#you just said I show skin to get sympathy on the internet then just say you’re a good one stay safe? | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

mcl4r3n · 11 months

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Ego

Or, a 2,500 word fanfic of Lando Norris discovering AO3 and getting off to fanfiction that nobody asked for but I wanted to write, anyway. :3

Lando Norris is a cunt and should lose his seat

Why the fuck do people keep hyping this kid up

Driver of the Day????? ARE U KIDDING ME???? WHEN CARLOS DEFENDED LIKE THAT??? Wtf

Lando exhales through his nose, slow and long, before smiling to himself and closing out his private Twitter browser.

The reception to his performance at Austria is expected, and it's a little amusing to read that that's the worst these strangers on the internet seem to be able to come up with.

He's gotten better, certainly, at not running his mouth with reckless abandon. Charlotte would be proud of him, if she still worked for McLaren.

He leans back in his seat, the jet preparing for takeoff. The articles were nice to him. Damon Hill had good things to say about him. P5 to P4, thanks to the penalties. It's a good fucking day.

It's a little masochistic, a little narcissistic, to peruse the internet for his name as much as he does, but he’s a Silverstone winner now. He’s really enjoyed the things written up about him.

Besides, that's how Lando learned to get over caring so much in the first place. Just a few years back, he used to agonize over a slip of the tongue, used to wring his hands and fuck up his hair in worry over what the pundits would say about him because of a careless soundbite.

He dealt with some of the worst of it when Daniel became his teammate, and even at the end, he had to learn how to stop flinching whenever he saw the word 'sympathy.'

Now it's different. It helps, of course, that Daniel taught him how to get over it, grow thicker skin, and deal with the worst of it.

"Let it roll off you like water," Daniel said. So Lando did.

It's a slower news week though, and he's bored, so he searches up his name and scrolls through all the posts on the first few pages of his Google search.

And then he sees it, a link to something called 'Archive of Our Own,' and decides to press on it with his thumb.

It opens to a page that appears to be. . . stories, written about. . . them. Drivers.

Drivers with other drivers. Drivers' names next to 'Original Female Character(s)'.

It's fiction written by fans about them.

Lando looks around his living room, at the stalled Netflix homepage on his television screen. He really should be on the sim instead, but mostly, he's tired, and would rather do some other mindless thing.

He scrolls through and sees one that says 'Lando Norris/Carlos Sainz' with an E in a red square. Beside it, a link leads to 'Formula 1 RPF'.

He toggles onto a new tab and types in 'rpf meaning,' which shows the definition: real person fiction. Well, he gathered as much.

The tags are interesting, he'll give it that. 'Blowjob', '2023 Formula 1 Season', 'Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot'.

He opens the story and scans it quickly, the morbid curiosity of wanting to know how fans see his relationship with Carlos overriding the fact that it's fucking weird to be reading what is essentially smut about himself and his friend.

This story seems to have them written like they're secret lovers, that they have been since Carlos' McLaren days, and absolutely doesn't take into account that both he and Carlos had girlfriends at one point.

He snorts when he reaches a line that has him saying, "Carlos, please, you're so big, please fuck me."

Lando frowns at the screen. His skin is starting to itch. Why do people think he'd say that to Carlos? For one thing, Carlos doesn't even have a big dick. Lando knows—he's seen it himself. Changing in a hurry tends to lead to that, flinging bits about while they finish golf.

"Cariño," the Carlos in the story says, and that's when Lando loses it, no longer able to contain his laughter. He's honestly tempted to send a screenshot off to Carlos, but then he'd have to explain how he found it in the first place, and he doesn't feel like doing that just now.

So instead, he clicks back and scrolls down some more.

There seems to be a pretty steady stream of people who are invested in Max and Daniel, and also Max and Charles, based on the list of pairings that he sees, which he can like, understand. He doesn't blame the fans at all for that, considering how many antics they get up to in the name of PR.

They know that shit sells. Lando’s just getting a full proper look at what that actually means for fans.

Yeah, that’s right, he tells himself. This is just homework. He’s doing recon to see what else they can do to boost their socials.

He takes a little more time to read through the page properly. It lists the number of words in the story, the ratings that imply just how explicit the story is, and something called a ‘kudos’ which he figures means that it’s the same as likes on Instagram or whatever.

He stops at one that has him and Daniel, and curiosity gets the better of him. It’s short, too, roughly 1,500 words. It’s listed as Explicit, but the summary is what gets him.

“Daniel knows exactly how to congratulate Lando properly for his win at Silverstone.”

Lando leans back into his throw pillow and holds his phone a little closer to his face.

The story is set in the new Hilton hotel, and this must have been written by a fan who was actually there because the description of the room itself is eerily similar to the room he himself stayed in just last week.

This story seems to get the way he and Daniel talk a little closer to reality than the previous one he perused.

It’s so strange to be reading this, to have his mannerisms laid out in text, to see how a fan describes him through this fictional version of Daniel.

Lando can’t seem to exit out of it, though. The Lando in the story is happy, of course, about winning. But the Daniel in it—seems desperate. For him.

Lando’s fucking hooked.

Daniel wants to reach out, wants to mess up Lando’s curls even more, never mind the fact that it’s sticky with sweat and champagne. Lando hasn’t even changed out of the clothes from the fan stage yet, but all Daniel wants to do is undress him, bury his face in Lando’s armpit, and inhale deeply, abolish any sort of space that separates them.

Lando puts his phone down. His heart rate has kicked up a little. This is fake. This is fake. This is fake.

He gets back to reading. This is fake. Like, it’s all made up, but the details that this fan throws in… well. It has Daniel staring longingly at his moles, and the way his clothes hug his thighs and—

And now, the Lando in the story is turning around and tipping his head to the side and saying, "Why are you looking at me like that?"

Lando draws his knees closer to his chest, curling his arms in and reading intently.

"Mate, I'm really—I'm having a hard time right now and I think I should uh, go," Daniel says. He starts to scramble. He doesn't even know why he thought visiting Lando in his room would be a good idea.

Daniel turns to leave but Lando steps in closer, frowning.

"What's going on?" Lando asks, his eyes searching Daniel's face for any sort of answer. Daniel needs to go. He needs to go right fucking now, but Lando has his hand wrapped around his wrist and he looks wounded by Daniel's abrupt one-eighty.

Daniel hangs his head in shame.

"I want to—to kiss you, and I need you to let me go before I do that."

Lando doubts that Daniel would ever actually say that, but somehow he’s not inclined to laugh about this the way he was with the other story.

Lando’s hand remains where it is, fingers strong and unyielding.

“You—you wanna kiss me? Are you drunk right now?”

Daniel wants to fall into the floor beneath him, have the marble or whatever the fuck this tile is made of to rearrange its molecules so he can become one with them. That's better than having to repeat himself. That's better than having to admit out loud that he wants to fuck his ex-teammate who is ten years his junior.

Lando pauses here. He's realizing that the AC isn't quite cold enough. How'd that happen?

He readjusts himself on his couch. There's really no point in reading on but now he wants to know what happens. Morbid curiosity really is getting the better of him.

His screen lights up again when he raises his phone and unlocks the screen to where the story is still there, taunting him.

He exhales. He reads on.

"Yeah, Lando, I wanna kiss you," Daniel says, his voice steadier than how he actually feels.

Lando's eyes narrow, and he tilts his head, regarding Daniel like he's lying, like he's fucking with him. And, yeah, okay, fair, Daniel's said enough gay-sounding shit around him for him to be suspicious, but that was all for the cameras.

There aren't any, here. There's no reason for him to be playing gay chicken.

Lando's hand tightens around his wrist.

"Prove it, then," Lando says, raising his chin, like a dare. Like a fucking dare.

Daniel could easily leave. He isn't much bigger than Lando but he could have pulled away earlier. Except—except now Lando is taunting him. Telling him to put his money where his mouth is.

Lando's heart is racing now, torn between wanting to close out of this story and reading on, just because he's gotten this far. He might as well finish it.

Daniel steps closer, and even if this isn't exactly how he'd fantasized about kissing Lando for the first time, but somehow it's still fitting. Lando is so handsome like this—blush high on his cheeks, all the way down to his neck.

He cups his hand under Lando's jaw, and brushes his thumb over the stupid fucking beard that he hated at first but now loves—

Lando frowns. Was his beard really that bad?

—and presses his lips to Lando's. It's tentative at first, exploratory, hesitant in its early press, but then Lando moans, gasps against his mouth, and Daniel takes that as his cue to seal his lips in closer and slide his tongue against Lando's.

It becomes frantic then after they both cross the threshold into each other's breaths. Lando's hands grasp at Daniel's shirt, and the next thing Daniel knows, he's being guided to the bed, collapsing on top of the pristine duvet without ceremony.

Lando clambers on top of him and straddles his hips, and Daniel can already feel himself getting hard in his jeans.

Lando stops reading.

He stops because all of a sudden, he can feel himself getting hard, too.

He glances between his legs as if looking will make it go away but it’s futile. He can see his half-chub starting to tent his shorts. Fuck. What the fuck?

But then again—he’s alone right now. No one is around to see this.

He feels juvenile, like he’s thirteen all over again trying to sneak porn on his older brother’s laptop and then learning how to delete his search history. Except that porn sort of made sense, to him, at least. He was watching girls with big boobs getting railed by these buff men.

This is—this is different. Kind of concerning. He’s sure none of the other drivers have ever done this.

But the more he waits, the more impatient the little voice in his head gets, wanting to know what happens in the story. He sighs, resigned, and opens his phone back up.

“Lando, Lando, wait,” Daniel says, pulling away and desperately trying to catch his breath. “I—There, I proved it to you. Are you happy?”

“Yeah, I was, until you stopped, you muppet,” Lando frowns. “Why’d you stop?”

Daniel swallows the spit in his mouth—Christ almighty, that’s spit that also came from Lando’s mouth. “Because if we keep going, I don’t think I’ll be able to hold myself back.”

Lando leans over him, and Daniel has to suppress the shudder that courses through the entirety of his body because Lando is hard, too. Lando is hard and pressing his erection against Daniel’s steadily growing one, and he has to curl his toes to deal with the fucking emotion of it all.

Lando’s fucked. He’s so fucked. He’s fully hard now from reading this scene, and before he can bring himself to feel too much shame over it, he’s tugging the elastic of his shorts and his boxers down to tuck it under his dick and—fuck, fuck—

He holds his phone in his left hand and spits into his right before bringing it to his cock to wrap around it while he reads on.

The story progresses quickly from there, the Lando and Daniel in the scene getting back to kissing frantically and undressing each other, and none of the words feel cliche. It’s almost chilling how clearly he can hear his voice and Daniel’s in the dialogue, but what’s most concerning is that the more he reads, the faster his hand goes.

In the story, Daniel takes Lando’s erection in his hand and kisses him silly while Lando fucks into his grip, and Lando tries to follow suit, so caught up in what he’s reading that he finds himself feeling like his hand isn’t his own, like it’s Daniel’s instead, and by the time this imagined Lando finally spills all over his own belly, Lando’s own real-fucking-life orgasm is ripped out from him, and he’s coming all over his own hand, matting down his pubes with how much jizz there is that’s still coming out in small little spurts from his dick.

He drops his phone, now that he’s spent and boneless on his couch. His right hand is gross and he doesn’t even have any tissues nearby, so he has to settle for taking his shirt off to mop up his mess.

He’s sated and sleepy, but then the shame starts to creep in, except that his phone starts to ring, and—Jesus Christ, speak of the devil—he sees that Daniel is calling him.

It’s with shaky hands that he retrieves his phone from the carpet, and it’s with a shakier voice that he answers it.

“Heya, Lando,” Daniel says. “D’you wanna meet up for dinner tonight? I just got back to Monaco and I’m jonesing for that rotisserie place we went to last time.”

Lando exhales, now that post-nut clarity has started to suffuse his brain with rationality from the comedown.

“Yeah, Danny, I’m in,” Lando replies. “I can pick you up at 6:30?”

“Super,” Daniel replies. “It’s a date!” And then ends the fucking call.

Christ. He has no idea how he’s going to face Daniel tonight after what he just did.

#lando norris #f1 fanfic #f1 rpf #ao3 my beloved please come back to us safely #nessefftea #does it count as dando if he gets off to dando fic? maybe #mention of carlando briefly

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narrators-journal · 3 years

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The most dangerous game

I know I’ve been hella dead, but I return with my usual! Stano smut! I dunno why I adore writing these two so much, but I guess I’m attached, so yeah. Ya’ll get content.

CW: Predator/prey vibes, Xeno gets chased but there’s no real big acknowledgement of it.

It was likely because Xeno had developed a persistently wonky sleep schedule that he got so many night time jobs. That, he supposed, was why he was once again out at night hunting another Vampire, despite having told his boss of his run-in with a particularly pretty vampire. However, at the moment, Xeno somewhat wished he was dealing with Stan instead. At least with him he could rely on his need to flirt and toy with him to give him away. But no, the scientist wasn't hunting Stanley, but instead a completely different vampire who was proving his dislike for hunting the blood sucking monsters. Taking advantage of how dark the night was, the human's weaker vision, and whatever ninja techniques he had learned from the internet, the young vampire had hidden annoyingly well in the thick blanket of shadows and clutter on the streets. So, the white-haired college graduate was poking around at every rock and thicket of grass or bushes along the sidewalk before the boiling irritation in his veins got to be too much and he let out a mix of a groan and a scream like a tea pot. Stomping over to one of the few flickering street lights on the road, the hunter stood in the light and dug out his knife, then used it to slash at his stomach to fill the air with the alluring scent of fresh blood. With a pained hiss and the new wet feeling of blood dripping sluggishly down his pale skin, the trap was set, and all the hunter had to do was wait for the shallow cut to work its magic. Which, didn't take long. All Xeno had time to do was get one of his metal stakes from his pocket and extend it, then he was set upon by the vampiric ninja-wannabe. However, despite his skill at stealth, the vampire was young in both a human and vampire sense. Freshly turned at a young age, he'd become a problem because he had yet to grow out of his pubescent hormones quite yet, and giving him a predatory draw and increased strength had only encouraged him to turn hard into the bad boy persona. Sadly, being a new vampire wasn't all improvements. It also meant an increased hunger and little control of your newfound strength. Which is what had led the young man to be targetted by the monster hunter association, and swiftly wiped out by a stake through the throat via Xeno Wingfield. With a grunt, the monster hunter threw the freshly dead young man to the sidewalk, wincing at the burning and itching sting bending down to yank the stake from his throat brought to his stomach. For a moment or so, he felt bad for the creature. He'd been young, and he'd let his newfound powers obviously go to his head after a lifetime diet of anime and movies, the silver haired hunter could understand his over excitement, but he also had little to no patience for dumbasses who couldn't register that they weren't in Naruto. So, his sympathy was brief, and he was soon just dragging the young creature's corpse into some bushes and calling the cleaning crew to come collect him. Then. He spoke. "God damn, Doll. You're quite attractive when you're being lethal." Stan hummed, hopping down from his hiding spot in a nearby tree and giving the hunter a charming smile that he refused to admit brought a little heat to his face. "Oh, so you're just gonna become a full blown stalker now? Did you follow me from my house, or was this another 'coincidental' run-in." Xeno's words dripped with sarcasm and venom, but the vampire simply rolled his glacial blue eyes, "Actually, I'm here because I smelled fresh blood," At the mention of fresh blood, the scientist glanced down at his work shirt, spotting the tiny stain of blood his cut had left, "Oh." He inwardly winced at how disappointed he sounded, but tried to recover with a sniff, "I had trouble luring the bastard out. It was quite the shock for me to find out that not every vampire would want to chase me down and prowl around my house for the entire fucking night." Stan simply snorted, fishing out a pack of cigarettes and lighting one before he spoke again, "Nah, that's just my thing, doll," "Quit calling me doll! You have my name now, fucking quit." The vampire put his hands up in mock surrender, though his smirk didn't falter under the scientist's withering glare. For a moment, they simply stood in the cool night's darkness, the hunter with his arms crossed and dark eyes narrowed, and the vampire returning his malicious look with his own nonchalant, half-lidded one while he breathed whispy smoke from his dark mouth. Both men seemed to dare the other to say something or do anything, each looking for an excuse to make some sort of contact until the smaller male spoke again, "Are you expecting me to run away? Because I told you the first time we met, I'm not likely to do that," He huffed, but Stan simply shrugged, "I'm just messing with ya, doesn't matter to me if you run or not." He grinned more at the lightning fast moment of irritation on Xeno's face, but the hunter schooled his facial features back into their usual disdain-filled glare, only broiling with frustration on the inside. He hated this man's relaxed demeanor. He was a monster hunter, the tall, hypnotically pretty predator should be avoiding him at all costs. Yet here he was, needling at him as if he couldn't end him just as quickly as he had the younger blood sucker. Okay, well, not as quickly. Stanley had a good four inches on the monster hunter at least, and had a body that had been frozen at the prime of his life, toned and pruned like an artfully shaped shrub through the years into a gorgeous, powerful example of why humans were the apex predators of the world. Or, well, they were, but with his change into the more monstrous his status as the perfect predator had only increased. Stan was perfectly built to hunt humans. Not only did he have a supernatural magnetic beauty to him, but he'd been human, so he knew how humans behave first hand. He was a nightmarish wet dream. Xeno gave his head a good shake to banish those thoughts from his mind when he realized he was looking the vampire over with the hunger of a sugar baby sizing up their next piggy bank. "Hey, Xeno," Stan hummed, but the hunter refused to look back at the man, which he simply took as a greenlight to continue, "you wanna play our little game tonight?" The hunter snorted in response, staring off into the darkness while his cheeks cooled, "I thought you were only here to bother me, not play a game of fucked up tag," He said calmly, only looked back at the man when he heard him walking closer, only stopping when he was about two feet away, maybe within reach, a grin on his pretty face, "Well, I thought it'd be a bit more polite to offer that rather than just asking if I could drink your blood outright." he reasoned, amused at the edge of poutiness that he seemed to sniff out through the veil of aloof indifference the hunter spoke with. "No thanks to either offer, I don't want to be chased tonight." Xeno sniffed in response, simply adding a thicker layer of ill temper to cover how excited he was at the thought of being pursued a second time. The first time had, admittedly, given him a thrill, but he wasn't ready to voice such to the annoying vampire in front of him. However, Stan seemed to have picked up on his kryptonite from that first round, "But aren't you curious to see what happens when you add the scent of blood to the mix?" The purr in the man's voice annoyed Xeno immensely, but the thought of maybe learning just how sensitive vampire instincts were, and how quickly one would succumb to them. Obviously young vampires are more prone to being controlled by their need to feed, but Stanley isn't a new vampire, that curious voice mused, already setting Xeno on a very likely stupid and dangerous path, It'd be immensely helpful to know just how easy it is to bring out those base urges in him. If he's going to follow you around it's best to know what to avoid so he doesn't go feral. It further encouraged, stoking the flames of the scientist's natural curiosity until he hummed, "I suppose it would be useful for the association to know exactly what triggers a vampire to go into a frenzy of some sort. Fine." The vampire grinned at that, "You do know that I can't promise my feeding instinct is the only one that'll come to the surface," he pointed out, making Xeno blink and raise an eyebrow at him, "What? Why would any other instinct come into play?" turning red as Stan laughed, "Well, in simple terms, I find you too attractive to promise that when I catch you I'd only want to drink your blood~" Xeno's face warmed up more at that, getting huffy and tripping over his words in his rush to snap at him. "You can have a five minute head start, just like last time," he simply assured, "Just need a bit of blood, because your original scratch has closed," He laughed more when Xeno pulled up his shirt to see that his shallow cut from earlier had in fact begun to heal, no longer bleeding and instead beginning to scab over. The hunter only responded with a glare at that point as he plucked his knife from the sidewalk where he'd dropped it and wiped it off before leaving another cut along his stomach, this one a bit deeper than the first, but not enough to linger for more than a day or two. With that, Stan gave him a charming smile that showed his extending fangs, his blue eyes already getting a hungry gleam to them. So, without further conversation, Xeno took off down the street. The cuts on his stomach stung and itched more from his running, but he pressed on. His main concern was regulating his breathing and energy so that he could get as far away from the vampire as he could in his small window of time. Naturally, his plan wasn't to just run in a straight line and wait to be caught, not only would that likely be dangerous, as a vampire in a feeding frenzy was much more violent, but was less likely to fulfill the goal of bringing those deadly instincts to the surface at all. So, instead, he sought out other people, a crowded area, maybe a shop, that way it wasn't as easy for the predator to catch up to him. This is insanely stupid, that voice of reason finally spoke up, not only am I playing with fire by instigating an instinctual reaction, but I am woefully under prepared to run from Stan. He realized, filling his veins with icy terror when the weight of his situation fully sunk in, The first time we did this I barely survive on pure panic and him toying with me. If he really loses his shit and goes into a frenzy, I can't outrun him. The reality of the thought hurt, but it was sorely true. Despite all of his training as a monster hunter, Xeno had never been one for good cardio, namely in the stamina category. He relied on his wits and pure speed, not his ability to maintain those speedy response times or pace for long periods. but it's too late now, he reminded himself, thinking back to the way the vampire's fangs had extended so soon after he'd given him a fresh source of scent. Nope, he couldn't chicken out now. He had no choice but to stick to his plan and push the panic and fear aside. Instead, he simply focused on the route ahead of him and locked onto the light of a store further down the street, which he headed for instantly. The bright, artificial light blinded the pale scientist for a moment when he stumbled into the store, but he was swift to regain his barrings and dash down the aisles and through the crowds of night owls and whatnot that were still up at this hour. He knew that his five minutes had ended a minute or so before. Meaning he didn't have long before the vampire would be on his ass. So, thinking quickly, he swiped his hand over his wounds, then smeared the blood on his palm onto the tile flooring in an aisle. Once he had that down, Xeno ran off deeper into the store. He had very few places to hide. The bathroom was basically a dead end with no windows and only one door, he couldn't climb up the shelves or to the rafters in a timely manner, so he forwent that plan. Instead, he did the next best thing. leaving as distracting a trail as possible before bolting out one of the fire exits. "Shit," he wheezed when the fire exit triggered a screaming alarm through out the store. If Stan was in there, he'd definitely know he got out now, but that only meant the scientist had less time to think of such things. He had to focus on running. So, Xeno ignored the way his legs throbbed, and his lungs ached from gulping down the cold night air. He focused entirely on getting home, or at least to a more residential area. He could feel his limbs getting heavier, threatening more and more to give out with each step, but his grit his teeth and bared it until the threat became reality and the asphalt bit into his skin. And there he laid for a few seconds, gasping for air and scraping up as much energy as he could to push himself to his feet. As he did, he glanced back down the street, and sure enough. Stanley was coming out of the alley Xeno'd run out of, his glowing blue eyes locking onto the scientist in an instant. With another curse spat out through gritted teeth, Xeno took off again. His legs still screamed from exhaustion, and now his hands stung viciously from the fall, but he kept going. He could hear Stan closing in on him, which gave him a final burst of frantic energy that carried him to at least the park near his home before the vampire finally tackled him to the grass. The scientist could only wheeze in response, letting the vampire crush against him and push his face into his pale neck with a growl. That seemed to snap him out of the exhaustion cloud, and in an instant, Xeno was squirming and forcing himself up once again. The only way he managed it was because the vampire was taken by surprise, so he was able to slip from his grasp and scramble up, but he only got a few more steps before he had to lean against a tree for support so that his legs didn't crumble a third time. Then, just as quickly as he'd gotten away, Xeno was back in Stan's luke-warm arms, trapped against his needlessly heaving chest with his fangs hovering over his jugular once more. However, he didn't bite down. To the contrary, the feral vampire seemed to hesitate for a moment, seemingly weighing his options of what to do with the hunter before settling on a choice and swiftly switching to almost slamming him against the nearest tree. "S-Stanley!" The hunter wheezed, more surprised then anything, pushing back so that his face at least wasn't forced into the course bark and he could look back to try and see the blonde behind him. Said blonde was keeping him in place with a hand on one of his shoulders, looking Xeno in the eye and almost relishing the dawning realization that painted his pale cheeks before he used his free hand to hook into his pants and tug them down pretty roughly. Then, he was back at the man's neck, but this time he bit with his blunter teeth, sucking at the skin until Xeno's mewls and hums were pulled out and he was satisfied with the hickey he'd left. The scientist, meanwhile was a bit ashamed of how quickly he accepted the turn of events. He tried to save some face by muffling the noises bubbling in his throat, but Stan's mouth at his neck, paired with the way he ground his groin into his now-bear rear drug a few noises out. Though, it also bat back the fog of hormones and lust long enough for the hunter to realize that he was very likely to get hurt if he didn't intervene. So, he whined and reached up to tangle his fingers in Stan's messy hair, tugging at it until he finally relinquished his throat from the second hickey he was dedicated on leaving. Carefully, Xeno turned himself around with what little room he was permitted between the vampire's muscular chest and the much-less-forgiving tree. Once they were face to face though, the college graduate's brain no longer seemed to work, so, the two simply stood there, panting a bit from the chase, before he finally gave up on using words and instead simply sunk down to his knees. Keeping his eyes glued to the glowing blue pair above him as he went. Luckily enough for him, his actions at least intrigued the vampire, because he was allowed to tug his bottoms down just enough for his member to spring free, which earned him a noise somewhere between a growl and a hum. With Stan's pants down and his member now standing erect in front of him, Xeno hesitated. Should it matter if I'm any good at this sort of shit? I just need some sort of lubrication, and he shouldn't really care about anything beyond...mating, so surely he won't give a shit, right? He asked himself, puzzling over the predicament before Stan reached down to grab onto his shirt, reminding the scientist of his lack of patience. So, Xeno threw his insecurities to the wind and grabbed onto the base of the shaft so he could slip Stan's impatient member into his mouth. The vampire moaned in response, and Xeno took that as a sign that he'd bought a bit more time for himself. So, he slowed down, bobbing his head at a medium sort of pace to work himself up to taking as much of the length as he could, which, thankfully for him, was almost all of it thanks to years of speed-drinking coffee and energy drinks and eating at record speeds in college. He also found that once he actually got to moving, the embarrassment of his lack of skills faded away, and part of him simply enjoyed the groans he got out of Stan while he moved his lips up and down him at a steady pace. He simply continued to work him as much as he could until the vampire let out a little hiss and gripped onto the scientist's shirt until he pulled away and let his throbbing member go with a coy 'pop'. Suddenly, Xeno was yanked back to his feet and whirled around again to be slammed back into the tree. His pants were tugged down once more and his feet were kicked apart in rapid succession so the monster hunter only got a moment's break before Stan pushed into him. And while it hurt still, the white-haired man found that he didn't mind as much. As the vampire began thrusting into him, one hand clawing into his hip, the other on his shoulder, Xeno moaned out curses and did his best to grab onto the tree or Stan's neck to keep steady under the merciless thrusts of the blonde. It was shameful how hot his body got, but with how Stan was hitting that sweetspot within Xeno, his face back to being buried in his neck for more marks, Xeno couldn't care less. "Mmmm, fuck! ah, r-right there, please!" he plead, tangling his fingers back into Stan's hair as he moaned, giving another lewd noise when his pursuer did as he asked, swiftly learning that doing so got more needy noises from the hormone-addled hunter. With that, Xeno lost all coherency as euphoria further fogged his mind, and soon brought him to his peak with a whine of the vampire's name. Though, Stan didn't stop when Xeno came, he just kept thrusting into him, still flooding his pale body with more and more pleasure while his hot puffs of breath tickled his hickey-littered neck. The continued rough treatment was beginning to sting, but the edge of pain only seemed to bolster Xeno's pleasure back to its peak, pushing a second orgasm from him before Stan finally grew sloppy with his thrusts and soon gave one final movement before emptying himself into the hunter. After that, the monster hunter let himself melt against the tree, relying on Stanley to hold him up because he was on the verge of passing out after that night's activities. The last thing Xeno remembered was giving a thumbs up to what he assumed was the question 'are you okay'. Then, he let his exhaustion take him into dreamland.

#dr stone #drst #stanXeno #Stan x Xeno #monster au #scenario #vampire!Stan #Monster hunter!Xeno #not sfw

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3pirouette · 3 years

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Fic: 40 Weeks (1/1)

Title: 40 Weeks By: TriplePirouette/3Pirouette Spoilers: First Avenger, that’s it. Disclaimer: They're not mine. Word Count: 4601 Distribution: AO3 Anyone else please ask first :)

Rated teen to mature due to content.

Story Summary: Every week farther away from him is a week closer to a new beginning.

A/N: For Steggy Bingo Bash Sentence Prompt: “I have eagerly been awaiting the day I could finally meet you… and I am not disappointed. You are beautiful.” Also, I’m sorry. Set during CA:TFA.

TW: while I hate to give away the plot, this story is about Peggy dealing with an unplanned pregnancy while believing Steve is dead after going down on the Valkyrie. This may be a sensitive subject for many, please read or skip accordingly for your own mental health.

I have never been pregnant. ALl info is from the internet.

Also, I’m sorry. I’m really, really sorry. This made me cry. You’ll probably need tissues.

~*~ Week 0

He’d almost died.

It was all she could think of as she pressed her body into his, their lips meeting with force, battling to be dominant, the air charged with lust and fear and relief as they shed their clothes as quickly as they could.

Every time she closed her eyes she saw it: she saw the way the tank aimed at him, how his shield barely made it up in time to deflect the load from the great barrel, how it exploded and pushed him back in a way he didn’t expect, how he landed near the great rotating treads, shocked, and his head just an inch away from disaster as the tank rolled forward before Dugan slid in and pushed him farther under where the treads could do no damage.

He couldn’t hear her when they finally triumphed, blood slipping from his ear. He looked shocked, dazed. She’d never seen him like that before.

Even small, before the serum, he’d seemed invincible to her. This reminded her that even Captain America could die.

He could hear her now as she moaned his name, his lips slipping against the flesh between her legs, licking and nipping and biting as she fisted her hands in his hair, pulling him up to her. That realization had made her feel lost, broken, and she needed him in a way she’d never needed anyone before. The touch of his hand was too little, the wrapping of his arms around her in a simple hug not enough. She’d slipped them into an empty supply room, locked the door, and pressed him against it. “I won’t let either of us die without knowing what it’s like to love one another.”

He’d held her face in his hands, gentle, and tried to reassure her. “That’s not going to happen. I won’t let that happen.”

She hadn’t argued with him, didn’t have it in her to play devil’s advocate. Instead, she kissed him. Surprising him, it took a moment for him to kiss her back, for him to let them melt together, but slowly his body started to vibrate on the same frequency hers was, it started to pick up on her need and desperation and it left them as they were now, him clutching her shoulders, sliding inside her sloppily as she balanced on the edge of an old desk, her legs wrapped around his hips and her lips marking him at his collar bone.

It was quick and frenzied, sloppy and amateur, but Peggy couldn’t help but feel a little more put together, a little more reassured as they lay on the creaking table, his head pillowed on her breasts, the both of them gasping for breath.

“I love you, Peggy Carter,” Steve whispered, kissing the flesh closest to him, “and I’m never letting you go.”

“And I love you,” she croaked out, her voice raw. She tangled her hands in his sweaty hair, her heart pounding in her chest. “But you and I both know that neither one of us is in control of what happens during this bloody war.”

He pressed up on his arms, hovering over her, his dog tags cold against her skin as he pushed a curl behind her ear. He looked like he wanted to say something, but he kept it to himself. Instead, he kissed her gently. He pulled away softly, his brow furrowing as he looked down at her. “How am I supposed to go back to that lonely tent without you now?”

She let her hands slide over his shoulders. “Needs must, you know,” she whispered, letting him gently help her to sitting. “I suspect my own bed will be quite disappointing.”

Steve bent, kissing her thigh as he picked up their discarded clothing. “Peg, we should…”

“We shouldn’t,” she stopped him as he stood, eyes serious. “if we want to keep working together, no one can know. They’ll toss me out of here in a second and you know that.”

He kissed her gently, handing her her slip. “I hate keeping us a secret.”

“I’d hate even more not knowing if you were alive or dead.”

~*~ Week 3

She hadn’t managed a night’s sleep since he went into the water. Every time she closed her eyes she saw him drowning, saw his hands reaching up for her. Saw his lifeless body floating away.

She wasn’t his widow, she wasn’t his anything, not officially. His belongings were put in storage and his name was mourned. Only the men that knew them best, the ones that saw the snuck kisses and hand holding, gave her any real sympathy.

Dugan sat with her, Pinky said a prayer with her, and Phillips had even hugged her.

There was no body, no funeral, no remembrance beyond that given to any other soldier when there was still so much more work to be done.

She could barely eat, couldn’t sleep, felt sick and tired all the time, and yet, she knew she had to march on.

There was a war to win. She was going to win it for him.

~*~ Week 6

She was shaking, and only partly due to the fact that she’d just thrown up most of what she’d eaten today quite violently. She held the phone to her ear, trying desperately to slow her heart rate.

She didn’t want it to be true, and yet she desperately did.

And if it was, she was absolutely beyond terrified.

There was another long ring before a polite English voice she’d never heard answered.

“I need to talk to Howard, please. Peggy Carter calling.” She was proud that her voice sounded almost steady. Her heart felt like it was going to pound out of her chest, the seconds it took Howard to get to the phone felt like hours.

“Peggy!” he called, excited. “It’s good to hear from you. How can I be of service?”

She took one shaky breath, then another. She’d never been ashamed of what they did, would never be, but the impact it was going to have on her life, the way it was going to change everyone’s opinion of her… she wasn’t ready for that.

She heard her mother’s voice in her head, criticizing the women at church who work skirts that were too short and who flirted to shamelessly. Harlots, Margaret. Girls like that give smart, determined women like us a bad name. All for what? They should be on their knees for praying, not for…humph!

“Peggy? You there?” Howard asked, his tone softening.

She wasn’t ready to lose them all. She didn’t know how she could avoid it, though.

“Howard. I… I need your help.”

~*~ Week 7

He met her in London, his eyes tight and worried as she disembarked the troop transport with her usual aplomb, not a hint of the desperate woman he’d spoken to on the phone about her. He watched her closely as they got in his car, as he introduced his new butler, as they drove far away from the base and to a small house he’d rented.

She managed to keep her composure through lunch, telling him how she and Steve had shared one moment of unrestrained passion, how neither of them had thought anything could come of it, and how, three weeks after he was pronounced KIA she realized that he’d managed to make sure she’d never be alone, even without him.

Though she hadn’t taken a test, Peggy Carter knew with certainty that she was pregnant with Steve Rogers’ child.

She swallowed, looking at Howard frankly, her eyes clear. “I don’t mind being called a whore or a harlot, that I can take and have brought upon myself as my mother would say,” Peggy quickly relayed. “My job is lost, I’m sure.” She steeled herself, but it didn’t quite work. “But I can’t…” she teared up, wrapping her hands around her still flat belly, “I don’t know how to protect it. The Army… they’ll want…”

She dissolved into tears, sending Howard to his knees beside her. “I’ll help you, Peg. You don’t have anything to worry about.” He took her hand in his, waiting until she wiped the tears from her eyes to look at him. “Nobody’s going to touch that baby, ok? If I have to marry you myself, no one is going to touch that kid.”

~*~ Week 10

The guest house at Howard’s New York home is more than suitable for her, and she takes to wandering it aimlessly as it is quite large.

She resigned her commission, citing personal reasons much to Phillips chagrin.

How am I supposed to win this war without you, Carter? Phillips’s voice echoes in her mind.

Once, she would have bristled at that, would have rethought her decision to leave and felt the pull of duty.

She had only one duty now. It had been easier than she thought it would be to say goodbye.

One day she’d tell them the truth. Phillips, the Commandos, they were her friends, too. She still was barely thicker around the middle than she had been, not enough to show and not enough to be suspicious. But right now, she held the only living genetic sample of Steve Rogers, and there were nations that would kill for that, including her own. For now, she could still hide in plain sight.

Their baby’s safety was all that mattered to her.

She made another round, checking the windows and doors and making sure the gun by her bedside was loaded and ready to go if need be. She’d already pulled it twice on poor Mr. Jarvis, but he seemed to be getting used to her paranoia.

~*~ Week 12

Ana is a godsend.

She’s funny and quick-witted, and thankfully good with a needle and thread. Peggy’s clothes all need letting out at the seams now, and Ana entertains her with silly stories of her day and tales of the farmer’s market in town as she makes alterations.

She’s become her only close friend, and Peggy is ever grateful that not once did she see pity or judgement in the woman’s eyes.

Her mother continues to refuse to speak to her.

~*~ Week 16

Howard has proposed no less than three times since he’s been back from the front.

His simplest solution is to not give the Army any reason to believe the child belongs to Rogers. While Peggy can see the wisdom in this, she can’t quite seem to get on board with the idea of denying the man she loved his only true legacy.

“I’m thinking about it,” she would tell him nearly twice a day.

And she was thinking about it.

~*~ Week 18

She’s glad the doctor Howard has found her is knowledgeable and discrete. She knows, because Howard refuses to lie to her, that they take an extra vial of blood for him at each visit, and he runs his own tests.

She’s relieved that the midwife Ana finds her is sweet and kind, and that the woman simply holds her hand when Peggy breaks into tears when the woman asks about the baby’s father.

“I’m so sorry my love,” the midwife whispers gently. “So many young women have lost so much in this war.”

If her midwife believes her to be anything other than a war widow, or notices the lack of a ring on Peggy’s finger, she never says.

~*~ Week 20

Ana has to take Peggy shopping for maternity clothes now. She’s showing and can no longer get by with letting buttons stay undone and letting out seams. The lacy frocks and pastel colors turn her off of the small section in the department store.

She can’t help but watch the women around her, some barely showing, some looking ready to burst, and wonder what their lives are like.

Do they have doting husbands at home? Indifferent husbands? Men overseas who may never see their child’s birth?

Are they like her? Lost and alone and so very, very unsure of how even tomorrow will go?

Ana gently guides her through the store despite her daze, and helps her choose some sensible tops and dresses.

She doesn’t plan on leaving Howard’s estate other than for doctor visits any time soon, so the design matters little in the long run.

~*~ Week 21

Lying in bed she can feel it.

Little flutters.

They’re easy to ignore during the day, but at night they’re positively maddening. She rubs her stomach, hands gliding over the tightening flesh, closing her eyes and imagining they were Steve’s hands.

Tears come to her eyes.

Would he have been happy? Excited? Scared? She’s imagined each emotion a million times over. She’s never really been able to decide.

Some days she barely knows how she feels about it.

The flutters get more insistent, no real kicks or punches yet, just little backflips. She imagines a little boy, lithe and graceful as his father, or a little girl, smooth like a ballerina.

She smiles.

“Bide your time, little one,” she whispers, and the movement calms down. “You’ll be out here with all of us soon and there will be little time for rest.”

~*~ Week 23

Her days are the same now: mornings to herself to prepare for the day, afternoon tea with Ana and a rousing walk along the grounds with Mr. Jarvis. There’s the occasional doctor appointment or meeting with the midwife thrown in, but dinner is steadily at 7 and she indulges in warm baths and a book before bed.

Lying in bed is when her day turns.

She’s never really quite sure what’s going to happen after she turns the lights out.

Some nights she talks to her baby, having decided on calling him or her simply “My Little One” for the time being. If her child’s restless she knows her voice will calm it: stories, lullabies, or just rambling about her day.

Some nights all she can do is cry. Usually, it’s gentle streams of tears falling from her lashes quietly as her mind drifts to the man who will never know his child, who she imagines never understood how much she loved him, who had plans for a life after the war with her…

Sometimes she sobs; big, heaving sobs that seem to come up from the depths of her soul. This happens often after the nightmares. She has the nightmares less and less, but they’re no less dark, no less graphic for the time that’s passed. She wakes up, gasping, feeling like she’s drowning herself, and lets the tears come.

Some nights she sleeps, deep and dreamless. Those are the good nights, when she can rest and rejuvenate, when she can wake up the next day feeling like she just might be ready for whatever will come next. They’re few and far between.

Most night she simply misses him. She’s started talking to the darkness, telling Steve, who she desperately needs to believe is watching over her and their child, of all she’d done that day, even though she like to think he’s seen. Sometimes she balls up the quilt, imagining the weight of the fabric is his body behind her, wrapped around her, holding her close and keeping her warm, running his hand over the swell in her belly and whispering in her ear as he kisses her neck.

She whispers into the night, wondering what she should name their Little One.

She doesn’t get an answer back.

~*~ Week 25

Peggy’s indigestion keeps her from enjoying dinner more nights than not, and it has both the Jarvises and Howard worried.

Peggy reminds Howard that he should be less worried about her indigestion and more worried that if he asks her to marry him one more time she will literally punch him. He opens his mouth to make the proposal, but stops when she simply raises her eyebrows at him, the challenge clear.

The midwife tells them all it’s perfectly normal, and stays with Peggy to talk about where she wants to give birth.

Peggy and Howard both agree the main house will be the safest, and neither is willing to risk a hospital.

By the end of the week, Howard has one of the downstairs wings converted to a hospital wing: a birthing room and a fully equipped surgery ready and waiting.

~*~ Week 27

“Howard says he’s officially put me on the payroll as a security consultant.” Peggy sighs into the darkness. “I asked him what that means and he said it just means I don’t need to worry about anything ever again.”

She rubs her belly, looking up to the ceiling. “For what it’s worth, I almost punched him again. He still has a bit of a bruise from the last time he proposed.” She chuckles. “But he did promise that when I was ready, he thought Stark Industries could use someone like me, and that my pay was merely a retainer fee.”

She turns on her side, pulling the quilt up around her shoulders. “Nearly two-thirds the way there, my love.” She squeezes her eyes shut, pretending his arms are wound around her. “Ana wanted to throw me a baby shower, but I couldn’t think of anyone to invite. We’re going to go shopping for the bassinet and such tomorrow, instead. She and Mr. Jarvis have already bought me more than enough bottles and diapers to last well until the Little One is walking.”

Her voice cracks, tears gathering in the corners of her eyes. “I can’t believe you won’t be here for this.”

~*~ Week 30

She doesn’t fit into her bras anymore, and Ana has never been more of a godsend. The woman brings her a bag full of options from the department store and sits with her, chatting calmly as she sews little cotton pads to go in them while Peggy sniffles, unprepared for the leaking and the soreness that’s accompanied this new stage in her pregnancy.

Even when feeling her lowest, with washcloths stuffed in her slip and her face red after bidding Ana a soft farewell, the back of her mind tells her that Steve would have gathered her in his arms and held her close, telling her she was beautiful and amazing and carrying a new life.

She wraps her arms around herself, weeping, and sinks to the floor, crying for all she’s lost and the things her child will never know.

~*~ Week 32

Her mother still refuses to speak with her, and she’s resorted to letters.

She hasn’t said who the baby’s father is, or that there is a good chance her grandchild will be the genetic carrier of an abundance of useful information that could cure disease or lead to another generation of super soldiers.

She mails what she tells herself is the last letter, the contents telling her mother that, should she care to know, Peggy has found a wonderful group of friends that will make sure her and her baby are protected and cared for no matter what happens.

Peggy sits, staring out the window of her guest house, rubbing her belly and thinks it’s a shame that the baby won’t have a grandmother to bake it cookies.

She laughs when she realizes Mr. Jarvis can fill that role very well, and that his cookies are far better than anything her mother managed to cook from scratch.

~*~ Week 35

She wakes up the whole household at three in the morning, convinced she’s having the baby too early.

Jarvis resorts to making tea and a full English Breakfast despite the time.

Ana holds her hand tightly, sitting by her bedside in the birthing room in the mansion as they wait for the midwife.

Howard paces a rut in the floor outside her room, smoking like a chimney and muttering to himself.

“Braxton Hicks,” the midwife tells her cheerfully despite the ungodly hour. “That baby isn’t quite ready to come out, yet.”

Ana sits with her for hours after the midwife leaves, never letting go of her hand.

~*~ Week 37

She sits with a list of names. She tries to imagine his reaction to each of them, but can’t.

Howard has become insistent that she put him down as the father, he notes that it won’t spoil his reputation any and that him as the legal father will afford the baby a comfortable life and there will be far fewer questions.

She thanks him, then threatens to punch him.

She’s already decided that the father’s name on the birth certificate will stay blank. Better no father than the wrong man, she thinks.

The baby will have her last name.

The rest, she hopes, will come in the next three weeks.

~*~ Week 38

She paces the halls of the big house through the night. Howard and Jarvis, much to her and Ana’s amusement and chagrin, have become insistent on her staying in the mansion. They want her close as the big day nears.

She tries to picture what Steve would be like, tries to guess which pieces of her friends he’d put together: Jarvis’ anxiety and preparation, Howard’s determination and excitement…

Steve was always a very tactile person, and she misses every hug and touch she knows he’d have given her. She can feel them burning on her skin in their absence.

The Little One is active and low, ready to come any day now.

What was once fear and confusion is starting to transform in her belly into excitement.

~*~ Week 39

“Mr. Jarvis,” Peggy calls from the hallway just after dinner on a quiet Tuesday, “I’m afraid I’ve made a bit of a mess.”

He moves out of the kitchen, his usual placations ready to spill from his lips until he sees the sight of her: puddle below her, legs dripping, one hand gripping her belly and one holding the sideboard to keep her standing.

Peggy thinks, as she watches Jarvis and Howard turn into tornados of commotion around her, that perhaps Steve would have been the calm one. He always did manage to have his head about him in a battle. Jarvis is slipping in her mess as he tries to get her over it without incident, Howard is on the phone, yelling incoherent sentences at the midwife.

Ana, thankfully, takes her hand and helps her leave them behind, guiding her back to the birthing room that had become her bedroom for the last few days.

Yes, she imagines, as Ana helps her into a dry nightgown and pull her hair back, he would be calm and certain, slow and deliberate, making sure she had everything she needed. Ana’s helping her into the bed as the midwife arrives, and like before the woman stays by her side, talking softly as the midwife examines her and declares that they’ll have a baby sooner rather than later.

Peggy thinks it might be the pain, but as she’s enduring the worst of the contractions, she swears she can hear his voice in her ear, telling her to keep going, that she’s strong, that she doesn’t need him, or anyone, to do this.

When they sit her up to push, she imagines it is Steve’s strong form behind her, not pillows and a bedframe holding her up as she yells with each effort, the midwife between her legs and Ana at her side.

When the baby slips from her body she imagines he catches her as she falls back, limp, his strong arms holding her up, his lips at her ear, his cheek next to hers.

But when the midwife hands her the baby, swaddled tight and eyes opening gently, any ghost of Steve is gone. Her heart pounding in her chest, she hears the words over and over in the back of her mind, and she’s wondering if it is him, if he was with her. If he’s left her this gift and this knowledge.

You can do this.

“A little boy,” the midwife says as she hands Peggy her son. He squeals a bit, lets out a soft cry, then settles, opening his eyes.

Peggy smiles at him, eyes filled with tears. She presses the blanket back from his chin, taking in the radiant blue of his eyes, the tiny eyelashes that surround them, the strong set of his still barely there jaw.

She knows, one day, there will be no question about his parentage.

She presses a soft kiss to his head, cradling him close as he squeezes his eyes shut and lets out a cry, her heart more full of love than she could have ever imagined. She can’t tell if she’s laughing or crying as she speaks. “I have eagerly been awaiting the day I could finally meet you… and I am not disappointed. You are beautiful.”

She gazes at her son as the midwife finishes her work, feeling but not registering the passing of the afterbirth and the older woman’s gentle washing of her legs and thighs. Ana gently cleans the child as she holds him, unable to look away. Finally, the midwife sits by her side, papers in her hands. “I’ve filled out everything else. All that’s left is his name.”

Peggy gulps, hard, undecided for a moment, but his eyes gaze up at her and she knows. “Michael Steven Carter.” She expects tears when she says it, but they don’t come, and that’s how she knows she’s made the right decision. “For two important men that I wish he could have known.”

The midwife sets a caring hand on her arm as Ana turns away, sniffing. “A beautiful memorial.” The older woman fills out the paper and leaves it at Peggy’s bedside. “I can bathe him for you, if you like?”

“No, I don’t think I can bear to let go just yet,” she whispers, still in awe of the small movements he’s making. Each stretch, each wiggle she can almost feel coinciding to a movement she felt from the outside. To have him in her arms is a blessing she won’t overlook.

“Then perhaps we should try feeding him?”

Peggy nods, smiling up at the woman. “Please.”

~*~ Week 40

She stares at him, asleep in his little bassinet. He’ll be waking soon, she can tell from how swollen and tight she feels that he’s due for another feeding, even if she hadn’t looked at the clock.

When she woke, she could have sworn that she saw Steve standing over the bassinet, his form strong and stoic in the moonlight.

She blinked, and he was gone.

Peggy didn’t have time for fantasies of lost loves any longer. She still wondered at how Steve might react, what he’d say, but she’d been too busy to wonder too much, or miss him too deeply.

Michael was her whole world right now, and keeping him safe was her first, and only, job. Howard said it was for too early to know if he’d exhibit any of the traits his father had been endowed with, but any and all tests they’d run showed that he was a healthy, normal little boy.

She still hadn’t figured out how she’d tell him about his father, or what they’d do if he was stronger and faster than all his peers as he grew, but every time it popped through her mind she reminded herself that was a problem for years down the line.

Tonight, when she held him tight to her breast, she could tell him unedited stories of the bravery of his father, knowing that the boy would never remember her words.

Tonight was all that mattered.

Tonight, and her beautiful boy in her arms.

#Steggybingobash #Steggy Fic #Angst #tissue warning #3P's Fic

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need-a-new-hobby · 4 years

Text

the descent into hell isn’t easy

s1 ep 2

so i got 2 notes on my last post so imma keep going

did simon just compare jace to mick jagger?!? HA!

did clary just say that she thinks jocelyn is at the center of their war?!? WhAt? look, i get that this girl wants to find her mom, but assuming that the entire shadowhunter race (also they call themselves a race) is fighting over her mom is just... idek what to call it? Arrogance? Naïveté?

also did noone think to bring the body inside?

i swear alec is so done with jace and his mundanes. his entire thing is just ‘another one?’

i’m sorry, i think my eyes just rolled down the back of my skull with the whole ‘best friends’ thing.

can i just point out that matthew daddario is just watching isabell flirt with simon with such amusement? it’s adorable.

my god, i forgot that they torture their tutor to get info on the circle. i know hodge deserves this later, but seriously, how could clace do that?

‘i hate to make you suffer like this.’ are y’all serious? she’s borderline torturing this guy for info. somehow she makes me angrier by apologising.

also this kinda thing is so classic. ofc none of them know their own violent history. did no-one bother to find out growing up? i hate to say this but if clary’s right about one thing, it’s the insanity behind not knowing their own history.

also, this scene is one of the first that made me sorta dislike clary. rewatching it just makes me angrier.

‘what is a g. i. joe?’ them not knowing clary and simon’s pop culture references is the funniest. refer to mick jagger above

also where the hell was she planning to go? and clary’s explanation of what a g.i. joe is is kinda off. i always assumed a g. i. joe was like an all-american hero (see steve rogers)

yikes! clary stepped on mom issues. i have no empathy/sympathy for her, she needs to calm down

‘in the shadow world, no training and no plan gets you killed’ - the first sane thing i’ve heard jace say all season.

kay, jace has got to be some kinda genius to go from ‘my memory’s blank’ to ‘your memory’s been wiped’. my memory goes blank all the time. i don’t remember what i had for dinner last night.

one more implausible thing, how doesn’t she know what a warlock is? i mean she’s 18, it’s 2016, has she not heard of Harry Potter, or LOTR for that matter? she’s simon’s best friend, she has to have come across it at some point in time.

kay, first of all, we all saw dot fall through a window about maybe 10 ft high, crack her neck on a fence and fall on the pavement. how is she still alive?

also, i know luke’s meant to be a good guy and all, but he literally just treated dot like crap considering all she’s been through. and insinuating that she can’t be trusted when he himself was a circle member is just plain discrimination.

also, she gets it. ‘if anyone can help, it’s magnus bane’. i get it, my baby is super powerful, but please don’t get him killed. i can already sense the magnus bane sass™️

izzy’s so pretty! and her hair is flawless. but the way she says ‘he’s the ultimate protector’, i just can’t

btw, love the inclusion of the ‘izzy can’t cook’ gag from the books. but kinda implausible that she can make porridge but completely burns toast. nvm, the porridge looks nasty (sorry, iz, i still love you though, bad porridge and all)

can i just ask that if jocelyn fray’s real name is fairchild, why would searching her pseudonym come up as restricted? also, hodge very conveniently forgot to tell them that jocelyn was married to valentine or that her real name was fairchild. that’s just sloppy.

also luke’s friendship with his boss is so pleasing to watch (terrible phrasing i know) i mean so often female captains are seen as these stoic, always angry and fierce officers with terrible relationships with their underlings. it’s nice to see her joking around with a colleague.

clary’s uncomfortability with izzy’s clothing is canon, but she’s basically wearing a camisole. it’s a lot less revealing that izzy’s regular clothes. at least there’s no slutshaming! plus she’s gonna be wearing a jacket on top, but ofc everyone’s comfort levels are different.

I’m so glad that Clary and Izzy are both so positive towards each other. I mean compared to the books, not that bad

‘do you know how to fight demons?’ to ‘i’m an internet search away.’ simon’s the best. 😍😍

i mean, who in their right mind would approve the mission? sure, they’re not teenagers, but they’re messing with Valentine, for crying out loud. besides, we all know how much the clave prioritises down and out warlocks.

‘little girl’

‘clave thing,’ someone needs to educate this selfish matchstick. first of all, she can’t expect alec to turn his back on the clave, they need the clave’s resources to keep the institute running. second of all, she doesn’t really need to go. think about it, if alec, jace and izzy can track down a shapeshifter to a nightclub, they can handle a warlock. besides, she’d just be dead weight anyway. i just hate that clary doesn’t get better than this.

haha, alec’s salt kills me. ‘well, since you have all the answers...’

oh, so she’s not gonna explain the vision giving gemstone lolling around her neck? fuuun

‘you were kidding about the runes on the floor killing me right?’ alec’s smile aaaaaaaaaaaaaaa. i love one grumpy cat smile so much. also this is like his first smile in the 2 eps

sorry, but magnus’s face when dot grabs his arm, just like ‘bitch who do you think you are?’

instant priorities people. see, magnus understands the concepts of ‘risk’, ‘danger’ and ‘consequences’, unlike one matchstick i won’t name. (“I’ve been busy trying to save our people from certain death”)

hahaha, the foreshadowing -> “are you really gonna risk your life for a shadowhunter?” - this is why magnus is my fave.

okay, couple really weird things i have to point out. first off, clary sucks at running. i get that running in heels is hard, i can’t even walk in them, but i can’t believe that the entire institute doesn’t have one good pair of sneakers. second, alec is just walking in the back, that’s how slow they’re going. third, are they seriously just following clary around the club on some strange whim instead of attacking the club strategically?

but seriously, her running though. her arms are just waggling around. seriously, guys, sneakers.

kay, clary is way too hyper right now. alec never said they were giving up, just that it wasn’t safe and they had to get back to the institute. which is absolutely true, if circle members are after dot in pandemonium, they’re probably in the vicinity

im sorry, but watching alec and izzy know exactly what jace is planning with the silent brothers and in sync just going ‘jace, no’

‘a process that can also kill you, so there’s that.’ i mean, what’s the downside?

‘your bedside manner is abysmal’ - kay, i’m still kinda pissed off rn so that’s probably coming across here, but dude, you are both adults and she needs to know the risks involved. how tf was he supposed to say that...not abysmally? sorry, im a big alec defender. i think its an older sibling thing.

wait, 18 rules? damn, jace has to have like a record or something. i reckon 18′s probably exaggerating. i’d guess at 10, maybe 12.

hold up, he’s asking clary to decide whether she should get her memories wrenched out of her by the silent brothers w/o knowing the risks involved? not a sound decision.

why is she so fucking smug towards alec? it’s kinda hard to see at first, you have to replay it a couple times. maybe it’s just me cuz im writing this late at night but her attitude towards alec really gets under my skin.

also, i think satan is on simon’s van. that’s not at all disconcerting

also, why is this all happening at night? and wasn’t isabelle making breakfast before?

‘are you kidding? i was born afraid.’ first of all, mood. second of all, proof why simon is my child.

tbh, i really wanted to see a better brotherhood between jace and alec. like, it is still better than in the books, where jace practically ignores alec’s existence until he gets injured by Abaddon. (a moment i wish was in the tv show, but too complicated, i understand.) but i think in this scene, where they discuss the steps they’re taking, you kind of see the chemistry between them. well, not really chemistry, maybe more just their relationship.

first off, alec tries explaining to jace that even though clary’s made the decision, they’re responsible for her wellbeing, something that isn’t in the book. i really appreciate this bit, primarily because you see why alec is so fussy about missions. as the season progresses, you see the kind of pressures that are on him, something that makes me hate clary all the more

second, jace counters this by giving him the bigger picture. this is a step they need to take to find valentine. i think that’s something the books don’t give you either. you kinda start seeing that without jace, alec gets stuck on the minor details i.e. rules, stipulations etc. and without alec, jace wouldn’t be able to calculate the risks of each decision, which i think is key to understanding them as parabatai.

third, alec’s soft little ‘you were never a stray’ tugs at my heartstrings every time. jace really is family to them, a brother for them and i love that he sort of forces that down; that despite their last names, despite their bloodlines, they will always be brothers, a sentiment i absolutely adore

haha, jace c*ckblocking simon since 2016

i’m still not over the notion that valentine is holed up in chernobyl, of all places. i am really glad though that they didn’t follow the trope of the US being like the only country in the world, or New York being the only city on the planet.

did i mention how confused i am that dot is still alive?

yeah, did not miss jace’s arrogance

‘kay despite the fact that i hate everything about her, i have to commend clary on how much she loves her mom. i mean, i know a lot of people who wouldn’t do the same. and despite the fact that jocelyn lied to her for 12 years (based on what she tells magnus later on) she’s still willing to do whatever it takes.

‘you’re clary freaking fray, you can do anything.’ cue alec eye-rolling in the back. look, it’s not that i have anything against simon and clary being vocal about their bff status, it’s just that a) i would never talk to my best friend like that and b) it is thoroughly making me cringe

kay, i’ve rewatched this scene a dozen times and here’s what i noticed

‘i have seen every horror movie ever and the funny best friend who gets left behind...dead man’

cue isabelle laughing

jace: you’re not that funny

alec is just so done with these f*cking mundanes. “the rune energy will kill any mundane that dares to enter, so please.” motions for the mundie to keep going.

kay, before i keep going, i’ve noticed this post is going on for a bit, and re-reading, i feel like i have to clarify why i dislike jace’s arrogance but not alec’s. i think it’s mainly because jace’s arrogance stems from a need to be superior to others, which is common with victims of child abuse, or so i’ve read. knowing this makes it a little harder to hate him, but this kind of behaviour, while is justifiable, often leads to them tearing down another person’s self-worth, which you can kind of see in the books. alec’s arrogance mainly stems from being exhausted from dealing with other people’s bullshit, which i can’t really dislike. i’m an older sibling myself, so i kinda know what he goes through dealing with siblings and such. you’ll see with the next point.

‘talk about sacrifice, i’m missing a financial analysis class.’ first off, what kind of class starts in the middle of the night? second, i’d rather be in the city of bones than in financial analysis. third, i feel alec’s exasperation.

‘yeah, i can’t be around this, so imma mind the perimeter.’ *gestures to simon’s entire body*

i dunno why clary’s hugging simon like that, it’s not like he’s the one going down there. i’m gonna move on before i overanalyse and come up with more ways why i don’t like clary

izzy keeps making simon uneasy and I LIVE FOR THESE MOMENTS

aight, imma keep it honest, i skipped the whole city of bones/clace section the first time cuz they’re so boring. but it’s pretty much just jace making stupid jokes and clary being kinda whiny.

‘looking better in black than the widows of our enemies.’ a line that lives rent-free in my head.

also, he keeps saying she’s a shadowhunter now, but she hasn’t done much shadowhunting. she doesn’t even know what the clave is

aand now they’re holding hands. great. very professional y’all.

silent brothers. looking creepy since the dawn of nephilim. but for my book stans, where’s brother smackariah?

imma be honest, i feel bad for the silent brothers. i mean, they’ve devoted themselves completely to the shadowhunter profession, mutilated themselves for the attainment of knowledge, and yet, the first thing that comes to mind is fear instead of admiration. yikers.

“if you are not strong enough, the soul sword will kill you.” this show needs to stop getting my hopes up

“it literally never stops talking.” i love alec with all my heart.

i know i shouldn’t but it’s so funny that they keep referring to simon as ‘it’

“my father is valentine.” cue matchstick running.

alec is the only sane person on this team. how is he the only one that doubts clary’s loyalty? i mean, i’ll admit he could have phrased it better, but book!Alec is canon for being straightforward so i’m shrugging it off. jace should’ve been a leetle understanding and for once, i think clary’s reaction towards alec was justified. finding out she’d valentine’s daughter, and then being accused of espionage isn’t a fortunate series of events. but alec is correct in his own right. as head of the institute, he needs to make sure. again, he’s always mindful of the consequences behind his actions. even when simon is kidnapped, he doesn’t act rashly, even though no-one would blame him for sticking an arrow through Raphael for kidnapping Simon. (don’t get me wrong, i love raphael.) but he doesn’t, keeping the accords in mind. they’d all be screwed if they broke the law, and alec would be held responsible.

that’s all folks. tune in tomorrow for episode 3

#shadowhunters #the mortal instruments #anti clary fray #anti clary fairchild #anti clary #alec lightwood #Jace Herondale #jace wayland #jace #alec #izzy #simon lewis #isabelle lightwood #clary fairchild

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lennydaisy · 4 years

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EPIPHANY SERIES // OUTER BANKS // CHAPTER THREE.

(n.) a moment when you suddenly feel that you understand. or suddenly become conscious of something that is very important to you.

“Care to seize the day, my friend?”

Outer Banks Season 1- FEM OC! and ?

Here’s the link to Chapter Two in case you haven’t read it already <3 Check it out!!

Babysitting isn't for everybody. And at the beginning, I didn't think I was for me either. They say every child is different and this job has proved that couldn't be more true. Call it delusion, but I thought babysitting would be the easiest job on the planet. Getting paid to look after someone's kid for a few hours whilst they run for the hills for a sliver of free time. Sounds easy enough right?

Wrong!

You need to have thick skin when it comes to babysitting. No matter how much the parents reassure and praise their kid for being a literal angel on earth. That said angel will call you a do-do head at least once whilst simultaneously having a tantrum because you told them no, despite how much they promised that their parents allow them to climb onto of the refrigerator.

The first time I babysat it was actually a baby I was watching. The mom wanted to get out of the house and away from the responsibility of her 6-month-old. She had graciously written up any and every scenario that could play out in the few hours she was gone. And I was feeling confident. Until I wasn't.

They wouldn't stop crying. And their special lamb, that the board told me to give to the baby when they were upset, ran out of batteries, and I couldn't find new ones anywhere.

They refused to eat, just spitting the pureed food back in my face. They also wouldn't keep their socks on and that was the last straw for my sanity. I understood now why the mom had been quick to run out the door.

I ended up calling Kie, begging for her to come and help. I don't know how she understood a word I said, I was practically hyperventilating over the line, staring at the baby who was crawling around in a fit of rage.

Kie was truly a godsend. She somehow fed the baby and managed to get them to sleep before the mom came back. It did result in me splitting my first wage with Kie, but I wasn't complaining, I was just happy that I made it out of that house with just a headache and not an external crisis. Though that did come later.

I've babysat an 8-year-old boy, who ran away from me in the park. I did find him eventually. After giving myself a hairline fracture in my right wrist from climbing the tree he got stuck in.

I've babysat animals before. That wasn't part of my non-existing contract, but the way they spoke about their pets was very humanlike. It didn't end well for me, it never does. It resulted in me holding four leashes of four overly excited Komodo Dragons. Just kidding. The refused to move and lacked any type of emotion.

'I took you guys to the beach, be grateful.'

Now, I know what you're thinking, Komodo Dragons? Aren't those Illegal to have as pets? The answer to that question is yes! But I didn't know that. Just imagine Shoupe's face when he saw me practically dragging not one, but four, exotic animals across the boneyard. It looked suspicious is all I'm going to say.

Turns out the two guys who asked me to babysit their dragons for them we're smugglers who purchased and sold exotic animals. Not good. Apparently, they were already under the police departments radar and the pair planned on legging it to the in-country hoping to change and clear their names.

That worked out well for them, I think? Nothing else was really mentioned of it after my dad collected me from the police station. They're still on the radar, I hope. If not then there are two brawny men out there that could come and kill me in my sleep for ruining their very illegal business. Look, If you are up to some suspect things, my dumbass is the last person you'd want to be involved. I will unironically get you caught.

That's how Ward Cameron had heard about my very pristine babysitting service. Noticing the little bit of trouble that always seemed to shadow me, he offered to hire me permanently as his youngest daughter's babysitter.

That was three years ago, and here I am still babysitting Wheezie.

"This is stupid," Wheezie complains, trudging behind me, pushing forward the shopping cart filled with lost items that we found on the beach.

Since there is no internet in Kookland, in other words, Wheezie's heart line is currently in critical care. I decided to venture outdoors with her for a change. Instead of just sitting around her three-storey clubhouse or in her four-acre backyard, I thought it would be nice to comb the beach of any debris that the hurricane brought along.

There was a lot of personal items that washed up on the beach too. Wallets, bags, photographs, books, clothes, wine bottles, footballs, toys, you get the gist. Most of them were ruined, either waterlogged or just completely useless. However, somethings just needed a good clean, and that's what we are going to spend our day doing. There is no way of telling what belongs to who, so we'll just turn them into the lost and found and hope they'll check there if it was important enough to them.

Our two trollies worth didn't even make a dent in the rubble that litters the beach, but it was a start. Say hello to a summer of hard labour.

"There was a hurricane Wheezie, have some sympathy" I roll my eyes at the girl who was less than thrilled about today's plans.

"I do have sympathy," she claims defensively, "It's just pointless. No one's gonna come looking for this junk," eyes flickering through the findings in her trolley.

What we found isn't pointless. They belong to someone. I think about it the same way I did as a kid when I wanted every single teddy bear in my bed at night so none got left out, so I didn't hurt their feelings. A ragged old soccer ball might look worse for wear, but it has a home and I going to get it back there.

"It's not junk," I object, stopping momentarily, waiting for the stroppy pre-teen to catch up. "Say you lost your phone and someone found it, and returned it too you. You wouldn't be grateful?" I theorize in terms that I know she would understand.

"My dad would just get me a new one," she shrugs nonchalantly, not missing a beat.

"Well, not everyone's fortunate that way," I remind her, blinking suddenly as the sun shines on something reflective in the cart, blinding me.

Reaching towards the sparkling object, I realise that it appears to be quite expensive. It's a glass ashtray. Rubbing the damp sand off the surface, my thumb feels an engraving. In swirly calligraphy, reads the initials:

'S.G'

"I'm sorry," Wheezie apologizes, wincing when she heard my comment, "I didn't think-"

"-It's okay," I smile at the girl. It's not like I don't understand my current life situation. It's pretty shitty, I know, but I live with it. I was born a Pogue for a reason. I wasn't supposed to be born with a silver spoon in my mouth, though that doesn't mean I hate those who are. They have it easier than me and my family, sure, but that's just how it is in the Outer Banks. Some are more fortunate than others. It does, however, leave a sour taste in my mouth that Kook parents will just throw money at there children to get them to shut up, but that's just a Pogue's opinion.

The generators haven't kicked in yet, seeing as though the Camerons security code gate is bouncing loosely against its unlocked hinges. Holding the gate open for Wheezie to push by with her cart, I catch a glimpse of their usually perfectly mowed lawn. Instead, I see plenty of fallen trees and scattered branches, broken plant pots, and ruined garden monuments. It’s not a good look, especially for the high-class Camerons.

That just goes to show, hurricane's don't show mercy on anyone, Kook or not.

As a wise man once said; 'Thanks Agatha, ya batch.'

Parking our carts beside the Cameron's private pool, away from the workers who are just trying to do their jobs. I turn to Wheezie saying, "You go get some soapy water and gloves and I'll empty the carts."

Nodding her head, she rushes into her house, leaving me slightly confused, 'Where did the sudden enthusiasm come from?'

Emptying the carts, I lay out what needs to be cleaned the most: from a bronze candlestick holder to a old, yet unique, shoe buckle, and everything in between. And of course, the ashtray.

Holding it gently in my palms, legs crossed against the cold slabs, I couldn't help but feel hypnotised by the intricate marks that littered the tray. It truly was a lost treasure.

"I'll take that," announces a voice from behind my hunched figure, jumping when a hand snatches the tray from my grip.

Coming to my feet, I'm ready to snatch the tray back from the sudden thief, but I stop when I realise who it is. Why am I not surprised, I am on their turf.

If it isn't dumb, dumber and dumbest.

Throwing the delicate glass from hand to hand, Rafe lets out a low whistle, "Check the weight on that," he tosses it to Kelce who was standing tall behind him. Kelce nods his head in approval, of course agreeing with what Rafe has to say.

"Who did you steal that from Pogue?" Rafe smirks thinking he has me sussed out. Not wanting to give the satisfaction that him lobbing around the ashtray is causing me heart amputations, I stare him in the eye, "I didn't steal it. I found it."

"You did, did you," he utters pushing past me, his head low with a sick smile, taking in the view of the tressures that I had laid out, "And what about all this? Did you just find that too?"

I say nothing. He knows the answer to that question. I already told him. I don't need to explain myself, especially not to Rafe Cameron.

His eyes flicker over Wheezie and I's findings, taking in each and everyone with a curious eye, before he cracked, "Bunch of junk," kicking some of the items into the pool.

All I could do was stare. Stare as someone's possessions sunk to the bottom of the marble pool, clashing and crumbling at the foot of Rafe. I fell sick.

His friend just laughs, egging him on. Kelce patting him proudly on the back, handing him back the ashtray. Rafe turns to face me, that smirk never leaving his face, but I can't look at him. I refuse to.

"-Hey Rafe, dad's looking for you," a soft voice breaks the harsh glare that Rafe was sending my way. Nodding his head at the voice, he holds the ashtray out for me to take.

It was too good to be true.

Gullible enough, I reach out for it, only to have it slip through my fingertips. Unable to hear the shattering of the glass as it hits the red slab, my brain refuses to accept fate as I stare down at the shards.

Laughing lightly, I bite my lip, nodding my head understandingly, not expecting anything less from Rafe. A sharp grip on my wrist snaps up my damp eyes, "See you later, Pogue," he hisses in my numb ear, before marching away as though nothing happened.

Sensing a presence, I meet eyes with the 3rd and final member of Rafe's crowd.

Topper.

Smiling lopsidedly at the well put together boy who hasn't moved or spoken since showing up, "Nice friends you've got there Topper," I say monotoned, watching as the boy snaps out of his trance-like state before following Rafe with a blank expression and his tail between his legs.

Shuddering out a breath, I unclip my waist bag and begin to pick up the chunks of glass. Pausing when a pair of clean, white shoes entre my line of sight, "Careful," she crounches down, picking up a shard, placing it into my bag.

A few minutes of picking up the sizable pieces, all that was left on the slabs was a glittering shimmer. Satisfied with what was salvaged, we stand back up to our full height. It was silent. Awkwardly silent.

"Thank you," I shyly say, not at all pleased that the Cameron girl had caught me in a moment of weakness, but at least she didn't mock me for it.

"Your welcome," she smiles before reaching for the tennis rackets she had thrown on the ground before coming to help me. Certain that was the end of the exchange, I turned back to the pool where pieces of metal and loose book pages float carelessly on the surface.

It was just a bunch of junk anyway.

"Hey," Sarah turns, rubbing the back of her head subconsciously, "I'm going to save mice from the birds," she says, pointing out to the bottom of her garden where the surge has blown over, waterlogging the grass.

I just blink at the girl, confused as to why she is even telling me this. Letting out a gentle huff, "I have a spare racket," she offers, holding out one of the two rackets she has in her hands.

Finally catching what she's throwing, I look anywhere but her direction, "I can't," hoping to find a legit excuse as to why I don't want to help her be a hero for mice. Then it hit me, "I'm supposed to be babysitting Wheezie."

My triumphant smile fell as fast as it came when Sarah says, "The powers back on, Wheezie will not willingly come outside again," still holding out the bat for me to take, "Also, my dad's back, so your shift ended about 20 minutes ago."

The more reasons she adds, the more difficult she is making it to say no, and she knows it as well. Her eyebrows dancing lightly as she waves the racket around like a tempting treat.

Giving in, seeing as though I have run out of excuses to give, I grudgingly accept the racket. Maybe her being the sworn enemy of my best friend would have been a good excuse, but I didn't think of that at the time. And what would I of said:

'Oh, I can't help you, even though you selflessly helped me, because my best friend hates your guts.'

What are we, middleschoolers?

I can't help but feel wrong about it though. Like I'm betraying my role as a pogue, as a best friend. But if I feel that way about just being near the kook princess, that doesn't make me any better than her brother. A judgmental prick.

Let's call it paying back a debt. She helped me, now I'll help her. Tit for tat. Anything to make my mind feel at ease.

Walking behind the women who seemed to be on a mission, I'm met by the shrieking flock of overhead seagulls, each nosediving into the burrows, hoping to catch their next meal.

"Operation ‘Save The Mice’ is a go," she announces, holding out her racket waiting for me to tap mines against hers, declaring our battle. I couldn't help but wonder aloud, "Why does this concern us?" tapping my racket unsurely against hers.

Nodding her head in confirmation, she takes her stance, eyes now set on the sky. "You have about as much compassion as a rock," she focusses her swing, untimely missing by a long shot. It was entertaining to watch, I'm not going to lie.

"Tell me something I don't know," I reply, leaping back as the girl swings her racket with vigour and fury at the diving gulls. I can't help but laugh at her attempts.

Having enough of my laughter she turns around, a challenging look flaring in her eyes, "Think you can do any better?"

I just shrug my shoulders, twirling the racket around my fingers, smirking at my trick, but Sarah just looks unimpressed. Watching as a flock of gulls take their position to dive, I jump as high as possible hoping to swat them away.

At that moment I learned something about human capability. Humans shouldn't jump. Like ever. It's embarrassing. What do we expect? To touch the stars? It's nice to dream and imagine that when we push both legs of the ground, arms reaching high, that we are close to flying. Let's just say my non-existing dream to become an Olympic long jumper has just flushed down the toilet.

Another thing I learned is that when you swing a racket, with force, at a cluster of hungry Seagulls, you will get attacked. The only thing between them and they're next meal is me, and they didn't hesitate to remove me from the situation.

Letting out a shriek, I run away from the burrows, hands protecting my head as the birds swoop at me. Without a second thought, I run behind Sarah, using her as a shield to protect my crouching figure from the diving gulls.

After two minutes of fearing for my life, I can't help but chuckle at myself. And Sarah joins in, shoving my arm lightly, pushing me away from hiding behind her. The sudden shove causes me to stumble over my own feet, falling back on the grass. I couldn't help but laugh more, seeing stars as my stomach cramps in pain.

Sarah holds out her hand, trying her best to keep her balance from laughing, offering to help me up. I accept without a second thought, allowing her to pull me to my feet. Both smiling widely at our stupidity.

"Let's get these birds," I smirked at the girl who nodded her head in agreement. Both of us taking a battle stance, ready to defend our people. Or well Mice. They attack us, we attack them.

A cold shadow suddenly covers the setting sun that was shining against us. We let out another shriek, holding each other as we attempt to duck from the relentless gulls, running away from the burrows.

"Sarah!" I hear someone shout over our screams. Too busy protecting ourselves, we didn't even register the voice, "Mason?!" They ask in confusion.

Finally feeling safe enough from the killer birds, I look up to see Mr Cameron making his way towards us with Lana Grubbs at his side. 'Why is she here?'

"We're busy!" Sarah exclaims, picking up and tossing me the racket I had dropped when I fell, going back to swinging at the birds. She takes one side of the burrows and I take the other, waving around my racket. At this point I don't even care about the mice, those birds attacked me! So, I'm attacking them!

"What are you two doing?" Mr Cameron asks, not understanding why his daughter and his hired babysitter are running around like headless chickens.

"Saving mice," I reply, flashing my eyes over to the man, who stands with an ever so slightly amused look. "The birds are having a field day," Sarah adds, pulling me with her, chasing after the devils in the sky.

"Girls, the birds have to eat too," He implies, but we didn't hear any of it, still aimlessly swinging. "No, it's a mouse genocide out here," Sarah states breathlessly.

"It's the circle of life," Mr Cameron's patience was running thinner, "Now come on, I have a human being-" finally introducing the other presence in the garden. This pauses our attack, both looking apologetically at the lady, "-I'm so sorry. I'm Sarah."

Shaking the ladies hand, "This is Lana Grubbs, Scooter's wife," Mr Cameron introduces, "You were storm prepping with him, right?" he asks his daughter.

"Yeah," she answers, still breathless, "He helped me latch the cabin to the Druthers," nodding her head in the direction of the docked boat at the end of the pier.

'It's a nice boat,' I thought taking in the beauty of the three-story yacht, 'You can't hide money, huh.'

"Last night?"

"Yeah."

"And did he go out after that?"

"From here?"

"Yeah."

"No. Are you crazy? There was a hurricane," Sarah laughs lightly at the thought of someone willingly going out during a storm.'I could think of a few people,' bringing my attention back to the two adults in front of me.

"Well, did he say where he was going?" Miss Lana asks, her eyes erratic, "Get a phone call or mention anything?" The desperation lacing her voice makes my heart stop with sympathy for the woman.

"He didn't say anything to me," Sarah shakes her head, her tone not hiding her pity for the lady.

"What about you Mason?" Mr Cameron asks me, "Have you seen Scooter recently?" his questions sparking Miss Lana to look my way, her eyes glistening with withering hope.

"The last I saw of him was when Pope and I delivered to your house," regret instantly hit me, as I had to be the bearer of bad news. It was true though. The last time I saw Scooter was earlier this week when he opened the door for his groceries. I've seen him at Save-A-Lot a few times, but that was months ago when I had to tell him to leave because other customers were complaining that he was bothering them for money.

"I'm sorry," I apologise to the lady who just shakes her head, looking at the ground.

"Is he okay?" Sarah asks her dad who just nods, wrapping an arm around Miss Lana, "He's absolutely fine," he reassures Sarah, before guiding the dazed woman back towards the house.

"Oh!" I hear Mr Cameron exclaim, spinning round to face me, digging through his pockets, "Thank you for watching Wheezie today," he says, placing a brown envelope in my hand.

"Thank you, sir," I smile with gratitude as he makes his leave again.

Sighing, I slap the envelope a few times in my hand, turn back to a Sarah. I go to snap her out of her daydream, but get interrupted by a distant voice, "Hey Sarah!"

At the top of the disarranged lawn stood a scornful Topper, hands in his pockets as he looks down on us, making his way over at a snail pace.

"You better go," I flick my head in the direction of her boyfriend whose eyes are slitted with distaste. Holding out the racket for her to take, she nods her head and makes her way over to Topper, not even sparing me a glance.

I get it.

"I want you to stay away from that pogue, alright?" I hear him utter not so quietly under his breath, knowing fine well that I'm still able to hear him. I pay him no mind, finding my own way out. That's what he wants. Attention. That's always been what Toppers wants. And I'm not going to give him that satisfaction. Not anymore.

Humming a gentle tune under my breath as I make my way towards the gate. I double-take when I spot a hunched figure sitting by the pool, "Wheezie?"

My sudden appearance spooking her as she ripped the earphones out from her ears, the buds projecting a catchy pop beat. The girl sat on the cold slabs, clad in yellow rubber gloves and safety goggles, surrounded my various cleaning tools: a basin of soapy water, a toothbrush, a blow torch?

"What are you doing?" I ask sceptically, making my way towards her as she stuttered over her words before giving up with a sigh.

"I heard what Rafe said," she admits, her voice low as though afraid to speak out against her brother. That's the Rafe effect. He gets off on it. Knowing that everyone around him, his family included, is too scared to tell him he's a mess with even messier opinions. "And it not true," she adds.

Wheezie walks over, holding out the shoe buckle that we found on the beach. The once rusted and unrecognisable buckle now sparkled a blinding silver, and despite its eroded corners, it was still in great condition, "Pretty, right?" she notices my expression, "That's not the best part," she claims, turning over the buckle, holding it out of me to take.

Engraved on the silver base scribed, 'Made in Occupied Japan.'

"I couldn't save everything, like books and stuff, but I tried my best. I even made a box and everything," She rambles, rushing over to pick up the homemade box that read, "Lost and Found," painted in bold, pink lettering. In the box sat: a polished pin, the candlestick holder, a handful of leather wallets and all the other salvageable treasure that we found. And now the shoe buckle.

"It's not junk," she says, passing me the box, "They belong to someone and I hope they find them," she says, rubbing the back of her tinted red neck, finally understanding why I had her help me in the first place.

It's not junk.

I'm not great when it comes to other peoples emotions. They make me want to shrivel up and go invisible, but I can't help but admire the girls change of heart, but I'm still awkward so, I just ruffle her hair, hoping the annoying act conveys my gratitude.

Having enough of me for one day, Wheezie pushes me toward the gate, practically kicking me out. "See you next time kid," I shout over my shoulder, smiling as her face grovels at the word 'kid'.

Basking at my long journey home, I give up attempting to balance the light box in my arms. I place it on the sidewalk, unzipping my waist bag wanting to tuck the brown envelope, that I was struggling to hold, away.

The clattering of glass pauses my actions. Reaching in, I pick out a small piece, watching as the setting sun danced across the surface, shining every colour of the rainbow onto the tarmac.

'S.G'

Chapter Three: FIN!

I really enjoyed writing this chapter, even though it’s kind of filler. Kie would be proud of Mason for beach combing, her tendencies are rubbing off on her.

I choose for Mason not to go to the motel because that’s just what I choose, I don’t really have a reason why. Well I do, but I can’t tell you yet. You’ll find out eventually, if my idea goes to plan...

So we learned about Mason very perfessional babysitting service. Also I know that Rafe is, y’know bad, but I’m excited to explore Mason’s relationship with him. It will be interesting to write!

What did you think?

I’m really excited to write the next chapter. Mason is going to get buzzed.

I hope you enjoyed this chapter <3

Also, if anyone would like to be tagged in future chapters, just let me know and I’ll for sure do that!

*TAGLIST*

@xshinytrashcanx @prejudic3 @annoylinglyaries

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ask-codeearasure · 3 years

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Introducing Ouija Board Demon the Depressed Juggalette

WHAT IS UUUUUUUP MOTHERFUCKERS! LOOK AT THIS FORMERLY PSUDEO DEAD BLOG. SUCKS ASS THAT THIS SHIT HAD TO BE THAT WAY BUT DON'T WORRY MUMMY IS HERE TO MAKE IT BETTER! Okay for realz tho, this shit sucks to say and know but I can't motherfuckin change shit tbh because this shit ain't really fully MY choice but who honestly gives a fuck? Well, hopefully you. So tha fuckin miraculous motherfucker who owned this blog, concept, and characters was TailsGothicAngel, but she had to fuckin dip because some punk ass, cocksuckin, pathetic little whores decided to abuse her till she finally fuckin broke and wouldn't let her fuckin move the fuck on by telling her why they fuckin liked kicking her around, and instead used it to fuckin spread lies and gossip to random Discord Servers where she couldn't even defend herself. It got to the point where some punk ass slut, who was the main aggressor decided it was funny to invalidate Tails' trauma and accuse her of doing, basically the same shit. I'd show screenshots and shit, but I ain't here to start shit, and It is already bad enough that this shit got Tails to the point she literally fuckin quit the internet, from deleting her tumblr, and twitter, but she also fuckin gave me control of her fuckin Ko-Fi, and Patron and had them connect to my bank and shit, and gave me her League of Legends account with a fuck ton of skins. So... yeah Tails ain't comin' back and I doubt she ever will. So yeah... ya'll have me now. She personally asked me to take control of all this shit and gave me everything. So sorry that this shit has to be this way, but there ain't nothin we can do. If ya wish to talk to me directly and not tha characters, jus put "Dear Miss Ouija," or just "Dear Ouija," and I'll fuckin respond ta ya. Also I'm gonna be rewriting tha stories and shit... and changing their designs and more, so.... ya. hope ya'll enjoy. To close this depressing shit off I'm gonna put in an excerpt from my personal favorite book, hopefully this excerpt will help ya'll cut people out who don't deserve your god damn time: Psychic vampires are individuals who drain others of their vital energy. This type of person can be found in all avenues of society. They fill no useful purpose in our lives, and are neither love objects nor true friends. Yet we feel responsible to the psychic vampire without knowing why.

If you think you may be the victim of such a person, there are a few simple rules which will help you form a decision. Is there a person you often call or visit, even though you really don't want to, because you know you will feel guilty if you don't? Or, do you find yourself constantly doing favors for one who doesn't come forward and ask, but hints? Often the psychic vampire will use reverse psychology, saying: "Oh, I couldn't ask you to do that" - and you, in turn, insist upon doing it. The psychic vampire never demands anything of you. That would be far too presumptuous. They simply let their wishes be known in subtle ways which will prevent them from being considered pests. They "wouldn't think of imposing" and are always content and willingly accept their lot, without the slightest complaint - outwardly!

Their sins are not of commission, but of omission. It's what they don't say, not what they do say, that makes you feel you must account to them. They are much too crafty to make overt demands upon you, because they know you would resent it, and would have a tangible and legitimate reason for denying them.

A large percentage of these people have special "attributes" which make their dependence upon you more feasible and much more effective. Many psychic vampires are invalids (or pretend to be) or are "mentally or emotionally disturbed." Others might feign ignorance or incompetence so you will, out of pity - or more often, exasperation - do things for them.

The traditional way to banish a demon or elemental is to recognize it for what it is, and exorcise it. Recognition of these modem- day demons and their methods is the only antidote for their devastating hold over you.

Most people accept these passively vicious individuals at face value only because their insidious maneuvers have never been pointed out to them. They merely accept these "poor souls" as being less fortunate than themselves, and feel they must help them however they can. It is this misdirected sense of responsibility (or unfounded sense of guilt) which nourishes well the "altruisms" upon which these parasites feast!

The psychic vampire is allowed to exist because he cleverly chooses conscientious, responsible people for his victims - people with great dedication to their "moral obligations."

In some cases we are vampirized by groups of people, as well as individuals. Every fund raising organization, be it a charitable foundation, community council, religious or fraternal association, etc., carefully selects a person who is adept at making others feel guilty for its chairman or coordinator. It is the job of this chairman to intimidate us into opening first our hearts, and then our wallets, to the recipient of their "good will" - never mentioning that, in many cases, their time is not unselfishly donated, but that they are drawing a fat salary for their "noble deeds." They are masters at playing upon the sympathy and consideration of responsible people. How often we see little children who have been sent forth by these self-righteous Fagins to painlessly extract donations from the kindly. Who can resist the innocent charm of a child?

There are, of course, people who are not happy unless they are giving, but many of us do not fit into this category. Unfortunately, we are often put upon to do things we do not genuinely feel should be required of us. A conscientious person finds it very difficult to decide between voluntary and imposed charity. He wants to do what is right and just, and finds it perplexing trying to decide exactly who he should help and what degree of aid should rightfully be expected of him.

Each person must decide for himself what his obligations are to his respective friends, family, and community. Before donating his time and money to those outside his immediate family and close circle of friends, he must decide what he can afford, without depriving those closest to him. When taking these things into consideration he must be certain to include himself among those who mean most to him. He must carefully evaluate the validity of the request and the personality or motives of the person asking it of him.

It is extremely difficult for a person to learn to say "no" when all his life he has said "yes."

But unless he wants to be constantly taken advantage of, he must learn to say "no" when circumstances justify doing so. If you allow them, psychic vampires will gradually infiltrate your everyday life until you have no privacy left - and your constant feeling of concern for them will deplete you of all ambition.

A psychic vampire will always select a person who is relatively content and satisfied with his life - a person who is happily married, pleased with his job, and generally well-adjusted to the world around him - to feed upon. The very fact that the psychic vampire chooses to victimize a happy person shows that he is lacking all the things his victim has; he will do everything he can to stir up trouble and disharmony between his victim and those people he holds dear. Therefore, be wary of anyone who seems to have no real friends and no apparent interest in life (except you). He will usually tell you he is very selective in his choice of friends, or doesn't make friends easily because of the high standards he sets for his companions. (To acquire and keep friends, one must be willing to give of himself - something of which the psychic vampire is incapable.) But he will hasten to add that you fulfill every requirement and are truly an outstanding exception among men - you are one of the very few worthy of his friendship.

Lest you confuse desperate love (which is a very selfish thing) with psychic vampirism, the vast difference between the two must be clarified. The only way to determine if you are being vampirized is to weigh what you give the person compared to what they give you in return. You may, at times, become annoyed with the obligations put upon you by a loved one, a close friend, or even an employer. But before you label them psychic vampires, you must ask yourself, "What am I getting in return?" If your spouse or lover insists that you call them frequently, but you also require them to account to you for their time spent away from you, you must realize this is a give and take situation. Or, if a friend is in the habit of calling upon you for help at inopportune moments, but you similarly depend upon them to give your immediate needs priority, you must regard it as a fair exchange. If your employer asks you to do a little more than is normally expected of you in your particular position, but will overlook occasional tardiness or will give you time off when you need it, you certainly have no cause for complaint and need not feel he is taking advantage of you.

You are, however, being vampirized if you are incessantly called upon or expected to do favors for someone who, when you need a favor, always happens to have other "pressing obligations."

Many psychic vampires will give you material things for the express purpose of making you feel you owe them something in return, thereby binding you to them. The difference between your giving, and theirs, is that your return payment must come in a non- material form. They want you to feel obligated to them, and would be very disappointed and even resentful if you attempted to repay them with material objects. In essence, you have "sold your soul" to them, and they'll constantly remind you of your duty to them, by not reminding you.

Being purely Satanic, the only way to deal with a psychic vampire is to "play dumb" and act as though they are genuinely altruistic and really expect nothing in return. Teach them a lesson by graciously taking what they give you, thanking them loudly enough for all to hear, and walking away! In this way you come out the victor. What can they say? And when you are inevitably expected to repay their "generosity," (this is the hard part!) you say "no" - but again, graciously! When they feel you falling from their clutches two things will happen. First, they will act "crushed," hoping your old feeling of duty and sympathy will return, and when (and if) it doesn't, they will show their true colors and will become angry and vindictive.

Once you have moved them to this point, you can play the role of the injured party. After all, you've done nothing wrong - you just happened to have had "pressing obligations" when they needed you, and since nothing was expected in return for their gifts, there should be no hard feelings.

Generally, the psychic vampire will realize his methods have been discovered and will not press the issue. He will not continue to waste his time with you, but will move on to his next unsuspecting victim.

There are times, however, when the psychic vampire will not release his hold so easily, and will do everything possible to torment you. They have plenty of time for this because, when once rejected, they will neglect all else (what little else they have, that is) to devote their every waking moment to planning the revenge to which they feel they are entitled. For this reason, it is best to avoid a relationship with this kind of person in the first place. Their "adulation" and dependence upon you may, at first, be very flattering, and their material gifts very attractive, but you will eventually find yourself paying for them many times over.

Don't waste your time with people who will ultimately destroy you, but concentrate instead on those who will appreciate your responsibility to them, and, likewise, feel responsible to you.

And if you are a psychic vampire - take heed! Beware of the Satanist - he is ready and willing to gleefully drive the proverbial stake through your heart! - The Satanic Bible by Anton LaVey Hail Satan!

#new blog owner #new owner #code erasure

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baepsaets · 5 years

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Sex With A Tall Woman

ot7 reaction:

warnings: graphic sex, cunnilingus, fingering, a lap dance, daddy kink, dirty talk

(a/n: ngl, i’m an average-height virgin who couldn’t find reputable answers on the internet as to what difficulties could arise when having sex with a taller woman, so i had to ask my tall bff about her experiences lmao. as always, there’s a read more in place!)

Kim Seokjin

You gripped the cushion, holding on for dear life as Seokjin fingered you. Your knees were close to buckling. He groaned, looming over you and pinning you over the back of the couch, cheek pressed against the fabric. Your body was bent into a V and Seokjin wasn’t letting up, grinding his hips into your thigh as his hand worked you.

“I love it when you wear those shoes,” he groaned. You had just come back from work, still wearing your black heels. You didn’t wear them often because of your height, but today you wanted to dress up and feel nice. It only took you striding into the living room for Seokjin to notice your choice in footwear, leading him to bend you over the couch, yanking your skirt up. He forced you to widen your thighs until you were at the perfect height for him to tease.

“Your legs are so fucking hot,” he whined, thumb shifting to rub against your clit. You warbled when he sped up, thrusting to find that one spot inside of you that would make your knees finally fall limp.

You moaned his name, close to falling apart. “Fuck me.”

“Not yet, princess.” He flexed his fingers until—right there. You let out a choked gasp and clenched hard enough to ache. “We’re just getting started.”

Min Yoongi

Yoongi hummed against your pussy, ignoring your growing desperation. When you’d visited him at his studio, it had been completely innocent—until it wasn’t, and Yoongi was pinning you against the wall, kissing down your body before settling himself at your feet.

“You’re such a good height for this,” he murmured, almost absent-mindedly. His tongue trailed lazily around your clit until he slurped obnoxiously, making you whine in embarrassment. “Your pretty cunt is right at my mouth.”

You were a natural homebody, preferring to keep bedroom activities in the bedroom. But Yoongi slept in his studio so often, it was basically a second bedroom, right? That’s what you tried to tell yourself as Yoongi delved deeper, fucking you with his tongue.

His lips curled. Yoongi knew your body too well for you not to cum. You could feel it building, body shaking and aching for it, but he kept his rhythm slow and inconsistent enough to keep you on the edge. Yoongi’s tongue swirled around your clit again, stopping to flick. He built you up higher and higher until you started to tense, and then he moved away.

“So comfortable,” he continued. “I could stay here all day.”

When he said it like that—your wetness dripping down his chin, looking up at you with eyes almost wide enough to look innocent—it was both a threat and a promise.

Jung Hoseok

“I-I’m sorry,” you said, choking on a giggle. Your face was so red it hurt. “I don’t know what to do with my hands.”

Hoseok grinned, not miffed by your nervous laughter. If anything, he used it to fuel the slow, sensual rolling of his hips as he sat happily in your lap. You were seated in a chair, hands up as Hoseok gave you the lap dance of the century.

He liked doing this—sitting you down until he could loom above you. Pleased at how he only had to bend slightly to give you a kiss, his knee resting teasingly on the seat.

“You could put them. . . here,” he suggested, reaching up to place your hands on his shoulders. Guiding them down, he dragged your palms down his chest until they settled at his waist. “Or. . . here.”

He couldn’t help but smirk at your flushed face, your glassy gaze pinned to where he hips rolled against you. He moved your hands until they grabbed a handful of his ass. “And here.”

“Hobi,” you whined, gripping his ass despite your embarrassment. He laughed, rolling forward again, making heat build in your stomach as his hips forced the seam of your jeans to press against your covered heat.

He chuckled at your expense, kissing you sweetly. “Don’t be embarrassed, baby. Just sit back and enjoy the show.”

Kim Namjoon

Namjoon pounded you harder, pinning your hips to the bed. The pace was breakneck, and you almost wanted him to slow down, except it felt too good to stop. You were supposed to be at a work banquet right now, but it was becoming obviously clear that you weren’t going to make it.

“Why is Daddy punishing you?” he asked, one hand shifting until he was rubbing your clit. He had only just begun, and already you were close to cumming. You knew he would keep fucking you until he finished, regardless of how oversensitive you were.

“B-because,” you tried to say, breath catching in your throat. “Because I disobeyed him.”

A sharp flick. You let out a hoarse moan, and Namjoon grunted with the effort to keep fucking you at such a harsh pace.

“And how did you do that?”

The slap of his body against your own was starting to become painful, but it only made it better. “I s-said I was too tall f-for the heels he bought me.”

It was all his fault. He had bought you a pair of heels you’d refused to wear because you were too tall for them. You’d been trying to save him the embarrassment of standing next to a woman of your height, but your kindhearted attempt had backfired.

“That’s right,” he panted, and then, “I—fuck.” He used his arm to press your thigh tighter against his waist. “I love these fucking legs.”

You didn’t make it to the banquet that night.

Park Jimin

“That’s right, baby,” Jimin grunted, pressing you harder into the counter. “You’re always so helpful, huh?”

He was going too rough for you to form a coherent sentence, but you nodded your head enthusiastically.

Twenty minutes ago, Jimin had called you into the kitchen to help him reach the peanut butter jar that had mysteriously made it to the very back of the top shelf. When you’d reached to grab it, he’d immediately started pressing kisses against the back of your neck, one hand trailing across your thigh, the other teasing the sensitive skin of your waist that had been exposed when you’d stretched.

Your skin tingled, nipples tightening at the ticklish sensation. He used his teeth to snap the strap of your camisole against your skin.

Now you were here, braced on the counter, Jimin fucking you from behind. Your bent knees knocked precariously against the lower cabinet, but you couldn’t bring yourself to care as Jimin started rubbing sloppy circles against your clit.

Your camisole was bunched around your waist, and he tweaked your nipple with his free hand. When you came, it was with a stuttered moan, and Jimin muttering praises against the exposed skin of your shoulder.

An hour later, while relaxing on the couch, you finally asked him, “How did the peanut butter get up there in the first place?

Jimin had the decency to look sheepish. “I threw it.”

Kim Taehyung

“Tae, yes, ye—ow!” you yelped, hand flying up to rub your scalp.

He stopped thrusting and paused, wincing in sympathy. “Sorry, jagi.” He kissed your forehead, trailing up to kiss the spot where your head had banged into the arm of the sofa.

“I’m just too damn long for this stupid couch,” you muttered, trying to wiggle further down. Your feet were already braced at the other arm, knees bent.

“It’s a loveseat,” he corrected. You shot him an unimpressed glare.

“Whatever.”

Taehyung laughed, a gentle sound, and helped you situate yourself into a more comfortable position. The twitching of his cock was a heated reminder that he was still buried inside you, and he groaned when he felt you clench.

“Comfortable?” he inquired. You hummed and nodded, but Taehyung moved until he covered your body with his own, his elbow braced above your shoulder and one arm curling around to warmly cradled your head. You rested on his forearm, but the action brought his face intimately close to your own, and you found yourself blushing when instead of kissing you, he simply stared.

“Sto—op,” you whined, trying to look away, but there was nowhere else to look. He laughed again, eyes hot with arousal and surprisingly soft.

“But you’re so pretty,” he cooed, beginning to grind. You giggled and gasped as Taehyung slowly worked himself back up to his original pace, gaze stuck firmly on your expression.

Jeon Jungkook

“(Y/N),” Jungkook scowled. “That’s not funny.”

“I think it is,” you sing-sang, voice tilting and light. His jaw was clenched, and he stared unamused at the gaming controller held high above your head, where it was completely out of his reach.

That was what he got for mocking you.

“You’re such a sore loser,” he snapped, which was fair, because you were—but only because he was a sore winner who didn’t know how to stop rubbing losing in your face.

“You talk a lot of shit for a man who can’t reach the controller,” you replied, and his glare darkened into something with a little more warning. Maybe you should be treading more carefully, but you couldn’t help it. He was so infuriating when he beat you. He gloated, and mocked, and it was seriously—

Jungkook strode toward you. You thought he was going to make a grab for the controller, but instead he wrapped an arm around your waist, sliding one hand around your neck until he gripped your nape, and then tugged your whole head down until he was kissing you. Moaning in surprise, you let him.

He nipped at your bottom lip, and your arm lowered, dropping the controller to the ground. But as he slotted his thigh roughly between your own, you knew that Jungkook wouldn’t let you get away with teasing him so easily.

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paige-from-my-book · 4 years

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Sorry for those reading along! I had some internet issues and a crazy weekend. Here is part 5! Warning: This contains sexual assault and talks about PTSD.

"I put my bike away when I got home and went inside. Grace was there with a couple people on the couch, they were all clearly doped up.

“Hailey!” Grace called, getting up.

“Hey, Grace. I’m not hanging out. Work was rough today. I just need to be alone.”

“Hey, dude, come on. Why don’t you ever hang out anymore?” Grace asked. “Is it because I got you arrested?”

I just wanted to go upstairs. But she was blocking the stairs.

“Look, I deserved what I got. I know I did. I’ve just decided I don’t want that life anymore.”

“Oh you think you’re better than the rest of us, huh?” one of the guys still on the couch asked. He had black hair that was shaggy and was a toothpick. Both of them were, which wasn’t surprising given what they were doing.

“What? No, not at all. I just… I can’t live like that anymore. It’s not for me,” I said, trying to duck under her arm. But she sidestepped to still block my path.

“Come on, man. One more time won’t kill you,” she said.

“No, but it could blow my chance at this job I really like. Plus I just don’t even want to feel the way meth makes me feel. I’d rather not, Grace. Please, I just need to be alone. I have a date anyway, and I want to get ready,” I say.

She stood there looking at me for a moment before stepping aside, letting me go upstairs.

I checked my phone. June was asking what time I would be over. I told her to let me shower and then I would be ready.

As I sat on my bed, my door opened. I got ready to yell at Grace that I didn’t want company, but it was one of the guys that had been on the couch. His greasy black hair hung to his shoulders. He was about six feet tall and his baggy shirt hung off of his body.

“You, uh, you have a date?”

“I do. My room is off limits,” I said, discreetly reaching for the knife under my pillow.

“You’re too pretty to be taken.”

“Back off,” I said sternly, my voice raising.

“But… But I just want to talk. Don’t you know any nice guys that just want to talk?”

“I’ve never met a ‘nice guy’ that just wanted to talk. Get out of my room,” I warned. My hand was now under my pillow, my fingers around my knife.

He lunged at me before I could pull it out, though, and knocked me off the bed. Luckily I didn’t lose my grip on it and I sprung it open as we hit the floor.

“Grace told me you don’t like guys,” he huffed, working to pin me. He was surprisingly strong for his physical state, but I knew better than to expect him to be weak.

I struggled against him, but he weighed more than me thanks to his height. I was only 5’4”. He shoved his arms up my shirt to take it off, but when that didn’t work, he ripped it from the front, tearing the buttons off of my work shirt.

When he did that, it freed up my hand, so I did what I knew I had to do. What I desperately didn’t want to. I sunk the metal into his flesh. He cried out, but still tried to undo my bra. So I did it again. And again. And again. I made sure to miss any organs while still causing pain.

Finally he fell off of me. I jumped up and, without looking back, I ran out the door. I didn’t stop to grab my helmet or coat or anything other than my wallet and keys. I hopped on my bike, before anyone could stop me and peeled out of the driveway.

I couldn’t think. I could barely see. The wind against my bare torso hardly registered. Tears flooded my eyes. Memories flooded back. An orange jumpsuit on top of me. My shirt ripped open.

“You’d be prettier if your stomach was flat.”

Her voice haunted me. It sent chills throughout my whole body.

“Struggle if you want. That just makes it more fun for me.”

It had happened over a year and a half ago, but I could hear her voice in my ear as if she was sitting on my motorcycle behind me.

“Your scream is sexy, babe.”

And the guard. The guard just stood there. I could tell he was hard from watching it. He just watched as she took my dignity.

That was the first time since I’d been with a guy that it hurt. God, it had hurt so bad, but she didn’t stop. She didn’t stop even after she’d finished. Not until there was blood.

I tried to blink away the tears. I knew I was driving too fast, but I couldn’t help it. I couldn’t even focus on where I was going. I could only make sure that I wasn’t driving erratically or breaking any laws other than the speed limit.

“We gotta do this more often.”

I found myself back at the vet office I honestly called home more than my own house. It was only 10 minutes after they closed, I knew Amanda would still be there. I didn’t want to be here like this, but I didn’t have anywhere else to go.

I turned my bike off and with shaky hands opened the door. But Amanda wasn’t anywhere to be seen, instead, Andrea was there.

She looked up from the desk, clearly ready to tell whoever was coming in that the office was closed. But when she saw me, her mouth hung open and her eyes widened.

“What have you done?” she asked as she stepped out from behind the front desk, horrified, seeing the blood all over me. Her eyes lingered on my stomach and chest, I assumed to stare at where the blood was most concentrated. I could also see a hint of worry and sadness. Why sadness?

“Wh-.. What… Have I… Done?” I asked, barely able to process the question. Then everything snapped. The shock, the pain from the scuffle, the hurt in my heart. I realized I had bruises. The guy at the house must have gotten in a few hits. “What… Have I done????” I repeated.

Andrea held her hands up, as if trying to calm me. “Easy there. I have a gun in the back.”

“What have I done???” I repeated again through tears. I was shaking uncontrollably. I tried to take a step, but instead I fell to the ground. When Andrea saw the tears she started to walk forward slowly, unsure what to make of me.

Just then, Amanda came out of the back room. “Hailey!” she exclaimed before rushing over to me. “What happened??”

“My… My roommate,” I started, right before bursting into more tears.

Amanda pulled me close, letting me cry into her shoulder.

“Her f-fr-friend,” I sobbed. “H-he came up t-t-to my room. He didn’t even let me relax after…. After work.”

I motioned to my clothes. I noticed Andrea hovering at the other edge of the waiting room, not sure if she should come over or not.

“He… He wanted,” I pointed to my shirt. I couldn’t finish, but they both knew what I meant. “I had a knife. I didn’t… I didn’t know what else to do.”

I sobbed more into Amanda’s shoulder. Andrea finally came over, still cautious. Amanda stroked my hair and back and Andrea sat down on the floor next to me, putting a hand on my shoulder

“It wasn’t your fault,” Andrea said quietly in a surprisingly soothing voice. “He made you do that. You didn’t want to. When you’re ready, come into the back room. I’ll make sure you’re cleaned and okay physically.”

Both Amanda and I looked at her, a little surprised by how gentle she was being.

“Then, we’ll go to your house,” Andrea continued. “I’ll see what care he needs. Then I’ll take care of it.”

The coldness in her voice scared me. Her eyes were hollow. I’d never been so afraid of someone as I was of Andrea in that moment, so Amanda and I followed her instructions. Amanda continued to close up the office as Andrea led me to the back room. There was a stiffness and hardness about her movements and her expressions. It was terrifying.

She took a towel and wetted it as she slipped my shirt off. Her hands were so gentle it was soothing. She wiped at the blood on my skin, rinsing the cloth off every few wipes to keep it clean.

It was comforting until she moved behind me.

“How are you feeling?” she murmured into my ear.

Feeling her hands on my bare skin, not having a shirt, and having someone’s voice in my ear while they were behind me caused a flashback from that moment in prison.

“You feel sexy.”

“Stop! Stop!!” I cried, jolting forward. I fell to my knees as I scrambled to get away from her. I whirled around, sitting up to see a shocked and confused look on her face.

“Hailey, I was just cleaning you. It’s okay,” she said softly. She took a small step towards me, holding her hands up, trying to calm me down.

“Sorry, I…. uh… I,” I stammered, trying to figure out a way to explain my reaction.

Andrea looked at me with sympathy. “You have PTSD, don’t you?”

I stared up at her, wondering how she could read me that well when we’d only worked with each other for less than three months.

“I’ve struggled with some hard memories. I know what it looks like,” she explained, walking over to me slowly and kneeling down. “What can I do to not trigger it?”

“It’s, um. It’s just if someone is whispering in my ear or behind me, mostly,” I admitted.

“If I don’t talk can I wipe your back?”

I nodded, letting her walk around to be behind me. I took a deep breath and tried to relax my shoulders.

She touched me a little more firmly, clearly trying to ground me and making sure the touch didn’t feel like the way she’d just touched me.

Finally she was done, coming around in front of me, helped me up, and placed a hand on my upper arm.

“Now, show me where it hurts.”

I pointed to my ribs, realizing there were bruises there now that the blood was gone. She checked my ribs and stomach, making sure everything was okay. After that, she took my forearm gently in her hands, looking at my wrist.

There were bruises on each wrist, but they didn’t hurt as much as my ribs. After checking them a bit, she straightened up and said, “Should we go back to your place now? Are you ready?”

I nodded, wondering if she would actually come back with me to my house. Just the thought of going back caused me to start shaking.

Andrea gently put her hand on my elbow and stepped within just inches of me. “It’s okay. I’ll be there.” Her eyes were so kind. Her voice was so soft. My shivers melted away and for the first time since I’d left my house, my shoulders relaxed.

True to her word, she caught a ride with Amanda to my house. I was embarrassed to show them the neighborhood, and I could tell they were both nervous, but regardless of her fear, Andrea got out, telling Amanda to stay in the car.

I could feel my hands shaking as I opened the door, fighting my fear to do so. Something about Andrea behind me comforted me and gave me the strength to push the door open. Even though I had never been with Andrea outside of the lab, I knew she had my back.

The guy was on the couch again, bloody towels around him.

“What the fuck, Hailey?? Why would you stab Tyler??” Grace asked, turning to me.

“Because he’s an asshole who deserved it,” Andrea said coolly as she walked over with her medical kit. “Move aside, let me look at his cuts.”

“Why would I let you look at my cuts?” Tyler snarled.

“Because I assume you don’t want to go to the hospital with how much shit is in your system. Because I have a doctorate in biology and treat stupid, feral animals every day. Because Hailey happens to be one of my best coworkers and I’ll not have you dying and ruining our work environment,” she snapped, shoving his hands away from his side. “I’m the best chance you have at living right now. So shut up and let me fix this so I can properly threaten you afterwards.”

Everyone in the room, including me, was so shocked they all just let her treat him.

“Yes it seems she missed all of your organs,” Andrea said, sounding pleased.

“I know where to stab someone to cause damage,” I offered, nodding. I had done that on purpose and I wanted her to know it.

Andrea turned to look at me, eyebrows raised. I couldn’t be sure, but it looked like there was a smile playing at the edge of her lips. Her full lips. She stitched him up, not giving him anything for the pain. She seemed to be almost glad he was squirming under her and constantly berated him for making the procedure harder, often looking back at me.

“Now. Hailey told us what led up to you getting injured,” Andrea said after she had dressed the wounds, putting her medical kit away. Her voice was cold again. Hollow. Terrifying.

“She’s a lying bitch!” Tyler started right before screaming because Andrea pushed down hard on one of his stab wounds.

“You need to learn to keep it in your pants. I know you can’t think of any scenario where a woman wouldn’t want that pitiful carcass you call a body, but you need to get used to that. Because if I ever find out that you did anything other than keep those pants zipped I will personally drug you, bring you to my lab while no one is there to hear your screams, and then make sure you are fully conscious while I cut you open and remove every single reproductive organ in your body while you watch,” she said. Her face told every person in the room that she wasn’t just saying that, either.

“Are… are you threatening me?” Tyler asked. He tried to sound tough, but the color was already draining from his face. He was as terrified as I was of her right now.

“I’m promising you,” Andrea answered right before standing up. Then she turned to me. “Can you pack your things?”

I nodded, completely speechless.

As I hurried up the stairs, I heard Andrea ask who was my roommate and tell her to start looking for a new one.

I quickly put all of my work clothes into a bag and all of my essential things, which weren’t much. By the time I got back downstairs, Andrea was waiting by the door. Everyone else looked too scared to speak.

We walked back out and Andrea took my bag from me, putting it in Amanda’s car.

“We talked about it on the way over,” Andrea explained. “You’ll stay with Amanda for as long as you need.”

“I doubt I can afford that.”

“Don’t worry about it. Pay her what you can. We’ve figured out a way to make it work.”

I was speechless. “My… My car,” I started, turning to the garage.

Andrea held out her hand. I handed her the car keys and she strode over to the car, getting in the driver’s seat. Amanda pulled out and we both followed her to her house.

#original work #redhead #lgbtlove #rescue #lesbian love #lesbians #original writing #fiction #f/f romance #f/f fic #gay love #animals #lgbtpride #lgbtq characters #lgbtq #lgbtq representation #loveislove

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overlordjanefire · 4 years

Text

“You aren’t autistic but”:

-“Why won’t you let me hug you? You said I could hug you yesterday.”

-“You lied to me! No, it doesn’t matter that you misintepreted the way I reacted to what you were saying/doing and that it was unintentional.”

-“You’ve already said that like 5 times! We get it wow.”

-“People don’t care about that thing you literally can’t seem to stop thinking about/mentioning, just talk about something elsez”

-“No I’m not MAD at you *eyeroll* why do you always ask that??”

-“Why do your jokes/style of humor always seem the same?? (Answer, when something gets a positive response ie: people laughing but not at you, it seems like a safe bet)

-*listens to a song on loop like 50 times, unable to stop*

-“YOU DON’T need to take so long to do that, I can do it in 5 minutes! Just do what I’m doing? Be faster, you clearly have no reapect for other people’s time!” (*Literally crying because I can’t go any faster*)

-“You get sarcasm! You’ve ALWAYS gotten sarcasm/idioms!” (Yes, when you use ThAt VoIcE™️ for sarcasm and I straight up learned every idiom I know from the internet/english class)

-Alternatively: “No?? Of course we aren’t doing that thing I said we were doing a second ago? I was being sarcastic???

-“I’m proud of you for just toughing it out and eating that food you hate/letting that person touch you when you didn’t want them to/basically just having a sensory meltdown without bothering other people too much.”

-*Infodumps while clearly no one cares*

-“You’re too sensitive! Why are you upset?”

-“Jeez what are you, heartless? Why aren’t you excited?”

-“How are you feeling?” “I don’t kn-“ “BUT HOW ARE YOU FEELING???!?”

-“Food doesn’t have a “bad texture”.

-*doesn’t make sure my voice/face is bright enough* “quit acting so disgusted with everything around you”.

-*gets overwhelmed to the point of crying while also being like why the fuck am I crying freaking stop*

-*Goes somewhere unfamiliar and is uncomfortable* “this is supposed to be a nice trip*

-*schedule gets suddenly changed/disrupted causing me to get stressed/overwhelmed/space out* “plans change sometimes you know”.

-*has a preset list of acceptable ways to talk to strangers and aquaintences in person* “you’re so good at small talk!”

-*Sometimes has trouble communicating/interacting with friends/family “Quit isolating yoursef”.

-*has extreme auditory sensitivity which was ignored for years until I literally begged my parents to acknowledge how much pain it was causing me*

-*Debilitating social anxiety due to lack of understanding where I fit into the conversation and not wanting to come off as too much* “Be more outgoing! People like you!”

-*says something I think is cool/interesting/funny only to be met by blank stares and one (1) awkward laugh.

-*Realizes that fiddling with elastics/pencils/fidget toys/flapping my hands a little is better than DIGGING MY NAILS INTO MY FUCKING SKIN when I’m overwhelmed* “You’re just doing all this fidgety stuff to PROVE something.”

-*Feels intense sympathy for friends and family but can only use shared experience for empathy*

-*doesn’t notice I’m talking loudly* “Jeez calm down!”

_*doesn’t notice I’m talking quietly* “Speak. Up.”

-*Develops super intense interests in tv shows and music*

-“Just change your routine! It’s not that hard.”

-*relentless thought/song lyric enters head, will not exit for rest of forever*

#there is so SO much more but this is just driving me insane #I’m so sick of taking up my life and mind with everyone I know #asd #autism #em’s trash pile #ranting #I’m tired

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raindrop-on-a-spiderweb · 5 years

Text

Dear God

I have GREAT NEWS! I have internet (granted, crappy satellite internet) and I've been working on the next chapter of Ragnatela! It should be done within the next few days.

I had this young!Patience chapter on the back burner and didn't want to leave the AU unfinished 😰 sorry if it feels a little rushed. I'm not too happy with it.

***

Patience's legs knocked into each other as she backed up, reaching out to grip the side.

The tall, imposing figure of her adopted father loomed over her quietly, his eyes serenely dark in his face.

"Salvatore Mallozzi," he said slowly, as if tasting venom on his tongue. "And what reason could you have to be speaking with my enemy?"

Her mouth was dry. He gripped her chin and forced her to face him. "I started to trust you," he said, his voice dead quiet. "A year of living with me, and I started to trust you. Clearly that was the wrong decision."

She began to cry, and he shifted his thumb to wipe her tears away. It reminded her of the first time he had looked into her eyes, his thumb soft on her cheek.

His hand went to her shoulder, then lower, to cup her breasts through her uniform, and then to slide down her hips, teasingly stopping just above the waistband of her skirt.

"Your body is becoming more mature," he said softly. "Your hips, your breasts, your face. I can see you growing older. Everything except your womb, apparently. When will you give me a child? Are you... doing anything to prevent it?"

She was crying unashamedly now, as his hand tightened on her hip hard enough to bruise. "I'm not. Please, papa. I'm not, I swear. I don't know what's going on--"

At the sound of papa, his grip relaxed. She heard him sigh. "Do you not like living with me? Is that why you tried to call someone?"

She wanted to say I hate you, I hate living with you, I wish you were dead, but she knew she stood on a precarious thread, so she sobbed, "I do--I do like living here. I just--sometimes I feel like getting away from you. I can't help it."

He paused, and something in his face settled, his eyes taking a faraway cast. His face slackened. "I understand," he said simply.

He ruffled her hair. "Dinner will be ready soon. Afterwards, go upstairs and I'll brush your hair." She knew what the veiled meaning behind I'll brush your hair was, and it carried with it a resigned sense of doom.

***

Patience threw the baseball at the stone wall, and it made a thud as it hit. It bounced right back into her hands.

Mindless activities like this kept her mind off the realities of her life. She could do it for hours, repeating and repeating, her brain a dull buzz, until Leonardo would call for her.

A hand caught her ball. "Shouldn't you be doing something more useful?"

She went to glare at the dark-haired, glasses-wearing visage of her second least favorite person in the world. "Give the ball back, Stefano."

"My daughter knew how to wash windows by the time she was half your age. The outer windows are filthy, why don't you get off your lazy bottom and make yourself useful to your father?"

"Give me the ball back!"

He threw it back, and she caught it to her chest. "I don't know why he bothers keeping you around. If I were him I would have dumped you off at an orphanage the first time you showed me lip."

Her eyes stung with tears. I'm not useless. I have a scholarship. She heard Leonardo call for her distantly, and turned to Stefano just as the sound of Leonardo's footsteps started to approach.

She kicked the older man hard in the shin. He squawked in surprised pain and clutched his leg, then recovered just in time to lunge at her just as Leonardo arrived past the grove of trees.

"What are you doing, Stefano?" Leonardo's sharp voice made Stefano let her go. "She-"

"Stefano said I needed to be taught a lesson about obeying you," said Patience loudly.

"I'll be the judge of that, Stefano," said Leonardo, his voice soft yet icy. "It would be best if you took your leave."

Stefano's mouth was gaping like a fish, but he snapped it shut and glared at her before leaving. When Leonardo wasn't looking Patience stuck her tongue out at his back.

He led her inside where the staunch, tall figure of Giuseppe Benevento was standing with one hand in his pocket, the other carrying a carpet bag.

"Are you staying for dinner, Joe?" Asked Patience, using his English name. She liked Giuseppe. Well, she didn't really like him, but compared to Leonardo, Stefano, and the rest of Leonardo's "friends" he was much more tolerable. He would drive her to school sometimes when Leonardo or the chauffeur couldn't.

"I suppose I can. I'll be talking to your father late into the night."

Leonardo smiled. "Well, that's excellent. I know you love my spaghetti bolognese."

In the dining room, Patience sat fiddling with her napkin while Giuseppe smoked a cigarette, occasionally stubbing it out on a star-shaped marble ashtray.

"Your school is going well?" He broke the silence with one of his canned questions.

"I got a scholarship to New York University," she said listlessly.

"Congratulations. When will you be graduating?"

"Next year," she said. I'm never going to use this scholarship. I'm never going to go to New York University. I'm never going to leave here.

The polished wood walls seemed to be caging her in. Something inside her young brain told her she would live and die here, and that made her want to scream and cry.

She tilted her head to look at Giuseppe. He was large and gruff, and said little. He was Leonardo's deputy, his "underboss" and he did his job well. Very well.

Maybe, she thought, maybe he has cracks in his exterior. Cracks I can worm myself into. He's a man, after all.

"Are you married, Joe?" She said, pushing her chair back and crossing her legs under her short skirt. She subtlely shifted her skirt up her thighs. Leonardo liked it when she did that.

"Yes," he said shortly. "Seventeen years."

"That's a long time. You must be getting bored of her. Do you still sleep in the same bed?"

He looked over at her, and his forehead crinkled. "We--that's none of your business." his voice was flat. "Why do you ask?"

"Well," she said throatily, trying to sound like the lounge singers she saw on TV, "I make you... less lonely."

His frown deepened as he eyed her.

She shifted her chair closer and touched his knee, sliding her hand over the rough cloth. "I can do things for you your wife never dreamed of. I know all about pleasing men."

He was frozen, eyes flickering to the closed door.

"With my mouth or--with any part of my body. I can be your Lolita." She thought back to the book she had read on Leonardo's bookshelf. She had to put it back when she was halfway done because of how much it disturbed and reminded her of herself. "All you have to do is take me out of here." She boldly gripped between his legs, squeezing and rubbing him gently.

"No," he said firmly, getting up and moving a seat away. She watched in him despair, her way of escaping firmly rejecting her. "You are my daughter's age. You are Leonardo's daughter. This is inappropriate. I--" for a moment something like regret and sympathy passed his face, but then it was gone to be replaced by his steely, gruff exterior.

"I'm sorry you feel this way. But I will not and can not reciprocate. Please don't make this hard for both of us."

A wave of shame washed over her. She stared at the tablecloth, tears in her eyes as she waited for Leonardo to arrive with the dishes.

***

"Christmas Party?"

Patience looked up from where she was chopping tomatoes. Her father wiped his hands on his apron and dumped the pork snippings into the the pot. "Yes. I've held it every year. You missed it last year because you weren't home with me, but this year I promise you'll be the belle of the ball. I'll tailor you the most beautiful, expensive dress. It will be so grand and opulent, you'll love it."

You missed it last year because you weren't home with me. Not, you missed it last year because you weren't living here. As if she had living there all along. Leonardo inexorably considered her role and home to be here, under his thumb, nowhere else.

"Okay," she said. Her mind had hardened during the year, become more calculating. This could be her way out of here. She couldn't give up, and it was becoming more important day by day while her womb was still empty. If she got pregnant, it was over for her. She was living on borrowed time.

***

The dress was mint-green and ruffled at the bottom, and square at the bosom. It definitely wasn't made to take advantage of her womanly curves (or what little she had of them). He had tailored it for her over several agonizing weeks, forcing her to stand as still as a ballerina as he slid needles inches away from her skin.

"Gorgeous," he said. "Matches your eyes." He slid his hands down her dress, cupping her bare shoulders.

"I look like a little girl."

"You are a little girl. My little girl." He kissed her ear and made her shudder. "Are you ready?"

She nodded, still staring at herself in the mirror.

He led her out into a wave of noise, bright lights and chatter. For a moment she instinctively clutched his arm as a dozen eyes turned on her. "Oh, this must be your daughter!" Said a man with a lumpy nose, a dark-haired woman at his side. "I don't think I've met her yet."

"She's been focusing on school. She's a good girl." He rubbed her shoulders.

The man beamed. "You're a sweet little thing, aren'tcha?"

Patience looked away. "Thank you."

"What a sweet girl. I can't believe she's your daughter," said a man in a fedora, cradling his cheek with a crafty smile on his face. She gritted her jaw. Adopted daughter. "Thanks."

"Oh, be more social, Patience," said Leonardo.

"Can I please get something to eat?" She asked, hating all the eyes on her.

"You may. But be gracious and kind and have nice manners."

"Yes, papa."

She scampered away, acutely aware of her role as the only girl in the ballroom. A cadre of portly mafia wives set upon her and pinched her cheeks, oblivious to her cries of "I'm sixteen! I'm sixteen!"

With much difficulty, she made her way to the food table, where she plopped herself down to think.

A silver-haired figure, serving himself casserole, looked down at her. "Why the long face, Patience?" She recognized him with a scowl. Charles Sawyer was always skulking around their house. She hated how condescending he was, and avoided him as much as possible. "None of your business."

"Perhaps you should lie down." He had such a wheedling way about him, like he was talking to a little girl instead of a teenager. "Put some color in those cheeks"

Her cheeks, already red from being pinched, flushed harder. "Mind your own business!"

Sawyer clucked his tongue and moved on, and she resumed watching the crowd. She tried to name all the men she saw, but other than the ones who came around the house and who she saw Leonardo with, she recognized none of them.

She had distantly gleaned a sort of shadowy awareness of the structure of the mafia--there were sects, and they didn't always get along with each other.

Leonardo kept her isolated and protected, never answering any of her questions and leading her to occasionally learn what she could from eavesdropped conversations with his men. A certain family called Di Scarpetta always seemed to be causing them trouble.

She saw a flash of black hair, and froze.

Her head throbbed. No way. He can't be here. He can't--

The brown-haired girl jumped off the seat and ran into the crowd, heart thumping, eyes watering, pushing desperately, until the figure resurfaced in her sight. He was dressed in an elegant suit, talking to another man. The high collar of his suit wasn't enough to hide the livid scar on his throat. With his coal-black eyes and slicked-back hair, he cut an imposing figure, but Patience had never been so glad to see him. She hit him head-on. "Salvatore!"

He stumbled and stiffened, but when he saw her, his face went slack in disbelief. "Patience? What are you doing here?"

She was crying. "Oh my god. Oh my god!"

"Ciao," he said to the other man swiftly, then turned back to her. "Tell me, what are you doing here?"

"Leonardo Borghese is forcing me to live with him," she said, clutching his sleeves. "He does--oh, he does such awful things to me! Please, Salvatore, you must get me out of here!"

"Are you--are you that long-lost daughter he found?" Realization was dawning across his face.

"I'm not his damn daughter! I'm not related to him! He forced me into this, and you have to get me out of here, he wants me to do more for him, vile things--"

"Pazienza," said a liquid voice. "Are you making friends with Salvatore? How charming.

***

Salvatore hooked an arm around her shoulders, pulling her protectively towards him. "Leo Angelino. You son of a bitch. Stronzo! What the hell have you been doing to her?" His face was a mask of rage

Leonardo's face was placid, but he was standing entirely too close Salvatore. He said "Let's not make a scene here. All the families are here, a confrontation would--aggravate the atmosphere."

"Sick fucking pedophile," he hissed. "I should shoot you." His fists clenched.

"There are my men all around you, Salvatore," he said quietly. "Think twice."

Salvatore's eyes flicked around, and somewhere in his brutish subconscious something sparked. His grip on her slackened. "I'll be taking my leave early."

"Please don't go," she begged, clinging onto him. He unwillingly detached himself--not before giving her a comforting squeeze--and made for the door. She watched him go with tears in her eyes.

She smelled cologne as Leonardo shifted beside her. "Perhaps you'd like to go upstairs and rest, dolcezza." His voice was gentle, but had enough of a veiled threat that she obeyed immediately.

***

Alone in his (their) room, she shivered for hours until his soft footsteps echoed up the polished stairs.

He emerged from the door, dressed in his tuxedo, and when he saw her, he smiled. "Your hair is so messy. Let me comb it."

She shivered as he combed the tangles out of her hair, damp with sweat. His proximity made her mind rebel, want to run screaming. "You've been very naughty, dolcezza. Talking with Salvatore Mallozzi. Just what is your relationship, I wonder?"

She said nothing.

"Not going to talk?"

She squeezed her eyes shut.

"I have ways of making you talk, dolcezza." His arm curled around her neck, porcelain fingertips lightly brushing her skin. She shivered, but said nothing.

"Keep your secrets, then. I will find out about them in due time."

He stood up and loosened his cummerbund. His pants were loose, buckle undone.

"Sweet thing, let's celebrate Christmas together. We'll make a baby, a Christmas baby. We can name it Noelle."

Patience began to loosen her dress, acutely aware of him undressing behind her. It would be another night full of pain, a night that lasted far too long and left her crying and sleepless half the night.

The next few days were fraught with tension.

Leonardo kept silent about her and Salvatore, never speaking of it. She detected an underlying tension in the house, but Leonardo kept cheerful, dropping her off at school, helping with her homework, and making dinner.

For a moment, she almost relaxed.

And one night, when her homework was done and she was watching a late-night program, Leonardo called out to her in his lyrical voice.

"Patience. Come here. I want to show you something."

Frustrated, she turned the TV off. She grudgingly tramped into the next room, and then the cigar room. It was richly furnished, with a glass liquor cabinet and velvet-upholstered furniture--she was very familiar with it.

In the middle was a man, being forced into the ground. For a moment her heart thrilled and she thought it was Salvatore--before he lifted his head up and he saw the wanness and softness of his face.

"Gabe?" She said, breathless with disbelief.

He looked at her, eyes not registering realization until it flashed in his eyes.

Leonardo leaned back against the sofa, glass of liquor in his hand. A small smile teased his face. "Do you see what happens when you disobey your father, Pazienza? You should never contacted Salvatore. And now an innocent is paying for your mistake."

To her horror, Giuseppe, who was standing next to him, procured a knife and slid it around his throat. Patience tried to catch his eye, begging him for mercy, but he averted his gaze, something akin to shame in them.

"Give him a little cut, Giuseppe."

The silver knife sliced down, gouging a thin wound in the side of his cheek.

"Please not him! He didn't do anything! He has a family--don't--"

The knife bit further into his face, and he opened his mouth to wail. "Patience! Please help me! My Barbara--my Gina--I don't want to die!"

"Stop! Stop! Papa!"

"Papa, papa. I do love it when you call me that. But-" he leaned closer until his lips were right beside her ear. "We're going to be married parents before too long. How about you start calling me a pet name, one a wife has for her husband. "My mother used to call me Leonello, little lion,"

He was staring at her with a fixed, raw gaze.

"I'll do anything," she whispered. "Just don't hurt him."

"Leave us," instructed Leonardo to Gabe and his soldiers.

When they were gone, he turned to her with a wild gaze. "Leonello," she whispered.

A ghost of a smile flitted across his face. His eyes were lidded. "Good girl."

"Leonello. Leonello. I love you so much."

He was breathing rapidly now, the expression on his face one that she had never seen before. He gripped her waist and began to shove her down on the sofa.

There was a wine bottle on the table. As he pushed her down, she slowly reached for it, anticipating the crack of his skull. And even if he were dead, she would truly be free.

As he settled between her thighs, her fingers closed around it. As he began to press kisses on her bosom, murmuring, "Mama," in a raw, childish voice, her hand closed around it, feeling the heaviness between her fingers.

A commotion sounded outside the door. As Leonardo lifted his head, she took the wine bottle and brought it down.

She was small, and her grip was clumsy, but it gave him a bash on the head nevertheless. He was knocked backwards, to the side of the sofa, and she scrambled up just a familiar figure burst in.

He was wielding a gun, hair in disarray and eyes wild.

"Patience," he barked. "You're coming with me."

She was so glad she began to weep. It was all over. Everything. Her nightmare was gone. "Oh, Salvatore."

"Get in the black car with my brother. We're holding them off, but I don't know for how much longer." He gripped her arm and pulled her forward.

As she left through the snow-covered yard, she heard the distant blasts of gunshots and shouting. A bullet whizzed by her ear.

She jumped in a black car parked outside the gate. In the back seat, Gabe was white-faced and holding a bandage to his cheek. He turned his terrified gaze on her but still had the fatherly conscience to ask, "Are you okay?"

"I... I wish I was."

Salvatore jumped in the driver's seat and gunned the engine. "Let's get the fuck out of here!"

Patience cried silently as they left through the cobblestone road, her eternal nightmare behind her as they left the walled fortress behind her, the shouts and gunfire fading into the distance. Every mile they traveled, they came closer and closer to heaven.

She was free. She was with people who would protect her.

Patience caught Gabe's gaze, and he had the presence of mind to squeeze her hand. "It's all okay, honey."

She began to weep harder then, tears of happiness.

She was leaving the house behind. The torture, the fear, the pain, the misery, all of it was disappearing into the rearview mirror.

Patience Winslow was safe. And it was the strangest, most alien, loveliest feeling she'd ever felt.

She let her head fall sideways onto Gabe's shoulder, and tears of exhaustion began to leak out of her closed eyelids.

***

It wasn't until she woke up in Barbara's house a week later, nausea bubbling up in her stomach, that she felt something was wrong.

When her small nipples began to get tender, the horrified suspicion mounted.

And when she finally missed her period, she knew, inexorably, that her nightmare had come true.

#bonus chapter

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randombtsprincessa · 5 years

Text

Ad Infinitum

Author: Randombtsprincessa

Characters: Jin x Reader

Words: 1.8k

Genre: Angst

Summary: Jin is forced to watch you from afar as you carry on with your life...without him.

Warning: Amnesia, Accidents, Injury

He was doing it again.

The tall, long racks that held cans of something or the other, hid his tall, looming frame as he bent around the corner of it just so, watching and memorizing hungrily.

Her back was turned to him as she fiddled with the container of ice-cream, her friend to her side, watching fondly.

How long had it been?

A vague memory lit up in his mind as he recalled the last time he’d seen her but that was way too far away from his mind now. This was new. This was here and he needed to focus on that.

He couldn’t, however.

All his contact with her had been severed to watching her around the corners of buildings or the aisles of supermarkets. He hated it but he couldn’t do anything about it.

Just like that, he was leaning over way too much, his considerable weight pressing against the rickety shelving and with an almighty crash, everything fell, rack, cans and Jin.

There was a ringing silence as the last can stopped clattering and Jin’s cheeks burnt, with humiliation at being caught and guilt. This wasn’t in the plans, he thought as his eyes travelled up to catch your surprised ones.

Your eyes were the same, color reflecting from the lights of the store as you gaped at the near prostate man in front of you in concern. Her friend on the other hand, did not look pleased at all. She was surprised too of course, but her eyes weren’t widened in concern, it was more irritation. Irritation, aimed at Seokjin.

He understood, wholeheartedly.

“Oh my god, are you ok?” the words flowed from your mouth in a rush, matching the pace of your steps as you hurried over to him. Your hands were outstretched and Jin’s hands reached up automatically, wrapping his fingers around your smaller once.

The touch of your warm skin blazed through him, as you helped him get to his feet and led him over to where he friend stood, mouth stuttering as if she was going to say something but didn’t know what to.

“I…I was just…” Jin began, tongue clumsy in his mouth but you were already smiling, a dismissive beam to you.

“It’s ok, we all have those days, don’t we?” she asked, aiming the question to her friend who only returned a purse of her lips back, eyes flickering over to Jin in annoyance again.

Jin however was too busy staring at you, basking in that smile. He loved that about you. How you could make even a stranger feel close and secure around you with just a smile. He missed how he was always the cause of that smile once.

He was still holding her hand, the smoothness of it familiar skin deep to him.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, a silent squeak to it voice as he tried to convey everything he was ever sorry for in the two words. He could never tell her how sorry he really was but he kept on hoping.

“Not to worry, these things happen,” she said, smile turned to him and he nearly quaked in his knees as he tried not to fall to his knees and hug her, and bawl.

“Y/N, come on, let’s go, we’ll get the chocolate.” Her friend said, already steering the shopping cart away.

Your hand fell from his as you turned to look at her and nodded. Jin’s hand was slower to return to his side, his skin already missing the warmth of yours.

“Well, I’ll see you around I guess,” you said softly, returning a last smile to him as you skipped away.

“Jin,” He called loudly, desperately and you turned to look at him again, “My name is Kim Seokjin,” he said, a lot quieter.

You nodded, “Well, I’ll remember that.” You gave him a last smile which he returned, albeit bitterly.

Even your friend turned to look at him, a parting look full of pity and sympathy.

He and she both knew that she wouldn’t.

Anterograde Amnesia

The affliction caused you to be unable to create new memories. Your particular case had also erased a good chunk of memories from the past; including Jin. You remembered your parents, your long time friends. All you did not remember were your recent made friends…and Jin.

When Jin had heard about the condition, he had studied it in depth but no matter how many books and internet articles he read, he could not make you remember him or your relationship. He could not make you realize that he was the one who belonged next to you, helping you pick ice cream, not watching you from the corners of buildings and shelves in shopping marts.

Your new friends had enthusiastically taken it upon themselves to incorporate themselves in your life so you could slowly remember them as you healed.

For Jin that was very much not at option, seeing as he had always kept you away from the sight of his company. The only one who knew about you was his members.

He had been in a concert when he’d gotten the call.

Even as he held a towel to his face to collect the dripping sweat from his hair, the frantic voice of your mother immediately told him the news could not be good.

You had been caught in a six car collision – some drunk bastard running off the road – and were critical in the hospital.

Jin had frozen, towel against his face as his eyes widened in fear, concern and bitterness. There was no way he would be able to leave as he so desperately wanted to – to race to your bedside. He would have to stay, complete the show and then sneak away.

Even as his members realized that something was wrong, he kept his mouth shut, not wanting to put everyone off their best but he definitely couldn’t hold back his mind from fluttering to his last encounter with you – just hours before the show.

It was a fight, short since he was in a hurry but in no way quiet. Some new rumor about him looking at one of his stylists had made Dispatch start the whole debacle and it had reached your ears.

Normally he wouldn’t be one to snap when you got insecure but he had been nervous, frazzled, nerves already harried and he had exploded, raging about your insecurities, your faithlessness in him. He could see the dip in her head, the hunch of your shoulders, wetness glimmering at the brim of her eyes but he was too gone, his mouth would just not until it was too late.

You left his house and he didn’t even bother to stop you, leaving for the show himself.

While he had been practicing his routine, you had been battling for your life.

He hadn’t even bothered to worry about you, not till he got the call and finally managed to slip away so he could see you, all plastered and wired to a hospital bed.

He had just stared at you, stricken, as the doctors informed him and your family about your brain injury.

“She won’t remember me?” Jin’s voice had sounded scratchy, even to himself, filled with unspoken terror at having her taken away from him.

“We don’t know just what she will remember with her condition. The scans show a light injury so it is possible she will heal on her own and begin to get her memory back and even start forming new patterns.” The doctor said, before sighing, “I must warn you of course, of how delicate the situation is.” He glanced at your mother who simply turned to look at Jin.

“We’ll appreciate you keeping some distance, in case the fight you had cause her more trauma.” She said, coldly.

Jin’s eyes had widened. Your mother knew he’d been the one to cause you to lie in the hospital and he had to leave shamefaced.

Jin had taken not knowing you as a form of repentance, vowing to always cherish you once you remembered him, he would gladly stay out of your life until you healed properly.

Of course, once his schedule turned demanding there was only a few times he could see you and that was never enough for you to remember him. It had gotten so bad that his focus never stayed on his work, leading to his manager finally learning about Y/N and giving him some time to spend with her.

That time was only spent in watching her from afar.

It killed him but he had no choice.

“We told you to stay away from her.” Your mother’s voice was hard, ice wrapping itself in her vocals as Jin sat at his couch, phone held tight to his ear, taking the scolding he knew he was going to get.

“It wasn’t my intention to cause her harm, Mrs. Y/L/N. please, I was just a little careless today.” He tried to defend himself but he could find no purchase in your mother’s voice.

“No Jin, you have your job which is more important to you than my daughter. If you hadn’t shouted at her she’d have never been in that crash.”

“That’s not true -,” Jin began, fingers tightening on the phone but your mother was adamant.

“I’m sorry Jin but you can’t see her anymore. Stay away from her.”

Dread was quickly pooling in his gut, making him grab at his stomach. “You can’t do that.” He whispered.

“Yes I can. I already nearly lost my daughter, I won’t go through that again.” She gritted before hanging up on him.

There was a pause as Jin dropped his phone to the couch, hands rubbing across his weary face, trying to wipe away the tears that welled up, but to no avail.

Your image that had been so strong in his mind was now fading away. You were fading away and he was terrified.

Picking himself up, he trudged to his bed, lying down to your spot and pulling your pillow to bury his face in, your smell light but still lingering.

Jin woke up with a start, eyes heavy and nose clogged from the tears he’d spilled into your pillowcase as he wondered what had pulled him from the nightmare of you dropping his hand and leaving forever.

Another string of loud bangs fell on his door and he sighed, tiredly, getting to his feet and walking to the offending sound and opening his door.

Hair wild, eyes bright with emotion and lips chapped and bitten into, your hand hung in mid air as you stared at him with something akin to panic.

Jin’s breath stopped, chest tight as he stared at you, lips parted to take gasping breaths before you spoke.

“Jin…Kim Seokjin,” You whispered and Jin finally broke.

Heavy, heart wrenching sobs fell from the man’s full lips, eyes scrunched yet he could see you clearly as his hands reached out, towards you.

You moved slowly and his fingers grabbed your shoulder, pulling you to him in a tight embrace, head on your shoulder and arms wound tight as your arms hugged him back, stroking his shoulder as he cried with relief.

There was no way he was going to let you go now.

He was given another chance. He would be grateful forever.

#jin angst #bts angst #jin fanfic #bts fanfic #jin #bts #jin smut #bts smut #kim seokjin #seokjin #bts seokjin #ad infinitum

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pinelife3 · 5 years

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What Women Think Men Think

In the 2000 film What Women Want, Mel Gibson accidentally electrocutes himself with a hairdryer in the bathtub which for some reason gives him the ability to hear women’s thoughts. This comes at a great time for him personally and professionally as it allows him to perform well in his job as an advertising exec, woo the lovely Helen Hunt, and bond with his estranged daughter.

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Sadly, the genius of What Women Want was not recognised by critics in its time and the film received poor reviews - however, it did perform well commercially, making it a great candidate for a gender-flip remake. Our prayers were answered earlier this year with What Men Want, in which Taraji P. Henson plays a sports agent who misses out on a promotion because she doesn’t get men. Surprising no one, What Men Want received worse reviews than the original, but managed to one-up it by also being a commercial disappointment. I haven’t seen it (I hear it is genuinely unwatchable) but from Wikipedia I gather that she drinks some magic tea and then can hear men’s thoughts which... makes her good in bed but doesn’t lead to as much professional success as you might expect. While What Women Want, directed by the great Nancy Meyers, is about a chauvinist learning to respect women, What Men Want is about a woman learning that most men suck and that they don’t deserve respect so it’s better not to work for them. What Men Want was directed by a man which, if you ask me, seems kind of pandering: why would a man make a film about how cartoonishly awful men are?

The rough premise of both What X Want films is that when the protagonist has access to the inner thoughts of the opposite sex, what they hear is revelatory: the opposite sex is apparently unknowable, inscrutable, vastly foreign. It requires magic (or bathtub electrocution) to know what others really think. Ha! Well, I have that magic. A portal to another world. A world where men, unobserved, unfettered by social barriers, freely say whatever they really think of any idea, image or product you present to them: Reddit.

I’ve often complained to Matt that practically any post on Reddit which features a young and/or attractive female woman girl will draw comments from men saying that they’re going to jerk off to the picture. Why do you think we care that you’re going to mash your genitals while watching this gif of a girl in a bikini using a homemade water slide? Why did my eyes and mind have to be subjected to this information about your plans for the afternoon? Did that first improbable spark of life, apes descending from trees, straightened spines, the birth of technology, everything our forebears strived for across eternity, really lead up to this moment where you wrote that on the internet? Why are we pack animals?

So the shtick of this blog post is: I sneak about on Reddit to find out want men want, what they care about, and think about. But! We ladies don’t care what they think about beer and barbecues (we already know that all men are practically BBQsexual, am I right?) so let’s identify a few things where we do care about what they think.

For our purposes, I think women only care about men’s opinions on women - and possibly also sexual politics. For sports, most political issues, food, music, etc. I think we all agree that if you ask a man what he thinks, he’ll probably give you a pretty straight answer. The fantasy of knowing what men really want is that it’s information you would not normally have access to, because you’re too shy to ask, or you’re concerned his answer would be evasive or dishonest. Most people aren’t dishonest because they’re mean liars. They’re dishonest because they doesn’t want to hurt your feelings - or perhaps because they can’t be bothered to argue. So some of the impulse to eavesdrop on someone’s thinking is an insecurity, it’s suspecting they’ve withheld or softened an opinion - and wanting to know the full truth even if it’s hurtful.

In particular (and mostly because I want to talk to someone about these books), I’m going to pick ideas from Sally Rooney’s novels to compare romantic men as written by a woman with the actuality of men on Reddit. Rooney writes love stories (or at least love-adjacent stories) which are widely read by women and have been enormously popular: this to me suggests that her idea of romantic men has resonated with many women and therefore it may be interesting to see if the interiority of the men she’s written could exist in the real world (or, at least on Reddit).

My methodology for trawling Reddit for relevant information is simple:

1. Is the attribute mentioned in Reddit’s NSFW directory? I don’t want to solely rely on the Reddit NSFW directory as a barometer for men’s interest in things, but I believe when trying to assess what men find attractive, this is a decent tool. I would venture to say that every (legal) niche interest is addressed by a NSFW subreddit: gamer girls, women in sundresses, redheads, anime princesses, cute girls, sexy girls, skinny girls, mums, teens, big boobs (attached to women with rich interiorities, I’m sure), mascara stained tears, and so on forever. Related to this: just because a subreddit exists to address a particular niche (e.g. braces), this doesn’t mean all men find that age group, attribute, body type, piece of clothing, etc. attractive - but it at least illustrates that someone found it attractive enough to create a community dedicated to it.

2. Is the attribute mentioned in any of Ask Reddit’s 'Men, what’s one unusual thing you find really attractive about women’ type threads? Men seem to sense that these threads are always started by women, so the responses are more romantic than sexual. Dudes tend to say the ‘unusual things’ they find attractive are freckles, when women can’t reach things on high shelves, messy up-dos, etc.

Question 1: Do men like the pale, non-sexy parts of women?

In Rooney’s second book Normal People, the male protagonist spends a lot of time looking at the female protagonist and admiring her pale delicacy.

You look really well, he says.

I know. It’s classic me. I came to college and got pretty.

He starts laughing. He doesn’t even want to laugh but something about the weird dynamic between them is making him do it. ‘Classic me’ is a very Marianne thing to say, a little self-mocking, and at the same time gesturing to some mutual understanding between them, an understanding that she is special. Her dress is cut low at the front, showing her pale collarbones like two white hyphens.

Later, he admires her pale lips and wrists:

He hasn’t seen her in person since July, when she came home for her father’s Mass. Her lips look pale now and slightly chapped, and she has dark circles under her eyes. Although he takes pleasure in seeing her look good, he feels a special sympathy with her when she looks ill or her skin is bad, like when someone who’s usually very good at sports has a poor game. It makes her seem nicer somehow. She’s wearing a very elegant black blouse, her wrists look slender and white, and her hair is twisted back loosely at her neck.

Women hope men think of them in this way: that men closely observe us and like what they see, that they can thrill romantically at non-sexy parts of our bodies like our under eye bags or bony elbows, that they’re so devoted they like us even when we’re sickly. Lolita has this to thank for its enduring popularity. Sure, Humbert Humbert is a broken man and a pedophile but he’s so lyrical:

I looked and looked at her, and I knew, as clearly as I know that I will die, that I loved her more than anything I had ever seen or imagined on earth. She was only the dead-leaf echo of the nymphet from long ago - but I loved her, this Lolita, pale and polluted and big with another man's child. She could fade and wither - I didn't care. I would still go mad with tenderness at the mere sight of her face.

Men want to be him, women want to be adoringly described by him.

Anyway. Let’s check Reddit to see what men really think of pale wrists and collarbones - or if they think of them at all.

There are no communities in Reddit’s NSFW directory focused on wrists or collarbones or any bony protrusion through pale skin. There is a subreddit dedicated to NSFW content featuring pale girls with ~420,000 subscribers but the focus of this content is sexy areas of the body (enormous pale breasts, perfect pale butts, etc.) and there is not much coverage of pale wrists and/or collarbones.

I also couldn’t find any references to pale non-sexy parts of women in any AskReddit threads related to things men find attractive about women.

Conclusion: I do not believe that men as a cohort are particularly into dark under eye bags, bony chests, etc. These are just things women wish men liked about them.

Question 2: Do men like damaged women?

In Rooney’s first novel, Conversations with Friends, the protagonist has the following conversation with her ~lover~ in bed:

I want you to hit me. I don’t think I want to do that, he said. I knew that he was sitting up now, looking down at me, though I kept my eyes closed. Some people like it, I said. You mean during sex? I didn’t realise you were interested in that kind of thing. I opened my eyes then. He was frowning. Wait, are you okay? he said. Why are you crying? I’m not crying. Incidentally it turned out that I was crying. It was just something my eyes were doing while we were talking. He touched the side of my face where it was wet. I’m not crying, I said. Do you think I want to hurt you? ... I don’t know, I said. I’m just telling you that you can.

In Normal People, the protagonists have a similar exchange during sex:

Will you hit me? she says. For a few seconds she hears nothing, not even his breath. No, he says. I don’t think I want that. Sorry. She says nothing. Is that okay? he asks. She still says nothing. Do you want to stop? he says. She nods her head. She feel his weigh lift off her. She feels empty again and suddenly chill. He sits on the bed and pulls the quilt over himself. She lies there face down, not moving, unable to think of any acceptable movement. Are you okay? he says. I’m sorry I didn’t want to do that, I just think it would be weird. I mean, not weird, but... I don’t know. I don’t think it would be a good idea.

in the context of these novels, this behaviour is a form of self-harm from women who hate themselves: even those I’m closest to want to take advantage of me, will do what they want with me, will hurt me if I let them. The perfect men, confused and innocent to this self-destructive behaviour, are concerned and decline the offer. The women interpret this as a form of sexual rejection but the reader knows this rejection is actually romantic. Could we really thrill over a man who agreed to beat her? No one talks about 50 Shades of Grey anymore but Mr Darcy lingers in the minds of mothers and BBC-watching daughters the world over. Rooney’s romantic leads are very nice men for not hitting the protagonist during sex.

Importantly, while the offer of subservience and sexual violence is not an immediate aphrodisiac, it adds to the overall appeal of our lady protagonists as women who are soft, damaged, not easily available, but also deeply vulnerable. Bob Dylan muses, basically (she’s delicate and seem’s like veneer. Sidebar on that line: I heard it when I was 17 and was jealous because it’s so good. Turns out this line is hotly contested in places where people contest Dylan lyrics. One tribe thinks it’s: she’s delicate and seems like veneer. Another tribe thinks it’s: she’s delicate and seems like the mirror. The tribe which is 100% wrong thinks it’s: she’s delicate and seems like Vermeer.).

These books both have this thread of college-aged women who hate themselves and want to be mistreated by their lovers, and lovers who are perfect and sensitive enough to like the control they have in the relationship, but not abuse it. My read on this is that women like to think that men like to save damaged women. Damaged meaning women who are clearly dealing with one or more of the following:

Untreated mental health problems

Self-medication dependencies

Daddy issues

Memories of growing up with violence/abuse/Teletubbies/war crimes/poverty

Heavy baggage from previous relationships

You know what I mean. So, let’s check Reddit to see what men think of damaged women. In the NSFW directory there are a number of BDSM subs, most of which are focused on women being dominated by men: women trussed up in elaborate rigs of ropes and straps, women being used in various ways, beaten, dominated. Most of these subs have between 100,000 - 200,000+ subscribers. This would indicate that there are a decent number of Reddit users who are interested in hurting their sexual partner.

(DISCLAIMER: I don’t mean to kinkshame. ContraPoints (I think in this video) argued that while it’s fine to be into BDSM and enjoy being hurt or hurting someone else, it does suggest some things about you. BDSM isn’t just fun. No one wants to be tied up and beaten/pissed on for no reason. You want those things because it means something to you to be treated badly or to treat others badly. Liking BDSM doesn’t mean you’re damaged, but it might mean something adjacent to that.)

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Furthermore, re: Reddit’s attitude to ‘damaged’ women, any time a guy on Reddit tells a ‘crazy ex’ story, someone from the 3 brain cells club will flop out an old cliché: don’t stick your dick in crazy. Men like to warn each other about damaged women. That cliché often attracts a popular counterpoint:

Crazy chicks are good in bed! What a treat: there are perks to dating a damaged woman. More than anything, men on Reddit love acting like they know a lot about women and wild sex. A damaged, compliant woman is great for clocking up these experiences.

I think we can say that some men do indeed like damaged women. The impression you get from Reddit is that a lot of these men would take advantage of the vulnerable Rooney protagonists, but that’s the point even within the novels: the man could have said yes, could have hit her - which the reader wouldn’t find romantic because we know that on some subcutaneous level she didn’t really want to be treated that way. A lot of romance only reads as romantic because we’re aware of the unromantic alternative: what if Richard Gere had treated Julia Roberts the way most men treat prostitutes? What if Bob Dylan compared a beautiful, mysterious woman to the 17th century Dutch painter Vermeer?

In the final act of What Women Want, Gibson loses the ability to hear women’s thoughts. The point the film makes is that he’s been so reformed by hearing women’s perspectives and relating to them as actual human beings, that he doesn’t need magic anymore to behave like a nice person. This is also because it would not be romantic to be in a relationship with a man who was eavesdropping on your inner monologue. If the relationship is real and working, then you don’t need psychic powers to anticipate how the other person is going to feel and respond to things. You can always just ask - and you’ll have to trust that the answer is honest.

Bonus: more of that lovable scamp Mel Gibson:

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#What Women Want #Nancy Myers #Mel Gibson #Helen Hunt #What Men Want #Reddit

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marvelous-heroimagines · 6 years

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Bad Press

Requested by: @havaawhoose (Here are the specifics)

Pairing: Reader x Steve Word Count: 2.6K Warnings: Angst, fluff, racism (implied), swearing

A/N: Reader is POC

You’d always dreamed of becoming an Avenger, of being able to help people all over the world and give young children of colour a superhero that represented them. But the media had soured your dream the moment Tony announced that you were joining the team. You’d grown up being ridiculed by racists, but you’d never expected to be such a controversial topic in the media.

No matter how much your teammates tried to help - reminding you that each of them had been in the negative spotlight themselves - it still hurt to hear the harsh and offensive comments that were said about you everyday. All you wanted to do was help people and save the world; but the media disregarded all your good work, instead just focusing on the fact that your skin was a different colour from the rest of your teammates’.

Even though the world outside the Compound was divided on the subject of a person of colour being an Avenger, your teammates were welcoming and warm towards you, they made you feel a part of the family.

You’d only been a part of the team for a couple of months when you and Steve confessed your feelings to each other - your other teammates had seen it coming from the moment you moved in to the Compound. And while the two of you had fallen deeply in love, you’d both agreed that keeping your relationship secret from the outside world was best for now, until the controversy of your skin had died down.

While that had been the plan, it didn’t work out that way. And now, just as the media had started to back off; a fateful mission changed all of that. Now footage of Steve passionately kissing you - after you had almost died at the hands of an enemy - was plastered all over the media. You couldn’t turn on a tv or open the internet without seeing that footage played over and over. You tried not to pay attention, but you couldn’t deny that it was getting to you.

Walking into the living area, you hear daytime talk show hosts discussing your and Steve’s public display of affection. You stop in your tracks as you see Steve walking the talk show, he hasn’t realised you’re frozen behind him, watching his body language more than the show itself.

The hosts are discussing whether it’s appropriate for the symbol of America to be dating you, a woman of colour. Usually, on talk shows, one of the hosts has an opposing opinion, but there seems to be no debate with this topic.

As the hosts continue to criticise not only you, but Steve too, you watch as Steve’s shoulders slump and he lets out a sigh. Your stomach churns as you watch their words affect the man you love. Steve had always wanted to be a role model to the public; and while he himself has gone through the media hating him, you’ve never seen him affected by their opinion - until now.

Your heart hurts as you watch your love get affected by the media’s words, and as tears start to well in your eyes, you turn on your heel and hurry away silently. You barely make it to your room before the sobs rip through you. This whole drama was ridiculous and stupid - why was everyone making this such a huge problem? You’d always tried to keep a thick skin to people’s comments about you being a person of colour, you had dealt with it your whole life. But now your ethnicity was dragging the man you love back into the negative limelight.

You hoped that Steve wouldn’t take their comments to heart, but a part of you felt guilty that you were the reason that all the hard work he’d done to clear his name after the Sokovia Accords was becoming undone.

Over the next few days the drama around your and Steve’s relationship only increased, and you tried your best to ignore it - and hope he was too. But you noticed that something was different.

Steve stopped sleeping in your room, he stopped being affectionate even within the privacy of the compound, and you felt as though he was actively distancing himself from you. While you could ignore the public’s comments, you couldn’t ignore the fact that they had deeply changed Steve in some way.

You hadn’t seen you boyfriend all day, and decided that it was up to you to confront him on what you had secretly seen last week. Your heart raced as you softly knocked on his door, unshed tears already prickling at your eyes as you thought through what you were about to do.

“Come in,” you hear him call from inside, and you take one last, deep breath before entering.

You feel like you’ve been stabbed as you watch him stiffen the moment he sees you’re the person visiting you. It was only for a second, he quickly relaxed his body - probably consciously - but it still hurt to see.

“Hi,” you say tentatively, closing the door behind you and hovering near it; unsure if you were really welcome here anymore.

A tight, closed lipped smile spreads across his face, “Hi,” he replies and motions to the bed as he sits on it on.

Your hands were almost shaking as you cross his room and join him. You have to force yourself to look at him; even if the knowledge of what you were about to do was making eye contact uncomfortable.

“What’s up?” he asks after a few too many seconds of silence,

“You’ve been ignoring me,” you blurt out. It wasn’t a question, and by the way he deeply swallows you know it’s the truth,

“Y/N, I-” he starts,

“I saw you the other day,” you interrupt. Your thoughts are racing and you’re not even taking a second to think of words before they force themselves out, “Watching the news...” you drawl out.

Steve’s eyes flit to the floor and he shuffles uncomfortably; he obviously knows which day you’re referring to. You, too, look down at his floor, unable to look at him any longer - partly because you didn’t want to see him try to hide his true feelings and partly because you wanted to hide your welling tears for as long as possible.

“Look,” you sigh, your chest feeling heavy with the weight of your decision, “I don’t want to put you through this anymore. I can handle the media ridiculing me, I’ve dealt with people hating me for my skin my whole life, but I don’t want to drag you through this shit too,”

From your peripherals, you see Steve’s eyes snap to you, but you keep them trained on the floor, needing to get through this before you cry uncontrollably.

“I know you’d never want to hurt me,” you continue, “So I’m going to do it for you-”

“Y/N-”

“It’s over Steve,” you strongly say, “It’s better for you, especially after the Accords, if you keep a good public opinion,”

Steve stays silent, his breathing ragged and a frown set between his brows. But he doesn’t say a word, so you finish what you came to say, hoping that your tears hold off just long enough.

“I can handle the hate. I’m not going anywhere, no matter what people say about me, and they’ll get over it sooner or later,” you add, “Maybe once all of this dies down we could try this again?”

Silence falls over the two of you, Steve’s mouth is agape, and when you finally steal a look at him - you wish you hadn’t. Tears are slowing rolling down his cheeks and he stares at you as though you’d just caused him physical pain.

But he stays silent. Feeling uncomfortable with the silence, you just nod to yourself and leave - not once hearing a word from your now ex-boyfriend.

~~Steve’s POV~~

“What’s wrong with you!?” Sam yells the moment Steve finishes telling him that you had broken things off, “Why didn’t you say anything?! You’re an idiot!” Sam continues. He paces around Steve’s room while huffing with frustration.

“I-I don’t know,” Steve admits, hanging his head in shame, “It all happened so fast, and... and-”

“God help me, if you say she had a point, I-” Sam stops himself with a sigh, finally stopping his pacing and crossing his arms as he stands in front of Steve. Steve stays silent, letting his friend continue.

“She hasn’t been in this life long enough,” Sam says sombrely, “She doesn’t know yet that giving in to what the media wants won’t make them stop hating her for the colour of her skin,”

Steve glances at his friend with confusion, “Won’t it all blow over, in time?”

Sam scoffs, “Yeah right, just like it has with me,” his tone thick with sarcasm. Steve is only further confused, and Sam must notice this as his friend explains, “I’ve been a part of this team for how many years now? And yeah, while they have never publicly berated me... They seem to simply ignore that a black man is a member of the Avengers,”

As Sam’s words roll over Steve, he begins to feel guilty that he’d never picked up on it before; as he thinks over all the coverage of the Avengers had gotten since Sam joined their ranks, he realises that Sam’s words are true.

“S-So there’s never going to be a time when I can be with Y/N without the media portraying us negatively?” Steve asks, a sinking feeling settling in his gut.

Sam just shakes his head, a look of sympathy on his face, “The only way to get them off your back is to own it. It’s no one’s business if you and Y/N are in love. They can say all they want, but if you show that your love is stronger than their comments, they’ll have to deal with it,”

Steve nods, mostly to himself. He knows Sam’s right, and while it made him feel even more stupid for letting you walk away, it also made him more determined to get you back.

Steve stands abruptly, a new found motivation coursing through him. Sam smiles proudly at his friend, “Got something in mind?” he asks,

Steve nods, “Where’s Tony?”

~~Reader’s POV~~

You’d spent all night curled up in bed, crying and wishing you hadn’t broken up with your love. You’d tried to convince yourself that it was the right thing to do, to save Steve from the media’s ridicule; but after you had left his room yesterday, you felt nothing but regret.

“Ms. Y/L/N,” F.R.I.D.A.Y.’s voice sounds through your room, “Mr. Stark requires your attendance in the East Wing’s conference room, 30 minutes,”

A frown knits between your eyebrows with confusion - the East Wing’s conference room was where Tony held all of his press conferences - but you get out of bed and start getting ready to be in front of the press; the last thing you wanted right now.

“Cutting it fine, Y/L/N,” Tony scolds in a whisper as he drags you to the side of the stage, just out of sight of the news and paparazzi cameras,

“What is this all about?” you question, staring out at all the media representatives that had nothing but bad things to say about you,

“You’ll see,” Tony says, a small smirk pulling at his lips. You’re about to question him when Steve’s voice pulls your attention to the stage.

Your breath catches in your throat and your stomach knots as he glances over, catching your stare and holding it for a few seconds before he turns towards the press and clears his throat.

“Thank you all for coming here today,” he begins, “I’ve decided it was time I came forward and commented on the footage of me and Y/N that has caused everyone to erupt in debate.”

Your heart sinks as you listen, the paparazzi camera’s flashing a mile a minute as every reported in the room excited chatters about what Steve is about to discuss. Your cheeks flush as you realise he’s here to break the news of your break up.

“I’ve heard everything you have all been saying not just about me, but about Y/N,” Steve takes a brief pause to breathe before squaring his shoulders and continuing, “I think you should all be ashamed for ridiculing Y/N on nothing but her ethnicity,”

Silence falls over the room, and your jaw drops open, as Steve’s parent-like scold resonates. But that doesn’t stop him, he doesn’t even miss a beat.

“In the past, you have portrayed me in a negative light for the decisions I have made, which is a fair topic to criticise. However, the colour of Y/N’s skin, nor my choice to date a person of colour, is a topic that can be fairly debated on,”

You can’t tear your eyes away as every reporter in front of Steve shuffles uncomfortably and seems embarrassed - as if they were children being told off.

“Now,” Steve continues, seeming unfazed by the awkward tension he had created, “While I can not control the news cycle discussion, nor the opinions of racists,” he pauses for a second to let his words really hit home, “I can control how I respond to the hate comments regarding my personal life,”

If your heart wasn’t racing before, it definitely was now. Steve glances over at you and beckons you to join him. Your breathing shallows as you’re frozen in place, not wanting to go out and face the crowd full of reporters and cameras. Tony shoves you, and you barely save yourself from falling as you stumble up the couple of stairs to the stage.

The paparazzi camera’s flash wildly and everyone in front of you can’t tear their eyes from you and Steve. Steve wraps an arm around your waist and pulls you close, making the reporters explode into chatter.

“I want everyone to know - whether you think you have a say in my love life or not - to know that Y/N is a valued member of the Avengers, she isn’t going anywhere,” Steve pauses briefly to lovingly stare into your eyes, “And I love her,”

Your stomach flips as you hear him say those three little words for the first time. While you had been concerned about facing the hoard of reporters before, they seemed to immediately fade away as Steve leant down and kissed you softly. Nothing in the world mattered now, it was just you and Steve.

Steve pulls away and turns back to the reporters, who are now screaming over one another, desperate for their questions to be answered.

“That will be all,” he concludes, a smirk pulling at his lips as he grasps your hand and pulls you off stage.

When you and Steve leave the conference room, the sound of the yelling reporters now all but silenced, thanks to the closed door. Tony is only staring at the two of you, a wide, proud grin on his face.

He makes a move to enter the conference room - probably to answer questions and quell the crowd - but Steve stops him, “Don’t bother,” he says with amusement, “There’s nothing more to be said,”

Tony chuckles and nods before instructing F.R.I.D.A.Y. to ask the reporters to leave the premise.

You’re still in a daze as Steve walks with you, hand in hand, through the compound, “I can’t believe you did that,” you breathe out,

“I don’t care what they have to say,” Steve says as he stops, turning to you and holding you by the hips, “I love you, and nothing in the world can change that,”

You can’t help but grin as Steve leans down and kisses you again.

Tags: @hantu369mc, @pleasefixthepain, @impala-moose, @heismyhunter, @coffeeismylife28, @redstarstan, @bleedingrosey, @klutzly, @leahhavoc, @dreamimes, @thegreatestpilotinthegalaxy, @stratmoxphere, @bearded-bucky, @meep-meep22, @caitsymichelle13, @strangermarvelthings, @specs15, @sebstanwassup, @wunnywho, @thedarknesswarrior, @girlwith100names, @melconnor2007, @ipaintmelodies, @letsgetfuckingsuperwholocked, @spookydoritos, @fanboyswhereare-you, @kiroumons, @tcmhollnd, @providence-impoverished, @lilya-petrichor, @hells-princess, @sarahp879, @arxsvante, @geeksareunique, @courtneychicken, @peter-spider-parker-man, @mizzzpink, @lovely-geek, @httpmcrvel, @sebstanismylife, @glitteringsarah, @stardustandbucky, @lena-stan-xavier, @princess76179, @thisismysecrethappyplace, @everythingbooknerd, @hiddles-rose

Tags that didn’t work: @hesitant-poison, @mo320, @xplumsceptrequeenx, @yoyolovesbucky, @additctionmarvel, @mrs-stan-barnes, @janellexox0, @impossiblyteenagestudent96400

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honeylikewords · 5 years

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Do it. You know you want to. You know you want to make headcanons about this man. This man played by Oscar Isaac. This man played by Oscar Isaac who is made out of cake and dreams. This man played by Oscar Isaac who is made out of cake and dreams and who, despite being the main protagonist, has a whole canvas of life to paint a story for. *i place a paintbrush into your hands and curl your fingers around it* Paint is a portrait, Master of the Arts. ;)

Don’t tease!

But, I suppose I must... for I love Santi deeply and I want to tell his story! So, here I go!

Despite being a very handsome man and his teammates frequently making comments about his informant being “attractive women” and calling said informants “his girlfriends”, Santiago has never actually slept with or wooed any of his informants. He treats them exactly the same way he would treat a male informant; with sympathy, kindness, and firmness when necessary. He doesn’t believe in using sexuality as coercion, especially against women. It makes him feel gross, uncomfortable, and disgusted to imagine doing that; he considers it a form of predation and would never behave like that.

Santi also loves working with kids and teenagers. He’s very sensitive to the needs of children and always treats them in a friendly, almost fraternal or fatherly manner, and wants to have kids of his own, one day. Once out of the forces, he takes a job working with kids, either as a social services worker or a teacher in some variety, possibly a counselor (as I’m discussing with @regrettablewritings ). He’s very fond of kids and they’re often very fond of him; he’s playful, fun, and empathetic.

Santi loves chocolate, especially chocolate that’s a little bitter or has some spice in it, like chiles. He’s not super picky about his chocolates, but when his sweetheart surprises him with a whole selection of dark, artisan chocolates, he’s over the moon, kissing her cheeks and cooing about how kind of her it is to give him something this rich! He offers to share with her (he’s fond of sharing, he finds it very intimate, and he’s not a very selfish man by nature), and if she agrees, he’ll enjoy feeding her bites of the chocolates and taking some himself, asking her what she thinks with every bite.

Growing up, Santi loved his parents. His father was very supportive of him, if a little harsh sometimes, and his mother was the kindest woman he ever met. His father was Mexican-American, and his mother a Columbian immigrant to the U.S., and while never especially rich, they were happy and loved each other very much. Both parents were very influential in forming Santiago to be the compassionate, intelligent man he is today. Despite both of them passing when he was relatively young, he remembers them very fondly and keeps their memories alive in the work he does for other people.

Santi is great at soccer. He’s very light on his feet, fast, and playful, and despite his knees having a bit of trouble, he still loves to have a good game every now and then with the local kids or with his friends. He watches big games on T.V. every now and then and has favorite teams, even owning a few jerseys himself.

Around the house, Santi tends to wear pretty relaxed clothes. Jeans if he’s going out, a button-up over a t-shirt, things like that, but if he’s just at home, it’s exercise shorts and a t-shirt. Or boxers and a t-shirt. Or boxers and an old soccer jersey. He’s not picky. It just has to breathe and be comfy for him.

Santi sleeps in just his undies, or nude, if he can manage it. I’m sorry.

On that note, Santi also likes hot weather but with the air conditioning cranked to max. He’s pretty used to the heat and finds it kinda relaxing. If the weather is cold or snowy, he gets put off and cranky. He HATES being cold, but doesn’t mind the chilly feeling one gets from going from sweating to icy air conditioning blast. He finds that stimulating, but finds the regular cold groggy and gross. It makes him super grumpy if he gets snowed in.

Not to do That Dumb Fanfic Trope(TM) but he also regularly switches between Spanish and English, especially in the company of people who do speak Spanish. He prefers Spanish to English if he’s with people who also speak Spanish, but doesn’t mind using English if the people around can’t keep up or don’t know Spanish as well. He also knows some amount of Portuguese, but uses it less often.

Santiago does, actually, want to get married and have a family. He’s a little shy about it with his team, but when Fish got married and settled down with babies, Santiago was secretly jealous. He told himself he wasn’t, but then he’d lay awake in bed during those rainy Columbian nights, staring at the ceiling fan, thinking about what it would be like to have a soft little lady here in bed beside him (though he imagined the bed somewhere back in the U.S., maybe Florida), their baby either in the room over or still in her tummy. He imagined being retired, working somewhere he could help people, wearing a gold band around his finger, introducing people to “Mrs. Garcia”, holding his baby in his arms. He’d roll over and go to sleep, pretending that wasn’t what he’d spent the last hour daydreaming over, but every time he’d see a father cheering in the crowds at a son’s soccer game or a mother outside a shop kissing her baby’s cheek, his stomach would knot and he’d get that voice in his head saying “When’ll it be our turn?”

Santi sometimes fidgets with the necklace he wears, especially when he’s reading. He winds it around his fingers or taps the charm at the end of it to his lips, humming a little. When the clasp glides over the ridge of cartilage at the back of his neck, brushing his scar, he’ll shiver and note the sensation. Though he no longer feels the scar, he’s still aware of it, and the area surrounding it is sensitive to him because of that awareness.

In a similar vein, he likes when his sweetheart lays him on his stomach and kisses his bare back, especially following the white-pink line down his neck and spine, the scar that glows against his gold-tan skin. He gets happy little shivers whenever she does that.

Santi doesn’t watch much T.V. and prefers music as background noise. That being said, he can’t sleep if things are too quiet, so he always has something running, especially when he moves back to the U.S. and gets an apartment in a quiet, normal neighborhood. Everything’s so... calm. And silent. It makes him tense. So he plays the T.V., radio, or music at all times, even as he’s sleeping. When he goes to sleep, he sometimes turns the T.V. on to some boring show he doesn’t care about and calmly falls asleep to the familiar sounds of bickering voices and cars.

On that note, Santi loves Metallica. He loves all the big 80s rock bands, especially metal ones, but Metallica is his favorite. 80s music, generally, is something he enjoys, though, so he’s happy to jam to anything with a strong bassline and some good ol’-fashioned synth.

Despite loving and being comfortable in the heat, Santi hates sweating and feeling stinky, so he bathes religiously. He’s very particular about his grooming, keeping himself clean-shaved, his hair handsomely done, his skin well-washed, exfoliated, moisturized, and SPF’d. It’s not that he’s vain, but rather that he’s meticulous and cleanly, and he likes to take these moments to have some quiet self-care. He’s always so busy and lived a very hard and harsh life, so taking the time to zone out and just clean himself up feels good. Dude’s not ashamed to pop on a face mask and clear his pores out. It’s self-love, baby. Even veterans can do it. Plus, everyone should wear SPF every single day, and Santi is very firm about that! Especially in intense climates like Colombia!

Santi gets bored at the movie theatre often. He finds movies largely disinteresting, and if his partner wants to go see a movie, he’ll just sit there the whole time rubbing up on her, touching her arms, stroking her face, kissing her hands, massaging her thighs. It’s not that he’s trying to Get It On in the theatre, just rather that he’s bored and he loves her, and it’s nice and dark and quiet so he can just revel in the sensation of touch, watching how her skin reflects the light of the screen. Sometimes, he doesn’t even see the movie at all, not one second of it, his focus so solely on her. He doesn’t mind; she looked so pretty all engrossed in the movie, and with her head tilted like that, he had good access to her neck to leave kisses and little bites here and there. Very enjoyable, ten stars out of ten.

Santiago has the best relationship with Fish, then with William, then with Tom, and then Benny, in that order. Fish is his closest and oldest friend-- they knew each other as young men in high school and enlisted together-- and met William very early on, bonding the most with those two out of everyone. While all of the brothers of his team are very dear to him, he sees Fish and William the most regularly, and values their input on his life the most.

Santi is a good dancer, but never shows it off except at home, listening to his records with his beloved. There, he’ll shake his hips and snap along, shimmying to the tunes like there’s no tomorrow, swaying with his lady love. It’s adorable.

Santi’s necklace was previously his mother’s, and he can’t bear to not wear it. It upsets him not to have it on, and if he thinks he’s lost it, he’ll start having a panic attack. Luckily, he’s never lost it, and it’s made it through hell and back with him. He hopes one day to pass it on to his child, too.

Never in his life would Santiago ever have a social media account. Texting? Sure, fine, he can do that. But posting stuff? Personal stuff? Pictures of himself or others? No way! He’s very private and secretive, despite what others may think. He’s not one to keep up with other people’s lives, either; if he wanted to know, he’d ask them, call them up, text them. So he’s off the grid, internet-wise, and plans to stay that way.

Santi’s hair started greying very early. His first greys showed up when he was about 20, and now he’s very salt-and-peppered. For a while, he tried dyeing his hair, but found it too finicky and stressful. Besides, he grew into liking his looks, and maintains a very youthful appearance even with the greys. And, lord knows, the grey is pretty darn sexy, so he keeps it, now. Especially after his sweetheart spent a long night kissing him and telling him how gorgeous all those silver streaks are. “Like comet-light,” she giggled, kissing his cupid’s bow. “I mean, I can’t believe how stunning you are...” “Right back at you, darling,” he murmured, lips to hers.

Santi also loves getting massages. His poor back and legs ache all the time, and his neck is so sore, so when his sweetie gives him that good, deep, untensing massage, her thumbs really digging in and undoing all his knots, cracking those tired joints, he lets out happy hums and sighs. “Oh, that’s the ticket,” he’ll purr, sometimes complimenting her in Spanish and cooing about how relaxed he feels.

On a different note, Santi is always the one who drives. He hates being in the passenger seat. He’s a terrible backseat driver and actually gets stressed out not being in control of moving vehicles. It’s a vet thing he doesn’t like talking about too much, but he feels like he has to be behind the wheel in order to keep everyone safe.

Santi likes being the big spoon a lot, but doesn’t mind being the little one. He’d prefer to be the big one, but if he’s feeling sensitive or needy, he’ll curl up in his lover’s arms and feel safe and ensconced, wrapped in her love and protection. She’s not gonna leave. She’s there for him. And he’s happy as can be!

Okay, this got... longer than I anticipated. But my heart is full of love and I cannot control myself!

#messages #here i go again!!!!!!!!!!!!!#santiago garcia #Anonymous

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tiny-trex5 · 5 years

Text

Ah 1987...what a year

The Reagan administration coined the phrase ”this is your brain on drugs”

Gorbachev ”tore down the wall”

Water beds made up 22 percent of all mattress sales

The competitive world of party games changed with the invention of Jenga

Prozac hit pharmacies everywhere

Bill Cosby had a flawless reputation and the number one show

Cocaine was cool

But maybe the best thing to come out of 1987 was me. On a rainy Wednesday in early November I made my debut appearance into this world. According to my mom, I came in a bit hastily. Quickly, aggressively and without warning. This was definitely foreshadowing for the rest of my life.

As I sit here seven days out from my 32nd year, Running through my life memories, lessons, hardships and accomplishments I can't help but feel contemplative.

So naturally, like any elder millennial I turned to my trusty old friend the Internet for answers about life. After an exhaustive google search about what happens when you turn 32, I came up with nothing but comprehensive lists about 32 things to do before 32. Cute lists, thorough lists, lists that would make Oprah Whinfrey feel inadequate. Being comparative by nature I began measuring my own life achievements to those of these random internet drones.

I immediately felt contrition about how I have lived my life. How come I haven't traveled the globe or began training to climb Mount Everest? Why am I not married to my adorably ironic soulmate? I don't even eat a cruelty free vegan diet! The anxiety started to set in. Am I inferior because I don't have a college degree on my wall?

Luckily for me, I'm not one to wallow in my own self-loathing. For whatever reason I'm pretty self assured and I know who I am. I don't want to climb Mount Everest. That sounds awful. I would prefer to keep my fingers over losing them to frost bite.

. I've lived a messy life, I fall on my face a lot. I don't have a lot of tangible accomplishments. What I do have is a compassionate, humble, realistic, sometimes irreverent view of the world around me. So, instead of dwelling on what I haven't done I decided to make my own ”32” themed list.

32 years worth of random thoughts, musings and advice that has stuck in my head

32.) Empathy and sympathy are often confused but they are two very different things.

When someone is sympathetic to something it means they share the same feelings or have gone through the same thing. Sympathy can often be off-putting to the person on the receiving end. It can show up as ”one-upping” or trying to diminish someone's emotions about a certain situation. Empathy is when a person understands someone's emotions but doesn't necessarily share them. Empathy is a skill that needs to be practiced. It doesn't always come naturally to humans. It requires us to step outside of our own heads, ideas and opinions and really sit with someone in their pain. To truly be empathetic is a treasure and it will change the way you see the world.

31.) Human beings are resilient if they chose to be.

Humans are powerful. There is nothing in the world more motivating than watching another person come back from the bottom. I mean, did anyone else shed a tear when Tiger won the Masters?

30.) We are responsible for our reaction to life.

Bad things happen to good people. We are not responsible for (some) of the things that happen to us but we are responsible for our reaction to them.

29.) We create our experience.

If someone walks into work everyday and says to themselves it's going to be a miserable day...chances are it's going to be a miserable day.

28.) When something about another person really bothers us, most likely it's because we do the same thing.

Some shit is just annoying. Loud chewing, people who wear sunglasses inside etc...i'm not talking about that. I mean when someone has a behavior or character trait we can't stand it's because they are holding a symbolic mirror to us and something we don't like about ourselves. The first time I heard this I rolled my eyes. But then, I started to pay attention to when someone really got under my skin and low and behold this annoying piece of advice is true.

27.) Diet Coke is terrible for you and every time you drink one someone will let you know you're going to get cancer.

I drink a lot of diet coke. You know what else is terrible for you? Being judgemental.Leave me alone and drink your water.

26.) ”Regardless of the circumstances, You are completely capable of creating the life you want, so keep your head down and make your next move”-MHB

My dad told me that after I was fired from a career job. I will never, ever forget those words.

25.)A dysfunctional family is not a life sentence. Break your own cycle.

No one is perfect. You do better when you know better. A bad childhood can certainly affect our lives. Do whatever you need to do to heal from it, forgive the people involved and build a better life so history doesn't repeat itself.

24.) Wherever you are is exactly where you need to be.

Take time to reflect on your journey and how you got to whatever point you may be at. Learn from it, sit in it and appreciate how far you have come.

23.) Perfection is unattainable.

So stop striving for it. Strive to be healthy, strive to be comfortable in your own skin. Stop comparing yourself to everyone else. find peace with who you already are and then make goals.

22.) it's okay to like things about yourself.

Women especially are terrible at accepting compliments. We tend to downplay them. It doesn't make you stuck up to enjoy parts of yourself.

21.) ”Always protect the friendship”-MHB

This is another gem from my dad. In a romantic relationship always, always protect the friendship you have with your partner. That is what will carry you through the bad times. Even if it doesn't work out.

20.) The best cat to own is one that doesn't use a litter box

Albert, you're the real MVP. Miss you.

19.) Time is a master healer.

Sometimes the only answer to great pain is time. Time softens the blow and cools the burn that grief brings to our lives. It has a magical way of erasing bad memories and replacing them with fondness.

18.) Love hard.

Tell people how you truly feel about them. Even if it leads to rejection. Don't punish new relationships because of things someone in your past did.

17.) Love and Attachment are two very different things.

Read that again. Attachment is unhealthy. It's an enmeshed relationship that will never meet your emotional needs and it ends in resentment.

16.) We are all born inherently good

The issue is that we were given free will. Use it wisely.

15.) Invest in a pair of black boots and a long cardigan

They look good with every thing

14.) Everyone owns a coordinating sweat suit

For the love of God do not wear it to the airport.

13.) No human can love you enough if you don't love yourself

You cannot expect someone to save you. It's not fair. If you don't love yourself there isn't enough human power on earth that will fill that void. Not a partner, not a child, not a parent. Trust me, I've tried.If you hate yourself deep down you don't believe that another human can love you. It leaves you wanting constant reassurance which is exhausting for the other person. Self-loathing cannot be fixed by external validation.

12.) Nobody ever wakes up after a night of staying sober wishing they would have had a drink.

Facts.

11.) Your job title is not your identity.

It's amazing to have a career that you are passionate about. Build a full life, so that if God forbid that job goes away you still know who you are.

10.) Be comfortable going to a restaurant to eat alone

It's always awkward the first-time. It is a huge self esteem boost to feel comfortable being with yourself.

9.) Take a lot of pictures.

Not selfies (those are great too). Take candid pictures. It gives you physical evidence of times in your life.

8.) Find a perfume and stick with it.

Human Beings will always remember how you smell. Make it a good one.

7.) Give genuine compliments.

Genuine is the key word here. If someone looks especially radiant, or has on a great outfit, tell them. You never know who needs to hear something

6.) Experiment with your look until you find your signature style.

Dress in a way that makes you feel good. It helps you carry yourself with confidence. I love clothes, they are my passion. I love when women find their own style and embrace it. Trends are great, but you don't have to follow them to a t. Unless that's your thing. Play with your clothes, it's fun.

5.) Write handwritten notes.

I love to write so this is important to me. It's always so meaningful to receive something handwritten.

4.) Be assertive, not aggressive.

Advocate for yourself and hold your ground, don't bully or instill fear in others to get your point across. No one will ever take you seriously if you just get angry and explode.

3.) Real growth starts when you get tired of your own shit.

I can personally attest to this. Nothing and I mean nothing motivates change like really stepping back and realizing your behavior is why and how you've gotten to the point in your life that you are at. Realizing that the same shitty coping mechanisms you have used your whole life may not be serving you anymore. My mom once said to me ”you complain that all these bad things keep happening to you, but what is the common denominator?” Me. I am the common denominator.

2.) It's okay to need help.

We can't always fix everything ourselves. The reason therapeutic environments exist is because there is a need. Whatever help may look like for you, it's okay to reach out and take it. For me, it came in the form of rehab. Not once, but a few times. I have a drinking problem and an eating disorder that I can't just will myself through. I need help. And that's okay. By taking help and services I found a community of people that are just like me. I found a place I belong and a safe area to walk through my issues. I have support and a network that pulls me through my darkest days.

Regret and shame will keep you sick.

This is a very emotional one for me. I have a crushing amount of regret about how I have shown up as a mother. It haunts me every moment of everyday. I have made a lot of mistakes. Living in shame has kept me in pain. It has kept me distant and in hiding. Regret has told me ”your daughter is better off without you”. And I listened. I built an emotional wall so high that now I don't know how to tear it down. Hiding in my shame has created mountains of problems that wouldn't be problems if I just would have faced my own situation. I don't know how to overcome these obstacles. I do know I love my child with every ounce of my soul. My fear is that she doesn't know that. So it's time to do things differently. To step into the light and heal not hide from choices I've made.

As I approach this new year of my life I won't feel bad for myself. No, I'm not where I thought I would be at 32 but I'm right where I need to be. And maybe that's the best place for me.

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