#i hope at least one person enjoys

[apoptoses]

Pairing: Armand/Daniel

Opener: "Has anyone ever told you that your feet are a rather remarkable size, Daniel?"

"Has anyone ever told you that your feet are a rather remarkable size, Daniel?"

Daniel tipped his blond head back against the edge of the bath and laughed.

Armand perched at the other end, sleeves rolled up to keep the cuffs dry as he massaged soap into the sole of Daniel's foot. It had started with him finding Daniel's manicure kit while he'd been soaking in the tub. He'd pushed back Daniel's cuticles one by one and trimmed the nails on his hands and then, seemingly unsatisfied at being finished with the task, moved on to his feet.

Truth being told, being washed and groomed like this made Daniel feel like a pet. Like Armand's prize show dog being prepared for display- though what tricks Daniel had to do tonight to earn his treat remained to be seen.

He let himself sink deeper into the warm, soapy water. He curled his toes when Armand ran his thumb up the tender inside of his arch.

"No, you're the first one since my mom. She always used to bitch about finding me new shoes," he said. "When I was a kid I grew out of them before they were even broken in. Why do you ask?"

Armand cocked his head, auburn hair falling into his face. He had that look on his face- the cool, appraising expression he wore whenever he had an idea for something to subject Daniel to. Daniel recognized it by the set of his mouth, the slightest furrow of his brow. Armand took his foot and held it there, sole pressed to his palm like he was evaluating it.

God, what's he gonna do to me now?

Daniel swallowed thickly. Beneath the water his heart began to race.

"Did you dance, Daniel?" Armand asked as he examined the tendons on the top of his foot.

He ran his cold fingers up them, following the bridge from his knuckles, up over the top of his foot to his ankle. And then back down again, nails dragging just lightly enough over his skin to make Daniel shiver.

"Yeah. My sister took ballet when I was little and I was upset at being left out. So I cried until my mom put me in the classes too," Daniel said, voice wavering when Armand guided him to point his toes. "It took a couple years for my dad to find out- he was always at work. When he did he pulled me out. He said he wouldn't raise a sissy."

Armand narrowed his eyes. He cupped Daniel's heel in one hand and flexed his foot on the opposite direction, exposing the sensitive sole to his gaze.

All he was doing was looking and yet Daniel's heart had climbed up into his throat. There was a goal here, an endgame Armand had thought up the moment he'd come into the bathroom. He just couldn't figure out what it was.

Daniel's fingers curled on his stomach beneath the water. When Armand drew his nail up the length of his arch he bit back a gasp.

"You have exceptional flexibility. Dance, when learned at a young age, reshapes the foot. It makes the arch higher, the bridge more curved," Armand murmured. "Your mother forever altered you by putting you into those classes, without even knowing it."

Daniel had something to say that. A smart response on the tip of his tongue, about how Armand should give him the blood and alter him as well, but then-

Armand licked a cold path right over the inside of his arch. The words were snatched from Daniel's throat, replaced by a poorly suppressed groan. Water splashed onto the floor as his hand flew up to grip the edge of the tub.

He wasn't ignorant. He knew about guys into feet, the stuff they did. Personally he'd never gotten the appeal but now, as Armand's fangs grazed the tender edge of his foot and sent sparks shooting under his skin, right up into his groin-

Daniel got it, alright.

His knuckles had gone pale where he was clutching at the rim of the tub. Armand nipped at the ball of his foot and arched a brow when his leg jerked.

"Are you alright, Daniel? Something seems to be troubling you," Armand said.

Daniel dragged a wet hand over his face. His cheeks were so hot he imagined he could feel the heat of them on his own palm. "Oh, fuck off, you know what you're doing," he groaned.

"It's natural for your body to respond. The foot is a well known erogenous zone," Armand said placidly as he kissed along his sole. "Some rather important veins end in the foot as well."

"Do you just sit around and think of weird shit that might turn me on? Is that what you do before you fall asleep?"

Daniel's voice wavered as he fought to get the words out. Armand kept grazing him with his fangs wherever he kissed. Along his instep, the ball of his foot. The thin and sensitive skin across the top, right where he was all tendon and bone. Every time Armand's mouth came down he braced for the bite, and every time Armand left him squirming and wanting; the only thing making contact with his flesh his unnaturally cold tongue.

There was the urge to squirm around but Armand's hand on his ankle was like a vice. There was no pushing into the sensation, no jerking away from it. Just the maddeningly slow progression of Armand tracing the shape of his ankle with his fang. The sharp drag of them sent a shiver up his leg.

Daniel's hand drifted beneath the water. Found its way over his stomach, down and down and then stopped just short of curling his fingers around himself, where he hoped Armand wouldn't notice it.

"Why are you hesitant to admit you enjoy this, Daniel?" Armand murmured, breath cool on his wet skin.

"I don't know. It's foot stuff," Daniel said, toes curling when Armand nipped at his instep again, not hard enough to pierce. Just another tease. "It's strange."

It's strange that I enjoy every part of you?

Armand's voice, like an electric tingle in his brain. Daniel bit his lip at the inhuman sound of it. He wrenched his hand off his thigh and gave in.

Water lapped at the rim of the tub with the movement of his hand. Daniel's instincts screamed at him to close his eyes, pretend Armand wasn't there and looking right at him. But he couldn't stop watching his pale lips moving over his foot, the flash of his dead tongue whenever he opened his mouth to run it along some new and sensitive patch of skin. His stomach turned over at the sight of it, fluttering in his gut.

Embarrassing, how worked up he was over this. Daniel could feel it coiling at the base of his spine already, had a feeling he wasn't going to last. He kept catching glimpses of Armand's fangs whenever he bared his teeth and dragged them over the tendons on the top of foot, and sent him thrusting up into his own hand.

The anticipation was delicious. It was terrible, feeling Armand lick cold and wet over his skin and never know when he would bite down. If he would, or if he just wanted Daniel to get off on his newest perversion, to having the ball of his foot licked like-

"Ah, fuck!" Daniel cried out.

The pain of it was indescribable. He'd never felt Armand's fangs so acutely before, had never really noticed every millimeter of them as they pierced his skin and sunk into his flesh. But when Armand bit down on his instep Daniel couldn't help but moan at just how overwhelming it was. An ache that made his toes curl, made him slip down in the tub so far he was up to his eyes and couldn't breathe.

He spilled hard over his hand, into the rapidly cooling bath water. Trembled with the force of it and rose back out of the water with a wet, desperate gasp.

Armand's throat worked as he swallowed (blood, he's swallowing my blood, drinking from my foot- Daniel thought hysterically). When he pulled away his lips were flushed red.

His alabaster fingers trailed through the bath water. There had been bubbles on the surface but most of them had dispersed, leaving Daniel exposed to his gaze. Armand kissed the sole of his foot and then guided it back down into the bath.

"You've made a terrible mess of the water. I suppose I'll have to wash you again," he said, as if Daniel were a pet who'd gone out and gotten muddy and needed yet another bath. "And Daniel?"

Daniel tipped his head back and slipped down into the water again. "Huh?"

"Do you know what they say about men with large feet?"

Daniel rolled his eyes. "What?"

Armand scooted along the rim of the tub until he could lean over and hover right into his space, so that Daniel could see nothing but his auburn hair and his pale face. He licked his lips, slow and deliberate, as if copying the mortal gesture. Daniel swallowed thickly.

"They require terribly expensive shoes," Armand said, and laughed as he got splashed.

[gutsby]

Cabin Fever

Pairing: Dark!Joel x Dark!Reader

Summary: Joel saves your life, but help comes at a price.

Warnings: 18+. DEAD DOVE: DNE. NONCONSENSUAL. I’m never ever beating the insane bitch allegations, I fear. Protector-turned-pervert-turned-unwilling-captor-kinda. Corruption kink. Daddy kink. Somnophilia. Misogyny. “It’s too big; it won’t fit” + Joel “I’ll make it fit” Miller. Captivity on both ends. Oral (f!receiving). Gunplay. Oversimplified first-time anal. Uno Reverse Drugging. Evil, inexperienced reader meets evil, feral, slutty Joel. Attempted murder x3. Russian Roulette…as foreplay?

Notes: Both characters SUCK. I condone nothing they do. Please do not take any of their behavior or language to reflect my own moral predilections. That is all 🚬😵‍💫

You were hardly shaking at all when he’d found you chained, maimed, and frozen half to death on the plains.

He didn’t see that every day, that was for-fucking-sure.

Joel Miller barely got to see his share of happy, grinning girls on the cold and bitter frontier he inhabited. Ones that were tied to posts and clinging to life were even less common, so the sight of you there had almost frightened him at first. He’d approached you like one might advance upon a sleeping bear: with the utmost caution and a Winchester Model 70 levelled directly at your head.

He’d learned you were unarmed and defenseless in less than a second. He’d come to realize you were largely unconscious—and unclothed—even sooner than that.

He had been industrious in freeing your hands and feet from their restraints but never uttered a word as he did.

Even on the two-and-a-half mile trek back home, he hadn’t spoken once. You’d hung off his left shoulder like a pretty, frosted slab of meat, covered only with the sherpa blanket he’d secured around your neck, and dangled precariously down his back for the entire fifty minutes.

Your toes were two shades shy of onyx with frostbite.

Your limbs were hanging like lead over his chest.

A whisper of, ‘You’ll be fine, darlin’, I promise’ had just seemed ill-suited for the circumstances and his nature. In truth, Joel didn’t know if you’d be fine. You might die. The blood wouldn’t be on his hands one way or the other, but he never had liked burying bodies this time of year. He’d have to wait until April to break ground, at least.

Presently, he dropped your limp form to the floor of his cabin and hoped he wouldn’t be needing to bury anyone.

You sort of looked charming in the firelight.

He stomped off to the kitchen and began rifling for pans, preparing to defrost the icy stranger as best he could.

You didn’t die.

You didn’t wake for forty full hours, but you didn’t die.

When you stirred on the floor with warm sherpa around your shoulders and a rough calfskin rug under your ass, you thought you had died—maybe taken a pit stop in cowpoke purgatory while you were at it—but then you blinked. Breathed. Realized you were still very much inside your body and most likely still in Wyoming.

You sat up where you were and looked around.

“Da-a-d?”

You knew it was useless, calling for your father.

He had been dead almost eight months; you just wanted to double-check to make sure you were still on earth.

When dead dad didn’t answer, you tried someone else.

“Momma?”

Still no answer.

Figured, since she was among the ones that had left you chained outside in the first place. It’d been worth a shot.

You started to rise from your place, when a sharp pain in your side made you plop back down on the rug. You winced and lifted the blanket, then your old nightie.

A neat little taped-down bandage had your ribs encased in antiseptics and gauze. You frowned down at a stain in the centre, which looked to you an awful lot like blood. That circle of old fluids must’ve been twice the size of your fist and currently oozing tiny, fresh beads of blood from the strain you’d just exerted. You pursed your lips.

Least they could’ve done is kill me, not leave me here.

You’d take it up with your old would-be assassins another day, you were sure. Right now, you were parched, starving, in dire need of a piss, and reeling on the floor to grab hold of something sturdy to lift yourself. But you were as much a child then as you had ever been, swaying in place and clawing at air like someone who’d never kept their balance before. Or might’ve been drunk.

You rolled onto your good side and cast a sweeping look around the cabin. You smelled slow-cooked barbecue.

Thank fuck, you thought.

Now, if I were a juicy rack of ribs, where would I be?

The kitchen was dark and empty; the smell was coming from elsewhere. You craned your neck, tilted your chin, spotted a loft overhead but figured it wasn’t too likely to find someone grilling up there, so where the hell was it?

And who the hell was it, smoking meats and mending up strangers in the cold and lonely dead of winter like this?

You put a pin in that thought as you searched for a place to pee.

By the time you’d hobbled out of the bathroom, the smoky smell had grown even stronger. It was so pungent it bordered on vertiginous, invading every inch of the cabin with a force. Then it was leading you, teasing you by turns to venture outside. All you had on your feet were some oversized socks and two strips of medical tape.

Against your better judgment, you continued to hobble.

Out the door, down the steps, slowly, then following your nose and the first whiff of smoke you smelled to make it to the place you were almost certain you needed to be.

You trudged around a corner of the cabin’s exterior and stopped. Turned around. Cursed your own senses for being so stupid to miss the huge fucking shed spewing smoke out front—or was it the back?—and plodded on.

Your feet might have carried you a third of the way there before your powers of sight and sound eventually failed you again, and you missed another big something.

Big and beige and coated in snow—baring its teeth and snarling at the unfamiliar presence as soon as it saw you.

The next thing you knew, sixty-two pounds of Belgian Malinois had had you knocked to the ground in less than a second. You hardly understood what had hit you until it was barking and chomping away an inch from your face.

You fought hard and frantic to shove the ugly fucker off, but your bandaged hands were no match for its paws. The dog continued to tear at your blanket, nip at your ears, claw at your neck, and all around snuff out any sense of peace you might have acquired in the dozen-odd minutes since you’d first woken up. You screamed.

You yelled as loud as you could and felt yourself cower and sink lower into the snow as you fought.

Just when you tried to raise a knee—to kick the animal in the ribs or else protect your own—a sound broke out above the buzz.

A voice, clear as day:

“CUJO!”

The dog stalled on top of you a moment, just to be yanked off the next, and the closest thing afterward was a face—kinder than Cujo’s but not by very much.

It was a broad, bearded, pock-marked head with more soot to recommend itself than skin. Lips smeared with ash and grime and curved down in the single most decisive frown you’d seen in your life, the man looked to be beside himself seeing you tits up in the snow.

He gripped one arm of yours, then dropped it.

Picked a leg up, paused, then hauled you into a cradle carry as graceless as you’d ever felt it done before.

“Come!” he snapped, and it took you too long to realize that he was talking to the dog. You’d already wrapped your arms around his neck in abrupt complaisance.

He carried you back into the cabin and kicked the door open in front of you. He held you firm for a second, then, just as he had outside, changed course before you knew what to do and was shortly depositing you on the sofa.

You winced when your ass hit the cushion.

You started to sit, grab a pillow for your back or just bring your knees to your chest, when suddenly a palm was pressing flat on your front. Forcing you to lie down.

“Hey, hey!” you cried when the man started lifting the hem of your nightgown.

If he’d heard you at all, he didn’t show it. He just worked his thick, dirty fingers under the fabric and raised the white satin like he might the hood of a car. He frowned.

It was then that you noticed a blooming red splotch on your side, slowly overtaking the terra-cotta color of dried blood on the bandage and spreading out. Then a pain.

Instead of pushing the man’s hands away, you were holding them tight, wrestling that same touch which was trying to keep you from poking around the area now.

“Quit,” the man said, sedate as could be.

“Hurts,” was all you could think to tell him—and you guessed he’d already had that part down by the outpouring of blood. He shoved your hands off.

The brand new crimson hue had already soaked through the bandage. He pulled it off. You caught a glimpse of a wound that seemed to be weeping through its stitches—oozing pus and blood and a gore you could’ve gone your whole life without seeing. You would’ve liked to run a couple gentle, awed fingers over it, but as it was, your coarse and tight-lipped medic wouldn’t let you.

“Hold still,” he commanded.

“Heystopstopstop!” you implored him, feeling a streak of pain up your side as his calloused hands delved deeper.

At your latest flinch and plea, the man seemed to have had enough. Or just needed to angle your body in a different direction for easier access to the site. He gathered you back up in his arms and walked over to the kitchen, where he set you down again on the counter. Hands moved to your hips, briefly, to push you back on the surface and allow him to stand between your legs. Again, the man frowned as he peeled off your pyjamas.

Two warring fears of pain and overexposure fought like wild beasts in your brain for a second—you yelping and trying to cover your breasts in a hurry, then realizing how much it hurt to lift your arms that way when your ribs were dripping blood, then the man making the decision for you both as he pushed your hands behind your back and said a simple ‘Fuck’s sake’ to keep you pinned.

You didn’t like it.

You didn’t like it, and you let him continue, because you knew that you didn’t know shit about doing this yourself.

Joel must’ve fixed your dressings fourteen times before turning you loose. He’d had you perched atop his counter like goddamned Prisoner-of-War Barbie, all riddled with bumps, bruises, and lesions galore, looked your body up and down just once, and nearly grew sick at the sight.

He’d disgusted himself by feeling as aroused as he was.

Shortly thereafter, he’d toted you off—before the blood could rush down to his dick and start to swell—shrugged your gown over your torso, and stepped away. Simple.

Then you’d had to go and throw a wrench in his plans.

“What if I need to pee?” you’d said as soon as Joel started up the stairs with you in his arms again.

He had meant to drop you off on the bed in the loft, out of sight, but it seemed you were more concerned about the prospect of traversing the steps up and down for potty breaks. Joel had audibly huffed above you.

“I can leave a bucket.”

“Yu-uck.” The latter word had been given two syllables to show the full extent of your disgust, like a child might do.

And that was how you’d ended up here: snug in his bed on the ground floor, curled up in more layers of flannel and wool than you could count and staring blankly up at the man who was standing cold and aloof off to the side.

Your eyelids were growing heavy with sleep.

He figured they would be.

Joel picked up the glass that sat beside your empty one on the nightstand and drank, watching you all the while.

“D’you know my momma?” you asked, voice sounding extra small coming from the depths of your cocoon.

Joel finished his drink in four big gulps.

“Sure hope not,” he said once he’d set it back down.

By the sight of the scars he’d found littering your hands and back alone, Joel was able to surmise you’d come from a pretty rough, ragtag group. Maybe even Raiders. Knowing folks like that simply never struck one’s fancy, so he’d been honest. You might’ve argued, or laughed, if you hadn’t been nabbed so tightly in the grips of those first stages preceding sleep, so instead, you nodded.

“Figured,” you mumbled.

7:11, Joel read on the clock. You’d finished your drink at seven, or somewhere thereabouts. Judging by your size, it wouldn’t take long at all for the medicine to take effect.

‘Medicine,’ Joel thought, sounded a whole hell of a lot better than ‘drugs.’ One was meant to rehabilitate, rejuvenate, bring new life to your worn and weary bones. The other would just knock you cold and keep you there.

On second thought, those were definitely drugs Joel had just slipped in your water before giving it to you to drink.

As your eyes blinked from closed, to open, to closed, then open but slightly less open than the time before, and closed again, he felt a sick sense of accomplishment twist in his gut. If only his former-nurse friend could have seen what he was doing with those morphine sulfate tablets he’d traded for—he likely would’ve slapped Joel across the face. And Joel would’ve smiled all the same.

Yeah, okay, drugging the unsuspecting and defenseless female he’d just saved from death’s doorstep two days ago didn’t look great on paper, he would fully concede.

But this was all in good fun.

Great fun, even.

For him.

“Sick fuck,” Joel muttered as he started to undo his belt. The button and zip were taken apart just as fast, and with two steps, he was standing at your bedside—his bedside—and tugging his trousers down his legs. He took his cock in his hand and glanced over at the clock.

7:15.

He nudged your shoulder.

7:16.

Peeling layers of blanket away from your body.

7:17.

“Hey…honey?”

A lot more nothing from the girl sleeping in front of him. He shrugged his jeans to the floor, kicked them off at his feet, and moved onto the bed. You just looked so sweet.

Joel tried working around the fabric of his boxers but got impatient pretty quick. He hauled those off, too.

Soon, his beefy, bare, and surprisingly tan legs were bracketing your hips as he stroked himself above you. His eyes roamed the lax and tranquil features undeniably characteristic of sleep, and he pumped himself faster. Really, there was no need for theatrics or enhancements now—he was already hard as three tonnes of steel—but Joel would be lying if he said he didn’t like the build-up.

You were no longer in danger of dying, thanks to him. You were slowly but surely on the mend, no thanks to Cujo at all, but many thanks to him, Joel Miller, the man who had pried you off of that post, pulled you out of your chains, ushered warmth back into your limbs, and stitched up your side out of the goodness of his heart.

Any objective onlooker could see that you’d availed yourself of his medical attention and aid without ever asking, so why should he request access to you now? This was the way of the world these days, anyway. Sex was no longer so much a question as it was an answer in most scenarios—a mere transaction, wherein the physically weaker of two parties was forced to capitulate. Not within the four unsullied walls of Jackson and a few other pockets of homestead communities here and there, but on the whole, absolutely. Jackson was down the road a ways away and sufficiently far enough from Joel’s cabin for him to be disentangled from their rules. What mattered now was obtaining what he was owed.

Still, the man hesitated a half-second longer above you. He jerked his cock even faster and felt his stomach start to clench. Was that? No—nerves were fucking juvenile. Getting close to cumming from just the sight of you alone was for chumps. Joel Miller was no chump.

He lifted your nightie and lowered the head of his cock to rest between your folds. Then he shifted his knees so that he could rub himself gently against your warmth.

Joel Miller was a monster, but he was no brute. He also understood female anatomy well enough to know that, well…wetter was better. He started moving his hips.

You exhaled through your nose. Nothing major; you probably hadn’t even felt him long enough to whine.

Joel planted a hand beside your head—a preemptive warning.

“There…” He liked to talk as though you could hear him. Like you might be semi-conscious and dimly aware of what he was doing to you then, “Right there…ah, baby.”

He never did catch your name.

That was no matter. So long as you stayed put and made a nice, wet, pretty little hole for him to fuck, you would be fine. By the feel of your folds alone, he could tell you’d be a fun thing to use. Soft and snug and plied with drugs, you could do, and be, anything he damn well needed.

Or maybe nothing at all, he thought without humor.

Joel brushed your cheek with the knuckles of his free hand and watched you turn away, making a face. He snagged your chin and tilted it back to him, sharply, before gliding those fingers down your chest, then your tummy, then your hips, then dipping between your legs. He found your clit and pressed it with a deliberate touch.

“Hey,” Joel whispered, again, as though you might hear, “You’re gonna stay still and let me do this.”

Your nose scrunched in response, thighs clamping together. Joel pried them apart with one push and continued sliding his cock back and forth. He grunted.

“Gonna let me take what’s mine, hear?”

You didn’t hear much of anything, he suspected, but he asked the question all the same. At least now your legs were staying open and he could rut himself gently into that space without having to keep them spread. A first, gentle ‘mmph’ sounded from your lips, and he was glad. He kept thumbing that spot he knew you would like and rubbing along the seam of your cunt with his erection.

Then Joel felt a weight on his shoulders. Remorse? No. Anxiety? Perhaps. This felt more like a fog, though, seizing his muscles and seeping gently between the grooves of his brain. He gave his head a fierce shake.

“Hold still,” he said, more to himself; you hadn’t moved.

Joel fisted the base of his cock and angled the tip toward your entrance, caring much less whether you were ready or not now that his desires had grown stronger.

He was met with resistance on trying to push in. He dug his fingers in the pillow beneath your head and scowled.

“Quit…clenchin’…like that. Ain’t…fair to me,” he huffed.

He was one to talk.

Now, he’d been with a staggering number of women, experiences ranging all across the spectrum, but even the tightest, most untouched pieces of ass he’d ever tapped had given way more than this. Your walls were unyielding, refusing to give him entry. Joel cursed and rutted his hips in a rough, entirely unsuccessful, thrust.

You hummed in response, eyes still closed, one hand fumbling mindlessly for something to hold. Joel seized it.

“Not lettin’ you off that easy, darlin’, I—”

“Fuck,” you breathed, followed by a low whimper.

Joel froze. Had you heard him? Felt him just now?

Something about the uncertainty laden in those questions sent his mind into overdrive, heart beating a wild cadence in his chest. He realized then that his mouth had gone dry, his vision was skewed just slightly on the outskirts. And his cock was throbbing.

“Ya like that?” Joel seethed, not thinking, still rubbing, “Like givin’ daddy a hard time before lettin’ him in?”

“Uh-huh.” Softly.

You little slut. He knew it all along.

Whatever it was that kept your body from being coupled with his was almost immaterial to him now. Joel’s mind was swimming with desire, cock dragging in desperate, fitful bursts between your legs, never penetrating but still wringing massive jolts of pleasure from that place.

With the way he was feeling now, Joel could cum from just fucking your thighs. And that was alright.

You were moaning underneath him. Even…smiling?

“Fuck, baby, you look so pretty.”

Joel had never called a girl pretty before and meant it. But he hardly knew how else to describe you now with how good and sweet and fine you were making him feel. A strange warmth sank into his chest, making it harder to breathe, and then he was panting above you, as if he were really inside that dripping wet spot. He was close.

“Such a pretty…sweet…fuckin’ thing for me.”

That red, raging, leaky cock of his was almost a blur between your legs, he was thrusting against you so fast. Joel thought for one frightening second that it might be his skull that would explode instead, so high was that pressure between his ears, but his fears were promptly put to rest as the first rope of cum came stuttering out. Then another. Then another. Then another.

By the time he finished, he could’ve sworn he’d left a hundred spurts on your tummy. When Joel glanced down and saw a sea of opaque, sticky white, he groaned.

Then he fell. Fully collapsed at your side with his brain in a tizzy of wild, heady feelings and sank into himself.

He hadn’t even fucked you, and he felt like he had.

He lifted a hand to wipe away his spend, but he couldn’t.

He would get to it in the morning, before you stirred, he thought. He thought. He didn’t have the chance to think much longer at all, as darkness started hedging him in.

He slept.

It was 7:57 when he woke.

The man had no real way of knowing that, though, seeing as he was greeted with a nickel-plated revolver between his teeth the second he opened his eyes.

You were straddling his torso, gun pinched between two calm, bandaged hands. You frowned when he jumped.

“WH—” he started.

“Shut up.”

“ST—”

“I said shut,” you cocked the gun, holding it tighter, then shoving it even further inside his mouth, “the fuck. up.”

The man obeyed.

‘Joel M.’—you’d read the name etched on the butt of his pistol before picking it up some twenty minutes ago.

“Pretty fuckin’ thing,” you mocked the man’s Texan drawl as you wiggled the barrel even deeper along his tongue, “Like givin’ daddy a hard time before lettin’ him in?”

The man’s eyes widened.

How dumb did he think you were?

Offering a semi-clear liquid that should’ve been water; he hadn’t even waited for the morphine tablet to fully dissolve before handing it over to you. Fucking idiot.

You were more disturbed by the fact he’d thought you stupid enough not to notice than him actually trying to drug you. The latter was almost to be expected from predatory, execrable men like him, but the insult to your intelligence? Unacceptable. You’d remedied that affront fairly quickly, though, swapping his glass with yours the second he hadn’t been looking, then nestling into his bed and playing pretend for what had felt like an eternity.

You’d been awake the whole time the man touched you, not knowing what the hell was going on but feeling like you had to stay still. Let him finish. Out of fear, at first, then curiosity, then some strange and unfamiliar sensation that you couldn’t quite describe as anything but a pleasurable itch between your legs. You let the man continue, hearing him grunt and groan and swear up a storm before he shot something hot all over your tummy. By the end of it all, you knew it was wrong, and you knew it was dirty—though you weren’t sure exactly what it was that he had done—but you wanted to learn more.

Which was probably why you hadn’t just shot the old pervert right between his eyes the second he’d stirred.

You shifted atop this ‘Joel M.’ and frowned once more.

“Why’d you stop?”

Gun still wedged in his mouth, Joel’s voice sounded garbled as he spoke, “Wha-agh-at?”

You retracted the metal just long enough to pose the question again. When you had, he still looked stunned.

“Answer me,” you barked, and feeling your patience lapse, got straight to pistol-whipping the motherfucker upside his half-grey head, “You DUMB, or somethin’?”

The man sputtered again.

“No, no— I don’t— dunno what you mean.”

He sounded dumb. You would need to spell this out.

“Why did you stop rubbing me like that?”

If anything, the clarification only seemed to baffle him further. He opened his taut, bearded mouth, then closed it, then eyed you up and down with a look that said he was considering something. Then he stared at one spot.

You glanced down at it too.

“And what is this, anyway?” you asked, swiping one finger at the mostly dried moisture on your stomach, “Why’d you spit this stuff up all over me, huh?!”

“I ain’t—”

You raised the gun as if to hit him again. He jolted back.

“I didn’t mean— shit. Shit, I just…came on you, ‘s’all.”

“Came?”

The word hung in the air like a grenade, waiting. Mr. M was already bracing himself for the impact, it seemed.

“Came?!”

That bracing served him well, because in the next second you were lifting the weapon even higher and eyeing him with the most pointed, putrid look of disdain. You’d never been one for letting grenades go untouched.

“Ejaculated!” Joel hissed, lifting a hand to shield himself, “Felt— felt so good I just couldn’t stop and I-I-I came.”

You paused.

Came. Felt good. Couldn’t stop.

You had felt good when he’d rubbed you. You had not wanted him to stop. But then he had. And you were mad. You’d never been touched that way in your life, and now you were feeling fifteen hundred emotions at once.

Were you supposed to ‘come,’ too? Why did he stop?

“Why didn’t you let me…ejaculate, too?” The words felt foreign and strange on your tongue.

For the first time, you saw one side of Joel’s lips twitch. Evidently fighting the urge to turn them into a smile.

“Girls don’t really…do that,” he said. Then, after a beat, “Why? Ain’t ever had your pussy rubbed on by a man?”

You shortly landed the blow you’d been holding over his head, splitting the skin along his brow with one hit from the butt of his gun. Joel jumped again, then moaned.

“Crazy bitch!”

“Creepy fuck.”

Your eyes narrowed with loathing, unable to comprehend how a man so vile had just made you feel so good. Your stomach was twisting in knots while Joel rubbed his forehead, pawing helplessly at the gash you’d just left.

“I saved your life,” he grumbled, low, “You owed me.”

“Did I?”

Abruptly, and without really thinking, you were sinking the muzzle of the gun into the spot you’d just cut, mouth kicking up in a smile at the sounds of pain it elicited.

“Did I, Joel?” you cooed.

“How the— the fuck do you know my name?”

Momentarily, you yanked the revolver from his face and tilted it to show him his name carved into the bottom.

“What’s the ‘M’ stand for? ‘Molester’?”

“Means ‘mind’ your fucking business,” he spat.

You probably would’ve hit him again had it not seemed as though he were trying to sit up just then. You slid swiftly from his frame—just to take a step off the bed, gun still pointed at his head. Then you backed away.

One by one, rapidly, you unloaded the bullets from the cylinder, maintaining a safe distance from the man all the while. You watched him blink and try to get some thing from his eyes, but he didn’t seem keen to move.

You left just one live round inside. You made a point to spin the cylinder and, again, aim it straight at his head.

The man was blinking even harder. Rubbing now, too.

“I feel…” Joel murmured.

“Drugged?” you returned, “Yeah, that must suck.”

A set of wide, irate, and horrified eyes met yours. His mouth hung open in a stupid look of shock. Trying to piece the last bits of this fucked up jigsaw puzzle together and growing angrier by the second.

“You fuckin’—”

Joel’s words were cut short by the weight of your body barreling back over his. Graceless, you imagined, but still nothing close to something you cared about now. You planted your knees on either side of his ribs and grazed the tip of the six-shooter down the length of his nose.

“Tell me,” you said, “How’d you make it feel so good?”

Your hips twisted for effect, jostling the man’s own parts beneath yours and clearly causing some effect in him. The muscles in his jaw jumped up as he gritted his teeth.

“You know damn well, slut,” Joel griped.

Without another thought, you squeezed the trigger.

Click.

The man’s whole body lurched underneath you. Trembling with the realization that you’d left just one lone bullet for him—and he didn’t know which chamber.

As far as foreplay went, Russian Roulette was probably a first, even for a man as wanton and depraved as Joel. You smiled sweetly and made another gyration with your lower half, which prompted him to grip you. Tight.

“What? Ya want me to fuck you, is that it?” he growled.

“I thought it wouldn’t fit.”

“I’ll make it fit.”

“How?”

Try as you might to conceal it, your gaze likely betrayed a hint of sincerity as you made that last inquiry. Joel’s eyes flickered between yours, searching for something there, and just when those glossy brown irises had found it, they stopped. Blinked. He shook his head, incredulous.

“My mind ain’t…right,” he said, slowly, “But I— I know you know what I mean by that, sweet pea.”

Something in your tummy fluttered at the sound. You gripped the pistol tighter to get rid of the feeling.

“I don’t,” you answered.

Again, Joel was stumped. For the first time, though, there appeared to be some sympathy behind his eyes. Or stupidity. Or just a shit ton of morphine coursing through his veins as he tried to make sense of this situation.

As if to confirm an idea in his drug-addled brain, he lowered a hand between your legs and hovered there a second. He watched you; you watched back but didn’t move.

Then slowly, almost clinically, Joel slipped two fingers underneath you and found a soft, pulsing warmth—far wetter than the last time he’d touched down there. When he pulled his hand away, both fingers and half of his palm were glistening with a fluid. You let out a startled cry at the sight of it and nearly dropped your gun.

“What is that?!”

Joel looked to you, equally awed—for different reasons.

“What do you mean?”

“Why’s it all…sticky?”

You couldn’t even try to hide your horror at the thought of that weird, syrupy stuff leaking out of you. It was strange enough feeling it come out of a freak like Joel, but from your own body? He had to be fucking joking.

“It’s normal.”

“Like hell it is— you— STOP!” The last fragment of your sentence was swallowed by a scream, leaping back when Joel moved his fingers toward your face.

“What? You’ve never seen this?” He sounded like he was teasing. You could shoot him for how smug he sounded.

In very small amounts, you’d seen stuff. Blood every month. Bits and pieces of bodily secretions that, to you, had always seemed gross. But never this. Never big, sticky globs of…whatever the fuck this was. You continued to back away on the bed, gun still tipped toward Joel but now trying to put some distance between your bodies. You didn’t know how else to act.

You did know you wanted to scream when Joel stuck his fingers in his mouth. Bile might’ve jumped in your throat.

He sucked the dew clean off the digits, then wriggled them to show what he’d done. You felt the urge to vomit.

“That came from— from— why are you eating it?!”

Joel grinned. Big.

You weren’t sure why, but he looked psyched to be alive in that moment, and not just because of the narcotics.

Before you knew what was happening, he’d pushed you flat on your back, hips pinned underneath his hands as he moved over your body. He didn’t even try for the gun.

“And here I was thinkin’ you were just fuckin’ with me,” he chuckled, palms sliding under your nightdress. When you felt the residuum of wetness from his spit and your slick stuck together on his fingers, you wanted to squeal.

But you didn’t. You tried propping yourself up on elbows until Joel was sliding your one and only article of clothing over your head, then beckoning you down on the bed in front of him. You watched his gaze flit down to your side.

“Still hurt?” he murmured, tracing over the bandage.

You shook your head no, though it did, a little. At the moment, it seemed the pain was the furthest thing from your mind as you saw Joel slide down your body and try to take up residence between your thighs—with his face planted right there. You kicked his shoulder in protest.

“Quit!” you cried, pulling your legs up to your chest.

“You quit,” Joel returned, yanking them back.

Then you felt you had no choice but to brandish the gun, taking the thing between two palms while you pointed it again—as if he needed the reminder.

“Fine. Why don’t you keep that thing aimed at my head while I give you some?” he muttered. The subsequent ‘See if I give a shit’ was silent.

“Give me some what?”

“Head.”

Head. You’d never heard something phrased that way. Joel’s head was down there, sure, practically grinning from ear to ear as he hooked your legs over his shoulders, but certainly he didn’t mean to do a thing as drastic and dirty as—

“JOEL!”

“Hm?” His voice was muffled by your thighs.

You tried to shy away, but he held you down.

“Joel, I— I pee out of there,” you hissed, “Why the fuck would you wanna put your mouth on that?”

As if your groans of disgust and vehement attempts to get away weren’t enough to deter him, you watched Joel’s tongue dart between his lips and down to yours. The sick fuck was actually licking your folds, tracing the tip across that warm, sticky place and moaning into your skin. Holding you tighter when you pleaded for him to stop. Then, with the hand that wasn’t prying your legs apart, he reached down and started stroking his cock.

Again, it felt dirty and wrong. Beyond the fact that this man was a perfect stranger and easily decades your senior, you were repulsed by the sight of his lips and his tongue and his spit mixing up in that messy, wet place you still didn’t quite understand yourself. You didn’t know much about your body, but it had never once occurred to you to be kissed down there. Joel was roaming every contour and crevice with his tongue like it was the most natural thing in the world. Like he liked it.

“I hate it,” you whined, feebly.

You knew you could’ve easily blown the man’s brains out, but some small part of you was still plagued by curiosity. ‘Hate’ was just the first word that came to mind when you were faced with something that made you scared.

“It’s weird,” you tried again. This time pressing the gun to the top of his bobbing head while you grit your teeth, “And wrong.”

At that, Joel stopped.

His eyes flickered to yours, all glass-like and hooded.

“Why? Practically lickin’ ya clean here,” he said, starting to grin to himself as his words came slightly slurred, “There’s nothin’ wrong about this, sweet pea.”

You felt something flutter between you. He felt it, too.

“Like when I call ya that? ‘Sweet pea’?” he said, pausing to flick his tongue over the spot that had just stirred at his words. He watched you fight back a whimper.

“No,” you choked. You pinched your eyes shut, unsure whether it was pleasure or pure revulsion overtaking you—or both.

Suddenly, you felt Joel’s hand smooth over your thigh, still warm from when he’d been stroking himself below. He placed an affectionate kiss to your belly and grinned.

“Is that what this is? Feel guilty about feelin’ this good?” he murmured, “Think it’s…dirty, what we’re doin’?”

At length, and just barely visible to him, you nodded.

“It is dirty,” you corrected him quietly.

Then you saw that stupid pseudo-sympathetic smirk tug at the corners of his lips, and just when you thought he might nudge his way back up your body—to do what, you weren’t sure—he sank between your legs. This time, he made sure to hold your gaze as he re-assumed the position. His palm continued to rub at your thigh, as if to distract you from the rough brush of his stubble or the fact that his mouth was hovering so dangerously close.

“Sweet pea,” he rasped, “Ain’t nothin’ dirty about this.”

As if to punctuate his words, Joel dragged his lips down your slit to press a kiss to your centre, eyes never leaving yours.

“Not here…”

He pointed with his tongue, moving it deftly between your folds. You gripped the sheets, trying to ignore the pleasure that the simple act wrought through your body.

“Not here.”

He kissed your clit. You squeezed even tighter.

“Not on my tongue, on my fingers, anywhere, y’hear?”

You were about to answer—maybe tell him he was supremely full of shit, then flash the gun in his face—when Joel shifted onto his knees on the bed. He moved slowly and as calm as he ever had, motions languid while his mind was likely steeped in the morphine by now. He snagged one of your ankles. He slid his hand up the back of your calf and tugged you down to the edge of the bed. Then he stood up, right between your legs. The warmth radiating from his bare lower half was immediate, almost suffocating from where you lay. You didn’t like it at all.

You refused to meet his gaze, grip tightening on the gun.

“Joel…”

When that warmth at your front shifted inward, though, you hardly had a say in what your reflexes did or didn’t do. You jumped when you felt the head of his dick slip past your pulsing core, closer to the other hole below it.

“Not here, either,” Joel continued, grin still evident from his tone.

Before you could even think to ask what he meant to do ‘here,’ Joel moved one of your legs up, tilting your hips, and pushed ahead with just the tip of his cock. Not breaching it fully, but nudging—prodding at that hole.

For the first time, you let out a moan.

You hastily clamped a hand over your mouth to stifle it.

“Aw, honey,” Joel murmured, “Did that feel good?”

His words reeked of condescension. You scowled at the ceiling.

“No.”

You felt him push a little further—this time making the head of his dick notch into that tight ring of muscles.

No, the word rang through your skull once more. Your curiosity was shortly supplanted by disgust—how the fuck could you let this creepy old man, this stranger, press into you like that? Talk to you like you were dumb? You seized hold of Joel’s pistol with both hands and aimed directly for his chest.

“Stop doing that,” you growled. When the man’s grip on your leg only tightened and you couldn’t writhe away, you lifted the other and tried kicking him in the gut. Of course, Joel caught your foot midair, and it never landed.

“Just givin’ ya options, darlin’,” he said, easy-going. Not seeming to care about the firearm pointed his way.

Fuck it.

You squeezed the trigger again.

Empty chamber.

If Joel flinched, you didn’t see it. He did, however, knock the gun right out of your hand the next second, sending it tumbling with an unceremonious thump on the bed behind you. You tried to leap back for it, but your arm was quickly pinned. Joel cocked one silver-flecked brow.

“You done?” he asked, almost bored.

Your last—and only—leverage taken away from you, you couldn’t help but feel a pang of anger. And desperation.

“I don’t wanna do this,” you cried, trying to squirm away.

Joel didn’t move his cock, but he did hold you still. Blinking with indifference and a fair bit of drug-induced dissociation, it seemed, from the far-away look in his eyes. He pushed both of your legs so they were folded up to your chest, and ignored your whimpers when he did. At length, he pulled out just enough to smear some of your wetness down to the hole he was trying to fuck.

“You want this,” he countered gently.

“I DON’T!”

Joel continued as though he hadn’t heard you, and moments later, you sensed another slick something pooling against you. From your position beneath him, you could see a bead of spit slip from Joel’s mouth and stretch into a thin, glistening string all the way down to the space between your thighs. You watched him rub the saliva in with his fingers, almost meticulous as he did it.

Then he eased his hips forward an inch, wedging himself back in your ass. He groaned when he felt resistance—and a sharp clench of your muscles.

“I can teach ya…show ya everything…there is to know.”

His words somehow made it out through ragged breaths. That broad, tan chest was heaving with every labored pull of his lungs, and you could tell he was feeling good.

You might’ve been able to say the same for yourself, were your mind not singly occupied by the desire to escape. Still at war with yourself, wondering how it would feel or what you might see that first time, all the while despising the man who seemed hell-bent on forcing it.

He might’ve saved your life, but there was no fucking way he’d get to use you like that and stay breathing.

You were raised better than that.

You could do better than anything this man had to offer.

You resolved to kill him as soon as the drugs knocked him out—just like you’d had planned from the second you woke up on the floor of his cabin that afternoon.

Of course being chained, maimed, and frozen half to death on the plains for some well-meaning stranger to find you had always been part of your mother’s—and the rest of the Raiders’—grand plan. Having this stupid, horny sap take you into his home with the hope of claiming you as his own was just the icing on top.

Now you had a reason to kill Joel and steal all his shit.

At present, he fed another inch of himself inside you and grinned when you let out a startled cry.

“Atta girl,” he said, smirking, “Feelin’ okay?”

“Fuck you.”

“Will do.”

Then, as if to prove a point, he bottomed out, sheathing his cock to the hilt in spite of your cries. Your hands fisted the sheets, and you tried to pull off. It didn’t work.

In fact, all it accomplished was giving Joel more room to thrust back into you. And pull out. And shove back in. The snap of his hips was like cruel and excruciating clockwork, completely unhindered by your words or your gestures or your pleas to stop fucking doing that Joel, it fucking hurts! If anything, the sounds of your censure only got him harder, and with it, made it that much easier to fuck you rougher. His eyes shone with pride.

“What’s’at, sweet pea?” he hummed, strokes coming into a steady pace.

“It’s too…big…doesn’t fit,” you whimpered.

In response, Joel glanced down to see the spot where your bodies were joined. He pushed even deeper.

“Yeah?” he said when you yelped, “I think it fits just fine.”

Motherfucker, you wanted to wail, but then your neck craned sideways—your mouth trying to find purchase in anything you might grit between your teeth—and the only thing that escaped your throat was a sob. You tried burying your face in the comforter, only for Joel to yank it back.

Cupping your chin and pinching both your cheeks in a single, punishing squeeze as he continued to fuck you, “What’s the matter, darlin’? Too much?”

You groaned and clenched your jaw, head jerking away.

Per usual, Joel was undeterred. Even smiled.

“My pretty girl need somethin’a bite, huh?” he hummed.

He probably knew you wouldn’t nod, so he went ahead and decided to oblige that one need he saw anyway. Snagging your nightie, Joel raised a hand to your face and proceeded to push the fabric inside your mouth.

Just as he started to lift his hips to deliver another thrust, he had to stop. A sudden, sharp ‘FUCK!’ left his mouth, then a groan, and his hand retreated fast.

You’d bitten him.

You were grinning just a little, and you’d bitten him.

Joel promptly slapped you across the face. If you weren’t so fucking amused by the sight of his bright red fingers, you just might’ve winced. Instead, the smile stayed on your lips, the slap barely registered, and, to your utmost disbelief, something else had just then started to form.

Pleasure, in the pit of your stomach.

“Fuckin’—” Joel snarled.

“Shit,” you finished, eyes rolling back.

You couldn’t help it. Joel was rutting into you relentlessly. That brief hand bite detour had only stoked the flames of his hatred—and arousal—and now he was practically splitting you in half with the force of his thrusts. He slapped you once more for good measure.

“Oh, that you fuckin’ like?” he seethed, cheeks flushed, “Can’t get off with my…tongue on your cunt, but a slap— and my cock buried deep in your ass gets the job done?”

“Uh-huh,” you answered softly. Mindlessly.

Really, there were no two people more fucked up than you in this moment, you thought. Joel growing harder with each desperate objection of yours, you going all soft and hot and bothered the second he slapped your face and fucked you rougher, and together, the two of you letting out grunts and moans of pleasure while the bed shook like an earthquake just shy of a 9.5 on the Richter scale. Were you not already planning to slit the man’s throat after all of this was over, you just might’ve wanted to marry this Joel M for how wonderfully he fucked you.

You let him know as much when you seized his forearms.

Bouncing into his thrusts, you bit your lip and finally met his gaze. Joel’s eyes were trained in somewhat of a daze, pupils all but swallowing his irises as he fucked you.

“Like being daddy’s little cocksleeve, huh?”

Only the sentence was slurred so bad you could scarcely make out half the words. You nodded just the same.

“Like it when he fucks you in the ass?” Joel panted.

You nodded again.

That pleasure in your belly had worked its way up to a full swell—and whatever it was, you couldn’t bear the thought of losing it now. You gripped Joel’s arms even harder as his chest swayed into you, then sank further and further until your fronts were pressed flush to each other and your ankles were hooked tight around his back.

It almost felt intimate. That coarse, weathered, sweat-coated face spattered with patches of grey seemed to you nearly handsome as his lips hung limply in an ‘o.’

Joel’s cock dragged back and forth between your walls at this new, snug angle, and moans fell out of you both.

“Baby.” His voice was hoarse. Strained.

You couldn’t quite make sense of the expression above you, but there was an unmistakable, muted desperation lurking somewhere beneath it. Joel rutted into you quicker, balls leaving rapid smacks against your ass with every thrust. His hair was disheveled, and his hands were making fists in the sheets on either side of your head.

“Joel—”

“Jus’ lemme use you.”

Words so low they were barely audible as he panted.

“But—”

“Daddy’s…almost done, sweet pea. Just take it.”

You were surprised he’d had it within himself to be so soft. A peculiar sort of haze hung over his face, the pace of his hips picked up even more, and suddenly those plush pink lips were hovering a mere hair’s breadth away from yours. Mumbling. Rambling on and on about how wet you were, how perfect you fit him, how nice and sweet and tight your body felt as he fucked you stupid.

That sensation in your own stomach grew even stronger.

Unsure of what to do, you pressed a palm to his chest.

“Joel, I…I feel funny,” you whispered.

Joel hummed. Didn’t slow.

“I know.”

He knew?

“What’s it—ah, fuck.” Your words broke off in a whimper.

Instead of proffering a verbal response, Joel just slipped a touch between your bodies—thumbing sloppily between your folds to earn a couple more high-pitched moans. Your legs tightened around his middle.

“Joel, s-stop!”

It felt so good it almost hurt. He didn’t stop.

“S’just an orgasm, baby,” Joel panted, “You’re okay.”

And, in spite of his own impending climax and the effect of the drugs likely reaching a fever pitch inside him, Joel managed to slide his other hand beneath the back of your head. Cradled you to him while he fucked you into the bed and made you come unraveled with his touch. You tried to writhe away, but he was used to the drill by now—he just fucked you harder and rubbed you faster.

Whatever he wanted would come soon. You doubted there was anything you could do to stop it, but you tried.

Without thinking, you grabbed hold of the damp locks of hair at the nape of his neck and yanked on them hard.

“Joel, I can’t— I can’t,” you keened.

The hand at the back of your head held you firm.

“You can,” Joel returned, tough but surprisingly calm, “Give it to daddy, ‘s’all ya gotta do.”

What exactly ‘it’ was was still unclear. You just knew you felt good and warm and full—about ready to burst. When you felt tempted to give his hair another tug, Joel’s eyes met yours, and they were soft. Insistent, still, but soft.

Dilated as all hell and probably swimming in clouds of a delirious, bleary haze, but always soft. Almost tender.

“Be a good girl and give it to daddy,” Joel slurred, slow, “C’mon, sweet pea…cum for daddy, please.”

For the first time in that short, rough, utterly deranged time you had known this man, he was begging you. Pleading with you, now, as his body grew overwrought with pleasure and just needed release. You needed it, too, not even knowing how you would get it, but the force of his thrusts, the warmth of his body, the look in those warm, bare, powerless eyes—you fucking loved whatever it was that could make a man like that so weak.

You had to strike while the iron was hot. You slid back.

Joel didn’t notice, too focused on your face and the feel of your body to see when you’d reached for the gun.

Just as you took hold of it, a jolt of pleasure tore through you. Your heels dug into his back, and you nearly lost control of the pistol. Joel groaned in your mouth, begged you once again to cum all over this cock, make a fuckin’ mess of it, baby, please, and you could only whine, grip the metal tighter, and raise it slowly to the side of his head while he buried his face in the crook of your neck.

The peak of your pleasure had come into view. You felt it.

You nudged the muzzle through those soft, slick, salt-and-pepper shaded tufts of hair near the edge of his temple right when the first throes of euphoria seized you.

“FUCK!”

You squeezed the trigger.

[chloesimaginationthings]

Happy Birthday!!

TYSM FOR ALL THE BIRTHDAY WISHES! YOU GUYS ARE TOO KIND ��💜

[daiziesssart]

a humiliatingly long character analysis of lily evans

Someone sent me an ask that briefly mentioned how misunderstood Lily is, and before I knew it I was typing out this monster. I am. sorry. This is literally just me rambling about her, what I find compelling about her character, and why her character is so often misunderstood.

This is long as hell so I'm putting it under a read more lolol

Part of the reason I like Lily so much (other than my being ginger and projecting onto any redheaded female character I see) is that even though she isn’t explored as much as her other Marauders Era counterparts, we know enough about her to start building the framework for her character. And what I see is a girl who was incredibly interesting, kind, and flawed.

One thing I always think about in regards to Lily is that she was dealt with a pretty unfair hand. As soon as she receives her letter, she’s basically torn between two worlds, both of which have been less than welcome to her. On one hand, we have the muggle world that she’s known all her life, but once she starts integrating into the wizarding world, she likely feels a bit of a disconnect with that world. To twist the knife further, her sister- whom she loved dearly and grew up so close with- starts outwardly resenting her with such unbridled hostility that they likely couldn’t even be in a room alone together without major conflict. 

On the other hand, we have the wizarding world– a world she’s not as familiar with and one she soon learns holds a demographic of people who hate everything she is and would rather see her excommunicated or even dead. And even though finding out you’re a witch/wizard is probably such an exciting and life-changing moment, I can’t help but also take note of the difficulties, especially if you’re the only one in your family with magic. You’re essentially uprooted from the only way of life you’ve known at an already complicated age, and now you have to quickly become acclimated to this new world that you only just found out existed. Not only that, but now you’re suddenly attending a school with classes that are primarily focused on this world of magic (which is still brand new to you), and you have to work extra hard to play catch up in order to do well. Like, that all seems like… a lot for a kid to handle.

And then I remember how young she was when she was thrown into that mess. She was only 11, and kids that age desperately crave any sense of belonging. I mean, that’s something that still holds true for adults, but it’s especially critical for a developing child. So imagine Lily, ages 11-15, struggling to stay afloat in this weird purgatory between these two parts of herself, both of which have been the cause for major and traumatic experiences relating to rejection in her life.

(I say it was the “cause” even though it’s obvious that those things were never her fault at all, but when you’re a young kid navigating the world, the only thing you’re able to process is that the common denominator is you, therefore you’re the one who must shoulder the blame.)

So now we have this tween-teenaged girl who has a dysfunctional relationship with two major parts of identity and probably feels absolutely lost. 

This is why her hesitancy to end her friendship with Snape makes sense to me. Even though by fifth year he’s already well past toeing the line with the dark arts, Lily was willing to overlook some pretty egregious and troubling things in order to maintain the relationship. I kind of interpret that as her way of desperately clinging on to any sense of belonging she has left; her relationship with Petunia has already been poisoned, and now there are people who resent her existence as a witch; if she loses Severus too, what and who else does she have? And what tone does that set for her, if everyone and everything she’s come to hold close to her ends up turning her away?

It’s also important to note that not only is Severus one of her few remaining connections to the muggle world, but he’s also a wizard who grew up in the muggle world; he understands her, and I don’t doubt that he gave her some stability at times when she needed it (her finding out about her being a witch, her having trouble acclimating to the wizarding world, etc).

I see this as being one of her flaws and I can actually appreciate how relatable and realistic it feels. Lily is not a bad person; on the contrary, you’d be hard pressed to find anyone to describe her as such. Not to get all clinical and boring, but the interesting thing about (unhealthy) coping mechanisms is that it can actually be really hard to identify them in your own behavior. Unless you’re in therapy and/or are actively psychoanalyzing yourself, you likely don’t even realize how many of your common behaviors are born from self defense mechanisms put in place by your brain after past events.

To me, it makes sense why she avoided actually confronting the idea that Snape was too far gone. We know that she was aware of the path Severus was taking, but it almost seems like she was still convinced that she could save him, and could possibly steer him back in the right direction. It’s only when she becomes the target of his bigotry that she realizes that the Snape who called her a ‘mudblood’ was not the same Severus who was the one who held her hand and introduced her to this new, exciting world.

In a general sense, yes, it is selfish, to only take a stand when something starts affecting you personally. But I also think it’s important to note that it’s unlikely that this was a conscious decision on Lily’s part. In my eyes, it was easier to delude herself into thinking she still had a chance to save him before it was too late when she was able to separate him from his actions (considering, a lot of the time, she was only hearing about them after the fact, rather than seeing them firsthand). But the elusion is shattered once she sees that the Snape she grew up with– her friend, Severus– is, in fact, the same person who’s out there calling other students slurs, dismissing the malicious use of Dark Magic on others as just “a laugh”. There we see a Lily who is actually revealed to have been somewhat aware of Snape’s involvement with the darker side of magic, and genuinely feels pretty ashamed about her inaction.

Also, this is in no way me being a Snape-anti, and I actually could do an entire separate analysis on his character alone and why I find him so interesting.

Anyways, that moment in SWM is probably somewhat of an epiphany to her. It’s like a dam that’s been broken, and now she’s overwhelmed with the realization of exactly how much she overlooked in order to keep their friendship afloat. And for someone like Lily Evans, someone whom we know is opinionated and unafraid to call others out on their bullshit, that can be hard to swallow and feel pretty mortifying and shameful. And I think this was a huge turning point for her- at that point, she doesn’t have the luxury of avoiding uncomfortable truths anymore and now that she’s getting closer to graduating and being thrown out into the world on the brink of war, this was probably a really sobering discovery.

This is where we don’t have as much info to go off of, and a lot of it is up to interpretation. But we actually have little crumbs to go off of following her graduation and leading up to her death.

One of my favorite little tidbits isn’t in the books, and @seriousbrat's post reminded me about it. Here's the actual entry on Pottermore for anyone who's interested, but I'll summarize: after James and Lily began dating, Lily brings James to meet newly engaged Petunia and Vernon. Everything goes downhill, because Vernon is a smarmy asshole, and James is still pretty immature and can’t help but mess with him (which… fair, I guess). Petunia and Vernon storm out after Petunia letting Lily know that she had no intentions of having her as a bridesmaid, which causes Lily to break down into tears. I mention this because I also think it’s a pretty important aspect of her character; like we’ve seen in her past friendship with Snape, Lily seems more than willing to forgive others most of the time. Petunia is a bit of a complicated character herself, but she was objectively very cruel and unfair to Lily once it became obvious that she was a witch and Petunia was not.

Something that always stands out to me is just how desperate Lily is to earn Petunia’s trust and approval again. Even up until her death, she was more than willing to mend the relationship, were Petunia ever to consider. 

This is a detail about Lily that I feel is misunderstood quite a bit. I’ve seen a lot of instances of her character being reduced to a one-dimensional archetype with little to no complexity. And often, that archetype is “know-it-all, prudish, self righteous bookworm who is also a goody two-shoes with a stick up her ass”. What annoys me is that the reason for this is most definitely the scene in which she blows up at James in SWM for bullying Snape, and hurls quite a few insults at him directly after an extremely devastating and overwhelming situation for her. This frustrates me because we know for a fact that she’s the polar opposite of this archetype I’ve seen her reduced to. 

In actuality, she’s referred to as popular, charming, witty, bright and kind. From flashbacks we also are shown that she’s opinionated, bold, and not afraid to challenge others. With other context, like her interpersonal relationships, we can also see that she’s pretty emotionally driven and wears her heart on her sleeve. 

(I know Remus didn’t mention Lily much in the books, but I really love how he described her in the movies. He tells Harry that the first thing he noticed about him was not his striking resemblance to his father, but his eyes, the same eyes Lily had. He also calls her a “singularly gifted witch” and an “uncommonly kind woman”.

“She had a way of seeing the beauty in others, even and perhaps most especially, when that person could not see it in themselves.”

I know there are mixed feelings on whether or not the films count as canon source material, so take it with a grain of salt, but I personally cannot see a world in which Lily and Remus didn’t become close friends.)

Here we have a direct description of what she was like and who she was, corroborated by recounting of memories of her, and yet for some reason, this feels like the thing that is most commonly lost in translation.

I don’t think I can say why I think that is without mentioning the dreaded M word (misogyny- it’s misogyny), but I also don’t want to get too off topic so I’ll be brief: female characters are typically not given the same grace as male characters. When we have an undeveloped male character, he’s awarded the assumption that despite his lack of depth, there still exists a complex and multifaceted character– it’s merely just potential that hasn’t been tapped into. Whereas when we have underdeveloped female characters, they are taken at face value, meaning that not much exists beyond the little information we have of them. They are not presumed to have a life or a story that exists beyond the surface of what we know like male characters are. That’s why I think characters like Regulus, Evan, or Barty (just to name a few) are more popular than Lily, despite being less developed than she is.

(Before anyone gets defensive, no, I don’t think it’s an individual problem that you alone need to be shamed for. I think it’s the result of a deeper issue regarding misogyny in media as a concept; these are things that we’ve all unknowingly internalized and while it’s not our fault, we still have to do the work to deconstruct those learned prejudices.)

What I find really cool about her character is that despite how much she’s been hurt, she’s also still known as one of the most loving, kind, and considerate characters. There were so many times in her life where the love she received was conditional and ripped away from her– and I think that’s what makes her sacrifice even more poignant. She was able to protect her infant son from an extremely powerful dark wizard, wand-less, knowing that her husband was just murdered in cold blood, just from how much love she felt for Harry. Her love was a force of nature on its own, and I just think that’s such an amazing thing about her. 

I know I’m biased, given that she’s one of my favorite characters, but even upon delving into this, I still just find it so incredibly hard to understand how anyone can actively hate her (not indifference, but actual dislike). In my opinion (again, no one is unbiased, and she is a favorite character of mine, but trust me when I say that I’m trying to be objective as possible when I say this), she’s probably one of the most likable characters of the Marauders Era. I think perhaps a lot of people haven’t given her a chance or really taken the time to learn about her character, but it could be a myriad of other reasons that I’ll never understand. 

There's so much more I could say but this is long enough and I will stop myself

Lily Evans, u will always be famous to me

[crowdits]

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it's interactive so the two images below are drop-down sections. the DP logo is hand-animated. if you want to use it as a simple link hub remember to remove eveything below the main container, including the header, excluding the footer.

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NOTES;

all the images (except the gallery icons) are drawn by ME, please do not remove credit if you choose to keep them

if you run into any issues, please send me a IM or ask so we can figure it out!

IMAGES CAN BE FOUND IN THE TEXT OF THE TEMPLATE ITSELF

HOW TO GET IT;

DOWNLOAD THE TEMPLATE HERE

(this time I didn't forget the images <3) FREE / pay what you want

[drawnfamiliarfaces]

INTERRUPTED (Parts I & II)

A short two-part comic (total of 20 pages + 8 extras) by me! (for me lol)

Fandoms: Ninja Showdown (Randy Cunningham 9th Grade Ninja x Xiaolin Showdown)

Ship: My Immortal Soul (First Ninja x Chase Young)

A comic where nothing really happens! But it contains a lot of half-naked men. So like, kids avert your eyes and adults don’t open it at work or whatever. ¯\_( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)_/¯

thanks for checking it out <3

[pokimoko]

Can you do a pansexual calico cat and nine-tailed fox please?? Thank you! I saw your art and I was like oh my God that's so amazing!

A kitty cat for you :3

[cluescorner]

I cannot imagine being a Damian stan right now. You've got both Zdarsky's bullshit (where he clearly doesn't give a shit about your boy) and The Boy Wonder (where Juni Ba clearly gives so many shits about your boy) coming out on the same day. The whiplash must be insane. I hope y'all get some nice warm soup for your efforts jfc

[lesbianpuppygirl]

your werewolf girlfriend comforts you during your period

⋆⁺｡˚⋆˙‧₊☽ ◯ ☾₊‧˙⋆˚｡⁺⋆

As a werewolf, your girlfriend doesn't experience menstruation, instead going through a heat cycle at the beginning of each year lasting around 7 days; though the breeding season itself is short, she has a pseudo PMS time about a month before her heat starts.

Although you two have been together through many of your menstrual cycles, she still becomes panicked whenever she smells a hint of your blood. She becomes clingy, insistent on inspecting every inch of you each month to ensure that this time, there aren't any external injuries. She'll grumble anxiously as she tilts your chin and panics at every bump or bruise. Once she's satisfied with your safety, her strong, furry arms gently hold you, treating you as if the most minute movement would shatter you. She'll pull you to her lap, setting you up with a heating pad while rocking you slowly and cooing.

No matter how hard she tries- how often she goes through this with you- she can't get it out of her head that her poor mate is hurt and needs her help.

Your girlfriend's instincts tell her that she needs to help her mate with their heat. She urges you to take medication for even the slightest cramps and pains, offering a million natural remedies if you refuse. She builds nests made of blankets and clothing, tucking you in with a heating pad and a warm meal as she cuddles you.

⋆⁺｡˚⋆˙‧₊☽ ◯ ☾₊‧˙⋆˚｡⁺⋆

You groan, curling in on yourself in bed as the cramps intensify. Peeking through your blankets, you see the Saturday morning light stream into your bedroom, warming your face and providing a scrap of comfort. By the magnitude of the sunlight, you guess it's around 9am. The pain in your lower stomach indicates that you've started your period, and you thank your past self for having the foresight to have put on a pad the night prior.

Whining dramatically to yourself, you push yourself out of bed and to the bathroom. Changing the pad and showering before making your way to the kitchen to prepare a nice hot drink.

Hands and stomach thoroughly warm, you glance out your front window, shoulders drooping as you notice your girlfriend's car still missing. She works as a carpenter- strong, beautiful, with large calloused hands that not only felt wonderful when around your waist, but were perfect for woodworking. She'd left home early in the morning today to meet with a client regarding plans for the construction of a family treehouse. You propped your chin on the heel of your hand, staring out the window akin to, ironically, a puppy with separation anxiety. As you waited for your puppy to come home, you held your arm firm against your stomach and sipped languidly from your mug.

You were removed from your daze by the rumble of your girlfriend's truck pulling into the driveway, causing your ears to metaphorically perk up. Setting down your mug and rushing to the door, you unlocked and opened it a bit, poking your body out see your girlfriend sooner. As soon as she had locked her car and retrieved her equipment, she turned her head towards you. Her fuzzy ears literally perking up, tail wagging rapidly; her usually hidden werewolf traits easily revealed her excitement.

She speed-walked to the front door of your shared home, pausing at the doormat and giving you a sharp, giddy smile.

"Hello, my love,"

She pulls you into her arms, burying her nose in your hair and rubbing her hands along your sides, "Mm, I missed you. I'm so sorry, I shouldn't have left my poor baby home alone, especially when you're like this." Your girlfriend trails off.

Before you can reply, telling her that a period is not a life-threatening ailment, she sweeps you up into her arms, causing you to squeak in surprise.

"Gah-! W-what's wrong, puppy? I'm fine! You don't need to be so doting..." You pout, despite nuzzling close to her chest.

She responds by kissing your forehead as she locks the door.

You're carried through the house and tenderly sat down on the bed, her immediately following. She settles a heating pad to your lower stomach and settles her nose to your pulse point, inhaling your scent and reassuring herself that her mate is alright.

As you drift off again, lazily enjoying the weekend while the love of your life comforts you, she whispers gently,

"I could always, stop these for you, ya know." She teases, smiling into the crook of your neck.

You scoff gently, relaxing into your werewolf's arms.

⋆⁺｡˚⋆˙‧₊☽ ◯ ☾₊‧˙⋆˚｡⁺⋆

This is my first time writing something like this, i hope it's okay^^

[tidepoolalgae]

hello spones nation (insp)

[necrotic-nephilim]

jaybrusteph. steph and bruce fuck on jason's grave, jason and bruce fuck on stephanie's grave, steph and jason fucking on bruce's grave. threesome where stephanie gets 2 cocks up her ass. they keeo her tied up in a secret part of the cave fir a week with a vibrator on her clit at low vibration and a fuck machine pounding her ass. they share her for another week straight and by the end of it she's mentally checked out and her face id smeared with mascara and cum. maybe they bring cass over once, and all of steph's holes are occupied at the same time. i want her to keep cumming so hard she walks with a limp for a month. she goes on patrol with a butt plug holding in both of their loads. remote controlled vibrators. just the kinkiest shit possible with these 3. any time bruce and jason fight, they take it out on steph. they both try to fuck her mouth and she chips a tooth and dislocates her jaw but they keep going

i've been thinking about this for *days*. bc idk how you intended this anon, but to me it reads as *delightful* non-con and *super* fucked up with grooming vibes. like in my head, i picture it as Bruce dealt with enough problems when Jason came back from death and he *really* doesn't feel like doing a repeat. so when Steph comes back, even if Babs gives her blessing for Steph to be Batgirl, Bruce doesn't trust it and he definitely doesn't like the idea of Steph wearing a Bat. he's been down this road before and this time, he's not making the same mistakes.

so he tells her she's allowed to be Batgirl but this time, there are more Rules. maybe he had a thing with her when she was Robin but Bruce feels like he obviously wasn't strict enough so, he sets new rules this time around. and Steph has no choice but to agree bc she wants to be Batgirl, she feels like she needs to prove herself again.

i love the idea of the mindbreak the first few weeks, too. esp if there are aphrodisiacs or some kind of drugs involved to keep her in a haze where it's all she can think about until she rlly just. breaks. and is okay with it and has no concept how fucked up it is. Bruce invites Jason just because he'll try anything to pacify Jason at this point, and maybe he had a fucked up thing with Jason already and they needed a sub as a buffer.

i also think it's fun if patrolling and missions are the one place Steph has an escape from all the sexual control. so she really leans into being Batgirl bc it's all she has so when they start making her wear plugs and vibrators out it breaks her a little bit. even as Batgirl, her life will revolve around pleasing Jason and Bruce. and Bruce is telling her that she has no idea how much she's helping with this, he's showing her numbers about how Red Hood has been much less lethal since this all started to really get in her head about how this is a duty and it's a favor that she's doing for Bruce and he's so thankful for it, he almost convinces her that she agreed to this somewhere along the way. so she agrees and is submissive when Jason is getting rougher and rougher with her until joints are dislocating and she's crying and doesn't even have the words to ask for it to stop so she can get a breather.

also like the idea of Bruce and Jason arguing while Steph is on a patrol and it's Jason who finds Steph first and without any sort of warning forces some kind of aphrodisiac drug into her mouth and makes her swallow, calmly telling her she has about an hour before it'll kick in so she better wrap up whatever she's doing and hope she gets to Jason's base so he doesn't have to find her and fuck her wherever she ends up when it kicks in-

and all the bruises and injuries she gets from the sex are explained away by vigilante work. i'm also really into the idea of like, gradual body modification without her awareness or consent. constantly having her on muscle relaxers so it's easier to fuck her without prep. adjusting parts of her body with supplements to their likings until she realizes she doesn't really recognize herself in the mirror. her nose has been broken by sex so many times it stoped healing right. her hips are a different size and she has to wear a plug most of the time bc she's usually so loose. just like. Complete Bodily Control over her, yk? and by the time she realizes how fucked up it is, she's in way too deep.

and pulling Cass into it is *really* fun bc Cass is someone she trusts. so if Cass is okay with this, leaning into it and fucking her mouth with a strap while stroking her hair, then it must be okay. bc it's Cass. and maybe Cass is also fucked up, maybe Cass is just trying to provide Steph comfort in a situation she can't get Steph out of. both are good options esp if Steph doesn't know which it is. she never knows if ppl just don't care enough to notice what she's going through or if Bruce and Jason are doing such a good job of hiding it all that they can't see it. and she gets so Stolkholm'd by the end of it there's no escape she even wants. bc it's not like she can go back to normal. it's not like she could come from regular sex that doesn't hurt to the point she cries anymore. so she just. accepts it.

but yk that's just my hurt/no comfort braincell being evil. bc i am evil and i love the psychology of being sexually broken as much as i love the sexual aspect of it. i think it makes it so much crunchier and realistic if there's this haunting acceptance that isn't necessarily a "oh she loves it now" but more of a "she knows escaping will make her feel worse" sort of thing. like she sees Bruce and Jason arguing and just starts to brace for it instead of trying to break them up. it's good food.

[kentopedia]

it makes me so happy to see more people are starting to write multi chap / series fics on here again

[blackpilljesus]

I dont care about the odds of womens liberation happening because I dont solely focus on "winning" per se. That's not to say I dont want or aim towards it but freedom isn't just about the end but the journey too. Cultivating a lifestyle as a single childfree woman is something bigger than me and something I hold onto to get me by.

One thing about conscious is that we all know we're going to die. This terrifies some; but in some cases it gives a purpose to existence. Death becomes a metric to measure the things that are worth it in life, things to dedicate life towards for fulfillment in existing. Whether the end goal actually comes to fruition or not is irrelevant because the hope and purpose carries you as you live.

To get by the hardships of life and inevitability of death: dedicate yourself to something bigger than you. Having a sense of purpose beyond yourself drives innovation & delivery. It's not just about how long you live but what you live (& are willing to die) for. This is how cults, religion, charity, activism, natalism etc affect people. It gives them a sense of purpose greater than themselves so they devote their lives to them even in extreme cases where it'd kill them. They suffer & work in the name of their cause.

Many women regret encountering feminism & seeing maIes for how evil they are but I dont. I see things more clearly & more importantly it's given me a purpose in life; something to orient how I carry myself as long as I live: To pour my energy into myself & other likeminded women, to live beyond serving a maIe, to trust myself & not let the claws of maIe supremacy sink into me, to be the subject of my life instead of the object, to know I'm ending the line of suffering and not giving maIes what they ultimately want - another soul in the chain to continue the suffering, etc. That's the direction I'm taking my life.

I'm saying all of this because with things like separatism, 4B etc if you're serious about it think about these things as something bigger than yourself let it be something that you devote yourself to that goes beyond you. In the end it isn't just about you, it's about the future children you're saving from experiencing the hurt & suffering of this world. For me, no matter what happens as long as I dont give birth before I die that's a W for me - when I die the suffering in my line ends with me. So that's how I see this as something bigger than myself, it's not just about me but my (potential) future offspring. And before anyone tells me about how there's good in this world; good isn't guaranteed but suffering is.

When you give yourself to something bigger than you you're able to commit to things for the greater good & not just doing things for the sake of it. I dont refuse to date, reproduce, wear makeup, etc to stick it to anybody; it's just freeing for me. I think the lack of seeing these things as something bigger than yourself is part of why many women struggle to commit to this or even think of the idea (there's obvs many reasons but I wont get into them to stay focused). I commonly to hear things "I'm not doing x for some fringe online movement" because they dont see a greater good, sense, or purpose to it so instead women will get in pro woman spaces demanding it caters to them & their existing habits rather than working within these spaces towards a goal greater than themselves compared to dating which is why they're willing to inconvenience & risk more in that regard.

This might sound extreme but many people whether they're aware of it or not have a purpose for themselves at some point & legacy they want to build to leave something behind or it fulfils them. For me the way I see all of this is that I want to succeed as a single childfree woman as my legacy. That's what I build towards. I occasionally ask myself that if I was to die now would my life & the things I did reflect what I believed in at the end of the day. Now obviously people have different motives & legacy aspirations which causes conflict (even with maIe supremacy it's about legacy which is why maIes live & die for it. It makes it easier for them to reproduce & steal labour from women to pass off as their own & that's something added to their legacy - something that lives beyond). Ofc not everyone gets remembered but in the grand scheme of things as I mentioned it's not about the end goal but the journey there.

The thing with fulfilment is that it is so strong if this thing wasn't there people likely wouldn't know what to do with themselves. Despite the criticisms of religion, part of why it's so powerful & popular is bc many people wouldn't know what to do without that framework shaping their lives. Something they can lean on in hard times, something that directs the way they go about their daily lives so people take it very seriously with its ups and downs as it gives them purpose & they'd be lost otherwise. Similar thing with patriarchy, if you remove the benefits it comes with; maIes wouldn't have a purpose to work towards & existence wouldn't be worth it for most of them. This is why many of them dont care about going on rampages even if it costs them their lives to uphold the system as they have nothing to live for out of maIe supremacy. A loss of those structures would be a net negative as they have to work harder for the same or less results.

For many women, romance is something that fulfils them & adds purpose to their lives (remember having purpose to something means you're willing to struggle for it). In my previous post I addressed the argument of how there'll be violence when women reject maIes en masse but even when women choose to date maIes the risk of violence is still there (which there's endless strategies on how to 'vet' and mitigate) but they still go for it because a having relationship is something bigger than themselves. These things fulfil them so much so that many women refuse to take maIes as they are & actively shut out news about their violence bc it'd make them hate them & they dont want to do that bc losing romance would be losing it all. It isn't just about them, they're looking for someone to explore, build, and create life with as it fulfils them so they'd be willing to take risks to find that. Hell even out of dating, many women will risk their lives & livelihood to advocate for maIes politically as they see the cause as greater than them.

I've provided examples to put this concept in context so for the more relevant part: as a single childfree woman where does this leave you? Find a sense of purpose & fulfilment to it. This is something that has to come from within for it to stick, a sentence I say isn't going to give you purpose bc you dont know me & I dont know you. To a degree, typical things that give people purpose & fulfilment are messages that have been instilled into them from childhood. As people grow & face challenges it's something they lean on and it works for them to get by life. Many religious people look to their creator when they're going through hard times in addition to everything else they do surrounding religion as they devote themselves to that. So having a purpose & sense of fulfilment is important bc when adversity inevitably comes up it will help you overcome it.

TLDR: We're always taking risks depending on what we find purpose & fulfilment in. These things tend to be bigger than ourselves. Find purpose and fulfilment to being a single childfree woman.

This is the final part of my series of posts about the popularity & rise of single childfree women:

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3

[windor-truffle]

wait shit do you think they're going to let you change the voice language in the graces remaster??? 👀

[flygonscales]

2 weeks at uni and I’ve already reached peak procrastination. I found masking tape and somehow decided that the best use of my time was to make a tiny Belphemon-sleep.

[jackalbuzzards]

this is so niche but ive been helping a friend design her dnd character and i have been struck by a bolt of inspiration that is HADEDA (ibis) AARAKOCRA that is a BARD and when he casts vicious mockery he just makes the hadeda HA HA HA HA call that strikes fear into the heart of south africa.