#somebody put the poor man out of his misery

[chenziee]

Front-Row Seat

Written for the @opmlmzine 🤍 Hakuba's gonna need a good night of wine and murder after this

Last chance to grab the zines! Store closes on July 1 🌸

Also, check out the amazing spot art done by @majoraop!!

[ READ ON AO3 | KO-FI | COMM INFO ]

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Hakuba was a simple man with simple needs. With Durandal by his side, he only needed enough humans in his hunting grounds to keep him happy.

He was a simple man with simple needs—needs which did not, however, involve bouquets of roses sprinkled with sugar ‘for better flavour’, wine, candles, snarky little notes, or oh-so-romantic walks on the beach during sunset.

Okay, maybe the wine he would accept but everything else? Absolutely not.

So why exactly was he stuck here, cursed to watch from the actual front-row seat as Cavendish prepared to go on yet another stupid ‘date’ with his idiot little boyfriend? He was sick of it. So, so very sick of it.

Literally; Hakuba felt like he was going to puke the next time the two of them kissed.

As if on cue, Cavendish reached the meeting place, the horse themed fountain in this island’s largest port city. To no one’s surprise, the annoying, ugly mess of green hair was already there, shining like a beacon and letting everyone know to steer far away from the pirate. But them, oh no, of course not.

“Cavendish! You’re three damn hours late. Again,” the pirate, Melonomeo—or something like that—hissed the moment he noticed Cavendish strutting towards him.

Cavendish sighed dramatically, tossing his long, voluminous hair over his shoulder. “I keep telling you that beauty can’t be rushed, Bartolomeo.” So that was his name. Close enough.

Bartolomeo rolled his eyes. “Yeah yeah, your favourite excuse, I know.”

Huffing, Cavendish looked away—seemingly in offence… but Hakuba knew it was to hide his embarrassment. After all, he did spend two absolutely agonising hours picking an outfit and then another two hours doing his hair. To be ‘his most beautiful yet’. 

The giddy lovesick fretting was downright sickening and Hakuba would have jumped out the window of the captain’s cabin if he could have.

And here he thought Cavendish with his beauty and popularity obsession was bad before. Now, Hakuba would give anything to go back to the days when Cavendish’s delusions were the only thing he worried about. Since meeting this guy… it was all about what he might think or say. Not all the time—or even most of the time—, of course, but on days like this one, it was like no one else’s opinion mattered.

As if Bartolomeo was capable of higher thought or cared about his or anyone else’s appearance, as proven by the absolutely godawful pants and the ugly Straw Hat pin on his coat.

Suddenly, warm fingers wrapped around Cavendish’s wrist, making Hakuba hiss like an angry cat. 

“It’s a damn good thing I know your slow ass and booked a table for four hours later than you said,” Bartolomeo announced with a smug smirk before pulling on Cavendish’s hand, forcing him to a walk. “Come on, Cabbage, we’re gonna be late ‘cause of you.”

“Don’t pull me, you brute!” Cavendish scoffed… but frustratingly made no effort to break free of his hold.

“What, should I offer you an arm like you’re a damn princess or something?” Bratolomeo threw a look at Cavendish over his shoulder, his eyebrow raised in a mocking fashion.

This little shit.

Hakuba knew the look wasn’t aimed at him but oh, how he was going to enjoy dicing this guy into little pieces… eventually. For sure. He’d get an opportunity any day now.

Not for the first time, Hakuba cursed the way these two met. Why did that trip to Dressrosa have to deteriorate into a bloody war? If they just met casually over coffee or something, Hakuba could have had killed him the first night but as it was… Bartolomeo was all too aware of Hakuba waiting for the first opportunity to take control of their body. Going so far as to have his underlings tie him up in sea prism stone chains.

The humiliation.

Oh, revenge would be sweet.

Cavendish clicked his tongue, dragging Hakuba back to the harsh reality. “Most people would thank me for gracing them with my dazzling presence, you know,” Cavendish said with slight annoyance.

“Yeah, well, you’re stuck with me. Sucks to be you, I guess,” Bartolomeo retorted without missing a beat, that irritating smirk back on his face. Showing off his stupid fangs and all.

A beat of silence passed… before Cavendish burst out laughing of all things.

Seemingly just as confused by the reaction as Hakuba, Bartolomeo stopped in his tracks before letting go of Cavendish's wrist so he could turn to look at him. A frown on his face, he tilted his head to the side questioningly like a dog. “What’s up with you?” 

“You’re impossible,” Cavendish let out in between chuckles as he shook his head.

“At least I’m not insane, unlike you,” Bartolomeo said slowly, confusion still apparent in his voice.

“Sure, sure.” Cavendish waved his hand dismissively before he stepped forward again, easily passing by Bartolomeo. “Come on, stop holding us up! We can’t keep my fans at the restaurant waiting.”

“It’s a reservation, not a fanmeet! Also who’s the one—argh!” Bartolomeo stopped himself with a frustrated shout. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath… before burying his hands in his hair and ruffling it roughly, muttering to himself something about ‘annoying princes’ and ‘why the fuck do I suffer this’.

Honestly, Hakuba had to ask the same question—both to Bartolomeo… and to himself.

—————

The day seemed almost never-ending.

By the time Cavendish and Bartolomeo finally finished eating—with candles, to Hakuba’s horror—and left the restaurant, Hakuba was already at his bloody limit. Seriously, there was only so much leg touching and badly disguised, terrible flirting that he was physically capable of witnessing before he needed to murder a person or twenty.

It wasn’t fair. Why was Cavendish the one in control most of the time? And why did Hakuba have to be conscious while he was at it while Cavendish got to sleep while Hakuba had his fun?

What did Hakuba ever do to anyone to deserve this treatment?

Unfortunately for him… the dinner date wasn’t the end of it. Of course it wasn’t. That would be letting Hakuba off too easy.

To be fair, it could have been a lot worse—when they passed through a street that was so full of hotels if felt more like a Red Light District, he honestly feared the absolute worst—but even just the handholding and bickering while Bartolomeo saw Cavendish to the Sleeping White Horse of the Forest was about enough for Hakuba.

“—so then I replaced Red Hair’s flag with Luffy-senpai’s and handed out our Straw Hat Boxes to people. Soon, everyone will know just how awesome the Straw Hats are,” Bartolomeo rambled on, waving his free hand around and clenching his fist in adoration for his idol.

Cavendish, who had only been humming noncommittally the whole time, blinked, turning his head to stare at his companion blankly for a moment. “‘Straw Hat Boxes’?” he repeated.

“Yeah! You want one? I always carry a few on me, hang on.” He started fumbling with his bag, obviously searching for the box in question.

“Absolutely not!” Cavendish refused immediately. “I’m just astonished you successfully came up with a name that managed to take something ugly and terrible and make it something even uglier and more terrible.”

“Are you insulting Luffy-senpai?!” Bartolomeo bared his teeth as he demanded an answer.

No, he’s insulting your stupid ass, Hakuba thought to himself.

“No, I’m insulting you,” Cavendish said at the same time.

Well, there was at least something they could agree on.

At that, Bartolomeo… nodded. “Oh, okay. That’s—” he paused for a second, before the words finally clicked in his empty head. “Man, you are such a bitch.”

“A beautiful person others admire so much it makes them hate themselves? Why, yes, I am that indeed.” 

“No,” the green-haired caveman retorted immediately, giving Cavendish a look.

Cavendish only laughed conceitedly, dismissing the denial as jealousy, and Hakuba honestly wasn’t sure if his other half was really that dumb or if he was just deflecting. Not that it mattered that much to him. The only thing that did matter to him was the ship, which was now finally within reach. Very soon, he would be free from this… cutesy hell.

Hopefully, without lasting mental damage.

Hakuba barely finished the thought when the two lovers stopped to say goodbye. With Cavendish getting on his tiptoes, pulling Bartolomeo closer.

If he could, Hakuba would be smashing his head against the nearest wall but as it was… he could do nothing but watch helplessly as the inevitable happened.

The moment their lips met, butterflies began to flutter in Cavendish’s stomach, warmth gathering in his chest. The kiss was so soft and impossibly sweet… It made even the deepest parts of Hakuba’s entire being shudder.

It was in that moment that Hakuba decided. The next time he was in control, he would be killing Bartolomeo first.

And then… then he was killing Cavendish.

[not-freyja]

For the director's cut, I would love to hear more about Legend's thought process and motivations once he met Hyrule in Adjuration! 🥰

Thank you for an actual scene selection everyone else had me pulling out a random number generator. Fucks sake. Love you guys. Also sorry this took like… a month, writing is hard.

This is going to be long. And though it might be analysis for chapter two, it will contain spoilers for the whole story.

Key: [quoted text in brackets] my analysis out if brackets.

[Time to deal with the strange Hylian. The same strange Hylian who came out of a now-vanished portal that also spat out a monster.

Link did not get this far in life by being the trusting sort.] Okay this sets the tone. Legend is immediately suspicious. He knows something fucky just happened, and that this person is involved.

[“So…” he says to the figure now sitting up on the ground. “Who the hell are you?”

There’s a faint mumble from the Hylain shaped pile of dirt at his feet.

Link sighs. “You need to speak up a bit.”

“I’m…” the kid's voice is raspy, as if he hasn’t used it in a while. He coughs, trying again. It’s a bit better this time.] Crying in Rulie-loving sorrow. This boy has such a hard life. I wanted to make sure the readers understood that without rubbing it in. I also wanted to make it clear that Legend was noticing these things. [“I’m no one. Just a traveler.”] Nick name establishment. Also secret world-building. I have so many thoughts about the world-building of each of their eras. And I was holding myself back chomping at the bit not to pull a Tolkien and overshare.

[“Bullshit.”

The kid’s eyes go wide. “No, really!” There’s an almost raw edge of panic to his voice now, and Link almost feels bad. “I’m not anybody important, I’m just passing through. I’ll be on my way now, thank you for the help.] They have known each other for about two minutes and Legend is already aware of a few things. This kid is involved with some kind of Dark Magic, he’s on the run, and he does not want to reveal his identity. This is ringing some trauma bells for Leggy. He is seeing himself, and he is getting sympathetic.

[And before Link can so much as laugh at such a pathetic attempt at a lie (and it is a lie, he’s been on enough quests to be able to tell a nobody from a somebody) the traveler scrambles to his feet.] Little meta joke here. We the player, we the reader can tell an NPC from a main character. Legend, who thinks in meta terms, can too.

[The thing is, Link is retired. He’s put in the work, done his time. He’s spilled enough blood and lost enough of his life to goddesses and princesses and lost wayward souls that this is the point in the story where he wants to take the guy at his word.] So… Link. Not Legend. Link. He is so tired, and so done. Its been four lifetimes of misery and he is done, thank you. [Link wants to shrug, turn around, and continue on his way home. He wants to turn and run through the woods, back to his house and slide the bolt in the door and have Ravio tell anyone who comes calling that the hero] This is the only time that Legend thinks of “hero” in the general lowercase noun and not “Hero” as a proper noun. Why? Well because a hero would do such a thing as to hide from a quest. A Hero would not. [is not home because he is not going to be answering any more calls to greatness. There will not be one more quest.] oh buddy. *sobs* Rulie’s “got one more in me” later down the road as the direct foil to this thought. Rulie’s death is the catalyst for the rest of Legend’s character arc, like his entrance into Legend’s life is the catalyst for the plot.

[He’s retired, by the Three.] Yeah man keep telling yourself that.

[But right before he can do just what it is he wants, the stranger goes to leave first. And the poor thing takes one step, yelps like a kicked dog, and crumples back to the forest floor.

“Fuck.” Link can’t help the curse] The sympathy is now at a boiling point. Legend cannot help but care. Cannot help but try to help. [and he strides forward, towards the kid, away from home.] OKAY so the “away from home” bit is both directionally in the scene and narratively in the plot. [It’s only a few steps, but it’s the wrong way, and Link has done this enough times by now to know that it really is those first few steps that count.

Those are the ones that you can’t take back. The ones that all the rest come after.

Link takes them anyway.] I can’t even start with this part. The repeated theme of Legend “going the wrong way” of him doing the dangerothing anyway, despite his well-earned survival instincts. I… listen, Legend was suicidal. From day one. He knows he can’t undo this. He knows that another quest will probably get him killed. He does it anyway.

[“Hey, easy there,” he all but whispers, dropping to his knees next to the filthy kid. “I’m not going to hurt you, okay, Traveler?”

Big eyes stare up at him. They are full of fear and distrust, and a painful glint of hope. “Okay.”

“Okay.” Link sighs, takes another deep breath. “Is it your leg?”

That gets a weird combination of a nod and a shrug. “Ankle, actually.” The kid smiles at him. And it really is a nice smile, soft, and a bit shy. “I got my foot twisted under a tree root.”

He can’t help but wince because, yeah, been there. “Well that’s not too bad then.” Link grins. “A brace, a red potion, and a few days rest, and you’ll be good as new.”

The traveler nods, some of the stress seeming to bleed out of his shoulders. “That’s what I thought too. Thanks.” He pauses, gulps before continuing. “Thank you for handling the moblin for me. I… I’m not at my best right now.”] This whole section is about deepening the sympathy. He is looking at Rulie amd seeing his younger self (I have Rulie at 16 and Legend at 20) and he just wants to help. (Time: “Let me help.”)

[“No need to thank me.” Link’s smile, previously genuine, turns bitter. “That’s what heroes do.”

Just as he was starting to loosen up, the stranger tenses again, every muscle going taut as a bowstring.] So they have different reasons for the same action (getting tense). Legend is a ball of angst. Hyrule is afraid if being recognized.

[“You alright?”

“...What do you mean ‘hero?’”

And that tone of voice right there? Suspicious and untrusting? Waiting for the other shoe to drop? Link knows that tone of voice. He uses that tone of voice on the daily. He loves that tone of voice. But only when it’s coming from him. Out of another mouth, it just sounds sad.] Here Legend is an inch away from self awareness. So close. But more importantly, his recognition if the self in Rulie is getting even stronger. Every moment is another moment that they are more alike in Legend’s eyes.

[But hey, in for a green rupee, in for a gold.] LOL.

[“That would be me,” he says with his most winning smile. “Link, Hero of Legend, savior of Hyrule, chosen by the Goddess… you get the gist.”] Here I have Legend give the titles of three out of five Heroes that Link will be. Chosen, Legend, and Hyrule. This was foreshadowing no one noticed because why the fuck would you? What I did to this boy was unhinged no one saw that coming.

[And the kid just stares.

And stares.

And stares some more.] Me too buddy. Legend is so pretty.

[This is getting ridiculous. Link shakes his head. “Listen, I’m not really in the market for any missions, or quests, divine or otherwise. Firmly out of the whole kingdom-saving business. And the princess-saving gig as well. So why don’t you just tell me where you’re heading, and I’ll make sure you get to the nearest town in the right direction in one piece and we’ll call it even?”] Last attempt to avoid the situation, and he is still trying to help. What a dumb bitch.

[Those deep green eyes staring up at him suddenly roll back, and the boy goes limp.] Baby boy! Also the green here. Yes it is Rulie’s eye color. But it os also Ravio’s eye color, and every single detail Legend notices about this kid gets him more attached.

[“Well, shit.” Link grumbles, running a hand through his hair. What could have been an hour-long detour on his day is now a problem with a capital P. Because as much as he might want to, Link isn’t actually capable of abandoning some poor homeless-looking teenager in the middle of the woods. Especially not one who fainted at the sound of Link’s name.

That thought makes Link pause. Did he faint? A monster was chasing him, it could be blood loss. It could be more than just his ankle.] Standard worrying here. He feels responsible for this kid now.

[He reaches out tentatively with a small brush of magic and almost sighs in relief.] OKAY BIG MISTAKE. Rulie is the Triforce. Legend loves the Triforce. And the Triforce loves Legend. They magically harmonized here. Imprinted. Zinged. From this moment on they were both attached. [The issue is clear now. There’s an empty well where the kid’s natural magic should be, almost drained but nowhere near dangerously so. The fainting wasn’t about Link at all, it was the adrenaline fading off and the strain the poor kid’s body was under finally catching him.

The memory of that strange portal flares in his mind. That incident coupled with this guy being certifiably drained of magic after falling through makes Link realize a couple of things real quick.] Smart Leggy. Good Leggy.

[First, this kid probably made that portal. Second, he came through it as a last-ditch resort. He was running from something, or someone. Third, this poor Hylian has a lot of magic at his disposal (not only did he make a stable portal but he and a moblin went through it before it collapsed), magic that still pushes out in a wave, nauseatingly strong despite its low levels.] Bitch that’s the fucking Triforce.

[Link is almost afraid to learn how much the kid will have after he recharges.] Again, the Triforce.

Now to fast forward about three paragraphs, because while I like those paragraphs very much they can be entirely summarized as: Legend is so suicidal. How did none of you notice?

[One arm slides under bony knees, the other behind the prone Hylian’s back. Nayru’s tears, he won’t even need a power bracelet for this, he’s so thin.] So… I’m not crying, you’re crying. Their first moment together perfectly mirrors their last, and that is fine, that is so fine. Nothing is wrong here, I am okay.

[The Hero rises, an unconscious stranger held delicately in his arms.] Here we go. The pivot to Hero as a proper noun. The acceptance of the call. The attachment is personal and magical, and our journey begins with Legend carrying Rulie to safety, when he knows it will kill him. (And kind of hoping that it does.)

…this is a loop. The beginning is the end.

[gasolinerainbowpuddles]

Beneath a Waning Moon║ ⒸⓄⓁⓁⒺⒸⓉⒾⓄⓃⓈ

| BENEATH A WANING MOON | part of the A Savage Place collection ║ series masterlist ║ main masterlist ║

| PAIRING(s): sub!Joel Miller x dom!fem!OC | RATING: explicit material | 18+ | WORD COUNT: 7k | CONTENT: typical canon violence, exploration of power dynamics, submissive and domination practices, dirty talk, rewards and punishments, Joel learns to be a good boy

| SYNOPSIS: You’re patrol partners with Joel, and that’s where you first noticed just how tightly wound the man is. His unrelenting need to be in control of any given situation or interaction is more irritating than anything. That is, until it actually becomes dangerous during one fateful patrol shift together.

Jesus Christ you think to yourself. This man is so tightly wound it’s a wonder he hasn’t spontaneously combusted yet.

“Don’t exactly have a world-class dentistry outfit in Jackson, Joel,” you mutter.

Your ever snippy and disagreeable patrol partner whips his head around to meet you with narrowed eyes. Your comment is the first thing to break the silence in almost an hour. It would’ve been a peaceful quiet, too, if it weren’t for Joel’s nonstop teeth grinding. His jaw muscles were working his teeth so feverishly he would only have smooth, rounded nubs left in their place soon enough.

“The fuck you on about now?” he gripes.

Charming, as always.

“Might wanna cool it on gnawing your fucking teeth. You’re grinding your jaw so fucking loud, Miller. I know you have to have a headache. When you crack one of those puppies there isn’t gonna be much to do for you except take you out back and put you outta your misery,” you drawl.

You turn your attention back out the window of the small patrol station that once upon a time was a hunting blind box for Jackson resort-goers. The recreational function of it had long passed. No deer or duck hunting here. Just hunting clickers or tracking raiders, or any of the other millions of threats that presented themselves to the safety of Jackson.

Maybe that’s what had Joel worked up all the time. It was hard to say. He was never an easygoing person, but you’d think getting a good night’s rest, on a comfortable mattress, inside a heated house, inside a walled off city would be enough to get him to relax a little. No such luck. He only seemed to get worse the longer you knew him. 

It was your fourth month of being his patrol partner. You had almost laughed when Tommy approached you to take up the task after all of Joel’s other assigned partners had asked to be grouped with somebody else.

Turns out Joel had quite the nasty streak that didn’t take much to get directed at whatever poor bastard had said the wrong thing or breathed the wrong way or moved too abruptly. You weren’t afraid of some giant manbaby, and Tommy seemed at his wit’s end. So, you agreed to the pairing.

“Yeah, I gotta fuckin’ headache alright. Sittin’ right next to it,” Joel snaps in a huff.

You smirk at the unsurprising retort. Should’ve seen it coming.

“Set myself up for that one,” you chuckle lowly.

Joel only offers a derisive exhale through his nose at you and settles back into his cranky silence.

You were nearing the end of your shift, and boredom had set in. You decide to pass the rest of the time by getting on Joel’s nerves. You were good at it, too. His acrid demeanor didn’t faze you one bit, and that only seemed to annoy him more. His usual tricks that sent just about everybody else running for the hills wasn’t going to cut it with you. He’d have to try a lot harder if he wanted to ruffle your feathers.

Plus, there was something about him that made you want to break him down and see what was inside. He had a hell of a guard up, you’d give him that much.

“You think Ellie likes you enough to spoonfeed you applesauce once you grind your teeth to marbles and can’t handle solids?” you ask with an airy, casual tone.

“Shut–the fuck–up,” Joel grunts.

“Hm, I’ll take that as a no. I might be up for it, but only if you ask real nice,” you needle.

“Can’t believe you’re this much of a pain in the ass, but I’m the one who scares everybody off,” he huffs with an annoyed shake of his head.

You let out a genuine laugh at that, and Joel rolls his eyes.

“Imagine if you hadn’t been such a nasty grouch to any and everybody that was assigned to you before me. You could be up here with Phillip right now instead,” you chortle.

“Sounds fuckin’ worse, somehow. I hated bein’ assigned with him. God, he’s such a little fuckin’ bitch,” he snorts. 

“He is. He really is,” you laugh in amused agreement.

You settle back into a comfortable silence now that Joel is aware of his teeth grinding and has stopped. For now. He’d be right back to it and whatever other shitty coping mechanisms he had to work out his stress. Although it sometimes made for an irritating shift, Joel’s high strung disposition presented a greater risk. It was inevitable that it would get in the way of his ability to keep a level head during patrol, maybe even making a grave mistake. It was bound to happen sooner or later. Turns out, it was the former. As in, right after you both called it a day and climbed down from the lookout.

You and Joel rounded the corner to the small alcove where your horses were tethered. You stopped Joel in his tracks when you noticed muddy footprints leading to and from the spot. They weren’t yours or Joel’s, and they were fresh. You were both immediately on guard, weapons raised. You and Joel wordlessly went back to back as you started to scan the area for the owner of the footprints.

Before you could determine their location, a lone raider jumped out and kicked Joel’s knees out from under him. It was a flurry of scrambling and shouting after that. The raider had correctly determined the biggest threat as Joel, but he’d incorrectly calculated just how much of a threat you were. You unsheathed your knife with stealth accuracy, but the raider had a foot over you and at least 70 pounds. You only got a single jab into his side before he knocked the weapon out of your hand. “JOEL!” you yell, wildly searching for where the hell your backup was.

Your single stab on the raider had at least been straight into his gut where a number of vital organs were. He swung on you, but his stilted movements allowed you to dodge it quickly. You yank a serrated blade from your bootstrap and drive it into his calf. He shrieked in anger and pain, and you locked his neck into your elbow when he dipped down from the impact of his injury. You apply as much pressure as you can around his neck to cut off bloodflow and hopefully force him to lose consciousness. He struggled against your headlock, and one forceful buck from him made your balance teeter.

A loud whistling sound whizzed by your ear, startling you enough to lose your grip entirely and fly backwards to the ground. When you look up again, Joel is driving your serrated blade into the raider’s skull repeatedly. You scramble up from the ground and pull for Joel to get on his horse. You needed to get the hell out of there. Raiders weren’t lone creatures, and you had no doubt there were others nearby.

Joel wore a shocked expression when he turned to see you above him. He stared back at you like he’d seen a ghost. Like you being in front of him and snapping at him to leave it and go didn’t make sense somehow. The ride back to Jackson was a blur, and you didn’t have time to process what the look meant until after you and Joel gave Tommy the full rundown of events.

With a new group of patrollers gearing up and heading out to assess the area you and Joel had just left, Tommy sent you both on your way to head home and get rest.

Joel was acting almost shy, and that more than anything was what made it click. You dragged Joel into the stables away from prying eyes and ears. His remorseful expression confirmed what you already knew.

“You almost fucking killed me. You fucking idiot. You really almost KILLED ME,” you snap, shoving at Joel angrily.

“I had him in range, but then you moved. It was stupid, I know. I fuckin’ know it was stupid. I wasn’t thinkin’. I’m … fuck, I’m sorry, alright?” he bit out.

“Oh, you’re sorry? You’re sorry for almost shooting me in the fucking head? Sorry because you can’t aim for shit and missed the goddamn raider that was trying to murder me?” you bark. “You almost cost me my life, Joel!”

He rubbed the heels of his hands into his eyes and sighed. “I-I .. fuck, I know. FUCK.”

“You being trigger-happy almost cost me my life.” The statement had started out acidic but ended in a strangled whisper as the reality of how close you had come to dying sunk in. Joel’s high-strung, jumpy inclinations had almost been the end of you.

“Hey, I-I’m sorry…” his voice trailed. It was the softest you had ever heard him. When you looked up at him, his eyes were misted over. It was enough to make your decision of what needed to happen next an easy one.

“You’re coming with me. Now. To my house. No fucking questions,” you growl. You ignore the confused look he gives you and march off. You hear his footsteps behind you because of course he’s not going to argue when he almost killed you today. Whatever you had in mind was clearly warranted after his almost fatal error.

You stomped all the way to your house, angry and sad at what almost happened. You felt that familiar creep in your chest, the one where you needed to be in control for a little while. Be in control of a situation after feeling so helpless. And Joel? Joel needed to decompress. Immediately. Before his clouded mind and judgment actually did cause something horrific to happen.

You lock your front door to your single story home once you both make it inside, and you waste no time in laying the groundwork.

“Here’s how this is gonna go, Joel. You’re gonna do what I say, when I say it. Your pent up bullshit almost got me killed, and you need to fucking let go of it,” you instruct in a dangerously low tone.

Joel raised an eyebrow but didn’t argue. “Alright. I, uh, I know you’re right. I’m in my fuckin’ head. I know I am. I didn’t think it’d end up … I didn’t think it’d get that far.”

He cast his eyes downward and rubbed the back of his neck. He was genuinely remorseful, but that wasn’t going to cover his transgressions.

“Get naked and get on the bed,” you order. You start removing your shoes and jacket but pause when Joel hasn't moved.

“M’sorry, what the fuck did you just say?” he gasps with an incredulous laugh.

“You fucking heard me, and unless you want to make it worse for yourself I suggest you do as your told,” you shoot back coldly.

Joel looked bewildered and concerned. “You havin’ a fuckin’ mental break or somethin’?”

“You just added five onto your total,” you reply coolly, not bothering to look his way as you undo your shoelaces.

“Huh? Five? Five what?” he asks with a shake of his head. “Did you hit your fuckin’ head on the ground or somethin’?”

When you turn to him with a stern glare, he decides it’s probably not worth it to ask again and starts off towards your bedroom just visible through the living room. You are down to your bra and panties when you make your way to your bedroom. Joel is laying on your sheets completely stripped down, looking uncertain but curious.

“This is the fuckin’ weirdest way somebody’s asked to fuck me,” he admits with a hesitant chuckle.

You chuckle back, but it lacks the warmth and levity of his. “Oh, Joel. That’s not what’s going on here. I need you to pick a word, by the way.”

“It’s not? What? Why the fuck am I naked then? And what’d’ya mean ‘pick a word’?” He was starting to sound irritated, as if he had any right after what he did today.

When you make quick work of crawling across the bed and hovering over him in a straddle position, he loses the next remark on the tip of his tongue.

“Word. Now,” you command.

“I don’t fuckin’ know. Any word? Uh - christ, I dunno,” he falters. He’s rounding back to bewilderment.

“How about ‘trigger-happy’?” you suggest pointedly. Joel swallows, back to being remorseful, and nods.

“So if you need to stop, that’s what you’re going to say. Understand?”

“If I need to stop? Stop what?” he asks, somehow careening right back into confusion.

“Anything that you don’t want to happen. You’ll say ‘trigger-happy’, and whatever is happening will stop,” you explain calmly.

“Uh, alright?”

“I need to hear you say it, Joel. I need to know you understand,” you prod.

You get why Joel is confused as to what it is that he’d have to ask you to stop. He’s bigger than you. He’s stronger than you. He could overpower you easily. There’s not really a scenario where he’d be at a disadvantage. All things considered, it makes a lot more sense that  you’d be the one who should be picking a safe word to use if you wanted him to stop something.

“Alright. I understand. Say ‘trigger-happy’ and whatever’s goin’ on will stop,” he repeats dutifully.

“Good boy,” you say with a small smile. Joel’s eyebrows pinch together, but you can see your words had the intended effect when you feel his cock twitch under your thigh.

“Now, your smart mouth earned you an additional five, isn’t that right?” you ask.

“Yeah, whatever the fuck that’s supp-”

“You will answer my question with respect, and you do not speak unless I tell you to. Now say ‘yes, ma’am’ and behave,” you growl.

“This is … jesus, alright. Okay. Yes, ma’am, it was five more,” he drones.

His Southern twang added a sweet little twist to the words, and the sound of it shot straight into your panties.

You trail your hands down his chest and you lift yourself away from him. He hums in response to your touch, and you finally take a moment to appreciate his naked form. A hot thrill spreads in between your thighs when your gaze settles on his half-hard cock. It’s already a delicious length, and the circumference makes the ache in your pussy even worse.

“Like what you see, huh?” Joel chuckles when he catches you staring.

Without missing a beat, you snap your eyes up to his through your brows and inform him he’s added another three to his total for mouthing off. He smirks but doesn’t say anything else.

“On your belly,” you command. 

Joel obliges with a nonchalant roll, clearly enjoying what he thinks is nothing more than a strange response to a near-death experience on your part. He’s cooperative with your apparent power trip and need for release.

His bare ass is nicely rounded with decent musculature, but you can see it’s soft enough that your teeth would sink right into the flesh and leave beautiful little marks. However, you have to hold off on that for now as there are more pressing issues at hand.

“You are going to count all EIGHTEEN out loud. If you don’t, they won’t go towards your total. Understand?”

Joel’s head is resting lazily to the side atop his folded arms. “Yes, ma’am. Count ‘em out. Got it,” he hums, almost sounding bored at whatever this strange form of foreplay is that you’re clearly into.

Your smile grows devious as you draw your arm back and strike the tender flesh of his backside. Joel jumps and lets out a noise of disbelief and annoyance.

“What the fuck?!” he snaps.

When you land another slap onto the already reddening patch, he jerks again. “Shame none of these count towards your total. Disobedience gets you nowhere, baby boy.”

“Agh, two! TWO! What the fuck is this sh-”

“No. Not two. You didn’t count them. You have to listen to what I tell you to do, and then do it. So shut the fuck up and count. You’ve got a long way to go.” You cock your head to the side as if you’re daring him to act defiant.

Joel grumbles but repositions himself. You peek a tinge of pink across his chest, neck, and cheeks before he settles back down. The sight of it makes your thighs rub together without thought.

“Now, let’s try this again and see if you can be a good boy,” you say softly. A small choking noise catches in the back of his throat. Fuck. You were going to have to concentrate harder if he was going to start making sounds like that.

You land another swat across his backside and savor the way his skin prickles up in goosebumps.

“One.” His grunt was audible, but his enthusiasm and deference weren’t quite where you wanted them. Another seventeen swats should help get him there. You swat him a second and third time and watch how his thighs constrict and bunch together.

“Tell me how that feels,” you instruct.

Joel shifts and makes a feigned dissenting noise, but you need more than that for this dynamic to work like it should. You crawl back onto the bed and straddle one of his thighs. He makes a much less ambiguous noise when your damp panties meet his bare skin. You smooth a hand over the irritated splotches on his backside. His body relaxes under the palliative motion. A small sigh slips from his mouth.

“Joel, tell me. How does it make you feel when I’m giving you your punishment?” you ask.

He turns his head slightly to look over his shoulder at you. “Dunno.” His eyes flutter for a moment when you start squeezing his smarted flesh.

“Do you want me to stop?” The corner of your lip twitches up when his body tenses at the suggestion.

“No. Not when you’re gettin’ that fuckin’ wet from it,” he snorts.

You smile a little and crawl forward until you’re on all fours above his back. You sink down until your chest is flush with his back.

“You like doing a good job for me?” you purl.

Joel rolls his eyes and grins away from you.

“Mmmm, I like that. I like how you wanna do a good job for me. You do, don’t you?” you prod.

“Hmmpphhh, s’pose I do,” he agrees quietly.

“And that’s what makes you my special boy, Joel,” you coo. His eyes flicker to you with an expression like he’d been found out. Like he wasn’t sure how you were able to have this sort of effect on him all the while him not even being aware of this side to himself. This need. This empty space that you knew about before he did. This empty space that you knew just how to find and fill. This empty space he was now dying for you to take from him and pour yourself into it so he could be whole again.

You had many a time suspected it was in him, somewhere buried deep, but to see it confirmed by the source himself made you all the more resolute to tap into it and show him what else was there.

You smile warmly at him, earnest in the affection it holds. You nuzzle your noses together in a few passes and let him press a small kiss against your lips before sitting up again.

“This is how it works, Joel. You do a good job for me, and you get rewarded.” You emphasize the concept by gently scratching his scalp. He groans contentedly. “But if you fuck up, that’s when I have to punish you,” you add, grabbing a fistful of his hair where you’d just been tenderly minding him.

Joel winced at the pull, but you didn’t miss the pleasured hitch in his breath.

“So are you ready to get back to your punishment, Joel? So that you can try to do a good enough job that I can reward you?” You roll your hips against the small of his back and are amused when he involuntarily raises his hips to meet your movement.

“Yes. M’ready,” he grunts.

“Good. Because I like it when you’re a good enough boy that I can reward you,” you muse. The muscles in his broad back swell and contract with a deep pull of air. He was finally starting to give in a little to the blissful feeling of letting go.

You slink back down to your previous stance, rubbing one more soothing circle against his ass with your open hand.

“Remember to count, baby.” 

With that, you resume doling out the punishment Joel had earned himself. Again and again you leave your mark against his tender skin. Your own hand was beginning to tingle from the impact, but the stinging on your palm only made your cunt clench tighter around nothing.

“NGghhh. Goddammit. Seven. FUCK.”

You want to lick the sheen of sweat that was starting to glisten across his back, but you contain yourself. You scoot up to straddle him and lean close to his ear.

“You’re doing so well, baby. Being such a good boy for me. Think I wanna show you what being a good boy gets you, before we work our way to eighteen. What’dya think? Want me to show you?” you murmur into his ear.

He pauses for a moment, groaning slightly in thought and arousal, before nodding.

“I know it’s your first time, so I’m gonna be nice and remind you to use your words.”

Joel swallows deeply. “Yes, ma’am. Wan’you to show me. Please.”

“Ooohh, yes, I like it when you use your manners,” you breathe into his ear.

You trail a hand down to his thigh and nudge him to bend and extend his leg out to the side. The angle lifts his hips slightly off the bed and sideways, and when you sit up behind him you can see his weeping cock, stiff and red at the tip.

“Makin’ a mess, baby,” you tease. You spit into your hand and wrap your fingers gently around his base. He groans at the contact, hips jerking involuntarily. 

“Now now, don’t get jumpy. Too much of that today already,” you warn.

Joel stills at your words but looks down where your hand wraps around his length. You lean your chest against his side and back as you talk into his ear again.

“Doin’ so good for me, baby. Knew you could listen.” You slowly drag your fist along his length in steady passes, placing little appreciative kisses on the back of his neck.

The whimper of a sigh he lets out is almost heart-wrenching in its surrender. You realize just how badly he needed this. Not just the release, but handing himself over to someone else and letting them make the decisions. Letting go. Letting himself fall into you, trusting you with it. You swallow back a lump threatening to form in your throat at the thought of it.

“Good boy. Such a good boy for me,” you praise, working him faster.

When he chokes out a needy moan, it makes you want to forget about the rest of his 18 and ride him right then and there. “You sound so good for me. Singing out for me. You like how you get rewarded, huh? For being good for me? I’ll take care of you, baby. You’re safe with me. You just have to let go and give yourself to me, baby. I’ve got you.”

Joel lets out a little strangled whimper, and you have to work to collect yourself.

“Tell me how pretty your cock looks with my hand on it.”

“Ahff-fuck. It’s-god-yes, i-it’s pretty,” he rasps.

“Words,” you scold with a gentle slap to his balls. He jerks backwards with a hiss before rolling his hips forward again, his chest rumbling with a groan.

“My fuckin’ cock looks pretty with your hands on it,” he grits.

“Now was that so hard to do?” you tut. “All you have to do is listen and obey.”

You slowly massage his balls for a moment before getting things back on track.

“Think that’s enough for now,” you whisper, letting him drop from your hold. Joel’s annoyed grunt makes you smile and is amusing enough that you won’t punish him for it. Not this time, at least. “On your back, all the way.”

Joel rolls onto his back and shows a small twinge of discomfort in his expression when his tender backside meets the sheets. 

“Sore already, baby? We haven’t even made it halfway to eighteen,” you taunt.

His tongue darts across his lower lip hungrily. He’s closer to where you want him now. You eye the dribbles of precome trickling from his tip. His cock is standing at attention, desperate for any sort of contact.

“Open your mouth.”

When Joel doesn’t follow your command, your temple twitches in irritation. 

“Is this gonna be a fuckin’ problem, Joel?” you snap.

You grab roughly at his length, sinking your nails into the sensitive flesh just enough to leave crescent marks.

Joel emits a whinging groan and levels an annoyed glare at you. His breaths are coming in heaves. You give him a moment - it was his first time, after all - and eventually his stony scowl wanes into a yielding frown.

He barely opens his mouth. You tsk tsk with a derisive laugh at his lackluster effort. 

“Tongue OUT.” You cock your head sideways for emphasis.

His eyes narrow slightly, but he juts his tongue out, flat and wide. Heat pools in your lower belly at the thought of all the ways it could be put to use.

You had to touch it. See how it felt. Get a better idea of how it would feel running up and down your folds and tonguing your asshole. You snake your pointer finger into his mouth and rub it back and forth against his tongue. You scissor your index and middle fingers underneath it, enjoying the way his mouth looks wide open for you to use however you see fit.

“Suck.”

Joel closes his lips around your two digits and keeps his eyes locked on yours. You pull away from his mouth and admire the covering of slobber he’s worked up. You run the wet digits along the underside of his cock. It jumps at your merciful touch. Joel fists the sheets on either side of him.

“There’s just something about the way you get so pathetic for me that makes me so fucking wet,” you moan.

Joel’s throat bobs with a swallow. It’s as if he thinks making any move too quickly will snip the wrong wire and detonate all his restraint. 

“I didn’t tell you that you could close that pretty mouth,” you warn. It falls back open, tongue out and waiting for you to use.

“Good boy,” you praise with a smile.  

You lean forward with a soft touch grazing his chest. His eyes flutter at the sensation. You stroke him once without warning, just to see his body snap up to attention. His mouth is opened wide, and you curl your fingers into a tight grasp around his chin before spitting in his mouth.

“Swallow.”

Joel’s cock twitched. He obliged to your request.

“Mmmmhhhmmmmm, you like that, huh, baby? Like when I treat you that way?”

Joel didn’t reply, but his eyes wandered down your body to where you straddled his. You give a slow, teasing roll of your hips, and Joel’s buck up into you. His eyes snap shut tight, and a strained noise gathers in his throat.

“Answer me, Joel. Now.” You land a harsh swat to his inner thigh. He flinches and draws a rough, tight gulp of air between his teeth.

“YES. I like it. Like this. ‘N I like yo-” he cuts himself off. 

You catch yourself smiling with tenderness at the slip. You grind firmly into him, and his back arches off the bed.

“Finish that thought, honey. Wanna hear what you were gonna say,” you coax.

“You fuckin’ know what I was gonna say,” he grumbles. 

He won’t look at you, and that bothers you. You need him to feel safe enough and comfortable enough to look you in the eye, especially if he’s actually sharing something intimate. But, maybe that would be too much, too fast for Joel. You’ll just have to find a way to work it out of him next time. A boundary was a boundary, after all.

“Tell you what,” you playfully muse. “If you can’t say it, I’ll let you show it instead. Sound good?”

Joel’s eyes snap back to yours immediately with this offer. His expression quickly shifted from guarded to hungry. He nods with unabashed enthusiasm. You smile down at the perfect little pliant mess he’s become for you.

“I think there’s something that needs attention before we get back to counting all those yummy little slaps on your ass,” you purr. “Hands above your head.”

Joel obliges and rests his arms above his head.

“I know that pretty little mouth of yours can do a whole lot of talking and smarting off, but I’m interested to see if it can do anything else.” You unclasp your bra and throw it to the floor. You follow the bob of Joel’s adams apple when he gulps at the sight of your bare breasts.

“Something you wanna say?” you ask sweetly.

“Bring those here, sweetheart. Fuck, you look so good,” he mutters almost to himself. His eyes are locked onto your chest.

“You’re not the one giving orders,” you remind him pointedly.

“I. Uh. I’m not. You’re right, baby, but- fuck you look so good. Can I? Can I please?”

His big brown eyes are watery and earnest, and you have to get your pussy in check yet again.

“Not very convincing. What’s in it for me?” you challenge. You toy with your nipple and watch it harden

under your ministrations. The choked noise from Joel tells you he’s very intent on saying whatever configuration of words will bring your body closer to him.

“I-I wanna make you feel good, sweetheart. After today. Let me, please? Just for a minute. Won’t touch ‘em with my hands. I’ll be good. I’ll keep my hands up like you said,” he promises.

You have to pretend with painstaking effort that you’re indifferent to his pleas. You can feel yourself completely soaking through your panties at this point. You straddle him again, rocking your hips against his cock for good measure, before leaning your torso over his mouth.

“Show me how sorry you are.”

When Joel feverishly takes your entire nipple into his hot, wet mouth, you can’t help the pitched moan that comes out of you. Joel is so worked up that he doesn’t even get cocky like before at your responsiveness to him and instead releases one side and heads straight for the other. He skillfully rolls his tongue around and grazes his teeth in all the right spots.

“Hnngggggg. Fuck, oh fuck. Such a good fucking boy for me. Yes, baby. Use your mouth. Show me how bad you were today. Make it up to me,” you pant.

Joel is a noisy, ardent mess underneath you, devouring and nipping and kissing and sucking at whatever he can, like a man starved of touch for too long. And he probably was. Truth be told, you had gone far too long without the touch of someone else. You were both going to end up a mess if you didn’t slow this down.

You pull back abruptly and slam your mouth onto his in a rough kiss. You don’t stop or reprimand Joel when he removes his hands from above his head and wraps them around you, pulling you closer. It’s a mess of tongues and teeth and saliva as you both desperately taste one another. Your aching pussy is screaming to be touched, and you clamber to hoist yourself over his face. Joel doesn’t need to be told what comes next. He yanks the fabric over your lips aside and delves his tongue into your throbbing wet entrance.

You cry out and grab at his sweaty curls as you start to ride his face. “Don’t you dare fucking stop, Joel. You’re gonna fuck me with your tongue until I come,” you snarl as you set a furious pace rocking your hips against his face.

His large, angled nose grinds delightfully against your clit with each pass, and you feel your orgasm building rapidly. His greedy moans and grunts vibrate against your pussy as you make a drenching mess of his face.

“That’s it–right there, right there,” you rasp. “Hhhmmggg you’re such a fuckin’ pleasure to use, baby.”

By the sound of the noise Joel makes, you think he really must’ve liked what you just said. Fortunately for you, he’s eager to show you through his actions as well. When he pulls you down to anchor you into his mouth and sucks hard on your clit, your orgasm barrels through your gut and legs. You’re a shaking, moaning mess, crying out Joel’s name and grabbing at the headboard in vain for support. He’s pushing and pulling your hips to help you keep the tempo of your grind as you fuck his face.

“GAHDD-Gaah-JOEL!” you shout. “GOOD BOY. FUCK.”

His tongue laves and slurps every drip you give him as he greedily swallows your climax. The rush of pleasure goes straight to your head, and you zero in on your control over Joel with renewed zeal.

“THAT’S MY G-GOOD BOY, BABY. Yes, right there, baby,” you shakily exhale.

You indulge in a few more slowing passes before pushing off his face. You groan at the sloppy mess you’ve left it. Fuck, he looked so good with your wet slick smeared across it. His entire face glistens with a mixture of sweat and your come. You chuckle darkly when you notice he’s breathing primarily through his mouth.

“What’s wrong?” you taunt as you try to hide how out of breath you are from your climax. You swipe across his cheek and pinch down along his nose to remove the accumulation of your spend blocking his nostrils. “Can’t fucking breathe, huh? Got my come up your nose, baby? You’re so nasty. My pussy made a mess of that face, huh? So messy for me, baby boy.”

“More,” he growls, licking at the glistening arousal you’ve left dripping on his face.

You shake your head and smile. “Hm, that’s right. We do have more left, don’t we? On your belly.”

Joel slams his head against the pillow in frustration. That clearly isn’t what he meant when he begged for more. His eyes are fixed on the ceiling, and right before you can discipline him for not answering, he responds, “Yes, ma’am. We finished seven.” He rolls with a sigh onto his stomach and settles into position again, but not before you catch a glimpse of his aching cock.

You land five smacks in quick succession and nearly salivate at the recoil of his plump flesh against your strikes. You smooth your hand across the tender skin beneath. Joel grunts and counts out “eight.” His resignation to only count it as one makes your core tingle.

“You’ve done so good, I’ll let you count them individually,” you graciously offer.

“Yes, ma’am. Eight. Nine. Ten. Eleven. Twel-”

Joel actually counting out each single slap had your folds slipping against each other with every movement, and you can’t resist landing a firm smack on the part of his ass you hadn’t smarted yet.

“NNGGGHHhhhh. THIRTEEN,” he barks into the pillow.

“That’s it. Doin’ so good. I know you can take more. I know you can take all of them for me, isn’t that right?”

His sharp exhales punctuate the little bubble you’ve created for the two of you. “Yes. Can take ‘em all for you, sweetheart,” he affirms.

“Your body was made for me to break down,” you assert. His breathing picks up with excitement and anticipation. “And, once I break you, Joel, I’m gonna put you back together how I want,” you purr in a muted lilt right next to his ear.

His broken whimper floats through the room like the white tufts of a dandelion in a calm breeze. “I-I want that, too,” he admits.

“Fuck,” you mutter under your breath, completely losing all sense of focus when he’s so eager to please you and follow your rules.

“Doing so good, baby. Keep counting,” you soothe as you dole out the rest of his allotted swats.

He’s panting and sweating by the time you make it to eighteen, and you don’t have much more restraint left.

“Hands and knees,” you grit out. You controlled yourself from shoving your fingers inside your pussy at the sight of his red, welting flesh. He slowly pushes himself off the bed and rests on his palms and knees as you instructed.

You brush soft, wet kisses across the tender flesh of his ass, sucking and licking gently at the harsher marks. Your eyes roll back at the soft sigh he lets out. You let your wet tongue pad across his skin and dip against his hole. He jerks at the unexpected sensation, and you quickly swipe the slick between your folds and use it to glide your hand quickly up and down his cock. The sputtering gasp and moan he lets out almost breaks your resolve to not fuck him senseless.

You dart your tongue in and out of him as you feverishly work his aching cock, turning your wrist at the tip where you apply more pressure on each pass.

He’s trying to fuck himself into your fist with small movements, as though he’s trying not to get caught for doing so. That sort of behavior would land him in trouble in the future, but for today you are benevolent. He’s getting close, you can feel his body starting to shake and tremble more, and you want to see his face when he comes undone.

“On your back now,” you clip out. You shove him onto his back as he starts to turn around and obey your command. He thuds gently against the headboard and eagerly spreads his legs. You take him into your mouth with one motion, cradling and massaging his balls while your thumb works firm circles against his asshole.

He’s a whining, whimpering mess. You release him from your mouth only long enough to say, “You’ve been a good boy for me, Joel. You’re gonna come for me now. Come for me, baby. Let me have it.”

His scrunched brow and frown of overwhelming pleasure is something you wish you could remember in perfect detail for the rest of your life. He’s so beautiful like this, completely obliging to your every whim, sweaty curls sticking to his forehead, a total surrender of control to you.

You lock eyes and take him into your throat. A guttural moan shakes from his chest as he comes into your throat and mouth. You slowly work him up and down through his release. Little tears prickling at the edge of his eyes start to slither down his temples and cheeks. His devastating, euphoric release is all too much to hold anything back anymore.

You swallow some of his come as it shoots down your throat. The rest of it gets spit out in messy, frothy bubbles down his spent cock. You stroke his length a few times as he starts to soften, unable to resist your curiosity of what Joel looks like when you overstimulate him. His strained expression and high pitched moan are delicious.

“AGGHH. T-TOO MUCH. Fuck. Fuck. STOP. FUCK. TRIGGER. SOMETHING,” he rambles in a frenzy.

You released him halfway through his plea, picking up on his threshold being passed before he could verbalize it. He sighs and slumps against the headboard, shutting his eyes in a pained look of relief.

You scoot up and straddle him, wiping the mixture of all your fluids against the sheets, before drawing him into your arms. You gently comb your fingers through his hair and place a lazy trail of kisses along his forehead.

“You did so good, baby. How do you feel?” you ask softly.

He grabs you into a tight embrace, rolling you both sideways onto the bed. He nuzzles against your neck contentedly and mumbles, “Good. Feel good. Thank you, sweetheart.”

“Anything for you, baby. Anything,” you whisper into his sweaty scalp.

After a few moments of holding each other and lazy kisses, you get up and find some towels, cleaning Joel off and then yourself. You bring him a small snack and a glass of water, and he makes short work of them both. He lets out a big exhale as he sinks back down into the mattress.

You sit between his legs, facing away from him, and his hands automatically rest on your waist in a feeling of comfortable, safe companionship. Joel’s breathing is beginning to slow into that telltale hazy thrum of dozing off.

When you start pressing firm, circular movements against his knee, he seems to stir again.

“What’re you doin’, sweetheart?” Joel mumbles in a half-sleep state.

“Massaging your knee where that asshole kicked you,” you grumble in irritation at the memory of raider fucking up Joel’s already fucked up knees. 

You focus on smoothing across the muscle in even passes, pressing your thumb in small circular motions. Joel had trusted you with the gift of breaking him down, and you were going to show him the other side of that agreement where you built him back up again. Put the pieces back together so that it’s cohesive and strong and tended to. No fragments. No splintering. Just making him whole again.

“Mmmmm, feels s’good,” he slurs.

You methodically massage Joel’s entire body well past the point where he lay peacefully snoring, spread out across your bed in complete bliss.

Me, the entire time I was writing this:

plz lmk if there's anything in particular you'd like to see sub!Joel *~*~learn~*~*

catch ya later, ♥Puddles♥

[vrisrezis]

Only saying this cuz Belos Stan’s have been annoying lately (I like Belos myself, but man y’all have terrible takes holy shit)

Like if you like him cuz he’s a good villain, fine. If you’re mad he didn’t get a proper death, you missed the entire point of his death/character but whatever, keep your bias I truly do not care. I like Belos myself, in fact I like this show a lot but I have never and will never let my own bias towards a show or character effect how I criticize a series and how they handle certain things because I like to criticize the things I enjoy.

But the fact that people wanted Luz to suffer more, lose a limb, lose somebody close to her for good, etc. is fucking insane to me she is a 14 yr girl who is going to have lifelong trauma because of Belos. She has literally lost enough. Girl literally thought she deserves to be hated by those she loves and wanted to literally die. All we’ve ever wanted for this poor girl was for her to have a happy ending and she got it!!! This show does a good job at not falling into any bullshit tropes lmfao.

If you didn’t want some cheesy happy ending why the hell are you watching this show? It has been cheesy and bs since the beginning “weirdos have to stick together” like this show is CRINGEY!!! It always has been!!! It’s a Disney cartoon what did you expect!!! Very rarely does a Disney cartoon not have a happy ending honestly amphibia is the only one I can think of that wasn’t completely happy (correct me if I’m wrong???)

The fact people even wanted hunter to go through even more trauma by watching his uncle die???

Like god what is wrong with you. LEAVE MY KIDS OUT OF IT!!!! UR FUCKING WEIRD!!!

For real like I’ll never understand Belos Stan’s because truly they are the only people with this kind of criticism and it’s genuinely so weird you’d want characters, KIDS, that suffered enough to go through even more trauma because you wanted more for your fav who doesn’t even deserve it anyway. Lol. Like “wanted him to suffer more” since when is putting villains through misery any better .. Luz does not forgive Belos but she’s not gonna freakin torture the guy, she’s wants him gone as fast as possible and she isn’t wrong for that. She provided justice for all those that he hurt.

Again idc if you like him, I like him to an extent. But again, you’re weird for wanting the abuser to have a proper way out (something he wanted, something that’s taking mercy upon him and feeds into his delusion) and wanting the abused kids to suffer even more irreversible trauma.

Yes I have my own personal criticisms, I don’t think the way he went out was bad but they did nothing with Caleb and all the others. Not even a moment where they watch Belos die. Just feels like they added that in ep 2 for nothing.

But the whole Luz and hunter didn’t lose enough bs? You’re out of your fucking mind.

[tokillamockingbird427]

hey katar again ! its random anon (now 🎧 anon because everyones random ^^) :)

after saying ill ask more asks in the future (in hopes of stepping out of my poor and very depressing comfort zone.), i have a very questionable “what if” hc i would love to share; merrick beardless. not cleanly shaven, i wont put the man under THAT much misery than i would like to but, its a very big difference to which even logan would gasp audibly. (i also hc he’s selectively mute, which was not mention at all last ask until i read ur response… shame on me.)

now, heres my perspective of how this could go, feel free to add on !;

1) the poor man is going undercover(alone or with other ghosts, ill leave that up to you.) mainly because merrick has a terrible sense of style and those who are close to him will probably recognize him from afar(inspired by your hc of who in the ghosts has the best/worst sense of style from a while ago, which i also agree with :)). but, the beard gives it away if you really see who the hell it is, so, he (regrettably) shaves the beard off to his demise. tears were shed, and not only from merrick. (a comment of merrick looking like mr.clean but with more facial hair was definitely made by someone.)

2) he got shaven because somebody decided to get revenge. (this parts completely up to you :D) Poor guy probably was in such a bad mood, and the comments did NOT help. hesh was probably the main one bullying poor merrick, along with keegan and kick, with neptune making a few comments and logan snickering and almost bursting out laughing everytime he sees merrick.(would be an accomplishment but in this situation…no.) if merrick was getting bullied before this, its fucking hell now.

anyways, thats the end of this ask ! its a little long like my previous ones which i apologize about. maybe even id even share another ask one of these days about another victim caught in my thoughts. :)

—🎧 anon

Good on you for stepping out of your comfort zone! Pleased that you decided I was a good first step lol. And neat sign off! 🎧!

"Not cleanly shaven" But imagine, hairless mole rat Merrick... A horrible reality in which he doesn't have that carpet of hair on his chest. Or arms. Or legs. Or his █████ (Explicit material censored)

Logan audibly gasping has me cackling. Bro never makes a noise, vocal or otherwise, but a beardless Merrick is literally so shocking he can't help it. Just slips out. GASP!

Okay okay, you say undercover, I say undercover too... but how fucking funny would it be if he had to be a dad to one of the other Ghosts? He'd be so done. "If you do not come by the dad instincts naturally you will be provided with them." and the Ghosts being the absolute shits they are (Because *all* of them are little shits.) would 100% be snuggling up to their "dad" at any given opportunity and making jabs about the missing face fuzz. "Oh yeah, he's been told he should grow a beard out, but idk I'm just so used to his face as-is. Been like that allllll my life." "Mom said I pulled all his face hair out as a kid, hasn't grown back since." "Some people say he looks like Mr. Clean, I think that's mean. I think he looks more like Lex Luthor." "Dad with a beard? Oh never. I don't think he can grow one!" Meanwhile Merrick just has to grin and bear it. Poor fuckin guy lmaooooo.

He gets his face shaved due to a bet he lost very sorely. As apart of the bet all the Ghosts get to shave one swipe off his face. (They all ganged up on him for this bet, hence the loss. I like giving Merrick a bit of a big ego, which is mostly harmless... to everyone but himself. Lol.) They all rip into him during the Shavening, which they have made an incredibly big deal, and while Merrick would like nothing more than to melt into the floor he's stubborn as a mule and refuses to back down or beg for mercy. (Which would not be given anyways.) It remains infamous in their history for years to come... mostly because Merrick concocted the most wild heist-esqe plan to get back at each and every one of the sorry fuckers who crossed him. A plan even Rorke can't rival! So good in fact, that I cannot even describe it to you. (Cheap cop out LMAO)

Please feel free to send more asks, ones even longer than this one, and don't apologize. I love seeing what other people come up with, and you are no exception, okay?

I eagerly wait another one of your asks in my inbox! :D

[saintobio]

go to hell, for heaven’s sake.

↳ gojou satoru/fem!reader

despite the red flags surrounding your relationship, did taking a wrong turn really leave you stuck with him to the point of no return?

genre. explicit smut, mafia au

tags/warnings. yandere!gojo, unhinged!gojo, dom!gojo, toxic relationships, stockholm syndrome, pure filth, obsession, profanity, guns, mindbreak, undertones of sadism, rough sex, unprotected sex, cunnilingus + fellatio, spitting, manhandling, hair pulling, asphyxiation, humiliation, cum eating, creampie, multiple orgasms, breeding kink, baby trapping, murder, blood, violence, dark content, a little twist in the end

notes. please do not ignore the warnings. 4.7k wc. i wrote this at midnight so if some things don’t make sense - yes it does :’P and also, this is highly inspired by the manhua who is the prey? bc i’ve been thinking abt it for days plzzzz.

1 year since you’ve met Satoru. 10 months since you’ve been living under the same roof. 6 months since he told you he loves you. 3 days since he promised to dedicate his whole world to you.

Anyone would assume that you were living every girl’s dream of having your undeniably handsome boyfriend with arctic white hair and icy blue eyes. He was powerful in every sense, charismatic without trying, wealthy with many successful businesses, and… a well-endowed cock that could leave you limping for hours. His god-like physique was not one to be ignored, and this was proven to you every single day just by the number of women who would have lingering stares on him whenever he was within their vicinity. They were ready to throw themselves at him, open their legs for him, and be violated by him. He’s so beautiful, they would blindly say. I want him inside me. It was like a mantra. He’s like an angel.

The truth was, his seraphic beauty was nothing more but a deceptive appearance.

Satoru Gojou, throughout heaven and Earth, was a ruthless Satan in disguise. He was an evil incarnate hidden by his mask of heavenly face. A fallen angel who delighted in cruelty and malignity. A demon who could only be satiated by other people’s misery. Tonight was just one of those many instances where he would do anything to fulfill his thirst for blood.

“I’ll ask you one last time,” said the albino devil, twisting a wooden chair so he could sit with his legs stretched open and have his arms against the backrest, “What were you planning when you asked her out?”

You were standing on the side, forced to be a spectator to the pitiful raven-haired man who was now on his knees, bruised and bloody as your boyfriend’s bodyguards beat him up into a pulp two hours after he was seen asking for your number at the restaurant he was working at. As you saw Satoru signaling his bodyguard to hand him a Springfield gun, you knew that you had to do your best to try and save the innocent man’s life. “Baby, please let him go,” you spoke in a cautious but persuasive tone while resisting his bodyguards’ tight grip on your arms, “Just leave this one be. I didn’t give him my number, anyway.”

“Shut the fuck up or I’ll shoot your mouth.” Gojou ignored your appeal and unloaded the magazine to put in 10mm cartridges on his handgun. He then gestured his chin over at the man whose eyes were transfixed with horror, petrified by his fate at the hands of a ferocious mafia boss. “You there. Are you really not gonna answer me?”

The poor man was shuddering and begging for his life. “I’m s-sorry! I’m sorry. Please spare my life. I h-had no idea she had a boyfriend.”

A snicker of derision followed Satoru’s villainous smirk. “Isn’t she sexy? Look at her,” he mocked, raising his chin up as his thin lips curled upwards, “What was it that made you ask for her number? Was it her thighs?”

“N-No—”

“Was it her tits?”

“P-Please let me go—”

“Or was it her ass?”

“Help! Somebody help—”

“You know,” Satoru continued his twisted game while cocking his gun and pointing the muzzle towards his victim, “I recognize it easily when another man wants to fuck my woman raw. I can’t blame you, though. She makes my cock hard every time I look at her.”

Although his words were directed at the innocent man, the humiliation intended was subtly and undoubtedly aimed at you. The abandoned warehouse was full of men working under his command, so objectifying you and marketing your body to a stranger was his means of claiming his territory to make sure that not a single soul in that place would dare take an interest in his prized possession. However, despite how nauseating it was for you to hear his explicit utterances, this wasn’t the first time you had been in this situation and you already knew how to properly play this game instead of voicing out just how sickeningly obsessive he was.

So unlike the dark-haired guy who grew frighteningly scared from Gojou’s demonic eyes, you were holding it together to keep your composure.

“Did you know why I sat three tables away from her while talking to a business partner?” your boyfriend asked, but wasn’t really interested in an answer based on how quickly he continued his monologue, “It’s because I don’t know what I’d do to Mr. Watanabe if he tried to hit on my girlfriend.” Granted that he placed the pistol down on his right leg, it still didn’t mean that his little game was over. “And then this scrawny-looking waiter suddenly approaches her table, asking for her number instead of her order. She told you no and you were still insisting. Weren’t you staring at her tits the whole time, too? Did you enjoy undressing her with your eyes?”

The man showed adamancy in denying it. “I-I didn’t! I promise I’ll stay out of your way, p-please. I can even move out of town and you won’t see me ever again! She’s all yours. Just… Just please don’t kill me, Mr. Gojou.”

Satoru hummed, tilting his head to the side as though he was considering the negotiation. “You sure?”

For fuck’s sake. You could already tell where this was going.

“Yes, I’m sure! I’m sure!” Loud, desperate affirmations were echoing all over the warehouse. “I’ll leave as soon as possible.”

“Fine.” It didn’t take long for your boyfriend to tell his men to release the victim’s arms, soon doing the same towards the bodyguards that previously held you captive at their boss’ instruction. Satoru ignored the sigh of relief and the countless words of gratitude from the dark-haired male, and instead, offered him something in exchange. “Since you’re easy to talk to, I’ll give you a small reward before I let you go.”

The man sat on the floor, bedeviled. “Mr. Gojou, there’s no need to—”

Satoru feigned his kindness by chuckling. “No, no. If you’re saying I won’t get to see you ever again, I might as well indulge you, right?” he stated, glancing at you and pointing his finger across him, “Babe, why don’t you give him a quick lap dance? You’re quite good at it.”

Fuck. Here he goes. You tried to laugh it off. “Baby, you know I can only do that to you.”

“I don’t mind seeing you do it to another man at least once,” he claimed, rolling his sleeves up and loosening the tie around his neck, “Go on. Take your panties off while you’re at it. Let him feel how good your pussy is so he’d understand why I’m acting this way.”

With all eyes set on you, you had no choice but to slowly make your way towards the confused man who was probably concluding that Satoru was actually a cuckold who had nothing better to do with his life. In spite of the guy’s refusal, you saw how his eyes dilated when you slid your thong down your silk dress, tossing it beside him before you climbed on his lap and pressed your bare cunt against his hardening crotch. You turned your head around to get Gojou’s approval first and only started grinding your hips after he nodded, now intently watching the erotic movement of your body. The fabric of the man’s pants were getting tighter as they restricted his length from fully growing, but you didn’t stop and you wouldn’t stop rolling your hips until Satoru said so. You had already learned your lesson before.

“Mr. Gojou…” The guy was suppressing his moans while looking at your boyfriend. “I think I’m good. Y-You can make her stop.”

You couldn’t see Satoru’s face because your back was facing him, and yet you were able to register the sarcasm in his voice when he spoke again. “But aren’t you enjoying it?” he taunted, probably with a maniacal grin on his face, too. “Wanna put your cock inside her?”

“No, no, she’s yours! She’s all yours! She’s—fuck!”

“Ah!” A soft whimper unintentionally escaped your mouth when you felt the harsh friction on your clitoris rubbing against the man’s fly.

For Satoru, that was the trigger. A trigger, not just for his sick games, but also for the dangerous weapon that he was holding when a deafening gunshot had you jumping out of the man’s lap. You wanted to throw up when you saw the bullet on the center of his forehead—his eyes were wide and lifeless as blood seeped out of his skull. The macabre sight had you paralyzed and horrified until you were being manhandled by the murderer himself who pulled you by the arm and dragged you out of the place now that his little show was over.

That was his fifth kill. Five goddamn men were killed over the course of your relationship because they had gotten themselves involved with you—all sentenced to death on the grounds of igniting Satoru’s unhealthy jealousy. Such a ridiculous fucking reason for him to hold them sinners and deserving of an atrocious crime, leaving you with no choice but to fear for your life and learn your own tactic for survival. How did Satoru get away with his crimes? Fuck knows how. Only a mafia boss with all the power and money in the world could evade his offenses. Therefore, reporting him to the local police station and escaping his grasp were now crossed out of your list after he threatened to kill your family down to your last kin. He was deranged in the most frightening way possible, but you endured staying with a total psycho like him because you would be dead meat if you didn’t.

That, and because you ‘loved’ him.

“Get in the car,” he muttered as he roughly shoved you towards the vehicle, “Don’t make me waste a bullet for another man again.”

You drew in long deep breaths and got inside the black sedan, watching through the backseat window how Gojou ordered for the corpse to be disposed of in a nearby river. Because of you, another man was killed. Because of you, another man wasn’t given a chance to live. Yet the killer himself had no trace of guilt in his bones when he casually sat in comfortable silence on the way home. The hand that he used to pull the trigger was also the same hand that was on your thigh throughout the ride.

This gruesome killing happened five times now, so why were you still shaken up with how far Gojou could harm others just to prove that you were his and his alone?

You ran to the bathroom as soon as you reached the penthouse, stripped yourself off of every piece of garment, and hopped inside the shower to clean ‘the dirt’ all over your skin. If only you could tear your flesh and rip it off your muscle, you would have done it a long time ago every time you had to witness how many people your boyfriend was willing to murder for you. As warm droplets of water fell on your skin in rivulets, you closed your eyes and let your mind relive the demoralizing scene earlier. You knew that the moment Gojou asked you to ride the man’s lap, he was already thinking of shooting him straight away. He had never released any of his victims before, and never would he do it in the future, too. He was downright sick and twisted, and you wouldn’t be surprised if a man like him ended up suffering endless torture in the depths of hell.

But here on Earth, he was living as freely as he wanted. He had no sense of pity, or even the slightest bit of it, when he joined you in the shower and held your waist in his arms. Despite the wetness of your entire body, your throat was dry and parched when you swallowed your nervousness back in. Satoru’s lips began tracing soft kisses on your nape while he ran his fingers through your hair simultaneously, pulling it back and stretching your scalp as he forced you to face him. “Did you enjoy riding him, hm?” he asked, nipping on your earlobe, “Tell me, baby.”

Your breath hitched. “No, not at all,” you answered, leaning back and feeling his hardened member poking against your buttocks. “I kept imagining that he was you. Don’t make me do that ever again.”

“Good answer,” he praised you like the obedient girl you were before he cupped your chin and crashed his lips onto yours. He was completely devouring your mouth with rough and wide movements, shoving his tongue inside and allowing you to passionately roll yours around his. He could feel the vibration of your moans against his mouth and he pulled away to press his thumb on your lower lip, eyes darkening with lust and greed. “You’re mine,” he declared his possession, now sliding his hand down to your chest and squeezing your breast with his large, callous hand, “this,” he added, letting his hand travel further down to palm the entirety of your pussy, “and this. All of you. You’re mine.”

A gasp flew out of your lips when Satoru’s long, slender fingers performed circular motions on your clitoris, stretching your labia apart so he could insert two fingers at your entrance. “Ngh!” Your widened eyes were in great contrast to his amused electric blues who found entertainment at your submission to pleasure. You gripped his wrist and tiptoed when he started scissoring his fingers inside, forcing you to raise your leg so he could continue to move his hand in and out of your sopping cunt. “Ahh—ah! S-Satoru!”

His white hair was damp, clumping together as the rain shower dripped down on his body. The intrusion on your velvet walls never once stopped. “Say you want me,” he whispered in your ear, causing shivers down your spine as his warm breath fanned your neck.

“I w-want you,” you desperately cried, “F-Fuck, I want you… so bad, Satoru.”

“You’re like a bitch in heat, aren’t you?” He simpered, withdrawing his fingers all at once. “Then, I’ll fuck you like a rabid dog.”

You squeezed your legs together to hide the clench that you were feeling inside, looking up at his crazed cerulean eyes and tracing his pectoral muscles with your fingers. If this was what it would take to appease him, then you were a willing slut ready to be pounded on by this six-foot tall man. “Please.”

He reattached his lips back onto yours and pulled away just enough to keep your foreheads connected. “You have so much power over me, Y/N.” Lies. “I can give you the whole world as long as you stay by my side.”

In an instant, you veiled your emotions by displaying an amorous gaze. “Do you really love me that much?”

“Yes, I love you that much.” Satoru wrapped his hand around his cock, pumping his long, veiny shaft before rubbing the swollen head against your pussy. With your legs pressed together firmly, he forced his length between your thighs and caused a sensuous friction on your plump folds. He had his large hands on either side of your buttocks to aid him better in sliding his cock between your pussy lips, even stretching his legs apart to be at a satisfying angle. “Like that?”

You didn’t wait another second before you nodded, throwing your arms around his neck just as he started kneading your breast with his hand. “Mm… So good.” His index finger teased your nipple—first, by flicking the bud and second, by tracing your areolas in circles.

“Tongue,” he ordered and had you stick it out for him to taste every inch of your wet muscle. Even without a reflection to look at, this was the most erotogenic exchange you two had ever done as a couple. And along with that, his half lidded eyes were staring down at you, judging you and your every move. “You love being a slut for me, huh?”

You bit his lower lip, lasciviously. “Only for you.”

Satisfied by your ego boost, he pulled away and pushed you down to go on your knees. As much as you would prefer to deny it, you would be lying if you didn’t acknowledge how godly he looked when he raked his fingers through his wet hair and positioned his lengthy cock in between your lips. “Open up. I’ll fuck your mouth.”

You let him guide your hand into stroking his shaft before you ejected spit on the pink head, using it to lubricate his aching member while you lowered yourself further to fit his balls inside your mouth. It gave you utmost pleasure to hear his guttural moans when you swirled your tongue around his firm bollocks—tasting the same flesh that carried all of his sperm, and releasing it from your mouth to give his cock the same attention. At first, you kissed his swollen tip and treated it like a lollipop, then you started sucking every inch of his length by bobbing your head at a stable rhythm. “Mmm.” You could hear curses leaving his pretty lips as he held your head in place, snapping his hips forward until you were gagging from the intense penetration on your throat.

“F-Fuck. Keep sucking me like that.”

“Mmmh!”

You did your best to give him a stellar performance, did your most at pleasuring his member, and did everything that he liked whenever you were sucking his cock. And just like that, thick ropes of cum were sent straight down your throat. The musky, metallic taste didn’t stop you from swallowing all of his seed and you had to show your tongue to make him know that you did a good job at taking all of his semen. Nothing was wasted.

Not even time, because as soon as you finished giving him a blowjob, he was already carrying you out of the bathroom without drying yourselves off. You were thrown into his king-sized bed, manhandled into spreading your legs apart before your animalistic lover plunged his face onto your pussy.

“S-Satoru—! Mmm—fuck!”

He had your back arching because of how deep his tongue was going inside, tasting your walls and kissing your cunt like he would do with your mouth. He was smooching off your labia like a hungry beast, eating you out as if he wasn’t satisfied by the juices that he was sucking from you. You were already in your seventh heaven, unable to think straight when he added his middle finger to the movements of his tongue. If fingering your pussy and lapping your clitoris weren’t enough to drive you crazy, maybe grabbing a fistful of white hair was a sign for him to stop before you could truly lose it. You could feel fire pooling on your lower abdomen and your legs were already shaking uncontrollably, your toes curling wantonly—with the suction he was doing on your cunt, you ended up screaming for his name and engulfing his mouth with your Earth-shattering release.

“Ngh! Satoru, p-please… I’m…”

As he detached his mouth from your entrance, he started climbing up, visibly pleased with the way he ravaged your cunt. He was wiping the corner of his mouth with his thumb, pressing his lips down on yours to make you taste your own fluid. A string of saliva connected your mouth to his before he grabbed ahold of his erect member once again. It hasn’t even been more than two minutes! You were already being hauled into another position. “Let me hit from the back.”

“Satoru, w-wait.”

“Face down, ass up.” His patience was growing thin when he dragged your body by raising your hips close to his crotch and pressing your head down against the mattress. Your boyfriend cared none for the embarrassment that settled on your heated cheeks when he spread your buttocks apart so he could ogle at the exact hole that he was about to destroy. Did he give you any mercy? That word didn’t even exist in his vocabulary when he sunk all seven inches inside of your cunt, wrecking you open to the point where you could feel a stinging sensation on your entrance after being stretched by his fully erected cock. “Tightest fucking cunt I’ve ever been in.”

You were suppressing your tears from falling while you were biting on a pillow, nails digging on the sheets to the point where you could almost rip it the same way your lover was ripping your vaginal walls. “Ahh! M-More… More.” What a fucking whore you were. That must be what was on his mind when he continued jostling your hips at a harsher pace. He was treating you like a fleshlight as though your only purpose was to satisfy his fat cock, especially with how your warm pussy was perfectly accommodating his full length.

“I can fuck you like this every day,” he breathed, all deep and raspy as he gave you the most rhythmical skin slapping thrusts. He was so deep in your cavern that you could feel the base of his cock slamming against your ass. You didn’t even notice the hand that was snaking on your front to massage your bouncing tit because you were far too lost in the shockwaves of sexual gratification. “No other man can fuck you this good, baby.”

Your brain was short-circuiting from the amount of sensation that was entering your body, intoxicated by the waves of libido in your system that was heightening more and more as he continued to satisfy your insatiable heat. You could barely think straight. You lost all rationality. All of your morals. It was at that point where your womanhood was completely dissolving into nothingness, breaking your mind and turning you into nothing but a moaning mess. You didn’t even have any control of your own words when you started taunting Satoru. “Y-You say n-no one can… f-fuck me this good?” Another forceful slam elicited a mewl out of you. “A-Aah! That’s… that’s so unfair when you fucked another girl behind my back.”

All he did was to scoff. And then he grabbed you by the chin. And then he had your back arching into a C as he made you turn your face at him. “Jealous?” he spoke under his breath while continuing his thrusts, “I only fucked Himari to make you jealous.”

“Then…” You gulped and kept eye contact. “C-Can I fuck another man to make you jealous, too?”

Not even a second had passed when his eyes were already set on you with a deadly gaze. “The fuck did you say?” he asked through gritted teeth, forcing your jaw open so he could spit in your mouth, “Say that again.”

“Mmm! Ahh—ah! S-Slow down!”

“You wanna fuck another man?”

“N-No. Just y-you… Baby, just you!”

It was too late. You had already summoned the devil inside of him when he pulled out and propelled your body on the mattress, grabbing you by your ankle and spreading your legs apart. He was raising both legs into a V, aiming for your stretched hole before he hammered his cock back in. Your breasts were bouncing wildly, eyes rolling at the back of your skull, and mouth parting wide open for more screams to echo through the walls of his bedroom. Before you knew it, he already had his hand around your neck, restricting air on your lungs because of the compression on your windpipe. You let out a soundless gasp as he continued to fuck you into filth, ramming all of his length on your sweet pussy while you were slamming your fist against the mattress, begging for him to release your neck.

And he did, only when your pain had already fulfilled his amusement. Only when your pain sated his desire for dominance. Only when the pain blossoming in your midsection was signaling another round of intense orgasm out of you. Just like you, he was reaching his high, too. His climax was building inside based on how he was increasing his speed. He was grunting as he embraced you, and you were crying as you dug your nails on his back. Both of you were sucking in sharp breaths while your genitals were meeting each other through aggressive slams and slopping noises.

“I’m going to fuck a baby into you,” he whispered on your ear, kissing your temple before he sat back on his knees and dragged your body back and forth to be in perfect harmony with his pelvis, “I’m going to get you pregnant and you will stay with me for the rest of your life.”

You recoiled in horror and gaped at his resolute face, nothing but fear was consuming your soul. To spend the rest of your life with Satoru was not part of the plan. Your plan was to someday find an escape from the monstrous cage he had you locked in. “S-Satoru…” You closed your eyes and slammed your fist against his back. “Satoru!”

“Fuck!”

“Aah!”

You were no longer in a sound mind by the time he was shooting his warm load into your womb, filling you up with jizz as he ensured that every drop of his ejaculation would go straight past your cervix. His pace had become unsteady and you were already paralyzed when he pulled out and watched how his cum was seeping out of the pussy he destroyed.

“Good girl.” He tried to peck your lips, but you moved away.

Yes, you dared to scoot away and held the sheets closer to your chest, overthinking a miserable future with a psycho like him. While he didn’t pay much attention to the sudden shift in your emotions, he did try to recover his breath before spooning you. “I’m on birth control,” you stated, pusillanimously.

“I’ll throw them away.” He rolled on his back and ran his fingers through his hair. “We’ll get married next week.”

So sudden!

“B-But… I haven’t agreed yet.”

His face was strict and grim. “I’m not asking you to get married. I’m saying we’ll get married.”

This isn’t supposed to happen!

“Babe, please.” You placed a hand on his muscular chest. “I thought you s-said you loved me?”

His eyebrows furrowed at your words. “Exactly. I love you so much that I’ll make you my wife.” Satoru’s blue eyes became a shade darker. “I’ll make you carry my child and you’ll be with me forever. You and I… We’ll die together.”

You were sick and nauseated by the thought, but you held it all in as you analyzed your next move. Spending eternity in hell was better than having a life as Satoru Gojou’s wife. “Satoru,” you spoke carefully, sitting up on the corner of the bed, “One day, I’m going to kill you.”

Your threats only made him smile maniacally. “You’re gonna kill me?” he challenged, “When is that day?”

Tonight.

Grabbing the empty bottle of whiskey on the nightstand, you put all of your remaining energy into swinging the glass across his head. It shattered before your eyes thinking that you had finally managed to knock him over, but what it only did was to leave a smiling Satoru with blood oozing out of his head. He sat up to your horror while you were stumbling back on the carpeted floor, body full of trepidation with how your obsessive lover was breaking into fits of laughter.

“You’re gonna have to do better than that, baby,” he taunted, wiping the blood off his face and tossing the duvet aside as the shards of glass flew along with it.

In your terror, you reached for the Springfield gun atop the sidetable. “You’re right. I’ll do even better than that.”

There was no scintilla of dread in his bones. No trace of panic in his eyes. No smidgen of hope that you would spare his life. Instead, he got up from bed and plastered a wide, frenzied grin on his devilish face. “Kill me.” He spread his arms open. “If I’m not dead after a minute, you’re gonna pay for it.”

Despite your shaking hands, you cocked the gun and pointed it at his head. “Good bye, Satoru.”

This was for your freedom.

Pulling the trigger was all it would take to end his atrocity. All you would have to do was close your eyes and shoot the gun. You would save more casualties in exchange for his life. Soon, you would be free from this toxicity. You have to do it!

Yet when you opened your eyes again, no bullet came out of the gun.

There, two feet across from you, was Satoru Gojou smiling at you with a predatory gaze. “Are you ready to pay?”

jjk general taglist: @kity @deeznutss @suhkusa @wonyoschubs @the-golden-jhope @6mattsun9 @hokageyamz @ermahgerd-larry-and-ziam @crashica @aizawap @juniorhooter @atsumusoup @gxtitobxby @dora-the-grownup @softy-woo @tsumume @kac-chowsballs @anime-nymph @kageyamakock @onlyonew @underratedmage @crapimahuman @fatal-impact @daylghits

[shortpplfedup]

If you came to Young Royals for a ship, I suggest perhaps you walk on by. But if you came here for a story bayBEE are you in the right place. My favourite misfits, loners and outcasts are back with a vengeance in season 2 and wreaking the kind of havoc you can only get from people whose frontal lobes haven't finished developing. There's poor decision making! Ill-advised sexual escapades! Crushing anxiety! Threats and intimidation! Offers of procurement! Snitching! On-the-nose literature assignments! Unexpected coming out! Literal horse-trading! 18th century fashion! Romantic lesbian poetry! FIRE! At one point somebody pulls a gun! It's a rollercoaster ride of a season and I for one had a fabulous time riding it. My favourite bits:

Felice

Having decided to be a bad bitch for a living, Felice spends the entire season just doing that. Not one single solitary fuck was given by our girl in 6 entire episodes, as she snatched wigs and came for people's entire careers left and right. She started the season by telling her mother to kick rocks whilst getting a sickening sew-in, admitted to both sluttery and petty theft in the midst of selling a priceless racehorse, called both of her besties on their shitty behaviour towards her, and was the best looking, vibesiest person at that unbaked costume party (and for that matter in every scene she was in). She remains my absolute favourite character in this entire show.

Nils

Nils spent the entire season trying desperately and unsuccessfully to interest Wille in his high -mileage-but-at-least-it's-rich peen, to the point of offering to procure sexual partners on his behalf for what I assume would be some kind of Eyes-Wide-Shut action at a ski chalet somewhere? Idk, he got real weird real fast this season.

Marcus

A perfect cinnamon roll who did everything right including telling Simon to get over his victim complex.

Sara

Listen, say what you will but I HOWLED with laughter when she humped August's leg and then went 'yeah ok, I get it now, let's bone'. Poor fucked-up Sara, striving for a social status she hasn't a chance of achieving, or in the infinitesimal chance that she achieves it, maintaining. On the one hand I felt bad for her that it all collapsed around her, but on the other hand the moment she literally got into bed with August there was only one way this was going to go. Speaking of...

August

What a sweaty, cringey, desperate, pathetic mess of a human being. I enjoyed Wille taking away everything that mattered to him brick by brick while he cowered in fear that the men in grey suits were coming to put him down like Old Yeller at any moment. I REALLY enjoyed Wille menacing him with a loaded shotgun while Simon just watched in silence. August falling immediately for the first person who was nice to him, August getting an attitude the second Kristina put him in the line of succession, August convincing Alexander to take the fall for the video, August, August, August...what would this show be without the most pathetic villain alive?

Simon and Wille

Man this was Edvin Ryding's season, he put on a fucking CLINIC. 'I got a haircut' you awkward GOD. Wille was wound so tight this season I wondered when he would finally snap and of course he held it for when it would really count. Omar sold me on Simon's abject misery and righteous anger, but Edvin...Edvin was something otherworldly this season. I almost couldn't breathe watching him go THROUGH it.

All in all, Young Royals absolutely delivered on Season 2 and they had better announce Season 3 ASAP!

[dabifixation]

the importance of knocking

dabi x fem!reader

summary: When Dabi told you to wait at the bar because he was going to "Take care of things" you shouldn't have humored him. You shouldn't have gotten drunk on a mission. And most of all you shouldn't have ignored your gut feeling by looking for the blue flame user and discovering exactly what he meant by taking care of things.

warnings: nsfw, smut, voyeurism, unprotected sex, squirting, MINORS DNI

word count: 2.4k

~

You really didn't like villains. They were temperamental bigots who were hard to work with and cared very little about their environment.

Blue eyed, flame wielding, two-toned nuisances were not the exception to this.

If anything, having Dabi tag along on your mission didn't really help with your dwindling impression of the man.

Said mission was going downhill very fast, losing your chance to achieve funds from your organization's formidable benefactors, all because somebody thought it was funny to set Mr Park's hair on fire after the man passed a comment on somebody's unprofessional attire.

You hated him for that. Truly hated him. However you knew he wasn't just messing up your mission for his own amusement. You weren't stupid, you knew a field test when you saw one. This mission was set up to see how well you'd do now that the Meta Liberation Army was under siege from the League of Villains. Dabi was your examiner.

And you failed the test.

So it came as a surprise to you when the bane of your existence suggested that he'd take care of things, which made you wonder if he was a comedian in his past life cause what could he possibly do to fix things.

You spent the next hour by yourself with an endless supply of whisky in hopes of coming up with a good plan in order to leave Japan undetected.

When the next hour passed by you began to wonder where your flame wielding partner went and how long he'd be. You were convinced that he was just hunting down one of the benefactor's and stole their suitcase filled with money. But you doubt killing someone took a full two hours, so you began to worry.

Not for him of course. That would be out of character for you. You were just worried about disappointing Shigaraki by coming empty handed and not on time. At the end of the day, you were a sucker for praise and didn't mind getting it from someone who ruined the goals and reputation of the Meta Liberation Army.

You had a serious problem.

Checking your wristwatch one last time, you decided now was a good time to phone Dabi. Snickering to yourself when you saw his contact was saved under 'If Menstruational Pain Was A Person'. You clicked on his contact, hoping he wouldn't be those annoying people who answered after the fifth ring on purpose.

He wasn't.

"Whoever this is, it better be important. I'm in the middle of something." He sounded slightly out of breath, and from the soft rustling of something in the background you could tell he wasn't in any danger. It made you sigh in relief.

"Where the fuck are you?"

"Oh it's you. Miss me already?" You didn't need to see him smirking on the other end, cause you knew he was.

You ignored his question, "Where are you?"

There was pause that lasted long enough for you to hear a muffled cry in the background and an unknown squelching sound. You didn't take him for someone that tortured his victims.

You learn new things everyday.

"Room 3406." You heard a groan this time, making you frown. Why was he dragging his torture session out so long, the least he could do was put the poor person out of their misery and take their money.

Wait.

"You're still in the hotel. You damn asshole I thought you were dead in a ditch!" You raised your voice, not caring that people passing by gave you concerning looks.

"Didn't realize you cared so much about little old me." He let out a sound crossed between surprise and a laugh, which caught you off guard.

He hung up before you could give a response.

That was weird.

You looked down at your naked arms, noticing the goosebumps.

Yeah, very weird.

❦

It didn't take you long to find the hotel room, thanking your lucky stars when you found out the room was unlocked and didn't require a key card.

Once you entered the room, you glanced around noticing that nothing was out of place or broken. There was no signs of struggle, which was a good thing. It made cleaning up easier.

Your eyes landed on a pair of familiar boots placed adjacent to a pair of red bottom heels that were laying on its side.

You picked the heel up, examining it to see if there was any blood on it. There wasn't.

That's strange.

"Uhnnnggg~"

Your head snapped in the direction of the main bedroom when you heard the sounds of someone whimpering in pain. The warning bells in your head grew louder when you decided to check out what was going on.

The bedroom door was slightly ajar but not enough for you to see what was on the other side. You heard a deep groan as your fingers brushed the doorframe, your heart in your throat at what you'd find. So you pushed forward expecting everything but what was in front of you.

You didn't dare move.

There Dabi was, hands gripping tightly on some woman's hips. The muscle in his arms flexing, and his legs out stretched beneath her. Her hands were buried in his obsidian locks as he set the pace for her, bouncing her up and down his cock. Each time he brought her down, she'd let out a R-rated moan. She swiveled her hips as best as she could, but from the way her thighs trembled from the pleasure, you could tell it was too much for her.

Dabi's eyes were shut in bliss, letting out a breathy moan when she opted for grounding on his cock instead. From her quick movements, you could tell she was close.

"Yes, yes, yes –oh fuck!"

Dabi immediately flipped her over, preventing her from reaching her climax. His heavy cock slapped against his abdomen, smearing moisture against his defined stomach. You quickly looked away, focusing on the woman instead.

It immediately clicked in. You knew who she was.

Yui Murukami, the 34 year old heiress and CEO to the company that supplied our friends in capes with support items. She was a rich and powerful woman known throughout Japan, and one of the benefactor's that pulled out their sponsorship after finding out that the Meta Liberation Army was infiltrated with "heretics."

The same heretic that's narrow hips she currently had her long milky legs wrapped around.

What a hypocrite.

You got a good look at Dabi for the first time tonight. Your eyes traveled down his lean form. What he lacked in muscle, he made up for in flexibility. The position he was in was a testimony to that.

The subtle red hair trailing down towards his impressive length caught your attention. So he was a natural redhead? That or he had some weird hobby of dyeing his pubes.

It made you shudder.

He pumped at his veiny cock, gathering the pre-come dripping from the pink and angry head, and used it to lubricate himself further. The golden piercings keeping his two skin types together stretched as he did so.

You thanked whatever God was out there for Dabi not noticing you. They surely had your back. Now was the perfect time to escape. Dabi was clearly lost in the throes of pleasure. But just as you stepped back, the floor beneath your feet decided now was a good time to announce your presence.

Dabi's eyes immediately snapped open in your direction.

Those ocean blues stared at you intensely without a hint of shame. You were frozen in place as you held his heated gaze, eyes falling to his lips when his tongue jotted out to lick them. It had you entranced and you almost missed the way his lips broke out into a full grin when he knew exactly what position he had you in.

Hook, line and sinker.

He was taunting you, waiting on you to storm out of this room in embarrassment and anger. Dabi was a sick individual who'd take any and every opportunity to test you and your loyalty to the Paranormal Liberation Front. If you walked out now, despite how badly you really wanted to, that would be the same as failing. You weren't about to fail twice in one night.

He raised an eyebrow when you didn't barge at his challenge. Shrugging, he guided his cock back inside the woman with a soft sigh. He broke eye contact first, looking down at where their bodies joined and bottomed out into her. She let out a ridiculously high-pitched moan.

He kept her thighs far apart as he continued his ministrations despite knowing you were watching.

Your face was hot as you clenched your fists tightly.

Slapping and squelching sounds filled the room as their movements picked up. The air growing heavy with the smell of sex. Dabi was rutting into her in a way that had her breasts bouncing in a particular rhythm.

There was something so enticing about the way she pushed herself back onto him every time he gave short deep thrusts. She clawed at his chest, trying to push him away but he wasn't having it. Instead he drove into her faster and more ruthlessly as a warning.

This moment was too intimate and private, but you couldn't bring yourself to look away either.

It was intoxicating.

Suddenly a long keening sound left her lips, hands digging into the once pristine sheets, almost tearing them apart. Dabi hit a special spot inside of her that neither of you could see.

Heat rushed to your belly in an all too familiar feeling.

He continued hitting that spot, her body violently shaking and writhing. The way his hips were angled, it brushed against the little button at the top of her mound perfectly.

That was the last straw.

She came so hard, no doubt clamping tightly around his cock. Causing him to throw his head back in eye rolling pleasure with a deep throaty groan. His movements began to filter in order to prolong the feeling, but he quickly regained his composure and picked up where he left off. Triggering her into squirting all over his abdomen. Not once, twice but thrice.

His abdomen glistened with her juices and his added sweat. The way his hair fell into his eyes and clung to his neck had your heart skipping a beat.

"Does this make you feel good?" He asked her as his hips bucked up. Voice deep, too deep.

Fuck yes.

She responded in a tired moan.

"I could have you like this underneath me every night if you just–" he snapped his hips into hers to accentuate his point, "–begged nicely."

Jesus.

She continued to mewl, clawing into the sheets as she neared her second orgasm.

"All you got to —fuck— say is please and I'll be scratching every itch inside of you that those fingers can't reach." He toppled over her, dropping both hands on either side of the her head.

"Uh huh." She let out, eyes squeezed shut in concentration.

"I don't like being ignored." He looked at you this time, making you jolt. One of his hands reached out to grip around her throat, making her gasp as he controlled her airway.

When she responded in a broken moan, he ignored her and kept his eyes focused on you instead. He narrowed his eyes, something dark flashing in them before he looked back down at her. A deep growl in his throat.

Oh.

He was talking to you the entire time.

You rubbed your thighs together to ease the aching between your legs.

It didn't go by unnoticed, as much as you hoped. Dabi gave you a look that made him seem so vulnerable at that moment. All his walls came crashing down and for once you could read his facial expression. He desperately wanted you to be the one underneath him.

"Touch yourself." He commanded, hips bucking in urgency.

He was close.

Yui was long forgotten as it felt like it was just the two of you in the room. You did as he said, ignoring the voice in your head that was calling you a 'fucking idiot.'

You unzipped your pants, enough to give him a view of the shape of your pussy and the increasing wet patch at the center of your lace panties. You pushed your hand into your pants, while the other bunched your shirt up. The moment your fingers brushed against your drenched folds through your panties, you closed your eyes and let out a silent moan. Everything felt hypersensitive. You didn't care that this wasn't enough to send you over the edge, all you cared about was imagining it was him touching you like this, rubbing your clit in tight circles as he fucked you into next week.

"Fuck." He let out after a long time of being silent. "Good girl, just like that–"

A loud groan ripped out of his throat before he could finish his rambling.

Not too long and the rhythm Dabi started with began to stutter when his hips bucked up irregularly. The woman underneath him putting on a whole performance but he continued to ignore her in favor of you.

He gave you a needy look as he gave one last sloppy thrust, waves of pleasure being sent to your pussy.

Dabi let out a moan that was so guttural and so deep as he came inside of her wishing it was you instead. He chased his high in quick juvenile thrusts, making sure every last drop was emptied inside of her.

His hips continued to twitch from his intense climax, a pained hiss leaving his lips. The oversensitivity finally catching up to him.

He gave her a slow open mouthed kiss after they regained their breaths. Pulling his softening cock out of her with a wet pop. He nuzzled his face into her neck, causing her to giggle and hug his form closer to hers. And he allowed it.

He looked back up at you, an indescribable look passing through his eyes. It was quickly gone as it had come, being replaced by a smirk and knowing wink that said everything you needed to know.

Bastard

Dabi was an incredible actor and you were just another one of his victims.

You left just as Dabi started getting hard again, obviously he could go for another round, a round you wanted no part in witnessing.

You weren't going to be used by him again in order for him to find a quick release. To hell with him and his twisted version of testing someone's loyalty. You felt utterly humiliated and dirty. All you wanted was to go back to the PLF hideout and crawl into your bed and forget this all happened.

How could you be so stupid. He had this all planned out from the start. No wonder he was so quick to help you when the mission started going downhill.

You hated him so much.

You wanted to scream when you realized he told you the room number on purpose despite being in the middle of that. He wanted you come up and catch him in the act, and that's why he had no problem in you watching him do those things to her. He wanted to see what you'd do in that situation. This was all one big joke to him.

Yet you couldn't understand why you were still so horny and soaking wet.

[moriartease]

@fxckingmoran cont. from [this meme thing]

Sebastian’s nose wrinkles, his gaze turning back to the man bleeding out on his bedroom floor. He’s lying there, spluttering and looking up at them with wide eyes. Any attempts to say something are silenced by the sniper. “Jesus christ, shut the fuck up.” A bullet between the eyes to finish the job. Better to put the poor bastard out of his misery. Attention returns to Jim. “Technically, yes - It is my mess. But I’d like to point out that he was planning on stabbing me first. I’m just quicker. He’s that bloke that Scotland Yard have been looking for.” He throws his gun onto the bed. “It’s just my luck that the first shag I’ve had in months turns out to be a sex crazed killer.” He drops to his haunches, patting the man on the cheek. “Poor fucker met his match in me.” Eyes look up at Jim. “Why won’t you help me move him? He’s lanky, I don’t know if he’ll fit in the back of my car.”

Jim looks on dispassionately as the poor sod gurgles and fails to draw another lungful of crucial, life-giving oxygen, eyes already starting to fade by the time Sebastian puts a bullet in him. Something left unsaid has him prickling uncomfortably, whether it be the mention of their currently possessing the body of somebody the Yarders have been sniffing after, or the revelation that Moran has been sticking it in him recently. 

“And why would I want to do that?” he wonders, deliberately difficult simply for the sake of spite. Jim’s brimming with it, and he doesn’t necessarily always know why. This time, he can chalk it up to the sorry state of his carpet, and the impending decision he will have to make regarding whether he ought to pay to have it cleaned or simply purchase something new for this space. “That’s what I’ve got you for.”

He runs both hands down over the front of silk pajamas, then, shooting Sebastian an incredulous look. Is he expected to ruin good silk, too?

[xxgoblin-dumplingxx]

Mission of Mercy: Thirty-Five

Bucky wasn’t sure what the fuck your mother was trying to accomplish, but he knew she wasn’t doing it. You were using the same tone of voice you used with Rookies who were having a breakdown.  And that Bucky assumed you used with clients in an old life.

There was too much chatter for him to clearly make out the words. The clink and clatter of glasses and cutlery and the low, buzzing hum of conversation. Ostensibly, this was a celebratory dinner. One that you’d organized without telling your mom it was a celebration. And now, after the announcement, you were standing off to the side trying to coax her into coming back to the table. Because of all things, your mother was furious that you were using a family heirloom as your engagement ring. 

Because it should have been Clay’s. But mostly because it had never been given to Rex to give to her. Rex had, evidently, told her it had been lost instead of telling her that his mother just forbade him to use it. 

Joe glanced to the side and cringed slightly, “Sorry, kid,” he sighed, “I didn’t know it would cause this much of a fuss.”

Bucky smiled a little and let the waited refill his glass, “It’s not like you could have known… Y/N either for that matter.”

“Still-” but whatever he meant to say, was cut off when he saw you walking back towards the table with your mom.

“Everything okay?” Natasha asked, stepping on Steve’s foot to keep him from getting up to pull out Carlie’s chair. 

“Fine,” you say brightly, giving her a meaningful look over your mom shoulder. 

“It isn’t,” Carlie argued, “It isn’t yours.”

“Carlie,” Joe cut in over you, “Margie didn’t like you. Nobody did. And, at the time you and Rex got married my wife was still wearing it.” The old man sounded tired. He hated that this was being discussed in public. “I gave it to the boy because Clay is dead. I figured it made sense for Y/N to use it now… And if they ever have a son she can gift it to him.”

Carlie made an irritated sound and Bucky heard you mutter, “Mom, you’re making a scene. No stop.” And there was a sudden little bit of calm. It swept through the table like a cool breeze on a hot still day.

“I hate it when you do that,” she snapped. Still obviously irritated. “It’s creepy.”

And for the first time, Bucky realized that you didn’t change a person’s emotions. You just changed their perception. 

“I like it,” Steve said helpfully. Bucky nodded in agreement and hoped Steve or Sam would have something to add. 

“Xanax doesn’t work on supersoldiers,” Sam said stage whispering to Carlie.

“Really?”

Steve and Bucky both nodded. And then it happened. 

Things went from bad to worse. And like the barometer you are, you saw it coming but couldn’t do anything about it.

“She’s an asset on missions,” Steve said trying to be helpful. And three Identical gasps. From Sam, From Joe, and from Carlie, clued Steve in that he had made a horrible, terrible mistake.

“On missions?” Carlie said rounding on you, “I thought you worked at the hospital.”

“I do,” you say, taking a sip of your champagne, “Part time.”

“You lied to me?”

The ear splitting screech caused both supersoldiers to wince and several other dinner parties to turn and glare.

“To avoid exactly this conversation,” you say calmly. Bucky knows you don’t feel calm. He can see the tension ratcheting down on your body. Ready to run. He puts an arm around the back of your chair and squeezes your shoulder.

When she raised her hand to slap you ,you catch her wrist, “Stop.” Your voice never rose, it was still the same calm tone.

“Ma’am your daughter is a hero,” Steve tried. 

But when it was clear you weren’t going to bow to her tirades she twisted her wrist out of your grip and swatted her drink at you, spattering your face, your dress, Bucky and Joe with the gin and tonic she had been drinking. You sat stock still and didn’t turn your head as she stormed off  but you did take the napkin Sam proffered to get the liquor off your face.

“Excuse me,” you say quietly, standing and turning the opposite direction she’d gone. Heading towards the washroom. And Natasha follows with both of your bags quickly. She isn't sure what exactly you have in your bag to fix your make up but she says a silent thank you to the creator of waterproof mascara. 

Bucky watches helplessly for a minute and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Thanks, Steve.”

“She called her creepy,” Steve said, offended on your behalf.

Joe chuckled bitterly, “Son,” he said, “That’s mild. And nothing compared to the earful she’s gonna get.” The old man shook his head and pushed his plate away. Sam looked towards where your mother was standing outside waiting for someone to chase after her. To soothe her wounded feelings.

“Are you gonna-”

“Nope,” Bucky said, not turning.

“Buck-” Steve started, not really sure what he wants to say but knowing that Bucky looks livid.

“Stop helping,” Sam said quietly, watching Joe pat the brunette’s shoulder. 

Bucky turned and looked at the old man and he smiled a little, “Give her a few minutes to get herself calmed down.” Bucky nodded and took a deep breath. 

“Well this wasn’t how I wanted the night to go,” he said dabbing at his shirt with the napkin Steve handed him and handing one to Joe. “Do the melt downs ever get less dramatic?”

“Nope.”

Bucky watched Carlie start back inside and stood, “Excuse me, gentlemen. I’m about to go put the fear of god in this woman.”

____

You pause at the door of the washroom, looking towards the window. “What’s Bucky doing?” you ask, lips bloodless. So far you’d managed to keep them mostly separated. Your mother required careful handling and you’d built a pleasant little fiction for her about your life.

“I don’t know,” Natasha said quietly, looking to where Bucky’s co-conspirators appeared to be pretending nothing was happening. She handed the glass a helpful waitress had given her to another waitress and linked her arm through yours. 

“Chin up, tits out, I suppose,” you mutter letting her lead you to the table. You kiss Joe on the cheek and take the chair Sam is holding for you.

“What’s going on?” Natasha asked. 

Joe cleared his throat and took a sip of his beer, “Tin Man out there is giving Carlie the tongue lashing she deserves I  imagine.” When you make a strangled sound and start to get up, Joe puts a hand on your arm. “Sunshine,” he said quietly, “You sit right there. People have been kowtowing to her shit since you were a baby. But now you’re grown and there’s no way for her to hold you over all our heads. This has been a long time coming.”

_______

Carlie turned to face Bucky, expecting her future son-in-law to give her a sympathetic ear. She sniffled pathetically and Bucky had to fight the urge to roll his eyes. “What the fuck,” he asked quietly, “Do you think you’re doing?”

The woman in front of him drew herself up to his full height and glared at him “Don’t you dare-”

“I will dare. And I’ll tell you this. You ever talk to my wife like that again and I’ll personally make sure that you never see her again. We’re not playing the poor me game any more. You think you’re the only one at that table that’s ever been lied to? Ever lost somebody?” He took a deep breath and half a step forward making Carlie move back out of the walk way and closer to the wall. 

“You don’t know how hard it is,” she spat.

“No- I only spent 70 years as a mind controlled zombie while everyone I ever loved thought I was dead. Carlie, no one wins the misery olympics.”

“I raised-”

“Everyone else raised,” he corrected. “They raised those kids while you wallowed and treated Y/N like she was a freak. Do you know why Y/N joined SHIELD?”

Carlie didn’t answer. She wouldn’t even look at Bucky.

“She took the job because she thought it was her one chance to find Clay and bring him home.”

The woman looked up and he shook his head. “She talks about him like he’s in the next room. Everything she’s ever done she’s been competing with your ghosts. And I’m not going to let her anymore.”

He hailed a cab for her and turned, taking a deep breath. He had more he wanted to say but he just couldn’t. He was so angry that he was liable to say something he couldn’t take back. So he left. Leaving her to decide where she was going and to go and kiss you until he didn’t want to shake your mother until her teeth rattled.

[mst3kproject]

The Monster Maker

I could have sworn J. Carroll Naish was on MST3K at some point but the only thing I can find from his filmography that has appeared on this blog is Dracula vs Frankenstein, in which he played Dr. D'Ray.  Not that it matters.  The Monster Maker's producer, Sigmund Neufeld, also brought us MST3K feature The Mad Monster, and writer Sam Newfield penned both that film and I Accuse my Parents (not to mention the world's only all-midget cowboy musical, Terror of Tiny Town), but mostly I'm watching this movie because... well, you know, it sucks.

I know what you're thinking, and as far as I can tell, no, Sigmund Neufeld and Sam Newfield are not the same guy who's just bad at pseudonyms.

Anthony Lawrence is one of the world's greatest pianists, but with a concert tour finished he's looking forward to relaxing and spending some time with his daughter Patricia and her fiance Bob.  Sadly, this is not to be, as Patricia has come to the attention of Dr. Igor Markov, who believes her to be the reincarnation of his dead wife Leonora.  He spends weeks harassing poor Pat, until her father storms over to Markov's office to tell him where he can shove his attentions. Little does Lawrence know he's walking into a trap.  Markov has been experimenting on animals in his basement, and if Lawrence doesn't hand over Patricia, the next syringe is for him!

I have mixed feelings about this movie.  It surprisingly subverts several tropes of the mad scientist movie, including some it deliberately sets up only to pull the rug out from under them, resulting in a surprisingly happy ending.  On the other hand, it does this in ways that aren't always very satisfying, and its treatment of the disabled is frightful.

For an illustrative example, let's take Dr. Markov's caged gorilla.  The movie never tells us why he has a caged gorilla.  He says it's vital to his work but we never see him do anything much with it... I assume it's there because the caged gorilla was a standard part of the mad scientist lab equipment in the 1940s and 50s.  The only time we see him interact with it is when he sets it loose in the middle of the night to murder his traitorous assistant, Maxine, who had threatened to go to the police.  We cut to the gorilla back in its cage the next morning, and we assume Maxine is dead – only to have her walk in and tell us that her protective dog drove the gorilla back to the lab.

This is kind of a fun moment, not only because it's a surprise but because everything in it was set up, not just the gorilla but the animosity between it and the dog.  It also enables the eventual happy ending – after Markov is killed, Patricia worries that nobody else will be able to help her father. However, Maxine is familiar with Markov's work, and assures her that Lawrence will be just fine with a few weeks of treatment.  That's all quite nice for a mad scientist movie of this vintage!  It's also interesting in that it tells us these tropes were around to be subverted – that audiences in 1944 had already seen enough stupid mad scientist movies to know that the gorilla is supposed to kill the traitorous assistant and that the ending is supposed to be a tragedy.

The problem is that this leaves the gorilla with no reason to be in the movie at all besides to fake us out.  It ultimately has no effect on the plot whatsoever other than to establish Markov as a bastard, which by now we already knew.  You cannot put Chekov's Gorilla in a cage in act one, wave it around in act two before putting it back with a 'psych!', and then not have it break somebody's neck in act three.  It still has to do something, or you're just being a tease.

The fact that Maxine is able to cure Lawrence speaks to the fact that The Monster Maker is surprisingly respectful of its women.  Maxine is quite intelligent and knows her love for Markov is self-destructive, but feels she has devoted too much of her life to him to leave him now.  Patricia is a less substantial character, but her father treats her with great respect – when Markov demands Patricia in exchange for a cure, Lawrence continues to refuse even after the mad doctor has robbed him of his friends, his passion, and his career.  Pat's fiance Bob has fewer principles, as he repeatedly lies to her in the belief that he is protecting her from the truth, but this too is presented as the wrong thing to do and I hope we're meant to believe Bob learns from it. The screenwriters' general attitude seems to be that women should be allowed to make up their own minds about things.

Markov, as the villain, is also the movie's misogynist, and this is in no way subtle.  He wants to marry Patricia because she resembles Leonora – and that's it.  Her personality, her background, and her wishes mean nothing to him.  All he cares about is her face.  What she represents to him is an attempt to undo the wrong he did to Leonora herself.  We eventually learn that Leonora left him for another man, and in revenge he injected her with his monster juice.  He had hoped that her new love would leave her because she was no longer beautiful, but in fact Leonora committed suicide because she couldn't stand to look at herself in the mirror.

This tends to make one wonder what would have happened if Leonora had tried to crawl back to Markov.  At the time this happened, he didn't yet have a cure for his creations.  Would he have gone on to find one sooner in order to help her?  Or would he, too, have rejected her now that she was ugly?  I kind of suspect the latter.  He's only sorry about any of this because she died.  He wanted her back less than he wanted her to live in misery, knowing that without her looks she would have no value.

Interestingly, this also applies somewhat to Lawrence.  As his condition progresses, he locks himself in his room and puts records on so that nobody will realize he is now unable to play the piano... but he also keeps the lights off and refuses to admit anybody, too ashamed to show his face.  Ugliness apparently makes both sexes unfit company for the rest of us.

Markov himself speaks with a German accent despite having a Russian name. He manages to be slightly less creepy than the Great Vorelli or Dr. Carlo Lombardi, but only because he never resorts to rape via hypnosis.  Upon realizing he has found a cure for a terrible disease, his first reaction is to triumphantly declare that he can charge whatever he wants for it... eighty years later, that's still depressingly relevant.

So all this is okay and at times fairly progressive for the 1940s, but now we have to get into The Monster Maker's attitude towards the disabled.  I've been a little cagey about exactly what it is Dr. Markov is doing to his victims, and you've probably been picturing some sort of mutagen that makes them go all lumpy and melty like that guy in Robocop. Unfortunately, no.  Remember acromegaly, the hormonal disorder that Richard Kiel and Rondo Hatton suffered from?  Yeah.  Markov has a bottle of it in his cupboard.

I don't know how you bottle acromegaly, but at least they did better than the people who made Tarantula and fucking spelled it right.

Acromegaly is not a cheerful diagnosis.  Lawrence's doctor tells him it's not fatal, but that isn't always true – a lot of sufferers, including Hatton, die from the complications.  It disfigures the head, hands, and feet, and would definitely be a devastating disease for a pianist... all of which makes it that much worse that this stupid movie keeps using the word 'monster'.  Lawrence even describes himself as such, comparing his situation to that of Frankenstein's Monster and declaring that he will similarly kill Markov for what he has done to him.  In the end he does exactly that, and the movie never addresses it on any level besides 'boy, good thing the bad guy is dead!'

This is probably because, clearly, the real monster Markov has made is himself... but that's subtext.  In the text, his monsters are his overgrown pigs and Anthony Lawrence.  I just blasted Tarantula for spelling the name of the condition incorrectly, but that movie at least did not even imply that its human acromegaliacs were 'monsters'.  They were in every way victims, even when their sufferings were as a result of experimenting on themselves.  Lawrence is also a victim, but the movie plays up the 'monster' idea in more than just the title: Lawrence's condition also makes him restless and prone to violence, as he repeatedly attacks Markov and at one point must be tied to a bed to prevent him doing so.  Markov suggests that this is a side effect of the hormonal problems, but Lawrence's own belief that he's becoming a 'monster' also appears to have something to do with it.

In the end, this movie is way too much like The Brute Man, in telling us that the ugly and disabled can never be an accepted part of society.  Hal Moffat was forced into the shadows, while Anthony Lawrence takes to them voluntarily, but for the same reason: ugliness is made for gawking at, not for normal relationships such as that between partners, or parents and children.  Fuck that.

[firstfrostfall]

A Cold Lament - Chapter One

a tommy shelby fanfiction

In the winter of 1918, the Shelby brothers returned home from a war-torn France. In the winter of the following year, the middle brother, Tommy, recognizes an opportunity for his family to move up in the world, and it came in the shape of a misplaced crate of weapons.

In the meantime, per the request of his aunt, he gives a struggling young woman a job.

Little did he know, that like the smell of snow on the wind in late autumn, everything was going to change, and it wasn’t just because of some stolen guns.

Takes place during Season One.

“This is a story, told the way you say stories should be told: Somebody grew up, fell in love, and spent a winter with her lover in the country. This, of course, is the barest outline, and futile to discuss. It's as pointless as throwing birdseed on the ground while snow still falls fast. Who expects small things to survive when even the largest get lost? People forget years and remember moments. Seconds and symbols are left to sum things up: the black shroud over the pool. Love, in its shortest form, becomes a word. What I remember about all that time is one winter. The snow. Even now, saying ‘snow,’ my lips move so that they kiss the air.” - Ann Beattie, Snow

WINTER, 1918

Tommy returned from France in the afternoon, after days of riding in a cramped train. Before that, he was crammed in the back of a cattle truck, and before that, well, he was deep underground, caked in mud and blood, digging away in a French tunnel.

It was cold when he stepped off of the cart, shoulder-to-shoulder with his brothers and the hundreds of other men who piled onto the platform. Former soldiers, all of them. Former. What did that make them now?

The sky was a broad, gray hand, and the wind smelled like snow. It was that certain smell that came around when the trees were bare and noses were red. Clean and winter, wide open. Like the whole world was about to change.

For two weeks after returning home, Tommy filled his days with other people, so as to avoid the quiet. Work with Polly in the shop, cards with Arthur at the Garrison, guns, and horses with John, nights with the same pool of working girls over and over again. Without people, the emptiness that came along with the quiet consumed him. He tried to remember what he was like, before the war, but he soon learned that it was impossible to recall, because he was in the after now.

At night, he would lie awake in bed, smoking an endless chain of cigarettes to avoid sleep. Not that it came easy to him, anyway. But there were times, albeit few and far between, where he would fall asleep, and he would find the quiet. Or, rather, the quiet would find him.

The quiet parts were all nightmares, dark rivers of mud and lost souls. He could never tell whether they were souls he knew now, or if they were people from the past, soldiers, screaming in voices made of wire. He would wake with a start, panting and covered in sweat, followed by a sense of relief that it was over. It wasn’t real. Sometimes the dreams would follow him during the day, usually in the sounds of shovels scraping against his wall when it was just him, alone in his bedroom, and the only other noise was the heavy thumping of his heart.

When the dreams that chased him into the day became more frequent, the cigarettes in bed turned into a pipe of opium. It kept the quiet out.

There were few opportunities after the war. Most jobs were an exercise in shared misery, toiling away in a factory for 15 hours a day- at least. So, he took matters into his own hands. It started as glancing encounters with petty crimes. Little shipments of illegal goods, a fixed race or two, then a little more, and a little more… Instead of people, Tommy found a new way to keep the quiet at bay.

Organized crime was a lucrative business, after all. Under the umbrella of the Peaky Blinders, it gave his family name a new sense of meaning, a sense of power.

And then, as if by divine intervention, a crate of guns were dropped at his doorstep. From that moment on, just like the smell of snow, the whole world changed. His whole world changed.

THE BRINK OF WINTER, 1919

He was at The Garrison with his brothers, sipping whiskey and listening to the two of them argue. Cards were scattered across the table, each play held in place by half-empty pints of beer and overflowing ashtrays. Their shared cigarette smoke made the air in the tiny room hazy and thick, so much so that Tommy could feel his eyes stinging each time he blinked.

They were in the middle of a card game until Arthur was losing and subsequently blamed it on John for cheating. Arthur had put a heavy wager on himself winning, which was a poor move on his part- John always cheated at cards. Tommy shook his head, their bickering nothing but static in the back of his mind. Another way to keep out the quiet.

Their argument was interrupted by a knock on the window that separated their private room from the bar. Arthur’s words slurred together and bellowed something along the lines of “open up,” at whoever was knocking. The barkeep, Harry, poked his head through.

“Good, uh, morning,” He nodded to the three of them. “I’m sorry for interrupting, but, there’s a boy here asking for Mr. Shelby.”

“Which one?” John laughed, sipping his pint as he elbowed Arthur in the side.

Harry leaned away to shout a question at someone from across the bar, before turning back to them. “Thomas, he says.”

“The one who matters the most,” Tommy deadpanned, a slight smirk on his lips. He waved a hand at the barkeep. “Send him in.”

Harry muttered a quick “yes, sir” and promptly closed the window.

Arthur, who sat closest to the door, kicked it open. A young man, who really was more of a boy, after all, stood before them. Removing his cap and gripping it tightly in between his fingers, he took a few hesitant steps into the snug.

“Mrs. Gray says she needs you at the shop, Mr. Shelby,” He shifted from foot to foot. “At once, she said.”

“At once,” Arthur repeated with a grin, clapping Tommy on the shoulder.  “What did you do now, eh?”

“Looks like I’m on my way to find out,” Tommy pushed himself up from the booth and finished the rest of his whiskey in one swig. “Tell Mrs. Gray I’ll be right there,” He nodded to the boy and flicked a spare coin from his waistcoat at him. “Go on now.”

Tommy shrugged on his cap and jacket and followed the boy out of the pub, a fresh cigarette perched between his lips. He walked through the streets of Small Heath with his hands shoved in his pockets, watching the boy’s pace hasten in front of him from under his cap. The sky was dark, a thick curtain of gray, save for the tiny bulb of sun that just barely broke through the clouds. It was ominous, no doubt threatening a chilling rainstorm later, or perhaps, snow.

It was almost winter again.

He tipped the brim of his cap to the nameless working men who flitted in and out of the betting shop, a cloud of breath escaping their lips with each hurried “G’day, Mr. Shelby” that they gave him in passing.

The shop was busy, filled with the chattering of hopefuls who placed bets, the sound of a man shouting names and scratching too little chalk across the green board. He noticed his aunt, Polly Gray, hunched over a desk, eyebrows knitted together in concentration. She fidgeted with a cigarette in between two fingers while she read over what he could only assume was a packet of ledgers.

He stopped short in front of her. “You needed me?”

“Oh, Thomas,” She flicked the ash from her cigarette and sat up, the legs of the chair scraping against the uneven floorboards. “What’s your schedule for tomorrow?”

“Not sure,” He replied, “Depends on who’s asking.”

Polly scoffed, beckoning him to follow with a flick of her wrist. “Your aunt’s asking, come with me.” She led him to their family’s parlor, allowing him to step ahead of her while she drew the curtains that separated them from the rest of the shop.

“I have a favor to ask,” She glanced at him from over her shoulder, balancing the cigarette between her lips while she tied the curtains together tightly. She let out an audible sigh and finally turned around to face him.

Tommy leaned against the wall, still tending to his own dwindling cigarette. “What’s the favor?”

“I need to hire someone.”

“Who?”

“A friend,” She replied. “Well, the niece of a friend.”

“Niece?”

“Are you a fucking parrot?” Polly snapped at him. Shaking her head, she leaned over the table to twist out the remaining stub of her cigarette into an ashtray. “I’d have already hired her myself, but since you’ve been back, I need to jump through a few more hoops before making any executive decisions.” She sighed, clearly bitter. “Nothing gets done without your knowledge.”

Tommy rolled his eyes. “Who is she?”

“I know her aunt from church, she asked me if I could get her a job.”

“You’re asking me for a favor? For another favor?” He clicked his tongue against his teeth. “Seems like a bad deal to me.”

“I didn’t ask if it was a bad deal or not, I asked if I could hire someone.”

He exhaled, bringing the cigarette to his lips and looking away from her. A headache started building up in the back of his skull. “Why here?”

“She trusts that I’ll look out for her niece,” Polly answered quickly, “She has many children of her own, she can’t afford another mouth to feed anymore. Her husband died in France,” Polly paused, taking a seat at the table. “The bottom line is, she thought to ask me for help, and that means something.”

“What’s the name?”

“Caldwell.”

Tommy remained silent for a long while.

“She’s having hard times, and doesn’t want to kick her own flesh and blood out onto the curb.”

“Aren’t we all having hard times?” He raised an eyebrow.

“She’s desperate. Will you help me, or not?”

“This isn't women’s business.”

Polly rolled her eyes. “Her aunt was good to me, while you boys were away at war, back when it was women’s business,” Polly rolled her eyes. “I’m just trying to pay that good nature forward.”

“Since when did you start paying things forward?”

“Since today,” She huffed, “I’ll ask again. Will you help me or not?”

“Why should I waste company resources on a girl we don’t know, for a job we don’t have. Have you met her before?”

Polly glanced away from him, purposefully silent while tucking a stray curl behind her ear. “Her aunt says she’s a good girl.”

“A good girl,” Tommy scoffed, dropping the stub of his cigarette into the ashtray at the center of the table. “Exactly what we need, a good girl . So you don’t know her?”

“Says she’s a hard worker too.”

“Do you even know her name?” He narrowed his eyes at her and then added. “Besides the surname.”

Polly avoided his gaze, instead fidgeting with the golden rings on her fingers.

“Would you just give this a chance?” She cleared her throat. “You don’t even have to hire her. But would you at least see her? Interview her?”

“What job am I supposed to interview her for?” He blankly stared at her. “What have you promised?”

“I haven’t promised anything.” Polly continued, “But I know she’s good with numbers. She’s got certifications.”

“Ah, certifications,” He rolled his eyes, sarcasm lacing his voice. “I’d reckon then that she could find a job, literally, anywhere else.”

“It’s not that easy, Thomas,” Polly shook her head, “If you don’t want her working in the shop, we can find something else for her to do. It’ll be my responsibility.” She paused, pursing her lips. “Her aunt trusts me, she knows I’ll look after her. This is important to me.”

He took a deep breath, shutting his eyes for a moment. The headache that started in the back of his skull had traveled all of the way to his forehead now. When he opened his eyes, he saw a worry wracking his aunt’s face. He began walking toward the curtains but stopped short.

“I’ll see her tomorrow,” Tommy turned on his heel to face her, emphasizing each word with a jab of his finger. “Three o’clock at The Garrison. But if she’s even a second late, it’s over.”

Polly smiled, clasping her hands together in front of her. “Thank you, Thomas.”

Tommy tossed a cigarette stub onto the sidewalk and twisted it into the cement with the heel of his shoe. He pulled his pocket watch from his waistcoat and peered at it, then glanced up at the gilded sign of The Garrison. It was almost three o’clock.

I’m asking as a favor, Thomas. Ridiculous. He was quickly learning that most favors were an additional headache for him.

The pub was empty, save for Harry who was wiping down the bar top. The barkeep caught his eye and tilted his head in the direction of a booth, where his aunt and another person sat. From where he stood, the other person was the back of a neat head of red hair. Polly didn’t notice him initially, seemingly engrossed in conversation, so he tipped his cap to Harry and made his way into the private room.

The window to the bar popped open, and the barkeep, ever-dutiful, appeared.

“Whiskey,” Tommy said, never looking directly at him. He took a seat at the booth and dropped his cap onto the empty space next to him. “And tell my aunt that I’ll be waiting in here, I’d like to speak with her first.”

Harry muttered a quick affirmation in response and disappeared from sight. By the time he returned with his drink in hand, there was a brisk knock at the main door to the room. Before Tommy could say anything, the door swung open, and it was Polly who stood there.

“You didn’t even say hello.”

“This is your favor,” He gave her a pointed nod. “Not mine.”

She rolled her eyes.

Tommy jerked his chin toward the pub. “You walked her here?”

“Keep your voice down, she’ll hear you,” Polly glanced behind her quickly and waved a hand at him. “Yes, I walked her here. I wanted to make a good impression.”

“A good impression, eh?” He motioned to her with the drink in his hand. “You’ve got an hour of my time. Bring her in.”

He didn’t have the slightest clue as to what job he was interviewing her for.

Polly couldn’t have left him anymore unprepared. He didn’t know anything about this girl, besides her surname, and perhaps that she could add a few numbers together, and her aunt was poor as the poorest. He vowed, at that very moment, that this would be the last time he would do a favor for anyone ever again.

He had better things to do. Better things that specifically involved a misplaced crate of guns that had fallen right into his lap a few days prior, and were currently gathering dust in Charlie Strong’s yard.

Polly left the door ajar. He turned to the frosted window that gave a blurry view of the streets beyond the pub. The sky was still overcast, just as it was the day before. The clouds were significantly darker, it looked like snow was more likely than rain. Then, an unfamiliar voice tore him from his musings. It was crisp and clear, with an accent that hinted at expensive schooling.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Shelby.”

When Tommy turned to look at her, he wondered if he’d managed at all to mask his surprise. He wasn’t sure what he was expecting, but it wasn’t… this. By the sound of her accent and smooth skin of her face, this girl, or woman, rather, in front of him couldn’t have been any older than twenty. Young, with fair skin, dressed sharply in a cream blouse and green skirt, not a wrinkle or crease in sight. In one hand, she held a folder, and with the other, she brushed a few auburn curls behind her ear. She looked at him expectantly, giving a flash of a smile framed in bright red lips.

Polly painted him a completely different picture. He assumed this girl would be showing up in moth-eaten clothes, raspy voice from working in a factory of some sort, gangly and thin. She was thin, yes, but didn’t look impoverished. She looked like a high society bitch, dropped in the middle of a dreary factory town. It was humorous, in a way.

He took a measured sip of his drink and motioned for her to take a seat.

“Miss Caldwell, was it?” His voice trailed off as he studied her, waiting for her to fill in the blanks.

“Anna,” She answered, smoothing out her skirt on her lap. “Anna Caldwell. Thank you for seeing me today, especially on such short notice.”

He could see why Polly walked her here, and it became quite clear to him that it wasn’t just to make a good impression. She, Anna , that was her name, didn’t fit in around Small Heath one bit. It was evident in the way she was dressed, and the way she spoke.

She looked greener than the fucking grass at Easter. Certainly didn’t fit in around Small Heath. Certainly not fit for waltzing around Small Heath.

“Yes, well,” He cleared his throat, “Polly spoke very highly of your aunt.”

“My aunt speaks highly of her,” She replied. “They got to know each other during the war, as I suppose many women did.”

Tommy nodded, reaching for his drink. For a while, he attempted to make small talk. It was like pulling fucking teeth. Eventually, he reached his breaking point and decided to cut to the chase. One could only talk about the weather for so long. An attractive woman, he supposed, made it easier, but he wasn’t here to make nice with her, he was fulfilling a favor for his aunt. It was a business transaction, as simple as that.

“Why do you need this job?”

“Well,” She opened her mouth slightly, and then closed it, clearly taken aback by the bluntness of the question. “My aunt is a busy woman. I’ve been staying with her for a while now, and I think it’s time that I start finding my own work, to support myself. To ease the burden on her.”

A politer explanation of the situation in comparison to what Polly told him. He suspected it was a half-truth, on Anna’s part.

“I see,” He extended an open hand to her. “You brought a resume?”

Anna nodded fiercely, carefully opening the folder and handing him a thick piece of paper. He took it from her and slowly began scanning each line. She didn’t have much experience, in, well, anything. There were a few CPA courses dated from a couple of years back, a reference or two. No example of any steady job. In fact, she had never worked at all.

“There’s been few opportunities after the war, finding work has been difficult.”

Few opportunities after the war, he hummed at that.

“Where are you from?”

“A little village far from here,” She answered, shaking her head ever so slightly, causing a few strands of hair to fall in her face. “I doubt you’ve heard of it.”

“Humor me.”

“Eastcliff, it’s far south of here.”

“Doesn’t ring a bell,” He turned the page over. “And you’re living in Birmingham now?”

“Yes,” Anna folded her hands on the table. “A few streets away from this place, actually.” She glanced around the room. “Although I haven’t come around here often.”

He fought a smirk from appearing on his lips. Of course, she’d never come around these parts.

“You took some CPA courses?” He raised an eyebrow, peering at her from over the paper.

She nodded, leaning close to him to point at something on the paper. As he laid her resume on the table, her fingertips brushed across his knuckles. His eyes flicked toward hers and held her gaze. He noticed her cheeks flush, if only slightly when he pulled his hand away. She cleared her throat and tapped a finger on a certain line.

He looked at her hands while she spoke, her words melding together and becoming a lull in the back of his mind. Her hands were smooth, not a callus, or scar for that matter. Not the hands of a factory girl. He glanced up to her face next. Murky blue eyes, fair with a dusting of freckles across her nose, red curls framing her face. No work experience, few references, allegedly from a small village in fuck knows where. It was almost like she appeared out of thin air.

“Well, Miss Caldwell,” He finished the rest of his drink in a single swig. “I’ll speak to Mrs. Gray, and see what we can do.” He reached for her resume, “May I?”

He really had no intention of hiring her. There was no job available, especially since she barely had any experience in, well, anything. It would take a little more than a pretty face to change that. She would turn out to be a bad investment.

“Of course, please keep it.”

Tommy folded it into a small square and tucked it away in his jacket. Standing from the booth, he gestured to the door. “After you.”

“Thank you, Mr. Shelby,” Anna turned to him, smoothing all of her hair over one shoulder. It was long, he noticed, stopping just below her collarbone. “I appreciate the time you took to speak with me today.”

He shook his head. “It was no trouble.”

Polly approached them from the booth she was sitting at, placing an empty glass on the bartop in the process. “Anna, would you give me a moment with my nephew?”

“Of course,” She nodded, her heels clicking against the floor as she went to retrieve her coat from the booth she was sitting at earlier.

“So?” Polly asked him under her breath, eyes darting between him and Anna. “What did you think?”

Tommy leaned against the bar, watching as the girl bundled herself up in a wool coat and matching hat. “I don’t know what you expect me to do.”

“I expect you to do the right thing, and help someone out.”

He rolled his eyes, the right thing. “She doesn’t seem to be struggling,” Tommy jerked his chin to Anna. “Look, she has a nice coat.”

“Oh, please,” Polly hushed, nudging him in the side as she walked by.

“It was nice meeting you, Mr. Shelby.” Anna waved before stepping out of the pub. “Thank you again.”

“I’ll be right out,” Polly shouted to her when the front door closed with a jingle.

“I don’t know what to say, Pol,” He pulled his cigarette case from his waistcoat and placed it on the bar. “There aren’t any open positions at the shop,” He nodded to the door, “Especially not for a girl like her.”

“What do you mean? I’m sure she’d be a fine secretary.”

Tommy scoffed, perching a cigarette in between his lips. “What do we need a secretary for?”

“Having one would keep the shop running smoothly, we could always use the extra hands there. Doing the boring work you boys don’t like. There’s more to this business than just blood, you know.”

“I told you I’d interview her, and I did.” He cupped his hands around the lighter, waiting for it to catch. “She has barely any working experience on her resume besides a few courses. Hiring her would be a waste of time and resources. How old is she?”

“Twenty-three.”

“In that case, she could make some good money on her back,” He dragged the cigarette from his lips and exhaled a cloud of smoke.

“You’re despicable.”

“It’s an option.” He shrugged, glancing at his aunt from the corner of his eye. “I interviewed her. Favor fulfilled.”

“What am I supposed to do? Go out there and tell her there’s no job here for her?”

“This was your idea” Tommy deadpanned. “I already told you what she could do. Plenty of men around here would be willing to pay a pretty penny for a night with her.” He pointed to the door with his cigarette. “I’d bet, barely broken in.”

“Is this fun for you?” Polly snapped, jerking her head toward him.

He chose not to answer.

They stood in bitter silence, save for the sound of Polly incessantly tapping her foot on the ground. He glanced around the empty pub, dim light filtering in from the windows. In a few hours, the place would be booming with people, with just Harry managing the bar by himself. It was fine enough for him to do that during the war, there were barely any men around then, anyway. Nowadays? With the men back and in desperate need to drink away their sorrows, he was in over his head, each and every night.

Tommy grimaced. An idea trickled into his head. He peered at his aunt from the corner of his eye and cleared his throat.

“You’d be doing the girl and her aunt a favor if you just told them to pack off,” He reached for his cigarette case and shoved it haphazardly into his coat. “You had to walk her here, you say she’s good. Why would you even want her working with us in the first place?”

“Her aunt trusts me,” Polly sighed. “She knows I’ll keep an eye on her. Can’t say many other places offer that- peace of mind.”

Tommy hummed in response. He turned on his heel to face the bar and started banging his open palm against the bar top.

Polly raised an eyebrow at him.

Red-faced at the sudden noise, Harry came running from the back room.

“Another drink, Mr. Shelby?” He nodded his head toward Polly, tossing a stained cloth over his shoulder. “Mrs. Gray.”

“No, no drink,” Tommy spoke with a cigarette between his lips. “Are you still hiring?”

“Hiring? For the extra help around here?”

“Exactly that.”

Harry paused, glancing from Tommy to Polly then back again.

“Well, uh, yes. Yes, I am.”

Tommy tilted his head to Polly. “Would you look at that?”

Harry knelt behind the bar and began rifling through the shelves for something. Bottles and other miscellaneous items clattered together while he searched. “I put an advertisement in the paper,” He called from below. Eventually, he stood up and placed a crumpled newspaper in front of them. “Not many applicants, though.”

“You’re kidding, Thomas.” Polly took a step closer to the bar.

Tommy thumbed through the newspaper to the advertisement section. He scanned through each job posting line by line, until one, in particular, caught his eye.

“Here we are,” He folded the paper and handed it to Polly, tapping a specific headline with his finger. She snatched it from him and brought it close to her face, eyes narrowing at the fine print.

“She’s never done this kind of work before,” She muttered, never looking directly at him.

That was evidently clear to him. Her hands were a dead giveaway. He still wasn’t even sure if she had done any kind of work before. “You said she’s a hard worker, eh? There’s always time to learn.”

Polly didn’t reply, still clutching the newspaper tightly. She shook her head.

“You can go out there and tell her that it’s either this,” Tommy motioned to the pub around them. “Or on her back. It’s your choice.”

She glared at him, her lips forming a tight-line. Lifting her chin, she tucked the newspaper under her arm. “I’ll show her the advertisement.”

“She’ll be on the company payroll.” He raised his cigarette to her. “Favor fulfilled, Pol, and then some.”

Polly wordless turned on her heel and adjusted the velvet cap on her head. The door to the pub jingled as she stepped out.

“How about that drink?”

Tommy gave him a curt nod. He rested his elbows on the bartop, staring at the glossy wood.

“Huh, would you look at that,” Harry muttered as he uncorked a bottle. “It’s snowing. Early this year, isn’t it?”

Glancing out of The Garrison’s frosted windows, he saw that it had indeed started to snow. Tommy pulled the cigarette from his lips and sighed.

He swore that he had no intention of hiring her.

[mihidecet]

Sbi&CO d&d AU: The Dream Team

Aka: Tibi's MCYT WritingTober, day 29: "A normal day"

Listen the original prompt, from @the-only-gamer-gost 's list, was evidently mc related but I just had to write this. Whops ahah

It's time for you to meet another part of this AU's cast! I do hope you'll enjoy reading this ahahah

George takes a deep breath.

He is in his study: the smell surrounding him is gentle, of old wood and older books, of the flowers he's growing on the windowsill, of the almost empty cup of tea his tutor insisted he drank before practicing - "you can't do magic on an empty stomach, I will not have you pass out like a fresh-faced student with no experience!"

It is quite easy to fall back into his own mind, he's done it so many times ever since he started training, but it is never quite easy to-

A light thump, the sound of a small metallic bead hitting his window, prompts him to open his eyes.

George purses his lips in barely concealed irritation and shakes his head. He has to focus. This is precisely why he wanted to skip breakfast, so that he could start before they arrived to bother him.

He's been meaning to try out a new theory - a new spell - for a while, and it requires him to be at maximum concentration because time is a fickle bitch that does not like being toyed with.

So George closes his eyes again and focuses on the pattern of his breathing. He feels for a moment in complete awareness of every inch of his body, and then he opens his eyes.

In front of him, millions of millions of shimmering particles float, gently, into the air in front of him, as if somebody had decided to hang an infinite amount of pieces of iridescent glass with invisible strings. George could live a thousand years and never get tired of seeing the figments of reality and specks of possibilities that exist in the time dimension.

Raising his hand to touch one of them feels like moving through thick molasses after a day of exercise - his muscles protest, scream at him, and it is such a strenuous act.

But he knows to persist - what's coming is going to be even harder - so after what seems like an eternity, but in reality is no time at all, the tips of his fingers brush against the burning cold of a figment of reality.

A fraction of a second later, George stumbles forward, head ringing as he's thrown out of his own personal pocket in time. In his ears, the sound of another of those damned pebbles against his bloody window.

George lets out a loud curse and stomps to the window, opening it with a gesture of his hand and then immediately raising his arcane shield as another pebble flies right at him - as it had been aimed at his poor window once more.

Filled with a righteous fury, George slams his hands on the windowsill - mindful of his poor and completely innocent Forget-Me-Nots - and leans forward to look down at the recently acquired banes of his existence.

"See, I told you it would work- George! George wanna come train with us?" Calls out the fighter, waving a hand frantically as he elbows his shorter monk friend.

"No! Leave me alone!" George yells back, and instantly closes the window and goes back to his position in the centre of the room.

He closes his eyes, focuses on his breathing, and-

Another pebble. He is going to murder them.

"What do you want?! I told you I'm busy!"

The fighter spreads his arms open - almost hitting his friend in the face, if said friend hadn't ducked down instantly.

"Oh, come on George! It's gonna be fun!"

"I'm not interested! Now, leave before I start throwing spells your way!"

The monk scoffs, crossing his arms over his chest and lifting his chin up in defiance.

"As if you could catch me! I bet you can't, and you're scared, and that's why-" a pale green hand is suddenly covering the human's mouth, its owner looking awkwardly up at George with a tentative smile - as if that douche's attempt at riling him up could have worked.

On a completely unrelated note, George has had enough of that conversation.

"You bother me again today and you will regret it." And with that, he closes the window again.

Definitely not hearing the monk's confused "does that mean we can come back tomorrow?". He is just going to ignore it.

The moment he turns back around, he almost has a heart attack.

Leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed and a knowing smile on his face, is his mentor.

"Bloody hell, I didn't hear you arriving." George mumbles, moving to grab him a chair as the older wizard chuckles.

"I figured, you were having quite a spat." Scott comments, sitting down on the armchair and nodding towards the window, looking more pleased than he should be.

George gives a scoff, letting himself slump into his chair.

"They are relentless. I don't know what to do anymore." He mopes, but as he should have expected Scott has no pity to share and immediately tackles a new, equally pressing problem.

"Have you found your teammates for the tournament yet?" He asks, crossing one leg over the other and resting his chin in his hand. About two months ago, George had agreed, after ages of declining invitations and rejecting requests, to take part in the yearly tournament his mentor ideated - agreeing only on the terms that he would be able to choose his own teammates. Which is not that unusual, people can arrive with their friends and form a team. George's main problem? His sadly evident lack of friends - at least, friends that will take part in the tournament.

"Not yet. They're all so … various. And peculiar. I'm-" He halts, hands clasped together and squeezing one another, as if they were stress relievers. Noticing his discomfort, Scott seems to take immediately a step back from his usual flippant persona as his expression softens and his posture relaxes.

"You're free to speak your mind." He reminds him gently, so George takes a small breath and looks away, towards the door, ignoring the awkwardness of his admission.

"I'm worried my purely academic training will make me underperform."

"That is possible. It is also possible that you do well. Has the prospect of failure ever stopped you?" Scott challenges, one eyebrow raising in doubt because this is the thing: Scott chose him as his protégé, he knows what George is capable of. He knows him, how competitive he is, how his pride gets in the way despite how much his self esteem is rather low. But still.

"I never had to fail in front of a crowd."

"I understand. Still, I think it will do you good. You should find people to team with, not many get this opportunity."

"I know! It's just that nobody's stuck out! They all seem like incredibly talented people!" George protests, crossing his arms over his chest and slumping back into the chair - sliding down a little, so that his chin presses up against his chest. So now he looks and feels like a child throwing a tantrum. Splendid.

"Well. I think there are at lest two you know by name." Scott notes, smiling with a conspiratory look, and George feels incredibly stupid that he let himself be played like this - did Scott manage to bring the discussion back to the two dumbasses that have been bothering him nonstop for the past couple of weeks?!

Dream and Sapnap- he has no care for them. None at all.

"Shut up." George replies weakly and Scott simply laughs - ever so rude, laughing at his self inflicted misery - before standing up. He circles the desk between them and puts a hand on his head, messing up his hair with a chuckle.

"I have to go, I have matters that await me. But it was nice to see you doing well. I'll wait for the names tonight." Scott's sing-song voice calls as he leaves with a smirk, closing the door behind him.

George lets out a long sigh and resigns himself to morning of meditating and practice.

It was nice to see his mentor again - he's been worried lately, as if on edge. George figures it's the tournament's fault, but one may never be sure.

A couple of days later, Dream wakes to the feeling of a pillow hitting him square in the face. Followed by a ripping noise. Followed by the feeling of stuffing falling on his face.

"Oops-" Sapnap says above him: when Dream opens his eyes, he's holding his pillow, now with a tear in it and stuffing slowly falling on the ground.

"SAP! What the fuck did I tell you about the tusks?!"

After their morning workout routine - which definitely does not entail Dream chasing Sapnap around their room as the shorter man jumps around on the furniture to escape, and absolutely doesn't end with them rolling on the floor as the half orc holds his teammate in a headlock - they have a quick breakfast and then hurry to the Academy.

Today's the day: they will be announcing the teams for this year's tournament, and they both can't wait who they will be fighting with.

The announcement is a strictly participant-only event, and from that point on they will have about a month to train with their new teammates inside the Academy's facilities.

The Academy is a huge building that looks and feels like those castles they talk about in fairytales: sky high towers of iridescent colours, with strands of various shades of purple and orange connecting invisible points in space - and perhaps time too. There are stairs and bridges connecting different sections, and Dream knows, from stories told by Master Calvin, that it is as tall in the sky as it is deep inside the bowels of the Earth. A magnificent display of arcane power and architectural prowess. As one would expect from the creators of this tournament, but still.

The crowd that gathers around the entrance is one of the most varied assortment of adventurers Dream has ever seen, and he knows Sapnap is thinking the same thing because the human's head keeps whipping from side to side as he stares at the people walking by.

Dream shoots, from time to time, a look around. He's not particularly looking for somebody - he is - and he's not going to let the knowledge of who is competing distract him from trying to do his best - debatable.

But still.

All the participants are directed toward the entry, where after a quick scan - to avoid strangers from entering - they manage to get inside the main hall.

Now, Dream and Sapnap have been told, by their respective masters, about the Academy, but nothing can ever quite prepare you for something this grandiose and extravagant as what they are seeing.

One would expect a centennial arcane academy, built by two archmages and hosting the best of the magical world in terms of teachers, students and knowledge, to be a stuffy, old fashioned institution.

One would be quickly proven wrong, as just the entrance hall happens to be a stunning portrait of multiple colours, bright and radiant, with moving paintings of famous arcane masters casting spells side by side with rather sweet drawings of past winners of the tournament hugging each other and holding out their prizes.

When Master Calvin had first suggested he move for a while to the Academy, in order to fully develop his arcane abilities, he had been skeptical: how could he, when Calvin's house had been his home for so long? But now, seeing all this, he thinks that maybe he could come to like this place.

At the end of the hall, on an apparently clear glass panel, are displayed the names of each team member.

With all the chatter and cheers and noises of people looking for each other - some are already leaving, having found what and who they were looking for - it's hard to catch the sound of Sapnap's sudden gasp.

It is less hard to notice him gripping his wrist and vigorously point at the glass as he lets out an excited laugh.

Dream follows where he's pointing, and-

"George is with us?!" He exclaims, mostly out of pure disbelief, eyes wide open as he looks back and forth between his friend and the list of names on the board.

"We're so going to win this!" Sapnap answers with an elated smile before bursts out laughing, jumping up and wrapping him in a full body hug - Dream catches him, letting out a small "omf" that is mainly due to the unexpectedness of it all.

"I can't believe it, we got so lucky!" The half-orc comments, his eyes skimming through the names listed on the board - some he recognises, more or less unfortunately, and some he doesn't.

"I know, right?! -" Sapnap comments, leaning back and letting go in order to nod with his head towards the floating glass.

"Now we just have to find out who Eret is, I guess."

[skamamoroma]

Skam Italia S4: The Hide and Seek Scene

I was asked to write about my favourite scenes from Skam Italia s4 and this one specifically first which is a risk because, so far, I haven’t been able to watch it without crying, to the point where I am 100% sure the music is emotionally coded or I have eventually gone mad.

Anyway, this post was inevitable because if you know me, you know I adore Marti and Nico so much and have written long posts all those months ago that, I guess, this had to be done! And it’s long but it’s me, it was never going to be short! (I type fast)

Before I go through the song... at this point in the season, it’s kind of heartbreaking watching Nico sit there and look at Marti with so much longing and emotion. You can tell he misses him desperately. And Marti? Ah my favourite idiot. We KNOW how upset he is. I think at this point, he is telling himself he’s fine and that he’s drawing a line and he hasn’t got anything left to say to Nico… mainly out of sheer stubbornness. Nico’s lies and the way he tried to hide things clearly hurt and frightened him, triggering worries of loss and being left behind, of not being good enough, of Nico’s past changing what they have, of Nico’s past actions with Maddalena being something that could happen again. Neither of them are NOT understandable. I look at them both and I see the foundation they built back when they first got together and how that can only have strengthened immeasurably because of how long they’ve been together… I am reminded that the look in Nico’s eyes spells out what he told Marti on that balcony - “i’m thinking about the fact that I’m in love with you and I’ve never felt this way before”. Marti isn’t a stop gap or a second best because he couldn’t have Luai… Marti is hugely important to him. Nico adores him and not only that, adores him FOR who Marti is. I think it’s that basis that didn’t once make me feel anxious when episode 7 arrived. I feel I know these characters and their hearts. We know Marti’s so well and know that when he loves you, you’re his family. We know he considers Nico to be that… he left his father and step family behind, reconciling his past anger and walked away towards those he considers his family: his mamma, Gio/Luchino/Elia and Nico… he chose them and he specifically walked towards Nico with so much honesty to tell him he was by his side. The idea that ANY of that could be disrupted and that Nico perhaps isn’t who he thought he was… “somebody that I used to know” - not only an amazing song choice for Nico/Luai but also for Marti/Nico. Marti’s face screamed “I don’t know all of you” when he realised Nico’s past had been hidden from him. Marti’s fear of losing Nico caused him to cut and run and he effectively broke his own heart… but at the same time, Nico didn’t help himself. By trying to do the right thing, he made it worse and I think the bottom line is that eventually Marti felt left behind, felt that Nico’s extended secrecy and lies were a reflection of their relationship…

But he didn’t have all of the facts and his own fear and freak out meant he wasn’t seeing clearly. We know Nico loves Marti with his whole heart not only because he told us but because of that comfort they give off as a couple… it’s just a FACT. 

And this is where this clip makes me weepy. Because we know Nico’s past now. We know 3 pretty important things

Nico always felt spoken for and lost in his relationship with Maddalena. He wasn’t trusted, was spoken over, was belitted at times and felt he lost his voice. He was subject to all of that but put up with it. She wasn’t a bad person… their relationship just wasn’t healthy. His extended Last Man metaphor was his own way to ‘escape’ and be with Marti, someone who made him feel safe and listened to and cared for. Marti is his safe space.

Luai wasn’t just a mistaken kiss. He meant something. He may not have meant what Marti means or even close to it but that doesn’t matter. He was SOMETHING and if Nico’s eyes and smile in the piano video are any clue, Nico was so fond of him. That became dark and upsetting and ultimately damaging for both of them and poor Luai. Poor poor soul. Poor Nico for having that so cruelly removed from him, perhaps wondering if he was to blame or if he’d stayed away all would have been fine. It makes sense now why Nico was so unwilling for Marti to see the real him, to give in to what he felt with Marti because, ultimately, Nico internalises. His worries must have been overwhelming. He must have feared that history would repeat or that somehow HE was the one who was toxic… which we know is so untrue. 

By meeting Marti, Nico suddenly has this whole group of lovely, fun, ridiculous, warm and inclusive friends who show so much love and support. It is SO TELLING that Nico is still there at Silvia’s birthday party. Nico is NOT simply Marti’s boyfriend. He is a part of their group and they care about him so much too.

Knowing those 3 things is why the song that Ludo chose will FOREVER make me cry the second I hear the words. How he found a song SO perfect for Nico’s story is astounding to me. Every lyric works and I think the only way to talk about this scene is to track it with the lyrics… I suggest listening to it as you read (if you’ve even got this far because IT IS JUST SO PRETTY). 

This scene is, if nothing else, a moment to honour Nico as a character and his relationship with Marti and I swear I’ll never be over it. 

I lived my life alone before you

We see Nico alone with his eyes closed. The idea that we KNOW Nico felt alone before he met Marti. He told him he felt alone in his head, in a crowd and alone with people he loved. Marti changed that. 

And with those that I’d never succeeded to love

Maddalena. Luai. Neither of them worked out. The first being unhealthy and damaging and the second being a tentative step into a hopeful romance which resulted in trauma.

But we know Nico is someone with a huge heart. He still wants to love and be loved in return… but he feared it so much because of his mental illness but also, we now understand, because of what happened to Luai

And I grew so accustomed to that kind of solitude

We saw he had. He told us that when he and Marti were in his bed. He lives his life feeling alone… so much so that the thought of being the Last Man frightened him so much.

I fought you, I did not know how to give it up

Well, even writing that made me cry. We WATCHED him fight his feelings for Marti. His own worries and fears making his route to falling for Marti full of bumps in the road. He felt unworthy and frightened… and yet he still couldn’t give Marti up. Time and time again he fought his way back to Marti - Halloween, Bracciano, by his plan for the apocalypse, on the balcony when Marti came out of the twinkle lights and then finally accepting to live life minute by minute despite his fear. 

Before you, had I ever known love or had I only known misuse of the power another had over me? The power another had over me.

Oh. This line. This is the one that gets me. Full on tears. The fact that Nico, as a lovely kind gentle creative beautiful soul knew more pain than most his age by the time he met Marti. Not only did it come from parents and a girlfriend who failed to listen to him, who always decided his feelings for him, his battle with his mental illness causing him to feel shame and as if he couldn’t be loved and listened to as Nico and not a product of his mind. As Stefano Benni and La Giraffa helped him find strength that he could know real feelings despite his brain being poorly, he kept trying and fighting. 

He watched a boy he liked, Luai, subject to significant mistreatment and trauma and no doubt partially blamed himself… never received closure for that and was left with clear scars from it

“Had i ever known love or had I only known misuse” - those words are so emotional for me. Had he? I don’t know if he had. It makes what he found with Marti so fundamental and meaningful. How safe Marti must have made him feel. No WONDER he tried to hard to cling on. 

I crossed the country and I carried no key, couldn’t I look up at the stars from anywhere?  And sometimes I did, I felt ancient but I still sought peace and it never came to me

I heard this and immediately thought of his mental health and also his path through his struggles. That idea of ENDURING and going through so much… never being able to see the stars or a way out. That overwhelming shame. That feeling of being weary and exhausted. The fact that he DID always keep going, always seeking peace and comfort and contentment but “it never came”….

They often spoke as thought I had been set free, but I travelled only in service of my dreams. I stood before them all, I was a sleepwalker

AH. Oh god this song. Every line, man. The idea that Nico has had people who have told him how to behave or have caused him to question his own mind… the fact he must have been told time and time again that he’s getting better or that he’s being monitored… but he chose to keep going if anything, for his passions. We KNOW he is a renaissance guy, a creative quirky soul. He plays piano and draws and sculpts and is a lover of film and the arts as a whole. All of that makes him deeply passionate and he uses it to help him, often to cope. But the idea of being a sleepwalker… the idea that he walked through life half asleep a lot of the time because of his past experiences even in the face of those who told him they cared.

Couldn’t hold my misery down, not even for you. 

Nico can’t change who he is. He was never able to and nor should he. But he felt he wasn’t good enough for Marti. Meeting Marti made him want to change… but ultimately he realised that meeting Marti meant the opposite. He didn’t need to, he was loved as he is. 

But I long for you now even when you just leave the room

OH my. Tears again. We have just watched him stare at Marti across the room with so much love in his eyes, so much longing for his best friend, his love. Not having Marti must hurt and hurt badly.

And of all of the roads and cities that I passed through, of all of the eyes I have searched inside, the one sense of permanence that I came to feel was mine, only beneath your gaze

FUCK ME. Haha. That last line. Marti is his person. Of all of the things he has experienced, the people he has encountered and tried to love or tried to make connections with, none of them worked out and never once did he feelable to be himself entirely… until Marti. Beneath Marti’s gaze, he could feel that sense of permanence… he could see and be himself. 

I can’t even tell you how stunned I am at this song and how truly PERFECT it is for Nico… but that this last line… the fact the song tracks Nico through the house alone and ends with him finding Marti makes me want to weep into a cushion! 

The fact he’s helped by those who also love him. They orchestrated this because Nico means something to them and so does Marti. They want them to be happy and he’s helped to find his way back to Marti by true friends. 

The thing that CANNOT be ignored is that this whole thing happens because of Gio. Of COURSE it does. He spends this season trying to keep peace: with the girls, Nico/Marti and with Marti/la rosa squad. His heart is enormous and he just likes people to get along. My dude, how I love him.

As for the way the clip unfolds and the specifics, I love that it is the boys only who point Nico in the right direction. It had to be them. Gio being the one to lock the door. Gio’s smiles as he does it. It is SO reminiscent of the fact Gio left the cabin in Bracciano for them. He’s always there for Marti but that also means he’s there for Nico too and he won’t allow them to be unhappy. 

I can’t handle how small Nico look, how cuddly in his sweater with his tumbly curls. He’s just the most endearing. The warmth of the lighting and of the house is a classic Skam Italia thing and is, as ever, like a comfort blanket.

The fact that Marti is under the bed makes me laugh with Nico having to bend down to see him… not to mention the “bastardi”. Oh my sweet idiot boy. He was never going to be able to get away with his self destruction and stubbornness forever and his boys won’t let him. I love that it’s so Marti. The whole exchange is so in character… Marti’s “I can jump out of the window” is his ever sarcastic self at play and I adore him for it and so does Nico because in the face of everything, Nico laughs. There’s just this overwhelming send of comfort and sweetness, I can’t explain it.

The fact that Nico asks “can I come closer?”. The softness of his voice, the way he ASKS and doesn’t just do it, the way he KNOWS he must go to Marti and that Marti’s stubbornness is fierce but also that he fell in love with Martino Rametta… he needs to spell things out for Marti and let him know what he wants. 

What is also REALLY sweet is that it’s kind of Gio AND Elia who stand at the front of the door with Elia looking to Gio and celebrating their little trick. Their unspoken words and communications throughout Nico and Marti’s story was fundamental and we see it again. The characterisation is just so unbelievably consistent and meaningful. Their little high five at the end is adorable.

The fact they’re all outside, all hopeful and full of love for both boys is so heartwarming. I can’t! 

I also LOVE the way Filo is there cuddled into Gio’s arm. THE SWEETNESS. Everyone must love cuddles from Gio. But Filo being a part of it is just PERFECT as he’s fundamental to them both too. 

Then the ending being so so so sweet with Sana being so filled with love for her friends and for Marti and Nico that she uses that to spur her on to make a big decisions of her own. How I adore and cherish this scene so very very much. 

I think their story in s4 carries on so well with so many ideas from s2, not just filling in the gaps about Nico’s past. It adds SO much to s2 and things we see, heard and experienced with both Nico and Marti.

The thing that most surprises me is that we are effectively handling an Evak couple “breaking up” in this season. Yes, it wasn’t a proper break up but still, in Evak terms that could be catastrophic. It isn’t and it wasn’t and I hold Ludo entirely responsible for the fan’s ability to understand and appreciate why he chose to test them. He didn’t allow them to become background mannequins, didn’t allow them to be unrealistically perfect, didn’t villainise either of them and made them both understandable. This would have, in other circumstances, caused a total fandom meltdown but all I’ve seen are insightful posts about why YES it hurt to see them upset and going through a rough time but NO it didn’t ruin them and, if anything, made them feel more real and more connected and determined to be better. The way Ludo  loves Marti and Nico is all over this season despite it being Sana’s and, for me, it never takes away from her story. All anyone wanted from the inclusion of Nico’s past was that he was gifted some focus to honour his experiences and Ludo tried in so many ways to give him that and… well, this scene, to me, is a gift for Nico as a character.

If you got this far then GOD BLESS YOU but it is a testament to Ludo that I can always write damn essays on his work. I am so grateful to him for finding a moment in Sana’s season to do this and for it to mean SO MUCH despite it being so simple.

[ruinousrealms]

Flayer

It was half past nightfall when we crossed the Rio Nuevo into Las Verdantes. Our outfit was fifteen men strong, pushing half a thousand cattle for Erlen Baymer, one of the state's lesser cattlemen. In truth he was a hard boss, a hard man who had captained a company of border raiders during the war and never tired of bragging about his service. 

A favorite story of his was the time he and his men came across a family of free black farmers in southern Kansas. Baymer had approached on horseback, riding through the fields with the self-confident swagger of a plantation overlord surveying his property. He asked the father whose plantation he had run away from, and for response the black said he had been born free. 

Now, Erlen Baymer was a devout Christian, and he knew the black race were descendants of Ham, son of Noah, and that for his transgression against God, he and his descendants were evermore cursed to servitude, to hew wood and draw water and be servants unto servants. He did of course explain this position to the black, as he ordered his men to strip him naked to find the truth of his claims. No man is born into slavery but he feels the whip, and so if he were born free, his back should be free from blemish. 

Indeed, the man's back was smooth, free from the lumpy scars of the lash. A novelty, many of his company had come up to gawk and ask questions. How did the negro know what to plant and when without any white man to tell him? How did he work the fields without a lash to urge his lazy, indolent soul? 

At length Captain Baymer ended this game and pronounced the sentence. The man was to be hung for his crimes against the Confederate States of America, those crimes being largely related to the color of his skin and the manner of his livelihood. It was understood that, if he were truly a born freeman, then surely his father and mother were somebody’s escaped property. Thus his very existence constituted the crime of theft. The children were brought back to Tennessee and dispersed among the slave markets.

The freeman’s remarkable back, Erlen Baymer had a leathersmith tan it and stitch it into a saddle. He rode that very saddle, decked out in silver dollar conchos and a rebel flag tied round the post, when we crossed the river that night in 1868.

Now, the facts of that night - I’m going to relate them to you here, plain and simple and just as they happened, like I’m some fancy New York journalist-reporter type. I grant you some of what I’m about to say may seem unbelievable. Well, there’s nothing I can do about that. I don’t got any proof, any evidence beyond what I saw that night with my own two eyes. The way Erlen Baymer died, and the things that happened to us in his trail crew before and after… I tell you boy, it’s a curse, the things I seen with these eyes. It’s what drives a man to whiskey.

The country there was flat as flapjacks, and the only place we could find to camp out of the wind was in a dried up riverbank. There we laid out our beds, cocooning ourselves in canvas sheets and wool blankets and shivering in the chill night air. The southwestern desert is hotter than a griddle all day long, but come nightfall and it’s as cold as the north pole.

Well, it was cold that night, like I said, and the wind was howling and kicking up a whole storm of dust. Me and some of the boys, those being Joe Merwin and Caul Bretton and Micah Sanchez, we took turns digging a hole in the side of the riverbank. It wasn’t like a cave, just a dirt overhang a few feet deep, with the excavated dirt piled up to protect our side from the wind.

I wouldn’t say it was the hole we dug that saved us. It sure didn’t save poor Caul, and from what I hear Micah’s still out of his mind up at one of those New England asylums. I’d say it kept us from getting noticed long enough to save our lives, for whatever that's worth.

Now we’d been seeing the makings of a dust storm in the distance for most of the afternoon. They’re common enough out here and we didn’t make much of it beyond what we’d have to do to keep the cattle from scattering. A herd of dumb heifers can scatter to the four winds during a dust-up if you’re not careful with where you lay them down.

The cows stretched out for more than a mile down the riverbed, but they wouldn’t bed down quietly. Whips of dust kept kicking up and no sooner had they sat down than they were on their hooves again, bellowing out loud.

Erlen Baymer kept riding up and down the line cursing to high heaven, kicking the sentries when he came upon them and telling them to get off their lazy god damned bean-eating asses and put the god damned cows to god damned sleep. The only effect that had was making it impossible for any of us to get sleep - But that probably saved us.

It was so dusty at that point that when dark fell there wasn’t a moon nor a star to be seen. A man could just see the dots of cattle guards’ lanterns like the windows of distant farmsteads. Weren’t no use keeping your eyes open, the wind kept kicking the stinging dust up and there weren’t anything to see anyways. I pulled my bandana up over my nose and pushed the brim of my hat down over my eyes and tried to get some shuteye.

I might even have caught a wink of sleep. The cattle down at the far end of the line were getting riled up, bellowing and braying into the night, and that got the whole herd nervous. A nervous longhorner is a dangerous longhorner, and a whole herd of nervous longhorners is a stampede waiting to happen. Joe Merwin went out to see what was the matter and lend a hand if need be. That left just the three of us.

The screaming started soon after. I think it was Tadd Murfree, but from the sound it was hard to tell whose voice it was. There are sounds and intonations particular to men and sounds and intonations particular to animals, and only in the extremity of fear, agony or ecstasy can one make the sounds of another. I don’t think poor Tadd was in ecstasy that night.

More screams started up, and the horses neighing, and the braying and bellowing filled the night air with a mad cacophony. I wager nobody’s ever heard a sound like that before, that of half a thousand screaming and panicking cattle. The hoofbeats were like thunder, like cannonfire, like a thousand drummers pounding madly out of time.

The three of us huddled at the back of our shallow hole in the edge of the riverbank, wishing we’d dug in even deeper and almost thankful Joe Merwin wasn’t here, because he was a big man and there wouldn’t have been room to hide.

I had a small trail lantern whose flickering light we used to play cards. It took five tries to get a match lit, my hands were shaking so much. It lit up our little hole just fine; I saw Micah had his revolver out, and his knuckles were white around the oakwood grip.

“Put that thing away, Micah, do you mean to shoot something?”

“I intend to be ready,” He said, which was reasonable enough.

I crawled to the entrance of the hole. As we were digging we piled the dirt up at the entrance to serve as a wind-break while we slept. I crawled up to it like a trench’s parapet and peered over with my little lamp. It didn’t illuminate much, but in its glow I could see a rush of cattle, a torrent of bovinity running full-tilt down the length of the riverbed. A lot of the animals had raw bloody wounds, some so flayed they appeared to be covered in red patches like a hellishly perverse Holstein.

These animals were panicking for a reason, fleeing some unknown predator, but what on God’s earth it could be I had no idea. Suddenly a cow fell headlong into the side of the embankment near us, sending a shower of dirt down from the roof of our little dugout. It kept trying to get up, but couldn’t; And when it rolled over I could see one whole side of its hip had been laid open and the bloody pink bone was visible. Well, I put the poor bellowing beast out of its misery and hurled my dinner over the side of the dirt heap.

And you see, that’s when Erlen Baymer rode past us. God, if the sight don’t haunt me. I once seen a drawing of the Third Horseman, Famine, a rotting man riding atop a rotting stallion. That’s what I saw. That’s the scene I’ve got to describe to you, to make you understand why I can’t sleep at night no more.

The horse looked like it had been dead and rotting for a week. It had hardly a hair of fur left on its body, and the skin… It looked like somebody had taken a cheese grater to the poor beast. Through flapping bits of flesh I saw muscles moving like an accursed anatomical flipbook. The horse’s jaw was hanging on by a thread of tendon and it was screaming, just screaming with that stump of a tongue hanging out.

The poor girl had been beautiful, just absolutely beautiful, with a black coat that shone like oil in the sunlight. Thinking back on it now I wish I’d have drawn my pistol and put an end to the poor thing, but at the time I was too shocked to do anything but watch as it thundered past, carrying its shrieking, flailing load.

Erlen Baymer was naked as Adam in Eden, and it was plain whatever was happening to the horse was occurring to him as well. He was flailing like a man possessed, slapping at himself as if desperately beating out flames; There were no flames, just raw red meat that spurted every time he touched it. He raised his arm and I caught a glimpse of the frayed ends of muscles poking through a bicep.

Something fell with a wet thud near our little hollow, and leaning over just slightly with the lantern, I saw a withered human leg severed at the knee, as if the joint had been so weakened it simply fell off. It seemed to be writhing as if covered by a hundred thousand ravenous little insects, methodically stripping it down to the bone before my very eyes. It was wearing one of Erlen Baymer’s fancy gatorskin ropers. Once the flesh was gone, the carnivorous beasties went to work eating the leather of the boot, anything fleshy enough to be consumed, till all that remained were bones and a silver spur.

I crawled back in the hole, barely able to process what I had just seen. “Alright, boys, what in the hell do we do?” I asked, and Micah Sanchez said what we three all were thinking - Make a run for the horses.

Well, you didn’t have to tell us twice. We three all crawled up to the opening, and Micah and Caul took off at a full tilt. I stayed behind a second - I’d just glanced at the body of the cow beside our dugout. It had been picked to the bone.

Just as I scrambled to my feet, Caul fell and started screaming.

“No! God, no!” Caul frantically started beating at the lower hem of his pant-legs. We didn’t know what in the hell was happening; Micah rushed over with the lamp and pulled up his trouser leg. Micah screamed and dropped the lantern, bringing the infernal night down around us once more. Caul let out a kind of a long drawn-out moan, with notes of fear, sadness and resignation. At the time what it reminded me of, more than anything, was a deer that’s gotten itself trapped in some crevasse it can’t get out, and the more it struggles the more stuck it gets, till it’s exhausted itself and all it can do is bray and wait to die.

A gunshot lit up the darkness for a moment, and the afterimage stayed in my eyes for a long time, like looking too long into a fire. Caul’s body slumped down almost casually, but the upper part of his head sprayed across the sand. I heard Micah’s running footsteps and his heavy gasping breath, and he thudded down next to me and skittered like a rat into our little safe haven.

“Flies!” Micah’s fingertips dug into my shoulders like blades, his dirty breath blowing in my face, “It’s flies! Must be millions of them! They were eating him right up! Cleaned his ankles down to the bone, I’m telling you!”

I told him to shut up.

“That’s why he fell, there weren’t nothing holding his foot bones to his leg!”

Maybe the reader will judge me for what I did next. I hope you’ll take into account the things I’d seen, and the stress I was under at the time. Micah was raving mad, clenching me for dear life like a survivor of a shipwreck clinging to a broken mast. I’d just seen him blow a man’s brains out - Though thinking back to it, he may have been right. It would have been cruel to leave him to be eaten alive, and if Micah had tried dragging him back, he’d have brought the carnivorous flies with him. He put him out of his misery as you would an old cow. But at that time I was still in shock, and the only thought that came to mind was of Caul Bretten, whom I hardly knew, but with whom I’d shared campfires and kettles of coffee, and whose brains were steaming in the cool desert night.

Thinking only of justice, I reached for my lantern and brought it down on Micah’s head, extinguishing the light and silencing his ramblings. I didn’t know whether or not I’d killed him. He was quiet. We lay there together a long time. I must have nodded off and woken several times. At one point, I woke to see Abraham Lincoln delivering the Gettysburg Address in the corner of our cave. Again I woke, this time to see a skinless and eyeless cow wandering blind in the dim pre-dawn light. It walked past absolutely silently.

When morning came, the desert was still and not a thing moved. The sun was well up in the sky before I dared move. I was caked in dust from head to toe, cracking and falling as I stirred.

Micah’s face was red and my first thought, as the events of the night came rushing back to me, was that he too was being consumed alive by those unstoppably ravenous insects. But no; My lantern blow had split his scalp and dry blood painted his face red as an Apache warrior. He was still breathing softly, so I left him there and took a gander outside.

The dry riverbed at first seemed to be decorated with a vast elaborate network of ice sculptures, gleaming a blinding white in the sun. These were the bones of cattle and cattlemen, five hundred dead heifers stripped of skin and meat and life. A lot of them had broken and ran, and their bones shone white in the distant desert sand. Clambering up the slope, the impression one got was of an overflowing river turned to ice in the blink of an eye, as if by magic.

Here and there the bones of the sentries. I recognized Eustace Bagge from his cigarette case. The leather had been eaten away, but the copper badge bearing the name of the regiment he served in the war was still perfect.

Two or three miles down, laying near some scrub was the skeleton of a horse surrounded by silver dollar conchos. I picked one up, turned it over; It could only be Erlen Baymer’s horse and saddle. The saddle, however, was gone but for the metal pegs that held it together. The freedman’s dark skin, that nightmarish piece of leatherwork, had been completely eaten away by the swarm.

The man himself had crawled away from his dead horse and left a trail of bones. He lost a lot more than the one leg; Toe and finger bones poked from the sand like pebbles, and the larger ones, a femur, most of a hand and the arm up to the elbow. I found gold teeth, and his revolver with the tacks that had held together the holster.

A bit further on I found Erlen Baymer. I turned and went back down the riverbank.

Micah had woken up and I found him wandering dazed and confused amongst the skeletons. I spoke to him but he didn’t reply; He never said a word to me again, and from what I’ve heard those New England brain-doctors haven’t gotten him talking. There was something wrong with his eyes. I couldn’t tell you what. He just kept staring past me.

He followed me without resistance. We followed the riverbed. We must have walked ten miles the first day and ten miles the next. The whole time we were stepping around skeletons. A herd can go surprisingly far in panic; The only reason they hadn’t gotten farther was, well, they were being eaten alive at the time.

The sun was our enemy. We had our canteens; I kept pouring little slips down Micah’s mouth, worried he’d choke but even more worried he’d die of thirst. At some point the brim started falling off my hat and letting sunlight hit my forehead, searing the skin red and raw.

Round noon of the third day, we came to an old covered bridge where we took shelter from the sun for a while, then started out along the road. After two and a half days walking, we were near dead. I had to pull Micah along, but he’d only move at a snail’s pace. I was terrified that he’d eventually fall down and just refuse to get back up; It’d be the end for him, and my own couldn’t be far away.

And then, as if by magic, a carriage appeared. One moment we were walking and then, the sound and smell of horses and a voice crying out in Spanish, “Quitate de en medio, idiotas!”

Well, I spoke a peck of Spanish, just enough for him to understand that we were in trouble, and the kind old man stepped down and helped me load Micah into the back, building a little bed for him out of bags of corn, and setting up a tarp to keep him out of the sun.

We rode to a hacienda named Soledad El Aquelarre, and the women bathed us and fed us and fussed over poor Micah. There was a nunnery not far away and the old man sent for the holy sisters to tend his needs, but beyond keeping him fed and cleaning up after him, there was little they could do.

I never told him a word of what happened. My lack of Spanish helped in that respect; Whenever he asked, I could pretend not to understand. He was kind, too kind for the likes of us, and I do feel guilty about lying to him, but I didn’t think he could comprehend what we’d been through, let alone understand. I barely could, and as I lay there day after day I got to wondering if the whole thing hadn’t been some sort of insane dream. I could see the workers in the fields through my window and beyond them the bone white desert stretched out gleaming, a thousand miles of dust to the gulf of Mexico.

One night, however, I was visited in my room by one of the sisters. She spoke good English and introduced herself as Sister Clarita. She was one of the sisters tending to Micah. She didn’t ask me what had happened, because she already knew. There were stories in this region going back centuries, of caravans going missing in the desert night, and by light of day all that are found are the polished white bones. The monastery library held many such reports going back to the days of the conquistadors. Sister Clarita thought it must have been going on a lot longer; The native tribes shunned this entire area, considering it an unclean place to visit and avoiding the entire hundred-mile stretch of desert as we Americans avoid the cesspit or the slums.

There were other books, too. Books on biology and entomology, and the evolution and adaptation of species. Sister Clarita suggested that a species of small insect, like the tiny mites and fleas that live among grains of sand and are so small as to be almost indistinguishable, may have become adapted, over many centuries, to the consumption of flesh. That such a diet would cause changes in the bodies of the insects making them more adept at catching their prey; Perhaps their mandibles had developed a razor’s edge for slicing off bits of flesh. Or maybe they coated their victims in digestive acid and slurped up the liquified flesh. Sister Clarita knew of several insects that consumed their prey in just such a manner, though none that she knew had ever gone after so large a prey as a man or a cow.

“But Sister, if these really are man-eating insects, why do they stay out here in the desert? Every animal migrates toward its food source; These things could strip a town clean of flesh overnight! Why aren’t they swarming through the cities, just… Everywhere?”

“Perhaps they just like the weather here,” Sister Clarita said and kissed her rosary.

After a week of recovery, I felt well enough to travel. I collected Micah from the sisters, who protested, but I thought if anyone could help him it would be at one of those new asylums up in New England. The old man took us as far as the train station in Las Friolero del Resol, and there he bade us goodbye.

Two days later we were back in Texas. First thing I went to the barber to shave off the wild beard I’d grown. Then I walked into the nearest sheriff’s office to report the fate of the Erlen Baymer Cattle Drive.

Well, they didn’t believe a word of what I told them and locked me and Micah up for murder. To hear them tell it, the two of us got up one night and slit everybody’s throats. Didn’t matter to them what I said, nor the state Micah was in; They left us to rot six weeks before the circuit judge came ‘round to pronounce the sentence.

He had expected an open-and-shut murder case; When we were brought to stand before him, he saw my sleepless eyes and the empty shell of a man that was Micah. He listened to my story silently, nodding occasionally for me to continue, and when it was done he pronounced the sentence.

“I, Judge Howard Lorbbock of the Great State of Texas, do hereby declare these two men to be mentally insane. No doubt they were driven mad by the ordeal they suffered, of crossing the desert after their cattle drive was destroyed by Apaches.”

There weren’t any damn Apaches in that part of Mexico, but I kept my mouth shut. The sheriff was making enough noise as it was, imploring the judge that “What the people of this town need to see is a good old fashioned hanging!”

Well, we were sent to Houston for treatment. Micah was considered such a specialty case that he was sent up north to New England, to the asylum in some town called Arkham. 

I stayed behind at the Houston madhouse. The medicine they gave me made me sleep, but nothing can stop the dreams. When I close my eyes, all I can see are Erlen Baymer’s lidless eyeballs rolling round and round in his red skull-face.

[anothertroy]

Have you read the TRC sequels? I remember you posting a lot about The Raven Cycle back in the day.

oof. hi anon, are you my lovely TRC anon of old? it’s possible I had more than one of those, to be fair, on account of anonymousness :x but if you are, hi! you are still one of the best things about the very weird experience of being in that fandom. we were in fact talking about these sequels just the other day, and the short answer is that no, I haven’t read them and I am probably unlikely to ever read them. I will put the long answer under a cut where if you want to you can read my whole feelings about this thing. they are not happy feelings :|

it’s a shame. once upon a time I would have been so lightning strike excited to know that these books were going to have sequels. more time spent with some characters I’d come to love like family! who doesn’t want that? but that seems like such a long, long time ago now. I don’t think I’ve ever endured a combination of betrayal by creator + betrayal by fandom to anywhere near the same extent as this horrible, surreal mess.

I read the first three books of TRC feeling like I was being put through something like cleansing fire, like, I don’t think I’d felt this ~seen~ and ~understood~ by a book series in years - not just the people in the books but also the way they were written, thought processes I recognised and figured almost nobody else understood, ways of talking about trauma and generally being fucked up that were more familiar to me than media usually manages at all, etc etc. these beautiful children came to live with me and I sent messages to The Author saying how amazing I thought x or y thing in the books was, and she sent me messages back and I was like, this is THE BEST

but like. I can’t begin to explain how brutal and demoralising I was also finding the fandom at the same time. every time I went in anyone’s tag, there would be stuff glorifying Kavinsky as some sort of misunderstood badass gay representation or ship mixes with him in them or graphics about his bad boy good looks or whatever the christ fuck, as well as the people complaining that Adam was ‘a bad bisexual because Reasons’, which was a whole different alley of despair down which I wandered in bewildered alarm. I still have waking nightmares about some of the fic people wrote about Kavinsky, particularly the ones where Adam slept with him because...??? because he was poor and was being paid to? because he was poor and that meant he didn’t have standards? because he was poor and somehow thus Kavinsky was meant to understand him better than anyone else did????? and also, more than any others, the fic where Kavinsky sexually assaulted Gansey in a bathroom at Aglionby. like I literally think about that fic once a month and cry because it was so fucking horrible and I was seeing shit like this every. single. day and I had to unfollow SO MANY PEOPLE

because every time I thought I was safe following someone and they were all ‘OT5! yay!’ then suddenly a graphic would pop up or a fanmix and they’d start being like, well, he was a poor misunderstood soul who didn’t mean to hurt anyone and he had a bad childhood and so deserves redemption anyway here’s my AU where he comes back from the dead or never died so he can have a cute gay relationship with [it literally doesn’t matter who because every single possibility is BAD. BAD. BAD BAD BAD. DON’T DATE A RAPIST!!! don’t date somebody who literally created you as an empty sex doll I’m gonna blow a fucking gasket just thinking about this christ almighty]

so, like, that was happening, and for a while it felt like The Author was in the same position about all that as I was, just being like, nope, he’s evil. nope, he’s dead. nope, you’re all wrong. nope, Adam is a real teenager just figuring out his sexuality and he doesn’t need all your weird labels and feelings pasted onto him. and that was bearable. but then things started to get weird with her, too. idk if you remember that whole absolutely bizarre thing where she was like, it’s gross and disturbing to me if you write about these characters being in physical relationships because they’re teenagers and my books are for teenagers and teens doing Things with each other is gross and bad??? because that was. a trip. and also a bad sign.

and idk what happened man but the fourth book, which I have still actually not personally read on account of wanting to spare myself the actual misery of dragging my way through it, is just like...How Can I Ruin Everything I Have Created. like How Can I Tell My Fans I Hate Them, Specifically. How Can I Finish This Series That Means A Lot To People By Destroying Everything They Loved. I could get into all the things I find actively despicable about it but that’s probably not worth doing here right now, the point is, I hate and hurt over every decision she made about what to do with everyone. about everything. 

so reading the sequels was probably never gonna happen anyway but when it came up in conversation the other week I went to read the plot of the first one out of morbid curiosity and I was just like...so upset and so angry just reading the plot that I def do not want to put myself, or these beautiful kids who still live with me, through a single page of it. we have our own sequel, where they’re just living their lives and doing the best they can to figure out where to go from here, and sometimes Ronan makes dinner for me and Adam helps me clean the bathroom and Gansey cries at nature documentaries. I like our party better.