#Nike decade

[deewellsosd]

When something memorable takes place, I have a way of remembering it by thinking who, what, why, and when- who I was with, what happened, why it took place, and when it took place, where I was when I heard the news.

March 26th marked the 27th anniversary of the Heaven's Gate cult mass suicide in San Diego, CA.

I was living in Boston, and trying to decide if I wanted to remain in higher education. It was around lunchtime and I was sitting in the dining hall with my colleagues, at Boston College, when the news popped up on the TVs in the hall.

It was reported that police officers were tipped off by a former Heaven's Gate member, who had received videotapes stating that by the time he watched them the group would've already be on the spaceship and leaving planet Earth.

For the folks that are old enough to remember the news reports, and the pictures: The 39 corpses wore the same black sweatsuits, the same black and white Nike sneakers, and were draped in purple cloths, that covered their bodies.

Yeah, it was some weird stuff.

Days later, we started to get more information about the group and their leader Marshall Applewhite aka Do. When the news showed Applewhite's face on screen, it wasn't hard to tell that this homie was just a little "off".

What struck the police officers, and many of the folks that showed up at the San Diego house was that the house was huge....we're talking 9,200-square-feet big!

When I started to follow the news reports, I couldn't help but notice that they all wore black outfits, but they all wore the same Nike sneakers! (Hey, I'm not afraid to say it......I paid attention to their feet, and the news kept showing the same picture over and over, so it was hard not to look at their feet!)

For a long time, I wondered what sneakers it was that the 39 dead wore, and a few newspapers reported that they all wore Nike Cortez sneakers.

Well, I KNEW just from the grainy-ass pictures (read: Before high definition television) that the sneakers were NOT Nike Cortez's.

I mean, any person could look at the picture and tell within seconds that the sneakers were not Nike Cortez. They resembled Nike Air Pegasus, but even then after looking at the pictures in The Boston Globe, I wasn't sure.

It took some research, and I was able to narrow it down to either the Nike Air Pegasus or Nike Decade. It took me almost a week to figure it out, but I finally settled on the Nike Decade.

I mean, these were folks who were coerced to give up their jobs, homes, possessions and money to Marshall Applewhite. And, I think what Applewhite did in the days or weeks leading up the mass suicide, he probably had someone visit a Nike outlet and purchase the Nike Decade sneakers for him and the rest of the folks that were going to "make that trip" on the spaceship that was following the Hale-Bopp Comet.

For years, on a number of message boards such as NikeTalk, ISS and others, people posted pictures of the bodies wearing the black and white sneakers. I've even had a conversation where someone brought up Heaven's Gate to me because they knew that I "liked" sneakers, and were surprised that I knew what sneakers they were wearing. (It's called Obsessive Sneaker Disorder.)

So, on the 27th anniversary of the Heaven's Gate cult making that "peaceful journey" on the spaceship, we pray for them and their families.

[askpredetor]

It sucks that cults always have cool drip to the point where they do anything horrific, clothing companies gotta cancel or discontinue the products.

Kool-Aid didn't discontinue flavors when those dudes started drinking it and killed themselves

[misskelley]

Nike really said copy and paste.

[1997thebracket]

Round 1D

Nike Decades, Popularized by Heaven's Gate: Bear with me, gentle reader, as I talk my way out of another corner here. Some may say it would be crass to include the mass suicide of Heaven's Gate in this bracket, despite this event being one of the most infamous news stories of 1997 and one of the more enduring cult headlines in pop culture today; that commitment to tastefulness is why we're appealing to the sneakerheads instead, baby! Nike Decades, as worn by the members of the Heaven's Gate cult, were all-black, low-top, and had a simple and unassuming design. The choice of Nike Decades was likely influenced by the cult's desire for uniformity and practicality, as they believed that by adopting a uniform appearance, they could shed their individual identities and better prepare for their journey to a higher plane of existence via spaceship. This footwear preference stood out starkly when news of the group's deaths broke, alongside images of the sneakers in this macabre context. Despite Nike's presumed wishes, the strangeness of this fashion choice would make the shoes an inadvertent symbol of the cult. Today, Nike Decades are among the rarest sneakers in the community-- and therefore to some, the most coveted.

Fallout: You're hearing the crackle of the radio as you read this, aren't you? The first Fallout game, released in 1997 by Interplay Entertainment is a classic isometric role-playing game set in a post-apocalyptic world devastated by nuclear war. Players assume the role of the Vault Dweller, tasked with venturing out into the irradiated wasteland to find a water purification chip to save their underground home, Vault 13. The game is characterized by its dark and gritty atmosphere, rich storytelling, and morally complex choices. Its turn-based combat system and character development through the SPECIAL system (Strength, Perception, Endurance, Charisma, Intelligence, Agility, and Luck) were innovative for the time. Fallout's retro-futuristic aesthetic, intricate world-building, and mature themes garnered critical acclaim and laid the foundation for one of the most beloved franchises in gaming.

[biglisbonnews]

Another major celebrity collaboration is coming to an end at Adidas Beyoncé and Adidas will no longer be growing Ivy Park together.Read more... https://qz.com/adidas-beyonce-ivy-park-collaboration-end-1850272724

[intheupside]

Sidney Crosby gets the fascination that fans and some fellow players have with his gear — from the curiosity about pieces of equipment he has worn since his first NHL game, to the social media posts if he so much as even looks at a different CCM stick.

When Sid was a kid, he was interested in the tools of the trade used by his favorite NHL players. Unsurprisingly, he appreciated the simple style of Peter Forsberg and Steve Yzerman. But he was fond of some flashy stars, too. Pavel Bure had an “aura” about him, he said, and only Sergei Fedorov could pull off those white Nike skates.

“I thought Mario had great style, too, with the tongues out,” Crosby said with a grin.

The Penguins captain said he doesn’t follow social accounts that track what today’s players are wearing and when they switch to new sticks, skates and gear. But he understands. Crosby was amused when told that GearGeek.com was all over it earlier this month after he tested out a CCM Ribcor Trigger 8 stick during practice.

“It’s just all about feel. It’s so important that when you’re on the ice, your gear just feels like it is part of you,” said Crosby, who is on pace for another point-per-game season. “It doesn’t feel like you’re wearing anything. It’s just an extension of you.”

As Crosby sat at his locker, his hair somehow looked freshly styled even though he had just taken off his CCM Fitlite helmet. He wore a lightly-padded undershirt from Reebok — which started to phase out of the hockey business a decade ago. He took off the pair of shoulder pads he uses for practice and tucked them inside his bag.

During a long 82-game season, Crosby will regularly cycle through some pieces of equipment, such as skates and gloves. He snaps his fair share of sticks, as well. But there are things in that bag that Crosby has carried with him since his rookie year.

His athletic supporter is the second most famous cup in hockey. The last 20 years, several equipment managers have kept that black Reebok jockstrap stitched together.

Considering Crosby has been pulling on that thing since his junior hockey days up in Rimouski, Quebec, that has to be the oldest piece of equipment that Crosby wears, right?

“No, it’s my shoulder pads actually. They just fit so well,” Crosby said. “They feel like they’re just part of you. It doesn’t feel like I’m even wearing gear. I have added stuff over the years where guys have found different spots [where I] didn’t have it covered. So it’s just trial and error, and finding out from a crosscheck or a slash.”

With all that additional padding stitched on, they weigh three pounds heavier now. “Here, let me show you,” Crosby said, pulling the Frankenpads back out of his bag.

Crosby uses a two-piece pair of hockey pants. He’s had the top portion of those pants for a long time. The bottom piece — “for my sides and my ass, basically,” he explained — is something he replaces every once in a while due to wear and tear.

Famously, Crosby has refused to switch over to the replaceable skate blades that the vast majority of players use. That is why you sometimes will see him remove his skate on the bench and hand it to one of the equipment managers to sharpen.

The reason he has not made the change is that he uses an older, softer style of steel. He can feel the blade “bend a little bit” — in a good way — when leaning into turns.

So, as Crosby showed me last week, there is a method to his equipment madness.

“Some stuff I’ve had for a while,” Crosby said. “I would say that’s because of feel.”

nice read

and nice find from @pimpim90

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

A Curse [Chapter 1: Chinatown]

Series summary: You are an aspiring actress. Aegon is a washed-up and disenchanted agent...at least until he sees something special in you. But within paradisical seaside Los Angeles you find terrible dangers and temptations, secrets and lies. Maybe Aegon's right; maybe the City of Angels really is a curse.

Chapter warnings: Language, references to sexual content (18+ readers only), a lil age gap, entertainment industry misogyny, some body dissatisfaction/dysmorphia, big doomed situationship energy, erotic apple eating, Minnesota.

Word count: 5.6k

💜 All my writing can be found HERE! 💜

Tagging: @lauraneedstochill @mrs-starkgaryen @chattylurker @neithriddle @ecstaticactus, more in comments! 🥰

🏝️ Let me know if you’d like to be added to the taglist 🏝️

He takes your hand without looking at you. He had been lounging with his green Nike Killshots up on the desk when Brandon, the receptionist, brought you in. He had also been playing a translucent orange Nintendo 64; now the game is paused and Mario is frozen on the screen of the 24-inch television, deep underwater and in pursuit of a gold star affixed to the tail of a giant eel.

“Nice to meet you,” Aegon says without much interest. You’re smiling, not that he notices. Then he nods at the receptionist. “Thanks, Brando.”

“Oh, no problem at all!” Brandon trills buoyantly, pulling out your chair for you as Aegon flops back into his own. “Can I bring anything? Iced coffee, matcha latte, Perrier?”

“I’m good,” Aegon says, glancing at your resume where it rests on the desk amongst framed photographs, manilla folders, takeout menus, gum wrappers rolled into tiny balls. You have the impression he hasn’t read it. Nonetheless, you are still smiling.

“How about you, hon?” Brandon asks you.

You don’t want to make him run to a Starbucks or anything. “Um…I’ll take a Perrier, please. That’s easy for you, right? You can just grab it out of the minifridge in the lobby?”

“You betcha!” Brandon darts out of the office and returns in ten seconds. In the elapsed time, Aegon has not looked at you once. Instead, he slouches in his chair and thumps his Nikes onto the desk, sighs, and gazes longingly at the television screen. You sit up straight with your hands folded in your lap. You have dressed in business casual attire for the occasion: a modest yellow sundress and TOMS wedges, warm understated eyeshadow, sparkly champagne pink Dreamer by Anastasia Beverly Hills, matte brown Hope by Huda Beauty. Brandon returns and hands you a green glass bottle of Perrier, ice cold and slippery with condensation, and closes the door behind him as he leaves.

“Look, I’ll be honest,” Aegon tells you, picking up your resume and scanning it blandly. “I don’t want to waste your time, but I’m really not in the market for new clients. Brando made this appointment before I told him that, and then he really didn’t want to cancel it. He liked your resume or something. So I’ll hear you out but don’t expect much.”

“Oh. Well…I really appreciate you taking the time to see me anyway!”

He gives you a swift sideways look as if suspicious of your enthusiasm. It’s not that complicated; you haven’t had an audition in weeks, and none of the other six agents you’ve seen have signed you. Aegon Targaryen’s drab little office in one half of a duplex in Elysian Park is a relative paradise. His blonde hair is gelled back from his face. He wears dark jeans, a teal t-shirt, and a wrinkled tan sport coat jacket thrown carelessly overtop. You’ve Googled him; he’s thirty-five, so a decade older than you. “Where are you from?”

That’s on your resume he hasn’t read. “Minnesota.”

Aegon’s eyebrows shoot up. “No wonder you left. City or country?”

“A town called Apple Valley, it’s about a half hour outside of Minneapolis.”

“So you’re not a nepo baby.”

“A what?”

“Your parents aren’t connected to the entertainment industry in any way.”

“Oh right, no, they definitely aren’t. My dad’s a cardiologist. My mom worked as a waitress while he was in med school, and now she just has a lot of Akitas.”

Aegon flips over your resume and skims the back. “Are they supportive of you being out here?”

“Um…” You chuckle uneasily. “Not really. My older sister’s a pharmacist and my brother’s in law school, so I am definitely the underachieving child. But they’re not too mean about it. They’re just waiting for me to get it out of my system.”

“Law school where?”

“Michigan.”

“State or University?”

“University.”

“So you’re really smart,” Aegon says. He has begun to fold your resume into a paper airplane. “Intelligence is genetic. If your siblings are book smart, you probably are too.”

You smile and shrug, not knowing what to say. “I guess so.”

“Do you have a boyfriend back in Minnesota who’s calling you every other day trying to convince you to come home and marry him and have two kids and a Goldendoodle?”

You laugh. “No, no boyfriend. I mean, I have an ex-boyfriend there. I see him sometimes when I fly home to visit. But he’s not standing in the way of anything.”

Aegon nods like you’ve passed a test. “Do your parents send you money?”

“Yeah, but not a lot. They don’t want to encourage me. I work at a Cold Stone Creamery in Harbor Gateway, it’s just a few blocks away from my apartment. I have a roommate, she’s trying to be an actress too.”

“Ice cream,” he muses. He launches your paper airplane resume; it sails across the room, hits the mint green wall, nosedives to the floor. “Do you like working there?”

“It’s fine. It’s a paycheck. Back in the spring I was doing after-school programs for Mad Science, driving all over Watts and Southeast teaching children about bugs and magnets and outer space, so that was really cool.”

Aegon looks up at you, brow furrowed. It’s the first time you’ve had his full attention. “You were doing after-school programs in Watts?”

“Yeah, it was awesome. The kids were so fun. But I needed something that was more flexible so I could be free during the middle of the day for auditions and stuff.”

He blinks at you a few times. “Why do you want to be an actress?”

You stall, twisting open your Perrier and taking a gulp. “That’s a hard question.”

“It’s literally the most obvious question. If you can’t answer it, I don’t know what you’re doing here.”

“Well, I never wanted to be an actress,” you say. “I just kind of…am one. I can’t read a book without my expressions and my posture changing to match what’s going on in the story. I can’t watch a movie without feeling like I’m in that world with the characters, or, or, or imagining how I would have delivered the lines differently. And then even when I’m doing something totally unrelated…math homework, walking my mom’s Akitas, making ice cream…I envision where the cameras would be if I was being filmed, which way I would tilt my face to catch the light. It’s something I think about all the time and I can’t turn it off. So how am I supposed to be a doctor or a lawyer and spend my entire life trying to avoid every thought that occurs to me organically? It sounds like torture.”

Aegon stares at you, a long golden silence as daylight pours in through the windows facing the east. Then he drops his green Nikes to the floor and straightens up in his chair, studying you. He points to the windows. “Look that way.”

You do, closing your eyes when the glare is too bright.

“Now the other side of the room.”

You turn to the mint green wall where your paper airplane resume rests on the hardwood floor like the wreckage of the Titanic sits at the bottom of the ocean.

“Stand up.”

You set your bottle of Perrier on his cluttered desk and obey, but with some reluctance. “Please don’t ask me to bend over.”

Aegon snorts a laugh. “That’s not what I’m doing. I want you to go to the door and then walk back to me like you’re angry.”

“I have a bunch of acting reels on YouTube—”

“I don’t want to see your acting reels. I want to see you in front of me right now.”

“Okay,” you agree. You go to the closed door, take a moment to shake off the real world, and then walk to his desk, your footsteps heavy and your eyes hard. Aegon’s dark blue gaze follows you and does not waver.

“Look at me like you’re sad.”

You imagine he’s said something horrible to you, a husband who’s broken a vow, a doctor with a grim prognosis.

“Good!” Aegon says, animated now. “You get it. It’s in the eyebrows, not the mouth.” He gestures to your chair. “Now sit down like you don’t want to be here.”

You move sluggishly, like you hope someone will interrupt you; your eyes float boredly around the room. Then you plop heavily into the chair and stare at Aegon, a little vacuously inane, a little resentful like a petulant teenager. You pretend to chew gum you don’t have.

Aegon smiles, amused. “If I’d asked you to bend over, would you have done it?”

“I’d like to say no, but I’m pretty desperate.”

He snickers, shaking his head. “Don’t let a man make you uncomfortable. Don’t believe anyone if they say they want to drive you somewhere to see you audition or take your picture and nobody else you know is going. When you go to clubs and parties, watch the bartender make your drink and never put it down until you’re done. Don’t get talked into plastic surgery. Yes, that includes Botox and fillers.”

You sip your Perrier. “Well, I might get a boob job.”

“Don’t get a boob job.”

“Why not? Basically everybody here’s had one. I think Taylor Swift got two.”

“You don’t need a boob job,” Aegon says impatiently.

“I’m not sure you have all the knowledge to make an informed decision about that.”

“I am so sick of this bullshit,” he mutters, pushing the takeout menus and manilla folders around on his desk but leaving it no tidier. “People cutting up their perfectly normal bodies…people stuffing themselves full of poison…so afraid to look human they end up like motherfucking Bratz dolls.” He sighs and peers up at you again. “Just so you know, I’m getting out of L.A. I’m only going to be here until September. So by then you’ll have to find someone else. But I can get you started, I guess.”

You are beaming. “You’ll be my agent?”

“Yeah, but like I said—”

You squeal and leap to your feet, taking his left hand with both of yours and shaking it vigorously, Aegon gaping up at you. “Thank you! Thank you so much! I am going to be the best client you’ve ever had, I will never ever complain, I will do anything you say, I will audition with snakes and tarantulas, I will swim with sharks.”

Aegon grins, perhaps despite himself. “I don’t think that will be necessary.”

“Why are you leaving in September?”

“I’m getting married. Figured I’d do the whole settling down and living a quiet life thing.” He spins around one of the photographs on his desk so you can see it. In the frame, Aegon is standing on the edge of the Grand Canyon with a woman around his age, tall and willowy, long thick dark hair, flowing white sundress, wearing black aviator sunglasses to match his.

“That’s exciting!” You love weddings. “And you two look so happy together!”

“Yeah, Becca’s pretty great.” Aegon takes a stick of Juicy Fruit out of a pack on his desk, shoves it into his mouth, distractedly rolls the white and red wrapper into a ball. “She’s a real caretaker type. Always trying to do my laundry and pack me lunches and bake pies and whatever.”

“And that’s something you look for in a woman?” you tease lightheartedly. Aegon gives you a lightning-quick annoyed glance, and your smile abruptly dies. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to be rude. Please don’t fire me.”

He chuckles and stands up from his desk, his hands in the pockets of his tan jacket. Mario is still underwater, forgotten on the frozen television screen. “Let’s go grab some lunch.”

“Right now?” You slide your phone out of your purse—crossbody, wildflowers, Patricia Nash but found at T.J.Maxx—to check the time. “It’s like 10:30 a.m.”

“They’ll be open by the time we walk to Chinatown.”

“Okay!” Lunch can only be a good thing. Still clutching your Perrier, you trot after Aegon into the small lobby, scuffed wood floor and cheap IKEA couches. Behind the reception desk, Brandon is making notes in a planner using one of those pens with a fake flower on top. He looks up at you and Aegon as you pass by.

“Brando, I’m taking an early lunch,” Aegon tells him.

Brandon is hopeful. “Are you signing her?”

“Yeah, but it’s just until—”

“Oh for cute!” Brandon cries out, and Aegon is stupefied. But you know exactly what Brandon means. He must be from Minnesota too. So that’s why he liked my resume. Los Angeles is kind of like the military; once you’re swimming in this multinational fishbowl, everyone from your home state is a friend.

“What part?” you ask, smiling.

“Duluth.”

“Bet the Pacific Ocean beats Lake Superior any day.”

“Have you been to Venice Beach yet?”

“Oh yeah. Heaven on earth.”

“Good luck with everything,” Brandon says, and then he winks. “I hope you get to stay.”

Stay in L.A. Stay here chasing the dream. Me too. Then you follow Aegon through the front door and down the concrete steps to the sidewalk, out into breezy mid-70s air and sunlight peeking from behind pure white tufts of cumulus clouds. You can hear music and dogs barking. The street is lined with quaint midcentury houses with metal fences and humming air conditioning units in the windows; any businessowners here are hanging their own shingle, beauticians and pet groomers and bakers. On the horizon, you can see the silvery skyscrapers of Downtown.

“So about that resume I clearly didn’t read,” Aegon says as he walks with his hands in his pockets. “Have you done any meaningful acting work since you’ve been out here?”

Why lie? “No.”

He gives you a shellshocked look like this is the worst case scenario. “Well…I appreciate your honesty. So you’ll take anything.”

“Absolutely anything. I mean…” You take an anxious swig of your Perrier. “I’d really rather not be naked.”

He’s laughing again. You’re not sure if he thinks you’re funny or ridiculous. “I’m not going to pitch you for roles that require nudity.”

You are relieved. “Okay. Cool.”

“Where did you act before?”

“After college I did some short films for grad students…they’re all pretty terrible, I’ll admit it, but I didn’t write them…and I was in a bunch of shows at the Guthrie Theater in Minneapolis. And I worked in the gift shop.”

“Guthrie?” Aegon says. “Like Woody Guthrie?”

“No, common mistake. A completely different Guthrie. Some English lord who was a director.”

“Which shows were you in?”

You describe your roles, all supporting, none leading: Romeo and Juliet, Othello, A Streetcar Named Desire, Pride and Prejudice, Julius Caesar, Anastasia, Frankenstein, August: Osage County, Richard III, Dracula. Aegon listens but he watches you too, the way you stride in your TOMS wedges over the cracked and uneven sidewalk, the way you use your hands too much when you talk, a habit you’re trying to break. His eyes on you—that deep and tumultuous blue—do not feel like a leer, and you think you’ve acquired enough experience in your past three months in Los Angeles to know the difference. Aegon’s gaze is no longer disinterested but methodical, practiced, ever-seeking, notes transcribed not in ink but electrical impulses and ineffable cyclones of neurotransmitters.

“Dracula,” Aegon jokes. “Vampire experience, huh? Maybe we could get you in the Twilight reboot.”

“Is that really happening?”

“It is, but it’s going to be animated. So it’s only voice acting. And I think we can aim higher than that.” He pauses at an intersection and looks lost for a few seconds, then remembers the way and bears to the right. This street is busier, hectic with shops and pedestrians, teenagers on skateboards, vendors advertising their fruit smoothies and boba teas. Red banners printed with twisted dragons and Chinatown 2025 hang from the streetlights. Towering palm trees cast shadows in the shape of windblown leaves. “Do you get along with your roommate?”

This is a random question. You finish your Perrier and discard the glass bottle in a trashcan. “Yeah, she’s really nice, we’re friends. Why?”

“Good. Housing instability is a huge source of stress for young actors, just wanted to make sure you weren’t in danger of ending up sleeping under a bridge.”

“I might be if her boyfriend ever gets a job and can pay half of the rent.”

“Well if it happens, let me know. I can help get you set up somewhere.” Aegon yanks his phone out of his jeans pocket to check the time. “We’ve got a few more minutes to kill,” he says, and ducks into a market strewn with crates of produce: bitter melon, bok choy, pears, pomelos, dragon fruit, peaches, plums, durian, sweet potatoes, kumquats, lychees. You follow after Aegon as he weaves through narrow, crowded aisles, inspecting the wares and waving to shopkeepers that he recognizes. He asks you as he points to a dozen cardboard boxes overflowing with apples: “Does this make you homesick for Appletown?”

“Apple Valley,” you correct him, laughing. “And not quite. I’d rather have Venice Beach.”

“What’s the state apple of Minnesota?”

“I have no idea.”

“Let’s find out.” He uses his phone to Google it. “Honeycrisp.”

“Oh neat! Those are pretty good.”

“Are they?” He searches until amongst the Granny Smiths and Fujis and Golden Delicious apples he finds a box labelled Honeycrisp. “I don’t think I’ve ever tried one.”

“Now’s your chance.”

Aegon picks up a large, glossy apple, pinkish-red and striped with yellow, and takes a massive bite. Juice dribbles down his mouth and chin; he wipes it away with the back of his hand. “I’m going to pay for it,” he assures you when you look startled. He chews, deliberating. “This apple sucks. This is a flop apple.”

“You are blinded by your anti-Minnesota prejudice.”

“It’s boring.”

“How can an apple be boring?”

“It’s like…too sweet. Not tart enough. Not as good as a Braeburn or a Pink Lady. Here.” Aegon tosses the Honeycrisp apple and you catch it. Then, when you stare at the sizeable bitemark he’s left in the fruit: “Wait, I mean, you don’t have to eat that part, obviously. Try the other side—”

But you’ve already bitten over the same spot, enlarging the wound, your tongue grazing the notches left by Aegon’s teeth. You giggle as you lick juice from your lips. “It’s so good. You’re delusional.”

Aegon watches you for a while before he speaks. In the meantime, you finish eating the apple with quick chomps. “Are you medicated?” he says.

“What? No, why?”

“You just seem…I don’t know. Bizarrely happy.”

“Why wouldn’t I be happy? I’m in Los Angeles, I’m living the dream, I have a brand new agent. My life is amazing.”

“Okay,” Aegon says uncertainly; but he’s smiling. When you pitch the apple core back to him, he catches it. Then he grabs a plastic bag off a hook and drops one fresh Honeycrisp apple inside. “We’ll let Brando be the tiebreaker.” He shows two fingers to a shopkeeper and pays in cash. You steal a glimpse of your phone; it’s just after 11:00 a.m.

Down the street from the market is a set of steps leading into what appears to be a basement. Instead, when Aegon opens the red door, on the other side is a restaurant already filling up with patrons. The tables are round and covered with crimson tablecloths; at each seat is one of those paper Chinese zodiac calendars with all twelve animals and their descriptions.

“Good morning Mr. Aegon!” a tall middle-aged waitress says warmly and ushers you both to a table by a large fish tank with opalescent pebbles lining the bottom. From the other side of the glass, colossal black-and-orange oscars gawp menacingly. The waitress passes you a menu.

“No,” Aegon says, snatching the menu out of your hands before you can open it. “Order what you’d normally get.”

Obediently, you turn to the waitress. “Do you have moo goo gai pan?”

She nods. “White rice or fried rice?”

“White rice, please.”

“Mr. Aegon?” the waitress says.

“Boneless spare ribs with fried rice. And a pot of tea, and two wanton soups. Thanks, Lanying.”

She hurries away to tend to other customers. You ask Aegon playfully: “Did I make the right choice?”

“You did. Naturally low-calorie but high in vitamins and protein. If you’d ordered the sesame chicken and only taken two bites I’d know that you probably have an eating disorder. But now I’m optimistic.”

“And you got the most unhealthy thing on the menu. What does that mean?”

“Life is short. I try to keep it delicious.” He taps the side of the fish tank; one of the oscars attempts to maul him through the glass. “Do you exercise?”

“Not by choice. I force myself to walk to and from work, and that’s the best I can do.”

Aegon seems alarmed. “I don’t think you should be wandering all over Harbor Gateway. Especially not at night.”

“There are always other people around.”

“Yeah, and some of them might mug you.” The waitress arrives with a pot of tea and two small, handleless cups. Aegon fills both with tea, slides one to you, and reaches for the little plastic container of sweeteners on the table. “Splenda?” Aegon guesses correctly and then flings several yellow packets across the table to you.

“Can I ask you something now?”

“Sure, go ahead,” Aegon says. The waitress returns with two bowls of wanton soup and makes conversation with Aegon briefly. She inquires about his health, his parents, his business. You wait until she leaves to ask your question.

“Why did you stop acting?” You Googled Aegon before your meeting, so you know some abbreviated version of his story: a wealthy and prominent family in the production industry, several years spent as an actor beginning when he was around your age, a shadowy withdrawal into working as an agent with a practice so small and off the beaten path that it must be deliberate. He could have coasted his whole life on effortless roles in Lifetime movies or Hulu original series. Instead he chose obscurity, and a drab little office in half of a duplex on a run-down street in Elysian Park, and Brandon the receptionist as his sole employee, and clients who are nobodies like you.

Aegon slurps broth from his spoon, stalling. He’s caught off-guard; you can tell by the way deep troubled grooves appear in his brow. That’s part of being a good actor. You have to learn how to read people until you can feel their emotions as if they are your own, until you can mimic them so convincingly your own pulse quickens or your stomach drops. “Um…well I think I got sick of how superficial it was, all the obsessing over height and weight and wrinkles and who’s in and who’s out, the unwinnable contest of who can be perfect the longest. We’re supposed to play real people but we’re not supposed to be real people, you know? And there are just a lot of things about this place that can leave people jaded and fucked up in all sorts of ways we weren’t before. And I don’t want that to happen to you, so I’ll try to make it as good of an experience as possible.” He smiles. It seems genuine. “I don’t really miss it. I’m a better agent than I was an actor.”

“And you’re not even that good of an agent.”

He laughs and shakes his head, just watching you, just trying to figure you out. He looks down at his Chinese zodiac calendar. “What are you?”

“I’m a dragon.”

Aegon reads aloud: “You are eccentric and your life complex. You have a very passionate nature and abundant health. I could see that. Kinda sounds like you.”

“Which animal is yours, the horse?”

“Yeah, 1990.”

You study his description. “Popular and attractive to the opposite sex. You are often ostentatious and impatient. You need people. I don’t think you’re very ostentatious.”

“But no qualms with the other parts?”

“No, the rest seems accurate.”

He stares at you, those overcast blue eyes curious, searching, maybe a little puzzled. When the waitress brings out the entrees, Aegon spears a piece of his boneless spare ribs with his clean fork and offers it to you. “Here, you want to try this?”

You really shouldn’t, but you make an exception. You take his fork and eat: saccharine blood red sauce, glistening gelatinous fat. It’s one of the most delicious bites of food you’ve ever tasted…and then it’s gone. You warn Aegon as you return his fork: “You’re going to die early.”

“I know,” he says, watching the oscars scowl at him through the glass.

You walk back through Chinatown together, Aegon swinging around his plastic bag with his Honeycrisp apple for Brandon, you listening as he tells you what each shop is known for and points out a temple dedicated to the goddess of the ocean. Now the sky is clear and the sun is high, and hot, and blinding when you aren’t under the shade of awnings or palm trees.

You say cheerfully once you have returned in Elysian Park and you can see Aegon’s office, a blue neon sign that reads Targ Talent Agency pulsing in the window: “So do you have any fun plans for Father’s Day?”

“Nope. My dad’s dead.”

“Oh my God.” You’re so mortified you almost trip over your own feet, your TOMS wedges stumbling over the pavement. Aegon instinctively reaches out to steady you, and you grasp his hand gratefully. “I am so sorry.”

“It’s fine. It happened when I was in college so I’m used to it.”

“He must have been young.” Forties? Fifties?

“Yeah,” Aegon says shortly, letting go of you. “Are you doing anything special?”

“My parents are paying to fly me back to Minnesota. But I won’t be gone long, I promise. It’s just a few days.”

Aegon smirks roguishly. “Going to make time to see that ex-boyfriend while you’re there?”

You smile, a little bashful, a little mischievous. “I might.”

He chuckles. “Enjoy. Don’t get pregnant and ruin all your hopes and dreams.”

“Oh no, don’t worry, I can’t take the pill because it made me suicidally depressed but we use condoms.”

Aegon is bewildered, his jaw hanging open. “You don’t overshare like this in auditions, do you?”

“No, sorry, I thought you were asking me a question.”

“It wasn’t a question, it was a comment.”

“Oh. I thought it was a question.”

He shakes his head and stops at the 2003 Honda Accord—painted in a shade called Desert Mist Metallic—parked curbside, a gift from your parents when you went away to college only to return in disgrace with a Theater Arts degree that they lie to their friends about. From one of the nearby houses, you can hear Take It Easy by The Eagles drifting out into the sun-drenched street. “Is this your ride?”

“Yup! This is me.”

“Well I’m going to make some calls and see what I can get you, and I’ll let you know either way in a few days how it’s going. Brandon has your phone number and headshots…and I can find your acting reels on YouTube if I need them…yeah, I think that’s everything. Okay?”

“Okay. I hope you get the star.”

Again, you have confused him. “What?”

“In the Mario game. The one on the eel’s tail.”

Aegon grins and slips black aviator sunglasses out of a pocket inside his jacket and says as he puts them on, maybe to the sky, maybe to you: “You are so bright, sunshine.” Then he climbs the steps to the front door of his small, inauspicious office.

“Aegon?” you call after him. At the top of the concrete steps, he pauses and turns around. Here in the shadowless midday light, you are overwhelmed with gratitude. It’s difficult to speak without your voice breaking. “Thank you for giving me a chance.”

“Don’t thank me. This place is a curse.”

He opens the door and disappears inside.

~~~~~~~~~~

“Guess who has an agent?!” you announce ecstatically as you burst into the apartment. Baela and Jace are in the living room on the velvet orange couch, eating sushi and watching True Blood on the 40-inch flatscreen television that Baela’s parents bought for her.

“Congratulations!” Baela says from the couch. “Finally! I’m so happy for you!”

“Yeah, that’s awesome,” Jace agrees as he shovels pieces of a shrimp tempura roll into his mouth. Jace is Baela’s boyfriend of six months. He’s allegedly getting a PhD in Musicology at UCLA, but he only goes to class one or two days a week and does exceptionally little other than that. Once in a while you’ll overhear him pounding on the Yamaha keyboard he keeps in Baela’s room, cursing to himself and kicking the wall in frustration.

“Is he nice?” Baela asks, meaning your new agent.

“I think so,” you say thoughtfully. You aren’t sure that nice is the right word. “He’s kind of weird and grumpy. But I really like him.”

“Is he old?”

“Not at all. Aegon’s thirty-five.”

“Ew,” Baela says. “Old.”

“I really like him,” you say again, smiling to yourself without realizing you’re doing it.

Baela groans. “Please don’t be one of those girls who fucks their agent.”

“No, it’s not like that. He’s engaged to someone super gorgeous. They’re getting married in September.”

“Huh,” Baela replies, losing interest now. Her eyes have drifted back to the tv. She hasn’t landed a role as a film lead or a series regular yet, but she’s been working steadily since she got to L.A. and her star is ever-rising. Tomorrow she is auditioning for Yorgos Lanthimos’s new movie. She’s not allowed to tell you anything about the script. It’s a secret; it’s an honor.

You go to the kitchen for a drink and stop when your gaze catches on the calendar affixed to the stainless steel refrigerator with plastic magnets shaped like pineapples. Friday, June 20th is circled with red ink; in the box below, you have scrawled the necessary details.

Baela twists around on the couch and sees you. Her voice is gentle; she knows you’re nervous. “When’s your appointment?”

“Next week.”

“You’re really getting sliced up?” Jace says.

You smirk at him, less than appreciative. “It’s just a consultation. But yeah, probably.”

“You scared?” Jace asks, gnawing on a pod of edamame.

Obviously. You sigh. “I think it has to happen if I want to land roles.”

“I haven’t gotten any plastic surgery yet,” Baela says, not meaning to sound smug.

You murmur as you ponder the time and address written in red on the calendar: “Well nobody is saying you need to.” You’ve had no less than ten people suggest implants outright, and far more have implied it. Aegon is the only person you can think of who dismissed the idea summarily…and that includes your parents. Your father has been emailing you doctor recommendations. He must think it’s a good investment for your post-California-detour life.

“It will give you more confidence,” Baela says as she turns back to the tv. “A little extra something to take you to the next level.”

You stare at her forlornly from the kitchen. You are suddenly very aware that you miss being outside: the sun, the heat, the swaying palm trees, the radiant kinetic potential. “That’s part of the problem? My confidence?”

She shrugs, using her chopsticks to dunk a piece of her tuna roll in a small plastic container of spicy mayo. She seems oblivious to how deflated you are. “It’s just so hard to stand out here, you know? The phrase ‘California dime’ exists for a reason.”

Jace glances at you over the back of the couch. “I think you look fine.”

“Thanks, Jace.”

“I think you’re easily a California nickel.”

“That’s super sweet, Jace.”

Now Baela is telling him to shut up and they’re bickering back and forth, but you aren’t listening. You take your phone out of your purse and open Instagram. You search for Aegon and find his account; his username is superstargaryen. You follow him. Within a minute, just long enough for you to click through one of his highlight reels—mostly pictures of the beach and trips to In-N-Out Burger—he follows you back. Then you receive a DM.

Aegon has typed: Brando says the apple is good

You giggle to yourself as you tap out a reply. Told you :)

Aegon responds: Or!!! All Minnesotans have no taste

And then he adds a few seconds later: I had to Google that word…Minnesotans…sounds fake

You reply: Please use Google to get me a job instead

He starts typing something, then stops and reacts with a laughing emoji instead. You pull a can of Diet Coke out of the fridge, wondering what he was going to say before he changed his mind.

Late that night, after a nine-hour shift at Cold Stone Creamery, you shower and crawl exhausted into bed wearing an oversized blue L.A. Dodgers t-shirt that you’re swimming in. You turn on your laptop and open YouTube, search for Aegon’s acting reels from ten years ago, fall asleep listening to his voice like the endless ethereal rush when you hold a seashell to your ear.

[ellacove]

❝ FREAKY ON CAMERA ❞

jjk!men x fem!reader ࿐ MDNI.

𝜗𝜚 𝐒𝐔𝐌. jjk men as famous p*rn stars making new content with a cute stranger

𝜗𝜚 𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐒. ft—toji, sukuna, gojo, smut, p in v, blowjob, missionary, doggy, exhibitionism, recording

──── SATORU GOJO、

when satoru met you, he had snuck into an empty cafe in hopes of hiding from paparazzi. you’re wearing an apron and an awfully angry expression when he finally notices you, your finger pointing at the ‘closed’ sign on the window. your words are drowned out, the only thing clouding his mind being how bad he wants to film his latest video right then and there and ruin you on camera for all his fans to see. now your apron is thrown on the floor somewhere along with both your bodies, hiding behind the front counter with gojo’s cock stuffed inside your cunt and his phone propped up next to you with the flash on. “help me come up with a title for this one” he insinuates tauntingly, smiling cockily as he licks his thumb before lowering it onto your swollen bud. you whine as if telling him to go on; too sweaty and tired to use your words as his hips do all the work for you. “how ‘bout “slutty cafe maid gets dicked down after her shift?”—hm?” he suggests confidentially, his hands squeezing bruises into the back of your legs as he pushes them even further down into your chest. “im not a maid, idiot.” you reply between breathes, turning your head to look at the camera. “and you can’t even tell it’s a cafe from this angle.”

──── TOJI FUSHIGURO、

toji met you at the gym. he doesn’t usually work out in public—but he’s thanking whatever god is listening that he chose today to do something different. you had the cutest black nike set on that went perfectly with his hair; he could only think about how good the match would look for a new video. “im a big fan actually,” you told him with a smile, your tongue licking a long stripe up the base of his cock after having dragged him into the shower stall after sharing a few looks. “really..” he questioned, his hand reaching down his pocket to pull out his phone. “then you don’t mind if i record this, do you?” you only looked up at him with those pretty eyes and hummed around his length in agreement, mouth too full to give him a proper answer. “i’ll be sure to tag you.” he mentioned as his head leaned back on the cold tile, and his free hand coming up to rest on the top of your head and guide you along his cock. “maybe even make a part two.”

──── RYOMEN SUKUNA、

sukuna doesnt get out much. he meets you for the first time when his staff sets up a meeting to go over his next film. you’re a well-known actress in the industry as well, and he’s been waiting decades to be paired up with you for a video. he feels a tightening in his pants when you mention how long you’ve wanted to work with him yourself, your hand coming to rest on his knee from underneath the table. he excuses the both of you not long after; insisting he needs to get familiar before the cameras start rolling next week. it’s not much later till he’s got one of your legs hiked up on a bathroom sink, panties pushed to the side and your cheek squished up against the mirror. “you got no idea how long ive waited for this pussy, girl.” he admits shamelessly as his hand grabs ahold of your chin to meet your eyes in the reflection, his breath catching in his throat at the small whine you let out. “’s even better than i imagined.”

[fratttymatty]

The Bro And The Babe

(All characters are 18+)

Sam Goldberg adjusted his glasses nervously, peering over the top of his laptop in his cluttered apartment. "Maggie, do you ever wonder if there's a parallel universe where we’re, like, the exact opposite of ourselves?" he asked, his voice tinged with curiosity.

Maggie Kane rolled her eyes and flexed her biceps casually, her workout tank stretched tight over her muscular shoulders. "You’re really spiraling into one of your sci-fi tangents again, aren’t you?" she teased, setting down a protein shake and leaning against the table.

The two had been best friends for over a decade, bonded over their shared love of comics, progressive activism, and long, caffeinated discussions about queer theory. Sam was a self-proclaimed nerd who could quote Star Trek in Klingon, while Maggie, with her shaved undercut and love for lifting, was equally passionate about gaming and LGBTQ+ rights.

That evening, as Sam researched theories about consciousness and parallel dimensions, Maggie scrolled through Reddit on the couch. Suddenly, an ad popped up on both of their screens: "Transform your life forever! Click here for an experience you’ll NEVER forget!"

“Ugh, spam,” Maggie muttered, but Sam was already clicking. A blinding flash of light erupted from their devices, and everything went black.

When Sam woke up, he felt… off. Like, seriously off. His entire body tingled, his clothes felt tighter, and his thoughts were foggy. He glanced down and nearly screamed—except the sound that came out wasn’t his usual nervous stammer. It was a deep, confident, carefree bro laugh.

“Yo, what the actual heck?” he muttered, except it came out as, “Duuude, what’s even happenin’, bruh?”

He staggered to his feet, stumbling over a pair of sneakers he didn’t recognize—chunky white Nikes. Glancing down, he realized he was wearing a tight tank top that showed off his absurdly muscular, tan arms. His glasses were gone, replaced by perfect vision. His old face? Gone too—now replaced with a chiseled jawline, sharp cheekbones, and a boyish, smirking charm.

He caught his reflection in a nearby car window and gasped. “Daaaang, I’m lookin’ so rad, bro!” He flexed his biceps instinctively. “Wait… what’s happenin’ to me?”

“Like, OH MY GOD, what is even goin’ on right now?” a high-pitched, bubbly voice squealed nearby.

Sam turned to see a girl—no, Maggie—only… she was unrecognizable. Gone were her muscles and practical workout attire. In their place was a slim, tanned, barely-18-looking blonde with bouncy curls, a bright pink crop top, and a dangerously short skirt. She had a cheerleader’s pom-poms in one hand and a glossy pout on her lips.

“Mags?” Sam asked, his deep voice cracking.

“Ew, who’s Maggie? Like, my name is Madison now, duh,” she replied, twirling a strand of her hair. Her eyes were wide and vacant, as if her usual sharp wit had been erased and replaced with… bimbo vibes. “Wait, who are you? Ohmygawd, you’re, like, sooo cute!”

“Madison? I’m Sam, your best—uh, wait…” Sam scratched his head, his memories slipping away like sand through his fingers. “No way, I’m, like, Brad now. And, uh, I guess we’re totally supposed to be boyfriend and girlfriend or somethin’?”

Madison giggled and clapped her hands. “O-M-G, Brad! Like, yeah, we are!” She grabbed his arm, pressing herself against him. “You’re sooo strong, baby!”

Brad couldn’t help but grin. “Yeah, babe, I, like, totally work out all the time. Gotta keep the guns lookin’ sick for football season, ya know?”

Madison nodded enthusiastically. “OMG, totes. And, like, I’m soooo pumped for cheer practice tomorrow! We’re, like, gonna crush it at the pep rally.”

Their old lives—Sam and Maggie, the nerdy, liberal best friends who championed justice and intellect—were completely erased. In their place stood Brad and Madison, a carefree high school jock and his bubbly cheerleader girlfriend. Neither had any desire to question what had happened or return to their former selves. Their new identities were as comfortable as the sun-kissed, athletic bodies they now inhabited.

Brad and Madison strolled hand in hand through the high school parking lot, the sun gleaming off Brad’s newly tousled dark brown curls. His hair, which had always been fine, straight, and perpetually disheveled in his Sam days, now bounced with a voluminous, carefree energy that seemed to match his new persona. Madison giggled, running her manicured fingers through it.

“Babe, your hair is, like, so dreamy now,” she cooed. “It’s like you’re in one of those rom-coms I totally love!”

Brad smirked, running a hand through his own curls. “Yeah, it’s pretty sick. Totally matches my whole vibe, right? Like, natural curls for the win, babe!”

Madison squealed in agreement, flipping her own bouncy blonde hair over her shoulder. Not only was her hair now platinum and shiny, but it somehow always seemed to be perfectly styled, as if she had just left the salon. Gone were her practical, low-maintenance buzzed undercut and dyed streaks—replaced by soft, flawless waves cascading down her back.

As they reached the entrance to school, a group of students waved enthusiastically. Their new friends were waiting: Chad, the quarterback; Ashley, the head cheerleader; and Brittany, who always carried a Starbucks cup and scrolled endlessly on her phone.

“Yo, Brad! Dude, where were you yesterday? We missed you at the gym!” Chad called out, giving Brad a fist bump.

“Yeah, for real,” Brittany chimed in, snapping a photo of Madison. “Madison, your outfit is, like, soooo cute today. And OMG, you two are legit couple goals.”

Brad grinned. “My bad, bro. Had to help my dad with some, like, backyard stuff or whatever. Totally made up for it with extra squats this morning, though.”

“Of course you did, bro!” Chad laughed, clapping Brad on the back.

Madison jumped into the conversation. “Oh my God, you guys, I was, like, totally thinking—what if we make a TikTok to, like, pump everyone up for the pep rally tomorrow?”

Ashley clapped her hands excitedly. “Yes! You’re sooo right. We could do one of those dances—like, the trending ones!”

“Totally!” Madison squealed, pulling out her phone.

As the group planned their video, Brad caught himself admiring how easily they all fit together. It was a far cry from his and Maggie’s old days of debating social issues in coffee shops or campaigning for progressive causes. He shrugged off the thought as easily as brushing sand off his shoulder.

Later, at lunch, Brad and Madison sat at the “cool table,” surrounded by their friends. The conversation turned to the upcoming student government elections.

“Honestly, I hope Jacob wins for class president,” Chad said, shoving a handful of fries into his mouth. “He’s got the right ideas about, like, cutting funding for those lame clubs no one cares about.”

Madison nodded, sipping her diet soda. “Yeah, like, why should the school waste money on dumb stuff like, um… science fairs? We totally need more spirit weeks and cute uniforms for cheer instead!”

Brad nodded in agreement, surprising himself with his own words. “For sure, babe. And, like, don’t get me started on all the stuff they spend on those nerdy STEM kids. They should put that cash into, like, upgrading the football field or whatever. Priorities, ya know?”

Chad grinned. “Preach, bro. Sports are what make this school awesome!”

Madison clapped her hands, delighted. “Exactly! Like, if people wanna be all nerdy and boring, that’s fine or whatever, but they shouldn’t take away from, like, the stuff that makes school fun!”

After lunch, Brad found himself in the locker room with Chad and the guys, preparing for practice. As he slipped on his jersey, he noticed how natural it all felt—joking with his teammates, flexing his biceps in the mirror, and strategizing for the next big game. Meanwhile, Madison was across campus, huddled with Ashley and Brittany as they debated which glitter eyeshadow would look best for the pep rally.

At practice, Brad caught the ball effortlessly, his natural athleticism shining. “Nice catch, bro!” Chad yelled, slapping him on the back.

Afterward, Brad and Chad sat on the bleachers, cooling off.

“Dude, life’s pretty sick, huh?” Chad said, grinning.

“Totally, bro,” Brad replied, sipping a sports drink. “Like, no worries, no drama. Just football, babes, and hanging out. What more could you ask for?”

That night, Madison was sprawled out on Brad’s bed, flipping through a glossy fashion magazine while Brad played Madden on his PS5.

“Babe,” Madison said suddenly, “do you ever think about… like, deep stuff?”

Brad paused the game, looking at her. “What do you mean, Mads?”

She twirled a strand of her hair, her brow furrowing slightly. “Like… I dunno. Sometimes I get this, like, weird feeling that I used to care about… other things? Like, boring stuff. Science, or whatever.”

Brad shrugged, scratching the back of his neck. “Nah, babe. That stuff’s lame. You’re, like, perfect just the way you are now. Cheerleader Madison is, like, the ultimate you.”

Madison’s face lit up with a bright smile. “Aww, you’re right, Brad! You always know what to say.”

Brad grinned, pulling her close. “Course I do. Now c’mere—game’s over. Time for some quality time with my girl.”

As the two leaned back, laughing and playfully poking each other, the faintest flicker of their old selves might have stirred in the depths of their minds. But the feeling was fleeting, drowned out by the overwhelming simplicity of their new lives.

Because Brad and Madison didn’t need to wonder or analyze anymore. Life was perfect. Simple, sunny, and carefree. And honestly? They wouldn’t have it any other way.

A week later, Brad and Madison found themselves at the beach, their favorite hangout spot after a long day of football and cheer practice. Madison adjusted her pink bikini and squealed, “Brad, let’s, like, take a selfie! We’re, like, the hottest couple at school, duh!”

Brad smirked, slipping an arm around her tiny waist. “For sure, babe. Gotta show off how shredded I am, ya know?” He flexed dramatically as Madison snapped photos with her phone.

The two sprawled out on their beach towels, sipping soda and laughing at dumb jokes. Brad stared out at the ocean, his mind blissfully empty. “Man, I’m, like, so stoked for the party tonight. Gonna shotgun, like, a million beers.”

Madison giggled. “Brad, you’re soooo silly. But, like, don’t get too crazy, ‘kay? I need you to, like, carry me when my heels hurt later.”

“Anything for my girl,” Brad said, planting a kiss on her lips. For a moment, a shadow of their old selves flickered, like a ghost of Sam and Maggie trying to break through. But it was quickly drowned out by the pounding surf and the warmth of the sun.

As the waves crashed against the shore, Brad and Madison held hands, their new lives stretching out before them like an endless summer. Nerdy, progressive Sam and Maggie were gone for good, and neither Brad nor Madison cared to remember them.

“Life’s, like, sooo perfect,” Madison sighed.

“Totally,” Brad agreed. And together, they watched the sun dip below the horizon, lost in their carefree, simple happiness.

[female-malice]

AMELIA STRICKLER: Trans TikTok star Dylan Mulvaney's offensive parody makes a total mockery of female athletes like me 

It Is so offensive, it reminds me of a routine by a chauvinist male comedian from the 1970s. Dylan Mulvaney, a TikTok influencer and performer, leaps around wearing Nike leggings and a sports bra. Their exaggerated movements seem to me to parody a woman’s exercise routine.

Mulvaney, a biological male who first openly identified as ‘transgender’ in March last year, has been signed by the world’s biggest sports company to promote women’s clothing. I am a GB shot putter who has won the British title twice and competed in the Commonwealth Games. I am a European finalist and world championship finalist.

I know how many years of training it takes, often at great personal cost, to reach the top levels of sport.

And I know what it is to be a woman.

In the video advert, Mulvaney frankly appears to be laughing in the face of female athletes like me – and any other woman or girl who wants to better themselves physically.

I’ve been a shot putter since I was ten. Life in professional athletics requires grit and determination. It doesn’t involve dancing around, grinning inanely.

It means getting up at the crack of dawn to train, keeping going when every muscle in your body is screaming at you to stop, forgoing time with friends and family and being utterly single-minded. And because so few female athletes attract sponsorship from giants like Nike, we often have to fit training and competing around other paid work.

For many years, I had two jobs to support my shot putting career. Recently I found a private sponsor through my athletics club Thames Valley Harriers, which enables me to keep competing.

But most female athletes don’t have that advantage. Women get 1 per cent of all sports sponsorship money – and yet to see Nike willing to shell out however many thousands it is to Mulvaney – who, remember, has not fully ‘transitioned’ to female – is utterly demoralising.

Nike likes to harp on about how it champions women: last year it announced an ‘Athletes Think Tank’ to help ‘serve today’s women athletes’, while a 2021 campaign praised mums for being ‘the toughest athletes’.

All well and good – but contrast these warm words with Nike’s actions towards the female athletes it actually sponsored. Women such as Olympic runner Alysia Montano were subject to ‘performance-based reductions’ – amounting to a 70 per cent pay cut – when they were unable to race due to being pregnant or having just given birth. In other words, penalised for being a woman.

Following a public outcry, Nike amended its policy to allow women 18 months off around pregnancy, but this latest publicity stunt reveals just how little the company really cares about women in sport.

It would be better to invest some of the money given to attention-seeking influencers such as Mulvaney to develop better sportswear for biological women.

In nearly a decade of competing at the top level, I have yet to find a decent sports bra: I have to wear two at once.

Modelling a bra on someone who has a male torso is an insult to those of us with female bodies.

At the track yesterday, many fellow female athletes were deeply upset by Nike’s apparent contempt for our sport. As one said – and I agree – ‘I’m glad Nike isn’t my sponsor.’

Women are still fighting for true equality in sport – we’ve made progress, but there’s a long way to go. We don’t need a big brand such as Nike to bring it down with crass campaigns. I agree with Sharron Davies – women should boycott Nike. If they refuse to support women in sport, then why should we support them?

[willowsnook]

I would request whiskey with water in a copper mug 😅. Thank you .

lewis hamilton x athlete!reader

you're mine, end of discussion

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

It was no secret behind the scenes that you and Lewis Hamilton did not get along. For over a decade, your so-called "feud" had been well-known, and there seemed to be no end in sight. Despite that, the two of you always ended up working together. And every time, the chemistry in front of the camera was undeniable.

The first time you met was for a Tommy Hilfiger campaign. You'd done a few shoots before for brands like Nike and GymShark, but this one was different. The clash started during the planning meetings. Lewis wanted sleek, timeless shots, while you favored something more candid and authentic. You both bickered non-stop, much to everyone else’s dismay. But when the ads came out, they went viral. Anyone looking at the photos would think there was more than just tension between you.

That same friction lingered years later. Every brand that paired you two knew they were signing up for a headache, but the results were too good to pass up. It didn’t help that you found him self-absorbed, and he still saw you as an amateur. Over time, the fiery back-and-forth morphed into a frenemy dynamic—part irritation, part... something else.

So when you walked into the Dior conference room and spotted Lewis, it wasn’t a surprise. He wordlessly handed you a coffee as usual, and you nodded in thanks.

“We’re launching a Valentine’s Day fragrance,” the Dior rep began. “Lewis, you’ll be shooting solo. Y/n, you’ll be with Deshaun.”

Your stomach twisted when you saw Deshaun Watson—NFL star, grinning at you across the table. As the meeting wrapped, he lingered by the door.

“I can’t wait to get started, sweetheart,” Deshaun said, giving you a smirk that made your skin crawl. You tried to brush it off, but the comments didn’t stop.

For the entire shoot, Deshaun’s remarks were relentless. Whether about your body, your looks, or even how you supposedly gave him "fuck me eyes," he didn’t hold back. By the end of each day, you felt like you couldn’t scrub his touch off fast enough.

Lewis started noticing things—how you stiffened every time Deshaun whispered in your ear or how his grip on you seemed too tight. His usual jokes at your expense were no longer getting a reaction from you, and it didn’t take long for him to piece things together.

After the final shoot, you walked out of the dressing room to find Deshaun trying to make small talk with Lewis. His body language was tense, arms crossed. Deshaun spotted you and called out, “Y/n, we should celebrate. I’ve got a suite at the Four Seasons with a wicked view.”

You forced a smile, uncomfortable. “Thanks, but I think I’m good.”

He pressed on, “Come on, I’ve seen the way you’ve been looking at me.”

You laughed awkwardly. “It’s a Valentine’s shoot. I’m supposed to look like that.”

“Don’t play coy, you know it’s more than that. I’d love to see what that athletic stamina’s like in action.”

Before you could react, Lewis was in front of him, eyes flashing. “That’s enough. She said no.”

Deshaun scoffed. “What, she’s your little slut now?”

Before the word fully left his mouth, Lewis’ fist connected with his jaw. Chaos erupted. Security rushed in to separate the two as you grabbed Lewis and dragged him into the dressing room, heart racing.

“What the hell, Lewis?” you muttered, dabbing at the blood on his lip with a wet cloth.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he asked, his voice strained with frustration.

“Does it matter?” you sighed, tending to his bruised knuckles.

Lewis caught your wrist, his voice low and serious. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

You met his gaze, suddenly overwhelmed by the intensity there. “Since when do you care? We’ve spent years yelling at each other.”

“Have I ever made you scared like that?” he demanded, his grip on your wrist gentle, but firm.

You shook your head. “No.”

“Then why didn’t you say something?” he pressed, his eyes locked on yours.

“Because I had it under control, I don't know why it's such a big deal—” You started, but he cut you off.

“You’re mine,” he said firmly. “End of discussion.”

You blinked at him, taken aback. “We’re not dating, Lewis.”

“I don’t care what you call it. I’m the one who gets to push your buttons, piss you off, make you feel something. No one else gets that privilege,” he said, voice gravelly with emotion.

“God, you’re insufferable,” you muttered, hands resting on his shoulders.

“Yeah, but you love it,” he smirked, and despite everything, you couldn’t help but roll your eyes.

Maybe he had a point.

[championofravens]

If I dont own these I'll die

Does anyone want to magic me a hundred dollars. For. Shoes

[itzkawaiiduh]

...i never find out until I'm head over heels...📼🎶

(Fun fact: Tears for Fears released the album Songs from the Big Chair 40 years ago today! I found it a little funny because 1. I love their music and 2. made this piece inspired by "Head over Heels", a song from the same album.)

- - -

Wanted to try a new artstyle respective to a decade, this one is the 80s. You may have seen me draw Will and Prospero in these little outfits a bit.... I love them dearly.

Made using the lasso fill tool, and inspired by a 1980s complimentary and brightly coloured Nike ad I saw a while ago. I sketched a concept with a pen and went from there. It's an experimental piece, so everything is a little messy to the eye, but nonetheless I am still proud of it!

🌀🔘

[pumpkin-patch-chronicles]

Out Of Season

By: PumpkinPatchChronicles

*These stories are 18+ and should not be viewed/read by anyone underage. Thank you.*

It had been a long week for Dan leading up to Halloween night. He had just finished up at the gym after getting off his droll data entry job, leaving behind an array of assignments that would be waiting patiently for him once he returned. The Autumn air was a comfort from the heat he had built up, and with the colorful foliage, unusually quiet walk downtown and Halloween falling on a weekend he was more than ready to relax the entire time.

Dan was a very handsome, hairy, thick muscled young man of 28 with juicy biceps, monstrous forearms, tree trunk legs, barrel chested and well endowed for someone his size and thickness. His hair was mostly dark brown (almost black) with silver hairs here and there, reflecting the early signs of aging yet still decades away from being considered “old” or “haggard”. If you were to catch him in the gym (unlike where our story begins) you’d see him in a somewhat tight tank top, black athletic shorts that perhaps were a bit shorter and tighter for someone of his statute, and finished with a nice pair of white Nikes overshadowing his black ankle athletic socks. One thing to note about Dan is that, because of his stress at work coupled with his need to feel better constantly, he often went commando in hopes of showing off to all the guys there. After all why not, he was in good shape and loved the attention (as well as the occasional shared shower experience from a more than willing participant).

This time however he had just about enough of the week; he even wore a pair of regular white boxers, feeling no need to be close to anyone after the BS he had gone through. So with little reservation for what he had left behind, he made his way from the gym through the small down town streets until he reached the town homes where he lived with a roommate (rent on his low ass salary in a townhouse downtown, forget it!). Fortunately he had an extra comfort to look forward to, his roommate would be out of town visiting family over the weekend leaving him free to indulge in his more - natural state. As he ended his brisk venture through the streets to his doorstep he was greeted with an unusual surprise that wasn’t so much one to him as it was a mysterious annoyance. There sitting just off to the side against the brick wall railing was a freshly carved Jack-O-Lantern with a somewhat suave expression to it.

Naturally he though his roommate had made it and left it out, expecting him to bring it in so it didn’t get damaged on Halloween night. Regardless he scooped it up somewhat begrudgingly and brought it in. Upon entering the open living\dining\kitchen layout he sat the gourd on the coffee table and went to his room on the second floor. Once settled he stripped down to his underwear and sat on the bed, still reflecting on the disparagingly rough week. Fortunately for him, he had used his frustration to work out extra hard this time, resulting in his muscles being tight (as well as a growing third leg). Pleased with the idea of an uninterrupted JO sesh, he immediately began working on his sensitive member through the underwear. Normally he’d just throw them off and go at it, but the extra compression felt really good that night, so he though what the hell. All the while his lust advanced, another presence advanced from the first floor to his ajar door with him completely oblivious to the situation unfolding. Without warning, sound, any notion something was happening he felt a thud on his head, he became dizzy, his vision fading to black…

After some time (which Dan had no way of really knowing) his vision and consciousness returned to him. He hadn’t known what happened to him or why, but a new pressing matter quickly took his full attention. Lying on the bedside he tried to put himself upright, but for whatever reason he couldn’t manage to move. In fact the more he tried to move the more he realized he couldn’t feel ANY part of his body. He went to yell, holler, scream for help, but also realized he couldn’t speak anymore. As he laid on the bed fretting his situation, a once faint sound of rubbing cloth grew louder in his peripheral hearing. He didn’t know quite what that sound could be and wondered if his body was in fact moving on the covers, giving him some hope that he might be regaining control. Then out of nowhere the sound stopped, he felt the bed shift, heard a couple of steps, and what was no doubt the most shocking of all, felt two fairly large hands grab his head by its sides.

Within moments he was off the bed and moving towards a punching bag dummy (the kind that just had a torso and pelvis down to a fourth or fifth of the thigh) at a somewhat quick pace. He couldn’t understand how someone had gotten in, let alone pick a guy his size up by the head and travel that briskly. As he remained consumed in puzzled confusion, the hands forcefully plopped him down on the dummy, sending a discomforting pain through his neck. With his vision now locked in at the height of his punching bag, the hands slowly pivoted him around, revealing the biggest shock he had ever had in his life.

There standing opposite of him was his body, yet it wasn’t just his body…it was his body with a different head!!! The Jack-O-Lantern he had brought in that night before going up to his room was now on his broad hairy shoulders, controlling his body’s every move, every gesture, …every desire. With him firmly planted on his room’s workout equipment, his body walked back over to the bed, sat down where it had prior before he’d detached from it, and went back to stroking his now thick and erect meat log. As Dan tried to struggle off the mannequin the pumpkin on his neck stump turned to look at him. Once face to face, Dan’s body began rubbing his meat harder in his underwear, the suave expression of his body’s new head looking him down.

With each new stroke, Dan’s thick muscles heaved and flexed with the pleasure of masturbation. His voluptuous soft chest bellowing in and out, his nipples hard and fully erect like his family pride. His bulging biceps flexed with masculine envy as each rub of his pride was executed without any say from him, the former controller of it. Dan’s massive fuzzy thighs grew more spread apart as his arm became more vigorous in it’s task. All Dan could do was watch now, watch and wonder how some goofy ass pumpkin made it’s way from the living room to his bedroom and usurped him of his masculinity, his power, his very being. Dan knowing his body well now saw (after roughly an hour and a half of jerking off) his thighs spread wide, his torso lean back heavy in breath, the exhales coming out as hollowed wisps of wind from the Jack-O-Lantern mouth…his body was ready to climax.

Then and there, just as the though of his body being in complete control of a foreign entity increased his worries, his body let out a massive exhale, his juicy pecs bouncing, his legs and arms quivering, and his once cum free underwear became ground zero for once of the most massive squirts he’d ever had. As his body convulsed in ecstasy, his massive thick cock (still concealed in his underpants) shot thick hot globs of cum in and through the thin fabric of his undergarments. His massive frame heaving back and forth with every shot, pooling in his pants and on his hairy muscled thighs. All the while Dan sat in amazement at his body’s power and masculinity (his distress quickly pivoting to lust and envy of not being there to taste his thick salty cum, to suckle on his massive tit, to be lost in his overall massive being), each new spirt shifting his desire more and more.

After a solid three to four minutes of cumming and convulsing, Dan’s body finally came to rest laying back on the covers and pillow of his bed. Another two minutes came and went, and without warning Dan’s body sat upright, the pumpkin now looking back at Dan’s head on the other side of the room. It was clear by his face that Dan wanted to be at his body to live out his lustful fantasies, so with a quick leap and a steady stride, Dan’s body walked over, removed him from the punching bag, brought him to the bed, and sat him at his own cock (his body having removed it’s underwear entirely) covered in hot sticky seed. His body went to encourage the former head to begin nursing, but soon found itself taken off guard at Dan’s willingness to jump on his own former dick. His body soon laid back again, Dan cross-eyed and lost in his own former genitals, rubbing sensually against his hairy inner thighs flexing in satisfaction at the prospect of their former head servicing them to new future climaxes…

The Next Day:

Dan woke up in a grudged state, not recalling at all what had happened last night. As he sat trying to adjust his vision he could only recall the strange dream he’d had; his body no longer being his, the inability to feel it or control it, the inability to talk, and the vivid memories of lusting on his own meat after a large and hot climax. Within moments as his vision solidified, he found out all too real that what he’d experienced last night on Halloween wasn’t a dream, but in fact reality for him now.

Vision in full effect, Dan found himself back on his punching bag mannequin facing the direction of his bed, where he saw his body on (nearly) full display. Starring back at him was his massive unit of a body with pumpkin in place of his actual head, flexing it’s power and dominance in the light of a new morning. Yet Dan’s face was now shocked, as his vision focused in on the now rapidly decayed berry which took his place as owner and controller of his sex. The once suave expression now semi caved in, the luster and sheen of the color dull and waxed. His body acted as if nothing was amiss, yet from Dan’s perspective his pride was in the control of a short lived thief.

Despite it’s appearance, the actions of the pumpkin in control of Dan’s body did not wane. It proudly flexed Dan’s hairy thick muscles back at him, popping it’s chest, tensing it’s biceps, showcasing it’s tree truck quads and calves, with Dan’s family legacy dancing underneath the covers as if an animal were trying to escape the darkness into the light. There was obvious pride in the actions of Dan’s former body. The pumpkin which had just been some left alone decoration was now in charge of a mass powerhouse of testosterone, fur, and musk. Each flex a slap in the face, each twitch a middle finger to it’s former owner, each unseen drip from it’s ever erect staff a final line in a signature of complete surrender. It was without doubt ecstasy in the face of forfeiture, a sign of unwillingly yielded dominance; despite Dan’s facial expressions of worry and the pumpkin’s expressions of expiration…they both truly and unwaveringly loved it.

After an initial 20 minutes of flexing and teasing, Dan’s body arose from his bed, walked back over (fully naked say his pair of black athletic ankle socks) and removed Dan from the bag, setting him in full view of his former body up close and personal. Dan didn’t know what to expect, yet within moments he found his face rested against one of his massive hairy tits. With nudging encouragement from the pumpkin head, Dan soon took his former nipple in his mouth and began to suckle. Every lick, every nip, every suction of his former masculine breast left his body in lust and arousal, flexing it each time Dan made a move on it. Dan secretly wished his pecs milked; it’d be amazing to experience that as a disembodied head servicing his own body to production, yet that was (unfortunately for his lustful fantasy) not his case. Despite this, after some time going at both his barrels, his body shifted him to one of his hairy pits, to which he proceeded to attack it like a lion to its prey in the vast emptiness of the Savannah.

When his body became satisfied with it’s muscle worship via Dan’s tongue, it shifted the covers to reveal a fully erect 9 inch long, 2 inch thick monster, voluptuous kiwis hanging low, leaking warm fluids of desire and pent up excitement. Dan was fixated on his throbbing mast, yet began his pelvic journey at the fruit of his manliness. Due to the size and girth, Dan could only take one testicle at a time, yet the sensations were not lost, the pleasure void of any lacking. Within time it was the final embrace, the moment Dan had wanted since being brought over to the bed to service his former temple of alpha dominance…it was time to take his shaft at full attention.

His body took him by the hair and hoisted him to the attention of his throbbing thick glans, now covered in a thin layer of warm, salty nectar. In haste and desire Dan took his former helmet into his willing mouth, his eyes going back at the sensations brought to his tongue at the behest of his own body. Embracing the rapture of all his available tactile gifts left to him, he downed the upper portion of his shaft, causing his body to arc and shutter at the readily warm and moist orifice that is Dan’s mouth and remaining throat. There was no telling how much time had passed regarding Dan’s perspective, yet from the context of the light coming into his bedroom window he surmised that it must have been nearly an hour of giving oral pleasure to his meat. As if on cue, Dan recognized his body’s physical motions for it’s time to climax.

Dan closed his eyes and awaited to be filled mouth first with his warm seed, but his body had different plans. Quickly removing his mouth, Dan’s body quickly turned and shifted Dan’s head over the throbbing mast neck opening first. Before Dan could have time to react, he was thrust onto his glans and pushed until said glans appeared just past his teeth. Dan not expecting the new approach gave out a gasp which was quickly overtaken with gagging and slobbering noises as his body pressed his neck down to press against his warm sack. Feeling Dan’s head was secure, his body resumed it’s flexing position and began bucking and breathing heavily, Dan all the while struggling to find comfort while gently gnawing at the base of his plump glans. Then in one massive thrust, Dan’s body began to fire it’s load onto it’s chest, abs, and the pumpkin head. As this began, the decaying fruit (unable to withstand Dan’s body’s powerful thrusting) came loose and toppled off his shoulders, crashing into several chunks on the floor. Dan was able to notice this, yet despite his body no longer having a head of any kind kept flexing and firing off it’s load. Contempt with the active movement of his body, Dan resigned to his position and teased the base of his glans with his teeth while his body flexed and bowed in it’s massive climax.

When everything was said and done, Dan’s body (now fully headless) laid back, still flexing and breathing heavily covered it thick white globs of it’s own seed. Dan squinting his eyes beheld his massive muscular body relieved of it’s pent up sexual desires, slowly coming down off it’s high. Dan still couldn’t feel or move his body, and with no head it appeared to be motionless - guide-less on what to do next. This of course was somewhat concerning to Dan, yet in the moment it didn’t really matter. He wasn’t in immediate danger, he was at home and away from the prying eyes of the outside world and he had just finished living out some of the wildest sexual fantasies he’d ever experienced. His roommate would be returning to the townhome late Sunday and would no doubt find him still there impaled on his meat, hairy muscles flexing powerfully as if nothing was amiss. The only thing he really thought on was what he’d have to say (and how he’d say it) if Monday came around and he wasn’t at work.

It’s not like he could say “Sorry Lol, can’t come in today. Cock’s in my mouth, hot seed on my tiddies.”

[justagalwhowrites]

Yearling - Ch. 12: Animals

Joel makes sure Bambi stays safe from Simon. A continuation of Yearling ch. 1-11 found on Tumblr here.

Pairing: Joel Miller x Female Reader

Warnings: Canon-typical violence (torture and death.) No use of Y/N. Minors DNI 18+ Only 

Length: 5.5k 

AO3 | Chapter One | Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

August 29, 2023

The howl was distinctive. Three shorter cries and one longer one. 

You knew what that meant. 

Your morning rounds to collect prey from traps had been fruitful - netting you two rabbits so far - and you’d been able to forage for some vegetables and roots, too. It was getting to be late enough in the summer that you knew you needed to start preserving more. Winters were harsh and lean. You no longer struggled like you had 20 years ago, back when you were barely out of your teens and still trying to figure out how to safely cook let alone survive an apocalypse, but it still took conscious effort to not starve to death when the cold weather came. Today’s harvest would help with that. 

But only if the intruders on your land didn’t try to take it from you. 

You clicked your tongue at Nike and gave her ribs a gentle squeeze before urging her into a trot and then a canter toward the source of the howling. 

It didn’t take you long to find, responding to the howl with your designated whistle, starting low and ending high. The dog howled again and you were able to tell where she was, finding her before too long. 

Your other dogs had beaten you there. It looked like Ruger, one of your Belgian Malinois, had been the one to find the three men and one horse who had wandered onto your land. She was standing, teeth bared, in front of them, keeping watch for her sisters. Gattling, the other Bel Mal - both from the same litter, given to you a few years back by a man who’d taken up breeding and training attack dogs at the end of the world - had them at the back. The herding dogs - Venus and Juno - were at their sides, pushing the men closer and closer together. 

You raised your shot gun. 

“Who the fuck are you and why’re you on my land?” 

“Why don’t you lower your weapon,” the man on the horse smiled. “Then we can have a nice, civilized conversation.” 

“Don’t need one,” you replied, giving a short, sharp whistle. The dogs pressed closer. Ruger snarled. One of the men on foot jumped. You whistled again, the dogs’ attention back on you. 

“Ruger, Gattling,” you said. “Savvy.” 

They took off, back toward the cabin and your horse paddock. The men watched them run for a moment. 

“Assuming you’re Texas?” The man ignored the remaining dogs at his feet, using the name you’d picked up in decades of trading with passers by. “Heard you trade for horses, was wondering if you had some you’d be willing to part with and what the going rate would be?” 

You looked him over, the horse he was riding. You knew that horse. 

“Looks like you already got one of mine,” you said. “But I know you didn’t get him from me. What did you do to Jennifer.” 

Your gun was still up, leveled at the man on horseback. 

“Got the horse off a girl who got bit,” he said before he smirked and shook his head a little. “She sure was a pretty thing, though.”

You adjusted your grip on the gun and bit back a snarl. You’d liked Jennifer, she was a sweet girl. She’d left the Kansas City QZ as it falling apart, too young to remember much of life before the world ended. She’d reminded you of yourself at the start of the end of the world, figuring out how to be on her own while learning how to survive. She’d stayed with you for a few weeks after she’d stumbled upon you when she got separated from a group. You taught her some things, like how to trap and track animals, what to avoid when foraging. She’d left looking for a settlement you’d heard rumors of near the coast. You’d always hoped that she’d made it. Apparently she hadn’t. You didn’t know if it was infected or the men standing in front of you that did it but it didn’t matter. You knew you didn’t trust them. 

“When.” 

“Few weeks back,” he said. 

“She who told you about me?” You asked. 

He smirked. 

“Not exactly,” he said. “Been looking for you for a while. You’re a hard woman to find.” 

“Plan to stay that way,” you said, finger drifting to the trigger. “I’ve got four rounds in this, don’t remember the last time I missed. You can turn, go and forget you ever found me. Or, I can kill you. But you’re not leavin’ with another of my horses. Up to you.” 

The men looked at each other for a moment before the man on the horse gave you a nod. 

“We’ll be on our way.” 

He tipped his hat to you and you kept your gun trained on him. You gave another whistle and the remaining dogs backed down and you watched them until you couldn’t see them on the horizon anymore. 

It was just two weeks before someone found you again. 

His name was Mitchum. 

July, 2026

Joel’s hand was on your skin when you woke up. 

You’d drifted back into consciousness instead of shocked into it, your body relaxed and enveloped by his. His breath was warm against your head, his nose in your hair. His fingers were pressed into your skin, making little indentations on you in the shape of him and you were acutely aware of his hips and stomach and chest, his legs curled around the back of you. 

It was an odd feeling, strangely connected and disconnected to your body all at once. You could feel the blood moving through your limbs and the heat of Joel against you but your skin was almost numb. You weren’t in pain, in spite of being slammed into Ares’ stall door and thrown to the ground. You didn’t want to move, didn’t want to disturb this quiet peace that had settled over you. 

But as you slowly settled back into yourself, you realized something. There was an unfamiliar sensation between your thighs, slick and cool. You frowned and slowly slipped your palm into your shorts. You delicately traced your slit before bringing your hand in front of your face, fingers glistening. 

You stared at them for a second. You were wet. Something over night had made you get wet. 

It had been years since you’d last been wet because you wanted someone. Everything had been protection, your body trying to preserve itself, to make it hurt less. This was different. You weren’t sure how you knew but you did. Your face got hot. 

There was a tightness in you, you realized as you became more aware of your body again, a heat that you weren’t quite sure what to do with. All you knew was that Joel didn’t feel close enough to you. 

Just as you were thinking that, considering pressing yourself back against him so you could feel the outline of him more clearly to see if that eased the ache, his grip on you tightened and he gave you a gentle squeeze. His breathing shifted against you and he pressed his face closer to you. You quickly pressed your fingers into the leg of your shorts, wiping them clean. 

“Joel,” you said softly. 

He adjusted at your back. 

“Mornin’,” he sounded tired, only half awake. You swallowed past the knot in your throat. His nose nuzzled into your hair. You hesitated for a moment put pressed yourself back against him, the aching tightness in you easing at the contact.You focused on the feel of him for a moment, all firm but gentle. You weren’t sure how long you lay there like that with him when his hold on you loosened. 

“You OK?” His voice was gruff but tender, quiet. You pressed yourself back a little closer and his hand sank deeper into your flesh. You nodded ever so slightly. “Good.” 

His hand spread a little more against you and your smaller hand went over the top of his, a low, soft whimper slipping from your lips. 

“Bambi,” his voice was low and warm. 

“Yes?” 

“Should…” he took a deep, shaky breath against you. “Should go find Maria.” 

“Yes,” your voice trembled as you said it. 

“S’it OK if we stay like this another minute?” he sounded strained. You pressed your hand against his and he gasped quietly. “I just… I want…” 

“Yes,” you breathed, cutting him off. 

He held you like that for a few minutes, both of you silent outside of your quiet, needy breaths. 

“C’mon,” he said eventually, pulling his hand away from you. “Should get moving.” 

You separated from him slowly, reluctantly, and went upstairs to get changed. 

It felt like you should be grateful for the distance. A chance to reset your mind after it had been clouded by his proximity all night. But, even as the heat and tightness in you faded, you still felt like he was too far away. You wanted him closer. 

You shook yourself mentally and checked the bruise at your side before you gently cleaned between your legs. You put on Joel’s most recent shirt over a t-shirt before heading downstairs. 

“Ready?” Joel asked, sitting politely on your couch. 

“Yeah,” you nodded. 

“I can’t figure out Ben’s role in all this,” Joel said, his hands in his pockets as the two of you walked through the hazy dawn toward Maria and Tommy’s. “Simon’s a piece of shit but…” 

“I met him once,” you cut Joel off. “Before.” 

He turned to look at you so quick it made you jump a little. 

“He hurt you before?” He asked, his voice low and dangerous. 

“No,” you said, though you weren’t sure that was entirely true. Someone had told Mitchum where you were. He was on the last group to come through. “But he wasn’t happy with me then, either. He and his buddies showed up on a horse I’d trained, they either took him from a dead woman or cut it away from her. So I told them they wouldn’t get any horses from me. They didn’t like that much.” 

You hadn’t remembered him until that morning, just an ominous familiarity hanging over you whenever you looked at him. But you knew him. He’d been one of the two men on their feet, your dogs had nearly taken him down at the ankles. 

You didn’t tell Joel about your suspicion, that he’d sold you out to Mitchum when you’d refused to give him a horse.

Joel nodded slowly as the two of you came up to Tommy and Maria’s front walk. He knocked on the door and you could hear the shrieking toddler laugh from inside somewhere. You smiled at the sound. 

It took a minute for Maria to open the door, William on her hip. 

“Not a great morning,” she said, a little frazzled. “What’s up?” 

“We got a problem,” Joel said, his hand going to your lower back as he stepped a little closer to you. “Can’t wait.” 

***

Joel fought to keep himself under control as you told Maria and Tommy everything that had happened the night before. How Simon and Ben had cornered you in the stable, how Simon told Ben to watch how he marked you so they could pass your death off as an accident, how they’d trapped you in the stall, willing to wait for one hoof to come down on your body in just the right way. 

He clenched is fist. His blood was hot. Someone had tried to hurt you, pulled you away from right beside to him and tried to kill you. 

“Know where they are now?” Maria asked, her face hard. 

“If they got a lick of sense they took off,” Tommy said, his arms crossed over his chest as his eyes raked over you again and again. “No way they stayed in town.” 

Maria nodded. 

“Joel, Tommy, go out and bring them back,” she said. “You’re two of our best trackers, I trust that you’ll find them. And when I say bring them back, I mean bring them back. They’ll face trial and punishment assuming they’re found guilty. You’re not judge, jury and executioner here.” 

“They ain’t gonna come quietly, baby,” Tommy frowned. “May not have another choice…” 

“Don’t get yourselves hurt but do what you can,” she said. “Take some horses and track them down as best you can. If you haven’t found them in two days, come back.” 

You wrapped your arms around your waist and clenched your jaw and Joel stepped a little closer to you. You leaned into him. 

“Lemme grab some stuff,” Tommy said to the two of you. “Meet you at the stables in half an hour.” 

Joel walked you to the stables and you insisted you were fine to be in there alone, already going about the work of getting his and Tommy’s horses ready to go. He reluctantly left you to it, going home to quickly pack a bag of his own before going back to you. 

Being that far from you made him uneasy. He was certain Tommy was right, that Simon and Ben had left town. But it made him nervous. You were in danger and he was leaving you alone. He was about to leave you even more alone than he was now. It felt wrong. He should be close to you, protecting you. 

But this was better, it would keep you safer. He knew that. He just had to convince himself of it. 

You were finishing saddling up Tommy’s horse when Joel made it back to the stables. He wordlessly started working on his own, the two of you putting the tack on together. 

“I’m gonna go check their houses,” Tommy said, mounting his horse. “See you up front in a few?” 

He gave Joel a meaningful look. Joel narrowed his eyes at him. 

“See you there.” 

Joel gave Tommy a moment to get out of earshot before he turned to you. Your arms were crossed tightly over yourself again, your eyes wide and doe-like. You looked afraid. It made Joel’s chest hurt. 

“Hey,” he said gently. Your wide eyes met his for a moment before tracing over his face. “Nothing is going to happen to you…” 

You frowned, your eyebrows knitting together. 

“What?” Joel frowned, too. 

“You think that’s what I’m worried about?” You asked. “Joel, I don’t want you going out there and getting hurt because of me, I…” 

He stepped closer to you and you went silent, looking up at him. 

“Bambi,” he said softly, looking into your eyes, into you. “Nothin’ is going to happen to me.” 

“Joel…” 

He completely closed the distance between you and you dropped your arms to your sides so the front of you was just inches from the front of him. His hand slowly, delicately, came to your face and cupped your cheek, his thumb against your cheekbone, his fingers wrapping back and down around the column of your throat. It felt like he was holding the entire world in his palm, your wide eyes soft and earnest. 

“Not going to let anyone hurt you, Sweetheart,” he said, voice quiet. “I’m going to take care of you. I’m going to keep you safe.” 

He leaned his head toward yours, slowly and deliberately, giving you every opportunity to pull away, You didn’t take it. Instead, you stayed stock still and your breath caught in your throat with a quiet little gasp when he pressed his lips to your forehead, his nose in your hair. He kissed your soft, smooth skin for what felt like an eternity but nowhere near long enough. Joel pulled back from you ever so slightly, his forehead dropping to your own, his nose brushing yours. You closed your eyes for a moment, your breaths coming in shuddering little pants, your lips so close to his it almost hurt.  

“I will protect you,” he whispered. “I promise you I will.” 

Joel met Tommy at the main gate, feeling your eyes on him as he rode away, and the two of them set out, silent, into the foggy morning air. They started by circling the city, finding the footprints in the mud that gathered around the fence that surrounded the town. 

“Fuckers,” Tommy muttered, looking up and Joel as he did. “Think we can track ‘em?” 

“I’m not comin’ back ’til we do,” Joel said, his voice dark. 

The tracks disappeared into the woods and, once the two of them were far enough away from Jackson, Joel looked at Tommy. 

Joel had come to admire his little brother in the years since he’d come to Jackson, not that he would admit that. 

For a long time, he’d felt like more of a father to Tommy than a brother. Joel was just six years older than him but, once their parents had both died, it felt like he had to step up. Sarah was barely a year old, Tommy was just 17 and on the verge of flunking out of high school. He had to pay the rent and put food on the table and make sure his brother didn’t drop out and keep a baby alive. It was like he was treading water at best, damn near drowning most of the time, but he’d kept it together. He’d all but begged Tommy to join the military, do something that would keep him out of prison and keep his feet on the ground. 

And then the Gulf War started and Joel spent years horrified that he might have gotten his brother hurt, gotten his brother killed. 

Tommy came back different. Instead of getting picked up for shoplifting, he started getting picked up for brawling. Joel had to bail him out again and again, ended up on the hook for Tommy’s rent after he cosigned for his apartment, needed to help him figure out a new car after Tommy wrapped his around a tree. Eventually, he told Tommy that he needed to get his shit together. He could either start working contractor jobs with Joel or he’d be on his own. Joel couldn’t keep letting Tommy derail things for him and Sarah and it killed him to give him that ultimatum. 

But Tommy managed it. Mostly. He still wound up in trouble sometimes. Joel still had to make sure he was actually fucking eating real food and not just jerky and candy from the gas station or pick him up at the jail after a scuffle. But he was getting close, so damn close, to having the life Joel knew he could have if he just tried for it when the world ended. When Joel’s world ended. When Sarah died. 

Things devolved then. Tommy was his only reason for living, for a while. There were times he wasn’t enough to stick around for but Joel just kept on living, anyway. He often wasn’t sure why. 

They did bad things then, when Joel stopped caring. They hurt innocent people, killed innocent people, helped people even worse than them gain power and control in the increasingly dangerous and chaotic hellscape that had once been the United States. A lot of people suffered because of them. But they’d survived. For better or worse, they’d lived. 

Joel wasn’t sure why, for a while. He supposed it was stupid to believe there was a purpose for it all, like the universe was suddenly going to succumb to reason after everything that had happened, but it felt like there had to be something. 

Now, he knew why. 

He had Ellie, of course. And now you. That was reason enough. But Tommy… Tommy had managed to actually make something of himself in spite of everything. He’d found Maria, made a place for himself in Jackson - and actually made the damn place better - and he’d become the father that Joel always knew he had the potential to be. 

It threw Joel a bit, sometimes, that Tommy was the one who looked out for him. The one Joel needed to come to for help. He didn’t like it, that loss of control. But there were times he still needed his brother.

Times like this one. 

“I know what Maria said…” Joel began but Tommy cut him off. 

“They ain’t comin’ back to Jackson.” 

Joel was silent for a moment. 

“You know what you’re sayin’, Tommy?” 

“I’m sayin’ that we’re going to handle this shit the way we used to,” Tommy said. “Wasn’t always right but it was always a way to protect what matters. And she don’t just matter to you, Joel. She might be your girl but I care about her, too. She already feels like family. She might be a pain in the ass but she’s my pain in the ass. Anyone wants to fuck with her will have to go through me. 

“Besides. Can’t have men like that around Maria and William and Ellie. Ain’t safe. I’m sure they’ll put up a decent fight ‘fore we kill ‘em. Won’t even be a lie, then.” 

Joel nodded once. 

“Good.” 

They tracked the men through the day, the two of them clearly hadn’t stopped after fleeing the day before and it was close to nightfall when Joel started noticing signs of them slowing down. Footsteps were dragging through the brush and the mud, leaves were crushed or stripped away from places where branches had been grabbed for support. 

Joel was on edge, the hair on the back of his neck on end when Tommy gave a short whistle. When Joel looked at him, he indicated with his eyes what he was concerned with. A tree just off the trail, a lower branch snapped like someone too big had tried to use it to leverage themselves up. Joel nodded slightly and only once. They had to be close, very very close. He slung his rifle off his back and tucked it against his body where he could quickly aim and fire it. He had the sense that it wouldn’t be long until he needed it. 

Joel was right. 

It was only a few minutes later that, with a desperate wail, Simon leapt at Joel, a knife clutched in his ruddy hand. Joel reacted quickly, swinging the butt of the rifle around and slamming it into the man’s head. He dropped like a stone to the ground and Joel and Tommy quickly dismounted as Ben charged forward. Joel raised his rifle and shot him in the hip, the man screaming and falling to the ground, writhing in pain. 

“Stick with him,” Joel said, nodding to Ben. “This one’s mine.” 

Simon was still shaking off Joel’s hit when he dropped a knee to the prone man’s chest, ripping the knife from his grip and pressing it to his throat. 

Part of Joel knew he shouldn’t take any pleasure in this. That hurting and killing someone - even someone like Simon - should take something from him. And it did once, what felt like long ago. But it didn’t anymore, not when hurting and killing would keep you safe. He liked keeping you safe.

Simon’s hands clawed and Joel’s arms and he ignored it, cocking his head slightly as he looked at the man below him. 

“You got a few options here, Simon,” Joel said, his voice flat. 

“Fuck you,” he spat. 

“Not one of ‘em,” Joel replied. “You ain’t making it out of this alive, you decided that for yourself when you put hands on her…” 

“Your obsession with that fucking cunt…” 

Joel curled the hand not holding the knife into a fist and brought it down quick and hard on Simon’s face, making him cry out. Joel felt the man’s nose collapse below his knuckles. 

“You only got so many breaths left,” Joel said, flexing his fingers, knuckles stinging. “Wouldn’t waste ‘em making shit worse for yourself. Cooperate and I’ll give you a quick death. Don’t and I’ve got all night.” 

“Fuck you,” he panted through gritted teeth. “And fuck her, too.” 

Joel sighed and grabbed Simon’s nose roughly between his fingers, making him cry out. Joel twisted it sharply, harshly, to the side, almost pulling his flesh apart. He could feel the cartilage moving under his touch, the gush of blood, the thrashing of the man below him. It was satisfying, this form of justice. He was doing something, he was making sure that he wasn’t going to fail with you. It felt, maybe not good, but right. 

He released Simon’s nose and grabbed a fistful of his hair, forcing him to look up at Joel. 

“Haven’t done this in a while,” Joel said, a little breathless. “Thinkin’ I should make the most of it, what do you think, Tommy?” 

Joel looked over at him. He was standing over Ben, gun trained on him. 

“Just thinkin’ that we needed somethin’ fun to do tonight,” he said. 

Joel smirked. 

“Just thinkin’ that, too.” 

“Wait,” Ben said, his hands up by his face in surrender. “Wait, please, I’ll tell you whatever you want to know, I just don’t want to die here, please…” 

Tommy looked at Joel who shrugged. Joel had no intention of letting him live. Neither did Tommy. Ben didn’t need to know that. 

“We can work somethin’ out,” Tommy said, gun still aimed at the man on the ground. “Answer my brother’s questions and we’ll talk.” 

“You workin’ with anyone else in Jackson?” Joel asked. 

“No,” Ben said quickly, voice panicky. Joel bought it. He was answering too fast and was too afraid for it to be a lie. “No, it was just us, just the two of us, I thought it was too far but…” 

Joel looked down at Simon. 

“That true?” 

Simon just panted for breath and glared up at Joel. He thought for a moment and pulled the knife from his throat and put the tip of it against his eye, a fraction of an inch away. 

“Asked if that was true,” Joel said. “Better have a fuckin’ answer.” 

“It’s true,” Simon said quickly. “It’s true, it’s true. There wasn’t anyone else involved, just us, please…” 

“Anything you left behind that’s going to hurt her?” Joel asked, looking back toward Ben but keeping the knife near Simon’s eye. 

“No,” Ben said quickly. Again, it rang true. “No, we thought… we figured the horse would do it and it wasn’t like we’d planned it for long, we thought it would look like an accident, please I’m begging you…” 

Joel delicately pressed the tip of the blade into Simon’s bottom eyelid. His breathing picked up but he stayed still as a tiny bead of blood appeared on the knife. 

“He telling us the truth?” He asked. 

“Yes,” Simon said quickly, eyes shut tight. “Fuck, yes Miller, we just decided to, please…” 

Joel nodded before pulling the knife from Simon’s eye. 

“Why’d you do it?” He asked as the man slowly, cautiously opened his eyes. “Why did you decide to go after her?” 

Simon looked afraid now. Like he finally, truly understood what was about to happen. He swallowed and Joel watched his throat working, aware for a moment that it was one of the last times his body would perform that function. 

“I didn’t have shit after the outbreak,” he said, starting to hyperventilate. “Everything I knew, everything I loved was gone and then I had my place here and she took that from me. She fuckin’ took it and she disrespected me at every goddamn turn and I just…” 

“She didn’t take a damn thing,” Joel was talking through gritted teeth. You hadn’t even wanted Simon’s fucking job and he’d tried to kill you for it. “You lost it by being a fucking idiot and you tried to take it out on her.” 

He seemed to recognize then that there was no merciful way out of this. There never had been. His face twisted into something rage-filled and hateful, snarling up at Joel. 

“She doesn’t belong here. She’s barely even fucking human, she’s more like those goddamn horses! She’s fucking feral and I was the only one willing to try to break her…” 

Joel let out a roar as he brought his fist down on Simon’s face again and again and again, until he was barely breathing, his features nothing but bloody pulp. 

“Joel,” Tommy said as Joel panted, his hand damaged and coated in red. “Just finish the fucker.” 

Joel nodded once, pulling his knee off Simon’s chest and sitting back on his heels, thrusting his knife low in the man’s stomach. Simon managed a grunt of pain but nothing else as Joel dragged the knife up through his innards until he met his breastbone. He stood up, looking at the man’s mangled body. 

“He’ll die slow,” Tommy’s gun was still on Ben. 

“Better than he deserved,” Joel said, stalking over to Ben and jerking his head so Tommy stepped to the side. He went down on one knee near Ben’s head, a perverse proposal. “Another few questions, just for you. Then we can talk about a deal.” 

There wouldn’t be a deal. 

“Please,” Ben whimpered, blood coating his stomach now. His skin was pale. 

“You knew her,” Joel said. “From before. That right?” 

“Yes,” he nodded quickly. “Yeah, I did. Traveled with some guys for a bit, heard she’d trade for horses. She wouldn’t trade with us, pissed off the others, made life fuckin’ difficult for a while and I didn’t think he was going to try to kill her, please, I swear I didn’t think it was going to go that far, I promise I won’t even look at her again, please.” 

“Before,” Joel said, fighting to keep calm, remembering what you’d told him that morning. It felt like so long ago now, waking up next to you, feeling you in his arms. You trusted him. You trusted him to be near you, to touch you, to protect you. You didn’t trust anyone else but you trusted him. “Before you came to Jackson, when you tried to trade with her. You do anything to her then?” 

“Told some folks where to find her,” he said. “That’s all.” 

Joel nodded. 

“Anyone else you know outside Jackson know where she is?” He asked. 

“No,” he said quickly. “No, haven’t talked to anyone since I got here. Please, I promise I won’t…” 

Joel thrust the knife into his throat before he finished his sentence, his eyes going wide in shock before he went limp. Joel watched Ben’s blood pool on the dirt, soaking into the soil at first before collecting in a thick puddle, dark and warm on the ground. He pulled the knife free and wiped it on the man’s jeans before he stood, putting it away. 

Tommy looked up toward the darkening sky for a moment. 

“Head back about half a mile then stop for the night?” he said. “Put some distance between us and the bodies ‘fore the animals get to ‘em.” 

“Yeah,” Joel nodded. “Sounds good.” 

Joel and Tommy agreed on a story as they set up camp for the night, one that was almost the truth. The two men jumped them. They’d had no choice but to shoot them. Unfortunate but Jackson would be safe. 

Getting back to town was faster than getting out of it, no longer needing to actively track the men and instead just find their way back home, and the sun was still up when they reached the gates. 

Joel wasn’t expecting you to be at the stables when he got there. It was late enough that you should be at the mess hall for dinner or home and he had every intention of settling his horse down as quickly as he could before finding you but he didn’t need to. You were curled up in a corner of the stables near the tack, your eyes closed, head resting against the stable wall. You were in the same clothes you’d been wearing yesterday. Joel frowned. Hadn’t you been home? He unbuckled his saddle and put it away before kneeling next to you, taking your face in his large hand the same way he’d done the morning before. You startled, eyes shooting open, afraid for a moment before softening when you realized it was him. 

“Joel,” you gasped it, throwing your arms around his neck, your whole body following, nearly knocking him down. He hesitated for a moment before he wrapped his arms around you, holding you close to him. “I was so worried, I didn’t… I’m so glad you’re back.” 

“Me too, Sweetheart,” one of his hands went to the back of your head, holding you gently. 

“Did you…” you began, but he cut you off, still holding onto you. 

“They’re dead,” he said. Your breath caught for a moment and he pulled you closer. You were soft and warm and whole and alive. He’d kept you safe. He hadn’t failed you, not this time. “Not going to hurt you again.” 

“Joel…” your voice trailed off, sounding sad. He pulled back from you enough that he could see your face, your eyes searching his. He brushed your hair back. 

“C’mon,” he said softly. “Let’s go home.” 

Next Chapter

A/N: FERAL JOEL

FERAL JOEL

FERAL JOELLLLLLLL :D

And everything else about this chapter, too 😌 Seriously, these two are sooooooo close to stuff happening. So so so so so so so so close, I promise they are.

I do have an alerts blog! Follow and subscribe to get an alert when a new chapter is posted. I will only post each chapter once so you're not being spammed, promise! 😊

Thanks for enduring the slow burn of it all, everyone, and thank you for being here. Love you!!

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[smok3r7]

They Always Come Back

Aaron Hotchner x f!reader

Explicit, 18+

Push and Pull

Main Masterlist & Series Masterlist - My AO3

Summary: You and Aaron met in college, Criminology Major, funny enough. Throughout your five years at George Washington College, you and Hotchner had this on and off again relationship; it was all fun until you started to realize that you loved him. After graduation the two of you cut ties and left it as dumb college love, going your separate ways. After a decade you finally land your dream job, a seat at the BAU; however when you notice the name copied on the email, you can’t believe your eyes.

Chapter Summary: The first year is just about over and you and Aaron have somehow gotten into yet another argument. Can the two of you fix it? And even if you can, is it even worth it?

Word count: 4k

Warnings: angst, toxic young ‘relationship’, drinking

—

“So, what happened this time?”

This question lingers in the air like thick smoke, heavy and dark. You’re sitting on your bed criss-cross and Bella is sitting the same way, right in front of you. You’re trying to find the words to explain what happened about an hour ago, but you can’t find them.

“He just- no, it was my- god, I don’t even know,” you choke out as your face falls into the palms of your hands and the tears begin, “It’s just so stupid. I’m stupid.”

“Oh baby, come here,” Bella sighs as she pulls your shoulders so the top of your head leans against her chest, and she just hugs your upper body as much as she can. The two of you stay like that for a moment, until you pull yourself together and are able to form complete sentences without crying or breaking down once more.

“Ready to try again?” She asks as she carefully lets your trembling body lean back to where you were.

You wipe your nose with the sleeve of your shirt and nod your head, still with glossy eyes, and look into her beautiful hazel irises, relaxing a bit. You take one more deep breath so you can put the pieces of the puzzle back together mentally before you try to verbally.

“Okay, umm. So ya’ know Tiffany right?”

“The frat whore?” she asks, “Yeah, I do.”

You chuckle, “So, at Jackson’s party earlier I saw her ‘n Aaron talking. But she was like all up on him, whispering into his ear constantly ‘n he would look at me ‘n then back to her. ‘N he just, like, had this glare in his eye. It really hurt me cause everyone knows about him ‘n I! Like, okay, yes, we’re off right now but that doesn’t make it fine to do that. Especially when I’m in the eyesight of both of them.”

“So what did you do?” Bella asks with furrowed brows, “Cause I know you didn’t just let that slide.”

Before you answer her with the embarrassing truth, your hands are fidgeting with the laces of your Nike Air Forces. You find it heartening and funny that she knows you so well, because she’s right - there’s no way you would let anything like that slide, especially when it came to Aaron.

“Well, I uh- went up to them ‘n started to argue with Tiffany. Saying shit like; why are you on him, you’re a whore anyway, he wouldn’t want anything you have to offer, bitch. Then she started to get loud back ‘n all in my face, which- I was fine with, until she then digs her finger into my chest. ‘N that’s when I just lost it.”

“She really did that? Her dumbass thought that was a good idea, are you kidding me?”

“Seriously! ‘N that’s funny you say that, just gimmie a second to get there, okay?” You laugh to yourself and, before you continue your story, you snag the fifth of Fireball that’s on the bedside table and take a shot. No chaser. You’ve become quite good at being able to drink since you’ve been at Washington College, a perk of being here.

Then, handing the bottle to Bella, she too takes a swig of the liquor that’s now about half way gone. She hands it back to you, ugh, man, she groans and you just let the fifth sit in between your legs as you begin to continue the events of tonight.

“So that’s when I swung my fist back ‘n punched her dead in her face-“

“Tiffany?!”

“Yes, Tiffany. Right square in her nose, ‘n the bitch fell right to the floor. Just like that,” you clap your hands right as you say that, to really showcase how quickly and hard she fell.

“Are you fucking serious right now?” Bella chokes on her spit for a second.

“Bitch yes! Like a fuckin dead tree, just pin straight down to the ground. That’s when I stood over her ‘n said, stay the hell away from Hotch. But before I could gloat anymore, Aaron bear hugged me from behind ‘n picked me up. So I’m trying to squirm ‘n kick my legs out of his grip, but ya’ know, that wasn’t happenin’. The whole living room of people is just buzzing with laughs ‘n ouhhhh’s while he carries me out the front door and into the dead end cul de sac ‘n sets me down.”

You stop blabbering and take another shot of the whiskey, bigger than the last one. Ugh, shit, you groan and wince at the burning feeling in your throat. Good one, huh? Bella giggles as she reaches out to your hand where you’re handing her the bottle again.

“Shut up,” you drunkenly laugh, the whiskey definitely affecting you now, “But back to what I was sayin’. Uh, he set me on my feet ‘n spun me around to face him. His face was stern, like he does when he’s pissed, you know the look.” You stop your rambling to mimic Aaron’s stern face, dramatically furrowing your brows and sealing your lips into a hard line.

“Oh my god, yes,” Bella bursts out laughing at your overly dramatic face; even though it’s somewhat accurate, “You’ve gotten so good at that. Fuck, girl.” Since he is seven years older than you, he does have some more aged features on him than most - which you really don’t mind, you actually love his older features and vibe.

“Thank you, thank you,” laughing as you act out putting a crown on your head, “Anyways- my adrenaline was still on a hundred from frat-whore Tiffany, so I’m quick to start yellin’ at him. ‘N if I’m completely honest, I don’t even remember what I said entirely cause he was quick to shut me up. Here, let me just show you-”

You spring up to your feet so you can reenact how Aaron acted to you tonight. “Gettin’ a full show, I guess,” Bella announces as she watches your wobbly movements.

“Yep. So he interrupts my word salad by shouting my name, which worked really well actually. Then he follows up with,” you clear your throat and start to impersonate his voice, but with a bit of an exaggerated tone to it.

“You really think it’s okay for you to act like that? You’re such a child. I can’t believe you actually thought I would get with Tiffany anyways.” You switch back to your voice, “then I stopped him ‘n said, so then why were you lettin her be all up on you and whispering’ in your ear?” Back to his voice, “Are you kidding me? She’s my partner in Behavior Analytics, and it’s loud inside there. Okay, yeah - maybe I let her too close, but what is it to you anyway? We’re not even together right now.”

“He said that? No fuckin’ way,” Bella starts as her jaw slacks open from pure shock at what you just told her, “He’s got some damn nerve.”

“Thank you! God, I- I was so confused ‘n clearly not thinking straight because,” you take a second before you answer, “cause, I slapped the shit outta him.” Before the words leave your lips, you wince from the embarrassment of your actions.

Bella looks at you dumbfounded, and all she does is hand you the fifth of whiskey for you to drink. Thanks, you chuckle and without any hesitation take it, along with another shot, the bottle now only having about one shot left. After taking the shot, you start to feel dizzy so you go back to the bed and plop down in the same position before you stood up. You start to hand the fifth to Bella, “No, baby that’s all you, you need it more than I do right now.”

You just shake your head and the events of tonight just replay over and over as you take the last swig of the Fireball. Which you do not need.

Bella waits a second for you to recoup yourself before she asks the question, “So what did he do after you slapped him?”

You smile, but not because you’re happy, it’s because you’re sad and scared, and just in pure disbelief - he’s never done this before, you might have lost him for good.

Screwing the red cap onto the bottle and raising your eyes across the dorm to the trash can by the door, you chuck it past Bella’s head and it sinks right into the black can. Hell yeah. She turns her head back to face you and chuckles as she raises her right hand for a high five.

But the little burst of joy will quickly fade.

“He just turned around ‘n just left me in the street ‘n walked back into Jackson’s house to continue partying or god knows what.”

Wow, is all that Bella says as her face is covered with a shocked expression, much like yours was earlier in the evening. Yeah, just- yeah, you reply to her as you fall back and let your head sink into your pillow and your arms lay across your eyes to make sure tears don’t escape. Silence fills the dorm room, besides the busy street noise and people partying that echoed through the open window behind you.

You feel the mattress sink next to you and Bella’s arms wrapping around your waist, her face burrowing into your neck as she whispers, “Fuck him.” You take your arms off of your face and turn to look at her, you both start giggling like little girls at a sleepover talking about boys - not too different from what you’re doing.

—

BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BE-

“Oh my god, shut the fuck up!” You groan, raising your closest hand and hitting the alarm clock like you’ve done every morning for the past eight, nine months. Thankfully, you only have one more week of the obnoxious torture device that is your alarm clock, and then it’s summer break.

But before you can even think of that, you have to face today. God, you feel like shit. Your head pounds over and over, concentrated right behind your eyes. You roll over on your belly and smush your face into the plush pillow, why did I have to get that drunk? You can tell today is just going to be perfect, just perfect. Maybe a fake smile in the mirror will make you believe it.

After about five minutes of cursing to yourself into your pillow, you gather the minimal strength you have and push yourself off the mattress. Making yourself get ready for a chilly spring Monday worth of lectures, along with facing Aaron after last night. Slipping on one of his Nike hoodies, that just goes past your ass and is overall large on you, with a pair of black leggings, and of course - your black and white forces. Simple yet cute.

Still hungover like someone who’s never drank before, you do a little bit of mascara and put your hair up and out of the way. Just so you don’t look completely fucked up, and so Aaron doesn’t think that he messed with your head completely. You and him have been together but not at the same time, pretty much since this past October.

The two of you would be on good terms for a week or two and then he either did something to piss you off for fun, but you would then take it too far by arguing with him about it. Or it would be all over a dumb thing that he would do, like going out and not coming back around you for a night or two. He wouldn’t try to contact you in any way, to even just inform you that he was safe or when he’d be back, and it worried you when he did that. But when you voiced how you didn’t like it, he’d completely dismiss you - resulting in another argument and break up, repeating the cycle again.

Aaron is the one who calls it off, every time. He won’t talk or contact you, in which you do the same - out of spite. But usually after about three or four days, one of you breaks the no contact - usually for sex.

There was just something about Aaron that you couldn’t leave alone, and there was just something about you, that he couldn’t leave alone either.

And it’s been the same cycle. Over and over. But in all seriousness, you don’t mind it because right now this is all fun and games. You really believe that whatever this thing is between you and Aaron, will end either this summer or when you graduate. If you keep telling yourself that you’re okay with this, you’ll eventually believe it, right?

With your mind trying to think and the throbbing headache behind your eyes, it’s all too much. You pause your movements and take a deep breath, eyeing the table you see a bottle of Tylenol that Bella must’ve needed also on that table. You take two of them followed by your water from your water bottle, then snag an apple from the counter.

You go back to putting your textbook and notebook in your bag and you quickly glance over to the clock one more time, 9:28AM.

“Fuck, just- ugh,” You grumble as you bolt towards the door, slamming it behind you, and jogging down the hallway that’s scattered with students here and there. This would be the day I’m late.

The door to Dr. Miller’s room is now in front of you, before you open it you regulate your breathing so you’re not out of breath when you walk in.

Alright- three, two, one- you pull the glass door and gently close it behind your body, so it doesn’t slam. You instantly spot Dr. Miller slightly leaned and sat on his wide oak desk, with his arms folded in front of his chest. He turns his head in your direction, but is still talking to the class.

“…546 through 576 are the pages we’ll be goin’ over…”

This man creates feelings in you that you don’t know how to place, but you can’t do anything about it, so you just observe him and take in what you can.

His brown hair with streaks of silver is slicked loosely back and the curls are almost perfect, his round wired glasses sit on his nose. The dark blue button up he has on extenuates his bulky arms and chest, which has you feeling light and bubbly. Hangover gone for a split second.

You nod your head and he returns the gesture, then faces the rest of the class, continuing his lecture about today's reading.

“…by Wednesday, end of class. I want a three page overview of how brains can alter after a traumatic event…”

As you walk up the steps on the side, Dr. Miller’s voice drops from your ears. Or, a slight ringing sort of takes over your hearing and, for some odd reason, you’re worried sick about how he’s going to be.

Reaching the section, after what feels like climbing a mountain, you look down the row where you and Aaron usually sit, seeing him sitting by himself with his head down. Weird. When you slowly walk over to him, you squat down, balancing yourself with one hand on the back of the chair and whisper, “Is this seat taken?”

Aaron lifts his head and you can tell that he is just as hungover as you, if not more. His jet black hair, usually combed back, is fluffy and messy. His amber colored eyes have a red glossy tint over them as he gazes down at you with melancholy eyes. But when he realizes that it’s you and you’re not upset, a warm relaxed smile growing on his tired face.

“Not at all, love.”

—

“Are you gonna come in?” You question Aaron as you stand inside your dorm and he lingers in the doorway. The two of you had sat silently during class, then made a deal to talk about things back at your dorm after the day was done, going your separate ways for the rest of your schedule. It’s now just after two in the afternoon, but you feel like it could be time for you to go to bed, clearly what your body craves.

Between the lingering headache, body aches, and the slight rumbling of your stomach from this awful hangover you’re still somewhat going through, the amount of stress you’re under from the tedious school work between three classes, to the situation in front of you - all you want to do is sleep.

“Yeah, I just want to-”

“Hotch. Stop. Come in ‘n we’ll talk.”

He’s silent as he listens to you and hesitantly steps into the room, leaning his back against the door as it closes. You don’t call him Hotch unless you really need him to listen to you, usually reserved for fights.

You turn around and walk over to your mattress, kicking your shoes off and letting your backpack slide off of your shoulder on the floor next to your bed. Then you crawl on your bed and sit criss cross, like you did last night with Bella.

Gazing up at Aaron, he’s still leaning against the door, arms crossed while staring at you and your movements with his soft eyes. Even though he looks exhausted, he still looks handsome. Finally taking in the image of him, now across the warmly lit dorm room - you smile.

His light gray hoodie is loose around his torso but tight around his arms and his dark blue jeans grip his thighs. His face is soft but with some stubble starting to grow along his jaw and cheeks. His small pink mole on his right cheek, parallel with his nostril, fits perfectly with his soft lines around his eyes and brows are starting to appear, which you know he hates but you couldn’t think of him without them. His jet black strands of hair are a bit more put together, more than this morning anyways. God.

Your heart flutters at the pure sight of him. You can’t stay mad at him, it’s simply impossible.

C’mere baby, you whisper as you pat your hands on the spot in front of you on the mattress. Aaron doesn’t say anything, but starts to move. You observe the way the corners of his lips curve up just a bit, as he slides his white Nikes off and sets his black Jansport bag on the table next to the cherry red telephone.

He runs his fingers through his hair as he carefully steps to you and sits on the bed with only about a foot between you and him, his right leg is folded in front of him, while the lower half of his left hangs off of the mattress. His large hands are resting in his lap and all of his attention is on you, without saying anything - he’s saying so much.

“About last night-“

“Don’t. This is on me.” Aarons deep voice cuts you off.

You stay quiet. You want to hear what he has to say before you make a fool out of yourself for possibly saying the wrong thing. But before he can say anymore, you get this sudden pressure in your lower back that causes you to become distracted. Ouh fuck, you wince as your hands move to lightly massage your lower back.

“You alright?” Aaron’s tone raises just a bit.

“Yeah, it’s just,” you straighten your back and keep your hands on your lower back, “Sittin’ in those shitty chairs ‘n walkin’ across campus. You’d think I’d be used to it by now - apparently not.”

Aaron nods his head and chuckles under his breath, but before he can start another sentence, you maneuver your body to relieve some of that pain. Laying back just enough so your back is supported by the pillows beneath you, and your shoulder blades are supported by the wall behind you. Your hands intertwine with each other and rest on your stomach that lowers and rises with each breath.

Your legs are the next thing to move. You shift them from the criss cross position and stretch either one on the outside of Aaron’s body. But your right calf ends up laying on his thigh, whereas your left rests on the mattress, grazing his knee.

Aaron cocks his head and a soft smile takes over the sincere expression he had a second ago, as he watches you relax. His left hand leaves his lap and moves to your calf, where he starts to run his thick fingers up and down your legging covered skin. The corner of your lips lift just a bit when you notice the hungry look that’s in his eyes, as he gazes at yours.

His jaw clenches, then softens - like he’s trying to control himself from having you here and now. The sight of you laid out in front of him, in his hoodie and your leggings that hug your legs perfectly, has him drooling. But he knows he can’t, that would just be stupid right now.

A second of silence goes by before Aaron clears his throat and begins the conversation that seems so familiar and yet, so different.

“Honey, I’m sorry for how last night went. I shouldn’t have left you in the street like that. For all I know, you could’ve gotten kidnapped or god knows what. I really don’t like how I acted.”

You nod and whisper, thank you. The air in the dorm has become a much lighter feeling than even a few seconds ago. You don’t feel like he’s gonna try to make a break for it and stay away from you forever. You really thought you lost him because of your actions.

“And please really listen to this,” he starts, but both his hands move from their original spots and find new ones on either one of your thighs; his thick fingers dig into your legs. Your heart flutters and your pussy throbs from the sudden familiar touch. “I really regret messin’ around with Tiffany. I was doing it to strike a nerve- which clearly did, I don’t know what I was thinkin’. No excuse. And I don’t want to hear an apology from you, cause if you had acted like me- I would’ve done the same thing baby. I really would.”

That was an apology. He just made the perfect apology; you thought it was impossible. You feel this heavy weight that’s been lifted off of your shoulders and mind, after hearing his smooth deep voice relay those words.

However, at the same time- you're filled with this sense of dread. You’ve heard the sorry’s before from him. First time after catching him flirting around with your Bio Lab partner, the second time after he and his guy friends left town for winter break without telling you anything. Scaring you to death, thinking something terrible happened to him - then come to find out his boys thought it was funny and Aaron just let them joke around. But he never laughed about it.

Then the most recent, last night; you don’t like how normal this is becoming. Each one slowly progresses into something more severe than the last; not a good sign. An acidic feeling slowly climbs from your stomach, to your throat and creates this burning in the back of your mouth. Your mind is jumping around to try to make sense of how this is going to end or even, hell, how it even got started.

This is not healthy.