerves raw and oversensitive.

Joel hasn’t moved much. Just enough to slip out slowly, deliberately, like he wants you to feel it later. Like that’s part of the point.

You half expect him to say something. A joke. A warning. Maybe even a sneer.

But he stays quiet.

Instead, he reaches for the blanket and pulls it up over your spine. Not careful, not soft. Just efficient. Like it’s a reflex. Like leaving you uncovered would be too dangerous.

The bed shifts beside you.

His hand lands on the back of your thigh, heavy and warm, his thumb dragging once across your skin. It’s not intentional. Not careful. But it catches in your throat anyway.

“You okay?” he asks, voice rough with gravel and breath.

You nod against the pillow. Your mouth’s too dry to answer out loud.

He makes a small sound, barely more than a breath, and leans back. For a moment, you think he’s going to leave.

But the mattress moves again. He lies down beside you, shoulder brushing yours, one arm tucked behind his head.

He doesn’t hold you. Doesn’t reach for more.

He just stays.

You keep your eyes closed. Your pulse is still loud in your ears. You don’t know what this is, or what comes next.

But for now, it’s enough.

[rin-may-1103]

Delilah's Language (part four)

Previous | Master Post | Next (to be written)

The nice female scientist (whose name Danny can't remember) turned and started leading them through the crowd. Dr. Trynul huffed but stuck close, probably to try and find a way to discredit Danny's ability. (The two brothers followed but stayed silent, just watching with, for some reason, confusion AND excitement.)

Damian turned and looked up (not by much, mind you) at Danny, curiosity oozing off him in purple streaks. "You said they used their whole bodies, could you clarify?"

Danny hummed, tilting his head as he thought about how to, well, not dumb down the explanation, but make it more digestible. The kid was smart, but he didn't need a whole history lesson topped off with social science and cultural themes. That would just be a waste of time, especially during a birthday party.

"The gorilla language, specifically the purple-backed gorilla dialect I know, uses a mixture of gestures and sounds. Somewhere between, like, 75/25 and 85/15. The vocal aspect is used to emphasize." Danny began, nodding his head as he thought it out.

Damian frowned, but green fog floated around his head, showing that he was concentrating on what he was being told and not upset.

"So, a grunt after a gesture could mean it's a statement or fact. Like someone saying they ARE going to do something. A chirp after a gesture could mean a question, like COULD I do this? Unlike human languages, gorillas focus more on straightforward and simple communication. They don't really have any reason to stretch out what they want or need; they just need to make sure the other understands quickly and clearly."

"What, they don't talk about pretty flowers they saw?" Dr. Trynul cut in, rolling his eyes.

"They could," Danny hummed, ignoring the condescending aspect of the question, "they like talking to each other when they have nothing else to do, and they're smart and opininated creatures. they like pretty things, I'm sure they do talk about pretty flowers or leaves they saw."

"Sure, and I bet they also tell each other about how they keep their fur clean and what mud makes them look bad."

Damian was glaring at the man, obviously getting fed up with the interruption. Danny would usually just deal with the man and slowly drive him crazy to the point he leaves Danny alone, but Damian looked like he was ready to stab the guy. (Not like Danny would stop him if he did, but like, Danny should do something about it before that happens.)

Danny glanced at the woman leading them; she was too focused on her conversation with another scientist to be paying attention. which was good, because what Danny was about to do and say was true, but he still would prefer to gather more evidence for an air-tight case. Can't do that if other people wanted to look into it, legally.

"You know," Danny started, clasping his hands behind his back while keeping a straight face. "I wonder if your colleagues would like to know that you've been manipulating your research data."

Dr. Trynul whipped around and glared at him while Damian and his brothers slowed down in confusion and surprise. Danny kept walking.

"How dare you accuse me of such scandalous actions? I should report-" he started, quickly speeding up to match Danny's pace.

"Three papers, released to the public and scientific community. Published under a well-known science journal and written by the one and only Dr. Jake M. Trynul." Danny started, glancing at the large glass tank to the right, where a few otters swam by, gleefully splashing around and having fun.

No one but the four people walking with him was paying attention.

"The connection between environmental factors and animal behavior, Gorillas and the effect humans have on them, and finally, your newest paper, the effects of human and gorilla relationships," Danny listed, ticking them off on his hand.

"I might not be a scientist, Dr. Trynul," Danny smiled, stopping and turning to look at the man, "but I do know how to read data and do the math myself. You have blatantly manipulated scientific data gathered by yourself and your team and falsified finds all so you can trick others and, more specifically, your superiors into investing more money and resources into your research."

Tilting his head, Danny studied the man in front of him, who was flushed red in anger and clammy with nerves. Danny hadn't given any evidence that what he was saying was true yet, but the man still glanced around like someone was going to strip his license right then and there. (Which was evidence enough if you asked Danny, no one got that nervous over baseless claims.)

"You might happen to remember that I had been given the opportunity to help your team with researching and studying Dalilah and her family. An opportunity that allowed access to the team's whole process. Which meant I had access to the unedited and raw data that had been collected. Data, I might add, that I had been required to read through and help collect."

"i don't know how you've managed to do this with so many bright minds on your team, let alone get it past so many others, but i'd like to remind you Dr. Trynul, that if this did get out, with all the evidence I do have, mind you, you'd be in some serious trouble. Not only would your license be revoked but you'd face possible imprisonment. fraud, especially on a federal level, is taken very seriously."

The man gaped at him, his mouth opening and closing for a few seconds before he settled on growling at Danny, "You're lying, you don't have anything. This is libel! I should get you arrested for defamation of character!"

"Oh, bless your heart," Danny held a hand over his chest and batted his eyes, watching as the man grew even more furious. One of the brothers, Dick maybe, choked and started caughing.

"First of all," Danny started, holding up a finger, "libel is written defamation. Slander is oral defamation. Second of all, you can't get me arrested for defamation. You'd have to provide evidence that I had intended you or the public harm. And file the case in a state that deals with criminal libel. which I just said doesn't apply here."

"Third of all," Danny crossed his arms, lifting an eyebrow, "I've been collecting evidence for months now. The only reason you're not being interrogated by the authorities and your superiors is that I've been busy with other things. So, I suggest you pack your stuff, go home, and evaluate your life. because I'm definitely going to be submitting my evidence after today."

Well, not right away. Like he said earlier, Danny wanted to collect more evidence. Like, sure, what he had now would definitely get the man in trouble, but Danny wanted air-tight.

Turning away, Danny started walking in the direction their temporary guide had disappeared. Damian and his brothers took a moment but quickly started following.

"holy shit," Tim breathed, glancing back at the seething man. "Do you actually have the evidence, or were you making that up to scare him?"

"I actually have the evidence, but it's back home, so it'll take 'while before I can actually submit it." Danny admitted. now that that was taken care of, he could get back to what he was actually here for.

"Alright, 'nough about him. Y'all wanted to hear about Dalilah and the language." Danny clapped his hands, turning his head to look at the three. The two older brothers looked like they'd rather continue questioning him, but Damian practically lit up in yellow light, all confusion and glee (?) from before disappearing.

"You said they liked talking when they have nothing else to do, do they not typically like to converse?" Damian asked, an almost unnoticeable skip now in his step.

"That's the thing, they talk all the time. They use a more elaborate and obviouse dialect when bored and a more straightforward and instinctual one when busy. It's fascinating." Danny smiled, shoving his hands into his pockets.

"Oh, there you guys are!" their temporary guide cut in, "I thought I lost you guys. Come on, Delilah is just up ahead. She's going to be so excited to see you, Danny."

Danny smiled, picking up his pace when Damian (not rushed, because the kid seemed way too formal to do something as 'childish' as running) caught up to her side.

Glancing back, the two brothers were nowhere in sight.

Next (to be written)

[revolutionsingingintherainnn]

case dismissed ⋆✴︎˚｡⋆

Summary: sometimes, men don't take y/n seriously in their world. y/n doesn't like to play the mafia card often, but what use is a mafia husband if not for this?

𝜗𝜚⋆₊˚ ln x reader ⋆˙⟡

𝜗𝜚⋆₊˚ mafia au ⋆˙⟡

masterlist ☾☼

the courtroom buzzed with tension, as y/n y/l/n, highly skilled and known for her quick retorts, faced the jury. she was in an all-out war with a condescending christian who seemed to enjoy hurling his sexist remarks about her during the proceedings.

“i'm sure the jury is smart enough to decipher emotional manipulation by ms. y/l/n,” christian spat, itching with his overly expensive tie. “come on, don’t they teach women in college about emotional manipulation these days? because, that's exactly what's happening here!”

a shift of anxious whispers traveled across the court, but y/n simply raised an eyebrow and continued her points. she had grown to expect patronizing men like christian, and all dismissive of her just for being a woman. she had suffered much worse in this world, yet somehow, she always came out victorious.

as the suit dragged on, christian's quotes got more and more frequent, and too intrusive. he gave her directions about how to dress, what to say, and even what to do. while y/n was calm, she was also trying to put the flames of rage out. she certainly was not going to let this man’s crude sexism prevail.

the case revolved around a complex corporate fraud scheme, where christian's client, a powerful conglomerate, was accused of swindling millions from unsuspecting investors. y/n, representing the plaintiffs, had meticulously built her case, exposing a trail of deceit and manipulation that led directly to christian's client.

christian, however, resorted to personal attacks, hoping to distract the jury from the overwhelming evidence against his client. he questioned y/n's competence, suggesting that her success was due to her "feminine charm" rather than her legal acumen.

"i'm surprised ms. y/l/n even understands the intricacies of this financial matter," christian scoffed, "perhaps she should stick to cases that are more... emotionally driven."

y/n gritted her teeth, but refused to rise to the bait. she knew that christian was trying to provoke her, to make her lose her composure. but she was determined to remain professional, to let her legal skills speak for themselves.

the trial dragged on, with christian's sexist remarks becoming more and more unbearable. y/n endured it all, focusing on her arguments, presenting her evidence with unwavering confidence. she was determined to win this case, not only for her clients but also for all the women who had been underestimated and belittled by men like christian.

finally, the moment came when christian made a particularly nasty comment about her "emotional instability," suggesting that her arguments were based on feelings rather than facts. y/n had had enough. she reached into her purse, pulled out her ID, and walked over to christian, her eyes blazing.

"can you read out my name, please?" she asked, her voice dangerously soft.

christian smirked, thinking he had won. "sure, whatever," he said, taking the id from her hand. he glanced at it, and his eyes widened in shock. His face paled, and he started to stammer.

"y/n y/l/n- y/l/n norris?" he stuttered, his voice barely a whisper. "but... but that's..."

"yes," y/n interrupted, her voice now ringing with authority. "it's also the last name of lando norris, the most influential, not to mention dangerous, man in the city. my husband."

the buzz between the people in the courtroom, was subtle yet frightening. christian looked like a corpse and was one more second away from truly fainting. what he did not know was that wife of the mob boss he was insulting repeatedly was in fact married.

“apologies, mrs. norris,” christian softly murmured, trembling. “i really did not know.”

“y/l/n-norris. and, that’s correct. you did not,” y/n cut off. “you were so preoccupied in being a sexist pig that you could not notice anything else.”

turning to the judge, she continued in the same cool and controlled tone, “your honour, this case is as clear cut as they come, there is no additional information that i would like to provide.”

in silence the judge seemed to admire her calmness and how she handled that unexpected turn of events. “very well,” he said, looking at her. “the case is dismissed.”

y/n y/l/n-norris could not help herself smiling after the case had ended, she was not only able to win the case, but educate christian on respecting women. however, she had not quite finished yet. she still had her husband waiting for her with a gleeful glimmer in his gaze.

that evening, christian was bound to a chair in a dark, soundproofed room. he was frightened, realizing that he was in the hands of lando norris, a man not particularly famous for his mercy.

the door slowly opened, and lando entered, accompanied by y/n. christian's eyes went wide with fear as he beheld the mob boss come towards him, a sadistic grin spreading across his face.

"look who's back," lando said, his tone dripping with sarcasm. "about time. death has been waiting for you."

y/n snorted, "babe, that was a terrible line,"

lando groaned, "i knew i shouldn't have used this one! george said it would sound cool!"

"clearly, george was wrong!"

christian began to plead for his life, but lando, turning his attention back on the man who was tied up, just laughed and shook his head. "you should have thought of that before you chose to disrespect my wife," he said. "now, you're going to pay the price."

y/n observed her husband handle christian, feeling a sense of contentment wash over her. she knew that lando would handle things and that she didn't need to worry about christian ever causing her trouble again.

as she left the room, she couldn't help but feel a burst of pride in her husband. he was a dangerous man, but he was also intensely protective and loyal to her. she knew that she was in safe hands with him, and she wouldn't have it any other way.

⋅˚₊‧ 𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅

did i hate this? absolutely. did i still write it? clearly. will i regret it? no, i've already forgotten about it. dee, this is for you. anyways, i hope you like this! this is my prompt list, so y'all can select a number, give me a driver and i will write it as soon as possible! i also have a google form for a taglist if anyone's interested! you can sent in your requests here :)

taglist: @maketheshadowsfearyou ; @anamiad00msday ; @imlonelydontsendhelp ; @peterholland04 ; @justaf1girl ; @greantii ; @nocturnalherb16 ; @phobiccneel ; @winkev1 ; @alexxavicry ; @hiireadstuff ; @opastries81

i'd love your support! https://ko-fi.com/kavi2305

[anonymous-dentist]

Maybe there would be less conflict on the server if there wasn’t a faction whose entire life hangs on causing chaos and clip farming.

The admins said it themselves weeks ago- Tango even said it to Pangi directly on stream, the creative kills are meant to be clips. That’s why pvp doesn’t count even though there can be some REALLY creative pvp plays, and even though you can get some really popular clips out of it (see: Pangi killing Tubbo.) It’s also why it’s now against the rules for anyone to give their lives for Red Team like Foolish did, that isn’t ‘exciting’ enough

It’s the same logic that Purgatory was run under: everything had to have the capacity to go viral. Former admins said that the teams were split the way they were to create the most conflict possible, and that seems like what’s going on with the Realm.

A lot of people have started complaining about how much chaos and violence there is on the Realm these days, and they’re also following the Purgatory Way and blaming everything on one specific group of people (Red and Green Teams) rather than acknowledging the flawed server system as a whole.

If Red Team doesn’t get an ‘exciting’ kill, they all die. This is inherently flawed because it forces people into specific actions while ignoring the purpose of the server: personal choice and freedom. The server wasn’t meant for lore! Tubbo said as much before day one, but this was immediately changed as soon as the Red Team was introduced. Now, people joining the server are forced into the Red Team and told they have to kill. Sure, they can not- like Sausage and uh. The majority of Red Team, who haven’t really logged on past day one- but they’re still bullied and attacked by the other characters for the simple crime of being on Red Team. Unlike the other factions, Red Team never got a choice. They aren’t allowed to change teams, and nobody from another team can join their team (except Jack Manifold ig.) They’re all forced into the role of villains with no choice to join, say, Blue or Yellow.

All this has done is created the conflict that people are complaining about. Nobody on Green can show where they live because it’ll be trapped by Ros or Aimsey. Pangi and Pili can’t sit on a roof and talk without being condescended to and accused of wrongdoing. Foolish can’t talk to Pili without being looked down upon by his kingdom.

And then the players who wanted a low-stakes casual server can’t join anymore because everything ties back to ‘Us vs Them’. Slimecicle dipped on day one, probably because he’s done wkth MCRP. How many players stopped logging in once there started being lore and conflict essentially forced upon them by the server’s very rules?

Every time someone on the server has come up with an alternative to the violence and chaos, such as getting people who don’t join to voluntarily get killed by Red Team, it’s shut down by the admins. Meanwhile, there appears to be favoritism towards the server’s ’good guys’, like Ros’ and Tubbo’s protection butterflies or rule changes that only seem to benefit them. While some of those rule changes are because members of Red or Green find out ‘loopholes’, it’s also kind of crazy how every rule change has benefited Yellow and Blue and hurt Green and Red.

Is this favoritism purposeful? Almost absolutely not, but it is convenient for causing conflict. Tensions rise as a result of all these things combined, and it’s all manufactured and really just not fun to watch anymore. Yellow is sick of being ‘targeted’, Blue is sick of Green and Red existing, and Red is sick of having to kill. (Green is just kind of vibing tbh, they’re chaotic and violent even without the killing rule.)

Even if the factions event ends soon, which I hope it does for the sake of the server, the fandom won’t be any less toxic. The conflict will continue in some way because this is what the server has built up as its base for content: conflict. None of it is natural, it’s all manufactured, and it’s all extremely Not Fun.

So don’t get angry at Red for killing and trapping, that’s all they were created to do. And that will never change.

[unsolicited-opinions]

You people and your obsession with monotheistic religions is what is holding us back as a species

Let's try to entertain this criticism as though it has validity.

"You people"

Let us assume that Anon means Jews.

"Obsessed with monotheistic religions"

~45% of Israelis are secular.

~30% of US Jews are secular.

Both groups still identify as Jews because they are, even if they don't observe any form of Judaism, the traditional religion of the people of Judea.

"holding us back as a species"

The accusation that “Jews are holding us back as a species” is a modern repackaging of longstanding antisemitic tropes that have historically framed Jews as impediments to progress, civilization, or moral order. This accusation came from, among others, Adolf Hitler, Henry Ford, and David Duke.

I suspect Anon incorrectly believes that the Jewish claim to Judea is based on a religious belief. It is not. Jews...are from Judea. This is why they're called Jews. The vast majority of Jews are Zionists not for religious reasons, but because they believe that they should have the right of self determination in their indigenous homeland.

While Christianity and Islam each preach that theirs is the only way to know, be loved by, or join with the divine, Jews do not share this attitude.

The religious position of Judaism towards other religions is that if they're following the Noahide laws, they're fine...and that people of other faiths are loved by God. At no time have Jews emulated the Christians and Muslims in demanding that others convert to their faith. On the contrary, Jews are forbidden to prostelytize or seek converts.

Jews have enjoyed exceptionally positive relationships with religions which do not seek to convert, wipe out, or replace Jews. Judaism is innately ecumenical in a way that the two "Abrahamic religions" which were based on parts of Judaism...are not.

But Monotheism, Anon, isn't limited to these three faiths. Other monotheistic religions include:

Zoroastrianism

Sikhism

Bábism

Baháʼí Faith

Tenrikyo

Some Hindu traditions

Yazidism

Druzism

You really think it makes sense to lump all of these together? Have you studied the theology or history of any of them? (Of course you haven't.)

I'm an atheist.

I agree with Christopher Hitchens that the net result of religion is negative for humanity.

I also agree with Hitchens that some religions are far more dangerous than others. Hitchens knew that in order to criticize religion, one needs to study and understand religions...and appreciate their enormous diversity.

Hitchens was close friends with all kinds of religious people. It is entirely possible to be an atheist without being an asshole to people of faith.

Don't take my word for it, Anon. Listen to some of the greatest atheists of the 20th and 21st centuries:

Be forthright when religion intrudes into public life, but always be polite to individuals.

- Richard Dawkins

We must find ways of criticizing beliefs without alienating people who hold them

- Sam Harris

Being intellectually honest doesn’t require being emotionally hostile

- Sam Harris

Attack the idea, not the person.

- Christopher Hitchens

Don’t condescend, don’t misrepresent—but don’t be silent either.

- Daniel Dennett

For small creatures such as we, the vastness is bearable only through love.

- Carl Sagan

I have a great deal of respect for the Jewish tradition of moral seriousness and intellectual inquiry.

-Christopher Hitchens

I am a partisan of the Jews, even if I am not one. Without them, there would be no concept of conscience.

- Christopher Hitchens

If I had to give up all other identities, I would probably keep Jewishness. Not the religion—I am an anti-theist—but the culture, the history, the resistance, the humor.

-Christopher Hitchens

The Jewish emphasis on education and argument is something I deeply admire, even if I don’t share the theology

- Richard Dawkins

Judaism has had the virtue of being more self-critical and less dogmatic than many other faiths

- Sam Harris

My Jewish heritage taught me to cherish learning, to ask questions, and to be skeptical of easy answers. These are the same values that guide science.

- Carl Sagan

Jews have contributed vastly to the Enlightenment, science, and modernity—not in spite of Judaism, but through cultural values Judaism long upheld: learning, debate, and moral responsibility.

- Steven Pinker

Anon hasn't read any of these thinkers. Anon is an edgy young atheist who believes that his atheisim justifies behaving like an asshole towards strangers in general...and Jews in particular.

And none of the atheists above share his views.

I hope he'll read more and grow a bit.

If you want reading suggestions, Anon, to help you learn enough about relgiions to criticize them intelligently, my Asks are open.

[tokyo-debunker-idk]

Crushed | 03

Summary: He's tried to convince Leo that you're a cool person, to which the former just scoffs and accuses Sho of having a crush. Honestly, the reaction is obnoxious – people of the opposite sex are perfectly able to have platonic friendships. Just because Sho's taken to bringing an extra lunch for you on training days so you can eat together after, and he enjoys spending time with you, and you're pretty and smell good even after an hour of sparring, doesn't mean he has a crush.

Pairing: Haizono Sho x Reader x Kurosagi Leo

Genre: Humor, romantic comedy, slowish burn, no real plot, Leo bullying

18+, minors DNI

~~~~~

"Besides, what are a few nobodies compared to the shit you've been dealing with anyway? You can handle it."

You finally realize what's been bothering you since you confronted Leo at the Vagastrom dorms (outside of the usual annoyance of Leo's general existence).

His response, despite his condescending tone… had been worded suspiciously like a compliment. Which, since it's Leo, means it probably wasn't.

"YoU cAn hAndLe iT," you mutter quietly to yourself, imitating the TikTok asshole's haughty tone. "Fuck off."

It makes you even more annoyed about the stupid sympathy that flared up when Leo mentioned death threats. He doesn't deserve your consideration, but your empathetic ass doesn't care about logical little details like that.

Sure, you've seen horrible comments and exchanges online in fan wars, but it's always been as a spectator. Receiving such disturbing messages personally, ranging from unhinged fans who call you ugly (whatever) to those that wish vile things upon you (less whatever) to others that send inappropriate pictures you wish you could unsee (your eyes, your poor non-quite-virgin eyes)… it's affected you much more than you would have expected.

For you it's mostly a weird blip in your life, and you can just deactivate an account you rarely used in the first place. Since you're stuck at Darkwick, it's not like your social life in the "real" world is exactly popping off, anyway. Despite logically knowing that nothing will happen to you, that the vitriol is being spewed by complete strangers who don't know you at all, you still feel shaken at the reminder that regular humans can be even worse than many of the anomalies you've experienced.

Even the sparse comments about you being cute together (which are repulsive in their own way, for obvious reasons) feel weird and invasive, as if you're their friend. It's like they think they know you, and that their opinion matters enough for you to hear it.

Leo deals with all of that constantly? Sure, he basically signed up for it and is apparently completely fine, but it still just… doesn't feel right.

Yeah, you dislike him, but he's not exactly evil. He's a douche who cares more about himself than anyone else, which is not a rare trait in the world. He just also happens to have brains and guts, without the morals that would keep him from using those around him.

So, a shitty guy, but not the absolute worst. At least, not evil enough for the insane hostility you received firsthand.

Then again, he's gotten those types of messages and was more than willing to put you in the line of fire. So maybe he is a little evil.

Why did he even post you to his TikTok as his girlfriend, anyway? For all his apparent dismissiveness of your capabilities, the guy is definitely way too vain to choose any random passerby, even if he later reveals it to be a joke. In its own fucked up little way, it's almost a compliment that he seems to think you're objectively attractive enough to be a believable partner to his audience.

Not that you're flattered.

Well… a small, petty part of you kind of is, because while Leo acts like a steaming pile of garbage, he's a steaming pile of garbage with taste.

Huh, then maybe he did actually mean what he said about you being able to handle it?

Nah, that can't be right.

Whatever. You have more important things to worry about than a toxic, twink-shaped gremlin. Like your new assignment with the Jabberwock ghouls. That should be your current number-one priority. You should probably go over the investigation notes right now, actually.

SHOulders: Hey Y/N, u free?

You're a strong independent woman who can prioritize important, life-altering tasks over silly crushes. You are, you can resist–

You: Yeah! What's up?

~~~~~

"So? What do you think of the sign?"

"It's amazing! It's even more impressive than it was in the photo."

Sho grins at your compliments, though he tries not to show just how pleased he is about your heartfelt praise.

"Didn't I say flattery'll get you nowhere?"

He's lying, of course. Flattery from you is always welcome, because he can tell you mean it. It's also why he's asked you to look at his menu and signboard before officializing the food truck – you'll give him your honest thoughts. Leo would have opinions on things that are trending, but Sho doesn't really want to rely on gimmicks. For all his irritation with the restrictions at Darkwick (and having to deal with his annoying ass brother), this food truck is something he's actually excited about.

Sho doesn't tend to take most things seriously… he's naturally intelligent and athletic, so he's never really had to try hard to get by. Not wanting anything badly means he'll never be disappointed if something doesn't pan out. Besides, Leo's the type of best friend to make fun of any endeavor or interest he doesn't deem worthy.

But you're different.

You work so hard every day to make up for the qualities you believe you lack, from struggling through workouts to staying up late to catch up on the classwork you miss due to being sent on missions. Maybe once he would have scoffed at your efforts, but instead, it gives him the courage to try something new.

It's safe to show you how much the food truck actually means to him. You're the one who constantly raves about his food, whose encouragement and support has helped his tiny idea grow into an actual dream. He trusts you.

"Do you have a date?"

Huh? A date for what? Why do you want to know about his love life? Or is this your way of asking him to –

You hand back the menu you were looking at, and Sho realizes you mean for his food truck opening.

Right. Thank goodness, because you guys have a good friendship that does not need to be complicated by anything like that.

"By next week, I guess? So long as no one gets in my way."

"I'm really looking forward to it!"

Yeah, the sensation in his chest is most definitely relief, not disappointment.

~~~~~

"What are you doing here?"

"Hello to you too, Kurokawa," you reply drily as you put down your heavy bag, unsurprised by Leo's unwelcoming greeting. He's lounging on a couch in the common area, and you suppress an internal sigh.

It's not surprising to run into him at the Vagastrom dorm, but you had hoped he was out turning princes into frogs, forcing poor parents to exchange their firstborn for vegetables, or whatever it is he does for fun.

"It's Kurosagi."

You ignore his correction, because you know it pisses him off.

You sometimes wonder why Sho bothers with Leo when you've never seen Leo do anything nice for his so-called best friend, but it's not your place to judge. You're mature enough to understand that there's a history there you're not aware of, and that you've only known them for a very short period of time.

"Maybe I'm here to see my darling influencer boyfriend," you say sarcastically, giving him the fakest smile you can manage as you plop down next to him. You know he doesn't like you, so it's another easy way to annoy him (if at your own expense). "How could I go a day without seeing that pretty face?"

You're mature enough to understand. That doesn't mean you're mature enough to not hate it. If you can't avoid Leo, you're going to do your best to be as annoying as possible when you do have to interact with him.

"Ugh, don't sit so close," Leo grumbles, despite not making a single move to move away like the lazy little princess he is. He does smell nice though, probably some trendy cologne that he uses to cover up the stench of his rotten personality. "Have you even showered today?"

Wow. You know you smell nice because you did, in fact, shower today. Right before coming here, to be exact, because despite Sho's knowledge of your sweaty form after training sessions, you want his memories to be of you fresh and perfumed.

There is really no need for Leo to be so fucking rude all the fucking time. Especially when you've done nothing to deserve it but apparently have the audacity to exist in his presence. If anything, you've been downright charitable in never bringing up "the incident" at the Pit. Though if you're being honest, it's also something you don't want to remember, because the knowledge that you willingly ground up against his dick – even if it was out of spite – is too embarrassing to think about.

Sure, he's pretty, but you have your standards.

Why are you even thinking about this right now? Clearly you have been spending way too much time either studying, doing odd jobs for the ghouls, and daydreaming about Sho if you're even thinking of Leo in any sexual-adjacent light. You don't even really want to think about him at all.

You know that being ignored is one of the things that bothers him most of all (an attention-seeking diva, truly), so you grab a textbook out of your bag and begin to read.

~~~~~

Leo knows he's an asshole.

He's perfectly fine with it. Sometimes, it even sparks joy.

Such as now, when you're scowling at him in a way that makes him want to antagonize you even further. You're always so nice and friendly to everyone that it's satisfying to be the one to elicit a different reaction out of you. It's a matter of pride that he's the only one that can make you lose your temper.

Besides, it's not his fault you look so cute when you're pissed off.

Leo freezes when he realizes what just crossed his mind, but before he can figure out exactly where that ridiculous thought came from, you're pulling a textbook out of your bag.

… Are you seriously about to study while sitting so close to Leo he can smell your flowery shampoo?

"Can I help you, Kurohagi?"

His eyebrow twitches, and he realizes he's been staring at you. And that you fucked up his last name, again.

"You're getting very comfortable, aren't you?" he replies in a scornfully, wondering why exactly you're even visiting when Leo's the only one here.

Unless… you came to see him. Maybe you're just playing it off as if you weren't, to save face. Why else would you even sit so close to him, anyway?

"I'm just waiting for Sho to get back, he said he'd be here soon," you reply with a shrug that annoys Leo for reasons he can't explain. Your answer makes far more sense, and yet that just pisses him off even more. So he does what he does best.

"It's cute how you're being such a good little gofer for Sho," he says mildly, pretending not to care one way or the other. "He's always been good at getting people to do things for him."

You stiffen, and uncertainty flits across your face before you straighten your expression. Though you're obviously trying to hide it, the way you shift away from him reveals that he hit a nerve.

It was exactly what he was going for, but the usual satisfaction feels hollow, as if the words have left a bitter aftertaste in his mouth. You don't snap back with your usual fire the way he expected. Instead you just look back at your book, and the sour feeling magnifies.

An oppressive silence blankets the two of you while unfamiliar pressure weighs down his chest, and Leo is almost relieved when the tell-tale sound of a rumbling engine signals Sho's arrival.

His friend's face brightens instantly when his eyes land on you, which irritates Leo in a way he can't explain. You smile back, though it's more subdued than usual.

"I brought the rest of the stuff from the diner," you call out, and the way Sho jogs to greet you seems to restore some of the sparkle in your eyes. It does not alleviate some of the heaviness Leo is feeling.

"Awesome, thanks," Sho replies with a grin. "You know you didn't have to, right?"

"Yeah, but I wanted to."

Barf. Are you guys fucking serious? It's nauseating, the way Sho is smiling at you like a lovesick puppy. Does he have no pride at all?

"Oh, Leo," Sho calls. Great, he's finally been noticed.

"What?" Leo replies a little petulantly, crossing his arms. Everything about this situation is pissing him off, and he doesn't even understand why.

"Stop pouting and help me out, I was able to pick up some liquor when I went on my grocery run."

"Ugh, fine," he grumbles, mollified by the promise of a night of drinking. It's sadly the closest they can get to clubbing when Darkwick watches their every move.

Leo stands to help grab some of Sho's bags and notices that you're hanging back with an uncertain look on your face. Are you stupid enough to actually take Leo's words to heart when it's obvious you have his best friend wrapped around your pretty little finger?

"Are you coming or not?" he asks testily, shoving a few bags in your direction. "We're not sharing if you don't help."

Your eyes widen at the implied invitation, and even Sho makes a sound of surprise.

"I… uh… yeah," you stammer, hurrying up from the couch to take the bag Leo is holding out. "Thanks?"

You still look and sound confused, but the smile you give him is genuine. It's the first time he's been on the receiving end of that particular expression of yours, and sunlight eases the uncomfortable feeling in his chest. It's similarly disconcerting, and Leo has no idea what to make of it.

"Whatever, just hurry up."

~~~~~

Prev | Masterlist | Next

[bugflies00]

cTommy is SO fucking persuasive he gets people he gets emotions. during the debates Wilbur comes across as condescending, frightened by and stuck in the past, and like hes advocating for violence and harsh control. He doesn't seem very. aware? of how to deal with the people in the debate. Quackity paints Wilbur as elitist and corrupt and Wilbur ends up playing right into it. Karl is very open to bribery and Wilbur doesn't notice. Tommy is trying to buttress his arguments and criticize Q and Wilbur shushes him only to do the exact same thing. He loses the support of his own fucking son. He pulls rank and starts shushing his opponents when he gets annoyed. He worries about even bringing Tommy because he thinks George will wipe the floor with him (for some fucking reason) while Quackity is trying to prep George for how overwhelming of a debater Tommy can be.

Meanwhile Tommy does things like:

-suggest that they encourage Fundy to run because he'll be inconsequential and shouldn't have attention focused to him instead of Quackity

-telling Wilbur to stop killing George and Quackity

-saying that they shouldn't interrupt during the debate, and saying that when George is up they just need to wait him out (which is a good strategy because George is good at arguing but doesn't have much substance to his actual points)

-identifying Bad and Karl as the people to try and bribe out of anyone in the court

-Bringing up the material and emotional losses of the War for Independence (the embassy, the discs, Eret) and George's part in it when debating him, which makes the walls and laws seem more sympathetic and reasonable while casting doubt on SWAG2020, while Wilbur only referred to "laws written in blood"

-immediately obfuscating when he's accused of bribery and then trying like five different strategies to defend himself and going with what sticks

-portraying George as impatient, violent, and petty after the first half of the debate, letting him talk before down talking him when he's finished which progressively irritates him which further benefits Tommy

-following George on an arguably irrelevant tangent about youtube titles, yes anding it, and guiding it back to how L'Manberg is innovative

They have very similar talking points, but Tommy seems a lot more fluid and like he's recognizing his opponent's strengths and weaknesses and changing how he acts accordingly where Wilbur acts more like those things are an issue to be bulldozed.

P.S. I forgot that Dream showed up mid debate to get in a shouting match over the originality of Minecraft Manhunt its so fucking funny. Man does not give a fuck about anything else happening

LITERALLY!!!! LITERALLY THIS IS WHAT I MEAN. also when he came up with the idea of letting everyone who votes for them pick 1 policy. he absolutely won them that election !!!

the thing about cwil is he gets sooooo in his head about this stuff that it completely shoots him in the foot. he’s so tripped up about people’s expectations of him and whether he should adhere to them that, like you said, he ends up playing into them. he cares about lmanberg in a really desperate way, and it makes him way too emotionally unstable to actually lead a debate in a productive way lmao. essentially he puts too much of himself into lmanberg and the election and he ends up being really clumsy and single minded.

whereas ctommy doesn’t!!! ctommy also cares about lmanberg obvious but his entire self identity isn’t on the line. he’s much more level headed, he knows how to play along with these people bc he Knows them, he knows how to subtly undermine them. he’s not obsessed with his own shortcomings like cwilbur is and he’s actually a great fucking debater

[darklinaforever]

All the posts being horrified at people shipping Edwin with the Cat King make me laugh.

The delirium of being alarmed because the Cat King would be an adult and Edwin a minor kills me with laughter.

Edwin is certainly a 16 year old ghost, but... it's all in his description. A ghost. And he's been a ghost for a long, long time.

Are you telling me that he hasn't had time to evolve in all these years, and especially since his traumatic stay in hell ?

A little logic please. Edwin does not remain at the same point as when he died, frozen forever. He’s a character with an arc and development. And then, you're not telling me that Edwin behaves like a typical immature teenager ?!

And the Cat King may be thousands of years old but he behaves very immature most of the time. In fact, you could even say like a teenage form. Objectively speaking, he does not appear morally very different from the other official adolescent characters in the show.

And then, this kind of consideration of age will always make me laugh, when we are essentially talking about two supernatural beings ! Conclusion : We don’t care about their age difference !

And let's not even talk about those who are angry with this bracelet story, while I still point out that it was literally a punishment for Edwin having performed an equivalent in terms of spell on one of his cats, with Edwin having himself been quite condescending about this / these animals about how they all look alike to him.

The bracelet is a consequence and punishment for Edwin's actions.

It's not for nothing that the Cat King tells Edwin exactly the line he told him about not seeing the evil in a little spell.

Then... accusing the Cat King of being a sexual and other abuser, as well as a potential rapist... Wtf ?

Already, it's forgotten that clearly, during the scene and all the others where the Cat King tried to seduce Edwin... Well our dear ghost seemed more than appreciative.

For those who don't understand, the Cat King is literally what allows Edwin to finally embrace his sexuality ! Without Cat King, probably no love confession to Charles !

And in fact, it's a good thing that Cat King was interested in Edwin and showed interest in him, tried to seduce him, etc. It's not negative in his purpose. Edwin is this guy who is quite stuck while the Cat King is very extroverted and helps to unblock our ghost.

It makes me laugh even more to see all these people screaming in defense of Edwin, his physical integrity, etc, while our ghost boy... well he clearly wouldn't have been against kissing the Cat King and maybe even more at the beginning.

Need to watch their scenes again properly... Edwin's body language doesn't show that he's uncomfortable.

Okay maybe he is, but in the sense that the Cat King reminds him of his lack of experience, but beyond that, very clearly, in general, around the Cat King, (except when he takes the appearance of Charles, obviously he feels uncomfortable in that moment) Edwin seems simply extremely attracted to the Cat King / receptive to his advances :

Same with all those people being mad that the Cat King forced Edwin to tell the truth.

I repeat... THIS IS SUPPOSED TO BE POSITIVE FOR EDWIN ! THIS ALLOWS HIM TO EVOLVE ON HIMSELF !

I'm not saying that the Cat King behaves morally (as for offering Edwin to sleep with him in exchange for his freedom before offering to count the cats, or forcing him by magic to reveal what he really thinks), not at all. He is clearly a form of antagonist / anti-hero, neither good nor bad, and finally rather neutral in the plots of the show.

But this character and actions essentially only serves the positive evolution of Edwin's character regarding everything related to sexuality, but not just that, also his emotional relationships with other men AKA Charles. Again, without the Cat King Edwin probably wouldn't have confessed his feelings to Charles. So the Cat King essentially allows Edwin to fully embrace who he is as an individual, his complete identity.

And it's nothing new that a morally questionable character with morally questionable actions has this kind of role in relation to the protagonist.

Seriously, the antagonist who allows the hero's sexual awakening, as well as its deepening on itself is as old as time. Even more so when this antagonist and hero share similar characteristics such as their loneliness.

Besides, it's not for nothing that the first real kiss that Edwin gives himself to someone is to the Cat King (especially after all this talk about kissing and Edwin finally understanding their appeals), even if it's on the cheek that still a kiss. A second kiss more precisely, which he gives on his own and which is much better than his first with the crow.

Crying foul about this makes me wonder what universe these people who are complaining live in as for the codes of fiction. Again, people who cannot see beyond the surface should not be allowed to open their mouths.

[antebunny]

jealousy, jealousy

Tim cannot stand the sight of Jason and Damian getting along. They are brothers, so it happens quite often. Damian sniffs and says something pithy, Jason chuckles and pats him like you would an angry little kitten. Damian, feathers ruffled, demands Jason remove his hand from Damian before Damian removes it from his body. Jason scruffs him even harder. Sometimes they slip into Arabic, which always mollifies Damian more than English.

“I don’t get what your problem is,” Steph says. 

She’s sprawled on her new purple English roll arm couch that Tim got her for her birthday. He got her a lot of things, actually, and then they got into a huge fight because Steph felt bought and condescended to and Tim felt hurt because he’d only wanted to do something nice for his best friend. God, you’re just like B, she’d accused, and wasn’t it just terrible that Tim would’ve taken that as a compliment if not for her tone?

In the end, she kept the couch, and Tim sometimes comes over and watches trashy TV with her until the neon horror of real life bleeds into LED pixels and A24 dreamscapes. He’s been doing that more and more ever since Red Hood. Ever since he couldn’t look at Dick Grayson, his so-called big brother, and feel like he’s being squeezed out. Steph hasn’t complained. Yet. 

“So the biggest asshole gets along with the tiniest brat. So what?”

“It would be easier if Damian wasn’t so…” Tim gestures with his bowl of popcorn. “Damian.”

It’s impossible to capture the sheer Damian-ness of Damian in a single a adjective. Tim had been excited to become an older brother. He thought he could do what Dick did for him. Tim failed to realize just how much he was not and could never be Dick Grayson. 

Steph snorts. “Well-said.”

“You say it better than,” Tim retorts. He stuffs a handful of popcorn in his mouth and pretends to pay attention to whatever is on Steph’s TV screen.

“He’s got a need to prove himself wrapped in a superiority complex,” Steph says promptly. 

“Emphasis on the superiority complex,” Tim mutters darkly. 

Really, he’s the last person that should be joking about this, though. Most of Damian’s insults are depressingly familiar to everyone else. He mocks Barbara for being disabled, spews a barrage of nonsensical slut-shaming insults at Steph which he clearly was taught but does not understand, and denigrates Jason for being a street kid before Bruce took him in. None of that is new to them. The unexpected part is that Damian also has a slew of insults for Tim’s parentage and background. Sometimes just his skills and contributions to the Wayne family and Gotham vigilante scene, his value as a person. So while everyone else shrugs their shoulders and ignores Damian’s comments, Tim bristles and bites back the urge to attack Damian back. He has never before experienced this blatant disregard and condescension towards Tim as a person, and he cannot stand it.

But he’s the only one. 

Bruce alone escapes Damian’s attacks and welcomes his new son with open arms. Alfred, Barbara and Dick are too good and too patient to do anything but calmly and lovingly try to teach Damian better. Steph can’t be bothered to care. And Jason, the only one whom Tim thought he could trust to dislike Damian, bonded with the brat while with the League of Assassins, and now takes his big brother duties very seriously.

Tim is alone. He feels like such a petty, immature, insecure crybaby whining about how Jason and Damian get alone, but goddammit he hates feeling alone. 

[lemonhemlock]

look. not to be too mean on main. the rightful heir thing. if you don't care about the intricacies of property law or legal writs and just want to focus on characterization and other aspects of storytelling, fine.

but it truly does look very goofy when you start "debating" this while lacking historical context and methodological tools. sometimes a constitutional crisis (that was already resolved in the 12th century and whose results you can always look up) can't just be settled by appealing to one's anachronistic opinion and accusing those who disagree of misogyny.

there's a difference between suggesting how things should be (i.e. prescriptive, i.e. women should never inherit the throne) and analysing how things were for a myriad of socio-political reasons.

also, trust me, the Dance being fictional is not the gotcha people think it is. it's plenty obvious. i'm sorry to say but the premise is so flimsy it would never have happened like that irl.

final idea: likewise, perhaps being condescending about people who do take the time to criticise the premise is veering a little bit towards anti-intellectualism. 'idc about succession laws ergo i'm more enlightened bc i've unlocked an edgelord-y way to enjoy fiction'. a medievalesque fantasy setting is going to attract commentators who are interested in medieval history or at least aspects of it. they may find copy-paste scenarios from real history and think it interesting to compare and contrast. it's not immediately equivalent to treating aegon and rhaenyra like your ballot choices next election, and, equally, they're not discussions without merit.

comparative analysis is a transferable skill! if someone doesn't want to partake, fine, but i think this attitude of turning one's nose at it is a tad coarse. there are many fans who take the time to write informative posts and contextualise this fictionalised universe and it's a shame to automatically write-off what is ultimately a rich tradition in internet asoiaf spaces

[foreignswaggersession]

there are definitely iwtv fans who love acting like they care about racism when it comes to fictional characters, but have no issue with being condescending towards actual black and south asian people in this fandom.

Btw making "brown man has mid dick" jokes to prop up lestat is also clownery and it's even more stupid how some people would choose to double down on it after hearing about why it's degrading and uncomfortable. like i couldn't believe the bullshit i was reading from some of these so called "fandom anti racists", but they're clearly not mature enough for this discussion.

sorry for taking so long to respond anon - i wanted to make the posts with screenshots first so i could show my work and not be accused of merely reaching to support my ship. i think most the condescension from these fans comes from their selective memory of the show as filtered through their long-held headcanons, and i wanted to respond by citing the show itself. the fans started claiming louis was never attracted to armand as plainly evident, when the show clearly says the exact opposite, repeatedly. i watched the "armand has mid dick" joke/theory develop in real time and snowball within the pro-louis section of the fandom. it got twisted up in the 'louis hates topping' + 'lestat's dick is uniquely amazing' + 'armand can't satisfy louis' takes, all of which i disagree with. i understand your discomfort anon, it's part of why i started posting in the fandom - 'louis only wants pink dick' also became a thing this season and it broke me (louis didn't get it up for jonah while eating rats for y'all to act like pink dick does anything for him but sure, believe what you want).

to give some credit, i think some of these fans you're talking about started making these 'jokes' in reaction to the overwhelming (and undeserved) sympathy towards armand that dominated the fandom at the time (probably still does tbh). it's fair to point out that armand is not just any brown man but is in fact an extremely manipulative abuser who threatened to kill louis, set him and his family up to get killed, killed his daughter/sister, lied to him about it for years, sadistically let him suffer after a suicide attempt he instigated, erased that memory and covered THAT up for years, and to also suggest that those acts negatively affected louis's attraction to him. and yeah, i too am tired of reading takes about how loving armand was (girl when?) and how louis wasn't nice enough to him 🙄. that said, armand is attractive as fuck in universe and in our reality, so it's weird to pretend louis would not be attracted to him, despite his off-putting nature (see season 1).

most importantly, louis's desire for armand is a key plot point essential to the breakdown of his and claudia's relationship. claudia didn't say "picked another one over me" and "you were lestat's, now you're armand's" out of ignorance - she understands louis better than anyone. it's wishful thinking to suggest that louis suffered in silence for claudia through eps 11 and 13 and only stayed with armand for 70+ years to protect claudia/punish lestat and no other reason. it would have been really great if louis kept his commitment to claudia, probably would have saved several lives...alas, tragedy.

like i keep saying, just say you don't see the chemistry in / can't support loumand, or prefer the chemistry / want to support loustat. but claiming that louis never fell in love with armand prior to claudia's murder - that just is not supported by the show's text.

just fyi, i think saintarmand has a great answer to a similar ask, so i will also refer you to her response here.

[fligniuz]

I'm the person who sent the 'paragraph' but I didn't sent this

https://www.tumblr.com/fligniuz/785744783980232704/oh-look-first-time-fligniuz-isnt-condescending?source=share

I just stand by my word that there's no difference between tracy and rj. They talked great things about luigi. They also enjoy the spotlight/attention.

my bad if i misunderstood you anon, i got a few other weird asks about tracy accusing her of wanting clout from luigi so i maybe read yours wrong💔but like. i’m gonna have to disagree with you😭

RJ straight up started a rumor about luigi not being able to have sex (and laughed on fox news while doing it, mind you) which contributed to many of the false narratives that mass media (specifically right leaning publications) spread about luigi in the weeks after his arrest. he made inflammatory and misleading comments about luigi’s personal life, which were clearly meant to stir the pot and conjure up more drama surrounding his name. one of luigi’s other roommates from hawaii made several comments on reddit clearing the record about RJ, and he mostly did not have nice things to say—he specifically made the point that luigi and RJ were not as close as RJ was making them out to be, and that much of what RJ had to say about luigi’s life was bullshit or at the very least exaggerated. tracy, in comparison, posted tiktoks with her pictures of luigi, even going out of her way to post text conversations between them in which they reminisce on old memories together. the pictures she shared were full of luigi smiling, hanging with friends, enjoying food, being a human. she’s made a habit of deleting her posts because news and media orgs kept stealing her photos, which understandably made her uncomfortable. she never once went to fox news to spread inflammatory rumors about luigi’s sex life, nor did she exaggerate her friendship and connection with luigi. she gracefully shared every memory she captured with her friend, which she did not have to do, so that the world could see luigi mangione as a man who was loved and cherished by the many people in his life and that he will continue to be that man.

i don’t know if i’m illustrating the differences well but their motivations just clearly are not the same and if you can’t pick up on that ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ there’s a huge difference between gossiping to fox news, an outlet known for taking bullshit and running with it, and sharing photos and videos to social media to help the public better understand the kind of person luigi was prior to all of this

[sophie-frm-mars]

What are your thoughts on the SWP? I want to get more involved in activism (climate, gender, you name it) but I don't know of any anarchist organisations local to me and the only group I'm aware of which has a real presence where I live is the SWP

The SWP is awful, I've heard a lot of people call it a cult.

There are several reasons to avoid the SWP, the first is the rape allegations scandal

If you don't know about "comrade delta", you can google it but basically in 2013 the SWP leadership basically covered up rape allegations by a 19 year old and another woman against their highest ranking organiser and then when the issue was forced after months or I think years of discourse and deflections they pretty spectacularly blew up, accusing the people who were outraged about it of "creeping feminism" and shit like this.

I think when something like this happens with an org, it's always going to harm the org from the outset, for which you can blame the person responsible for the harm directly, but then how the org responds is absolutely vital, and the SWP had basically one of the worst imaginable responses. Not just condescending, conspiratorial and arrogant but also openly reactionary, it just sucked so much shit. They had a long long time to deal with things responsibly through internal processes and enact any kind of protocol from full transformative justice accountability process through to like mega punitive maybe even involving the cops but what happened just showed they had absolutely no process in place for dealing with a situation like this and basically exposed the party as a hive of misogynist old boys club mentality

The second reason to avoid them is that I think they're out of touch in mutliple ways. First relates back to the above - after that all happened and hundreds of their members quit they probably should have disbanded. Plenty of their activists could be doing great work in orgs that are worthwhile and could have been for the past decade, probably even working together, without being constantly dragging the millstone of being in the SWP. But I also think their democratic centralist old school ML attitude is just very dogmatic in a way that doesn't interface with the world we actually live in today.

I was actually talking with someone who's in the RMT and Communist Party literally yesterday and he was saying the SWP puts out a lot of "fronts" - this is well known - to focus on specific issues while also trying to recruit more people into the party, and one the hand this is fine as long as any given org is actually doing the work to change things, but apparently the central committee just regularly decides "nah we're done" and they just order one of these front orgs to just shut up shop and stop all work

In circles I'm in the issue of working with SWP "fronts" has come up a few times and when it comes to orgs that are a bunch of SWP members focusing on one issue like I'm pretty sure Stand Up To Racism is an SWP thing and they organise the biggest antifash demos around, the line is always "it's good that they're pulling big numbers, just keep them at arm's length when you're working with them"

Sorry that this answer isn't providing you with more organising options, but I can't recommend working with the SWP itself in good conscience

[certainstarfishmiracle]

Stuck Together

Han Gyeong-su x female reader

|| word count- 3,333 | warnings- mentions of blood and zombies ||

yall this is my first fic in a while, so give me ideas and recommendations for my writing :)

Hyosan High School was a normal school, that is until a student got bitten by a viral hamster in the science lab. The girl bit another student and the virus quickly spread across the school. Now everyone’s trying to get away, but no one’s able to leave because of all the zombies.  You were in a little group that included Gyeong-su.

You and Gyeong-su have hated each other since joining this school. Not that either of you had any reason, but you just couldn’t stand each other. Y’all were in the broadcasting room when a zombie got stuck in the fire hose that y’all climbed down on. The boys started fighting it until it fell off. Gyeong-su’s nose started bleeding, and with that being one of the signs of being infected, you accuse him. He argues that he’s not, but he also had a scratch on his hand. Ms. Park, being the teacher, stopped the fight by telling Gyeong-su to go into quarantine for five minutes to make sure. Gyeong-su being the stubborn person he is, stated that he’ll stay in the room next door for an hour, just to prove his point. It had already been 30 minutes without him turning, which meant that he wasn’t a zombie. 

Ms. Park walked up to where you were sitting, she sighed before saying, “You said you’d apologize in thirty minutes, remember?” “You’re right, I’ll go in and make it right.” you replied. Ms. Park nodded as she walked away. She thought that forcing the two of you to confront each other may cause you to start getting along, or at least stop fighting. You opened and closed the door behind you. 

“Gyeong-su?” He was sitting on the couch, staring out the window. He didn’t want to turn to look at you. He grumbled out a snarky “What?” “I’m sorry for what I said earlier about the zombie thing but-” Gyeong-su rolled his eyes and cut you off mid-sentence. “I’m listening.” “Well I’ve just been feeling so scared about everything, and I’ve been really stressed from all this, and I guess I just took my stress out on you.” His glare turned to a more surprised look. “You… taking stress out on me?” He stayed quiet. He never expected you to be that stressed, let alone say sorry. “Yea… I guess all this is too much to handle but I am sorry I shouldn’t have taken it out on you.” He stayed quiet for another moment, still in disbelief about the current situation. “Yea, you’re right. It is a lot to handle.” He slowly stood up, walking towards you until he stopped. He was a few steps away from you, with his arms crossed over his chest. You let out a quiet gasp, with how close he was to you. “So….. Do you forgive me?” you ask hesitantly. Gyeong-su pretends to think, putting one of his hands up to his chin. He smirks, staring at you before letting out a small snicker. “Maybe. I still have 30 more minutes to decide.” He walks back over to the couch, not looking back.

You stand there awkwardly not knowing what to do. Gyeong-su looks over and makes a shooing movement. “You can go now, you know” You let out a scoff at his condescending tone. “You know what, now I’m gonna stay right here and wait.” You plop yourself down next to him on the couch. His smirk dropped as he gave a slightly annoyed look. He wasn’t expecting you to want to sit with him, especially in a small room. He sighed and rolled his eyes, as he went back to looking out the window. Not wanting to sit in silence, you decide to make conversation with Gyeong-su. “Soooo, how do you think this started?” you asked awkwardly. Gyeong-su turned to look at you, with an expression of thought. “I don't know, but it’s spreading quickly throughout the school and most of the school is probably…” He got quiet for a moment, staring blankly. “Yea. I feel like it had something to do with the girl this morning.” He nodded. His thumb played with the sleeve of his hoodie as he thought. “I think so too. She’s probably the one who started it.” You sense his uneasiness and try to keep the conversation going. “Well, I hope that she’s ok, but I can’t help wondering how she got like that?” He shrugged, still playing with the sleeve of his hoodie. “I have no idea… maybe it was some kind of virus?” you nodded in agreement. “That’s so weird though.” He let out a small sigh, going quiet afterwards. The room was uncomfortably silent, except for the low voices heard from the other room. “Do you think it’s gotten out of the school?” you asked. Gyeong-su ran his hand through his hair, messing up his already messy, black locks. He thought of an answer to your question before sighing once again. “Most likely. With how quickly people are turning… it’s for sure in town too.” “Ughhh. I know such a good chicken shop downtown. I’m sooo hungry.” Gyeong-su perked up at the mention of food. Now that you mentioned it, he could feel just how much his stomach was rumbling and growling. “Gosh, I’d kill for some food right now.” You leaned back at his blunt remark. “Whoaaaa, careful there, I think you might be a zombie. He rolled his eyes playfully, smirking before gently nudging you with his elbow. “Shut up. I am not a zombie.”

As your laughter died down, you were pondering a deep question. “Hey Gyeong-su, do you think you’d look good as a zombie?” He snickered at the question, yet he sat up straight and raised an eyebrow at you. “I dont know… maybeee? You want me to be a zombie sooo bad, don’t ya? You roll your eyes at his mention of the past. “Nooo. I was just wondering, you know.” He rolled his eyes, jokingly crossing his arms over his chest. “Mmmh… I’m not so sure if I believe you.” You scoffed and replied playfully, “Ughh, well I think I would look good as a zombie.” He perked up, his smile turning into a full-on grin. “You think you’d look good as a zombie? I need to hear this reasoning.” You scoffed at his disbelief. “I mean I already look good right now, so like when I’m chasing people it couldn’t really be that different.” He let out a laugh, rolling his eyes. “Yeah ok. You’ll look really intimidating chasing after people.” “Ugh no. I dont wanna look intimidating, I wanna look like sexy.” Gyeong-su raised an eyebrow. His smirk returned, as he held back a laugh. “You wanna look sexy… as a zombie?” You looked at him with disbelief. “Duhhh. Wouldn’t you?” He tried to stay serious, he really was trying not to laugh. “I mean… yeah… but you’re not even denying that you wanna look sexy as a zombie!” “Well… do you think I look sexy now?” You glanced up at him through your eyelashes, while he took a moment to answer. His eyes roamed across your figure, taking everything in about your appearance. “I mean… you’re not bad-looking, I guess…” You replied while licking your lips, “Well I mean… I could say the same thing about you.” He was surprised by the fact that you had said he was good-looking too. “You really think I look good?”. “Yeah,” you lean in close and drop your voice to a whisper, “I think you’re the hottest person here, after me of course.” He chuckled at your words. “Of course, of course. Except you are 10x hotter than me,” he replied sarcastically. “Hey, for the record, you said it, not me.” You threw your hands up and looked around. He smirked at your gesture. “Yeah, I suppose I did,” he said softly, looking up at you again. There was something about you that he found attractive, but he never knew what it was. 

You lean in closer to Gyeong-su and he lets out a small laugh. “What are you doing, eh?” You reply as if you were unaware, “Huh, doing what? We were just talking.” Gyeong-su looked at you with a raised eyebrow. He knew what you were doing, but he decided to play along with it. “Right, right… just talking… that’s all we’re doing…” “Ha. Well our non-stop talking is what got us both in this mess so…” Gyeong-su let out a laugh, rolling his eyes. “We really couldn’t act like civilized people and stop arguing for 30 minutes? And now look at where we are…” “Yeah. I mean even with a zombie apocalypse we can’t handle being around each other.” He sighed, like he had a small, jokingly, annoyed expression. “I don’t understand why you have to put it like that… it’s you who can’t keep your mouth shut around me.” Your mouth dropped in disbelief of his remark. “ME?!?!” you say with your eyes wide open. Gyeong-su snickers, holding back a laugh. “ Yes… YOU, why are you acting so surprised?!” You scoffed at him. “I mean… the right thing to so would be to ignore me,, but you alwayss have a snarly reply.” He rolled his eyes, still smiling. “Well I’m not just going to stand there and let you insult me. Of course, I’m gonna shoot back at you when you do that.” You sighed loudly before saying, “It’s ok. I know it’s hard to resist me.” He rolled his eyes, scoffing again. “You’re so cocky… you really have a high ego, dont you?” Your eyebrows raised, “Oh, and you don't?” He stayed quiet, his smirk changing into a slight frown. “I mean… I dont have as big of an ego as you do.” Your lips opened up into a smile. “Yeah ok, take a look in the mirror buddy.” He let out a small scoff, his frown remained, but now there was a small smirk also. “I do not have a big ego… you just have a bigger one and you can’t handle the truth.” “No, I just know when and how to inflate my ego because it is hard to keep up with how big yours is,” you replied truthfully. Gyeong-su rolled his eyes, his smirk growing wider. “Oh, oh really? MY ego is big? I’m totally sure it’s not your ego… since yours is like 10x the size of mine…” You smiled at his remark, “Really, so I’m like 10x more everything from you?” He stayed quiet for a moment, realizing what he said. “Now hang on a minute, that’s not-“ “I mean ok, ok, but we all know that you are definitely 10x fatter than me.” Gyeong-su gasped and looked at you with a face of complete shock. “ I am NOT fat.” “Well, who’s the one that gets 5 servings at lunch?” He rolled his eyes, letting out a scoff. “I’m a growing boy. I need food, You’re just jealous that I can eat a lot without getting fat.” You look surprised at his response, “A growing boy??? I dont think there’s more room left to grow.” Gyeong-su jokingly slapped your arm, playfully glaring at you. “Hey shut up… there is room to grow. Lots of it actually.” You start to get bored with the conversation, wanting to take it elsewhere. “Really? Like where?” Gyeong-su rolled his eyes, his face turning slightly red from embarrassment. He shook his head slightly, “You really wanna know?…

You looked at him with eyes of desire. You climbed on top of him and straddled him. “Yeah… I do.” His eyes widened as he looked up at you, surprised. He took a sharp breath, his heartbeat quickening. “Wh-what are yo-” You interrupt him with a kiss. He shut his eyes and his voice, letting the feeling sink in as he slowly became relaxed, his hands quickly coming up to your hips. He deepens the kiss and you instinctively grind on him. He let out a gasp against your lips, surprised by the sudden action. His grip on your hips tightened. Gyeong-su tried to stay calm, but all he could feel was desire. You break the kiss for a quick moment to take off your dress shirt. His eyes trailed across your bare chest, taking in every inch of you he could. His breathing was becoming more ragged and heavy. He looked up at you, his hands still on your hips, pulling you closer.

“Don’t be shy,” you smirked at his gaze. He quickly followed suit and took off his shirt. You trailed soft and slow kisses from his neck down to his abs. He leaned back and let out a low moan. He tangled one of his hands in your hair, fingers gripping tight. You unbutton his pants, as he hitched his breath. You looked up at him, “What? You just gonna watch?” He let out a little chuckle, his eyes still staring down at you as his voice came out in a low husk, “Nah… I was just enjoying the view first.” He guides you up and down his cock. He lets out another low moan, his head tilting back. He groans as he finishes in your mouth, filling you with his white, hot seed. He lets out a quiet gasp and takes a few deep breaths before pulling your face back up to his own. You kiss him back hard and passionately. He stands you both up and bends you over the arm of the couch. Gyeong-su was desperate for more, he needed to feel like you were his. His hands roamed all over you as he began to kiss and bite your neck. You moan at the wet and sloppy kisses. He trails his hands down to your pelvis, feeling your wetness through your shorts. He could feel himself harden as he got more and more desperate. He pushes your skirt up and your shorts down, as he slowly bottoms out in you. He groans at your tightness and begins to thrust. You moan out his name and he begins to go faster. He was breathing hard as he buried his face in your neck. You both finished and were breathing heavily. Gyeong-su let out a soft sigh, wrapping his arms around your middle, “That… Felt amazing…” You smirked at his ragged breath, “Told you I’m better.” he rolled his eyes playfully, shaking his head with a soft smirk. “Yeah yeah you’re better, you win.” You both lay on the couch for a few minutes in comfortable silence, before you say, “Ok, ready to go back out there?” Gyeong-su groaned, he didn’t really want to leave. He just wanted to stay right here holding you. You could see the reluctance in his eyes and impulsively said, “You know what, let’s do round two.” Gyeong-su raised an eyebrow at your bluntness. He sat up and looked at you with a smirk, “Yeah? You wanna go again? Already?” “I mean don’t I have 10x more stamina than you or not?” you asked. He huffed, rolling his eyes with an amused smirk. He gently pulled you closer as he said, “I’ll prove that I can go just as long as you can.” You both kiss each other hard and passionately, as if you were the last people alive. Gyeong-su kissed you with urgency, almost as if he couldn’t get enough of you. He was desperate to touch you, to feel you, to taste you. He slowly guided you back onto the couch, him on top of you this time. You put your legs up onto his shoulders to give him full access. He looked down at you, admiring your face. He began to set a slow and steady pace, wanting to take his time in enjoying the moment. You clench around Gyeong-su during your climax. He then releases into you. He slowly pulls out, staying on top of you for another moment to catch his breath. He looked down at you, a small smirk appearing on his lips as he spoke, “Did I win?” You looked up at him and said, “Yeah, that’s the last time though.” He laughed, rolling his eyes, yet again, “Ah really? It’s the last time now, huh?” “Yeah, unless…?” He raised an eyebrow, interested in what you could be suggesting, “Unless… what?” “I mean, I could just go back out there…” you said innocently. Gyeong-su huffed, frowning, clearly not liking that idea. “Nope, no, you’re not going anywhere.”

He gently grabbed your wrists, keeping you pinned under him. You lean up and kiss him. He melts into the kiss. His hand comes up to cup your face- thumb gently stroking the skin of your cheek. The kiss was soft, but there was still the desperate need for more. He breaks the kiss and trails hard, rough kisses down your body. “Taking a page out of my book, huh?” you say as you look down on him. He takes his time eating you out, licking a stripe along your thigh- stopping for a minute before continuing on with his ministrations. He was very thorough, wanting to make sure he wouldn’t miss any part of you. You moan at the sensation, trying to resist the urge to grind on his face. You finish and accidentally squirt on his face. He gasps, surprised, but he didn’t seem to mind at all. He took a moment to catch his breath, before crawling back up to you- kissing you gently on the lips. You both lay there for a bit, in comfortable silence.

After catching your breath you say, “Ok loverboy, you think that’s enough?” Gyeong-su let out a small laugh at being called ‘loverboy’, “I mean, I think it is but… I don’t know about you.” “It has definitely been over 30 minutes, the others are gonna be wondering what happened.” He sighed, knowing that you were right, but he didn’t want to stop. As you both stand up to leave, you gasp and stop in your tracks. “Do you think they heard us?” Gyeong-su looks at you with slight panic, “I-I hope not.” “I mean someone in here was really loud.” you say with a smirk. He covered his face in embarrassment, groaning softly. “Oh gosh, don’t remind me. Hey, you were loud too, you know.” he retorted back. “Whoopsie daisy.” you say mischievously. Gyeong-su let out a scoff, gently slapping your arm. “Whoopsie daisy? That’s all you have to say? We were both loud.” You leaned back from him, “Whoa, don’t get all rough on me now zombie.” He rolled his eyes, grabbing your hand and pinning it to the couch- keeping you beneath him. “I’ll get rough if you want me to sweetheart…” You smile up at him, “Slow your roll, cowboy. I’m pretty tired, let’s sleep here.” He raised an eyebrow at the suggestion, but he found the idea kind of nice. He nodded, “Okay, yeah… why the hell not.”

Gyeong-su wakes up, realizing that you’re cuddled up against him. He smiled to himself, a soft and content look as he ran his hand through your hair. Cheong-san walks in and coughs to get our attention. Gyeong-su turns his head around and shushes him, pointing to the fact that you were still sleeping. “Whoa, you two sure look comfy. What happened last night?” Cheong-san says in a whisper. Gyeong-su groans, hiding his face by pressing it into your hair. “Just… shut up.” he replies. “What really happened because we heard some crying and slapping, but we didn’t want to disturb you guys.” Cheong-san says with a smirk. Gyeong-su’s eyes go wide as he feels his face growing redder, “Wait… you guys heard us?” Cheong-san scoffs, “Yeah, you guys were kind of loud.” Gyeong-su groaned even louder, “I swear if you don’t shut up, I will kick your ass.” Cheong-san put his hands up and started backing away, “Ok man well come on out now.” Gyeong-su gently wakes you up, “Morning, sleepyhead.” 

[comfortkiss]

Enthralled

Summery: You have awoken in a mysterious world, everything and everyone is so strange.

Word count: 1.4k

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You jerk your hand back feeling a pinch on your finger. "Ow" you whisper to yourself, but Butler hears you. The little fish you were poking at swims away in a hurry.

"Do be careful, they bite today", you shift back to look at him. He's some distance behind you currently holding a squirrel looking thing by the tail. The little critter is squeaking and squirming in panic, you frown and get up from your crouched position in front of the pond.

"Stop tormenting it" you mumble with a frown, "you could be hurting it". As you approach, he holds it up onto a branch, the little creature scurries up it disappearing into the murky green leaves.

"These ones disappear when the winter season approaches, it'll be a shame, they are quite adorable to have in the gardens". He dusts his hands off clasping them behind his back. He looks at you with those sharp eyes, polite (though sly) smile and perfect, respectful posture.

"Is that why you were bullying it?", you cross your arms, making a show of tilting your head and frowning harder. He just smiles.

"My, I forget how much compassion and empathy you hold for such meaningless elements". His eyes sharpen as he looks down at you. Those deep burgundy eyes. In the dark they look almost normal, almost brown, but in the light the redness in them shows.

"It's not a "meaningless element", its alive and you were scaring it" You glance back up to the tree, you can see the fluff ball looking down at you both, almost like it understands. You can't help but smile, it is cute.

You turn back to him, ever quiet he is. He says nothing, just stares at you. You return your gaze to the tree to see two more fluff balls have now joined, playing on the branches.

You won't lie, at first you found it so creepy. How he refused to talk at times, instead opting to just stare into your soul. Every time you would point it out, he would just close his eye and smile before looking away.

It used to bother you but not anymore, you know he means no harm and that’s just how he is. For a while before that, he used to just disappear when not wanting to answer you so him opting for a staring contest is an improvement.

He has gotten better at not disappearing randomly. Actually comes straight away when you need help. 

You remember when you first met him, first woke up in that dingy, dusty bedroom. You were aimlessly wondering the halls when you felt eyes on you. You snapped your head back to see a young man looking at you with glowing, predatory eyes.

His constant, unnatural, presence was not the only thing that was condescending about his evasive nature. Like he's constantly dancing on the line of showing up and never being there. You have come to the conclusion he finds it fun, thrilling to see how things end up with or without his presence. He seems to only show up when times get dire. Even then, it seems to be for his own entertainment.

"You sadist asshole!" you remember pointing an accusing finger at him. That one time when you were sitting in the garden and one of the ugly garden gnomes seemed to have come to life and charged straight at you. You still believe to this day you had suffered a mini heart attack, but others tell you otherwise.

Turns out, Butler was peeking behind a tree, uncanny, and only decided to stop his puppeteering of the gnome when you let out a shriek more akin to a choke.

Turns out the ugly, creepy gnome never came to life, and you also found out he must have some kind of magic or something. Anyways, you definitely did hate him for at least two weeks after that incident. He found it hilarious though. Sneering that, "You are very much entertaining to keep around, your reactions never fail to please" bringing a gloved knuckle to his eerie sharp smile.

Your snapped out of your thoughts when you hear him call for you, you hadn't realised he had walked off. "Please make haste y/n, we shouldn't be late returning for dinner, there will be some influential guests attending tonight".

He also refused to tell you his name. You had asked plenty of times, even tried to bully it out of him yet he continued to refuse. "You can refer to me by whatever you wish, I do not mind" he answers almost humorously. You just started calling him Butler.

That’s what he was anyways. Well, that’s what they all told you. He most definitely fit the role. Just with a hint of something else on the side. But them again this isn't your world and what they find normal is baffling to you, and vice-versa. They treat you like glass, claiming you are too delicate.

 You jog over to him, making sure to gracefully avoid stepping on the patches of itchy grass. You had unfortunately learned the hard way that the almost fuzzy looking grass patches that had a light shade of orange to them, were in fact poisonous to humans. Aka, you.

You take a glance at his side profile as you begin walking next to him. He remained ever mysterious but ignoring how… seedy, he looks his company has become very pleasant.

"Is that your way of saying they're snobby and insufferable" you smile, hopping to avoid stepping on the larger cracks in the gravel. This part connects to a graveyard, and you do not want another hand to wrap around your ankle like last time. He had to carry you back inside because you were crying and refusing to touch the ground. Can they blame you though? It was a dead, detached hand!

He looks at you as you manoeuvre into the pavement of the estate. A sinister smile grows showing off his rows of sharp teeth. "It may be a long night, we shall have our fun", he muses. You laugh softly knowing exactly what that implies.

The lady and lord of the estate welcomed you with open arms. They thought you were the cutest. A scared little human who has awoken in a world unfamiliar. Much to your chagrin, they started treating you like an adopted child of theirs. Or more of a pet at times.

It wouldn't be an issue if not for their… strangeness. When Butler first found you, he took you straight to them. They looked normal at first, but you later realised they too were not human. Well, not the type of humans you were used to. But alas, they got you to explain yourself which wasn’t much considering you went to sleep in your own bed back home and when you awoke, you were here.

You expected them to show concern, if they were good people. Maybe take you to the authorities to see if they can help you get home. Instead, they just smiled at you, pulling you in, "Well I suppose another addition to the family wouldn't hurt" the lady smiled at the lord. He simply nodded his head in agreement with his wife.

You were so stunned when you first heard that you could barely get a word out. After they shooed you out and told you to choose any room you wish, you broke down. Butler had disappeared after bringing you to them, so you climbed up a flight of stairs and just cried in one of the long hallways. The dim lights making you feel more isolated and confused.

That’s when Butler re-appeared again. "Whatever seems to be the matter?". His words sounded genuine, but his sharp toothed smile contradicted that.

They assigned the job of mentoring you and showing you around to Butler. He became better overtime.

It would be a lie to say the first few months where not traumatising. But Butler slowly helped you through it. Much more than you thought he would, it seemed very out of character for him. Even if it was in his own way.

 After all, that was the job he was assigned. And currently looking back on it, you couldn’t be more grateful, even if his help consisted of helping you build a tougher outer shell to fit in with the rest of this strange world. 

[bbyguugkie]

Since no one can explain this shit without bias, I’ll do it.

Luv created a work called PA while KGP by Kiki was already out. Some people started pointing out similarities between the two. Kiki responded directly to the readers and accused Luv of plagiarism, saying she might file a DMCA depending on how Luv handled things. Their conversations are public, but I don’t see actual consent or agreement in them, which is already an issue for me—but the convo is out there.

Later, PA was taken down—not because of a DMCA (which Kiki was even said it was taken down before it was filed i think), but because Luv said she was overstimulated and unhappy with the piece. She wanted to make it longer and better. She’s since said PA will return in an improved form.

Now Luv has a new work called JKPK, and she also has Kknagpae, which is clearly meant to show the distinction between JKPK and KGP. These are different Korean words with very different meanings (I study Korean and even checked with native speakers). Despite this, some people jumped to the conclusion that Kknagpae was an attack on Kiki. If you actually read it, it’s clearly not. People just want drama and will fight over assumptions.

Then comes the cult talk. Someone in Luv’s asks made a comment calling people cultists, or “feels cultist.” I get that people took offense, but even I can see where that came from. That same person is now out here trying to “inform” others—but in a condescending, uninvited way. Back when the Kiki drama first happened, they claimed she didn’t do anything and that people were trying to provoke her. And now it’s clear who and what she meant, because that same MF is probably the one stirring shit in the tags again 🙄

Does it look odd? Yes. But we can’t make assumptions based on how things seem. We have to rely on facts and public information.

I’m aware that Luv deleted some asks related to PA. From what I’ve personally asked her, people didn’t even care about the situation. In fact, some came thinking Kiki had promoted her—which, based on the reactions in the tag, seems to be true for some. So let’s look at both sides.

Kiki’s side: Kiki posted Luv’s name publicly, which drew a lot of attention to her. At the time, that actually resulted in positive exposure. I haven’t seen much negativity except from one person—and two others in the #jeonloves tag. Just one person… anyway.

Now, that same person and a few others are pushing a narrative and escalating it to the point where people are sending death threats, malicious comments, and hate. That’s harassment. And they’re making claims about change and impact that we don’t actually know are true. Looking back at Kiki’s blog, I haven’t seen any hate coming directly from Luv’s side. And as someone who supports both authors, that says a lot to me.

I’m speaking up because I’m not going to sit back and let someone who’s full of hate and misinformation dictate the narrative. I feel for both authors—Kiki, dealing with someone not crediting her even if it was minor, and Luv, getting death threats even after changes were made, intentional or not.

Stop assuming. Take things based on what we know, not speculation. That’s how you inform people. You don’t educate through hate and bias. If you’re only pushing your side while ignoring the rest, you’re not informing—you’re manipulating.

If you don’t actually want change and just want to stir shit, stop pretending otherwise.

THEY OWE US NOTHING, WE SHOULD NEVER DEMAND THEM.ANYTHING? so what it’s not public, the issue is gone and done. Other things like Luvz being a copycat, are obviously personal opinions not routed in factual information. They deesve better, authors deserve better in general

Fuck that was a lot and was edited by Grammarly bc im to fucking pissed becuase this shit’s gone to far. Ans pwople sont know when to stop before it becomes harassment and provotion😡😡

Mf said to not cloud the tags? Yet did the same thing. Fuck off