#I recognize cowardice

[wanderingmind867]

you need to grow the hell up.

if you don't grow up very soon, you are going to turn into a virulent manchild. and you will remain a manchild for the rest of your life.

Three long years on here, and today I come home from school to find 10 pieces of hate mail. I don't know if I blocked someone or did something to agitate someone, but I am immune to your death threats.

You underestimate me, sir. I will not commit suicide. I will not go gentle into that good night. I am too big a coward to dare do that. Also, I'm impressed by the use of the word virulent. Not a word I'd expect from hate mail, so I think I've found the world's most eloquent hate mail sender.

Oh, and your death threats are not clever. I will not cut myself, I will not join my mother (and that one's clearly a petty targeted attack), I shall not. If anything, this is an incentive to tell my dad about having this tumblr account. Maybe I will over the summer break.

And listen: I know engaging with hate mail is a gesture in futility. But I also know that I needed to say some of this stuff. I shall let people know about the strange story of an anonymous figure threatening me. Because this is a bizarre thing to come home to.

[egophiliac]

so have you heard about the ride kamens app game? seems like it's gonna be a twisted wonderland like game with all the riders being hot anime guys now, and it's also gonna be written by yuya takahashi and produced by naomi takebe (apparently it was in development before geats), with designs by the person who did sk8 the infinity, so take that for what you will

have you ever gotten the feeling that a piece of media came into existence just to appeal to you specifically, or

(brb preregistering immediately)

(as far as I can tell you play as an agent who maintains a secret superhero base for riders in the basement of the rider-themed cafe that you run with your butler, and there's some other plot stuff going on but honestly I'm way past sold at this point, this sounds amazing)

[prettyboykatsuki]

i have deep desire to write for demon slayer (and by write for it im specifically talking about zenitsu currently.) but the story is so deeply impacted by it's setting that its gonna take at least two weeks of research to do it any justice so the plans r Delayed

[giantkillerjack]

My sister-in-law frustrates me to no end even though we barely ever interact because she keeps inviting my partner to parties with her Christian Republican friends, even though my partner told her not to send an invite to us if those friends will be there. And even though my sister-in-law is bisexual!!

And then she turns around and complains about not knowing how to deal with her friends saying, like, horrible sexist stuff as though that is just some natural unavoidable quirk of having friends!

Like, these Christian Republicans she has befriended don't seem to be kind - they're not even nice a lot of the time! They don't make for good friends, and she doesn't seem happy or supported in relation to them. In fact, she basically only ever talks about how her friends and/or current boyfriend are making her unhappy!

Because here's the thing: The effect of prioritizing 'including your Trump-supporter friends at your parties' over 'being invested in creating a safe space for marginalized people in your home', is that people who DO care about creating those safe spaces... won't wanna hang out with you! Because if you invite both cats and mice to your table equally, only the cats will show!

She's so afraid of losing the shitty friends she has now that she allows them to act as barriers to accessing friends who are invested in her wellbeing in a capitalistic hellscape!

It makes me sad because she's basically trapped herself, and there's nothing I can do to offer help without either compromising my morals or making my partner's life way harder by starting shit with her family.

Like, I consider myself a good friend, yeah? I try really really hard to be one, and it matters to me immensely. I am ride-or-die for the folks I love, and I am invested in being open and vulnerable and radically safe to be around when it comes to building strong friendships that are mutually fulfilling. I have a unique talent for validating people that I have honed for years because I genuinely want to make sure people feel safe and loved and seen.

And if my sister-in-law and I were friends, I could give all of that to her. I would strive to be an example of what it looks like when someone decides to care about you and treat you right on purpose, without expecting anything in return but your mutual respect. She would be family. She would be [Queer] Family. I would see to it that she knew she could call on me when she needed a friend.

But like.

This asshole has invited me to hang out with Trump supporters on multiple occasions.

We ain't gonna be friends.

[vaugarde]

pmd explorers of the spirit is like pmd2 no mercy run

[pickledmickles]

me pointing at kakuzu in fanart and screaming at the top of my lungs

WHY IS HE WHITE

[skullinahat]

blegh

[netherfeildren]

FABLE OF THE DOG : 1. The Two Headed Calf

Series Masterlist;

Pairing: Joel Miller x FMC

Summary: Welcome home and buck up, cowgirl.

Rating: Explicit 18+

Content Warnings: Cowboy/Heiress AU; Slowburn(ish); Original Characters; Alcohol & Drug Use; Discussions of Grief; Daddy Issues; Graphic Descriptions of Vomiting; Description of a Dead Body; Death of a Parent; Parental Neglect; Older Man/Younger Woman; Jealousy; Past Teenage Crush; Unrequited Pinning; Yearning and Longing Galore; Boss’s Daughter; Complicated Family Relationships; A Home is a Place but ALSO a Person!; Found Family

A/N: Disclaimer, I know nothing about Wyoming and it’s geography, ranching, or being a cowboy and just made all this up. Any and all misrepresentations are fallacy of my laziness.

The FMC tag was decided because she has a last name. It was just too difficult for me to speak in depth about her father without giving him a name, and thus her one too. After that decision was made, she kind of went away from me and devolved into her own person who I have come to be quite obsessed with. It’s still written in ‘you’ format, anyhow.

I’ve been having a whole lot of fun with this, I hope you do too.

Word Count: 10K

Read on AO3

1: The Two Headed Calf

“She’s been shut up in that house goin’ on three days now, Joel,” Tommy says as the two brothers make their way across the lawn. 

The ride had been long and hard, and Joel is tired—he levels a dark look at him. “Just sayin’. Nothin’ you find in there’s gonna be pretty to look at.” He raises his hands in surrender at the brooding glare, that non-confrontational shrug that’s set Joel on edge since they were boys. 

“One of you’s should’a gone in there. Made sure she’s okay.”

“The housekeepers’ve been keepin’ an eye. And Frank tried to go in there and check on her himself, but she’s angry as a barn cat. Hissin’ ‘nd yowlin’, and just bein’ downright scary as hell, to be honest. You should be prepared is all I’m tryin’ to say.”

“Her father just died, Tommy. I’m not expectin’ pretty sights right now,” Joel gruffs, trying to swallow the panic that flutters in his throat as they crest the final hill up to the big house. 

The beautiful stone, oak, glass monstrosity that’s stood as monument to this place, this home that is not truly his, for over a decade now. The Kelly Ranch. The sky above is still a sultry, yawning blue, deep and tired, basking in the throes of dawn as the sun just now makes its way over the crest of the Tetons in the distance so that the house sits for just a moment longer in its pool of shadowed blues. 

Joel pauses on the border of that somber darkness, afraid suddenly of what awaits him inside; boots glued to the ground with the gum of cowardice. He doesn’t want to see her broken. He doesn’t want to see her hurting. But there’s no other recourse, he knows this. The death of the estranged father she’d fought with all her life, the inheritance of this world that seems suddenly too big for just one orphaned girl, all alone now. 

He’s afraid that he’ll walk into that house he’s always seen as other and home all wrapped into one—that Olympus that was so far removed and out of reach even when he walked through it’s halls to the man who’d given him sanctuary and salvation, to the man he knew mistreated her sometimes, didn’t love her enough—and not have the capacity to recognize her, this girl who’d always been familiar and stranger all in one also. 

Joel Miller suddenly feels afraid of the memory she exists as in his mind, in the face of the woman he knows she is now. 

When he lets himself in the back kitchen door, it’s still nighttime within. The cool dryness of the AC cranked up to inhuman temperatures makes him shiver once while sprouting a damp sweat along his nape. He should’ve showered before coming, should’ve washed the ride and the days of camp off his skin before walking into her presence, but all he’d managed were his hands and face. There’d been panic to make sure she was well, if not then alive, at least. But he should be more presentable for her. 

Hell, he should’ve been here for her when she came home for the first time in two years to the house where her father had died. He should’ve been here when the man died. 

But the herd had needed moving. He hadn’t thought it’d all happen so quickly, thought he had more time, that they all had more time. He’d hoped she wouldn’t return at all, if he was being honest. There was nothing here for her. Nothing except memories of a gilded and loveless, already motherless childhood. The reality of all she was set to inherit. The truth of an aloneness Joel didn’t know if she was prepared for. 

He moves through the house slowly, afraid to disturb the ghosts and the silence. The interior, immaculate and beautiful and solemn. Something out of a movie picture or the gloss of a magazine. Something covered not in dust but in sadness. The stairs are silent as his spinning mind makes up for the creak, the boots she’d sent him on his last birthday hit the richly piled rug at the top, and the hallway to the bedrooms yawns long and frightening in front of him. Two grand a pop, the boots—Lucchese, he’d looked them up on the iPhone she’d sent him the year before. A gift giver, generous to a fault, kind to a detriment. She sent something to all the ranch hands that’d worked for her father since she was a girl. Something for the entire ranch at Christmas. And all he managed each time was a perfunctory thank you card, like he did every year because he remembered, years ago, in her little voice, polite people send thank you notes, Joel, my grandmother told me so. Last year he’d written that they were too much, that she shouldn’t have, that he was grateful. There wasn’t much else to say. 

That was the extent of their communication, familiar and stranger in one, the far removed golden child of the Kelly. They’d all called him that, the Kelly, for as long as he’d known the man. As if he was some Scottish laird of old, ruling over his clan and half the world. Egotistical, was what it really was. He’d thought himself a god among men, in the face of his only child. Ridiculous was what Joel saw it all for, a put on play, a farce.

And wonder of wonders, she was entirely unlike him because of course she would be. Of course a man ruled by nothing more than ego and narcissism had been sent his polar opposite in the form of his only child. Kind hearted, was what she was—sending him a birthday gift every year. Remembering them all here always no matter how far she’d gone. He sent her a thank you note for each benevolence in return, a word of respectful gratitude for the fact that a person like her could ever remember a dog like him. 

Sometimes, Joel had wanted to go to him, the old man, Oswald Kelly, and ask him where his daughter was, why he wasn’t looking for her, keeping her closer, caring for her. He wasn’t the sort of man that could’ve ever understood such callous behavior towards one’s child.

The last time she’d been here, over two years ago: less than forty eight hours that had ended in screaming so terrible they’d all heard it down from the barn, sitting in uncomfortable, swollen silence, the spinning of tires ringing as she yelled at her father that he was never going to see her again, the man’s echoing laugh as she’d fled him. 

Joel hadn’t seen her on that visit, it’d been so quick and angry. Flying down on the jet from New Haven for her father’s seventieth birthday and not even making it long enough for the festivities. This was what her life was, as he’d observed it from a distance for all these years, the singular daughter of this great house, coming to her father, attempting joy and finding nothing but disappointment at the end of him. 

She’d been right, a knowing streak running through her. Kelly had never seen her again, and Joel didn’t know if the old man had regretted it or not, the anger and the estrangement and the lack of love. But the last time he’d spoken to him, hours before setting off on their move, the herd always came before everything else, the ranch was all that mattered is what the man had always said, with death scratching at the window, his frail and withered body licked down to almost nothing from the austere and imposing figure Joel had always known him as, he’d asked for her. His only child. Do you think she’ll come, Joel? The dying man had asked him. My daughter, do you think she’ll come see me? Joel had lied a lie he hadn’t known was one, said she would, that he’d call her as soon as he was back. 

In the end, he hadn’t even afforded her that decency, a personal call.

He comes to her open bedroom door now, pitch dark as grief within, and the stench of sorrow and liquor seeping from the living grave. He looks down the long and empty hall for a brief second, wishing it didn’t have to be him, that again, he didn't have to see her any way other than okay. And he realizes that there’s something about her, as she will exist now, that makes him cowardly. Something about this house without the man who’d granted him the absolution of a hiding place all those years ago, who’d understood and sheltered Joel in the midst of his own past grief, that makes him cowardly. The house feels wrong without Kelly within it, wrong with only her as its holder now. 

Joel steps into her dark, and it’s a battleground—

—You are silent and motionless in the blue room. 

Nothing of the gleaming splendor that dresses the rest of the home sleeps in here. There are clothes everywhere, an exploded suitcase lies open and massacred in the middle of the plush white rug, a turned over bottle of red wine bleeding into your clothes. Shredded pages with scratched on writing slashed across them, the dusted white mounds of crushed pills, as if you’d smashed each one individually beneath the thumb of your grief. The sight makes him more afraid, the scent of weed and cigarettes heavy in the air, as he takes the final step towards the wrecked bed, and a single small foot hangs limply from the edge.

He stares at it long and hard for a second, afraid, afraid again, still, of what he’ll find. He says your name once, short and gruff like a dog’s bark. It’s what he feels like. Animal, bestial, lacking any sort of cognizance amidst this minefield. His heart beats against his spine, and he thinks he should do something else, shake you, check for a pulse, his bones throb inside his skin. He needs to fucking move, but the smell of smoke is so cloying he’s choking on his own tongue. 

Your ankle twitches.

And Joel sucks in a sigh of relieved air without panic, saying your name again. His voice is level now, maybe gentle, no more barking dog. His eyes move up the length of one pretty leg, and then quickly, he averts his gaze when he gets high up enough he’s met with soft-creased asscheek covered in silk. Swallowing his tongue, his eyes roll in their sockets, looking for anything else to look at besides the sight of panty clad ass. He steps closer again, gripping the edge of the sheet to pull it over your scantily clad body, eyes flitting to the silver spun clock on the nightstand, the warm glow of the hall light shows that they have two hours to get you sober and presentable before the funeral. 

Joel should have been here. He does not feel that he is even here now. And the guilt eats at him like acid. The fear too. 

“Darlin’, you’ve gotta get up now,” he says softly, taking hold of your shoulder, scalded by the feel of fragile skin, realizing with the suddenness of a gunshot that you’ll be the Kelly now. He gives you a gentle shake, “We’ve gotta get you ready,” and his heart pumps blood like a machine. The sight of the dry liquor bottle toppled on the nightstand, the shattered glass glittering the floor in crystal, the empty pill bottles, it all taunts him. His guilt is a cacophony in his mind. He knows he’s going to have to stick his fingers down your throat, make you spit it all up, that you’ll hate him for all of this afterwards, but when his gaze meets streaked rust, dark and shocking against the white sheets, he’s kicked into terrified action. 

He turns you over, your head lolling sickeningly in unconscious stupor, hair a tangled mess strewn about your face so that he has to dig for your eyes, parting the curtains of your fringe to uncover you. He focuses on your closed eyes, the too long lashes clumped together, lips cracked and parched. 

He should’ve fucking been here. 

Smoothing his fingers along the lengths of your arms, he keeps his eyes on your face and averted from all the skin that keeps peeking out below, searching the divots and slopes of your arms for hurts. When he gets to your right hand, battleground of a long ago broken hurt, he finds the drying crust of blood, the ragged split in the soft, small palm, thankfully shallow.

 His eyes smart, looking down at the broken glass, feeling the tear in you. 

Gripping you gently below the elbows he pulls you into his arms, cradled like a child, light as loss. Your head lolls again, neck crooked at an unnatural angle as he carries you into the restroom, careful of your head, knocking the lights on and putting you down in front of the toilet bowl. He pulls your camisole to rights, making sure everything is covered, and gathers your mess of hair as carefully as he can, trying his best to not snag the fragile strands in his too rough hands, but gripping you firmly in position. And ignoring the sound of your awakening cry, he sticks two fingers into your slack jawed mouth and down your throat until he feels the hot rush of vomit. 

Crouching behind you, his thighs bracket you, keeping your form from slumping over as you empty the poison from your belly, flushing the alcohol soaked bile as you struggle. He wipes his messy hand on the leg of his jeans and rubs soothing circles on your back, his fingers woven through the soft silk of your hair to keep your head in place and your face clear. His heart thumps in rhythm with your heaves, your too quick, panicked breathing. There seems to be not enough oxygen for the two of you and your grief in the too small room of the commode, and Joel gasps like a dying fish, trying to swallow calm breaths. 

When you finally stop your heaving, you rest your arms at the edge of the gleaming porcelain, head hung low, defeated, wracked with shivers or silent sobs, he isn’t sure, a strange and horrible keening noise, so small he barely catches it, held in your throat. There’s the finest down of peach fuzz that covers the tender slope of your vulnerable nape, and it makes Joel feel suddenly, just as vulnerable, just as unprotected. At a complete loss for how to help you. 

“Finally decided to show your face,” you croak, voice ragged with your sick. 

His fingers tighten once around your shoulder, a panicked tick of reminder that he’s here now, that he’s him. “I was moving the herd. It had to be done. Your father, he—” he stutters, trying explain, tripping over his own guilt ridden words. “I didn’t think it’d happen now, so fast, that you’d get here so soon. I thought we had more time.” 

We. 

Your skin seems to cool by the second beneath his fingertips, and then you’re shrugging his touch away, huddling closer to the porcelain bowl, further away from him. 

“Get out.”

“Let me explain. I—” And he’s begging now. He can hear the note of it in his voice. Begging for forgiveness. For a chance. 

“I don’t want to see you.” You don’t say his name. “Get out.” It feels worse than anything. 

“I’m here now. I didn’t know— I didn’t think.” He reaches to grab for you again, but you turn to face him suddenly. Wiping the back of your hand against your mouth, pushing your heels at his shins to kick him away. Your eyes are red rimmed, the hollows beneath bruised with lack of sleep. But fire spits from the deep color, all anger and hurt. 

“Go deal with your fucking ranch,” you fling the words at him. “It’s all you care about anyways.” And they weren’t shivers, he sees now, they’re tears tracked as proof of all his guilt, all his lacking, along the slopes of your fine grained cheeks. 

Your, you say. As if this place and anything in it has ever been his. He’s never wanted any of it like that, only ever seen a thing that needed taking care of, and him, with the ability to care for it. 

“I needed you,” you whisper as if the thought comes along on a second wind of anger, a realization that sends your voice breaking, hitching, your chest caving in on itself as the tears come faster and faster now. “He’s dead, and I needed you.”

“I’m sorry,” he begs. “I’m so sorry.” His voice breaks now too. He thinks he’ll cry now too, for the man who he also lost, who despite it all meant something to him, as well. For you, who’s lost even more. For Joel’s own guilt. 

But he doesn’t think you see any of that, not his apology, not his regret, not his own grief. You turn away from him again, laying your temple down again on your forearm. “Get out. I’ll be ready soon.”

And so he goes.

-

Your father is made small and withered in death. 

One of the wealthiest men in the entire world. A stranger, a titan, a nightmare of a man. 

It wasn’t something you’d ever considered, that a human body could look so colorless and frigid and not alive. Like a shock or a ringing bell, it’s a realization that you’re an orphan now. That you’re all alone. 

You feel something like a memory of regret. Or something that’s like the idea that you should feel regret, that you should feel guilt for how it was between the two of you. But all that is overshadowed by the reality of what you weren’t. All you feel even more, or in actual reality, is the old loss of what you’d never been to each other. That, you realize, is the seed of your grief. That long ago wound, that child’s understanding that he wasn’t like all the other fathers, that he’d never care for you the way other children were cared for. 

Looking down at the frozen face that looks nothing like the one he’d worn the last time you’d seen him, the wispy thatch of hair that hadn’t been so jarringly white before sickness had ravaged his body, you realize that this is no new loss, it is only a continuation, a reopening of a very old one. 

The cavernous cathedral at your back is silent, vacated by the sea of people that had congregated here earlier. And with sickening curiosity, you uncoil an arm from where you’ve got it wrapped around yourself, reaching out to press a finger against the ice cold back of his hand. Shockingly not alive; he feels made of rubber. 

Everyone that’d been here to bid farewell to this behemoth turned slip of a man, to catch a glimpse of you, packed like teeth into Jackson’s grandest cathedral; business men and heads of state from around the world, the oldest family names in the country, figures of the highest echelons of wealth and society, vipers circling the barrel—half the world here to see this person who was supposed to have been your father but was really only a stranger. 

You take your hand back, and you don’t say goodbye as you turn away from his body. There’s no farewell to really tell. 

And at the back of the church, hiding in a bright ream of sunlight, Joel stands propped against the face of a saint. Dark and silent and maybe even more far removed than your dead dad. Watching sentinel. Oswald Kelly’s hovering man—come to watch over him one last time. 

The silk of your stockings slide against each other at the junction of your thighs, the hiss of your skirt around your calves as your reed thin heels click against the stone, and you pull your armor as tightly around yourself as you can. There’s a hollow echo inside of everywhere and everything, your mind like a gong, reverberating, and his gaze is so steady, hazel bright, deeply shaded by the lip of his dark hat, beckoning you towards him from beneath the brim. 

Large and strong and steadfast, your heart gives a painful, longing thump—stupid, writhing thing—and you can only bear to look him in the eye for a second, and if you were to really think about saying goodbye to that father that never really was, lying behind you, slipping further and further away, you’d say it to the man that always stood as his shadow before the world, before you ever said it to the man himself. 

-

The drive back home is cast in frigid silence and made all the more uncomfortable because you can practically hear Joel’s brain clicking and ticking away with worry. 

He’d sent your car and driver away with a harsh word while you collected your final goodbyes and words of respect from the last smattering of people congregated and waiting for the newly birthed heir to one of the greatest fortunes in the world. 

Hovering over your shoulder, he’d kept anyone from stepping too close or getting too friendly, so close you could feel the heat of his chest through the silk of your blouse, and then going suddenly full on aggressive when a reporter from the New York Times had approached, fishing for a quote on the future of the Kelly empire. Ushering you away with a hovering hand at the small of your back before the man could get half a question out, he’s opening the truck’s door for you as a haze descends over your eyes, the distant shutter and flash of cameras bursting in your peripherals, a latent hangover and sleep deprivation and not enough to eat in the last forty eight hours causing you to sag in his hold. Then it’s only his big fist wrapping around the span of your wrist as he lifts you into the truck, your eyes downcast and unable to take in sight or sound, vision all a blur. You murmur a barely there thank you with his hand fitting at the dip of your waist, big body blocking yours entirely from prying eyes trying to catch a glimpse or a stumble, and for a single second, your entire weight is suspended in his hold, allowing you to bypass the struggle of balancing your high heel on the step up, and then you’re sliding onto the leather of the seat, the whisper of your cashmere and silk rustling around you as he handles you like a child being spirited away from the scene of a crime. 

The door shuts gently behind you, face turned away from the flashing lights, the watchful eyes of the whole world, and worst of all, the assessment of his concerned gaze. All you’re afforded are thirty seconds of privacy to let out a single gasping sob. 

And now, an hour and a half of silent purgatory. 

You slip your heels off, flexing your smarting toes against the damp of your stockings and tuck your folded legs beneath you on the seat. Paying the frantic energy of his anxiety and lodged words no mind, you consider instead: your new reality. The burden of it all means very little to you now. The last of your worries is being readied for entombing as the two of you speed down the eighty nine, zinging past the bright Wyoming green. The thrum of his truck drowns out your thoughts, brand new, probably over a hundred grand, only the best for your father’s right hand man, and the Kelly Ranch insignia emblazoned proudly on the sides. A brand for the whole world to see just who exactly is being whisked away to her old home turned brand spanking new grave. 

You might be feeling a little bit dramatic. But then again— you’d just put your last remaining parent in an actual grave, surely that provides you some allowances. 

Out of the corner of your eye, you can see his big paw gripping the leathered steering wheel in a death clutch, knuckles white with his frustration at the dilemma you pose, his own discomfort. You’re sure if he thought you wouldn’t catch him, he’d be squirming in his seat. 

You do something to him sometimes, you know this. Not in any way you’d like, not in any interesting way, that of a woman affecting a man, but something respectfully harrowing. Maybe something a little bit like fear. 

There has existed between the two of you, always, that strange intimacy of two people who’ve known each other for a very long time, and yet, have always remained at a far removed, arms length distance from one another. 

A professional intimacy of sorts. Your father’s foreman, shadow, fixer. The man who guarded that treasure trove you’d inherit one day, today; the thing your father loved most in the world. Two people who’ve known each other a long time, and yet, don’t really know each other at all. 

There has always been, however, the fact of the birthday. 

The birthday. Your birthday.

The way you’d latched onto that small, immense, detail when you’d first discovered it at fourteen, when he’d newly arrived at the ranch and the true weight of your first real crush had really hit you, it was probably not entirely healthy. But you’d thought yourself in love with your father’s man, the first figure of the male species who’d ever drawn your attention in such a way. 

He’d never paid you any mind; you were the boss's daughter, a figurehead or a responsibility, maybe a nuisance, although he’d never ever treated you as one. But the day someone had let slip it was his birthday, on the same day as yours, your teenage heart had swelled with the naive hope of fate. It was meant to be, the two of you were connected, so on and so forth, swallowed by girlish innocence and made buoyant by fantasy. 

But you’d had something to share with someone, which was what really mattered. Something tangible, even if only in your inexperienced little mind, something to wield as comfort so that the first time your father had forgotten your special day, fifteen, and what a tender age it had been, you’d had something to cling to. That's when your gifts to him had started. It was your way of making sure there was at least one person in the whole world who’d remember that was your day too. That you were alive, that you mattered. A reminder of yourself. And as the years and birthdays passed, sometimes, when he sent those coldly gracious notes of his, you’d wished you could’ve written back with honesty. Said something like, I’m so lonely, wish you were here, wherever it was in the world you’d found yourself at the time. 

And of course, he was gorgeous and older, strong and patient and capable, entirely unattainable. Impossible to forget. You’d gone so far, traveled wide, gotten yourself an overpriced education that would probably serve you for nothing, had lovers and parties and splendor, and always, you remembered your gifts for him, you remembered him. It was the single most important detail of your birthday every year. 

The leather creaks beneath his fist again, chapped knuckles set to burst before he flexes his fingers out, long and straight. Thickly built hands, strong, made for working or hurting, on a man who you’ve never seen be anything but stoically patient. 

He was strange in that way, neither wholly impulsive nor precisely intentional in his mannerisms. More so, it was that there was something extremely neutral about him, a middle buoyancy of personality. Strict with the cowboys, exacting, wielding his title as ranch foreman with an iron fist and your father’s blessing, and yet still, quiet, serious, with that patient gentleness about him. You’d seen it in the way he’d handled Ellie when she’d first come to the ranch, young and skinny with that hollow look of trauma kids who’d seen things they shouldn’t have shamed adults with. She’d been a little older than you, and with an air you’d not understood, a sort of lived past you’d been naive to the existence of, frightened when confronted by it, and yet inevitably, the two of you’d become fast friends eventually.

You’d even experienced it yourself, on two treasured occasions, that gentleness that you’d held onto for years. Nurturing the memory of him in your mind like a delusional bloom. 

He stretches his hand again, wheel caught between his thumb and forefinger, cinching it there, back and forth. His nails are meticulously clean, cut to the quick, and you imagine he must spend a great deal of time cleaning himself up when he works so hard at getting himself so dirty most days. 

You can see him sneaking glances at you, and he coughs once, a clearing of his nervous throat. Averting your gaze, you turn your face away so that you’ll be able to watch him through the reflection in the window. He monopolizes the space in the cabin of the truck, broad shoulders and hulking form, all the fine leather smell washed away in the scent of him. That bay rum aftershave he’s always worn, the one with the distinctive notes of bay leaf, cloves and citrus. An old fashioned scent, masculine and crisp. 

You’d snuck into the bunk once with Ellie, before he’d moved into the foreman’s cabin, before Switzerland, when the two of you were still girls running rampant and free through the ranch, clutching desperately at the last vestiges of any sort of happy childhood you could scrounge up for one another. You’d peeked in his things, found a whole world of Joel shaped curiosities. The glass etched bottle of aftershave, a hole spotted t-shirt with a burnt orange longhorn across the front, Flannery O’Connor’s The Complete Stories—something you found comforting, knowing he could read about the small, the freakish, real life; thinking that perhaps he was homesick for the comfort of the South, hungering for a taste of the life he’d had then, through books. And then, in a spine cracked copy of Suttree, the pages almost falling apart beneath your fingertips, dog eared and well loved, her picture tucked between the pages.

It had been the first time you’d done something you knew you shouldn’t have and actually regretted it, looking down at that green eyed photograph. 

You’d run back to your room after that, ashamed and something a little bit like jealous, desperate to know who she was, desperate for someone to keep a picture of you like that—as if they loved you. And years later, you’d found the scent for yourself. The little molasses glass bottle you still have and pull out on occasion, when you’re feeling extra bad, extra lonesome, extra far away from the whole world, just for a reminding of home. 

Beside you, he sighs again, coughs again, brings you back to himself and the present. Just spit it out already, you think exasperatedly, say something, anything else besides how sorry you are. 

“I’m sorry I wasn’t there,” he starts, and you roll your eyes, scoffing quietly. 

“You already said that.” Sullen. Mullish. You wish you were a child who could still throw a tantrum and get away with it. Letting your eyes go unfocused from his reflection in the window, you brood at the sight of everything that’s yours now as he turns off the highway, passing below the iron eave of the Kelly Ranch entrance. Eight hundred thousand acres of pristine Wyoming land nestled into the deep valley surrounded by the Grand Tetons mountain range. 

“Well, I’m sayin’ it again.” He’s driving too fast, and you refuse to turn and look at his face. Your heart beats blood in your ears, and you screw your eyes shut to the dizzying blur of green legacy, not wanting to see any of it—him. 

Your belly swoops, going slightly nauseous and gurgling. 

“I didn’t think you’d get here so quick.” He swallows, “Hell, I didn’t think it’d all happen so damn fast.”

“I was already in New York,” you tell him, voice clipped with breathlessness. “I left Paris last week.”

“What? I didn’t know— I—”

“Why would you?”

“I would’ve called you. I would’ve gotten you out here quicker.”

“Ellie called. It’s better like this, Joel.” Finally letting yourself say his name out loud, it feels wrong and molten on your tongue, a heaviness being spit up from the depths of your stomach. “We don’t have to pretend anymore. He’s dead now.”

“There’s no pretending. He wanted to see you—”

“Please, stop.”

But he urges on unheeded: “He told me so before I left. Told me—”

“Stop,” you snap. Finally turning to look at him and hating him for it. For how gorgeous he is, for all the things he’s always made you feel for as long as you can remember what it was to feel something for a man, for all he did or did not have with your father when you had none of it or so much of an entirely different thing. “Stop. I don’t want to hear any of it. It doesn't matter anymore, Joel.”

“But you should know. You deserve to know that—”

“What?” Because that one hurts. “I deserve to know what?” That he actually had loved you but had just never been able to show it? That now it was too late? That the only person the great Oswald Kelly had ever been able to speak to of the supposed care he had for his only daughter was the hired help? You’d read once that one should never let their parents anywhere near their real humiliations. You’d tried your damndest to follow that as soon as you’d grown up. “It’s not your place,” you seethe with teeth bared, an animal shoved into a corner and made to fight for its life, deciding you won’t ever let Joel near them either.  

He spits a cursing, growled sound of frustration, but doesn’t continue. The two of you find yourselves at an impasse, and you turn back to your windowed mirror of him, eyes pinching hot, filling with tears. One of the things your father disliked most about you, your easy tears, and a single salt marred inadequacy tracks down the slope of your cheek, dripping off the edge of your jaw into the bandaged cup of your palm, and you breathe slow and measured through your open mouth, watching the fog cloud grow and shrink against the glass obscuring your vision of him. 

-

The last time you’d missed your mother, the one you’d never known, in any sort of real and true way, you’d been eighteen. Returning to an empty house after celebrating your high school graduation in a far off school, alone. 

In the midst of your sophomore year, you’d been sent away to a Swiss boarding school. It had been something worse than devastating, losing your life in Wyoming, the only home you’d ever know, Ellie, the other people on the ranch… But it was far removed enough that you couldn’t bother, where you couldn’t ask for things like attention or consideration. The education had been excellent, the upbringing desperately lonely ending on a whimpering sigh despite your many accomplishments. You’d wanted her very badly then indeed, your mother. To have been there, to have helped you pick your dress, kissed your cheek after watching you walk across the stage. To have wiped your tears when she told you that your father wasn’t there because he was busy managing the whole world, but that he was proud of you, that he’d have been there if he could. You’d wished she could’ve been there to lie to you so that you wouldn’t have needed to lie to yourself. 

Peering down from your balanced perch atop the deck’s bannister, you survey the deep bed of Lily of the Valley, destroyed beneath the vindictive soles of your bare feet. He’d planted them for her all around the house after she’d died, her favorite flower. 

You’d always hated them. 

And that was the thing of it all, which you’d learned when you grew old enough to recognize such things like disdain. He couldn't stand you because you reminded him of her. Clichéd and old and tired. An excuse for being a neglectful father. The daughter who was too much like her dead mother, and thus did not deserve to be loved. 

You tip your head back, nursing at the lip of fine aged Macallan, and the sky is a glass mirror of blackened silver streaks. You’re almost positive that all the stars in the Milky Way are visible from right here at this very spot in the heart of Wyoming. The sight makes your broken heart feel full and falsely mended. 

You’re certain you’re painting a pretty picture right now: tipsy on a bottle of your dead dad’s sacredly hoarded whiskey that probably cost as much as someone’s house, staring up at the stars in your newly inherited home with a whole unappreciated life full of possibilities ahead of you. Basking in the title of your newly minted— orphan-hood? Orphan-ness? A peer of the orphans. 

You snort softly, sucking on the bottle again, letting the heat of it settle in your belly, smolder in your heart. Your head feels full of bubbles and sugar and sad. 

There’s a part of you that feels a little ridiculous, despite the circumstances. You’re good at compartmentalizing, good at being objective of your realities. Obviously: sad because your father is now dead, and it’d been nine months and eleven days since you’d last spoken to him. Sad because he’d never given a shit about you. Sad because you’re alone, dumped by the stupid French jockey boyfriend who you’d not even liked very much, just a few days before this whole pathetic ordeal of acquiring your orphan-hood, yeah, that’s what you’re sticking with, had occurred. Not to mention the army of looming lawyers and financial advisors and various heads of business vying for your attention, waiting for the what next?

And Joel.

A one man army of looming Joel. 

So you’re feeling morose, blue, maybe a little spoiled, but brought low and cut short. Depressed and unsatisfied with your life thus far. 

Poor little rich girl. Poor little orphan. Poor little me.

What you want? 

Someone to care. 

Someone to love you. 

Hard to come by. Impossible to buy. 

The stars gleam purple silver, winking at you. The bracketing black so dark it swallows the eye. Another taste of the nutty bouquet of smoked apple oranges, and soon you’ll be tipsy enough you won’t be able to balance your butt on the bannister’s ledge anymore. Maybe you’ll go humpty dumpty over the edge and crack your skull against your mother’s valley of destroyed Lily’s. 

You laugh again with sound now, not crazy, only an orphan, ha, but you think that it’s only that it feels shockingly as if you’ve fallen through the surface of your life. As if you are still falling with nothing and no one to grab on to, to help stabilize you. A really terrible, shit-out-of-luck feeling. 

Your eyes continue their infernal leaking, and you blow your nose loudly on the inside of your sweater. You’ve given yourself three days to do whatever the hell you want, be as disgusting as you may. When the three days are up you’ll plan to get your act together, take responsibility and hold of your life and become the woman you should be. 

Who that is? Still being decided. 

You think that maybe you’ll buy another jet before that time’s up. Or an island. Something ridiculous. Maybe you’ll sell the goddamn ranch. 

You eye the dark rolling hills of the valley with seething suspicion. Let’s see what Joel says about that. You, marching up to the highway entrance and spearing a For Sale sign in the dirt of the largest privately owned cattle ranch in the continental United States. Way more than that God forsaken surly frown is what you’d get. 

So long, Joel, it’s been swell. I’m done with this place. It’s time to pack it up and find some new hunk of land to care about more than you care about me or anything else. 

Maybe you’ll be real funny and put up a Craigslist ad. 

And it isn’t that you don’t love this place, the only home you’ve ever known. You do. In a way that is passionate and consuming and irreconcilable. Everything about it, the serenity, the guarding mountains and the deep woods, the home you’d been born in, that both your parents had died in. You do love it in your way. 

It’s only that every man you’ve ever loved—loved—had always cared more about the place than he’d ever cared about you. 

For the longest time, most of your youth until you’d decided that you officially felt an adult, you’d thought you’d hated your father. There was just so much anger and resentment and the resound of his ever furious words and insults and endless disappointment. The echo of no mother ringing so loudly in your ears that the confounding feelings had all been mistaken for hatred. But with age and distance and life, you’d realized you didn't hate him. You never had. You thought, actually, and this was a very good and mature thought of yours, that you were the only person in the whole world that had ever seen him as only a man and not a god. 

He was only a man, full of greed and grief and missing the mother of the child he’d probably never wanted. Nothing more or less. 

Maybe it was that you felt sorry for him. Not in the way of pity, but in the way of one person feeling empathy for another in a clinical and helpless sort of manner. And a numb, detached sort of sadness. A longing for something that you’d never had and had always wanted but eventually learned to live without. 

Ultimately, his disappointment had turned on him, and now it was all you felt you had for him at the end of it all. 

But, for some reason, and an annoying one at that, you do think that, if you try very, very hard, you could bring yourself to hate Joel Miller. There’s satisfaction in that possibility, vindication—resentment that even now, as practically strangers, you know he’d be able to pull that sort of feeling out of you which could result in hatred. Something strong and overwhelming and not easily escaped. 

Your stomach rumbles, and you smile blithely at all your inherited legacy, filling the hollow with more drink. Three days to behave very badly, as badly as you can. The whiskey is so good, and swishing it around in your mouth, you tip your head back further, gurgling it loudly at the back of your throat. 

“What the hell are you doing?”

You jerk, scrambling to keep your balance, choking a little on smokey apples and your own spit. A trickle of the golden amber liquor drips out of the corner of your mouth as you find him hiding in the dark across the deck. Accustomed to drooling over him, you wipe it away with the back of your hand. 

“Having a party. Would you like to join?”

“Are you drunk again?”

Tough crowd. Ugh.  “Never mind. You’re not invited. Go away.”

“You need to go inside and go to bed.”

You tip your chin at him, putting on doe eyes. “Alright. And are you going to be my new daddy also?” You say in a baby voice.

Fucking Christ, you hear him whisper under his breath, turning away to run an exasperated palm over his mouth. Frustration seethes off of him like sulfur. He’s tired. Of you maybe. Of the whole circus this place has become in the past few days—and rightfully so. 

“What do you want? I’m extremely busy, if you can’t tell.”

“Just thought I’d check on ya.” Courteous, always the gentleman, bullshit. You roll your eyes at him. 

“I don’t need you to check on me.” And you, ever the child. One day you swear you’ll grow up. 

But it can’t be said that you’re entirely selfish either. You have considered the fact of Joel’s own grief at the loss of your father. After all, they’d been much closer than you’d ever been to him for many years. And maybe, in his own cold and removed and superior way, your father had seen this man who you’ve thought yourself in love with since you were a teenager, as something like a son. 

Probably, that’s just your own wishful thinking: that Oswald Kelly had ever been capable of such tender feelings.

Maybe the fact of Joel’s own grief is the thorn beneath your nail bed that’s making you so angry with him, so needing of his attention. Maybe it’s that he’d failed to fulfill your silly and girlish fantasy that upon receiving the news of your only remaining parents death, he’d have been here waiting for you, at this home he’d guarded for you for so long, ready to take you into his arms and console and care for you. 

When instead, he’d been off doing what he’d always done for as long as you’d known him. Protecting your father’s interests, his legacy. 

“Is this how it’s going to be?”

“How?”

“You, being difficult.” Driving me fuckin’ crazy— he adds again under his breath. 

“I’m an orphan now, Joel.” You’re becoming quickly addicted to the word. “I think I should be afforded a tiny bit of leeway to drive people fuckin’ crazy,” you mock his Southern drawl. Enough of your time had been spent in Europe over the past two years, kissing Europeans, that you’d sloughed off the last of your American twang; something of a vaguely European lilt peppering your words every now and then that Ellie likes to tease you for whenever the two of you speak on occasion. 

A muscle under his left eye twitches at the jab, and you take another deep swig of the bottle, provoking him with your gaze. Wishing you had whatever it is a woman needs to entice this man. Like the fucking vet. Fucking world renowned, brilliant, highly coveted, beautiful veterinarian. You know about her. You’re sure he thinks he’s been discreet over the years with their whatever they’ve had, Tess, but you know. 

Maybe you’ll be insane and irrational and possessive, taking advantage of your three crazy days, and fire her with your new found power. See what he has to say about that. Ha.

Ha. Ha. Ha. 

Obviously not. 

Despite your current hysteria, your goal is not to send the ranch head over heels into a tailspin.

But the imagining is soothing. 

“Want some?” You hold the heavy crystal out towards him in a peace offering, held precariously between two sweaty knuckles. “It’s probably worth as much as your truck. Would be a waste for me to finish on my own.” You eye what’s left of it, about half, and give him a sheepish grin. It really is very good. 

He looks at you for one long, solemn moment, always so silent and pensive, this strange enigma of a man. You get to watch in real time as he loses whatever fight it is he’s trying to fight against you, victorious when he shrugs and comes over slowly, resting his butt against the bannister—a carefully respectful distance away from you. 

When he takes the bottle from your swinging clutch, gripped from the base, careful not to touch you in any way, you see the real sad in his eyes. The dim lights bleeding out through the big windows of the family room without a family shine on his face in strips and bursts. A shadow here, golden warmth there. He’s got more lines around his eyes than you remember from the last time you’d been this close to him. Smile lines made bright white in the center and gold burnished at the edges from too much sun. There’s little bursts of silver threaded at his temples now too, a gleam here and there in his dark beard. Forty four years old, he’d turned on your last birthday. 

You dig your nails into the soft meat of your palms, and your belly smolders as he brings the bottle to his lips, tasting the exact place your own mouth had just been moments ago. You press your knees together as hard as you can, head a little woozy with the color of his eyes; the most gorgeous green, caramel hazel. 

You’d graduated two years ago with a degree in art history and had done absolutely nothing with it since. It was just that everything appeared boring and pointless and shallow. Your whole life had one day suddenly seemed just a little silly. Useless, overpriced degree, nothing to be done with extensive knowledge in color theory when your world is expecting such different things from you now. 

But you sure as hell can appreciate the color of his eyes in extensive and meticulous detail. There is that. 

Watching the slow slide of the amber liquor down the bottle-neck, the long pull of his lush mouth, the ripple of his strong throat, and the way his eyes go a little wider, shocked at how good it is. You laugh soft: “I know, right.”

He takes another pull, another swallow. That’s what you want to be—swallowed just like that. “Damn, that’s good.” His mouth is a little wet, bottom lip shiny with thousands of dollars worth of your father’s favorite whiskey, and his eyes are sad. 

You’d said you were going to be bad, but you don’t want to be bad to him. “I’m sorry,” you whisper.

He swallows again, tipping his head towards you, trying to catch your too soft words—he’s got a bad ear, you know why—and turns to peer at you from beneath his low pulled brow, the tip of his tongue peeking out to swipe at the drop of liquor you wish you could suck off his tongue. 

“You’ve got nothin’ to be sorry for.”

The first time he’d shown you that gentleness of his: You’d fallen from your horse at school in your junior year. Something had frightened the beast, and she’d bucked you, sent you flying ten feet in the air, ragdoll-like, before you’d landed badly on your right arm, a comminuted fracture in your radius that you’d needed surgery to fix. At your insistence, and with only a few weeks left to spare, you’d been sent home for the remainder of the semester. Your father had been incensed but eventually allowed it. He’d been away from the ranch on business, after all, at no risk of being truly disturbed by you. But when you’d been readying to return to Switzerland at the end of the summer, arm healed, courage not, you’d not been able to get back on a horse no matter what you tried. Joel had helped you, before they’d shipped you off again. Trotted the corral with you for hours and hours before you’d finally been able to relax and sit on your own without tears and vertigo. No questions or admonishments, nothing but the quiet burr of his deep voice, guiding you and the mare along. 

It had been a kindness unlike any you’d experienced in maybe your whole life. 

“I’ve been bad.”

“Nah. You couldn’t ever be.”

The second time: “Did today make you think of Sarah?” Years after you’d found that green eyed photograph, he’d shared her with you. 

His gaze turns suddenly sharp, but you’re not worried you’ve stepped in unbreachable territory. “Yeah.” The echo of her name rings around the two of you. 

“In a bad way or a good way?” He takes another long swig, a low whistle through his teeth and a shake of his head before he’s handing the bottle back to you—again, carefully. 

“Both.”

You take your own swallow, slicking your tongue all around where his just was, and you’re drunk for real now. Drunk on a man. 

“Do you ever regret telling me about her?”

“Nah.” He tips his head back, looking up at the thick beams of the deck’s awning. He’s got the longest lashes you’ve ever seen on a man, thick and curling. The deepest voice you’ve ever heard too, sultry, a bedroom voice. A voice for fucking. Your belly swirls and dips, and you want so much you’re dizzy with it. 

Heart beating like it’s about to burst, out of breath on the verge of hyperventilating, you can taste his mouth in your mouth, the imagination flavor of it. This is what it must feel like to die. This is what your father must have felt like three days ago, this agony. 

His Adam’s apple bobs, and it’s so pronounced, the skin of his throat sun pebbled. There isn’t an inch of him that isn’t all rough-hewn man. “You needed to hear about her then, I s’pose.” 

Yes. “You told me when I needed you to.” After that lonely graduation, the last time you’d missed her really very badly, longed for a mother. Alone, alone, alone little girl. 

“You were missin’ your momma somethin’ fierce. Needed to know you weren’t the only one that felt like that sometimes.”

You laugh a not-laugh, butt scraping against the railing, slipping off your perch, socked-feet thudding beside his gifted boots. The pleasure you feel whenever you see him use one of the things you’ve given him is indescribable. 

“Silly,” you say with barely any sound, his bad ear reaches for your voice again. “At the time it felt like I was the only person in the whole world that had ever felt like that.”

“We all feel like that at one point or another, I reckon.”

“Will you miss him a lot?” You ask looking up at him, the beautiful profile, the strong jaw. You’ve always wondered how he sees you. If he’s ever thought you were beautiful. Other men do, it’s a common thing, a nothing sort of thing. There are always men, there will always be men. But this singular man—this one is not like the rest. 

“Maybe. Can’t tell yet, don’t think. But it felt wrong earlier, walking through his house without him in it.” His house, not yours. 

“Do you wish he’d been your father?” And he turns to look down at you at that, gaze snapping, and you can tell you’ve shocked him with the question. But you’d always wondered. 

“No. Never,” he says with such assuredness, an uncompromising shake of his head. 

And the answer doesn't necessarily shock you in turn. You don't think anyone could have ever wanted a father like that. But it also doesn't help you understand what it was that lived between them either. 

He sighs, perhaps reading the confusion in your gaze. “He helped me at a time when I needed it real bad. Gave me a place and a purpose and a thing to do and take care of. You get me? It was gratitude—maybe. He saved me in a way, after Sarah. Nothing more.” He thinks for a moment, and then, “Perhaps it was that we understood each other about certain things.”

You gaze across the sprawl of dark land as far as the eye reaches, that point of no return where the earth shoots up into the sky, purple blue behemoths in the shape of mountains. 

From this spot, rooted to the deck of your family home, it seems like the whole world is yours to keep. Also, like you’ll never be able to touch any of it with fingers or taste or meaning. 

Your love for this place is complicated—tied up in the people, the memories, the could’ves and should’ves, the whole dreamscape idea of the monument of childhood and all it’d really never been. The time away had felt eternal, like you’d never really been here to begin with, like the young girl who’d grown up on this land had never really existed. But you’d not forgotten them, this, despite your distance. Your home, the father that wouldn’t want you, Wyoming and all its splendor, the people you’d left behind, Joel and Ellie and shared birthdays that meant a secret world to you. Morsels of small happinesses interloped amidst a largely lonely and sad childhood. That’s what it was at its core. 

“Would you be angry with me if I gave it all away?”

He thinks for a moment, maybe you’re making him sadder, but then finally says with a swallow, “No. It’s yours to do with as you please.”

You eye the quarter of whiskey left, but your belly isn’t hungry for its warmth anymore. You want something heavier now. 

“Could you even do that—legally—sell it or somethin’?”

“Probably not. He probably tied it to my fucking life. Sell and die.” You mime your name in an imitation of your fathers deep voice, frowning at yourself the way he’d always frowned when he looked at you, but it pulls a laugh from him, and the painful memory is worth it. “But I have a billion dollars to spend now. More?” You tap your chin—you want to make him laugh again. “Gotta think of something interesting to do with it all.”

His mouth slides into an easy half grin. Like the moon—that beautiful. And he turns to face you fully. “You’re gonna be just fine. You know that, right?”

You turn to face him too, gripping the bannister for dear life. “What? Will you make sure of it?”

“That’s my plan.”

“How’re you gonna do that, d’you reckon?” The American twang bleeds back into your voice, and you’re all swollen lush on the inside, heart a beating fist in your chest. 

“Haven’t gotten that far, if I’m bein’ honest with you.” God. His eyes, the strong bridge of his nose, his mouth. He’s so tall your head has to crook back to look up at him. “I’ll figure something out.” And after another pensive second, and still with that soft, sloped eye smile, he asks, and nicely, “Will you stop drinking now—for me?”

“Maybe tomorrow,” you say with the same sort of smile in return. 

And then suddenly, like vomit again but maybe more humiliating this time: “Did you respect him?” Because you don’t know all the things about him that there are to know, but you do know that Joel Miller’s respect is a thing hard earned. 

He clicks his tongue, and you hear the pop of his jaw as he shifts it like he’s chewing on an honesty. His eyes, his eyes, they’re serious, mercurial, warm and deep also. You worry he won’t answer, that he wouldn’t want to disappoint you or something, but then: “No,” said real simple like.

“Why not?”

And the way he looks down at you, you know already, and it makes that falling through the surface of your own life feeling rise up inside you again, makes your ears pop with embarrassment. Ah. “He never did a very good job of hiding the way he treated you, sweetheart. I couldn’t ever respect a man like that.” 

This is reality right here, this is you falling through your life, this is the realization that it wasn’t only you imposing yourself, your existence, on someone with gifts they didn’t want or ask for. Joel had seen. Joel had understood. 

Someone else had noticed that you exist, and it had been him. 

What else had you ever wanted?

And in the blink of a desperate, yearning eye, drunk on a man still, you’re throwing yourself at him, pressing your mouth hot and heavy to his, kissing him full on the way you’d dreamt of since you knew to dream of such things.

Chapter 2; Sugar, Not so Sweet

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[comicaurora]

Nick Bostrom's "Fable of the Dragon Tyrant," which CGP Grey adapted into a video, left me feeling unsatisfied, and I got a certain unsettling vibe about the entire story.

I don't think it was the dragon's lack of agency, that just makes it an unusually traditional Western dragon.

You're a master at picking narratives apart to figure out why they don't satisfy. Do you have any insight, opinions, or cracktheories about why this story might be unsatisfying to some folks?

Probably because it's a very unsubtle metaphor casting the dragon as death, and death itself as a cruel, malevolent beast devouring and subjugating humanity for its own whims. This is very much intentional on the part of the writer. The paradigm of the story is that the dragon is huge, terrifying and incalculably cruel, and everyone lives their lives in the shadow of its terror or are just too deluded to recognize that it's COMING TO EAT THEM OH GOD

Intrinsic in this metaphorical structure is the idea that the dragon, aka death, is an artificial imposition on the natural order, and if we just got rid of the big ol' mean dragon, everybody would live forever and be fine. Accepting that the dragon exists is framed as a sign of desperation or even cowardice. This is an understandable read when facing a monster that only SEEMS timeless and inevitable (like LeGuin's thoughts comparing the current state of capitalism to the historical acceptance of the divine right of kings) but becomes bizarre when applied to something as legitimately factual as biological death. It's not even framed as unnatural death - the dragon specifically gets sent mostly old people. The metaphor is very explicitly about trying to frame death from old age as a big horrible dragon that everyone only thinks is unstoppable.

I get what they're going for here. The purpose of this story is to make the audience question if death is a true inevitability or if it can be fought, staved off, even defeated. But in the process, the story frames the systems of the world that have formed around death - doctors, pallative caregivers, will executors - as macabre gears in the machine dedicated to the genocidal cruelty of feeding the dragon.

In the dragon tyrant framing, these people only exist to make the rest of the world more okay with flinging themselves down the gullet of the dragon and to streamline the process by which everybody dies. By casting death as the enemy, everybody whose jobs are based on the compassionate act of comforting and aiding people suffering from loss become reframed as collaborators with the incalculably evil enemy, and everyone who's ever accepted their own death becomes a loser. This is a deeply cruel way to frame people who dedicate their lives to helping people through one of the hardest and most tragic aspects of life.

Damn, that's fucked up. Look at this eloquent idiot, explaining why we should be okay with letting a big dragon eat us because it's the natural order. Clearly he is wrong and it's not debasing at all to want to stay alive and not get eaten by a big dragon. This is a fallacy of false analogy: death is like being eaten by a big mean dragon. All his arguments look ridiculous when applied to getting eaten by a big mean dragon, therefore they must be ridiculous when applied to dying when your organs start failing because they've been running nonstop for nine decades and biological systems accumulate wear and tear like literally everything else in the universe.

Entropy increases; systems break down, from DNA to planetary orbits. Successfully shoot down the dragon and you'll end up outliving everything you thought was eternal, even the stars. The goal of immortality isn't really to personally witness the sun exploding, it's to have more good time. It's to make your twenties last into your sixties. It's to keep your back painless and your vision good for longer. We want to postpone the story's end as long as we can, and so we extrapolate "more time" into "I never want to die, I want to be young and healthy and hot forever" even though "forever" doesn't exist. To look to "forever" is to understand that your culture and language will drift, your home will eventually crumble out from under you, your shoreline will erode and change, your climate will transform, your tectonic plate will subduct or shatter, your moon's orbit will slow and tidally lock, and eventually your sun will start burning helium and cook your planet. You don't want "forever" to look like that, you want it to look like your twenties felt. But at that point you aren't fighting the Big Mean Dragon That Eats People, you're fighting the ocean and the biosphere and the earth and the stars, trying to hold them in place against entropy so your immortality can have an equally immortal world to enjoy it in. No, this argument doesn't want true immortality, it wants their twenties to last longer. But it can't admit that.

Back to the story. There's a condescending and spiteful tone in the narration. Death (being eaten by a big mean dragon) is OBVIOUSLY awful and we should all be fighting as hard as we can to make it stop happening. Even a child can see it.

The story even helpfully adds a lengthy moral explanation at the end, in case you didn't understand that the dragon was the inevitability of death and we should dedicate all our resources to figuring out how to make a big rocket and shoot it.

"Nobody should ever die" is generally understood to be a childish dream with extremely obvious and unpleasant consequences that would turn its realization into an unending and waking nightmare, and once out of the confines of easy metaphor, the story tries to act like that wasn't what it was just saying. But its more realistic proposed substitute, "It would be great if people could live longer and have more healthy, youthful years in them," is probably the world's most uncontroversial statement. This story frames it like a bold revelation that the world will attempt to beat down and crush out of a misguided acceptance that Big Mean Dragon comes for us all. It's a morality fable whose conclusion is "I hope science improves the length and quality of our lives, potentially even to the point where we never have to die at all," which has been the number one goal of huge swaths of science since the invention of agriculture. This is not a bold or controversial take. It's just being written as though we're all looking at the naked emperor and pretending he's wearing pants.

[del-thetiredwriter]

Saintess of dragons part 3

Part 1 , part 2

English is not my first language.

Gif is not mine

Warning: female reader, not really dark themes.

You watched with sadness as the stone coffin sank into the sea. You were guilty. You felt regret for her death. You could have saved Laena, but you didn't because of your cowardice and selfishness. Rhaenys and Corlys lost their daughters, Laenor lost his sister, the girls lost their mothers because of you.

You didn't speak at all during the funeral. You just hugged the girls and offered your condolences to the Velaryons. Afterwards, you went to your room like everyone else.

.

When you opened the door, you saw a silhouette that you didn't recognize, with her back turned, on the seats. Silhouette of a woman. The woman turned towards the door and smiled and curtsied as she saw you.

“I greet the saintess.”

She was a brunette and elegant woman. Her long hair came down to her waist. She had an attractive yet disturbing smile. It wasn't a reassuring smile, but it fit her mysterious aura.

You straightened your stance. The woman spoke again:

"Would you like tea?"

"Who are you?"

You asked coldly. No one could enter your room without your permission. House Targaryen was also included.

“I am the person you are looking for. I am the person you are desperately looking for, the one who can send you back to where you came from. Shall we talk a little?”

You hesitated for a moment, but you had nothing to lose. You should have taken this gamble. It was the first time in years that anyone had talked about where you came from.

You closed the door and sat across from the woman.

“Please allow me to introduce myself again. I'm Elenor. And I am the person you are looking for. The witch who can open the portal.”

“Why should I believe you?”

“You are already showing that you trust me by sitting across from me. Besides, it's the first time in years that someone is talking to you about the portal. You have no choice but to trust me."

She was right. You tightened your skirts nervously. You tried to look calm.

“So Elenor, why did you come now? Why did you come especially now?”

The witch smiled.

“Oh my lady there is something you especially need to do today. I came to remind you. But before that, we still have time, so I'd like to explain things a little to you. For example, why you don't age or why you suddenly lose your memories."

"Continue."

“The portal door opened 15 years ago, of course I didn't open it and I still don't know why it was opened. However, my lady, you are not from this world, so time and fate do not work on you because you are not in destiny anyway. It's like time has stopped for you. However, you once tried to change fate. You remember. It made you suddenly forget some of your memories.”

You nervously took a sip of your tea. You remembered that time very well. Elenor continued.

“No one can change fate, but you, who come from another world, can because there is nothing binding you. However, every time you change destiny, you become a part of this world. And as you become a part of this world, you lose the memories that connect you to your world, that is, your self.”

With what Elenor said, everything fell into place now.

“So why are you here?”

You asked again.

The witch took a sip of her tea.

“I want to make a deal with you. Prevent this war from happening and I will send you back home.”

Elenor held out her hand to agree. A silence fell in the room.

"Do you realize what you're saying-"

“You need me or you can't go back home.”

Elenor interrupted.

You tightened your skirts. She was right. You wouldn't have found your way home without her help.

“Okay, I accept your offer .”

You reluctantly shook the witch’s hand. The brunette smiled and stood up. She moved towards the window. She looked at you for the last time.

“Then we agreed. See you until our next meeting, Saintess. And you'd better act quickly, because it would be better for you if the crown princess's blood wasn't shed tonight.”

When she jumped from the window, you rushed towards the window, but the sorceress had disappeared. You should have acted quickly.

.

You were walking through the corridors with fast, running steps. The rustle of your skirt echoed off the stone walls illuminated by torches. You finally reached the room and threw open the large doors.

All the courtiers had gathered except you. Alicent stood disheveled next to Visersy.

When you saw Aemond's face up close, you felt truly sorry.

Lucerys and Jacaerys were with their mother.

You sighed. Here we go, you thought.

“The legitimacy of my son's birth was put loudly into question. Called as bastards. My sons are in line to inherit the iron throne your grace. This is the highest of treasons. Prince Aemond must be sharply questioned so-”

Rhaenyra was speaking, but you interrupted her and intervened.

“Excuse me, my king, but it's late and I don't think anyone can think clearly in their current state of mind. It would be best for everyone to return to their rooms.”

Just as Alicent and Rhaenyra were about to protest, you spoke again.

“The children of the princess are the legal heirs to the throne. Don't worry, I will personally intervene in this matter. And my Queen, I understand you, but if anyone is responsible for this unfortunate incident, it is me, so if you wish, I would give up one of my eyes for the prince.”

Alicent bit her lip. Rhaenyra was not fully satisfied. No one could object because you intervened in the incident.

"There's no need." Said the tired queen in a defeated voice.

“Then I will grant the little prince one wish in return. Apart from that, please everyone go back to their rooms now. It's been a tiring day.”

Visersy nod.

“Saintess is right everybody shall return to your quarters.”

While everyone involuntarily returned to their rooms, Daemon continued to sit in his chair, grinning. He slowly stood up and started taking slow steps towards you.

“Wow, this is the first time you've used your authority. Very strange."

"What are you talking about." You spoke harshly. Being alone in the room with him made you nervous. As he moved towards you, you took a step backwards until your back was finally pressed against the wall.

“Whose side are you on exactly, huh? You were inactive until the morning now-“

“You make it up in your head. Besides, I'm not on anyone's side." You interrupted him.

The white haired man laughed.

“We'll see about this, little saintess.”

He kissed you on the forehead.

"Good night then." He waved his hand and left you alone in the room.

[fadingstudentbananacookie]

It's hilarious how Daemon and Rhaenyra's grandchildren carry the Green's legacy in spirit by destroying House Targaryen through internal conflicts decades later.

Aegon IV grows up to be far more extreme and gluttonous than Aegon II could ever be, coupled with a greater degree of cowardice (Aegon II would never). His sister Naerys is a little Helaena/Alicent-coded, but her cousin Daena mirrors Alicent more than I could imagine. And I am precisely talking about book!Alicent here.

Both Alicent and Daena were unapologetic in their pursuit of power after years of abuse and neglect, demanding the realm recognize their sons as kings by birthright. Neither of them gave two fucks about starting a civil war and I call that a slayyy. Go, my queens!

If Daena had been more like Rhaenyra, believe me when I say I wouldn't have liked her as much. It's their defiance that makes both Alicent and Daena more compelling characters.

I don't necessarily think Daena would have liked Alicent, but she would have definitely felt grudging respect and admiration for her courage.

Daeron the Young Dragon is just like Daeron the Daring (both are extremely popular among the nobles and the smallfolk). Both died young and were eternalized. Baelor the Blessed is obsessed with catholicism and guilt to a point that would even scare Alicent and Criston.

Aemon the Dragonknight is essentially a more refined, though not necessarily cooler, version of Aemond One-Eye. Aemon literally stood aside while his sister endured years of sexual and psychological abuse from her brother-husband. Aemond would never have stood by if Aegon II had tried to harm Helaena. His loyalty and protectiveness towards his sister would have driven him to intervene. Their love stories are similar too, with many fans shipping Aemond with Helaena, and Aemon with Naerys.

Elaena is intriguing, but there's not much to say about her or her sister Rhaena.

Daemon and Rhaenyra's grandchildren are worse than the Targtowers in every aspect. Alicent (the Hightowers) and her children de-stabilized House Targaryen during the Dance, but Rhaenyra's grandchildren did so much worse by starting a civil war that lasted for generations to come. Team Black got the realm and power back, and they still fucked up. Again.

Another intriguing aspect is that Alicent and her children had legitimate reasons to resist and fight for Aegon's claim to the throne by feudal right—even if those reasons were fueled by spite and revenge. Alicent endured years of sexual abuse from Viserys, bearing children he barely acknowledged. She was humiliated in court and called "mad" when her son lost his eye, and Rhaenyra's son faced no repercussions—not even a slap on the wrist.

The Targtower children were neglected by their father for years and were practically forgotten when Rhaenyra lived in the Red Keep with her sons in tow. (And if you think Rhaenyra didn’t use her father’s love and rejection of his other children as a political machination, then you’re an absolute idiot.) If usurping her throne was the biggest fuck you they could give Rhaenyra and Viserys, then I fully support it!

Despite their complicated and angry feelings towards each other, the Greens would never act on them to cause significant harm. They understood that they only had each other for support and protection. But Rhaenyra's grandchildren, who were also in a similar situation, harbored outright hatred for each other for no reason! You'd think after the Dance, they would have learned a thing or two about the importance of family, but the gang didn't give a single fuck LMAO.

Daemon and Rhaenyra's grandchildren didn't have significant opposition. House Targaryen still held substantial power and ruled over the other Great Houses. Although they had to be more cautious without having dragons to threaten others, the internal strife could have been avoided if Daena and her sisters had been treated like actual human beings rather than cattle. (If Alicent was treated better and her children were acknowledged by Viserys and the rest of his family). The lack of care and respect towards them sowed the seeds of war, leading to the internal conflicts that ultimately weakened the dynasty.

The generational cycle of abuse and neglect within House Targaryen is one of the main key reasons why they were driven to extinction in merely three centuries. House Hightower and House Baratheon only did so little to show their true color.

Rhaenyra's claim that "The only thing that could tear down the House of the Dragon was itself," couldn't be more accurate!

[thewertsearch]

....well, I thought this fight was a lock in Vriska's favor, but Gamzee is the mother of all wildcards. He could be hiding anything in that Jokerkind Abstratus, and we still haven't seen the power that took out the Black King.

I do think Vriska has the maneuverability to avoid most of his weapons, but you don't know what this motherfucker is going to pull out. His mere presence is setting me on edge a little.

If only my hoard were as 8ottomless as his desire to disappoint me. He is set on cowardice, deferring to others to settle his score. Doesn't he remem8er what he's confided? It would 8e easy to give the evidence to Her Imperious Condescension, and he would 8e killed quickly for his unthinka8le presumption. He's taken a gr8 risk har8oring red am8itions for an empress who will never even know his name.

Eridan's ancestor has a thing for the Empress, which is a clear allusion to his one-sided crush on Feferi. I'd be surprised if any troll from Mindfang's story wasn't one of the twelve Ancestors, so I'm pretty sure Her Condescension is Grandma Peixes.

And I recognize that name.

Now - is it just a title, or was this literally the same Condescension?

I'm inclined to assume the former, because the modern Empress doesn't share Feferi's blood color. Still, the idea of a troll ancestor sticking around to personally witness the apocalypse they foresaw is a pretty cool idea.

Here's proto-Gamzee, clearly embodying the violent madness that his descendant has recently embraced. This juggalo cult has clearly been a problem on Alternia for a long time.

There's blood behind him that matches Karkat's non-mutated position on the hemospectrum - and also, I think, blood of Eridan's caste. This guy doesn't discriminate. He's perfectly comfortable with slaughtering his 'betters', and I'm sure Gamzee's just itching to repeat this history today.

I've learned Dualscar has reported to the Grand High8lood all the intelligence he has on me and my fleet.

Gamzee's ancestor is the Grand Highblood. It sounds like he's at the very top of the terrestrial hemospectrum, outranking even other members of his caste.

Equius did say that Gamzee had the highest terrestrial blood on Alternia. Zahhak's a hemospectrum expert, so maybe he's being entirely literal. Maybe Gamzee has inherited his ancestor's title, and is literally the Grand Highblood of Alternia - the highest purpleblood of all.

If he does have a formal role, he was obviously shirking his duties, if he was even aware of them in the first place. His hive certainly wasn't especially regal...

I wonder, though... did this ancestor leave any heirlooms for his successor? How much does Gamzee really know about his birthright?

I would have enjoyed witnessing the entertainment he prepared to please the High8lood. His sense of humor was dreadful. It would have 8een a true miracle if he survived the appointment. Funny, I always imagined a grander entry in my journal for your demise, Dualscar. 8ut I should have realized you would die as you lived. A joke.

L

[sharksandjays]

yup thats right folks. its my monthly jay analysis post.

But now!!! Its about Prime Empire.

Ok guys look. Prime Empire is a terrible focus season. Jay had absolutely no character development and no power development. Nada. Nothin. Its just a “focus season” because he came up with the plan to make the villain good again and had more lines than usual (plus his little “abandoned” speech.)

HOWEVER!!! The Prime Empire shorts do say something. So, as we know, the Wildbrain seasons tend to poopoo on Jay’s character and boil him down to the funny cowardice character who is the weakest of the team. But something the shorts do attest to is the fact that Jay is STILL a ninja! The MOMENT he went into Prime Empire and saw something unjust he stood up to it. He tried to warn people. His desire to protect people goes beyond his job its his identity.

(i'm so sorry for the crappy captions. Youtube's gonna youtube.)And like the meme I posted earlier, he handled himself pretty darn well without the others. He didn't even complain about being alone. He accepted his situation pretty quickly and was already starting to fight against Unagami before the ninja found their way in. (Which you could argue could be because he is experienced with the situation in Skybound.)

And about the League…everyone makes fun of it but i beg yall to think about it for a hot moment. Who all was in Prime Empire?

Thats right. Kids.

When Jay fights the red visors in the shorts, you see the squeals of a bunch of players once they recognize him. Its very childlike and you have to realize that these people are just avatars.

All the people we saw get sucked into the game were kids. Of course theyd flock behind a ninja! And Jay had no problem taking them in and entertaining them and keeping them safe because that was his job! And they all dressed up like him and acted like him because he was their idol!!! And Jay wasnt complaining lol.

Jay acts all unsure of himself most of the time, but Skybound and Prime Empire make it canon that he is a great leader! And an even greater ninja! Sure, compared to Cole he's not as strong. Compared to Nya his personality might not stick out. His power isn't focused on like it is with Kai and Zane...and he isn't the main character chosen one like Lloyd. But these small scenes in his focus seasons remind us that he still was chosen to protect people and is very gosh darn good at it!

I mean, look at him kick red visor butt without even an OUNCE of a complaint about being without powers. (WHILE LOOKING LIKE A SOPPING WET CAT THIS MAN) But yeah appreciate this fight scene please.

Anyways, Jay doesn't get enough credit as a ninja. We forget he was trained for longer than Kai, has one of the most dangerous and powerful elements, is the reason the team can handle intense situations without freaking out, is the master of not one--but TWO chained weapons (known to be one of the most difficult types to master!), and is the ENTIRE REASON THE BOUNTY FLIES??? without ever being acknowledged for any of these! Cut him some slack guys he's awesome. Prime Empire does him so so so dirty.

[missy4176]

A Last Goodbye

Cale Henituse x Reader

The room was eerily quiet, save for the faint sound of your labored breathing. The once vibrant light in your eyes had dimmed, and your skin was pale as the moonlight that seeped through the window. The end was near—you both knew it. Yet, the man by your side, the infamous slacker of the Henituse family, remained as stoic as ever.

Cale Henituse sat by your bedside, his usual indifference masking the storm raging within him. He’d always been good at hiding his emotions, mastering the art of detachment to protect himself and those he cared about. But now, as he looked at you, that carefully constructed facade was crumbling.

The man who had faced monstrous enemies, and the burden of a destiny he never wanted, now found himself powerless in the face of your impending death. He had always been the one to remain calm, calculating the best course of action with a cold, clear head. But now, his heart was heavy, weighed down by the words he had never been able to say.

“Cale…” Your voice was barely a whisper, weak and fragile. Even now, you were more concerned about him than yourself. It was just like you—selfless to the very end.

He didn’t respond immediately, just tightened his grip on your hand. He felt the frailty of your bones beneath his fingers, the warmth slipping away from your body. Cale had always hated being vulnerable, but now, he was terrified. He was about to lose the one person who saw through his indifferent mask, who loved him despite—or perhaps because of—his flaws.

“Why are you still here?” His voice was rough, almost accusing, as if trying to provoke a response that would bring back the spark in your eyes. “You should have let me go long ago. You should’ve left, but you stayed, damn it.”

You offered him a weak smile, your lips trembling. “Because I wanted to be with you… even if it was just for a little while longer.”

Cale closed his eyes, feeling the weight of guilt and regret bearing down on him. For once in his life, he couldn’t run away, couldn’t hide behind his usual apathy. He had always kept you at arm’s length, believing it was safer that way—for both of you. But now, as he watched the life slowly drain from your body, he realized just how wrong he had been.

“I was afraid,” he finally admitted, his voice cracking. He looked away, unable to meet your gaze. “I thought… if I kept my distance, you wouldn’t get hurt. I didn’t want you to suffer because of me.”

Your eyes softened with understanding. You had always known. You had seen through his cold exterior from the very beginning, recognizing the warmth he tried so hard to bury. Even now, in your final moments, you could see the love in his eyes, even if he couldn’t say the words.

“Cale,” you whispered, your voice barely audible. “You don’t have to say it. I’ve always known.”

His chest tightened, and he cursed himself for his cowardice. He had faced death countless times, stared it in the face without flinching. But now, he was paralyzed with fear—not for himself, but for you. He couldn’t bear the thought of losing you, not like this, not when he hadn’t even had the courage to tell you how he felt.

“Please… don’t leave me,” he choked out, his voice breaking. He wasn’t supposed to be the one begging, but here he was, clutching your hand like it was the only thing keeping him tethered to this world. “I’m sorry… for everything. I should have told you… I—”

You squeezed his hand weakly, offering him one last smile. “I know, Cale. I’ve always known. It’s okay.”

Tears he hadn’t even realized were there began to fall, staining his cheeks. Cale Henituse, the man who had always kept his emotions locked away, who had never shown weakness, was now breaking apart in front of you. And it was too late. The words he had always kept buried deep within him, the feelings he had never dared to express, were now pouring out—but they came too late.

You took a shuddering breath, your eyes fluttering closed. The last thing you saw was Cale’s face, twisted with sorrow and regret. And despite the pain, despite everything, you were at peace. You had always known how he felt, even if he hadn’t been able to say it. You had loved him, and that was enough.

“Goodbye, Cale…” you whispered, your voice barely more than a breath.

And then, you were gone.

Cale sat there, still holding your hand, even as the warmth faded away. The silence was deafening, the weight of his unspoken words crushing him. He had always prided himself on his ability to outsmart his enemies, to come out on top no matter the odds. But now, for the first time, he realized he had lost the one battle that truly mattered.

He had lost you.

And with you, he had lost the chance to tell you that he loved you.

[kingofthe-egirls]

LOVE CONFESSION: LUFFY x Y/N

Summary: basically, y/n goes to Luffy’s cabin in the middle of the night to confess they have…needs they want him to fill ☠️

(cw: kissing, sex, fluff, haki, food mention)

(a/n: hi hi hi! it's been a while since i wrote a standalone fic. welcome back! i love him. so much. also my goal was to write over 2k words, which i did! proud of me proud of me luffy would also be proud of me)

Songs: "Green Light" by Lorde

words: 3.4k

You twist your fingers, hovering outside your captain's quarters.

He's snoring, quietly, you can hear through the door. Almost giving up, you roll in your lips and step back. The wooden deck creaks beneath your feet, and the snoring stops.

Shit.

"Whaddya need?" Luffy asks sleepily, hanging on the door with half-closed eyes. Pillow lines crease the side of his face with no scar.

This is stupid, you think. There’s no way he’ll say yes to this. He’s just affectionate with you cuz you’re his friend, he’s probably not even into sex in the first place—

“Y/n?”

Luffy asks you, tilting his scruffy head. His raven hair is all mushy from sleep. You want to weave your fingers in it and pull.

“So…,” you start, clearing your throat. Then, you lift your chin up and plant both your feet on the floor. You’re a Strawhat crew member, and “cowardice” is not in your vocabulary. “I want your help.”

Luffy purses his lips, curious. “Hm?” He asks, “Help with what?”

You look around furtively, glancing around the deck for any stragglers. Nope, seems like everyone’s gone to bed. You twist your lips.

“Can I come in?”

****

Now, you’re seated on the captain’s soft (messy) bed.

“Whaddya need, y/n?” Luffy is smiling at you with one big, warm hand on your knee. You’re both sitting crosslegged while the dark ocean waves crash outside. The moonlight trickles in like quicksilver through the porthole window.

“So…,” you start again lamely, face hot and fingers wrestling in your lap. “D’ya remember saying you’d help me with—anything?”

You gaze up at him, awkward as all fuck, to see him nod. “Course!” He boasts, hands balled into fists. His knuckles are blistered, still bruised from his latest fight. “I’ll help my friends with anything! ‘Specially if it’s you,” he leans in with a monkey’s grin.

You shy away, dazzled.

“Why won’t y/n look at me?” Luffy asks with a serious pout in his voice.

“Scared,” you whisper, knotting your hands into fists, yourself. He skims his fingertips over your knuckles, delicately tracing the veins along the back of your hand. His voice is soft, now, lower.

“Y/n is braver than anyone!” Luffy reminds you, ducking his head so you meet his eyes. They twinkle inside his sweet face. “Whatcha scared of, anyway?”

You snort, “Scared of you saying no to me.”

Luffy frowns. “Unless it’s food, I won’t say no!”

You shake your head. “Ya haven’t heard what it is, yet.”

“Don’t need to!” He blows up his cheeks, puffing out his chest like a peacock. You smile, and reach forward to ruffle his hair. You straighten it, a little. So it’s not smushed to one side anymore. He whines. “Tell meeeeeee!!!”

“Okay, okay, fine!” You throw your hands up into the air. Might as well say it: now or never.

You cross your arms.

“I need your help…,” you hedge, swallowing through a now-dry throat, “With cumming.”

He blinks. “Coming where?”

“In bed, Luffy.”

He sits for a second, before the lightbulb clicks. “Oh!” He grins, proud of himself, “You’re horny!”

“Ugh,” you drop your head in your hands. “Not just horny,” you admit miserably, “All I can do is think of you.”

He stops.

Breath hangs in the air, suspended for one, two, three—

“Like…when you’re in bed?”

He asks with his head tilted to the side, like a crow analyzing a puzzle.

You nod.

He grins: a slow, syrupy thing that engulfs half his face. He flicks his eyes up and down your form, with a heat you barely recognize. You shift, under his hungry gaze.

“Why didn’t you say something earlier?” He giggles, leaning forward to cup your jaw in his hand. “I can help ya with that,” he says, low. His voice is all gravelly, now that his lips are two inches from your face. You close the distance, eagerly.

Kissing Luffy is magnetizing.

You’re stuck in place: rooted to his lips by some inescapable force. Is that—is that his haki, pulling you in?

Red flickers at the edges of your vision, eyes half-closed from kissing him. He runs his hands up your arms, squeezing gently. He groans into your mouth.

“Tastes good,” he mutters, fingers going to card through your hair. You close your eyes at the sensation.

“Thanks,” you breathe, “You too.”

If it is his haki freezing you in place, you’re more than happy to comply. He must sense it somehow, because the overwhelming pressure loosens up, slightly. You giggle against his lips.

“Afraid I’ll run away?”

He bites his lip, caught. “Sorry,” he scratches the back of his head, “Never really done this before.”

“Really?” You ask, surprised. He kisses so well—you thought for sure he’s had at least some practice. You tell him as much, and he laughs.

“Nope! Just you,” he nuzzles into your face. “And myself, of course.”

“Of course,” you agree, running your hands through his hair. “I like kissing you.”

He beams, and wraps his arms around you. He lifts you into his lap, and rubs your hips against his clothed cock. You gasp at his daring.

“Wh-what did ya wanna do?” You ask, terrified. Luffy giggles, looking up at you with stars in his eyes.

“Whatever ya need.”

****

“Take whatcha need from me,” he murmurs, “Make yourself feel good on my cock.”

He is giving himself to you, wholly and completely, with no strings attached.

He rocks against you gently, hardness already poking your leg. You wrap your arms around him, and nod.

“Mkay.”

He grins, happy to help, and lifts you up to wrap your legs around his waist. He stumbles a bit, but makes his way over to the wall. He presses your back against the cabin wall, nosing into your hair. He places a kiss along your collarbone.

“Smells nice,” he whispers, rubbing his nose along your cheek. You shiver, wrapping your limbs around him tighter.

“Thanks, captain,” you whimper, already desperate and hungry with need. Luffy hums, readjusting himself so he can press his clothed cock against your heat. His eyebrow twitches as you moan.

“Hah, is that whatcha needed? Hm, pretty girl?” He tilts his head, rubbing his hips against yours. Your pussy spasms, involuntarily. You need him inside you, now.

“Mhmm,” you moan, letting your head thunk down onto his shoulder. He giggles.

“Shishishi,” he adjusts, lifting you up higher. He reaches down with one hand to unzip his shorts, and push your own panties to the side. “S’okay if I fuck you like this?”

You nod, uncontrollably shaking from desire. He takes pity on you, and slowly starts to press his cockhead against your entrance. You hiss.

“Fuck yes, Luffy—,”

“Captain,” he corrects, sharply, “It’s Captain Luffy, for you.”

“Yes, captain!” You breathe, letting your muscles melt in release. His cock pushes deeper inside you, and you moan. “More, please?”

“Hm,” he cocks his head, running a strong hand over your shoulders and down your arm. He nuzzles into your hand, pressing your palm flat against his cheek. He kisses your fingertips, before meeting your gaze with a wicked grin. “Have you been good for me?”

“Mhmm!” You nod, childish, wanting only ever more of him inside you.

Luffy, however, doesn’t mind teasing you and instead of fucking you hard he opts to keep stroking your entrance with his tip. He shoots spasms through you, and only giggles as your thighs quiver around his waist. He pecks a kiss onto the tip of your nose.

“Say please.”

You gasp, already teased past your fucking limit, and start babbling praises for your Captain Luffy to smile at. “Please, captain! Please captain fuck me, I need you so bad you’re so fucking hot pleasepleaseplea—,”

He cuts you off with a sharp thrust of his hips, your begging now a gasp as you feel all of him inside you at once.

“Fuck, Luffy!”

“Hey,” he frowns, pulling back to squeeze at your tit. He harshly thumbs at your nipple, and you hiss. “Bad girl.”

He starts fucking up into you hard and fast, catching your breaths with his mouth in sloppy, eager kisses. You moan, fluttering walls squeezing around the length of his hard cock. You never thought it would feel this good—

“Hey,” he commands, a strike of his haki flickering around the room. The lamplight goes out for a second, before coming back on. He bites at your neck, letting out a gruff moan. He slows his hips, now languidly thrusting into you at a maddening drawl. You whimper, banging loose fists against his shoulders.

“Captain…?” You beg, letting him see the pleasure in your half-lidded eyes. He regards you with a pirate’s smirk, eyeing you like a piece of golden treasure. You bite your lip.

“What is it, slut?”

Your mouth falls open, shocked. You stammer, trying unsuccessfully to find the words to describe the utterly ruinous sensation of having your captain (and best friend) call you such a dirty name. You wanna hear it again.

“Cmon, slut,” he gifts you with another title, “Speak up.”

All you manage is a groan, before needily whining a hazy, “Faster?”

He giggles, grinning at you like the devil, before speeding up his hips and slamming into you with reckless force. He bites his own bottom lip, gripping your ass with both of his strong, sure hands. A raspy moan leaves his lips, decorating the skin of your shoulder he breathes it into. You tighten your arms around his neck, letting him lazily lick the sensitive spot below your ear.

“S’good, baby,” he praises you, lifting up to claim your lips in another kiss. His cock is pulsing inside you now, all the veins and all the length helping push you toward a quivering orgasm.

He sees it on your face, feels it in your clenching walls, and laughs. “Atta girl!” He speeds up, smiling like hell as he rams into you from below. Your voice comes out cracked and broken, not caring who hears your screaming praises.

“Fuck, Lu—fuck, captain!” You somehow catch yourself in mid-orgasm, but not before he lands a surprisingly hard hit onto your rear as you gasp, and then whine, as you realize your cresting wave has passed you by.

Luffy slows down.

“How are you, baby?” He gently pulls out of you, letting your feet fall back to the earth. He steadies you with his hands on your shoulders, while you shift back and forth on wobbly legs. He ducks to make you meet his eyes. They’re grey, like clouds in morning light. You shake your head.

“Aw, baby,” he coos, all trace of his punishment gone. He tickles the sides of your face with his fingertips, sticking out his tongue in a funny face. He nuzzles at your nose, cooing little sounds of encouragement and praise, until you’re a giggling mess beneath him.

“There!” He says, proudly straightening up. He fixes his straw hat atop his head, from where it’d gone skewed while he fucked you.

“Thanks, Luffy.”

He frowns down at you. “We’re not done.”

Your face lights up, your forgotten orgasm still pulsing between your legs. Your clit is aching.

“Ya wanted Captain ta make ya cum, right? Have you cum yet?”

Sheepishly, you shake your head.

“What kind of captain would I be if I didn’t satisfy ya, hah?” He tilts his head, cheeky, before leading you back to the bed with one arm. He snakes it around your waist, setting you down gently with your knees spread.

He sits down with his face between your thighs.

You shiver, already nervous, before he pushes his hat back without ceremony, and dives into your cunt facefirst.

****

Licking and slurping sounds fill the captain’s quarters, the air now musky and filled with the scent of sex. The summer air clings to your skin, humid and muggy as Luffy eats you out.

“C-can we open a window?” You complain, wiping your forehead with the back of your hand. It comes away slick with sweat.

Luffy kneels up, springing to the porthole without a second thought. You see his chin (and cheeks) glistening with slick, your own wet shining on his handsome face.

He opens the window, and blessed cool air wafts in with a breeze. You sigh, dragging your hands through ruined hair. Luffy waltzes back over to you, searing your skin with his fiery gaze. He licks his lips.

“Can I fuck ya again?”

You nod, pushing back on the bed to make room. He lies down on top of you, pressing your body into the mattress, held down firmly by his weight. You snuggle up under him, grinning softly. His mouth parts in awe.

“There it is,” he croons, leaning down to kiss your appled cheeks, “There’s my baby’s smile.”

You arch an eyebrow, trying to hide the butterflies in your chest. “Your baby?”

He looks up at you, confused. His half-hard cock is still poking you in the thigh. You wriggle, under him.

He places a hand on your hip, keeping you still. His eyebrows are furrowed down over his face. “Course,” he says, “Ya didn’t think I’d do this for just anyone, didja?”

You stare, wide-eyed and dumbfounded. “I-I thought you were just…being a good friend!”

Luffy frowns, still pressing down into you with his full weight. He supports himself with one elbow sinking into the mattress beside your head. He regards you with a deadly calm.

“Nuh uh,” he says, firmly shaking his head, “I wanna help you.”

You blink.

He strokes your temple with his thumb, softly smiling down at you. His voice is hoarse, as he whispers, “So, my flirting hasn’t been working after all, huh.”

You pause, already panic-stricken and out of breath from the turns in this conversation. You feel Luffy’s haki broiling behind his shoulder blades. You wonder if he’s going to sprout wings.

You reach up to stroke his forehead, delicately tracing the slight line of his widow’s peak. The dark hair is soft against your fingertips.

“You’ve been flirting with me?”

He pouts. “Been trying to…,” he purses his lips out like he’s embarrassed. You giggle: you can’t help it. He slaps your shoulder lightly. “Don’t laugh!” He complains.

“Sorry, sorry,” you shake your head, cupping his cheek with one hand. “You’re cute, is all.”

He grins, wide and ferocious, before leaning down to kiss you again. His tongue pushes past your lips, and you let him in. He tastes like you.

Your mouths slide softly together, moans creeping their way up your throats, and tumbling into the salty air of his bedroom.

“Like you,” he says, pressing his forehead into yours. His voice is raspy. Hoarse. He swallows. “I like you a lot.”

“I like you too, Luffy,” he closes his eyes at the sound of his name, and you hum. You trace your thumb below his cheek, softly squishing at his baby face. “You’re pretty.”

He kisses you again, beaming his gorgeous smile directly against your lips. You mmph! in surprise. “You’re pretty,” he corrects you, “But thanks!”

You giggle, charmed by his boyishness, and let him cuddle you into his chest as he pleases. Luffy smells like salt and cinnamon, and sorta like weed. You’ll have to ask him for a hit, later.

“Welcome,” you murmur, tracing your fingertips against his spine, still left bare from when you’d ripped his shirt off earlier. “Wanna fuck me now?”

“No,” he pouts, sitting up. He supports himself on one elbow, regarding you seriously. “I wantcha to be mine, first.”

“‘M yours!”

You blurt it out, no thoughts needed, before burying your face in his chest. He giggles, and wraps you in a double-rubber hug. “Mine!” He squeals happily, rolling you both over so you’re no longer beneath him. He lets you crawl over him instead, straddling his hips with your thighs. His arms are still double-wrapped around you.

You wiggle your hips into his a bit, smiling at his breathy moan. His fingertips stroke the soft skin of your back. You shiver, arching slightly beneath his touch. Luffy slowly unspools his limbs from around you. The ship rocks gently in the waves.

"How did you flirt with me?" You ask, basking in the afterglow of your unexpected (yet long awaited) tryst.

"Food...," Luffy trails off sheepishly. A slight honey blush tints his squishy cheeks. You poke at one, softly.

"Sharing your food with me was flirting?" You smile, beaming inside at the thought of how he's been handing you sly snackies at every meal. A drumstick here, a potato there, a cookie when Sanji wasn't looking. All affections you had accepted keenly and wholeheartedly: falling farther in love with your captain as you did. "I liked it," you admit. And then, softer, "Special."

Luffy grins. "So it did work!" He leaps off the bed, sending you careening off the side. He pumps both fists into the air, cheering himself on. "I was right!"

"Yeah, yeah," you mutter, pushing yourself off the floor. You're used to his antics, by now. "What else did you try?"

Luffy spins back around to you, grinning like a mad scientist. His torso is bare, and his shorts are still unbuttoned. They hang low around his hips, the sharp line of his V proudly disappearing into the waistband. "Sunsets!" He declares, fists on his hips in victory.

"I liked sunsets, too," you giggle, and motion for him to take your hand. You’ve thrown on your clothes again, haphazard shirt dress half-buttoned and uneven over your knees.

Luffy lets you lead him, following along after you onto the deck and onto the grassy lawn. Someone has a light on in the crow's nest.

Stars burst overhead, shimmering in their rivers of space-dust like silver ribbons. The midnight sky is deep indigo, and all the constellations Nami knows how to name twinkle like firelights.

You breathe in deep lungfuls of fresh, night air. The wind is cool and crisp, even in the summer. Fireflies flicker around the tangerines.

Luffy steps up beside you, squeezing your hand softly. He strokes his thumb along your knuckles, and you hum. "Sorry for not cumming," you say, staring at the stars.

Luffy tugs on your hand, and you stare at him, instead. His eyes are dark, hazy in the firelight. The campfire still glows red with embers.

"Sorry for what? Not your fault," he slips out, casually, "But I didn't cum either, so it's even anyway. Is that okay?"

He scuffs his heel on the ground, and you start walking along the edge of the grass. He skips a stray stone over to you, and you kick it down the way. It skitters across the lawn, bouncing a couple times, before landing at the base of the farthest tree. A firefly winks at its roots.

"Not like it was our last time," he grins at you, tugging on your hand. You skip a little, stumbling, but he catches you with one hand pressed to your lower stomach. His strength is terrifying.

"Careful, princess," he teases you, and you almost stumble again. As it is, you open and close your mouth like a fish. He snickers, fully pleased with himself. He swipes under his nose with his finger.

"Okay, king," you counter, trying to ruffle his hair, but he ducks out of the way. You don't miss the faint blush tinged on his cheeks, though.

"Shishishi, I like that!" He straightens up again, tugging on your arm to pull you away from the trees. His arm stretches out long, space elongating between you, before he snaps you back in to hold in his arms. He shifts you around so you're piggyback, and you giggle.

"Let's go steal something from the fridge," you whisper, and Luffy gasps in love and adoration. He turns over his shoulder to you with stars in his eyes.

"I love you," he says, unabashedly. You swallow, and nod.

"I love you too, Captain Luffy."

"Like, really really love you."

You snicker, burying your face in the bare skin of his shoulder. His arms flex from where they hold your thighs. "I really, really love you, too. 'M in love with you, Luffy." You stroke your fingertips along his chest, from where your arms are wrapped around his neck. His black hair tickles your cheek. He hefts you up higher in his arms, smiling with his eyes crinkled shut.

"Good! I'm in love with you, too. Sorry I didn't tell ya sooner."

"Me too," you mumble, and Luffy heads off to the kitchen, with you in tow.

****

[chaotic-neutral-knitter]

I've seen metas about Stede being a coward and I think that, when you're analyzing a show about how there's not just one way to be a man, that misses the point a bit?

like. Stede definitely thinks he's a coward and other people call him a coward. in the same way that Ed thinks he's a monster and other people call him a monster. these are labels that they both grapple with because they don't want them to be true but when people keep telling you over and over that you are [X], then you'll believe it eventually.

and the thing that gets me about Stede is that his cowardice isn't in the areas that his bullies tell him it is. his plan to steal a hostage back from Izzy is dumb, but it's also brave. the man keeps putting himself in physical danger, ALL OF THE TIME. he's naive, but he's also brave.

his decision to go be a pirate is brave, and Ed sees that. I'd even say it's one of the first things he recognizes and likes about Stede. because Ed also wants to change his whole life (but is struggling with actually doing it) and here comes this guy who just went and DID it. what the hell. better talk to that guy, see what he knows. (maybe fall in love with him)

Stede's only a coward when it comes to emotional stuff. there was probably a middle ground between "suffer in this marriage forever" and "run off to be a pirate" but leaving in the middle of the night was a way to escape hard conversations. there was also DEFINITELY a middle ground between "go to China with Ed and be eaten alive by guilt over abandoning his family" and "leave Ed without saying goodbye" but that would have meant talking to Ed about it and my man Stede does not talk about his feelings, wants, or needs. because emotional honesty is scary. (and when you're Stede, emotional honesty has always ended up with getting yelled at, shut down, or worse).

but it's frustrating, because people will say "oh Stede's a coward" and point to all the people saying he is one and Stede himself believing it, and ignore all the times he is shown to be very brave. or they'll say (and this one haunts me) "Stede wasn't bullied as a kid for being obviously queer, he was bullied for being a coward."

and idk dude but I think the point is that sometimes the things we believe about ourselves because we've been told them over and over are just... not true?

your childhood bully wasn't right about you, they were a fucking bully. your shit dad wasn't right about you, he was just shit. these people don't know you and they don't want to know you. their opinions are worse than useless. and Stede's season one arc is about him grappling with that and deciding he isn't a coward, he isn't inadequate, he isn't a waste of space. he is in fact worthy of love. that's the whole point!