#hello corporate America

[danithewhich]

Am I the only motherfucker on the Internet who loves Wolverine, especially Hugh Jackman's portrayal of the character, who is NOT excited about the Deadpool movie? Fuck you Feige, you are not going to fool me.

The trailer looks fun. The characters look great. HOWEVER, the MCU is not the beacon of character-driven story it once was. I literally don't trust them to make a movie that isn't self-masterbation of the mess that their GREEDY, CAPITALISTIC, and OVERBEARING BOTTOM LINE created.

Tell a fucking story. Take a fucking risk. Take on a handful of writers and producers and directors.

Stop using the popularity of Deadpool and Wolverine as the veneer for your bloated mess of a franchise.

- Sincerely, a former fan of the MCU (Since Ironman 2008)

[shevour]

if no one got me i know cheezbot got me

[ghoulphile]

janey's dad | c.h./the ghoul | part 01

➥ pairing | cooper howard/the ghoul x f!reader ➥ word count | 3.7k ➥ warning(s) | 🔞 smut; age gap, hair pulling, teasing, making out, mutual pining, lipstick kink, stockings, frottage, porn w/ feelings, porn w/ plot, mild angst w/ happy ending, divorced!coop, babysitter!reader, pre-war/bomb ➥ summary | “We really, uh, shouldn’t - oh fuck, you look --” ➥ notes | i'm so sorry this is later than it should be. i am unfortunately a corporate slave and this fic just did not want to cooperate 🫠 there are a lot more things planned and this fic is turning into a bit of a beast (20+ pages and counting rip lmao) so i've decided to split it into two parts to make it more manageable for myself mostly un-beta'd atm a special thanks to @corinthianism for all her lovely help ❤️!!

feel free to send in thots, questions, requests! | masterlist

Divorce is hard, but being a divorcé is downright hellish.

One of the ugliest things in the world, if Cooper Howard has any say. At least when he was a Marine, they told him where to point his gun, where to aim; nameless threats vanishing with a quick squeeze of the trigger.

Here, these ‘enemies’ aren’t enemies — not really.

It’d be easier if they were.

Worse still, they have names he holds as dearly as his own. There’s Barb, whip smart and always so clever. Then Janey, the light of his life and so sweet his teeth ache.

Once upon a time, life was sweeter than apple pie on Sundays.

Then came the separation.

Afterwards, he finds it hard to look at what’s left of his family without losing breath like a horse kick to the chest. Their absence rips open a hole inside him ten miles wide, its edges jagged and wrong.

And when he can’t take the silence anymore, fingers of malt liquor help dull the ache, though it’ll never be enough to mend what’s broken.

See, war’s something he understands.

But these domestic battlefields where he sits across from his ex-wife while lawyers barter this weekend and that holiday?

How he struggles to meet his daughter’s eye every time she asks if he’s coming home?

When Barb keeps the house and the money while he keeps the scrapbooks and the dog?

He doesn’t — can't — refuses to comprehend.

Because in what world can you reconcile looking down the barrel of a smoking gun only to find the woman you love staring back, finger on the trigger? Left out to hang as Vault-Tec orchestrates his downfall.

The true depth of their involvement is unknown, but it’s no coincidence his bank accounts dried up faster than the Mojave in June. The ink still wet when the media snapped up the story of his failed marriage.

Thus, his reputation (rather what’s left of it) unraveled faster than a spool of thread.

Knocked on his ass and kept there by a boot heel crushing his windpipe. Whose? He hasn’t got a fucking clue.

But whoever they are, they’re making sure he stays a washed up nobody who struggles to land a call back, much less pay his monthly alimony on time.

See what we can do? You were America’s favorite gunslinger - now look at you. Mind your place.

Hell, millions used to scream his name.

Nowadays people whisper it behind their hands like a dirty secret, “Oh, did you hear? Cooper Howard…” as they dissect pieces of his life into bite-sized Before’s and After’s. “Hah! Serves him right. Y’know, I never liked him much.”

While he grits his teeth and swallows his bitterness with a smile, he hates how he can’t protect Janey from snide reporters and nosy strangers. Juggling actor-father-divorcé with fumbling hands.

It’s only been six months; a heartbeat, a lifetime, and already he’s scraped thin like butter over too much bread.

Something’s gotta give.

After all, he’s only one man.

But just when it's bleakest, the clouds part.

A young woman moves in next door, the first bright thing that’s come his way in a long, long while.

At first, he kept his distance.

Exchanged vague hello’s and how-are-you’s. Then Janey took a shine; always so friendly and eager to talk about her latest books.

Any reservations he might’ve had died when he saw how enamored you are with her.

Only made sense that over time small pleasantries turned into playdates. Then those playdates turned into sleepovers.

Before long, you’re watching her when a gig runs late.

Rustling up grub and tucking her into bed more often than not these days. And when he slinks in through the door, knees aching and stripped to the bone, there you are with a shy smile and a warm meal.

So what if he takes himself in hand after you leave, stroking his cock to the thought of you down on your knees in that pretty little sundress?

Imagines the wide stretch of your ruby lips as you swallow him down, lipstick smeared an awful mess?

Cums hard to the fantasy of your teary eyes and hiccupy breaths as you choke?

What you don’t know can’t hurt you.

After all, he’s a gentleman... he promises to keep his hands to himself.

“All right, Sugar Bomb, it’s bedtime.”

Bundled in navy bedding up to her nose, Janey’s wide brown eyes peer up at you from beneath a riot of frizzy curls. Roosevelt, her ever faithful companion, plasters himself to her side. The tip of his tail swishes once, twice before falling limp.

“Ah, c’mon guys. Don’t look at me like that.” You sigh with a fond shake of the head, hip popping out to rest against the doorframe. “I don’t make the rules, I just follow ‘em.”

A muffled response sounds from the lump of little girl, “Nmfhm.”

Squinting, you dip your head and tap the side of your ear, "Pardon?"

“Mnhfmmmm.”

“Ye—eah… Didn’t catch that, Mumbler.”

Janey tugs down the blanket, her mouth pursed in a moue of displeasure. “I said,” she crosses her arms with a huff, “not until Dad gets home.”

Shit.

“M’sorry, baby. He’s still gonna be a while.” Walking across the room, you stop beside the bed and motion your hand back and forth. “Scooch over.”

Gangly limbs fumble as Janey wiggles into the middle of the mattress, her feet tangling in the blankets. Roosevelt takes a toe to the nose during the transition, but flops across her knees all the same.

Together they settle with a bounce of springs.

In the open space, you slide in.

The bed sinks under your weight, a plume of rich cologne tickling your nose; mint-spiced citrus. Cooper. Your stomach swoops, and your heart trips.

“I didn’t see him at breakfast — or lunch!” A pout tugs at her mouth. “Not even dinner. I gotta go home tomorrow. So when am I gonna see him?”

“Oh, bug.” You sigh, propping yourself up on your elbow. “Your dad’s been real busy at work. And I know that’s been hard for you, but I promise to make sure he’s here for breakfast tomorrow.”

“D’you mean it?” Her cold nose digs into your skin. “Me and Roosevelt miss him so much.”

Cuddled into your chest, Janey tosses an arm around your back. Her fuzzy head rests in the crook of your arm, springy curls tickling your skin.

You squeeze her tight and trace your fingertips over her forehead.

“I can do you one better,” you say, bopping the tip of her nose just to hear her giggle - a soft sound that sits warm and gooey in your chest. “I pinkie-promise.”

Her finger loops around yours, so small and fragile.

“I’ll even make pancakes. How’s that sound for a promise?”

“Oh, yes, please! I think Dad will like that,” a wide yawn cuts her off mid-sentence. “He’s sad, but he always smiles when you make food.”

Janey’s words — unexpected as they are sudden — cut so deep it steals the breath from your lungs. You flounder, your heart a throbbing bruise in your chest.

“... Then pancakes it is.”

As if nothing happened at all, she asks, “Do I have to go to bed now?”

“Afraid so, little miss.” Your responding chuckle sounds stilted even to your own ears. “Just you wait. When you wake up, Dad’ll be home.”

“Fi—ine, but I want extra pancakes.” Janey pauses, considers you with narrow eyes, then adds, “With syrup!”

“Whatever you want,” you say with an indulgent smile. “Now... time to sleep. It’s really past your bedtime.”

She gives you one last squeeze then lets you tuck her in nice and tight, blankets pulled up to her chin. You drop a kiss on her forehead while Roosevelt re-settles on the pillow beside her after a quick scratch behind the ears. 

Everything in order, you turn to go only for a little hand to stop you.

“Yes?” you reply, glancing at her from over your shoulder.

“... can you put on one of Dad's movies?”

The tremble in her voice - like she’s about to get scolded - breaks your heart clean down the middle. Stitching on a soft smile, you nod and walk to the darkened TV set in the room's corner.

After fiddling with the nobs, static flashes to life.

“The Man from Deadhorse okay?”

The holotape sliding into the track swallows the sound of her tiny “Yeah.” Starting up with a whirl of machinery, the second-hand Radiation King flickers to life in black-and-white.

A vast plain and bright sky stretches across the screen.

Then Sugarfoot creeps into frame with the one and only Cooper Howard sitting astride the noble steed. The sheriff’s badge on his chest glints in the sun.

“Thank you,” she mumbles, already half-way to sleep.

“Anything for you, baby. Sleep tight.”

Flicking off the lights, you leave the door cracked. Walk away pretending like hearing her whisper goodnight to the TV doesn’t lance through you like lightning.

The desire to whisk her into your arms and soothe all of her ails is almost impossible to ignore.

Somehow, you distract yourself by wiping up the table, then by fixing a plate of dinner for whenever Cooper rolls in. Though all the while, how brokenhearted Janey sounded sits in the back of your mind like a leaden weight.

When Cooper stumbles into the living room, it’s half past midnight.

You’d gotten up to greet him, curled as you were in an armchair reading, when something about the stern line of his mouth gave you pause.

Where the usual lighthearted greetings lingered, a pensive stillness trembled to life.

Tension crackles through the air; a held breath of agitation. By the faraway gaze and defeated slump of his broad shoulders, it’s plain to see the night didn’t go as intended. And no matter how much you long to soothe, you can’t.

After all, he’s not yours to touch.

Instead, you offer a sympathetic smile and ask, “Rough night, huh?”

Cooper ignores the prompt, squeezing past with a brief touch to your elbow as he makes a beeline for the dry bar. The heat of his body is there and gone in a flash, his cologne teasing your senses. He says, “Thought you’d be asleep by now.”

Your heart flutters in your throat. “Ah,” you lick your lips, “well, I was going to finish my chapter first.”

Humming, he turns his back to you and fiddles with high balls and decanters. The tink of crystal glassware fills the air as he speculates which alcohol goes best with his mood. 

“Thanks again for watching Janey.” He nods in approval and fixes his whiskey neat. “I don’t know what we’d do without you.”

“Oh, it’s no trouble, Mr. Howard.” You shrug. “She’s a sweetheart.”

He shoots you a dry look from over his shoulder, stirring the dark amber of his drink with a forefinger. When he sucks his skin clean with a soft pop - a flash of a pink tongue taunting, teasing - your stomach swoops.

God, I wonder what else his mouth can do.

Flustered, you clear your throat and stare at a spot on the wall.

“How many times do I gotta tell you to call me Coop?” he says, digging through some drawers until he finds what he’s searching for: a lighter. “It must be a million and one by now.”

Flint sparks as flames jump, eating away at the end of a cigarette. Cooper inhales in short little puffs, pulling on the filter. His cheeks hollow, the shadows enhancing the cut of his jaw before the tip catches alight.

“Well,” he exhales, his gaze catching yours through a plume of smoke as he turns, brow raised. “Anything to say for yourself?”

“Old habits die hard, I guess,” you chuckle.

The corner of his mouth lifts in a lopsided smirk. “I’ll drink to that.” He knocks back the last finger of whiskey before refilling with gin.

Springs groan in protest when he drops to the couch, settling in with an outstretched arm and wide spread thighs.

“It’s been a long fucking day,” he rasps.

Gulping, you try to ignore the space at his feet.

The stirrings of desire provoked by the urge to sink to your knees and fill it with your body, to ease tension from those shoulders with your hands, your mouth, your cunt — if he’d let you.

“You heading home?” Nursing the fresh drink, he swallows a mouthful, only to hiss low through his teeth at the chemical burn. His throat bobs, framed by the open collar of his shirt. “Whew! Goddamn, that’s strong.”

“No, I can stay for a while.” A bird on a wire, you perch on the cushion beside him. “Got nothing else planned for tonight, anyhow.”

Cooper snorts. “I doubt that very much. A sweet young thing like you,” he motions towards you with his glass, “I’m sure you’ve got plenty of fellas calling, especially on a Friday night. Don’t waste your time with me.”

“That’s not why I--” you stop yourself short.

Save for the bustling LA avenue right outside the complex, the apartment itself is stone silent for several heartbeats. Words hover on the back of your tongue, catching in the bend of your throat molasses thick.

Meanwhile, Cooper continues to swirl the alcohol in his glass.

Maybe in a different life, you wouldn’t hesitate to express yourself.

But here — with him — you shouldn’t.

Christ sake, he’s a grieving divorcé, you chastise yourself. The last thing he needs is me trying to lay one on him.

When you speak, his name glides off your lips for the first time, clementine sweet, “... Cooper, I’m not wasting my time. I enjoy spending it with Janey - and you.”

“Well,” he husks, hooded eyes dragging down your visage in a slow once-over, “you’re the first one in a long while to feel that way, sweetheart.”

Dripping like honey whiskey from Cooper’s lips, the simple phrase burns its way down-down-down until it blooms like liquid fire in your belly. Warms you all the way to your toes as your heart pounds against your ribcage.

“I mean it.” Your knuckles twist in the pleats of your sundress, bolts of blue fabric bunched around your knees. “Everything I do is because I want to.”

The flash of red nails plucking at the sheer nylon of your stockings snaps up his attention, his gaze snagging - staying as he chases the curve of your exposed leg, hungry.

He wets his lips, and tenses his jaw when he spots how the soft fat of your thigh dimples in because of your garter. “That’s awful sweet of you to say.”

You tremble beneath the intensity of his attention.

Greedy.

Little kisses of awareness spark bright along the path his eyes carve like the caress of shy fingertips.

However, before you’re able to confront him about his interest, the heat leaches from his expression, grows mute and cold like a muzzled dog. 

Readjusting the waistband of his slacks with a tug, he says, “I know you got better things to do than keep an old man company.”

Irritation sparks. “Cooper--”

“If this is about paying you for tonight,” his lips quirk into a sheepish smile, “I won’t be able to yet.” He scrubs a hand through the stubble peppered along his jaw. “The gig tonight didn’t… Well, it doesn’t matter.”

“No, that’s not what I --”

He plows on, “Anyway, the one I’ve got tomorrow should be enough. How about I stop by around seven o’clock? I’ll treat you to dinner as an apology.”

Frustration bubbles beneath the surface of your skin, antagonism thrumming through your veins. Your hands shake almost as much as your voice. “Cooper!”

“I… uh, yes?” He blinks.

Your brows furrow. “You don’t get it,” you say. “I mean, you truly don’t know?”

“I’m afraid there’s a lot I don’t get. You’re gonna have to be more particular.”

Maybe not said in so many words (or at all) but actions speak far louder.

Otherwise, why else would you spend most of your time in his apartment, fill every spare moment with Janey, and reserve evenings for his company?

Hell, you even cook and clean!

Almost scream your interest from the rooftops, and it’s obvious to everyone but him, it seems.

Here you are thinking he was preserving your dignity whenever he ignored a passing comment or lingering touch when, in fact, he’d been oblivious to their existence to begin with.

How a man can be so obtuse when you’re throwing yourself at him is beyond you.

If he wasn’t so captivating…

“Are you kidding me,” you ask, mindful of your tone, “how could you not know?” You throw your hands in the air. “I’ve been — for months!”

“Well, I don’t have a goddamn clue what you’re talking about, sweetheart,” he snarks, setting his glass on the table. “Care to enlighten me?”

Fine. If that’s how he wants to play, let’s play.

When he moves to take another drag from his cigarette, you strike, fingers locking around his wrist mid-lift. And although his glassy eyes narrow, he keeps his hand still.

Waiting to see what you'll do.

Tucking your knee under you for balance, you bend forward and watch his face from beneath your lashes. When your lips wrap around the filter, a dark hunger bleeds into his expression, his pulse a steady thud against the pad of your thumb.

Inhaling, the cherry lights up, a flashbang in the dim overhead light.

Cooper’s breath hitches, and then you’re pulling away with a lungful of smoke; the taste of ash heavy on your tongue.

He tracks your movements with greed, gaze flicking for the briefest of moments past your chin before refocusing on the ring of red lipstick staining white paper.

“If you wanted one,” he chokes, gripping the back of the couch with white knuckles, “all you had to do was ask.”

With a coquettish grin, you exhale to the side and stare at him with hooded eyes. “Is that so?” Plucking the cigarette out of his limp hold, you stub it out in the ashtray. “What if I wanted to ask for something else, Mr. Howard?”

The next moment finds you deposited in his lap, his hands shooting out to grab at your waist only to freeze before they make contact.

“Woah! I--”

“Tell me something.”

Your lips caress the shell of his ear, sharing breath - sharing space as you plaster yourself to his front, arms looped over his shoulders. He jolts, body trembling with restraint.

“Would you give me what I wanted if I said please?”

The distance between you snaps taut with anticipation. “C-Coop,” he stutters. “Call me Coop.”

You hum. “Well, Coop, would you?”

“That depends almost entirely on what you’re asking for, sweetheart.”

Red nails skate along the back of his neck, play in the downy soft hair of his nape just to feel him shiver. And then you’re leaning back with your hands braced on his knees, your legs falling open in invitation.

The hem of your dress bunches around your waist, exposing the soft cotton of your underwear, and the darkened patch of slick soaking through.

“I think you know exactly what I want,” you purr. “Because you want it too. Don’t you?”

He bites down on a strangled moan when your hips arch forward, rocking the soft plush of your ass against the heavy weight of his thickening cock. The zipper digs into your skin as he tents the front of his slacks.

Mouth dropping open, his tongue flicks out to wet his lips - a slick circle of temptation that makes you clench. “I, uh, I don’t…”

Reaching between your splayed thighs, you hook a finger beneath your panties and pull the fabric aside. He jerks forward, exhaling hard at the flash of your soaked cunt and twitching clit.

“C’mon, be honest.”

With a sigh, you gather your arousal on the tips of your fingers.

Cooper’s gaze is a heavy weight pinning you in place as you pretend it’s him dragging his knuckles over the top of your mond. Him dragging calloused fingers up along sticky folds to play with your sensitive clit, ripping soft little mewls from your lips.

“Can’t you see what you do to me, Coop?” you say, pulling your hand away to show the webs of slick stretching between your fingers. “I’m so wet. Please, I’ve wanted you for so long…”

His hips rock against your ass in an aborted thrust. “Shit - shit!” Eyes slamming shut, he grits his teeth and digs his fingers into your sides hard enough to bruise. “We really, uh, shouldn’t - oh fuck, you look --”

“Why not?” Your hand brushes over his groin. “I can feel how hard you are.”

“It isn’t right, that’s why.” He stutters, stumbles over his words, “Besides, Janey…”

“I can be quiet,” you say, lips trembling. “I promise.”

“Goddamnit, you can’t say things like that and expect me not to --” Cutting himself off, strong fingers seize your chin and tilt until you’re met with Cooper’s severe expression, his scorching gaze. “You need to tell me now: are you sure this is what you want?”

There’s no hesitation, “Yes.”

In what world would you refuse?

The words barely pass your lips before Cooper’s bowing his dark head, mouth ravenous as it captures yours in a slick glide of bruising lips and hungry tongues.

He steals your breath, licks into your mouth and traces along the sensitive inside of your lip.

Pulse jump starting, your toes curl over the edge of the cushion and your thighs squeeze the barrel of his chest, kneecaps digging into his ribs.

“Oh,” a moan punches itself out of your throat - a breathy little thing swallowed up by his lips. “That’s--”

Anticipation swells, simmers between you like a band before it snaps. A strong forearm locks around your waist, tugging you into the cradle of his chest until you’re plastered from stem to stern.

Too hungry for tenderness as his free hand slips up to cup the back of your head, fingers catching in the briar of your hair and tugging at the roots.

You claw at his shoulders while sparks of pain ricochet down your neck, sufficing into a prickly flush that heats your blood. “Hnn, Cooper,” you gasp.

He murmurs your name through languid flicks of his tongue and sharp little nips of skin that leave your mouth tender and swollen. When he pulls away to survey his handiwork, his eyes are dark. Fathomless.

"I never thought I'd get the chance to kiss you like this," he says, wicking his thumb over the pillow of your bottom lip. "You taste as good as I imagined."

Dragging your nails across his scalp, you plead, “No more teasing - I can't take it.”

"Well," he grunts, fingers twisting up in your dress, “If that’s how you feel, then you better put those hips to good use and work for it, sweetheart."

part 2 dropping soon

[furrytalebeard]

Fatboy American

Mason was a very fit british man. On a business trip to America he had noticed the men here were a lot larger than at home. He thought maybe they could use to do with a few workouts. Regardless he made his way to the corporate building wearing his very prideful British shirt.

"hello I’m Chris, I’m here to assist you while you’re staying here in America." Said a man in a formal suit. Mason noticed how he was more fit than the average American. He seemed to trust Chris.

"Nice to meet you Chris I’m man- sorry Mason." He stumbled over his words at the smell of fried food in the air. "Well Manson it’s nice to meet you as well. You’re going to fit in great. Are you ready for your photo shoot?" "photoshoot? I thought I was here to talk business?" Manson replied.

“Oh no no no the only business you’re going to be dealing with is pictures come come we must not be long. And you’ll need to change out of….that"

Manson pondered what was going on but he was quickly turned to the dressing room. He was face to face with a very large American shirt which he refused to wear.

“sorry I’d rather not wear that if we’re doing photos. I’m not even American."

Chris didn’t seem to like that. "Typical you’ll need a bit of an adjustment. No worries just focus on the smell" Chris said turning around and blasting him in the face with a fart. Manson blinked before the effects began to really hit him. His face began to grow as his beard grew longer. His body began to pack on calories and his well behaved demeanor began to sheink. Manny blinked again and looked around before ripping a fat one and laughing.

"you ready manny?" Chris asked.

"HELL YEAH" he said and flexed in his new shirt. "MERICA"

"Good flex for me fat boy" Chris said taking the photo.

[nathanbatemanfucker]

The Bee and the Bear, Chapter 3: Like a Bear to a Hive

summary: carmy cooks Bee dinner.

pairing: carmy berzatto x f!reader (Bee)

contents: 18+/NSFW/heavy content/eventual smut, mention of suicide/mental illness, grief, longing, pining, angst, friends to strangersish to lovers, food and alcohol mention

wc: 2.7k

an: god i love these two so badddddd. i love their tenderness despite the awkwardness…i love how palpable how much they mean to the other is. PS this isn’t beta’d so if you see something insanely fucked pls let me know! PSS totto’s market is real and located in chicago…highly recommend it!

series masterlist

< | chapter 2: Back in the Beef

You can’t figure out what to wear. You’ve been back and forth, digging through your suitcase like a madwoman and standing in front of the mirror in your childhood room. This crisis is silly, it shouldn’t even be a crisis. Carmy has seen you in more than 80% of your wardrobe. Sure, you’ve gotten clothing for work, some racier things from your bar crawl days in undergrad. You’d brought neither of those categories with you– jeans and sweaters, a polished suit suit for Mikey’s funeral.

But, how do you dress for hanging out with Carmen Berzatto for the first time since you were just a teenager?

The answer is a paradox because its unclearly clear. This isn’t a special occasion and it is decidedly not a date. You’re a faithful woman, one who’s trying so desperately to protect your heart while simultaneously letting yourself have this. It feels pathetic to think about how long you’ve been waiting for a moment like this.

There was a time where missing Carmy completely consumed you. This is your way of letting yourself heal, or maybe it’s just going to make that feeling resurface when you inevitably go back home and history repeats itself. Your thoughts start to grow, mind swirling with doubt when your phone begins to buzz where its sat on your bedside table.

A picture of you and Kyle pops up on the display, his contact name a simple blue heart.

You answer it quietly, “Hello?”

“Hi, honey.”

“Hey,” You breathe, falling back into bed, giving yourself a reprieve from staring at every piece of clothing you’d packed.

“You sound tense,” And while he’s bringing it up, there’s no true concern that you can detect in his voice.

“No, not tense at all, just—pretty tired.”

It isn’t a complete lie. Despite feeling wired and on edge about seeing Carmy, there’s a heaviness to your limbs– fatigue from the last few days.

“Oh, are you heading to bed soon?”

You take in a shaky breath. Outright lying to him isn’t an option, you’re a good partner— a faithful partner, so you’ll just be honest. You close your eyes, struggling to keep your voice nonchalant, “Actually I’m getting dinner– well Carmy’s making dinner.”

Silence stretches between the two of you and you open your mouth to say something, anything but Kyle beats you to it.

“First time you’re seeing him since you moved out here, yeah?” He asks quietly. There’s a stillness in his tone that sends a chill down your spine.

“Yeah, it’ll be good to catch up with him. See what’s changed since we were babies.”

“And you still trust him? I mean its been–”

“He’s one of my best friends, Kyle,” You say quickly, before he can voice any of his opinions on Carmy or any of your other friends from home.

He doesn’t understand your bond with Nat or Carmy or Richie— hardly understood why you felt so compelled to come home from Mikey’s funeral when you hadn’t seen him in years. Kyle has no friends from his childhood, it’s just him and the steady, sterile climb into corporate America, full of empty smiles and cold happy hours. He doesn’t understand the warmth that ties you all together no matter how far you go, like the roots of a tree.

“One of your best friends? That you haven’t seen since before you could order your own glass of bourbon?” He challenges, chuckling under his breath.

“He means a lot to me. You know that.”

“How could I forget.”

You sigh, pinching the bridge of your nose in frustration, “Please, Kyle, it's not like that. It's never been like that. We’re platonic. I know it's weird for you but just– it's nice. To have him back after all these years. After losing Mikey.”

“Alright, I’m sorry. I know how much that little group of friends means to you even if they all have a weird way of showing it.”

“Thanks. I’ll let you know when I make it home?”

“Okay. I love you.”

“Love you too.”

Your conversation with Kyle feels like a cold shower. You’d just lied to him and now you’re second guessing everything. Should you really be doing this? Would this just be torture? Is having him in this way worse than not having him at all? Things with Carmy had never been voluntarily platonic.

Your phone buzzes and you think that its a text from Kyle– an overprotective “be careful” or “are you sure?”. To your surprise, its Carmy. Was he canceling? Why did that make your heart ache when you were just rethinking this yourself.

Bear 🤎: Looking forward to tonight. 8 still ok?

You stare at the text for several seconds, unaware of the soft smile that spreads across your face. He still has a contact photo– the two of you together for the last time before going off sitting outside the Adler Planetarium listening to the lakeside waves. Sugar had taken the photo while Mikey and Richie shadow boxed in the parking lot like a couple idiots.

Another text rolls in, pulling you from that memory.

Bear 🤎: We could do it sooner if you get tired early.

You: 8’s good, I still have to get wine.

Bear: See you soon.

You: Soon.

For a moment, you wish that you and Carmy were having lunch– you could take a walk down the Chicago streets, the wind whipping at your cheeks and clearing your head. But it’s nearly 7 and that wouldn’t be the safest thing to do. Finally you dress, settling on jeans and a chunky knit sweater that’s your favorite color. You bid your parents goodbye, ignoring their strangely wide smiles at the mention of Carmy and head for their car. Your favorite little store, Totto’s Market is just around the corner and you park the car and pop inside, needing to get in and out since your forgoed paying the meter.

Wine is an easy pick, one of your favorite whites that’s on the sweeter side. Dessert proves to be a challenge— Totto’s always has an assortment of killer pastries, flavorful ice cream and unique delicacies. You decide to play it safe with something you know Carmy will love: a orange and pistachio scone. He appreciates the brightness of citrusy paired with the earthy, salty pistachio, not to mention the buttery, crumbly scone. You’re out in less than 10 minutes and head towards Carmy’s.

When you pull up to his apartment building you do pay the parking meter, the hopeful part of you paying for a few hours. It could be something quick, dinner could be done and plated, awkward and over in no time. But you hope that that spark is still there, that he’s missed you just as much as you missed him.

He appears at the door pulling you out of your thoughts. He’s in a white t-shirt as always, but this one looks pristine with no wrinkles and is tucked into a brown pair of dickies instead of his usual messy jeans. He smiles bright, his eyes crystal blue, “Hey, c’mon in.”

“Yeah, sure,” You say awkwardly, following him inside.

“Whatcha got here? Lemme see,” He says, taking the bag from you once the two of you make it into the kitchen– you hope he doesn’t notice how slick your hands are, how they stuck slightly to the handles of the paper bag.His grin widens as he pulls out the bottle of wine you got, eyes flickering up to meet yours. “This is perfect.”

“Yeah? You’re not just humoring me.”

“I’m not, it’s a great pair with dinner. Sit,” He points to one of the bar stools tucked under the counter and you do, hoisting yourself up.

“What’s this?” He holds up the pastry bag, before opening it and inhaling. “Whoa.”

“Orange and pistachio scones. I didn’t know what you were making so I thought I’d go light for dessert.”

He gives you a nod of approval and sets down the bag, bending down to get a pot from the lower cabinets.

“I get to watch, hmm?” You ask, surprised but excited.

You hadn’t anticipated that he’d start cooking after you got there. Sure, he’d asked you to hang out but since then you’ve been wondering— is he doing this out of guilt? Out of pity? It had you thinking that he’d want to spend a limited amount of time with you, even with his enthusiasm. Your brain cycles through that back and forth, basking in his eagerness and questioning it many times in the span of minutes. But now you’re here. Now he’s cooking for you and those voices are a little softer in your head, overwhelmed by Carmy.

He shrugs, shifting awkwardly, “Thought I’d do it this way, for old time sake.”

“For old time sake,” You repeat quietly, watching as he starts to putter around the kitchen.

He heads for the fridge first, grabbing a couple wine glasses out of his freezer and pouring you both a glass before he gets started on prep. There’s soft music playing that you finally notice as you settle in, the gentle picking of guitar, accompanied by a piano melody.

“Actually…you still remember how to dice?” He teases, glancing over his shoulder at you, as he opens a container of eggs.

“Taught by the best,” You hop up, bringing your glass of wine with you as you join him at the prep station.

He looks smug for a moment before his brows knit together, “Wait— didn’t Mikey teach you how to dice?”

“I did say the best.”

He tries to look put out with you but the edges of his mouth twitch begging to smile. He nudges your shoulder, “Bull.”

“I think Mikey would disagree.”

“‘Course he would.” He’s quiet for a moment, squinting over at you, formulating his next words, “Where were you— when you?”

You take in a deep breath, shoulders dropping lower than before upon your exhale, “Uh, at work actually. Showing a new client around the gallery.”

“Sugar?”

“Richie. Sugar was…well she was telling you I’d imagining. Or falling apart. Both probably.”

“Yeah.”

The two of you slip into a comfortable silence, working at your respective stations. You glance over at him a few times, wondering if you should say what’s on your mind or leave it be.

“Say it.”

“Huh?” You finish chopping, looking up from the cutting board.”

“Whatever’s on your mind. You can say it.”

Incredible how after all this time apart, he can still read you like an open book. You shouldn’t be surprised since you can do the same to him…but what you’ve felt for him has always been different than what he felt for you. Right?

You sigh, shrugging a bit as you gather the onions you’ve successfully diced up in a pile, “Oh, uh, I was just…I realized I hadn’t said I’m sorry. About Mikey, I mean.”

He’s quiet for a moment, though his hands don’t stop working until he looks over at you, “Me too. For you. For all of us.”

“He’s your brother, Carm, you don’t have to extend me sympathy.”

“He meant a lot to you, too.”

You nod, staying quiet; there’s no use in arguing with that logic. He thanks you for dicing and tells you to go get comfortable on the couch while he finishes the rest. You protest insisting there's more you can do to help, but he gives you a no nonsense look pointing to the couch. You hold up your hands in surrender, grabbing your wine glass before taking a seat. From here you can still see him from the waist up and you watch him move around the kitchen. His quick, graceful way makes you realize that you would have just been in his way, slowing him down. As time passes his apartment fills with the scent of herbs, spicy chilis, aromatic tomatoes, and toasty bread.

Dinner is ready in no time at all– he isn’t an award winning chef for nothing– and you return to the counter when he plates the food at the bar. The two of you take turns talking, him first about the special changes he’s made to Mikey’s family spaghetti recipe, you about how well the gallery is flourishing, how its taking up too much of your time and that you haven’t gotten to create as much as you wanted in the coming months.

Your stomach is overtly full by the time you take the last bite, and you wipe the corner of your mouth with a napkin as you say, “I owe you for this, this was incredible.”

Carmy shrugs it off, “You’ve had this a million times.”

“Not from your hands. Not like this, all those tweaks you made shine through.”

It’s impossible to deny the flush that stains his cheeks but you do anyway, sparing your heart. “My hands aren’t special.”

You knock his shoulder with your own, tone teasing as you say, “Sure they are, they’re attached to you aren’t they?”

Carmy finds himself speechless, unable to do anything but stare at you in a mixture of shock and bashfulness. That soft pink blush deepens, and the plain evidence of your effect on him has your heart skipping.

You clear your throat, looking away from his gaze to fiddle with your fork, “I actually have something for you, give you an excuse to see me one more time.”

“I don’t need an excuse to see you.”

“Carmy,” You say knowingly and he dips his head a little in defeat.

“That’s the past. It shouldn’t have happened and– I’m sorry. Y’know, I’m sorry.”

Your gaze softens, and you reach out to squeeze his shoulder soothingly for a moment, “Don’t—like you said it's the past. I need to call in a favor so give me two days? Friday night?”

He melts under your touch, looking over at you with a soft smile, “Friday night.

“I’ll pick you up,” You offer.

“That much of a surprise, huh?”

“We can’t all cook the surprise, sometimes location is all a girl can have.”

“You’ve got more than that. Way more than that.”

“Oh really?” You roll your eyes playfully before meeting his gaze— its heart stopping. Sobering.

His eyes pierce into you, down to the softest part of your heart, the part only ever reserved for him. “Yeah,” He breathes roughly.

When had you gotten so close to him? You can smell his scent, worn leather and cigarettes, a hint of some citrusy cologne that he dabs behind his ears and the slope of his neck. His eyes are impossible to escape, a deep clear blue full intricacies you can’t look away from. Carmy’s just as entranced as you, drawn to you like a bear is to sweet honey. His thumb brushes your own, and you shiver, a soft jagged breath leaving you at his warm touch.

The spell is broken by the shrill of your phone, a telltale ringtone that has guilt blooming in your chest immediately. It’s Kyle.

Both of you lean away from each other quickly and you reach for your bag on the counter, fishing out your phone. “Sorry, it’s Kyle,” You glance at Carmy nervously, holding up your phone awkwardly before you answer.

He sees the heart by Kyle’s name and his own sinks into his stomach, “No, no, you’re good. All good.”

Carmy’s head feels as if it's about to burst, swirling a million miles a minute though he looks no different on the outside. Kyle? Who the fuck was Kyle? He was this out of the loop, had put so much space between the two of you that he doesn’t even know that you’re seeing someone? How long have you been together? Did you live with him? Did you…love him? Want to spend your life with him? Why would Sugar set him up like this— set you up like this, if you had someone?

He listens to you talk, the light that has been shining in his eyes from the moment you stepped into his apartment dimming with each word he hears you speak.

“Hey, honey. No, no, I’m just about to leave. Well, he didn’t start until I got here. Yes, I’ll call you when I’m home. I will. Love you too. Ok, bye.”

“Everything okay?”

“Yeah, sorry, he just gets worried about me.”

“I’d worry about you too.” After a beat he murmurs, “I do.”

“I worry about you too,” You whisper shyly.

“Nothing to worry about here, Bee,” He struggles to keep his tone nonchalant.

The strain in his voice has you looking up at him. His eyes are cloudy, sad. He’s trying to keep it together as always and the sight has your will crumbling. You lean closer again, raising your hand to cup his cheek so that he has to meet your eye.

“You don’t have to pretend, Carmen. You know that, right?”

He swallows loudly, unable to hold your eye contact for more than a few seconds at a time. Nodding he places his hand over yours, rubbing it gently, “I know. But it’s easier that way. For all of us.”

Before you can formulate response he gives your hand one last squeeze and rises to his feet. “I’ll pack up some leftovers for you.”

And just like that, the moment is gone. That little glimpse of your Carmy is overshadowed by the one he’s become.

| > chapter 4: Like a Bee to Nectar

18+ carmy taglist: @treefingers , @mrsdominickstark, @princess-of-fanfics, @whore-for-murdock, @xxxstormyninixxx, @dreamingwithlens, @thecraziestcrayon, @jam1esl0v4, @lilylovelyxo, @jadeittic, @jotarokuj0, @bunnysthngs, @gcidrvsh, @mistalli, @luvr-bunnyy, @s3xymoonman, @cosmicspacewitch, @khena, @r0s3mm, @recklessgiraffelife, @i-am-typing, @salinaiacono6

If you ask to be added to the taglist but didn’t verify you’re 18+ you will not be added!

[kahluamystery97]

Satellite (HS x OC)

 Chapter One  (March 2021)

“Cmon baby, pick up." Harry Styles muttered to himself. Each unanswered ring of the phone frazzled his already fraught nerves. As he resigned himself to being relegated to voicemail the line came alive. 

"Hello.” Her greeting more of a question. 

"Hi, uh, hi um, thanks for answering.” Harry was suddenly at a loss for words. Fumbling and unsure what to say next he blurts, "I just, I won tonight. I won a Grammy."

"I uh, I know. Congratulations. I was watching.” She admitted quietly. 

She knows. She was watching. Harry’s heart nearly leapt from his chest. He pushed down the fear of her rejecting him and boldly decided to say what he was feeling. 

"To celebrate this win without you feels so hollow though.  So much of this is because of you." 

“Harry.’ She said his name like a warning. 

He knew he was pushing his luck. He couldn’t stop now. Harry braved it. 

"You helped more than you know.  You let me adore you," He played on the song he had written for her. The line was silent.  

Her laugh was flat and angry. “Just me? Did you call Colette first or is she next?" 

Harry swallowed hard. He deserved that. "I'm sorry this isn't where I wanted this call to go. I wanted to ask you to come tonight. To celebrate. Be with me.  Just having a little thing. We don't have to have any complicated conversations. Just come and be beside me. Celebrate with me."

Maggie Dunne felt her gut twist into knots. Had she had any significant amount of food in her system she was sure she would vomit. She picked up the phone to congratulate him. This was a big moment in his career. She genuinely cared that he should have a good night. She did not expect an invite out. 

Maggie knew if she wasn’t careful she could be sucked right back into his orbit only to be spit out again.  She surprised even herself when she said, "Text me the details. I'll try. I'm not even dressed."

"Wear whatever you like. It isn't a giant thing. Everyone will be so happy to see you. I could send a car for you." He offered hoping that would guarantee her turning up.

"I can get my own car." Just like that she hung up the phone. She had no idea why the fuck she was considering this. Things between Maggie and Harry hadn’t always been so complicated.

This is just a teaser. I wrote this story ages ago. I started it right after Harry won his first Grammy. I shared a really rough version of it a long time ago on here and it didn't have too many followers. I thought since the place seemed sort of quiet I would give it a rewrite and see if anyone was interested in it. It is more for me than anyone else. Just to prove that I haven't totally let all of my creativity die while I toil away in corporate America. Hope you enjoy it (more to come).

[mysteriouslytransparentwitch]

Hello Mysterious, I hope all is well and continues to improve with you.

You don’t need to post this ask,but I just wanted to express my thoughts on the expansion of the far right across the world, in relation to your last post about France and Macron.

1. Putin

2. Trump and GOP

3. Elon Musk

4. Nigel Farage

5. Marie Le Pen

6. Venezuela president Maduro Moros, plus Argentina’s president Milea.

7. Canadian conservatives now far right party.

8. Corporate right wing media in Europe, North America across the globe.

9. Money, laundered, bit coin or otherwise.

10. War in Ukraine.

All ten are connected, with the source being Putin. He’s been involved since 2015 when he stole Russia’s state money and the oligarchs money. He’s rumoured to be the richest man in the world at one point, and what better use of that resource than to fund a world in your vision of the future??? What we’re witnessing today are the dying throes of this evil heinous collaboration. Putin was very much behind the Conservative Brexit movement in Britain and behind Boris Johnson and Nigel Farage. Not to mention putting trump in the White House. Those were his successes. Putin desires the dissolution of the EU and NATO, a united Europe. Trump was espousing those wishes when he was ‘President’. Elon and Trump are his voice in the west. Maduro was pushing to start a war in South America for oil rich land in Guyana, and was blocked by Blair and Clinton recently. The Guyana president visited Britain when all diplomacy failed on his part. I’m originally from Guyana so I was paying attention to those moves.

Putin has been funding far right causes all across the world for at least a decade now. And he should be reaping the rewards of his hard work. But sadly, no.

The media companies don’t mind the marriage and getting in bed with Putin to consummate the unholy alliance. Money is money is money. Let it rain. They don’t even draw the line at promoting his blatant propaganda as they are doing right now in bashing Biden in the US. The US citizens have to wake up and make the right decision on November 5th.

Yes I believe you when you say Macron will have a fight on his hands in November. It will be directly as a result of the upcoming US elections and its results. All are connected. Sow doubt and fear in France, bring violence to the fore. See??? this could happen to you in the US, a civil war…. But what would you have Macron do?? Submit to the far right and plunge Europe into a proper World War 3? IMO Le Pen will always do as Putin asks, she is his wh*** he just has to say the word and she will obey. And proximity to Russia is also a factor in this. Again as in the US the media is heavily involved too. Right now they are flirting with WW3 in Ukraine. My guess is that war won’t end until after November 2024. A LOT of decisions will be made after November 5th. Just my opinion and observations. Thanks for listening.

I sincerely think that Macron and Lepen are ready to sell the French system for money. I'm serious this time. The complicity of journalists is beginning to be revealed. I can only see an explosion of the 5th republic.

I sincerely believe that the financial system wants the skin of the population. I'm not a conspiracy theorist, you know me.

There's too much of a weird connection. We talk again about links and traffic with Kadafi (Libya)

I need to sit down seriously and look at my cards

[tieronecrush]

hot & heavy

chapter nine: jesus christ 2005 god bless america

neighbor!joel x f!reader

series masterlist

series rating: E (18+ MDNI)

series summary:

over the course of three summers, joel miller becomes woven into your life. the first summer is spent falling for him; nannying his daughter and sneaking around with him in a burning love affair. you know how you feel about joel, he isn’t so sure about how it all is gonna work. the second summer is brief. a month spent at home after graduation and before you move to boston for your dream job. one look at you, one time hearing your voice, and joel is hooked again. he pines over you for that month, but you think — how is long distance of over a thousand miles going to work for a single dad? the third summer, you return home burnt out and pride bruised from your post-grad life. you need time to feel at home again, like your complete self, so you’ve come back home with no return ticket booked. it’s only a matter of time before joel seeks you out, slowly spending more time with you. without an inevitable end to the summer looming over you both, what chances are you willing to take?

word count: 9.5k

warnings: NO OUTBREAK (don’t need to worry about the mushies), no use of y/n, inexperienced reader, age gap (joel is 30/31, reader is 22), canon-divergent (sarah is 7 y/o), nanny au, pet names (sweetheart, darling, sweet girl, mariposa, etc.), polite southern manners, feeling familial and self-pressure, undefined relationship, small use of spanish cause joel is latino, pining joel, fingering, hand-job, dirty talkkk king joel miller, soft soft soft joel, sprinkle of possessive joel, Big Feelings, crying, mentions of depression diagnosis and symptoms, struggling with self, discussion of co-parenting, signing away parental rights, effects of that situation on children, major guilt form both of 'em, this chapter has some heavier angst than before!

a/n: they're baaaaaaack <333 my babies! it's 2005 and summer #3 is officially underway and i can't wait to share it with you all. thank you so very much to the bestie/cousin/sister wife/sweet, sweet gf @northernbluess for beta-reading this chapter, and for shouting about these two with me. enjoy y'all x

You can count on your two hands the number of times you’ve been able to talk to Joel over the last year. Sarah’s schedule going into third grade was much busier, his work picking up even more business and expanding. Your job was demanding — long hours, coming in early and staying late, rejection after rejection of ideas you excitedly pitched. By a few months in, you took the hint: you were there to get coffees, do the grunt work, fill in the gaps even if it wasn’t in your job description. It wasn’t that you had a problem with doing all of those things; anyone in the industry, basically anyone with a corporate job has told you that you have to do your time, climb the rungs of the ladder to get to where you want to be. But it’s hard to justify a job that has taken you away from the one place that feels like home, the people who make you feel loved.

It came in waves at first, that feeling of heavy limbs, slogging thoughts, the perpetual cinch of your chest as if you were going to cry, with no reason to. In summer, it was easy to blame it on homesickness, adjusting to a new city, or getting used to living with your new roommates. The leaves changing brought new symptoms: staying in over the weekends, curled up in bed with the TV playing cable reruns for 48 hours straight, the lull of sleep overcoming you at odd hours. But this was merely because the cold was creeping in, and the daylight hours were waning.

Joel called one winter evening; well, the Caller ID read his name, but upon answering the phone, you were quick to realize it was someone else.

“Hello?”

“Posey, you answered! Hi!”

“Hey, Sare-Bear. What’s going on?” You find the means to prop yourself up on your pillows, turning down the volume of the TV and curling your knees toward your chest.

“Not too much, I asked Daddy if I could call you and he said yes, so I did! I was sad you couldn’t be home for Christmas last month. Santa brought me lots of presents! Oh, and Daddy took me to Disney World with Uncle Tommy after Christmas before school started again!”

Sarah’s chipper voice is scraping nails against your heart, tightening your lungs until all you can manage is shallow breaths. You hold it together long enough to hear about all her presents and the Miller family trip before you hear Joel in the background, coaxing the phone from his daughter.

“Daddy says he wants to talk to you so I have to give the phone to him. Bye, Posey, miss you!”

“Miss you too, sweet pea,” you choke out, sinking further into your bed with eyes filling with tears. You should be overjoyed to be hearing from Sarah; instead, it fills you with a reminder that you have no idea when you’ll see her again, no clue how to try to make yourself love this place.

“Hey, Mari.”

The sound of his voice was syrupy, the drawl in his tone basking you in the Texas sun that you missed so. He was like the warmth of a bonfire, the summer breeze messing with your hair while you rode in his truck with the windows down. Hearing him was like sinking into his mattress for the night, a solid, weighted arm slung around you safely.

“Hi, Joel.”

“Gotta say thank you again for the watch you sent me for my birthday. I know, you’re going to say that I’ve already said it about ten times but I need to do it again 'cause I just like havin’ a reminder of you every day.”

“You’re welcome,”  your voice wavers slightly, and you make a quick attempt to recover with a deep breath.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

No, not now, you can’t break now, you have to make it through the phone call.

Your tongue sits heavy in your mouth, your ears growing hot and tears pricking your eyes in pain as you hold it all in. One sniffle comes over you before you can catch it, concern lacing the other end of the call.

“Hey, darlin’—Hold on.”

Muffled thumps of footsteps heading upstairs crackle through the phone, the creak and click of a door closing popping in your ear pressed to the speaker.

“Sorry, I had to come up to my room. Now, what’s wrong, darlin’?” Joel’s gentle, airy tone breaks the final splinter of the dam, emotion overflowing.

“I shouldn’t let it all get to me, but, work has been awful, like all I've done this week is get coffee and take minutes for meetings, which don’t even get used because they have someone that gets to actually participate taking the minutes. And—and I can’t seem to find my place. My roommates are way closer with each other cause they’ve been working together before and at the office, it’s so cliquey and everybody keeps calling my accent cute—“

Attempting to make you smile, Joel interjects, “It is cute, sweetheart.”

“Well, you can say that ‘cause you’ve got one too. They just call me ‘Texas’ or ‘Y’all’ cause I said it once in front of the group. These people are all from around here, from generations of East Coast families and they know all about life here and constantly try to one-up each other and I can’t do it, Joel. I can’t—It’s too hard. It hurts so much.”

You’ve fully got tears streaming down your face, your voice thick with phlegm, and sniffling from your runny nose. 

“Oh, my sweet girl…” There’s a strain in his voice too, covered with a stuttered clearing sound. “Mariposa, my Mariposa, you can do It. I know it’s hard, I know. And mean people don’t make the adjustment any easier, but remember you’re the bigger person. Kill ‘em with kindness, baby.”

“It breaks my heart to hear you’re hurtin’, Mari. But you can do it. You’re smart, beautiful, funny, tough…Are you—are you talkin’ to anybody, sweetheart? A professional?”

“No…” you confess meekly, embarrassed by your lack of effort.

“It’s okay, baby, that’s okay. Maybe we can find you someone, alright? Might help to get out of the house, go see them, talk to them. We’ll find you someone, Mari. Promise.”

“Joel, I don’t want you to worry about me. You don’t have to help me find—“

“I want to. I worry about you constantly, mi amor. It’s hard not to when half of my heart’s across the country.” Silence falls over the line, picking up your hand to wipe at your tears. 

“Thank you, Joel.”

“I love you, Mariposa. Always going to.”

That was the last major phone call you had with him. He did help you find someone, a therapist, to talk to. But through them, you had come to the decision that this life wasn’t for you; corporate bullshit was leaving you burned out and defeated, and it was cooking up an unstable environment that let your sadness and disappointment fester into depressive episodes.

After that discovery, the choice was made and you phoned your parents to tell them you were planning on coming home at the end of your first-year contract if they would have you. They agreed, of course, to welcome you back home for as long as you need.  

You couldn’t bring yourself to call Joel. Hearing his disappointment in your quitting would ruin you. And, you couldn’t blame him if he got a bit angry either. You ran off and chose this life, and when it turned out to be shit, you were running home with your tail between your legs at the first opportunity. He expected so much from you and was so proud of you for choosing your dreams.

You couldn’t bear to tell him about your failure. So you didn’t.

Arrangements were made in the next few months: a replacement roommate found, a letter of resignation submitted, a one-way plane ticket purchased.

Joel wipes at his forehead, standing in the middle of the job site he was working by himself. It was rare for him to really get his hands dirty these days; Miller Construction has grown tenfold since it started, a wider team built and Joel taking the helm as more of a manager and owner. He had a hand in every project, being the one to design and plan everything, leaving the execution to be led by Tommy and his employees.

This was a particular job, though, and one he wanted to make sure was perfect.

Your dad had approached him in early Spring, walking over while Joel mowed the lawn. He explained what he was looking to get done — the basement converted into a studio apartment, with a new bathroom and kitchenette.

Joel agreed to help with the task, and out of curiosity he asked why they were making the change. Usually, it was in-laws, but maybe it was to increase the sale value. Maybe they were planning a move?

He heard it and zoned out immediately.

You? You were moving home?

He wracked his brain for any mention of these plans from you over the last few months, but he came up short when he realized it had been a couple of months since the last phone call. Life had gotten so busy, evenings spent with lawyers and Sarah home every weekend, trying to adjust her to the new arrangement as best as he could. There was his own news he had to tell you, but couldn’t ever find the right time to reach out when he knew how stressed out you were. He remembered missing a call from you, but he completely forgot to return it. Were you going to tell him then?

The phone call he made to you that night went to voicemail, and he left one in hopes you would return a call or message.

“Hey, Mariposa… Hope you’re doing well, amor. Your dad, uh, he came over today and asked me for help on the house. They wanna make the apartment a basement and—shit you definitely already know all of this… Are you—are you coming home?”

He couldn’t stand how he sounded, on the verge of begging and filled with nerves, so the voicemail ended after he asked. You didn’t return the call.

Standing back looking at his handiwork, he takes a deep breath. He’s poured over the decisions for every detail, your parents entrusting him with the project completely. He matched the floors to the rest of your house, but the walls are a soft green, one accented with wallpaper he painstakingly installed that is patterned with lavender, marigolds, and hydrangeas — small butterflies hidden in the flowers.

At one side of the studio space, Joel installed the bookshelf he made by hand in his garage, the built-in coming up halfway on the wall, molding covering the surface, and stained a rich, medium tone that complemented the paint choice. He imagined your rows and rows of beat-up paperbacks filling the spaces, knickknacks strewn along the top.

Your furniture was moved down from your bedroom, arranged by your mom to fit nicely within the space. It feels like you’re already living in this space, the touches of you from your things and the new items he tried to get perfectly ‘you’. A faint smile tugs at his lips, excitement trickling into his bloodstream and tingling all over.

You’re coming home.

The first day you were back, you didn’t leave your new room.

It was out of exhaustion, but mostly out of relishing in the new space, nearly brought to tears by the thoughtfulness of your parents. When they were showing you the new studio suite of yours, you couldn’t stop smiling, turning to your mom and asking, “How did you choose the paint color? And where’d you get the bookshelf?”

Your mom laughed, shrugging as she answered, “Believe it or not, Dad and I were so busy these last few months that we told Joel just to go wild! Well, not wild, but he made all the choices — only ran the cost by us.”

“Wait, Joel did this?”

“Oh yeah, did the whole thing for free labor, too. Stand up guy. Said he just wanted to help out a neighbor — and he did the whole thing himself too, none of his guys helped him. He did a great job, huh kiddo?” Your Dad gives you a grin, extending his arms as if showcasing the room you three were already in and poking around in.

“Yeah, he did do a great job. Guess I need to thank him…” You swallow hard and toy with your bedspread as you sit at the edge of your bed, one leg bent onto the mattress, “Thank you both for this and—and for letting me come home.”

“Hey, don’t sweat it, kiddo. We love having you here, always. You stay however long you need, princess.” At that, it was simply closed, your parents never pushing for more detail than you were willing to offer at the time; both gave you a kiss on your head and a tender hug before they made their way back upstairs, leaving you to begin unpacking.

A fresh set of eyes rolls over the space, the context that each choice was Joel’s, made for you, lighting up small details. The color of the wood he used for the shelves, the wallpaper covered in your favorite flowers and butterflies; what catches your attention is a frame set on the surface of the built-ins. You pick it up, free hand jumping to your chest as you study the content.

A drawing, signed in the bottom right corner by a “Sarah M.” It’s of a garden, lush greenery with an opening in the middle. Joel stands at one side, with dark hair and a scribbled beard, Sarah in the middle with her bouncy curls. On the other side of Sarah is a depiction of you in your sundress from the day at the butterfly garden last summer. The closest thing to a photo of the three of you.

Placing the frame back where you had found it, you hold back your tears, rubbing circles in your thumping chest as you look around the room for five things you can see, four things you can touch, three things you can hear, two things you can smell, and one thing you can taste.

At the third out of four things you can touch, your eyes fall to your bed, pink plaid poking out from between your pillows drawing you nearer. You pull out the shape from your bedding, coming face to face with the long-eared, stuffed bunny that you passed down to Sarah last year. Flopsy.

You curl the animal into your chest, squeezing it as you climb onto your bed and lie down. Bringing it up to your face, you inhale the smell of the Miller house, the smell of your previous summers. It calms your rapid pulse, each deep breath lulling you to sleep.

Somehow, despite being each other’s next-door neighbors, you’ve managed to avoid Joel and he’s avoided you for the last few days. It wasn’t like you weren’t thinking about him — no, you were constantly thinking about him. Driving past his house, walking past his driveway, every time you wake up in your room and are faced with all of what he did for you. 

But finally seeing him, talking to him, you were going to be faced with the reality of telling him that you couldn’t make it, even with all of his support. The thought of watching his face fall when you have to admit you moved across the country for what amounted to nothing, broke his heart for dreams that ended up being the opposite of what you wanted.

Joel avoided you, simply to give you some time to adjust and also, to skirt around the fact that he wasn’t there for you when you must have needed him the most. Plus, he had his own news to share with you, and he kept it in to keep you from worrying. He knew if he had told you then, when you were away, you would be on the next flight home to help him. He couldn’t make you do that, and he knew he wouldn’t be able to say no to you coming either. And now, he’ll have to admit all of this to you — to tell you that he kept this from you and watched your face fall into hurt.

This sunny Saturday morning, you’ve taken to walking door to door with all of the parents in the neighborhood, offering yourself to babysit or nanny to fill the summer while you figure out what you want to do with your life. Most were surprised to see you back home, but eager to take down your number, promising to reach out if they needed help. 

On your way back home, you’re on Joel’s side of the cul-de-sac, biting your lip as you get a view of his back in a white tee, shoulders straining as he stretches over the hood of his truck. He squeegees the front windshield, the truck covered in soap suds from him washing it.

As if feeling eyes on him, he turns over his shoulder to see you walking up. Completely turning around, he leans back against the hood, waving to you with a held-back smile. Joel eyes you in your cut-off shorts, licking his lips and humming to himself when he sees his navy t-shirt on you, the one he gave you last summer. 

“Now, Miller, I haven’t seen you wash that dirty ass truck once the past two summers. And now you’re out here in your little shorts and white tee as soon as I get back? Suspicious.”

On his driveway now, you stand a few feet apart, a bright teasing smile on your face. Joel can’t help but feel the familiar itch in his fingers, gripping the squeegee tighter. His butterfly is back in his stomach, stirring to life as its wings start fluttering at the sight of you, rising to his chest at the sound of your voice.

“Bit suspicious that this is the first time you just so happen to stop by to say hello, is it not, Mariposa?” he asks with a raise of his eyebrows, smirk tugging up one side of his lips and exposing his dimple.

“Wha—Oh, shut up. I was stopping by to offer to help you, for your information.”

“Oh yeah? Alright then, grab a sponge, sweetheart,” he nods to the bucket on the asphalt, tossing the squeegee into the grass. You pick up a sponge out of the bucket, ringing it out a bit before going over and starting to wash the other side of his car. Joel disappears around the side of the house, coming back with the hose running water to rinse the car off.

“Think you missed a spot, Joel,” you giggle, moving the sponge in circles.

“Y’know what? I think I missed a really big spot. Kind of on the other side by you.” He’s got a devilish smirk painting his face, mischief glinting his eyes in the sunlight. He stalks around the car, moving his thumb toward the end of the hose.

“Joel, don’t you dare…”

“What, darlin’? You look a little hot. Think you need to cool down.”

“Joel! Don’t, you shithead!”

In a last-ditch effort, you toss your sponge at his chest before trying to run away. It’s fruitless, shrieking as you feel the cold water spray at your legs. You turn around to face Joel chasing you with the hose, his thumb at the end to make the water pressure higher and shoot farther. It’s as if it’s raining, the water dripping from above; you cup your hands over your head, closing your eyes as you attempt to avoid the spray.

“Okay, okay! I've cooled down, please!”

All you hear is a laugh in response, the sound multiplying the goosebumps that the cold water has caused. With your eyes squeezed shut, you're blind as you run around the car, hitting directly into something solid, sturdy, but much softer than metal. A small ‘oof’ exhales out, one arm wrapping around you to steady you.

Opening your eyes, you see Joel with a wide, childish grin and a deepened dimple on his right cheek. The crinkles next to his eyes are showing and you can see the wet spot in his white shirt from the sponge hitting him.

“May I propose a treaty?”

“If it keeps you from spraying me with the hose, sure.”

He laughs again, sliding his hand across your back.

“You come over tonight and I won’t spray you again.”

“Hmm,” you hum as you consider it, eyes widening as Joel moves to get the hose on you again, “Okay, deal! Hose down, Miller!”

Happily, Joel throws the hose into the grass, tightening his arm in a half-hug. His lips as your ear, he speaks sweetly and kisses your cheek. “Good to have you home, Mari.”

You help him clean up the rest after he finishes rinsing the truck and shuts off the hose, lingering with him on the driveway.

He nods inside with a smile, “Someone else’s been waitin’ to see you if you wanna come in for a bit.”

“That would make my day. I’d love to see that someone,” you say through a smile, cheeks hurting from laughing and grinning for the past ten minutes.

Joel leads you inside, spotting Sarah on the couch. He walks ahead of you into the living space, heart swelling at the shocked reaction Sarah has to you standing in their house.

You are feeling the same — the ache in your bones from the last few months quells once you step foot in their house, limbs lightening when Sarah jumps off the couch and runs over, or well, runs into you.

“Posey! I can’t believe you’re back!” Sarah exclaims, giggling excitedly when you scoop her up into a hug and hold her flush against you. A kiss is pressed to the top of her head, a familiar scent in her hair from the product you use. You exchanged equally ecstatic greetings before she pulled you into the kitchen with Joel, sitting at the table to chat. Sarah sits across your lap, kicking her feet as she asks a million questions about why, how, what, and more.

You answer all of them, Joel interjecting for some as you explain to her that you’ll be here for the whole summer, at least, and that you’ll still be right next door.

Rubbing her back, you look down at Sarah with a gentle smile, “I have been meaning to come to ask you, sweet pea, but I found a mutual friend of ours on my bed when I came home. How did Flopsy end up back at my house? Did he get lost while your dad was working on my new room?”

“No, he isn’t lost! I know he’s there cause I put him there. I thought you might’ve missed him, and that he might make you happy and cheer you up because Daddy said you were missing home.”

Joel was unaware of the animal his daughter left behind, swallowing hard as she mentioned how he explained you were feeling homesick back then when you two had talked. His eyes are glued to you as he watches the emotions in your eyes, sadness flashing in them before you recover, visibly sitting up and the corners of your mouth tugging up into a gentle smile.

“He made me feel much better, sweet pea, so thank you. I can bring him back next time, okay?”

Sarah shakes her head firmly, making strong eye contact with you as she says, “No, you should keep him 'cause maybe you might need him while you get used to being home. He helped me get used to staying with Daddy all the time now, so I thought he could help you be at home again, too.”

You glance at Joel, who’s looking away from you now and toying with the edge of a placemat that’s laid out on the surface. Sarah turns her head, looking between the two of you before Joel clears his throat.

“Hey Bug, we gotta head out to get you over to Emily’s house for your sleepover tonight. Can you go get your bag from upstairs? And say goodbye to Posey.”

A quick hug and she is zipping off, leaving the two adults sitting at the table in a moment of silence. It’s Joel who breaks it again, looking at you with something unreadable on his face.

“You’re coming over tonight, yeah? I—I, um, I think we have some catching up to do.”

“Yeah, I think so too. I’ll see you tonight.” You stand up and he follows you to the door, taking your hand in his to pull you back as your hand reaches for the doorknob.

“It is really good to have you home, Mariposa. Feels like—I don’t know, life feels like summer again. I missed you.”

“I missed you too, Joel. I’ll see you tonight,” you lean in, stretching up to kiss his cheek before slipping out of the door and into your backyard. 

At sunset, you slip out of the sliding glass door, walking across the pool area and into Joel’s backyard. Climbing up his deck stairs, you reach his back door and knock, biting back a smile when you can see him approaching with a puzzled expression. He opens the door, looking at you through the screen with a brown raised.

“Back door? This a new thing now?”

“S’closer to my new room.” You shrug and knock your knuckles on the metal frame of the screen door. Joel nods for you to step back, opening the door and holding it for you to come inside, shutting it and the windowed, wooden door behind it. Turning around to you, he steps forward, snaking his arms around your hips. A soft smile peels apart his lips with a relaxed sigh, leaning some of his weight into you.

“Hi, Mari.”

“Hey, J.”

“You smell good,” he says, muffled into your hair, lips pressing a kiss to the side of your head, “And I like that nickname.”

A quiet giggle breathes out from your mouth, hands coasting up and down his biceps. He moves to tuck your head under his chin, swaying back and forth in the middle of his kitchen.

“Thought we had stuff to talk about?” You question, biting your bottom lip and making no move to unfurl yourself from his arms. This is what you had been missing so much, feeling his radiating warmth and care. His tenderness, his love.

“We do. But I get to just hold you first, darlin’. Been waiting too long to do this again.” Squeezing you closer, he tucks his chin in to lay his lips against the top of your head, fingertips ghosting up your spine. It’s at least two minutes before he moves, untangling himself from you with one last kiss on your forehead.

“Alright, mi Mariposa, how about we sit on the couch? You can go first, sweetheart,” his voice crackles in your ears, feeling the reverb in your chest from his low drawl. Hands at your sides guide you into the living room, letting go to allow you to sit down, Joel taking a seat next to you and facing you. “You wanna go first, Mari? S’alright if you don’t…”

“No, I do. I think I should at least…” You sigh and focus your stare on a stitched seam of the back of the couch, tracing it with your fingers as you begin to recount what brought you home, “I don’t know if you remember that one phone call we had in the winter, but it was after that, you helped me find someone to talk to?”

“I remember.”

“Well, I started seeing them weekly, sometimes twice a week, and it helped to be able to talk about everything, but there wasn’t too much I could do to help the situation I was in. My, um, my therapist diagnosed me with depression.”

Your voice was thick, phlegm building up as your emotions started to get the best of you, stare still unfocused from Joel. His hand lays over yours, pulling you away from the movement and to his face. There’s no judgment in his eyes, only concern and piety. Without any words, he slides closer to you, pulling your legs across his lap and slipping an arm around your back.

“And in our sessions, I wasn’t really getting much better with the tools she was giving to me, so we made a plan. It started with her asking me where I felt the most myself, the most comfortable, where I could work on everything without the added…stress of work and feeling isolated. And then it was a bit of a no-brainer to make arrangements to come home. And—and I meant to call you, I really tried, Joel. But I couldn’t bear to have to tell you that I—I failed and that I broke your heart for nothing. You believed in me so much, and I couldn’t do it. I left everything behind, left you behind and nothing came out of it. And I couldn’t bring myself to call cause I couldn’t hear your reaction. I didn’t know if you’d care if I came back. If you would be mad or disappointed…”

You exhale with a long breath, tears flowing freely down your cheeks while Joel’s fingers work to wipe them away as quickly as they fall.

“Sweet girl…My Mariposa, I am so sorry you went through that. I’m so glad that you weren’t alone, that you had support, but I hate that I wasn’t there when you needed me,” he swallows and holds you against his chest, “I love you, sweet girl, always going to. I knew you had to go because I knew you might’ve regretted it if you didn’t try, but, darlin’, mi amor, I could give two shits if you live some big corporate life if it doesn’t make you happy. That is all I want for you, Mari, and if that wasn’t what you had up there, then I want you to find it wherever you are.”

You sniffle and wrap your arms around his neck, both of you embracing each other tightly — so tightly you nearly can’t breathe, but it feels comforting, like a weighted blanket over your body and soul.

“Selfishly, I’m glad you came home. Missed you, my sweet girl, and ‘m always gonna be here for you. I’m so sorry I wasn’t there when you needed me, I should have been better, but there was just so much happening…” he admits, guilt and shame oozing out of his words and tone.

You pull back, brow furrowed as you hold the side of his jaw.

“Did something happen?”

“Um, yeah. Something did happen, in the spring…” he runs a hand over his face, sighing before he drops his forehead against yours, staying silent for a moment before sitting up again and gripping onto the fabric of your shirt.

“I have full custody of Sarah now.”

He watches as confusion falls over your face, melding into concern as he sees your thought process happening. He knows you’re thinking about Sarah, all of the little things she said earlier this afternoon must be clicking finally. The rhythm of his heart is racing, waiting for your questions.

“What? What happened? How? Are you okay, is Sarah okay?”

“It’s alright, Mari, I’m okay. Sarah’s adjusting. It was just sudden, and I had to scramble to get everything in order while also figuring out how to tell her. I really haven’t told her the truth, I c—I can’t do that to her…” His voice drops to a whisper as he trails off, eyes welling with tears of his own.

“Oh, J, babe, what happened? If you want to tell me, I’m here for you.”

He clears his throat, twisting the handful of fabric he’s got, “Tiff approached me after her last drop off when Sarah was inside the house, and she told me that…She basically said she met someone new, he was movin’ out of state for his job, and she wouldn’t be able to afford her child support anymore. I asked her what she was gettin’ at and she said, she said she wanted to sign her rights away. That she couldn’t do it all anymore.”

“I mean, I couldn’t bring myself to tell Sarah that—that her mom didn’t want to take care of her anymore. So I only told her that she would be gone for a while and that she would be staying at home for all her weekends for now. I don’t know what to do, baby. And it was all so chaotic, and I couldn’t call you 'cause I didn’t want to add to your stress with work and life up there.”

In response, you hold yourself around him silently, arms at his neck, straddling his lap and wrapping your legs around his waist like a koala in a tree. Joel relaxes into you, damp droplets soaking into your shirt and skin as he lays his head on your shoulder. All of his stress, his anxieties come out. He knows he should also be comforting you, for everything you’ve told him, but it’s like a door has opened and everything is piling out of him. He’s held it together for months now, his only person to talk to being Tommy, but he doesn’t want to burden his younger brother with all of his problems all the time.

Not that he wants to do that to you, either, especially with what you’ve been through, but at this moment, all he can think about is your touch, your warmth, your care.

“You could never be anything but an addition to my life, Joel. Even if it’s a problem, I want to help you solve it or be there for you while you work through it. ‘M here now, we both are, so we can get through our things together.”

At his next sniffle, he pulls away, staying wrapped up in you but sitting so he can see your face.

“Guess these last few months have been messes for both of us, huh?” You break the seriousness of the moment with your chuckle, sending Joel into a fit of laughter as he nods.

“Guess so. Might’ve been better if either of us called. Don’t think we’d be here right now crying.”

“That’s life though, isn’t it? At least ours. Miscommunication continually brings us back together. I think maybe we should quit that habit though.”

“I agree…” he smiles sweetly, eyes pouring adoration into yours, “All this talk about us, I guess my other question would be, what are we? I mean, you don’t have an end to the summer, right? So maybe we could—“

“Let’s give us a proper shot. No expiration date. We can just be together and see what comes of it, yeah?”

“Yeah, Mariposa, yeah. I would love that,” Joel leans in, catching your lips in a slow, syrupy kiss. It’s languid, stealing your breath and giving you his, melting your tongues together and sighing at the taste of you. He pulls back, ghosting his lips over yours with an infectious smile.

“So, is that it? Are you officially mine, Mariposa? Mi Mariposa es solo mi Mariposa (My butterfly is only my butterfly)?”

“Yours. And you’re mine, so don’t forget it,” you chuckle and he kisses you sweetly again, shaking his head as his nose fits against yours.

“Never going to forget that, are you kidding me? Hearing that automatically entered my top five best life moments.”

“God, you’re such an idiot…”

“Yeah, I am, baby. An idiot in love. A fool for you,” he laughs and tightens his grip around you, arms settling under your thighs as he stands from the couch, carrying you toward the stairs, “Also an idiot who’s getting to go to bed with the girl of his dreams. So, really, who’s an idiot now? Think I made some damn good decisions.”

“Can I take back my answer to your question?” You tease, shrieking when he drops you onto his bed, a smirk on his face as he shakes his head.

“No takebacks. Stuck with me now, Mariposa,” he climbs over you and kisses you again, deeper than before but as innocent as the giggly kisses you shared earlier.

“Good thing you’re a good kisser.”

“Yeah? Bet you know what else I’m good at, don’t you, sweetheart?” He sits back on his haunches, eyes dragging over you laying back on his bed, tongue poking out to lick his lips.

“Can I have you, darlin’? Pretty please?”

A hard swallow comes from your throat, crossing your arms over your stomach as you look up from the mattress to Joel.

“I want you to, but I’ve…I haven’t done anything since—“

“I understand, sweet girl. You wanna ease back into it with me, hermosa? We’ll go slow,” he watches you nod, pushing up the hem of your t-shirt to under your breasts, “No bra? Sigues siendo mi diablita, no? (You’re still my little devil, aren’t you?)”

As you sit up, he tugs the materials over your head, folding over to attach his lips to one of your already pebbled nipples. A whimper slips from your mouth, tangling fingers into his hair and arching into his mouth. He pays the same attention to the other side, soft moans filling the room.

Joel separates from you with a pop of his lips, grinning as he reaches for the back collar of his t-shirt and pulls it over his head. You happily sigh as you run your hands across his strong chest and shoulders, tickling your fingertips down his stomach as he watches you slip his shorts’ waistband down a few inches.

“Mm, I have an idea, sweetheart…You wanna try something we haven’t done before?” Joel kisses your lips before peppering kisses along your jaw.

“What d’you have in mind?”

“Take the rest of your clothes off, darlin’. ‘M gonna sit up at my headboard and you come sit on my lap, m’kay?”

You follow his instructions, licking your lips as you watch him stand and strip in front of you, his hard cock slapping against his stomach, leaking already out of need. He sits on his bed, head leaned against the headboard with pillows supporting his back. With your shorts and panties thrown into a heap with his clothes, you walk over the mattress on your knees, lifting one to the other side of his thighs.

“So beautiful, Mariposa. The most beautiful,” he sighs as he licks into your mouth, grabbing handfuls of your ass, “How did I get so damn lucky?”

“Could say the same thing about you, J. Pretty boy.” 

He chuckles against your lips, shaking his head. “Not as pretty as you, mi amor. Estás preciosa. Mucho más preciosa que cualquier flor o puesta de sol o estrella. La cosa más hermosa que he visto.”

“What does that all mean?”

“You are gorgeous. Much more gorgeous than any flower or sunset or star. The most beautiful thing I've ever seen,” Joel speaks softly, tenderness in his eyes as he brushes your hair away from your face. 

Heat spans across the back of your neck and up to the tips of your ears, heart pounding from the look he is giving you. It feels like it’s breaking down any facade you had left, completely exposed to him with the bashful smile on your face.

“I love you, Mariposa,” he punctuates with a stealing kiss, one hand roaming around to your front to slip between your legs. Two fingers collect your arousal on their tips, dragging some to your clit as you sigh into Joel’s mouth. 

“Now, ‘m gonna touch you, baby, and if you want, you touch me at the same time, yeah?” He pulls away from your lips, nudging his nose into your cheek.

“I want to, I really want to.”

His fingers move to your entrance, gathering more along his whole fingers before pulling from between your legs and wrapping his own hand around his cock. He gives himself a few long strokes, looking into your eyes.

“Think you can spare some for me, sweet girl? Got you fucking drenched from barely even touchin’ you,” he sighs contently, leaning his head back more, “Spit on it for me, baby, and use your own hand, m’kay?”

You nod, eager to follow instructions. Folding forward, you drop saliva onto his waiting cock, watching as it slips down the side and mixes with your slick. He takes his hand away and your own wraps around his base, starting slow and teasing strokes.

“Fuck,” he exhales, dragging it out as long as his sigh is, “Missed you so much, sweet girl. You’re my sweet girl now, aren’t you? Only mine.”

His fingers find your core again, slow circles matching the energy of your strokes. A whine slips out, brows scrunching as you attempt to move your hips to get more friction.

“Please, Joel, please. Want more…”

“You want more, mi Mariposa? You want me to fuck you with my fingers, hm?” At your rapid nod, he chuckles darkly, nipping at your neck.

“Gotta give me more to get more, sweetheart. ‘M aching for you, just giving you the same treatment.”

“Mean,” you breathe out, gasping as his thick fingers tease your entrance.

“You ain’t seen mean yet, cariño,” he kisses you again as he slips one finger inside of you, the pace of your hand moving faster when you get more of what you wanted. He groans, the sound muffled into your tongue as it flicks against his, the heel of his hand rubbing against your clit. You start to bounce your hips in rhythm with your hand, imagining his cock inside of you again.

With a lewd noise, he pulls away, shallow breaths fanning across your collarbone.

“Mm, that’s right, baby. Fuck yourself on my fingers while you stroke my cock.”

His voice makes you flood his finger even more, easily slipping another into you for a few strokes before adding a third.

“Feel full, sweet girl? Feel anything like my cock?” He whispers to you as you continue to ride his hand, moving your hips and hand faster.

“So full, J. Not as good as your cock, nothing ever is, but fuck—oh fuck! Feels so good.” Your eyes close tightly as the frays of tightly coiled rope start to break inside of you. Joel takes over as your body stills with stimulation, fucking his fingers into you quickly with wet noises while his own hips move under your grip to fuck your hand.

“Come for me, my sweet girl. Let me feel what I’ve missed about this pussy. Still mine, isn’t it?”

“Yesyesyes, Joel! Oh my god, fuck I’m coming!” You open your eyes as the last fibers of the rope snap, pleasure radiating over every nerve while he continues to move under you and inside of you. The aftershocks of your orgasm fade as he whimpers in front of you, shots of warm cum coating your hand and his stomach.

“Oh fuck, Mari…” Joel picks his head up and looks at you with a breathless laugh and smile, pressing a chaste kiss to your lips as he pulls his fingers out of you.

“I love you, my girl. Mi Mariposa. Let’s get you cleaned up and get to sleep, yeah?” 

Slumber reaches the edge of your vision, drooping your eyelids as Joel guides you to his en-suite, washing your hands for you before washing his, and wiping a warm cloth between your legs. He peppers kisses to your head, shoulders, and neck as he does it all, whispering sweet nothings as he pulls you back into his bed.

“Night, Mari.”

“Night, J…Mm, before I forget, we’re getting you new sheets tomorrow. No more navy, you’ve got a girl in your life now.”

He laughs, kissing the top of your head and holding you closer to his side as he exhales, “Sure thing, my sweet girl. Can’t have all the other ladies I randomly bring up to my room think I don’t have a woman in my life, Mariposa.”

The tone is overly sarcastic and you flick his chest half awake.

“It’s not for other women to know, it’s so I don’t feel like I’m with a junior in college. Makes you look like a frat star.”

Joel laughs louder, your head shaking with his chest moving and a smile turning your lips up, before he calms himself and strokes your spine, “Okay, okay, it is the task for the morning. We’ll pick up Sarah and head to…”

“HomeGoods.”

“Alright, HomeGoods it is. Now sleep.”

Sarah darts ahead of you both as Joel holds the door open, beelining in her Strawberry Shortcake pajamas to the first open booth she sees. Easily sliding into one side, she moves toward the wall as you two approach, patting the spot next to her.

“Posey, come sit with me!”

With a smile, you take the offered seat and look over to Joel as he settles in on the opposite side, shaking his head as he gives Sarah a playfully hurt face.

“You don’t want me to sit next to you, Bug?” he pouts.

“I wanna sit with Posey 'cause I always have to sit with you when we go places. It gets boring.”

You laugh loudly and cover your mouth when you get glares from other customers, Joel’s jaw drops for a moment before he looks at you and starts laughing as well.

“Never lose your honesty, mija.”

Sarah doesn’t seem phased by her dad’s response, moving to sit on her knees in the booth and look over the kids’ menu. Reaching up, you fluff her curls, smiling at her when she turns to look at you.

“How was the sleepover, Sare-Bear? I see you got some tinsel in your hair, it’s very pretty.”

“It was fun, but I kinda missed my stuffed animals and my own bed. I wanna have a sleepover at our house, Daddy,” Sarah looks up from the menu and to Joel, awaiting an answer. With one look at Joel, you can see the idea makes him nervous, having a handful of young girls to entertain for a whole night as a single dad. Sarah is one thing, she’s his and he can handle her attitude or boredom, but with other kids, he isn’t so sure he has a lot of tolerance.

“Um, I’m not sure, Bug. Can I think about it?” he asks with his brow furrowed, reaching across the table to nudge her arm with a smile. Sarah sighs and sits back, clearly disappointed in her father’s answer.

“Well, what about if you had a sleepover with me? I would be honored to be invited over. We could watch movies and I could do your hair or your makeup. We could paint our nails — a whole girls’ night. Plus your dad,” you turn back to Joel with a grin, winking as he chuckles.

Sarah immediately perks up, grinning wildly and bouncing in her seat, “You would come over for that, Posey? I want to have a sleepover with you. Please, Daddy, please can Posey come over?”

Joel gives you a knowing look, the secret shared between you two not living on for much longer, and he nods with a grin, “Sure, Bug. Posey can come over and stay whenever you want.”

Breakfast is filled with conversation about what you could do at said sleepover, making plans for movies, and going to the drug store to get some new nail polishes. Joel orders for the table so you can stay engrossed in conversation, and he can’t help but put a hand to his chest as he observes the two of you talking like you are best friends, despite the nearly twenty-year age difference. You treat Sarah like your own, and he reminds himself to thank you for that, someday.

When the chocolate waffles are set in front of you and Sarah, and a typical two eggs, toast, and bacon meal is laid in front of Joel, the conversation slows. After taking a sip of water, Joel faces Sarah, sharing one quick glance with you.

“So, mija, do you remember last summer when you were telling me about those classmates of yours that were boyfriend and girlfriend and they spent recess together?”

“Yeah, Luke and Katie. They are not boyfriend girlfriend anymore,” she says with an exasperated sigh, taking another bite of her waffle.

“Well, that’s too bad…Anyways, Bug, d’you remember what you told me when Posey was moving away? Like what you told me I should ask her?” You forgo your breakfast for a moment, sipping your water and darting your eyes between Joel and Sarah. She seems perplexed for a minute, tapping her chin as she thinks back in her young memory.

“I think I remember, Daddy. Why?”

Joel adjusts in his seat, clearing his throat — he’s never had to have this type of conversation with Sarah. Every woman he dated before had never gotten to this point, and after over two years of this back and forth with you, over a year of being head over heels for you, he knows it’s appropriate and that it’s time and that this is going to last until the end. If everything goes, well, how he is hoping it will go, this will be the only time he has to have a conversation like this with Sarah.

If only he knew how you were just as nervous, clammy hands gripping your condensation-covered plastic cup tighter and looking over at Sarah. Sure, she loves you, but that is as her nanny. As a family friend. Would she change her opinion if you were dating her dad? Your mind told you that you couldn’t be sure despite the way your heart was yelling at you to tell you that it would be all fine.

“I was askin’ you all this 'cause I have a big question I wanted to ask you. It’s okay to be honest, princess, I want you to know you can say whatever it is you feel, yeah?” Sarah nods in confirmation, encouraging Joel to continue, “What would you think about Posey being my girlfriend?”

“Is she your girlfriend, Daddy?” Her head whips to the side, curls bouncing as a grin grows on her face, “Are you Daddy’s girlfriend?”

The younger Miller volleys her gaze between you and Joel, eyes widened with her brows raised as she sits up eagerly. You make eye contact with Joel, nodding to him with a gentle smile.

“Yeah, mija, Posey’s my girlfriend now. Can you believe she said yes to your silly dad?” He teases and can’t help but laugh along with her as she giggles excitedly, the infectiousness of it bringing out a laugh from you.

“I’m so excited! Wait, so that means Posey is gonna be hanging out with you lots of times? And she’ll be at our house and can play with me?” Her tiny arms wrap around your bicep closest to her, leaning into your side. You drop your head onto hers and both of you look over at Joel.

“As much as Posey wants to come over, we’d be happy to have her, right Bug?” He smiles sweetly at you, holding your eyes for a lingering moment before Sarah pipes up again.

“Well, you can’t take up all the time Posey is over, Daddy, ‘cause I want to hang out with her, too.” Her arms tighten possessively and you chuckle, shaking your head.

“No need to worry about that, sweet pea,” acting as if you’re sharing a secret with her, you lean in, “Don’t tell your dad, but I think we’ll hang out the most.”

Sarah giggles at your joke, leaning back in the booth and letting go of your arm. Joel’s daughter starts to list everything she wants to do this summer, now with you instead of only her dad, and you look up to face Joel for a moment. He shrugs and smiles at you, reaching over and stealing a bite of your waffle. At your gasp, he chuckles and grins smugly, chewing the swiped sweet.

“Hey, Daddy, that’s not very polite,” Sarah reprimands, turning back to her food.

“I was makin’ sure it wasn’t poisoned, mija, just like I’m going to make sure yours isn’t too,” he takes the same from her plate, and in retaliation, you reach over and grab a piece of bacon, splitting it in half and giving one to Sarah.

“Hey! I don’t have that much bacon, y’all have massive waffles.”

“Sharing is caring. That’s what you always say to me, Daddy.”

“Yeah, J, sharing is caring. Can’t give the lesson if you can’t follow it.” You playfully stick your tongue out and Sarah imitates it, too. Joel sighs and shakes his head, leaning back in the booth.

“Is the two of you teaming up on me gonna be a thing now?”

“Yeah,” you answer at the same time as Sarah, the three of you laughing with each other.

It was bold to come to a HomeGoods on a Sunday, all of the aisles packed with people browsing on this relaxing weekend, stowing away in the air conditioning before venturing to the other stores in the commons. Sarah grips your hand, poking around the shelves while Joel stands behind you, a hand on your waist to keep you close.

The aisle filled with sheet sets is finally discovered by the three of you, excusing yourselves to the center of the aisle past a few fellow shoppers, looking up and down before facing Joel.

“Alright, your choice. Anything but plain ol’ navy, please.”

Joel’s eyes follow the same path that yours had, combing over the options before shrugging and staring down at you again.

“You choose for me.”

“Okay, that is not the point, it is still your room and your house.”

“I made choices for your room for you, sweetheart, you choose for me now,” his timbre rings in your ears as he presses his lips into the side of your head, fingertips rubbing circles in your lower back. Sarah wanders off down the aisle and Joel calls out a warning to stay where he can see her, waiting for you as you peruse the options. After some consideration, you select a thin pinstriped set and a plain white one, holding the sets against your chest.

“What d’ya think of these? Like either of ‘em?” Joel checks them out, shrugging and smiling.

“Both look great to me. You wanna look at anything else, mi amor?” He leads you out of the aisle, taking the sets and holding them under his arm. Pursuing the store, the three of you weave around aisles, checking out some other things. Sarah excitedly runs ahead to explore the kids’ section, drawn in by glitter, sequins, and bright colors. Joel takes your hand with his open one, nodding to some furniture on display.

“D’you like any of that?” You hum, turning your attention to him when you hear his question, following his gaze to the mix of pieces. Shrugging, you squeeze his hand and grab his bicep with your opposite one.

“The chair’s nice. Personally, I prefer my handcrafted, artisan bookshelf though.”

Joel scoffs and laughs a bit at your descriptors, “M’glad to hear that, the amount of splinters I got for that thing was brutal.”

“There’s literally blood, sweat, and tears put into it then,” you tease, continuing to scan over the goods, “None of this compares to a Joel Miller original.”

“I mean, thank you, sweetheart, but I do want you to feel at home with us. I’d get whatever you liked—well, maybe not something I could make 'cause it’s less expensive for me to just do it, but I want you to have a hand in our home. Make it as much of your space as it is ours.”

“I do feel at home with you both cause it’s the two of you. I mean, I didn’t really feel completely at home until I was at your place. The drawing from Sarah and Flopsy and the fact that you built my studio for me made me feel so much more comfortable, but it was like something really settled when I saw you.” 

“Y’know, I like having little reminders of you every day, darlin’. Bedsheets, stolen bites of waffle, the stuffed animals on Sarah’s bed, my watch from you,” he lifts his left wrist to show off the round face with the army green band, kissing your cheek, “And I want whatever you are willing to give me, even if it is just those tiny moments. I would be content with that for the summer; no matter where you decide to end up, I’d cherish all the small things with you.”

Looking up at him, you give his hand a gentle squeeze, “Think we both know what I’m gonna decide, J.”

taglist: @beskarandblasters @undrthelights @swiftispunk @joelsversion @asirenbyanyothername @ellenmunn @ja-ehyun @sw33tp1xie @marisemonteiroo @brunetteeras @beee-haw @jenna-mcgraw19 @whore-4-pedro @katifefe @joelmillerswifu @itsgiorgiaz @soph55 @wild-hearts-runfree @youcancallmeelle @jupitren @starkovli @thatgeminigirlx @livingdeadmaria @bunnyskisses @houseofballoonsth @casual-obsessions @pedro-pascal-lvr @bimbodolls-world @burningnerdchild @tuquoquebrute @mrsvedder12 @estelivi28 @bongsrconfusing @addictedtotlou @angie2274 @pedrostories @pedroholicx @theelishad @johnwatsn @elissaaa @felicityofbakerstreet @atinylittlepain @northernbluess @cannolighost

[robertreich]

The Biggest Economic Lies We’re Told

In America, it’s expensive just to be alive.

And with inflation being driven by price gouging corporations, it’s only getting more expensive for regular Americans who don’t have any more money to spend.

Just look at how Big Oil is raking it in while you pay through the nose at the pump.

That’s on top of the average price of a new non-luxury car — which is now over $44,000. Even accounting for inflation, this is way higher than the average cost when I bought my first car — it’s probably in a museum by now.

Even worse, the median price for a house is now over $440,000. Compare that to 1972, when it was under $200,000.

Work a full-time minimum wage job? You won’t be able to afford rent on a one-bedroom apartment just about anywhere in the U.S.

And when you get back after a long day of work, you’ll likely be met with bills up the wazoo for doctor visits, student loans, and utilities.

So what’s left of a paycheck after basic living expenses? Not much.

You can only reduce spending on food, housing, and other basic necessities so much. Want to try covering the rest of your monthly costs with a credit card? Well now that’s more expensive too, with the Fed continuing to hike interest rates.

All of this comes back to how we measure a successful economy.

What good are more jobs if those jobs barely pay enough to live on?

Over one-third of full time jobs don’t pay enough to cover a basic family budget.

And what good are lots of jobs if they cause so much stress and take up so much time that our lives are miserable?

And don’t tell me a good economy is measured by a roaring stock market if the richest 10 percent of Americans own more than 80 percent of it.

And what good is a large Gross Domestic Product if more and more of the total economy is going to the richest one-tenth of one percent?  

What good is economic growth if the way we grow depends on fossil fuels that cause a climate crisis?

These standard measures – jobs, the stock market, the GDP – don’t show how our economy is really doing, who is doing well, or the quality of our lives.

People who sit at their kitchen tables at night wondering how they’re going to pay the bills don’t say to themselves

“Well, at least corporate profits are at record levels.”

In fact, corporations have record profits and CEOs are paid so much because they’re squeezing more output from workers but paying lower wages. Over the past 40 years, productivity has grown 3.5x as fast as hourly pay.

At the same time, corporations are driving up the costs of everyday items people need.

Because corporations are monopolizing their markets, they don’t have to worry about competitors. A few giant corporations can easily coordinate price hikes and enjoy bigger profits.

Just four firms control 85% of all beef, 66% of all pork, and 54% of all poultry production.

Firms like Tyson have seen their profit margins skyrocket as they jack up prices higher than their costs — forcing consumers who are already stretched thin to pay even more.

It’s not just meat. Weak antitrust enforcement has allowed companies to become powerful enough to raise their prices across the entire food industry.

It’s the same story with household goods. Giant companies like Procter & Gamble blame their price hikes on increased costs – but their profit margins have soared to 25%. Hello? They care more about their bottom line than your bottom, that’s for sure.

Meanwhile, parents – and even grandparents like me – are STILL struggling to feed their babies because of a national formula shortage. Why? Largely because the three companies who control the entire formula industry would rather pump money into stock buybacks than quality control at their factories.

Traditionally, our economy’s health is measured by the unemployment rate. Job growth. The stock market. Overall economic growth. But these don’t reflect the everyday, “kitchen table economics” that affect our lives the most.

These measures don’t show the real economy.

Instead of looking just at the number of jobs, we need to look at the income earned from those jobs. And not the average income.

People at the top always bring up the average.

If Jeff Bezos walked into a bar with 140 other people, the average wealth of each person would be over a billion dollars.

No, look at the median income – half above, half below.

And make sure it accounts for inflation – real purchasing power.

Over the last few decades, the real median income has barely budged. This isn’t economic success.

It's economic failure, with a capital F.

And instead of looking at the stock market or the GDP we need to look at who owns what – where the wealth really is.

Over the last forty years, wealth has concentrated more and more at the very top. Look at this;

This is a problem, folks. Because with wealth comes political power.

Forget trickle-down economics. It’s trickle on.

And instead of looking just at economic growth, we also need to look at what that growth is costing us – subtract the costs of the climate crisis, the costs of bad health, the costs of no paid leave, and all the stresses on our lives that economic growth is demanding.

We need to look at the quality of our lives – all our lives. How many of us are adequately housed and clothed and fed. How many of our kids are getting a good education. How many of us live in safety – or in fear.

You want to measure economic success? Go to the kitchen tables of America.

[woodsdyke]

hello besties it is i, your boy lost his job for being too autistic for corporate america so until i find something new I want to draw things! for YOU! for money! because my rent is so expensive!

🌲- the range for an illustration is huge so please just message me with your Vision and we can work something out

🌲- i usually post finished comms on social media, if you don't want me to just let me know

🌲- if you're interested, send me a dm here or on instagram (forest.larkspur)

reblogs are appreciated! tysm!

[gryficowa]

Boycott!

I love it when someone talks about watching "Less Corporate Animation" (Indie Animation) and then mentions HB, TADC and MD as if they are the only indie animation that fucking exists

I know, shocking, but there are also animated shorts, and they don't get much attention… They can even be fucking stickmen, and they often tell more stories in a few minutes than full-length animations

Seriously, if you require animation at the level of TV and stemming, then I'm sorry, but you don't understand the beauty of indie animation, because it's not the HD graphics that are the key, but the plot

Seriously, I have the impression that when people talk about indie animations, they mean the most "Advanced" ones, and that's depressing, because really, a lot of animations are even on fucking YouTube, and it's really depressing, many of them come from Africa, Muslim countries, Asia ( Not Japan and Korea, but e.g. Thai ad Indie, yes, there are animations on YouTube, I've seen them), I also saw indie animations from my country (Poland)

It's not fair that animation has to be from English-speaking countries or of corporate quality for people to talk about it… Yes, I don't remember the titles, but I've seen them, they are often different from the mainstream ones, which makes it it's something new and fresh, unfortunately, it's better to talk about the famous ones…

Now that I have your attention:

So close...

[indignantlemur]

hello! I was wondering are there any etiquette rules for andorians that would confuse humans and vice versa? Thank you.

Hello, Skygirl! Sorry for taking so long to answer - still a bit broken, so typing is a bit uncomfortable!

To answer this question, first I'm going to break down what etiquette actually is. I'm going to keep it pretty simple, because literal tomes have been written about the nuances of etiquette in various cultures, and I'd rather not rehash the last five hundred years of social standards across the world.

Etiquette is defined in the Oxford dictionary as "the customary code of polite behavior in society or among members of a particular profession or group." This code is usually determined through a combination of majority opinion, traditional values, religious proscriptions, and social hierarchies.

From there, etiquette can be further divided into categories of politeness and manners, and business etiquette.

Politeness and manners basically come down to self-regulation to follow a social code of conduct by following normative behavioural standards and being, overall, pleasant company. A person has good or bad manners depending on whether or not they can adhere to these social standards, and an individual may have good or bad adherence to different types of manners relating to hygiene, courtesy, and social norms all at the same time. So, hypothetically, you could have a perfectly polite person with terrible hygiene and a weird disregard for others' personal space. Or, conversely, someone with impeccable hygiene, middling social awareness, and absolutely terrible manners. Literally any combination is possible, and one can see this just by looking at the folks who surround us every day.

Now, business etiquette is a little different in that it's much more goal-oriented and involves the necessary adherence to ethics and norms required to successfully facilitate transactions and generate profit. Business ethics can vary quite a bit between corporate bodies, and it's difficult to standardize a universal code of conduct because of the unique nuances each culture has regarding business, which usually results in a kind of culture shock for all of the parties involved.

A common example is the practice of napping at work, which in Japan is often seen as a sign of something called "inemuri" - earnestness and dedication to one's work, resulting in one working so hard that one is exhausted and falls asleep at their post. In North America, however, napping at work (when not on your break, and sometimes not even then) is a good way to get written up and fired. The two approaches are somewhat incompatible, as you can clearly see.

So, looking at all of the above, I think we can pretty confidently say that there are definitely going to be some things Andorians and Humans trip over when dealing with each other - after all, it still happens regularly within Human cultures, and we at least have the benefit of at least being the same species!

So! What would some common sticking points be?

In terms of politeness and manners, I could easily see Humans stumbling over the highly ritualized customs of the Andorians. Andorians society has developed over time to be very rigid in structure and social norms in every day interactions as a means of preventing internal conflict, which often gives Humans the impression that Andorians are cold and unfriendly. In truth, Andorians are only cool and distant with strangers, but their demeanour and a lack of expressiveness in their faces (due to chitin) makes them seem stoic and really quite unapproachable to the uninitiated even well past the initial introductions and early acquaintanceship.

Additionally, while Humans and Andorians largely agree on standards of hygiene and personal grooming there are a number of differences in how some of these things are treated within the different cultures.

For example, Andorians would sit and soak in mineral hot springs all day, if they could reasonably get away with it, to the point of conducting family meetings and minor business while soaking - unlike Humans, Andorians do not easily overheat and faint, nor does prolonged exposure to high heat bother them overly much. This habit of languishing in the water for hours on end is something which Humans tend to find excessive and, when it comes to meetings, inappropriate. Additionally, Andorians are fastidious about bathing prior to soaking, and forgoing that step is considered not only rude but incredibly unsanitary - a step which some Humans skip, or roll into a single event with soaking, to the horror of the Andorians. Adding further complications to such things, the Human tendency in certain cultures to view all nudity as inherently sexual baffles Andorians, who frequently soak together in familial, bonded, or mixed groups and see no issue with such things.

Similarly, grooming each other is often a sign of trust and affection amongst Humans and therefore not something we allow strangers to do outside of specific circumstances (barber/salon, wedding prep, etc.) As a very social and physical species, Andorians have no such compunctions about contact with others ranging from family to work colleagues and acquaintances. Andorians are very touchy and mean absolutely nothing by it most of the time, but they don't always remember that Humans do things a bit differently and have different ideas of what is and is not appropriate.

Cosmetics as part of personal hygiene and grooming can also be a point of confusion, as Andorians are fond of using brightly pigmented colours around their eyes and mouths across both sexes, even in professional environments. Humans, meanwhile, primarily market cosmetics at women, using products ranging from subtle to neon, and such a strongly gendered association would be considered bizarre on Andoria to say the least.

In terms of personal conduct in social situations, Humans can find Andorian customs to be extremely rigid and difficult to navigate without prior research. Andorians use a number of visual and verbal cues to indicate who they are, what Clan they belong to, and their station in society that are lost on most Humans who haven't taken the time to prep in advance. An Andorian can tell at a glance what most Humans need to play 20 Questions to find out. In fact, the very act of inquiring about these details inevitably irritates the Andorian being interrogated for information which, to their mind, should be quite obvious.

On the opposite side of this dynamic, Humans are infuriatingly vague to Andorians at times. Unless a uniform is involved, it is remarkably difficult to discern whether one is speaking to a social subordinate or superior when conversing with a Human and often times lower ranking and higher ranking Humans conduct themselves in the same manner.

And in terms of business etiquette, Andorians are very formal during business dealings and are not generally receptive to friendly overtures, which they regard as deeply suspicious - and small talk falls under friendly overtures.

When Andorians enter into a business meeting, they are there to reach an agreement, exchange goods and/or services, and leave. They do not want to be friends, they do not want to hear about your children or have you ask about theirs, and if they wanted your opinion on the weather or decor they would have asked for it. Honestly, when dealing with Andorians on mercantile matters, it is best to stick to business topics only until such a time as it is concluded. Discussing business over dinner, as some Humans are wont to do, just doesn't fly with Andorians; dinner is dinner, business is business, and never the two shall meet.

In the workplace, Andorians find they their work days and deadline schedules are not fully compatible with Human ones; Andorians work on a 36 hour day, requiring very little sleep at a time, and Humans function on a 24 hour day. Andorians receiving deadlines from Humans, such as "I need this done by the end of the day" often have to double and triple check if that means today-today or tomorrow-today. And Humans never seem to be available to cover shifts, since they always seem to be sleeping! It's very frustrating for both sides.

Hope this helps! If you have anymore questions, do let me know!

[scarlet--wiccan]

Hello! I've been boycotting Marvel ever since I saw the BDS notice you reblogged however I'm a bit confused: when the post says it's okay to buy from independent sellers does that mean it would be okay to buy the Scarlet Witch comics from a small comic book store? Or it is just meant to say it's okay to buy comics from other prints and companies if we know they aren't supporting Zi0nists?

This is my personal philosophy, which is A) subject to change; B) not intended to be proscriptive or authoritative; C) not a representation of the BDS movement, its praxis, or its goals. I've made my beliefs very clear about Palestinian liberation. I am 100% pro-boycott, but I would urge you to defer to actual movement organizers and leaders, which I am not.

Boycotting is a goal- and result-oriented action, and organizers name specific targets for a reason. My understanding is that the primary targets of the Marvel boycott are Marvel Studios and the M C U. This is a cultural boycott that was called specifically in response to the upcoming Captain America film. Marvel Studios has also historically had close dealings with the United States military industrial complex.

The comic book industry is an incredibly unbalanced system. Low sales impact independent retailers first, and with much greater severity than the publishers and corporations, and the majority of writers and artists who work for Marvel or DC are in vulnerable positions where project longevity and job security often depend on presale numbers. For these reasons, I have always prioritized buying print, buying from local independently owned comic book shops, and going out of my way to place preorders for titles that I want to support.

Marvel is a large corporation and it's owned by Disney, which is also a target for boycott and divestment, so you would be within reason to boycott all Marvel products, but to the best of my understanding, BDS has not listed comic books as a target-- and I don't see the impact as being optimally productive, due to the economic imbalances I described. I, personally, have continued to purchase print comics from a local store where I am familiar with the staff and owner, and I trust their politics. I do my best to keep track of the public behavior of writers and artists, and only purchase work made by people I feel I can similarly trust.

If you choose to purchase Marvel or DC comics, I would encourage you to perform the same due diligence, and ONLY buy print and ONLY buy local. Don't make digital purchases or buy subscriptions directly from the company, and don't buy merchandise, specifically of the M C U.

I would strongly encourage you to match your purchases with donations. The most effective way you can give money right now is by donating to personal fundraisers. My friend Eeri has organized a spreadsheet tracking GoFundMe drives for dozens of Palestinian families and individuals, all of which have been verified. They've also made individual posts and reels for each fundraiser that you can share on your instagram, if you have one.

[suffarustuffaru]

hello. its day 6 of rezero s3 fanweek (Alternate Universe / Absence / “No one would blame you.”) and so i have dug up more ancient texts (my old artwork) and BEHOLD. spiderman otto au jumpscare from three years ago (there was some lore attached to it so ill say a few bullet points of what lore i remember under the cut if you want) (includes a small drabble so ig that also counts for extra fanweek material?)

very very VERY loose marvel inspired au where otto is A spiderman and frederica was black cat (…yellow. cat. golden cat? gold cat? anyway.) and subaru is a deadpool esque figure (and secretly a former avenger ahahahahah and totally not contracted with echidna ahhaha dont worry about it). emilia was probably vaguely frozone from the incredibles / captain america inspired.

otto got his powers from a radioactive spider bite like most spiderpeople but he did that on purpose. to himself. (he was already a mutant of sorts who could talk to animals.) his little brother is totally not dead/missing due to mysterious circumstances and he is totally not a corporate employee for big shady government (russell fellow) and definitely not a vigilante in his free time. and that suit is definitely not sentimental to him or anything.

also he accidentally gains a new little brother ???????????????? anyway thats the main gist of this au that i still remember

ALSO I MADE A WHOLE SPIDERVERSE-ESQUE INTRO FOR HIM YEARS AGO here you can have it. I was gonna draw it all but as you can see i didnt finish it pfft so have it in text form instead !!

Let’s do this one last time.

My name is Otto Suwen. I was bitten by a radioactive spider. And for the past six months, I’ve been the one and only Green Lynx.

And—And I’m named that because of the green lynx spider, not because I-I’m a lynx cat! I sewed web patterns into this outfit, alright?! I’ve put so much time, effort, and money into this! This design had to be perfect…

Anyway, I think you can guess the rest. Saved the city, talked more cats out of trees, helped save the city again, got new glasses—they were free, by the way, they just needed some… fixing… broke my back on patrol once, got shit on by birds, they said it was an accident, I ran into several buildings, my cape got caught under a car once, twice, maybe three times, made some terrible money decisions, don’t ever invest in oil—aha, that’s just my luck.

But don’t worry! I handle it all very, very well. I just don’t do friends anymore. (kicks away letters from his family) (ghosts messages from his family) I needed to focus more on my career, you know? I can’t afford to get distracted by anything.

(insert ending where he proceeds to get distracted by something, probably like him going back to his apartment and OOP WHY IS THERE A FERAL CAT OF A TEENAGER IN HERE)

Like I said. (insert panicked speech bubbles of AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA from both garf and otto) I don’t get distracted by anything.

[truwaifu]

Heartstrings Entangled

Satoru and Chiyori have been best friends since college, her loyalty to Satoru is strong but what happens when Satoru introduces Chiyori to Nanami Kento and she realizes she has feelings for her best friend's boyfriend?  Chapter One in this series. Pairing: Nanami Kento x Chiyori (fxreader) Word count: 1.4k Warnings: Slightly nsfw towards the end if you squint

As Chiyori pushed through the people in the overcrowded room she immediately began to regret ever saying yes to a night out with Gojo Satoru. Yes, he was her best friend, and yes, technically the work aspect of her trip was over but nights out with Satoru never ended well. They usually ended with Chiyori sitting in a booth alone while Satoru got chummy with whatever man he found attractive that night. 

“Hey, Chi! Over here!” Chiyori was grateful to Satoru’s parents for his strong genes because trying to find him in the dimly lit bar would’ve been a task she wasn’t ready to deal with. As she approached the booth her eyes were met with the most stoic man she had ever seen. Wow, he’s beautiful. Tall, blonde and muscular. So, so muscular. She snapped out of her revere before she made things weird and introduced herself.

“Hello.” says the blonde. That’s it? That’s all I get? ChiyoriI brushed off her disappointment and slid into the booth, happy to be sat next to Satoru, a wedge between her and the arctic freeze that was Nanami Kento. He didn’t even bother to tell her his name, Satoru was the one to help fill in those blanks.

Satoru had been talking Chiyori’s ear off, handing her drink after drink. It was nice catching up with him since he lived in Japan and she lived in America. It wasn’t often the two got to spend time together like this. Being in Japan now was just chance. A recruiter told Chiyori about a corporate office here that was specifically looking for Americans to hire and she jumped at the opportunity. She had the experience and had always dreamed of leaving America. It was a no-brainer to apply for the Chief Marketing Officer position at Kirin Enterprise. Chiyori did so well on her virtual interviews, the hiring manager of KE wanted to move forward and have an in person interview. Hence how she ended up at a nightclub, in Japan, with her best friend. 

“Another drink, Chi?” Satoru offered Chiyori.

“Yeah, I’ll go get this round.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, it’s a madhouse up there, it’ll be quicker if I go.” She didn’t want to fight him on that, but that would mean she would be left alone with Mr. Arctic and she wasn’t too sold on that notion either.

“I’m sure I’ll be fine, Toru.” As Chiyori attempted to slide out of the booth, Satoru climbed over her like a child. 

“Alright, jeez, you can go, I would’ve slid out ya know.”

“I know, but this way was much more fun.” Satoru turned to the blonde man and asked

“Kento, another?”

“No, I'm fine, thank you.” 

The loud music couldn’t hide the timber in Nanami’s voice. Of course he’s got a deep voice. Chiyori looked towards where she saw Saturos body last and hoped he’d be back soon. She looked at the space between herself and the pretty blonde, she had two options here, she could either yell across the booth to make conversation or slide in closer to him. He came off as the type of man that would be annoyed by both. Too worried about seeming rude to Satorus’ friend, Chiyori made a choice. She slid in close and was immediately met with his cologne. Should I even be surprised at this point?

“So Kento, how long have you known Satoru for?”

“It’s Nanami-san.” He didn’t even look at her. 

“Excuse me?”

“Nanami, my name.” 

“Right, sorry, I just heard Satoru and just assumed.” She was rambling at this point. 

“What was that?” Mr. Arctic, cold as ever.

“You know what, nevermind.” She attempted to slide away from him right when Satoru came back with the drinks, and boy did he bring back drinks! 

“Thank god, I’ll slide back out and switch if you’d like?” Chiyori’s second attempt at putting space between herself and the blonde fell flat. She felt like she was suffocating under his cold presence. 

“Don’t be silly, scooch over. I brought shots!” It seemed as though Satoru had brought back the whole bar. Multiple shots and cocktails for the table. 

“Did you bribe the bartender? Jeez! This is way more than just a couple of drinks!”

“Nope, just blew him a couple months back and he’s been trying to keep my attention ever since.”

“Toru, you tease!” Chiyori laughed and kept her focus on her friend. The hell with Mr. Arctic, the night was still young! The shots kept coming and the suffocation of Nanami’s presence didn’t let up. All Chiyori could notice was the tightness of Nanami’s shirt and the veins in his arms or the length of his fingers. No matter how hard she tried to ignore his presence she couldn’t. She felt herself getting frustrated. I swear it should be illegal for unavailable men to be this attractive and of course I say unavailable because the man clearly hates me. Either that or he’s gay. Could that be why he’s so angry at my presence? The second the thought entered Chiyori’s mind, it was like a light bulb went off in her head. Am I cockblocking this man with Satoru??? It all made sense. His disdain… maybe Nanami Kento was like her,  maybe he doesn’t get a lot of time to go out and meet people for… personal reasons. She felt like such a ditz! At that moment Chiyori decided she still had time to make things right with Nanami and set to put her plan in motion. 

Chiyori loosened up almost instantly. She found herself leaning on Nanami, placing her hand to his defined chest. She felt like a whole new person, laughing more, engaging with the pretty blonde more without a care about how he received it. Sometimes she would place her hand on his thigh, anything to help make him feel more included. It’s okay, I understand now. Chiyori felt like a mastermind who finally cracked the code on the encrypted file that was Nanami Kento.

Satoru was adamant about one more round so Chiyori took this opportunity to let Nanami know that she would get out of his hair soon so he could have Satoru for himself. She leaned in real close, placed her hand on Nanami’s biceps and spoke directly into his ear. She ignored how intimate it felt to be this close to Nanami and said what she had assumed he’d been waiting to hear all night.

“When Satoru gets back, I’ll make my escape and you’ll have him all to yourself. That’s when you’ll make your move, okay?”  She leaned back to look at Nanami’s face and he looked mortified. 

“Don’t give me that look, you’re a fucking ten. If this is how you look after a hard day of work, I can only imagine what you look like after letting yourself indulge in some Gojo Satoru fun.” Chiyori giggled like a school girl. She was surprised at how bold she was being with Nanami after spending most of the night afraid to look him in the eyes. Nonetheless, She continued her assault. “Look, I’m sure he’s into you too! I personally wouldn't have picked him, you’re more my type but alas, we all can’t get what we want.” 

Nanami never got the chance to respond, Satoru was back and Chiyori slid out the booth before he could slide in. She tried to ignore the pang she felt after putting space between Nanami and herself so instead opted for putting her arms around Satoru’s neck. She leaned into his embrace and let him know about her departure. 

“I’m heading back to the hotel. Have fun and be safe, you lucky prick. God, he’s hot.”   Chiyori ignored the confused look Satoru gave her and left. She was in an uber and back at her hotel room before I knew it. She tried to fall asleep as soon as she got back but all she could think about was the crinkle in Nanami’s eyes when he found out she was leaving. She thought of his blue collared shirt and the top buttons he had undone. But most importantly she thought of Gojo and how horrible of a friend she’s being for thinking of Nanami in this way when it was so obvious they were at the bar together. If she was lucky, she wouldn’t have to see Nanami again. She loved Gojo but she knew he wasn’t the committing type. Maybe she could let herself indulge in thoughts of Nanami just for tonight. She could beg for forgiveness later but tonight, Chiyori wanted to be selfish. Maybe it was all the drinks but she felt hot all over. Chiyori let her fingers dance around her navel, tempting her to go to where she needs attention the most. Just for tonight, she thought as she slipped her fingers past her pantyline and let herself come undone to thoughts of Nanami Kento. 

Chapter 2

[haveyoureadthisscifibook]

Hey! What books by POC got a majority yes result? I'm interested in reading more by authors of color but when I used the be loathed Tumblr search function the only posts it brought up as tagged 'result: yes' were by white authors. Also, any personal recommendations for sci fi by POC?

hello! don’t mistake the stats — no books by authors of color have gotten a yes result either here or on the fantasy blog, and I don’t think any are likely to at this point (if Jemisin’s The Fifth Season couldn’t do it on the fantasy blog, I highly doubt anything else will); authors of color simply have an average yes percentage here that’s only slightly lower than the average percentage for white authors.

I’m happy to give my own recommendations, though:

any of Samuel R. Delany’s sci-fi. I think Nova is maybe the most approachable starting point (and quite good in its own right), but if you want to jump off the deep end, I think Stars in My Pocket Like Grains of Sand is the greatest science fiction novel ever written; whether or not one agrees with that statement, I think it is pretty unequivocally the most science fiction novel ever written, by which I mean that no other book I’ve encountered or heard of has made such a thorough use of everything science fiction can be and do as Stars.

I also would be remiss to not recommend Octavia E. Butler; I’m personally not a huge fan of her books, but I do think every sci-fi reader should read at least one of them. the Earthseed duology (Parable of the Sower and Parable of the Talents) is probably most-discussed in recent years because they seem to parallel current developments in US politics, and the Xenogenesis trilogy (first book Dawn) is also considered a classic.

the elements of it that read as (at least potentially) science fiction upon publication now read as fantasy, but if you’re interested in something older, Pauline Hopkins’s Of One Blood, or The Hidden Self is an early work of science fiction/fantasy by a Black writer — it was serialized in 1903. it’s part lost world narrative, part last gasp of (pseudo)scientific mesmerism/animal magnetism theory, part troubled romance (caught up in turn-of-the-century racial politics).

Zainab Amadahy’s novel The Moons of Palmares is a cool (though a little short) novel about a racially diverse mining colony trying to break away from Earth’s capitalist / colonial domination.

I’ve enjoyed several of Aliette de Bodard’s Universe of Xuya books, which are mainly short — I think the first I read was On a Red Station, Drifting, and I also enjoyed The Tea Master and the Detective (even though I often don’t really care for Sherlock Holmes adaptations) and The Citadel of Weeping Pearls.

if you like science fantasy, I loved Jacqueline Koyanagi’s Ascension when I read it back in 2014. it hits a lot of ~found family~ notes that I think would appeal to what people on tumblr (say they) like.

I also would recommend any of Yoon Ha Lee’s books; I think the best starting point for his work is his short story collection Conservation of Shadows, which is incredible and also contains “The Battle of Candle Arc”, which I think is the best intro / preparatory reading for his Machineries of Empire trilogy (first book Ninefox Gambit), which is excellent (though very dark) but can be challenging to get into.

I read and enjoyed a lot of Nnedi Okorafor’s books in the past, although I haven’t read most of her more recent stuff, and I would particularly recommend Lagoon, as well as her short story collection Kabu Kabu, which includes some excellent sci-fi stories, especially “Spider the Artist” (also available online).

if by any chance you read Spanish, I can’t recommend Edmundo Paz Soldán’s Iris highly enough — incredible, deeply fucked-up novel about an anticolonial war in a corporate dystopia somewhere in ambiguously Latin America-slash-Oceania.

also “authors of color” isn’t necessarily the right rubric for these, since he’s Wajin in Japan, but if you like military sci-fi I’ve been really enjoying Tanaka Yoshiki’s Legend of the Galactic Heroes novels, although tragically Tyran Grillo’s translations of the middle novels are very bad.

Masande Ntshanga’s Triangulum was something I’d picked up entirely on spec at a bookstore a few years ago and it absolutely blew me away — I’ve been recommending it to everyone.

if you liked The Locked Tomb and ever found yourself thinking, “what if this decadent space empire ran on sex magic instead of necromancy”, I’d highly recommend Bendi Barrett’s Empire of the Feast

and some other short fiction collections (some with the same caveat re the utility of “POC” as Tanaka Yoshiki):

Gillian Ybabez, Homeward Bound, and other stories includes some sci-fi and some science fantasy, published as part of the now sadly defunct Trans Women Writers Collective booklet series and is still available through its successor, River Furnace.

Ted Chiang, Stories of Your Life and Others (now sometimes titled Arrival)

Hassan Blasim (ed.), Iraq + 100

Basma Ghalayini (ed.), Palestine + 100

Sofia Samatar, Tender  — Samatar is imo the greatest living fantasy author, but this collection is also about 50% sci-fi and she’s just as good at sci-fi.

most of it is realist but I have to mention Leanne Betasamosake Simpson’s This Accident of Being Lost, which has two excellent sci-fi stories (“Big Water” and “Akiden Boreal”); Simpson has imo perfect prose — never a word out of place.

Sunyoung Park and Sang Joon Park (ed.), Readymade Bodhisattva

Michel Jean (ed.), Wapke, which was originally published in French but is apparently now also available in English

it wasn’t all my preferred kind of specfic, but Chelsea Vowel’s Buffalo Is the New Buffalo is worth a read in any case.