#format ☆ written

[celestefox13]

.... Anyone else flashback to the banters between Solas and Bull in Inquisition where they played a mental chess game and Solas won because of a play with a pawn? And how he slowly inched that pawn across the board during those banters? (Like he positions Rook and helps slowly "inch" them across the "board" to checkmate the Gods?)

Or about the banters between Solas and Sera about the Friends of Red Jenny, and how he couldn't really wrap his mind around the group's entire goal just being help in small ways without any significant goal truly in mind? (Like how he couldn't wrap his mind around facing, accepting, and processing regrets the way Rook does to escape the Fade prison because he's always thinking too big picture and grand purposes)

Or, perhaps one of the most interesting, the banters between Solas and Varric about Orzammar and how it is in the current time of the games? (And how all the questions Solas asks echoes or points to both what happened to the Elvhen empire and what he intends to do to try to fix his mistake?)

Or the banter where Viv asks if Solas enjoys seeing himself as the villain? And their banters discussing the Circle, and Viv's political prowess, and how "in another age" she "would've ruled an empire?"

Or banters with Dorian about spirits and magic, and how they are used in Tevinter? And on slavery in general? (And how those conversations are a very big part of Dorian actually thinking about the slaves in Tevinter in a meaningful way)

Or with Cassandra about the burdens of leadership and how Cass stepped aside from leading/making decisions for the Inquisition as a whole cause she recognized/felt she wasn't the one to wield such power? Or the one where Cass wonders if the Archdemons are "pets" to beings who no longer exist?

Anyone else thinking about the banters that weren't with Cole about spirits and how to "ground" one's self in the real world, or with Blackwall about being men that have seen war and done cruel things and have had to live a lie until caught in the lie? But were more about the nuances of lives lived and currently being lived; and the status quo and how it was vs how it is vs how it maybe should be; and the very core of his being and true beliefs and how he could find some kind of echo of each with the members of the Inquisition, reflecting and foiling in turn?

Just me? Cool, cool, cool

[cirrup]

First picture POV: you are being…threatened(???)

(Did I alter the iconic three to be two wandering cultivators and a spirit beast they abducted ? Yes. I just like when sqh gets to actually bond with the other peak lords and if it means he has to do that in an animal companion form then that’s just how it has to be)

[podcast-hemocytoblast]

What if when Michael got Distortioned he/they/it/(?) had just kept showing up to work? Imagine Gertrude comes into the archives and finds a bunch of paperwork filled out in yellow highlighter and folded into impossible shapes, and then Michael-Distortion just walks into the room door-style and sits down at his work computer so it can email Gertrude a phishing scam.

[stars-obsession-pit]

Ghost King Danny with de-aged Dani/Ellie as his daughter (or possibly trapped in her core form healing after some traumatic experience)

Someone (maybe Jason Todd) encounters her while in the realms and misunderstands the situation to think Danny is keeping her captive or something to that effect (and probably also doesn’t quite realize who/what Danny is). Thus, they choose to “rescue” (kidnap) her—taking her with them when they leave.

So now Danny’s daughter is missing, and he’s on a warpath looking for her. But the multiverse is an impossibly big place, so he’s yet to find the specific universe they escaped to

During this, the Justice League happens to summon him to deal with an unrelated threat.

Upon arriving, Danny senses these summoners have connections to the kidnapper he’s searching for, so he demands that they “return what was taken from him” soon (probably within a week at most) or he’ll kill every last one of them himself.

The JL is immensely terrified. They knew they were dealing with an incredibly powerful entity, but they expected indifference (not caring about their issue beyond what payment they offer him) rather than outright hostility towards them.

Thus, there’s a panicked scramble to try to figure out what the hell it is he was referring to so they can return it before they’re all killed.

Oh and also that other threat they summoned Danny to deal with is still out there, so they have to try to manage that too so it doesn’t destroy them in the meantime.

They’ll likely also assume they have to figure out how to fully stop that threat too (since the Ghost King might not help them out even if they do manage to return the thing), but that’s slightly less immediate of a threat at the moment.

[risottofan7]

its pride month, You know what that means

[notbecauseofvictories]

More than anything in this world, I hate the fact that if you leave your apartment and go do things, it makes you a happier more interesting person. I know I make this exact text post every two or three months, I have done for literal years, and yet every. single. time. it surprises and frustrates delights frustrates delights makes me feel some sort of way.

[peaceinsilence]

《Pair: Quinn Hughes x fem!Reader

*no mention of y/n*

Warnings: 18+, dark Quinn, alcohol consumption, age gap, obsession, cursing, controlling, angsty Quinn, eludes to dominant/submissive kink, potential kidnapping, slow burn

Synopsis: It's monthly game night with your friend group. It's Quinn's turn to host. Upon arriving early and being the only guest, Quinn can't help but let it slip what his true intentions were for you on his game night.》

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

Knocking twice on Quinn's massive, oak door, I take a step back in giddy anticipation. I was vibrating with excitement, more than ready to unwind after a long work day with my friends and Quinn.

One Saturday out of the month, you all planned in the group chat who was hosting for that month and what games were to be played, what we were eating and drinking, etc. It was a big deal as we were all so busy with our lives now, but it was still important we maintained our friendships.

This Saturday game night, Quinn was hosting.

》

The front door creaks open, and I flash Quinn a dimpled, half smile.

"Well, hellooo, Captain, how's it -"

"Why are you here today?" Quinn groans, taking in the sight of you, bouncing on his doorstep like an energized bunny.

Frowning at his lack of response to my arrival, I glance down at my watch, noting the current time and date. It was 5:00 pm, Saturday.

"Um... w-was it not for 5:00 pm?"

"Check the group chat again, sweetheart."

Quinn leans his body against his door frame, hands snug in his denim pockets as he studies me with a slight look of annoyance, mixed with heavy amusement.

Yup, I didn't realize that Quinn had changed game night to tomorrow, 5:00 pm.

"So.... no one else is here then?"

Quinn rolls his irises and motions for me to come in and out of the brisk evening night.

"Well, no, you dummy. The rest of our friends know how to read."

"Y'know, for a host, you have a reeeal attitude towards your guest of honour," I retort, slinking off my emerald puffer onto Quinn's wooden coffee table.

I flip my hair out of my sweater and re-adjust the fit around my neckline, peeling the wool a bit further past my collarbones and off my shoulders. Much better.

Quinn stares at me, his expression one of neutrality and... of something else that I could never quite place. Typical Quinn, always dissociating.

I returned his leery gaze back and wondered what he was thinking about, or lack of.

"...well then, I think I need a drink," I mutter awkwardly, cutting the stillness that was growing between us.

Quietly making my way into Quinn's kitchen, I proceed to help myself, knowing he doesn't mind that I've made myself comfortable in his space. Reaching for a martini glass, I hum to fill the silent space, knowing that Quinn was simply observing me. Something he did often.

We were close friends on the surface, I guess. Quinn and I didn't spend much time together outside of mutual group settings. He was a few years older, usually occupied with work or at practice, and the most reserved out of our shared friend group. Not quiet per se, he just chose his words carefully and only engaged when he felt his voice or opinion or help was warranted. He was a calculated man.

"Do you have a cocktail shaker, Quinn?"

Quinn pushes himself off and away from his large, marbled island. His feet took him over to his expansive bar stand, pulling out a beautiful, copper shaker.

"What do you want? I'll make it."

Interesting.

He never once offered in the years I've known him to make me my drinks. Or a drink. In fact, I was pretty sure Quinn was put off by doing anything for me with how he teased and pushed my buttons relentlessly.

"Oh, sure. Thank you, Quinn. I'll just have a dirty martini."

Quinn simply nods his head in acknowledgment, piling out some bottles from the bottom rack of his stand.

For some reason, I found myself admiring how his supple lips pursed into a tight line, his dark eyes remaining dead, despite being laser focused on what he was doing. I was mesmerized by his swift movements.

Quinn tightly caps the shaker shut and begins to vigorously jerk it back and forth from his lower abdomen, outwards. Making sure the contents he had just dumped inside was mulling together.

I feel my face slowly start to get flush, my mind dizzy, and a perverted arousal flooding my core. I know I should stop staring at him, but the way Quinn kept twisting and jerking the shaker in one tight grip was absolutely sending me with an animalistic urge.

Quinn catches my needy gaze for a moment, somehow painfully aware of the effect he had on my crumbling psyche.

"What? Want me to go harder?"

A delicate sigh of content and a muffled whimper escape from my chest upon registering his words.

I fidget with the oversized sleeves to my sweater nervously, peeling my now shy gaze away from him.

"Quinn... " I warn, realizing he was just trying to fuck with me now. He knew exactly the influence he had over me and I was positive he was just abusing it at this point.

Quinn gives the shaker one last, painfully slow jerk before setting it back onto the counter. Instead of pouring the delicious liquid into my martini glass, I watch him tip his head back. His brunette curls, falling back with him. Quinn slowly, in a teasing manner, pours the alcohol down his throat through the spout of the cocktail shaker. W...what... I felt my brain start to short circuit.

What the hell.

"C'mere." Quinn instructs. I'm reluctant at first, unsure of what he wants from me, as he clearly can't be bothered to elaborate on his current scheming. But I oblige, too obediently.

"Open."

Quinn's calloused hands settle for a gentle grip around my chin, as he regards me with an expression of yearning and a need for... control.

"I said open. Wide."

Shyly, I have no choice but to purse my red lips, parting my mouth open for Quinn as he can't help but smile at me with a proud, fond expression.

"Aw. So obedient. But, wider. It's okay, sweetheart."

Quinn grips my jaw a bit firmer this time, as he uses his other hand to bring the copper bottle up to my lips, tilting it back painfully slow so it drains down my throat in a steady, controlled stream.

"That's it. Careful, I don't want you wasting a drop. It'll be a mess to clean, then," Quinn coo's in encouragement.

He loosens the steady grip on my jaw, noticing that I'm eagerly taking the delicious concoction on my own now. I feel some of the liquid about to dribble down my chin, but Quinn quickly catches it with his thumb.

"Good girl."

Quinn pulls the shaker away from my gaping mouth, dumping the remnants into my glass, garnishing it with 3 olives.

As the alcohol coats my stomach and a deep, buzzing sensation fills my frame, I try to push past the sudden intimacy I shared with Quinn seconds ago. Especially because he seems to think nothing of the exchange now.

"Let's watch a movie."

Quinn's sudden statement pulls me out of my clouds.

"A movie? Um... well I'll be back here tomorrow for game night, right? We can just watch something to-"

"I canceled game night tomorrow."

My brows furrow in deep confusion at what he had just said admitted.

"Y-You canceled game night? Okay... well, when are you rescheduling it then?"

I pull out my Samsung from the back of my jeans, unlocking it with my fingerprint and pulling up our shared group chat.

🎲The Weekender's🎮

《Captain 🐋: Hey, I'm down with a bad cold right now. Reschedule for next month- drinks and dinner on me. Sorry guys.》

Read by everyone-

What on earth. Quinn was not sick. At all. Why would he lie to our friends like that.

"Quinn, you are not sick."

Quinn simply shrugs his shoulders in response, that dissociative look flooding his vacant eyes again for the second time tonight.

An uneasy feeling began to creep into the pit of my gut, festering into nervousness and making me very aware of the shift in energy in the room.

"O-Okay...um, I think I'm going to h...head ho-"

"You don't want to watch a movie with me?"

Quinn's gaze dropped in disappointment, and a tinge of growing irritance quickly replacing it.

"No... not at the moment, Quinn. I-I think I'm going to go home and just relax... " I trail off hesitantly, unsure of how he was going to respond at me doubling down on my decline of his offer.

My emerald puffer was on the coffee table in front of Quinn.

Calculating my next movements, at a leisurely pace, I shuffle towards his uncertain demeanor. As I try to reach for my jacket, Quinn immediately strips it away from my possession and holds it against his torso.

"Here you go."

Quinn extends my puffer towards me, a growing smirk on his face as he motions for me to invade his space and grab it.

In my attempt to take it back, he holds it up in the air, above my head in a mocking manner.

"Don't be a child, Quinn. My car keys and wallet are in there. G-Give it back," I plead pathetically.

"Watch 1 movie with me. Then you can go."

My eyes widen at his incredulous demand.

"Actually, how about I watch 0 movies with you and you give me my jacket back, now... you know what, just forget it Quinn, I'll call an Uber and pick up my jacket some other-"

As I pull out my phone to order a ride, Quinn peels my phone from my grip and shoves it deep into his front pocket.

Speechless, I try to rack my brain on what just happened and why Quinn was acting so out of character.

"I'll drop you home, Princess."

Suddenly a rush of deep relief wafts over me as I place a hand over my pounding chest, exhaling a breath I didn't even know I was holding in.

"Jesus, Quinn. You scared the-"

"Later this week. Or maybe the week after, I'll drop you home."

What.

Quinn ignores the confusion and fear painted on me as he brings his face towards mine. He plants a tender kiss on my forehead, lightly stroking my hair in a possessive manner.

"You look like a wounded kitten, sweetheart. It's alright. I'm here to take care of you now. I'll make you all better, little one."

Quinn pulls away from me, walking towards the large alarm panel near his back door. I watch him arm the house and begin to lower all of the blinds in the living room, an impending doom seeping into my trembling body.

"Now. Be good and sit on the fucking couch like the good girl I know you are. It's our first movie night. I won't let you ruin it."

With laboured breaths, I feel my body going into a dreaded fight or flight response.

*due to my own selfish needs, there will be an unhinged part ||*

[ennard-is-near]

>Be me

> Just moved to neighborhood in Hurricane, Utah

>At a welcome party thrown for me

>Party is fun

>party suddenly stops and neighbors say they have to tell me something

>what?

>they give me a heads up about Michael.

>I ask what the deal is

>he’s not dangerous, you’ll know him when you see him. He’s just Michael.

>confused.png

>Few months later

>see a literal decaying body walking down the street.

>it’s just Michael.

[hvezdnastreka]

Not to be dramatic, but JB is all that is keeping me sane rn, so I'm glad I was able to draw him and that after hours spent erasing parts of his face and redrawing them carefully, I actually like it a lot :)

Ok I might've overdone it with the anime princess treatment, but!!!! (I have no defense)((There's bunch of other stuff, but I need to stop nitpicking and go catch those zzz's))

[lilislegacy]

Hot take: The original Percy Jackson and the Olympians series is NOT fit for being a TV show. At all. But Heroes of Olympus is.

Why, you may ask? Because although PJO technically takes place over the course of few years, each individual PJO book takes place over a very short period of time—usually only a few days, maybe up to a week (with the exception of parts like Calypso’s island). Nearly all the scenes and events take place back-to-back. But with a TV show, you have to find places to break it up, and there’s a whole week between every single episode. So it’s basically taking us two months to watch an awkwardly fractured series of continuous events that actually take place over the course of a few days. It’s weird. It just feels off. Unless Rick decides to release all the episodes at once (which I don’t think he will), it’s just gonna feel weird asf no matter how much he tries to fix the pacing.

Heroes of Olympus, on the other hand, is MUCH BETTER for a TV show format. It takes place over the course of several months and has a bunch of little time jumps woven throughout. Plus, the characters are older and there are more mature themes, so it caters to older audiences a bit more too. (Don’t even get me started on how Rick is shooting himself in the foot by refusing to acknowledge that most of his fans are older teens and adults now.)

Now, you may be wondering, ‘aren’t the first couple of HOO books only over the course of like a week?’ Yes, which is why they should show the two at the same time. Don’t do one season for each—flash between the two! The first episode opens with the lost trio on the bus and is all about Jason getting to camp, and ends with them finding out some guy named Percy is missing. Then, the next episode opens with Percy barefoot, running in the forest with the wolves, and follows his journey to Camp Jupiter. For the rest of the season, the scenes constantly switch between their two POVs throughout each episode, showing their stories side by side. It would be clear that their timelines are different because it would be freezing winter for Jason’s scenes and summer in Percy’s. Then [input slow motion montage of the Argo II being built over the course of several months] the season finale is when their timelines finally meet up, and the Argo II arrives at Camp Jupiter—just like how Son of Neptune ends.

Then, Mark of Athena has its own season since that takes place over a few weeks. Most events take place on different days, and there’s no exact timeline for most of it. House of Hades and Blood of Olympus probably combine into one season. Percy and Annabeth were only in Tartarus for a few days, so maybe HoH makes up three or four episodes, and Blood of Olympus is five or six. These 3 books work for the same reason that shows like The Walking Dead work. The timeline isn’t always exact, but you know stuff is happening somewhat close together but also not on the same day or even the same week.

And with LONGER episodes. Give me hour long episodes, not freaking 33 minutes like season 1 PJO kept doing.

Anyway, that’s how I would do it. However, for many reasons, most of which I won’t get into, I don’t think there’s much hope for Heroes of Olympus even making it to the screen. But I hope I’m wrong.

[housecow]

i have knee problems stemming from an injury when i was younger. if i step wrong and fall in a certain way, the pain is so bad i can’t walk. but sometimes i like to fantasize: what if something even worse happens and i can’t walk for weeks? what if i happen to be in regular close contact with my feeder?

it’d be hard being told i have rest and let myself heal. there are plans coming up that have to be cancelled, the few active hobbies i have left take a hit. but…it’s so easy to accept every snack brought to me. after all, i sought out a feeder—this lifestyle is the one i’ve eaten myself towards. and he knows i have an inclination towards eating too much. that first week goes easier than it should; weight starts to pile on. but i miss going out, even running errands sounds nice. in the few moments my hands are absent of food or a shake i am regularly in contact with my friends.

the next week i’m better but… i feel slow. my feeder has started to keep people away because i need to rest and he’s right, healing is taxing on the body. i start responding less to others, too. our funnel has gotten so much more use in the last few days. the sugar and constant snacks step up and i can tell there is an agenda behind it all but *god* it feels good to be doted on. he helps me through the necessary exercises but trips across the house are rare. i notice how difficult it is to lift myself up now—how sedentary have i been?

that question doesn’t cross my mind again, there are better things to focus on. my feeder knows how to use my adhd to his advantage—food, sex, TV, and games all provide the dopamine hit needed to keep me distracted. the 3rd week is similar enough to the 2nd: ritualistic feeding becomes the norm. we don’t need a valve to control the flow on the funnel anymore, he knows i can finish everything. my belly is swollen out into my lap all of the time now, if i hold my boobs aside i can see new stretch marks creeping across my expanding hips. i expect the snacks, “babe, can you grab me something from the fridge?” is a phrase heard several times in the day. and my feeder obliges.

the 4th week we have an appointment and im told i should walk and start being active again. the doctor looks nervous though and tells me i need to watch my weight, he says something like “its alarming how quickly this happened,” but i blocked it out because—i can’t even see how much i weigh? my belly blocks the view now. oh my god.

in the car afterwards my feeder expresses doubt at the situation: “you don’t look so steady on your feet, i think you should still take it easy.” his eyes meet mine and i don’t miss the brief glance away, desire obvious at the sight of my rounded figure that’s entirely his fault. i know what he wants and i can’t deny myself that want, either. and he knows better in these situations, i trust his judgement. maybe it is best to stay in. plans can be pushed further back… the walk back to the car was a little difficult, too.

the next weeks—or does it span months?—pass in a blur. staying in is all i want to do. although i’m supposedly healthy again, i rarely get up and walk around more than needed. “needed” means a slow, clumsy walk to the fridge and back to either the couch or the bed. when my feeder is not there to feed me himself he takes time to order food to the door. bending down to pick things up is a monumental effort for me—a heavy, wide belly pressing into my fattened thighs. my swollen tits obscure my vision but serve as an excellent table when i need.

my feeder comes home one day and im asleep, taking up more than my fair share of the couch. my breaths are not easy and its obvious how much i ate beforehand: mostly-empty 2 liters, takeout containers haphazardly stacked on top of one another as they were finished, countless snack packages balled up and stuck between the couch cushions because sometimes i like to squirrel stuff away. as if there was a chance of hiding these habits my feeder built.

but the best part of it all is the empty pitcher sat against the corner of the couch, because i couldn’t reach to the coffee table to properly set it down with so much fat making every movement difficult.

the remnants a weight gain shake. our usual ingredients of cake mix, melted ice cream, strawberries, chocolate syrup, nutella, crushed oreos. it was hastily made, however, and it’s obvious by the chocolatey powder on the sides of the container that it was about the calories this time, not the taste. he can see where some escaped the pitcher and poured down my overly plump, round face and past the lovingly cultivated double chin. it dripped onto my breasts, lovely puddles of calories he wish made it inside of me even if the sight is wonderful. after that thought, an idea comes up. how deep are the rolls he’s gifted me? a cow this size needs to be used.

[pfhwrittes]

you ever think about how price probably comes back off leave with his sweetheart with a telltale ginger moustache? because i damn well do.

(some 18+ john price x female reader thoughts under the cut)

like straight up cancel your plans and call in sick from work for the first two days john comes home because he is face down in your pussy from the moment he walks through the door. he’s dragging you to the bedroom and laying you out like a private meal on your shared bed (it used to be that he’d drop to his knees in front of the sofa and ask you to cradle this head with your thighs, but his knees aren’t what they used to be much to his eternal annoyance).

he doesn’t give a shit if you haven’t waxed/shaved/naired/whatever recently, in fact he’s delighted because he’s been trying to get you to embrace the bush for ages. forget trying to argue your case to “tidy up”, he’s been thinking about your pussy in every possible iteration for the last 3 days. he absolutely refuses to let you take it away from him now.

also i’d love to tell you that he calms down after spending two days making you come on his tongue (rip to your poor inner thighs and mons, that beard burn is no joke) but no. he’s waking you up every morning with his head buried between your thighs, he’ll coax you into riding his face as soon as you get home from work, he makes it his mission to get you to come on his face at least once a night before you roll over to go to sleep. (privately, you worry that john loves your pussy more than he loves you. but you can’t exactly complain about your partner spending hours a day going down on you to your friends without sounding like you’re utterly spoiled.)

anyway, all of this to say that when john’s leave is finally over and he’s back on base debriefing his team on the next threat to “world peace”, they’re all staring at his beard which has gone from it’s usual brunette to a bright fiery ginger around his mouth.

and if one of the lads (soap) makes a comment on it, he’ll get a smug, self satisfied glint in his eye as he tells them that he “had to give the missus my best” before moving on.

[penvisions]

services requested {chapter three}

Pairing: Older! Joel Miller x Sugar Momma! Reader

Summary: Secrets are the undoing of everything good. That much you know for damn sure.

Word Count: 6.9k

Warnings: no outbreak au, modern au, age gap (joel is mid 50's, reader is late 20's / early 30's), reader is more of an oc written in the x reader style, reader is described to have a scar and tattoos, mommy vibes, reader see's joel and knows she wants to provide for him, joel is older and tired, power dynamics, sexual undertones, instant connection, mutual pining, flirting, casual touches, mutual attraction, angst, family drama, strained family dynamics, mentions of past drug use, mentions of past trauma, mentions of physical attack (very brief), allusions to predatory behavior, allusions to power imbalances within the tattoo world, verbal threat, argumentative language, joel's sharp tongue, reader is depcited to have a manic anxiety attack, angst, we also get a nickname reveal in this one!

Fic Notes: please, if you have any qualms about the setting of this fic, do not reblog or comment with hate. my dms are open for discussion if you feel like you need to say anything. let's be respectful going into a new year, there are ample warnings and you are in charge of the content you consume

A/N: hi, i'm back with chapter three for y'all! ♡ feel free to (kindly) holler at me once you're done ♡

ao3 link || series masterlist || navigation || ko-fi

You’re in the middle of recanting of a funny story from one of the last camping trips you took, giggling at the memory of over a dozen wild turkeys running through your campsite and taking the unfastened rainfly with them when you hear the bell ding over the front door.

The deep rumble of Joel’s voice says your name and the two assistants at the front desk snap out of whatever they’re doing to greet him and tell him that you’re in the middle of a session. He assures them that he knows you, knows he’s coming to visit and then you hear the soft footsteps of your personal assistant as they approach through the curtains that hide the workstations from the entryway.

“Grey, there’s a really handsome man asking after you. Says he knows you.”

A gooey smile overtakes your lips as you picture Joel in the other room, standing tall and displaying confidence you now know is a front when he’s in new environments. He is confident in his own settings, in his own element and there’s something endearing about the way he’s trying his best to maintain that as you expose him to new things and introduce him to a different facet of the world.

“That’s my friend, he can come on back. If you’re cool with that?” You pause in the shading you’re stippling through the finished outline of a fox skull, muted pastel colors to highlight it beside you on the table set up. At her quick nod you smile at the younger girl, she’s focused on her book while you work on her thigh, a large piece she had been excited to knock on all-in-one sitting.

“Mr. Miller, you can come on through!” You raise your voice enough for it to carry, you’re pretty sure he’s partially deaf in his right ear. There’s a deep scar there that lines his temple, probably from some work accident, but you haven’t asked about it in case it’s a sensitive spot. You know all about scars carrying heavy stories. Maybe he’ll share it one day, maybe you’ll share you own story about the one you know he glimpsed that first day you met him.

As soon as he walked through the curtain you could tell something is wrong. But you try to maintain your professional mask and push forward. If something is truly wrong, he’ll tell you. You trust him to be honest with you, to be real with you.

He’s not smiling and he looks entirely uncomfortable. Not even trying to be collected beyond his polite words. But he shouldn’t be, if the glimpse of his bullseye tattoo on his hand has anything to say about the setting. He gingerly sets the to-go cup on the non-plastic wrap part of your desk. Right by where your phone is propped up on a framed photo beside the tablet you’re using as a reference.

“Hi, hope the drive wasn’t too much? I know this is pretty deep downtown.” You watch him take in the room where he stands with his hands in his pockets. The gallery style frames that are everywhere, mixed with posters and paper artwork, the little figurines- it’s a mess really. Something you don’t particularly like about the scene, how overcrowded and decorated personal spaces are. But it is what it is, you wonder what he’s thinking as you rinse off the mixture of white and black you had been using. The hum of the tattoo gun is quiet, one of your charged ones in favor of the traditional one you love. It’s still in the box from moving, though now it’s nestled in your own garage instead of your parents.

“Was okay.” He barely get out, voice low and deep. Like he’s holding back what he really wants to say and it triggers alarm bells to ring in your head.  

“…everything…good?” You can see the same tension in his body from when you had taken him to the salon, but this…this was so much heavier on him now. His brother- it probably hadn’t gone well with his brother, but you weren’t about to ask him in front of people who he didn’t know and didn’t know him.

“Good.” Is his short reply and you feel dread settle like little pebbles in your stomach. That tone. It’s a lie, it’s forced. And your instincts fire up to the point where you’re turning the machinery off and tapping the girl on your table.

“Hey, gonna take a quick smoke break, let you get up and stretch your muscles. It’s been a good two hours to start.” She nods, putting her book down finally and watching as you spray a solution onto her skin and gently wipe it away with one of the many stacked paper towels you set up.

He’s stiff when you stand and stretch out the muscles of your back from hunching over. The cracks that sound in the air feel good as they release tension, but you don’t pay them any mind as you walk him back out to the entrance. There’s a filing cabinet for each artist here, four in total. And you can feel his eyes on your back as you dig around for the copies of the permits you made and their corresponding paperwork.

“The block I purchased is a few streets down. Closer to the south side, where the buildings begin to thin out. Didn’t want it to be too crowded for construction but also wanted to stay in the loop of downtown events. We can check it out when you have some downtime this week around your job, but there’s no pressure. I’ve got the deed and land survey here for you as well to go over.” Turning, you see his eyes flash to your hands, how they curl around the manilla folder so like the one you had handed him a few days ago.

“I’ll look it over, the permits are already submitted?”

“Yes, for building two shop fronts. One is classified as a prospective rental space while the other is classified as a business operation. My license was accepted by the state as a temporary transfer, but I won’t be able to operate a personal business until the application for an official one is approved. Didn’t really plan on moving until construction was completed anyway, need the cash flow to fund some of it and prove the validity of the business.”

“Got it, I’ll be in touch once I check on these. Drive by the lot too, check it out.”

“Oh, okay.” You feel a little dismissed as he takes the folder from you carefully, like he’s avoiding your hands brushing against each other. He’s avoiding your gaze too, now that you’re thinking about it.

“Probably be in touch before we leave for Philadelphia. But you have my number and work email if not.”

He’s turning away, just like that. And you let him. But not without reminding him he can use the card you gave him for any travel expenses he might need help with.

“Don’t worry, the trip is already budgeted for. But thanks.” His word sting, landing hard on your tense shoulders but all you can do is watch him walk out the door, voice caught in your throat.

It’s been more than a few days since you’ve heard from Joel. He never emailed or texted anything about the paperwork he came to get from the shop. He was there for a handful of minutes, when you thought he would at least stick around for a little tour and walkthrough of what kind of work you did.

Pushing the hurt away, you suspect it has something to do with how things went with his brother. At least, that’s all you had to go on and it was only a hunch. You know there’s strain there, an underlying strain to their connection. He offhandedly mentioned a nephew during one of your quiet conversations, but you don’t recall if it was a recent development or not.

Setting down the book you’re trying to read through, the last in a series of four romance novels by your favorite author, you pull out your laptop from the bedside table. The only thing on your mind as every description of a flawed but perfect man on the pages roves beneath your eyes is Joel.

Philadelphia.

That’s where Sarah lives, is attending graduate school and working an internship in her chosen field. He is so proud of her, so happy he could help give her the chance at an opportunity to do what she loves, even if the intricacies of social work are lost on you. You did a small guest spot at a shop there a few years ago, back before you had established yourself, back when you were still honing your skills. But you remember a lovely little spa that you had gone to with a friend, and you look them up now.

With the purchase of a package treatment for four, you attach the corresponding verification and specifications to a new email. The swoosh of it sending successfully helps to ease some of the anxiety built up inside you.

On the other side of town, Joel’s phone dings in his pocket. The new one that had arrived at his house that morning still in the box it showed up in. Already set with a tough case to withstand the elements of his job and a thin glass screen protector. His heart flutters even now as he recalls the beautiful looping scrawl of your cursive on a note saying he deserved a nice phone he didn’t have to worry about cutting his hand on. That you counted on those hands to create good things for you, and you wanted to ensure their safety moving forward.

A kind gesture and joke that both landed badly.

His phone was still an older version of the most popular brand, cracked screen but still worked. Your face when he used it in front of you for the first time had made him bark out a laugh. A comment about not being glued to his phone like you were meant he didn’t really care what it looked like as long as it worked.

Squinting through the dated prescription of his sunglasses, he sees your personal email address at the top of his notification list. With a grunt, he swipes open his mail app and opens up the message.

‘Mr. Miller,

I know you said you would be in contact and I don’t want to intrude on your business hours so this will be quick. Attached is a receipt and verification for a spa I loved in Philly. For you and your girls to enjoy during your visit, as well as Sarah’s boyfriend. There is also a reservation made at a restaurant that one of my friends is the sous chef at as well, a nice steak house. A birthday present and meal for you. I’m unsure of the date but wanted to make sure you received something from me.

Hope the day is good to you,

Grey’

With a scoff that burns through his throat, Joel stuffs the phone back into his pocket. He was still stewing on the fact that you’re married.

Sighing deeply, Joel sinks into the cushions of his worn leather couch. Ellie is in the kitchen putting some dinner together, planning it just right based on the response to when he anticipated being home- reasonably for once. He can hear her easy-going laughter and soft conversation with the girl she’s begun to bring around more.

It’s good for her, she deserves to be happy. Been dealt so much heartache that it’s about time she finds the joy in living and taking things into her own hands. He’s proud of her.

He’s bone tired, entire body taut with working all day in the summer sun. The deck is nearly complete, something he’s thrown himself into working on while admittedly giving you a wide berth. He’s not sure how to proceed. He’s already signed the contract and despite the… complication, he still really wants to fulfill it. You obviously need the help from someone who you trust to do the work, offering to hire him either way because you admire the way he went about renovating your parents’ house across the street.

He feels like a dick for the way he interacted with you last, when he visited the shop downtown. You were so excited for him to see where you worked and earn your name in a world he didn’t know much about. To show him around and talk about that part of your life. He recalls the way your glittering eyes dulled when he barely managed to get out short responses to your concerned questions. He had been too caught up in being blindsided by the new information about your personal life.

The demeanor he adopted was short, his eyes watching your every move to read more about you that he may not have originally caught on to. There was no ring on your finger, at least not one that could be mistaken for a wedding band. Perhaps it was by omission? A way to avoid the conversation.

He had acted like he didn’t know you, like you weren’t friends or at least on friendly terms. A business partner, that’s what he had acted like. Has been acting like.

His email in response to your kind one didn’t acknowledge the original content, instead he had forged ahead with a brief synopsis of how your permits all looked good and should be approved by the end of the month. He tried not to picture the crestfallen expression on your face as you opened the email to see his clipped words.

He’s furious. Two weeks later and he knows it’s because he’s hurt.

The photos of your wedding are the last post on your account. Marked a year and a half ago. He knows you moved here six months ago. He can see the fact that you’re online based on the little green dot beside your icon. You obviously still use the account, that much is clear even if you haven’t posted anything recently. You’re smiling in the photos, absolutely glowing in the arms of someone who looks exactly like the type you’d be into.

Younger, longer hair, slim waste and paired with lean muscles. Thick brows and suave sense of self, palpable even through the screen. How could he have been so stupid?

The betrayal of his own circumstance rears up, making him feel the whole ordeal again in bright, striking memories. Sarah couldn’t have been two years old, crying her little heart out in the living room as she had been set in her rocking cradle. The sounds of deep moans and slapping skin raining down the stairs like some sort of fucked up scene. Home from work and exhausted like he is now, but younger by more than two decades. He hadn’t even bothered to disturb them, the woman he called his wife and whoever she had deemed more important than her own daughter.

He had waited in the living room, soothing his little girl as best she could. Getting her to calm down while his heart raced and his mind moved a mile a minute wasn’t an easy thing, but he had managed to get her to sleep. That’s when they had both come down the stairs, her in her robe and him fastening his pants back up like he owned the damn place. Jokes and laughter bubbling up until they spotted him sitting on the couch cradling a relaxed Sarah.

It had been a mess, they were both high as kites. Something Joel had never expected from the woman he had married, had dated his entire senior year in high school and then into his first year of college. But when she realized she was pregnant, he dropped out and started working construction to bring in the money they would need. Allowing her the freedom to keep her own light schedule of classes to appease her parents and work part time at their grocery store.

He feels the sting of her words now, as he gazes down at photos of you smiling with another man. That he hadn’t been enough, that he didn’t give them enough of his time and attention. He wonders if your husband knows the offer you made him, maybe have made to others before. The words you said to him echo in his head alongside hers.

Other men have embellished their skill sets in order to receive the same offer.

He has to admit, he didn’t think you were the type of person to be so causal about an affair. But then again, he didn’t think his now ex-wife would’ve turned to illegal drugs to handle her postpartum manic depression and bring her drug dealer into their house to fuck him while their baby cried her head off.

It’s hard to reconcile the person he’s gotten to know over the last month with the shifting image of you now knowing the things that he does. The kind and spunky daughter of his best friend across the street. The one who he’s heard nothing but good things and gentle praise about for years since he moved into this neighborhood. Always saying that he’s raising two strong girls just like their own, and maybe when you visited, they could be friends.

Your soft smiles and harmless taunts make his chest hurt, he can’t tell if they were real or all some ploy to get him to soften up around you. He doesn’t feel like they had been fake, not the quiet words you both shared over cups of coffee and while he had you watch over the detailing of specific tasks to ensure it was what you wanted. The way you always made sure him and the crew had coffee and food, wanting them to not feel pressured about the deadline and still be able to focus fully on the tasks at hand.

It can’t have been fake, he saw your veneer of polite professionalism come down. He comforted you when he saw tears spring up in your eyes and you kept grabbing at the spot on your lower back where he knows there’s a scar.

You’re friends. You and him. At least…you were friends. He doesn’t feel like it at the moment, he feels like he’s caught his ex-wife cheating all over again. The feeling of your soft, gentle hands running through his hair surprise him, the way you had soothed him while he sat in a salon chair for the first time in a long time. The setting was new to him, a nice place with rich and colorful decoration, beautiful people with luscious hair and fantastic artwork painting their exposed arms. Long lashes, immaculate make-up, expensive looking clothes. He was out of place, same with the tattoo shop he had stopped in later on in the day.

It made him nervous in a way he didn’t anticipate. Like you would see him, really see that he was just some blue-collar man who did harsh labor day in an day out. Someone who could provide for himself until his last breath, but then again- that’s exactly what you saw. The contract offered, read over, and signed proves that. He just can’t fathom the why, now that he knows you’re married.

As soon as Ellie and Dina are ascending the stairs after a decent meal, one in which he tried to be as present during as possible even with his mind a blur of conflicting thought, Joel is taking the keys from the bowl beside the door and heading out the door.

He needs to get to the bottom of this now.

“Hey, Joel, is everything okay?” Your mind is working overtime as you swing the door open to find the man standing there on the stoop. It’s small, just enough space for your giant potted elephants ear plant, a little table, and one patio chair. The railing is gone, something you had taken down before you moved in, the furniture in easier and something you wanted to replace anyway.

You worry for a second that something is wrong, the radio silence wasn’t quite so profound, the understanding that he was working his last job before going out of town and then you being busy with a few clients who had big pieces to complete. But the emails you had exchanged were…strained? Something’s off, has been ever since that first day he handed over the signed contract and then came to the shop to visit. Despite that conversation going over relatively well, perfect even.

He's not moving to come into the house, though you open the door to offer him room to pass by and enter. Joel’s jaw is clenched tightly, you can see it twitching with the force he’s grinding his teeth together with.

You know you look a mess, face washed for the night, baggy clothes and knotted hair pulled up off you the back of your neck. You didn’t have anything scheduled tonight so you’ve just been mindlessly scrolling through the streaming services, not really focusing on finding something to watch. It was always the same routine until you settled on something you’ve watched over a million times already. It’s a comfort thing, that’s what your therapist says. To avoid being exposed to something you aren’t expecting in new media.

“Dunno, why don’t you ask your husband if everything is okay. Considering you just hired me as a personal contractor with an intimacy clause in his goddamn contract!” You flinch at the volume of his voice, the echo of it as it bounces off of closed garage doors and back through your open door. Your nails dig into the worn wood of the front door, catching Joel’s eyes as they do so.

“I don’t have a husband.” Your jaw clenches as your mouth snaps shut. Phantom pains break out all over your skin, pebbling the skin in goosebumps as the sting of a blade lances in your back.  “Please just- come inside where we can have a little more privacy.”

“No? Sure seems like your client from the other day is convinced you’ve got one.” Joel towers over you, standing right in front of you settled against the back of the couch once he follows you inside. “Checked your account, saw the damn photos myself and here I was defending you against my shithead brother that you had no ill intentions.”

When you don’t say anything, too taken aback by the vehemence in his words, he continues on- overrun by the emotions he’s being bombarded with from every angle. The ones he had thought he dispelled after talking with you, after mulling over the stipulations of the contract a few times. But day one is here and he’s not sure how he feels anymore- other than betrayed and lied to. Played like a goddamn fool. That much is obvious, but the not one, but two mentions of the reason for your sudden move across the country is triggering and it’s hard to catch your breath let alone speak the soothing words you want to.

“I thought this whole thing was too good to be true, young thing like yourself offering me the chance of a lifetime. Turns out you’re married and have a husband who probably just doesn’t give you enough attention so you go looking for it with people you can keep around with the promise of money. Thought this would be a way to spend more time doing what I wanna do and focus on my girls, but no. Played like the fool I am once again. It was all a sham, this whole thing-“

“It is not a mistake!” Rage takes over your entire body, flames of it striking hot and consuming you.

“Yeah, sweetheart, it really does look like it is. Well, where is he? Off on some business trip or does he like to be in the house when you’ve got your men over? I sure as hell didn’t, but I don’t presume to know anything about you anymore.” And the self-depreciating smile he gives you sends you hurling over the edge of caution. Giving you the fuel to let the flames consume you and speak the words you haven’t to anyone but your lawyer.

“You wanna talk about my ex-husband so bad, Mr. Miller?” You push off the back of the couch and punch a sharp nail into his chest. You know he could feel the point of it through his clothing if the pinched expression he makes is any indication.

“You want to know about the man who was soliciting his apprentices right underneath my nose and then attacked me when I approached him about it, when I threatened to report him? You want to know about the man who probably did the same fucking thing to me, set his sights on me when I first started in this career and making a name for myself? You want to know about the man who he hired after our shitshow of a divorce to solicit me and give the community more reason to doubt my skills and hard-earned establishment? The guy I thought was such a breath of fresh air in the wake of something so fucking horrible only to find out the whole thing was a set up? He set his focus on fueling the rumors that I used my body to get where I am, that I slept my way into success. And I’ll tell you one more thing, Mr. Miller- you will not accuse me of being the shady motherfucker in this equation because I’m nothing like the man you assume is still in any part of my life.”

Chest heaving and body humming, you stare directly into his eyes. Seeing the weight of the words that rushed out of you settle in him, around the room, making it far more tense than it already had been. But it’s a different type of tension, one born of unease and spoken trauma. You left out the harder to swallow details, but the timeline you depicted is vile all the same.

His brown eyes flash with something like regret as his face slackens at your heated words. But it closes right back up into something unreadable. He doesn’t open his mouth to respond, it’s too busy frowning into a hard line. His plush lips almost white with the pressure of it. He’s poked and prodded at the one thing you have no patience for, insinuation of bad deeds and shady dealings. You realize that some conflict was bound to happen, either because of you or because of him- that’s just how human interactions and relationships went. But this?

This was something you never saw coming from the sweet, determined man who you had first met a month ago. His words had been vicious, biting and stinging where they land. Surely, he read something in the preconceived notion of your intentions, fueled by the dated knowledge of someone who you so thoroughly rinsed your hands of that they were serving time in prison with a restraining order against should he ever be free again. But right now you didn’t have it in you to ask after him, to make sure he was okay and if it was linked to something in his own past. Right now you were livid. The accusations he was slinging striking harder than the mistake of him taking you for a practiced sex worker who collected men.

“Jealously doesn’t look good on you, Mr. Miller. I suggest you get a hold of yourself and think about the next words to come out of your mouth very carefully. Otherwise you’ll be proven right that this whole thing is one big mistake.”

He’s just staring and your body thrums as you glare back at him. With nothing else to say in defense, you dismiss him as professionally as you can, even if right now you feel like absolute trash. You didn’t rage and ruin, you didn’t hurl fists or hurtful words. That isn’t who you are, even at your most angry and betrayed. Not anymore. He didn’t deserve it, deep down in your very soul you know he doesn’t deserve that despite the manner in which he approached you. He’s a hurt man, his pride and emotions blindsided by something you were working up to telling him about.

“Blueprints for the original foundation of the house are on the island, should you deem me a good enough person to keep working for.” You turn your back on him, instincts urging you to retreat before you say something you’ll regret. Anger and hurt colliding in you among the flames of rage and old situations filling you up so full that it’s hard to put one foot in front of the other without stomping. “I trust you can see yourself out.”

You wait on the landing upstairs, the plush rug you had put down over the hardwood giving you the opportunity to stand there in silence. You don’t move forward until you hear the swoosh of thick papers being picked up and the click of the door behind Joel as he leaves the house. But you don’t let go of the breath held in your lungs until you hear the roar of his truck engine, and the shifting of gears signal his leave of the property completely.

Only then do your knees give out and you land heavy on your palms right on the floor. The rug is soft beneath you, but it does nothing to calm the shaking of your entire body as the adrenaline leaks out of you alongside it.

He’s numb and stunned the entire drive back across town. On autopilot as he maneuvers his truck down the late-night streets. He had no idea what time it was, but the sky twinkled with the few stars that shone brighter than the city lights.

He’s torn. Between the emotions that assaulted him all week as he lamented over who he thought you were and what you were capable paired now with the way he had approached you with no doubts in his mind of how you manipulated him. Only to find out that you were nothing like he had begun to think.

You were you. The same young woman who asked after his company to fix up your parents house the longer it sat and aged, sent them on a long vacation in order to do it. The same young woman who soothed him as his anxiety spiked. The same one who he soothed himself when you experienced a similar episode. Because you were a victim of the things he accused you of.

And it fucks him up to picture you happily married only to discover that your partner was cheating on you, betraying your trust in such a devastating way. He knows what it feels like, he’s lived it and his confrontation most likely has you living through it all over again.

As Joel slows down to turn into his driveway, a waving figure catches his eye.

Your parents are seated on their porch across the street and with a guilt settled in his stomach like lead, he gets out of the truck and heads over. You mother is beaming at him, your father already pouring amber liquid into a third cup and holding it out to him as he ascends the few steps.

“Joel Miller! How could you keep such a big secret from us?”

Joel’s heart thunders in his chest, the tight coil of muscles around it almost choking as he reinforces his stance in preparation for everything to come crashing down around him. They know, his mind betrays him. They know about the hurtful words and dirty thoughts he’s been having about you, how he just lost any semblance of who he thinks he is and shouted at you like a child who needed to be chastised for grave mistakes. But he’s the childish one now, ready to face the consequences of his rash actions brought on by past experiences and moments lived. He’s transported back into that younger body of his, that younger mindset that everything is his fault. That he’s the bad guy and he fears he always will be.

Just as he breaths in, the controlled expression on your parents’ faces fall away into wide grins and giddy energy.

“Yeah, man, can’t believe you and my daughter conspired behind our backs to do the house over!” Joel is slow to take the offered drink, not sure if it’s the best idea to start now. But he downs it after clinking it against the two your parents hold up. Setting the thick glass down, he signals no more for himself, though they pour another generous helping into their glasses to sip at.

“We can’t thank you enough for all the attention to detail, it’s a dream come true. We feel so spoiled, you two are gonna be trouble moving forward, aren’t you?”

The porch light gives Joel the perfect view of your fathers humor, mirth dancing in his eyes as he jests that his close friend and daughter are cut from the same cloth. And even now, with how things are between you two- Joel feels pride at being compared to someone as good as you. He’s heard nothing but praise about you from your parents, from the two women who were at the tattoo shop, from the crew after they finished the renovation. You were good and he was a goddamn fool.

“Was just doin’ my job, Lydia. Treated it a little more carefully than other projects, but a job nonetheless.”

“Nonsense! You truly outdid yourself here, it’s just amazing. You have such a good eye, all we did was offhandedly mentioned things we might want to get done some day- eventually. But you and Grey have surprised the hell out of us.” Relief washes over him, giving him a reprieve from the torment he’s been wallowing in for most of the day. Hell, for the past week as he’s been subjecting himself to.

“That girl never rests, not even after the hard year she’s had. She gives so much of herself to everyone around her just like you and this is beyond anything we expected.” Lydia is near tears, no doubt due to a combination of being an overly emotional person and the alcohol she’s consumed in the late hour.

“She just moved back too, barely has had any time to get her own house fixed up but she goes and drops all the money to get ours redone after sending us on an unreal holiday for our anniversary? Bless her, she’s one of the best things I’ve ever had the pleasure in taking a part in making.” Her voice is strong even as she dabs at her eyes with a tissue.

“Grey is my crowning achievement. She’s stronger than I’ll ever be, that’s for damn sure. Not to get into it too much, but the day she showed up here with a black eye and told me she needed to move in, all I could see was red. I could’ve killed for her, but she said she had already taken care of it.” Your father’s words settle heavy in his stomach, making him nauseous as the reality of what he did hits him.

The stab of regret for his words, for your forced admission of your own trauma at his demand is sharp in his chest. Prickling over his entire body as he realizes the depth of his mistake in confronting you the way he did. Bidding them goodnight, Joel somberly crosses the street and retreats back into his own home.

“Hey, Joel! Did you know that the neighbor’s daughter, the one who you’ve been working on the renovation with, is one of the best tattoo artists in the Midwest? Her page is insane, I think I’m gonna need to ask you to use your connections to get me a consultation, I want her to design something for me, finally cover up this scar. But she’s booked up for months, her assistant said there’s something like a year long waiting period to get an appointment. That’s so freaking cool, just today she posted some designs and they are so awesome! She goes by Grey, cause of the way her shading is next level.”

To make matters worse, Ellie fires off quick words at him the second he’s back through the door. She’s in her version of sleep clothes as she sits at the kitchen table with a glass of milk and an open bag of cookies. Voice carrying to him through the house.

“Uh, yeah, baby girl, I’ll ask next time I see her.” He shucks off his boots, still dressed in his work clothes from when he had gotten home earlier. He must be staring off into space, face betraying how off kilter he feels because Ellie is quickly getting up from her spot and crossing into the living room.

“Hey….everything okay? You look a little more grumpy than usual. Which is saying something because you’ve been more relaxed lately. Did something happen?”

And for the life of him, Joel couldn’t hold back the tears he feels well up hot behind his eyes. His lungs lurch and a sob escapes through his lips when he opens them up to reassure her everything is okay.

“Woah, okay. Let’s sit, yeah?” She’s up in his personal space in a heartbeat, ushering him back into the living room and onto the couch with small hands and gentle movements.

“Just missin’ you and Sarah, is all. I feel like I haven’t given y’all enough of my time these past few years.”

“What are you talking about, you’re working to provide for us. College isn’t cheap and you’re only one man. A really good one, selfless and loving. I-I don’t know where I would be without you, dad.” When she reaches for his hand and tangles her fingers with his, he looks up to the ceiling to try and reign in the tears that are rapidly falling. He can taste them on his tongue as they drip into his mouth, nose and throat burning as they consume him. As everything hits him like a freight train.

And then it all comes tumbling out of him is quiet words, between heaving breaths and gasping exhales.

All of it, how he feels so conflicted being attracted to you with the difference in ages, the way he knows you through one of his close friends, because he started working for you. And then the contract you offered him for work, an opportunity to slow down and be with her more. How he feels like he’s failed as a father and brother. The argument he had with Tommy, the check he shoved at him as a way of showing him he still loved the man even if he couldn’t say it. How he feels left behind in favor of something better, a new life with new people he had no part of. All of it leaves him, deflates him as the words are given actual life as they pass through his lips. No longer plaguing his mind on a loop, unshared and unraveled.

To her immense credit, Ellie listens to it all with a closed lipped expression. Her bright eyes watching the way he tangles his hands together, how he runs them through his shortened hair and trimmed scruff. All of it is displayed so clearly in him, no longer hidden away for him to shoulder alone.

“You know, I was home from classes one day, and I saw you two unloading the truck. The way you two moved together, like magnets drawn to each other. That same goofy smile on your face as when I tell you a bad pun but aimed at her when she’s done nothing but simply breath. The smiles she gives you when you aren’t looking, it was- well, honestly, it was a little gross to witness. But it was also good, dad. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you so carefree and just yourself. The laughter and sounds of you two working together came out the open window of the house and it just…it sounded right, you know?”

When he doesn’t respond, Ellie continues on in a confident voice.

“Sounds like you’ve got a really important first job then, huh?”

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[s0fter-sin]

one of my favourite aspects of supernatural that you very rarely see in paranormal shows is that sam and dean are already versed in the world they live in. there’s no sudden discovery of ghosts and demons and now they have to learn about them along with the audience; they are born into it and already know all about it. it allows the audience to follow their personal story instead of also trying to figure out this new world and its rules

the first season is full of knowledge we never see them learn; “w*ndigoes are in the minnesota woods or- or northern michigan. i’ve never even heard of one this far west.” […] “great. well then this [his gun] is useless.” (1x02), “you don’t break a curse. you get the hell out of its way.” (1x08), d: “it’s a god. a pagan god, anyway.” […] “the annual cycle of its killings? and the fact that the victims are always a man and a woman. like some kind of fertility right.” […] s: “the last meal. given to sacrificial victims. d: “yeah, i’m thinking a ritual sacrifice to appease some pagan god.” (1x11)

almost every episode in the first season is a monster they’ve faced before that they then explain to the audience in a way that should feel patronising; like it’s the same speech given over and over again but instead, the audience almost feels included in the knowledge. it’s stated with such an innate confidence and comfort in said knowledge that it feels like we already knew it too; “spirits and demons don't have to unlock doors. if they want inside, they just go through the walls.” […] “the claws, the speed that it moves; could be a skinwalker, maybe a black dog.” (1x02), “it's biblical numerology. you know noah's ark, it rained for forty days. the number means death.” (1x04), “no no no, not the reaper, a reaper. there's reaper lore in pretty much every culture on earth, it goes by 100 different names.” […] “you said it yourself that the clock stopped, right? reapers stop time. and you can only see 'em when they're coming at you which is why i could see it and you couldn't.” (1x12)

they already know and, at least in the first season, already have what they need to kill whatever they’re hunting; already know to salt and burn bones for spirits, fire for a w*ndigo, exorcisms for demons, a silver bullet to the heart for shapeshifters. there’s only three times in the entire first season that they run into something new to them; 1x14 when sam gets his first vision that leads him to another psychic, 1x16 when dean calls caleb for help on the sigil he put together and he tells him about daevas, and 1x20 when they find out vampires are real- and they only don’t know that bc john thought they were hunted to extinction and not worth mentioning

(there’s also technically two half instances if you count one of them knowing something the other doesn’t - sam figuring out the tulpa in 1x17 and dean already knowing about the shtriga in 1x18 - but those still rely on sam and dean having prior knowledge)

even when they’re uncertain about facing something, it’s not bc they don’t know what it is; it’s precisely bc they know what it is and acknowledge that it’ll be a difficult hunt (“i don't know, man. this isn't our normal gig. i mean, demons, they don't want anything, just death and destruction for its own sake. this is big. and i wish dad was here.” 1x04)

so much of the tension in paranormal shows typically comes from the main character(s) not knowing what is happening to them/the people around them and having to find out how to resolve it. supernatural is unique in that it operates more like a police procedural. the tension comes from solving the clues and identifying patterns to figure out who (what) the killer is and intercepting before they can take another victim

it’s such a different tone to go for when compared to other shows that came both before, during, and after its run. it sets sam and dean on even footing with each other since they both have the same knowledge going in, and it puts them in a place of authority usually reserved for an outside character

the shows i compare spn to most is charmed, buffy and teen wolf; every main character in those shows are brought into the paranormal world knowing nothing, putting them on the same level as the audience, and they have their mc interact with others already knowledgeable about that world in order to overcome their problem/monster of the week. the audience organically learns about this new world as the characters learn about it. it’s a sound writing strategy that prevents “as we already know”-style exposition but something that complicates it is if your world building isn’t unique or intriguing enough, this slow introduction can become boring

we’ve seen shows like these before; sitting through the same tropes of characters learning to use their powers, struggling with no longer feeling normal/relating to the regular world around them, and not knowing how much they can trust the people already involved in this new world gets repetitive. all three shows eventually reach the same level of comfort with their new world that spn starts with but if the characters aren’t enough to draw you in, you can end up dropping it before they reach that point (and often, before the overarching plot can really kick in and evolve the show beyond the villain of the week format)

it’s the superhero origin movie in tv format; dragged out and overplayed. dropping the audience into an established world of course comes with its own problems but you also have the benefit of pre-existing established character dynamics that let the audience slot in like they’ve always been there instead of just getting to know all the characters while the characters also get to know each other

sam and dean already knowing about the supernatural lets the audience immediately get to the core of the story; the conflict between sam and dean, the search for their father, and the mystery of what killed their mother

[altcvnningham]

adler can’t stop holding bell’s face when he kisses them.

and not gently, either, not the caress of a flower petal, delicate and sweet- bell’s barely a rose if not for all their thorns, and he wrings a hand round their jaw like one might wrench out a weed. rid and tossed to the dirt with all the rest. with all the red. with all that makes them wrong. with everything that came before.

if he can’t muzzle his dog, who can?

he bends their head upward in the interrogation chair, thumb dug into their cheek, squeezing the blood from their mouth into a sanguine rivulet between the web of his fingers; he jerks bell’s face toward the evidence board when their empty eyes fix on him a moment too long, enough to unsettle him; he stamps their chin under a hard thumb when he turns them to the light, soft pupils blown wide as he watches the sweet drug take hold; he digs his fingers into their jaw when they bark too loud at their duly master, shaking sense into his dumb mutt’s whistling hole of a head.

when he deigns to let them go, he makes a point to tear his hand away, sharp and spiteful, so even with the sting they still manage to find suffering in the loss. to yearn for the hand they bit back.

so the rest comes violent, too. the rest comes hungry. the rest comes when he wants it, and he wants bell, with such a blind fervour it drives him mad. where better men might leave, kick their losses to the curb and go elsewhere to get their fill, adler digs his heels deeper in the mud, the dirt where he buries all that red he carved out of them. if it’s tenderness he wants, he can take it for himself, and leave them with the hurt. it isn’t stooping to their level if he’s the one with the leash.

he kisses bell like he’s eating them from the inside. one hand squeezed tight around their flushed face, mouth forced open into an o-shaped pucker. he nicks their lip as smirking proof of his callousness, snags it on his sharpest canine. a peck that mocks affection. licks his way inside their mouth like it’s a threat, a proclamation. you let me do this to you. you let me in, bell. let me in, let me in. such a good dog when they do, loll their tongue out pathetic and starving. he drives his thumb inside, hot, wet, forces their mouth open by the hinge of their stiffened jaw- the last laughable vestiges of their reluctance, crumbling into dust fine enough to sift like sand between his fingers. guess science still has its limits, but so do you.

when he’s worked bell’s mouth nice and wide, he flattens their tongue with a thick finger, face clamped between the rest, and while they’re just about learning to make peace with it all- the humiliation, the degradation, submission made sanctification through the eager expectation of praise- he spits inside, and makes them swallow.

[sassysnowperson]

The world is exploding and you want me to take care of myself?

I live in the U.S.A. As you might have heard, things are PRETTY BAD right now. It's been bad before, sure. I mostly coped with 2016-2020 by ignoring the news and writing a TON of fanfiction.

But between then and now I went and got a job as a therapist, and it turns out I can't just stick my head when my whole job is to help other people with the stuff that's stressing THEM out. So I've had to find a better way to deal with it. I thought some of y'all might appreciate a distillation of the conversations I've been having, with myself, and with the people I'm working with, as we try to figure this out together.

Yeah, It's Bad.

So yeah, we know that depression and anxiety are lying liars that lie. But. Your anxiety or depression isn't lying to you about this one. Things are bad. That said, maybe it's helpful to check if they are lying to you about your ability to survive this, to handle this, to find spaces where you can act. We are not doomed to paralysis and misery.

The Paralysis is the Point.

The current administration is using a playbook that involves trying to make their opponents feel overwhelmed, helpless, miserable. Any action we take against that is action against tyranny.

Action is the Antidote.

We live in an age where we can take in endless misery, about things that are either so big or so distant or so both that we are not able, by ourselves, to fix them. And that sucks. We need to find a way to turn that fear energy into action.

More Things are Action than You Think.

Self-care is an act of resistance. Authoritarianism does not do well with a hopeful, resilient, connected populace. Taking care of yourself is action, taking care of those you love is action, building hope and resilience is action. Talking to your neighbors, taking care of them, paying attention to their needs and seeking local solutions to address them - all actions. Any step you take towards building resilience in yourself and your community fights the crap you see on the news.

Speaking of the News.

Lets talk about digital self-care. This is not an all-or-nothing situation. If you need to detach completely, go ahead. But your options are not only ignore or open yourself up to an endless stream of misery. This is going to look different for different people, but we have got to refine our information boundaries. That might be blocking or unfollowing people (even people we agree with, who are saying things in a way that triggers our own despair). It might be losing certain platforms, it might be seeking out news from specific trusted journalists or a weekly roundup. Pay attention to how you feel during and after your news and social media use. Is it helping you live the life you want to live? Is it meeting a need? Is there a better way to get that need met?

Some Things are Still Good.

Let's make a Still Good list. All the crap in the world, but you know what, my cats purr is still good. The smell of vanilla and old books is still good, the look of a new-green shoot sticking out of the dirt is still good. No, we're not doing this to ignore the bad and pretend life is wonderful. But our brains are designed to prioritize threats, and with so many threats, it will wear itself out trying to protect you. Find the things that are still good, focus on them. Let yourself rest in the good, at least for awhile.

You are not alone.

It's so easy to feel alone. Feel like we misjudged the world, what was important to people. How can people think so differently than ourselves? The world is so big, things are so bad, and it feels like we're fighting by ourselves, so why not give up?

You are not alone. There are people that believe in the same things you do. You are not the only one fighting. Anything that you find full of despair and hopelessness, I promise, there are smart people with good ideas working on it. Take comfort from their presence. If you have space to do more, try to find them for the thing that's close to your heart.

I want better for us. And I know I am not alone. Neither are you. I promise. Neither are you.