#my guy. for fuckssake

[goldkirk]

Sometimes you just gotta be the anti-conspiracy theory voice you want to see in the world, one comment section at a time (as long as no one else has jumped in already and you have the energy and knowledge)

[dev1lm4n]

lesson one: sensitive

ko-fi | series masterlist

pairing: porn star!joel miller x f!reader

summary: under several notable circumstances, mr. miller finally decided that he'd be the best teacher for your first debut into sexual activities. even when all of it is to prepare you for your successful date.

word count: 5.4k (i know.. i went a little crazy on this lol)

warnings: explicit (18+), set in 2013, pre-outbreak, age gap (joel in mid 30's and reader in early 20's), inexperienced but not dumb reader, fingering, he's kinda mean, check umbrella warning on series masterlist

notes: i had so much fun writing this! tbh this one is super filthy compared to the other one so.. forgive me 🤲 COMMENT n REBLOG if u liked it

“I could take you home if you’d like. Pretty girls like you shouldn’t roam the street alone.”

Simon, more commonly referred to as Robotic Class Guy or French Fries, was surprisingly not half as bad as you thought he would be. He had all the height of a man but none of the bulk. From behind he could be easily spotted as someone in their late teens to early thirties, mostly blaming his horrid graphic tee and skinny jeans combo, but when he turned that face was all boy. His caramel hair flopped over his eyes in the way no office worker could get away with and on his wrist were bracelets in woven leather. 

At first, you accepted his awkward invite out of spite. 

Just to rid yourself of a certain plague festering upon your head, feasting on your brain cells so that you’d think of nothing but Mr. Miller in all his glory. Him with his tight worn-out jeans, spread open enough that you could see a naughty peak of his bulge, while he watched the soccer game. Him with his shirt off, bathing in the summer-induced moisture, while he mowed the front lawn and edged the curb. Him with his thumb parting your lips, looking at you like he’s about to consume you alive, but of course he didn’t. 

At least now that Simon came around, you’d have a new port to anchor your boat on.

“No, thanks, I’m alright. My..”

Who was Mr. Miller to you again? 

Your.. father? Absolutely not. Even if he’s taken you in as a part of the Miller family, just like how he used to say, you would feel like it’d be morbidly repulsive to deduce him to that particular role. For fuckssake, you stick a finger up your cunt every single week to the thought of him fucking you like one of his girls.

Then would a family friend be better of a word? Or should you just say that he’s a guardian of yours? But that’d be confusing, wouldn’t it? You glanced at your watch, counting the hour and minute hand as if it’d give you a revelation on how to answer Simon’s pop quiz.

“Someone promised to pick me up.”

That sure did sound ominous.

With a promise to leave a message to his cell once you’ve returned home safely, you stepped out of the quaint local restaurant. It was warm outside and you weren’t particularly fond of that. Heat has always been your mortal enemy; something about the musty scent of middle school boys’ armpits after PE class mixed in with the pungent perfumes they use to try and hide it has left you permanently traumatized. Your once-cheery mood had long evaporated along with any semblance of coolness. You tugged at the hem of your sundress, fanning yourself with your hand in a futile attempt to find relief from the stifling heat. This is hell!

Where was Mr. Miller?

Mr. Miller must've read your mind, because a honk quickly resonated. He was on the very corner of the parking lot; his large pickup truck looked hilariously out of place when compared to the array of city cars parked by his side. You swore you could see him grin from behind the shaded tint of his window, perhaps entertained at your almost too obvious annoyance. The thought made your heart jump and maybe even did a front-flip. God, you’re helpless!

As you beelined down the sidewalk and on to him, the heat seemed to intensify with every step. Beads of sweat formed on your forehead, causing your hair to stick in weird shapes. You just hope that his truck’s AC works.

“Hi.. Hi, Mr. Miller.”

“Hey, sweetheart. How was it?”

The nickname never ceased to exude so much power. ‘Sweetheart’ made you feel as if a tail had grown out right from the hilt of your ass and you had no other choice than to swish it around excitedly. You propped up one leg on the washed-off gray carpet, before swinging yourself into the vehicle in one go. The door closed behind with a loud thud. As you leaned back, you cringed at the feeling of your sweat-soaked dress clinging onto your skin. You felt like some marinated beef, sticky and in need of a quick shower.

“It was alright,” you hummed.

“Alright? Now that made me all the more curious,” he grinned, nudging your side with the edge of his elbow. “Com’on now. Tell me all about it, will ya?”

“Mr. Miller, are you trying to embarrass me?”

Mr. Miller’s soothing brown eyes that were stuck on the glittering street lights came flickering over to you, as if he’s actually afraid that perhaps he’s made you uncomfortable. His shoulders squared and his jaw slackened for just a split second as he tried to grasp for any nuance you’ve just given. You then smiled at him, relieving him of his worries.

It’s a little jarring to say that you think he’s quite cute. In the same way people find puppies cute, or those strawberry-shaped trinkets. He’s a little socially-awkward in his own way. Embarrassed to ask the waitress to bring his plate back, but would be confident bullying his cock into a tight cunt. Would definitely get kooky when asked to join a parents-teacher conference, but would whisper filthy things on the internet.

“I ain’t tryna make you embarrassed,” he huffed out. “I just wanna know you’re safe.”

How nice. If only he knew why you went on dates in the first place.

“He’s alright, Mr. Miller. Kind, decently groomed, respectful,” you replied, flicking through your Twitter feed mindlessly. “Better than most college guys.”

“Did he pick you up?”

Your forehead scrunched up. “I ordered a cab.”

“Did he at least get the door for you?”

“It’s not exactly the 1900’s, is it?” you quipped back at him.

He raised his eyebrows, waiting for your answer.

“If you’re that curious, then no.”

“Well then, did he pay for dinner?”

“No, well.. I did offer for us to split it,” you reasoned.

“Well, sweetie, he’s not too respectful. Is he?”

“Yeah.. but he’s cute.”

He’s cute and you’re desperate to get over Mr. Miller. Terribly so. At first, the entire situation with having your pornstar crush be the head of your host family was hilarious, it’s a joke written by itself. But then the desires went through the roof in a matter of weeks and you’re sure that you’d actually jump him one of these days. He’s attached to the back of your mind like some ghostly presence. Everything he said and done carved at your brittle wall of determination and one day it’s all going to fall apart like broken glass. You needed to stop it from happening. 

There was a minute or so where he didn’t have anything to say. He hadn’t let go of the handbrakes either, though he appeared to be squeezing the leather cover of the steering wheel tighter.

“Cute ain’t enough for a man, sweetheart.”

Mr. Miller finally pushed down the handbrakes and released the pickup truck from the small parking lot. His large hands skillfully turned the wheels to fit through the tiny gaps, guiding the vehicle towards the open road. You shut your eyes for a good minute, then you let out a weighted sigh. Almost as if you’re a deflated balloon.

The drive was going to be a long one, considering the restaurant you’re on was in the heart of the town and Mr. Miller’s humble abode was more towards the outskirts. Would he continue preaching about the importance of Southern manners and being a gentleman? Because if he did, perhaps you’d just shut him up with a kiss.

“I’m just a little nervous,” you broke the silence.

“Because of the boy?”

“Sorta, yeah. It’s my first time..”

You clicked your phone shut, stuffing it on the cup holder next to the car stick. The entire conversation was making you nauseous. You had to press on the button on your left to slide down the windows in order to take in fresh air. Through the open window, a gentle breeze tousled the top of your hair, carrying with it the familiar scent of Summer in Austin. As he drove closer into the outskirts of town, the lights gradually faded behind into a sea of twinkling stars.

“First time in what?”

“In all this,” your hand motioned the idea abstractly.

“You’ve never dated?”

An enthusiastic grin snaked its way to his lips.

“I have! But it’s not- it’s not real. It’s middle school romance. We meet each other in the hallways, hold hands and giggle about it, then go on pizza dates,” you tried to explain. “I’ve never dated properly.”

“Why not?”

“Because,” you tousled your hair in frustration. “Just because, Mr. Miller. I’m not sure either. Maybe I’m just comfortable in my own little bubble?”

“Then this boy.. What’s his name again?”

“Simon.”

“Right, Simon. Are you thinking of dating Simon properly?”

“Maybe,” you muttered.

“Maybe I could teach you,” he paused. “Well, that is if you’d like this old man to teach you old tricks.”

Your hands tightly clutched the edge of your seat. A rise of bile disturbed your throat's peace as a knot of anxiety started to form in your stomach. This is what you’re working towards.

You didn’t want to admit it, because admitting means legitimizing what you had in mind, but you were hoping for him to offer you help in any way that he felt was right. Despite your.. odd relationship with him, he was your guardian and you’ve seen the way he dealt with all Sarah’s problems with soft-spoken words and fair actions. You trusted him to help you delve into this new world of adult romance, but it’s not like you’re expecting for him to agree on it. Shit, shit, shit! You couldn’t think straight.

“Com’on then. Tell me what you’re so nervous of.”

“You’re gonna laugh at me,” you groaned.

“I’m not!”

“You are,” you persisted.

“Fine. I promise not to laugh.”

You took a deep breath. The single word sticky on the end of your tongue.

“Sex.”

The pickup truck swerved.

To your surprise, instead of howling and laughing at your lack of experience, he was quiet. Awfully so to the point where you think you’d rather have him laugh at your patheticness instead of giving you the cold shoulder. You rolled the window back up, giving him your full attention as you waited for him to do something. He looked tense; the grip he had on the steering wheel was so tight you could see the leather developing crescent-shaped marks. What was he thinking of?

“Do I.. do I have to give you the talk?”

“God, no! Mr. Miller, I’m not clueless,” you looked horrified that he even considered giving you the birds and the bees talk. “I am, but I know what happens.”

The hours you’ve spent analyzing each and every one of his videos surely made an impact on how you view sex. Perhaps not the most accurate one, since you were merely looking through a 720p video and not being present in the scene, but you knew how sex goes. How it starts, what arousal looks like, what appears to feel good and what doesn’t, and how good an orgasm looks like when induced by another person. Mr. Miller might not be aware of how much he’s taught you. Not directly, but in a cause-and-action kind of way.

“Then what are you afraid of?” he hummed.

“Making a mistake,” you muttered dejectedly. “Of it not feeling good.”

A beat passed.

“Do you..” he struggled to speak properly. “Do you want me to teach you?”

What were you thinking! It was one thing to harbor intense, disgustingly filthy feelings towards a man who perceived you as an addition to his family, but it was another thing to act on it desperately. Your mind reeled back towards the exact moment when you agreed on his proposition. How you agreed on it instantly as if it wasn’t even a question, how you nodded your head miserably as if you were afraid that you’d miss this one chance, how you buckled your knees at the thought.

God, how pathetic can you be! You didn’t remember much after such a cathartic turn of events. All you managed to compile in that pretty little head of yours was that he took a different interchange, then slipped onto a highway towards.. whatever this place was.

It was on the outskirts of town. Opposite to where he lived. Big trees grew tall and heavy as they provided a mystique veil for the trailer house. You remembered the shade of peeling paint covering the outside, sky blue. The lanterns provided ample lighting for it to be spotted from a distance, but not enough to attract rowdy attention. Mr. Miller told you to come inside first while he secured his pickup truck properly. He mentioned a thing or two about racoons or squirrels, but you were too high off adrenaline to even notice. Being in the property, you instantly knew where you were.

This was his lair.

Where he shoots his videos, where he invites all his pretty co-stars to make them moan and whimper about how good his cock felt and how deep it went, where he edits those striking millennial-core thumbnails. Your throat grew dry and you began to think if it’s time to bail. He’d understand, wouldn’t he? Mr. Miller would just take you home and forget about it. Then, by next summer, you’d be out of his hair and he’d never even think about it.

A creak sounded from the front door. You jumped.

“Hi, sweetheart. You okay?”

You nodded. Your entire body went cold, especially the tips of your fingers and toes as you saw him come close. One step at a time. Almost as if he’s trying to make sure he doesn’t scare you too much. Mr. Miller looked awfully big up close. You never seemed to notice this entirely when you see him around the house, but when he’s confined in this miniscule trailer house, he looked massive. His presence towered over every last bit of your confidence. It’s surely crumpling - your confidence - slowly dissipating into thin when he was flushed against your chest. 

“I’m okay, Mr. Miller.”

He pulled a foldable chair from one of the open compartments, before taking a seat on it. He spread his legs, as always, and had this look in his eyes. 

“You sure you wanna do this?” he paused, before resuming. “You could tell me you don’t feel like doin’ this anymore and I could take you home. Won’t talk about it anymore if you don’t wanna.”

“I.. I want to do this, Mr. Miller.”

“Are you sure? There ain’t no pressure in this. I’m simply here to help you, sweetheart, so if you feel like-”

“I get it, okay, I get it. I trust you. A lot. And I know you’d be the best person to teach me.”

What were you even saying? This was straight out of your wildest wet dreams and perhaps that’s why you’re so adamant about it. You watched silently as he contemplated his choices. Mr. Miller scratched his beard for a short while, his gaze focused beyond you and you could almost watch in real-time how his morals and values crumbled onto the creaky floorboards. He stood up from his small chair and headed right towards where you were standing idly. Is this what May felt like in those videos?

“Alright, sweetheart. I ain’t a vocal man so this is gonna be challenging even for me,” he chuckled gruffly. “Every man has their way of settlin’ with their ladies, but I like ‘em stripped off their clothing first. So will you be a pretty thing and do that for me?”

For a second, you were as still as a rock. Entirely not used to having the person who initiated many if not all of your orgasms giving you these orders in real life. He’s right there in front of you, flesh and bones, telling you to strip off your clothing. It felt like a fever dream. You must’ve had a weird look on your face, because a grin started to form on those chapped lips of his.

Conscious of the mistake, you quickly reacted. Almost skittishly in a way as you pulled on the zipper that’s located on your right ribs. Your fingers fumbled with one another, as if it’s been braided into one, but you managed to loosen it after a few attempts. You slipped your right arm under the spaghetti straps, before you slipped the other one. The only thing holding your modesty together was your one arm that’s holding onto the support-less front flap of your sundress.

“Com’on now. It’s just me. You can act shy and adorable around Simon, but not this old man,” he teased.

You nodded, hesitantly letting your arms fall to the side. The terribly warm weather encouraged you not to wear a bra. Although you wondered if 3 PM you knew that you’re going to be engaging in some promiscuous agenda this evening. You looked up into his eyes for some kind of guidance, in which he responded with a curt nod, before you tugged on the dress so that it’d slide onto the floor.

Now the only piece of modesty you’re wearing is your plain white panties. Your breasts were entirely exposed, cold nipples firming up as it reacted to the change of temperature. This is embarrassing! Mr. Miller was being incredibly methodical in the ways in which he approached the situation, lacking sloppy mouthy kisses and feverish touches.

“Smart girl,” he complimented, almost on instinct. “Let’s get on the bed, yeah?”

You moved adjacent to him. Mr. Miller was gentle when he patted the spot next to him, allowing you to settle down properly while he fixed a pillow behind your back. To think that you’re positioned on the same bed where you’ve witnessed him please an array of girls made you feel some sort of way. A hitch in your heart, a twitch in your hole. You’ve never witnessed him this gentle. He’s always fond of establishing the power he held on the dynamic he’s presented, always telling girls what to do in quick succession and calling them humiliating names if they fail to do as told. With you, he was sweet and rather funny.

“In my experience, one of the things girls like the most is to be withdrawn from control,” he spoke up into the thick air. You didn’t miss the way his eyes cruised along your beaded nipples, or the way it watched you with feral precision. “Of course, it depends on the person. But you. I think you’re a sensitive one, are you?”

You nodded obediently.

“Cross your arms behind your back,” he ordered and watched closely as you followed suit. “Lean back onto the pillow.”

You copied his order. Only then did your finicky brain finally compute that you’re limited off your movements now. With your body weight acting like paper weight for your arms, it’d be impossible for you to react in quick time.

“Good girl.”

His mindless comment made you tighten your thighs together.

“I’m gonna touch you, okay?” he whispered gently. You could watch how he’s slowly approaching you with much caution. His arms caged you in as it dug into the tangled sheets next to you. He’s testing the currents, making sure you’re fully consenting to the experience before he makes any mistake that might ruin your perception of sex. “Ask your little friend to touch you slowly. None of that frisky aimless touching. If he pulled on your nipples and called it a day, I’d leave his ass.”

This little routine he had, the one Wicked Fantasies had, was memorized into your head and to watch it take place right in front of you made you ecstatic. He caressed the side of your face. Gently even with those big, large fingers of his, he managed to take up a good portion of your cheek. Mr. Miller then made his way to your lips. He swiped it once over your upper lip, then another time over your thicker bottom lip. You’d anticipate for him to stick his thumb in deep enough so that he could see your uvula properly, but he didn’t. Instead, he settled on pressing down your tongue as if to pin it against the lower floor of your mouth. A good amount of saliva was collected that when he pulled away, a lewd string remained intact.

“Do you know why I like pinning a girl’s tongue down?” he queried to increase comfort in a way.

“No,” you whispered breathlessly. “Why?”

“It makes ‘em docile,” he muttered. “Encourages submission and I like a pretty girl who listens.”

Mr. Miller’s fingers dragged through the curves and texture of your warm skin, leaving goosebumps on his wake, before he finally reached your two perky nubs. Each one hardened before he could give them the treatment they both deserved, which in a way broke his routine, but instead of being irritated, he appeared to be pleased.

Girls in his videos weren’t as sensitive as you. They didn’t get riled up just by a little touching and teasing. Seeing you like this was a refreshing touch. One that made the wrinkles on his forehead ripple as his eyebrows quirked. He circled his calloused finger around where the pigmentation started. Once, twice. Right until he was merciful enough to press against the apex of your nipples.

You squirmed.

“So sensitive, are you?” he cooed. “Tell Simon to play with your sensitive little nipples, hm? You look like you could cum just by this.”

“O-oh please!”

“Please?”

You couldn’t respond. Not when he’s rolling the most sensitive part of your nipples between the pads of his thumb and the side of his pointer finger. Touching your breasts with your own nimble hands felt nothing like what he’s doing right now. You instinctually grinded your leaking pussy down onto the bed, almost like an animal in heat.

“Poor thing couldn’t even tell me what she wants. What would Simon think, hm? A girl with no self control like you,” he hummed. Mr. Miller quickly held onto your thighs so that you’d stop rocking onto the bed and getting off from pleasure he’s not offering. Your eyes met his, searching for help, but the sweet and respectful Mr. Miller wasn’t there anymore. “Alright now, sweetheart. You have ta make sure that you’re thoroughly aroused before thinkin’ of even touchin’ this place.”

“You’re new at this,” he hummed. His fingers slipped off the hold he had on your nipples before it slid down your stomach and settled precisely above your clothed clitoris. “It’s gonna hurt bad if you’re not properly lubricated. Sex is supposed to be fun, not painful so if some guy tells you that it’s supposed to hurt, don’t listen to his dumb shit.”

Mr. Miller was incredibly informative if you put aside the fact that he’s touching you in all the right places that it’s making you go dumb. He spent the time explaining why an action must be provided and how to perform it, when you know for a fact that this is not what he’s used to doing. Wicked Fantasies was known to be straight with words, using minimal sentences to provide his co-stars with just the right amount of information. You could tell he’s holding back the urge to be meaner, to act the way he likes, just for you to be more comfortable.

“Let’s take a look, shall we? You think I did a good job, darlin’?”

It’s dark out. There’s only one source of light that’s present in the room. A small bedside lamp in the shape of an elephant, Sarah’s favorite animal that’s grown to be yours as well. This session with him felt intimate; you’d expect for him to bring out the bright light panels and reflectors just like in those videos you watched of him, but instead, he mostly depended on the moonlight rays.

You were acutely aware of how those dark eyes of his mirrored your own. The way he studied you was unlike any other, not with an invasive intent, but rather with heed. You watched as he hooked his fingers on each side of your panties. Slowly dragging it down, only to stop to wait for you to ease your thighs upwards.

“Look at you,” he chuckled. “I’m right about you bein’ sensitive. Don’t think we need any lube when your pussy looks like this.”

By instinct, you brought your thighs together, shy that he’s observing you with such vulgar intensity. He hummed out a tone of disapproval and quickly placed his arms on both of your knees, prying the two apart as if he’s opening a stubborn can of bolognese. You bit your bottom lip, stifling the noise of embarrassment.

Anxiety bubbled up inside of you. You wondered if you looked okay down there - no other men had seen it besides him! - or if there was something strange that caused him to halt. There was a lewd string of sticky arousal pooling on the center of your panties. You silently watched as it stretched and broke as Mr. Miller pulled the thin fabric away.

“You’re soaked, sweetie,” he teased.

“Mr. Miller, that’s- that’s embarrassing..”

“You like to touch yourself, don’t you?”

Your eyes flickered towards his direction in fear. Has he discovered your incurable obsession for him and his erotic videos? That couldn’t be, could it? There’s no scientific correlation between being extremely aroused with masturbation as far as you’re aware, but the confidence he exude made you doubt yourself. Mr. Miller moved in a painfully slow tempo, taking his time to caress your inner thighs and stomach before even considering touching you where it ached. His calloused fingers felt different against your skin. It left a fiery trail in its wake.

“No, I don’t,” you lied with a breathless squeak.

“It’s okay if you like to touch yourself, y’know,” he whispered as if taunting you. “Girls who like to touch themselves understand themselves better.”

Mr. Miller finally touched you properly. His pointer finger probed against your clitoris, touching in the lightest feathery manner possible that you couldn’t have felt it if you weren’t concentrating. Your hips followed the brief source of pleasure, only to be disappointed when you notice that he wasn’t there. He pulled his finger close to his mouth and made a big show out of it. The way your arousal glistened under the pale moon rays, Mr. Miller teased you with his expressions and mannerism. He dipped the stained finger in his lips to have a good taste while keeping  eye contact.

“Please touch me.”

“What was that, sweetheart?” he hummed.

“Please touch me again. It feels go-”

You were cut off immediately when he lazily drew a perfect circle on top of your hooded clit.

“Fuck, please, please, sir.”

Ah, he liked that. He liked the new name you’ve granted him. Mr. Miller was kind enough to resume what he was doing. His finger descended down onto your throbbing hole to gather a good amount of slick before he brought it up to aid his ventures.

“The best way to feel good is controlled pleasure. It feels better to be denied than to receive boring continual pleasure, so..” he paused his movement all together. “I’m gonna teach you a little game.”

“A little game..” you sounded like you’re about to cry from his sudden withdrawal.

“Count to ten, properly. Then I’ll reward you with more. If you fail, then we gotta start from the very beginning,” he explained. His warm breath fanning over your sensitive clit. “You think you can do that, pretty girl?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll start now.”

“One, two..”

You felt how he made his laps around your nub. It was much more intense than the pleasures you’ve initiated before. Compared to rutting against a pillow, grinding against a bedpost, or laying under the tub’s running water, this felt like an entire new experience. You fought to keep still, but it’s gradually getting harder when his finger starts prodding against your tight little hole.

“Three, four. Please, Mr. Miller. Oh god,” you whimpered by accident. He didn’t like that one bit by the look he gave you. There weren’t rules and promises to this, no dynamic the two of you have agreed on, but you couldn’t help but be terrified of his disapproval. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, sir.”

“From the start,” he ordered.

“One, two, three..”

You could barely remember the numbers in your head despite encountering them almost every day of the week. You’re a smart girl, knows your ways around things, but being touched by Mr. Miller makes you go all dumb.

“Four, five, six..”

Your thighs began to twitch and spasm. You catched the way he pulled back the hood to your clit to get a more direct touch. It was working wonders as the sensation now is a lot more electrifying. Arousal dribbled down your twitching hole and onto the crack of your rear, wetting the sheets beneath you with the sticky clear substance.

“Seven, eight, n- nine!”

You jutted your hips out when his fingers brushed over your clit once more, the sensitive bundle of nerves extra aware of his presence, and he managed to hold you back once more. He’s forgiving. You knew he’d punish his co-stars if they couldn’t stay still like you, but he let this one slide. He continued rubbing slow, tight circles only to alter into an eight shape.

“Ten.”

The ultimatum. It has arrived, your key to heaven.

“Smart girl,” he cooed, never actually stopping. “This little hole of yours looks neglected, hm?”

“Yes, pleasepleaseplease.”

“Touch your clit slowly like I taught you,” he ordered. “You can do that can you, sweetheart?”

You nodded, distraught and ruined. With his sweet permission, you pulled one arm out from your back and rested it right above your clit. Slow and steady. Just like how he ordered. Mr. Miller on the other hand was slicking up his pointer finger with his tongue. Fuck, that looks so god damn hot.

He had pressed his sole finger deep into your warmth with no hesitation whatsoever. The combination of his calloused finger against your walls and the golden freckles inside his narrowed irises had you reaching out for his forearm. Your nails came in contact with his skin as you dug upon it, crescent shapes formed in pinkish shades atop his skin. You had to sit up as the only way you’re getting through this is by leaning on his sturdy arm.

“Oh, you like that, huh? Filthy girls like you love to get their holes filled?”

What you didn’t expect was having him press a second finger in. His one finger was thicker than what you’re used to, but two fingers? That makes you an overachiever for sure. You looked up to meet his eyes frantically. You knew he wouldn’t be kind enough to withdraw the action when his mind is already set on it, but it was worth the try. He cocked his head arrogantly as he pursued his plans. Mr. Miller’s middle finger was a tight fit. Barely able to slip past the ring of muscles. Though when he did manage to get himself in, a loud moan escaped your lips. 

“Mr. Miller. I can’t- I’ve never- never taken two fingers!”

“I know you can do it, sweetheart,” his free hand went over to run over your sweaty hair, admiring every inch of you. “You wanna please that boy, don’t you? Little Simon?”

He was skillful with his fingers, perhaps from his job requirements. Although it’s still incredible how he managed to have you squirming, yelling how you’re about to cum in a matter of seconds. All he did was switch between pumping the two in you, creating the filthiest sounds, and reaching upwards to hit that certain spot of yours. You rubbed your clit with much concentration as you followed after his thrusts.

“Mr- oh.. Mr. Miller! I’m gonna cum, sir.”

“You’re gonna do that for me?” he grinned, pushing his fingers into you as deep as they could go. He maintained a steady pace, emphasizing pressure on that spongy spot up top that you’ve never managed to reach with your stubby fingers. “Pretty girl gonna cum from my fingers?”

“Yes, yes.. sir. Please.”

“Cum for me, darlin’” he whispered. “Show me how good you can be.”

Oh god, you're in a lot of trouble.

[mickittotheman]

Hiiii gallavich and 20? Kiss on a scar?

Hiiii!!! Your wish is my command:

+++

Ian’s on top of him, warm and heavy and so fucking good. Mickey wiggles a bit, tipping his head back to try and get a better angle, but the fact is that it’s pretty hard to have a successful makeout session when you have a huge grin stretched across your lips.

Ian doesn’t seem to mind. He’s smiling too.

Mickey nips at his lower lip, and Ian hisses and pulls back slightly, one hand still pinning Mickey’s wrists to the cot, the other cupping Mickey’s face.

Ian glares at him for all of one second before melting like a fucking sap again.

“Mickey.”

Mickey’s smile widens. He cocks his brow. Nibbles on his own lip instead of Ian’s. He lets himself look, really look, drink in all the details. “Your hair looks stupid as hell.”

Ian blinks, eyes flitting up as if he’ll be able to see. Fucking dork. “Oh. Yeah. I was uh… thinking about making a run for it. Maybe head down to Mexico…”

“Thank fuck you didn’t.”

“Yeah,” Ian breathes, gaze still dancing all over Mickey’s face like he’s not entirely convinced that he’s real, that he’s here. “Thank fuck.”

Mickey wiggles again, this time in impatience. Ian’s on him, but he wants Ian on him, wants Ian in him, wants Ian. 

He’s just about to start bitching when Ian tenses, brows furrowing, smile slipping. His hand slips down from Mickey’s face, fingers glancing over the skin of Mickey’s neck.

Oh.

“What’s this?”

“Nothin',” Mickey says, wiggling again. Jesus. What is it with Gallagher and his ability to turn Mickey into a fucking worm. “Don’t worry about it. ‘S all healed up, anyways.”

Ian’s frown deepens. His gaze darts up to meet Mickey’s, then down again, to the little pink not-yet-faded scar just above Mickey’s collarbone.

It’s nothing. Really. Mickey has plenty of other scars that are far more fucking impressive. He’s been shot for fuckssake, more than once. 

“Mickey. Is this– Did someone hold a fucking knife to your throat?”

Mickey huffs. Looks away. “Wasn’t a big fucking deal or anything–”

“Wasn’t a big deal?” 

“It wasn’t! Guy was just trying to prove a point.”

“He could have nicked a fucking artery!”

“He didn’t!” Mickey twists his wrists, trying to yank out of Ian’s now-even-fucking-tighter grasp, but Ian holds steady. Great. Now Mickey has to try and use his fucking words to calm Ian down, and fuck knows he’s never been good at that. “Ian, look, I’m fine. See? Totally fine. I barely even bled at all. Scar probably only looks so bad because I was shit at taking care of it and it was getting fucking blasted by the sun.”

Ian’s face crumples.

Fuck. “Ian–”

“I should have been there,” Ian says, and his voice is low. Angry. “I should have fucking been there. To take care of you. To keep you from getting hurt in the first place.”

Mickey finally manages to wrestle one of his hands free. He brings it up, smooths it through Ian’s hair, which is just as soft as ever. It looks different, but it feels the same. They both still feel the same. “Hey. It’s fine, man. I’m fine.” He twists his lips up. Cocks his brows. “Then again… not too late for you to take care of me now. Gonna kiss me better, hotshot?”

Ian looks at him for another long, slow moment. Breathes out a shaky breath. Finally fucking relaxes a bit. 

He leans in slow. Brushes his lips over the spot, soft enough to make Mickey shiver.

It’s Ian, and it’s Mickey, so it doesn't stay gentle for long. Ian’s kisses grow firmer, grow bolder, until he’s licking and sucking like he’s trying to cover up the mark with a mark of his own.

Mickey pants and hums and fucking wiggles. “Fuck. Ian. Need you.”

Ian’s hips jerk against his own, grinding them together just fucking right, before he pulls away again.

“Fuck. Ian,” Mickey huffs, nearly fucking whining at this point but too fucking desperate to care. 

“You have any other new scars I need to kiss better?”

He does. He has at least five from the past too-many-fucking-months, littered across his body along with his countless other scars. Ian will sniff them all out, he’s sure. But they’ve got time for that. That’s all they’ve fucking got now, is time, and Mickey’s never been happier to serve it. “Hm. You know, now that you mention it… I’ve got a pretty fucking serious case of blueballs, Nurse Gallagher.”

Ian snorts, loud and jarring and goofy as fuck, and it’s probably the sappiest fucking thing Mickey’s ever thought, but the sound of his laughter and the sight of his smile and the feel of his weight is more healing than any fucking kiss could ever be.

He still ain’t gonna turn down those kisses, though.

send me a number~

[youvebeenlivingfictional]

picking them up from work and nathan bateman

Send me a comfort prompt

It takes you a few moments to react. At first you're just...Gobsmacked. But when he tips his head forward, brows raising, it spurs you into action. You don't run and jump into his arms. If you did, he'd just be so, so confused. It's not because you're that girl—you can be, for the right person—but Nathan's just not that guy. He'd sooner hold his hands up to stop you than open his arms to catch you. Hell, he'd laugh about it, too, ask if you thought you were in a fucking Hallmark movie.

"What are you doing here?" You ask as you grow close enough for him to hear you.

"Haven't seen you in a while, figured I'd stop by."

"Just—Like that?"

"Well," Nathan tips his head from side to side, averting his gaze, and you have to fight back a knowing smile. Caught him. "I had some business."

"What kind of business?"

"Just a meeting."

"For what?"

"Do you wanna get in the car and grab dinner, or stand here and question me on the sidewalk?"

"Honestly? I'm happy to stand here and question you."

Nathan scoffs, pushing off of the side of the hired car and opening the door for you, grumbling, "Just get in."

You can't help but giggle as you climb in, giving the driver a quick wave in greeting. You settle back into the seat, turning to look at Nathan.

"So?" You arch your brows. "Where are we going?"

"So now you're going to question me in the car," Nathan sighs heavily, even as you worm your hand into his and intertwine your fingers. "I should've left you on the sidewalk."

--

"Tell me how your day was."

You raise a brow, propping one arm up on the table and resting your chin on your hand. You want to snark back, but for a moment, you just...Can't.

Sometimes the way Nathan watches you catches you so off-guard. It has an effect on you when you're video-chatting, but it's so much more acute when he's physically in front of you. When he's there, you know that he won't glance away to jot down a note or approve a change. It's even better now that he's pulled his chair up to the side of the table right next to you, rather than sitting on the other side of the table. His knees don't brush against yours, they press. His arm rests on the table, too, his fingertips gently sweeping against your arm.

They're little touches, but they're so sweet—like he can't help it when he's so close.

"See, the difference between you and me is that I ask questions," You tip your head toward him, "But you demand answers."

"And that's a bad thing?"

"I didn't say it was bad, it's just...Interesting."

"Opposites attract."

"Yeah, if you're a magnet."

His lips quirk, and you shift in your seat as he slides his other hand up your thigh.

"Fine. Please, oh please, will you acquaint me with the details of your day?" He asks dryly. You snort, reaching out and taking up your drink.

"You know what, I take it back. I prefer it when you demand answers."

"Then answer for fuckssake," Nathan laughs. You grin, shrugging.

"My day was fine."

"How was the check-in with your manager?"

"Not bad. She just wanted to see where I was with that rewrite."

"Didn't she only assign that, like, yesterday?"

"Yeah."

"So what's with the micromanaging? You can do your fucking job."

"I know that and they know that, but this is a big project with a short turn around. She's just keeping a close eye."

"Well, she needs to get the stick out of her ass. They're paying you for a reason."

"Awww," You coo. "If only people really knew how kind you are."

"Tell 'em all you want. They'd never believe it."

You smile, reaching out and cupping his cheek, feeling the bristles of his beard beneath your palm.

"Why didn't you tell me you were coming?" You ask.

"Honestly? I wasn't sure I'd be able to see you. If I did, I wanted it to be a surprise."

"Mission accomplished. But, you could've told me you'd be in the city anyway."

It takes Nathan a moment. He lowers his gaze to where his hand is resting steady on your thigh, his thumb sweeping across your pant leg.

"You've mentioned a few times that you don't get to see me that much."

"Yeah, because I don't."

"I didn't wanna disappoint you."

Your stomach flips. It seems like a bitter admission. You curl your hand around his jaw, tipping his head up to meet your gaze.

"You could never disappoint me," You insist softly. Nathan nods a little.

"...Unless you do," You add, "In which case, you know. I'd be bummed, but I wouldn't hate you or anything." You lean back in your seat, taking up your drink again. Nathan huffs a soft laugh through his nose, patting you thigh.

"Keep it up, baby."

"And if I do?"

"You're walking home."

"If I have to walk home, you're not gettin' any."

[director-yomi-hellsmile]

We cannot for the love of god relate to the fairly common plural experience of clear and good internal communication between headmates. Sure we can feel some things that others do or have touch sensations but we are notttt holding a coherent conversation just via thoughts, our brain is too fucked up and disorganized for that also the mind radio and random sound effects every 3 seconds make it even harder. We just trail off somewhere, start mumbling or forget how words work except for that one fucking guy who is not bothered by any of that but simply chooses to not give any signs of life 99% of the time. Whenever we feel like saying something we have to write that down and either co-front to reply to each other or wait until they front like a day later. And we have (kind of. mostly. we think. maybe) a single consciousness so it's not some kind of barrier thing either we just get really really really tired by forcing our brain to calm down and think more coherently

Outside of that we just kinda communicate via other means (we know what we overall think lol I mean we share a mind. mostly) or hang out in silence but if we catch each other there at the same time and we both feel like talking then we just start mumbling and slurring that shit or just making weird random noises like this is overall how our general business meeting looks:

Yomi: ffsspfhhshhhnnhh hhnnnhhhggh?? Ashley, slow-blinking reassuringly: mmeeep!!👍👍 mmmmhhhhhhghhhhhh.. Snowtuft: IIIIEIEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE Y0mi I want U s0 bad Lexie: AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA. EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE. WEEEEEEEEEEEEEE Ouma: In this video, three of my friends try to jack me off while I beat minecraft; can they make me cum before I beat the ender dragon, or will I ejaculate all over my computer? This is: Minecraft Semenhunt. Also, only a small percentage of my vi Seweryn: ........... heheheheh. [wheeze] heh.... heh. h Brutus: rawr!!11 x3 meow :3 *glomps u >.<* Strophaia: [DISTANT CHOKING SOUNDS]

Icy refuses to be engaged in this post, as they are too serious and above such antics for this sort of activity. They only swoop down from the void in times of great turmoil to get us to lock the fuck in and take care of ourselves in near-complete silence and them approaching is felt physically as a pressure/sensation in the back region or perhaps headache. Not a headmate and does not refer to themselves as such, they are simply some which spawned in through multiverse shitfuckery and to be honest are probably more of a real and fleshed-out person that any of us could ever aspire to be. A tumble funnypost would not express the kind of psychic damage/healing their profound messages bring us. They are so cool. Why would they ignore me. Fuckssake. I need to train harder. I need to show them my flesh cubes

[bonyfish]

Hey do you guys want to hear the pawn shop story I don't tell because it sounds so fuckin fake? It is, regrettably, the season for it and I've been thinking of it again.

To preface this story with a defense of my honor, this is neither the weirdest nor the most upsetting thing to happen to me while working at the pawn shop. (The clown mask fake robbery probably takes the cake on both counts.) That is to say that in isolation, all elements of this tale are quite mundane to the reality of working at a pawn shop in southern Indiana.

Anyway.

CW: antisemitism, the 2016 election, customer service work

The year is 2016. I'm a couple years out of art school and have been working at a pawn shop in my small city for most of that time. I am a few months out from the event that will mark, in addition to calamity on a national and global scale, the beginning of the dissolution of my relationship with my parents: the election of Donald Trump. I am also beginning to suspect my new coworker Brian (not his real name) might be kind of a sleeper asshole.

Brian and I were at the jewelry counter this day, when this German couple in maybe their mid-40s walked in. They were friendly and in good spirits, and we chatted a bit while they tried on rings. My grandfather was German, and between that and growing up on Arnold Schwarzenegger movies, German and Austrian accents kind of put me at ease. So I liked these two, up until the fellow tried to negotiate the price of a ring down and the lady said, "He's not Jewish, if that's what you're thinking!"

Now this was far from the first time I'd encountered the greedy/thrifty Jew stereotype while working at the pawn shop. As with many unpleasant interactions, my default reaction was to pretend I hadn't noticed the negativity and forge on ahead. So I said something like, "That's too bad, since I'm Jewish and we would've had that in common."

To which the woman replied, laughing, "See, the joke is you're all greedy!"

Typically when I responded to this sort of thing by revealing that I'm Jewish, the other person would become embarrassed and apologize or otherwise end the interaction. Once or twice someone had covered up the awkwardness of the moment by making as many offensive jokes as possible before one of my coworkers took over, but this blithe statement of perceived fact was new. I did not know how to deal with this.

I said, "That is the stereotype, yes."

I'm not sure how she did it conversationally, but from there she segued quite abruptly into talking about how she really likes that Trump fellow, because he "tells it like it is." My coworker was just nodding along, agreeing with her and chatting, while I stood there wondering how I had ended up in this situation and how quickly I could exit it. Even at the time I was marveling at how hamfisted the moment would have been from a narrative perspective, were this a story and not my own wretched weekday morning. I mean, they were even German, for fuckssake. I hate the punchline/stereotype of all Germans being Nazis because, as I mentioned, my grandfather and his family were German Jews, and I feel like that stereotype erases those people while simultaneously letting actual Nazi Germans off the hook for their own choices. But here I am listening to this conversation and realizing that now I have this story I can't tell because it's too damn stupid.

Presently they left, and I tried to see if Brian had made any sort of connection between these people insulting me to my face and then endorsing this particular candidate, but of course he saw nothing wrong with the interaction. This marked the decline of any fellow-feeling I had towards him as a coworker. Another coworker later told me that Brian "didnt believe" in gay people, which explained why he couldn't work the register-- I trained him, and since I don't actually exist, there's no way he could've learned to do his job properly.

Anyway that's my story. A year or so later I quit with no prospects because having to play nice with people who I knew voted for Trump was making me crazy. Next time I'll tell a more fun story, like the one about all the cockroaches, or the other one about all the cockroaches.

[thelaughingmuse]

A brief history of US women's financial rights

Until 1848, married women in the US were not allowed to own property. Any property a woman owned became the property of her husband once she married. Same for any property that she might inherit during the marriage. The state of New York was the first to pass laws protecting married women's ability to own real estate by themselves. Most other US states adopted this law, or a very similar one, by 1900. (Yeah. It took them over 50 years.)

Until 1963, women in the US had no legal protections insuring that employers pay women an equal amount for doing a job that a man was doing. Once the Equal Pay Act passed, more women who were in the workforce could build their own wealth through having and using basic bank accounts, and had the ability to be customers for financial products. Women could open bank accounts before this point - but often only as "Mrs. Someone", not as themself.

Until 1974, women in the US could not apply for a credit card or get a home loan. Even if a bank would lend to a woman before 1974, the women were often charged higher interest rates than men - the thinking being, women are a bigger credit risk since they would leave the workforce earlier to take care of children, banks had to protect their investment SOMEHOW. Then in 1974, the Equal Credit Opportunity Act was passed, and banks could not require that a woman have a man as a co-signer on any account or financial product. (Some of the goatwanking control freaks probably STILL kept charging women higher interest rates, though.)

Until 1988, women could not apply for a business loan without - you guessed it - a male cosigner. Ronald Reagan (yes, that guy - proof that the most noxious boil of a human being can occasionally luck into doing something positive) signed the Women's Business Ownership Act, creating government support for women-owned businesses. Before this point, women had to get a male relative to co-sign any business loan.

But let's look at the Equal Credit Opportunity Act. That gives women the access to credit, which can sometimes be as important as having your own cash because it builds a credit history which can be used to prove to other banks that you're a stable credit risk, that lending money to you is highly likely to be repaid*. This landmark was what let women get mortgages =in their own name=. That lets women buy their own house - if they can afford it - which, in that time and place, set women up for a bit more stability than being a renter and gave women the huge financial equity that a house confers. (Now very few individuals can afford to buy houses in the US unless they come from wealth. But I digress.)

The US has only had widespread female financial emancipation and equal financial rights for two human generations. Fifty years. I was in kindergarten before my mom or any of her three sisters could have gotten a mortgage in their own name.

Ladies and female-appearing enbys, know your worth and know how to handle money. Don't settle for substandard pay. Unionize wherever possible. And for fuckssake, always have your own checking and savings account...and at least one credit card that you pay off every month. Also - when possible - have enough cash on hand to get yourself and your dependents to safety if things go kerflooey.

Credit scores now actually reflect more of how much interest you generate for lenders...who can all go gargle a golf ball.

[eternalgoldfish]

burned out flames should never reignite (but i thought you might)

Reddie | M | Chapter 4/6 | 17.6k

Sunlight creeps across Richie’s bedroom floor as he blinks awake, unwilling to reach out for his glasses just yet. If he doesn’t, he can believe he hears water running down the hall a little longer. He can pretend he’s been woken far earlier than usual by soft feet on his hardwood floor instead of a car door slamming out on the street.

Until he puts his glasses on, the waking world is a myth. He can cling to his dreams.

The water shuts off, followed by the click of a door. Richie rubs his tongue over his fuzzy teeth. He’s gotta do laundry today. He’s gotta be a real fucking adult.

He gets out of bed without his glasses and dresses in a pair of gray sweatpants and a gray crewneck, which is probably but not definitely the Avenue Q one some guy lovingly screen-printed for him last year. A horny muppet for my horny muppet.

Richie doesn’t even like musicals. He can’t even remember the guy’s fucking name. Rob? Ben? Something generic for a talentless aspiring broadway actor with great cheekbones. They had dated for four enthusiastic weeks that happened to fall over Richie’s birthday.

Distantly, someone is muttering something, although maybe they’re shouting if Richie can hear it through the walls. It sounds more like they’re trying to be hushed, polite, but they can’t be trying too hard. Richie can make out some of their words anyway.

“I don’t think I’ll be making it today, something came up. [...] No, it’s nothing bad. I have [...] it’s not about work [...] there are starving children in Africa [...] I’m not risking conjunctivitis–”

He stuffs his feet into socks that are most likely hole-free before finally, finally reaching for his glasses.

This is his shamrock’d Kiss Me, I’m Horny sweater, actually–

“–For fuckssake, it’s pink eye–”

– and Eddie Kaspbrak is still in his apartment.

Not a dream.

Read on AO3

[pisshandkerchief]

spn 02x10 the emo guy in therapy is kinda hot i hope he doesn't die wait hold that thought OH FOR FUCKSSAKE

same energy as that one time one of my mutuals watched jennifer's body for the first time and kept making posts like boy oh boy I hope nothing happens to this cool emo guy

[830poll]

90. I know you said it was a blur, but did you notice any patterns to your kidnappings? (it's my job dude. i'm kind of like a stunt double but for witness protection - 23.1%*) (i didn't escape they kept kidnapping me from each other. it sucked - 23.1%*)

(*you guys are killing me here)

Albin grips the railing of the ramp and leans against it. His sleeve forgets to follow suit. The gig economy being in shambles wasn't something he was expecting to factor into his unified conspiracy theory.

(yeah i think they kept mistaking me for hat. that seems to happen a lot - 23.1%*)

That's true - even I mixed you two up at first. I guess you just have one of those non-faces.

As you reach the top of the ramp, you can hear the chattering of a small crowd. Seems most of the Aquarium's visitors have gathered just up ahead.

[adepressedartist]

For fucks sake I can't calm down from it.

What was supposed to be a great night (which it overall was) that i tell my fiancé and bestfriend about after turned into a fucking nightmare in which i tried to convince myself that someone secretly gave me Bromo dragonfly or some shit and I'm in a bad psychosis since I'm in a coma. I tried talking myself into it multiple hours because i couldn't fucking understand how me sleeping is a reason to get fucking forcibly sent to a ward. I don't get hangovers from substances but for fucks sake after over 48hrs of being awake i wanted to sleep. And without context, just "yeah what u posted on the gram seemed sewerslidal" i couldn't get it. Because omfg. When i cried and begged for help fuCKING EVERYBODY. Ignored me. But then I have an absolute amazing mood, and my mental health is good again, it's taken away from me, i get fucking screamed at by someone i once trusted which she fucking destroyed as well with that because lord forbid how often I told her how badly this fucks my trust up. I'm not getting triggered by it anymore, that was years ago. But as soon as someone starts, in a serious manner screaming at me, it's over. She can be fucking lucky there were cops keeping me from breaking the law. she can be glad I was so tired and exhausted. She can be glad I was moments before in such a good mood.

But for fucks sake. When i begged for help, i got ignored, i got a "lol same haha", i got belittled with a "yeah turn it down i have it harder rn, you don't even have a job". BUT WHEN I FEEL GREAT MY MENTAL HEALTH GETS RUINED AND I GET SENT TO THE WARD?

I don't get it tbh. Absolutely not.

Like, after having some godforsaken context the next day which she didn't even tell me but my fiancé did. I understood where this all came from. But from her i only got "you acted weird". Great. I have DID/MPD. Surprise surprise, you know barely nobody in this system because nobody wants to talk to you. If i act "weird", you probably just forgot that i exist with other people for fucks sake. And it made me even more angry in the moment because her only reasons were that i didn't pick up my phone. Didn't open up my door. And was weird.

And the best thing is. I had this happen with her multiple times now. She did something shit. We talked it out more or less. I ignored that she's victimising herself. Said alright. Let's got over this.

But she fucking continues.

I told her multiple times to not fucking do this because no, it does not make me feel bad, i actively choose when to feel empathy. But I know that it will have legal consequences if she's not stopping because she's making me fucking aggressive. So i tried to not fucking snap at, or hit her a couple of days ago and told her to fucking stop it and she felt like it was fucking funny.

If she will do it again, i will fucking try to yeet myself out of protest. Or push her down a huge flight of stairs. Nobody is fucking listenign to me, i am repeating myself so fucking often and I'm tired of it. She fucking destroyed the weekend by screaming at me that even the cops looked scared at her. By screaming at me she made my neighbors look outside their apartments. And so fucking muvh more. And tHEN SHE FUCKING ACTS LIKE THE VICTIM LIKE FOR FUCKS SAKE YOU MAKE ME WANNA KILL EITHER YOU OR MYSELF. FUCKING STOP I WAS SO FUCKING AGGRESSIVE AND TRIED TO JUST BREATHE IT AWAY BECAUSE I KNOW WHAT I WANTED TO DO IN THAT MOMENT WAS ILLEGAL. AND FOR FUCKSSAKE WAS I HAPPY THE CURSE I DID IN YHE WARD FOR HER WORKED BECAUSE GOD WAS I ANVRY AND STILL ARE. SHE FUCKING ACTS LIKE A SMALL CHILD OVER AND OVER.

Yeah so that I calmly talk to someone, is not showing what i feel towards them in any way. Iget it. It was a big misunderstanding. It led to many bad things, but that is fine. I am an understanding person.

But i am angry at one guy. Because if i hate something, is when "friends" lie to your fucking face.

And i am angry at her for being an ignorant bitch that only sees herself. Idk where the friendship is going after all the shit she has generally done in the last 5-6 months, but i will definitely cut contact a bit now, because hell nah. I'm not her therapist anymore, and if she just wants to sit at my home all day watching tiktok with me she can also fuck off.

Will i tell her all of those things politely without hurting her feelings while all the way manipulating her? Yes. Why? Because i know exactly there are people in this head that unlike me now, still hold her dear.

But she played all her chances. I forgave her multiple times, but i never forgot. I'm so fucking fed up with humanity.

[soapchipss]

I have to start by saying that it could absolutely go either way and which one I prefer is neither here, nor there; and I'm a sucker for queer men listening to love songs between an assumed male and an assumed female. But, God!! Fiddleford falling in deep deep love with this guy and having zero clue what to do about it? Not even speak about it? Sure, sounds like the right idea! I mean, for fuckssake this guy had a wife and kids. Then his former classmate--the genius, the guy he got along with like a house on fire, his first exposure to someone who understood what he was studying for--reaches out and asks him to work on a project with him. The speed in which Fiddleford would've accepted that would be dizzying. So he's here, feeling like he's in college again, working around Ford and spending time with him--even remembering Christmas presents for Ford instead of his wife (which if that's not his subconscious calling him out, I don't know what is). I can imagine Fiddleford listening to the radio and hearing Jessie's girl, and instead of--I don't know--thinking of his wife in some imaginary scenario.. His mind drifts to his lab partner, of all people. Whether or whether not Fiddleford knew about Bill--there's a lot of debate about the inconsistency of that answer, the show and the journal seem to show differently from eachother--he would assume there was someone else. I mean, considering that Bill got to use Ford's body as a vessel when he slept, there were surely many-a-night where Ford fell asleep in the lab and returned in the morning--to even the afternoon. So there's either this imaginary partner Fiddleford frustrates himself with, or--even worse--this cosmic being his lab partner is absolutely infatuated with. A cosmic being that most definitely knows about Fiddleford's jealousy--either way. As for the other perspective--Ford thinking about Fiddleford--it doesn't take up as much of my brain.. I am an unrequited Fiddauthor truther.. With Ford being the one completely oblivious to Fiddleford's infatuation and respect for him. I dunno, feels right! Next time you listen to Jessie's Girl, think about this post for me

jessie’s girl but unrequited fiddauthor, send tweet

[autumnalsteahouse]

just came to scroll through the feed only to realize one of my moots deactivated :(

damn,,, I hope they’re okay

[allexiaah]

Holy shit if only Tumblr could KEEP the people I have blocked off of my dash? That'd be fucking awesome

[youvebeenlivingfictional]

For the kissing category, May I get #24 with Will?

Part of Youvebeenlivingfictional’s 2K Follower Celebration   Pairing: Will Miller x Reader Rating: T   Warnings: Cursing, canon-typical danger, Smooches™

You hated recon in heavily populated areas. It put you on-edge; there were too many unknowns. One of the guys tended to handle any tailing; you tended to stay back, eye the monitors, warn them of anything incoming if needed.

“Alright, Ironhead, target’s on your six, comin’ up fast.”

“Copy,” Will’s voice came in through the earpiece, crackling low and thick over the static.

You leaned back from the mic, lifting your hand from the console and leaning back, glancing at Benny where he was stationed in the seat beside you.

“Can we cut back on that interference?” 

“Working on it,” He muttered, fingers moving over the dials. You leaned a little further back, glancing at Santiago in the front seat.

“How’s it looking?”

“Street’s pretty fuckin’ busy… But if you looked through the monitors, you’d know that, cutie,” Came his bored answer. 

“The feeds are lagged, Garcia, don’t give me that shit,” You argued, turning back to the pixelated, lagging camera feeds. The three of you were set up in a recon van, with Will on the ground; Fish and Tom were dealing with their own target elsewhere. You watched the feed of Will going inside and raised your hand to the keyboard to switch feeds to inside the store. 

You could see Will lingering along the shelves, a little ways away from the target. You raised your hand to the mic. 

“Keep your distance, Will,” You warned. 

He gave no answer; his head didn’t turn even a little to acknowledge the message. You frowned, lowering your hand to the channel and fiddling with it, getting only static in turn. “Ironhead, poke something on the shelf in front of you so I know you copy.” You waited, watched– even with the lag, nothing.

“Shit,” You muttered. 

“Is that-- Yorke?” Benny asked, leaning closer to a different monitor. You looked up, brow furrowing. Shit, Benny was right-- you’d been going after the man’s second in command, but the kingpin was strolling down the goddamn street—

“Ironhead, fall back, we got eyes on Yorke,” You ordered through the comm. Nothing-- just a lag of Will following the original target. 

“Fuckssake-- You two follow Yorke, I’ll get Will. Link up at the rendezvous point,” You hissed, pulling your headphones off and opening the back door of the van. “Copy,” Santiago called over his shoulder.

The team had a code that you rarely used in situations like this. If someone needed to call off a hit, change their route in a populated area, you’d fake a call or speak to another teammate— and slip in the word Bordeaux. You slowed your pace as you approached the storefront that Will had gone into. You were going in with limited knowledge— you had an idea of the last place he’d been in the store, the last place Yorke’s second-in-command had been. You took in a deep breath as you walked into the store, peering around. You spotted — just as he was rounding the aisle. “Honey,” You spoke up, your voice bright. Will hesitated before he turned to face you. “...Hey,” He greeted cautiously. “Oh, I’ve just been looking for you all over the place, I thought you were still in the hardware store,” You pushed out a laugh, “I just got off of the phone with Gina— you remember Gina, my cousin’s friend from yoga, she’s the travel agent? Well,” You walked closer to Will, resting your hands on chest, “See, I told her we were thinking of going to Paris, but she suggested that we go to Bordeaux.” Realization washed over Will’s face, and he nodded a little bit. “Bordeaux,” He repeated softly. “Mhm. She said that uh— Well that she knows how much you like to cook, so she thinks we could get a deal renting little place with a kitchen— and we could go on a few wine tours,” You took a few steps back, eyeing the aisles behind Will. “And we could take a day trip to Paris, of course, maybe stay overnight–” “Suppose we could,” Will nodded, following you. You saw the second in command coming around the corner— you knew that the team would be moving on him, on Yorke, in a matter of days if your information panned out. “That is, if you still want to go,” You tacked on. “We can go anywhere you want,” Will answered, a small, almost amused smile growing on his face. Your eyes darted over his shoulder one more time before you grinned. “Oh, great!” You grinned, cupping Will’s face and drawing him in for a kiss. You were careful to spread your fingers across his face, trying to shield as much as you could. Will seemed to cotton on, wrapping his arms around you and turning the two of you. You found yourself pressed back against a store display, and you felt your breath leave you in a huff. It was a logical enough conclusion— most people hated the sight of couples’ public displays of affection. Yorke’s second in command was no different— you heard the man scoff and hurry pass the two of you. But you couldn’t bring yourself to care. You were more focused on the feeling of Will’s lips smoothing along younts, his hands large and warm, smoothing over your sides. You curled your fingers in what of his hair you could reach, and he hummed softly, his tongue slipping along the seam of your lips. You opened your mouth to him, your tongues slipping along one another. You could taste the mint of the gum that he was constantly chewing— you didn’t even care that there was a command hook display digging into your back. You heard the ringing of the door’s bell opening, and you managed to open your eyes, catching the sight of the target’s retreating back. Will seemed to have heard it, too. His kisses cooled, brushing along your lips softly as the two of you backed off. “Side door,” You murmured, taking hold of WIll’s hand and leading him away from the counter. You did your best to ignore the pounding of your heart, the feeling of warmth under your skin, a tingling in your lips— “Where’d they go?” Will asked as the two of you stepped out into the street. “Caught a sighting of the big man, they’re chasing him down. We tried to warn you off, but the interference was a bitch.” You reached into your pocket with your free hand, glancing down at your phone. “Anything?” “Not a thing,” You huffed, shaking your head, “Let’s just— Let’s just go to the rendezvous point.” “Sounds like a plan.” Will kept hold of your hand as the two of you walked, keeping an eye out for the van, listening for your phones. When you arrived at the square, Will stopped you at the back of a crowd watching a few street performers. “Here,” He said softly, leaning back against a wall and pulling you close as he  kept an eye out. You sighed softly, looking around. “Thanks,” Will said after a few moments. “Hm?” “Thank you.” “For what?” “Bordeaux.” You glanced up at him, “Oh��� It’s nothing.” “It was something. Benny would’a busted in and run around the store.” “C’mon,” You laughed a little, “Don’t say that. Benny would’ve had some tact— and he was trying to work out the interference, but then we spotted Yorke. There just wasn’t any time.” Will nodded a little bit, looking out over the crowd again. “...Doesn’t sound so bad,” He added after a moment. “What doesn’t?” “Bordeaux… Couple of days in Paris,” He glanced down at you, his eyes soft before he glanced down at your lips. Butterflies fluttered through your stomach— until you heard the mutter of, “There’s the van. C’mon.” You followed him dutifully— you’d follow Will anywhere. “Everything go alright?” Santiago asked, looking back at the two of you. “Fine,” Will answered. Santiago looked to you for confirmation, and you nodded, leaning back in your seat. Santiago and Benny began telling you about what had happened with Yorke, but you just weren’t hearing it. You’d made the mistake of looking at Will as the van started to move, and you couldn’t help the butterflies that made a reappearance as you saw him tug a pack of gum out of his pocket. He slipped a piece out, unwrapping it. For the life of you, you couldn’t look away, not even as Will placed the fresh piece directly on his tongue. Your eyes lowered to his lips before you hurriedly directed your gaze out the back window. “That was lucky, huh?” Benny asked the two of you. “Mhm,” Will hummed. “Lucky,” You sighed.

[ashton-slashton]

I've stopped being nice, by the way. Like I'm genuinely telling you, if you shop today or tomorrow knowing full well that these companies are making their workers do this for meager wages all while suffering some of the WORST people humanity has to offer, I want you to stop talking to me for the next two business weeks.

In fact, I stopped being nice about it LAST year when I was forced to work Christmas Day second shift with a fever of 103° so I wouldn't LOSE MY JOB. Because they WILL fire you if you call in on a holiday you've been scheduled for. It's always "So when do you guys close? I'm sorry you have to work right now!" WELL I WOULDN'T FUCKING BE HERE IF YOU WEREN'T HERE.

So yeah. Don't shop retail today or tomorrow. For fuckssakes.

I just wanna talk...