#i feel like shit. shes not even acknowledging me and i hate when shes pissed off at me and i know she should be

[ed89]

long ass rant in tags. abt to explode

[virginreprise]

J U N K Y ' P R I D E

joel miller x reader

" MY MEAN DADDY, MY BAD BABY, DON'T YOU WANT ME? " ✧ ⁺ ⁺ 　°

CHAPTER ONE

WARNINGS: age difference (although no age is mentioned), pervy joel, trailer park joel, joel is still a sad old man, joel being mean again, smut, references to harassment (not from joel), literal sex, breathplay, oral (f receiving), although joel may get some head in the future if he's lucky, you're more important than him, two uses of daddy, just because joel is disgusting and i wanna test the waters before i fully commit to my depraved fantasies of calling a grown man daddy, joel no aftercare miller because he's lowk a little asshole who's afraid of women, pussy pronouns because i feel like that's joel's brand atp

WORD COUNT: 14.6k

AO3 LINK

CHAPTER TWO—PRETTY BABY

Joel had cowered in his trailer for two weeks, acting like the recluse he was at heart, avoiding interactions with others, communicating with grunts and murmurs and looks that made sure anyone who dared speak to him in any way that could’ve been perceived as “cheery” would be off his back and turn the other way. 

He hadn’t been rattled by the conversation he’d had with you, nor had he been left feeling some ridiculous guilt just because he’d got in your face and made those pretty features contort in fear. No, he had purely been pissed off with you. You thought you’d hit the nail on the head with your analysis, that you knew anything about him at all. And when you’d asked him if he was okay…well, after that, most of his restraint had been lost. 

Storming off like a petulant child was better than hurting you so badly he’d never get a taste of your sweet cunt just once. After thinking about it, it was better that he’d walked away when he did, simply because it gave him the ability to get his head straight again, shake off some of the rage, and channel the rest into fucking you until you cried. 

Before, he would’ve never been so volatile with you, would’ve never even thought about fucking you at all. He’d fix what you wanted fixed, he’d smile at you and call you “Ma’am,” like a sociable, pleasant old man. Not the sad sack of shit he’d turned into it. So angry all the time for reasons he refused to unpack. If he acknowledged it, he’d have to acknowledge that she would’ve hated what he turned out to be. 

You were younger than what she would be if she were alive today. Would it have made her feel sick? Would it have made her run away from him, unable to recognise the man she’d called dad? 

In part, it was the reason why he’d banished you. Not in the moment. No, in the moment he’d wanted to choke you. But some subconscious part of him, some ghost of compassion had possessed him and he’d thought about her eyes, how scared she’d looked as he’d held her and how similar you had looked when he’d raised his voice, when he’d kept it quiet, all menace and intimidation, when he’d touched you, gripping onto your thigh—when he’d looked desperately into your eyes and hoped that you’d crack a smile. That you’d stop looking at him like he was the fucking devil. 

You really were something else, something so ridiculously dissimilar to himself, better than himself in every conceivable way, and yet simultaneously aggravating because you wouldn’t stay away from him. Every single time, you kept crawling back like you had no other choice. Like Rick across the way wasn’t a better plumber than Joel was and would’ve fixed your stupid tap permanently for free. 

He wasn’t blind or oblivious to your efforts. He’d called your bluff a long time ago, when you’d come skipping along and bat your eyelashes at him, acting like the most innocent little thing in the state of Texas, not knowing that Joel had seen you tripping over your feet at night with a cigarette in your hand, circling the park again and again and again, worrying at your bottom lip. Or when you’d kicked over your bike in frustration because the chain kept falling off or when you’d got in Linda’s face at the Fourth of July barbecue because she’d been whispering amongst the trailer park's entire female population that you were a whore. 

Joel had laughed to himself when the rumour had found him—had laughed even harder when you’d defended yourself, thrown your coke all over the fucking gossip and stormed off, only to knock on his door later that day to give him his mail that had made its way into your letterbox, a pretty little smile on your face and a sweetness to your voice that hadn’t found its way into your tone the day before. 

There was a fierceness to you, a deep-cut vision like a B-side from a beautifully crafted album, the scraps just as brilliant as the first choice. Under all those pretty smiles, was anger, a knack for getting what you wanted with a few shouts and a quick tongue. He’d seen it when you’d misread him, called him a pervert with puffed-out cheeks and left Joel with a suspicion that you would start stomping your feet and smoke would pour from your ears. However, unlike your confrontation with Linda, you’d cowered when he’d fought back. Part of him had hoped you’d keep going, that even when he’d scared you, you’d push through fear and slap him across the face. 

Maybe it’d bring back his sense. 

Maybe he’d slap you instead, make you give him some fire. Anything that he can use against you to reign you in. 

Joel had no interest in hurting you though. Simultaneously, he had no interest in keeping you safe from what he knew he truly was. If that led to hurt, it was unintentional. You weren’t a schoolboy crush, nor was the situation love at first sight, but you were interesting to Joel; he wanted to get to know you. There was something there, something repressed that you kept locked away, that only came out to pounce on you when you were alone in the middle of the night. 

The only issue was that if he had to get to know you, that meant you’d have to get to know him too. Joel’s history was something he wasn’t prepared to let go of, an incomplete manuscript that couldn’t be edited, that was full of flaws and bad decisions. He wouldn’t let you open it, wouldn’t let you peer at the front cover or skim the spine with your finger: it was guarded by tendrils of barbed wire, pushing through the clouds and up past the stratosphere. It would be difficult to damage it, damn near impossible to break the fortification entirely. 

So, naturally, Joel left you alone. He didn’t look at you in the mornings, didn’t peer through the windows at night and in turn, you left him alone too. Though nowadays there was a sag in your shoulders, a frown constantly tugging at your lips and he felt a certain sense of pride that he was the reason for it. He didn’t need to ask you, he knew. Could tell by the way you avoided eye contact when he’d driven back from the store (he’d been low on Camel’s) and saw you sat on your steps, puffing away and gnawing on your bottom lip. 

It was petty, the way you’d turned away immediately upon hearing the sound of his engine, stubbed out the cigarette and stormed back inside. 

Joel didn’t mind all too much. You were bratty and he liked it—enjoyed when you spoke back like he wouldn’t be able to knock you out with one weak punch. 

It had been a surprise when you’d turned up on his doorstep on a Friday night, all dressed up, makeup you’d clearly worked hard on, ruined by your streaming tears. 

“I’m sorry,” you’d blubbered, shaking like a leaf on his porch and he wasn’t sure if it was the chill of the night air or fear. “I know you don’t want me here.” 

Then why show up? It’s what he wanted to say but he bit his tongue to save you from collapsing from dehydration. All those tears you were coughing up like there was a free supply of them behind those pretty eyes—eyes now red raw and bloodshot. 

“What’s the issue?” he asked, less soft than you perhaps would’ve liked. He couldn’t give too much attention to it, though: the concern he felt buried underneath layers upon layers of tough exterior; even your flood of tears couldn’t wash away the rubble to find it. 

“I-I was out, I wasn’t doing anything wrong, t-this- this guy he…” 

Right there, Joel’s blood burned bright fucking red. He’d felt it with Dale when he’d seen the old man drooling after you like a rabid dog, eating away at your ankles—just begging for a taste. He’d scared the man shitless when he’d grabbed him by the collar once he was out of your eyeline, yanked him along to the outskirts of the park and spat in his face. The only reason he didn’t beat him bloody was because it would’ve been unnecessary and Joel had been sober that night so had been thinking at least a little rationally. 

But this guy…whoever the fuck he was, hadn’t just made you uncomfortable, but had made you come to Joel Miller for comfort. Had forced your hand, had caused you to swim into the shark's mouth. Perhaps, worst of all, he’d made you cry—big, hot, glistening tears that travelled sporadically in all directions across the expanse of your face, dripping from your jaw and settling in your clavicle. 

“What’d he do?” Joel was intimidatingly calm, voice even and eyes sharp. 

You sniffled, lip quivering and your mouth opened to speak, then closed as if the words had gotten stuck—that the force of your pain overpowered your ability to be coherent. 

“Baby…” Joel murmured, unable to stifle the smile that twitched and fell when you snapped your eyes to his—hopeful with the promise of the nickname. “Tell me.” 

Taking a deep breath, you swallowed away the thickness in your throat, tried to stop the shaking by playing with your fingers, lips downturned and looking like such a scared little lamb. Despite being a wolf, Joel managed to set aside his natural tendencies, tucking them away safely for whoever the fucker you were crying over was, and instinctually, wanting to keep you safe. 

“I was all by myself, I shouldn’t have gone by myself,” you looked away from him like Joel would judge you—like he would think it was your fault. He wanted to say something but waited patiently for you to continue, wondering when would be the best time to invite you in. If he even should invite you in given the implications of the statement and what he had done the last time you’d stepped through the boundary separating the inside of his trailer from the outside. “He wouldn’t stop touching me, I tried to get him off but he wouldn’t leave me alone and I- I got out of there when he wasn’t watching but he fucking followed me home-” 

“Where is he?” It was instant, the way Joel snapped into action, fists clenching—prepared to fall right onto his face and break his fucking nose. 

“I- I don’t know,” you muttered. “I just came to you.” 

Unsure of how to react to the information, he scanned the area behind you, taking a singular look at your trailer and deciding that he could not, in good conscience leave you alone. Having a good conscience in the first place had been a foreign thing to Joel for such a long time that the feeling of wanting to do something right, the knowledge that he was not inviting you in because he wanted to touch you but because he wanted to protect you, was a troubling thing to realise. He couldn’t afford to go soft, to let people in, to hold them close until he inevitably told them everything and they realised how much of a bad person he was. But with you…it hardly mattered. 

“Okay, babygirl.” His hands twitched towards your face, both palms landing on either cheek—so natural that it should’ve scared him. “Come on, let’s get you warm.” 

Stray tears fell at his affection and he couldn’t bear to look at you crying anymore so guided you inside, letting you occupy his space, and took one last look outside before closing the door behind him—locking you both away.

It was when he’d called you babygirl, that you knew you’d fallen deep. The entire purpose of going out that night had been to forget about him, find someone else who maybe had that same smouldering look in his eyes, that same mystery that rendered every single movement an enigma. It’d been useless of course and you’d been harshly reminded of why you never went out in the first place, certainly not by yourself and certainly not to hook up with a stranger. The ache was just so very large, all-encompassing and you struggled immensely with the silent treatment he’d inflicted upon you. 

You’d be lying if you said it was much different from before. Lack of conversation between Joel and yourself was in fact extremely common but the context in which the communication had haltered, the undeniable tension that permeated every accidental look and every longing stare at that white door in the middle of the night, was a pain you would never admit to him. 

You didn’t want him to think you were weak, that you needed him in any capacity, so you’d got out. You’d ran away from him and in a cruel twist of fate, you’d crawled right back—crying on the doorstep and looking more pathetic than you think he’d ever seen you. 

However, he’d held your face in his hands, gazed at you with something akin to pity and you wouldn’t have left him even if he’d asked you to.

You’d shuffled into his home, rubbing at your bare arms and staring at Joel’s back as he reached into the cupboards for a glass. You wanted to bury your face into him, wrap your arms around his waist and drag him close. The cold sting on your cheeks from where he’d touched you, the echo of his words in your ears wasn’t enough. You wanted him near, wanted to bury your head between his chest and beg him to tell you that you were safe. 

“Drink.” His words snapped you back, eyes stinging as they flitted to his face and then to the glass he was holding. 

“Thanks,” you muttered softly as you reached for the water, fingers brushing against his a sensation you attempted to ignore. After a moment standing, eyes fixated on his shoes and mulling over the situation, you apologised again. The “Sorry” falling from your mouth, the feeling of stupidity as the tears finally began to subside, and Joel’s gentle touch as he took your chin between his thumb and forefinger: delicate and affectionate. From the outside looking in, it would seem like a man simply comforting his girl with firm words and soft fingers. 

“Don’t apologise. It ain’t your fault.” His gaze was set, those gorgeous eyes still hard and stony, fixated on you—hoping to bury the words beneath your skull. 

“I just don’t wanna bother you-” 

“I ain’t got nothin’ better to do.” There was a hint of a smile at his lips but it didn’t reach his eyes, corners of his mouth twitching, looking like the action itself was painful—like the words he uttered echoed in his ears and bashed at his eardrum. Maybe he should have something better to do than sit around and look after you.

You furrowed your brow at his expression, looking just as pained as he did and sipped your water—throat finally feeling some reprieve from the scratches that littered the flesh. His hand fell from your chin, resting at his side and you couldn’t shake the burning in your stomach as he refused to cease the eye contact so you did it for him, eyes firmly on the linoleum and teeth sinking into your bottom lip. 

He probably didn’t want you here—surely he didn’t. He’d spent the past two weeks ignoring you, refusing to acknowledge the conversation you’d had the other night, when you’d felt everything brew up inside you and finally boil over. When you’d thrust a finger in his face and pointed out every flaw and every observation. Everything that Joel Miller was. 

That solemn, brooding solace you found being close to a personality that reminded you of days long past. The intimidation that he used like a shield, strengthening his defences after people tried to get inside his walls; he’d shot them down with arrows, leaving the bullets in his palm for himself. You though…he’d let you in. He’d shot at your shoulder then let you past the gates to dress the wound. 

“Might wanna wash your face,” he said grimly, brushing past you to go sit on his leather throne. 

You gazed at your reflection in the window above the sink, light from the ceiling flooding you in a spotlight and illuminating the streaming makeup, the blotchy face and the red eyes. Suddenly conscious, you snapped your head back to him, his back turned to you, working at the TV with a steady hand. 

Sensing your eyes, the stare that burned through him—full of pity and understanding—he muttered, “Bathrooms first door on the right.” Trying to get rid of you. 

Wanting to ensure he was comfortable in his own home, you placed your glass on the counter, turned on your heel and began down the hallway—stopping at the first and only door on the right-hand side and slipped inside. You wanted to shower but knew it was a step too far, that that would be taking his hospitality for granted, so you settled for the sink. 

Makeup was crusting along your skin, forcing its way into your pores and mingling with the sweat and dirt from the long walk you took from the centre of town. Hastily, you turned on the tap, cupping your hands under the stream and splashing it over your face. You sat with it for a moment, with the cool droplets running down your face and soothing the stinging of your eyes before scrubbing—wanting it all off. It felt wrong along your skin, the crusted tears near your eyes painful as you washed them away. It was effort, with just the water, but when you rose from the sink basin with a fresh face, you felt better. 

You were safe with Joel, that much you were sure.

You took a deep breath before retreating from the solidarity of the bathroom, door handle cool under your palm as you inhaled, held, and exhaled. With the dispelling of that cool air, you pushed, stepping out into the hallway and hearing the faint sound of late-night television coming from down the way. 

Joel was still sat where you’d left him, putting his cigarette out and discarding it inside an empty beer bottle, eyes fixated on the TV and although it looked like he hadn’t heard you, you knew he had. That subtle tensing of his shoulders, shuffling in his seat as he cracked his neck distractedly. You stood there, looking at the back of his head for far too long, lingering in the shadowed hallway and hoping he’d turn around and look at you—grant you that deep gaze that held so much. So many words said with just one glance. 

But he didn’t. He stayed exactly where he was, nestled in his corner of the world. 

You went to him on shaky legs, entering his living space with short breaths, playing with your fingers as you stopped just in front of where he sat. 

“Thanks for-” you began, stopping yourself when you heard the crack in your voice—how hard it was to speak with the heaviness of your eyes and the hoarseness of your throat. Managing to swallow away some of it, some of that pent-up misery you felt clawing its way up the passages of your insides, you uttered quietly,” Just…thank you.” 

“Yeah,” he said back, voice just as pensive as yours; you didn’t know if he wasn’t looking at you purposefully or if he truly was just as nervous about the interaction as you were. The notion that Joel Miller would be nervous at all was laughable but you knew there was something there—something greater than he let everyone think. Curiosity was a big driver in your interactions with the man, a desire to see what he felt, hear every thought that burrowed itself in his head, but right there, your insecurity prevailed and you decided it’d be best if you left him alone. 

“I think I’m gonna go home now,” you said reluctantly, knowing that all you truly wanted to do was crawl into his lap and bury your face in the crook of his neck. “I’m tired.” 

“Okay,” he nodded and as he turned to look at you there was a glint in his eyes—almost begging—that said ���Don’t go.’ You didn’t want to, you wanted to stay wrapped up in him forever, limbs entangled in feverish desire. But you couldn’t stay. You could barely move in his presence and it wasn’t worth it to be engaged in something that would cripple you forever. 

So you repeated his word, purse hanging loose from your fingertips as you turned your back on him and headed for the front door. 

He halted you before you could get there. 

“If you see him again, even if you hear a noise out there, you come back to me.” There was a care in his voice, a forceful attentiveness that left you reeling. He was letting you go but inviting you back too. He was professing something, expressing words unspoken, with actions and you couldn’t help the way your heart swelled in your chest, your throat constricting as a sob attempted to choke its way into your mouth.

You just nodded, sure that if you spoke you’d end up crying again. 

With no more words left, you opened the front door, stomach twisting as you looked around to check that you were alone, and scurried down his porch steps, not knowing that once Joel had heard your door close, he’d stepped out into the night and placed himself on his shitty white chair—watching the surrounding area until dawn came, ready to deter the danger if it came for you. 

Sunlight shot through the half-open window, the heat stiflingly stagnant, sweat trickling down the back of your neck as you lay, immobile on your bedroom floor—hoping that the dewy grass underneath the trailer would somehow rise up through the ground and relieve you of the suffering that was prevalent whether you were indoors or out. Your shitty fan was rattling in the corner, doing little to alleviate the pain, and in the midst of a Wednesday afternoon, work already completed, you had no other choice than to think about the man next door and his actions. 

There was a gentle acknowledgement, a careful unspoken communication that something, whatever it was, had switched in you and Joel. After that night, that pathetic night when you’d cried on his doorstep, he had not thrust you away as you had expected him to. He had barely even been rude to you, that awful scowl that was perpetual in every sense, stripped from his face. The careful commands, the casual way in which he took care of you. 

The only thing you wished, was that he’d let you stay the night—that even if you had been the one to suggest the departure, he would ignore your wishes and make the decision for you, grab you by the hips and pull you down on top of him. Kiss you on the lips with all the ardour he had stored somewhere deep in the pits of his being. Damn your age, damn the consequences, damn anything that would occur in retaliation. You wanted him. If not for selfish reasons, for an interesting sympathy that you held for him every time he looked in your eyes, every time someone speculated on why he had turned out the way he had. 

The whispering, the wondering, the stories that seemed so elaborate and profound that you couldn’t bring yourself to believe them. The contractor who’d told you of a man named Joel Miller. His fate. What befell him that September when he’d lost everything meaningful to him. 

You didn’t know, however. You didn’t know what was the truth and what was all facade, if Joel had shot down the rumours himself by telling a fabrication of reality to all of those who dared make false assumptions. 

So, you settled with the equivocations, the image of him in your mind expanding until all that remained was a pity that ran through each of your bones, vibrating your insides; the pleasure of his touch was the only sedation. 

Laying there, on the carpeted floors that you wished were wood, you thought of him. You thought of him deeply, throwing your mind back to that first interaction with him when he’d stood in the light of the rising sun, eyes running all over you. Observation. It was something he was good at, being able to discern the very fabrics of the human soul by glancing over at your movements, your mannerisms, taking note of the way you spoke to certain people. You were sure he knew you were smitten from the moment you opened your mouth. 

In truth, you had been completely enamoured by him. Despite those initial reactions to his leering gaze, that sleazy look in his eyes that rendered you disgusted by his very presence, you had mulled over it on those particularly boring shifts, those mundane Sundays when you gazed at the empty white chair on his porch and thought about how handsome he looked sat there: legs spread wide, thumb and finger playing at his furrowed brow, cigarette burning between those pretty fingers and the portable radio next to him expelling a country tune or the occasional Texas Rangers game. 

You fantasised about sitting there with him, fingers curled around his as you lounged in the chair adjacent—always looking like it was waiting for someone to sit in it. For you to sit in it. 

But you weren’t brave enough. You weren’t brave anyway. 

You weren’t brave enough to speak up when you felt like you were caving in on yourself, boulders falling from the tip of your head and landing at your feet—breaking each toe until you couldn’t move, suspended by the sensation of skin melting from your face, your brain losing all rational thought. You weren’t brave enough to do something bigger with your life, to approach every memory that haunted you like an evil phantom, intent on breaking you down into nothing until you sat as dilapidated as the abandoned moonshine still that rested its weary legs just opposite the bypass. 

You weren’t brave enough to tell Joel that you wished to have him completely. That you wished to help him build himself back up; if what was said about him was true, you were willing to ignore all of your demons, to repress them like you had many times over, and place all your energy into making him smile. 

Instead of actively hoping to remedy the situation on your lonesome, to be active with your desires and do everything possible to make them come true, you instead wait for someone else to fulfil them for you. If Joel wasn’t willing to tell you, to confess every depraved fantasy, you’d continue to lay on your bedroom floor and hope for things to be different.

In the sweat of that Wednesday afternoon, in the midst of summer despair, you thought of him. In your bedroom you had not decorated, staring at the ceiling fan that did not work, you thought of him. Through the fog of everything that made up your regrets and your achievements, he remained the central thing that kept you alive. 

A knock on the door brought you back, three raps that came down hard and assured. With a thick head, you peeled yourself off the floor, brushing down flyaway hair that had ran away from your scalp and cracked your back as you stood. 

Just that simple movement had sweat pooling at your lower back, the sun at its highest peak, menacingly bright and dangerously hot. Sniggering as it watched you stumble down the hallway, lethargic with the soupy air and trying your hardest to put a smile on your face as you pulled at the doorknob—a wall of heat separating you from the outside. 

That half-hearted grimace that had replaced your frowning, quickly transformed into an expression littered with confusion as you stared at the man before you. Had you begun thinking about him so much that you’d started to hallucinate him? Had you thought about him so loud that he’d taken the time to knock on your door and tell you to shut up? 

You said nothing as you stared at him, the delirium of the day causing your brain to momentarily stop working—greetings and manners that you’d been taught since you could walk something you gave no attention to. Only able to focus on his broadness hogging the space, the way he stared down at you with a clenched jaw, the perpetual tense of his shoulders and the hardness of his eyes. Just seeing him was enough to send you falling headfirst into a sensation you had no desire to express to him. 

“You okay?” he asked, softer than expected and your heart sank as you looked down at his hands to see the two envelopes nestled between his fingers. He’d come to give you your mail. 

“Yeah,” you mumbled out, lingering too long on the paper before flicking your eyes back to his and gathering yourself, scolding the fact that you couldn’t focus around him. You nodded briefly to what had caused that pit in your stomach to open up again. “That my mail?” 

He nodded in response, handing it out to you with the manner of someone who wished to be away from the situation they were involved in. 

“They keep getting us mixed up,” you said, forcing a smile and trying to make it all as comfortable as possible. “I still think they do it on purpose.” It was a poor attempt at a joke, coercing a conversation so that maybe he’d stay a little longer than intended. You yearned for a little courage, hoping that your mouth would expel the words you wished to speak: invite him in, ask him if he wanted a drink or a cigarette or both, tell him how much you’d been thinking about him. 

“I’ll have a word if I see them.” 

Why was it awkward? It was unusual, the way he wasn’t leering at you, how he wasn’t purposefully overpowering you. It seemed that he was more intimidated by you in that moment than he ever had before in his life. What a strange feeling it was: to have Joel Miller cowering. It gave you some much-needed bravery as you placed the mail on the side table next to your door, near the bowl that held your keys and discarded receipts you hadn’t bothered to throw away. 

When the words came tumbling out of your mouth, you struggled to believe they were real. 

“You wanna come in?” The shaking in your hands as he raised his eyebrows, the doubts hurtling at your chest with all the force of a high-speed collision. “I haven’t got anything else to do all afternoon.” You decided adding a little context would be better—maybe sway him a little more. 

You couldn’t tell if the slight smile toying at those pretty lips was genuine or a courtesy, nor did you know if when he’d accepted your invitation he was doing it just to be polite or because he actually wanted to. 

In your delusions, you told yourself that it was all because he did want you around, that he’d just been playing hard to get all this time because, like you, the thought of letting anyone in was so incredibly daunting. No matter how much you wanted Joel, just the thought of kissing him made you nauseous—the anxiety of what may occur after, the consequences to everything, what he would think when he realised that you weren’t all sweet. That you were awkward and mean at the best of times; the way you’d presented yourself to him was not your true character. 

You feared that after everything, he would decide he didn’t like you. That you weren’t worth his time. From the things you’d heard about him, you weren’t even sure he’d let you stick around long enough to figure out what you were truly like. 

As he walked into your home though, nothing in his hands to suggest that he was only here to do some light maintenance and be on his way, you couldn’t think about that. You were no longer on your bedroom floor, begging God for things to be different. Things were becoming different, and when you offered him a drink, assuring him that he could smoke inside despite never doing it yourself without hanging halfway out your window, you found yourself becoming comfortable. Too comfortable honestly. 

He settled himself on your couch, hips rising as he reached into his pocket to pull out a crumpled pack of cigarettes and a scratched-to-shit silver zippo and shook his head at your offer of coffee. You nestled yourself a respectable distance from him—tucking your legs underneath you and watched as he brought the light to the dangling stick and lit it. A cloud of smoke muffled his face, the scent of tobacco tickling your nose and bringing comfort sliding down your spine. 

It was silent, in the most blissful way, the heat blushing his cheeks, the loving caress of the setting sun as it promised to fall beneath the horizon as soon as it could—that its day of evil heat was slowly falling away. The light breeze that trickled through your open window, taking the smoke away with it, guiding it up towards the sun and stars. Cicadas chirping, birds coming to and from their nests, searching for some good food to bring home to their babies, and snakes burrowed in the shade to escape the searing heat. All of nature's beauty peeking its head past the haze of despondency just to enlighten you and Joel—to help you feel greater than you had just five minutes ago. 

It helped clear your thick head, helped escape the thin veil of your body's disparagement to get to a point where you could focus on Joel and only Joel. Watch him take a drag and exhale, chest rising and falling. 

When his head rolled backwards, resting on the edge of your couch and revealing each tendon in his neck, you finally decided to open your mouth. 

“Thank you for the other night.” The words fell quietly, whispered to him as if not to disrupt his moment of relaxation. “It was late and you…” 

How he looked at you…you couldn’t quite describe. Those eyes wide and glinting, the unadulterated sympathy that lingered in those pits—something else dancing with it that you were unsure of. Hoping to God that he would tell you outwardly instead of hoping you’d understand that one meaningful look. 

“Couldn’t leave you cryin’ on my doorstep,” he uttered, holding that stare, refusing to look away. 

“I’m sure lots of people would’ve,” you rebutted. 

“No one can say no to that face,” he finalised. 

Your heart fluttered in the confines of your chest, eyes wide as he looked at you—those perpetually tired eyes, those tense shoulders and clenched jaw, desperate to stroke your fingers over each eyelid and lull him to sleep. See if he would drift away with a smile and wake up with the same expression permanently etched into his face. Hoping he’d look at you like that for the rest of your life. 

“I wanna thank you properly, Joel.” There was a brief pause, a flicker as he scanned his way across your face, and then the heat of his stare was gone and you were left dowsed in ice water—waiting for his words. 

The hasty way he brought the cigarette to his lips, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees and gazing at the grey as he exhaled, huffing with the force of a dragon trying to dispel the danger. The harsh way in which he shook his head, the utter rejection that brewed up inside you once you’d realised that you’d gone too far. The bravery you’d been gifted for speaking up had betrayed you; you’d crossed the line. 

“You really wanna go there?” 

You paused, eyes flickering softly over his form. He’d caught your double meaning with the grace of a fly falling directly into a death trap, flown right through your words, and came out the other end with a defiance you had expected but had not wanted. The man who looked at you like he wanted to lock you away, display you on a shelf so he could poke at you for eternity, had rejected you. It was more insecurity-inducing than you had thought. 

Feigning ignorance to heal the aching in your heart, you continued the game through a hoarse throat—wishing for the man who’d drooled over you that very first time you’d set eyes on him. 

“Go where?” 

“Don’t play stupid, we both know you ain’t.” 

He glared at you, the brightness of his eyes disappearing—a strange uncomfortable glint dancing in the shadows of them; you couldn’t stop looking at him and thinking that he looked goddamn exhausted. All the time. You were unsure if he ever slept, if he ever allowed himself to have a moment of peace, a short second to himself where he screamed into a pillow and rolled over to the other side of the bed—ready to drift off. You’d hold him until the frown on his face disappeared if he’d let you. 

From the way he stared at you, however, you were sure he didn’t want you there at all. 

“I just wanna thank you,” you said softly, gazing at him earnestly. “Seriously, Joel, you do a lot for me-” 

“I fix your tap and give you your mail, you don’t owe me shit.” It was almost self-deprecating, the way he refused you—as if he didn’t think he was worthy of you. 

“Will you just let me do this one thing?” 

“Now, let's get this straight,” he interrupted, accent growing as thick as his aggravation. “We ain’t friends.”

“I never said we-”

“I need you to listen to me.” The fatherly tone startled you, a far cry from those leering looks and sleazy stares—silencing you with the harshness of his tone. “You’re a goddamn kid. Whatever you think…whatever I’ve-” he cut himself off with a shake of his head, bringing the cigarette clasped between his fingers to his lips, inhaling sharply; all the smoke went into his lungs and none came out as he spoke again. “It ain’t right.” 

Silence encapsulated the space, your heart sinking as those words entered your ear and left through the other side, the rejection everything you had not expected. What had you expected really? For him to profess his undying love and hold you forever? For him to put you on his lap and tell you that he was proud of you? That he would be there for you forever and always? 

You’d hoped a little bit too much and consequently, been disappointed by your own expectations. 

“Who says?” you tried to level your voice, to rid of the fear and anxiety that had clouded your entire being since you’d learnt about your mortality—when you’d sat on a rocking chair at the ripe age of thirteen and rocked it so far you’d fallen flat on your face and hadn’t gotten up years later. 

“I say.” It came with so much conviction, that signature stare still plastered onto his face, set scowl all intimidation and no love—nothing behind those eyes except persistent irritation and self-hatred. 

Suddenly, you found some gall, blood bubbling as you mirrored his frown. “So it was okay when you looked through my bedroom window whilst I was changing? It was okay when you said I’d get cockdrunk real easy and laugh about me being dumb with your buddies? I thought I wasn’t stupid, Joel.” 

“You ain’t-”

“Then you should know that I know exactly what I want and what I want is to thank you!” A deep breath, gulping away the saliva that had accumulated in your mouth and observing every twitch of his jaw—the shake in his hands. “In a way that I know you want because I’m not stupid. You might think that you’re subtle but I promise you, you aren’t.” 

“What do you want from me, huh?” he asked abruptly, venom in his glare, all of it directed at you and poisoning your blood indelicately. 

It was a good question—one that stumped you if you were being completely honest. What did you want from him? A good fuck, someone to hold, someone to tell you that you were worth it? Or maybe, you just wanted him to make you feel desired. To make you feel like you were wanted by something, even if that something would hide you away, isolate you from your friends, and keep you trapped in a palace of deceit and fresh blood—cutting away at your flesh to keep the supply of crimson flowing. 

Joel urged you on with the power of his stare, waiting for an answer with false patience. 

“I just…” struggling to form a proper sentence, stringing together words in your mind that didn’t make sense. “I just need to know how you feel.” 

The answer didn’t seem like enough, his eyes trained on you for a few seconds more before he broke the contact, leaving you shivering as a breeze suddenly pushed through the open window—drapes dancing with the force of it. 

His attention was captured by the cigarette in hand, the thing almost smoked down to the filter, grey billowing from its end as he sniffed, shook his head, and stood. 

“You got an ashtray round here?” 

It startled you: the way he changed the subject so quickly, so determined to make you forget. To make himself forget. Standing there, hogging the space with his bulk, you could sense the turmoil—his hesitation to do what he wished to do and his distaste with himself for doing what he didn’t want to do: walk away. 

You were granting him an opportunity, a chance to put all that time spent watching porn into practice—to take whatever he wanted from you without guilt. 

However, it was better to acquiesce to his cowardice. Arguing would only push him to the point of no return. Truthfully, you were afraid of Joel and his temper. Sometimes, it felt dangerous to rile him or to talk to him out of turn. What he was capable of, you weren’t sure, but from the story that Spencer Dressure had told you about that one time his brother had taken off with Joel’s pills, the manhunt that followed it and the fact he had not pressed charges despite having to be hospitalised, left little room for you to think it was a good idea to be on Joel’s bad side. 

Calling him a pervert until he fucked you seemed to be a surefire way to get you on his list of foes. 

“It’s in my room,” you stood carefully, brushing past him to get to the small kitchenette, trying to subdue the result of smelling the remnants of cologne and tobacco that lingered on his skin. “Just put it out in this.” 

You handed him a dirty mug from the pile of dishes you had yet to tackle, cheeks heating as you became all too aware of your untidy home, before stepping a respectable distance away and waiting for his next move. 

What followed, you had not expected. The undeniable whiplash, the pain that ravaged your stomach as it flipped continuously, looping round and round like the coaster at Coney Island you used to fantasise about as a kid. 

“C’mere,” he murmured, a softness to the edge that melted you, pathetically accepting his advance as you stepped forward once, twice, thrice, only three steps and you were closer to him than you had been when you’d been situated on the couch moments before. 

The simple movement of him holding up the burning cigarette that was begging for death, the shortest ring of white decorating the cylinder, had you shuddering in anticipation. The brush of your fingers as you reached up to take it and the warmth in your belly as he shook his head and thrust the thing closer to your mouth. You caught his intentions too late for you not to feel embarrassed, gazing at him with a determination you knew was false, something he was bound to pick up on too if the shaking in your legs was as bad as it felt. 

Leaning forward, you parted your lips, clamping down on the cigarette with bravery you were surprised you could muster, and inhaled softly—taking every last thing it could give you and savouring the taste of his fingers on your lips as they brushed ever so slightly against his skin. 

“Listen,” he murmured as he watched you, eyes trained on your pursed lips as you pulled away and expelled the smoke from your throat, chin tilting slightly to direct the trail away from his face. “You’re a pretty girl.” 

You stayed rooted to the spot as you listened intently, eyes carefully observing his movements, the flex of his forearms as he dropped the dead cigarette into the mug and the sound of it sizzling as it reached the remnants of your morning coffee that nestled at the bottom. The way he looked at you and made you feel like he was your single priority—like nothing mattered in that moment except you and making sure you were holding onto his every word. 

“And I don’t hate you,” he continued, tilting his head to gaze at your face. “But you gotta understand, that you ain’t gonna be a long-term thing.” 

You could’ve laughed in his face if you weren’t so intimidated by the proximity to him, the warmth that emanated from his body and the goddamn smell of him that had your body reacting in ways you hadn’t ever expected it to. That telltale ache and warmth that pooled in your shorts, the way your skin burned—hair rising from your arms and breath catching in your throat as you were overcome with the need to start hyperventilating. 

“I don’t care either way,” you managed to huff out, shuffling slightly closer, teasing those boundaries you hadn’t known were there in the first place. 

He looked far from convinced, eyes narrowing slightly, chest heaving with a single, deep breath, and hands balled into fists at his sides as he tried as hard as he could to get inside your head. 

“I don’t know if I believe you.” 

Joel stayed leaning against your counter, casual in his stance but all-encompassing dominance in his demeanour. His menace plagued the trailer park, red “X’s” on every door that the man had targeted—a reminder to passers-by of his impact; what could happen if he was crossed: damnation, ostracisation, and wet pants from where they’d all pissed themselves under the strength of his harassment. A figure that the Preacher warned of as the making of the devil, the bottom of America’s proverbial melting pot. A figure that you now stood toe-to-toe with—staring evil right in the fucking face. 

If Hell burnt, he was surely a child of the underworld, scorching the earth beneath and ravaging the heat blazing in your pants. 

“What is there to believe?” you asked breathlessly. “If you wanna leave after, you can leave.” You failed to mention how desperate you were to lay skin-to-skin with him, to feel the heat of him everywhere as he wrapped himself around you: glossolalia in your ears as he lulled you to sleep.

“Babygirl, I ain’t afraid about wanting to leave.” 

It took a second, a moment of analysing his words before the sincerity of them reached your chest and broke all your ribs. Your lips parted, chest unashamedly heaving as the impact left you winded, and a shake in your legs that you tried to ignore in fear you’d fall flat on your face. 

Noting your body language, observing every inch of you—even the smallest of reactions—he took your sporadic breaths as an indicator to continue, standing to his full height as he stepped closer; towering with the grace of the land of Idumaea above you. 

A hand cupped your cheek, a tenderness to the touch that was destroyed by his next words. 

“You ain’t stickin’ around,” he said plainly. “I need you to know that.” 

“I know,” you said defiantly, growing increasingly annoyed with the tone he was taking with you—like you were some disobedient kid who needed reprimanding. It seemed he didn’t much appreciate how you spoke either as his soft touch quickly transformed, fingers gripping your chin and squeezing.

“I don’t wanna be the one to say I told you so,” he murmured. “I don’t want you whinin’ after this or talkin’ about me with Lillian otherwise the whole goddamn place is gonna know that I fucked you. Then, they gon’ be askin’ about you and I don’t like sharin’.” He tugged on your chin, tilting your face so he could lean in. His lips against your ear made you shiver, hot breath against your skin causing every hair to stand to attention and a sweat to form on the back of your neck. “Understand?” 

He pulled away, eyes back on yours—that tiredness replaced with a lust so profound that you were sure he could’ve made you spontaneously cum just by looking at you. 

Attempting to ignore the ache between your thighs, you nodded. When you replied with an “I understand,” there was the overwhelming feeling that you had just signed away your life to an evil force, a ghost with bad intentions that had asked permission to haunt you for the rest of your days. You could move houses and he would be there, you could move states and he would be there, you could move out of the entire country and he would be waiting for you with a hard stare and a clenched jaw. There wasn’t a single scenario in which you could get away from him. 

A stain between your legs: forever. 

“Alright,” he drawled, breathing coming just as heavy as yours, eyes flicking to your lips—subconsciously licking his own. “Alright…” 

It was slow, the entwining of lips, the gentle way that you both leaned into each other—picking at each petal on a daisy until all that remained was the yellow disk in the centre; lips meeting in the middle of the earth and connecting each continent until you both brought back the great mass of Pangea. His hand cupping your cheek, opening his mouth to let you in, tugging at your waist to pull you flush against him and breathing heavily through his nose when the shock that froze you washed away and you wrapped your arms around his neck. 

You leaned up, chin tilting as his hand engulfed one side of your face, fingers tickling your hair, teasing the short wisps before threading his fingers into the length and tugging at it: hard. 

A soft whimper left your throat, vibrations running through your body as he trailed his hand under your shirt—desperate to feel the dip of your waist, the soft skin just beneath your ribcage that he ran a gentle thumb over. 

Tongues entwined in heavenly matrimony, the taste of him tingling on your flesh, the heat of him burning your insides until all that remained was a bubbling pit in your stomach that spit lava and breathed fire. 

You truly lost your head when he snaked his hand further under your shirt, taking advantage of your lack of bra as he skimmed his fingers under your breast and smirked against your lips at the sound you emitted—a shuddering, high-pitched thing that shot right from the back of your throat and sent heat streaming in waves down your legs.  

Desperately, you tugged at the hair that tickled his neck, pressing your weight against him, allowing him to brush every so slightly over your nipple and relish in the reaction he caused as your knees fell weak and your kisses grew harder. 

“Joel,” you murmured between the kiss, finally feeling the heat of him against you, the hard plains of his body that kept you grounded—locked in a transcendental dance, swaying in the lamplight as he hummed into your mouth: his response to your call. 

The words you had nestled on disappeared from your head, your questions and answers, statements and expressions all leaving on a cloud that settled out of your reach with God on high. His hands left you empty, his lips causing your stomach to flip and your cunt to ache in the crudest, most hedonistic sensation humankind had been granted. The deep, gruelling feeling between your legs that flashed so hot, so wet, that you found yourself unconsciously grinding your hips against his—catching the groan that dispelled from his lips and the grip on your hips that grew hard enough to bruise. 

When he pulled away to press an array of kisses to your jaw, trailing down to your neck and sucking on the junction, your knees grew weak and the fire inside you raged so large that you would’ve begged at his feet to put it out. You were choking on the smoke, flames licking at your calves and travelling higher, and with another call of his name, he commanded Noah to grant you a flood. 

He trailed his fingers over the hem of your shirt, pulling it tight and tugging it upwards. You didn’t want to part from him to get it over your head, clinging to him like he was life itself, ignited by his palms pressing over your bare breasts as he hiked the fabric up towards your chin. You obeyed his quiet command, pulling away just far enough for him to peel it off and then brought him right back towards you as his head fell to your chest and his lips clasped around your nipple. 

“Fuck,” you whispered between laboured breaths, his tongue laving over your skin, lapping at every sweet flash of flesh.

His lips moved against you as he uttered a muffled, “Filthy mouth,” kissing back up to your lips in haste. “Always got somethin’ nasty to say.” The deep, rasp of his voice fell into your ears; the heat of his breath against your mouth as he stared at you with an intensity that flashed right through the very core of your soul. 

Bare-chested in his presence, the rough fabric of his shirt rubbing against you, you couldn’t quite come up with a reply. Words failed you, wit and intelligence just out of reach and the feeling that you were drunk on him without even having a cock inside you. Joel had been right. You think he might’ve been right about everything and you were prepared, in your shitty kitchen, with your shirt laying in a heap on the floor, to do whatever he wanted you to. 

“Joel.” It was the only constant word running through your head, the only name you could muster as he pecked you on the lips and splayed his hands along every bare bit of skin he could reach. 

“Not gonna fuck you in the kitchen, baby,” he murmured, lips brushing against yours as he spoke. 

You wouldn’t have minded if he had, the adrenaline of his touches leaving little room for you to feel picky, but with the slow merging of lips as he placed gentle kisses to your mouth, coaxing you to speak, you managed to shudder out a sentence. 

Nodding, you removed your hands from his hair, reaching for his palm that rested on your waist and entwined your fingers with his. You couldn’t bear not feeling his warmth, his weight, over you, your feet hurried as you turned away from him and tugged him down the hallway—intent on shouldering through the open door that led to your room.

With the sun setting in the west, shards of golden light shot through your bedroom window, the patterns on the lace drapes casting shadows of profound nature marching across your comforter—the bunched-up blanket that lay at the foot of your unmade bed after you’d kicked it off in the middle of the night: too hot and head too full of the man that pushed you down onto the very mattress you’d touched yourself in the night before—ignoring the beauty of the four walls illuminated by mother nature’s dying heart. 

Human consumption, an all-encompassing need as he ate at your flesh, ripped your skin from its bones as he positioned you in the middle of the bed, kicked his shoes off, and nestled on top of you—a knee between your thighs that pulled a gasping breath from your lungs. 

“Pretty baby,” he murmured, lips back on your neck, teeth grazing your collarbone and thumb working over your nipple—watching carefully to note the furrow of your brow, the parting of your lips and the bend in your back as you arched into him, reaching for his shoulders to feel the entire weight of him pushing you through the feathers and springs. “Always so pretty.”

Kissing down your bare stomach, tongue flicking against the skin as he reached his hands into your shorts—fists tugging just slightly to reveal your hipbones and the slight dusting of hair that nestled between them. He lay his lips on it, eyes ablaze when they opened and settled right on your heaving chest. There was question in them as he ran his thumbs over your hips, asking non-verbally whether he could strip you bare—fingers clasped around the hem, pulling just a little further and then ridding of them completely as you nodded your head and bucked your hips to ease the fabric down your legs. 

“No panties?” he grumbled, letting you kick away the shorts—hearing the thump as they landed somewhere at the foot of your bed. 

The air hitting your naked body left you writhing in the wake of enlightenment, body attuned to every touch as he rubbed his lips over your mons, breathing you in and forcing a whimper from your throat. A retort to his question pulled you from the reverie of weary head, smiling softly as you mumbled, “You’ve already seen them before.” 

He narrowed his eyes, smoulderingly handsome and devastatingly beautiful—beauty stripped away as he landed a smack to the side of your thigh, pulled a gasp from your throat and hummed softly. 

“Yeah, they were pretty.” He silences any response by grabbing onto your thighs, spreading your legs apart and tilting his head as he stared blankly at your cunt—taking in every detail. “Pretty like this pussy,” he murmurs into the space, breath fanning over your wet slit and causing your hips to twitch. Noting the movement, he slowly and deliberately purses his lips, inhales and breathes out a line of air against your clit. It pulses through you, the cold stream causing your eyes to flutter shut and a heavy heat to settle in your stomach. 

“J-Joel,” you stutter, biting your lip, hoping desperately that he’d touch you properly—bring you to that blissful brink where you could teeter just once and go falling over the edge into a meadow blanketed by the hands of angels and the mouth of God. 

“What?” he asked, a teasing lilt to his tone that aggravates you further. “Gotta speak up, sweetheart, I ain’t no mindreader.” 

“No,” you manage to huff out as he manoeuvres your leg over his shoulder, his thumb running along the outside flesh, teasing you to the point of no return. “No, you’re just an asshole.” 

“Mhm,” he agrees, licking his lips as he brings his eyes away from yours and gives his full attention to the leaking slit between your legs that pulses with the heat and aches with the denial. “She don’t seem to think so.” 

God and it's disgusting: the way he talks about you. It’s depraved and sick and so awfully indulgent but lying there, limp and at his mercy, you can’t care. All you can think about is his thumb travelling slowly, back and forth, along your slit, the gentle kisses he places on the insides of your thighs and the words “Think I should give her some love, don’t you?” swimming in your head before your mind blanked completely and your skin sears as he presses his mouth fully over your cunt, and begins to lick with intention. 

Expletives fall from your mouth, silenced by a second smack to your thigh and a chastising “Language,” as he pauses briefly, leaving you sweating and scared he’s changed his mind before he’s diving headfirst inside you again—tongue teasing at your hole. 

It pulls the worst of sounds from your, body reacting on autopilot as you arch into him, head falling back into the pillows and hands grasping the sheet beneath you in the hopes of gaining a semblance of stability. 

He doesn’t seem to like that, however, his head tilting upwards and hands grasping onto yours as he pulls them to his head, shuddering as your nails reach his scalp. “Hold on, baby,” he says with a slight smirk. “Don’t want you fallin’ off now, do we?” 

The assault on your cunt begins again, his tongue dancing with ease over the full surface, sucking and nipping and eating like he can’t stand to hear the growling or feel the sharp jolts of pain in his stomach anymore. The breathy moans ripping from your throat, the wet sounds reverberating from between your legs that you couldn’t bring yourself to be embarrassed by—the tearing sound as you gripped so hard onto his hair that you pulled tufts from the thick grey. 

Whimpering and writhing; unable to function with him lapping up everything from you—stealing the sweetness of your heat and hoarding it away in his back pocket.

When he sunk his fingers inside, life was pumped back into you, a phantom defibrillator bringing a gasp from your throat—eyes snapping open. 

“Shh,” he murmured as he pulled his mouth away, working his fingers in and out, stroking at the spot that sent you straight to heaven. “Relax, baby.” 

The words swam in your ears, feeling that sweet pressure in your stomach as he continued thrusting his fingers into you, curling them upwards in a manner that had your thighs shaking and a deep exhaling pouring from your chest. You trapped him between your legs when he leant down to lick at you again, small laps that transformed into blissful suckling as he took your clit fully into his mouth. The combination of his mouth and his fingers, the encouraging way he looked at you every single time you dared open your eyes, all had you ascending. 

Every nerve was on fire, synapses working double time to keep up with the overload of sensations imploding inside of you. The world scurried away on a wave, eyes rolling back, toes curling as you squeezed your thighs around his head—locking him there to ensure he would not leave you. That he would keep this feeling brewing in your stomach building forever. 

“Joel,” you murmured between moans, a trail of expletives following it as you stepped to the edge of the cliffs in Big Sur, looked down at the rolling waves as your eyes fluttered shut, swaying in the wind, and letting the gust sweep you over. 

A strangled cry left you, a powerful force of nature overtaking you as you gripped tight onto his hair—briefly recognising his growl as you did so. You continued to fall, the sound of crashing ocean in your ears, before you landed softly in the tall grass and basked in the glow of the setting sun as it nestled across your face. 

Your chest rose and fell as his fingers slowed, mouth now hovering above you and watching intently as your head fell into the pillows and your body slumped with the exhaustion of pleasure. 

You found his mouth wet when you finally opened your eyes, his fingers smearing slick over your hip as he crawled up your body and tugged you down the mattress. 

“You still with me?” he asked as he placed kisses on your neck, brushing sweaty hair away from your forehead and cradling your face in his hand. 

You managed a nod, communicating with actions as you pulled his face to yours, kissing him earnestly and trailing your hands towards the hem of his shirt, muttering an “Off,” barely registering his laugh at your eagerness. 

“Yeah, you’re still here,” he said with mirth, straddling your hips as he sat up to rip his shirt from his body, throwing it next to the pile of your clothes. “Still want it.” He grunted as he palmed himself through his jeans, the sight of him on top of you, so strong, so powerful, caging you in like you were a baby deer and he was the one standing over your dying body with a rifle. A shot through your legs as you heard the clink of his belt buckle, another to your stomach as he slid it from its loops and finally, one to the head when he reached into his pants and pulled his cock free. 

Sizeable in an entirely intimidating way—the vein on the underside that peeked through his fingers as he firmly stroked himself. That slight lick of precum gathering at the tip that dominated the space, your mouth watering as you were taken by the overwhelming urge to suck. He didn’t let you, however—pulling away to slide his jeans off his legs, boxers with them and leant over you to kiss you again. 

You couldn’t get enough of his lips, plump flesh bringing you to life as he nestled his mouth against yours—tongue forcing its way inside to meet yours. He tasted faintly of cigarettes and pussy, smelt of them too, yet it was buried under the overwhelming scent of him. The slight whiff of dollar store soap which was endearing more than anything, the musk of cologne he habitually sprayed over himself every day—a few more squirts when he was bedbound for a few days, unable to move with the pain weighing him down, and hadn’t found the will to shower. 

It hadn’t been one of those weeks though. You could tell as you ran your fingers through his hair, soft and fluffy, slightly wiry with his old age and thinning in the back but still so full and gorgeous. He smelt so good. So much so that as he buried his face in your neck to nip at your collarbone, you inhaled softly, breathing him in, feeling so content being trapped in this complicated dance with him. 

Your head was going funny, your body tingling and then going into overdrive when his hard cock touched the insides of your thighs—his bare chest against yours as he kissed back up to your lips, pecking twice before pulling away to stare at you. 

“No thoughts in that head, huh?” he murmured, leaning down to steal another kiss. Back up again to brand you with the force of his eyes. “Just want daddy’s cock, don’t ya.”

The visceral reaction that ran down your spine, shocked you. The undeniable shiver at the nickname, the complete perversity of it that had your cheeks heating in shame. 

“You’re fucking disgusting,” you breathed out, no real conviction to it, predicting perfectly what his next words would be. 

“And you like it.” His hand slid down your stomach, diving straight inside you and then falling in one swift movement. Fingers brought in front of your face, a slight smile on his face that you revelled in—the prospect of seeing him even slightly happy making butterflies fall and flutter in your stomach. “Sure looks like you like it.” 

The physical evidence swayed the final verdict, his wet fingers falling to your lips, you opening your mouth to let it in and lick away the verification. 

The groan that came from deep in his chest when you sucked his fingers had slick dripping down your thighs—the hasty way that he pulled his hand away from you to reach for his cock: all-consuming. Every cell cried out for Joel, for the blissful stretch, the fumbling of bodies as he slotted himself inside you and the casual roll of his hips as he drilled into you. 

His head at your entrance was undeniably overwhelming, the feel of it dragging back and forth along your slit, slipping in twice before he finally sunk inside—his body covering yours as he breathed a “There you go,” against your lips. “Take it for me, baby.”

His words helped with the ease, the burn of the stretch still prevalent but the need to please him, to be good for him, dulled the pain. The kisses on your forehead, the whispered, strained praise as he pressed inside of you, words jumbled and hurried—no sense to half of them—until he was fully inside you, balls pressed against your ass and a tear trailing into your hairline. 

Joel kissed it away, lips closing around the salty liquid, pulling away to gaze at your expression. His palms settled against either side of your head, grounding himself—trying to remain the competent party between the two of you, pulling his teeth between his lips and clenching his jaw as his fists curled into the sheets. 

When he’d settled and become comfortable with the tightness of you around him, he kissed you again, lips wet and swollen from where he’d bit at them—a full-mouthed kiss. Opening you up, distracting you from the length of him pulling away, leaving your cunt open and lonely, then the gasp and shudder as he pushed back into you. 

“J-Joel,” you stuttered out, unable to recall if you’d said anything except his name for the past hour. 

“I know, babydoll, I know.” 

He started slow, hips rolling, cock sliding: in and out, round and round, pubic bone catching on your clit—the sweet pressure that clouded you, that left you boneless and aching. The moan you let out was something that you would’ve been embarrassed by if it wasn’t for his praise. The sweet “Good girl,” that crept past his lips, followed by the “Keep makin’ those pretty little noises for me.” It could’ve been perceived as affection if it wasn’t for the growling tone it was uttered with, a particular harsh thrust that was met with a grunt and a whine. 

The world around you slipped away, the only constant being Joel and his hooded gaze, his parted mouth as he sucked in every breath you exhaled. Those perfect arms hooking around you, locking you in with him, the weight of him leaving as he sat up on his haunches to gaze down at the sight of him lost inside you—the fire that danced along your belly as he pulled your legs apart and began thrusting at a pace your mind could not catch up with. 

Words muffled in your ears, “Such a sweet little cunt.” A flash of heat down your neck as they reached your cock-muddled brain—whispered right inside your head. “Dreamt about this pussy.” Pace faltering as he parted his mouth and took a deep breath; his eyes fluttering shut. “Always fucking dreamin’ about ya.”

That southern drawl that lulled you right through every sensation, comforting words that helped you gain some amount of strength—just wanting to reach him and pull him close. It was cold without him pressed against you. Detached. In a way you didn’t want to be, in a way that you had always thought sex shouldn’t be. 

When he grumbled out, “My perfect girl,” you couldn’t stand the separation anymore, pushing up on your forearms and somehow managing to jump him, bracketing his thighs and swinging your arms around his neck—kissing him madly. 

The surprised grunt he let out made you smile, his hips stilling as you sat on him—feeling him so deep inside you it felt like he was stabbing at your stomach. You whined against his lips when he rolled his hips upwards, losing the will to move as you buried your face in his neck. 

Bodies entwined, limbs entangled and a mouth moving against your hair as it uttered words so sinful that you were sure the cross on your bedroom wall, hung right above your bed, would turn upside down all on its own. The devil in your room, his spawn fucking you on your bed and a laugh on God’s lips because he always knew you were false. That there was no verity to your prayers, that you weren’t ever a true daughter; that you would never spend eternity with him when you fell from the burning bridge to the lake. 

“Does my baby wanna ride?” he asked, hands on your ass, moving you up and down along his length whilst he smiled into your hair. Enjoying the desperation—basking in the way you pleaded for him. 

You nodded your head at his question, unable to breathe with the casual move of his hips paired with the strong manhandle as he moved you along him. 

“Wanted to feel you,” you mumble out softly, entirely dumb with the feel of him—sweat dripping down each body and mingling at the bottom of a well. “Just wanted you.” 

Within Joel Miller, in all his outright madness, past all that anger and tribulation, lay a vulnerability you had always wanted to pull from him. A vulnerability that he showed you, in your bed, with you wrapped around him, grinding your hips against his to feel that growth in your stomach. Vulnerability that he perfectly lay in front of you with broken laces lined up in an order, as he whined. A low, breathy thing that had something snapping inside you—a primal instinct as your slick spilt onto his thighs and your brain decided to give him everything. 

You reached up to drag your hands through his hair, using his hands on your ass as a guide—where to start and where to stop, where to speed up and slow down—as you rode him. Nails dragged down to his shoulders, digging into the skin of his back as he bucked his hips upwards. 

“Pretty, pretty, baby,” he mumbled. “Think about you all the time. Think about that perfect little face when I’m jerkin’ off.” 

Such crude words had your heart fluttering, your pace picking up as you pressed your forehead against his and chased that fleeting high. Unable to think of the comedown in the moment, too enraptured by his arms holding you tight against him, the slight dusting of hair against his chest that stimulated your nipples so perfectly and of course, his gorgeous fucking cock that dragged inside you with the sweetest of scrapes. Pushing and pulling, touching against the mind-numbing spot inside you with every thrust—every time you slammed down against his hips. 

“I- I,” you managed to breathe out when it all came flooding in. A hurricane swept past the county, headed straight for your home, walls down and completely defenceless when you felt the wind knocking against the panes. “Joel.”

“Shhh, baby, I got you.” He wrapped his left arm fulling around your waist, placing the right against your face to tilt your head back. “I ain’t goin’ nowhere.” 

Rain was fully beating down on your shelter, dripping through the rafters—threatening to push through the roof and flood you with debris. 

“I got you,” he repeated, holding you tight as there was nowhere else to go. Nowhere to run. Just wait for the glass to break and the door to slam open. 

You could only moan, unable to keep moving—just letting him do all the work. To keep doing exactly as he had been as the rain came pouring in through the cracks, water rising so fast you were waist-deep in it by the time he muttered a “Let go for me,” his hand moving to cradle the back of your head and keep you locked in place. “C’mon, baby, give daddy another one.” 

His words broke the glass entirely, the roof caving in as the hurricane raged, inching closer and closer until it found you—beating you right to the floor.

It was a continual cry of his name, his words sweet in your ear as he worked you through it, tone strangled and tense as his stomach clenched and he thrust his hips at breakneck speed—deciding that he couldn’t focus on you any longer as he was beaten to the ground by the twister alongside you.

Pulling away hastily, he reached a hand down to rub his cock, fisting at the length until he spilt over you with a broken moan and painted your stomach with the making of your union. 

You were still twitching when his breathing slowed, his arm still tight around you; not quite ready to let go yet. 

The storm had passed, and you were left with the damage of its destruction. 

Broken furniture, ravaged landscape, and a hole where you and Joel lay—fingers brushing against one another as you reached out to him. 

There was a brief moment of peace, the time between now and what was to come, pausing as if to grant you the sweet mercy of holding on for just a minute longer. 

Then, as quickly as it came it was gone, a single kiss to your lips before he gently laid you down, hesitating just a moment, gazing at you like he wanted to stay, before deciding that he was too stubborn to go against his word, and stood up from the bed to find his pants. 

Stupidly, in your fucked-out, hazy state of mind, you decided to ignore everything he’d said before: about you not being permanent. Some part of you wanted to believe that he had said it just to hurt you, that there was no real meaning behind them except mindless arrogance and a will to push you away because he was afraid. 

“You aren’t staying?”

He paused his movements, halfway through putting his jeans on, and looked at you with something akin to disgust. 

“What’d I tell you, princess?” 

It was awful. That switch.

As soon as his dick wasn’t wet and leaking, he was gone. Lost to the tunnels of his mind, trapped in a maze that had no exit. You couldn’t find him—couldn’t see that Joel that had been there just moments ago, calling you pretty and perfect. Telling you that you were his girl. 

You’d agreed, you knew you had. It didn’t make it any less painful as he refused to look at you when he re-buckled his belt, didn’t even glance over when you reached down for the blankets and pulled them around you—suddenly feeling entirely exposed. 

All you could do was watch: in an awkward silence. Scan his face for anything as he pulled his shirt over his head and didn’t even dare sit on the bed to put his boots back on. 

It was hurtful when he reached into his back pocket to shake out a cigarette, bringing it to his lips and flicking open his zippo in a way that shouldn’t have been so damn attractive. 

“Joel?” Where the bravery had come from, you didn’t know, your body shaking under the covers as his eyes landed on yours for the first time since he’d stared at you as you came undone. 

“Mhm?” he grunted out in response, breathing out the smoke and going straight in for another drag. 

What you were going to say, you hadn’t thought out. You hadn’t thought out the entire encounter in general and in that moment it felt like you hadn’t thought out anything in your entire life. So, when the mumbled, “Thank you,” fell from your lips and the harsh chuckle fell from his, you couldn’t quite stop the feeling of utter embarrassment and humiliation. 

You’d promised him you wouldn’t tell anyone, that you wouldn’t go spouting his business to the park's biggest gossips, so you wouldn’t. You’d have to sit with it, to go back to lying on your bedroom floor every day and regretting everything and everyone. Rehashing every person you had wronged when you were stuck in the harshest depths of your mind, every time you’d been beaten down by those out to get you—every fork in the road you’d come across that seemed to harbour identical destinations: damnation. 

“Gratitude accepted,” he mumbled out, cigarette perched between his lips—inhaling and exhaling with it still in his mouth. 

For some reason, you wanted to cry. Your throat closed, lip quivering and tears forming in your waterline. You suppressed it—at least, you tried to. He’d already seen you cry before. You had no interest in letting him see it again.

There was a heavy silence as he stood there smoking, eyes trained on you and taking note of your throat bobbing as you swallowed down the lump. You knew you’d been caught then, his twitching jaw that he rid of with another drag of the cigarette, the slight sigh that he huffed out through his nose and the single nod of his head as he walked the few paces to your bed and sat down atop the mattress. 

Quietly, he gestured the burning stick towards you, watching as you accepted it gratefully. It helped rid the ache in your chest. 

“I said I didn’t wanna say I told you so,” he said, running a hand over his scruff before placing it on your thigh—skin burning through the thin material. 

You sniffled, trying to maintain composure as you jutted your chin out and gave him the hardest of stares you could muster. 

“And I said I understood.” You let the cigarette burn between your fingers—the single drag making you feel sick to your stomach. “I’m not…naive. Not stupid either.” 

“I know,” he said plainly. “I know.” 

“Then why are you still here?” It was said bitterly, a tone that you hadn’t wanted to take with him but left your body unconsciously as some form of repressed rage came bubbling in pieces through you. 

He swallowed calmly, pulling his hand away as he plucked the cigarette from between your fingers—deciding he needed it more than you did. 

“Just wanted to…” he cleared his throat upon hearing the strain in his tone, seemingly struggling to speak the words aloud. “Just wanted to make sure you understood.”

“And I do,” you countered quickly.

“Good,” he countered even quicker. 

Your skin was burning, and your cunt began to ache with the loss of him—the imprint that he’d left inside you that you were sure would be there for some time. 

The smell of tobacco was starting to make you feel sick, the scent of sex in the air a harsh reminder of everything you’d gained and lost in the space of a few hours.

The sun hid itself behind the horizon, its light no longer shining through and piercing your heart. 

It was instead the harsh stab of his gaze, the lasting feeling of his hands on your thighs and the intense tightness in your chest every time you looked at him, that broke you completely. 

“You can go,” you mumbled, watching his face for any sign that he didn’t want to do as you asked—that he’d finally lay beside you and stroke your hair as he told you everything he’d done wrong. Just so maybe you could feel normal. Like someone else in this world had finally seen you and understood that you weren’t perfect—that there were more flaws than strengths and more fuckups than good decisions. 

There was nothing. Just a blank stare as he stood, knees cracking and back aching—walking away and leaving the phantom feel of him inside you, nestled between your legs. 

“See you ‘round,” he mumbled, standing in the doorway.

“Yeah, okay.” 

There was a pause as he waited, eyes firmly on the floor as he screwed his brow up—looking like he was thinking hard. Weighing up his options before flicking his gaze up and landing on you: naked and trembling in bed. 

“I still mean it.” You were confused for a moment, waiting for a confession, hoping in the grandest of your delusions that he’d change his mind and love you till the end of time. Then, the confirmation that, upon close inspection, seemed to be the closest to a confession you would ever get. “You need anythin’, I’ll be there.” 

You nodded to show you understood, unable to speak in fear you’d crack and crumble, and watched with a deep longing in your heart as he turned his back on you, and walked away. 

His footsteps were heavy against the floor, his power reverberating all throughout the trailer—the gentleness he displayed in small gifts of protectiveness and affection, shown through the way he closed the door as quietly as he could. If it wasn’t for the creak of the steps, you would’ve thought he hadn’t left at all. 

When you were sure he was gone, you allowed yourself a moment to cry, turning over in bed to curl up in a ball of self-pity. 

Why he couldn’t stay, you were unsure. Why he wouldn’t hold you close, if only for one night, you didn’t know. You didn’t know anything. You were lost in a world you were so sure was not meant for you, knowing right there, in the sweat of your bed with tears dripping off your nose, that you did not know Joel Miller and would never know him for as long as he lived. 

Cracking him open was like trying to split a coconut with nothing but your bare hands. 

Crying with no one to hold you, those final words of admission ran through your head; you knew that this problem, you could not go to him with. That the word “anything,” was a courtesy and a promise he could not cater to. 

Head pounding with disdain, tears running with despondency, chest aching so painfully you thought your heart would fail. In some way, you wished it would. Just so you could rest for a moment. Because you couldn’t without the warmth of him behind you, his arms tugging you close and lips on the side of your head—whispering everything that had pulled him to you and kept him there. 

Turning around to face your window, pressing a palm to your head like it would take away the pain, you gazed at the trailer that neighboured yours. The cracks and cobwebs that littered its surface, the two chairs that spent every waking moment together, tucked into their own corner of the world where they could whisper and giggle—expel every truth because all that time had left them with nothing but absolute trust. 

You realised that sitting in the chair on the left, the one that had no owner would mean that you and Joel would have to navigate the same type of relationship: one that relied on a bond unbroken by anything except their mistakes and mistruths. 

You faced away, closing your eyes and willing God to send you an eternal sleep—pathetically pretending that he was there beside you as you ran a finger over the drying cum on your stomach and the lingering bruising inside of you that left a blood on your thighs and a butterfly in your head as it knocked against each surface of your skull and fell gracelessly when it came hurtling against the wall.

© virginreprise

a/n: well, i finally got it out!! not entirely pleased with it but i never am lol. it's only half proofread just because i got bored halfway through and only went through what i wrote today. either way, i hope you enjoyed it!! maybe...there'll be more chapters after this. it's quite a depressing ending which is what i like best tbh but it'd be nice to see joel finally stop being a dick :))

thanks for reading !

taglist: @1maasrpe

[mediumgayitalian]

“Death Breath! Hey! Wait up!”

Nico bolts. He makes it about ten feet away from his cabin door before Will and his stupid long legs catch up with him, throwing an arm over his shoulder and then immediately tripping over his own foot and sending them both sprawling.

“I hate you,” Nico groans, curling up on the grass.

It’s too early for any of this. He was just trying to get back at Cecil for covering everything he owned in aluminum foil last week — and then he was going to go right the hell back to bed.

He knew he should have fucking shadow travelled.

“Aw, c’mon. You love me.”

Nico pretends to gag. The only thing he gets is Will’s crossed arms and raised eyebrow, so he doubles down and really starts to retch. Whatever. It’s eight thirty in the morning. He fell asleep at five. Rational thinking is a distant, distant memory.

“Whenever you’re done.”

“I will be sick at the thought for the next eight weeks,” Nico informs him. For dramatic effect, he looks up at Will’s face — which he cant even see, since the sun’s in his eyes — and shudders.

“You know, you have a genuine, beautiful talent for the dramatic arts, the likes of which I have never seen. Are you sure you’re not secretly an Apollo kid?”

I better not be, ‘cause then all the staring I do at your calves would be real weird, he thinks to himself, then considers whether he can convince Kayla to give him a lobotomy. He thinks she might like the opportunity.

“Piss off,” he says instead of that, artfully schooling his face into the aristocratic mask he’s perfected from his father, squaring his shoulders and looking at Will like he’s a pebble lodged in the flesh of his heel.

Will rolls his eyes. “Get up, Sharpay Evans. You’re gonna stain your shirt worse than you already have.”

Nico sniffs haughtily. “My shirt is perfectly fine, thank you very much. I order them in black for a reason.”

He notices a giant grass stain on the side when he stands. He ignores it. Will does not.

“Yeah, ‘cause you’re the Goth King.”

“Ghost King.”

“Right, right. That helps your case.”

Nico shoves him, fighting back a grin. “Whatever, Solace. What are you bothering me for?”

“Oh, yeah!”

Nico is a deeply cheesy person. Down to the core of him, past all the sarcasm and prickliness and trauma, or whatever, he’s made of fucking mozzarella, because what business does he have comparing Will’s eyes to the morning winter sky? Huh? That’s embarrassing. It isn’t even original. If Nico caught anyone saying shit like that out loud in real life, he’s collapse into the shadows from embarrassment. He needs electroshock therapy.

“I was thinking —”

“Rare,” Nico quips, just to watch Will’s eyebrow twitch. It does. Nico smiles.

“I was thinking,” he repeats, mocking glare in Nico’s direction, “that you and me go to the city this afternoon.”

“You chased me across camp for that?”

“Oh, please, Zombie Face. I chased you maybe twenty yards.”

“I think all that time sniffing rubbing alcohol has deteriorated your brain.”

“I think I’m going to shove you in the lake.”

“Feel free to try. You will not wake up the next morning.”

“Nah.” Will shoots him a smug smile. Nico trips over air. “I can be as annoying as I want and you still won’t kill me. I have impunity.”

Nico rolls his eyes, refusing to dignify that with an answer. The less he acknowledges his own shame, the more likely it will go away on its own. Probably.

“Anyways. Guess what Cecil told me today.”

“His last will and testament?” Nico guesses, suddenly remembering his reason for being up this early.

“No, no, not that.” Will pauses. “Well, I mean, he did. I passed it on to Chiron. He has requested that when you maul him, you avoid his face, because he wants to be a sexy corpse and he can’t do that if you destroy his prettiest features.”

“Noted. Please inform him I will come for him within a window of the next fifteen hours.”

Theres a very particular face Will makes when he finds something genuinely funny. A smile a little more crooked than his regular one, teeth working at his bottom lip to hold it back, left dimple appearing in his cheek. It makes Nico want to do stupid things like press his thumb into said divot. He instead shoves his hands deeply into his pockets.

“I’ll let him know.” He clears his throat. “Anyways. You know what day it is today?”

Nico squints. “Tues…day? No, Wednesday.” He glances at Will. It’s been maybe….three days since their weekly sleepover? No, fuck, four. He thinks. “Thursday. Final answer.”

“Monday,” Will corrects, “and, gods, you need to sleep more. And a calendar. But no, that’s not my point.”

“Feel free to get to it.”

“It’s Valentine’s Day,” Will finally explains. He tries for exasperated, but it doesn’t work — he’s clearly excited, bouncing on the balls of his feet and waving his hands. “And The Five Seasons is doing half off for couples, so you and I need to go!”

He waves his hands, as if tying off some grand reveal. His (blue blue blue blue) eyes are squeezed nearly shut by the force of his beam, which lessons slightly with every second Nico does not respond.

“William,” he says finally. He opens his mouth, then closes it again. “William.”

Will pouts. “What?”

“Explain how this is relevant to me, William.”

“Aw, c’mon, Nico! Don’t be difficult!”

“William,” stresses Nico again. “We are not a couple. Did you hit your head again?”

“Well, duh, Neeks, it’s about the scam!” He flaps his hand in a way Nico assumes is meant to convey something. “We’re gonna — eat! Cheap! By pretending to be a couple!” Now both hands are flopping, paired with wide, imploring eyes. “Obviously!”

“Obviously,” Nico repeats, slowly. He instructs one half of his brain to keep its focus on not melting into a puddle of blushing embarrassed goo, and the other to exercise restraint and not strangle the boy in front of him. A headache begins to press behind his eyes. “Will, what the shit.”

“You of all people!” Will throws his hands up. “You love scamming people! You hate corporate holidays! You frequently throw pebbles at people who look, and I quote, too obnoxiously happy! You’re the best hater I know! You should be on board!”

He makes a compelling point. Not that Nico is going to make that easy for him.

“You seem very invested in this,” Nico points out. He manages to keep his voice tastefully judgmental, which he’s very proud of.

“Of course I am! I want cheap Five Seasons food, godsdammit!” He pauses, switching tactics. “Nico,” he says softly. He puts a gently hand on Nico’s forearm, making him freeze. He is suddenly very, very close, and wow, did his hair always frame his face in gentle waves? Has that always been a thing? “I really, really want to scam a restaurant with you.” He smiles, small and crooked and gods, Will doesn’t look dangerous very often, but holy Hades when he does — “Will you make my Valentines, and scam a restaurant with me?”

His fingers begin to trace little circles in the inside of Nico’s wrist.

“Yes,” he squeaks, voice cracking.

“Yes!” Will cheers, pulling his fist. “Yes, hell yes, Nico! We are going to scam the shit out of this restaurant! Half off for couples? How about half off for heathens! Free money, baby! Fuck yeah!”

He turns back towards Nico, smile still wide and radiant, blinking eyes pools of sparkling excitement. Nico’s knees go a little weak. “I’ll come get you at 2! Thank you, Neeks!”

He runs off back to his cabin, only tripping twice. Nico watches him go, feeling a little like he’s tripping, too, with all the swooping his stomach is doing.

“Dude,” he mumbles to himself, shaking his head. “Be normal. Christo.”

It takes him ten straight minutes to get back to his cabin, even though he’s standing at the porch.

———

The obsidian handle of the Hades’ cabin door rattles.

“Neeks!” calls a voice behind the door, “you ready to go?”

“Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit.” Nico scrambles over to the mirror and stares at himself. He turns a little to the left. He scowls. “Shit!” Tugging the shirt off, he turns back to his closet, tossing the piece of clothing to join the rest of its brethren on the floor. “Shitfuck. Fuckshit. Shit.”

“Nico!”

“Coming!”

Tapping his foot rapidly, he looks harder, as if that will magically make the right shirt pop into existence, perfectly pressed, on a hanger. “Shit.”

“What could possibly be taking so long? You’ve had two hours!”

“I care about my appearance, Mr Flip Flops and Scrubs!”

“Bleh bleh! Hurry up!”

Nico bites his lip. It shouldn’t matter. It doesn’t, really. Five Seasons is not actually a fancy restaurant. He and Will just like to joke that it is, because it has tablecloths. They’ve gone there dozens of times before; they stop every time they’re in the city for supply runs or visits to Olympus or to harass their summer-only friends at school. There is literally no reason for Nico to be stressing about what stupid shirt he should wear. Gods know Will is wearing cargo shorts.

“Nico!”

“I’m coming!“

Scowling, he digs through the pile of discarded clothes until he finds the first shirt he’d put on — a dark green button up that was given to him, along with a bunch of other fancy clothes he never wears, by the Aphrodite cabin. He hastily shoves their buttons through their holes, cursing when he mixes them up and has to start over, and sprints over to the mirror to inspect himself.

The shirt looks good. It’s a little tight on the arms, which he suspects was on purpose, and the colour compliments his skin nicely. The buttons are a dark, shiny brown that match his eyes. They pair nice with his simple jeans and black vans, casual enough that he doesn’t look like he’s going to Prom, or anything stupid like that, but dressy enough that it looks like he put effort in. He runs his fingers through his hair, trying to make the staticky strands sit right, but gives up pretty quickly. It’s okay if one thing is a little messy, right?

“Finally,” huffs Will as the door swings open. He glances Nico up and down, then grins. “You look great.”

Nico was right. He is indeed wearing cargo shorts, although to his credit they are his one pair without various Head Medic stains. His sweater, too, is a pretty blue, V-necked, long-sleeved, and a completely different style than his shorts. It clashes horribly. His shoes are, for some reason, bright solid pink. Nico suspects Hecate magic. His hair is braided in two French braids, his favourite way to wear it. Nico believes he is also wearing a touch of sparkly eyeshadow.

“You look dorky.”

Will grins wider. “Thank you! I wouldn’t let anyone help me choose something.”

“You should have.”

“I wanted it to be authentic, Nico. Also, got something for you.” From behind his back, he pulls out a handful of daisies, black dirt clinging to their roots, like he plucked them straight from the ground. Nico is inexplicably endeared by the image, and prays the smile on his face is less soft than he knows it is.

“You got me flowers?”

“Well, duh, Avril Lavigne. We gotta sell the scam.”

Nico brings them close to his face and inhales deeply. They smell fresh and earthy and sweet.

“That’s a stupid reason to bring someone flowers.”

“Give them back, then.”

“No. Fuck off. They’re mine.”

Will’s eyes twinkle. “Okay.” He holds out his arm. “Ready to go?”

The jump is close enough that Nico can convince him to shadow travel, and not just because he sadistically looks forward to the shade of green Will’s face will get after. As dangerous as he knows it can be, he misses it, sometimes. There’s something comforting about it, something soothing and familiar. Shadow travelling to the restaurant eases any lingering nerves.

“If you’re gonna throw up, do it somewhere I can’t hear you,” he says as they materialize in an alley.

Will’s cheeks puff out. “I’m gonna do it on your fuckin’ shoes.”

“I will leave your ass here, Solace, I swear to the gods.” Despite his grumbling, he rests a cool hand on the back of Will’s neck until he’s recovered. “Good?”

“Yeah.” He straightens, dusting off his sweater. “Let’s go.”

Nico follows him down the alley and onto the street, elbowing past the crowd of pedestrians until they approach the familiar glass doors. He rolls his eyes fondly every time Will apologizes to someone.

“You need to be meaner.”

Will sticks his tongue out and tries to trip him. Unfortunately, he only manages to throw himself off balance, nearly crashing to the floor of Nico hadn’t caught him.

“Good gods, Solace.”

“That was your fault!”

“Yeah, yeah.”

The doors of the restaurant are absolutely plastered in cheesy red hearts and bows and cartoon kisses. And, as promised, a giant sign promising couples a fifty percent discount on their meals.

“My love,” says Will dramatically, holding out a hand, “shall we?”

Nico sighs, resting his hand delicately in Will’s. It sparks with electricity, like it always does. “I suppose.”

“Party pooper.”

“I’m not hearing oh, Nico, thank you so much for doing this incredibly stupid thing with me, you are my dearest friend and I owe you one. Or three, for some reason.”

Will’s mouth twitches. “Oh, Nico, thank you so much for —”

Nico shoves him, laughing. “Shut up.”

They’re seated pretty quickly, server smiling when they take notice of their clasped hands. Will orders chicken tenders, like he does every single time without fail, and water. Nico orders from the adult menu and absolutely does not make any kind of show about it.

“There is nothing babyish about chicken tendies.”

“Oh, of course not.”

“Is this about you having a credit card? That does not make you more adult than me. It makes you a nepo baby.”

“Mhm. Sure thing.”

“Nobody likes a nepo baby, Nico.”

“Look, I think your drink comes with a complimentary sippy cup.”

Teasing and joking with Will is so easy that Nico forgets the core of their mission. The pink garlands hanging from the ceiling fade into the background — he’s too busy crying with laughter when Will nearly chokes to death on a french fry, too busy flicking a forkful of food at his shoulder just to make him shriek, too busy kicking his shin under the table. He catches Nico’s foot between his the fourth time he tries it, keeping it trapped for the rest of the meal. Nico finds he doesn’t mind.

“And your bill,” says their server when they’re done, setting down a slip of paper. “Forgive me if I’m being presumptuous, but do you two qualify for today’s discount?”

Will smirks widely. “We do,” he says, with no small amount of pleasure. He shoots Nico the least subtle wink of all time. Nico rolls his eyes, cheeks going a little pink.

“Great! You guys have a wonderful Valentine’s day.”

“You, too.”

The server hurries away, turning to their other tables. Will’s smile is wide and smug.

“I knew it would work.”

“Duh. Easiest scam in the world, Solace.”

He sticks his tongue out. “And thus the best payout. You’re welcome.”

“Blah, blah. Gimme the bill.”

“Um, no way, di Angelo. I’m paying.”

He opens his wallet before Nico can stop him, mouthing as he counts the bills.

“What? No! I’m paying.”

“Are not.”

“Am too!”

“Are not.” He sets down a couple twenties. Nico snatches them right back up. “You we’re just complaining about my credit card!”

“Exactly. Thus my need to continue to pretend you don’t have one, so we can continue our friendship.”

“Solace, I swear to the gods.”

“di Angelo, I swear to the gods.”

Nico stares him down. Will stares back. He doesn’t even try to hide his lazy grin, his laughing eyes.

“You’re not paying for this by yourself,” Nico says firmly. “You don’t have a job. My father invented being rich.”

“Sure, but I made you come with me.”

“Ugh!” Nico throws his hands up, imagining how satisfying it would be to wrap his hands around that long neck (followed by his teeth and his tongue and his —). “Why are you impossible? I would’ve gone with you no matter what, stupid!”

As soon as he says it he wants to stick his head in wet cement. For a brief second, something like surprise flits across Will’s face, before he schools it back into his teasing smirk.

“Well, obviously, Death Breath. I’m excellent company.”

“You’re literally the most annoying person I know.”

“And yet here you are, hanging out with me, of your own volition.”

“…I’m paying next time.”

Will grins. “Whatever you say.”

They walk around the city for a while before heading back to camp. Will says it’s because he needs the air, Nico knows it’s because he wants him to rest a little longer before trying to shadow travel again. He tries not to let himself get all melty inside.

(Nobody willingly hangs out around the city for the ‘air’. He’s a shit liar. Nico should be offended.)

It’s nearing curfew by the time they melt back out from behind Thalia’s tree, extra shadows of early evening making the trip easier.

“Those fries are going to make a reappearance,” Will grimaces.

“Not if you don’t want me to kick you in the face.”

“You’d never.”

He would indeed never. But he would rather pass away than admit it, so.

“C’mon, dot face. It’s getting late. You have a cabin to run.”

“Oh, Nico,” Will says in a breathy falsetto, “are you walkin’ me to my cabin? How chivalrous!”

“Nevermind.”

“No no no no no I’m kidding, I’m kidding!” Nico allows himself to be tugged, weak to Will’s giggles. “Walk me to my cabin. C’mon.”

Sighing, as if he’s so put out, Nico does. Some point in between Thalia’s tree and the amphitheater, Will’s hand slides down from around his wrist to tangled in between his fingers. Coincidentally, his mouth goes dry.

As they approach the Apollo cabin, Will slows to a stop.

“Hey.” He squeezes their fingers together, smile soft in the dying light of dawn. “I had fun today. Thank you for coming with me.”

Nico swallows. One day, those words will be said in a different context, if everything goes well for Nico, and he’s not sure how the hell he’s going to handle it without bursting into flame. “Yeah, well. Anything to scam a restaurant.”

“Right.”

They walk the last few steps to the cabin, rickety porch steps creaking under their feet as they approach the open door. Will doesn’t let go.

“Hey, Nico.”

“…Yeah?”

Quick as a flash, Will leans in and presses the softest of kisses to his mouth. The noise Nico makes is practically punched out of his lungs, spine going rigid in surprise.

“You can pay for our next date, okay?”

He’s gone before Nico can respond, ducking into his cabin with a small smile and closing the door behind him. Nico stands there, like an idiot, for three solid minutes at the very least, distantly aware of the giggles coming through the open window.

His hand comes up, fingers brushing his bottom lip.

“The little fucker set me up.”

Valentine’s day scam. Please. The only scam today was the scam of Will’s sneaky asking.

Nico smiles.

“You’re a mess, Solace!” he shouts, knowing damn well Will is listening.

He’s right. “Goodnight, Nico!”

Shaking his head, Nico runs back to his cabin, entire body tingling and cheeks aching with his grin.

[heyftinally]

Y'all are going to like this one.

SWIFTIES DON'T TOUCH THIS POST WITH A TEN FOOT POLE, I SWEAR TO FUCKING HELL-

So my friend sent me this article, and I'm going to tell you why I think it's complete bullshit.

1) wishing us a happy Pride month is the BARE MINIMUM. As someone with her presence in the media and social influence, she could - and should - be doing SO much more than just wishing us a happy pride four days in.

2) "the singer has been an advocate for the LGBTQ+ community" not a good one. She seems to only remember us when it's convenient or benefits her in some way. Case in point:

2018 - "When it comes to feelings and when it comes to love and searching for someone to spend your whole life with. It's all just really really delicate. You know?" Taylor then performed her song "Delicate."

2023 - It’s painful for everyone, every ally, every loved one, every person in these communities.

In the first example, the intentional song reference comes off as extremely tacky. This is people's LIVES you're talking about. People are MURDERED for who they are and who they love (or don't love). This isn't an appropriate time to pull out the "oh-so-quirky" act and be cutesy.

In the second, the fact that she can't even center queer people in their own experience is so, SO telling. I promise, however painful it is for allies, it's 1000x worse for us to LIVE it. Allies don't have to wonder "am I going to get hate crimed wearing this?" before they leave the house - we frequently do. To not acknowledge that shows me that everything she says is performative at best.

3) I wouldn't call what she does "advocacy". She mentions us every now and then when it's convenient for her, profits off of us when we fit her marketing plan, and I've yet to find where she actually apologized for the homophobia in the original version of Picture to Burn. Also, she's real good friends with Travis Kelce's dad, who is a raging transphobe (and I bet his kids are, too). You don't get to call yourself an ally if you willingly allow the people around you to be violent bigots.

4) "always" is a strong word for someone who seems to show her support situationally at best. The full quote was "The way for that to happen is for us to continue to keep pushing governments to put protections in place for members of the LGBTQ community. And I promise to always advocate for that." Yet she doesn't do that.

5) what she speaks out, I've noticed that it's nearly always in the states that primarily agree with her. We don't see a whole lot of her "inspiring ally" speeches in places like Texas or Florida. But I've seen plenty of them come out of already notoriously queer-friendly places. If you aren't willing to face the heat of the difficult places along with the comfort of the easy ones, you don't get to call yourself an ally. Allyship is not easy. Anyone remember when Lady Gaga advocated for us in Russia, under threat of arrest, and her response was "arrest me, Russia! I don't give a fuck!"? Yeah, I've never seen even half that level of true commitment from Taylor.

6) STOP. MAKING. STRAIGHT GIRL SONGS. "GAY ANTHEMS"!!!! FFS it's such a slap in the fucking face of REAL, ACTUALLY QUEER ARTISTS that y'all keep calling these piss pathetic straight girl over produced crap songs "anthems". Fucking stop it. If they aren't queer, they don't qualify to be a queer anthem or icon. Start supporting ACTUAL queer artists with ⅛ this energy, for the love of FUCK. This bullshit pisses me off. Do you need a list of queer artists? I'll make you one by hand if you promise to stop trying to label Raylor Swift's straight girl shit songs as "gay anthems".

7) rainbows and gender subversion are not exclusively nor inherently queer. If that's our bar for "gay anthems", the bar is so low Lucifer himself needs a damn Webb Telescope to just barely see it from hell.

[aakeysmash]

Roommate or boss?

part 1, part 3, part 4

Pairing: f!reader x Katsuki Bakugou.

Warnings: cursing, maybe a little bit of suggestive language.

Word count: 2079 words.

Having Katsuki as a roommate proved to be not that bad. He was almost never home apart from most evenings, and when he was home, he minded his own business.

It’s not like he didn’t acknowledge you to be under his same roof, he was a decent guy, even if he swore a lot.

After sleeping in the guest room for a month, he painted it like he said he would at the beginning, and it took him 3 days. He had to sleep on the couch to not inhale the fumes, and you heard him cursing every morning.

“Can you keep it down? Jeez, it’s 7 am” you say coming out of your room, having heard the commotion in the living room.

“You have to change this shit of a couch. My back hurts so fucking much. My feet don’t even fucking stay on the couch while I sleep ‘cause of how fucking small it is” he barks at you.

“Not my fault you’re big” you say yawning, while rubbing your eyes and going straight towards the coffee machine. You hated having early lectures.

He scoffs. You widen your eyes, shooting him a mean look.

“I meant to say you’re tall” you add.

“Huh? And what would even be the other meaning? Freak” he says flipping you off and sitting himself at the table.

“Whatever” you mumble, putting your coffee in a cup.

“Give me some” he says stretching his hand.

“Make it yourself, big guy” you reply, sticking your tongue out and going towards your own room.

“OI! And here I was about to make you breakfast in exchange” he loudly says.

You turn around and smile at him sweetly. “Roomieeee you didn’t have toooo” you say, trying to hug him.

You know he hates physical contact. He told you so after you accidentally touched his hand passing him the salt one day at dinner. He jumped out of his chair like he was burned by your touch.

“GET OFF OF ME YOU GREMLIN!”.

Meanwhile, things at work could be going better. Your manager came back the day after your talk with Kirishima, and saying that she was pissed off and nervous at the same time would be an understatement.

For the weeks after, she was nicer than she ever was with the clients, but meaner with you and your colleagues. Bitch.

One day you’re cleaning the milk machine when Momo comes behind you.

“I heard the boss came to know about her little escapades and he wasn’t happy” she whispers in your ear.

You throw her a sneaky look before admitting “it might be my fault”.

Momo gasps. “What? Why haven’t you told me anything?” she whisper yells now.

“Shh! It happened last month. You know the guy with the spikey red hair?” you ask her, and she nods.

“Apparently, he’s the boss’s right hand. He told me the boss needed her and I told him she left” you calmly explain.

“I hope she doesn’t come to know it was you who told him that. She’s already making our life a living hell” she sighs.

“Whatever” you say rolling your eyes. “I’m clocking out, see you tomorrow?”.

“As always, babe”.

While you’re going out, you shoot a text to your new roommate. You’re feeling lazy, but you don’t want to feel lazy alone.

You: ordering takeout right now. Do you want something?

Katsuki (roommate): who dis

You: Katsuki are you for real?

You: I’m your roommate

You: you didn’t even save my number?

Katsuki (roommate): wtv

Katsuki (roommate): get me wings

Katsuki (roommate): extra spicy

You: sorry, who’s this???

Katsuki (roommate): petty bitch

Katsuki (roommate): im locking the door

You: I’m calling the firefighters down the street and you’re gonna pay for the new door then

Katsuki (roommate): just get me fkn wings woman

You roll your eyes. This man is insufferable.

“What are you doing Saturday night?” you say while munching on your chips on the couch.

Katsuki is cooking dinner for the both of you. He’s been living with you for the past 4 months now. You’ve grown accustomed to his antics, and he’s done the same with yours. For example, he knew how you tended to overcook his eggs. And since he hated that, he cooked them himself, just like he was doing right now.

“Hopefully not seeing your ugly face” he grumbles. He watches you over his shoulder and puckers his lips. “Why are you so fucking disgusting? I always find crumbs of everything on that fucking couch”.

You roll your eyes. “Just answer the question, Bakugou”.

“Not gonna be home. I have to run errands at work. You bringing some scum over? I’m not cleaning stains on top of your shitty crumbs on that couch”.

He’s not paying attention to what you do anymore, cutting up vegetables.

“And I’m the disgusting one? Ew” you cringe. “Ochaco and I wanted to have girl’s night. It’s been a while since we’ve done that, but her roommates are at home”.

“Short girl, brown hair, round face?” He asks.

“Yeah”. You’re surprised he remembers, but it’s true that you’re basically always calling her.

“Don’t mind. When’s your next shift? You’re next on the “cleaning the bathroom” list”. He adds.

You barely ever talk about work: he said that he’s some type of accountant and he knows you’re some kind of barista. After all, you both don’t care about what the other does if you both still pay rent on time.

You like these little moments you have with him. They don’t happen that often, but it’s like you’re bonding over time. He doesn’t look like he thinks the same, though. Most of the time he voices that you’re “pissing him the fuck off with all your stupid fucking questions”.

“Tomorrow morning, and then on Sunday. It’s weird now that my ex-manager isn’t around anymore, our schedules are much more organised. I wonder why she got fired” you say thoughtful.

Katsuki stiffens up. Your manager has been fired the same week he fired Camie? Must be a coincidence, a lot of extras are shitty workers anyways. He shrugs it off.

He turns abruptly to face you and he scares you so bad you throw the chips in the bowl lying on your lap on your face. He laughs like a maniac.

“Why did you do that?! I get it, you’re a clean freak! Okay! I’ll clean the damn bathroom!” You angrily say.

“Curry is ready, rat” he says, wiping his tears.

“Great, now I’m a rat too?”. Katsuki has this bad habit of always forgetting names and just giving everyone mean nicknames.

“With all those cheese chips on your face? Yes, dumbass” and he starts laughing again.

“It’s all your fault!” you whine, and then help him set the table. You might be annoyed, but you know his curry is bomb.

You’re so happy to be free from Camie’s claws that you and Ochaco drink more than you normally do on Saturday night.

You’re both lying lazily on your bed when she’s telling you about her new boyfriend. He’s the same guy from that one physics assignment (which, by the way, you didn’t fail), and she calls him Deku.

“I swear you’d like him Y/N. He’s so shy, but his arms are so biteable” she dreamily sighs.

You look up at the ceiling before answering “and what’s the correlation between any of the statements you just made?”.

She throws you a punch. “Why are you lucid still? Just… blabber!” she complains.

You chuckle. “I’m so getting an aspirin for tomorrow morning, for both me and you. Just go under the covers and sleep while I’m gone, okay?”.

She nods and you stand up, wobbling towards your kitchen.

“You know, you still haven’t delved into how good or bad things are going with your new roommate” she suddenly says. “You know I need the details”.

You lean on the wall next to your door for some stability before thinking about it.

“He’s good, I guess. We talk here and there when we’re both home, he told me he’s enrolled in economy. He seems rough but he knows how to cook some bomb ass curry, so I’ll keep him” you sluggishly reply. Damn, you really drank too much.

“Yeah Y/N you’ve told me this much. But do you find him hot? Did any of you just enter the bathroom not knowing the other was in it?” your best friend mumbles.

“He locks the door before doing anything” you roll your eyes, then wince because it has hurt your head.

“He’s mean, but he takes the time to be a good roommate I guess? I’d like to know him more than he lets others know, yeah, but he’s not very talkative. To be honest, I think that he’s scared to let people in. I’m probably too invasive for him” you ramble on.

“Did you even hear what I said?” you ask after the silence stretches too long, but the only things replying to your question are your best friend’s snores.

You sigh, then continue going to your kitchen.

It takes a while for you to find the medicine, and when you do, you hear your front door being opened.

With your mind still hazy, you recognise Katsuki’s figure.

“Hi” you tell him.

“Hello? God, you reek. You’re becoming a rat more and more each day” he roughly says while getting his coat off and on the hanger.

“How was work?” you continue, ignoring his comment.

He looks you up and down. He thinks you look kinda cute with your cheeks tinted pink and your hair ruffled, but he’s really tired. “Good, mind your fucking business though. I’m gonna sleep”.

You look hurt for a second, then relax your features. He always answers this way.

You take a good look at him. The light that enters from the window behind your couch makes his face barely visible; with the moonlight as your only aid, you take a moment longer than usual to just stare at him. Broad, blonde, big shoulders, a light scowl on his face, red eyes that seem to follow your every move. Maybe, in his next life, he could be a hero.

“Has anyone ever told you that you’re, like, really pretty?” you stumble out.

He looks at you like you’ve just said the dumbest thing ever.

“What the fuck are you saying? Just let me go to sleep and go do whatever the fuck you were doing before”.

“I said you look really fucking hot, Katsuki” you repeat, kind of annoyed. “It’s not like I asked you to cut your hand and offer your blood for a sacrifice, fuck. Why do you have to be so rude?” you spit out.

He’s surprised. “That’s not the words you used the first time. Pretty and hot don’t mean the same thing” he says, faking that he hasn’t heard your outburst, while stepping closer to you.

“Whatever” you mumble.

He stops in front of you. Maybe he’s been kind of rude lately because the situation at work hasn’t been the best. He fired Camie because he repeatedly heard she wasn’t capable of doing anything good on top of being mean to her colleagues, but finding another manager was stressing him out. He wanted to fire her as soon as he came to know her behaviour the first time, but Kirishima said neither of them had enough time to deal with her father. As much as this infuriated him, he was right. They were in their last year, and university wasn’t gonna finish itself.

You’re looking up at him with a scowl. “Let’s both go to sleep, m’kay? You don’t know what you’re saying” he says, nicer than any other time he talked to you. In the back of your mind, you notice he isn’t cursing anymore.

You keep on mumbling something and almost trip on your feet trying to get to your room.

You’re about to fall when he picks you up bridal style and goes to get you in your room himself.

Just before you fall asleep in his arms (how strong is he? He’s not even straining) you put your head on his shoulder.

“Thanks, sorry, I’m really drunk. I didn’t want to invade your privacy” you say.

He just shushes you up before telling you to sleep.

And just before you pass out, you notice he smells faintly like coffee.

[theemporium]

3 with james potter pretty please <333

3. “Tell me to leave and I’ll never bother you again.”

. 

James Potter fucked up. 

He wasn’t exactly sure how he had fucked up, but he knew he fucked up monumentally when you came down for breakfast, slumped down a few seats away from him and totally blanked him.

He played it off as a rough morning at first. After all, you were never a morning person and you seemed pleased enough with him last night when you sat curled under a blanket with him as your friends laughed and joked around you into the early hours of the morning. 

He was clearly just overreacting. 

But then your shared potions class after lunch came around and you still weren’t talking to him. You weren’t talking to anyone. 

“You must’ve done something to piss her off,” Sirius said to him, watching as his best friend slumped back against the grass as he glared above at the cloudless sky.

“No shit,” James grumbled.

“Have you tried talking to her?” Remus asked, propped on his elbows with the book he was previously reading abandoned to the side.

“Well…no,” James murmured, clearing his throat a little when Sirius snorted. “But she won’t even look at me!”

“And how will poor Prongs ever live on when his little girlfriend won’t even smile at him,” Sirius teased, reaching over to poke his cheek only for James to bat his hand away.

“She’s not my girlfriend,” the boy whined helplessly, though both boys sitting next to him knew well enough how much James wished that weren’t true. He just hadn’t quite gained the courage to ask you out yet—how truly Gryffindor of him.

“Just ask her, mate,” Remus suggested with a shrug. “What’s the worst that can happen?” 

James established that there were at least three outcomes that could come from asking you, and each was just as bad as the last. One: you wouldn’t even acknowledge his question. Two: you would hex him and then go back to pretending he didn’t exist. Three: you would laugh at the fact he even cared to ask, hex him and then go back to pretending he didn’t exist. 

Each left James completely unsatisfied with your sudden distance and a bitter taste in his mouth at the mere idea he may lose you. And despite all these outcomes racing through his head, James still found himself standing outside your dorm, muttering to himself before he bit the bullet and knocked. 

It took thirty seconds for you to open the door and they had to be the longest thirty seconds of his life. However, when you did open the door, James barely gave you a chance to properly take in who was even standing across from you before he began rambling. 

“Listen, I totally get that you might hate my guts right now and that maybe you wanna hex me but I just need to say this before I lose the chance because it would kill me if you didn’t know that I am so sorry for whatever I have done to make you try avoid me or whatever else it is—”

“James.”

“—but I really like you and this is totally not the time to say it, like at all even and I just—”

“James.” 

“—I really wanted you to know that if there is any chance you could forgive me or even tell me what I did so I can rectify it—” 

“JAMES!” 

The boy stopped suddenly, his cheeks burning red as he took in your expression for the first time and held back his wince. “Tell me to leave and I’ll never bother you again. I promise.”

“What are you going on about?” you asked, still feeling bleary and fuzzy from the nap you were taking minutes ago, and not finding much help in the annoyingly bright torches in the corridor. 

“I–” James cleared his throat. “You were angry with me today and I just wanna tell you I’m sorry for whatever I’ve done.” 

Your brows furrowed together. “James, I’m not angry with you.”

He blinked. “You’re not?”

“No, I’m not,” you sighed.

“But…you ignored me all day,” he murmured, looking a bit like a kicked puppy with his pouted lips.

“I didn’t mean to,” you explained, feeling your face softening and your annoyance from him waking you up quickly melting away. “I just…I woke up with a migraine and it wasn’t getting any better no matter what I did. I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings, James.”

His lips parted with a soft ‘oh’.

“If it’s any consolation, I was ignoring everyone,” you offered with a weak smile.

“That’s good,” James nodded, eyes widening when he realised what he said and quickly scrambled to take back his word. “Not about the migraine! Not that at all! I just meant….fuck, love, I meant about you not being angry at me—”

“James,” you called softly, a hint of a smile on your lips.

“Is there anything I can do to help?” James asked helplessly.

“Cuddle with me?” you asked in a sweet voice that he could never say no to. “I was trying to take a nap but it would help if I had a wizard who’s always ridiculously hot laying beside me.” 

James grinned. “You think I’m hot, love?”

“I take it back. I can nap myself.”

“No take-backs, sweetheart. Now budge over, I’m gonna cuddle the shit out of you.”

.

[antiyourwokehomophobia2]

Man, this pisses me off so bad. If you're a woman who relates more to males than other women, it's because you've decided to focus more on how you're different from other women rather than how you're like them. You will literally never have more in common with males, and males do not feel the same way about you. These cute little posts that you write about how you love males more than your fellow women? They do not write the same thing about you. They hate and mock you constantly. Anyone remember "Cis women need to shut up"

"As a cis woman, I agree"

"You need to shut up, specifically"

?

Yea, that's how they feel about you and your solidarity.

The difference between lesbians and trans women in female spaces is the fact that lesbians do not have high rates of violence. There is no group of women that outclass men in terms of violent tendencies. Trans women retain the rates of male violence that regular men do. I'm not saying you have to treat trans women like they're all violent beasts, but if you can't see why female people would be uncomfortable with male people in their spaces, you're either naive or genuinely unsympathetic towards the very real fear that women have of being subjected to male violence. You can't say trans women and lesbians are similar because, unlike males, there is no statistical evidence that lesbians are highly likely to take advantage of a woman. If it turned out that 98% of rapes were committed by lesbians, I would 1000% understand why straight women don't fucking want to be around me. Have some fucking empathy, holy fucking shit. Even if you are completely on board with trans women being in female spaces, at LEAST acknowledge that it makes sense for women to be concerned about who is allowed in their spaces. It's crazy how I could tell someone I have a fear of dogs because one bit me when I was a kid, and they'd put their sweet pooch up, but God forbid a woman be cautious around a demographic who commit 90% of all violent crime. Oh no. That woman is suddenly a terf bitch.

I have nothing in common with trans women. I don't care how much pain they have experienced. We are not the same. When I was twelve, I cried and I cried as I put my palms together to pray to a God I hoped would be able to take away my homosexuality. I didn't even grow up in a particularly homophobic family. Both of my parents were accepting of me, but I still sat in the dark of my room, tears streaming down my face, as I prayed to have my sexuality changed.

Two years later, one of my friends made a joke about me dressing to impress my crush. She said my crushes name---a feminine name. A girl sitting in earshot heard her, turned to me, and asked me with disgust if I was gay. I said no without even thinking about it. It absolutely did not help that we were in a locker room with other girls. I was aware of my sexuality by that point, but I was 14 and unable to hold my own against a girl looking at me like THAT. For a few weeks after that, that girl made comments about how she was "watching me".

I know pain, I know discomfort, I know what it's like to feel predatory. Seeing feminine women, especially if they're white, makes me feel like an alien. I look at them and think "how are we so different? I see none of myself in you."

Sometimes I'm right. Sometimes we're not similar at all. But guess what? That doesn't mean I'm similar to a straight male. Fucking hell, sometimes I'm not similar to other lesbians. That's completely normal. I think OP needs to read better work by cishet women. If you think that there is not a single piece of cishet female writing that can move you more than something written by a male, you're not looking in the right places at all. I don't understand why some LB women seem to think that the very act of someone being a straight woman makes them incapable of relatability. Of course it makes sense for you to be cautious. Lesbians deal with a lot of alienation and predatory feelings, but if the very ACT of a woman being cis and straight makes you feel like she has absolutely nothing in common with you...? The issue lies with you. YOU are the one othering THEM. Not the other way around. You're the one who has decided that a few cis straight women othering you means that they ALL will so you'd better beat them to the punch. You're the one who has decided that your relationship to womanhood is so astronomically different from straight women that nothing they say speaks to you. That's INSANE. Do you realize how much you have to alienate yourself from womanhood to feel more relatability with a male person than a female one? Idk how to tell you this, but it is highly probable that the most cis, most het woman you have ever met has had a period. It's highly likely she's been harassed by a man. It's highly likely she's been made to feel inferior by way of being born female. No, they can't relate to the experience of being a lesbian who is made to feel predatory for no reason, but to say that nothing a cis het woman says/experiences can move you at all? Nothing they say can make you feel like your experience with womanhood and hers are similar? Do you realize how you sound? "Trans women have been harassed by men and made to feel inferior, too!!" Okay! So you should be able to relate to cis women in the way you do trans women, right?

I told my discord server that I was nervous about my future roommates. I showed them photos and someone said "all this tells me is that they're feminine and white" and I literally think about that all of the time. I was projecting. I was so scared that these white, feminine, probably straight women were going to judge me for being a black lesbian that I didn't even realize that I was the one violently judging them based off of nothing but their skin color and their femininity. I knew nothing about them. I STILL know nothing about them. I've barely spoken to them. But already I had labeled them as unrelatable judgemental women because of how they looked. Hold on. Wasn't I the one afraid of them judging ME? How could I be so afraid of them judging me for being a black lesbian when I was the one judging them already? What sense does that make?

You guys are so busy writing off cis straight women as unrelatable bigots that you've failed to see that you're the one who is extremely prejudiced against them. And I absolutely fucking know someone is gonna read this and say "well, you can't say that all trans women have male violence patterns and dahdahdahdah" and it's like. But YOU can say that cis straight women are so unbelievably different from lesbian women that you'd rather say you're more similar to a straight up fucking male???

I'm not saying it's not a little jarring to see women who are so different from me. I'm not saying I haven't been burned before and there's no reason for me (or other lesbians) to be cautious. But I will literally ALWAYS have more in common with cishet women than I ever will a man pretending to be a woman.

One time I had a professor. She was on the older side (I'd say 40's) and white. Not the type of person I'd think I'd click well with. She was straight and married with children. One day we talked after class, and the only thing that ended our conversation was the fact she had an event she had to go to. We would've talked longer if not for that. She emailed me a little while later to tell me that she enjoyed our chat. After that, she actually hugged me on two occasions. You wouldn't think we'd have common ground. An older, straight, married white mother and a young black lesbian. Both of us are "cis" but I can tell you I relate to her much better than I ever could someone born male.

I once had a personal trainer who was a feminine woman. She had acrylic nails and everything. One time she said that she couldn't hug her male friends anymore because she had a boyfriend (he wasn't the one enforcing that rule. That was something she personally felt). Also not someone I thought I'd click well with. But we did. One time we had a really productive discussion that was actually derived from the conversation with my professor. I felt very close to her in that moment. Our conversation came to a close because she had another client, but I still think about that convo.

There have been so many fucking times where I thought "this woman is not like me. Look at her." But what I realized was that I was the judgmental one. I was the one deciding we were different, not her. I was the one writing her off. I was the one convinced we had nothing in common.

I am BEGGING you not to alienate your fellow women. There are no inherent traits that make you unable to relate to other women. No amount of whiteness or cisness or straightness can make a woman completely unreachable. I am NOT talking about political parties or views so don't fucking try me with that shit. Obviously that puts a wedge between people, but someone simply being born cis and het does not make them alien from you. For God's sake, look at the fucking MeToo movement. Women from all fucking backgrounds who share an experience that an unfortunate amount of women go through. Women from all different races, sexualities, etc. who came together to talk about how they've been subjected to sexual violence. Ellen degeneres was one of them. How does that fit into your "lesbians and cishet women cannot relate to each other" spiel?

OP's post has 130k notes and it makes me fucking sick. Holy crap y'all, we need more solidarity than this. Other women are not your enemy. I'm begging you to reconsider your approach to women who are different than you. You are missing out on people who can love and support you in a way that literally no male can. You are depriving yourself. Just because a few cishet women in the past alienated you, does not mean that you have to continue their legacy. Let it go. Everyone on earth can see you embracing your hatred of women, and you wonder why your fellow women never hug you? They fucking can't! Put your hatred down and make space for the love that comes with realizing that you absolutely are like other girls!

[twistersobsessed]

you write for Scott there isn't enough of him!!! He come off as a guy who would super jealous protective and Possessive over his girl. Could you do something where the reader and Scott are together married or engaged your pick. Tyler keeps hitting on the reader just to get a rise out of Scott and throw him off his storm game the reader knows what tyler is playing at and laughs it off but Scott can't. Turns out he let's it get to him cuz he is scared to lose the readerand the reader explains to him she only wants him for always and forever. You can end it in sweet smut if you like.

jealousy, jealousy | Scott x Reader Drabble

A/N: My smut inspiration is lacking right now.

You and Scott had been married for a year now. You’d met when Storm Par was just developing, and funnily enough, you’d hated one another at first. Javi brought you onboard, you were friends in high school and had grown really close after his tragedy with his friends in college.

Much like how Scott reacted to Kate, he thought you were a useless addition and a distraction for Javi. But you proved yourself to be a good worker, and you always matched his attitude which he actually found rather attractive.

You started dating a few months after you met, and dated for two years before he proposed. Everyone on the team was happy for you and since your “bosses” were just investors, you weren’t separated at work. Leading you to when Javi brought Kate on board.

Scott Miller loved his wife and hated Tyler Owens. Tyler and Scott particularly did not like each other, and being the little shit starter he was, Tyler would often flirt with you in front of Scott to piss him off.

Today was one of those days, as Tyler came up to you when you were standing with Scott and began laying on the charm. You could feel Scott tensing beside you. You placed a comforting hand on his arm and warmly laughed Tyler off.

Tyler would always back off once you told him it was enough, so he bid you goodbye, continuing to not acknowledge Scott.

Scott remained tense even after Owens had left. A scowl was permanent on his face. “Honey, he’s just trying to get to you,” you tried to soothe him. But Scott turned around without a word and headed for the truck, guiding you along with a firm hand on your back.

He was in a sour mood for the rest of the day, and by the time the two of you had settled into a motel room for the night, you’d had enough of it.

“Scott,” you demanded his attention. He turned to look at you. You reached up a hand to cradle his face. “What’s wrong? Talk to me. I know you don’t like Tyler but he only flirts with me to make you mad, he doesn’t mean it. And I know you know that, so what’s up?”

Scott took in a deep breath. He absolutely hated being vulnerable but something about you always had him bearing his soul. “I’m scared of losing you.”

“Oh, Scottie,” you cooed, climbing into his lap. “You’ll never lose me. I’m yours. I love you more than I will ever love anybody else.”

Scott’s breath hitched, his hands settling on your hips. “You mean that?”

You pressed your lips to his, kissing him sweetly before pulling back. “Of course I do.”

Scott smiled. “I love you, (Name).”

[benedictscanvas]

pick me up at seven - roy kent x reader

pairing: roy kent x fem!reader

word count: 3.1k (they won't all be this long i don't think!!)

warnings: language of course, and this is a little steamy but with no actual smut. my favourite genre HA

request: I can’t find any good Roy fics until your recent one and I’m dying for more 😭 Anyway you could write something else for him? Maybe they’re at a bar and he gets pissed when he sees Jamie flirting w her? (Not a pre established relationship) - @kashee-h

a/n: your wish is my demand!! i'm so happy you enjoyed the first roy fic of what i hope are many to come. this one totally got away from me, i loved writing it so so much, thanks for a request that I really got to make my own! <3

---

Roy is the one who’s invited you here. Roy is the one who trekked over to your office at the end of the working day and told you that everyone was going out that evening. Roy is the one who suggested you come, even when you seemed reluctant to join in on what appeared to be an evening for just the players and the coaches. Roy is the one who convinced you that it would be fun, that he’d make sure of it.

All of this is making it very hard for Roy to accept that you are currently sat in a corner booth with someone else. The fact that the person you seemed to be having such an in depth conversation with was Jamie fucking Tartt was the icing on a very shit cake.

He knew he could be having a better night than just sitting on a barstool trying not to watch the two of you, especially when Ted and Beard arrived to get the next round and he didn’t even acknowledge them. They’d hired out a private room, so it was filled with people he generally tolerated the company, some he’d even go as far as to say that he liked. None of that was registering, however. 

Jamie leans in when you can’t hear something he’s said and he watches you nod solemnly, duck your head to stare at the floor as if flustered, and he wants to walk right out that door and never come back. Maybe he could get a job at Chelsea, or something.

“Now, what’s wrong, Jeremy Strong?” Ted asks, and Roy has to bite back a ‘fuck off’ so hard he wonders if his lip is bleeding, “You look just about ready to start wreckin’ the place.”

Out of the corner of Roy’s eye, he sees Beard lean in to whisper in Ted’s ear and points over at you. Ted looks surprised. Roy does not want to deal with this.

“You’re telling’ me our very own Mr Kent has his eyes on our very own Miss Y/L/N? Well, that’s just great! She’s sweet as anythin’, good for you, Roy.”

“She’s sweet on Jamie fucking Tartt, more like,” he says, even though he knows he’s being so fucking unfair. He hates it about himself. He knows how hard he’s worked on these feelings, on frustration and anger and jealousy, knows that a few years ago he’d be getting ready to fight Jamie down an alley further through tonight. Now he’s done that work, however, he can recognise the overriding feeling that he’s actually just hurt and that’s so much worse. It’s much easier to be jealous than upset.

“Does this call for an impromptu meeting of the Diamond Dogs?” Ted asks brightly and Roy is only able to stop him after his second howl. Higgins has looked over briefly but Beard signals him to stay where he is.

“Fuck no,” Roy blurts out, then reconsiders. Maybe he could at least talk to Ted, “I just- I was going to tell her. Tonight.”

“Tell her what?” Ted’s doing that thing where he bats his eyelashes like he’s in some sort of rom-com. Beard’s got his head resting in his hand, looking similarly up at Roy. They’re insufferable. 

“That I fucking like her, okay? Take those fucking looks off your faces.”

Ted and Beard scramble to look normal but come up short. Ted’s got the awful kind of shit-eating grin on his face that he gets when he sees Sam and Jamie hugging or watches Isaac doing his handshakes with everyone before a game.

“So, you’ve been spending time together? Or are you telling her out of the blue?” Beard pipes up.

Roy thinks that over. You’ve been spending a lot of time together actually. More than anyone at the club would probably even believe. He slips away to your office to eat lunch under the guise of needing a break from the American Circus downstairs. You text him when you’ve brought in ice cream because you know he’ll never say no to ice cream. You’ve met Phoebe. That one was by accident in the park, but you stuck around for four fucking hours and nobody made you.

Still, he wonders whether it would be completely shocking to you or whether you’ve been waiting for him to make a proper move. You’re incredibly difficult to read alongside being so stupidly pretty that sometimes he wants to swear less around you. He doesn’t manage it, of course, but he thinks it.

“Yes, we’ve spent time together. No, I don’t know what that means. Probably doesn’t mean shit to her, not that it would be her fault if she doesn't.”

Ted and Beard tilt their heads simultaneously at him and he wishes he could bash their heads together for a moment.

“But it means somethin’ to you, hey coach? I don’t think Miss Y/N sittin’ with Jamie should stop you from tellin' her how you feel about ‘er, hey coach?”

Roy’s lost track of which coach Ted is even talking to, but Beard chimes in.

“Surely her spending time with Jamie should be all the more incentive to tell her. Find out how she feels. Get that crushing disappointment out of the way now. It’s only downhill from here.”

Roy raises a brow at him as Ted gives him a look. Beard sighs, then picks up his drink and seems to disappear. Ted leans into Roy.

“Him and Jane are on a break again, I’m sorry. Look I’m goin’ to have to go find him but he was right, until he wasn’t. Go get ‘er, Ross Gellar!”

And with that, Ted’s gone too, weaving his way through crowds of people until he’s lost to them. When Roy glances back in your direction, Jamie’s got Colin and Isaac beside him instead and you’re nowhere to be found. He sighs and stands from his barstool, making his way to the exit. Maybe he’d think about what Ted and Beard had said tomorrow: for now, he just wanted to go home.

Except for the fact that when he finally managed to push his way outside to breathe in some fresh air, he found you. Leaning against the wall of the club, with definite tears in your eyes, even under the dim street lamp light. He was going to murder Jamie Tartt, slowly, with rope and paint and suffering involved.

But he knew to take a slightly softer approach with you. If at all possible.

“Hey,” he says quietly, trying not to startle you. You're quick to look up at him, startled anyway, and he grits his teeth as he asks, “Are you alright?”

He doesn’t make any comment about what the fuck Jamie had done to you. Doesn’t think it would be received all that well. Again, he’s biting the inside of his lip harder than ever.

“Yes! Oh god, yes, sorry,” you’re blinking furiously. He admires your resolve when the nearly teary face is quickly replaced by that bright smile that makes him weaker in the knees than he already is, “Fuck, sorry. I’m all good. I’m not sure this is my scene, I was just going to call a taxi.”

There’s an opening. He’ll be damned if he’s not taking it, even though confessing anything is the furthest idea from his mind - he’s much more focused on making sure you’re okay and nobody’s done anything to hurt you. If they have, he's already resigned to a short stint in jail if necessary.

“Do you want to walk?”

“Uh, I mean not really. It’s quite late, so…”

“With me, I mean,” he quickly clarified, wanting to bash his head against the brick wall, “I could walk you home, if you wanted. Or not. That’s fine too.”

“Oh, right,” you’re looking down at your feet as you contemplate it, “That would be nice, if you’re sure. Thank you.”

“It’s nothing,” he insists, falling into step beside you as you begin to walk. He wants to give you his jacket and maybe his shirt too with the way you’re shivering, but he can’t bring himself to do it. He’s a fucking coward, but he will get to the bottom of what’s the matter if its the last thing he does, “You gonna tell me what’s wrong now?”

You huff out a frustrated sigh, at him, at yourself, he isn’t sure.

“I made a fucking fool of myself tonight,” you say eventually, and he can’t even imagine you doing that, “I thought…god, it doesn’t matter what I thought. Everything just feels worse when its…1:30 in the morning, don’t you think?”

You’d lifted his hand to check his watch before you said the time. Again, he wanted to hold on, but he let you drop his hand and it just went limp.

“It fucking does, yeah. Don’t think you could make a fucking fool of yourself if you tried though. Not around us lot.”

Your family, he heard Ted’s voice in his head. He was not fucking saying that. To his surprise, you let out a loud bark of a laugh at his words and he was staring at the side of your face as you spoke out into the dark air.

“I thought you were coming to pick me up tonight, you know?” you began, and his heart drops to his shoes. You’re upset about him?

“What?”

“Something you said earlier, when you asked me to come. You asked where I lived, then told me it would be a twenty minute walk to get there. Then you said ‘see you at seven’.”

He could have stopped walking. He had said that, but he was just trying to help you plan out your timings for the evening - you’d mentioned to him once that you were known for having some time blindness when you were getting ready for things. Of course he should have realised how fucking stupid that was, how much that sounded like he would come and walk with you.

He would have fucking loved to walk with you.

“Fuck!” he exclaimed, far too loudly for the quiet night that surrounded you. You carried on undeterred, shaking your head. He could see your frustration was at yourself now, and he hated himself even more than he had earlier.

“My fault for assuming, I know. But that’s why I was so late. And when I arrived, trying talk myself into not feeling like a twat, you were already over with Dani and Isaac and Bumbercatch, clearly never intending to come pick me up. Which, why would you, of course. I just…felt shit. Jamie tried to help, bless him, but I just wanted to go home, honestly.”

Roy is the biggest idiot on the planet. He wants to go back into the club and hug Jamie for looking after you, then ask him to punch him in the face. Roy could punch something, anything right now, but he just grits his teeth.

“I’m-” he grunts when his voice comes out all strangled, “I’m really fucking sorry, Y/N. I’m the fucking twat. I was asking where you lived and that to help you with that fucking time blindness thing you told me about. Should’ve known how it sounded though. Fucking idiot.”

He directed the last comment at himself, kicking a stone he’d found on the pavement. He kept his eyes firmly trained on his shoes as the two of you continued walking, now at a significantly slower pace. Your eyes were burning a hole in the side of his face.

There was a silence that stretched on as you stared at him, until-

“Fucking hell,” you groaned, “That’s so fucking sweet. You’re the worst.”

He doesn’t know if he can remember being called sweet before. Phoebe was often excessively complimentary of him in a way that made him uncomfortable, but sweet had never come up. He didn’t feel sweet.

“I am the worst,” he grunted, spiralling, “Making you feel so shit. Ruining your fucking night. I was the one who convinced you in the first place and now you’ve had a shit fucking time and I’m the worst.”

He’s a little out of breath and loud again by the end of his rant. The two of you have stopped walking. You kick the toe of your heel against his shoe, placating.

“No, you’re the worst ‘cause you keep giving me all this hope. I fucking hate hope, no matter what Ted says,” you chuckle to yourself, and he’s not sure what you’re saying but he’s peering into your now smiling expression as he tries to work it out, “Look, do you like me or not? You’re a good guy Roy and either way, I’m grateful that you’re walking me home. I just think if I ask, maybe I can just feel like a twat for the night and get it over with by tomorrow.”

“Do I…like you?”

He sounds thick. He feels thick. Feels like his mouth is full of honey that his tongue is having to wade through to even speak to you. It’s stuck to the bottom of his mouth, heavy.

“Yeah. As in, do you just enjoy eating lunch with me or do you ever look at me and just want to kiss me? Cause I do that all the fucking time, Roy, but I can’t be arsed to dance around it anymore.”

You look really tired as you stare up at him, but he feels more energised than ever. You’ve both just established that he’s the absolute worst, and yet here he is, with everything he could’ve wanted right in front of him. You, looking fucking gorgeous and looking at him like that? Even getting a job at Chelsea wouldn’t help him against you - he was gone.

There’s a smirk on his face that he can’t bite back as he takes your face in both his hands and revels in the gasp he can pull from you. He should have known you’d be the first to say something. You weren’t the coward he was.

“Let’s not fuck about then, yeah?”

Low and breathy. You respond with a nod so eager that he’s practically grinning when he pulls you in. It’s quickly replaced by a hunger he’s been keeping at bay, allowing his hands to slide into your hair as he deepens the kiss almost as soon as it’s started. He can feel your hands clutching at the lapels on his jacket, but he’s more excited when you throw your arms around his neck instead, tugging on the hair at the base of his head.

He growls and you actually whimper. It’s like he’s been set on fucking fire. Like he’s been struck by lightning.

When he pulls away for air, you stay close, peppering kisses along the scruff of his jaw, up the side of his face and back down again. He holds you to him tightly around your waist and feels wanted. He’s wanted you for so long, but to be wanted in return, so openly, it’s both hot and meaningful. He’s not sure anyone’s ever told him they liked him before. Most models he’d dated were pretty sold on the idea that he had to make all the moves.

Still, when you begin trailing kisses down his neck and there’s a hand on the top button of his shirt, he has enough sense about him to stop you. Even if he really doesn’t want to.

“I don’t know what street this is,” he breathes out, low voice little more than a rumble, “But maybe we don't give your neighbours a fucking show.”

You look thoroughly kissed when you look back at him, but he doesn’t think it’ll ever be enough. He leans in to kiss you once more to punctuate his sentence, watching as you duck your head, all shy, even though your arms are still around him. He knows now that when you ducked your head with Jamie, you were embarrassed. This is you properly flustered and it’s one of his favourite looks on you.

“Good call, yeah. Okay. I’m- I’m just around this corner, I think.”

“You think?”

“Shut up, you,” you whack him lightly on the shoulder, as the two of you resume walking, “Think you can make it all the way there?”

“I’d carry you if my knee wasn’t fucked,” he admits, watching you with a lopsided smile, “Really fucking like you, by the way. If that wasn’t proof. Thought you should hear me fucking say it.”

You close your eyes in a little half laugh - giddy, he thinks. 

“Well, I did wonder. We’ve spent a lot of time together the last few weeks for someone who doesn’t like spending time with people.”

“Your first clue,” he agrees, taking your hand with pride now as the two of you keep walking, turning the corner towards your house. The pace is a lot quicker than it was before. He hopes he knows why, “I’ll be less of a fucking idiot now. Promise.”

“Eh, don’t worry,” you shrug, letting go of his hand only to thread your arm through his and take hold of his hand again, even tighter, “Nothing sexier than fucking idiots. I like my men with no thoughts behind their eyes.”

He properly laughs at that, head tilted back, feeling your head against his arm as you laugh with him. You slow down, gesturing left. Your house. The two of you walk down the drive until you’re at the door, face to face again and Roy is having a small internal battle.

“Look, I know you said no show for the neighbours,” you begin, almost nervously, “But does that mean a…private show is totally off the table too?”

He watches you picking at your nails. Can’t help it. He pulls you in for another breathless kiss, just to watch you come alive again, confident and fucking into him, however much of a miracle it seems. You pull away this time, clearly keen for an answer, but he groans.

“Tryin’ to be a fucking gentleman, here. Why don’t we do dinner tomorrow? Proper date. And I’ll fucking pick you up.”

You giggle. Still, there’s a glint in your eyes, as you sigh melodramatically.

“That does sound nice. Only thing is, there could be an intruder in here, you know? So, and I’ll only ask once more and then I promise I’ll let you go if you say no, but maybe you should walk me to my bedroom? To make sure I’m safe, you know? And then you can pay for my breakfast in the morning like a good old fashioned gentleman, if you want.”

You’re looking up at him, all hopeful again. His resolve is dwindling. You spin your keys around one finger and its a simple gesture, but it’s the final straw.

“I’m paying for your fucking lunch too,” he growls, diving into you once again. He’s beside himself when he hears you mutter a faint ‘thank fuck’ as you fumble to unlock the door and all but drag him inside.

---

if you've read this far, i fucking love you, you beautiful sunflower <3 requests open for this angry man and his favourite jamie tartt if you're interested!!

[lookingformoondrop]

FINALLY SOMEONE WHO WRITES FOR THE COFFIN OF ANDY AND LEYLEY!!!!! THANK YOU <33333

Gonna ask some relationship hc w leyley!! It could be yandere if you like (I mean she is one already but-yk)

Ashley Graves X gn!reader - Relationship Headcannons

TW: Ashley is manipulative, she's a red flag but I'm colorblind, everyone has a foul mouth, mentions of cheating and kissing, Ashley is very emotionally dependent.

♥︎ Notes: I thought about making Ashley a yandere, but then I reflected on what Anon said and thought... they're right, LOL. I'm always happy to supply content for TCOAAL, and I really appreciate everyone who takes the time to request! I hope these meet your expectations. <3♥︎

Ashley Graves is impulsive, stubborn, cleverly stupid, and a pain in the ass.

If I had to describe dating Ashley I'd say it's like riding a roller coaster but never knowing when it'll drop.

When you first met her, you were blinded by her beauty (her tits) and decided to walk up to her for a number.

She was flustered that someone was interested in her, sure she's had people walk up to her before, but it was because they were always more interested in her brother than her.

But once she realized you were in it for her, she never let you go again.

It started with frequent house visits. She'd sleep over without asking, and just like a stray-cat that cuddles up to you, you couldn't say no.

She'd try to cook you for you! Every morning where she aserted herself into your day, you'd wake up to the wonderful smell of burning shit. When you went to your kitchen with a loving fire extinguisher in your hands, you'd see she was cooking eggs and some unidentified meat.

You'd walk up behind her and kiss the nape of her neck, never telling her you're only doing this because her hair smells like cherries and if you don't you're pretty sure you'll pass out from the smoke.

"Y/N, why is there a fire extinguisher in your hands?"

"Early Christmas."

"Liar."

Dates were fun, too! Even though you'd organize the actual dates like eating out, going to amusement parsl, carnivals, and the like, her dates would be along the lines of staying at home and cuddling. You might call it boring, but to Ashley, a perfect date would be where you're both left alone with only eachother to give company.

No one, and I mean NO ONE, would be able to see her precious Y/N except her.

And not that you minded anyways, you enjoyed spending time with Ashley, even if half that time was her being exhausting.

Speaking of which, exhausting, you ask? How is little ol' Ashley exhausting?

Be it a nice co-worker, a pleasant stranger, a funny waiter, or even that woman who works at the deli that gives you that cheap vegan processed ham with bacon bits, Ashley hated the fact you even acknowledged them.

It often became her favorite topic to annoy you with.

While cuddling on the couch (iykyk), Ashley began to look at you with intense eyes. You knew what these eyes meant. It was a warning sign that she was about to ask you something that could potentially piss you off. Of course, she didn't care about that part, all you needed to know was she was going to ask and you'd better be honest.

"N/M, do you love me?"

"Sure I do, you're my girlfriend after all."

Ashley wrapped her arms around your neck a little tighter, "So then," her face darkened, "would you ever cheat on me?"

You sighed, this line of questioning was becoming less and less of the 'would you love me if I was a worm' deal and more of the 'whose that bitch you were talking to' deal.

"No, Ashley, I wouldn't. Why would you feel the need to ask me that?"

Ashley raised her head from your chest and opened her mouth, her final statement ready to fire,

"So then why do you still look at other people if you would never cheat?" Her eyes narrowed on you.

You groaned and rubbed your temples, "Jesus Ashley, now I can't even have simple eye contact with people?"

She blew a breath of annoyance, "why would you even make eye contact?! I'm the only one you should be looking at, N/M!"

You went to push Ashley off of you, already sick of her shit.

"No! Do you even still love me?! All you do is go to work, go to school, hang out with your stupid friends, and ignore me!"

"I'm not doing this with you AGAIN, Ashley! Just because I know or talk to other people does not mean I'm screwing them! Jesus Ashley, you would think we'd be over this by now..."

Ashley pouted and blinked the tears in her eyes away, "...fine. leave me then, see if I care."

She sits up and goes to the opposite end of the couch.

"You're sitting on my feet, Ashley."

Ashley turned her head away and ignored you.

You hated it when she got her way, but you also couldn't stand to see her so upset. After all, she was only upset because she missed you.

Sighing with defeat you said softly, "I'm sorry I don't pay enough attention to you, Leyley. Life distracts me sometimes, but that doesn't mean I don't still love you. This weekend I'll cancel with my friends and we can go on a date. "

She hummed, "id rather we stay in and watch a movie."

"Which movie?" You coax your girlfriend for a smile,

"...Hypergore Splatterbrains 4," She looked at you and grinned.

"There's my pretty girl," you wrapped an arm around her waist, "alright, you happy now? Will you stop bitching about people in my life who I will NEVER cheat on you with?"

She brought a finger to her bottom lip, "Nah, maybe a kiss will convince me?"

She looked at you with a devious smirk, you sighed. "Cmere you," Ashley giggled and jumped on top of you, sharing a loving kiss.

Yeah, Ashley is exhausting.

But in a way, you're happy she's yours. You couldn't be happier, even if her cooking skills are shit, she's a tad bit possessive, and she leaves passive aggressive notes in your lunchbox when you go to work.

You love her either way.

"Hey N/M?"

"Yeah?"

"Do you love me?"

You sighed with content and wrapped your arms around her waist, "Yes Leyley, I love you. Do you love me?"

Ashley laid her head on your chest, listening to your heartbeat,

"I love you, N/M~"

Thank you for the ask!<3

[fleur-bbyy]

stupid girl /// katsuki bakugo

warnings: bakugo is a lil meanie, he gets softer. lots of f bombs, fem! reader, characters are 18+.

wc: 2.2k

listened to this on youtube while writing, kind of goes with the story i think???

don’t bite your lip or grit your teeth, just count to ten and try to breathe, you stupid bitch can’t you see, the perfect one for you is me?

bakugo couldn’t stand you.

that was an understatement, he fucking hated you. steam practically shooting from his ears like a cartoon character every time you were around. yet, he couldn’t get your stupid face out of his head.

he hated how much you were willing to give up for your friend’s happiness. hated the way your eyes crinkled when you smiled. hated that stupid fucking twinkle in your eye that even stayed sparkling when you guys argued. hated how driven you were during training, even when you knew you’d lose to him.

most of all, he hated your stupid perfect face. your stupid hair. your stupid lips. your stupid stupid stupid body.

yeah. he fucking hated you.

that’s why he was marching up the stairs to his dorm, making sure he was heard loud and clear. especially making sure you heard.

“you totally like her, dude.” kiri said, slapping the back of bakugo’s shoulder. he could of killed his friend red-headed friend. especially for saying something so ridiculous as that in the common area where other people could hear.

“fuck you just say?” bakugo turned to look at kirishima, looking like he was ready to commit murder. his brows that seemingly were always perpetually furrowed somehow pulled deeper into his face. his eyes so sharp he could probably barely see through the squint.

“woah no need to get hostile, man. i’m just saying. you never quit yappin’ about her, even if it is about how much you hate her. plus, you’ve been in a mood ever since she beat you during training today.” kiri slowly removed his rough hand from his best friend’s shoulder, scared it was finally his time to face the fury that is bakugo’s wrath.

“of course i’m fuckin’ pissed. she’s no better than deku and she beat me!” he was seething. how dare the guy that’s supposed to be his best friend suggest such a foul, horrid thing. you? of all people? that stupid girl? that stupid, beautiful girl? “you don’t know shit about fuck. say something like that again and i’ll snap your neck.” and with that, bakugo stood up from the common area couch and began to stomp to his room. not before kiri could get one last sentence in,

“yeah, okay man. come talk when you’re ready to show some manliness and actually talk about your feelings.” katsuki didn’t acknowledge him, only stomping away harder. making sure to slam the doors he came in contact with during the short trip to his room. kirishima’s words felt like a hard punch to the gut. maybe it was because he hated you. hated the idea that people think he likes you.

maybe it was because he knew kiri was true. maybe it was that he knew he wasn’t hiding it well, either.

that’s how he ended up in his dorm room doing practically anything to calm his racing, lovesick mind. blasting music, occasionally playing his drum set along with the song, but most of the time he boxed the punching bag in his room. trying to kill the energy his anger built up in him. stupid incessant anger and stupid fucking girl.

he screamed at the punching bag like it was a living, breathing person. like he could hurt it’s feelings. he didn’t know exactly who he was imagining it as, just as someone to scream at. he wanted it to be you, but he couldn’t stand the thought of making you cry, even in his imagination. he already felt guilt for the amount of times you’ve cried over him in the real world, though he’d never admit it out loud. how could he did that to you in the dream world too?

and that’s how you ended up practically in tears in your neighboring dorm. you just wanted to finish this dumb math assignment from class. “why do we even need this? we’re becoming pro-heroes for gods sake, not damn mathematicians?” you thought. you grabbed your pencil and tried to solve another problem, but the muffled voice of eyedress singing jealous and your neighbor’s unrelenting yelling making your brain short-circuit faster than denki using his lightening.

sighing, you threw your pencil somewhere into the abyss that is your desk and picked up your phone, putting your headphones on to try and drown out some noise and texted your pink-haired friend.

is bakugo always this loud?

girly if you’re just now figuring this out, i’m worried for you

i’m serious mina. i cant even hear myself think and if i don’t finish this math, aizawa will have my ass.

calm down, you’ll finish it. try going over there and knocking. maybe he’ll tone it down?

mina be so astronomically fr right now

me?

go to the guy that makes it very known that he can’t stand me’s room?

bffr

yea yea he acts like he hates you, promise he doesn’t. just go over there and if something pops off, call me and your personal chihuahua will come over and get him. he’s probably just mad you beat him today

okay i’ll trust you this time but if i die you’re not getting anything from my will

then don’t die! :)

you left her on read, slipped your house shoes on your feet, and removed your headphones. carefully placing them onto your desk. you were trying your best to mentally prepare yourself the go over to the blonde’s room. in your three years at ua, you’d never been so scared of your neighbor. the last two years in was always kiri and shoji that neighbored you. something happened with the lists this year that had you and kirishima switching dorm rooms, placing you next to thee katsuki bakugo.

“god, please please please don’t let him explode me to hell and back.” you whispered as you stood at your door. taking a deep breath, you left your room and walked the few feet over to his and knocked on the door. thinking about how fast you could bail and make a break for it back to your room, just in case, of course.

it only took a few seconds for him to come and open the door. the once muffled music now flooding into the halls and into your eardrums. his tanned skin was covered in a light sheen of sweat that started to soak into his black tank top and sweats. his right hand rested on the doorknob and his left held a pair of drumsticks. he scowled down at you as if you were scum to the earth.

“you just gonna stand there and stare all day? whad’dya want?” you felt your body tense at his sharp words. you tried your best to relax your muscles so he wouldn’t get the satisfaction of knowing you were uncomfortable.

“um yeah, by any chance could you tune it down a bit please? im having a really hard time working.” you twiddled with your thumbs behind your back like a child would if they were caught in lie. his face unfazed and unchanged.

“did you forgot that I can’t fucking stand you? why would I do that shit for you? why would i do anything for you?” you weren’t gonna lie to yourself, his words hurt. everytime he hurled insults at you, a small piece of your heart broke. you were a sensitive girl, you always have been. anytime he did it in front of your class, you pretended to take them in stride. once you were alone, you let the tears spill.

“look bakugo. i know you hate me. i know you can’t stand me. i know you’re mad you lost to me today. all i’m asking you to do is be a decent fucking human and turn your shit down. i never play my music this fucking loud so have some consideration.” you really didn’t mean for the words to come out. a mix of your frustration and sleepiness with an added splash of the intimidation you felt standing in front of the blonde. you had to admit, he was attractive. you would go as far to call him beautiful.

but none of that mattered now that you knew you were going to die by the hands of king explosion murder dynamight at the ripe age of 18. your eyes widened his shock like it wasn’t you that said the words but some other person. his eyes mirrored yours with his own surprised face. but his shocked expression quickly returned to a seething anger only violence could solve.

but a few looks at your pretty face and he couldn’t bring himself to pummel you into oblivion. his clenched fists relaxed.

he didn’t hate you. he hated the thought of not hating you.

“yeah I can’t fucking stand you,” he began to move closer to you, “I can’t stand the drive you just have to succeed.” you wanted to back away, but your feet wouldn’t move.

“can’t stand how supportive you are of others, even if it means they get ahead.” he dropped his drumsticks. he cares about those things like hatsume cares for her inventions. and he dropped them like they were nothing.

“grind my fuckin’ gears when you try to shake my hand and smile after we spar, even if you just got your ass handed to you. breaks my fuckin’ heart.” he was inches away from you. you still couldn’t find yourself able to move away.

“and it really gets me when you act all tough in public. dishing my insults back at me, but crying your perfect damn eyes out right next to me in your dorm. y’know how paper thin these walls are? i bet you didn’t even notice that most nights i was tearing up with you.” he was right, you never did. either he was an extremely quiet cryer or you genuinely were that loud when you sobbed. you had no idea bakugo had the capacity in his brain the feel guilt. you also never noticed how tall he really was compared to you. it’s too hard to miss now that you’re eye level with his huge, built pecs.

“why didn’t you ever say anything, bakugo?” your voice sounded more meek and mousy than you intended it too. when you traversed to his room, you were expecting at the least a door slammed in your face and to maybe return to your room with a few less teeth than you had when you left. not a goddamn love confession.

it’s not like you didn’t enjoy it, though.

because somewhere in the back of your own scattered mind, you felt the same about him.

“because you’re a stupid, stupid girl that couldn’t figure it out yourself. and yeah i guess i’m a stupid guy f-“ you cut him off before he could finish. grabbing the blonde by his sharp jaw and slim cheek to bring his lips to yours. they were soft, felt as if he applied chapstick before your came over. his breath smelled like the fresh mint sprigs he added to his water bottle.

he surprised himself and you by actually locking lips back. the way your mouth fit his felt all too natural for him, as if he was really supposed to be meant for you and vice versa. he grabbed you by your waist to pull you closer to him. he never wanted to let go, never wanted this moment to end. he wasn’t entirely sure it was real until you pulled away. a small string of saliva still connecting the two of you that verified to him that this actually happened.

the two of you stood in a fat silence. taking in the others features. neither of you wanting to speak up and ruin what already felt perfect and serene. curious hands wandered the other’s bodies. curious eyes darting back and forth to soak up every detail of the moment. after a few more moments of silence, you decided to speak up again.

“what do we do now?” you asked. not too sure if you were asking him or just asking yourself out loud. he looked at you in a puppy-dog kind of quizzical way.

“we wait for when we’re not exhausted to talk about it.” you had always admired how level-headed his decisions were, no matter the situations. from plotting murder to simple group projects to saving a city, he could always make a good, quick decision.

“tomorrow?” you replied. beginning to pull away from katsuki’s embrace. you hated the cold that began to spread across your skin where his arms were just warming you.

“it’s a date.” he gave you a smile. not the half-assed katsuki bakugo smile. a real, genuine one where you could see his singular dimple that adorned his left cheek. you returned the gesture and turned to walk the few feet over to your door. he never left his until he knew you were back in yours, safe.

now sufficiently calm, he turned his music down and replaced the loud love songs to more calming, sleepier ones. he decided in the hallway he’s gonna allow himself to go to sleep with the music still on. so the calming music could waft into your room and either help you concentrate or fill your pretty head with thoughts of sleepiness, too.

he still couldn’t stand you. but now not in a hateful way.

he couldn’t stand how perfect you are.

and he couldn’t stand how you made him fall for you so hard.

he couldn’t stand the fact that he fell for such a perfect, stupid girl.

[royakahoshiart]

Gonna be ranting about the way harassment is talked about so leniently in tbhk.

That part where Tsukasa kissed Nene makes me so mad because we didn't get to even see Nene's genuine reactions, she only thought manwha type stuff it's so annoying.

Let's also talk about Hanako he's also harassed people constantly.

Looking up Nene's skirt, throwing Kou to the ground numerous times, never respecting boundaries even when told to.

I feel like I should add how both Aida and Iro are guilty of this in most of their stories actually.

Sure it's a popular thing in Japan to treat it as a joke but that's exactly why so many horrible shit heads can get away with harassment.

Oh god let's not forget the scene everyone on twitter and tik tok hates.

Chapter 69 during the aoiaoi fight, I will always defend it to my heart forever and ever but I acknowledge that the way Akane was touching her was kinda weird that's why I struggled to read it at first. The kiss at the end was consensual but holding her in place, and we whatever that panel of him was I don't wanna think about it was definitely not consensual.

I don't like how it's treated. I don't care that it's a comedy sometimes or that a shounen trope like this are common, both writer and artist are women I'd expect them to try and treat it with a little more care.

I've seen how most Japanese readers don't really address the bad things of the manga or maybe they just don't notice and I don't think that's good at all.

So many characters have done weird things I'm just picking who didn't, mitsuba and the adults seem to be the only ones who haven't harassed anyone really, even then they have faults.

Even Kou , he tied up Mitsuba it kinda pisses me off for no reason. Maybe im just petty but I knows it's supposed to be comedy, I still laugh at that thing but it's still weird how Kou tied him up in the first place and had no objections by Mitsuba at first maybe I'm thinking too hard about it.

I despise that part where Hanako enters Nene's body. Not consensual, plus using her as a way to get away with things.

People see it like a funny moment but it's still sexual harassment and harassment in general I hate is so much. The fact that he commented on Aoi's breast size makes me even more mad because he touched it wanting or not, and decided to say it even making fun of her.

Plus Nene was obviously uncomfortable with it I'm not sure how she was able to look at Aoi ever again.

Also poor Kou???? He's a poor 14 year old boy Hanako does not need to do that with Nene's body I feel so bad for both Kou and Nene. Kou wanted to do something about it but he couldn't even dare to look at the scene Kou Minamoto they could never make me hate you.

English translation fucked it up a bit , they made him comment on the occurrence saying "seductive" but what i think is more fit is "embarassing". AUGHHH tbhk stop putting your main characters in weird scenes challenge failed.

The image in the first volume of Nene being naked errr it's censored yes but weird. We could've had just hanako talking about it but we didn't need an artist rendition. Someone made an edit of that panel making her covered parts visible and it disgusts me like it would for other people too.

Talking so freely about wanting to see her naked is very weird from Hanako's part I don't exactly know if it does count as sexual harassment but for me it is.

I think we forget Sumire tried to erffghnb with Hakubo and I like that all she got was a headbutt. Oh oh and well Hakubo's kiss was uncalled for but her slap was even more.

The scene where she gets eaten goes down easier if you remember she was completely fine with it, both of them where okay with it happening (i still struggle reading that part 😓) so it's not really that bad.

[polyamorousmood]

hey! I hope this isn't too non-traditional of a poly situation to be sending in, but this is the only place I think I'll be able to get good advice. As a pre-ask thing, to be clear, my best friend is the love of my life, I am aroace, we're very happily in love.

So, a while ago, we were dating, and it ended pretty quickly bc he came out as aroace. I asked him a lot whether or not that was the full reason he broke up with me and he insisted that it was and if it was going to be anyone it would have been me. I figured out that I was also aroace a couple months later. Recently (about a year after we first met and started dating) he got a boyfriend. I already set a firm boundary of no talking to me about his boyfriend bc it made me have a paranoid breakdown once and I don't want to do that to him, but even just the knowledge of him existing is pissing me off so much. I can't ask him to break up with him because I would never do thst to him and I love him more than anything even if this situation is hurting me like this, but I did recently ask him how the relationship was going with him being aroace, and he said that he isn't really aroace and he just wasn't ready for a relationship with me and thinking about that makes me want to cry. I don't want something romantic with him, I'm very much aroace and very sex and sensuality repulsed, I just hate that this random guy who I don't even know and never will (I don't want to bc I know I'd end up being a dick to him if I did meet him) is somehow more important to him than me, even if he insists thst isn't how it is. Since the situation isn't changing, I really need help with dealing with the jealousy. I've tried a ton of stuff and every single time I think about him I still want to kill him. I really don't know what to do, and my therapist isn't being particularly helpful (she isn't poly tho so she doesn't have experience with weird situations)

Hi. I'm sorry you're having such a hard time with this.

I'm curious how "he got a boyfriend" went down, and why you didn't bring up your concerns about his honestly to him when he was initially talking to you about it. Or if you did, why it still... doesn't seem resolved😬.

Not to put emotions in your mouth, but it sounds like a large proportion (though certainly not all) of your issue here stems from you feeling lied to about the breakup. This would damage anyone's trust and faith in the relationship, and I think having a formal talk about why he handled it the way he did and if that will continue in your refigured relationship will really help you. Maybe he didn't lie, maybe he was genuinely confused (for example, "if I can't make a relationship work with this person I feel a deep connection with, I must be aroace!" [one year later] "yo wtf I wanna fuck this other person?")! I think you should acknowledge -- with him, if possible -- that hurt. You feel like you want to cry? So cry. Giving the feeling full expression makes it easier to work through (and the only way out is through, darling).

Be prepared to explain why it hurts so much. The betrayal, your assumption that since he was aroace y'all were on the same page and he'd functionally be your life partner, or whatever the fuck.

Aside from the advice in this post (please read it in full📖, it is all applicable here), you have a LOT of legwork🦵 to do in unpacking and deconstructing your feelings. I think this worksheet outlines how to do that well (though, you know, tweak the wording in your head, because its aimed at a more traditional romance). If done right, it will be difficult and time consuming⌛. I recommend working through the worksheet slowly, in at least two separate sessions an hour or longer each. 'Cause shit takes time to sink in. In fact, you will have to remind yourself of the things you learn doing it for weeks to come, if not longer, so don't be afraid to revisit it! There is no shortcut, but I hope you and your best friend can be on the same page and you can have support while you navigate it.

Remember, the boyfriend didn't do anything wrong. He cares about this guy you care about. Try to see him as an extra support for him, rather than competition.

Good luck out there, space cowboy. There is hope 💛 <- its a yellow heart for friendship, get it?

[theguytoendallguys]

Alright. I have some things to say about the demeaning of Ricky Potts, both within the canon and the Ride The Cyclone fandom, because the more I think about it, the more it pisses me off.

First, I would just like to say, I am not physically or verbally disabled, and I am not trying to speak for or take away from the lived experiences of disabled people. Feel free to correct me if I say something accidentally ableist during this rant, as I wish to be as respectful as possible when tackling this issue. Second, there will be a lot of discussions of ableism, and several mentions of sexual scenes/scenes where sex is discussed, so if any of that triggers you, I suggest you click off this post or scroll past it.

That being said, let’s talk about the demeaning of Ricky Potts in canon first. There are a lot of scenes where Ricky is actively demeaned, usually by Ocean. (i.e. Ocean calling him “sweetie” or other typical pet names, which is very gross considering they are not canonically dating, or even implied to be, hell, Ocean actively says at the end of the musical she never got to know anybody in the choir on a personal level, not even Constance, her “best friend”.)

One of the instances that most pisses me off is when, during/after “every story’s got a lesson”, When Ocean says that porno has no lesson, Ricky is able to speak up and express his opinions on this subject, contradicting Ocean’s own. Ocean responds to this by completely dismissing everything Ricky said and blaming Constance for what Ocean is implied to perceive as “ruining Ricky’s innocence”. (Quote: “now you’ve got sweet old Ricky Potts saying that porno is magical!”) There are many other instances of Ocean acting demeaning towards Ricky, but this is what is in my opinion the worst and most infuriating one.

Now, I’m not saying that you’re ableist if you like Ocean, or that you shouldn’t like Ocean. I like Ocean, I think she’s a fun character. This, however, does not change the fact that a lot of her actions and comments do read as ableist (because they are) and that she is the main canon source of ableism towards Ricky. Again, I’m not saying that you can’t like Ocean, but her ableism does need to be acknowledged by the fandom, and I wish it could be acknowledged in canon, and maybe in future productions it could be, depending on the director.

Now, let’s talk about the ableism in the RTC community, shall we? Before I continue, I would like to clarify that I’m not trying to call anyone ableist or say that they’re a terrible person because of the things I’m about to state, this is not my intention. I merely want to shed light on why certain things in the community come off as ableist. Specifically, the fandom consensus on SABM.

Generally, majority of the fandom, from what I’ve seen, usually treat SABM as a gross song about a horny teenager. Now, it’s understandable for adults to be uncomfortable with teen horniness, however, what bothers me is a) that completely ignores any and all of the deeper text and/or subtext contained within the song, and b) Noel’s lament, is, too, a horny song, the same length, and nobody seems to shit on Noel for it, like, at all. I have seen so much hate for Ricky because of SABM, but none towards Noel because of Noel’s lament. Maybe it’s because I haven’t been in the fandom long enough, but it still seems weird and biased towards Noel. There is a lot in SABM that goes ignored by most of the fandom, (i.e. the fact that Ricky was so neglected he had to create an entire fake universe of alien cat people just so he could feel wanted by anyone, the underlying themes of love and war that Ricky has created for this fake universe, etc.). The point of SABM is to show that Ricky is not a baby, but rather a normal teenager, and that he is so much more than just his disability, which not many people in the fandom seem to recognize. Ironically, the one time he’s able to canonically speak without being silenced (SABM) is one of the most hated on and neglected things in the fandom.

Thank you for coming to my TED talk.

[ca-suffit]

sorry how long this is, but this fandom is pissing me off so much and I need to rant a little before I explode lol.

-- madeleine (nonchalantly) says of sleeping with a literal nazi, "I was inviting a frightened boy to cradle my tits," and then when louis turns her we see this as a pleasant memory, and I'm supposed to believe someone who could take pity on a nazi (even if he "wasn't dedicated to the cause") and remember him fondly isn't going to be racist? so I'm the weird one for finding claudeine to be a gross ship and being exasperated by seeing edits of them flood my dash? and every time I talk about this on ANY platform, I mostly get ignored and the few people who do interact w my posts are denying it and saying she had to do it to survive, as if she didn't also literally say she grew up rich like 30 seconds prior.

-- a decent chunk of the anti lestat crowd insists he participated in the trial as an act of revenge and can't say his name w/o talking about how they hate him (bc his racism + abuse), and these are the same people going apeshit over ben daniels saying that santiago was gay and in love with armand, as if he isn't one of the most antiblack characters we've met on the show bc he was quite literally eager to put on the trial solely bc he hated louis for falling asleep during one of his performances. and don't get me started on his monologue about claudia's ashes. and yet ppl are excitedly eating ben's interview up. 🙄

-- the narrative literally showing us that lestat has changed since the attempted murder (going off script on the trial in defense of louis & claudia, taking accountability for his abuse, staying silent about the fact that he was the one to save louis & letting him leave w armand when we know how terrifying being alone is for lestat, spending decades living in that shack and eating rats to punish himself vs the hedonistic & decadent lifestyle we saw him living in s1) and the anti lestat crowd claiming this is just him being manipulative and are furious that the writers had louis forgive him. like normally I agree that it's in very poor taste to paint an abuser as sympathetic, but the thing about this show is that these characters are immortal and have all the time in the world to change. like this isn't the writers sweeping it under the rug, they're explicitly acknowledging how horrific lestat's behavior was and there are literally canon glimpses showing us that lestat has become a better person (and I'm sure this will be fleshed out more next season as we'll get his pov) and, like, isn't it a good thing to see an abusive character realize the error of their ways and alter their behavior and become better????? like it's fair to not want to see that, but this is the wrong show to be watching if you can't handle seeing abusers change their ways & being forgiven by the people they've hurt (especially since it's pretty much confirmed armand/daniel is going to happen at some point and given I'm sure they'll be circling around each other, I feel confident that louis will eventually forgive armand too)

ur fine, u can rant! I have a lot in my inbox but I try to get to it all eventually in whatever way.

idk how much u wanted me to comment on anything or not, but I'm gonna add comments and u do whatever u want with it.

a) ur never going to have an easy time criticizing a white woman in fandom. it reflects too much of what fandom is usually made up of and ppl will usually tell u it's misogyny to judge these characters if u ever try (most of the time it's not, but that's a convenient excuse to shut down convos).

the show intentionally makes everyone do p questionable shit, especially the white characters. it doesn't tell u how to feel about it, that's up to u. that makes ppl uncomfortable. it goes further too when it is someone like madeleine, who is otherwise seen in positive ways. it's reflective of real life and that's what scares ppl the most. nobody ever fits in a box of only "good" or "bad." a lot of what the book for IWTV asks too is what defines that anyways? and S1 also said "are we the sum of our worst moments?" so it is constantly asking u that and it is for u to decide and reflect on.

b) white, gay stuff is also gonna be popular in fandoms. ben daniels is also gay irl and his husband just died so there's crossover from that to praising his character bcuz ppl feel sympathy for him. I also think ppl detach more from his actions bcuz he's not romantically linked to the characters he's torturing. ppl also just honestly dgaf about antiblackness anyways so for most ppl it's easy to overlook. which is how we get posts like this.

I mean, u can also like whatever characters u like for any reason. some ppl like characters not bcuz they support what they do, but bcuz they're just enjoyable to watch in performance or connection to the plot or whatever. I think examining santiago after what ben said about his performance is something ppl should be able to do, and again it circles back to the stuff I wrote for madeleine. where does ur (general u) discomfort lie and why? as u said, if it's ppl who dislike lestat then it's worth looking at that too, why are the characters different then?

c) there's sort of 2 things happening for this part. the first is that 2x8 did have pacing issues, for whatever reasons. a lot of ppl felt like it flattened the plot and characters for the sake of making lestat look the best (over armand) and rly shoving it in out of nowhere. the second part is what u said about the themes. I've always figured they were going to explore forgiveness and personal growth, but I also know it isn't going to be easy for ppl to follow. hopefully the full seasons coming do a better job of this but for 2x8 there were a lot of reasons ppl felt crazy about the way it was shown to us. I also agree that other characters will have these journeys with each other too. it was just such a sharp turn for S2 to end on highlighting the white character we've otherwise seen as being p horrible and suddenly saying "it's the brown character who rly did the worst!" I don't think they intended to come across like that but it's how it landed for a lot of ppl. it doesn't mean ppl have an issue with the concept of forgiveness and stuff otherwise. we'll have to see how it goes. but ya there's 2 things going on there for this rn.

[slexenskee]

Sorry if this question is awkward for you, but I was wondering if you were OK sharing roughly what you had planned out for the ending/characters in Crawlersout and/or Saltkin?

Sure! Sorry this is gonna be a long one haha

*LOL I read this wrong and thought it was asking for Grandloves not Crawlersout 🤦‍♀️* sorry to scare everyone haha

honestly, the original plan was Harry dies, which ended up being too sad even for me which is partially why I have no idea how to finish it. Or maybe she just takes the kid and leaves? Acknowledges it was a totally fucked up/toxic relationship in a lot of ways even if his feelings were sincere and distances herself? And Voldemort is too soft on her to ever hurt her, and too proud to ever grovel for her back, so he just accepts it and becomes a miserable old man who realizes how worthless life is without love and kind of loses all interest in life/the war because of it? But he's also too stubborn to just die, so idk, he takes all the power because that's been his life's work but it's a hollow victory. He doesn't turn good or anything, but I see him becoming like a cryptid dictator that kind of lets society battle shit out in the courts without him and no longer takes any real interest in society. But he does put a moratorium on 'spilling magical blood of any kind' which does include muggleborns, so there's at least.

Anyway 10+ years later and Hermione has been getting shit done bc idk I love the dynamic of her being everything Voldemort 'hates' in society but also everything he appreciates in a person and so he kind of hates her but also gives her carte blanche to do whatever she wants which pisses his followers off bc she's obviously the favorite but there's nothing they can do about it, and society has kind of gotten 'better' under her trailblazing political career. For a given definition of better, but in any case it's enough for Harry - wherever she is - to agree to have Flynn attend Hogwarts.

Meanwhile, Voldemort's primary position in the magical world has become being the Headmaster of Hogwarts. He's still a cryptid who holes up with his hoarded knowledge 99% of the time and leaves most of the running of the school to Mcgonagall and Snape, but he does the opening ceremonies and other things like that, so it's a kick in the teeth to hear the hat call out the name Cepheus Potter.

Voldemort finds increasingly awkward and bizarre ways to be around his estranged son - to the despair of the teachers and confusion of the students, Flynn especially, who has no idea who this weirdo is. Like, he learns Flynn really likes herbology, so he convinces Sprout to take a much-needed vacation just so he can teach Flynn's class for the week. Or pretends to be the caretaker just to loiter around in the halls for the perfect opportunity to run into him and answer any questions he has. Or lingers in the library and literally shoves Madame Pince out of it to act as his guide for book recommendations, and subsequently fucks up all her book-keeping bc while he's hanging around there just waiting for Flynn to come up to him with questions he also has to be the one checking out books and accepting returns and he completely just fucks that up.

The professors can't do anything about it obviously, and the students just think he's a weird staff member they see on the school grounds enough to feel he's harmless, and ignore it. At this point in public for his dictator Voldemort appearances he has his snake-like face and pulls a Darth Sidious and has a creepy cloak and all that - and when he's not doing that he looks like Tom Riddle so they think he's just an eccentric dude.

Anyway so in the ending where Harry is dead it's very bittersweet and Voldemort spends the rest of his life full of sorrow and regret (bc idk how but Harry dies and it's his fault somehow) but does reconcile with his son.

The ending where she's alive is much happier. He still reconciles with Flynn and kind of gets the courage from him to reach out to her again since Flynn is just a ball of sunshine who genuinely seems to like him. And he and Harry are still pretty toxic bc let's be real the whole horcrux involuntary/soulmate thing is never not going to be toxic, but whatever it's genuine. It also feels like a more balanced relationship now that Harry is older and has experienced life without him and all that.

Saltkin:

Book 3:

Harry goes through her shounen-protgaonist arc and becomes the Master of Death. Idk what that is really but she's basically OP as hell and spends most of her time conquering hell or whatever dimension I decide on for the afterlife. Cue the montage of this badass girl kicking the shit out of Dark Soul -esque monsters.

Meanwhile Voldemort is off on his quest to become dictator of England and is scheming/starting his war like he does in canon. He's smarter about it since he's not the insane version that came out of a cauldron but he's still an arrogant jerk who hates his own feelings and has shipped Harry off to the Malfoy's to not have to look at her. She's still the most important person in his life and he worries about her constantly, but he absolutely cannot every acknowledge that in any capacity.

There's a big ball wherein Harry is introduced to pureblood society, and the malfoy's begin to get a flood of marriage proposals. They obviously take these to Voldemort, who has a bit of a crisis over them. Ultimately, he denies all of them outright and refuses to even consider the prospect of handing Harry over to anyone. The Malfoy's take this is a tentatively good sign that Draco might end up with her, if the Dark Lord intends to keep her close.

Harry is heartbroken when the entire year passes and she doesn't receive a single word from Tom. Not even a reply when she writes him for his birthday. At the ball, he ignores her entirely.

She uses her anguish as fuel to become stronger, and tells herself it doesn't matter anyway. Nothing matters to her but death.

She defeats Envy, though not without cost. She's grievously injured, to the point Voldemort can feel it. But because the battle takes place in the Lands in Between, by the time she's alive again nothing seems to be amiss. Still, it shakes Voldemort, who remembers the time he'd thought her dead.

Book 4:

Harry's still on her quest to become the Very Best There Ever Was (cue pokemon theme) traveling across the Twilight Lands and amassing an army of monsters.

The next Sin resides deep in the many fragmented dimensions that make up the Twilight Lands/Lands in Between, and is incredibly strong, so she's kind of distracted all year. She could give less of a fuck about the Triwizard tournament, that Voldemort still enacts not to resurrect himself but to gain followers and international attention in secret. Unlike canon she's not picked, so she basically gets a free pass for the year to do fuck all while everyone else is distracted.

This entire plot was greatly influenced by from-software games so in homage to that she spends a lot of time 'dead' in a realm that looks an awful lot like Yharnam and is full of twisted beasts.

Meanwhile, Barty Crouch Jr is still polyjuiced as Madeye and is meant to keep an eye on the proceedings of the tournament and also Harry, although he's not told why. He's also not sure what the hell he's supposed to be looking for, so he just writes to his lord about her life and health - which is poor all around. He says she exhibits no energy in classes or friends, and walks the halls like a ghost. Voldemort prods about her health - Barty can't exactly sneak into the slytherin girl's dorm and watch her sleep, but he can say she barely eats during meals. Voldemort is deeply frustrated, as he can't just command her to eat and take care of herself like he used to when he was Tom, and due to their strained relationship now, can't do it as Voldemort either.

While she's off slaying yet another Sin in an epic battle of life and death, Voldemort is sealing deals and courting worthy followers.

He's become increasingly (but quietly) concerned over Harry all year.

Things reach a fever pitch when he feels like his heart is torn from his chest in the middle of an important meeting, and despite the magnitude of the alliance he leaves in the middle of it and races to Malfoy Manor. The Malfoy's are confused - Harry is fine, she is upstairs resting after dinner. The house elves concur that she is there.

But when he reaches her room, he finds her decidedly dead.

It's chaos all around, as the Malfoy's insist they have no idea what's going on. Voldemort rages at them then collapses at Harry's side. In his turmoil, he begs and makes promises within his head. He cannot lose her, he'll do anything to keep her by his side, he loves her so - finally, Harry wakes.

Its an impossible miracle that confounds everyone. Voldemort is the first to take in it stride; after all, Harry had cheated death before.

His relief quickly burns into anger. At her for recklessly endangering her health, himself for not being strong enough to bear her presence, the Malfoy's for being such terrible guardians.

Harry is confused to see him by her side, but whatever joy she felt dissolves into resentment as he yells at her. Voldemort is insisting she'll stay with him once more, but now she prefers her freedom. In his fury, he says quite a few things he can't take back.

By the end of it, Harry decides she hates him more than she loves him, and that she'll grow stronger to one day destroy him.

idk I have other plans for this fic, like I want Harry crafting an OP weapon called the Sword of Blasphemy that she makes my basically sacrificing her heart/love for Voldemort as a catalyst for more power, Voldemort of course finding out that she's the Master of Death , Harry eventually having to choose between Living and Death, the role reversal of Voldemort finally being the one who realizes the importance of love while Harry throws it away for more power, etc etc.