#but also i have no idea how that would work practically (its all in my head anyway so it doesnt actually matter but yk)

[manyu-ten]

Okay, so!! I agree with both OP and the addition here to a good degree but I do gotta point out that the original post isn't insinuating that Cass alone must be the one to have this character change, only that there are some fans who refuse to actually see past either character's fanbases in order to be objective about a narrative in which both characters would be coexisting. (I think? It didn't read as Cass must be the one to change alone to me, lol.)

I also have to point out (and once again, I am really not a stan of any character guys, please don't project your character stanning culture onto me) that Jason definitely self-isolated himself from the wider community, but the two characters that he would have any real connection with (Bruce and Dick) were portrayed (even if unintentionally so) to care more for Jason's reformation in a rather apathetic, impersonal way. It sounds contradictory, because the whole situation is actually insanely personal, but the way writers handled these situations (namely the egregiously written Battle for the Cowl and the slightly more funny Brothers in Blood) was a bit contradictory to Jason's characterization in Lost Days and Under the Red Hood. This is also why the fan nicknamed event "Jason's Attack on Titans Tower" also holds little weight for certain fans, because of its mischaracterization of Jason's time as Robin (which in itself, is a bit unique to his successors in the title, because he was created and then retconned during pre-Crisis and post-Crisis).

Its not just a matter of Cass fans and Jason fans mischaracterizing the other character and the character they stan (because yes, both fan groups do mischaracterize their character. Its just especially prevalent and obvious in stans of the "Batboy" characters, because they tend to have more mis-mash content overall), its a matter of the implicit assumptions, biases and habits of the writers and editors not knowing how to handle certain characters. (This is coming from someone who has edited for books and comics professionally. I'm being so serious when I say sometimes my colleagues are just given the "concept of an idea" for the narrative direction of a character. Just whatever sticks and lands and makes their brains itch. Its horrible. Its why fans and fanwork are so important!!)

Jason's ideas of killing are flawed—but its not so simple as "killing is bad". Objectively, yes. Killing is bad. We all know that. He's hypocritical because he kills in order to prove the point of a broken system instead of "changing the system" as I have seen people point out in hot debates with Bruce's character (why doesn't he use his money to combat certain things? Oh, because of all the corruption in society. Why is him handling the corruption as Batman not enough to assist with his work as Bruce Wayne? Oh, because he refuses to bend to the morality of other people.) It's obviously not that simple though, because these narratives conform to actual ideas present in the real world—often in ways highly contradictory to the actual characters, in order to assimilate into the scope of a sociopolitical climate. Bruce is a whole ass Billionaire, but we in the real world know that actual Billionaires don't have that much money without some extremely shitty, shitty practices that contradicts what Bruce (and thus, Batman) stands for.

Jason's character is resurrected as Red Hood around 2005, in that weird time period where Cass's character was being prepared for the butchering block and then existing in a semi-limbo for some years. We are all pretty agreed that the second, shorter run of her time as Batgirl was mostly badly characterized (and we are able to say that because its so obvious). Its harder to say that with Brothers in Blood, but I don't think it should be too difficult to understand why Battle for the Cowl and Jason's weird ass appearances in Batman and Robin were bad.

OP is, however, failing to recognize that Cass as a character, had a pretty solid narrative going for her from her introduction and then into her Batgirl run—which conflicts with this idea that Cass doesn't experience a certain type of character growth. She does! Jason as a character went from pre-Crisis to post-Crisis to dead for the entirety of the 90s up until 2005. There's less reasons to debate Cass's complexities because its pretty well written into her narrative!! Same can't be said for Jason's character, so I see why his stans are on some topsy turvy limbo line, where many of them contradict the few good appearances he actually had as Red Hood that didn't completely rewrite what he was actually like as Robin.

Jason becoming Red Hood is what changed about his character. He didn't start as some crooked child who was always doomed to be a killer or a violent criminal the way DC wishes to paint his youth as in their modern comics. Nothing exists in a vacuum, and it should be noted that his character died in a pretty interesting way (Starlin, O'Neil, the phone calls and then the aftermath of it all which resulted in Tim's creation) and was resurrected as a means to foil the narrative of Batman not just as a Hero vs Villain story but as a tragedy between Father and Son (which is what I think OP meant by comparing Cassie and Jason's experiences???? Idk, y'all tell me.)

Sometimes I feel frustrated seeing fans boil down Cassandra to JUST her "no one dies" mentality. Yes, Cass embodies it in a way that's even more obsessive than Bruce, but I feel like what most people leave out of posts (especially ones where they talk about how much she would hate Jason) is her compassion. Cass sees herself as every murderer she comes across. Almost her entire life, she spends trying to atone for one murder she committed as an 8 year old and to do that she stops murders from happening, but she also has a deep rooted belief that the people who commit these crimes are capable of changing who they are. Or, in the very least, understand why what they do/done is 'wrong'.

I read posts about how she would hate Jason and while I agree in some ways, I feel like there's something missing. What's missing is that why wouldn't Cass understand how Jason came to be the way he is? Someone who felt abandoned by their father's choice in allowing a murderer to run free—one who certainly isn't changing anytime soon. What's stopping Cass from knowing Jason's feelings in a way most other characters can't see because they haven't experienced it in a way that both Cass and Jason have?

Obviously this doesn't mean she is giving up on her moral code, I don't get why fandom thinks character foils can't interact together without losing some integral part of themself—the beauty of fiction is being able to create scenarios where that is possible. If you truly believe its impossible, I honestly think you might just have a really closed mindset or negate character growth as bad characterization.

Maybe its because no depiction of Cass is beaten by Batgirl 2000 and maybe because Jason's characterization is a spinning pendulum of nonsense half the time, but reducing either character to just their morality on killing alone is tasteless. People (and fictional characters by extension) are so much more complex than that.

[fluffydeoxys]

My Sanford and Deimos designs, with an analysis of Sanford, Deimos, their dynamic and what they represent to me, and the thoughts behind how I designed them!! It's quite long, but even then I feel as though I'm only scratching the surface of what I think. I skimmed over Dedmos and MC12 for brevity's sake as I genuinely think it would have doubled the already very long preamble. I hope you enjoy it!

A heads up: A lot of my analysis is predicated on personal headcanons of Sanford/Deimos and Madness Combat as a whole. While I like to make my personal interpretations adhere as close to canon as reasonably possible, there are nonetheless elements I will speak about that don’t really “exist” in the series itself. I try to integrate everything that we do see in canon, however, so I hope there is still something worthwhile for you to read in here! 

So. There aren’t really friends in Nevada, are there? A broken, splintered world marred by madness and violence that bloodies the very earth. Disparate grunts are forced to calcify and adapt to the harsh landscape, and thus forging social bonds has likely become a risky practice. Who’s to say your ‘allies’ won’t turn on you? With the prospect of death always so close, why be attached to someone you could lose so easily? Living communally or working together is feasible and even wise, but beyond that? I doubt anyone gives a second thought to the personal lives of one another. There’s just not enough “brain space” and “normalness” to reconnect with these mundane ideas. 

Furthermore, the existence of S3LF and clones also complicates things further when it comes to individuality and existence. It’s remarkably easy to store and then copy an individual's memories and experiences - the things that arguably define and distinguish a grunt -  into any other body. Are you who you say you are? Or were you never someone at all, merely an idea propagated from a file? Are there social or cultural divides between grunts and clones? Could a clone ever hope to experience the fullness of life with such a minuscule, fragile S3LF that they don’t truly ‘own’? 

It’s quite evident that many facets of Nevada are almost designed to erode humanity, to prevent it from being fostered and nurtured. From anywhere between its harshness to its brutality, to the unintentional cruel designs of the S3LF. It’s a cruel, merciless world that is inhospitable to kindness, friendliness and camaraderie. 

That is merely the beginning of why I find Sanford and Deimos so fascinating as characters. Even from MC5.5 alone, they are so incredibly interesting in a setting like this, demonstrating a bond that is practically never shown anywhere else.

In their debut alone, there are multiple instances of them showing mindfulness and awareness of one another. At 0:34, you have Deimos looking back at Sanford for a moment, and again at 1:09, you have the two looking at one another after clearing the room. Then at 1:16 Sanford bandages Deimos’ head while he slices through Agents, and at 1:30 Sanford boosts Deimos up to get the jump on yet more Agents. And throughout the entire episode, Deimos and Sanford almost always fight with their backs to each other, covering their vulnerable spots. 

MC5.5 strongly demonstrates how well they work together and how they look out for one another when so far, the series has only shown Hank’s effectiveness on their own. While Hank and Sanford/Deimos are worlds apart in strength and aren’t really meant to be directly compared, it does establish that Sanford and Deimos, together, are a force to be reckoned with. 

Then, of course, Madness Combat 6.5 only further builds on these ideas, finally giving Sanford and Deimos their signature appearances. When Sanford is shot in the torso by an Engineer, he is rendered very vulnerable and slow, and this would be the right time to drop any dead weight. A train just rocketed through, and more enemies are undoubtedly around the corner, but Deimos helps Sanford up. He has to watch over Sanford and protect him as he slowly hobbles through rooms and eventually recollects himself enough to keep fighting and patch himself back up. If anything, also a testament to their hardiness and adaptability. 

Then the scene in The Rift. It’s silly and the intent of it is to be silly, especially in the context of Madness Combat and how murder-hungry everyone is, but it so wonderfully demonstrates the bantering and lighthearted demeanour between the two. Deimos seems to care about Sanford’s opinion, tossing aside things he disagrees with and happily accepting what he encourages. And Deimos is who gives Sanford his signature glasses, completing the exchange in an honestly quite charming manner. 

None of this behaviour is really shown in such a positive light anywhere else in Madness Combat. Maybe Church and Jorge at best, but even then. Sanford and Deimos banter with one another, hang out with each other, say silly things and generally show a level of care and interest in one another that extends beyond just fighting. When Sanford asks Deimos if he can hack them through in MPN, Deimos replies with “Can I hack us through… C'mon, man. How long have you known me?”, a simple yet sweet line that indicates their long-standing familiarity. Then there’s the classic big kielbasa and turkey dog conversation, a very silly exchange and one that Sanford seems rather bewildered by, given by his replies. But note, Sanford never demeans or berates Deimos for his “antics” (aside from Deimos wearing an Engineer mask in MC9, but hey, there was a genuine risk of Sanford potentially shooting him there). Furthermore, it’s probably only meant as a surface-level joke, but thinking of Sanford as a big kielbasa “often” sort of shines a light on how they genuinely think of one another in silly, small ways. When you realise that’s in the context of Nevada, you realise how incredibly remarkable that is.  

Further than that, you have an exchange where Deimos asks why the Nexus Core members won’t give up, and is unable to reply when Sanford says, “Would you?” It’s not either of them dismissing questions or blindly following orders. They trust each other's opinions, look to each other when reflecting on matters, and they don’t always have the answers for each other. 

And lastly, at the end of MPN, where it’s just the two of them talking about a problem on a scale far larger than them. Just two guys talking about what they think, and what they could do. No world-breaking power or insanity or inhumanity. Just Sanford and Deimos. 

So you have a long string of showing the bonds between Sanford and Deimos spanning across several years and a game. Then Madness Combat 9 rolls around and, well, the moment they’re forced to split because the Auditor-enhanced Engineers show up… everything is changed forever. 

Deimos is gone and forced to reckon with his death through Dedmos Adventures, and while he reemerges with the help of Doc, he is no longer the same. Conversely, Sanford has to tag along with Mag Hank as they struggle in Auditor’s Hell, and Sanford ends up on his own in 12. He is pushed to the very limits of what he can endure, visibly frustrated and barely containing increasing intensities of rage. There are no more quiet moments, no more slowing down, no longer someone at your side hyping you up, making you laugh, knowing your hobbies, your history. 

Sanford and Deimos were separated, split into life and death. If you consider the real world time, literal years spent apart in the worst places they’ve had to endure yet. But they came back together. Different, changed, but together once more. That final moment in Madness Combat 12, the simple act of Deimos grabbing onto Sanford’s hand before he slips, forms into such a powerful scene that shows that they would defy ANYTHING to find each other again. That their unbreakable bond will help pull each other back from the depths, even paralleling 6.5 with how Deimos helps and protects Sanford after a near-fatal injury. It’s a perfect and very moving representation of their relationship. Their bond is so incredibly remarkable and one-in-a-million and so human. All the mundane things we share with other people in our world are hardly ever seen in Nevada, and for good reason, yet Deimos and Sanford share that with each other. 

The fact that Deimos and Sanford exist in a world like Nevada is so truly special. It inspires hope for what can be possible despite harshness and brutality, that there is something worth living for, that you can find strength and meaning in the grand and the mundane. 

So! Onto what I currently have mangled together for my headcanoned backstory as to how Sanford and Deimos met, because it helps set the stage and give context to the meaning of some things I’ll talk about later. At some stage, Doc recruits Sanford into his cause in the early years, maybe a year or two after Doc dissents from the AAHW. He’s a very effective and useful member, as Doc often used Sanford to pry information out of grunts using whatever method was possible. Doc pushed for him to use more extreme methods at times, as Doc was still in the early stages of beginning to understand the machinations of this world. He needed any piece of information that he could get, especially if it meant getting one step closer to understanding Hank’s disappearance. Doc saw it as a necessary period in their journey, but Sanford holds a repressed but deep resentment for Doc, because it warped and traumatised him immensely.

It resulted in him becoming extremely tense, paranoid and harshly pushing grunts away. Subsequently, Sanford didn’t get along with anyone else that Doc paired him up with. Putting the trauma aside, Sanford was already a serious and withdrawn individual who disliked banter. Not the most approachable or likeable grunt. Others would quickly lose their patience with him and were more prone to desertion or disobedience. While Doc could ignore it for a while, it gradually worsened as more and more jobs required a second hand, especially when Doc needed information retrieved from computer terminals - a skill Sanford distinctly did not have. 

So, recalling someone he briefly knew in the AAHW, Doc got Sanford to round up some dissented AAHW members to assimilate into their ranks. One of these members was Deimos, whom Doc recognised and personally hand-picked to work alongside him to better foster and integrate his hacking skills. Deimos was exceptionally useful for Doc despite having a pretty rocky history in the AAHW, and if anything, Doc was pretty surprised he was still alive. Regardless, Doc paired him up with Sanford after a while, and Sanford did not enjoy it. He found Deimos rather annoying and just another dumbass in a long string of grunts Doc has picked up. Yet Deimos seemed different somehow. His unflinching and incorrigible charm slowly worked its way into Sanford’s mind, especially when he realised he actually enjoyed the guy's company. Deimos showed an interest in the hobbies that Sanford was usually mocked or looked down on for, and while he was a little careless, it felt nice to watch out for someone rather than watch another self-important idiot rush ahead. 

Deimos further garnered Sanford’s interest when he learned a bit more about his insecurities and doubts, learning that clones exist. Sanford has questioned his existence in certain ways, regarding his own blood-stained hands with conflicted contempt and satisfaction, but this? Deimos telling Sanford that he isn’t sure that he’s alive, that he’s actually a ‘person’? That he’s lost, scared, clueless, alone? Sanford’s never cared for much before, living in this half-dissociated, emotionally distant state, but something stirs when he tries and kind of fails to comfort Deimos in that moment. He… cares. For something. For someone. A cold fortress that Sanford has built for so long, slowly opening itself to the idea of wanting someone. The pain and trauma remain, and it will never go away, but there is a new reason to get up in the morning. To look forward to something. 

From that day on, an understanding began to form between the two, bringing them closer and closer together. To the point that Deimos starts glimpsing the cracks in Sanford’s facade, worming his way in closer and closer, chasing the rare smile and laugh that Deimos can elicit from him. Sanford is the first time he’s ever felt stability, kindness, patience, acknowledgement. But he realises it's not just that, it's not just chasing something to fulfill something he’s always wanted but never got, it’s because he likes Sanford. Roaming the wastelands of Nevada alongside Sanford has given him joy like he’s never known. Knowing that Sanford has got his back, and that Deimos can help, and truly mean something… It’s like something clicked one day. 

Summarising/simplifying it, Sanford is like stability. Serious, steadfast, put-together and a leader. The trauma of doing what had to be done and hating yourself for it. For the kindness you could have had. The peace you lost or perhaps never knew. Forced to adapt and harden yourself, but the stress never truly went away. The fear and worry you have for your loved ones. The paranoia of losing them, witnessing the mortality of those dearest to you. But finding love and joy again in the people around you, letting someone touch the part of you that you swore you’d never let be hurt again. And you feel kindness and love and joy in the silly things again, thanks to Deimos. 

With Deimos, it’s smiling despite how the world has hurt you, set you up to fail. The vices you adapt to cope, but there remains a desire to do better, to be better. The yearning to be something more, to be someone else, but you can only ever be the best version of yourself. Wanting to be loved and yet not loving yourself, neglecting your body and mind. But having someone so patient and steadfast in their love for you just makes you feel so thankful. I’m sorry I relapsed again. Do you still love me? And Sanford does. He always will. The passion and joy you hold close to your heart, that you will never let anyone take away from you, living carefree and silly. 

Okay! Now to the actual. Design talk, jesus christ. Let’s begin with the general shape language of the two and how they’re specifically designed to contrast and complement one another. 

Deimos is comprised of rounder shapes, is on the smaller/shorter side compared to Sanford, and is a little scruffier and messier in appearance. He’s lean but not skinny, well-defined in the legs and in generally decent shape considering his lifestyle (a lot of snacks). This is paired against Sanford’s much broader and larger stature, sporting well-muscled arms and the repetition of more rounded square shapes. He’s tidy, well-groomed and maintains his body and scars very well. While I didn’t push their poses too hard here, they also further establish and contrast their personalities. Deimos has a more open and overconfident pose while Sanford stands a little more rigid and alert, and is the only character to be looking to the right rather than the left. 

Sanford has heavy-set, thick eyebrows that help convey a stern seriousness to him, but when his expression looks gentle and warm, they accentuate a certain charming quality that I think he has. While his face can look grave and even frightening, Sanford can also look quite gentle and sweet, and I think the eyebrows really help with that.

Sanford has a lot more scars because he’s been employed and working for Doc a fair bit longer than Deimos, and he ends up fighting hand-to-hand more often than him. Deimos is longer range, handles hacking/communications and is usually doing more runner-esque jobs. He sometimes trips and scuffles, especially because his bag is so heavy, hence why he’s got all those little bandages on him. I like to think Sanford is the one who patches him up. 

I ended up not integrating every scar into their designs because a lot of them are incurred around MC9, which is sort of like the “cutting off point” for when shit goes south. Deimos becomes Rockmos, and Sanford becomes owww my eyes! So it doesn’t make a ton of sense to have them, so I only kept the ones from before MC9. Besides the stab wound on Sanford’s torso, I just liked how that one looked.

When it came to designing their clothes (or well, designing my take on them; this time I’ve not really added anything that didn’t already exist for either of them) my main philosophy was that Sanford was more practical and uniform-esque in his attire, whereas Deimos is more sloppy but radiates a lot more individuality. 

Everything that Sanford wears has a specific purpose, from the belts on his pants acting as anchor points for his hook to the bandolier on his chest and his thick, heavy combat boots. The only real “personal” details are his bandanna (which I use to accentuate his expressions), his teashades (which were more or less given to him “by” Deimos), and his hook (which is a weapon, but nonetheless one he seems attached to/is a recurring tool for him). As well as the tattoo on his back, but I’ll touch on that later. When it all comes together, it illustrates Sanford as someone who is prepared and capable, but very serious and with few personal touches. 

Conversely, Deimos is covered with various bits and pieces that are personal to him, whether modified by himself or simply worn in a particular style to reflect what he likes. Smaller examples of this are his uneven socks and his untucked shirt that has a few stains and rips.

His shoes were directly based on the live-action design, as I think this is a fantastic portrayal of Deimos’ personality. From the little artistic doodles to the likely bored number markings, to the silly labels distinguishing the right shoe from the left shoe. The cigarette at the heel with the clusters of grunts and Jeb feels oddly endearing, like Deimos was inspired by a moment in MPN and wanted to draw it. The fire drawn along the base of the shoe is adorable, and the EAT IT at the front with BYE BYE at the back is so wonderfully vindictive and mischievous it’s amazing. 

And the star of the show, at least to me, is Deimos’ radio backpack. One thing I think I could have done better is add more charms onto it, but I’m sure I can add a ton more down the line when I get some ideas, cus annoyingly I don’t have too many. I always imagine the bag as going clink clink clink whenever he walks, and I dunno, it's cute and I think Deimos would cram as much as possible onto his bag to reflect both his interests and so he doesn’t get bored. 

Regardless, the backpack is like his lifeline of usefulness to SQ, but leaving it the way it was when Doc gave it to him was so lame. Deimos wanted to give it his personal flair, attach pieces of his life to it, make it truly “his.” Many of the little buttons and stitches were done by him and reflect members of the SQ, like the smiley on Hank’s shirt and the fishing lure for Sanford. Where’s Doc, then? Well, I would like to think I can design something specific for him on Deimos’ bag, but he actually helped with the big patch on the backside of the backpack. If you look closely, it has the same stitch markings as the ones on Doc’s jacket. Deimos really struggled with getting it on, and Doc came over like, you made this? And Deimos replies with a stilted, uneasy “yeah.” When Doc hands the bag back to him, he goes, “It’s pretty funny. Not bad.” and I like to think rare praise from Doc makes him feel warm.  

Krinkels has said Sanford’s tattoo doesn’t have a specific meaning, and I would like to give it one, but I haven’t gotten any ideas yet. Despite that, Deimos’ tattoo actually does, although it's not super complex or deep. I personally enjoy the headcanon that clones are coded with a tattoo-like marking that usually appears on the neck, but sometimes can appear on arms or legs. But Deimos didn’t want Sanford to remove or draw over it entirely; instead, he retained it as a reminder of who he was and how he wouldn’t hide from that reality, but he would move forward from it. To that point, the arrow underneath. To fly forward, guided by the sturdy bowstring, carefree and unbound by the wind. And the red bolt? Well, that’s a personal detail I’m a little shy about explaining, but I at least think it adds a nice little accent of colour. 

Smaller notes: 

Deimos’ thumb gradient is darker because he specifically lights his thumb more than any other digit. I think he could light other digits, but it takes more effort and focus. He generally thinks doing a thumbs up is funnier, and it’s easier to light a cig that way.

The multiple bullet scars on Deimos’ stomach are meant to parallel his injuries in MC9, but they’re not the same for the reasons I mentioned earlier. This similarly applies to a scar that Sanford has on his right hand, referencing when he was shot in MC9.

I removed the front belt from Deimos’ backpack because I liked his shirt and coat being unobstructed, and it let me properly show the drawstrings. I also liked the idea that he can remove the heavy bag in dire situations. While Doc probably thinks the tech inside Deimos’ backpack is more valuable, perhaps it has a self-destruct function that Deimos can remotely activate. Retrieving someone from the Other Place is also probably more resource-demanding and time-consuming anyway. I might change it, but for now, I like this version. 

I quite like mist-lightning-snap’s paw and claw headcanons for grunts, so I applied the same principle to Deimos. As to Sanford? Who knows… maybe those black nails can pop out into claws?

[yermes]

Stepping into abundance 🪿

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Pick a meme

123

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Disclaimer: please take what I say with a grain of salt and not as the gospel. I just want to share some ideas of practicing and giving advice using the medium as often as I can with school, work, and my own personal studies and practice. But I am working on sharing my notes soon so that will be exciting! Liking and sharing does a lot 🥰

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Socials: My Socials **☾**

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The cards

X of pents rev 🐦‍⬛

Theres some family or friend bullshit going on that is preventing your saving or money moves, people stepping over your financial boundaries is a real thing, and if you HAVE to spend money to have a good time with someone, are you even actually good friends? Or are they just another weekly expense to budget for? You are basically over your head financially and emotionally, LOTS of things are tied to money, and it sucks when emotions get wrapped into it, but you have to set boundaries, start being apathetic about it, sit down and fight excel to make your monthly budget and actually make room for yourself. Also remember, other people being broke does not make you there baby sitter bc I know it feels nice, but their irresponsibly is not your fucking problem.

IV of wands rev 🍊

Girl you either need to step into your new environment and command it, forge your new space, in an area where you feel unwelcome make yourself feel welcome and carve a space for yourself in a place where you deserve. Or leave and go somewhere better that will support you, and your hopes and dreams. It is hard getting up and starting somewhere else like its scary! Its uneasy, but if you believe this is what is right you need to trust your intuition and make yourself a home in unknown lands. You also may have a huge lack of support from friends and family, what they think or say doesn’t matter you truly have to follow your intuition. Find roots elsewhere and take on this scary new opportunity.

III of wands 🌾

You want to be rich but its always fucking something, car broke down, phone broke, fridge broke, shoes have a hole in them, and girl I get it I also live life hard and fast and when you do, shit always gets broken. It may feel like you have a lack of progress but with each obstacle you overcome and with each delay you pass, it is just another feather in your cap, you are learning how to deal with shitty situations and this skill set will prove to be extremely valuable. This suffering will not be without the gain of wisdom and knowledge. Start planning out a bit better! Give things more time, space, and buffer more than you think you would need, always be prepared. I know its frustrating and your credit card is crying right now but it will get better.

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Extras:

Story/vent: 🫀

I know all yall broke, I too am broke

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[numberonetribble]

Another practice dump! This time digital! + Piston!

[biblically-accurate-dca]

super disorganized sketch page because i do what i want

[sidesteppostinghours]

pulps law is that whenever i get insane enough about something, i will inevitably attempt to make a persona 5 au, regardless of whether or not i am successful at it.

[not-so-superheroine]

Since it's not going in my article due to space constraints, i'll share a bit about Jane Manning James here. It won't be superfleshed out atm bc it got cut. I plan to do more later. As I am *Reorganized*, writing this for a Community of Christ publication, i researched Ld-S shared history to the point of Nauvoo. my article doesn't follow west (technically). the main resource was an LDS one (thank you v much for your freely available archive) asking about her time with the prophet of the Restoration.

Jane Manning James

A significant Black Latter Day Saint from the early church was Jane Manning James. A woman from Connecticut notably made the walk from Buffalo, New York to Nauvoo, Illinois on foot, with most of her family. This was only after being separated from the group of recently converted latter day saints in Buffalo, possibly due to their race. Jane was baptized in 1842 by missionaries in her home state of Connecticut. She recorded these things about her journey and arrival to Nauvoo and her faith when asked to recall her life living with Joseph Smith in 1905.

“When I went there [Nauvoo] I only had two things on me, no shoes nor stockings, wore them all out on the road… They [Joseph and Emma] was looking for us because I wrote them a letter. There was eight of us, my mother and two sisters and a brother and sister-in-law, and we had two children, one they had to carry all the way there, and we traveled a thousand miles.”

She was sure in her belief of the Restored Gospel of Jesus Christ and Modern Prophecy. She says in her recollection, after seeing that Joseph Smith Jr was indeed the man in her vision in Connecticut, that “This is the Gospel of Jesus Christ and there will never be any other on earth. It has come to stay.” Sister James would later go west with the saints under the leadership of then Apostle Brigham Young.

--------

me tumblr posting again:

thank you for the example set Sister James on faith, dedication, and perseverance. She also had spiritual gifts, such as speaking in tongue and faith healing. She believed following the gospel, knowing it was a key to a better way of living life (for her.) it wasn't easy for her, and yet, i think the faith community i observe today (and mormonism in general) is better, just for her having lived it.

may she be at peace, and in a manner God, Sister Jane herself, and her family she led that meant so very much to her, see fit.

[arolesbianism]

I was looking at old photos of some of my nuggets yesterday from before I did my first day 1 reset (aka before I got a mod that lets you keep your agents during day 1 resets) and realized that I accidentally remade Eva wrong. Except! Beautiful world! It's actually a good thing because her current back hair was her dead sister's back hair so actually it was intentional from the start and I'm a genius forever <3333

[nomaishuttle]

omg also im soo mad i e been listening to rhis worldbuilding podcast at work and it was giving me lots of ideas but i had to turn it off bc i took like..an hour on a room bc i was so focused on jt and my beautiful world.. and i forgot all the ideas i had 😭😭 all i can remember is my fairy thing and that isnt even a from today thoufht

[kwoniele]

his (favorite) cheerleader

synopsis: cheerleading practice seems to affect seungcheol a lot more than you expected.

genre: smut

pairing: seungcheol x cheerleader!reader

wc: 737

warnings: rough sex! clearly i have a kink.. creampie, unprotected sex (please do NOT do this! use protection always) overprotective cheol, praise, scratching 😝, BABE THIS ISNT PROOFREAD ☺️ none of my works are tbh. i think thats all? please lmk if there are more!

authors note: hiii im baackkk!! this was supposed to be a celebratory fic for from behind but unfortunately i got quite occupied with my assignments (ack?) and didn’t get to ginish but u can read this as a standalone haha also my requests are open! please request SOMETHING im in need of ideas.. ok bye enjoy

nervous.

thats how you made seungcheol feel.

honestly, he would have never felt this way if he had stopped you from wearing the skimpy skirt for cheerleading practice. you asked him permission before choosing to wear it for the day because one: you would hate to make him feel like you’re dressing like a slut for everyone to see and two: the girls in your crew are bringing their boyfriends.

you would never admit it, but the girls in your squad have terrible taste for men. all of them are either desperate for a quick fuck with anyone but their girlfriends, or theyre in denial and swear to like women but seem to enjoy having drinks with your boyfriend instead.

but seungcheol didn’t hold you back. he swore it was okay and that you looked amazing in the skirt. he explained that he was going to be right beside you the entire time and that things were going to be alright. because he was there.

he was concerned that the boys would be very much eyeing you for a minute too long, or your name would be the name they’d be chanting for the entire game rather than their girlfriend’s.

he was wrong.

he was the person he was worried about.

the way the skirt almost barely covered your ass, the way your hair stuck to your forehead sticky with sweat, how your chest heaved whenever you finished a routine; he felt like he was going absolutely insane.

regardless of the fact he promised you he’d behave, he wasn’t doing a good job of fulfilling it. he could feel his cock slowly growing in his pants and he was not trying to hide it.

“seungcheol-ah, if you’re in need of relief, we’d really appreciate it if you could do it somewhere else and not on the freshly cleaned bleachers.” irene’s boyfriend lightly elbowed seungcheol,

cheol shot him a glare before his eyes slowly rested on you again. you were hot. if male ovulation was a thing, cheol was the epitome of it. all he heard was ringing and inaudible chatter as his attention was focused on you. his eyes were in the shape of hearts as he watched you perform.

he couldn't wait to go home. he just knew what he’d do to you as soon as you step foot into your house.

—

“haa~ cheol!” if he had asked you to count how many times you’ve come tonight, you wouldn’t be able to answer him. your cum had made a creamy white ring around his cock, slowly growing thicker and thicker as his thrusts began to pick up rhythm faster than the one before.

your voice began to strain, sweat started to trickle down the back of your neck, your hips were burning red as seungcheol showed no mercy at all. it was as if his dick had a mind of its own. his tip kisses your g-spot, making you arch from the bed as cheol’s hand pushed you down.

“you were so fucking pretty out there. did you know that? i was worried the boys would be a fucking idiot around you— fuck.” he threw his head back in a moan. “but it turns out, i was the one going insane.”

his lips traveled to your neck, leaving open-mouthed kisses beside the bruises he had made earlier. his thumb rubbed your clit, causing you to whine controllably as your gripped onto his shoulders. “pleaaase, let me cum!”

“yeah? my baby wants to cum?” seungcheol rapidly thrusted into you—if that was even possible—even more, making you slip out incoherent words as your eyebrows furrowed in frustration.

“yes! yes! yes! please let me cum please!” your nails clawed his back, leaving dark red marks as he winces in pain.

“fuck, cum with me okay?” you nodded in agreement, not caring about the neighbours who were probably wide awake, or the open windows that seungcheol didn’t bother to shut, or your cheerleading outfit that you definitely needed the following day.

“you can cum, beautiful.” he painted your walls with white ribbons as you breathed heavily—cumming right after him. you came so hard that you saw stars. as soon as you finally caught your breath, seungcheol was already rubbing you with a warm cloth, cleaning up his mess.

“you’re so responsible, you know?”

“mhm, i am. just not when you’re at cheerleading practice.” you giggle.

“you should come more often.”

[yieldtotemptation]

PYTHON ft. Danielle

danielle x male reader smut

17k words

“You really need to stop showing up like this,” you’re saying, knowing full well that it’s falling on deaf ears. But it doesn’t hurt to try.

Danielle tilts her head. Glossy lips part, flashing a smile. It’s pretty. So clearly practiced, and so fucking obvious. Worst of all—it absolutely works on you. “Like what?”

“Unannounced,” you start, before swerving, “Naked.”

“Well.” Danielle takes a step closer. Then another. Suddenly making you feel like a stranger in your own apartment. “If you really had a problem with it, you’d have changed the door code by now. Or told my sister what we’ve been up to.”

You need to correct her before this can get any further out of hand, there’s no we to tell anyone anything about, but—look. She’s half-right. You were going to get around to changing the locks. Eventually. The other part, the nuclear option, the sister of it all—“You know I can’t do that.”

“Then you’re just going to have to deal with me until you can,” she says, casually.

Doing that thing all pretty girls seem to have built into their genetic coding. Standing there, posing, like she’s the sum of a dozen happy accidents—the hip cocked just so, the hand at her impossibly tiny waist. The wet hair, the pout, the fucking collarbone.

Accidents—yeah right. 

Anyone else but her, and maybe you’d buy it. 

“Besides, I’m not completely naked,” she adds, smile sharpening into a grin, and—fuck.

She is far too gorgeous for her own good. She is also extremely, without a shadow of a doubt, bad news, persona non grata, unbelievably off-limits.

“I'm wearing your towel, after all.”

—

(Okay, okay, okay.

You’re well aware you’re the only person on this planet that wouldn’t be delighted to have Danielle stepping out of their shower.

But maybe consider the following points:

1)      You’re still raw, wound’s barely scabbed over from the last woman you let into your home;

2)      Your whole career kinda rides on the fact that you keep your head fucking straight and free from any distractions, especially the kind that’s crazy enough to break into your apartment and hot enough to make it seem like a perfectly good idea; and

3)      If you were going to ignore points 1 and 2, and just decide you’re going to let that towel drop and let whatever happens, happen (hopefully something with a lot of moaning and a lot of sweat and a lot of giving up on what little modicum of peace you’ve managed to claw back from the world)—she’s your ex-girlfriend’s sister, for fuck’s sake.

Counterpoint:

She’s Danielle fucking Marsh.)

 —

Clearly you should’ve ended things a week ago when she first showed up—kicked that irredeemably cute, tight ass out of your apartment and slammed the door behind her. 

You should’ve seen Danielle for the walking, talking red flag that she is: a jump-scare in skin-tight jeans, or a barely-there top, or more frequently than necessary (or not frequently enough, depending on how honest you’re feeling) in nothing but your towel that’s now clearly found its home around her razor-thin waist.

The girl is apparently allergic to clothes.

“I’m gonna make some ramyun,” she’s calling from the kitchen, rifling through your fridge. Voice carrying over the sound of a week’s worth of meal-prepping and pre-blended protein smoothies being carelessly shuffled out of order. “You want some too?”

No, not a ‘would it be okay for me to help myself’, or even a simple ‘do you mind?’. Just straight up making herself at home, helping herself to your bathroom, your kitchen, and after a very strong suggestion, one of your old sweatshirts.

Your casa; now her casa. Or something like that.

“I don’t have any ramyun,” is your answer. It comes out weak.

To that, she whips around, cradling in her arms her bounty—a pack of noodles, a tub of kimchi, and a cut of pork belly you’ve been saving for a special cheat day. Throws you a far-too-easy grin that you’re realising is her signature. “I know. I picked some up on the way here.”

“Of course you did.”

“It’s a good idea to eat normal people food every once in a while, instead of whatever this is,” she says, nodding her head to your stacks of perfectly portioned containers; your towers of health and virtue.

“I think I’m good,” you reply, cautiously. Resisting the urge to let your eyes wander and get caught for the nth time. Don’t want to give her even more ammunition in her campaign against your very clumsily-established boundaries.

At least not until you’ve made your cursory attempt to get her the fuck out of here. Trying (and inevitably failing) to come up with a compelling argument that would convince her to leave. Something to illustrate that this isn’t going anywhere, she doesn’t do a thing for you, let alone register as anything other than a mild strain on your already tenuous relationship with your ex-girlfriend.

Yeah, you don’t even believe that shit yourself.

Regardless, recognise that your first instincts, like always, are terrible ones. Ignore all the parts of your brain that are telling you to do things that could end with you buried in some unmarked grave along the DMZ. Ignore how good she looks wrapped up in your oversized sweatshirt; how it looks so lovely draped over her body, stopping short of the tops of her thighs, letting the damp, pale skin peek out and glisten and—

Fuck.

Maybe you should take the sweater back. Peel it right off her body and—

Again. Fuck.

“Trust me, you’ll want some. Everyone thinks they don't, right up until they do,” she says, and there she goes, pursing her lips together, throwing you a wink. God knows what she’s insinuating.

“Do whatever you want,” you’re saying, leaving out the implied—‘not like I can stop you’.

“Careful with your promises,” she’s laughing to herself, turning away and setting her culinary treasures next to your stove. “I just might have to hold you to them.”

That you pick up on immediately. But she lets it rest, putting a pause on the flirting-that’s-totally-not-flirting, busying herself with the task on hand. Reaching for your pots, your spices, navigating around your kitchen like she’s done it a million times before. So at ease, so… natural, in your space.

It’s eerily intimate.

Wearing your clothes, cooking for you, chatting over her shoulder as if she’s the sister that you have the years of history, of baggage with. First times and fuckups. All the messy, complicated shit in between.

(No matter how well she fits the role, a reminder: she’s not.)

There’s all these incidental miracles too—a curtain of chestnut brown hair sweeping aside as she stirs, a hint of bare shoulder, a column of porcelain along her neck. The sag of her collar until it’s falling down one arm, and there’s no sign of a top underneath, no strap, nothing to curb your imagination from running wild.

And it's all extremely unfair, how the hemline rises with each sway, how it clings right to her waist and curves around the flare of her hips. It wasn’t built for someone like her, wasn’t designed to withstand being worn like this.

But it tries it’s best. You do too.

You really should force your eyes elsewhere. The living room, the TV, the window. Anywhere but her. But you can’t help yourself.

“So,” she starts, happy to let the dish come together on its own. Asks, apropos of nothing, “You ever wonder why my sister never wanted to leave us alone together?”

You blink, torn from the hypnosis of her bare skin. “What?”

Danielle’s facing you again, leaning over the kitchen island. Playing with a loose strand of hair, looping it around her finger. Taking the dumb look on your face as an answer. “I mean, before all these little hangouts we never even had a full conversation, just me and you. One-on-one. Isn’t that weird?”

No. It never occurred to you, because it’s not weird at all.

Because Danielle is, and this is plain fact at this point—not in any way, shape or form exaggeration—unfathomably, quite offensively hot, and very much aware of the devastating effect she has on the people around her just by simply existing.

You hardly trust yourself at the moment.

“Then again, she probably knew what I’d do if given the chance.”

Danielle bites her lip, and you make the mistake of staring for just a second too long.

Yeah, it makes a lot of fucking sense.

(Back in the kitchen, the pot boils over.)

—

(It was somewhere close to the end of things; when it became more common to talk in loud accusations than sweet whispers, that your ex was telling you—“I do love her. But I swear sometimes, I can’t stand her.”

“Who?” You’d asked, because playing dumb was much easier than accidentally stumbling into some new argument you weren’t quite prepared for.

“Dani.”

“Your sister?” you replied, too quickly, and without thinking, “I don’t know—she seems sweet.”

There’s a pause, a tension in the car and your hand clenches around the steering wheel as you realise what you said, and the entire world holds its breath. Then, she laughs. Something sad and bitter that makes you wince. “Sweet? Yeah, sure. She’s a fucking angel.”

And before she can even elaborate on that, she’s looking out the window, leaving you to wonder how you’re at fault this time.

So, you decide then and there to never mention her again, never even look in said sister’s direction when she’s around. Push her out of your mind completely. As far as you’re concerned, she never even existed.

That lasts right up until the next time you see Danielle, and she’s all smiles and friendliness and barely-dressed and so painfully attractive and so very happy to see you. And sure, maybe you smile back, reciprocate the hug, blush when she kisses your cheek, hold your hand on her lower back for that extra millisecond too long, bounding over that ephemeral line and right into flagrantly inappropriate territory.

All the while, somewhere over your shoulder your ex spits out the corner of her mouth—“Typical.”)

—

“I thought I already explained?” Danielle starts, the next time she shows up uninvited, half-naked, bright and early and ready to completely fuck up your day.

Despite the number of times you’ve witnessed the same routine, it still floors you every time she sashays into your kitchen, towel draped low on her body, wrapped around her ridiculously tiny frame, water droplets clinging to her flushed skin like a layer of glitter.

Fresh from a shower. She’s always just fresh from a shower.

She’s already rolling her eyes at whatever she’s about to say. Takes a deep breath, then: “There’s a whole thing going on with my living situation at the moment. You probably don’t need to know anything other than sharing a bathroom with four other girls can be a bit of a nightmare, and your place is so conveniently close, and your water pressure is actually unbelievably good, so—”

You’re very slowly realising that she’s never imagined a reality where this would actually be a problem for you. “And so you decided that the next best option was a complete stranger’s apartment?”

Danielle drums her fingers over your kitchen counter. Your eyes follow the beat. “You’re not a complete stranger.”

“You don’t even know me,” you say, trying to play the part of the responsible adult. Danielle scoffs, because you’re failing spectacularly.

“Well, according to my sister, I have nothing to worry about when it comes to you,” she says, adding, “she told me the two of you broke up because you were gay.”

“She said what?”

She recites, “He prefers rolling around with men than with me—were her exact words.”

“M-M-A. I do MMA.”

“Hm.” Danielle’s baring teeth now, a dangerous slant to her smile. “Is that a new addition to the acronym? LGBTQI-MMA? What colours are your flag?”

“It’s fighting,” you clarify, ignoring the heat creeping up your neck. “Mixed martial arts. I’m not—not that there’s anything wrong with that, but I’m not—”

“Sure.” She pushes herself upright and rounds the counter, swinging herself around and over to you. “And here I thought you had all those muscles for show.”

“I’m very straight.”

Her laugh fills the room, makes it warmer, the air sweeter somehow. You choke on it. “Good to know.”

She closes the distance in much fewer steps than you’d like, bare feet gliding across heated flooring, until you’re forced to notice that she’s taken the liberty of using all your shower products too, and you’re starting to rationalise the perfectly normal response it's eliciting. The shortness of breath, the thumping in your chest, the stickiness of your palms.

All perfectly normal.

Stand your ground, what’s the worst that could happen? You’re taller, probably twice her weight. You could pick her up and throw her out if you had to. Or onto one of the many softer surfaces in your apartment.

Erase that thought.

“If it really helps, maybe all we need to do is get to know each other better,” she says, all honeyed-sweet and fucking hazardous, and when she’s this close, you can’t avoid looking.

You try not to, but you’re absorbing all the details—how are her lips this pink, how do they look this soft? How does her skin look so smooth, how does vanilla and coconut and sandalwood smell so much better on her?

It’s fucking troubling how much of her sister you can see in her, except it’s all skewed in directions that make your brain short-circuit. Similar eyes, same shape, but darker; less warmth, more heat. That same mouth, the curve is a mirror when she smiles, but on her its natural state is a pout or a grin over anything close to reassuring.

The dial’s been turned up, the sliders are all wrong, no one should look this good with this little effort.

“For starters, how about we just exchange numbers? So I can call ahead before I come up next time. Avoid any unnecessary surprises,” she throws out, noncommittal. “Even though that’s the best part.”

It should stun you, the smoothness of her request. So innocent in its construction. Yet she loads it heavy, suggestion stacked on suggestion.

She continues, when she catches the look on your face, “I promise I’ll only contact you in strictly emergency shower situations. Would that be okay?”

“That’s fine,” you answer, making liars of you both.

“Then it’s decided then!” She practically cheers, jumps in your arms, wraps you in a hug. Looks up at you, all smiles, all teeth; all wide eyes and hopefulness and fucking hell she’s so close.

Instinct has you leaning closer, has you maybe letting your hands rest a little too comfortably around her waist.

Panic has you recognising that you need to get out of here before she catches on to the involuntarily reactions she’s coaxing out of you. Eyes dipping down to the towel, heart bursting out of your chest, and your co—

“It goes without saying, but you can contact me too. For anything. Emergency or not.”

Yep, it’s about time to get the fuck out of here. Peeling her arms off you, bailing on this conversation before you start agreeing to even more things you know you shouldn’t. You declare, rather robotically, “I should be on my way out.”

“Guys waiting for you to roll around with?”

You sigh, “Something like that.”

“Well, I’m always available if you want someone more fun to practice with,” she says, before amending. “Or, on.”

Again, this can absolutely not happen. You’re not usually one for rules, but it goes without saying—no fucking around with your ex’s sister. It’s like the golden rule of dating, or human decency, or something.

Besides, it’s not really about you that she's into. It’s about the idea of you—the one person who won’t immediately give her what she wants.

That’s all.

She’s just a brat that’s dealing with denial for the first time. Right?

Danielle pouts when it’s clear that you’re not going to feed into any more of her flirty delusions. Twirls on her heels, the towel dancing around her waist. You’re pretty sure you could write a whole essay on the physics of it all.

“Guess there’s no point in me sticking around if you’re not going to be here.”

You avert your eyes. No need to watch her disappear into her room.  

Correction—your room.

But then you hear it, and your head whips around so quick you get fucking whiplash.

Witnessing Danielle time her exit just right so the last thing you see before she rounds the corner is the sweep of her back, the drop of her towel, and the flash of her tight, bare ass that will burn itself into the back of your retinas and stay there for the rest of the day.

—

(You really should’ve seen this coming.

Or maybe you did, and the lesser angels of your nature thought it wouldn’t be so bad to let it happen.

Whatever, it’s too late to come back now because Danielle’s taken to sending you messages throughout her day. All mundane updates; what she’s doing, who she’s with, what’s she eaten for breakfast, lunch, dinner. Little things throughout the day that somehow remind her—through bizarre and barely tangential logic—of you.

You read them, pretend to ignore them.

You choose not to reply.

She chooses to start sending photos.)

—

It really, really doesn’t help that Danielle is everywhere.

She’ll be in your kitchen, your living room, your bedroom when she conveniently forgot to bring a change of clothes and the ones that she came over in are way too sweaty and sticky to put back on. Hopefully you don’t mind washing it for her?

You’ll leave your apartment thinking you’re finally free, only to find her flashing that grin on giant screens hanging off buildings, or on the side of the buses you take to the gym, or on the cover of every magazine at the convenience store where you used to dive in for a quick snack without ever even having to worry about her existence.

Her music plays in the café you get your afternoon caffeine fix; her commercials show up on every single app on your phone—she’s selling everything from headphones to sneakers to fucking bank loans. All with that same sweet, annoying, lovely voice that haunts you with unabashed innuendo and questions about where you keep your fabric softener and why your apartment is completely barren of anything that could be considered a snack.

It's a sick, sick joke the universe is playing on you. Throwing her in your face every five minutes when all you can think about is how she looked that morning when she took her time putting herself together—just lounging on your couch in nothing but a pair of glasses and a towel, kicking her legs up in the air while she laughs over some meme that's completely skipped your generation.

The legs. Can’t help but think what it would be like to run your tongue over them.

She'd probably be thrilled to let you try.

“Hey,” Danielle says, choosing the moment when you’re trying to figure out just how high her legs go to catch your attention. “Did you and my sister ever do it on this couch?”

“What?” —the fuck.

“Just asking,” Danielle sing-songs, taking the opportune moment to adjust the knot on the towel. Higher up her chest, higher up her thighs. “It’s got good cushioning, you know.”

“That’s,” and really, stop right there, because you’re not about to rehash the greatest hits with her. Not going to even get close to dipping your toes into an innocent, casual chat about ghosts long exorcised—about all the nights you had your ex spread out like a buffet, her legs around your neck, her nails digging into your back; her whispers and pleas, the sweet taste of her—and fuck, now the memory of her face is twisting and morphing and you’re seeing Danielle in those same positions and—

You shake your head, clearing the fog.

"Not going there."

Danielle feigns innocence, batting those doe-eyes. You’re already sick of that sugary-sweet giggle. "Where?"

“Anywhere. With you.”

“You never know, it could help,” she’s teasing. Possibly the most dangerous sentence you’ve ever heard. “Replace all the old memories with some new ones? A little less her, a little more," she pauses for great emphasis, and it feeds right into the mouth of the devil on your shoulder, "me?"

“Danielle—”

“You know, you can just call me Dani. All my close friends do.”

Alarm bells are blaring. Take the easy way out, just leave again. Maybe leave forever. Get out of here and don’t look back. She can have your apartment as far as you’re concerned—the backseat of your car isn’t that uncomfortable.

But before you can make a break for the door—"I just meant we could watch a movie or something.”

And again, you find yourself asking so often these days, “What?”

“You know a little bit of Netflix,” she suggests, and you’re already anticipating the grin before it spreads across her face, because she’s far too smart to play dumb, “and a bit of chill?”

“Danielle—” you try once more, then correcting before you can think better of it, “Dani.”

Danielle blinks. Adjusts herself. Pats the cushion next to her.

Her legs spread, then cross over each other. Just to give you some room.

The towel holds on for dear life.

—

It all goes to shit in a matter of days.

Truthfully, you can’t be blamed for this one, no matter how predictably it plays out.

Danielle’s fogged up your mind with thoughts you’d rather not be having, really been hard at work convincing you of just how available she is.

(Translation: Look at me, aren't I just so damn fuckable?)

Even though it’s all been common knowledge from the get-go, her cards have been on the table since she first stepped out of the steam and rented a space inside your brain, whether you want to be honest with yourself or not.

She wants you, badly.

You want her too.

It’s all you think about.

So, it’s no surprise your coach sends you home early from training after taking one too many unanswered shots to the head. Pushes you out the door and yells at you to get over or on top of whatever the fuck is going on in your personal life.

You know he’s right.

And it’s in this state, where your brain is mildly-concussed and filled with the images of Danielle—the ones of her wearing next to nothing except that fucking wry, knowing smirk of hers, like she’s just counting down the moments until you finally, inevitably give in—that you stumble into your apartment.

You don’t even have the strength to close the door properly.

You barely notice the closed blinds, the heating turned up too high, the light coming from your room, the scent of something much more sweeter; something that doesn’t belong here at all.

No, you don’t notice anything at all—until you do.

A moan from down the hall.

Louder as you approach, joined by noises of shuffling bedsheets, the unmistakable rhythmic squeaks of your mattress. The slick sounds of skin on skin, and—oh fuck.

You push open your door.

Danielle’s there to greet you, flat on your bed, fingers deep inside her cunt.

Wearing your sweatshirt and nothing else.

Crying out your name.

It’s game over.

Every filthy, lurid though, every half-imagined fantasy, everything your brain has conjured up whenever you've caught a glimpse of Danielle's bare skin, brought to life.

Fucking gorgeous, pretty, even like this. Wrecking herself so sweetly, fucking herself with her fingers so deeply and carefully, half-naked and wet and begging.

“Ah, God—” She’s sinking into herself, not even registering your presence, nor the fact that the door’s even opened.

Her face is locked into this smile, and you clock it as the same one she wears every time she catches you watching her, every time she manages to make that crack in your armour widen just a smidge. It’s a trap. A challenge. An invitation.

You hover by the door, unable to move, unable to breathe, unable to do anything but watch as she works herself over, eyes fixed shut, cheeks red, burning hot.

You shouldn’t look.

You should turn around.

You should do anything but stay.

But you don’t.

You just witness her, in your bed, chanting your name in tempo with her own fingers. Your body betrays you—you take a step forward.

Her eyes open. Unsurprised. “Hey.”

She keeps going.

One more step couldn’t hurt. Moth to her flame, fly to her sweet, sticky trap.

The sweatshirt is a crime against humanity, hiding her like that. You could reach down, rip it off her, expose all her secrets to the cold air. Finally see it all.

But instead, you keep your eyes trained, transfixed, as she arches her back, her breasts pushing up against the cotton, points of her nipples poking through. Abs—chiselled, firm, tense—revealed inch by glorious inch.

Your name on her lips, moaned into your ears.

And her pussy. So pretty. Pink, plump. Perfect.

Sopping wet and making a mess of your bedsheets. The mattress will never be the same. 

“Welcome home,” she gasps out. Loving this turn of events. Spreads her legs wider, no intention to stop. Just going on and on.

She stretches out your name for good measure, fucking herself faster. Fingers plunging in and out of herself, hips rocking back and forth. Eyes locking onto yours, daring you to do something about it.

“How’s the view?” She’s grinning, aiming for seductive, nonchalant, but her voice is all broken-up and fucked up. Too turned on to be anything but earnest.

“Fucking hell,” you find your own voice much the same. Really, it’s a miracle that your lungs aren’t clogged up with the thick, heavy air that’s settled in your room. Or that your tongue isn’t a dry, useless slab of meat in your mouth.

“I’d say it’s rather—gah—” Danielle says, taking your words, twisting them into something that sounds like a whine as her eyes slowly shut, a fresh wave of pleasure washing over her. She opens them again, focuses on you. “Heavenly.”

You should have more to say. Something locked and loaded to navigate your way out of this specific situation, because face it, this was always going to happen one way or another the day you let her have free reign of your apartment, of your life, of your thoughts.

Your mouth opens, hoping something disarming and with enough wit comes out to end this whole farce, only Danielle beats you to the punch—“I bet it tastes heavenly too.”

And then the words come to you. You grit out, “Stop.”

Danielle laughs. Unconvinced. “Why should I?”

You repeat. “Stop.”

She just keeps fucking herself. “Make me.”

“Stop,” you let your voice come out deep, firm. Like it's a threat. Taking the closest ankle in your grip, lifting her leg up.

Danielle gasps. Her hand stills.

“Stop and let me.”

Danielle’s whispering now. “Then go ahead.”

You’ve never imagined yourself as that guy. You’re a romantic, you swear. Grand gestures, sweet kisses, candles, roses, the works, making love slow and soft until the sun comes up.

Nothing like this.

Like wanting to ruin something beautiful. Take the hottest girl you’ve ever met, probably ever lived. Cross lines so thick you’d typically need a buzzsaw to cut through. Make her forget about anything that isn’t you, anything that isn’t you. Make her need you in the worst way.

Make her come apart in your fucking hands.

The look on Danielle’s face gives you all the permission you need. Her words are just the cherry on top. “Please.”

You start small.

A kiss on the sole of her foot, and Danielle’s already trembling, giggling, at the light touch. More kisses, building, keen attention on the arch, the ankle, the calf, and she’s shivering. Muscles tensing under your lips, body tightening in anticipation.

She’s a ticking time bomb, was on edge when you walked in, so you don’t drag it out. Just long enough to make her whine. Get a few, “God you’re so—”, gasps and half-formed sentences that die the higher you get.

You kiss your way past her knee, and she’s properly whimpering now. Her fault that her legs are so long. A ladder of sweetness, salt on her skin, and you’re starving. She is right. It tastes heavenly. You’ll do your part by devouring it, bite by fucking bite.

“This is torture,” the words slip out of her, but it hardly sounds like a complaint. Moreso a confession. Something to say while her shoulders sink into the mattress and her fingers dig into the sheets. “Sweet torture.”

A chuckle into her inner thigh, where the skin is softest, smoothest, and her wetness has leaked down far enough to coat your cheek. Because this is the first time Danielle’s been anywhere close to a position of submissiveness to you. Let the mask, the control slip. The game, the pretences. All it took was the right use of your tongue.

“Higher, please, just eat me already,” she’s pleading now, and it sounds so lovely coming from her lips. And fuck, the scent of her, her arousal, sweet and heady. Calling for you to just dive in face-first.

But you want her to beg. Make her as desperate as she’s made you. It’s only fair.

Your nose meets the bottom of the sweatshirt. You push up, ghost your lips, the warmth of your breath higher up her thigh until her hips are practically stuttering.

Lean in, nibble the flesh just beside her pussy.

She convulses then and there. Arches off the bed, a sharp cry leaving her lips.

Only a moment to revel in it before your hair is snatched in her hands, pulling you closer, and you finally give her what she wants. Tongue darting out, tasting her.

“Right—yes—fuck!”

Her scream drowns out the groan climbing out from your throat, as your lungs are filled with the depths of her. No waiting, really, she’s fucking soaked already. Primed, prepared for your tongue. For the sucking, licking, kissing; every part of her that’s been begging for attention, waiting for you.

Her hips buck, but your palms shoot up, press down against the flat of her stomach, feel the ridged abs, the tiny waist under your fingertips. Holding her down with a firm hand. Letting her know the truth of it all. She’s yours now.

All she can do is whine, “I—I—God, I need—”

“Need me to taste you? Lick you, suck you right up, ruin you with my tongue?” The things coming out of your mouth, the aggression in your tone, it surprises you. But there's not enough time to ponder on what manner of beast she's turned you into so quickly, there's only what's next—press the flat of your tongue against her folds, give a rough, firm pressure, make her squirm.

It’s from here that you can witness it all: the bend of her neck as she throws her head back, the tightness in her stomach, the sharp inhale and heavy exhale of her chest. The tremble in her thighs against your cheek, her breath hitching and her pussy quivering over your mouth.

And it comes to you, so easily, like it was always there. Filth being composed in the back of your mind anytime she was in your presence. Everything you've ever wanted to do to this girl. Everything you've wanted to inflict upon her cunt.

“I'm gonna make you into a fucking mess all over my face, down my chin, all over my bed. Fuck this pussy, Danielle. I could get drunk off it. So fucking sweet.”

“It’s—fuck—” and you’re really enjoying this now, having her be the one that’s lost for words for once. “—whatever—all of it. Do whatever you want, please, because I’m so, so close.”

“I didn’t need your permission,” you tell her, speaking into her cunt. “But it’s appreciated anyway.”

And Danielle’s well and truly wrecked. Drenched cunt so swollen and desperate and really, truly in quite a state. So desperate for you, her body thrumming with it. Cunt pulsing like a fucking heartbeat.

You could take it slow. Could drag out the torture a little longer.

Fuck that.

Tongue goes higher, fixes upon her clit. Danielle falls apart.

“Fuck—fuck—fuck—” Her words are slurring together, choked out, gasps, whines. Barely coherent, and yet, “your mouth—tongue—please—”

The pleases you recognise, they come in staccatos as you lick her from bottom to top. Long, slow drags that make her legs shake.

“You’re going to scream for me,” you declare, a prediction more than an instruction. “Beg for me. Going to make you cum so hard. So loud. Going to make you remember it. Remember me every time you think about touching this sweet cunt.

“Sadist,” she manages, breathless, but it’s hard to detect anything from her other than pure glee. “I can see why my sister would always come home so—fuck—so worn out from seeing you.”

“Don’t,” you spit on her cunt. Take a long, gratuitous lap of your tongue against her folds. Force her hips against your face.

“I’m only wondering—” she says, and there’s an edge to her voice, and you know that whatever’s going to follow is going to make you fucking crazy— “Did she taste as good as me?”

You try your best to ignore the taunt. Just push your tongue inside her, feel the way she clenches around the muscle. Fuck her for making you even think about your ex.

“Or did she ever even get to feel like this? Did she let you? Or maybe you never gave her the honour. Because I can't imagine ever letting go of someone like you."

“Enough,” you murmur, not even sure if it’s a warning or a plea. Your teeth graze her clit. Danielle jolts. “This isn’t about her. It’s about you.”

A barely there—“Me?”

“You started this,” your voice is gravelly now, coloured with something mean, “Just had to be too pretty to ignore. Fucking cocktease.”

“Then—oh—give me what I deserve.”

“That would take hours.” The laugh that comes out of your mouth is anything but warm, and she tries to fire back with one of her usual quips—something that dances on the line of flirty and sarcastic and completely charming all at once, the full Danielle experience.

But that all dies on her lips when your finger pushes through until you’re knuckle-deep, curling up inside her.

“Ah—fuck—” That’s all she’s got, and it’s all you need.

You kiss her cunt, suction around those puffy lips. Her pussy is just so, so pretty; like the rest of her, same as every single fucking inch of her. Even now, all huffing and groaning and fucked-up on your tongue—so effortlessly beautiful.

“Baby,” comes out, all velvety and warm, and then again and again. Pitch rising, falling, voice getting louder, a crescendo dictated by your mouth.

Creamy thighs fit snug over either side of your head, but you’re not going anywhere. You need to make her cum—as hard as she can. Make sure she remembers.

You lick, kiss, suck. Danielle doesn’t require much precision, just intense passion. Showing her how much you love her cunt, love making her fall apart. Really sloppy with it, it’s the pace that matters at this point—giving her everything that’s been boiling deep inside her since she ever laid eyes on you.

Swirl your tongue around her clit, flicking it in a way that has her knees shake and bang together. Suck deep against her folds, making her fingers knot themselves in your hair. And when you moan into her cunt, vibrate your lips against her while your fingers—one, then two, now three—work her over, well—

She can’t fucking do anything but try to breathe, try to keep herself together. Be anything other than the excruciatingly cute and beautiful and fucking delicious mess you’re turning her into.

“Right—right there—right there—” Unnecessary instruction, really. Because you already have her dissolving underneath your tongue. Filling your bedroom, your apartment with noises of her cunt being properly fucked, the sighs and moans that bounce off the walls, echoing around your skull. Putting you in some heavenly torture chamber where the only way out is through her orgasm.

And it’s somewhere in her pleas for a higher power that you feel the beginnings, or the very rapidly approaching endings of it all. The tightness in her thigh, the convulsions. The waterfall dripping down your tongue, your fingers, onto the palm of your hand and pooling underneath her ass.

“This is—this is too much—"

Too much means not enough. Not enough of her, not when you’re so in love with the sound of her breaking apart. The smell of her on your nose, your chin. The feeling of her cunt colliding against your lips.

“Oh God, fuck, please, I can’t, I can’t, I can’t—"

You breathe in, take all you can from what little oxygen she’s left in the room, and bury your face in her. You don’t let up until her cries become screams, until she’s bucking against your face, until her nails are digging into your scalp.

You don’t stop until you feel the first pulse in her climax, until her cunt clenches around your fingers like a fist, until she’s painting your face with her wetness.

And that’s when you reach your other hand around her, urge your fingers underneath those tight, firm cheeks. Push a finger up into her ass, press into that puckered button, making her seize like you just sent a bolt of lightning through her.

“What the fuck, it’s so—God!”

For a moment, she’s yours. Completely and utterly yours.

Her stomach tenses, abs bunching and knitting together. Not a single muscle in her body moves, just frozen in place, locked in pleasure.

Tiny, little shakes, building and building, until it’s a full-body experience; quakes all over her skin, shaking your whole bed. And then—

“Daddy!”

There’s a right word for this—flawless, absolute, divine. Or just plain perfect.

The way she cums is so at odds with who she is. It’s not pretty, it’s not subtle. God, it’s fucking apocalyptic. Orgasms herself into an out-of-body experience onto your chin.

It’s all so fucking obvious; people in the next building over will be able to feel what she’s going through just by the timbre of her voice when she cries out for some sort of God, or spits a filthy curse, or just screams your name in a dozen different ways.

“You’re fucking—yes!”

You need both hands back on her body to fix her to the bed, make sure she doesn’t fall off the fucking edge of the world. Help her bear it, through gritted teeth and sharp hisses, that one final push into oblivion.

A whine signals the end for her; a final real, loud, teary-eyed whine. The most honest sound you’ve ever heard from her and fuck you’d do anything to hear more of it. Give up everything for just an echo of the sweet obscenities that fall from her lips when she cums.

Danielle exhales.

Tries to relax her way out of it. But the trembles haven’t left her, still bubbling underneath her skin. Her legs fall away from your head, leaving your ears ringing, and you ease back. Wipe your mouth with the back of your hand.

You massage her, run your hands up to her waist, underneath the sweatshirt. Stroke the lines on her body to coax her back down to the land of the living. Let it all slow down.

Her eyes are still hazy, glazed over, pupils all fucked-up and blown wide.

“Animal,” she says, when her lungs begin to fill again. She giggles, and there’s all the sweetness returning to her body. Radiating off her in this afterglow. Twisting herself a little beneath you to work out all the tension that you’ve just built up and wrecked her with.

“You asked for it,” you tease, hovering over her. Rightfully smug.

Danielle huffs. Looking so pretty behind all the tears. “And I will again.”

And you exhale too, because now you don’t know what the fuck you’ve gotten yourself into.

But Danielle doesn’t give you time to dwell on your thoughts. Scoots up and shifts so she’s on her elbows. Takes your chin in her fingers. Kisses you.

Inhales you deep, tongue immediately pushing past your lips, scraping around the edges. Licking up all the evidence that’s still stuck on the roof of your mouth.

You fall into her, hands rising up her body. God, you just need to feel her nipples harden beneath your palm, her body fold back into yours. Get to know every curve, every dip. You’ve tasted heaven, now you want to map it out with your fingers.

Your hips urge against her waist, pushing her legs apart, and that tells Danielle all she needs to know.

But her tongue leaves yours, escapes the chase of your own.

“Not yet,” and she’s laughing because you actually believed for a heartbeat that you were the one in control here. That you weren’t the one that was going to be left begging. Aching. Left with nothing to do but commit the taste of her to memory.

She draws her tongue across your jaw, your cheek. Licks your face clean, leaves it sticky. Smiles against your skin.

“But maybe later.” She pushes back, hand at your chest. Gets herself up and off your bed, turns away from you so you can only imagine the grin playing on her lips.

Her ass tilts. Her pussy drips onto your floor.

She looks over her shoulder, blows you a kiss, a wink. “Gotta take a shower first.”  

—

(This is the part where Danielle pulls her greatest trick yet—radio silence.

A week without hearing from her—not a text, not a peep, nothing. Turning your brain inside out. Leaving you with nothing but this tangled mess of thoughts about thighs and abs and moans and questions of did whatever the fuck that was really happen?

The worst part of it all is, you know exactly what she’s doing when she’s not busy haunting the edges of your apartment, leaving her fingerprints in every room, over every surface, just waiting for you to find them.

She’s quite easy to be found. She’s still everywhere.

Everywhere except the one place you need her to be.

It’s too early in the evening to be lying in bed, staring at your phone, nothing but the background noise of heaters, TVs and air purifiers to make you seem less alone.

You should really have much better things to do then to hover your thumb over her name.

Your screen lights up with a message—immediately disappointing you when you realise it’s not her. Just your training partner, sending a cursory group invite to anyone else that fancies a night out to break up the routine of getting punched in the head on the daily.

Fuck it.

It’s as good a time to drink as any.)

—

You’re barely in one piece when you get home; which is really par for the course for the past few weeks.

Dazed, horny, tired, concussed—and now, stone-cold drunk.

Habit has you collapsing on your bed in a heap, flicking on your phone, dragging your finger over the screen and taking an embarrassing amount of attempts to unlock it. The blue glow lights up your room, the screen immediately blasting you with the most recent thing you were looking at—the last photo Danielle had sent you.

The one she took in front of your bathroom mirror, where she’s leaning over the sink. A hand perched on the counter, hip cocked to the side. Towel hanging on by a thread, dipping, just so. Tongue poking out, lips looking so shiny and soft.

Eyes right down the barrel of the camera. Knowing the reaction it’ll force out of you. The power she has to stir your cock to life with just a single image.

It’s so fucked up. How in such a short amount of time, she’s occupied every corner of your mind, every corner of your digital life. Unavoidable. Inescapable.

And there’s truth in that: you’re flying too close to the sun; you’re going to get burned but you can’t help but soar a little closer anyway. Heading headfirst into tears, heartache, or worse, a very awkward family reunion.

And you hate that you miss her.

Hate that you’re calling her.

She answers.

“Hey—” you slur, making a stellar start.

You’re picturing the smug smile on the other end of the line. “Is this a drunk dial?”

“I—yeah.” No point in lying. You’re not good at it, and she’s not that dumb.

“Well, I’m flattered,” and there’s pure amusement seeping out of the speaker and into your ear. She sounds like she’s laughing at you. But it’s warm, familiar, and for a second it’s like she’s right here, in your room, in your bed, her naked body pressed against yours. “To what do I owe the honour?”

Since you’re too inebriated to be anything other than honest, you just outright say it—“Got drunk. Can’t sleep. Missed you.”

There's hesitation on the other end. Surprise, you guess. "Then that makes two of us."

"You're drunk too?"

"Unfortunately not. Just the insomnia and the yearning on my part."

“Why aren’t you here?” comes right out your mouth, before you can even stop it.

Her breaths come through the phone. Slow. “Because I’m in a hotel. Hong Kong.”

You roll onto your back, close your eyes. Picture it. Danielle, prettier-than-perfect, curled up on some plush, extravagant bedspread. A complimentary towel getting the luxury of being around her tight figure. Her long legs stretched out in front of her, painted toes digging into the sheets.

You still remember how they felt against your lips.

“I don’t believe you,” you decide, and demand, “Turn on your camera.”

“Oh, you’re very drunk,” is Danielle’s reply, right before the chime of your phone and—

There she is. Scarily accurate to your imagination. Only now, the details are colouring in the rest of the picture—the contrast of hotel white against her dark hair. The glint of light off her sharp cheekbones. Her lips absolutely wicked.

No towel, though. A bathrobe this time.

“It’s fucked up how pretty you are,” you say, because it’s true and you can’t hold back. “Like, Christ.”

Danielle giggles, and it’s also fucked up the things the sound does to your stomach. Forcing you to realise how much you missed having it in your apartment. She leans closer to the camera, head tilting a little to the side. “Very, very drunk.”

“Don’t have to be drunk to recognise how good you look.”

“I always look good.”

“If you were here right now—or if I was there—”

“You’d what? Bury your face between my thighs? Ruin me with your tongue?” She’s smiling. Teasing. Thank God you can see her face again. “Make me call you Daddy?”

“I didn’t make you do anything. That was all you.”

“And you just happened to love it,” she says so easily. Full of confidence. “What else would you love to make me do?”

It comes to your mind immediately, the thought of it—“Your shoulder.”

Her eyebrow jumps up at that, expression settling into something curious. “My shoulder?” She angles herself, gives you a better look. Leaving it bare, the bathrobe droops, doesn’t bother to hide the line of her throat. “Nothing about my neck, my eyes, my lips?”

“I’d get to that. But I’d start with your shoulder,” you recite, letting her in on the journal entries you’ve been writing in your mind. Notes on Danielle. “You’re always just leaving it out there. Your shoulder, collarbone. I’d kiss there first.”

Your words do something to her, you can see it through your bleary eyes. She shifts on top of her bed, twists herself around to settle into a more comfortable position. Leans back into the headboard of her bed. Juts her shoulder out so the bathrobe drops further down her arm.

Has you follow the path of her camera as she angles it lower, and it doesn’t help that she’s biting on her lower lip, and you can’t see where her other hand has gone, and she’s spurring you on by asking:

“Would you kiss me lower too?” The bathrobe parts, plush cotton revealing a single line of her sternum, and then further still, the shadow of her cleavage just out of view.

You nod, swallow. A strained, “Yeah.”

“And here?” The robe slips, falls further down. Revealing the swell of one perfect breast. A nipple, stiffened from the cold. Or the thought of your lips.

Your eyes are locked onto the image of her creamy skin, the darkened areola. You don’t care that you’re groaning, that your hand is already reaching down to palm your erection through your sweatpants. You don’t care that she probably knows.

It’s what she wants.

“Yeah, I’d kiss you there. Lick it. Get it between my teeth, and—”

“Sounds like you’ve thought a lot about me,” she murmurs, but she’s only saying things that you both are keenly aware of. You are—have been—putty in her hands. A man lost at sea with only her voice as a compass. The camera moves in closer still. You can feel the heat of her skin through the screen. “What if I told you I’ve been thinking about you too?”

Her free hand returns in view. Up to her chest. Teasing her own nipple; pinching between her thumb and forefinger. She gasps, breathes heavy down the line, and you swear you can feel it too, a phantom softness at your own fingertips.

“I’ve been thinking about what you did to me with your mouth, been thinking about it—” she’s panting, and her hand’s moving. Thumb tracing lazy circles around her breast, and you’re thinking that it’s the exact path you’d take with your tongue. “Every. Single. Night.”

It’s too much and nearly not enough. No where close to satisfying the ache she’s built inside you. You want her here, in your bed, underneath you. You want to show her what you can really do to her. How you’d kiss her until she couldn’t breathe, lick her until she couldn’t think, fuck her until she’s nothing more but a shivering mess, leave her begging.

And then, as if announcing your own thoughts back to you— “I want to cum,” she sighs, barely a whisper. “But I don’t want to do it alone.”

“Show me.”

There’s a beat, two, where Danielle mulls it over. Nothing but pants heard through the speaker. Her nipple still in view.

Until she turns, phone hitting the bedside table with a gentle thump. Screen still on, camera pointing right at her face. But the angle’s off—she shifts it downward and returns to the bed.

It sobers you up, puts you on alert. Danielle. Lying on her side. The soft, pale swell of her breasts, the dip of her vanishing, practically non-existent waist. The curve of her hips down to the long, smooth legs. The robe slides down, baring her other shoulder. Her neck. The cut of her clavicle.

Fuck.

Her breathing hitches when she sees you, the look on your face. So low, so quiet, when she says, “Now, you too.”

A mirror of her actions—your phone finds a spot to lean on. Hands wobbly, vision blurs as you rush to get the angle right. Sweatpants disappear, freeing your cock. The waistband catches on your length, causing it to spring out hard.

It’s Danielle’s turn now to groan out a “Fuck.”

And for a moment, it’s just heat and silence. Hot, laboured breaths filling the space between the two of you. Her hand drifts down, skating between her abs, lower—

“Tell me,” she says, fingers crawling to the hood of her pussy, gliding over where she’s most sensitive. Her thighs part slightly, slowly, showing herself to the camera, to you. How wet she is, how delicious she looks. You want to taste it. You’d die to feel the heat of her against your tongue once more.

But you’re not there. You’re both stuck in this digital limbo. Two people desperate to fuck each other through a screen. It won’t be enough. It just can’t be. But it’s all you’ve got, so it’ll have to do.

“Tell me everything.” Her eyes close, hand starting to move with purpose. Spreading her folds. Glistening clit standing proud. “Everything you’d do to me. All of it. I know you’ve been thinking about me. Give me every little detail. Make it dirty, make it good, make it—”

“I—” you start, only to stumble, “I want to fuck you.”

“Obviously,” she’s smiling into the camera, and yeah, you’re realising it was a stupid way to begin things. “Please don’t make me do all the work here. Where’s the guy that said he’d make sure I remember him every time I touch this tight, little cunt?”

“Sweet cunt.”

“You would know.”

You clear your throat. Adjust yourself. Angle your cock towards her so she can see how much you mean what you’re about to say. “Danielle—”

“Dani, please.”

“Dani,” you restart, “After your shoulder, your collarbone, after I’ve left those fucking tits all marked up—I’d run my tongue back up to your neck, suck on that spot right here—” you bring your other hand up, tap it over your pulse. Danielle’s eyes shoot open. Follows your finger. “You know the one.”

Her hand falters, she chokes on a breath. She’s picturing it. Feeling it. “Yeah,” she stammers. “Yeah, I know.”

“And then—then you’d feel my fingers. Pushing in,” you continue, hand tightening around your own shaft. Pre-cum making it slick. Recalling her heat, the tightness of her cunt. The clench around your digits. “So fucking slow. Watching your face as you take them. One, two. Three. Yeah, you’d look just like that.”

Her own fingers dip, bringing your words to life. Eager to follow word for word, whispering these hushed little pleas, and then a moan, and then— “Don’t—don’t stop.”

“Slowly, Dani,” you make her whine, as if you’re right there, holding her hand, forcing her to balance on that edge. “Just like that. God, you look so pretty. You would look so pretty. Coming apart on my fingers. I don’t think I’d ever be able to stop telling you, because fuck.”

You break it down—break her down. Tell her the steps, one by one. The way you’d kiss her, taste her. How lovely it would be, lips as sweet as her cunt was. Kiss so deep that you’d steal the breath from her lungs, make sure she knows what it’s like to be consumed. The way you’d kiss her neck, her ear, make a mess on her tits. Every spot that makes her quiver.

There’s tension in her shoulders, tightening across her muscles. Eyes clenched shut, fingers dancing over her every inch that you tell her you’d explore once you’ve finally stripped her bare.

Leave her in her natural state: naked, beautiful, fucking breathtaking.

Her hand’s a blur now, thighs trembling with each pass of her fingers, and she’s chewing on her bottom lip so hard you can see the indentation. Whining, pleading, these divine little noises, intermittent—“Keep going, don’t stop, tell me more,” —pure bliss articulated,  and you’ve lost track of how many times she’s asked, “and then?”

“I’d spread you wide open, Dani,” you tell her, and watch as her legs part, leaving her splayed out on her bed. Image so fucking wanton it’s biblical sin. “God, look at you. You’re so fucking wet I can hear it through the phone.”

Danielle can’t help herself, “It’s you,” she’s gasping, panting, fucking herself with her fingers so intently that the sounds of her cunt are coming through loud and clear. “It’s all because of you. So, so wet. I’ve been like this all week.”

A thought, you realise, “So that’s why you stopped messaging me.”

The tightness in her voice confirms it for you, “Yeah. Couldn’t stop thinking of you. Reaching out would’ve made it too fucking much.”

This revelation hangs in the air, thick and palpable. Pushes aside any remaining inhibitions. You stroke yourself harder, faster, matching her rhythm, her breaths. Joining the slicks of her own cunt with the sound of your skin slapping against your palm.

“But it didn’t help. So, fuck it. I needed to let you see. Let you know. How much I want you. Need you.”

“Was never much a secret.”

“Never said I was good at hiding it,” and Danielle’s grinning now, looking so beautifully lost and downright filthy and there’s really only one thing left to ask, “Tell me how you’d fuck me.”

“Hard.”

One word and she fucking loves it.  

“Flip you over, from behind. Against whatever hard surface I can push you up against. Nothing sweet about it. Giving you what you fucking deserve.”

“God!”

“Leave you out of fucking breath. Just take my cock deep. You can see it can’t you? How big it is. How fucking hard it is for you. I’d make you take every inch fucking fast and rough. Make you mine. My own personal cocksleeve. Daddy’s little cocksleeve, how do you like the sound of that?”

Danielle’s back arches, chest rises and falls. Hand moving faster, fucking herself, really going for it. Head thrown back, eyes open, on you. Like she’s memorising the way you’re looking at her. Unable to do anything but look when you’re puppeteering her body across an entire ocean, words dictating every little shiver, every little pulse.

“Pin you against a wall, Dani. Make it so you can’t move. Can’t do anything but feel me. So deep inside you that you’d feel fucking empty without me.”

“Fuck, that sounds so—” Dani’s barely breathing now, and whether by some reflex or just a need to make your words feel a little more real, she rolls onto her stomach. Ass up in the air, pushing her face down into the mattress. You can see the muscles in her back ripple, the fingers disappearing between her thighs, and she’s biting down on the sheets but you’re making out the— “Just like that. Yes, yes, like that. Fuck me like that. Make me—”

It’s the view of her tight ass and it's like she's inviting you to tell her, “I’d spank you—leave you all nice and red. So you’d feel it after. Have you screaming until you can’t even speak. Make sure the last word you’ll ever say is my name.”

“You’d pull my hair too, right?”

“You wouldn’t have a choice.”

Danielle screams your name; the first time you’ve ever heard it sound like that. Somewhere between worship and pure desperation. It’s fucking heavenly. Your cock flexes in your hand, and you want to drop everything and rush over to her hotel room right now and shove it directly in her face.

But you’ll have to be content with what you’ve got.

With Danielle, an utter disaster; soaked cunt and all, splashing down onto the bed. And it’s going to be a problem, an explanation she’ll have to provide. How the perfect, idol-princess left her room stained and forever ruined with the scent of her cum-drenched sheets.

She’ll lie, of course. Spin something about a spill, or a new perfume she’s trying, or maybe she’ll fucking own it.

How some guy over the phone left her shaking with his words alone. Made her scream his name until she got noise complaints from rooms on the opposite side of the hall. Caused a fucking mess that the hotel laundry service would never be able to scrub out.

She’s so close, so fucking close. You know because you’ve been on the same tracks as her, charting it through the throbbing of your own cock, the tightening in your balls.

She’s just dying for release. For your permission.

“I’m just—I can’t—Can’t believe you’re going to make me—”

“Just fucking cum then, Dani,” you command. An order.

She follows without question.

Hand builds speed—faster, faster, faster. ‘Fuck—fuck—fuck’ spilling from her lips until it’s all just one noise buried in a mess of pleasure and bliss. Until she’s just a heartbeat in the palm of your hand.

Fucking God, she cums hard.

You do too.

You swear the camera shakes, it’s not just your vision, the head spin, the alcohol. It all vibrates around you and you can’t see straight.

Watching Danielle; her abs tense, back bow, collapsing into her bed. Eyes squeezed shut, choking on sheets as she tries and fails to muffle herself. Orgasm ringing through your phone, a chorus of sin. Your own cock is bucking, moving with her hips, and you’re fucking her, fucking her through it all, making her fall apart again and again, making her shiver, beg, cry out your name and—

It’s a fucking masterpiece.

“Cum for me please, Daddy!”

Like a gunshot, a trigger, and you’re gone too.

A mess—sticky, warm. Fucking satisfying.

And then it’s over.

You both slump down, dissolve into your own individual puddles. Needing deep, heaving breaths. Sweat sticking to your skins, to the sheets. It makes her glow.

Just laying there. Not bothering to clean up. Evidence of your lust smeared across your hands, your stomachs, your beds. The trophies earned.

The silence stretches out, and it’s weird because it’s just like she’s breathing right in your ear, coming down next to you. Warmth against your neck, hand sliding down your body. Fitting right in your arms.

Her eyes finally open. Slow movements have her hand dropping away from her pussy, sliding over the wetness to her side. A mess, and there’s a new kind of smile on her face. A little lazy, weak. Satisfied.

“Fuck.”

“Tell me about it.”

She watches you for a beat. Runs a tongue over her lips. “Can’t wait to see you again.”

“When?”

“As soon as I fucking can.”

 —

(It feels good—too good—to be honest for once.

The games are still there, but now that you’re a willing participant, Danielle’s tactics shift.

It starts innocently enough—a good morning text here, a photo of her breakfast there, a meme you’d both find funny.

And then the escalation.

Here’s what I’m wearing. Here’s what’s underneath. You want to see more?

Reciprocate.

Every notification from her has you running to the bathroom, or at least somewhere with a little privacy, because it’s always a photo or a video, a little slice of heaven to get you through the day or completely ruin it just by seeing her picture.

And fuck, you do look.

And then there’s the last photo—and of course there’s a bathroom and a mirror and your sweatshirt hiked up to her chest and she’s completely bare otherwise and you’re thinking she’s laughing here because she knows you’re going to zoom in and find the tiny caption left for you to discover between her thighs.

One word.

Your cock jumps, a silent cheer.

Tomorrow.)

—

It's borderline problematic how you have to hold yourself back from sprinting down your hallway when you get home. Just because you hear the sound of running water.

Danielle's here again.

She’s fucking back.

And that’s how you find her; the door to the bathroom’s been left wide open, an invitation you don’t really need—nothing could stop you at this point.

But it doesn’t take away from the surprise of it at all, you're knocked off your feet when you meet her in the shower.

Danielle, head thrown back, letting the hot water cascade over her. Down her neck, her shoulders, her breasts. She’s soapy, skin a canvas of bubbles, your bottle of body wash in her hand, flipped upside down and dripping on her tits.

There’s a smile in the opposite mirror for you, and fuck, for a second you’re believing in love at first sight or the existence of angels or just the fact that maybe you were put on this planet to procreate.

“You’re late.”

You clear your throat, steam starting to warm it up for you. “I was at the gym.”

And she giggles, and she’s smug, and you missed her presence so much more than you anticipated. “Then it sounds like you should join me.”

She reaches out, grabs you by the wrist, and you have mere seconds to get rid of your shirt and your sweatpants and anything you don’t want to get wet because you’re falling into her. Threading your fingers through wet mattes of hair, pushing her into cold tile, and kissing the prettiest fucking girl you’ve ever met in your entire life.

“Missed you,” she murmurs into your lips, warm and steamy words that taste like mint. “Really fucking missed you.”

She’s too real now.

In your shower, beneath your fingertips, water running in rivulets over her body. Moisture evaporating off her skin, sticking to yours. Photos, videos, everything from that fabricated reality of pixels and soundwaves, could never do enough to come close to having her right in front of you.

You run your hands over her body, hers are doing the same down yours—as if needing multiple points of contact to confirm that you’re really here, that this is really happening. Her skin’s like silk under the water, slippery and smooth. You trace the outline of her waist, her ribs, the curves of her ass.

And her abs. Fucking hell. Sculpted, each ridge a testament to her dedication, to hours spent. To the sweat, the tears, the sheer fucking willpower it takes to become an idol. A map of her life’s work, and they’re begging to be touched. Appreciated.

You do.

A soft touch. Reverent. She responds with a gasp that sends a shiver down your spine. Danielle’s eyes are on yours, watching, as your thumb traces the line of here stomach.

You get the obvious out of the way. “You’re so fucking pretty, Dani.”

She arches a brow. “Just pretty?”

You smile, kiss her shoulder. Lap up the water pooling in her collarbone. Stuck between the need to take your time to worship her body like it deserves, and the primal urge to just claim her, take everything about her that’s good and soft and hot and make it yours. “It doesn’t even cover it. I don’t think any words do.”

“Then show me.”

So, you pull her closer, hands cradling her face, thumbs brushing against the soft skin of her cheeks. Kiss her until she’s melting into you, until her body’s pressing into yours so tightly that you can feel the heat of her.

A palm falls to her hip, thumb resting at that glorious spot where her waist sinks right in just before curving out to her ass. Your fingers dig into flesh, and Danielle’s moan; the sweet, sweet sound fills your mouth, vibrates down your throat.

Her hand wraps around the back of your neck, gripping tight; she’s not shy of about touching you either. About asking for more. More of everything. More of this. More of you. You kiss her harder, like you’re trying to break her apart and rebuild her in your own image. Like you’re trying to brand her with your mouth.

“This is,” she breathes between the kisses, slurring against your chest, “so much different in person.”

“How so?” You ask, and follow her eyes southward.

Her cheeks flush, and she looks up at you through wet lashes. “Bigger.”

You laugh, feeling something unlock in your chest. It’s so absurd. Like all at once, your entire destiny's been flipped on its head.

Danielle’s fingers take hold of your cock, stroking you gently. Staring at it in wonder. She’s worshipping it. This goddess, and it’s your cock that’s her idol. She squeezes at the top of your head. The glee in her eyes when you groan.

“God, it’s—” Danielle voice cracks, and she gives the words their proper weight when she says, “Taken too long.”

You can barely think anymore. Not when her hand is winding up and down you in these long, smooth strokes. Like she's somehow been practicing, rehearsing for this exact occasion, studied upon every sensitive spot and how to hit it just right.

“Could’ve had this from the start,” Danielle tells you, and you’re throbbing so hard in her hands. “Could’ve had this any time you wanted,” she says again; like it’s fact, a simple truth of the universe.

And suddenly nothing really makes sense anymore. Whatever logic you had leading up to this point—why didn’t you just reach out and take her? All the times she was right in front of you, on your couch, in your bedroom, or in this very shower, with the door unlocked.

“Could’ve had me whenever you liked,” she whispers, pushing herself closer, her pert little nipples pointed against your chest. “I’ve been so wet and desperate and ready for your cock this whole time. All you had to do was take it.”

You’ve got nothing but an uncommitted, “Couldn’t.”

To that she laughs, presses her lips into your jaw and her grip’s tightening. There’s pre-cum beading from your tip and leaking onto her palm, you both see it clearly before it gets washed away. “I know. That’s why I tried my best to be patient.”

You need a reality check, make sure she’s at all aware of the damage she’s been wreaking. “You? Patient?”

“Oh, you think this only started a few weeks ago?” Danielle taunts, and it’s with an air of ridicule. Incredulous that you could be so naïve. “You have no idea.”

But the honest truth is—you do. You’ve been aware of it—aware of her—from the start. Her sister had probably been aware of it even longer.

Probably why you chose to bury your head in the sand.

But there’s no avoiding it now. This girl—woman. This dream. A picture of youth and beauty; a masterpiece painted by time and genetics, with a touch of that special something that makes you want to frame her and hang her up on every wall in your apartment—make everyone see her the way you do.

And even then, strip that all away, and it's just those lips—the grin, the smile, the pout—and the intention behind each expression that is your true undoing.

It’s the smirk this time when she makes her point, “I’ve had the biggest crush on you since—” And that does it. That does you in. “Forever.”

“Yeah,” you tell her, falling straight into confession. “I think I have too.” 

Danielle’s pace picks up, the rhythm building until it’s starting to drive you crazy. Making you lean into her, pushing into the warmth of her small hands. She’s back to kissing into your throat, your ear lobe, any part of your skin she can get her lips to when she whispers, mockingly, “Is this the part where you tell me—I want to fuck you—again?”

That’s an unfair callback.

Danielle quirks an eyebrow. Daring you to do something about it.

You push off her. Slip out of her grasp. Hand trapping her wrists above her head before she can grab you again. You're the one grinning now.

"No. This is the part where I spread you wide open. Pin you against this wall. Make you scream my name.”

Her eyes dilate, pupils blown wide. She licks her lips, “Spank me?”

“And pull your hair.”

“Then go ahead and do it.”

But you pause. Wait. Hold her wrists above her head and stare into her eyes. Give her the chance to put the magic words together herself. Your grip tightens.

Danielle’s smile widens. “Please, Daddy—”

She’s so fucking small, light, practically weightless in your hands. Easy enough to take her hips and lift and spin her around before she can even register that she’s moving. She catches herself on the tile when you set her down, bracing herself against the wall; palms flush, fingers splayed out. Legs naturally split just slightly.

All this build-up and you can’t help but rush.

She turns to look back at you. Needs to see you, needs you to see her, all of her. Giving up on all ideas of teasing, of whatever game took you to this point. Just need. Just burning desperation.

“Need it,” is everything she’s wanted to say, everything she’s tried to tell you over and over again. Everything that makes her vanilla thighs tremble, her knees all wobbly, her cunt drip onto your shower floor.

Your cock twitches, and there’s first contact, sweeping against her folds. Heat sticking to the tip and fuck, yeah, this is not going to be one of those slow, tender moments. You press into her, align yourself between her thighs. One hand at her hip, the other joining her palm against the wall because judging by the way she’s shivering, she just might slip away completely without it.

“Need it now, Daddy,” Danielle whines, so fucking cute and honest, and when you drag your cock so it’s kissing against her entrance, it turns into a demand of, “Inside—please, fuck, put that big cock inside my—”

A push of your hips, and she’s so fucking soaking wet that you slide right in.

Her moan.

You think she’s trying for ‘Daddy’ again, but it’s all fucked up and muddled. Lost in the clench of her muscles, the tension across her body, the way her face screws up and holds and makes all the noises that come out strained and whiny.

So fucking nice.

“God—fuck—finally—”

Fitting so perfectly around you; folding her body into yours. It’s partly the angle—her back arching into yours, her hips urging backwards so nicely, ass squishing against your waist. Her pussy. Hotter than hot, wetter than wet. A fucking vice, a perfect grip that makes you feel like this is where your cock was always supposed to be.

Buried deep inside Danielle’s hot, tight, fucking glorious body.

It’s all just so easy, everything about her, so easy to fuck. Not that she’s not tight—the feel is so fucking divine it’s enough to make your eyes roll back in your head—but because she moves with you, like you’re two parts of one machine, two bodies meant to be joined at the hip; or at the cock and the cunt.

She’s made for you. Tailored to each line and curve and angle of your length.

It takes several strokes—euphoric, mind-breaking, soul-shattering strokes—before Danielle gets some bearings on herself. Panting through it all, making some effort to tear off the bathroom tiles with just her nails, but she’s got enough breath to whisper over her shoulder, “Feels so good. I knew—knew it would be like this.”

A small hand leaves the wall, reaches behind her. Fingers dig into your thigh because she needs something else to hold onto. Something real.

“Knew I’d be perfect for you.”

You want to laugh, chalk it up to her doing her usual cocky little thing. But she’s got you too deep inside her, you’ve sunk all the way in so quickly your lungs are still in recovery trying to catch your breath. Got you so far up her cunt that it’s difficult to manage anything that isn’t a moan. So you just nod. Thrust harder. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

“God this is exactly how I thought it’d go,” she keeps going, slowly finding her voice again. Each word like a spell, a curse. “I thought about it—what you’d be like—how you’d fuck me—”

“Danielle,” you grunt out, surprising yourself with how easily it comes out. Then again, it's always been on the tip of your tongue.

“I used to think it’d be nice and sweet—gentle—” she says, shakily, “But this—rough—fucking me like you own me—like you can’t get enough—it’s so much better than I ever imagined. So much better—”

Her words cut off into a gasp when you kiss into her throat. Her hand snakes back up to your neck, pulling you closer, nails scraping along your skin, leaving little white lines. The sting is nice. A welcome distraction from the fire burning through your veins.

Your lips drift higher, and she twists her body to draw you into this clumsy, uncoordinated kiss. Sloppy in construction, she’s kissing at the corners of your mouth, your tongue is dragging up to her cheek at one point. But it’s all communicated in the clash of lips and teeth and the way she’s panting into you, moaning down your throat, “So good, you’re so fucking good, Daddy—”

And then just—

“More,” and she’s at your mercy, and she just loves it, is so fucking earnest for her need for you to just keep going. “Harder, please, I need—”

But you already know. She needs to be fucked, handled rough and just nailed like she’s wanted you to for weeks. Months. Maybe a year at this point. She’s done watching from the sidelines while you were too stupid to realise that she was what you needed all along. Done being the outsider, the third party, watching you go by unappreciated, watching you not get what you needed.

Your name bounces off the shower walls and back into your ears. Impossibly loud; the sound hardly sweet or loving, but it’s pure music. Everything you’ve ever wanted to hear.

It’s joined by the wet smacks of skin on skin. The slick of her cunt around you. Her breaths hitching and catching every time you bottom out and rut your cock so deep in her bowels that it takes a herculean amount of effort to pull it back out again.

Her ass just bounces back against you. The perfect handful—slapping into your thighs with every push. And then, the idea thought of in tandem, two minds as one—“Didn’t you say you were going to—”

A smack ripples across Danielle’s ludicrously tight cheeks.

“Fuck!” She cries out, eyes start to moisten, but she just pushes her ass back. Ready for more.

So you give her another.

A snap; your palm against her. Making the flesh pink up, making it jiggle just right.

Her eyes squeeze shut, mouth opens. Forces out these adorable little sounds, mewls, whimpers.

And then another, and another, and her pussy tightens around you with every hit. You can hear her breath catch in her throat; and fuck she clenches even tighter down on your cock. It’s so dangerous for her because the way she’s reacting, practically thanking you with her moans and sighs and lovely tightening of her cunt around you—it’s making you so greedy.

Greedy to mark her up, to really draw a work of fucking art on her skin. Leave your handprints on something beautiful.

“Again,” she begs, and her voice is absolutely shot. Just raspy, desperate, needy. “Harder, please, Daddy. I’ve never, no one’s ever—"

You smack her again.

And again.

And again.

Leaving her cheeks red and stinging. Leaving her trembling. Just a boneless mess of beautiful sighs and blissful pleasure. You can see it, in the bumps rising on her skin, the way her toes are curling in ecstasy, her cunt gushing down your own thighs. There’s no hiding it. Without a doubt, this is what she’s always deserved.

It’s a hard thrust, a harsh smack, each following one after another in rapid succession. Fucking her apart, fucking her in two. Fucking her into oblivion.

Each spank, each perfect spasm of her abs, her cunt, it’s all a quiet mercy. Pain pushing her closer and closer to pleasure, balancing on that precipice where her pussy is strangling the fuck out of your cock so perfectly.

There’s only one word for someone who’s loving this kind of treatment, someone who’s this fucking filthy and vulgar and dying for more.

“Slut,” you bite into her ear, and the gasp that rises from her throat confirms it. The second word, “Cocksleeve," nearly shatters her completely.

You could never imagine someone like her, someone that could live in the torture if only because it brings out so much joy.

You know it, she knows it, but you still let her know, “You’re going to cum for me.”

And she whimpers and bucks against you because she sees it for what it is. A promise. And it’s all because she’s so fucking responsive, so eager for it, so fucking reactive. A pinwheel in a tornado, spinning and spinning until it’s just a blur of colour and motion and all you can do is watch in amazement.

“I will,” she promises back, and fuck you’re not far behind. “I'll cum for you. All over your beautiful fucking cock.”

It keeps you going, makes your strokes erratic, wild, just harsh, punishing thrusts into the depths of her cunt. And she keeps taking it, walls gripping around your cock with unreal pressure, like she’s trying to keep you there forever. Like she’s afraid you’ll pull out and leave her unsated.

But she’s wrong.

You let her know with your next spank. The hardest one yet.

“Fuck you’re—” and it’s your name, and curses, and filth, and begging and just “yes, yes, yes” again and again. Screaming it into your ear, crying it into your neck; she’s baring the deepest, darkest part of her soul.

Locked in place, cumming.

Unable to move, because her back’s to your chest, and she’s up against a wall so all she can really do is tremble and shiver and shake until she’s completely dissolved.

And it’s somewhere in all this that you come to terms with the fact that it’s not enough. You’ve crossed the line and you don’t even dream of settling. You’re going to make her cum again. And again. And again.

She’s spent all this time offering herself up to you, crafting herself into this toy for your amusement, a fuckdoll for you to play with; as if you were only going to take this one taste and let her go.

But you do give her a break, if only for a moment.

You massage her ass; soothe the sting with your fingertips. A little tenderness amidst the storm.

“Good girl,” you catch yourself kissing into her, and the words are like a password to some hidden part of her, something that makes her nearly collapse onto the shower floor.

Her cunt pulses, once, twice, milking you. Her muscles start to give out, and you need to wrap your hand around her body to keep upright. Fingers at her tits, squeezing, twisting her nipples because you’ve always wanted to and you know she loves it. Because she needs the sensation to keep her on her feet.

“Mine,” you grit out, and there’s no disagreement from Danielle. No, her eyes are too glassy, glazed over and not even looking at you anymore. Just feeling you, feeling what you’re doing to her.

There’s tears in her eyes too; it’s not just the water raining down overhead. She’s sobbing well and truly, because you’ve fucked her so thoroughly that it’s all she can do. It’s all her pretty eyes can show you to tell you just how fucking good it feels for her. So perfect. So much more than she ever hoped for.

Letting you see every bit of her. Every tear that falls down her face, every quiver in her legs. Every time she chokes out your name.

“Mine,” you repeat, kissing it into her shoulder.

Her response is a nod. She’s caught her breath. “Always have been.”

She’s just so soft, even as she’s still quivering. Legs somehow still holding her upright, even when the architecture's been threatening to crumble and collapse this entire time.

So you start to move again. Slower, gentler, almost apologetic.

Danielle ends all ideas of that very quickly. “Hey,” she kisses your cheek. Aiming for your lips, but misses entirely. You don’t mind much.

“Dani,” you groan, because God, even when you’re trying to take it slow, a little easy, it’s still so fucking agonising. So dangerous. Like you’re the first to ever get his hands on her. You’ve discovered fire, now you just can’t keep your hands off it.

“Don’t you dare go taking it easy on me now. Not after you just made me cum my fucking brains out,” is what Danielle rasps, “Remember, I’m yours.”

She kisses you again, gets your mouth this time, tongue pushes in. Convinces you with the sweetness of it that it’s far from over. Not until you’ve done exactly as you’ve promised to her—fucked her so hard, so deep, until she couldn’t move, until she’d feel empty without your cock inside her.

“Your slut,” she slides down you, until it’s only the tip of your cock that remains nestled at her entrance, “your cocksleeve,” her hips snap back, a rush of air exits your lungs and fuck, you’re in deep again, “and you still haven’t pulled my hair yet.”

Yeah.

Grab a fistful of chestnut silk, yank back, and she’s yours. Back to speed, fucking her open and raw, having this effect on her.

Seeing it blossom from her thighs, up her abs, her ribs, her tits, around her throat until it’s bubbling out of lips and the corner of her eyes. This girl is yours. This petite, perfect, fuckable body is yours to do as you wish—to use, to pleasure, to ruin.

You tell her to take it—she takes it. You tell her to beg for it—and she cries and pleas and makes it seem like the only thing that could settle her soul is your cock.

And when you command her to scream your name, and it's just so fucking soul-destroying—the loveliest noise from the filthiest tongue, and everything that comes with it. The ‘just like this’, the barely coherent ‘your slut, Daddy, I’m your slut’, and these encouraging quivers from her lips that take the shape of ‘give your good little girl all of your hot fucking cum and—”

“Fuck, this pussy is incredible,” you breathe into her, and your grip is tightening into a fist, tugging her back even further until she’s leaning into it, her back arched so beautifully like some mathematical wonder.

Head tipped back, throat bared, and she’s trapped. Trapped underneath your weight, trapped in your hands, trapped against the wall with nowhere to go but further down your cock.

It only seems right. After all she’s put you through; the mind games, the seduction, the fucking audacity. You’ll give it right back. Fuck her as hard as she’s been fucking with you. Roughness as penance, finding forgiveness in the soaked and messy and now red and swollen recesses of her cunt.

Fingers drift higher, two past her plump lips, into her mouth. She bites down. You don’t even care anymore. Pulling harder on her hair, fixing her body to yours, and God, even like this, wrapping her up in your body, having her as close to you as possible, being as deep as you are in her. It’s not enough.

She chokes on your digits, collapsing. “Fuck. Too good. Fuck!”

Getting wetter and wetter, messier and messier, thank God you’re already in the shower.

Telling you these things with every whimper, with every twitch of her body, every squeeze of her cunt around your cock. Find out, is what you’re getting. Find out how good she is at being a slut. Where her limits are—how much she can take. Find out how quickly she can make you cum.

“You want this, don’t you?” Danielle reads your mind. Had your number since the beginning, figured you out before you knew. “You don’t need someone nice. Someone sweet, someone good for you. You need someone who’ll—fuck—push you to the edge and then—and then—fucking kick you off. Someone who’ll let you do the same to her.”

Yeah, you’re fucked. Never had someone lay it out so bluntly. So perfectly.

“Daddy wants to cum so bad,” Danielle’s being whiny, slutty, drooling down your fingers, because there’s nothing else she can do. Just taunt and tease and be fucked senselessly. Helpless to take it—harder, deeper—faster, faster, faster. “Daddy needs to fill his slut’s cunt, doesn’t he?”

“I will,” you growl into her ear, and the quivers around your cock are nothing short of rapturous.

It’s all coming to a head—the shower’s a steamy mess around you; water’s cold now, but Danielle’s getting even hotter around you. Can’t stop moving; don’t you dare give her a moment to catch her breath. Not when she’s this close. Not when you’re this fucking close.

Her nails dig into your arms, you’re leaving bruises on her hips. You know it. You can feel them. She’s thanking you for them.

And then a glimpse, the light hits the glass walls of the shower just right and you’re seeing it. Danielle, grace and elegance in a package so tight and wet and perfect and it's all going to hell. Your hand in her hair, the water running over your fingers, splashing onto her back, hitting the gorgeous, sweet pink of her well-spanked ass.

You’re just fucking her. Like it’s all you can do. Like it’s all she’s good for.

Eyes fastened shut. Mouth—beautiful, kissable lips frozen into an even circle, letting out these wails. Danielle’s perfect. So flawless it hurts to look at her. And you’re ruining it all. Dumping a bucket of paint on a priceless work of art, watching the colours run down the canvas.

“God, just—“ Danielle tries, but it takes several attempts until she can piece together the words she really wants you to hear, loud and clear: “Just fuck your cum deep into me. Daddy, I’ve earned it, haven’t I?”

You’re not sure what noise you make as a reply. It’s very likely not something nice.

“Please, please, Daddy,” Danielle’s pouting, and there’s the brat again. The girl that gets what she wants with just the jutting of her lower lip and a voice so sweet it’s undoubtedly terrible for your blood-sugar levels. Just pleading for you to let her bring all your filthiest fantasies to life—fuck her deeper, fill her with all the cum you have, spank her, pull her hair, choke her, even. Letting you know there’s no limit to what she’ll do just to have her cunt spilling out your cum. “It’s what I need right now. It’s my reward for being such a good girl. That’s what good girls get, right? Their Daddy’s cum?”

Christ, this is going to become a problem.

You can never go back.

Not to anything less than fucking to incoherence; to cumming as gratitude. To using someone so pretty, so God-damn lovely, the embodiment of everything wholesome and good in the world; with all the angelic hopes and dreams and aspirations, and reducing it to a simple dumpster for your cum.

To destroying someone with just your cock, and being thanked for the privilege.

“Fuck you, Dani,” you spit at her, and you mean it. “You’re too fucking perfect. Too good of a slut, too needy of a cocksleeve. I’ll give you everything. Fill you with it. Every tight, needy hole, paint every inch of your body. Fuck you against every single surface in this apartment. Fuck.”

“Good,” and it’s fucked up how she blushes, only seeing the praise, the compliments in your words. Yeah, she’ll be all those things, and then some. She’ll be every pornographic fantasy you can think of and then show you even more you could never imagine. She’ll make sure to drain you dry and then drill deep inside you to get out every last drop. “All of those things. Do all of those things. But now—just—cum!”

Your hips meet, you nearly fuck her off her feet.

She cums, or you do, or you both do, it all gets lost in this noise. A wave of sound that could wake the fucking dead—you’re not sure who jumps first, no point in trying to figure it out. Just a blur of sensation and release, crashing through your veins and you’re going to tear her in half, or she’s going to swallow you whole; it’s two and one and fuck.

You try to hold on—her hands around your neck and then your thigh, yours straight to her tits; more of her, you need more of her.

But your knees are buckling. Your breaths are haggard. You’re pushing her into the wall, her cheek is squished against the tile and she’s slurring things that get lost in the water like God, fuck, this is so perfect and if you were paying more attention you might catch it when she says it’s all I’ve ever wanted.

You do hear your name.

“Thank you, thank you, it’s so fucking good, just fucking thank you—”

She’s on her tiptoes when you feel the rush down her thighs, when her cunt makes its final effort around your cock, and it’s all coming out in whispers and prayers and unholy verbal contracts to never let this end.

Her body jerks, hips slamming back into you, and the wall's cold on her face, but it's the heat from your chest that’s all she needs to soothe her shivering; her chattering teeth repeating, "Fill me, fill me, fill me, Daddy!"

Fuck, you’ve lost count how many times now, but you’re spurting inside her. Unbearable pressure, blissful release. You can’t see the end of it, but you don’t want to escape—only sink into the feeling of her cunt around your cock, the gasps of her breath in your ear, the pleas and overtures for you to keep going. And you do, because this is now your heaven, and you’re feeling more religious by the second.

Shot after shot into her, feeling it fill her up, pool inside her pussy. She tells you it’s not enough, her cunt tries to milk every single drop out. You’re okay with that. You’ll give her everything you’ve got. Just to see her stumble out of this bathroom with your cum leaking out of her. Witness her waddling down the hall, globs of it dripping down her thighs. That’s the power play right there.

And somewhere in all this obscene debauchery, she says, “I love this,” and there’s a kiss that follows.

Suddenly tender; still sloppy, and yet—gentle. Softer than any of the bruises you’ve left on her skin.

Danielle’s still holding onto your neck, your fingers are glued to her tits, but for the first time you give her the space to breathe.

Her body relaxes, the fight leaves her legs and she’s just a ragdoll in your arms. And you hold her. Just hold her there, still inside her, cum leaking out of her and running down her thighs, mixing with the shower water and going down the drain.

And you’re unwilling to let her go, you might never, because maybe if you pull out, she’ll vanish. Maybe you’re dreaming. Maybe it’s all some sick, twisted, fucked up fantasy spurred by every thought she’s filled your head with over the past month.

But when you blink your eyes, she’s still there. Real and present and just as fucked up as you are. And she’s smiling.

You lean into her, catching your breath. Danielle’s panting too, happy to let you carry her weight, and so content. Back to being so smug. Another round of fucking might fix that.

“Told you we’d be perfect together.”

“You told me a lot of things.”

Danielle's lips meet the back of your hand. Your wrist, up your forearm. Says, “I also told you that I’d have you screaming my name so loud you wouldn’t be able to speak.”

"I said that."

"And yet here I am, voice still intact."

You roll your eyes, take a slow, careful step back. Your cock slips out, accompanied by a groan and a splash of cum hitting the floor between your feet. Danielle’s laughing, still shivering in your arms, body still quaking with aftershocks. You kiss her back, her neck, her shoulder, her ear.

Anything to keep her here.

Finally, the taps are turned off, and Danielle shifts in your arms. Cheeks flushed, eyes half-open, but undoubtedly—satisfied.

You manage a weak chuckle. “What now?”

Danielle takes you by the chin, plants a kiss on your lips and yeah, this feels right, this feels like providence, and this is going to last until the universe says otherwise, and even then. “Now?” She says, and another kiss, on your chin, on your cheek, down your chest and lower and lower and, “Now, I go back to your room, and you come with me, and we do this all over until we pass out.”

—

Again, there’s the kiss.

Only you’re both on your bed, and it’s peppered down the underside of your cock. Then her tongue's dragging along your shaft, staining it in her glossy saliva. Slow and languid. More occupied with enjoying her new favourite toy than your pleasure. It’s the simple things, you guess.

And as she’s doing it, she’s talking. Planning out the rest of your day, your lives, you realise, and you’re just nodding along like you’re listening, but all you’re hearing is the wet smack of her lips around your cock, her tongue lolling and swiping around the head.

You look down at her, and she’s smiling, so goddamn happy, your heart fucking splits in half.

She’s curled up against your thigh, and she kisses into your cock, "God, I could never get tired of this."

"Really?"

Danielle pulls away, a sad pout on her lips, and you realise you may have offended her. Repeats, with emphasis, "Your slut."

And it's funny how easily that assuages you. You probably should be worried. Maybe deal with the very likely outcome that this will not end well—reality tends to have complications that the simplicity of just lying in bed with an impossibly beautiful woman cannot anticipate.

Yet, it's okay to just believe for a second that things will be alright. It's okay to lean back into the pillows and let her have her way. Let her suck you until you're seeing stars, and then climb on top of you again and fuck you until you've forgotten how to function and you can't even see past your nose, let alone whatever comes the morning after.

"Of course, I'll remember that."

"And here I am doing my best to make you never forget, Daddy."

Only, one final, stupid, silly little question—"I never asked, how did you know the code to my apartment?"

Danielle laughs, letting your cock pop out from her lips, stifling her giggles against your thigh. "My sister's birthday. Got it first try."

"Ah," you answer, and then, "Fuck. Probably should get that changed."

"Definitely should get it changed," she answers, then tacking on, "Especially if I'm going to be spending more time here."

"Even more than you already are?"

Danielle just grabs her hair in her fist, loops it around and tightens it into a makeshift ponytail. Lifts her chin and looks up at you. Defiant. "Where else would I go?"

And for now, it'll have to be enough, because really, all you can think of, as she sinks her lips back down onto your cock, takes you deep into her throat, and her eyes start to water and you're already throbbing and ready to release, is that she's claimed total victory over you, and for that alone you'll let her have it all.

To the winner, goes the spoils.

Everything she wants, everything she needs.

With a gasp, Danielle lifts her head up; pre-cum, saliva, drool falling off her lips and grins so fucking adorably that you're already thinking of rushing towards words that she’ll never let you take back.

She reads it on your face, sees it take shape on your lips and stops you. Her hand reaches up to cover your mouth, her eyes wide and gleaming.

“At least let a girl earn it first.”

And so you let it rest, because right now you’re exactly where you should be—in your bed, nearly reduced to a puddle of basic needs, with Danielle in your sweatshirt with all her otherworldly beauty and loveliness straddled right on top of you.

Her mouth full of you, your heart full of her.

“Then don’t ever stop,” you tell her, knowing full well that she never had any dreams of slowing down. Your thumb pads her cheek. She leans into your touch. “Keep going, just like this.”

[cryptotheism]

The "potion-crafter" archetype of alchemist used in fantasy is often, like, an independent chemist that works off commission or sales to create fireball elixirs or exorcism salves. Is there a grain of truth, there? Did alchemists in any period you studied make a living by synthesizing magical items (like panaceas or DIY-chrysopoeia-kits or somesuch) and selling them on to any willing customer, or was that not really in their domain?

Ha! You know sometimes it can be a bit annoying answering asks like this, because most fantasy media isn t terribly interested in authentically representing history, BUT THIS TIME I can give y'all a specific and direct answer!

The archetype of the potion-crafter you're talking about almost definitely has its roots in an actual pre-paracelcian european medical profession; the Apothecary.

There were three types of doctors in the 1500s. There were diagnosticians, the people who went to school to learn about anatomy, and were allowed to call themselves "doctor." There were surgeons, the low-skilled workers who were in charge of hacking off limbs and draining bedpans. And there were apothecaries, basically the medieval equivalent of a pharmacist.

If you were a wealthy merchant, and you went to a doctor for your runny nose, he would look you over, and give you a prescription that you were supposed to take down to your local apothecary, so you could buy a potion from them.

But these prescriptions weren't exactly strict. A doctor might prescribe you an exact list of ingredients with the amounts, or he might just prescribe you "a healing ungent of cooling and drying herbs." So the apothecaries occasionally had some wiggle room based on supplies and expertise.

The important thing to remember, is that apothecaries were NOT considered magicians or alchemists.

That is, until Paracelsus came along.

See, good ol' Paracelsus was a radical innovator. He was one of the first physicians in history to be all three types of doctor at once. He was a diagnostician, a surgeon, and an apothecary. He argued that all doctors should have knowledge of their entire profession, and that no doctor was above suturing their patients wounds, and mixing their patients medicines.

He was also, crucially, an alchemist and a magician.

Alchemy was the cutting edge of technology for the time, a practice regarded with equal parts awe and suspicion, but it was more the realm of glassblowers and metallurgists than doctors or botanists. Paracelsus disagreed. He argued that if it's part of God's creation, it should be used to heal the human body.

This extended to magic. Paracelsus figured that you had to factor in things like "the movement of the planets and their influence on the earth." And he was known for prescribing patients things like "astral talismans to be worn about the neck." A practice that, even for his time, was often seen as backwards and superstitious. (Although given how harmful medieval medicine was, the astral talismans might have been your best option sometimes.)

Paracelsus was a radical. People fucking hated him, especially when he was alive. But his ideas were extremely influential, and exploded in popularity after his death in 1541. I can confidently say that the fantasy archetype of the Potion Brewer is based on Paracelcian physicians, the doctor/alchemist/apothecary/magicians who followed his theories.

Here I'll link my Patreon if y'all wanna support my research! I have a whole section on Paracelsus.

[ms-demeanor]

Hey friend! So while I'm incredibly skeptical, I'm not strictly against alternative medicine, like you are. I saw you mention reiki, and thought you might geek out on this article like I did:

https://web.archive.org/web/20200308195914/https://www.theatlantic.com/magazine/archive/2020/04/reiki-cant-possibly-work-so-why-does-it/606808/

It's called "Reiki Can't Possibly Work. So Why Does It?" and I highly encourage reading the whole thing. It first of all thoroughly debunks a lot of the claims reiki practitioners make but it also details all of the studies that have proven its effectiveness and provides what I find a pretty compelling explanation: that much of modern western medicine is stressful and traumatizing. Of course laying in a quiet room with the lights dimmed while a kind person sits with you and wishes for you to be well is effective. It reduces stress and all of the negative biological processes it triggers, which promotes healing.

The article mentions that for years we didn't understand the mechanism by which acetaminophen worked - we just knew it did. I knew a man who was really into "chakra therapy" in the 90s where he had a set of colored sunglasses that, supposedly, would rebalance one's out-of-whack chakras through light therapy. He found that attending to his throat chakra, yellow, helped him sleep better. Years later, formal studies found that yellow lenses filter blue light and can help regulate circadian rhythms.

When I was really little, my uncle sold magnet therapy products (which claimed to promote circulation?? I think??). I had a huge meltdown at a family reunion and no one could get me to calm down. My uncle put a blanket full of magnets on top of me, and I immediately relaxed. Imagine my surprise hearing that story for the first time as an adult who now uses a weighted blanket for stress.

I agree that people need to be really careful about these practices, about getting scammed, and especially about herbal supplements that can have dangerous interactions. I also think there's an extent to which you can analyze the risks and benefits and say, "Okay, I have no idea why this works but it does and there's no major downsides."

Hey so I get a bit heated in this response but I want you to know that I approached this ask in good faith because I know you and I know that we have a lot of the same values and interests and this touched a nerve that was not at all your fault and once I get past the direct response to the article I think I come off a little less. Um. Like the aggression there is not directed at you, it's directed at the article and at one person mentioned in the article specifically who is part of why my reaction to the article is so not good. But I promise after the last bullet point I come off as less reactive, I think. (I'm also publishing this publicly because I think it may be helpful for people to see how CAM stuff often gets away with a veneer of skepticism-that-isn't-actually-skepticism - the article claims to be skeptical but then makes a ton of assumptions and cites some truly mind-bogglingly bad sources that a lot of people won't recognize as bad if they don't have a hair trigger trained by far too much time on the bad CAM parts of the internet).

I've actually read that article a few time times, and would like to do a quick rundown on why I find it unconvincing:

She doesn't cite any decent studies on reiki; one that she does cite is just a self-reported questionnaire response from 23 people in 2002.

While we don't know the exact mechanism of action for acetaminophen, we do know that it does work - it measurably reduces fever and in double blinded RCTs produces reproduceable results in reducing certain kinds of pain. The Science Based Medicine authors cited in the article who called for an end to studies on reiki did so both because there is no plausible mechanism of action for reiki (specifically as energy work, not as 'being in a room with a patient person who listens to you') and because there is no good evidence that it works. (And they wrote a follow-up to the Atlantic article; I like SBM but it's quite sneery, as are most of their write-ups of reiki). When Kisner asks "why should this be different?" when comparing reiki and acetaminophen, the answer is: because there is not only no plausible way that reiki *could* work, there is not any good evidence we have that it works better than placebo.

"Various non-Western practices have become popular complements to conventional medicine in the past few decades, chief among them yoga, meditation, and acupuncture, all of which have been the subject of rigorous scientific studies that have established and explained their effectiveness." This one sentence needs probably twenty or so links in response, suffice it to say that western medicine has emphatically not established and explained the effectiveness of AT LEAST acupuncture and the casually credulous way Kisner accepts that acupuncture is effective (effective FOR WHAT?) throws some serious doubt on her ability to assess these kinds of things.

The title of the article is "Reiki can't possibly work, so why does it?" and that's probably the Atlantic's fault more than Jordan Kisner's fault, but she doesn't ever demonstrate that it works. She says she got a buzzy feeling after her training, she says that patients at the VA were asking for reiki as treatment for pain and sleep disorders, she says that people remembered "healing touches" from parents and loved ones and that the same mechanism might be what makes reiki 'work.' She says that reiki "has been shown by various studies that pass evidentiary muster to help patients in a variety of ways when used as a complementary practice" and the two studies that she includes that weren't just a questionnaire were 1) a non-blinded study of heart rate variability post heart attack where the reiki arm involved continuous interaction with a trained nurse and the other two arms involved resting quietly or classical music (so relaxation as a result of additional focused attention by attentive medical professionals could account for this? Why was the control for this study not having a med student sit and hold the patient's hand?) and 2) a study of patients who sought out reiki who were surveyed after treatment and noted improvement on one of twenty mental or physical markers (this study is like, GOLD for an example of a bad study; no control, self-selected participants who believe in the efficacy of the intervention, exceptionally broad criteria for a positive result - I find it really really really challenging to grant any credence to someone who confidently cited this as an example of reiki "working")

Near the end of the article she says "At the same time, this recalled the most cutting-edge, Harvard-stamped science I’d read in my research: Ted Kaptchuk’s finding that the placebo effect is a real, measurable, biological healing response to “an act of caring.” - if she read any of Ted Kaptchuk's research she didn't link to it; what she did link to was a 2018 New York Times profile of him and Kathryn Hall, researchers at Harvard's Placebo Studies and the Therapeutic Encounter program. Being any flavor of journalist and citing Ted Kaptchuk as your source for cutting-edge, institutionally-backed science is disqualifying.

I now need to do some yelling about Ted Kaptchuk.

For clarity: I have as much medical training as Kathryn Hall and Ted Kaptchuk, which is to say: None.

Hall is a microbiologist with a PhD in Public Health, so she at least a background in science. Kaptchuk is an acupuncturist with a BA in East Asian studies and a doctorate in Chinese medicine - notably NOT a medical degree; he was forced to stop calling himself a doctor and had papers retracted after enough people questioned whether the school he claimed he attended even existed and the documents he presented to claim that he was an "OMD" were conclusively translated and did not have any indication that the granted a medical degree of any kind - Science Based Medicine was involved in investigating this because they've been comprehensively anti-quack forever and Ted Kaptchuk has been a quack forever (after recieving confirmation from the government of Macau that Kaptchuk's alma mater was not a medical degree granting institution SBM STILL gave him the benefit of the doubt and had people translate his documentation for final confirmation).

He is also an author on of one of my most beloathed ever studies, which showed that sham acupuncture, placebo, and albuterol all produced the same effect on patient-reported well-being, coming to the conclusion that patient reports can be unreliable and that "placebo effects can be clinically meaningful and can rival the effects of active medication in patients with asthma." That fucking line, that stupid goddamned line, gets cited in every piece of woo bullshit about how acupuncture or chiropractic or some scam-ass diet all work, I've run into this study while looking through at least twenty bibliographies and it is one of the biggest, reddest flags that whoever is writing the paper you're reading is full up on some bullshit. Because, see, the paper found that "placebo effects can be clinically meaningful and can rival the effects of active medication in patients with asthma" in terms of *patient-reported* markers, but the fucking study found that only albuterol produced an actual effect in lung function. Here's the sentence BEFORE the one that gets cited all the time: "Although albuterol, but not the two placebo interventions, improved FEV1 [forced expiratory volume in one second - the measure for lung function used in the study and used to diagnose asthma] in these patients with asthma, albuterol provided no incremental benefit with respect to the self-reported outcomes." It doesn't matter if the patient *feels* better if they can't actually breathe! It doesn't fucking matter - feeling better but still having poor breathing leaves you more vulnerable to dying of a fucking asthma attack! I hate this goddamned study so fucking much and it's used all the time to claim that placebo can be just as effective as medicine for making people FEEL better but, like, they're still sick even if they feel better! I HAVE HAD PEOPLE CITE THIS STUPID FUCKING STUDY TO ME AS EVIDENCE THAT I DON'T CARE ENOUGH ABOUT TREATING MY FUCKING ASTHMA BECAUSE I DON'T GET ACUPUNCTURE TO TREAT MY FUCKING ASTHMA. If sham acupuncture makes you feel better when you've got the flu but doesn't lower your fever or make you less contagious, you shouldn't act like you don't have a fever or aren't contagious this study makes me INSANE.

Okay done yelling.

I think this look at placebo in the midst of her article about reiki is really interesting because it's very common for CAM practitioners to claim that it's as effective as placebo - which just means that it's not effective. This is a great explanation from The Skeptic on why placebo isn't and can't be what Kaptchuk, Hall, and the like claim. It's also interesting to me that Kisner didn't choose to link to a 2011 New Yorker profile of Kaptchuk that is somewhat less rosy about his placebo studies and includes this absolutely crushing statement: "the placebo effect doesn’t appear to work with Alzheimer’s patients. Trivers suggests that this is because most people who have Alzheimer’s disease are unable to anticipate the future and are therefore unable to prepare for it."

But to the actual point of the ask: I honestly think it's fascinating how much CAM success probably rides on "well did you listen to the patient and pay attention to what was wrong with them and sympathize with them and help them lay out plan that made them feel like they had some agency in this exceptionally frustrating situation (chronic illness, newly diagnosed issue, totally undiagnosed issue) that they're dealing with?"

I know part of why people with chronic illnesses turn to CAM is because they're ignored and dismissed by allopathic practitioners who are largely looking for horses, not zebras - this is one of the reasons that I'm really big on reminding people that (at least in the US) DOs are fully licensed physicians who use a holistic and patient-centered approach so if you are someone with a chronic illness who has had trouble getting diagnosed or had trouble getting doctors to believe you, swapping your MD for a DO as a primary care physician might be really, really helpful to you.

But the flip side of that is that is that I worry deeply about the question of where harm starts; the example with your uncle is really great because you do have a solid instance of something working but for totally the wrong reason (pressure being the mechanism that actually helped, versus magnets being the reason given by the person who did the treatment). Some of this stuff has very little likelihood of causing direct harm, but has the distinct possibility of having indirect harms, which people in the anti-CAM space generally divide into two categories, treatment delay and unnecessary costs (opportunity costs, monetary costs, wasted effort, etc.)

I'm going to step outside of your specific example and look at magnet therapy generally, which really is a spectacular thing to focus on because it honestly doesn't have any direct harms; nobody is allergic to magnets, the kinds of magnets used aren't strong enough to interfere with medical devices, it's even safer than the whole "well herbalism is sometimes just a cup of tea" thing because there are "safe" teas that can do real harm to large populations! But simply being around magnets is not going to hurt anyone (unless they're swallowed; nobody swallow magnets please).

One of the things that I think goes under-discussed when talking about placebo and CAM is that the people trying the alternative solutions desperately WANT the alternative medicine to work (I suspect that this is why the self-selected study of reiki patients has such a significant finding). They are pulling for it; they may be looking at it as a last resort, or they may be hoping that it will work to avoid a treatment that is more frightening, expensive, or inaccessible. I think this actually contributes a lot to the delay of care that we see with CAM.

The absolute worst case harm I can imagine from magnetic therapy is delaying treatment. Let's suppose we've got a diabetic patient with gradually increasing peripheral neuropathy; they have reacted poorly to gabapentin in the past and are looking for something more natural, and they hear from their chiropractor that magnet therapy can be used to treat neuropathy. They buy some compression socks with "magnetic and earthing properties" and sleep in the socks. Whether through the compression controlling some edema or through the simple desire for the socks to work, they feel some relief from the nerve pain they were experiencing and decide that this is a success. The socks work! They continue wearing the socks with occasional pain, but less than before. However, because they are focused on the lack of pain, they don't notice that it's accompanied by increasing numbness. The numbness significantly increases their risk of injury to their feet, which significantly increases their risk of amputation.

It probably sounds like catastrophizing to say "using magnets could lead to amputation" but honestly I don't think it's that far out of the realm of possibility (every time I post on this topic I get flooded with the saddest stories in the world about people whose loved ones died because of delayed treatment for cancer or heart disease).

The second category of harm is cost, which is honestly pretty minimal with magnet therapy, as long as you aren't spending $1049 on a magnetic mat

or paying a chiropractor to give you magnetic treatments. For some other medically harmless treatments like reiki, cost is the thing that I worry about - while I was looking up information related to the article I found that people are charging anywhere from $60 to $225 a session, and selling multi-session packages for thousands of dollars - and if someone thinks that something works, even if it only works by being in a soothing space where someone cares about you - they'll pay for it.

I'm aware that all of this is also extra complicated because of the cost and lack of access to allopathic medicine - a chiropractor broke my spine because I could pay her $60 per appointment but I couldn't pay $125 to see an MD when I didn't have insurance. People who are sick are going to look for treatment; people who have been denied treatment or dismissed by doctors are going to look for alternative treatments.

But man, I really wish I'd spent that sixty bucks on half of a doctor's appointment because the chiropractor didn't know about the benign tumor that I had that weakened the structure of that particular bone when she did her adjustment; it also didn't make the pain go away, it made a different pain start and get worse because it turns out I was having debilitating muscle spasms that then had a bone injury added in on top.

(Chiropractic, for the record, goes with chelation therapy and many many many many cases of herbalism where it's NOT just cost or delay; people claim these treatments are harmless and they are not. They can do tremendous harm).

But yeah I'm not going to deny at all that all of this would be a hell of a lot better if people (especially marginalized people) didn't have to jump through hoops to prove to a doctor that something is wrong with them, and didn't have to do so in an appointment that attempts to cram whole person care down into fifteen minutes, and didn't have the possibility of bankrupting you. Interacting with allopathic medicine is a nightmare and I totally understand why people want to look outside of it for treatment.

I've just heard too many horror stories and seen too much predatory CAM to cut much of it any slack.

At the end of the SBM response to the Atlantic article, the author (I can't remember if it's Gorski or Novella) makes the point that reiki is a spiritual practice, and that we've known for a long time that spiritual practices can improve a person's well-being in a number of ways; they can reduce anxiety, they can provide community, they can give people a space to feel and express emotions that they certainly aren't going to be able to process in a doctor's office. Spiritual practices can be wonderful, and we know there are a lot of people who they can help. But they aren't medicine, and attempting to replace medicine with them (which I don't think that most reiki practitioners are trying to do, to be fair, but which Ted Kaptchuk DEFINITELY is in trying to 'harness the power of placebo') is a disservice to people who need an inhaler instead of acupuncture.

Also, and I know this was not your point but I have to bring it up because people ask about it whenever discussions of placebo come up:

The placebo effect is not treatment. The placebo effect, whether achieved through deception or when someone says loud and clear "this is a sugar pill" does not improve an illness, but it may improve how a patient *feels* about an illness. In some cases, this may as well be the same thing - if you're dealing with muscle pain because you're stressed and no matter what you do it doesn't go away because your shoulders are always up around your ears and you're grinding your teeth and you're sleeping poorly, then literally just talking to someone who is in an office and says "this is a sugar pill, go ahead and take it" may make your muscle pain feel better, but it isn't going to reduce your stress and it isn't going to last, and if your muscle pain is because you're feeling angina as a result of a partially blocked artery then it SURE AS FUCK is not going to make you better and may mask symptoms that were a warning sign of a much more serious problem. People who are sick deserve actual treatment, and placebo is not treatment, which is part of why Ted Kaptchuk makes me want to tear my hair out.

[aninipanin1]

Hihi, here is some food for thought, albeit rather niche!

Ex-Professional Footballer Young Manager who agrees to play as a substitute player in a match in exchange for a major business sponsor for Blue Lock, and suddenly was absent from the Blue Lock Facility for a week because of it. The Blue lock boys (who didn't know about her football background bc she didn't think it was anything impressive compared to their achievements in Blue lock) panicking thinking Ego locked her off, only to end up learning the truth and watching (fanboying over) her match.

STRIKER OF THE HEART AND GAME

Notes: Yall never fail to give me the most, diabetic and tooth-decaying ideas to write. Theyre all so sweet, and I love reading ALL your asks.

"Good luck, Y/n-chan! You can do it!" Anri cheered beside you, watching you put on your cleats and gloves inside the sports bag as you sat on the tiles ground of Ego's office.

Speaking of the man, he had his back on you, eyes focused on the CCTV cameras around the facility as he watched the players practice in their own respective stratums and places. He was the epitome of calm, cool, and collected, opposite of the pounding of your heart just thinking about playing the sport once again.

Well, its not like Ego is about to be subbed in a team as its center midfielder where he has no prior knowledge or experience playing with, and being expected to dominate nonetheless.

"Thank you, Anri-san! Um...I'll try my best."

"Why are you nervous, Y/n-chan?"

A squeak was heard from Ego's swivel chair, as the man turned around to face you, his eyes disapproving and empty as it always looked. He stood up before folding his upper half forward to meet your eyes.

"You are in Blue Lock. A team already passed the average-at-best standard and world of Japan. Even if you are a manager here, you know the key to awaken your true capability, you know your own ego and strengths. Use them, use them wisely. I chose you as the manager of this place for a reason."

You looked at the man, your main mentor ever since you have been in this place with a smile. One large enough to brighten up your whole face. You know that even if his words came out somewhat harsh, this is his way of caring. Having seen it time and time again with how he interacted with the Blue Lockers, it was his way of comforting and at the same time looking out for your pre-game morale.

"Of course, Ego-san! I'll win this game!"

And with that, you headed out of the facility, inside one of the buses provided by the higher-ups and started the journey to where the match will be held.

"Y/n-chan! Let's eat lunch togeth- Eh? Y/n-chan?"

Shidou burst through your office door, ready to jump and hug you, and hopefully, have you join him in the cafeteria to eat lunch. But to his surprise, you were not there.

You would always be there when it was lunchtime, writing down some things or eating away in the confines of the room. But today, you were nowhere to be seen.

Shrugging, the striker just hopped his way to the cafeteria, thinking that you may be there. But to his chagrin, you also were not there. Shidou started to get a bit upset and sad, after all, he has not seen you for hours! He needs his daily dose of Y/n.

"Hey, has any of you guys seen Y/n? I haven't seen her since breakfast. She told me she'd help me schedule my workouts." The blonde heard Karasu talking with the other PXG members in the cafeteria.

But much to their worries, everyone seemed to be experiencing the same thing. No one has seen you since you entered the cafeteria to eat breakfast, and that was very unlike you. You would usually be walking around the facility, helping with the players and staff or even accomplishing your never ending responsibilities and tasks.

"Hmm, maybe she is just busy in her office? Or with Ego-san? We know how her work piles up aomost every second. I feel bad for her." Nanase answered Karasu's inquiry. His theory was not that farfetched and could possibly be true if Shidou did not just went there a few minutes ago.

"She isn't in her office, headband. I tried to look for her everywhere, but she isnt here."

"Not even in a different stratum?" Karasu added.

"Dunno. Didn't check."

"Then don't assume, idiots. She's probably in the other stratums-" But Karasu was cut off when their door to the cafeteria opened to reveal Reo who looked a bit panicked.

"Has any of you guys seen Y/n-chan around in your stratum?"

"Er, no. Why?"

"Then she's really missing. I've been running around the other stratums to ask if they've seen her anywhere but she is nowhere! You guys are the last place I asked and...well you get the idea."

Now that made all of them panic, where were you?!

Looking around at each other, they nodded as if they thought the same thing at the same time. There was definitely only one person who knows where you are.

Welp, time to go to Ego's office.

"What?" The man said, annoyed and a bit angry at the accusatory questions. Well, it was not accusatory but the thought of doing what the players were saying made him feel like they think he was dumb.

"Was she kicked out and we'll get a new manager?!" Reo said, panicking.

"What?! No, Y/n-chan is the best. You can't do that!" Charles said, frowning heavily. His teeth bared as if he was ready to bite Ego if he did confirm he kicked you out.

"Oi, four eyes if you kicked her out, I will kick you literally." Shidou threatened.

"Did she leave us here?" Rin said. Even if his voice sounded neutral and cold, there was a slight crack that indicated he was absolutely heartbroken if that was the case.

"No, you idiots. She didn't leave, nor did I kick her out. I am not dumb and she pampers you all too much for her to just leave." Ego rolled his eyes at the overdramatic and outlandish thoughts they had. Instead, he turned his swivel chair to face the monitors that were mounted on the wall.

"She is out for the week. She has to play in some matches. Unfortunately, no is not an option since it was tue JFU's decision. Now leave and go back to training, or else someone will indeed be kicked out of this place, and it's not her. Now go."

This definitely made the PXG team's (and Reo's) ears perk up in interest. You? Playing in a match? In a football match?! Holy cow, why did they not know? Or better yet, why did you not tell them?

That afternoon, most of the PXG members huddled together as they searched your game in the tablet provided in Blue Lock. And to no one's surprise, it was currently live, and the game is just about to start.

Meanwhile, in the Manshine stratum, Reo dragged both Nagi and Chigiri in their rooms and prepared the tablet.

"What are we even watching, Reo? I wanna play." Nagi mumbled on the pillow, laying down on the purple-haired male's bed stomach down, Chigiri who sat down on his bed as well nodded.

"Yeah, I mean, I don't mind. But it's not that important, is it." Reo looked offended when Chigiri even tried to insinuate that the match was not important.

"What do you mean not important?! Y/n-chan is going to play as their midfielder! Its the most important thing ever! We're already lacking because we're not there at all to support her! So we have to support her from here."

Now that got Chigiri to straighten up, and Nagi awake, both their eyes wide. They thought it would just be a normal exhibition match. But Reo did not mention you would be playing! Then maybe they would have immediately paid attention.

"You mean Y/n-chan is playing?!" Chigiri said in shock.

"Y/n-chan...I want to watch...!" Nagi said, for the first time paying attention to something, his once half-lidded eyes wide awake and focused on the screen of the tablet.

"Yeah! I didn't tell you?" Reo asked to which he just got a pillow thrown on his face, courtesy of Chigiri.

"No, you dumbass! Just start playing the live, geez."

Needless to say, the two teams even forgot to eat their dinner just to see the end of your match was an understatement. The members were too focused on their screens.

Charles, Rin, Shidou, Chigiri, Reo, and even sometimes Nagi would be muttering curses and mean words towards your teammates who would fail to receive the ball that you so graciously give them from the midfield. There were even times when you would give it to them in a place optimal for a goal, with a pass that even an amateur can score a goal with but they would still miss.

"That number 9 is a fucking idiot." Rin rolled his eyes.

"Number 9? You mean number 21! She is the worst striker I have ever seen! Hmph! If I was (nickname) I would never pass to her!" Charles said throwing his fists up in the air.

"Why is she even the striker? Y/n-chan should have been the striker, and instead, she's stuck at the midfield." Karasu commented.

"Poor Y/n-chan. The enemy team is already ahead of 2 points, and they still have none." Tokimitsu said the moment he saw your face when the camera panned at you. You looked stressed and a bit annoyed at your incompetent teammates.

"If I was her, I would have probably punched that number 21 girl." Shidou said with the angriest face anyone has seen him. After all, they were strikers, and they know a good pass when they see one. Yours were absolutely perfect every time, and if they received a pass like that, they would never waste it away by being locked by the goalkeeper orget stolen by the other team.

The Manshine players were not fairing well either. Reo was clenching the poor blanket too harsh in anger at their strikers and even the defenders and midfielders for leaving you alone at times and not syncing with your smart plans.

"Absolutely horrendous!! Why didn't they go there?! Even an idiot would know that Y/n-chan lured the other team's players there for a reason!" Reo complained.

"They're absolutely brainless at the game." Chigiri rolled his eyes, although he did feel a little amused that someone like Reo, who is usually a gentleman to girls, throwing curse words at the players.

"Hmm...I would be so happy if Y/n-chan gave me a perfect pass like that. She would even clear up some of the defenders just so number 21 or nymber 10 can score a goal." Nagi commented, a frown on his face, not liking that your team was losing.

But of course, when you make a mistake, its forgivable. Like the one time you received the ball a bit sloppily, mainly because you were growing tired.

"Well duh, of course she would miss. She's tired of carrying the whole team on her shoulders." Reo said.

In the dying minutes of the game, with only less than 10 minutes left, with the score being 2-0 in favour of the opposing team, you seemed to have had enough. You became a ballhog, dribbling like a pro against the defenders and midfielders, using your teammates as shields just for you to score a goal.

And let's just say that if Ego was not watching the match as well, he would have scolded the two teams for screaming like wild animals when you scored.

"Now that's a goal you fucking idiots!" Shidou laughed and jumped like a monkey along with Charles.

"She's the only decent player, which sucks." Rin rolled his eyes.

Some of the members of your team ran to congratulate with you, but instead of celebrating, you turned to the striker who looked a bit annoyed that you did not pass to her and scored yourself.

"If you can't do your work as a striker. Then I will do it and score. Do me a favour and get out of my way, that's the least you can do to help this team win."

Everyone was silent after you said it with a straight and emotionless face, just watching you walk away to your place in the court. To say that the striker was pissed was an understatement. She was the striker of this team for more than three years now! She was also older than you, meaning she deserved respect, and you had the audacity? You were just an intern, a replacement of their midfielder.

The other team members were split into two. Some who are close to the striker immediately sided with her and started to glare at you, while some who really wanted to win were more on your side, but they decided to just stay neutral and continue playing.

Until the end of the game, you were a ballhog, passing scarcely to avoid it being stolen by the enemies.

'Tsk, at least some of the defenders in this team are decent.'

Doing a quick roulette on the defender in front of you and immediately holding the shoulder of the one to your left. You squinted your eyes and shot another goal, this time it had a bit of curve to it that the goalkeeper did not read so it resulted into another miracle goal, or atleast thats what they called it because there was only 2 minutes left in the game.

Everyone in the stadium were on their feet, even the commentators stood up shouting in their mic in amazement.

"What...WHAT A GOAL!! THE INFAMOUS MANAGER OF BLUE LOCK HERSELF, Y/N L/N, SCORED A MIRACLE GOAL! A GOAL THAT EQUALIZES HER TEAM!"

In the end, there came an additional time but unfortunately, no goal came. After all, you were tired beyond belief as stamina had always been your problem and hence why you do not play much anymore.

So, it came to penalties. You managed to score your own penalty, but to say that your other teammates flopped was an understatement. The other team, however, managed to score 2 penalty goals, hailing them the winner of the match.

The boys, who watched in the Blue Lock facility, were more than pissed of course. You lost because of those stupid teammates of yours that dragged you down. The worst part is that they know you can produce better plays if only your teammates can catch up to it.

Ego, who waa watching remained neutral as ever, while Anri was gripping her hair in annoyance.

"It can't be helped. This is why we are striving to change Japanese football, Anri-chan." Ego said.

In the locker room, you remained quiet and neutral as always as you took a shower and changed into your normal clothes. But as you did, the striker of the team came out, her face contorted in annoyance.

"We lost because you were a fucking ballhog. Why couldn't you just pass the ball to me or Hana over here? Heck even to Aiyo-"

"Not really. We lost because none of you scored your penalties. Even if not all of you did, if only some of you did, we could have won. My ballhog move was for the best, after all, it was the one that scored us two points and equalized us. It was even the reason we got to play longer." You said with a straight face, just saying facts. But to the others, especially to the striker, you were bragging about being the best in the team and dissing their skills which pissed her off more.

If it was not for the manager walking in, the situation would have gotten worse. Thankfully, the manager was not any of the players as he congratulated and thanked you for your hat trick. And said, it was very much impressive seeing as the opposing team was one of the strongest in Japan.

"It's nothing, sir. I still had fun playing. Thank you."

With one last bow you left them to themselves.

"Why did you not tell us about this?!" Isagi said, mad and horrified. The other two teams did not tell them that you were playing matches and that you did one yesterday and he did not get to watch it?!

"Yeah! Chigiri, you're so mean!" Bachira said with a pout, while Niko just agreed.

"I'll tell Ubers about this. They have another one tomorrow right?"

"Yeah. At 7:30 pm. We wanted to support Y/n-chan even if we're stuck here. But be aware, her team is so shit it gets annoying and that Y/n is the only carrying that team. So yeah..." Chigiri said to which Isagi just shrugged.

"Oh, it can't be that bad, right?"

Oh, how wrong he was. Wednesday came, and all the teams all camped in a meeting room (inside the Bastard Munchen stratum) and set up the live (they managed to convince Ego, which was surprising but knowing his favouritism towards you, it was not that surprising).

At first, it was just the Blue Lockers, but when Kaiser, along with Ness, entered the meeting room, they were a little curious.

"Leave, Kaiser." Isagi rolled his eyes, to which the German just smirked.

"Oh, but I heared little Y/n will be playing a game. I want to watch how she does, of course."

Now, the meeting room was crowded as hell. Even some of the masters went to watch, for God's sake. The moment the match started, the whole pace was quiet down, and everyone's attention was on the screen of the large tv.

You got the ball early in the game as you dribbled past the midfielders and decided to give the strikers one chance to prove if they'll be worth passing to in this match.

You decided to give a curved pass accurate to where number 21 was, till now you did not really have any care to know what her name was. It was a pass that was easy to score a goal with. You put a good spin to it, and it was optimal for any type of straight shot.

Even the Blue Lockers rolled their eyes at this, not liking that you're going easy on your team, especially after what happened last game.

"If she doesn't score that, I don't have any hope for any of them at all, except Y/n-chan." Chigiri commented, remembering how pissed he was when he watched the previous game.

They all watched the striker, receiving the ball with the side of her right foot and kicked to the net only for it to hit the goalpost, bouncing on it to end outside.

"Are you fucking kidding me?" Isagi let out, everyone started to curse as well as the others.

"I mean, I would make a comment about how they're a Division 3 team. But anyone could have scored that goal..." Yukimiya said, shaking his head. This was a professional team? He thinks not.

"I think I know that striker girl. I have heard of her before... yeah. She was supposedly good, guess fame got to her head and she didn't improve anymore." Niko said, thinking back to some articles he has read about her. If that was the case, it would be rather sad that she wasted her talents and skills to remain in that same level forever instead of bettering herself.

After that fluke of a goal, you ended up just passing the ball to some of the defenders and midfielders who are much more efficient in protecting the ball or even scoring. After all, you were not used to being a ballhog, and the last game was just a desperate measure. But now, you had time to flesh out the game and your strategies instead of going all instinct.

Passing to one of the midfielders whom you knew named Yuko, you let her weave her way through the enemies before using her being stuck in the middle of two of them as a way for her to have no choice but pass it to you, which she did. You received it through the small opening before running through the field, dribbling the ball as fast as you can (you weren't a natural like Bachira or even Lavinho, but you weren't bad at it) before you were stopped by the opponent's defenders, who were lured by the aspect that you were not the best dribbler they have seen and to hopefully steal the ball.

Instead of fighting or dribbling past them, you kicked the ball high. It was high enough to seem like it was a pass, only it was to get past the defenders. It curved downwards as the goalkeeper tried to catch it, to no avail.

You scored your first goal of the night. And by God, was it magical to see. You were like a magical siren, elegantly swimming past the defenders, luring them using your elegant plays and seemingly understandable and naive plays so they can try and intercept you, only for you to turn around and be the one to make use of their belief that you were an easy. Just like the old sailors who thought that the beautiful girl in the middle of the ocean was an innocent woman, lured in by her beauty and hypnotizing voice, only to be dragged down the sea in despair.

You were that. Beautiful yet deadly. This was something none of the players or even masters have seen.

You looked ahead at the goal, not even celebrating as you just wiped the sweat on your forehead. As if you did not just plunge the opposing defenders into your sea, drowning them in despair.

"Damn...I've never seen her play...I kinda wish I did before..." Oliver said, breathless. The rest seemed like it as well, as if they were the players on the field, affected by your siren song.

"Now I get why Ego called her play...hypnotizing once...this is what he meant..." Kunigami added.

"Heh, a play that is so beautiful yet naive looking to lure in those around her, only to turn around and show her hidden monstrous side the moment she's in her golden zone for a goal. A killer playstyle that kid got." Lavinho said as he rested his back on the walls. You looked like you were dancing on the field so beautifully and elegantly. He would know since he was a dancer. And now he wonders if you had any backgrounds in dancing. The way you position your foot, your posture, the way you moved, and your isolation, it all reminded him of a dancer. He'll have to ask you.

"See! I told you guys. Y/n-chan is absolutely breathtaking when she plays." Bachira said excitedly. He had you play with him before, and he had a taste of your true ego before. Needless to say, it was one of the reasons why he had a crush on you somewhat. Your posture and the way you moved with a ball at the time to him was the perfect form for dribbling. And so, he would ask you for help in training and well, it was brutal but fun.

"Hmm, now I know your hidden side, Y/n. That crazy four-eyes definitely picked the right person to be the manager of these losers." Kaiser whispered under his breath.

ADDITIONAL TIME:

After the game:

Blue Lock is WRITTEN by Kaneshiro Muneyuki and ILLUSTRATED by Nomura Yusuke. All credits to the both of them.

[pennylaneforthoughts]

It's just so narratively crunchy that Spite writes poetry as his chosen form of self expression. Especially given that he clearly struggles to communicate with the people around him, the fact that he writes poetry in the scant moments he has command of Lucanis's hands really cements other textual indicators that Spite is frustrated by his difficulty with communicating. Over and over again he asks to talk to Rook, to be heard, but when he does get the chance to talk, he isn't understood, which must be unbelievably frustrating for the poor guy. So he practices! In writing! And that writing gives such a neat look into Spite's mind and how he conceptualizes himself and his situation. So I'm gonna dust off my English degree and yell about his poetry.

1.

a PEACE

cut from the ALL

golden stranded weaves

PROTECTION CAGE

keep them OUT

keep me IN

As with all poetry, there's a lot of room to interpretation, and I think that's especially intentional for Spite's worldview as a spirit. He's from the Fade, which operates on perception and emotion instead of concrete immutabilities like the material world. That being said, I think this first poem is Spite trying to process and talk about a.) his own violent summoning from the Fade and b.) Lucanis's mental Ossuary.

Spite was ripped from the Fade against his will, a piece of a larger infinity cut and captured. Likewise, Lucanis creates the Ossuary in his mind as a (poor) coping mechanism for dealing with what happened. Spite recognizes this as an attempt to create peace in emotional turmoil.

The golden stranded weaves evoke the imagery used in the narration explaining how the dagger cuts through the Veil. It's visually represented as gold geometric lines separating the Fade from the material world, which may be a hint to how spirits see the Veil: a barrier made of gold strands that has also stranded Spite from the world he knew. Given that Lucanis's mind Ossuary is also a part of the Fade, this same barrier applies here as well, stranding him and Spite from the freedom they seek.

The Veil and the mental Ossuary therefore function as what Spite calls a "protection cage," designed both to keep its occupants safe and keep them contained. Arguably, Spite could also be talking about the magic that keeps him bonded to Lucanis, magic that is likely similar in nature to how the Veil works given that blood magic is what sustains both. Protecting Spite and Lucanis from being hurt further by the Venatori but also keeping Spite from going home. He's stuck in Lucanis whether he likes it or not. This is further complicated by the mental Ossuary, which Lucanis has unconsciously constructed to keep the people he loves out of harm's way (protecting them) while also keeping Spite trapped.

This is Spite's first cry for help. He recognizes that he is trapped in multiple ways: he is forced to share a body that aggressively does not want to share with him, and the part of the Fade that Lucanis is connected to mentally is also a prison, one that does not respond like Spite would normally expect the Fade to respond. Lucanis mentions in Sea of Blood that "The Fade does whatever a spirit wants. Real walls and chains, not so much," but Spite tells Rook in Inner Demons that he can't touch the locks in Lucanis's mind despite it technically being a part of the Fade. My personal theory is it has something to do with the blood magic that bound them together in the first place, but regardless of why, it's understandably extremely frustrating for Spite to feel trapped both in the material world and the Fade, neither of which respond to him as he expects. To Spite, it must feel like the very laws of physics have stopped working as they should.

2.

scentsing the BEYOND

rememburnings from before

when one was infinity

not a small shade

not a SHARP hooked claw

in a gut

takemeouttakemeoutletmeout

riiiiip

Here we get to see how Spite has been learning to use language to artistically express complex abstract ideas, which speaks to him having mature, adult intelligence, given that abstract thought is a marker of higher-order cognition. In this poem, Spite is no longer simply describing his situation as he is in the first poem, he is self-reflecting and forming his own identity.

It's clear in this first line and in several points throughout the game that Spite's favorite sense is smell, possibly because it is a sense that he can unintrusively access and therefore isn't barred by Lucanis. So he is not just sensing, he is specifically "scentsing" what he calls "the BEYOND," likely the Fade, referencing his ability to pull things from it (especially considering that the little icon on an accessible spot says "a sense of something").

But he's not just talking about the Fade as a place, he's reminiscing of the Fade as a time. But the portmanteau he uses here, "rememburnings" suggests an attempt to explain the emotion he associates with this remembrance. The memory is painful. It burns. It hurts him. He remembers being a part of the Fade, being part of "infinity," and now he is only a "small shade" of what he once was.

But that's not all. He's also demonstrating that he understands how Lucanis perceives him, sees that he is hurting Lucanis. He knows that he was force-fed to Lucanis (quite literally according to his banter with Bellara where he says it happened when "They fed me something. Like he was a parasite in uncooked meat."), which explains why Spite conceptualizes himself as being a foreign, damaging object "in a gut." And, importantly, he doesn't take satisfaction from that. The tone he is using here suggests grief and desperation, especially the "takemeouttakemeoutletmeout." He wants to be free, yes, but he also wants to stop being an object of pain. And yet the last line suggests that Spite knows that separation would also be painful. It would be another ripping, because he is a claw now. As much as he is trapped by Lucanis, he is embedded in him as well, and extraction would tear them both apart.

3.

toes wiggle

when he drinks the brew

a small shade

and a wounded spirit

sitting

there is STILL

we are still

there is an INFINITE

there is a SHELTER

there is a STORM outside the center

UGH Spite your MIND!!! This poem makes me want to cry fr. It's so much more concrete than the other two, showing how he's becoming more familiar and comfortable with Lucanis's body and the material world. The tone is gentle, like a relieved sigh, with none of the urgency and desperation of the others. This is the first time we see Spite describe a physical sense other than smell. He notes that Lucanis wiggles his toes when he drinks his favorite coffee, suggesting that this is something Spite feels as an occupant of the same body, though he likes to manifest himself as separate. It confirms that he feels what Lucanis feels through shared senses, though has his own interpretations of sensory input.

Spite still conceptualizes himself as a "small shade," but no longer is he a "SHARP hooked claw." He is still hurt, still affected by what he and Lucanis went through, but he now sees Lucanis as more than the body he's trapped in. He sees Lucanis as a fellow "wounded spirit," hurting and healing in the same way that he is. They are sitting together, feeling together, and they have found stillness. They've finally made peace.

While he may no longer be a part of the Fade as he once was, Spite has found that being and living with Lucanis is another "INFINITE" that he gets to experience. He is safe, sheltered in their bond. It's no longer a cage. It's just protection now. And while Spite can feel the absolute mess that's going on with the world and the Fade and everything they're dealing with, he is centered now with Lucanis, which makes it all manageable.

All this leads me to believe that after Inner Demons and their little coffee date with Rook, Spite and Lucanis are at a point in their relationship where Lucanis is much more accommodating of Spite and where Spite is able to explore and experience the material world with a certain level of patience. He no longer feels like he has to bully Lucanis into letting him pilot because he understands physical space now and can experience things alongside Lucanis as he experiences them. Lucanis is more confident letting Spite speak through him because he's no longer worried Spite will wrest complete control from him and/or do something to hurt them. As Lucanis says in the final romance scene, they're no longer afraid. Lucanis now trusts Spite's reports about what happened and how much time has passed while he was asleep, which suggests that Spite has earned that trust.

At this point, the line between demon of Spite and spirit of Determination seems extremely blurry at best, and it really makes me wonder if gaining a physical body through means other than normal possession allows spirits to develop more complex cognition and emotional versatility beyond just their purpose.

[novvabee]

Birthday Present

Summary: poly!marauders x reader, you give Sirius a cute gift

cw: suggestiveness if you squint, general fluff

word count: 1K

“Ok now open your eyes!” You said excitedly to your boyfriend.

He was covering his eyes with his hands, being led by James and Remus on either side.

This elaborate surprise all started about a month ago. Sirius’s birthday was quickly approaching, the first birthday out of all of you. You knew that you wanted to do something special for him. You knew that he was almost impossible to shop for, he has everything he needs or wants, he is terrible at saving his money and impulsively buys whatever he wants when he sees it. 

The few things you knew you could buy for him, James and Remus had already got for him. Remus a few new vinyl records and James a pair of brand new black Converse. 

It was you who brainstormed those ideas up and your boyfriends took them right out from under you before you got the chance to go out and buy them yourself. Those assholes. Those absolutely lovely, kind, and caring assholes. 

You knew that you had to go in a different direction, then. You also wanted to upstage the two idea thieves slightly, but you wouldn’t admit that out loud. 

You then remembered a charm that you could try and teach yourself. You didn’t have long to learn and practice it, especially when all three of your boyfriends were attached at the hip, attached at your hip. You weren’t exactly complaining, you loved them, but you couldn’t exactly practice your surprise in front of the birthday boy and you didn’t trust James and Remus to not ruin the surprise for Sirius.

So that meant sneaking off in the middle of the night most nights, slipping out of the comfort of your boyfriends warm embraces and the soft cozy bed. But you would do it if it meant you could see a smile on Sirius’s face.

So you practiced and practiced all those late nights for this exact moment.

Sirius dropped his hands and opened his eyes. He blinked at you standing in the middle of your shared bedroom. He looked slightly confused.

“Are you my present, love?” he said in a suggestive tone.

You giggled in reply before muttering the complex incantation. Once the last syllable left your lips, the room became lit in a magical glow. The roof appearing to fall away and a universe of stars and planets taking its place.

All three of your boyfriends looked up in awe.

Sirius was the first to step forward, still entranced in the charm. His eyes scanned from point to point, from star to magic star. He smiled, face glowing from the blues and purples being reflected on him by your little trick.

You thought for a moment that maybe you should have gotten him something. This wasn’t a tangible or memorable object that he could have. You waited for a moment before explaining yourself. “Look, I know its not much,” you started, “I just- I thought that I could-”

“This is amazing!” Sirius exclaimed. “I- how did you…” Sirius seemed to be at a loss for words, stepping under the small universe you created.

“This is beautiful,” James spoke up. 

“It's incredible,” Remus agreed.

You felt better about the charm now. You thought that maybe your present wasn’t enough, that maybe you could just say this was what you could come up with as a sort of place holder until you could get a real gift. But their reactions, Sirius’s reaction in particular, set your mind at ease.

“Look!” Sirius said joyfully, grabbing Remus’s hand and pulling him to the center of the room. “It's all of us.”

“All of us?” James asked, amused and confused.

Sirius motioned up at the magic ceiling, ponting at the moon “Well, here’s Moony of course,” He pointed out the brightest shining star in the corner of the room, hanging above the bed, “That’s me, the Sirius star,” he then made his way to drag James under the glowing sun. “And here you are.”

You smiled ear to ear. “Yeah, I guess that is all of you.” you said, admiring your work.

“And you.” Sirius said from across the room, still holding James’s hand.

“And me?” you repeated to him, confused.

He crossed the room to where you had planted yourself since the big reveal. He closed the gap and cupped your face in both hands, tilting your head up to look at him. You were met with the glow of his eyes, both from the magic ceiling you had created and from the look of pure love and joy he was giving you. He looked so beautiful.

“You are the galaxy that holds us all together, without you, there would be no reason for us to shine now would there?” You weren’t too sure about his logic, but it was sweet nonetheless. You turned your face to kiss the inside of his palm and smiled at the feeling of his warmth.

Later that night, once all the gifts were given, when you were through with your fancy dinner date, after you all sang happy birthday and sat in your living room to eat the cupcakes you made for Sirius, when you all crawled into bed, Sirius nuzzled closer to you. 

His head on your chest, his body almost fully encapsulating your own. You played lightly with the ends of his hair, twirling them softly between your fingers. You heard James and Remus sleeping, breathing long and deep, cozied up with one another. 

“Love,” Sirius said softly, as not to wake the other two.

You hummed a response.

“That spell,” He started, “Is it… difficult?”

“Not at all.” you answered him. You had practiced it over and over to the point where you could probably do it in your sleep.

“Well… that’s good.” He said. You got the impression that there was more he wanted to say about it, but had become shy.

“What about it, Siri? You wanna learn it?” You asked. You would gladly teach it to him if he wanted, again, you had practiced it so much you could teach it to him easily.

“No,” He said sleepily, “But could you maybe do it again? Before we go to bed?”

You smiled and whispered the spell. The room lit yet again with the stars and planets. Sirius smiled slightly, eyes taking the whole picture in. You both laid there, under the stars and watched the beautiful night sky, just holding each other and appreciating the beauty before sleep eventually took over you both.