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[killlerfang1]

So apparently Across the Spider-Verse has MULTIPLE different versions of the movie out in theaters right now???

This reddit thread by Hohoho-you goes into the details but so far all the differences between the versions include

During the opening of the film one version has a "cough" text before the Sony logo appears and added comic frames during Gwen's monologue

Lyla either takes a bunny selfie of Miguel or offers a fist bump after he calls for backup

When Gwen asks who Miguel is he either says "that’s classified” or “isn’t it obvious”

Miguel either says "that's funny" or "No" when Gwen calls him the blue panther

The build up from when Miguel was going to bite the Vulture is cut

When Jefferson fell through one of Spot's spots he either groans and looks around, or has a quick frame reaction of his face

When the Spot is going to put his finger in the mini collider he either says "-which would... not be good" or "oh what the heck."

In the chai tea scene Miles either says "no! no." Or "sorry! im sorry" after getting called out by Pavitr

When Hobie first comes on screen and Miles says "Hobie" a little text saying "Hobie" popping up above Miles’ head may or may not appear

One version has Gwen's lines when she's looking for Miles in the rubble removed

At the spider society, when Jessica asks if "anybody else got jokes" the text boxes that show up can either be yellow or blue in color

During the canon event scene Hobie has different coloring and lighting depending on the version

When Ben Reilly grabs Miles during the chase scene he either says “I’ve got you trapped in my well defined musculature so don't even-“ or “This one’s called the sleeper hold, I’m using my bicep to constrict your-"

During the chase scene Miles rides Web-Slingers horse through the villain prison and receives cheers from said villains all while the other spiders get boo’d. This scene is cut in an alternate version

In the same chase scene when the spiders cross the tightrope they either fall or get launched in the air, with the falling scene being a slightly extended version

When Miles venom strikes Miguel the line where he says "sorry man I'm goin' home" is cut

When Peter B. Parker returns home MJ either says "Hi" or "How was work" upon his return

during the Prowler!Miles reveal one version has him with more lines and details on his face (thank you @cannibalgal for pointing this one out to me)

I've only seen the film once so far but based on other people's comments online the changes seem to be mixed and matched depending on when and where you go to see the movie

(edit: added more changes)

[folklovrr]

nature feels spencer reid

| spencer reid x fem!reader

| hello! my first post on tumblr. inspired by frank oceans song nature feels. but also like… kind of not. idunno!! minors please dni (18+)

| content warning: religious references, munch!spencer (😁) worship?!, making out, alludes to pinv.

Spencer Reid was an endlessly curious man. It generally didn’t matter what the subject was, he already knew about, and could be classified as an expert in the field.

He like to think of himself as a specialist in all things mathematics, chemistry, engineering, and you. At times like these, that last one became more of a weakness than a strength.

Sitting on the plane home, returning from an exhausting case, hearing the bass line from Derek’s headphones and the muffled sounds of Rossi and Hotch discussing something that could be anywhere from the case to his latest interaction with wife number nth, Spencer Reid couldn’t stop thinking about sleeping with you. You hid in the buzz of the engine, the smell of coffee leaking out of the jet’s small kitchen, taking him to the four walls of your shared apartment, where the smell was omnipresent.

Many people might compare you to a warm summers day, but he found that misrepresentative. You were much more comparable to a snowy christmas evening. It’s the time of year that everyone looks forward to, cookies and cakes and freshly cooked meals, things that were constantly filling your kitchen, love leaking from their extra chocolate chips. All year round, when christmas music plays, people are filled with joy and cheer, and he thinks this phenomenon is not unlike to that of your sounds, and when his memory so unhelpfully brings those to the forefront of his mind, he is filled with that same joy.

The familiar bump of the jets landing cut this train of thought, and as the team filed back to quantico, Spencer had never been more grateful for two things:

1. the fbi’s access to efficient travel - he thinks that if he was forced to sit in the metro waiting, the personification of himeros that was sitting eagerly in his heart ( and other parts of him that he was careful not to pay attention to at this time ) would grab him by the shoulders and force him under the need that he was drowning in.

2. the invention of internet and online communication - the influx of texts from that had ceased to deliver while he was in the sky all flooded in at once, giving him the idea that this missing business was not one sided.

| spence, hope you’re ok :( penny told me that case was tough. cant wait to see you

| I have missed you so much. cant stop thinking about you. text me when you land, love.

| come find me when you get home, doctor ;) i have a surprise for you!

It was in moments like these, when people showed even the slightest romantic fondness for him, that he was taken back to his bumbling college experiences with sex. A word that people danced around, but he researched thoroughly. Not for perverse reasons, as this form of interest in the female anatomy would hit him a bit later in life, but pure curiosity. Why did people enjoy? He could understand what the appeal was for men, but what made the experience enjoyable for the other sex?

These questions still plagued him to this day, even after extensive practical elements were added to his studies, with you being a very supportive test subject. Spencer explored what it was like to feel, and to find meaning through this thing that had become so, even though it sounds silly to say, sexualised in media, and to move past the physical elements (but he still appreciated those, greatly) and to find what philosophers spent eons theorising over, which the two of you seemed to have found so easily. Connection.

In the many nights he had spent tangled in your embrace, Spencer mused thoughts of the origins of humans, and as the quiet hymns of the night sung, he worshipped Apollo for having mercy on the split humans and reconstituting their forms, allowing them to find this physical bond, and their souls other half.

As the elevator at quantico rose to the BAU’s floor, the team had a quiet understanding amongst them that small talk was not necessary, and that conversations of weekend plans were trivial in comparison to the things the victims had been through.

After finishing up the, for lack of better words, ginormous pile of paperwork, Spencer was finally free to follow the light of your twin flame home. As he sits in the metro though, he is brought back to the disdain he holds for the public transportation system, and the distain for every passenger that gets of on a stop before his, slowing his journey. He wishes that access to the fbi’s vehicles was available off the clock, for boyfriends whose need for their girlfriends was eating them alive. How inconsiderate of them.

When the autonomic voice announced the station where you resided, so close yet so far, Spencer jumped out of his seat, himeros once again took control of his body, willing his muscles all the way home.

As the loved in door to your home creaked open, Spencer was guided by the candlelight and warm lamps through to the back garden, where the leaves and flowers of the cherry trees spread through the garden fall gracefully and surround a figure, who is gently swing back and forth on a tree swing. Spencer sees you, and wonders what if this is what Adam thought when he first saw Eve, and if he too felt so compelled to caress the slopes of her neck and pray at her divine altar.

The leaves under Spencer’s converse crunched, and alerted you to his presence. As you turned around, there was barely a split second before Spencer was on you, burrowing his face in the crook of your neck with his arms planted firmly around your waist.

“hi spence”, you whispered quietly into his hair, the glasses on the bridge of his nose digging into the skin of your neck. he began to plant soft kisses there, to exhausted to formulate a response. You nudged his chin with your shoulder, and his lips landed softly on yours, gentle kisses explaining things that words do no justice to.

As the night air became more humid around you, and fireflies surrounded the two of you, Spencer’s warm hands pushed the ankle length hem of your spring dress up your thighs, closer to your core. He kisses a pathway up your calf, up your thigh, towards the need in your centre, and ponders if god had made you for him.

Spencer thinks that he is fairly devoted to a number of things, like his work, or his academia, but the way he eats you out is oh so blasphemous. He circles and flicks and plunges just right, and as the cherry flowers fall in his hair, he looks like a debauched angel, with a sole mission of making you come on his tongue. he is devoted to it, and it’s his mission.

The way that you moan his name and pulse around his fingers turns him on more than things that are seen as generally sexually conductive for the male gender, and as you pull his roots and tighten your thighs around his head, he feels the satisfaction of your pleasure travel all the way to his climax, without being touched. Truly sinful Spencer Reid, truly Sinful.

As his mouth separates from your divinity, he thinks that the string of saliva that connects you is symbolic of every single thing that connects your physical elements to the emotional unison that you share. As the dirt digs into Spencer’s knees, and the thighs around his head loosen with satisfaction, He can’t help but compare you to the delicate cherry blossoms, and he sees your kindness and ineffable gentleness bloom around the garden.

You stand, and pull Spencer to his feet, and as he pushes you against the bark of the cherry tree, ready to connect again, just as Apollo and Adam and Eve and whoever else he had to thank for this intended, he can’t wait to feel your nature, to make love.

a/n thank you for reading!!! i know it’s rough, but yet i persevered and finished it. yay me 😛.

[theplottdump]

One Night in Al Simhara || Behind the Scenes & Director's Notes

The World:

Al Simhara was built in Strangerville using Nando's incredibly busted Get to Egypt mod. (which i tossed sunblind into as well and pulled a few ugly skyscrapers out of) My friend OakieDokieSims built the layout for me since he's fantastic with sight lines and scale (he also built the shells for Val's Lair and the UNIT office) and I finished off the set dressing for all the things I needed to be able to see in game.

I also added a lightmap to the pyramids from the mod so they would glow at night!

The Red Jacket™

There's a couple running themes/motifs in this story that I included. One of them is this red Suitcoat that we see Dick put on at the beginning.

When we cut to 35 years ago, Dick is in white and blue and Chet is the one with the Red Jacket. Dick is a more complicated character. He's my bisexual James Bond- (including all the negative connotations that come from being a sex pest) and I wanted to show how Chet really shaped him into who he became later on in his career.

When we see Force Ghost Chet at the end, he's not wearing his jacket anymore because it's been (metaphorically) passed onto Dick. He's now the confident older Agent that he admired so much. This was the original ending I had planned for him, but when i put all my sims on a lot together Carmela and Dick were instantly extremely attracted to each other and I was like hold on now I got brain worms.

So when he makes the conscious decision to retire in the epilogue we see him return to the blue and white and as a bonus I tried to have Carmela match the neutral tones we see her in in the flashback as well.

Little Notes and Nods:

You can tell a lot about a person from their shoes.

Poignant lyrical accompaniment to Dick pouring out one for the dead abusive homie who still lives rent free in his head.

@aheathen-conceivably cameo #1

Dick getting berated by the fruit stall lady cause i needed a quick snappy way to get him and chet in a closet together

Snapping a quick Dick Pic™ of some classified documents

I hastily added some papers flying around and have decided I now need a papers flying around object re: Natalia Auditore cloud of crows

Strategic Mirror Placement for Staking out Secret Handoffs and staring at cute girls

The first real shot of Chet's face is his reflection in a mirror.

I purposely didn't show Professor Ego's full face during most of the story cause I didn't want to deal with all the HE LOOKS LIKE DOCTOR FACILIER comments. I asked shooby to make him for me and yes he absolutely was based off him. 😂 I only refer to him in text since he was apprehended by UNIT right before the gen 6 story starts, so I thought it would be fun to pull him in for this

I don't think I've ever used Miguel for anything but during a weakness spiral I built Ale 2 houses and made him a massive extended family, and Miguel is his great uncle and also the reason Alejandro is part of the lawful good secret Society of Brilliance in the first place.

chet cheekily checking out ass in more mirror shots

Aheathen Cameo #2 - the case of the magical teleporting Alexis

I made the pose and placed the sign separately but it was such a happy accident i had to scoot it into the shot

Instead of her Magnum, I thought Queenie should have some nasty looking knives to play with. So I whipped up some Liujiao Dao or chinese deer horn knives for her.

bisexual lighting orgasm face

i created this effect on accident by selecting a sim with TOOL and sticking a relight ball in their face. I like how ghostly it looks but doesn't lose any detail.

reds, blues, and more mirrors. I wonder if that means anything.

Cheeky painting swatch switch so the closeup of the hands wasn't just a solid block of red which is not the color we're looking for right now. The bits of red and blue on white are more in tune with the mosaic analogy at the end as well. (which is a direct echo of dick's speech to chad from chet's funeral)

And we've come in a full Jo Stafford musical circle. Nice!

[justinspoliticalcorner]

Liz Plank at Airplane Mode:

There was a moment, early in the Trump presidency, when many of us made a critical mistake. We looked at the cruelty on display, the kidnapping of legal residents, the abortion bans, the dismantling of environmental protections, and assumed we were witnessing competence. Not moral competence, of course, but a kind of ruthless, calculating efficiency. We treated the administration like a well-oiled fascist machine, analyzing every tweet and press conference as if they were chess moves in some grand authoritarian strategy. We were wrong. What we were actually witnessing was something far more dumber: the elevation of mediocrity as a governing principle. The Trump White House isn’t some sinister cabal of geniuses. It’s a jobs program for the profoundly unqualified, a four-year experiment in what happens when you hand the keys of government to men who peaked in high school. Their only real qualification? The ability to coddle the most insecure man in America. These aren’t masterminds. They’re the dumbest guys in the room, and that’s why they got promoted. Because their political project has never been about governing. It’s about preserving a system where men like them succeed not through talent, but through entitlement.

This is what patriarchy looks like in practice. It doesn’t just privilege men, it selects for the worst among them. The loudest, the angriest, the most insecure. It rewards obedience over insight, loyalty over leadership, ego over ethics. And while it absolutely hurts women, it also traps good men in a world where they are forced to answer to worse ones. A world where being thoughtful, decent, or competent makes you less likely, not more, to rise. That’s the paradox at the heart of patriarchy: it promises men power, but only if they agree to give up everything that makes power worth having: integrity, growth, connection, purpose. It’s not just bad for women. It’s bad for men. And it’s terrible for democracy. And no scandal reveals this better than signalgate, a blunder so humiliating it makes Veep look like a pbs documentary. Michael Waltz (the actual National Security Advisor) accidentally added Jeffrey Goldberg, the editor-in-chief of The Atlantic, to a signal group chat discussing bombing Yemen. Yes. A journalist. In a signal chat. About Yemen.

And when that incompetence inevitably implodes, the women who helped elevate these men are often the first to fall. Just look at Director of National Intelligence Tulsi Gabbard, who is having a really bad 48 hours after trying to cover for the boys’ fiasco by claiming that “no classified or intelligence equities were included.” But her statement was quickly contradicted by multiple sources, including a U.S. defense official who confirmed the information was “highly sensitive” and resembled material typically briefed to the president in secure settings. And then in the world’s greatest this you? The Atlantic published he texts showing “precise information about weapons packages, targets, and timing.” You can read their stupid texts for yourself here. And subscribe to The Atlantic while you’re at it. The MAGA movement isn’t a rebellion against elitism. It’s a tantrum against merit—a last-ditch effort by underqualified men to hold onto power by discrediting any system that might measure their actual abilities. They didn’t kill DEI because it was unfair. They killed it because it worked. And because they’re scared they’ll lose positions they were never qualified to have in the first place. Equity meant their résumés would finally be judged on merit. Inclusion meant they could be replaced by someone, god forbid a woman or person of color. Or at the very least, someone who doesn’t leave their venmo public, like our brilliant National Security Advisor just did.

The Trump Administration is home to a different kind of DEI: where White male mediocrity is rewarded and merit is gone.

[midnightcatharsis]

I created a map of countries based on their relationship with jayvik nation ;)

Evidence of jayvik nation being supported (or not) by other countries

1. Brazil - I feel like this is the country with the strongest official support from netflix, league and the actors, not to mention that Brazilians are our nation's strongest soldiers ;)

2. Poland - support from both official accounts of netflix and league (The second pic is more about Vik since it's a collage of Viktor's pictures but from what I get it was posted right after the release of his in game interactions, the text on the pic is his official line to Jayce 'neither friendship nor love (...) Jayce' that is interpreted as romantic by many and censored in some counties, it also has 2 jayvik frames. It does seem pro-jayvik)

3. Greece - they're basically canon m

4. Italy - League collaborated with cosplayers to make jayvik kiss... and posted the kiss pic on valentine's day

5. Czech Republic

6. England, Scotland, Wales, Ireland and Nordics - nothing explicit, but interpreted as many as support, so I classify them as somehow friendly

7. Russia - they straight up censored it so they had to recognize the romantic undertones XD

8. China - ok idk how it happened that China is in somehow friendly XDD

9. Latam - official support from actors, but from what I got, they also censored it -the translation of the partner used in Latin Spanish dub is purely friendly but then maybe it was just a problem with translating or they could not anticipate the popularity of the ship and chose to play it safe. All things considered, I put them in the somehow friendly category.

10. France - Fortiche is in Paris and several animators openly spoke up about shipping and supporting jayvik. They also went out of they way to make jayvik scenes look and feel romantic despite CL wanting to portray them as brothers. I won't include any screens here cause there's simply too much of them but if you will look for it you'll be pleasantly surprised

11. Canada - they gave us bbno$

12. Spain - I heart it was censored there :/

13. Germany - they gave us CL.... Map with the screens. Canada is not here because it was only added after the suggestion from another user :)

If you have any new information or suggestions that something should be changed, let me know XD P.S I made this mostly using info from this thread on x and this post on tumblr You can find even more info there, such as screens of the animators showing their support.

[erinkeifer]

ℕ𝕠𝕥 𝕞𝕪 𝕔𝕠𝕕𝕖

[Anakin Skywalker x Padawan!Fem Reader]

Masterlist | Wattpad | AO3 Not My Code Masterlist

Summary: For several years, you've been Anakin Skywalker's Padawan. Even though you're afraid to admit it, you've burned out. You have no intention of adhering to the Jedi code any longer, and fighting for the Republic has ceased to be your sole purpose in life. However, your knighthood is approaching soon, but before that happens, you must undergo one final training session alongside your master. Why won't you complete it?

Warnings: angst | kissing | aggresive touches | nudity | cursing | dirty talk | sexual tension | handjob | almost smut | Anakin is rough and dom

Author Note: I wouldn't technically call it pure 'smut' but due to nudity and sexual tension, I would classify my text as suitable for readers aged 18+. I apologize for any inconvenience!

Word Count: 4,2k

This isn't the first time something inside you has started to crack before entering the training room. The closer the knighting ceremony approached, the more your thoughts turned away from the Order. Obi-Wan's lectures no longer resonated with you – though you hold him in the highest regard, you no longer see value in the moralizing lessons about what Jedi can and cannot do.

For some time now, he no longer stops you in the corridor to share his guidance repeatedly, believing that since he handed you over to Anakin, you would become more disciplined and loyal to the Order.

Well... it's quite the opposite.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------

Today's training was a torment - not because Anakin demanded too much, and not because you were resistant to the activities. This time, Anakin's mind was completely elsewhere, and there were moments when he wasn't even paying attention to what you were doing. The lack of instructions left you unsure of what to do, and the minutes of exercises stretched out like hours.

At this time, the contours of the training room were illuminated only by the view of the nighttime Coruscant and the blue glow of your lightsaber. You practiced old, familiar combat forms while Anakin stood with his back turned to you, gazing pensively at the view beyond the mighty glass window.

For you, it was supposed to be training as usual, and you stuck to that. You wanted to impress your Master as much as possible, and despite the lack of guidance, you operated at full throttle. However, even increasing your performance didn't allow you to focus when your thoughts drifted to Anakin.

There was a cloud of tension over him, so thick that you could hardly recognize him. And even though you knew that he had experienced some rough days since his divorce from Padme, today you sensed something entirely different.

"Focus," Anakin mumbled, standing with his arms crossed behind his back, his gaze fixed on the cityscape.

In moments like these, you always cursed your ability to read each other's emotions. You chose to remain silent in response to his words and continued your improvised training as if nothing had happened. At least for a while.

"Master?" You paused, trying to get his attention.

"Master, do you even know what I'm doing right now?" You added, deactivating your lightsaber.

Anakin didn't react to your words, which filled you with even greater concern. Was it your fault? Did you mess something up? Did you disappoint him? Negative thoughts swirled in your head so intensely that you didn't even notice when you first addressed him by his name.

"Anakin? What's going on?"

Hearing his name, he almost immediately turned towards you, remaining silent for the first few moments.

"Please, go back to your training," he uttered after a brief silence, causing even more doubts within you.

"No..." You replied after a while, gathering your thoughts to justify your actions.

"So we have nothing to talk about." Anakin interrupted, turning back towards the window.

"I can't even remember the last time we had a normal conversation... Master, I'm just worried," you said, gently grabbing Anakin's arm.

"Worried? About what?" he muttered, not even looking at your anxious face.

"About you. You're... different. Lately, we can't even work together... communicate..." you replied in an emotional tone, receiving only silence in return.

"I know the past few months haven't been kind to you... the divorce from Padme was tr..."

"Don't say that name," Anakin impulsively interrupted, turning towards you and removing your hand from his arm.

His tone abruptly turned rough and commanding, and the gesture he made instinctively made you take a step back.

"I'm sorry, Master, I didn't mean to..."

"So, tell me what you meant," Anakin cut you off once again, and you felt the boundary you were trying to establish in your communication with your Master shatter.

"Whatever is happening, good or not, I want to know... I want to know if I might be the problem here by any chance. Am I making a mistake? Am I getting on your nerves?" The longer you spoke, the more anxious your tone became.

"You shouldn't care about that. Our path is coming to an end soon, and ahead of you lies a new one that you'll traverse on your own... unless your conflict dictates otherwise," Anakin replied with a serious tone, this time not averting his gaze from you.

Hearing about the conflict sent shivers down your spine. Did Obi-Wan tell him about your doubts? Or, worse, does he know about your stance towards the Order?

"Conflict? W-what do you mean?" you stammered, feeling the stress engulfing you more and more.

"Let's be serious. I didn't need anyone to convey your doubts to me... I know that this training means little to you," Anakin explained in a calmer tone.

"It's not like that... I've always been committed..."

"Believe me, you have no reason to give up. Leaving the Order at this stage is not a good choice, especially for..."

"Master, please stop," you interrupted Anakin, feeling like you had nothing left to lose. He had seen through you completely. You no longer cared whether he found out on his own or through someone else.

"I have a reason for it," you replied with a trembling voice, trying to gradually focus all of Anakin's attention on yourself.

"What reason?" he asked with a voice full of doubt.

"It's about you, Master," you continued, not believing you had spoken those words.

"I'm sorry, but..." You felt yourself slowly falling apart. Anakin stood before you in complete confusion, and you seized the moment. You stood on tiptoe to reach his face, and your lips collided. The kiss you gave him was so intense that it would have sufficed if it were never to happen again. At least that was the intention, because the reality was entirely different - no longer, deeper, more intense kiss would satisfy you enough to leave this room fulfilled.

Anakin broke the kiss, not believing what had just happened. As soon as your gazes returned to each other – his, full of confusion, and yours, filled with guilt and shame – Anakin distanced himself and had no idea what to do with himself. He nervously glanced around the room.

"Go back to your quarters. Training is over," he replied in a cold, trembling tone, and you did as he commanded.

Tears welled up in your eyes even before leaving the training room. It felt like your end – the official end with the Jedi and the end of a certain chapter in your life, which, despite everything, had seemed to be the most beautiful.

The doors slammed shut behind you with a bang, and as soon as you found yourself in the corridor, you began to run. You sobbed, knowing that at this time, no one should be wandering down this path, even though you knew it was not a place where you could afford to release your emotions.

Without the strength to use the Force, you opened the door to your room with a code and impulsively slammed it shut behind you. As soon as you removed the belt with your lightsaber and tossed it aside, you threw yourself onto your bed, burying your head in the pillow, trying to scream and cry out all your emotions and the indescribable pain inside you.

It was a moment when you felt as if you were awaiting execution rather than preparing for sleep. The pain consumed you from within to the point that you might have understood for the first time why Jedi couldn't have attachments.

A dead silence filled the room, against which your sobbing became even more piercing. You wished you could escape from the temple – you just wanted to run away and leave Coruscant without a trace, but you knew it was impossible.

At that moment, you felt someone's presence. The door to your room slowly opened, even though you had made sure to lock it.

Anakin.

You felt as if your heart had stopped, and only the darkest thoughts filled your mind. You were certain he had come to reprimand you, perhaps take away your lightsaber, or even expel you from the temple. Drenched in tears, turned away from your master, you waited as if for a judgment.

"Master, I... I'm so sorry... I swear, I..." you stammered with a trembling voice, feeling Anakin's gaze on your back as he stood in the doorway.

"Never do this again," Anakin interrupted in a stern voice. As he spoke those words, you sat on the bed motionless, lacking the courage to turn and look at him.

Soon, you shuddered at the sound of the door closing. Although at first, you were certain your master had left the room, you realized that what you had heard was the sound of the lock being turned from the inside.

"Not where the surveillance can see us," he added after a moment, slowly making his way toward you.

It was a moment when you froze. Not knowing what to do, you nervously got off the bed, still avoiding eye contact with Anakin.

"Don't," Anakin said, noticing that you were about to turn toward him.

You stood there, trembling, your back still turned to your master, not knowing what he meant. You felt vulnerable, and though the fear still lingered within you, this time you sensed that the kind of tension that had built up around Anakin was entirely different from what you had experienced before.

He sensed you better than you sensed him. He felt every flicker of your fear, felt your sadness, and the tension you had laid out before him like a platter. His steps sent shivers down your spine, but you no longer heard them. He stood right behind you, mere millimeters from your back.

His right mechanical hand, clad in a black leather glove, landed on your waist. Your cutout white jumpsuit exposed your bare skin there, so you instantly felt the chill of his touch.

"Don't be afraid of me," he whispered into your ear after a moment, causing you to feel the warmth of his breath on your cheek.

Your body was completely paralyzed under his touch – you stood still, nervously swallowing saliva as you looked at your reflections in the glass tiles on the wall in front of where you both stood.

"I- I'm not." you whispered so softly that as soon as Anakin realized you were trying to speak, he leaned down lower to understand what you meant.

"I feel something else." Anakin replied, bringing his face close to yours to the point where you could feel the touch of his heated cheek. You had never been this close to him, and his scent, which reminded you of a combination of leather and saffron, was intoxicating.

You closed your eyes, and soon you felt his lips on your neck – it was a moment when you felt as if an electric current had passed through you, so intense that you didn't even notice when his left, uncovered hand landed on the other side of your waist.

This time, the touch of his hand felt much more passionate to you – and it was hardly surprising because at this moment, he felt your body with his own skin, not touch sensors.

You shivered slightly when you suddenly felt him bite the soft skin on your neck, and you instinctively entwined your fingers in his messy, wavy hair, gently massaging it at the roots. As he felt the touch of your hand, he sucked on your skin even harder than before, leaving purple bruises one after another.

You had the feeling that it was a dream. You couldn't believe what was happening, but second by second, it was sinking in that every movement was happening here and now. It wasn't a dream, and everything you felt was real and intense – you also knew that you wanted to give the same to Anakin.

You wanted to give him pleasure, and in some way... you had known it for a long time.

Gently, you raised his left hand to your face, which had been attached to your body until now, and started kissing it – the longer you did it, the more passion you put into it. Anakin lifted his lips from your neck to watch your movements through your arm.

You tried to satisfy his gaze to the point that you didn't even notice when his fingers traveled to your mouth. At this moment, the tension that buzzed within him was gradually approaching a very dangerous limit - you felt it as intensely as never before.

You finally wanted to look into his eyes and see something more than just the corner of his face, so you gently lowered his hand, moist from your kisses, to turn around and face your Master. Anakin realized your intention faster than you expected - without saying anything, he grabbed you by your waist with such force that you instinctively clenched your teeth - he didn't allow you to change your position.

"Master, I just..." you began nervously, but quickly stopped when you felt Anakin's hand on your face.

"Shhh... I know." he whispered, his face very close to yours, and expecting your obedience, he removed his hand from your face.

You stood still for a moment, only to suddenly feel Anakin tearing apart the upper part of your jumpsuit with both of his hands. The material was elastic and snug against your body, but thin enough that he ripped it into pieces with surprising ease.

At that moment, Anakin spun you around to have you face him. You felt like your legs were giving way beneath you at the sight of his heated expression. You could swear there was something wild in his demeanor—his eyes seemed darker than usual, and his pupils pulsed, scanning every detail of your face.

"Now, say what you wanted to say," Anakin whispered, gazing into your eyes, which were still swollen from your earlier tears.

You didn't intend to cry anymore, at least not out of despair... Only out of pleasure.

"Nothing. Just... continue," you murmured timidly, glancing with flushed cheeks at the torn neckline of your outfit as it hung down.

"Good girl," he whispered under his breath, slowly bringing his face closer to yours.

You closed your eyes as Anakin began to kiss the spots on your cheeks where the traces of your earlier tears had run. Although you could feel the tension simmering within him, he did it incredibly gently, tracing sweet kisses along a smooth path until he reached your lips.

You expected this to be the point where the gentleness would end – and you were absolutely right. You let him take the lead in this situation – your lips were practically motionless, and your mouth slightly parted as he passionately and slowly sucked on them. After a moment, you took action yourself, exploring his firm lips enough to taste them and never forget their flavor.

Your kisses became messy and aggressive, and through half-closed eyelids, you watched as his lips and cheeks reddened. Soon, you felt him grab your torn jumpsuit's jagged collar with his hands, and with a determined motion, he slid it down. You sensed his deep breath on your breasts when he realized you weren't wearing any underwear, and his pupils dilated, exploring your bare chest amidst the shreds of white fabric.

After a moment of scanning your body with his gaze, his exposed hand found its way to your chest. Immersing yourself in his passionate touch, you intertwined your fingers with his hand anchored to your body, feeling the smooth skin beneath your fingertips and your own exposed form.

"What do you feel?" Anakin whispered, but you didn't hear his words when he kept his lips at your collarbone.

"Hm?" you murmured, inquiringly, making eye contact with him.

"Tell me. What do you feel?" You had always loved his voice, but hearing it in this situation, when his tone was strong and hungry, made your heart race steadily.

"I don't know how to... Uh... It's just..." you mumbled, hesitating to confess how strong the desire you were feeling was. Instead, you pressed his hands against your bare chest and closed your eyes, allowing him to sense your emotions through the Force.

"No," Anakin said firmly, sliding his hands down to your waist.

"I can feel you perfectly. I feel everything, but I want to hear it," he added, gazing deeply into your eyes.

You were a transparent mirror of your emotions for him, and nothing could hide from him. He knew it, and you knew it, and you had never felt more exposed to anyone.

"I... I feel... Anakin... I want you," you forced out, feeling your cheeks burn with embarrassment.

After your words, the tension in him increased, and his hands tightened on your skin.

"Prove it," he whispered after a moment, releasing his hands from your body, as if giving you free rein.

Even though you were determined to prove it to him at all costs, you didn't know where to start.

Anakin stood before you in his black robes, which you were eager to start removing, but you had no idea how to proceed. Without further calculation, you entwined your hands in his hair and began kissing his neck – initially gently and sensually, but soon you did it greedily, in sync with his accelerating heartbeat.

You nibbled and sucked on his skin, and his accelerated breaths urged you to continue. Your tongue traced along the line of his jaw, and one of your hands clenched on his robed chest.

You felt shivers hearing the soft, intermittent moans he emitted as you caressed his skin, and your inhibition gradually faded, so you wondered what your next move would be.

"Enough," he uttered in a stern and gruff tone.

You were shocked by what he said, but he didn't allow you to dwell on it any longer. He grabbed you with both strong hands and pushed you back, causing you to land on your bed. You lay on your back and observed his movements as he took a few steps to stand over you, wearing the most arrogant of smirks.

You froze as you noticed Anakin beginning to unbuckle his belt, all the while not breaking eye contact with you. Biting your lip, you observed his every move, and as he discarded the first layer of his robes, you began to slide down the lower part of your jumpsuit.

"Let me..." Anakin interrupted your actions as he saw what you were getting at and raised his mechanical hand towards your waist.

With a single, confident motion, Anakin slid the lower part of your jumpsuit down and removed the tall boots fastened to them, leaving you in just your panties. You felt excitement coursing through him as he watched you in such a state, and as you suspected, he couldn't wait any longer.

He lunged towards you, eager to be on top, and you both immediately engaged in a fervent kiss, touching each other's bodies as if time were running out.

In the midst of your passionate touches, you felt your hips collide, and instinctively, you wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him closer. Your mind raced as you felt Anakin's pulsating rhythm as he rubbed his hips against the most sensitive parts of your body, gradually picking up the pace, knowing he was pushing you to the edge of endurance.

"Anakin... Please." you whispered straight into his moist lips, after which his face lifted to look you directly in the eyes.

"Please what?" he replied with a hungry tone, expecting you to elaborate.

"I... I want..." you began to mumble.

"Words. I need your words." he whispered, maneuvering his hand around your lower abdomen.

"Fuck." you muttered under your breath, feeling how his touch electrified your entire body.

"Do you want this? Do you want me to fuck you?" he continued in a hoarse, desire-filled voice.

"Yes... Yes, please," you squeezed out, impulsively reaching for his belt, which, though unfastened, was still in place.

"Say it. Tell me what you want me to do to you." he commanded, holding your hand against his belt.

"I want you to fuck me," you responded with a breathless voice and, finally, a hint of self-assurance.

"That's what I meant," he whispered with a slight, teasing smirk, then quickly pushed the belt aside to pull his clothes down from the waist up.

With butterflies in your stomach, you admired his impressive, naturally sculpted chest as he knelt on the bed between your legs, which you soon spread a bit wider to make more room for him. Anakin knelt, scanning every inch of your body with his eyes, but he knew that one more element was missing to complete the picture.

His hand smoothly moved up your thigh and landed on your panties, where it lingered for a while. You moaned when his fingers began to massage you through the thin fabric, but for some reason, you held back from making louder sounds, which Anakin noticed.

"The walls are soundproofed. You can scream as loud as you need to... The louder, the better," he reassured you, seeing how nervously you glanced around the room, and you nodded.

After a moment of teasing you through your clothes, Anakin reached for his pants, but after some consideration, he postponed that task and took hold of your hands.

"Do it," he said, and you pulled yourself into a half-sitting position, allowing yourself to be carried away by your intrusive thoughts.

You started by kissing his chest, gradually moving down from his collarbones. Repaying him for the purple bruises on your neck, you left a few of your own on his body as you sucked on his skin, making your way down to his abdomen.

You paused when your hands began to unbutton his pants, during which Anakin helped you by pushing his pants down the sides.

Without waiting any longer, you slipped your hand beneath his underwear, and upon feeling him, you had to admit that you were a bit concerned about whether you could handle it. Well... It's more than impressive.

With your free hand, you pushed his clothing down a bit further and began to massage him with considerable force, so much so that Anakin immediately groaned and, overwhelmed by the feeling, tilted his head backward.

"Keep.... Uh... Keep it this way." Anakin murmured, propping himself up on his arms on the bed.

You nodded, biting your lip, and continued, carefully observing the pleasure on his face. Both of you knew, however, that you wouldn't finish this way, so you began to slide off the last piece of your clothing with your free hand. But you flinched when you heard an unfamiliar sound.

"What's that? Did you hear that?" Anakin immediately turned his face toward you when he heard your words and waited for a moment to catch the presumed sound.

"General Skywalker, can you hear us?"

"Fuck," Anakin cursed, completely shocked, as he realized someone was trying to contact him through the communicator embedded in his belt.

Your disappointment was equally profound. The only thing you could do at this point was to grab your head and collapse on the bed right next to him.

"Will you answer?" you whispered, feeling Anakin's growing anger.

"I'm afraid I have no choice." he replied through gritted teeth, then rolled onto the bed enough to reach for the communicator.

"I hear you. What's the problem?" he relayed, masking his frustration as best as he could.

"General, it's better if you get here as soon as possible. We had an explosion near the temple, and there are injuries among our people. I'm sending the coordinates."

Anakin clenched his hand on the communicator and nervously swallowed, realizing that his plans for the night had just taken a 180-degree turn.

"You'd better check what's going on there," you whispered, gently stroking his shoulder.

Both of you knew it was inevitable. So, without saying anything more, Anakin left one last passionate kiss on your lips and began to put his clothes back on. Meanwhile, you pulled out some lighter nightwear from one of the drawers and threw it on temporarily, knowing that you would need to shower and change properly in the bathroom once Anakin left.

"I'm sorry about this," he said to you with a disappointed tone.

"No... You shouldn't be. I understand... Go and make sure everyone is safe."

Anakin just nodded and grabbed the doorknob, but he stopped for a moment as he was about to leave.

"Same time tomorrow?" he asked again, making eye contact with you.

"Tomorrow. Same time, Master." you replied, running your fingers through your hair. This time, both of you exchanged a mischievous smirk, but Anakin's gaze on you was like never before. He looked at you as if he had just discovered something, as if he had unearthed a treasure he desired and wanted to dig up even more.

"Get some rest." he managed to say before finally closing the door to your room.

That was the moment when you felt drained. You felt disappointment, but also an incredible, surreal ecstasy. You fell onto the bed and didn't know what to do next, other than to gaze up at the ceiling.

Well... whatever you do, one thing is for sure—you won't be sleeping tonight.

[theidiotwhowritesthings]

TAKE CARE OF YOU [3]

Sugar Daddy!Joel Miller x Female!Reader

Overall Warnings: slow burn, angst/comfort, power imbalance, age gap, possessive tendencies, eventual smut, #daddyissues, independent reader learns to let go and relax, emotionally constipated Joel Miller learns to be vulnerable; (more specific warnings to be added to individual chapters if necessary)

Chapter Word Count: 4,501

Summary: You spent your entire adult life supporting yourself and barely getting by. It's why a life of ease offered to you by a mysterious stranger sounded so foreign and unbelievable. Joel Miller, dressed in flannels that had seen better days, didn't look like the kind who could promise you the world on a plate, but he seemed desperate to help out. All he asks is that you let him take care of you. That wouldn't be so hard. Would it?

[a/n: I'm feeling Fridays for the update day, but i'm not married to that idea yet. also thank you for all the love this has seen so far!! I am so happy to know I'm not the only one that would sell my soul to have Joel Miller as my sugar daddy.]

03: YOU THINK MY VOICE IS PRETTY?

"the way his voice sounds, or the words he speaks, i can never decide what pulls me in more." -butterflies rising

‘Morning, sugar’.

You chuckled at the term of endearment and leaned back in your seat. The other people on the bus surrounding you were living their own lives as always. You recognized many of your routine bus neighbors. The woman who ate an onion bagel every single morning on her way to work, the man who still read an actual newspaper rather than use his phone, the brother and sister duo⏤only teens⏤ on their way to school. You wondered how these people classified you in their head. 

‘Morning to you too⏤’ You paused. Should you call him ‘daddy’ again? Saying it teasingly was one thing, but typing it somehow made it seem more permanent. Which was a stupid thought to have, but it was the one that plagued you nonetheless. You deleted your words and started again. ‘Morning! How⏤’ Again, you froze. Was the exclamation mark too much for this early in the morning? It was only yesterday that you made this deal with him and it would be sad for you to annoy him so early in the deal. Delete. Repeat. ‘Joel⏤’ Way too formal. Okay. You were officially over thinking this.

‘Hey! How’s your morning going?’

The moment you hit send that dumb little anxiety riddled voice at the back of your head tried to criticize your choice of words and you had to wrestle it back down. Almost immediately you saw the text bubble of dots pop up as he typed.

‘Great. First meeting got canceled. You?’

It was marginally funny to you that the man who owned this huge company seemed so dead set on avoiding meetings. Plus, it was kind of cute that he was more comfortable in flannel than suits.

‘Just on the bus heading to work!’

The text bubble popped up immediately, then disappeared, then came back, then disappeared once more. As you waited for it to return, his name filled the entire screen as he called you. Your eyes widened in surprise. After getting past your shock, you answered, “Uh, hi.”

“Sorry, repeat that for me.” Joel’s voice was nearly drowned out by a bunch of noise that you’d have to guess dealt with some kind of construction. “You’re on the ‘what’ heading ‘where’?”

“Bus? Work?” You replied in confusion.

Joel cleared his throat and he must have been moving since the noise simmered down. “Yeah, that’s what I thought you said, darlin’. Can I ask why?” The sound that left your mouth was a good representation of your broken brain. “Because I’m pretty sure you and I made a deal yesterday. Didn’t we?”

“We did.” You said slowly. “But⏤”

“Darlin’⏤”

“In my defense, I can’t just quit work. I respect Henry too much. I have to at least give him a two weeks notice so he can find a replacement.” You argued. Even if Henry wasn’t someone you considered family you’d still feel obliged to quit the correct way. Still, maybe that was something you should’ve mentioned yesterday before the two of you parted ways. “Sorry, Joel.”

He let out a small sigh. “There’s no need to be sorry. I understand. You’re too responsible for your own good.” You chuckled. “But the bus? The bus?”

You had to resist the urge to laugh at how insulted he was at the prospect of you on public transportation. You glanced over your shoulder out the window to see how far from work you were. “Well, ubers and taxis are so expensive from my house to the bakery. Plus, I have a bus card!”

“Bus card?” Joel repeated. His incredulous voice took an amused tone. “Sugar, you got daddy’s credit card.” Your eyes widened and you felt your entire face burn as heat filled your cheeks. As if somebody would be listening in, you glanced around at the people sitting near you. Joel chuckled, the sound low and deep, “What’s wrong? Cat got your tongue?”

“I, uh, I⏤ That’s a good point.” You cleared your throat. “It felt silly using the card for something like an Uber or taxi though. You know?”

“Nothin’ is too silly. I want you to use that card. All the time. Understand?”

“I understand.”

“I understand…” Joel repeated with enunciation at the end. Waiting for something. Waiting for…

“I’m on the bus.” You whispered into the phone, in shock, while covering your mouth.

Joel hummed. “Oh, I know. Now. I understand…”

You chewed on your lower lip, glanced around, then whispered into the phone quickly, “I understand, daddy.”

“Sorry, sugar. Couldn’t quite hear you there. Must be because of how loud and hectic that bus is.”

Your lips curled up into a broad grin as your face continued to burn. He cleared his throat to urge you on, and you shook your head with a slight chuckle. You blew out an amused breath and repeated yourself. “Yes. I understand, daddy.” 

An older woman sitting to your left shot you a curious glance and you sunk in your seat, and turned toward the window to laugh. You could hear Joel’s breathy laugh over the line as well. Joel spoke up, “That’s better. As for this transport problem,” You rolled your eyes still grinning, “Can you drive?”

“Well, yeah.” You replied and the smile fell as a thought occurred to you. “That is not a reason to buy me a car.”

“Wow, you really think I’d buy you a car right out the gate like that?”

“Oh. Right. Sorry. I⏤” You paused then shook your head. “Wait, no, actually I do. I do think you’d do that.”

“You’re right. I would. You got a preference, sugar?”

“Please do not buy me a car.” You blurted. “I… I really don’t like driving around this city. Last time I even got behind a wheel was over two years ago.”

“Fine. No car. I’m gettin’ you a driver then.”

“That still feels excessive.” You replied hesitantly.

“Do it for me then? I’d feel more comfortable knowin’ you’re not ridin’ around with strangers.”

The words were spoken with kindness, actual concern, and a part of you wondered if he was saying what he was because it was expected of him? The deal was for him to take care of you and keeping you safe could arguably fall under that umbrella of responsibilities. You just found it hard to believe he’d care out of the goodness of his heart considering how little time you had spent with one another thus far. It wasn’t a criticism of him at all. Maybe he was just that kind deep down, maybe he did have a bleeding heart. It was the process of trying to apply that thought, those concerns, to yourself that felt silly. At the end of the day, that voice of anxiety just couldn’t fathom a near stranger actually worrying over your well being with no ulterior motive of their own.

Joel said your name over the line, snapping you out of your line of thought, and you forced your smile to return. It wasn’t hard to find. “Alright. For you.”

“Good.” He blew out a breath of what almost sounded like relief. “What time does your shift end?”

“It’s Sunday so I usually close up the shop around 5:30, then pack away all the leftovers to take to the shelter a few blocks away.” You replied. Anytime the shop had any leftovers, which was happening more and more, Henry would donate the goods to the local shelters and kitchens rather than toss it. 

“I’ll have my guy there around 5 then. I don’t want you waitin’ on him.”

“Yeah, but now he’ll have to wait on me.”

“I know. That’s the point, darlin’.”

You couldn’t decide which you liked more. Joel calling you ‘sugar’ or ‘darlin’. Then again the sound of your name was equally as intoxicating. Honestly, it wasn’t fair how good his voice sounded in general. The bus peeled off to the side to come to a stop and you hiked your bag up your shoulder to get off.

“I’m at my stop.”

“Say good-bye to the bus. You ain’t ridin’ on it again as far as I’m concerned.” You chuckled and as you walked off you couldn’t help but glanced back at the familiar people you had gotten used to seeing so often. You mentally wished them a farewell. It was cheesy, but it nearly felt like the end of an era. Joel spoke again as you stepped onto the busy sidewalk. “And remember, my guy is pickin’ you up today. No ubers. No taxis. No buses.”

“I know, I know. I promise I won’t make a run for it.”

“Good girl.” Joel chuckled and your face immediately went warm once more. A habit you were beginning to pick up around this man. Joel said quick good-byes, saying he needed to help someone out on site and promised to text you later. You echoed his sentiments and tucked the phone away after hanging up. Wow, okay, it seemed hearing him call you ‘good girl’ won in a fucking landslide.

As it turned out, Henry had come in early to bake for the day, but left it open for you to set out as he hadn’t been feeling well and had to leave before you even got the shop fully open. It was incredibly poor timing because you planned to announce your two week’s notice to him and that seemed like a dick move to do while he was sick. Tomorrow. You’d try again tomorrow. No big deal. What would a one day difference make? 

The bakery always had it’s busiest days on Sunday, weirdly, but still it was nowhere near the kind of traffic this place truly needed. Usually days where it ended up being you alone were even more painfully boring, but today had been, well, fun. Joel continued to text you through the day and the conversation was a decent distraction from the dichotomy of doing nothing between customers. Plus, without Henry there, you didn’t even have to pretend like you weren’t playing on your phone the entire time. 

The last hour of your shift had gone by without Joel as a distraction because of a meeting. One he had grumbled about twenty minutes prior to it. You were in the process of packing items away when you noticed a black SUV sitting outside on the side of the road. Pausing in your work, you ran your hand down your apron and made your way out of the shop and toward it. You had just planned to tap on the window to get his attention, but you were barely halfway to the SUV when the man behind the driver’s seat jumped out and hurried around with a nod.

“Ma’am.”

“Hi.” You gave a small wave. “I’m⏤”

The blond man blurted your name out with a nod. Of course he knew who you were. “Is there anything I can do to help you, Miss?”

“No, no. I wanted to invite you in! It’ll be a minute before I’m done.”

“It’s alright⏤”

“I insist.” You said firmly. He hesitated once more before going to turn the car off. He was older than you, if you had to guess, and he wore a clean, black suit and a pair of dark aviators over his eyes. If he had a little radio in his ear you’d have him pegged as some kind of secret service guard. “What’s your name?”

“Riley Talbot, ma’am.”

You motioned for him to take a seat at one of the tables with a smile. “Well, Mr. Talbot, you have a muffin preference?”

“Just Riley is fine, and you don’t have to⏤”

“Either you tell me your muffin preference or I’m gonna pick at random, Riley.” You replied then ran through the options you had today. Riley hesitantly told you his preference for the banana nut option and you brought it over for him on a small plate. The man took his sunglasses off, tucking them into his inner suit pocket, and you took note of his very blue eyes. “How long have you worked for, Joel?”

Riley shrugged. “I’ve been working for Mr. Miller for the last five years.”

Your eyes widened in surprise. Five years as a driver for Joel? You couldn’t imagine Joel using a driver. The man who preferred flannels over suits seemed like the kind who was adamant about driving himself. Plus, this wasn’t the person who had picked you up yesterday. How many did he have?

“Well, give me a second here and we can head out. I just gotta finish packing up today’s leftovers.”

“Please, take your time.” Riley nodded then motioned to the muffin. “And thank you.”

You left him to enjoy his snack in peace so you could go back to cleaning out the display stand. It was repetitive, simple work that you had gotten very used to doing mindlessly over the years. You were on the last row of cookies when your phone buzzed in your back pocket. Pulling it out you saw it was a text from Joel.

‘Did Riley show up?’

‘Yupp. He’s in the bakery eating a muffin right now.’

‘You didn’t need to feed him, sugar.’

‘Too late. Besides, that’s one less muffin for me to carry now.’

‘Put it on my tab.’

You rolled your eyes, as if a singular banana nut muffin was of significant cost, ‘Shouldn’t you be focusing on your meeting?’

There was a longer pause before you got a response.

‘Touche’

You chuckled under your breath and tucked the phone away once more. After stacking a few of the boxes on top of one another, you shrugged out of your apron to hang it back up on the wall. Riley had risen from his seat and you took the plate from him before he could argue otherwise. You gave it a quick wash before setting it away to dry for the night and when you returned Riley was still standing by the boxes of baked goods.

“I’m almost done. I’m gonna carry these down to the shelter.”

“I’ll help.” Riley replied.

“You don’t have to do that⏤”

Riley gave you a friendly smile. “It’s my pleasure. Mr. Miller was adamant about me helping out where I could.”

Knowing arguing was only going to stretch this process out you nodded and he took half the boxes. At least this would save you a second trip. As the two of you made your way down the street you learned that he was older than you, in his mid thirties, and he had been in the Marines before picking up work with Joel. It was actually through Riley that you learned Joel had a brother who had also been in the military as well. You’d have to ask him about that.

“I’ve been saving to buy a ring.” Riley shrugged as you both got onto the topic of relationships while on your way back from dropping off the boxes.

“If your girlfriend is as sweet as you claim I’m sure she’d be charmed by anything you got her.” You argued. “And how long have the two of you been dating?”

“Three years next month.”

“Aw, congrats!” You chirped. 

Riley continued to gush about his girlfriend and how she worked as a kindergarten teacher. The way his voice held so much love for the woman he bragged about to you made your heart ache. You had always thought this was how your last relationship would look like. You and your ex-boyfriend had been on a similar path after all. When he broke up with you six months ago, the two of you had been weeks away from your three year anniversary. For the longest time, he had been the one you thought you’d be marrying.

And here you were today with a sugar daddy on speed dial.

Funny how life worked.

“Let me grab my stuff and lock up and I’ll be right back out.” You said and Riley agreed with a nod before heading to the SUV himself. Maybe you’d text Nima and see if she was busy tonight. It had been a long time since you thought about your ex and letting him slip back into your head had been a dumb move on your part.

Once out, Riley held the back door of the SUV open for you to slide into. He asked for your address which you provided before settling back in your seat. The radio played a soft tune, you couldn’t hear the roaring of the roads outside, the air smelled clean, and you had ample space to stretch out. This was a far cry from the bus. Nima texted you back, answering your request for drinks tonight, but she had to turn it down because she had a date. Though she did follow it up to ask if you were feeling well and that she’d bail if you needed a girls’ night. You smiled at her words, but reassured her that everything was fine.

‘Hang out with your daddy! 🤪’

Despite the teasing nature of her text, she may have been onto something. Riley was getting closer to your apartment complex and you leaned forward a bit. “Hey, Riley?”

“Yeah?”

“Do you know what time Joel usually gets off of work?”

“It depends. I think he mentioned today he was gonna be working late. That’s why he sent me instead of coming to get you himself.”

Your eyes widened in surprise. It hadn’t dawned on you that Joel wanted to be the one to pick you up and just hadn’t been able to due to his own work. Still, that shot your back up plan in the face. That was probably for the best. You didn’t want to come across as clingy. Though, maybe you were supposed to? Joel said there was no social quota for you to meet, but you doubted the validity of that.

“Thanks, Riley!” You said after exchanging numbers with him and climbing out of the SUV. 

Your apartment was nothing to write home about, but it could be worse. It was a simple one bed, one bath on the fifth floor of a complex that had technically seen better days. However, despite the age and general weariness of the building itself, the residents you lived beside were nice, the owner actually cared about the people renting from him, and security was decent. More so than the other places in this area.

After dropping your stuff down and tossing your keys into the bowl near your front door, you pulled out your phone to see you had missed a text from a few minutes ago. ‘You home?’ Quickly, you responded with a positive and thanked him again for sending Riley to pick you up. ‘Good. Don’t thank me, sugar’.

You rolled your eyes. If he really thought you were going to accept things without thanking him he was dead wrong. Hell, you were struggling with the ‘accepting things’ part which was hilarious considering you had chosen and agreed to this deal with full knowledge of what that meant. You set down your phone to clean the work day off of your skin.

A few hours had passed, where you showered, changed into home clothes, ate, and then settled on the couch with a large glass of wine. Despite it only being close to nine you were almost considering chugging the remainder of the wine in your glass and calling it a night. You had work in the morning after all. As you brought the glass to your lips, your phone buzzed off to the side. 

The text was from Joel. It was simple, and honestly hilarious to see.

‘You up?’

Your cheeks warmed and you wondered if he knew the connotations of texting a woman that message with no warning at night. 

‘Yes lol I am up’

‘Can I call?’

Your eyes widened in surprise at the request. You took another rather large sip of your wine before setting it down on your coffee table and responding to him. The affirmative text hadn’t been sent longer than a few seconds when his name flashed across your screen. You had gotten used to mostly texting the people in your life rather than phone calls. This would take some getting used to. 

“Hello?”

“Hey, sugar.” Joel breathed. “Sorry for calling late.”

“It’s hardly late.” You glanced at your clock on the wall. 9:07. “Are you just getting home from work? Riley said you’d be stuck there late.”

“Yeah. Unfortunately. Every once in a while I’m stuck in the office all day like this. At least I got to be on site this mornin’.” He groaned.

It sounded like he was pouring something on his end of the line. You commented on it, “Are you making yourself a drink?”

“Mhmm.” Joel took a sip of whatever it was he had poured, you could hear him swallow and made your throat dry up. “That alright?”

“Hey, I’m on my second glass of wine so I can hardly judge.”

“Second? You have a long day, sugar?” He asked in concern. Again, the sound of it caught you off guard. You could count on one hand the number of people who showed you genuine concern in the last two years. “Everythin’ okay?”

You forced out a chuckle and nodded despite him not being able to see it. “I’m fine.” It was probably a little early to be flooding him with your problems and the history of your ex. Instead, you jumped over it entirely. “I was actually gonna ask if you wanted to get dinner or drinks, but when I asked Riley what time you got off he said you’d be working late.”

“What?” Joel asked in surprise. He grumbled under his breath before speaking up. “Don’t ever let that stop you, darlin’. I always got time for you. Honestly, it would've been a nice surprise and a good excuse to leave early.”

You let out a soft laugh. “I’ll keep that in mind for next time.”

“You better.” Joel grunted as he dropped down into a seat. Another tired sigh left his lips and you opened your mouth to suggest that he get some rest, but he beat you to speaking. “Tell me about your day, sugar.”

“It was pretty boring.” You replied. “You’ve seen how empty the bakery tends to get.”

“So? I still wanna hear. Talk about somethin’ at least. Lemme hear that pretty voice.”

You grinned to yourself. “You think my voice is pretty?”

“I think everythin’ about you is pretty. Now, no more stallin’. Hit me with it.”

If he wanted to hear about your boring day you’d be more than happy to indulge him. His words still caught you off guard though. He liked your voice? It was extra funny considering how much you liked his voice personally. You talked about the few customers you did have today, how thankful the shelter had been for Henry’s leftovers, and getting to know Riley.

“Yeah, Riley is a good guy.” Joel agreed. “Figured the two of you would get along. Plus,” He took another sip of the whiskey he had told you he chose as his drink earlier, “I know he’s head over heels for that girl of his so I didn’ have to worry about him makin’ a move on you.” You laughed at the sentiment and Joel let out a small chuckle himself. “I ain’t kiddin’, sugar. I only just got you to agree to put up with me. I ain’t plannin’ on losing you quite yet.”

 “Put up with you.” You scoffed. “As if I don’t equally enjoy talking to you.”

Joel chuckled in response then cleared his throat. “How’d it go with your boss? How’d he take the news?” Your smile turned sheepish and rather than answer you picked up your wine glass, now at the end of your third, and took a long sip. Joel sighed. “Sugar?”

“Okay, so, hold on.” You blurted. “He was sick today. Henry left like right after coming in to help me open and I didn’t wanna spring the news on him when he already felt so terrible.” You set the wine glass down then buried yourself into the couch under your blanket. “I’m already worried I’m gonna break his heart.” Joel blew out a sigh and you winced. “Sorry.”

“No, no. Don’t.” Joel responded, but it wasn’t sharp or demanding. He just didn’t want to hear you apologize. “I want you to stop workin’ because I think you’d be happier out of that place, but I’m not tryin’ to shove you into quittin’ if you ain’t comfortable with it yet, darlin’. If…” Joel paused. “If you think you need to stay there a little while longer then I’m not gonna guilt you otherwise.”

His words made your lips curl up into a small, soft smile. It wasn’t that you loved your work there by any means, but you did love Henry. He was family. Plus, that small voice of anxiety was still nagging loud enough that you couldn’t quite fully ignore it. This was still so new. What if Joel got to the end of this week and decided you were more annoying than entertaining. You couldn’t just tear up your roots with no guarantee that this life was fully concrete. 

You didn’t know if Joel understood that from the same angle you did, but you did appreciate that he was willing to bend on that topic. “Yeah.” You said quietly then added in a teasing inflection added, “Thanks, daddy.”

Joel chuckled in response, “You’re gonna be the death of me, sugar.”

You remembered a topic you had planned on asking him earlier in the day, and maybe it was the three glasses of wine that had loosened your tongue, but you blurted it out without thinking. “So, hey, I hear you have a brother?” Joel was quiet for a beat and it was only then that sober logic regained control. “I mean, I’m sorry, I wasn’t trying to blurt it out like that. Riley mentioned he was in the military and that you had a brother who was too. I didn't mean to pick at a sore topic if⏤”

“No, sugar.” Joel chuckled. “Not a sore topic. Just caught me off guard is all. But, yeah, I got a baby brother. Tommy.” Tommy Miller. You tucked the information away in the folder of facts you were learning about Joel. “He was in the Army for a while, but left a long time ago. He actually works with me now at the company. Was with me when we went from small time contractors to whatever the hell we are now.”

“Big deals.” You joked. “If your fancy building is anything to go by.”

“Guess so by someone’s definition.” Joel snorted. You liked that he still felt so grounded and to the earth. It had been part of the reason his proposition caught you off guard because after meeting him you never would’ve suspected him to be the kind who owned a large and very rich company.

“You’re not mad that Riley told me that, are you?” You asked. “Because if you are, I'll admit to wrestling the information out of him.” 

Joel laughed. “I ain’t mad, darlin’. Like I said, I’m glad the two of you get along. You’re stuck with him now.” You hummed in confusion and Joel added. “He’s your driver. Anywhere you need to go, any time, just call him.”

“Wait, seriously?” You cried.

“I told you I ain’t letting you get on a bus again.” Joel replied like he was still appalled you had done so this morning. “And since you won’t let me buy you a car…”

“Fine, fine, fine.” You blurted and he let out a soft laugh. A beat of silence stretched between the two of you, but it was a comfortable one. The kind where you just enjoyed knowing he was on the other end of the call even if he wasn’t actively speaking. 

You accidentally let out a small yawn and Joel hummed. “You need to get to bed.”

“Nuh uh.” You replied. “It’s only…” You found the clock and your eyes widened. 12:01. “Oh.”

“Yeah. Oh. I’ve kept you up long enough, sugar.”

“I’m not even tired.” You whined and rose to your feet. The stiff movements made you realize how close you had been to just passing out on the couch. 

“Sure, you ain’t.”

You meandered to your bedroom, flipping out lights as you went, and shut your bedroom door. “Will we talk again tomorrow?”

“You mean later today?” Joel joked.

You chuckled. “Yes.” It didn’t even matter to you that you may have sounded needy. Being on the phone had not only been fun, but it had been just what you needed to settle the turmoil you had accidentally scourged up earlier. “So?”

“Course, sugar. I’ll text you on your way to work. Riley’ll be there at 6:30 to pick you up.”

“Alright. Night, Joel.” You replied sincerely. “Thanks for talking to me.”

Joel hummed and you could hear him moving around on his end as well. “Should be thanking you.” He added quickly, a tinge or nervousness seeping into his voice. “Hey, do you wanna, uh, you wanna plan for dinner?” Your eyes widened marginally but your lips spread out into another warm and wide grin. “I got a few more busy days, but this Wednesday I’ll be free all evening. Wanna make a night of it?”

“Yes!” You answered much faster than you had initially planned. There went being cool and collected. Joel chuckled. “I mean, yeah. That would be⏤ That would be fun.”

“Good. Get some sleep, sugar.” Joel replied. You wished him well before the call ended and you were left standing in your bedroom feeling like you were on cloud nine.

taglist:

@weddingfairy @bfences @jasminedragon @biwitchy @huffle-punk @shelbyteller @anoverwhelmingdin @aheadfullofsteverogers @stagerightlauren @basicoccult @rinnfey @boofy1998 @farintonorth @thepascalofus @amatis-gray @casa-boiardi @northernbluess @jettia

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[sgiandubh]

Lallybroch: copyright vs. trademark

An excellent question was asked by our friend @rosfrank in the comments thread to 'The door faces North' post and given the cosmic amount of uninformed bullshit being ventilated for almost ten years in this fandom, I think it's time to answer it once and for all:

Whenever we are informally talking about 'owning the rights to something', I think it's very important to bear in mind a fundamental distinction between two different categories of ownership rights: copyright and trademark.

The copyright is the most familiar one to many of you. It is what you usually find on those annoying and apparently useless first or last pages of all the printed or digital editions on this planet. Something like this:

In the US, copyright issues are regulated by the Copyright Act of 1976, as included in Title 17 of the US Code. The US public authority competent for registering and managing copyright is, as predictable, the US Copyright Office.

Perhaps the most seminal US Supreme Court decision, as far as copyright is concerned, is the 1991 Feist Publications, Inc., v. Rural Telephone Service Co. In it, the Court ruled that mere compilations of information or facts (such as, for example, telephone books) are not protected by copyright, according to US law. In other words, the ancient legal concept of 'sweat of the brow' (which simply means the amount of work required to gather and compile those facts/information) is not enough to qualify a work for copyright protection, if no creative effort is added to enhance its content. This is why I have always considered absolutely ridiculous Marple's efforts to watermark public information screenshots: it is useless (to the extent that it legally protects her from nothing) and, as her timelines, a mere compilation of facts (legally ditto). A similar approach is preferred by the UK and also by many Roman law legal systems, such as the French one - just making things clearer, here, by the way.

See how 'Erself is roughly doing, right now, in this department:

But I am rambling. In my view, Lallybroch, as a pivotal concept used in Diana Gabaldon's books, is protected by the copyright granted to each and every of her books mentioning it, according to the Roman law principle 'accessorium sequitur principale' (the accessory follows the principal). So it will remain protected for at least 70 years since the last of her books mentioning it would have been published under copyright. Unless she chooses to separately protect the entire finished cycle as a whole, once Book Ten (fingers crossed) is published, preferably during our foreseeable lifetimes.

That being said, that goes only for one copyright category: (published) text - you cannot copyright that secret diary in your drawer, LOL. This is why, the current US Copyright Office records concerning Lallybroch look like this:

Sony Pictures Television Inc owns the copyright to the fictional name Lallybroch in the motion pictures category, as it is the title of the Episode 12, in Season 1 - DG has been handsomely compensated for this, no worries. And someone I have no idea about owns the rights to an original musical score she has written and titled Lallybroch in the music category, since October 2013.

Onwards to the trademark. This is something different and this is all about making your name/concept/idea profitable. It is all about branding it, putting it on a product and selling it under that brand. It includes all the graphic elements and the logo of the brand (accessorium...) - in short, its visual identity to the consumers. In the US, trademark issues are regulated by the 1946 Lanham Act and the public competent authority is the good old US Patent and Trade Office (USPTO).

Right now, the situation for the Lallybroch trademark is as follows:

So, we see three different trademarks: two of them, owned by Diana Gabaldon, are classified as 'dead' (cancelled and/or abandoned) and the third, Lallybroch Spirits, owned by S's Great Glen Company is pending approval - he will not be able to label any booze bottle Lallybroch Drink Me before permission is granted by the USPTO.

Let's unpack:

Both Lallybroch trademarks formerly owned by Diana Gabaldon were filed at the USPTO on February 21, 2000 and granted on December 12, 2000. The first was aimed at producing 'tartan fabrics for the manufacturer of clothing' and it was abandoned in December 2003:

The reason is that the owner did not file in any Statement of Use after the trademark was granted. She had three years to do so, and since she chose not to do anything about it, the trademark was deemed abandoned (Stacy K. Smith is the attorney hired by Herself, btw). That means she specifically implied not to intend using it in the future. As such, she may claim NO rights on a now free to use mark:

The second trademark was aimed at producing 'clothing, namely, t-shirts, dresses and headwear' and also 'jewelry, namely, rings, pins and necklaces'- to cut the story short: OL merchandise - and it was cancelled on March 1st, 2013:

The reason is that the owner did not file the Section 8 declaration (of continuous use for five years) within the allowed legal timeframe (6 months after the fifth anniversary of the trademark granting renewal). Her trademark federal rights are now deemed canceled (but not her state law and/or common law rights!) and if she wants to ever use that name again, she would have to start the whole process over, bearing in mind the trademark could have been granted to someone else, in the meanwhile (not her case).

And for anyone who might ask, 'Erself does not own any other trademarks whatsoever:

The other (Doll Lab - LOL for ages) Diana Gabaldon is a pharmacist from Albuquerque, NM. Chill. 🤣🤣🤣

The owner of the copyright to the fictional toponym Lallybroch, as far as published text is concerned, is Diana Galabdon.

The owner of the copyright to the fictional toponym Lallybroch, as far as motion pictures are concerned, is Sony Pictures Television Inc.

The owner of the copyright to the fictional toponym Lallybroch, as a personal work of music, is Mrs. Kelly Ruth Davis, of Pennsylvania, USA.

The owner of the Lallybroch Spirits trademark will be Sam Roland Heughan, when that trademark is granted by the USPTO.

I hope this answers your question, @rosfrank. Thank you for asking.

[dreaminginthedeepsouth]

When you’re accidentally added to the Empire group chat

* * * *

The Signal-Gate scandal exploded to grotesque proportions on Tuesday as Trump and his minions refused to accept responsibility or acknowledge the serious threat to national security. Instead, they “circled the wagons” and parroted a false narrative that relied on lies, disinformation, and slander of an innocent journalist.

Tuesday was a head-spinning day in which Republican gaslighting exceeded the cinematic heights of Hollywood’s golden era of psychological thrillers. But instead of targeting an innocent and trusting female heroine, Trump gaslit the American people with lies so bold and audacious that I found myself shouting at the car radio as we drove to babysit a granddaughter. That is not a good frame of mind for playing Candyland and Charades for Kids.

I have since calmed down enough to reflect on the lessons Democrats should take from the sordid Signal-Gate episode. After discussing the lessons, I will rebut the flimsy lies and pathetic wordplay used by Trump and his senior officers to rationalize their intelligence malpractice and amateurish approach to the deadly serious issue of national security.

First Lesson: The willingness of Republicans to look straight into a camera and lie with casual aplomb--tinged with feigned offense--explains why it is so difficult for Democrats to mount effective counter-messaging against Republicans. When one party knows no shame and is unmoored from the truth, any adversary who still respects the truth is at a decided disadvantage.

The constant unhappiness over Democratic messaging is due, in part, to the asymmetrical devotion to the truth by Republicans and Democrats, respectively. For Republicans, truth is a pesky annoyance to be circumvented. For Democrats, speaking the truth is a sign of respect for their constituents and for the rule of law, which can exist only when a polity shares a common view of facts rooted in reality.

Second Lesson. The lesson we should take from the Republican response to Signal-Gate is not to emulate the GOP’s abandonment of the truth. But we should emulate their fierce and formidable ability to stay “on message” across all platforms. We must speak in plain terms using short words that eschew jargon. (“Eschew jargon.” Get it?) Republicans latched on to a laughable lie—that the war-planning texts contained no “classified information”—and repeated the phrase until anchors and reporters dutifully reported the lie in their stories.

Somebody in the GOP sent a set of talking points to every Republican in the administration and Congress and said, “Say this. Use these words, in this order. Repeat.” Such an approach recognizes that the condensed nature of news reporting relies on sound bites. That isn’t a good thing, but it is where we are.

Democrats must follow the rule of primacy: Say the most important thing first, then repeat. True, details matter, analysis matters, nuance matters, but if we lead with a nuanced analysis of complicated details, reporters looking for someone to tell them what to write will move on to another interviewee.

Although Democrats were less disciplined than Republicans in their messaging on Tuesday, they made up for the lack of focus with skilled and aggressive cross-examination of CIA Director John Ratcliffe, National Security Advisor Mike Waltz, and DNI Director Tulsi Gabbard. Democrats “scored a lot of points” that were repeated across the media landscape.

Signal-Gate is more than a game of “political baseball,” but if we want Americans to understand the gravity of what happened, we must provide a framework for them to understand why the use of a commercial app by our nation’s most senior leaders endangers our troops and every American.

The lies, disinformation, and slander employed by Trump and the GOP to deflect from the scandal of Signal-Gate

At various points in Tuesday’s news cycle, Trump and his supporters resorted to the following falsehoods (bolded and italicized) to distract from the grievous lapse of security in the Signal text chain forwarded to The Atlantic editor-in-chief Jeffrey Goldberg:

The text chain did not contain “classified information.”

Demonstrably false and semantic gamesmanship. The texts contained non-public, sensitive information that was undeniably “national defense information”—which is the information protected from unauthorized disclosure by statute.

This claim is especially dangerous and short-sighted because it suggests that the information in the texts can and should be disclosed. When the US military is given a chance to weigh in, they will vigorously assert that operational details of a missile strike is highly sensitive national defense information that must be protected at all costs.

Use of the Signal app was approved or appropriate.

That claim is demonstrably false. DoD policy specifically prohibits use of the Signal app. Indeed, the DoD issued an updated alert on March 18, 2025—only a week ago—warning that users of Signal were “common targets of surveillance and espionage activity [that] has made the [Signal] application a high-value target to intercept sensitive information."

The Signal app is widely used throughout the administration, including the CIA.

While it may be true that Signal is used throughout the administration, if it is used for government communications, such use is illegal on many levels. It is no defense to the nation’s most senior officers using it to plan a missile strike against the Houthis. It is critically important to make a distinction between using a Signal on a government phone to communicate about information that does not qualify as national defense information (“I’ll meet you at the Capitol Grill at 6 PM) vs. national defense information (“We will bomb the Houthis tomorrow at 10 AM.) While the former may be permissible, the latter IS NOT. CIA Director John Ratcliffe tried to play fast and loose with that distinction during his testimony, but had to finally admit that classified systems must be used for national defense information.

The Atlantic’s Editor in Chief, Jeffrey Goldberg, is “bottom scum” and a “sleazy character.”

False. The personal attacks on Jeffrey Goldberg are heinous. Jeffrey Goldberg acted more professionally and ethically than the other participants in the text chain. Goldberg voluntarily withheld information he believed would compromise operational security and the identity of a CIA agent. Trump and other senior officials who claimed such information is not classified effectively granted authority to Jeffrey Goldberg to publish the texts in full in The Atlantic.

The White House Counsel told the participants in the text chain that it was okay to use Signal.

Wait, what? Federal statutes and regulations require the use of classified communications systems to transmit national defense secrets. No lawyer in the White House has the authority to override those statutes and regulations. Indeed, Trump does not have the authority to override the statutes and regulations. (Do not get confused over Trump's power to “declassify” material, which is discussed below.) Trump cannot override federal statutes requiring that national defense information be held confidential.

And again, there is a difference between using Signal for personal communications on a government device versus communicating about national defense information.

The distinction between “classified” information and “national defense information” is critical.

The administration spent a lot of time saying that “no classified information” was included in the text chat. That is beside the point and an attempt to mislead.

The relevant statutes prohibit the unauthorized sharing of “national defense information.” See, e.g., 18 USC § 793 (f), imposing up to ten years in prison for anyone who

being entrusted with . . . information relating to the national defense, (1) through gross negligence permits the same to be removed from its proper place of custody or delivered to anyone in violation of his trust, or to be lost, stolen, abstracted, or destroyed. . . .

The words “classified information” does not appear in the statute that criminalizes the unauthorized disclosure of “national defense information.”

What is “national defense” information? 18 USC § 793(a) defines it as information that the person possessing the information has

reason to believe that the information is to be used to the injury of the United States, or to the advantage of any foreign nation . . . .

Obviously, anyone with advance information about plans to attack Houthi rebels has reason to believe the information—if leaked—could be “used to the injury of the United States” or “to the advantage of any foreign nation.”

Okay, I have gone on too long about this subject. The point is that you now know that the denials by Trump and others are false, misleading, and slanderous. Tell a friend. Lots of them!

[Robert B. Hubbell Newsletter]

+

[nevadancitizen]

-> CH. 5: WITH MORE ANSWERS COME MORE QUESTIONS

synopsis: you visit the library and have a breakthrough with viktor.

word count: 3.4k

ships: Viktor/isekai!Reader, Jayce Talis & isekai!Reader

notes: panting and covered in sweat IM BACK

ABoAB taglist: @th3stup1dcat , @patchs-curiosity-corner (if you'd like to be added to the taglist, just ask!)

A BLAZE OF ARCANE BLUE MASTERLIST

The book – whose title you translated as Grace of Janna or Curse of Tahm Kench?: The Mystery of Author Jameson Farrell – isn’t all that helpful. There are a number of passages of Farrell’s writing in the original English he wrote them in, but not a lot. Most of the text is written in Piltovan… unshockingly.

The most complete passage written in total English is the introduction to a musical Farrell wrote. Or was in the process of writing? It’s not entirely clear.

From how fast and loose Farrell was playing with the spelling, you can guess that it was written somewhere before the 19th century. It was probably somewhere in the ballpark of the late 1700s, when it was a generous estimate to say that around half of the population was literate.

There are a few identifiable characters: Henry Teller, Robert Rackett, and Cassie Haversham. (Though Farrell took the liberty of spelling Henry’s last name as ‘Tella,’ and Robert’s last name as ‘Rackitt.’) The text is abruptly cut off in the middle of Cassie’s verse and none of the text after that is in English – most likely just analyses of the musical written in Piltovan, pondering what Henry meant when he said that there was a “missing baby found in spider’s web,” or if they translated it accurately at all.

Can’t you have just one thing? Or is it fucked up that you continue to grow hungry when this feast has been placed in front of you? You have half a mind to pray to Christ, to Buddha, to Allah, to Waheguru, to Brahman, to whatever other gods are out there to let you have just one thing: a complete connection to your world. The flashback and the incomplete text aren’t enough – you need more.

Is it greedy? Yes. Is it sinful to be this selfish? Undoubtedly. But you were already going to hell anyway, for one reason or another. You doubt this will count much in the wall of text that is every transgression you’ve committed against God.

But in a way, the book is a comfort. Someone before you has gone through this. Yes, the person that went through it was a British man from the 1700s, but he still went through it. You’re desperate and grasping for connections, but you quiet that rational part of your brain and continue searching.

And what better way to search than in a library? You’re well-versed in the importance of public libraries, but the private one on the Academy campus squashes nearly every other library you’ve seen, both in beauty and sheer amount of knowledge.

Your footsteps echo as you walk the main corridor of the library. There are other people here, but most of them have their heads buried in books, either studying or researching.

The woman behind the book checkout desk sits tall and imposing, far more intense than any other librarian you’ve seen. She looks down her nose at you through her glasses.

“Excuse me, ma’am,” you say softly, minding the quietness around you. “I don’t mean to be a bother, but do you have any information on Jameson Farrell?”

The librarian stands and turns to the many filing cabinets behind her. She runs a nail across the metal, looking at each label, then opens one. Her fingers deftly sort through the many files, then she pulls one out and reads off the paper inside.

“Farrell, Jameson… Fine Arts. All his work is classified under Foreign Literature.” The librarian looks over at you. “Can you find that yourself?”

“Uh, no, ma’am,” you say. “I’m afraid not. I’ve never been in this library before.”

She snaps her fingers at a woman reading at a nearby table. “Swan-ee! Show them to the Foreign Literature section.”

Swan-ee, a short and stout woman, pops up from her seat, sliding a bookmark between the pages and closing her book. She gestures for you to follow her, and you do so after thanking the librarian.

You look around as you follow Swan-ee. The shelves holding the books are at least three times as tall as you, and you’re pretty sure you’re passing through the academics section (just judging by how big it is). Leaning ladders are littered about, each attached to the ground on a rail.

Swan-ee turns a corner and the section she guides you into is much smaller than the academics section. It’s still huge, but not as big as the section you just passed through.

“Here we are,” Swan-ee says, her voice quiet and babyish. “You were looking for Jameson Farrell’s work, right?”

“That’s right,” you say. “I was hoping maybe I could get a direct copy of his works? Not a translated version, or one critiquing it.”

“Don’t you know?” She looks over her shoulder at you, then starts scanning the labels on the spines of the books. “Most of his work was destroyed when he killed himself in that fire.”

Your face drops and you can feel your stomach twist. “Right. The fire.”

“Oh.” Swan-ee makes a face and glances at you out of the corner of her eye. “You didn’t know. Sorry.”

“Ain’t your fault,” you sigh.

“We do have one of his surviving works in storage,” she says. “If you want to see it.”

You feel your heart skip a beat and nod quickly. “Yes, please. If you’d be so kind.”

She turns and holds her hand out. “I’d just have to see your student ID.”

All the wind is taken out of your sails and you sigh. “I don’t have one. I’m, um… I’m helping Viktor and Jayce with their research. I guess I can’t get one since I’m not a student?”

Swan-ee’s eyes light up and she seems really excited for some reason. One of her feet tap rapidly against the floor and she looks up at you with big eyes.

“You’re the Americanite?” She asks, her voice hushed.

You smile embarrassedly and rock back on your heels. “Uh, yeah. I am.”

Swan-ee takes a large gasp of breath, smiling so wide it looks like her face is about to split. “Wow! What’s it like?”

“It?” You echo. “What?”

“America,” she says, her voice just as hushed. “Living in America.”

“It’s nice,” you say. “Most of the folk you come across are friendly, ‘specially in the South. There’s different religions, different cultures… lots of differences that a lot of people tend to enjoy.”

“What’s the food like?” Swan-ee turns and starts walking. You follow.

“Amazin’,” you say without hesitation. “Every animal you can shoot, every fish you can catch, every plant that grows – someone’s found a way to make it taste good.”

“Really?”

“Mhm,” you hum. “I remember readin’ ‘bout someone down in Florida cookin’ up a feast for the displaced after a hurricane. Somethin’ about… shrimp, gumbo, grits, a load of seafood boil.”

“That’s so cool,” Swan-ee says, like you just recounted Jesus’ second coming down to the last detail. “Maybe I should visit the Florida coast…”

“Just be careful in the summer,” you say. “Sunburns can get real bad down there.”

She nods, then comes to a stop in front of a door. You didn’t really pay attention to your surroundings while you were talking. You’re still in the library, but there’s not a lot of people around – just you and Swan-ee.

“Where are we?” You ask, suddenly a lot more cautious.

“Storage.” Swan-ee fishes a keyring from out of her pocket and starts to sort through them. “I figured it must be important if the Americanite is asking, so… Just don’t tell anyone, okay?”

“I won’t,” you say. “I swear on my life.”

She opens the door and ushers you through. Inside is a room, well-lit by electric lights rather than natural lighting. There’s a wall of shelves neatly packed together. The shelves are all on a rail so that they can move freely, but now, they’re side-by-side. Each section is labeled in Piltovan.

You walk forward and push one of the shelving units to the side. It rolls on the rail, revealing rows and rows of books.

“Woah,” you breathe. “Ain’t that something?”

“Mister Farrell’s work is over here,” Swan-ee says. “But you can look around all you want.”

“No, I don’t wanna take up any more of your time,” you say. “You’re bein’ generous enough as is.”

You walk over to where she’s standing in front of a table with a glass cover. Inside is a journal, eaten away and disfigured by fire. You lean down and try to read the writing on the page it’s open to.

ROBERT (cont’d) TRY’D TO EARN AN HONEST BOB BUT A BOB IS JUS A ROBERT & A ROBERTS JUS A ROBB’R TO A T

You translate the poor spelling to readable English in your head – “Tried to earn an honest bob / But a bob is just a Robert / And a Robert’s just a robber to a tee.”

You bite the inside of your lip and suppress a sigh. You’ve read it before, in that book Viktor gave you. It’s the original, but it’s nothing new.

“D’you have any more documents like this?” You ask without taking your eyes off the journal. “That’re written in this language, I mean.”

“I think so,” Swan-ee says. She turns away and starts sifting through the metal filing cabinets that hold the storage index.

You go back to reading. Everything you can see without reaching under the glass and flipping the page is something you’ve read before. It feels like a loop, almost. You find something, you hit a dead end. You work your way around the dead end and find something again. You hit a dead end. 

Swan-ee breaks your concentration – “Over here! I’ve found something.”

You hurry over and take the papers that Swan-ee’s holding out. A cursory glance tells you that it’s written in English and rather long.

“It’s a copy of a diary, from…” She squints at the Piltovan label. “Morgan Yu.”

“May I check this out?” You ask. You secretly hope that it’s in storage just because people weren’t checking it out and not because it’s restricted material.

“Sure. It’s just a copy,” she says. “I can always make another.”

“Are you sure?” You ask. “I don’t wanna be a bother…”

“It’s nothing!” Swan-ee insists. She smiles and looks to the side, almost bashful. “Besides, you’re the Americanite. Miss Tian – the head librarian – she won’t even notice before I replace it. Just take it.”

You smile and nod. “Thank you, Swan-ee. I won’t forget this.”

“You – um.” Her smile grows bigger and her ears start to turn red. “It’s no problem!”

“I’ll see you later,” you say. You turn and head towards the exit to the main library.

Swan-ee calls after you: “Uh, y-yeah! I’ll see you.”

You feel like bashing your head into a wall.

Viktor took pictures of the cipher in your dorm and copied it onto a blackboard in the lab. That’s not the part that’s frustrating. Morgan Yu’s writing is what’s frustrating you.

“Read it again,” Viktor says.

You stand from the workbench and walk aimlessly as you read what Morgan wrote out loud.

“This is not meant as a distress signal, nor is this a cry for help. It is simply my thoughts, and I am writing them as they come to me and as I see fit.

My name is Morgan Yu. I’m the vice president and Director of Research of TranStar Industries. I’m from the year 2035, and I live on Talos I – a research station that orbits the moon. I’m now in a kingdom named Demacia. I don’t recall how I got here or when I did. I woke up cradled between two boughs of a tree similar to oak, which is something I haven’t experienced since I was enrolled in college.

The people here take pride in their isolationism and militaristic tendencies. They viewed me with suspicion – rightfully so – and have locked me in a cell for the time being. Although I don’t agree with their decision, I respect it.

From what I hear from other prisoners, Demacia is on the decline. The Nobles are trying to prevent Prince Jarvan from ascending to kinghood. They want the throne for themselves and the Prince must fight them to take what is rightfully his.

I hear nothing of my old world. The prisoners don’t react when I tell them of the Earth, the singular moon, and other things intrinsic to my universe. They say I’m crazy and that my trial will come soon. I don’t know what I’m being tried for. I don’t think that my right to a fair and unbiased trial will hold much water here.

Back home, I’d already made my peace regarding death and what comes after. But what afterlife is there here, for someone who’s drifted so far?”

You look up from the first photocopy of Morgan’s diary. “He’s from the future, Viktor. And with the spelling and the reference to an unbiased trial, I think he’s from my future – my America.”

Viktor stands, leaning on his cane as he takes the first page from you. He looks it over with something like amazement written all over his face. You know he can’t even begin to try to read it, but he’s amazed all the same.

“This is a great revelation,” he says, his voice almost a whisper.

“I just wish we knew more,” you say. “Someone drops in from nowhere and you ain’t the slightest bit curious? It doesn’t track – it doesn’t make sense.”

“What if I send a message to Demacia requesting access to records kept on Morgan?” Viktor asks. “My modern Demacian is not that strong, but I can try.”

“Please do.” You move over to the workbench, where books and journals are littered about.

You sit in Jayce’s chair and pull your legs up so you’re in a more comfortable position. You prop your head up with a fist and look over one of the last pages in Morgan’s diary.

It’s a drawing Morgan did of himself. It’s rather crude and geometric, more math than art, but you can still discern distinguishing features – upturned eyes, thin lips, a five o’clock shadow and black hair cut short. One of his eyes is bloodshot and red, and a note to the side accredits the cause as a repeated procedure called an “apto-regressive neurotomy.” Whatever that means.

“Does Yu’s work reference Farrell at all?” Viktor asks.

“I don’t think so.” You flip through the loose pages, skimming over Morgan’s handwriting (which is so small and neat it could be a font), and shake your head. “No. There’s… Alex, January, a whole bunch of others, but no Jameson.”

There’s the sound of chalk meeting a blackboard behind you. You turn in the chair to see Viktor drawing a long line, along with shorter lines running parallel to the main line.

“What the hell are you doin’?” You ask.

“Trying to… establish…” He makes a few marks along the lines. “A timeline.”

You stand and move to be by Viktor, trying to decipher what’s been written without him having to explain it. You can’t.

“This one is Farrell’s time.” He points to the top line. Then, he points to them in descending order: “Our shared reality, your original reality, and then Yu’s.”

“What’s with the markings?” You ask.

“They represent when someone was transported to Runeterra,” Viktor says. He draws a line connecting every line except his. “I believe that you, Yu, and Farrell’s realities are more closely related to each other than to this reality. So far, you all have referenced the planet as Earth instead of Runeterra – so you must have that in common, at the very least. Maybe…”

He mumbles to himself as he continues to write on the blackboard, the chalk making sharp sounds as he makes markers along the lines. A small smile spreads across your face as you take a step back and sit down. For a moment, you just watch him work – he’s so concentrated and so easily immersed in whatever happens to catch his eye. It’s impressive, and you would be lying if you said it wasn’t… you don’t know how to classify it. Cute? Sexy? Just attractive in general?

When you catch yourself thinking those kinds of thoughts, you scold yourself – you can’t be thinking about Viktor like that! He’s a stand-up guy who’s helping you the best he can. You need to check yourself and find a distraction before you do something inappropriate.

You go back to reading over Morgan’s diary: “Today is the third day since I woke up in Demacia. I want nothing more than to get the hell out of this primitive dungeon they call a jail.

Mom liked to tote around the quote ‘A coin a day makes a thousand coins in a thousand days. In time, a rope may saw through a tree, and dripping water can wear away stone.’ That’s by Zhang Guiya of the Southern Song Dynasty. I think we’re related somehow, but also I have reason to believe I’m related to Genghis Khan, so I’m not under the delusion that it matters much.

I find myself hating that quote more and more. I feel like the tree being roped down, or the stone being eroded. If Demacia has one thing on its side, it’s the ability to wear a man down – or maybe it’s the prison and the people in it. Maybe I’m wearing someone else down with my apparent insanity.

I also find myself missing home more and more. I haven’t thought about my family’s zupu in years, but here I am, wishing I was with Hao at the clan temple. Is he even the keeper of the book anymore? Does this universe experience time at a faster or slower rate than my home universe? Or would it be naive to assume that they operate the same, down to the millisecond?

I sincerely hope that this is a side effect of the neuromod removal. If this is going in a scientific paper – I’m referencing the repetitive apto-regressive neurotomy. The other scientists went in and scrambled my brain because of my insistence to continue the experiment… and maybe this is a side effect of that. I would hedge my bets on it being a prolonged seizure from serotonin flooding the brain, but I don’t know what to pin the visual hallucination on.

But then again, what do I know? I’m a doctor that runs experiments in a laboratory, not a doctor that treats human patients.”

You stare at the two last paragraphs Morgan wrote, then read them again to make sure you weren’t hallucinating yourself. Morgan was… experimenting on himself. Or – he was having other people experiment on him, messing up his brain somehow.

In other words, he was in a somewhat altered state when he was transported to Demacia. It hits you like a truck.

“Viktor!” You stand quickly, almost toppling the chair over. “Viktor, you gotta listen to this.”

He turns and looks at you, his eyebrows drawn together from your sudden outburst. Without taking your eyes off the paper, you blindly grab for the chalk in his hand. You grab his wrist, then fumble through finding the chalk in his grip and take it from him.

You round the other side of the blackboard and erase the cipher between Piltovan and English with your sleeve. You don’t really care that you wiped away what Viktor tediously copied – you’re too excited, and besides, you can just help him write it later.

“Morgan’s brain was messed with.” You start to draw a mind map with idea bubbles and lines connecting them. “He had a lotta apto-regressive neurotomies. Now, I ain’t no scientist, but it sounds like he was resettin’ his brain back to a… specific point in time, maybe? Other words – he was in an altered state that I’m assumin’ didn’t get fixed before he came to Demacia.”

You start to draw arrows, denoting relationships and cause and effect. “I never thought it was relevant, but I was high off my ass the night I was transported. I… honestly plumb forgot with all the mess I’d created. So my workin’ theory is that I need to get back into that state to get home.”

You circle the bubble that says ‘crossfaded as fuck’ multiple times and turn to Viktor. “In conclusion, we need to get high as hell. For science.”

[siampie]

Get Off the Highway || Chapter 2

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Plus Size Reader

Word Count: 3.3K 

Warnings/tags: Enemies to lovers trope, pining, angst, fluff, childhood trauma, eldest daughter syndrome, mention of depression

A/N: Alright, I struggled to write this chapter. I wanted to get the interactions between Dean and Reader right but also, wanted to give you more info on Reader. So, I really hope you’ll like this chapter.

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Tag list: @lyarr24, @deans-baby-momma, @hell0-ki11y111, @kr804573, @zepskies, @impalari, @urinternetmom, @sushiumex

Dividers by @cafekitsune

You poured the salt on the corpse. You cracked a match and threw it on the body. Flames engulfed the bones. You stood there for a little while longer. The poor girl had not stood a chance. Her family had been horrible to her. Put her through torture. And that was decades ago. She had no reasons to remain amongst the living, no reasons to haunt them. They weren’t the one who had hurt her and yet, she still wanted revenge. Blinded by her rage, the spirit had killed the people that had lived in her mansion over the years. Some were classified as natural deaths, and others as freak accidents. With so many deaths in one mansion over the years. All happening at a specific time of the years, you had to check it out.

It was a run of the mill hunt. Quite easy. You threw your bags in the trunk of your car, and climbed in the driver’s seat. Your goal was to get out of town as quick as possible, to disappear. You drove through the night. You wanted to get to your small flat as quick as possible.

Your two bedrooms apartment was your refuge. You could go there and recuperate for a few days. You loved hunting, you really did but you sometimes needed a break from it. Adding to the dangerous nature of the job, and the constant near death experiences, it was also draining. And rarely, was it ever rewarding. But that was not why you were doing it. You truly believed that everyone in this life was born with a purpose. There were people born to be doctors, or cops, or even firemen. And some were born to be hunters. That was you.

One fateful night, you found out that monsters were real. Everything that went bumping into the night, the monsters under the bed, the witches, vampires, werewolves, they were all real. That fateful night was also the start of your aversion for woods, camping and wendigos. You hated all three of those things, and you avoided them at all cost. But it had not deterred you from getting into the life. After finding out about them being real, you could not just ignore it. You could not keep living your life as though nothing had happened. As though you knew nothing of monsters and of the people that hunted them.

So, you became one yourself.

The sounds of gunfire welcomed you as you pushed your door open. And the voice of your youngest brother swearing at the television followed. You pushed your door closed behind you with a tired sigh. Sure, you had texted him to let him know that you would soon be back. But you had not expected him to be there still.

“That’s not why I left you a key, you know?” You said dropping your bags by the door, after you locked it.

He put down the controller on the coffee table. “Your plant is taken care of.” He shrugged turning to you. “You look awful.”

“Thanks.” You answered dryly. You dropped your keys on your dinner table, and moved to your kitchen. “Want a beer?”

“Yeah,” He got up and followed you into your kitchen. “So, how was it?”

“Matt—”

“Come on, you can tell me.” He leaned on the counter behind him.

“I don’t want to tell you.” You shook your head. “I’m not talking about it with you or anyone else.”

“Why not?”

“Because—we are talking about hunting monsters. And I don’t want any of you into the life.” You moved back into your living room. “And what the hell are you still doing here anyway? Don’t you have a girlfriend to go back to?”

“Just wanted to make sure, you were alright before I left.” He shrugged.

You smiled fondly at him. “That’s so sweet.” You cooed at him, pinching his cheek. He swatted it away.

“Stop.”

You snorted. “I’m alright, not injured. So, you can go back to your girlfriend.” You slapped his shoulder.

“you’re sure?”

“I’m sure.” You nodded. “Go.”

“Alright, call if you need anything.”

“I won’t.” You called after him. “And don’t call me for the next few days, please.”

“I will.” He walked and locked behind him.

You spent the next few days locked up in your apartment. True to his words, your brother called you. But you really did not mind. Your youngest brother only wanted to make sure that you were taken care off. After all, you were living alone while he and your two other siblings had people to come home to.

Building relationships with anyone had never been easy for you. Especially romantic ones. Something always went wrong. You felt as though you were giving more than you were receiving. You always thought that you were not understood as you did them. And instead of expressing those things, you kept quiet. You let things go, hoping they would solve themselves. And ultimately, it would lead to break-up.

You never stayed home too long. You gave yourself a few days off, away from hunting and monsters, before going back into the fray. It wasn’t surprising to find you back on the road within days. And you always let your brother know when you did.

Out of all your siblings, he was the closest to you. The one that truly worried about you and made sure you were alright and taken care of, when you were home. And to think both of you hated each other growing up, was just laughable now. You knew you had failed him when you were younger. Always siding with your parents, trying your best to keep peace within your family. It had put a strain on your relationship with your siblings over the years.

“Agent Prentiss, FBI.” You flashed your fake FBI badge to the officer on the scene.

“Officer Davis.” He introduced himself. His eyes inevitably landed on your cleavage area.

Your white buttoned-down shirt was a little tight around your breast, you had left a couples of buttons undone. Which was giving him a glimpse of it  

“What brings the FBI into this neck of the wood?” Davis said, clearing his throat.

You smirked as you caught him ogling at your cleavage. “The bureau has taken an interest into the recent strings of death that has been happening lately.”

“There’s nothing interesting in a couple of animal attacks.” Davis scoffed.

“True but these are quite unusual.” You pointed out. "Hearts missing. And nothing else. Doesn't really sound like an animal to me."

“Look, it’s better if people think it’s an animal.” Davis said quietly to you. “We don’t want them to panic while there’s a killer on the loose.”

“I completely understand your situation, trust me.” You told him. “I’m only here to help you. Maybe, a set of fresh eyes may help you see things a little clearer.” He seemed to hesitate. “I don’t want to step on your toes, here. I really do want to stop the killings. So, let me help you.”  

You looked up at him. He ran a hand on the back of his neck. Hesitating on letting you in the investigation.  He looked around you, the crowd at the edge of the crime scenes, the journalist looking for sensational news. Clearly, he was at a loss. He needed to provide answers to the victims’ family.  

The killing spree had started a few days ago. It was pretty gruesome. Dead bodies had been found recently; their hearts had been ripped out. For you, it was quite an easy hunt. It was clearly werewolves. The deaths started with the full moon, and their hearts were missing.

“What can you tell me about the victim?”

“Young woman, early twenties,” He cleared his throat. He started to lead you toward the victim, where the Medical Examiner was getting a look at the victim. “She was found by a couple of joggers.”

You raised a skeptical eyebrow to him. “People jog in this area?”

“Yeah, there’s a short trail that go into the woods for a few miles, before it cuts back into the park over there.” He gestured over your shoulder.

You looked over your shoulders briefly, and did a double take when you recognized a couple of familiar faces. “You have got to be kidding me.” You said under your breath.

“What was that?” Officer Davis asked you.

“It seems there was a mix up at the bureau.” You smiled tightly at Davis. “Anyway—” You turned to the M.E. “Anything you can tell me on the cause of death?”

The M.E. looked to the leading officer for approval. The latter nodded at her. “Same as the others.” She said, moving the head of the young woman to the side. “No apparent defensive wounds, she was hit over the head. Same spot as the others,” her hands left her head and went to victim’s wrists. “Ligature marks, and of course her heart’s missing.”

It looked like a werewolf kill alright. Although, the ligatures marks did not make much sense to you. Neither did the head trauma. Werewolves were pretty strong creatures and this seemed to indicate that they needed to restrain the victim before the kill, but why?

You turned around to see Dean and Sam Winchester were walking up to you. You excused yourself and met the brothers halfway. Dean looked a little peeved by your presence there. You approached them under his glare. You really did not get why he was mad about you being there. And you didn’t care.

“Winchesters, we meet again.” You said as a form of greeting.

Sam smiled down at you. “It’s good to see you.” Dean scoffed at that.

“Not everybody agrees.” Your eyes drifted to Dean briefly before you returned your attention on Sam.

“You’re not working the case.” Dean said and you glanced up at him confused.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means you’re not working the case.” Dean then gestured between him and Sam. “We are.”

You scoffed in disbelief. “I already have an in with the officers. I got this under control. You can sit this one out. You do look like you need some rest, you look tired.” You patted his shoulder; and he recoiled from your touch.

“I don’t need rest.” He pointed an angry finger under your nose. “And really?!” Dean’s eyebrows went up into his hairline. “You got this under control?”

“Yeah, I do.” You nodded.

“So, you have it all figured out already?” Dean questioned, clearly hostile.

“I mean, yeah.” You shrugged. “Dead bodies, heart’s missing. I’d say—werewolves.”

“You don’t know that for sure.”

“And you do?”

“How can you be so sure it’s werewolves?” He questioned.

“Because it makes sense.” You argued back. “What else could it be?”

“Skinwalker.” He shrugged smugly.

“Please.” You scoffed. “You’re just pulling something out of your ass.”

“Dean’s right.” Sam sighed. “It could be a skinwalker. We don’t know that for sure.”

“We do.” You retorted. “It’s a full moon.”

“It won’t matter if it’s a skinwalker.” Dean shook his head.

“Alright.” You snapped at him. “I’ll take that in consideration. Thank you for your help. Go home.”

You turned away from Dean and stomped to your car. You were angry with him, now. He was talking to you as though you didn’t know how to do your job.

Dean grabbed your arm, stopping you on your way to your car. “Listen, kid—“ You looked between him and the grip he had on your arm. “You could barely handle a vampire hunt on your own and now you want to take on werewolves?” You ripped your arm out of his grip. “You should really leave this one to us.”

“First, not a kid. Never was.” You replied. “Second, I called for help because I had never hunted vampires before.” You walked closer to him and jabbed a finger in his chest. “I know how to handle myself on a hunt. Not that’s any of your business, Winchester. I don’t need you or your brother, I can take care of this.”

You turned around and ripped the door to the driver’s seat open, before slamming it shut. And peeled out of there. How dared he? He treated you as though you were an amateur. This wasn’t your first rodeo; you knew how to hunt. You weren't new to this job. You should have reminded him that you saved his life on this vampire hunt. Had he forgotten?

You couldn’t care less if he stayed in town or if he left. You would just proceed with the hunt. Whether it was a werewolf or Skinwalker; as they suggested; you’d kill it and be out of town. After all, it was an easy enough hunt.

As you’d soon find out, they, in fact, did not leave town. You crossed path with them at the diner. You sent a glare Dean’s way as you walked up to one of the empty booths. You were determined to ignore Dean Winchester and his brother. You were determined to show them that you could handle yourself, and take care of it all on your own.

You didn’t need them. You had never needed anyone.

You sat alone in your booth and ate your lunch while reviewing the victims’ files. They all had been found by the trail near the small wooded area. Heart’s missing, ligatures marks, slight head trauma. The heart being ripped out, indicated a werewolf kill but the ligatures marks and the head trauma suggested something different. You didn’t understand why they were there. Why did they tie up the victims?

There was only one way to find out but you did not like it. You had an aversion for the wooded areas by night. More than anything. However you were a hunter and sometimes, you had to do what you had to do. So, you traded your FBI pantsuit for dark jeans that hugged your large hips and thick thighs perfectly. You traded your dress shirt for a tie-dye crop top that showed a sliver of your skin, and the stretchmarks that peeked out of your waistband. Scars that you had gained over the years as your body changed. It had grown and suffered. It wasn’t slim or thin, it was curvy and big. You had large hips, thick and plushy thighs, a large breast. You loved your body and you had learned to flaunt it.

Flaunting your assets was not what you were going to do tonight. Anyone who knew you, would tell you it was the worst idea you’d ever had. Especially knowing your aversion for the woods at night time. Garth would advise you to ask the Winchesters, since they were in town, to accompany you. And in retrospect, you probably should have. But he didn’t need to know about that.

“Son of a gun!” You breathed out shakily. You tightened your dark green flannel and your thick jacket around your torso.

You were too stubborn to ask for help when you should. But asking for help was like admitting weakness. And you refused to appear weak in front of Dean Winchester. He already thought you were incapable. You didn’t want him to think of you as weak. You were not going to give him the satisfaction.

Your fingers were tight around your lamp torch. Your heart beating wildly beneath your ribcage. Every breath you took was shaky. Everything in you was screaming at you to run. To go to safety. But you were a hunter. You needed to put an end to the killings. You needed to take care of the werewolf. Or the skinwalker.

Crunch. You froze. Crunch. You pulled out your gun. Crunch. A snort. You knew it wasn’t human. You took another shaky breath. A failed attempt to steady yourself. Your feet remained rooted to the ground. As the sounds were coming closer to your position. You needed to move. And fast.

When your body finally obeyed your brain, it was already too late. You had barely moved when the beast pounced on you. You let out a scream as you landed on your back. The wind got knocked out of you. Your gun flew away from you.

There you were, defenseless. And alone.

Yellow eyes staring into yours. Bared fangs as it snarled at you. Its breath was hot on your face. You did not wish to die here. Alone. Away from your family. This seemed much too familiar to you. A feeling of déjà-vu. You hated it. You hated the woods. You hated that monster breathing down on your face.

A shot rang. Its head snapped up to the sound. Two tall figures were rushing to your aid. You could have sobbed with relief at seeing them. But you weren’t out of the woods yet. No pun intended.  

Its snarled at them. They fired their guns again.  The creature fled as fast as they could. Sam rushed to your aid while Dean pursued the monster.

“Hey,” He helped you up. “You okay?”

You nodded quickly. You were still shaken up. This was too close. You could have died tonight. All of that because you weren’t prepared. Because you wanted to prove something. You screwed up. You clenched your fists repeatedly. You just wanted for your hands to stop shaking. If they could only stop shaking.

“What the hell do you think you were doing?” Dean snapped at you, once he came back.

“What?”

“We were tracking it down and now it’s gone.” He continued. “You screwed it all up.”

“Dean.” Sam put a hand on his brother’s chest.

“Excuse you!” You snapped back at him. “I screwed up? I was being attacked.”

“Yeah, and whose fault is that?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means you don’t know what you’re doing, princess.” Dean stepped closer to you, glaring down at you. “I don’t know how you survived this long on your own, but it won’t last much longer if you keep pulling stupid stunts like that. Leave this to us before you get yourself killed.”

What he said wasn’t untrue. You could have gotten yourself killed tonight. It was reckless to go in before truly knowing what was behind the attacks. Although, that was unfair of him to say. You didn’t set out to be attacked or get yourself killed. You were only trying to do your job. You were a hunter and this was what hunters do. This was what they were doing. So, why was it okay for them to do but not for you?

No one believed in you. No matter how hard you tried they still thought you were uncapable. You had met hunters like him before. Doubting you and your skills. You were too soft, they said. You scared too easy, they said. However, you had proven to them that you knew what you were doing. You had proven to them that you got the job done.

You glared back at him. “Like you care.” You wanted to sound harsh, angry. You wanted him to know that you won’t let him get to you. But that wasn’t how it sounded coming out of your mouth.

You sounded tired and defeated. No one would care if you did die. Not the Winchesters. Not even your own family. Those words had always been floating in your brain for years. After all, you had done so many things for so many people. So many things that went unnoticed. Of course, if you were to disappear. No one would notice the difference. They didn’t need you. Not as much as you needed them. You felt the tears pressed against your eyes.

You would not give him the satisfaction to see you cry, on top of everything else. So, you turned around and walked away from the Winchesters. You heard Sam called you but you ignored him.

You needed to get away from the woods. You needed to get away from Dean.

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[autistic-sidestep]

sidestep scar map

here's all the physical scar mentions of step's ive discovered so far that aren't choice dependent! (choice dep scars will be in another post). lemme know if i missed any!

edit: hi people from r/hostedgames o/

edit 2 (nov 8th): added some more i missed!

edit 3 (nov 30th 2024): put these all (excepting the photographs related one because i'm not sure that's ever confirmed in the text itself) on the wiki!

(cw for sh/sui mentions and graphic injury description)

general

"Have you seen me?" You don't bother to hide your sneer. Even with your clothes on, there are enough scars and marks that many people would pay dearly to remove them. (ch 22, argent meetup) Regenerate…the notion is a tempting one; could it work on your tattoos? You've tried cutting and burning, but there's just too much, you'd be scarred and mutilated before you were done, but this…this prototype, could it help you too? (ch 19, etc, regenerator discovery) "What?" A moment's confusion and then—finally—he adds up the dots. His frown deepens, and he looks between your face and your chest, marred by scars and brightly orange tattoos, marking you as other. As not human. "Are you saying that—" (ch 22, flystep apartment scene) "Do you like scars?" you tease, taking one of [Daniel']s hands, tracing it across one on your chest. An ugly one, a remnant from an angry attempt to carve away your tattoos until the drugs couldn't keep the pain at bay any longer. (ch 22, flystep apartment date) It's a slow, circling motion over the small of your back, palm against skin, warm fingers tracing the deep scars you both know are there. And a few that ${he} doesn't. (ch 17, hoots makeout) ${his} hands are running over your skin, over your back. You know ${he}'s tracing scars, the same as you, and having an easier time of it. No fancy hospitals for your body, just your own skills, and no need to make it look pretty. (ch 21, chargestep apartment nsfw)

autopsy (incision) scar(s?)

"I obtained…pictures." He lets out a sigh, rubbing his face. "Classified. Highly classified. I assumed they were from the autopsy." He focuses on you. "Your autopsy." […] "The damage from the fall was horrific…you looked dead. Opened up." (ch 22, steel bar meetup)

legs

You remember that [Psychopathor] fell against the wreckage, and it moved and caused you to scream out loud as it dug into your leg. There's still a scar there somewhere. (ch 2, warehouse fight)

face

"Yeah, things changed. For me." You touch your face without intending to. The thin scars there are the most obvious legacy of your fall, of the window tearing into you like memories. (ch 21, hoots) "I'm not the only one with scars." He rubs the side of his face as he looks at you, and you have to fight not to do the same. You can feel your own face itch with the need to pick at your scars. "Yeah," you admit with a tired sigh. "Looking into the mirror is not fun." For more reasons than one, but you'd be lying if the scars weren't one of them. Bad memories imprinted on your flesh, a reminder of nightmares you can't ever forget. It's interesting, really, the way they see you as another vet. Are you looking out of place enough for that? A helping of scars. The nervous awareness. (ch 22, steel bar meetup)

hands/wrists

"Does it say that the scar on your hand always itches when you're stressed?" (ch 22, flystep apartment date)

"I'm not sure about this," he says, looking down at your scarred hands as if he could read your mind. Soft. Human. He doesn't want to hurt them. (ch 25, post puppet crash step leg rights, chen apartment minddive)

You let Ortega take your hands in [theirs]. Warm. Calloused. Scarred. Just like yours. You can't help but trace the edge of ${his} mods where they break the skin, strangely cool to the touch. (ch 21, trans mc ortega apartment reveal)

You look down at hands so much cleaner than your own. $!{puppet_name} hides all scars. (ch 18, puportega stakeout)

"It feels like they do," you say, scratching one of the scars on your hand a little nervously. "I wish I could tell you, but I can't." […] Your hands are clenched. Hard enough that your knuckles are white. There are a few scars across them, memories of punching things you shouldn't punch. People. Armor. Walls. […] You press two fingers against your wrist, feeling your pulse, feeling the scars. It's a familiar sensation, but instead of the weight pressing against your shields, you feel like a balloon, ready to burst. (ch 17 - finch therapy scene)

arms

tattoo removal attempts

You tried to get rid of them after your first escape. A specialist, suitably coerced. You still have the scar on the inside of your arm where the lasers didn't quite take. Too deep. Something she had never seen before, and she wasn't lying. Almost as if they were regenerating. (ch 15/ch 17, reader regenereveal tag )

You've tried lasers to remove them. You've tried dermabrasion. You even flayed off a piece of your own skin, and while that worked, it left another scar, a deep one. You know it's not possible to do that for your entire body. It's too much surface area; the process would kill you or leave you maimed. Not exactly the life you want. _(ch 15/ch 17, reader regenereveal tag / ch 19, puppet auction)

You tug at your sleeve; it keeps clinging to your sweaty skin. The small hairs on the back of your arm stand on end. The scars are visible now, the ones you made yourself. The ones where you tried to remove them. (chapter 19, argent regene reveal)

"I'm not lying anymore." You very slowly tug your sleeve up, rolling it past the scars, past the places where you tried to obliterate the tattoos, up to where they peek out beneath the fabric. Sharp. Orange. Inhuman. Like you. You look away, regulating your breathing, keeping a straight face as ${mhis} fingertips trace the edges of the design. There's a slight "tsk" at the burn scars that cut them off, no doubt ${mhe} is adding the clues together. […] "I tried to burn parts of them off," you say, […] so ${mhe} doesn't need to ask. "Didn't work too well. Needs third-degree burns, or they'll grow back." "Really?" $!{mhe} bends your arm, and you shift to allow it. "Fascinating." "Flaying works if you cut down to the flesh." Your voice sounds dispassionate even to your own ears, and Dr. Mortum takes a step back with a shocked look on ${mhis} face. "I'd hate to know how you found that out." "Other arm." You tug your sleeve down now that ${mhe}'s stopped touching you. (ch 20, "good" mortum mc reveal at the lab)

Holding your breath, you raise your arm in front of you, watching the pale green hospital robe slip back, revealing the intricate tattoos etched into your skin, broken only by scars. Neon orange. (ch 24, mccrash, revoked legrights)

dog bite

Some [dogs] were kept to guard the perimeter; you got bit once for straying outside. You still have the scar on your arm, a reminder that things that are hurt inevitably turn on each other. (ch 15, 1st boneyard scene)

general arm scars

It's so easy to feel human around ${him}. So easy to ignore the fear. Your sleeves are rolled up to your elbows. Anything more would risk revelations you aren't ready for, but even like this, the scars are enough for conversation. […] *if suitag: The bubbles hide most; you keep them buried deep in the soapy water to make sure ${he} doesn't look. (ch 21, ortega apartment dishes)

sh scars (suitag dep)

The scars on your arms are hidden under your sleeves, and maybe they would be something you could talk about. Something she would expect. A safe revelation of self-harm. *if suitag: Across. Not lengthwise. Your one deal with yourself. Not yet. You have things to finish first." (ch 17, finch therapy scene)