#“so you think i'm pretty?” “pretty enough”

[no-144444]

ruined for you- l.norris

summary: lando gets a wake-up call about his feelings for you

pairing: fakeboyfriend! lando norris x fem! fakegirlfriend! actress! reader

warning: SMUTTT, ngl yall, this is filthy. so, enjoy! 18+ please :)

a/n: kinda part 2 to cherry kisses. i'm thinking of making this an au series instead of my regular chapter-focused series?? lmk what yall think!!!

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He couldn’t believe it was happening. The feeling of your skin on his, your hands on him, your lips on his. It was maddening. 

“You alright?” you asked, breathless. “Do you want to go further or-?” you trailed off. 

“Please,” he whispered against your lips. He was desperate and he didn’t even care. “I want you.”

He saw the way your lip twitched and he felt accomplished. He was doing something to make you like this, he was doing something good. 

“Eager, are we?” you teased as you pushed his head back, pulling on his hair. “So good for me, Lan.”

Ok, he could’ve sworn he whimpered that time. You didn’t seem to care, too busy pulling off your top to care. He was glad just to sit back and watch the show. Those pierced nipples he fantasised about so often, on full display, just for him. Fuck he was hard, straining against his jeans as he struggled to his keep his hands to himself, and off himself. He’d thought about this a million times, his favourite fantasy coming true. You. 

“Like what you see?” you smirked, moving off his lap to pull off your trousers. He was genuinely rendered speechless. “Cat got your tongue?” you teased, playing with his hair again, sitting on his lap, bare pussy to hsi clothed crotch. “I like it better when you don’t speak anyway,” you smirked and pressed your lips to his again, a searing, all-consuming kiss. 

His brain short-circuited. His hands were hanging aimlessly beside him, until you placed them on your body, then he shot into motion, his brain actually working. He was groping all over your body, whimpering in your mouth, and grinding up to your pussy. “Need to be inside you, please,” he begged, his hands digging into your waist, trying desperately to stop himself. He could feel your tits against his chest, your hands in his hair, your bare pussy over his jeans. “I-I’m going to cum,” he admitted, grinding himself up to your soaking pussy. He couldn’t help himself, and even if he could, he didn’t want to. It felt too good.

“You’re going to cum?” you questioned, whispering in his ear. “In your pants?” 

He nodded against your neck, his moans and whimpers getting more and more desperate as he got closer and closer to his peak. You licked that spot just under his ear and he knew he was a goner. His moan was high-pitched and whiny, but you pulled him into another all-consuming kiss and smiled against his lips. He came in his pants like a fucking teenager. And it felt good.

You laughed against his lips and pulled back, making him groan at the loss of contact. He came in his pants like a fucking teenager. It was hot. “You’re so fucking eager,” you smirked. “And yet I’m the only one who’s naked.” 

He leaned back, pulling off his shirt. You barely had enough time to run a hand down his toned abs before he was hoisting you further up his body as he lay back and pulled off his trousers as he stared up at you from between your thighs. Shit, he was between your thighs. His cock pulsed against his boxers as he pressed a gentle kiss to the inside of one of your thighs, and we could’ve sworn he heard you gasp. He just wanted to make you feel good. He wanted to make you cum. He wanted to be good for you. 

“What do you like?” he asked, basically breathless.

“In what way?” you smirked. “Are you eating me out or fucking me?” 

God. He gulped. “Eating you out.” 

“Good,” you nodded. “Y’going to let me ride your face?” 

He nodded before he knew what he was doing. You moved up, and suddenly he was met with your pussy. He pushed his tongue between your pussy lips experimentally, and found your clit pretty quick. He racked his brain for any idea of what to do. He’d never done this before, and he wanted to impress you. From what he’d seen, he just fingered you and sucked on your clit, right? He hoped you would give him some idea of what you like as he started sucking on your clit. 

“Just…” you breathed out above him. “Fuck me with your tongue, yeah?” You were breathless, he was doing something right. 

He smirked against your pussy, his hands finding your waist to start you grinding against his face, making you moan out above him. He pressed his tongue flat against your clit and you groaned his name, your hand finding his hair as you grinded harder. 

“Faster Lan, please,” you begged. “Faster.” 

He didn’t need to be told a third time when he had you practically sobbing on his tongue. He wasn’t fucking this up, and he could feel you pulsing against his lips. You were close. He was going to make you cum. 

“Cum for me baby,” he slurring against your cunt. “Need it baby.”

And you did. You came with a violent shake and a loud moan as he held your limp body against his face, tongue-fucking you through your orgasm. He smirked against your cunt-

“Wake the fuck up Norris, breakfast ends in 30 minutes!” 

The loud banging on his door and your angry voice was not what he thought would come next, but alas, the greatness of his dream was interrupted by the main character in it. You. 

He got out of bed, trying to shake off the dream, but he could feel the uncomfortable truth of his cummed-in boxers, and the way his cock was already hard again. “Go without me, just save me a croissant please?” he called back. 

“Suit yourself!” you shouted back, and he could hear your footsteps retreating back down the hall. He stepped into the shower, hoping to wash the dream off of him. The image of you naked in front of him was what got him through his second orgasm of the morning, and he got dressed and walked downstairs. Maybe he shouldn’t watch your sex scenes before bed? He noted it down for the future, and ran downstairs to meet you before another day of pretending to be your dutiful boyfriend. 

“How’d you sleep?” he asked as you handed him his croissant.

“Great, beds comfy,” you turned to him, smiling. “You?”

He smirked as he looked at your white tank, your nipple piercings poking through. “Wonderful. Really good dreams, actually.”

You stared at him, and he could almost see a hint of curiosity, but it was gone as soon as it appeared, and you moved on. “Alright then, we have like 5 minutes until the car is here, enjoy your croissant, I’m getting a coffee.” 

Fuck, he was ruined for you. 

And he didn’t even care.

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[theclockworkjudas]

Below the cut is an off the cuff, 600 word on topic essay done in a half hour to show how easy it is.

Writing 600 words is childplay. Look, I can write 600 words about this topic right now, off the top of my head. Like, I feel like in any other circumstances that collaboration should be considered a good thing, but not at the expense of doing the work yourself. Part of the issue I'm seeing is that children aren't taught properly how to learn, and therefore how to formulate their own ways of thinking about things. And this is hard, because different children learn in different ways, and it's hard to come up with a classroom style that suits all the needs of every student. So, instead, teachers are taught how to teach in a single unified way, that leads to children not having their needs met. They aren't even taught how to seek out tools to meet their own needs, so they grow up with the concept of learning, period, as being an uncomfortable thing. This leads to children taking shortcuts like the one mentioned above and going above and beyond to avoid doing the work. This might lead to a rise in cleverness in children, but not actually knowledge retention.

Add to that the rising prevelance of "fast media" constantly speeding up and shortening everything. Quick soundbites. Youtube shorts. Tiktok. Vine. Heck, I recently saw a "study aid" that played a narrarator reading out study notes over tiktok compilations. Which, that's ingenious, don't get me wrong, but these teens should have enough attention span that they shouldn't need it, damnit. It sucks that 20 minutes of focus is so unbearable to the average teen that they have to have "Cocomelon for teens" playing in the background to keep any sort of attention. And how much are they actually retaining with the constant distraction. And this isn't to say that some people (hello fellow ADHDers) struggle with keeping focus. I need a hand stim for pretty much any focused task. But a good way to hone the skill isn't by adding more input, it's by practicing focus, with medical support if necessary. 311. We're more than halfway there at this point. It's taken me 20 minutes. And believe me, focusing is hard, as someone with adhd myself.

Let's circle back to the concept of teachers only teaching a single unified way of learning. This problem, in my point of view, is caused by three things. Firstly, teachers have been taught to teach only a single way, because their teachers have taught them to teach in a single way, etc, etc, forever and ever amen. This leads to a vicious cycle in which we are stuck teaching the same teaching methods because it's "the way it's done" and if anything heaven forbid is done differently it's quickly squashed because teaching in any way that isn't beholden to standardized testing will invariably lose the school money. That's right, standardized test scores are very tightly tied into how much funding a school gets. Because if the school isn't doing a "good job" teaching their students (i.e, making sure they can pass a standardized test) the school doesn't deserve funding. Never mind the fact that consistently underfunded schools don't have the materials or staffing ability to give their students the tools they need to actually learn in any way that matters, let alone pass a test. So that leads to kids already at a disadvantage getting more and more disadvantages, and the private school kids getting a great education, but leaning towards religious based or conservative schools. Which is to say that all this is by design to keep the ruling elite on top, the poor peons on the bottom to uneducated to even realize what a disadvantage they are at or ever get the tools to get out of it. Which is why I say, hone the skills you have, and don't be to hard on the kids who the system is rigged to fail, and instead reach a hand out and help in any way you can. And that was over 600 words.

[mageofmadness]

◞♡ nsfw

caleb’s definitely a just the tip type of guy you cannot tell me he wouldn’t beg for it like anywhere and everywhere all the damn time. does not matter where you are, what time it is, etc. sometimes he doesn’t even care to come...he’s not trying to fuck you and fill you up, he just wants inside of your cunt because it’s been a long day and surely you missed him too and he can’t help it, it’s his favorite place to be. so warm and you’re always so wet and sweet and he’s got such a silver tongue “just the tip, honey. i’m sorry, you just look so good. i can’t stand it...can’t wait ‘til we get back home" so of course you agree because you did miss him, but you also know his tricks by now and it’s hardly ever just the tip.

sure, it might start that way. maybe you’re pressed up against the bathroom wall, having both slipped out during an important work gala because “i didn’t like the way they were looking at you. i haven’t left your side all night, who do they think they are?” and you know you don’t have enough time to fuck so you agree because caleb looks so handsome, how could you deny him anything? he hurriedly hikes your dress up and you give him some credit when he lifts your hip, notching the tip of his cock against your hole, but then he presses in and in and in until the tip he’d promised is so deep inside of you, your legs are starting to shake.

“im sorry, fuck. i-i'm sorry, i can't help it. fuck, how are you so tight? always so tight. it’s not my fault, baby. if you didn’t want me this deep, why are you trying to fuck yourself back on my cock, huh?” and you are. you're squirming and trying to adjust to his size and now you wish he’d move instead of pinning you against the wall with his cock splitting you open.

or maybe you’re on the couch, worn out after a long day, and he’s promising just the tip. nothing more this time...he swears.

“you don’t have to do anything, baby. i know you’re tired, i’m sorry. i know, it’s been so long, though, honey. please, pips. all i could think about all day was coming home to you and you smell so nice and and and…” and maybe caleb really does mean it this time, but either way, he always takes care of you. he can have whatever he wants.

his cock is so heavy when the tip rests against your hole, both of you already weeping for it, and he groans, sliding in just enough. he starts to jerk his cock as you whine on the couch, moving your hips because now you want more and right now is the time caleb decides to stick to his word?

“stop moving, baby. fuck, look at that…look at you. you want it that bad? but i promised, didn’t i?” he moans, and you writhe, feeling the jerky movements of the tip of his cock, your cunt begging for something to fill it but he doesn’t. caleb doesn’t give in this time, having to shush you because this is unfair. how dare he suddenly deprive you, and when he comes, he comes with his cock pressed just enough inside of you for nothing to spill out. admiring his work, panting, “thank you, fuck. missed you so much, baby. gonna make you come now, kay? don’t think i forgot about you...just needed to come in this pretty hole. what? i just gave you...oh, you want it it all? my whole cock? you’re the one always saying ‘just the tip’ sweetheart, you’ve gotta be more clear, then.”

you have half a mind to argue with him, opening your mouth to explain clearly you guys both have a moderation issue, but he’s sliding into you a moment later, filling you up in one swift thrust. his last load slicks the way, and you whine. you whimper. it’s so much more than just the tip, his entire cock filling you up as caleb grins, knowing he won this game that’s not really even a game.

“there you go, yeah? maybe you'll remember this moment the next time you roll your eyes, telling me 'just the tip,' and acting like you don’t want it, pips.”

[dont-touch-the-phlebotinum]

Blood pounds in Buck's ears along with the sound of his frenzied footfalls echoing around the stairwell, but it's not nearly loud enough to drown out his spiralling thoughts, the thrum of helicopter blades picking up speed, of explosions and gunshots and every single thing that could possibly go wrong before this day from hell is over. He's pretty sure the only reason he's not having a full-blown panic attack right now is because he doesn't have either the time or the oxygen to spare.

Please, God, don't let him be too late.

He bursts out onto the rooftop with enough force that the door bounces back against the wall and slams behind him, and Buck can't tell if the spotting in his vision is from the sudden blinding sunlight or because he's forgotten to breathe in what feels like hours. But it doesn't matter. The helicopter is still there on the helipad, blades motionless, and there's a familiar silhouette walking towards it.

"Tommy!" Buck scrambles closer, before he can reach the helicopter and escape, again, before Buck has chance to explain, to fix things. He's too far away. Even at Buck's breakneck speed he won't reach Tommy before he reaches the helipad. "Tommy!"

The figure stills, and turns.

Buck stumbles to a halt in front of him.

In the golden light of the setting sun Tommy looks gorgeous — and wary, and torn, and Buck's every impulse is screaming at him to take Tommy's face in his hands and kiss all that pain away. But he bites it back. He's let his impulsiveness take over too many times when it comes to Tommy; it's time to be deliberate. If he doesn't get the words out now…

Tommy's head turns towards the helicopter waiting for him, the responsibilities, the reminder that the world is bigger than the two of them as much as Buck wishes right now it could be otherwise. He looks back to Buck, pleading. "Evan—"

"I know," says Buck. Each breath feels like a knife between his ribs, but he forces himself to take one, to shape what he's needed to say to Tommy for far too long. "Just — please, just give me a second to say this before you go."

The corner of Tommy's mouth twitches into a wry smile. It doesn't reach his eyes. "That's not a ringing endorsement of my chances," he quips, but if Buck lets himself think about Tommy's chances right now whatever force has been powering him through past the fear clawing up his throat and threatening to suffocate might finally up and leave him, so he shakes his head, shakes the words away somewhere they can't be heard, can't be made real.

"It hurt, what you said that morning," he says. "But that doesn't make it okay for me to hurt you back, and I'm so sorry I did."

Tommy nods, squares his shoulders like that's all Buck had to say before letting Tommy go. But it's not, not even close to all the words scrambling to make themselves heard, and Buck catches Tommy's wrist before he can turn away from him again.

"I just — did you really think I could've spent our entire relationship thinking about anybody but you?" The thought has churned through his mind enough times these last few weeks that the anger that comes along with it is less biting — less likely to make him say something he'll regret, hopefully — but it still flickers in his chest. He's been so goddamn gone for Tommy since the moment they met, how the hell could Tommy never see it?

The smile on Tommy's face is so sad, so defeated, that Buck wants to take him by the shoulders and shake him. "I know how this plays out, Evan," he says.

"But you don't!"

He forces himself to stop, let his emotions settle. It's not easy to think clearly around Tommy, never has been, between the lust and affection and hurt and now a healthy measure of bone-chilling terror that Buck might lose him completely, but he owes it to Tommy to try. Maybe he owes it to himself, too.

"When I said I didn't have to have feelings for everyone I sleep with, I didn't mean that I don't have feelings for you. I do. Tommy, I feel so much for you I don't know how I haven't burst from it all."

He watches Tommy's face for some sign of him shutting down again, that Buck isn't getting through to him. His jaw is clenched, tension still radiating from him like it's taking everything in him not to give in and run, to fight that wounded animal side to him that Buck was too blind to see before. But his eyes, glittering wet in the dying sunlight, are still fixed on Buck, and he's listening.

Maybe it won't change anything. But at least Tommy will know what he really means to Buck. Will know he's important, and loved, and deserving of so much more than he lets himself have. And that'll be enough.

"What I was trying to say was that I know what I'm doing. I know who I want to be with and who I don't. You know," he says, "everyone else keeps telling me what I want, like I'm too dumb to know it myself."

"That's not what I—"

"Don't," Buck cuts in, before Tommy can say it. He's on a roll now, and he's going to say his piece even if he has to strap himself into the cockpit beside Tommy and fly into God only knows what dangers to do it. "Right now I need you to listen when I tell you what I want."

There's something of surrender in the shrug of Tommy's shoulders, but he's smiling, as if even this version of Buck, frantic and sweat-soaked and angry, is still hopelessly endearing to him. "Okay," he says.

"I want you, Tommy. Only you. I want to wake up next to you in the morning. I want to listen to you talk about basketball even though we both know I only go to your pickup games 'cause you look so hot when you play, and I want to ramble about whatever stupid thing I learned that day that nobody else cares about and see you watching me the way you do, like you really wanna hear what I have to say, and know you're gonna remember months from now when I've forgotten it myself.

"I want you to feel like you can be yourself with me, and let me see that scared, lonely part of you you try so hard to keep hidden, and I want you to believe me when I tell you I'm in love with you, because I am. I love you so much, Tommy."

The tears in Tommy's eyes spill over, and Buck's pretty sure he's crying too at this point but he doesn't stop to scrub his cheeks, doesn't want to stop for all the world. The wind whips around them, sounds of traffic drifting up from the streets so far below, and there's people waiting for them, people who need them, but right now the only thing that matters is Tommy stood in front of him.

"And when you're ready, I want us to build a life together."

Tommy swallows. "I'd like that," he breathes.

The words are cracked and quiet, but he and Buck have gravitated so close towards each other by now they're stood practically chest to chest and the sound tucks itself between their bodies, there for Buck and Buck alone. He nods, and lets out a shaking breath.

"I'm gonna screw up," he says, giving Tommy one last chance to walk away before Buck gets his hopes up, as if it isn't already going to kill him if Tommy takes it. "I'm gonna say the absolute worst thing at the worst time and I'm gonna hurt you without even realising, but I swear to God, I will do everything I can to fix things if you'd just stick around and give me a chance. Do you trust me?"

"With my life."

"How about with your heart?"

Tommy leans in, touches his forehead to Buck's. "You already have it," he says. They breathe deep, not kissing, barely even touching — just there, together, reaching for whatever comfort they can find in each other. "It feels like I've been terrified my whole life. I'm not sure I know how not to be. But I want to try, with you."

"I can work with that."

And finally, finally, they're kissing. Not the desperate, all-consuming kisses they'd shared last time, but something tender and honest in a way maybe neither of them have really been with each other before now. They stay close even after their mouths drift apart.

"I love you, too," Tommy says. "And I'm sorry as well. I was an idiot. You know," he adds, in that bone dry tone Buck has spent months thinking he'd never get to hear again, and Buck smiles at the sound of it, "I'm kind of a mess, Evan."

The laugh that bubbles up from Buck's chest feels like a tide washing over him. "I had noticed that, actually."

"Wait, you did?"

"A little bit, yeah."

"Damn."

"I don't mind getting messy," says Buck, serious again. "And, in case you hadn't noticed, there's plenty of issues over here too."

Tommy smiles back at him. "Maybe we can work on them together."

"Deal."

And like a spell's been broken, Tommy's radio crackles to life, thrusting them back into the world, into the uncertainty of what's to come, into the gnawing terror that regardless of how their conversation had gone there's still a chance this is the last time Buck ever sees the man he loves.

"Kinard, what's your status?" comes a voice over the radio.

"Go save the day," Buck says, a gentle nudge to Tommy's chest to get him moving before Buck can give in to the urge to pull him closer and refuse to let go. "Just promise me you'll come back."

"I'll try my damnedest. I've got a hell of a good reason to now." He presses another kiss to Buck's lips, and Buck tries not to think of it as goodbye. "They'll need you on the ground."

"As soon as you're airborne I'm gone."

Tommy nods. "Be safe."

"You too."

One last embrace — no, Buck tells himself, not the last, because there's a future waiting for them and they're both going to fight like hell to get to it — and Tommy's jogging towards the helipad. The sun's dipped beneath the horizon now, the clouds swept away for Tommy to take to the air, giving Buck a clear view to track his progress from the ground.

"Hey," he calls after Tommy. "What are you doing Saturday?"

Tommy turns back to him with a grin. "How about you let me know when I land?"

[sketchs-trashcan]

(this got a bit long, so for the sake of not clogging everyone's dashboards i'll stick the rest under a read more.)

you're not wrong about people needing to read the fine print more thoroughly. i left it in my tags initially, but i also commented on how people need to at least skim these things (though it absolutely sucks to wade through legal jargon in any amount and i can't really blame people for not wanting to do that. that's a separate discussion though).

i also had enough spoons to do some light research and yes, it does seem like states do require dna screening within 48 hours of birth that are designed to check for genetic disorders (notably, i couldn't find anything that said they check/gather data on ethnicity), which is in of itself a slightly different can of worms i don't have the willpower to open at this point. while i wouldn't trust the current government to not sell the information, i would like to think that back when they were at least vaguely constrained by laws they were at least a little bit better about not selling information like that to the highest bidder.

however, no one said anything about not focusing on the unjust arrests and deportations. that is an entirely different sentence, and quite frankly, i'm pretty sure anyone with their head on straight and either hates the current administration, is not white, or both is very concerned about what's happening.

back to the matter at hand. if i understand it correctly, a lot of people who used this type of genetics testing genuinely didn't know some or even all of their family history, and you can't fault people for wanting to learn about themselves or find biological family. sometimes these tests can reveal information people are unaware of (and if they're unaware of it, how can they answer census questions in a way that reflects the information?).

i'm not going to doxx my own personal info for the sake of a tumblr argument, but when my dad took a dna test (thankfully not through 23&me), it spat out specific info that made me have my own little identity crisis for a bit. using that as an example, what if someone found out they had mexican lineage? or arabic? this country loves harassing people of those descents, and even more so under the current administration. that information could very well be used to put them in a new wave of targets, should things continue to spiral out of control.

the long and short of it is that these issues are not mutually exclusive. both can be bad without detracting from one another. selling private citizen's very personal data is bad, and rampant unjust arrests and deportations are also bad.

additionally, saying you don't care about one issue (because you don't have to worry about it) and then turning around and saying we have to care about this other issue (because you do have to worry about it) is hypocritical. please keep in mind that not everyone lives in california. there are a lot of fires going on right now, metaphorically speaking (and quite possibly literally). each person can only focus on so much before they get crushed under the weight of the dread, especially on topics where they have little to no power on their own. the dna issue at least has something people directly affected by the situation can do for themselves (whether or not it'll actually be effective is a separate story). let people decide on their own what their #1 worry is going to be.

not to be all i told you so about ancestry tests but 23 and me went bankrupt and can now legally sell human genetic information to the highest bidder, as per their privacy policy which was signed by approx. 15 million test takers

[jazzy11scorpio]

Adult Content

Summary: Pedro Pascal. Backstage. Some hot stuff happened. That's pretty much it. You get the idea.

Pairing: Reader / Pedro Pascal

Tags ⚠️: Adult Content, MDNI, backstage hookup, quickie, dirty talk, oral sex ( m/f rec), unprotected sex, rough sex, riding, PinV, cream pie, fluff, SMUT.

Word count: 1k

Note: Deleting this tomorrow so enjoy in my last RPF

The backstage of Jimmy Kimmel Live! buzzed with a nervous energy, a stark contrast to Pedro's usually relaxed behavior. Tonight, though, was different. He paced his dressing room, running a hand through his already tousled hair, a slight frown creasing his brow.

"I don't know," he muttered, adjusting the collar of his shirt for what seemed like the tenth time. "I feel…off. Like I'm going to say something stupid."

You smiled, moving to stand in front of him, your hands resting gently on his arms. "Hey," you said, your voice soft and reassuring. "You're going to be great. You always are."

He looked at you, his eyes searching yours, a flicker of doubt still lingering. "You really think so?"

"I know so," you said, giving his arms a gentle squeeze. "You're charming, you're funny, and you have this… this magic about you. It's impossible not to love you."

He leaned in, his forehead resting against yours, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly. "You always know what to say," he murmured, his voice a low rumble. "Thank you. Just having you here makes it easier."

You watched the show from the crowd, your heart swelling with pride as he commanded the stage. He was effortlessly charming, his wit sharp, his smile infectious. He had the audience in the palm of his hand, laughing and applauding at his every word.

After the show, as the credits rolled, you made your way backstage, your footsteps echoing in the quiet hallway. You found him in his dressing room, the door slightly ajar. He was leaning against the vanity, a relieved sigh escaping his lips.

"You were amazing," you said, stepping into the room.

He turned, his face lighting up as he saw you. "You were right," he said, grinning. "They loved it. I owe you one. Thank you for your support my love."

He crossed the room, pulling you into a warm, lingering hug. "Thank you for being here," he murmured, his voice soft against your ear. "It made all the difference. You're like my personal good luck charm, only way hotter."

You gripped his arm, your fingers digging slightly into the soft fabric of his shirt. "You know," you said, your voice a low murmur, "you're making me crazy. Looking this hot, this strong… I can't get enough of you. I swear, you could read the phone book and I'd still be drooling."

He turned to you, his eyes darkening with a familiar intensity. He kissed you gently, "And you," he whispered against your lips, his voice husky, "are making me incredibly impatient. I'm pretty sure my heart is trying to escape my chest to get to you faster."

He pulled back slightly, his eyes tracing the curve of your jaw. "I can't wait to get home," he murmured, his voice laced with a playful growl, "to show you exactly how badly I want you. I've been thinking about it all night. And let's just say, those thoughts are very dirty."

"We don't have to wait," you purred, a mischievous glint in your eyes. You stood up quickly, the click of the lock on the door echoing in the suddenly charged atmosphere.  With deliberate slowness, you began to peel off your dress, revealing the lacy bra and panties beneath.

"You're naughty," he breathed, his voice a low growl, his eyes following every move. "And crazy. Just how I like it." A slow, predatory smile spread across his face as he watched you.

He remained seated on the sofa, his gaze fixed on you as you knelt before him.  You reached out, your fingers tracing the outline of his bulge, teasing him through the fabric of his pants. "You're so hard," you whispered, your voice husky. "And you're all mine." You unzipped his pants, slowly, deliberately, revealing his already throbbing cock.

"Come on, show me how much you want it, mi amor," he said, his voice thick with desire.

You leaned in, your tongue darting out to lick the tip of his cock, your eyes never leaving his.  You swirled your tongue around the sensitive head, teasing him mercilessly.  He groaned, his hand finding your hair, holding your head as you took him deeper into your mouth.

You sucked him slowly, then faster, milking him with long, deep strokes, the sound of your wet mouth filling the room. He cursed under his breath, clearly enjoying every second.  "Stop," he finally groaned, his voice ragged. "I'm going to come. I want to be inside you."

You stood up, your eyes locking with his.  He reached out, his hands sliding down your hips, pulling your panties down your legs.  He tugged you closer, his hands gripping your thighs, his face burying between your legs.  He licked your pussy, his tongue swirling and teasing, his fingers dipping into your wetness, exploring your swollen clit. "You're so wet," he groaned, his voice thick with lust. "So fucking ready."

You tangled your fingers in his hair, your hips bucking against his face as he sucked you harder, his tongue driving you wild. "Fuck, Papi," you moaned, your voice thick with desire. "I want to fuck you. Please."

He pulled back, his eyes burning with a primal intensity.  He leaned back against the sofa, his legs spread wide, inviting you.  You straddled him, your eyes locking with his as you slowly lowered yourself onto his waiting cock.

As his hard cock slid slowly inside you, stretching you, filling you completely, your pussy clenched around him, milking him with each inch. "God," you groaned, your voice thick with desire. "You feel so fucking good. Your cock is made for me."

He gripped your waist, pulling you down harder, his eyes burning with lust. He traced his hand up your back, unhooking your bra, his hot breath ghosting over your skin, sending shivers down your spine. He began to suck on your nipples, his tongue swirling and teasing, nipping and pulling, making you whimper.

You started to move faster, bouncing harder on his cock, your hips grinding against his, your wetness slicking against him. You teased him with slow, deliberate swirls, driving him wild, making him groan. He buried his head in your neck, kissing you deeply, his huge hands gripping your ass cheeks, pulling you closer, wanting you deeper.

You held onto his shoulders, your moans growing louder, your pussy squeezing him with each thrust, your juices dripping down his shaft. "Fuck," you gasped, your voice ragged. "You're so hard. So deep. I want you to fill me up."

The pleasure was almost unbearable, a raw, primal feeling that made you want to scream his name. You kissed him hard and passionately, your lips bruising against his, your teeth nipping at his bottom lip.

"You're fucking amazing," he groaned, his voice hoarse, his cock throbbing inside you. "Like you were made to hold me, only me." He put his hand around your neck, his thumb stroking your skin, his fingers digging into your flesh. "Be quiet, baby," he whispered, his voice a low, possessive growl. "Come on my cock. Ride me, baby, ride me...Ohh Fuck..you feel like heaven."

"Fuck," you screamed, your body tensing, your orgasm building. You bounced harder, faster, your pussy milking him with each thrust. You were so close, teetering on the edge "Pedro," you gasped, his name a raw plea on your lips. "I'm gonna come."

"Yes, baby," he growled, his hand tightening around your neck, his fingers digging into your skin. "Come for me. Let it for me. Let it all go."

You gripped his biceps, your nails digging into his flesh. He was so strong, so powerful, and the raw, animalistic energy between you was intoxicating. "You're fucking destroying me," you moaned, your voice thick with lust. "And I fucking love it."

Your orgasm ripped through you, a wave of pure, white-hot pleasure. Your pussy clenched around his cock, squeezing him with each pulse, your juices flooding him. You cried out, your body shuddering, your head thrown back.

He groaned, his own orgasm building, his thrusts becoming frantic. "Fuck, yes," he roared, his cock pulsing deep inside you. "You're so fucking good. So wet for me babe."

He came then, a deep, guttural sound ripping from his throat, his cum flooding your pussy, hot and thick. "Goddamn," he whispered against your ear, his voice thick with lust. "You're mine. All mine. You're fucking mine."

He held you tight, his body still shuddering, his cock still buried deep inside you. "Fuck," he groaned again, his voice hoarse. "You feel so good. So fucking amazing. Iwant to feel you like this forever." He kissed you, hard and deep.

"I'm gonna fuck you again," he whispered, his breath hot against your ear. "Until we get home. You are gonna get more. I'm gonna fill you up until you can't take anymore."

"I want that," you breathed, your voice ragged. "I want you to fuck me all night Papi."

You kissed him, your lips bruising against his, your tongue tangling with his. "I love you," you whispered, your voice filled with raw, unfiltered desire.

"I love you too, babe," he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. "More than anything. And trust me, once we get home, I'm going to prove just how much." He gave you a wicked grin. "Prepare to be thoroughly… loved."

His arms wrapped around your body, pulling you closer to his chest. His heart beat against your ribs, a rapid, insistent rhythm that mirrored your own.

You ran your hands over his chest, your fingers tracing the bold white lettering on his black t-shirt:

"Adult Content." "Fitting," you purred, your voice husky. "Especially for what just happened in here. Makes me wonder what kind of content we'll be creating later."

He chuckled, a low, rumbling sound in his chest. "Oh, baby," he said, his eyes darkening with a playful glint. "We're going to be creating some very explicit content. And maybe a safe word." He nipped at your earlobe. "Think you can handle it?"

"Yes," you breathed, your voice thick with desire. "I can. With you, there's never enough. I want to feel every inch of you, every touch, every thrust. I want you to brand me with your cock."

He smiled softly, his eyes filled with a tenderness that made your heart melt. "You know," he murmured, his voice gentle as he tucked a stray strand of hair behind your ear, "you're beautiful when you talk like that. So fierce, so passionate. Makes me want to worship you."

He kissed your forehead, a soft, lingering press of his lips. "But more than anything, I just want to hold you. Close. And love you. Forever."

"I love you too," you whispered, your voice thick with emotion. "Now and forever."

Just then, a sharp knock echoed through the room. "Shit," he muttered, a reluctant sigh escaping his lips. "That's probably Jimmy."

You laughed, a nervous giggle escaping your lips, and kissed him quickly, a playful peck on his lips. "We almost got caught," you whispered, your eyes sparkling with mischief.

"Yeah," he chuckled, a low rumble in his chest, "talk about a close call. I can just picture his face. 'Pedro, what exactly were you doing in here?'" He mimicked a Jimmy making you laugh even harder.

"Though, to be fair, the sounds coming from in here were probably a dead giveaway."

He couldn't stop laughing either.

So, yeah, the whole sexy vibe kinda evaporated as you scrambled to get dressed. But, like, the afterglow was still there. Definitely picking up where you left off later.

Thank you for the reading 💜

[aringofsalt]

we're going down, but not today

BUCKTOMMY | G | 824 WORDS | AO3 spec fic for the upcoming two-parter! entirely based on the bts photos. i got to thinking about potential bathena parallels and this happened 💛

The helicopter is so still in the air it looks like it's floating, like the entire world is just as frozen as Buck feels.

"Evan," Tommy's voice crackles softly over the radio. "Evan, I need you to know—"

"No way," Buck interrupts. "You're not doing this to me, Tommy."

He has a brief flash back to September, to the way they'd all told the story of Athena's landing over and over. Of how Bobby had been so, so sure of Athena.

"You tell me in person, okay?" He echoes Bobby's words. "You land that thing, you get the hell out of there, you come back to me, you hear me? You come back and you—you tell me in person." His voice wavers, cracks a little in front of Athena and God and everybody who's listening in on this channel—he doesn't even want to think about how many people are listening in on this goddamn channel—but his eyes never leave the chopper. "You're going to tell me, and I'm going to tell you. Okay?"

There's silence for a moment. Then,

"Copy that, Firefighter Buckley. See you on the other side." Click.

"Buck, I need the radio," Athena says softly. She takes the radio from him with one hand, wraps the other around his bicep and squeezes briefly. Distantly, he can hear her talking, coordinating with Tommy in the air. He doesn't understand a word of it; it all sounds like it's coming through water, all distorted and muffled. His heart is in his throat as the helicopter gets closer, as they're ushered backwards for the bomb squad to get through.

It's a tense few minutes, made worse by the fact that he can see Tommy now, through the windshield. He knows flying isn't easy, but Tommy always made it look easy; now the cracks are showing. But they all do their jobs, and finally, finally, the chopper is on the ground. The minutes it takes for the engine to stop and the blades to stop turning are the longest he's ever felt. Tommy very carefully doesn't look at him the whole time, entirely focused on his job.

It's so fucking hot, now that the danger is past.

By the time Tommy steps out of the cockpit, Buck feels like he's going to vibrate out of his skin. He's forcing himself to stay in place, ignoring Athena's amused smirk, but the second Tommy looks his way, he's done for.

He's halfway across the roof before he's even processed that his feet are moving, and Tommy's just as eager, stepping right around the guy he's been debriefing with. They crash together, wrapping around each other without a care in the world for all the people around them. Buck feels like he could crawl right into Tommy's rib cage and he still wouldn't be close enough. All he can do is cling tighter, bury his nose into Tommy's neck and dig his fingers into the coarse fabric of his flight suit and finally let the tears fall.

He doesn't know how long they stand there, just that by the time they break apart—eyes red and shoulders suspiciously damp—their corner of the roof is pretty much empty. There's some distant murmurs, people milling around the helicopter, but nobody is nearby to watch them press their foreheads together and breathe each other in.

"You said tell me in person," Tommy murmurs into the space between them.

"Well, here we are," Buck murmurs back. "Whatcha got for me, Kinard?"

"Dork," Tommy says fondly, then his face grows serious. "You don't know what you do to me, Evan. I'm not exactly a stranger to the idea of death—you know what that's like, this job. But this time...all I could think about was all the things I never got to tell you. All the time I wasted."

"We wasted," Buck breaks in, because he's not about to let Tommy take all the blame for the time they spent apart. "But that doesn't matter."

"No, it doesn't," Tommy agrees. "I'm...I'm done running from you, Evan. I love you—it scares me, honestly, how much. But the idea of being without you..." He takes a deep breath. "That scares me more. I'm so sorry."

"I am too," Buck laughs wetly, fighting down a sob. "God. I love you. I love you, I love you, I love you. I'm never letting you out of my sight again, I hope you realize."

"Deal."

Buck looks up, and Tommy takes his breath away, as always. He's glowing golden in the setting sun, eyes wide, looking at Buck with that same look of fond amazement he always does, like he can't quite believe this is real.

He's missed this. Missed him. And he's waited weeks; he's not waiting another minute. He slides a hand around Tommy's neck, the other around his waist, and tugs him in, and it feels like home.

[pearlessance]

Beneath the Armor —part one

summary: Joel Miller has been the center of all the gossip in the trailer park since he tragically lost his daughter. He's short-tempered and mean as hell, his hostility no doubt spurred on by that beer he always has in hand. But when you need a ride to work and he's your last resort, you come to find he's much more than what meets the eye.

pairing: joel miller x f!reader

warnings: explicit sexual content MDNI (not in this part but in part two!), ANGST with a happy ending, grief, mention of child loss, daddy issues, age difference, slow burn, attempted seduction, use of alcohol, and references to alcohol abuse, brat taming, eventual smut

wc: 6.9k

note: this entire concept is owed to my bff joelmillersgirlfriend over on AO3! we've cowritten this together (to the shock of no one, i'm pretty sure i need her to write at this point), and if you haven't gone over there to read her stuff by now then you're missing out!! part two coming soon <3 let us know what you think!

[masterlist] [read on AO3!]

Talking to Joel Miller was like pulling teeth with a rusty old plier, one by one, nerve by nerve. He used his silence, his pity like a suit of armor. Meant to protect him, but still wrapped around a man who was too scared to confront his fears. To learn his own forgiveness. 

You had vaguely known him since you were a senior in high school and had seen him and his little girl move into the trailer across from yours. You were sitting on the front porch, occasionally sipping from the iced lemonade in your hand. Summer had come in hot, and the beaming sun was relentless during the first humid weeks of July. 

Joel and Sarah had been the talk of the neighborhood — the dad and the little girl with an oxygen tank. You heard the rumors from some of your friends in the trailer park - that Joel couldn’t afford to keep up with her medical bills, so he had to sell his house and abandon the business he had built up with his bare hands. 

Still, she was a fighter until her last breath. Joel, however, died the day Sarah did. She had only lived for eleven months after moving into the park. What was once a motivated little family fighting hard against the disease soon became a single man inside of an empty shell. 

His warm smiles that he would give to neighbors who brought Sarah over toys and “get well soon!” cards soon turned into nothingness — a dark, empty expression. Joel stopped going out as much, replacing soccer balls and dirty sneakers with whiskey and cigarettes. He no longer stood out on his porch, playing guitar and smiling at you once he met your eyes from your own porch. 

Kathy, who lived directly next to you, begged her husband, Parker, to call the cops for a wellness check for Joel. On the first anniversary of her death, he didn’t leave the house for a week. 

“Mind your own business. God only knows how he’s havin’ to cope; seeing cops knocking on his front door in the middle of the night won’t help nothing.”

You had to admit you were more than a little relieved when you saw him finally emerge, tired-looking with heavy eyes. He got in his car and left before coming back thirty minutes later, a new case of beer in tow.

You spent too much time observing him, ensuring he was alright, even if he didn’t know that. With no dad that you could remember and a mother who remarried some douchebag and skipped town after you were old enough to live on your own, all you had was time. After senior graduation, your friends in the park found a way to escape to college, but you were stuck and unable to escape, just like Joel. 

While your friends went to get a degree, you found a job at a bar up the road. It was grimy and far beyond your dream, but you earned good tips. With responsibilities that caused you to stay and a deep fear of failure, you could not leave the town you’d grown up in. 

Out of desperation, you’d leaped and applied to some college several towns away. It was a spur-of-the-moment impulse, an unrealistic kind of thing. It’s not like you’d be able to afford it anyway. 

So it was a cycle: wake up, work, sleep, and do it all over again. You understood how Joel must feel, trapped in a never-ending pattern, reliving memories that couldn’t ever really go away — not entirely.

And of course, you understood what it was like being handed the short end of the stick. You both wound up in the same place, after all. 

Which was what led you to walk towards Joel’s trailer one evening. Your shift at work was about to start, but your car wouldn’t crank. You'd tried going to Kathy’s house first, but nobody answered. You couldn’t lose your job, already having too many tardies because of your piece of shit car.

The soles of your shoes crunched against the leaves on Joel’s front porch step, your eyes moving to look at him sitting in a plastic lawn chair. His hair was getting long, hanging over his eyes wildly. 

Joel bristled when he noticed you standing on his front porch step, a cigarette hanging between his lips. You’d never been this close to him. It was much easier to see how handsome he was up close: thick hair, a graying beard. Simply too easy on the eyes.

“Can I help you?” he asked, his eyes slipping away from your face and down to your outfit. You always dressed up for work, knowing it’d get you extra tips. Maybe you went a little overboard with the fishnets and the amount of cleavage you were showing, but it always paid off in the end.

His hips shift in his seat, waiting for you to answer his question. 

You cleared your throat, standing up straight to make yourself feel more significant compared to the giant man. “I’m sorry to bother you. My car won’t start, and I’m gonna be late for work.”

Joel glared up at you. “So?”

Taken aback by his hostility, you paused, hesitating. You knew that he was a sad man, but nobody had told you that he was an asshole.

“So… I was hoping you could give me a ride. I could pay you for the gas and-“

Joel stood up in the middle of you talking, the wood creaking under his boots as he walked to the front door and into the house. You faltered, standing stupidly on this rude man’s front porch step.

With a huff, you spun around, leaving the porch. “Fuckin’ asshole,” you muttered under your breath, suddenly jumping at the sound of the screen door slamming shut behind you. Joel had returned, this time with keys in his hand and a brown t-shirt pulled over his white wife's beater. 

“Say somethin’?” Joel asked, walking ahead but narrowing his eyes directly at your face. 

“Nope,” you quickly chirped, rushing to catch up with him. “I thought you’d left me standing outside.”

“‘Bout did,” Joel grumbled under his breath, unlocking the truck door before climbing in. It was your turn to narrow your eyes at Joel, rolling them at the asshole. Even though he was an unexpected dickhead, you had to admit that you enjoyed the way his arms flexed as he pulled himself into his truck.

The drive to the bar was filled with mostly silence, except for the hum of some Radiohead album playing on the radio. Joel had the truck windows rolled down, the wind whipping the loose strands of your hair around your face. 

You tried to subtly glance over at him, watching the same cigarette from earlier placed between his plush lips. Without thinking, you reached over, plucking the cigarette away from his mouth. 

His dark eyes snapped at you in disbelief as he watched you inhale his cigarette, the residue from your lipstick staining the filter. You weren’t sure why you needed to catch Joel’s attention, but you were sure it somehow related to how he was ignoring you. It made you crave his attention. Fucking daddy issues. 

“Now you owe me gas money and a pack of Marlboro’s,” Joel said, reaching over to swipe the cigarette out of your mouth. He eyed the lipstick stain, sighing in annoyance before deciding the nicotine was worth it. 

Your blood warmed at the thought that Joel’s lips touched where yours had just been, indirectly tasting your mouth. His eyes flickered over to you, watching him, a low frown on his face. 

“What’s a girl like you workin’ at Dazzlers anyways?”

You huffed, rolling your eyes at his remark. “I’m a bartender, not a lap dancer,” you said, prompting Joel to give you an eye roll in return.

“Could’ve fooled me,” he muttered, almost so quietly that you didn’t notice, but you did. You understood that he had been through a lot, but Christ, there was no need to take it out on you. You swallowed your pride, knowing he was your last resort to not being fired.

Despite the weird tension and the silence, you found yourself drawn to Joel’s brooding energy, glancing at him occasionally through the darkness. 

Apparently, he was more observant than you thought.

“Need somethin’?” he questioned, not even glancing in your direction. Maybe it had to do with dad spidey senses or something, but being caught had made your blood warm in your veins.

You shook your head, unable to bite your tongue. 

“Nobody told me that you were such a dickhead.”

To your surprise, Joel didn’t even falter, with almost no response to your jab at his aggressive demeanor. 

“Yeah, well, watchin’ your daughter deteriorate right in front of you can change a man,” he replied bluntly, taking a long drag of his cigarette without even looking away from the road. 

It made you instantly feel bad, regretting your words no matter how much truth they held. 

“That’s not what I meant-“ you tried to explain, but Joel waved his hand, dismissing your excuse. His large palm made a rush of air past your face, your eyes blinking at him in response.

“Just leave it,” Joel grumbled, so you obeyed. It wasn’t for long before you arrived at your job, your eyes watching the bright neon lights flashing through the parking lot. You rifled through your purse, attempting to retrieve a couple of bills, but Joel’s palm wrapping around your own stopped you.

Bright-eyed, you looked up to meet his gaze, his usual timid expression replaced with one of determination. 

“You don’t gotta pay me.”

Strong words coming from someone who was just belittling you for owing him money for gas and cigarettes.

“I don’t wanna owe you anything. Just let me give you a couple of dollars and we’ll call it even,” you said, attempting to rifle back through your bag, but being stopped by his massive palm once again.

“Who’s gonna bring you back home tonight?” Joel questioned, his concern genuinely surprising you. Before you shrugged, you allowed your defenses to fall, mostly due to your shock.

“I don’t know yet. I’ll figure it out.”

Joel shook his head, rolling his eyes at your half-assed answer. “What time does your shift end?”

You paused, pulling your purse to your chest before glancing at the front of the building. Did you really want Joel to pick you up? Was sitting through another weirdly comforting yet intense ride worth it?

When you looked back at Joel, he didn’t seem willing to take no for an answer; his eyebrows were drawn into an almost scowl-like expression. Sighing with exasperation, you finally spoke. 

“We close at midnight.”

He nodded in response, breaking his intense eye contact with you before opting out to seemingly judge the building itself. It was a rough place, with neon lights flashing and motorcycles lined up at the entrance. It certainly looked more intimidating than it actually was. 

You were surprised when Joel decided to bite his tongue, not slipping out with some smart allelic response about the place. Instead, he hummed, a quick and easy response to your answer.  

“I’ll see you then,” he replied, but something about his words made your chest burn, like it was almost a promise that he’d be there to look out for you. To protect you. 

He did wind up picking you up that night and numerous nights after you explained to him that your alternator had given out and your car would be in the shop for a couple of days. He never argued or took your gas money despite the way he grumbled under his breath when you knocked at his front door at quarter past three. 

It was almost routine to have Joel take you to and from work, and when your car was back in operation, you nearly didn’t want to tell him. Though your time together hadn’t really given you a glimpse into the man Joel truly was since he hardly spoke, it allowed him to get to know you.

You’d rambled on about your absent father, how your mom had abandoned you once she realized you could support yourself. Never did he judge or belittle you. He’d always listen and make sure you were heard. 

Despite that, he never answered your questions when you’d pried at him. Asking him about family? No go. The business he’d given up? Of course not. 

Anything about Sarah?

The first and only time you had fished for information about her, you thought he was going to toss you out of his car. His eyes narrowed and fists clenched the steering wheel, an audible growl of anger leaving his throat.

“You ever say her name again, and you can walk to work, understand?” 

You hadn’t seen much of his anger explode like that before, except during the unexpected arrival of his brother, Tommy. It was on the evening that you finally got your car back, and as you mustered the courage to walk over to Joel’s trailer to let him know that he didn’t have to take you back and forth, you noticed something. In front of his crumbling front deck was a dark pick-up truck, one that didn’t belong in a place like this. It was sparkling new, clearly waxed, with big, gleaming rims.

Before you even had the chance to think much about it, you heard a shout inside Joel’s trailer, a booming voice that almost made you scurry back to your own home.

“I already told you, Tommy! I’m not doin’ it!” Footsteps tracked through the house, heavy boots against weak plywood practically shaking the trailer. You could see shapes pass by the front window, suggesting that both Joel and his seemingly unwanted guest were about to come outside.

Now you were actually scurrying across his lawn, attempting to retreat back from Joel’s yard before you were spotted, but the front door opened too quickly. Thankfully, the heated conversation between him and who you assumed to be Tommy precluded their heated gazes from meeting yours. 

Without wanting to assume who Tommy was, he certainly looked like he was related to Joel - their intense glares were almost identical. The height, the face-shapes, all of it. Even Tommy’s deep drawl matched as he bellowed in return. 

“I don’t understand why you gotta be so goddamn stubborn. Here I am, drivin’ halfway across the county just to see you, to give you an opportunity to get out of this shithole, but instead, you’re chosin’ to live in a shell and letting yourself wind up just like-”

Joel’s frame towered over Tommy’s despite the considerable height that Tommy had himself. Something dark was brewing beneath Joel’s features, clearly quite close to boiling over. Even though you knew you were watching an intense, private moment, you had never seen this kind of emotion from Joel before. You were almost bewitched, unmoving, questioning if you should intervene to stop a potential fight from breaking out.

Tommy’s nostrils were flared, his chest pressed against Joel’s, while Joel’s fists were clenched into a tight ball, threatening to strike like a snake. 

“I told you last time. Bring her up again, and you won’t have a mouth left to speak from.”

Tommy scoffed. “She was just as much mine as she was yours, Joel. Just because you ran away when things got hard and buried yourself deeper and deeper into a hole doesn’t mean I don’t miss her.” He began to stomp off of the front porch, making his way to the truck that was parked in the driveway. 

“But that’s fine! This will be the last damn time I come over thinkin’ that maybe you’re ready to change. Go ahead and delete my number from your phone.”

Both you and Joel, as well as a couple of other neighbors who had decided to leave their houses to view the commotion, watched Tommy’s truck tires screech against the pavement. His departure was bitter and final, an angry bite to the way he spit those words.

You can’t imagine being on the receiving end of them, and when you turned your head to glance at Joel, you found his eyes boring into you. His shoulders are pulled tight, and his jaw is set, and he said nothing as he stepped back into his trailer and slammed the door hard behind him. 

Perfect timing, you thought to yourself. There’s never been a better day for your car to have been up and running again. You didn’t waste time lingering in his yard.

But before you can feel the pavement of the narrow street beneath your sneakers, his disgruntled voice cut through the air. “Where do you think you’re goin’?”

You turned to face him, unsure of yourself. Joel’s an asshole, you know that much, but you didn’t think you’ve ever seen him this worked up and angry. “Uhm…about that. I was just coming to tell you that I don’t need a ride today-”

Joel scoffed and shook his head, keys jingling in his hand “Get in the damn truck,” he said, venom on his tongue. And you know he’s not mad at you, but your stomach turned at his fury anyway. “Gonna be late if we don’t get a move on.”

Tomorrow, you decide. You’ll tell him about your car tomorrow. But for now, you do as he said. While he stuck the key in the ignition and turned the engine over, you climbed into the passenger seat, which still smelled faintly of your perfume from the night before.

He pulled onto the road and started the familiar route to the bar, his movements rehearsed and, by now, muscle memory. You sat in silence as he steered with one hand and pulled a cigarette from the center console with the other. He lit it, inhaled the nicotine deep into his lungs, and let out a heavy sigh.

You wondered if you should say something. A million questions are pressed against the back of your teeth. But now isn’t the best time to poke and prod for a glimpse into the man he is outside of what you’ve seen with your own two eyes. So you decided to say something else instead, something that might grant him a little relief. “My car is fixed. That’s what I was trying to tell you. So, tomorrow, you won’t have to worry about giving me rides anymore.”

He glanced at you briefly and then shook his head. “No.”

The word is so simple and definitive in his mouth that it caught you off guard. So much so that you found yourself fighting amusement. “What do you mean no?”

“Just what I said, damn it. You hard of hearing all of a sudden?”

“Jesus. What the fuck is wrong with you?” You hadn’t wanted to press his buttons. Truly. But what right does he have to spew insults as if you were the one screaming at him on his front porch? Your tone was condescending as you said, “Come on. Try it with me; congrats! I’m sooo happy things are finally going your way! I’m glad I could be of help! No problem at all-!”

“Cut that shit out.”

“Me? You first.”

His jaw feathered as he clenched his teeth. He ashed his cigarette out of the open window and then sighed again, calmer this time. “Alright. I’m…”

“Sorry?”

His throat bobbed as if he tried to get the word out but it didn’t quite make it to his tongue. Instead, he just said, “Yeah.”

This time, you’re the one sighing. “It’s okay.”

Another few seconds of silence passed between you, but they were not as uncomfortable as they’d been when you’d first gotten into the truck. Less tension, less anger. And then he said, “Don’t want you drivin’ anywhere in that thing in the middle of the night.”

Your heart pinched in your chest at the words. They’re said with a certain sort of irritation, but yet they’re still so… protective. It’s not something you’ve ever had before, but in the last few days he’s given you a taste and it isn’t until now that you realized you’d developed a craving for it. “Why not?”

“Ain’t safe. Could break down again any second. Leave you stranded at midnight in the middle of nowhere. God knows the kinda people you’re servin’ at that place, would consider themselves lucky to find ya on the side of the road.” He shook his head as if to clear the image from his mind. “I’ll just keep takin’ ya.”

Even though you fought the warmth that crawled up your cheeks, you know he could tell his words did something to you. Joel’s attention left the road for only long enough to steal a fleeting glance at your face, and when he turned back to the task at hand he snorted incredulously. 

But it’s the first time that anyone has ever considered your safety and altered their routine to make it a priority. It makes you feel special and warm and…wanted. And you know it’s likely your daddy issues blurring the lines once again, but you just can’t help yourself or the way your mind jumped to conclusions. “Is that your way of saying you care about me?”

He pressed his fingertips into his temple to massage away a headache. “Stop that.”

You didn’t listen. Of course, you don’t. You leaned in closer, hands on the empty leather seat between you. “Aww… who would've thought Joel Miller would secretly be a softie?” You’d never been so close to him before, so close that you could see the brown-colored freckles splattered across the bridge of his nose.

You swallowed down your sudden nerves due to the close proximity, enjoying the way Joel shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

“I said cut it out. Sit back down the right way ‘fore I get a ticket.”

It was impossible to follow his orders now, not after seeing how easy it was to rile him up.

Moving even closer, your lips a breath's distance away from Joel’s neck, you whispered, “I think you like the attention.”

“I think you’re mistaken,” he huffed back, but his voice lacked the bite he intended, much softer than the way he was yelling at Tommy earlier. His gaze flicked over to you, watching with an intense curiosity, but only momentarily. 

“I won’t tell you again,” Joel commanded, brushing you back to your seat with a gentle shove of his elbow.

“What are you gonna do if I don’t?” you questioned, although you were sitting back in your seat like he asked you to. “Punish me? Spank me?”

He snorted, shaking his head. “Yeah, I oughta. Maybe it’d finally teach you some manners,” Joel glanced over to catch your eye. “Anyone ever told you that you got a real weird sense of humor?”

Shrugging, you couldn’t help the slide smirk that spread across your face. “Blame it on my daddy issues.”

Joel didn’t even try to hide his disbelief, a red flush rising from the top of his collarbones and up his neck.

“Lord help me,” he whispered under his breath. 

You granted him a bit of grace, ending your teasing and opting to enjoy the sound of music playing on the radio for the rest of the ride. It was always peaceful riding with Joel, the heat of the summer breeze warming your face. 

From the heady smell of Joel’s Marlboros to the shrill voice of The Smashing Pumpkins playing over the speakers; the comfort of the situation always made you want to break down Joel’s walls. You wanted to see what he was like when he was entirely vulnerable, what he looked like when he woke up in the morning and didn’t have the opportunity to remember all his worries.

From that moment, you decided that you would get Joel to open up one way or another.

Your heart dropped a little when he pulled into the bar's parking lot, his tires crunching against the loose gravel. Joel’s long fingers were swift, reaching to the radio to turn down the music. 

Things felt weird, that same intensity from the moment you’d gotten into the car returning. It felt like he wanted to say something, his mouth twitching before his lips were pressed into a straight line.

“I wasn’t joking, y’know,” you said, hoping to break the awkward silence of saying goodbye. 

Joel didn’t say anything, the curious raise of his eyebrow speaking for him. 

“About wanting you to spank me,” you snipped back, hopping out of his truck right after you admitted it to him. You could see what appeared to be a stifled smile forming on his lips as he shook his head. It made you feel good that you were able to distract him from reality for even a couple of minutes. God knew he needed it.

“See you at midnight. Stay out of trouble,” he called back from his truck, waiting to leave until he watched you safely enter the building.

He was on your brain your entire shift, which wasn’t unusual. What was different now was the pieces of information you’d found out, ranging from his argument with Tommy and his little resistance to your flirting.

So, of course, curiosity killed the cat. On your break you found yourself googling a string of searches; Joel Miller, Tommy, Joel and Tommy, until eventually you landed on an old company website.

Miller Bros Construction Company.

It was outdated, with inquiries and testimonials from years ago, but it did answer a couple of your questions. After clicking on the “about us” tab, you saw a photo of a much younger, happier-looking Joel. 

His arm was thrown around Tommy’s shoulder, a huge smile plastered on his face. If you didn’t know every inch of Joel’s face, you would’ve considered that it wasn’t actually him. He looked so… happy. It broke your heart to know that he had become half of the man he used to be.

‘Brothers Joel and Tommy Miller have been serving the greater population of Austin, TX for several years,’ the tab read, confirming your suspicions that they were related. You glanced at Tommy, happily smiling next to Joel, directly contradicting what you’d seen earlier.

The inquiry tab at the bottom was broken, redirecting to a no longer active form.

Christ. His daughter's death had indeed ruined him. It had sucked all of the happiness out of Joel, leaving him angry and alone. He pushed everything good and decent away.

You spent the rest of your break lurking, sifting through Tommy’s Facebook page, seeing his now solely owned business booming. He had a pretty fiancé, and things honestly looked good for him. You noticed that Joel was nowhere on his page, but you would occasionally see photos of Tommy and Sarah beaming together before she’d gotten sick.

The guilt of it all had eaten at you, so severely that you decided to buy a burger plate before the kitchen closed for the night. Joel had gone out of his way to take care of you, to take you back and forth from work, even though he grumbled about it. He deserved to feel taken care of in return.

Plus, you were almost certain that his diet mainly consisted of cigarettes and alcohol. How he still looked so goddamn good was a question you’d never have answered.  

When you left work, it was like clockwork; Joel’s truck sat outside the building, waiting for you.

The sun was long gone by now, so it was difficult to see Joel sitting in the driver's seat. You’d hoped that he had cooled off from earlier, especially now that you know more about the context of the argument. 

You plopped into the passenger seat, greeting Joel only by placing the plate of food on the center console.

“What’s this?” Joel questioned, no hello or how was your shift? Typical Joel Miller.

“What’s it look like? I got you dinner.”

He rolled his eyes, pointing a finger at the clock display. “It’s midnight.”

“And…?” He raised his brows and you clicked your tongue in response. “When was the last time you had a meal that wasn’t made in a microwave?”

Joel fixed you with a stare, and something lingered in his eyes that you couldn’t quite make out. It’s as if he’s trying to decide whether to yell at you or simply say thank you. “I didn’t ask you to do that,” he stated, but there was no malice in it. 

“I know. I wanted to.” You shrugged casually because it was truly nothing to you. But apparently, Joel didn’t see it that way.

The truck sat idle in the parking lot. He said nothing for several seconds, which felt far too long. It was dark—the only illumination provided was the distant street lamps outside, but you swore you could see the corners of his mouth turn up. Not quite a smile, but something. And it made you feel so victorious that you thought about mentioning it, about making some snide remark, but know better by now. 

Instead, you teased him. “At this rate, I might as well pack a bag and stay the night here.”

Joel scoffed but turned the key in the ignition anyway. “You got a mouth on you, girl. That’s for damn sure.”

“Yeah, well, you haven’t sent me away yet. So there must be something you like about it, right?”

He doesn’t agree but he doesn’t deny it, either. Still, sarcasm dripped off his tongue as he said, “Somethin’ like that.”

When he turned the radio up, a rock ballad played and put you at ease. You start to realize that these quiet moments with him are the lightest part of your days. Nothing to think about but the way the cool wind hit your face and the sound of his soft humming from behind the wheel. It’s simple and good and you feel safe.

When he pulled into the trailer park a short while later, you almost hated to see it end. For a split second, you debated inviting him over in an attempt to extend your time together. But you knew that after the day he’s had, he probably didn’t want the company. So instead, you gathered your things and hopped out of the truck. “Thanks for the ride. I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Hang on a sec.”

You paused with your hand on the passenger door. “Yeah?”

Joel hesitated. He opened his mouth to speak, but all he managed was, “Uh..” His eyes darted everywhere but yours. The dashboard, the steering wheel, his hands - everywhere but you.

He’s nervous, you realized. Uneasy. You tried to comfort him. “What is it?”

“I, uh…I was just wonderin’ if, I don’t know. You wanna… split it with me?” He pointed to the takeout container. “Or you could have a drink, or…do you drink?”

Your heart was doing somersaults behind your sternum. A girlish giggle left you despite your attempts to hide your excitement. Through a face-splitting grin, you asked, “Like a date?”

“Christ,” he sneered. “You know what? I take it back. Never-”

“I’m kidding!” Your laughter filled the cab of the truck. “I’m just kidding, Joel, I swear. Of course, I’ll come in for a drink.”

He looked hesitant, and at first, you thought it was because of how you’d been pulling his leg all night. By the time you had made it inside of his trailer, you realized that he was probably a little nervous on account of the mess in his living room.

Empty bud light bottles covered the surface of the side table next to his couch. An ashtray haphazardly placed on the kitchen counter was long overdue to be emptied, ash and half-smoked cigarettes threatening to spill over. Next to it were a couple of prescription bottles, the print too small for you to make out what they were supposed to be treating.

No matter how you felt about the place, you understood how difficult it all must’ve been for Joel. It wasn’t dirty or anything, just unkempt, a man overwhelmed by grief too distracted to focus on cleaning.

“It’s not much to see, but feel free to make yourself at home,” Joel said, slipping past you at the front door to place the bag of food down on the kitchen counter. You watched him momentarily, taking in the normalcy of his routine.

His movements to wash his hands before eating, the clatter of plates being pulled out of the dishwasher. Watching him in his element relaxed you. You tried to envision what it was like in the home when Sarah was still alive, filling the space with her innocent laughter. 

“I won’t bite,” Joel spoke, pulling you out of your own head. Your gaze refocused, a quiet sense of fulfillment washing over you as you watched him for a fleeting second. 

“I wouldn’t mind if you did,” you chirped back, toeing out of your work shoes and heading over to his leather couch. A knitted blanket thrown across the leather prevented the back of your legs from pressing against the cold material, and you were grateful. 

“Do you get pleasure outta givin’ me a hard time or something?” Joel asked, plopping next to you. He slid a plate over to your side of the coffee table, pulling the table forward slightly so you’d be able to reach it easier. He placed two beers on the table, too, and cracked the seal of yours. It’s such a small but gentlemanly thing to do, and you try not to think too hard about how it makes your heart swell.  

You hadn’t even realized how hungry you were until he unwrapped the bag and split the food between the two of you, your stomach growling in response. 

“I just like seeing you squirm,” you joked, noticing how Joel shook his head and snorted under his breath. Both of you ate together, quietly but comfortably. 

You were sure that Joel spent most of his nights like this, in his living room with the TV flashing light across the walls of the house. It made you feel good that you were there to change his routine so he wouldn’t have to be alone.

The longer that time passed and the less food on your plate created an odd sense of pressure, that you were running out of time to pull something new out of Joel. Being in his home was an accomplishment on its own, but you still had a challenge with yourself to learn even more.

“Do you wanna, uh,” you began to speak, picking at one of your fries to fill the awkward space, “y’know… talk about earlier?”

“Nope,” he replied without hesitation, which you probably should’ve expected. Your pout was uncontrollable, discouraged by his instant lack of vulnerability. But you weren’t going to force him to talk, because he’d for sure shut down. 

“Not to be cheesy or anything, but you’re pretty decent to be around, once you stopped being an asshole all the time,” you said, finishing the final bite of your fry. “If you ever need to talk about shit, I’m probably the best option you got here. Kathy tells everyone’s business, so.”

Joel actually chuckled at that, a deep, rumbling sound that made your gut twist. “I didn’t plan on talkin’ to anybody about anything, much less Kathy. But thanks.”

You nodded, a pang of disappointment flickering through your abdomen.

That night, you thanked him for the company and he promised to meet you in the afternoon right on time. The same routine you’ve had all week. 

You and Joel get good at routines. Because the next night when you brought him dinner again, he didn’t even ask if you’d like to eat with him. He just said, “Picked up some sodas earlier. Figured you might want that instead of beer.”

And just like that, it became a nightly thing. The cooks at the bar don’t even ask what you want any more, they simply have the food finished by the time you��re ready to meet Joel in the parking lot. You had even occasionally fallen asleep in his living room, the comforting sound of the TV humming and Joel’s even breathing lulling you to sleep.

He always made sure to throw a blanket over you and quietly slip into his room, never waking you or forcing you to leave. It was an unspoken rule.

So, due to your growing interest in Joel and alleviating some of his stress, you decided to take a leap. One morning you’d woken up on Joel’s couch after falling asleep there the night before. Joel wasn’t home, which wasn’t unusual since he sometimes picked up odd jobs at the mechanic's shop in town to pay the bills. 

It was the perfect opportunity to clean his house. You weren’t sure how he was going to feel about it, but you were only going to take out the trash and leave everything else as it was. You didn’t need him hollering at you for moving his shit around.

You had a good four hours to just clean out the place, and Jesus, you needed it. It appeared that he didn’t have any other cleaning products besides bleach and dish soap, which you couldn’t really use to get some old stains out of the carpet. It had taken you an hour of rifling through your own stuff to get the correct products and supplies to make a dent. 

By the time you finished a couple hours later, you had three trash bags full of random newspapers, beer cans, and whatever other miscellaneous stuff you were sure Joel wouldn’t be upset to part with. Surprisingly, you hadn’t seen anything belonging to Sarah, no pictures hanging on the wall, no toys, nothing that indicated that anyone besides Joel had lived there.

That was until you’d decided to step into the room towards the back of the trailer. Joel’s bedroom was hardly used, his bed made and room clean, indicating that he probably spent most of his nights on the couch, so you didn’t bother cleaning that space. You were, however, curious about the spare room.

As soon as you’d opened it, you knew why you couldn’t find anything of Sarah’s. It was like a museum, a room stuck in time. Light pink paint covered the wall, the late afternoon sun streaming in colorful rays through the sheer purple curtains. The bed was made, without a wrinkle in sight, with a little teddy bear tucked in, as if it was keeping the bed warm for Sarah’s return.

You stepped in a little, taking in the small details; the photos of Joel and Sarah hugging on the wall, a little caboodle makeup box, and nail polishes lined up against the dresser. What truly broke your heart was the oxygen tank that was placed next to her bed, still attached to the mask. 

“The fuck you think you’re doin’?” spoke a voice from behind you, almost causing your body to jump out of its skin. You whipped around to see an absolutely fuming Joel watching you with narrowed eyes. You stammered, quickly trying to come up with some sort of excuse.

“I was cleaning and I thought, I mean I was thinking that-“

Joel quickly approached you, his face only a mere breath away from yours. You were too anxious to even notice the closeness because you knew he was beyond pissed. You don’t think he was even this mad when he was fighting with Tommy.

“I don’t know why you think that you’re entitled to comin’ into my life, touchin’ my shit, steppin’ foot into this room, but guess what? You’re not.” He spat, stepping even closer to you. You felt tiny, like a bug ready to be squashed by a foot. 

“You don’t mean shit to me. Just because your life is fucked up doesn’t mean I need you to try to come into mine and save me. I don’t wanna be saved. Now get the hell outta my house,” he spoke, his voice unwavering and scarily calm. It took every ounce of strength inside of you not to cry, not to shout, because you knew he didn’t mean it. You had crossed his invisible line, despite not doing it intentionally.

But you weren’t strong enough to control your emotions, and eventually, the pressure of Joel’s angry words left your eyes watering. Though your jaw was clenched and your face wasn’t giving much away, Joel easily saw past the facade and noticed the tears welling up in your eyes.

And he scoffed. A quick laugh, right in your face, at seeing your tears. 

“Christ, you gonna cry now? Upset that you don’t got no daddy here to comfort you, gotta take out all your trauma on me? Fuckin’ pathetic.” 

Your tears turned from hurt, into angry, hot streams rolling down your face.

“Fuck you, Joel.”

You could feel your blood pumping in your head, so angry that you could break something. He was lucky that you made your way straight out of his house instead of grabbing all of the trash bags and pouring them right back onto the floor. 

You knew that he was self-destructing, that he was pushing you away because you were too good for him, but it didn’t make his words hurt any less. He wasn’t wrong. You did take interest in him because he was broken, similar to yourself. Despite that, it didn’t hurt any less.

As painful as it was to believe, you began to wonder if he had fooled you.

Maybe all that remained of Joel Miller was the worst part of him.

[adulthumanproblem]

I have this sort of friend slash former classmate I'm still in contact with and for all 2 1/2 years of being in school together (adult education, pushing 40), every other Mo th or so he'd tell me taht another woman ghosted him "for no reason". This happened like 10 times, no exaggeration

Once or twice? Yeah, maybe they're bitches idk women can be bad people. But that many times? Buddy, that's definitely on you

He'd say "everything was good and suddenly they stopped replying for no reason"

And idk. I don't think he watches podcasters. But I know he's pretty racist. I know he jokes about beating children. About "no means yes". One time he had no sympathy for a 14yo who accidentally hanged themselves and was complaining that his female friend was mad at him for it and I told him yeah, fuck off and think about it, don't talk to me anymore today.

I know he was slut shaming a classmate for wearing makeup. I know he was fatphobic towards her as well (which I called him out on since I'm double her size). I know he dreamt of enforcing dress codes because he sometimes didn't like what some random stranger on campus wore. He was pretty authoritarian and I think the only reason he hasn't yet fallen for Tate is that his English isn't good enough

I never told him any of it because he's such a whiny baby and I don't want to deal with that

But good on the women who just went "nope" and ghosted him! Fuck yeah! Don't needlessly spend energy being nice to some guy you'll never see again (or even for the first time)

New hard rule any woman should enforce ever is if you’re dating a guy and he says he watches red pilled alpha male podcaster content or shows support of it in ANY way (ie something covert like “I don’t like his personality but he makes some good points” ) you go GHOST. I know women are taught to “accommodate ppl’s flaws” but literally this is a misogynistic cult right in the public eye and it’s all fun and games until a woman gets murdered for existing (which has literally happened as a result of Tate’s content)

[outcast-shadow]

Just to let you know whenever I stumble upon your unique design of Doey, it reminds me (and I mean this innocuously) of him getting a new paint job like Lightning McQueen. He screams "Ka-Bling!" and it always give me a good chuckle.

Awww!!! I really love that idea so much! Super fun and silly to see it like that! I couldn't help but make a mini comic based on your take.

I do actually have some headcanons on his wacky patterns! For starters, dough tends to blend and mix over time when squished around enough! :)

Pretty much I like to think that he didn't look like this, until after The Hour of Joy, when he was free to roam around the place and had to morph himself to get through tight spaces. After 10 years, I'm certain he'd be really messy and have clusters of colors here and there.

Example:

In addition to this, I like to think that the boys gave Doey some more personal features that they themselves had when they were still kids! Such as freckles, 3 heart patterns on his back (representing the boys), proper clothing (tie), freedom of expression (through the form of his stripes, flaming patterns, and splotches) and desire to protect the younger toys (being why he's got big ol' chompers and claws out in case of an emergency).

Thank you for sending in this comment! My ask box has been collecting dust lmaoo. Oh and uh...I'll stop rambling now! 😅

[mcflymemes]

PROMPTS FROM THE HUNGER GAMES: CATCHING FIRE *  assorted dialogue from the 2013 film, adjust as necessary

if you die, and i live, i'd have nothing. nobody else that i care about.

it's different for you. your family needs you.

you have to live. for them.

nobody needs me.

i do. i need you.

how does that sound?

what if we set your backyard on fire?

he can't hurt me. there's no one left that i love.

remember who the real enemy is.

we got married... in secret.

we want our love to be eternal.

we've been luckier than most.

i just wanted to say that i didn't know [name]. i only spoke to him once.

he could have killed me, but instead he showed me mercy.

that's a debt i'll never be able to repay.

she wasn't just my ally. she was my friend.

i couldn't save her. i'm sorry.

you guys look amazing.

so what do you think, now that the whole world wants to sleep with you?

i wasn't talking to you.

will you unzip?

thanks. let's do it again sometime.

the way the whole "friend" thing works is you have to tell each other the deep stuff.

what's your favorite color?

now you've stepped over the line.

see, this is why no one lets you make the plans.

you have been our mission from the beginning.

the plan was always to get you out.

people are looking to you, [name].

you've given them an opportunity. they just have to be brave enough to take it.

we have seen a lot of tears here tonight.

you are angry. tell me why.

i'm getting totally screwed over here.

now you wanna kill me again.

nobody decent ever wins the games.

nobody ever wins the games. period. there are survivors. there's no winners.

love is weird.

i would love to borrow that outfit someday.

you look pretty terrifying in that get-up.

i outgrew them.

any secrets worth my time?

unfortunately, i think that's true.

i'm sorry you had to cancel your wedding.

i'm really not in the mood for a lecture.

you don't have to apologize to anybody, including me.

i hardly know anything about you except that you're stubborn and good with a bow.

there's more than that. you just don't want to tell me.

make him pay for it.

any last advice?

stay alive.

she's committed, i'll give her that.

you saved my life. you gave me a chance.

fear does not work as long as there is hope.

you were dead. your heart stopped.

how rude of them.

eyes bright, chins up, smiles on.

we're a team, aren't we?

i am truly sorry.

you both deserved so much better.

i don't want to be with anyone else in there. just you.

that's what i want.

no waving and smiling this time.

i want you to look straight ahead as if the audience and this whole event are beneath you.

that should be easy.

be careful. it's a force field up there.

i think these games are gonna be different.

i guess we're not holding hands anymore.

i don't care about any of them.

i'm here to drink.

you know and i know there's only one person walking out of here, and it's gonna be one of us.

i get to say goodbye.

they will kill us.

whatever game you think you're playing, those out there are not playing it with you.

i don't want you to get hurt.

so how do you like the party?

you could live a hundred lifetimes and never deserve that boy.

you don't want to shoot her.

how about i shoot both of you?

get them out of here.

[whumpster-fire]

This may be a controversial take with some of you but yes actually I think "filed paperwork incorrectly" should not be grounds for getting sent to a torture camp indefinitely without trial and neither should "you filed the paperwork correctly but the government fucked it up."

(the conditions described above are unacceptable for any crime, including after trial because have you heard of the fucking 8th Amendment but especially before trial)

Failing to file taxes in the USA draws the attention of the IRS. Failing to renew visas draws the attention of ICE. Coming to the country legally but overstaying your visa makes you an illegal resident.

Motherfucker the IRS doesn't go straight to throwing people in prison in inhumane conditions for missing the fucking filing deadline. It does not throw people who are actively filing for extensions straight into prison. It does not throw people who fucked up their tax filing and took a deduction they shouldn't have, who are offering to pay back the money they owe, straight into prison. It does not arrest people who are in the fucking IRS office trying to get help on a minor issue with their taxes. The IRS follows a policy of only using extreme measures as a last resort. If it were imprisoning people for missing the filing deadline, or claiming some office supplies as a business expense but actually using some of them at home, that would be completely fucking evil and dystopian.

And to avoid those horrific conditions, all the illegal immigrants need to do is...not be illegal immigrants. If you break into someone's house and get a beating for it, they are not the criminal in the case. If you illegally enter the US you are the criminal and criminals get arrested and put in jail.

If you enter someone's house because you were invited to a party, or because you were hired to do work on the property with the homeowner's agreement, or because you're a fucking legal tenant, and you overstay your welcome for whatever reason so the homeowner, instead of telling you to get out and allowing you to leave, kidnaps you at gunpoint and imprisons you in the basement for two weeks, the homeowner is very much a fucking criminal.

Listen. Believing that human rights shouldn't apply if someone commits a bad enough crime is already pretty fucked, but at least if you're drawing the line at rapists or mass shooters or child molesters I can understand the sentiment and I'm willing to try to reason with you. If your threshold for deciding someone no longer deserves human rights is the equivalent of a fucking parking ticket, you are completely fucking evil.

Story below the cut to avoid a paywall.

There was no explanation, no warning. One minute, I was in an immigration office talking to an officer about my work visa, which had been approved months before and allowed me, a Canadian, to work in the US. The next, I was told to put my hands against the wall, and patted down like a criminal before being sent to an Ice detention center without the chance to talk to a lawyer.

I grew up in Whitehorse, Yukon, a small town in the northernmost part of Canada. I always knew I wanted to do something bigger with my life. I left home early and moved to Vancouver, British Columbia, where I built a career spanning multiple industries – acting in film and television, owning bars and restaurants, flipping condos and managing Airbnbs.

In my 30s, I found my true passion working in the health and wellness industry. I was given the opportunity to help launch an American brand of health tonics called Holy! Water – a job that would involve moving to the US.

I was granted my trade Nafta work visa, which allows Canadian and Mexican citizens to work in the US in specific professional occupations, on my second attempt. It goes without saying, then, that I have no criminal record. I also love the US and consider myself to be a kind, hard-working person.

I started working in California and travelled back and forth between Canada and the US multiple times without any complications – until one day, upon returning to the US, a border officer questioned me about my initial visa denial and subsequent visa approval. He asked why I had gone to the San Diego border the second time to apply. I explained that that was where my lawyer’s offices were, and that he had wanted to accompany me to ensure there were no issues.

After a long interrogation, the officer told me it seemed “shady” and that my visa hadn’t been properly processed. He claimed I also couldn’t work for a company in the US that made use of hemp – one of the beverage ingredients. He revoked my visa, and told me I could still work for the company from Canada, but if I wanted to return to the US, I would need to reapply.

I was devastated; I had just started building a life in California. I stayed in Canada for the next few months, and was eventually offered a similar position with a different health and wellness brand.

I restarted the visa process and returned to the same immigration office at the San Diego border, since they had processed my visa before and I was familiar with it. Hours passed, with many confused opinions about my case. The officer I spoke to was kind but told me that, due to my previous issues, I needed to apply for my visa through the consulate. I told her I hadn’t been aware I needed to apply that way, but had no problem doing it.

Then she said something strange: “You didn’t do anything wrong. You are not in trouble, you are not a criminal.”

I remember thinking: Why would she say that? Of course I’m not a criminal!

She then told me they had to send me back to Canada. That didn’t concern me; I assumed I would simply book a flight home. But as I sat searching for flights, a man approached me.

“Come with me,” he said.

There was no explanation, no warning. He led me to a room, took my belongings from my hands and ordered me to put my hands against the wall. A woman immediately began patting me down. The commands came rapid-fire, one after another, too fast to process.

They took my shoes and pulled out my shoelaces.

“What are you doing? What is happening?” I asked.

“You are being detained.”

“I don’t understand. What does that mean? For how long?”

“I don’t know.”

That would be the response to nearly every question I would ask over the next two weeks: “I don’t know.”

They brought me downstairs for a series of interviews and medical questions, searched my bags and told me I had to get rid of half my belongings because I couldn’t take everything with me.

“Take everything with me where?” I asked.

A woman asked me for the name of someone they could contact on my behalf. In moments like this, you realize you don’t actually know anyone’s phone number anymore. By some miracle, I had recently memorized my best friend Britt’s number because I had been putting my grocery points on her account.

I gave them her phone number.

They handed me a mat and a folded-up sheet of aluminum foil.

“What is this?”

“Your blanket.”

“I don’t understand.”

I was taken to a tiny, freezing cement cell with bright fluorescent lights and a toilet. There were five other women lying on their mats with the aluminum sheets wrapped over them, looking like dead bodies. The guard locked the door behind me.

For two days, we remained in that cell, only leaving briefly for food. The lights never turned off, we never knew what time it was and no one answered our questions. No one in the cell spoke English, so I either tried to sleep or meditate to keep from having a breakdown. I didn’t trust the food, so I fasted, assuming I wouldn’t be there long.

On the third day, I was finally allowed to make a phone call. I called Britt and told her that I didn’t understand what was happening, that no one would tell me when I was going home, and that she was my only contact.

They gave me a stack of paperwork to sign and told me I was being given a five-year ban unless I applied for re-entry through the consulate. The officer also said it didn’t matter whether I signed the papers or not; it was happening regardless.

I was so delirious that I just signed. I told them I would pay for my flight home and asked when I could leave.

No answer.

Then they moved me to another cell – this time with no mat or blanket. I sat on the freezing cement floor for hours. That’s when I realized they were processing me into real jail: the Otay Mesa Detention Center.

I was told to shower, given a jail uniform, fingerprinted and interviewed. I begged for information.

“How long will I be here?”

“I don’t know your case,” the man said. “Could be days. Could be weeks. But I’m telling you right now – you need to mentally prepare yourself for months.”

Months.

I felt like I was going to throw up.

I was taken to the nurse’s office for a medical check. She asked what had happened to me. She had never seen a Canadian there before. When I told her my story, she grabbed my hand and said: “Do you believe in God?”

I told her I had only recently found God, but that I now believed in God more than anything.

“I believe God brought you here for a reason,” she said. “I know it feels like your life is in a million pieces, but you will be OK. Through this, I think you are going to find a way to help others.”

At the time, I didn’t know what that meant. She asked if she could pray for me. I held her hands and wept.

I felt like I had been sent an angel.

I was then placed in a real jail unit: two levels of cells surrounding a common area, just like in the movies. I was put in a tiny cell alone with a bunk bed and a toilet.

The best part: there were blankets. After three days without one, I wrapped myself in mine and finally felt some comfort.

For the first day, I didn’t leave my cell. I continued fasting, terrified that the food might make me sick. The only available water came from the tap attached to the toilet in our cells or a sink in the common area, neither of which felt safe to drink.

Eventually, I forced myself to step out, meet the guards and learn the rules. One of them told me: “No fighting.”

“I’m a lover, not a fighter,” I joked. He laughed.

I asked if there had ever been a fight here.

“In this unit? No,” he said. “No one in this unit has a criminal record.”

That’s when I started meeting the other women.

That’s when I started hearing their stories.

And that’s when I made a decision: I would never allow myself to feel sorry for my situation again. No matter how hard this was, I had to be grateful. Because every woman I met was in an even more difficult position than mine.

There were around 140 of us in our unit. Many women had lived and worked in the US legally for years but had overstayed their visas – often after reapplying and being denied. They had all been detained without warning.

If someone is a criminal, I agree they should be taken off the streets. But not one of these women had a criminal record. These women acknowledged that they shouldn’t have overstayed and took responsibility for their actions. But their frustration wasn’t about being held accountable; it was about the endless, bureaucratic limbo they had been trapped in.

The real issue was how long it took to get out of the system, with no clear answers, no timeline and no way to move forward. Once deported, many have no choice but to abandon everything they own because the cost of shipping their belongings back is too high.

I met a woman who had been on a road trip with her husband. She said they had 10-year work visas. While driving near the San Diego border, they mistakenly got into a lane leading to Mexico. They stopped and told the agent they didn’t have their passports on them, expecting to be redirected. Instead, they were detained. They are both pastors.

I met a family of three who had been living in the US for 11 years with work authorizations. They paid taxes and were waiting for their green cards. Every year, the mother had to undergo a background check, but this time, she was told to bring her whole family. When they arrived, they were taken into custody and told their status would now be processed from within the detention center.

Another woman from Canada had been living in the US with her husband who was detained after a traffic stop. She admitted she had overstayed her visa and accepted that she would be deported. But she had been stuck in the system for almost six weeks because she hadn’t had her passport. Who runs casual errands with their passport?

One woman had a 10-year visa. When it expired, she moved back to her home country, Venezuela. She admitted she had overstayed by one month before leaving. Later, she returned for a vacation and entered the US without issue. But when she took a domestic flight from Miami to Los Angeles, she was picked up by Ice and detained. She couldn’t be deported because Venezuela wasn’t accepting deportees. She didn’t know when she was getting out.

There was a girl from India who had overstayed her student visa for three days before heading back home. She then came back to the US on a new, valid visa to finish her master’s degree and was handed over to Ice due to the three days she had overstayed on her previous visa.

There were women who had been picked up off the street, from outside their workplaces, from their homes. All of these women told me that they had been detained for time spans ranging from a few weeks to 10 months. One woman’s daughter was outside the detention center protesting for her release.

That night, the pastor invited me to a service she was holding. A girl who spoke English translated for me as the women took turns sharing their prayers – prayers for their sick parents, for the children they hadn’t seen in weeks, for the loved ones they had been torn away from.

Then, unexpectedly, they asked if they could pray for me. I was new here, and they wanted to welcome me. They formed a circle around me, took my hands and prayed. I had never felt so much love, energy and compassion from a group of strangers in my life. Everyone was crying.

At 3am the next day, I was woken up in my cell.

“Pack your bag. You’re leaving.”

I jolted upright. “I get to go home?”

The officer shrugged. “I don’t know where you’re going.”

Of course. No one ever knew anything.

I grabbed my things and went downstairs, where 10 other women stood in silence, tears streaming down their faces. But these weren’t happy tears. That was the moment I learned the term “transferred”.

For many of these women, detention centers had become a twisted version of home. They had formed bonds, established routines and found slivers of comfort in the friendships they had built. Now, without warning, they were being torn apart and sent somewhere new. Watching them say goodbye, clinging to each other, was gut-wrenching.

I had no idea what was waiting for me next. In hindsight, that was probably for the best.

Our next stop was Arizona, the San Luis Regional Detention Center. The transfer process lasted 24 hours, a sleepless, grueling ordeal. This time, men were transported with us. Roughly 50 of us were crammed into a prison bus for the next five hours, packed together – women in the front, men in the back. We were bound in chains that wrapped tightly around our waists, with our cuffed hands secured to our bodies and shackles restraining our feet, forcing every movement into a slow, clinking struggle.

When we arrived at our next destination, we were forced to go through the entire intake process all over again, with medical exams, fingerprinting – and pregnancy tests; they lined us up in a filthy cell, squatting over a communal toilet, holding Dixie cups of urine while the nurse dropped pregnancy tests in each of our cups. It was disgusting.

We sat in freezing-cold jail cells for hours, waiting for everyone to be processed. Across the room, one of the women suddenly spotted her husband. They had both been detained and were now seeing each other for the first time in weeks.

The look on her face – pure love, relief and longing – was something I’ll never forget.

We were beyond exhausted. I felt like I was hallucinating.

The guard tossed us each a blanket: “Find a bed.”

There were no pillows. The room was ice cold, and one blanket wasn’t enough. Around me, women lay curled into themselves, heads covered, looking like a room full of corpses. This place made the last jail feel like the Four Seasons.

I kept telling myself: Do not let this break you.

Thirty of us shared one room. We were given one Styrofoam cup for water and one plastic spoon that we had to reuse for every meal. I eventually had to start trying to eat and, sure enough, I got sick. None of the uniforms fit, and everyone had men’s shoes on. The towels they gave us to shower were hand towels. They wouldn’t give us more blankets. The fluorescent lights shined on us 24/7.

Everything felt like it was meant to break you. Nothing was explained to us. I wasn’t given a phone call. We were locked in a room, no daylight, with no idea when we would get out.

I tried to stay calm as every fiber of my being raged towards panic mode. I didn’t know how I would tell Britt where I was. Then, as if sent from God, one of the women showed me a tablet attached to the wall where I could send emails. I only remembered my CEO’s email from memory. I typed out a message, praying he would see it.

He responded.

Through him, I was able to connect with Britt. She told me that they were working around the clock trying to get me out. But no one had any answers; the system made it next to impossible. I told her about the conditions in this new place, and that was when we decided to go to the media.

She started working with a reporter and asked whether I would be able to call her so she could loop him in. The international phone account that Britt had previously tried to set up for me wasn’t working, so one of the other women offered to let me use her phone account to make the call.

We were all in this together.

With nothing to do in my cell but talk, I made new friends – women who had risked everything for the chance at a better life for themselves and their families.

Through them, I learned the harsh reality of seeking asylum. Showing me their physical scars, they explained how they had paid smugglers anywhere from $20,000 to $60,000 to reach the US border, enduring brutal jungles and horrendous conditions.

One woman had been offered asylum in Mexico within two weeks but had been encouraged to keep going to the US. Now, she was stuck, living in a nightmare, separated from her young children for months. She sobbed, telling me how she felt like the worst mother in the world.

Many of these women were highly educated and spoke multiple languages. Yet, they had been advised to pretend they didn’t speak English because it would supposedly increase their chances of asylum.

Some believed they were being used as examples, as warnings to others not to try to come.

Women were starting to panic in this new facility, and knowing I was most likely the first person to get out, they wrote letters and messages for me to send to their families.

It felt like we had all been kidnapped, thrown into some sort of sick psychological experiment meant to strip us of every ounce of strength and dignity.

We were from different countries, spoke different languages and practiced different religions. Yet, in this place, none of that mattered. Everyone took care of each other. Everyone shared food. Everyone held each other when someone broke down. Everyone fought to keep each other’s hope alive.

I got a message from Britt. My story had started to blow up in the media.

Almost immediately after, I was told I was being released.

My Ice agent, who had never spoken to me, told my lawyer I could have left sooner if I had signed a withdrawal form, and that they hadn’t known I would pay for my own flight home.

From the moment I arrived, I begged every officer I saw to let me pay for my own ticket home. Not a single one of them ever spoke to me about my case.

To put things into perspective: I had a Canadian passport, lawyers, resources, media attention, friends, family and even politicians advocating for me. Yet, I was still detained for nearly two weeks.

Imagine what this system is like for every other person in there.

A small group of us were transferred back to San Diego at 2am – one last road trip, once again shackled in chains. I was then taken to the airport, where two officers were waiting for me. The media was there, so the officers snuck me in through a side door, trying to avoid anyone seeing me in restraints. I was beyond grateful that, at the very least, I didn’t have to walk through the airport in chains.

To my surprise, the officers escorting me were incredibly kind, and even funny. It was the first time I had laughed in weeks.

I asked if I could put my shoelaces back on.

“Yes,” one of them said with a grin. “But you better not run.”

“Yeah,” the other added. “Or we’ll have to tackle you in the airport. That’ll really make the headlines.”

I laughed, then told them I had spent a lot of time observing the guards during my detention and I couldn’t believe how often I saw humans treating other humans with such disregard. “But don’t worry,” I joked. “You two get five stars.”

When I finally landed in Canada, my mom and two best friends were waiting for me. So was the media. I spoke to them briefly, numb and delusional from exhaustion.

It was surreal listening to my friends recount everything they had done to get me out: working with lawyers, reaching out to the media, making endless calls to detention centers, desperately trying to get through to Ice or anyone who could help. They said the entire system felt rigged, designed to make it nearly impossible for anyone to get out.

The reality became clear: Ice detention isn’t just a bureaucratic nightmare. It’s a business. These facilities are privately owned and run for profit.

Companies like CoreCivic and GEO Group receive government funding based on the number of people they detain, which is why they lobby for stricter immigration policies. It’s a lucrative business: CoreCivic made over $560m from Ice contracts in a single year. In 2024, GEO Group made more than $763m from Ice contracts.

The more detainees, the more money they make. It stands to reason that these companies have no incentive to release people quickly. What I had experienced was finally starting to make sense.

[houseofblve]

𝙤𝙣𝙚- 𝙠𝙤𝙤𝙠 𝙧𝙤𝙮𝙖𝙡𝙩𝙮

𝗌𝖾𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗌

𝙮/𝙣 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙨𝙤𝙛𝙞𝙖’𝙨 𝙛𝙞𝙧𝙨𝙩 𝙢𝙚𝙚𝙩𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙙𝙤𝙚𝙨𝙣’𝙩 𝙜𝙤 𝙖𝙨 𝙥𝙡𝙖𝙣𝙣𝙚𝙙

y/n l/n was well known around the island. some may even say she was "kook royalty," whatever that meant. she was a typical kook, knew she had it better and felt that she was, but at least she was self aware enough to know she could sometimes be a bitch.

topper and ruthie had plans to go to the island club and invited y/n to tag along. she knew it was because if they were left alone together for longer than two minutes, they'd have an argument and probably end up killing each other, which sometimes she didn't think was a bad idea.

the three walked into the country club and y/n immediately noticed the new bartender. she had heard the old one, her favorite, had quit, and she was disappointed that this new girl would have to learn to perfect her usual drink order.

"i'm gonna grab a drink," y/n told topper and ruthie, then headed towards the bar.

"hi, my name's sofia. what can i get for you?"

oh.

the new bartender was easily the prettiest girl y/n had ever seen. luckily for her, she was able to keep her thoughts to herself as she ordered.

on the other side of the bar, sofia couldn't help but feel even more nervous than she already was. she was a pogue, and she always felt unwelcomed by kooks, and now a pretty rich girl was ordering from her.

sofia made the drink as careful and persice as she could, taking deep breaths to calm her nerves, but with the shit luck she had, she spilled the drink just as she was handing it to y/n. "oh my god, i am so so sorry. i'll make you a new one on the house."

y/n chuckled awkwardly, "it's okay. no need."

𝗍𝖺𝗀 𝗅𝗂𝗌𝗍: @mirellef2001

[darylbrainrot]

HEARTTHROB-

CHAPTER 1: Feeding Starving Influencers (2.4k words)

a/n: i messed up the date on the second ss, its supposed to be January 15

JANUARY 15— 1:51 PM

You were currently sitting in your office, doing nothing but trying to brainstorm some new ideas on what to post for your youtube. You have been feeling a bit burnt out, feeling as if every single unique idea has oozed out of your brain and formed a puddle of mush at the bottom of your feet. Uninspired, dull, and discouraged were some simple adjectives to put into perspective of your current feelings.

It felt as if your thoughts were the same as watching paint dry; boring, repetitive, and expected. Sighing, you grabbed your phone to scroll on whatever social media you want to pick to at least give yourself a sort of a brain break. That was until you noticed a new notification on your phone.

You felt nervous weirdly enough. This would be your first time even agreeing to collaborate with someone else and it's an all time new for you. You and Quen have been following each other for quite some time. You guys never texted, only comments left on each other posts was the farthest you've ever done. Even though this was an all-time new for you, pushing and challenging boundaries, you felt kinda glad this chance landed itself on your lap.

New opportunities dont come by every day, so you had to take this one.

Even though you don't know her, you can clearly tell she's a genuine person. Through this short interaction, you already felt so much better.

JANUARY 17— 7:30 AM

Today was the day you are going over Quen's to film for her youtube. You were excited and anxious at the same time. Quen sent you her address a bit ago after you both agreed on a time for you to get there. She lived around 2 hours max away from you, so you decided to leave a bit early to beat traffic. You both had decided to meet at 10:40 am as it was a good time for you and Quen.

Grabbing your keys, jacket, bag, and whatever necessities needed, you left your apartment and started heading towards your car. You started your car, hearing your engine roar into power, as you sat in the driver's seat. You had a Nissan 350z, one of your dream cars from youth that you were able to buy at a good price a couple years back. It had a black glossy exterior shining brightly and a matching black and red interior. Though you had one of your dream cars, your true dream car was a 1965 Ford Mustang.

Getting comfortable in your seat, you connect your phone to the aux to start playing your spotify playlist. The first song that came up was dive in by pierce the veil, one of your favorite songs. Singing along, you finally pulled out of the parking lot and headed your way toward Quen's address.

Traffic was quite forgiving today, as surprising as it is. It was a decently long drive but you felt glad that there was no heavy traffic on your way to Quen. Glad that you slept a bit longer yesterday, you were nearing her house and you can already tell its gorgeous.

it was a modern house, still, you can see Quen's personality seeping through.

Sending her a quick message about your arrival, you quickly found an empty parking space and parked. Grabbing your items, you made your way to her house.

It was cute, with pretty greenery outside, giving the house some personality. Your heart was beating rapidly, and you felt your nerves at an all-time max even though you knew that Quen was a nice and chill person. You felt your hands get clammy so you quickly wiped your hands on your pants. But as soon as you reached her doorstep, the door flew right open.

She yelled your name with a huge grin, quickly catching you in a hug.

"HEYYY! You're literally so much more gorgeous in person that I think I'm already in love with you", Quen said

You laugh, your smile matching hers "I think I should get on one knee already, I already love you."

You both laugh, she quickly moves out of the way and welcomes you in. The inside of her house was cute, with some nice vintage furniture and random pops of color here and there that highlighted her personality. There were silly pictures on the walls of her with friends or family, each sharing a big smile on their face. Seeing those photos puts a smile on your face.

"So, our set is all ready, I have all the cameras and audio prepared with the kitchen already set up with everything we need to cook. Do you want to start right now or do you want to relax for a bit, I know that you mentioned your car ride was pretty long." She said, moving her hands as she spoke. It seemed that was a habit of hers.

"I'm fine with recording right away" She nodded as she made her way to the kitchen with you following behind.

Once you made it to the kitchen, you saw how big it was. It was huge with white walls, wooden shelves with plants, and an assortment of tiny and cute decorations on them, the shelves were a nice shade of light gray that complemented well with the marble countertops. The ingredients needed lied on the countertops ready for use and the rest of the room was filled with cameras, lights, microphones, and people.

"Okay, so everything is set up as I said, my crews are here to make sure the audio is working and they're making sure the camera is good and shit." She was pointing at her crew and naming them, with them waving at you and you waving back with a smile.

Nodding, she continued, "We can start in 5, I'll do the intro and introduce you and what we're gonna do and will continue from there. You feeling alright? I know its your first collab and I would feel hella anxious if I was you right now."

"Okay that sounds good but yeah I feel a bit anxious right now, but I'll feel better as we film though, thanks for checking in." She nods, signaling her crew to get ready for filming as they all start their checking on the filming gear.

As soon as you knew it, 5 minutes had passed and filming started.

Quen positions herself in the middle of the kitchen island, arms stretched out. The person with the camera zoomed in into her as she began speaking, "Hey guys, welcome to this next episode of feeding starving celebrities, and today's guest is... Pierce the y/n!!!!" She yelled excitedly, with a huge smile on her face.

She raised her hands, signaling for the camera to pan to you. You smiled at her, your smile matching hers as you waved at the camera.

"hi"

"Okay so while she trying to act nonchalant, today I have a fat stack of questions to ask her while we make her favorite dishes. Any guesses on what were making?" She turned to you, waiting for your response.

"Umm... based on what ingredients are out, are we making sopes maybe? Hmmm, maybe agua de horchata too?" Your face was curious, hands on hips as you took a look at the variety of ingredients covering her marble counters.

"Okay, I see you!! You basically got it right but were also making jericallas, I know you're from Guadalajara and that's a very popular dessert there and you mentioned it as your favorite before. Sooo, that will be the menu for today! Lets hope and pray we don't burn down the kitchen!"

"Damn, you really did pull a Nardwuar on me, am I in one of his interviews?? Cut the cameras." You grin, successfully feeling less nervous.

She laughs, "Anyways, let's not expose my secrets. So we're gonna start with the sopes. I have the the masa, beans, meat, lettuce, cheese, and the cream." Nodding in confirmation, she continues.

"SO, step one, we mix the masa harina with salt and water," She says, grabbing the Maseca corn flour from behind her as well with the salt. "According to my directions, not really mine but from this website but let's pretend it's my recipe, we need 2 cups masa harina, 1/4 teaspoon salt, and 1 1/4 cups of water."

As Quen goes to fill a measuring cup with the needed amount of water, you grab a bowl big enough to mix the ingredients and start to pour out the needed measures of both the salt and flour. Pouring them into the bowl, Quen comes back with the needed water.

"Okay, so now, we pour the water in and mix with our hands. Do you wanna do that or do I do it?" She asks you.

"I got it, can you pour the water in though?"

She nods, pouring half of the water into the bowl so you can start mixing. Slowly, it starts becoming into the dough as Quen pours the rest into it. As you continue to mix it, you see Quen reach for her questions.

"So y/n, question numero uno is - wait actually its not really a question more of a statement. Anyways...", she looks into the second camera, giving it a mischievous glance that you didn't notice. "Look at this photo for me and tell me what you think about it. Does it trigger any feelings or memories?"

As you glance up from the bowl, Quen shows you the big notecard with her question written on it, but instead of a question, there's a photo.

"Oh my god" your jaw drops, "how the fuck did you find my middle school graduation photo. Dude... I swear to god do I need to put myself under witness protection, like I'm fearing for my life right now how did you actually find that. This is like lost footage." You start looking around as if you were being watched to further add to your bit.

Quen laughs loudly, doubling over as she shows the camera your middle school graduation photo. You had a heavy side bang, a terrible sense of fashion as if you just walked out of hot topic and Spencer at the same time, and heavy eyeliner.

"Dude, like seriously, I don't know how I was allowed to walk out of my house looking like that. I still feel the eyeliner in my eyes from the amount of times I messed up my eyeliner and ended up poking my eyes."

"STOP, you do NOT look that bad queen, man, have you seen how I looked like when I was doing Vine?" You laugh along with Quen, still wondering how she even got that photo.

"Dude this is actually insane, I was expecting some icebreaker type of questions but instead we just dove straight into it??? Oh my god. This is making me nervous for the rest of my questions."

The rest of the time goes on well, Quen asks some questions here and there while you both continue making the sopes. It was going pretty good, you started to cook the beans to place onto the cooked sopes while Quen started to work on the agua de horchata.

As you finished heating up the beans while Quen was talking to you, she suddenly cut herself off her sentence.

"You know what song has been stuck in my head as of recently?" You hum, asking her to continue as you started to spread the beans on each sope. "You know the song with Jorjiana and GloRilla? ILBB2?"

"Yeah, I've heard of it"

"So, the part thats stuck in my head is the one that goes like" Quen clears her throat, "They say shooters shoot... Duke Dennis, whats up with you?"

Before you can reply, she hits you with another line.

"SO WHO YOU TRYNNA SHOOT AT? WHOS YOUR YOUTUBE CRUSH??" She squeals, showing off her card with her question reading "who’s your youtube crush", pride evident on her face at how smoothly she was able to ask this.

Most people wouldve dodged the question, claiming it to be too risky for them to answer or either they were too scared to answer it. They would've played it cool, given a safe answer.

But you? You doubled down.

So, with all the confidence you could muster, you leaned over the kitchen counter, looking deadstraight into the camera in font of you, and said, "Hamzah, whats up with you?"

Quen lost her mind, squealing as she look at you in disbelief.

She yelled your name, "HAMZAH? As in hamzahthefantastic? The guy who's a part of slushy noobz?" Her eyes were wide as you nodded to her question.

"Girl I strive to be as bold as you, but as much as I strive to be as bold as you, I pray for you as well cause damn, may those fan girls not release their wrath on you."

"Anyways, back on topic, how do you know about Hamzah?" Quen asks you as she starts to drain the horchata she made in the blender into a pitcher, making sure to strain it.

You were finishing up the toppings on each sope, veggies, Oaxaca cheese, and crema. "I've seen some clips of both Martin and Hamzah on tik tok. I like them both, they're funny and seem like genuine people. I've seen Hamzah though and just thought he was cute, especially when he wasn't bald but he's still cute without hair." You shrug as Quen laughs.

The rest of the video goes well, you both finished making the sopes and horchata and moved on to making the jericallas which were simple enough and easier with two people. Quen kept on asking you questions with you answered them, you both were a good duo.

Laughs and screams were shared between you both as you conversed, your face hurt with how much you were smiling all throughout the hour and more of filming.

You finally finished making all the food and tried it together. It was really good in your opinion and Quens. Finally filming the outro and everything needed, at around 12:50 you were done with filming and cleaning up everything.

Since it was still bright out, you and Quen decided to hang out since both of your schedules were empty. It was a great night, full of laughter and meaningful conversations. Your bond with Quen was strong and you were glad you accepted her collaboration.

You had gotten home at 7:46 PM, finally worn out with all the action that you just headed straight into the shower and took a very deserved hot shower. You successfully ended your day at 10:26 PM and decided to treat yourself to early sleep.

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taglist *ੈ✩‧₊˚- @marixoa @vivianne666 @amoreemiaa @emilyloves5243 @lunascerebro @prettylittlevampire12 @urthem00n @a1exaaaa

[redhoodsdeer]

I love your writing and was wondering if you could do something fluffy with Jason Todd.

My birthday is on Valentine’s Day and I was wondering if you could write about Jason celebrating reader’s birthday on Valentine’s Day.

Like making her breakfast in bed or showering her with gifts, or making the whole day about her.

👉🏼👈🏼

cookies'n love (aka in love jason todd x reader)

prompt: where the reader is already used to not celebrating her birthday, because it's on a day where all her friends are celebrating with their valentines, it turns out that her very excited to celebrate boyfriend has something to say about it.

a/n: hi, i'm back with a really really late request (i'm so so sorry), and i know valentines day were a whole month ago, but happy late birthday! i changed a bit of what you'd requested, but keep the soul of it (jason in love), anyways, so, english is not my first language, and i hope you like it!

It was around 8AM when you woke up to the shattering noise of several things falling, your bright eyes blinking away the sleep, while a very sleepy you moved towards the source of all the noise.

Now, dating and living with a vigilante boyfriend for so long, it's expected that a loud noise early in the morning could be absolutely anything, especially when your boyfriend is Jason Todd.

But still, you're not sure anything could have prepared you for the sight of your huge boyfriend, in your pink kitchen apron, trying to quietly tidy up the mess of cookie cutters and cake shapes that were scattered across the counter.

With a heart-shaped cupcake pan in one hand, and an oven mitt in the other, your boyfriend's eyes meet yours that were incredible confused, sleep long forgotten in the surprise of the situation.

"Jay? You're baking? At eight in the morning on a tuesday?" Your sleepy voice comes as you walk into the kitchen, helping him tidy the mess of baking pans and cookie cutters on the counter.

"Babe, you're not supposed to be awake, it's your birthday, you should sleep until 10AM while your handsome boyfriend bakes cookies for you."

And just then, you smell the distant scent of vanilla and the very close smell of burning. Spotting the pan of burnt cookies cooling near the sink. "Huh, don't you think you overcooked it a little, Jay?"

You blink your pretty eyes at him while trying to be as sweet as possible about it, because your boyfriend with zero cooking skills had gotten up early to make cookies for you, just because it was your birthday.

And you knew, that for some people, birthdays were a big deal, but they just weren't for you, not since you were 12 years old, when all your friends started having boyfriends and you were left behind, your birthday being replaced by cards and cheap chocolate.

But, Jason actually cared about your birthday, cared enough to try to bake you cookies, and your heart warmed at the thought, not knowing what you had done to deserve him.

You watch him slowly wither at the comment about the burnt cookies. "Yeah, I guess, but there's another batch coming out that's going to be perfect." He says, shining up again.

And a silly, lovestruck smile appears on your face as you stand on your tiptoes covered by colorful socks to reach his face and shower him with loving kisses.

"Don't worry, Jay, they're perfect, all of them." You say as you kiss all over his face, feeling his smile appearing and he placing his hands on your hips, lifting you up as if you weighed nothing and placing you sitting on the, slightly less messy, counter.

"Yeah? Is that what you think? I just feel bad for waking you up from your sleep, you already sleep badly enough without me knocking over the whole kitchen." He jokes as he now returns the kisses on your face, forgetting about the burnt cookies in the sink and the cookies baking in the oven.

"Don't be, now we can do it together, maybe I'll even teach you my secret recipe" A smile playing on your sleepy face.

His smile widens as you wrap your arms around him, wanting to stay as close to him as you can, as if to ensure that he is real. "Oh yeah? I'll hold you to that promise, huh" he teases as he kisses your lips softly.

"They say the secret ingredient is only found in the highest mountain, and you're only worthy of the recipe if you love a Jason Todd, so it's not for many." A laugh comes out of him as he grins goofily, kissing the tip of your nose.

"Happy birthday, silly."

[gornwen]

Little bit of political reporting from Illinois 9th. Jan Schakowsky is one of the most progressive members of congress and has been since 1999. So yes, she is old, but based on current rankings from Progressive Punch, she has a higher score (27th) than Jayapal (33rd).

Which makes me think this might just be about age and maybe not being loud enough denouncing Trump and Netanyahu. Both of which are things that Schakowsky deserves to have some pressure from the left. But it isn't about how Progressive Schakowsky is. To survive here you have to be pretty far left.

(Here is an aside saying that if both candidates aren't smart, this can become a Palestinian kid running against an old Jewish lady, which I don't want to see those games here in our very Jewish and very Muslim district.)

I'm excited to see a good primary here, but I question the wisdom of running right now in this district.

All that said, good primaries make for better congresses, so all the power to Kat Abughazaleh. May it be a clean fight with no mud.

Apparently boomer Democrats are having meltdowns over a gen-z progressive who is primarying an 80 year old Democrat because she "went on trans podcasts" and wore a Charizard kigurumi