#one-way vision fil

[supertrader123]

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[lunaelemon]

ᥫ᭡ Slut alert- Having him fuck you dumb wasn't enough, now you gotta fight your low iron levels too?

Maybe riding him wasn't the best idea when you have anemia but it was worth it~

MDNI

"Tired already, precious?" His breathless voice reached your ringing ears as you moaned softly, biting on your lower lip to suppress it as his hips bounced you up and down on his dick. The fat, thick base of his cock stretching you out as your hips crashed with his with each bounce, every squelch and every moan.

It was all fun and games until you opened your eyes to look down at him, maybe tease him a bit about his whiny moans when you almost lurch forward from dizziness, somehow holding back by squeezing your eyes shut, black spots taking over your vision as you gasped every time the curve of his dick rubbed against that one particular spot, basically kissing your cervix while you struggled to get words out of your lips.

His cock fucking the words out of you as your mind was rendered dumb, drunk on the way his hips rolled against you, the way his voice called you filthy names, his rough hands playing with your bouncing tits as his name rolled from your tongue like a mantra.

He fucked you mean, fucked you mean enough for you to feel more stimulated by his dick than the constant blackening of your vision everytime you opened your eyes.

"Fuck fuck fuck toru...m'gonna cum....cock reaching so deep fuckkk"

His hair was sticking to his forehead as he let out a low chuckle, smirking at the way your eyes rolled back every time he abused that spot with his dick, pressing up against it, pushing you down on his cock as it squelched around his girth.

Taking in his inches so fucking good. His nasty girl.

"Look at me baby. Wanna look in your pretty eyes while you milk me, hm? Fuckin' me nasty, lemme look at your eyes, okay?"

You swallowed back as you tried opening your eyes only to see black, everything spinning around you, feeling lightheaded as he bounced you in a rhythmic motion.

His lithe fingers rubbing soft circles on your clit, squeezing out whimpers from you as your thighs trembled from exhaustion.

"Your pussy is making such pretty noises for me, such a pretty tune"

Filthy, nasty fucker

You closed your eyes again, much to his suspicions as he frowned at your reluctance to follow his requests...orders

"Can't...just...just lemme cum please" you whined out, you didn't want to stop just yet due to this shitty condition.

"Babe? What happened"

His thrusts stopped abruptly as you let out a loud whine, trying to grind against him only to have him hold you down by your waist, leaving angry red marks as you begrudgingly stopped.

"Fu-ckkkk toru..just a lil bit more...just feel a little lightheaded-"

"I told you we don't have to do cowgirl, your body isn't fit enough for it. Wait let me bring you some water."

"Why did you let me fuck you through it"

His voice was stern and authoritative as he just proved his own point as to why you didn't tell him mid fuck, rolling your eyes at his words.

He swiftly pulled out of you, leaving your aching hole empty, making you whimper as you slumped on the bed on your stomach, chest heaving from exhaustion as your legs trembled from being this close to orgasm seconds ago.

"Here you go"

As you drank from the glass, you noticed him staring at you, his eyes seemingly making a decision as they glanced all over your sweaty mess of a body.

"Only missionary for you now. I don't want you to bounce on my cock, fighting your orgasm and your low iron levels"

"Ugh come onnn, it's not that bad toru"

"Nuh uh, and I'm looking into your diet starting today."

He placed the glass on the bedside table, before continuing his next sentence. He always had so much to say -

"Now lay down on your back sweetheart, finish what you were doing before"

Well that worked out, but obviously in missionary

ᥫ᭡ Authors note - I kinda wanted to make it a headcannon for all jkk men but I got impatient cuz this is so brainrotting, this is so filthy omg

Masterlist

© lunaelemon. do not copy or repost any of my writing, layouts, or concepts.

[f6bron]

you adored me before.

pairing : chamber x fem!reader x deadeye

note : victor is deadeye (fanon), 3 of them are around high schoolers’ age, childhood friends to lovers trope, reader comes from a lower-class background

The sun had just begun its descent, casting a golden glow over the prestigious school grounds. You stood anxiously at the entrance, feeling out of place amidst the affluent parents and well-dressed students. You couldn’t ignore the whispers and glances of disdain, the way they were judging you for your worn-out clothes.

It made you feel small, like you didn’t belong in their world.

But it’s just how the world works, on your part. You’re used to it.

Just as your discomfort peaked, Vincent and Victor entered your vision.

“Y/N!”

Vincent, the ever-energetic and cheerful twin, sprinted towards you, his face alight with excitement. Victor followed behind at a more leisurely pace, a small, reassuring smile on his lips at the sight of beautiful you.

“Sorry for making you wait for us. Victor was being too slow.” Vincent said, only to be interrupted by a warning smack at the back from Victor.

“He’s lying to you. He spilled his food on his book, and [sighs], well… someone had to help him clean it up.” Victor corrected, making you chuckle shyly.

Vincent rolled his eyes at his brother dramatically before turning his attention back to you.

“Shall we get going?”

You nodded, a soft smile spreading across your face. To your surprise, Vincent grabbed your hand, his touch warm and reassuring. Victor, not to be outdone, gently took your backpack from your shoulder.

“Oh, Victor you don’t have to–” you started, but were cut off by his soft smile, which is a rare sight coming from him.

“No worries, okay?” He said, with a soft but firm voice.

“Thanks…” you mumbled, turning away to hide the blush that crept up your cheeks.

The twins shared a knowing glance, both wearing smiles that hinted at their not-so-secret affection for you.

Arriving at the aquarium, your excitement was palpable. As soon as you stepped inside, you were captivated by the vibrant displays and the myriad of sea creatures swimming gracefully behind the glass.

A few days earlier, the three of you sat together at the neighbourhood park, your usual hangout spot. You mentioned in passing that you had never been to an aquarium.

“What do you mean you’ve never been to one ?!” Vincent exclaimed, his eyes wide with disbelief.

You shrugged, feeling a bit embarrassed. “The tickets are too expensive…”

Victor hummed thoughtfully, “Well, if that’s the case, we should go to one this Friday. Take it as my treat.”

Oho, finally! A reason to bring you out on a date, Victor thought. Until…

Vincent’s eyes widened in offense. “Hey, I should be the one saying that!”

“I want to bring Y/N only. You, on the other hand… You’re on your own.” Victor said, shooting his twin a deadly glare.

Vincent gasped dramatically. “Espèce de fils de pute! (You son of a bitch!)” he retorted, earning a laugh from you as the twins bickered.

You darted from tank to tank, your eyes widened in wonder. Vincent and Victor hung back, watching you with adoration in their eyes. Your enthusiasm was infectious, and they found themselves so whipped over you.

You had become an important part of their lives, and they had to protect you from all the dangers in this world. They were determined to keep you close, to make you stay with them.

Forever.

Victor pulled out his phone, snapping a candid photo of you. The way your face alight with joy as your doe eyes admired the marine life, it’s too adorable for him.

He’s going to make you his. One way or another. Victor has to.

But, too bad, he has a competition. Who might that be? If it’s none other than his younger brother.

Speak of the devil. Vincent nudged his brother, noticing your picture on his phone.

“Send me that.” he whispered. Victor scoffed lightly, “Certainement pas (No way). This one’s for my eyes only.”

Vincent pouted. “Allez (come on), now. I got some of her photos too. Do you want them? Y/N looks so pretty–”

“What are you guys talking about?” You questioned, which startled them both.

“We, uh– we were talking about those fishes,” Vincent stammered. “Yeah! It’s just, uh–”

“But I heard you said my name.” You asked, curious eyes staring into their souls.

Trying not to cause more suspicion, Victor quickly cut him off. “Oh, the showcase is about to start. Isn’t that what you’ve been waiting for, Y/N?”

Your eyes lit up with excitement. “Yeah, let’s go!”

You took off towards the showcase location, with Victor following close behind, after giving Vincent a narcissistic smirk.

You bitch.

He lingered for a moment, shaking his head in disbelief before catching up.

(A/N): a drabble for now… huhu

masterlist.

[limbel]

Fil Rose

for day 2 of sapphicnatural week: pink | 1.3K words

Pink was the color of the minidress that clung tight and glittery and oppressive to the smooth-plastic body of the Barbie that came out of the package, curly red ribbons and giftwrap now laying all scrunched next to Jo’s toes.

She turned the thing over and over in her hands, wanted to ask, where is her silver knife and her gun and her ammos and her first-aid kit and her salt and her EMF meter and her holy water, instead she said, “Thank you Mom, she looks so pretty.”

The doll looked at Jo with her pretty blue eyes and her pretty white smile and her pretty blonde waves and her pretty pink dress, and Jo looked right back at her and felt the urge to break her pretty plastic body into one hundred tiny plastic pieces and flush them all down the toilet, the one with the loosen-up seat and the disgusting yellow stain in the back of the Roadhouse — the place where all things pretty went to die.

But her mom was pretty and Jo didn’t want her to die, not for another million years, even if Mom made her mad sometimes, but Jo made her mad too so they were even-steven and all squares and Mom should keep living for a million years even if pretty things don’t deserve to be alive.

Mom was pretty and she made her mad but she deserved to live because she was all Jo had now.

*

Pink was the color of the lipstick she bought at the shopping mall on a Sunday afternoon. Jo went there with some friends from school to have some ice cream or maybe a smoothie and talk about boys and homework and clothes and all the other things girls her age talked about (not blades not guns not ghosts not werewolves not exorcisms not dead fathers etc.)

She wasn’t sure about the price and she wasn’t sure about the color ‘cause she liked black better, but black doesn’t look good on a woman’s lips, the girls told her all giggling, bestowed this Higher Truth on her like a revelation, so she went with pink because that’s what she was supposed to do anyway and she really really really needed them to like her.

The girls giggled a lot and Jo tried to mimic them with the brand-new pink lipstick rolling back and forth inside the paper bag that hung from her pale scrawny fingers. Jo giggled but her giggles sounded fake to her ears, too high-pitched and too lengthy and too gritty and not giggly enough, and Jo prayed God that the other girls didn’t notice. Jo prayed God that the other girls didn’t notice how hopelessly fake she was all the way down to the tips of her bones.

She tried on the lipstick that night. When she got back home she ran up the stairs and opened the door to her room and carefully closed it behind her so Mom wouldn’t hear and turned on the lights and went to the bathroom and looked in the mirror that was all spotted with toothpaste and water marks. She tried it on and scrubbed it right off and the force of it made her skin all sore and red and swollen around her lips and for some reason her eyes became sore and red and swollen too.

She never tried it on again.

*

Pink was the color that washed over the girl’s cheeks as Jo pulled away just enough to look at her face in that funny way when you’re too close and your eyes cross and everything sorta doubles around your focus. But the pink on the girl’s cheeks was the only definite thing in this world and it spread to the edges of Jo’s vision and changed her life forever, rearranged it entirely.

And it had been so easy, really, the easiest thing ever to press lips back on wet lips and chest on wet chest and skin on wet skin. Skim her hand up the girl’s arm and over her shoulder and down the soft curve of her spine vertebra by vertebra and curl the finger around the string of her skimpy bikini and pull a little, just a little, just to see if it gave. And it did.

And Jo thought just for a moment how terribly and devastatingly easy it’d be to reach for the switchblade in the side pocket of her bag, and she’d be so quick with it that the girl wouldn’t even notice as she slit her throat with a clean pull to the right. But the pink flush on her cheeks would be gone forever then and the thought alone made Jo sick to the bottom of her stomach.

The girl twisted and chuckled under her touch and Jo felt something hot and wiry blossoming in her chest, because she made a choice for herself and that choice was to kiss this girl in this locker room after swim practice with water pooling up on the wooden bench and the tiled floor below and the lights sending buzzing electric sounds from the ceiling above.

And if she could choose this thing for herself who knows, who knows how many other things she could choose still, all the things that she was told were impossible and unreachable and ridiculous and how silly she was for wanting them, but maybe they were not, maybe she could have them in the end, yeah, maybe she could.

*

Pink was the color that glazed the inside of the hound’s mouth as Jo imagined it sinking sharp teeth into her meat, pulling through skin and muscles and sinews until there was the entirety of her spilled on the floor, so muddled there was no more telling what was what. Of course she couldn’t see it, but she pictured it all pink and shiny and slick with spit and blood and juices and she wished she could feel how soft it was, how smooth and velvety, she wished she could feel that instead of the sharp nails of panic hammering the softest corners of her body.

Her body, and her mom right beside her. Forever beside her, the reassuring smell of her, and still fresh on her forehead the impression of the kiss his friend had left on her skin, then on her lips, the Kiss of Death, as she waited patiently for the right moment to push the button. The button she’d chosen to push, for herself more than anyone else.

Jo chose this button and her mom chose to die with her, for her, by her, despite her, folded on the dusty mold-soaked floor of a hardware store instead of a bed with milky bedspreads and flowers and sunlight. And Mom said, “I will always love you,” cradled her head, pressed salty lips on her temple, and now Jo was finally able to see it.

Now ‘always’ was what they had, she and her mom, and Dad too. Dearest Dad, beloved Dad, that she missed so much, so much she couldn’t wait to see him again. And when she’ll see him again she’ll hug him tight, and Mom too, and she’ll never let go, and she’ll kiss him all over his wrinkled face, over the seams of his mouth and his eyes and the tip of his nose. Over the scar on his cheek and the rough of his stubble. And she’ll tell him all about it, she’ll tell him how good she’d been, how brave, she’ll tell him that she saved the world, his little girl saved the world, and he’ll look at her so proud with eyes full of love, and he’ll say, my little girl, my baby, my sweetheart, of course you did, of course you saved the world, and Mom will make a sound with her throat and she will say, well, I was there too, I also did that, I also saved the world, because that’s what Mom does, and his Dad will laugh and she will laugh too and they—

[fruitcoops]

Dial Drunk

Fic O'Ween Day 1, for the prompt 'First Frost'! Many thanks to @noots-fic-fests for organizing and @lumosinlove for the best characters <3 Have some baby Sirius and James causing Dumo heart failure for your Thursday!

TW drunkenness (silly fun, not angsty)

Pascal enjoyed 20 minutes of a PG-13 movie (the first in three months) before stumbling, out-of-sync footsteps outside his house interrupted his peace. He should have known better than to think a quiet night in would live up to its name.

“Come on, man, work with me—”

“Shh.”

The kids were in bed. Why couldn’t that be enough?

“No, no, why can’t we just go back to your house?”

“Because—”

They had been gems this evening. Dinner passed without a fuss; a FaceTime with their mother riveted them more than a TV show, for once.

“James…”

“Don’t whine at me, god. Can I have my arm back?”

Pascal cursed softly to himself as he rummaged the remote from the couch cushions and paused the movie. Rustling became a scuffle—he opened the door just as the bell rang through the house.

James Potter stared at him, then broke into a broad grin. “Dumo! Hi!”

“Did you read the sign?”

James’ eyes flickered over the doorframe. Pascal got to watch him read the Please Do Not Ring Bell—Infant Inside! in real time. His smile slipped into more of a grimace. “…shit. My bad.”

“Bonjour,” Sirius mumbled blearily, listing into James’ side. “Ça va?”

Pascal sighed. He had been hoping someone on the team would keep an eye on those two. Parties were all well and good until the dynamic duo of poor decision-making was left to their own devices.

“We had fun,” James offered by way of explanation. Sirius’ hiccup jostled them both. “Maybe—maybe a little too much fun.”

“Got kissed on the cheek,” Sirius said with an enthusiastic nod.

The lipstick print on his face was glittery in the porchlight. “Congratulations.”

“Merci.”

Christ above. “Pots.”

James had the decency to look embarrassed. “I know.”

“Are you serious?”

“Non, c’est moi,” Sirius snorted, swaying toward the potted plant at the edge of the stairs. They both reached for him at once; Sirius made a noise of surprise, but was pliable as putty when James coaxed him back out of the danger zone. The sharp tang of alcohol and at least three different perfumes spilled off him in waves. Sirius was doe-eyed when he bent to rest his head on James’ shoulder. “Thanks for bringing me home.”

Pascal arched a brow; James gave Sirius a guilty pat on the back. “Any time, buddy.”

“Are you sure we can’t go back to your house instead?”

“Mhmm.”

Sirius huffed in disappointment. “Why?”

“Because my guest room isn’t unpacked.”

“Can sleep on the couch. Or the floor.”

“Lily’s coming over tomorrow morning.”

Sirius’ groan cracked as he pushed his face into James’ shoulder. “Just put me in the backyard.”

“One of us will turn the hose on you.”

Pascal shook his head and reached out. “Allez, mon fils, let’s get you—"

“You’re so mean,” Sirius complained, still fixated on James. “I don’t want to go home. Dumo’s going to be upset.”

James’ gaze darted to him for a beat. “Pads, no, it’ll be fine.”

“Non.”

Pascal’s stomach sank. “I’m not upset,” he tried, gentling his voice.

But Sirius just nodded. “Yes, he is.”

“Hey.” Pascal prodded his arm. “Hey, petit chou.”

“Don’t like cabbage. Crunchy.”

Pascal exchanged a look with James and fought an eye roll. Without initial surprise clouding his vision, James was clearly only more sober by a slim margin. His glasses seemed determined to balance on the very end of his nose, despite repeated attempts to push them up again. His sneakers shuffled sheepishly on the doormat.

“Just tell me you didn’t drive.”

“I don’t have a car,” Sirius said brightly.

James gave a vigorous shake of his head. “Fuck no, we took an Uber. Are you crazy?”

“Are you drunk?” Pascal countered. Sirius barked a laugh; James’ already-flushed cheeks darkened. A once-over revealed little he didn’t already know, only a comfort in the sense that they both seemed hale and whole regardless of their wobbling.

Oh, to be twenty again.

Pascal inclined his head toward the house and stood aside. “In. Don’t wake the kids.”

An attempt to fit through the door at the same time was admirable, but doomed, as they soon realized after a few seconds of fumbling. James eventually squeezed past with Sirius trotting close behind. Something about it struck Pascal as a particular poetic irony.

“Where’d you end up?”

“Place on sixth.” James’ hands were clumsy on his shoelaces. Sirius observed him for a moment, then kicked his own shoes into the closet still tied.

“Was it fun?”

“Mhmm. Hopping tonight.”

“We left early,” Sirius chimed in. “James said I needed to go home.”

“He’s smart. You should listen to him more.” Listen to me more, he added in his mind as he guided James’ jacket off his flailing arm and nudged Sirius’ phone away from the precarious table edge. Despite their clumsiness, their clear efforts to stay quiet did not go unnoticed. It was a common courtesy that some of the rowdier boys tended to forget.

“D’you want me to—”

“Guest room,” Pascal interrupted, tilting his chin down the hall. “Bathroom’s yours. Advil in the top drawer.”

James took a breath, then paused. “Does it have one of those kid-lock things?”

“Yes.”

He whistled through his teeth. A reluctant nod followed. “Kay. I can handle that.”

“Lame if you couldn’t,” Sirius mumbled.

“Like you’d do better.”

His lazy grin became offense in half a second; his back stiffened under Pascal’s palm. “I could—”

“Quiet,” Pascal reminded him.

“I could,” Sirius repeated in a harsh whisper, jabbing his finger toward James. “And you know it.”

James raised his hands in mocking surrender before raking one through his hair. His glasses had wandered down his nose again, and he gave Pascal a drowsy blink. “I’ll be out by, like, nine tomorrow. Lily’s coming over at eleven, so…y’know. Gotta clean my kitchen ‘n shit.”

“I’m sure she’ll appreciate that,” was Pascal’s response of choice. He was fairly sure noting the late (or rather, early) hour was a poor course of action if he wanted James Potter asleep in the next five minutes.

James squinted at the floor for a few more seconds. “Fuck, I gotta wash my sheets.”

“Go to bed, James.”

“Yeah. Yeah, alright.”

Pascal propped Sirius up on his shoulder as he watched James go. There was a hole in the heel of his sock that was only going to get bigger. James probably wouldn’t throw the thing out until it literally fell off his foot. Maybe it was a good thing Lily was visiting—she always shook some sense into him.

“Dumo.”

Pacal’s stomach swooped. “Are you going to throw up?”

“No,” Sirius snorted, as if the very idea was ridiculous.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothin’.”

“What do you need?”

“Nothin’.” Sirius wrinkled his nose and stuck his tongue out for a weak raspberry. “English tastes gross. Makes my head hurt. Regulus doesn’t like it, either. Mine is a lot better since because I was here but he’s pratiss—practick—pratique. In school. See? Dumb language.”

“You’re doing a very good job.”

Sirius beamed at him. “Really?”

“Ouais. Much better than I did.”

“Yours is a lot better than mine, though.”

Pacal was glad he didn’t protest the subtle guidance toward the basement stairs, if he noticed at all. “Well,” he began, grunting slightly at the weight imbalance on the first step. “I’ve been in the league for nearly twenty years. You’ll pick it up.”

“I wanna play hockey forever,” Sirius sighed.

“Give it your best, and you’ll do great things.”

Sirius hummed in acknowledgment, though he seemed a little too focused on holding the railing for Pascal to believe it. They edged their way down two more steps before he glanced up again with an astonished look on his face. “You’ve been in the league as long as I’ve been alive?”

Holy Jesus fucking Christ. His tongue went dry and stiff as leather. “I guess I—” Pascal tipped his head toward the ceiling and let a breath siphon through his nose. He should’ve taken James up on the backyard offer. A spray-down with the hose would do Sirius some good. “I hadn’t, ah. Thought about that. Merci.”

“That’s crazy.”

“Isn’t it just?” Perhaps if he asked nicely, Sirius would kick him down the stairs. It would be kinder. He might even hit his head hard enough to forget the entire evening. Where was the shy boy covered in winter’s first frost when Pascal needed him, anyway?

He winced at the thought. As accidentally-devastating as Sirius was with alcohol coursing through his veins instead of common sense, he couldn’t make himself wish for the opposite. They had only just managed to get his shell open; James better than anyone. There really wasn’t a world where he would trade this newfound vibrancy for anything, but—

His lower back panged when Sirius lurched toward his bed. “Woah.”

“Sorry, sorry,” Sirius muttered. “Tired.”

“Je sais.” Pascal shook his head against the glimmers of pain in his vision and made a mental note to ask Remus about that during their next session. “Pajamas, water, then bed.”

“But—”

“Pajamas, water, bed,” he repeated firmly. “Or skip the pajamas. I don’t care.”

Sirius frowned down at himself, scratching at his cheek. Glossy sparkles spread into an amorphous blob. Exasperation pressed against the inside of Pascal’s ribs; he sat Sirius on the edge of his desk and dampened a washcloth in the bathroom, then returned to his side. “Let me see.”

“See what?”

“Your cheek.”

Dark brows knit. “Not hurt.”

“Just—hold on.”

Sirius was flinching back before the cloth even got close. “Hey, hey, non.”

“You’ve got—”

A forceful push to his wrist made him pause. “Non.”

Pascal blinked. “There’s something on your cheek,” he tried. Sirius watched him with strange, alert suspicion. He held both hands palm-up between them and bit the inside of his lip against the urge to reach again. “Here.”

Silver eyes flickered back and forth in the low lamplight, towel to Pascal to towel to Pascal. Sirius shifted on his perch and took the cloth hesitantly. The rigidity of his torso eased once the gloss-print was gone under a few harsh scrubs, and Pascal took it back without issue.

“I’m not upset with you.”

“Hmm?”

“I’m not upset.” He watched Sirius take two large gulps of water from the bottle on his desk before flopping back on the bed. “I’m just glad you two got home safe.”

Sirius made a faint noise of agreement while he made himself comfortable, tugging at the sheets with little regard for their proper direction. A leg and most of his shoulders stuck out when he finally gave up and pushed the side of his face into the pillow. Pascal tucked the blanket around him on instinct; his heart tugged at the long, contented exhale that followed. “James is so nice to me.”

“He’s your friend.”

“So nice,” Sirius mumbled, almost to himself. His eyes were already half-shut. “Dumo?”

“Ouais?”

“Is James going to play hockey with me forever?”

“Ah.” Of all the questions you could ask. “I think you two do well together on the ice, so there’s no reason to split you up.”

Sirius tucked his knees up beneath the covers and shoved an arm under his pillow. “I don’t want to play hockey forever if James isn’t there.”

Pascal sat on the edge of the desk and crossed his arms across his chest. It had been nearly twenty years since he last checked his blindspot on the ice. There was no need—not while Sergei was there. They had talked about the end, of course, and the after. It went unspoken that they’d probably leave together. Too many jokes about PTA duels would be wasted if they didn’t.

How many nights had they dragged each other home, stumbling and giggling? They had walked nearly four miles the night they won the Cup in Colorado, those glorious quiet hours between being shooed home and when the taxis would answer their phones. Pascal couldn’t recall the last time he had fallen over the welcome mat with Sergei on his heels, instead of being the one holding the door open.

“Sirius?”

“Mhmm.”

“James will stay with you.” There was nobody Pascal would rather have at Sirius’ back, when he thought about it. Not even himself. “If you decide you want to play hockey forever, he will be the first person to sign up with you.”

“You’re not—” A yawn interrupted him, wide enough to make him scrunch his face. “—upset that we were loud?”

“Non. Promise.”

“Merci.” The sheets twisted in Sirius’ fist as he brought them close to his body. His mere twenty years made him look small without a frown and a ‘C’.

“Bonne nuit, mon fils.”

An incoherent mumble was all the answer he received, and more than he expected. He turned the lamp off with a gentle click, leaving Sirius to sink into heavy, even breaths.

New Message To: Vans

Pots and Black home safe

Lunch tomorrow @ usual. Kids included.

I’m buying. No protests.

New Message From: Vans

?

Why are you awake

New Message To: Vans

Lunch. Usual. Kids included.

If you bring your wallet I will kick your ass.

New Message From: Vans

Vans laughed at your message

:thumbs-up_emoji:

Can’t wait.

[makoodles]

Father in law Jake that helps his son to understand how different Na'vi pregnancies are different from human ones, na'vi women eat a lot of proteins that are easy to digest, like fish, humans for the other part... "I would die for some fungus soup with that spicy thing that the science guys eat, maybe with some grilled teylu on top" Neteyam is almost horrified by your cravings for the soup of foul and rotten smell with that dammed spicy thing without real flavor, Jake tells him that's normal.

FIL Jake who talks to you and convinces you to put a more human name to his future grandkid, Neytiri isn't thrilled but what can she do? Neteyam wasn't sure about it at first but when he hears it is a derivative of the name "Tommy" he can't say much, and if you're happy with it then it's fine.

FIL Jake that is the one responsible to give your recently born kid to the village chief to be welcomed in the tribe, it was supposed to be Neteyam but since he is supporting you to stand (after a gruesome and long labor) it's his father's duty, so delicate and so tiny that both na'vi warriors are extra careful (the baby is huge by human standard but almost a doll in the eyes of the na'vi) you are just smiling tiredly when the chief says your kids name, Neteyam hugging you to his side and taking your hand with his own and the other to his mother.

FIL Jake that kind of helps you with the outcome of raising a kid as delicate as one of more human features (technically the kid is way more human than the rest), don't get me wrong, of course Neytiri and Neteyam are there to help, but apparently the baby is soothed more quickly with the contact of human skin (soft, warmer and easily pliable), if it's just you two is fine with them but there is an dangerous feeling in the air when anyone from the human base also tried to help you while you take your baby to the human base (they did the collaborative effort to raise spider so they may know one thing or two)

FIL Jake that obviously helps to raise his grandkid, Neytiri is a bit taken back by the fact that her own blood produced such a tiny bean that needs more care than any na'vi child, but she isn't complaining, you can see her or Jake around the village with the tiny baby strapped safely on the back or chest while doing their usual activities.

FIL Jake that sings human songs as lullabies, he goes from Iron maiden to Pink Floyd and Neytiri is almost horrified by some words.

FIL Jake that makes some fun of his son when the habit of the newborn baby to coil his little tail around is more visible than ever even when his tiny eyes are still closed, saying that Neteyam did the very same thing at the same age.

FIL Jake that is, somehow, a very much needed help when you try to give your child a more open vision of human culture to your kid.

I LOVEEEE SUPPORTIVE FATHER IN LAW JAKE GKJAGKSDLG

this is so cuteeee especially the idea of jake and reader bonding over human experiences 😭 and he'd be such a good grandaddy!!

FIL jake would take reader's side in arguments, i just know it

[billthedrake]

BUCK ON BEEF

(Heads up: This one has some rougher oral sex.)

It was a perfect Spring day to sit inside and watch the Masters. As Tom Miller turned on the big screen TV and flipped through the channels, he undid his tie and the top botton on his Sunday-best dress shirt. No two ways about it, Tom was a big man, 6'2" and carrying his former linebacker brawn on his frame, along with that married girth and a big broad belly.... topping 300 on the scale.

Tom sometimes thought he should cut back on the Chik-Fil-A sandwiches, or the fries, or the few beers he planned to have watching golf. He could get back to his playing weight or something closer to it. But the banker and father of two felt comfortable in his body. He had a very pretty (and still thin) ex-sorority wife who was into her big cuddly teddy bear of a husband.

And god help him, his son Trey liked Tom's girth, too. Like, really liked it.

"Hey, Dad," the high school quarterback said in his teen voice which even at 18 seemed to deepen by the day. The 6'2" stud had already changed out of his church clothes and walked into the den in just a flimsy pair of his high school team shorts. If his dad looked, he'd see Trey already sporting a good shank of teen bone.

Tom did look. When he and Trey first started fooling around, the family man had tried to put the breaks on it. Now, he leaned into it, the whole insane physicality of this affair with his son.

"Jesus, kiddo..." he growled with a playful laugh. Did that kid always have sex on his brain?

"Come on, Dad... Mom and Chels are swimming at the club all afternoon. It's been a couple weeks since we've had a long session."

Tom got a shy look on his full, masculine face as he stepped up to Trey and lightly gripped his son's waist. Trey took charge of the kiss, though, like he always did. One hand behing his dad's neck, the other greedily cupping that meaty ass cheek through the man's trousers to pull in all that dad beef.

"Damn, Dad," Trey hissed, his blue eyes peering into his daddy's. He leaned back and openly appraised his father's build, the way that blue blazer opened up to frame that belly. Trey had been fucking Coach Carson lately, too, as well as Mr. Reynolds, his math teacher, but none of those other men had the amazing thickness of his father. Placing his hands right on that stomach, the jock hissed, "It's been a while since we've had date night, sir."

God, Trey knew how to make Tom feel like he was a young jock himself. Carrying on a bromance with one of the D-line players on that South Carolina roster of 98. "It has been," the man answered in a husky Southern drawl. "Maybe in a couple of weeks," he hissed. "I'll tell the girls that you and I are taking a guys weekend... catch a couple of Braves games."

Trey grinned. Like any Southern jock, he was more than a little spoiled and used to getting his way. "Sounds awesome, Dad." He relinquished his feel of Tom's belly and through his peripheral vision, the father could see Trey push those shorts down, all the way off.

Indeed as Trey stepped back, he fisted that giant QB tool. Ten inches and almost flashlight thick. Two heavy nuts dangled low from the hard shaft. "Why don't you suck my cock some, Dad?" he asked.

Tom didn't know where the kid inherited that big stick from. He himself had a respectable enough tool, thick and meaty, like the rest of him, but the son was about three inches longer than him. It was insane. "I thought I raised you to say please and thank you, son," he teased.

Trey nodded. "Yessir. Would you please suck my cock, Dad?" he laughed.

"Guess that's as good as I'm gonna get," Tom chuckled as he kicked off his loafers and undid his belt. He was rock hard and as he folded his trousers over the end of the sofa, he couldn't help but be pleased by how perpetually fixated Trey was on the dick that made him.

Now stripped from the waist down except for some dress socks, Tom sat down on the sofa, his burly 300-ish pound frame looking bigger in a seated position, that big belly hanging over, that neck looking fuller. He was still in church attire from the waist up, and he was hunkering down to suck some oversized son meat.

"God yes," Trey gasped as Tom slathered his meaty cock. The QB placed his hands on his waist and let his dad do the work getting reacquainted with that dick before starting to service the teen. Trey got off on the contrast between his nakedness and his father's clothed, bulky form. "Suck me, Dad. Fuck yes...."

Then feeling super horned up, the athlete spread his legs a little and gripped his father's skull. And he powered his way deep into his dad's gullet.

Tom coughed up some throat slime at the intrusion but sucked it off that prick and back down his throat.

"Come on, Dad," Trey hissed, hips pausing a second before resuming their deep pump. "You did this a couple nights ago no problem."

The thick spit was now dripping down the big man's chin and onto his dress shirt as the jock son fucked his face rigorously. As sloppy throat sounds filled the room, Trey's eyes averted to the TV... he grinned as he thought how his first JO fantasies involved big-bellied golfers... Mickelson, Harrington, Rahm... Trey would flog his big teen bone thinking of fucking those dudes from here to Sunday.

"All right, Dad," Trey hissed. His voice wasn't dominant but instead encouraging. He and his father had been working on this trick. With a rough shove, he pulled his dad's face flush to his crotch.

"One mississippi.... two mississippi..." the quarterback counted off. Tom's face flushed beet red as his esophagus felt crazy full with his son's hard dong, cutting off his air. "... six mississippi... " Tom Miller started to gag but kept it in check. This was like deep throating Reggie, his defensive jock buddy back in the day. But better.

"You got this," Trey hissed, so turned on by the spasms of his father's throat and the fact the old man would let him do this.

Tom coughed again, sputtering around his son's huge shaft.

"Eleven mississippi!" Trey beamed proundly as he pulled out his cock. A heavy strand of throat slime came out with it, some of it dribbling down Tom's chin, the rest hanging from the tip of Trey's stalk till it snapped off and fell right on his dad's half-unbuttoned dress shirt.

"Fuck, that's nasty," Trey growled in lust.

The first time he'd gagged on Trey, Tom had felt embarrassed. Now, he loved the horny limits-testing they did. Trey pushing Dad in some old fashioned throat training, Dad seeing just how much mind can win out over body.

Tom leaned in greedily and swiped up some of that excess mucus.

That cock twitched when he did, but Trey's voice got a deep neediness. "Leave some of that slime on there, Dad. It'll make good lube."

Tom nodded, now in synch with his son's horniness. Undoing the remaining buttons of his shirt, he lay back on the couch, pulling his legs up.

"Goddamn, Dad," the young buck grunted, so turned on as he crawled up onto the sofa. His staff was angry-hard, and very wet from the throat job. He pushed it down to line it up with his father's slot. Normally, he'd enjoy the foreplay but Tom had worked up him too much, too fast. He didn't shove in but got a toe hold a half inch past the dadpucker.

"OOF!" Tom grunted. He would have admonished Trey, but his son knew what he was doing. Trey had never done anything but make the big man feel great.

The jock held steady and looked down on the 40-something bull of a man. Once again, he openly ran his hands over his dad's bulk, now able to touch the soft fur and bare skin. "I love your gut, sir... so fucking sexy."

An inch more dick pushed into his dad, who now more readily relaxed around that thick dong. Not only did Trey have the best throwing arm in Forsyth County, he surely carried the biggest dick around, too.

"I should probably slim down," Tom half objected. His son was so lean and muscular and perfect, the contrast did give the man a pause.

"Don't you dare," Trey laughed, spearing more meat inside his old man. "You could get bigger, Dad, and I'd fucking love it."

Tom grinned and pulled his arms back, hands behind his head, making the blazer and open shirt pull wide open. He was on full display for his son, gut and rounded pecs and all. "You a chubby chaser, son?" he asked. Before, he'd been too self conscious of his size around Trey, but now he wanted to know everything about what made his son tick.

Trey thought for a second, doing little micro-thrusts of his meat in and out of the daddy tightness. "Not really. I dunno... I just like having a lot of Daddy to hold onto." His hands were now on Tom's surprisingly firm, rounded belly, right as he pushed all the way in.

"You're tapping my hole, son," Tom hissed. This was always the most uncomfortable part of the fuck, but uncomfortable in a good way. It made Tom feel he was being taken for real. Even Reggie never tapped that second ring.

Trey nodded. "Want me to breach it today?" he asked.

Tom exhaled. "Fuck. I don't know." He wanted it, but each time Trey did was really fucking intense.

That son cock twitched inside the man's tight guts. It had taken them so long to work up to anal so readily, but it was now perfect for Trey... just the right relaxation of dadcunt to let him in, but still a hell of a lot of snugness around his prick. "Pull those legs, back," the QB urged.

Tom took a deep breath and did as instructed, pulling those thick thighs all the way back, and lifting his ass some in the process.

Trey waited a second, then pushed his hips all the way forward, driving his fat battering ram past the inner tightness.

"Oh my fucking GOD!" Tom yelled.

"Too much Daddy?" Trey checked in. It was vice tight way up there, and Trey worried this was too much for his father.

Tom exhaled again, biting his lip before responding. "God help me son, I want it. Work your cock over that entrance."

Trey grinned and examined his dad's big body as he did as instructed. Slow working back and forth over that ring.

"Fuck yes," Tom hissed. "My hung stud son..."

Trey got into it, making those strokes longer, knowing his dad was opened up inside. Pretty soon he was fucking harder and longer.

"Yes.... fuck me, son. Pound your daddy." Tom was geting into that wild, didn't-give-a-fuck part of the sex act. He needed this, all ten huge inches of Trey railing him.

It was like poppers to Trey, whose hips gained speed and power. He watched, wide eyed as that gut swayed with each power thrusts and those full titties bounced. That made him fuck harder, just to see those 300-plus pounds of beef jiggle more.

"Fuck!" Tom beat Trey's cum by two seconds, that dad dick spraying hands free all over his belly as his inner ring got battered.

And just as quickly, Trey's prick fucked on the slickness of his own seed. Finally the blur of those teen buck hips slowed to gentle sway, then a stop.

"Damn, Dad," the jock said, a little out of breath. "That was fucking hot."

Tom could only nod. Any thoughts had been fucked out of him. He was glad Trey was withdrawing as the deep fullness in his ass was getting too much, fast.

Trey had that satisfied look as he pulled back and knelt on the sofa, hands on his hips and still-hard meet sticking out, covered in fuck juices.

Tom scrambled to lean in, gently cleaning off his son's meat with long swipes of his tongue.

Now, he felt a little ashamed, and he wasn't sure the way Trey ruffled his hair affectionately made it better or worse.

He looked up at the TV once more then back at his dad. "I guess you want to watch your golf," Trey said. Maybe feeling a little bad he'd interrupted his father's Sunday ritual.

"Yeah," Tom said as he sat back in the sofa, his big belly falling over his sated genitals. Then he took another look at his hunky son. "Actually... how long did you say the girls would be at the Club?"

With a grin, he watched Trey's young buck cock jerk out into a fuck hard once more.

[johnmalevolent]

ive been like having visions of how arthur feels about human connection and what it has to do w his griefs (parents wife daughter) and this part just fuels it more. like we know that he's not the type to reach out to ppl HE FUCKING MISSED HER FUNERAL. yk. where a lot of ppl would mourn the dead and console the family left behind. but arthur couldnt bear to see his wife go, especially after what he'd done (or lack thereof) to her. meanwhile daniel was seeking for a connection, and its not unreasonable that daniel being there was part of why arthur didn't attend. but arthur never went to see daniel. he spent his time working and left his daughter to tess. after faroe's death he talked with daniel but then drove him away once again. until parker reached out to him. and we know he's persistent, and it took some time for arthur to finally open up. arthur never reached out to people, people reached out to him. bella was the one who first took a liking to him too.

and then we have john. the resident entity living in arthur's eyes. suddenly arthur loses his privacy (and remember the prison - "that's not for you." "what?" "my thoughts.") and their situation leaves arthur very vulnerable but after some time they open up to each other etc you get it you've listened to the podcast. its like. john isn't just persistent, he's nagging for arthur to tell him stuff. parker intended to help so he knew topics he could touch and the ones he shouldn't, but i doubt john had the same purpose.

anyway that wasnt my visions i talked at the beginning. my visions are very loosely based on canon, setting place in an ending (or part of the story maybe) where john gets his own body. i see your "arthur misses john and they're touchy all the time" or the touch starved arthur things and i love every single one of them with my john shaped heart but consider. arthur who has not had much deep connection in his life, who felt wrong to live with his wife or have a family, who keep his fil miles away, who has gotten "more scars in a few months than [he does] in a lifetime." imagine him being scared of touch but desperate for a connection. he doesnt have a lot of experience of physical intimacy but he's able to open up to people (james, parker). being separated from john changes a Lot of how they interact because they are in a way touchy with each other but also not really?? also arthur was the one to bring it up so cheerfully like "maybe you could get a body of your own!" but you know what happened to everyone around arthur who isn't john. they leave. even john came back (REMEMBER THE MINEEEEES. "john :'( you remenber :'( you have your hand back :'( let me shake it :'(" insane cinema). he feels bad for feeling bad that john has his own body. he doesnt want to feel like he wishes john were less free/confined in his mind still but he does wish that john were still with him. despite john being in front of him listening to him just as he always did. SORRY FOR BEING INSANE ON MAIN I NEED TO FUCK OFF TO A DESERTED ISLAND WITH NO INTERNET SOMEWHERE IF YOU WANT THIS BLOG TO BE NORMAL ABOUT MALEVOLENT. WHICH IS NEVER

[paranoidginger]

Lab-rat part 21

Tw: N/A

The young man's throat felt dry and gritty as he swallowed a small bit of saliva, a quiet, weak little sound escaping him as he heard the Spy's voice, out of focus and barely understandable. He gave a slow blink, his vision blurry and bright as he tilted his head slightly towards the source of the familiar voice. Even after days of having his system flushed, his eyes were still glossy, his pupils overly dilated and unreactive to light as the Spy's outline came into view.

Bait took a shaky breath as the man called for the Medic. The Spy was nearly unrecognizable, his face unshaven and stubbled, his salt and pepper hair unkempt and frazzled. His usual clean style had been discarded almost entirely, his suit traded in for a pair of comfortable jeans and a white button-down, a set of dark bags framing the space beneath his eyes. He sat back down after shouting for the team's doctor, gently squeezing Bait's hand and speaking soft words of encouragement, to which the boy weakly responded with the slight squeeze of his father's hand.

The moment of lucidity was cut short, however, the clone's head rolling back to his previous position as his eyes lulled into the back of his head, the weak grip on the Spy's hand loosening and falling limp soon after the Medic entered the small curtained room. The hope that crossed the two men's faces was quickly overwhelmed by a deep seeded worry and fear for the boy as the Spy gently grabbed Bait, shaking him in attempts to bring him back to consciousness.

"Non! No no no! Wake up! S'il te plaît, mon fils. Stay awake!" There was panic in the man's voice as he lightly shook his clone, the heart monitor still steadily beeping away. As time went on without a response, he eventually gave up on the desperate motion, drawing in shaking breaths as he rested his head against the young man's chest, whispering soft pleas for him to wake back up.

"Jaques... Maybe it is better to let him rest. Even just a few moments of being awake is a good sign!" The Medic attempted to reassure the Spy, still visibly concerned over the Clone's state as he patted the other man's back. Hearing his name, his actual name, the spy could not help but feel his breath hitch in his throat. He knew that he was safe, but all the same, hearing his name spoken aloud was a rare and startling occurrence. "You need your rest as vell, mein freund. You have barely left his side since ve got him back, it makes me vorry for you. I'm sure zhe ozhers vant some time alone vith him also, you know zhat he is in good hands here. I promise zhat I vill get you if anyzhing happens vith his progress."

The Spy nodded, looking down at the unconscious boy, the doppelganger of his younger self. Bait's eyes were half lidded, his face pale and scarred around his lips... If not for the shallow, yet steady, rise and fall of his chest, and the gentle beeps of the heart monitor, one would think he had left the land of the living and giving in to the cold embrace of death. Carefully, the Medic helped Spy to his feet, brushing the other man off slightly as he took a hesitant step away from his clone. Jaques could not find words to thank the Medic, rubbing the exhaustion from his eyes as he looked to the slightly taller man as he began to finally speak.

"I know you'll keep him safe... Just... If he wakes up while I am away, make sure he knows I have been with him as long as possible..."

"Of course, Herr Spy. I promise I vill tell him. Now go, you need your rest, Mac misses you." The Medic took the seat Jaques had been sitting in, beginning to carefully check on the unconscious young man in his recovery bed as the Spy pulled his balaclava over his face and began to make his way out of the medical bay.

The Red medic sat restrained and sedated in one of the empty storage rooms. It seemed that he had finally lost his mind completely, his previous care for his team wiped from his mind, thrashing and fighting replaced with silent, aggressive brooding as that little voice whispered to him, the same way it had since the incident. The same voice that urged him to turn the RED base into a bloodbath whenever he had first allowed the demon to cohabitate his body.

The only ones of his teammates who were willing to care for him were the engineer, pyro, and the sniper. Even Misha had stopped coming to visit as the Medic's mind continued to twist and warp. Jane Doe, the Red Soldier visited more, however, doing what he could remember from his brief period as an exorcist.

After days of radio silence, the woman loaded onto her little moped, racing off towards the Red base.

Battles had been planned and scheduled by the administrator during the handful of days after Bait's return to the Blu base, only to be brushed off by both teams. Red was down a member, and the Blu team was far too concerned with making sure the newest member of their team would be alright... If another stalemate happened, all of them were at risk of being terminated, an outcome that the Administrator's assistant didn't much like the idea of.

Finding new mercenaries would fall to her, and her alone. Aside from that, however, Pauling could not help but feel a slight twinge of... Care? Worry? She was meant to stay neutral, it was her job to stay neutral, but she couldn't help but find that she rather liked the current teams of mercenaries.

Part 20

@thatonesimp-e @gravitytrips @aniolleq @realccre

[clarepreed]

Hostile Work Environment, Pt. 2

Part 1

Short Story Summary and Content: 5,314 words. Someone wishes Larissa hadn't survived her choking incident. Strangulation, resuscitation, light cardiophilia, explicit sex.

--

Larissa

Larissa woke in her bed at the chateau, languid and adrift. She ran her hand down her abdomen and cupped her sex, feeling deliciously sore.

After a moment, her brain filled in the gaps, reminding her that Mitchell had woken her and they’d dressed and headed downstairs. Mitchell went first so he could alert a staff member to let her into her room, and she’d changed into a long t-shirt, washed her face, and crashed.

They didn’t talk about what would happen next, and the realization put a slight damper on her mood.

Obviously, around everyone else we have to pretend nothing happened.

But we still need to talk.

She couldn’t be anxious and sad about it for long, not when her time with him last night had been so perfect. Vivid memories flooded her brain, enhancing the sweet ache between her thighs. She let the fingers of her other hand trail across her full lips, slightly swollen from his kisses.

Her reverie was disrupted by a short knock at her door. 

Mitchell? she wondered. Mmm… probably not. He’d be worried about appearances.

I wonder if people are already talking.

She slipped out of bed, her feet hitting the floor in time with another rap. Instead of taking the extra time to put on pants, she arranged her body behind the door and cracked it open. “Yes?”

The door was forced inward, knocking Larissa to the floor hard enough to rattle her teeth. As the intruder closed and locked the door behind him, she stared up at him in surprise.

The intruder was Ben Miller, from her department. He glared down at her, his short hair mussed and his eyes wild. She’d never seen him like this, though they were just colleagues. In his mid-twenties, they didn’t have much in common. He’d always been polite, until now.

Stop… THINKING! she thought, a delayed wave of outrage rolling over her.

“What the fuck, Ben?” she snarled, crawling backward and then attempting to scramble to her feet. 

He advanced on her, his face contorted in anger. “You tattled, bitch!”

That surprised her, and she froze. “What?”

He grabbed her arms and hauled her upright, forcing her to march backward until she fetched up hard against the glass sliding door that led out to the veranda. “Everyone knows you got that promotion because you’re fucking Mitchell, and now you’ve gotten me fired!”

He shoved her hard against the glass and shook her until she saw stars. She sucked in a deep breath and let it out in a throat-tearing scream, hoping the sound would both alert help and startle him into loosening his grip.

She thought it worked when he released her arms. Then he was on her again, and this time his hands wrapped around her throat.

Oh God Oh no no no no no I can’t—

“I was just fucking with you,” he said, squeezing, his own face growing red and spittle flying from his mouth. “Just a little hazing. You didn’t…”

Her hearing faded out, replaced by a buzzing sound. Her head pounded and her lungs burned. She clawed his arms, his hands, tried to reach toward his face as he mouthed words she couldn’t hear. He jerked her hard against the glass, then dragged her away from the door by the throat, turning and slamming her onto the bed. He crawled on top of her, one of his knees digging into her abdomen. The pressure sent flares of pain from her stomach to her heart, her lungs and all the way up to the top of her head.

Her gestures grew clumsy, the kick of her bare feet slowing to a twitch. She could feel the pressure maxing out both above and below his hands, as though her airway or her head were going to explode. Her vision faded, her thoughts scattering.

A waste…

Like this?

Sorry…

Then she lost consciousness.

Mitchell

Mitchell double clicked the file Dennis sent him, aware of Charise and Mark at his back, looking over his shoulders. Security footage from his office building filled the screen. 

“This is from two nights ago,” Dennis said, his voice coming from the Skype call on Mitchell’s cell. “He’ll appear in three, two…”

Ben Miller strode confidently down the hall, passed his office, and stopped in front of Larissa’s. He pulled a set of keys from his pocket, and let himself into Kieran’s office, which led directly to Larissa’s. The door closed behind him.

“Legal is currently debating how that would fly in court, but for our purposes that’s enough evidence.” Dennis cleared his throat. “He has absolutely no reason to be in there.”

“How did he get a key?” Mitchell asked.

“That’s a good question. It will be part of our internal investigation.” 

Mitchell replayed the video, his eyes on Ben’s face. He’d paid for very good cameras, though he did not put them inside anyone’s office. He couldn’t help but interpret Ben’s look as cocky and predatory, though he knew he was biased.

“Mitchell?” Mark asked.

“Yes?”

“Dennis just asked where Ben is now. Do you want me to look for him?” 

Mitchell blinked up at him and frowned. “Wasn’t the security firm supposed to be sending someone out here?”

Dennis sighed. “They are claiming they are short staffed.”

Mitchell’s fist came down hard on the table, and he felt Charise flinch behind him. “That’s it. I’m going to let Operations know to work with Legal to get their contract terminated. If they can’t provide the service we are paying them for, we don’t need to keep paying them.”

“Agreed,” Mark said. “But we need to put a stop to this before he does anything else.”

“I’ll go with you,” Mitchell said. He heard someone knock on one of the doors and paused.

“That’s not us,” Mark said.

Charise tried to get his attention. “Uh, Mitchell…”

The knocking came again, harder. Then a door slammed. He shook his head and turned to look at Charise. “Yes?”

“I think we have a problem. I’ve got our IT on call texting me saying that a member of their department just forwarded that video on to Ben Miller.”

A scream erupted from across the hall, loud and bone-chilling. Mitchell was on his feet without thinking, and halfway to the door before he heard Dennis ask: “What’s going on? Mitchell? Mark?”

Mitchell didn’t hear Mark’s response because he was already in the hall, listening to shouting and thumping noises from inside Larissa’s room. He pounded on her door and jerked on the handle. 

“Larissa! LARISSA!” Immediate silence. He turned, looking down the hallway for a member of staff as Mark and Charise spilled out into the hall behind him. He pounded on the door again. “FUCK! I need the key!”

The silence from inside the room scared him. He rattled the knob one more time, then turned sideways and slammed his shoulder into the door. The door and frame were solid, and pain juddered down his arm and up into his neck. “FUCK!” He slammed his shoulder into the door a second and third time.

“Mark is calling 9-1-1,” Charise said, “And a young woman just ran to look for the person who has the keys! Don’t hurt yourself!”

He could hear Mark speaking in the distance. He backed up all the way across the hall, rounded his shoulder, and sprinted, throwing himself at the door. Finally, he felt something give, heard the wood splinter. He hit the door again, and then he was in, staggering through the doorway and catching himself on the wall. 

The first thing he saw was the open glass door, letting in a cool breeze that stirred the curtains.

Then he saw Larissa.

She was sprawled on her back on the bed, dressed in panties and a t-shirt. The shirt was bunched up underneath her breasts, exposing her stomach to the cool air. Her arms and legs were both spread, eyes half open and staring at nothing. The skin of her face and neck were that same scary, purple red he remembered from months before, though this time he could clearly see finger marks.

He froze for several seconds, until Mark came into the room and said: “Oh, God. We need an ambulance, too. Yes, we have a victim—”

Mitchell’s limbs unlocked. “No… Please, NO!” He threw himself on the bed, gently tipped her head back. When he leaned his ear over her mouth, rested his hand on her chest, she was silent and still.

“Not again,” he gasped, scooping her up in his arms and dragging her to the floor. Her hair draped over his arm, feeling incongruously like silk. Charise was there, helping him lower her. As soon as Larissa was flat, he leaned over her chest and pressed his hands down between her breasts, forcing her sternum toward her heart.

“What can I do?” Charise asked, reaching to brush Larissa’s hair off of her face, then sweeping her hand down to close her eyes.

“Get the AED from down the hall. Hurry!” He squared his shoulders above his hands, pumping Larissa’s chest, trying to keep himself in some kind of control. 

“We do not have him in custody, no,” Mark said. “Look, we have someone performing CPR now, do you have an ambulance on the way?”

“Mark,” Mitchell said. His shoulder ached, but he’d be damned if he let that affect the quality of his compressions. “Make sure Greg is close by. I’ll need one of you to take over at some point.”

Her head and limbs rocked as he pumped. He could hear the air being forced out of her in little huffs. Her soft belly rippled with each compression. He looked down at her as he worked, his heart breaking. He thought it was a mercy that her eyes were closed now. He kept seeing flashes of her underneath him the night prior, from her warm gaze and her easy smile to the way she touched him. Pain knifed through his own beating heart.

“Mitchell!” he heard Charise shout. “I have the AED, but I’ve also got a member of housekeeping who used to be an EMT!”

Charise ran in, followed by a woman carrying another small bag. Charise laid the AED on the floor next to Larissa and then backed up, pressing herself against the wall. Mitchell kept compressing Larissa’s chest hard, heard her ribcage groan underneath his hands. The unidentified staff member dropped to her knees next to Larissa and pulled on a pair of nitrile gloves.

“What happened?” She pressed her fingers into Larissa’s neck. “Pause compressions. Please.”

“I think… I think he strangled her.”

“She’s got a pulse.” She scooted around Larissa’s head, using her hands to carefully thrust the unconscious woman’s jaw forward, then leaned over to listen and feel for breath. “Respiratory arrest. What’s her name?”

“Larissa,” he said, sitting back on his heels and watching as the woman dug through the bag, pulling out a plastic case and a bag valve mask that he recognized from the last time this had happened. She opened the packaging and pressed the mask to Larissa’s face, squeezing the bag a few times before laying it down next to her head.

‘The last time this happened,’ he thought, his stomach clenching. I’ve failed. Shit like this can’t happen.

He reached out and took Larissa’s limp hand and squeezed it, hard.

“Alright, Larissa,” the woman said, her voice loud. “My name is Brooke. I’m going to help you breathe.” She opened the case and selected something from it.

“This is an airway adjunct,” she told him. “It will help keep her airway open. She’s almost definitely got some swelling.”

She held the airway against the side of Larissa’s face and then nodded. He watched her open Larissa’s mouth wide and slide the airway in, rotating it and then letting the flanged end rest on her teeth. Then she pressed the mask to Larissa’s face and squeezed the bag, her eyes on Larissa’s chest. “I feel some resistance, but she’s got equal chest rise.”

“Mark!” He heard himself call. “Have they given you an ETA?” 

“Five minutes for cops… Sir? What’s the ETA on the ambulance?” Mark listened and then said: “Ten on the ambulance. Staff is prepared to lead everyone in.”

“Will she make it that long?” he asked Brooke. She was still squeezing the bag at regular intervals, her eyes on Larissa’s chest.

She looked up at him, seeming to take his measure in a glance. He didn’t know what she saw, other than that he’d managed to choke back the tears that threatened to fall. “I’m going to show you how to use this mask to help her breathe, can you handle that?”

“I can.” 

“Alright. Squeeze steadily every five seconds. Make sure you keep the seal. Don’t squeeze faster or harder, do exactly as I do.”

He released Larissa’s hand and scooted closer to her head, careful not to catch her loose hair under his knees. He put one hand on the mask itself, lapping his fingers over her chin like he’d seen Brooke do. Then he squeezed the bag. She watched him squeeze it a few times and then nodded.

“Good. Don’t stop unless I tell you.” She pressed her fingers to Larissa’s swollen neck and her wrist, and after a moment pressed her fingers into her femoral pulse. “Pulse is stronger. Her color is much better already. What’s your name?”

“Mitchell.”

“Mitchell, to answer your question, I would feel better if she either started breathing on her own or the paramedics would show up. But she could be a lot worse off. Does she have any pre-existing health conditions?” She reached over and unzipped the AED case.

Mitchell watched in alarm, though he kept squeezing the bag regularly.

“Don’t worry,” she said, raising a hand to quell his fear. “I’m going to prep her just in case. It would be better to get it ready and not need it, then need it and lose time, right?”

“Right…” He cleared his throat and kept squeezing the bag, watching her chest rise as Brooke cut Larissa’s t-shirt up the middle and applied the pads. There were obvious signs of a struggle on her bare skin, along with the bruise his chest compressions had given her. He could see scratch marks and a reddened area across her abdomen. Brooke smoothed the pads down and plugged in the connector, though she did not turn on the AED. He watched her fold the cut ends of Larissa’s t-shirt back over her breasts.

 “You asked about pre-existing conditions…” His voice cracked and he cleared his throat again. “She nearly choked to death on a piece of candy several months ago and was resuscitated. She has some neurological issues from that. She fainted last night, but of course… this, today…. this was done to her.”

“Mitchell, the police are here. I’m going to talk to them, okay?” Mark said. “I’m handing the phone to Charise in case you need an update on the ambulance.”

Mitchell hadn’t even realized anyone else but Brooke and Larissa was still in the room. “Thank you, Mark, Charise.”

Brooke looked at him, then back down at Larissa, shaking her head. 

“What is it?” Mitchell asked, trying to keep the sharpness out of his tone and his attention on squeezing the bag.

“I quit being an EMT to get away from things like this. Assaults, domestics.” She reached over and squeezed Larissa’s shoulder. She dug her fingers in hard. “Larissa. Larissa, honey, you need to wake up and breathe on your own, okay?”

Larissa’s arm jerked, moving toward Brooke. 

“Good, Larissa. Go ahead and open your eyes.”

Mitchell saw her chest rise out of sync with his squeezing.

“Brooke—”

“Let me take over.”

They swapped places, and he took Larissa’s hand in his, squeezing it every few seconds. “Larissa? Open your eyes. You’re okay. We got to you in time. You’re okay.”

Her chest rose and fell irregularly, and he watched as Brooke seemed to be supplementing her efforts. Then, he felt her fingers twitch in his.

“Larissa?”

Her eyelids fluttered and opened. The whites of both her eyes were an alarming red. He squeezed her hand, hard. She gasped and started coughing, and Brooke raised the mask from her mouth and quickly removed the airway. He watched panic roll over Larissa’s face, her limbs stiffening, back bowing. He leaned closer, just as Brooke said: “Larissa, take slow breaths for me.”

Larissa made a gagging noise and Brooke rolled her onto her side. Mitchell held her hair back as she vomited up mostly liquid, watching as Brooke swept a finger between her teeth to assure that her airway was clear.

Charise appeared with a hand towel, which Brooke used to wipe Larissa’s face and mop up the vomit. Then they rolled her onto her back again.

Larissa’s free hand flew to her neck, where the bruises were growing dark and scary. He could hear her wheezing as she breathed.

“You’re okay,” Mitchell said, trying to sound soothing as he watched tears roll down her cheeks. “You’re safe, you’re alive.”

He gently pulled her hand from her throat and brought both hands to his mouth, kissing her knuckles and not caring who saw him.

“Mitch… ell…” her voice came out as a cracked whisper.

“Shh, you don’t have to talk.”

“Ben…”

“I know, baby, I’m so sorry.” He took a deep breath. “We called the police. You won’t have to worry about him again. I’m so, so sorry.”

She coughed, the sound coming out as a pained squeak, and shook her head. He realized, now that her color was returning to normal, that the pale skin of her face was covered in tiny red dots. When she opened her mouth to speak again, Mitchell squeezed her hands and shook his head. “Don’t try to talk. There will be an ambulance here soon to take you to the hospital. You can tell me whatever you need to after a doctor takes a look at your throat. I’ll call your parents so they can come down, okay?”

“Do you want to ride with her in the ambulance?” Brooke asked. “I can suggest to them that you should ride with her, make an argument that you’re helping her communicate.”

“Please. I think she’ll stay calmer if I’m with her.” He kept his eyes on Larissa’s, trying to make his expression into something that resembled comfort.

Larissa

A half hour later, they were in the back of an ambulance on the way to the hospital. She insisted on clinging to his hand even when it was inconvenient for the paramedics, afraid she’d fly apart if she lost that connection.

She was feeling a little more comfortable after a breathing treatment, some sort of medication in an IV, and an oxygen mask. The mask had taken some convincing from Mitchell; she felt claustrophobic. 

She refused the cervical collar, and when her panic shot her heart rate and blood pressure sky high, the medics had put the collar out of sight. Mitchell leaned close and spoke to her softly in her ear until she calmed down. They removed the AED pads and attached her to a monitor, Mitchell reassuring her that they hadn’t actually had to use the pads. The medics also covered her with a blanket, which she burrowed under gratefully.

Mitchell’s eyes had barely left her face since he’d sat down on the bench. He looked haunted, his skin ashen. She wished she could talk to him, but every time she tried, she started coughing.

“A text just came across my watch,” Mitchell told her. “Mark called your parents. Soon as we can, I’ll FaceTime them, okay? I know they’ll want to see that you’re… They’ll want to talk to you. I think that will make all of you feel better.”

She squeezed his hand. He was right. 

She watched him watch her, the set of his mouth grim. She ran her thumb across the back of his hand. He blinked and leaned in closer to press a kiss to her forehead.

“I’m okay,” he said. “Don’t worry about me. I’m just glad you’re alive. So glad…”

Exhaustion lay heavy on her body. She let her eyes linger on him until she drifted off.

Mitchell, a week later

Mitchell took the stairs two at a time, using the handrail to propel himself forward. He had a bouquet of flowers in his other hand. He was familiar with the hospital after a week of visiting Larissa there. When he made it to her floor, he hurried down the hall until he found her room.

The door was open, room divider curtains pushed wide. He stopped in the doorway, eyes searching her out. She was dressed in her own clothing, from her luggage that he’d retrieved from the chateau. A soft, beige sweater, dark blue jeans, sensible flats. Her mother was braiding her long hair. 

She still didn’t look quite like herself. Her eyes, hemorrhaged from the pressure, were about fifty percent better. The red dots, which he’d learned were petechiae, were gone. Her neck was still a mess, a background of green and yellow with dark purple finger marks stark in the foreground. 

“I feel terrible,” Larissa’s mother was saying. “If it were anyone but your grandfather…”

“I’m okay, Momma,” Larissa said. Her voice was a hoarse shadow of its former self, though the doctor said it would improve. “You and Daddy go take care of Poppy. I’ve got Mitchell, and my friends.”

“Pardon me, son,” Larissa’s father, John, spoke from behind him. “Had to take a few things down to the rental. I really appreciate you paying for that. And the tickets.”

“It was the least I could do,” he said, and he meant it. He didn’t think he could ever make it up to Larissa or her parents. 

“Are you just going to stand in the hall?” Larissa croaked. She was smiling at him. Her mother draped the completed braid over her shoulder. 

Mitchell took a deep breath and walked inside the room. “Discharged, then?” He held the bouquet out to her. 

“Lilies!” Larissa’s mother, Margaret, cooed as her daughter cradled the bouquet. 

“Thank you,” Larissa whispered, tipping her face up to him. 

He kissed her, self-conscious in front of her parents. 

“Not quite discharged,” she said after the kiss. “Just waiting on paperwork and then they are required to wheel me out of here.”

“We’ve still got plenty of time,” John said. “I’ll feel better when I see you outside. Don’t like hospitals.”

“Did Mark reach out?” Mitchell asked. He sat down next to her on the bed. “He’s been hounding me to know how you’re doing, and I told him you’d probably appreciate a direct message.”

“He did,” she said. “And Cherise. Everyone’s been so kind, though I think Legal is concerned I’m going to sue.”

She grinned at him and winked.

A man in blue scrubs hurried into her room, his hand full of papers. “Here’s your copy of everything, just like I promised you. Discharge instructions, information about prescriptions, list of upcoming appointments. You’ve got someone staying with you tonight?”

“She does,” Mitchell said, making a point of not looking at her father.

“Excellent. Someone will come by in just a minute with a wheelchair, you can go ahead and have your ride come around.”

“Thank you,” Larissa said.

“You’re welcome. Glad to see you doing well enough to get out of here.” The man smiled and tossed a wave around the room before hurrying out the door.

Mitchell stood, looking around for Larissa’s overnight bag.

“I’ve got it,” John said, slinging it over his shoulder. “I’ll walk down with you. Her mother can keep her company for a few.”

Mitchell, an hour later

Larissa was quiet on the drive to her apartment. He reached over and rubbed her leg for a few seconds before returning his hand to the steering wheel. She smiled at him.

“Is your grandfather going to be okay?”

“I don’t know,” she whispered. “I wish I could see him, but I don’t think I’m up for a trip to Canada. I’m sure the customs agents would have questions for me. Momma said she’d FaceTime me if he was lucid.”

“I’m sorry,” he murmured. “My sister-in-law wanted me to tell you she’s praying for your family.”

“That’s kind of her.” Larissa cleared her throat. “Ow.”

“Are you okay?”

“Sore,” she croaked. “But okay. Did Daddy say anything crazy while he was alone with you?”

“Not… super crazy,” he replied, grinning ruefully. “He asked about my ‘intentions’ and reminded me that your mother is the Canadian and that he’s from the South. I think I got his meaning. It was nicer than anything I would have said if I were him.”

“Mitchell…” She sighed and cupped her hand to her throat. “Ow.”

“Don’t worry about talking,” he told her. “We can just enjoy each other in silence.”

She reached over and squeezed his arm, then reached down and laid her seat back. 

“You can sleep if you want,” he said. “I have your address in my GPS.”

She sighed, settling herself, and a few minutes later she was fast asleep.

Larissa

The ride home and even the walk up to her apartment were a blur. She remembered him supporting her in the elevator, holding her close against him. The next thing she knew, it was late in the day, and she was stretched out on the sofa, her shoes off, covered with a blanket. 

She felt fingers pressing into the pulse point in one of her wrists and opened her eyes. Mitchell was sitting on the edge of the sofa, her arm in his lap, taking her pulse. 

“What…?” She croaked, blinking at him in confusion.

“It’s just… reassuring,” he said, meeting her eyes. “The feel of your heart beating. I’m sorry for waking you. I know you’re exhausted.”

“What time is it?”

“Eight. Your parents got to the airport okay. I let them know you were taking a nap.”

She relaxed against a throw pillow, a smile on her lips. He still had his fingers on the inside of her wrist, only now they were gently stroking. 

“I like your apartment,” he said. “I looked around a little. Everything’s classy but comfortable.”

“I try,” she whispered.

He leaned over and kissed her, and she reached up to thread her fingers into his hair. He released her wrist and gently cupped her cheek.

When they broke the kiss, she whispered: “You can touch my neck. To feel my heartbeat there. It’s okay. No one but you.”

His own throat worked, and then he slid his fingers south, grazing her mottled skin. He found her carotid pulse and let his fingers hover there.

Larissa closed her eyes and felt his touch like he’d pressed his fingers straight to her clit. She jumped, opening her eyes, and he immediately withdrew his hand, concerned.

“I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

What’s wrong with me? She felt her sex throb and reached up to grasp his hand. 

Just go with it. She brought his hand down to her ribcage, encouraging him to press his palm to her apex. “You didn’t hurt me. Or scare me.”

“What then?” His voice was husky and he looked confused, though she noticed he didn’t remove his hand, even with the weight of her breast pressed against his palm.

“Do you think you have it in you to make love to someone who looks like she got mugged by a watercolor?”

His eyes went wide and then he threw back his head and laughed. “I’m just laughing at the way you said that, I swear!”

She grinned up at him, then let her face relax. She took a deep, intentional breath, felt his hand ride the wave of her inhalation. She watched his eyes study her face for a long moment, and then his hand lifted from her ribcage. 

He leaned over her and kissed her. His lips were gentle, his probing tongue slow but insistent. She felt one of his hands glide down her body and cup her mound over her jeans. He rubbed a gentle circle, pulling a moan from her lips.

“You have to tell me if I hurt you,” he said. “Or if you feel unwell in any way.”

“I promise.”

He was slow and careful with her. He spent a long time making out with her on the sofa, the hand over her jeans tapping out a gentle but incessant rhythm that had her squirming.

After an eternity, as though finally convinced it was safe to proceed, he scooped her up into his arms and carried her into the bedroom.

He was all tenderness, stripping off her clothing and laying her down on fresh sheets. He kissed her over her sternum, lips gentle against the green and yellow bruises. Then he turned his attention to her breasts, cupping them, running his thumbs over her hard nipples before finding them with his mouth. She tipped her head back and moaned. He surprised her by using his teeth, nibbling at her breasts as he slid his hand between her thighs, making her buck off the mattress.

His fingers massaged her clit, and he brought his mouth back to hers, kissing her deeply and giving her breaks to come up for air. She reached for him, hands sliding up under his shirt, lightly scratching his chest. He broke contact with her long enough to remove his shirt, and then he returned his attentions to her mouth and the wetness between her thighs.

Now he was pumping his fingers in and out of her, and she couldn’t stop rolling her hips, her legs spreading wide. She reached down and undid each button on his button fly jeans, slipped her hand inside to feel his hardness through his boxer briefs.

She was panting, her eyes closed. She could feel the ache starting deep inside her. Fingers weren’t enough.

“I want you inside me,” she whispered. “Now.”

He curled his fingers as he pulled them out, then reached up and slipped them into her mouth. She sucked her own arousal off of his fingers while he pushed his jeans down one-handed.

He pulled back long enough to drag his pants and boxers off, then crawled over her, his erection settling between her thighs. She bucked against him, helpless with need.

He guided himself inside her and started thrusting, long and slow at first and gradually picking up speed. She brought her legs up and locked them around him, pulling him deeper.

Mitchell

He let his rhythm rock her body, her breasts swaying. Her hand slipped between them to rub her clit, and he let out a low groan at the sight of her. Larissa’s eyes were closed, one hand between her thighs, face flushed, the other hand reaching up to trail her fingers down his chest.

She was getting close. He replaced her fingers with his thumb, rubbing over and around her clit. She moaned with each thrust, and he soaked it all in, hoping to finish with her. A flush started below her breasts and ran up into her face.

“Mitchell,” she whispered. “Mitchell… Oh!”

She came, her back arching off the bed and her muscles gripping hard around him. He felt his balls tighten, thrust harder once, twice, a third time, and then he was there with her. He slid his hand back up to the apex of her heart, felt her pounding against the palm of his hand as he emptied himself inside of her. Then he moved his hand to the center of her heaving chest.

“Just breathe,” he murmured, coming down. “I just want to feel you breathe.”

--

Larissa and Mitchell's story continues in Not For the Faint of Heart.

[trekwiz]

I used Tumblr's feedback function about the recent changes. But, fuck, it was hard to get it short enough. It had to be under "5,000" characters--but the system's broken so it required me to get it to around 4,700. I don't think the short version makes as much sense, but I'll provide it under a cut. And I'll follow with a long version.

You want to drive engagement: that means being more fun than nuisance.

We hate snoozing Live. Disrespecting users' preferences and giving busy work means you'll never convert us to Live users: you've only built resentment.

Some users turn off push notifications for being annoying. What does Tumblr have that requires urgency? A friend who needs a ride to the ER is not asking on the fun meme site. When you push notifications, it's your decision to get my attention, instead of my choice. There's no way to spin this as a positive.

The persistent banner in "Activity" warning that notifications are off, is a rude reminder that you feel entitled to my attention. Your intention to SPAM users like me is worse, but we're the kind of users who are also motivated to click “Report Spam” to hurt your domain score in retaliation.

Users hate algorithms. Most users turn off “in your orbit” etc. They made your site harder to use--it's confusing and awkward to see posts of unexpected origin. I had a look at the separate feeds, but I haven't used them again. The chronological feed is more appealing.

Users don't want your vision of condensed reblogs. You'll destroy popular memes that only work in the current format, such as the speech bubble gag. You will lose users if this humor is tough or impossible. 2 better ways of rolling this out: 1. Offer it in the editor, like polls. Users will choose when threaded is better. 2. Offer a toggle on posts. This allows threads to be viewed when it makes sense.

Users like duplicate reblogs. This is social bonding, unique to Tumblr. duplicates show which mutuals share your tastes. The joke about seeing the same post shared by 5 mutuals is endearing, not derogatory.

Be more thoughtful with your ads. You have a lot of LGBT users. Why show ads from a hate organization like Chik-Fil-A ads? It's very offputting.

Don't "fix" the things you do well; improve where you're doing poorly.

Search needs work.

Users who remove their blog from search are confused when they can't use the search bar inside their blog. They turn on favorite tags which can't be used in that case. It would help to have an option to enable search only from within the blog.

Search is inconsistent. I can type a whole post from days ago, with no results. It's not clear why some posts aren't searchable.

I want duplicates in my feed, not search.

Sometimes I lose a post after an accidental refresh. An option to search blogs I follow would help.

Add search to the follower/ing lists. And if you follow someone called 1Funny1 now, it would help to know that they were NotJoking8 when you followed last year.

Fixing search might seem low impact. But it's probably the one thing that will stop users from calling the site broken. That will encourage new users to join.

We want a "mutuals" badge. You're mimicking the worst parts of social media, but we love friend lists. An indication of who's a mutual is helpful. It should increase engagement as well!

Your hate speech policy needs improvement. The bar to remove LGBT-phobic content is too high. The "mundane political speech" has deadly consequences. Allowing LGBT-phobic content if it's "not extreme" normalizes attacks on our human rights--you're influencing public policy by treating these ideas as if they're civil, despite the harm. And we deserve a place to escape the hate.

Next, there are better ways to spotlight content. You could build a tab for curation. 3 kinds: 1. Official Tumblr Curators 2. Sponsored Curators ($), and 3. User Curators. Users should be able to select which type they see at any time. This should include categories for browsing, and search. They should highlight bloggers, especially creators. This allows users to find new content organically, instead of being forced--this is a marketable feature.

For revenue: Editor+. A robust text editor that matches Google Docs, etc, with unique Tumblr enhancements, like a way to favorite gifs and emojis for faster use, and a meme generator--something that fits the most common meme formats but allows quick insertion of text and graphics. Those exist elsewhere, but integration is convenient. That means value to the user.

You should also leverage the Marketplace better. Gifting would be great for digital products. Send DoorDash gift cards, or gift an online watch party or music through Tumblr. The Marketplace is a lot more appealing if it can include useful services.

Closing thought: after a bonus at work, I was about to go ad-free. But the announced changes will be more nuisance than fun: I can't imagine staying here if you make the site unusable. These are obvious errors that will decrease your userbase, and it's surprising that you didn't immediately realize this.

[country-corner]

This is so funny. We was looking at property online, when my wife saw one in an area we like and asked me to open it. It was just plain land. Trees and a nice natural pond, but no well, septic system or buildings. The land is under timber tax, so the property tax is extremely low.

She looked at me and asked if it would be possible to take a portion off timber tax status for the "homestead." Just the our Realtor called and she said yes we could.

So, for the rest of the day, my wife has had me calling well drillers and septic installers for (rough) quotes since we don't have an actual address yet. Looking up used single wide trailer house prices and the cost to move them. Also looking up the prices for canvas wall tents.

She now wants to buy plain land, camp on the property while setting it up the way we want, instead of taking someone else's vision and adapting to what we want. We know our daughter and my FIL will be upset. They'll think I talked her into doing this, because in the past they've said they can't see my wife, as some of you know has CP and Epilepsy, tent camping. They forget that my wife and I both love camping and have done it many times, including winter camping with our daughter.

But, if we do this it will actually be cheaper and we would get more land.

[highfunctioningflailgirl]

Les Trois Mousquetaires, Chapter 35

Title: "La nuit tous les chats sont gris" (At night, all cats are grey)

D'Artagnan visits Milady at the usual hour, and she's both in high spirits and eager for him to leave early - no doubt, she's received the fake de Wardes letter and can't wait to meet him.

Meanwhile, poor Ketty is still in distress over the whole thing, although d’Artagnan again tries to convince her that she's doing the right thing.

When the hour of de Wardes' arrival approaches, Milady orders Ketty to extinguish every light in the house. (No, she doesn't give any reason. We must assume she doesn't want to be seen with the Count; but it really turns out to simply be a plot device Dumas needed and, in his casual and confident way of drawing artistic licence, he pulls it off, and no one better ask any dumb questions...)

This is where things become really murky and questionable.

D'Artagnan enters Milady's conveniently dark chamber, pretending to be de Wardes. She receives him ardently and, clasping his hands in hers, declares her love for him. (It must be really dark in her room since she doesn't suspect a thing.) Doing so, she slips a ring onto his finger as a token of her love. It's a magnificent sapphire, encircled by diamonds. (How does d'Artagnan know this, you ask, when it's pitch black in the room? Remember, dear reader, that our Gascon has a superpower - perfect night vision.)

Torn between his need for vengeance, a rising passion and jealousy toward the Count de Wardes, d'Artagnan is close to revealing all, when Milady says:

"Pauvre ange, que ce monstre de Gascon a failli tuer!"

(My poor angel, whom that monster of a Gascon failed to kill!)

Now, d'Artagnan doesn't like being called a monster, and he likes it even less when Milady speaks of taking brutal revenge on him. So he keeps the pretense up, and still caught up in mixed feelings of "diabolical love", he leaves after the two of them have agreed upon a next date and said their "passionate goodbyes".

D'Artagnan is confused. And what does he do when he's confused? Exactly: He goes to get advice from Athos. He tells him everything, and Athos isn't thrilled, fearing his little brother is making himself a terrible enemy should everything come out.

D'Artagnan also shows Athos the ring, and it curiously reminds Athos of a similar one that was an old family jewel he once gave away "during a moment of love". It even has a similar scratch and fits onto Athos' ring finger.

Athos turns very pale, bad memories bubbling to the surface, and he even considers if this is the same ring, but he dismisses the thought. It can't be.

Athos' worry about d'Artagnan results in a sweet, paternal moment between the two.

"...vous savez si je vous aime, d'Artagnan; j'aurais un fils que je ne l'aimerais pas plus que vous."

(You know how much I love you, d'Artagnan. Had I a son, I could not love him more dearly.)

Awww...

And Athos gives lil' d'Art the good advice to leave his hands off that woman; she apparently means nothing but trouble. (Better listen to him, kid!)

D'Artagnan promises to heed his advice.

Returning to his own place, d'Artagnan finds Ketty, looking terrible from lack of sleep, worry and remorse. She has a message: Milady wants to know when the Comte de Wardes can come see her again.

Remembering Athos' advice, d'Artagnan writes Milady a letter:

She's not to count on seeing him again. Now that he's recovered from his wounds, he has many other dates like the one with her, and he'll have to attend to them in order. When her turn comes, he'll inform her.

Ketty is pleased and runs to deliver the letter.

Milady, however, is Not Amused™️

And, with the shocked Ketty present, she swears revenge on de Wardes. Uh-oh...

[sofullofloveicould]

march writing challenge 2023 - day one

shuffle your playlist 3 times

The Kids are All Dying - Finneas

Bang Bang

There’s someone knocking on my door, jolting me from my position slouched at my laptop, staring blankly at the cursor blinking on the screen. My eyes feel dry in their sockets.

When I open the door, the sun is glaringly bright outside, and I wonder faintly when it turned into daytime, and how long I’d been trying to work my way through the papers my boss had sent over. The faint smell of smoke wafts in through the door, then of hot asphalt, and something sugary and faint. I look straight ahead, glaring at the sun for clouding my vision. 

“Sir?” 

I glance down, feeling old and stupid standing there, looking at a little girl, maybe six or seven, with her blond hair parted in the middle and braided. Her girl scout uniform has been neatly thrown over her school uniform (and is there a bruise forming under her prim little collar?)

“Sir?” I realize I’ve been staring and tear my eyes away. The sense of deja-vu is so disorienting I can taste it, and I feel vaguely like I should be in a senior home, removed from childhood for long enough to have forgotten the feel of it, the way it slipped around and then off my skin. 

“Yeah?” I say, a little more disoriented than I’d planned. 

Her face lights up, probably at the fact that I hadn’t slammed the door in her face. “Good morning, sir! Do you have a dollar? Would you like 

(to fund the war?)

some cookies?” 

Fuck, what is happening? “Sure, just-uh, let me grab my wallet.” 

“Sure thing, sir!” the girl, says, then cranes her neck as if to let me see the spot i’d been staring at, and their is something blossoming there, greens and purples so dark they’re almost black. 

(Does she cover it with her mother’s porcelain foundation before school everyday, a shade too light for her skin?)

Her smile is gummy, teeth looking plasticy in her mouth. 

I know where my wallet is, in theory, right where I left it the night before, sitting on the counter in my kitchen, mostly empty, but with enough left for this girl. 

“Sir?” She calls again, “Did you find your dollar?”

(I’ll blow you for one, he turns and she’s a homeless bum, kneeling on the ground outside a Chick-fil-a. Just a dollar, missur)

“Still looking!” I say, but I hear her step through the doorway, and I whirl around, clutching a few loose dimes. “I don’t have a dollar, but here-”

The words trail off when I see her, and see that the bruise seems to have grown tenfold, scraping the corners of her eye. “I don’t need the dollar, missur, we all need the dollar. They need the dollar. I’ll blow you for a dollar, missur.”

Her eyes look unfocused, something white staining the cuffs of her shirt and something red the breast of her jacket. 

She takes another few steps with the unsteady gait of one who’s just learned how, and she looks so young standing there that I scramble for another second for her dollar before I smell it. 

Metallic, bloody, rotting 

(death)

When I turn again it drips from her hairline down her neck, and she smiles so wide some of it drips into her mouth. 

“I don’t really need your dollar, missur, I’ll give you them for free.” 

(we’re next, all of us.

next for what?)

She thrusts a box towards me, little sugar cookies with faint embelishments and designs. “No dollar needed, missur, these cookies are free for you. Best quality for you!”

When I look down, I find they’ve rotted to nothing in my hands.

@deity-prompts credit for the prompt list

[jakesealblackhangar]

Jake Seal Black Hangar Discusses Mentorship’s Role in Filmmaking

Mentorship is a powerful force in the film industry, shaping the careers of aspiring filmmakers and enabling seasoned professionals to pass on their knowledge and skills to a new generation. Jake Seal Black Hangar Studios, a filmmaker and producer with a wealth of industry experience, emphasizes the essential role mentorship plays in filmmaking. From inspiring creativity to teaching practical skills, mentorship supports the future of the film industry by fostering talent, encouraging innovation, and cultivating a collaborative spirit.

Why Mentorship Matters in Filmmaking

Filmmaking is a challenging yet rewarding field, requiring a blend of creative vision, technical expertise, and perseverance. For newcomers, navigating this complex industry can be daunting. Mentorship provides a pathway for aspiring filmmakers to learn directly from experienced professionals, gaining insight into both the creative and business aspects of filmmaking.

Learning the Craft from Industry Experts

One of the most valuable aspects of mentorship in filmmaking is the opportunity to learn the craft from someone with firsthand experience. Mentors like Jake Seal offer guidance on the technical elements of filmmaking, from directing and cinematography to editing and sound design. Learning directly from industry experts allows mentees to develop a strong foundation in the art and science of filmmaking.

Mentorship also provides practical insights that are difficult to acquire in a classroom setting. For example, understanding how to manage a set, communicate effectively with a crew, and work under budget constraints are skills often learned through experience. A mentor can help aspiring filmmakers understand the nuances of these practical aspects, better preparing them for real-world challenges.

Building a Strong Network in the Film Industry

The film industry is a collaborative field where relationships play a significant role in career development. For newcomers, building a network can be challenging. Mentors can introduce their mentees to other industry professionals, providing access to connections that can lead to new opportunities. Jake Seal Black Hangar Studios believes that a strong network is essential for filmmakers, as collaboration often drives creative success.

By connecting with seasoned professionals through their mentors, mentees can gain insights into different roles within the industry, from producers and directors to screenwriters and editors. This networking aspect of mentorship opens doors and helps emerging filmmakers understand the full scope of career possibilities available in the film industry.

Encouraging Creative Risk-Taking and Innovation

Mentors also encourage creative risk-taking, essential for filmmaking growth and innovation. The guidance of an experienced mentor can give young filmmakers the confidence to push boundaries, experiment with new techniques, and pursue their unique vision. Jake Seal emphasizes the importance of originality in filmmaking, noting that a mentor’s encouragement can inspire filmmakers to embrace their creativity and bring fresh perspectives to their work.

Mentorship provides a safe space for mentees to explore their ideas, make mistakes, and learn from those experiences. By fostering an environment where experimentation is encouraged, mentors help develop filmmakers who are not only technically skilled but also creatively bold and resilient.

Mentorship as a Two-Way Street

While mentorship benefits emerging filmmakers, it is also rewarding for mentors. Mentorship allows experienced professionals like Jake Seal Black Hangar to reflect on their career journey and share the lessons they’ve learned along the way. In addition, working with young talent often brings fresh perspectives and ideas that can inspire seasoned filmmakers.

Through mentoring, Jake Seal and other industry veterans can stay connected to evolving trends and techniques in filmmaking, ensuring that their skills remain relevant. This exchange of knowledge benefits the industry as a whole, fostering a culture of learning and collaboration that drives continual growth.

Practical Steps for Aspiring Filmmakers to Find a Mentor

For aspiring filmmakers, finding a mentor can be transformative. Here are some practical steps to connect with a mentor in the industry:

Attend Film Events and Networking Opportunities: Film festivals, workshops, and industry panels are excellent places to meet potential mentors and connect with like-minded professionals.

Seek Out Internship and Assistant Positions: Working on a film set or in a production studio offers hands-on experience and the chance to meet experienced filmmakers who may be open to mentoring.

Engage with the Film Community Online: Social media platforms and professional networks like LinkedIn provide opportunities to connect with filmmakers, share your work, and demonstrate your passion and commitment to the craft.

Be Open and Eager to Learn: Approach potential mentors with a genuine willingness to learn and grow. Building a mentor-mentee relationship is a two-way street that requires trust, respect, and a shared commitment to the craft of filmmaking.

Mentorship’s Impact on the Future of Filmmaking

Mentorship is more than just teaching technical skills; it’s about instilling values, encouraging creative exploration, and building a resilient, supportive community of filmmakers. Jake Seal Black Hangar believes that by investing in mentorship, the film industry can create a legacy of innovation, creativity, and collaboration that inspires future generations. Mentorship is a gateway to success for aspiring filmmakers, providing the skills, support, and connections needed to make their mark in the industry.

By fostering mentorship, the film industry strengthens its own future and empowers individuals to create meaningful, impactful stories that resonate with audiences worldwide.

[miyamoratsumuu]

HI FRANSSS I MISSED YOU !! Consider this my weekly check up too <3

Not sure about you, but I didn't have school today and I wouldn't on monday either cause of the holidayss I love it when they move the holiday to friday and monday so that we can have a long weekend😍 Anyways how have you beenn? Don't worry about replying late to my asks it's no problemmm school is literally so stressful 🤕

I hate our major task for AP and Fil so muchh we gotta read a story and roleplay something related to it, but it also has to be persuading the audience and related to economics 😓 This is so hard to think about ongg, but I will start on the "Kung nag md siya nang naka black" this weekend hopefully!! or on monday🥲 honestly I'd probably end up working on it on the weekend and cram on monday

also I was so shocked to see that you guys wear traditional clothes on multiple days cause we only wear them oncee

Anyways please do rant too!!! I wanna hear what you to sayyyy

I MISSED YOU MOREE LOUUU

I didn't have school today too!! well yesterday now bc it's saturday and friday yesterday ykykyk BUT IKR?? like yas give us that 4 day long weekend 🥰🥰

I've been okayy, we have tons of things to get done over the weekend again (teachers sure did want to make use of the long weekend</3) but I think I could get it done 💪🏻 one of the things we have to get done is another one of our business proposals!! but this time, it's for our booth during intrams/foundation week hihi my group and I decided on a summer theme (it's called Summer Serenade)

but we're presenting again on wednesday and it's like the full blown thing (company name, company logo, vision and mission, tagline, 5 food products, 5 accessory products, target customer, kiosk/booth theme and design) I'm genuinely ao nervous but so excited bc I want us to nail this BECAUSE we have like four groups in the class, and each group will present. whatever group's idea gets the most votes, that's the kiosk/booth idea we will do when intrams come around 🙏🏼 AND PLSPSLSPSLPLEASE I WANT TO DO OUR IDEA SO BADDDD

honestly, major tasks in AP and fil are the ones I dislike the most 😞 idk what it is about them, but they always end up being so difficult for me (maybe it's bc I'm way more fluent in english than in filipino but oh well) GOODLUCK ON YOUR MAJOR TASK THOUGH!! ik you'll do great, babe 🫶🏻

YEYSEYSYES OMGGJGN I'm so excited to see it!! PERO STOPP SERO IN A BLACK BUTTON UP POLO LOU AAAAGHHSHWBDKWN but yk I think it'll be the same for me, I'll work on my smau seriss this weekend then cram on monday 🤗 I can do it dw you guys I'm a professional crammer 🙏🏼🙏🏼

we wear them once a week every friday 😞 I only have one top so I wear that every week (I have it washed first ofc) but I wear different skirts every week bc maarte ako like that 😸 and yeah I think I'll keep wearing heels cause I don't want to buy another set of slippers ik I'll only wear three to four weeks every year 😅