#communications decency act

[mostlysignssomeportents]

Copyright takedowns are a cautionary tale that few are heeding

On July 14, I'm giving the closing keynote for the fifteenth HACKERS ON PLANET EARTH, in QUEENS, NY. Happy Bastille Day! On July 20, I'm appearing in CHICAGO at Exile in Bookville.

We're living through one of those moments when millions of people become suddenly and overwhelmingly interested in fair use, one of the subtlest and worst-understood aspects of copyright law. It's not a subject you can master by skimming a Wikipedia article!

I've been talking about fair use with laypeople for more than 20 years. I've met so many people who possess the unshakable, serene confidence of the truly wrong, like the people who think fair use means you can take x words from a book, or y seconds from a song and it will always be fair, while anything more will never be.

Or the people who think that if you violate any of the four factors, your use can't be fair – or the people who think that if you fail all of the four factors, you must be infringing (people, the Supreme Court is calling and they want to tell you about the Betamax!).

You might think that you can never quote a song lyric in a book without infringing copyright, or that you must clear every musical sample. You might be rock solid certain that scraping the web to train an AI is infringing. If you hold those beliefs, you do not understand the "fact intensive" nature of fair use.

But you can learn! It's actually a really cool and interesting and gnarly subject, and it's a favorite of copyright scholars, who have really fascinating disagreements and discussions about the subject. These discussions often key off of the controversies of the moment, but inevitably they implicate earlier fights about everything from the piano roll to 2 Live Crew to antiracist retellings of Gone With the Wind.

One of the most interesting discussions of fair use you can ask for took place in 2019, when the NYU Engelberg Center on Innovation Law & Policy held a symposium called "Proving IP." One of the panels featured dueling musicologists debating the merits of the Blurred Lines case. That case marked a turning point in music copyright, with the Marvin Gaye estate successfully suing Robin Thicke and Pharrell Williams for copying the "vibe" of Gaye's "Got to Give it Up."

Naturally, this discussion featured clips from both songs as the experts – joined by some of America's top copyright scholars – delved into the legal reasoning and future consequences of the case. It would be literally impossible to discuss this case without those clips.

And that's where the problems start: as soon as the symposium was uploaded to Youtube, it was flagged and removed by Content ID, Google's $100,000,000 copyright enforcement system. This initial takedown was fully automated, which is how Content ID works: rightsholders upload audio to claim it, and then Content ID removes other videos where that audio appears (rightsholders can also specify that videos with matching clips be demonetized, or that the ad revenue from those videos be diverted to the rightsholders).

But Content ID has a safety valve: an uploader whose video has been incorrectly flagged can challenge the takedown. The case is then punted to the rightsholder, who has to manually renew or drop their claim. In the case of this symposium, the rightsholder was Universal Music Group, the largest record company in the world. UMG's personnel reviewed the video and did not drop the claim.

99.99% of the time, that's where the story would end, for many reasons. First of all, most people don't understand fair use well enough to contest the judgment of a cosmically vast, unimaginably rich monopolist who wants to censor their video. Just as importantly, though, is that Content ID is a Byzantine system that is nearly as complex as fair use, but it's an entirely private affair, created and adjudicated by another galactic-scale monopolist (Google).

Google's copyright enforcement system is a cod-legal regime with all the downsides of the law, and a few wrinkles of its own (for example, it's a system without lawyers – just corporate experts doing battle with laypeople). And a single mis-step can result in your video being deleted or your account being permanently deleted, along with every video you've ever posted. For people who make their living on audiovisual content, losing your Youtube account is an extinction-level event:

https://www.eff.org/wp/unfiltered-how-youtubes-content-id-discourages-fair-use-and-dictates-what-we-see-online

So for the average Youtuber, Content ID is a kind of Kafka-as-a-Service system that is always avoided and never investigated. But the Engelbert Center isn't your average Youtuber: they boast some of the country's top copyright experts, specializing in exactly the questions Youtube's Content ID is supposed to be adjudicating.

So naturally, they challenged the takedown – only to have UMG double down. This is par for the course with UMG: they are infamous for refusing to consider fair use in takedown requests. Their stance is so unreasonable that a court actually found them guilty of violating the DMCA's provision against fraudulent takedowns:

https://www.eff.org/cases/lenz-v-universal

But the DMCA's takedown system is part of the real law, while Content ID is a fake law, created and overseen by a tech monopolist, not a court. So the fate of the Blurred Lines discussion turned on the Engelberg Center's ability to navigate both the law and the n-dimensional topology of Content ID's takedown flowchart.

It took more than a year, but eventually, Engelberg prevailed.

Until they didn't.

If Content ID was a person, it would be baby, specifically, a baby under 18 months old – that is, before the development of "object permanence." Until our 18th month (or so), we lack the ability to reason about things we can't see – this the period when small babies find peek-a-boo amazing. Object permanence is the ability to understand things that aren't in your immediate field of vision.

Content ID has no object permanence. Despite the fact that the Engelberg Blurred Lines panel was the most involved fair use question the system was ever called upon to parse, it managed to repeatedly forget that it had decided that the panel could stay up. Over and over since that initial determination, Content ID has taken down the video of the panel, forcing Engelberg to go through the whole process again.

But that's just for starters, because Youtube isn't the only place where a copyright enforcement bot is making billions of unsupervised, unaccountable decisions about what audiovisual material you're allowed to access.

Spotify is yet another monopolist, with a justifiable reputation for being extremely hostile to artists' interests, thanks in large part to the role that UMG and the other major record labels played in designing its business rules:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/09/12/streaming-doesnt-pay/#stunt-publishing

Spotify has spent hundreds of millions of dollars trying to capture the podcasting market, in the hopes of converting one of the last truly open digital publishing systems into a product under its control:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/01/27/enshittification-resistance/#ummauerter-garten-nein

Thankfully, that campaign has failed – but millions of people have (unwisely) ditched their open podcatchers in favor of Spotify's pre-enshittified app, so everyone with a podcast now must target Spotify for distribution if they hope to reach those captive users.

Guess who has a podcast? The Engelberg Center.

Naturally, Engelberg's podcast includes the audio of that Blurred Lines panel, and that audio includes samples from both "Blurred Lines" and "Got To Give It Up."

So – naturally – UMG keeps taking down the podcast.

Spotify has its own answer to Content ID, and incredibly, it's even worse and harder to navigate than Google's pretend legal system. As Engelberg describes in its latest post, UMG and Spotify have colluded to ensure that this now-classic discussion of fair use will never be able to take advantage of fair use itself:

https://www.nyuengelberg.org/news/how-explaining-copyright-broke-the-spotify-copyright-system/

Remember, this is the best case scenario for arguing about fair use with a monopolist like UMG, Google, or Spotify. As Engelberg puts it:

The Engelberg Center had an extraordinarily high level of interest in pursuing this issue, and legal confidence in our position that would have cost an average podcaster tens of thousands of dollars to develop. That cannot be what is required to challenge the removal of a podcast episode.

Automated takedown systems are the tech industry's answer to the "notice-and-takedown" system that was invented to broker a peace between copyright law and the internet, starting with the US's 1998 Digital Millennium Copyright Act. The DMCA implements (and exceeds) a pair of 1996 UN treaties, the WIPO Copyright Treaty and the Performances and Phonograms Treaty, and most countries in the world have some version of notice-and-takedown.

Big corporate rightsholders claim that notice-and-takedown is a gift to the tech sector, one that allows tech companies to get away with copyright infringement. They want a "strict liability" regime, where any platform that allows a user to post something infringing is liable for that infringement, to the tune of $150,000 in statutory damages.

Of course, there's no way for a platform to know a priori whether something a user posts infringes on someone's copyright. There is no registry of everything that is copyrighted, and of course, fair use means that there are lots of ways to legally reproduce someone's work without their permission (or even when they object). Even if every person who ever has trained or ever will train as a copyright lawyer worked 24/7 for just one online platform to evaluate every tweet, video, audio clip and image for copyright infringement, they wouldn't be able to touch even 1% of what gets posted to that platform.

The "compromise" that the entertainment industry wants is automated takedown – a system like Content ID, where rightsholders register their copyrights and platforms block anything that matches the registry. This "filternet" proposal became law in the EU in 2019 with Article 17 of the Digital Single Market Directive:

https://www.eff.org/deeplinks/2018/09/today-europe-lost-internet-now-we-fight-back

This was the most controversial directive in EU history, and – as experts warned at the time – there is no way to implement it without violating the GDPR, Europe's privacy law, so now it's stuck in limbo:

https://www.eff.org/deeplinks/2022/05/eus-copyright-directive-still-about-filters-eus-top-court-limits-its-use

As critics pointed out during the EU debate, there are so many problems with filternets. For one thing, these copyright filters are very expensive: remember that Google has spent $100m on Content ID alone, and that only does a fraction of what filternet advocates demand. Building the filternet would cost so much that only the biggest tech monopolists could afford it, which is to say, filternets are a legal requirement to keep the tech monopolists in business and prevent smaller, better platforms from ever coming into existence.

Filternets are also incapable of telling the difference between similar files. This is especially problematic for classical musicians, who routinely find their work blocked or demonetized by Sony Music, which claims performances of all the most important classical music compositions:

https://pluralistic.net/2021/05/08/copyfraud/#beethoven-just-wrote-music

Content ID can't tell the difference between your performance of "The Goldberg Variations" and Glenn Gould's. For classical musicians, the best case scenario is to have their online wages stolen by Sony, who fraudulently claim copyright to their recordings. The worst case scenario is that their video is blocked, their channel deleted, and their names blacklisted from ever opening another account on one of the monopoly platforms.

But when it comes to free expression, the role that notice-and-takedown and filternets play in the creative industries is really a sideshow. In creating a system of no-evidence-required takedowns, with no real consequences for fraudulent takedowns, these systems are huge gift to the world's worst criminals. For example, "reputation management" companies help convicted rapists, murderers, and even war criminals purge the internet of true accounts of their crimes by claiming copyright over them:

https://pluralistic.net/2021/04/23/reputation-laundry/#dark-ops

Remember how during the covid lockdowns, scumbags marketed junk devices by claiming that they'd protect you from the virus? Their products remained online, while the detailed scientific articles warning people about the fraud were speedily removed through false copyright claims:

https://pluralistic.net/2021/10/18/labor-shortage-discourse-time/#copyfraud

Copyfraud – making false copyright claims – is an extremely safe crime to commit, and it's not just quack covid remedy peddlers and war criminals who avail themselves of it. Tech giants like Adobe do not hesitate to abuse the takedown system, even when that means exposing millions of people to spyware:

https://pluralistic.net/2021/10/13/theres-an-app-for-that/#gnash

Dirty cops play loud, copyrighted music during confrontations with the public, in the hopes that this will trigger copyright filters on services like Youtube and Instagram and block videos of their misbehavior:

https://pluralistic.net/2021/02/10/duke-sucks/#bhpd

But even if you solved all these problems with filternets and takedown, this system would still choke on fair use and other copyright exceptions. These are "fact intensive" questions that the world's top experts struggle with (as anyone who watches the Blurred Lines panel can see). There's no way we can get software to accurately determine when a use is or isn't fair.

That's a question that the entertainment industry itself is increasingly conflicted about. The Blurred Lines judgment opened the floodgates to a new kind of copyright troll – grifters who sued the record labels and their biggest stars for taking the "vibe" of songs that no one ever heard of. Musicians like Ed Sheeran have been sued for millions of dollars over these alleged infringements. These suits caused the record industry to (ahem) change its tune on fair use, insisting that fair use should be broadly interpreted to protect people who made things that were similar to existing works. The labels understood that if "vibe rights" became accepted law, they'd end up in the kind of hell that the rest of us enter when we try to post things online – where anything they produce can trigger takedowns, long legal battles, and millions in liability:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/04/08/oh-why/#two-notes-and-running

But the music industry remains deeply conflicted over fair use. Take the curious case of Katy Perry's song "Dark Horse," which attracted a multimillion-dollar suit from an obscure Christian rapper who claimed that a brief phrase in "Dark Horse" was impermissibly similar to his song "A Joyful Noise."

Perry and her publisher, Warner Chappell, lost the suit and were ordered to pay $2.8m. While they subsequently won an appeal, this definitely put the cold grue up Warner Chappell's back. They could see a long future of similar suits launched by treasure hunters hoping for a quick settlement.

But here's where it gets unbelievably weird and darkly funny. A Youtuber named Adam Neely made a wildly successful viral video about the suit, taking Perry's side and defending her song. As part of that video, Neely included a few seconds' worth of "A Joyful Noise," the song that Perry was accused of copying.

In court, Warner Chappell had argued that "A Joyful Noise" was not similar to Perry's "Dark Horse." But when Warner had Google remove Neely's video, they claimed that the sample from "Joyful Noise" was actually taken from "Dark Horse." Incredibly, they maintained this position through multiple appeals through the Content ID system:

https://pluralistic.net/2020/03/05/warner-chappell-copyfraud/#warnerchappell

In other words, they maintained that the song that they'd told the court was totally dissimilar to their own was so indistinguishable from their own song that they couldn't tell the difference!

Now, this question of vibes, similarity and fair use has only gotten more intense since the takedown of Neely's video. Just this week, the RIAA sued several AI companies, claiming that the songs the AI shits out are infringingly similar to tracks in their catalog:

https://www.rollingstone.com/music/music-news/record-labels-sue-music-generators-suno-and-udio-1235042056/

Even before "Blurred Lines," this was a difficult fair use question to answer, with lots of chewy nuances. Just ask George Harrison:

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/My_Sweet_Lord

But as the Engelberg panel's cohort of dueling musicologists and renowned copyright experts proved, this question only gets harder as time goes by. If you listen to that panel (if you can listen to that panel), you'll be hard pressed to come away with any certainty about the questions in this latest lawsuit.

The notice-and-takedown system is what's known as an "intermediary liability" rule. Platforms are "intermediaries" in that they connect end users with each other and with businesses. Ebay and Etsy and Amazon connect buyers and sellers; Facebook and Google and Tiktok connect performers, advertisers and publishers with audiences and so on.

For copyright, notice-and-takedown gives platforms a "safe harbor." A platform doesn't have to remove material after an allegation of infringement, but if they don't, they're jointly liable for any future judgment. In other words, Youtube isn't required to take down the Engelberg Blurred Lines panel, but if UMG sues Engelberg and wins a judgment, Google will also have to pay out.

During the adoption of the 1996 WIPO treaties and the 1998 US DMCA, this safe harbor rule was characterized as a balance between the rights of the public to publish online and the interest of rightsholders whose material might be infringed upon. The idea was that things that were likely to be infringing would be immediately removed once the platform received a notification, but that platforms would ignore spurious or obviously fraudulent takedowns.

That's not how it worked out. Whether it's Sony Music claiming to own your performance of "Fur Elise" or a war criminal claiming authorship over a newspaper story about his crimes, platforms nuke first and ask questions never. Why not? If they ignore a takedown and get it wrong, they suffer dire consequences ($150,000 per claim). But if they take action on a dodgy claim, there are no consequences. Of course they're just going to delete anything they're asked to delete.

This is how platforms always handle liability, and that's a lesson that we really should have internalized by now. After all, the DMCA is the second-most famous intermediary liability system for the internet – the most (in)famous is Section 230 of the Communications Decency Act.

This is a 27-word law that says that platforms are not liable for civil damages arising from their users' speech. Now, this is a US law, and in the US, there aren't many civil damages from speech to begin with. The First Amendment makes it very hard to get a libel judgment, and even when these judgments are secured, damages are typically limited to "actual damages" – generally a low sum. Most of the worst online speech is actually not illegal: hate speech, misinformation and disinformation are all covered by the First Amendment.

Notwithstanding the First Amendment, there are categories of speech that US law criminalizes: actual threats of violence, criminal harassment, and committing certain kinds of legal, medical, election or financial fraud. These are all exempted from Section 230, which only provides immunity for civil suits, not criminal acts.

What Section 230 really protects platforms from is being named to unwinnable nuisance suits by unscrupulous parties who are betting that the platforms would rather remove legal speech that they object to than go to court. A generation of copyfraudsters have proved that this is a very safe bet:

https://www.techdirt.com/2020/06/23/hello-youve-been-referred-here-because-youre-wrong-about-section-230-communications-decency-act/

In other words, if you made a #MeToo accusation, or if you were a gig worker using an online forum to organize a union, or if you were blowing the whistle on your employer's toxic waste leaks, or if you were any other under-resourced person being bullied by a wealthy, powerful person or organization, that organization could shut you up by threatening to sue the platform that hosted your speech. The platform would immediately cave. But those same rich and powerful people would have access to the lawyers and back-channels that would prevent you from doing the same to them – that's why Sony can get your Brahms recital taken down, but you can't turn around and do the same to them.

This is true of every intermediary liability system, and it's been true since the earliest days of the internet, and it keeps getting proven to be true. Six years ago, Trump signed SESTA/FOSTA, a law that allowed platforms to be held civilly liable by survivors of sex trafficking. At the time, advocates claimed that this would only affect "sexual slavery" and would not impact consensual sex-work.

But from the start, and ever since, SESTA/FOSTA has primarily targeted consensual sex-work, to the immediate, lasting, and profound detriment of sex workers:

https://hackinghustling.org/what-is-sesta-fosta/

SESTA/FOSTA killed the "bad date" forums where sex workers circulated the details of violent and unstable clients, killed the online booking sites that allowed sex workers to screen their clients, and killed the payment processors that let sex workers avoid holding unsafe amounts of cash:

https://www.eff.org/deeplinks/2022/09/fight-overturn-fosta-unconstitutional-internet-censorship-law-continues

SESTA/FOSTA made voluntary sex work more dangerous – and also made life harder for law enforcement efforts to target sex trafficking:

https://hackinghustling.org/erased-the-impact-of-fosta-sesta-2020/

Despite half a decade of SESTA/FOSTA, despite 15 years of filternets, despite a quarter century of notice-and-takedown, people continue to insist that getting rid of safe harbors will punish Big Tech and make life better for everyday internet users.

As of now, it seems likely that Section 230 will be dead by then end of 2025, even if there is nothing in place to replace it:

https://energycommerce.house.gov/posts/bipartisan-energy-and-commerce-leaders-announce-legislative-hearing-on-sunsetting-section-230

This isn't the win that some people think it is. By making platforms responsible for screening the content their users post, we create a system that only the largest tech monopolies can survive, and only then by removing or blocking anything that threatens or displeases the wealthy and powerful.

Filternets are not precision-guided takedown machines; they're indiscriminate cluster-bombs that destroy anything in the vicinity of illegal speech – including (and especially) the best-informed, most informative discussions of how these systems go wrong, and how that blocks the complaints of the powerless, the marginalized, and the abused.

Support me this summer on the Clarion Write-A-Thon and help raise money for the Clarion Science Fiction and Fantasy Writers' Workshop!

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/06/27/nuke-first/#ask-questions-never

Image: EFF https://www.eff.org/files/banner_library/yt-fu-1b.png

CC BY 3.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/3.0/deed.en

[nationallawreview]

Social Media’s Legal Dilemma: Curated Harmful Content

Walking the Line Between Immunity and Liability: How Social Media Platforms May Be Liable for Harmful Content Specifically Curated for Users As proliferation of harmful content online has increasingly become easier and more accessible through social media, review websites and other online public forums, businesses and politicians have pushed to reform and limit the sweeping protections afforded…

[scare-ard--sleigh]

yeah if you read the g*iman allegations and are still quibbling over how this is "hard" for you as a fan and you wanna separate art from the artist, i do not have space for you in my life.

[iteh3xael]

Made someone upset on TikTok for using Alphabet Soup lol

[phosphorusab]

A grown ass man lured a 14 year old girl out to a park at night, abused her, killed her, dismembered her and scattered her remains in public parks and rivers. Now if that girl was a cisgender girl, the general public would rightfully put the blame on the perpetrator for taking advantage of and murdering a minor.

But because Pauly Likens Jr was a transgender girl, the general public is going full trans panic defense, even though the perpetrator said they met on Grindr, if that was even true. Grindr doesn’t verify the age of its users and legally doesn’t have to due to Section 230 of the Communications Decency Act, which means half of sexually active queer adolescents will use this app and fall into the hands of predators.

https://www.wgbh.org/news/national/2021-07-12/unseen-part-3-popular-gay-dating-app-grindr-poses-exploitation-risk-to-minors

Grindr has been known to have a sexual exploitation of minors issue, and I just know that people are going to see that Pauly Likens Jr and her killer may have used this app to blame Pauly for her own demise.

It’s just like they did with Gwen Araujo in 2002 (a 17 year old trans girl killed by 4 grown ass men), Mercedes Williamson in 2015 (a 17 year old trans girl killed by a grown ass man) and Nikki Kuhnhausen in 2019 (a 17 year old trans girl killed by a grown ass man). You stop being an innocent kid who is capable of being victimized when you’re trans. You’re a threat to other kids your age or younger, and you’re a precocious sexual provocateur towards adults. This applies especially to transgender girls - complete dehumanization and transmisogyny.

This pattern of transgender teenage girls being taken advantage of by adults and killed is completely unacceptable, and society should start acting like it.

[justsomeantifas]

Senate Democrats are trying to gut Section 230

4/18/2025

Section 230 is a law passed in the 90s that gave birth to the modern internet. Without it, the internet as we know it quite literally would not exist.

Gutting part of Section 230 is why there was a tumblr purge in 2018 which led to a domino effect of making the internet worse. This was written in SESTA/FOSTA.

Senators Dick Durbin (D) and Lindsey Graham (R) are introducing a bill that would “sunset” Section 230 of the Communications Decency Act. Section 230 is known as the “26 words that created the Internet.” It essentially allows websites to host users’ speech and engage in good faith moderation without being held legally liable for every post users make. Without it, platforms would have to choose between ducking lawsuits by pre-censoring "controversial" content or abandoning moderation altogether. Smaller, decentralized platforms like Bluesky, Mastodon, Signal, and Reddit would likely be tanked by lawsuits, while Big Tech companies like Meta, Google, and X would survive, solidifying their monopolies

There would be no more organizing protests like Tesla Takedown online, no more posting about abortion resources or trans healthcare, and no more independent media. With the Trump admin escalating attacks on immigrants, students, journalists, and protestors, we can’t afford to lose online organizing spaces and access to information. Tell lawmakers: hands off Section 230! (link below contains petition and more details on the law)

(I know it seems like pressuring congress doesn't work, but this is how KOSA was defeated 2 sessions in a row. IT WORKS.)

[kumkaniudaku]

Creatures of The Night

Summary: Stack meets his match on a return trip home.

Pairing: Elias 'Stack' Moore x Black!Fem OC

Warnings: Smut (18+)

Word Count: 3,779

As much as Mississippi had changed, it was still the same. Vast rolling plains of farmland tilled by rough, Black and brown hands still carried the stench of oppression thought to be a relic of a different time. Poverty still touched communities loudly crying out for relief. Generations of families still lived in shotgun houses and small brick dwellings passed down from faces they'd only ever seen in photo frames grouped together on tiny altars as reverence for their tireless sacrifice. And, deep in the darkest parts of the city, when the sun went down and the moon illuminated deeds hidden in the light for decency's sake, a hole-in-the-wall establishment made room for all sorts of devils and demons to enjoy themselves in the dead of night. 

Beneath bright lights and a thick, impenetrable haze of sour weed smoke, Stack sat perched at the bar, sipping dark brown poison to mimic patrons around him. He hadn't had much taste for the stuff since the '30s, but it brought him comfort. The jitters of being so close to home were enough to stoke the flames of nervousness he thought he'd long relinquished to the past. He'd tried several times to go from Jackson to Clarksdale, pay his respects to loved ones lost, and disappear until the next time the supernatural pull of days past whispered for him to return. But something about the spruced-up warehouse fitted with leather couches bunched around small tables and platforms sporting chrome poles nearly touching the ceiling had a hold on him. Or rather someone.

She moved like water. Fluid and calming, capturing Stack's attention with minimal effort. Sable skin illuminated under blue neon reminded him of the young woman from the film he'd financed years back. Hip-hop was still nonsensical and watered down trash in his mind, but involvement had it's benefits – club environments, glitz, glamor, fame, fortune, and an endless supply of thick skulled idiots willing to do whatever necessary to live a life of fleeting pleasures forever. Then her. A beauty beyond compare, acting as a siren calling him to destruction on troubled seas. 

Stack's first visit to Dreams was by accident. The low rumble of bass knocking so hard against the wall he thought the doors might blow open from the force sucked him into a vortex he couldn't escape. An unexplained magnetism knocked him off his path and past a long line of patrons hoping for a few hours of illicit fun. A couple dollars, slick talk, and a kind request for entry helped him past unfriendly looking security and into a world in and of itself. And there she was. Walking through the crowd in white lace, leaving little to the imagination with a switch in her hips beguiling enough to earn his attention well into the wee hours of the morning. 

Lily is what the DJ called her from his booth alongside the stage. Fitting. In a room full of miscreants and hoodlums, she seemed like too perfect a flower for a place like this.

Night one, Stack only watched. Behind dark lenses in an even darker corner of the room, he gathered information like a student studying a master at work. Glossed lips curled into a smile, flashing bright white teeth at every man she encountered. While she spoke them into a slurring, lust-drunk stupor, they handed over wads of cash surely meant to take care of a family at home. A talker. Stack liked that. 

The second night, when he'd had some liquid courage, and the crowd was thin for a Thursday night, he noticed her already noticing him from her throne on stage. Every twirl around the pole produced an opportunity for intense eye contact lasting the full duration of her performance to Juvenille's 'Slow Motion.' As the song wound to a close, Lily left him with a wink, fluttering long lashes as her fingers wiggled a greeting in his direction. Stack never saw her again that night. But he felt her. She'd imprinted herself on his brain and all but dared him to stay in Jackson another night. 

Friday night, with nightcrawlers from far and wide filling every corner of the club, Lily and Stack made first contact. 

"Why you be in here by yourself?" Lily's down home alto came in loud over T-Pain's voice while Stack took sips of poor quality bourbon. 

A slow smile crept across his face. "Chillin'. I ain't from here." 

"You sound like you from here." When her veiled question induced little more than a chuckle, Lily tried a more forward approach. "Where you from then? You one of them rap niggas from Memphis?" 

Ever perceptive, Lily saw Stack's chains and rings the moment her suitor walked into the club earlier in the week. If he wasn't a rapper, he sold drugs. Either one worked just fine for her. Income was income, illegal or otherwise. She couldn't care less if she could put a few of his dollars into her pocket by the end of the night.

"Nah. From up the road a little bit." Stack's intentional lack of information made Lily smile as she nodded. 

No need for details. She knew less about other patrons, but that never stopped them from pouring 10s, 20s, and 50s into her g-string like water from the tap. "I can sit down?"

Lily teased a smile, hoping her charm would be enough for Stack to grant access to the castle he'd made for himself. He didn't answer with words. A half smile and a gesture toward the spot beside him was enough of an invitation. 

Sliding herself against worn leather, Lily tested the waters by scooting within an inch of his thigh. When no objection came, she deliberately caressed his knee with hers and leaned forward to rest her elbows on the table. 

"Where your ol' lady at?" Surely, there was a missus in the picture. 

Stack chuckled. "Your guess good as mine. Ain't seen her in a few years," he answered before taking another sip. A partial truth couldn't hurt. He knew where Mary had gone. It just hurt too much to say it. "Where your man?" 

"Your guess good as mine." Mirrored cheeky grins spread across their faces in tandem. Stack fought hard to keep the full spread of his lips at bay, hoping to conceal the true nature of his identity. Lily pretended not to take notice of the canines calling for her attention, preferring to live in the fantasy Dreams offered everyone who walked through the door. Lily scooched closer. "What's your name?" 

A name. The question caught Stack off guard. In all his travels, he had no problem proudly alerting anyone who asked that they were speaking to the last of the Smokestack twins. But here, so close to home and the fables that seemed to stick no matter the decade, too much information could crack the seal on problems kept bottled since he fled years ago. 

Stack took another sip to bide his time before setting the glass on the table and answering. "Eli. Yours?" 

"You know my name. Rico call it a hundred times every night. Much as you been in here, you had to have heard it by now." 

"So, you been keepin' tabs on me?" 

"I keep tabs on a lot of people. 'Specially the ones like you," she smiled, showing a gold framed tooth of her own. Without breaking eye contact, Lily reached for Stack's glass and pulled it closer to her side of the booth. 

He watched her with keen focus, noting how her lips parted slowly to invite a healthy sip of alcohol. Each swallow made her throat bob seductively as a subtle mating call that he couldn't leave unnoticed. A master at her craft. Stack couldn't help but admire the work, even if it was at his expense. 

When she slid the empty glass back over to him, Stack licked his lips to stop the trickle of saliva attempting to escape. "That wasn't free, baby girl." 

"Say my name right, Eli." Lily's sing-song command made Stack's stomach clench from arousal as her fingernails danced up his thigh beneath the table

He sat up straight and threw an arm over the top of the booth for stability. "That wasn't free, Lily," he corrected. "You owe me." 

"I always pay my debts. Come see me tomorrow, hm?" 

"What about tonight?" An eager inquiry, but he couldn't promise another day. Stack had to get moving. 

Lily opened her mouth to speak, preparing to offer a rebuttal, but found herself cut off by Rico from the DJ booth. 

"Y'all ready for Lily to come back to the stage?" 

Of course, they were. She was the biggest draw in town. Chatting up the secretive stranger on his third consecutive visit couldn't supersede getting to the money. 

Rolling her eyes, Lily began to exit the little corner of desire they'd built together. "Tomorrow. Come 'round three in the morning. I got something for you in the back."

"Y'all close at two," Stack countered, trying to snuff out Lily's endgame. 

"That's just what the police say. We open as long as the money comin' in." Finally free from the booth, Lily made a show of adjusting her all-white outfit and smiled. "Three o'clock. I keep my word, Eli. You just worry about gettin' here." 

Stack didn't intend to stay in Jackson, Mississippi another night. He had plans – moves to make, gravesites to visit, offerings to leave for souls long passed on. October 16th had come and gone with him shirking responsibility in the name of cheap thrills and a beautiful woman. In over 70 years, he still hadn't learned his lesson. 

At the worn-in bar, perched on a barstool with another glass of bottom-shelf bourbon in his hands, Stack watched the digital clock behind the bartender tick to the top of the hour. He didn't have much time. 'Get in and get out,' he coached himself as he adjusted the Michael Vick jersey on his shoulders and centered the Jesus piece on his chain. 

Sure enough, Dreams was still jumping with no end in sight. Stack's eyes slowly scanned the room behind his sunglasses, hoping for any sign of his target. Familiar urges tingled the base of his spine, begging for the green light to taste the focus of his desires. Turning Lily was a new development. Longing for a partner to walk alongside him in the curse known as eternal life hadn't left him since Mary's untimely demise. Lily fit the bill just right. She didn't need to continue showing herself for money. He'd take all that away and replace it with even greater riches if he could get her alone for a conversation.

As he searched high and low for his prize, a set of fingers danced up Stack's back before lips caressed the shell of his ear. "Welcome back, Eli. Follow me." 

Simple instructions and chills manifesting all over his warm skin convinced Stack to follow the long-legged beauty through the throng of thrashing bodies and past a thick velvet curtain partitioning an area reserved for more private encounters. 

Blue lights were no more. In the quiet of backrooms sparsely populated with men willing to spend a little extra dough and dancers intent on milking them for more, red lights tinted everyone's skin into a hue reminiscent of Satan in his imagined form. 

Stack tried to mind his business as Lily tugged him along to the room at the end of the hallway. From the corner of his eye, he swore he saw a man's eyes roll back into his skull, mouth hung open in an unexplained trance while a young light-skinned woman whispered into his ear. There wasn't much time for Stack to make sense of what his mind had conjured. A second attempt at peering past the thick tinted glass was robbed just as Lily pulled him into their soundproof hideout. 

Low lights and black padded walls shielded the pair from outside influences trying to force their way into their fortress. Stack ran his fingers along the soft fabric, wondering just how effective it was at keeping all sorts of sounds from leaking out to the public. 

"You gon' sit down, or you came to do a dust inspection? Whatever you find, make sure you talk to Varis about all that." Lily's attempt at a joke received a cool, closed-mouth smile as Stack studied her body from head to toe. She pointed to the couch spanning the length of the room's back wall. "Sit down. It's me and you now." 

Good. The less prying eyes and intrusions, the better. 

Lily watched Stack take measured steps to the back of the room, studying the swagger in his walk and where his wallet bulged in his back pocket. Most men came with all they could spare without being caught by wives concerned about dwindling cash flow. Eli was different. Money seemed expendable to him. A real spend some and make it all back type. Perfect. 

A sure heel-to-toe strut carried Lily across the room to a decanter full of dark liquid and a pair of glasses resting on an empty bar cart. Stack watched her pour from the glass container, looking for something to comfort him in an unfamiliar predicament. He felt a rush of unexplained wind whip past his ear as a shiver manifested in his fingers. 

"Why's it so cold in here?" Stack questioned as Lily walked the drink over to him. 

She smiled but withheld her answer until she'd stopped her journey to stand between his legs. "When it's warm," she started with her arm extended to hand over his beverage. "Things get too soft. Ice cream, butter…" Once her hand was free, Lily eased her way into Stack's lap to plant her knees beside his hips. "Nipples. Dicks. You don't wanna go soft, do you, Eli? What we gon' do with that?" 

Lily's warm tongue tracing figure eights against the spot under Stack's left ear trapped a sound in his throat, leaving his body to betray his thoughts. Lily felt the quick contraction and release of his muscles, but remained committed to her task. 

"You should take a sip," Lily suggested as she switched sides to give Stack's other ear attention. "I owe you, remember?" 

Stack considered the advice, taking a slow look at the unfamiliar elixir. He'd learned a lot of lessons in all his years. Never trust a man saying 'trust me,' mind the business that pays you, and only drink the troubles you pour yourself. Lily embodied all things beautiful in the world, but wasn't that fine. A principled man was a man too difficult to manipulate. His brother taught him that. 

Stack took a second look at the glass and ultimately shook his head. "I'm good, baby. Trynna remember this one. Maybe next time." 

"Suit yourself." Her nonchalant nature almost made Stack change his mind and take a swig just for the taste. It couldn't hurt too bad. 

But, just as soon as he'd rejected her offering, Lily had pulled the cup from his hand and set it aside. 

Kisses against the throbbing vein counting each heartbeat disarmed Stack's guard and senses better than any drink or pull of cigarette ever could. A pretty face and the spark of danger were still his weaknesses. He'd battled for years to overcome the sinister draw of a woman's treasure, even going so far as to plan and follow through on a sham of a wedding in Las Vegas. He and Mary knew it wouldn't work, but it felt good. Being joined to each other by loose legal documents and cheap rings plucked from a sleazy jewelry store just before a chapel with only the spirits of loved ones there to witness their union felt right.

He wondered how Mary might feel now, knowing he'd fallen back into old habits instead of mourning her like a husband was supposed to. He'd slipped so deep into thought that he didn't register Lily's hands sliding into the front of his jeans until her fingertips grazed his shaft. 

"Can I repay you," she whispered against the scar on his neck. "You wouldn't take my drink. At least enjoy what the private room was made for." 

Stack let his heavy eyelids flutter closed and released a deep breath. "We ain't 'posed to touch back here, ain't it?" 

"I do what I want. Don't worry about the rules when you with me."

"You don't wanna turn on some music, at least? Can't be that quiet in here," Stack questioned, still trying to gauge their true level of privacy. 

Lily smiled against his neck. "Nope. Let 'em hear." 

Deft fingers and a delicate palm freed Stack's member from the confines of cotton and stiff denim, giving it room to stand proud between them. They watched together as she closed her hand around it and began to stroke. 

"Looks like the cold is helping, hm?"

"Fuck," Stack whispered into the ether. Her skin felt like fine silk enclosed around the part of him that ached for touch the most. He'd lost the battle. The only hope for redemption was to finish with his mind intact and leave Jackson, Mississippi without looking back. 

Slow kisses stole the last modicum of focus Stack had left. "You like that," Lily questioned in her seductive timbre. A murmured 'mhm' spurred her forward. "I wanna show you something else." 

Stack wished he would've asked Lily to elaborate. Maybe he would've given himself more time to prepare for her mouth to envelop him in a warm embrace. His hips jolted upward, pressing his tip to the back of her throat and receiving a soft gag as his thank you for a job well done. 

Pleasures belonging to another time flooded Stack's entire nervous system. He flew through boyhood, when fooling around with Mary was new and exciting. The audible slurp from saliva escaping the corners of Lily's lips took him back to a woman in Chicago sneaking to be with him when her husband chose to turn his attention to business and away from matters of the home. There was the time he'd snuck into the French Quarter, freshly turned and searching for a body to claim. Remembering her name would take too much of his rapidly diminishing brain power, but he'd never forget that pretty face and how she seemed to welcome his fangs sinking into her skin. Stack always wondered what happened to her and if she fared well after the turn set in. His mind tried to drift to something, anything to ward off his incoming completion, but each mental swipe through his memory's Rolodex became infiltrated by Lily as she pulled her mouth away from his lap.

"Can I tell you somethin'?" Lily's question barely registered as Stack curled his fingers against the couch. She kept her hands busy, smiling to herself while she watched his eyes roll into his skull. "I'm sort of like you. Sometimes, when I want to feel like everybody else, I pretend. It's fun, you know? Keeps me goin' until the next time somethin' excitin' happens." 

Stack felt his body struggle to come back to baseline. Every alarm bell in his head rang at once, screaming for relief. No luck. He was at her mercy, eyes still rolling as release became imminent. He groaned for help that no one would hear. 

Lily chuckled and shook her head. "I almost wish you wouldn't have come back. That's why I ignored you that first night. They still tell stories about Elijah and Elias Moore to this day, but I didn't believe 'em. Motherfuckers lie around here. Too much time on they hands." Balls tightening in her free hand while she continued to get him off signaled an approaching end as Stack attempted to will himself free of her clutches to no avail. Lily continued. "Them biblical names somethin', ain't they? Seem like the most evil people in the world named after somebody in the good book. Your brother, your old girl, you…" Lily trailed off before bringing her eyes up to meet her victim's face. "I didn't quite make the cut. Lilith still has a nice ring to it, though, right? It's memorable." 

The feeling of being watched, the magnetic pull, the men in a trance and passing out money like candy – it all came rushing back to Stack as he felt his body weaken with every quickening stroke. Succubus. Tales of their existence always sounded like more myth than tangible reality. Smoke chalked each story up to weak-minded men looking for someone to blame for their lack of focus and restraint. Stack thought it might be fun for a beautiful woman to use him as a sexual object for a night but sided with the wisdom of his older brother. He never expected to find out. But lust had won again. His fatal flaw had lured him to the edge of death once more.

Stack opened his mouth wider, trying to scream with no sound reaching the atmosphere. It wouldn't matter anyway. No one was coming. He wouldn't be saved. The witching hour had overpowered him a second time. 

"It's almost over, baby. Be good for me," Lily taunted, her eyes darkening as her once dazzling smile curled into something more sinister. 

Climax felt like a slow death. Stack prayed for something quick. An instant draining of his life force to make the misery worth it. He'd reunite with the ones who loved him on the other side. Unfortunately, natural deaths full of promise and peace no longer had a place. A second curse had been levied upon him. A forever damning to serve as the source of life for another immortal being until he served no purpose and could be discarded like waste on the highway. 

With her mouth back to work, Lily welcomed every drop of semen onto her tongue like a dog lapping for water in the hot sun. She'd been waiting for someone like Elias. Someone to provide an endless treasure trove of what lesser men provided in feeble quantities. Forever had come to her with little effort. What a gift with a beautiful host to sweeten the deal. 

When he was empty and heaving for a break, Lily relished in the slow creep of euphoria consuming her from within. Stack remained frozen, eyes wide with fear and his jaw slack. 

Nuzzling her face against his thigh like a feline does her trusted companion, Lily smiled with traces of her trophy still coating her lips. 

"Welcome back to Mississippi, Elias. Stick around this time, won't you?" 

------

No tags. Enjoy the one off! For now, at least.

[mariasont]

side effects of garcia's advice

spencer tries to hide his panic when you debut a swimsuit garcia assured was perfect

pairing: spencer reid r x shy!reader warnings: fem!reader, post-prison!spencer, reader wearing bikini, spencer having some non-descript inappropriate thoughts, reader being insecure prompt: here wc: 0.7k

Spencer’s halfway down the steps and mentally two-thirds of the way debunking the latest conspiracy theory Rossi shared over coffee this morning — something involving dolphins as government spies — when he suddenly stops cold, foot hovering awkwardly mid-air.

All prior intellectual inquiries vanish in a humiliating instant, displaced by the infinitely more pressing inquiry of how he’s supposed to function normally now.

You’re in the kitchen, folding a towel into your already overflowing beach bag, and Spencer is certain, beyond any doubt, that he’s never seen you wear anything remotely resembling that.

His eyes skate quickly, almost involuntarily, down the length of your body — the curve of your waist, the soft swell of skin exposed along your hip, the tiny ties that hold together whatever passes for fabric.

For six painstaking days, he’d grown accustomed (though that’s admittedly a generous use of the word) to seeing you in swimsuits that were charmingly modest. Vintage-inspired one-pieces that, despite covering a reasonable percentage of skin, still left him tongue-tied and desperate for air.

This is a drastic departure from that.

This is a swimsuit whose existence seems to defy several laws of physics and at least one ordinance of common decency. 

He finds himself staring far too openly at places he’s only imagined, and yet now, confronted with their very real existence, he’s almost offended by how utterly incapable he is of maintaining decorum.

You turn, eyes landing softly on his, and Spencer’s mind helpfully informs him that, yes, this is objectively much worse.

He wasn’t prepared for you to notice him so soon — truthfully, he wasn’t prepared at all — but now you’re staring right back, blinking shyly and pulling him into a reality where he’s expected to communicate. To form sentences. To act, God forbid, like a functioning human.

His eyes flicker downward without permission, and he immediately regrets it — because now your breasts are center stage.

You immediately fold upward, shoulders curving defensively, eyes darting away as you misinterpret his prolonged silence. 

“Oh, god, it’s way too revealing, isn’t it?” You clutch a towel protectively to your chest. “Garcia said I should step out of my comfort zone, but I told her — I said everyone would probably think it was inappropriate or something, and now you’re clearly uncomfortable —”

“Whoa, slow down,” Spencer says quickly, raising a hand as if physically halting your words. He clears his throat, meeting your gaze directly despite the persistent flush across his cheeks. “I’m not uncomfortable. Surprised, sure.”

“Then why are you looking at me like that?”

Spencer blinks, momentarily frozen. His mind races, searching for any plausible, non-mortifying explanation.

“I — uh, I was just calculating your chances of sunburn,” he blurts, then cringes instantly. “You, um, should probably wear sunscreen. A lot of it.”

“Oh, right!” You nod, clearly grateful for a sensible explanation. “I already packed two bottles, but maybe I should get another just in case.”

Spencer almost laughs out loud, partly in disbelief at your earnest acceptance of his absurd excuse, but mostly because he knows he’s exactly the kind of overly concerned nerd who would genuinely calculate sunscreen rations. 

He accepts this minor humiliation graciously, stepping hesitantly forward into the kitchen. “Two bottles should suffice, unless you plan on spending more than twelve consecutive hours outdoors, which… seems excessive.”

“Okay,” you mumble softly, eyes darting away before returning shyly to his face, voice tentative. “You’re sure I don’t look… you know, like I’m trying too hard or anything?”

Spencer swallows thickly, wishing his mouth didn’t feel so dry every time you looked at him like that. If he were capable of speech right now, he’d tell you just how crazy it was to think that you could ever look like you were trying too hard.

Because the reality — the excruciating, undeniable reality — is that you look effortlessly pretty, the kind of pretty that has his heart stumbling in his chest and his thoughts drifting dangerously toward territory he should not explore.

He clenches his jaw slightly, internally chastising himself because the mental images his brain insists on conjuring are entirely inappropriate for a kitchen at 10 a.m.

“Completely sure. You look…. beautiful. Really beautiful.”

Your eyes widen, a soft, embarrassed laugh slipping out. “Oh. Thank you. Um, did that come across like I was fishing for compliments? Because I swear I wasn’t trying to —”

“Relax. You weren’t,” he says. “Even if you were, you’re allowed. I’m happy to indulge you.”

You let out a breathless laugh, and Spencer means every word — though he silently acknowledges that he really, really needs to send Garcia a very pointed message about the unintended effects of her advice.

join me at the beach for my 1 year/4k event!

day 6 extras

💌 click here to check in → confirm your room (and crush)

maria's spring break getaway masterlist

[studioeisa]

“it's not like i'm in love with you or anything.” with our anti delulu king minghao for the prompt game! (def not spurred on by his recent fancalls he’s sleeping outside)

ⵌ minghao x reader. ⵌ word count: 1.2k ⵌ notes: minghao & reader are friends, feelings realization/denial. recent fan calls have also driven me insane. :)

"I need you to teach me how to flirt."

You glance up from your phone to fix Minghao with an unamused glare. He doesn't back down— just stands in your entryway with a mildly annoyed expression.

"You know how to flirt just fine," you say, one eyebrow rising to communicate your skepticism. "What do you need me for?"

"I'm not convincing enough," he gripes as he moves further into your apartment.

It takes him only a couple of strides to reach you at your dining table. With a disgruntled huff, he collapses onto the chair next to you. "At least that's what the company says," he grumbles. "I'm— what's the word? Too detached or something."

You lock your phone with a sigh. This was shaping up to be a whole thing, it seems. "Isn't that your charm?" you muse aloud. "The one member who's not flirtatious and all that."

"Yeah, well, nonchalance doesn't sell," he shoots back. "But delusion does."

An involuntary snort of laughter escapes you. "Got me there."

For a moment, neither of you say anything. You only eye Minghao with amusement as he flops his head on to your table, dramatic as ever in his griping.

"Why me, though?" you ask suddenly.

He peeks up at you. "Hm?"

"Why are you asking me for help?"

Minghao must have noticed the slight narrowing of your eyes, the upturn of your lips, because he quickly straightens up in his seat. "It's not like I'm in love with you or anything," he says hastily, putting up his hands in front of him. "Oh, God no. I'm not in love with you."

"No need to sound so disgusted at the prospect, Hao." Your tone is just a little bit dry, perhaps even a touch offended.

He shoots you a tight smile in return. "I just—" Even though it's only the two of you in your apartment, he lowers his voice into an almost conspiratorial tone, like he's sharing a secret. You have to strain your ears to hear his next words. "I just trust you, you know? Trust that you'd help."

Ah.

Minghao always did know how to get you.

That's how the two of you end up sitting across from each other in some obscure, middle-of-nowhere café, as per Minghao's choice. He had sent you a Google Calendar invitation for this little escapade, and its title remains apt: Operation: Teach Minghao How to Flirt.

At least he has the decency to treat you to coffee. You toy with the paper wrapping of your straw as you eye Minghao with mild apprehension.

"Alright," you say. "Let's do this."

He squares his shoulders like a man heading to war. "Let's do this," he echoes.

A beat.

Then, he asks— "How are we supposed to do this?"

You resist the urge to faceplant on to the table between you. "Maybe— we can pretend that you're on a fan call," you offer.

"Okay, yeah. Yeah. That works."

A part of you finds it adorable, how dedicated Minghao is to the bit. He pulls himself to his full height in his seat before putting on a practiced smile, the type that you've seen him sport dozens of times.

"How was your day?" he acts coolly, putting on what you've dubbed to be his 'idol voice'. A specific tone and inflection that he takes on when doing fanservice.

You sip at your drink before answering. "Better now that I'm talking to Minghao gege," you respond, and it immediately looks like all the color has drained from Minghao's face.

"Yah," he chokes out. "Why are you—"

"What? Your fans are going to flirt back. You have to build resistance to it," you shoot back.

Minghao lets out a low 'tsk' of annoyance before briefly running his hand through his face. The absentminded action seems to ease some of his initial shock because he takes a deep breath, pulls the smile right back on, and proceeds to hit you with, "Is that so? Well, this is my favorite part of the day, too."

You give a small nod of your head, indicating some approval to his improved response.

"What else did you do today, gege?" you ask casually, intentionally giving Minghao an opening.

He goes right for it. "Waited impatiently until I could meet with you."

A corner of your mouth twitches upward. 'Good,' you mouth at Minghao, and he relaxes a little in his seat.

"I'm so happy to be here," you go on. "You're my bias."

"And you're my…"

Minghao trails off. He hesitates for a moment too long, and you can't help but chuckle slightly.

"Not every sentence has to be a flirtation," you tell him. "Just— time it, I guess. Go for the jugular when they least expect it."

"You make it sound so violent," he complains, but his eyebrows are drawn together in a way that shows he's committing your words to memory.

You backtrack a bit for his sake. "So, gege—" There's still a flicker of an expression on Minghao's face, like the term genuinely affects him. It's gone as fast as it came, leaving you wondering if you had imagined it. "— can you tell me you love me?"

"Must I?"

"Minghao."

"Right, sorry."

Minghao clears his throat and schools his expression into something more acceptable. "I love you," he says, though it's evident from the look in his eyes that he's saying it out of pure indulgence.

You knock his knee with yours under the table. He returns the gesture good-naturedly.

"How much do you love me?" you insist, leaning forward slightly.

Panic briefly crosses Minghao's face. You bite down on your lower lip to keep yourself from laughing out loud, and the sight of you holding down giggles only seems to spur him on.

He casts a quick glance around the table, as if looking for the answer to your question in the straws or the cups.

"I love you like coffee," he decides.

Minghao's gaze moves from the iced americano in his hand up to your face. When your eyes meet, he doesn't look away, instead going on in a quiet, earnest tone, "Bitter or sweet, cold or lukewarm— you're the reason I get up in the morning."

You blink once, then twice.

You hadn't expected to be stunned by the sheer sincerity in his tone. The open ways he's gazing at you. You can't tell if his 'idol voice' has slipped or if you're simply caught off-guard by the rarity that is Xu Minghao flirting, but for a foolish moment, you feel a pang of jealousy.

Jealousy for fans that will reap the benefits of this little escapade. Jealousy for those who will receive his practiced charm.

You snap out of your reverie with a breathless sort of laugh.

"See?" you say, your hands gripping your cup a little tighter to your chest. "You got it."

There it is again. That fleeting look on Minghao's face, the one you can't quite place.

"Yeah," he eventually mumbles, his eyes never leaving yours. "Only because you make it easy."

୨ৎ * GAME, SET, PLAY ! ( JEALOUSY ) DRABBLE GAME.

[tradgedyinwaves]

First Choice - Part 4

Part Four of this Poly141! x fat!reader tw: social anxiety, self-doubt, drinking, more touchy-touchy, reader thinks about sexual acts

In celebration of 200 followers, this part has way more than 650 words. More like 1600. :)

Conversation flowed easily with them despite their sole focus being on you. At some point, Kyle’s hand had drifted onto your thigh, fingers pressing into the flesh gently. John’s arm had slipped from the back of the booth and now rested around your shoulders. You couldn’t be sure, but it seemed Johnny couldn’t keep his feet still and kept tapping yours under the table. The only one who couldn’t seem to relax was Ghost, sitting almost across from you. 

His eyes never left you and he mainly seemed to communicate in grunts. At least, he was drinking this time, his glass now empty of his own whiskey. You were careful not to drink too much, not wanting to embarrass yourself in front of these beautiful men. But it didn’t keep you from relaxing and feeling the warmth of the two next to you. 

Pulling out your phone, you checked the time and groaned. “I really should be going. It’s been great,” you announce, looking to Kyle to move so you could slide out from the booth. “Aw come on. We’re having so much fun. Just a wee longer?” Johnny asks and you turn to him, finding yourself giving in almost immediately. Damn the puppy dog eyes. 

“Only a bit longer,” you concede and relax back into the seat. This time when Kyle’s hand lands on your thigh, it’s higher and the heat is searing through your jeans. You let out a soft sound, biting your lip as his hand starts slowly caressing your thigh up and down. He’s not even looking at you when you look up, already deep in conversation with Johnny about some sports game you had no clue about. 

John’s arm settled back over your shoulders, pulling you slightly closer so his hand hovers over your breast and you can feel the hair of his arm on your bare collarbone. Your breasts jiggle slightly with your laugh when Johnny makes a joke and you don’t miss the way his pupils dilate ever so slightly before darting back up to your face. He, at least, has the decency to blush, the faint pink color tinging his cheeks. 

When the crowd in the bar starts to thin out and you realize even your friends have left for the night, you’re yawning in your seat and now leaned completely against John with his thick arm draped over your shoulders. Kyle’s hand is now tucked between your thick thighs, the side pressed as tightly to your core as he can get it and you hope to whatever higher powers that be that he couldn’t feel the radiating heat or the damp spot that had soaked into your panties. 

“Okay, okay. I really do need to go now. My friends aren’t even here anymore and that’s saying something,” you chirp, suddenly very awake and aware that you’re in an almost empty bar with four men you’d only met that night. They all look at you like they’d rather eat sawdust than let you go and you feel a warmth creep over you. 

“Ahw, bonnie, we couldn’t let you go home on your own. Let us take you home,” Johnny chimes in, soft smile and kind eyes that hold a hint of something else in them. You swallow, looking between each of them. Your gaze lingers on Ghost for a while, noticing the man’s eyes had almost never left you.

“Yeah, alright. Let’s go. It’s not a far walk,” you reply, biting your lip at the reckless decision. These men could be serial killers and you were just inviting them to know exactly where you live. “Why don’t you let Johnny and Ghost take you home? Kyle and I can follow in our truck so they’re not stuck walking back here,” John offers, a warm smile curling up the thick mustache. 

At this point, you’re ready for bed and just want to get home. “Sounds good to me,” you reply though the words are manipulated by a yawn. All of you shuffle out of the round booth, both Kyle and John kissing the top of your head like they’d known you for years before disappearing out the door. You wrap your jacket around you again, pulling the zipper together over your belly and getting a little frustrated when it gets caught up on your shirt. 

“Lemme,” Ghost grumbled, stepping up to you and taking hold of the jammed zipper. It’s the first time he’s spoken all night and it almost stuns you how deep and growly it is. Your breath hitches as he grabs the zipper, yanking on it and subsequently making your breasts bounce as he accidentally pushes against them. He gets it undone and you mutter a bashful ‘thanks’ before turning on your heel as you finish zipping it up to your throat.

You know they’re meant to be escorting you home, but you’re out the door so fast the two men have to jog to catch up. Johnny’s arm wraps around your waist, fingers pressing into the pudge of your stomach in a way that makes you want to shrivel up. You don’t like anyone touching your stomach, but you’re warring with yourself on whether or not to move his hand, to show that kind of discomfort in front of these men. 

You choose to do so anyway, wrapping your fingers around his and lifting his arm up over your head and ducking under it, dropping it at his side. Johnny looks down at you with a furrowed brow. “Don’ like it when people touch you, do you?” he asks as he shoves his hands in his pockets. He doesn’t look bothered that you’d removed his arm, but your anxiety rears its ugly head and makes you worried you’d offended him. 

“It’s not that I don’t like being touched. It-It’s…complicated. I-I don’t want to talk about it,” you manage to stammer out before picking up your speed. It’s not like you’re going to shake off your two guard dogs whose legs are easily longer than yours by several inches, but you take off anyways. 

When your building finally comes into view, you slow your pace and breathe a soft sigh of relief. Your bed was so close, just a few more yards and you could get rid of the guard dogs and curl up in bed. “Well, this is me. Thanks for bringing me home. I really appreciate it.” You were grateful that they’d walked you home. It wasn’t safe this time of night to be wandering around in this part of town. 

“We’re walking you to your door, bonnie. Wouldn’t want someone to snatch you up between here and there,” Johnny stated, wrapping his arm around your shoulders. You wanted nothing more than to sink into the scent of him, warm and tingly to the nose like oranges and nutmeg, but you shook your head and backed up to the door of your building. “There’s really no need. My neighbors are great.” Lie. Absolute fucking lie. Nestor at the end of the hall on the first floor would, no questions asked, rip you from the hallway if he saw you alone. A chill went down your spine and you conceded the moment you looked into Ghost’s eyes. You didn’t have a choice if they were escorting you all the way up. 

You turned and opened the door to the building, looking down the hall to make sure Nestor was in his apartment before slipping in and letting the boys in behind you. You headed to the elevator and punched the up arrow, biting your lip as you tried not to wither under the intense stare of the man in the mask. The elevator had been the selling point for you. It was the only place within your budget that had an elevator and you weren’t about to walk up five flights of stairs multiple times a day. 

The lift dinged and you stepped inside, Ghost and Johnny slipping in behind you just to stand with their bodies pressed against your back. Unintentionally, you leaned into them before your eyes widened at your own movement and you straightened so your body pulled away slightly.

The doors dinged and opened allowing you to step out onto your floor. You headed to your unit, digging for your keys in your purse. With a ‘aha!’, you pulled them out and shoved the key into the doorknob, unlocking it. “Would you guys like to come in? I might have some whiskey left?” you offer, turning to look at them. You didn’t know why you were inviting them in, but the sense of safety you had around them had you desperate for them to stay. 

“Sure, lemme text Price and Kyle where to come. Go on in, Si-Ghost. I’ll come in in a minute,” Johnny stated, already pulling his phone out and going to stand next to the window at the end of the hall. You opened the door and allowed Ghost in, leaving it unlocked so the others could join once they arrived. 

Heading into your kitchen, you stood up on your tippy toes, reaching up so you could pull out five of your good glasses. You were looking for the last one, but it was just out of your reach. Suddenly, you felt what could only be Ghost against your back, pressing you against the counter as he leaned over you to grab the glass. 

The heat of him against your back has your thighs clenching together while you watch his thick digits wrap around the glass and you wonder briefly what they’d feel like inside you. He takes a step back once he has the cup and holds it out to you. 

You turn back to him while trying to fight off the blush coloring your cheeks. You murmur a thanks and wrap your own fingers around the glass. 

Of course, that would be when the other three burst loudly through the door.

I wasn't intending for this to become a whole story, but it's really stuck with me over the last week or so.

<- Part Three Part Five ->

[rhisturn]

dare i say, this is getting a bit ridiculous now.

the no video after tour was enough tbh, if you think about it from the other way around, people, including myself, paid thousands of dollars/pounds to be at tour, travelled 16 hours in my case, and then we couldn’t even get a vid.. i completely understand in that case they needed to rest, but wasn’t it like 2 whole weeks since tour ended at that point.

but what’s the excuse now, this isn’t the first time in the past couple months they’ve done this either. the stalking situation cannot be used as reasoning either because matt especially has been the most active he’s been in months this past week, and if that was the issue they would have gone completely silent. if they were to have been silent all week, and not post today because of the situation. i would have 100% understood, i’m sure we all would. but that hasn’t been the case

i get nervous saying this shit because people lick their arses so bad in this fandom. like i love them so much, but it’s okay to call them out. they’ve one ‘public’ obligation a week, to post a 20 minute video on a friday at 2:30. that’s it. they don’t do anything else anymore. it’s not like we’re getting hours of twitch streams, wednesday videos, podcasts or anything. one video is all they gotta do. bare in mind it pays their rent, is their source of income, is the reason they are where they are. like how are we struggling with ts.

of course it’s also okay to be late with things, it happens. but again, this is their job. haven’t they been doing this long enough for this to be a non existent problem anymore. schedule videos if you know your gonna be busy or if there’s a chance your gonna miss a post. but the thing that bothers me if the lack of communication, being almost an hour late at this point is one thing, but for there to also be complete radio silence, is ridiculous. if your running late or even if you aren’t gonna post. it takes a second to tell us. they’ve got no communication skills with us anymore

i understand not wanting to talk to us like they used to, especially after the past week. but it’s still, again, their fucking job to do this shit. i feel like it’s not a lot to expect. this is probaly at this point the most hate they’ve ever gotten in their career with the ‘their falling off’ and ‘their gonna quit soon’ shit, so if that isn’t the case wouldn’t you go out of the way to improve your content and do the absolute most to ensure people stop talking. not to make it worse, again.

i feel like it this point it’s starting to piss everyone off. at the end of the day, their 21 year old men and this is their only job. when they do stuff wrong, we don’t have to baby them and act like the lack of accountability or communication is okay. in their line of work, that is quite literally their only responsibility. and even amongst everything going on with the hate at the minute. they clearly still don’t care.

this obviously isn’t just about not posting today, cs that would be slightly dramatic lol. but this has been a problem for months and months. even before tour. there’s no excuses anymore.

edit:

well chris has just posted a pic on instagram and nick is liking posts so clearly their all fine and there’s nothing wrong for all the people using that as an excuse. they just don’t even have the decency to tell us anymore, love this dynamic we’ve got going on with them now. 10/10 communication

don’t rip me to shreds please and thanks :)

[myownwholewildworld]

a man called joel (part 3)

↪ a "a man called otto" inspired fic ― jackson!joel miller x f!reader

series masterlist | follow @arranupdates for notifs! | AO3 summary: it's been four weeks since your patrol with joel. and while you try to forget about him and settle into your new life in Jackson, there's an inside voice screaming at you. one that you can't ignore and, thankfully, you don't. author's note: i, uh... well. part 3 is here! this is the scene i envisioned when i first thought of this series. not gonna lie, i'm nervous about posting this one. i hope you guys enjoy it (as much as angst can be enjoyed, that is). as always, please heed the warnings and if you like what you read, please consider interacting with this post or come yap at me! love you all <3 tags/warnings: 18+, mdni. ANGST. ellie makes an apperance and she's ruthless with joel (i'm sorry). joel breaks. suicide attempt. vomitting. tiny mention of blood. wound tending. a load of angst yes, but this time there's some angsty comfort too! dual pov. quotes from "a hundread years of solitude" on joel's pov; quotes from "chronicle of a death foretold" on reader's pov. reader is female, has hair. no use of y/n. joel is 61 and reader is 46. wordcount: ~8.6k. divider by @\saradika-graphics

Hurt wouldn’t even cover it. Disappointed was more like it—not with Joel, but with yourself. For allowing yourself to care too much about a stranger, for worrying over those who didn’t bother to at least be nice in return.

Should have learnt this was not how the world worked anymore, decades ago. The apocalypse had changed humanity, brought out the worst of people. And yet again, every time you encountered someone in need, you’d lend a hand. Only to have it bitten off by the harsh crudeness of this new reality that had been haunting you since the beginning of it all.

Time and time again, you had stumbled with the same stone—the stone of hope. When the virus took hold of what little remained of societal decency, you told yourself people were only scared, that was why they were cruelly acting out. When your partner became bitter and erratic, you again told yourself it was only because of desperation. When havoc caused division within your group, you tried to assuage them.

You’d always tried—it was in your nature, part of who you were. And if there was something you were proud of, was that you never let go of the values your parents taught you. Perhaps you were too kind-hearted for this vicious world. But you refused to allow the circumstances to change who you were at your core.

Despite the conviction, it was terribly hard to constantly extend a hand to others. You were drained. Not of purpose, but because of rejection. Having lost everyone who had accompanied you since the beginning, finding yourself alone now in this decrepit world… It was taking a big mental toll on you. And when you saw the pain disguised as bluntness in Joel, a piece of you reached out to him—the fixer in you had clung to the last dregs of him. Perhaps you didn’t know him but knew his harrowing agony. Knew what being the outcast felt like, what loneliness was. Knew the torment of what if, the misery of why didn’t I.

You were drowning in your own thoughts, overthinking the situation until you worried yourself to sleep. And in a moment of weakness right after your patrol with Joel, you had asked Tommy if you could move to a different house. Not your proudest moment.

“Anything wrong with the one you are in now? Pipes all good?” Tommy had asked you when you approached him in the community hall after ensuring Joel was nowhere to be seen.

“Ah, no. Yeah, pipes are good now, thanks,” you had lied, still feeling guilty about having to block one to match the excuse you’d given him. “It’s just, uh… It’s too big of a house for just me, I’m sure a family would make good use of it. I’m happy to live somewhere smaller.”

And somehow, he’d seen through your lie this time around. The way his brows had furrowed as the inner working of his brain put the pieces together was eerily familiar—a shared mannerism between the Millers.

“Has Joel done or said something stupid?” When you didn’t reply, trying to hide your betraying expression, he had huffed. “Such a fucking prick. Is that why you’ve asked Maria to change your patrol shifts too? I swear, when I catch him!”

You reassured Tommy over and over again that neither of those two asks had anything to do with his older brother. Theatrics was never your forte, so whether he bought it or not, you didn’t know.

Now you just felt silly for letting Joel doubt yourself, what you stood for. His rejection shouldn’t set you back.

He doesn’t want my help? Fine then. I’ll help someone else.

But as that thought formed, your mind drifted away to that fateful patrol day. How you found him, frozen in front of that clicker. How the despair and regret flickered in the brown bark of his eyes. How the knife slipped from his hand—Wait, or did he drop it? Did he mean not to put up any fight? Did he mean to give up? Did he mean to let the infected kill him?

Did he mean to commit suicide?

No. He wouldn’t. He’s got a family, you thought, your mind jarring and struggling with the daunting idea of someone ending their life.

But did having a family really mean anything? Did having a family mean you didn’t feel alone? You knew it didn’t.

Perhaps I didn’t see it right, perhaps the knife did slip.

But if it did, why would you find him crying? Looking down at your hands, you rubbed your fingers together—you could still feel the dampness of his tears, the wetness of his desperation, from when you cradled his weathered face and brushed the tears away.

Your mind drifted back to your conversation with Tommy three weeks ago, the unsettling feeling returning to your belly.

“Have you checked in on him lately?” The question had slipped before you could refrain yourself from asking. Because despite how rude he’d been, you still worried about him, especially after what you thought you saw with the clicker in the outbuilding.

“Who? Joel? He’s fine. He’s always been this grumpy, don’t worry about him,” Tommy had said with a laugh and a wave of his hand. “Why you ask?”

You did really consider mentioning what you had witnessed on patrol, but didn’t want to cause any more trouble between the brothers if you were wrong. Besides, it was obvious Joel wasn’t seeking any help.

Are you fucking stupid or are you just pretending to be?

Your muscles stiffened suddenly, the disrespect of his words rummaging in the fresh gaping wound in your chest. How some simple sentence almost had you folded—a slap in the face would have hurt less. The despise in his eyes, how he backed up like a cornered animal when you reached for him again—as if the mere thought of you was disgusting, as if he couldn’t bear the thought of you putting your hands on him again.

Your heart stirred uncomfortable in your chest, a heavy, surrendered sigh escaping from your lips. How could a stranger’s rejection have such a big impact on you?

Just let it go. He doesn’t want your help. Move on.

A knock on your door startled you. Your brows furrowed in confusion as you untucked your legs from underneath you before throwing the blanket aside and standing up off the couch. It was almost midnight, the deadly quiet of the night amplifying the sound of the wind rustling leaves nearby, and you were not expecting any visitors.

Leaving the book—the one where you had gotten stuck reading the same paragraph repeatedly while your mind drifted away—on the side table, you tiptoed to the front door. Looking through the peephole, your blood froze.

Right there, standing on your porch in the dead of night, was the personification of your hurt. Joel Miller. In the darkness, he still looked tired and restless. When was the last time he slept? you wondered. Joel Miller looked like a man with one foot in the grave.

Your fingers curled around the handle, but you hesitated—what could he possibly want at this ungodly hour? He’d probably seen the orange shadow your lamp casted on the living room’s window, so there was no point in pretending you weren’t awake. But still, you stalled.

Joel raised his fist to knock again but thought better of it. You saw the doubt dancing in the whisky hue of his irises, all resolution abandoning him. His lips fell into a flat line and then nodded to himself before turning around.

Your heart raced and before he could walk away, you swung the door open.

“Joel?” you whispered, switching on the porchlight and hugging yourself when the cold breeze hit you.

Joel’s bowed head snapped up, his shoulders squaring instantly. For a brief second, he paused—as if he considered playing deaf and running away. Slowly Joel veered around and faced you.

His worn expression took you aback. Perhaps the cast of the porchlight magnified the dark circles under his orbs, the yellowish tint of the bruise kissing the exposed skin of his neck, the deep creasing lines around his eyes and mouth.

Joel Miller was a man who looked… defeated? Torn? Exhausted? Purposeless?

“Uh, hi,” he muttered in return, his eyes taking in the sight of you after your name rolled easily off his tongue.

You felt more self-conscious now—you were barefoot, hadn’t taken care of your hair today, and you had the worst pyjamas on, holes and old stains included. So unwittingly, you hugged yourself harder.

“Hi, Joel,” you repeated. “What do you want?”

You didn’t intend for your question to have a resentful hint, but it did. It just slipped, like the knife off his hand.

“Uhm,” his hand flew to the back of his neck, his lips flattening even more. “I, uh… Well…”

He hadn’t said much yet, but you sensed what this late-night visit could be about. Was he about to ask for your forgiveness? An actual, heart-felt apology for the crudeness of his actions and words. In all honesty, that was all you needed to acquit his behaviour. Everyone deserved a second chance, deserved to right a wrong.

You watched him struggle for words as your heart raced expectantly, fighting back the tiny smile that threatened to curl your lips a tad too early.

“I… Yeah. I was wondering if I could borrow that book you recommended on our last day of patrol?” Joel stumbled over his own words, his jaw locking. “Chronicle of a Death Foretold?”

The warm feeling swarming your belly soon turned cold. Heavy, churning, your disappointment so thick you had to swallow to untie the knot in your throat. Why should you expect something different? An apology from him? You almost scoffed at your risible occurrence.

“Is that it?” you mumbled in a vain attempt to hide your frustration.

Joel paused, mouth opening and closing fast as thunder. His Adam’s apple bobbed, words hitching at the back of his throat. You could see the pulleys of his mind at work in the windows of his eyes, the only tell he couldn’t govern.

And yet again, disillusionment followed.

“Yeah,” another uncomfortable silence. Joel’s posture shifted, his fists clenching. “I just finished my book, so I have nothing to read.”

“No, sorry,” you gritted, sensing your own annoyance building up. “I haven’t finished it yet.”

If your retort took him aback, you couldn’t tell. Joel just gave you a stern nod instead, his determination deflating behind his brown eyes. Was he so proud he wouldn’t admit he’d treated you wrong?

“Right, sorry to disturb. Night,” and as fast as he came, Joel was gone.

You saw him crossing the thick blanket of snow, head buried between his shoulders, before he disappeared through his front door.

Every day for the next week, you warred with yourself. Perhaps it was your people-pleasing tendencies, but more than once you caught yourself before walking up the steps of Joel’s porch and offering him Gabo’s book.

It was a losing battle though. Eventually you’d wave a white flag, stick it in the middle of the street between Joel’s and your house. Claim that it was his fault that you hadn’t given in for not opening up, for not being brave enough to say what he came to say—or what you thought he came to say.

But upon reflection, forcing someone to acknowledge their grief, their solitude, their struggles, was not the best approach. Trust required time, and it was obvious Joel Miller needed more than that. You were now convinced that he truly was at the end of his wits. The knife hadn’t slipped, he’d dropped it—it was as clear as the sun would rise tomorrow over his roof.

You wondered if his family knew, if he had at least confided in someone. Because if he hadn’t, then this secret you were keeping was eating away at the confines of your contrition. It would tear you apart, being complicit in his pain.

Sat on the bay window of your living room, you read again the last paragraph of the book.

“Santiago, my son,” she shouted to him, “what has happened to you?” “They've killed me, Wene child,” he said. He stumbled on the last step, but he got up at once. “He even took care to brush off the dirt that was stuck to his guts,” my Aunt Wene told me. Then he went into his house through the back door that had been open since six and fell on his face in the kitchen.

The last word echoed in your mind, so loud you had to whisper it. Kitchen. You said it again with a trembling sigh, wearing it out, flushing it out of your brain.

Why did you suddenly have this déjà vu, anxiety-like feeling sinking in the pit of your stomach?

As you’d done at least a dozen times in the last two hours, your eyes moved away from the yellowed pages across the street. In his porch, Joel was still in the same position as you last checked on him. Impassive like a statue, you wondered if he’d frozen up with the chilling temperatures. He’d been sitting on that bench for over two hours now, staring into the distance as his only pastime. Waiting. For something to happen. Or someone to show up.

It worried you how he hadn’t moved an inch, what was in his mind that had him under such a numbing spell. Perhaps you should intervene now, talk to him, ask him why he was out there alone wrapped in the blanket of such misty night.

But before you could make up your mind, someone did appear. Getting closer to the window glass, you watched from behind the curtains how the girl approached the porch. Her stance was rigid, her features young. She was clearly a teenager, then it hit you. Did Joel have a daughter?

The moment Joel saw her, he jumped up to his feet instantly, his posture as stiff as hers. The girl huffed, her shoulders slouching, as she walked past the steps where Joel was standing. He must have shouted back, because her head sank between her shoulders—a gesture you had seen Joel do just a week ago.

The teenager turned around, her face fierce as she replied something you didn’t quite catch. By the way her hands moved as she spoke, and how Joel’s demeanour soured even from the distance, you knew a heated argument had ensued between the two. It only lasted a minute or two before the girl stormed off, walking around the house and heading towards the garage at the back.

Your attention drifted back to Joel, who was still at the top of the stairs. You couldn’t fully see his face, only his profile—but whatever had just happened, had affected him. His right hand curled around the banister while his eyes tracked his daughter walking away and his left clutched at his chest, his stance shifting as if he was in unbearable pain. Joel remained still for another minute, and you wished you knew what was crossing his mind at that precise moment.

He looked so lonely. So broken. So… lifeless. The stillness of his posture spoke of something deeper, a sorrow so heavy it would compete with Atlas carrying the weight of the world. As if he tiptoed on the edge of life—staring into the abyss, pondering, weighing his worth.

Your heart clenched at the sight of him alone on that porch. Only if you could reach out, tell him whatever it was, it would be okay.

Why doesn’t it register in your fucking brains that I want to be left alone, huh?

But as you saw him steeling himself and walking back inside, your insides churned. You knelt on the window bay, watching the ajar door Joel had left behind.

An impending sense of doom flushed through you, your heart racing wildly, your breathing quickening.

“The truth is I didn’t know what to do,” he told me. “My first thought was that it wasn’t any business of mine but something for the civil authorities, but then I made up my mind to say something in passing to Placida Linero.” Yet when he crossed the square, he’d forgotten completely. “You have to understand,” he told me, “that the bishop was coming that day.”

But did you? Did you know what to do? Would you intervene, even if there was only a very thin possibility you were right, when your mind, your soul, was screaming at you right now?

Your heart jolted in your chest, mind fuzzy with doubt. While the Vicario brothers had been the ones to skew Santiago Nasar’s life, Joel’s Grim Reaper could be someone scarier—himself.

Maybe I’m just overreacting, reading into it far too much, you tried to convince yourself.

But as minutes went by, eyes glued to his front door, not doing anything wasn’t an option. Not when your heart and mind knew there was something wrong. You couldn’t explain why or what it was, just that it was.

Getting up, you grabbed an old cardigan, slipped your feet into the winter boots laying on the floor by your front door, and sprinted outside with the book tucked under your elbow.

You sprinted across the blizzard, reaching Joel’s porch within seconds. And even though the door was clearly not shut, you still knocked.

“Joel?” you called out, controlling the tremor in your voice. “I finished the book. I was wondering if you wanted to borrow it now?”

No reply, silence followed your feeble attempt at reconciliation.

With your heart climbing up your throat, you knocked again, the door cracking open a bit more.

“Joel?”

Nothing.

Taking a deep breath, you pushed the door open and walked inside, putting your guard up to whatever you would find. The hallway was dark and cold, the wintery breeze whistling past you. Softly closing the door behind you, you put down the book on the console table and peeked inside the living room.

The decoration was rustic, some dark woods contrasting with the soft blue on the walls. Every piece of furniture looked crafted, curated, not like the mustard couch you had falling apart in the middle of your living room. The fireplace was still crackling, the embers glowing under the soft light of a standing lamp in the corner. But it was empty.

Your instinct told you to move further down the house, and you did in silence. It was so quiet, you were sure your heartbeat could be heard from a mile away. Trudging past the dining room, you got to the kitchen.

“There had never been a death so foretold.”

Your breath hitched; your heart stilled. Under the doorframe you froze, like a rabbit in the presence of a predator. Only you were no prey—Joel was.

Prey to the drowning solitude of his home, of his own loneliness, of life itself.

Prey to the forgetfulness of death—an omen that now made sense, a subtle hint you hadn’t first fully comprehended when he recited those words to you three weeks ago.

Prey to a desperation so thick, it was literally killing him.

Prey to masquerading his pain, deceitful in his actions, in his rude, careless demeanour.

“He was healthier than the rest of us, but when you listened with the stethoscope you could hear the tears bubbling inside his heart.”

Perhaps you couldn’t hear the bubbling of his heart, but you could definitely see the foam pooling at the corners of his mouth as his legs twitched on the floor of his poorly-lit kitchen.

The ephemeral moment stretched for a second too long as your mind tried to grasp what your heart already knew.

Joel was ending it—his life. The suffering. The heartache. The desolation. The guilt he carried, for whatever he thought was unforgivable.

No.

And in the blink of an eye, you lurched forward, your knees skidding on the scratched wooden planks as you landed by his side. His whole body convulsed, his limbs shaking the life out of him, draining him. The chattering of his teeth gritting made your belly churn as tears welled up.

“Joel. Oh my God, Joel!” You whispered, trembling hands hovering over him as your eyes roved over the gut-wrenching vision in front of you. “No, no, no!”

Your desperate wails became louder, but your mind got sharper. This couldn’t be happening. You needed to act now if you were to save his life, there was no time to run out and scream for help. Joel had no time left.

You rolled him over to his side, an inner debate happening as you did.

Should I? If this is what he really wants, if his pain is so great he’s decided to end it, should I intervene? Who am I to take the choice away from him?

But at the end of the day, the real question was: could you live with yourself if you let him die? Could you look at Tommy’s eyes, at Benji’s or Maria’s, and tell them you didn’t dare intercede? That you rather watch him die than having him resent you even more?

What is one more ounce of hate?

And with that thought, your selfish decision was made. Craning his head back a little and holding his jaw with your left hand, you sank three fingers down his foamy mouth, pressing them down on his tongue.

Joel retched, even in his almost gone state.

His eyes fluttered open for an ephemeral moment, tears smudging the beautiful chestnut of his irises, to then shut while his limbs kicked everywhere.

“No, Joel, please,” you pleaded in a sob, forcing your fingers deeper down his throat and pressing down on his tongue again. “P-please come back to me.”

Finally—thankfully—Joel heaved, and you let go of an audible, relieving cry when you felt the warmth of his vomit running past your fingers. You gently held his head tilted towards the floor so his airway wouldn’t block and removed your fingers from his mouth.

“Oh, thank goodness,” you sighed tremblingly, rubbing his shoulder before you raked your fingers through his soft, silvery curls, so his hair wouldn’t be in his eyes. “It’s okay. You’re okay. Oh, God. Please, be okay. Please, Joel.”

He had a nasty cut on his left temple running down to his brow, probably from plummeting onto the floor and hitting his head on the countertop. It was still bleeding, but there were more pressing matters.

Joel stayed down for a minute while you whispered your relief, it was obvious his brain had been battling for oxygen and was trying to come back to reality. You brushed his cheek with your thumb before he showed signs of wanting to sit up.

Wrapping an arm around his waist, you did. Joel leaned back, back resting against the kitchen island. It took him a second before his misty eyes focused on you, his breathing as shaky as your soul.

Under his intense stare you froze again, kneeling in front of him. His eyes were windows to a profound desperation, a grief so deep you’d only dared to imagine, but one you felt down to your core, in your bones. It hit you like a massive wave, flooding your chest with a dread you hadn’t let yourself feel since you arrived at Jackson.

“Joel…” you hushed faintly, one hand reaching up to his shoulder, a comforting caress.

He didn’t reject your advance. And that was when you knew he was broken inside. All pieces of him scattered around like shards of glass, a puzzle with missing bits—the most important ones. The ones that made him, him.

And then Joel swallowed hard before covering his eyes with one broad palm. His shoulders shook in silence, and with that your heart shrank and fell freely into the pit of your stomach.

“Oh, Joel,” you mumbled shakily, scooting over towards him and embracing him, wrapping him in your warmth.

Instead of denying his own tears as he did on patrol, Joel cried. Soft, heartbreaking sobs that found root in your heart, and you just couldn’t help yourself but hug him tighter, fighting your tears back at how low he’d fallen to be openly vulnerable with you.

“It’s okay, Joel, you’re okay,” the words stuck to the back of your mouth. “Everything’s gonna be okay, I promise. Whatever it is, I will help you. You’re not alone, Joel. You aren’t. I’m here. I’ll always be here if you need me to. It’s okay.”

You cradled the back of his head with one hand while the other was firmly on his back, bringing him closer to you. And when you felt one of his on the small of your back in a half embrace, thick tears sprang to your eyes.

You held him tight, allowing him to brush some of the weight he carried off his shoulders. And then, your own guilt began suffocating you. Was he crying because you took the choice away from him? Because he wasn’t dead? Because he wasn’t resting?

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. I couldn’t… I just… I’m sorry. I couldn’t let you go. Please, forgive me. I just couldn’t,” you begged of him, a plea for lenience that escaped before you could wish it back.

Fifteen minutes earlier...

“You’re very late, Ellie,” Joel reproached, arms folded at the top of the steps.

He fought to keep his tone steady, he hated doing this. He’d been worried sick all night, wondering where Ellie was. The catastrophist in him had already imagined every single scenario where she’d be hurt or left for dead in a trench. He’d felt so anxious for the last three hours, Joel had to set aside the carving he had been working on after messing it up twice.

Seeing her walking towards the house had filled him with an immense relief, his heart beating so fast he was afraid it would grow legs and run away. But dread quickly followed—the father in him couldn’t just sweep it under the rug. Ellie needed to be reminded of the rules. And she’d put up a fight, make him the bad guy.

And despite being okay with becoming the villain in her story, it still hurt him. A wound so deep that his heart was splintering, because he didn’t really want to do it. Didn’t want to grow further apart from her, the abyss between them so big now it seemed insurmountable. Their relationship was almost beyond repair—he was painfully aware of it—and telling her off for coming home late would only complicate it more.

But he couldn’t just ignore it. He had to do something.

Ellie’s shoulders dropped as she walked past him towards the garage, blatantly disregarding his presence.

Another chink in his already hollering heart.

“Ellie, I’m talking to you,” he raised his voice, warring with himself to keep a calm demeanour. “It’s past two in the morning. You should have come home at least three hours ago.”

Ellie stopped right in her tracks, turning around to face him. The despise in her eyes was as fiery as it was seven months ago when she learnt the truth. And despite the passage of time, it hurt all the same, if not more.

“Who do you think you are to control my every move?” She hissed between gritted teeth, cocking a querying brow.

Your father, was the innate response that burnt the tip of his tongue. Joel fought back the words, knowing full well they would only aggravate the situation.

“What? Do you really think you’re my dad?” Ellie scoffed loudly, an instigating smile curling her mouth.

It didn’t reach her eyes, more of a frustrated grimace than anything else, but still a knife through the heart would have hurt less—Ellie’s words so perfectly aimed, they’d hit the bullseye, causing internal bleeding. Joel felt a stabbing sensation behind his eyes but reined the feeling in with a deep breath.

She doesn’t mean it, she’s angry, he reminded himself.

“I may not be your biological father, but—”

“No, Joel. There’s no but. You aren’t my dad,” Ellie gritted in frustration, her hands moving as she kept on going at him. “My real dad wouldn’t have lied to me for more than four years about what happened in the hospital. My real dad wouldn’t have taken away from me the only thing that made me valuable to this world. My real dad wouldn’t have promised to not kill Eugene to then fucking shoot him while I was gone!”

She knew how to twist the knife, how to make the wound even worse than it already was. Joel’s mouth ran dry, a gurgling void consuming the pit of his stomach as the words settled in his brain. His heart was beating so hard, his eardrums were about to explode.

Joel needed to redirect the conversation before Ellie said something that would tip him over the edge. He needed to keep a cool mind, try not to let her accusations take root in his heart. Joel had to bite back, “I did do all of it because I love you like my own blood, Ellie. You are more valuable than your immunity, that’s not what makes you, you, not to me. And I would do it all over again if I had the chance.”

“Why are you late? Who were you with?” he said instead, swallowing the suffocating knot in his throat.

Ellie laughed in disbelief, throwing her hands in the air in exasperation.

“Why do you want to know? So you can go and kill them too for keeping me away from this dreadful house?” she retorted back, huffing. “Since that’s how you deal with every fucking problem in your life. Kill them all, right?”

“Because I’m your guardian—”

“—I’m nineteen, Joel. I don’t fucking need you—”

“And as long as you live under my roof, you’ll play by my rules,” he finished, ignoring her interruption.

“Then perhaps I should move out!” Ellie shouted at him, taking a step back. “God, were you this insufferable with Sarah too? Because if you were, I’m sure she hated you for being the worst dad ever. Perhaps it was for the better.”

Ellie didn’t need to specify what was for the better, Joel caught the meaning instantly. That she died.

That was a way to take the knife out of the gaping wound to have him bleed to death. Her cruelness left him speechless, the prickling feeling at the back of his eyes returning. That was the lowest blow he’d ever received; one he didn’t expect from someone he held so dear despite the souring of their relationship.

“You don’t mean that,” Joel whispered, forcing himself to swallow.

Ellie paused—her expression faltered for an instant, perhaps realising the damage she’d caused, but her anger blinded her, stronger than the side of her that wanted to apologise.

“I’m tired,” she mumbled suddenly, her anger slowly deflating, taking a few steps away.

“Ellie,” Joel called under his shaky breath. “I—”

I’m sorry. I wish I could have done better. I just wanted to protect you. I couldn’t bear the thought of losing another child, of losing you. Perhaps you don’t understand how much I love you, how there isn’t anything I wouldn’t do for you. Maybe one day you’ll know, you’ll understand why I did what I did. I’m really sorry.

“It’s late,” Ellie cut him off. “And I better go to bed before you kick my ass.”

And with that, she disappeared into the gloomy night.

I’ve already lost her too.

The realisation hit him like a sledgehammer, so hard it made him stagger. Joel grabbed the handrail for support, his other hand flying to his chest. His heart was pumping so hard, it almost felt like that muscle was about to give out.

It felt like his heart had been ripped out, chucked on the floor for someone to stomp. Joel truly had no reason to be here anymore―the only tether to keep him earthbound had just been severed.

Ellie wasn’t angry with him, no; she hated him. So much that she hadn’t hesitated to bring Sarah up in conversation, knowing how much of a touchy subject it was for Joel. His memories of his daughter were fading, so ethereal now Joel almost thought he dreamt her. The only ones that were vivid in his brain were the bad ones—all the poor decisions he made, in the last few hours of her life.

Grief was a funny thing—how it gave a loud voice to his mistakes and drowned the actual good things he did for her, how it made him focus on the bad rather than the good. He sometimes even doubted if he’d ever been good to Sarah at all—good enough at least, better than his own father was.

“The heart’s memory is selective, which is the basis of its deceitfulness.”

Ellie throwing that accusation at him had only enlivened his most dreadful fear. Had he been the worst dad to Sarah? Had she hated him too? Did she blame him for her death, for his low reaction response, for not taking the bullet for her?

I wanted to. I wish I could have. I wish it had been me.

Taking a big, shaky breath, Joel made the decision he’d been postponing for four weeks now in the hopes that the situation would get better, that he would feel better. However, it had only gotten worse. Ellie had been very clear that she didn’t need him anymore, that he was just a hindrance to her life—a reminder of how she’d failed humanity. Tommy didn’t need him either; he had a thriving family of his own, and Joel was convinced that his sombre presence would only do more harm than good.

And without his family, there was nothing left for him to do on this earthly plane. Joel was exhausted—the kind of mental fatigue that only a deep, forever sleep would cure. And he was done with it all; with this feeling of harrowing melancholy, of drowning loneliness, of death sniffing at the cuffs of his pants.

He couldn’t bear the thought of one hundred years of solitude, not anymore. Joel had lived his life and had nothing left to give.

In a blurry haze, he walked inside his home.

“[…] not knowing what he was doing because he did not know where his feet were or where his head was, or whose feet or whose head, and feeling that he could no longer resist the glacial rumbling of his kidneys and the air of his intestines, and fear, and the bewildered anxiety to flee and at the same time stay forever in that exasperated silence and that fearful solitude.”

It all happened as if he wasn’t even in control of his own actions. As if he was watching himself from outside, completely detached from his own body. A void in his mind so big, there had been no room for thought. With trembling hands, Joel had taken out the two letters he’d written to Tommy and Ellie and smoothed them down on the kitchen counter besides the sink before he’d headed to the medicine cabinet. Anything he could blindly reach for would do.

It had only taken a few minutes for all the pills to make him feel sick.

Next thing he knew, Joel was on the floor, sweating and drifting away in agony—his mind spiralling, his throat itching with bile, his stomach burning.

And when he blinked alive again and saw you there, Joel thought you were a vision, that you really weren’t there. That perhaps, finally, he had succeeded, and you were there to guide him into the afterlife.

But the moment you hugged him, the moment he felt himself bound to Earth again, Joel knew he wasn’t dreaming. This was real—you were real. The person he’d mistreated at every opportunity, so much he’d seen the hurt in your eyes and regretted it.

Joel tried to mend his mistake—tried to apologise the night he walked up to your porch at the stroke of midnight. But his resolution had wavered, and his stupid ass had asked for the book instead. The disappointment in your features still haunted him, even at Death’s door.

And yet, here you were, comforting him at his lowest, seeing the ache he’d carried for so long pour out into the world.

Joel had not been able to contain the tears, the desperation trickling out the cracks of his shattered soul, soaking the fabric of your cardigan. And as much as he hated being vulnerable, he just couldn’t rein his demons back in.

The loss he felt was greater than anything he’d experienced before. So loud, yet so quiet in its disguise; so alien, yet so eerily familiar in its pain; so suffocating, yet so freeing in its release. He’d lost so much of himself over the past few months, there was nothing left of him—just a carcass of his existence, a cocoon that kept the jagged pieces of his being feebly glued together, just enough to keep him standing for the people he loved.

Not people, just the one person who grounded his world, Ellie. And with her deeming him expendable, what was there left to fight for? What was his reason for existing if not to be a better version of himself with Ellie by his side?

At sixty-one, all joy and happiness had snuffed out of his life.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. I couldn’t… I just… I’m sorry. I couldn’t let you go. Please, forgive me. I just couldn’t.”

And then there was you, apologising for bringing him back, for pulling his strings like an expert puppeteer. For undoing his choice without a second thought. For forcing him back into a dark, soul-crushing world.

Should he be mad? Yes, but Joel had no energy left to confront you nor anyone. His throat was ablaze and sore, the aftertaste tingling on his tongue. And then the exhaustion—he was so fucking tired, his arms felt heavier than usual, his legs almost paralysed. His tummy churned, another wave of nausea overtaking him.

His head snapped to one side when the bile rose up his throat. He couldn’t stop the retching before he vomited again, fire climbing up his mouth with a pungent, acidic tang.

You didn’t even flinch, didn’t even step back away from him when he almost puked on you. Instead, you patted his shoulder before your hand travelled up the back of his neck to skim his curls back and away from his forehead. The caress was so gentle, so comforting and almost intimate, it made his skin crawl.

“Why… why are you here?” Joel asked gruffly, brushing his mouth with the back of his still shaky hand.

Your fingers dropped from his hair, your eyes full of a compassion he’d never witnessed before. They were warm and calming, bright under the orange glow of the overhead light. But they also had a sadness to it—almost as if you understood him, as if you knew what he was going through.

Sitting back on your heels, you sighed. “I… I just finished reading Chronicle of a Death Foretold and thought you might wanna borrow it,” you uttered under your breath, your hands twisting on your lap, but your eyes were transfixed on him. “The truth is, I saw you on the porch with your daughter. And then I had this… urge to come see you.”

Joel didn’t correct you about Ellie. Despite how adamant she’d been about him not being a father to her, despite her cruelness, he still believed himself to be her dad. Because that was what fathers should do—love their kids unconditionally, even when they would hurt you with their spiteful words. Even when they would walk away and never look back. Even when they would banish you and disown you. Because even then, even after Ellie had implanted the seed for his descent into hell, Joel still loved her as his own, always would. No words or argument could ever change that.

The irony of your words didn’t escape him—had you foretold his death? This urge you spoke of, was destiny getting in the way of his not-so-well-crafted plan?

Joel cleared his throat, sitting up a bit, the back of his head still resting on the side panel of the kitchen island.

“You shouldn’t have,” was all he managed to whisper.

You shouldn’t have come. You shouldn’t have saved me. You should have let me die.

Your gaze dropped before your eyes flickered back to his. Remorseful, but determined. A beacon of hope, a lighthouse in the middle of a thunderstorm.

“I know,” you mumbled with a little shrug without breaking eye contact.

Joel’s chest felt suddenly heavy—like a stone had lodged itself between his ribs, his throat clamping up and it had nothing to do with wanting to puke again. Such a feeling was foreign to him, its warmth slowly flushing through his body.

“I’m tired. You should go,” was his way of disclaiming this alien sensation.

You quickly sprung up to action, his petition for you to leave fell on deaf ears. Squatting by his side, you slithered your left arm around the back of his waist to help him up, the other hand wrapped around his front to clutch at his ribs. Too tired to reject your assistance, Joel managed to get up to his feet.

He staggered back, the whole world spiralling around him as his mind felt extremely buzzy. His fingers curled around the rim of the kitchen island to steady himself, all the while you were still holding him.

“I’m not going anywhere. Let’s get you to bed.”

The side glance you threw his way admitted no discussion, so for once Joel kept quiet. Trudging on wobbly legs, he made it upstairs with you by his side, his right arm draped around your shoulders for stability and your fingers intertwined with his.

You opened the door to the bedroom he’d nodded to and walked him inside. You pushed him towards the bed and almost forced him to sit down on the mattress. Without saying a word, you knelt before him to undo the knots of his boots and slide them off his feet.

“Where do you keep your pyjamas?” You asked unfazed by it all, towering up to your full height.

Joel’s Adam’s apple bobbed. It felt too intimate, too… close for comfort.

“I’m just gonna get them for you and then I’m gonna step out while you change,” you explained with a soft smile. “You can’t sleep with those clothes on, Joel.”

“First drawer of the dresser,” he mumbled, mind still hazy.

You grabbed his plaid pyjamas and left them on the bed by his side. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

Joel saw you disappearing through the doorframe. Moving at snail speed, he managed to change into his night clothes before you returned with a tray. You were balancing a jug, a glass and a small bowl on it, a clean cloth perched on your shoulder.

“You’ve got a nasty cut on your temple. I’m not good at stitching, but we should clean it up before it becomes infected,” you explained while placing the tray on the nightstand before sitting beside him.

Joel had no energy left to oppose your care, so he just let you do. Your feather-like touch on his temple was soothing—so much that his eyes shut close while you delicately wiped the blood off his skin. You were so gentle he didn’t even wince once, or perhaps his mind was so fuzzy there was no room for physical pain.

“All done,” you announced after a couple of minutes. “You gotta drink all that water, okay? You may feel sick again too, although I think you’ve thrown everything up now. But just in case, that’s what the bowl is for.”

Joel nodded thoughtlessly, taking the glass you had just passed him and downing it. He gave it back to you, who put it down on the nightstand again.

“Do you want me to go get someone? Your brother? Your partner? A doctor perhaps?”

His head snapped up instantly, his heart mildly racing in worry. Joel quickly shook his head, the world spinning some more.

“No, don’t,” he husked out, swallowing a raspy groan, his hands curling into fists.

“Okay, I won’t,” you brushed his knee with yours. “Get some sleep. I ain’t going anywhere.”

“You don’t need to stay—”

“I want to stay, Joel, and I will stay. You’d have to kick me out of your house, and I don’t think you’re in a position to do that right now,” you said with gentleness before palming your thighs and standing up. “If you need me, shout.”

Your mind was still racing from everything that had unfolded. When you ran towards Joel’s house an hour ago, despite the doom pooling in your belly, you definitely had not expected to find him on the verge of death.

Your hands were shaking from the adrenaline running wild through your system, trying to come to terms with what had happened, what had pushed Joel so far as to take his own life. Because there was no denying what you had seen—it hadn’t been an accident. Which then made you wonder about the other times you’d found him.

Had he tried to end his life when you saw lying on the floor through the window? At the time you just thought he had fallen, an unlucky misstep on a ladder while changing a lightbulb. But now… the pieces of the puzzle started fitting together. Same with the mishap with the infected—he’d definitely dropped the knife on purpose.

How long had this been going on? Had he sought help? Was his family aware? Tommy? Maria? His daughter? Had Joel become so good at hiding his own misery that no one had really noticed how the light in his eyes was dwindling?

How alone he must have felt after at least three attempts without no one spotting the signs.

At least you had. Late, almost too late, but you had. And while you knew he wasn’t appreciative of your intervention, you just couldn’t let it happen. Your first instinct had been to help—like you always did. That part of you had almost died in the first few years of the apocalypse, but as time went on and people’s humanity waned, you found yours. You had been the voice of reason in your group, the kind-hearted one that would welcome strangers in despite your friends’ reticence. You had a knack for telling who was a good person, and that sixth sense had never failed you.

And that was why you were sure about Joel. He was pretty rough around the edges, but his core was good. You just knew.

Your mind kept on drifting away, running through everything that had happened over and over again until you almost made yourself dizzy with worry. You were now in the kitchen, having finished cleaning up the mess on the floor so Joel wouldn’t have to deal with it tomorrow morning.

I’ll just go and check on him, make sure he’s still breathing and doing okay, you thought to yourself while washing your hands in the kitchen sink.

As you grabbed a kitchen towel to dry your skin, your eyes landed on two brown, folded letters near the sink. One was addressed to Tommy, the other one to an Ellie. Your heart began beating wildly in your chest.

They are goodbye letter, suicide letters to his loved ones.

“Who are you and where is Joel?” A snappy voice brought you back.

The interruption startled you, heart jolting against your ribs, as you turned around.

The teen you’d seen on Joel’s porch earlier was standing a few feet away from you, gun cocked and pointed at you. You raised your hands up in the air instinctually, still clutching at the kitchen towel, fearing the worst. Joel’s daughter clicked her tongue when you didn’t respond.

“Uh, hi. Ellie?” You ventured, remembering the name on the letter. A glint in her eyes confirmed you were right. “I’m your new neighbour. I came to Jackson around a month ago. Please don’t shoot me.”

Ellie’s head tilted to one side as she scanned you from head to toe. Her eyes momentarily sparkled with some recognition, and she sheathed her gun again.

“I’ve seen you before. You live across the street, right?”

You took in the biggest breath of your life and nodded, dropping your hands and twisting the towel.

“Yeah. Sorry. Your dad’s not feeling well. He’s gone to bed,” you excused Joel’s absence the best you could without giving away what had transcended tonight. You didn’t want his daughter to worry.

A sudden realisation dawned upon you—had you not intervened when you did, Ellie would have found Joel dead on the kitchen floor. Your eyes watered at the idea, but you blinked the tears away before they formed.

“Is he okay?” Ellie asked, an instant worry washing over her young face as she took a few steps towards you.

The letters, she can’t see them.

Thinking as fast as you could, you threw the kitchen towel on the counter, aim perfect, and it landed on top of the letters, covering them completely.

“Yeah, he’s fine,” you quickly put her at ease, walking towards her and patting her shoulder. “He must have eaten something that didn’t agree with him, that’s all.”

 “Shit,” Ellie muttered, sitting down on one of the stools by the island.

Then you remembered the heated argument you saw between them, and your heart silently cried for the young lady. Ellie must feel terrible now, her troubled expression darkening while she picked at her nails.

“Don’t worry. Joel’s okay now, Ellie. I promise,” the last word came out in a whisper. You didn’t want to lie to her but couldn’t tell her the crude truth either. If she was to find out, it couldn’t be through you. “Was there something you wanted?”

“I, uh… Just came to get an apple,” Ellie shrugged, reaching for the fruit bowl on the kitchen island.

You could tell that wasn’t the reason she was here. Perhaps she had come to apologise after the fight with her dad. If they two had something in common, was their reserve for apologies, that was for sure.

“Better get going,” Ellie muttered before biting into the apple and hopping back on the floor. “You staying?”

“Yeah. Just want to make sure he’s okay, then I’ll go back home.”

“Alright. Night.”

“Night, Ellie.”

Ellie lingered in the hallway at the bottom of the stairs for a second, probably considering going to check on Joel herself. But thought better of it, and a minute later she was gone.

You let go of a heavy sigh, eyes returning to the envelopes. Thank goodness she hasn’t seen them.

You couldn’t just let them lay there, so you grabbed them. Not that you were going to read them—it was a blatant invasion to anyone’s privacy—but you had to get them out of sight in case Ellie returned. So you folded them and slid them in the pocket of your cardigan.

You never went back home that night. After you went to check on Joel, who was squirming around in bed but otherwise asleep, you sat down on the armchair in the corner of his bedroom. You fought against your own fatigue as best you could but ended up slipping into a light sleep.

A few hours later, you woke up to the whisper of your name.

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[crumb]

It’s shit like this that makes me want to stop making gifsets. People love taking the gifs we spent hours sourcing the best footage for, editing, color correcting, and any other numerous types of altering or adding graphics and text—and then they just rip them off, don’t credit, and they act like we’re insane for asking that you at the bare minimum credit us. “You have nothing to gain and you didn’t create saw” do any of you understand how art works? Understand what fan works are? Most art is created with no intention of gaining anything except enjoyment and community. What do YOU gain from ripping off people’s gifs? Why even post on tumblr at all? Because it’s fun and you get to be apart of a community? Wow, what a concept. It’s almost like people make gifs to express their creativity and love for something and want to share it with others. Wanting credit for that work, which is honestly just basic decency, shouldn’t be that difficult to wrap your head around. And the hilarious part is they have one of my other gifsets pinned to their main blog.

Also, if I could get rich and famous from making gifsets do you think I’d be gif’ing some of the stuff I do? Yeah, my gifset of Cougars Inc is really gonna take me places!

[trans-axolotl]

"Much ink has already been spilled on Harris’s prosecutorial background. What is significant about the topic of sex work is how recently the vice president–elect’s actions contradicted her alleged views. During her tenure as AG, she led a campaign to shut down Backpage, a classified advertising website frequently used by sex workers, calling it “the world’s top online brothel” in 2016 and claiming that the site made “millions of dollars from trafficking.” While Backpage did make millions off of sex work ads, its “adult services” listings offered a safer and more transparent platform for sex workers and their clients to conduct consensual transactions than had historically been available. Harris’s grandiose mischaracterization led to a Senate investigation, and the shuttering of the site by the FBI in 2018.

“Backpage being gone has devastated our community,” said Andrews. The platform allowed sex workers to work more safely: They were able to vet clients and promote their services online. “It’s very heartbreaking to see the fallout,” said dominatrix Yevgeniya Ivanyutenko. “A lot of people lost their ability to safely make a living. A lot of people were forced to go on the street or do other things that they wouldn’t have otherwise considered.” M.F. Akynos, the founder and executive director of the Black Sex Worker Collective, thinks Harris should “apologize to the community. She needs to admit that she really fucked up with Backpage, and really ruined a lot of people’s lives.”

After Harris became a senator, she cosponsored the now-infamous Stop Enabling Sex Traffickers Act (SESTA), which—along with the House’s Allow States and Victims to Fight Online Sex Trafficking Act (FOSTA)—was signed into law by President Trump in 2018. FOSTA-SESTA created a loophole in Section 230 of the Communications Decency Act, the so-called “safe harbor” provision that allows websites to be free from liability for user-generated content (e.g., Amazon reviews, Craigslist ads). The Electronic Frontier Foundation argues that Section 230 is the backbone of the Internet, calling it “the most important law protecting internet free speech.” Now, website publishers are liable if third parties post sex-work ads on their platforms.

That spelled the end of any number of platforms—mostly famously Craigslist’s “personal encounters” section—that sex workers used to vet prospective clients, leaving an already vulnerable workforce even more exposed. (The Woodhull Freedom Foundation has filed a lawsuit challenging FOSTA on First Amendment grounds; in January 2020, it won an appeal in D.C.’s district court).

“I sent a bunch of stats [to Harris and Senator Diane Feinstein] about decriminalization and how much SESTA-FOSTA would hurt American sex workers and open them up to violence,” said Cara (a pseudonym), who was working as a sex worker in the San Francisco and a member of SWOP when the bill passed. Both senators ignored her.

The bill both demonstrably harmed sex workers and failed to drop sex trafficking. “Within one month of FOSTA’s enactment, 13 sex workers were reported missing, and two were dead from suicide,” wrote Lura Chamberlain in her Fordham Law Review article “FOSTA: A Hostile Law with a Human Cost.” “Sex workers operating independently faced a tremendous and immediate uptick in unwanted solicitation from individuals offering or demanding to traffic them. Numerous others were raped, assaulted, and rendered homeless or unable to feed their children.” A 2020 survey of the effects of FOSTA-SESTA found that “99% of online respondents reported that this law does not make them feel safer” and 80.61 percent “say they are now facing difficulties advertising their services.” "

-What Sex Workers Want Kamala Harris to Know by Hallie Liberman

[ethereal555]

JEALOUSY, JEALOUSY.

angst x jobe bellingham.

You’ve never seen Jobe act this way before. We had just finished our dinner at Hakkasan which started off lovely; you'd both missed each other to bits. It started when Jobe expressed his confusion about the amount our waiter spoke to me, the way in which he spoke and looked at me and definetly didnt like the fact I was slighly enthusiatic in return when the mans questions regarding my profession. And no matter how many times i'd tell Jobe, that 'it's common decency' it fell upon deaf ears every time.

In situations such as these which occured often, he'd be a baby about it and whine about how all the men we come across were always infactuated with me and how it wasn't fair because I am his and his only. Or he'd tell me to be more blunt and harsh in my rejections. At least he was communicating with me..

But this time, it was an intense silence on the way back home, a silence that left your mind unsettled.

-

You both made your way back to his black Audi. Your gaze frequently shifting from the side profile and then to the floor as you internally prepared yourself to rectify this issue before it got out of hand.

Your gaze landed on Jobe again only to see his sharp jawline prominent due to the extent of which he was tensing it. Tensed hard enough to break glass. You also noticed his walking pace quickening by the second, another telling sign of the volcanic eruption brewing within him.

“J, you’re going too fast can you hold my hand please?” you whined. You knew he wasn’t in the mood for that and definitely had other things on his mind but he did it anyway reaching his long arm back and in doing so not sparing me a glance. Your rolled your eyes, hard.

You latched onto his hand making your way back to the car at a decent speed this time. Thank God.

Everytime you both were at a social event, there would always be an odd circunstance that occurs leaving one of you jealous, disheartened or upset. Jobe was the usual culprit; you had told your man for what felt like the uptenneth times that you were an attractive girl, men were bound to stop and stare and wink and do whatever they desired and the same applied to him. But you also told him, there would never be any reciprocation from your side; which you expected him to trust. Simply saying thank you to compliments would suffice. Just common decency that you'd been taught growing up- it wasn't going to change. It baffled you as you'd never given him any slack throughout your 3 year relationship about any of the thousands of fangirls that were overbearring and desperate around him. You trusted him, and you were secure.

This time, you think it hit harder for him because it was supposed to be an especially romantic date; as you both had been apart for 5 months in different countries for work purposes - so you did sympathize slightly.

You halt in your tracks, consequently making Jobe's walking stop. He looks back at you, unimpressed. You smile at him sweetly, leaning up to kiss his mouth. 'Please don't be mad at me. Baby, I've missed you so much and I want us spend quality time tonight. I really enjoyed dinner and I want to enjoy.. you later.' you whine as you pepper wet kisses over his jawline and neck. Hoping he'd leave this atttitude in the resturant and not bring it home with us.

You see his adam's apple move up and down, he beckons with his head 'Get in the car, Tee', pushing at your waist.

You both get to the car, and to your surprise he doesn’t open the door for you, like he usually does. He goes straight to the drivers seat and sits.

You scoff entering from your side of the car, slamming it shut once you were in.

“Listen Jobe. Bellingham. Don’t let your jealousy get you fucked up. I don’t give a toss if you're pissed , especially because of how stupid it is. You’re still my man. So act right.” You scold mushing his head with your index and middle finger.

He moves his head away from your hands.

“Stop - don’t touch meh or ya walking home, crazy girl”

“Get the lad in 'er to rush over and open the door for ya, and 'em lads you like to entertain. Desperate” He said gesturing towards the waiter who was now serving some guests who were seated outside.

You look at him dumbfounded. Mouth wide open.

'I could.. Jobe.. i could spit on your right now, how dare you..?'.

'Try it' he dares, an inferno arising in his chest.

“Y-You're really upset because I was being a decent human being. You’re a child you know that right? and you're fucking childish and immature and direspectful as fuck” you spat.

“That’s great actually - fucking brilliant - because I’d rather be a child than be a fucking flirt that hasn’t a self aware bone in their body” he humours, driving out of the parking lot.

It felt like your heart dropped.

“A flirt? When did I flirt?” I questioned hysterically. I understand Jobe was jealous , and had those tendencies, but to say I was entertaining another man was absurd and not in my character.

You start to shake your feet, attempting to distract yourself from this recongizable feeling. The heat you felt rising from your chest racing toward your throat, your cheeks burning and your eyes stinging. No, you thought, I'm not giving him the satisfaction.

'Stop the car', you cry. Struggling to get your phone our of your back, that was placed by your feet and underneath the dashboard.

Your voice betraying you.

'N-now, Jobe, I can't anymore' you shake your head continously.

'Ya can't do what?", his face softeneing for this first time as he briefly turns to look at you. He pulls into a side road and removes his seatbelt turning to face you. Rubbing his hands over his face as if I was the one stressing him out.

You chuckle bitterly 'that's the only thing you've listened to, this whole ride', your vision and your thoughts become blurry so you carefully remove the accumulated tears from your eyes as you try and call an uber, not wanting to pull any of your clusters out.

Jobe cradles your face when his left hand, you react as if his hand was a bowl of scorthching hot oil.

'If ya must ya can call the uber later, just look at me'.

You knew he hated to see you cry, that was his kryptonite, no matter how bad the arguement is.

His right had catches your other cheek until he has encaptured the entirety of your face within his palms. He stares, looking deep into your eyes, for what felt like minutes. maybe searching for words to say, accountability maybe.. you anticipated an apology ..

“Ya do this all the time me love.."

'what jobe, what i do?' you croak

'ya cry when I tell ya the truth, baby, ya know I don’t lie', he pecks the corner of your lips.

You break away and look at him through your now damp lash clusters and teary eyes.

my man my man my mf man

'make up your mind' - chris brown inspo kinda

i hate a nigga that doesnt take accountability btw.

[anantaru]

"gimme a kiss here,"

wriothesley points at his cheek, index finger catching the flustered flesh and wriggling for more, "and here," he adds promptly, a crystal clear image portrayed in front of your eyes as to what the duke sought after before eagerly pointing at his forehead next, "and here," lastly, he finishes his deepest sentencing, pointing at his mouth.

"point taken," you retort back, adding in a pet name just to see how flustered wriothesley could get from it, his throat working around a deep swallow as he sucks in a breath when you call him baby, the warm breeze fanning against your slightly parted lips.

with the last word lingering in the air, you remember that wriothesley liked to play the tough one and he certainly enjoyed the feeling of other people being reluctant to approach him, given that he was of influential power, although currently, he was not in such a position. 

he's swift when he melts against your lips, humming in a pleased timbre when you gave him what he longed for all day long— and wriothesley whines next, such a rare noise, as if that was an effective way of communicating with you, a silent more muffled by your hungry lips devouring each other— but the sound of the small sobs and heavy breathes coming from your person were a heavenly melody to him, his mouth curling into a cheeky smile when he pinches your hips as to pull you on his lap.

with that sudden act, you're straddling the duke, your arms wrapped around his neck as you continue with your sweet ministrations, bringing your lips together in another heated kiss and lapping your tongue against his wet muscle while the rough material of your panties and his tight pants clash together— the small tingles you could gather on your core slither around you, almost like a gentle sloping cloud in the sky manifesting a curl of pleasure, the sheer impact of it all trailing down the expanse of your spine.

and when wriothesley notices your sudden weakness— compelled how your hips have gone rogue and stutter from lack of control, he figures there wasn't necessarily a point in stopping those additional movements, in fact, he'd love to help you out, the rhythm of your clothed cunt rolling across his length let lose between a heart-beat as your boyfriend decides to harshly drag you against him instead.

together you're breathing deeply before he presses you into his stiffened groin— the movement of it so sudden that you weren't able to voice anything at all and were forced out a crumbling whine, catching you off guard as you part your mouth ever so slightly which allowed wriothesley to demand entrance again— immediately taking the candied chance to let his tongue slide inside your mouth with ease, pressing and mingling the two together. 

he gives your hips a few more tugs, focusing that you're nudging your wet panties over his length and that his thick cock-head could poke at your concealed entrance, shoving back an impatient growl all the while rubbing circles on your thighs with his index fingers to soothe you.

soft lips tease you through the thin skin on your neck and you wet the pale grey fabric of his pants beyond decency, placing an insufferable quiver of need through his throbbing shaft followed by a sharp grin leaving you gasping and squirming— both of you distracted against drenched clothes, swollen lips soaked with saliva and your unravelling bodies working ethusiastically with quick, lascivious grinds of your hips and wriothesley bottoming out ever so often, dragging you rapidly to the utter brink of release.

©2023 anantaru do not repost, copy, translate, modify