#Sorry if you suffered through reading all that

[lovepotionsz]

Mark & Mark Variants x Viltrumite GN!Reader (Mohawk-No Goggles) (Suggestive)

CW: Minor pet death (not caused by you, mark or variants) , dubious consent from reader on the variant parts.

WC: 2.9k

You were sent to earth by the Empire as a child, to gather intel and return to Viltrum when you hit 25 in human years. You did as you were told, you did your best to be this cold-hearted, brutal strong viltrumite, but you couldn’t be what they wanted in the end. Your family was so loving, your friends were too precious, you got to learn what compassion and empathy felt like. You cried, you smiled, you felt your heart drop to your stomach, you laughed with your friends drunk out of your minds near a 7/11 at 3 am, and laughed so hard you threw up. You felt your heart get torn to pieces when you saw your first crush kiss another person, you grieved when your family cat passed away, and you felt anger at the drunk driver that took your precious cat — no, friend. 

You felt more alive than you ever could back in the Empire. You didn’t care about that selfish mission anymore, couldn’t give two shits about conquering and ruling, earth was amazing as is. Yes, it was full of corruption and suffering, but it also harbored love so undoing you never even thought to fight back. That’s why, when you were offered to protect the beauty of this world, you agreed instantly. Your parents were apprehensive, worried about you, but you convinced them after a heartful crying session on the family couch– the same couch that your parent had wrapped a bandage around your ankle so worriedly, not knowing your twisted ankle had already healed. You didn’t tell them that it did. Your canvas of this world was already full of colors of all the emotions you have lived through.

Though, somehow, the colors on the canvas shined brighter than any sun the day that you met him. 

“Hey, name’s Invincible, let’s do some good together, yeah? God was that– was that too corny?,” he awkwardly rubbed at his neck, you could sense his body temperature rise up without skin contact – viltrumite genes – you had chuckled at his awkwardness, introduced yourself and you two hit it off that day. Your missions together always went well, your quick wit and strategies plus your durability complimented his agility and strength– dancing with you as defense and him as offense, a powerful, impenetrable waltz to any enemy.

You went to shitty fast food places after missions, ate melted ice creams at 3 am close to that same 7/11, he stayed at your place until sun rose up playing video games and reading comics – you learned he was a huge seance dog fan as well – you went to huge comic cons, helping each other get into cosplay.

He looked deep into your eyes as you applied a tiny bit of blush on his cheeks, he honestly looked stunning, however the eye contact wasn’t helping your fast beating heart, and you’re pretty sure he can hear it. You don’t know where his powers come from yet, but, you just know he can hear your heart leaping from your ribcage every time your eyes catch his.

“I know I’m gorgeous, but you’re staring, Grayson,” you managed to roll out with a sarcastic tone, you watched as he blinked himself out of a trance– did he even know he was staring that hard?

“I’m so– so sorry, I just- I uh,” his eyes going everywhere but your eyes now, caught and too embarrassed to admit he was staring. 

“You can keep going, sorry uh– for the staring,” you chuckled softly at how red the tips of his ears had gotten, feeling a warm sensation envelop your whole being as you add the finishing touches to his makeup, you got your face closer to his so close that you saw how his eyes widened, and his pupils dilated just a bit– that made you smile softly, “you can look as much as you like, pretty boy,” you laughed despite yourself at how red his whole face was now despite the makeup, stopping yourself and apologizing softly as you heard him grumble. You teased him all day about it though, after all, the feelings you’ve harbored for months were not unrequited, for the first time since meeting him, you felt elated once again. 

After that, he asked you out after a particular rough mission where your comms were broken, and you couldn’t talk to him for almost the entire mission– he couldn’t bear the thought of losing you to a freak accident on the job, and he really couldn’t lose you to his cowardice by not asking you out and watching you slip out of his hands. Your first date went as you’d expect– fighting a titan like being as you flirted with each other and stole a kiss or two in the air.

You both decided that you deserved a cheap, sugary and salty meal and grabbed food from burger mart, eating on the rooftop of a skyscraper, watching the sun set.

You laughed as he tried to stuff the fries into his mouth before they went cold and soggy, you let him have a sip of your soda– he drank from the same straw you used – your hands inching closer with each passing minute before they connected together with your lips, the sun was just setting, his mouth tasted like cheap burger and soggy fries, his lips soft and inviting as he followed your lead. The kiss was clumsy, filled with awkward chuckles and giggles, trying to angle yourselves properly, but it was yours. The moment, the kiss, each other's touch, it was all yours, he was all yours, the man that mad every hour of training and fighting villains worth it was finally yours.

Then he opened that stupid – pretty – mouth, 

“I’ve been meaning to ask you this, but– are you a Viltrumite?”

You felt boiling water spill on your head, down to your whole body when your brain registered his words. 

He knew! He knew and he–

“How– How do you even know that?”

Without realizing, your entire body went rigid, your eyes wide and your heart was beating so fast it threatened to burst Mark’s eardrums, “I… guessed? Your powers are so similar to mine, the way you use them, the way your body moves in battle– and uh a gut feeling, you could say,” his explanation only made you realize how sloppy you had gotten around him, something a Viltrumite should never be, it’s all your fault, they’re going to find you, you need to get away now. 

You hadn’t realized how frantic your breathing had gotten, how much your body was shaking as your brain took a few seconds to realize you were being hugged and Mark was trying to talk to you. You took a breath and pushed him away, watching as his face contorted in worry, his eyes frantic as his mouth opened to say something, but you interrupted him,

“Are you going to take me to them? Why did you even let me kiss you if you knew– why did you let me so close if you knew? Oh god, I need to–”

“I’m a Viltrumite too!” 

His voice rang in your ears, his words ricocheting around in your brain as you finally process them, and you look into his eyes, “You… are?” you saw his form relax, and he shifted his body closer to yours, taking your hands in his as gentle as he could– god he’s so warm – “yes, that’s why I wanted to know if you were one as well, I’m not going to tell anyone if you don’t want me to–” he exhaled a shaky breath, “I could never allow anything to hurt you, and if you think this information is dangerous I will take it to my grave,” he pulled your hand up to his lips, pressing a soft kiss to your knuckles, “you’re safe with me, baby, always,” you couldn't form words, you could only let him hug you as your body shook with each sob escaping from you, his soft words and gentle touches comforting you as you feel the weight of the world release from your shoulders.

He knew, he didn’t care, he still loved you. 

His face held such a gentle expression as he kissed you again, you felt like your body would shatter then and there.

Yet, your newly blossoming relationship wouldn’t have peace for long as they were here, the so-called Variants. 

Mark warned you to hide, that surely they would target you. However, you had a family to protect, a lover to defend, you simply couldn’t stand still and do nothing.

You leaped through the air like a bullet, your sight zoning on the variant not far from you as you took a deep breath and leaped down.

Mohawk Mark

His cackle as he was stomping some guys head in got cut short with a pained groan as you your feet landed on his back, the momentum from your leap making the hit more affective.

You squinted as the dust and the debris hit you in the face, along with the variants blood, your face scrunched up in disgust as you leaped back when you felt him move. He grunted as he got up, you turned your eyes to your back for a second to confirm that civilians were being evacuated. Good. You could fight properly, then. Your attention snapped back to him as he exclaimed your name with an astounded shout.

“Holy shit! You’re on Earth!?” 

When your expressions turned to a puzzled one, he sighed and put his hand on his hip– like you were the stupid one between the two of you.

“Y’know, you’re from the Empire, you never left, and you were sent to stop me but fell in love with me instead, duh!” 

“What the fuck are you talking about, spiky?” 

He barked a laugh at the nickname, “as foul-mouthed as always, aren’t you? Fuck, I missed that,”

You rolled your eyes, using the ground to gain momentum, bending your knees, forming an X with your arms in front of your face before leaping at him with full force. You both grunted in effort– well you did, his was from was pleasure unbeknownst to you – as you both went through the prison, concrete, debris, and the glass had you closing Yorubas to avoid damaging said organs, you really need them right now.

You coughed a few times while your eyes adjusted to your surroundings, breath ripping from your throat as you feel him kick you right on the stomach, which sends you violently flying through the building to the outside of it once again. You shake your head as you get up, it didn’t hurt as much as you thought it would, this fucker was holding back, he was underestimating you. Your eyes locked on his with as much anger and spite you could muster as he whistled with that damn fucking smirk on his face, taunting you.

“Damn, you look as hot as I remember when you get angry like that,” 

You huffed, trying not to let his taunts get to you as he stepped closer, taking one, two as he sped up, and you blocked the incoming kick with your arms, hissing in pain as you got pushed onto your back to the ground, you planted your hands on the ground on the either side of your waist as you willed your body to get up, god your arms were burning– a gasp left you as the variant sat on your pelvis, planting himself there, unmoving even as your legs kicked. 

You finally looked up at him, his cheeks were dusted the faintest shade of pink as he looked down at you, his breathing hard as his chest moved up and down, pupils blown as wide as they could while drinking up your expression and how your body was twisting and turning to get away from him– he pinned both of your arms above your head with one hand, making you finally look at him fully instead of around him to look for an escape.

Fuck, “you look so fucking hot like that, I could get off just like this, what do you think hm?”

He cackled when he felt your entire body go rigid, “what, you a virgin?” he joked as his gaze never left your eyes, when your expression turned to one of shock and embarrassment, he felt his cock throb inside the spandex suit, “shit, you are!” he cackled once again when you looked offended but didn’t retort. He was right.

His face got so close to yours, your lips a breath away, “well, that dumbass should’ve been faster, then,” your eyes widened as he closed what was left of the distance between you as his lips latched onto yours. This wasn’t sweet, soft, or gentle like your Mark, it was rough, it hurt, it felt like he was tearing you apart in the best ways when his fang nipped your bottom lip– you groaned in pain as you felt him licking the blood seeping from the injury he made, your lips moving on their own as the smell, presence, and voice of Mark enveloped your brain, put a curtain over your judgment as said brain turned off, and your body took over.

You exhaled a breath when you felt his tongue enter your mouth, your body arching closer to him as you felt his chest rumble with approval. Your teeth and lips crashing into each other as your legs still kick at him as much as they can, he groaned every time you managed to hit him, the fucker likes it.

He chuckled breathlessly at your stupidly cute expression when he broke the kiss, he didn’t need to breathe but feeling your lips on his again felt so cathartic he didn’t give two shits about what Angstorm wanted from him anymore. You were as submissive, pliable and adorable as he remembered, with a lot less rough edges, but he could never complain when it came to you.

He’s taking you home.

No Goggles Mark

He squeaked in surprise as he felt your kick, hissing in pleasure as soon as he smelled you, disappointed when you bounced off from his back and landed in front of him with that expression that looked so sexy on you– he hasn’t blinked yet and that’s freaking you the fuck out. 

You watched in absolute confusion as he started giggling, biting down on his bottom lip so hard that it started bleeding, he didn’t seem to care about it though, getting up from the ground as those wild eyes never left yours. Okay, yeah, you were freaked out.

“Why the hell are you looking at me like–”

“How could I not? God, that was so fucking good, c’mon! Again! Again!”

You blinked a few times,

“You’re just gonna let me hit you–”

He groaned with impatience, “yes, yes I am! Fuck, come ooonnnn!” 

Well, if that’s what he wants.

You ran up to him and landed a kick right on his chest, he didn’t even blink, just watching you with as much attention a living organism could muster. It went on like this for a good 5 minutes, you hit, he moaned – which, hearing Mark moan that whiny did something to you that you do not want to unpack right now – you punched he begged for more, god you just looked and felt so fucking good. Your hits hurt so much, you actually broke a bone or two and the noise of them made you cringe, but they just made his cock throb and leak even more pre-cum inside the spandex suit.

You finally stopped to catch your breath as your foot planted him to the ground, his chest heaving and his body trembling with pleasure when you press your foot down harder on his chest, arching his body to get closer to yours. He looked down right mad, his face was bloody – his own, per his request – his hands now holding onto your leg, trying to reach your thigh as he slid himself up to get away from your grasp, he wants something more than this, and he wants it now. 

He yanks you down by the leg he was holding, – his heart rate spiking as he hears a sharp breath escape from your lungs – then, he does something that has your brain in alarm and your sex interested as he nuzzles your crotch with a groan. You try to push his head off of you, struggling to find words to make a retort or say something, as he pouts while looking up at you. 

“Whaaat? Don’t I get a reward for letting you have your fun?”

His fingers went to your waist, his nails digging in as you hiss from the sting and see him smile with those wide eyes looking up at you–

“The you from my world always let me have my fun when they were done with me, so c’mon,”

You swallowed thickly as you bit down on your lip, thinking of anything to say as you heard him huff and bit down a scream of pain when he dug his nails in to your sides and rake them down so he could see you bleed as he went down on you–

“Hmm, your body was always more honest,” he giggled as you hissed in pain when he dug his nails in the freshly made – by him – scratches, as he lapped on the crotch of your spandex suit like a dog. His eyes never leaving yours, just like how you’re never leaving again. Angstorm could go fuck himself, he got what he wanted, he’s taking you back after this.

[mandalhoerian]

(6) 🦭 signed, sealed, delivery pending...

When a last-minute opportunity presents itself to become a distraction from the shame of not attending the reunion of your university friend group, you take it. One thing, though, yes, you might have been wrong for chickening out. But falling overboard in a storm, almost drowning, and getting saved by the biggest oddball of a skinny dipper out in the wild is a bit too much for instant karma, you think.

genre: fluff, comedy | word count: 13k | read on ao3

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note: apologizing for late chapters is getting old now i know, but i swear it would have come out earlier if it hadnt been for tumblr's ridiculous mature content label flagging issue . i've been wrestling with that bicth now ever since that update dropped on the 11h. all seal raf chapters are FLAGGED and i cant get them out of superhell. and apparently its their image recognition bot, i had to change the banner image. god if i have to deal with this bs AGAIN im crashing out i hope you enjoy the chapter

The wetsuit is half-zipped, clinging damp against your hips, something that doesn’t quite want to let go. You’re sitting on the flattest rock you can find near the lip of the cove, knees drawn up, elbows balanced on them, phone balanced precariously between your fingers. The mist is still stitched thick between the cliffs, and the morning sun hasn’t quite managed to cut through it yet. Cold air brushes against your bare arms, lifting the baby hairs, biting gently. Your knees are cold. Your mind is worse.

The group chat lights up again.

You scroll without reading at first, just watching the little cascade of names and icons — familiar and sharp-edged in ways you can't explain. It’s watching someone else’s memories keep moving while yours have stalled out in the same old frame. Same island. Same ferry. Same breath caught in your throat.

Yesterday’s conversation still occupies your mind, and you read through it once more.

"F4NT4STIC 4 REUNION ERA" (Yesterday, 13.37) [ tara ♡ ]: LADIES . YOU KNOW WHAT TIME IT ISSSSSSS [ simone (👹🤙) ]: girl i already took the days off. if yall flake i’m showing up to macie’s with a suitcase anyway [ fleetwood mac ]: LMAOO i mean my living room is still 80% cardboard boxes but sure, suffer [ simone (👹🤙) ]: if there’s karaoke i’m unplugging the speaker with my teeth [ tara ♡ ]: also HELLO??? miss ferrymaster of heartbreak bay??? [ tara ♡ ]: we see you reading and not respondingggg [ tara ♡ ]: THE WAY SHE’S STILL NOT ANSWERING [ fleetwood mac ]: come online and disappear if you're alive. don't write anything if you’re still in love with your ex [ fleetwood mac ]: you’re still in love with him???? [ fleetwood mac ]: damn it didnt work [ simone (👹🤙) ]: she’s gonna come back in like six hours and act like nothing happened [ simone (👹🤙) ]: literally text back. we're not mad you couldn't come. stop acting like this is a break-up !!!

(Yesterday, 23.35) [ you ]: sorry. alive. extremely salty. [ you ]: had to scrub barnacle residue off my soul before texting back. [ fleetwood mac ]: SYBAU girl you disappeared like a victorian child into the mist 😭 [ simone (👹🤙) ]: anyway. macie's wine count is at 3. tara made a playlist. theo hasn’t cried yet [ you ]: bold of you to assume he won’t [ fleetwood mac ]: we placed bets. i give him until desert [ tara ♡ ]: also you were right, he brought the seal mug he made in his pottery course. Unironically. [ you ]: I feel the emotional blackmail all the way from over here … [ fleetwood mac) ]: i had to leave the room. i was spiritually unprepared [ you ]: move it like half an inch every time he looks away and pretend like nothing happened to freak him out that paranormal shit is going on. for my sake. please [ tara ♡ ]: That's horrible. How do you come up with stuff like this? Do you want us to get kicked out if he makes a scene? [ tara ♡ ]: I'll send you pictures 😘 [ simone (👹🤙) ]: we set a place for you vtw. it’s got a rock on it. and a fork. [ you ]: that’s exactly how i would’ve wanted it <3

Your thumb pauses above a message. Just names. Names that once belonged to cramped dorm rooms, midnight indomie, and mutual breakdowns in libraries that smelled of old glue. The kind of friendships that were lifelines — loud and chaotic and necessary. And they still are. But you’re quieter now. Less sure what part you should play in their world.

Tara’s already published several scientific papers, both on her own and with her teacher — ResearchGate profile overflowing with content. Simone’s backpacked solo through South America and made it look unreal the entire time, every photo gold-dusted and cinematic and you’re sure she lives in an indie travel documentary. Macie just got picked up for a docuseries pilot. The one who shall not be named passed his bar exam and launched a website in his name that has to be surely coded by a tech god and branded by a Parisian design firm.

And you?

You still have this wetsuit from sophomore year. A freezer full of discount frozen meals. A collection of ferry schedules memorized down to the second.

You still work shifts that stretch into your bones. Still sleep in the room with the glow-in-the-dark stars you stuck to the ceiling at fourteen. Still get asked by tourists if you ever get tired of paradise. As if it’s not the same damn shoreline every day. They don’t know paradise comes with guilt-paid free health insurance and the inability to look into your parents' eyes without sweating through your shirt.

The museum front desk application sits untouched on your desktop. The deadline came and went while you were distracted by nothing in particular. There’s a half-written email to the local heritage center still sitting in your drafts. Volunteering was mentioned once, briefly, in passing, and never again.

You told your advisor you were taking a year. Time to figure things out. To recalibrate. To breathe.

But the year kept slipping. One month into the next. One season curling into the other. You started taking the same walk every morning. Then you stopped bothering with a route. Some days, even brushing your teeth was something that had to be earned.

You tried to make plans. Tried to start a spreadsheet. Color-coded your week and pretended it meant something. It lasted three days. Then the shame of seeing your own optimism undone by inertia sent you spiraling into the sea with your phone on do-not-disturb.

Sometimes you wake up already disappointed in yourself. Sometimes you manage to coast until lunch. The rest of the time, it sneaks up in strange places: folding laundry, stirring pasta, passing your own reflection and not recognizing anything urgent in your own eyes.

You keep saying you’ll get out. That it’s temporary. That you’re not stuck. You tell yourself that so often it’s started taking the shape of a prayer. Or a dare.

But every time you scroll, you feel it. That sharp, quiet pinch in your ribs. You're watching a starting line recede in the distance while your legs stay tangled in the sand.

A sharp twist of your mouth curls before you can stop it, too bitter to be a smile, too wry to be pain. You toss your phone a few inches further across the towel, willing the distance keep the elephant in the room away for a while longer.

And Theo. Of course he’s there.

Ha.

You sit still. A breath leaves your nose. The rock beneath you is cold, uneven, your palms flat against it. Wet grit clings to your fingers. You focus on that. The gulls loop overhead, shrieking into the pale air. Below, the tide moves against the rocks in shallow bursts, licking foam into the cracks and pulling it back again with a hiss. The world hasn't stopped, but it’s ignoring you on purpose.

No, you're ignoring it on purpose. 

A sleek head breaches the surface a few yards out, rising between two fingers of rock where kelp sways below in long green ribbons. A huff leaves him in a pfbbbth sound — short, damp, unimpressed — and he glides forward in a meandering path, stirring flecks of foam in his wake. The water around him flattens, then rolls behind his body in lazy spirals. Even the cove is used to making space for him.

You don’t smile. It almost happens, your face twitches because it wants to. But it doesn’t make it all the way. He’s watching you, waiting, head tilted just slightly.

"Someone’s a little restless today," you mutter.

He barks again. Short. With an imaginary question mark at the end of it. Surely it’s because he hasn’t received his usual cooing greetings and your, “Hi, hi, hi, my cutie pie,” — but your spirits are as gray as the weather. You can’t summon the cheerfulness.

"Yeah, yeah, I’m coming."

You slide into the water slower than usual, the cold biting at your ankles and climbing. Raf circles once, then again, but doesn’t dart off the way he normally does. He floats closer instead, trailing you as you wade out to the deeper part. When your feet finally lift from the sand, you turn toward him.

"I should’ve just gone," you say. "I don’t know why I’m so scared of a little get-together. Who cares if I’m not working yet? I should just say I’m taking a gap year… Like for uni graduates. Or say like I’m looking into Work and Travel but haven’t really liked any of the choices or something."

He tilts his head. How clueless and cute. Smooth brain. No ridges or lumps, no valleys or bumps; all ideas slide right off.

"You don’t even know what LinkedIn is," you mumble. “You’ll never have to. I’m so jealous, you don’t even know.”

Raf makes a bubbling snort.

You hate how bitter it makes you, sometimes. Hearing them talk about opportunities and networking and beautiful apartments with friends who leave them soup in the fridge. And you smile, as you’re supposed to. It’s good news. You’re proud. You are.

But it still seeps into the spaces between each of your vertebra, shapes you into a shrimp before the stateliness of ambition and purpose, making you feel small for not having more to offer, and worse for resenting even a flicker of it. There’s something sour in you that can’t be sweetened into a lemonade.

And you don’t want to be that person. You don’t. But you are. Quietly. Privately. The kind of ugly that you don't admit aloud unless you’re alone. Or talking to a seal.

"I hate that I get annoyed," you say under your breath. "Every time one of them says they’re doing great, I get that twist in my stomach like I swallowed a rock. Even when I’m proud of them. Even when I love them. What does that make me, huh?"

Raf offers no reply. Just a slow blink and inquisitive, a train’s choo-choo sounding breathing from his flaring nostrils.

"It makes me pathetic. That’s what."

Your throat tightens. You wipe your nose with the back of your glove and look up toward the cliffs, eyes still hot.

"There’s something you’re unlucky with. You know what?" you say, voice hoarse. "Of all the fish in the sea, you ended up with me. Should’ve gone for a marine biologist. Or a rich heiress with a yacht."

Raf surfaces again, blinking at you with deliberate slowness that mirrors a cat’s. Then, with a low chuff, he glides closer and presses the side of his head against your shoulder. You’re still floating when he wriggles around, flippers flopping clumsily, and half-latches onto your side, a wet, overgrown toddler trying to hug a pool noodle. His whiskers tickle through the neoprene.

You flip onto your back and float, arms out, hair fanning around your head with a seal glued to you. The sky above is pale and empty, the kind of soft gray that feels too big when you're already too full. You drift for a moment with your ears half-submerged, the world muffled except for the splash of Raf's flippers somewhere nearby. Clouds move. You don't.

"Watch. You’ll get discovered by some cute environmental documentary crew next and leave me behind. Get famous. Start an OnlyFans for your flippers."

Pause.

“OnlyFins,” you snort to yourself.

Raf lets out a long, wet blort, and disappears underwater with a cute bloop. 

You barely have time to curse before something nudges your ribs — hard. Then again. And then you’re yanked downward, the flipper hooked around your waist is basically an overly confident tugboat.

You surface with a gasp and a splash, hair in your eyes, sputtering.

Raf bobs a few feet away, grinning in the smug way only a seal can, going "AUUUUU," over and over again, following that up with a performative spin and a slap on the water.

"No more jokes, fine," you cough.

He dives again, leaving a trail of bubbles — pops up, and pauses, twisting back to look for you. His head bobs once. Twice. Then he disappears again, darting just beneath the surface, drawing a path for you to follow. A loop, a spiral, a flourish. He resurfaces ahead with a sharp snort and flicks water in your direction.

You blink water from your lashes. "Okay, okay, I get it. Impatient little show-off. Seashells aren’t going anywhere, let me go get my gear, damn."

He dunks under again, tail flippers wagging just enough to be smug about it.

And after your preparations, you follow.

Because if anything makes sense — if anything ever feels whole — it’s this. Salt in your mouth. Raf’s stupid flipper smacking water like an impatient bunny stomping his foot. A sky so wide you can’t get your arms around it.

You may not know how to move forward. But here, right now, you don’t need to.

Here, you can just be.

By the time the end of the day rolls around, the dive with Raf has dried to salt on your collar, and your limbs are already back in work-mode — anchored, alert, one hand on the wheel, the other near the comms, watching the weather shift with a sailor’s instinct and a whole life of knowing exactly when things stop making sense at sea.

The last round trip of the day is quiet in a different way today, though. No commuters or tourists, and no one but you on board.

A rare fluke of timing: your dad tied up with engine trouble on the backup skiff; the senior deckhand down for the count after slipping on ice during today's last unloading shift and sent home limping; the second deckhand called out with food poisoning from bad market shrimp; the engineer out for two weeks recovering from wrist surgery after trying to fix a rusted coupling by himself; the backup engineer already covering freight route duties on the north side; and the high schooler who usually mans the snack kiosk bailed last-minute for a school recital he 'forgot' to mention until this morning. Even the part-time lookout who mostly just watches Raf from the upper deck found a way to slip away.

You’d said yes before your dad even finished the ask instead of just cancelling the entirety of the day off — if a perfectly fine excuse for why you didn’t show up at the reunion made itself available to you, you would take it without question. It was serendipity, why let it go to waste?

And it was only one run, the weather wasn’t supposed to break yet. You knew the route. You could handle it.

Though, frankly, it felt good to be trusted with something this real and just empty your head for the rest of the day.

So it's just you, the hum of the engine, and a stretch of sea that's growing moodier by the minute.

You clock it before it starts showing.

The pitch is wrong.

Movement is expected, up-down, up-down, sometimes with more vigor and distance. No, it’s not that. It’s the angle, the timing, the tension underfoot that rolls in just a half-second too late. The swell pattern doesn’t match the forecast, the wind has teeth it wasn’t supposed to, and the gulls have gone silent over the water.

You glance up from the console, watching the sky fold itself into layers. That soft lilac haze from earlier has gone bruised at the edges. There’s a kind of waiting baked into the air now, the hush before the sky opens its mouth and howls.

You should’ve already turned back. You know the signs. You’ve trusted them before.

But the timing’s tight, and you know the shape of this route better than the lines in your palms. If you hold speed and cut between the outer channel markers, you might beat the worst of it. The system’s moving in fast — but not fast enough to make you fold early. Not if you don’t have to.

Besides, there’s only one round trip left back home. The radar isn’t red yet. The pressure’s dropping, but the water’s still got give in it. Dad made worse calls in tighter windows.

So you stay the course.

Pushing until everything starts pushing back.

The ferry bounces over a swell so hard you almost lose your grip on the wheel, rattling the life preservers along the wall with a thwack loud enough to echo inside your skull. Water sprays white across the decks, and something about the sound makes your bones ache. For a moment, you swear you can taste seaweed. Feel the drag of sea lines on your wrists, rough as rope burn.

But you catch yourself. Stabilize your footing, hands steady on the wheel, leaning into the rise and fall as they taught you in driving school all those years ago. The first day your father stood beside you and showed you how to balance the revs and the brakes on this machine, how to feel each part working together to drive, how it wasn't about forcing the craft, but guiding it with trust — it’s all muscle memory.

Trust the machine. Trust your gut. Trust your judgment.

So you do. And you guide. Until the storm arrives. Until the weather begins to roll in dark as tar — resentful black clouds, brindled with light, coiling together as if building, brewing, churning in unison above. Eerything then becomes curtained with rain and water, a shower splintering against the ferry roof. Sheets of water cut across the deck is a fog obscuring everything further than a foot away. Wind batters against the sides of the hull, shrieking louder and louder every minute, whistling shrill through every seam and corner and vent, and by now the ocean is actively trying to shove this boat off the face of the earth.

Everything turns sideways for one split second, and your heartbeat almost rips out of your throat, and when the ship steadies itself it takes several painful heartbeats of thinking I fucked up, I fucked up before you regain equilibrium and resume steering.

Everything starts to make sense. 

Raf had been strange from the moment you showed up this morning — clingy, louder than usual, almost pacing the cove. He kept making pup noises at the tide, splashed too close to shore while you suited up, and refused to go too far in the open water — his favorite thing was to drag you out further before. When you finally entered the water, he didn’t dart ahead the way he usually does. He hovered, brushed against you, circled you so tightly you had to push him off just to move forward.

You didn’t think much of it. You were too busy rereading texts, too busy spiraling over group photos and inside jokes and what-the-hell-was-he-thinking-by-showing-up.

Raf’s insistence was a complication you didn’t have room for when you’d been already feeling stifled enough. Even underwater, he kept doubling back to check on you, tapping your hip with his nose, making strange high-pitched whines that only made you more irritated.

When you got out, he followed you up the hill, paralleling you from the sea. Right up the ramp. Flopped against the loading zone and refused to budge, and not in the usual cute way. He clung to your boot when you tried to walk. Grabbed the hem of your jacket and yanked. Made noises so loud and pitiful that a couple tourists pulled out their phones to call wildlife protection. They thought he was hurt.

You shoved him back toward the cove and joked that he was a diva — a barnacle, a stage-five clinger.

He bit Elias when the poor old guy tried to help nudge him off the deck.

You didn’t look him in the eye when you closed the gate. Didn’t even wave, muttering something about spoiled animals and going inside. Because you had a job. Because you were on the schedule. Figuring out how to phrase it, how to make ferry work sound intentional, how to talk about staying without admitting you failed to leave. You practiced the words, hoping the right ones would dull the sting.

You didn’t notice how restless he went in the way he took the lead once the engine started.

You didn’t want to.

You'd practically ignored him the entire day for being annoying. To entertain the idea he was like that because he sensed the incoming weather... but you were too wrapped up in the reunion and your own spiraling thoughts to notice what he was trying to tell you. He knew something was coming — you’re sure of it now — and you hadn’t listened.

Too busy nursing your own useless grief.

And now you’re the only one out on the water when the storm decides to bite, regret and fear coiling around each other snakes in the pit of your stomach. The poor little man must be terrified wherever he's hiding. You hope he's tucked away safely somewhere sheltered and cozy, not roaming around trying to find you and ending up hurt or lost or trapped. If something horrible happened to him during this storm, it would be all your fault.

And now, as the radio crackles to life, a sharp burst splinters through the chaos, and all those words ash-scatter.

"—ayday—day—fishing boat—toward—Devil’s Teeth—repeat, Dev—no powe—can’t steer—"

It cuts out, sharp as a snapped line.

Your hand’s already moving. Mic in hand before the words even sink in. "Copy, how many aboard?"

Nothing. Just static, thin and needling, buzzing against your skin.

Your heart doesn’t lurch. It drops clean and heavy, straight into the pit of your stomach.

You flick your eyes to the GPS. The rocks are close — less than a kilometer to starboard. But you don’t need the chart to tell you that. You can already see them, those serrated black silhouettes clawing up from the water ribs punched through the ocean’s skin.

The Devil’s Teeth. The name alone carries some horror. They don’t forgive. Sharp enough to sheer a hull clean if you come at them wrong, but deceptive enough to trick even seasoned sailors into thinking they’re safe.

Above the water, they jut out like gap-toothed palisades — almost orderly, almost safe. From a distance, they seem to mark a clear path, multiple narrow channels that promise passage. But beneath the surface, the truth spreads wide and uneven, masked by the shifting tide, what looks navigable from above is a maze fanning out is a hidden reef below, disguised by the illusion of space, a trap waiting to splinter anything that trusts too easily.

Now, you watch from the waterboarded windshield as the ocean breaks against them sideways, spray exploding into the air in fractured bursts, mist swirling breath from something alive and restless. You’ve seen them before. Too close once, from a rescue boat.

You know the pattern they form, the way they beckon, offering what looks to be safe passage only to tear apart anything foolish enough to trust it. And you know the names of the people they’ve taken.

You flick the comms again, voice tighter now, a thread of instinct winding tight in your chest, tugging you toward the danger. "Any vessel transmitting, identify yourself.”

The wind shrieks through the cracks, high and thin, something caught between teeth. Water lashes the glass, streaking down in frantic rivulets as the ferry pitches harder, the deck groaning with the weight of the sea.

Your breath catches as you scan the horizon, nothing but the vertical outlines of the Devil’s Teeth. Black knives from the churn. For one terrible moment, everything slows. The sea draws back, coiling, holding its power just a beat too long. Waiting.

And then it breaks.

You move, but it’s not a choice. It’s reflex tangled with terror, the wheel wrenching in your hands as the ferry shudders beneath you. The shift is too sharp, the hull protesting with a low, gut-deep moan as it fights the turn. Your muscles burn, braced against the pull as the deck tilts hard, balance slipping for half a heartbeat. The bow dips — just a fraction — before you correct, knuckles losing color where they grip the wheel.

The spray blinds you for a moment, mist shearing across the windshield. But you blink, steady, locked on the path that doesn’t exist but has to be there. The space between those treacherous spires where, if you’re off by even a meter, the sea will swallow everything.

Raf knew. He tried to tell you. Fuck, you hope he’s not out here. He’s too much of a smart cookie for that, but still, you hope to god he’s safe.

The comms hiss softly, a broken thread of sound lost in the roar that fills the wheelhouse.

"—adrift—can’t—hold—taking on water—drifting t—engines are—"

Static. Again.

But you don’t need to hear it. The truth is already laid bare on the horizon.

Your eyes are locked on the shape just beyond, the battered fishing boat barely holding its own against the waves. A thing too small for this weather, its hull pitching wildly, the wind tossing it like it’s a toyboat in a child’s pool.

You flick the comms again, voice tight. "Vessel approaching Devil’s Teeth, do you copy? Repeat, do you copy? I need the status of anyone aboard!"

The answer is silence, thick and pressing.

But the sea answers instead.

Each wave shoves the boat closer to the rocks, their sharp edges barely visible between the peaks of the swells. You can make out three figures, barely, blurred shapes clinging to the railing, fighting against the chaos, one at the bow, steady but strained, another near the stern, slower, unsteady.

And the third—

A hollow space where someone should be.

"Shit," you breathe, throat tight.

You throttle down, the ferry groaning as the engine strains against the push of the current. The bow swings wide, cutting across the waves, too close but angled just right to shield the smaller boat from the worst of the wind. The wheel vibrates in your grip, the metal cold and damp, the pulse in your fingertips matching the beat of the sea.

The deck is bobbing harsher under your boots as you cut the engine to idle. A deep, unsettling quiet follows, the kind that means the sea is holding its breath.

You shove the throttle down, setting the engine to idle, the ferry rocking in protest as it fights against the churning sea. You can’t leave it drifting for long, but there’s no choice now.

The door to the deck slams open under your hand, wind tearing through as if the sea itself is trying to conquer its way inside. Salt spray slices across your face, cold and biting, nails and claws of an animal trying to get you. You barely register the sting. Your focus is on the deck below, where the equipment locker sits by the stairs. The rope should be there.

You swing down the short, steep steps, boots skidding slightly as the ferry shifts beneath you. The locker groans as you yank it open, cold metal biting into your fingertips. The rope’s there, coiled tight, damp and heavy.

You haul it out, the weight dragging at your arms as you push back up to the deck, boots pounding on slick metal, breath burning in your throat. The rope is rough and solid in your hands, the damp fibers biting into your palms as you step toward the railing, eyes locked on the men still fighting the sea.

"Line! Now!" Your voice barely carries, but the men on deck move. One of them, older, face lined with years of fighting the ocean, catches your eye, and you know you can trust him with this. He knows. He moves fast and nimble as you toss the line, and he hauls hard, pulling the boat closer inch by inch.

The younger man beside him fumbles, hands trembling as he secures the line, but his eyes are wide and fearful, darting between the shifting boats, the storm reflected in them. You can't have him slipping.

"Hold!" you shout, stepping to the edge.

The fishing boat rocks violently, a wild thing barely clinging to the world. But it holds. For now.

"Get them across!" You wave the first man forward, stretching your hand. His grip is iron, calloused and cold, and he hauls himself over with a grunt. The second follows, shaky but determined. His boots slip, but you grab his arm, steadying him as he clambers onto the ferry.

"One more!" The older man’s voice is barely audible over the wind. He points—

And you see him.

Near the stern. Slumped, half-draped over the edge. Too still.

"I’m going." Your words are lost in the chaos, but you’re already moving.

The wind slams into you the moment you step across, boots slipping on slick metal. You grab the railing, knuckles white, muscles straining as you pull yourself onto the listing deck. The world tilts beneath your feet, the boat rocking harder as if it knows it’s losing.

"Come on," you mutter, heart pounding.

He’s heavier than he looks. Deadweight. His clothes soaked through, dragging with seawater. Your fingers slip against the slick fabric as you grip his arm, muscles screaming as you try to pull him up.

"Help!" You barely need to say it. The older man is there, hands grabbing the man’s other arm. Together, you drag him inch by inch toward safety. The wind howls, the sea pushing harder, trying to reclaim him.

You’re so close.

"Almost there," you breathe, arms burning with the weight.

The man’s head lolls, his breath warm against your neck, but it’s faint. You brace, dragging harder, the metal beneath your boots slick and treacherous. Every muscle in your body screams for relief, but you hold on.

"You hang on, girl!" The older man shouts, his voice raw, but the younger one is there now too, reaching to grab the man’s collar and help.

"I’ve got him—" You don’t finish. The deck tilts—

The ferry shifts—

And the wave hits.

It’s not a push. It’s a blow. A force that tears you off balance, rips your grip from the man, and sends you weightless for a heartbeat before the world crashes back in. Or, you crash into the world. It resembles falling on solid ground from considerable height, except that it swallows you right up.

Cold.

Needles slip beneath your skin, knifing past layers of wool and overalls until nothing is left but frost-bright pain. Nothing blazes brighter, burns colder; the sea owns it all, every sensation, every heartbeat, every flicker of memory, snuffing them out one by one until all that remains is fear. Cold, bone-deep, blinding fear that has you kicking and flailing.

The water wants you. It pulls without pity, claws without remorse, wrenches without warning. Everything happens at once: pressure and chaos, liquid ice tearing at your lips and choking down your throat. The current twists around you, a tangle of unrelenting hands dragging you deeper even as you fight.

Down. And down. Until light bleeds away, dissolving like ink in water.

Something flashes just outside your blurring vision—

Then something else—

And another—

Infinitesimal silver glints cut through the dark. Shifting shadows dart between the pinpricks of pale light as shapes coalesce above. Thin silhouettes slice through the dark, through the gloom as you fall farther from safety. The pressure builds, crushing against your skull, a terrible humming filling your ears as if the entire ocean is singing an ode to your demise. Your chest begins convulsing fiercely, throat contracting in response as you begin thrashing around, lungs on fire and desperate for oxygen. Drowning in the sea, alone, terrified and hopeless, primal instincts demanding you do everything you can to stay alive, struggling uselessly to kick upwards towards the surface.

Wherever that is.

You reach upward desperately with a lone hand, vision having tunneled from lack of oxygen and panic combined. In that brief moment, something soft brushes the tips of your fingers. Like... fur...?

There's no way to know. Darkness has already consumed your consciousness, the struggle to survive giving away to oblivion and acceptance the moment your lungs breathe in water.

                    Singing.

Somebody has been singing to you.

Nearby. Simple, wordless, a melody winding slowly through the haze. Notes rise and fall around you — lavender smoke, crocheting your consciousness together bit by bit. You think maybe the song sounds familiar, that you could remember how it goes if only you could focus enough. As it is, your pulse stirs in time with the tune, waking limbs that were limp and numb as they thaw, muscles flexing as if remembering the shape of themselves.

Warmth comes first. Gentle heat kissing along the edges of your senses before bleeding inward in honeyed tendrils. Softness next: fur beneath your chin, blankets pulled tight across your chest.

The quiet of snowfall settles around you after that, muffling, easing, cushioning every inch of you as reality drifts into your awareness.

Everything returns in increments: salt crusted to your lips, drenched clothes wrapped around your frame, a layer of sodden clay. Beneath you: sand. Matted to the backs of your arms, your calves, the hollow of your throat. Behind your shuttered eyelids, sunlight filters softly. Red glow, distant orange. Sunglow, the color of melting copper. There is sky above you and beach below, but most importantly — there is breathing inside you again, each exhale shuddering as your pulse struggles toward normalcy, softly but surely.

Slowly, ever so gradually, you pry your eyelids open.

A canopy of branches, feather-soft green interspersed with golden brown, stretch overhead in a gentle dome. The bark glistens in the morning light, sticky still from the previous storm. Below the shelter, sand stretches outward in a sweep of endless shoreline, punctuated only by tufts of grass and gnarled driftwood that form a natural barricade from any casual passerby. The tide ebbs gently just past that barricade, washing fizzy seafoam high up the shoals before sliding back out lazily in a smooth curl, and further still, the horizon stretches — spun cotton candy, pink on blue, melted into haze at the edges, mingling seamlessly with the sky. And you're tucked carefully among the roots of one of those great trees, cradled and swaddled by the same fur-coated bundle your cheek is pillowed on, wrapped protectively in its embrace and held secure.

It takes your brain a full minute of groggily attempting to piece together these strange details before you realize there's a figure in the water, maybe twenty feet out, half-shrouded by the hush of early light.

Your brain coming back to you is akin to hitting the floor after falling for some time. You flinch. Sit up too fast.

A tangle of dark gray, thick hide spills from your shoulder, pooling in the crooks of your elbows. You shove it off with a gasp, limbs sluggish but panicked, fingers catching in the strange texture. It hits the ground with a muted thump, heavy as wet rope but somehow dry and fluffy at the same time. The cold hits you immediately then, skin pebbling beneath the cling of soaked denim and wool and the frigid touch of salt wind. A full body shudder grips you, hard, teeth rattling in your skull, blood singing through your veins faster.

But not even that kind of cold is enough to distract you from the sight before you.

There’s a person waist-deep in the shallows, facing the sun.

Long hair drips like spun violet ink down a narrow back, plastered in curling sheets to sharp, bare shoulders. You've never seen natural hair that long in your life, it trails all the way down her body to fan out against the waves, streaming in shimmering bands over the crests of each swell, lit gold in the early sun. She tilts her head back to face the dawn fully, and you can only see the barest hint of her profile from the angle, the delicate slope of nose, the lushness of parted lips. There’s something arresting about the stillness of her, the way the sea seems to hush around her body. A statue the tide forgot to reclaim.

For a breathless, silent moment, she simply stands there, perfectly balanced, completely undisturbed, arms spread at her sides as if greeting the daybreak directly, skin glittering in the light, slick with seawater and—

A scar. A slash across one side of her shoulder, pale even against her skin tone, stretched tight as though dug deep enough to make bone.

Huh, you absentmindedly think. I think it's the same side as Raf's?

You break out of your trance with a loud gasp with the thought of your seal friend, which causes her to whirl around to face you, startled and wide-eyed.

Which brings another revelation. The person in question is a man, not a woman.

Skinny dipping, at that.

Your brain catches up to your eyes in a rush of static and shock. This is a Family Feud moment.

Name something a burglar would not wanna see when he breaks into a house.

The contestant yelling it with his whole chest. Naked grandma!

Naked HUH?

The buzzer in your head goes off.

Question: What’s the last thing a girl wants to see when waking up alone on an unfamiliar beach after falling unconscious?

Answer: Naked man.

You make a strangled noise and scramble back so fast the pelt half-slides off you, and at the same time, sharp pain lances through your right side, turning the motion into more of a hunch than a duck and roll. The sudden flare knocks what little breath is left out of your lungs, knocking sense back into you in the process.

Wait, what happened? Why does it hurt?

"Easy! Easy." The naked dude darts forward through the surf without missing a beat, water splashing everywhere with his hurried strides. The sound of his approaching footsteps makes you instinctively curl inward, arms hugging tight around your midsection while wincing. You don't look up, mostly out of embarrassment, and your thoughts immediately go brrrr when you become hyper aware of the fact you're definitely going to see things you won't be able to unsee. "You'll bleed again if you keep squirming like that! All my hardwork's gonna go to waste!"

You flail one arm between the two of you in a futile barrier while the other cradles where the injury is, still keeping your face down and staring down furiously at the ground to avoid looking anywhere higher than knee level. "Ah-ah-ah! Stop, stop!”

The sloshing of jogging doesn’t stop.

“Just — man, don't charge at me, I don't know you!"

He stops short as though you've thrown a rock at him, legs cutting off mid-stride with a chaotic splash. For one blessed second, all is still again — except for the water lapping at his shins and your pulse banging against your teeth.

Then, a noise.

A half-choked sound that might be a laugh. Or a cough. He doesn’t come any closer. Just stands there, suspended mid-motion, your words having pinned him in place. The water stills around his legs. The surf hesitates, then draws back with a hush. You're still locked on a particularly blurry patch of sand wet with the red of your congealed blood like your life depends on it, but you hear the the tiny inhale that catches weird in his throat, and the breeze picks up with a stutter again.

He erupts worse than a volcano all of a sudden. “You’re joking! What? You don’t know me? You don’t know me? After everything — you just made me go through, that’s—”

“—a very reasonable response!” you shoot back, your voice high in octave, blood rushing so rapidly to your head that you’re not even comprehending properly.

“Wow,” he says, all affronted drama and wounded pride in one breath. “It's not like I'm gonna eat you. Humans aren't even safe for consumption anyway!"

"Whoa-hoh—" you start, but he steamrolls over you before you can properly get a word in.

There’s the wet slap of a foot shifting in the surf, heralding that he’s gearing up for a rant. “Most people say thank you, you know. Or ‘hey, cool of you to make sure I didn’t die horribly’—"

"You're naked, random guy!" you shout hoarsely, throwing out a pathetic arm to shield you from any and all compromising views. This is the politest way you could have put it. The next best thing was to shout, 'Don't come near me with your dick out.' Which. Yeah.

An awkward pause follows the admission, thick enough to make you glance up before thinking twice about it. You get a flash of purple before you look away once more, clutching the strange gray fur to yourself as some sort of feeble shield.

"—der why," he mumbles, more to himself than anything else.

"Excuse me?"

He deadpans, stopping just short. “I said, so now you’re body-shaming the guy who literally rescued you from certain death?”

“I’m shame-shaming the fact that you’re approaching me with your — your — entire situation out in the open!”

"You have my pelt," he says, with almost childlike seriousness, expecting you to be able to read his mind from the tone of his statement alone.

"Uh, okay?" you respond articulately, weirded out by how the conversation was lacking common sense. "What does that have to do with your clothes?"

This time, the quiet stretches out like taffy.

“I want you on the other side of this damn island if you’re an exhibitionist, I swear to god don’t think for a second I’m not capable of—”

“I am not!” The way his voice changes pitches has to be studied. “Have you lost your mind in the ocean? I can’t believe you’d suggest such a thing after everything I’ve done for you—”

You tune out his yapping. Yeah, this isn't getting anywhere. You're stranded on an island with a man you don't know, politely asking him to put his penis away, which, he won't get the hint for some reason and making it a 'I am who I am,' moment. Do you have to yell "Pervert!" at this guy for him to get a move on? Things couldn't get more absurd.

You rub your forehead wearily and groan in defeat. Is there something ironic about this exchange? Because you sure feel there should be something ironic here. There is probably supposed to be a joke somewhere here. The universe loves to deliver them in bundles.

An idea strikes you.

"Here, hold on," you say, shakily standing up while keeping your face diverted elsewhere. Your side does hurt, but the burn doesn't stretch as bad as when you felt it at first. "Just... turn around, please. No sudden moves."

"No sudden moves?" He answers with audible skepticism, the shuffling on the sand giving away his complying after a moment. The nervous waver in his words does manage to placate you somewhat. An exhibitionist wouldn't act this way. “I’m turning my back to you. How am I gonna know what you’re doing? For all I know, you could be ogling me with your squidlike human eyes, which, mind you, I wouldn’t blame you for—”

God, he loves the sound of his own voice, doesn’t he?

Muting him out once more, you pick up the fur coat blanket thing from its dropped position with an audible, "Hup!" It's bulky in your grip, almost too thick to lift, yet remarkably light at the same time — trying to pick up water without getting wet.

“—I’ve been told I’m distractingly shapely in the flesh, but I didn’t exactly wake up today planning to be admired in the wild. And it’s not even my best side, you know? My shoulders are uneven. I think. They used to be non-existent—”

You're in no position to be in awe right now though, so you brush off all possible questions concerning the bizarre phenomenon until later. With as much caution as you can muster, you raise it up like a curtain until the only part you can see of the man is his luscious hair, and start walking up to him.

“—Not that I’m implying anything. You are not the ogling type. Then again, I once trusted a cormorant and it stole my entire lunch while I was mid-swim, so what do I know? I’m just out here, my back wide open, accosted, and trying very hard not to hold a grudge—”

Then, you drape the cloak of fluffiness onto his shoulders in the gentlest manner you could possibly afford, avoiding touching his skin. The pelt closes around his back, reminiscent of the wings of a giant bird closing protectively, encasing him from neck down to calves. A gasp slips out of him. So small you might've missed it if you hadn't been holding your breath, waiting for any negative reaction.

His own hands come up to pull the flaps snugly closed, then he slowly looks over one shoulder at you with such stunned wide-eyed silence you almost want to crack a smile at him, but promptly freeze in place as soon as you lock gazes.

Not only does he have the most enticing eyes you've ever seen with vertical heterochromia transitioning from blue to pink like a bi-color tourmaline, but he has such an attractive facial structure that is both masculine and delicate all in the same breath it punches all of your buttons in one go and oh god — it is so not helping this entire situation. This stranger is the epitome of beauty. Handsome face and lovely features and soft bone structures and everything you didn't expect from a random naked dude on a beach you couldn't recognize as a local.

And the hair. You'd seen it from afar already but... it reminds you of strands of ashen lavender blossoms dripping with morning dew, wet waviness disappearing underneath the collar of the pelt. You'd kill to have this Rapunzel hair. It's unfair how a man—

You snap back to attention with a hard blink as the initial shock wears off.

"There you go, now I won’t get flashed," you exhale with obvious relief, trying to will yourself to act casually so you don't seem weird to the stranger who probably saved your life.

His head tilts, just barely. Long strands of wet hair slip over his shoulder as he stares down at the pelt wrapped around him — your handiwork. The fur shifts slightly under his touch, and he goes very still, watching it settle again. You wonder what he’s waiting for.

“You gave it back to me,” he says.

The words come out soft, a little too careful for something so simple. He looks at you, expecting the world to shift around what he just said. He’s silently saying this should mean something to you, too — but it doesn’t. And that mismatch only deepens the quiet between you.

You blink.

He lifts the edge of the fur in his hands, shaking it, then looks at you like the answer should be obvious.

A pause. “Right,” you say slowly. “And… that’s important to note because?”

He shifts his weight, brows drawing together in a look that’s too serious for the situation. “You could’ve kept it.”

"Wet as my clothes are, you need it more than I do.”

He is surprisingly docile and red in the face now that he has something on for modesty and can’t quite look you in the eye. The tips of his fingers peeking from all the fur in his grip are fidgety.

You give a wry grimace before remembering the manners Dad always told you to have around new acquaintances. "Yeah, um — uh, thanks. For saving my life.”

You tell him your name, and bow your head a bit in acknowledgment. His shoulders pull in tight at the sudden gesture of goodwill — though you aren't quite sure why — but relax after a breath as he meets your stare squarely, searching for something. The intensity throws you off balance; those odd and piercing mismatched shades fixed solely on you make the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end in both curious and fearful wonderment.

"And you are...?"

"Oh," he says, as if the question took him off guard, too. One hand comes up to brush through damp locks. Almost self-conscious, if the look on his face is anything to go by. There’s some sort of a faraway look in his eyes. "Raf — Rafayel."

"Were you the third guy on the fishing boat, Rafayel?" You recall that last crew member was slumped half overboard and passed out, prompting the rescue attempt that sent you both to sea in the first place. If Rafayel was wearing his pelt when you attempted to pull him up, the added weight could have been a factor in tipping both of you over. You find it's all a blur in your memory, though, and suppress a shudder. "Did you fall with me or—"

A shadow passes over his features as quickly as the changing tides. When he speaks, though, it's measured, almost cautious. "Yeah, I—" He pauses, shakes his head. Locks those impossibly colored eyes on you again, bright in the early morning light. "How are you feeling, though? Still hurts?"

"My side feels bruised like I was elbowed in the ribs but besides being chilled to the bone from falling into the ocean, I'm alright," you supply honestly. "I saw the blood on the sand, though. It feels unreal that I'm up and about right now. How can a scrape bleed that much?"

Rafayel's mouth goes flat as a line, looking you up and down with a concerning intensity deepening his tone. "You're lucky I was able to pull you back from the worst of it."

Shallow as it is, your wound isn't even dressed, but you decide not to engage in a conversation about the technicalities, patting him on the arm once in thanks and walking around him to get out of the forest line's shadow.

The beach stretching wide and strange before you is a postcard you don’t remember collecting. The sand is darker than you're used to, siltier, almost gray, and littered with glinting shells you don’t recognize, long and spiraled in augers, brittle as glass. Pale reeds jut from the shore at uneven angles, hissing faintly in the breeze, and the driftwood here is stripped bare, almost white, tangled in patterns that look too intentional for nature.

The water itself is clear, almost iridescent, casting strange reflections across the shallows, warped ripples that shimmer pink and green, an oil slick pretending to be pretty. And further out, offshore, strange half-drowned statue-shaped stones loom out of the surf.

You know this archipelago better than most, its coastlines and hidden inlets, the soft-bellied coves that tourists miss, having traced its map with your own hands, ferry lines, rock clusters, the way sandbanks shift after storms. Usually, it takes you seconds to place yourself. A curve in the shoreline, a type of dune grass, the slope of a treeline, something always gives it away.

But this place doesn’t register. No matter how long you stare, it refuses to sort itself into something known. The landscape’s been scrubbed clean of every tell you’re trained to read.

The most logical possibility is Seolhwine’s Hook — the island nearest to the Devil’s Teeth. That makes the most sense, right? You were heading back when the squall hit, and it’s the only one close enough for a current to drag you to overnight, and for Rafayel to be able to swim with you. But even then… even that doesn’t feel right. You’ve docked at Seolhwine’s before. This doesn’t match.

“I hate to say it but... Do you know where we are?” you ask finally, turning to him.

"My aunt's," he answers with a straight face.

You pause mid-shiver, your brain tripping over the simplicity of the statement.

You give him the flattest look you can afford, eyebrows lifting slowly. The pelt is clutched too high at his chest, his fingers wound tight in the fabric, you think he might be afraid of dropping it, though it doesn’t seem he notices he’s doing it. You can’t tell if he’s being deliberately evasive or if he genuinely thinks this is the helpful version of an answer.

"What?"

"Look, I’m all for jokes usually, but right now I need an actual place name — not just that your aunt lives here. I’m cold, I’m tired, and I just want to figure out how to get home—"

"It's my aunt's island."

You blink. Once. Twice. The explanation hangs in the air, weirdly self-satisfied. And it’s not satisfactory at all. Not even close.

What’s with the serene confidence of someone stating the color of the sky, as if “my aunt’s” is a perfectly normal answer to what island are we on? As if those two words magically orient you on a map?

You wait for more. Anything. The punchline. The name. Even a smirk. But there’s nothing.

Is he joking? Is this some elaborate bit? Or does he genuinely think that’s helpful?

The frustration in you sharpens. You’ve had to deal with flaky locals and clueless tourists and broken ferries before, but your patience is thinning by the second. You’re exhausted, still damp, still bleeding a little, and now stuck playing twenty questions with the world’s most uncooperative pretty boy.

"My aunt’s island."

He says it again, but there’s a slight shift in tone — firmer. He's correcting you. Thinks you’re the one being slow. And somehow, that makes it worse.

You stare at him. This time longer. He looks so damn earnest about it, truly believes he’s given you a helpful answer. It’s not smug. It’s not sarcastic. It’s not even deliberately vague to give away he’s fucking with you just to be a tease. It’s literal. Painfully, infuriatingly literal.

You’re trying to get directions from a very impatient child who only answers exactly what you ask and nothing else. Nuance is definitely a foreign language he never got taught.

But something tugs at the edge of your thoughts.

Because as stupid as it sounds — and it does sound stupid — it’s not impossible.

You look around again, really look this time, and you realize something’s been bothering you since you first stood up. It’s too pristine. Too quiet. There’s no old trailhead, no ferry dock, no graffiti-scuffed boulder where kids have carved hearts. No signs. No fishhooks, no cigarette butts. Just wind, tide, trees.

It clicks.

They’re marked on the maps you’ve seen, but only just. Annotated with little circles and names like SH-07 or East Ellinor. Places people like you aren’t supposed to go. Places the ferry routes steer around.

You’ve never been to one. You’ve never had a reason to. The people who owned them had their own transport, their own staff, their own little worlds with locked docks and private everything.

That’s why you didn’t recognize it. It’s not not on the map. It’s just never been part of your map.

You exhale, slow. Let the realization settle.

"So you're saying this is one of the private islands."

Rafayel’s brows lift in vague approval and he nods fervently. "Yes! That. Exactly. It's very private."

You rub your forehead, as if that’ll push the absurdity back into place.

Of course it is. Of course you almost drowned and then washed up on a privately owned island like some shipwrecked stray. Of course the first person you meet is a socially weird, mostly-naked man claiming ownership through familial inheritance like it’s a perfectly casual thing to drop.

You stare up at the sky for a moment, trying to piece together how the hell you even got here.

None of the private islands are anywhere near the Devil’s Teeth — most of them are tucked deep in the inner chain, clustered where the water’s calmer and the currents don’t rip you sideways. But this? This place isn’t close to any of that. You were unconscious, but you remember the storm. You remember going overboard, water in your lungs, panic in your throat, and then nothing. Blackout.

But you weren’t alone.

Rafayel said he pulled you out. Which means he swam you here.

You glance at him again, still draped in that ridiculous pelt and giving you weird pointed looks conveying that he wants to tell you something so bad. He doesn’t look winded enough for someone who hauled another body through open water during a storm. But if he did — if that’s how you got here — then he swam farther than you can make sense of. And maybe lost his clothes in the process. Somehow the latter makes more sense compared to the hypothetical that precedes it.

You were near open sea. This doesn’t add up. Even if he unexpectedly took you somewhere else than Seolhwine's, it just happening to be his aunt's private island is no coincidence.

You look back at him, more confused than before.

"Come," he says softly, extending his hand toward you with palm upward. "I'll take you to her. We'll help you get home. I promise."

A dozen different responses crowd your tongue as you stare down at his offered hand. All the questions rattling between your ears, each booking it for your lips faster than the next. None make it far. Suspicion should be there, but your instincts are unresponsive. They don’t find anything worth questioning about the situation despite the red flags.

Sure, maybe a weird randomly naked guy saved your life, brought you to a secret beach that doesn’t look on any travel maps, and claims to have ties with some rich aunt that owns the whole damn thing...

But he isn't dangerous.

You know that fact unequivocally. Call it a hunch, maybe? Gut intuition. It makes no sense considering your rational side has zero interest in jumping through hoops to trust the random person that literally dragged you out of the ocean to the least convenient place he ever could — but then again, life tends to toss the strangest circumstances and situations your way whenever you least expect it.

What matters most is getting back home, your parents have to be dying of worry — a search party must be out there wasting resources. Having someone who seems oddly comfortable on the island lead you directly to shelter would certainly speed things along.

"Hey," he gently adds when you're quiet for too long, breaking the train of thought running rampant inside your mind. The softness in his tone brings your attention back to him entirely, a gentle smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

He offers his hand a little higher, which draws your focus back on it with curious clarity. How smooth it lookd, even from this distance, perfect nails without a single scratch or imperfection, fingers delicate, elegant bones visible under the pale skin. "I just want to help. You're safe with me. I won’t hurt you."

You stare at his hand, then at his face, then back again. The tone is soft, the words gentle, but something about it scratches at the back of your brain. The kind of voice usually reserved for nervous animals crouched under porches. Any second now, he might start whistling and offer a treat.

Though the weird phrasing shouldn't work its weird magic on you, it does. Maybe because it sounds so nostalgic and familiar in a way that it invokes a sense of safety in you? Or maybe because you're tired, soaked to the bone, bleeding lightly still, and sore all over and this guy seems too nice to be anything less than honest?

Perhaps both. Probably both. You really have no business trusting strangers who wear big pelt blankets instead of actual clothing and give basic information away akin to some kind of social anxiety sufferer with performance issues, yet here you are, contemplating on the idea of taking his hand.

What the hell, you think eventually. Sure. What alternative is there? If the worst comes to pass, you intend to make him have one less limb to his name — it would be his own fault for walking around like a Resident Evil nude mod. How did that one text post go? Boy put that boaner away lest a sloppy little critter grabs hold of it.

But you’re not that sure what kind of answer you expected when you ask him where you’re headed, but he doesn’t so much point as let his hand drift outward, loose and imprecise — more communion than instruction, as though the land might whisper the route if you stand still long enough. He plants himself in the emptiness with the ease of someone who’s never needed a map, naming vague landmarks with the casual grace of someone expecting the road to rise just because he’s ready to walk it.

As someone who has mastered the art of minding your own business, you don’t call out this behavior. As long as he gets you someplace you can call help from, Rafayel is free to be a weirdo.

But you do press him for information.

“She has lavender near the steps, and her door is the color of the sea,” he offers, like that narrows it down. “The path smells of sage sometimes, if the wind’s right. And there’s a stone shaped like a sleeping dog near the turn — you have to squint a little. The house groans when it’s too warm. There’s a wind chime that only rings when someone she doesn’t like shows up. And the garden gate bites if you don’t know how to open it.”

Not helpful. But then he refuses to add anything else more along the lines of fucking common sense and normal people direction-giving. What does he expect, the scent alone pulling you in the right direction if you just walk long enough?

And maybe he's right. Maybe you're the weird one for expecting something as formal as an address out here. If this really is a private island, there might only be one house. Maybe 'lavender and a blue door' is all anyone needs. Maybe people out here remember things by the curve of the land and the way the air smells after rain.

It isn’t a real plan. It’s the shape of a promise, just strange enough to follow, just vivid enough to believe in for a little while. The way he speaks about it, there’s no room for doubt, and you’ve learned to believe in the word of a local in all your years of living around the archipelago.

So you follow.

The pelt shifts when he moves, catching bits of drift and sand, trailing slightly as he walks beside you through the underbrush. He doesn’t shiver, unlike you. And that makes sense, considering how warm and cozy you were when that thing was your blanket when you first woke up.

The morning light hasn’t yet burned the fog from the trees, and the forest path ahead is dappled in grey. Your boots sink into the softened moss with a squelch. His bare feet barely make a sound, but your skin does hear something because of your wet socks.

You glance sideways at him. No wince, no flinch, not even when he steps straight on a gnarled root that would have you cursing in three languages.

“Seriously?” you mutter. “You don’t even feel that?”

“I’ve walked stranger paths,” he says. Great.

You stop walking with a groan. The wind catches your soaked clothes, cutting straight through to the bone. Your arms are already shaking.

“Okay. New plan.”

He watches as you crouch in front of him, back turned.

You look over your shoulder with an encouraging gesture for him, “Climb on.”

He tilts his head. “Huh?”

“Piggyback. You're barefoot, this path is hell, and I'm freezing. Carrying weight warms you up.”

“Absolutely not.”

“You're not that heavy, and I’ve hauled crates bigger than you off ferries for years. So. Just. Climb on.”

He makes a strangled noise. “I didn’t learn bipedalism just to be carried like a pup by you!”

Such drama. There really is no time for this and you’re not in the mood for negotiations.

You grab one of his wrists and tug it over your shoulder. His entire hand twitches in response. “If it makes you feel better, this is entirely me being selfish. I want to get warm.”

He hesitates, and it’s not pride, he keeps glancing at your side, where the torn side of your turtleneck still clings damp and darkened. His hands hover like he might stop you.

“You’re not healed,” he mutters. “Not properly.”

You hitch his arm higher on your shoulder. “It’s fine.”

“That wound’s still raw.”

“So are my fingers. Cold does that.”

He makes a frustrated noise.

“Listen, enough with courtesy stuff, okay? I don’t care, I’m freezing,” you cut in. “And you don’t have shoes. We’re both going to be miserable either way, so pick your poison.”

He sighs, dragging it out. Eventually, he caves, muttering something under his breath that could be an insult but could also be a compliment. He hoists himself up, arms settling uncertainly around your shoulders, pelt-covered legs bracketing your hips, and you make sure he won’t slip away from your grip because of the material. You’re trekking along the forest in no time, feeling pleasantly distracted from the cold.

“This is deeply undignified,” he mutters.

“And being inexplicably naked in front of a stranger isn’t? Where and why did you lose your clothes anyway? You still haven’t told.”

There’s no response, except from a huff he lets out from his nose, which fondly reminds you of Raf. It must be a tale particularly embarrassing for him to tell, and he did have the fur to make it up for, so you once again don’t pry. Master of minding your own business.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought. Get comfortable.”

He doesn’t. He sits stiffly at first, as though unsure how much weight he’s allowed to give you. Then he starts shifting. Sighing. Squirming. Grumbling under his breath about the jostling, the pace, the way your shoulder bone is probably bruising his ribs.

"You walk uneven," he complains after the first bend. "See, it hurts after all, yeah? Put me down."

"It's a forest," you grit out. "The ground walks uneven."

"I wish you would listen for once."

"That's a wasted wish on a star. You've known me for like what, fifteen minutes?"

He exhales through his nose again, slow and beleaguered. No witty answer to that one, it seems.

The longer you walk, the more he settles. His complaining slows into occasional muttering, then thoughtful silence. The forest begins to close in around you. Damp leaves brush your arms. The world smells of pine sap, wet bark, and something almost metallic beneath the rot. The silence here is dense, broken only by the soft rhythm of your boots against the ground and the occasional rustle of something unseen in the undergrowth.

Then his voice, soft and close beside your ear: “Do you name the trails you take at sea? Or are they just known to you?”

“What?”

“The water routes. The ones you steer the ferry along. Do they have names?”

He’s talking about sea lanes. You’re about to question how he doesn’t know these things, considering he’s a fisherman, but remember he might not be one. His aunt owns an island. This is a rich kid who probably wanted to fish and got the locals involved in his request.

“They’ve got designations. Letters, numbers. Eights and alphas and things like that. But most of us just… call ’em what we call ’em.”

“Like?”

You think a moment, breath fogging in the damp air. “There’s Shiverstretch. That’s the fast cold current between Dolos and Ternhook. Everyone calls it that ’cause it’s a backslap to the face, especially on the morning runs. And there’s Dead Hour Channel — no wind, no sound, just this long, empty drift. Makes you paranoid that something’s watching. I don’t like that one.”

You feel him shift slightly on your back, listening.

“There’s Longshout,” you add. “Named after a guy who tried to boat through in a storm and ended up yelling for help the whole way ‘til he ran aground on Fallow Reef.”

Rafayel snorts quietly. “That one sounds personal.”

“It is. He still works the east docks. Won’t shut up about it.”

“How do you find your way around, then? I always wondered. Do you read the water like seals do?”

“Reading the water is one way to put it, I guess. They’re charted. We use navigation systems. Landmarks. Depth markers.”

A pause. The trees rumble, disturbed by a sudden gust of wind, brittle leaves dropping pebbles onto the path in front of you. Rafayel shifts awkwardly behind you, almost toppling off to the left before righting himself with a steadying grip.

"Question," you say. "What indicators do you use? Chip on a tree or something?"

He whispers eventually, cheek lightly pressed against yours. You feel his eyes on you. "Smells."

You blink, twisting around to glance at him. He seems surprisingly somber all of a sudden. "Uhhh...."

"Just focus on the road, we're almost there. You'll see."

The path winds past the last of the scrub grass, and then it opens.

The trees fall away in a hush of damp leaves and saltlight, and there, cradled in the middle of the forest-clad small valley, is a sprawling, mansion of a house that doesn’t quite belongs to any century in particular. Can't be called old or modern. The word you’re looking for is neo-classical architecture made to be a beach house. Pale limestone, veined and sun-bitten, gleams beneath the overcast sky. Its walls are streaked with wind-carried brine, but the stone holds strong, weathered soft rather than worn down. And there is the giveaway Rafayel was talking about: blue door.

Lavender spills along the pathway in loose drifts, unruly and fragrant, tangling with sea-thrift and clover like the garden grew itself wild. Carved wooden shutters hang half-closed against the morning chill, and a curved archway frames the entry looks the part of a half-remembered temple. There’s something mythic about it, a story you were almost told once. A place that holds onto memory whether you want it to or not.

And then there’s the scent, ocean first, bright and sharp, but something warmer curling beneath it. Resin, maybe. Incense burned into the beams. Citrus oil in the wood grain.

You adjust your grip beneath Rafayel’s knees as you approach the door. Acting as a barrier between your bodies, his pelt is still slung down your back , trailing behind like a second spine, damp at the edges. He hasn’t said much since the last hill. Just rested his chin between your shoulder blades and hummed, quiet as tidewash.

You reach the first step. Hesitate. The house isn’t grand in the usual way, no columns, no gates, but there’s a heaviness to it. Not unfriendly, but expectant.

You knock.

Silence falls. The melted caramel of sunlight scatters through the dark glass in the windows. Rafayel shifts on your back, going rigid so suddenly it almost jolts you. His breath stills sharply against your spine, and in that single suspended moment, you can feel the piano wire of tension strung through his bones.

You don’t get the chance to ask why. Wood cracks loudly within the doorframe, and there's a pop, a groan, and then a soft, sweet creak as the lock disengages, allowing the door to slowly swing inward with an audible squeak.

The scent hits first, warm and strange. Spiced velvet, a whisper of cloves, dried orange peel, and something more ancient baked into the lintel wood. Then the figure behind it, unexpected.

For an “aunt,” she looks barely older than him. Mid-thirties, maybe, though it’s hard to tell. Her features are sharp, dignified, and her presence is a light cloud, wrapped in layered satin and lace shawl, white and lilac, all shot through with shimmer where the light catches on glinting jewelry. Her hair is swept back, rich violet and pinned with silver shells, and her eyes—

Dusty purple brightening with shock.

“Rafayel?” she breathes, her grip whitening on the frame. Her gaze darts down, takes in the sealskin clinging to your back, the way his taut arms still drape over your shoulders like iron bars. “Gods, is it really you? Look, look at you! Oh... oh!"

Rafayel slides off you, and she practically throws herself out the door as soon as the initial shock wears off, taking two long steps across the threshold until she's directly in front of you, cupping his cheeks with hands that only tremble the smallest bit. He meets her halfway, tilting his forehead to rest against hers as his own hands come up to gently caress her elbows, cradling them lightly. His motions are hesitant at first — touching with clear clumsiness, as if handling glass. But the moment she exhales an astonished little laugh, something changes, he pulls her close, tightening his grasp not to let her blow away on the wind. The woman leans fully against him then, looping her arms around his neck with a relieved shudder that shakes both their frames.

And you're there, a comical stick figure at the background of a well-drawn manga panel with a big arrow pointing at you.

You hope they won't hunt you for sport. Private island. Two eerily good looking family members. Girl who got deliberately delivered there when a closer island was the most blatant option. This has the potential to be a horror movie premise.

But no. Nope. Too late. She glances past his shoulder as soon as her embrace is complete and the silent reunion done with, locking eyes with you, and your soul flees your body, trying to squeeze itself back through your pores like some furtive worm to avoid the full brunt of her curious scrutiny.

She raises one perfectly shaped brow, but before either of you can exchange any words or reactions, Rafayel says something.

You say something, because it's in a language you don't know, one that doesn't bother to make itself easy, sharp at the edges, rounded at the core. It rolls out of his mouth, mist over moorland — thick, tangled, hard to follow. The stone-teeth syllables grind against each other, but every so often, they break open into something strange and sweet, the howl of a reed pipe carried on sea wind.

It just plays into the horror movie vibe because why would he blatantly switch language to probably speak about you, judging from the glance thrown your way, as if you aren't there? Probably conspiring how to eat you! You do feel like tenderized meat.

The woman hums again, a thoughtful note this time, and the conversation carries on in murmured exchanges of tone and gesture — softness here, a flicker of frustration there. And yet you can pinpoint the exact moment everything changes. Rafayel says something. But she draws back, cups his cheeks in her hands, and stares at him hard, searching. Whatever she finds isn’t enough, because she shakes her head once, firm, decisive. He asks again. Another shake, stronger this time, more insistent. Her fingers flex tight against his skin as if she means to hold him there, but he speaks again, something softer, fainter, and her hand relaxes, trembling on the edge of defeat. A faint frown crosses her face, a small downward curl that somehow turns the lines at the corner of her lips into parenthesis, closing off the shape of whatever she might have said next.

"Hey, uh," you finally intervene when their staring contest becomes too intense. They both startle, seeming to remember your existence at once. You smile nervously, holding one raised palm up in defense and nonthreatening greeting. "Sorry to interrupt, ma'am, but could I, um..." Your free hand gestures vaguely to indicate the general situation you find yourself in. "Use your phone? I don't mean to intrude or anything, I just. I got thrown over board during the storm, I don't even know if my ferry was capsized and I really, really need to get back—"

Rafayel says something else under his breath, hasty now, almost tripping over his words.

Her brows furrow in mild concern at his rambling. "Oh dear, I apologize, yes! Do forgive me for being impolite, I forgot myself for a moment there."

You nod politely in acknowledgment of her apology, lowering your arm hesitantly. "Not a problem, it happens."

"It's been so long since our house had guests," she admits candidly, placing an elegant hand over her heart in embarrassment. "Come, come in, please, you need a hot shower and change of clothes." She takes you by the arm and guides you inside. "You're drenched! Look at those goosebumps. Oh, you poor thing."

She leads you into a grand hallway filled with golden hour sunlight spilling through windows framed by sheer white curtains billowing lazily in the breeze, and it is not unlike stepping straight into the interior design section of an expensive department store. You could smell the money dripping off every nook, cranny, wall, and corner. If your wet socks were making muddy imprints on the flooring you knew you'd pass out from mortification on the spot. The floors here look pristine and polished enough for you to see your reflection clearly on its surface. Even the vase tucked neatly into the center of a glossy dark wood console table is worth more than your boat. Everything about this mansion is clean and orderly, it must be heaven on earth for a neat freak like your dad.

"He needs clothes the most, I think," you try to joke, letting her steer you through the main hall with wide curious steps and an awestruck stare. Rafayel, wherever he is behind you two, remains silent. You think he might have disappeared somewhere.

Her grip tightens around your arm like a mother hen dragging her chick into a coop to shelter from winter, her nails lightly digging into the sleeves of your sweater with a pleasant firmness that feels strangely grounding. "Don't worry about him, you focus on getting warmed up now."

"Thanks, ummm..." you begin, hoping it's polite to ask for her name while inside her home. But before you could continue, she turns to regard you with a serene smile — so gentle and graceful she could've been sculpted from marble if it weren't for her very lively personality. She smells nice, too. Floral. Very floral. The same kind of perfume bottle your aunt kept on display near her sewing machine that you stole a few sniffs of when Grandma wasn't looking.

Her attention is summer afternoon sunbeams on your chilled skin. "You can call me Talia.”

[writesvani]

down low | 02

boxer! jungkook x collegestudent! reader

SUMMARY: There's no love, there are no fights with Jungkook—just a twisted addiction that keeps you crawling back. You tell yourselves it’s not toxic. After all, you never argue, never get jealous. Just fuck, lie, and slip back into the arms of the people who will never know.

It’s not love.

But it sure as hell isn’t nothing.

friends with benefits au, situationship au

TRIGGER WARNINGS: cheating, drug use (weed), smoking, explicit sexual content, emotionally toxic relationship, manipulation, infidelity (jk and y/n are cheating on their partners with each other), unhealthy coping mechanisms, morally gray behavior, emotional detachment

comment here for the Down Low taglist;

SERIES M. LIST;

— previous chapter // next chapter (pending...)

wc: 4k // date: 25th of April 2025

CHAPTER TWO — Inhaling You, Exhaling Guilt; happy reading my gummies...

AN: hey besties. new “down low” chapter is here and it’s unwell, just like me. this was supposed to be a 15k word monster but i said absolutely not and chopped it into 3 parts—so yeah, this ends on a cliffhanger. no sex yet. i’m sorry. (i’m not.)

BUT the tension? the dynamic? it’s sizzling. they’re one touch away from absolute disaster and i love that for them.

left some easter eggs in there too, so if you catch ‘em, scream at me in the comments or my asks. i’m lurking.

note goal is 600 bc you’re all feral and i believe in peer pressure. hit it and you’ll get part 2 real fast.

read. suffer. tell me your thoughts. love u forever, even while emotionally tormenting you.

The shift is... just another day. The usual crowd of regulars is here, sipping their espressos and making small talk that you would rather skip entirely. The day has been routine too—classes, a quick lunch with Taehyung, then straight into work. It’s all repetitive. It’s boring. And the worst part? You’re counting down the minutes until you can sprint to Jungkook’s apartment the second your shift ends at 10pm. You hate it. You crave it. And Jungkook’s not making it any easier.

Because right now, you're standing there, phone in your clammy hands, staring at a picture he just had to send you. Jungkook, in the middle of his boxing practice, hair messy, tattoos peeking out from his oversized black shirt, a cigarette hanging from his lips like he owns the damn world. He’s standing outside—because Namjoon doesn’t let him smoke inside (honestly, who’s the athlete here?)—but Jungkook looks so fucking good you almost forget where you are.

He knows it too. He knows exactly what he’s doing. That picture isn’t just a tease; it’s a reminder. A reminder that you should be thinking about being in his bed, not focusing on perfecting lattes. But here you are, trying to breathe through the urge to drop everything and run to him.

You can’t focus anymore. Your brain is mush, your hands are clumsy, and the espresso machine might as well be a spaceship for how little you're processing. You accidentally make an espresso instead of a double one for Mark—the sweet old man who comes in daily and tips in coins like it’s 1993. He stares at you like you just insulted his entire bloodline. You apologize, mutter something about being tired, and shuffle back to your station.

But your hands are twitchy. Your eyes dart to your phone every two seconds. Still nothing. Jungkook hasn’t sent anything else—no texts, no pics, no emojis. Just that one, cursed, sinfully sexy picture of him looking like every wrong decision you’ve ever made and wanted to make again.

And now? Now you’re stuck. One hour left of your shift and your brain is spiraling. You’re mentally unwell. Not in a tragic, poetic way. In a feral, "why isn't he texting me back when I clearly need to ride his face into next week" kind of way. You're restless. Desperate. Left alone with your thoughts and an absolutely unhinged amount of need clawing its way through your body like a caffeine-craving demon.

Only your message stares back at you, mocking, lingering, and gnawing at the edges of your sanity. It’s there, like a cruel joke, one that you can’t stop laughing at even though it’s slowly driving you insane.

you: stop teasing me kook

And then, nothing. Not a single reply. Left on read. Just like always.

Jungkook has this game down to a science, doesn't he? The art of push and pull—never fails to leave you dangling on the edge of your patience, teetering on the line between wanting to strangle him and wanting him to do the same to you. You’re on the verge of losing it, fingertips hovering over your phone, waiting for the next message that might never come. He knows exactly what he’s doing. It’s like a power play, a twisted form of control that drives you crazy in ways you can’t even put into words.

Every time you’re about to meet up with him, just when you think you’re close, he disappears. Doesn’t answer. Doesn’t care. Leaves you with nothing but your own burning desire and a game you never agreed to play. It makes you want to scream.

And it makes you want him more.

But despite the shrill, maddening thrill of his little game, there's one thing you're sure of—Jungkook wants it. Wants you. And that’s what makes him predictable. Comfortably so. It’s the only thread of stability in this whole mess. Because no matter how long he leaves you on read, no matter how quiet he goes, as soon as the clock strikes 10PM and your shift ends, like clockwork, your phone pings.

JK: when will u be here?

You smirk, your fingers moving fast.

you: 20 minutes

He waits. Not long. Just enough to keep the suspense alive. Just enough to remind you that he’s still in control.

JK: kk, see u baby

And that’s all it takes. You're spiraling again—but this time, you're sprinting into it willingly.

Jungkook smirks as he opens the door, like he’s been waiting his whole life just to make you roll your eyes. He leans against the frame with that infuriating ease, one hand—the tattooed one—tucked into the pocket of his grey sweats. His hair’s still damp, messy in that way that makes you suspicious he’s doing it on purpose. He smells like wood, citrus, and a hundred bad decisions. His black oversized shirt hangs just right on his frame, clinging to his shoulders, draping like it has no idea it's breaking rules just by existing.

And fuck him. Fuck him for looking that good.

“You’re late,” he drawls, head tilted, eyes dragging down your body like he has all the time in the world.

You raise a brow. “Didn’t you say I should be here until 11pm? It’s only like, half past ten.”

He shrugs, lips curling. “I did say that. But you always come earlier. I know you wanna see me as soon as you can.”

You scoff, pushing past him. “Jesus, Jungkook. Knock it off and let me in.”

He laughs behind you. Slow. Knowing. Dangerous.

You flop down onto his sofa like it’s your own personal throne. There are new pink pillows you don’t recognize. With a lazy smile, you say, “Cute pillows.”

“Thanks, baby. Eunji got them from IKEA the other day.”

You nod, lips curling. “Noted. I should tell Tae—these would totally match his softboy vibes.”

Jungkook drops down beside you, digging into his pocket like he’s searching for treasure. You already know what’s coming. Sure enough, a small greenish bud peeks out from a crumpled tissue.

“Didn’t know we were smoking tonight,” you murmur, eyeing him.

He shrugs, effortlessly picking the bud apart with skilled fingers. The way he moves is distracting. Methodical. Confident. Hot.

You shift in your seat, trying to ignore the tightening in your core.

“When are we not smoking?” he says with a smirk, not looking up.

“True,” you mumble, sinking back into the soft fluff of Eunji’s precious IKEA pillows. Silly girl. She has no idea the kind of things they’re about to witness.

You glance up—and Jungkook is watching you. Of course he is. Eyes hooded, a smirk ghosting his lips, like he’s waiting. Like he’s daring you to say or do something.

Then, slowly—so slowly—his tongue drags across the rolling paper.

He knows what he’s doing. And he does it anyway. On purpose.

You watch, helpless, skin prickling, heat curling low in your stomach. It’s obscene the way he licks it—like it’s not even about the joint anymore, like it’s about you. About this.

And the worst part? You’re not strong enough to look away.

You’ve never been strong when it comes to Jeon Jungkook.

“What?” Jungkook asks, one brow raised as he brings the freshly rolled joint to his lips like it’s second nature.

“Nothing,” you mutter, eyes tracking the flame as it flickers, kissing the end of the joint. He inhales deep, the ember glowing bright red before he exhales slowly, like it’s an artform. Smoke curls out of his mouth in slow, lazy tendrils, and you’re already annoyed at how sexy he looks doing the bare minimum.

He grins — cocky, annoying, knowing — and pats the cushion beside him like he owns the place. Like he owns you. You don’t even hesitate. You shift closer, tucking your legs beneath you, pretending you don’t care that your thigh brushes his.

Jungkook takes another drag, then coughs lightly, voice raspy as he waves off the moment with a half-laugh. “Okay, don’t clown me. This shit’s stronger than I thought.” His eyes squint just slightly, like he’s studying you. “So… uh, how’re your friends? Lena and Bob, right?”

You stare at him flatly. “It’s Lara and Rob. Do you seriously not remember their names after all this time?”

He shrugs like it’s not a big deal, but the smirk playing on his lips tells you he’s doing it on purpose. Just to get a rise out of you. “Close enough. They doing okay?”

You sigh. This is the worst part. The awkward five minutes of half-assed small talk before the inevitable. Before the high kicks in and his hands are on your skin. The two of you always dance around it — pretend like this isn’t transactional, like this isn’t just desire dressed up as casual banter.

“Lara just broke up with her boyfriend,” you say, grabbing the joint from him and taking a slow hit.

Jungkook leans back into the couch, one arm draped along the back of it, watching you. “Oh, the dude who studies Econ?”

You blink at him. “What? No. That was like… two years ago. This one studies Law.”

His mouth drops slightly. “Wait, hold up. Are you telling me we’ve been doing this for two years?”

You don’t say anything at first. Just pass the joint back and exhale a laugh, soft and a little bitter. “Yeah. Way before Taehyung and me.”

He tilts his head. “Shit. I forgot you even dated Kai.”

You chuckle. “Jungkook, we started hooking up way before Kai. Don’t act like you don’t remember.”

He stares at you for a beat, the room quiet except for the faint buzz of the overhead light and the sound of the joint crackling in his hand.

“So,” he says slowly, lips quirking, “what I’m hearing is — you’ve basically cheated on everyone with me.”

There’s something infuriating about how pleased he looks with himself. You raise an eyebrow, snatch the joint from his fingers again and hold it between yours like a crown jewel.

“Wouldn’t you like that,” you say, lips curling into a lazy smile. Smoke drifts out from between your lips. You don’t break eye contact.

His smirk deepens. “I do like it.”

You roll your eyes, but your stomach twists anyway. Because God help you, so do you.

“So, what’s up with you?” you ask, tilting your head as you hold the joint between two fingers, eyes flickering toward his. The smoke rolls from your lips like a sigh, curling into the space between you like a secret.

Jungkook shrugs, leaning back deeper into the couch, his arm brushing yours just barely. “Nothing much. Just chilling. Boxing and all that.”

You hum, eyebrows raising with mild amusement. “Wow. Riveting stuff.”

He shoots you a lazy grin. “You asked.”

“Yeah, and I keep forgetting that you’re emotionally unavailable until at least two joints in.”

He laughs, soft and warm, and it does something to you that you don’t want to look too closely at. You pass the joint back to him and try not to stare at the veins on his hand or the ink decorating his fingers like poetry you were never meant to read.

For someone whose body you know so intimately—every line, every scar, every sound he makes when you kiss the right places—you know next to nothing about his life. And that’s part of the deal. Or maybe the whole deal.

Jungkook takes a drag and blows it out slowly. “What about you?” he asks. “How’s the glamorous life of overworked and underpaid?”

You snort. “The usual. College, work, crying in coffee-scented bathrooms.”

He chuckles again, eyes crinkling, and it hits you how rare it is to see him smile like that when you're not on top of him.

You glance down at your nails, picking at a chipped corner of polish. “Tae and I are going on a small trip next weekend.”

That gets his attention. “Yeah? Where to?”

“Dunno yet. Probably something basic. Mountains or a lake house. Just wanna get out of the city for a bit.”

Jungkook nods slowly, lips parting like he wants to say something more, but he doesn’t. Just lets silence settle between you again.

You don’t push him. You never do.

“This reminds me…” Jungkook says, plucking the joint from your fingers like he owns it—and in moments like these, he kind of does. He leans back, smoke curling around his face like it knows he’s trouble. “Eunji wants me to meet her mom next weekend.”

You scoff, tilting your head. “Damn, dude. How are you gonna survive that?”

He grins around the joint. “Bruh. I’m perfect meet-the-mother material.”

You snort. “Right. Because mothers love tattooed boxers who smell like weed and moral ambiguity.”

“Whatever,” he says, exhaling smoke like it offends him. “You’re such a hater.”

“Not a hater. Just realistic.”

He glances at you, amusement twitching at the corners of his lips. “You think I’m not charming enough?”

You deadpan, “I think you’re more lie-to-your-daughter’s-face material.”

He bursts out laughing, tipping his head back. “Shit, that’s fair.”

You smile, watching him. He’s still hot when he laughs. Annoying, infuriatingly hot.

“But yeah,” he adds, voice dropping a little, “that probably won’t be happening. I’ll have to lie my way out of that one.”

You give him a dry look. “Thank god you’re a good liar.”

He smirks, eyes flickering to yours. “You’d know.”

“God,” you say, eyes fixed on the ceiling, “can you imagine if Eunji actually found out?”

Jungkook exhales a puff of smoke, slow and smug. “She’d kill me. And probably come for you too.”

“She wouldn’t even get the chance. Tae would commit murder first.”

He hums, passing you the joint. “Tae’s scary when he’s mad.”

You take it, inhale deep. “He is indeed. Have you seen his stare? That’s not normal. That’s serial killer energy.”

Jungkook laughs. “Yeah, and yet you still cozy up to him like he’s a weighted blanket.”

“You’re just jealous he takes me on cute brunch dates and actually remembers my birthday.”

“Wow,” he gasps dramatically. “Are you implying I’m not boyfriend material?”

You look him up and down, slow and deliberate. “I’m saying you’re situationship in denial material.”

He bites his lip to hide his grin. “That’s rich coming from you. Miss I’m loyal to my boyfriend except for every time I text you at 2 a.m.”

You groan. “Don’t act like you don’t eat it up.”

“Oh, I do,” he smirks, shifting closer, “especially when you come over all pouty, pretending this isn’t your favorite part of the week.”

You narrow your eyes. “You talk too much.”

“You like it.”

“Unfortunately,” you mutter, flicking ash into the tray.

He leans in, voice soft and cocky, “Bet Tae doesn’t make you squirm with just words.”

You look at him, a smirk tugging at your lips. “Bet Eunji doesn’t know you like being choked a little.”

He raises a brow, but doesn’t deny it. “Touché.”

“And for the record,” you whisper, fingers brushing his thigh, “you’re not boyfriend material. You’re just my favorite craving.”

He grins, low and dangerous. “That’s the sexiest compliment I’ve ever gotten.”

“You know,” Jungkook starts, tapping the ash off the joint, “sometimes I think Eunji likes the idea of me more than she likes me.”

You snort. “Well, you do post thirst traps and quote Nietzsche in your captions. Anyone would fall for the illusion.”

He gasps, mock-offended. “Are you saying I’m a fraud?”

“I’m saying you’re a curated experience.”

“Damn,” he laughs, nudging your thigh with his knee. “And yet here you are, front row, backstage pass, meet and greet.”

You shoot him a look, amused. “I never said I wasn’t a fan.”

He smirks. “You’re more than a fan. You’re the president of the Jungkook is a Bad Idea But God He’s Good in Bed club.”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” you say, even though your grin is impossible to hide. “I’m vice president, at best.”

“Oh really? Who’s president then?”

You take a long drag, pretending to think. “My vibrator. That one never leaves me on read.”

He laughs so hard he coughs, waving smoke out of his face. “Okay, okay.”

You lean in, eyes gleaming. “Bet Eunji doesn’t make you laugh like this.”

He quiets, a lazy smile tugging at his lips. “She doesn’t make me laugh like this. Or moan like you do.”

You blink, caught off guard. “That was dangerously close to being sweet.”

“Don’t worry,” he teases, eyes dragging down your body, “I’ll say something trashy in two seconds.”

You chuckle. “You always do.”

“Maybe it’s a defense mechanism.”

“Maybe you’re emotionally constipated.”

“Maybe,” he murmurs, watching you, “but you like me better that way, don’t you?”

You don’t answer, but your silence is loud enough. And Jungkook hears every part of it.

He shifts closer. The joint is forgotten now, burning down between his fingers. His eyes drop to your mouth for a second too long, like he’s deciding if it’s worth it. Like kissing you is both a gamble and a given.

“You didn’t answer,” he says, voice lower, teasing, but almost careful.

You tilt your head. “About what?”

“Me being emotionally constipated. You liking me better that way.”

You smirk, but there’s a beat of honesty in your next words. “I don’t like you better that way. I just… like you.”

His gaze flickers—like the words hit somewhere deeper than you meant them to. And for a second, neither of you says anything. The tension isn’t new, but this feels… heavier. Messier.

“You’re dangerous when you say shit like that,” he murmurs.

You smile. “And you’re dangerous when you don’t.”

He drops the joint into the ashtray and leans in like gravity's pulling him toward you. His nose brushes yours. His breath smells like weed and cinnamon gum and something distinctly him.

“Last chance to stop me,” he says, voice so low it vibrates in your chest.

You blink slowly. “Last chance to kiss me before I change my mind.”

He chuckles—just a breath—and then closes the distance. His lips press to yours, soft but certain. There’s no hesitation this time. No teasing. Just warmth and the kind of familiarity that should scare you but doesn’t.

You kiss him back, one hand curling into the front of his shirt, the other finding his jaw. He tilts his head, deepens the kiss, sighs into your mouth like he’s been waiting all day for this exact moment.

And maybe he has.

When you pull back, slightly breathless, his eyes are still on yours. “So…” he whispers, “was that emotionally constipated, or…?”

You grin. “Still very much constipated. But in, like, a hot way.”

He groans. “You’re the worst.”

“And yet,” you say, tugging him back down, “you’re still kissing me.”

And he is. Again and again.

He kisses you again, but this time it’s messier. His hand slips to the back of your neck, pulling you in like he can’t stand the space between you, like it’s a personal offense. Your mouths crash together, lips sliding, breath hitching. It’s not soft anymore—it’s hungry. The kind of kiss that bruises, that says everything neither of you will ever admit out loud.

Your fingers tangle in his hair, still damp, pulling just hard enough to make him groan into your mouth. He kisses like he fights—like he needs to win, like he needs to ruin you a little just to feel okay again. His tongue grazes your bottom lip and you open for him without thinking, without hesitating.

“Fuck,” he mutters into your mouth, “you taste so good.”

You don’t even respond—you’re too busy climbing into his lap, straddling him like it’s muscle memory. His hands find your hips, gripping hard. Like he’s grounding himself. Like he needs the pressure of your body against his or he’ll fall apart completely.

Your lips are swollen already, your breathing ragged, but neither of you stops. Teeth clash a little, tongues fighting, his hand sliding up under your shirt to find skin. It’s clumsy, intense, addictive. You break the kiss just to catch your breath, only to dive back in like you’re starving for him. Like you’ll die if he’s not kissing you.

“Fuck, baby,” Jungkook groans, lips trailing down to your jaw, your throat. “What are we even doing?”

You pant against his skin, fingers clawing at his shirt. “Being so bad.”

He laughs, breathless, mouth still on your neck. “The best kind.”

And then he kisses you again—hard, deep, messy like a confession neither of you dares to say out loud.

He kisses you like he needs it to breathe. Like it’s not just a kiss—it’s survival.

Your mouths crash again, sloppy and desperate. It’s the kind of kiss that makes your teeth bump and your lips burn, the kind that leaves your head spinning. Jungkook’s hand is cradling your jaw now, thumb brushing your cheek as if that could balance out the chaos happening between your mouths. Spoiler: it can’t.

Your hands are roaming—up his chest, into his hair, pulling him closer when he’s already close enough to melt into. He shifts under you, groaning low in his throat when your hips accidentally roll forward. His fingers dig into your thighs like he’s trying not to lose it.

“Fuck,” he hisses, breaking the kiss just long enough to catch your eyes. His pupils are blown wide, lips red and shiny, jaw clenched like he's trying to get a grip. “You’re gonna kill me.”

“Good,” you whisper, yanking him back in.

This time, the kiss is slower—but not softer. It’s a drag of tongues, a teasing nip to his bottom lip, a moan you try to swallow when he licks into your mouth just right. Your nails scrape his neck and he shudders, pulling you tighter against him. Your chest presses flush with his and neither of you can tell where one ends and the other begins.

You don’t know how long it goes on. Minutes? Hours? A lifetime? You’re half in his lap, legs tangled, hair a mess, and breath coming in short, needy gasps. And yet he’s still kissing you like he doesn’t care about oxygen. Like nothing else matters.

And maybe right now, in this twisted little moment where everything is all heat and tongue and hands that won’t stop wandering—you believe him.

He kisses you between sentences—like the conversation is an afterthought, like talking about other people while kissing you is normal. Maybe for you two, it is.

"Does Eunji ever kiss you like this?" you mumble against his lips, barely giving him space to breathe.

He lets out a breathless laugh, teeth grazing your bottom lip before he tugs it. "No. She kisses like she's saying goodbye all the time."

You pause at that, then kiss him again—harder. His hands settle on your waist, dragging you closer.

"And Taehyung?" he whispers into your mouth. "He still hold your hand when you sleep?"

"Sometimes," you pant, mouth brushing the corner of his. "Only when he's not too tired."

Jungkook hums against your skin, mouth trailing down to your jaw, then your neck. "Do you miss it?"

You tilt your head, let him kiss down to your collarbone. "No," you whisper honestly, then pull him back up by the chin to kiss him again. It’s messier now. Hungrier. Your lips glide against each other like you’re both trying to erase the names you just said.

"She makes me breakfast, you know," he murmurs between kisses, "Packs fruit in little containers like a mom."

You lick into his mouth, teeth grazing his tongue just slightly. “You ever think about her when we do this?”

“Only when you’re being mean,” he teases, nipping at your lip. “You?”

"Only when I feel guilty," you admit, then kiss him deeper—because guilt can wait.

His hands are tracing foreign paths under your shirt, his mouth never leaving yours, like he’s punishing you for every moment you spend talking about anyone that isn’t him.

"Fuck," he groans, pressing his forehead to yours, lips still brushing yours with every word. “We’re the worst.”

You kiss him again. “I know.”

But neither of you stop.

taglist part 1: @mochi13 @wobblewobble822 @jkvamp @sunnikthv @kimyishin @asyr97 @pjmname @shesscorpio7 @daarla07 @jeontids @bellefaerie @kissyfacekoo @lily-lilacsky @bammbi-jeon127 @httpjeonlicious @belleilichil @minghaosimp @marrtyaa @septemberskies @yok00k @ioanatodorova @rokshi @b2407 @boommoom @kookienooki @avawants2havefun @bhonbhon @taekritimin123 @oraiseok @thenamesathy @superchamchi88 @lenamercedesworld @candygalx @notsevenwithyou @heesuvk @ahgasegotarmy116 @jeonsinsatiablekitten @saki-gojo @piratekingateez2001 @0-0rot @bangatanily @justbelljust @plusultra0 @softhaes @bangtanily @justbelljust @gguk-lvr @gukkie7 @beomluvrr @iamworldwidehandsome

[fligniuz]

pleasure doing business with you

luigi mangione x reader

｡𖦹°‧ you’re a broke college student in a pinch. but not to worry; you’ve found someone willing to help.

word count: 14k (sorry?😭) • part of a spoonful of sugar (read here!) • nsfw • read on ao3

tag list : @mangionebabymama , @mangobabygirl , @jenisaswift13 , @mangionesdaisy , @iinfinitelimits , @daydreamingwithluigi , @mrs-cactus69 , @mashkatzi , @straw8berry , @bean-is-reading (comment to be added)

warnings : f! reader; EXPLICIT; sugar daddy AU; some OCs; unironic use of the word “brunch”; ⚠️DADDY KINK⚠️; luigi calls U “princess”; praise; oral (m! + f! receiving); some spanking

notes : hi ok i’m so excited to post this pls let me know if U like this and want me to post more of Him because i have more sugar daddy ideas💚💚

In your defense, you’re broke as hell.

That’s a blunt way of putting it. To be more direct: you are a twenty-something college student barely scraping by on financial aid and tips from your opening shift at Hilton’s Cityscape, on top of the typical, abysmal, average salary of a bartender. You live in a somewhat cheap apartment at 1 Powell Street with your cat, Butters; you sleep on a stiff mattress and survive off the local Panda Express and suffer through the chilly nights—hell will freeze over before your landlord fixes the AC. You go to class and your shifts and barely get your bills paid each month, not unlike most of the nation, and you try. You try to smile and enjoy and appreciate what you have, even if it’s next to nothing.

The good news? You’re hot.

Not because of the shitty AC. You’re hot in the colloquial sense. You were blessed with all the features other women your age pray for, a natural beauty—something quite normal to see in San Francisco, but you have something rare to offer, too: a personality. You’ve got the looks and the brains. You are what people who are too polite would call “conventionally attractive”. You’ve got it going on. You are it.

So, what do hot women who are strapped for cash in San Francisco do? 

They go to Red Velvet on Bryant Street, of course.

What the fuck is Red Velvet? is exactly what you ask Sheri when she thinks out loud to you at 3:36 one afternoon.

Sheri looks at you like you’ve grown two heads.

“Red Velvet,” she starts, “is the hottest bar for sugar daddies in SF. It’s always overflowing with guys who have too much money than they know what to do with—big tech CEOs and bankers and those types.”

“Right,” you nod, listening attentively. “So you think I should pick up a sugar daddy.”

“Well…” Sheri swipes the rag she’s holding over another glass swiftly. “I think you should pick up a sugar daddy safely.”

“Have you had one before?” you ask.

Sheri is your favorite co-worker. She’s older than you, closer to her fifties, and she is nothing if not an adventurous woman. You’ve heard many a stories of bad sex and strange men, collected over her years of hopping around the West Coast—a wonderful distraction from the equally strange men that often find themselves visiting your place of employment.

“A sugar daddy?” She laughs, grabs another glass from the dirty dish rack. “Honey, I was far too busy for that in my heydays. But a few of my girlfriends dabble in that space.”

You lean forward with your chin in your hand. “Do they like it?”

“I know a friend who’s got an arrangement with some politician from Washington,” Sheri says. “She hasn’t paid for anything in two years. I always see her wearing the gaudiest shit—fur coats and Balenciaga and shiny jewelry. She’s happy. Real happy.”

You smile to yourself.

“Sometimes,” she adds, “he lets her take some of us out to dinner with her. And, not to sound prissy, but the whole ‘fine dining’ thing? Just doesn’t make sense to me.”

“What?” You furrow your brows. “What don’t you like about it?”

“The portions are just too damn small!” she exclaims, face holding genuine resentment as she speaks—you’ve always appreciated her expressiveness. “The staff is always nice, but there’s just not enough food, if you ask me.”

That makes sense. Sheri loves her food. You do too, honestly.

“You think a sugar daddy would take me to McDonald’s?” you joke, giggling at her snort.

She shrugs it off—but you could find out.

That’s exactly what you decide to do one Saturday night, waltzing up to Red Velvet in the best dress you own: a flattering jade green with ribbing around the torso and a tight fit on the hips. To be completely transparent, you are nervous; you’re quite used to male attention, used to handling it with grace and respect for yourself, but this spot is an entirely new environment with entirely new patrons. You don’t know what to expect. You have an idea of what a sugar daddy is, what he looks like and how he acts and dresses and speaks, but it’s quite different to encounter one in the wild. People only ever do this kind of thing online, you think.

You scan the scene. There are mostly men of varying, typically older age, but there are some women, too, mainly concentrated at the bar to your left. Eye candy. Probably not regulars. You conclude that this must be your best bet, and so you grab a seat at the far end, looking over the menu and deciding on something simple: a gin and tonic.

And for a while, you enjoy it in a comfortable silence, sipping and appreciating the scenery, the ostentatious decor and dim lighting and cursive signage. It’s definitely the kind of bar that rich guys would frequent, more specifically sugar daddies, if the guests in attendance weren’t proof enough.

But your expectations are firmly challenged when you are approached by your first man of the night.

Well, not quite approached. Rather, he comes up to order, and you are at the bar—so naturally, your eyes meet and your paths cross. You survey your catch and quickly find that he is different; most of the men at Red Velvet are fifties-to-sixties, not particularly attractive (definitely not without its silver foxes, though!), typically already accompanied by a woman. This man, though…He catches your eye. He’s young, perhaps even close to your age, and he’s fit, and he’s fine. He is fine as a motherfucker, indeed. At first you peg him as a Montgomery Street type, maybe a stock trade guy—but despite his current location, ordering a drink at this high-end sugar daddy outfit, this man looks unconstrained; put together but certainly not flashy. His suit is as simple as his choice of beverage—a banana daiquiri—and the first words he utters to you are modest but direct:

“You’re wearing green.”

That you are. 

You turn to him, face kind but slightly puzzled. “Yup. Green.”

He explains: “Forgive my candor. Green is my favorite color—I never see women as pretty as you wearing it, though.” 

Oh, so he’s slick.

“I’m flattered,” you say with a smile. “Thank you.”

Looking him in the eye, you can get a much better picture of this man, even in the low light of the bar. His hair is curly, wild, begging for hands to touch and pet and pull, and his eyebrows are just as sharp as his jawline and the bridge of his nose. He’s clean-shaven, for the most part, but a neat five o’clock shadow is growing in on his jaw and under his chin; you imagine, briefly, how that stubble might feel against your lips, your neck, your—

“May I ask what brings you here?” he inquires. “It’s not often this place is blessed with such beauty.”

Man, he’s persistent, isn’t he? You tuck your hair behind your ear and rest your chin on top of your clasped hands.

“Are you here often?” you ask. It’s best to scope out any danger before you get down to business—as a young woman, you learned that the hard way. This guy could be a creeper, for all you know, picking up girls at niche bars and taking them home to chop up or god knows what.

He grins, traces the rim of his glass. “How’d you think I could point out a newbie so easily?”

You smile back.

“Do you live in the area?” he asks.

You definitely don’t. Bryant Street is twenty minutes out from the lofts at Powell. You’re starting to wonder if maybe newcomers aren’t welcome at Red Velvet; perhaps this man didn’t come to flirt. Perhaps he’s sniffing you out, keeping the turf safe from intrusion.

“Close enough,” you lie. “I work in the area.”

It isn’t that crazy of a fib—Cityscape is only an eight minute drive from here.

“Well, where do you work?”

Fuck. Fuck. Might as well stick to reality as much as you can, right? 

“I bartend at Ernest,” you say, sipping your drink. Ernest is more of a fine dining establishment than a bar, but it’s on Bryant—albeit further down the street—so it works. Sheri has mentioned grabbing drinks there before. It surprises you that you even remembered Ernest exists.

He nods, seemingly trusting. “Is it a nice place? I’ve never been, but some of my buddies have.”

You shrug. “It pays. You get pretty tired of all the sexual harassment after a while, though.”

He laughs—a soft but warm chuckle, his dimpled smile practically reaching his ears.

You’ve always liked being able to make men laugh. It helps quite a lot when they’re this handsome.

“What about you?” you ask. “Do you work around here?”

“In the city,” he answers simply. “I do data for TrueCar. Not very special.”

Ah. You’ve heard of it in passing, probably online, but you don’t know much beneath the surface. Admittedly, it does sound pretty boring. You imagine cars have to be involved, which is a bit surprising—car salesman is a certain type, and this guy is not it. Data must mean he’s either a statistics or computer science major, which aren’t the most promising career paths as far as money goes—but he is in California, which might mean he got lucky.

“And how is that working out for you?” you ask, stirring your gin and tonic.

“It pays,” he says, mirroring you. “No sexual harassment, fortunately for me. I’m very sorry about yours.”

You wave a hand and laugh. “I’m quite used to it at this point.”

Right then your eyes meet. And for what feels like forever the two of you just stare at each other, smiles bright on your faces, chemistry rippling between the bar stools that keep you apart. The tension isn’t thick—it’s palpable. You’d need more than a knife to cut through it.

“Can I be honest?” you pipe up. As if you didn’t lie to this man about your job just a few minutes ago.

He nods. “I like honesty.”

You sip your cocktail. Swallow. Breathe. Then:

“I’ve been in a tight spot with money, recently,” you explain. “A friend told me about this place, that I could maybe find someone to help me out here, so I came looking for…”

How do you put this?

“I came looking for an arrangement.”

His smile spreads across his teeth slowly, but its flame casts bright light throughout the bar—as if you are a speck of an ant on the ground, scorched by the mirror he holds.

“I knew you were here for a reason,” he remarks.

Yeah. You’re quite obvious, aren’t you?

“I feel like maybe I should apologize,” you mutter, shoulders sulking. Suddenly you feel quite shy.

“You shouldn’t,” he assures you. “Can I ask for your name?”

So you tell him, meekly. And then:

“Well,” he starts, echoing you; you make a mental note of how good your name sounds in his mouth. “I’m Luigi. I think I could help you with that money problem you have, and—if you don’t mind my saying—I’d be quite eager to.”

This Luigi guy is nothing if not blunt.

“So…” He reaches back and snatches his phone from a pocket, leaning toward you. “I’m gonna ask for your number. If you want to make one of these arrangements you speak of, you can call me anytime you like. How’s that sound?”

He’s handing you his phone now, screen already open to an empty contact page. You accept it hesitantly.

“You want me to call you?”

Luigi nods. “I want you to have time to think it over. If you change your mind, I wouldn’t want you to feel pressured.”

That makes your heart flutter a little. He’s sweet for a stranger.

You hand your completed contact to him with a smile, and he sends you a text so his number is easily accessible. 

“I think you’ll be hearing from me,” you say, emboldened.

He grins as he stands from his seat. “I’ll be looking forward to it.” Then he adds: “No pressure.”

Just like that, he’s paying his tab, and the next moment he’s gone. 

There are several thoughts swirling through your mind right now. But one thing you are sure of is that Sheri was right: Red Velvet is the spot.

“You’re telling me you found a daddy your first time there?”

Sheri looks flummoxed.

You tighten your apron and smirk. “I mean, I don’t know for sure if he’s looking for that.”

“He implied it,” she counters.

“Nothing is set in stone,” you say, popping the chewing gum in your mouth. A flood of tangerine works your tastebuds. “I’m supposed to call him to figure out our arrangement.”

“What’s he like?” Sheri asks. She turns toward the cash register.

Where to start? You hardly even know him and yet you could probably run your mouth for a solid hour about just his appearance, his honeyed voice, his sharp features.

“He’s cute,” you say simply. “Young. Kinda tall. Curly hair. I think he’s Italian, or something.”

“Italian?” She looks over her shoulder at you, quirks an eyebrow.

“His name is Luigi,” you enunciate. “You gonna tell me that’s not Italian?”

Someone at the bar orders a Galileo Highball. You pull a bottle of Hendrick’s from the shelf.

As you pour, she asks, “he got a brother?”

“Very funny,” you say, not laughing. “I don’t know. They say Italians like big families. I’d bet his is no different.”

You slide the finished cocktail toward your patron with a small smile, and Sheri comes up behind you, holding her own drink—probably Macallan, if she’s the same Sheri you know.

“What did I tell you about drinking on the job?” You shoot her a glance; half disapproving, half amused.

“It’s a slow night, mom.” She gives you a light shove on the shoulder, bangles clinking. “Tell me more about your beau.”

“I think he’s a nerd,” you offer. “He mentioned being a data scientist, or something. He works at TrueCar.”

“What is that?” Sheri narrows her thin eyebrows at you.

“They sell cars,” you shrug. “It doesn’t matter to me if he has money.”

She takes a swig from her glass. “Well, does he?”

“You said Red Velvet is where all the rich guys are, and that’s where he was at, so I don’t know, Sheri, you tell me.”

“That’s what I heard!” She raises her arms defensively. “Did he tell you how much he makes?”

Your eyes stiffen. “I think that would’ve been rude to ask.”

“It’s not rude if he’s gonna be your sugar daddy.”

She has a point.

You should probably find out.

One Tuesday afternoon before work you decide that a call is indeed in order—something to settle your nerves, fraught with anticipation since the night you met Luigi. His number is accordingly labeled with his name in your phone and it is not hard to find among your texts. Your hesitation only lasts a few seconds before you press the call button.

A familiar modest tone is quick to answer.

“Hello?”

Fuck. Fuck. You hadn’t quite thought out the rest of this.

“Luigi, hi! This is—”

“From Red Velvet,” he interjects. You’ve been recognized by voice alone. “Hi, there.”

He sounds busy. Men always sound busy. 

“Is this a bad time?” you ask.

“Not at all,” he assures you. “I’m on lunch. Happy to hear from you.”

How does this kind of thing normally come together? You’ve never taken the 101 on sugar dating, and there’s certainly not a handbook—not one that you’ve heard of, anyway. Maybe you should’ve done a little more research. 

You clear your throat. “So. I’ve been considering, um…The arrangement thing.”

His voice rumbles on the other end. “Mhm?”

“I think…I wanna try it. With you.”

It sounds like he chuckles. Then: “Is that so?”

Man, he’s not helping your nerves at all.

Swallowing thickly, you ask, “…is that okay?”

“Of course it’s okay,” Luigi says, voice warm. “I offered, silly.”

Why is it that the overwhelming urge to explain yourself always comes on the strongest with silence?

“I’m kinda nervous,” you preface. “I’ve never done anything like this before, and you’re really nice, so if I sound awkward or like I’m being an idiot, I promise it’s not on purpose—”

“Sweetheart,” he interrupts. You can practically hear the smile on his face. “It’s okay. I understand. I’m gonna walk you through it, okay?”

You nod like he can see you. “Okay.”

The noise in the background starts to quiet down as Luigi speaks:

“We’ll meet up to discuss everything first, lay out the rules and your pay and all that,” he starts. “Somewhere public. Nothing has to happen yet. Just for us to make a plan and get to know each other a little more.”

It’s comforting, how he goes out of his way to ensure that you feel safe. Meeting in an open, people-filled space seems like something you should be suggesting, rather than him. It’s sweet. Makes you feel a little woozy—in more places than one.

“You like brunch?” he asks. “I’ll get you some brunch if you want. I know a spot.”

Brunch. The word alone makes your face scrunch up. He’s cute. “Okay. That sounds nice.”

“Are you sure? We can go somewhere else. Whatever you want.”

“Brunch sounds good,” you concur. “I’m not picky.”

“Okay. Good deal.” You hear what sounds like a door closing. “Are you free this weekend?”

I can be, you don’t say. “You bet.”

“Saturday?” he pitches.

“Sure.”

“How’s eleven?”

A bit early—you like sleeping in! But you’ll do it for this gorgeous man.

At your agreement, he bookends the conversation:

“Alright. We’re gonna meet at the Wooden Spoon, on Market Street. At eleven. On Saturday. Sound good?”

“Sounds good,” you affirm. 

Wooden Spoon. Market Street. Eleven. Saturday. It repeats in your head like a mantra. What will you wear? What time should you wake up? Should you eat a little bit before, so you don’t have to go wild in front of him? Not important. Not right now.

Your mind wanders further, because you allow it: do you deserve this? Are you worthy of a wealthy man’s spoils, of finer things, of something you believed you’d never once know the luxury of having? Not a day in your life did you imagine you’d wind up with this, on the phone with someone in a tax bracket you’re miles and miles behind, someone so humble and yet so blessed by whoever counsels the elite class up in heaven (or hell, more likely). These opportunities are one in a million, and you’ve found yourself lucky enough to draw the eyes of a willing devotee—you should be proud. You should be arrogant, bragging, full of yourself, flaunting the kind of ego you’ve managed to avoid for the twenty-ish years you’ve been on this planet. You just feel guilty. 

Wooden Spoon. Market Street. Eleven. Saturday.

Luigi shows up not a minute after eleven o’ clock.

You’re already there. You made the effort to show up early—thirty minutes early, exact—wearing your favorite blouse, the one with little dragonflies printed all over, nails painted and lips glossed. You smell like a bakery and you look even more delicious. Yes. You feel ready.

At least, you do until he walks in.

Because he looks great. Even for a little brunch date, he’s glowing—practically a walking fucking Caravaggio painting. His baby blue button-down compliments his olive skin perfectly, collarbone peeking out from under almost sheer linen, and when you look closely enough…A thin, silver chain snakes around his neck, hidden underneath his shirt. 

Fuck. You want it in between your teeth.

“Hey, sweetheart.”

You’re almost speechless as he takes a seat across from you. Man, you really should have prepared yourself more for this.

“Hi,” you greet, meekly.

“You haven’t been waiting long, have you?”

“Not at all,” you lie. He doesn’t need to know how much time you spent sitting in this very chair, worrying about this very moment. All at your own accord.

“Good,” Luigi says, nodding. Good that you weren’t waiting long. Good that you’re here, with him. He adds: “I’m glad to see you again.”

You attempt a smile. “I promise I am, too, I’m just—”

“Nervous?”

“Yeah,” you laugh. “Very.”

He taps his fingers over the menu laying on the table invitingly. “Let’s get some food in you. That’ll calm your nerves.”

So you look it over, ponder your options: avocado toast, smoothie bowls, fried chicken, patty melt…It all sounds really good when you haven’t eaten since your drunk lunch yesterday (which, to no one’s surprise, was similarly marred by your anxiety). You know one thing: some fresh squeezed orange juice sounds fucking bomb right now. Eventually you decide some scrambled eggs and buttermilk pancakes sound nice, too. 

Luigi gets the avocado toast. Not what you were expecting.

“I felt like you’d be a bacon guy,” you say as the waitress waltzes off.

He shrugs, grins a little. “I don’t eat meat.”

Okay. So, you weren’t expecting that, either, but your next question is: How the fuck do you get that broad with no meat? You decide that’s an inappropriate question for brunch—table it for later. Later. You like the sound of a later.

“So, you work at Ernest, right?” he asks, sipping his tea. 

Oh. Fuck. You forgot about that.

Fuck.

“I should probably tell you this now,” you start, voice shakier than you anticipate. “I, um—I lied. To you. About my job.”

His face doesn’t change much—Luigi just furrows an eyebrow at you. “Did you?”

“I know, I know, I’m really sorry!” By this point you can’t even remember why you lied to him—not after he’s taken this much caution in ensuring your comfort. “When I met you I had never been in the area before, and I was trying to play it safe, so I lied about where I work and I’m so so sorry—”

“Sweetheart,” Luigi interjects, placing his big, warm hands over yours. “I get it. Take a breath for me. Okay?”

He’s smiling a little, but only in amusement at how quickly you work yourself up. Over nothing. Per usual.

You breathe. “You’re not mad?”

“Not at all,” he says, shaking his head. “I understand why you’d want to keep that to yourself at first. You barely know me.”

Oh. Oh, wow. This is the very first time you’ve met a man who isn’t personally offended by your apprehension, and you’re starting to wonder if this one in particular is just a living fever dream, something you conjured up half asleep and yearning, something angelic. Something too good for you.

“I want to know you,” you utter.

“Okay. Fresh start.” He (gently, so, so gently) slaps his hands onto the table for emphasis. “Pretend Red Velvet didn’t even happen. Where do you work?”

“Cityscape,” you say, “at the Hilton in Union Square. Honest this time.”

“I believe you,” he nods, smiling. “Is that a bar?”

You nod with him. “I work opening shifts with my friend Sheri. She’s the one who told me about Red Velvet.”

“So, what you said about the sexual harassment must’ve been true.”

You almost choke on your mouthful of OJ. “Yeah. That part was true.”

While the two of you wait for your orders Luigi asks you some basic questions: how old you are, where you’re from, if you’re in school, what major, etc etc. You spend some time talking about college; you learn that Luigi is a much more impressive man than you would’ve guessed at first glance, a man with not one, but two degrees, each in computer engineering—turns out your intuition is pretty good! There’s also a background in some ultra nerd frat. That you wouldn’t have guessed. He’s halfway through a story about the night of his hazing when the hostess brings your plates out, sets them down on the table, aromatic and steaming.

You were already feeling less on edge—but the scrambled eggs certainly help.

“So…” Luigi starts after a bite of toast. “Do you want to get down to the nitty gritty?”

You blink. “You mean money stuff?”

“Yeah,” he chuckles. “Money stuff.”

Another bite. A sip of tea. Then:

“I like to start with paying per meet,” he says. “I figured I’d base your pay off of how much you’re needing, though. Do you have an idea of what that might be?”

“Hmm,” you hum, forking some eggs into your mouth. “Let’s see. Rent is $3,300, on top of utilities. My aid covers most of my bills for school, so that’s not a problem right now. I just need to keep a roof over my head.”

“How much are you making a month?” he asks.

“Uhh…” You rack your brain. How much do you make? “About $2,000ish?”

“And how often would you be able to meet me?”

You grin. “I can be all yours on the weekends.”

Luigi looks like he’s crunching some numbers in his head. You decide to crunch on a pancake while he works that out.

“What if we did $1,000 to meet each weekend?”

Jesus. Christ.

“$1,000?” you repeat.

“Yeah. $1,000.”

You consider it. If you’re meeting with him every weekend, for $1,000 each time…That’s $4,000 in an average month. On top of your regular salary. Much more than you typically make. More than your rent costs. More than living costs at your current rate, maybe, probably. It’s a good deal. It’s a damn good deal.

“That’s—” you stutter. “That’s a lot.”

He smiles, softly. “For you it is.”

Meaning…It’s not for him?

“Do you like the sound of that?” he asks.

Well, yeah. It’s money. Money always sounds good. But you can’t shake the feeling:

“Are you sure that’s…like…okay? With you?” 

“I think it’s fair,” he says, nodding. “If you’re only making $2,000 a month, $1,000 each weekend should be enough to keep you on your feet.” 

Not really what you were asking.

“But…” he continues.

But?

“We can wean off of that, eventually.”

Wean off. Like you’re a kitten on wet food.

“What do you mean?” you ask.

He takes a bite of his toast, then speaks:

“After a while, if you still like how this is going, we can start you on an allowance.” Luigi pops a berry into his mouth, leans back in his chair. “I’m thinking $4,000 a month, give or take. We can adjust that if you need.”

Oh? Oh. Oh, okay.

$4,000 a month. To fuck and go on dates with the sexiest thing on two legs you’ve ever looked at. To sacrifice (a word that is doing some serious heavy lifting) your weekends for dick and some good food. To be able to take care of yourself, for once—and not just that, but to have all the fancy things you dreamed of having as a girl: clothes, jewelry, books, shoes, cosmetics, stuff, just stuff to have. The kind of consumption only a lucky few are entitled to enjoy. And there are future implications, too: eventually, once you graduate, you’ll have some loans to pay off, perhaps another degree to pursue. A new car to drive. Your very own home to live in.

$4,000 a month. $1,000 per meet.

“I’m in,” you nod.

Luigi raises his eyebrows, smiles slightly. “You’re in?”

“Yeah. I like what you’re laying out.”

His smile is wider now, dimples defined in the creases of his face. “Okay. That’s all I want to hear.”

You shovel some eggs into your mouth and watch, completely unsubtle, as he adjusts his shirt on his shoulders, the veins lining his arms flexing. 

Can’t you get to the sugar part now? You don’t even need a bed. You could find some space in your car, certainly. 

“So,” he pipes up, “I think next we should lay down some ground rules.”

“Rules?” you iterate. 

“Nothing crazy,” he assures you.

“Like…Boundaries.”

“Exactly!” With that Luigi finishes the last of his avocado toast. “I only have four.”

“Hit me,” you tell him.

He claps his hands together over his plate for effect. 

“Okay. First off: be open with me. If you want something, ask for it. If you need something, tell me. Unfortunately, I can’t read your mind, so I appreciate bluntness.”

Bluntness. You can do that. Tending bar throughout your college years has taught you strength in that regard. Nodding, you down the rest of your OJ.

“I also need you to never be afraid of saying ‘no’ to me,” he says next. “Again, not a mind reader. Please let me know if you’re uncomfortable or unsatisfied or anything like that. This isn’t just for me—I would never want you to feel obligated to do something you don’t want to do anymore.”

“Sure,” you agree. “That’s easy for me.”

“Good.” He smiles warmly.

Third: “This can end any time you want. No questions asked. That goes for me, too, but I mean it mostly for you.”

What if you don’t want it to end?

“Okay,” you nod. “Any time?”

“Any time.”

You just hope he doesn’t change his mind about this whole thing.

“That being said, though…” he continues.

Oh?

Luigi extends his pointer finger outward as he continues. “I only ask that you be exclusive to me.”

Ah. This must be his fourth rule.

“Exclusive?”

He nods. “No dates, no one-night stands, no boyfriends or girlfriends. I want to be the sole provider in your life.”

So he’s a possessive type, too. You suppose it makes sense. Men don’t like to share their toys.

“Well,” you perk up, “am I going to be disappointed?”

The smug motherfucker smirks. “I don’t like to overstate my abilities, but I think you’ll be plenty satisfied.”

Plenty satisfied. You realize now that you don’t really need to fuck him to feel that way.

He adds: “I’m an earnest lover.”

Getting laid earnestly, every weekend, for $1,000. All to earn a whopping $4,000 a month, if he likes you enough. 

You’ve done worse for less—and none of it involved a sexy Italian.

“I’ll need some proof,” you say, “but I think I’m down for that.”

“I’d be happy to prove it to you this weekend.”

Well, that was fast.

You quirk a brow. “Yeah?”

And then he leans in close to you, speaking barely above a whisper: “If you can be good, that is.”

Oh. Oh. 

He’s doing this. He’s doing this at noon on a Saturday, in public. At brunch.

You graze your foot over his from under the table, gliding up, inching into his pant leg. Teasing. “If I’m good, what’s in store for me?”

Luigi smirks as the waitress makes her way toward your seat with the check—for him to pay, of course. “I’ll text you the details. Sound good to you?”

You smile back. “Yeah. Sounds good.”

He decides to walk you to your car, standing close, but not too close for comfort. There is an easy space between the two of you as you make your way to the parking lot on Sanchez Street, right behind the Wooden Spoon.

“I didn’t get to ask,” he perks up. “Do you have any rules?”

You certainly didn’t prepare any.

“Umm…” you trail off, giggling. “I didn’t make a list or anything.”

“You don’t need a list,” he says, smiling back at you. “Are there any boundaries you want to set?”

There are some obvious, more sugar related things you want cemented: condoms every date, no reverse cowgirl, probably no nudes, for the time being. But right now you’re just happy to be seen beside such a handsome man. All of the “nitty gritty”, in his words, can wait until later.

“I can’t think of anything,” you answer. “Just that I want respect and…Well, compensation.”

Luigi winks. “You’ll get that. Promise.”

You reach your car and pause, turn on your heels to face him.

His hands are in his pockets, curls rustling in the early spring wind. “So…”

“So?”

“This weekend, right?” he asks. “I’ll hit you up, probably Friday.”

“Okay,” you agree. “This weekend.”

Then, he asks: “Do you have any rules against kissing?”

You grin and blush like a little girl. “Nope. Definitely not.”

So he steps close, lingering just slightly as his hands meet your hips—and then he kisses you, sweetly and smoothly. You pull him ever closer to you by the chain on his neck and sigh against his mouth. He tastes like Earl Grey.

When he pulls away he flashes you a warm smile. 

“I think I’m gonna have to build a time machine,” he says, “so I can skip ahead to this weekend.”

You laugh. “Good luck with that.”

Luigi doesn’t get that time machine built, but the weekend comes faster than you expect.

The first text you receive on Friday is quite surprising:

Luigi : Can I get ur address so my driver knows where to pick you up?

Driver? He’s sending a fucking chauffeur for you?

The next two texts he sends you once he has what he needs are straightforward:

Luigi : OK She’ll be there like 8:30 so be ready for her

Also we’ll be in a hotel after so maybe bring anything else you’ll need for tn

At that you put together a quick overnight bag: a change of comfy clothes and an outfit for the day after, toothbrush and toothpaste, comb, a pack of wet wipes, some hair ties. Some courage you definitely don’t have—not right now, at least. 

You’re nervous.

But you’re not going to think about that, because you’ve got a date to get ready for. You’ve got a dress to put on—the very dress you met him in—makeup to do and dinner to eat…And, of course, dick to take. Luigi didn’t really give you pointers on how to look, so you pick your accessories carefully, settling for a plain silver necklace and some studs to match. Your shoes are simple: black heels, with a glossy finish that you’ve managed to not scuff up somehow.

You glance at the clock on your nightstand. 8:19. When he said 8:30, did he mean on the dot? Doesn’t matter—every second counts. You feed Butters and fill his water bowl; take a shot of Grey Goose for encouragement; unpack your overnight bag to brush your teeth twice, then pack it again. If you were a smoker you’d need a cig right about now.

And then, at 8:27, your phone buzzes:

Luigi : She’s there

Grey Mitsubishi

No backing out now.

Sure enough, a grey Mitsubishi Lancer sits parked on Cyril Magnin Street just outside your window. With your bag slung over your shoulder you make your way down to the lobby, heart pounding behind your ribcage. 

The driver of this Lancer, as you soon find out, is…

“Cheyenne,” she says, extending a hand to you. Her fingers are decorated with rings of all shapes and colors, including a few with gemstones cemented in their center. She is cold to the touch, but her smile is inviting, dark, black-lined eyes staring into every layer of your aura.

As she turns the key in the ignition, you clear your throat.

“How do you know Luigi?” you ask.

At that moment, “Dance, Dance” by Fall Out Boy blasts from her speakers at 75% volume. You immediately wince at the loud assault to your eardrums.

“Shit, shit! Sorry! I’m so sorry!”

Her fingers are fumbling with the dial instantly. “Bad habit, I know, I’m so sorry—”

You laugh, heart still pounding. “I’m fine. Just startled me. I like your taste.”

Cheyenne begins to pull off onto the street with an uncertain smile. 

“So, how do you know Luigi?” you try again.

“Oh, college,” she says. “We used to shoot the shit in Calculus II.”

“Was he any good?” you ask. “At calculus?”

“Luigi is good at just about everything,” Cheyenne says. “Well, except talking to girls. I’m still not sure how he bagged you.”

You snort. “He seemed like he knew what he was doing.”

“Trust me, he didn’t.” You pass by the Panda Express that saves you from cooking dinner most nights as Cheyenne makes her way towards…Wherever you’re going. “He called me and crashed out over the phone the night he met you. He cried because, and I quote, ‘she’s so fine it makes me sick to my stomach.’ I think he was drunk.”

The image of that is quite precious, indeed. You giggle. “That’s sweet.”

“Sweet as pie,” she agrees. “He’s got integrity. Very driven. I’m not just saying it. I’ve seen that dude help blackout drunk girls to their dorms because some guys were creeping on them.”

He certainly doesn’t fit your usual stereotype of “privileged white frat rat from the suburbs”, doesn’t give off a fuckboy vibe that you’ve been able to pick up on. No cocky posturing. No fake interest. Luigi is different. Laid back. Responsible. Tender hearted.

“And,” Cheyenne adds, “he was my wingman for a good while.”

“Wingman?”

“He helped me sneak into parties so I could get with sorority girls,” she clarifies. “I wouldn’t have met my girlfriend if it weren’t for him.”

How gallant. Luigi Mangione: Friend to Lesbians. “Ah. I see.”

Now you can see why Cheyenne seems to be so comfortable with Luigi; their bond is clearly interwoven with the safety he’s provided her throughout their friendship, likely a stark contrast to her Ivy League atmosphere. He’s probably the only male friend she’s ever had that’s never pitched the “I like someone and you know her very well” conversation—you’re still waiting to meet that unicorn.

“What do you do?” Cheyenne asks.

You assume she means job-wise. “I bartend at Cityscape, but I’m in school full-time.”

“Oh, nice!” she says, nodding. “Where at?”

As she turns onto Fifth Street, you tell her—your university, your major, how your classes are going, all the rage around campus. Cheyenne listens intently, drumming her painted nails against the steering wheel in time with the radio. By the time you’re finished complaining about the difficulties of your required second language credit, the two of you are making your way down Harrison.

“What about you?” you ask. “You look like you do something really badass. Like archery, or witchcraft.”

“I wish!” she laughs. “I’m a marine biologist. Right now I’m at the Monterey Bay Aquarium.”

“Oh, nice! You live down there?”

Cheyenne scratches her neck. “Sort of. I’m a bit of a couch hopper. Rent is brutal in Cali, so I jump between my friends’ places.”

You shrug in understanding. “Totally get it. I almost ended up on a boat with some of my dorm mates before I found my place.”

She snorts at that. Cute. You like Luigi’s friend.

The rest of the ride goes smoothly; Cheyenne’s Lancer speeds down the 280 as you overlook San Francisco, its heaving waters and cloudy skies. Occasionally she asks if you’d like to pick a song, but you decide you’re quite alright with her aux control, so you decline and leave it up to her. When she makes a sharp turn onto 25th Street, you start to understand where this might be going—perhaps Luigi knows a nice place right by the Bay.

Your destination is either what looks to be an apartment complex or a storied building squished next to it. Cheyenne directs you to the spot on the left, the taller of the two.

“He should be waiting for you up at the very top,” she explains before you get out of the car. “There’s an elevator to your right once you walk in. If you press 13 it should take you to the roof.”

The roof? Okay. This is weird.

You thank Cheyenne and carefully make your way inside, surveying the lobby. You realize now that this is somewhat of an office space, with several businesses leasing a spot in the building; you find a directory hanging on the wall by the elevator Cheyenne mentioned. On the thirteenth floor is something called “Ive’s”, and it is indeed at the very top. You step inside the elevator and observe the clock built in above the rows of buttons; its face reads 8:01. Nobody set this one back for Daylight Savings.

The building must be old, what with how the elevator rattles as it ascends to the thirteenth floor, and you thoroughly do not expect what’s waiting in front of you: the doors open to a beautiful rooftop terrace, with moody lights strung over tables and a perfect overlook of the Bay as a backdrop. And waiting by the bar is Luigi, hands clasped in front of his pelvis, standing tall and clearly alert. His eyes widen when he spots you emerging from the elevator.

“You made it!” he exclaims. “I was worried Cheyenne might confuse you.”

“Nah, I got here fine,” you say, smiling. “It’s good to see you.”

He leans in for a hug that you gladly return, whispering into your ear, “that it is.”

Luigi’s embrace is the warmest you’ve ever felt. It’s like walking into a heated pool; your body recalibrates in response to his touch, thoroughly lit alive by the mere presence of this man and his gentle ways. He holds you still for quite a while, maybe a minute, and when he pulls back his smile is bright and dimpled, only sweetened by his blush. You take the chance to look over his suit; he dons a paisley-print purple tie and a jacket with blue suede lining the inside. Prim with just a hint of fun. You would not have expected paisley.

“Shall we?” he says, offering a hand. 

With your fingers interlaced, he leads you to a table at the far edge of the rooftop, and you start to realize now that, as a matter of fact, none of these tables are occupied—nor are they set, aside from the one he’s currently guiding you toward. There isn’t a single soul at Ive’s besides you and Luigi.

“What is this place?” you ask.

He grins. “It’s called Ive’s, if that’s what you’re asking, but if you want to know what’s up…”

At that Luigi moves to pull out your chair for you. “I’m tight with the owner,” he continues as you take your seat. “I got him to clear out the place just for tonight, so we could have somewhere all to ourselves.”

He’s nothing if not a pro at blowing you away. Your guilt at even accepting his generosity flows at full force, stunning you where you sit as Luigi settles down opposite you.

“You did all of this for me?” you ask.

He shrugs flippantly, still smiling. “Ive owed me a favor.”

From…somewhere, your host for the night emerges, holding two menus and cheesing at the both of you from under a thick handlebar mustache. The first order of business:

“What are you folks drinking tonight?”

The cocktail menu excites you—lots of vodka and gin, and there’s an entire section dedicated to rosé—but after some deliberation with the waiter, you decide on a Rooftop Mojito as a fitting welcome to your date. Luigi is not a complicated drinker, because he orders the same exact thing he ordered at Red Velvet: banana daiquiri with a slice of lime. The host prances off and leaves the two of you alone.

“Sooo,” you perk up, “you said you do data stuff for TrueCar, right?”

He winces. “If we’re going to talk about me, let’s not make it about my job. I promise it’s really boring. Last thing I want to do is make this date a snoozefest.”

You scoff. “I don’t think you could manage that.”

“What, boring you? I’ll bet I could.”

With a shake of your head, you say, “not when you look like you were blessed by Venus at birth.”

Luigi chuckles at that, nose flushing rosy pink. “Well, that’s flattering. I think you’re a more apt example of that description, though.”

“Just accept the compliment,” you chide playfully. “What if I have other questions that aren’t about your job?”

“Hit me.”

Well, shit. Maybe you should’ve made a list.

“How old are you?” you settle on eventually. Not a bad inquiry, you think. He’s quite young for a sugar daddy.

“Twenty six,” he answers. “Twenty seven in May.”

A Taurus. You consider it: loyal. Stubborn. Diligent. Possessive. Truly a toss-up—any of these qualities could spell both good and bad news for you. One thing you know for sure is that Luigi’s greatest strength is one quite common for Taurus men—he is entirely irresistible.

“And you’re from San Francisco, right?” you ask.

He shakes his head. “Maryland. Baltimore.”

He really looks more Italian than anything. 

“County,” he adds. “Not the city.”

There’s a Baltimore county?

“I see,” you nod. “I’m assuming Baltimore-the-county has a much different environment than Baltimore-the-city.”

“Very different,” he confirms. “What about you? Are you from San Francisco?”

“Nope,” you answer. “I moved here for college.”

That sparks a quick conversation about your home state and whether or not Luigi’s visited. As you wrap up a memorable story about the corner store you frequented in your childhood, your waiter returns to the table with your drinks, quickly retrieving his notepad and pen from his pocket.

If cocktails were hard, the food is even harder to choose from. The entire list of appetizers sounds pretty good to you, and you could go for at least three of the sandwiches—but alas, you narrow down your options to the tomato soup with a grilled cheese and a Caesar salad on the side. Meat-Free Luigi goes with the veggie poke bowl and some French onion dip with house-made chips, even though he looks like he could absolutely kill some chicken wings. Whatever. 

Sipping from your mojito, you ask, “so, no TrueCar talk—what do you do outside of that?”

“A lot of reading,” he says. You could’ve guessed that. “And I like to stay active.”

Yeah, no shit. With shoulders like that?

Luigi likes Bertrand Russell and going on hikes and he can solve a Rubik’s cube in under a minute, which isn’t hard to imagine, what with those long, dexterous fingers. He wants to see every continent on the planet at least once. You ask him if he likes traveling solo or with friends and he tells you he makes do with both. His face lights up like never before as he describes a drunk night of catching crabs in Cabo San Lucas. You ask him to tell you his favorite destination he’s ever been to, and he says, “right here, with you.”

He’s perfect. There is truly no better word for it.

As the two of you wait for the food to come you jump from topic to topic: favorite movies, the best music for a long drive, politics, least favorite movies. The backdrop of the San Francisco Bay mellows the mood, with the waves chopping and seagulls wailing in the far distance, the moonlight shining bright against the water. You both down your drinks within twenty minutes and you eventually move on to the basket of bread rolls at the center of the table, paying no mind to the passage of time; it’s simply you and him by the Bay, with a romantic scene and some good liquor to keep you busy as the cooks work their magic.

“What made you want to spend your money on this?” you ask over a nibble of bread.

He tilts his head quizzically. “Dinner with you?”

Swallowing, you clarify, “the sugar thing.”

Apparently Luigi needs a moment to ponder that one. He rests his chin on his fists and looks up to the darkened sky as if to signify to you that he’s thinking. 

“Sometimes I get in my head about not doing something more productive with my money,” he says. “There isn’t enough for people who need more. The best I can do is pitch in when the opportunity presents itself.”

“So…” You chew another piece of buttery bread roll. “It’s like charity.”

He grimaces. “That just makes it sound twisted.”

“I’m fucking with you,” you say, smiling.

You feel his foot nudge yours under the table.

“It’s rude to fuck with your date,” he quips, smiling bashfully.

“Is it?” you retort. “What are our plans for tonight, then?”

With that he leans forward, extends one of those long arms across the table and grabs your chin, gentle but firm. Looks into your eyes. 

“Don’t make me hard at dinner,” he murmurs lowly. “That’s rude.”

Wow. Wow. This man is truly the peak of duplexity.

As Luigi settles back into his chair, leaving you blushing and achy between your thighs, the host and his magnificent mustache return with your food.

And oh, man. Luigi told you that Ive’s is a family owned restaurant, one that truly values its customers—and the mouth-watering smell only serves to prove that. Rickety elevator and somewhat hidden location be damned; Ive’s is a fucking Ritz-Carlton compared to what any fine dining establishment could ever provide. The portions are hearty and, with how long they took to prepare, your chefs of the night have clearly gone out of their way to make the best possible dish for you and your date. You feel like Gordon Ramsey with your mental commentary: the grilled cheese is stunning, with sharp cheddar and fuckin’ muenster—the most underrated cheese, in your book—stacked between crispy, pillowy artisan bread, toasted to perfection. And dunked in the tomato soup? A glorious pair. You even taste hints of cream and basil among the natural sweetness. It’s rich, flavorful, and, most importantly, delicious. 

Halfway through your Caesar salad, Luigi poses a question for you:

“What about you?”

You pause, mull over it through a bite of lettuce and croutons. “What about me?”

“What brought you here? With me?” he elaborates.

Desperation? Envy? Loneliness? It could be all three, if you’re being completely honest with yourself. The truest answer, though, is quite simple:

“I didn’t have much growing up,” you start. “I’ve always been hand-in-hand with the poverty line, pretty much since the day I was born, and it’s only through scholarships and awards I worked my ass off for that I’m able to go to school in the city.”

You remember: nights spent breaking yourself apart for a steady GPA and perfect attendance, typing away and rubbing at the tension held under your pulsing temples. College in America is a bit like gambling—place your bet, and if you play your cards just right, it’s easy to get lucky. The problem is that some people are dealt a shit hand, and nobody is giving away their cards for free.

“I never got gifted with generational wealth or blessings from my bougie ancestors,” you continue, tossing your salad back-and-forth with your fork. “I never got the chance to do things I dreamed of doing as a girl. My parents struggled for as long as I can remember—and I guess, after a while, you get pretty tired of it. You start to want safer ground to land your feet on.”

Luigi nods, listening closely.

“I guess it just felt like the best option, the most doable,” you say. “I realized once I made it to college that I couldn’t take care of myself on my own. And I felt like, after all I’d done to even afford my tuition, I could really use not just the extra help, but…Everything else that comes with it. Stability. Comfort. You know?”

He smiles softly. “Everyone deserves nice things.”

A seagull whines in the distant Bay. The air smells like sea salt and sweet, sweet magnetism.

You twist the handle of your fork uncertainly. “Do you think I deserve it?”

“You deserve someone who wants to put in the work,” he answers, cupping his warm hands over yours.

“Have I found him?” you ask.

Leaning forward, he plants a kiss on the back of your hand. “I’d say so.”

Grinning, you suggest, “I think we should get the bill.”

Luigi raises a brow playfully. “No dessert?”

You shake your head. “I don’t need it. Not tonight.”

Cheyenne and her Lancer await outside of Ive’s, still carrying your bag in the backseat. When you and Luigi approach, you can hear My Chemical Romance blasting even through her rolled-up windows. She startles when she first sees the both of you, then settles and smiles shyly, tinkering with the volume dial for what must be the gazillionth time tonight.

“Hey, kids,” she greets as you file into her car. “How was dinner?”

“I really wish you wouldn’t make me feel like the troubled son of a middle-aged mother going through a divorce,” Luigi jokes with a sigh, buckling his seatbelt. He turns to you and winks.

Cheyenne whips around, eyes wide and brows furrowed. “Divorced? Middle-aged? Fuuuuuck you. We’re the same age, dick.”

“Physically,” Luigi says.

“If you didn’t have a lady with you I’d make you walk,” she barks, pulling back the gearshift. “You didn’t switch hotels on me, right?”

“Nope,” he answers, popping the p.

The hotel in question is just a few miles past Mission Bay, exactly a twelve minute drive from Ive’s. The Palace is an elegant, almost industrial building smashed between parking garages that, from the looks of the entrance, seems to be hiding a ravishing interior. Luigi opens your door for you and helps you out of the car, hand gently grasping yours.

He offers a two finger salute with his free hand, standing tall. “Thanks, Chey. I really appreciate it.”

Cheyenne mirrors him. “Don’t mention it. Nice meeting you,” she says, gesturing toward where you stand next to Luigi. 

You nod, smiling brightly and waving goodbye. “Thanks again!”

Luigi waits and watches to make sure that Cheyenne pulls off safely before he’s guiding you to the massive front doors of The Palace, past the lobby, through the high-ceiling hallways toward the elevator. It’s like something from a Wes Anderson film. When the fanciest you’ve seen is your local Hampton Inn, something like this is truly breathtaking. Your heels click against the marble of the floor as you walk with Luigi, stunned by each new chandelier you count on the ceiling. The two of you pass patrons sat in the common area, sipping from glasses of champagne or mugs of coffee and chatting amongst themselves—you imagine about fucking over the poor and hungry. What else do the horrifically rich discuss?

But god, they have taste. 

“This place is gorgeous,” you murmur to him as the two of you wait for the elevator to reach the ground floor. “Have you stayed here before?”

“Just once,” he says, still holding your hand. “You like it?”

“I do.”

He smirks. Squeezes your fingers lightly. “You haven’t even seen our room yet.”

And, much to your awe, he was right—it’s not just a room, it’s a suite. Luigi stands by and watches with subtle pride as you tour your surroundings: king bed, beautiful view of outside The Palace, separate lounge area with a variety of seating options, and a bathroom fit for a Victoria’s Secret model. There are even two white bathrobes hanging on the wall opposite the gigantic mirror. They gave you robes! You want to fall to your knees and cry with joy. You emerge from the bathroom and, to Luigi’s surprise, immediately tackle him in a hug, nearly tripping over your own feet.

“Thank you, thank you, thank you!” you chime, swaying him back-and-forth. “I’m so happy I could die.”

“Don’t die,” he chuckles, smoothing his hand over your lower back. “I’m happy you’re happy.”

You squeal with joy when he presses a sloppy kiss to your cheek and slowly lets you go.

“Oh,” he continues, reaching up to swipe something from the top of the dresser you’re stood next to. “And this is for you.”

Luigi hands you a plain white envelope, scrawled with your name. Cute. You can only imagine what must be inside. Carefully, you tear open the seal and pull out…

A Hallmark card. In curly font, the front reads, “If EVERYBODY had a NIECE as terrific as YOU, it wouldn’t be any BIG DEAL.” When you open it, the inside loudly remarks, “BUT THEY DON’T, SO IT IS! Hope your birthday is as terrific as YOU!”

The money is inside. Obviously.

You try not to shriek with laughter.

“I felt like it would be rude to just give you an envelope with money, but I didn’t really know what to do with the card…?” he interjects, as if he’s trying to defend himself.

“The card is a nice touch,” you agree, failing to bite back your smile. “Are we roleplaying or something?”

He cringes in anguish. “Jesus. I’m an uncle already. I don’t need to roleplay.”

As you giggle, your thumb brushes over the cash.

“You can count it, if you want,” he adds.

It feels a little callous, but you do, since he seems unbothered. There’s a $100 bill, then another, then another—ten in total. $1,000. In cash. All yours. And it’s real.

This is real. Really happening. Real money, real man, real room. Suite. Goddamn.

“Okay,” you breathe, nodding. The bills are spread out in your hands, a sight you’d only ever dreamed of before. “Okay.”

Carefully, you stuff the cash back into the card neatly, tucking it back inside of the envelope to put in your bag, which you leave next to Luigi’s by the dresser. 

“All good?” he asks.

You smirk coyly. “All good.”

“Do you mind if I kiss you now?”

You have to swallow your giggle—Luigi is almost polite to a fault, so much so that it feels silly to maintain it when he’s about to fuck you (and when he’s paying you for it, no less). So you decide to answer his question directly, physically, threading your fingers in his curls and bringing your lips to his, slow and smooth. He grunts in surprise but is quick to return the kiss; his hands caress your upper back, thumb toying at the zipper of your dress and then sliding lower, gripping your hips. The way his mouth moves against yours is leisurely but intentioned, deliberate, confident. He is certainly not new to this.

“Luigi,” you breathe against his lips, and you try to steal another kiss, but he pulls away.

He tuts, a little tsk tsk. “Is that what you call me?”

Oh. Oh. Right. He never laid his cards out on the table that clearly, but you suppose it makes sense for this to be part of your arrangement.

“Sorry, Daddy,” you murmur, face burning.

You’re certainly not mad about it. You could get used to this.

“That’s better,” Luigi whispers. “That’s much better.”

He kisses you again, harder this time. Now his hands are on your ass, alternating between groping you with greed and gliding back up to your hips; when his tongue grazes yours you let your mouth fall open for him, head lolling, and he brings up one hand to tangle his fingers in your hair and keep your lips connected to his. Having your hands in his curls after countless nights of fantasizing feels almost surreal—this whole situation just feels like the porno of your dreams playing out in front of you, right down to the exquisite location, the gorgeous man, and the events leading up to now. Having sex with other guys your age has never felt like this before.

When your calves hit the small sofa in front of the bed you decide to sit down, pulling Luigi closer to you by his paisley tie so as to not lose his kisses. He leans over you, big hands sliding up your thighs, past the hem of your dress, feeling the warmth of the flesh on your hips beneath his palms—you realize then that there are quite a few pillows in your way, and so you push them off. Luigi huffs a laugh.

His mouth moves down, over your throat, mesmerizing you effortlessly. And his hands move up, slowly but surely, tracing the outline of your body in your dress, admiring the way the green satin hugs your curves; this particular shade makes your skin tone shine, he thinks.

“I do really love this dress,” he says into your cleavage, pressing absentminded kisses here and there. “Looks so pretty on you.”

Further he goes. Cupping your breasts, feeling around. Gliding north, to your back. A palm drifts up. Fingers dance over your zipper.

“Can I take it off?” he asks, soft against your ear.

You nod. His face sinks in disapproval.

Seizing your chin between his thumb and fingers, he chides, “answer me when I ask you a question.”

“Yes, yes,” you insist. “Yes, Daddy, I’m sorry.”

Luigi grins. “That’s okay, sweet girl,” he whispers, kissing your jaw. “You’ll get the hang of it.”

His lithe fingers begin to work your zipper down, down, down, the sound of it echoing in your ears, until you can feel silver resting against your coccyx. Then he helps you slip each strap off of your shoulders, peeling the dress down your torso and your hips, and you laugh lightly when he guides you backward to tug it down your legs. With your heels still on the movement is a bit clunky, but Luigi pays the hiccups no mind. Cheyenne was quite serious about him being driven.

You’re wearing a plain pink set—not very extravagant, but still the most elegant you own. There are frilly edges and a little bow on the front of the panties, girlish and angelic details. You hope he won’t be disappointed in your lack of fancy lingerie. Perhaps some of the cash he’s paid you could go towards something nicer, more intricate—an investment for him, a treat for you.

His hands scan over your body, admiring, beholding.

“What a pretty sight,” he purrs, face flaunting a Cheshire Cat-esque smile. “Did you wear this just for me?”

You shrug, grinning, flushing madly. “It’s the best I’ve got.”

“It’s perfect,” Luigi says. “Absolutely perfect. You look radiant.”

“Thank you, Daddy,” you mutter.

And then he steps back, gets onto his feet, hands moving upward. 

“Why don’t you take that off for me?” he asks. Then there’s that killer smile. “Not that I don’t love it on you. Just makes my job a bit easier.”

You grin.

As he starts to undo his tie you reach behind yourself to open the clasp of your bra, heart pounding as your chest is slowly revealed to him. Luigi is learning that you follow orders well. You move with leisure so as to even the playing field; by the time he’s wearing only his slacks, belt, and black crew socks, you’re working your panties down your thighs, arching your curves every which way to put on a show for him. You sigh at the sound of metal clinking, fabric shuffling.

When your hands reach for the strap of your left heel, he stops you:

“Leave those on,” Luigi commands.

You smirk, enlightened. “You got a thing for girls in high heels?”

“I’ve got a thing for you, pretty lady.”

As he pulls his trousers down to reveal tight black briefs and an impressive imprint he steps closer. You look up toward him expectantly, batting your eyelashes.

“You know what to do, don’t you?” he coos, stroking your hair.

Normally you’re not the biggest fan of this—but you feel graced by god himself to have been given this specific opportunity. So you peel down the edges of his boxers until his cock is springing free, balls heavy and tip leaking, and Luigi blesses you with a delicious groan when you wrap a hand around his shaft and begin to pump him in your tight fist. You almost need both your hands just to stroke him off. It’s ridiculous. He sucks in a breath above you, sharp and rushed, eyes fluttering shut and lips pressed together.

And then you stick out your tongue and lick a slow stripe all the way up the length of his cock, ending with a pronunciated gesture against his frenulum. Luigi balls your hair into a fist; the defined muscles of his stomach are pulled taut, and you glide a hand up through the thick thatch of hair on his pelvis, up further, over his faint happy trail, and when you feel his belly flexing under your palm you moan against him. Your mouth comes to wrap around the first few inches of him, lips sucked in and cheeks hollowed. Two big, warm hands cup your face.

“My god, you’re beautiful,” Luigi breathes. His thumb traces the outline of your cheekbone, tucking stray hair behind your ear. “Has anyone ever told you how good you look with your mouth full?”

You moan around his cock, pull off of him momentarily to answer: “Only you.”

“Could be a pornstar with that fuckin’ body,” he groans—his hands apply the slightest pressure to your head as you take him again. “Fuck, you’d have ‘em lined up for miles, just waiting for a chance.”

His dick begins to press into your throat and you accept him happily. As you set the pace, bobbing your head up and down, Luigi angles his hips forward, and you subdue your gag reflex by digging your fingernails into his thighs.

He compresses his lips again, draws in a deep breath when you take him to the hilt. “But you’re smarter than that, aren’t you?”

The feminist in you wants to lecture him about the complexities of women in sex work, but you figure that’d be a bit of a turn off. And besides, when you tongue at his balls with his cock still lodged down your throat he makes a heavenly sound, something straight out of your wet dreams, something deep and rocky but still so vulnerable. You love it. You need more of that yesterday.

Luigi swears under his breath as you pull off of him, switching to licking around the fat head of his cock and stroking the length untouched by your tongue. The pre beading at his slit tastes sweet, sort of pungent, but not at all unpleasant—you assume you’ve got his diet to thank for that. He groans and shivers and goosebumps rise on his tan skin, prickling underneath your palms. You wrap your lips around the tip of his length, forming a tight suction—as you suck him your hand continues a steady back-and-forth over his dick, your spit creating an effortless glide. 

And then you start twisting, as gently as possible, and every bone in his body melts inside of him.

“Oh, fuck,” he grunts, head thrown back. You can see sweat glistening on the column of his throat. “That’s a good girl. That’s a good fucking girl.”

You try to replicate the same feeling on his cockhead with your hand as you move to his balls, sucking each into your mouth, swirling your tongue, all while your beaming eyes stare up at him.

“Such a princess,” he murmurs. “Who taught you how to suck dick like this?”

You flash him a toothy grin. “You jealous?”

He moans loud when you guide your flat, wet tongue over his tip again, paying extra attention to the underside of his cock, the thin vein stretching down the length of it. Your fist continues its ministrations on his shaft all the while; stroking, twisting, squeezing, much to the delight of Luigi. As you lick your mouth moves lower, taking inch by inch, tongue still swirling to the best of your abilities—and even when it fails to circle his girth you sweep it side-to-side against his dick, your jaw slowly accepting the intrusion. 

With his cock in your throat again you repeat the swaying of your head, bobbing slowly at first and picking up the pace as his sounds intensify. You hope to god that the walls of The Palace aren’t remarkably thin—the wet noises of your mouth moving are ringing loud in your ears, only bested by Luigi’s groans and whines above you. His hips start to meet your movements, thrusting up just slightly, and when you accidentally gag on his dick he moans loud. He fists your hair and growls, your nose buried in his bush, coconut and sandalwood filling your senses. 

“Oh, Christ, yes,” he mumbles. “All of it, baby, take all of it…”

You drag your lips up his length and bring your hand back to work, tugging and twisting like before as your mouth works his cockhead. Only for a moment, though, because Luigi quickly guides you further down, until his heavy dick is fully seated on your tongue, probing your throat again. Your hand finds his balls instead, squeezing softly—you can feel them drawing up in your palm.

He sighs deeply, exhilarated. “Gonna make Daddy come in this pretty little mouth, sweetheart.”

You’ve never tasted a vegetarian’s sperm before. There’s a first time for everything, truly.

With a few more pumps of your head and some added action with your tongue Luigi is gasping and coming in your mouth, hips bucking with fervor. You don’t plan on swallowing, initially, but he tastes quite nice compared to other guys you’ve had—so before you pull off of him you gulp him down without much thought, making a show of opening your mouth to display its relative emptiness. 

Luigi leans down slightly to kiss you. Unexpected, considering the circumstances—re: his jizz in your mouth about five seconds ago—but you’re not complaining. And you realize then that Luigi was hiding something under his suit: he’s wearing the chain, the very same one you’ve been daydreaming about seeing against his perfect olive skin again. Somehow you hadn’t noticed it earlier. You can’t help but tug on it as his mouth moves with yours.

“How’d you know I love this?” you ask against his lips, smiling.

He pecks the corner of your mouth. Shrugs. “You were grabbing at it the first time I kissed you. You’re not very subtle.”

You run your finger along the rough edges of the necklace as you lick inside his mouth; but eventually it becomes difficult to resist his gorgeous curls, so your hands trail, scratching at his scalp and tugging the hairs at the nape of his neck.

Then he kneels. You offer a curious whine.

“It would be rude of me to not return the favor, princess,” Luigi says, spreading your thighs apart and guiding your legs over his broad shoulders.

Wow. 

Long fingers brush against your cunt. He’s spreading something else, too, exploring and relishing in how reactive you are to his touch. 

“Oh, my,” he murmurs. “You’re so wet. Were you having fun, baby?”

The whine that leaves you is apalling. “Yes, Daddy.”

“That’s what I like to hear.” He plants a kiss to the back of your knee, glides further, down your thigh. “You’re such a gift. I’m a lucky, lucky man.”

Two of his fingers part your lips so that all of you is exposed to him. He begins with one flat lick from hole to clit, grinding the tip of his tongue against your fluttering cunt and sweeping it side-to-side. You cry out. It’s been a long time since you found a guy this enthusiastic about eating pussy, and you’re starting to feel immensely glad that Luigi isn’t showcasing himself online—any girl could have this, and because of one chance night, you are the one that gets to indulge in his greedy mouth. Before the insecurity can come flooding back to you he sucks your clit between his lips, slowly pulling away with a resounding pop.

“Fuck,” he whispers. “You’re really spoiling me, sweetheart.”

You’re spoiling him? Yeah. Because that makes sense.

Nothing needs to make sense, though; not when he licks up the length of your pussy again, steadying your body by wrapping his other hand around your thigh, and good god, the span of his fingers nearly covers the entire width. You could probably come just from looking at that. First his tongue circles the hood of your clit, just barely avoiding where you want him the most, and then he moves to teasing you with the pointed tip of it, flicking back and forth. It’s heaven. You’ve never had a man pay this kind of attention to your satisfaction, and you love that Luigi seems to be quite avid about your enjoyment of his efforts—every so often he’ll groan with hunger into your cunt, squeezing your supple thighs.

“Oh—” you whine, hips stuttering. “Oh, fuck, Luigi…”

And then he stops. You make a sound that can only be described as a shrill grunt, raising your head to peek at him between your legs. Luigi’s brows are set straight, eyes unamused.

Oh. Right.

“Daddy,” you plead. “I’m sorry. Please don’t stop.”

His wicked smile returns, then, and he gives your thigh a careful smack. “Atta girl.”

That perfect tongue returns, sliding up through your slick and lingering at your hole, pressing in just slightly. Your cunt is open entirely to him and he can reach every crevice of you, swirling and parting your folds, curling up to collect your arousal as it seeps from you. You’re starting to think that Luigi may not even have to pay you in cash from now on—he can simply compensate with this eager mouth of his. For a moment he takes your clit between his lips and sucks hard again, creating a pulsing sensation with the suction of his mouth that has your thighs trembling and forces sounds from you that would frankly terrify you in any other context.

When he pulls away, he murmurs, “you have the most perfect pussy, baby. Could taste you all day.”

Then he’s diving back in, hardly giving you any room to breathe—it’s just a never ending barrage of all the magic that his mouth can do, his dirty talk and the skillful work of his tongue. This time around he tenses that talented appendage and slots it inside of you, withdraws, and licks up the length of your slit, then repeats the gesture a second time, and then a third—and by the fourth time the tips of his fingers are teasing your entrance, silently asking for permission to explore.

“Please,” you whine, bucking your hips.

So Luigi licks up and collects your clit in his mouth, sucking as he eases his middle finger into your cunt. He hardly gives you time to adjust before he’s curling it, working that spongy spot inside of you with precision, and you cry out, squirming under his intensive ministrations. All the while his lips squeeze your firm clit, almost massaging it, his tongue making a special appearance every so often to stroke the sides of you.

“Fuck,” you sob. “More, please, more.”

He slides a second finger inside of you. Then a third. What really makes it special is the fact that the stretch of his fingers can’t possibly compare to his dick.

By now the build-up of your orgasm has begun to peak, coiling like hot wires in your stomach; you’re squirming ceaselessly on the couch, jittering all over, your fingers buried in Luigi’s thick curls as his fingers work inside of you. His other hand snakes around your thighs and presses against your abdomen, pinning you down so as to minimize your movements. Your thighs shoot up and frame his head, locking him in.

“I’m coming,” you warn, “I’m gonna come.”

Momentarily his mouth leaves your pussy to groan, “you’re doing so good, princess. Show Daddy how you come for him.”

And when his lips return to your clit, a deep hum vibrating in his throat and through your body, you’re coming hard on his face, gripping his hair roughly and rocking your hips against his mouth. Luigi returns your satisfaction tenfold; he moans and smiles against your cunt as he guides you through your climax, whispering fluff to you that you don’t quite comprehend through the rush.

“Such a good girl, sweetheart,” he’s saying when you come to, the ceiling almost spinning before your eyes. 

You lean up on your elbows and offer a dazed grin. “Thank you, Daddy.”

“Don’t mention it,” he says, meeting your lips in a deep kiss. “It’s a treasure to get my mouth on you, sweet girl. I’ve been dreaming of it.”

His tongue tastes like your cunt. You moan into his mouth as you suck on it, fisting his tight curls in your hand. 

“Would you mind terribly if I fucked you now?” Luigi asks when he pulls away, still smiling sweetly.

You kiss him again. “I wouldn’t mind that at all.”

At that he stands to retrieve a condom from his wallet, dick swinging shamelessly as he moves. Christ. You’re no better than a man.

He catches you staring, notices your bottom lip trapped between your teeth. “Like what you see?”

Flushing, you giggle. “I’m sorry. It’s kinda hard not to.”

Tearing open the packet, he orders with a smile: “Turn around and bend over on the bed.”

You’re obeying before the words are even out of his mouth. You sink your knees into the soft cushion of the sofa as you lean down onto the bed in front of you, back arched. Your soft ass and your sticky pussy are in perfect view for him, and he whistles lowly as you feel him approaching from behind.

“Look at that,” he remarks, spreading you with the same hands that can solve a Rubik’s cube in under a minute. “Fucking dripping wet. And all for me.”

He drags a fingertip through your slick, which is soon replaced by the head of his cock, swiping back-and-forth against your clit. You shudder at the smooth motion of it, at the way his hands knead your asscheeks.

“So gorgeous,” Luigi says as he presses inside of you.

The stretch knocks all the wind out of your lungs, and the sound you make is intense, pained, absolutely obscene. By the time he’s sheathed every inch in your cunt you’re gripping the bedsheets and squealing, praying to no one in particular that the rooms opposite each side of yours are unoccupied.

“There we go,” he murmurs, stroking your lower back. “Let it all out, sweetheart. How does that feel?”

“It—” You cut yourself off with a groan. “It’s so big.”

“Shh,” he whispers—his hand is now combing through your hair. “I know, baby, I know. Look at you, taking it so well.”

You don’t even know how to breathe again when he pulls his hips back and slowly presses inside of you once more. And then once more. And when Luigi starts to find his rhythm all you can do is blink away your tears and fall face-forward into the bed, your pathetic sounds muffled by the sheets, and he seems to return your enthusiasm—he groans, head thrown back and eyes lidded.

“Fuck, that’s perfect,” he praises. “You can handle it, can’t you, princess?”

Weakly, you nod and offer a whimper. His hand comes down hard on your ass.

“What did I tell you about answering me?” Luigi spits, voice gruff.

“Yes, Daddy, yes,” you whine, leaning back up on your elbows. “I can take it, I can.”

He squeezes your rear. “Arch your back for me.”

So you do, easily, and he’s quick to pick up the pace, slamming into you with no regard for anything that isn’t his cock pistoning inside of your warm, slick pussy. The man is relentless, tugging at your hair and panting beautifully; he’s pounding so deep that you swear you can feel the pressure of it in your chest, and you’re so wet that you’re almost worried you’ll leave behind a mess so horrific the janitors of The Palace will need therapeutic compensation for their shift tonight. 

“Oh, fuck,” you cry out, “oh, fuck…”

It’s all too much and yet you can’t not want more. You’re working your hips back-and-forth in time with his thrusts, the soft globes of your round ass meeting his pelvis with a noise that is unbearably obvious. The stretch of his cock is unforgiving. Merciless.

With a fistful of your hair, Luigi grunts, “that’s it, baby, there you go. Fuck me back.”

But you’re breaking out a sweat, lip tucked between your teeth. “I can’t—oh, fuck, please…”

“Shh,” he murmurs, tightening his grip on you. “Just rub that little clit and let me do all the work, okay?”

Your fingers swiftly find the slicked bundle of nerves between your thighs and stroke in circles, moving furiously. He’s got both hands planted firmly on your hips, thighs and arms tensing as he hunches over you, fucking into you like a madman, his dick brushing into every sweet spot deep inside of you. If you focus hard enough you can feel his silver chain swinging over your back.

Luigi makes a noise that sounds strangled and involuntary.

“Baby,” he says, “fuck, you’re tight. ‘M not gonna last much longer.”

You nod desperately, hand moving to meet his where it’s clasped over your hip. The fingers of your free hand speed up, slathering your arousal over your clit as Luigi slap-slap-slaps his hips into yours.

He wasn’t lying. It only takes a few more minutes of his vicious pounding for the both of you to come undone; you’re up first, jittering and falling flat into the bed as your toes curl and your cunt grips him like you never want to let go, and that’s all Luigi needs to meet you halfway, thrusts stuttering and slowing to a stop as you milk him. His chest is heaving and his Adam’s apple bobs as he catches his breath, his hand gently caressing your back.

“God,” he mutters as he pulls out of you. “You’re fuckin’ unbelievable.”

You’re sat up in bed, the sheets splayed over your naked body as the shower runs in the distance. By now it’s past midnight, the city only lit up by street lights and the brights of passing cars. As you watch the world pass by through the windows of your suite, you fork through a plate of chocolate mousse cake, specially made by The Palace’s chefs. The bite that fills your mouth is heavenly; it’s rich and fluffy, the icing creamy and the texture smooth. Something sweet to make up for your lack of dessert this evening.

The water turns off. Halfway through your slice of cake fresh from room service, Luigi emerges from the shower, curls wet and skin sheen with warm droplets as he tucks in the towel wrapped snugly around his waist. He smiles at you when you spot him.

“What do you think?” he asks.

You blink. “About my cake?”

He chuckles. “About tonight.”

Now you understand: he wants feedback. Wants to live up to his promises. 

“I’m an earnest lover.” 

Setting your cake and fork on the nightstand, you approach him—and he sighs happily when you wrap your arms around him and pull him in for a hug, your bare breasts pressed flush to his pecs.

Into his ear, you whisper: “I think you’re the very best Daddy I could ever ask for.”

Luigi smiles devilishly.

[evidence-based-activism]

hello, just want to say I love the work you're doing and I think it's essential to our movement.

I wanted to ask something about the biology and culture of human sexuality. I read something online that really bothered me 'rape and sexual assault are only traumatizing because there is a puritanical culture around sex' and that it happens all the times with animals and female animals don't consider it an issue, often passively accepting after a struggle. And that if humans didnt have culture rape wouldn't be as much of a problem, and that it is beneficial for the species from an evolutionary perspective. And there's always been this disturbing presence of rape in the animal kingdom, which makes me feel like it's some kind of inevitability that females across species will have to suffer through. And that is just so fucking defeating, even though I'm rather skeptical of that there are enough examples of it everywhere.

And there are other things like some kind of sexual power dynamic supposedly being baked into our DNA, which follows the animal patterns of active male and passive female, and other patterns of control. And the way many male animals show dominance to even other males using penetration, the way human males make up sex hierarchies by putting the weakest male in the womans role when women arent present, is the act biologically wired to be interpreted as dominating? Because It's honestly so demoralizing to think about. I know biology isn't everything or even half of everything, but the way the sexes evolved made violation of the female an extremely easy default followed by many species. I can't quite describe the almost existential horror that comes with realizing the very real biological roots of patriarchy. Males have both the ability and incentive to wreak absolute havoc on the other half of their own species in a way we cant to them, and we just have to live with that.

I think I'm rambling sorry. I'm having a crisis over it all. I hope at least some of it makes sense.

Hello! I'm glad you like my blog! I'm sorry you're having a difficult time!

I've had similar crises in the past (e.g., when I found data showing about 1 in 3 men will just openly admit to abusing women). I've found the best remedy is to remember how far women have come in such a short time. (In some areas of the world. I focus on the USA here.) Just a couple of generations ago, women couldn't have their own bank accounts, marital rape was legal, and pregnant women weren't protected from employment discrimination. A couple of generations before that, women had no right to vote and no right to access effective birth control. There are countless other advancements that your grandmothers likely lived to see enacted. We have a long way to go – and that is demoralizing – but we've already come so far – and that's reassuring. [1]

---

I also wanted to address the topics you specifically mentioned, as I hope that may help you as well.

First, the idea that rape is "only" traumatizing because of culture is common in anti-feminist spaces, but it is not based in reality. Evidence for this:

Women exhibited trauma symptoms to marital rape even before marital rape was legally or publicly recognized as possible [2, 3]. In other words, the surrounding culture taught women that marital rape wasn't possible, and yet women who experienced this violation were still traumatized.

Children raised in an environment where abuse is normalized, such as in organized and ritual child sexual abuse, still exhibit trauma symptoms [4]. Again, this indicates that people do not need to be "taught" that rape is traumatizing; it simply is.

Women who are sexually victimized while in cults exhibit trauma symptoms despite their purported "consent" and the microculture normalizing this exploitation [5].

Girls who are sexually victimized in child marriages are traumatized even in cultures where child marriages are the norm [6, 7].

Further, the reason why sexual violence may be uniquely traumatizing to humans (i.e., why this trauma extends beyond violent assaults) is because sexual violence threatens the victim's self-concept. In other words, it likely isn't human culture that is behind sexual trauma, but the human sense of self. Considering the concept of a self is absolutely vital to humanity, you cannot eliminate the impact of sexual violence without also changing the fundamental nature of humanity.

---

Second, the idea that rape is "beneficial for the species from an evolutionary perspective" is also not accurate. First, this is a bit of a misunderstanding of evolution and natural selection. In particular, there is not some sort of "optimal state" that a species is advancing towards. Put simply, evolution is the process through which certain traits become more or less common over generations. To be clear, these traits emerge at random, not through intention. A trait that makes it more likely for an organism to reproduce (or survive to reproductive age) will result in an organism with that trait having more children than an organism without that trait. (Assuming there is a degree of competition; in other words, it must not be possible for both organisms to maximally reproduce simultaneously.) Over many generations, this means the advantageous trait will become much more common in the population. This eventually results in the emergence of a "new" species which exhibits that particular trait. [8]

As such, a trait is not beneficial "for the species;" instead, it benefits specific individuals’ reproductive success. The characteristics of the species are a neutral result of the competition between favorable traits. Further, when it comes to traits involving sexual reproduction, traits that are favorable for male reproductive success (i.e., allow males to father more successful children) are often unfavorable for female reproductive success (i.e., reduce their number of successful children). This is because there are often opposing biological forces for male and female organisms. [9]

That being said, I've discussed in the past why I am skeptical of evolutionary theories to explain human behavior in the past, which applies here as well. In summary, you fall into the "just-so" trap, assuming that because things ended up like this, they had to end up like this, which is not an accurate assumption. I've also discussed the theories of the patriarchy's origins in the past, to explain the issues with a purely biological explanation.

My favorite counter-example is bonobos, who are as genetically close to humans as chimpanzees and do not exhibit male-on-female sexual aggression [10]. Instead, male violence related to reproduction is limited to (relatively less severe) male-on-male competitions. We do not know the reason for the differences in chimpanzee, bonobo, and human reproductive behaviors, but the existence of bonobos indicates that male violence against females is not inherently required for the persistence of a species.

---

Further, making comparisons between sexually aggressive animal behaviors and human sexual violence is difficult. It is unclear if animals have any concept of consent at all, and even if some do, they could not communicate this to us. Since rape is defined as sex without consent, this necessarily limits our ability to classify animal behaviors as such.

For example, some animals exhibit pursuit behaviors, where males will chase after a female and whoever "catches" her copulates with her. Is this an example of sexually aggressive behavior, like a human rapist chasing down his victim? Or is the female intentionally partaking in a competition between the males, so as to mate with (and obtain offspring from) the fastest/best of the group?

Or another example, some female animals will mate with multiple males in succession in order to optimize her reproductive success. Often the male animal she has just mated with will attempt to prevent further matings, so as to optimize his reproductive success. This can involve aggressive behaviors like blocking and guarding, which are not intended to but can sometimes cause injury to the female. Should this still be classified as sexually aggressive behavior?

The ambiguity here makes this sort of research difficult, both to complete and to interpret. That being said, a recent review of 244 articles [11] cast a broad net, looking for any "male behavior towards a female during the pericopulatory [i.e., around copulation] period that can be costly for the female" which they termed "sexual disturbance." They ultimately concluded that "sexual disturbance and its associated costs for females are frequent in a relatively low number of mammalian taxa."

They also found that "retention types were almost twice as common as aggression types," where retention types refer to "behaviors that do not have aggressive components (i.e. they are not intended to harm the female), but whose function is to try to retain her in order to mate." Further, only 11% of the studies documenting sexual disturbance described the behaviors as having high costs to females, where high cost included (but was not limited to) overtly aggressive behaviors.

Further, they document the presence of many "behavioral strategies developed by females to reduce their exposure to male aggression." This makes sense given these behaviors would help optimize the female's reproductive success, and were therefore passed on to a larger portion of the children.

Finally, the species with greater sexual disturbance were "also characterized by high levels of polygyny and sexual dimorphism." This is relevant because recent research indicates that many mammals do not exhibit size sexual dimorphism or the female is larger than the male [12].

While this research is by no means settled (and reviews on non-mammalian species would be helpful), this does suggest that sexually aggressive behaviors (or what we perceive as sexually aggressive behaviors) are not overly common among mammals.

We also know that there are many other mate selection behaviors (e.g., courtship rituals, male-on-male aggression, sperm-based adaptations, etc.) that have developed in many species [13]. Once again, this indicates male sexual violence is not necessary for the persistence of a species.

---

I'm not positive what you mean by "sexual power dynamics" in our DNA. It's possible the earlier linked post about the origins of the patriarchy may address this? You may also be interested in my post about how biology does not explain gender stereotypes.

The only other topic I think this may be referencing is the idea that the "active sperm" competes to fertilize the "passive egg," but new research has indicated this is not correct [14-17]. Instead, the female reproductive system, including the egg, plays a significant role in "choosing" the successful sperm.

---

For penetration among animals, I think you are referring to the theory that same-sex sexual behavior among animals exists to establish hierarchical/dominance relationships. This theory does exist and there is some evidence for it in some species, but it is not universally accepted and almost certainly does not universally apply [18, 19]. Other explanations for this behavior include social bonding and sexual "practice," among others.

That being said, I do believe there's a cultural context (for humans) surrounding penetration that positions it as a type of or expression of dominance. As with many other aspects of gender, this context is likely entirely (or mostly) socially constructed.

I bring up the possibility of it being "mostly" constructed because the invasiveness* of the act of being penetrated versus the act of penetration does lend itself towards the creation of a power dynamic, much like men's greater body mass and strength lends itself towards a power dynamic. That being said, the mere existence of a framework for a power dynamic does not inherently suggest this dynamic does or must exist.

*Meaning, literally, "involving entry into the living body (as by incision or by insertion of an instrument)" [20].

---

Otherwise, I think you may like my post on the theories of the origin of the patriarchy. Of potentially particular interest is the fact that reproductive structures are identical between humans, bonobos, and chimpanzees and and sexual dimorphism is broadly similar between chimpanzees and bonobos [21, 22] and either similar or less present in humans [23]. (Also note that female group corporation is essential to bonobo social structure [24].)

Ultimately, this suggests that our biological differences may facilitate but do not inevitability lead to patriarchal control. (Put another way: the fact that things have turned out this way does not mean they had to turn out this way.)

I do understand you and no apologies are needed! I hope this information may help you!

References under the cut:

Detailed timeline. (2024). National Women’s History Alliance. https://nationalwomenshistoryalliance.org/resources/womens-rights-movement/detailed-timeline/

Whatley, M. A. (1993). For better or worse: The case of marital rape. Violence and victims, 8, 29-29.

Frieze, I. H. (1983). Investigating the causes and consequences of marital rape. Signs: Journal of Women in Culture and Society, 8(3), 532-553.

Schröder, J., Nick, S., Richter-Appelt, H., & Briken, P. (2018). Psychiatric impact of organized and ritual child sexual abuse: Cross-sectional findings from individuals who report being victimized. International Journal of Environmental Research and Public Health, 15(11), 2417.

Dayan, H. (2018). Sexual abuse and charismatic cults. Aggression and violent behavior, 41, 25-31.

Burgess, R. A., Jeffery, M., Odero, S. A., Rose-Clarke, K., & Devakumar, D. (2022). Overlooked and unaddressed: a narrative review of mental health consequences of child marriages. PLOS global public health, 2(1), e0000131.

Yendork, J. S., Kliewer, W., & Cyrus, J. W. (2025). Child marriage and well‐being in Central and Western Africa: A scoping review of costs and potential benefits for girls. Journal of Adolescence, 97(1), 85-101.

Ayala, F. J. (2025, March 28). Evolution. Encyclopaedia Britannica. https://www.britannica.com/science/evolution-scientific-theory

Parker, G. A. (2006). Sexual conflict over mating and fertilization: an overview. Philosophical Transactions of the Royal Society B: Biological Sciences, 361(1466), 235-259.

Mouginot, M., Wilson, M. L., Desai, N., & Surbeck, M. (2024). Differences in expression of male aggression between wild bonobos and chimpanzees. Current Biology, 34(8), 1780-1785.

Cassini, M. H. (2021). Sexual aggression in mammals. Mammal Review, 51(2), 247-255.

Tombak, K. J., Hex, S. B., & Rubenstein, D. I. (2024). New estimates indicate that males are not larger than females in most mammal species. Nature Communications, 15(1), 1872.

Animal reproductive strategies | organismal biology. (n.d.). Georgia Tech Biological Sciences. https://organismalbio.biosci.gatech.edu/growth-and-reproduction/animal-reproduction-i-mating-systems/

Soto-Heras, S., Sakkas, D., & Miller, D. J. (2023). Sperm selection by the oviduct: perspectives for male fertility and assisted reproductive technologies. Biology of reproduction, 108(4), 538-552.

Steck, T., Würfel, W., Becker, W., & Albert, P. J. (1991). Serial scintigraphic imaging for visualization of passive transport processes in the human Fallopian tube. Human Reproduction, 6(9), 1186-1191.

Ellington, J. E., Evenson, D. P., Wright Jr, R. W., Jones, A. E., Schneider, C. S., Hiss, G. A., & Brisbois, R. S. (1999). Higher-quality human sperm in a sample selectively attach to oviduct (fallopian tube) epithelial cells in vitro. Fertility and Sterility, 71(5), 924-929.

Martin, R. D. (2018, August 23). The idea that sperm race to the egg is just another macho myth | Aeon Essays. Aeon. https://aeon.co/essays/the-idea-that-sperm-race-to-the-egg-is-just-another-macho-myth

Balfour, V. L., & Shuker, D. M. (2020). Same-sex sexual behaviour. Current Biology, 30(22), R1345-R1346.

Gómez, J. M., González-Megías, A., & Verdú, M. (2023). The evolution of same-sex sexual behaviour in mammals. Nature Communications, 14(1), 5719.

“Invasive.” Merriam-Webster.com Dictionary, Merriam-Webster, https://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/invasive.

Parish, A. R. (1996). Female relationships in bonobos (Pan paniscus) Evidence for bonding, cooperation, and female dominance in a male-philopatric species. Hu Nat, 7(1), 61-96.

Smith, R. J., & Jungers, W. L. (1997). Body mass in comparative primatology. Journal of Human evolution, 32(6), 523-559.

Lassek, W. D., & Gaulin, S. J. (2022). Substantial but misunderstood human sexual dimorphism results mainly from sexual selection on males and natural selection on females. Frontiers in Psychology, 13, 859931.

Furuichi, T. (2011). Female contributions to the peaceful nature of bonobo society. Evolutionary Anthropology: Issues, News, and Reviews, 20(4), 131-142.

[maxdibert]

The problem with Lily's character is that we can't have it both ways. Either she's the most special girl ever, good at everything and beloved by everyone, or she's part of a vulnerable group who suffers discrimination in the magic world.

Even if she supposed to be seen as an "exception", or "one of the good muggleborns", we have to see it more clearly. But the way it is, she hardly had any struggles, especially if we compare it to what Severus went through. Because everything we see about Severus makes Lily's pain seem trivial in comparison. I'm sorry, I know it sounds bad, but there's no other way to say it.

JKR would have to do a much better job in writing if she wanted to convince me that Lily is the most vulnerable between the two. Either by making Lily's struggles more visible (so she's not seen as such a perfect character), or by making Severus more powerful in other ways. And to do that, the author would have to change everything about their dynamic.

What really falls apart for me is the whole SWM situation. Like, when I first read that scene in book five, I couldn’t bring myself to empathise with her. But then in book seven, when we learn what happened afterwards—and also everything that was going on in Severus’s background—I just thought, she’s a bloody idiot.

I mean, how do you grow up with someone, know they come from a horrible place, that they can’t even afford their own clothes, that their home life is a disaster, and that they’ve been harassed and physically assaulted for years by your future husband (!!!) and his mates—and still decide you’re not going to forgive him for one stupid slur? Sure, it was a bad word, no one’s denying that, but really?

And yeah, I was a teenager when I read that, and I’ve always had a very codependent relationship with my childhood friends—we still live near each other even after moving out, because we’re kind of dysfunctional if we don’t see each other. But still. I just couldn’t wrap my head around it. Like okay, he called you a Mudblood—meanwhile he was being stripped publicly, humiliated—and you’re upset?

You’re the one who the richest, most popular guy in your house is chasing after. All the professors still fawn over you twenty years later. You’re mummy and daddy’s golden girl. So… where’s the struggle, Lily? You’re constantly described as beautiful, popular, well-liked. Seriously, what did she go through?

She doesn’t even give an example of being bullied herself—when she tries, she talks about Mary Macdonald, which kind of tells me that she never actually experienced it firsthand. So what’s her big tragedy? That she didn’t know how to use contraception and didn’t think to go to a Muggle clinic for the morning-after pill, and ended up dying because she and James were two reckless kids who had a baby in the middle of a war? Like, I’m sorry but… come on.

Meanwhile, Severus spent seven years being mistreated at school, constantly humiliated and brutalised by rich, untouchable boys. He was a half-blood (and let’s not forget, people like Bellatrix also saw half-bloods as filth), dirt poor, with a heartbreaking home life—and she’s the one I’m meant to feel sorry for? Yeah… no. That didn’t sit right with me when I was fifteen, and it sure as hell doesn’t now.

[silens-oro]

You're My Borealis 1/2

Not all fics have adult content, but this blog is 18+. Masterlist The Last of Us Playlist

Joel Miller x f!OC Camille Daniels (no physical descriptors) General Synopsis: When Joel and Sarah’s neighbor passes, her daughter Cam comes back home to Austin to settle her affairs. Sarah, in good conscience -and against her father’s wishes- could not leave this stranger to suffer alone and made it her mission to weasel her way into Cam's heart. Word Count: 5.3k Content Warning: Parent death; Mourning; Sarah the Schemer A/N: Title credit goes to Borealis by The Huntress and Holder of Hands. That song is so hauntingly heartbreaking and full of emotion. Go give it a listen! I started writing this back in November of 2023, posted it on here and it didn't get very much traction, so I've since removed it and made some edits. I love Sarah so much and I loved being able to explore the dynamic built between her and Cam. This will be a two part series that is already written, so I will be posting the second part at some point this weekend. We're going full Sour Patch Kid with this one, folks. The first part will be sweet, the second...is gonna kick you in the shin. Thank you for reading!

please comment & reblog :)

October 2001 Austin, Texas Suburbs

Funeral arrangements weren’t easy to put together. Moving across the country after a parent passes wasn’t easy. Continuing on with your life without them wasn’t easy. None of it was easy. 

The last three weeks of Cam's life was a blur. From getting the call about her mother, to the funeral, handling her mother’s will and dealing with her mother’s remaining affairs…the last thing she wanted to do was coax her late mother’s senior dog to eat when she couldn’t stomach the sight of food herself. 

“Come on, Mitch.” Cam pushed the dish of soft food over to him, but he ignored it and laid still on his tiny bed. 

Cam's mother got Mitch when she was only sixteen. Now at thirty she couldn’t imagine how distraught he truly was. The fourteen year old long haired chihuahua looked back at Cam with a sadness that no animal should harbor. 

Cam remembered when her mother brought Mitch home, and now looking at the white and gray hairs that peppered his once fully black face made her heart ache. With many of his teeth gone, his tongue stuck out the side of his mouth just the littlest bit, but it just added to his character. 

“I’m gonna leave this here. When you’re ready,” Cam motioned to the dish. “We’re gonna get through this together, bud.” She gave behind his ear a light scratch before standing up. At that moment the doorbell rang. Mitch cocked an ear in the direction of the door but otherwise didn’t move. 

A teenage girl, if she was even a teen yet, stood on the other side of the door holding a casserole dish. She had a timid smile once Cam opened the door. 

“Hi,” Cam greeted. 

“Hi, I’m Sarah.” She made a face to herself then clarified. “Miller. I live next door with my dad, Joel.” She motioned to the house on the right. “And sometimes my uncle Tommy.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Sarah. I’m Cam,” She offered with a gentle smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. Cam remembered how often her mother spoke about the girl in front of her when they had their calls throughout the week. Putting a face to the name was refreshing.

“I know, Mrs. Daniels used to tell me all about you.” Sarah said sweetly. “We didn’t want to bombard you. I know you’re dealing with a lot of complicated things right now, and my dad told me not to bug you, but I just wanted to let you know that I’m really sorry about your mom. We went to the funeral and the service was…really nice. She left a good impact on a lot of people, us included. I loved spending time with her.” Cam felt the tears she thought were pushed down far enough trying to claw their way to the surface as her bottom lip trembled. 

“Thank you, Sarah.” Cam's voice wobbled and Sarah’s eyes widened in panic. 

“Oh no! I’m so sorry! It wasn’t my intention to upset you or make you cry.” Cam sniffled and tried to turn her face, but Sarah had already seen the damage. “Oh, god -my dad is gonna kill me.” This made a laugh bubble out through her tears. 

“Give me a second to grab a tissue,” She left the door open. “Feel free to come inside.” 

“I uh…I brought you a pasta bake.” Sarah held the dish in front of her. “It’s nothing crazy. I’m not like…a chef or anything, but I figured you'd like a home cooked meal that you can just heat and eat.” Walking back into the entrance way with a tissue in her hand, Cam smiled at the girl. “It’s my favorite thing to eat when I’m sad because really, who can be sad while they’re eating pasta?” She explained with a shrug and it really made all the sense in the world. 

“That is incredibly thoughtful of you, Sarah. Thank you.” Taking the offered casserole dish from Sarah’s extended hands, she placed it on one of the various decorative tables that lined the entryway. “I truly appreciate this. Can’t tell you the last time Mitch and I had a real meal.” Her stomach clenched at the thought. 

“It’s no problem, really. Like I said, she was really nice. Most days she’d let me run around the yard with Mitch until he got too tired otherwise he’d just lay in his bed all day. How is he?” Cam motioned to the dog who still hadn’t moved. 

“He’s taken her passing really hard. I can’t blame him.” 

“He’s not eating?” Sarah asked when she saw his full food dish. Cam shook her head. 

“A little bit here and there, but not anywhere near what he should be.” Sarah stared at the dog for a moment before she turned back to Cam. 

“Have you tried ham?” Cam blinked at the girl’s question. 

“Ham?”

“You know, like the thin sliced stuff you get at the grocery store deli? He loves it. It has to be low sodium though. That’s what Mrs. Daniels used to give him as a treat. Do you have any?” Cam knew there wasn’t a single thing in the fridge other than some condiments that belonged to her mother that had been sitting in there for god knows how long. 

“Unfortunately I am fresh out of low sodium ham.” Sarah thought for a second then smiled, holding up her index finger. 

“Give me a minute and I’ll be right back!” She got to her feet and ran out of the house. Mitch grunted and curled in on himself to go back to sleep. Minutes passed and Sarah came whirling back into the house with a deli bag in her hands. 

“Ta-da! It’s not low sodium, but it is thin sliced. We have to make due with what we have. I’m sure Mrs. Daniels wouldn’t be too upset about it.” Sarah shook the bag. “Mitchy, look what I have.” She spoke sweetly to the dog. Cam saw his nose start to wiggle and that was encouragement enough. She stepped out of the way to let Sarah get close enough to sit on the floor next to Mitch’s bed. As soon as Cam opened the bag, his little head popped up. 

Cam could not believe her eyes when she saw him weakly get up and walk the few steps to Sarah who had already torn a piece small enough for him to eat. After sniffing it for a few seconds, he took the piece of meat from her fingers delicately and ate it. He wagged his little corkscrew tail and waited patiently for her to give him another piece. 

Cam stood there crying like an idiot while Sarah continued to feed Mitch until his little belly was full. 

“You uh…you’re welcome to see him whenever you want. Play in the yard or take him for walks. Anything you used to do with him, you’re still welcome to it.”

“Really?” Sarah perked up. “You don’t mind?”

“Not at all. Poor Mitch is probably sick of seeing me mope around the house. Seems like you know him well enough.”

“We’ve been friends since my dad and I moved in a few years ago. He’s such a good boy, aren’t you, Mitch?” Sarah rubbed under his chin and his tongue flopped out, making her giggle. 

“I pretty much work from home, so feel free to stop by.” Sarah smiled brightly. “You’ll be good for him.” 

Sarah’s presence had become a constant in Cam’s day to day life after that initial visit. After the first couple of times Sarah stopped by, she just let herself in as if she had known Cam her whole life. Joel would be mortified if he knew where Sarah was, and just how comfortable she allowed herself to be in a stranger's home, but Cam wasn’t a stranger -not to Sarah. 

Cam felt like an extension of Ms. Daniels and that made her even less of a stranger. Sarah thought he’d be more horrified by the fact that Cam didn’t lock her door during the day so Sarah could let herself in. Sarah was constantly getting lectured by him for doing the same at home. 

Having Sarah over made Cam force herself to get out of her depressive slump. She started getting out of bed earlier than noon. Showering on a normal schedule.  She started running the errands she had been neglecting -an extensive grocery haul being the first thing on the list. Sarah was insistent that Mitch have his ham in the fridge at all times and who was Cam to tell the girl no? 

He’s 98 in dog years, Cam. A little lunch meat isn’t gonna do much damage at this point. Touche, Cam thought. 

Cam’s mental strength started to build and she was able to truly start packing away her mother’s things. For now they’d sit in boxes in the garage, collecting dust until she had the bandwidth to genuinely go through everything, but that was better than living with it presently in front of her. 

The pain it caused her to look at all of the knickknacks and things her mother had collected her whole life was too difficult to deal with daily, so in the end she decided packing it was the best option so she could finally breathe again. 

Every day that Sarah walked into the house it felt less and less familiar to her; not in a bad way, but in a way that let her know Cam was truly healing and it made Sarah smile with each new art piece that hung on the walls that wasn’t there the day before. 

The house started to match Cam on the inside and soon enough, she dedicated the screened-in patio at the back of the house to use as her studio. The fresh air and natural light was a godsend after spending over a month indoors. 

Sarah made it a habit to bring whatever was left over from the night before to have a late lunch with Cam before she had to go home. Before it was to keep her neighbor alive, but now it was something that Sarah liked to do. Sometimes she’d bake something for Cam too. They’d have a little picnic on the back patio and Sarah would look at all of the unfinished pieces Cam had brought with her from Boston and the new ones she had started since she decided to paint again. 

The bond they formed with each other was something Sarah didn’t know she was missing. She was perfectly happy with her dad, but she knew he was lonely…even if he’d never admit it. She couldn’t remember the last time he went on a date, and even then it was obviously unsuccessful. 

When Sarah looked at Cam, she saw someone she got along with seamlessly. Cam was kind and articulate. She was gentle and loving. She was everything her dad needed in his life and thus the wheels in her mind began to turn. 

“Not that it’s my place to complain or anything, but where have all your leftovers been going? Because they usually go to me,” Tommy stood up straight after he was bent over looking for something to eat in his brother’s fridge. “And this fridge has been wiped out.”

“They don’t go to you, you just take them.” Joel said matter-of-factly as he chewed on his piece of toast. 

“Very funny,” Tommy said sarcastically as he shut the fridge after coming up empty handed. 

“But I also want to know where the leftovers have been going.” Joel pointed the accusation at his daughter. Both men looked over to Sarah, who seemed very interested in the bowl of soggy cereal in front of her. “Sarah?” She sighed and picked at her nails. 

“I’ve been taking them to the neighbor’s house.” She mumbled, letting her spoon clink against the side of her bowl. 

“The neighbor? The Adlers?” Joel asked with confusion lacing his tone.

“No, Cam.” Sarah clarified without actually clarifying anything.

“Cam?” Joel asked once more.

“Camille Daniels, but she prefers Cam. The Cam that now lives in the house next door. Cam that now takes care of Mitch. Mrs. Daniels’ daughter. That Cam.” 

“Jesus, Sarah. I told you not to go over there bugging that poor girl. She’s going through hell right now after losing her mama.” Joel admonished his daughter. She brought up going over there to him once before the funeral and he put the kibosh on that right away. Clearly Sarah didn’t listen to him.

“You’ve been giving my food to the neighbor?” Tommy looked appalled. 

“At least she gives back our Tupperware. She washes it too.” Sarah glared at her uncle who wore a shit eating grin. She turned back to her dad with pleading eyes. 

“I saw her come out once on my walk to the Adler’s from my bus stop and I had to do something, dad. It was awful.” Sarah pleaded her case to him.

“How long have you been bugging her?” Joel interrogated, eyes narrowing.

“About a month.” She admitted with a shrug.

“A month?!” Joel’s already stressed eyeballs looked like they were about to pop out of his skull before he brought his fingers up to apply pressure to them.

“I brought her some pasta about a month ago and thank god I did; she looked like a walking corpse! I’ve never seen someone so sad and Mitch wasn’t eating! Cam didn’t know about the ham!” 

“What about the ham?” Sarah rolled her eyes at her uncle, getting frustrated. 

“Mitch eats deli ham and Cam didn’t know that.” 

“Is that where all my lunch meat keeps going?” Joel was beside himself as he looked at his daughter with furrowed brows. 

“She was locked up in that house for over a month before I started stopping by, dad. Now she leaves that house on her own! Daily! That’s progress! She’s starting to go back to kinda normal -and she’s looking less dead which I think is great. Cam also lets me play with Mitch and walk him whenever I want.” 

“When are you doing all of this? When you’re supposed to be at the Adler’s after school?” Joel looked between his daughter and Tommy, who just shrugged and let his eyeballs go back and forth between his brother and his niece.

“That’s beside the point, dad!” Sarah groaned. 

“Not when my daughter is in a stranger’s house and I don’t even know it.” Joel’s voice raised ever so slightly.

“I’m sorry! I should’ve told you, but I felt like she really needed a friend. I still go to the Adler’s, I didn’t like about that -I just don’t stay over as long.” Joel’s heart broke at his daughter’s admission. “And I was right to approach her, dad. I haven’t seen anyone aside from one or two people go over to her house other than the neighbors who knew her mom.”

“Have you been casing the place?” Tommy seemed very interested in what was happening. He pulled up a chair and sat at the table, stealing Joel’s remaining triangle of toast. 

“No…yes. I wanted to get to know her.” Sarah said with a shrug. “It’s nice having a neighbor who wasn’t around for World War Two, that’s all I’m saying.” 

“Sarah!” Joel tried not to laugh, but a surprised chuckle broke through.

“I love the Adler’s, but I am twelve, dad! I’ll take someone who is closer to uncle Tommy’s age if I can get ‘em.”

“And what did you find out?” Tommy asked, that scheming glint in his eye twinkled at this new information. Joel rolled his own eyes but listened nonetheless. 

“Cam is thirty and is actually really cool. I think you’ll like her, dad.” Joel didn’t like the look she gave him when she said it. “She’s an artist and her paintings are really, really good. Like crazy good. Good enough to sell for a living. She went to art school in Massachusetts and everything! She was talking to me yesterday about an art show she’s gonna have some of her paintings in next month at a gallery downtown. Said I could come down and see it if it was alright with you.” Sarah thought for a moment then continued. 

“Cam’s quiet, which I know you definitely like.” Sarah smiled innocently at Joel. He, however, was not buying the act. “She has an insane record collection. I saw some of the same things you listen to, by the way, and her house is filled with really cool art from a bunch of her artist friends from around the world, and a million different types of plants that she’s had for years. Did you know people kept houseplants alive for more than a week? Because I didn’t know it was possible until I saw it with my own eyes. Those plants are huge, dad! She has these long vine things that wrap around her living room and this big plant with leaves bigger than uncle Tommy’s massive head.”

“Watch it!” Tommy’s jaw dropped at the friendly fire.

“I’ve never seen houseplants grow like that. You’ve never kept any alive in my entire life -not even a cactus. Maybe she could show you how to do it. She said she got the vine thing from the grocery store. The grocery store! Can you believe that? Oh! and she told me a word that I can’t remember but if she snips the vine in the right spot, she can put the part she cut in a jar of water and it’ll make a whole new plant! It’s crazy! She just has an endless supply of plants in her house because she can just magically make more and more. Science!” Joel couldn’t help but take in the wonder his daughter had in her eyes as she spoke about the new neighbor…well, old neighbor. Semantics. If this conversation was anything to go by, he’d have to stop by at some point to apologize on his daughter’s behalf. Sarah’s probably talked her ear off for the better part of a month and he wouldn’t wish that on anyone -god love his kid. “She also lived in Boston before she came back here after her mom died. She said she misses it.” 

“Why doesn’t she go back?” Tommy asked. 

“That’s what I asked her. I’ve never been to Boston but even I know it’s…way better than Austin. She said that this was a new chapter in her life. She also didn’t want to sell her mom’s house. She grew up there, ya know?” Sarah stood from her chair and brought her bowl over to the sink. 

“She single?” Tommy asked with a megawatt smile and a wiggle of his dark brows. 

“Uncle Tommy!” Sarah couldn’t help but giggle at how silly he was being. 

“You’re a dog, you know that?” Joel said with a grin of his own. 

“What? No harm in asking.” Tommy said with a shrug as he sat back in his chair. 

“Anyway,” Sarah deliberately locked eyes with her father. “Cam invited us over for dinner tomorrow night and I told her we’d be happy to come over and that you’d bring wine.” She threw him an excessive smile that told him not to be mad at her even though she was putting him on the spot.

“You what?” Joel sputtered. 

“I don’t get an invite?” Tommy complained.

“Cam also said you were invited too, but I’ve already warned her about you so don’t try anything.” Sarah said pointedly to her uncle with narrowed eyes. Joel snorted at Tommy’s slack-jawed expression.  

“So we’re going, right?” Sarah pressured her dad. “I already told her yes,” Sarah reminded. “but she insisted that I ask you…” Sarah rolled her eyes playfully. Joel looked at her unimpressed, but sighed when she didn’t relent. Sarah’s smile grew and she shouldered the strap to her backpack. “You’re really gonna like her. I’ll meet you both in the truck. Hurry up or we’re gonna be late!”

The door shut behind Sarah and Tommy looked over to his brother with a grin building on his lips. 

“If I didn’t know any better, I’d think she was trying to set you up.” He snagged Joel’s untouched cup of coffee and downed it before standing up and following after his niece. 

Joel felt dread settle in the pit of his stomach.  

Joel would be damned if he used a word like smitten to describe what he was feeling, but as he watched Camille speak to Tommy with a flurry of motions from across the dining room table, that was the only word that came to mind. 

Cam’s house was everything Sarah described it as. It was warm and welcoming, and Cam’s entire vibe was comfortable. 

As the woman across from him spoke, he saw and heard exactly what Sarah did -what drew her to the woman who came back to Austin to pick up the pieces of her life. Joel’s nerves ate away at him when he was standing outside of the house, his palm sweating so much he thought he was going to drop the bottle of wine Sarah insisted he bring, but the second he stepped through the threshold it was like every nerve had melted away. 

“Ah, ah, ah!” Joel reprimanded when Sarah reached for the handle to the front door to let herself in as she had done a hundred times prior. 

“What? It’s open.” She said with a shrug. 

“How do you know that?” Joel questioned. 

“Jess leaves it unlocked…sometimes…most times, but only in the daytime so I can let myself in! Except right now because it is dark, but she is expecting us so those cancel each other out.” Sarah rambled, digging herself a deeper hole with each word that passed her lips. “Sometimes she can’t hear me because she’s in her studio so it makes sense to leave the door open, but I get that it’s a safety thing and I’ve told her how much of a freak you are about locked doors and…I’ll shut up now.” She shut her mouth when Joel’s eyes begged her to stop giving him things to worry about. Sarah rang the doorbell pointedly and Mitch’s high pitched howl could be heard on the other side. 

“Coming!” Sarah perked up when she heard Cam on the other side. When the door opened, Joel felt his heart nearly bursting free from his chest. “Hi, come on in.” Cam ushered the trio in as she introduced herself and Sarah spared a glance back at her dad who stood at the door with a very dumb look on his face. 

Tommy introduced himself with a flirty smile and Sarah had to stop herself from outwardly rolling her eyes. 

“You must be Joel,” Jess held her hand out to him and he stared at it, almost confused, before handing over the bottle of wine. Not what she meant, but Cam took it in stride with a kind smile. “Dinner will be ready in a few. The dining room is this way,” She started walking towards the back end of the house, knowing Sarah would herd the men where they needed to go. Jess heard muffled voices, but couldn’t decipher what was being said until she heard Sarah clearly. 

“Shoes off.” Sarah whispered to her father and uncle, who immediately complied. 

“They really don’t have to, Sarah!” Cam called from the kitchen. 

“They really do!” Sarah called back, shooting looks to her relatives. “They are civilized, I promise!” Joel shoved her off balance when he heard Cam’s laugh echo down the hall. “Take ‘em off!” Sarah hissed as she yanked off her sneaker. They were going to make a good first impression, if it killed her. 

The dinner flew by at the speed of light and the next thing Joel knew, Sarah was ushering them back to the front door to collect their things. 

“Thank you for coming by. I’m really happy to finally meet you both.” Cam smiled at Tommy and Joel. 

“That was delicious, Cam. Thank you.” Tommy brought the charm back out as Sarah began to pull him out of the house. 

“Thank you, Cam! As always, you’re incredible! Come on, uncle Tommy!” She yanked on the sleeve of his shirt. “I need your help with something and only you can help me with the thing I need help with. I’ll see you tomorrow, Cam! Bye, Mitch!” Cam’s brows furrowed at the weird behavior from Sarah, but chalked it up to her being a pre-teen. Joel cleared his throat and faced Cam. 

“Thank you for having us over. Dinner was…fantastic. I’ve had many steaks in my life, but that was incredible.” 

“Ah stop it,” Jess said humbly, a blush filling her cheeks as she smiled meekly. 

“No, really. It was great. I’m uh, I’m glad to see you’re doing alright.” Joel’s hands were stuffed into the front pockets of his jeans. His feet shuffled from side to side the tiniest bit, anxiety shooting through him.

“That’s really the reason why I invited you over here. Sarah helped me get back to reality. If she wasn’t so persistent, I’d probably be rotting in this house still. She helped me when no one else could, and I’ll always be grateful to her for it.” Cam looked up into Joel’s dark eyes as he looked back at her with pure earnestness shining back at her. 

“She’s a really good kid, Joel, with a heart of gold. I don’t know your situation, and it isn’t my business, but you’ve done a great job with her. I can’t imagine how hard it is to raise a kid in the best of circumstances, much less in the worst. All I know is that she’s gonna do something good in this world. She’s as sweet as honey and as sharp as a whip. You’ve got nothin’ to worry about with her. She’s got a good head on her shoulders.” Joel rubbed the back of his neck nervously from the praise. 

“Seems like your mama did the same.” His voice was soft, but the impact of his words made the earth shift off kilter for Cam. “Sarah really got on with her like a house on fire. She treated Sarah as if she were family and she’s deeply missed.”

“My mom adored Sarah and now I see why. She has that effect on people. You should be proud.”

“Every day.”

“Good, and I really like her too -for what it’s worth. She keeps me and Mitch on our toes.” Joel chuckled, stuffing his hands back into the front pockets of his jeans. 

“If at any point you need to put a boundary up-” Cam held a hand up to stop him in his tracks. She knew exactly what he was implying -should she ever get sick of having Sarah hanging around…

“Joel, she could be out doing god knows what. I know I was when I was her age and it took years off my poor mother’s life. If Sarah is choosing to spend her time with me and the old man-,” Jess nodded over to Mitch’s sleeping form. “-then I’ll gladly take her, with your blessing of course. She’s always welcome in this house, Joel, and so are you. Tommy on the other hand…”

“He’ll eat you out of house and home. Don’t leave that invitation open.” Cam laughed gently at Joel’s dig at his brother, but it was a genuine laugh all the same. “I still regret inviting him inside the first time. He’s like a stray that you have to keep feeding.”

“Duly noted.” The smile never left Cam’s face.

“I should uh…I should get going. I’m sure that whatever those two are up to isn’t good for me so the sooner I break it up, the better.” Joel stepped through the threshold and into the autumn air. “Thanks again for having us over.” 

“It was nice to have…more than just me in the house. Mitch loves the attention, too. Sarah spoils him.” 

“You don’t know it, but you are the last line of defense that is keeping Sarah from continuously asking for a dog of her own.”

“I shall bravely continue to hold the line, then. For your sake.” She chuckled. “Thank you for the wine.” 

“Sarah’s idea.” Joel admitted. 

“So are we crediting her for this whole night?” 

“I think we’re gonna have to.” 

“Then I was wrong.” Cam corrected herself with a smirk growing on her mouth. 

“About?”

“You definitely have something to worry about with her; she’s a schemer.” Joel blew raspberries as he exhaled. He caught movement from his living room window and his eyes narrowed. 

“You don’t even know the half of it.” He gave his attention back to Cam. “There are always good intentions with her, but she’s like a bull in a China shop when it comes to tact.”

“Sounds about right.” Cam hummed, a pleasant grin sitting upon her features. 

“Better call it a night.” Joel began to step backwards down the walkway. 

“You have a good night, Joel.” 

“You too, Cam.” With that he turned to go to the sidewalk so he didn’t walk on her lawn, but stopped himself midway as if he forgot something. 

“Hey, Cam!” Cam stopped the door from closing and nodded at Joel. “Can you do me a favor?” Cam's head tilted in question. “Can you lock your door, please?” She dropped her head with a guilty smile, but nodded all the same.

“For you, Joel?” She looked back up at him. “Consider it done.” He sent Cam a sweet smile and a soft ‘thank you’ before shyly telling her good night once more. 

January 2002 Austin, Texas Suburbs

Three months had passed since Cam invited the Millers over for dinner. It had been three months of skirting around each other and Joel still hadn’t made his move. Every day that passed pushed Sarah further and further to the brink of insanity.

“Can you please talk to him, uncle Tommy?” 

“About what, sweetpea?” Sarah had been yapping over the movie that they put on while Tommy was trying to pay attention to it. He’d nod and shake his head appropriately, but the kid talked a mile a minute, so he would’ve been lost either way. His niece sighed, falling back into the cushions of the sofa with a groan.

“About Cam. Have you not been listening?” Tommy chuckled. “I swear, no matter what I do, dad won’t budge and every time I try to talk to him about it, he gives me the look and tells me to leave it.” Sarah crossed her arms as she sat next to her uncle on the sofa. Joel was currently stuck at the jobsite and asked Tommy to grab a pizza and hang with Sarah until he got home. It wasn’t unusual and Tommy didn’t have anything else to do for the night, so here he was, getting his ear talked off by a twelve year old. “We’ve had her over for dinner, I’ve invited her to my soccer games, we’ve had barbecues and movie nights. I’ve tried to even sit on the other sofa,” She motioned with both arms animatedly, “when we watch movies so they’d have to sit together, but he leaves like…so much space between them, uncle Tommy. Like, they might as well be in separate rooms. I’m doing my best to get them to just see that they’re perfect for each other, but he’s hopeless. I know he likes Cam. He gets that dumb look on his face when I talk about her.” Tommy laughed, loving the dirt he was getting on his brother. 

“Sometimes you gotta let things happen naturally, kid. If it happens, it happens.” Tommy shrugged, munching on a slice of pizza. “Or…” Sarah sat up in interest when Tommy gave her conspiratorial grin, thick brow raised and all. “...you get Cam to make the first move.” Sarah blinked up at her uncle, the cogs in her brain started to slowly crank until a matching grin made its way onto her face. “Now we’re cookin, kid.”

please comment & reblog :)

[sophieswundergarten]

In the very, very crack AU that's been swirling around my brain for a while, I've been wondering who would be a Time Lord in a Doctor Who/MBS crossover

Now, obviously, it could be Nicholas & Nathaniel for the Doctor & Master conflict.

However, I think once you get past the easy options it gets a lot funnier

Milligan. Just, Milligan as a Time Lord. Wandering around. Maybe he uses the Chameleon Arch thing and gets amnesia while pretending to be human, maybe he's just messing around and pretending to have amnesia because he panicked and couldn't think of a proper cover. The thing is, then, is Kate his biological daughter? I mean, she still could be, but I'm not touching the disaster that is DW genetic familial relationships with a ten foot pole so that's not my problem

Rhonda would actually be really, really good at disguises and blending in. I think she'd actually be great at just popping into random situations and helping but not freaking people out. She still does a lot of vandalism stuff because honestly sometimes people deserve it, but now she's got a psychic paper that just lets her get out of whatever trouble she might have been in

Number Two. That's all I've got to say

Miss Perumal, similar to Rhonda, I think would be absolutely great at the helpful part. She just settles down and pours herself into helping a few people or a certain community. Everyone loves her, and she occasionally lets very special people she trusts go traveling with her, but for the most part everyone just thinks she's a really sweet, eccentric lady who's a bit mysterious

Garrison... is still having her breakdown, but this time it's not just about Curtain. He's the final straw after years of human stupidity and misuse of her technology that she's been trying to help them with. She's Not Doing Alright. She loses her faith in humanity for a little bit, and Curtain was kind of her last-ditch attempt to see if people could be better but then he went off the rails and she's not sure what to do now but she just can't leave because he's actually got some powerful alien tech

After you rule out most of the adults, it gets even weirder in my book, but I don't think anyone wants to hear me ramble about which of the kids it most likely to secretly be an immortal time traveling alien with the current state of my mind

[add1ctedt0you]

Sucker for pain

That's for all the writers who look at jiang cheng and decide to put him through other unimaginable woes. <3 As if his life wasn't rough enough lol.

[welcometogrouchland]

Batman #149 by chip zdarsky is mostly unremarkable, but I'm really fascinated by how it makes a great case for 'good' endings not saving 'bad' stories*. Because there's a lot of interesting concepts in this issue (bruce having to deal with his rapidly aging and decaying clone making him think about his own life, re-establishing a 'nest' so to speak for his family after pushing them away, etc) but bc of the OOC slog that came before it, almost every moment w/ the batfamily comes off as unearned and disingenuous imo.

Like, everything with Damian is the perfect example in this. Because in isolation it's...fine. admittedly it's a missed opportunity to not go deeper into how Damian would feel about a clone of his dad who tried to kill considering Damian's relationships with clones of himself (the heretic rejects and respawn) or with former enemies who wanted him dead but who were manipulated and/or brainwashed (like suren and maya).

Zdarsky doesn't go into any of this but you could maybe excuse it as the issue not being about Damian. However, coupled with the previous bizarre characterizations of Damian in 147 and 148, it ends up not being fine- instead it starts to feel...icky how Damian (who, despite often being drawn and written as white, will never have his connection to the non-white al ghuls forgotten and will always be effected by racism even when not portrayed as a poc) is constantly written as overly violent, uncaring and narrow minded in this run. Coupled w/ trying to recanonize the morrison origin for Damian it's like. OH this is badly written and laden with subtle bigotry, sick**

That's me going into detail on it with Damian but it's applicable to other things in this issue- the way Cass, Steph and Duke have all been ignored or turned into jobbers makes their inclusion in the 'family' here feel hollow instead of satisfying. Bruce proclaiming that Zur was still a part of him and he needs to accept responsibility for his actions (when it means taking in clone son) wrings hollow when just last issue zdarsky was bending over backwards to separate Bruce and Zur bc otherwise the Jason thing would get really awkward. Ends are achieved through means that feel hollow or strange. I'm at my destination but damn why'd the bus have to do all that???

I only really have opinions on this latest arc of zdarskys Batman bc it's the one I've read the closest (bc I'm a hater, masochist and avid follower of even the bad damian storylines) but it's not saying great things.

Bc zdarsky can do one thing good in this book, and it's write Bruce and Tim. And yet this entire story, whether of his own volition or editorial mandate, includes other characters who aren't Bruce and Tim, the fabric starts to unravel in very telling ways.

(p.s, I think pennyworth manor is an interesting idea but I feel like in execution it's just gonna be 'bruce living in a house haunted by the memory of the people he couldn't save' but with a different dead guy this time. Illusion of change and whatnot)

*whether or not the ending is good is up to you ofc, as is your opinion on the proceeding arc! I saw some ppl complain that the ending was too "WFA" for them, which I get even if I dont think it'll literally be the same premise. If anything it's probably a lead into the new tec run. Likewise many ppl who aren't in the weeds of Damian and Jason characterization liked the previous arc! But I have my opinions and rest my case before the bench

**disclaimer, I'm white and portrayals of bigotry in comics are complicated and subjective, but I am basing my point here off what other poc comic fans on socmed have been saying about 149. Also the "sick" is sarcasm incase that wasn't obvious

[mostmagical]

reading year in review

posting this at the behest of @bittersweetresilience... 1-2 of my favorite fics that I read for each month of the year

I’m not tagging anyone in this other than mutuals who happen to be on the list because I DON’T KNOW. this is SCARY. I’m just a girl. what do I know about anything.

01 JANUARY

Graine de toi by MireilleTanaka (Miraculous Ladybug)

Ladybug and Chat Noir think they’re close, until they begin waking up in one another’s skin. AU: Adrien is homeschooled, and he and Marinette have never met

Body swap AND Never Met AU fic based loosely on Kimi na wa that lived in my head for ages. @blur0se sent this to me when we were just little baby new friends because she thought I would like it and she was exactly right because I loved it.

In Pursuit of the Uneatable by @nemaliwrites (Miraculous Ladybug

In a Paris where Lila weaves tales that blind the city, Marinette stands accused, isolated. Her parents' trust is shattered, her friends distant, and in battle, illusions blur the line between ally and enemy. As the shadows and uncertainty threaten to close in, Marinette finds herself turning to the last person who claims to be on her side: a boy in a white mask who calls himself a fox hunter.

This fic is so good and we are all blessed to have a chance to read Nemali writing… I feel awful because I still need to finish this fic but I think about it all the time. Nemali’s prose and Lila characterization, and just the general concept– AGH. Top tier.

02 FEBRUARY

never been in love by bittersweetResilience (Miraculous Ladybug)

Félix wonders if he has a heart. If he does, it doesn’t beat like that.

I love ace spectrum characters I love Sunny writing I love Sunny ace spectrum fic… Made me cry.

03 MARCH

watership down by bittersweetResilience (Miraculous Ladybug)

“Of course we get along.” Emilie’s hand reaches over to slip into Amélie’s. As always, her fingers loosen as soon as Amélie has reciprocated the hold. She swings their hands in a carefree arc between them, looking into the woods ahead, relying on Amélie’s grip to keep them linked. “We’re soulmates. No secrets between us.” Amélie and Emilie, through the years. A non-linear narrative.

This fic is sooo good you guys. So good. GAH. Sunny writing + Sunny Amelie and Félix, and complicated family relationships, and pretty prose and WATERSHIP DOWN. It feels like a coming of age film in your head.

Season of Giving by The_Rabbit42 (Miraculous Ladybug)

As Christmas draws near, Adrien and Marinette want to find special presents to give their partner and… other partner. Combined with Adrien rediscovering what Christmas is without his parents, Marinette getting sick, and Alya and Adrien becoming closer friends, it's sure to be a memorable holiday.

Honestly, this year, March was one of my lowest months for a lot of personal reasons, and I happened to stumble upon this Christmas fic and it just made me feel better.

04 APRIL

Maybe This Life by @coffeebanana (Miraculous Ladybug)

"Adrien's in the hospital." Woken in the dead of night by a series of frantic phone calls, Marinette finds herself boarding a bus from New York to Montreal instead of flying home for winter break. Not that she has a clue how she'll navigate living with Adrien—who definitely wants nothing to do with her since the break up—for the indefinite future. Adrien just wants to find the energy to convince Marinette he's fine—that she can leave. Because having her here hurts too much, and he's better off alone. At least, that's what he tells himself. They're an ocean away from home, stuck together in a one-bedroom apartment, in a city suffocated by snow. The distance between them has never felt so insurmountable. But maybe there's hope after all.

MTL fic… Sad, awkward exes fic. And CoffeeBanana writing. What more could you ask for in life…? So excited to see more of this unfold when Kayla is finally free from deadlines…

05 MAY

again. I didn’t do anything in May because I was 100%-ing ME3. and it ruined my life. (/pos) anyway. Mass Effect fic dump now

06 JUNE

picture perfect (get your head out of the sky) by luffia (Mass Effect Trilogy)

The logic of attraction is awful, and realising you have a thing for your undead human best friend who technically outranks you makes it all ten times worse.

This is just so funny. Jack torturing Garrus by pointing out his attraction lives in my head forever. Perfectly executed feeling of Oh. and then Oh no.

Beating Like A Hammer by skybound2 (Mass Effect Trilogy)

Garrus doesn't know if she is real, or a hallucination, but when Shepard storms back into his life on Omega, he finds that he doesn't much care. He just knows that he's not letting her go again, not if he can help it.

Shepard staying with Garrus and sending the other two squadmates to close the vents during his recruitment mission. Who would I be if I didn’t have at least one Omega fic on here. Be real.

07 JULY

it makes sense that it should hurt in this way (that my heart should break – and my hands should shake – ) by calypsid (Mass Effect Trilogy)

When Garrus gets home to Palaven, he finds something in his luggage he doesn't remember putting there himself.

I cannot explain to you how often I think about this fic. It’s short and sweet— Shepard isn’t even really there, but it’s just a fic that sticks with me so entirely. I actually need to go back to it because I think I was still lurking in the fandom and I probably didn’t comment, which is an absolute crime.

the view between by @bbutterflies (Miraculous Ladybug)

Adrien is standing at the front doors of the mansion. It’s abandoned now, though it doesn’t look much different. It feels safer somehow. He hates himself for thinking it. Father was a hero. His eyes burn and he fights away the guilt. Father was a hero and it doesn’t matter what else happened before because he’s gone. All Adrien has of his parents is the twin rings on his hand.

I've only read a handful of Post-S5 fics, but I read this one and it hit sooo well. It’s so sad and haunting and such a lovely peek into Adrien’s brain.

08 AUGUST

大鱼 by bittersweetResilience (Honkai: Star Rail)

It feels like lightning, the thrust of the spear through him. The same lightning that crackles at his fingertips, that arcs up his spine, that dances over his skin like fireflies in those winedrunk memories. Bandaged hands and bleeding ink and a hundred thousand fragments of abundance and destruction. or, Jing Yuan lets go of these seven hundred years of dreams.

Well of course. I gotta. The Renjing character study of all character studies (I’m unqualified to say this). I love this fic because first of all, Sunny prose is always beautiful, and second of all, Sunny loves this fic. I love what Renjing did to your writing. I love that you started writing more fluff and AUs and reading Chinese fic, and I know this fic is a big part of the journey. I loved reading it.

Well. Fuck. by quondam (Mass Effect Trilogy)

When he least expects it, Garrus finds Shepard at the door of his apartment on the Citadel, looking for a place to spend the night. Set between ME1 & ME2. Prompt called for a fill on humor & sex.

This is my favorite Shakarian smut. I don’t read a TON of smut. But I love this one. SO much. Amazing humor. Post-ME1, pre-ME2, with a very in-character Garrus. And I love that awkward ME1 Garrus.

09 SEPTEMBER

Marked Introductions by Feynite (Mass Effect Trilogy)

The words on Shepard’s forearm are… not in English.

I love the world-building in this fic and specifically the thought put into the turian language aspect. They even used phonetics… I cheered in my bed with my Bachelor’s degree. It’s actually bookmarked with a note that just says “LINGUISTICS” because I got so excited.

the light that throws itself on everything by @asukiess (Miraculous Ladybug)

the light that throws itself on everything, stretching twice, at dusk and again at dawn, agrees to stay, but only for a while.

This is it. The fic that revived my love of poetry. The reason I write fandom poems now. It’s everything… It’s the light… The light throwing itself on everything… Tragic. Gay. Poetry.

10 OCTOBER

Observations Upon Waking by interventionsandlullabies (Mass Effect Trilogy)

A collection of moments in which Garrus wakes up and takes in his surroundings. Some better, some worse. Some best.

I adore this author’s internal monologue for Garrus so so much. Cathartic post-ME3 fic. A little sad, but then a lot happy.

11 NOVEMBER

Edge of Yesterday by @that-wildwolf (Mass Effect Trilogy)

The war is over and Shepard's still alive. Except she doesn't really understand what war everyone is talking about, or who half of these people are... The last thing she does remember is the Normandy blowing up over Alchera. Which apparently was a few years ago, and things had changed a lot during that time. She doesn't even know which bothers her more: that everyone wants her to be someone she's not, or that Garrus has been strangely distant ever since she woke up... TL;DR: Shepard survives but loses all her memories since her death in ME2. Shakarian angst and regular angst, all mixed up together into a nice hurt/comfort cocktail. Despite the scary tags this has a happy ending.

I think I’ve been pretty loud about how much I love this fic, but why not be a little louder. This is probably my favorite fic I’ve read this year. I cried so many times, stayed up so late reading some nights, and I still think about it all the time. Some of my absolute favorite tropes done exceedingly well, and just all-around wonderful character moments. And I even made a friend out of reading it, so I doubly win.

Change Starts With Today by ThatWildWolf (Mass Effect Trilogy)

From the records of Doctor Marta Domańska, professional psychiatrist specialising in trauma: 2188, one year since the conclusion of the Reaper War. Patient admitted to psychotherapy: turian male, 25 to 30 years old, shows signs of deep-rooted psychological trauma. Admitted to therapy after losing a loved one; patient classified as high-risk. Advised course of action: continue psychotherapy and monitoring patient's state. Prescribe mood stabilisers if needed.

I would be remiss not to include this. A lovely little companion piece to EoY with an amazing Garrus character study and a very lovable OC. Makes my heart ache all over again. Reliving the magic, really.

12 DECEMBER

dreamt a cipher by @milkywayes (Mass Effect Trilogy)

Her own personal Noverian peak. That’s what it was supposed to be. Nothing but the discovery: no distractions, no comfort, no windows looking out—no familiar faces. But it's starting to look like her winning streak might have ended in that pile of Citadel rubble, if it ever extended that far to begin with.

Another fic that has been on my radar forever but I didn’t read until the end of the year. So sad, but also such great humor and such a compelling mystery that it all balances out perfectly. Wonderful world-building, incredible characterization, and honestly? Jealousy-inducing prose, it’s so good— so much so that I’m almost embarrassed to tag milky but I have to… milky deserves to know…

Tomorrow's Light by ThatWildWolf (Mass Effect Trilogy)

Garrus asked Shepard to move to Palaven with him. Things are looking up and rebuilding after the Reaper War is well underway, but loneliness and pain take their toll nonetheless. An examination of life and love in the wake of incredible trauma, of a galaxy torn apart and put back together, through the lens of two people. [Post-canon, Shakarian, equal parts fluff and angst.]

Am I the luckiest girl in the world that an EoY follow-up fic was published the month after I read EoY? I think so… This fic was lovely and cathartic and I love the way Wild gets into their brains…

[shreddeddescent]

hhhhh yeah ok just for funsies.....

here's a snippet (its way longer than a snippet its 4000 words) of the worst case scenario story i wrote.

idk how much of the specifics will be canon. but i do think this is such a good blow up that it would be mean to keep it to myself.

maybe im posting it just to be like YEAH OK HERES THE TONE. IF YOURE NOT COMFORTABLE THEN YOU CANT BE HERE...

Warnings for mentions of: CSA rape forced incest uhhhh more probably. nothing shown but much mentioned. possibly warnings for more im not even thinking of. Im sorry just be careful.

Don’t be fucking weird about it to me ok we are in the raw place

so context. shredder kidnapped the boys for days to get what he wanted out of them. implications are clear enough through context i think. lot of drugging. they escaped and killed him (like for real this time) shit is weird and they're handling it as best they can. everyone is aware of this. they've had one therapy session w a weirdly inhuman therapist april found (from her connections in cryptid world) and nobody wants to look their mom in the eye. least of all raph. cuz god does it ever feel bad to know she knows.

the boys seem ok to the naked eye though. hence. this.

--

When they woke up the next morning Mikey had decided to make everyone pancakes. A true feast of flavours after their days of slop.

Donnie and Leo had set the table and let Raph rest at the head of it, he was still wearing Donnie’s old ratty black hoodie, it fit him perfectly. He’d also found some sweatpants, but those only rode up to his mid thigh. It still helped though.

Mikey was making two batches of pancakes, half with chocolate chips and half without, the pickier eaters with the cool mask colours refusing to try something sweet.

The air smelled strongly of bacon, and it was making Raph’s tummy growl loudly.

“Mikey you better hurry up, Raph’s gonna eat his plate!” Leo joked as he pat Raph on the back.

“You can’t hurry perfection!” Mikey whined as he plated some bacon.

“Uuuughhhh Mikey…! I can see the light!” Raph gasped out and reached his arm out above his head, miming his own death.

Mikey huffed and chucked a piece of bacon on his plate.

“To tide you over you big baby.”

Raph gasped and picked it up between his fingers gobbling it down with a loud moan.

“So fucking good Mikey…”

“Oh you’re all up!”

Raph froze, swallowing hard.

His mom was behind him and he was wearing Donnie’s hoodie. He had just moaned Mikey’s name. And his mom was behind him.

He felt Leo hovering over him but he didn’t move.

“Hi mom.” Leo said gently.

“Decided to make a big breakfast?” She wandered over to look at what Mikey was doing at the stove.

Leo put a hand on Raph’s shoulder when she turned and leaned down to enter his eyeline.

Raph stared at him with a panicked expression. Leo looked sympathetic.

“Yeah, we’re all pretty hungry.” Mikey responded.

“You want some help?”

“I got it, it’s almost done anyway.”

Raph was trying like hell not to have a panic attack. Leo put both arms around his shoulders in a loose hug, leaning down to speak in his ear.

“Deep breaths, Raph, it’s just mom. You’re okay.”

He tried to breathe, placing a hand on Leo’s arm. He saw his mom turn and quickly threw Leo’s arms off him.

She stared at him sadly, but tried to smile anyway.

“How are you feeling today Raphael?”

“Hungry.” He answered quickly. “Just really hungry.”

Her smile faltered for a moment, but she tried to keep it up anyway.

“Well, good thing your brother is such a good cook.” She turned to the fridge to grab some juice.

Raph clasped his chest, he didn’t know why it hurt.

Donnie was staring at him with some concern, he looked like he was about to ask him something so Raph just glared at him and held his finger to his lips.

Donnie rolled his eyes and rest his folded arms on the table.

Raph just stared at his empty plate, trying to calm his nerves.

Leo pat him on the back and shook him gently.

“Raphael do you want me to put on some coffee? Or would you like to take a nap later?”

He stared at his empty plate. Caffeine would make his chest worse than it already was.

“No, I'm very awake right now, super okay.” He super fucking wasn’t okay and he didn’t know why.

She turned around to pour a glass of orange juice for herself.

“Enough food for me to join you boys?”

Mikey turned his head to look back at Raph in question.

Raph stared back at him with an anxious look in his eye. He then looked back at his mom.

“Of course you can eat breakfast with us we’re not avoiding you or anything that would be mean!” He tried to make his words sound as playful as he could but he was pretty sure he sounded crazy.

She gave him a puzzled look but smiled anyway, and sat at the other end of the table.

Donnie gave him the most dumbfounded look, shaking his head slightly.

Leo nonchalantly scooted his chair closer to Raph and leaned over the counter.

“So. What did our doctor tell you?”

Raph kicked him under the table but he didn’t react.

She frowned and clasped her hands around her cup, looking down at it.

“She… said a few things. She told me to give you space, but not be too far in case you needed to talk. I’m trying not to worry, but I’m a little surprised that none of you have seeked me out for anything.”

Raph frowned and rubbed his arm, looking away.

“I.. I’m sorry, feels too raw right now..”

“I think anything we need to talk about can be said to the therapist.” Donnie said.

Raph looked up to glare at Donnie for his rudeness, but he’d stood up to help Mikey bring plates of food to the table.

“Which I understand, but I feel out of the loop. You’ve spoken to April. And this doctor. But no one even looked to me for a hug…”

Raph chewed his lip and closed his eyes. He felt horrible.

“Mom, I’m so sorry I just—“

“Because trying to be physically close with anyone right now is hard, mom.” Leo interrupted. Raph thought his tone was too harsh. “We’ve been through hell and we’re just trying to be normal. It’s awkward and it sucks. But it’s hard to add other people to it.”

Raph groaned and shoved him lightly with his shoulder.

“We’re fine, mom. We’re coping.”

She eyed the two of them carefully with her hands clasped in front of her face as Donnie and Mikey placed the plates of pancakes and meats in front of everyone.

She was looking at Raph’s hoodie, she was looking at how close Leo was to him.

He looked away from her so he could pile as many chocolate chip pancakes onto his plate as he could. Leo leaned over him to add some bacon and hash browns to it, knowing he would forget to diversify his plate.

It was not helping.

Raph grumbled and took a big bite of pancakes. He couldn’t help but moan again. “These are so fucking good, Mikey…”

Mikey grinned from his seat near splinter at the corner. He and Donnie had very different plates, his full of all the variety, Donnie sticking to his plain pancakes with nothing on them.

“Thank you! Worth the wait right?” He asked with his mouth full.

“Yes, I’m sorry.” Raph whined dramatically and stuffed his face more. Eating real delicious food after all that gross paste felt so good. He’d never felt so hungry, he was going to overindulge.

“How are you coping?” Splinter asked suddenly between her bites of food.

Raph tensed and looked up at her, gulping back hard.

“Sorry?”

“You said you were fine and coping. So how are you coping?” She looked up at him with a weird look and he needed to look back down. It was making him queasy.

“I.. I don’t know, we’re just hanging out I guess.” He mumbled and picked at his food.

“Is that a new hoodie?”

He tensed and tried to make himself small.

“No, it’s Donnie’s…”

“Hm.” She washed back her food with a chug of juice.

His brothers weren’t as tense as he was, but they did look uneasy by her presence. It wasn’t unusual, he was usually the only one trying to hold conversation, and he had been the one to inadvertently invite her to join them. They all kind of wanted to be alone.

“Mikey? You should have let me help, you seemed to have forgotten the eggs.”

‘She knows she knows she knows she knows!’

Raph slammed his head down on the counter to shut the voice in his head up.

There was a pause. Leo pressed a hand to his back.

“You good..?”

He picked his head up sharply and grunted.

“Never better.” He started scarfing down the pancakes in as big of bites as he could. Maybe he could finish fast and get out of here.

“I… didn’t make eggs cuz our stomachs are a little too empty for eggs…” Mikey mumbled between bites.

‘She knows he’s lying she knows he’s trying to protect you she knows!’

He clenched his fist around his fork and swallowed hard, staring intensely at his plate. He put his free hand under the table to dig his nails into his thigh instead of hurting his head where she could see it.

Unfortunately Leo noticed and grabbed his hand under the counter to stop him. Which she also noticed.

He slapped his hand away and glared at him.

“Leo what are you doing to your brother?!”

Leo snapped his head up to look at her and he looked like a deer caught in headlights.

“Nothing!”

Raph wished he had hair so he could pull it all out.

“Oh for fucks sake, SPLINTER, we are NOT. FUCKING each other!” Donnie shouted as he suddenly stood up and leaned over the counter.

Raph looked at him in absolute horror.

Splinters eyes went wide and she looked at him angrily.

“What?!”

Donnie growled.

“I can see what you’re doing! You keep eyeing Raph up for being too close to us! You’re assuming the worst!” Donnie gestures to him with one hand without turning his gaze away from splinter. “You’re going to give him ANOTHER panic attack!”

Raph clutched his head in his hands, staring wildly at nothing as he curled his upper body over the counter, facing down at the table.

“Donnie!” He heard Mikey yell as another stool scooted back.

“I-I am not assuming anything!” His mother sounded offended and angry.

“Guys.” Leo said sternly.

“You literally asked him about my hoodie! As if it was the weirdest thing in the world for my traumatized rape victim of a brother to request items of clothing!”

“He’s just never worn anything like that before!”

“Gee Splinter I wonder why!”

“Donnie this isn’t your fight!” Mikey yelled and Raph heard a small smack.

“Someone has to fucking fight for that idiot! Everyone’s fucking dancing around it as if we don’t all know what’s wrong!”

Raph was staring at his plate so hard the colours were burning into his brain.

“No one wants to tell me what’s wrong! Everyone comes home from hell and avoids their mother like the plague! And I am just supposed to not fear the worst?! You have no idea all the things I can smell on you boys!”

“Where was that nose THE FIRST TIME?!” Donnie shouted as it sounded like he slammed both fists on the counter.

“What?!”

He was growling.

“You didn’t smell DAD all over Raph?!”

Raph stood suddenly, hands still clasped over his ears and he didn’t look at anyone, just kept his head facing the ground as he ran out of the room.

He bolted into the bathroom and proceeded to throw up all of the delicious pancakes he’d enjoyed so much. He couldn’t even have one nice thing.

He heard a gentle knock at the open door and didn’t turn away from the bowl.

“I have some water…” Leo said quietly. He made no effort to step inside.

Raph reached his arm back to take the cup without looking.

Leo passed it to him and stayed in the doorway.

Raph kept staring at the bowl, waiting to see if he has anything left before he chugged water and rinsed his mouth out a few times.

“Thanks…” he mumbled as he grabbed toilet paper to wipe his face with.

“Do you want me to sit with you..?”

Raph kept staring at the bowl.

“Yeah…”

Leo walked inside and sat beside him propping up an elbow on his knee.

“Can I rub your back?”

“Why are you asking permission?” Raph looked up at him frustratedly. He was just giving him a sympathetic frown.

“Cuz I think no one is asking how you feel before they decide they know what’s best for you.”

Raph turned back to the bowl, taking in what he meant.

“I… thank you…” he sighed, straightening his back out to look at the back of the toilet. He was pretty sure there was nothing left in him, but he just kind of wanted to sit in this quiet moment away from everyone else. Puke or not.

Leo took it upon himself to flush the toilet for him.

“If it helps, I’m pretty sure Mikey’s gonna chew Donnie’s ear off for that.”

“What does it matter, he’s not wrong.” Raph sighed.

“It was not his place to shout your bullshit at mom.”

Raph turned to look up at him frustrated.

“He’s right though. That’s what hurts.”

Leo frowned and nodded.

“He is, but it’s still not his place to talk over you about you. It’s not moms place to make you feel like shit about yourself when you’re barely holding on. And it’s not Donnie’s place to decide how you tell mom about your own shit.”

Raph looked away, feeling tears coming.

“I was never gonna tell mom. I was… I was literally never ever gonna tell her that…”

Leo scooted closer and leaned his head down to be at eye level with him.

“I get that. We all kinda knew that. I’m sorry Donnie did that to you.”

Raph closed his eyes.

“You can hug me if you want to…”

He felt Leo pull him in to a loose hug from his side, letting him lean his body against his.

“I… I know what Donnie did is fucked but… but I also mean that I was never going to be ABLE to tell mom that…”

Leo hummed and rubbed his shoulder.

“You’re half grateful. Half angry.”

He laughed a little. “Yeah… I know it’s.. it’s my fault for saying it was ok for her to join us but… but god Leo I feel so bad all the time, she seems lonely and sad and I just.. I can’t look at her and think about what she thinks of me…”

“I mean—“

“And don’t just tell me not to worry about what she thinks.”

There was a pause.

“That’s all you were gonna say.” Raph grumbled and pat Leo’s arm. “I hate that nobody ever gets along, and I hate that I’m stuck in the middle of it…”

“Sounds exhausting.”

“It is! I’m tired and I just want people to fucking… I don’t know.. I’m trying to be okay…”

Leo tugged him closer. “You don’t have to be okay, no one expects you to be okay.”

He sighed and pat Leo’s arm. “I wanna go back in there…”

Leo gently let go of him and stood up, holding his hand out to help him up. He then pointed at the sink.

“Maybe one last rinse and spit.”

Raph sighed and leaned over to gargle tap water for a moment before turning and staring up at Leo who gave him a thumbs up.

Leo let him lead the way out of the room.

He was still hearing arguing as he walked towards the kitchen.

“—have any idea how hard this was?!”

“Yes! Because you never shut up about it!”

“Oh that’s kind of you to say!”

“Does it EVER cross your mind how hard WE had it as BABIES?!”

He hovered in the doorway for a moment.

He saw his mother standing on a stool to shout at eye level, Donnie just glaring daggers still in the same spot.

Mikey had his arms folded, the expression on his face looked far older and exhausted than it should have on his sweet face.

“Of course I do! That’s why I needed to get you out of there!”

Raph walked in the kitchen and they all stared at him.

Mikey’s expression softened instantly, he looked worried.

Raph parsed the last thing his mother had said and he turned to look at her, feeling angry for some reason.

“But… you didn’t get us out… I got us out.” He said quietly.

He sensed Leo standing behind him leaning against the door frame.

His mother made a face.

“That’s not fair.” She said as she climbed down of the stool to sit normally. “I found us all a way out, I got us a home.”

“Six years later.” He almost whispered. He wasn’t sure where this was coming from.

Mikey and Donnie were staring at him in awe. Splinter looked offended.

“You know where I—“

“I know where you were. I know why you were gone.” He clenched his fists and took a breath, standing up straight. “I don’t blame you for leaving. Or being gone. I’m sorry. But…” he looked at Mikey, his sweet eyes growing larger. He eyed Donnie, whose guilty look was turning warmer. He looked back at his mother. “But when you were gone bad things happened to us, and no one came to save us.”

Her eyes were watering. It made his water too, so he turned his head to look away.

He sensed Leo step in beside him and felt him grab his hand gently.

Raph looked up at him, he was giving him a gentle smile and nodded at him to continue.

Leo had him.

He looked back at his mom’s tearful eyes.

“I-I know that! And I feel terrible about it every day!”

He gave her a dark glare.

“Did you know dad raped me?”

Her eyes went wide and she didn’t say anything.

He frowned.

“You either didn’t think about how bad we had it, or you knew and didn’t do anything about it. I don’t know which makes me more miserable to think about.”

“Raphael—“

“Stop!” He shouted. She tensed up and he felt guilty instantly, none of them liked a booming voice.

He rubbed his temple with his free hand.

“Stop. We know the therapist was April’s idea. And we know you didn’t let her get one for us before. I understand….” He sighed, “I understand that we were in hiding. That you were scared for us, scared we’d get caught, shipped back there and have the worst thing happen, but… but we could have gotten help years ago! I could have gotten help! I-I shut down mom! I forgot all about it! And you might think that’s good! That makes it all okay cuz I shut it all out but it came back to haunt me!

Tears were falling down his cheeks, he felt so angry and so miserable and so so justified.

“You said… you told me. When you found me you told me you had been watching us! Trying to watch over us right? What… what did you see dad do that finally pushed you over the edge and made you admit you were there?”

She looked so pained, so guilty. He didn’t want to break his stare no matter how much it hurt. He didn’t want to give her a way out.

“Your… the things he wanted to do to you… to your brothers because of you…”

“BECAUSE of me?!” He snatched his hand away from Leo’s to clench both of his fists.

Her tears were free roaming, she balled her fists on the counter.

“Because of how you were born! H-he got opportunity as soon as he found that out! He was going to use them on you! Because of how you were born!”

Raph shook his head dumbfounded, staring at the ground.

“Because of how I was born…” he repeated. “So it’s.. so it’s my fault guys! Because I was born like this!”

“Raphael that’s not what I meant!”

He snapped his head up to glare at her. “Isn’t it?! You just said what caused you to finally warn me was learning about that! How did you even learn that!”

She stared at him for a long while. Crying silently as she tried to find her words.

His muscles were trembling from how tightly wound he felt.

“I… saw you get examined in the lab… I was in the vent, y-you were on the table with your little legs…” she sobbed. “I-I saw what he did… i s-saw you lie there l-like you were asleep…”

Raph felt an icy chill run through his body.

He stood back, staring at her in shock and shaking his head a little.

“You… you saw him do it…”

It wasn’t a question.

Her face answered it anyway. Anguished, guilty, miserable. Sobbing away at the table.

He couldn’t move and she didn’t say anything.

“Mom…” Leo softly whispered beside him.

Donnie kicked his stool over with violent force and marched out of the room.

Mikey was staring at Raph with big wet eyes.

Raph was frozen.

“How… how could you..?” Leo asked her.

She hid her face in her hands, sobbing loudly.

“Y-you couldn’t go back! H-help would have brought attention! You couldn’t go back!” She wailed. “A-and you blocked it all out! What was I supposed to do!!!”

“SOMETHING!!!” Mikey screamed suddenly.

They all turned to look at him. He looked more furious than anyone had ever seen him, pure rage in his eyes, sitting up on the counter with his body hunched over.

He shook his head in utter disbelief and got down off the stool, marching over to Raph and taking his hand.

“We should leave.” He said seriously and tugged on it.

Raph didn’t want to move.

“H-he tried to do the deed himself Raphael! H-he tried to use himself as the donor first! H-how could I tell you that!” She slammed her fists down.

Leo’s hands were on Raph’s shoulders now.

“You… saw dad rape me…”

She kept sobbing.

“I-I couldn’t d-do anything to s-stop him!!”

He shook his head slowly and turned his body to face Leo behind him.

“I… I don’t want to talk to you…” he said softly.

Leo stepped around him to hold him from behind and Mikey tugged him once more.

This time he followed.

And just left her crying alone.

They both walked him into the bedroom and sat him down on their pile of beds, Donnie was already here curled up in the corner crying by himself.

Raph just sat very still, his feet still on the ground. He stared into space as someone put a blanket over him, someone else shut the door.

He couldn’t even cry, he felt emotionally comatose and just stared blankly into the wall.

He felt his brothers grab his hands and squeeze them.

“Raph…?” He thinks it was Leo, he couldn’t see.

A soft chirp came from his other side.

He blinked but didn’t look over.

“I… Don’t wake me up…” he mumbled. “I don’t want to feel this…”

They both went quiet, he sensed movement behind him, and then felt all three brothers hugging him on all sides.

He just kept staring at the wall.

“She watched him rape me…” he said quietly again.

The grips got tighter. Someone was sobbing. It could have been all of them. They just held on to him, and it was the only thing he was going to let himself feel.

“If mom watched him rape me, then that means she let him rape me…”

He kept staring. The grooves between the bricks started to glow from how little he’d moved his eyes.

“And if she let him do that, and then… then all these years she should have known what was wrong with me, right..?”

“Raphie…”

He closed his eyes.

He took a deep breath.

And then he just screamed as loud and long as he could. Until his lungs were fully empty and then some.

Then he finally let himself break down.

[korrasamibottles]

Yeah Venom of the Red Lotus showed us how crazy powerful Korra is but The Last Stand had Korra transform the destructive power of a massive bomb blast into something regenerative in the culmination of one of the best character arcs I've ever seen. In my OPINION!!

[finisnihil]

Analysis with Penacony spoilers ahead, read at your own behest

I love Acheron so so much and one of the main reasons is how human she tries to be. She‘s trying so hard to stay human, to be human.

She’s killed people the blood debt is a burden she carries. She only sees the world in black, white, and red, but she gets lost easily and guides strangers home and she thanks you for trusting her even though you don’t have to and she protects a little boy from the mafia and she mourns your friend with you even though she didn’t know her because she knows you’re hurting and she helps you calm down after you watched your friend die horribly and she stays with you and looks after you and tells you to stay level headed and she apologies for being held back from protecting those you love because she isn’t human anymore and then she does one of the most human thing of all and blesses the soul and mourns her with you, guides her home like she did with you. Acheron is gentle like a psychopomp, like Death. She cries blood but it’s still crying.

Onto the allusion, the name Acheron comes from the river Acheron, one of the five rivers of the Underworld in Greek mythology. The Acheron is the River of Woe/Pain/Lost Souls. The River Cocytus (River of Wailing/Lamentation) and River Phlegethon (River of Magma) both flow into the River Acheron and the River Styx (River of Oaths/Border to the Underworld/Makes one invulnerable if they bathe in it) stems from the Acheron. The final river is the River Lethe which causes forgetfulness when bathed in or drunk from and usually used by the souls of the dead to be reborn. These allusions fit Acheron well, as she cries blood which is fitting for one named after the River of Woe. Her difficulty to hold onto memories is also reminiscent of the Lethe, especially now that we know she’s an Emanator. She was technically “reborn” as when she became one.

Building off this, she fulfills the role of a psychopomp. In folklore and mythology psychopomp are entities that guide souls of the dead, such a Thanatos in Greek mythology who is the personification of peaceful death (Who Seele has allusions to but that’s another analysis). Aventurine associates Acheron with the Finality a few times and we see her act like a psychopomp when she does things like “take us home” when we first meet her and she mentions guiding again when she sends Firefly off. She gets lost in the waking world but never seems to in the Dreamscape.

Building even more off this allusion, in Greek mythology the twin brother of Thanatos is Hypnos, the personification of sleep. Sleep and death are often tied together even outside of Greek mythology, like the Epic of Gilgamesh where Gilgamesh is literally told he can’t think about conquering death when he can’t even conquer sleep.

This all leads me to a theory about why Acheron said she had no choice in whether to draw her blade. She wanted to but she had no choice in the matter. We’ve seen her draw her blade twice so far in the story and it was to wake the Trailblazer and to fight Sam. If Acheron is an agent of the Finality maybe her blade can’t be drawn because it can only be used against those dying or dead or not living? We know Firefly was dying and we know she has a weird connection with Sam. The weird “Death” monster also seemed to target Firefly. I think Acheron couldn’t draw her sword against the “Death” because she is also an agent of Death and cannot attack one of her own, but she can use it against Firefly because Firefly is dying and it would be seen as a final severing of the soul from life or as “harvesting” the soul. Of course I could be completely and utterly wrong I’m literally just making an analysis based on allusions and motifs but still I think it’s interesting. Plus Aventurine calls Acheron and Sam enemies and Sam uses fire, an element typically seen as representing life.

Pulling a little bit away, Acheron sees the world in black, white, and red. The red is fleeting according to her and it reappears when a choice is made. If Acheron is a psychopomp this makes sense, she would mostly see the world as the living and the dead and the red could be a tie to the idea of the red string of fate, as we know destiny is a major theme of HSR’s story. When we make choices that change the direction of fate, we interact with the red strings of fate. This could be another reason she’s at odds with the Stellaron Hunters, they adhere strongly to the idea of destiny but to death destiny would have a different meaning. Her sword has an eye and is adorned with red which is where the majority of the color in her design is centered, going back to my theory around her sword it could represent how it cuts strings of fate and the eye matches the one on the “Death” nightmare.

We also know she apparently hijacked the Ever-Flame Mansion party to come here, maybe because she sensed there would be a lot of death here and came to collect the souls?

Finally, I would like to reiterate I do not play HI3 this is just something I’ve noticed, so correct me if I’m wrong:

She seems to be a Raiden Mei Expy and I know nothing of that character but I did notice when she says “Do you remember me?” there’s the answer of no and yes, and she akins us to a dear friend she had. We, the protagonist, fulfill the same role in this game Kiana (I think that’s the HI3 protag) does in HI3 and I’m vaguely aware Raiden Mei and Kiana have some sort of relationship in HI3. This asking if we remember her could be two things to me: Either she’s asking if we remember her as we have faced death before or she’s asking if we the player remember her from HI3, which she may have an awareness of if she is a personification of death and that may link her to knowledge of the Imaginary Tree as trees seem to be associated with death in HSR when you remember Yaoshi is associated with trees as well and the fruit of their tree on the Xianzhou gives immortality, where if Luocha is an Emanator he would have that tree motif too and we know he has tree motifs because he’s an Expy of Otto who did interact with what I think was the Imaginary Tree and that carried over when Luocha was given the element of Imaginary (Of course I had to talk about Luocha who do you think I am)

Anyways there’s so so much more but this post is already really really long and probably incomprehensible so if I think of any more I’ll make like a part II post anyways thanks for reading this far if you did and feel free to add discussion, mwah!

[midesastremanifiesto]

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[puppppppppy]

ive made myself more wet and pathetic