#mediocre young adult

[llegah]

Percy Jackson fans can stay far away. My parents bought me the first book without even asking me because of its popularity and my love for HP. I was the target demographic, a teenager fresh into high school, and the book was still the literary equivalent of dollar tree frozen meals.

All these years later I can still remember the hook being stale, the characters propped next to the MC as cardboard cutouts, and the entire narrative push pointedly ignoring any and all social dynamics. Absolutely no special sauce to be found. I was so frustrated I threw the book at the wall not even halfway through. I wrote better trashy Naruto self insert fanfic than that and if my PC were alive I'd prove it

Percy jackson fans stay winning

[blumineck]

Can anyone pole or do you have to have a certain body type or flexibility? Basically is it learned or do you have to be born with a certain level of flexibility?

I hope you don’t mind me answering this one publicly, but I think it will be helpful for others too!

To say that ANYONE can pole is an oversimplification, because there are of course many extenuating circumstances and conditions that limit mobility or increase injury risk to the extent that it may not be possible or practical for some people.

HOWEVER,

It is certainly not the case that you require some innate abilities to do pole in order to start. Of all the gymnastic/dance styles I’ve encountered, it is the one that people are most likely to start as adults with no previous background, and that’s AWESOME!

I was 20 when I started, which is relatively young, but I had no dance background and couldn’t touch my toes, never mind venture near a split. As an instructor, I’ve taught men, women, trans, and non-binary folks, people who were tall, short, fat, thin, muscular, clumsy, agile, ex-dancers, gymnasts, archers, gamers, accountants, climbers, and many more, and all of them can be great polers (or mediocre polers who have a great time, which is at least as important!)

What you’ve done before and the skills you possess going in will determine your starting point, but as long as you’re having fun and keep going, it won’t determine your end point!

[choslut]

── 脹相 + 九十九 由基 : CLUB DEMON !!

�� 𖥔 ࣪ ˖ starring incubus!CHOSO and succubus!TSUKUMO YUKI

꒷꒦꒷ becoming addicted to a mysterious man and his best friend (?) was not on this year’s bingo card, but now that it’s happened, it seems like there’s no way out…

this movie contains the following . . .threesome, slight crack, masturbation, supernatural activity, slight choyuki, sexual fantasies, slight voyeurism, pet names, clubbing, oral sex, teasing, dirty talk, praise kink, nipple play, voice kink, tribbing/scissoring, cum swallowing, making out

this work is NSFW. minors and ageless blogs do not interact with this work or any other in the THRILLER series.

Your love life sucks. Like, actually sucks. Sure, you’re only in university and you have the rest of your young adult life to live out before you eventually decide to settle down, but alas, with university comes couples, and with couples comes that overarching feeling of complete and utter loneliness. 

The strong feeling of solitude especially peaks during times like this, when couples are completely occupied with choosing matching Halloween costumes and planning dates whilst you sit and nibble at the end of your pen and try to completely block them out. It’s annoying, because you don’t have anyone to match cheesy costumes with or go trick-or-treating with, and will most likely be spending Halloween night completely and utterly alone.

And it isn’t like you can control it, either. You’re pretty enough, but not in the way the other girls are, the girls who’d look good in a trash bag and can attract any type of male (or even female) attention with just a batter of their eyelids. You envy them, but again, nothing you can do, so you just sit and watch on in forlorn.

Every night is spent alone. Your roommates suck just as much as your romantic life does. They’re out every night getting wasted or worse, and sometimes, they bring back dates that suck just as much as they do, and in more ways than one. You could say that’s the one disadvantage to having paper-thin walls separating you from complete strangers, but there aren’t any advantages to having paper-thin walls, so you digress.

Getting off in student accommodation is fucking impossible. You bought an alleged ‘silent vibrator’ that was just about as quiet as a fully revved up chainsaw, and every night alone you become subject to your fingers and a handful of shitty porn, working yourself up to a weak high before calling it a night and throwing in the towel. Complain as you might, life doesn’t get better after this, and you actually consider dropping out, just so you can finally find someone who can deal with (and perhaps, fall in love with) your mediocre self. 

You don’t need help. You need to get laid, and the only way to do that is to drop the nonchalant act and finally get out,

It’s cold. It’s October, so of course it is, but you curse yourself for not wearing something a little more… practical. The chilling wind bites at the back of your legs with every step, and you wrap your arms tightly around yourself as you try to keep up with the rest of the group.

“Don’t look so grim, sweetcheeks, we’re drinking tonight!” You’re confused as to how your roommate (read: a raging alcoholic) is more excited to go drinking than you are considering her tendency to do it every other night. You crack a weak smile in her direction.

“I’m pumped,” you grit out as enthusiastically as possible. “Just a bit cold.”

“Y’just need a couple of shots and a cute guy, sweetie, ‘n you’ll warm up real fast.”

You can’t wait for tonight to be over.

– 

You’ve found the one. 

He stands against the wall of the club with a glass of what seems to be… water in his hand, and he looks just about as enthusiastic as you to be here. He’s cute, spiky black hair tied up in messy bunches on his head and a few strands hanging over his face, with a striking black strip tattoo staining his nose bridge. He doesn’t look like the type of person to be at a club, but he fits in perfectly, and when he notices you staring, he flashes a small smile.

Sure, it might just be a quirk of the lip, but your alcohol-addled brain takes it as him inviting you over, so you finally hoist yourself off of the bar stool and dip and dive between dancing people before finally sauntering over to him.

“You look bored. Clubbing not your scene?”

He takes a sip of his what-looks-like-water and smiles at you with that same small one he flashed you just minutes ago. “Not really. Here with a friend.” He nods his head towards the dancefloor, and your eyes lock on what looks like the most beautiful woman you’ve ever seen.

It sounds like a stretch, but she’s not like all the other run of the mill pretty girls you’ve seen. Her hair is a striking blonde, and she’s not wearing a dress, instead wearing a pair of denim booty shorts and what looks like a bikini top. She’s not dressed for the biting cold outside, but she looks borderline ethereal, and you can’t take your eyes off of her, even when the dark haired man begins to speak up again.

“I’m Choso,” he yells over the music, eyes trained on the back of your neck as he watches you (very obviously) check out his dancing friend. “And she’s Yuki. She swings both ways. Want her number?”

Suddenly, you become incredibly self aware of your staring in her direction, and you whip back towards Choso, giving yourself an embarrassing amount of whiplash in the process. “N-no! She’s just very pretty. I’ve never seen anyone like her before.”

“Yeah, my Yuki’s a looker, isn’t she?” Your mouth drops open in shock. His Yuki? Didn’t he just say they were just friends? 

You gape at him like a goldfish. “You’re together?” 

Choso smiles again, but this time, it’s a teasing type of smile. “Nah, just friends.” He winks at you before pushing himself off of the wall and downing the rest of his drink. “I’ll see you around.” 

And just like that, Choso is swallowed by the crowd. You look back at the dancefloor to steal another look at Yuki, but she’s gone too.

It’s almost like they were never there at all.

When you get home in the early hours of the morning, your head is throbbing, but you somehow remember every detail of the night, right up until Choso disappeared. It was so strange, yet they were both so alluring…

… you never even got their numbers.

You groan into your pillow. So much for Choso being the one, you’re probably never going to see him again. 

Of its own volition, your mind slips to the image of Yuki on the dancefloor, her hands trailing down her body sensually as she moved in fluidity with the booming music. She was so pretty, and although you’ve never had experience with anyone, let alone another woman, you find yourself trailing your hands down your body in that same manner, fingertips brushing against the material of your dress as you finally reach your core.

No way. There’s no way you’re doing this, drunk out of your mind and fully dressed in a room with paper-thin walls, with the thoughts of a woman you never even spoke to plaguing your mind like a disease. Suddenly, it’s no longer Yuki you’re thinking about but Choso, his spiky hair and cocky attitude along with his deep voice, a distinguishable sound amongst the booming bass of the club. His is the voice you imagine in your ear as you begin to strum your clit gently.

How would they feel? Choso and Yuki at the same time, him next to your ear and her in between your legs. You only spoke to Choso once and to Yuki not at all, but they’re all you think about when you slip a finger inside, eyes fluttering shut as you frantically search for that sweet spot inside of your cunt. 

There it is. Your back arches off the bed and you release a garbled moan of Choso and Yuki’s names, head growing delirious as your finger moves faster. Add another, something tells you, and you obey, sliding in a second finger alongside your first and pulling the neck of your dress down to allow your tits to bounce out. 

It feels good. They’d feel good, and that’s what you convince yourself when you cum with a strained whine, spine clicking as your back arches sharply off of the mattress. The orgasm assaults you in waves, and it’s the best you’ve felt a in a while. You ride the waves of your climax eagerly, and when you finally come down, the buzz of the alcohol hits, and you knock out almost immediately.

Before you finally succumb to sleep, you come up with a manifesto. You need to find them again. You need to get that sweet release from their hands, cum on their terms, be theirs completely.

When you suggest going clubbing again the next week, your roommates are shocked. “You? Clubbing?”

“It was fun,” you shrug, taking a sip of your coffee. “We should go again.”

One of them pipes up. “That sounds great! I know a new joint opening downtown, we should totally-”

“It has to be the same one.” Yes, you sound demanding, but you can’t take the chance of going to a different club. What if they’re not there? No, that won’t do. It has to be the same one.

“We never go to the same club twice.”

“Well I want to go to that one. I’ll go alone.”

Your second roommate groans. “Well, we can’t let you go alone. That’s like, against girl code.” She slips an arm around your shoulders, and it feels almost suffocating. “I’ll go if you’re going.”

And just like that, you’re at the same club, in the same dress, at the same time, but Choso and Yuki are nowhere to be found. This has to be some kind of twisted joke.

By this time, you’re desperate. You’re asking anyone and everyone if they’ve seen a dark haired man with spiky bunches or a tall blonde lady, but nobody seems to have seen them, and you’re convinced you’ve hit a complete dead end. When one of your roommates catches your disappointed face, she’s just about as pissed as you are.

“You asked to come here, and you’re not even going to pretend to be happy?” She definitely isn’t sober, especially given the man kissing her neck and the glass of some strangely coloured drink in her hand. “Don’t be fucking boring. Go get laid or somethin’.”

So much for girl code, you think as you turn on your heel to leave. There’s no point in you being there anywhere, especially if the people you went there to see weren’t there either. It sounds superficial, but you never liked clubbing anyways. 

The walk home is long and cold. Without the prominent buzz of alcohol warning your system, you feel like a walking ice cube, heels biting at your ankles and arms wrapped around your torso pathetically. 

When you finally arrive home, the apartment is empty, and all the lights are off. You’re silently grateful for the solitude, but as you flop onto your bed, tears begin to fill your eyes when you realise exactly how lonely you really are. You can keep telling yourself you don’t need a romantic or social life since your studies are all you need, but it gets increasingly harder by the day to convince yourself of this when all the people surrounding you are really living, whilst you just sit and stew like a complete loner.

Like clockwork, your hand travels in between your legs. Is this all you have? Yourself, you fingers and your thoughts for as long as you can remember, and even as you try your hardest to conjure up the image of your two mysterious subjects of attraction, nothing is working.

“Please..” you whisper into the darkness of your room, pleading with something, anything to help you reach a release.

“You need some help there, sweetcheeks?” You bolt up from your pillow when you hear a strikingly familiar voice in the background. “Doesn’t she look like she’s struggling?”

Your breath hitches when you hear another voice respond, this time a cooler, more feminine tone. “Oh, definitely. We should’ve shown up at the club tonight, Cho’, our girl looks so fucking needy.”

Cho? As in Choso, from the other night? That can’t be…

You try to open your mouth to ask these mysterious entities who the fuck they are, but when you try to speak, nothing comes out. 

“Oh, she’s trying to talk!” The female voice giggles. “Don’t worry, honey, you know us. Yuki and Choso, from the other night. You remember, don’t you?”

Of course you fucking remember. They’re all you’ve been thinking about this past week, but to have them actually in your room… this has to be some kind of twisted dream. 

“Not a dream, honey,” Choso responds as if he can hear your thoughts. “We’re actually here, and we wanna help you. You want that, right?”

Too many questions. They’re asking too many questions and it’s getting to your head, and the room seems to grow hotter when Choso moves out of the darkness and approaches your bed. He looks… different. The black strip tattoo that was so prominent on his nose bridge extends to his eyes, with sharp lines branching over the apples of his cheeks. His purple undereyes are more prominent too, and he looks almost like a demon. 

This isn’t him. It can’t be, but your attention is diverted when Yuki moves out of the darkness too, but she’s dressed in the exact same way she was that one night, bikini bra and denim ripped shorts hugging her curves in a way that has you drooling. 

“Do you want to know what we are?” Choso raises a perfectly arched brow in your direction. “We’re not human, if that’s what you’re wondering.”

You nod slowly, eyes wide with shock. Not human? Well, that explains your raging attraction to the both of them. 

Yuki points a perfectly manicured finger at herself. “Succubus.” She points at Choso. “Incubus.” Then, she smiles, baring perfectly white teeth. “You called us last week, didn’t you, princess?”

Called them last week? You didn’t have either of their numbers (if they even had phones), so how…

“You were fingering that pretty cunt, and you called us. Who do you think told you to add another finger?” They told you to do that? You thought it was just out of pure need, but alas their presences were actually in your room, guiding you to orgasm without making themselves known. 

Your thighs clench at the thought and they laugh in unison, the golden sound of Yuki’s voice intertwining with Choso’s deep rumble. Oh, you need them bad.

“You’ll have us, honey,” Choso drawls, and your bed dips as he crawls in between your legs. “We’ll give you what you want, don’t sweat.”

You can only stare down at him as he pries your legs open, shucking up your dress as he stares in between your legs to find you aren’t even wearing panties.

“No way,” Yuki breathes, climbing onto your bed alongside Choso and joining him in inspecting in between your legs. “You went out like this?”

You nod shyly. Of course you did, because you were expecting to get fucking laid, and walking around with your clit out made you feel just a little bit sexy. You don’t feel sexy now though, because both… demons (?) are inspecting your cunt like they’re gynaecologists, parting your lips with their fingers and blowing on your clit teasingly. 

“Oh, she’s sensitive, isn’t she?” Yuki coos at your cunt, bright eyes staring up at you as her thumb strokes the roof of your clit. “Poor pussy’s never been laid, huh?” You shake your head pitfully, and Choso tuts. 

“We can take care of you, baby. Just forget about your roomies for tonight, yeah?” Your focus tracks to him and your eyes lock, nodding as if in a trance. “Good girl.”

Just when you think Yuki is finally going to give your pussy the relief it needs, she gets up and crawls next to you, hands reaching into your dress and fingers running over your nipples as she kisses your neck. “I saw you at the club that night,” she whispers in your ear, her plump lips brushing its shell. “You’re so pretty, ‘n I wish you came up to me and talked to me.” She kisses your ear before finally facing you. “Have you ever kissed a girl before?”

Your eyes are soft and innocent as you look at her and shake your head, still not able to speak. Yuki laughs quietly before closing her eyes and pressing her lips to yours. She tastes like strawberries and sin, and you groan when her tongue intertwines with yours in a heated kiss. 

“You’re doing amazing, Yuki,” Choso says from in between your legs. “She’s getting so fucking wet right now.” You almost forgot he was there, and when his tongue flicks against your throbbing clit, you whine into Yuki’s mouth. 

“That’s it, darling,” she whispers against your lips, her breathing mimicking yours as Choso eats out your cunt. “Let it out for us, baby, we’ve got you.”

Thank God for the fact you’re home alone, because the groan you let out is downright pornographic, your hips ticking upwards when Choso begins to make out with your pussy. You can’t believe you imagined this in the reverse, because having Yuki fondling your tits with Choso in between your legs is way better than anything your need-filled brain could ever have come up with. 

“Are you about to cum, sweet girl?” Yuki’s voice is driving you nuts, and you nod rapidly as you feel the coil begin to wind up in your core, this time ten times tighter than it ever has when you masturbate by yourself. Yuki twists your nipples in tune to Choso’s ministrations on your clenching hole, her breath hitching when she spots your eyes begin to gloss over. “C’mon, angel. You need it, don’t you? We need it too, baby, come on.”

You completely miss her say that she needs your orgasm just as much as you do, because white sparks begin to flash behind your eyelids, thighs trembling as they drag you into your orgasm by force, Choso’s tongue never slowing it’s relentless torment and Yuki’s fingers continuing to swipe at your clit. 

Everything becomes hazy, and you can barely sense Choso finally detaching from your cunt, his tongue swiping over his lips before he’s circling to where Yuki is sitting by your head and kissing her, their tongues intertwining as he feeds her your taste. 

“Doesn’t she taste amazing?” Whilst he’s entangled with Yuki, Choso’s large hand strokes your tummy, his finger pulling up your dress to draw shapes on your bare abdomen. “Like sugar.”

“Totally,” Yuki groans, eyes flicking towards you. “Thank you, angel.”

And you think that’s the end of it and they’re going to leave, but now they’re swapping places, Choso staying at your head and unbuckling his pants whilst Yuki kneels in between your legs, her lips kissing the overly sensitive flesh of your thighs. 

It’s hard to focus yet again, because as you watch Yuki begin to play with your cunt like a cat plays with a ball of yarn, Choso is suddenly pressing the flaring tip of his cock to your lips and tangling his fingers in your hair. “Hi, angel. Can you suck on this for me?”

You nod. You can’t do anything but nod, especially when he’s finally slipping his cock into your mouth, head bobbing as you try to take him whole. 

“You’re distractin’ her, Cho’,” Yuki’s whining, and her shorts are off too, moving your legs to weave with hers as she presses her clit to yours. “Baby won’t be able to grind back if she’s busy suckin’ you off- hah-“

“Shut it, Yuki,” Choso grunts animalistically. “We’ve got what we want, so she doesn’t really even need to cum again.”

“But it’s n-no fair if you get to cum and I- ugh- don’t.” Her hands are squeezing your hips and pulling up against her as her own move in a hypnotic rhythm, her clit bumping yours over and over and over again, working you up gradually to another high. “You know it lasts longer if we get to cum too.”

Everything they’re saying is going over your head, and your senses are in overload. Choso’s cock is hitting the back of your throat repeatedly and you can barely breathe, but the lack of oxygen makes each of Yuki’s thrusts hit harder, your hips twitching with each grind of her own. 

“Mmh, is this pretty pussy gonna cum again?” Yuki’s voice is a sweet drawl, and she bends over to begin sucking at your nipples, her hips picking up the pace. “She’s gettin’ sensitive, right?”

Before you can even look at Yuki, Choso is dragging your head back to him, his hips all but thrusting into your mouth with repeated fervour. “Don’t pay attention to her, look at me.” His balls slap obscenely against your chin and his head tips back in a groan, his dark hair streaming over his shoulders and face marks growing more intense as he quickly approaches his orgasm. “ ‘M gonna cum, baby, and I need you to swallow it. Can you do that?”

You shouldn’t swallow because he’s not even a fucking human, but your lust addled brain complies with his demand, eyes glazed over as he finishes in your mouth messily. Yuki gasps against your tits as she watches on, hips stuttering as her orgasm begins. 

It’s all too much. Yuki is twitching against your overheated body and Choso is seemingly still cumming, this time slipping himself from your mouth and slapping his cock on your parted lips as his cum stains your face. Your own orgasm hits you like a truck, body shivering as the heat of Yuki against you makes you borderline delirious. 

“You look so good when you’re cumming,” Yuki groans against your chest, her plump lips kissing your skin repeatedly. “You’ve done so well, angel.”

Choso grunts in agreement, a condescending smile on his lips as he trails the tip of his cock along the stream of cum on your face. You feel debauched but it feels amazing, like everything you dreamed about and more. 

And you don’t know it yet, but you’re theirs now, and even when Yuki dismounts your cunt and Choso (reluctantly) tucks himself away, you’re left shivering on the bed, thighs wet with yours and Yuki’s mixed release and face shiny with Choso’s cum. Yuki reaches out tentatively to stroke your destroyed face, but Choso grabs her wrist roughly. 

“No,” he grunts. “We have to leave her like this or it won’t work.”

Yuki nods, her face solemn. “Right.” Instead, she leaves a fleeting kiss in your hair, her hands stapled to her sides. “We’ll see you again, pretty.”

And just like that, they’re gone… almost like they were never there at all. 

꒷꒦꒷ click here for all things THRILLER !! next up : COSTUME PARTY ft. geto suguru, gojo satoru and ieiri shoko !!

this 2024 kinktober event and all of it's works belong exclusivey to choslut. do not copy, repost or translate my works without permission.

dividers custom made by @/goxjo !! thank you <3

[hellishjoel]

cherry 

7.6k / pairing: dbf/neighbor!joel x f!reader

Series Masterlist l Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

pt. 1 pt. 2 pt. 3 pt. 4

summary: Joel invites you over for a movie night with your parents and Sarah out of town. How are you supposed to focus on the film with his hand on your thigh? 

warnings/information: MA 18+ (minors DNI), NO OUTBREAK, neighbor!joel, age gap (reader is in their early 20s while Joel is in his 40s), cursing, alcohol consumption, use of pet names, softdom! Joel AND dom!Joel (restraint by command), oral sex (m receiving), praise kink, reader titty appreciation, super descript about Joel’s bulging biceps (we all know the picture that came out with him holding onto his luggage and I have not REST)

A/N: I wrote all of this today.. I don't know what's wrong with me. I hope you enjoy! I had a lot of fun writing this, I hope these two are growing on ya'll as much as they're growing on me <33

Joel could sense the shift, his hand coming to gently cup your cheek and bring your eyes back to his. He didn’t look mad like you maybe expected of him.  You could feel his jaw going slack under your thumb, your mouth sucking in the side of your cheek as you sat in awkward silence. You sort of wanted to leap out of his lap and return to the movie. But he wouldn’t let you, he planted you there with his hand on your hip and forced you to look at him. You teetered your wine glass on his shoulder.  “You wanna kiss me?” His voice was barely above a whisper, causing a few syllables to be cut out due to the raspiness. You slowly nod. A beat passes. “Why won’t ya let me then?”

A few times throughout the summer, the lakehouse was yours and yours alone.  While on vacation, your parents always make it a point to go out to dinner and drinks with their old friends that lived in a neighboring town, leaving you in blissful solitude. 

You used to go with them when you were younger, too young to be left home alone. You’d hang out with their son, Nathan, on the tire swing or go swimming in their pool. 

Once you and Nathan both turned thirteen, you found that Nathan was involved in a lot of sports leagues that summer, and therefore he wasn’t going to be around much. Your parents didn’t want to punish you and force you to hang out with four grown adults all day, so they let you stay behind at the lakehouse. 

It was your first sense of freedom, taking care of yourself, having your own routine. You remember breaking into your piggy bank and riding your bike into town with Sarah that day to play at the arcade. You came back home with your lackluster arcade prizes and made mediocre hot dogs. It was a little lonely, the house often bustling with noise from your parents, but it was also serene to be alone. 

Needless to say, you were at peace to wave your parents off this morning as they backed out of the driveway and left you and the lakehouse for the day. 

Your eyes flitted over to the Miller’s. Both Joel’s pickup truck and Sarah’s used and abused 2000’s red Saturn were parked in the shade. Part of you couldn’t believe Sarah could even drive. That five-year-ish age difference felt even more profound as young adults. 

You tried to find ways to busy yourself tonight until your date with Joel. Date? Not a date. Hang out. Movie night. Meet up. Rendezvous. Literally any other word besides date. 

You needed to distract yourself because tonight was a ways away. 

You busied yourself with cleaning your room and bathroom, followed by reading on the dock. When it got too warm, you took a refreshing dip in the lake, followed by some leisurely sunbathing. After a shower, you found solace in jotting down your thoughts in your journal, channeling any residual nerves about the upcoming night.

You found that documenting your summer experiences provided you with a sense of clarity. You aimed to revisit these entries later in life, reminiscing about the intensity of your emotions. These pages held memories of your first boyfriend, the elation of passing your driving test, the ache of lost friendships, and the journey to college.

After the bonfire, before you couldn’t even think about sleeping, you were ferociously writing in your journal. The way your heart raced, the way you were so proud of yourself for taking a leap of faith with Joel. Because it was so, so worth it. 

In the decades to come, the memories you once experienced that felt so fresh would naturally fade. That’s the point of your journals, to document how deeply you felt about your life at the time. Pouring your emotions onto the page felt like tending to a wounded heart. In hindsight, those entries about sadness and turmoil elicited a little giggle. Your mom always told you that it was better to feel anything than not to feel at all. 

You wondered how much Joel felt, like, really felt. On the surface, he was as cold and unmoveable as stone. What was he like with his passions and the people he cared about? You knew he loved Sarah to an unimaginable degree. He would do anything for her. But besides his own blood, what were the things he cared about? 

After putting pen to paper, you shoved your journal under your pillow and started to get ready. You over-dicked-around, and now the clock was ticking.  

You wanted to look somewhat nice. After your recent interactions with Joel, one where you quite literally looked like you just rolled out of bed, you were keen on looking at least somewhat presentable. 

But it was a movie night, after all, and you wanted to be comfortable. You opted to wear something simple, not too date-ey, not too casual. But you did wear Joel’s hoodie. It wasn’t for any overt purpose but because Joel’s house consistently seemed to mimic an icebox. Joel struck you as someone who could thrive in Alaska, content in solitude amid the cold. 

The hoodie still smelled like him, mixed with a little residual bonfire smoke, but his scent was still deeply lodged into the fabric. A navy hoodie with fraying material around the neckline and cuffs. Well-worn and well-loved. He must have loved it enough not to take it to work because it was free of any stains and rips from what you could tell. 

You twirled your finger around the hoodie’s strings, looking yourself over slowly in the mirror. Your eagerness practically floated you over to Joel’s house, Sarah’s car now gone. She must have left for her camping trip. 

After taking cautious steps up Joel’s rickety porch, you sent a rhythmic knock against the Miller’s front door. You heard a few heavy steps on the other side, hearing a lock flip before Joel appeared in front of you.

“It’s about time, I was starting to sweat.” You said as you pulled open the screen door that divided you two before walking past him, catching his subtle eye roll as you did so. 

The house looked like the same as it did ten years ago. Lots of dark wood, a cozy living room with a fireplace, and a lamp in the corner by the window. Joel had the perfect view of the lake. You naturally gravitated further into the room to look at the water glisten as the last hits of sunshine glided over the horizon. 

“You want somethin’ to drink?” 

Your head snapped to Joel, your arms already crossed at the cooler temperature piercing through the material of your clothes. 

“Yeah, what do you have?” Your small steps trekked into the kitchen, finally taking a full look at Joel. Your face faltered at the sight of him. 

Joel had traded in his usual tattered green flannel for a nicer, cleaner denim button-up. He had on his staple worn-in jeans, and for whatever reason, he still had on his work boots. But his hair was sort of run-through, freshly showered and combed back. He looked handsome, clean, like he was trying. 

You slyly smiled at him. He seemed to quickly catch your drift, already avoiding your eye contact with a huff. “I got... Whiskey,”

“Ew, no.” 

“Root beer,”

“Nope.”

Joel let out an excruciatingly long sigh as he ducked his head further into the depths of his fridge, mumbling something about you being a piece of work.

“It’s water, or,” with a groan, he stood up from the fridge, “this bottle of wine. Probably old.” 

Old? The bottle looked nothing but. No dust, fresh label, barely chilled. You didn’t want to call out the poor man for trying to make tonight classy, but you knew Joel had purchased this bottle of wine for tonight. For you. 

If it were any other date or any other guy, you would have pushed his nose into it a bit. Teased them for caring and being so sweet. But this wasn’t any other guy, this was Joel. And if you ever tried to admit that you saw right through him, he would clam up for the rest of the evening out of his adorable bashfulness. So you let it be. For now. 

“Wine’s good.” You say casually with a little nod, trying to relax your cocky smile. Even when he turned around to fetch some old wine glasses inside the very top of a kitchen cabinet, you could tell he was satisfied with himself. Hiding a smile with his back turned. 

You pulled the bottle closer to read the label. You rolled it around in your hand, your thumb tracing the stamped lettering. Cherry wine. 

“Haven’t had a chance to eat all day, got us some pizzas,” Joel said as his head nodded to the side, following the direction to two pizzas still warm and in their cardboard box homes on the counter. 

“Can’t have a movie night without pizza.” Your voice cooed as you set down the wine to take a peak inside, seeing all of its cheesy glory. 

Joel topped off a singular wine glass, your head twisting curiously at just the one. He clinked your glass with his beer bottle, and you rolled your eyes. 

“Thanks.” You murmured, turning on your heel to grab your glass and one of the pizza boxes before walking it to his living room. 

You sat right in the middle of the couch, not giving Joel any excuse to sit too far away. 

“Scootch,” Joel said as he motioned with his beer bottle to make room on the couch. You made a little noise of disapproval toward him. 

“Mm-mm.” You shook your head.

“What?”

Your sneaker tapped the heel of his boot. 

“Take those off. You can’t relax during a movie still wearing work boots.” 

He looked a little perplexed before looking down at his boots. Probably forgot they were even on. They were practically his spare feet at this point. 

“Fine. You too.” He said as his steel toe gently nudged your sneakers in return. You softly nodded, both of you undoing your laces. Sitting on the couch arm, Joel worked to loosen one boot and then the other, hearing the methodical snap of the laces. You slip yours off with ease, picking them up by the upper heel collar and tossing them by the door. Joel just kicked his aside and sat down next to you with a thump into the cushion. 

“We’re watching Pride & Prejudice.” You commandeered the remote out of his hand, his eyebrow cocking to you in disbelief. 

“The hell is that?”

Disbelief tangled your facial expression. “You’ve never seen Pride & Prejudice?”

Joel’s cocked his head to the side, face sitting like stone. Really? 

“Do I look like the type’a guy that watches Pride & Prejudices?” 

You rolled your eyes and huffed. 

“It’s based on the novel by Jane Austen. About... literally so much. The independence of women. Societal norms relating to gender and marriage. Any of this ring a bell?” 

“I know Sarah likes it. That’s about it.” Your smile quips up as you click play. “Perfect.” 

“Do we have to?” His annoyance held no restraint. 

“This movie night is to get back into my good graces, is it not?” You asked as your body leaned away, getting a good look at him. 

Through tight lips, he held back a smile before nodding a little and turning to the opening credits. “Yes, ma’am.” 

It didn’t take long for Joel’s arm to settle around your shoulders, bringing your body into his side. His thumb was stroking the hoodie you wore, his hoodie. 

In his close proximity once again, your senses pick up on his now all too familiar scent; Woody, minty, a little bit of citrus from his body wash. He smelled good, you wonder if he wore cologne tonight or if this was his natural musk. You wouldn’t put it past Joel to naturally smell this good. He was good at a lot of things without even trying. 

A few slices of pizza and two glasses of wine later, you started to feel the weight of Joel’s unbearably heavy arm. You released yourself from him and opted to turn and rest your side against the back of the couch cushions, putting your legs in his lap. 

You hadn’t been watching the movie for the last twenty minutes. Couldn’t stop trying to subtly look at how handsome Joel looked in the flicker of the television’s light from your peripheral. You couldn’t help it. He looked so big and hot, like a lumberjack, his stupid build alone making you fold. 

You bite at the inside of your cheek as Joel’s large and warm palm gently make slow strokes up and down your calf. Your body was trying not to twitch. Your heart was thrumming in your throat. You glanced up at him again, his eyes lasered in on the television. 

“Why’d he…” Joel’s voice trailed off, bringing your attention back to the screen. 

Your eyelashes fluttered, your brain trying to get you out of Joel Fantasy World and back into the film. “Hm? What?” 

“Why’d his hand cramp like that? Why’d they film that part?” Without intention, Joel’s curiosity was evident in his question. It immediately made you smile as you watched the television again, your body slumping into his side. 

“It’s not a hand cramp, he’s flexing it. It’s the film’s interpretation of his like… emotional turmoil and struggle. His feelings are evolving for Elizabeth, though he’s trying to appear all aloof and distant towards her. But their physical connection, he can’t really hide it, y’know? He can’t hide how he feels. So he flexes his hand because he’s affected by her presence and her touch. He can’t help it.” 

Joel’s hanging onto every word you say. You’re not so sure if he’s interested in the film as much as he is in hearing you talk about it. The hand that was messing around on your calf was now trailing higher up your thigh. And flexing the higher it climbed.

Your eyes looked from his amber ones to his lips, your heart racing faster in your chest. With one hand still clutching your wine glass, you managed to swing one leg over his lap to straddle him. You folded first. You couldn’t take Joel’s achingly slow touches. 

His enjoyment was obvious in his movements, his calloused hands slowly pushing up your thighs until they landed on the security of your waist. He was gripping the hoodie in his fists, observing your silhouette. 

“This mine, too.” It wasn’t a question, he was pointing it out to you. Joel giving you his own clothes to wear was by no mistake. It was a way of marking what was his, even if it was just in his mind. 

“Mine now.” Your words were whispered, leaning down and kissing at the hook of his jawline. 

“Like you in it. Wear it a hell’uva lot better than I do.” The shift in his voice was clear, huskier, and a little touch drunk. The film’s volume seemed softer now, playing as white noise and falling abandoned. 

His words made your stomach flip, your teeth purposely grazing against his skin. The motion made his hands trail down lower to the globes of your ass, humbly squeezing the flesh with the spans of his palms. A weak moan left your lips against his ear as he planted kisses on the inner side of your neck and on your shoulder. He was so fuckin’ greedy for you. 

“Joel,” you whispered between kisses along his jawline, lips coming up to his chin as one of your hands gently cupped the side of his neck while the other clutched your wine glass for dear life. 

As soon as your lips came close to his, you faltered. And Joel could tell. 

Suddenly both of your eyes were open, soft, and holding contact. Your lips parted, but nothing came out. The only thing that actually came from you was a little sigh of disappointment, your eyes shyly flitting away. 

Joel could sense the shift, his hand coming to gently cup your cheek and bring your eyes back to his. He didn’t look mad like you maybe expected of him. 

You could feel his jaw going slack under your thumb, your mouth sucking in the side of your cheek as you sat in awkward silence. You sort of wanted to leap out of his lap and return to the movie. But he wouldn’t let you, he planted you there with his hand on your hip and forced you to look at him. You teetered your wine glass on his shoulder. 

“You wanna kiss me?” His voice was barely above a whisper, causing a few syllables to be cut out due to the raspiness. You slowly nod. A beat passes. “Why won’t ya let me then?”

This was Joel’s second or so attempt to kiss you. The first time was on the tailgate of his truck, you didn’t even think about letting him kiss you in his woodshed. 

You weren’t trying to remain mysterious or aloof, something he managed to do so naturally. You shifted in his lap uncomfortably, your eyes drifting to the window behind his head and watching the water shift in the black of night. 

“It’s not that deep, Joel. Just don’t want anyone to get attached.” You shrug and shake your head. “I don’t know, who cares?” 

“I care.” Even blasted on movie pizza and beers, he was as quick as a whip. His care wasn’t soft, it was strong. He cared like a fiercely loyal shield. 

You exhaled a deep sigh, your chest reflecting your breath as he slowly brought you back to him.

“I’m scared that I’ll like it.” The movie’s distant volume was comforting white noise to your nerve-wracked conversation with Joel. This was perhaps the most you’ve talked with him in one sitting. And about something so deeply personal, too. 

He took in what you said, slowly beginning to shake his head as his hand cupped more seriously against your jawline. 

“”t’s just a kiss.” His tone was seductive, sincere. Whispering like no one else in the world could hear. “Kiss me.”

You didn’t feel pressured, Joel was looking at you like he genuinely cared about what you had to say. About the movie, about the kissing. He bought you wine, he got pizzas, and he’s suffering through a period drama to sit beside you on his couch. Damn you, Joel Miller. 

You felt your body relax into his again, no longer cold and rigid. Your bodies meshed as you fell into the front of his chest, your hand on his neck moving up to cup his jaw. You tilted up his face and received no resistance. Just kiss him. 

You met his lips, soft and sweet, delicate and gentle. Your hand slipped from his jaw and landed absentmindedly on his chest, feeling his thumping heartbeat against your palm. 

You didn’t pull away. It was impossible. 

He tasted like mint and whiskey, with hints of residual smoke from a cigarette earlier in the day. You wouldn’t know he smoked unless you were tasting him like you were right now. 

Joel was encouraging something out of you, deep and primal, as you let the kiss deepen. He took the lead with a heady mix of softness and urgency. 

He set a scorching fire between your legs, purely drunk on his lips alone. It sent a shiver down your spine how intense this stone-like man could be. Your mouths moved with desire and rhythm, feeling an electric spark that sent your senses ablaze. 

Goosebumps had sprinkled across the skin of your arms, your once soft hand on his jaw now clutching him there and tugging lightly at his curly tendrils. You weren’t letting him go. 

Your sounds filled the room, hot and wet kisses punching the air from both of your lungs. 

A breath was shared, your forehead on his as both of your chests rose and fell together.

His eyes caught yours. More?

You gently nod. Please. 

He was back with you in a hot heat, both of you wanting, no, needing more of one another. 

He balanced a tantalizing fusion of passion and longing, a magnetic pull that had you grinding your hips down into his lap. 

The world around you faded into a blur as you felt his tongue glide across your lower lip, asking permission. Your lips easily parted, tongues dancing and melting, your hands shaking a bit in excitement. 

Joel was consuming you. His tongue marking his territory as he explored your mouth before kissing you heatedly once more. You realized that the kiss wasn’t an exploration of feelings at all, Joel wanted to languish in your taste, stake out the claim of your mouth. Taste and territory. 

 A low grunt left the depths of his throat as your hips ground over him with desperation now. You could feel his dick swelling against your ass. 

Your lips quirked up in a smirk against his, you liked that you could feel his facial expressions, and he, yours. 

Without thinking, you went to cup his face in both hands, your wine glass dropping onto Joel’s chest, and what little wine you had left was splashing his denim button-up red. He didn’t even notice. 

“Joel--, wait,” you were breathless as you pulled away, his lips moving to the open expanse of your neck instead, his arms tight around your lower back. He could care less about his shirt, or the wine, or the spare glass rolling around between your stomachs. 

You laughed breathlessly, closing your eyes as you kept your chests apart, careful not to get wine on his favorite sweatshirt next. Your head fell back, your hair fanning out as you grinned at the ceiling. 

“Joel, your shirt is stained.” You tried to point out, both of your hands clamped onto his shoulders weakly to keep him at a distance. But his lust-filled lips had a taste of you that he couldn’t replace. His teeth grazed the soft skin of your neck, wincing lightly as you let out a broken little whimper. 

“Don’t care.”

Oh my god. Fuck. Your eyes rolled to the back of your head, desperate for more, but you weren’t going to let him stain one of maybe three decent shirts he owned. And with wine, you had to be fast acting. 

“Come on,” you said weakly, not even convinced yourself to break away.  “Joel, your shirt-”

“Don’t. Care.” He growled through gritted teeth, eyes hungry as you felt him lick a hot, slow stripe up your neck to your jaw. Fuck, he felt so good. 

Despite his clear lack of empathy for his shirt, you felt bad because it was your spill, your accident to try and make up to him. 

You rolled your eyes playfully and shook your head. He didn’t stop until you planted both palms against his pecs and pushed him back with little force, watching as he fell into the cushions with a lazy smirk on his face as he looked over you. Joel was drunk off your kiss. 

You found your footing on the hardwood floors, grabbing his hands and attempting to pull him up and off the couch. He playfully resisted, just kept sitting there as you weakly tried again. 

“Stop bein’ such a dick.” You huffed. His laugh filled the room, nearly startling you. It was always quite the opportunity to hear him laugh so big like that. 

“Couldn’t pull me up no matter how hard ya try.” 

“Shut up. Stand up.” You ordered with little follow-through from Joel.

He yanked his hands from yours and planted his palms onto the tops of his thighs, pushing himself off the couch and following you aimlessly to his master bathroom. 

“Do you have some hydrogen peroxide? Dishwasher detergent?”

He stayed silent but looked at you quizzically. You rolled your eyes and started looking through different cabinets. 

“Baking soda?” Cocking your head to him, he nods and disappears before returning to you with the little orange Arm & Hammer cardboard box. 

You cleared your throat and looked at him expectantly. 

“Joel, I can’t clean the shirt with you wearing it. Take it off.”

As soon as the words left your mouth, you shouldn’t have been surprised to see his lips upturned in a cocky smirk. Sometimes you just wanted to smack it clean off his face. 

Fine. With a sense of ferocity, you began to take him down button by button. He lets you. He even steps closer to your body, and you try not to get distracted by him. 

“I don’t wanna be the one that messes up your nice shirts.” You murmur. 

“t’s fine.” He cups your cheek again and tries to divert your attention once more. He’s not even actively trying to kiss you, he just wants to get a rise out of you now. You’re trying not to smile at him in the reflection of his bathroom mirror. Your elbow jabs into his bare abdomen after you’ve peeled the wet material from his torso. 

“Quit it.”

“Quit what?” 

Forcing yourself to turn away from him wasn’t enough. Now he’s behind you planting kisses down the side of your neck with his hands on your waist and toying with the hem of your sweatshirt.

You had to admit being on his lap like that got you hot and bothered to the tenth degree. Now you were nursing a stained shirt and the ache in your core. 

“‘lright, fine.” Oh, thank god. You could breathe again. You were this close to caving, and caving to Joel was a losing game. 

He found a towel and wiped at his chest and torso while you blotted away with a paper towel the excess wine in his shirt. After getting out what you could, you sprinkled the baking soda over the little splashes of red and added a few drops of water to make somewhat of a paste. Now you just had to wait for it to dry and toss it in the laundry. 

You hoped you didn’t ruin the denim shirt, you quite liked how he looked in it. The blue denim complimented the soft silver in his curls, and the cuffs rolled up accentuated his biceps.

Speaking of biceps. Your eyes innocently watched him move around the bathroom shirtless. He was somewhat toned, a handsome mix of dad bod and muscle. Like a sexy lumberjack. He was big and broad, wide in the shoulders and smaller in the waist. With all the summer log chopping, his biceps were toned.  

A shaky breath left your mouth, his eyes catching yours in the mirror before you quickly looked away, washing your hands of the baking soda paste you had made. 

“It’s uh… It’s good now. Just let it dry and put it in the washer. Alone. Without anything else in there.” You quickly nodded, over-clarifying again. You braved looking at him again in the mirror. Mistake. A smug little smile that beat up your guts was laced on his lips. 

Your hand was quick to reach for the door handle, but his hand was already on your other wrist and pulling you into his front. 

“Get back here,” Your name drips off his lips, and it’s drenched in lust. 

Fuck it. 

Your arms quickly wrapped around his neck, feeling his raised trap muscles under your forearms as your lips reunite with Joel’s. 

Getting that first kiss between you two out of the way was a blessing in disguise because now you knew him. You were acquainted with his lips. You liked his taste, you liked how soft he was, you liked the stubble of his beard, and you liked the way his warm palms were on you as soon as you entered his space. He embraced every inch of you, his kisses were feverish, and they left your mind in a tailspin. No one had ever kissed you like this before. 

You ducked your head down before he could stop you, kissing over his wine-spoiled chest. You kissed lower and lower before licking a slow stripe up his sternum, tasting residual cherry and sweetness from the wine. 

Your lips parted as you looked in the mirror, realizing now that he had pinned both your wrists behind your back and planted them at your tailbone. 

Your doe eyes innocently looked up at him, his face masked in desire and an appetite for you. 

“Get on your knees.” 

A breath hitched in your throat, your eyes trying to focus as you looked over Joel’s face. Your eyes fluttered down to his biceps, strong and defined with veins lining like rivers coursing along the curves as they held your wrists back. You didn’t hesitate to drop down to your knees. 

He had let go of your wrists, so you brought your hands up to undo the button of his jeans, but he tsk-ed you. 

“But I-”

“But nothing. Put your hands behind your back again.” You pouted but obeyed. You wanted to touch him. 

Your lips parted as you watched Joel pop open the button of his jeans, his thumbs lining the hem of his jeans and boxers at his hips before pushing them down to his thick thighs. His cock was already half-hard from when you were grinding on him back on the couch. 

Your breaths grew heavier, you couldn’t manage to stay in his hoodie. You peeled the heavy navy sweatshirt off, leaving you in nothing underneath, which earned sweet praise from Joel as soon as you laced your hands once more behind your back.

“So fuckin’ pretty.. Look at you.” He lightly leaned over and cupped one of your tits, massaging it in the heart of his palm and rolling your taut nipple around with his thumb. A quiet whine was elicited from your throat, face crumbling as your hands fought hard not to release themselves behind your back. 

You wanted to touch him, cup his face, hold his thighs, wrap your hand around his dick that was flush against his stomach. 

A harsher tug to your nipple left you moaning, watching as he leaned down and let a long, long dribble of spit connect from his lips down onto your chest. Your head fell back at the cool sensation, feeling it aid the heat of your breasts. 

He stood up tall again, broad and towering, as you glanced over to the mirror. The dynamic was almost charming. You on your knees for Joel, his blushing cock swelling against his happy trail. He was so handsome, so greedy. 

Without thinking, you released your hands from around your back and moved to steady yourself on his thighs. 

“Not gonna tell you again, pretty girl.” You paused and looked to Joel. “No usin’ your hands tonight. Just that dirty mouth a’yours.” His accent was drenched with lust, dripping like syrup. 

You whined as you assumed your position with your hands away, not knowing what to expect if you tried to use them again. 

You attempted to crawl closer to him, your knees practically between his slightly parted legs. 

You kissed up his inner thigh, grinning lightly at the slight taste of his sweat. Your tongue kitten licked at his balls, hearing him seethe in a breath through gritted teeth. Sensitive, a little wrinkled, lightly groomed just for you. It made you smirk that he cared enough to trim. 

You tested the waters, letting your warm mouth coat him in saliva, going from one ball to the other until they were both practically dripping. His cock was twitching for your attention, but Joel was above begging and groveling. For now. 

With devilish eyes, you looked up to him as you suckled one of his balls. He didn’t stop you, just cursed a little under his breath as his chest moved faster. You picked up the suckling from him when he nursed your sensitive, throbbing clit between his teeth and tongue. Now, it was your turn to repay the favor. 

Your lips released him with a pop, and you watched as Joel let out a breath he was holding in. His hand loosely fisted your hair in a loose ponytail atop your head, a little moan leaving your mouth as your scalp tingled with his tug. 

Your eyes closed as you worked over the other ball, suckling and licking and doing it all just to watch his cock grow angrier and more jealous of the attention. Your own spit was falling down your lips and chin, coating your breasts in a glistening sheen. 

Working without your hands, you used your core to balance yourself against Joel. Your knees dug uncomfortably into the floor. He liked watching you work to suck him off. 

You had to look to Joel for assistance, his shaft so hardened now against his stomach that you couldn’t reach. You sat up as straight as you could, Joel smirking down at you and watching you struggle for a few brief moments. “Come ‘ere, pretty girl.” He used the free hand not tangled in your locks to guide his tip down to your open mouth, your lips wrapping loosely around the head.

You made the mistake of releasing him out of habit, whimpering as your knees scrambled on cold tile to get him back to the warmth of your mouth. He opted to help you again, guiding his tip onto your red, wine-stained tongue. 

This time, you learned not to release him. Your tongue salivated his tip, swollen and sensitive. You could tell by how tight Joel clutched your hair and nearly pulled you off. 

You smirked lazily around him as you took him deeper, your watery eyes on his as you interlocked your fingers by your tailbone. 

You were slow at first, little nods back and forth, up and down his shaft. You blinked through any residual tears, slicking him up with your spit and proceeding farther down his shaft. You clenched your eyes closed and choked lightly as you took him to his base, a low groan of praise leaving Joel as his thumb stroked up your cheekbone. 

“Fuck me, so fuckin’ good for me, darlin’.” His words were broken by his rasp, but the praise sent you into overdrive. 

You bobbed your head at a good pace, Joel guiding you by your hair up and down his shaft, slicked by excess saliva that was dripping onto your tits and your stomach. You had to take a breath, but you learned from earlier. Your head came to rest against his thigh, head foggy as his tip sat plump against your cheek. You looked at the two of you in the mirror, and it was quite a sight. 

Joel’s body was planted by his heels, his toned torso and biceps protruding with hints of sweat. You had black-smudged tears on your waterline, and your face was filled with warmth. Your hair was a mess, Joel gently stroking it back from your sweat-glistened forehead as you breathed through your nose. You liked watching you work in the mirror. Watching him get ruined in the mirror. Watching yourself get ruined in the mirror. 

You started your rhythm again, this time your eyes locked loosely on the mirror in your peripheral. Joel’s cock made you choke each time you took him deep, but you didn’t let it stop you. He was so close, you had the heady taste of his precum on your tongue. He liked it messy. 

“Fuck- can’t,” Joel let out a rugged moan, it felt like it vibrated the tiles under your aching knees. Your wrists were throbbing from keeping your arms back, hands clenched together tight as you followed his rules. “Can’t hold on when you take me so-- so goddamn good.”

You whimper-whined against his cock, hollowing your cheeks as you moved with intent up and down his shaft. You opted just to take what you easily could now, focused on keeping the pace and working towards his orgasm. You thought about Joel fucking your mouth, but he wanted you to feel some sense of control since you had your hands back. Maybe you wanted to lose all control. If it was Joel you were losing it with. 

Joel was close, he couldn’t hold back how messy he had gotten. He had a steel-tight grip on your hair, and his breaths were laced with broken moans and grunts of your name. He kept wiping away any tears that slipped past your eyes and onto your cheeks, despite being devastatingly close to an orgasm you knew he was drunk on. 

“Yeah, fuck me,” He murmured under his breath, his cock twitching deep in your throat now. “Take me so well... The fuckin’ best, babygirl.” The best. 

You watched through blurry, head-dizzy vision as Joel’s ab muscles contorted. “Gonna cum, baby, stay with me.” He panted, eyes locking on yours as you nodded on his shaft and continued your sweet rhythm. 

You whimpered as his tip pulsed against your tongue, going down on him as deep as you could and clenching your eyes closed, waiting for Joel’s impending climax. And he kept you there as he painted your throat white. 

His cum came out in hot ropes, moaning lowly against his shaft as you focused on tasting him and breathing through your nose. He was salty, little beads landing in the back of your throat as you swallowed around him. 

Joel’s moans were glorious, breathy, and aching to say your name. His eyes had fallen closed, his stance still tall and broad. You wanted to touch him, kiss him. You decided to lay your head against his thigh, still breathing around his dick as you watched yourself in satisfaction through his mirror. 

“Fuck,” he murmured low, pulling you off of him with a pop. Your jaw lightly throbbed, but god, you felt like you were in the clouds. 

“Hands?” Your raw voice whimpered. He gave a silent nod of approval, and with his permission, you released your interlocked hands and lightly toppled back on your ass, leaning against the door to his linen closet. 

Joel observed you for a few moments, making sure you were okay before he grabbed a spare washcloth and ran some lukewarm water over it. Your eyes peeked open when you heard his zipper go up on his jeans, seeing he had straightened out his bottom half. 

You tried to focus your vision, seeing him squat down beside you and lightly press the cold washcloth to your temple, cheeks, and up your neck. It helped, you were settled, safe, and with Joel.

“Holy fuck.” You finally said once you had come down from your high. Your eyes met Joel’s, seeing both of your mouths were quirked up in lopsided smiles. 

“Too much?” He asked, the washcloth now delicately cleaning up the saliva on your breasts. 

You slowly shook your head. No, never too much. Just new. 

You looked around, feeling an ache in your knees and in your wrists. You rolled your wrists in circles to relieve some pressure on the joints before you pushed your palms up and down your kneecaps gently.

“Hey,” Joel’s words caught your attention, turning to him as he lightly cupped your cheek. “You were fuckin’ perfect, darlin’.” A weak mewl left you, a tired smile on your lips. 

“You said the best.” 

“Was perfect. Was the best. Did a perfect job.” His praise punched excitement through your veins, regaining your strength to stand back up with Joel’s honorable assistance. You murmur a thanks before you make a grab for Joel’s hoodie. As if he was going to steal it back from you. 

Joel excused himself to go clean up the kitchen, leaving an attentive kiss on your cheek before he left you alone. 

You took a few minutes to rinse some water around in your mouth and try to brush your fingers through your knotted, matted hair. 

“Need to get yourself a brush, Mr. Miller.” You murmur as you pass him in the kitchen, seeing he pulled on a new t-shirt and that he had put some of the leftover pizza in spare Tupperware containers. 

“Can’t eat it all by myself, and Sarah won’t be home for a few more days.” 

You narrowed your eyes at him. He could so totally finish that pizza if he wanted to. He could do it tonight as soon as you leave. 

Reading your mind, he shoved the container into your hands. “Just-- fuckin’ take it, why you gotta make things so damn difficult.” 

You smirked and patted the container softly. “My specialty. Irritating old grouchy men.” 

He rolled his eyes and shook his head at you, picking up the wine bottle next and figuring out what to do with it. Your eyes softened, watching the gears turn in his head for how he was going to handle this situation. 

“Do you care if I take the rest of it home, actually? I know it’s yours, and it’s been yours for a while, but it was really good.” Lame excuse. Joel leaned into it though, nonetheless. You were at Joel’s side now, looking to him with gentle eyes and a tender smile. He teetered on his feet for a moment before he nodded and handed it over. 

“Yeah, you’re doin’ me a favor so it doesn’t just keep sittin’ in the fridge.” 

You nodded softly and tried to jam the cork back in as well as you could, Joel swiftly taking the bottle from you and popping it back into its home with ease due to his sheer strength. 

You turned to the television and huffed, seeing the credits of Pride & Prejudice roll. Dammit.  

Joel joined you at your side, crossing his arms and giving the television a once over. “So did they, y’know, end up together?” There was Joel’s pure curiosity again. This time, he didn’t hide it so well. 

“Guess you’ll have to watch to find out. Don’t forget to throw that shirt in the washer.” You said with a cocky grin, holding up the wine bottle and pizza leftovers in gratitude before walking to the door. Joel followed you out, and you looked at him curiously. 

“Gotta make sure you get home safe.” 

Your head rolled to the side, watching as he shoved his hands in his pants pockets. “What?”

“Joel, I’m staying right next door. You could see me go inside from your living room window.” 

He just shook his head and looked beyond you to the water. 

“t’s dark.” 

Your chest fluttered with warmth, a smile on your lips growing past one you could deny. Let him have this one. 

“Thanks, Joel. Thanks for the pizza and the wine and… stuff.” Now it was his turn to let you have this one. The stuff. The kiss. The multiple kisses. He didn’t make it a big deal, just rolled with the punches. You appreciated it. 

You wanted to know what was next for the two of you. The feeling of your cores grazing one another set a fire in you that only Joel could put out. 

You pondered whether or not to kiss him goodnight and find a lame excuse to try and thank him again for the wine bottle when you saw two pairs of headlights coming down the road. 

“Shit,” you murmured under your breath, looking to Joel with a pained expression. He looked disappointed. 

You didn’t say goodnight, you didn’t kiss him before you left, you just… left. You moved down Joel’s rickety wooden porch steps with haste, sneaking into the lakehouse through the garage door as your heart thrummed at a face pace. You felt like a child getting caught by your parents. 

You didn’t know what to do with Joel’s pizza container and the wine. You could figure out an excuse for the pizza later, so you shoved it into the fridge, but definitely not the half-drank bottle of red wine. You double-checked that the cork was in there tight, and of course it was because Joel pushed it back in, but you couldn’t help but check because it was going to be stowed under your bed for safekeeping. 

You changed out of Joel’s hoodie and into an oversized band tee, walking out of your bedroom with a book when your parents returned through the door. 

“Hey, kiddo. You’re still up? ‘t’s past eleven.” 

You try not to roll your eyes, biting down on the inside of your lip as you tightly nodded. “Yeah, I know. I stay up late a lot at school and stuff, working on papers or out with friends. Staying up past eleven isn’t that weird for me.” 

You didn’t mean for there to be so much venom in your comment, but you weren’t a baby. Nearly every day at the lakehouse so far this summer has elicited a few don’t call me kid, I’m an adult, I make adult decisions, comments from you. 

Your parents looked too tired to care, which somehow stung worse. 

“Okay, sweetie, we’ll see you tomorrow morning. Your dad and I are headin’ to bed.” 

Now you felt bad. You pursed your lips and nodded, putting your hands behind your back and resting them on your tailbone absentmindedly. This was the same pose Joel had you in tonight. You already wanted to go back there. 

“Sorry, goodnight.” You whisper, seeing your dad give you a tired smile before patting your shoulder. 

“Hey kiddo-” He paused at the nickname and took a breath. “Sorry.” You playfully smiled and shook your head. Go on.

“Do me a favor, grab the steaks out from the freezer and put them on a plate in the fridge. Wanna have Joel and Sarah over for dinner tomorrow night. Feel like I haven’t seen them all summer.” 

Your face went ghastly blank, feeling yourself fall hollow like a collapsing building. If it weren’t for how tired your dad was, he would have seen right through you like a ghost. “You- Oh, you want to have them come by for dinner? I don’t think tomorrow’s gonna work. Sarah’s camping and-”

“Oh, well, Joel can still swing by for dinner. Need to eat up those steaks. Every time I open the freezer, they stare at me. They’re beggin’ me to eat them, it ain’t fair.” 

You forced out a laugh, but of course, your father couldn’t tell. Just thought he made one hell of a zinger. 

“So-So Joel over for dinner tomorrow night?”

“Yeah, kiddo. And don’t forget to take out the steaks. Love you.” He turned the corner down the hall, and then he was gone. 

You sighed and lightly chewed at the skin around your thumbnail. Great. One big happy family dinner. And Joel. 

---

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(idk why so many of my tags aren't working. Might make a notifications blog instead where you'd follow it and turn the notifications on and I'll only reblog my work on that account. ugh a problem for another day, okay ily ttyl I'm gonna go watch twilight)

[xxaraaq]

𝙎𝙞𝙡𝙚𝙣𝙩 𝙖𝙛𝙛𝙖𝙞𝙧𝙨

Synopsis | Nanami finds out what he's been missing for the better part of his adult life

wc | 0.5k

cw | Infidelity, age gap, porn with a little plot

Nanami x black! Reader

A/N | Nothing really, hope you enjoy!

No one can blame him for the choices he’s made. He’s only a man, and a man has his limits.

He’s done everything he can in his life to make sure he can say he’s done what was expected of him. He has a stable nine to five, white collar job that he loathes but still performs great at, he takes care of his stay at home wife, and everything else that he’s supposed to do.

But it’s not enough.

There was something missing. He couldn’t pinpoint it, but day by day he dragged himself around until the day was done. He thought he was depressed at first, almost booking a therapy appointment, but he realized that he was lacking an essential part of life; something that every human being needs to stay sane.

Pleasure.

The realization hit him like a truck, his life was so boring because he had none – nothing to look forward to when he went home, nothing to look forward to when he woke up. Nothing. Even having sex with his wife was mediocre at best. His days were dull at best and straight up dreadful at worst, simply because he was the lacking excitement needed in one’s life.

Until he met you.

A pretty, young college student who recently started working in the cafe he frequented. All sunshine and rainbows, you never failed to greet him with a smile and a wave. He started to look forward to seeing your beaming grin every morning, even occasionally returning a smile. You were the cutest thing he’s ever seen, and he had to have you.

It was late when he came, to your surprise. He told you that he was working late in the office,

and decided to come by for a short break. You made him his usual black coffee, which you thought was weird, and the two of you talked – well, mostly you – about everything and nothing.

He was getting drunk off you, your voice lulling him into something he couldn’t describe. He didn’t know what came over him, but he leaned in and kissed you, catching the both of you off guard. 

“I- I apologize, I don’t know what came over me.” He backs up, but you pull him in by the collar, crashing your lips onto his once more. His hands grab your waist, pulling you flush against him. He knows it’s wrong, that the right thing to do is stop and pretend it never happened, but he wont; he can't. He needs this, he deserves it, and he’s not going to let a little bit of remorse stop him from fucking you until you can’t take anymore.

It’s sinful really, the way he picks you up and fucks you against the wall. He would expect this from someone like Gojo, but the thought soon leaves his mind once he hears those beautiful moans he’s dreamt so often about. 

You scratch at his back, begging him to slow down, but that only stirs to go faster. He fucks into you with a fervor he doesn’t think he’s felt before. 

He pulls out and cums on your sweaty torso, panting as he slowly lets you back on the ground. The two of you clean up without a word and he heads home after placing a kiss on your temple. For the first time in years, he walks home with something to look forward to in the morning.

-Nene

[johannestevans]

I came out as trans at about fifteen or sixteen, changed my name, and I’ve lived as a man since. As a young man doing my A-Levels, going to university, and working afterwards, I was out as a man, using he/him pronouns, using my actual name —

Two pictures of me, one at age 16, the other at age 19.

To people who had no idea what a trans man looked like, it was pretty easy to give people a funny look and say, “I’m a man,” in a tone that made them suddenly flustered and nervous, because cis people feel extremely guilty about misgendering another cisgender person in a way they don’t when they know you’re trans.

I was thin, had a lower-toned but still not masculine voice, didn’t have much of a chest — I got gendered correctly automatically maybe 30 or 40% of the time, and maybe up to 50% if I employed shame in the right way, implied I was cis with a hormonal imbalance, or if people assumed I was still a teenage boy rather than an adult.

To people who did know what a trans man looked like but weren’t trans themselves, talking to them was fucking excruciating.

I remember once when I was selling house alarms and some hideous cis girl asked, “Are you transgender?” and I immediately told her, “Nope,” as she kept questioning the point. Another time, I was in the back of a taxi when a man asked if I was trans, although thankfully when I told him, “Nope, just low testosterone,” he seemed to immediately believe me and back the fuck off.

It’s one of the reasons I feel conflicted about trans visibility — it’s great for other trans people to see a variety of trans representation, but cis people knowing what trans people are is a double-edged sword, because cis people are entitled, invasive, and often just straight-up weird about gender, most of all when they think they’re being allies.

When I started working at a hotel, my immediate boss was a very abusive woman — she was petty, vindictive, and because she had poor organisational skills and frequently got flustered by her own workload, she would take this out on any staff around her, whether that was her juniors, other management, or sometimes guests.

Her being abusive in the workplace wasn’t that unusual. Now and then the managers would misgender me, and I’d correct them, and they’d brush it off as they apologised, that sort of thing.

Because this manager identified as an ally, she flipped her fucking lid.

She went off on a tirade for some ten minutes about what a great ally she is, and how much she knows about and cares about trans people, and how a lot of people wouldn’t hire a trans person, and she volunteers with local queer groups (she was at the time a mediocre DJ, and frequently DJed at a local gay club), and all this bluster.

Over one (apparently needed) correction.

All she needed to do was not misgender me — a quick “sorry” might have been nice. A ten-minute rant about how she was a saint for hiring me?

Not really necessary.

Cisgender people hate trans people — and I know some cis people reading this are immediately raising their hackles and about to go “well not ALL cis people — “ because they’re allies, and it’s important that I know that they’re a good one, actually, and they’re a real ally.

But the reason that cis people have a knee-jerk negative reaction to trans people, intersex people, and any person that they have decided is gender non-conforming, the reason they respond so punishingly to our existence or to mild misbehaviours on our parts — such as demanding respect or correcting their mistakes — is because our very existence is an interruption to their worldview, the ideologies and biases by which they live.

They should know what a man is just by looking at one, and if they get it wrong, that’s embarrassing for them — because to cisgender people the binary male-female divide is crucial to the way they respect or disrespect others, people that interrupt their thinking on it can trigger a lot of rage and upset. A trans person represents a frightening challenge — what if they accidentally treated a man with the casual disrespect that is rightfully allotted women? What if they sexually objectified a man thinking he was a woman, and it made them gay for a moment?

If they think you’re cisgender and heterosexual enough, any of these things are their fault, and they feel very bad about them.

But if you’re trans?

Well, it’s your fault for existing that way, right? You’re the one doing genders wrong — they’re not the one that made the error!

There’s a particular rage reserved for trans men, lesbians, and any other trans or GNC person that’s perceived as being “biologically female” — because society feels the greatest gender-based entitlement over these people’s bodies, in large part due to institutional misogyny, we’re perceived as gender traitors.

Cis men hate us because we’ve ruined what they perceived as a resource for them — a source of sexual gratification and aesthetic pleasure, a breeding vessel for birthing babies, not to mention a mother with all the domestic labour that comes with; cis women hate us because they perceive us as gaining all the privileges of being male, of gaming the system, and at the same time breaking what they sometimes feel is a sort of sacred trust of femininity.

In order to cope with institutional misogyny, some cis women effectively craft a further gender-based bioessentialism — if you have a uterus and are perceived as a woman by society, you’re not just physically capable of birthing a child. You must also innately have the traits of an ideal mother — you must be nurturing and lovely, you must be caring, you must have the correct emotions, you must be submissive in the right way. But also, a woman like this must be cleverer than a man, and if she effectively parents or cares for the men in her life, she just does that because she is so smart, and men are so stupid.

Again, trans people represent an interruption to that mode of thinking. If trans people are real, and we’re the genders we say we are, all of that ideology is nonsense.

If I, a trans man, can just “choose” to be a man, doesn’t that mean that every woman that experiences misogyny is just “choosing” misogynistic abuse?

The fact that as a trans man, I experience abuses that are linked to misogyny is irrelevant — that I’m at a higher risk of sexual abuse, that medical professionals dismiss my symptoms as soon as some of them realise I’m “really” a woman and cease my treatment or cease treating me with the respect due a man; that people dismiss me and dehumanise me, either because they think I’m transgender, and therefore a lesser being, or an ugly and not sexually available woman, and therefore a lesser being.

If I’m a trans man, I must experience male privilege — why else would I choose to be trans?

And if I don’t experience male privilege in every situation, because people don’t always consider me male or legitimately male, or if male privilege in any given situation I experience is actually complicated by other factors, such as race, disability, sexuality, and so on, then I must be lying.

Passing privilege isn’t the same as male privilege — passing privilege generally refers to the privileges a transgender person experiences because they reliably pass as cisgender.

I don’t think that it’s universal — “passing privilege” assumes that everyone passes in all situations, and while I would say that I pass very reliably in a lot of mine now that I’m several years on T and my second puberty has been very good to me, this doesn’t apply everywhere.

When I’m in the hospital, for example, or otherwise seeing a doctor, I get treated with even more hostility — partially because most cis doctors practice misogyny-based medicine and are more likely to dismiss women’s symptoms or generally give them worse medical care, especially male doctors treating women. In my experience, cis female doctors are more likely to punish me for being transgender than a cis male one is.

I’ve noticed multiple times going to see a doctor, being treated as a man with all my pain or symptoms being treated as a concern, and then abruptly there’s a sudden withdrawal of care and concern when the doctor either realises I’m transgender and/or realises I’m “really” a woman.

But the thing is?

I’m pretty sure that the reason I suddenly receive such aggressive negative response is because I pass so well. When cis people realise that I’m trans, they feel even angrier and more personally betrayed, because I’ve so thoroughly “tricked” them by being a man without their permission.

Me at 24, about a year on testosterone; me at 25, about two years on testosterone. Same blouse, same vest.

But in general, day-to-day life — yeah, I’m perceived as a cis man.

Notably, a cis gay man.

Regularly, other trans guys and some butches tell me that as they began to present in ways perceived as more masculine, they noticed that women in public responded to them differently.

If they were out at night and a woman was walking alone nearby, she might cross the street to be a bit further away from them; she might choose to sit elsewhere rather than be near them on a bench; a woman alone might not want to share a lift with them.

I thought this was interesting the first few times I heard it — I hear it all the time, and it still strikes me as curious, because I don’t experience the same thing at all.

I’ve never had a woman walk away from me, or be careful not to be alone with me. Frequently, women strike up conversation with me in public, they chat to me on buses the way they might with other women — a little while ago I was waiting for my boyfriend to pick me up from the airport, and a young girl of 19 or so actually came up to me to ask if she could hotspot off my phone for a second and to ask me for directions.

It’s not that women alone shouldn’t strike up conversation with men, or shouldn’t be alone with them — but just to avoid any potential discomfort or risk of being harassed, many of them understandably avoid it.

But a lot of women see me in the street or in public places, and when they perform their internal risk assessment, I don’t prompt a red flag.

Part of it is that I’m skinny and white, sure — I’m not very physically intimidating in terms of my size, and I’m not racialised in the way many Black and dark-skinned men and boys are. Sometimes, I’m using a mobility aid like a cane, and that makes a difference, too.

But as a rule, I’m pretty. I wear make-up — I often wear face stickers and have visible “tattoos”. I’m fussy about my hair, and it shows. I dress in bright prints and florals, I wear silks and satins, I wear waistcoats and high-waisted jeans, I wear block heels.

When I walk, I sashay my hips. I hold my hands in a delicate way — I gesticulate freely, and I move my fingers when I do so in an effete way. If they hear me talk, people often guess from my accent that I’m English rather than Welsh, and that I’m more educated than I am, not to mention significantly posher.

The average cishet stranger in the street absolutely sees me as a man — and they exclusively see me as a gay one. No one ever mistakes me for a straight one, and that absolutely affects the way I’m treated.

I couldn’t possibly pose a threat of sexual harassment in many women’s eyes, because I’m obviously gay, and many cis straight women feel very comfortable with — if not entitled to — gay men’s companionship, especially white gays with effete mannerisms.

When talking about gender-based privileges for trans men and mascs, we don’t tend to consider any impact that perceptions of our sexuality can have, but because of the way gay men are sorted into a different subclass of cis masculinity than straight men, there’s a noticeable impact.

Straight people sometimes roll their eyes or look amused when they think I’m being particularly dramatic or gay; occasionally straight men wolf-whistle at me or make comments about how gay I look; people strike up conversations with me about RuPaul’s Drag Race, start chattering to me about drag, because they just assume that’s the sort of thing I would be into. I get looks sometimes on the bus if I’m chatting with friends or on the phone, or sometimes if I’m just there in front of them and I look very gay.

Most of this isn’t incredibly malicious — is it homophobic? Sure, sometimes. A lot of it is just straight people trying to understand what they think is gay culture the best way they know how.

Parents with kids actually make me the most nervous — not because there’s any danger posed by the kids themselves most of the time, but because parents can be the most vicious when it comes to homophobia. They’ll accuse gay men of being paedophiles just for existing in public and seeming a bit fruity, or they’ll get nervous about how gay someone looks in case their kids ask questions about it.

And kids do find how I look interesting — all the time, I’ll be out in public, and a kid will notice that my nails are painted or that I’m wearing high heels or that they see tattoos on my face, and they’ll ask their parents about it.

It’s anxiety-inducing for any parent when their child starts acting about a stranger’s appearance where the stranger can hear them, because they get worried about the potential impoliteness — when that stranger is a faggot, some of them get angry at me, because once again, even without their knowing I’m transgender, I’m interrupting their worldview of what the correct gendered behaviours are, forcing them to think about it, forcing them to explain aberrations to their kids.

A “normal”, “real” man is straight, after all, and does straight men’s things, like dress badly and sexually harass women and get ugly haircuts. It’s confusing, if I’m out on the streets looking fuckable.

The last time I was travelling, I was sitting in a restaurant in the airport, and some boys at the next table were staring at me.

“Dad, why is that man wearing makeup?”

“I don’t know, some men wear it.”

“How come?”

“…”

It is a truth universally acknowledged that wherever a faggot goes, little boys will be asking their mildly homophobic but well-meaning and liberal parents questions about that man’s physical appearance.

A classic response, and one that I overhear often, was this man’s retort: “Why don’t you go and ask him?”

Sometimes teenagers and kids laugh at how I dress, especially if they’re in groups together — and especially, too, if there’s a bunch of us visible queers together.

One thing I’ve noticed about wearing crop-tops is that some people get het-up about how hairy I am and the hair visible on my belly, or under my arms if I’m wearing a vest — because some straight people see a white twink and want to reclassify him as being part of the woman subcategory instead of the man subcategory (based on his assumed sexual availability to men), they then apply women’s rules of physical appearance to him.

After all, if I’m wearing makeup and high heels and high-waisted jeans and a crop-top, that’s like how a woman dresses — and if I’m going to dress like a woman even though I’m obviously a man, I should be held to the standards a woman would be too. I should be hairless and odourless, like a sexy child, because “sexy child” is the ideal for an attractive woman, right?

Some cishet women also hate how I dress and instead of laughing or grumbling about it in the way that cishet men do, they wrinkle their noses and get really quite scornful about it.

Some of those women’s husbands are secretly on Grindr (I know because I have sex with them), and I believe this is the closest they get to facing their suspicions as to their husbands’ bisexuality.

A photo of me from earlier this month, age 26.

I started taking testosterone some months before the pandemic started, but experienced the bulk of my second puberty’s physical effects over the course of the following years.

Subsequently, when I went to a queer event being run after about two years on testosterone, many people there hadn’t seen me out in some time. I got a lot of looks and a lot of interest, especially from other queer men, in a way I never had before — I always got a lot of engagement and looks, but many cis gay men would take a little while to warm up to the idea of me as a man if they knew or suspected I was trans.

Maybe it’s just because I’m hotter, though, right? I’m hardly the only person to go through a glow-up on HRT, and I certainly feel more attractive.

Except that several of the older men looking at me were men I’d known casually for years — and a bunch of them came up and introduced themselves. Said hi, what’s your name, I’m x, it’s nice to meet you, are you new to the city?

Because up ’til then, they really hadn’t much looked at me in much detail. Many of these men had heard me give talks, had talked to me in queer bars, had met me at one event or another, and I just hadn’t stuck in their minds — they certainly hadn’t come up and spoken to me before, let alone with such enthusiasm.

And I do want to say, like —

None of these men would call themselves anti-trans — they’d try to use the right pronouns, they’d say that there should be trans events on, and so on. But there’s still going to be unconscious biases there — whether up ’til now they saw me as a woman (and therefore just looked past me) or saw me as trans (and therefore just looked past me), suddenly I was a fully realised human being. Maybe I was attractive and fuckable to some of them — but crucially, I was also another gay man, and therefore real and worth talking to.

And I will say that this isn’t all older gay men in my community or even like, a massive majority of them — but it was enough older gay men to be noticeable.

Even entering into new gay spaces, queer men tend to be friendlier to me than they used to, more outgoing in conversation, chattier, etc.

That’s obviously not necessarily because I’m trans — like I said, I’m also hotter than I used to be, I’m older, more educated, I dress better and more confidently, etc. There’s other factors at play, and I’m not comparing friendliness to cruelty or coldness — I’m comparing it to polite apathy, which was often mild enough that I wasn’t hugely affected by it pre-T.

Some men do treat me a little coldly, but from what I can tell it’s not usually because they suspect or know I’m trans — a lot of the time it’s actually because I’m so faggy and effeminate, or they just don’t trust that I’m gonna be cool because I’m so young.

Mixed queer spaces can be another story.

Other queer people my age have often found me intimidating — I’m a pretty outspoken person, my politics are more aggressive leftwing than many people’s, and as a autistic, I speak plainly and directly in a way that a lot of people don’t care for, or can find scary and overwhelming.

Now, though?

The response to my perceived aggression is a lot more dramatic and avoidant — because now they assume I’m a cisgender man.

People often interpret me as angry or aggressive when I’m not — I can sometimes be somewhat flat in my affect, I can be a very blunt communicator, I don’t tend to beat around the bush when it comes to my opinions. All of these are pretty standard as an autistic guy, and a lot of other people have experienced the same thing I have — the interpretation of those personality traits as aggressive or argumentative.

But it’s been interesting experiencing the negative response ramp up so much as soon as I’m perceived as “really” male, even by other transmascs, queer people, and trans men.

It can be strange at times navigating broader trans spaces as someone who doesn’t look trans in the way even other trans people expect you to, where they just assume that you’re cisgender, or that as someone who already passes and has therefore “finished” your journey as a trans person, there’s less reason for you to be in community with other trans people.

Especially when it comes to trauma like…

There is an assumption by many young queer people that cis gay people are just fine now, that homophobia doesn’t impact them in the traumatic way it did older generations, or that homophobia is no longer an active impact on people’s lives — I obviously am transgender, but to be brushed off with the assumption I haven’t experienced the same extent of bigotry or negative experience because I appear cisgender always strikes me as fucked up when of course a lot of cis men have had similar life experiences to me, or worse.

I will say that again, the negative responses are from a minority, just big enough to be noticeable, and the more people talk to me, the more they relax a little about the whole thing.

It’s still funny though, like —

I met some trans friends of a partner recently, and I came downstairs without a shirt on because I was hurriedly multitasking, and watched her do a double take at my chest.

I laughed and was like, “Did you not realise I was trans?”

And she went, “No!” and we had a giggle about it.

Most of the time meeting other queer people across the board, I’m extended care and compassion and love — it’s just weird, I think, being so aware of the gendered differences in how people speak with and apparently perceive me, and how things have and do change, especially because people assume transmasculinity means a one-way journey to Male Privilege, and all the benefits it can come with.

As with any and everything else, these matters come with nuance and layers, and nothing is as simple as A to B with no complications.

[cuntess-carmilla]

Men won't benefit from a more feminist society outside of being less pressured to perform hegemonic masculinity. A more feminist society will cause a net negative for men not because a feminist society will set itself to kill them or oppress them, but because it will take away the privileges they currently hold just for being men.

Mediocre men who only get ahead in their careers because more capable women are overlooked or not even allowed to put their foot through the door? In a non-patriarchal society, they'll get stuck behind.

Similarly, men who only get the chance to achieve their ambitions by dumping all the domestic and emotional burden of their existence onto the women they live with? No more. In fact, they'll have to shoulder some of that responsibility in equal parts with the women they live with so those women, too, also can try to reach their goals. Actually, if the women they live with are undoubtedly more talented or promising than them, it will only make sense for those men to do labor similar to what's expected of women (workers or stay-at-home) so that those women can focus on perfecting their craft or career unburdened by cooking, laundry, cleaning, home-managing, etc.

Men will no longer be paid more than women of the same racial/ethnic group.

Incels have already correctly pointed out that a reason why young adult men are so lonely currently is because some of feminism's achievements; women entering the work-force (beyond extremely poor and often racialized women who never had a choice), women being allowed to have bank accounts and own... Anything. The fact that being married to a man isn't a requirement to any of those things in many societies means now women can opt out of being with a man if they don't want to (categorically, or just the man in front of us) so men who in the past would've had a guaranteed wife despite being deplorable humans, are now alone.

That's the point of "privilege". It's an undue benefit obtained directly from unfairly taking away from others. And this is why male feminist allies tend to sooner or later show their true colors, too.

It's not because men are inherently evil. It's because even if a man genuinely believes that women are – gasp – full human beings and that the treatment we get in patriarchal societies is awful and inhumane, there will come a time in which effective feminist praxis, as a feminist ally, will require him to sacrifice the benefits that patriarchy extends to him. And he won't. The same way rich people can think it's so so sad that homelessness is a reality, but they won't vote for a candidate who's a threat to their class privilege and wealth.

Feminism will not benefit men for the most part, and men who actually give a shit about fairness will be okay with that. Problem is, most won't. Most already aren't. Not necessarily because they're Evil Bastards who want women to suffer, but because it's against their self-interest.

Stop campaigning on "feminism benefits men", because 1) that it benefits women, who have been treated like dogshit in all patriarchal societies for centuries, should be enough reason to support feminism, and 2) it WON'T, and men instinctively know that.

[n0cturna1-m3]

Midnight Chatting | Bruce Wayne x Male Reader | Fluff

Fem/Minors DNI

Request; Too god damn long to put in. Here's the link.

Warnings; Bruce is a mediocre father, mention of anxiety attack, Damian Wayne and Bruce Wayne have autism (confirmed 😐🤞), insecurities, minor hurt/full comfort.

A/N; Slowly gettin through reqs... probably gonna do a few fluff/angst ones until I'm feelin up to doin a smut fic 😋

Synopsis; Some people have a knack for breaking through the hearts of cold people. Bruce is lucky enough to be in a committed relationship with one of these people.

1.9k words

It had been almost a year since Bruce had begun dating Y/N, a young man he met by coincidence. He worked at a coffee shop that Bruce frequented, and eventually, Y/N made the first move and asked him out on a date. It was likely one of the longest romantic relationships he had ever been in, and everything was moving smoothly.

Sure, the couple would bicker every once in a while, usually because of Bruce coming home bruised and battered, but they always managed to reconcile before it became heated.

Y/N started living with Bruce later in their relationship. It was a tedious process, mostly because Y/N had to be informed of Bruce’s vigilante duties. He was hesitant to believe Bruce, but his eyes gave away nothing but the truth. Y/N often worried for him, but Bruce managed to reassure him even after the most dangerous nights.

Bruce’s adopted children were cold towards him at first, save for Dick who was fond of him immediately and Jason whom he still hasn’t met. They would give him stern eyes, but eventually, they began warming up to the man.

Tim was the first to cave. He was frustrated with Bruce for leaving him out of a mission he had found a massive amount of information on, and he was angry about it. Tim sat in his room, sulking with his arms crossed over his chest in bed.

He wanted to ignore the knock on his door, telling the person to “leave him alone,” but Y/N pushed the door open anyway and sat on his bed. Tim glared at him and turned his head away.

“I know how it feels,” he said. Tim perked up, glancing at the man sitting at the end of his bed.

“How would you know?” he scoffed. But his mind was whirring with anticipation. He wanted to know how Y/N could possibly understand how he felt.

“What, you think Bruce hasn’t left me behind before? He’s a selfish little man child,” Y/N said, laughing slightly. Tim smiled but covered it up quickly. “It sucks to be left out when you work hard for something. I know it does.”

“It’s not the same.”

“No, it’s not. I’m not out fighting crime like you guys, but I am an adult and I have experienced this. What you’re feeling right now.”

“What am I feeling then?” Tim asked, furrowing his eyebrows. He wanted Y/N to stop patronising him. He was treating him like a child.

“You feel hurt, and left behind,” he said, looking into Tim’s eyes. “You feel abandoned.”

Tim’s throat tightened and he hung his head.

“It’s not fair that he gets to call all the shots,” Tim said, sniffling. He wiped his eyes before he could cry.

“No, it’s not.” Y/N moved up the bed to sit next to Tim and nudged his shoulder with his own. “But you can always come to me when you’re upset with him. He pisses me off too.”

Tim sniffled and looked up at Y/N with teary eyes.

“He does?”

“Of course!” Y/N laughed. “But I love him. He cares about me, and he cares about you, too. That’s what I like about him.”

Tim eyed Y/N before resting his head on Y/N’s chest and hugging him. Y/N held him close and squeezed him, stroking his hair with one hand.

“Thank you,” Tim whispered.

Damian was a more difficult task. He hated Bruce, he hated his brothers, and he hated Y/N. It seemed like he hated the world. Y/N could understand. The cards he had been dealt were unfortunate.

The straw that broke the camel's back, or Damian’s resolve for his burning hatred of Y/N, was something he hadn’t even expected.

Damian had been awake for too many hours, staring at the screen in front of him and sipping on coffee while trying to find any sort of evidence. Bruce was doing similarly beside him. Damian’s head ached, his eyes burned, and his patience was running thin.

Eventually that thinness broke. It snapped and Damien slammed his fists on the table, startling Bruce. Damian could practically feel everything around him in excruciating detail. Every sound, every smell, everything that touched his skin, it caused him pain.

He stood up and anxiously pushed his hair out of his face, desperately trying to get it off of his skin. Bruce stared at him in confusion. He had no idea what to do. Y/N rushed into the room after hearing the commotion and sighed at the sight.

“Damian,” he said softly. Damian turned to him and glared, hands still in his hair and pulling. “Come here, kid.”

Damian didn't know what to do. He felt an overwhelming emotion that he didn't understand, so he followed Y/N, who took one of his hands in his and held it.

He felt embarrassed. He felt like a toddler having a tantrum. His cheeks burned with embarrassment, and his ears burned with anxiety. Y/N walked him to his room and opened the door.

“Sit down.”

Damian walked to his bed and sat on the edge, acutely aware of every step that Y/N took as he walked to the window and drew the curtains, causing the room to go black. Y/N grabbed a throw blanket that was laid messily on the floor. Damian always kicked it and the loose sheet off of his bed. He didn’t like how it rested on his body over his comforter. Y/N wrapped the blanket around him and crouched down to be eye level with him.

“I’ll be right back,” he said quietly.

Y/N left the room, closing the door behind him quietly, and left Damian alone. The silence was pleasant, the lack of light was appreciated, and when Y/N returned with a wet cloth that he placed over his eyes, he felt a wave of calm wash over him. He flopped back on the bed, Y/N readjusted the blanket and cloth again.

“I’ll come back in half an hour,” Y/N whispered before leaving Damian again.

He had never experienced this kind of treatment and care before, perhaps only from Alfred. But this was different. He felt like he had a real parent.

Sure, he had Bruce, but he wasn’t much of a father. Y/N cared for him deeply, he could tell. Maybe he was too hard on him, Damian thought as he sunk into the bed. He practically turned into goo with how limp he went.

When Y/N returned, Damian thanked him. Y/N smiled and told him that he was happy to help.

After that, both Tim and Damian would spend time with Y/N frequently. They would watch movies together, gossip about Bruce, eat together.

It was only when Damian asked Y/N to come with him to put him to bed after dinner that Bruce noticed. He followed the two and watched Y/N tuck him in and crouch by the side of his bed, speaking with him softly. It was too quiet for Bruce to hear, but from the smile on Damian’s face, he could tell that whatever it was made him happy.

Y/N stood up and turned off the light before leaving, giving Bruce a smile when he saw him.

“How the hell did you do that?” Bruce asked. Bruce rarely saw Damian smile. He was stern, like him.

“Do what?” Y/N asked, feigning ignorance.

“Oh, come on. Don’t play dumb with me,” he said with a small grin. Y/N laughed and ignored him, instead getting ready for bed.

The couple changed into their sleepwear, or lack thereof in one of their cases, and crawled into bed. Y/N assumed his position as the big spoon, wrapping one arm around Bruce with the other under his head.

Y/N fell asleep quickly. Bruce felt his warm breath on his neck and the calm beat of his heart against his back. He was almost asleep when he thought of Damian.

He was suddenly aware of the time that Tim and Damian would spend with Y/N and how happy they were in the past few months. It was Y/N that caused it. A small gesture that went far to make his boys open up to him. He was suddenly overwhelmed with adoration for his partner. He was getting along with his family. Although he hadn’t yet met Jason, Bruce was sure that Jason would like him, despite his disdain for Bruce.

Pride filled his chest, though it suddenly washed away. Y/N was perfect. He was too perfect. He was too good of a man to be living with a man like Bruce, someone so cold and oblivious. He wasn’t a good person. Y/N was a good person. He was an amazing person.

Bruce didn’t know that he had begun crying until Y/N kissed his neck and hugged him tighter.

“What’s wrong, baby?” he asked groggily. Bruce could still hear the sleep in his voice.

He wiped his eyes and took a shaky breath before saying, “It’s nothing.”

Y/N scoffed and sat up, pushing Bruce onto his back and looking down at him while holding his face in his hands. He leaned down and kissed his cheek.

“You don’t have to be ashamed to cry.”

Bruce’s pupils dilated, his blue eyes turning crystal as tears streamed down his face. Y/N pulled him up into a hug and held him tightly while combing his fingers through his jet black hair and murmuring ‘It’s okay’ into his ear.

Eventually Bruce calmed enough to talk to Y/N about it. He sat back against the headboard, Y/N doing the same beside him and wrapping an arm around his waist.

“Do you wanna talk to me about it?” he asked. Bruce took a deep breath.

“I think you’re too good for me,” Bruce said, turning his head to meet Y/N’s eyes. “You’re so kind, and you’re an amazing person, and you're so good with Tim and Damian, I just-” Bruce hiccuped and covered his eyes, rubbing them with a deep frown and furrowed eyebrows. “I feel like you should be with someone better.”

Y/N said nothing. He just pulled Bruce into his chest and kissed his hair while rubbing his back and holding the back of his neck.

“I know what I want, Bruce,” he said. Bruce listened keenly. “I love you, and I want you, and there's nothing more that I could ask other than to spend the rest of our lives together.”

Bruce looked up at him and huffed. Y/N smiled.

“I would come back to you a million lifetimes over.”

“Yeah, me too,” Bruce said. Y/N kissed his forehead and then his lips before wiping Bruce’s face with his hand.

“Can you sleep?” Y/N asked. Bruce nodded.

Y/N laid down again and Bruce faced him this time. He wrapped his legs around one of Y/N’s thighs and held on to him, burying his face in his neck and breathing in deeply. Y/N gently let his fingernails scratch Bruce’s back until he fell asleep, then letting his hand rest on his lower back.

His breaths were slow, and his heartbeat matched Y/N’s as they slotted together like puzzle pieces.

[lightningant]

niche but sadly very core Voldemort meta for me (which not based in anything but vibes I will admit) is that I think he has a lot of unresolved emotions about his parents and it manifests in bizarre ways because he doesn't even understand that's what's bothering him

I'm obsessed with giving him a parent [after he makes at least one horcrux] because a part of him wants to be nurtured, celebrated, and understood. A strong factor "Lord Voldemort" is his determination to essentially create himself; become singular, separate from any line. There is no first name-surname, he is only himself. Because being a part of a line has done nothing for him. It has been wielded against him, it has provided no care, it amounted to shallow indignity on both ends.

So I do think he'd get a lot out of, forgive me for saying this about a platonic relationship, a parent who matches his freak; a boymom who prioritizes him and is willing to engage in complete enmeshment to soothe his feelings of rejection and displacement.

And he knows he's never going to get it, despite not knowing he wants it. So he wants to be the parental enmeshment boymom.

I see Snape as the clearest taste of this, with his abnormal closeness to Voldemort in the inner circle, learning dark magic no one else seems to get to learn, and his blood/class status being completely irrelevant. Voldemort wants to ignite something in him that his past self never got. Your muggle dad sucks. Your pureblood family won't associate with you. But here I am, to raise you as a man like you should be raised, help you become singular and isolated from all others except myself, and I will not interrogate why this is so important to me.

But this only extends to young adults straight out of school; he detests children, and the younger they are, the more repulsed and anxious he gets. I don't think Voldemort trying his hand at boymoming to express what he thinks a fair and just parental influence would look like would make him a good parent. Not even in the gothic way, he'd just be mediocre and avoidant. Sad!

Anyway. Having a mentor figure he's spoken to and had a relationship with is a great spotlight for making this dynamic more stark. A late mentor means a third parent that disappointed, abandoned, and rejected Tom Riddle, confirming Voldemort's hypothesis he must create himself anew, and thus another parent must be eradicated from his personal history and his hurt must be buried where it is no longer relevant. And I'm aromantic so platonic derangement is innately more appealing to me in every situation.

[alicenpai]

lost and found children stickers - coming soon... very happy to get some more original merch underway!! learn more about my ocs, if you want, sketch below + some lore tidbits!!

i would love to become more of an original artist over time but putting ocs out there feels like im running out into the world nude LMAO T__T my ocs are so personal to me, and i put pieces of myself in all of them, that it feels so nerve wracking to post.. one day a comic will come..

funnily enough i started this sheet back in june but didnt have time until off-con season to finish em.. i really want to be like those crazy oc creators with 129045894589 illustrations and little trinkets of ocs. soon. some lore: trent & terence are brothers, the twins are fraternal twins (smiles). also there IS a ship in here and once i get over my embarrassment of drawing ships it's gonna be so over for you all!! (joke) i was so brazen with ships pre-2019 but i cant draw it anymore T_T

-- some trivia that didn't make the cut, i was gonna turn this into an info sheet but i couldn't fit all this text in the layout. sorry the trivia is a bit snarky im in a big sam & max phase right now

--

☀

Melissa of Giacosa (name pending??) Age: 30 Height: 5'4" (WITH heels) Gender: F Occupation: Noble/ scholar/ philanthropist

Helpfulness: 5 Occultic knowledge: 5

A general people pleaser, and excellent at reading people, but sometimes the responsibilities are all too much… sometimes a girl just wishes to watch the world burn!

--

✨

Flynn & Nate of Medeis (real names unknown) Age: 17 Height: 5'6", 5'3" (respectively) Gender: M & F twins Birthday/Asc: Nov 25 (Sagittarius) Occupation: Travellers/ scholars

Luck: 1 Resourcefulness: 5

Uh oh… beware these theatre kids. As travelling magicians (LICENSED), they bring smiles and laughter to all throughout the land. No one really knows who they are, where they're from, or… how many germs they have.

--

🎹

Terence Nightingale Age: 18 Height: 5'8" (looks shorter due to posture) Gender: M Birthday/Asc: Feb 11 (Aquarius) Occupation: Pianist

Fame: 5 Energy level: 2

Knowing the taste of fame at a young age, Terence now has to carry that burden into adult life. Will age turn prodigy into mediocrity? Will he be crushed under a piano? Will he let himself be sandwiched between twenty bedsheets and a pea?!?! Find out in the next exciting episode…

--

🖋

Jack Lockhart Age: 25 Height: 5'7" Gender: M Birthday/Asc: Jan 3 (Capricorn) Occupation: Historian

Knowledge: 4 Strength: 4

With a sharp wit and tongue, and an even sharper blade, it might be best to steer clear of this one. Unfortunately, cats like him, so he never gets any peace, ever. --

🧵

Noa (real name unknown) Age: 17 Height: 5'1" Gender: F Birthday/Asc: Oct 30 (Scorpio) Occupation: Seamstress

Scornful gaze: 5 Fashion sense: 5

The word "smile" does NOT exist in her vocabulary. Blending old trends with the new, Noa is an up-and-coming innovator in the world of textiles and fashion. But what tricks does she have up her sleeve… literally?

--

🔬

Trent Nightingale Age: 25 Height: 6'2" Gender: M Birthday/Asc: Jun 1 (Gemini) Occupation: Biologist

Knowledge: 4 Gift of gab: 5

A rock that ties people together-type of personality, and tries to get along with everyone, maybe to his own detriment. Trent has an unassuming look, but is quite the scholar - he can often be seen with his nose in a book or scribbling away, disappointing those who vie for his attention more as a social butterfly.

[shotoyami]

Could do gambit x f reader basically f reader is a normal person working and is saved one day by gambit in a fight and offers to take her home and basically gets to know her and take her out on a date’s <33

prenotes: Gambit beloved <33 !!! The silly little Cajun man, he has my heart… I loved writing this sm, super cute, might make a part two if anyone would like to see that!!!

Thank you so much for the request, anon<3

pairing: Remy LeBeau/Gambit + female reader

warnings: none, yet again!

genre: fluff, that’s all to be seen here

notes: so please ignore the jokes I make in here if anyone doesn’t like them, I had to make them as a retail worker and the usual daily struggles of retail. but if anyone laughs, I’m glad! (please respect your retail workers, they don’t get paid enough or appreciated enough)

word count: 900+

Sir, this is a Walmart…

Work. Mediocre, stressful, annoying. At least, that’s a normal day on the job. Another day at some high end grocery store that cannot be named here, just dealing with the same customers to expect every day. The entitled old people, the crass young people that shouldn't be without adult supervision, crying babies that the mother literally is not even a foot away from and doesn’t care about, and so much more stupidity. 

“You young kids and not respecting their elders. I swear, it’s like I always talk to the same person no matter where I go unless it’s a machine!” Like now, where an older woman is harassing me.

I force a civil smile onto my face, knowing everything is both on video and on audio, and that anything against store policy could get me fired. “I’m sorry to hear that, ma’am. Unfortunately, I can’t bend the rules for anyone. If I change the price for you, I’d have to change the price for everyone in the store- which can’t happen, of course.” I try to explain to the woman– which is stupid, because when do entitled people ever listen to reason? She starts shouting, which is to be expected, and of course a supervisor comes over, trying to gauge what’s happening, and now she’s screaming at them too. The supervisor gives me a glance and I just put my hands up defensively and turn and walk away– because I don’t get paid anywhere near enough to deal with this crap.

I fall into the breakroom’s couch with a long sigh, making one of my coworkers giggle. “Gosh (y/n), tell us all how you really feel girl.” I groan, but let out a small laugh, finding humor in my coworker’s words. “Was it Sharon again? Or Beth?”

I sat up as I respond, “Neither, it was Martha.” My coworker grimaces at the name, before she sighs.

“Yikes. I’m sorry girl, she’s a pain.” I snicker, nodding in agreement. “But have you seen that new looker that’s been coming in recently?” That sparks my attention, and I sit fully toward her, attentively. “No? Okay, so there’s this guy that’s been coming in, right? And he’s got weird eyes and a southern accent, and he flirts with everyone.” I nod along as she speaks, humming afterward in thought.

“No, I haven’t seen or met him yet. He sounds interesting?” She nods in agreement, but we’re interrupted as our supervisor comes in, rolling his eyes.

“Martha.” Is all he says, making both of us giggle. “You’re good to go back on the floor, (y/n).” I nod and hop up, making my way back out onto the sales floor.

Of course, my luck willing, there’s some weird looking people (hey, we’re not trying to judge here, but just imagine this the same kinda way as describing your neighborhood crackhead) getting into a fight on the sales floor. I stand there, awkwardly, because I’m not trying to get into the middle of all of that. 

As I go to shuffle on by, because I don’t get paid enough to care, some kind of metal comes flying at me. My survival instincts aren’t survivaling because I just stare at my impending doom for a moment, accepting my fate and all, until a card with a purple looking hue just flies in front of me and blows up the metal??????

Whilst pondering my existence and how I didn’t just die, I get grabbed and my snatcher???? savior???? just kind of runs, cursing in some other language – french? Once again accepting my fate, I don’t exactly struggle or anything because this is all on camera and surely  someone will clock me out for this or just give me extended pay time for dealing with this crap.

The person finally stops and sets me down in the back of the parking lot, and I find that it’s my coworker’s deemed ‘new looker’. “Ya’ alri’, cher?” I slowly nod, probably looking like a big eyed fish or a barn owl or something. He chuckles, offering a hand, “The name’s Remy LeBeau, ya’ welcome fa’ the save. How’s ‘bout yous make it up ta’ me by lettin’ me walk ya’ on home? Ya’ off the clock?” Again, I just nod stupidly – my coworkers can clock me out, it should be fine. Fortunately, I use public transportation anyway, so it all works out.

Of course, everyone’s staring at the man next to me. Not so much for his “good looks,” but moreso for his odd appearing eyes – red on black. The entire subway is…rather quiet for once. It’s a nice change, a welcome change. He’s the one that breaks the silence as we get off of the subway, “Ya’ from ‘round these parts?” He sort of leans over me, smirking but still being quite respectful. He’s probably fishing for something in common, given his thick southern accent.

“No, I’m from the next state over.” He slowly nods, humming and keeping the conversation going similarly until we arrive at my front door. “So, I be seein’ ya’ again? Here, le’mme give ya’ my fone number.” He quickly comes up with a way to scribble down his digits, handing the paper to me. “An’ maybe we can go on a nice little date or somethin’ soon, cher?”

A goofy smile comes onto my face at this words, a bit shocked that all it took was a bit of small took to charade this man, but I nod in agreement nonetheless. “I’d appreciate if it involved me not being in immediate danger next time?” He chuckles and nods.

“See ya’ then, darlin’.”

[grits-galraisedinthesouth]

20 minutes of my life I'll never get back. 🤦‍♂️

I must be a glutton for punishment because I actually watched Kinsey Schofield's 20 min interview w/Valentine Low. May this rant save you from making the same mistake:

Valentine Low & Kinsey Schofield just reminded me that the British press is in desperate need of a grief recovery workshop to let go of their palace manufactured PR image of Sparry, "the CONSERVATIONIST," and accept the REALITY: Sparry has ALWAYS been a member of the lost boys who never intend to grow up. He loves drugs, perverted soho house sex play pens, and living a secret lifestyle in San Francisco, CA. As we saw in the South Park Documentary, Sparry has always wanted to be left alone so he can just bang on his drums all day.

The British media needs to accept that they never knew the Sparry aka Prince Harry. Much like Fergie & Andrew: The Meghans are two (2) intellectually below average individuals who married in haste. Both their academic & professional work histories indicate that these two (2) immature adults, lack even the basic skills necessary to function in society without the help of a PR "machine" whose job is to clean up their messes and repeatedly rebrand them into more acceptable members of polite society. It's past time for Valentine Low and other UK journalists to admit that they never really knew Sparry. All their Diana goodwill should now be invested into the future of the BRF (the family of Prince William)

No amount of hoping for the best or "covering up" for Sparry's misdeeds can transform the moral rot in his character. They bought and sold the PR image manufactured by the palace. It was the paparazzi & other "undesirables" who had the misfortune of observing the REAL Sparry. They watched him mistreat drivers, security, staffers, etc long BEFORE he was seduced by MEgain.

V Low believes Sparry flew a helicopter! 😳 Come on! Too many REAL service members have spoken out about Sparry's military character and performance and there's nothing good about it.

Sparry, like his wife is also a liar and a bully. He's not intellectually bright, he never was... He even bullied his grandparents before the "spectacle," he bullied Meghan's father...we heard reports about seeking a left wing wife and his interest in living in the US----all before MEgain.

Low also thinks Sparry loves his children. Has Valentine Low ever seen the invisibles? No. He's transferred a PR image to a couple of never before seen kids and their so called father. A so-called "father" who is willing to destroy his brother's children (and the innocent children of other couples) through the spread of destructive lies, has zero interest in the REAL wellbeing of anyone's kids, least of all his own.

As for the Wife: her ability to earn a college degree as an American teenager/young adult without even the offer of an ACADEMIC scholarship means that she too is mediocre and overrated. Her university commencement program states that she was a candidate for a degree in "communications" NOT some whip smart area of study like biochemistry or engineering! 🤦‍♂️

As a university student, thanks to her dad's brother (mike), she spent a measly six (6) weeks in Argentina on an exchange program (paid by her father) until she failed an exam that would have allowed her to apply for (real) jobs in the States. An intellectual or any hard worker would have studied until she passed the test. Not Rachel Meghan Markle. If no one was willing to make an exception for her low marks, then she would whore her way up a series of ladders until she found someone dumb enough to give her a platform.

No, this is NOT a "smart" couple. This couple is a cautionary tale about how Water seeks it's own level: Sparry's mother and teachers did him a disservice, just as MEgain's father did her a disservice: SPARE the rod & SPOIL the child

Kinsey believes that MEgain is "smart" because she achieved a Duchess title. (What does this tell us about Kinsey's IQ. 🤦‍♂️😳)

MEgain became a "Duchess" because she was a professional "seductress" employeed by Markus Anderson & Soho House. Everything this couple achieves is smoke & mirrors based on TRANSACTIONAL relationships where they bully & harass anyone standing in their way.

They don't even possess good work ethics, let alone above average IQs. Please call a spade a spade (or in this case a spare a spare) and stop gaslighting the public about what Sparry could have done had he not been involved with the wife.

We watched the wife verbally abuse KP staffers over bereavement flowers and feckless Sparry stood by in AGREEMENT. Wicked queen Jezebel 2.0 and traitorous king ahab 2.0. Let them go!

[thecountesstribe]

HOTD Ep 2x7 Spoilers and review.

So this was one of my favorite episodes this season and also one of the coolest imo.

Seasmoke being protective of Addam and looking proud he terrorized Addam into being his rider was too funny. I love that dragon 😂. Come through Addam the Loyal, all Rhaenyra had to say was she's queen and he immediately acknowledged her and bent the knee, I loved that. He's really about to become my other favorite boy.

Corlys being shook and acting like he doesn't know Addam, like sir if you don't tell the truth already. He's never gonna beat the deadbeat allegations. Although when he told him “Well done” I did whoop a little. I would've kicked his ass had I been Addam though.

Oscar Tully! That's it. That's the fuckin post. He gagged Daemon and stood on business. I love to see young kids bullying arrogant adults, he reminded me of the OG lil boss Lyanna Mormont. That's my lil nephew now.

Daemon didn't take the crown. We saw him hallucinating again, this time with the sick version of Viserys and Viserys holding the crown which he didn't take. I mean anybody with a brain could summarize that he never wanted the crown, we didn't need to spend so much time in his delusions in Harrenhal to tell us that. We certainly didn't need a scene of him feasting on his mom to tell us that, yuck. For all his faults he really was about his family. He went about it the wrong way but that's Daemon for you. His stupid self destructive ass.

We had an unnecessary scene of Alicent running about the woods after leaving King's Landing. Chile anyways. Larys is totally protecting Aegon now and he's essentially crippled atp. I fear for Baela's storyline.

Rhaena is looking for Sheepstealer. Her and Jeyne are still tussling but they waited until the final 2 episodes to give her something, Baela had no lines besides looking pretty and staring at Jace. I fuckin hate it here. Could we bully HBO AND THE WRITERS SOME MORE. WTF!!

Vermithor and SilverWing looked so cool. What did that old bum feed Vermithor though? He's big asf. SilverWing just might be the coolest looking dragon. I can't rank them anymore cause I like them all 😭. Literally my favorite thing about the episode. Like the directors cooked. The dragons are funny asf 😂😭😭😭. There were a lot of parentage reveals, I don't believe for a second Saera sired that ugly man but anyways. RhaeRhae led those people to their deaths. Rhaenyra deadass gave this big ass pep talk, she reminded me of Erwin before he led the scouts out on what would be their suicide mission except she didn't stay to see the outcome or participate in it. Vermithor saw an opportunity for a buffet and took it, Hugh claimed him. Fuckin cinema. Still gonna hate his bitchass but I can't lie that was badass. SilverWing was bullying Ulf. Why do people I hate always win sometimes?! Ulf literally failed upwards. Can't be mad at it. I mean if I was a dragon I would've done the same shit. How dare mediocre specimens come before me who is essentially the next best thing after the Gods!

We got Rhaenyra speaking High Valyrian. She had her dragon squad quit on her though and gave her a warning (foreshadowing). Her also being able to calm Vermithor, that's the Dragon Queen of her era y'all. We saw a little movement with her and her protective spoiled cat Syrax too 😍.

Not people hating on Jace now. Listen that argument has been brewing since season 1. He just finally let it out of his brooding body. I don't think many people understand the implications that argument meant. He sounded classist and maybe he was, highly doubt he is but he's being realistic and in the future he was proven right (unless they scrap the book canon). Rhaenyra paralleled Viserys in that entire scene. She really is her father's child in some ways. She did to Jace what Viserys essentially did to her. The one thing that could've upheld his ascension to the throne was him having a dragon and she essentially gave a free pass to anybody to do the same, the same thing was done to Rhaenyra when Viserys decided to marry Alicent and sire more children when he knew damn well that if he had a son, her claim to the throne would've been compromised. Jace knows he's a “bastard”, a legitimate one but a “bastard” ntl (I'm not calling him a bastard in a derogatory sense either, he isn't. Laenor claimed them as his sons and that's the end of it to me) , it shouldn't matter considering the throne is not passing from his father's side but his mother's. Sure his last name would've changed the minute he was named heir and ascended as stated by Viserys but what weight does that hold now? They briefly touched on it when he spoke to Baela about his fathers but he had always been insecure about his parentage. No he didn't call his mother a whore, he's been fighting that battle all his life, she just made it worse. In the dire situation they're in, the sacrifice had to be made but I could understand why he's angry and hurt over it again. She literally just made him illegitimate in the eyes of the realm. His anger is valid. Was his tone harsh yes, try dealing with the whispers and the jeers and everything else for the past 16 years of your entire life and seeing the same proof of what everybody else sees everyday and tell me that you wouldn't hold some kind of resentment towards it. I liked how Rhaenyra was patient with him though, just wished it wasn't as rushed as the scene felt.

The last shot of the episode was fuckin brilliant. Aemond turning his bitchass around knowing he can't handle that kinda pressure. Also Vhagar and Aemond's bond may not be as strong as it should be. She clearly does not listen to him sometimes. He's still responsible for Lucerys death IDC what y'all got to say. The episode got a 4/5 stars from me just for the dragons. I'm here for Jace, Baela, Addam and the Dragons!

Until next week guys for the finale. We're going to see Tessarion and Sheepstealer next week. I'm so excited.

[rival-ideologies]

Let's talk a touch about Oscar Tully, Lord Paramount of the Trident and the Riverlands, as he is presented in the show (not the book, very different guy in that). Much ado has been made about how he basically led Daemon "I have a dragon and won the illegal Stepstones War" Targaryen by the nose at the Harrenhal gathering, and it's true, he did exactly that. But how?

First you have to understand what being a Tully is at this juncture in Westerosi history. "Family, Duty, Honor" are their words, and they're fine ones, but they really only scratch the surface of what a Tully actually is as a profession, the profession this family has had since the Conquest, about 130 years or so before the events of House of the Dragon: tard wranglers.

So for the past century and a bit more than a quarter, this family of tard wranglers have made it their business to mostly-successfully keep their pack of banner Houses in line with minimal drama above the level of the occasional fistfight, despite several of those banner Houses packing more military heat than House Tully itself. This held true despite mediocre Tully lords over several generations since the Conquest, for while many mediocre Tullys may have been shit at high governance, the one thing they were getting right consistently was wrangling tards.

So prior to our lad Oscar taking over the big seat at age 16 (which doesn't happen in the book, but we're not going by the book for this, do recall) he had a dad, Elmo, who died young, but Elmo hadn't been in charge of House Tully very long (if at all) before croaking, so he's a bit irrelevant. Young Oscar, instead, didn't learn the family trade from dad Elmo, he learned it from Grandpa, the real guy in charge of House Tully: Grover. Now Grover's age at death isn't accurately known, but we know he was ANCIENT when he died; he's described as being old (in the book, okay we do have to use it for dating things, sorry) in 101 AC, which implies a birthdate prior to 59 AC, when Prentys Tully died, and Grover died ANCIENT in 130 AC. If adult age in Westeros is 16, we can infer through assumption that Grover assumed control of House Tully at age 16 in 59 AC upon Prentys's death, so Grover would have been born in 43 AC, so he keeled over at the age of 87. That means, if we handwave however long he was unable to function completely at the end, he ruled as a tard wrangler for 71 years, over half the time since the Conquest that granted House Tully Paramountcy of the Riverlands. That was the guy at whose knee Oscar learned tard wrangling from.

Daemon Targaryen had no chance. He got played by a creature selectively trained to be a tard wrangler since birth, and has existed for all of his 16 years to fulfill that function. Every single instant from his opening line "I did nothing," to the final declaration of "-and dispense justice!", Oscar was tard wrangling the entire time.

Oscar Tully was FORMED for things like that meeting, and everything that went down at that meeting was him wrangling tards.

[stellarcorpse01]

I was in class and I drew "Madam Night" and "Miss Day" In an alternate universe/future where they are young adults with mediocre jobs in the 2000's.

[pigeocore]

Are we fucking with Dethklok mom headcannons? Idk I have some very specific thoughts about Murderface and Toki's moms. More very long but fun info under the cut

Tammy was born and grew up in the same trailer park that her son would ultimatly inhabit. She was a louzy student, didn't care about grades, loved skipping school and there wasn't a single class she didn't spend chatting with the other girls. No suprise that she ultimatly dropped out of high school. For a while she worked odd jobs to justify Stella not kicking her out of the trailer up until she was a young adult. That's when she found her new purpouse: to become a star. She moved to the big city with big hopes and dreams, sighned up to every audition possible for pretty much everything, ready to take the hearts of Americans by storm. Anyway she quit that two months in because it was too much work and got hired as a waitress instead.

Murderface's dad, who I don't feel like giving a name to, was a regular at a diner that Tammy woked at. He was a middle class guy, a few years older than her with a relativly good job and a wife. He saw something in her and soon enough, Tammy became the other woman in his relationship. Although their affair wasn't strictly limited to intercourse, anything other than that was rather messy and the two were constaly on again and off again. That is until Tammy got pregnant and in a suprising decision, Murderface's dad decided to step up. He divorced his previous wife and married her instead, turning her from a poor waitress to a full-on picket fence housewife, something that he'd come to quickly regret. Their relationship started falling apart pretty much immidietly. When they weren't having screaming maches or mediocre sex, they didn't talk at all. He'd spend the whole day working or sitting in front of the TV drinking and she'd tend to the house. This tension was what would ultimatly lead him to commit the infamous murder-suicide.

Now, Tammy was not good at her job. In fact, she kinda sucked. Her cooking was terrible, she'd constantly half-ass any task she was given and would not take any criticism. Still, it was at least good enough to not make the house explode. Her not being nor striving to be the picture-perfect housewife was what ended up alienating her from a lot of other women around her. Still, she didn't care about fitting in with those girls, she saw the as "pompous bitches" and continued doing her thing

A lot of that attitude also carried over to her parenting. She was very irresponsible, although most of her behaviour stemed from lack of knowlage rather than anything purpouseful. Tammy was totally the kind of mom to leave her baby alone in the car while she went shopping or let it crawl around the house unsupervised. Once again, she would not take ANY criticism about her parenting techniques. Still, she did geniuanly love Willy a lot for what it was worth. Her son ment the world to her and god forbid anyone call him ugly. Whenever her husband, who unlike her had a lot of distaste for their baby, tried to say anything on the matter she'd fight him until the neighbours were calling the cops due to noise complains

She also had a bit of a morbid side to her. She loved violent movies and would sneak into grindhouse theaters on occassions, especially when she was younger. Truly a shame she died before Texas Chainsaw Massacre came out. She would've been ecstatic to hear her son joined a death metal band, although I don't think she would've supported all of his shenanigans.

Also she looks like Murderface because I think it would be really funny if he just looked like every woman in his family lol

Anna, nicknamed Andzia by her family was born in the polish region of lubelszczyzna in a fictional village of Jagiellonki Książęce Kościelne trzecie A-Kolonia. It was the kind of village where there was nothing except a church, roadside shrine and a few homes. Her family were farmers, she spend a good chunk of her childhood picking fruits and tending to farm animals.

In school, she was considered an excellent student, both due to her behaviour and preformance. She was very quiet and well behaved, always stuck in her own little world and never getting in any trouble. She also had really good grades. Andzia especially excelled at language learning, something that'd come to be very useful for her in the future. She wasn't very interested in persuing an academic career though and cared more about other stuff, including helping her parents around the farm

Another thing she cared about very deeply was her religion. She went to mass every sunday, pray every day before going to bed, took part in every possible church activity and even sung in the church choir. She was proud of being a christian, always looking for ways to become even more devoted. However, she wasn't always the nicest about her belifs and tended to secretly judge other christians who did less than her

Andzia met her future husband through complete coincidence. They both happend to be on seprate pilgrimages to the same holy site, it was tradition in Aslaug's cult that before taking the role of the reverend the man must go on a spiritual journey for one last time. The two just kinda bumped into eachoter and ended up clicking. Andzia saw Aslung's belifs as a way for her to become an even better christian and Aslaug saw her as a good fit for a wife. She stayed with him after her group departed from the site and within a month, the two were engaged and organizing a way for her to leave Poland. Andzia came to Norway and officially joined the cult through marrige a few months later, something that would've probably happend sooner if leaving Poland through less legal means at the time was a bit easier. She took the name Anja Wartooth in order to assimilate better into her new Norwegian family. Toki was born a year later

I know a lot of people like to headcannon Anja as a victim of abuse in the same way that Toki was, but I personally see her as someone who was very much complicit in her son's treatment. Although I don't think Aslaug was the best husband to her, she still treated Toki just as badly as he did and though she now thinks she may have sometimes went bit too far, she doesn't really see herself as in the wrong

Overall her and Toki's relationship is not good. TLDR: She always saw him as a dissapointment and if she could, she would've had other kids to replace him with (Unfortunatly she and her husband didn't have any luck conceving again, which they blamed on Toki too for some reason). He on the other hand really wants to love her but can't help but rightfully feel resentful and hate her for all she did to him

Despite that, Anja cared enough for her son to teach him a bit of polish and some facts about their culture. Toki then continued learning from the polish books she brought with her from back home (He didn't have much to do inbetween work, praying and punishments) and actually ended up being almost fluent in it at some point. Currently he has gone rusty but still knows enough to read some signs and order some beer at the bar, which was enough to impress the band at their first international tour

One last fun fact: As you can guess, Aslaug's cult dennounced the pope which was really hard on Anja because like every polish person at the time she fucking loved John Paul II. He was her secret true love/celebrity crush, despite everything she secretly kept a picture of him in her room. When she discovered he died somewhere during the events of Dethfam she was DEVISTATED. Toki on the other hand is a rzułta morda meme connosiour.