#but like she had a whole lot of shit going on

[gutsby]

Halftime

Pairing: dbf!Joel x Reader

Summary: A chance meeting a week before Thanksgiving leaves you and your dad’s best friend to handle your feelings the only way you know how: fucking on the couch when your dad falls asleep during the game.

Warnings: 18+. Unprotected piv. Age gap. Soft dom!Joel. Daddy kink. Praise kink (!) Makeup sex. Pussy pronouns.

Note: ‘Or maybe on a fifty yard line watchin’ Bama beat the hell out of Tennessee’ is a line from Riley Green’s ‘Hell of a Way to Go.’ I was in Knoxville when we played this year, but in my fic, Alabama wins. If you’re a Vols fan, I’m sorry. And RMFT.

Word count: 10.5k

Guilt brought you home, and liquor helped you stay.

These were two of the shittiest things a daughter could admit, but the fact was that you simply wouldn’t be here if your dad hadn’t broken his leg at work last week. That you wanted to help, but your patience was thin, and the only way you knew how to reconcile the two was to drink. A lot. Friday you came home, and by midday Saturday, sometime around eleven or twelve, you were plastered.

Staggering up the front steps of your childhood home with Theresa Servopoulos—newfound friend from camp and the heaviest drinker you’d met in a long, long time—hot on your heels. You’d just had brunch, and the meal was mostly liquid. Bottomless mimosas had been Frank’s idea, and when his husband Bill had offered to be the DD after the fact, you’d had no choice but to accept, really. You drank your weight in citrus and champagne and spent the whole morning getting to know Tess’s friends. As your state of intoxication progressed, you’d told them your troubles and all that had been plaguing you lately.

Now, hours later, you didn’t want to think at all.

You wanted to sit your ass down on the couch, turn the TV on to Disney+, and spend the next three to thirteen more binging Star Wars spin-offs and discussing with Tess at length whether Katee Sackhoff or Timothy Olyphant was the more fuckable supporting actor.

“Honestly…I’d let Jabba the Hutt hit,” you confessed, slurring your words a little as you fumbled for your key.

“You’re fucking lying,” Tess half-groaned, half-laughed.

She watched you try and jam metal into metal and fail twice before steeling herself against a rocking chair and reaching out her hand. You waved it away. At a distance, you heard the hum of an engine and another voice, loud:

“You ladies need a little help over there or wha-at?”

That was Frank. He was arguably the most drunk out of the three of you and hanging his handsome, greying head out of the passenger side of Bill’s Chevy S-10. He’d seen you try and fail with the key, too, and seemed more eager than ever to lend a hand, while his husband was likely kicking himself for ever offering to drive you back.

Tess gripped the porch chair harder and gestured, dazed.

“Give her a minute, she’s—” She hiccuped once. “—intelligent and entirely capable. She’s got this, OK?”

You didn’t. You really didn’t. And by the way you were finessing this key you didn’t feel too fucking smart either. You crammed your key against the tight, rigid slot in the front door of your home, missed it completely, and then wondered, dimly, how men were able to aim their dicks.

How Joel ever managed to fit that massive, throbbing—

“Fuck!” you cursed, kicking the doorframe with a huff.

The periphery of your vision was spinning and swimming a little now, and before you knew it, Tess had snatched your keychain from out of your hand. She got to work.

And while she did, you turned back to Bill and Frank, whose truck was still idling quietly in your driveway.

Frank had an eyebrow raised. His chin was in his palm, and his elbow was planted in the car’s open window. With that look alone, you knew what he wanted to say.

“Fine…fine,” you capitulated in a loud, droning shout. Head spinning, “You can give him my fucking number.”

Frank grinned at that.

“No shit?” he yelled back.

“Yeah. I really am that horny.”

From somewhere in the car, Bill groaned his disapproval. Frank’s smile only widened. It’d been his idea to set you up with one of their neighbors after you’d divulged all of your dating life turmoils over eggs benedict and grits that morning—how fucking your dad’s best friend had, in fact, not been the wisest decision and you needed something new to get your mind off the man for a little while. Frank had been all too happy to offer supplying your number to the so-called ‘dreamboat’ next door to them. Initially, you’d brushed it off, but the longer you stood on this porch contemplating the hellish few days you’d be spending at home for Thanksgiving, the more you drunkenly reasoned a dick might do you some good.

And if it wasn’t from Joel Miller, even better. You leaned against the nearest porch column and pointed at Frank.

Then at Bill, squinting dumbly and faux-accusingly.

“I’m desperate, but I’m trusting y’all, too, alright?”

You wanted to get fucked, not fucked over, again. Frank seemed to understand right away and nodded his head.

“I’ll give him your number, tell him you’re hot—which you are—and you two can work something out. It’ll be fine.”

He pointed back at you, still smiling, and you hoped it would be. Behind you, Tess had solved the puzzle of the chrome-plated house key, and had thrust the door open. She stumbled inside, and your feet started to follow hers.

“Tell Tess to text us your number!” Frank had to cup his hands saying it, as Bill was already starting to pull away.

You nodded and waved. Watched the world veer sideways and your kind, considerate, hammered new friend-of-a-friend repeat how great this was going to be—this guy’ll do you so good you’ll forget Joel exists—while you backed into the house. A gust of warm air from inside pricked at your skin, and along with that touch came the tiniest trace of hope. A sanguine sort of warmth that twisted low in your gut and made you smile.

And cup your hands, as Frank had, while calling to him:

“How old is Mr. Dreamboat, anyway?!”

The truck was crunching its ways down the gravel drive. Its path was slow, though, and Frank’s voice was clear.

“FORTY-ONE!”

It was as though you were hearing those words in a dream. You almost couldn’t help what you said next.

Fanning yourself, you yelled back, “I lo-o-o-ve that!”

“What?!”

Frank hadn’t heard you. They were farther away now.

You had to practically scream it now, but you were drunk enough that you didn’t really care. Tess was entertained, half-hunched on the floor and trying to work off her shoes while she laughed at this stupid exchange.

In truth, it didn’t matter how loud you yelled, because you lived on several dozen acres of land, and your dad wasn’t home. He’d told you that he was hitching a ride with Tommy to their usual weekend haunt to watch the Alabama-Tennessee game, and it started an hour ago. The house was empty, and you were free to screech.

“I said, ‘I love that’!”

“Yeah? Love what?!”

Frank was hanging halfway out of the passenger window by now, and his face was flushed with moronic humor.

Bill was probably grinding his teeth together as he drove.

“O-O-O-OLD MEN!” you shrilled, as loud as you could.

Next thing you knew, Tess was on the floor. Wheezing.

It didn’t matter whether Frank could hear you now; evidently, he’d gotten the message. Their truck was crawling down your drive with a low, rumbling crackle, and the eyes that were still glued to yours were shining.

Before they turned out of sight, Frank waved again and blew you a kiss, as you and Tess had done to him at some point earlier that day. He slipped back into the car, and your sides were nearly aching from how hard you were giggling—nothing was even that particularly funny, but with a nice noontime buzz and Tess’s relentless cackling from across the foyer, you couldn’t help it. You shut the door, staggered over, and were about to drop.

Right when you were about to collapse, though, Tess wobbled up. You saw her raise two hands in front of her.

“I’m— I’m gonna pee…or puke…possibly,” she warned.

That wasn’t good.

You pointed up.

“First door on your left. Do you need any—”

But Tess was already staggering off. You might’ve laughed again, and trailed after her with a plea to try not to projectile vomit all over those nice festive towels your dad had bought, but the moment came and went quick. In fact, it wasn’t even brought to an end by your friend’s departure but rather the screech of her feet on the floor.

Nearly tripping over herself to leave, then crashing into something else before she could. You heard a thwack.

Then her huff, ‘Fuck. Sorry!’ And you turned.

You looked up and cursed.

Again, you felt like you might be in a dream. Only this time, the sight had more of a nightmarish hue, and you had only to grip the edge of a chair—no, a table, a side table—beside you in the hall to keep yourself upright.

Your sweet, sloppy-drunk friend had run straight into Joel. She was raising her hands again and saying sorry.

You could tell she meant it, too. She was just shaking her head, appearing to try and rid herself of the stunned, dumbfounded feelings, when she tilted her chin up.

Then, somehow even brighter, she smiled in recognition.

“Lucien Flores!”

Not missing a beat, like you knew she wouldn’t:

“You fucking prick.”

Of course she was sober enough to remember his face. The time she’d mistaken him for an uptight FEDRA counselor back at camp. How you’d fucked him on her bunk. All the shit-talking you’d been doing about him since, too. You knew she wasn’t a woman to mince words, so it didn’t surprise you in the slightest when next she placed a hand on his pec, patted it lightly and added:

“You’re an asshole. A spineless, slimy, sad sack of shit.”

Joel blinked as she walked past him, toward the stairs.

“Good to see you, too, Tess.”

“Eat shit and die.”

“Theresa.”

You hadn’t even meant to say the last aloud; it just came out. Tess was holding the rail, going slow but determined to get upstairs without losing her food all over the floor.

The next thing you heard was the slam of the bathroom door. You winced and thought of your dad’s decorative towels a moment. That thought was then supplanted by another, though you pretended not to feel it, at least outwardly. You brushed past Joel to go to the kitchen.

Why was he here? He surely wouldn’t have come unless your father was there, and your dad was supposed to be watching the Vols take the ass-beating of a lifetime from the Tide. Or maybe vice-versa. You weren’t sure how the latter was doing since Saban retired. You rubbed one temple as you opened a cabinet and looked for a glass.

Reconsidering, you opted for a plastic cup instead.

Your head was throbbing as you walked to the sink.

You sensed you likely weren’t of a mind to be holding anything fragile, and the second that followed only proved it. A footfall sounded by the kitchen island, and you flinched, dropping your cup like a fucking idiot.

“Where’s my dad?” you blurted out, not thinking.

You didn’t want his voice to be the first to fill the silence. You picked your cup off the floor and turned on the tap.

More silence followed. You couldn’t be sure if it was your own drunken paranoia or a genuine feeling of two eyes on your back, but your skin bristled. You were prepared to pose the question again when your answer came in the form of a new sound: not Joel’s voice, but another’s.

An announcer, apparently. You turned your head and saw ESPN on the living room TV, where the game was playing. In front of the screen, your dad was supine on his recliner. His jaw hung slack, and his eyes were shut.

So much for those morning beers with Tommy.

His leg was armored with a boot: a real, no-bullshit cast meant to protect the tibia he’d shattered, propped up in front of him while the other dangled haphazardly from the chair. You watched him, feeling an odd mix of pity, nausea, and love, and for a second, you didn’t think to move. This man was the reason you were home, after all—and why Joel was, too. You almost forgot your anger.

Your cup was full. Overflowing. You turned off the sink, then poured what excess you could as your hand shook.

You shouldn’t have been holding anything in that moment, off-kilter and unnerved as you were, but you wanted to seem occupied. You inhaled and started past Joel again, who was leaning against the counter, quiet.

He still didn’t talk, and let you stroll about half a foot in front of him before you felt the cup lift out of your hand.

“Hey—” you started.

But Joel was resuming your path before you could finish. He’d snagged the water from your grasp and made his way out of the kitchen, calmly, and you didn’t have to ask to know where he was going. You felt a pang of rekindled resentment but said nothing, knowing that was useless.

Arrogant motherfucker. Patronizing asshole. Clearly, you couldn’t be trusted to carry a cup of fucking water up the stairs in your own home, so he had had to do it for you. You went over to your father in the living room, blinking through a dozen more pissed off thoughts, when you glanced down at one of your hands again. You winced.

Stop shaking.

You needed to stay busy. Make use of those dumb, trembling hands while Joel was here and not let him see that it was all from memories of him—not the mimosas—that you couldn’t keep a steady hold to save your life.

You started to clean, mindlessly. Cleared the old coffee table of its manifold beer cans and plates of stale pizza. You walked with an unsteady gait, the room still tilting a little, but you ended up getting a decent amount cradled in your arms and into the trash or the sink shortly after.

You had just taken a bite of a slice of pepperoni and made a face when your dad shifted in his seat, letting out a grunt. Still unconscious, he rubbed at his arms. The house around him was warm, but never quite enough for a man who appeared to have been born cold-blooded. After years of this, you knew the routine; you dropped your pizza, went to the thermostat, and cranked it to 75.

Less than a minute later, it came: “Boiling us alive, huh?”

It was the first you’d heard from Joel since he spoke his curt greeting to Tess. You were over by the closet getting a blanket, and Joel was stood in the doorway, frowning.

You turned, holding up the big wool throw for him to see before you went back over to your dad in the recliner.

“He needs it,” you replied, gaze averted.

“By ‘it’ you mean his electric bill gone through the roof?”

He could be such a father sometimes. The worst kind.

“No, keeping him fucking warm, Joel.”

And the end of the last sentence you hadn’t meant to be so loud. Or mean. You didn’t really care whether it offended him, but the thought of waking your dad to hear that—being rude to your ‘Uncle Joel,’ as your dad had so innocently called the man last month—was awful. You squinted seeing him stir under the blanket, but then he turned to the side and snored even louder. You sighed.

“Doctor’s got him on some heavy painkillers. He’s been out since before the last game even ended,” Joel said.

You glanced at the TV. The game was crawling to halftime at a snail’s pace, by the looks of it. You smiled, seeing those puke-pumpkin-hued fucks getting smoked. In a second, though, the curve of your lips was fading.

“Will you stop?”

Your voice was shrill. You hurried over to Joel, who was busy dicking around with the thermostat and trying to get it down to 68 degrees—freezing, in your dad’s mind.

“It’s too hot.”

“No, it’s not.”

“You’re being—”

“This isn’t your fuckin’ house, Miller! Quit!”

“Yell a little louder, why don’t y—” Joel began to scold.

You wouldn’t let him. Of all things to get on your ass about now, volume wasn’t the hill he’d die on today. Before you even realized what you two were doing, you shoulder-checked him like you might do an annoying brother, and his arm wound swiftly around your front. It didn’t hurt, but it sure as hell made you mad to be held.

You made a jab at Joel’s ribs and ignored the grunt from him. Anger was a natural defense—your default state.

Every last semi-tranquil encounter you’d shared with someone you cared about before was always marred by rage at some point, and with Joel, it came as easy as breathing. If you weren’t tearing each other’s clothes off, you were ripping him a new one, or he was grating your nerves. You didn’t get along, and you likely never would.

That didn’t mean there wasn’t need there somewhere. You just smothered it with something hostile, constantly.

You wished it would go away. You shoved at his arm.

“You’re gonna wake him,” you hissed, strained.

“Yeah? That’s what you’re worried about?”

You wriggled against Joel’s hold and, scrunching your nose, made a pass for the dial on the wall. He caught it.

Now he was holding your hand in one of his, and your shoulder with the other as his forearm crossed your chest. Joel’s frame was looming over yours, and you glared ahead of you, where the screen still read ‘68.’

You could throttle him—Joel Miller simply refused to lose

“Is that all you’ve gotta say to me, after this whole time?”

His breaths were tight like yours, but the voice was slow.

“What else is there to say?” you snapped.

“You’ve been ignoring me all month.”

“I’m in college. I have shit to do.”

“Like block all of my calls?”

“Go fuck yourself, Joel.”

“Just tell me why.”

“Fuck. You.”

Your last two caustic words were still warm on your tongue when Joel turned you around. Again, he wasn’t forceful or harsh—your looks had enough vitriol for the two of you—but he pushed your body against the wall. Right beside the thermostat, your spine straightened, and your legs wrapped reflexively around his waist.

“Is that an invitation?” he hummed, voice palpably lower.

Un-fucking-believable, you thought. Of course, it was.

Silently, you prided yourself in wearing a dress that day. It wasn’t the short, red-and-white gingham thing you’d worn to the fair with Joel last month, but it was loose. Flowing. Easy enough for him to hike up your legs, sliding a coarse, warm palm up your thigh while the other held you tight to the wall. His hips pinned yours, and with that gesture, you felt him hard and desperate in denim.

“Need me to fuck you now or what? Is that the only way I’m getting a word out of this mouth?” he pressed again.

Honestly, it was. You nodded once to say as much.

Then he pushed you harder against the wall. He wrestled with his jeans just enough for you to hear a belt, and a button, and a short, sharp zip come down, and your mind was swimming with filthy ideas when he grunted.

Joel nosed your cheek, and a hand made its way to your mouth. You sucked in a breath right before you felt three fingertips graze the seam of your lips. Prying them open.

“If I’m fucking you here, I need more than a nod, kid.”

You really, really hated him now. This felt like a game. His index curled into your bottom teeth and pulled your mouth open wider, while his own was smiling, faintly. It was hard to talk with his fingers skirting your tongue—his warm, bare member springing out and grazing your folds through your panties down below—but you tried.

Your words were muffled as you spoke, “Please fuck me.”

Clearly, that was all Joel needed. With an easy nudge from the head of his cock, he pushed your underwear to the side, and his grin got bigger when he felt you soaked.

You were drooling down his length, and he hadn’t so much as touched you before he pushed you up against his body. It felt almost shameful as he slid himself inside.

Then, in the next moment, your brain went blank. Your bodies were joined completely, and Joel had you seated all the way down to the base of his cock, where a tuft of salt-and-pepper hair tickled your skin. His fingers hung limply from your lips while he nestled in; when you groaned, he used his middle and index to stifle the noise.

“Shh, hey—” he started, as if suddenly remembering where he was, and whose daughter he was fucking, “You’re okay. You’re good…I know that feels good.”

You despised him even more when he was right. He pressed the heft of his belly into you, and with the friction, you couldn’t help but whimper against his hand.

“Fuck you,” you bit again, this time through fingers.

“I am.”

Then he pushed them in further, and he made you suck. Joel started fucking you gently against the wall, and with the first few strokes, you knew you’d be putty soon enough. You focused on feeling and trying not to whine.

“I’ve been texting,” Joel continued, breath labored, sounding half-crazed, “Calling every chance I got—”

He paused to jerk his hips harder. Make you bounce on his cock or maybe just hold him closer from the force of it. And you did, wrapping your arms around the back of his neck and reluctantly burying your face into the side.

He was familiar, that was for sure. You tensed seeing something else familiar—your dad in the next room—and preemptively swallowed a moan while Joel kept going.

Fucking you stupid and talking to you, per usual.

“—to make sure you were OK,” he finished, panting.

Pulling his fingers from your lips so you could answer:

“I’m fine.”

“Are we?”

“You lied to me!”

And no sooner had he retracted his hand that he needed to clamp his palm over your mouth. You’d said that loud.

In the next room over, through the open space between the kitchen and the den, you heard your dad snore softly. When your gaze flitted back to Joel’s, it was like you were chiding the other at once—whose idea was this, anyway? Slowly, he moved his hand down, but his gaze was stern.

“Didn’t mean to lie,” Joel answered, now lower than ever.

“But you did. Dad’s been fucking his old sidepiece, my mom’s best friend, and you didn’t think to tell me?”

“I didn’t think it was my place—”

“Your place?!” You made sure to keep your indignation hushed this time, but your eyes went wide. Incredulous.

You would’ve shoved Joel off if he hadn’t moved first. Neither one of you had had a fraction of the presence of mind to be thinking straight here, obviously, so when he carried you closer to a table in an adjoining room, all you were thinking was how not to lose your cool completely. When Joel tried to set you down on the wooden surface, you slipped away. You moved to the couch; you weren’t even considering where you were going, just that you wanted more of him, and you needed to be done quick.

If that meant fucking on the sofa behind your dad’s recliner, so be it. Joel balked a second before following.

“Are you…?” he started, voice no louder than a whisper.

“What? Not your ‘place’ here, either?” you shot back.

Admittedly, you were both insane. No matter how far away your dad’s sleeping form happened to be, or how thoroughly knocked out he appeared from the drugs, this was batshit, objectively. Joel’s eyes narrowed at you.

Then he moved some more. Casting a sidelong glance at the recliner less than ten feet away, he gripped himself and gave you a look as if to say, ‘Are we crazy now, or…?’

You nodded to confirm that you were.

By moving again, apparently, Joel was saying the same.

Except now it wasn’t with words but with a look—eyeing you hungrily and setting all rational, sane thought aside to climb over the couch to you. Your legs were spread.

Joel slotted himself quickly between them, then inside you, without another word. His body crowded yours. The scent you knew was also the fragrance you hated most: the smell of his American Spirits. He tried to kiss you with those lips, and you dodged them, choosing instead to hold the coarse greyish hairs at the nape of his neck and pull them. Draw him closer to your body without letting him get too close to you. Joel let out a grunt.

His hips rutted in short, quick, shallow motions again, like he was desperate to feel anything. When you wouldn’t accept his lips on yours, they fell to the side of your face. He held your sides while he dragged his cock in and out of your pulsing heat, and his breaths fanned heavy on your cheek. His stubble was sharp on your skin.

“Anything you want,” he huffed shortly.

His mouth was right by your ear, and his words were spoken in a breath. And another. And another. Still panting and dragging his old, weary hips back and forth in an effort to pleasure you. He felt indescribably good.

“Want…what?” you murmured back.

You clawed at his torso and locked your legs around his waist. You glanced over at the recliner, turned away from the couch, thankfully, and hoped it wouldn’t move again. Your dad’s breaths were deep, and so was Joel inside you

Sliding a hand under your head and cradling your body to his, and still maintaining a bruising pace with his cock—you almost couldn’t take it. You wanted to come undone.

And there Joel went, murmuring in your ear. Battling the urge not to get too loud with your father there, but still:

“I’ll do anything…anything you want.”

“W-Why? For what?”

“To say I’m sorry.”

“You don’t—”

But your words were cut short. For a second, your heart leapt into your throat thinking the sound was coming from your dad’s old chair, and then you realized that it wasn’t. Just the same, your terror spiked again when you sensed it was somewhere inside—coming from the back.

“Can I get a…ROLL TIDE?!” someone yelled.

Tommy Miller wasn’t even an Alabama fan.

Still, it seemed he was here to celebrate like one anyway. You froze momentarily, taking in the shout, then the steps, then the linoleum floor of the mud room being shuffled across before the boots were kicked off quick.

His brother was quicker. Joel climbed off of you in a blink, jeans and boxers trailing just as fast. Then his hands were dropping to you, gripping your arms, and heaving you up. You stumbled. You shoved your skirt down, fast, and barely had the time to breathe while you skittered after Joel, still in his hold. The two of you ran like hell: quiet, but like your asses might’ve been on fire. You made it out to the foyer, and from there, you could hear Tommy making a fuss in the kitchen. Joel strode three steps at a time going up the stairs, and behind him, you nearly face-planted. He tugged you up then, swiftly.

Silent as death at the top of the stairs and trying to usher you into a room, not saying a word. You dug in your heels

“Wait. Wait—Tess?”

“Napping in the tub.”

Of course. You cast one last pensive look at the bathroom door before you let Joel nudge you away.

You were pushed into a room; you knew it was yours. Steeped as you were in fear, shame, and lingering inebriation, you couldn’t waste a second getting in—and neither could Joel. His frame followed close while Tommy’s old, familiar sounds grew louder downstairs. He ushered you further, walked you forward, pushed you in an inch or two too far, and before you knew it, your knees were bumping along the front of your bed. You tripped.

Your hands flew out to break your fall. Unfortunately, the limbs that were meant to stay straight were weaker than you’d hoped, and instead of holding you up, they crumpled beneath your weight. You fell on your face.

The spot where you landed was soft, though.

You let out a muffled grunt into cotton sheets.

Across from where you lay, Joel’s steps were slow—painstakingly so—and when you’d propped yourself up and blinked again and again to adjust your eyes to the dim half-light of the room, you could see him there. Pacing. Skating a look to the doorknob, as if checking to make sure he’d locked the thing properly, then running a hand through his hair. From your perch, you saw a wince.

Then his face turned to you. Again—guilty.

What the fuck am I doing here with you?

That was what you thought you saw in his expression, anyway. You felt compelled to ask him the very same.

“Why are you here? Why is Tommy here?” As if to punctuate your question, more footfalls followed, loud, “I thought he was taking my dad to the bar. And you—”

“I know. He was supposed to. Then he texted and said your dad crashed before the Notre Dame game even ended, so he figured he’d head over to the bar himself.”

You were about to speak, but Joel continued.

“I said he was an idiot to leave your dad home alone, since the man can hardly walk on his own. So I came.”

You swallowed. While some momentary swell of gratitude threatened to constrict your throat, you forced out a frown and scooted back. The room swayed a little.

“That the only reason?” you asked, clipped.

At the foot of the bed, Joel held your gaze. It was stern. Your own vacillating look was no match for the man who, in spite of the two or ten beers he’d likely guzzled that morning, could stand firm. Prop his hands on his hips.

Look every bit the displeased fatherly figure while he watched you crawl across the plush, pink bed at length.

It wasn’t right. You saw it in his eyes: the want painted there, however burdened by shame they might’ve been. No doubt seeing your childhood bedroom had kicked the guilt into overdrive, reminding him, plainly, that he was his age, and you were yours. And his best friend’s kid. The irises that shone in the glow of warm white fairy lights overhead flitted to the canopy where they hung. Joel sized up the mesh overtaking most of your bed, all flowing and girlish and juvenile as it cascaded from the four wooden posters, and he had to shake his head. He blinked faster, as if trying to rid himself of some thought.

“I’ll go,” he choked out.

“Alright.”

You unzipped your dress and let it fall to the bed the second Joel had started to turn. He stopped. Got himself an eyeful and probably could’ve bruised every fingertip from how hard he tightened his grip along his belt loops.

He watched you slip out of the fabric, then brush it aside. Clothed in just your bra and panties, you went to the nightstand and opened a drawer. You leaned down.

And, while you kneeled and bent over to reach, Joel was afforded a too-perfect view of the wet patch in the fabric between your legs. You could’ve sworn you heard a groan before you crawled back over to the place where you’d been—American Spirits and a lighter now in your hand.

“Where’d you…” Joel started, only to lose his train of thought the moment you sat and unclasped your bra.

You lit up, comfortably. Nodding to the window.

“Mind opening that?” you asked him.

Joel stood back and stared. He squared his shoulders, seeming poised to say ‘no,’ when his gaze dropped lower.

“Those’ll kill you.” But he was just looking at your breasts

Reluctantly, he moved from where he’d fixed himself at the center of your room and walked over to the window. He slid the pane up, but he didn’t let his gaze stray from you too long. As soon as the smoke found a place to go, he turned. He shook his head again. You smiled, then.

“These are yours,” you replied. You bared your teeth at him with the cigarette in between them, teasing a little.

After, you closed your lips and inhaled once. You blew a breath through your nose and let the smoke trail out. Joel scowled as he took a step closer to your bed.

Somewhere downstairs Tommy had cranked the game up louder. You could hear the blare of fanfare and a booming, cheery voice announcing a first down.

Meanwhile, Joel’s jaw hadn’t flinched. His lips were still curled in that sour, unsightly grimace. He had to have gotten a good deal of practice doing that while you were away, with every text, call, and FaceTime you’d declined over the past month, you imagined. Now it wasn’t so much a matter of being ignored as it was getting smoke blown into his face that made him irritated. Galled, even.

Joel made a pass for your mouth as if to take the cigarette away, but you were too quick. You slid back.

“Finders keepers,” you chided, trying not to giggle.

“Give it.”

“Make me.”

“Kid, don’t start.”

Joel’s face was turning pink as he leaned in again. In no more than a second, though, you’d made it safely out of his reach. He had to plant a knee on your bedspread, grit his teeth even tighter, and stretch his frame further in, and just when he’d gotten within half a foot from where you sat perched at the head of the bed, you felt a snap.

Or perhaps heard a groan and surmised the rest. Joel cursed, ‘Fuck!’ then fell to his elbow, hissing with pain.

He gripped his side, and he winced. Your eyes went wide.

“Joel?”

The cigarette fell from your lips; as soon as it did, Joel swept a brusque, graceless touch in your direction. He held tight to his side while he swatted the thing away. The second the still-lit stick hit the covers, Joel had it brushed to the side, sending it flying off of your bed.

His nostrils flared when he stood again. He crushed the cigarette underfoot. He looked pleased—then pained.

“Joel!” you hissed. This time reaching for him, and catching him narrowly before he lurched into your bed.

“‘M’alright. Stop, stop. It’s okay.”

Joel grunted, low. He held one bedpost. He clutched somewhere on his body close to the small of his back, and you could tell he felt a strain. He noticeably tensed.

“I’m fine.” And then he was starting to wave you off, too, “Lifetime of smoking’ll do that to you. And turning forty.”

You believed him. What you wouldn’t accept was how fast he tried to bend down and retrieve the cigarette from the floor. His cheeks flushed red with the effort.

And just when he’d started to tilt, you tugged him back.

You gripped his shirt and yanked him onto the bed.

Maybe that wasn’t the best for the muscle he’d pulled. At any rate, though, it was better than straining another by trying to pick up a cigarette butt, you reasoned. You hadn’t even jerked him that hard, and your bed was soft. Joel fell with a thud amidst a sea of satin, plush faux fur, a half-dozen pillows, and a mound of stuffed animals. His lips frowned as if annoyed, but the eyes betrayed relief. He breathed out a shallow puff of air once he’d settled.

“You need to stop smoking.” Grumbling now, of course.

You wanted to pinch the pout clean off his mouth.

“Yeah, really, Joel? You first,” you shot back.

“I’m old.”

“No shit.”

“Watch it.”

For someone who’d practically thrown out his back just bending at the waist, Joel Miller loved to wax poetic on the dangers of Big Tobacco. And getting old. By the time he groaned and laid flat, you decided you’d had enough of this sexless intermission, and you straddled his hips.

“Wh—” Joel huffed in protest, pushing at hands all too eager to act on his belt, “You still haven’t answered me.”

“What was the question?” you returned, careless.

But you knew it clear as day: Are we alright?

The old man didn’t stop the path of your hands, but he certainly made a show to try and pretend to stall their speed. He watched, curiosity piqued and shame still roiling in his gut, and he let you unbuckle, unzip, and finally free him from the confines of his briefs. He sighed.

It was then that you felt him hard against your palm, firm as he was before. Your mouth watered even more. When your eyes flitted up to his for permission, you didn’t expect to find resistance there, so the subsequent grip around your wrist took you back. Joel seized hold of your hand in his, and, rather than stopping you completely, he paused it in place. Sank your touch into his groin, as though tempting you with the outline of his bare length.

That was cruel. He knew what feeling him did to you.

“You know exactly what question I meant.”

What such a move would do to any girl in your position—freshly fucked and eager for more—and in your bed, no less. You didn’t care for the guilt Joel harbored today; he didn’t get to demand answers you weren’t ready to give.

“What? Feeling bad for boning your friend’s kid all of a sudden?” You smiled, voice devoid of any humor as you tried to pivot subjects, “Didn’t look like that downstairs.”

Shame flared in Joel’s eyes. Two could play at this game.

His grip tightened around your wrist, and he kept it still. In spite of this hold, you were able to flex your fingers the tiniest bit and take him snugly in your hand. He held you, and you held him, and for the next few excruciating moments, that was all either of you could do. Until:

“I would do it again.”

And then Joel’s touch was moving yours. Rubbing him. Seizing your hip with his free hand and rocking you back.

Making you hold his gaze while his dick swelled bigger.

“I don’t care if that’s wrong,” he added through his teeth.

“Wrong,” you mumbled absently. Touching him more.

It was as though you both were rooted in place by warring feelings—Joel by guilt, and you by knowing. Needing each other, and being unable to break apart. Words flowed like molasses; their end was no less sweet.

“I’d fuck you anywhere you asked if you would just—” Joel broke off suddenly, taking a breath, “Forgive me.”

Please.

The eyes beneath yours were pained with remorse.

You squeezed him tighter, and you stared more carefully.

“Here?” It left you more like a breath.

“Here.”

Your skull still buzzed. Your vision still wavered some. You could scarcely hope to know what it was that made this man a worse intoxicant than every drink you’d guzzled that morning, but the way he reached for your body and slid you back in the bed made answers pointless anyway. All you needed to know was that he wanted you, too. You could sort out the rest of it later; you let him lie you down

Joel was out of place here, that much was obvious. Clearly, no man skating through middle age belonged in the bedroom of a girl as young as you—and that was overlooking the paternal connection altogether—but all the same, he guided you back. Trailed your body with his. If it weren’t for the greys and the striations on his face and the legions of freckles bred from decades spent baking under the sun, he might’ve struck you as a much younger man. His every move now seemed to show it.

His hands shook like yours had earlier.

He watched you slide under the covers, then swallowed.

“Still cold?”

“Yeah.”

He gave you a long look, as though considering what to say. You beckoned him over and decided to talk for him.

“Like father, like daughter, I guess,” you added. Teasing.

You could hear the groan start to bubble in his throat, but Joel let you pull him in. He climbed under the sheets.

Like a much younger, doubly nervous teen around his date past curfew, he slotted between your legs with a moment’s indecision. He shed his clothes but was slow. Your gaze flitted to his torso, then his legs, and watching him gingerly undress, you couldn’t help but grin a little.

Both of you were naked in under a minute. Joel’s body was like a furnace searing hot between your thighs.

And while you smiled at him, he frowned down at you.

You might’ve expected anything next, except hearing:

“We aren’t gonna be parents anytime soon, right?”

You choked.

“What?”

Joel blinked.

“The Plan B, I mean,” he went on, color crawling up to his cheeks. He blinked harder, like he’d been dreading this, “Wasn’t sure if you ever got your…yeah. Just wonderin’.”

Just wondering.

After Joel’s Cenozoic-era condom had broken the first time you two had ever fucked, you realized you hadn’t bothered to tell him if you ended up getting your period. He’d probably been trying to ask that over the course of several dozen unanswered texts and calls the last month, but you’d been radio silent. Your drinking today had to have given the truth away, but you still felt a pang of guilt

You admired his sincerity. You didn’t want to mock it.

But when your lips twitched the tiniest bit, Joel’s did too. He’d heaved a sigh of relief before you’d even answered him in words, and for a moment, things were easy again.

“I’m sorry, Miller. That probably had you scared shitless.”

“It did.”

And, under most other circumstances, you probably would’ve expected him to chastise you for it a little. Chide you for your immaturity and shake his head, because this was always how it went. But he didn’t.

Joel smiled back instead, and he kissed your forehead.

You blinked, shortly summoning words to try and deflect.

“I mean, like…can you even imagine us having a kid?”

“I can’t. I think I’d be…” Joel trailed off, at a loss.

“Pissed to be changing diapers in your fifties, I bet,” you finished for him, and that made him laugh. You joined in, grinning, and for a second you almost forgot he was still between your legs. His cock softened against your belly.

“You’d be a hot mom. I’d be an old dad,” he countered, suddenly lowering his face to kiss and nuzzle your neck. When the ebbs of your laughter were renewed in a fit of giggles, and your feet kicked helplessly under the covers as he used his mouth and hands to tickle you then, you had to choke through your words—‘Joel, stop, I mean it.’

“Ticklish and hot, I forgot.”

His fingers were relentless on your ribs. You kicked again.

“Don’t fucking test me. I—I will kick you out,” you warned

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Go on, then.”

Evidently, the thought of ordering him back downstairs with your dad and Tommy seemed like the least likely outcome at the moment, so Joel kept tickling you. He moved his lips to your ear, about to whisper something stupid and teasing, most likely, when you jerked yourself the other way. You slid just far enough to reach off the bed. While you clawed at your nightstand, Joel simply draped his body over yours and went on kissing and touching and relishing the sounds you were making—even while you were cursing his name under your breath.

“Go. Go. Enough of this shit, Miller,” you finally told him, nudging Joel back and waving something in his face.

“Wh—”

“Since getting knocked up is the last thing either of us wants, and we’ve been terrible about playing it safe…”

It didn’t take long for Joel to recognize what it was. As soon as he’d lifted his head to ogle it, you didn’t let him stare at the box of condoms for more than a second or two before tearing it open. Its seal had still been intact.

“New stash for someone special?” Joel hummed, low.

“Nope. Just you.”

Your old friend didn’t seem to appreciate that remark, returning your smirk with a roll of his eyes, but he took the metallic-wrapped rubber when you offered him one anyway. He tore off the top. He probably would’ve liked to put the thing on, but with all the time and brainless banter that had passed, he had to get himself hard again. He eyed you once, and, wrapping a hand around himself semi-erect, he seemed to want to say something more.

You wouldn’t let him. You kissed him, and he kissed back, and with your legs sliding around the backs of his own underneath the soft, warm sheets, he probably forgot what he was going to say. Your lips and tongues intertwined without needing those words to be spoken, and before long, Joel was growing harder. He sucked in a breath when your hand reached down to touch him, soft.

Joel grunted when your touch replaced his. While you stroked his length, you could see the muscles tense in his stomach. The heft of his belly was smooth, and firm, and protruding with little patches of black and grey hairs, and the man looked so undone already with just your fingers curling over his shaft. You would’ve held him that way for as long as he asked. Would’ve relished the warmth of him in your hand, the way his breaths grew more ragged as he kissed you and let you pump him gently between your body and his. You might’ve mistaken it for something romantic when he reached up and brushed the hair out of your face, before pulling away and mumbling, ‘That’s it. That feels real good, sweetheart. You’re doin’ so good.’ But being the way you were, you couldn’t accept such intimacy without wanting to shy away. You pushed his words aside and reached for the condom in his hand, swallowing thickly as you did.

The latex went on quickly. Joel hardly seemed of a mind to try and slow things down with his body just as taut, on edge, and desperate as yours. He planted an arm beside your head, and you guided his length between your legs. It felt cozy. Tender. Nervous like this could’ve been your first. A little strange seeing how you’d done this multiple times before—had started it just downstairs, against a wall and on the couch—and somehow, felt different now.

Joel sank in, and both of you groaned.

“I missed you, baby.”

It came from him all in the same breath. Your walls clenched, and he said it again. You peered up at the man, half-expecting to see his eyes shut and the feeling of you guiding his words more than anything else—he hadn’t meant you, but what was between your legs. But when you looked, you met his gaze. Joel was earnest, clearly.

“Did you miss me?” he panted, hips dragging back.

With the head of his cock drawn all the way up to your entrance, tip stretching that soft, sticky flesh, you could scarcely do more than whimper. You laced your fingers together behind his neck, felt him push in again, and suddenly, the sensations churning low in your gut got warmer. Stronger. They made you want to hold on longer

He felt so big inside you. Overwhelming you with his size and his scent and the way his lips trailed over yours while he fucked you; it all seemed too much to give a response.

Joel kissed you again, and your bodies fell into a rhythm. You squeezed his neck, let out a breathy whine when his cock grazed something soft and sensitive between your walls, and then pulled away fully to look down and watch.

He did too. He kissed the crown of your head, mumbling:

“See how good we fit?”

Those words could’ve sent you over the edge. Your body shuddered at the next thrust, feeling the warmth of his breath still fanning across your face, and you nodded.

Your eyes all but glazed over as you watched Joel’s big, glistening cock disappear and reappear from inside your body, coated with your arousal and the rubber and looking every bit as dizzyingly good as it had before. The wet noises only increased in volume the more he sped up, and with the need blossoming in your stomach, you had no choice but to moan. Joel plunged even deeper.

“Did she miss me, at least? Did she miss her daddy?”

Your walls clenched at those words—‘she,’ ‘daddy.’

Still, you couldn’t speak. You just nodded back.

Joel’s motions grew stronger, and with every stroke inside you, his cock hit something plush and sweet. You had to bite your lip to keep the sounds from coming out too loud, but the effort was almost wholly in vain. The harder he went, the more your throat came to betray you. The more Joel seemed keen on getting you to speak.

“Feels like she does, hon,” he said, tone dulcet and low, “Pussy’s been squeezin’ like she needed daddy here.”

That was true. Your heels dug deeper in his ass, and you felt something tender swell up inside, almost painfully.

Joel was moving your whole frame with the weight of his thrusts—your body bouncing beneath him, the bed creaking under the force, your old childhood room being filled with the sounds of your blooming pleasure and his. Your cunt stretched even more; it begged to be fucked deeper. Though your mouth couldn’t form the words, it seemed Joel was more than able to make out the rest.

He brought his thumb to your clit. He rubbed it, then caught your lips in a hot, steady kiss when a whimper from yours was just about to threaten to tremble out.

“Atta girl,” he grunted against your mouth, “That’s it.”

His hips worked faster. His thumb moved with even more precision, more persistence, as though begging your pleasure to come. You could feel the sweat bead on your skin and his; your bodies seemed to blend together. Your legs tightened around his sides, and while he fucked you and kissed you more fervidly then, you could feel your resolve start to slip. You broke from the kiss, panting.

“I can feel her, honey. Keep goin’,” Joel urged.

You weren’t sure if you could. It felt good.

It felt safe. You hadn’t felt that in a while.

Or maybe just since you’d been away.

You thought of the last, vulnerable state you’d been forced to endure—feeling hurt and betrayed after Joel had lied trying to keep you ‘safe’—and your body tensed. You held tighter, but you also couldn’t lose that feeling completely. You were so close, and there was still something else you couldn’t yet define, or explain.

“Cum for me, baby,” Joel kissed the side of your mouth, knowing the feeling coursing through your body too well, “Take what you need. Just let her feel good. It’s all okay.”

All okay.

Your walls fluttered again; your moans grew breathy and faint as Joel’s cock wedged deeper and deeper and his kisses grew softer along your face. It was evident you were there—you knew you were there—but then, the way you felt was like no place you’d ever experienced before.

You wanted to tell him something.

You met Joel’s gaze, and you almost did. Then he withdrew and fucked back in, and all words were lost.

The headboard thumped against the wall; you didn’t hear it. Joel’s one free hand was cradling your cheek, and his face drew closer, and right when you sensed the man was about to drop another kiss, you felt release, at last.

A snap.

A dizzying blow.

Your climax struck with all the force of a seismic wave, and, at the same time, you could feel Joel groaning, pulsing, spurting thick ropes of cum into rubber while his gaze stayed locked on yours and your body came apart. The look from him was sickeningly soft, even at his peak.

Intimate, again.

You couldn’t help it.

With your legs trembling, cunt spasming, and eyes still plastered to Joel’s, you felt that something resurface. This time, you didn’t have a hope of keeping it inside.

“I— I— I love you, Joel. I love you,” you stuttered out.

Your voice was tight. Your eyes burned with tears you hadn’t even sensed might threaten to appear with it.

You broke down and felt the sudden urge to sob.

And, just as quickly as you did, you shoved him off.

Regret flooded your chest. You shouldn’t have said that.

Joel was slow to move, no matter how much you tried getting him away. He was still in your bed, crowding your space—and worse yet, he was staring at you, eyes wide.

“Baby—”

“Don’t.” Your gaze was still wider. Wild. And remorseful, “I didn’t— I’m sorry, I just— I didn’t mean to say that.”

Joel had pulled out, but he was still between your legs. You slid backward in the bed, cheeks flaming with heat.

He followed.

He reached out.

“Please don’t,” you begged, shaking your head before his touch could find you. Your pulse thundered in your skull.

The sound almost drowned all other noises out.

At the next, you wished it would deafen you completely.

“I love you, too, baby,” Joel said.

No sooner had his palms come to rest on your face when you were shoving them away. Standing up from the bed.

“You don’t mean that. I didn’t mean it. Just— just stop.”

“I—”

“Need to go.”

You hardly realized it, but you were pointing to the door.

Joel was just getting the condom off, about to stand up from where he was, when a new sound startled you both.

The garage door was closing. Tommy shouted your name saying he needed help bringing something in, and for a second, you both froze. It was happening all over again.

You knew you couldn’t risk getting caught another time. Not with your father in the house, unconscious or not. Silently, you thanked your lucky stars for the opportunity afforded by this moment—getting Joel out—and bent to grab his clothes off the floor and throw them, one by one. He dressed, albeit reluctantly. He opened his mouth to speak again, but you were busy racing to throw on your own clothes, thinking of ways to get him out unnoticed. You heard the door to the garage slam shut downstairs.

“He’s gonna be back any minute. You need to go, Joel.”

“Come with me. We have to talk—”

“I have nothing else to say.”

“But you—”

“I lied. And so did you. Just like before,” you gritted out, “You can spare my feelings—I didn’t fucking mean it.”

He felt bad, that was all. You could see it in his eyes.

The pity, the self-loathing, the guilt; it was all there.

The sight made your stomach turn, and though your legs weren’t steady or sure underneath you in the slightest, you knew you had to go. If Joel didn’t intend on making things easier, you would have to leave first. You felt him reach for you, saw the plea in his eyes and knew how wrong this really was—that you had both fucked up—and couldn’t stay there. Again, you wrenched yourself away.

You didn’t give him the chance to protest. You heard words, dimly, but barely had the sense or self-possession to process one syllable of it, so you left. You bounded down steps, pulse hammering even louder than before, and you didn’t think to turn around or let Joel follow or even remotely allow yourself to stop feeling embarrassed

Leaving was for the best anyway.

If Joel had lied once, he’d lie again.

Downstairs, you cleaned. You folded laundry.

Joel had snuck out a while ago, having slipped from your room, down to the kitchen, and out the back door while Tommy was busy retrieving beer out of the garage. You’d gone down there to distract the younger Miller brother while Joel packed his shit up and left. Like he was meant to do. Luckily, Joel’s departure was quiet, and Tommy was all too happy to have some help toting cases of Budweiser inside. Your dad and Tess were still fast asleep

And now, nearly half an hour later, you had only to sweep the hardwood floor, fold your clothes, and busy yourself as best you could—or else grit your teeth so hard you could’ve broken your jaw. You were so fucking dumb.

“Almost done?” Tommy poked his head inside the room.

You’d told Joel you hated him last month. One measly fuck and you’re spewing, ‘I love you’? What the fuck?

“Just about,” you replied, dropping an old shirt of your dad’s into the nearest, neatest pile, “You heading out?”

Tommy jingled his car keys in his hand and hummed to say that he was. He had a happy, Alabama-just-beat-the-shit-out-of-Tennessee smile on his face as he stood there

“Yeah, I’m going back to Mando’s now to celebrate and watch another game. Was wondering if you wanted to come along,” he said, leaning against the door frame.

“I would, I’ve just got so much shit to do around here—” Gesturing indistinctly to the mountains of clothing stacked high all about the laundry room, “—cleaning.”

Beating yourself over the head, mentally, for ever telling his older brother that you liked him in the first place. Wishing you could crawl in a hole and wallow alone.

“Aww, that can wait. You’re here the whole week—”

“I know. But I gotta keep an eye on my old man, too.”

You rubbed at your face and pretended to get re-invested in a pair of socks with two gaping holes. Your father wouldn’t discard old, ratty clothes to save his life.

Then Tommy was at your side. Pressing against the washing machine and watching you work. Smirking.

“By ‘your old man’ do you mean your dad…or Joel?”

For the second time that day, you almost choked. You tried not to let it show but were sure you failed miserably.

“I— I— what?” you huffed, all terse, feigned incredulity.

“Don’t play stupid. Only suits my dumbass brother,” Tommy returned coolly, turning to face you head-on, “You sound just like him whenever I ask about you.”

“Whatever he’s said—” you started again.

“I heard his truck hightailing it out of here while you came down to distract me. Heard his footsteps, too.”

While your cheeks warmed, Tommy’s smile only grew.

“Aaaaand the headboard was bangin’ pretty loud—”

“Alright!” You threw your hands up, “Fine. OK. Enough.”

Your surrender was fast, far too grossed out to fight it.

You closed your eyes and wanted to die. From next to you, you could hear Tommy’s amusement morph into laughter. It didn’t take much to wring the truth out of you, and for a man who knew you as well as he did, there was really no telling where this would end. Once Tommy Miller called bullshit, there was rarely ever room to argue.

The last time that had happened, he’d sent you and Joel packing to abstinence camp and had never looked back.

Why he was finding humor in this now was beyond you.

You dropped the socks you were holding. You shot him a look as if to ask him just that, and the man shrugged.

“I know y’all skipped out on camp. Could’ve guessed there was some sort of fight between you two after that, because I’ve never seen Joel so goddamn grumpy for—”

“Yeah, well,” you cut in, not wanting to hear the rest, “That’s over now. Seriously. Today was just a fluke.”

Before he could even try to voice his disbelief, you added:

“Just don’t tell my dad about this. Please.”

By the look in his eyes, you could tell that was probably the furthest thing from his mind, but you asked it all the same. Tommy scoffed, and then he shook his head and crossed his arms over his chest like he couldn’t believe a word you were saying now. Like a smug big brother who didn’t know how else to say that you made a terrible liar.

Because that was what he’d been to you before you ever got with Joel in the first place: a good, no-bullshit friend. The recognition of this made you feel even worse inside.

“I’m sorry,” Tommy said at length, much to your surprise.

His arms constricted even tighter against his chest and his eyes scanned yours thoughtfully before continuing.

“I shouldn’t have stuck my nose in y’all’s business. What you and Joel do is up to you—I just hated the thought of things, uh…going south. Making it weird between you.”

“Like now,” you said quietly.

A beat.

Tommy scratched his neck.

“Yeah, a little like that,” he replied, breathing out a laugh, “But that’s alright. Joel’s my brother, and I love him, but the man can’t navigate a relationship to save his life. Much less with a girl your age. So just…keep that in mind. I don’t wanna see either of you getting hurt.”

In other words: don’t be stupid and get attached.

‘You’re right,’ was all you knew to say. All you felt capable of telling him now, after what had come to pass that day.

Frankly, you didn’t need to speak another word to get the gist of what he meant, and like he’d said, it wasn’t on him to dictate how you handled things with Joel. The message was clear enough, and the truth was all there.

You couldn’t make this work.

Joel wouldn’t make this work with a girl as young as you.

He’d only said what he said today out of habit—a knee-jerk reaction. He didn’t know what the fuck else to say when his best friend’s kid he’d been banging spilled out ‘I love you.’ And you didn’t blame him for it. But you also couldn’t expect him to be something he wasn’t when all this was ever supposed to be was a casual fuck here and there. You’d been confused and needing to feel safe. He had wanted access to something he shouldn’t have, and now that the thrill of that was wearing off, he felt trapped and cornered into saying what he had, for your sake. The best thing for the two of you now was a clean break, before any more feelings got muddled and misspoken and brought to anything worse than they already were.

It would suck for a while. You knew it would. The next second had you leaning in unconsciously, watching Tommy uncross his arms and pull you in for a hug.

This would really suck.

You buried your face in his chest.

There wasn’t much to say; still, Tommy said it best:

“Whatever happens, you’ll be fine. I know you will.”

[gothhabiba]

@ anon

I think it might be actually dangerous to publish your ask, but I'm sure from my response people will be able to tell what it's about anyway.

You're full of actual, absolute shit if you're pretending not to know by now that verification processes to ensure the legitimacy of Ghazzawin's fundraisers have been undertaken, and that details about what these processes entail have been shared by several people. Several people, some of them currently in Gaza, put themselves through countless hours of work video-calling people, judging their knowledge of dialectical Arabic, seeing their faces and their children's faces and their living conditions, seeing IDs and bank information, asking invasive, personal questions that they didn't want to be asking & that the people responding probably didn't want to be answering, and physically visiting people in Gaza and video-recording their interactions, just so that people like you could be sure that these fundraisers were legitimate. If you're ignoring all of the blood & tears that went into that process just so you can hand-wring about scams, no one needs to be concerned with convincing you of the legitimacy of anything, because you were never going to donate to these people anyway. You are just looking for any plausible-sounding excuse not to do what you already didn't want to do.

If, by some miracle, you actually didn't know about the verified fundraiser spreadsheet (which is frankly still blameable bc, where on earth have you been?), then there it is. The post of mine that you're referring to never even mentioned responding to asks; using this spreadsheet is an absolutely valid, reasonable way of donating directly to families.

Now let me treat some of your statements as though they were questions (which, they were not).

How do people in Gaza have internet access?

Internet infrastructure in Gaza is very robust (e.g. in what cables are made of, how deep they're buried, amounts of redundancy in the system, &c.) because they have been getting bombed by Israel all the fucking time for decades, so they expect this infrastructure to be put through a lot. There have still--if you've been following the situation at all--been several outages caused by damage that Ghazzawin have needed to repair. Though I do have to say that I find it odd that you doubt Ghazzawin have internet access, but also say that you buy eSims...?

A lot of people right now are indeed connected via eSim, which to my understanding only need to connect to wifi once, right when they're activated. People put themselves at risk to connect to eSims because they need to get a good wifi signal, which usually means walking for several miles trying to find high ground. One of my contacts once urgently called me (this is the only time he hadn't just texted) because he had been told his friend had found a signal and so they needed an eSim right then, before they went back to their tent.

I've been trying for some time to connect another of my contacts in Gaza to an eSim, but we're not having success. At Crips for eSims for Gaza they / we (I'm on the server getting advice and helping out but I'm not using their funding; I'm using what people on tumblr have given me to purchase eSims with) keep a constantly updated sheet of which eSim providers use which networks and which networks work in which areas--because the situation is constantly changing. Because my contact doesn't have an eSim on a personal phone, she has to go to a central location to be allotted three hours of internet access from someone who has managed to get connected. Lots of people, on their fundraising posts and pages, specify exactly how they've gotten internet access, how difficult it's been for them to get it, and how stressful it is to be relying on this tenuous connection, spending hours away from their families (at high risk of being shot at by IOF soldiers the whole time), just to message people for hours straight and then go home again.

2. How do people in Gaza have tumblr accounts?

This is a stupid question. Anyone with an email address who is capable of picking a username and password can make a tumblr account. I have personally helped several of my contacts in Gaza with the process.

3. How do people in Gaza know to come into people's tumblr accounts?

This is also a stupid question. I don't really see how you could ask this question if you saw Palestinians as, like, real humans beings. You understand that people talk to each other, yes? Like with words? As soon as a few people had success fundraising to evacuate Gaza on tumblr (nearly a year ago... this news has had a lot of time to spread), obviously they told other people about it.

One of the ways that Israel conducts its genocidal war is through the destructiveness of frustration and boredom. It's a strange situation because everything is extremely dire, urgent, terrifying, and dirty, but there's also seldom anything to do. People are singing, telling stories, going to the beach, inventing games and contests, to entertain children, but also to entertain themselves. And this is the situation--with a bunch of desperate, bored people packed into a tiny piece of land--this is the situation that you think it's impossible for people to talk to each other in? Come on.

If you want to donate to Anera and World Food Kitchen and buy eSims, that's fantastic. Please do that. But if you are as ignorant of the particulars of what this situation is like as your ask makes you appear, then I hope you refrain from speaking on what the situation is like.

I've been nattering on for a long time so here's my call to action:

Decide what you're capable of giving right now, or the next time you get paid

Scroll down on the vetted fundraiser spreadsheet and find someone very low on funds, or with injured children who urgently need treatment or evacuation, and give that money.

AND / OR give it to the PCRF or the IRW

[rafesweetie]

⋆˚࿔ espresso ꥟ ˚⋆ — sunny!reader x rafe

“ walked in and dream-came-trued for ya! “

i believe the saying goes, “she was like a shot of espresso.” rafe didn’t think that saying could fit a person more than it could fit you.

he’d see you at parties, dancing with his sister or giggling with the pogues. you never could seem to pick a side. this whole pogue vs kook rivalry never crossed your mind, for you were simply friends with everyone in kildare. he’d see you at the beach with your friends, tanning while listening to silly pop music and sipping on a fruity canned drink. you reminded him of the sun.

there was one night where sarah cameron invited you to her place for a start-of-summer party. rafe was dealing some coke, as per usual, and his eyes followed you as you walked in, holding hands with sarah while she led you inside. he’d never understood why girls held hands with each other, but wheezie said that it’s a universal girl thing, and he ‘would never get it.’

topper elbowed rafe out of his trance, laughing about how rafe had a little crush.

“nah, nah,” rafe denied instantly. “isn’t she a pogue?”

topper shakes his head. “nope. she just hangs out with them. her parents own that flashy smoothie shop, she’s a kook,”

“…oh, that’s good,” rafe mutters. he can’t quite avert his gaze from you.

“aw man, you’re desperate,” kelce is on his other side, patting his back, making rafe grunt and shoo him off. rafe can’t relate to desperation.

his night goes on per usual, getting bundles of cash handed to him as he deals. until topper speaks up after a bit. “she just broke up with pope,” he informs rafe. “she’s on the market,”

“yeah?” rafe checks.

“yeah. you should go talk to her,”

rafe hesitates, staring at you again. you’re not a dancer by any means, but both you and sarah are wiggling your shoulders a bit when a good song comes up. rafe would assume you’re drunk, the way your giggles echo through the room and the way you spill your drink when you stumble into sarah. but he thinks that’s just you, drunk on life. he eventually speaks. “no fucking way, she’s with my sister right now. sarah would lose her shit if i talked to little miss sunshine over there,”

“yeah, well, need i remind you i’m dating sarah, so i’ll just get her away, go make out for a bit, she looks drunk,” topper offers.

“…a’ight. yeah, lets do it bro.” rafe agrees, and they both get up off the couch. rafe stands a little bit away as he grabs another vodka pink lemonade for you, maybe a subtle bribe into talking, and a beer for himself. topper talks to sarah for a bit, greets you, then leads sarah away.

rafe’s literally directly behind you, when suddenly you’re already talking to someone else. you’re pretty chatty, it seems. rafe hangs around to catch you after your next conversation. but then he looks away for one second, then you’re gone again. he spots you on the balcony, with jj maybank. then a couple minutes later, you’re with kie carrera. then you’re shotgunning a drink with sofia. holy shit. you’ve got him wrapped around your finger already, and he looks so cute chasing after you. if he’s not pushy, he’ll never get his chance. so, channeling his inner ward cameron, he spots you with ruthie (who he never would’ve assumed you would associate with. maybe you’re just being polite), and he puts a hand on your shoulder from behind, spinning you around. “y/n. right?”

you blink, not expecting the sudden interruption. but you regain yourself quickly, smiling. “hi! yeah, i am,” you say. your voice sounds as sweet as honey. “you’re rafe cameron?”

you know who he is? he shouldn’t be surprised, you seem to know everyone, but he likes that you know, anyway. “uh, yeah, yeah, that’s me,”

“well it’s so nice to meet you,” you smile up at him. “it’s funny, sofia used to mention you a lot, and obviously im close friends with your sister. but i’ve never met you before,”

“..you’re friends with sofia?” is all he can think to ask.

“mhm. i’ve known her since grade 5. we’re not like, super close now, but we were when you guys dated,” sensing his sudden aversion to talking about her, his ex girlfriend, you shut up. “um, wanna go grab a drink?”

“oh— shit, yeah, um, brought one for you, actually,” he hands you the vodka pink lemonade. “saw you drinking one earlier, so..”

“oh my gosh, thank you so much,” you say. is he that sweet? you guess so.

“yeah, ‘course. heard sarah talk about you, and it’s all been good things, so i figured i’d try and meet you myself,”

“well now you have. i’ve heard her talk about you too,” you don’t have the heart to say it hasn’t been very good things.

it feels like this awkward small talk is going in circles. but maybe that’s a good, slow way to start something.

your name is suddenly called by a group of girls a couple meters away. “it was so nice to meet you rafe. i should go, they want me,” you say softly, reaching for his hands. he remembers when you came in holding sarah’s hands. it seems to be your thing. “i’ll see you around?”

“yeah—“ he clears his throat, gaining the courage to hold yours back. “yeah. see you around, y/n,”

you smile. you could swear he’s blushing. “you’re cute,” you say softly, squeezing his hands once more before retreating away.

he feels like he just took a shot of espresso, and now he’ll be thinking of you every night.

[chronicsyd]

I'm gonna be so serious, y'all are remembering POWDER and Ekko and not JINX and Ekko when screaming about how much you "wanted Timebomb endgame over Caitvi"

shoving JINX in a relationship with her current mental state is not a good writing choice whatsoever, because Ekko literally had to keep rewinding time because she kept trying to kill herself. If Anything, That relationship would be rushed and fanservice because they would have jumped the gun in 2 episodes vs the 2 seasons it took for Caitvi and showing their ups and downs throughout their whole relationship.

The alternate universe works because Powder doesn't become Jinx and the two don't separate, unlike this universe where the two have been at odds for 7 years and almost kill each other back in Ep 7 of S1.

"But Cait never said sorry!" she didn't really have to, because Vi never stopped being in love with the girl that she Knows Cait is at heart, the Cocktail Molotov scene in Act 2 makes that VERY apparent. Cait saying that she was waiting for Vi to recover to address Jinx is the start of it because Act 1 Cait wouldn't have even Considered doing that, because she was so gung-ho about putting a bullet into Jinx that she Demanded Vi move out of the way for her to do so. She holds herself accountable with the mistakes she's made ("We can't erase our mistakes. None of us." that wasn't just a line targeted at Jinx to prove a point, there's deeper meaning behind it), and moving the guards out of the cell proving that she trusts Vi and her judgment on Jinx is that apology, Caitlyn has always been an "acts of service" kinda person over being a "verbal" kinda person; it's all over the place in S1 but Especially here in S2. But even after she takes Vi's shirt off, you could tell by her eyes and body language that she was most likely going to stop herself again to apologize for hitting her because the wound was in the same spot she initially hit, which was part of the lead up for This wound to even happen, but Vi's the one that just pulls her back in instead.

I'm also gonna add on that Vi thinks she made the wrong choice in trusting Jinx and thinking Jinx's changed because Jinx locked her in the cell and ran away again. So why in the Hell would Vi go chasing after her Again to be met with the same result time and time again? Vi isn't responsible for Jinx's mental health and y'all saying that are just weird. And I think it's apparent that Stillwater probably wasn't even in the top 10 things in her head being with Caitlyn, she was just running wild on emotions that she hasn't allowed herself to feel like-- Ever. And even if it Was Vi probably would have said she wasn't comfortable being in a jail cell of all places.

What was I talking about? Oh right, Timebomb.

Like Yes, it's shitty that Ekko doesn't get a happy ending considering he's the most unproblematic in the entire show. But people tend to forget that at the end of the day, Arcane is a TRADGEDY. It's not She-ra, it's not The Owl House, it wasn't going to be wrapped up in a neat little bow where everyone gets to smile and walk into the sunset with their loved ones, especially considering the fact that this season's being used as build ups to other stories, it's relatively clear that this isn't the last we're going to see of a lot of these characters. When they come back into play? well... who's to say?

But also, let's address that a lot of the Caitvi hate is just straight up homophobia at this point because a lot of people can understand Mel's admission to manipulating Jayce as an apology but Cait's actions we're suddenly braindead and need shit completely spelled out. like good lord I'm so tired of this. Y'all would NEVER have survived Catradora let me tell ya...

(My next post is gonna be a long winded rant about Maddie so stay tuned for that...)

[shapelytimber]

Wanted to paint some of my favorite characters, nothing more nothing less

[COMMISSIONS]

Way too much yapping like an embarrassing amount, the individual portraits and the template I used below vvv

I shouldn't be allowed to talk about my favorite characters- especially to people who (presumably) don't know them xjfkdk apart from the very popular ones ofc

ILLYA KURYAKIN (The man from U.N.C.L.E)

gay ass little Russian spy I love him he is so *dramatic* and a huge nerd and a Beatles fan and into fashion design- perfect pocket size blorbo ;w; also seeing a Russian character being given a positive leading role in an American tvshow from the 60s ?? Yes he lives in New York and works for UNCLE America.... But he is still a communist ?? Incredible ! Also I really like the fact he isn't given the cliché personality traits often given to Russian characters i e anger issues drinks a lot violent ect (looking at you shitty(imo) modern remake... What did you do to my little guy ;;). In a close contest with Spock for the "gayest man from tvshow" of the 60s..... And in my heart he is winning djdkd for me the gay subtext of muncle hits so much more because it's not a scifi show- it's closer to home, Napoleon and Illya were *like that* in the present day of the 60s, they were both human, and no alien fuckery made them go to the village more than once or play house in the suburbs or get attached ass up to get pegged on a regular basis... Truly a show that feels written by an old queen and a guy with the biggest fem dom fetish jkvjjkb (don't get me wrong tho I adore star trek tos and spirk too <3)

KUROO HAZAMA and PINOKO (Black Jack)

sometimes I rewatch some of the oavs from the 90s when I'm sad :) I had a huge phase a couple years back when I read nearly all the manga (should really finish it... Or reread the whole thing frankly), watched *all* the shows (bar young black jack, hated that shit) and idk I just love this venal bitch so much- him and his daughter and his conflicted feelings for his tboy ex that he still loves kfkfkf btw I'm dying for a modern take on this like please please please I'd love to see Kei Kisaragi's story rewritten a bit (trans character in the 70s sure was progressive but oh boy-), because him and black jack's relationship makes me so *weak*.... And maybe see him a bit more than in one story- anyway ! When it comes to his daughter Pinoko, it's very hit or miss- when the writers lean on the cute father adoptive daughter relationship it's great, when they lean more on the whole "she has a crush on him" (very much like a child in most case, and he *never* reciprocate thank god) and bring up the fact she is technically 18 a lot (she was an evil tumor trapped in her sister before he created a body for her- black jack shit dw), and she gets jealous of other women.... Well it's terrible and I'm uncomfy :(

EVA KANT (Diabolik)

Look.... You just can't show me danger diabolik 1968 and not expect me to become insane djdkdkdk she is so cool ;; !!! Her and her devious eel of a man (here as a panther, because even tho I haven't read the comic yet, I'm taking an educated guess that all the panther imagery is here to represent him, the lethal twunk always in the all black gimp suit... And if it's not then fuck my entire life ig fjfkkd), the cuntiest het couple you've ever seen, such freaks I love them ! Partners in crime that will blow up the tax offices of the whole country if you try to put a bounty on them <3 they are in the guilty faves category only because I'm this invested in these characters after 1 (one) movie fkfkf watched the first two remakes and was hmmm let's say underwhelmed, could have been worse but going after the 60s one ie peak cinema was hard... I went in fully invested in these heterosexuals and they still fucked up their romance and relationship ;; (don't spoil me the third one btw haven't seen it yet ! I know it's the yaoi one- which doesn't give me much hope for Eva tbh...) I'll soon start reading the comics tho ! Managed to find all twelve volumes of "Il grande Diabolik" in french for pretty cheap so I'm excited for that :D (might scan them and upload them online because omg I tried finding scans in *any* language and only found a dubious website that sold digital copies for 7€ a volume ??? What is this)

UTA (The Void / Тургор / Turgor / Tension)

Apathy girlyyyyy she just like me for real for real nfkfk what absolutely charmed me about her is yes her design, but more importantly her chamber's design (if you've never played the void, a sister's chamber is a space that represent her. You get a sense of who she is by exploring her chamber before finding her and talking to her soul it's great). The lonely island out at sea, her laying down on a suspended steel boat in a grotto, looking passively at the moon by a crack on the ceiling.... And the moon is looking back. Incredible ! I love this game so much

KIM KITSURAGI (Disco Elysium)

Do I really have to explain this one ? When I played the game with quiji I remember I kept saying "when Kim talks, we *listen*" djkdk we did get a good grade in Kim Kitsuragi and got him to dance in the church <3 this fucking centrist cop wormed it's way into my heart and many others because of course he did. The only Kim K in my eyes. Also funny anecdote : before I played Disco Elysium, I had one concept art masterclass where a kinda famous concept artist came to give advice, make us really stressed then give us a shitty grade.... And when I tell you this man looked so much like Kim ??? Same haircut, glasses, face with a scar *exactly* where Kim's portrait has a stark shadow on his cheek and he was dressed in an orange top- truly uncanny. Anyway, Kim is so fucking cool how does he do it

DARK VADOR (La guerre des étoiles)

*sight* not surprising if you know me... and to be clear when I say Vader I don't mean Anakin Skywalker, post barbecue only zouz here. I refuse to yap about this man djdkdk I already do that way to much in ao3 comment sections

And here is the template I used ! Don't know who made it tho sorry...

PS : all these where made in 2-3 hours each :D wanted to challenge myself by painting quickly, and I mostly (looking at the Eva Kant one that gave me trouble) succeeded !

[yameoto]

angel in your pocket quinn fabray.

warnings; sub!quinn, angel!reader. not hate-fucking. irritated-fucking. masturbation (in the same room as an angel), voyeurism because God Is Always Watching, motel room sex. supernatural!au wc; 2k.

Quinn hasn’t had alone time in what feels like a fucking millenia. In the grand scheme of things, out of all that she’s sacrificed for the hunting life; her innocence, childhood, a normal, healthy relationship with literally any human being—all negligible compared to the great and terrible woe, of having absolutely zero time to masturbate. Like, almost zilch. Hell, nowadays she’ll flop back to bed after a hunt and pass out from exhaustion. Not even enough time to sneak in an innocent tryst against her pillow.

So, of course—with the rare occasion of her baby sister and her being (forcibly) split up for a hunt, for once; and Quinn having her first free day in—well, years (also, forcibly)—when she cranks the blinds down, sinks onto the motel room mattress, bedsprings creaking underneath her—she’s prepared for the most blissful, mind-numbing, apex-of-Nirvana type of relaxation. Involving; a bolt-locked door, three fingers, and a whole lot of time.

Except, things can never go Quinn’s way. Because just when she’s sufficiently worked herself up enough to sport a damp spot, hips rocking upwards as the barest brush of her fingers catches the hem of her underwear—there’s a sudden, blinding crack of light—the familiar crackle of ozone; and such heralds her favourite (derisive) and only guardian angel standing over her bed. 

“What in the ever living fuck?” Quinn hisses, scrabbling to fling the blankets over herself. “What the hell is wrong with you?” (You’d think, around an angel, Quinn would tone down the swearing. Except being raised by a gunslinging, monster-smoking preacherman meant Quinn veers from the Lord’s name like it's red-hot iron. Cussing was free-game, though. Swear words are made-up; God isn’t.)

You scrunch your nose, wings outstretched, tips brushing the motel room’s popcorn ceiling. You sniff the air. Heady. Thick with the scent of Quinn’s arousal. 

“It reeks.” 

Quinn prays you get asbestos in your feathers. 

“Were you indecent?” In your stupid angel get-up, feathery wings and all, the inquisitive tilt of your head makes you look like an oversized bird. A quizzical owl. She’s also just being mean in her head on purpose because 1. She knows you can hear this cute little introspection, if you can be bothered listening. (No, she’s not bitter that you’ve been ignoring her prayers for weeks.), 2. She also knows you’re just fucking with her, because your lips are quirking upwards, and Oh, laugh it up. Hoot-fucking-hoot. “Shouldn’t you tell me?” Quinn scowls, yanking her top over her head as she grumbles. You’ve breezed right on to the topic of the coming rapture. Lovely.

“Lilith. Her arrival cometh in four days. You and your sister must cross state lines by then.”

“Okay.” Quinn is only half-listening. She’s far too preoccupied with the red-hot pulse still throbbing at her crotch. Her briefs cling, damp against her skin. Sticky. Underneath the blankets, she squeezes her thighs together. Shit. Shiiiit. It gives her a brief reprieve, but it’s still not enough.

“—and if you do not give the angels an answer soon, they will keep coming. Michael—”

“It’ll be a cold day in Hell before I ever say yes to that fucker. You hear me?” She growls as her fingers run over the sodden fabric of her underwear, lashes fluttering as she skims up her waistband—because the reminder that she is, apparently, destined to be a hollow shell housing an archangel to shank the devil (housing her baby sister) is not enough to kill the last lingerings of her good mood. 

“I hear the Ninth Circle is unpleasantly frigid.” Quinn snorts. “You are such a smartass.” She circles her fingers, ever-so-slightly, against the thin barrier that just barely separates the ache in her soul from sweet, sweet relief. You are still, depressingly, there, and rambling on about scriptures and duties and blah, blah blah. She’d memorised all of that shit when she was three. Burned into the back of her skull. Experimentally, she applies a bit of pressure, just to ease herself. Quinn swallows, hard. 

“You’re not listening to me.” There’s that pretty little frown. 

“No, m’totally listening.” Quinn bucks her hips upwards, and her clit bumps against the ridges of her fly. She almost moans out loud. “I’m just saying no.” Maybe if she rocks her hips it’ll get a little friction righttt—ah, yeah. There’s the spot. “You’re aroused.” 

Whatever snarky quip Quinn was about to say wilts on her tongue. She pauses her movements, of which was hooking her index down to shimmy her briefs down her thighs, to glower—cheeks puffing out to exhale a frustrated huff. “Yeah, well, you picked a pretty shitty time, if you asked me.”

You sigh. “The dawn of the apocalypse will not wait for you to finish masturbating, Quinn.” 

Then, promptly and unceremoniously, you rip the blanket off of her. She is ashamed to say, she squeals. “Wh— hey!” Cold air rushes quick enough to shiver, band of her briefs rolled just enough that her cunt is exposed, and a current runs down her spine at the way your gaze falls, honing in on it.

Instinctively, Quinn goes to wrench the covers back over, of course, but attempting to tear the scratchy thing out from your hands is like trying to move a literal mountain. It’s also, long-forgotten in the swift way  you glide forwards, smoothly sliding to your knees and clasping strong (and somehow, gentle) hands at her knees and nosing between her legs and—

“Um. What’re you doing?” The words spill out in a rush, body tense—alarm bells ringing, because in the brief time she’s known you, Quinn has discovered she doesn’t quite know as much about angels as she thought she did—or as Father had told her— but she certainly didn’t think angels were in the business of peering up at her with those innocuous, unblinking doe-eyes of yours, through those stupidly lush lashes. Nor prying her thighs apart and swiping a thumb over the sticky residue left behind with a low, rumbling hum and shit. When did she get that wet?

“You’re not focusing. You must focus. This is the most efficient solution.”

“Fucking me is the most efficient solution?” Quinn gapes, and if her voice cracks and comes out an entire register higher, that’s her business. “That’s—you’re shameless!”

“I’m shameless? An Angel of the Lord visits upon you, urges you of your role in the Holy Scriptures, and you begin pleasuring yourself.”

Okay, when you put it like that, Quinn doesn’t have much ground. 

“I was finishing,” She blusters, cheeks flaming She’s arguing for the sake of arguing—with all the petulance she can muster, because otherwise, she doesn’t know what is an appropriate reaction to an angel’s tongue flicking up your skin, nose nudging between the crook of your warm, wet folds and inner thigh. 

Her breathing grows ragged. Fuck, fuck— fuck. “It’s not my fault you come at the worst time ever—” She’s aware she sounds like a bratty teenage girl, but you also lecture her with an ego the size of a small city, and when your tongue finally meets the sopping heat of her cunt, she makes a sound the furthest thing from holy. “Can—fuck—a girl not knock?”

“The Lord doesn’t knock.” You retort plainly, flat of your tongue dragging upwards. Quinn speaks through gritted teeth, fists curling. 

“‘Behold—I stand at the door, and knock; if any man hear my voice and—oh, fuck..—open the door, I will come into him—”

You stop in your tracks, head lifting. Any disappointment at the way your tongue slips out from her folds is quelled by the sizable strip of satisfaction unfurling in her gut. Seeing you; stare incredulous, mouth still open. For once, you’re the one taken off-guard. 

“Did you just.. quote scripture at me?” A draught sweeps in the room, and your fingers twitch inside of her as if considering whether to curl them to the knuckle or jerk yourself out entirely or reach up her ribs and perhaps yank her heart out from the inside. You do none of those things, and instead settle on gaping in utter disbelief. Quinn grins. 

“Revelations; chapter three, verse twenty, baby.” Quinn’s not her Daddy’s girl for nothing. 

“..It was an euphemism.” You grumble, annoyed, and if Quinn didn’t know any better—embarrassed—though from here, she can only see the flushed tips of your ears. Tne hand gripping her thigh tightens, a pressure so negligible Quinn might think she’d imagined if—if it weren’t for the fact, that, out of fucking nowhere, your thumb presses hard against the swollen bud of her clit. 

She cries out, hips jolting up off the mattress, and you don’t let her come back down–one hand supporting her entire bodyweight, as her legs quake. She scrabbles for purchase, and finds your hair a suitable levy.

“Ah—what the—fuck—” “And you call me the smartass,” You grunt, and another finger snakes in underneath the others, with a squelch so obscene Quinn almost blushes, though she only whines with approval instead. You thrust, deeper. “If you had talked back in such a way in B.C, I would’ve ripped out your tongue.” 

Score. Quinn totally knew she got you all hot and bothered. Despite it all, she can’t stop the smirk worming its way on her lips. You can’t win against a celestial being shaped by God—but you can savour the little victories. 

You’re panting, she can feel it—each puff of your breath—coming hot along her thighs and against her ella’s and into her cunt. Quinn is all at once hit with the dizzying thought that, that same breath has blown entire civilizations to dust—and right now—right now it’s being used to dirty-talk into her pussy. 

“It wasn’t even written in B.C, you sanctimonious—oh, fuck.” Apparently, you don’t appreciate her sense of humour, because you ravage her like you’re trying to carve out a space for Michael yourself with your teeth, fingers sliding in deep and pressing out against her walls, fighting against the resistance in their tight clenches—stretching out, as your tongue swirls over her clit. For a moment, her entire brain empties, and the tension—winding, winding, winding in a band she didn’t even know existed—snaps. Her hiss is strangled, nails curling into dank bedsheets and a white-hot flash has her thighs crunching together, slamming down against your head and all as she gasps at the feeling, like iron striking stone. It’s the most surreal thing she’s ever fucking experienced. She grasps, free hand fisting the back of your head, tightly, and she’s grinding out the sopping, slick folds of her pussy against your open mouth, legs coiled around your neck like a vice. 

In the bleary remnants of thoughts she has, she figures you can’t mind too much. Angels don’t need breath, after all. (The sexy heaves of your chest when you pant, splattered with demon blood or the spine-arching way you glide up her thighs is designed, specifically, to torture her, she thinks). 

It’s the quickest orgasm she’s ever had, in all whopping twenty-six years of her life.

Your chin come away glistening, a glassy sheen coating skin and trickling, down the holy, unblemished stretch of your neck to your clavicles. 

“..Wow.” She croaks.

Her eyes, unbidden, follow the bob of your throat. You swallow. An audible ah bursts through your lips, like you’ve just downed a bubbly pitcher of beer rather than her cum. Through the renewed pounding in her head and cunt, she hears a strangled whimper. She realises it’s her own, too late. 

She needs a beer, right about now. She watches, with hazy eyes, as you simply get up off the mattress and stray to the rickety table that hosts nothing but empty cans and spare ammunition. You pull out two chairs, opposite one another.

“..Not the cuddlin’ type, then?” She rasps, weakly. Damn you and your stupid feathers for looking so unruffled when you still have her juices dribbling down your throat. She’s overcome with inscrutable urge to wrench you back by the collar and lick her salt off your skin.

“Come. We must finish our talk.”

Quinn flops, her face buried into the pillow. Her eyes are heavy, lids dropping as she groans into cushion.

“..You’re not serious.”

“I did say, efficient."

[rootspiral]

Agatha All Along deep dive: episode 5 part 1

(Wandavision entries: [1][2][3])

(AAA entries: ep1 [1][2][3][4] ep2 [1][2][3][4] ep3 [1][2][3] ep4 [1][2][3][4][5][6][7][+1] ep5 [1][2][3][4])

in which I FINALLY get to episode 5 Darkest Hour/Wake Thy Power

oh wow this is legit the first time I see the Salem Seven's face makeup, a world is revealed every time I brighten a scene.

jen with her leaf mask. sweet baby alice with her hands tucked between her knees

rio just squatting there watching everybody else sleep. agatha nowhere to be found, because after what happened with rio she had to be dramatic and sleep on her lonesome

doesn't rio just like to torment lilia? just a little bit? keep her on her toes for shit and giggles? she would not be above sneaking behind her at night and going boo! in her ear

rio: I'm so fucking angry at agatha.

also rio: okay she might have killed the whole salem coven but her mother was a humongous piece of shit so let's jot that down real quick. just so we are all on the same page

jen: look here girl I'm not being dragged in the agatha harkness defense squad just because you two smashed

alice is STILL the only adult in the room

agatha always had a soft spot for children

lmao she was absolutely listening from behind a tree trunk, waiting for the perfect moment to make her clown entrance

kathryn hahn was given a swooshy coat and by god she's gonna make it swoosh every chance she gets

I love shots where they're all together because that's some excellent costumes and character designs. look at all the silhouettes silhouetting.

rio is ready to cut a bitch. "but rio you're the natural order of things you're not supposed to intervene and harm-" AGATHA IS IN DANGER. NEXT QUESTION

everybody being like no ew we're not using brooms!! meanwhile rio is going AW YASS BROOMSTICKS

lilia I adore you but also time and place, time and place

agatha making a pretty leafy broom for rio

rio making a cool butchy broom for agatha

"pro te delecta aperio via" for you my beloved I open the way???? WHO IS COMING UP WITH THESE SPELLS I JUST WANT TO TALK

lilia is pissed because she put lil flowers on jen's broom! why didn't SHE get flowers too, jen???

tfw you just had a fight with your ex so you have no choice but to look at them wistfully from behind a broomstick

selflessness? the iRONY

they brush hands and she SNAPS it away. clown behavior! clown!!!!!

LET'S GO LESBIANS LET'S GOOO

awwwww alice made a broom for billy and she's being shy about it

no transformation from actual owl to owl makeup because we're running on vibes and zero cgi budget

alice has a big stick!!! alice SMASH!!!!!!

aubrey skipping along pretending to fly lmaoooo

look at the athletic gesture

this is so grainy, they really had no budget. only a lot of heart.

and I just covered a whole 5 minutes of show. I'll never see the end of this

go to episode 5 part 2

[madameevil]

I'm sorry...WAT?!

They outline in Inquisition that they needed to find people Solas DIDN'T know. He knows how Leliana operates and it's why she has no leads on him at the end of the game. He knows the connections and power Josefina has and why she is still struggling to ask around for information at the end of Inquisition.

Dorian is contacted by the Inquisitor. Dorian is also dealing with Venatori shit in Minrathos. He tells us that he's been busy trying to get his own faction off the ground with Maevaris. Maevaris lost her seat after some shit the Venatori pulled so Dorian is now the only in the Shadow Dragons have to the chamber. He's busy! Oh and SOLAS KNOWS HIM. KNOWS HIS FAMILY AND FLAWS.

Cassandra and WHAT SEEKERS??? The order is in shambles at the end of Inquisition! She literally doesn't know whether to keep the organization or demolish it. She's gotta handle recovering that organization. ALSO Seekers are part of the Southern Chantry. They're not welcomed in the North. They don't have influence or chantry support up here. What are they gonna do??

Sera's group, Friends of Red Jenny, are infiltrated by Solas's agents. Also Sera isn't part of the Inquisition for any grand world saving reason. She's there to use your power and influence to help her people (the poor and abused). We also don't know if the Friends of Red Jenny exist prominently outside of the South.

The responsibility wasn't dumped on Varric. He volunteered. He couldn't sit back and do nothing like he did with Anders. He had to try this time. Harding and Varric move as a small unit following clues Solas purposefully left behind. They utilize Inquisition resources (if still standing) and exchange information with the Inquisitor. If the Inquisition still exists then the Inquisitor is in service to the Divine and can't just roam the world on a hunch. If the Inquisition is disbanded then it depends. Are they living life out in the countryside? Are they searching for a romanced Solas in the fade through their dream connection?

Varric literally can't be the one to hand Rook the information the whole game. I assume you didn't play the game or finish it to realize WHY he can't. But there is a legitimate reason as to why it is IMPOSSIBLE for him to hand that information off to Rook. Literally him saying go to Neve is a hint as to WHY HE CAN'T BE THE ONE. DEAR GODS. PEOPLE.

Did you even play the game?!?!?!

Did you read any notes or letters??

Did you even play Inquisition???? Because a lot of information here is explained in Inquisition.

What is this post???

Bioware writing team has a comfy, sheltered life and it shows

I'm sorry, but how come that the only people Inquisitor sent to look for Solas were Varric and Harding? How come that the only people recruited in 10 years of pursuing Solas were Neve and Rook? Do the writers understand that this is NOT how a serious effort looks like?

What about Leliana? Divine or not, she is still Sister Nightingale with an immense spywork. You'd think she won't mobilize everything she has to track Solas and his followers?

What about Josephine? What, she decided "nah, I'm done" and didn't use any of her diplomatic talents and connections to let the Inquisitor's agents have access, permissions or information they need?

What about Dorian? As a political figure, you'd think he will be the first Minrathous contact for the Inquisitor allies, the one arranging things and providing insights?

What about Cassandra and her Seekers? Isn't she interested in stopping another world-ending threat?

What about Sera and her sabotaging potential? If she organized the group of people for performing vigilante acts, people who are her eyes and ears, how come nobody from her group is helping with the effort?

I get it why Varric takes part in it - he knew Solas, the Inquisitor trusts him and his judgement, but for the game to imply that all the responsibility was lumped on Varric's shoulders is fucking disgraceful. I get it writers, Varric is popular character, and you would use him as bait to your heart's content, but the context you've created implies that Varric might have been the only one to take the threat seriously, while the Inquisitor and the rest were doing God knows what.

Varric should have been handing the Rook information on all the contacts they can recruit, all the useful agents, all the people to work with, not tell them to ask Neve because she might know someone because detective (Neve is a good character, but the fact that people who were supposed to spend 10 years chasing Solas look up to her for finding them contacts is appalling).

"Oh, but all these people were in the previous parts and we don't want to mention previous parts because muh new players" - well, you shot yourselves in the foot. Maybe, just maybe, you should have AT LEAST cared more about the choices made in DAI.

Congrats.

[littlexdeaths]

eddie munson x fem reader

warnings: mostly fluff but all my works are 18+, established relationship, fear of flying, a very dramatic nose bleed and eddie being an adorable but horny mf

a/n: i recently started rewatching supernatural again, and in doing so i came to the conclusion that dean and eddie are very similar. so this is a little something that’s loosely based off a scene in season 1, episode 4: phantom traveler. enjoy xx.

“are you seriously humming enter sandman right now?” you ask, amusement creeping into your voice as you glance over beside you.

only to see your boyfriend. with his cheeks flushed, leg bouncing erratically and ringed fingers gripping tightly onto the armrest nestled between you.

when you originally brought up the idea to book a flight to visit your folks for the holidays, instead of making the almost 10 hour trek to good ole’ minnesota, eddie had seemed all for it.

he encouraged it actually.

making some joke about how his “decrepit, aching twenty-six year old body” couldn’t handle another 10 hour drive.

however, the closer the trip loomed, the more reluctant eddie became. and he tried every which way to get you to cancel the flight and make the dreaded drive instead. but that was an argument he wasn’t going to win.

it wasn’t until the plane began to ascend into the air that the reason for his sudden reluctance became blatantly obvious.

eddie munson was scared, no scratch that—petrified of flying.

and try as you may, you just found that new tidbit to be even more endearing.

eddie gives you a sideways glare as you attempt to hide your grin. and really it shouldn’t be this funny. but maybe your lack of sleep from the early morning drive to the airport is finally beginning to weigh on you and soon the delirious giggles will start to kick in.

“yes, it calms me,” he huffs, gaze tearing away from you to glance out the small window of the plane.

“well you don’t look very calm to me.”

you rest a hand on his bouncing knee, just as another round of turbulence rocks through the cabin. and your amusement quickly delves into concern as he grips your arm to pull you closer into his side.

“okay—that cannot be normal!” he nearly whines, leaning his head back against the seat.

“baby, it’s just a little turbulence. you know you’re more likely to die in a car accident than on an airplane, right?”

while he appreciates your attempt to ease his mind a bit, it’s seriously not working.

“nice try, but i’ve seen final destination, sweetheart. i know how this shit ends.”

and you can’t help but roll your eyes at his dramatics.

soon his humming starts back up, becoming a lot louder. and earning him a solid kick in the back from the teenager seated in the row behind you. the kick seems to be perfectly timed however. as the force of it and another jostle of the plane has his body flying forward, his nose smashing directly into the seat in front of him.

his pained groan has your temper flaring, ready to whip your head around and give that shit head kid a piece of your mind. but you freeze when you notice the way he’s cradling his nose. your gaze following the drops of crimson that have dribbled down his chin and onto his shirt.

“shit, eddie you’re bleeding.”

he makes a noise in confirmation, but before he can utter some sarcastic remark you have unbuckled both of your seatbelts and hauled him to his feet.

the flashing seatbelt sign be damned.

a flight attendant tries to stop you on your way down the aisle toward the bathroom, but you’re having none of it.

“miss, you both need to return to your—”

and if looks could kill, this whole plane would come crashing down.

“either you let me through so i can help clean him up, or he makes a mess of your aircraft. your choice.”

while you can tell she wants to argue, seeing the blood beginning to seep through the space between his fingers has her moving aside to let you pass.

“christ, sweetheart.” eddie groans when you carefully shove him inside the small bathroom and squeeze in behind him.

“sit, now.” you order.

he does as instructed, spreading his legs so you can slip in between them. you grab a wad of the practically sheer toilet paper, running a corner of it beneath the stream of water.

“keep the bridge of your nose pinched, it’ll help stop the bleeding.”

and when you turn back toward him, your brows pull together in confusion. his lips are stretched in a toothy grin, any trace of his anxiety now forgotten.

at least for the moment.

you begin to gently dab at the drying blood on his upper lip, thankful that most of the gushing had ceased for the time being. and eddie winces slightly once you start to clean around his nose.

“why are you looking at me like that?” you ask, having felt his burning gaze from the moment he sat down.

“you’re just…” he trails off, slipping his fingers through the loop of your jeans to tug you closer—if that were even possible. “really fuckin’ sexy when you’re bossy.”

and a subtle glance down has you huffing out a laugh of disbelief.

“eddie, do you seriously have a boner right now?”

and he just grins wider.

“guilty as charged.”

[danilixouz]

Green Flag and Red Flag with Marta Torrejon and Ona Batlle

Translation below ⬇️

Ona: We are Marta Torrejon and Ona Batlle and today we’ll be playing Green flag or Red flag.

Question: They prefer cats over dogs

Marta: It’s the same for me.

Ona: 🟥 I’m team dog.

Marta: 🟩🟥 I have a cat but I’ll like to have a dog too so I don’t have a preference.

Question: They sleep with socks on

Ona: 🟥 Impossible.

Marta: 🟥 No I don’t see it. The heat, the sweat.

Ona: The smell.

Marta: Well maybe if you had them clean but not even.

Question: They put 10 alarms in the morning

Ona: I’m really one of them.

Marta: 🟥 I only put one and I get up.

Ona: 🟩 It costs me a lot to push myself

Marta: You put the alarms and you have them like??

Ona: I put a few, not all- not a lot but a couple minimum.

Marta: I remember Ire’s (Irene Paredes) phone, she had like 15 (alarms).

Ona: I have a lot.

Question: They’re a fan of scary movies

Ona: 🟥 No, I don’t like them.

Marta: 🟩 I don’t care.

Ona: I am a scared one, wow, I’ll shit myself.

Marta: Well, it’s true that I’ve spent like half of the movie watching like this (🫣) but if you have to watch, you watch.

Question: They talk to their pet like if they were a person

Ona: 🟩 Yesssss.

Marta: 🟩 I think everyone who has pets does it.

Ona: Yes the whole world does it.

Question: They haven’t gone to a Barça Femeni match

Marta: 🟥 Very bad.

Ona: 🟥 That has to be learned.

Marta: That you need to go to! Yes or Yes.

Ona: You need to come. Yes or Yes.

[limeade-l3sbian]

Im sure you have noticed many radfems talk of how men will use their spouse/partner as basically a second mother, having her do all the chores, the emotional labour, the organisation, etc. And I agree with this take.

But can we talk about how a lot of women, especially trad adjacent ones, also see their male partner as almost a parental figure. The amount of times i’ve seen women use different versions of “I just want a man that can think for me” is too many to count at this point. And it’s common. It’s seen in so much romance media, where the man takes control of everything, all the big decisions. It’s become a whole trope in heterosexual romance books and stories, of a rich man with control issues who sweeps some woman off her feet and makes it so she basically just disappears in his embrace.

This is gonna sound super harsh, but please know it isn’t meant as a critique of them as much as something i’ve noticed. I really do believe a lot of women who crave old school gender roles are very lazy, “useless”(to themselves) people who don’t want to amount to anything in life. The idea of struggle and hardship, heck, even just working TOWARDS something, it scares them so much they would rather be shapeless blobs controlled by someone else. That’s why they fetishize that traditional life style for women. Obviously WE know the women of that time and current time too in those types of homes aren’t just sitting around all day doing nothing, but I really do think a lot of women use it as an escapism fantasy from life.

The way a lot of them describe their sexual fantasies is similar, it’s always what is done to them, like they aren’t actually active participants, like they don’t actually have to make any choices.

I think the reason a lot of men crave a parental figure partner vs the reason a lot of women crave one is very different but they seem to be extremely common nonetheless. And with women I also know it’s a very complex issue of both society telling us our worth, the fact that women nowadays even as the more educated demographic STILL do more housework and emotional labour in relationships, capitalism being horrifyingly exhausting to live under, I could go on. But the point is, I think certain women crave a life of no consequences so that whole “i’m just a girl” and “he thinks for me, he makes the choices” mentality thats unfortunately had a huge uptick in popularity in recent years, I do think it’s women craving a parental figure as a partner. Not to say it’s anything linked to incest, i’m not trying to make freudian connections here, but I think the role of a parent is to take responsibility for the child and they crave that floating consequence free existence of a child.

I dunno, is what I’m saying completely deranged? Let me know.

Anon, I'm gonna try to be respectful and hold your hand when I say this... YOU'RE RIGHT! Thought I was gonna get condescending on your ass, huh? 😎🤪

Firstly, don't undercut your words with "I dunno." You made a completely logical point and casually explained yourself so eloquently I wouldn't be surprised if English wasn't your first language.

Secondly! I have seen this too! This weird, "take care of me" emphasis from both sides of the camp. Is it laziness? I wouldn't cast that aside for a second. But I think it's also this strange reaction to the present world. At least in the U.S., the economy is shit and people kind of already know that shit is just going to be hard, no matter what. And as humans, we have a weird tendency to swing the pendulum completely to the left or the right. So our reaction to very real, economic hardship that requires frequent "grinding" is to desire a complete release of the wheel, and to have someone else handle the hard stuff.

For some reason, according to social media, you either need to be grindset girl boss or a trad trophy wife which is...yeah. But I don't doubt your point being more of a reason for this. It's bizarre, and you're not crazy.

[cipher26]

Arcane Brain Dump 1/? | Jinx & Caitlyn

There were a lot of things I wanted to see in the finale that I didn't get, which wasn't surprising knowing there wasn't much time. But one thing that I really wanted and didn't actually expect to get was a 1 on 1 conversation with Jinx and Caitlyn. I was so excited when it was happening, because I felt like it was necessary for both characters to talk with each other, especially after episode 6 when they're suddenly fighting on the same side, and where they COULD have become family if it hadn't all gone to shit.

Before the season started I didn't think there was any hope for Jinx and Caitlyn to actually reconcile. Like, I thought at best Cait might stop hunting her for Vi's sake, but would still hate her. But then Isha came along and Jinx changed so much, and Caitlyn was isolated and depressed and tired, and I thought "hmm maybe they can get past the feud?" Unfortunately I guess we'll never know for sure, but I really do think that conversation was step 1 for them getting along. It was so interesting to see because you can see that Caitlyn is still in pain about her loss, but it's also been enough time since then, and so much has happened that the rage she was feeling in the beginning of the season has fizzled out. Which is relatable. It's exhausting to keep up that kind of hatred for someone, especially if they change in the way that Jinx did. The Jinx in that cell in front of Caitlyn was a completely different person than the one who kidnapped her out of the shower and killed her mother. I think that seeing Jinx with Isha and Vi and Vander also showed Caitlyn how much had changed. Because even from her first meeting with Jinx, there was tension between her and Vi. Jinx held a gun up to Vi's face in that first meeting, and was instantly aggressive towards Caitlyn. But in that tent with the whole family, Jinx didn't even care that Caitlyn was there. If anything she seemed kind of smug, because Caitlyn still thinks of her as an enemy but Jinx just saved her life. It's almost like a game, like what can Caitlyn do now? She lost some of her argument about Jinx being evil. Also, in that moment she can't do anything even if she wanted to. I saw a lot of people talking about how it didn't make sense that Caitlyn was suddenly fine with Jinx and didn't try to kill her. Which is silly because first of all, Caitlyn didn't have her weapon, she left it in the tent with Vi and Vi hadn't returned yet. So she couldn't really do anything. Also they just watched Beast Vander throw this huge man out the side of the building to protect his daughter, so if Caitlyn tries to hurt Jinx in any way she's absolutely gonna get torn to pieces. And then immediately after that everything starts to go to shit, and Vi is there, and they have other things to worry about in that moment. Especially once Ambessa starts attacking. It's a shame that we didn't also get to see the immediate aftermath of the battle with Cait, Jinx, and Jayce rushing Vi to safety. I mean idk how far Piltover is from the fissure, but it's not a fast journey lol. The three of them together must have been interesting, especially since Caitlyn hasn't seen Jayce in however many months it's been since before the time skip. Another thing I was sad to not see actually, was Cait and Jayce's reunion and Cait being like "wtf happened to you? where have you been?!" Alas...

Anyway, I'm glad they gave us that prison scene with the two of them. They just came out and addressed their issue, realized how different things were, and both kind of chose to move on. I mean Jinx is devastated and suicidal, she's completely given up, and also she's still the good person that Isha helped her become. Jinx has no reason to hate Caitlyn. The only thing Caitlyn's done to Jinx is hunt her after Jinx murdered her mother. And because Jinx wants to die, she tells Caitlyn to just do it. Except Caitlyn's changed too. She's tired of fighting, and the kid in front of her (cause Jinx is a kid...) looks as sad and tired as she feels. Even more so. It wasn't a long conversation, but I think it was just what they needed to hear from each other, and what the audience needed to hear. Caitlyn admits that her hatred for Jinx changed her in ways that made her hate herself, and she didn't want to be like that anymore. And then Jinx comes pretty much as close as she's gonna get to apologizing to Caitlyn for killing her mom. She doesn't say the words "I'm sorry," but when she says "I didn't know your mom was there" it kind of does feel like an apology. Or at the very least, I think it's Jinx telling Caitlyn that it wasn't personal. She wasn't trying to hurt Caitlyn specifically, she was trying to hurt the system that had oppressed and neglected her home for so long. And in that moment, she was too filled with grief over Silco to hold back.

So I think that conversation really brings some closure to both of them. They kind of get past their feud and just move on. There are so many other things to worry about now, and so many bad things have happened. And in the process of rushing Vi back to Piltover, I imagine it helped each of them see how much the other loves Vi. And I think that loving Vi is part of the motivation to put it behind them. Vi would never forgive Jinx if she killed Caitlyn, or hurt her. And now, despite what Vi told Cait before their first fight, I think Cait knows Vi would never forgive her if she hurt or killed Jinx. They both do what they do in the end of that episode FOR Vi. Jinx runs and locks Vi in the cage so Vi can't follow her, and she tells Vi that she deserves to be happy without feeling guilty, and specifically tells Vi she deserves to be with Cait. I mean that's a HUGE deal. Especially since Vi wasn't present for the journey back from the fissures, so she didn't actually see Cait and Jinx working together. In her mind they're still at square 1 for the most part.

And then Caitlyn goes and calls the guards away so that Vi can free Jinx, knowing she'll do so. I've seen a lot of people confused about Cait's line "did you really think I needed all of the enforcers at the Hexgates?" which is fair because I was also confused at first lol. But what Caitlyn is telling Vi, is that she knew VI would come to free her sister, so she did what she could to clear the way for Vi to be able to do that. She's basically telling Vi in that moment that she's moved past her anger enough to let Jinx go, and to stop hunting her. It's such a freeing moment for Vi, because the two people she loves the most, who were furiously trying to kill each other before, have finally made peace. It takes a huge weight off of Vi's shoulders, no longer having to be stuck between two people she loves who hate each other. And Jinx has just told her "go get your girl" and now Caitlyn is standing there smugly telling her that she basically let Jinx go. That's why Vi reacts the way she does, it's such a relief to be past that conflict and have permission from both of them to be happy.

Anyway, I thought it was a great moment, and even though it wasn't a long conversation between Cait and Jinx, I think it's exactly what they both needed. It was the closure they needed to move on. If Jinx had stayed around, they still would have had more work to do surely before they actually got along well, but it was suddenly possible after that talk. And I hope that in the continuation of this story that they finally get there someday. Because based on the ending I really don't think Jinx is dead. And Caitlyn is holding Jinx's monkey bomb in her hand, contemplating and looking up the Hexgate plans. She has to be looking to see if there was any way Jinx could have escaped, probably because Vi is devastated and she wants to help take that hurt away. Imagine if Cait could bring Vi her sister back? Or at least if she could let Vi know for sure that she wasn't dead. That would be huge. What a difference between the way these three started, and where they ended.

[sabulana]

Once again thinking about the Lost and Found department and the whole Afterlife stuff in Dead Boy Detectives.

It got a little long so...under the cut it goes.

So we know that Lost and Found deal with missing children, but who deals with adults? There must be a separate department for them, right? Why would there only be a department focusing on children when there are plenty adult ghosts hanging about as well?

Why is it called 'Lost and Found' when this usually refers to missing objects? Do the people working there see souls/children as objects? We know the Night Nurse has a certain way of thinking from the way she refers to the boys and how she acts (at least, prior to meeting Kashi) in that they must be 'naughty' or bad in some way because they refuse to cross over, without considering why that might be. She does show signs of beginning to change after meeting Kashi, (and I would have loved to see more of that in S2) but I wonder at everyone else in the department.

And for that matter, what roles are there in the department? We've seen the Night Nurse, the Notary, the assistants who follow the Night Nurse and the Principal (side note, would love to see if the boys and Crystal ever find out that she's Niko) but besides that, what actually goes on? Charles possessing Esther did set off an alert down there, but there must be other ways of tracking lost souls. They're not sitting on their hands, waiting for kids to possess the living, after all.

Also are there any men/male-shaped beings there? I only remember seeing women. And I say '-shaped beings' because we know the Night Nurse isn't human, she just looks like one. Is anyone there human or formerly human? Perhaps they're all trans-dimensional beings, who look human because that is the best way to have humans cooperate when they end up in their department. Kids aren't going to want to go with someone who looks like a monster, after all. And the Night Nurse is definitely a monster.

Also wondering if all the assistants/clerks have names or if they're referred to by role in the same way the Night Nurse etc are. I know the Night Nurse has been referred to as Asa in fics, but this is unconfirmed in canon, and is from the comics featuring the Nightmare Nurse. (I haven't seen Doom Patrol, but I know she was portrayed there, I just don't know specifics).

Next on my mind is the division of labour in L&F. The Night Nurse personally goes to collect the boys, but she's head of the department, right? Why not delegate? Does she go to collect every lost child that Death doesn't collect? Because there seems like there is probably a lot, tbh, given the world population.

How many people work in that department, and how is it all organised? Are there people tracking those that don't move on? If so, how come the Devlin family had to stay stuck in that loop for 30 years? Surely they would have been easy to find since they were in the same place the entire time.

And what about the suicide victims like Shelby, who walk the earth? Are they considered 'lost'? It seems kind of unfair that they have to just wander like that instead of getting an afterlife someplace else.

I have more thoughts but I'm typing this on mobile and gave myself a headache doing it. Anyway, the point of this is... I am about to make up a whole lot of shit about how the Afterlife works for my current WIP.

[mullermilkshake]

Suguru's troubles at the club after the clan meeting

Yakuza!Suguru, Hostess!Utahime, Yakuza!Miguel Things unravel further and fingers point to places Suguru never thought was an option.

The Suguru arrived at the club, it was far less dramatic than it appeared once he marched through the doors.

No furniture out of place, the lights were on and the mechanical fixtures twisted and shimmered over the walls like glitter. Just like they were supposed to.

So what stopped the club from opening, and what were those men doing inside that was so secretive, no one knew at the time besides Yuji Itadori?

They did not destroy Suguru's club, or even steal every bottle of alcohol including the top shelf stuff so that the place was dryer than a funeral.

"No money was taken at all?"

Suguru couldn't believe his ears, he came in through the doors prepare for a nights loss gone, but it was far worse than that.

Utahime stood there with a scowl and her arms crossed, "No they didn't, but what they did, you won't be excited about."

"What did they take?"

There were only a handful of things that could cause damage to the club and Suguru dreaded to think. The pit of his stomach twitched and gnawed away at his side, her response wasn't anything good.

"The client list."

"What?" that list was locked away behind two hardened safe doors. "How did they get a hold of that so quickly?"

"We don't know what they used, just that the book is gone as well as all of the add-ons for the other clubs." Utahime's pager went off, she looked down and fiddled with it, cursing to herself.

"Nanami's been buzzing me off the hook- like I actually knew something. I only came in half hour ago and Miguel isn't even here. No one was, Jesus this is a shit show."

So Nanami was still in the dark too? "This isn't good. Taking those records haven't just taken wages and profits. They've taken months of accumulating money these places make."

Whoever it was knew what they were doing right from the get go. And the most sickening thing was, that Nanami nor the entire Ryomen clan knew who had done this.

Sukuna was going to be pissed and the whole ordeal had made Suguru so late for dinner. What a fucking disaster.

"Mr Geto."

"Miguel."

"I came as soon as I found out," he adjusted his rolled shirt sleeves as the doors closed behind him. "I had no idea or I would have been-"

"It's fine. This couldn't have been avoided, as shit as it is. This was meticulously planned down to the letter if they were able to get to the client list."

Miguel shook his head and made his way over next to Utahime. "No one was hurt, right?"

"No," she shook her head. "There was no one on sight- Jesus this guy can page when I don't need it. But try and contact him when he's having his alone time... Sorry boys, I need to get to a pay phone."

Utahime fiddled with her pager and stormed off towards the exit. Suguru wondered who could have had access to that sort of information, a lot of tiles to turn over and examine with great detail.

"Miguel, you're the only one I really trust."

"Sir?"

It was horrid enough inside his head that he'd have to make this request, but Miguel really was the only one who could pull this off and make sure it remained under the table where it belonged as to not throw a spanner in the works.

"There were only a select few who would have knowledge to the whereabouts of the full clientele list. But I feel that has been compromised."

Miguel nodded and leant against the nearest wall. "You want me to find a mole and extract the information, right?"

"That's exactly it."

"Alright then, consider it done," he pushed off of the wall and wandered over towards the bar, taking up a stool. "Oh, you better get home soon, there's nothing more you can do here. Your wife isn't that pleased you're still out."

"Damn," it hadn't slipped his mind, but it did all the same.

There certainly was some making up to do.

And none of this was even Suguru's doing.

[jujus-bizarre-blog]

Some of my favourite Crooked Kingdom quotes :)

So I finished Crooked Kingdom and this post is gonna be a lot less articulate than my last one about the series because...

Who the actual fuck let the last 100 pages of that novel happen???

They were so entertaining but aside from that they had some of the most beautiful sentiments and prose. So I am going to share my favourites from each character's POV in Part Six: Action & Echo :3

Nina: Page 455

"But she hadn't been made for shame."

"Nina had grieved for her loss of power, for the connection she'd felt to the living world. She'd resented this shadow gift. It had seemed like a sham, a punishment. But just as surely as life connected everything, so did death. It was that endless, fast-running river. She'd dipped her fingers into its current, held the eddy of its power in her hand. She was the Queen of Mourning, and in its depths, she would never drown."

It's such a beautiful sentiment and moment to watch her fully come to love herself again and her new power. I love Nina as a deeply relatable character and this was just so perfect to see her come back to loving and finding herself.

Inej: Page 460

"But what about the rest of us? What about the nobodies and the nothings, the invisible girls? We learn to hold our heads as if we wear crowns. We learn to wring magic from the ordinary. That was how you survived when you weren't chosen, when there was no royal blood in your veins. When the world owed you nothing, you demanded something of it anyway."

This gave me chills. Everything about this is utterly gut wrenching and feels incredibly relatable. I reread that line probably 4 times before moving on.

Jesper: Page 471

"It's not a gift. It's a curse. But when it came down to it, Jesper's life had been full of blessings. His father. His mother. Inej. Nina. Matthias leading them across the muddy canal. Kaz--even Kaz, with all his cruelties and failings, had given him a home and a family in the Dregs when Ketterdam might have swallowed him whole. And Wylan. Wylan who had understood before Jesper ever had that the power inside him might be a blessing too."

Jesper realizing that for all the shit luck he has at tables he has been lucky enough to have amazing people in his life. It's just very sweet.

Matthias: Page 483

"Unnatural, said the old, determined voice. Beautiful, said the voice that had spoken the night he'd helped Jesper and Kuwei escape Black Veil. It was newer, less certain, but louder than ever before."

I love this part because it shows just how much Matthias has changed through the two books. It's beautiful and sweet and heartwarming.

Wylan: Page 427

"Wylan summoned every bit of bravado he'd learned from Nina, will he'd learned from Matthias, the focus he'd studied in Kaz, the courage he'd learned from Inej, and the wild, reckless hope he's learned from Jesper, the belief that no matter the odds, somehow they would win."

Okay... I cheated with Wylan's it's from his chapter just before Action & Echo... BUT, I think this sentiment is much more telling than anything in his Part Six chapter. I love this quote because it shows just how much his found family taught him. They're messy, they're brutal, and they're awful, but they are everything to each other. They teach each other, they help, they care, they tease, and that's way more than Wylan ever had at home.

Kaz: Page 480 & 529

"'I also had her stop at the Menagerie.'

She smiled then, her eyes red, her cheeks scattered with some kind of dust. it was a smile he thought he might die to earn again."

"'That's the laugh,' he murmured."

The second quote isn't from his chapter, it's from Inej's final one, but it conveys the same thing as the first quote. It shows what Kaz could have been, that somewhere in there he wants to show Inej can take his armour off, that he is willing to do it for her and I think it's just really gratifying to see.

That all being said chapter 42 was so evil. It had me going from sobbing of joy to sobbing of sorrow and back to joy in the span of 3 paragraphs istg. What the actual fuck Leigh Bardugo???

[tiredandoptimistic]

I feel like Jocelyn Fairchild has very much received the Mary Winchester treatment of getting hated on because people expect her to exist for the purpose of being The Mom when she's in fact a whole complex person with mental illness