#I do LOVE discussions about Religion though!

[lemurchick]

Another 'wonderful news' from Russia for your consideration! This week, the BRICS forum on traditional values took place in Moscow. And it was fucking insane.

In short, the opening meeting was BRICS countries representatives verbally jerking off on how well they oppress or plan to oppress their people especially women. The only person who bothered to contradict this narrative was Egyptian female writer Doha Mustafa Assy.

I will translate some quotes from the russian article. https://www.kommersant.ru/doc/7311174

Russia: "At some point the roles for women have begun to change towards independence and self-sufficiency. We, of course, love and respect our women very much, but we want them to pay more attention to their families, men and children. We do not want them to strive for business, politics, economics, power, or culture. <...> The main traditional value is the preservation of natural purpose, where a woman continues the family line and a man inspires her to give birth to children."

Pakistan: "Any traditional religion upholds and promotes social values and traditions. No father would want to harm his family. No mother would want to break up or disintegrate her family. This <rejection of family values> is deliberately imposed on us and promoted by some power circles”

Ethiopia: "In our country it is traditionally women who do the cooking, teaching children and other family duties. So the man's role is not as big as the woman's, and this tradition gives the man the freedom to behave like a child." (?????)

Uganda: [This country experience is “extremely important to the discussion of legislative protection of religious values,” emphasized russian politician Dmitry Kuznetsov, referring to the fact that in Uganda same-sex relations are prohibited, and in some cases violators face life imprisonment or even the death penalty.] “We did this to make sure that the country would be preserved. I would encourage countries to behave in such a way that the culture that exists in each country is not imposed on others.” btw Brazil and South Africa representatives didn't say a word here even though their countries legalized same-sex mafrriage years ago.

Brazil: "Marriage in no longer a goal for our citizens and the country has the highest divorce rate in history. Meanwhile, children are most often left with their mothers, with fathers unwilling to take part in their upbringing. As a result, many Brazilian boys are growing up without a father figure and 9% of male inmates in prisons don't even know their father's name. Shifting the balance in favor of women leads to the fact that the position of feminism is growing, and the number of people who identify as LGBT people is growing.” At the end of his speech, he marveled, “This is my first time in Russia, and I didn't know you guys were so conservative. I'm so happy, it's so impressive!” He also admitted that “the people of Brazil know nothing about Russia,” and Dmitry Kuznetsov promised: “We will come to you and tell you all about our saving conservatism.”

Egypt: As I mentioned in the beginning the only person who actively argued against this trend was Doha Mustafa Assy. She said: "We on the contrary has a struggle against patriarchy. Tradition and religion are not on women's side, they help men. A lot of women in Egypt ask for divorce only because they feel like slaves at home. He (the husband) has the right not to let her leave the house according to tradition. BRICS is India, it's China, it's Russia, it's Egypt. We are very different. And maybe what you are trying to do in Russia has already became a problem for us”.

To be honest I don't know what will come out of this forum. Maybe it's just empty posturing, maybe BRICS countries just sent people who had free time on their hand here as a formality. But I despair reading these quotes; twenty years ago we sent a singing duet posing as lesbians to Eurovision; ten years ago I was watching lesbian drama Blue Is the Warmest Colour in a full theater. Soviet Union gave women some attempt in an equal rights in fucking 1917 and we were the first country to send a woman in space. What happened? How has it turned this way? We are now friends with some of the most patriarchal countries in the world and with fucking North Korea. They are planning to remove the Taliban's terrorist status.

What the hell.

[bigsoftmarshmallow]

It's fine! Really!

And, honestly, it was actually a bit rude of me to ask in the first place, so how about we call it even?

I guess it just gets a bit frustrating sometimes, is all. And I understand. I used to not tag my more risqué stuff with "nsft" as diligently as I do now. Like, I just wouldn't even think. Then, I got an anon ask saying they were underage & were uncomfortable with that sort of content.

And I was horrified, so now I tag anything I post or reblog that has that sort of content with the right tag & try to encourage others to do so as well.

... Sorry, rambling. That tends to happen.

And, to be fair... I hate that we have so many Judge Frolos, too... but one thing we have to remember is to not generalize. People are just people. And that means that there are gonna be some rotten eggs in every carton, unfortunately.

Like, I could certainly name some really bad agnostics, but that'd be petty & rude, so I'm not going to. Especially considering how nice you'd been.

Also, if you happen to encounter Christians who act in such a way again? My suggestion is to point out how un-Christian their behavior is, possibly with scripture as proof that they aren't behaving how God expects us to. If they actually love Him & legitimately want to do right by him, then if nothing else, it'll at least plant a seed. And if they don't change their behavior, then they might not be as Christian as they pretend to be.

I don't know about anyone else, but that would give me pause & cause me to reexamine my behavior.

Well, whatever. Bless! And thanks for understanding.

Oml I adore you!!! You are absolutely right. I do my best not to generalize and remind myself that not all of one demographic is assholes (I live in a 99.9% Christian area, and its hard to not lump them together as they all really behave the same.)

You were perfectly fine calling me out on my posts if you truly did not enjoy it, especially if you are a follower and enjoy the 99% of my posts that are not religion related! Even if you are a fellow random who stumbled onto my domain, you are very brave for speaking up. I appreciate it.

Judge Frolos, lol. I appreciate the reference. You neat. I have been going that route when I come across folks of that nature, just... The folks of my town don't care, sadly. They continue with their false righteousness of hatred and bigotry and sadly, there is not enough people of the correct righteousness here to help fight back. It's a damn shame, and I admit it has clouded my judgement of many Christians in general. I am sorry for that, and I will do better in the future.

I will certainly try to do better about specific tags. Many may fall through the cracks, but I will definitely put more effort into taking notice of reposts of that nature at the very least.

I wish upon you love, luck, and happiness, my dear Relig Anon. May you be blessed in your endeavors, and may Jesus be with you. Feel free to drop by my asks in the future should you ever wanna chat about religion in a more open discussion or for any other random matter!

[scarletriddles]

Lost in the fire ˚༄ | S.R

↳ in which the team’s newest case puts your life in jeopardy, at your own accord.

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader

genre: angst, sprinkle of fluff

warnings: general cm gore/case discussion, fire/arson, injuries related to fire, swearing, references to religion + greek mythology, friends to…? (they’re in la-la-la-love, your honour), some possible inaccuracies (sorry!), small jemily mention because lesbian rights, hopeful ending, use of she/her pronouns, no use of y/n, second person narrative.

word count: 4.3k

a/n: my first ever fic i’m very nervy🫣i’m not expecting this to gain any sort of traction, but lmk how you find it, i suppose!

“Haley Bradstone, aged twenty-five, and Laura Kilmey, aged twenty-seven, are the most recent victims in a series of murders in Detroit, Michigan. Both victims were discovered four days apart, and only five miles away from each other, their bodies disposed of in black FIBC bulk bags that were left in trash-sites.” JJ pauses, her gaze flickering between the team, almost hesitant as her thumb circles the silver remote. But, with a clearing of her throat, she continues. “Cause of death for both victims has been ruled asphyxiation…by smoke inhalation.”

You abruptly halt toying with the frayed edges of the case file, your eyebrows shooting up and head lifting to look at her, and then also at the rest of the team - who look just as bewildered.

“Sorry, did you just say smoke inhalation?” You ask, genuine confusion weighing down your tone.

JJ nods, her expression dismayed as she eyes the two beaming faces displayed on the board. “Yes, as laid out in the case files, high levels of carbon monoxide, hydrogen cyanide and hydrogen sulphide were found in both victim’s lungs. The coroner also noted soot around the victim’s faces, and TBSA burns, all of which are synonymous with death via smoke inhalation.”

“Carbon monoxide poisoning is actually the leading cause of death in smoke inhalation - causing approximately 2,100 deaths in the U.S each year.” Spencer adds, followed by his familiar flat smile, which he usually does when he doesn’t know what to do with his face - which happens to be always.

You blink, with a slight quirk to your lips, despite the circumstances. Trust your good doctor to know just about everything.

“Were there reports of any fires around the general area?” Hotch pipes up, his face set in his usual stony expression, though his eyes betray his pensiveness.

JJ shakes her head, adjusting her stance. “No, which is what makes this stranger. The DPD reported no calls about any sort of fire on the days our victims were killed.”

“What? So our unsub just…lit a bunch of fires in plain sight?” Derek questions, with a flick of his brow, his gaze alternating between the board and the manilla folder in his grasp.

You huff, turning to face him with a slight smile, musing. “Must be one hell of a magician.”

Derek smirks in general bemusement, his dark eyes swirled with mirth, his tone light as a feather as he shifts in his scratchy office chair. “Looks like it, lil mama.”

Ever the smooth talker.

“Or, he could be using a secondary location.” Emily chimes in, her narrow-eyed gaze set firm on the file in front of her, her slender fingers fiddling with a bullet-point pen, and her lips contorted into a reflective pout.

“That’s plausible, but you’d think at least someone would notice.” Rossi adds, with a slight huff of incredulity, his calculating gaze sweeping across the entire room before him.

The two smiling faces are quickly joined by two more, both just as radiant, both just as nausea-inducing. Those poor girls.

“We don’t know for sure. But, the most recent victims join twenty-eight year old Sarah Holloway, and twenty-two year old Jessica Bailey. Who, similarly, were found four days apart, five miles away from each other and dumped in black FIBC bags, also ruled dead via asphyxiation. However, Sarah and Jessica’s dumpsites were around 14 miles away from Haley and Laura’s.” JJ purses her lips faintly, eyes still fixated on the crime scene photographs of four similar looking women who didn’t even live properly yet, robbed of the chance to, just like Poseidon robbed Medusa of her autonomy, on the marble steps of her deity’s temple. The thought alone just worsens the crease between her brows.

“four victims…why are they only just asking for our help, now?” Spencer ponders, features frozen in contemplativeness. His fingers sweep up to push his black-rimmed frames back to their previous position on the bridge of his nose.

God, you love his glasses.

JJ’s face morphs into a faint grimace, as she replies in a reluctant tone. “Unfortunately, the media managed to connect the dots on this one, they’re dubbing our unsub ‘the smoke-killer.’ But, the DPD really needs our help with this.”

You sigh, eyes trained on the gruesome imagery displayed on the silver screen. No matter how long you’ve been with the BAU, the violence never quite gets bearable for you, though you can’t bring yourself to look away - like witnessing a car-crash. You understand the psychology behind it, shock rooting the human body in place as the brain tries to comprehend that what it’s processing is real.

But, guilt still flows around in your system like the Noachian flood. Maybe, if you thought about it hard enough, you’d feel the ark bashing against your innards as it tries to navigate the brutal waves.

You suppose the violence doesn’t get easier for the team, either. Perhaps that’s what keeps you all tethered to each other, bonded. After all, the Greeks did beat the Trojans in unity - and disguised as a large, ligneous horse, but you digress.

Hotch nods, solemnly. “Alright, we can discuss further on the jet. Wheels up in 20.” And with that, he abruptly stands up, striding out of the room with a sureness in his step that only he could possess, effectively putting an end to the briefing.

The screen then goes dark, the car-crash finally being attended to. The sounds of chairs scraping across the frizzled navy carpeted floor and paper rustling bounces around the small space, as everyone heads out and into the bullpen, all but the exception of spencer, who remains seated, brooding over his manilla file as though he’s a modern day Thomas Aquinas. always thinking. You muse to yourself, though your eyebrow still raises in question nonetheless.

“Reid, you coming?” You probe gently, standing in the doorway with a faint grin. Your eyes flickering like fairy-lights all around his hunched-over frame.

Spencer startles slightly, craning his head up from the file and over to you - a rosy hue creeping up the nape of his neck from the sight of you alone. He swallows, standing up suddenly, and pushing his chair out with his hip, as he breathes out. “Uh, yea-yeah i’m…i’m coming.” He collects his things quickly, scrunching up his case file as he slings his satchel over his shoulder. Though, it doesn’t really matter, he’s already memorised it from start to finish. Eidetic memory and all.

He flashes you his signature flat smile once again, as his muddy hues rake over your appearance. You look pretty today, well he thinks you always look pretty, but today especially. Your hair swishes around your face in wisps like cotton-candy, your frame adorned in your usual grey fitted slacks, paired with a pink striped puff sleeved button down and black leather boots.

He believes you’re the personification of an angel, and with the way the abnormally-harsh office lighting is dancing around your hair in a nimbus-like manner, he’s probably right.

“C’mon then doctor genius, we have an hour long flight to catch.” Your voice rolling out with a teasing lilt, a subtle smile curled around the edges of your glossed lips.

Spencer usually loathes being referred to as a genius, namely because it’s said with such obvious sneer and condescension, like he’s an abnormal form, like he’s still that twelve-year-old high schooler. But, you never say it with thinly-veiled disgust, no, you say it with such reverence- like it’s something to be admired.

Yeah, angel.

He mirrors your smile, eyes soft and starry eyed as he follows you out of the room. “one-hour, 19 minutes and 45 seconds.” He corrects softly, always keen for specifics, his satchel smashing against his upper-thigh periodically as he walks beside you.

You huff in amusement, rolling your eyes in jest. “Right. My bad, one-hour, 19 minutes and 45 second long flight.” Your head tilts up slightly to look up at him, your irises dipped in unsubtle gaiety,

Spencer lets out a huffy laugh of his own, shaking his head in amusement. He loved when you teased him, though he’d never admit that. At least, not to you anyway.

“Oh, forgive me for being specific.” He sounds out, airily, like a dish-soap bubble crafted by small exploring hands, as he places his own ridiculously large palm on his chest in mock-offence.

“more like particular.” You reply, just as you reach your desk, in faux-annoyance, the curl of your lips betraying that fact.

Spencer puffs out another slight laugh in response, as he leans against the edge of your desk, watching you comb through it. His gaze doesn’t settle, darting around the array of trinkets and just general stuff aligning the glossy oak, including the multiple pots of bright pens - some looking vaguely like the ones he’s seen scattered around Penelope’s ‘bat-cave’ - and even a stick-figure drawing of him scribbled onto a canary yellow sticky-note, featuring overly large glasses and converse, which are more akin to clown shoes, alongside an equally as dramatised stick-figure version of Morgan, complete with a badly scrawled out six pack and huge biceps.

He feels a warmth blossom in his chest as looks over the cluttered space. It’s just so irrevocably you.

“particular or not, i still believe everything-“ He begins.

“-everything should be accurate, wherever possible” You mock affectionately, with a barely hidden smirk, still rooting through your things like a squirrel digging for an acorn.

A slight pout forms on his face, bordering on more petulant than anything. “How’d you even know I was going to say that?”

A faint effervescent giggle slips past your lips, your head still firmly pulled down, as your hands continue their wandering through your desk drawers. “ ‘Cause you’ve said that line at least a dozen times now, doc.” You drawl out, still grinning to yourself.

He wants that sound to be his morning alarm.

He rolls his eyes, only half-seriously, a smile lighting the corners of his mouth up like a vegas ‘welcome’ sign. “I have not said that a dozen times!” He huffs out, with a shake of his head at the injustice of it all, his dark curls springing with the movement.

You just smile, continuing to rifle through your desk before you locate what you were looking for, quickly straightening up and collecting the rest of your things before turning to him.

“Well, I’m all set doctor, lead the way.”

“Is that just so you don’t get lost again?” he replies, with an overt teasing twinkle.

You groan, blowing out like a whistle “that was one time! i was still new, and the hallways are confusing!”

He just bellows out a laugh, pushing up off the edge of your desk and beginning to walk - more like stride - his way to the elevators. You in tow, but just barely. His legs are way too long.

“I can put a sign on my back that says, ‘follow me’, if needs be.” He throws behind his shoulder.

“Oh, shut up!” You bark out, not really with any bite. Never with him.

It had been about three days since you landed in Detroit, Michigan. Most of that time being spent cramped up in the tiny makeshift office curated for the team, downing copious amounts of coffee, reading files until the backs of your eyes burned and dodging the borderline leering looks from the mid 40-year-old, beer gut endowed cops.

In other words, it was hell.

The team had made some progress, though. Narrowing down the profile to a white male in his early to mid thirties, who works a menial job, of average height and build, and who clearly dislikes women. Obviously, that didn’t narrow down the ‘Where’s Waldo’ search by much. But still, you really just couldn’t shake the obvious question…

Why go through all the trouble of burning these women, but not completely, just to dump their bodies?

And it seemed that question floated around the backs of everyone else’s mind, too. It was bizarre, to say the least.

Currently, the team is all stuffed in said aforementioned makeshift office space, like sardines in a can, no less. Emily and JJ sat at the table together, as usual, Derek propped up against the wall, Hotch and Rossi stood brooding in the corner of the room, quietly discussing something between themselves, leaving you and Spencer situated in front of the board, where the geographical profile is mapped out.

“He’s operating within a 20 mile radius, dumping the bodies within an area he’s comfortable in. He’s either going to strike here.” Spencer points to a spot on the map with his finger, tapping against it slightly before dragging it across and towards another spot, “or here.” His features were swamped in pondering thought, his honeyed gaze encompassing the sight in front of him.

“Yeah, but i still don’t understand why he’d go through all the trouble of burning them till they die from smoke inhalation, and then discarding the bodies. jus’ seems a lil’ pointless t’ me” Morgan drawls out, his stance wide and his arms folded, one of his hands resting on his chin.

“well ain’t that the million dollar question.” You reply, with a sigh lathered in perplexity, your arms folded in a similar manner, but with one of your hands rubbing up the side of your arm, in a absentminded fashion.

“Morgan’s right, it doesn’t make any sense.” Hotch pauses slightly, contemplating - like everybody else in the room. His dark eyebrows stitched together, and his lips set in a taut frown.

“None of it makes sense, i mean, even the dumping method, why bulk bags and not just plain ol’ trash bags?” Emily questions, sitting back in her seat with an exhale, her legs crossed with her boot-clad foot tapping against one of the legs of the rickety table.

You blink, a thought coming to you at her question. “Theres a Hardware store in the middle of town, right?” You throw out, hands stuffed into the pockets of your black slacks.

Hotch’s brows furrow, as he regards you. “Yes, why?” He says simply, almost curiously.

You shrug, “so then he’d probably be getting the bulk bags from there, since it’s easily accessible.”

Everyone goes silent at your question, seemingly mulling it over, before Morgan responds.

“If so, why wouldn’t he just buy trash bags?” He says, with a cock of his brow.

“Because he wants the victims to be found.” Spencer states, plainly, piling onto your train of thought and rocking back and forth on his heels, as his tongue darts out, swiping his slightly dry bottom lip.

“Think about it, a bulk bag is much more conspicuous than a simple trash bag, he wants his handiwork to be seen - maybe not right away, but he knows at least one person would find the presence of a large plastic bag near a dumpster to be…alarming, whereas no one would bat an eye at seeing a trash bag. Same goes for his M.O, he most likely has some sort of access to an incinerator, perhaps due to his job, which allows him to discreetly ‘burn’ his victims, before dumping them in a way which derives notice.”

His hands flail around wildly as he talks, an endearing habit that makes it seem like he’s so excited to talk about what he’s discussing that, at the minimum, one part of his body has to move with the speed of his mouth.

You smile - more of a secret thing, really, just for yourself - you love listening to that man talk. It’s the eighth wonder of the world, to you.

Everyone nods, the notion seemingly settling into their psyche without much problem, as logically, it did make sense.

“If thats the case, then we have a problem.” Rossi scratches the side of his jaw lightly, his head tilted and his bronze hues directed at the table.

Emily raises her brow, in clear need of clarification. “What problem?” She murmurs out, her head cocked to the side, questioningly.

“We have an unsub who wants attention, and will stop at nothing to get it.” Hotch adds on, sharing a brief glance with Rossi, his expression more grave than usual, before he fishes out his phone, dialling a number and setting the onyx Nokia down onto the table. “Garcia, you’re on speaker.”

“Hello, my favourite crime-fighters! To what do i owe the pleasure?” The shrill cheery voice of Penelope Garcia rings out, immediately bringing a small smile to your face. She really was like bathing in sunshine.

“We were wondering if you could take a look at a hardware store’s sales within the last month, more specifically of FIBEC bulk bags.” Hotch drags out, his arms still folded and his face betraying nothing but his usual stoicism.

“Oh, that i can do upside down with my hands tied, sir! just…one…second.” Penelope’s voice hauls out, followed by the rapid clinking of keyboard keys. “What’s the name of the store?” She asks, her tone focused.

“Sally’s Shack” Hotch replies, his tone equally levelled.

After a few moments, and a lot more keyboard clicking, Penelope finally pipes up again. “Ah-hah! so, it appears that our shack in question has sold six FIBEC bulk bags within the last month, all to the same buyer - well, at least the same credit card was used, ending in 4678.”

Hotch looks visibly taken aback slightly, before he asks “Can you get a name, Garcia?”

“Already on it, sir.” Penelope replies, with her usual peachy tone.

A tense silence follows, only sporadically broken by the clickity-clack of Penelope’s rainbow pastel keyboard. Then, she pipes up again.

“Okay…looks like the card belongs to a 33-year-old, Mr. Eugene Humphrey, who currently works at…” Her words trail off, obvious hesitance behind them “…burns funeral home and crematory, and owns a residence just in the middle of town.”

Everybody seems to pause, then. He matches the profile - Mid thirties, works a menial job which would give him access to a ‘discreet’ burning method and just so happened to purchase the same material used by the unsub, whilst also owning his own property not too far away from the hardware store in which the material was purchased…yeah that can’t be a simple coincidence.

“Pen, does he have a criminal record of any kind?” Your voice floats out, drifting through the confined space like Thumbelina on her shamrock lily-pad.

“I will have a looksie for you now, my sweet sugar muffin, just hang on one second-“ Penelope cuts herself off as her fingers begin their ministrations again, the keyboard rumbling with every tap, a smile edging on your face at the absurd term of endearment.

“Alright…looks like our guy spent six months in juvenile detention when he was sixteen for lighting his girlfriend’s car on fire, claimed he caught her cheating on him with his best friend, youch!”

You can practically see the cogs turning in your teammates heads, looks like you got your guy.

“Okay, thats good garcia, could you-“

“-send his information over? already done, sir.” promptly interrupting the low voice of your unit chief, in a way that is so Penelope, that he can’t really object.

“Thank you Garcia, We appreciate it” Hotch replies in his typical authoritative tone.

“You’re welcome, my gorgeous gods and goddesses, now go and save lives.” Penelope chirps out, swinging on her swanky desk chair, her hands now preoccupied with a bright pink fluffy pen.

“You’re the best, babygirl.” Morgan calls out, his tone suave and a smirk illuminating his features.

Penelope lets out a giggle, replying in her token-teasing articulation. “Only for you, my chocolate thunder, now ta-ta!” Her sing-songy voice sounds out with finality, before the line drops, indicating that she ended the call.

“Alright, everyone, looks like we’re scoping a funeral home. I’ll go inform the captain, and i need all of you to gear up, as a cautionary, is that clear?” Hotch demands, his gaze expectant.

resounding murmurs of “yes” fill out the area, to which the dark-haired agent replies to with a curt nod, before swiftly exiting the room.

You let out a breath, turning to the rest of the team with a faintly reluctant expression. “Let’s get this show on the road then, guys.”

Morgan flashes an easy smile, coming up behind Spencer and clapping him on the shoulder, his smooth voice infused with teasing. “You heard her, pretty boy, let’s get moving.”

Spencer has to resist an eye-roll, his cheeks immediately flushing raspberry red, whereas you just let out a small confused laugh - clearly not in on whatever inside joke that seems to be playing out - turning on your heel and prancing out of the room, leaving the two of them to squabble like 10-year-old brothers.

Though, on your way out, you swear you saw Emily squeeze JJ’s hand underneath the table…

Something went wrong. Terribly wrong.

You don’t know how - hell, nobody on the team knows how, but Humphrey somehow found out you were coming. He might’ve gotten some frustratingly accurate in-tell, or maybe he just… knew. After all, bad news attracts bad news, right? And being arrested for the murders of four women sure seems like pretty bad news. Or maybe he was a paranoid fuck. Either thought seems plausible, but currently pointless.

Ironically, Burn’s Funeral Home and Crematory, was well…burning. The two-story high foundation, which you’re guessing was once a depressing waxen colour, is now engulfed in orange. Bright, blazing orange, and for a moment, you almost believe the sun crash-landed onto earth.

The ignited shades dance across your features , making you look like you’re almost glowing. You hear Morgan let out a few curses, and Emily mutter something eerily close to “Oh my God” under her breath. But, the rest of you remain silent, devoid of speech, heads lifted up and staring at the fiery wreckage. Drawn in, entranced.

You can’t pull your eyes away, Not even when Hotch snaps out of his own silent gazing and begins to talk around you, shooting out instructions like darts to your co-workers. Well, until you hear a fire-man trudge past you, in full PPE and carrying a winding anaconda-like hose, writhing along the gravelled floor with each step he takes, similar orders being barked out of his mouth to his team-mates. But, that isn’t what grabs your attention, it’s the information coming from his radio.

A mother and her child are stuck in there, apparently looking for a casket for her husband before the building went up in flames, and they aren’t even going to attempt to save them - something about the fire being “too large, too risky.”

A mother and her child. Her 8-year-old little girl who just lost her father, and now is going to lose her own life, trapped in a scorching maze.

Not on your watch.

You will not, cannot, let this sick bastard take another girl’s life.

Your legs move before your brain even has time to catch-up, darting straight past multiple fire personnel who all try to stop you, but you dodge each one. Not even the sounds of the team shouting your name halts you, your figure retreating straight into the raging inferno.

What’s that saying? Moth to a flame?

Well, consider the molten-structure your flame. Because you won’t stop, will not stop, not until the mother and her daughter are out. Safe.

Either way, God appeared before Moses in the form of a fiery bramble. And maybe, he was doing it again, instead for their freedom, not yours or a 120-year-old man’s. You were getting them out of this desert, even if there were no miles of grainy-sand and the occasional tumbleweed, but instead hot, piercing, smouldering heat.

Spencer’s astute brain doesn’t take long to register what the hell you are doing. And, he doesn’t think he’s ever felt so panicked. He practically screeches your name, moving to go after you, but with no such luck as Morgan and Hotch hold him back. But he fights, and he fights harder than he’s ever had in his life, because this is you.

“Let me go! she’s in there! you can’t just let her go in there!” He shrieks, every word sharpened with utter desperation.

Neither Morgan’s nor Hotch’s replies to his incessant wailing actually penetrates his mind. He feels like he’s underwater, succumbing to the depths of the Mariana Trench, fading black and blue.

The water freezes over the longer you’re in there. Trapped in that dismal, enflamed formation. He feels sick, but he knows spilling his stomach content won’t provide any relief, it’s a sickness that’s lodged itself into his bones, into his very being. He wonders if this is what the Woolly Mammoths felt like during the first coming of the glacial-period, just observing as they, one-by-one, all perished to the frost.

He can’t have lost you. Not before he-

…Not before he could tell you that you’re his first thought when he wakes up, and his last before he surrenders himself to the dark abyss of unconsciousness.

No, this can’t be it. He refuses, he downright rejects the thought.

He just stares, and stares at the lit up property, his whole entity screaming for you to just make it. His mind and mouth spinning prayers to god’s he doesn’t even believe in because if there was any chance of that turning the cards in your favour, then he’s taking it and holding on tight.

The seconds feel like minutes, the minutes like hours. Time is a fickle thing, always stretching and compressing back together again depending on someone’s emotions. But, that philosophy does nothing to distract him from the ache. Because a life without you in it, he grasps, isn’t a life at all. Not one that he wants to live, anyway.

Two soot-covered frames emerge from the fiery entrance, immediately being swept away by fire-personnel for medical treatment. And his heart stops, until he realises you aren’t either of those coughing figures.

Where are you? Why aren’t you coming out?

Time seems to stretch again, expanding like a black-hole over his fitful, beating heart. Ready to consume, ravage. But, maybe, that would be an act of mercy, anything would be an act of mercy compared to the waiting. Agonising, hoping and waiting.

Then…a third figure finally bursts out of the flames. He’s seen that mop of hair before, he knows that hair. Even at a fair distance, hunched over and simultaneously gasping for air and hacking your lungs up, tousled, with skin embedded in ash, You’re beautiful and you’re alive.

You’re alive.

He pushes his body forward and he runs, he sprints and goes to you. And this time, Hotch and Morgan let him.

[fanfictilltheend]

❤️‍🔥Violent Heart Part 2:  ♪Remember when I moved in you, and the holy dove was moving too ♫ (or the VERY DARK Stepdad!Mechanic!Covict!Joel x Afab!you one)❤️‍🔥

Hi I apologize that a lot of these reference pics are just of white girls. I tried to find "aesthetic" images that go with the story but so many of them are just of white people and I want to call myself out for this because in the fic's only descriptors are that she has hair and is AFAB -- nothing about race. I also realize that all of the girls in this are skinny too and Y/N's body type is never specified. Sorry fam!! These images are just to get the creative juices flowing and don't truly depict anything from the fic!!

A/n: It’s here!!!!!! 18+ Only. This took me 7 freaking months so you mofos better like, reblog, and comment. This is both my most and least personal fic I’ve ever written and it is dark and relies heavily on plot (smut this time tho!!) READ ALL OF THE TAGS DO NOT COME FOR ME UNLESS YOU DID THIS FR FR. This ones for my dark joel fangirlies(guys and NBies) and the daddy issues fam ily ❤️‍🔥 (also not me naming my fic in part after hallelujah by leonard cohen but there is a reason!!!!!!!!!!)

Summary: Part 2 picks up with Y/N at age 20 and how her relationship with Joel has changed and gets steamier.  SMUT and feelings <3 Also check out this playlist of music that’s in the fic!!!!

Tags (PLEASE READ): Afab!you, pov change, Infidelity, threats, age gap, dressing Joel up (swear I wrote this before he wore that outfit to the SAG awards — the mr.Darcy-core one), racist comment (from Y/N’s douchey boyfriend), douchey boyfriend, confidence issues, feelings, voyeurism, masturbation (m and f), kissing, penis in vagina sex — unprotected (wear a condom), lightest hint of ass play, scar worship?? kinda??, daddy issues, daddy kink, using music lyrics to move the plot, multiple orgasms (m and f), religion and god discussions, stepcest (kinda bc technically he is divorced from her mother), tagging psuedo-incest just to be safe!!, use of y/n

Word Count: ~13k

PART 1

AO3 Link

Violent Heart Masterlist

Full Masterlist of all my work

If you’re being honest, you’ve always had a little crush on Joel Miller. How could you not have? The first day you’d met him had been like some kind of fucked up yet extremely satisfying whirlwind of a daydream. He’d come in, broad and tall and strong, and saved you from your evil (though you do love him somewhere deep, deep down) older brother’s onslaught. Protected you like a knight in shining armor from his punching, beating fists. Treated and touched you so tenderly, so many miles different from how your own father did that you’d been hit with whatever the pleasant opposite of whiplash is. And the way he finally punished Aiden after years of his reign of terror, the violence of it, the justice of it. You didn’t have words for it then, but the way you looked into Joel’s eyes when he was doling out that righteous punishment became some kind of strange secret understanding between the two of you. Maybe it was the first sign of love? You aren’t sure.

As a kid, he’d given you what you like to think of as quiet butterflies. They were always there when he spoke to you, looked at you, touched you, beat the shit out of your father and brother for you, but they were faint enough that you could ignore them. It was a comforting, fluttering kind of love, a gradual understanding of your loyalty to one another. But then puberty hit and the insects became incessantly loud when you thought of, wrote to, or talked to him. They ate at your heart day after day while Joel was in prison – the longing, the missing. Aiden told you that you were obsessed with him. Your mother told you to forget him, that he would forget you. But somehow, he didn’t. You wonder if those bugs live in him too. You wonder if they are quiet or loud and if they gnaw .

You think that they are probably loud. You think this for a few reasons. The first is that you know for a fact, you can feel it in the lining of your soul, and from the evidence of his constant correspondence and care for you, that he is just as obsessed with you as you are with him. The second reason is the fact that you think but aren’t one hundred percent sure is that the last time you’d hugged him he’d gotten a little hard (you don’t want to think too much into that because he is only a man who had been deprived of touch for a long time – but still you wonder…). And the third is the way he looks at you like you are the universe like you are the last drop of nectar and he is the last butterfly left on Earth in a famine. 

That’s how he’s looking at you now in the passenger seat of his old, clunky pickup. You know that he wanted to drive, but you wanted to show him how well you could because he had never seen. Never had the chance to see how well you had fixed, maintained, and took care of his baby and of course he gave into you like he always does. He's smiling at you quietly, but his eyes contain multitudes. Right now mostly pride at your driving.

Joel is a bit different than how you remember sitting near him in the truck the last time you were together, him as a free man, you as a little girl. Somehow, even though you are obviously bigger now, he still seems massive and broad and stronger than ever. His biceps are huge – probably from all the time he had to work out in prison – and peeking out under his blue t-shirt that you brought for him, you think you see the outlines of some tattoos. You look a little closer. On his right arm is text in curvy black ink. You think it reads, “Sarah.” You smile softly at that. On his other arm is a strange orange shape that you have to squint at to understand. The edges of the object are jagged but they form a shape like a badge – and then you know what it is! It is the guitar pick you made for Joel as a child. The one that had pricked his finger and drawn blood and he stuck it in his wallet. You can’t articulate how honored you feel that Joel loved you enough to tattoo something you made for him on his body, permanently, forever. 

“ Well , the light only turned green damn near eons ago,” he complains about your driving, but you know he is just teasing.

There is hardly anything wrong you can ever do in Joel’s eyes. He grins at you a bit lopsidedly and you smile back. You also can’t help but notice the greying of his brown hair. It’s a bit longer than it used to be too and the length gives it a little bit less of a shaggy look. You think it suits him, makes him look a bit older and more distinguished than when he first came into your life twelve years ago. 

Objectively, you know it’s weird to think that your ex-stepdad who is a convicted felon is hot, but it’s just something you’ve always known and thought like that the sky is blue or that orange is your favorite color. You know it’s weird to think of someone who was? – is? – supposed to be a father figure to you that way, but it’s already second nature at this point. You’ve had a few boyfriends (luckily all of them had treated you right), but none of the feelings you’ve ever had for them have compared to the cosmic-sized love and affection you have for Joel and you’ve never known anything different. The years you spent longing, missing, loving, obsessing over, and aching for him in every way under the sun, can’t be healthy, you know this, but they have eclipsed practically every other relationship in your life. No one has ever made you feel as safe and protected and loved as Joel has. No one else has ever looked at you the way he does. No one else’s entire existence has revolved around you the way his has. The sheer devotion in his gaze is enough to make the butterflies inside you scream and beat their wings against your insides like hungry bats. 

And you especially know you shouldn’t have these feelings about another human being violent enough to be capable of taking a life – inebriated or not. You’re grown now and know the man he killed was a scum-of-the-Earth child predator, and secretly you’ve always wondered if there was more to the story than Joel told the police in the official court transcripts you’d read as an adult, maybe even something to do with you since you had been there that day in the repair shop when they met , but you haven’t pressed because you’re sure the whole thing is quite traumatic for Joel and if he ever wants to tell you, you know he will. And more importantly, you don’t really care. Drunken, violent idiot or not, you were already deeply invested and never intended on wavering in that. You’re not sure there’s anything Joel could do to get you to stop loving him and that both terrifies and excites you. 

“Okay, whatcha wanna eat?” you ask, reaching out to rub Joel’s shoulder gently. “Now that you’re free you can have whatever you want! On my mom’s credit card of course. Swear I won’t tell her.”

Joel grins.

“Deal,” he tells you. “I was thinking of a nice steak dinner.”

***

You pull into the fanciest restaurant you can find in the tri-state area and sit down to order a regal, all-American, full three-course steak dinner (though you’re both woefully underdressed – not that you care – though the host gives you a dirty look). All the while, you tell Joel about your major (psychology) and how you want to become a counselor for abused children.

“That’s sort of beautiful, sweetheart,” he tells you with a genuine smile that used to be so hard to coax from him, but now seems to float over to you so easily and gently like a kiss from something as soft as the wings of a butterfly. “Wanting to help defenseless children. You’re kinda like a guardian angel for them, ya know? Damn proud of ya! Also, these mashed potatoes are goddamn delectable!” he exclaims after taking an experimental bite. “Have I mentioned that prison food is shit?”

You smile bashfully and want to tell him that he is your guardian angel (you wonder if he thinks the same of you) and inspiration in a backward sort of way for wanting to help kids in the first place since he was so good at protecting you for the most part (though you obviously don’t believe violence is the correct answer in your line of future work). But kids need protectors. Somehow you know that deep down you forgive him for all of the violence he caused because you would forgive him for anything. And him being proud of you? You don’t think there’s a better feeling in the world than that! You burst with pride. Your real father never said that to you, but Joel doesn’t feel like your father now. He is something different entirely. Something that entirely belongs to you.

“And you’ll meet my boyfriend, Max, tomorrow,” you nod as Joel moves onto the steak and lets out a soft moan at how good it tastes. “He’s heard a lot about you.”

Joel’s face flattens.

“And who is this kid exactly?” he sneers a little, attacking the steak with his knife. 

You smile internally at the obvious jealousy he’s trying to hide from his voice.

“Hey, Max is a decent guy!” you insist in his defense. “He’s pre-law. Real smart. He’s gonna be an important person someday, I know it. You’ll get on.”

That last part is a bit of a lie since you’re not sure the two will actually like each other. 

Joel examines your face, looks deep into your eyes.

“All I know is, just because someone is important, don’t mean they’re good to you or for you for that matter.” 

You can’t help but think of your father, the most “important” man you know and how much of a degenerate he is compared to someone ostensibly average like Joel who didn’t even have a status symbol like a college degree and how perfect of a man you think he is, despite his obvious flaws. You blush a little, scrunching up your nose. 

“Just lookin’ out for you, sweetheart,” he continues, smiling at the way you do. “He ever fuck with you – he ever break your heart, you know just where to send him, alright?”

“Yeah, Joel,” you grin. “Don’t need you getting any more jail time though, alright?” “You may have made a valid point,” he concedes with a smirk. 

***

When you two enter your shitty, one-bedroom apartment it’s already dark outside. Joel actually grins when he notices his and your guitars have both been mounted on the wall. 

“We can play ‘em tomorrow,” you tell him excitedly. “If you want to, I mean…”

“Hell yeah, I do,” Joel smiles. “Wanna hear ya singing for me, honey. I missed that.”

You smile to yourself.

“You can have my bed, and I’ll take the couch,” you decide, getting back to business. 

“No way, babygirl. I ain’t taking your bed.”

“Joel, you’ve literally been on a prison mattress for eight fucking years! Can’t imagine that’s been very comfortable.”

“That’s exactly why I won’t mind the couch. That’ll feel like heaven to me. Don’t want you messin’ up your back, sweetheart.”

You open your mouth, but Joel beats you.

“And that’s that,” he insists. 

“Alright, alright,” you concede, knowing by the look on his face he’s not budging. If one thing, Joel has always been stubborn, but you like that about him. “D’you wanna watch a movie or something?”

“Actually, baby, if ya don’t mind, I’d like a quick shower. Been dreaming about taking a real, private one for ages.”

“Yeah, of course!” you nod, motioning toward your bathroom door. “Towels are under the sink.”

Joel makes his way inside and soon steam is billowing out the bottom of the door. 

You busy yourself with some homework, but just as you walk past the door to grab a glass of water, you think you hear Joel singing.

You listen more closely over the fall of the running water and make out him singing the chorus of an old ABBA song with a deeper, sadder tone to it,

♪ “ Slipping through my fingers all the time / I try to capture every minute / The feeling in it / Slipping through my fingers all the time / Do I really see what's in her mind? / Each time I think I'm close to knowing / She keeps on growing / Slipping through my fingers all the time…” ♫

You feel like such a sap, but you feel a tear forming in your eye at the way Joel must be thinking about his and your relationship and everything he missed in your life. You aren’t mad at him, but his absence hurt in a way you didn’t know you could feel. And you’ve never blamed him, really, but the lack of him for eight years of milestones really did kill a piece of you. You can’t help but imagine a butterfly at the bottom of your stomach with its wings pulled off. That’s how you felt all that time without Joel – like a butterfly without wings. A writhing worm of a human being, senseless and lost in a giant world full of forces you couldn’t control. 

You listen to Joel’s beautiful, deep voice until you hear him turn off the tap and you scurry away and act innocent. 

Joel emerges from the bathroom then with nothing but a white towel around his waist, steam from the shower floating lazily into the room behind him like precession. And oh, wow, is he ever a sight to behold. His hair is wet, dark brown flecked with grey, and starting to get curly from the moisture. You also can’t help but notice his broad chest, the expanse of it, the dark curls of hair, his bulking, muscular tattooed arms, his soft, hairy tummy, the V-shape of muscle that descends beneath the towel, his happy trail. You are overwhelmed by the soaking beauty of him. You’d seen Joel shirtless before, sure, but it had never felt like this . 

“Gon’ grab some of those clothes you bought for me and then maybe we could watch something?” Joel asks as you try so fucking hard not to stare at him.

“Sure!” you squeak, staring down at your notebook at the kitchen counter. 

You think you see a smirk from Joel, but you're not sure because your gaze is averted as he grabs some clothes to change into and disappears back into the bathroom.

When he reemerges, dressed in a wifebeater and shorts that accentuate his form, you two sit next to each other on your cushy sofa and surf the TV for something to watch. You feel Joel’s hairy knees against your jean-clad one and your heart flutters.

“Can’t believe I’m really here,” Joel says softly as you pass re-runs of Full House, a dog show. “Like I gotta fuckin’ pinch myself to know it’s not a dream.”

Suddenly you feel a large, weathered hand on your cheek.

“Missed you so much, babygirl,” he murmurs, looking into your eyes, massaging the line of your jaw ever so lightly, trying to hold your skittish gaze. “More than I even have words for.”

First, you avoid looking at him a bit bashfully, but then you stare up cautiously into those big brown eyes that feel like a familiar kind of home and you’re such a goner. You lean into his warmth, the warmth of his hand.

“Missed you too, Joel. So much,” you admit, never wanting this moment to end or him to let go of you. “More than anything.”

He leans forward a little and for a second you think…but then he’s leaning in and planting a heavy kiss on your forehead. A kiss that has weight to it – not those soft, weak ones that Max gives you haphazardly when he’s drunk or high – the only time he’s brave enough to be vulnerable with you. This kiss says something, means it so sincerely too. 

“Love you, honey,” he tells you. Then his face falls. “Sorry I…wasn’t quite there to say that to you enough in person.”

“It’s okay, Joel. I forgive you,” you insist. “I love you so much, dummy. More than you even know!”

But you truly do appreciate the sentiment. 

***

You settle on an old, black and white classic, Paper Moon, that’s playing on the TV Land channel.

Joel wraps a big arm around you and you snuggle close. You’re pretty sure there isn’t a better feeling in the world than being this close to him. Even after all these years he still smells like Joel; like home (and, if you’re being honest, a bit like your vanilla shampoo) .

You lean against him, your cheek pressing into one of his firm pecs. You begin to feel sleepy, drunk on the steady sound of his heartbeat, alive and beating against you and really here . 

You nod off.

***

At first, you don’t believe it, but you feel someone with strong, firm arms lifting you into the air, cradling your back and the insides of your knees in a bridal-style carry. The movement wakes you, but you don’t open your eyes because the safety and security you feel is too good to give up. Joel carries you to your bedroom and lays you down gently in your bed. You’re still in day clothes and shoes so Joel takes off your worn sneakers with a feather-light touch and places them at the foot of the bed – you can tell from the soft thumps it makes. He maneuvers you so tenderly under the covers and tucks you in with love and care. You wonder the last time someone did that for you and pull up a blank. If anyone ever did that for you it was probably Joel. Maybe your mom did when you were really young. Certainly your father nor Aiden ever did – your father hadn’t liked to touch you except out of anger – kind of like you had some kind of weird, contagious disease. Aiden’s hands had almost always hurt too, but not Joel’s – never his. 

He breaks you from your thoughts by pressing another kiss to your forehead. Your eyes are still closed so you aren’t sure, but you think he watches you for a second and lets out a long sigh. 

Then you hear your bedroom door close softly so as not to disturb you. You smile, you can’t help it, and drift back off into a peaceful sleep.

***

You wake up to a mumbling, grunting sort of sound. You look over at your clock and read 3:42 a.m. You sit up. You can kind of hear some muffled noises coming from outside your room. At first, you feel a little concerned – like maybe Joel is in pain or something as he is the only one who could be making the noises. The walls in your apartment are paper-thin. Like you could hear him sneeze clear as day if he were to because sound travels through the shitty walls so easily. You should have told him that. But what the fuck is he doing up at 3 a.m.? 

You creep (and you mean creep) silently to the door of your bedroom and open it the tiniest crack. The way your apartment is laid out, the back of the sofa is the first thing you see and the back of Joel’s head about six feet away. He doesn’t sound in pain the way he’s groaning and then you understand exactly what he’s doing. Of course the man is jerking off! After being in prison, stuck around people for so long of course he wanted a good, private wank. He isn’t looking at anything from what you can tell, no magazines or anything. Must be using his imagination. You wonder what he’s thinking about, if he’s gotten good at that over the years.

You should turn around, slink back into bed, and cover your ears with a pillow so the man can have some privacy. But, fuck, the way he’s grunting. His voice is so fucking deep and sexy and then he lets out a soft, vulnerable moan and you feel heat envelope your whole body. You think you hear a soft fuck roll off his tongue and your heart almost beats right out of your chest. You can hear the lewd slapping of his fist on skin getting louder and more intense. Then you hear a soft take it, fuck. And Jesus, you are so fucking wet between your thighs. You ought to be ashamed. Instead, you reach down your hand feverishly beneath the band of your jeans and soaking underwear instinctively to stroke yourself ever so slightly. You sigh in relief, but you are fucking gushing, your fingers covered in your slick. You can’t see anything besides the back of Joel’s head, technically, so this couldn’t be that wrong, could it? He lets out a soft groan, you can tell he’s holding back so as not to be heard, but the desperation in the pathetic little noises this hulking man is making is turning on every switch inside you. Oh how you want to go over there and take him in your mouth, to taste him. God you are so fucked up! You’re still touching yourself gently, not really fully going at it yet, considering the possibilities that could follow if you went over there. But before you can decide to do anything, Joel positively whines, moans, and grunts fuck, unh, and you think but aren’t sure, babygirl, and finishes.

You stop dead still in what you’re doing. Did he really say “babygirl” or was that just your horny-ass imagination playing tricks on you? You’ve never heard Joel call anyone babygirl except you. Was he really thinking of you? On the one hand, if true, mega fucked up. On the other, wow, incredibly hot. You think about going over there and asking him to finish you off or something as crazy as in all those dumb romance novels you used to read in middle school, but just as quickly as the idea comes to you, you hear another noise: loud snoring. Joel is asleep.

Typical.

You snort to yourself. That was so quintessentially Joel. You don’t want to disturb him now. The moment has passed. And only then is when you remember you have a fucking boyfriend. 

That doesn’t stop you from closing your door softly, crawling back into bed, and reaching your hand down beneath your panties to touch yourself. You stroke your clit, imagining it is Joel’s rough hand rubbing against you. Holy fuck. You haven’t been this wet since you used to touch yourself thinking about him in the past. It’s like he can reach every part of you, every layer in a way that no one else can. You know the whole thing is so fundamentally fucked up, but you can resist sinking into your favorite fantasy. The smell, the touch, the feel of him. You imagine the noises he was making so beautifully on the couch, feel heat coil through your entire body, and immediately cum hard without even sticking a finger inside yourself. 

The pleasure you feel is so unparalleled and real you have to cover your hand with your mouth not to scream out your powerful orgasm. 

Sweat drenches your whole body as you come down. 

God, you are so fucked.

***

The next morning you wake up to the wafting smell of someone cooking eggs. You emerge from your room a little sheepishly from last night’s events to find Joel behind the kitchen counter making eggs and toast. 

“Mornin’, babygirl,” he grins, his eyes shining like he’s excited about something.

And then you realize: that something is you.

You grin back.

“Good morning, Joel,” you beam at him.

You were so afraid things would feel awkward after what you heard last night, but nothing ever feels awkward with Joel. In some ways, he’s still just your average dorky, friendly old ex-stepdad, convicted felon. In other ways, everything about him sets your heart on fire, but it would be stupid to ruin what you have with him because you think it’s remotely possible he might be interested back. You know this is dramatic, but if he flat-out rejected you, you think you might die. Truly. Like those butterflies inside you would beat their wings so hard they’d burst your heart.

“‘Membered you liked ‘em poached,” he nods, breaking you from your thoughts. 

He scoops two poached eggs onto one of your plates and grabs a piece of toast from the toaster which he smears with butter like how you used to eat toast as a kid. You can’t believe he remembered.

“Thanks so much,” you tell him.

He grabs a few eggs and toast for himself and sits beside you at the counter. 

“Nice to be able to cook me ‘n you some real food,” he remarks. “If I eat one more cup o’ noodles in my lifetime I swear to God Almighty…” he trais off.

He’s looking at you like you put the goddamned sun in the sky. Your heart melts as you stare at his features, the faint curls in his hair. Oh, how you want to reach out and touch him. But that just isn’t how you operate. You won’t ruin what you already have.

The butterflies in your chest howl. 

***

` You lay out the day’s schedule to Joel. You have plenty of time to hang about (you see him eyeing the guitars), and then you need to go shopping for some actual clothes for Joel since the things you brought for him don’t constitute a proper wardrobe. Then you will go out to dinner and meet Max. 

Joel grunts a nod at that last part. He doesn’t seem too thrilled.

“Wanna show me what you’ve been playing?” he asks hopefully as he gets up to put both of your plates in the sink,

“‘Course!” you nod enthusiastically. “Max says I need to work on my fingerpicking so I can’t promise it’ll be all that good.”

Joel rolls his eyes.

“Show me what you’ve got.”

***

You sit down on the couch right next to Joel, each of you holding your respective guitars in hand, across your laps. 

Joel looks ecstatic to have his guitar back in his hands. He fiddles with the tuning and finger-picks a faint melody.

“Haven’t played one since the prison band. But then some dumb motherfucker clobbered another sorry son of a bitch to death with a saxophone so that ended our music privileges,” Joel explains. 

“Jeez,” you reply.

Joel is sitting so close you can feel his body heat. You just want to hear him sing, but he insists on hearing you.

“Joel,” you try as innocently as possible. “D’you remember how to do an A-flat? I forget and I need it for my song.”

“Sure, baby. Lemme help ya. Now put one finger on this bit of the 4th fret here,” he begins, snaking a big arm around your shoulders so he can maneuver your fingers to the correct position. 

His touch is electric. He feels so good and warm. You feel the intense urge to climb into his lap and embrace and stay there forever. His big caloused hand full of scars places your fingers correctly for the chord. The same hand that must have jerked himself to completion last night…You can’t help but wonder how much cum there was…The truth is, you know how to make an A-flat. You just wanted to feel him.

He backs away and you whine internally at the loss.

“There we go,” he says soothingly, reaching out to rub your shoulder. “That one can be tricky. Now where is my performance?”

Your nerves are squirming around inside you but you begin to play and sing to the best of your ability. 

You look into Joel’s eyes.

♪“ You've got a heart on fire / It's bursting with desire / You've got a heart filled with passion /  Will you let it burn for hate or compassion?” ♫ you sing. 

Joel watches you intently, sitting up straighter. 

♪ “What's the point with a love / That makes you hate and kill for? ♪

You sing as best and as seriously as you can. You look up and think you maybe see a tear in Joel’s eye.

When you finish, it’s clear Joel is finding it hard to select the right words to convey what he’s feeling. 

“I–” he tries. “That was…well, let me just show you how I can answer that if anyone ever could to a performance as beautiful as that.”

You blush. 

He begins to finger-pick a familiar tune, Instantly, you are transported back to eight years old in the back of Joel’s old pickup truck, listening to one of his many cassette tapes. It’s “I’ll Never Find Another You” by The Seekers. The original version of the song is pretty happy and upbeat, but the way Joel sings it slowly in his deep and weathered voice makes you feel sad and achy inside. The emotion behind his voice is palpable.

♪ “But if I should lose your love, dear / I don't know what I'd do / For I know I'll never find another you / Another you / Another you…” ♫ he trails off.

It’s your turn to tear up a little. It’s crazy to know he means every word he’s singing too. He sings like every word is his last breath. When he finishes you are crying a little.

“You oughta record an album,” you sniffle, leaning into his shoulder, throwing him a side hug.

“Wanted to be a singer,” he replies with a small grin, leaning his head against yours. “Back when I was young.” 

You sit back up straight.

“You did? I never knew that.”

“Don’t tell nobody really,” Joel replies, looking a bit sad you left his immediate proximity. “Just a stupid dream ‘n all that crap.”

“‘S not stupid,” you tell him. “You really have a beautiful voice, Joel. It’s like if I could take it, hold on to it, and keep it forever in my chest pocket next to my heart, I would.”

“That’s where I keep you, baby,” he tells you honestly.

He reaches up a big hand to yours and guides your own to place it right on his heart over his plaid shirt. You can feel it beating steadily below your palm to the rhythm of something as delicate and ferocious as the beating of butterfly wings.

“Right here.”

***

You take Joel shopping. At his insistence it is nothing fancy, just the local department store. That doesn’t stop you from dressing Joel up in ridiculous outfits of your choosing. You make him try on a Hawaiian shirt, some golf polos like your dad liked to wear, a pinstripe suit and he lets you because saying no to you has never been in his vocabulary. He acts grumpy on the outside, but you can tell he is amused. You know in the end, you’ll just end up buying every flannel shirt and jeans combo they have in the store, but it’s just fun anyway. You watch the fabric hug his torso, his tummy, the slight bulge at his waist. At one point he comes out shirtless and you try very hard not to swoon as you stare at the hair lining his chest and his adorable little tummy that you for some reason have the urge to bite. The band of his Hanes boxers sticks up past his jeans and he looks so good. He even lets out a genuine smile. The middle-aged sales attendant who is helping you even takes a good look at him which makes the butterflies inside you swarm possessively. 

Finally, you make him try on a proper white-collared button-down shirt and black dress pants with matching black shoes and he looks so good you’re actually at a loss for words when he asks you what you think. They hug the curves and lines and planes of his body so nicely. All you can do is ask him to put on a black tie to match and he does at your behest following some customary griping that he would never wear such a monkey suit in the first place. The effect that a fully dressed-up Joel has on you is not one to be reckoned with. He might as well be wearing the men’s version of lingerie for how it makes you throb and ache between your legs. He looks like a force of nature, commanding and tall. It makes you weak. All you say is,

“Looking good, old-timer.”

He snorts.

When you finally ditch all the fun clothes and grab the essentials, Joel offers to go pick up the car while you pay. He tries to give you his eight-year-old credit card, but you insist on treating him on the condition he buys the “monkey suit.” After a bit of prodding, he gives in and you go to the sales attendant to pay at the counter. 

“Your dad is really cute,” the sales attendant giggles to you as she rings up the pile of clothes. 

Your cheeks go a bit red. You don’t really care enough to correct her.

“He’s my guy,” is all you say absentmindedly as you fish out your wallet from your purse.

The sales attendant hands you the receipt and on it, you see a scrawled phone number.

“For If he’s single,” she explains. “I’m Barb from sales.”

You look her over. She’s close to Joel’s age and conventionally pretty with long brown hair. The exact kind of woman Joel should be dating should he choose to get back in the game. Your stomach twists and the butterflies howl inside you.

You take the receipt, thank her, and join Joel back in the car (who is more than happy to be driving this time). 

“What took so long?” he asks casually. “You two writing a novel in there?”

You think seriously about what you should do. You consider letting the bugs have their way and tearing the receipt with Barb’s number on it to shreds. But you want good things for Joel. The chance of you two ever being together the way you wish is so far-fetched that you know you shouldn’t even be thinking it. A literal pipe dream. He was your stepdad for christsakes. He literally fucked your mother! (Gross!). Barb is exactly the kind of woman Joel should be going after if he’s up to dating right now. You hand him the receipt begrudgingly. 

“Sales Lady likes you,” you sat flatly. “Name is Barb.”

“Oh,” he says softly like he’s a bit flattered. 

He looks back at her through the glass door of the store and she waves at him. He waves back politely. You feel your stomach twisting into knots. 

“You think…you think you’re gonna call her?” you finally ask as casually as humanly possible, dreading the answer. 

Joel looks over at you, his gaze sweeping over you. Then looks back at Barb through the window. He looks her up and down.

“Nah,” he says with a smirk, looking back at you. “She ain’t my type. Only need one girl in my life right now anyways,” he winks.

Was that Joel flirting? With you?

Regardless, you smile back and then sigh in relief and grin to yourself as you two drive away. 

Much to your satisfaction, Joel crumples up the receipt and throws it out the window for good measure. 

***

You get ready for dinner, to go to a nice Mexican-Japanese fusion restaurant that Max picked out. You wear a red dress that accentuates your figure and matching heels and to your shock, Joel reemerges from the bathroom in the white button-down shirt and black dress pants you picked out for him (you had been sure flannel would be part of his ensemble). God, he looks good. A part of you wants to ditch Max and just stay here with Joel forever. He looks you over, his dark eyes sweeping over your frame. You think there is a tinge of possessiveness in his voice when he says,

“ Christ, you look beautiful, babygirl.”

***

You arrive before Max and sit down at the fancy white table-cloth-covered table next to Joel, a booth facing you. Max finally makes an appearance a half hour late and sits down across from you, sweeping his hair out of his face, sliding into the booth. Joel is frowning and the butterflies beat their wings inside you nervously.

“Sorry I’m late,” Max announces, puffing out his chest a little and smoothing out his collared shirt as he looks down at his watch and then over at Joel. “Hey, baby,” he says to you. Then, “And, uh, nice to meet you. Joe, was it? Heard a lot about you.”

“Joel,” Joel replies flatly, eyeing Max.

Max is a good-looking guy, everyone says so, but he looks more like a little boy than you’ve ever thought as he squirms uneasily in his seat under Joel’s unrelenting gaze and launches into a tirade about his frat’s inter-mural lacrosse team practice and how his team should have totally won the scrimmage and that’s why he’s late. And of course, he was the one to score the most goals.

“And the taxi cab driver was a nightmare. Only spoke Spanish. It’s like, if you come to this country speak fucking English, am I right?”

You notice Joel’s jaw tighten and his fingers clench. 

“Max, that’s so rude!” you tell him, frowning. “We’re at a fucking Mexican restaurant!”

“Anyway,” Max continues, rolling his eyes at the interruption like he barely even heard you, smirking. “Where’d you go to school? What do you do for work, Joel?  Besides making license plates, I mean. Kidding!” he insists as you stare daggers at him. 

Joel leans forward ever so slightly but you slip your leg over his to hold him back and he calms down a fraction. It’s like when you touch him, everything tense in him melts away. 

Joel sits up straighter in his chair and looks at you, stretching his arm across the back of your seat protectively like it’s a casual thing and not an unconscious sign of possessiveness.

“I’m a mechanic,” he grunts unceremoniously to Max. “I mean, I was anyways…Didn’t go to school.”

Max frowns ever so slightly. 

“You didn’t go to college? You must’ve gone to trade school at least?”

“Nope. Picked up what I know over the years. Not everyone gets a free ride from their parents,” Joel smirks.

“Free ride?” Max snaps. “I’ll have you know I spend every summer interning at a law firm!”

“Yeah, your dad’s,” you can’t help but snicker.

Max’s cheeks turn a bit pink.

“At least I’m not a psych major,” he shoots back. “I mean, no offense, babe!”

“What’s wrong with psychology?” Joel snarls, his eyes darkening. “You ought to be proud to have such a thoughtful and intelligent girl like Y/N studying such a topic.”

It’s your turn for your cheeks to go pink. 

“Joel–”

“Who said I wasn’t?” Max sneers. 

That makes you feel a bit better. 

“I’m just saying, she could have inherited the second-best law firm in the tri-state area from her pops if she was pre-law like me,” he smirks.

Your smile fades, used to hearing this kind of shit from him. He knows you and your father don’t get along at all, but not the full extent of it. He also knows you don’t have an interest in pre-law. But you swallow down how you really feel.

“It’s fine, Joel,” you tell him, placing a hand down on his thigh.

It’s not that you enjoy the way Max has been talking to you, but you are so used to it from the men in your life that it feels like the common denominator must be you. And sometimes it feels like maybe they have some kind of point. And fighting back only makes things worse. You’ve learned that over the years the hard way.

“It’s not fine!” he snaps like he’s trying to get you to see sense, looking deeply insulted on your behalf. Your heart thunders in your chest. “This boy has never worked an honest day in his life and he’s telling you what you ought to be doing? Bet his hands are soft as a baby’s ass. He doesn’t know shit about you, babygirl.”

You may not know the hardship of labor that Joel has taken on in his life, but your hands are not smooth. They are full of scars. And Joel is right. Max’s are soft like silk. You look down at the most prominent, ugly scar on your middle finger. You don’t even know which man in your life gave it to you. But you do know it means something. Shows you survived something. Survived your stupid father too, not that Max seems to care.

But Max never loses. 

“Whatever,” he smirks dismissively. “Sorry I’m not some, like, common blue-collar worker. But I guess I should be taking advice from someone who became a fucking convicted felon ‘cause they drank too much one night,” he shrugs with a terrible sneer.  

You know it’s over then.

But Joel surprises you. Doesn’t immediately strangle Max like you thought he might. Simply stands up tall and silent over Max’s frame which has suddenly begun to shake ever so slightly in obvious fear, his blue eyes widening. Joel’s fists are clenched tightly at his sides. 

“Wouldn’t mind them sendin’ me right back in, ” Joel growls low. “Drunk or not.”

You shiver and Max positively cowers. 

“Got something to say? Don’t wanna take it outside?” Joel leers, smirking ever so slightly at the trembling boy before him. “I’d even let a little boy like you take the first swing.”

“Your stepdad’s a freak, Y/N,” Max stammers, not taking his eyes off of Joel. 

“Joel, it’s fine, okay?” you growl, not wanting him to actually hurt your boyfriend. Let alone in public! “Shouldn’t talk about Joel like that though, Max! Jesus!”

“Babe, I’m sorry, okay?” Max tries, eyeing back and forth between you and Joel. “I’m just trying to look out for you. I don’t get what you see in him with a real Dad like yours! Your dad has so much to give you!”

Look out for you? So much to give you? What could he possibly give besides a stupid law firm and two black eyes? 

Max looks a bit desperate. Him apologizing for anything is actually a new concept for you. Your heart twitches ever so slightly. He must actually like you a lot. But Joel would never do anything to hurt you if it was in his power. At least not intentionally, unlike your real father. 

“That’s it. I’m leaving,” Joel snarls moodily, turning around. “Don’t want to do things I might regret to Mr.Future-Corporate-Lawyer over here. Have fun with him .”

Joel looks deeply hurt. Like you are choosing Max over him or something. That’s never what this has been about, has it? Doesn’t Joel know you’d do anything for him? That the hurt on his face hurts you more than anything you’ve ever felt. Ever.

“Joel, wait!” you decide and disappear after him, leaving Max behind at the table.

“Babe, what the fuck!?” Max yells, but you don’t care. “Come back here!”

***

You ride back in silence, Joel’s hands turning white against his grip on the steering wheel. 

When you break through to the front door of your apartment, Joel finally snaps, the anger on his face directed at something that feels like you for the first time in your life.

“You really love that little son of a bitch, don’t you?” he sneers, uncharacteristically harshly towards you. 

“So what if I did?” you shoot back, a little shocked. “It’s none of your business, Joel. What the fuck?”

“It is so my business,” he snaps back. “That kid is no good for you, Y/N. He doesn’t understand you. You deserve someone much better than that who will actually go to the ends of the earth for you. He wouldn’t do anything for you.”

There is a desperation and vulnerability in Joel’s words and tone that you’re not sure you’ve heard before. He sounds like he had been waiting the whole car ride to say this, maybe even his whole life. You aren’t sure.

“Max does give a shit about me,” you try to convince yourself, getting angrier. “I mean at least he was there for me while you were gone.”

Joel flinches.

“How do you know what’s so good for me and what’s not when you dipped out of my life for eight years?” you continue harshly. “Because why? It wasn’t because you were drunk, was it? It was because you couldn’t control your anger. You never could.”

He stares at you.

“I controlled it for you,” Joel says so quietly you almost miss it. “ You are the only reason I did any of it.”

“What?” you stammer, not sure you want to hear more. “W-what do you mean, Joel? Any of what?”

A million thoughts begin to run through your mind, but you push them aside. Theories about the case and your ideas of Joel’s true nature all threaten to drown you but you push them away.

“Do you want to know why I really killed that sick son of a bitch?” Joel asks dangerously after a long moment of silence. You stare at him, your body frozen. He looks down at his hands, flexing them like he can still feel them punching or around that disgusting man’s throat. “Why I killed him all those years ago? It was no accident, I’ll give you that. Manslaughter, my ass. I killed that scum of the Earth because he threatened you . To do terrible things to you with those disgusting hands of his. So I broke each one, but it wasn’t enough. I killed him because I didn’t want you to get hurt and because I didn’t want you to live in fear of him. I was tired, Y/N. Tired of being afraid for you in a world that doesn’t let you do shit except fight back. I loved you so much, Y/N, it hurt me. It scared me, but I couldn’t let him hurt you. I’d die before I let anyone hurt you again, not him, not your father, not Max, not anyone. You have to understand. I love –” 

And then it’s all over. You’re not sure who moves first, but you think it might be you. The butterflies are rustling and thundering and screeching inside you and you kiss him. And Joel kisses back, devouring your mouth in his. You grab the back of his graying brown hair and pull him as close to you as you think is humanly possible. He cradles the back of your head so gently you almost lose your breath. And you are kissing and kissing and kissing and kissing. There is nothing else in the universe except this kiss. You have never felt anything like this in your life. It is like every butterfly inside you has gone silent. It is like the world has stopped just for you and something new is forming inside you.

Joel killed that vile man for you. To keep you safe. Like he always said or showed that he would. He gave his life away for you. He did the unspeakable for you.

He bites down on your bottom lip and all your brain can manage to coherently think is: more, harder .

But then Joel is breaking away from you slowly.

NO! your heart cries out, the delicious pleasure and pain draining away from you. The butterflies swarm dangerously inside your chest, worse with every inch he travels from your lips.

“Joel,” you whine. “What? You…you don’t want–”

“Don’t even say that, Y/N,” he growls dangerously. “Of course I want you. How could I not? I have spent my entire life wanting you in some capacity, baby, but I ain’t no good for you either, alright? I…” he says slowly like it takes every inch of his body to agree to say this. “I am not a good man, Y/N. I never have been. I’ve done wrong in every chapter of my life. You deserve someone much better. I don’t want to hurt you. Physically or mentally. Our history… The damage I’ve done…” he trails off.

“You don’t understand,” you swallow, tears forming in your eyes. “You have already loved and hurt me more than any human being on planet Earth. And yet somehow there is nothing you could do that would keep me away from you, don’t you get that? The Joel Miller I love is not a good man and I don’t care. I want all of you. All of the pretty and crooked pieces you try to hide away from me. You killed a man with your bare hands, arguably one of the worst things a human can do, and I don’t care. I still want you, Joel. Maybe even more because of it. No one has ever loved me the way you do and that is the love I want and it terrifies me.”

A single tear falls down Joel’s right cheek. You reach up to wipe it away, but Joel grabs your hand on the way reflexively, so you help him wipe his own tears away. 

“I love you,” you whisper.

“I would move the Earth for you,” Joel whispers back.

“I know,” you nod. “I’ve always known. I–”

But he is kissing you again before you can say another word, like a man starved. You hold onto his cheeks, your fingers caressing his stubbly beard. 

“ Joel,” you whine when you break for air.

“I wanted this so badly,” he says softly, grinning a lopsided grin. “Can’t believe this is real.”

“Me too,” you giggle.

You have to lean up a bit, but you press your forehead to his gently.

“Oh, baby,” Joel smirks. “You’ve made me the happiest man alive, ya know that? You like

it when I go a little rough, honey?” he smirks down at you in satisfaction, reading your mind.

You have to stop yourself from getting lost in the warm pools of his brown eyes, your panties soaked.

He reaches an affectionate hand down to rub your side softly.

“This okay, babygirl?” he coos, massaging his hand down your torso.

“I’d let you do anything to me, don’t you know?” you snicker. “Pain or pleasure, it’s all the same to me. I like all of that. I just want you so bad.”

“Think a safe word is in order,” Joel grins, leaning down to kiss your neck. “How about ‘butterflies?’” you suggest. 

“Sounds good to me, baby,” he grins, looking genuinely happy for the first time in hours. 

He leans down and places a calloused hand around your throat, not squeezing (yet – you hope) and plants soft kisses and bites down your expanse of skin. 

“All mine,” he mutters into your skin. “My beautiful babygirl.”

You feel his erection pressing against you through his black dress pants which makes you moan softly.

His hand trails over your crotch and he starts rubbing over the tight fabric of your red dress.

“That okay?”

“Yes,” you whine. “Want more, Daddy.”

Oh shit. You don’t mean to say it like that! You know it is about ten levels of fucked up to call Joel that, but how is it your fault that in every fantasy that’s how you think of him? You figure you’re probably past the point of weird and every other standard of decency, but you’re still afraid.

“Sorry…” you mumble. “I–”

“No, no, baby,” Joel says quickly. “It’s alright, you can call me whatever you want. I don’t mind, sweetheart.”

“You think it’s weird,” you mumble again, further stupid tears forming in your eyes.

He snickers. 

“Baby, I think we’re beyond weird at this point. Let me show you how turned on it makes me.”

Joel takes your hand and places it on his crotch. He takes your left hand, the one with the scar and you cringe a little, but he is rock-hard.

That’s good because you’re positively drenched.

“You’re okay, sweetheart. Daddy likes that more than you know, alright?”

You take your hand back, smiling, but you cover your scarred finger, shocked he will allow this fantasy for you.

“Whatcha hidin’ from me, baby?” he asks, noticing the positioning of your hands.

“I hate that scar on my finger. ‘S so ugly,” you admit.

Joel looks flabbergasted. 

“That’s the last damn thing I think of when I look at you. Ugly? Who in the fuck told you that?”

“How it got there is ugly. It’s marred skin, looks gross,” you mumble.

Joel moves to take out his cock, and when you nod he unzips and unbuttons his dress pants, pulling out his length. You have fantasized about his cock for god knows how long so you are more than excited to see it. He reaches to place your left hand with the scarred fingers around the length of his dick, which is thick, but longer than you expected. The leaking head is almost purple and your mouth begins to water as you stroke him gently.

“It’s part of you,” Joel tells you, his eyes connecting with yours. “I love it. It shows you survived. Gonna jerk off to it, Daddy loves it so much. And when I’m done you’re gonna love it too. Swear I’ve got so many over the years I can barely even count ‘em. Even got a few on my middle finger. Maybe even one from a certain guitar pick you made me. Nothing like that could ever make me stop wanting you, ya know that, right?”

You smile and take your time stroking him, wanting to show him how much you love and care for him, scars and all.

He grunts softly, closing his eyes, but then shoos your hand away with a feverish kind of want. 

“Yeah, touch yourself now, baby. Daddy wants to see how wet you are for him. With that scarred finger. C’mon, now. ‘S gonna make you feel so good.”

You do as you’re told and reach down underneath your dress and begin to touch yourself, especially with your middle finger. You stroke your clit and then your dripping wet slit. You moan softly as Joel’s eyes rake over you, taking in every sigh and groan you emit. The butterflies are forming something big inside you, which presses against the inside of your tummy and ribcage.

“Daddy,” you whine.

“Enough, little one,” Joel whispers. 

He takes out your hand and begins to suck the slick off of each of your fingers, groaning deeply, making intense eye contact the whole time.

“Fuck, angel,” he moans, having a tough time keeping himself together, you can tell. “Taste and smell better than like how I pictured. Like you were fuckin’ made for me, I swear.”

He reaches a hand of his own down to stroke himself and his moans become more desperate. Finally, he sucks on your middle finger covered in your slick and groans so deeply you feel like you might cum untouched. He stares into your eyes. 

“ Mine, ” he growls possessively. “Oh, shit! Gonna–”

Then he takes your left hand and leads it to meet his throbbing cock. You stroke him, harder this time, fisting his thick length, moaning softly and that does it for him.

Joel cums all over your hand, oozing white globs of cum over your fingers, once, twice, three times. 

“Fuuuuuck, babygirl,” he groans. “Oh, shit, I’m so sorry! Couldn’t help it. Yeah, suck it off, baby. That’s it,” he commands, and you do, licking up all of his cum, even the part that got on your middle finger. 

When Joel comes down he still looks half-crazed with desire.

“Sorry about the, uh, early release. It’s been a while since anyone touched me,” he babbles in embarrassment, his cheeks flushed pink. “But I don’t wanna hear shit about your gorgeous hands ever again, you hear me, babygirl?”

“Yes, Daddy,” you nod, snickering. 

He looks like that one word has set his entire universe back in order again. You honestly don’t care at how fast Joel came. You love how much it shows he wants you. And his heady taste is making you weak. You could taste him for days and days and never get tired, you’re sure.

“Can still get you off though, don’t worry. Shoulda let you cum first, but I couldn’t help it with the things you do to me. Goddamn. Can Daddy eat your pussy, baby?”

You grin, but then your face falls. 

“Didn’t shave,” you admit, feeling dirty. 

Max hates your hair down there.

Joel looks at you in confusion.

He laughs, his face scrunching up.

“Oh, sweetheart. You think I care about that? Only little boys give a shit about things like that. Not men.”

You shiver.

“Really?”

“Of course I don’t care. Didn’t ya hear what I just said? C’mon now. You can lie down on the couch.”

You follow instructions, pulling your dress over your head to reveal white lace panties and no bra. 

You move to take the panties off, but Joel stops you, staring at the lines and curves of your body. 

“Jesus, fuck,” he growls, taking you in.

You think you see his cock twitch ever so slightly. He palms his softening length instinctively.

“Beautiful,” he snarls, pushing you back on the sofa. 

You happily fall backward. 

He lies on top of you, his white button-down shirt pressing against your naked body tantalizingly. 

He bites your lips roughly and you groan against him.

“Daddy’s mouth,” he commands against you.

“Yeah, duh, Daddy,” you snicker.

As if he even needs to say it! 

He kisses down your neck expertly and you begin to shiver and whine, your pussy aching with need and neglect.

He stops at your breasts, sucking and biting each one.

“Daddy’s tits,” he declares, snaking a finger over the lace panties that protect your clit. “Of course,” you respond, moaning softly, grinding needily against him.

He continues lower, licking down your breasts and over your tummy which he plants with kisses that tickle and then one hard bite on your hip that leaves behind teeth marks.

“Daddy’s body,” he impresses upon you.

“Yes, Daddy. Only yours.”

“No more of that little shithead, Max,” he snarls, an inch above your clit.

“No more Max,” you repeat as he presses kisses down your pussy, still covered by soaked white lace panties. 

“Only Daddy.”

“Only you.”

“Good girl,” he growls.

He finally removes your panties and begins to eat and suck your clit and pussy so hard and enthusiastically, swirling his tongue around your bundles of nerves that you grow exponentially closer by the second.

“Joel,” you whine. “Oh my God.”

It doesn’t take long. The second his calloused hand is pressing a finger and then two inside of you it’s over. You were so needy for him that you could have even cum from just his mouth alone, but his hands are what send you over the edge. And something different happens as orgasm crashes down upon you. The butterflies all join together and transform into something bigger and softer, caressing your insides, cooing. It feels like a breathing white dove is spreading its wings inside you, the tips of its feathers brushing against your rib cage. And you cum harder than you ever have in your life. 

Pleasure engulfs you in currents, facilitated by the gentle flapping from deep

inside your body.

“ Joel,” you moan. “Oh my God. Daddy, pleaseee–”

“Please what, baby? Make my princess cum again? I would eat that pretty little clit and

pussy every day for the rest of my life if I could, fuck. God, so perfect and you’re so fuckin’ tight. Look how fucking hard you make me, angel.”

He takes one of your hands and places it on his half-hardening cock. Not going to lie, you are partially shocked at his recovery, but another part of you seems to know that if there was anyone in the universe that could do that to him it had to be you. 

“Never got hard again from anyone I’ve ever fucked before…” he trails off dreamily like he can read your thoughts. “You’re so gorgeous, babygirl.”

“Not so bad yourself, handsome,” you tell him lazily, pressing a kiss to the side of his mouth as you pull him closer to you. 

The heat from his body keeps you so warm and tender and for a moment you lie on the couch, Joel’s still-clothed body pressed to yours.

“Can you fuck me, Joel?” you ask, squirming against him needily.

“You can’t say that shit to me, baby,” Joel groans, his cock getting harder. “Not quite ready yet.”

“Lemme help you out,” you offer, pouting. 

You reach down and stroke his half-hard length and then bend over and press a gentle kiss to the tip of his cock.

Joel swears, staring down at you with so much adoration it pours off his face. No man has ever looked at you like that before. You’re certain. Perhaps no man ever will again? Not like that.

“Shit, baby,” Joel babbles stupidly, his eyes threatening to swallow you up in that beautiful shade of umber. “Never gonna forget this moment,” he grunts as you begin to suck his cock properly, feeling it slowly get hard enough to throb between your lips with each thrust of your head and gluck of your throat. 

You stare up at him, your eyes wide and wanting and Joel lets out a soft, vulnerable moan as you begin to really suck him and take him down the walls of your throat.

“ Unh , babygirl, fuck,” he whines and you have never quite heard Joel so desperate before. “Gotta pull out or I’m gonna cum. Holy fuck.” 

It sounds just like it did the night you accidentally spied on him jerking off. 

“You’ve been thinking about me a lot, huh, Daddy?” you ask, releasing Joel from your mouth like he wanted, though his hips buck forward ever so slightly with desire, the tip of his cock just barely scraping against your mouth. He grunts.

“Maybe so,” he replies, looking a little guilty. “Don’t know how not to these days.”

“Heard you on the couch last night,” you whine yourself. “Had to touch myself ‘cuz of it, Daddy. I’m sorry.”

Joel reaches out a hand to cup your crotch and rub against your slick pussy.

“That’s so fuckin’ naughty, baby,” he groans. “Look how wet that made you. All for me.”

You steal a glance at his cock and find that the tip is weeping too. And he is so fucking big compared to the size of your hand. Fuck!

“You were thinking about me, weren’t you?” you whisper.

“All about you, baby,” Joel nods in agreement, his hips twitching ever so slightly. “‘Bout touching you just like this.”

He slinks two big fingers inside you and you moan deliciously, the feathery wings of the newly-formed dove fluttering against your insides. 

“Gotta stretch you a bit more,” he grunts into your throat, pushing in a third finger. “Daddy’s so big and you’re so tight, angel. Don’t wanna hurt ya. Not too bad at least. Not yet…That’s it, pretty girl, fuck,” he grins when you slide back on his thumb in pleasure which had traveled to the rim of your asshole “Good girl, so good for Daddy. So naughty too. Don’t think Daddy won’t punish you.”

“Want you to hurt me, Daddy,” you moan. “When you fuck me. Please fuck me hard. I want all of you – pain and pleasure. One hundred percent Joel. Joel, please, I need–” 

And Joel does stop for a moment.

“Never hurt you in a way you didn’t beg for,” he tells you seriously. “You know that right, baby?”

You stop your rutting against him and look into his eyes.

“Are you kidding? You would protect me with your dying breath. I know that, Joel. Never been afraid of you since I’ve really known you. Not once. I mean: fuck; you gave up your whole life for me. To keep me safe, for fuckssake. In every word you say and don’t say to me I can feel how much you love me.”

 “I do love you so much, babygirl,” he whispers, nuzzling your forehead. “If I had to, I’d do all of it all over again if it meant I’d get you. I’ve made mistakes, big ones, but protecting you, loving you was never one of them.” 

Warm tears trail down your cheeks, but Joel licks and kisses them away. 

“Wanna feel me inside you?” he asks. “Don’t wanna go too fast, but I need you, baby. Needed you for so long…Sweet little pussy’s just cryin’ for Daddy, huh? Gonna fit me just like a glove, I just know it — if you wanna…”

“Yes, please, fuck me, Daddy! Please, Joel Wanna feel you—ah!” you moan as Joel shoves his entire length into your pussy in one hard thrust eagerly. “Oh my God, please fuck me harder!” you moan, reeling from the deep blend of pain and pleasure of him sinking inside you, clenching down around the thickness of him. “Joel, please!”

He pauses, sweat glistening on his brow, sneering.

“You really want harder?”

You shiver. The way he says that makes your heart beat wildly in your ears.

“Because babygirl, I would treat you like porcelain if you want it so. I will never hurt you, my angel, my gift from god, my goddamn sweetest heart please know I will break my fucking hands before they would hurt you, before I would ever hurt you in a way that you didn’t want, no matter how much it hurt me. Do you understand me?”

“Of course, Joel. But you want it too,” you smirk. “You aren’t innocent in this, are you?”

“Fuck, of course i’m not innocent. I want you, babygirl. In every way there is to want another. Want every inch of you, inside and out. Wanna mark you up so the world knows you’re mine, honey. Want everyone to smell me on you and know I marked you, moved in you, darlin’, please, see, I’m no fucking Hemingway, I didn’t go to college, I’m not like you with words, but I need you to understand that I mean this with my whole chest and heart. Really, I’m not a big talker, never was, babygirl, but I need you to understand I—”

  “I do, you dumbass fucking fool!” you shout, giggling at his desperation. “I’d understand you even if you were speaking another language. You’ve made your intentions loud and clear. I don’t want a Hemingway, I want Joel Miller!”

You pull him in for a kiss and he thrusts in you again a second time and you end up moaning clumsily in his mouth, but you can feel him smiling , smiling like some dumb idiot against you and maybe you called him the correct insult because he is a dumbass fucking fool for you. And it turns out you must be one as well because you are smiling like an idiot for him too.

“ Joel,” you moan as he begins to move inside you, hitting deep places that Max or any of your previous exes never went. Pleasure is tracing itself along the line of your stomach. “Oh my god, I love you so much,” you babble and you’ve never meant that more than you do now.

You can feel Joel coming apart above you, plowing into you, sighing deeply. His grunts and moans and thrusts spur on the intense pleasure. 

“More!” you moan. “Oh my god. Harder, please, I need–”

Joel plants rough bites on your neck and kisses too like he’s trying to consume every inch of you. 

He places a large hand around your throat questioningly and you nod.

“Beg for it,” he commands in his deep, sexy voice — the voice that’s been in every wet dream you’ve ever had. You think you might just pass out from the sound alone. 

“Choke me, Daddy,” you whine as pathetically as you possibly can, batting your eyes. “Oh, please, I could cum from just this, but I want more. More of you. All of you.”

“As you fuckin’ wish, baby,” he snickers in amusement. “Bet no little boy ever fucked you like this, huh?” he growls, continuing his rough pace, slamming against your walls, his eyes growing wild.

“They don’t compare to you, Joel. It’s always been you. In every orgasm. Fuck, never felt like this! Shit! Shit!”

Joel reaches out his large scarred hand and applies gentle delicious pressure to your throat. You know even something like this can be dangerous, but you crave that feral look of violence in his eyes and the power that comes with it. You want him to own you completely – every inch of you. You want him to mark you just like he said he wanted to because he is yours and you are his and has it ever really been any other way? You can’t remember properly from the pleasure rushing through you, the white dove inside you spreading and fluttering its wings, cooing softly. You think it’s only ever been what you feel now.

“Joel, Joel, fuck!” you scream, orgasm building in you.

“I know, babygirl. I know,” he coos himself into your mouth.

He pulls you closer, presses his nose to yours, his lips to yours, biting and kissing like a starving man possessed. He looks into your eyes and it’s there! That look of pure predator closing in on its prey, that look of ownership but also the most intense love you think you’ve ever witnessed. You would recognize that look anywhere. Your starved brain cries out for oxygen beneath his iron grip. 

“Gonna cum again, angel,” Joel growls. “Gonna make you cum so hard you’re never gonna forget who you belong to. Whose pretty pussy this is.”

He is pounding so hard against your cervix and his dick is so big inside you and the pressure of his hand squeezing around you is so overwhelming and the scent of him could make you faint straight then and there, but you let go and feel yourself cumming in enormous waves as you squeeze down around Joel’s prick, the pleasure more intense than any single bodily experience you’ve had.

“ Daddy ,” you whine breathlessly, tears trickling out of your eyes. “Oh my god!”

“You’re mine, babygirl, always have been–FUCK!” he shouts into your throat, collapsing on top of you.

And then you feel him starting to empty himself inside you, painting your sensitive insides with trustful after trustful of hot cum. You’ve never felt so helplessly full and sticky in your life, the brilliant pleasure billowing through every inch of you. You want to feel like this every day, stuffed full of Joel’s cock, so close to him you can feel his heartbeat against yours, the one true place you belong. 

“So beautiful, babygirl,” he whispers in an exhausted type of awe.

When your words come back you reply,

“Shut up, you’re the hot one,” through a snicker. 

You look down at your body, covered in purple bite marks and bruises forming like galaxies across your body. 

Joel snorts. Then he sits up on the couch and you lean your cheek against him. You lean up to kiss his cheek and he blushes ever so slightly.

“I said a lot of stuff, Y/N, but I want you to know that I meant all of it,”

“Yeah, you probably said more in the last hour than you’ve ever uttered in your entire life,” you tease, sitting up.

“I’m serious,” he snickers.

“I am and was too,” you nod. “I’m so glad that you’re here with me — that we did this. I know that our…origin story is weird and unconventional and some might argue straight up wrong, but I need you, Joel. I don’t care about that or think I could go back to pretending to be what we were.”

“You think I’d want you to act like that?” he asks incredulously. “You think I want this to just be a one-time thing?”

“Of course not,” you smirk. “But as close as we are I can’t actually read your mind. I mean…how are we going to be together realistically?”

“I’m not sure,” Joel admits, frowning a little. “For now it has to be a secret unless you want your mother or brother in jail for murdering me this time around. But someday, I dunno. It’s dumb…”

“What?”

“I just have these thoughts sometimes about you ‘n me. I…” Joel’s cheeks turn a bit pink. “Had a lot of time to think in prison, you know? And I’d Imagine us living on a ranch somewhere quiet out in the country with a flock of sheep. I could work at the tractor and auto-body repair shop that’d be out there, you know, in this dream of mine, and you could be a counselor at a local school if that’s what ya wanted. I don’t know, l know it sounds silly, but nobody would know or bother us there. But I want you to finish school and have the best life possible, babygirl. I’d wait a thousand years for you, but if you didn’t want me anymore the way we are now, I’d respect that. And if you’d allow it, I’d still be there for you just in a platonic sense — or just there for you however you want because I can’t imagine my life with you in it. I’d do whatever it takes, brokenhearted or not. I just can’t be separated from you like that again. A day longer in prison and I could’ve keeled over and died. And it’s crazy how much I mean that.”

“I don’t ever want to be separated from you again, Joel,” you agree. “I know the original plan was for you to find work and get an apartment of your own and I would love for that to still happen, but with you being intimate with me in every way – even if it has to be a secret. I don’t pretend to know what the future holds, but I need you in mine. I’ve never needed something more than I need that. Understand?”

Joel pulls you into a hug and leans his chin on the top of your head. He kisses it then your forehead. You lean up and plant a kiss on his throat and then his Adam’s apple.

“Don’t mean to get too ahead of ourselves now. We can take things a day at a time,” he mumbles into your skin.

You yawn contentedly, the tiredness clawing at your eyes, so unbelievably spent.  

“I like hearing about your dreams and I’d go anywhere with you, Joel. But I am kinda dead from how good you just fucked me. Take me to bed?” You ask exhaustedly into his chest.

“Of course, babygirl,” he smirks down at you.

***

You don’t let go of Joel all night long, burrowed up against his chest, his heartbeat against your ear. And he doesn’t let go of you either. After the most intimate night of cuddles and snuggling you’ve ever experienced as well as the deepest and most restful sleep you’ve had in ages, you wake up to Joel gone from the bed. You frown, having wanted more than anything to wake up in his strong arms. Fear grips your insides as you wonder if he finally realized last night was a mistake and that you were never meant to be together in the first place (what you fear more than anything). A stupid vulnerable tear comes to your eye, but then you cock your head and hear music playing. Guitar music. 

You think of your apartment as shitty, but truthfully you care deeply about your little private space and one of the things you do actually love the most about it is the tiny balcony that overlooks a measly courtyard and part of the city. That’s where you find Joel in the deck chair holding his guitar, strumming it lazily.

“Mornin’, beautiful,” he says, fingerpicking a melody that scratches at the back of your mind with familiarity. 

“Morning, handsome,” you tell him softly, plopping your smaller hand down on his shoulder. 

The city hasn’t woken up yet, the soft glow of morning shining beams of light onto you and Joel, filling you with warmth. You sit down in the deck chair next to him, bathing in the sunlight.

“Whatcha playing?” you ask curiously, crouching to sit up on your knees.

“You know the song ‘Hallelujah’ by Leonard Cohen?” Joel asks in that beautifully deep voice of his. 

He isn’t even singing yet but you could listen to him forever. 

“‘Course,” you nod. “It’s a classic. You used to play it for me once in a blue moon.”

“Know what the word ‘Hallelujah’ actually means?” he asks. 

You think about it for a second.

“It’s about praising god and all that, right? Why d’you ask?”

He pauses, both his words and fingerpicking. 

“Babygirl,” he begins and you can tell he’s about to say something serious. “You know I’m not too good with words, but I need you to know this: I’ve never had much to thank god for in my life, except for Sarah, you know? But then He took her away…”

You place your hand on Joel’s and he looks at you sadly, but appreciatively. He flips it over and holds it in his giant paw of his own marked-up hand. 

“And I was so fucking angry. Nothing left in me. The only good part of me gone. I was a broken man. And I hated Him. But then He, despite the shit I’ve done…He gave me you . And I know our road hasn’t been easy or fair, and the pain you’ve felt and I have felt but…I guess what I’m trying to say is you are the reason I believe that any type of…goodness— of holiness— can exist in this universe. And I’m not a religious man, I don’t believe in most of that dogmatic type of shit, and I don’t think you do either, but I do think someone or something is up there and I wanna thank them for you. Does that make sense? Do you wanna hear what I mean? I just feel so damn grateful.”

A tear you hadn’t noticed was there rolls down your cheek. 

“Of course it does and of course I do,” you tell him.

You think perhaps this is the closest thing he can do to bearing his soul to you. 

And then he leans over and kisses the tear away and begins to fingerpick the familiar melody.

♪ “I heard there was a secret chord…”♫

You listen to his deep weathered voice as the sun grows higher in the morning sky, casting both light and shadow over Joel’s wrinkled, handsome face. The light trails over you too. You feel the dove inside you cooing contentedly, dusting its wings gently against the edges of your insides. 

♪There's a blaze of light in every word / It doesn't matter which you heard / The holy or the broken Hallelujah…”♫

When he finishes he places his large, scarred, calloused hand in yours and you hold it between your own scarred fingers.

“Thank you, Joel,” you tell him, meaning every word. “I think there’s hope for us, you know? I don’t believe in hippie-dippie type stuff, but something in this universe did bring us together. And I’ll be forever grateful for that too, ya know?”

Joel squeezes your smaller hand, his big fingers engulfing yours as the dove coos louder inside you.

“Babygirl, you know that I ain’t a good man, or a rich and educated one like maybe you thought you’d end up with, but I am less of a broken one because of you and I’m never letting you go. If we’re together, I think we have a chance.”

A/n:PLEASE COMMENT LIKE REBLOG IM BEGGING IM PLEADING IM CRYING DID THE SMUT LIVE UP TO YOUR DREAMS????

PART 1

PART 3 (coming soon)

Violent Heart Masterlist

Full Masterlist of all my work

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[thorough-witness-enjoyer]

The Witness and Why It (and its demise) Means Everything to Me (A POC Perspective)

Hey everyone!! The Final Shape has ruined me and has brought me to levels of not only grief, but hope, that I did not think possible, so I decided to give my thoughts on the different aspects of it that moved me to a place where I can be at peace with many things in my life and look forward to paving a better future!!! I think I’ll be making many posts pertaining to the Final Shape as a way to help me express my thoughts on how important this DLC was to me, but we will see!

Please note that these are just my loose, not fully structured thoughts and I’m yapping. My opinions are subject to change and I’d love to hear the input of others! We will be talking about subjects such as slavery, religion, black experiences, and personal experiences of mine!!! It’s very long too, so I’m sorry about that and any writing errors!!

Though I do not believe what I speak of was fully Bungie’s intentions when making the character, the implications and views you can take on the Witness do relate to what I will discuss.

I wanted to start off my return to tumblr with one of the many, many reasons why I have such a deep attachment to the Witness (Precursors and Dissenters will get a different post bc they mean the world to me too!!) , because truly, this entity owns my whole life. I think of it all the time, it lingers in my thoughts, my art, my writing, all of it. It has been so deeply intertwined with my enjoyment of Destiny since it appeared and has offered so much to my perception of the world. I do not think I will truly get over it and I’d be lying if I said I didn’t draw it every chance I get. It appears in every single thought of mine, it’s bad you guys.

I love the Witness so deeply because I have never harbored such a personal level of DISGUST for a character before. As much as I joke about it being silly and the love of my life, the very existence of the Witness revolts me to the core and the tragedies it has directly or indirectly caused squeeze my heart empty. This festering rot of an egregore SICKENS me as it is the beliefs that has robbed me and many others of family, culture, and livelihoods given form. My love for the Witness comes from how it instills in me such HATRED, and truly, we were far too kind to it in game.

For context, I am Caribbean American and have a tumultuous relationship with my heritage for many reasons, but it wasn’t until the Witness and its many victims that I felt like the religious imperialism that has affected my heritage was represented in a way that crept into my spirit.

My Caribbean mother always said to me that we are of this world, not in it. That the hearts of men are wicked and sin (cruelty) was embedded in existence itself. It is only when we give ourselves to a higher purpose that we will be free in the end from all suffering. To her, this life and everything in it did not truly matter for it was a temporary challenge to overcome in order to earn an eternity of salvation. A perfect paradise was awaiting us all if we just gave into the way and left everything else behind.

These were all convictions she held to her very core as she tried to shed away all other aspects of herself to give into this “truth”, especially her Caribbean culture.

She did not always believe this way, but to her, the island she came from did not truly matter at all. Those “wayward people” she grew up with were not worth anything and would die as nobodies on that nowhere island for their lives were not saved, even if they knew of the “truth”. In her adopted views, those people believed in false gods and practices (such as Vodou and beliefs that belonged to those taken from Africa and indigenous populations), they invited in frivolous wants of the flesh such as lust (with „improper“ attire and certain dances), and committed crimes that proved to her that they could never be anything more than what they already were (though she would be blinded to the fact that these behaviors are a result of hostile environments created by the systems established for slavery and racial subjugation). If she wanted to be fit for “walking the right path”, those people had to be left behind for they were lost causes who could not be saved unless they were delivered by the “respectable” ways of life. She had to discard her black mannerisms, hair, speech, and more to have a place amongst the truly chosen.

Religious imperialism has a long history of being heavily tied to discussions of race and colonialism as those who participated in subjugation believed themselves to be more enlightened than the people they brought devastation to, giving them an entitlement that drove them to force their way of viewing religion onto populations. After all, in their minds, they were doing the greatest good for they were setting the people they subjugated on a path for eternal paradise. There was no cost too high in this finite life for infinite salvation to colonizers and all efforts to convert populations who did not see this truth would be “necessary”. People would die or be forced into servitude in mass to support the ambitions of the “enlightened” ones, whole cultures and populations being scrubbed from the face of this Earth in an attempt to “heal what is sick”, to “break broken bones again to heal them right”. I think of all the generations lost to war, slavery, colonialism, and every other act done to deliver “purpose” onto others, all the people whose names will never be known because others used the breath needed to utter it on preaching of their own virtue, and I am left in ruin.

I think of how my mother speaks of those lost to destitute lives because of the social pillaging of the island as an unfortunate side effect of guiding them to the truth and I look at how her world view has been ruined.

My mother thought she was saving me by keeping me from my culture, my people, my family. I did not get to know the language, the customs, the land, but I did get to know how much my mother thought those were distractions. She spent my whole life trying to cement the truths given to her by the same people who left her island in such as state that she felt like she had to run from it, to ensure I would not grow into a person, but a vessel of the righteous message. After all, to be a person is to be complex, nuanced, and flawed and there was no room for that in the visions given to her. The complexities and human flaws that came with our culture would only distract us from giving our whole lives to freeing ourselves from the curse of existence.

The cruelty the Witness delivers with such gentleness as it razes civilizations, its unwavering belief that it is the objective truth and other perspectives are blind to this truth, the means it will use to get that “justified” end, its gut wrenching to me and all that has been lost throughout human history to ideologies that bear the same qualities. Its zealous, static nature that relies on circular reasoning keeps me up at night and makes me mourn what could have been if the unfamiliar and hard to understand parts of human expression were allowed to flourish instead of being eradicated for diverging from someone’s vision of what makes a life worth living. I see this big eyed vessel, incapable of growth and convinced of its own righteousness and my chest feels like it is going to cave in. I see its disciples and pawns in the faces of too many people I know and recall their stories in moments that remind me how poisonous what the Witness represents is.

The Witness is an evil that has hollowed out lives, homes, land, and futures, especially for those who come from heritages that have persevered against attempts to “rectify” them. I still grieve the empty life my mother lives and the people left to suffer the consequences of daring to create their own meaning. I look at the face of the Witness and think of the “burdens lifted off my mother’s shoulders” by those who thought themselves as witnesses of a truth that could not be contested with interpretations that could not be questioned. She prides herself on being a weapon wielded to correct the sinful hearts of men, but I just wish she prided herself on being a person because those who “delivered” her robbed people of color of personhood entirely.

The Witness is not a person, but the embodiment of these deeply rooted ideologies and concepts that affect so many. It’s horror, both in game and the parallels it has in reality, is far too grand and unfathomable for me to bear its weight on my soul and not agonize. Its very existence is monstrous, despite the understandable intentions that went into its making, and my stomach churns at the mere thought of it.

How many species in the Destiny universe will we never know about because their whole galaxy was used to get closer to the Final Shape? How many star systems were left barren because of the Witness’ ambitions? How many children, spouses, artists, philosophers, siblings, neighbors, and more, people who were something, became nothing because of eons of the Witness‘ justifications? Bile boils just thinking of it.

What the Witness represents has hung over my head my whole life and its perverse touch lingers on the whole Destiny universe, tracing many of the depraved atrocities in the game back to itself. It’s death in the Final Shape, at the hands of those it had turned into victims and left to deal with the repercussions of its influence united together, moved me in ways I do not think I could ever properly articulate. To see beloved characters I had given a decade of my life to come together from different backgrounds with different reasons to defeat such a heinous entity, I felt like I could do my part to bring others together, despite our struggles and differences, to rebuild what had been taken from us.

As a person of color from a group of people many still think are undeserving of life, seeing so many characters I have related to over the years say “I matter because I decided to and you can’t take that away from me” to an entity who thought itself so refined that it got to determine everyone’s worth strengthened my entire being. Existing as a person of color is bold in and of itself, but the defeat of the Witness at the hands of people who wanted to exist so bad they risked everything for it ignited in me a flame to be audacious. My existence and culture as a poc is unsightly and heretical, but TFS encouraged me to take on the prejudices of others by saying “Here, despite generations being molded into a “perfect” image and so many lives lost in the struggle to live personal truths, ergo sum. Ergo sum and there is nothing wrong with that”.

To me, the Witness’ death showed me that the stains left behind by social structures such as religious imperialism and colonialism can be overcome by people banding together to make the future different from the past. When we embrace the subjectivity of existence, we can create spaces for different views on life to flourish and reconnect with the nuances of this world. We can better the lives of our people, no matter who they are, not by abandoning all cultural practices and ways of life that were deemed meaningless, but by rebuilding our societies to allow for fulfilling lives and self efficacy for all.

My people no longer have to let imperial powers decide our fate for us or decide that we can be nothing other than the „nature of our race“ that they believe is inferior. Instead of looking up at others who asserted themselves as more enlightened for salvation, we can look at each other and realize there is no one truth to life, especially one worth all the devastation and cruelty placed against those who lived differently. The intricacies of life often lead people to belief systems that allow for comfort and understanding, alleviating the anxiety of possibly living an improper life that will forfeit a desirable afterlife. It is up to individuals to decide what makes their life fulfilling and what beliefs will guide their actions, for no one can make your fate but you.

My mother still likes to wear the patterns of the island and keeps paintings of island scenery in her room. She talks on the phone in patois when she doesn’t feel the pressure to be “proper”. She misses her mother because she used to make dishes from home. To relate it to Destiny, she still has the coordinates to her Lubrae in her pyramid despite convincing herself abandoning it all was for the best and there was nothing there worth keeping. I once thought reconnecting with our heritage alongside her would be a frivolous endeavor, but I hope that with time and understanding, the Witness may not have power over her anymore and she won’t look back on her disassociation with relief. Time and understanding will make our island grow and flourish, free to decide what it wants to be, not held back by preconceived notions of the worth of its existence.

Despite all the Witnesses in the world, I will persist on and try to acquaint myself with my culture without shame. The Witness is everything to me because I hope one day it desecrates nothing ever again. I hope the Witness becomes nothing at all and the cultures it has corrupted make themselves something audacious.

Thank you guys so much for reading!! I hope you guys don’t mind the vague language, I chose to spare some details for my own sake and to make the message more applicable!! I’d love to hear the takes of other people about this bc I love hearing people’s perspectives!! And always remember, no one makes your fate but you!!! Go be audacious!!!!

[trailingoff]

Aziraphale’s religious trauma

I’m sure others have discussed this in a lot of depth, but I can’t help throwing my hat in the ring. Aziraphale has major religious trauma after spending his entire very long existence as a member of a cult. If you’ve never experienced what it’s like to be indoctrinated into a religion, then it might be very hard to understand why he behaves the way he does, so I’ll try to lay it out for you.

Anyone who was raised from early childhood to believe that an all-powerful being is watching them as though they’re in a panopticon (a jail where prisoners are watched by authorities at random moments) and will severely punish them and/or their loved ones if anyone steps out of line (or just on a whim or based on a bet with Satan) either has experienced religious trauma or has somehow avoided it, perhaps through repression or retreating into themselves and managing to ignore what the adults were telling them. Another way to avoid the trauma is to continue to believe that the cult is ‘good’ and that those outside it are ‘bad’ and should seek redemption, forgiveness and salvation.

Not only does Aziraphale have this trauma, but it’s also based on reality in the GO universe. I was able to live with mine by realising that there is no empirical evidence for religious beliefs, by studying philosophy, by having therapy, and by reflecting on it for years. The trauma can still be triggered in me, leading to panic that God might be watching and judging me, and that an afterlife might exist, but luckily I’m now able to move through the panic relatively quickly. Aziraphale can’t do any of this because the beliefs of his cult are all too real. There really is a massively powerful (hopefully not all-powerful, but he believes she is) being who watches and judges him and everyone else at random moments. She has either directly ordered her angels to slaughter babies and children or has stood by and watched them do it. She has severely punished someone Aziraphale cares about, Crowley, who from that moment has been in a situation where he continues to be tortured by his fellow demons with no intervention from God and who simultaneously risks being destroyed by demons, by angels, by humans wielding sacred weapons (e.g. holy water) or by his own hand.

And so Aziraphale suffers from both religious trauma and the trauma of living under a real authoritarian dictatorship. This dictatorship is seemingly unbeatable and eternal, and it possesses weapons more powerful than the biggest nuclear weapons, more powerful than the sun, really more powerful than anything we humans can imagine.

Thousands of years ago, Crowley was kicked out in an extremely painful way, and he suffers his own trauma from that. He clearly doesn’t want Aziraphale to go through all of that, yet he wants Aziraphale to join him on ‘their own side’. At the end of the previous season, I thought Aziraphale was all in. I was happy to leave it at that ... even though it isn’t a realistic depiction of someone dealing with the particular types of trauma that Aziraphale has experienced and continues to experience.

Aziraphale and Crowley are still in constant grave danger, and they’re still living in God’s panopticon. That can’t just be hand-waved away. As we’ve seen this season, at any moment their fragile peace can be disrupted by a situation that puts them in danger of being harmed to the extent of being wiped from existence. They can’t actually just go to Alpha Centauri and it will all be cool. (And what would they do there for eternity anyway ...?) But yeah there is no way to escape from God, nowhere in the universe that God isn’t capable of supervising -- that’s real, not something Aziraphale merely has faith in, as humans understand belief in God. Aziraphale isn’t the equivalent of a human priest or a theologian or a cult member: he is a supernatural being created by a much more powerful supernatural being.

Perhaps there are only two ways for Aziraphale to deal with his trauma: 1) He realises that God and the Heavenly Host can be defeated. 2) He realises that they can be permanently altered in a positive way. 

At the end of season two, Aziraphale seems to believe he is being given the opportunity to bring about option 2. We don’t know if he has a plan or a vision for this, but for the first time he thinks he has a chance. Perhaps best of all, he has the opportunity to protect Crowley -- permanently! Imagine how anxious Aziraphale must have been, for thousands of years, that Crowley would be destroyed. It could have happened at any time, near or far from Aziraphale. Crowley faces dangers on all sides and also does foolish (from Aziraphale’s perspective) things like good deeds under the influence of laudanum and a heist so he can handle holy water. Crowley breaks and bends rules in ways that could kill him: Aziraphale isn’t catastrophising. This isn’t the same as a religious loved one telling you that you’re going to hell for sinning. Crowley has already been tortured in hell, and he could be tortured there forever, or he could be turned into an oily black puddle, or removed from the book of life etc etc. 

What Aziraphale doesn’t understand yet is that Crowley can’t be an angel again and still be the Crowley that Aziraphale loves. He also doesn’t see Crowley as an equal. If they’re going to take on heaven and bring down God’s dictatorship, they are going to have to do it as Aziraphale and Crowley, working in partnership, wielding the immense power of their love.

[lanawinterscigarettes]

How do you think James (Wilson) would react to reader wanting to wait until marriage to have sex? Like he's pretty understanding and respectful but let's face it he's also kind of a man whore

saying he's "kind of" a man whore is a bit of an understatement but I absolutely agree

How James Wilson would react to the reader wanting to wait until marriage to have sex

Warnings: nothing explicitly nsfw but obviously sex is discussed/mentioned a lot given the subject matter

He'd be a little taken back at first to be honest, probably asking you some questions on why you want to wait (is it because of religion, etc.) but not pushing the subject if you don't want to talk about it

I think it would all depend on how long you planned on dating or being engaged first. Six to twelve months? No problem. Longer than a year, though, and his resolve would begin to crack some

Obviously he's very respectful and considerate of your boundaries and things like that, but he's also no doubt a manwhore, so he has a lot of internal battles on what he should do

Something else to consider is what exactly you'd meant when you said you wanted to wait to have sex. Are you abstaining from it altogether, or are there certain loopholes or exceptions to the rule?

Wilson would feel a little weird asking you a question like that, even if you're dating. He doesn't want to say or do any inappropriate or that might make you uncomfortable

If you were to bring it up first, however, then he'd certainly be relieved to be able to talk about it without having to start the conversation himself

He gives you the biggest, most pathetic puppy dog eyes ever when he asks whether or not you'd be okay with touching and things like that as long as they don't end in sex

If you say no then he won't bring it up again, but if you say yes then he'll want to know more about your boundaries on it and just how much you'd be comfortable with/how far you'd be willing to go

The two of you probably do end up getting married because Wilson really does love you a lot and wants to be with you (and yeah maybe it's partially because he wants to have sex with you, but he'd never say that out loud)

If anything, not having "proper" sex before your wedding night only made him even more excited to finally get to go all the way with you once the time came

When he wakes up the next morning to find you sleeping next to him in the bed of your honeymoon suite, he realizes that despite the wait you definitely made it worthwhile

End notes: I'd planned on not posting this until Monday but I just couldn't wait any longer so y'all get it a little early

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[sugojosgf]

THE PROPOSAL 💍🥂!!

When you face deportation, your workplace nemesis agrees to marry you. However, when you visit his family, it changes your perception in many ways.

c.w : swearing, fraud, mentions of deportation, mutually beneficial relationship

w.c : 1.0k ; part 1

@bloompompom (cutest idea for a collab ever!! <3)

To be who you are right now, was not easy. The climb to the top was not just a quick montage of you being successful. You worked day and night, toiled relentlessly under awful bosses, and barely had a love life, just to be at this very moment.

You look incredulously at the board of management when they say those words. A lump forms in your throat and your eyes might tear up if you weren't holding onto a last shred of restraint.

Deportation ?

After all the hard work you've done, you are getting deported from the country, and it's fucking devastating. You hold yourself together, you've done so till now but it's getting very hard to continue.

“Is there any chance I could avoid deportation ?” You laugh, though there's no humor in your voice. The higher ups look at you with thin smiles and eyes devoid of any compassion.

“You are, and always will be our biggest asset but reapplying for your visa will take another year. We have to start looking at other candidates.”

The world around you crashes and you are trying to push down the bile, your day was not going the way you planned it out in your journal.

You should've known today was going to be the worst when you woke up to a dead phone, empty skincare and wrinkled clothes that didn't dry quite right.

“…Is this a bad time ?”

You hear a voice. You hear his voice. The man you've grown to not hate. Nanami Kento.

He held the same position as you and you had the unfortunate experience of working on three major projects with him. He always pissed you off with his condescending speech, how he always pretended to care about your well-being only because he wanted you to let your guard down around him.

“I did not know the meeting room was engaged, my apologies—” He says quickly ready to leave, but the minute those words leave his mouth, A dangerous idea makes itself known in your mind.

“Nanami! Oh, sweetheart!” You cringe internally as you call out to him, though at that moment, it was the only option left.

You giggle and make your way to him, pulling him away from the door. His face twists and a horrified expression makes its way onto his stern features.

“…what’s going on right now ?” He awkwardly chuckles, pulling his arm away from you. You begin to think maybe getting deported is better than being stuck in a position like this, with him.

You laugh nervously, “I know we discussed that we would wait a while longer before we made our relationship public, but life’s crazy and apparently if we don’t tell certain officials about our engagement, I might have to leave the nation.” You grit your teeth and pray to every religion, begging that Nanami would side with you.

“Oh..” He scratches his head, “Our relationship, the secret one that no one else knew about, which seems to be beneficial to your current predicament.”

The management looks at you suspiciously, but that dissipates the minute Nanami steps forward and brings your hand towards his lips, pressing the softest kiss to your fingers.

“I'm glad I get to do this now, it was quite difficult holding myself back for this long.” He sighs softly, and you almost doubt yourself.

Maybe you were secretly dating these past six months. The warmth in his face is bewildering, he looks and breathes like a man in love. A soft blush falls on your cheek and you almost shy away.

The higher ups manage to laugh and seem at ease with the PDA, they turn to you and one of them ask you to head to the immigration office and sort the mess out. It takes a quick discussion and you are suddenly out the meeting room with a fiance in your arms.

You both head to your office, the hushed whispers around you signal that the news is out already. You pull him in to your office, and quickly lock the door.

When you turn around, he's seated on your chair with a lazy smirk plastered on his face.

“I want the Shibuya project, if you get deported it will go to someone who's not me and I'm not sure I like that.” He says with finality.

You gape at him like a fish.

The Shibuya project was one of the hugest deals the company was handling, and if it wasn't for the deportation issue, it could have easily landed you a promotion. There was absolutely no way you could give it up.

“Time is running — you hand over the project, we get married, we pretend for a few months and divorce when you get your citizenship sorted.” He explains, “or i could just back out of this impromptu arrangement, and you get deported while i get to maintain my position.”

You walk over to him, face clearly in displeasure, “Nanami, there’s no way-”

“Oh!” He interrupts, “funny how there is only twenty seconds left for you to make a decision.” He chuckles, looking at his obnoxious watch.

“Fine.” You groan, shaking your head. “But I’ll hand it over only after you’ve signed the necessary documents.” You try to grasp at a semblance of control.

“Whatever sweetheart, I'm putting myself in danger for you.”

Suddenly his phone rings, a picture of a man with a mop of white hair and the cheesiest smile ever appears on the screen.

“Fuck, it’s Gojo.” He mumbles, sighing loudly as he answers.

You can hear the faintest voice from where you stand, the man on the other end speaks too fast and animated for you to understand anything.

“This weekend ?? I guess I forgot.”

You stand there awkwardly, catching a reflection of yourself on your glass table. You look awful, eyes crazed and mascara smudged. You start to fix yourself, focused on getting a stain out, when you hear Nanami clearing his throat.

“So, what do you think about visiting my family with me over the weekend for my birthday ?”

──────────────⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────────────

OKAIYYYY so a few things; first of all, i was so so excited to write this because i loved the proposal as a nine year old and wanted an excuse to rewatch it,,,,

second of all, this is not really set in any country i genuinely don't know how deportation laws work so excuse me for any ignorance (the shibuya project is just for shits and giggles pls let me reference a major plot point from the source material)

third of all, i'll definitely make this a mini series because no way i'm going to be able to write an entire movie based fic as a one shot but also i didn't want to lose the motivation i had by making this like a 20k oneshot

finally, this is like my first time writing something with proper grammar and capitalisation, like i did not just put my thoughts into a post here. that's it, mwah mwah show some love byeee <333

[whenmemorydies]

The Claw, The Scrunchie and The Prayer Card

What - or who - do the hair claw, the scrunchie and the prayer card that appear in season 3 represent? I think I know, and no its not Claire or Mikey. Join me for an unhinged trawl through all 3 seasons of The Bear (with screenshots cos you know I love me some evidence).

A few weeks ago, @vacationship posed a fascinating question about the hair claw seen in Carmy's apartment in 3x01 Tomorrow:

This question branched off into many lovely and thought-provoking discussions including this post from @thoughtfulchaos773 about the significance of hair accessories and this post from @moodyeucalyptus on Catholicism and miracles. Both posts refer to another memento that we are shown in Carmy's apartment, a scrunchie, which we see at the end of 3x09 Apologies:

A particular theory that intrigued me was that the hair claw from 3x01 morphed into the scrunchie we see at the end of 3x09, as one of the many sleights of hand/instances of legerdemain in season 3, potentially indicative of a softening of Carmy's self-loathing and/or guilt (contrasting the hardness and teeth of the hair claw with the gentle grip of the scrunchie). I think the assumption behind this theory was that the hair claw was associated with Claire (in fact we see the hair claw in 3x01 sandwiched between scenes of Claire at home looking forlorn in bed and then later at work in the hospital) and the scrunchie being associated with Sydney as she's often seen wearing scrunchies throughout the series.

I was so intrigued by the sleight of hand theory that I went on a very ill-advised search throughout all three seasons to find these hair accessories (ill advised because it took ages and it meant sitting through every Claire scene in this show lol) I did not find either the exact hair claw or scrunchie (womp) but I did find the characters who'd be most likely to wear these items. Notably, Claire never wears a hair claw or a scrunchie throughout the show.

So who does?

Hair claw: Natalie

(Note: Tiffany is seen wearing a hair claw once in 3x09 Apologies but I think this is just a coincidence. There's no reason for Tiffany's hair claw to be in Carmy's apartment so I'm going to disregard this possibility here. If anyone has a reason why I shouldn't though, let me know!)

Scrunchie: Sydney

Now Carmy's personal interior design style is probably best described as...utilitarian? If that? The man has nails in his walls that have nothing hanging on them. He's got storage boxes strewn around his living space. There's the occasional bottle of painkillers and Pepto and a bundle of hanging herbs drying in his kitchen. And of course, his chef's whites and a large pile of culinary texts and cookbooks. Oh yes and denim in his oven. Other than this, we are not shown much of anything in Carmy's apartment that could be said to be overtly personal to him. Which is why the hair claw and scrunchie stand out. We've never seen Carmy wear a hair claw or scrunchie so their presence in his apartment is significant.

Similarly, there's one more memento we are shown in Carmy's apartment that is distinct from the rest of his belongings. This is the prayer card that Carmy pulls out of his suit jacket pocket and places with the scrunchie at the end of 3x09:

In the discourse of the show, this particular prayer card is often associated with Michael, as its presumed that this is the card that was available for mourners to take at his funeral. We also see it during the show edited next to images of Michael or of his last note to Carmy, reinforcing the association.

Note: I've previously misidentified the figure on this prayer card as St John the Apostle (apologies, I saw the lamb and the staff and assumed it was St John! I'm also not a practising Christian - my knowledge of the religion has been obtained entirely passively because...well I live in the West and my history is enmeshed with the history of European Christian colonisation of the majority of the world including the part where my family's historically from. Soz.). The image on this prayer card is actually "Fresco of Jesus as Good Shepherd" by Josef Kastner.

Prayer card: Richie

BUT...after going through the last three seasons again (much easier to do this time around lol), I've come to the conclusion that the prayer card is actually Carmy's memento of Richie, not Michael. This is primarily because prior to 3x09, whenever we are shown this card in the show, it appears either with, near or when someone is talking about Richie. Lets take a look...

So we first see the card in The Beef in 1x01 before shots of Mikey's body in the morgue and of the back of his head as he's cooking: these are memories Carmy is having while Richie is telling a story to The Beef staff and as Carmy finds his prized chef's knife on the floor of the kitchen.

We see the prayer card next in 1x02 Hands during a nightmare that Carmy is having that features a voiceover from Joel McHale's psychotic Chef Fields. Notably, the sequence of images where we see the card is as follows:

The next time we see the prayer card is in 2x01 Beef to the left of Carmy's head on the wall, when Sydney is telling Carmy that Richie does not have an appropriate certification because...he's Richie.

Later in the same episode we see the card again, after Richie tapes up Michael's Fenway poster (that Sydney had previously fallen through):

The prayer card is immediately followed by a shot of Mikey's last note to Carmy:

The next time we see the prayer card is throughout 2x07 Forks, the most Richie-centric episode of the series. This is because we find out that Richie keeps a copy of the card on his bathroom mirror, so he sees it everyday:

Given the above (i.e. the strong physical and visual association between the prayer card and Richie throughout the show), I believe the card represents Richie for Carmy.

So why would Carmy have a prayer card as a memento representing Richie and not an actual personal item of his brother from another mother/"cousin", like it appears he does for Nat and Syd?

I think this is because Carmy’s connection to both Natalie and Sydney is direct. The former is his sister, the latter his soulmate (I'm not arguing re: Sydney, check my metas if you want to fight). It makes sense that the trinkets he has of them would belong directly to them.

But Carmy's connection to Richie is not direct. Richie is cousin to Carmy because he was best friend to Mikey first. Carmy’s relationship to Richie has always been mediated through his relationship with Mikey. In life, Richie would only be in Carmy's orbit because of his proximity to Carmy's brother. In death, Richie and Carmy have been thrown together because of the restaurant that Mikey left to Carmy but where Richie works. As a result of that forced employer/employee relationship, they're also forced to navigate their grief and mourning for Mikey in close proximity. In this context, it makes sense that the memento Carmy has for Richie is emblematic of Mikey, and is also representative of that shared sorrow between the two of them due to Mikey's passing.

So why does Carmy have these mementos in his apartment?

I'm not entirely sure what the answer to this question is, but my hunch is that these mementos represent the three surviving relationships in this show that are the most important to Carmy but that have all been severed to some extent by the end of season 3.

Carmy's nosedive into Michelin Mode, his psychological spiral triggered by grief, his past traumatic work experiences, his family history, his entitlement borne out of his racialisation and socialisation (among other things) all of this has coalesced into Carmy pushing away those closest to him. He's slipping into that pattern of behaviour he described at Al-Anon in 1x08 Braciole where he cut people out of his life. Carmy doesn't recognise this though because physically, these people are around him all the time. He doesn't realise that you can be physically present but emotionally and mentally AWOL. I mean, the man isn't even physically present for his sister after Natalie gives birth to her daughter, Carmy's niece. He has some explaining and making amends to do! And hopefully we see this next season.

Its likely that the framing of the hair claw and the scrunchie on the show (via suggestive editing) has been a sleight of hand/legerdemain: to get us thinking their presence only has to do with Sydcarmy/Claire. And as I've discussed, the prayer card is widely associated with Mikey. I reckon this is also a sleight of hand too, for the reasons I noted above. Storer and co got us focusing on the romance and dead brother tropes while they continue to push the theme of chosen family home. By the end of season 3, the hair claw, scrunchie and prayer card appear as reminders to Carmy (and us) that he needs to fix his relationships with Nat, Syd and Richie, and that the loss of them is haunting him as well.

And so next season, Carmy needs to move through and past this:

And fight like hell for this:

After all, this show is about love in all its forms, but above all, its about the love we fight for, the love we choose.

Alright chef,

Tagging: @vacationship @moodyeucalyptus @currymanganese @thoughtfulchaos773 @brokenwinebox @espumado @tvfantic87 in case you're interested but keen to hear from whomever wants to discuss!

[dg-outlaw]

Batman #148 Thoughts... or Why Jason Todd is Awesome and Batman Doesn't Deserve Him.

So... I know a lot of the discussion about this issue has been about what happens to Jason, and IYKYK. What I want to discuss are parts of the rest of the issue and why I think Jason is one of the best characters (and more than how many perceive him). *spoilers ahead*

I know many outsiders and even those in fandom look at Jason Todd or the Red Hood and think of him as the hot, angsty edge lord who isn't afraid to break Batman's one rule. He's cool and badass so you want to be like him or he's the romantic fantasy bad boy with a soft side. These things are fine, but this is often where people stop with Jason or if they dislike him the above descriptions are why.

Some people want him to be an antagonist again because villains are cool and this is where we get things like 'The Boys' because it's edgy, subversive, or some intelligent deconstruction of superheroes. Colorful and honorable superheroes like Superman or Spider-Man are boring, just a fantasy, or for kids who don't understand the real world. Again, fine if that's your take, but I don't believe that one "graduates" from one to the other.

Beyond the Fast and Furious style cool factor of fast cars, guns, and explosions that often get associated with Jason, there's more to him than that and it's why he's still one of my favorites. Hell, this is the same character that writers thought would be a priest in the Flashpoint universe, a universe that had gone to hell in a handbasket but in all that chaos and darkness he became a PRIEST.

(The World of Flashpoint: Issue #2)

Say what you will about organized religion, Christianity, or the Catholic church (because there are definitely issues there), but I think two of Jason's core traits that I admire are his faith and hope. Traits that often get Jason hurt by the people closest to him, but that often see him through the darkest times.

The cheapness of using Jason's "death" aside, these traits are seen again in Batman #148. Not only is Jason willing to put his faith in Bruce again (after everything "not" Bruce did to him in Gotham War), but he's the first down into the cave.

This isn't blind faith, but a willingness to try. A hope that maybe this time he won't be hurt, even if time and time again history has proven otherwise. Note: This can be a slippery and dangerous slope and not one without consequences as many people fall into the trap of going back into or staying in toxic relationships that only bring them pain. (And I never said his greatest strengths can't also be his greatest weaknesses).

We also see some emotional maturity and growth in this issue and I love that for Jason. Has he been going to therapy? Maybe, but my money is that he's probably been reading lots of self-help books or something.

Does Bruce deserve this level of forgiveness and compassion from Jason? No, but Jason gives it to him anyway. I also feel like this is a soft challenge from Jason. "I'm not here to save you from yourself or to ask you to save me. We do this together or not at all."

And if you're thinking, "Oh no, Jason has gone soft. Not my Jason Todd!" He's still a cheeky bastard in battle, even when he's on the ropes.

Now, for Jason's "death", one could say that it was a cheap ploy by the writer or DC to get people talking or to have a random "Jason dies" scene (though he's revived in the same issue so I feel the emotional stakes/hype are less compared to leaving it open-ended until the next issue).

One could also look at it in a cynical light given it's Jason that Bruce brings down into the cave during the flashback reveal with the secret Lazarus Kool-Aid. Did Bruce plan that knowing Jason would volunteer in some sort of reverse psychology manipulation? Was it just a random plot explanation to justify having the "Jason dies" scene? Who knows? Though I think Dick or Tim would've volunteered as well. But my focus is on the conversation.

This is another example of Jason's hope and faith, and his faith in Bruce. Bruce's plan isn't tested, though one could assume that he's done the math so to speak, but it's still Jason literally putting his life in Bruce's hands. It's also fairly clever because if Failsafe is some echo of Batman, then something in his programming probably knows about the emotional pain of Jason's initial death. So not only is "killing" going to make him glitch out, but killing Jason is probably the ultimate Failsafe glitch.

Deep down I think Jason knows how much he means to Bruce, even if Bruce is terrible at showing it sometimes. He's willing to take the risk and die, not for Bruce, but for the greater good of saving the day.

Let's also not forget that in the span of a short amount of (in-universe) time, Jason has saved the entire East Coast (end of Gotham War), Gotham City (end of The Joker: The Man Who Stopped Laughing), and is now ready to die again to stop Failsafe--all while his brain is still probably a little messed up from Gotham War.

Let this young man take a damn vacation!

Was this issue perfect? No. And I agree with others about it not being cool that Steph, Cass, and Duke got sidelined as the clean-up crew, but I do think it showed a lot of Jason's deeper character (flawed or not) and how he's more than just the edgy, sarcastic bad boy. That part of him is just the hard candy shell he's had to create to protect the gooey center that is his hope, faith, and love. After all, Damian has previously (and rightly) called him out as the "emotional one".

P.S. I know my previous post picked on Jason's Red Hood outfit at the end and I still stand by the fact that it wasn't my favorite, but seeing that it's Jorge Jimenez's art, I can forgive it. I love most of Jorge's art and would kill (not literally) to be as talented as him, but that outfit design is still a no for me. Sorry, Jorge. :(

[ecoterrorist-katara]

I just saw a very long post talking about your friends to lovers Kat//ang post.

https://www.tumblr.com/mal3vol3nt/754643736340856832/hey-first-of-all-i-love-your-blog-in-a-world

You don’t need to read it all but I didn’t see many instances where they bring up the idea that Aang always viewed Katara as a romantic interest while Katara may have viewed him as just a friend.

They do however, bring up a few points about the EIP that I’d like to hear your opinions on. I don’t think much of it was in a lot of retaliation to your post but I’d like to overall hear your opinion on “Aang was dealing with a bunch of emotions regarding the play and not only how he felt regarding his relationship with Katara but also about his overall portrayal.”

Anyways, I thought you might be interested in seeing this since the overall point about the post was to rebut your argument

hey anon!

So — this user said a lot of things to defend Aang, but my focus was not on blaming Aang the character: I’m accusing Bryan and Mike of executing friends-to-lovers poorly.

So yes, I can understand Aang’s reactions to the EIP play, because obviously that play was racist and misogynistic and jingoistic etc etc. But all Bryke had to do was add a scene after EIP where Aang apologizes. “Hey Katara, I’m really sorry about how I acted at the play. I was mad about xyz but I shouldn’t have taken it out on you.” And then Katara can say, I understand, I don’t blame you, that play fucking sucked, let’s talk after the war. Turn that into 12yo-speak and voila, conflict resolved. And while I still wouldn’t love the ship, I wouldn’t be so indignant about it.

re: this user’s take on EIP and how Aang’s portrayal in the play is racist & colonialist propaganda, and therefore justifies his outburst, I’m putting it under a cut because it’s long and it’s a much more specific discussion of colonial dynamics than what most people are here for.

TL;DR: I’m tired of people claiming that colonialism = emasculating its subjects. That’s extremely historically incorrect, and also incorrect in ATLA’s own universe. Stop giving Bryke credit they don’t deserve!

I often see the argument from Aang defenders that he’s so angry about his portrayal by the Ember Island Players because there’s a history of feminizing colonial subjects. The fact that he was played by a woman is meant to be derogatory, and it’s not toxic masculinity for him to feel upset about it, and it’s reasonable for him to feel upset about Katara’s depiction.

First of all, he’s 12 and I don’t care if he shows toxic masculinity either way. Second of all, yes, Katara’s portrayal in the play is absolutely misogynistic and offensive, though it’s important to note that hypersexual Pocahontas is only one of many damaging stereotypes.

More importantly, it is very very wrong to say that colonialism requires the emasculation of its subjects. If you’ve seen colonial propaganda, whether it’s about Palestine or Algeria or Tibet or what is now Canada, you’ll know that colonialism usually does the opposite. Colonialism frequently posits a hyper-masculine, hyper-violent, hyper-savage version of its subjects, specifically men. In our world, colonialism is usually justified through the language of “bringing civilization,” and I’d use the term “white man’s burden” except Japan and China and Morocco can colonize just like the rest of them. Do you think the CCP talks about Tibetan monks as feminine, ditzy flower-crown wearers? No, they absolutely do not. CCP propaganda depicts Tibetan monks as violent sadists, and Tibetan Buddhism as a violent religion, and Tibetan people as needing Han Chinese roads and trains and schools so that they can learn to be civilized. (And incidentally, if you know anything about Southeast Asia you would not say Buddhism is an inherently peaceful religion, but that’s another conversation). Similar POVs can be found littered throughout history, and that’s because colonial propaganda fundamentally must justify violence and control, and it’s much easier to justify violence against people whom you’ve identified as inherently threatening.

More relevant to ATLA, we know that “the Avatar is super violent” is actually the flavour of Fire Nation propaganda, because Aang learns in the show and in the comics (Katara and the Pirate’s Silver) that the average Fire Nation citizen sees him this way! And the discrepancy between sweet, cheerful, vegetarian Aang and this bloodthirsty Avatar figure of FN propaganda is one of the greatest ironies of the show!

In addition, unlike real-life fascist states which are misogynistic by definition, the Fire Nation is not indicated to be misogynistic, canonically speaking. Women can fight, we don’t see them doing housework, Mai is the only one told to be ladylike and meek, etc. There are subtle, likely unintentional signs of power differences (we don’t see women in positions of political power in any nation til Korra), but it’s pretty obvious that the FN is supposed to be the less sexist one (and btw, it was A Choice to make the Inuit-inspired culture the misogynistic one, but that’s out of the scope of this post). EIP’s play actually waxes poetics about how fucking amazing and prodigious and powerful Azula is. So it doesn’t even make sense for EIP to denigrate Aang via his masculinity when they’re trying to prop up Azula in the same breath.

I’m tired of people stuffing surface-level anti-colonialist analyses into ATLA & giving credit to Bryke, of all fucking people, for writing an incisive portrayal of how colonizers & imperialists see their victims. I don’t believe the source text can make any points other than by sheer accident. The politics of ATLAverse are milquetoast at best and reactionary at worst (see: Jet, Hama, comics, LOK). I don’t think Bryke and the creators have read any anti-colonial literature or history, whether it’s about Haiti or the Congo; I don’t believe Bryke sat down and watched The Battle of Algiers and took notes on how to portray colonial resistance; I don’t believe Bryke read Burmese Days or The Colonizer and the Colonized in order to get into the psychology of the Fire Nation; I just don’t believe they or their writing team intended to take on the burdens of real-world tragedies with this show. A while back I think @sokkastyles found a post where someone was wondering if ATLA is a good representation of child soldiers, which is such a baffling failure of media literacy & empathy in general that I’m still disturbed by it. It’s a TV show for kids. It’s a great TV show for all ages, but there are some things that it will never be, one of which is “anything more than a rough parable about imperialism, colonialism, and genocide.”

And you know what? I don’t believe the average ATLA stan leveraging colonialism for a ship war has done a whole lot more thinking than Bryke. I recognize that I was very lucky to have taken multiple courses on anticolonialism and decolonization at institutions that genuinely value faculty who think about these topics, but that’s also the precise reason why I’m so against leveraging colonialism in most ATLA discourse unless I’m trying to set the record straight on something. I’m not an authority on anticolonialism or postcolonialism, but I sure as fuck can recognize when other people aren’t either.

[balkanradfem]

The christian side of tumblr found a post where I made a little joke about how religion puts women into servitude and it's going around gathering bible quotes and arguing whether this is about christianity or other religions x_x I never thought this day would come.. I didn't think christians were on here. And even though the majority of people arguing are christians, I never wrote down 'christianity', I meant all abrahamic religions.

I'm itching to go argue but I know deep in my heart there is nothing to be gained. These people are eager to mock and personally attack whoever is disagreeing with them and that is not a honest intellectual discussion that I crave. I think if you're religious you just have to avoid thinking things like 'why is that so' and 'isn't that awfully convenient' and 'what if this promised thing fails to materialize' because once you start having those thoughts, the entire thing falls apart.

I remember being 15 and realizing that the christian god has no actual use of us, no point in caring about us whatsoever, and no incentive to pay attention to what we do or don't do, but humans very much have a need to believe in the higher power that works to their personal advantage, and that there's someone 'up there' who will make things alright for them, that they have a higher purpose and that if they follow certain rules it will pay out. And this was enough for me to figure out that god didn't create humans, but humans created god, because humans have a need of a god, while god has no need or use for humans at all.

It was only later when I learned about feminism that I realized it wasn't only that, but that it was specifically made to control, exploit and oppress women, praising them for endless servitude, sacrifice, submission and platitude, all while consistently telling them they're filled with sin and never good enough. It's now ghoulish and bizarre to me that the symbol of their faith is a m*n being brutally tortured, that what we feel is holy is endless suffering and pain and death. We're told to aspire for that. That has nothing to do with spirituality, nothing to do with human nature or healthy and happy human lives. It's a worship of death.

There are promises that religious people make towards women, to make them believe it's a path towards true love, or endless rewards for being 'faithful' and 'pure' or a life where they feel safe from disasters, safe from being abandoned and betrayed. There's nothing in life that can guarantee that. Religion can however, offer certain people a community, it can provide services where you come and listen to stories, and stories come with morals (convenient and confusing morals, but people love engaging with moral-type stories and feeling they've learned something), it provides rituals and celebrations that cultures have integrated in their life (after it destroyed the original rituals and celebrations, but we don't talk about that), and it can provide a common ground of understanding for people (sadly the common ground is that women exist to serve and that this is natural). Sometimes it also provides a feeling of superiority for some people, enabling them to mock, humiliate and patronize others for their 'lack of religion'.

So I understand there are community related reasons a person might feel safer within a religion and having this common ground and community, common beliefs, familiarity and stories, rituals and celebrations, it doesn't come off as a horrible thing, especially when the majority of the culture does it. But other things it brings are painful for women, and often hidden. Encouraging hidden suffering, sacrifice, servitude, centering torture and death, and admiration of torture and death, instead of celebrating nature, life, the world we live in and how we interact with it. Centering males as creators when everyone alive was created by women. Dismissing wars, rape, terrorism, weapons of mass destruction, genocides and male brutality, while endlessly shaming women for having feelings and not doing a good enough job pleasing the violent males. And generally making a hell for women when they have any thoughts about sexuality or lust.

I know me writing about it here will not have any effect on people personally attacking me for being ignorant and uneducated, but it feels good to write down the thoughts I've been having all day! Being forbidden from thinking in certain direction, forbidden from questioning my own beliefs, is something that plagued me for a big part of my life, and I will not have it anymore. I can say 'this is awfully convenient' when religions declare that m*n are leaders and women are supposed to follow and serve. I can say that putting up statues of a m*n dying in torture is fucked up and morbid. I can say that making me believe that I would go to hell, for not following every order I've been given, is a horrid thing to do to a female child. And I'm happy and grateful that I can think and say whatever I want, without any threat of damnation ever looming over me.

[friend-crow]

Alright, my dashboard has been getting a bit quiet these days, so I'm keeping an eye out for new blogs to follow, if people have recommendations. There's probably cool blogs already following me that I'm not aware of, so let me know if you think your blog would be up my alley.

What I'm looking for:

Magic/mysticism stuff (especially folk magic, bioregional animism flavored stuff, sabbatic craft stuff, etc)

cool art/craft

plants

humor

What I'm not so much looking for:

Religion stuff (including most paganism stuff unless it's specifically about doing magic -- if a blog is 80% about deities and 20% about magic, I'm probably not going to be interested)

fandom stuff

aesthetic stuff

moral outrage stuff (it's valid to be angry but I'm mostly on tumblr to chill with friends)

Posting some amount of the above is not a problem, I'm just probably not interested in a blog where those are a large part of the content.

What I'd really love to find is more established practitioners who openly discuss parts of their practice, though I realize that that's a tall order as someone who isn't willing to openly discuss most of my own practice.

[ineedjesusverymuch]

Diabolik lovers headcanons pt. 4

Hi! After that huge response my other post got, I decided to write more/be more active on here. I really enjoy writing my thoughts on just about anything regarding dl out and it makes me happy that so many people liked my post!

Although that big of a response was quite a shock. Seemed that I did not, in fact, yell into the void that time :).

Though I am not sure if that post did anything different, I'll continue posting on here no matter how big the response is. If I can make even one person happy with those posts, (including me) I'll keep on writing those silly headcanons of vampires that do not exist. :)

I am going to focus more on the mukamis and Yui in this post since the last one was almost only the Sakamakis.

⚠anything triggering will be marked like this: ❗trigger❗

⚠I am going to briefly discuss childhood trauma and depression.

As always, I'll try to stay at least a little bit true to the source material.

Asks are always appreciated!

This time, I rambled quite a bit about Azusa ':)

headcanons under the cut⬇

Firstly, Yui. Our dear heroine who deserves just about everything!

Really good at dancing those old, classical ballroom dances. She had a few lessons by Ayato (who spent the entire time giving his best not stomping on Yui's feet) and Reiji (whose lesson was the most horrifying experience she had ever had)

After those lessons, she refined her skills. Ayato is quite a good dancer, so she had someone to practice with.

Her best dances are waltz and rumba

Ayato is literally not physically able to stop watching her when dancing together. Never has he seen someone that beautiful (I stand by Ayato being totally besottet by Yui)

Her style is so coquetteish, old fairy tale princess, etherial soul, cottage core - genuinely dresses like a pinterest board

Really fcking pretty??? I don't get why the boys humble her all the time

Immune to pretty boys/play boys. She has seen it all.

really adores bunnies. Lionheads? She'd like a dozen of them.

Had at one point a guinea pig. It died and her father buried it and told her that a fairy had taken it to be her loyal companion. Yui believed it until she was like 16 years.

Her hair has those light curls and feels like the softest thing ever

The clasp in her hair is not the only flowery hair adornment she has, Yui loves to wear different clasps on special occasions

Definitely got gifted a hair pin with rose details from Subaru at one point

Best friends with Subaru. They like to spend quality time caring for his flowers and Yui is allowed to brush his hair on tare occasions.

Shu tried to teach her the violin once and she was horrible at it (but flute was her thing)

Has those shirts with horribly kitsch prints on them but no one says anything to her because she loves them so much

She has thought a lot about her faith since being with the Sakamakis. Read a lot about her god and the different religions.

Has though about studying theology and psychology in University

collects squishmallows

wears those light perfumes that smell like vanilla and flowers occasionally

Everyone turns their head when they first see Yui

Etherial beauty

Smells like vanilla. It's because she uses those body lotions and a lightly scented hair mist

Ayato goes mad at the smell

Ayato genuinely loves Yui. Just her, living her life. He adores her.

Also; Ayato is a himbo.

Dumb and dumber duo

Subaru teaches her material art as defense for anything coming at her

Natural at fighting

Decked Ayato in the face once as he materialized out of thin air behind her

Knocked him unconscious

Laito laughed for literal hours at the though of Ayato getting knocked out by Yui

Her dream is living in peace with eveyone she loves

Had an actual talk with Ayato at some point. They are a healthy couple now (No, I do not care about the canon. They're in love your highness)

Goes to therapy. She decided to after nightmares regarding her early days with the boys

Also, scared that Cordelia will come back at one point and take her body over completely

Yui is the nicest person ever

Will talk with you about everything you'd like

Gentle soul.

Gives great hugs?? Knows how to comfort someone who's feeling bad

She's not only good at baking but also at making those highly decorated cakes and cupcakes. Kanato begs her for themed cupcakes as soon as autumn starts and Halloween decorations appear

next, Ruki.

Eats way too much dark chocolate

We're talking about two entire bars minimum a day

Coffee junkie

Has a disproportionately large consume of anything caffeinated

Wears the same crusty, dry eyeliner since 1990

Refuses to buy a new one since "the old one still works" (it does not)

flirts with Reiji. Its so obvious that even Yuma has realized it

(Reiji is oblivious to it)

Academically speaking, really good at the natural sciences.

Fcking sucks at english though

Studies quite a lot, Ruki despises being on the same level as Reiji

Bad loser

Will be sulky after losing a game of Uno

Definitely cheats at card games

Really good at annoying Reiji. It's such a high level of annoying, he could give courses on the matter

Really good older brother

Checks on the other Mukami brothers when Ruki sees them struggeling with their pasts

Will check in every night if Azusa or Kou are plagued by nightmares

Has nightmares about the orphanage

❗sometimes wakes up scared that his brothers are actually dead and can only calm down after checking that each one is still alive

❗Definitely scared of anything happening to his brothers, he has panic attacks just thinking about that night

reads self help books

Has at least one "how to raise unruly children" book on his shelves

Culinary mastermind

But also makes the weirdest combinations of foods? Why would anyone like to taste jam with cucumbers and pepper????

now, Kou

Likes those really creepy stuffed toys

really good at drawing winged eyeliner

Has worn pink mascara and it looked so fcking good???

Hugest crush on Subaru

Flirts with him but the dear boy does not recognize romantic affection even when it slaps him in the face

Almost fainted riding the first time on Subaru's motorcycle

The scariest thing since really long

Wears really dangly, long earrings

With the weirdest motifs

Has one pair that has clams that can open. The pearls inside them glow in the dark.

his stomach is a bottomless pit. The first time he came over to spend a night at the Sakamaki's, Reiji was genuinely afraid that they had nit enough food to last to breakfast

Laito and he binged the Kardashians

Loves gossip. Knows everything about everyone

Makes rad nail art

Loves styling Azusa. Its their quality time, combined with trying those really spicy crisps

huge energy drink consumer

Helps him trough those sleepless nights were Kou stays up and chats with Laito the whole night through the phone

quite good at learning historical facts

Due to Kou's eye, he can see truths and lies in humans. But he is also really good at deciphering the human psyche.

Doesn't always use his eye. Sometimes, just Kou's knowledge of psychology is enough to recognize lies

There are some headcanons that Kou is italian. I agree with that. I can really image him enjoying the culture and the food. Also, I read a headcanon once that Kou's real name was Emilio. (If someone knows the name of the OP, please tell me)

Now, our vegetable freak: Yuma!

loves scrunchies and hair claw clips

Got one from Kanato once and uses them since

Also, I propose: Yuma with those hair claw clips in butterfly shape. Gifted by Kou as a joke

but now, he always wears them

Kanato braids his hair in really elaborate hair styles. Bridal style vibes. Kou thinks its the funniest thing ever

Shu loves toying with his hair when bored. It's just so soft and smells really good (Yuma uses Kou's shampoo on the regular. It causes quite a lot of fights)

took 1 (one) "Am I Gay" quiz. It came out a hundred percent positive. The next day, he confessed to Shu. They've been together ever since

Feeds the birds on the porch of their house every morning, together with Azusa

Actually really educated about current politics (at least the ones in Romania. But knows quite a lot about the USA and Japan, too)

Will start fights with Ruki about politics during dinner

If you ever want to hear angry romanian yelling, just go to the Mukami house during elections

Cares for every houseplant in their house

Brings at least two new plants per week at home. Ruki is on the brink of forbidding Yuma from accessing his monthly allowance

wears really shitty clothes. I'm talking thousand times stitched together trousers. They look like potatoes sacks but he refuses to get new ones

Has a toolbelt that looks atrocious

He wears it almost every day

The dirtiest shoes known to mankind

So dirty with soil and just about anything you can find in nature

Ruki gets daily aggressions about the spots on their carpet, since Yuma thinks changing shoes just for going inside is stupid

Wears the most amazing eyeliner but it is actually just old as fuck eyeshadow and mascara

He makes it look good

Has the longest lashes known to humankind

Brown skin due to being outside so much

Disneyprincess in secret

loves those huge dogs

now, Azusa!!

jesus that boy can be seductive

No, I wont elaborate

That was a lie, I will elaborate on anything with Azusa. He has the art of subtle flirting refined to mastery

Tried to flirt with Kanato. But Kanato thought he was being made fun of

Great at subtle makeup

Also; great dancer. Especially latin dances such as cha-cha-cha or salsa

He has those hips (breedable, as some folks would say)

Canonically doesn't like peppers

That doesn't apply to stuffed peppers with spices though

Great at remembering faces, not so great at remembering names

Can draw and paint and do art so good????

God of art

Not god of natural sciences though

Is doing alright at school but doesn't like the education system

Speaks not only romani and japanese but also a bit of English (and has the thickest british accent. No one knows where it is from and Azusa refuses to tell them that it is from watching Harry potter so often)

Colours his hair in a blue-black colour to give it more depth sometimes

Wears very pretty, light blue-ish glitter on the inner eye corner sometimes

So beautiful eyes??

Long, dark lashes

Likes to wear a bit of mascara

Naturally a defined jawline and straight nose

But a bit chubby cheeks

Is very pale but tans quite a but when longer outside in the summer. But dues to his sensitivity to heat, he'd rather stay inside

His eyes have a bit of an almond form, which gives them a sharp look, but still quite big

Azusa likes to wear too big clothes, especially hoodies and sweaters from Ruki and Yuma.

Also, cargo pants. The wide ones

Combat boots are a staple in his closet

Loves plateau boots and sneakers

Converse all stars are his to go shoes if no plateau boot is available

The shoes size him up quite a bit so the first time he met the Sakamakis, they all thought he was quite big. They all were surprised as they arrived at the Mukami home and Azusa just shrinked a few inches

Paints his fingernails in hope that he doesn't chew on them that much if they're pretty and colorful

Cuts his hair himself because he feels that his slow manner of speech annoys the staff in hair salons

But he likes the choppy style so its not as big of a problem for him

❗has a problem coping with what happened in his childhood. He canonically sh, but has frequent anxienty attacks too.

Due to that, he has a few weightened blankets and lots of pillows on his bed to simulate the feeling of getting hugged

Big hugger

His love language is physical touch

bug lover

Has a really cool sweater with the life cycle of a frog

That was it, actually. I rambled quite a bit about Azusa but I still hope you'll like it.

I hope I was able to make your day a bit better.

If you have any requests, just ask!

Thank you for reading all of that. I really appreciate you! I hope you'll have an amazing day/night!

[veritas-scribblings]

radiate - @bartylusmicrofic - words: 1,244 [warnings: discussions of religion]

There’s this church in Mayfair. Every Sunday at 11am, Barty goes to the park opposite and sits on the fence and chain smokes as he waits patiently to catch a glimpse. A glimpse is all he needs. It will sustain him, fuel him for the week to come. It will nourish his soul. Save him. Raise him up. Lift him high.

It never takes Barty long at all to spot Regulus. He’d spot him blind in the dark. He knows Regulus from the way Regulus carries himself. From the line of his shoulders, which are always so tense. From the scowl permanently written across Regulus’s face as though the mere existence of the world deeply offends him.

Barty takes a long draw from his cigarette and blows smoke into the air. Regulus always looks like the weight of his thoughts have grown heavier each time he leaves that church. Like someone has laid his all of his sins out before him. Regulus already has a complex relationship with religion (his family is already a fucking cult) and whatever bullshit they’re spewing behind those walls is only further complicating things.

Regulus glances across the road. He knows that Barty waits there each Sunday. Walburga knows too, Regulus says, and makes disparaging comments about “that boy” who sits on the fence and smokes. “A filthy, disgusting habit,” she will say. “Only sinners smoke.”

Regulus’s gaze lingers on Barty for just a moment, and in that moment Barty is sure Regulus can read his thoughts. Meet me, he thinks desperately, the fear and longing a mangled, dark monster within him. Meet me. Come to me. Fuck your church and fuck your God. Let me save you.

Come evening, the rain falls in sheets and the wind is unforgiving. Barty is chilled to the bone, to his very soul, and it isn’t just the wind and the rain that batters against him as he stands on the footpath outside the church. It’s the weight of everything bearing down on him: his fears that he isn’t enough to save Regulus, his fears that he will lose Regulus to his family, that the Blacks will devour Regulus whole and leave only the empty shell of Regulus behind.

When Barty was younger, during his ‘cusp of adolescence’ years, he would sometimes find himself oscillating between ‘it’s probably better not to tempt fate’ and ‘let’s fuck around and find out’. Like he would enjoy nothing more than to climb a ladder to the roof of their school’s building and flip the sky the bird so he could wait and see if Regulus’s God will smite him where he stands.

These days, Barty is just sure there’s no higher power involved in anyone’s lives. It simply would not make any sense. Because if there is, the higher power is a sick and twisted son of a bitch unworthy of anyone’s worship.

“I’d say at this stage that what you’re doing is almost considered harassment,” Barty says. “Give the woman a break, she’s heard it all. Multiple times.”

This is the way Barty sees it: the God that religion wants is a woman, the God that religion has is a man. No further explanations needed.

The church in Mayfair is dimly lit inside. Regulus sits in the pews, his forehead resting on the backs of his hands, which grip the pew in front of him. He’s praying, Barty knows. Or more like, he’s harassing his God with every thought and worry he has in his mind. And Regulus has an endless supply of thoughts and worries…so Barty supposes to some extent that having an invisible counsellor makes some sort of sense.

When Regulus doesn’t look up, Barty says, his voice husky and cracking, “Fuck your God. All the boring sons of bitches go to heaven, anyway. I reckon hell’s where the party’s at. We’ll fuck on our way down, enter hell with a bang.”

This gets Regulus’s attention, as Barty knew it would, because Barty is nothing if not an expert at poking Regulus’s buttons. Regulus has never quite understood how Barty can be so very blazé about things such as who loves whom, and who has sex with whom, and who has knowledge of who loves whom and who has sex with whom. Whereas Barty has never quite understood Regulus’s hang-ups. It’s not so much that love and loving others comes naturally to Barty; it’s just that he’s more of the ‘who gives a flying fuck what others think’ party.

And Regulus has never been able to separate himself from what others might potentially think.

Barty slides onto the bench next to Regulus. “You ran away the other day. Before I could say I—” Barty places his hand on top of Regulus’s, which is cold and gripping the back of the pew tightly, “Reg, I love you,” he says hurriedly.

There’s something missing in the air between them, the way that Regulus would have once said, “I love you, too,” so easily. Before Barty had refused to keep ignoring how things had changed between them and love no longer meant "I want you at my side", but instead, "I want to keep you inside me".

Barty surges forwards and kisses Regulus. It’s a closed-mouth kiss, taking Regulus off-guard so that he is for a moment paralysed with how to respond. They’ve done this before, back when they were fourteen and Barty had wanted to try out kissing and trying it out on Regulus, his forever best friend, had made so much sense to him.

That, back then, had been a chaste kiss. This kiss is anything but. It’s desperate and fierce, messy and intermingled with tears that Barty is sure are Regulus’s. And this kiss is very much one-sided as Regulus doesn’t respond immediately, though he also doesn’t push Barty away. He merely lets himself be kissed, lips parting ever-so-slightly, like he thinks that if he is not an active participant in the interaction that he cannot be faulted for it.

“I love you,” Barty breathes against Regulus’s lips, and Regulus makes a sound that is so broken it chips away at Barty’s heart. Because how can Barty make Regulus understand the enormity of his love for him? How can Barty make Regulus understand that he’s loved him for years in every way it’s possible to love someone?

“Barty,” Regulus breathes out, and in his name Barty hears, I love you, too. And, I need you, too.

Pressing back into the kiss, Barty pulls Regulus so close that Regulus all but crowds into his lap. Finally, Regulus responds and the kiss is no longer one-sided. Warmth pools low into Barty’s belly. He slips his hands under Regulus’s shirt to run over the smooth, warm skin of Regulus’s back. There is barely any space between them, and Barty can feel through Regulus’s movements in his lap that Regulus is quickly unravelling.

Barty slides his hand up Regulus’s neck to tip his head back and deepen the kiss, licking into his mouth. He wants more than he has wanted almost anything else. He wants to watch Regulus come apart. He wants to feel him, hear him, experience him.

He knows that it’s a bad idea to do this in a church, particularly one with a congregation so conservative, but Barty’s never met a bad idea he doesn’t like. And Regulus’s God can come for Barty if they have any qualms about this happening.

They can come for Barty. Or they can try. Because, Barty thinks, he is prepared and they won’t know what hit them.

[ravennaortiz]

August 5th features Coco with the prompt "Did you really just say womb escape day?" requested by the lovely @telfords-genderfluid-prospect. As always my stories are 18+

Coco looked around the kitchen at his handiwork. He had never been one to be big on the whole birthday celebration. It was just another year. Nothing magical about it. Everyone did it, well unless they died of course. The guys had convinced him though that he needed to show a bit more enthusiasm for your upcoming birthday. He knew they had a point. The connection he had with you was incredibly different than it had been with any other woman he had been with. He had lucked out. Truly no reason someone as delightful, brilliant and gorgeous should be with an outlaw biker and ex addict.

So here he was with a beautiful morning feast for his queen. Grabbing the tray he began the ascent up to your bedroom. Eyeing the tray one more time to double check he had it all right he opened the door as he lit the candle in the blueberry muffin.

The smell of coffee and the sounds of silverware jangling stirred you from your slumber. Rolling over you opened one eye and grinned at Coco’s beaming smile and the tray of food. Though you were slightly confused on why a candle was melting onto the muffin.

“Happy womb escape day love” called Coco as he set the tray on your lap before kissing your forehead. “What did you just say?” you laughed as you cocked your head looking up at him. Coco scoffed slightly as he sat down on the edge of the bed. How could you not know your own religions celebratory greetings he thought to himself. “Happy womb escape day, you know because you got out of mother….earth and are bringing …joy and shit to others. Hurry and blow out the candle so you don’t have a year of bad luck” he encouraged as he lifted the muffin to your mouth.

Still perplexed you blew out the muffin and watched as Coco took the candle out and unwrapped it before lifting it to your mouth. When you went to grab it he smacked your hand gently. “No no, you must conserve your strength and power for the bonfire and ritual tonight” he scolded as he shook his head and brought the muffin to your mouth. Relenting you took a bite. The deliciousness of blueberries and sugar flooded your mouth.

“That’s the best blueberry muffin I’ve ever had babe. Why was there a candle though and what is a bonfire ritual?” you inquired as he handed you your coffee that you had gestured at.

“Thanks I got up and made them from scratch. Also I know candles are important to your religion to keep the evil spirits at bay….because they are at an all-time high on your birthday. Though it did get me thinking, like if your evil then you don’t want to repel them right? Like you need them to help with you biddings? Sorry I’m still a bit confused on this” added Coco when he realized you were just staring at him.

“Coco. My love what religion do you think I am?” you inquired as you grabbed his hand and squeezed.

“I feel like this is a trick” replied Coco as he bit his lip. “I’m not sure how to pronounce it but sounds like orgasm but with a p. Though you are the garden variety” answered Coco as he watched you process his answer.

You were silent for a moment as you racked your brain to figure out the hell he was talking about. “Paganism?” you offered and smiled as Coco nodded eagerly. “Yeah that” he stated.

“I think we have a lot to discuss babe.” You laughed as you shook your head. “I love that you did all this for me and tried. It means a lot” you added as he laughed and shook his head.

“Yeah, probably should have asked some questions. This witch shit is hard and the guys were not very helpful. Though they are ready for the bonfire and have gotten really good at the dance” he added as you laughed.

“This is going to be one of my favorite birthdays I think” you added as you leaned forward to kiss Coco.

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