#*boots this outta drafts*

[vrieseasees]

My accidental Laios

[jessicatredes]

🎥 movies & their screenplays 🎬

THE DARK KNIGHT dir. christopher nolan screenplay; jonathan & christopher nolan

[desertforged]

"Draughts and elixirs will only give my body rest, not my mind, unfortunately." He had tried such things before, when he was still on the road from the castle to the desert. It was about as bearable as one would think to have a rested body and a mind full of chaos.

Keeping his gaze on the desert storm in the distance, Ganon curled his body into himself. He could feel the thunder clash rattling his bones, even from this distance - it felt distinctly wrong to him, as if it warned him that it would strike him down. He'd never had the affinity for lightning magic, but he'd felt its raw power before, a hundred years ago when one of the Blights had fought Urbosa.

As Riju moved and showed him how lightning affected her, Ganon found himself curious. Magic, as he knew, was different for him than it was for others. His mothers had always told him it was because of an innate gift he was born with, where they had learned their magic through scrolls and study. Riju's power to wield lightning was the closest he'd seen to his own.

"It is much like a double-edged sword, is it not?" Ganon observed. "Magic comes with a price and it carves its price into your skin. My mothers bore burn scars and frost bite - giving up pieces of themselves for the power they wielded."

Ganon turned his head, reaching up to pull his hair back from his face, revealing the malice scar he otherwise kept covered. "My magic burns from the inside out - ever since I rejected the Calamity. Where I bear these scars, I will always burn."

She would be lying to say his moving out of her sight didn't set off her instinct for trouble, but she willed herself to stay still. She wasn't sure what was running through the man, but she knew something had changed with the defeat of the Calamity. Ideally it was for the better - maybe he'd even tell her about it.

For now, he wasn't to be treated as hostile until proven otherwise. No matter how the anxieties wrapping her stomach tortured her.

"I could imagine as much. We have sleeping draughts, if that would help you, but they can't do much for dreams."

If he was right - and he likely was - it would be unhelpful anyhow. She couldn't imagine that divinely ordained nightmares would respond well to medicine.

Ganon's next question gave her pause for thought - not because it was accurate to her power, but because she thought it might give some insight into what his once was. It wouldn't surprise her if something called to him. Princess Zelda sometimes made vague allusion to something similar.

Riju stood to answer his question - it was easier if people see it for themselves, and the storm was building enough that it was beginning to show.

"My line does not create lightning from scratch - we have to channel what's already in the air. Sometimes there's not very much, and sometimes there's so much it builds in us whether we want to use it or not."

Stepping beside him, she turned her arm over for him to see the veins in her forearm. Lines that appeared to be her veins pulsed with a faint, flickering light. Every so often a surge brightened them up and the chieftain winced lightly.

"The more we hone the skill, the worse this gets... It was said the Good Chieftain Urbosa was covered with lightening scars by the time she went to the Heavens."

[ladystoneboobs]

i present: small and non-verbal but very funny star wars moments:

ep. V: the empire strikes back--the millenium falcon achieves hyperspeed again, despite the imperials' best plans to the contrary. admiral piett and his men are terrified of vader's reaction, all trying to stay out of his path. but he's still too busy brooding on his loss of luke to even force-choke anyone. that's how thrown off he was by his newly-mutilated son running away from him!

the sole exception to this collective terror being this guy, so intent on his own important work, that he doesn't even notice his scary boss until darth vader has walked right past him.

ep. III: revenge of the sith--padme's droids somehow getting her unconscious body back on her ship.

in the novelisation, r2-d2 just drags her up the ramp with his gadgetry, but in the script it's c-3po who carried her up bridal style. which would be impossible to film when 3po could barely manage to move around under his own weight. what makes it really funny for me is that there was no need for any of this. why not just have obi-wan pick her up as he's hurrying outta there after failing to kill her husband? i mean, it's surely not good to be lying out in the open on a volcanic world with poisonous gases, but it wouldn't be good for obi-wan running around out there either, and this lady was about to have broken heart as her only known cause of death. when has science ever held back star wars? and i can't imagine that being dragged by wires from artoo or dropped every few steps by threepio could've been too good for her body either. just makes for an absurd little (offscreen) background detail amid the tragedy of the end of padme's life, imho.

ep. IV: a new hope--obi-wan vanishing into thin air when struck down and vader's (very understandable) bafflement afterward.

by this point in the second screencap, luke is shooting at him in retaliation and the stormtroopers are all shooting back at luke, but anakin is still dealing with this unprecendented vanishing and busy searching for any corporeal remains of obi-wan kenobi with his boot. "where did you go, my old master? how could this happen? i wasn't done fighting with you yet."

ep. V: the empire strikes back--vader inviting lando calrissian, chewbacca, han solo, and princess leia to share a meal with him and boba fett, before taking chewie, han, and leia prisoner and torturing han.

i think a lot of people must assume there was no actual meal, but it's not like vader had to go to all that trouble in the first place of setting out an entire banquet table with proper containers and utensils. just because that was lando's pretext to bring them to vader does not necessitate actually having a table set. darth vader could have had them led into any other room with boba fett and stormtroopers waiting to just arrest them right away. instead, as we can see in the second screencap, (over lando's shoulder and leia's bun), vader did sit down at the head of the table, waiting for his prey to join him. and i swear, in one of the earlier drafts of empire's screenplay there is actually a scene showing their awkward meal together. or rather, han and leia being served food and drinks while darth vader just sits there, watching evilly, explaining his great villainous plan to use them to trap luke. it's like dr. evil making austin and vanessa sit down at his table in the first austin powers movie. darth vader really did always live for drama

ep. VI: return of the jedi--leia telling han that she loves luke, but not that way. he's her brother, silly! as if this is something they all knew all along, with zero follow-up explanation. you can just see han wordlessly processing this bombshell of brand new information through his facial expressions alone. (this lasts so long that i wouldn't even count it were it not likely overshadowed by everything else in the ending of rotj.)

wh-what did you say? your brother? since when?

wait-wait-wait. i've seen you mouth kissing luke right in front of me before. i'm so confused now.

just what kind of weirdo family have i gotten myself mixed up with here?

oh, well, she's only kissing me now. that's good enough, i guess. maybe?

hey, as long as you do love me and luke in different ways ...

i don't know much about families, but i've heard they all have their weird traditions. so who am i to judge you, babe? as long as we're together now, that's all that matters.

[gaily-daily-musings]

This is the second part of my billford portal era fic which you can read on ao3 here: (x)

Pls keep in mind this is an unfinished rough draft

Ford enters a contest of endurance. He's always held a good exercise regimen. He should fair fine. He could really use the prize money too. Sleeping outdoors holds its appeal for only so long.

He only had the clothes on his back, his leather gloves that had been in his pockets, and a pair of goggles which he'd stolen. he's had to scrap for food. Resorting to stealing more often than not and dumpster diving. He hates the way it makes him feel. He's been getting better at foraging though. But the risk that he may eat something poisonous is always a risk.

At the starting line he comes across a familiar face. Ford's mood instantly sours.

"God not you again."

If there's one person worse than Bill Cipher in the universe it's Rick Sanchez.

"Are you actually competing or are you just gonna steal the prize money?"

"What if I am?" Rick grins.

This man was like if you combined the worst parts of his brother Stan with himself. All ego and no morals.

“Perhaps you should try playing fair for once. Unless you don't think you can beat me?”

Rick's grin turns mean. “Any day of the fucking week pal!”

They gear up and get in line. Ford frowns at Rick's anti grav boots.

“That's not regulation! They are against the rules!”

"Jesus, as much a stickler as always. Newsflash asshole, everyone's cheating!”

Ford looks around. Indeed everyone seemed to have something on their person that they'd slipped into the competition.

“you really outta get laid. It'd loosen that stick up your ass," Rick snorts. "Normally I'd offer but I don't wanna die from nightmares courtesy of your demon boyfriend thanks."

Ford startles. "How...do you know about that??"

Rick shrugs and doesn't answer. How infuriating.

-

They race. A third party wins. Ford and Rick had been too busy fighting each other to notice.

Rick shoots a portal and grabs the prize money from the guys hands before disappearing. Ford rolls his eyes. Typical.

-

“You know you've never asked to use my gun to get home.”

"I don't…" Ford's mind draws a blank. He feels numb in the pads of his fingers.

“Not that I'd let you, mind you, but you've never even asked how to make your own.”

Ford's mind turns over like a pancake. Why hadn't he?

He thinks about returning home. To his empty house in the middle of the woods. Surrounded by anomalies he's already studied. And people who don't understand him.

He thinks about his research which had stagnated. Nothing left for him to do or see.

Does he even want to go back?

Ford's gaze drops to the ground. Was there even a point?

Rick sighs. "Fucking shoot me if I ever get that deep in self denial." he throws up his middle finger and walks away. “Till next time fucker!”

-

After several years Ford can admit to himself a few things.

It is out of some morbid sort of pleasure when Ford finds out that others seem to cower at the mere mention of Bill's name. To know that Ford alone openly defied this powerful being and actually got away with it was a little bit intoxicating. Ego boosting. He'd successfully stopped the portal from opening and pissed off Bill Cipher and then lived to tell the tale.

Back then, in the before, Ford had felt like he could do anything. Be anything. The world--the universe--was at his fingertips. And now...well he still feels like that. Not in the same way, but similar. He feels important in his mission to stop Bill once and for all. He feels like he's the only one smart enough and resourceful enough to do it.

Perhaps that's why they've started talking. Him and Bill. Why Ford even allows it. Because he's unconsciously separated himself from the rest of the galaxy just like he had with humanity on earth. Plus a wise man once said to know thine enemy.”

They argue a lot. But they keep coming back to one another. Year after year neither one loosens their grip on the other.

It's always in the dreamscape. Never in person. They've made a place for themselves there.

They talk about sacrifice. Ford learns that people have sacrificed to Bill before. Offered him their blood. While Bill found blood useless, he found it fun to play with the insides. He thought it was fascinating how fleshy species worked. He would examine the heart, the liver, and pull out the lower intestine. And if they didn't offer willingly, Bill took one anyway. He knows intimately how over 4,878 different species of biology worked. A sacrifice was a chance to learn. And perhaps to have a new toy with permission to rip open.

Ford finds it all horrible. But also unfortunately fascinating. The people he was currently staying with were a subsection Cipher cult. They'd initially captured him, but now they treated Ford with respect. He pretended to be a follower by showing off his tattoo. He hated showing it off let alone acknowledging it, but this was an exception. He'd rather not be killed and eaten thanks.

Across the dimensions, those who swore loyalty to Bill Cipher were either dangerous, insane, or both. Most criminals who associated with him tended to do so sparingly. But the most loyal Bill referred to were his henchmaniacs. they lived with him in the Nightmare Realm. None ever ventured there. These cult people, however, weren't Henchmaniacs. They lived outside Bill's realm.

The rituals are all nonsense as far as he could tell. Ford couldn't believe how ridiculous it was. He wonders if Bill ever crashed these things like a frat boy at a house party. Hopefully not.

Had Ford ever been this cringey in his worship? He winces. He gets why fiddleford had been so fed up now.

They give him a room and a bed. A real bed. It felt luxurious. he knows he can't stay for long or else Bill would come and find him. But he still drags his feet about leaving. the way these people looked at him, like he was important, was intoxicating. No wonder Bill favored this tribe.

Still the sacrifices were wrong. Bill didn't need the blood! Why make them keep doing it?

They get into an argument about morality.

"I don't understand why you need to take over the universe! Why can't you find a new peaceful place to live without hurting anyone?"

"Of course you don't understand you're just a human!"

"Why can't you be happy with what you have?"

"BECAUSE I HAVE NOTHING!" Bill's voice booms like a thunderclap. Ford covers his ears. "You have to scrap and lie and cheat for everything in this world Sixer! People don't just hand you what you want on a silver platter!"

Bill is heaving.

Ford lets his hands fall. His words echo. No, people don't just give you what you want. But Bill did. He offered Ford everything. Everything he ever wanted. His dreams and hopes.

Ford is the only one Bill has ever been physically close to. This knowledge has always sat at the top of his heart. He hoarded it like a secret. It filled him with a sense of importance that he probably shouldn't feel anymore.

And he wonders…

Did Bill share that same light hope? Did he possess a secret joy that Ford was his and his alone?

It still amazed him even now, that this wild untamed creature would come down from the heaven's long enough to let Ford call him “His.”

Instinctively, Ford touches his upper left arm. The tattoo was always covered now. All of his body was. Once upon a time Ford was proud of his choice of ink. Bill wasn't even aware of it. He'd gotten it after the “flirty gal” disaster. Bill had thought that one was hilarious. As angry as Ford had been over that particular incident, it had given Ford the idea to get one that actually meant something.

He'd always meant to tell Bill. But somehow he felt too embarrassed to say anything when the time came. Like it would be taken as some declaration of love (even though it practically had been.) He supposed he was afraid that Bill wouldn't understand the significance of it. That he'd treat it like any other trinket that was made in his name.

"Sure that's great Sixer. But have you seen the pyramids? Best tribute anyone ever made me!"

He didn't want this sacred thing to be undermined. So he said nothing.

Some time after he'd fallen through the portal he'd only looked at it in anger and shame. Wanting to get rid of it but unsure how or who to ask. It would take money which he did not have. And he needed to save every penny for essentials.

Now whenever he looks at it, it feels less like a cheesy couples tattoo and more like a tramp stamp. It is embarrassingly over the top. And the more Ford stares at it the more his cheeks inflame. He'd known on some level what he was doing when he got it. And anyone else who saw it would understand too. This side of the portal he would just as likely be ridiculed for being such an easy target or thrown to the curb in distrust.

“You could have had me.” He finally says.

It's mortifying enough that that alone makes him wake up.

-

It is dark in the cell. They called it an oubliette. Ford's lock picking set had been taken along with everything else. What's so ironic is that he's starting to feel closer to his brother now, millions of miles across space and time, than he has in years.

It's pitch black in here. Its cold. Ford has never been scared of the dark. Has never shied away. Rather he wondered the sorts of things he would find. The secrets he could uncover.

There had been a moment in the cave, after he finished the summoning incantation, that his light had gone out. Nothing happened. But he didn't feel quite as disappointed as he thought he would. The darkness felt almost comforting.

Then the eyes opened and kept opening. Hundreds it seemed. All staring at him. Watching and waiting. He didn't feel unnerved or apprehensive. He felt rather special. That these eyes would turn towards him.

Ford sighs. He could call him. Call Bill for help. He has avoided doing so for 10 years though and has never once admitted defeat. But he's been here for months already. His frail body feels ready to snap. He calls him.

Bill appears in his mind. They're in a library. In truth Ford can conjure any background he wishes. It's his dream after all. But he finds comfort in familiarity. And he has always been most comfortable in a library. Sweet grass under his feet and stars above his head.

Bill floats near him but keeps his distance. He's as weary of Ford as Ford is of him. It could be a trap.

“I need you to get one of the guards to give me a set of keys.”

Bill is not so ready to help. Why should he? What does he get out of it? He's known Ford was here for a while. But he thought a punishment was in order for his human. Served him right for continuously defying him.

“I'm not helping you with the portal.” Ford growls. “And I'm not joining you! Other than that, name your price!”

Bill's eye squints like he's smiling. It was cute the way Ford tried. As if anyone could intimidate Bill Cipher.

Bill makes a show of thinking about it, humming loudly.

“Let me see you.”

It had been quite some time since last they did something intimate. A long time.

“Seriously?”

“You call my name a lot in your sleep. Could be taken the wrong way Fordsy.”

Ford blushes angrily.

Bill stretches into a human form. “I think you rather liked it last time.” He winks.

Ford undresses. He doesn't look at Cipher while he does. He pretends his body isn't responding to the attention. Pretends he doesn't want this. That he doesn't ache for it.

Bill holds him down, having gone eerily quiet. The silence unnerved Ford. Bill was never quiet.

Then a claw touches his back. Tracing up and down. It hits Ford like a comet to the face. The tattoo.

Bill had known. He'd known since that first time in his dream where Ford had felt fuzzy and unreal and Bill laid him out like a feast.

Why hadn't he said anything? No, Ford knows why. Anything would have been taken as a taunt. He would have immediately rectified the mistake had Bill pointed it out.

Ford made up all kinds of excuses. But at the end of the day, he could have gotten rid of the tattoo if he'd really wanted to. The truth was that it brought him a sense of purpose. Bill Cipher was out there and Ford would stop him one day. It was a reminder. They were still held together by destiny.

Something presses against him, hot and burning. Bill's hum thrums throughout him.

"I knew you were still mine." Bill's voice is pleased. The note of possessiveness makes Ford's toes curl.

-

After breaking out of prison Ford takes up with a group of scavengers. He's only been with them for a few weeks before Bill crashes it. as they're out foraging an abandoned spacecraft for parts, Bill takes over someone's body. Ford is a little ways away from the others so they don't notice.

“Bill! What are you doing?! Stop this!”

"Hey Fordsy look how wide I can open my mouth!" he unhinges the jaw.

Ford can practically see the creature's intestines. He grimaces.

Whenever he possesses someone, the gold in his eyes always seems to shine through. Like rays of the sun peeking through the curtains, the physical body unable to contain all of his magnificence.

Ford would be more angry about this, and he is, but he can't risk revealing Bill to the rest of the group. No one ever took kindly to finding out Ford used to be a follower. And no doubt Bill would tell them.

"They're planning on screwing you over by the way."

"What?"

"You're the newbie. They get someone to do all the hard work and then ditch them the first chance they get."

Bill could just be lying. Trying to drive a wedge between him and the rest of the crew. But it wasn't as if they were all buddy buddy. And Ford had a strict policy he adhered to: trust no one.

Bill wanders over to the rest of the group despite Ford's protests. Bill starts trash talking the crew, making everyone antsy and mad.

Ford hisses at Bill to stop but it only eggs him on.

“What's gotten into you?” One growls at Bill.

“Nothing! Just realized I hate all of you! You're lazy and stupid and ugly!”

Bill expects the punch. He doesn't duck. The body is flung backwards, hitting the ground hard. Bill starts to laugh.

Ford, feeling guilty for the body Bill was possessing, steps in to help defend him. As if by Bill's design, they start fighting the rest of the crew together. None of them have the intelligence to realize their friend is possessed nor the patience to soften their blows.

It gets to the point where Ford knows they have to retreat. They fall back to the ship. Bill jumps into the cockpit and starts the engine.

“What are you doing?!”

“Stealing the ship! What's it look like?”

Ford looks back at the rest of the crew banging on the doors demanding to be let in. On the one hand, Ford didn't like the idea of just stealing from them. On the other, none of them were particularly good people and were self proclaimed thieves themselves.

He collapses in the passenger seat as Bill hits the accelerator. He feels a hysterical bubble of laughter push up his throat. Bill joins in and soon they're both laughing. Ford is bruised and bloodied and his head is killing him.

Bill is insane. Ford has always known that. And yet even back then he'd always loved that spark.

"You know," Ford says slowly, "this kind of suits you."

And he means the whole not terrorizing entire populations and tearing apart the universe kind of thing. Just them and their inside jokes. Brilliant minds sharing space.

"Of course I look good!" Bill says with a swagger. "I can pull off any meat sack I wear!"

That had been so far past the actual point Ford was trying to make, but his lips pull up unbidden try as he might to fight it. And then he's smiling openly at Bill Cipher. Laughing at his horrid humor. Bill grins back, like making Ford chuckle is the highlight of his day. He preens at the attention. At Ford's attention. And it just makes Ford want to look at him more. To give Bill whatever he wanted. It's a dangerous feeling.

He should probably tell Bill to get out the body. He feels kind of bad for hijacking the ship as it is. The least he could do is make sure this person wasn't stranded on some strange planet.

But Bill crosses his arms and huffs. "Don't wanna."

Ford sighs. This was going to be a long ride.

-

"No one wants to hold a rose with too many thorns."

The fortune teller's words haunt him. Aside from Stanley and Fiddleford, Stanford had never been close to anyone. It was pathetic. A whopping number of two people in the entire universe. Something had to be wrong with him.

Family was supposed to like you, so did Stanely even count? And Fiddleford had a golden heart. He got along with literally everyone in college. Even the fraternity brothers. They often invited him to socials. Though Fiddleford would turn them down to study with Stanford.

It's moments like these when Ford looks back and wonders whether Fiddleford had done so because he actually wanted to. Or if he stayed holed up in their room to keep Ford company because he felt sorry for him. Because he pitied him.

It was true that Ford had never had the best track record with people. Most of the things he said went over their head. And they never seemed to get his humor either.

Ford threw himself into his books and learned to be content with that. Knowledge was so much more satisfying in the long run. You could always count on numbers and math. But people were unpredictable. People were mean. They were rude and loud and they made fun of his hands.

Stanford has always assumed that it was other people that was the problem. But as he remembers the fortune teller's words at the fair, he thinks back on all his interactions. Was he the problem? Was Ford the one who looked down on others? did he roll his eyes when someone said they were a liberal arts major? Was he the one that used obscure references to historic scientists and scoffed when someone didn't get it?

Ford covers his face and rubs at his eyes. He feels like an ass.

The thing is, Ford doesn't know how to be around people. And for the most part they don't know how to be around him either. Should he say this? Should he say that? Should he point out the weather?

It had been so easy with Bill. Of course, a lot of that was because Bill was just pretending, but even now it was eerily easy to fall back into that rhythm. He feels himself losing sight of his mission. Of what matters.

-

Reverse Falls dimension

Traveling across dimensions, Ford comes across a place that is all backwards.

Bill, or rather Will, has been captured and tortured for years. The other Ford owns the demon and lets the kids play with him for their act in some kind of tent of telepathy.

It's horrifying. Seeing how callous he was capable of being.

The other Ford is friendly with him at first. Gladly inviting him in to sit and talk with him. Ford asks him how to do it. How can he defeat Bill?

The other him tells him that he has to make a weapon. Binding Bill in the same way that he did with Will won't work. Will was an idiot. Bill won't be tricked as easily. the other ford tells him all the materials and how to get them. Ford thanks him.

Before leaving the other him invites him to stay for a show.

“I insist.”

So Ford stays.

It's awful. It's degrading. It's humiliating. He tries to sneak out in the middle of it and just go. He makes it outside. As he rounds the tent to the back, he overhears other Ford talking with his brother Stan. They were arguing.

Apparently he thought this little sideshow was smalltime. They shouldn't be using Will to make money. He was a powerful demon. They should be using him for to take over government and rule the world for example. Stanley was so small minded. Keeping to this backwater town and making chump change with his little Tent of Telepathy act.

He's spotted. Ford freezes.

“Skipping out are we?” other ford says.

“No i…i mean i, um, was just looking for the bathroom.”

Stan glares at him. “Didn't like the show? I put. A lot of work into that you know. Least you could do is watch the whole performance.”

Ford starts backing up. They follow.

“Well it's–I mean it's just a little much for me i think. I'm not sure I was prepared to watch children saw a demon in half.”

"What?” Other Ford asks. “It's not like he has feelings."

The fact that those words are said from a face matching his own horrifies him. Ford has thought that same exact thing before. That Bill was callous and cruel and it was all he ever was and would be. That he did not care for others.

Ford remembers the crumpled form of Will on that stage. He was more or less the same being as Bill. Same powers, same form, same voice. Something had happened differently in this Cipher's past. Or perhaps not differently at all. Perhaps this version had decided to direct his rage inwards instead of out. He blamed himself instead of the universe for his troubles. For whatever it was that he did, the sadness was unbearable.

"He can feel just as much as you or me." Ford says lowly, vehemence rising in his voice. "Just because he looks different doesn't mean he can't feel anything! He has hopes and dreams and regrets just as much as you or I!"

Stanford looks at his double’s face and glares back. His face, his voice, his body, they were all ugly and twisted. "The only monster here is you!"

You.

Me.

Us.

The double pulls back. Blinks. Then breaks into a chilling laugh.

Chase scene

Ford runs. He'd no intention of getting captured here. No telling what these people would do to him.

He doubles back into the tent. Using the element of surprise, he frees Will. he takes the poor thing into his arms and races like a bat outta hell. He runs into the woods praying that they were shaped the same as his own back home. He knew where several good hiding spots were.

He retreats to a cave to catch his breath. Will trembles in his arms.

“It's alright. You're safe now. They can't hurt you anymore. You can come back with me! I can take you!”

The broken triangle shakes, similar to the motion of shaking one's head.

“I can't. My place is here.”

“It doesn't have to be!”

Will looks at him with a sad smile. “I always thought it had it bad, but it looks like I lucked out with my dimension after all."

Ford looks down at him incredulously. "How?? I never did anything like this to my Bill!" He ignores how 'my bill' feels on his tongue.

"It's hard to love you Stanford Pines." He cups Ford's chin and strokes his cheek. "I'd rather know exactly where I stand than be pulled back and forth."

-

When Ford travels back, it takes a moment to adjust.

Bill visits in his dreams as usual. But it's different now. Whereas Will did not hide his pain, choosing to embrace it, Bill hid his under a thick veil of anger and humor. Hating the universe and all therein. Raging and raging because he could. Because it still hurt and it would never stop.

"Heya Fordsy!" Bill says cheerfully.

Ford smiles back. "Hey Bill."

Bill pauses. He must sense something for his single eye squints.

Ford walks closer. He hasn't willingly reached out to him for over two decades. He very much wants to again suddenly. Despite the circumstances, it had felt nice holding Will in his arms.

"You ever think about wearing a tie? Instead of a bowtie?"

Bill reaches up to his little bowtie. "Of course not! Bowties are way more cool!"

Ford chuckles. "You should try it. Just to see."

Bill rolls his eye. He snaps his fingers and there it is. A little black tie. Ford slowly reaches out so as to startle Bill. He touches it. Then he tugs, pulling it towards him. Pulling Bill towards his face.

"See? Looks good on you."

Bill flushes pink.

-

In his quest across the universe he comes across a great being. He asks it one question.

“How can he defeat Bill?”

The axolotl does not answer. That is not the real question he wants to ask, it says. That is not the one in his heart.

But Ford doesn't know what's in his heart anymore. He walks away empty handed.

-

With every dimension he goes to, he finds himself returning to one being. All paths lead back to Bill. His thoughts twisting and turning until they were once again consumed by little yellow triangles.

-

Weirdmageddon

Reunion with his brother. Finding a kindred spirit in Dipper. Knowing that he must follow through with his mission to protect earth.

-

Bill turns the golden statue over. He literally had Ford in the palm of his hand. The world was finally at his feet and yet he was sitting inside. Staring at nothing. This should be his crowning achievement. Everyone was out there partying and having a great time destroying the local buildings and wildlife.

Bill places Ford down. He'd always imagined this moment. A glorifying triumph, a party lasting forever. No limits. No restraints. Finally he would be free. No one to hold him back or hold him down. The freaks, the weirdos, the outcasts, they would make the rules from now on. Let society crumble and be rebuilt.

When had he started to imagine it with Ford by his side?

Ford could have done so well. His human was an outcast too. Attracted to the unknown and the weird. They could have ruled side by side. Bill doesn't offer immortality to just anyone. He didn't do it on a whim. He genuinely wanted to give Ford the world. He's surprised by how much it hurt when Ford turned him down. It wasn't like he didn't expect it. Ford was too pure. For all his dark thoughts and questionable desires, Ford remained a good person despite everything. Despite the years Ford had remained firmly attached to his morals.

-

Piano scene

Tries to seduce him. Bill doesn't know what he's doing. Hadn't known the first time either, it just happened. Now that he's actually trying he feels unsure what to do. what are the right words he can say to convince Ford to join him? Are there any right words that even exist?

-

If Bill could not be the center of Ford's affection, he would be the center of his ire. It didn't matter so long as he held the man's full attention. He wanted to be so utterly wrapped up in Ford's mind he didn't want anything else leaking through.

"You worshiped me!"

Bill spats like an ex lover on a soap opera. He still doesn't understand where it was they'd gone wrong. hasn't Bill shown Ford for years that he's serious? Has he not chased him and helped him and sat and talked? He's been right here for 30 years.

Ford growls back at him, ever defiant. "There's plenty of other gullible people out there! Go bother them!"

"They're not you!"

The words die in his throat. They're not Ford. They're not him.

Bill doesn't want followers. He doesn't even want henchmaniacs. He wants Sixer. His smart, naive, annoying little human. As stubborn as an immovable rock.

-

Resisting him is just as hard as Ford knew it would be. but it's made easier with all the atrocities Bill was currently committing.

Bill comes at him with sweet words and promises. Then when that doesn't work, he comes with rage and threats.

Whenever Bill feels something, he feels it fully and without shame. When he is angry he is fire. When he is happy he is an explosion. And when he loves, it is all consuming. He doesn't hide it away.

Ford knows the truth. Of course he does.

Bill loves him. He loves him.

It steals Ford's breath and aches in his chest. He feels like he's being pulled apart and put back together in equal notions.

-

Erasing Stan's mind

In one fell swoop Ford loses both his brother and Bill. It cracks his heart in half.

-

Therapist

The axolotl has Bill making amends to people he's wronged. It's a very, very long list. He has to write a personalized letter to all of them.

Stan is fishing when a giant axolotl bursts out of the water and floats above the boat. He falls over and hits the deck. Ford runs up from downstairs. He stares at the great cosmic Axolotl.

“It's you.” He breathes.

The axolotl explains that Bill is currently his patient at the theraprism. Ford's heart twists. Bill is alive?

It then says that Bill has written an apology letter.

“It's your choice to read it or not.”

It leaves as swiftly as it came. Stan frowns at the note. Ford crumples it up and puts it in his pocket.

“I'll throw it away later.” He tells his brother.

Stan lifts a suspicious brow. “Why not do it now?”

“You shouldn't litter in the middle of the ocean, Stanley.”

-

“Bill? Stanford Pines has passed away.”

He continues drawing. That's all he did nowadays.

“Are you alright?”

“Time is an illusion.”

Ford was always both dead and not dead.

“We can talk about it later if you want. I'll leave you alone to process.”

There is nothing to process. He can go back and see him at any time. Just as soon as he got out of here anyway.

Bill's crayons break in his hands. He's been holding them too tightly.

-

Bill sits in his cell with his stupid scrapbook looking at his memories.

Curse them all.

Curse them.

Curse him.

-

“Bill?” His jailer calls. “You have a visitor.”

Bill ignores them.

“They said their name is Stanford Pines?”

Bill freezes.

He walks–as he can't float anymore–to the visiting section and scrambles up the chair to sit. Ford stares at him. His hands are clasped before him on the table. They're beautiful.

“Hey Sixer.”

“Hey Bill.”

[oensible]

nucks announcer a real one... said get OUTTA HERE hometown boy i dont care if you're the shiny new 1OA baby. you;ll never be him. (knyzy <3) (gmmg yoinked his number and then booted him out of town right after the draft <3)

[sinnaea]

Page one draft, Claire/Wesker fic

I have another spicy fic cooking but this time with Clesker. I've never written anything with Claire before and this has been really fun to write so far. Enjoy my first page draft. As always, thank you for reading 💜

The Raccoon City Police Department holding cells was a place one would not want to spend the night. Aside from being detained for whatever crime one would commit, the mountain town’s temperature could drop to freezing in an instant as soon as the sun hid away behind the peaks. The concrete cells were already dark, dingy and dripping with water from old unattended pipes.

However, Claire Redfield was rather unfazed by her current situation. The young woman relaxed flat on her back on a wooden bench with her hands laced behind her head. Her crossed leather biker boots swayed side-to-side as she hummed a tune. Despite the cold night, she was dressed in a pair of frayed denim shorts, a deep red and well worn leather jacket with a black tank-top underneath. The ponytail of her cherry red hair hung off the edge of the bench as she continued to blissfully hum away.

The sound of heavy boots quickly stomping and approaching disrupted Claire’s jaunty tune then a loud BANG!

“What the fuck, Claire?!” a young man’s voice shouted at her and echoed throughout the holding cells. His fist pounded the metal bars.

Claire sighed and nonchalantly rolled to her side to face her older brother, Chris, who stood on the other side of the bars. She rubbed her tired eyes and yawned.

“What do you want?” she said contemptuously.

Chris, dressed in his officer uniform, was hardly shocked at his little sister’s lack of concern. But then he caught the faint whiff of something sour and earthy emanating from within the cell.

“You’re high?!” Chris said in disbelief and ran his hands through his dark military cut hair, tempted to pull them out. Instead, he released a frustrated groan and punched at the metal bars again. The loud CLANG reverberated in the concrete box.

Claire was unmoved.

“I barely had any,” she yawned. “All it did was make me sleepy. And who hasn’t driven sleepy before?”

“Un-fucking-believable.” Chris shook his head and stared at his sister through the bars. He was fed up. “I’m not bailing you out this time.”

Finally, Claire began to stir. She held back her boiling detest as she sat up on the bench and stared back at him. “Good,” she said firmly. “Maybe you’ll finally fuck off for once.”

“Why are you doing this?” he asked. “I’ve worked so hard to keep you outta trouble since we were kids. Why are you still like this?”

Claire scoffed and crossed her arms. “You really don’t get it do you?”

“Stop giving me that attitude!” Chris yelled.

“Just leave me alone.” The rebellious sister crossed her legs and shut her eyes, indicating to her brother that she was tired of his presence. “With me in here, you’ll at least have the comfort of knowing your little sister is safe and sound.” Her tone was condescending. She smirked.

A hushed growl vibrated behind Chris’s clenched teeth. His nose and mouth twitched in anger just boiling beneath the surface. But he took in a deep breath and let out a defeated sigh. He couldn’t help but admit that his sister was right. She wouldn’t get in anymore trouble at least for now. He stepped away from the metal bars that separated the siblings.

“Fine,” he said. “You stay there. I’m not covering your ass anymore.”

With her eyes still closed, Claire hummed and brushed him off.

Chris gathered his losses and walked away still frustrated with the entire predicament. No matter how many times his sister got into trouble, he always protected her. And despite what he had just said, he still felt compelled to.

Nearly an hour had passed and Claire was finally feeling sober but also mentally drained. A tiny hint of regret start to flicker within regarding her situation. And it grew into concern on whether or not Chris would actually leave her in jail. She stood up and outstretched her limbs with a loud yawn. She paced back and forth in the small cell for a few minutes and looked down at the cold floor with a tired sigh.

“You must be the lovely Claire Redfield,” a deep and very distinct voice announced.

Surprised she didn’t hear anyone approaching, Claire quickly turned toward the bars in a bit of fright. Standing on the other side was a tall and well-built man dressed in dark blue and black police attire. But he had a crown of perfect blonde hair and a sharp gaze with the brightest blue eyes that it almost seemed unnatural.

“And you are?” Claire replied with a smug attitude.

The man chuckled with a peculiar charm. “Your brother did say you are quite the wild one.”

Claire scoffed. “Oh, Chris sent you. Great.”

“I wouldn’t use the term sent. I wanted to indulge your brother,” the man said then finally introduced himself. “Captain Albert Wesker.”

Claire crossed her arms and cocked her hip. “So, you’re his boss. I suppose you’re here to set me straight. He sent Barry to talk to me once. And now you?” She rolled her eyes.

Wesker grinned, intrigued by her rebellious nature. The exact opposite of the more disciplined brother. Like a stray and untamed cat versus a working dog controlling the herd. He reached for a set of heavy keys hanging from his belt and used one to unlock the jail cell. He firmly grasped a bar and slid open the cell in one motion while keeping his eyes on the stray cat in her cage.

“Come, dearheart. Let’s go for a ride.”

[notsocheezy]

Brain Curd #188

Brain Curds are lightly edited flash fiction - practically first drafts - posted daily (haven't missed one yet!) and sometimes written with the express intention of being terrible… but, you know, in an endearing way. Please like and reblog if you enjoy - the notes keep me going!

Rain poured outside the Waffle House, a deluge of biblical proportions. But I could see, even past the night fog and wind and leaves in the air, that their lights were still on. I stepped inside.

I wiped my boots and shook the water off my coat, then hung it up and sat at the counter. The aroma of coffee and fried potatoes hugged my soul.

“What’ll it be, sugar? Or do ya need time to decide?” The waitress poured a glass of water and set it in front of me.

“No, I’m absolutely ready. I’ll have french toast.”

“Hmm.” She looked back into the kitchen. “We’re all outta that.”

“Waffles?”

“The iron’s out of order since we’re runnin’ off a generator.”

“Pancakes?”

“Fresh outta baking powder.”

“Alright, alright… how about a cup of coffee, eggs, and some hash browns?”

“We ain’t got none o’ those, dear.”

I leaned back into my chair and crossed my arms. “What do you have, then?”

“Well, hun, I’ll tell ya: we’re fully stocked with nothin’.”

“Nothin’?”

“Nothin’.”

“Why are you open, then?”

She smiled, and with the wisdom of centuries said, “If Waffle House is open, then they don’t have to call it a hurricane.” She winked and walked away. I took a sip of my water. Cold. Crisp. Ghosts of lemon and chlorine danced upon my tongue.

[mercurygray]

Random fic ask: a plot point in any of your fics that you ended up scrapping or recycling into a new idea

I have...a lot of outtakes from The Darkening Sky. (It was four years, guys, there was a lot of time for outtakes.)

In one of the earlier scenes I wrote (August of 2020), I was going to have Lee Miller cover the Girl Gang when they ended at the Eagle's Nest, and I was going to have Joan do a version of Lee's famous picture in Hitler's bathroom. Joan was then going to ask the photographer to share proof photos of the shoot (in which she is artfully naked) with Dick.

I'm not sure what I was going for with that idea. Both of these characters are famously tight-lipped about their emotions, and to be honest, I don't think it would have worked to get him to make a move or talk more. I think I imagined that Joan felt she needed to give Dick some kind of very tangible sign that she trusted him implicitly.

By the time I got to Germany, Dick and Joan's relationship didn't need that moment - they'd had a lot more moments a lot earlier in the story where Dick got a chance to reflect on how much he admired her and show that he trusted her and she trusted him. I'd also learned a little bit more about Lee Miller and didn't think I'd be writing her very accurately to be doing a puff piece on Joan at the end of the war. (There was also a lot of missing infrastructure around developing and printing the photos that I didn't feel like I could handwave through.) So the scene was cut, the photos never appeared, and Lee Miller's part was given to @shoshiwrites' war correspondent OC Jo Brandt, who'd already made an appearance in an earlier part of the piece and could be relied upon to have a sympathetic view of lady lieutenants in the paratroopers. Some of the original article copy was recycled into the final draft, but much of it went in the wastebin.

--

I'm gonna wash that man right outta my hair: Lt Joan Warren, 101st Airborne, was one of the first Americans to see Hitler's famous Eagle's Nest. Satisfied with the view, Warren did what any sensible soldier would after a hard three years' work - she took a bath. The lieutenant's boots give the reader some idea of how well deserved this is.

Her boots were, indeed, right there at the side of the tub - tired, well-broken jump boots that looked, in the tiled elegance of the bathroom, very sad indeed, her equally battered uniform in a neat pile on the floor next to the boots.

It was a tasteful picture, not...sensational, or designed to titillate. Joan was simply sitting  in the tub, head resting against her knees, a woman finally allowed to rest after the long labors attested to by the boots.

Lt Warren is the rarest of a rare breed, a female officer in the parachute infantry, and she has earned her stripes, with jumps in Normandy and Holland, and has been wounded twice. The last three years have not been filled with luxuries, or comforts - the soap she used was a sliver in a small tin tray, as GI as can be, and the only pretty thing in her bunkroll is a silk scarf, patterned in leopard, which she says all her girls in the parachute regiment wear as a badge of honor, in nod to the Amazons they are. No man owns one, she says, though it is the view of this correspondent that, like the swapping of class pins, the possession of such a scarf will soon be a sought-after prize, much like the woman who gifts it.

More of Miller's photos followed, the Easy Company officers on the veranda, a box of booze in the middle of their meeting, more shots of the house, in all its splendor, looking out onto the peerless beauty of the alps. An almost candid shot showed Speirs and Nixon playing chess with the mountains behind them. Miller had captured them at their finest hour, conquerors in their castle, not a man among them sad. It seemed a strange sight, that they should all be smiling, after all they’d seen and done.

...

The photographs were several iterations on the same theme - Joan’s head in different directions and from several different angles, each trying to capture the elusive glimpse of a hero finally at rest. But the last - the last was - was Joan … before she’d gotten in the bath, stark naked, head tipped forward as she massaged some kink in her neck, knee slightly knocked to one side. There were the scars along her arm where she’d gotten pinked in Holland, and the ugly pucker along the side of her leg where that shell had practically laid her open, not quite the now-traditional Easy Company shot in the ass, but close. Three years on Army rations had left a woman who had never been given to overeating a lean, whipcord look, better-fed than some of the DPs they’d seen recently but not by much. And ...she was beautiful. His fingers brushed the line of her back, the curve of her buttocks, remembering what she’d said in Paris about being painted naked, remembering how unsettled the idea had made him. And here she was - not painted, but photographed, a thing to be admired, desired, wanted.

And, god in heaven, he wanted her. His body was becoming slowly electric with it -- before he remembered, chillingly, that he still had an audience - an audience, now that he looked up, that was contemplating him with a pleased smile, the look of a woman who knows she has  done something to disquiet the stoic man of war. 

“What she’s picked is fine,” he said, shoving the pictures furtively back into the envelope and handing them back to Miller - but the War Correspondent wouldn’t take them.

“I asked her first,” Miller said with a smile, in answer to his unspoken accusation. “She saw them all. She knew I was coming here to get your permission for the article copy, and she wanted you to see those, Major.” 

The thought of Joan sending these into his hands momentarily made him weak. She wanted you to see them, Dick. She wanted to be seen.  “A soldier has very little privacy, Correspondent Miller,” he said, forcefully. “Take them back. Please,” he added, as an afterthought. “No one under her command can -” no one under her command can see them, I shouldn’t have seen them, I cannot have these in my trunk or on my person. He was being reminded, violently, of inspections at Toccoa, and Sobel going through their footlockers, pornography, contraband, and the sly, slimy smile as, going through the women’s things, he’d held up a garter belt, nonregulation clothing, contraband. I’ll keep this, and the woman from whose trunk it had come paled under his eye.

“Suit yourself.” She took back the envelope and fastened the flap shut. “She really is a keeper, Major. If you don’t get that, someone else will.”

[ziebigbootayjoel]

PICK A FIC

DON'T FORGET TO VOTE!!!

**ROUGH FIRST DRAFT OF JACKSONTHERAPISTXJOEL

The repetitive screeching of Freya’s alarm clock jolted her out of sleep.

Her breathing was ragged as she sat up, pushing her hair from sticking on her sweat soaked forehead. It took her a moment to remember where she was, that she was safe. 

After a few moments of catching her breath, she got out of bed and walked to the bathroom. As she looked in the mirror, flashes of her nightmare played, the images of innocent families murdered, the screaming and begging. 

Taking a shaky breath, she started the shower, peeling her clothes off her. She knew she’d be late to her scheduled work for the day, but she was hoping the warm water would wash away the dream. 

There was a heavy knock on the door as she got out of the shower. 

“Be right there Jimmy,” she called to her partner. She could only imagine the lecture she’d get about being late to begin patrol. Jimmy was an early bird and liked to get the work done early so he could spend the rest of the day at the Tipsy Bison. 

“Coming Jim,” Freya shouted, getting dressed as he knocked again. She quickly pulled her boots on, grabbing her jacket before opening the door. 

She frowned when she saw it was Jesse. 

“Tommy wants to talk to you,” he explained, “Jimmy went out with Eugene. You’re on stable duty today instead of patrol.” 

Freya followed him down the porch steps, falling into step with him. 

“Do you know what he wants,” Freya asked. She couldn’t think of any reason for her to be talked to unless there was a change in patrol partners or job shifts. 

“They need your help with something, that’s all I know.” 

“Do you know the general idea of the help they want,” she asked before letting out a sigh, “I’m not gonna get roped into doing all of yours and Tommy’s work again, am I?” 

Jesse laughed at the memory, shaking his head, “no. I think it’s a newcomer. There was something going on at the gate earlier.” 

“Why the hell am I being called for a newcomer?” she thought to herself. 

When they got to Tommy’s house, Jesse wished her luck before leaving. 

With a deep breath, Freya knocked on the door. She heard quiet talking before the door opened. 

“Freya,” Tommy greeted, “you were a psychiatrist before the outbreak?” 

“Psychologist,” she corrected, “what’s going on?” 

Tommy stepped aside, letting her into the house before taking her to the living room. Maria was sitting on the couch with a kid Freya didn’t recognize and a man standing with his back to her. 

“What’s going on,” Freya asked, stopping in her tracks when the man turned around to face her. 

“They didn’t do anything,” Freya argued, standing in front of the aimed gun. 

“Get outta the way Freya,” he warned, his voice low and threatening. 

She stood her ground, hoping he’d give up and let the family go, but she knew better. She knew he’d murder them and justify it as protection for his loved one; as surviving. The only reason she hadn’t been shot on sight was because she’d found him the weekend of the outbreak, joining the small group as it formed. 

“Move outta the way Freya,” he warned, his stance unwavering. He had authority radiating from him. He was incharge and there were no questions about it. He was the protection of their small group, and he refused to change. 

“They’re kids. You’re going to murder kids? What about-” her argument was cut off by a group member pulling her out of the way, holding her tightly as the gun cocked. 

Freya wanted to look away, to close her eyes and go back to simpler times, but she was frozen, her eyes glued on the gun and the family piled on top of each other, blood dripping down them to the ground, creating a pool of blood from the gunshot wounds in their heads. 

“He’s just a kid,” she said quietly, flinching at the reverberating crack of the gunshot, the little boy’s body falling limply to the ground with a thud. She closed her eyes, a tear falling down her cheek. 

Her mouth went dry, her heart rate accelerating as she recognized the man, memories filling her mind. It wasn’t long after that she separated from the group, deciding to take chances on her own rather than chance participating in another murder of an innocent family. 

“I can’t do it,” Freya argued, trying to keep her voice neutral. She could feel the emotions trying to flood out from Tommy’s request.

“You’re the only psychologist in this damn town. I’m asking you as a friend,” Tommy said, his voice lowering as if he didn’t want the conversation overheard, “he’s changed, I’ve seen it.”

[hdmiwire]

making “i” statements

wc: 3296, lightly proofread, the finished draft of that thing i posted earlier

I sit in the car, listening to the patter of rain on the roof, trying to decide if I actually want to go in or not. Sure, this Lincoln Log cabin on a hill is my house, but these days it's hard to consider it home. A more hopeful person might say "Oh Maddy, home is where the heart is," but I don't think my heart has been here, not since I was very young. If I go in that house, my Mother will be there, there's no doubt about that, seeing that her beat-up Dodge Minivan is sitting in front of me right now.

The house itself is no problem, every inch of it is covered in yellow - my grandmother's signature color. The house is hers, no doubt, built decades before my mother was even born by my great-grandparents, along with the family's diner Magnolia's. Both places have always been home for me, even more so when my mother isn't around.

Leaning on the green plush-covered steering wheel, I exhale a breath that I've been holding for the last twenty years.  I close my eyes, running over my options: option one, go inside; option two, go back to Magnolia's; option three -

A series of knocks on my window startles me out of my thoughts. My hand flies to my chest in hopes of keeping my heart behind my ribs while I roll down my window to the signature sound of my grandmother's laugh - a honeysuckle-sweet melody.

"So jumpy, Madds! Get'cha scrawny self in this house and help me with supper ."

Her giggles slowly fade as she pulls my door open, making my choice for me. With a groan, I grab my bag out of the passenger seat and finally force my feet onto the ground, her umbrella keeping the warm brown leather of my boots safe from the cold winter droplets. We walk arm-in-arm up the gravel drive, not in any rush to remove ourselves from the familiar woodsy surroundings.

Inside, I sit down on the plush, yellow ottoman to unlace my boots, briefly absorbing the warmth from the crackling cherrywood in the fireplace. The couch holds evidence that Mags was lounging in here for some time before I got home, her blanket tossed to the side and crochet hook long forgotten, yellow yarn still wrapped around it. The sight brings a small smile to my face, but Mags doesn't let me lounge for long, calling me to the kitchen.

"Terrance brought by some fresh chicken, so we outta take some supper by his wife in the morning. I heard that the little ones sick again, she could use it."

"Mhm. I'll take it on my way out."

And that's it. The two of us fall back into our usual routine, working in a dance-like rhythm around the small kitchen, with a backing track of boiling water and knives on wood. It's always nice like this, before Mom interrupts the peace. It's a wonder she hasn't come downstairs yet, but based on the silence in the house, I can almost guarantee that Mags told her what-for before I got home. Good, the bitch needs to be humbled sometimes.

I'm chuckling to myself at the thought of my grown-ass mother upstairs sulking in her bedroom when my phone chimes - an email. I set down the knife I was using to chop potatoes and rinse my hands before picking it up, knowing it's probably just another rejection letter from an influencer's management team. I look down at the screen and - oh shit!

"Oh shit! Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit!"

My eyes go wide and I can feel my heart beating in my throat. Everything around me seems to be moving in slow motion as I read the subject line over and over a million times: "Welcome to F.I.T., Madison!"

Mags jumps, hand flying to her chest, "Maddy! What is it, what's all that hollering for?"

I can't even form words, my hands flap around wildly while I try to show her the email, shoving my phone in her face instead. She takes the phone from my hand and pulls her wire-frame glasses down to her eyes. A beat passes of me pinching my own cheeks while she reads, really hoping this isn't one of those times where I'm dreaming again.

As she processes what the email says, a grin spreads across her face and she screams, "My god girl! Would you look at you!"

She tosses my phone on the counter and I jump at her, wrapping my arms around her neck and letting tears of relief and joy fall. After all these years of dreaming and scrimping and saving and portfolio building and it's finally real. It's finally happening, all I have to do is get there, which is the easy part.

A feigned cough disrupts my joy - Marie. Good, just what I need. Mags and I separate ourselves, her humming while she returns to the soup and me rubbing tears from my eyes with the heels of my hands. Mom is holding my phone, a scowl on her face while she reads the notice of my freedom from her.

"You're not going. End of story," is all she has to say before dropping my phone back on the counter. She's never wanted me to get out of Blairsville, even when I was a kid, and wanted to go with my dad when they separated, but she couldn't have that, couldn't let him "win" me. Usually, I wouldn't let this bother me - I'd ignore her and go up to my room like I have for the last ten years - but this time is the last - and I do mean last - time I'm going to let her treat me like this. I sniff and cross my arms, fists clenched under my armpits; I may not want her to think she's going to win this one, but I have to keep a level head. My blood is boiling, and I can feel the heat rising up my neck as I run through a million options of what I could - no - what I should say.

She's standing across the small island from me, staring me down. Her eyes shift to just above my right eye, just for a split second, to the patch of white hair that, no doubt, reminds her of my father, and makes her blood boil as much as mine is now. I almost pity the bitch - keyword almost - with one signature she lost her best friend and husband, and she was stuck with a living, breathing reminder of the person she hated most in this world: me.

Suddenly, I'm struck by all twenty years of pent-up emotions toward her, and can only think of one thing to say:

"Fuck you, Marie. Just fuck you."

I snatch my phone up and make a beeline for the stairs, rapidly dialing my dad's number and hoping to get to my room before more, less happy, tears spill from my eyes. I lock my door while the phone rings, trying to steady my breath so I can talk to him calmly.

The phone stops ringing, and at first, it's just the sounds of a New York subway, and momentarily I wonder if I'm interrupting his evening.

"My girl, my girl, my favorite girl! Something must be wrong, you never call your father."

Through his southern twang, I can practically hear the raise of his white eyebrow, and can't help but giggle at his apt observation of me - I really do hate phone calls. Phone calls with my dad, however, have always been my favorite.

"You know I always call you old man, besides, your wife is being a bitch again."

The last part comes out in a huff as I flop backward onto my bed, staring at the glow-in-the-dark stars I stuck on the ceiling forever ago. On the phone, he clicks his tongue at me in disapproval, and I can just imagine him shaking his head, thick black locs swaying with the movement.

"Madison you ought watch what you say, she's your mother. And that can't be the only reason you called, so spill."

Unfortunately, he's right - I may not like her but she is my mother and I do love her. It's very complicated but I suppose now really isn't the time to dwell on that, because I do have more pressing news. Sitting up, I scoot back to lean on the headboard, grabbing the stuffed snow leopard I've had since I was a baby for emotional support.

"So… your spare bedroom empty still?" The silence that follows my question makes me dizzy, and my thumb finds its way between my teeth as I nervously wait for what he has to say. His howling laughter makes me jump, yanking the phone away from my ear before putting him on speaker.

"So you did it," he starts, words coming out between gasps for air, "my girl got into her dream school eh? I always knew you could, never doubted for a second!"

My cheeks flush again at his words, and suddenly my room is very hot. I stand up to pull the string on my ceiling fan, while dad spews more praise on the phone. I dig through the mountain of shit on my desk for something to pull my braids up off my neck, finally landing on a large green claw clip that Mags gave me for my birthday over the summer.

I shed my sweatshirt before twisting the light brown ends up to the back of my head, clipping them there, and turning back to my phone where dad is finishing up his rambling.

"Are you quite finished Malik, you know I hate listening to people talk about me."

He chuckles again, "Aht aht, mind how you speak to me, little girl. I- oh damn. One second I can't find my keys."

I flop back down on the bed, shaking my head. The man would lose his if it wasn't attached, although I'm sure he could find a way to lose it now anyways. Once he finally locates his keys, our conversation continues for a few hours, the same nonsense we talk about every week with a new topic of conversation: how fast I can get to New York.

I drift off to sleep once dad hangs up after saying something about "wining and dining" a new client, hoping to find myself in his apartment once I wake up.

The sound of arguing across the hall wakes me from my nap - Mom and Dad are arguing again. They think I don't know that they're getting a divorce, but I could tell. I could tell a long time ago, even before they could, because Dad doesn't look at Mom like she looks at him. I don't know if that's bad or good, but their arguing annoys me. I just want them to get it over with so I can go stay with Dad. I hope he goes to New York. I love New York.

I sit up and climb out of the bed, checking my neon green alarm clock for the time - 6:32 pm. It's probably a good thing I'm awake then. I open my bedroom door quietly, hoping that they won't notice that I can hear them, and tiptoe my way downstairs to see if grandma is in the living room.

"Memaw? Are you down here?" My words are a whisper, as if it was the dead of night and not just suppertime.

"Yes girl, bring yourself in here," she calls out to me from the kitchen. Rounding the corner from the bottom of the stairs, I take in the scene in front of me: my grandmother, Magnolia, dances her way across the wooden floors of the kitchen, her coily, almost-gray hair pulled back out of her face with a yellow bandana, and wire-framed glasses perched on her nose. She moves to invisible music, dancing between her standing mixer and the refrigerator. She's making my birthday cake, and I think she looks so beautiful like this. I skip my way over to sit at the island where she works, propping my head up on my hands while she cracks an egg into the mixer's silver bowl.

"Mom and Dad are arguing again. I wish they would just get over it already, it's my birthday."

Magnolia hums, powering on the mixer.

"Maddy, you know they both love you, they've just got some… things to work out. It'll get better, just hold on, okay?" She reaches over and squeezes my hand before running a finger over the white hair on my eyebrow, a soft smile on her face as she thinks of her son upstairs.

"Memaw that tickles," I can't suppress my giggle and I lean back, trying to dodge her touch. "And I know that they love me, it's just… I just wish they would divorce already. I'm tired of the stupid stuff."

My hair falls down into my face as I huff and cross my arms, trying and failing to blow it back into place. Memaw sighs, turning her attention back to the cake batter. She lifts the mixer out of the bowl and hands me one of the beaters with a wink before pouring the mix into her two round tins.

"I know girl, it's hard." She places the two tins into the oven and then bumps it closed with her knee. She puts the bowl into the sink and grabs the other beater, sitting down beside me at the island.

She pushes my hair back for me while I lick the chocolate off the beater, humming to herself again.

"We gotta do something with that mop before your party tomorrow, my star. Any thoughts?"

I shrug, too focused on the task in front of me to care much about tomorrow. Tomorrow is my tenth birthday, and usually, I wouldn't agree to this party nonsense but Memaw talked me into it. Eventually, the two of us fall into a comfortable silence, Memaw rinsing the dishes and me thinking about what to wear tomorrow.

"Mama! Can we talk to you? Outside?"

My dad calling from the living room startles me, and I turn to see both my parents standing in the living room. Mom looks angry, her gaze falling directly on the white birthmark that Dad and I share. Dad just looks… he looks sad. Hes looked sad for a long time I think, but this is different. He looks defeated.

Memaw nods and wipes her hands on her apron before taking it off and hanging it by the back door.

"Maddy girl keep an eye on the timer and turn the oven off when it dings, mkay?"

I nod, grabbing the ticking timer from beside the stove being careful to not bump the knob as I watch the three of them file out the back door and close it, leaving me in the kitchen by myself. I make my way to the living room, sitting in the big leather armchair that once belonged to my Grandpa, who I never met. I put the timer on the coffee table, watching the little knob slowly tick closer to zero. Faintly, I can hear Mom saying something about  "paperwork" and "how would you not tell me."

As the ticking of the timer slowly lulls me into a light sleep, I secretly hope that whatever Dad didn't tell her is the final straw.

I jolt out of my sleep at a knock on my bedroom door. Groaning, I roll myself off the bed and onto my feet, reaching behind my head for the clip that is now slipping from my brief nap. I shake my braids down from their twisted position and open the door, only to be face-to-face with Marie again.

"Oh. I- hi, Mom."

"Mhm. So it's Mom now? Not Marie?"

"Mom I-"

"Save it," she cuts me off and I just know that I'm in for it. "I'm sorry. I just- I- I can't keep being mad at you for something that you can't control."

I can't say anything so I just stand there, blinking at the alien creature in front of me. It's not like her to apologize, especially to me. She sighs, pulling her deep blue cardigan closed over her chest.

"Maddy can we just… can we just talk? Not mother to daughter, but just talk? Please."

Still reeling from her seemingly genuine apology, I nod and step to the side for her to come in. I push the door to before sitting down on the edge of my bed, gesturing for her to sit at my desk chair. She spins it around so we can face each other, and I wait for her to speak first.

She clears her throat, "Listen, Maddy, I know I haven't been the best mother to you-" I scoff. She cuts her eyes at me and I mutter out a sorry.

"Anyways, I know I haven't been the best to you, and I know that there's nothing I could ever, ever say or do to make you forgive me, but I feel so much… so much shame. I should never have taken my problems with your father out on you. You didn't deserve that."

She reaches out to touch my knee and I stand up, going to walk next to the door while I think of what to say. I pace back and forth for a moment before I turn to look at her again. She sits with her hands in her lap, staring at the stuffed leopard on my bed. I still don't say anything, I just look at her and think. Her brown hair is straightened and pulled back, just like every other Sunday, and she looks like she hasn't slept in days. Her skin, usually a warm brown that feels full of life almost looks gray. Her eyes are tired, the bags making them look smaller and darker than I remembered. I wonder what she's thinking about, what made her come to me wanting to talk after all these years.

As I'm thinking of what to say, she suddenly inhales a deep breath and sits up straight, pulling her cardigan close again. She stands to leave, probably thinking that this was a mistake.

"Wait, Mom-"

"No, Maddy, it's okay. I shouldn't have expected you to want to talk right now. Tomorrow?"

"I- yeah. Tomorrow." I feel defeated. I watch as she opens the door and walks down the hall to her room, and something in me breaks. I close my door and lock it back as the tears flow again, sliding down to the floor and bumping my elbow on the doorknob. Ignore the pain as I think back on the last ten years, and all the ways I should've seen that she was hurting too. I know that doesn't excuse the way she treated me, but at the very least it explains it.

Eventually, I manage to ground myself and I decide that I need to get out. Now. Frantically, I grab clothes out of my closet and throw them into trash bags. I'll get boxes later, I think, shoving everything I can into as few bags as possible. I lug them down the stairs, save for a few things I’m putting in an actual suitcase, and throw them into the backseat of my car, completely ignoring the rain that's still falling rapidly.

Back inside, I sit down at my desk, surrounded by the chaos of just moments before and open my laptop to a new browser tab, typing as frantically as I was just packing.

Flights from Georgia to New York.

[justicefanged]

a kiss to prove a point

"'M sorry, ya wanna what?" Linus scoffed, more out of disbelief than anything else.

Here he was, enjoying a fine enough mug of ale in one of the pubs that he either hadn't caused enough property damage to in order to get banned or he hadn't frequented enough yet to bother, when some lass comes up to him like she's got boots to fill. He'd write her off as some highborn who didn't know where the hell she was, but as he eyed her, that clearly wasn't it. She might look a bit of a delicate flower, but there was a cool sort of fire in her eyes and a sureness in her posture that spoke of a different purpose.

So, he didn't object when she sat across from him, taking a long draft from his mug as he watched her settle in, curiosity getting the better of him. Setting his drink down with a wooden thud and taking a breath in through his nose, Linus leaned back in his seat, tipping the chair back onto its legs.

"So, lemme get this straight," he mused, lazy smile on his face, "Ya come in here, lookin' all fine and how d'ya do, an' outta all the idiots in this place, ya think I look like the type to arm wrestle with ya?"

Well, shit, she pegged him right on, didn't she?

Linus leaned forward, the legs of his chair slamming down onto the floor with a sharp noise, elbow planted on the table top and fingers waggling in a nonverbal gesture to get ready.

"Ya got me there, but don't think I'll be goin' easy on ya, lass! Gimme a challenge," Linus grinned, face flushed with alcohol and eager for more fun than sitting at a table on his lonesome.

The woman didn't look daunted in the least, and with a glossy sort of smile, offered a bet. If she could beat him within ten seconds, he'd owe her a favor -- any favor, whatever she liked. If he stalled her out, she'd buy him drink enough to celebrate all the way back to the monastery.

Truth be told, she had him at bet. Linus hardly cared for the rewards in a wager like this, but it'd be the easiest barrel of booze he ever got his paws on.

As she leaned forward and gripped his hand, Linus gave her a wink and a smirk, and confidently agreed.

"Bet, then!"

She had a firm hand, he'd give her that. Linus had been knocked upside the head and stabbed enough to know that you didn't judge someone's strengths on their looks alone, but with the burning overconfidence of alcohol fueling him, he figured he'd give her a chance to really show what she was made of before he cinched this. Hopefully she wouldn't be too sore after he--

The blonde leaned across the table suddenly, about five ticks in to their ten second bet, and hot, full lips were planted onto his before he really registered what was going on. There was a muffled noise of confusion from Linus, his arm staying put but his grip tightening out of reflex to the abrupt movement, but he wasn't about to complain. She was a banging kisser to be sure, and as Linus pressed into it to chase after that sweet taste of her mouth.

Six, seven, eight, nine--

BAM!

Lachesis pulled away with a pleased -- if a touch smug -- expression, her pinky finger tapping teasingly against the curve of his hand as if to say you can let go now, dumbass.

And he did, blinking down at where the back of his hand had met the wood of the table. His mouth was hung open a bit, brown eyes blinking rapidly as the gears whirred in his skull. She laughed, not cruelly, but decidedly amused; getting up from her seat and fanning her fingers at his dazed expression, saying something about collecting sometime soon.

H u h ?

[tofics]

🥲 With the way my period went last week, this fic was on my brain constantly. But my god, Bug, I needed time to digest this masterpiece. (I've also saved various of your other works in my drafts to comment on later. I apologize for the reblog spam that is about to happen.)

Kay, now. Let's dive in, shall we? 🥰

Joel wakes up early the next morning and greets you with a kiss pressed to the side of your head. “Fuck off,” you mumble, your voice is still thick with sleep but he knows you mean it so he lets you sleep in a bit while he cleans the bathroom for you. He works as quietly as he can, scrubbing it and mopping it from top to bottom. He empties the trash can and the laundry hamper, he makes sure there’s a fresh bar of soap and a new washrag for you. Joel’s just finishing up and wiping dust from the mirror when you find him in the bathroom. “Mornin’, sunshine,” he says as he kisses the top of your head. “How do you feel?”

What a sweet, sweet, kind man. If I woke up to a freshly cleaned bathroom while on my period, I'd probably cry.

“I didn’t ask you to do that,” you mumble. “The bleach you used makes my head hurt worse.”

🥲 Ma'am. I get it. But. The sweet man.

If looks could fuckin’ kill, Joel thinks. You’re glaring at him. He takes that as his cue to leave. You shrink away from him as he gently brushes your arm when he walks past, then shut the door loudly behind him. Ouch. Joel knows not to take it personally, though. You’re crampy, but you’re also probably hungry. He’ll make you breakfast, something with protein because he knows you need it. 

Sorry, did you say saint??? Saint Joel???

“I didn’t hear ya, sweetheart. Speak up, please.”  “I said yes,” you snap.  Your clipped tone cuts like a knife. Joel bites his inner cheek as he takes your plate from you.

😫 The disrespect. The bitten cheek. (Loved that bit. His annoyance is growing, but he's still keeping his cool. Again, did someone say saint??)

“No. I don’t care,” you interrupt, which hurts Joel’s feelings a little. A lot, actually.

S' OKAY, SWEET BABY. C'MERE. MAMA'S GOT YOU.

“Your glasses broke.”  “Yeah. I see that.”  “I didn’t mean to,” you tell him defensively. “Right.”  “But you really shouldn’t leave your glasses there, Joel.”

Breaking the silence, Joel finally clears his throat and continues his thought, “I’m gonna give you two options,” Joel says. “You can walk the fuck away from me, or you can get on your knees. Whichever you choose, you do so silently. Nod if you understand.” 

“You’ve earned yourself brownie points choosin’ the latter of the two options, but this still ain’t gonna be fun for you,” he says.

S' okay 🥲 I was a bitch 🥲 I deserve it 🥲 Do with me as you please 🥲🥲🥲

He draws out of your mouth entirely only to force his way back in, making you gag and sputter. You attempt to pull away but Joel keeps his hand firm on your head and holds you right where he wants you. “Nuh-uh. I don’t know where you think you’re goin’, hon.”

“Quiet,” he growls. “Heard fuckin’ enough outta you today. You keep quiet.”

🫡 Sir yes, sir.

“Let it be a lesson to ya, then, if it hurts. That mouth ‘a yours has done nothin’ but bitch and moan at me today. S’a punishment, ain’t ‘sposed to feel good.”

I have really bad news for you, then. Ahem.

“Because if I don’t fuck you,” he says, “Then I’m gonna strangle you. So which would you like?”

“I will wash the fucking sheets. We can add it to the list of all the things I’ve done for ya today, hm?”

Ohhh, he's done done. I just *loved* this bit. The frustration, how fed up he is with the reader. Suddenly you're concerned about causing a little bit of work? Oh, hohoho, no no no. Too fucking late.

Joel had assumed sexual frustration had been playing a role in your attitude today. Cramps, headaches, all sorts of things going on with you and a needy, aching pussy to boot. He does feel sorry for you, but he feels sorry for himself too. It’s why he got his first, but now it’s time for you to get yours. An orgasm should set you straight, or two or three. Whatever he feels is necessary. 

😩 Ma'am. Please. I can only take so much. The hotness in just this ONE paragraph. PLEASE. 😩 "An orgasm should set you straight, or two or three. Whatever he feels is necessary." 🥲 I am a puddle on the floor.

Joel takes his free hand and uses it to press down on your lower stomach, intensifying the feeling of it all. You come hard, gushing on his fingers as you whimper his name.

🫠🙃🫠🙃

“Quiet,” he commands. He begins teasing your slit with his cock once more before he speaks, “So this is what we’re gonna do: you’re gonna take what I give you, however much or little it is. You’re not gonna cry or complain ‘cause you’ve done enough of that today. Right?” Joel pauses, “Nod your head.”

“I know, I know, sweetheart,” he coos at you to quiet you down. “You’re all out of sorts today. M’gonna fix it. I always fix it, don’t I?”

*inhales* - *screams*

He fucks you without discipline, no tenderness at all to the action with those sloppy thrusts, but you’re more lost in him than he is in you - he’s focused on your face, watching you make an ‘O’ with your mouth, and he’s focused on your bouncing body, your twitching thighs spread wide. Your moans, your whimpers and your whines, babbling nothing but nonsense. Joel’s brow is furrowed as he breathes heavily through his teeth, his soft body jerking above you as he hits that sweet spot inside you over and over and over… “It’s all ya needed, isn’t it? The whole goddamn time,” he pants. “Didn’t need to go an’ bitch me out all day if you needed lovin’ like this. Woulda been nice f’ya just said so.”

😶 I have died and am now reading this from the depth of hell. Fuuuuck me!

“Always the tears with you, huh?” he taunts. “Always somethin’. Oh, I know. I know.” 

The fucking "I know"s kill me. Like, I didn't know two simple words like that could do the things to me that they're doing. But here we are. Is that a kink? Is there an "I know" kink? I think I have it.

“You’re gonna tell me what you need,” he instructs, “And you’re gonna ask for it. Nicely. So that means usin’ your manners. Please, Joel. Thank you, Joel. Remember those words?”

You’re surprised when he returns to you, pelvis covered in your blood, and scoops you right up in his arms. He helps you to your feet and on shaky legs, guides you to the bathroom. It no longer smells like bleach but instead, lavender. He’s got a candle lit on the sink and the bathtub is filled with warm, bubbly water. “Picked out a bubble bath for you earlier when I went out. Wanna test it out with me?”

😭😭😭 SAY IT WITH ME: JOEL MILLER IS A FUCKING SAINT. A SAINT THAT FUCKS, BUT A SAINT NONETHELESS.

Christ on a cracker, this was delicious from start to finish. I think you have had a lasting impact on how I see (and am trying to write) smut. 😮‍💨😮‍💨😮‍💨

Thank you indeed. 🙌 A masterpiece!!!!

Seeing Red

“Because if I don’t fuck you,” he says, “Then I’m gonna strangle you. So which would you like?”

Joel’s sorry that your period sucks, but he's reached the end of his rope with your attitude. (6k)

Tags - 18+ smut, brat taming, blow jobs, face fucking, rough period sex, fingering, mating press, overstimulation and multiple orgasms, creampie, aftercare in the form of a shared bubble bath, all things periods and period symptoms so headaches, breast pain, cramps, irritability that reader takes out on Joel. You will feel so bad for being such a cunt to this man but he gets to fill two of your holes with his cum so it all kind of evens out. takes place in jackson Fic help - @beefrobeefcal and @joelsdagger for all of their love and support and eyeballs, @noxturnalpascal and @endlessthxxghts thank you both for being my compass and giving me direction and helping to make this fic perfect. I love you <3 A/N - if you're on your period, i'm sending you a hug <3 if you're not i'm hugging you too

I was reminded of my friend @covetyou's fic "Sleepless" which is a lovely piece of classic literature, just like the rest of her works, and I'd like to credit her for inspo. Thank you Lo 🤎🩷💚

You should have guessed there’d be a bloodstain in your underwear, but despite the headaches, your sore breasts, and your cramping abdomen, you’re surprised when you’re met with rusty red in your panties. Fucking great, you whisper, dripping with sarcasm, this is not what you needed today. You had so many things you wanted to get done and now you were going to be spending the whole day miserable and in pain.

“Joel,” you loudly call out. You wait a beat, nothing. “JOEL,” you yell louder. 

You hear the faint sound of his recliner, the popping of his knees and the creaking of the stairs as he walks up them. His two feet are visible through the space between the floor and the bathroom door and then he knocks, “Whatcha need, darlin’?”

“New underwear,” you answer. “And a pad. Also in the underwear drawer.” 

Joel walks away and returns with what you’ve asked for and slides both items under the door. You change your panties and secure the pad made of old rags and t-shirts with the clothespin attached to it. “You got it?” he asks.

“Yeah,” you reply.

“Guessin’ you just started your cycle, then.” 

“Mhm.” 

“Can I get you anything?”

“Nope,” you answer. “I think I’m just gonna go to bed.” 

“Alright. I’ll join you, then.” 

 You wash your hands and rinse the bloodstain out of your panties with annoyance in the sink, wringing them out before tossing them in the dirty laundry hamper in the bathroom. When you unlock the door and leave the bathroom, Joel’s already asleep in your shared bed. He sleeps curled on his side and yet he still fucking snores - between that and the pain you’re in, you know it won’t be a restful night of sleep. You look at Joel, sleeping peacefully like a baby, and yet you wanna beat the living fucking crap out of him. You curl your body around his, stealing his body heat to soothe your cramps. 

Joel wakes up early the next morning and greets you with a kiss pressed to the side of your head. “Fuck off,” you mumble, your voice is still thick with sleep but he knows you mean it so he lets you sleep in a bit while he cleans the bathroom for you. He works as quietly as he can, scrubbing it and mopping it from top to bottom. He empties the trash can and the laundry hamper, he makes sure there’s a fresh bar of soap and a new washrag for you. Joel’s just finishing up and wiping dust from the mirror when you find him in the bathroom. “Mornin’, sunshine,” he says as he kisses the top of your head. “How do you feel?” 

“Shitty.” You grab at the mirror and Joel’s skin crawls as you touch the glass with your thumb, the smudges left behind from your fingertips clear as day on the freshly cleaned glass. He’ll just touch it up later. You pull out your toothbrush and frown, your nose scrunched in disgust. “It smells like bleach in here,” you complain.

“Well, yeah,” Joel chuckles. “I just cleaned it for ya. ‘Course it smells like bleach.”

“I didn’t ask you to do that,” you mumble. “The bleach you used makes my head hurt worse.”

“Oh,” Joel scratches the back of his head and frowns. “M’sorry, then. Well, we can let it air out for a while, we’ll leave the fan on. Shouldn’t smell for more than a day or so.”

“Yeah, I guess.”

If looks could fuckin’ kill, Joel thinks. You’re glaring at him. He takes that as his cue to leave. You shrink away from him as he gently brushes your arm when he walks past, then shut the door loudly behind him. Ouch. Joel knows not to take it personally, though. You’re crampy, but you’re also probably hungry. He’ll make you breakfast, something with protein because he knows you need it. 

He cleans the kitchen first. He washes the dirty dishes you must’ve forgotten about last night and wipes crumbs from the table. As you come downstairs dressed in sweats and a shirt you stole from Joel, he’s finishing up making your breakfast. “Sit down, I made your favorite.” 

You sit down at the table with your head in your hands. Joel puts a plate with two slices of perfectly golden brown toast and two over-easy eggs in front of you, then a fork and a knife on either side. He fills a glass with water for you as well. He walks away to clean up the stove, then turns around to check on you. Your face is contorted in disgust and you’re not eating. “What’s the matter?”

“I don’t want this,” you grouse.

“But s’your favorite. You love your eggs over easy,” Joel says. “And the toast, that’s fresh bread and butter. Eat up.” 

“Yeah, but I wanted scrambled.” 

Joel stares at you for a moment, dumbfounded. You usually hate scrambled eggs, and he knows this. But you’re not smirking or holding back laughter like you’re fucking with him. So maybe your tastes have changed, who knows. “Okay. Would you like me to make you scrambled eggs instead, then?”

“Yes,” you mumble in a small voice. 

“I didn’t hear ya, sweetheart. Speak up, please.” 

“I said yes,” you snap. 

Your clipped tone cuts like a knife. Joel bites his inner cheek as he takes your plate from you. He quickly scarfs down the perfectly cooked eggs and toast as he makes you a new plate of breakfast, this time with scrambled eggs. He places it in front of you with a little less care than before and waits for you to take a bite. “Better?”

“Just okay.” 

‘Just okay’. Of course you think it’s ‘just okay’, they’re scrambled fucking eggs - which you don’t like. You’re just being - 

Joel needs to cool off. Hopefully once you’ve eaten you’re a little less irritable. “I’m gonna head out an’ do some errands. Be back shortly,” He’s met with no answer from you, which he expected. 

-

He comes back an hour or so later with a few things from the market he’s been needing along with a couple of VHS tapes that he rented from the library. “So,” Joel says, “I picked out some movies for ya.” He lays four tapes down on the coffee table in front of the couch where you lay. “When Harry Met Sally, that’s a good one,” he begins, “Next is How To Lose a Guy In 10 Days, then Blade Runner, and I picked out My Cousin Vinny,” Joel says. He thinks you’re gonna pick out Blade Runner because it stars Harrison Ford, who he knows you have a thing for. “My Cousin Vinny is pretty good, I don’t think we’ve seen that one yet f’ya wanna give that a try.”

“Mmm, no.” 

Shot down. “Okay. How ‘bout Blade Runner, then. S’got Indiana Jones in -”

“No. I don’t care,” you interrupt, which hurts Joel’s feelings a little. A lot, actually. “I wanna watch this one,” you point to How To Lose a Guy In 10 Days. “He’s cute.” 

Of course you picked the Matthew McConaughey movie. God, Joel fucking hated him. He always seemed so skeezy, if there’s anyone who should’ve bit it on Outbreak Day, it should’ve been Matthew McConaughey. “Yeah, okay. Whatever. Do you think he’s dreamy too?”

“Fuck off, Joel.” 

So teasing’s off the table too, he’ll add that to the list of things that have pissed you off today. Joel turns on the TV and puts the tape in the VHS player before he sits back down next to you. At first you rest on his shoulder, then you spread out and lay your head on his lap. It’s not long before you fall asleep on Joel, leaving him to watch this dumb fucking movie all by himself because god forbid he move you and disrupt your nap. He knows better than to do that. 

-

“So fuckin’ stupid,” Joel whispers to himself as the movie plays, though he did find himself enjoying the part where the Kate Hudson sings “You’re So Vain” by Carly Simon. He always did like that song. 

“Mmmm,” you groan, shifting onto your back. Joel’s hand is stroking your hair as you look up at him, but you push it away. “You’re too close to me,” you grumble. 

“What’re you talkin’ about?” 

“You’re crowding me. I feel smothered.” 

Joel scoffs. “Oh, you feel smothered? You’re the one who laid on me.” Once again, your glare is all that you need to say. “Alright then, I’ll move.” Joel concedes. He lifts your head gently and scoots down to the opposite end of the couch. And then he hears you huff. “What?”

“Well, now I don’t have a pillow.” 

Joel sighs as he gets up to grab a throw pillow from the opposite couch. 

“The other one.” 

You’re referring to the other throw pillow that’s absolutely indistinguishable from the one currently in Joel’s hand, but he gets it for you anyway. “Lift your head,” he says softly, putting the pillow under you. He sits back down in the spot you made him move to as you both watch the movie play, but your soft groans interrupt. You’re no doubt in pain from all the cramps right now. “I’ve got somethin’ like a heating pad,” Joel says, looking at you. “S’a big sock filled with rice, I heat it up and use it for neck and back pain. Would that help with them cramps?” You nod without making any effort to meet Joel’s eyes, which he finds a little rude. But still, you’re hurting. He’ll give you grace. 

So, once again, Joel gets up for you. He goes upstairs to get his rice sock from his nightstand, then comes back downstairs and heats it in the microwave for a couple of minutes. He pokes the sock to make sure it’s plenty warm for you and then gives it to you to take. “Here,” he says, “Hold it on your tummy.”

“JESUS,” you yell at him. 

“What?”

“It’s too fucking hot, Joel, why would you make it so hot?” 

 “Just give it a second, sweetheart, you’ll get used to it.” 

“No. It was burning me.” 

“Okay, then let me have it and we’ll let it cool off a minute. Christ almighty.” Joel takes the sock back from you, and he knows his hands are pretty calloused but…it doesn’t feel that hot. When a few minutes have passed, he gives it back to you. “This should be better.” 

You lay the big, warm stuffed sock across your stomach and frown. “It’s not warm enough.” 

“You have gotta be kiddin’ me.” 

“Mm-mm,” you shake your head, giving Joel back his sock like you just assume he’ll heat it up again for you. 

“Just a couple minutes ago you screamed bloody murder about it burnin’ you. And now it’s not hot enough?”

“Yeah, that’s what I said.” When Joel doesn’t jump immediately to reheat the sock for you, you look at him impatiently. “Joel.” 

“You can ask, you know.” 

But Joel gets the hint and gets up for you a third time to reheat the sock he’s letting you borrow. You don’t say please, and when he returns with the sock reheated, there’s no thank you either. What does he get from you? “It’s too hot.”

“Then tell me how I should rectify that for you, because last time I let it cool off and it wasn’t warm enough for ya after.” 

“I don’t know,” you snap. “You’re just really upsetting me right now. Everything hurts and your voice is grating.”

“I’m upsetting you?” Joel repeats your words back to you. “And my voice is grating.” 

“Yes.” 

He’s about at his wits end. “You know, you–” Joel decides not to finish that sentence. Instead, he sighs as he pinches the bridge of his nose and breathes out on the count of five. “Two, three, four…You need to drink some water. S’your first issue, you’re probably dehydrated. Did you drink any water?” 

“It’s not your business.”

 Jesus fucking Christ. “Okay, well I’m makin’ it my business.” Joel gets up for the fourth goddamn time and slams the cup cabinet before filling a glass with water from the sink. He marches back to the couch, “Sit up,” he says. “Drink.” 

“I don’t want to,” you whine. 

“It’ll fix your headache. Drink.” 

“It won’t actually, that’s a myth.” 

“Right, what do I know when you’ve got an answer for fuckin’ everything. Drink.” 

You sit up, scowling at Joel as you take a sip. 

“All of it.” 

You drink the rest of it, glaring at him the whole time. He’s so full of shit, as if any of what you’re going through could be fixed by drinking a glass of water. Water won’t fix your cramps, won’t fix your aching and sore back. When you’re done, you slam the glass on the end table next to you and in doing so, break Joel’s reading glasses. Oops. Didn’t see those. The lenses aren’t shattered, but one of the arms is all bent now. When you look at Joel, he’s biting his bottom lip and breathing deeply. “Your glasses broke.” 

“Yeah. I see that.” 

“I didn’t mean to,” you tell him defensively.

“Right.” 

“But you really shouldn’t leave your glasses there, Joel.”

“Yeah, right. Shouldn’t leave my glasses on the end table,” Joel says. “I should leave them where, exactly? Maybe the floor?” 

“Somewhere else.” 

“Right. Somewhere else.” 

He’s hoping that by repeating your words back to you, you start to hear how absolutely ridiculous you sound. But you don’t seem to. Joel turns and walks away before he fucking throttles you. 

“Can you put on the next movie? I wanna watch My Cousin Vinny.”

Now, now you want to watch that movie. And Joel’s gonna miss out, because he can’t stand to be around you for one minute longer. “Are your legs broken?” 

“Yes.” 

Walked into that one. “You’re fuckin’ impossible. Fine. I’ll put it on, then I’m goin’ away for a bit.” 

“Good.”

Oh, he could fucking kill you. This whole day he’s heard nothing but complaints from your mouth, no pleases or thank you’s at all. Everything he’s done today has been for you, and you couldn’t give a flying fuck. 

Joel puts on the movie, grabs his bent glasses from the end table and heads out to the garage without saying a single word to you. You wonder what bug crawled up his ass. 

-

My Cousin Vinny plays just fine until Vinny shows up in his ridiculous suit to the courthouse. The tape begins to skip a whole bunch, the movie barely making sense, and you have no idea how to fix it - not that it’s your job to know, anyway. So you call out the name of the man whose job it is. 

“Joel.” 

No answer. 

“JOELLLL,” you yell. 

Same deal. You sigh as you sit up and get off of the couch, walking to the garage door. There’s finally a break in your cramps and you’re feeling halfway-human for the first time since yesterday. Entering the garage, you find Joel sitting at his workbench, he’s working on bending the frame of his glasses back into shape. “Joel.” 

He doesn’t turn around to look at you and in fact, he heard you calling for him. He had just ignored you. “Looks like your legs are workin’ now,” Joel replies, without looking at you. “S’a miracle. Means you can follow me around now, terrific.”

You choose to ignore his sarcasm. “Whatever. You need to do something for me. The VCR is messing up and you have to fix it.”

“Hm,” he hums.

“What’s hm?” 

“I’ve fixed lotsa things for you today,” he says quietly. “I need some time to fix my glasses that you broke. S’a difficult task on account of the fact I need my glasses to see.”

“You can do me one favor, Joel. It won’t kill you.” 

Joel stops and gently places his broken glasses on his work bench. He turns to his right and glares daggers at you. “One favor,” he scoffs. “Oh, you’re a fuckin’ peach. You wanna try that again?”

“Try what again?” 

You’re fucking with him. You have to be fucking with him. Why are you fucking with him? You’re not antagonistic like this, not usually, so he concludes that you must be looking for a fight. At this point, Joel is too. 

“I’ve done you countless favors today, sweetheart,” Joel gripes.

“Yeah, but-” you begin.

Joel’s large, warm hand suddenly covers the lower half of your face, silencing your argument. “If the next words outta this mouth aren’t thank you, then I don’t wanna hear ‘em. In fact…”

He bites his inner cheek, nodding his head as he thinks. The way he stares at you, his dark eyes piercing through you - you feel the chill deep in your bones. A wave of clarity hits you as you recall some of the details of the day, the way Joel was there at every turn and while you were busy being cranky and achey, he was trying to wait on you hand and foot. Shit. You’ve been a Grade-A bitch to him all day, a total fucking cunt.

Breaking the silence, Joel finally clears his throat and continues his thought, “I’m gonna give you two options,” Joel says. “You can walk the fuck away from me, or you can get on your knees. Whichever you choose, you do so silently. Nod if you understand.” 

It’s like you’re watching a scene from a movie. You hear Joel’s words, but you almost don’t believe they’re real and so they don’t quite register. He pulls his hand away from your face slowly. Your mouth falls open a bit but you don’t say or do anything.

“Nod. If. You. Understand.” You nod quickly. Joel awaits your decision as you look at the garage door and contemplate your clean way out from this situation, “So what’ll it be?” he asks. Despite it all, that uneasy feeling in your gut, you drop to your knees anyway, eyes still lingering on the door before you look up at Joel. You trust him to take care of you and you think you might owe him this obedience after your behavior today. “You’ve earned yourself brownie points choosin’ the latter of the two options, but this still ain’t gonna be fun for you,” he says. It should scare you - and it does - but you’re still thrilled by it, by the way he sighs and his knees crack as he gets off of his barstool, by the cold look in his eyes as he reaches under his thick belly to unbuckle his belt. Standing above you, he pulls out his half-hard cock and pumps it, feeling it grow to full length in his hand. He’s thick, veiny, and generously sized, a pearly white bead of precum sits atop his slit. His cock is just an inch or two away from your mouth as he holds it between his fingers, his thumb on top and middle and forefingers on the underside. With his other hand, he cards his fingers through your hair and pulls you close, the tip of his cock pressing against your lips. “Open.”

You part your lips open and with that, Joel pushes himself into your mouth inch by inch. You smell him first, that musky and heady sort of scent. Next, you taste the saltiness of his skin and his precome on your tongue and for a moment it’s pleasurable, with his cock halfway in your mouth. You wrap your hand around the end of his shaft like you know what he wants but you don’t know, not really - Joel holds your hand in his own and squeezes it so that your knuckles grind against each other a little bit. He pushes himself further and you can’t lick him or savor this like you wanted to, you just feel his cock intruding, sliding into your mouth. Joel’s testing you, making sure that you can handle all of him and if you can’t, you know he’ll make you. 

He draws out of your mouth entirely only to force his way back in, making you gag and sputter. You attempt to pull away but Joel keeps his hand firm on your head and holds you right where he wants you. “Nuh-uh. I don’t know where you think you’re goin’, hon.” 

There’s no gentleness to it, he fucks your mouth heatedly so that you’re drooling and choking on him, your eyes springing with tears as that pressure builds behind them. “Breathe through your nose,” he reminds you. “In and out. You ain’t done jus’ ‘cause you’re cryin’.” Your lips are sore with the repeated action, your jaw is aching. He rolls his hips, his cock is deep down your throat as he relishes in your warm, wet mouth and the way it makes him feel. 

“Mmm,” you moan, you’re not sure if the noise is indicative of your pleasure or discomfort.

“Quiet,” he growls. “Heard fuckin’ enough outta you today. You keep quiet.”

Your nose is buried in that thatch of coarse curls as he rocks his hips over and over, his soft and pillowy tummy bouncing against your forehead. You squirm and whine as his tip teases the back of your throat and your mouth feels so full, uncomfortably so. Joel picks up on that. “Let it be a lesson to ya, then, if it hurts. That mouth ‘a yours has done nothin’ but bitch and moan at me today. S’a punishment, ain’t ‘sposed to feel good.” 

He’s grunting and groaning, eyes screwed shut as he uses you, pumping in and out of your mouth. Your jaw aches with the brutality of the way he fucks your mouth, and just as you think you can’t take anymore, you feel Joel’s cock begin to twitch and pulse. He comes in your mouth without a warning, painting your tongue with his hot spend. It’s salty and bitter and warm on your tongue. Once you’ve swallowed, Joel reaches down and yanks you up by your bicep. He thought fucking your mouth and coming down your throat would make him feel better but honestly, it doesn’t. As he looks at your face, all puffy with tears and swollen lips, he can’t quite find it in himself to let go of his anger. Not yet, at least. “Let’s go,” he grunts as he drags you with him towards the garage door. He marches you though the house and up the stairs. 

“Where are we going?”

“Bedroom,” Joel growls, answering your question like it’s obvious. You suppose it should be, but you figured he was done with you. But he’s not. The regret begins to set in when you realize the retribution you’re about to be met with for the way you’ve treated Joel today. You’d be lying if you said that while wallowing in your pain you didn’t notice how your curt tone got under his skin, hurt his feelings and frustrated him immensely. The dread you feel can’t save you, it’s all too late now. 

 “Because if I don’t fuck you,” he says, “Then I’m gonna strangle you. So which would you like?”

“Fuck me,” you whisper. 

“Exactly.” 

Joel pushes you into the bedroom and locks the door behind himself. “Lie down on your back,” he says. 

You protest, “But the sheets, Joel. The blood–”

“I will wash the fucking sheets. We can add it to the list of all the things I’ve done for ya today, hm?”

When you don’t jump at his request, Joel takes initiative. He pulls off your - his - shirt from your body and then bends you over the end of the neatly made bed, the old and worn comforter feels rough on the skin of your cheek. Joel pulls down your sweatpants and panties in one motion and then flips you over onto your back, your legs hanging off the end of the bed. You feel embarrassed when you catch a glimpse of your bloodied pad and underwear, moreso when you feel yourself making a mess on his bedding and between your legs. 

“You didn’t make yourself come today, did you?”

“Uhh–” you stutter. “I - I…”

“No point in gettin’ bashful now, darlin’. Just gimme an answer.”

“No,” you tell him. It’s been a while. 

“Figures.”

Joel had assumed sexual frustration had been playing a role in your attitude today. Cramps, headaches, all sorts of things going on with you and a needy, aching pussy to boot. He does feel sorry for you, but he feels sorry for himself too. It’s why he got his first, but now it’s time for you to get yours. An orgasm should set you straight, or two or three. Whatever he feels is necessary. 

Joel undresses himself before pushing your thighs apart and hitching your legs around his waist. Slowly, he slides his thumb through your folds and then circles your clit. He knows you’re vulnerable like this - bleeding pussy on display for him as you make a mess of his sheets. But he’s patient, and he massages your clit calmly until you finally let a moan, a little mmm slip. He smirks at that. 

He pushes his middle two fingers inside you, pumping in and out slowly. He then curls his fingers, searching for that sweet spot on a woman he loves so much. “Fuck,” you cry out, legs instinctually closing shut around him, and he knows he’s found it. 

“Don’t fight it,” he says, opening you back up. He curls his fingers and circles your clit in tandem, making all sorts of lewd noises with your cunt. He admires your body all laid out for him like this, your breasts and your pebbled nipples, soft tummy rising and falling with your breathy oh’s and ahh’s, thick curls framing your pretty pussy like a picture just for him. Joel takes his free hand and uses it to press down on your lower stomach, intensifying the feeling of it all. You come hard, gushing on his fingers as you whimper his name. 

Joel pulls his fingers from your core and wipes them haphazardly on his own torso. “Joel,” you gasp when you feel the thick head of his cock at your entrance.

“I am sorry,” he begins, notching his tip inside you and popping it out. He slides the blunt head through your folds and over your clit, then taps the sensitive part of you with himself. “That you’re in pain. It isn’t fair and I know that. But you’ve done nothing but take your hurt out on me.” He presses himself inside you again, “I’ve got a half a mind to take my own hurt out on you, y’know.” His voice is dark and angered, but he speaks calmly in a way that contrasts the darkness but maintains his authority all the same. “And I think I’m gonna.”

“Joel, I– ”

“Quiet,” he commands. He begins teasing your slit with his cock once more before he speaks, “So this is what we’re gonna do: you’re gonna take what I give you, however much or little it is. You’re not gonna cry or complain ‘cause you’ve done enough of that today. Right?” Joel pauses, “Nod your head.” 

 You obey his rule and nod, yes.

He drags his cock up and down your cunt again, the soft skin of your labia rubbing so nicely against his thickness. He notches himself inside you over and over again, pushing in a little bit deeper each time and pulling back out. You whine, rolling your hips in search of more. “I know, I know, sweetheart,” he coos at you to quiet you down. “You’re all out of sorts today. M’gonna fix it. I always fix it, don’t I?”

Yes. You nod again. Quiet.

“S’right,” he says. “Good girl.”

With that, Joel pushes his leaking cock into you entirely, one gradual slide that has you sucking in a breath that comes out in a strained sort of whimper. His hard, warm shaft parting your insides, filling you whole. Joel hears it in the way that you sigh, that this, this is what you needed. He rocks his hips once, twice. Experiments with shallow thrusts, inching his way in and out of you before he draws out of your pussy entirely only to thrust himself right back in, deeper and harder than before. 

With the fullness of Joel inside of you, everything seems to melt away - all that anger, misplaced or not. Joel’s rhythmic thrusting soothes you, sort of. The soreness of your body, the aching cramps in your abdomen are all gone as you focus on the in and out, the in and out. He builds a comfortable pace, but one that borders on too much too soon. His hands on your waist, pulling you towards him as he pushes into you in equal measure. 

He fucks you without discipline, no tenderness at all to the action with those sloppy thrusts, but you’re more lost in him than he is in you - he’s focused on your face, watching you make an ‘O’ with your mouth, and he’s focused on your bouncing body, your twitching thighs spread wide. Your moans, your whimpers and your whines, babbling nothing but nonsense. Joel’s brow is furrowed as he breathes heavily through his teeth, his soft body jerking above you as he hits that sweet spot inside you over and over and over…

“It’s all ya needed, isn’t it? The whole goddamn time,” he pants. “Didn’t need to go an’ bitch me out all day if you needed lovin’ like this. Woulda been nice f’ya just said so.” Joel reaches for your breasts, harshly squeezing the tender, sore flesh. You wince in pain and he loosens his grip, focusing on your nipples instead. He twists and flicks the sensitive buds and your moans become louder, more high pitched. Joel fucking loves it when that happens, you never realized. 

“Oh, Joel,” you moan, “Yeah, fuck.” 

With one hand still teasing your nipples, he brings the other to your pussy. A few strokes of his thumb on your clit is all it takes to send you over the edge a second time, wanton moans and choked sobs spilling from your lips as he fucks you through it. 

And fucks you, and fucks you. 

And keeps fucking you. 

It doesn’t end, he doesn’t slow himself and you never feel that come down, that descent from pleasure. It keeps going, like pressure with nowhere to go and you feel like you might break. “I can’t, I need you to stop, stop, Joel.”

“Nuh-uh,” he shakes his head, thrusting still. “You can take it, be a good girl. Gonna fuck you good and deep like you need. You brought this on yourself, anyway. Two more.” 

This whole time, he doesn’t stop. It’s so much at once and when you thought it was going to end, it doesn’t. Tears of overstimulation spring in your eyes and flow freely down your cheeks. Joel lets you cry because he knows you need it, he knows the release is good for you. You poor thing, how much you must be feeling right now, both physically and mentally. “It’s too much, Joel, I can’t,” you plead.

 “Always the tears with you, huh?” he taunts. “Always somethin’. Oh, I know. I know.” 

It’s the way you look at Joel that causes him to cave, eyes all wide and tear-stained. You’re spent and he knows it, what with all that your body’s put you through. You’ve had a rough day and though he did too, he can’t help but feel sympathy for you at this moment. “Oh, my sweet girl. What am I gonna do with you, hm?”

“I don’t know,” you sniffle. 

“Know you don’t, ‘n you don’t have to. S’my job,” he soothes. With his clean hand, he traces the side of your face and rubs his thumb over your cheekbone. “How about this, then - what are we gonna do next time you’re not feeling so good?” 

“I’m - I’m–”

“You’re gonna tell me what you need,” he instructs, “And you’re gonna ask for it. Nicely. So that means usin’ your manners. Please, Joel. Thank you, Joel. Remember those words?”

“Yeah,” you nod, “Yeah, I remember.”

 “But you forgot ‘em the whole day today,” Joel says softly. “I think you gotta learn to compromise, too,” he adds. The guilt had begun to set in before, but you really start to feel the burn now. You were unkind to Joel, and he’s been nothing but sweet, doting on every one of your needs. “I think an apology’s in order for the way you treated me today.” 

He’s right, and you know it. “I’m sorry. I’m really sorry, Joel.”

“Oh, I know you are. You just needed the reminder, s’okay,” You hadn’t even noticed how his thrusting had slowed to a still until it picks up again slowly, as he presses kisses to you. Your cheeks first, then your lips. “I’ll compromise too - I’m only gonna make you come one more time, not two. Sound good? Sound fair?”

“I don’t think I can, Joel…”

“Yeah, you can, s’the last one. Take it good for me,” he encourages. “Take it good.” 

That’s what he repeats as his thrusts build again, fucking you deeply. Take it good, take it good for me. He hikes you up further on the bed and joins you so that he’s no longer standing at the floor, he’s got you pressed in half instead, your knees on either side of your chest and your feet above his shoulders. This angle intensifies everything and he knows, oh he knows how much it is for you. You’re tired, sore, overstimulated. But you’ll be done soon, he’ll be done with you soon. He takes your hand and wedges it between your bodies, pressing your own fingers to your clit, “Let go for me, I wanna feel you let go for me,” he says. “Focus right here. You’re gonna come with me, keep your eyes on me…”

You don’t even have to massage your clit, the way Joel angles himself has his body doing all the work, his pubic bone adding pressure to your fingers adding pressure to your clit. It’s intense, all of it - deeply energetic, overwhelming. You can’t quite discern your orgasm as it builds, there’s no definitive start but it’s powerful, devastating almost. Washing over you in waves, you feel it in the base of your spine first. You feel it in your gut, the backs of your thighs all the way to your toes. You hardly register that he’s coming with you, filling you deep with his come. His jaw is clenched tight and he’s groaning, grunting as he milks himself in you.

He leaves you there, whimpering, twitching on the bed. You hear the faint sound of running water, you figure he’s washing himself off. You’re surprised when he returns to you, pelvis covered in your blood, and scoops you right up in his arms. He helps you to your feet and on shaky legs, guides you to the bathroom. It no longer smells like bleach but instead, lavender. He’s got a candle lit on the sink and the bathtub is filled with warm, bubbly water. “Picked out a bubble bath for you earlier when I went out. Wanna test it out with me?” 

“Yeah,” you sniffle. “Yes. Please.” 

Joel sits in the tub first, spreads his legs and welcomes you to sit between them. He washes the blood from your poor, sensitive core and your thighs, washes it from his own body as well. When he’s done, he pulls you back into his chest and his hands find your breasts. “They’re tender, huh,” he murmurs into the side of your head. 

“Super, yeah. Sore.” 

“I’ll bet,” he says. He gently massages the tissue for you, his strong hands working you out in a way you can’t quite do. 

“Thank you,” you whisper. 

Joel chuckles. “Bout fuckin’ time you thanked me,” he says. “You’re welcome.” 

If you enjoyed, please reblog with thoughts, leave me a comment, or send me an ask! Your words motivate me to keep writing for you all 🩷

Least helpful cats award goes to these two 👇 if you’ve ever wondered what takes me so long to put fics out, it’s this. I try to write and I’m cockblocked by these fuzzballs.

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The Story, Of Old Hollering Joe

By @kbridge00

I’d like to begin by saying, I’m a simple old man. Never been too superstitious. I’ve lived on this mountain as long as I can remember, just like my Pa and Grandpappy alike. I’ve never really believed in ghosts.

Recently though, I had the inclination to draft up this old story my Grandpappy used to tell, sitting in his old hand carved rocking chair, hands casting shadows by the light of the fire as he spoke. Just an old ghost story plain and simple.

Still, night’s have been awful quiet lately. All the birds stop singing at odd times. Not even a hoot owl or nothin after dark. I come back home from a long day and it feels like things have been moved around. Even after locking the place up tight. Prolly just the paranoia of a senile old man, who knows. Either way, things have been a mite uneasy ‘round here lately. I don’t like it. All this strangeness around the mountain, been conjuring up memories of that old yarn Grandpappy used to spin about the mine just up the ridge from this here cabin. I can recall my grandfather’s voice, imitating that old Miner’s cackle.

The cackle, of Ol’ Hollerin' Joe.

The story goes that there was an enterprising old prospector, with a long shaggy beard, a beat up flop hat, and trampy moth eaten clothes lookin’ ripe off the boxcar, missing a couple teeth, who walked with a bow legged spring in his step.

Folks called him Hollerin’ Joe, on account of his tendency to holler out songs as he went about his way. All in all, he was a jolly fellow with a wink in his eye, and he was always one with a song in his yapper and a mighty bellow in his lungs. The unfortunate kicker was, Joe could carry a tune about as far as he could throw a boulder.

Most folks paid him no mind though, as he was good natured as any man for the most part. They humored his terrible verses, as they were still far more preferable than the other interest he liked to indulge. That my friends, was a good amount of mischief!

Always, Ol’ Hollerin’ Joe would be pulling his hijinks around the mine. Once he’d fixed up an old argyle stocking full of sawdust and tied up the end of it, and nearly made you jump right outta your britches when he started wiggling the end of it from around a corner in the dim dark of the mine, and started faking a rattle!

Other times he’d hide and watch you set down your canteen, then move it around when you weren’t looking, always staying just out of sight, making you think you were losing your marbles. He was a loud old coot to be sure, but when he wanted, he could be as spry and feather footed as a jackrabbit! With the sense of humor of a meanspirited schoolboy to boot!

His favorite of all his shenanigans, was sneaking up an unsuspecting feller that wandered off alone in the mine, something even the most inexperienced green eared charlie knew never to do, or risk getting lost miles underground. So if he caught you wandering off, he would scare you right outta your cowskins and send you running out the way you came, fast as a bat outta hell!

He’d do this by creepin up all slowly like, tiptoe, breath hushed, arms poised at the ready, closer, and closer still, sneaking silently inching towards you there all alone in the dim dark, until he’s right up behind ya, he leans in close, so close, leaning right over your shoulder, you shiver at what you might have thought was a mere foul smelling draft through the mine breezing across the nape of your neck past your cheek.

Then, when you feel your heart drop into your stomach as the unsuspecting dread just begins dawning upon your senses,you feel a sudden powerful grip clamp down on your shoulders out of nowhere! You hear a raspy eardrum bursting holler come right from behind you, exclaiming:

“A mislaid man has gone astray! Wander too far and you’ll find your… GRAVE!!!”

This would be the moment that Grandpappy would sneak a hand behind the shoulder of a captivated listener, and give them a startling jolt from behind! They’d jump ten feet in the air, all would have a laugh about it, and that would be the end of the story.

However there was one night, when I was just a boy, I got a bit too curious about Ol’ Hollerin’ Joe’s Mine.

It was a night much like this one, where the woods and the mountain were eerily quiet. Where the winds carried an unsettled cacophony through the air. I woke up in the wee hours unable to sleep, unable to resist something out there, calling me to that old ramshackled mine entrance just over the ridge. Was it a cackle? Was it simply the wind? I snuck quietly towards the door of the cabin, but just as I was about to open the door, I heard a creak from behind me that nearly made my heart leap outta my throat.

“You hear it too, don’t you boy?”

I turned around to see the silhouette of my grandfather in his rocking chair. I nodded timidly, as he sighed and beckoned me over.

I sat down on the floor, looking up at him. Time had etched lines into his skin like water turns a creek into a valley. It was strange to see him there in the dark, without the warm firelight to illuminate his face and brighten his friendly eyes.

“There’s something about that mine up there I hoped I’d never have to tell you,” His old gravelly voice mumbled. “I ‘spose Ol’ Joe will have it his way if I don’t,” He said regretfully.

In that moment, a shiver ran down my spine, as I heard him tell a very different version of the tale that he had never told anyone before, and I will never, in all my years, forget.

He began by saying, there’s a reason our family doesn’t go near that old mine.

You see, they’d been diggin deeper for years. Year on year, the earth, she started drying up. Fewer veins of precious ore to be found. The mine was slowly neglected by the mining company. Hollerin’ Joe became more reclusive, but still on occasion his voice could still be heard, distant, but loud as ever, singing his song or his eerie cackle echoing out from parts unknown.

Now my Grandpappy picked up the pickaxe at the ripe old age of 10, towards the end of the rush. He was known to be a precocious young lad with an affinity for exploring. When he was sent to go run supplies between mining stations, he liked to sneak off and explore the older empty parts of the mine all on his lonesome, daydreaming he might find a great big overlooked nugget of gold for himself, or so he said.

One day he did this and took a seat on a rock in a little traveled shaft of the mine, and laid down the canteen and the heavy pickaxe he struggled to carry, that he was supposed to deliver to some workers on the other side of the mine. He decided to have a drink of the water instead. Except when he reached for it, the canteen was a few feet down the mine, in the middle of the path! As he was scratching his head about this, and went to retrieve it, then came back to sit upon his rock beside the pickaxe, he noticed that the ax too, was gone!

He was deep inside the mine, where not a drop of sunlight had ever ventured. An inky black so deep it makes your eyes tingle as they search for the tiniest bit of light to orient you by. In places that dark, you can’t tell up from down ‘sept from your feet on the ground and your hand braced against the wall. When you can’t see, your ears get real sharp, too. They’ll perk up at the drop of a pin, especially when you’re alone. You could hear a mouse’s echo within at least a hundred yards down there.

He had just his carbide headlamp separating him from the pitchest black anyone could ever see. Though, even that was dim, and the distance of the beam was short and narrow. A beam of pale burning white that often became clouded by each cold breath, rising and swirling around in the freezing damp, down there in the underground.

All the more reason you never go alone into a mine, even an active one. Get lost, and they might never find ya. But my Grandpappy was young and foolish. He figured he knew these tunnels like the back of his hand. Still, this pickaxe business had him rattled.

He looked around by the dim light, eyes squinting to see further than a yard or two in the inky blackness. As he stared, he just barely caught a glimpse of the light catching the silent movement of the wooden ax handle, disappearing around the corner.

His heart nearly stopped as he froze his lamplight on the corner, as he got a tingle from the hairs on his neck and a pit in his stomach as his feeling of assumed safety vanished in an instant.

He slowly, cautiously, approached the bend in the path a yard or two in front of him. Unsure what propelled his feet to step forward, except the need to procure the ax and hurry along his way.

He’d heard plenty of stories of Ol’ Hollerin’ Joe from unfortunate victims of his tomfoolery. He always thought they were tall tales. He figured if he just steeled himself and faced him, there would be no way for Joe to sneak up and spook him, and it might take the fun outta his game. Well Grandpappy wasn’t going to let this old hermit make a fool outta him!

So there, in the dark of the mine, right before he was to round the corner he saw the ax disappear behind, the young boy declared bravely,

“I-I know it's you Joe!! I ain’t scared of you none!! Not a lick! No s-sir!” He stammered. “Just gimme the ax back and we’ll call it square…!”

There was an eerie silence. It was like the normal sounds of the echoey cave, full of drips and skitters, were gone. Like the dark ate up all his words as soon as they were spoken. As if outside the narrow reach of the lamplight, there was nothing but a sable, hungry void, swallowing up his defiance.

Ignoring every incite to caution, my young Grandpappy swallowed his fear and quickly jumped round the bend, and he was met by relief when his headlamp eventually cast dimly upon the wooden handle of the ax he was meant to deliver, leaning against the wall of the shaft. His body relaxed as he focused his gaze, and with it the narrow beam of light, on the handle just a few feet within reach.

Glad to find it, he wanted to grab it and get a move on, quick as he could. He reached for it, then stopped suddenly.

The glint of his lamp unintentionally fell upon the head of the ax right beside a rock as he was reaching for it. He paused when he noted something queer. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust before he realized the ax head… it wasn’t touching the ground. What lay beside it? No, it wasn’t a rock at all. His eyes focused on it and his little heart sank to the pit of his gut as he froze in a sudden cold sweat.

It was a beat up, leather boot.

At first he didn’t notice just the slightest, most insignificant movement of the handle weighed down by the heavy iron head. As if it was being held by someone who shifted their weight one foot to the other, just barely suspending the heavy iron pickaxe an inch off the ground.

Trembling he slowly lifted his gaze along with his headlamp as it’s narrow beam, clouded by his shallow misty breath, illuminated what looked like a pair of beat up old trousers caked in dirt, held up by worn old buttons connected to suspenders, leading upward to a moth eaten shirt, the color of which was lost to the dust and soil that clung to it, leading up to the scraggly matted locks of a frizzly tangled beard.

My grandfather froze, blood gone cold as the dead. Petrified as his shaking headlamp’s light slowly, cautiously traveled upwards and finally cast upon the absolutely still, wrinkled, gaunt cheeks, coated in sweat and dust, towering over the boy. He somehow recognized that knobbly nose, and what were supposedly friendly playful eyes, were now glazed over with a sickly white film, open wide, vacant and haunting.

The boy watched with horror, unable to release his grip on the handle as he was paralyzed with fear. He witnessed the ghastly man, inches away from him, instantly flash those milky white eyes to glare down at him, as the figure began stretching his mouth as wide open as it could go. He could see clearly only a few crooked, tobacco stained teeth left embedded in those gray dripping gums. As he did, the boy noticed that there was something falling out of his mouth… dirt and rocks! Soil tumbling off the man’s clothes at the slightest motion!

My grandfather stood there still as a statue, and he swore till the day he died, this is what happened next.

With just the remaining flicker of his dwindling light the illuminated haunting face stared at him with a lurid grin. Gravel spilling out of his gnarly maw as the old hermit mouthed something but no sound came out, only more gravel. The cave was completely void of all sound. As if the child had lost the capacity to hear anything at all.

The next moment, as if the old man’s blistered decrepit lips that held that toothless smile and hot wet breath were right up to his ear, let out a harsh disembodied whisper, clear as day. The voice, the only sound to break the deafening silence, slowly uttered these words:

“A mislaid lad has gone astray…

Wander too far…

and you’ll find your…

GRAVE!!!!”

It shouted with immense force! All at once the sound returned to him as that last word blasted into his eardrum and reverberated out like a cannon! He heard something vital in his headlamp shatter and immediately he was showered in darkness!! Nearly jumping out of his skin, the pickaxe clanged to the stone ground, the metallic clangor joining the chaotic cacophony. He bolted back the way he came, guided by only touch and memory.

The skin of his hands scraped off as he held them to the side of the shaft to guide his way! He ran as fast as his legs would take him! All the while he could hear the directionless reverberation of that hideous, wicked, black lunged cackle that followed him the whole way out, causing the mine to rumble like the whole place was gonna come down on top of him! He ran and ran and ran until he finally saw daylight and dove for the grass outside!!

He never went into that mine again.

Grandpappy had come to hear a while later, that Ol’ Hollerin’ Joe’s flop hat and pickaxe had been found just outside a long forgotten shaft that had collapsed a long time ago. It seemed he had played one of his jokes on somebody, scaring them off, but shortly after, his raucous guffaw caused the entire shaft to collapse. Suffocating him in hundreds of pounds of loose grit and gravel. His hat and pickaxe, leaning up against the wall, were the only things left, of Ol’ Hollerin’ Joe.

The mine closed shortly after.

My Grandfather claimed that for years after, there would come times where things start getting displaced. The birds stop singing. At night the mountain will fall unnaturally quiet. There’s nothing you can hear but the soft wail on the wind, and if you listen closely, and look up towards the old mine, you can still hear the despicable cackle of that infamous tommyknocker… Ol’ Hollerin’ Joe.

[derekgoffard]

Thinking about a dream I had a while ago where the tpof beta was released but it was just. btd2 except the basement wasn't in Ren's house and to torture Mc we had to drive around looking for people who'd let us use their basements

[summerdazed]

Aiden Moran

Nicknamed Pinky much to their irritation

Is a natural blonde but won’t tell a soul (his middle school pictures though lmfao)

Is relatively quiet usually but can get super talkative

About 5’9

18-25 (I haven’t decided an age yet)

Smells like cotton candy for some reason