#Think about why you are tempted to something

[rhube]

So, this gets into different types of consciousness and what you mean by a 'channel'. For example, in philosophy of mind, we distinguish between 'Awareness' and 'Attention'. The dominant theory (and this matches my experience, but it might not for you) is that you can only *attend* to one thing at a time, but you can be aware of a BUNCH of shit you're not focusing on.

Like, if someone is drilling in the street outside, a lot of people would be able to sort of tune that out (which I guess is a kind of channel analogy, like the way you tune out a channel of radio), so they're not paying attention to it, but it would still be a sound they are hearing and therefore part of their awareness, and if you said, 'Hey, is someone drilling outside?' They'd be like, 'God, yes, it's been going on for hours! It's so annoying.' Which shows that it was a part of their conscious experience, it just wasn't in the forefront of their minds.

So, on one understanding, you might be aware of a bunch of different concerns about going to the park, only attending to one at a time, but flitting back forth between them.

Now, this comes into collision with the problem that a lot of philosophers of mind spend far too much time thinking about their own experience of their own minds, and not asking other people. Or reinterpreting other people's reported experience to fit their model.

I read a lot about introspection for what my supervisor thought was the best chapter of my thesis, and no one I read mentioned aphasia at all.

Eric Schwitzgebel, who has made introspection his Thing, had a giant footnote about a conference he went to where a bunch of experts got together to discuss what exactly you can introspect, and they couldn't even agree something basic, such as whether there is a quality/qualia/what-it's-likeness of thought beyond what is contained in imagery (visual, audio, picturing words etc).

On learning about aphasia and aphantasia, my first thought was: did no one at this conference have these conditions/why didn't you ask THEM?

Of course, it is the habit of philosophers of mind to both rationalise the reports of others to support their own point of view and to question if we have a common understanding of what qualia are (yes, if you're not into these sorts of questions, we're quite annoying to be around). So it might not resolve the question, but it feels like it should be addressed. If I were well enough, I'd be tempted to look up whether there's been scholarship on this, seeing as people are talking about it more, but anyway...

Point is: I see you say you think in different channels at once, and I try to understand it through my own experience, which is as of a whole muddy collection of stuff going on in my head (some conscious, some self-conscious, some subconscious, some unconscious, some moving between those different related states) but there's only ever one thing I'm ATTENDING to.

And this is how I understand it when Occupational Health Therapists tell me I can only ever think about one thing or task at once (which at face value is just false if you have studied minds at all), and when I think I'm multitasking I am in fact context-switching (be proud of me, I have never said to any of their faces, 'Actually, as a philosopher of mind...'). What take them to really mean is that I can only attend to one thing at a time.

This makes sense to me, as although I can listen to music and write and scratch my nose at the same time, I cannot do more than one linguistic task at a time. I cannot SING ALONG to a song and write at the same time, although I am still aware of the song in the background. I have a really strong memory of reading an Anne McCaffrey book where some of the telepaths could hold simultaneous conversations in their heads and just not being able to picture how it would work. And this was when I was in my teenage I Want To Believe phase, so I really did try. It's not possible for me, and I account for it through the attention thing. Linguistic thinking requires attention to formalise the thought in words, and you can only attend to one thing at once.

Based on this, I interpret your description of having 'channels' as really just hopping your attention about between the various miasma of stuff going on in your head (what Kant would call the manifold of intuition), but only ever attending to one thing at a time. It makes sense of the fact that the brain has different subdivisions which, although flexible, are generally devoted to doing different things.

BUT I COULD BE WRONG ABOUT THAT.

The pesky thing about thought and experience is that we aren't telepaths and it isn't communally available. This means our language can't 'triangulate' effectively on the meanings of our words for what is revealed my introspection. If you point at a rabbit and say 'gavagai', I have somewhere to start when it comes to investigating what you mean. You, me, and the rabbit form a triangle that helps me 'locate' your meaning. But you can't point to stuff inside your mind. Despite what science fiction tells us, we can only get rudimentary information about what you're thinking from fMRI scans and the like (at least, so far). So when we're using mental terms to describe what's going on inside, our reference points for potentially shared experiences will always be vaguer. Things like sharp pains are easier than questions about the what-it's-like-ness of thoughts, as it's usually pretty clearly associated with an external object that caused the pain.

To me, it feels like my mind is a swamp of gestating thought and experience, which I can understand as different modules of my meat-based neural net surfacing stuff that requires high-level thought for my conscious attention so I can sort out the stuff that cannot be sorted out by reflex. That makes sense of my experience. I don't believe that anyone thinks in complete and discrete linguistic internal monologues with good sentence structures - aphasia, aphantasia, or otherwise.

But maybe I'm wrong. Maybe you really do have distinct, separate channels. Maybe Anne McCaffrey could think about two different linguistic lines of thought at once, and that's why she thought some of her characters could.

Who knows! We haven't really been able to finalise an agreed-upon definition for 'thought' or 'idea' so I dunno how we can hope to start with stuff like this.

Here endeth the ramble.

Thanks for coming to another session of, 'gee, I wish a philosopher of mind didn't follow me'. I will shut up now.

Okay so some people can’t see objects in their imagination and some people don’t think in words and some people hear their thoughts like a voice and others don’t. I get that

But how many distinct channels do most folks have playing at once? cause my normal range is 2-4 and I though that was just what thinking was LIKE but CBD brings that down to just 1

[exitingmusic]

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It had been months.

It had been months since the two of you broke up, your relationship going downhill far before.

It wasn't either of yours fault. There just wasn't enough time spent together, or whenever you did get together there would be extra people. Sometimes everyone around was too loud for you to hear the other.

So maybe it was nobody's fault.

Or maybe it was both of yours.

Maybe it was both of your faults the way neither prioritized your relationship, too fearful of messing up that you ignored the other entirely. You grew further apart, each empty glance stretching the gap in between you.

Most of the time it was too subtle to think about.

Maybe it was your fault for being too scared to talk about how the fleeting glances and touches weren't enough to comfort you.

Maybe it was his fault for not being able to tell.

Either way, one thing led to another and both of you decided that whatever this was had to end.

But you still saw each other.

At parties, at gatherings, at meetings. Sometimes it was a quick glance through the window of a coffee shop or store.

But it was enough to hurt.

While your friends were laughing and yelling around you, you couldn't help your eyes searching for him.

His eyes were always on you.

It was as if nothing changed, they stared at you, soft and searching, only now, touched with something like regret.

But no matter how many times, he never took a single step towards you.

Every time you saw him, it was like this. Instead of being relaxed or laughing, your eyes found his, but it was like there was a wall in between you both.

Neither of you took any others to your bed, somewhat surprising.

It was almost as if you two were the same specimens in an aquarium or zoo. Anyone was able to look through the glass, but no one got to touch, no one got to feel the tenderness and softness you showed each other.

Not even you.

So he watched, each time, unashamed, as if telling you to come over.

Neither of you moved.

Neither of you made an action to tempt the other, neither of you blocked the other, but neither of you reached out.

Every time you entered the room, his eyes were already on you, waiting, hoping that you'd give him a signal, a chance that you were still his.

Because he was so obviously yours.

The rush of blood in his ears drowned out any other noise. Why would he pay attention to these women flirting with him and miss out on you? Miss out on the one thing he wish he didn't let slip through his fingers.

His friends gave him pitying looks, already over trying to get him to move on.

No, he couldn't, cause that would mean giving up on you.

And how could he take his eyes off of you? How could he miss any second you might smile? How could he miss a laugh? How could he miss the way you turned towards him?

Even if you weren't his anymore, he still didn't want to miss seeing you happy.

He regretted not paying this much attention to you in your relationship. He regretted not seeing every emotion on your face.

Maybe he could've caught an insecurity, maybe a clue on what he could do better, maybe he could find a way to keep you.

When you eventually showed up with a different man, his actions didn't change.

He still gave you the look of love. All he wanted was for you to be happy. And if that wasn't with him, then he'd watch you be happy.

Even if it hurt, even if each touch chipped off a piece of his hope, he couldn't tear his eyes away.

Besides, you couldn't break his heart if you had it from the beginning, if it was no longer his.

He would still look at you the same.

Always.

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[justwinginglife]

"Thought you said you were going to come for me? Those little droplets don't count."

I’ve had this one line in my drafts for like ever, and I feel like using it on the LADS boys is dangerous territory that I’d like to die in (because I’m a menace). Anyway, proceed at your own peril. 

**This is, of course, NSFW. **

I had planned to release more smut today for my one year anniversary on Tumblr, but considering these were all roughly 1k a piece and I wrote five of them, this is all you get for now.

Tags- Oh, god, idk, like a fuck ton of sex? Edging, sex toys, fingering, oral, p in v, p in a, squirting, you name it.

Caleb

Up until now, you’d been comfortably perched on top of Caleb, hips rolling forward to whatever rhythm you so desired, his cock only going as deep as had you allowed, his cum only spilling into you when you had permitted it to. And he had given you that control willingly. Honestly, he found it hot. Ridiculously hot. 

But then you’d had the audacity to tease him about how much he’d come inside you. 

“A droplet,” you’d called it. A goddamn droplet. Evidence of his orgasm was literally oozing out of you in waves -in waves, damnit! Meaning it had yet to STOP- and had been for the past hour that you’d relentlessly tormented him, and now you had the nerve to be unimpressed. Joking or not, he’d make you choke on your own words.

“A droplet, huh?” His words rumbled out of his throat, low and gravelly. “And I suppose next you’ll tell me my size is mediocre too?”

You feigned thinking for a minute, pulling yourself off of him to play at measuring him. He was still impressively erect, his cock standing tall like a skyscraper between your legs, but you brought your two fingers close together as though the small gap between them was meant to convey his microscopic length. “I meeeean, while we’re on the topic, I guess it was kinda difficult to feel you.” You bit back a laugh, thinking yourself humorous. You were clearly joking. Anyone with eyes could see how massive his size was even when it was soft. And when it was hard? It was like trying to fit a baseball bat inside of you. So of course you were just messing around. Baiting him for the thrill of it. Looking back, you wished you never would’ve said something so dangerous. 

“You can’t even feel it, huh?” He repeated, his eyes narrowing. “My apologies, Princess. I guess I’ll just have to do better, now won’t I?” His words were polite but his tone was harsh, his smile pinched, and the look he gave you was anything but respectful. 

“Why don’t you tell me if you feel it-” In an instant, he had you locked in a mating press, your legs soaring over your head. Your lungs felt him before your cunt did, your air wheezing out of you as he speared through your shuddering walls. “-now??” 

He’d completely bottomed out and, at that moment, you swore you could feel him in your ribcage. 

Before you had the chance to reply -and you hadn’t yet figured out if you’d wanted to reply with more sarcasm (a reckless move but a tempting one nonetheless) or honesty- he began snapping his hips forward, his cock drilling into you vigorously. 

He usually gave you time to adjust to his size, and he only became more careful the deeper he went, but not today. Today, he had to prove a point. Today was the last day you would be able to walk without a limp. 

His cock pistoned in and out of you, rapid fire, leaving no time for breath. 

“C-C-Caleb!” You choked out, tears burning in your eyes.

“Hold on, baby- gonna give you a couple more ‘droplets,’ how’s that sound?” His hands forced your legs closer to your shoulders, his fingers burying themselves in your skin. His eyes met yours, dark and dangerous. 

You knew that look. He was preparing to go even harder. Your poor, bruised cervix didn’t know how much more it could take. You had no choice but to beg.

“W-Wait! P-Please, Caleb, I was only jok-”

He yanked his cock out only to slam his length into you full force once again. 

“F-Fuck! You’re huge, you’re enormous, you’re gigantic-” Your saliva dribbled down your lips as you babbled your praises to him in hopes it would slow his bombardment. “I n-never should’ve said what I said! I p-promise I didn’t mean it-”

“Are you sure, baby?” He growled. “Maybe I should continue. Maybe you haven’t learned your lesson yet.”

“I have, I have!” You blurt out, desperation in your voice.

“Good girl. Now, sit tight and let me breed you like the obedient little thing you are, yeah?” He pressed kisses to your neck as though he meant to soothe you. When his lips finally met yours, his passion igniting pleasure in your every nerve, you forgot about the pain, just for a split second. 

And then you felt your back rise off the bed. 

He would go on to tell you later that you screamed his name so loudly he was sure your neighbors would file a complaint, but in that moment, as he split your pussy open wider on his aggrieved cock, its thick veins purpled with renewed purpose, his eyes burning bright with desire and determination, you swore all you heard was the roaring of blood that was pounding in your ears. 

And even after he’d already come inside you (and you weren’t sure when exactly he’d started coming, as your senses had simply shut down at some point, having overloaded to the maximum), liquid gushing out of him like a geyser, his hips still stuttered back and forth as though he were commanding more to flow out of him. As though he wouldn’t be satisfied until you were spilling out rivers of his lust. 

If he put you in a tub right now, would you fill it up with nothing more than his arousal? 

Before he could get any more ideas, you quickly stammered out, “Okay, okay! It’s more than a drop, it’s more than a drop!”

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Rafayel

Rafayel always had that after-sex glow.

That twinkle in his eyes, that pep in his step, that pink in his cheeks that served as evidence of just how much he’d enjoyed your time together. It was something you looked forward to as much as the sex itself.

But tonight, his more wholesome self was nowhere to be found.

Not after you’d accused him of barely coming inside you at all. 

Tonight, those sparkling eyes were replaced by something more sinister, something more sinful. Tonight, he loomed over you like he was a storm you wouldn’t survive. 

“Didn’t come enough for your liking, huh? You humans- always so greedy, always so demanding, taking what you want, whenever you want it. Well, I hope you can take this.” 

You hissed as he pressed your back against the shower tiles, the cold stinging your skin. Before you had time to complain, you felt the familiar pressure of his cock burrowing itself deep inside your cunt. You wanted to ask how this was any different from the sex you’d just had mere moments ago, but he answered your question with a sharp thrust up your ass.

Wait. 

He…he was in…two places at…

You looked down to find the cock you’d previously drained dry was roaring back to life again, now pistoning itself in and out of your pussy. Below it, an identical cock had emerged, equally engorged, and equally as unrelenting. 

You blinked. Blinked again.

How was this happening? You’d had sex with him plenty of times before, cuddled him enough times that he may as well have been attached to you, so you were sure that you’d taken the time to properly memorize every inch of his anatomy from head to toe. How was it that you’d completely overlooked an entire sex organ? Especially one that large. Had it always…been there? Or were you really so cock drunk that you were imagining things?

“You’re not imagining anything.” 

Your head snapped back up to meet his gaze. Was it that obvious what you were just thinking about??

“I only use it on…special occasions,” He dipped his head down to nip at your earlobe before purring, “And I’d say this counts as a special occasion, don’t you? Wouldn’t want my beloved bride to think I’m holding out on her now.” 

His lips began their tantalizing trail along your jawline, his kisses both reverent and rebuking all at once. This lust-driven path continued down your neck, tongue and teeth working together to paint beautiful bruises along his newest canvas. After a while, he pulled back to survey his work, eyes skimming across the purples and pinks he’d stained into your skin. When he remained unsatisfied with his masterpiece, he began to ravage your breasts. Your skin flushed crimson as he lavished his attention upon them, his greed and desire evident with every stroke of his tongue and suction of his lips.

But even his admonishment of your insolent behavior came off as worship after long enough. He pinched your nipples between his fingers, but only as hard as you liked. He sunk his teeth into the mass of muscle between your neck and shoulder, but only as deep as you liked. And he slapped your ass repeatedly, but only as much as you could take. 

You swore you knew how to speak, or at least, your tongue remembered what words felt like and your ears remembered how they were supposed to sound, but your brain, it seemed, was choosing to go into meltdown mode. You wondered if the bond between you gave away all of your most sensual secrets, allowing him to uncover everything that made you unravel. He had toyed with every sensitive spot on your body, all while fucking you completely dumb in two different places, and you had no words left to give. Only strangled noises that served as evidence of your pleasure. At some point, he’d turned on the water, but you paid no mind to it. You were already drowning in the feeling of him, what was a little water to you?

He strengthened his grip on your legs, pulling you tighter around his waist. Your shoulder blades dug into the shower wall as his weight pressed into you. He was bracing you, but you were too delirious to figure out what for. Up until now, he’d only been slowly thrusting into you, paying more attention to every other spot on your body that made you squirm for him. But he couldn’t forget what his original goal was. You’d asked him to come for you. To come for you impressively, at that. So now it was his turn to feel good.

His pace began to pick up, fingers digging into your thighs, as he plunged himself deeper into your two holes.

You gasped for breath but found only the heat of his lips colliding with yours. He hungrily consumed every squeak and squeal that slipped from your tongue onto his. 

You hadn’t even eaten dinner yet -having gotten distracted by Rafayel coming out of the bathroom with nothing on but a towel loosely hanging from his waist, which was when you imposed the first round of intercourse on him- but suddenly your stomach was feeling rather full, having been stuffed to the brim on two fronts. You could feel your belly bulging as he burrowed his way deeper and deeper with every powerful thrust. 

You could tell he was close as his thrusts became sloppy and desperate. Crimson seeped into his skin, following a path from the tip of his ears to the swell of his cheeks, even beginning to creep down the expanse of his neck. Water and sweat alike cascaded down his shoulders. They stuttered down his chest as his heaving breaths minutely disrupted their smooth flow. 

Even as a god, Rafayel had never been particularly religious, only believing in what was relevant to him here and there, only participating when it was of benefit to him, but now, he swore he was seeing Elysium. 

Your lips were parted, breaths bleeding into the steam, your cunt clenching hungrily around his cock, and he swore, when he looked into your eyes, everything from Heaven to Earth, the wind and the waves, the storm and the sun, all parted to allow him passage into paradise. 

And then he passed through the gates.

He only had enough air to groan once, steam and lust clouding his vision in a field of white, before he lost himself in the feeling of you. His cocks spasmed and he lurched forward, his head collapsing onto your shoulder as he began to flood your depths with his seed. 

You were nearly on the edge of bliss yourself, your mind having been unable to focus on a single target of pleasure between his eager conquest of your ass and your pussy, but when you felt his heat sear through you, his cum filling you to the brim, you let paradise claim you. 

Your back arched off the wall, legs squeezing tighter around him, as ecstasy surged through your veins. You were soaring high above the clouds, the breeze dancing along your every nerve, until finally you came down to land in his arms. 

When you squirt all over his pelvis, he lifted a brow, both amused and enlightened by the new information that you now had the ability to squirt for him. He leaned forward, his breath hot on your ear. 

“I guess I’ll have to make everyday a ‘special occasion’ then, if you’re going to come so beautifully for me like that.”

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Zayne

Zayne bit back a laugh.

“Forgive me, but I didn’t realize intercourse required a specific amount of cum to be effective.” He played like he was a researcher, listening to you intently as you provided him with new information that could potentially uproot his entire field of study, but his eyes sparkled with mirth. He wondered how far you’d take this silly, little charade of yours. And he pondered how far he wanted to take it himself. 

“Yes, well, now you know. When we have sex, I expect you to fill me to the brim- nothing like the measly amount you just spilled into me.” You stated your words very matter-of-factly. Except that there was nothing factual about them. You knew damn well that, at this very moment, his cum was still dripping out of you like it had no end. And he knew it too. 

He gave a small smirk. Yeah. He’d made up his mind already; he wasn’t letting his charade end until he was satisfied you’d swallow your own words. “I see. Well, I hate to be so disappointing. I think we’re in need of another trial run then, yes?” You nodded your agreement. “I believe that is the best course of action for this kind of situation.”

“Perhaps-” He suddenly turned you around and bent you over his desk (your eyes widening as he did so) before spearing his cock through your slicked folds once more, “-Your technique was what was lacking. In order to best stimulate my arousal to provide you with the optimum amount of orgasmal release, I’d recommend this angle.”

You let out a choked gasp as you steadied yourself against the desk’s surface. He’d never fucked you from the back before. Something about always wanting to see your pretty face make the expressions that you did. But apparently that factor didn’t apply today. Oh god, were you going to survive him? 

He pulled out just enough so that only his tip remained within you and you bit your lip, bracing for impact. But it never came. His hips very slowly rowed forward again, his erection easing its way into you. His hands planted themselves on your hips, his thumbs caressing your back, as if to tell you how well you were taking him. 

You thought to yourself, this wasn’t so bad. You could keep going like this. You could rock yourself onto him, taking the time to savor his every vein carving itself into your walls. You could do it. Sensual and slow was the way to go. 

Then he reached around to flick his fingers across your clit and while you were busy whimpering at the new sensation, his hips rocketed forward, drilling the entirety of his bulging member through your trembling walls in one go. 

“Zayne!” You cried out.

“Just a little bit longer, and you’ll get what you want.” He murmured, voice hoarse. 

His thrusts grew relentless as his desire overcame him. Sure, he’d been trying to teach you a lesson, but now he was starting to forget what exactly that lesson was. All he could think about was just how perfectly warm you were, how perfectly tight you were, how perfectly soaked you were. He was sure if he lifted you up, you’d have made a mess of his desk already, your arousal pooling beneath you. And it drove him crazy.

He pounded into you tirelessly, his fingers nearly scarring their imprints onto your hip bones from how tightly he grasped you, attempting to stabilize himself. He wanted to feel every inch of you- needed it, really. As a doctor, he knew that logistically speaking, it was impossible for his cock to rearrange all of your internal organs, but he damn well wanted to try. 

You held onto the edge of the desk for dear life as Zayne attempted to split right through your stomach. What was he trying to do? Saw you in half down the middle? 

Your core was nearly on fire at this point; seriously, you were sure the only thing keeping you from sparking into flames from the friction of his cock grating against your walls was the fact that you were so ungodly wet right now. Why were you so wet? Did his ruination of you really feel that good?

He crashed against your cervix and you came on his desk.

“F-F-Fuuuuuck, Zaaaayne!” Your lips quivered, tears spilling down your cheeks as he continued to fuck your throbbing cunt. Your arms buckled beneath you, nerves spasming all over as your orgasm continued to pinball around your body, zinging to and fro, and you ended up fully collapsing on the desk. 

“Hold out a little longer. I’m almost there.” He grunted out. 

“I caaaan’t,” You whined.

“Who’s the one who wanted me to come harder?” He questioned.

You bit your lip. “M-me…”

“And who’s the one who just came on the desk because it felt so good?”

“M-me…”

“Exactly. You’re being such a good girl; I think you can hold out a little longer, yeah? Just until I breed you, nice and full. Yes, my love?”

You nodded shakily. You started this, you might as well finish it. You clenched your eyes shut as he continued to pump into you. Fuck, fuck, fuck. It hurt so good. You’d never realized just how big he was. Never realized just how batshit crazy you were for him. 

He thrust into you again. And then again. 

Then he buried his head against your shoulder, groaning and gasping, as his orgasm slammed into him full force. His body shuddered as he struggled to process the ecstasy soaring through his veins. Loads of his cum surged out of him, thick and hot, until it was waterfalling down your legs.

As he caught his breath, he thought to himself that, even with you egging him on, he shouldn’t have been able to come that much. He wasn’t even aware he was capable of producing that much cum. He wasn’t aware that anyone human was capable of producing that much. But, ah well, there was no point in ruminating about this strange, new revelation now. He was finally finished. He could relax again (if you’d let him, you damn tease). 

Then you twitched underneath him and before he could understand what was happening, he started to come again. 

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Xavier

Xavier stared at you, eyes calculating, arms crossed.

“And what about that-” He bent down to run a finger through the fresh cum that was still drizzling out of you, “-wasn’t enough for you?” He asked, voice low and demanding.

You cleared your throat, preparing to stand your ground. You shrugged. “I’m just saying, I’m hardly soaked. If we were trying to make a baby right now, all we’d have to show for it would be a negative line on a pregnancy test.” 

You were bullshitting him. You totally were. But how else were you supposed to goad him into fucking you more? You’d missed him. He’d spent way too much time frolicking around space, and you’d spent way too much time humping his pillow. You needed him. So if telling him that his cum was unimpressive meant that he’d spend the entire night proving you wrong, you’d do it again in a heartbeat. 

When he immediately left the room, your heart sank. Was the bait not enough? Should you have pushed him harder? Or should you have just told him the truth, that you wanted him to fuck you into oblivion? You wracked your brain, wondering what you were supposed to say when you finally went after him.

You certainly hadn’t expected that he’d come back into the room with…rope. 

“Sit down.” He gestured to a nearby chair.

Your eyes darted back and forth between him and the chair. Just what was he planning to do? Obviously, he must be thinking of tying you to the chair, but what then?

“Don’t trust me?” 

His eyes were innocent enough that you made the decision to do as he said. But you shouldn’t have. 

Like you thought, he began to tie you to the chair, but you hadn’t imagined it would be nearly this tight. Your wrists and ankles strained against the rope but it didn’t budge even the littlest bit. Oh fuck. What had you gotten yourself into?

“X-Xavier…what are you going to do to me now?” You asked meekly, your earlier audacity evaporating. 

“Showing you how much I can come for you. Isn’t that what you asked for?” His eyes glint with mischief.

“I did…but how is tying me to a chair related? Don’t you have to come inside me?”

He leaned forward, capturing your chin in an iron grasp, before tilting you to face him. “And who said I had to come inside you?”

Before you could be properly flabbergasted at the single loophole he’d found to ruin your entire plan, he began to pull something out of a box.

You swallowed. “Xavier…what’s that?”

“You’ll see.” He bent down to push the foreign object into your cunt. 

You winced at how cold it was.

At first, it did nothing. Just sat there. Provided some much needed pressure that you’d been hoping his cock would give you, but didn’t do much more than that. 

Then he began murmuring to himself while flipping through a little booklet, which you soon realized was its instruction manual. 

“Hmm. Let’s see. For first time use, low levels are recommended.” He hit a button on a remote and then glanced over the top of the booklet to see your reaction.

It’d begun a pleasant buzzing between your legs but it was hardly enough to elicit any sizable reaction.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought. You’re not like the other people using this thing. Low level my ass.” He chucked the booklet behind him and began to crank the dials up on the remote.

You jolted forward, sparks shooting through your veins, but the restraints held you in place. Like a wildfire, heat began to burn in your core and spread throughout your body. Sweat rolled down your bare chest, dripping off your peaked nipples. “X-Xavier!” You gasped out.

“Mm.. still think it’s not high enough. You do have high tolerance levels, after all.” He hit the maximum setting and then chucked the remote behind him as well, not bothering to see where it’d landed. Then he sat down and simply watched you, stroking his cock as he did so. 

 The damn vibrator began to wildly thrash in your pussy, igniting and imploding every nerve within your shuddering walls. Your stomach lurched, your lungs feeling like they were collapsing in on themselves. “Xavier!!” In no time at all, you were drooling and squirting all over yourself. 

“That’s it…” He drawled, spitting on his cock as he fucked his palm harder.

“W-W-Waaaait!” You stammered out, choking on your own saliva. As quickly as you’d come, the tension had begun to build itself inside you once again. “C-Can’t…take…” 

“You wanted me to come for you harder, right? So why don’t you come for me harder? Give me a good show. And then I’ll reward you.” He continued to watch you squirm, licking his lips as your drool dripped down your breasts. He ran a thumb over his tip, groaning as he teased himself. 

“S-So…sensitive…” You squeaked out in an almost pleading tone, eyes squeezing shut. Your head had rolled back, shoulders slumped, as you attempted to catch your breath. Your breaths came in such short gasps, you were surprised you’d managed to suck in any oxygen at all. He still hadn’t turned down the setting so your torment continued, a never ending cycle of pleasure and pain. 

When you came again, like a bomb exploding between your legs, he began to circle you. 

You would’ve asked him what for, if you’d had enough energy left, but the vibrating between your legs never stopped, and so you mustered up what strength you had left to endure the next onslaught. 

He played with his balls in one hand, the other still vigorously stroking his impressive length, as he watched you make a mess for him. You were sure you’d ruined the chair by now, but that just turned him on even more.

He finally stopped his circling to stand before you, hand bracing itself on one of your shoulders. You wondered if he’d finally put an end to this cycle, but he didn’t. He simply pumped his hand in and out of his fist faster and then came all over your stomach. 

“That enough cum for you yet?” He growled.

So that was his plan. 

Leaving you no time to answer, he spoke again, “Guess not.” 

He began to play with himself again until his cock had hardened to an almost painful degree. “Look at you…all covered in my cum. All helpless and desperate. You want me to take the pain away, don’t you? To fuck you myself?” Your eyes widened and you quickly nodded. “Yes, Xavier, please! Take this damn thing out of me- I wanna feel you!” 

Still stroking himself, he slipped his fingers inside you to retrieve his little torture device. Surprisingly, the split second he had touched your cunt was enough to make you come again, and you squirt all over his fingers this time. 

“Naughty.” He clicked his tongue against his teeth. “How should I punish you?” He brought the vibrator between your legs once more and tears began to roll down your cheeks as you prepared yourself for insertion but it never came. Instead, he pressed it to your clit. 

“Mmmph!” You let out a muffled sob as your clit began to swell from the stimulation. At this point, you were sure all your internal organs would just spontaneously combust. You weren’t used to such a rollercoaster of sensations, and right now, you were on an upwards spiral. Each delicious, devious vibration that rumbled against your clit sent you teetering closer and closer to the edge. You fought against your restraints again, if only to try and close your legs, but it was to no avail. That familiar spark was bursting into flames once again. 

When you came for the third time, you were sure you blacked out. Blinking back the oblivion, you realized he’d completely doused the entirety of your neck, torso, and legs, like you were his personal cum dumpster. Seeing you all timid and trembling in combination with his fucked-out fist must have sent him barreling towards his orgasm too. And an impressive one, at that. 

You suddenly heard the snap of a camera and looked up to find Xavier examining the picture on his phone. 

“Yeah. I think that’ll do.” 

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

Sylus

Sylus scoffed, both amused and irked at the same time. 

He could’ve filled his car’s gas tank with how much he’d come inside you tonight, and still, you were insistent that it wasn’t enough. How bold of you. 

“And do you think, somehow, that you could’ve come anymore than me?” He demanded, gesturing to the liquids that were currently oozing out of you and collecting on the floor in a puddle. 

You lifted your chin to him defiantly. “Do I think I could’ve come more than a grain of sand? Yeah, I do.”

He snorted. A grain of sand. You were literally oozing gallons out of your pussy at this point and you’d had the audacity to first compare him to a raindrop, and now a grain of sand. He’d have to do something about that mouth of yours. 

He spread your legs wide in an instant. “I’d like to see you try, kitten.” He split your pussy open on two fingers, cum spilling out of your slit as he pumped them in and out. “Come for me. Again and again.”

Shit, you thought to yourself, biting your lip. This wasn’t what you wanted when you’d goaded him on. You were just so cum drunk you were hoping to spurr him into coming for you more. You wanted him to soak your bed so much it started feeling like a water bed. You weren’t expecting him to turn the tables on you.

He curled his fingers, thrumming the patch of nerves that always made you choke. 

“Sy!” You groaned.

“What is it, kitten? Can’t do it? Talked too big of a game?” He smirked, fingers still relentlessly plunging into your wet heat. 

You swallowed. “It’s, um…it’s not that…it’s just…”

“Just what?” He punctuated his words with a sharp thrust.

Your back arched off the bed. “Fuck!”

“Use your words, kitten,” He drawled, thumb coming up to circle your neglected clit. 

You let out a whimper, eyes rolling back in your head. “W-Wanna… wanna come with you,” you pleaded. 

“Poor kitten. You want my cock that badly, huh?”

You nodded your head vigorously. 

He chuckled, low and dark. “It’s a shame I can’t give it to you. After all, its service has been so poor this evening, isn’t that what you said? I’ll have to find some other way to service you.” His pace picked up and he added a third finger, reveling in the way your cunt swallowed them down with ease. 

“Won’t you show me what it looks like to properly come?” He teased, his words a purr in your ear.

You wanted to bite him, the insufferable man that he was. But your lips were too busy quivering from holding back moans as your second orgasm of the night washed over you. Your toes curled into the bed, legs squeezing tightly around his hand as you shuddered your way through the high. His fingers kept the same rhythm even with you squirming around him, never letting your release tiptoe out of reach. 

When you finally finished gasping, he pulled his fingers out, flicking his tongue over them to clean them off. He feigned contemplation as he swallowed down your arousal, like he was some critic at a restaurant. “Not bad, but barely more than a grain of sand. Maybe two grains of sand. Thought you were going to show me something special, sweetie.” He grinned, his lips curled smugly. 

You huffed. “Yeah, well, maybe you just didn’t do enough!” You protested. For a moment, you’d even forgotten that this whole situation was a monster of your own making, and that you’d originally intended for him to be the one coming. Because now you were just offended. 

“Ohh. So I’m the issue. Interesting theory. Shall we test it out?”

Before you could answer -before you could even realize your mistake- he dove in, tongue barrelling through your entrance. His nose nudged against your clit as he inched deeper, devouring every ounce of arousal you had to offer him. Of course, he swallowed loads of his own cum too, and for a moment, he contemplated pulling back to show you just how much of his cum was on his tongue. Prove he’d given you more than a ‘drop.’ But then he felt your hips stutter as you fucked yourself on his tongue, your lust rising, and he could practically smell the sin radiating off of you. It was intoxicating. He wouldn’t dream of stopping now. 

He flicked his tongue in every direction, smirking against your cunt when he felt your walls shiver against him. God, you were going to taste so good when you finally stopped fighting him and just came in his mouth. He continued to lap you up hungrily like he’d never eaten a day in his life. 

And there it was again. That tingling sensation that had begun to build in your core. That rumbling between your legs that only grew with every demanding stroke of his tongue. Your orgasm had begun dancing into view again just like it had before. But…something was different this time. 

This time…oh god…this time you felt like you had to pee.

You began crawling back up the bed, in attempts to pull away from him, but you didn’t get very far. His hands shot out and pinned your hips to the bed. He was starving and you were interrupting his meal. He couldn’t have that. 

“Wait-Sylus!” You wanted to explain yourself. You weren’t pulling away from him, you just didn’t want to piss in his mouth. You wanted to tell him he felt good. He felt amazing. He felt like Heaven in a bottle. But then his tongue licked up your clit, his fingers sliding back into position, and you came for him, hard. 

The air was knocked from your lungs and your vision went white as the ecastasy tore through you, limb from limb. And then your pelvis jerked forward and you squirt all over his face like a flood. 

When you had finally finished, you slowly pulled your legs apart to examine his expression.

He was completely stunned still, his face dripping as he processed this new information.

You cleared your throat. 

“So…um…I’d say that counts as more than a drop, yeah?”

Taglist: @pixelcafe-network @tbaluver @wifeyofsylus

[antistellars]

bite me, break me

PAIRING: Joel Miller x Fem!Reader

SUMMARY: Joel Miller thinks you’re reckless. You think he’s an asshole. When Tess sends you along as backup on a drop, you decide the best way to stick it to Joel is to make him come… apart.

WARNINGS: 18+, SMUT! porn with slight plot, boston QZ!joel, slight angst, swearing, oral sex(m!recieving), rough oral sex, dirty talk, face fucking, power play + power dynamics, orgasm denial. reader is a bit of a brat+ insinuated brat tamer joel, reader has long enough hair to grab.

WORD COUNT: 6.5k

AUTHOR'S NOTE: omgg first joel smut post. idk anything about horses btw, im just horny. (this will make sense. trust)

READ ON AO3

It happens fast. The kind of stupid, impulsive mistake you always seem to make.

You're cornered outside a courtyard, some idiot with a badge pulling you by the collar of your jacket and sneering something about contraband. You don’t have anything on you—you never do—but he's rough anyway, and his buddies look bored and itching for something to do.

"Get your fucking hands off me," you snap, loud enough to draw attention. You twist your arm in his grip, not enough to break it, but enough to piss him off. "You gonna throw me in lockup for walking too fast? That it?"

The guard yanks you closer. "Watch your mouth."

"Or what? You gonna shoot me for it? You don’t have the balls."

Rage flickers in his eyes and you feel a twitch of his hand. You’re tempting fate— this you know. Not even tempting it, dangling a piece of meat in front of it like a hungry beast. Daring it. Daring him.

“Hey!” You sigh deeply at the sound of Tess’s voice. The sound of boots crunching hard follows. “She’s with me.”

A simple claim. 

The soldiers hesitate, like they’re considering just how much grief Tess Servopoulos is worth, weighing the worth of their bruised ego against the supply chain she represents. Whatever decision they make, it’s in your favor. The man lets go with a shove and a muttered curse. 

It tells you exactly what the dynamic is here— she sells to them, and these pigs don’t want to risk cutting off their supply. You stumble back and Tess grabs your arm, yanking you hard into the alley.

She doesn’t say anything for the first few steps. When she finally stops, she rounds on you.

"What the hell was that?"

You wrench your arm back. "He started it."

"You egged him on. I saw it."

"Yeah, well, if he’s that easy to rile up, maybe he shouldn’t be near a gun."

Tess gives you a look. For a second, you catch a ghost of the woman she used to be. A soft sense of disappointment that was reserved for her son. It dissipates quickly, and a stone expression runs over her.

"You don’t get to mouth off to FEDRA for the fun of it. What are you trying to do, get killed?"

You don’t answer right away. She’s right, in some small way, and you don’t want to admit it. What a cowardly, cowardly confession that would be. "I didn’t ask for your help."

Tess stares at you like you’re being deliberately stupid. "He was ready to put a bullet between your eyes."

You grit your teeth. "Yeah, well—thanks for making sure I owe you now."

She blinks. "Owe me?"

Irritation pricks at the edge of your mind. It bothers you—though you’ve never been able to say exactly why—how easily Tess seems to have accepted who she’s become. Maybe it’s disappointment, that she changed to survive. Or maybe it’s jealousy—that she even wanted to survive in the first place. You aren't like that. You aren't like her.

"That’s how this works, right? You save my ass, and now I’m supposed to pay it back somehow. Be grateful. Grovel. Whatever."

She exhales, low and tired. "Jesus. It wasn’t a debt. We’re family."

“Family.” You bark a laugh. The audacity for Tess to think throwing around that word held any merit. "That’s your sentimental shit. Not mine."

You half expect her to respond. You half hope the words sting, even just a little. It doesn’t make sense—not in your messy, disorganized brain—but you need to know you can still hurt her. That you still matter enough to hit where it counts. She’s your last real tie to the life you had, and somehow, the clearest reminder of everything you lost. 

But she doesn’t. All she offers is a half-committal shrug. "Fine. Then it’s a debt. And I know exactly how you can make it up to me."

You narrow your eyes. She works fast.  "Here we fucking go."

"One run. That’s it. You tag along, keep an eye out. You don’t even have to carry shit. "

You scoff. "Yeah, no. Absolutely not."

She doesn’t budge. In fact, she seems almost amused, like she knows she's succeeded.  "All you gotta do is keep him company."

"Him?"

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“Like hell I will!”

Joel throws down a box of bullets harder than necessary. “You’ve finally lost it.”

“Don’t be dramatic,” Tess mutters, voice dry. “She’s just tagging along. She’s not gonna bite.”

Joel hasn’t felt this level of irritation in a while. Not real rage. Not the kind that curls in his gut and makes him feel something other than the usual empty ache. It should worry him how good it feels. But he buries it. Shoves it down and lets the old standby rise instead—anger. Irritation. Familiar and easy.

Joel lifts his eyes, incredulous. “Tess. You just dragged her out of a FEDRA chokehold two hours ago.”

“Exactly. Which means she owes me. And I’m cashing in.”

He stares at her, jaw clenching. “I ain’t a goddamn babysitter.”

Tess tosses a folded map onto the table and crosses to her pack, checking her supplies. “You’re not babysitting her. She needs something to do.”

Joel barks a laugh. “She needs a fuckin’ leash.”

Tess’s eyes flick up. Joel knows he’s pushing it. But that’s the problem with soft spots. Sooner or later, they rot. 

“She’s not green,” Tess says. “She can shoot. Knows the city better than half the smugglers out there—”

“She’s impulsive,” Joel snaps. “A fuckin’ liability.”

“It’s a milk run.”

“There’s no such thing.”

Tess sighs, loud and long. Joel shakes his head, pacing once across the room.

“This what you do now?” he mutters. “Let her mouth off to armed soldiers for kicks? I’ve seen FEDRA shoot for less.”

“She got cornered. I stepped in.”

“Exactly. You stepped in. Like always. She runs her mouth and you clean it up. What happens when you’re not there next time? What then?”

Tess doesn’t respond right away. Joel studies her. He knows her too well. The way she plants her feet means she’s already decided. No debate, no compromise. He hates when she does that shit. 

“You have your sibling shit,” Tess says, quiet. “I’ve got mine.”

“She ain’t your sister.”

A beat. Something sour flashes across her face.

“She’s close enough.”

“That close enough is gonna get you killed.”

“She’s not gonna get anyone killed.” Tess says, and her voice is softer now. “You just have to lay low there. Keep watch while the drop goes down. Easy. You barely have to look at her.”

That part gets under Joel’s skin more than he wants it to. Because he will look. He always does.

“And why the hell can’t you go?”

“Because I’m making a deal with that piece of shit in sector three,” she snaps. “I can’t be in two places at once.”

Joel doesn’t respond right away. His fingers curl around the edge of the table. He could say no. Should. Walk out, wash his hands of it. But he won’t. She knows that. And he hates her a little for it.

He looks away. Tightens his jaw.

“I’m not running after her if she gets herself killed.”

“You won’t have to,” Tess says, slinging her bag over her shoulder. “She won’t give you the satisfaction.”

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Joel is less than enthusiastic when the time comes for him to move— to drag you to a location halfway across Boston, hole up in some busted house for the night.

He sees you exactly where Tess said you’d be. Joel feels his jaw tick the second your eyes meet his. You look just as unhappy to see him, which should bring him some satisfaction, but it doesn’t. It just annoys the hell out of him more. Arms crossed, hip cocked, expression twisted somewhere between boredom and disdain— no trace of guilt for dragging him into this.

He mutters a curse under his breath and jerks his head for you to follow.

It takes fifteen minutes for Joel to start regretting ever letting Tess Servopoulos into his life—and by extension, you. Fifteen minutes of your boots scraping pavement beside his. Fifteen minutes of tension clawing at the base of his skull, eating into the muscle of his neck like rot.  You’re humming. Humming . He considers shooting out your kneecap, just to get a little silence.

He doesn’t say much as you walk. You fill the air anyway, one smug, sideways comment at a time. You ask if he’s always this cheerful, if the scowl is permanent or if he takes it off before bed. Joel grunts, ignores you, adjusts the weight of his pack and keeps walking. 

To his surprise, you fall quiet a few minutes later. Maybe because this area is too open, too exposed—nobody wants to draw attention out here. Even a reckless brat like you. Joel's grateful for the sudden peace, he truly is. But it doesn’t stop him from thinking about you. Which is worse, somehow. Heat, desire, and irritation all twisting together. 

He thinks about how he hates everything about you — hates the way his eyes keep dragging down the line of your throat, hates the swing of your hips and your goddamn attitude. 

Joel knows it's wrong.

Knows that the stirring in his jeans is a sign he is truly, truly far gone.

There are a lot of things he’d buried after the world fell apart — guilt, grief, the kind of want that used to feel normal. This wasn’t normal. This wasn’t even want, really. It was tension, pressure, something boiling slow and dark in his gut.  He doesn't like being around you. You make his skin itch. But he keeps looking anyway.

His wind wanders again. 

Tess. 

Tess has certain… affections toward him. That much has always been clear. What she still sees in him, hell if he knows, but Joel’s not stupid. He is, however, selfish. So when the hunger creeps in, when the cold feels like it might rot him from the inside out, he lets her touch him. Lets her hold him. He takes what she offers and gives back what he can—nothing permanent, never enough.

Whether she’s willing to admit it or not, Tess wants something real. 

And Joel Miller hasn’t felt real in a long time.

He once thought of himself as a gentleman. Rough around the edges, sure, but respectful. He’d seen what the world did to men—turning them animal. Ugly. Violent. He swore he’d never be one of them. Never take without asking. Never lose control. Even now, Joel clings to that threadbare decency like a rope over a pit.

But sex is vulnerable. Intimacy cracks things open. Joel doesn’t want connection—he wants control. He knows himself. Knows what he’s capable of when someone finally gets under his skin.

He thinks, maybe, that’s why Tess could never quite fit. She’d never give it up. Not really. She held the reins as tight as he did.

But you aren’t like her. There is something jagged in you, something feral. It’s foreign and yet too familiar at the same time. It reminds him of himself. Of Tommy. Of who he was before the world took everything.

Joel isn’t sure how you’ve made it this long. Maybe you’re good at talking circles around desperate men. Maybe batting those eyelashes works on lonely bastards.

He casts a look your way as you hop a bit of crumbled curb. You're a liability. Ungrateful. Reckless. You don’t follow orders, and you’re not even trying to hide how little you respect him.

Joel realizes, with a sickening sense of glee, that Tess isn’t around to reel you in. To scold you. To protect you.

For the first time, Joel is alone with the object of his nightmares.

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He’s already annoyed. You can tell that much. Which is funny, because Joel likes to pretend he’s unreadable—bound tight, wrapped up in worn button-ups and cold stares. But you’ve been around long enough to know better. Smuggling peeled people open. You were lucky enough to simply watch from the sidelines.

Joel’s got his arms crossed, broad shoulders tense beneath his shirt. He hasn’t said more than two words since you got inside the house.

You kick at a loose piece of wood on the floor. “That good a day, huh?”

No answer. Not even a grunt. Joel stays where he is, flat and disinterested. You wait, like maybe he’s working something out in that thick skull of his, but the silence stretches. He’s not going to respond at all.

You narrow your eyes and push off the wall.  “You want me to do something, or just stand here looking pretty?”

Joel moves around the room without looking at you. He’s checking scanning the windows, counting bullets. A man on a mission—or pretending to be. He stops only when he reaches the edge of the table, where your bag sits unopened.

“You wanna do something?” he says, not even looking at you. “Shut the hell up.”

“Actually, I’ve been uncharacteristically quiet for you.”

His eyes flick to you. You’re not sure what it is, but something about your words seems to gain his attention. 

“Then you could try bein’ useful for once, too.”

You blink. Slowly.

There’s no bite in it. Not like usual. No dry amusement behind the insult.

“Wow,” you mutter. “Shit. Why didn’t you say so? Lemme grab a hammer, redecorate the place. Maybe slap some curtains up while I’m at it.”

You narrow your eyes further, trying to study him. It’s hard to tell when Joel’s brooding and when he’s about to snap. Sometimes it’s both. He’s pacing a little now. Not much, just enough to be noticeable. 

“Alright. What the fuck is your problem today?”

Joel wipes a hand down his face, breathes through his nose. “Do you ever quit runnin’ your mouth?”

He’s staring, waiting for you to say something that’ll let him rip into you.

You don’t like that look. 

There’s nothing indifferent about it. It’s heat, low and ugly. Frustration. Resentment. Hungry and ravenous like a predator looking at its prey. It makes your skin prickle and your mouth go dry. You remind yourself that Joel would never actually hurt you. Tess is your buffer, your tether. Joel wouldn’t cross her for this.

“No,” you reply, slowly. “I don’t.”

“And that’s your problem,” he snaps, stepping forward. “That, and a whole fuckin’ list of others.”

You scoff at the outburst. “And what might those be?”

He stares at you for a second. You can see him weighing something behind his eyes — whatever self-control he’s got left, it’s unraveling one word at a time.  “I think you oughta show Tess a little gratitude.”

You blink. It’s not necessarily the answer you expected. You scoff. “She asked you to defend her honor to me?”

“No,” Joel says, voice tight. “She asked me to stay out of it.”

You tilt your head and give him your most obnoxious smirk.  “Directions get stuck in that thick head of yours?”

Two steps, and he’s right in front of you, just short of getting in your face. “You’re actin’ like a spoiled fuckin’ brat.”

You can smell the grit of old soap and sweat on him. The word rattles around in your head—brat. Brat. Brat. Brat, like a younger sister. Brat, like some ignorant kid.

No. You’re not a brat. You’ve earned this frustration. You own your sharp teeth.

“Funny,” you bite. “Pretty sure I’ve never had the luxury of being spoiled.”

Joel’s jaw ticks. “You’re alive ‘cause of Tess, and all you do is mouth off.”

That actually pisses you off. Deep in your chest. You laugh—mean and bitter. “What, do you think it's time I write her a thank you card?”

“I think it’s ‘bout time you get off that high horse of yours.” His eyes flash. “Deludin’ yourself— thinkin you’re better than Tess. Better than me.”

“I don’t think I’m better than you,” you say coolly. “I know I am.”

Joel’s face hardens. You keep going. “You and Tess—you're no better than FEDRA. You sell to the same pricks that’d throw a kid in lockup for coughing wrong.”

“That ain’t the same—”

“The fuck it’s not. You bring those assholes their fix, you keep them fed, high, and comfortable. And when those assholes get bored or twitchy, who do you think they take it out on?”

Joel’s mouth sets in a hard line. “We do what we gotta do.”

You shake your head. “No, Joel. You do what benefits you and slap the word ‘survival’ on it so you can sleep. That makes you worse.”

You can feel the air shift. You’ve hit something. And you know it — you know it — but still you stand there, hands on your hips, chest rising and falling. Joel has gone still— a stiff, eerie kind of quiet. 

He’s silent for a second longer. 

“Fireflies ain’t any better,” he finally says. “Bunch o’ terrorists.”

You scowl. “Good thing I’m not a Firefly, then.”

“Yeah,” he drawls. “You just fuck ‘em— ain’t that right?”

You blink. Your face must say it all, because that bastard — that smug, miserable bastard — actually smirks.

“Excuse me?”

“Can’t say I’m surprised,” he says, shrugging. “Takes a real special kinda idiot to fall for that freedom fighter bullshit. S’pose you’re just their type.”

“Are you fucking following me?”

Joel shrugs again, and this one makes you want to punch him. 

“That is none of your business,” you say, shoving into his chest. “None.” 

Joel’s body doesn’t budge under your touch. You step back, fists clenched at your sides.

“I made it my business.” 

For once, you have nothing to say. Your throat tightens, and you hate how suddenly off-balance you feel. Like something in this moment slipped sideways.

That gut-sick twist of being exposed.

He’s not even trying to pretend. He wants you to know he’s keeping tabs. You wonder, for a brief moment, if this is his way of proving his dominance, of intimidating you into some form of submission. Maybe that would explain how much Tess changed— if Joel, for his thick skull, could control her like this.

You know its not true. But you’ll tell yourself that lie anyways. 

“You’re a piece of shit,” you spit, voice thinner than you want it to be. “God forbid I want to find a way to release some stress.”

Joel barks a short laugh. “Stress?” He echoes. “Stress from what, exactly? You don’t do a damn thing.” 

Your nails dig further into your palm. “You think just because I’m not out there gutting people for ration cards, I don’t get to have problems?” 

“Don’t remember saying all that.”

His answer only fuels your anger.

 “Just because I'm not some soldier or ruthless smuggler doesn’t mean I don’t matter. Being a normal, untrained person is the only thing tying me back to my life.” 

Joel seems to consider this. His gaze runs down your form slowly, like he’s dissecting you thoughtlessly. “Yeah,” he mutters. “You keep tellin’ yourself that bullshit.”

Then he turns, dismissing you with his back. No parting words, no effort. Joel has already shown you he’s above the argument. Even without knowing Tommy, you could’ve guessed Joel was an older brother—he carries the same temperament as a parentified sibling. They always win because they get to change the rules.

Your blood boils. Your vision narrows. You stare at his back, the slope of his shoulders, at the anger you swear you can see rolling off him in waves.

“Maybe you need to get your dick wet. Might loosen that stick up your ass.”

He whirls so fast it startles a flinch out of you.

“’Scuse me?” he says slowly. “The hell did you just say to me?”

“I said,” you repeat, crossing your arms and making a show of it.  “You need to get laid.” 

His eyes stay locked on yours. Something flickers in them. Something he’s not proud of. Something hot, caught off-guard. You got him. 

The glee that fills your bloodstream is borderline childlike.

Joel doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. 

You tilt your head. “You’re not denying it.”

Joel’s nostrils flare and you catch the smallest twitch of his brow. You bite back a smile.

“Maybe. Maybe not,” he mutters. “Ain’t your fuckin’ business.”

“That didn’t stop you, did it?”

Joel’s mouth curls into something halfway between a sneer and a grimace. “Some of us got priorities. Don’t got time to screw around like you do.”

There it is. The jab. Personal. Ugly.

A few minutes ago, that comment would’ve sent you spiraling—ready to toss every insult you’ve ever saved for Joel Miller, call him an asshole and a miserable old man. But now? He seems desperate, trying to piss you off enough so you’ll storm off. That tells you you’re winning.

Truth is, you’re surprised he’s entertained this for as long as he has. Surprised your luck hasn’t run out. Something tells you Joel’s not a man who likes being made fun of—or worse, having someone he hates be right about him. Despite his best efforts to hide it, you know he’s seething.

You pout. “Don’t tell me Tess hasn’t been pulling her weight.”

His whole face changes.

“Keep her name outta your mouth.”

You raise your eyebrows. “That a sore spot?”

“Don’t start.”

“Why? ‘Cause I hit a nerve?”

Joel’s jaw is clenched so hard it’s a wonder he hasn’t cracked a molar. He fixes you with a glare. His reaction tells you that you’ve hit somewhere strange and powerful—somewhere Joel Miller loses his usual ability to walk away and defuse.

“Interesting,” you murmur. “So that means… you haven’t? Or not recently?”

“I said—”

“I heard you,” you interrupt. “I just don’t care.”

The room feels smaller and it makes you feel good. Excited. So you do what feels right and move forward, slowly drag your feet as you walk over to Joel, to where he’s standing with a clenched jaw and squinted eyes. He watches you approach like you’re a lit match tossed into a dry field. You’re not sure why you’re doing this — boredom, maybe. Curiosity. Or maybe you just like the way he gets angry. 

“You’re tense, Miller.” Your voice is low now. “You miss it? Skin on skin? That kind of release that takes the edge off?”

A muscle twitches in his cheek. How he manages to clench his jaw even harder than before, you can’t say. But honestly, you don’t care. Joel Miller is two steps from ignition—and it’s all because of you.

“Stop talking,” he mutters.

“That a no?”

“Quit fuckin’ talking. I mean it.”

You don’t. Of course you don’t.

You get closer — circle him slowly. Just to see if you want to prod at the bruise again. His whole body’s rigid, like he doesn’t know what to do with you this close. You stop near his back to rise up on your toes, voice a whisper now, aimed right at the side of his neck.

“To think,” you murmur, “If you were nice to me, I might have done you a favor.”

You don’t process his movement until your back hits the wall, his firm grip grabbing your arm. Joel leans forward, close enough to see the silver in his beard and the tight pull of his mouth.

“Knock. That. Shit. Off.”

It should scare you. The way he says it. The way he looks at you. But it doesn’t.

What it does is worse.

For whatever fucked reason, it sends a flutter through your stomach. You swallow it down— that strange, excited feeling. You haven’t felt something like this in a while. It makes you feel alive, powerful.  That stupid, reckless thrill. So you don’t back off. You just smile—tight, defiant. Just smug enough to piss him off.

And, like clockwork, it does its job. Joel’s grip doesn’t budge— fingers still curled around your arm— but it shifts. Less brute force, more control. He doesn’t want to hurt you. At least, not yet. He wants control.

“You think you’re real funny, huh?” His voice is low. Dangerous. But there’s something else in it now—strain. 

You tilt your head, letting your eyes drag across his face. “A little, yeah.”

“You really think this is how it’d go?” Joel murmurs. His voice holds a cruel twinge now. “You get to run your mouth, rile me up, and what? I fold for you?”

“Didn’t say that.” 

He lets go — only to brace his hands against the wall beside your head, caging you in. His arm brushes yours. Barely. But it’s enough to make your breath catch. Enough for him to notice.

You’re in unfamiliar terrain now. You should move. Shove him away from your personal bubble. Never in your life have you been this close to Joel Miller— never in your life have you liked something this much. For a fleeting second, it almost makes you disappointed in yourself, embarrassed that your body is reacting so deeply for the man before you. But in the heat of the moment, you don’t care enough. 

Joel’s gaze drops from your eyes to your mouth. It lingers there, shameless, like he’s trying to picture exactly what that favor would’ve looked like. You feel it in your gut. Lower.

“You just felt so bad for poor, uptight Joel, you figured you’d help me unwind?”

Tension coils in your stomach. You shift your weight, like it might shake the feeling loose, but it only makes his mouth twitch—barely noticeable, but there. The bastard likes this.

He likes you like this.

You keep your chin up. Steady. Even as your pulse starts kicking at your throat. “Something like that.”

He chuckles. “Ain’t that sweet.”

You hate how much you feel it. How much of your body is keyed up like it’s waiting for something to happen—something reckless, something sharp. Like if he touched you right now, really touched you, you’d fucking fold.

You glance at his mouth and wish you hadn’t. You clench your jaw and will yourself to look away.

“This how you handle those bugs of yours, too?” he asks, voice flat.  “Can’t say I blame ‘em. You run your mouth like that, someone’s bound to wanna shut it.”

Your eyes snap back to him, where you meet his burning gaze immediately. He’s observing you like a caged animal. 

The truth was you hadn’t touched a Firefly in years. Not since the last few left had lost whatever soul Tommy’s crew used to carry. The ones still standing now were just as grimy as the rest. Same filth, different cause.

But one came back through a few weeks ago. Sam— an old flame, a familiar face. He’d stopped running with the fireflies a few years back. After some shitty liquor, you gave in for a night because your hands were shaking and you couldn’t sleep. That was it.

“Fuck you,” you mutter, voice hoarse.

Joel hums. “You offering now?”

Your heart's still hammering—humiliatingly so—and your throat feels tight. Your voice comes out rough as you say, “Don’t flatter yourself.”

You shove his arm off the wall, snapping the cage. It doesn’t take much—he lets it fall, more amused than thwarted—and you slip out from beneath him, crossing the room to your pack slouched on the table. 

Joel’s still behind you somewhere. You hear the faint rustle of his clothes as he moves. You hate that you're standing there, braced for him, hands twitching with leftover adrenaline. You unscrew your canteen and tip it back. 

Don’t look at him.

“You know,” he says quietly, “when I was a kid, my dad’d take me out to help work horses. There was this one mare. Wouldn’t let anyone near her. Wild thing. Real angry.” His tone thickens on the last word. 

You roll your eyes and screw the lid back on, setting the canteen down. “Spare me the cowboy fables, Joel.”

He doesn’t stop. Footsteps creak across the floorboards, and before you realize it, his chest presses against your back.

“One day Tommy gets it in his head he wants to ride her. He’s stubborn like that. So I take him out there, show him how to approach her. Talk quiet. Keep your hands steady.”

His voice slides along the back of your neck like a hand. You grit your teeth, stare harder at the table, but your breathing betrays you—chest rising too fast, jaw tight.

“He nearly broke his neck,” Joel continues, closer now. “That mare—twice the size of him, and every time he got on, she’d buck him clear off.  He called her a strong one.” A pause. Then, quieter, “But it wasn’t strength. It was fear.”

It’s a lazily disguised metaphor—and frankly, you should be offended Joel Miller is probably comparing you to a horse. But you can’t find it in yourself, not with how close he is, the heat of his chest radiating against your back. You try, though—to pretend you’re not fighting the urge to clamp your thighs shut.

 “And let me guess, you tamed her? Good for you. Exhilarating story.”

“Not exactly,” he murmurs. You feel his finger skim the outside of your arm, trailing lazily upward. Light as smoke. “With horses like that, you don’t beat ‘em into trust. That’s what folks gets wrong.”

You let out the quietest breath. That’s all he needs. He leans in further, pressing the full weight of his chest against your back—solid, hot, unignorable. You feel the hard line of him at your lower back, snug through thick denim.

“Tried everything to break her in. Rope, reins, gentler hands. Nothin’ worked. She only trusted you once you got her cornered. Once she knew you could ride her outta that fight.”

You stare straight ahead. At nothing. 

“You give a thing like that room to breathe—and then, one day, she bends.”

You shouldn’t want this. Shouldn’t crave the way he cages you in. But your head tips, just slightly—neck arched, slightly bare to him now.

Stupid. So stupid. But you want to hear what comes next.

“After that?” His voice is practically in your neck now, breath following the curve of your throat. “She breaks.”

Your body betrays you once more and your breath hitches.  

“Hard,” Joel adds. “And sweet.”

His hand trails further down your arm and you bite the inside of your cheek.

Your heart jumps when he leans in. You’re ready for it—whatever it is. You turn your head slightly—just enough to see the edge of his mouth. You don’t realize how close you are to kissing him until—

Joel shifts.

Leans forward—

—and grabs your canteen.

You blink, disoriented, and by time you can breathe again, he’s peeling himself away from you.  

You turn.

He’s standing a few feet away now, drinking from your canteen. From your water. Head tipped back, swallowing slow. His other hand on his hip, relaxed. Smug as sin.

He finishes, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, and tosses the canteen back to you.

You catch it midair, scowling.

Joel raises a brow, all faux innocence.  "You alright there? Lookin’ a little flushed."

The smirk is barely there, but you see it. Bastard doesn’t need to bare his teeth to bite.

Your face burns. Not with shame—never that—but with humiliation. That low, rolling heat behind your eyes, your chest, that prickling, twitching fury. You’d given in— let him toy with you, string you along like some fucking novelty act just for his entertainment.

Joel Miller would never actually fuck you. Not really. You see it now, clear as day. It’s not for a lack of interest, or even restraint—it’s cowardice. Either he’s too chickenshit to admit he wants you, or he’s just waiting for you to stop him. If he never makes a move, he never loses anything.

He gets to edge you close, wind the spring tighter and tighter, just to see what you’ll do. He gets to hide behind all that gruff posturing, all that fuck-off bark, and expect you to do what everyone else does when Joel Miller gets too intense: back off .

But you’re not everyone else.

And that’s when it clicks.

You know how to win.

So you place the canteen back on the table with a hollow, dull thud. 

Joel’s brow furrows as you walk to him, but he doesn’t move. Doesn’t say another word. 

And when you’re close enough to smell his scent, to see even his freckles, you drop to your knees in front of him.

His eyes widen, blinking once, then again. “What the hell are you doin—”

You reach for his belt and his voice snags—like it caught on a hook lodged deep in his chest.

You glance up at him. “What does it look like I’m doing?”

He stares. Brow tight, mouth parted. You’ve never seen him look so…off-kilter. So rattled.

"It looks like you've lost your goddamn mind," he growls, but it’s soft. Thin. More warning than conviction.

You hum, fingers working the leather of his belt open. “Does it?” 

The leather slides through the buckle with a sound that makes his breath hitch. You thumb open the button, drag the zipper halfway down. Then you look up again. “You want me to stop?” 

Joel’s jaw flexes and the muscle in his throat jumps. Still, he doesn’t answer. Not verbally, at least. He’s already made the decision but he’s too proud to put it into words. But his hands—those big, calloused hands—hang loose at his sides now. You watch them. Wait for the twitch that tells you he’s not going to stop you.

It comes. He exhales, sharp and short. His hands relax.

“Didn’t think so,” you say and drag the zipper the rest of the way down. 

He’s already hard. And, Christ, he’s big.  Your breath catches, but you don’t show it—won’t give him that. Instead, you lean in and press a kiss low on his abdomen — just above the area he wants you most. Joel lets out a sound you’ve never heard from him before. Low and choked and absolutely wrecked. 

You pull him into your palm, stroke once, twice—memorizing the heat of him, the shape. You tuck the image away for a lonely, cold night.  Then you drag your tongue slowly over the head.

“Jesus.” 

You suck a little harder, resting a palm against his denim-clad thigh as you drag your tongue along the underside, working the base of him with your other hand.  

Joel’s hips stutter and his hand shoots out, hovering by your shoulder—like he doesn’t know if he’s allowed to touch you back. If your mouth weren’t full of his cock, you’d grin at the meekness. At the uncertainty in his movements.

Spit clings between your lips and the head of his cock as you pull away and reach for his wrist, guiding his hand to the back of your head. His fingers curl instinctively around your ponytail and his gaze darkens. It’s hungry now.

A possessive man.

A man possessed.

“Oh, fuck,” he groans as your mouth slides over him once more. “Yeah. That’s it. That’s a good girl.”

You glance up at him, eyes half-lidded. His jaw is locked, but he’s unraveling fast. It’s enough to push you deeper, until your lips press to the base of him. He shudders. You hum, just to feel him react.

“Shit,” he mutters, more to himself than to you. “Don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone look so good on their knees.”

His words energize you. Joel’s hand tightens in your hair as he rocks his hips forward—deep, quickening thrusts that knock the breath from your nose. The praise has teeth now.

“C’mon,” he coos, watching your lips stretch around him. “Know you can do better than that. Pretty little mouth like that—s’what it’s for, huh?”

Joel’s grip tightens as he ruts into your mouth deeper. He lets out a sound of approval when you gag and it shoots straight to your core. You resist the urge to rub your thighs together for a sliver of relief.  

“There you go. Knew you could be good for me.”

It’s messy now—his hips driving into your mouth in fast, rough thrusts. The obscene sounds filling the air only wind the coil in your stomach tighter. You want to say something cocky, remind him who’s really in control— but your mouth is full and your pride is leaking out the corners of your lips.

Every time he fucks into you, he growls something filthy under his breath — good girl , c’mon, don’t quit now , use that mouth like it’s all you’re good for —

There's awe in his face when you glance up at him. A kind of desperation that looks dangerous on a man like Joel. You’ve never been this turned on from giving head. Not once. Not like this.

His words start to crumble and his head falls back. “Shit—keep goin’. You—fuck, baby —gonna make me—”

And just when you feel him pulse, just when you know he’s right at the edge—you pull off completely.

Joel’s eyes snap open, confused. He blinks down at you like someone waking from a dream, the raw, stunned flush still across his face.

You rise to your feet, wipe your mouth with the back of your hand, and grab your pack from behind you. He’s standing stiff as a board, cock out, hard and glistening.

You’ve seen Joel Miller a lot of ways. Angry. Dismissive. Mean. But this —this is new.

“Past nine,” you say mildly,  gesturing to your watch and slinging your bag over your shoulder. “Tess said we’d be free to leave.”

Your eyes drag down again—slow and obvious—to the part of him still exposed. Still aching. You hum, like you’re considering something. 

“Maybe she'll would be willing to do you a favor,” you say with a faux pout. “Since you defended her honor so passionately. ”

You scoff at your own words and the burn in Joel's eyes could level cities. You’ve never seen it before—this kind of fury. Wounded, wanting. It’s a gorgeous thing, really.

Logically, you should be terrified that it’s aimed directly at you. But you can’t be bothered to worry when Joel Miller’s standing there with his cock out and nothing to show for it but the shape of your mouth on his fucking pride.

This image is beautiful.

You turn without waiting for his reply and toss one last line over your shoulder. 

“Thanks for the lame ass storytime, cowboy.”

AUTHOR'S NOTE: what if i got real freaky and reader is just pavlov dogged into giving head every time someone mentions a horse metaphor. i mean im not doing that but imagine how funny. maybe when i snort a line and feel extra weird

[aziraphales-library]

Hi there!

I am wondering if you have any fic recommendations based on movies? I read on based on the movie Overboard and was quite entertained, wondering if you know of any more?

Thanks so much for all the dedication! ❤️

Hello! There are loads of fics based on films. Your best bet is searching for whichever film you'd like an AU of. I'd recommend checking out the Do It With Style Silver Screen Bang collection on AO3. We also have a #crossover tag that has loads of film and TV fics. We have She Loves Me/You've Got Mail AUs here, Indiana Jones fics here, and horror film fics here, to link to but a few we have on the blog.

Sleepless in Swansea by anxilly, DreamsOfAlexandria (T)

Aziraphale Fell had just moved back to Wales with his kid Eric and was still coming to terms with the loss of his wife. Seeing how lonely their dad was, Eric took matters into their own hand. On a car ride in Scotland, Anthony J. Crowley listened to a random radio show. He had no idea that his life would change forever when a kid called in to find a new partner for their dad. An ineffable Sleepless in Seattle-AU.

It's About Wanting and Accepting by Emi_Hotaru, saesomewoo (T)

“Crowley thinks that the funny thing about grief is that it occurs both in loss and in gain. There is a kind of grief one can only feel when you gain something you've never had before. In the way you feel a dawning realization that you've missed so much of the experience others have all their lives. Now that he has it, he doesn't know how to hold it in his tiny, trembling hands. How does one make themselves a better container for all the good things being thrown their way?” Crowley gets pulled into a tornado of a family. Between navigating his newfound role at the center of this chaotic bunch and finding himself falling into trouble after trouble, he realizes that falling in love with the wrong person might have been the best mistake of his life yet.

it had to be you by curtaincall (M)

“What I’m saying,” said Aziraphale, looking fixedly ahead, “and please don’t take this as a personal insult in any way, is that an angel and a demon can’t be friends.” “Why not?” “Because,” said Aziraphale, firmly. “It’s against the order of things. You’re supposed to tempt. I’m supposed to thwart. We can’t go being friends.” * A canon-divergent AU inspired by When Harry Met Sally.

Mission: Ineffable by Andromeda4004 (M)

The Ineffable Mission Force is a top secret international network which will stop at nothing to make sure everything goes according to the Plan. Aziraphale Fell is a highly trained and trusted agent, deployed on a routine mission in Prague, until a betrayal results in him being branded a traitor and disavowed. Now, he must prove his innocence and track down the real double-agent with the help of an intriguing arms dealer, and a team assembled from other rejected agents. But who the hell can he trust when he’s playing both sides?

For His Eyes Only by AFrenchFanWriter (M)

Anthony J. Crowley has been an MI6 spy for 10 years, completing successful mission after successful mission under the guidance of his quartermaster, Aziraphale Fell. But this life is starting to take its toll on him as he is getting older; and when, one day, his past comes back to haunt him, Crowley realizes that it might be time for him to hang up his gun and face all the things he has left unaddressed… (Yep, it is basically a James Bond/Q AU!)

The Parent Trap by illustrious_slimeman, nonbinarysharks (T)

Adam and Warlock are identical twins, separated as infants and each raised by one of their adoptive fathers. When a chance meeting at a summer camp brings them together again, they hatch a plan to get their helpless parents back together. In the process, they learn more about themselves, each other, and their parents' history than they ever imagined. --- This is based off of Melonsharks' Parent Trap AU and is a fairly faithful adaptation of the 1998 Lindsay Lohan version of the film but with a few changes here and there, a whole lot of new scenes, and accompanying illustrations courtesy of Shark! The fic is pretty much fully written at this point and will be updating every Saturday

And because you didn't tell use which one you read, I know of a couple of Overboard fics...

Going Overboard by Fyre (T)

When you do a job, you expect to get paid. What you don't expect is for things to go overboard. Ineffable Overboard AU

Overboard by Joanofart (E)

Based on the 1980's romcom Overboard, Crowley is a carpenter who has a not-so-great first encounter with the rich and snobby Aziraphale Archer. After Aziraphale falls off of his yacht and loses his memories, Crowley comes up with an epic plan for payback. He will trick Aziraphale into believing he is his husband and the father of four rambunctious children. Can Crowley stick to his plan and give Aziraphale the payback he deserves? Or, will he find out that Aziraphale is much more than he first appeared to be?

- Mod D

[dark-lord-of-awesomeness]

You know that one bit in the show where Stan sees people as wallets? He gets turned into money

It's not particularly noticeable long as he covers up

(sorry for the bomb of asks)

Hmm. Hmmm.

I think in this case Stan's in danger from himself. He's made of money, what's stopping him from just... using himself? Peeling away pieces of himself until he's barely functioning.

Gets cursed for his greed, and he can't let anyone see him and rip him to pieces, but he also has to hide himself from himself so he doesn't get tempted to spend all the bills he's made of. Maybe he can replace his missing pieces with more money, except he's using loose pocket change so he's half crisp bills and half crusty change.

Then Fords card comes, and Stan rushes to go not just because it's Ford, but because he needs to get gone before someone realizes what he's made of and maybe the only way to break his curse is for someone to see his worth beyond what he can give them.

Except Ford just wanted Stan for what Stan could give him. Not money, he never cared about money, but his connections, his skill, his experience traveling and the ability to leave Gravity Falls. And sure Ford does care about Stan deep down there, but he's not thinking about that (never thinking about how much he loves his brother), he's focused on his need to get his book as far away as possible.

Stan manages to scoot past Ford paranoia door yank, his eyes look human, he's coming in from a storm and layered up, voice the same, nothing to be suspicious about here! Everything's the same right up until the brand. It hurts yeah, but he's not made of flesh, he's got bills back there (can't reach there, his arms are mostly change but he's kinda scared to see what's under the skin layer. Is it just bills, or is there money organs?) And the thing about money is that it burns.

Stan gets a brand and bursts into flames, and Ford and he panic roll smack him to put him out. Then Ford finally sees why Stan didn't want to take off the scarf or hat, was kinda cagey about how cold he was. There's no skin under there just layers of different amounts, hundreds and twenties and grunged up pennies and crusty dimes and a chunk if Stan's shoulder is scorched where it's not missing entirely. And it hurts, Stan's in pain and just huddled in a miserable heap, while Ford takes in his messed up cursed body.

Thinking this goes with Ford trying to patch Stan up with loose change and whatever bills he has around the house, while Stan plays the whole thing off and says nothing about how to break his curse. Ford already made it clear he wanted Stan to run an errand after all, no way is he going to cry about self worth issues or something. He'll just lay on the floor until Ford finally finds enough change to give him a funtional arm, then he's out of here, back to the road and shoving down his inner thoughts that tell him to just spend himself till he's gone.

Angst happens, Ford figures out the bounds of the curse, then gets hit with the angst/guilt of failing Stan by being another person who only wanted Stan for what Stan could give him (help), they fight, cry, reconciliation, the curse is broken. Huzzah!

Or maybe not. Maybe Fiddleford actually breaks the curse by seeing Stan as his own separate person and not wanting anything from Stan except for Stan to not be a sad pile of bills on the floor. Mega angst as Fiddleford is now Stan's best friend and Ford feels awful about it. Or Bill seeing Stan as worthless is enough to break it, as he doesn't want anything at all from Stan, inciting mega angst as Stan thinks this mean he actually is worthless :(

There is a lot of slapping Stan's hands whenever they try to peel bills off him and stuff them in his own wallet.

[syndrossi]

hi,

*sits down, pulls a cup of hot cocoa to the table and crosses legs*

i’d offer you one but this is virtual. so i’ll just wave.

so i havent been able to read the latest chapter and so tonight i finally get a chance to do so. i dont know if others will get this but like, i need to be in the right Zone, to read stories i like. i reread the previous chaps just to refresh the story, etc. and i keep laughing to myself bc suddenly i have another reason to pause my reading to come here and send you this ask.

and it is:

it’s so funny to me that there eventually may be a moment when the Targs and the Small Council all kinda realize the warlocks Volanteens are only interested in Daemon’s sons. like that has been the goal, solely. idk throw in reports on how the targ dragonspawn stopped ‘disappearing’ around the discovery of the twins. Which led to so many funny interactions in my opinion.

people wondering why it’s Daemon’s kids specifically, Daemon answers very obviously: it’s his kids, duh. Of course they want the best and brightest. No offense to Rhaenyra, but that would be his babies. Price of greatness, he shrugs. Whilst Otto is there in the corner, all angry that Alicent’s sons haven’t even been spared a glance to getting kidnapped, it’s alllll about Daemon’s kids. Even though, huh, he should feel happy that his grandsons are safe from this threat— why is Viserys still talking to Daemon?! What else could they be discussing??

meanwhile, Rhaenyra and Laenor just happy their sons are okay. right?

ok, now imma try to read.

Hope the hot cocoa was delicious! It's 100F here, so I'm somewhat less tempted lol. But I am having pizza tonight because it's D&D night.

I mean, there are only two children whose capture promises a reward equal to the GDP of Braavos (per child). That alone is pretty striking. All of the attempts have focused on the twins thus far, too. It can't be excused as them being "perfect candidates" because they have small hatchlings, either. The same is true of Rhaenyra's sons, all of whom are even younger. (Granted, if you were, say, Jace and kidnapped by Volantis who wanted to use you as a dragonrider, I don't know how much rah rah Volantis propaganda could overcome "but seriously I'm heir to the Iron Throne once my mother ascends and could just...go home rather than be the pet dragonrider of a city." But Luke and Joff are good alternatives.)

On the other hand, there haven't been a ton of opportunities with the other littles yet, so the threat can't be dismissed entirely, even though it's likely that Viserys suspects there may be some connection with the boys' PTWP qualities and the warlocks' interest. Which is good! If Otto is worried about his grandsons' safety, he's more likely to be a good-faith ally against Volantis. But it does seem like Viserys and Daemon are keeping something from him.

We don't actually know whether the kidnapping targets reflect what the warlocks want or what Volantis itself wants. Definitely the warlocks want to get their hands on the twins. Would Volantis settle for Joff + tiny Tyraxes if the opportunity presented itself? I don't think they'd be as happy given that the warlocks claimed their dragon eggs were special and the twins ended up with them.

[sillyystringg]

You sent me lovely thoughtful Junhun asks so it’s time to repay the favor

- You said in another ask that what got Gihun talking in one Junhun panel you drew was Junho asking him about cars/Dragon Motors. Do you think Gihun feels any kind of way about Junho being a cop? Do you think he’d be suspicious or relieved at how easily Junho quit that job to join the search for the game?

- Following that, do you think Junho would feel any kind of way about being/having been a cop after hearing about Gihun’s experience striking?

- what do YOU think Gihun’s breaking point would be with Junho’s pushiness?

OMG yesss I love getting to yap about junhun this is going to be a real treat for me. I'm already so excited to answer these 1. This is a great question! I've thought about this myself honestly, and I think the answer is: it's complicated.

On one hand, Gi-hun is extremely grateful for Jun-ho's aid in taking down the games, and genuinely enjoys his company. He wouldn't want to immediately push him away for being a cop/ex-cop (though, Woo-seok telling him not to trust Jun-ho was Very Tempting). HOWEVER. On the other hand, Jun-ho still retains a lot of behaviors that are just. Cop Behaviors. Even if he's no longer a cop. For example, in canon, Jun-ho doesn't hesitate at all to pull a gun on a bouncer so he'd let him through. Or, in the scenarios we've talked about, Jun-ho going through Gi-hun's personal records to find out more information about him/breaking into his old home/etc.. These small moments definitely rub Gi-hun the wrong way, I think.

It doesn't help that Jun-ho does genuinely have underlying motives he's not telling Gi-hun about (i.e., searching for In-ho). And Gi-hun does pick up on the fact that Jun-ho is hiding Something. Gi-hun already struggles with paranoia over being watched and/or sabotaged, and his experiences up until this point regarding cops and the games has been extremely unhelpful and upsetting. So I think that one of the things he is suspicious about is Why this cop would quit his job at the drop of a hat and join him. Especially if he JUST tried to arrest him for suspicion of murder.

2. Funny answer? Awkward as hell.

Not so funny answer? WELL. Again, it's complicated.

Jun-ho's relationship with being a cop is kind of interesting to me, because it's implied that he became one to follow in In-ho's footsteps, so it's kind of entrenched in that idolization of his brother. It's clear that it's a job he took/takes pride in.

However, he also seems to be aware of how useless the police system can be (proven in s3, where he just outright decides to not even bother rejoining the force after everything). And he also puts Gi-hun on a pedestal, and deeply values his experiences and what he has to say. So, like, I don't think he would interject with any kind of "well not all cops" nonsense.

There is definitely a Moment in that conversation where Gi-hun is talking about the police and gives Jun-ho a very subtle side-eye and Jun-ho just awkwardly clears his throat and looks away LOL

Of course, Jun-ho soaks up any information he possibly can about Gi-hun's life before the games. And I think that he'd feel a sense of pride at creating a space for Gi-hun to talk freely about the strike. Especially given his career. He is a...Funny Little Creature.

(Also, side note: Jun-ho is 100% looking up and reading any news articles/police reports about the strike that he can get a hold of. For Very Normal Reasons.)

3. GREAT QUESTION. I definitely agree with what you said while answering my ask, but I also think that Jun-ho doing anything or even saying anything that messes with Gi-hun's plans for the games is a boundary Gi-hun will not let him cross. Gi-hun has worked for years to take down the games, and if he feels like those plans are even slightly threatened he becomes very very hostile.

If Jun-ho prods him about the frontman, or if returning to the games is really necessary, and he catches Gi-hun in a particularly bad mood, I can see Gi-hun snapping at him.

Also, I think if Jun-ho gets slightly too curious over the people Gi-hun promised to look after (Sang-woo's mother & Cheol), Gi-hun wouldn't react very well. It's very clear that he wanted to keep them as far from the games as possible, and even distances himself to make sure of that.

I'm thinking that maybe Jun-ho would think that Gi-hun would be happier if he reached out to them. And, of course, there is probably an appeal to Jun-ho over the idea of talking to someone (Sang-woo's mother) who's known Gi-hun all his life and would have plenty of stories about him. But Gi-hun immediately, and coldly, shuts down the idea. I'm not sure if Jun-ho would ACTUALLY attempt it, but in the hypothetical scenario that he would, Gi-hun would fully blow up at him I think. Those two people are the last remaining remnants of the people he loved and lost in the games. He can't risk putting them in any kind of danger whatsoever.

I think it circles back to Jun-ho desiring this almost domestic life with Gi-hun, where he is Gi-hun's Number One person and knows everything about him. Where he gets to be introduced to Gi-hun's loved ones, and gets to swap stories with them. Those abandonment issues sure are abandonment issues huh Jun-ho??

ANYWAY. THIS GOT VERY LONG LMAO. BUT THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR THE ASK I HAD SM FUN ANSWERING IT!!!!

[mossydecaying]

never did show the ocelot figure i got huh. well here she is. i take lottie everywhere i go she's my emotional support old hag.

^ she's helped me through more all-nighters and college essays than i can count. get yourself a war criminal to put in your pocket.

[kindahoping4forever]

Do you think this fandom is dying?

Note: I originally got this ask a while back and didn't get a chance to answer before the Malum stuff started happening and it seemed like this idea might be less of a concern. But recently I've seen similarly themed conversations and thought my answer might still be relevant.

I can definitely understand how one might be tempted to see things that way but I think there's a few important distinctions to consider before any grand statements are made.

When the band is off tour and between albums, fandom activity usually slows and then with the new era, we see a resurgence of fans excited and ready to engage, along with new fans and typically a few from the past checking in. (Solo eras tend to bring in a similar type of resurgent activity but nowhere near the level of when the proper band is releasing a project and the broad interest tends to taper after the initial single release, as we're seeing the dropoff with Malum right now.)

We're also currently in the midst of what may end up being the band's longest period of public inactivity to date. Fans often talk about the "drought" during 2017 while Youngblood was being recorded but in actuality, we were still getting daily content from their socials and they even went on a 13 date tour that year. Even during covid, it felt like forever but between the CALM release and promo, 5SOS5 recording updates via socials and the content we likely wouldn't have gotten outside of the pandemic (ie: the infamous Amazon stream, the Quarantea, a few IG lives and the tier list), we were still getting fed. Contrast that all with where we are now: 5SOS5 is nearly 3 years old, they haven't played a show since October 2023 and we know the next album is actively underway but we really have no idea where they are in the process because they for the most part (understandably) are not sharing much on socials anymore. There's not a ton of fandom discussion going on because there's not a ton to discuss tbqh.

Is the online fandom smaller than it used to be? Absolutely. Do I think this means people are actually changing their ways and renouncing their fandom in droves? No. I've been a fan for 11 years and an active online contributor for 7 and I can honestly say that the 5SOS online fandom is one of the most brutal, emotionally taxing and at times toxic fandoms I have ever engaged with. I'll always be grateful for it, it's changed my life in countless ways and I wouldn't be who I am today without it but I have absolutely paid a price being involved with it as deeply and as long as I have. Tumblr is hands down the chillest branch of the fandom (with that said, I have still had some downright ugly experiences over the years) but it's also the smallest and quietest. We're an island of sorts, vibing somewhere else, and while I've always been a big advocate of curating your own experience online, it's not always practical to completely tune out the happenings on other platforms that see more engagement but also a lot more toxicity. I personally know a handful of people (and have anecdotally seen numerous others) reach a breaking point and decide to protect their peace and cut online engagement out of their fandom diet, save for official channels and their own safe circle. In all transparency, even I have seriously considered that choice more than once and as recently as last year. The band isn't losing fans, a lot of fans feel they've lost a community where they feel comfortable spending their time without judgement or drama (whether the target be the band or the fans themselves) constantly threatening to infiltrate what should be a safe space.

This somewhat goes hand in hand with the previous point but I'd be remiss not to mention another key component of this equation: life is hard and people are tired. It's a sweeping generalization but I think most would agree it's one that's hard to argue with. The past few years have been rough and running this blog, I've seen it take its toll on the way people engage. Posts that would've once been reblogged with fervent tags become silent likes, friendly asks and comments that would've once been sent remain unwritten, fic ideas that would've once been written settle for being unexplored concepts in a friend's DMs. Having an online presence can be taxing especially if you're engaging socially, especially if you're a creative contributor in the community and it takes the kind of energy that a lot of people are in short supply of these days. If this new normal continues to behave the way it has for the past couple years, I'd expect to see a few peaks in engagement when big moments happen (album announcement/release, first music video/performance back, tour beginning/ending, etc) but for the most part, daily interaction is left to a core group.

So all this to say... the answer to your question is somehow both yes and no! In general, I don't find it unusual or concerning for a fandom's activity to fluctuate, especially a fandom as long-running as ours.

If I've learned anything over the years, it's that this fandom is predictable. The fandom at large has a bad habit of getting bored easily and that boredom often leads people to jump ship until things are exciting again. Others may choose to make their own excitement, which almost always results in drama (whether it be about fellow fans or the band itself), which in turn leads to people stepping away and the cycle continues on. It can definitely be frustrating to experience but time after time, once the band returns, so does the enthusiasm, the drifters and the positive vibes. So I'd say, don't count us out yet!

[hadesknockedupintheunderworld]

Hey, I don't normally make my own posts about this, but.

Do not argue with an anti on their own terms.

Don't get me wrong, I get it. You see the hypocrisy. You see the way they take aim at your favorite ships or characters or tropes while enjoying something similar. And you think "if I can point out to them just how hypocritical and idiotic they look right now, everyone will see our argument, they'll see that the anti is wrong and a hypocrite, and then maybe more people will stop harassing the people who like my thing. Maybe the anti will see the light and stop being a hypocrite."

But it will not work. It will not work.

There is an extremely high chance one of two things will occur:

They will double down on their argument, and ignore what you've said. (Ex. They might say "This relationship has an age gap. That's p3dophi1ia. That's dangerous." And you might say "well you ship something with the same age gap. Is it not p3dophi1ia and dangerous when you do it?" And they will just double down and say "This ship is dangerous. The shippers are grasping at straws to make their p3d0 ship normal.")

They will agree with you, but in the worst way possible. (Ex. Someone says "Ew your ship are basically siblings because they're childhood friends and grew up together. 1nc3st apologist." And you might respond "And yet we allow our most popular ship in this fandom to be popular? They grew up together as childhood friends and were inseparable. Why is that not inc3st?" because you think they'll gain a sense of perspective here. But then that person responds "People who ship that popular ship are freaks too then." Maybe they believed that before the convo or maybe they didn't, but the point now is that (while not your intention or fault by any means) some people have gone on to harass shippers of a ship that aren't doing anything wrong. What you think will bring clarity ends up raising tensions between shippers instead)

Do not meet them where they're at on their preconceived notions. You will not make them believe that they are wrong or hypocrites. Do not concede to their heavy assertions of abuse, p3dophi1ia, 1nc3st, etc levied against the thing you like for the sake of arguing that they are a hypocrite, or with intent to make them feel dumb for inadvertently labeling 80% of a fandom with said labels. They will not "see the light". The best thing you can do, if you have to say anything, is double down with "I'm not hurting anyone and it's fiction. I can do whatever I want" or "I don't give a shit what harmless things people like as long as it's tagged and I can filter out what I dislike" (especially if this is your stance). Then block and move on.

Antis, like trolls, thrive on engagement. They want you to argue so they can continue to point at you or lie about you or make you look bad.

It is in your best interest to pick your battles, and to try to sus out the difference between a friendly argument or standing up for yourself versus feeding the trolls. You won't make the right choice every time, all of us are human after all, but I promise you that ignoring and blocking bad faith actors, deleting their hate anons, etc, is not the coward's way out. Sometimes you don't need to fight. Sometimes keeping yourself from platforming bad faith actors and giving them nothing to go on will do the job (because there are more antis that are just small blogs with little power to do anything than you think, the kinds of people whose inflammatory posts will die if no one touches them).

Thank you for coming to my TED Talk.

[shessofineliterallyhitmewithacar]

im gonna make it through this last week if it kills me

[whysamwhy123]

Hmmm. What if I attempted to write a piece of Trash and posted it anonymously?

[phoenixkaptain]

One could argue that my obsession with specifically the bloodier sections of Hannibal, the scenes that show humans in excruciating pain, as well as my obsession with Red Dragon’s depiction of Will’s imagination, painful and attractive in the most disgusting way, both paved the way for my becoming obsessed with such properties as Claustrophilia (a novel that honestly reads like Hannibal got his hands on season 1 Will, I’m dead serious, they even mention Silence of the Lambs, like, author knows) and Saw (a property thay pretty much deals exclusively in human suffering)

It could also explain my fascination with the idea inherent within all these properties, that being the idea that a human who is put through immense suffering might then decide to put other humans through the same or worse. Hannibal put a lot of emphasis on Hannibal himself specifically wanting Will to kill with him, to reveal his inner self, so to speak. Red Dragon Will fears killing people immensely for fear that he would be seduced by the bloodlust curdling inside of him. Claustrophilia, I don’t want to spoil if anyone wants to read it, but it shares that same idea. The only character in Saw who survives a Jigsaw trap without either joining a depressing group therapy session or becoming one of Jigsaw’s many (many) protegés is the lady who cut off her arm in, like, movie 6.

It could also explain why I like the idea of obsessive characters. Characters who are obsessed to the point of murder, characters with the internal motivation that if they cannot have something, no one can. The so-called “yandere” character who would rather kill their love than not have them locked in a box in the basement.

(Does Saw fit this frame? I don’t know, man, that one guy’s “trap” was just talking. All he had to do was sit calmly and have a semi-nice chat with another dude. Who sets that trap up without at least a little hint of obsession? And the glass coffin scene, man, I do not even have to go there, we all know. And carrying around the only remaining body part? Even for planting evidence, like, dude. Dude.)

(Does Red Dragon fit this? Yes. Hannibal literally stabbed Will so Will would be permanently physically changed by him. He gives the Dragon of the title Will’s address in hopes that something will happen that will once again change Will’s entire life so he can never forget about Hannibal. The first time Hannibal talks to Clarice in Silence of the Lambs, he asks about Will and, more specifically, Will’s looks. Red Dragon fits this, I cannot emphasize enough how many murderers want to break Will’s back in any way they can, like, it’s practically an epidemic (it’s two people))

What is it that fascinates me so? The blood? The fuel of all life? The changing a person so fundamentally that they can’t move without thinking of the one who changed them? The holding on too tight? The tragedy? The absolutely hilarious AUs that can be written? Yes.

[honorary-fool]

anyone else feeling the friday the 13th luck?

i accidentally sewed a sleeve on upside-down

upside fucking down

[xtodohdohdoyd]

I think the biggest thing that makes gwiles so weird to me is that peter IS RIGHT THERE i get it this is an alternate universe completely different Gwen from the original Gwen but it’s still so weird to me that they’re being romantic while peter is right there like i get it that’s a different Gwen but he loved his Gwen and failed to save her to me it just feels a like they’re just rubbing in, if Peter WASN’T RIGHT THERE I wouldn’t care i still wouldn’t ship it (because i don’t ship anything In spiderverse) but I wouldn’t be as weirded out by it as i am