#she has to find a moral reason why it was NEVER good in the first place and it's now sinful to watch and enjoy

[whileyoureinschoolidothisallday]

so I need to tell y'all how this week with my mom went because goddamn if I wrote this into a story with my typical Mommy Issues characters I would be told it was too heavy-handed.

Me: Hey mom I see you're really into Bridgerton lately and want someone to talk to about it. I've only heard good things and we rarely ever have interests in common, so I'd be down to watch it with you!

Mom: OMG REALLY? =D I'd love that! Let's do that next time I'm here!

-Next day-

Me: Alrighty mom let's get started on this show!!!!

Mom: Oh, I'm not gonna rewatch the old ones. I only wanna watch the latest season together, cause the second half comes out in a few days. Just catch up and then we'll watch the newest ones on Saturday!!

Me: Oh. Well okay! I can binge by then easy.

-Saturday-

Me: Alright I only have two episodes left of the second season and then we can get started on ✨season 3✨!

Mom: Oh, I already watched it.

Me: ...what?

Mom: Yeah, I couldn't wait ^^;

Me: ??????? Ma, you were complaining for weeks that you wanted to watch this with someone and then I do it and you finish it yourself?????

Mom: It's fine just finish the rest of it and then we can talk about the whole thing!!!!!!

Me: 🤷🏽‍♀️ okay I guess

-This last Wednesday-

Me: I finished ✨Bridgerton✨What did you like about it?

Mom: Meh. I didn't really like the 3rd season. I thought it was boring.

Me: It was definitely more plot-driven than the other ones. Is that...all you're gonna say about it? After all this time?

Mom: I have other things my mind is focusing on right now.

Me, still trying to stoke healthier, diverse interests other than Conspiracy Theories, the Apocalypse, and Fake "Health" advice on tiktok: Oh! Like what?

Mom: Like being a better stewardess for the abundance God has already brought into my life

Me, completely unsure how to continue this conversation: ...Oh...!

And then, today, she sends me this tiktok which I didn't watch but you can see plainly what it's about from the screenshot!

[basementloser]

I would've loved an episode in which Danny and Dash switch bodies.

I imagine it happens because Dash is talking to Kwan about how cool Phantom is or something, and at some point he says "Man, I wish I was Danny Phantom!"

Of course Desiree hears this, she appears before him ("So you have wished it, so shall it be!"), and the next day Dash wakes up in Danny's body. Danny Fenton's body. In Danny's room.

At this point he's pretty familiar with Desiree, and he assumes she just heard him wrong, befause Fenton and Phantom do sound alike. ("Huh, how weird! How has no one noticed this before?" We hear Wes screaming in the distance as Dash makes this observation.)

But there is no way in hell that a puny little nerd like Fenton could be Dash's hero, so something must've gone wrong. He decides to find Desiree and correct his wish.

-

Meanwhile, Danny (to his horror) wakes up in Dash's body.

He assumes he overshadowed him for some reason, but when he tries to leave, he finds out he doesn't have his powers. He also doesn't feel Dash's presence in the body.

"I know i asked for a growth spurt, but not like this!"

This isn't good.

-

Dash makes his way downstairs, and is immediately greeted by Jack Fenton, who has a million chores for him.

"Come on, Danno! Those ghosts I fished out of the ghost zone with the Fenton Ghost Fisher™️ aren't gonna put themselves back!"

Before he can object he is pushed into the lab and has to fight a couple of ectopusses. This goes very badly at first, until Dash remembers the bit of ghost hunting training Danny gave him and his classmates, when they had to rescue their parents from that big pirate ship.

As soon as he's done, exhausted on the floor (Damn, Fenton really needs to work out more!), he hears Jack yelling down the stairs.

"Son, don't forget to change the ecto filtrator! You don't want Amity Park to blow up, do ya?"

More dangerous chores keep getting added for longer than Dash thought was humanly possible.

(At some point Jack gave him some fudge, which helped.)

How does Fenton live like this???

-

We switch back over to Danny, who is now looking around Dash's room. He already knew about the cute pink teddy bear collection, but he didn't expect to find what can only be described as a fan shrine to Phantom.

There are newspaper articles, pictures, merch ("Wait I have merch? How come i didn't know that? Who is selling Phantom merch?" it's Tucker), and a poster.

(the b-story of this episode is Sam & Tucker running a Phantom merch line, and trying to stop the Box Ghost from stealing all the boxes of merch.)

Danny keeps looking around Dash's room, and finding out more about him through his stuff.

At some point he finds Dash's diary. He contemplates if he should read it or not, but in the end he decides that since Dash is always such a jerk to him, he doesn't care about morals and reads it.

Reading the diary, Danny starts to feel kinda bad, because in the entries Dash actually seems human. He's insecure, and he actually struggles with a lot. He's afraid to talk about what he's going through.

His parents are very absent, and the A-listers kicked Valerie out when her life wasn't perfect anymore. He doesn't want that to happen to him.

(I personally headcanon Dash as an extremely closeted gay guy with a lot of internalised homophobia, who hasn't stopped trying to convince himself that he's straight, but his struggles could be about anything.)

After reading all that, Danny starts to feel kinda bad for him.

-

Over the course of the day ghosts keep showing up to fight or talk to Fenton, and Dash is incredibly confused by this. Also Danny must have a weird cold or something, because he's been exhaling cold air at random all day.

"I AM THE BOX GHO- Hey! Wait! Why are you running away? You never run away. You always trap me in your cylindrical contraption of doOoOoOm!" (The Box Ghost is wearing a Phantom t-shirt, and is holding a box full of other Phantom merch. After Dash runs away, Sam and Tucker appear, chasing the Box Ghost through the street, trying to get the merch back.)

Later Johnny 13 shows up to fight, because he and Kitty broke up for the 4th time this week, and he wants to let out some steam. "Shouldn't you change for our fight, kid?" Change into what? Wait he wanted to fight, right? Dash puts on his gym uniform, and boxing gloves. Johnny looks at him weird, but doesn't question it. They have a little boxing match in the backyard.

Youngblood came by to play astronauts with him, and was very disappointed that Danny didn't fly up to space with him. (Wait didn't that dead kid kidnap Dash's parents??! Also why in the hell does he think Fenton has the ability to fly?????!! And breathe(!) in space?!!!)

After finishing what seems like a billion ghost related chores (and dealing with way too many ghosts), Dash finally manages to get out of the Fenton house, and starts to look for Desiree.

-

Danny walks out of Dash's room, and runs into Dash's dad. He opens his mouth, but he doesn't seem to care about what he's going to say. "Son I am so incredibly disappointed in you." the dad starts, then continues to list all the reasons he is a huge disappointment who should try harder. "Those weird little bears in your closet!" and "Why don't you have a girlfriend yet?"

The whole interaction is horrible, and makes Danny appreciate his own parents (weird as they may be) so much.

Dash's mom also berates him about being a disappointment, because they found his Phantom collection ("He is a GHOST, Dash! He's dangerous!"), and because his grades are so low. ("What do you mean tutor? Just study harder!")

They threaten to take Pookie away if he doesn't get his shit together.

-

At some point Danny has deduced that this body situation must be some ghost bullshit, and he decides to go to Fentonworks.

Then he runs into Dash in his body, and they have a little spiderman moment

After the internal shock and "WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING IN MY BODY GET OUT!"s have gone around, Dash tells Danny what happened.

Danny informs Dash that most of Desiree's wishes become permanent after 24 hours. They decide to team up to get Desiree to undo this wish before that happens.

It's noted that Dash didn't say the word "puny" or any other insult, when he says "I really don't wanna stay in your body.".

We see a compilation of Danny and Dash searching Amity Park for Desiree, and other wishes she has granted. They fight off a couple of small ghost things together.

(during this compilation we see Sam and Tucker chasing the Box Ghost around. "How is he this hard to catch?? We've done this millions of times already!!!" -"Well maybe if you didn't drop the fucking thermos!")

After the fight, Dash sighs and says "Man, I had no idea how difficult your life is, Fenton. I've only been living it a day and it sucks."

they have a little heart to heart, and Dash sincerely apologises for bullying Danny so much.

"why did you want to be Phantom anyway? I assume his life isn't that easy either." Danny says.

"I dunno, man. I just thought it would be cool to be, y'know, going ghost."

White rings appear around Dash. He turns into Phantom.

they have another moment like this:

"WHAT THE FUCK!"

"WHAT THE FUCK!"

"I"M- I- YOU- YOU'RE PHANTOM??!!!"

"NO! YES! NO TIME! FIGHT HER!!!"

Because of course, this is the moment that Desiree appears, and starts fighting them.

"I dont know how!!!"

The beginning of the fight is very awkward, with Dash not knowing how Danny's powers work, and Danny not being used to fighting Desiree without his powers.

Eventually they get the hang of it, with Danny telling Dash how to activate and use certain powers in the moment, and they defeat Desiree.

All the wishes get undone, and they suck her up into a thermos.

After that, they talk about Danny being Phantom. Danny tells Dash the story of how he died got his powers, and Dash shares some of his secrets with Danny so they're "even". (it's some stuff that wasn't in Dash's diary. Danny doesn't mention that he read that, but that can be conflict in a later episode)

They aren't friends yet, but it's a start. Now that he walked a mile in Danny's shoes, Dash feels so bad about bullying him all those years, and he starts to question his life choices. (start of a Dash redemption arc i guess). He promises to stop bullying in general, and help out Danny however he can. (He also promises to not tell anyone about Danny's secret identity.)

(The episode ends with Sam and Tucker, having finally caught the Box Ghost, only to realise that in the chase/fight all the merch got way too messed up to sell, so it was all for nothing. Tucker throws the thermos down in frustration, the Box Ghost gets free, grabs the Phantom shirt he wore earlier, yells "BEWARE!" and flies off. Sam sighs and gets ready to start chasing him again, but Tucker stops her. "I give up. Let him have the fucking shirt.")

[biboomerangboi]

My friend was watching the show for the first time and they brought up a misconception that I think we see a lot in fandom. So I want to talk about The Gamblers Den and specifically this scene in particular:

My friend genuinely wondered what Hua Cheng would do and then when they heard his explanation they were even more confused:

They basically messaged me saying, wait Hua Cheng would have made the bet. He bets people’s lives and some how Xie Lian is okay with that. How???

And to anyone else who’s thinking the same thing or falling for the Demon King vibe Hua Cheng is trying to sell here I am here to tell you, you have all been duped.

What’s import to understand is that Ghost City actually came from making one of Xie Lian’s ideas work:

Xie Lian is talking about a specialised market here, a place where the common people couldn’t just stumble into without reason and that’s what Ghost City is and The Gambers Den is the foundation of it. While Xie Lian didn’t say hey go gamble, Hua Cheng is taking a risk and playing into his greatest strength and then showing of for his crush is the most dramatic way possible when talking about it.

For Hua Cheng the house always wins! Literally. Or at least what he wants the bet to be will always happen. His luck is just that good. If the gambler wins it’s genuinely because Hua Cheng let him.

In the Den he is acting as Judge and Jury with Xie Lian as his moral code but he can’t just turn down the deals. If he does then these people could go to less safe options (looking at you Qi Rong) to get what they desire which negates the reason he built Ghost City in the first place.

Hua Cheng has to let these people play by his rules if he wants to follow his Gods wishes. So he has to be creative and look at loop holes, phrasing and Xie Lians most important teaching finding the third path.

For this moment specifically giving the options I think Hua Cheng would have taken the 20 years of his daughter’s life. Why you may ask? Well the phrasing is easier to manipulate. While the eradication of his competitors is pretty well laid 20 years of his daughters life is pretty vague.

Option 1) Hua Cheng could take her away from her shit father and put her in an apprenticeship and marry a man of her choosing since her hand is now her own to decide since Hua Cheng doesn’t want it.

Option 2) She has to work in Ghost City for 20 years and is married to Yin Yu in name only (because Hua Cheng can’t have a wife at all or he won’t win Gege) then gets pleasantly divorced and giving a severance payment after 20 years.

Option 3) He could decide life is a vague term and after she dies she has to spend 20 years in Ghost City and matchmake a future marriage between her and another ghost.

Option 4) He could decide what she has to do with the next twenty years of her life which could include an actual good marriage and education. Where she has to worship his shrine and be only his devotee for 20 years.

Option 5) He can literally say I’ll collect when I decide and never cash in.

He can do anything because the wording is so fluent and for Hua Cheng debater and Civil God Killer it’s probably easy. He’s not a demon king, he’s a crafty trickster spirit basically a fae lord.

He’s playing the system and he’s winning that’s what Xie Lian figured out and why he supports it. He knows Hua Cheng well enough even back then to trust that he would make the right decision because he believes in Hua Cheng and he’s right too.

[foone]

BTW as a trekkie the funniest thing you can do is find someone who isn't and try to explain Spock's Brain to them.

"so trek got canceled after two seasons, but fans launched a massive letter-writing campaign and got it renewed. First time that'd happened in the history of TV, I believe. They came back with an episode called Spock's Brain."

"interesting. So what's the plot?"

"aliens steal Spock's Brain"

"what. And what else?"

"no that's pretty much it. His brain gets stoled. They have to go find it."

"huh. Why do the aliens steal it?"

"they need a computer to run their society."

"and they decide to use Spock's Brain?"

"yep! So the Enterprise crew rigs up a remote control device for Spock's body so they can drive it around like a toy car, and go looking for his brain."

"wait. They don't leave it behind in, like, medical stasis?"

"nah they're worried they won't be able to get the brain back to his body in time. So they bring it along. As a remote controlled body. They've got a little remote with like 5 buttons. Walk forward, turn left, turn right, Kung-fu attack, and so on"

"attack?"

"yeah they have to fight off the aliens at one point. With Spock's body."

"huh."

"the best part? The ultimate moral of the episode seems to be against gender segregation"

"WHAT"

"yeah see the aliens who stole Spock's Brain are a bunch of cavemen living on the nuclear-winter surface and a bunch of women living below ground, with PAIN RAYS. the women steal Spock's Brain to run their society, because they're not smart enough to run their machines."

"that seems... Sexist?"

"yeah a bit. So at the end when they get Spock's Brain back, they solve the society's problems by convincing them to reintegrate the sexes and work together on solving their problems. Also Kirk says something like 'in time you'll learn that women can provide not only pain, but pleasure!' to the cave men"

"... Do the women have pleasure rays too?"

"no. He's not talking about that. Anyway this is all skipping over the fact that when they meet up with the alien woman they saw steal Spock's Brain, she doesn't know how to put it back in. Or take it out. She doesn't know what a brain is."

"what"

"yeah she was sent on this mission by the old computer that was failing, and it used a Teacher Machine to temporarily give her SUPER SURGERY skills to get the brain out."

"so she went from not knowing what a brain is to being able to do neurosurgery?"

"yeah. And here's the thing: McCoy can't put the brain back in either. It's too compilated for him."

"so they went searching for Spock's Brain, knowing that they had no way to put it back in?!"

"exactly! So McCoy gets taught how to do Super Brain Surgery by the Teacher Machine, and he starts putting Spock's Brain back in his body, but the skills wear off before he can finish"

"they wear off?"

"yeah you only get them for a few hours. So he has the brilliant idea of hooking up Spock's vocal cords so that Spock can walk him through hooking up the rest of his brain."

"there are so many reasons why that doesn't make sense"

"YEP! THAT'S SPOCK'S BRAIN!"

"so this was a guest writer who never worked before or again, right?"

"no, it was Gene Coon. He wrote like 15 episodes, most of them pretty good, and went on to do some other scifi films. He's the guy who created Khan."

"why do you like Star Trek again?"

[netherfeildren]

Kiss, Kiss, Kill, Kill!

Pairing: Joel Miller x F!Reader

Summary: Joel is a long haul truck driver. One day he finds a pretty girl in a diner and decides he’d like to keep her. 

Murder and sex ensue!

Rating: Explicit 18+

Content Warnings: No outbreak; Graphic depictions of violence; Murder; Blood; Gore; Threat of SA; Impotence; Unprotected sex; Creampie; Loss of virginity; Virginity kink; Breeding kink; Spit kink; Rough sex; Pussy slapping; Dark!Joel; Mean!Joel (also kinda crazy and pathetic); Obsessive behavior; Possessive behavior; Discussions of suicidal ideations; Unreliable narrators; Alcoholism; Consensual non consent kind of (But not previously discussed - they're both into it tho); Use of misogynistic language; Grief

A/N: Hi :) Another one just bc I have no self control. 

Parts of the narrative read a little disjointed and/or confusing. This is intentional. I was kind of trying something weird out here, I guess.

Word Count: 9.7K

Read on AO3

The first time Joel sees you, it’s a Thursday. His least hated day of the week, but not his favorite, for he doesn’t really have any favorite things anymore. Your eyes’d stunned him at that first look. They sparkled as if dusted with frost – speared him with an intensity that burned. 

But no… that was a lie, and Joel is trying not to be such a liar anymore. He does have one favorite thing now. This middle-of-nowhere diner, this place where’d he’d found you. 

The first time he’d actually talked to you, you’d interrupted his own stubborn, sour silence with a silence of your own. Different, agonizing, compared to your usual persistent fishing for his attention. 

“What’re you doin’ out here in this wasteland, sweetheart?” Because you look sweet as that cherry pie you’re always trying to push on him. 

“Been here my whole life.” It’s verging on evening, the sky gone to melancholy, and there’s a young girl with dark hair weeping on the shoulder of an older woman in the booth over. He wants to snap at her, demand to know what the fuck she could possibly have to cry over? He’s sure she mustn’t have a dead daughter like him, and so there really seems to be no reason for tears. 

“No plans to leave?”

You shake your head, hum a little, set the coffee pot down on the edge of the table to pop a hip out and think on your answer. “Guess you could say I’m a little bit weak or scared, don’t know.”

“Doubt that,” a surprised laugh forced out of him. Entirely improbable, he knows this just by looking at you. “You’ve got eyes that seem as if they’ve never held fear within them in your entire life.” And he makes you laugh at that, head thrown back, throat rippling. The sound like the tolling of the bell indicating the start of the rest of his life. 

When you’re done gifting him your laughter, you ask, “What about you? Why are you here?”

“My daughter died.” Plain. 

Your eyes seem to shutter or flicker, something like a chimera about them, “When?”

“Two years ago.” He watches the crying girl and the old woman get up to go. And then the two of you are alone. You move to sit in the booth across from him. He’d been coming in here to see you for more than half that time since, and now, the first time the two of you are having an actual conversation, and this is what he’s decided to open with. But really, it’s the only story he has to tell anymore. He watches you watch him for a long moment, as though you’re searching for something within him, or mulling over what it is you want to say to him, the shift of your jaw from side to side as you chew on your words. He feels easily frightened now – fragile – and yet vibrantly malignant, at the same time. A juxtaposition on two opposite ends of the spectrum of good and not so good, or perhaps, verging on very, terribly bad, in the grocery store line of human morality. Two Joel’s at the start and end of the queue who could not seem to come to terms with one another. Enemies – they were enemies of each other. A Joel who’d once had a daughter, and a Joel who now did not. A Joel who’d pulled a trigger at his own temple, and one who’d never even considered such a thing. He draws his finger along the line of scar tissue at his temple.

For a long time he’d wanted to tear a hole in his world and escape, but he was no master of inventiveness. On the contrary, he found his attempt rather miserly – had short changed himself at the last moment and flinched. But perhaps, it had been for this reason – for you, to find you. He wishes he could peer inside your mind, crack open your skull and read everything you’re hiding away from him inside there. A violent thought, but you make him feel slightly violent, or – no, that’s not it – for Joel is already a violent man. It’s more that you pull a specific hue of violence out of him, incite it, like he needs to move, to howl, to claw at something, at you, scream and scream and scream to keep your undivided attention on him forever. 

“I’m sorry for your loss,” you say finally, voice quiet. “How old was she?”

His loss. That was a funny way of putting it. It had never felt like a loss. The word was too small. Four letters was not enough to describe what it really was. There was no word for what it felt like. An emaciation of his very self until he simply ceased to exist. Something that had sucked his soul, his heart, his brain out of his body, but they didnt feel lost. They felt destroyed, decimated, or like they had never existed. Sometimes the feeling left him confused, disoriented – this strange purgatory he’d been relegated to, it was like it had never happened in his mind sometimes, or like it had happened to a different man. Like that life with that beautiful little girl with the green eyes who’d had a father who loved her, who’d then died, had happened to someone else. Someone who wasn’t Joel. Like a war that had raged and raged for centuries, and now nothing was left in its wake. Only that terribly fraught reminder of a violence too grotesque for a human mind to conceive. 

How could he miss something, wish for something so, so, so fucking desperately he’d peel his very skin from his body himself to get it back, but also feel like it didn’t belong to him anymore? Like it had never happened to him, like he remembered it out of his own body? A dream that belonged to someone else, and Joel’d only been told of it second hand. His mind was fractured now, he knew this. He wasn't right – broken or glued together the wrong way. His bones didn’t fit in his joints the way they were supposed to anymore. He was all wrong and ugly and fucked. 

“She was twelve.”

“My whole family’s dead,” you say it almost casually, with a half shrug of your shoulders. “Is that why you started driving? To get away?”

He’s been a long haul truck driver for going on two years now. Started just after Sarah – needed to get away, to get lost. He didn’t enjoy it – he does not enjoy it. Not because the work is bad or boring or what have you, but because he doesn’t enjoy anything anymore. But it’s productive and pays well and… well, he does appreciate the solitude. There is that, at least. He’d been on the route from New Mexico to Washington for several months now, and it was fine. Occasionally, he’d head up to the Dakotas – not so fine, longer, harder trek, but he managed it. He preferred this one, preferred the darkness of the north west corner of the country. He never went further south than New Mexico, though. Absolutely never into Texas. He’d never go back there again. 

“Sure… to get away.” He couldn’t be there anymore afterwards, had nothing left. “My neighbor, Anna, she’s got a teenager, Ellie. Sweet kid. Weird kid,” he laughs fondly, remembering the two of them. “The kid was friends with my daughter, Sarah. And after everything– well, after everything, Anna made sure they both stuck around. Didn’t let me shut myself away the way I wanted to,” ill-shaven recluse, confused, fractured, “They’re good people. You’d like them, I think. They’re… they’re my friends.” They were another reason he kept doing the driving, he liked to send money back to Anna and Ellie. He knew they didn’t need it, didn’t want it, but he had to. He needed to feel like he was still taking care of someone, contributing to someone’s well being. It was just part of who he was. 

“I’m sure I would.”

He watches your silent enrapture as you listen to him tell you of his pseudo life. After a while he’d realized that was all he’d started doing, making his way back to you, to this diner where you work. A sad place for ugly men to stop in on a pause from their interminable journeys and lay eyes on an angel. He hadn’t even really realized that’s what he was purposely doing or that it’d become a pattern. He just needed something to see at the end of the tunnel, a light to look towards when he was lost in the darkness. That’s what you are, a single flickering light in the abyss of darkness he exists in now. 

You’re small – tiny compared to Joel’s own hulking size. He thinks he could break you, easily, if he isn’t careful, if he so felt like it. And you were – you are so fucking pretty. He thinks of you so often. Almost as often as he thinks of his dead daughter which might seem wrong or strange, but it’s really nothing more than the two opposite ends of a spectrum of perfect beauty that he’s known within his lifetime that now he cannot reach either end of. Sarah – dead, forever out of reach. And you. Too perfect for consideration, too beautiful and good for these monstrous hands of his. The thing he’s become in his grief is not worthy of a gorgeous creature like you. His existence post Sarah’s death had become some sort of apocalyptic dysphoria where the only monster here was Joel. But he does like to watch, and he does like to think of you. To come to your diner and sit and watch you serve coffee to your customers – the scum that muddles through here isn’t worthy of laying eyes on you – men like him. Sometimes, when he sits here silently, pretending to ignore you and not be entirely beguiled by you, he feels as if he has a purpose again, like the money for Anna and Ellie, getting to inconspicuously watch over you, make sure no one gives you a hard time gives him purpose. And when he goes, even though he never really wants to, he takes you with him in his mind through the long stretches of his hauls. When there are nothing but ghosts to keep him company. When thoughts of Sarah and that dead life become too overwhelming, he calls you to mind, plans his routes to make his way back to you. 

You’re also fucking persistent – not giving him the chance to wallow away in his silence and brooding. He was rude at first, gruff and unresponsive and wouldn’t ever acknowledge your queries of, How’s it going today, and, Oh, back again I see. Sometimes he wanted to snap and just spit the truth at you, ‘course, I’m fuckin’ back, I’m here to see you, I’m obsessed with you. And rounds and rounds of, Can I get you another cup of coffee? The same as usual? You’d memorized his order. Pestered and pestered and pestered for his name until he’d finally ceded it to you, and, How ‘bout some cherry pie this time? After a while you’d gotten sick of his recalcitrant bullshit and just dropped off the piece of pie, slipping it onto the edge of the table and sliding away without a word or a half look back at him. He’d eaten the whole damn thing, savored it, and caught your sassy, little smirk after he’d finished. He’d wanted to bend you over the counter and spank your ass until you cried after that. He bets you’d taste as sweet as that pie, that if he slapped your cunt enough times he could get it red as a cherry. He bets you’d like that – that you’d like it a little rough, a little dirty, a little mean. You might look like an angel, but Joel’s seen the way you look at him, the way you follow him with your eyes, leaning against the counter, chin cupped in your small palm watching him eat his eggs and drink his coffee. 

You want him. 

But Joel is frightened – frightened and cowardly and not right, and as much as you look like an angel, he also worries you might have the ability to entice him into very, very bad things – to provoke him into depravity, even. There is a part of him, large or small given the day and the mood and the weather that he walks in here on, that has the rotten half of his mind whispering at the not-so-rotten half that he wants to defile and debase you, and that he’s pretty sure you’d like it if he did. He wants to fuck you full of his come and then watch it leak out of your used, gaping hole. Then he wants to lick you clean, kiss it all better so that he can do it all over again.

The first few times he’d stopped at your diner, he’d pretended he hadn’t even noticed you, would lie to himself in his mind and tell himself that he had no interest in a little thing like you. He had no interest in women, in making connections, in having conversations. Occasionally… well– no, not occasionally. Twice, it had happened twice now, when the urge had struck, the itch had become too persistent, and his hand not enough, he’d gotten a hooker. The first time he’d shut down completely, lost his hard on and not been able to finish. The second time… he’d finished. He might’ve even made the woman come, he hadn’t bothered to ask, but he thought he might have. Then he’d gone back to his truck and cried great heaving sobs. Like he’d said… not right, he wasn’t right anymore. Couldn’t even fuck a whore without blubbering like a baby. He’d wondered if perhaps his grief had made him impotent. That’d be funny. That type of funny thing that is also a humiliation… you know the sort?

But after a while, the lie had become too much of a farce, even for his own mind. He knew, from that first moment he’d walked in, and you’d spun around, a bright smile and chirpy, little voice telling him to sit anywhere you’d like, be right with you, mister, that he’d taken notice. More than notice. He’d put you in his pocket that day and had carried you with him in some way since. Like a stone chosen off the beach, washed up by the tide and deposited in the sand just for him to come across, or maybe like a fucking infection, like the plague, for he did not want this. He did not want to think of you. He did not want to think of anyone or anything. He wanted to be alone and without anything or anyone for the rest of his life. If he did not have anyone, if he remained alone, then he could never again experience that loss which was not truly a loss, but something much worse and devastating, and even, perhaps, a little hilarious, in that way that a hilarious thing can also sometimes be humiliating and shameful… there it is. A loss that is not a loss for it is a thing so devastating it becomes something else entirely. A humiliation to one’s very existence, a decimation, emaciation, all the things, all the things, and nothing at the same time.

His mind was wont to ramblings, on occasion now. Perhaps, incoherence, was the better word. Anxiety, as well, panic, tears. Couldn’t even fuck a hooker without weeping, howling, a few sobs. 

He had wandered so far, and sometimes he thought, I want to go home, but of course, that home no longer existed. It had been put in the ground two years ago and lost forever. The dissatisfaction of constant ennui. He could, perhaps, return to the geographical place, but nothing familiar would remain. He couldn’t live with the memory, he couldn’t live away from it. It was like it had simply ceased to exist that day that she’d died, and every moment since that moment was just a series of moments filled with a yearning for some place that no longer existed. He didn’t think he’d ever again feel at home anywhere.

And yet…

He turns back to look at you. 

“How did they die? Your family.”

“Home invasion – murdered. He never found me, hid in the boiler closet.”

“Little rabbit.”

“Hmm,” a huff of a laugh, “Maybe. Someone once said I was lucky. Pretty fucked up, no?”

“Do you feel lucky?”

“Never. Angry – that I’d been left behind.”

“Yeah…”

“Alone.”

“Are you alone?”

You turn back to him. Inspect him. He watches the slant of your eyes take in his hair, his face, wrinkled, haggard, his chest, his arms – he feels a flush flare beneath his ribs, then back up to his eyes. He wonders if you’ve ever been fucked before. You’re young – but he can’t imagine how you wouldn’t have been. He thinks he’d do anything in this moment to get between your thighs, but also, he hopes you haven’t, hopes you could be all his, only his, his his. Mine. 

He hopes he won’t cry if he gets the chance. 

“Entirely,” you say finally. 

“I had– have– ” shakes his head, “I have, I guess, a brother. Tommy. But the last time I saw him… I was horrible.” They seldom saw each other now – lie – they never saw each other now. Truth, Joel. We’re telling the truth now. 

You laugh lightly, shrug, “Happens.”

“Sure…”

“What’d you do to him?”

“Ah, just couldn’t get a handle on myself after everything. Things got bad enough eventually, and we fought… a lot. Violently. I was violent. One morning I got out of hand, terrible – one of my biggest regrets. We hurt each other with our words and our fists, and in that way only two people who know each other too well can. He cracked my ribs, gave me half his orange in the evening, afterwards – said our apologies. He was gone the next day. Haven’t heard from him since. I just got to be too much for him,” he says again, needs to reiterate it, make sure you understand that he is too much and too dark, too unmanageable – ugly. That you should not be sat here with him. That he has a violence within him, and that you should probably run as fast and as far as you can, but that he cannot promise he will not follow. “I had…” he is ashamed of this part, surprising for he sometimes wonders if he still possesses the heart to feel shame, “I had a problem with drink for a while – not anymore, though,” he says quickly. “I promise, not anymore.” He should not be promising you anything. “I got control of it – knew it was making it all worse rather than better. Felt like I was trapped underwater with my damn ghosts – that … What's that thing called when – when sick people get like – like trapped inside themselves or somethin’? You ever heard’a that?”

-

“Locked-in syndrome.”

“Yeah– yeah. I read about that once or heard it somewhere – that’s what it felt like when I was drinkin’ – fuckin’ terrible. Let it go after a while… but by that time… Tommy was gone, done with me. I was – dunno… like some sort of demon or somethin’ – somethin’ bad.” He huffs a small, derisive laugh, looks at you with that ridiculously charming, crooked half smile. 

That laugh sparks a kindling of anger inside of you for him. This is a broken, angry, creature of a man, you think. Something fractured – not whole, and he must be handled with care and gentleness. “How could he just leave you?

“Didn't give him a choice. Sometimes people deserve to be left.”

“I wouldn’t have.” That sobers him, wipes the smile right off his handsome face. You think of the invisible giants hurting this man in some unimaginable fashion; of the endless tenderness coiled up inside of him and how the crushing of that tenderness – the death of it – has given way to what may be considered madness. Because after all these months of watching him, of him watching you, you can see it, recognize that tenderness for what it is, but also the madness, for it is impossible to ignore if you’re really looking. Soft marrow at the center of a hard man. 

“I did other things… worse things.”

“Try me.”

“I tried to kill myself.”

You whistle, long and low. You actually had not been expecting that one, at least, not the admittance of it, “You’re just full of truths,” for looking at him – the sort of man he’s built as, the thought that he could be felled by anything, even his own hand, is a little hard to believe. 

“Feels like a sort of confessional in this–”

“Shithole–”

“Diner–”

Your voices overlap. You both laugh. You think you quite like the sound of your voices intermingling one on top of the other. 

“What happened?”

“Flinched–”

“I flinch all the time.”

“Have you ever thought about killing yourself?”

You hum, tilt your head side to side on your neck as if you’re letting the thought slide from ear to ear within your skull. “Perhaps only the peripheral idea of it, but never with much imagination or dedication. I don’t think I have that much to kill myself over, you know?”

“Your family?”

“Not really – it’s sort of become just this… this thing that happened once. I don’t feel much ownership over it anymore. Don’t know why, exactly.”

“Sure, that’s how I feel about it sometimes too. That belongs to a different man now – like– like some actor or a facsimile, and I just look in on it as if from a distance. Enjoy the sight of someone else's suffering…” He shakes his head, “That doesn’t make sense.”

“No, no, I understand. Something to do in the way that a tragedy can be compelling to watch. You can let go, let go of your awareness of yourself and experience it in a way you’d never do so in the present moment.”

“A dissociation.”

“Yes. Why would you want to go and relive the basest parts of yourself all alone, over and over again? Not likely.”

“But it was me.”

“A dissociation,” you repeat, smile. 

“Yeah,” he pauses, turns the coffee cup round and round with the slow spin of his wrist as if to dissolve the remains of the grounds you know the shitty machine has left deposited at the bottom. There is a small dusting of golden brown hair covering his wrist and disappearing up his forearm beneath his flannel. You want to taste it, follow the trail to places unknown. “Not so well adjusted, us two,” And he laughs then. A real laugh. He lets you have a real laugh of his, and it is powerful – special. 

“Well… no.” Of course not. “I don’t think either of us could ever claim that.”

“Bet you’ve never been bad a single day in your life, have you?”

You cock your head, let your eyes slide from him to peer out the dark window. His lonely semi is parked under the single flare of light out there. The evening has sunk into a deep blue, the hue of mourning, of melancholy, and the pavement is wet with evening rainfall.

You'd heard that some trucks had spaces behind the seats where truckers could put a bed, have a place to rest. You wonder if he’ll take you back there and fuck you in his little bunk. And honesty is a fickle thing when discussing a topic like this, isn't it? There’s a depravity about him, and you can’t tell if the truth or the lie would placate him – incite him – more. To be similar in such a way as that which he’s imagining. A little bit of both, then. After all, intent holds weight – imagination, desire, it has a mass to it that can, if enough pressure is exerted upon it, be transformed into something else. 

“Not yet,” you tell him, sliding your gaze back to meet his, “Haven’t had a chance – but there’s still time.”

-

“What would you like to do?” He wants to take a bite out of that soft flesh you’re encased in, draw blood.

“Something depraved?” You’re taunting him – trying to provoke. It makes him slightly angry, but also hard. You should know what it is you’re toying with here. 

He frowns at you, at the lilting song of your words trying to beguile him into doing whatever it is you think you want him to do to you. “What is it that you think you want here? You don’t know what I was, how I lived. Shouldn’t be sat here with me, little girl,” he scoffs. “I was– was not– I don’t fucking know, not a man. I’m not, I’m not. Not a person anymore, just this thing that continues to exist. I should not have been expected to survive. This should mean something to you too. You also have no one. You’re alone too. You’re alone in the world. You know what it feels like to only live in the winter.”

You’re quiet for a long moment, and then you say: “I think I’ve come to quite like the winter.” And at that he knows he’s taking you for himself, whether you agree in the end or not. You’re going to be his. 

But he knows he must also let this roiling anger, this depraved hunger settle before he lays hands on you. Like this, in this state, he’d be too rough, break you, nothing compunctious about him or his jaggedness. He excuses himself for a smoke, your only response simply more of that inciting silence – more thoughts of cracked skulls and a cherry red cunt and tears after failed trysts with someone who doesn’t even know his name. He’s fucking embarrassing. What would Tommy say if he knew Joel couldn’t even get it up for a paid fuck anymore? He’d laugh in his face, never let him live it down. He misses his brother very much. He misses lots of things. 

He’s sucking on his Red under the awning of the diner’s entrance, imagining what it’ll be like to suck on your little clit, when he hears them. 

“She’s usually out about midnight. We’ll snag her then.” Grating, guttural voice.

“But I get to fuck ‘er first. This was my idea so I go first.”

“Yeah, whatever. S’only happenin’ ‘cause of me. Too fuckin’ stupid to see the plan through after all these months of watchin’ ‘er.”

“Fuck off.” Silence, and then almost with giddy elation: “We gonna kill her too?” Something cold and terrifying settles within Joel. 

A beat, “Should we?”

“Dunno, man. Might be fun, huh? Never done it before.”

“She’s fuckin’ pretty,” the voice draws the vowel out in a high pitched, sacharine whine. “Got the face of an angel.” Joel’s angel, his, his, only his.

He’s got his Bowie in a sheath on the back of his belt. Perhaps, this would be a useful exercise in release. After he’s dispelled his excess energy he can come back and touch you, take you. 

“Can’t wait to taste that cunt.” His cunt.

“Seen her tits, man? Fucking round and bouncy. Wanna make ‘em bleed.” And there’s only one avenue of consequence after that. After all, this is not the first time Joel’s done this. 

His most well kept secret.

Sometimes, when the itch cannot be eased, abated, by his hand or a fuck or a drink or any of the other readily available vices, he turns to this. Only when the straits were dire. Only when he saw no other recourse. Only after his daughter was dead and in the ground and his brother gone away from him

. 

But sometimes… sometimes it’s just fun. Sometimes it’s useful for a man to do that thing that he really feels he wants to do, if only to enjoy himself, if only to let go of some of that suffocating tension. If only to keep vermin like this away from an angel like you. 

“We’ll chill in the woods for a while, wait the little thing out, yeah?” Joel edges his way towards the edge of the building closer to them, peeks a lone eye around the corner. Two men, middle aged. Not a problem. Not for a man like him. 

He waits for them to make their way to the edge of the tree-line, watches them disappear into the gloom. He looks back into the diner through the murky windows. The warm glow of the overhead lamps washing you in a hue of golden light that brings out all the warm goodness in you he’ll take for himself once he’s snuffed out this issue. 

No one’s going to touch you but him. No one’s going to hurt you but him. 

As he rounds the corner of the diner there’s a piece of metal pipe propped up against the building by the dumpsters. Very nice. 

He goes after them. 

At the edge of the tree-line, under a swaying, low hanging branch, there is a tiny unfledged bird, helplessly twitching its way towards death in a puddle. He pauses to watch its struggle, gathers his skin about him, tightens his seams – prepares to gorge. He watches the inch by inch pilgrimage towards its last breath, then stillness. He feels so much older than his years, like he’s lived a thousand terrible years, watched a thousand terrible deaths. But there is a buoyancy about him, as well. Filled with a saccharine sweet fizz of sticky anticipation. He’s going to taste your cunt after this is done.

 He moves into the gloom. He’s going to kill them for you, and his cock is hard at the thought.

Stepping beneath the canopy of the trees, into that cold, damp darkness, he sees the absolute truth of the world. On the heels of two men who’d do you harm, he knows that he’d failed to save someone he cared about once, he’d not be bested by failure a second time. Darkness implacable, the crushing black vacuum of their overheard words buzzing in his head like flies, of the harm they’d do you. Two hunted animals moving away from a creature much darker than they could even imagine, scurrying on borrowed time. What most moves him is that the things they’d do to you are not so dissimilar to the things he plans to do to you, as well. The only difference being that after he’s done defiling you, he’ll keep you for himself, with all the care and gentleness a little thing like you so deserves. 

-

You press your ear to the cracked open door leading to the back of the building. It’s not the first time those two’ve talked their filth regarding you. The murdering is new, though. You’d not thought they were smart or inventive enough to come up with an actual kill plot. Rape enough of a hardball for minds as shallow and small as those two’ve got. 

You’d never really considered them much of a threat. Or maybe you’d just never really cared enough to pay them much attention. But as you watch the broad, rippling expanse of Joel’s muscled back stalk after them, his pause at the tree-line to look down at something on the ground, you think he must be more in the vein of taking a stupid man’s shit talk to heart than you’ve ever been. 

He has a thick, forearms-length of steel pipe gripped in his huge fist, and there’s a wicked looking knife strapped to his belt on the back of his hip. 

Interesting. 

You look back at the empty diner, the lonely parking lot beyond the glass of the windows, only Joel’s semi still taking up residence on the wet pavement. You turn back to follow after the three men. 

One you want, two you’re interested to see what fate awaits them.

For some reason, when you step outside, you’re expecting there to be snow on the ground, but there is none.  

You move across the pavement towards the forest-line, and the pilgrimage towards the verdant darkness feels very much like your one-way ticket out of this forlornness you’ve been trapped in your whole life. You’ve been stuck in this small town for so long, for too long. One man had already tried to forcibly evict you, had taken your entire family with him, maybe this one, maybe Joel, would do so in a way you’d more likely enjoy. 

There’s been a steady, faint drizzle all day long, and the puddles of rain look like holes in the dark pavement, apertures into some other realm that glide past underground. You wonder if you stepped through if you’d disappear below into some other place. You wonder if he’d be able to find you even in that unknown other. 

You cross the line into darkness. 

The familiar terror of silence – you don’t seem to find it here. There is only the sound of your rushing blood, the cadence of his voice rumbling through your psyche, firing your neurons up into a frenzy. There is a twisting heat low in your pelvis, dampness between your thighs. What’s he going to do? Why’s he going to do it?Is it for me? Is it for me? It’s for you.

You let out a low whistle between your teeth and move beyond the trees. There is a giddiness about the darkness of the wood – the motley of shadows, the aroma of mushroom rot. 

The familiar terror of silence. Perhaps, that is what they are experiencing now. The great horror of being set upon by a beast more terrifying than anything they could have ever conjured up on their own. 

That infinite tenderness from before, that acute madness – it coalesces in the gap in the trees as you come upon the three men. 

Joel has already started on the first. He murders almost tenderly. With great care, but infused with an aroma of agitated frenzy that seems flavored in the same notes of erotic buzzing that hums beneath your own skin. There is blood and viscera splattered on his face and clothes, in his hair. That great hunting knife embedded in the throat of the first man. The body lays facing you now, eyes open, shocked at his own death. Funny. Perhaps, that’s how they would have liked you to have ended up once they were through with you. 

Oh, how the tune changes when the monster is on your side. 

What are you? Be a creature. Be a creature. Be a creature!

You take Joel in. Thick, massive frame. You love his hair, it was one of the first things you’d noticed, thick dark curls streaked with the silver veins of his age and experience. Something that promised of care and knowledge and patience. His patchy beard with the heart shaped gap in it, you’re going to write your name into that space. His powerful arms, muscles coiled tight, his shirt stretched tight across his broad shoulders as he brings the steel pipe up above his head, pauses to look down at his next victim. 

“We won’t bother her anymore, never again – p– please, please, I swear,” the man on the ground begs and cries. There are tears and snot bubbling down his ruddy, pocketed face. 

Joel is silent and terrifying and glorious above him, and then a small nod: “That’s alright… I believe you.” The metal comes down in a whistling arc, makes contact. 

Flesh and blood splatter, the sound of it is pulpy and wet and vindicating. He starts with the man’s knees, then his head, caved in like the shell of an egg, the yolk spilling out like vermilion drool. 

He heaves silently above the man that would have done you harm. Makes the threat go away. 

You step forward, cunt pulsing and wet and eager for him. When he’s gotten his fill of bludgeoning he turns slowly back towards you, as if he’d known the entire time that you’d been stood there watching. 

And the look on his face, it makes something electrifying and sticky buzz up your spine and ooze down your veins. You shift back on your heels

He shakes his head, his eyes are huge, pupils blown wide. “Don’t run,” he says slowly. If you hadn’t just watched him murder two men in cold blood – no, in your defense, he saved you, he protected you, fizzy heart full of satisfaction – you’d say he almost looks a little doe eyed. 

A hollow pounding begins in his heart, as if it had remained silent for the past two years and was only now taking notice of its own silence. His cock, hard enough to burst, angry and throbbing beneath the confines of his blood soaked jeans. Fuck this scum laying on the ground beside him, look at what he has infront of him. Nothing else matters but you. A goddamned angel. Damned for he’s found you now and nothing good can come of this. He takes a step towards you, and you match him with one backwards, away from him, his blood starts to howl in his veins. Different to the humming frenzy that had filled him as he did his murdering. This is hot and viscous and ravenous, and he knows he’ll get to keep his catch once he’s gorged himself on it. He knows he’ll get to keep you once he’s caught you. 

You take two more nervous little, quick steps away from him. Your eyes are slightly manic, face flushed, frame jittery, excited. A rabbit that knows it’s about to be caught. He watches the pause of your limbs as they fill with coiled energy, getting ready to make the bound and leap towards escape. He lunges, goes in for the kill, teeth bared, talons  brandished. 

Faster than you can even comprehend, he lunges, takes you to the ground with one massive, powerful shoulder to the vulnerable, soft of your belly, one huge paw cradled at the back of your skull to protect you from the hard ground. Your spine hits the cold, wet earth, the breath knocked out of you. You think you let out an animal noise, high pitched and supplicant. A thing that knows it’s been caught and is soon to be devoured. Your limbs scramble against the dirt, heels digging into the ground for purchase, you feel the loss of one of your shoes, as you try to get away or to crawl closer, who can be sure. A spider caught in the web or a larger, hungrier arachnid. He sets the huge heaviness of his muscular weight over your much smaller frame, one strong hand caged around the column of your throat, the other pushing your chest into the earth as he shoves his hips into the cradle of your own, forcing your thighs apart and your skirt to pool at your waist. You feel the stretch of the center plaque of your tights as his wide breadth settles between your legs, making room to take you for himself. You bring your own hands up to the wrist holding your throat and dig your nails into the skin there. You can feel the light smattering of hair covering his forearm beneath your soft palms, the cold, wet dirt beneath you, the searing stretch of the inner muscles of your thighs spread wide for him, the damp of the air surrounding the two of you. He leans forwards, pressing you down into the ground, and you have the fleeting thought that you want to transfuse yourself into the earth, into him. 

He pauses then to look down at you, appreciating the gloriousness of his catch. “Caught ya.” And he’s filled with an exuberance, a sort of victory. Look at what he’s snared – all for himself. 

You try and struggle again, if only to see the flare of annoyance in his eyes. It makes your cunt tight and achy. Even more than it already is. There’s a part of you that thinks you want him slightly angry – rough or mean. That you might like it even more if it hurts. Be kind enough to be cruel about it, you want to beg him. He leans forward to press his nose to your cheek, drags the cold vermillioned flush of it along your jaw, down the line of your throat, bites harsh and painful at your collarbone then over the peak of your breast. 

“Are you a virgin?” He whispers into your skin. It sounds very much like a threat. 

“Yes.”

“Saved this cunt all for me.” And it is not a question. Yes, you moan anyways. Let him know. Let him know that this defiling is a gift you’re granting him. He sits up on his haunches between your thighs, his hands sliding down to press on your lower belly and digs his fingers into the center of your tights and pulls, ripping a hold in them for his pillaging. You try and press your knees shut at the feel of the frigid air on your sensitive inner thighs, dig your nails into the ground above your head to try and drag yourself away from him. 

He digs his own fingers harshly into your flesh, his nails biting painfully into the soft skin of your thighs and ass and brings you back towards him. There’ll be streaks of pain left in his wake after this. Bad little rabbit. He smacks the inside of your thigh, watches the smooth flesh ripple for him. You let out a warbled, angry screech, little nails still trying to claw yourself away from him. He laughs then, a little mean, condescending. “Fight harder, little baby. This is pretty pathetic.” He rips your thighs apart, keep your fuckin’ legs open for me, his hands slick with the blood of his victims slide up the back of your thighs, anchoring his palms beneath the damp creases of your knees to press you open and wide for him, slaps your cunt, hard, over the soaking gusset of your panties. 

“Who the fuck’re you wearin’ this tiny little thong for?” he growls. It’s white lace, with a sweet, little pink bow adorning the front. “Me? Wrapped yourself up all nice and pretty for me?” Your little foot sneaks up under his armpit and tries to push with, what he’s sure is all your valiant might, at his chest, trying to unseat him from his conquering position above you, but he takes your ankle in a vice like grip, bites harshly into the meat of your calf so that an animal squeal of pain is clawed out of your throat at the same time that he slots his fingers under the damp center of your panties. “Sing as loud as you want, sweetheart. No one’s gonna hear you out here.” He can feel the soaking wet seam of your cunt against the backs of his knuckles, and he rips them clean off you. The sound of the last remaining barrier of protection of your cunt against his ravaging being decimated has you going shock still – prey that knows it’s caught and has decided to give up. Good, this is how he wants you. Your big, wet eyes look up at him as he flings the lace towards the still steaming dead bodies. That’s all they’ll get of you. The rest is only his. Mine, mine, fucking mine. 

You let your arms go limp above your head, soft and pliant and ready for ravaging, melting into the earth.

He presses your knees back and up, letting the red blossom of your wet cunt bloom for him. It’s slick and swollen, and he knows when he shoves his cock inside it’ll be burning hot. “Look at this gorgeous virgin pussy, baby. All for me. Only for me…” he murmurs, hypnotized, mesmerized. He drags the back of his knuckles over your slit, uses his thumbs to spread your lips apart, admires the swollen nub of your clit. You’re just as hungry for him as he is for you. Messy, eager little whore. He moves to undo his belt and free his aching length. Huge and brutish, thick veins pulsing just beneath the thin skin. He’s going to split you in half, break you, mold you in his image. 

He spits right onto your soaked folds, watches the thick glob of saliva slide down to mingle with your own leaking slick. He’s not even going to make you come first. Little virgin cunt and he’s not going to even bother getting you ready – just gonna shove the whole, unforgiving length of himself inside of you. Force you to take it. He fists his thick fist around himself, jacks his cock once, twice, squeezing at the bulbous head so that a trickle of precum seeps out of the slit. He presses his head to your clit, slides down to give you a small threat of pressure at your opening. When he looks back up at your face your eyes flutter shut, a look of pure contented submission washing over the gorgeous planes of you. 

“Not gonna be gentle, baby. Don’t got it in me.” He notches the fat head at the slick mouth of your entrance and crams his cock inside of you in one go, meets that thin barrier that says you still belong to yourself and rips through it. Mine now. No reprieve, no respite. And God, the feel of it, cleaved in half, scorching hot, filled to the brim and never deep enough. He is a rabid, snarling beast of a man as he hits the very end of you, grinds his cockhead at the mouth of your womb. You let out a warbled, pained moan, little fingers coming up to claw at his throat and chest with kitten-strength, down to dig into his thick thighs as he pins you down, and you tilt your hips to let him in deeper or escape him, he doesn't know. He doesn't care. He pulls his hips back and forces himself back in, too thick cock wedged into the too tight space. “Christ, goddamn tight fuckin’ pussy – made for me,” he grits through bared teeth.

He fucks you raw and cruel, and he needs you to just lay limp and still and take it.

And you do. And he does not cry this time. 

He sets a brutal pace, throbs deep in your belly at every pause as he grinds at your cervix. It must be painful for you, perhaps, but the flush in your cheeks, the fever in your eyes, the ripple of your cunt around his driving length tells him you also like it. “What a good girl, taking my big cock,” he coos. You preen, tilt your hips this time in supplication he’s sure, hitch your feet higher along his sides. There are tears running back down your temples and into your hairline. His cock makes you cry. If he could, he’d split your throat and drink, he would. But he cannot, so he’ll split your cunt instead. He thrusts into the hilt, complete negligence for care, for gentleness lost in the dark wood, for the desperate necessity of feeling your virgins blood coating his cock. Your protestations lost to the louder song for more, for harder, for deeper

Joel, Joel, Joel. 

He’s going to listen to you sing his name for the rest of his life. 

He feels unhinged, a thread picked at too many times, spun loose, unraveled and frayed. That edge that separates good and evil – his bloody fingers clamp down hard on the edge of your jaw, forces you to open for him, and he spits into your mouth – direct, dirty … warm. “Lemme see…” he rumbles, and you stick your tongue out for his inspection. Once he nods, pleased and smug and conquering, you close and rub the slick of his saliva onto the roof of your mouth with your tongue, savor the taste of him. This was the taste that you’d longed for… that which teaches you what that professed edge really is. Is he good, is he evil – he’d just killed two men, you’d watched him, cunt wet at the sight of it. Albeit to protect you… sure – but does it even matter? You swallow his spit down. Probably not. 

He is huge and life altering inside of you. Your virginity scoured away on his invading length. 

He leans forward, hand clamped around your jaw to pierce you with his manic gaze, like his cock pierces your cunt. He smells like the forest and sweat and power. “Little fuckin’ tease,” he grits, “Bringing me cherry pie like that all the time – fuckin’ provoking me. You just wanted me to pop your cherry for you. Didn’t you, little girl?” All you can do is nod dumbly and take what he gives you. He hooks one of your knees over his elbow, the other propped over his shoulder, foot bobbing limply at each slam of his hips. He has you bent entirely in half, cunt splayed wide open for him to fuck down into the deep, devastating end of you. Your vision goes blurry, black stars streaking across the back of your eyelids. All you see is him. Perhaps he’s all that exists now. Maybe you’re just as dead as the two bodies laying beside the two of you. You wonder peripherally what the sight of the four of you must look like. Joel’s hulking form fucking you like an animal into the dirt. You open your eyes to look up at him, there’s blood splatter across his face, in his hair. His skin is burning hot against yours. You think that perhaps you’ll have scorch marks in the shape of his fingers in your skin after he’s done with you. Two dead, brutalized bodies cooling beside the place where the two of you are fucking. 

“Can feel ya tightening up, baby. Gonna come all over my cock.”

He does something to change the angle, and it fucking hurts. “Too much,” you beg, try to push him back weakly, but your cunt pulls sharp and tight, and then your muscles are rippling around him, womb contracting painfully as your orgasms blinds you with its sudden intensity. 

“Don’t care,” he growls back. “Do not fucking push me away.” No, he must not care. Prey doesn’t decide how it’s felled, after all. 

He pulls out and back then, suddenly, slaps your cunt harshly, once, twice. You mewl, high and shocked, writhing around in the dirt. He grabs you by the hips and flips you so fast you’re left disoriented, pulling your ass up, up, up. 

“Fuck, you’re so fuckin’ pretty,” he croons, bends to bite down on the meat of your asscheek, and then notches back at your gaping, fluttering hole, orgasm still running through you, and pushes back in. You’re soaking wet, slick and fucked open by him and the taking is much easier this time. You feel his thumb press down on your asshole, “Gonna take this too. Gonna have every part of you, every piece. Gonna swallow you whole.” All you do is arch your back further, cheek smushed into the dirt, fingers digging into the cool earth for purchase, for salvation.

The sight of you stretched around his thick base, so slick he feels you dripping down his balls and further below, into the bloody earth. There’s a red tinge of your own blood coating his skin, and he’s going to come. He’s going to fill you up with his spend and fuck it deep into you until it takes. Until no matter how far you want to run, he’ll be with you, always. He lets his head fall back on his neck and stares up at the dark canopy of the trees, groans low and deep.“You’re gonna be my little hole now,” he promises, presses one large palm into the small of your back to deepen the angle and fuck down into you. “Gonna take you with me and fill you up whenever I feel like it. My gorgeous little cumslut.” The ramming of his hips starts to grow sloppy and stuttered, close to the edge now. Victory is so, so near. 

You start to claw at the dirt and wiggle again. Little knees chafed raw and scrambling against the hard ground trying to get away. He slaps your ass hard, hopes there’ll be the print of his hand to appreciate later. 

“Not inside, not inside – not – no birth control,” you stutter, beg.

“I’m not fuckin’ pulling out.” He twists a cruel and unyielding hand into the back of your hair and presses your face harshly into the ground. Your eyes pinch and tears seep and mingle into the blood and dirt beneath you. “Gonna pump you raw and full. You don’t gotta worry about anythin’ anymore, baby. Gonna take care of you,” he grits and you press yourself harder back into him. There is an existential seesaw inside of you – a volleying of your wants – you want him to hurt you, to force you, to take care of you and keep you, all at the same time.

“Promise – promise me you won’t leave me,” you cry and beg because really, that’s all you want. All you’ve ever wanted. For someone to stay, for someone to never leave, no matter what.

“I promise – fuckin’ swear.” And you go loose and passive again at that – his to do with as he will. Nothing else really matters after all that.

He senses the change. The loosening of your muscles into capitulation. He stops his thrusting and grinds, strums at your clit. “Oh fuck, you want me to fill you up? And what happens if I do? What happens if it takes? Want me to get you fuckin’ pregnant?” Starts to fuck into you again, “I think you do.”

Don’t care, don’t care, don’t care.

“You’re mine. Fucking mine.” He says it again and again and again, yes, yes, yes, lets himself fall forward, anchored above you with one strong arm as he presses as deep as he can physically go and starts to fill your pulsing cunt with his come, the heat of his spend inciting you to roll into one more throbbing orgasm. He brings his face down close to yours, open your eyes, little thing, lemme see you. The fluttering of your lashes, sweaty, dirt-streaked face, and you are seraphic, the wet crimson heat of your blood pounding beneath the delicate membrane of your skin. Gorgeous, perfect, conquered and his. 

“Fucked full’a me now,” he whispers, presses a soft kiss to the tender skin of your eyelid. You nuzzle into him, and then look up at him with the warmest, most vibrant gaze he’s ever seen. Fucking pleased and sated. 

“They wanted me, but only you get to have me now,” you whisper. “How does that make you feel?” Provoking, provoking again. 

“Like I fucking own you.” He grinds his still spitting cock further, feels the pull of your muscles milk him deeper. 

He lets his weight fall partially over you, too heavy for the full mass of himself. You are, after all, a delicate thing, and he must remember to handle you with care, occasionally. He feels the pulsing and quivering of your cunt around his softening cock, and the two of you settle to lay there in the dirt, bodies still dead, virginity scoured and stolen, and stare at each other. 

“Have you ever been in love?” you whisper, dragging the tip of one little finger, whisper soft, over the arch of his brow, the slope of his nose.

“I feel a little in love with ya right now,” he confesses, and you press that finger against the seam of his mouth, begging for entrance, and then inside, against the flat of his tongue to inspect the wet gleam of it. It’ll be inside of you soon enough, you should take a look at that which you’ll be writhing against in due time. 

“Good. That was my plan all along.” Smug, conniving little creature. 

-

Once it’s full dark, he packs you into his truck, buckles your seatbelt for you, tucks a blanket around your dirty knees and drives off as if he hadn’t just murdered two men and taken your virginity with their blood still hot on his skin. He goes for miles and miles, eventually finds a dark, secluded spot to park the truck for the night. He takes you into the back bunk and fucks you like you’d wanted him to, on your side, one leg slung over his shoulder, hand gripping the lush of your ass to pull you onto his impaling cock, watches your ass bounce against his thrusts. A demanded play with it, lemme see ya push it back in, as he watches himself drip out of your messy hole. Eats your cunt until you cry. Afterwards, the two of you lay, naked and damp, facing each other, tracing the lines of one another in the quiet dark. 

Sometimes he’s worried he’s blood hungry – or pain hungry. Starving for something he doesn’t have a name for. But he thinks that, perhaps, he can use your name to fill in the blank space now. He’d always felt as if his devotion was a punishment to the receiver. After all, everyone Joel has ever loved has left him. But as he looks at you, there’s something in your eyes that tells him that perhaps, you’ll remain. Perhaps, he can compel you to, force you to. Perhaps, he can anchor you to himself, and in turn, give you everything. 

“Are you a ghost?” he asks.

“No. Are you?”

“Sometimes I think I am.”

“I don’t think so.”

“You’re like a fuckin’ angel or somethin’. What were you doin’ out here in this wasteland?” He asks you again.

“Maybe I was waiting for you.” This answer he likes.

He’s quiet for a long time after that – taking you in, cataloging you, memorizing you. His fingers ghosting over your face, your hair, strumming the fan of your lashes. Later he asks: How do you remember the memory of someone else? How do you keep them when they’ve gone somewhere entirely unreachable?

“Because you love them,” you tell him.

“That’s enough?”

“Of course. Will you ever forget that you loved her?”

“Never.”

Netherfeildren's Masterlist

[demonmoonsupreme]

Ugh. I have to say it. I’ve been holding it back because I know how much fandom hates this plot point so much. And like maybe it’s because I enjoy angst, or because characters coming in a vacuum sealed ‘morally upstanding’ package is just not realistic or enjoyable to me.

But Gwen should not have been ‘bewitched’ to cheat on Arthur with Lancelot. For one, it just sets another horrible precedence of magic use within the narrative. And two: it’s boring as hell. Oh, and also apparently Gwen was only allowed screen time in later seasons when her autonomy was nowhere to be seen. So three. Three reasons why I find it dumb as hell. And one that last front? Yeah, I think she should have willingly had an affair with Lancelot. I know, I Know. Cheating bad. Cheating make evil wrong person. Or whatever twitterinas are saying.

But hear me out (or don’t). How did Gwen feel after Lancelot died after she made him promise to return Arthur to her alive? Did she feel that she had unwittingly sentenced him to death? Her first true love; the man she looked for in other men. (Maybe we’d know how she felt if the writers didn’t have her going off like a broken record and just keep repeating what a great king Artie would someday be). I wish we had seen her grief, I wish she had been given time to mourn (as we know she never is in a series that kills every family member she has). And then Lancelot returns. She realizes she stills loves him, she feels guilty and blames herself thinking she had a part in his death. She thinks she asked him to sacrifice himself. And she wonders if she made the right choice. Lancelot and Arthur are there before her, and her wedding is in two days, and it’s all so sudden and the window of opportunity is about to be closed for the rest of her life; and she wonders if she’s chosen the right man. Gwen wonders if she’s been given a second chance, can she amend her previous choices. Does she want to amend them. Yes, this storyline opens her up to all sorts of criticisms. Fandom would condemn her a slut, she would join the ranks of women who can’t just make up their damn mind. Someone would declare it’s anti-feminist, because women aren’t allowed to be portrayed with “bad” qualities and when they are it just sets us all back.

But…it would be so much more nuanced than the plot they gave us. It would give Gwen the opportunity to make the choice because in the past it had been robbed from her (Lancelot leaving when he realized that Arthur loved Gwen, and Lancelot dying the first time). It would grant her autonomy over her own sexuality and choice of partner(s). Unlike the male protagonists in this show, Gwen is never actually given a real chance to morally grapple with anything, especially her own actions. She just is a good person who never does anything wrong, can be a bad-ass if it’s required, and falls into the straight and narrow path of ideal womanhood when she gets a boyfriend in a position of extreme power.

I know I’m barely making sense, but she just could have been written so much better. She could have been treated like a real person in the writers room, but she wasn’t.

[deconstructthesoup]

What's been in my head lately is a Fantasy High pirate AU. Not a Leviathan AU, an actual pirate AU.

Bear with me---

Adaine is a bookish princess of a kingdom by the sea, and while she has everything from an outsider's perspective, she's neglected by her parents as the second child and is incredibly lonely. Her only real friend is Kristen, who's a representative of the church of Helio and is kind of Adaine's unofficial lady-in-waiting, and both of them are fairly sheltered... until one fateful day, while the two are enjoying a small day of freedom, they get captured by a motley crew of pirates.

Fabian is the captain and the son of the fabled Old Bill, and he's been making his own mark on the seven seas via sheer charisma and chaos. He's trying to build up a reputation of being a ruthless thief and murderer like his father was, but it's pretty plain to see that he cares a lot more than he lets on... like, for instance, upon realizing that Adaine's parents don't care enough about her to pay for ransom, he immediately offers her a spot on his crew. And once Kristen has a very public crisis of faith, she's granted a spot, too.

The other members of Fabian's crew are as follows:

Riz, his first mate and best friend. He's a son of two prolific spies from the goblin kingdom, and he initially wanted to take down the vast network of pirates across the world, but quickly changed gears once he realized that working for the monarchy was a lot more morally corrupt. He kind of acts as the voice of reason, while simultaneously being one of the most feral members of the crew.

Ragh, the ship's chef and the other first mate---Fabian couldn't decide between him and Riz. His mom used to be a pretty prolific pirate herself, and he and Fabian have known each other since they were kids... and, yeah, their relationship has changed from "best friends forever" to "work husbands" over the years. They have some good times.

Gorgug, the ship's resident gunner. He grew up in a family of blacksmiths, couldn't find a lot of honest work, and eventually got a steady position on Fabian's ship. He's happy to be here, he's happy to show off the fact that he's a beast in combat situations, and he's one of the most technically savvy members of the crew. Also, he's a surprisingly good listener.

Fig, the musician and "dark sorceress" of the ship. She used to be a traveling singer-slash-songwriter and used an elven disguise to blend in, but eventually decided "fuck it" and took on her true form as a free-spirited tiefling pirate who kicks ass, takes names, and curses anybody who badmouths her. She's great.

Tracker, the ship's surgeon. She was raised in the church of Helio before being bitten by a werewolf, after which she promptly left to learn under her uncle, who was a prolific pirate himself before he retired. Nowadays, she's learned the secrets of both witchcraft and medicine and made a name for herself as a skilled healer and fighter, and is pretty happy where she is.

Gertie, the ship's other chef and resident wildlife expert. She's definitely one of the most friendly members of the crew, and even though she butts heads with Fabian a lot, she's a pretty core part of the crew. And yeah, between her and Tracker, Kristen is definitely getting a big lesbian awakening.

There is, of course, still a version of Leviathan out there, and Ayda still lives there as a librarian... which is the reason why the crew regularly makes stops there, though getting more supplies is also a plus. Garthy is also there, along with Sandralynn and Jawbone (and Hallariel and Gilear, much to Fabian's displeasure). The Seven are also around---they're a fierce crew of pirates who have a bit of a friendly rivalry with Fabian's crew, though it's never escalated into outright battle.

[strangersteddierthings]

Gut Instinct: Chapter 2 - Friday

[Art] [Ao3] [Prologue] [Chapter One] [Chapter Two]

Having been on the basketball team all four years of high school, it takes him less than two minutes to find Lucas. He and the team are doing some practice drills before the game.

He cups his hands around his mouth and shouts, “Sinclair!”

Lucas stops instantly, looking for who shouted. Once he catches sight of Steve he breaks out into a grin and jogs over. “Steve, hey! What are you doing here, man?”

“I was informed that no one told you Hellfire did not postpone. Wanted to make sure you knew that.”

Lucas’ face falls instantly, the glee of seeing Steve here gone. “Oh. So, no one’s going to be here for the game?”

It doesn't sit right with Steve that Lucas's first thought is that his friends aren't going to show up. “What about your parents?”

“Well, yeah, they’ll be here. But they have to be. That’s what parents do. I just thought my friends would….” Lucas trails off, but he doesn’t need to finish for Steve to know what he was going to say. Thought they’d have his back. Be here.

Steve pauses before answering, thinking. “So, you want to play in the championship game. Not Hellfire?”

“Well, I want to do both,” Lucas says, “but it’s not like the school’s going to rearrange the entire basketball schedule so I can go play Dungeons and Dragons. I had Dustin and Mike ask for me, ‘cause I don’t think Eddie likes me very much? I think he’d say no immediately if I was the one asking.”

“Hey, that’s not cool,” Steve is a little peeved, but he’s not going to let Lucas see that. Lucas doesn’t need his anger, he needs support. “Uh, why do you think Munson doesn’t like you?”

“I’ve had to miss sessions before, for away games,” Lucas shrugs. “Eddie doesn’t like when people don’t show up. Plus, he’s treated me differently since I joined the team, you know? I can tell he’s colder to me than he is Dustin or Mike. The guy's not exactly good at being subtle.”

“Hey, I’m going to go talk to him, see if I can be more persuasive. I’m not going to be cowed by Eddie Munson the same way Dustin and Mike seem to be,” Steve is aiming for reassuring.

Lucas shrugs with one shoulder, and Steve knows he doesn’t believe him. Knows Lucas thinks nothing will change, and he's not going to have his friends here for moral support. Lucas opens his mouth, then closes, before he nods to himself, like he’s made a decision, and then says, “it’s not even about getting to play the final session. I get that moving it on short notice isn’t, like, easy. I just- they’ve never even been to a game, you know? The guys on the team are great but it’s not the same. Guess it just would have been nice if they’d of picked me.”

“I’ll talk to them,” Steve insists, hating the defeated look on Lucas’ face.

“Sure,” Lucas nods, “I gotta get back to practice. Thanks for trying.”

Steve watches him rejoin Jason Carver. Carver catches Steve’s eye and lifts a hand in a wave. Steve waves back before leaving the gym. He doesn’t know Carver well, but they were on the team together before Steve graduated.

Steve heads back to the green room. He can’t think of a single reason Munson wouldn’t like Lucas, he’s the politest of the kids, and most thoughtful. What’s not to like? Except in the back of Steve’s mind he remembers Billy, and how he singled out Lucas that day he broke a plate over Steve’s head. If Eddie Munson turns out to be a racist bastard, Steve will throw hands.

But perhaps it’s all just a misunderstanding? A lack of communication. Steve knows all about that. He’s had plenty of it before. He still sucks at communication despite Robin's best efforts. He is getting better, and it helps Robin makes it easy for him to open up. Having Robin to talk to has made it easier for him to speak with other people like the adult he’s trying to be. What he wouldn’t give to be able to talk to her right now. About this issue, and the waking nightmare, and about spying more on these kids while she’s at school with them because they are making poor decisions, and also, maybe, about how he finds Eddie Munson attractive (though, maybe that will go away if he gets confirmation Eddie is acting like Billy).

“-can, it’s Steve. Just you wait,” Dustin is saying when Steve steps back into the room.

“Oh no,” Erica sighs, slumping in her chair. She’s the first person to catch sight of Steve, “that’s your Disappointed Parent face.”

“I don’t have a ‘Disappointed Parent’ face,” Steve says before calling out to Munson. “Munson, Lucas thinks you don’t like him.”

“Why does he think that?” Munson stands up from where he was sitting. Steve been in enough fight or flight situations to recognize that there is a tension in Munson's body that seems to be gearing up towards fight more than flight.

“He thinks you don’t like him because he’s missed previous games. Thinks you don’t like him so much that he had to have Dustin and Mike ask about this game because he believes you’d have said no immediately to him,” Steve steps further into the room and he can almost physically see the hackles raise on the older members, like they’re gearing up to jump to Munson’s defense. Steve’s not going to get physical, he doesn’t want to. He just wants to talk to Munson.

“I don’t hate him, but the budding jock made his choice,” Munson scoffs, dismissive.

And that’s it, Steve thinks. Munson doesn’t like jocks and he’s singling out Lucas. He’s a little relieved that it’s not racially charged, but it still leaves Steve angry, so his mouth starts running before his brain. He’s on the defensive. “You’re a fucking hypocrite, Munson. You don’t get to bully people around here. It’s only okay for you to be the bully, huh?”

“Of the two of us, Harrington, I’m not the fucking bully,” Munson moves away from the table, rounds it like he’s going to get into Steve’s face, but Gareth reaches out and grabs his elbow when Munson passes by him, stopping Munson in his tracks.

“You don’t know shit about me,” Steve fires back. “I was a dick in high school, yeah, but I grew the fuck up. You’re singling out a fifteen-year-old because he wants to, what, play sports? Making him choose between the two? That’s fucked up.”

“Again, I didn’t fucking make him choose!”

“Whatever,” Steve says, dismissive because Eddie’s not the real problem here. The real issue is that Lucas wants his best friends to pick him and they didn’t. “Lucas is allowed to like sports and nerd things. And you two,” he pivots to point between Dustin and Mike now, “are being kind of shitty right now. After everything you’ve gone through together, you couldn’t stick by his side for this?”

“Hey, I have to get on a plane tomorrow morning,” Mike defends himself. “If they postponed, then I wouldn’t have gotten to play!”

“So, it’s fine that Lucas can’t play, but terrible if you can’t? That’s a load of shit, Wheeler. Lucas is supposed to be your friend.”

“He is my friend-“

“Then act like it!” Steve didn’t want to play his card, but he’s going to. “Will and El aren't here anymore; are you really okay with losing Lucas, too?”

“That is not fair,” Mike’s voice is oddly even for how angry he looks as he stands up to meet Steve's eye level instead of looking up at him.

“Steve, you’re being defensive, right now,” Dustin says, and Steve hears the message he’s trying to get across. Hears Dustin’s words from earlier ‘you’re an asshole when you’re defensive’. It makes him take a deep breath in because it’s true. He is being an asshole right now, which is exactly what Munson and the other Hellfire members thought he’d be. He’s not going to win them over and get them to see his point like that. Not when he's attacking them. And Mike.

Steve turns back to Munson now, trying to sound calmer as he says, “If you want Lucas to believe you don’t hate him, you’d go to the game, too.”

“Lucas can draw his own conclusion about how I feel. I’m not responsible for his emotions, Harrington,” Munson growls, clearly not a forgiving person.

“You’re right, but you’re also older than him and should take some responsibility for how you act around him,” Steve says, trying to be the bigger person here but he must admit it’s tough. “He thinks you’re being shitty to him, on purpose. He thinks you treat him differently than you do Dustin or Mike. And that’s fucked up. He’s just a kid, he looks up to you, and he's been through enough.”

Munson doesn’t argue back. He stands there, but he does look like he’s thinking about what Steve said, so that’s something.

There’s a shuffling sound and it draws Steve’s attention. Dustin is standing, shoving his things into his backpack. He doesn’t say anything, but he does look at Mike. The two seem to have a silent conversation because after a moment Mike nods, and begins to gather his stuff, too.

Steve’s proud they’re doing the right thing.

“So, you two are out?” Munson’s voice isn’t nearly as angry as it was before. Instead, it's flat. He’d almost call it monotone if not for the fact it did sound like a question.

“Steve’s right,” Dustin says as he swings his backpack over his shoulder, “Lucas does really want to be here. He sounded real upset when he asked us to talk to you about changing the day of the game. I also really want to play, it’s going to suck missing the final session, but it’s going to suck more to bail on a years-long friendship.”

“Yeah. Lucas has never bailed on us,” Mike adds, even though he sounds upset for agreeing.

Erica lets out a put-upon sigh, “he has bailed on me, but never when it mattered, I guess. I expect that you’re buying the tickets, Steve?”

“Unbelievable!” Munson throws his hands in the air, which pulls Steve’s attention to him. He catches the look on his face; Eddie Munson looks… hurt?

Steve’s stomach turns a little and he scrambles to figure out how to settle it. “A compromise?” Steve offers. “Mike, when are you back?”

“Uhh, the plane is supposed to land Thursday afternoon; I’ll be back in town that night sometime.”

“Great,” Steve looks to Munson. “Can you guys play next Friday, or even Thursday night if Mike isn’t jet-lagged too much?”

“School’s locked up next week,” Dustin says.

“What about your basement, Mike?”

“Won’t fit all of us,” Mike says. “It was barely enough room when it was just Dustin, Lucas, Will, and I. The table's not big enough.”

“Plus, it stinks like boy,” Erica wrinkles her nose, “unwashed, gross boy.”

“It’s not that bad!”

“Yes, it is,” Steve says, even though he hasn’t been in the Wheelers’ basement since he and Nancy were together.

“Steve, I have a compromise,” Erica says. “Regarding a promise you made to me. For life.”

Erica now has Steve’s full attention. “Yes, Erica?”

“We play at your house next Friday. You will provide snacks and pizza,” she says it like it’s decided, before pointing her finger at Steve, then dragging her hand through the air to point at everyone, “and all you nerds will stop bickering like old people. You’ll also have to buy our tickets because I didn’t bring any money. In return, I will shorten your life debt to the day after I graduate from high school.”

“Done! Deal!” Steve accepts instantly, because a day of snacks and pizza will be so much cheaper than a lifetime supply of ice cream. He knows Erica would have held him to that for, quite literally, his entire life. “I’ll be buying all the basketball tickets, and just tell me what pizza you want. That work for everyone?”

“Your parents will be okay with that?” Dustin asks.

Right. He forgets about the major secrets he keeps from the kids sometimes. “Oh, they’ll be gone by Friday for sure so no issue. So, will that work for everyone?”

The older members of Hellfire exchange glances, and, one by one, they all say yes. Even Munson.

Erica stalks up to Steve, stopping just in front of him, hand out, palm up. With a sigh, Steve pulls his wallet out of his back pocket and drops it into Erica’s hand. “I’ll get back to you on the pizza I want. I’ll go buy tickets. Are you all coming?”

The other three members look surprised, but it's Gareth that speaks, “Uh, Harrington’s not gonna buy-“

“I said are. You. Coming?” Erica repeats, hands on her hips.

“Yes,” Gareth says, then looks surprised he agreed. Erica has that effect on people.

Erica gives one nod and heads out the door. Slowly the rest pick up their things and follow. Steve goes to follow, too, but the rolling in his stomach returns. He’s not done here.

He waits until everyone has left before turning to Munson. “I'm sorry. I’m sorry for coming in here and like, immediately attacking you. That wasn’t cool of me.”

Munson looks him over before scoffing. “It’s whatever, man.”

“It’s really not,” Steve says. “I know that, like, a lot of work goes into this game and I’m sorry. So, like, if you want anything extra, or need something for the game next week, I’ll get it. I’ll help however I can.”

Munson pauses in the middle of his clean up, to look up at Steve and study him for a while. Steve’s just starting to get antsy when Munson speaks again, “I don’t know if I hate you or not.”

There's absolutely no reason Steve should be hurt by that statement, but he is. He can't show that to Munson though, so he says, “That’s fair.”

“I’ve got to know, Harrington. How’d this group of kids get to be so important to you?” Munson goes back to gathering up the stuff on the table. "Why is their continued friendship important to you?"

Steve moves to help, and Munson doesn’t shoo him away. “I used to babysit them. Try and keep them out of trouble, which is impossible because they’re too fucking curious and smart. That’s a godawful combination, you know?”

Munson doesn’t laugh but he does quirk one corner of his mouth upwards. “My uncle would agree with you.”

“Yeah, well, they don’t need a babysitter anymore but-“ Steve cuts himself off because he’s not sure what to say. But they’re bonded by shared trauma and grief? That they have to stick together because the Byers left, and Hopper’s dead, and they can’t lose anyone else because it might be too much loss, and he’ll just fall apart? “But they’re family now. They can be a bunch of shitheads, but I love them. And they hate it when I say this, but they should get to be kids as long as they can.”

A long silence follows that as Steve follows Munson's lead of picking stuff up and stacking it all at the end of the table by the throne.

“Help me load what I’ll need for the session next week into my van and I’ll think about forgiving you for ruining this one,” Munson says once everything is gathered.

Steve agrees (probably too eagerly and quickly if the look Munson shoots him is anything to go by) and between the two of them they make quick work of it. Before they take the last armfuls out, Steve steals a pencil and a piece of paper, scribbling his number and a question on it before shoving the paper in his pocket and the pencil back in the case. Then he scoops up what he can and follows Munson to his van.

They don’t talk on the walk from the van to the gym, which is fine by Steve because he doesn’t know what he’d say anyway. He's just glad Munson didn't climb in the van and leave, and is, actually going to come to the game. They get to the gym and find Dustin sitting on the sidewalk waiting for them with their tickets. As soon as they’re in the gym Steve’s eyes go for the marching band, looking for Robin. He finds her quickly and they have a completely silent conversation.

‘Why are you entering the gym with the Hellfire club?’

‘Long story, I’ll explain it later.’

‘You better, dingus.’

Then Dustin is pushing him down onto a bench next to Mike and taking the seat beside him, patting the open seat next to him for Munson to sit. Munson sits rather than climbing the bleachers to join the rest of Hellfire and Erica in the top row, and Steve finds he’s not surprised Munson obeyed. Dustin is very likable for being an annoying know-it-all.

Steve scans the gym, looking for anyone else he might know and- “Oh, shit.” He ducks backwards and down, trying to hide behind Dustin.

“What, what is it?” Dustin asks, scanning the crowd for what Steve saw.

“Brenda.”

“What?”

“Brenda!” Steve hisses, “I, uh, I stood her up. To come to your game instead.”

Sudden movement beside Dustin startles Steve but it takes only a second to realize it’s just Munson, swiveling to look at Steve, eyes big and eyebrows hidden in his hairline. “You ditched a date to play DnD?”

Steve and Munson just look at each other for a moment before Steve feels his face get hot with embarrassment. “Like I said. Dustin asked.”

Munson shakes his head like he can’t believe him and turns back to the court.

When Steve drags his attention back to the court, Tammy Thompson is making her way to the center to sing the anthem and Steve has to find Robin’s eyes again, just to make an ‘I Told You So’ face when Tammy starts singing. She sticks her tongue out at him and the girl next to her must say something because it pulls her attention from Steve.

Now that the teams have gathered and are standing for this wonderful rendition of the anthem, Steve looks for Lucas and finds him quickly.

Lucas finds them a few moments later, and his face lights up when he sees the whole club sitting there. The last bit of nausea that Steve hadn't even been aware of fades away.

Everyone stays for the whole game, which surprises Steve. He expected the older members to dip after the cheer routine. It means they all get to see Lucas make the winning shot. The whole club stands with Steve to scream and cheer, and once Lucas is done being swarmed by his teammates, he gets swarmed by the club members.

Then they’re splitting up; Lucas is going to celebrate with his teammates, so Steve tells him to make smart choices. Before everyone vanishes into the night, though, Steve chases Munson down, halfway to his van in the back of the parking lot.

“Hey, Munson, wait!”

Munson does wait, turning as he shoves his hands into the pockets of his jeans. “Harrington. Not done turning my night upside down?”

Steve almost flinches at the word choice. “Nah, man. Just wanted to give you my number.”

“Your number?” Munson says with just a hint of laughter in his voice and Steve's heart skips over itself. What the hell was that?

“Yeah. So that when it’s closer to the Dungeons game you can call, let me know the time that works for you all. Maybe even drop off some of that stuff I helped you load before the game? Whatever makes it easier for you.”

“Oh. Yeah. Sure. I don’t have a pen on me-“

“No issue. Already wrote it down,” Steve says, pulling the paper from his pocket, offering it to Munson.

He reaches out slowly and takes it, balling his fist around it without looking at it, eyes locked onto Steve's face. The nearest light source is behind Steve, so he's not sure what Eddie's looking for, but it leaves Munson's face illuminated enough for him to look back.

Steve's never had a problem thinking Munson was objectively attractive. He's always gotten hot under the collar for people who push back against him and challenge him, which Munson did a lot of when they were in school together. Steve deserved all the pushback he got, he's honest enough to admit to himself. That being said, Steve's never seen Munson with his guard down. Even at Hellfire tonight his hackles were raised the whole time. But now, under the barely-there glow from the lamp post behind Steve, he looks... amused? The angry furrow that usually resides on his brow every second he's in Steve's company is gone, smoothed out. There's the barest hint of a smile at the corner of his lips.

Then, as abruptly as the stare-down started, it ends, Munson turning on his heel and heading off into the night without another word.

“Okay then. Have a good night! See you next week!” Steve shouts at his retreating form and heads back to the gym, where Dustin is probably waiting for a ride even though he’s supposed to be hitching one with Nancy and Mike, and Robin will no doubt be expecting that explanation he wordlessly promised her. Steve wishes Munson had opened the note. He wants to know what kind of face he’ll make when he sees that, below Steve’s number, he wrote Truce?

[udidntseemelikethisshhhh]

No one asked but here you go some cute maybe a little suggestive Earth-42 Miles Morales headcanons, and a few blurbs 😌

WARNING ⚠️readers gender not specified, jealous behavior, guy with hot accent.

(Let me know if I missed any)

I have this huge urge to braid his hair 😭 (I’m I the only one??)

• • • • • • • • • • • • • • • •

Earth!42 Miles X Reader Headcanons and Blurbs

“Wear what you want, I can fight” type guy but with a little twist. He would still get slight jealous that other people besides him get to see your attractive features (which they all are) but likes to see you smile so he sucks it up just for you

Will NEVER raise his voice at you, when you guys are in the middle of a silly fight no one yells, when you both get frustrated, you both walk away take deep breaths, think over the reason why you were fighting in the first place, then you guys stop and talk it out

Rio loves to bake/cook with you depending on what your good at

If you can’t do both she more than happy to help teach her future daughter in law

Shopping with or for you is a MUST

Loves resting his tired little head on your chest, but around Rio your shoulders, and Aaron nothing (he gotta look tough yk, no sappy bullshit around the big man)

Though he doesn’t seem like it, he’s a big whiner, and when he does he drags out the word Ma

Loves teasing you when you accidentally say something that can be unintentionally dirty

You see it, you like it, you want it, Miles buys it

I see Miles as the type of guy to go on calming car rides while listening to music for fun

He definitely listens to Rema (even if he can’t understand him)

If you draw, he will absolutely just lean on your chair and watch as you hum along to a tune in your head

Tries so hard to make sure you don’t know he’s Prowler

Eventually tells you because he knows he shouldn’t keep secrets (husband material)

When he told you, you were shock and need some time to get used to it but loved him the same no matter what

Later would say things to him like “you know, that kind of makes you more hotter babe?”

Likes to hold you so tight in bed that you have to beg him to let go so that you don’t pee your pants

Calls you unique versions of your first/ last name to seem more special

When Aaron meets you he was shocked

He didn’t expect to see such an understanding and nice people to be with Miles

Invited to all family events (by Rio)

Practically know everyone from the Morales family

Your friends and family are shocked when they found out you were with someone like Miles

Got used to it and love him, but not as much as you

Matching shoes everyday, and if you guys can’t see each other for some reason he will text to ask which Jordan’s your planning to wear so that he could match

When your flustered will call you Mami, or Mi amor to make it worse

Loves to lay on your thighs while you play with his hair

(If you have siblings) before they officially met him they would tease you when they walk into your room unannounced to see you looking like a tomato with your phone to your ear

Will whisper “good morning/goodnight Ma” in his groggy voice bc he knows it makes go🥴

Loves finding new matching wallpapers with you every two weeks

If someone is looking at you, he will gently but swiftly grab your chin and give you a kiss, even if he doesn’t like PDA

Rio brags about you to all her coworkers, and how she’s “So lucky that my son found someone as amazing as [Name]”

When Miles annoys you, all you have to do is walk to the living room/ kitchen, point upstairs, and she will yell at Miles to quit bothering you

Loves when you patch him up because when your done you kiss each and every spot making him wanna get hurt even more

Would kill for you “Ma, not saying I will, but I would if it came down to it” in which you would say “Someone complimenting me is not ‘coming down to it’ you understand?”

When you roll your eyes at him just has to be like “do that again I dare you” and you shut that down real quick

Folds when he hugs you from behind and vice versa

Finished this at 11:20 pm, so if it’s not to your liking to bad bc at least most of this stuff is completely original 😌✋🏽

[licorice-tea]

You’re An Angel When You Sleep

Pairing: Trafalgar Law x reader

Content: angst, drowning, a little “off-screen” violence, hurt/comfort, near death experience

Word Count: 1.5k

A/N: literally wrote this in between classes so hopefully it doesn’t feel too rushed! not edited super closely yet, the grammar might be a little off. inspired by the song “Around The Bend” by Pearl Jam, specifically the last verse <3

Edited 2/28/24

Law is sinking, and there’s nothing he can do.

People call it “The Curse of The Sea.” They say that “she” turns her back on you when you eat a devil fruit. It’s simply the price to pay for such immense power.

And he has never had to worry about it before. His devil fruit ability affords him the security of being to prevent trips into the ocean. Not that he ever would fall- Law is far too careful a man- but he has plenty of crewmates and friends/allies that could somehow knock him overboard.

How sickening, that the first time it actually happened was at the hands of an enemy. And how disappointing, that it had only happened because of his own pride. A foolish disregard of taking caution while standing close to the railing on the enemy ship, when one of his opponent’s underlings threw something that didn’t even really hurt, but sent him overboard. In the midst of a battle where everyone was expected to hold their own- Law could expect no help as he plunged into icy waters.

It’s cold enough as it is, and his curse does nothing to help. He tries his hardest to stay conscious- perhaps he can still use his power if he thinks hard enough. People awaken their devil fruits all the time, so there’s no reason why he can’t do it now. But, no matter how badly he wants to simply teleport back to the deck of the ship, he can’t. The feeling of impending doom only serves to weaken his resolve, and soon enough Law is unwillingly giving up and giving in to the sea.

He’s about 10-12 meters down now. The weight of the water makes it feel nearly impossible to hold his breath for longer, so he lets out an exhale ever so slowly.

But no one is coming, and it’s time to accept his fate. “This is it,” he thinks, “just another pirate lost to the sea. That’s how it ends for me.”

He takes a moment to reflect on life up until now. So much pain and suffering, but in the end he just can’t stop remembering what little good there has been. His crew, who, no matter how much they bothered him, were his family. His blood family and Corazon, who he hopes to see again soon if there is any sort of afterlife. Then there’s you- with your uncanny ability to make him smile and laugh, your clever personality and friendly nature, all your strength and intelligence, and seemingly unwavering good morals. Law feels he barely deserves to have known you in this life, let alone fall in love with you as he has. Which is why he never shared his feelings with you or anyone, in all the time you’d been on his crew. Before this moment, he’d at least had the comfort of knowing there would always be the future, and therefore more time to open up to you figure out his feelings.

“How foolish.”

Law is just about to close his eyes- at least then it might be a more peaceful demise- when there’s a splash that breaks the surface of the waves. His eyes shoot wide open as he tries to figure out what it is, as it’s rather difficult to see clearly with his vision blurring and on the verge of losing consciousness.

All he can be sure of is that it’s a person. The light from above the waves surrounds their silhouette giving them an angelic halo, but simultaneously blocking out all their features from his view.

Law wonders, “Are you here to seal my fate? To ensure I don’t find some way out of this?” If he could, he’d ask that they do it quickly. Still, that painfully hopeful little part of his mind can’t help but come out in what are more than likely his last moments alive. “Or, are you here to save me? Are you gonna give me a second third chance at this? I don’t deserve it, but I will accept it. I’ll use it to do more; work harder, fulfill every goal. Confess to y/n.”

And that hopeful streak seems to take over his body as he uses his last iota of strength to reach upwards. Law’s angel continues swimming downward, but he can’t hold his breath long enough to see them reaching out to him, too.

His last thought is of you. He swears he can see your face on this mystery person as they get closer; your pretty eyes and lips, your hair swirling around your form underwater. Could it actually be… No, he doubts you’d even seen him falling overboard. But maybe he’s already dead, and you really are an angel. Law doesn’t get the chance to fully consider either reality though, as he finally blacks out.

-

“Gimme gimme gimme… a man after midnight…”

This is how Law taught you to do CPR on someone whose heart had stopped. Years ago, when you were struggling with keeping count of 100-120 beats per minute, he told you to “think of a song with the same count.” Most everyone’s go-to CPR song is “Stayin’ Alive.” But, you prefer the classic ABBA song. You pause every 30 compressions to administer 2 breaths, and as you remove your lips from his, a thought crosses your mind. “He looks so peaceful like this.” And even while unconscious, he’s handsome… angelic, even. Nevertheless, you’d much rather have an alive and annoyed looking Law than a dead and calm one.

“Is there a soul out there… Someone to hear my-”

Law coughs suddenly, and shoots up into a sitting position, gasping for breath.

“Law!” You throw your arms around his neck, nearly knocking the man back over.

And though he’s still catching his breath and coming to his senses, he lets you, and puts an arm around your back. “Y/n,” another cough, “what happened?”

You release him (much to his disappointment) and explain how the fight had ended soon after the crew lost sight of him; their captain. And, while the others quickly overtook the enemies, you dove overboard where you’d last seen him. It was pure luck, though guided by your intuition, that you found Law beneath the surface.

“Then I swam over here-“

“Which is where?”

You nod in the direction behind him. “Just around the bend from the harbor. The Polar Tang and the enemy’s ship can be seen from there, so I thought it’d be best to hide while you…”

“While I was dying.”

“Don’t say it like that,” you scold him with a frown, “you’re alive.”

“But I could have died.” Law says with very little pride. He sounds a little out of it, which makes sense considering the circumstances. “I could have died, and you saved me.”

“Well, any one of us would’ve, Captain-“

“Thank you, y/n.”

You shake your head bashfully. “It was no problem, really.” That’s a lie, and you both know it. The water in this part of the ocean is freezing, but through some incredible resolve that you hadn’t been aware of before, you pushed through it. For him. “So… We should get back to the fight, yeah?”

You move to stand up from your place on your knees, but Law stops you. With his hand on your shoulder, he pulls you back down to his side. “You said the fight is over?”

“Mhm.”

“Then let’s just… stay here, for a moment.”

He leans toward you hesitantly, though you’re not sure if it’s because he feels weak or he just wants you to hold him again. Either way, you wrap your arms around him and rest your chin on his shoulder. You hold onto each other with gentle force, and you feel him exhale deeply.

“I need to tell you something.” Law mutters.

You pull back enough to see his face. “Right now? Can’t it wait, Law-“

“I can’t want any longer.” And he really can’t. He’d tell you about how he had mistaken you for a living, breathing angel another time. For now, he just needs to fulfill his promise to said angel (to you?), and confess his love for you.

“Ok… What is it?”

Law is very straightforward as he says it. “I’m in love with you.” And he makes it impossibly hard to return to the battle when he asks that you never leave him in this life, like so many others have. Which you promise not to, of course, though it’s not exactly your decision. You tell him that you love him too, and in turn demand that he doesn’t die on you, either. Law nods against you.

The two of you stay there a while longer, in each other’s arms around the bend.

[anghraine]

I couldn't work it into the other post, but something I was also thinking about with regard to Wickham as a child is ... okay, on the one hand, I think it's important to bear in mind that child Wickham was, in fact, a child. We can't just assume he was evil from day 1. I find him more interesting if he's not intrinsically evil, and I do have some sympathy for the weird position he was in.

In some ways, Wickham seems to have been treated as essentially another son. Mrs Reynolds says that Mr Darcy raised him (entirely at his own expense), Wickham says that he and Darcy were objects of the same parental care, Darcy that Wickham was brought up to expect exertion on his behalf and was the favorite of his (Darcy's) father. Wickham was given a gentleman's education, sent to school and Cambridge, and a valuable living in the Church was planned for him. This is the kind of thing that would be done for him if he actually were a younger son.

But the thing is ... he's not Mr Darcy's son. He's the son of Mr Wickham, Mr Darcy's steward. Wickham is in reality a charity case entirely dependent on the Darcys' good will—this is part of why Darcy says it would have been a depravity to turn on him without reason. Wickham's brought up for genteel life, but the path set out for him is one he is remarkably ill-suited to (not only morally, as it will turn out, but temperamentally). I've sometimes wondered what it was like to be Wickham at ... say, 12 or 13.

Still, I also wonder if he was already kind of a handful.

Evidently not to Mr Darcy—Darcy says his father not only enjoyed Wickham's society due to his engaging manners, but always had the highest opinion of him. We have no idea what Lady Anne thought or did. But realistically, the people who dealt with young Wickham and Darcy the most were probably the servants.

Wickham insists that Mrs Reynolds was fond of him. Maybe she was, though she has nothing good to say about him now. She describes him in fairly impersonal terms at Pemberley, and after saying he's in the army now, remarks, "I am afraid he has turned out very wild." She seems pretty eager to shift the conversation to Darcy and says, "But I have always observed, that they who are good-natured when children, are good-natured when they grow up; and he [Darcy] was always the sweetest tempered, most generous-hearted boy in the world."

I've wondered if this conclusion was affected by Wickham as well as Darcy—if she sees something of the Wickham who turned out wild in her memories of Wickham the child, and this reinforces her sense of the significance of childhood behavior. She insists that she's never had a cross word from Darcy, even as a small child (she's been at Pemberley since he was 4, i.e. 24 years). But given her conclusions about children and her characterization of adult Wickham, I wouldn't be surprised if the first people to experience the brunt of Wickham's poor behavior were the servants at Pemberley.

[oopwoop]

Playing Minecraft W/ The SpiderVerse Kids

pairing(s): Miles Morales (e!1610!), Hobie Brown, Pavitr Prabhakar, Gwen Stacy

warning(s): swearing! unedited.

i used this site to figure out/decide what type of player they’d be

i’ve been playing a lot of Minecraft recently and thought of what it’d be like to play with them so.. here you go!

Miles Morales (e!1610!)

He prefers Creative over Survival for sure, reasoning: he’s scared of the mobs and refuses to fight them

Plus in Creative it’s a lot easier for him to build stuff because he is definitely The Big Builder or The Decorator. He makes the most outrageous buildings but they look good

Has a whole world full of buildings and stuff. Like, complete towns filled with mansions

Playing with him is a lot of fun though! He’ll come up with build designs with you and you’d work together. If not, the two of you would totally mess around, building things just to blow them up with TNT or set it on fire

Miles is the one to put your beds next to each other. He thinks it’s cute, though he’ll do it without saying anything and if you mention it he becomes a stuttering mess and says he knows nothing and didn’t do it.

If you do end up playing Survival with him he will make you kill all the mobs, no doubt about it. He’ll make the base, probably trade with villagers, farm and kill the animals for food but not much else. He’s too afraid of dying

“Miles, did you put the beds next to each other? Because I know I didn’t.” You snicker teasingly, your character staring at the beds then at his character. You turn yourself to glance at him and notice his eyes are wide and he’s blushing.

“What..? What, me? Nooo.. That’s stupid why would I do that? Maybe you forgot that you did it because I didn’t.” He stumbled over his words, refusing eye contact. It was cute.

“Mhm, okay. Y’know, maybe I did forget. I think it’s a cute idea, though.” You smirked, kissing his cheek before turning back to the screen and continued playing.

Gwen Stacy

I think she’d play Survival and only Survival, claims Creative is for the weak

She goes all out in Minecraft, fighting mobs, getting achievements, going to the Nether, all of that. She’s not afraid

Definitely The Pro or The Achiever. Like I said, Gwen goes all out

She’d forcefully make you go with her, but she’d give you the right equipment needed and pointers on how to fight. If you genuinely don’t want to fight with her she’d have you farm and trade, pretty much do the smaller necessities for survival.

Has finished Minecraft several times, got all the achievements and everything on different worlds, never gets old for her

If you got her to play Creative she’d go on a rampage, killing everything for fun. Or she’d fly around trying to find different biomes

“C’monnn.. it’s not that bad!” Gwen would groan, trying to convince you to go to the Nether with her. “I’ve given all the armor and tools you need! Just try not to die.”

“Try not to die?? It’s the Nether, I’ll die no matter what! I’m not a pro like you. I’m not the one who’s finished this game multiple times.” You gave her an incredulous look, gaping at her words. It’s one thing to not die on the main world, that was usually easy, but the Nether? Yeah right, she’s insane.

“You’re overreacting.. Plus, if I’m a pro, wouldn’t that make you feel better that you’d be with me? Not by yourself.” She chuckled, arguing her point. You just scoffed and told her to go, following in after her.

Pavitr Prabhakar

I see him playing both Creative and Survival. Just really depends on his mood. Either way he’s having fun

He’d be The Zookeeper, collecting animals like Pokémon cards for real. Within the first 30 minutes of playing he already has a house full of cats and dogs, probably three parrots flying around him and is starting an animal farm. How? No idea, he just does

In Creative mode he’d spawn them all, naming all the animals with name tags one by one, even coloring the dog collars too

In Survival he’s taming every animal he sees, using a lead to bring the animal to a fenced in area. There’s one full of cows, pigs, horses, all the usual ones. But he even has them for pandas, camels, and turtles.

He’s also one to place his bed next to you, though unlike Miles, he’s not embarrassed by it, actually stating out loud he’s doing it. No shame at all.

When he’s not collecting animals, he’s following you around. He has no idea where you’re going or what you’re doing but he doesn’t care. He’s following and collecting every flower he sees, claiming he’s gonna make a bouquet for you.

“Hey, Pav? Where’s the- woah what the hell? How do you already have a whole army of pandas? Where’d you even get those from? We’re no where near a jungle..” You questioned, beyond surprise by the sight of around a dozen pandas in a fenced up area. It was even decorated to what a panda would need, looking like a small jungle.

“Hm? You say that likes it’s hard to find them! What’s so bad about it? I think they’re cute!” He smiled brightly, his character jumping around in the area full of pandas. “I have more than just pandas!”

“How?? We haven’t even played for more than an hour! When did you do all this?” While it was probably better not to question him, you needed to know how he did it, and seeing him more than happy to explain made it all the more better.

Hobie Brown (sorry it’s shorter than the rest)

He genuinely does not care if y’all play Creative or Survival, doesn’t matter to him, he’s gonna be a complete menace either way

He’s not any of the type of players listed in the site I used, he doesn’t believe in consistency. He can go from killing mobs to farming. His main goal is to fuck with you though

He never gets you killed in Survival but he will mess around. He’ll hit your character (without a sword or anything) when you’re fighting a mob and run away. It’s like playing with a child

I can see him setting a village on fire and saying something along the lines of “they’re capitalist pigs and deserve to die” or something

All in all, he’s not much of a fan of Minecraft but he’ll play it with you if you ask.

“Hobie, why is there a village on fire? What did you do?” You raised a brow at him, staring at the slight smirk on his face. It was a telltale sign he did it, but you knew it was him either way. There’s no way a village randomly caught on fire.

“What ya mean, luv? Oh, tha’. Yeah I did tha’. Bunch a capitalist pigs, I tell ya. Jus’ doin’ my job gettin rid of ‘em.” He chuckled while setting another village on fire. You didn’t wanna know how many he’d set on fire at this point.

“It’s a game, B. And I need to trade with them, they have good stuff sometimes.” You whined, huffing at him. You know he doesn’t care and will do it anyways.

“Find another one then, luv.”

All of them!

My god is it a nightmare.. first it starts out as an argument, trying to decide whether or not y’all are playing Survival or Creative. Mainly Gwen and Miles though, Pavitr and Hobie don’t care.

After about ten minutes of arguing they decided to ask you, so whatever one you prefer is what y’all played on. Either way one of them is whining.

If you picked Survival it leads to a pouty Miles, complaining how he’s gonna die a lot, and a smiley Gwen.

Within the first day Miles has already made a small base for you guys, Pav has gathered a few animals (he pouted when it was stated the cows and such would be used for food eventually, Gwen was mining for ores, and Hobie was.. being Hobie.

It was surprising to see how smooth everyone seemed to work together for a while, considering before y’all even started playing an argument broke out. Though if y’all could work well together while on mission, why couldn’t you in a game, yeah?

Give it an hour or so.. bickering over stupid stuff is bound to happen.

If you picked Creative, Gwen is whining how it’s for losers, which causes Miles to flip her off and thank you for picking it.

With Creative there’s a lot less arguing and bickering. Though there is much more chaos. Y’all are blowing up everything or settlor on fire for fun.

It started with you all just doing your own thing until randomly Hobie brings up the idea.

“I ‘ave an idea..” Hobie says out of the blue, causing everyone to pause. You all look at him with a face of confusion or hesitation. Whenever he had an idea, it was wild or something went wrong in some way.

“Great.. you have an idea.. does it have to do with the game or real life? Because I don’t feel like blowing up a building in your universe again..” Gwen scoffed, the others nodding in agreement.

“Yeah.. I agree with Gwen.. last time you had an idea we almost got killed..” You chuckled dryly, still traumatized from that.

“Damn, no faith in me at all, huh?” He rolled his eyes. “Yea, in the game.. Don’t worry, don’t plan on killin’ y’all. Woulda done so already if I wanted to.”

That caused another pause in the room, silence too loud. Thank god for Miles for breaking it. “Okayyy… what’s your plan?”

“Well, Gwendy got blowin’ up a buildin’ correc’. Though, I meant in the game. Why not have some fun an’ blow up some shit, or set it on fire, yea?” It was a smart idea, surprisingly. Everyone agreed, just with some terms, mainly Pav and Miles.

“Sounds fun! As long as my animals are safe and out of it, I’m in!” Pavitr stated, Miles nodding in agreement, but for his builds.

“Woah, a surprisingly good idea.. Let’s do it! Let’s blow some shit up!” You poked fun at Hobie, before smiling widely. It concerned the others at how widely you smiled but brushed it off. They agreed with the idea so they must be just as crazy then. With that, buildings were blown up, forests were burnt down. It was so chaotic to the point that the game started to lag and eventually crashed, causing you all to burst out in laughter. Well, it was fun while it lasted.

I apologize for not posting yesterday, but hopefully this makes up for it! It’s longer than my normal posts. I hope you enjoy!

Send requests! Love you!

[outer-edges]

i think we need to talk more about how in daredevil s2, karen is the first person to cross the line around frank's bed in the hospital room. that taped line is small, but it's everything. it's a physical representation of the line that separates the evil (frank) from the good (everyone else). it shows the way everyone separates frank from his emotions and his humanity, it’s the black and white morals everyone else is viewing the situation through, and the way everyone sees him as a monster because of what he's done, regardless of his reasons. everyone except karen. she doesn't care about crossing the line, even when matt is pulling her back.

this can also be read as the reason why karen and matt will never work. because karen is willing to cross that line in order to find the truth, which is where justice lies in her eyes. she doesn't hold herself, or anyone else, to the same exact moral standard matt does, and matt pulling her back is the reason they would have inevitably fallen apart even without the intervention of both frank and elektra. it's important to note that he is not "holding her back" by any means because for the most part they are on the same side and neither are necessarily one hundred percent right or wrong, but they are just fundamentally incompatible because of internal values and moral codes. matt will NEVER cross that line, but karen has and is willing to do it again.

it's also why her and frank are perfectly matched for each other in a way (though, they will never work out because of the thousand and one other circumstances holding them apart, but that's a completely different set of issues) because even though frank is in the wrong for killing all those people and karen doesn't agree with his methods, shit, she understands them. she's killed people, not for the same reasons at all, but she has. she's killed, and she's willing to go to any lengths to find truth and justice, and she knows that about herself. she sees those parts of herself - the parts she may not like that much - mirrored in frank.

[hadesoftheladies]

“that’s just war” is what i keep getting told. women get raped and butchered? that’s just war. children get bombed and buried? that’s just war. when i read stories of the hamas hostages and the frustration and pain of jewish families caught up in the war, what do online politics offer? “that’s just war.” that’s just the price of resistance. when i tell my dad while watching the news on palestine “thousands more children were bombed by israeli forces this week” all he can say is “that’s just war.” if a man pointed a gun at you wouldn’t you want to have a gun, too?

were the allied soldiers better than the nazis? depends on who you ask. they bombed, raped, sabotaged the planes of women in their own army. nazis were terrible. did that make allied soldiers saints? we weep for the mass graves in 20th century concentration camps across the world. then when we grow up we learn that those black and white photos were actually grey all along. the victims had also victimized others. male prisoners could rape as the soldiers did.

“ignore war men will be men” some women say. “they’ll find a way to keep killing each other. let them have at it.” is it feminist action to bask in our own self righteousness as women? do people sleeping while sirens go off in their city have any choice other than to wake up and run? can they ignore such a thing?

where should i stand? will the white women online help me if their president ordered a siege of my country? my country’s history is riddled with blood. the resistance gave me freedom. I can walk on my own land. go to school and own a car. I can dress myself without dressing a white mistress first. I can farm for myself and not for some smelly englishman. that’s good, isn’t it? but they also killed scores of setttlers, the resistance. they raped white women and girls. slaughtered white children and dumped their bodies in pits for their husbands and fathers to find. wasn’t that bad? but wasn’t it the black kikuyu children and women that bent their backs over white fields? wasn’t it the white people who put them in camps and exacted harsh curfews. didn’t white men shove broken glass up black detainee’s private parts? which white women came to free them? didn’t they laugh at the same racist jokes as their husbands did? didn’t she smile and pour tea for him as he told her about work? didn’t she love having such a wide sprawling estate? wasn’t that bad?

“so you stand with the evil black men that raped white women just because they could? you think their rape served a purpose?” no, but— “so you stand with white women who were okay ordering your people to be shipped, slaughtered and starved?” no! these questions are like asking me which bullet i’d prefer to be shot with. the answer is i don’t want to die. i am not comforted by the rape of women or by the enslavement of my people. why would either be something i want?

what this all is, ultimately, is a question the entitled never like to hear. in regard to the oppression of women by men, blacks by whites, the indigenous by the colonial, the one question at the heart of it all is this:

who has the right to self defense?

why is the woman that killed her rapist jailed? why is the slave that killed his master himself killed? by what means and to what extent do we rule an act of violence as self-defense or something monstrous?

the answer is even more uncomfortable: to the extent that we view the aggressor as human.

it’s not an answer that really solves anything. it doesn’t change what happens in war. it won’t stop any war.

but in these scenarios, my way has been to accept that there is rarely such a thing as moral purity in a human, and for this reason, our default attitude may need to be humility, the acceptance that we can be hypocrites. that we aren’t exempt from tragedy or more special than another life. that we’re as alike as we are different, even if we may not be equally guilty of certain acts. because if we are open to the humanity and dignity of the life of others (and I do extend this to animals as well, because they have the capacity to suffer and the will to live), we are bound to be less prone to repeat the cruelties we decry.

and maybe that’s more of a solution than a neat, easy answer or a casual dismissal like “that’s just war” might be.

[elasticitymudflap]

hey I know the whole 'I did not care for winter king' thing pretty much summed it up but i'd LOVE to hear what you thought of that whole fucking episode.

IT IS SO FASCINATING TO MEEEEEEE, i mean obviously a 'role swap' universe would be regardless, but beyond the surface lies a lot of hints towards reasons why this world was so different and fucked up fundamentally!! again, my big theory is that no matter what happens our simon is not going to be able to access the crown again in any universe they visit as an extension of betty's wish, so yeah winter king's ass was probably doomed the second they set their sights on duplicating the crown but also, good , because fuck that guy

one thing that stands out to me is how our simon's morals are very different and a lot stronger than wk's, especially how he very clearly doesn't wish the madness of the crown on anyone but himself, but he can empathize with other victims of the crown. throughout the entire episode he's desperately trying to get the others to empathize with candy queen's situation as someone who knows what the madness of the crown feels like and how it warps you. but also, his approach to her is so...

like he actually vibes along to her song, compliments her "metaphor", and above all BEGS fionna and wk to see her as a person who deserves compassion, patience, and understanding... something he seemingly doesn't seem to extend to himself as ice king.

but even her madness seems somewhat suspect to him - just before her musical number he seems mystified as to why the crown's madness would make pb obsessed with him, when he knows from his reality that it's marceline that she's in love with. i'd actually argue that there is a hint of distrust towards winter king that he can't quite put into words at first, but simon's self-loathing at how "functional" his counterpart is seems to counteract his instinct and so he never pries too deeply into it.

there's this interesting reaction to pre-winter king ice king that stands out to me, almost like he's confused and doesn't recognize this specific anger and wrath to be a part of his own ice king experience. our ice king seemed to be much more of a depressed and ultimately harmless nuisance than the threatening figure he appears to be in that sequence. in fact, despite the madness, our ice king is actually quite consistent in there being a line not to cross with violence: he saves finn and jake from the hitman he accidentally hired, he refuses to kill marceline and finn when the empress commands him, he's even horrified at himself in 'I Remember You' when he pushes marceline. our ice king cares infinitely more about having friends and for people to love him and understand him than he is to actively "fix" or change himself, and in the short-circuit that is his mind he always seems to find a way to redirect his 'bad feelings' into doing something fun or impulsive than to stew in anger.

and simon isn't exactly taken in by the splendor of winter king's whole thing the way everyone else is, he doesn't stop questioning how he did it. how did he supposedly "conquer" the crown through "sheer force of will", how did he manage to get the 'best of both worlds'?

except we know it's not. and the mask-slip starts pretty ominously with his insistence that candy queen's kingdom is "forbidden". he slips up just for a moment and then returns to his whimsical wizard of oz-ass persona, and he looks almost guilty for letting on that there's something wrong here that should be avoided

which is something else i'm very fascinated by: winter king's obvious hypocrisy and the awareness of his unethical behaviour. he's quite callous in performatively pretending not to remember who betty is, and then only referring to her as "the dead one". he also seems confused by simon's heartbroken reaction to this callousness, but even more so to his characterization of her as "the great love of (his) life". he obviously has some of our simon's attachments to the past and memories of people he loved, he definitely knows and loved marceline, so why is she the only person he cares about enough to make an "ice person" of? he doesn't recall betty as someone he had a great love with - though he obviously knew who she was, so does that mean he still had some kind of relationship with her?

remember, the mere notion of finding betty so he could apologize to her literally meant so much to our simon that he was able to hide his surviving research on time portals from himself inside the ice castle, long after she would have died naturally had she even survived the mushroom war. and during the bellanoche fiasco he literally staved off death from losing his magic through sheer force of will; the intense motivation to see her kept him going in a decaying 1000 year old human body long enough for him to jump right back into his research and create a time portal to her to say goodbye. that's how much she means to him.

winter king doesn't know that betty is technically still alive, or how our simon was freed from the crown's curse. he simply offers simon a solution to reuniting with someone who he loved who is dead, without knowing how very different our betty's situation is. and that solution is to make an ice-person of that person from the time you loved them, even though you know it's "unethical".

... but betty being "dead" was always the case to our simon, he knew that she was dead because of course she was, it was hundreds of years in the future! but there was always a way back to her, and it was because of his relationship with one miss betty "ancient magic was my major" grof that he had this plan ready at his fingertips

so i think maybe either this world's simon didn't have a very strong relationship with betty, or he did but he had some reason to write her off as 'dead forever' and throw away the prospect of ever seeing her again. it's interesting that despite writing betty off, ice king's obsession with bubblegum persisted as a point of his madness and transferred to her, when even our ice king still cared a lot about "weird lady", though he didn't know who betty was.

in any case, he dismisses the subject very quickly with "jokes" that creating an ice person of someone you cared about, who died, would be unethical. and yet...

this, too, is very interesting to me. little ice marcy has marceline's actual axe bass, the axe which hunson brought with him to ooo after simon summoned him to take care of marceline when he had to leave her - marcy converted it into a bass herself of course. and the two definitely met and stayed alive together when marcy was a child

i've seen people theorize that marcy died in this memory here, but considering the presence of the axe i'm honestly not so sure. i mean, she grew up enough to gain and convert the axe to a bass, maybe she died of old age as a half-demon and never turned into a vampire? except that non-vamp marceline from farmworld seemed to still be kicking, what would an extra 12 years be to someone like her?

despite simon's pleas for fionna not to hurt candy queen and for them to help her, winter king INSISTS that she can't be helped, and that the only solution is for fionna to "knock her out", not kill her, because he would lose his conduit for the crown's madness and so this cycle will continue forever. winter king seemed committed to keeping the secret of how he "conquered" the crown, and who he hurt to manifest this reality of his, only to reveal it supposedly when simon was infected with the crown's madness again.

so why did no one stop winter king for 100 years? finn wouldn't have been born yet, but surely marceline, if she were vamped up and aware of what winter king had done, would try to stop him? but there's no sign of her in this world... save for her one possession we know she had later in her life, in the hands of an ice clone of her, frozen at a time in her life when she still loved simon unconditionally.

... i'll leave you with one VERY interesting production note steve wolfhard posted today about the blade he gave fionna, because it implies that even beyond this simon lacking some integral part of what makes him himself, the madness of the crown wasn't completely absent the way he'd thought it had been, so even in the end it wasn't a "perfect" solution to the madness.

[gyubby99]

@disneyanddisneyships Mal alter ego lore???

As far as we know.. Venice is the "What if" character of mine. What if she never encoumtered Lilly again? What it she had nothing to live for? What it the Mal we know turned into a different person? Completely?

But.. if I had gone with Venice.. what would her life in hell be like? We know Mal, she worked for Val before Aponi took over, she owns a small bar, the overlord of luck. She owns selfish greedy souls. She makes deals for the people who want things that satisfies them but will never make them truly happy. She also has a basement hideout in case of extermination.

But Venice. What do we know about HER?? Just the evil version of Mal?

I'd like to make a difference. (Ehe)

Venice. When she first got to hell as Mal, deal-making wasn't easy. She decided to use the things she was good at in her advantage. Singing and killing. So she gained power by it, inly a few, though. Owning souls by deal-making with the promise of everything they want from her. That, or hypnotizing people with her snake into selling their souls, which occurs at small bar concerts.

Then she saw the Vee's. She dreamt big. She ained for the top. So, as her talent, her fanbase, her popularity grew, it caught the eye of a certain rectangle headed demon.

She's a trickster out for chaos. Many people don't know why her songs and her in general is very addictive. The reason why is because they sold their souls, and they didn't know.

She met Vox, who snuck in her dressing room to praise her for her work.

The bitch was ready to get more power and influence with the Vee's since the leader approached her directly.

She became an overlord.. finally owning millions of souls as the years went by and the population of hell grew even more.

I think her personality is more like Velvet from Trolls 3. Exclude the "fake talent" because I think Ven is very talented. She's a greedy, selfish, fake popstar idol who only does things for applause and fame. When someone finds something out about her that she doesn't tell the public, she'll have the vee's back her up by hiding evidence of her killings.

I think my voice claim for her (and mal) fits very well because I'm looking for an "ear candy" type of voice.

As for her rs with Vox.. with Mal, it's enemies to lovers slow burn, but with Ven, it's buisness partners to friends to lovers slow-burn because although there could be chemistry, there is also distrust and manipulation going on between the two.

Idk I just feel like the "worshipping celebrities/idols" thing would fit Venice's concept very well. Like the obsessive behavior, the stalking, the fans defending their idols at everything they do wrong because they lose morals over their favorite singers.. I just feel like she'd gain souls that way.

So we have the Vee's now, who cater to everyone's obsessions/addictions.

Velvette - social media

Vox - gadgets

Val - p^rn

Venice - idolism/fame

I love villains