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joelscruff · 1 year ago

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feelings on fire (joel miller x f!reader) 18+ PART SIX

previous chapters | again, thank you so much for all the love on this fic. it's so beyond overwhelming and wonderful to know that people are enjoying this story. i hope you enjoy this chapter, let me know! and here's my kofi if you'd like to leave me a tip 💕 chapter summary: it's time for your first official "lesson" with joel. rating: 18+ explicit warnings: age difference (joel is in his 50s, reader is in her early 20s), innocent/inexperienced reader, praise kink, dirty talk, pet names, mentions of religion, catholic guilt, fingering, oral (f receiving), lap-sitting, grinding word count: 8.7k ao3

You feel ridiculous.

You stare in your bedroom mirror at yourself with a look of pure mortification, assessing the beige dress you're currently wearing that your mother picked out from her own closet, falling to your ankles and bagging off your hips in the most unflattering way imaginable. It looks like a potato sack with long sleeves, long and floppy and absolutely horrendous.

You slowly shake your head at your reflection as she comes up behind you with attentive eyes, assessing the same trainwreck you are. You can see in her expression that she's similarly disappointed in the way it looks.

"I'm not wearing this," you say quietly, trying not to sound too harsh, "Please, Mom, this doesn't fit me right."

She bites her lip, eyes still scanning you up and down, "You're probably right," she sighs.

She wants you to dress modestly for your first lesson with Joel. You'd settled on Saturdays as your official "lesson" day, a perfect choice in your opinion as you now have an excuse to go to his house on the weekend without having to lie to your parents about where you are. You want to appease them in some way, your mom in particular; you've felt so bad about all the lying you've been doing, you feel you owe her something. And that something is apparently agreeing to let her pick your outfit, a decision you're already regretting immensely.

"The navy blue one was nice," you say, gesturing toward one of the other options she's laid out on your bed - one that's actually from your own closet and not hers, "I know I've grown out of it but it's not that short."

She walks over to your bed and picks up the dress in question with an exasperated sigh, eyeing the clock on your night stand, "I guess it'll have to do, we're running out of time. You don't want to be late," she hands it to you quickly, "You'll have to wear stockings with it though."

You nod - that's a compromise you can deal with.

She gives you some privacy to change, leaving you to fight your way out of the oddly shaped beige atrocity on your own. It crumples into a pile at your feet and you kick it to the side with a little too much aggression. Imagine if she'd actually made you wear that - Joel would never want to touch you again.

The thought of Joel sends a rush of warmth throughout your body as you slip into the other dress, velvet and modest but nowhere near as awful as the previous one. You'd talked to him on the phone last night after he'd finished work, cuddled in bed against an extra pillow in place of him - you'd slept so well on Thursday night when you'd slept in his bed, felt so safe and warm in his arms, you're now doing anything you can to replicate it. You'd wrapped his flannel shirt around it, coating it in his scent.

"I miss you," you'd whispered through the phone, the insecurities from the previous night almost nonexistent as you nuzzled your cheek into the fabric of his shirt, "I know I saw you this morning but I can't help it."

He'd laughed lightly, soft and familiar in your ear, "I miss you too, babygirl. Miss havin' you in my bed."

You'd taken only one deep breath before admitting softly, "I miss your cock."

He'd groaned, low and deep, "I know, darlin'. I know you do."

You'd both had simultaneous orgasms about ten minutes later, your name on his lips as he came into his fist and you buried your face in the pillow you wished was him, fingers scissoring inside you. You walk over to your bed now and pull up the mattress a bit, tugging his shirt out from underneath while you have a spare moment alone. You bring it to your face and inhale deeply, eyes closing and heart fluttering; you're obsessed.

"Ready to go?" your mom calls from downstairs, and you quickly shove the flannel back under the mattress, making sure it's hidden before you dash to your dresser to grab a pair of stockings. They're black and stop at your thigh, the edges hidden beneath the dress; you already know Joel will take them off soon enough.

You immediately notice the grimace on your mother's face when you appear at the bottom of the stairs and you wonder what you've done wrong already. She assesses you again without saying anything, gnawing on her lip and circling you a bit.

"Can I go?" you ask quietly, unsure what she's going to say, "I don't wanna be late."

"Where's your crucifix?" she finally says, tilting her head slightly, "I don't think I've seen you wear it all summer."

Astute observation - you haven't worn it all summer. It's still upstairs in your jewelry box, exactly where you'd left it when you went off to college several years ago. You'd begun to resent everything it represented and no longer felt like parading around with it on your neck like you'd done your whole life. The thought of wearing it now after so many years of forgetting it even existed... well, it certainly doesn't appeal to you whatsoever.

But you are trying to make up for all the lying, even if she doesn't necessarily know it.

You plaster a forced smile on your face, "I'll go get it." She mirrors it and nods as you turn around and head back up to your bedroom. Do it for the lessons, you think to yourself calmly.

Looking in the mirror after clasping the gold cross around your neck is a trip to the say the least. You suddenly feel ten years younger, standing in your bedroom preparing for an early service, Sunday School homework crumpled in your backpack and an immense weight of pressure on your shoulders to be perfect. You stare at the crucifix and feel that familiar sense of guilt begin to creep in, surrounding you in a quiet but palpable void of judgement that you've spent years trying to escape.

Why the fuck are you doing this? Why are you so hellbent on following the rules, after everything you've done? Why does the approval of your parents still mean so much to you? How is any of this even worth it?

You swallow back the pain you feel, the guilt, the anger, the resentment, all of it. Now is not the time to have an existential crisis; you have a "lesson" to go to - something you are not going to feel guilty about, no matter how bad your former Catholic brain may want you to.

As if by some ironic miracle, your phone buzzes and you unlock it to see a sudden surge of text messages in your college group chat:

have fun at your lesson 😘

don't do anything we wouldn't do!!!

pls give us all the details later 🥵

ITS ENTIRELY POSSIBLE TO SUCK DICK ON ACCIDENT JUST FYI

A breathless laugh escapes you, relief flooding your body at the sudden sense of normalcy, the reminder that what you're doing is not wrong. You're so glad you told your friends about what's been going on - you can't imagine keeping this secret all to yourself any longer. Knowing that they're there, that they support you and care about you and want you to have these experiences... it's enough for you to turn from the mirror without a second glance.

It's just a fucking necklace.

You arrive on Joel's doorstep at exactly ten o'clock, smoothing down your dress a bit and taking a deep breath before knocking. You're not sure how he's going to react to you standing there in all your Catholic glory, hair down and parted through the middle, crucifix dangling from your neck, hymn book weighing heavily in your purse. You still feel like that past version of yourself, shifting nervously from right foot to left as you stand there waiting for him to open the door.

The knob finally twists and there he stands, tall and broad in front of you. Your eyes widen when you see him, lips parting in surprise - the exact same reaction he has when he sees you.

He's dressed up. No band t-shirt or jeans to be seen, no bare feet or messy hair or disheveled beard. His grey curls are gelled back, demure and handsome, scruff trimmed up to shape his jaw. He's wearing a grey button down tucked into a pair of black dress pants, shoes that look freshly shined. For all intents and purposes, he looks like he's about to go to a church service.

You both stand there staring at each other without saying anything, both pairs of eyes scanning up and down your bodies with almost no regard for politeness. You're speechless, completely in awe of his sudden transformation, a transformation you certainly had not been expecting.

"I thought, uh-" he chokes out, breaking the silence between the two of you as his hand reaches up to awkwardly touch the back of his neck, "I thought your mother might bring you."

You continue to stare at him, a ball of emotion suddenly growing heavy in your throat, "Y-you wore this in case my mom came with me?"

He slowly nods, suddenly looking a bit sheepish as his eyes scan the road behind you for any onlookers, "I wanted to make a good impression."

With a shaky inhale full of a feeling you can't describe, you take a step toward him, unable to stop yourself from reaching forward to grab his hand, "Joel," you whisper, barely audible and almost alien in your mouth - you're so used to calling him Mr. Miller, "That's... that's..." you don't even know what to say, words completely failing you.

"It's no big deal," he says with a small smile, tugging on your hand and urging you to follow him inside, "C'mere."

As soon as the door closes behind you he's grabbing both your hands and pulling back to look at you again, eyes still awestruck. You can't help but feel embarrassed when his gaze freezes on your crucifix.

"My mom made me dress up," you mumble, "I know, it's a lot."

He nods and clears his throat, taking a long exhale through his mouth as he continues to peer at you, "I'm a bad man." Your brow furrows, confused for a moment before he laughs breathlessly and shakes his head, "I am, I must be, 'cause I shouldn't find you wearin' all this so damn sexy."

A giggle slips past your lips, skin warming as he entwines his fingers with yours and moves forward a bit to tower over you, eyes trailing to your lips.

"I mean it, darlin'," he whispers with a tender smile, "You look... fuck, you look pretty."

"Thank you," you whisper back, tilting your head up a bit more, waiting for him to kiss you - and he does. It's soft and sweet, not the type you'd been expecting after a comment like that. He seems slightly reserved as he kisses you, squeezing your hands in his and pulling away far too quickly, "What is it?" you ask quietly, raising an eyebrow, "What's wrong?"

He shakes his head again with a chuckle, "Nothin' at all, babygirl. I'm just... I'm tryin' to keep at least some of these next two hours focused on learnin' guitar."

You make a face, "Oh. Right."

"Remember what I said the other night?" he looks down at you with a playful smirk.

We'll make it sexy.

A smile spreads slowly across your face, "I remember."

He sits you between his legs on the couch, just like the first time he'd touched you. He noses your shoulder and breathes you in, pulls you close as he carefully places the guitar into your lap. His arms are warm and comforting, thighs strong and safe. You lean back into his touch immediately with a sigh of contentment, closing your eyes.

"Now, how am I supposed to teach you if you've got your eyes shut?" he asks with a laugh. You pout and open your eyes again, turning your face a bit to catch a glimpse of his relaxed expression.

"Sorry, it's just - you're distracting."

He snorts and redirects your attention to the task at hand, reaching down to capture your fingers in his and bring them up to the neck of the guitar. It's already distracting having him so close, but you can feel the shape of his cock against your lower back; it's not even hard -not yet, anyway - and your heart is already pounding.

"I mean it," you mutter softly, "I can't think when you're so close to me. Not after..." you trail off, feeling your cheeks warm at the thought, "Not after what we did the other night."

You feel him smile against your jaw, lips ghosting your skin, "I know, it's overwhelmin' isn't it?" His fingers trace the shape of yours, pressing gently against the guitar, "That's normal, sweetheart. We took a big step."

You can't help but lean back into him as he speaks, head coming to rest gently on his shoulder, forehead brushing his neck, "It felt so good," you whisper, secretive and shy, "When you were on top of me like that. When you had your mouth..."

He hums softly in understanding without you having to finish the thought, turns a bit to nose your hairline, "You want my mouth on you again, huh?"

"Yes."

He kisses your skin softly, lingering for a moment before moving his face downward, "How 'bout this?" he murmurs, pressing another soft kiss to the bare skin at your neck, "How 'bout I teach you three chords? Just three," another kiss, this time to the spot above your collarbone, near your crucifix, "and when you can play them for me without my help, I'll give you a reward."

"What kind of reward?" you breathe, eyes closing again as his lips graze your neck back and forth.

"Somethin' that feels really good," he whispers, and you swear you feel the tip of his tongue flutter against you for a brief moment, warm and wet, "Somethin' new I wanna show you, if you'll let me."

"I'll let you do anything," you admit, voice shaky, "You know that."

He smiles against you, then slowly licks a long stripe up from your neck to your cheek, an act that probably would have disgusted a previous version of yourself but now sends you reeling, skin going hot beneath his mouth. You turn your head toward his and he captures your lips in a searing kiss, the kind you'd expected at the door, full of arousal and sex and the promise of more. You're already wet and throbbing when he pulls back to peer at you.

"I know," he murmurs, hand that's not on the guitar coming up to hold your chin between his thumb and index finger, "You'd do anything I asked, huh?" You nod, eyelashes fluttering as he thumbs your chin and whispers, "Such a good girl."

Your mind is empty as he releases your chin and takes your other hand in his, bringing it down to the strings. You let him move you the way he wants to, adjusting you a bit between his legs so you're pressed more firmly against him, his broad chest tight against your back. You can't help but let out a breathless noise, almost a whimper.

"I know," he repeats, voice calm and soothing as he pushes his groin forward so his clothed cock makes even more contact with your lower back, "I know, babygirl, it's so much, isn't it? Feelin' so many different things," he carefully adjusts your fingers on the neck of the guitar, places them on the correct strings and murmurs, "You can do this, I know you can. And then you'll get your reward, I promise."

His words are smooth as butter and have almost no meaning at this point, thoughts foggy as you press down on the strings and try your best to focus on what he's asking of you. You're suddenly completely pliant under his touch - he could pick you up and bend you over the kitchen counter and you'd let him, wouldn't even have a thought in your mind as he did it.

But he won't - that's not why you're here.

Learning guitar chords with a half-hard cock digging into your back and warm breath at your neck is much easier said than done. You don't know how you manage to get through the fifteen minutes it takes you to learn the C chord, and the ten minutes it takes to learn what you think is the D chord - you can't even remember now, you're so distracted by his body against yours. He's teaching you G when you feel yourself slipping, thighs rubbing together to seek some kind of relief. It's never felt like this before; usually you'd be touching yourself at this point or he'd be touching you. The lack of contact almost hurts, your pussy throbbing around absolutely nothing and dampening your underwear, begging silently to be relieved in some way.

"What's wrong?" he whispers, big fingers still pinning yours to the neck of the guitar, stubble scratching against your skin as he presses a feather-light kiss to your ear, "Tell me, darlin'. Why're you wigglin' around like that, huh?"

He knows why; you can feel the smirk on his face, sense the teasing edge to his voice. He's enjoying this, having you completely under his spell while you try your hardest to learn and remember. His cock is getting harder by the second, the movement of your hips and ass certainly not helping the situation by any means. You know what it looks like now, what it feels like, can picture it in your mind growing stiffer and stiffer, leaking from the tip through his pants.

"Feels f-funny," you manage to whimper, forcing yourself to strum out your first G with shaky results. You try again, pushing your fingers more firmly against the strings with Joel's help, feeling his nose trailing gently across your temple.

"What feels funny, sweetheart?" he murmurs, and part of you wants to rip yourself from between his legs, toss the guitar to the floor, and straddle his lap, grind yourself down on him. You've never done it before but you can suddenly see it in your mind plain as day, an obvious solution to the problem in your panties that's growing worse by the second.

"My pussy," you moan, closing your eyes and tilting your head against his shoulder again, hands loosening on the guitar, "It hurts."

He pulls you in closer, inhales your perfume and releases a low groan, "Poor baby," he murmurs, "I know, honey, you're just achin' to be touched, huh?" He tightens your fingers against the strings again, eyelashes fluttering against your neck, "Come on, sweet girl, you almost got it, you're so close."

You're not sure he intends for that to have a double meaning but it makes you groan nonetheless, a weak sound that makes him chuckle. He removes his fingers from yours and waits for you to show him the chord without help - you can feel his eyes on you as you shakily strum. You wince when it comes out sounding wrong.

"Gotta push down harder," he murmurs, "You almost got it, babygirl, show me."

"I can't," you whimper, shaking your head, "I can't, Mr. Miller, it's too much, please."

"Shhh," he soothes, pressing a gentle kiss to your neck, "You can, darlin'. You're doin' so good." You feel him pull your dress up in the back as he speaks, and then he's suddenly pulling you up and into his lap, sitting you directly on his clothed cock. "You just gotta push a little bit harder." He grinds against you at the word, firm and purposeful, pinning you to the solid length of him.

"Oh my god," you gasp out, awestruck by the feeling of him, so big and thick and warm beneath you. Your pussy continues to pulse and throb and you know you're already starting to soak the nice pair of dress pants he'd worn for you, covering his crotch in your slick.

It's somehow still not enough. You find yourself grinding down onto him, matching his own movements as your hands squeeze the guitar and your thighs push together. You whimper pitifully in his lap, squirming and making a mess but too horny to care about how ridiculous you probably look.

"You feel my cock against your pussy, baby?" he asks, voice low and deep, and all you can do is nod frantically, a moan tearing from your throat, "That feel better? Think you can play now?"

You truly don't think you can, but he's clearly still waiting for you to show him. Your whole body is on fire, hands trembling as you push your fingers against the strings as hard as you can, strumming out the G chord with more success this time. You sigh in relief, loosening your grip on the guitar and leaning back into his touch.

"Now show me all three," he whispers.

"Mr. Miller," you groan, frustration and arousal starting to fully overtake you, "Please."

"Shhh," he repeats, "Shh, baby, it's okay. It's okay, I'll touch you this time. Just play those three chords while I play with your pussy, alright? Can you do that for me?"

You nod again, swallowing tightly as you reposition your fingers on the neck of the guitar and try to remember where they're supposed to go for the C chord. It's impossible to focus as Joel snakes his arm up around your belly, slips his hand down beneath your dress to where you're aching.

"Lemme feel," he murmurs, fingertips tickling over the wet spot of your panties and pressing down gently against you, "Oh, she's throbbin', babygirl." You moan again, borderline hysterical as he uses two fingers to circle your hole through the fabric, callused tips prodding your folds. "Shhh, I know, baby, I know. Keep goin honey, keep playin'."

You don't know how you do it, have absolutely no idea how you manage to actually strum out the chords while he's touching you like this, but you do. You shakily play the C as he slips his index finger inside your panties and places it against your hole, feels how much you're dripping for him and groans into your neck.

"Always so fuckin' wet for me," he murmurs, "Never even had a cock inside you and your pussy's so ready for it every time, babygirl, just beggin' to be filled up."

He pushes both his index and middle fingers inside as you play the D chord, slipping them in with barely any resistance as you grip the guitar and try your hardest to keep going, to not give up - you're so close, in more ways than one. You whimper when the tips of his fingers brush gently against that spongey part inside you that you can't reach yourself.

"That's it," he encourages you softly, slowly beginning to fuck you with them, pulling them out and pushing them back in as he noses your neck and breathes you in as you tremble, "I know, sweetheart, feels so good, doesn't it? One more, baby, one more."

Tears are stinging in your eyes as you strum out the G chord, the last one you need to play in order to get your reward, to end Joel's teasing and finally get what you were promised. You push your fingers down as hard as you can and play it with a finality that makes him smile against your skin.

"All done," he murmurs, taking the guitar from you with one hand and tossing it to the other end of the couch. You moan out a sound of relief and he pulls you in close, holds you firm against his lap and speeds up his fingers, fucking you harder and smiling wider when you cry out in pleasure, "Good girl, angel, good girl."

You can't speak, jaw going lax and eyes hooded as his fingers plunge in and out, his other hand spread on your belly as he pushes you down onto his cock. You turn your head slightly to bury your face in his neck, biting down on your lip and letting the sensations overwhelm you, whimpering when you feel his cock twitch and pulse through the material.

"Now, that wasn't so bad, was it?" he asks huskily, "Didn't even wanna learn guitar today, did you? Just wanted to come over and be my good little girl, get fucked by my fingers and grind against my cock, that right?"

You're unable to answer any of his questions, letting your body do all the talking for itself as you become completely loose and pliant under his touch, a ragdoll in his lap as whimpers continue to escape your mouth.

"Wearin' this little dress," he murmurs, "And these fuckin' socks," the hand that's not on your pussy comes down to rest on your thigh, squeezes the bare spot between your dress and your stocking, "Just beggin' to be touched, babygirl."

You should've seen what I had on before I left the house, you think to yourself, remembering the beige potato sack and thanking the heavens that your mother hadn't made you wear it. You watch as Joel pulls up your dress in the front, exposing both of you to the pornographic image of his hand inside your panties, fingers fucking you relentlessly while you drip and soak everything within reach.

"You want your reward now, baby?" he asks you softly, pulling your hair back and pressing a wet kiss to your temple, fingers beginning to slow, "Huh? You wanna try somethin' new?"

"Y-yes," you manage to finally speak, voice faint and weak, "W-want it so bad." And it's true - you don't even know what it is but you're dying for him to do it already, teach you something else that's not just chords on the guitar.

At your words he pulls his fingers out of you and you whine, petulant and frustrated as your hips buck in his lap. Without a word he pulls you off of him and carefully slips off the couch, placing you back against the cushions where he was sitting. You watch with wide eyes as he kneels on the floor in front of you, hands coming up to rest on your knees as he slowly pushes your legs apart.

"W-what are you doing?" you whisper, but a small voice in the back of your mind tells you that you already know, recalling past discussions from your friends that you'd listened to with curiosity. Is he...? Is he really going to?

"Gonna kiss it better, baby," he breathes, hands trailing up to the edges of your stockings and carefully thumbing your bare skin, shuffling closer and looking up at you with those big brown eyes, "Gonna make you feel so good."

"Isn't it..." you feel yourself frowning, thoughts muddled, "Don't guys not like..." you're not sure how to word it, grimacing, "Aren't you supposed to hate doing that?"

His brow furrows, "And where'd you hear that from?"

"My friends at college," you breathe, "They say guys hate doing it. Or... or they don't know how to do it right or something like that."

He surprises you when he smirks, eyes going devilish and sexy in that rugged way you love, "That's 'cause college girls usually sleep with college boys, babygirl," he says softly, "And college boys are dumb as rocks."

You giggle at his words, thinking back to that freshman party you'd attended where the handsome college boy had rejected you, gone for your friend instead. Joel's words are validating, comforting.

He pushes up your dress a bit more, then drags your panties down your legs, completely soaked. He smirks again at the sight of them, squeezes them in his palm before dropping them to the floor and picking your legs up to place them on his shoulders, pulling you toward him. You let out a gasp, eyes going hooded again as he scoots you forward and then dips his head down, presses a kiss to the soft skin of your inner thigh.

"This," he murmurs against your skin, "is one of my favorite things to do in the whole world." He kisses your other thigh, the hint of his tongue just barely flicking out to wet your skin, "And I wanted to do it to you," another kiss, "since the first day," and another, "you showed up on my doorstep."

You're losing your breath again, lips parting as he finally brings his lips to where you're aching for him, soaking the couch with your arousal. He presses a small and tender kiss to one of your outer lips, then the other, then carefully moves his hands up to thumb them apart, holding you open for him. You don't dare make a sound, biting down hard on your lip as you watch him look at you, take you in.

"Prettiest pussy I ever saw," he says quietly, breath fanning out over your wet skin, "I mean it, sweetheart. Ain't never gotten to kiss a pussy like this," he leans forward then and presses a small kiss to your clit, feather light. Your hips buck immediately, an odd sound coming from the back of your throat as you try to keep yourself together, "I know," he murmurs, "Just let go, honey. Don't hold back, want you to come all over my mouth."

And then he's licking a stripe up your folds, just like he'd done to your neck, long and languid and wet. Your eyes roll back, head hitting the back of the couch as he tastes you. The feeling of his mouth on such a sensitive part of you is indescribable; your head is suddenly empty again, no thoughts to be found other than feels so good, feels so good, feels so good. You don't even realize you're saying it out loud until he laughs, mouth vibrating against your pussy in the most perfect way.

"Love this cute little clit," he murmurs, kissing it again and then tugging it into his mouth with his tongue, sucking on it and making you writhe on the couch, fingernails digging into the cushions. He hums around it, pulls off it relatively quickly, then drags his mouth downward and pushes his tongue inside your hole, fucks you with it as your head lolls atop your shoulders.

College boys really are dumb as rocks.

"Your tongue," you moan out, eyes scrunching together as gasps continuously rip from your throat, "Oh fuck, oh my god." He licks inside you, pulls his tongue out to suck your labia, nose bumping against your clit. You shriek, hands coming up to cover your face as you bite down so hard on your lip you fear you might draw blood.

"Tastes so fuckin' sweet, babygirl" he says gruffly, pulling away for only a few seconds to peer up at you, chin glistening with your juices, "Just like I knew you would." He drops back down to suckle on your clit again, the tip of his tongue circling it over and over until you're on the verge of completely falling apart, a fire burning inside your belly that's growing stronger and stronger by the second.

The only thought that comes into your mind before you come is how sinful you must look right now, wearing your Sunday best, crucifix around your neck, hymn book strewn to the side as your fifty-six year old neighbor eats your pussy, coaxes noises out of you that you didn't even know you could make. You should feel ashamed, should feel sorry, but you don't. In fact, it's probably the hottest thing you've ever experienced in your life.

You have no time to give him any sort of warning, not that he needs one anyway. With one final suck to your clit you're gone, hips bucking upward as you cry out into Joel's living room pathetically, eyes shut tight as you flail beneath him. He puts his hands on your hips, pins you to the couch so you don't fall off as you come all over his mouth, just like he asked.

You lay there for what feels like a long time, body like jelly as you sink further and further into his couch. He peppers tiny kisses all over your pussy, avoiding your clit as not to cause you too much overstimulation, then very slowly pulls back to look at you, dropping your thighs from his shoulders.

"Good reward?" he asks softly, and all you can do is nod.

You listen as he gets up and busies himself in the kitchen for a moment, running the tap. He returns with a wet cloth and a glass of cold water, handing it to you before dropping back to his knees to wipe you clean. You hiss a bit when he touches your clit, hips stuttering.

"Shh, it's okay," he murmurs, "Just cleanin' you up, sweetheart."

When he's done he scoots in beside you on the couch, lets you curl up against him and lay there for a few quiet moments, breath evening out as you come back down to Earth. He strokes your hair, kisses your forehead, thumbs your cheek.

"That felt really good," you finally whisper softly, eyes hazy as you open them to look at him, "Thank you."

He smiles, charming and gentle, "You're welcome, babygirl."

"What time is it?"

He looks at his watch, "Ten after eleven, still got some time to spare," he brushes his nose against yours, "You wanna keep practicin' or do you wanna relax?"

"Relax," you hum, "Definitely relax."

He chuckles, "I'll put this away then," he extricates himself from you and reaches for the guitar, turning around to lean it back against the wall. He picks up your hymn book and goes to slip it back inside your purse before you sit up, shaking your head.

"I told my mom I loaned that to you," you smile sheepishly, "You should probably, um, keep it for a little bit."

"Ah, so that's my reward," he says with a laugh, thumbing the pages gently, "I'll take good care of it, promise."

Your eyes go wide at his words, "Oh my god."

He raises an eyebrow, puzzled by your reaction, "What?"

"You never came," you sit up on the couch, shaking your head frantically, "I'm so sorry, oh my god, come here, let me help," you reach toward his belt and he just laughs again, taking a step back.

"You don't need to do that, sweetheart," he says softly, kindly, but you're not having it.

"No, I want to, please," you stand up from the couch and step toward him, gripping his belt buckle, "Please let me."

He shakes his head; suddenly he's the one looking sheepish. You halt your movements, staring at him in confusion.

"I came, darlin'," he says with a breathless sort of laugh, smiling at you, "I came in my pants like one of your college boys. Haven't done it in years, actually. I'm surprised I still could." He pulls your hand off his belt and brings it to his lips, presses a kiss to your knuckles, "You're not the only one who learned somethin' new today."

You feel a proud warmth flood your cheeks, smiling softly to yourself as you take his words in.

"That bein' said, I'm gonna need to change," he winces a bit as he adjusts his pants, "I'm a bit of a mess right now." His eyes suddenly light up with some kind of realization, and he quickly puts his finger up before walking over to one of his bookshelves and pulling a little gift bag off the bottom shelf, "Which reminds me," he says with a smile, heading back over to you, "This is for you."

You stare at the bag, confused, "For me?"

"For you."

You take it from him, feeling beyond touched despite not having any idea what's inside. Your heart is beating fast as you reach in the bag, push past the tissue paper and pull out something lightweight, soft under your touch. You stare at it for a few seconds, looking at the pastel pink material and thumbing it gently, brow slowly beginning to furrow.

"You said you needed a new swimsuit," he says softly, "You wanted a bikini, remember? I picked this up for you."

"Yeah, I... I remember," you're still staring at it; it's cute and ruffled, nothing too crazy like the things you'd worried he might get for you. However there's an odd feeling in the pit of your stomach as you look at it, dropping the bag at your feet and holding up the top half in front of your face, staring at it like it could attack you at any second.

It's quiet for a moment, then, "I can take it back if you don't like it, darlin'. No worries."

"No, no, I...I like it," you say quickly, "I just..." you can't really explain how you're feeling, unsure how exactly to word it, "If my parents ever saw me in this..." you suddenly feel like you're going to cry, shaking your head and dropping the top back into the bag, "I'm sorry, I know I told you to get it but... now that I'm actually looking at it... there's no way I can wear this in my pool. Not without my mother having a conniption. I don't know what I was thinking."

You feel his eyes on you as you reach down to pick the bag back up, pushing it back toward him, waiting for him to take it from you - he doesn't.

"It's yours, angel," he says softly, "You don't have to wear it but I want you to have it."

You shake your head, pushing it toward him again, "No, you don't need to waste your money on something I'll never wear."

"I don't care, I want you to have it," he repeats, voice kind yet firm, "I bought it for you, it's a present, and I think you deserve to have somethin' nice for yourself."

"I have plenty of nice things," you snap, letting go of the bag and watching as it cascades to the floor, "I don't need it."

You can't bring yourself to look at him, crossing your arms against your chest and biting down on your lip to keep the tears at bay. He stands there for a few seconds silently, probably waiting for you to say something else, but you don't.

"Well, I'm gonna go change outta these clothes," he says quietly, "I'll meet you out on the back deck, alright? It's real private out there, don't gotta worry about anyone seein' you."

You nod slowly, staring at a spot on the floor. He turns away from you and heads upstairs, leaving you standing there feeling like a complete asshole. What is wrong with you? He just gave you a fucking present, not to mention the best orgasm of your life, and this is how you treat him? You take a deep breath and force the tears away, sighing to yourself and bringing your gaze back to the little bag on the floor.

You hate this. Why does every single thought you have need to be somehow policed by your parents despite them not even being in the room? Why is every decision, every move you make, always influenced by that guilty part of you, the part of you that wants to be their perfect girl, their star student, their obedient God fearing daughter? How has it gotten this deep? Why are they so ingrained in you to the point where something you literally asked for is tainted by thoughts of their disapproval?

You stand there staring at the bag, arms still crossed, thoughts going a mile a minute. Get over yourself. You just had a man's mouth on your pussy and you're suddenly worried about wearing a bikini? You make a grumbling sound in your throat, exhaling and shaking your head. Stop letting them control you. Stop giving them power.

You slip inside the downstairs bathroom, little bag in tow.

The sun is hot against your skin as you step out onto Joel's back patio, clad in your brand new bikini and surprisingly less self conscious than you thought you'd be. He was right; the backyard is very private, shielded by trees and a tall white fence similar to your own. You briefly wonder why he'd choose to play guitar on his front step when he has such a nice atmosphere back here, but the thought fades quickly when you see him sitting there in front of you in a lounge chair, wearing a pair of shorts and nothing else.

You feel your heart pound as you walk forward, shutting the door behind you with eyes glued to the hair on his chest, the sweat clinging to his skin, dipping into his tummy. You're still a bit embarrassed by your initial reaction to your gift but it's seemingly water under Joel's bridge when he turns around at the sound of the door to see you standing there.

He whistles when he sees you, low and cartoonish, "Phew. I think I made a good choice," he looks you up and down as you smile shyly, "Gimme a twirl."

You do as you're told, the thin ruffles tickling the tops of your thighs as you spin on the spot. You giggle when he whistles again.

"I really do like it," you say softly, walking over to him and settling into the other lounge chair, "It suits me. I'm sorry I got all weird."

He smiles at you tenderly, "That's alright, babygirl. I understand," he pauses then, looks thoughtful for a moment before saying, "You know... I know what it feels like to be worried about disappointin' your parents. To always be seekin' approval."

Your brow furrows at his words, "You do?"

He nods, leaning back a bit in the chair and sighing a bit, "I may be new to this neighborhood but I ain't new to Texas, darlin'. Born and raised here, went to church every Sunday just like you, had a curfew and rules and expectations and all those things you have." He closes his eyes against the rays of sun, "Difference is, I'm not an only child. I wasn't dealin' with it alone, thank God. Had my little brother Tommy with me every step of the way."

You smile at that, trying to picture a much younger version of Joel in his childhood, horsing around with another little boy. You'd always thought about what it would have been like to have a sibling, to not be the only one with all the pressure on your shoulders, but your parents had never given you any. Your mom had wanted to have more kids and simply couldn't, another layer of guilt added to your ever increasing pile. Her only daughter - a sinner. You shake the thought away and continue to listen to Joel.

"The thing about havin' a brother, in my experience anyway, is that people will always find ways to compare you. Tommy was always the smart one, the moral one, good head on his shoulders, always did well in school and knew his scripture back to front," he chuckles to himself, "I tried so hard to be like him but I just couldn't do it, wasn't built that way, never have been. I was the angry one, the problem child. Was always good with my hands but my parents never saw much value in that, always ended up askin' me the same shit: Why can't you be more like Tommy? Tommy's got straight A's, why don't you? When are you gonna start actin' more like Tommy?"

You frown, feeling a pang in your heart at the words.

"Was too much pressure to be like Tommy. He was their golden boy, you know? And I just couldn't compare. God knows I tried but..." he reaches over the side of his chair and picks up a bottle of beer you hadn't noticed before, bringing it to his lips and taking a sip, "I started messin' up a lot when I hit my teenage years," he continues, "Drinkin', breakin' curfew, sneakin' out to see girls. I had fun but my parents...phew, my father in particular, he was not happy, let me tell you. And then -" he cuts himself off suddenly, frozen for a moment before taking one last sip of beer and putting it down again.

"Then...?" you ask softly.

He shrugs to himself, hesitating a bit before answering, "Then... I got myself into some trouble. Won't go into it, not right now, but they kicked me out. That was that, didn't wanna have nothin' to do with me after that."

Your stomach twists at his words, "That's horrible."

He shrugs again, finally turning to look at you, "It ain't as bad as it sounds, trust me. I was better off, I didn't need any of their judgement in my life, any of that Catholic guilt. It was like a weight came off my shoulders. Sure, I had some bigger fish to fry after that, had to do a lot of things on my own, but I wouldn't change a thing."

"So, do you still talk?" you can't help but ask, feeling slightly selfish; it's for you, for your own conscious.

"Who, me and my parents?" he laughs lightly, "They're long gone now, sweetheart. But yeah, after my Dad died I spent some more time with my Momma, got to have her in my life again for a bit. That was nice." He ponders to himself for a moment, "I think, as cliché as it sounds, time really does heal most wounds. Nothin's ever perfect, nothin' can ever go back to the way it was, but people change. And while they're changin', you gotta focus on what's right for you, on livin' the life you want, not worryin' about what they'll think."

You nod thoughtfully, taking in his words. "So... this life, the one you're living right now... is it what you want?" you ask softly, brow furrowed, "Are you happy?"

He sighs then, leans further back into the chair and closes his eyes once more, "Now that's a complicated question."

You both lay there in silence for a little while, though it's neither awkward nor uncomfortable. It feels nice, to just sit with somebody with no pressure of making conversation or answering things about yourself. Every time you've interacted with anyone this summer, whether it be your parents or your mom's friends or people you used to know, there's always been an expectation to inform. To prove yourself, to show how good of a person you are, how much you've achieved. With Joel none of that pressure exists; it's so easy to just be with him and not have to be anyone but yourself.

Though he hadn't really answered your question, you have an answer of your own. Before you met Joel, almost two weeks ago now, you hadn't known where you stood in life, what you wanted, who you were. And now you're slowly beginning to realize that there's this whole other person inside of you, dying to get out, to be free. And you like that person, want to be her more than anything, want to live that life.

But just like Joel said - it's complicated.

"Do you ever..." you break the silence, trailing off slightly before continuing, "Do you ever feel like you're just kind of going through the motions? Like... wasting all your time doing things for other people instead of yourself?"

"Honey, you just summed up my whole life," he says with a laugh, deep and smooth, "You think I wanna be out workin' til ten every night, doin' construction and barkin' orders and layin' plans for shit I got no interest in? I'm fifty six, I should be thinkin' about retirin' by now." He winces at his own words and then sits up a bit, giving you an odd look, "Forget I said that."

You raise an eyebrow, confused, "Why?"

He grimaces, "I don't need to be remindin' you how old I am."

You can't help but laugh, smiling to yourself and shaking your head quickly, "I don't mind, Mr. Miller, really."

His expression softens at your words, but then his brow furrows. He's quiet for a moment, the cogs in his head seemingly turning until he finally says softly, "Call me Joel, darlin'."

You're a bit surprised by his words, eyes widening, "Oh, I'm sorry."

He smiles, "Don't be sorry, sweetheart. I... I do like you callin' me Mr. Miller, but you can call me by my name too, if you want. If it feels natural for you."

You nod slowly, "Joel," you say quietly and he chuckles, "Joel," you repeat, smiling to yourself, "Joel."

"Don't wear it out," he admonishes with a grin, reaching down to pick up his bottle of beer again, "Though I do like how you say it."

Your cheeks warm at his words and you settle back into the chair, closing your eyes and inhaling the fresh air. Your time is winding down now - you'd told your mom you'd be home around noon; the sun is almost at the highest point in the sky.

"So what would you be doing?" you ask suddenly, "If you had more freedom for yourself, if you weren't doing the whole contracting thing?"

He thinks to himself for a moment, then shrugs, "Playin' music, I guess. Always wanted to when I was young but my parents didn't like the idea, I'm sure you can imagine." You grimace at his words, understanding completely. "But yeah... doin' some gigs, playin' guitar, singin' a bit here and there... that'd be the dream." He smiles at you then, crinkly eyed and gorgeous, "What about you, darlin'? If you didn't have all these things with your parents to worry about, what would you do?"

You bite your lip, averting your eyes from his as you softly murmur, "I think I'd still be sitting right here with you."

He looks at you for a long time, thoughtful and soft. You can't help but feel shy under his gaze, toying with a ruffle on your bikini and wondering if maybe you've said too much. You've barely known him two weeks, you doubt he's feeling any ounce of the butterflies that have been fluttering in your belly since the day you met him, and yet you can't help but hope that maybe...just maybe... he's starting to.

"You want a beer or anything, sweetheart?" he interrupts your thoughts, standing up from his chair and gesturing toward the house, "I'm goin' in to get another one. I have some lemonade too."

"Lemonade sounds nice," you say with a smile, and he mirrors it, reaching down to push a strand of hair behind your ear.

"One lemonade comin' right up," he murmurs, then leans down to press a soft kiss to your lips, sweet and quick. You melt under his touch, eyes closing as he strokes your cheek, realizing you could sit here forever just existing with him, being touched by him, being kissed by him.

Yup. Very complicated.

You arrive home to find your mother sitting at the kitchen table eating lunch; she looks up as soon as she sees you, eyes lighting up, "So? How'd it go?"

You're wearing the dress again, the stockings, the crucifix. The only difference is that the hymn book in your purse has been replaced with the pink bikini, wrapped in tissue paper. You sit down across the table from your mother, feeling a little lighter, like there's a little less weight on your shoulders.

"It was amazing," you tell her, unable to stop the genuine smile that spreads across your face, "I learned so much."

#joel miller x reader #joel miller smut #fic: feelings on fire #*

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betbeton · 2 years ago

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𓆱 Right in the Crack

Bad Dirty Talk With Various HQ Men

Warnings - Sexual Content, Various 'Vanilla' Kinks

18 + Below Cut Minors DNI

· GN Reader ·

· Twitter Request ·

· A/N - most of my requests are kinda horny so buckle up buckaroos. ·

Tokyo Revengers Version

・❥・ Masterlist

⪧ Tendou Satori

Everything was fine.

Everything. Is. Fine.

You just had to remind yourself of this fact as your beloved partner whispered the most unsexy words in your ear, that had your hole zipping shut like a tote bag. You had to give him an A* for doing his best. Really it was some creative stuff you were somewhat proud he remembered so much from gods only know where to be able to spew it in your ear. Though you had to shut that shit down the moment he called you his little cream puff, he had to be joking at this point. . . you hoped he was joking. You would have to reprimand whatever friend told him this was a good idea, hopefully they weren't a mutual friend.

Pushing yourself up with your arms, resulting in your back pressing to Tendou's front, you swatted at his wondering hand as it moved towards your nipples voicing your displeasure with his stale and down right horrendous dirty talk. The moment you knew you had been had was when his breathy statements turned into a throaty cackle as his body shook overtop of your own. With a grunt you planted your face back into the blankets beneath you to avoid further feeding into the goblin of a man's long con. You were going to get him back, and it was going to be worse than his sham dirty talk.

⪧ Kita Shinsuke

You adored Kita, you really did. He was the light of your life. The reason you woke up each morning with a grin on your face. He was also amazing at most tasks and activities, but the one thing he sadly wasn't amazing at was dirty talk. Specifically degrading you. He was fine with generic dirty talk, mostly just voicing what he intended to do to you or how he wanted to take you. The trouble came when you asked him to degrade you or when he got too into it and the degradation slipped out. His voice held an almost monotone tone as he spoke, your eyes darting to avoid eye contact in hopes he would opt to stare at where you two met in your heated embrace instead of you eyes like he normally did. Unfortunately for you as he dropped the ever fire 'What a slutty hole' with a deadpan expression, aside from a slight tint to his cheeks and his furrowed eyebrows, you cracked.

It was just a little giggle at first as he moved your legs onto his shoulders, easily excused by you simply being ticklish in the moment. Sadly though the throaty, chest heaving cackles that left you as he began moving again were less easy to play off. It was a good thing he knew you found the dry dirty talk funny, it was also a good thing you didn't know he was faking it just so he could enjoy your joy.

⪧ Oikawa Tooru

You knew for a fact this man could spit out some mean dirty talk when he was bottoming. Which is why when he insisted on taking the lead today you settled back to enjoy the ride, only to be met with 2013 wattpad style dirty talk. It was like getting your guts rearranged by an AI programed to dry up every last bit of arousal coursing through your veins. The thing that made it worse was his serious face gazing at you from his reflection in the mirror at the foot of you bed. The sight of you two would have been comical, one person laying down with a defeated sigh as their partner spit out the most unsexy, arousal destroying dirty talk. You would bet every last cent in your bank account that he got some of these lines from a passionflixs movie. He sounded like a serial killer as he leaned down to whisper in your ear.

Though the moment you squirmed beneath him in uncomfortable embarrassment his little giggles gave away his awful plan. Twisting your top half you gazed at your partner in mock anger, poking a finger into his chest as you demanded an explanation. His only explanation was you shouldn't have used the last of the conditioner without telling him, then he wouldn't have had to ruin sex as a whole for you.

Truly a petty icon.

#haikyuu x reader #hq x reader #tendou satori x reader #kita shinsuke × reader #oikawa tooru x reader #tendou satori #kita shinsuke #oikawa tooru

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foundouthatdabiistouyatodoroki · 4 years ago

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victimhood is complicating, people oversimplify and sensationalized rather than talk a deep look at how the victim’s feel. In reality, its complex and hard to pin point. The line between right and wrong are blurred. this can be true especially its hard to describe if you view these three people tomura,dabi and hawks. despite their own horrendous actions they’re fundamentally victims, this isn’t supposed to excuse their actions but show how their wronged and feel when they were treated. its messy

One thing I know is that victimhood is not simple. If you looked at the chapters, Hawks show us how complicating victimhood is. When we think of victimhood we think of Eri. To the people of BNHA’s world (and readers) victims are timid and meek, not people like Tomura, Hawks, and Dabi. Yet one thing these people all have in common is that they had no control of their circumstances and how they reacted to it, even if the reaction isn’t considered typical for what people associated with “victims.”

Unlike Eri, both Tomura and Dabi react by lashing out at the society that wronged them. If you looked at the above three, they are fundamentally victims and yes, responsible for their actions, but despite their own vile actions, villains are still victimized by the current system. Villains were created in response to hero society.

Victimhood is being oversimplified by hero society. People tend to simplify rather than put emphasis with the victims as individuals. They never try thinking about the complexities of the person that they are dealing with in front of them. When people simplify, all they do is take away the complexity of the individual, reducing their humanity in the process. Abuse is fundamentally a reduction of humanity through denying another human autonomy, compassion, and safety. Whenever you oversimplify, you don’t want to understand who they are as people. All people are complex individuals and in truth peoples’ complexity is what gives us individuality and free will and feelings in the first place. Human beings have so many layers to them, and taking away those nuances of what makes them people is like taking away a person’s individuality. Understanding and empathizing with others that are victims includes accepting their complexities and that things are not as simple as you make them out to be.

The characters in BNHA don’t empathize with the villain mainly because they didn’t see anything wrong with hero society. As Tomura stated, they are incapable of ever understanding since they never really notice what was wrong with society and they don’t notice the people that fell through the cracks.

Tomura is a victim of hero society and knows he’s a victim. Hes dealt with his feelings by lashing out at the same society that failed him. Nobody helped Tenko after he murdered his family. They noticed Tenko wandering the streets. They had the option to help but chose to do nothing . They were completely complacent in Tenko’s pleas, instead using the term “hero” as an excuse for their complacency. They had the option to help but choose not to the reason why for this is to them Tenko didn’t look like a victim, plus the real reason why they are worried to get involved with something such as this is that this might cause them to lose the comfort and security of their current lives: no one is going to risk their cozy life for a stranger they just met. Victims are unpleasant; people don’t want to look at them. They choose to ignore all for the sake of their security

This marks Tomura a victim not only but AFO but also of society.

Let’s look closer at Hawks and Tomura. They are hero and villain, but harbor many similarities to each other as victims. Both were exploited by their respective abusers when they were at their most vulnerable as children, with Hawks who were in poverty and Tenko who was wandering the streets after he killed his family. Then, AFO and the hero commission found the theme and molded them into tools. They both had their real names taken from them to be tools for their said abusers. Tenko Shimura to Tomura Shigaraki by AFO symbolizes AFO’s control over him, using him not only as his heir to get revenge on All Might, but to also get OFA from him. Keigo Takami became Hawks the hero to become a convenient tool. His hero identity that was given to him by his handlers and is just another way to control him. Tomura’s been exploited by AFO and Hawks by the hero commission; both have lost their identities and personhoods to be convent tools for their abusers.

Hawks would argue that he chose to be a hero out of his own will, even stating that hewillingly stained himself to save lives. If you see Hawks as a child he is used by these people in the flashbacks, the term these people use is “special” which is used by abusers to groom victims. This is a type of brainwashing called conditioning that abusers use to lure victims into thinking that they choose their own path. These people used the word “special” to condition him. Hawks had been exploited by these people at his childhood by using his desire for being a hero against him.

Now let’s look at AFO. AFO didn’t reject Tomura as a person, unlike his family, did when wanted to be a hero, but that acceptance can be seen as disguising as some sort of extortion. Though AFO’s gestures seem compassionate on the surface, his actions show he is saying sugary words to have a firm grip on someone. His actions mirror Hawks’ handlers.

So, Tomura himself is a victim but no one acknowledges it because he doesn’t fit their criteria of what a victim is.

I previously mentioned that Dabi is a victim as well but how does Dabi fit in the equation of being a victim of society? Dabi (if Touya) is the victim of Endeavor’s abuse. Hero society praised Endeavor as a hero all the while he abused his family in the shadows and caused his accident which readily soured his view on heroes and the rest of hero society. This is why Dabi followed Stain’s ideology. Unlike Stain who believe in true heroes, Dabi doesn’t believe that a true hero exists. Dabi may claim he wants to make a true hero society like Stain, but in reality this is just an excuse to cover his real emotions: he wants to burn it all down.

For starters, people couldn’t see Dabi as a victim because Dabi can’t cry. Since his tear ducts are burned, he cannot express the emotion that people would associate victims with.

As much as Dabi tries to say heroes are not as good as what they make themselves be, no one is going to listen. No one even wants to listen, since they idolize heroes too much to see their flaws.

So, since Hawks knows all the flaws of society and he’s a victim, why doesn’t he acknowledge this? Well,I read in a post that someone did that Hawks is disillusioned by heroism. You see his kind of attitude of this at the billboard speech when he tells the heroes aren’t doing their jobs to sell heroism. Hawks grew up in poverty-stricken (in the panels you can see his background littered with all the empty bottles). He never had any faith in society until Endeavor saved him, After he was saved by Endeavor and himself saved that family from a speeding accident, he was taken in by the hero commission and enrolled in the special program to be their tool. Hawks was already disillusioned with society before he was taken in by the hero commission. Hawks views heroism to escape from his unfortunate situation. Ge sees heroism as a way out of his impoverished situation since there could be things that are far worse than what he was in. He was already disillusioned from the start and especially well aware he’s used by the hero commission to do dirty work. Hawks never admits this because he views heroism as a way out all the while knowing it is flawed. It was the only option he had at that time. Hawks knows he’s trapped but thinks it would be much worse than being where he started. Hawks is a victim of the hero society that builds itself on false heroism.

The way Hawks offered Jin a way out the same thing with him when he was offered by the hero commission. He thinks that they are things far worse than what he is in now. Hawks offering Jin a way out all the while not acknowledging his feelings and the failure of hero society in general means that Hawks is unable to emphasize with Twice. When he cornered Twice, Hawks does not admitting his victimhood is what made him unable to emphasize with Twice, the literal victim. This is what caused Twice to call Hawks out for not being a hero. Hawks tells himself that he’s doing this for the greater good, all the while knowing that he’s a tool used by the hero commission.

Hawks were already disillusioned with hero society and had never held any hope it, Endeavor was what he believed in and he followed this hero whom he only had faith and gave him hope in a failing society. But what will happen if he finds out the truth?

That’s where Dabi comes in, revealing the truth in a black bubble shattering Hawk’s world view and forcing Hawks to perhaps admit his victimhood. Why is Hawks finding out Dabi’s identity before anyone else important? Think back to how Hawks’ faith in Endeavor means a lot to him. It helped him get out of a bad situation and have hope in society. When he finds out that Endeavor abused his family and the reveal of Dabi being Touya Todoroki, a villain of the same hero that saved him, that revelation will cause him to question everything he’s ever done up this point: not just to question Endeavor but also himself and his place in society.

What was everything I have done ever for? Did I make the right choices? Did I make things worse? Is everything I’ve done turn out to be worse than better? Did I make mistakes? Was society ever worth protecting? Did everything I worked so hard towards turned out to be lies? Was everything I believed in a lie?

Look at this quote from My Dark Vanessa, “It has to be a love story. If it isn’t then what is it?”

What about the victims if they confess their abuser at the risk of a personal cost? People never think of the victims and their feelings regarding confessions. We praise them for coming forward with the abuse, but society does not consider the sacrifice of the personal cost a confession has on the victims.

Hawk’s entire identity is based on his hero image.For Hawks, this would cost him his entire identity since being a hero is what he defines himself as. Hawks discovering the truth and forcing him to reflect on what he truly believes in. It will be like losing that identity that he built his life on.

This is why Hawks don’t want to admit he’s a victim: it’s admitting everything he believed or knew is a lie even himself. Even if someone is a victim they don’t want to think they are victims; neither does Hawk.

Looking at these characters you begin to see that when it comes down to it they are people. The main reason why we don’t see these people as victims is that we never really explore the complexity that came with other people and that it is nuanced, complicated, and very individualistic. The way these characters react is incredibly human despite their quirks.

Looking at the most unsatisfactory part of people is how we truly can empathize with the victims; even those who lash out deserve the same level of understanding and empathy that anyone should have.

#bnha spoilers #my meta #meta #asks #ask #my ask #my asks #Thank you Hamliet~#Dabi

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dweetwise · 4 years ago

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yes hello i am back on my bullshit again, presenting you yet another felix x ace! (also i’m taking the creative liberty to call the ship riconti because it sounds like a cheese or something and i found it funny) anyways, this one is just me thirsting over the oktoberfest skin through ace, ft. some suggestive language but no nsfw!

word count: 2781

Felix X Ace: Clothes make the man

The whole thing starts as an offhand comment.

"—I mean, it's clearly tailored. He pulls it off,” Ace is telling Meg, who has been complaining about Felix's stuffy suit and even stuffier attitude for five minutes straight. “But it's so impractical!” the girl argues. “Wasn't he on some kind of field trip when he was taken? What kind of guy wears a suit to that?” “I don't know, but I'm not going to complain about free eye candy,” Ace smirks, and Meg rolls her eyes. “Oh yeah, I forgot rich snobs are your thing. Sucks you can't scam him for his money in here,” Meg snarks. “Excuse me for having taste,” Ace shoots back. “I wish I had a suit like that. Do you think it's Gucci?” “Burberry,” an increasingly familiar voice answers from behind him and Meg whips her head around to look at its owner, eyes wide in shock at having been caught gossiping. Meanwhile Ace, liking to think he has more self-control, schools his face into a pleasant smile and slowly turns around to face Felix. “Would have been my next guess,” Ace says, trying not to let it show that he's mentally slapping himself for essentially thirsting over Felix when the other was within earshot. “I like the cut. You've got good taste.”

He’s feebly trying to save some of his wounded ego, but probably ends up laying it on too thick. Felix fidgets a little, maybe not used to getting compliments, before he seems to catch himself. He meets Ace's eyes and the hint of a smirk tugs on his lip.

“Wish I could say the same,” Felix says, pointedly looking at Ace's flamingo sweater, before turning around and walking away and leaving Ace to gape at the unexpected sass from the normally serious man. “I take it back, I like him!” Meg snickers beside him.

The Entity seems to share Ace's enthusiasm for Felix's fashion sense, and only a few trials in Felix is already in a different suit, this one a grey plaid.

“Hmm…” Ace pretends to mull over when they're working on a generator together. “Did you see something?” Felix asks, hurriedly glancing over the top of the machine to try, in vain, to spot the killer. “I think the navy blue suits you better,” Ace smirks at his own pun. “Though the plaid certainly makes a statement. Shame that statement is ‘I'm a grandpa at thirty years old’.” “You know, in my job, gold is really only used for trims. Any more than that is just tacky," Felix deadpans, not even sparing a glance at Ace's obnoxiously golden silk outfit. “And it's thirty-eight.”

Ace doesn't bother suppressing his grin over the fact that Felix seems happy to go along with his silly banter.

It becomes sort of an inside joke between them, and when Felix shows up to the campfire in a porn stache and driving gloves, Ace chokes on a laugh.

“I’m sorry, is this an 80's theme party?” Ace jokes. “Careful you don't end up on a propaganda poster with a stache like that.” “Why are you wearing an eye patch?” Felix immediately shoots back. “Is this the 16th century? Should we break out the rum and set sail?”

Ace hears Quentin snort beside him.

“It's a pilot outfit,” Ace argues, pulling his jacket with the pin-up print tighter against himself defensively. “No, mine is a pilot outfit,” Felix deadpans, and Ace can't really argue, not when the other is wearing a bomber jacket and pilot glasses and leather gloves. “Yours is a blind truck driver.”

Bill coughs out something akin to a laugh on the other side of camp and Ace bites his lip to stop himself from doing the same.

“Can I borrow the shades some time?” Ace forfeits the argument, and Felix smiles just the tiniest bit. “Sure.”

And Felix actually follows through with the promise, switching sunglasses with him when Ace later complains his own don’t go with his outfit. It’s a pretty cute gesture, like they were close friends or even a couple, and when Felix snorts and tells him he looks ridiculous it just serves to make Ace smile brighter.

It’s not like the exchange or the ones before it mean anything, it’s just harmless joking with the occasional flirt. Ace still thinks Felix is attractive, but he doesn’t have any illusions that the man would be into him like that, with what having a girlfriend and unborn baby back home, not to mention Ace having a good ten years on him in age. Still, he appreciates that Felix goes along with his cheeky comments, at least not grossed out by or taking offense to Ace’s flirting.

He only gets to keep the shades for one trial, because the Entity has blessed Felix with another outfit for Ace to offer his unsolicited opinion on.

“Oh my god,” Ace comments when he spots the horrendous, grease-streaked mop in place of Felix’s normally expertly styled hair. “Are you a closet hipster? Is an avocado smoothie going to fall out of the hat?” he quips, eyeing the fedora that is, in Ace’s humble opinion, vastly inferior to all of his own hats. “I needed a disguise to lay low for a while, and what better way to hide in plain sight in a big city?” Felix defends his unkempt hair and dirty t-shirt. “What’s your excuse?” he shoots back.

Ace glances down at his generously open shirt—gold again, just to annoy Felix—and tacky sequin pants.

“Vegas, baby,” Ace grins. “If you’d ever been, you’d know.” “I’ve never been happier to say I haven’t,” Felix chuckles. “I don’t think I could handle more of… whatever this is,” he says, gesturing to Ace’s outfit. “When we get out of here, I’m definitely taking you,” Ace quips. “I just want to see you cry over all the flashy satin and fake gold.”

Felix doesn’t roll his eyes or make a sarcastic comment like Ace expects. Instead, he stares blankly in confusion for a few seconds, before his expression settles into a smile Ace can’t quite place.

“Alright,” Felix simply says, and combined with the soft smile it’s enough to make Ace nervously look around camp for a distraction. “Hey, Kate!” he hollers, spotting the songstress braiding Meg’s hair. “You got a hairband for our friend and his questionable hair style over there?”

He ends up regretting the question as soon as Kate insists on braiding Felix’s hair and the normally standoffish man, somehow, goes along with it. He can’t believe he’s jealous for someone getting to touch the grimy, unkempt strands, and it sure as hell doesn’t help that Felix seems to like it. Kate looks thrilled to get to spend some quality time with the man, chatting about this and that and taking way longer than necessary to make the hairstyle, and Ace ends up walking away and pestering Dwight to play some cards with him so he can at least win at something.

His win streak over the poor boy is interrupted when Felix later sits down with them, gesturing for Ace to deal him in, and Ace can’t quite hide his pleased grin that Felix would rather spend time with him than the beautiful girl who just played with his hair for half an hour.

“Better?” Felix asks him, turning his head to display the most pathetic French braid Ace has ever seen, ending in a ponytail that’s barely an inch in length. “Much better,” Ace says, definitely referring to the company and not the state of his hair, and even the normally diplomatic Dwight gives him a weird glance over his cards after taking in Kate’s handiwork.

Only a few trials after the incident, Ace has the pleasure of spawning together with Felix in one of the Yamaoka maps. When he sees a horrendous checkered pattern from the corner of his eye, he knows he’s in for a treat.

He quickly turns to face the man, nearly tripping over some shrubbery as the Entity decided to place him in some inconvenient bamboo. He meets Felix's eye, opening his mouth to start a snarky comment, when his thoughts come to a complete halt upon seeing the entirety of the outfit.

“Well? Get it over with,” Felix demands, crossing his arms self-consciously and—lord have mercy—blushing a little.

Ace's brain is reduced to white noise in the equivalent of ‘hhhHhhHHhh’ while he just stands there, feet still in the stupid bamboo, and stares.

Felix's hair is now an impeccable undercut, a few loose strands framing his features beautifully, and the perfectly trimmed stubble adds a rugged charm to his handsome face. The vest is stylish, a navy blue similar to the suit Ace likes, and the checkered shirt shouldn't work with it but it does, and there's even a matching handkerchief in his breast pocket. Ace's horny brain immediately goes to hanky code and shut up brain it's in the wrong pocket—

Ace mentally shakes his head and looks at Felix's pants instead. And that was a bad idea, because he’s wearing fucking. Leather. Pants.

Again, it should look ridiculous, but Ace feels himself start salivating at the idea of them hugging Felix's ass—ugh, focus!

The pants have small ribbons on the sides and the entire ensemble is so goddamn adorable and sexy that he can't even deal. And Ace has seen a lot of handsome men during his life, mostly in the mirror, but right now, Felix takes the cake.

Felix's attitude shifts from embarrassed to curious when Ace isn't immediately opening his big mouth like usual.

“If this is how all Germans dress, it’s a tragedy I’ve never been,” Ace flirts, his dick having taken over his brain and his mouth running on autopilot.

Instead of insulting Ace's panama hat and favorite pink shirt, Felix clears his throat and averts his eyes.

“You don't look too bad yourself,” Felix mutters, cheeks heating up again as he twiddles with the cuff of his shirt.

Ace idly wonders if the bamboo bush is big enough for them to make out in without being spotted—brain, focus! The guy is just being polite, no need to jump his bones!

They've got the usual back-and-forth out of the way, but Felix still isn't moving to start the trial, regarding Ace warily and fidgeting, and he's just so fucking hot—ugh, he needs to say something, doesn't he?

“God, the things I'd let you do to me," Ace thinks while he says ‘We should find a generator’ because he's not going to creep Felix out any further—

Felix chokes on nothing and his face flushes bright red, and Ace belatedly realizes his brain got its wires crossed and he definitely said the first bit out loud. Shit, that was definitely out of line, and if Felix hasn’t been offended before he sure as hell should be now.

There’s a screech from his left and Ace has never been so glad to take a bonesaw to the shoulder as when the Nurse teleports next to him and interrupts their awkward conversation, Ace finally running out of the goddamn shrubbery while clutching his injured shoulder. Strangely enough, the Nurse doesn’t follow him as he runs up to the temple, and soon after he hears Felix yelp instead, the killer chasing him around the shack.

Damn, now he somehow needs to make it up to Felix both to apologize for his foot-in-mouth syndrome and for him taking the Nurse off Ace’s back.

Unfortunately for them, the Nurse isn't playing around this match, and when she returns to tunnel Felix right off the hook, Ace barely even gets the chance to yell out a “Move!” and throw himself in the way of the attack, much less talk to him about what happened earlier.

Soon Ace is walking back into camp, the second to last to have been sacrificed, only Claudette remaining in the trial and trying to find the hatch. He's already prepared an apology, and hopefully he'll be able to joke it off and Felix won't be weirded out by him. Well, at least not more than usual.

But then he spots Felix talking to Dwight by the edge of the camp, and Dwight freezes mid-conversation upon seeing Ace, before his face twists into a—smirk? Since when has Dwight smirked?—and he says something to Felix before taking off, walking over to where Steve and Ash look to be engaged in a game of tic-tac-toe.

Ace doesn't even have time to ponder why Dwight suddenly seems like he knows way too much, because Felix is approaching him and he knows this is a make or break it situation.

“Dwight seemed awfully smug, huh?” Ace jokes to buy himself some time after his carefully crafted apology flies out the window when he sees Felix’s serious expression. “We need to talk,” Felix says, looking and sounding every bit the stern businessman Meg thinks he is. “Yeah, alright,” Ace agrees and tries not to deflate too much upon essentially being shut down before he can even try to make things right.

As he follows Felix out into the woods away from prying eyes, he considers whether it's even worth apologizing if their friendship is done with anyway. He just hopes this won't cause unnecessary drama within the group, the others sure as hell don’t need to get involved.

His train of thought is interrupted when he's suddenly pushed against a tree, letting out a startled yelp that he’ll later vehemently deny. Shit, is Felix going to beat him up?

An arm wrapping around his hip is finally enough to pull Ace out of his racing thoughts, and when he looks up at the man he finally realizes that Felix is definitely not upset with him, and his eyebrows shoot up into his hairline upon seeing the clear bedroom eyes thrown his way.

“Is this not okay?” Felix asks, his dark gaze faltering from insecurity. “Naw, baby, just took me by surprise,” Ace practically purrs, a lazy grin spreading over his face as the familiar confidence returns, his hands running over Felix's shoulders appreciatively. “I thought you were upset with me from before, not that you'd take me up on the offer.” “Well, I—” Felix starts, clearing his throat self-consciously. “I've wanted this for quite some time, and Dwight said you probably wouldn't be opposed, so…”

That's what they were talking about? And Dwight convinced Felix that Ace is down to fuck? Shit, he needs to get the kid a fruit basket or something to thank him.

“He's definitely not wrong,” Ace says, trying for a seductive look but probably ends up leering stupidly from the anticipation instead. But apparently it gets the job done, because Felix pulls him tighter against him and leans in for a kiss.

And okay, wow, apparently he wasn't lying about really wanting this, because there's an urgency in the way he practically devours Ace's mouth, letting out an appreciative groan when Ace parts his lips and encourages him to deepen the kiss.

So maybe he should be worried about Felix's girlfriend or his sudden interest in men or whether he's looking for more than a casual fuck. But Ace has never been good at thinking certain things through and he's not about to start now, not when he has a breathless and flushed Felix pulling away from the kiss and looking at him with lust-blown eyes.

“I've wanted to do that for a long time,” Felix breathes, the corner of his mouth quirking up into a half-smile. “You really should have just asked,” Ace smirks, a little amazed that he managed to miss all the signs, because there’s nothing subtle about the way Felix looks at him now. “I was working up to it,” Felix argues. “But then you started practically eye fucking me—” “I was looking respectfully,” Ace corrects, causing Felix to snort. “You stood in a bush and drooled, and then propositioned me,” Felix points out. “Yeah, and you liked it so much you blushed like a virgin and started flirting and took the killer off of me—which, thanks for that, by the way—” Ace starts. “You're welcome.” “—and… why did I think you were mad at me again?” Ace realizes. “No idea. I thought it was pretty obvious why I dragged you here to ‘talk’,” Felix emphasizes, gaze roaming appreciatively over his body. “Well, what are you waiting for?” Ace encourages, flashing his signature smirk in challenge.

And Ace learns that no matter how much he likes Felix's outfit, getting to help Felix out of it is even better.

#dbd fanfic #felix richter #ace visconti #felix x ace #riconti #dbd #dead by daylight #dweetwrites

41 notes · View notes

straynogoddstupid666 · 5 years ago

Text

Beauty Realms

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

I refused to pick myself up

Off the damn ground

Just like u refused to help

That child to his feet

Stop letting ur guns whisper

Wrds get crisper like ruffles

Listen to ur heart listen

To ur heart listen to ur lover

Don't go out like biggie Tupac?

U dig? macking like combs

No poppa just bringing something proper

Stop poppin start huggin

And she never ever kept me

Warm at night pick up in

Hearses brief like gun be silent

My children Feel the prints on dead mulch

Shook ur folks like her looks

Killer creepin to ur window

Crushin dead leaves as he enters

A person's crib bnn hit in the face

By the coffin lid father thought

It was intentional i took it well

No help meh i come from them

Like mary for her baby the times

They never good to us

trump got me thinking

Biggie got me shaking my head

Tupac got me Reminiscing

Robin Schultz have me forlorn

I wanna think sick dreams to put

The devil to sleep why the fightin?

Stop u cryin ur groaning tha moanin

Caht u see im dying on my death

Bed like Wallace said u wouldn't understand I'll make the phone call brief

Like highschool love u don't wanna love

No more too late for this

Somebody put the pipe to my

Nutshell i want the trigger to

Talk dirty to me so let it squeeze

Young Fools don't wanna help a nigga

Breathe and i don't make enough bread

To set examples Like chances

Making mills givin bills no cheap thrills lovin pll Instead of ur bread ur pills love urself Even tho i tried i cried too much

Am srry too much let's sit

And hold hands with kim

Tell donald he gotta go

Let Steyer Take office i wanna

See smiles on people's faces

I wanna see Liberia and Africa

Dance to no more sickness no more pain

Tell shinzō am srry he won't accept it

But i want to express the thought

That should matter to him and me

Like they and them but no one ever

Spoke of us and we its always i to the am

No she cuz they were too irrelevant

To man as man was too

irrelevant to woman its funny how

That i express this better thnn a

Typical adult would but i was i

I shook my head and asked my

Pistol for help it proceeded to

Shoot meh in the noggin why The jokin?

I wasn't yet laughin stop clowin

This Is serious drink the maggots

Eat ur meal the coffins call us all

They stop ur flower bringing

Ur slow songs whnn three yrs go by

now ur just dirt

In the hue time its past our time Subliminal like a correspondence

Too dependable Don't overreact

I hate going to the room cover doors

We gonna be here for awhile so two-sided

Living like a hypocrite so wishy-washy

Triggers keep whispering to me

Why call the ems? U got soul to

Call them urself u pullin my leg

Choking my collar put up

against the furnace Hansel and Gretel

Got away scott free pull ur guns

But pull ur frustrations on ur kids

Why so petty? I must find a way to die

Getting real tired of people just let

Me die slow slow as sloth

u waste my time wrap me up like

A pharaoh no king no godd just a bad boy

Im choking on wrds as ur friends choke

On high clouds sinking in high tide

Oh no no don't come back and haunt

My lonely soul i ain't got time

For entities gotta my mind

On my goddamn feelings don't Have

Time for weeping gotta

keep my Eyes on goddamn time

Don't carsick me with ur fake affection

I couldn't figure out why the same

Damn cars were parked outside hospitals

Evrynight i couldn't picture my

Lover dying a slow death too

Gone like onfroy and the Nineties

Were terrible with some honorable

Mentions the hospital was a night clinic

Send urself back the crib

dying early dawns suffocating

On life support u test me my heart

Ripped out Rip so sad let die

Wasn't worth a penny a Dime To'em

U didn't wanna be a molester

No killer am in the act of street knowledge Am stray no godd

Wise godd stray i get around i see well

I don't lie well but eat good

Make sour promises look distainful

I keep wrds as if they were

precious stones i sought it out

Like beauty realms but unreachable

Like a pretty woman like a goddess

They saw me ugly and unseasoned

Had a personality i never seen before

More lame thnn the average

So weak thnn the meek so wasteful

Like a bottle not precious as diamonds

Flith as a rug that's me on ur floor dead

Its so real like a beauty realm

i couldn't touch and fantasies and dreams

Remained in my skull but shut them off

With a noose i was so wrong Whnn will

I see a smile on my Face??

Whnn will Japan forgive Us???

Who will feed the needy everyday?

Make ur days worth don't make one

Day good make a hundred more

So high u could be like Jesus

But u weren't my saviour

Stop climbing high u wanted

Clout and fame for ur good deeds

Stop ur boasting be humble

Ur not a modest man with high morals

Not so great now Huh??

U think u better thnn Us yeah???

U misunderstood my lettering

That's why with each paragraph

U get more and more confused

This isnt to teach its to understand

Why we lack so i keep my head low

And except the worser deeds by

The higher man cuz they lie all the same

I look for imperfections in the mirror

Instead i saw the devil mock me

With sick expression ur no Ecstasy

Just a supernatural phenomenon

Caused By my own fabricated Infatuation

Within beauty and splendor so

Grand i shot my heart out

Filled my head With Grandeur

Passed out on my brother's shoulder

But he knock me to the ground

And cussed me being a flower

I was a ugly flower brother saw

Me a burden and our mother troublesome

And our sister worrisome but i

Cut off excuses brother why the frowin?

Have i failed u? I was i not motivated

To keep ur mind at ease

I grieve on ur bed side cuz the way u sleep Looks as if ur in a coffin and i couldn't Bare the sight i sigh cuz we all will be In wood coffins one way or another People shoot me off my feet

Like a realm i was forever lost

To Infinite amount of souls

Crying to themselves rotten

Like the stray the maggots breed on him

I passed the arsenic to my

Darling lover no wonder why

The blue blazer and the yellow tights

Fitted me so well i was going

To start a mass chain affect

So horrendous be like Marylin Monroe

Dial nine no call back just silence

Crack of dawning lead out in a stroller

Beauty's dead and where was judy?

Tell me if i go to a pastor

Will be truthful with Me?

Could he say with a heavy heart

That things happen for a reason?

Could he rlly honestly possibly

Probably hopefully reassure me

That i could die Happy???

Uh huh....didn't think so....

Riddle me this u ppl who think ur above all

U who thinks ur generosity

holds no bounds u women hold signs

For change u need to rlly look

Urselves in the mirror to understand me

Riddle me this can we still love

Once the heart stops beating??

Can u fix a beggar a hot meal

Without think lowly or suspicious

Of him? Can u care for a child

After he lost waht u got??

See ironically u all berates me

Cuz u kno im telling the truth

But ur stuck in denial and me

Taking great pity in u

I sigh and walk into a hwy

My talking was shunned out by

Visco girls and Woman stereotyping

Men without giving urselves a second

Reason whnn we act we act reason

The other 50% were just fools

I turned a Symphony to a sad man crying

Old man dying dead stray a walkin

I stop the talkin cuz am sinking

They murders me softly

I sullied myself to the coffin once more as The birds stop their srry note

Im being for real for real.

And not fake for fake

See where am going with this??

But u don't wanna listen

But u wanna help ppl??

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dam-n-jezebel · 6 years ago

Text

The dried blood on her hands showed the night before had been eventful as always; Jezebel stood in her bathroom staring into the mirror wondering if she knew what she knew now when she was sixteen, if she would have been able to protect her mom. She shook her blonde locks and did her best to clear the memory of that night from her mind. She was all grown up now but it didn’t change the fact that she was an orphan. The warm water ran over her hands as the remainder of the blood rinsed clean, another target another pay check. There wasn’t too much she could complain about with her life; she was rich, things were never boring but yet it still felt like something was missing.

After Jezebel finished cleaning up she wrapped herself in her short blue robe. She threw her hair into a ponytail just as she heard the elevator door open up. “Jezebel, sind Sie nach Hause?” she heard Milo call to her. Of course she was home; it was five pm where on earth would she be? Walking out of her room she glanced at him. “No I left on a vacation.. of course I am here. Milo, we are not in Germany or out in public, you can speak English.” A small smirk passed over her lips as she leaned against the bar top pouring herself a glass of scotch.

By the look that was on Milo’s face it was easy to see that he did not like the way she spoke to him, but he wouldn’t dare say that to her; fact of the matter was Jezebel had become even more lethal than anyone had ever anticipated. The smack of the folder hitting the table gave a soft echo in her apartment due to the marble floors. “You have been requested by name again.. Do you think it is wise that so many people know your name in our line of business?” his voice was stern; since she killed her Uncle and took over the organization, he had been her right hand man.

The glass pressed to her perfectly rose stained lips as she took a sip making sure it didn’t hit her tongue before placing it down and taking up the folder. “Wise? Probably not; however it is getting me more clients. People know my name but very few know my face, and the ones who do normally end up dead.” Jezebel said coldly. Her remorse for killing people was pretty much nonexistent. She studied the information inside the folder, making sure she knew exactly what the job entailed before agreeing to take it.

Milo’s hand pulled down the photo to get her attention. “I worry about you… your sister understands risks; You act without thinking and that is going to get you killed one day.” He said the concern plastered all over his face. She sighed and tossed the folder down on the bar top. “I will take it, tell them I will have the job done in a weeks time.” Jezebel would do almost anything to avoid having a heart felt conversation. "You can let yourself back out." She motioned to the door. He reluctantly sighed but left not wanting to push her.

She turned her attention away and headed back into her room to dress. From what she read in the folder it would seem black tie attire would be needed this evening. Her fingers ran across the many gowns that she had stashed in her closet until she found the slinky tight black number she was looking for. It only took her a moment to slip the dress on and zip up what little back it had. Time and time again she was being hired for some sleazy dignitary. They never wanted to get their hands dirty; pathetic excuse for men.

Within no time at all she was gussied up and ready for the gala before the United Nations Summit. They always hosted a lavish party the night before the actual event. Jezebel was not a fan of these events but it was a good way to judge the potential risks or any problems that might arise; though nothing usually went wrong. It was also a good chance for her to find her marks weakness, and all men had them.

She headed towards the elevator and pressed the button waiting for it to come up. The doors opened up just as she reached over grabbing her clutch off the side table. Without even a pause she stepped inside and allowed the doors to close. Her back pressed against the cool wall. Another night of no sleep, not that she ever really did, even when she was not busy. Jez hated to sleep; she could not control her dreams and thoughts when asleep and control was something she craved.

When the doors opened up again she hurried out and through the lobby of the building until she reached the outside street. The limo already waiting outside; courtesy of Milo, no doubt. For a moment she thought of waving down a cab but that would be more hassle for her. Her blue green hues did not even acknowledge the polite driver as he opened the door for her. She climbed inside and sunk into the leather seats.

The drive seemed to take longer than she had been hoping for. Of course today out of all nights the traffic had to be horrendous. Once she arrived and the door opened she took a deep breath; it was time to put on her face. Carefully she stepped out onto the carpet they had laid out on the ground to make the rich people feel important. Her dress fell back into perfect place as she walked inside. People were already crowding the large grand room. Her eyes scanned the area taking in each and every face. In her mind she began counting the normal guards as well as personal guards of the guests; that is when her eyes caught her mark.

With a tempting smirk she sauntered over to him, grabbing a glass of champagne from one of the servers as she passed by. Instantly she noticed an attractive gentleman standing just a few paces away from him. Instead of her direct approach, Jez focused on the attractive men, worried he may be a guard of some sorts. Strategically she knocked into him spilling her drink down the front of him. "Oh my! I am so sorry, how clumsy of me. With all these people it is hard to walk in here. My apologies." Her voice came out soft and melodic as a faint smile appeared on her lips.

0 notes

artificialqueens · 8 years ago

Text

But, I'm a Choir Girl? (Trixya)-thevortex (4/14)

But, I’m a Choir Girl? part 4 of 14

A sentence that Trixie had never once heard in her own voice before rang in her ears like the aftershock of a gun being fired right behind her, and it hurt her almost as much. For any girl, coming to terms with the fact that you have an illness as socially debilitating and taboo as homosexuality, it was going to be difficult. She tried to hold it in, but she couldn’t. Boy, must I look like a fusspot. Trixie thought, as the sobs shook through her, taking over her body as her tears made delicate stains on the satin of her skirt. Mrs Edwards seemingly had no sympathy for the poor girl, however looks of understanding came from every one of the patients, except from Violet. Courtney approached Trixie, and knelt beside her. She took Trixie’s hands into her own, gaining a disapproving look from Mrs Edwards. “It’ll be okay Trixie. I promise. You’ll be right as rain in no time. How about I show you around, and maybe take you to your room? Would that help?” “You’re a real sweet heart, you know that?” “I may have been told once or twice.” Courtney winked at her fellow barbie-look-alike. “But that’s how I ended up in here so no more of that. Let’s go.”

Trixie stood up, and waved a timid good-bye to the group before following Courtney out of the room. She was glad to leave that room behind her, hopefully it would keep the echoes of her damnation within its walls, and that’s where it would stay.

Courtney led Trixie along the corridor, explaining that this ground floor was the medical floor. Therefore meaning it was responsible for visual-key shocking, electro-convulsion therapy, flooding and medical aversion. “All this happens here? I thought it was all crazy-talk!” Trixie exclaimed in a timid voice. “We’re the crazy ones here remember. But yes it all happens. I’m lucky to not have had ECT, but it does happen. Poor Davis gets it the worst.” “Why?” “Have you seen him?” “Oh.” Trixie’s stomach churned at the thought. On that note, she did recall seeing a reddish tinge to his temples when he introduced himself. *Poor thing.* “They’re all down here because it can get quite noisy, ironic that the chapel is down here too. Recreation, dining and counselling is on the first floor, and second floor is accommodation. Let’s head there. That’s sure to lighten you up a bit.”

Trixie’s room was a horrendous shade of pink, with various pastels jumping out at you from every angle around the room. She was surprised at how luxury it was. The bed was of a generous size, with plush pink pillows adorning it. She understood that this was completely to enforce gender roles, but this was like a domestic wet dream for her. “This is beautiful.” “I thought you’d like it! You seem like a girl who was lucky enough to have a few of those fancy new Barbie dolls in your trunk, so you’ll get comfy in no time.” “Whatever gave that away?” Trixie giggled, fluttering her eyelashes and flipping her blonde curls off her shoulder flamboyantly. Courtney laughed, rolling her eyes. “Looks like Ru brought up your bags, I’ll let you settle in, someone will come by to take you to dinner.” Courtney turned to leave, but stopped at the doorway, turning once again to face Trixie. “It isn’t too bad here. Not quite a hospital, not quite summer camp either. Just behave, and you won’t get it too bad.”

With that, Courtney left, closing the door behind her. The click of it shutting felt like a metaphorical shutting off from the rest of the world. Trixie sat down on her bed, and looked out the window. Although the rain had ceased, a few droplets still scattered the glass, distorting her view to the lush greenery outside. How did I get into this mess? Trixie understood that how she felt towards other girls wasn’t exactly normal, she simply blamed it on being a bit over sensitive. Although that didn’t explain what happened with-

Trixie’s thoughts were ripped away from her when a sharp knock echoed through her room. She shuffled over to the door, and opened it to reveal the intruder to be… “I’ve been told to get you for supper.” A cold, cutting tone, with a glare to match it took Trixie aback, but brushed it off. “Neato. Lead the way!” Violet sighed at Trixie forced chirpiness. This girl had a real bee in her bonnet about Trixie, and she couldn’t think of why.

The dining hall was modestly sized, although not many people were in it, only those she had met before, and she assumed resident psychiatrists. She decided to take her place next to Courtney, she felt it was best to stick with someone who she felt actually got along with her. Trixie was pleased to find that Courtney was also a vegetarian, so they both had asparagus roll-ups, everyone else had some kind of stew. Curious, there’s an extra plate here. Oh well. They all joined hands and closed their eyes and Mrs Edwards stood to say Grace. “Bless us, O Lord, and the meal we are about to-” “Sorry!” A blur of red and yellow came whizzing into the hall, cutting off Mrs Edwards, making a few people chuckle under their breaths. Trixie opened her eyes to take a peek. Of course. Katya.

“Good shower?” Courtney asked. “Thrilling.” Katya winked at Trixie as she took a mouthful of stew. “What?” “You don’t want to know.” Courtney stated, making Katya wheeze and flail her limbs. Trixie blushed furiously, and tried her damndest to focus solely on the pastry in front of her. “Shto eto, Barbie?” Her thick accent caused Trixie’s thighs to squeeze together. “Someone ruffle pretty birdie’s feathers?” “Katherine, stop flirting.” Courtney warned Katya. “Oh, Trixie?” “Mhm?” “Do you know Violet? She hasn’t stopped staring at you since you walked in.” “Uh.” Trixie glanced to Violet where, sure enough, she was receiving a look from Satan’s baby. “No I don’t actually.” She felt incredibly uncomfortable. The two most beautiful girls Trixie had ever seen were both giving her attention, some unwanted, some reluctantly wanted. She couldn’t quite wrap her head around it all. “So, Tracy.” Katya leaned over the table. “How many girls have you fucked?” “KATYA!” Courtney seethed through gritted teeth, and placed a hand on Trixie’s, whose face was now verging on the same shade as Katya’s lipstick. “Although look at her, you think she does the fucking?” “Now that you mention it.” Katya cocked her head and gave Trixie a once over. “We’re here to not do gay things, so I’d rather keep my sex life out of this.” “Oh so there is a sex life!” Katya’s eyes widened in delight and drummed her fingers on the table, mere inches away from Trixie’s. Trixie bit her lip and averted eye contact. “I’m guessing you’re not interested in the boy part, huh?” Katya was grinning from ear to ear as she shook her head. “There was this one girl…” “Okay, I’m interested now.” Courtney rested her chin on her hands and looked intently at Trixie. “Do go on.” “Did she make your heart flutter?” Katya’s foot begun to stroke at Trixie’s exposed ankle, and smirked when she noticed a colour rise to tinge her freckled cheeks. “Does she make you think-” She mock gasps. “-unspeakable things.” “Katya…” Trixie meant her words to come out strong, but instead they came out low and shaky. “What? I’m not doing anything lil’ miss straight.” Katya’s foot stroked up her calf. “I-I need to go to the bathroom. Excuse me.” Trixie excused herself from the table and abruptly left. “What were you doing Katya?” Courtney kicked her under the table. “Just because you’ve fucked every girl in this place doesn’t mean you need to do her too.” “No harm in trying.” Katya winked at Courtney and stood up to leave.

Trixie splashed cold water on her face, and stared at herself in the mirror. Her eyes were still puffy and red from all of her crying, however somehow her makeup was mostly intact. The door opened, and the reflection in the mirror proved it to be the one person Trixie either did not want to see, or the only person she wants to see. She couldn’t quite decide. “Privyet kukla.” Trixie turned around and wiped a drop of water off of her chin. “Getting wet without me? How rude.” “Katya, I’m straight.” “Proof is in the pudding, and I don’t think you can bake.” “I have a boyfriend.” “Da.” Katya stepped forward, and Trixie stepped backwards, bashing into the sink. Despite the fact that Trixie was a good two inches taller than Katya, she somehow felt so tiny under her gaze. Katya arched herself over Trixie, hardly touching, and she whispered in her ear, “and I’m Queen of England.” “Am I interrupting something?” A flat voice resonated off the ceramic tiles. Katya jerked her head around so fast, Trixie swore it could’ve flown off. “I could’ve guessed it would’ve been you Trixie Mattel.” “What do you mean?” Katya took a step away. “You’re just so good at getting yourselves into situations where you’re not welcome.” “Listen Violet, I have nothing against you.” Violet scoffed, and Katya looked really awkward, eyes darting between the two girls. “I honestly haven’t the foggiest as to what you’re on about.” “Pearl.” Oh. “You’re…” “Yep.” Violet glanced over to Katya. “Watch this one. She likes to play dirty.” Violet left, leaving the other two in a shocked silence. “What did she mean?” “Nothing. Just leave me alone.” Trixie spat, before she marched out towards her room.

The next day Trixie woke up with a start. “Lord! I’m going to be late!” She flew out of bed before she realised. She wasn’t at home. There was no final performance. She had no solo. She was here.

What a glorious start to the day, with the looming dread of facing Violet and knowing that she wasn’t able to do what she felt she was born to do.

She spent breakfast in silence, not making eye contact with anybody, a small rage running in her veins. *How could I have let this happen? It was a stupid mistake.* She sighed, and walked over to the communal area, where Mrs Edwards was leading a session on fulfilling gender roles. “So everyone, find a partner.” To Trixie’s dismay, Katya chose her, a guilt beginning to cloud her mind as she remembered how badly she treated Katya yesterday.

Katya and Trixie worked together in silence, taking it in turns to iron and fold clothes. “You’re good with your hands Trixie.” Katya remarked, causing Trixie to blush furiously; a habit she seemed to be developing. “You need to stop that, we’re here to get better, not tempt each other.” “So I’m tempting you?” “Oh please, you wish.” She threw the girl a dark look. “Let me guess, is it my hair? No. Okay, is it my dazzling smile?” Katya grinned and Trixie simply laughed bitterly, continuing to iron out a few creases on a shirt. “Is it my exotic accent.” Trixie’s jaw clenched. “Oh good, I’ve figured it out. Trixie Mattel likes the Russians.” “No!” Trixie yelled, resulting in a few stares from the other patients. “Don’t flatter yourself.” “You’re being difficult.” “You don’t say.” “You don’t like me do you?” “Not in the slightest.” “Oooh.” Katya raised her hand to her forehead. “You wound me.” “Good.” Trixie was beginning to get wound up. Her defences were rising, and she couldn’t be sure as to why.

Of course, Katya sat next to Trixie at dinner, causing Trixie to sigh and roll her eyes, shuffling an inch or two away from the other. “You have real problem with me, don’t you kukla?” “Oh Gosh! What ever gave that away?” Trixie’s voice was dark and sarcastic, a complete contrast to the Trixie Katya first met. But something broke that. Katya’s hand slipped into Trixie’s under the table. “I know it’s not me. What’s wrong?” Trixie was shocked. How did she know? She went to pull away, but something stopped her. Looking around, no one was staring, they were all too busy eating their dinner. This was okay. Still, Trixie struggled to conjure a reply to Katya’s question. “Let me guess. You are model student, da? Never got a grade lower than B. You have wonderful boyfriend that just doesn’t make your clam clammer like your friends say their boyfriends do. You like to look at girl in your class a bit more than other girls do. You like the way her blouse looks, or her skirt, or her eyes. You say to me, ‘But Katya! You must be a crazy person! Every girl does that!’ The answer is, Barbie, nyet. No. They do not. You are lesbian. I am lesbian. All girls here are lesbian. This is too difficult for your pretty little head to understand because mama and papa are the Christians, so homosexual is not good. You were perfect daughter. This is, how Americans say…tough toenails. Now what? You push away those who want to help you. You would prefer to have people who do not like this lesbian Trixie near you and loving you, and not the ones-” Katya squeezes her hand, “-who accept who you are.” “But being gay isn’t good! God didn’t make me this way.” “Let me tell you secret kushka. God is like the Saint Nikolas, the tooth fairy, and Easter rabbit.” Trixie giggled. “Doesn’t exist. It is lie to scare you into being what society deems as good. If people think gay is normal, then gay would be okay. But people don’t, so it is not. That is what your God does. This is not good Trixie. You were born lesbian. You love all of these pinks and flowers and pretty music. You like to sing? This is not what textbook lesbian is looking like. Da? You were born this way. There is no fixing science.” “So how will I ever get out?” “We will plan our escapes!” Trixie threw her head back and laughed, enjoying both Katya’s naive comments and her appalling language skills. “Okay, and how do you expect us to do that, Captain Katya?” “I like this Captain Katya.” Katya wiggled her eyebrows and stuck her tongue out. “You’re so strange.” “And so are you! With all your yellows and pinks. I prefer red. But! To escape you must come to my room tonight! And I will show you what we are to do.” “I don’t think that’s going to happen, I know your game.” Trixie sighed and took her hand away. “I thought you really got it for a second.” “What are you saying? My game? I thought you were the one for sleeping on the sly.” Trixie whipped around to fully face Katya, the fire in her eyes making Katya flinch. “What…did you just say?” “Uh-I…” “Violet.” Trixie seethed, she got up from her seat and stormed over to Violet, who was prodding a potato with her fork. “Can I help you, home-wrecker?” “I think we need to talk, don’t you?”

#trixya #thevortex #but i'm a choir girl #trixie mattel #katya zamolodchikova #courtney act #violet chachki #angst #rpdr fanfiction #submission #high school au #lesbian au #historical au #1960s au

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kitsunelokiversali · 6 years ago

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Not My Fault

Day 12 of 365 Writing Prompts:

Greeting: Write a story or poem that starts with the word “hello”.

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Prompt List

Hello! You’re probably wondering what I’m doing. It’s nothing bad, but… Well, it’s a little bad. I swear it’s not my fault though. I just found it, and am not complicit in any way. A hard argument to make, I admit, when you’re burying a body. Normally you should call the police, or scream, or just about anything besides bury it. Unless you’re the one who killed the person, which in that case… But I’m not!

I was just on my way home from work. Late at night. Honestly, I was more concerned with becoming a dead body myself than I was of finding one. Rain started drizzling and I had quite a bit more to go before I got home so I started digging in my bag for that umbrella I got forever ago but never used. I was preoccupied, okay? So I can be excused for not seeing where the body dropped from—yes, I said dropped. I looked up; no cliff. Blinked the rain out of my eyes, rubbed them for good measure, and looked up again. Not a tree in sight. A body dropped at my feet from out of nowhere. As you can see, not my fault. I hope.

It took me a moment to remember to call the police, but I did eventually regain my wits. My hand was already pulling the phone out of my pocket and dialing 911 before I made the decision. Obviously I didn’t get that far, or I wouldn’t be digging a hole for a body out here. Where hopefully no one will ever find it.

If you look a little closer, though, I’m sure you can see where it gets weird though. That’s right, just a bit closer. See that face? Looks like mine, doesn’t it? I hung up my phone the second I noticed too. Sure, if we were just similar, I might laugh it off. We aren’t though. A face that looks just like mine, with hair that’s just like mine, wearing the exact same clothes? Freaky. Even freakier, she had the umbrella I was still looking for. Biting my tongue for a bit, I debated hyperventilating. There was the usual—I think—temptation to check a mirror to make sure I didn’t body swap in some horrendous fashion. Then the decision to call the cops anyway, because it had to be some kind of prank. Finally, the irresistible pull to look closer. Surely up close, she couldn’t look just like me. Had to be some kind of mask made to prank me by my coworkers.

So I poked and prodded her. Squashed the nerves climbing up my spine when I checked for the mole on my hip—her hip. Not a detail was out of place and my body—her body… It was just cooling, the clothes only starting to darken from the hardening rain. I want to say it wasn’t me, but… There’s no way that wasn’t my body. I freaked out. Like any rational person would do.

Next thing I knew, I dragged the body into the woods, ran home to steal my dad’s shovel, and was back out in the rain digging a hole. Digging a grave is much harder than the TV shows make it look. All those perfect rectangles by amateur grave-diggers are now unbelievable to me. I feel lied to. That’s beside the point. Now you get it! You would do the same thing as me in this situation. Anyone would. If your dead doppleganger drops out of the sky, it’s perfectly reasonable to bury it and pretend you didn’t see your own dead body. Right? Right. So, do me a favor, and don’t tell anyone about this. I’m sure it would be awkward.

Just pat the dirt down on top, pray no one ever unearths my—her—body, and skip on home. I’m a little soaked and dirty, but no worse for wear.

Do you hear that noise? I don’t see anything even as I scan the woods. It’s too dark to see anything, actually. Then I start feeling the rumbling just as much as I hear it. My feet slide against the slick ground, and give way. The scream that tears from my throat is swallowed a second later by the air as my body is carried along against my will. Beneath me, the earth itself crumbles and I grasp at everything trying to hold on. Next thing I realize, the roots I grabbed at broke and I begin free-falling. I have a moment to realize it must have been a landslide right before my body crumples to the ground. It was over so quickly I didn’t feel a thing. I just want to find my umbrella before the rain gets harder. So I can be excused for not seeing where the body dropped from.

#writeblr #writblr #365 Writing Challenge #365 day challenge #prompt fill #badly written time loops #i suck at this

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evilback-wards · 6 years ago

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Projecting

I was doing that annoying leg bounce thing. How many sessions have I been to this stupid therapist and they haven’t even a cure for that! My eyes were staring down at the floor. It’s a shiny finish today. Not a speck of dust. My eyes were wandering around the clean sheen, reflecting back my own, ugly image. Tall. Odd. Sad. My big round black eyes seemed bottomless. Perhaps the devil was hiding somewhere in there, waiting, lurching for the moment to reach into this reality and tear it to shreds. Surely that’d solve my problem with money.

The second hand’s tick was beginning to bother me to no end. Tick. Tick. Tick. Why can’t it control how fast traffic goes, how much time it takes for my hair to be done, those long all-staffs, those horrendous water cooler conversations, hell, it could fix poverty and homelessness if time could be manipulated just by its sound! I continued to trace myself in the floor, the wax job actually up to par. Cleaning boy desires a raise. Who gives out the raises again? I could hardly make out my ugly mug through the dirt and grit in my mirror at home. These floors seem to show me better than I can ever see it. Better than I can see myself. Better than this Devil hiding behind my eyes can see anything.

“Miss Thoryn? Stor is ready to see you,” Sharon announced, her shrill voice hurting my ears per usual. Why did the lady ever try speaking anything? It was annoying. And now I had to pull my eyes away from the floor to look at her homely mug.

Her hair, a rose colored nest paired with bobby pins hanging for life, nods toward me. Of course she isn’t forcing it to do such a labor intensive movement, it’s the blaring A/C. I did my best to keep up my facade, nodding, allowing my red heels to click against the linoleum floor. My purse, running ten years old now, hangs at my side. Rips add to its personality. Much more personality than Sharon’s shrill, plain, disparaging appearance. Really, that worn grey cardigan, why hasn’t she used her payroll to dress herself better? Wrinkles in the poor thing matched Sharon’s face, lips painted that usual, off-color lavender. How on Earth did she think this outfit, this look, this anything worked? Her pale skin was a beautiful canvas to work upon, and she had to go and let it get stretched out. Let herself go. Let herself...simply exist. I detest women like that.

I stopped in front of the desk, signing my name and the current...time. 10:07. Seven minutes late, the usual, and when I get in, O’ Stor will have that same excuse. The family, the family, the baby, the baby, the bullshit, oh, what BULLSHIT!

I finished off the signage with an initial at the :07 part of my check in time. Insurance should comp me for those times, or hell, reimburse that part of my insurance. I don’t work this boring, disgustingly hideous occupation to be mentally ill. Partially to stay afloat and not to be a statistic in fact.

Sharon kindly thanked me, though it’d be more of a proper thanks if she kept her trap shut. The white walls felt like they were closing in already. Another session with the beast, the idiot, the buffon Stor Y. Park. What’s the Y for? He won’t tell anyone.

I brushed down my dress, red per usual, beautiful as usual, perfect as required. My eyes followed a familiar trail, down the hallway with the wooden doors and faux golden plated door tints. Takes some time to get to Park, P, that’s about halfway through the alphabet. The floor...disgusting. Did they forget to wax this part? My eyes took a break from straight ahead to the floor, a variety of dirt meeting my eyes. Did they have these floors cleaned on different schedules? Were therapists really this dirty? How could they let their shoes get so much grit on them? I mean, it’s the middle of July, hasn’t rained in weeks, dirt has been pretty in place, nothing hasn’t been particularly dry but not wet either...so that’s it. Why I’m not fixed up right now. Because all these therapist in this dumpy town are either dirty, dumpy, or determined not to help me! I cracked a smirk, pulling my head up. Getting closer to the P’s now.

My eyes were a bit distracted still though, the grit getting worse as I got closer. Did Stor go fishing or swimming or another disgusting activity with that family of his? If so, he’d have to explain such events with his supervisor. Personal time and work time cannot mix. He can’t take his first appointment of the day late because he was too busy giving out kisses to the kids and misses. He can’t just postpone me like a calendar reminder. I am a person. He cannot treat me this way.

Finally, Parks. S.Y.Parks Rearranged, it’d spell out S.P.Yarks That’s a funny thought. I fiddled with my dress a bit more, stretching it out, ensuring it went far past my knees(but careful for it not to touch that grit on the floor). My purse wiggled a bit, the tears beautiful, my eyes beautiful, my everything glamorous. Nothing fits better than my own self. Now to tell this idiot all the issues he’s got going on. Why things aren’t going well, and ask him how come he’s basically given up on fixing my issues? I pulled at the handle, pushing the door open to find a familiar place.

Cacti peppered the room, the usual variety, in baskets and clay pots and in any place Stor could get away with. Wood finished furniture, drawings from those parasites he loves so much...and that damned witch that keeps him from seeing me on time. I huffed as I entered, Stor’s eyes fixated on a computer screen. No movement, hell, not even acknowledgement. My eyes fled to the clock, 10:10, ten minutes late, and now, he has the nerve to just...ignore me? Guess 10AM means 10:15 because on time is early and early is closed and late is somehow perfectly punctual. I huffed again, this time, matching the sound with the (not so gentle) door close.

“Ah, morning miss Thoryn. Please tell me about how you’re feeling going into this appointment,” Stor says, disinterested. Ugh, this is it, that type of crap that makes someone struggle to open up. When your eyes are glued to a screen, hands folded, eyes glazed, face bored, suit stained, who would even trust him with a baby? I wouldn’t trust him with a baby. Not even a baby would trust this boy.

“Well, may as well say afternoon there. You’re ten minutes late then you have the audacity to just brush me off like one of those hell raisers you’re taking care of! My day has been delayed by your, not only slow, but dismissive behaviors. How is anyone supposed to get anything done if their hands are tied by your lack of care? Lack of response? Lack of, well, I could go on for hours, but you’re supposed to be the one asking the questions, mister ‘tell me’, how about you tell yourself to do your job,” I said. It’s pretty straight forward. My words should hit a chord, you’d think, but no, he still stares at that screen.

I move myself toward my usual chair, green, furthest away from most of the prickly terrors that covered the room. What exactly did a woman have to do to exist and be heard? Yell like I did, shaking violently, documenting every offense of my time until someone somewhere decides that it is unjust?

“Aaah, yes yes, miss Thoryn. I apologize. I had to keep watch of the baby monitor for my wife, she’s on baby watching duty from now until the end of our time,” Stor says, all calm-like as if his professionalism wasn’t just cut by the throat by my words, “Now tell me how you’re really feeling.” Really, did he feel that brave to ask that question starting out? My eyes were already crawling across his distasteful disposition, hair unkempt, suit stained, overall looking quite terrible. Who shows up to work like this? Did he wake up 30 minutes ago, recall he had an appointment, carolled his wife to watch the baby, drive here, show up late, do therapist things, and now present time? He can’t get away with that. What type of therapist dares think he can just do terrible things like this and get away with it?

“How I’m really feeling, is that really how you’d like to start this session Stor?” I asked, trying to verify. He had to be...joking. No way he’d start with a question like that, on a day like this, with everything being so out of order. I crossed my legs at the end of my question, too, my eyes piercing his own. His head simply nodded, his dumpy brown hair wiggling with it. What an idiot. Who shows up to an appointment, as a professional no less, in a dirty suit, with dirty hair, with a...my eyes immediately fell to the floor to make observations. Dirt. Dirt was everything. Mud, water, you name it, it was on this god forsaken floor! I was so taken aback by the lateness I’d forgotten to do the usual floor check. I was angry now, very angry, upset, glowing with the light of fists pummeling at something. Anything. Who in the right mind would...would...would…

“Your office is dirty. You’re a mess. A total mistake to schedule this appointment for today, hope you know that. And I hope you know that you’re never going to get anywhere with a suit like that in an office like this. All of your clients are going to leave you thinking that it’s high time to schedule someone else, likely someone outside of this disgusting office in distraught conditions with nothing else to say than….’wow’. I had to hold my tongue to say that because I was just about to only say wow, not the game wow, but in awe wow. Wow that someone like yourself has decided that these conditions are optimal. And to think you have a speciality in cases like mine. I mean, really, who would trust you with anyone like me in your condition! You’re a mess, through and through. And the traffic on top of this on top of a bad breakfast on top of everything, you, you just make it worse,” I said, trying to keep my voice civil throughout. My eyes jumped from the floor to Stor. Stor looked...the usual. Calm to a tee, as if my words were swept under some sort rug. Swept somewhere that didn’t bother him like it should. His blue eyes flared at me, my body shivering a bit as it clung to the chair. What was he doing, moving so suddenly like that??

“Good to hear, being honest as usual. Good. But...one thing comes to mind. That purse of yours, its ripped, torn to near shreds, why keep it,” Thor says, his eyes beginning to tear away from that disgusting screen of his. And onto me...my perfect me. Why me? I bit my lip. Why did these things start getting so tense here? Was it just me or did things get about forty degrees hotter? I gripped at the hem of my dress, my lungs gasping for air. I need more air before I answer. How dare he just ask questions like that, on the fly, only fifteen minutes(five if you’re excluding the lateness like me) into an appointment?

My eyes began to drift around his office, covered with walls, no windows for any outside warnings or ability to escape besides the door. The walls feel really close out of no where...too close. Way too close. I clutched my bag with both hands. I squeezed my legs shut.

Again...another 40 minutes...again...of this.

Can I handle this?

Can I…

I’m not sure.

#spilled ink #spilled thoughts #writing #prose #omg i wrote prose for once #hurry grab a camera this don't happen every day #bleh #tw abuse mention (slight)#tw therapy stuff

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